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heyyyharry · 4 years

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Chapter 7: Crossing a Bridge

(from ‘The Conman and the Maid’ Series)

…in which they are so close to home, Harry is sorry, but Y/N isn’t talking to him.

Warning: SMUT, wet Harry (this chapter came out on patreon at around the same time as the Falling mv so I would assume that Harry and I both agree that wet Harry is superior in every single universe)

Word count: 6k

AU: princess!y/n, conman!harry, prisoner!harry.

Series description: Y/N is a princess and Harry is a prisoner in her castle. With his help, she escapes from her arranged marriage in search of a happy ending, if there is one.

Wattpad link (original character: Reyna as Y/N)

The Wind Valley was the deepest and largest valley between the North and the South. Travellers would usually choose to avoid this bad route by going through the populous towns and cities; otherwise, the only way to travel from Isolde to Theros was to cross the rope bridge spanning over the valley. It was the oldest bridge in the land built entirely of rope and thin planks of wood which were dangerously few and far between. It took a significant amount of time to cross it and could not hold more than the weight of two persons. Harry had crossed it twice, but the second time had felt no different from the first, so he feared Y/N wouldn’t dare to step on it let alone cross it with him.

They stood on the cliff, holding their breath and watching the bridge swung from side to side like it was about to flip over or just break on its own. The blustery wind was howling like a wild beast as it blew dust and dry leaves everywhere, whirling around them, creating a scene of madness as if threatening to swallow them whole. People said if you fell into the bottomless abyss below would you'd be falling straight to hell, and that thought had haunted Harry since he was a child.

He couldn’t tell Y/N that story for he didn’t want to scare her, but he didn’t have to as he could already sense her fear. She chewed on her lip, her chest was heaving up and down as he reached for her hand, but her hands squeezed into fists and she pulled away quickly.

She hadn’t spoken to him since they left the cottage in the woods, and it had been three days. Three days of them acting like strangers who were forced to travel together. Never had he been in a situation where he couldn’t come up with anything to say. She only asked and answered questions when she must, and it was killing him.

“I’ll go first to make sure it’s safe, then Thunder and Lightning, and you’ll go last.”

“Why do I have to go last?” she asked him, her face contorted. He wasn’t sure if she was offended or afraid or just simply angry at him. All could be true, but he didn't dare to ask.

“If all three of us have crossed safely then you’ll be safe too,” he said.

She rolled her eyes and looked away, thinking for a moment. “Why don’t we let the horses go first? Thunder, and then Lightning, then you and me together.”

“Okay.” Harry pressed his lips into a smile which Y/N completely ignored. She turned back to Thunder, giving him a tight hug and whispering to him that everything would be okay even though Thunder seemed braver than both of them combined. Harry guessed the horse had gone through worse and this kind of danger didn’t scare him anymore, or maybe he was scared but didn’t want to let it show and make Y/N upset. It was one thing Thunder and Harry had in common. They would risk their lives for the same girl.

Thunder carefully stepped on the bridge, taking some time to make sure it was secured before he continued. He made it seem so easy and managed to get to the other side in no longer than ten minutes. Lightning, however, struggled a bit more. Harry and Y/N had to hold their breath while watching the poor horse trying to keep her balance on the wobbling bridge. Thankfully, she still got there unharmed.

“Take my hand,” Harry said, and Y/N wasted no time to intertwine her fingers with his. She clutched the strap of her satchel and gave a nod to let him know she was ready.

They started off slow with small cautious steps. She was gripping his hand, her knuckles turned white but he was too anxious to feel any pain at this point. He could have been bruised and bleeding and wouldn’t have even noticed, for one wrong step could end their lives.

As they walked, he kept reassuring her that there was nothing to be afraid of for he was never going to let her fall. It was a bold statement to make but he meant every single word. He would protect her as long as he stayed alive.

The wind had become stronger, shaking the bridge violently and they had to stop a few times to keep their balance and secure their grip. Harry’s heart skipped a beat as Y/N squeezed his fingers. She was so quiet, and although he couldn’t see her face, he could imagine what she looked like at that moment, with her cheeks flushed and skin pale from the cold and her hair blowing everywhere in the air, he thought she must look like a frightful yet beautiful mess.

“We’re almost there,” he said to her and she nodded her head, too scared to make a sound. The closer they got to the other end of the bridge, the lighter Harry’s heart felt. A smile was forming on his face when suddenly a powerful wind knocked them over. Y/N screamed as the planks beneath her feet broke and she dropped through the large gap, pulling Harry with her.

“PEACH!”

He grasped the rope with one hand, her wrist with the other, keeping them both from falling into the abyss. Her body was dangling at deadweight. She shouted his name, tears flying out from her eyes and Harry was horror-struck yet he forced himself to stay calm.

“You’re okay, Peach! I’ve got you!” He clenched his jaw, using all the strength he had left to try to pull her back up, but the wind was attacking them from all directions. Y/N was whimpering uncontrollably, her breaths busting in and out, but she kept her eyes on him and didn’t give in to gravity.

“Peach, the satchel…” he hissed, his face was red from pulling too hard. “You gotta...fuck...you gotta let it go...”

“No!”

“You have to, Peach! The gold is too heavy!”

She froze, her glassy eyes met his as her fingers tightened around the strap of the bag. He could tell there was something valuable to her in there, but the only valuable thing to him was her and he couldn’t hold onto her any longer if she kept holding onto her satchel. The veins popped up on his neck as he begged, “please, Peach...you must let it go…”

Panting, she took off the satchel with one hand and lifted it towards him. “Take it!”

“I c-can’t.” His face scrunched up as he shook his head fast. “If I took it, I’d have to let you go.”

“Just try!”

“Peach, stop being so fucking stubborn!”

Another wind struck them hard and knocked the satchel out of her hand. She gasped loudly as the satchel, the jewellery, and her crown all fell into the black eternal pit.

Harry could finally haul her back onto the bridge and hurriedly gathered her small frame into his arms. She lay her head on his chest, sobbing hysterically as he kissed her face. “You’re okay, Peach. I’ve got you. I’ve got you and I’m never letting you go.”

“We’ve lost all the gold…” she murmured in tears as he pulled her closer.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, slowly rubbing her back. “I didn’t care about the gold.”

By sundown, Harry and Y/N had reached Vidarr River. Their shadows had faded into the blackness and the heat of the day had been replaced by the chilliness of the night. They decided to rest on the grassland by the river and save their energy to continue their journey at dawn. Y/N collected wood. Harry lit a fire. And they sat down to feast on the bread and fruits May and Mary had packed for them.

Harry kept stealing glances at the girl during the meal to study her expression and try to guess what was on her mind. She acted like the accident on the bridge had never happened, but he knew deep down she was still shaken and just didn't want to confide in him. He figured he should give her more time and space. Hopefully, she would forgive him before they parted.

“Hey.”

Her voice made him flinch. He turned around, startled to see her standing right behind him and she was quick to hold him back by the arm before he tripped over his own feet and fell into the river. Both of them laughed nervously as she let him go and he wiped his wet hands on his pants.

“H-Hey. I was just...washing my hands…”

“Yeah, I could see that.” She gave a small smile which made him rather uneasy than elated. She then pulled out a ring from the little pocket of her skirt and handed it to him, leaving him puzzled.

“What’s this?”

“For you,” she said, staring at the shiny object instead of him. “I’m sorry we’ve lost all the gold because of me, but I still have this ring so--”

“I told you the gold didn’t matter to me so...I can’t take this.” He pushed her hand away, making her frown.

“But we have made a deal,” she asserted.

“Yes.” He nodded once. “You would break me out of prison and I would help you reunite with your uncle. You’ve done your part so now I’m doing mine. I don't want your gold, Peach."

Y/N scoffed and rolled her eyes at his response. “You need this ring to get the best doctor for your mother, Harry. Just take it, please.”

Not giving him another chance to refuse, she put the ring in his hand and squeezed it into a fist, holding it tightly. The determination on her face amused him. He could tell she was torn between wanting to stay mad at him and wanting to be grateful to him for having saved her life. If only she knew, she had saved his life since she showed up in that dungeon.

He shook his head and gently grabbed her hand. She had such pretty and soft hands for a maid, and he would’ve joked about it had she not been mad at him. Her forehead creased as she stared dumbfoundedly at his face while he admired her fingers before sliding the ring on her middle one.

“It looks better on you,” he said. She huffed but said nothing back. That was his cue to go on. “I’m very sorry...I know you’re going to say you don’t want to hear my apology and I owe you nothing, but I know that I was wrong and--and I cannot justify what I did, so I’m not going to give you reasons, I’m just going to apologise.”

Y/N bit her lip while twisting the ring on her finger. She didn’t ask him to shut up so he let out a sigh of relief and continued right away, “I’m sorry for what happened with Mary, and I’m sorry for killing that man right in front of you. I know you were scared and you must think I’m this murderer--”

“I knew that man.”

“What?”

“I knew that man, Harry,” she said, unable to look him in the eye. “The guard that you killed, I knew him, and he knew me. He had known me since I was a baby, and that day he was going to kill me anyway. So yes, I was scared, but I wasn’t scared of you. And I certainly could not blame you or anyone but myself.”

“Peach, you’ve done nothing wrong…”

“That’s not how it feels to me.”

The corners of his lips lowered as he took a moment to think. “Was that why you considered marrying Stefan? Because it was the safer choice?"

The questions left her baffled, her mouth fell open. “How do you know about that? I never told you.”

“May and Mary did. That was why I got drunk. And when I--I thought...I thought she was you…” he faltered, rubbing the back of his neck, “I wish it had been you…”

Being able to get it off his chest might have been the best feeling he’d ever known. He felt like he could finally breathe, but now he was too afraid to look up and watch her reaction. He waited for her to say something, anything at all. But it was Thunder who broke the silence by neighing loudly and pawing the ground. Harry breathed into his palms as she turned away, then he heard a gasp.

Fireflies. There were fireflies everywhere!

Hundreds of them lifted off the dewy grass, flying so slowly as if they were struggling against the weight of mist hanging heavily in the night air. They danced in a heady swarm of light like a tiny galaxy on the dark river, giving the place a buzz of excitement one could rarely witness.

Harry managed to catch a firefly and raised his glowing fists above his head, shouting with the enthusiasm of a little boy, “Peach! I caught one!”

But then he stilled as he saw her, arms spread and tip-toeing on the grass with a cloud of sparks soaring around her. She looked like a fairy stepping out of a storybook, and he couldn’t stop himself from gawking, awe transforming his face. His heart beating quickly and his cheeks turned red when they made eye contact. The fireflies parted to make way for him as he came closer.

“You caught one,” she giggled as he let the firefly go. It landed on the tip of her nose before joining the others, flying high above their heads. She kept watching them while he was watching her.

The words slipped out faster than he could think, “I would like to court you.”

She looked at him, blinking rapidly. He thought she’d missed that so he said it again, “I would like to court you...if you’d allow me. Not right now, of course. You need time to think it over and to forgive my foolish mistakes, and...and we still need to get you home to your uncle. But I don’t want to wait until we say goodbye to finally tell you this.”

She breathed out a nervous laugh, his heart pounding harder.

“Why are you talking nonsense, Harry?”

“I’m not.”

“You don’t mean it.”

“I do! I could be uncertain about a lot of things but you are never one of them!”

Y/N huffed and turned away, but he managed to seize her wrist and held onto it even though she was scowling at him.

“Please don’t turn me down just yet. My heart would break if you said no now, but it would also break if you said yes and changed your mind tomorrow. Please wait until we get to Theros to give me your answer. Whatever you choose then, I’d be happy to accept.”

A line appeared between her brows as she took in the sight of a distressed Harry. She had never seen him like this before, and neither had he. It had come naturally with Kenny as he had always known he would fall in love and be with her when they got older. This was nothing he could have expected. And as much as it scared him, it was everything he wanted and more. After almost losing her twice, he could not waste another opportunity to tell the truth.

“Fine,” she calmly said, lifting her chin. “Now we should get some sleep.”

Harry loosened his grip and let her go back to where Thunder and Lightning were resting by the fire. It felt like their previous conversation had never happened, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. He could only hope she would still be there when he woke up in the morning.

Harry woke up when little droplets alighted on his skin. The morning was dark and overcast. Black clouds sprawled across the sky, draining colours from the trees, as the air grew heavier and the humidity pressed down, suffocating. The horses were still there but Y/N was nowhere to be seen. He frantically got up and looked around, wondering where she could have possibly gone. He had to find her in case she couldn’t get back before it rained.

He called out her name and wandered along the riverbank until he found one of her shoes lying near the edge of the water. His face turned ashen. Without a second thought, he dropped his coat and dived headfirst into the black water, just as Y/N appeared from the trees, frozen in shock.

“Harry!” she shouted and sprinted towards the river. “Harry, oh God! Harry!”

It wasn’t until she jumped into the deep end that she remembered she couldn’t swim. The currents pushed her down. The more desperately she moved her limbs, the faster she sank, and as her heart started beating frantically, images of the first time she almost drowned in the same river flashed through her mind in a split second. That was when Harry grabbed her and towed her back to the surface. She coughed into his chest as he lay her on the grass, mumbling “you’re okay, Peach, you’re okay” until she regained awareness and finally opened her eyes.

A stillness fell over the forest, and in the silence came a low crackle of thunder. Everything stopped for a moment. A silvery streak split the grey sky in half, and the downpour began. Harry picked up Y/N's shoe and carried her to the nearest tree, and they sat under it to take shelter from the rain. She was still trembling and clinging onto him, so he stayed still until she was calm enough to loosen her grip and look up to meet his gentle gaze.

He tucked a wet strand behind her ear, looking rather concerned. “Why did you jump in when you couldn’t swim?”

“I-I forgot.”

Her answer made him frown yet he couldn’t help but chuckle. “You forgot that you couldn’t swim?”

“I don’t know…” She bit her bottom lip, her forehead puckered. “I just thought...I just thought you had fallen into the water. I couldn’t bear to lose you...so I jumped in.”

“Aww, Peach. My sweet Peach.” He sighed and kissed her forehead a couple of times as she laughed quietly into her palms.

“Why did you jump in?” she asked.

“I woke up and you were gone, then I saw your shoe by the river and thought you’d drowned," he said, making her laugh as her face relaxed.

“I was cold so I went into the forest to collect some more wood to light a fire. I dropped my shoe and my hands were full, so I left it there for when I got back. You needn’t have worried about me. I’m not that stupid little girl anymore.”

Confusion overtook Harry’s face as he stopped twirling her hair and pulled back a bit, their eyes meeting. He didn’t have to question. She had realised what she’d said. She swallowed hard, pressing her lips together and quickly looked away.

“That was you,” he uttered. It wasn’t a question. It was him confirming what he already knew. She flinched when he pressed his cold palm against her cheek and turned her face back to him.

“When did you find out?” she finally asked.

“When we were in the cave,” he said with a smile. “You asked me if Kenny was my betrothed and went ahead to explain what it meant. And I just...I just knew.”

“So why didn’t you say anything?”

“I wasn’t sure then.”

“Still…you should have said something.” She pouted while snuggling her nose into his shoulder.

Beaming, he nudged her slightly. “What about you? When did you find out?”

“When Stefan called you Crow.”

Harry scoffed, rolling his eyes.

There was another moment of comfortable silence before she went on, “I’d spent ten years thinking about the boy who saved my life, and wondering what would have happened if I had gone with him that day instead of going back. But now I know."

“Do you regret it?” He lifted an eyebrow.

“Unfortunately, no,” she said, and both of them laughed together.

The rain continued, less torrential than before, and the gloomy clouds had cleared enough for the sun to shine through. Drops of water trickled down her back, her wet clothes clinging to her body and her hair dripping, but she had never felt so warm. She sat between his legs, her back against his chest, her head on his shoulder as they shared the same damp coat he had worn before jumping into the river.

“Were you with the king’s court that day in the forest?” he asked.

She gave a timid nod, for a second forgetting who she was supposed to be. “I followed Egon and fell into the river. I got in so much trouble when I got back.”

“Were you close to him?”

“Yes." She shrugged. "Sadly, he got worse when he grew up. He was still terrible back then but at least he was just a kid.”

Harry was quiet for a moment so she tilted her head to see his face. He was pouting, and when he heard her snort at his expression, he hugged her a bit tighter. “I can't imagine the two of you being close. So that's why he’s so crazy about you."

“He’s not crazy about me.” She chuckled as he pressed his cheek against hers.

“Stefan said Egon had asked his men to kill me and bring you back alive. He clearly wants you for himself.”

That was when it occurred to Y/N that Harry was...jealous. He was jealous of her brother. She burst out laughing at the idea, making him confused but also embarrassed. His cheeks were flushed as he asked, “what’s so funny?”

“Nothing.” She grinned. “I didn’t think of you as the jealous type.”

She expected him to joke about it as he normally would, but he was quiet all of a sudden. She freaked out a little, trying to figure out what she’d done wrong, but then he said, “how did you think I felt every time I saw you with Stefan?”

“I didn’t have feelings for Stefan.”

“But those sisters told me that you did, and the way you acted made me believe that you did.” The corners of his mouth turned down as he sucked in a harsh breath. “And I just felt like Stefan would be a better fit for you as he wasn't a liar and a thief and a murderer--”

“Harry, you’re none of those things to me.” She cupped his face and leaned closer, her breath fanning his lips. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way. I wasn’t afraid of you. I could never.”

“Really?” he asked, his voice was breathy and quiet.

“Yes!” She nodded fast and turned around, getting on her knees to fully face him and cup his cheeks. “I feel like...I feel like everything is scary except for you. And this might sound very stupid but-but sometimes it worries me how I could see myself letting you hurt me badly and not being able to hate you for it.”

She held his gaze, her breaths busting in and out. Harry’s face twisted as if he could feel everything she was feeling at that moment.

“I swear I won’t ever hurt you again,” he told her.

“You swear on your life?” she asked after a quiet moment and his smile grew wider, his fingers touching her cheek.

“I swear on my life.”

The rain was finally letting up so they decided to continue their journey to make it to Theros before nightfall. Y/N didn’t even care about her wet clothes. She had not seen and felt the rain in so many years that she couldn’t help but get excited about riding her horse through this type of weather. She watched with wide eyes as the flowers and leaves drooped under the weight of the droplets. She had missed the cool freshness in the breeze and the smell of the rain-soaked ground, flowers and grass. Something about this rain had made her more relaxed than she had ever been and she was in no hurry for the clouds to clear.

But as they almost made it out of the forest, the sky suddenly settled. Although the fluffy smudges didn’t part completely, the sun still peeked out, bringing back the golden sunlight and the summer heat that she loved. Harry suggested that they stop somewhere to get cleaned up and let their clothes hang to dry before going into the city, which she thought was a good idea. She was sweating like a pig in her wet clothes and certainly couldn’t meet anyone when she looked and smelt equally bad.

And so they decided to stop by a waterfall on the way. Y/N had only seen this one from afar every time she travelled past with her family, so she was in awe to finally watch it from a much closer distance. The curtain of white water spilt over the grey rocks as if it were being poured from a giant bucket that never emptied. It was truly a beautiful yet brutal force of nature; tranquil from a distance but deafening up close.

As Y/N admired the magnificent sight, Harry quickly got out of his clothes, hung them on a branch and jumped right in. She heard a splash and snapped her head to find him already in the middle of the river.

“What are you waiting for?” he asked, laughing when he saw her nervously fiddling with the strings of her shirt.

“I c-can’t swim…”

“The depth isn’t so bad here. You can just stand,” he reassured her but he knew drowning wasn’t her biggest concern. Her face was as red as an apple, and he thought it was just lovely. “I’ll look away for you to take off your clothes.”

“But--”

“Hurry up, Peach! The water is pretty nice!” he shouted with his back facing her.

Her fingers stuttered on the strings as she took in a shaky deep breath. She stared at her bare feet on the grass, thinking about everything she had been through and how she had faced and escaped death so many times to get there. Who knew what other dangers might be waiting for her ahead? So this might be her last chance to be happy. She had to live like it was truly the last and couldn’t let this moment go to waste.

Just like that, the princess flung off her clothes and kicked off her shoes, grinning like a happy little girl as a cool breeze touched her skin and made her shiver. She wrapped both arms around her chest before slipping smoothly into the water which came only to her upper chest.

“Harry, wait! I’m--I’m coming!”

“Slow down. I’m not going anywhere.” Harry let out a chuckle as he saw her walking towards him with her arms tightened around herself. “See? It feels good, doesn't it?”

The corners of her mouth had barely turned up when she felt something moving at her feet. She screamed so loud and jumped on top of Harry. He caught her with both arms, stumbling a few steps backwards, completely frozen when he realised he was holding her whole naked body against his own. Y/N also froze. Both of them were catching their breath as his eyes moved over the swells of her breasts and her heart had never beat louder. She was scared, but then...she wasn’t. The heat in his eyes warmed her up, and she suddenly felt hot, unable to pull away.

Harry almost cursed out loud as he could feel her nipples pucker against his heaving chest. His body reacted almost instantly when faced with her own arousal, and he could feel her tense when she felt his stiffness between her soft thighs. He kissed the top of her head, his lips curved into a nervous smile and he pulled away slowly, embarrassed and aroused at the same time.

“It was...um...only a fish,” he said bashfully. She only nodded. Suddenly, she took his hand and pulled him quickly towards the waterfall. He had no idea how she had gained such confidence, but he didn’t question and just let her lead the way. He was hard, embarrassingly hard, but he had to act normal for now and hope it would eventually go away.

Y/N didn’t explain as she gracefully slipped underneath the waterfall. She put her hands on a large rock, the fall pouring upon her, and pulled herself onto a small ledge that jutted off the cliff right above the edge of the bank. His heart missed a beat but then he heard her calling out his name from underneath the fall's deluge. He wasted no time to slip beneath the waterfall to the outcropping behind, holding his breath under the torrent of water.

When he emerged from the downpour, she immediately grabbed him and locked her mouth upon his. They kissed intensely, hands roaming over each other's bodies. He wasn’t thinking when he put his hand on her full breast and pushed her back against the wall of the ledge, but he guessed she liked that. She pushed herself up to sit on a boulder, pulling him back in, their lips meeting again.

He had to break the kiss to catch his breath and almost lost his mind when he looked down. He had been with so many women in the past and yet no one could match the image in front of him. Her centre was pink and glistened with her own arousal as she sat with her legs opened wide and him in between. His wild eyes followed a droplet trickling down the valley of her breasts, to her belly button, to her--

He quickly looked up, their eyes locked again. Her confidence had soon faded and he could tell from the look in her eyes that she was somewhat afraid. He knew she wanted him, and God, he had wanted her for so long. The sight of her spreading open for him made him go mad, but she was a virgin. She had never kissed anyone else let alone been touched or even seen like this. Now he felt terrible. He felt like he was using her for her innocence. He almost told her they should stop and get back to their horses when suddenly she pulled him closer.

“Harry…”

He groaned and shut his eyes at the sound she had made. His hardness was resting heavily between her thighs, just one push and he would be inside her, the thought made his stomach clench.

“Harry,” she said breathlessly, her lips ghosting over his, “touch me again.”

“I can’t.” He shook his head fast, his eyes squeezed shut as if he was talking to himself. His eyelids fluttered as he released shallow breaths and mumbled, “I can’t be your first, Peach. We have to stop.”

“We could die tomorrow. I don’t care.”

“You do care. And we’re not going to die. I’m not going to let that happen, all right?”

She pursed her lips and nodded once, her eyes bored into him. When he kissed her again, it was his heart telling him to do it. He made sure to keep his fists on the boulder on either side of her to refrain from touching her, knowing he couldn’t stop once he had started. But he was still hard. How could he not when he could feel her heat at the red tip of his cock which was begging to be touched by her?

“Can we do that thing?” She sounded breathless against his lips, her fingertips digging into his shoulders.

“What thing, love?”

“You know, when...when you r-rub but don’t go...in...”

“Fuck, did they also teach you that?” His smirk made her blush harder and somehow it turned him on even more, which he didn’t know was possible. He could see that she was dripping and she needed him to give it to her now, but she was too shy to beg so he hastily tugged her hips towards his, her core directly on his cock. She let out a gasp at the contact while he moaned, gripping her hips to get her to move.

With one hand at the back of her neck and the other cupping her cheek, he hungrily chased his lips with her own, swallowing up every little sound that she made, even though their heavy breathing could certainly not be heard over the sound of the water.

She tightened her hold in his long locks as she began to slowly rock over his hard-on. He began to rock back into her, his hands moving down to grip onto her waist and guide her movements, forcing a moan to slip past her lips. Her mouth dropped open at the feeling of his bare cock rubbing against her wet clit. He mumbled hotly into her ear as his warm breath fanned her skin. She would always cringe each time she heard such dirty words, but the way he said it, because he said it, she was weak at the knees.

Y/N had gained a bit more confidence, the slickness of her core allowing her to glide over him easier, the feeling making her cry out into his shoulder. Her harsh breaths warmed the skin of his neck. He reattached their lips and licked into her mouth. The thought of her sweet cunt alone drove him absolutely mad, making his cock twitched as he let out a guttural groan. He couldn’t help but close his eyes and imagine how warm and soft her cunt would be for him. The thought of burrowing himself inside of it and feeling her wrapped tightly around him was simply too much for him to handle.

He blurted out a swear as he brought her forehead to lay against his while cupping her face and running his thumb along her swollen bottom lip. Her thighs still wrapped around his hips, and her face tucked into his neck.

“Fuck, love. You’re so warm for me. So warm and wet.” The filthy sounds he made and the words he said only spurred her on. She felt hot all over as the throbbing in her core spread through her entire body. She let out a little whine and began to grind faster, losing her rhythm on his cock ever so slightly.

“Look how wet you are for me. Just like I’m all hard for you. Is this all for me, my love?”

She clenched at his words, nodding her head so fast it could fall off and she wouldn’t even care. He told her she looked so pretty like this, that she’d got him so close. She felt dizzy, and his head was also spinning as he moved his hips against hers.

“Gonna cum for me?” he whispered in her ear. “Gonna get me all wet?”

She began to lose her rhythm, nearing her end. He gripped her waist with both hands, moving her faster. He felt her body tremble as she suddenly soaked his cock, a high-pitched whine tore through her throat as her toes curled and her fingers buried in his hair. His hands fell to her buttocks, gripping the soft flesh in his large hands and moaning in her ear.

He shouted out in surprise as white ribbons of cum began to spurt from his tip onto her stomach and his own. He was shaky and twitchy as he held her close to him, burying his face in her neck and letting his own orgasm wash over him. He couldn’t believe he was still coming, and they hadn’t actually made love.

Fuck.

He was truly crazy about her.

They took their time coming down, trying to steady their breathing and the beating of their hearts. He held her close to him, burying his face into her hair. And when she cupped his cheek with one of her hands, his eyes fluttered to open as he pulled back a little to lock eyes with her. They shared a smile. His breath faltered at just how beautiful she looked. Seeing how soft and bright her eyes were made him want to kiss her again. He quickly brought her face to his and pressed their lips together, this time much gently.

“I’ve ruined you. You’re not innocent anymore,” he joked when they pulled apart.

“That’s okay,” she replied, pressing her forehead against his. “I like that.”

#tctm series #princess!y/n #harry styles smut #harry styles x you #harry styles x reader #harry styles writing #harry smut #harry styles x y/n #harry styles #harry styles imagines #harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfic #harry styles angst #harry styles fluff #harry styles fanfics #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfictions

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smashskate · 4 years

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Honey Newcomb - For @eeriesims‘s “The Many Suitors of One Clary Wiggins”

Honey Newcomb is your resident nymph-next door; A bubbly personality surrounded by unearthly beauty, she’s a staple character in the Glimmerbrook community. Having lived there since she was a child, Honey is well integrated with the residents who inhabit the sweet little sea town. Although she was urged by her mother and father to go to a specialty school to develop her inherited powers, Honey decided she would rather settle down with a normal job, taking up the position as Head Waitress at Dino’s Diner. Since then, she’s developed a strong foundation within the community, often letting people confide in her over a morning cup of coffee. If you need help with a problem, need to vent, or just want to talk, you go to Honey. She also bakes a mean apple pie; you’ll always come back for another slice.

General Information

Name: Honey Erytheia Newcomb

Birthday/Age: October 7th, 1994 (Age 25)

Astrological Info: Libra Sun, Cancer Moon, Pisces rising

Species: Hesperides Nymph

Height: 5’5

Sexual Orientation: Pansexual

Gender/Pronouns: Female, she/her pronouns

Nicknames: Honey (her name is a nickname in of itself), Bee + Honey Bun by friends and family, Betty by many of the townsfolk for her similarities to a stereotypical 50s blonde

Occupation: The Head Waitress at Dino’s Diner; everyone knows her, everyone loves her.

Fun Facts

“You know, back when I did roller derby…” - The key factor that drew Honey to the waitress application at Dino’s was the inclusion of rollerskates in the uniform. Honey competed in professional roller derby during her early twenties, and never quite gave up her love for it. However, she soon found out she was much more coordinated on the track than in the diner when she fell flat on her arse the first day. She’ll bring her past up at random points, but mostly to convince people that she’s not a complete mess on wheels.

“How are y’all doin’ today?” - Somehow, over the years, Honey developed a slight southern drawl. This was peculiar, since no one in her family has a southern accent and Glimmerbrook is nowhere near the deep south. However, customers find it quite charming. Honey chalks this quirk up to her being incredibly impressionable, assuming she picked it up from some passing tourists.

“He’s not weird, he’s adorable!” - Being a nymph, Honey has always had a connection to nature and animals. This has brought her to collect an interesting array of pets over the years. Her most beloved pet is her tarantula, Alberto. People never seem to want to get to know him, and just think he’s strange. It wounds her deeply, he’s a lovely fellow once you warm up to him!

“Oh my gosh, I’m not even goin’ that fast, stop screaming!” - Honey is a horrible driver. She’ll never admit it, and always offers to give people rides or be the designated driver. Don’t let her. Please, it’s for your own good. She drives a buggy that looks like its been through a hurricane.

“See, watch!” *fuse bursts* - Honey’s overarching classification is a Light/Star nymph, although specifically her species is a Hesperides. This means that she cannot create light, but she can manipulate it. Or rather, she would be able to, if she went to school to hone her skills. As it stands, all she can do is make lights shine a little brighter, although it usually comes with a few busted fuses. She can light candles without matches though, which is pretty cool.

“A second chance can’t hurt, right?” - In her younger years, Honey was incredibly trusting, almost to a fault. She often put others before herself, and some took advantage of that. While she’s learned from her mistakes, there's still a part of her that always wants to see the best in people. She doesn’t like to use the term naive, but she knows that it’s an accurate descriptor sometimes.

“... Sorry, what was I saying?” - Honey tends to ramble a lot, and often loses her train of thought. You’ll get her started on one topic, and in a few seconds you’ll be miles away. You might have to tap her on the shoulder to reel her back into the present.

Fun Little Quirks

Her favorite fruit is peaches, and she has to have some at least once a day. It brings her life a little more consistency.

Her handwriting is incredibly neat. The cooks who read the orders at the diner appreciate this immensely.

She’s played the violin since she was a child. While she hasn’t played ensemble in years, she still picks it up for a tune now and then.

There's a tally board in the kitchen at the diner counting how many plates she’s broken. They’ve already had to move to a second page.

She loves to embroider, and often gives her latest projects to her friends for free. Most of the shops in town have one hanging in their window.

Important Questions

How did you meet Clary?

“Well, it’s the funniest thing! I actually heard about her before I met her. I was pouring a morning cup of green tea for Guillermo Reyes, you know, the librarian? And you know how much that man loves a little gossip. Well, he told me that he had heard from Layla who heard from Jack who heard from Mabel that Ronnie had seen a mysterious woman pull up to Etheline’s house late the afternoon before, and that apparently it was her granddaughter! So, of course, I’m intrigued. And then, as luck has it, right when Mr.Reyes walked out the door, she walked in! She sat down at a booth, and I was so nervous that I forgot to take off my skates when I went to take her order! So, of course, I fell. Oh gosh, I’m embarrassed even thinking about it! Thankfully, she didn’t make fun of me, just gave a little chuckle and helped me to my feet. I took her order in pretty much a daze. I almost fell over again when she waved at me on her way out.”

What was your first impression of Clary?

“Honestly? Well, of course I thought she was absolutely gorgeous. Dark hair, dark eyes, ugh! I could go on all day! I also noticed her ears. While elves and nymphs aren’t exactly uncommon ‘round here, their ears haven’t really been passed down. So seeing a dame with those ears? Shocking, but amazing! I haven’t seen someone with ears like mine in many moons. Her hands were also incredibly soft. Literally, I don’t think I’ve ever felt something so soft in my life! Well, that’s probably not true... but that’s how it felt!”

What is your ideal date?

“Oh gosh, I haven’t been on a real date in so long! Well, from my experience, it’s always best to get to know someone a little bit before going on a date. I would invite them over to the diner a few times, just to form a bond. They also get to see me in my natural habitat, at my happiest and my most stressed. Then, once that’s done, I’d love a picnic at the wharf! Sure, the area’s a bit grimey and cluttered, but it’s just so peaceful there, you wouldn’t believe it! One of my other favorite past times is stargazing in the fields just outside of town. There’s this hidden nook in the trees there that my parents used to take me to for training. It gets the most beautiful lighting, day or night. I’ve always wanted to take someone there!”

What is your ideal relationship?

“I really just want someone who’s as invested in the relationship as I am. Some people only want to date for the sake of dating, not actually caring for the other person as they should. If I get into a relationship, I want to feel everything. The highs, lows, and in-betweens. Obviously no relationship is perfect, but I am a firm believer in clear communication. I need to know how you’re feeling.”

“I’m also super touchy-feely. Doesn’t matter when or why, I’ll probably be draping myself over you in some way. Physical contact doesn’t have to lead to something more; Sometimes the best thing is just knowing that the other person is there with you.”

“I want a relationship where we listen to each other. Even if I don’t understand your emotions regarding something, I want to validate them and be there for you. But I want that from the other person too. I tend to be pretty insecure at times, and it would be nice to have someone to snap me out of those thoughts every now and then. I believe that in a relationship you grow together.”

“I never really know what to expect out of a relationship, because everyone’s different. I’m not gonna lie, there's been a few people who have taken me through the ringer, and I haven’t come out undamaged. I want someone who can show me how beautiful love can be, even with its faults.”

What is Honey’s personality like?

Like her name, Honey is sweetness personified. She dislikes the stereotype of nymphs being air-headed and easily manipulated. She is kind and caring, but she doesn’t want to let people walk over her. Sadly, she is often one to walk over herself. She tends to be very self-critical, always wondering if she could have ever amounted to something more. Although she never craved a life beyond her current status, her mother’s powerful reputation as a healer looms over her. She’s also probably the clumsiest person you will ever meet, often taking off her roller-skates to deliver orders to tables out of fear of falling over. Big “i’m baby” energy.

Even though she’s young, Honey is definitely the mom type. Everyone who walks through the door has a story, and she wants to make them feel welcome and wanted no matter what, rain or shine. If someone’s feeling down, she’ll make the sun shine a little brighter. She also has a knack for guessing just what people want to eat on any given day. If you think you don’t know what you want, no problem. Honey’s great at reading people, but there have been times where she’s let the glasses stay on a bit too long.

Honey lives in a cottage in the suburbs of Glimmerbrook. The atmosphere is warm and welcoming, but don’t come in without being invited. She’s got about fifteen guard animals waiting.

Honey’s hobbies mostly revolve around baking, cooking, and general upkeep of the diner. After hours, you’ll most likely find her bundled up on the back steps of the diner, sharing a hot chocolate with one of Glimmerbrook’s interesting residents, or giving tourists tips on the hidden gems around town. Honey is perfectly amicable with the townsfolk, and loves them dearly, but she’s never been able to find that special someone. She hopes that one day someone will come to sweep her off her feet and make her feel the things she’s heard about from the local lovebirds.

In-Game Information

Traits:

Cheerful

Outgoing

Clumsy

Aspiration: Friend of the World

Outfits (L to R: Work ~ Everyday ~ Date)

#the many suitors #the many suitors of one clary wiggins #themanysuitors #eeriesims #ts4 #sims 4 #the sims #sims4 #ts4 challenge #this took way longer to put together than I thought it would lol

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thealogie · 5 years

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Yeah of course crowley is the one always chasing/orbiting aziraphale but I love how crowley is constantly at “to save you from nazis and steal 10 minutes with you in a car while I drop you off where you want to go, to perform valiant deeds to earn your admiration, to die for you, to die in your arms kissed once on the lips like a spartan...it would be enough” while aziraphale is like “want more for yourself babe, we gotta have oysters, we gotta have a picnic, we gotta dine at the ritz, we gotta build ourselves a cottage on the South Downs...it’s that or nothing at all! no I won’t go off into some oyster-less cold planet with you, it’s cozy or bust!”

#good omens

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maeve-moon · 4 years

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maeve moon ~

( im yoona, cis female, she / her) i took a trip into town and ran into MAEVE MOON at the general store. isn’t that the NOMAD you told me about last week? the one who is 28, as well as ADAPTIVE and PERSEVERING? well, we didn’t chat for long because they had to get back to their job as the LIBRARIAN, so i can’t say for sure, but i think you might be onto something…they even mentioned they want to DISCOVER WHO SHE TRULY WAS AND SETTLE DOWN like you said. + faye, 20, she / her, gmt + 8

Maeve Mae-Goo Moon was born in Ireland to her Korean immigrant parents. As a kid, their family would take trips back to South Korea every year or so and visit their relatives. She was always at the end of veiled ridicule from her cousins because she wasn’t “Korean” enough. Even if she only stumbled her way through basic Korean, she still made it a point to be in good graces with her extended family. Despite that, she would always be excited when they’d take a trip to her grandparents' little cottage in Buan-gun to spend a few days on their farm. She remembers how she’d bring a book to their porch and read while her grandpa would make jam from whatever fruit grew that season.

Mae Goo started using only her English name, “Maeve”, when she transferred for secondary school. She was getting tired of people asking her to say her name over and over again because it was “different” from all of theirs.She once had a project where she had to present about her heritage and culture. Again, she felt like at a crossroads. Would people judge her if she talked about being Irish but looked otherwise? Would people question her being Korean if she’s only been there for vacations? Was she Irish enough? Was she Korean enough? She decided to just combine the two as it proved the best decision. Her friends - to her shock - loved her presentation and regaled her with questions about the marriage of these two cultures in her life. While she loved answering them, that whole project just left another gnawing void of unanswered questions within her.

When Maeve found out that her application and scholarship to a university in Switzerland was approved, she was elated. She thought that maybe moving out of her comfort zone would finally provide some answers. While in Geneva, she found a new sense of self in fields of flowers that seemed to stretch on for miles. She found it when she was awake until 2AM typing out the words for her essay due the next day. She found it punching out numbers in sync with whatever formulas were needed to complete her undergraduate thesis in finance. She found it when she received her diploma and felt like she could do anything if she put her mind to it. But all good things come to an end. The high she rode kept waning as the days passed. Her questions were still unanswered and she's reluctantly trying to make peace with the fact that maybe, they won’t ever be answered.

A few months have passed and Maeve figured it was time to get a job. She applied to a few companies in Galway and surprisingly heard back from most of them. Her parents were a little concerned that she wasn’t accepting any of these offers. What Maeve didn’t tell them was that she was waiting on a reply for an internship that would - yet again - take her to a new country. Maybe another new beginning would kick start the spark she so desperately needed. A week passed, then another, and she was this close to accepting the fact that she’s going to tell the bank a few blocks from her home that she’d accept their job offer when the email popped in her inbox. She got accepted for the internship.

Her internship was all that she wished for. She made new friends, went on a few dates, volunteered at the local animal shelter, and read more books. She eventually began feeling comfortable in her own skin. She got hired midway through her internship. She had fun at her job (financial analyst for an advertising company) until waking up on the weekdays felt like a chore. While she was doing her best, she rarely received a promotion. After working there for almost five years, she decided it was time to quit.

Maeve was scared - terrified, honestly - of starting anew. Her “new beginnings” didn’t always give her the satisfaction she longed for. She’s read countless books about epic detours and how the main character would just let life be - without any expectations, without any boundaries. Maybe she needed her own epic detour. She found the opportunity in a flyer about this small town holding a festival that had long since passed. It was a 5 hour train ride from where she lived and had a job opening at the library. Long story short, she packed up her bags and moved into her new cozy apartment in Pelican Town. Now, her only worries include recommending the right books to people and trying to keep her vegetable patch alive. It’s been slow progress, but she can slowly feel herself starting to belong in this small town. The fear of not being able to settle down is still there but it’s been quiet these past few months. The questions she’s had about herself haven’t totally stopped. However, she feels like she might find some answers while she’s here.

Some headcanons:

Maeve loves to read! She has a wall full of books in her apartment and is quite generous in lending them to her friends in town.

She’s been trying to plant some vegetables in her little backyard but cannot, for the life of her, grow anything.

She loves to cook and is now learning to incorporate the local produce into her Korean dishes. But she cannot bake at all. Her muffin mix exploded in the oven and she’s sworn it off since.

Maeve has mild scoliosis so she’s often walk around with her shoulders hunched. Don’t tell her, she’ll bite you

She loves giving people food!! Come by and she’ll reheat whatever you want and give you some snacks to go.

Maeve grew up dancing (hip hop, contemporary, jazz)! If you pass by her apartment, you could probably see her busting some moves to the latest hit song.

Wanted connections

Bookish best friend

Someone who’ll teach her gardening / baking

A wingman / wingwoman give this little lady some action

A “bad” influence get this little lady out on a few drinks, maybe go skinny dipping

A neighbor! they can be friends? hang out? find each other annoying?

#about #dewintro #hey all here's maeve!

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et-in-arkadia · 5 years

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Not to bust into your inbox like this, but as a fellow Nick Cave & Good Omens fan, I’d love to see a breakdown of how you see Into My Arms as an Ineffable Husbands song?

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oh boy oh BOY. never apologize for asking me anything, especially if it involves ineffable husbands and/or nick cave, this is what i was born to do. nick uses a lot of biblical/celestial imagery in his songs, which is very nice for good omens reasons, but it's the tenor of them that makes them applicable here for me.

so many of his ostensible love songs have a melancholic, longing edge; death and loss are as present as life and love. he calls his love songs "lifelines thrown into the galaxies by a drowning man." i think they often work extremely well from crowley's perspective (also nick cave is absolutely one of crowley's; they are identical style icons).

as for "into my arms," the whole song is super-applicable (“I don't believe in an interventionist God / But I know, darling, that you do” and “And I don't believe in the existence of angels / But looking at you I wonder if that's true”), and i actually wrote out a whole thing about each verse but no one else following me needs an entire essay on this, so let’s really just consider:

But I believe in Love And I know that you do, too And I believe in some kind of path That we can walk down, me and you this is the kicker verse that seals the ineffable husbands deal. what saves them in the end is their love for each other, their willingness to make such a dangerous body switch not only for self-preservation but in order to preserve the other also. unnamed love, but love nonetheless, is the thread going through good omens, and it's also what binds them together.

from the start, crowley has believed in "some kind of path" that can uniquely paved for him and aziraphale. that's the "our side" that is at first rebuffed and refused by aziraphale, but by the time crowley repeats it at the bus stop after they avert the apocalypse, aziraphale knows that it's true and doesn't try to tell him otherwise again. the entire show winds towards getting them caught up on that path together, which is, ultimately, how they thwart their own sides and start the journey on their own. they walk it all the way to that cottage in the south downs.

there, perhaps, we can break out the chorus:

Into my arms, oh Lord Into my arms, oh Lord Into my arms, oh Lord Into my arms thank you for asking! most nick cave songs can conceivably be ineffable husbands songs (especially anything from "the boatman's call" or "let love in" or "skeleton tree" or "push the sky away") and i should probably make a themed playlist before i explode

in conclusion i leave you with these thoughts from "brompton oratory":

No God up in the sky No devil beneath the sea Could do the job that you did Of bringing me to my knees

#sometimes this is a nick cave blog #nick cave #ineffable husbands #good omens #asks #you can always ask me anything #but like especially about nick cave and angels and demons

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hopelesslysleepy · 17 days

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Adding "Banana Pancakes" by Jack Johnson to my South Downs playlist. Cuz it's cuuuute.

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#south down cottage or bust #give them a happy ending please #good omens #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #Youtube

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winonalakefossils · 4 years

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An Unwanted Guest

“Typhoid?” The woman gasped and turned in horror to her husband standing beside her in a state of shock.

“I am so sorry to give you the news,” the doctor offered apologetically, looking from one parent to the other. “Your son’s symptoms were at first consistent with appendicitis, but I am certain now—” he halted. “It’s very serious."

The once buoyant, gregarious teenager lay on his bed in the classic typhoid state. His eyes half-opened, his body motionless, his color gone.

Mr. and Mrs. Pugh were spending the summer at their cottage in Winona Lake with their three sons. Mr. Pugh, a humorist, entertained sold-out crowds on the Chautauqua circuit, performing in Winona and other resorts in Indiana. The grim prognosis turned the joyous family tradition of vacations at the lake suddenly tragic.

The doctor gently explained to the parents that their son presented all of the symptoms of an advanced case of typhoid and that he suspected a perforated bowel.

“The contents of the bowel have escaped through a tear and spilled into his abdomen. He is raging with infection. We need to get him to the hospital for surgery if there is to be any hope of saving him.”

The grave tone rendered the stricken parents mute. They nodded their assent.

The anxious family—mother, father and brothers—stood to meet the doctor as he approached. His expression prepared them for more bad news. Richard was critical.

“I did what I could, but he is hemorrhaging.”

“What’s next?” The father’s frantic voice begged for a cure.

“Our only option is a blood transfusion,” the doctor said with some reluctance before adding, “I can’t promise anything.”

Mr. Pugh gave a pint of blood and then sank into despair when his son did not respond. Out of desperation, another transfusion was performed, this time drawing from one of the brothers. The Pugh’s hometown paper reported a slight improvement, but two days later, 17-year-old Richard succumbed to the dreaded typhoid fever.

When Richard Pugh fell ill in Winona Lake in July 1920, fear of an epidemic gripped the leaders at the Winona Assembly, for it had been a mere eighteen months since the Spanish flu had ravaged the newly established military training camp there.

Sol Dickey, Secretary of the Winona Assembly, spent much of 1918 negotiating a contract with the United States War Department to host a training camp in Winona Lake. The availability of dormitories and a vocational school made it an appealing location for the specialized training of draftees. Dickey traveled to Washington, and people from Washington traveled to Winona. They struck a deal, and on October 15, 1918, a thousand young men from every county in Indiana began arriving.

Trainload after trainload of enthusiastic Hoosier sons, eager to participate in the war in Europe, pulled into the station, each one greeted with the local version of pomp and circumstance: a thirty-two piece band and free cigars. A veteran of the Spanish-American War carried the American flag while ceremoniously leading groups to special interurban cars for transportation from the depot in Warsaw to the new camp two miles away on Winona Lake.

By the following morning, the camp had several cases of Spanish Influenza. The number swelled to one hundred and fifty within two weeks. At this time, schools and businesses throughout the state were already closed to prevent the spread of the pandemic. But World War I had not yet ended, and the United States government continued preparing its fighting force.

Over the next several weeks, infections surged. Nineteen men died. On November 23rd, just forty days after their celebrated arrival, the soldiers climbed back onto the interurban and journeyed south to Indianapolis. The camp at Winona Lake was officially abolished.

Although an investigation concluded that the Spanish flu arrived with the soldiers and that no fault lay with the Winona Assembly, the memory of that blighted experiment still haunted Mr. Dickey. When he first received word that the Pugh’s son was sick with typhoid, he worried that if the contagion spread, the Winona Assembly could be in for another disaster like that of 1918. To his relief, no one else contracted the disease.

The Pughs sued the Winona Assembly, pointing a finger at the beloved Studebaker Spring where their son had taken a drink a few days before the onset of his symptoms. Mr. Pugh alleged that spring water had been contaminated by a busted sewer main and accused the Winona Assembly of bearing responsibility. The Assembly could not prove that the water was not contaminated on the day that Richard Pugh drank from it. And even though no broken mains were detected, city officials decided to close all of the springs on the Assembly grounds after an inspection by Dr. Hurty of the Indiana Department of Health.

Thus it was that the tragic death of young Richard Pugh brought the passing of an era. The beloved springs whose water had once been bottled and sold, the source of cherished fountains preserved on so many postcards, the inspiration for the town’s original name, Spring Fountain Park, were now identified as a health hazard.

In a tragic twist, two months after the closing of the fountains, a typhoid epidemic swept through Winona Lake. Papers reported the death of three-year-old Sarah Taylor visiting Winona Lake with her father, a widower. The Indiana Department of Health sent Dr. Hurty to investigate after learning of several more cases. Hurty looked first at the water supply. Having established that it was not contaminated, he turned his attention to the local dairies.

Dr. Hurty was a veteran crusader against unsanitary dairy practices. He came down hard on dairies because the victims of bacteria-ridden milk were overwhelmingly children. He sought to expose those who increased their profits by diluting milk with water that, if contaminated, spawned disease. He was on a mission to put an end to milk tainted with worms, blood, pus, manure, and insects. Hurty preached pasteurization as a matter of public health, but in 1920, the vast majority of America’s children still consumed raw, unpasteurized milk.

Armed with these facts, Dr. Hurty launched a meticulous inspection of area dairies. When the results from the milk supply came back negative for typhoid bacteria, he tested employees and found the culprit. An asymptomatic deliveryman had unwittingly contaminated the milk on his wagon and set off an historic epidemic. Winona Lake saw forty cases of typhoid and the deaths of two children, Sarah and Billy. Neighboring Warsaw recorded similar numbers. One of the worst typhoid outbreaks in Indiana put an end to the sale of raw milk in Winona Lake when the city council passed an ordinance requiring the pasteurization of all milk delivered there. Warsaw did the same.

The Winona Assembly got to work advertising clean water and pasteurized milk to reassure the thousands of summertime visitors that they would be safe from the threat of typhoid fever. That promise proved true for the next two summers, the proverbial calm before the storm.

Thousands descended upon Winona Lake for ten days in June of 1925. On one of those days, Sunday the 7th, a dense crowd of thirty thousand swarmed the grounds. Eight thousand poured into the Billy Sunday Tabernacle filling it up to the doors. The overflow streamed onto the lawn and gathered around the amplifiers. Those that could took up positions at the windows to watch the service going on inside. Parked cars blocked the streets leaving drivers to fight their way through the stationary traffic jam. This was the annual Church of the Brethren Conference, and it drew an enormous response. Nothing but humanity as far as the eye could see!

June in Indiana is a fickle month. No one can be sure whether it will be cold or hot, wet or dry. Conference-goers rejoiced at an abundance of sunshine and warm temperatures. Sprinklers overcame the dry conditions, keeping the dust down and the lawns lush. Newly installed water fountains quenched the thirst of the multitudes rushing off to their meetings or savoring a leisurely stroll.

“We had a wonderful conference!” People exclaimed unanimously when the time came to say goodbye and head back to their home towns. They had come from all over the United States for several glorious days of meetings, reunions and religious services. The warm glow of good memories left little room to complain about a few inconveniences, like long lines at the restaurants, congested roads, water fountains that occasionally belched up dirty water, and a presumed bug that had caused painful stomach aches among dozens.

In the weeks that followed, several residents and Assembly employees contracted typhoid. The number reached thirty by the end of June. At the same time, Huntington County, forty miles southeast of Winona Lake, saw its own outbreak. A doctor attending those patients discovered that all had attended the big conference. He contacted the Indiana State Board of Health. Officials immediately dispatched an inspector to Winona Lake to investigate a possible epidemic.

News of more typhoid cases continued trickling in from among the Church of the Brethren congregations around the country.

As the number of typhoid cases climbed, so did the fatalities. Alma Williams, a widow and mother of three, passed away in Elgin, Illinois. Two sisters, Rose and Carrie, who attended the conference together, died three days apart. Fifteen-year-old Galen Neher had moved to Winona for a summer job. Upon his death, his grief-stricken mother hired a lawyer and threatened to sue the Assembly.

Certain now of an epidemic, the investigator turned his attention to finding the source. Several factors had to be ruled out. Had some among the conference attendees brought the disease with them? Was milk once again to blame? Were flies transmitting disease? Were any of the food workers asymptomatic carriers?

Upon debunking these theories, the investigator concentrated on stories of foul smelling water at the drinking fountains, the barber shop and in a few of the cottages. He visited an old cistern, condemned it and cited it as the source of the outbreak. He flushed and chlorinated the mains, after which he declared the water supply in Winona Lake as safe.

In response to the flurry of newspaper articles slamming the Assembly for the use of an old cistern, the company that supplied water to Winona adamantly defended its practices and demanded a second investigation.

A new inspector arrived to reevaluate the evidence. As a precaution, he ordered the vaccination of residents and visitors to protect against further spread.

The complaints of fetid water restricted the episodes to an isolated area and rendered the cistern theory highly improbable. Furthermore, the wells supplying the water did not test positive for enough bacteria to explain the virulent spread.

Then, an employee from the water company that was seeking to clear itself of responsibility happened to notice an inconsistency in the meter readings for three consecutive days in June when the numbers had gone lower instead of higher. This could mean only one thing. Water had flowed backward through the mains.

While the drinking water came from local wells, the sprinkler system and the public toilets drew water from the nearby canal into which residential sewers drained. By some act of very bad planning or sheer ineptitude, the public water and the canal water systems had been joined under the public toilets, separated only by a valve. When the pump at the canal broke down one fateful day in June, someone, whose identity was never learned, opened the valve to keep the toilets flushing properly. The pressure variance sent polluted canal water into the mains and straight to the water fountains, the barbershop and nearby cottages.

The health department ordered the sprinkler system to be shut down immediately and permanently since it was potentially spreading the contagion throughout the park. Health officials also mandated that Winona Lake install a modern sewage plant before its next summer season.

It’s unclear exactly how many people contracted typhoid in Winona Lake in June 1925. The town’s deadliest and last typhoid epidemic may have infected as many as one thousand, claiming at least thirty lives.

By the turn of the twentieth century, thousands of people visited Winona Lake every summer. They strolled along the water’s edge, weaved through shady paths, drank liberally from cool springs, and flocked to the hillside to watch the sunset. They swam, fished, picnicked and worshiped together year after year. The Winona Assembly prided itself in offering comfortable lodgings amidst peaceful surroundings. Its leaders sought the best talent and most articulate speakers to educate and inspire thronging visitors. However, typhoid, an unwanted guest, sneaked in and triggered six epidemics during the first thirty years of the Winona Assembly. When one considers the introduction of pasteurized milk, the closing of the iconic springs, emergency vaccinations, and the laying of a modern sewage system, it may not be an exaggeration to say that disease achieved as great an impact on Winona Lake as any convention held there.

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galadrieljones · 5 years

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A Funeral: Chapter 11 (Arthur Morgan x Mary Beth Gaskill)

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2 | Pairing: Arthur x Mary Beth | Rating: Mature

Content: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Touch-Starved, Humor, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Angst, Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Fake Marriage, Epiphanies, Backstory, Banter, Deep Emotions, Sharing a Bed, Swimming, Arthur to the Rescue, Forests, Abduction, Angst, Heavy Angst, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers

Summary: To help her process Sean’s death, Mary Beth asks Arthur to take her on a hunting trip, somewhere far away. He agrees, and on their journey, they find quietude and take comfort in their easy bond. In their desperate search for meaning together, they endure a number of trials, some small, some big—all of which bring them closer to one another as well as to the future, and to the unchecked dangers of the natural world.

Thanks @bearly-tolerable for the lovely banner!! <3

For the rest of this story, you can visit the masterpost or AO3, both linked in the replies to this post and also at my blog. ^_^

Chapter 11: Deer Cottage, Pt. 2

They got to the cottage in the early evening. It was good timing, as dark hadn’t fallen and so there was time to drum up and gather their supper. Arthur didn’t want them to be traveling or hunting after dark, and Mary Beth didn’t either. It was just too much risk after what they’d been through the night before. Their plans were to stay in the cottage that night, head north to hunt early in the morning, and then be back to the cottage by evening once more. They had no more plans to sleep in the tent outside, not until they left these more remote parts of the land, heading back to Shady Belle.

Deer Cottage was just as Hamish described it. Modest but clean, with a little garden of lavender and what looked like moss roses. There was some thyme growing around, too, and the moment they got there, Mary Beth began to pick a bunch and gather it into her skirts, and then she found a basket sitting by the green door and dropped it in, along with a selection of poppies and apple blossoms and lavender, too. Arthur fed the horses and made sure they were watered and then together they went inside.

It was small, one room, but it had a very nice and open look about it. The fireplace was clean, with wood chopped and ready, and there was a full kitchen with a basin and a stove and a bed and a table with two chairs. Nothing grisly about it, nothing unsightly or out of order. Hamish was a tender man, it seemed, when it came to keeping his spaces. There were even extra pillows and blankets in the armoire by the door. He noticed, too, there was a gramophone. A real one. It looked dusty and he didn’t know if it was working, but there it was, a fancy novelty item, sitting there by the end of the bed, on the floor.

“This is so quaint,” said Mary Beth, happy. She put the basket of flowers on the table. Then, she went through the cupboards till she found an empty pitcher. “We need water,” she said.

“I saw a working well out back,” said Arthur. “I’ll get it. I’ll see if I can’t shoot something for us to eat as well.”

“Be safe.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, smiling.

The cottage was up a narrow path off the valley road. He took his rifle off of Sarah and his shotgun, too. He didn’t have to go very far. He found a bunch of whitetail grazing in a patch of open grass, the sunlight spreading through like gold. With patience, he honed in on a small doe, took it down in the crosshairs, watched the rest of them scatter, along with several birds. He hauled the deer back to the cottage, flung over his shoulder, tossed it on the ground, real crude, to skin and carve it up. He wasn’t Mr. Pearson, but he could get the job done okay. It was a big score, a nice pelt, and a lot of the meat he salted and wrapped, preserving for the way home. He was bringing in a couple fresh cuts for their dinner now, a big bucket of well water, and some wild carrots, too, which he had found growing along the path back up to the cottage.

When he got back inside, Mary Beth gasped. “Arthur,” she said. “You’re up to your eyeballs in gore."

He looked at his hands, his sleeves, quite bloodied. “You're right,” he said. Then he set down the fresh cuts of meat, the water, and the carrots. “Guess I should wash up.”

“What did you get?” she said.

“Whitetail,” he said. “A good quantity. We’ll have some for tomorrow and the way home as well.”

“Good job, Arthur,” she said, smiling. “I mean it.” She had cleaned up the kitchen, and it looked far less dusty than before. She then poured most of the water from the bucket into the basin, and then the remainder into the tea kettle on the stove. Then, she handed the bucket back to Arthur.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

She watched him, very courteous. He tipped his hat to her and then went out the door to the advancing twilight. She saw him fill the bucket with more water from the well, then he proceeded to splash it over his arms and his face, through his hair till the blood was gone. He removed his shirt, went over to Sarah, found a different one, folded up real tight inside the saddlebag. This one was white. He took a quick look at his stitches, and then he buttoned up the shirt and replaced his suspenders. All of this Arthur did having no idea how she watched him. She felt quietly rebellious. She hadn’t meant to spy. But he was right there, so close, going through with his intimate and masculine routine. He dumped the bucket, filled it up with clean water. Then, he was heading back to the cottage.

She busied herself at the basin, washing some dishes she had found in one of the cupboards. She had also started the burner on the stove for frying up the meat and the carrots. She was touched that he had thought to bring in carrots. It was like he remembered her unfinished business from the night before and made it whole, and he said not one word about it.

He got in and closed the door behind him. He held out his hands, showed her his clean face and collar. “Better?” he said.

“Less bloody, that’s for sure,” she said. “I thought I’d make up dinner now.”

“I’ll, uh, start a fire,” he said, gesturing to the mantle.

“Sounds good.”

Things had changed a little, between the two of them that day. They were more cordial somehow. They had known each other for years, but now it was like that kiss had sealed them up tight, but it also removed them into some new and foreign territory. Neither was entirely clear on how to navigate it yet, but there they were.

After he got the fire going, Arthur began going through the flowers Mary Beth had brought in from Hamish’s garden outside. He chopped some of the thyme for her with the hunting knife from his belt. He set the chopped thyme in a mortar and set it on the counter, beside the stove. She thanked him. He then went about pouring some of the fresh water from the well into that glass pitcher, and then he found an empty coffee can in the pantry. He blew out the dust and put just a couple inches of water in the bottom, and then he put Mary Beth’s assortment of gathered flowers inside. He set it on the table, as he knew she had intended, and he admired its pretty simplicity. It made the cottage feel a little more like a home.

“You know,” said Arthur, leaning now, watching Mary Beth cook. The smell of the meat was filling the air. It was very comforting, making him feel sentimental. He did not have a problem feeling sentimental in front of Mary Beth. He never had. “My ma used to bring home wildflowers like that. In a basket and everything. This reminds me.”

This made Mary Beth blush. “That’s real nice.” She looked at him then, pushing the loose hairs off her face as she stood by the stove. “Where were you born, Arthur?”

Arthur thought on it, went and sat down at the kitchen table, folded his hands in front of him. “I’m not exactly sure,” he said. “I think whereabouts of southern Nebraska. But we took off on the Oregon Trail when I was barely old enough to speak.”

“Oh my,” said Mary Beth. “That must’ve been hard.”

“On my ma, sure,” said Arthur. “I don’t remember much. If anything at all.”

“So up in Oregon, that’s where she died?” said Mary Beth.

“Yeah,” he said, looking down at his clean hands. “She got sick.”

“What sort?”

“I don’t recall,” said Arthur. “A fever, maybe. My pa took me east after that, into Idaho, then Montana where we lived for a long time. He was a hustler, mostly card games, but he robbed folks as well, got busted one night when I was maybe ten years old. We went running into Wyoming, where he was killed, eventually. South Pass City. Pulling a bank job he was ill-prepared to undertake.”

“Did he run with a gang?”

“No,” said Arthur. “Perhaps that was part of his many failures. He did not get on well with others.”

She turned to face him then. The food was almost finished. She leaned against the counter, like she was thinking real hard. “South Pass City,” she said. “Is that where you was found by Dutch?”

Arthur smiled. It wasn’t fine times, looking back. But it didn’t hurt too bad. And her standing there, listening, it made him feel like sharing. “No,” he said. “No. I wandered on my own a while. Maybe two, almost three years. Robbing homesteads mostly to stay alive. I worked at a ranch for about one of them years. That’s where I learned breaking horses. I left there, and then headed back west, to the Tetons, in a place called Jackson, that’s where Dutch found me, working tables at the saloons. He saved me from getting my ass almost beat to death. I was barely fourteen.”

“Working tables?” she said. The meat was done. She checked it a little and then turned off the stove and took the pan off the burner, wearing a green oven mit. “What’s that?”

“Cheating cards, mostly,” said Arthur. He was slouching in the chair now. He’d taken off his hat, hung it on the back of his chair. “I was a good con artist because I was so young. No one suspected a kid to know how to cheat successfully at Blackjack.”

“Cheating cards, you learnt that from your daddy?”

He nodded. “My pa was a poor outlaw and a piece of shit but he wasn’t none too stupid with numbers. He could hold a lot of them in his head at once, and it turned out I could, too. He taught me when I was...nine or ten. I got some sleight of hand I’d use as well. Things I’d picked up over time. No one ever caught me, not right up till the very end.”

This seemed to both amuse and impress Mary Beth very much. She stood over the smoking pan. “I didn’t know you could do all that, Arthur.”

Arthur smirked. “I don’t do it much no more,” he said. “Takes the fun out of gambling. And if you get caught, well, you get killed. I’ll do it to John sometimes just to piss him off, but never in the saloons.”

Mary Beth laughed. “Oh, John,” she said. “He’s kind of sensitive, ain’t he?”

“In certain ways,” said Arthur. “Sure.”

He got up then, instinctually, to get the clean plates off the counter. He brought them over to the table, along with a couple of forks and knives. Mary Beth followed him over, served the venison and the pan-fried carrots. Arthur poured them each a big glass of water, and then together they sat down at the table to eat. The food was good. They spoke in an idle fashion. They felt civilized and grateful as humans in the world.

When they finished, it was full dark. Arthur peaked through the window, picked up his shotgun, which was leaning against the door frame. Mary Beth was clearing the plates and asked him what he was doing.

“I’m gonna just take a quick look around the perimeter here,” he said, looking back at her from the window pane. “I’m sure everything’s fine, but it would just make me feel better to know exactly what’s out there and what things sound like, so if anything changes, I’ll know.”

Mary Beth stopped very cold, holding a plate in each hand. She seemed surprised. “It’s so dark out,” she said.

He sighed. He had half-predicted her concern. “Nothing’s gonna get the jump on me, Mary Beth. I promise. I know what I’m doing.”

“I know you do. It’s just—it’s not just men could be out there,” she said. “There’s animals and things.”

“I know. But I been in these parts many times. I won’t be gone but ten minutes. I promise. I need to take this precaution, Mary Beth. Please understand.”

She still did not move, but she did understand. She nodded, swallowed, dry. She strained a smile. “Just be careful,” she said.

He nodded, trying to reassure her. He was not afraid. She didn’t need to be afraid either. “I always am,” he said. “Lock the door behind me. I’ll be back soon.”

She obeyed. He put on his hat. She went with him to the door, and he went out of the door, then she closed it and turned the bolt and pulled the chain. She heard his heavy boots on the step and then soft in the grass, and she heard him load the shotgun and cock it, ready to shoot.

Mary Beth waited very impatiently after that. She bit her nails. She wondered stupidly at first about why it was he couldn't bring the key, and why instead she had to lock the door behind him. But she knew. It was so that in case someone got him, they couldn't find the key in his pocket, which might lead them back to the cottage. And back to her. He was locked away into the outside world and its myriad of threats and deadly agents just to protect her. She closed her eyes to the possibility.

Mary Beth was used to sleeping outside and noises and enemies everywhere. She was used to men and even women like Karen and Sadie and Miss Grimshaw doing the perimeter walks at night with their big guns back at camp. She never felt afraid at camp. She liked to see the good in their situation. She liked feeling safe. Before now, she trusted that Arthur was a superhuman when it came to the likes of violence, like so many of the other men of the gang. They were impervious. They went out, they shot things, they worked mean angles. They robbed banks and coaches with armed guards. They brought entire trains to their knees. These were serious men of their serious trade. When Arthur had come back almost dead from that O’Driscoll ordeal, even then, she knew in her heart of hearts that he would live. Because he was solid. He was made of something stronger than regular men, and this would protect him from the scourge of mortality. She always saw him that way, maybe him more so than anyone, because he stood so tall and so eager, and he had great skill for what he did.

But somehow, this trip was changing things. It had started with that night at the Winterson’s B&B. It wasn’t about seeing him injured, seeing him bloodied or beat up. That, to her, was second nature. It was about seeing him scared. That night, that dream about Eliza. He was scared. And then the night before with the ambush, when that horrible man had him by the neck in the woods, in the middle of that violent storm, that knife so close to cutting him open right in front of her—he was in danger. He could have died. She could have died, too, or worse, but she wasn’t thinking about her. That’s not what this was.

When he kissed her back in the loft at Hamish’s cabin, it was like a dream. Even if it was only for the moment. She remembered what it was to feel safe and held and accepted, like she had a place somewhere solid and real in the world, tucked away into his arms, arms she had, up until now, understood only as abstractions, symbols of strength and vitality and the unflinching heroism of such a handsome outlaw with a stoic disposition.

Their swelling intimacy, grown of both fear and what might be amounting to love was bringing him all the way down to earth now. She had always known he was a man, and a good man, but now he was a mortal man—he got scared, he lived his live in danger, and he was sort of becoming hers a little bit, and seeing and touching these inside parts of Arthur made her realize that he was not super, he was not impervious—not in his mind, heart, or his body. He could be hurt, and he could die. And thinking of this made her think about a life in which he did not exist. In which she did not hear his boots on the porch step no more, or walking the hallways of Shady Belle at night, making sure everyone was in their right places, safe as houses, before he would allow himself that same luxury of sleeping. He was so solid and big and strong and brave. How can a body like that die? How can a man like that feel fear? She had never thought about it before. And now, he was just out there, in the wilderness, alone, with his guns and his know-how, doing what he always did, which was just to make sure everything was safe, and she was frozen. She could barely even busy herself with the dishes. She was so consumed with her sudden realization that Arthur Morgan could die, that her heart was like a dumbass drum in her chest. And at some point, it was getting to be too damn much.

So she turned around from the window, and she tried to smack some sense into herself like Miss Grimshaw would do. Miss Grimshaw was a mean bitch but she knew a thing or two about practicality, a trait without which no woman of ambiguous station could have survived in their world. Mary Beth took a deep breath, leaning against the table.

“Get it together, Mary Beth,” she said. “This ain’t nothing new.”

After that, she came to her resolve. She pushed off the table, washed the plates and set the pan in the basin. She filled it with some water from the bucket, and added a little soap to let it soak. She found a bottle of bourbon under the sink then and took just one sip, and it burned and made her cough. She had no idea why she did this. Maybe because she thought it was something Sadie would do, or Abigail. These women who were a little older and ripened to the world, and they both had been in love with men and gone through real fucked up shit in their lives with men, and their maturity and wisdom about men gave her something to shoot for. She set the bottle down on the counter. She breathed. She blinked. And that is when she looked over at the bed nearby the crackling fire, and she noticed the gramophone.

It was dusty, but it looked new. It was half covered in a plaid-looking dust cover, tucked against the wall. Dutch had one sort of like it. He would play music that permeated through the camp and made it feel romantic and safe. She went over, and she took off the dust cover and picked it up. It was heavy, but she was strong. She brought it over to the kitchen table. It had a record and everything, and it was a little dirty on its surface, so she wiped it down with a soft linen towel, and she wiped down the record, too. The label was missing. She didn’t know what she was in for. But she secured that record back on the turntable, and then she removed the little break on the spring motor, so the turntable rose up a little and the record started to spin. And then she set the needle down on the record, gently, and in an instant, it started to play.

Meanwhile, Arthur was outside. He did not encounter much on their horizon. It was quiet, and typical, and a boring perimeter check, which was the only good kind, but still. There was a grown black bear, night-prowling, rubbing its back on a tree not too far. When he came upon it, he made eye contact with the beast, pointed his gun and made a whistle, shouting for it to flee, and he waved an arm in the air. The bear was annoyed. It lazied away from that tree and kind of gave him a rebellious look, but then it lumbered into the dark, all aloof. Arthur lowered his gun. He was chewing on a piece of bark. He spat it to the earth and looked around some more. The world was pristine. He was done. He started heading back toward the cabin, and pretty soon he got close enough that he could hear music coming from inside.

It was weird at first. Not what he expected—such a manmade sound. He got up to the door, knocked, peaked through the window, took off his hat when he saw Mary Beth. She opened the door and right away she took his hand, gathering him inside the cottage. She palmed his cheeks like she was checking to make sure nothing had got a piece of him in secret while he was gone, and then she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him so hard, it dragged him down the full ten inches of height he must’ve had on her.

He laughed, holding her, dropped his hat. He was taken by surprise. “I’m fine,” he said. “There was nothing out there but a dumbass black bear.”

“Did you kill it?” she said, her face deep in his neck.

Her hair was getting in his mouth, his nose, everywhere all around. It was a clean smell of rainwater and iron, and it tickled. “No,” he said. “It might’ve robbed us blind of our provisions but it ain’t no danger. I just scared it off.”

“Okay,” she said. She was still right there in his collar, like she was breathing him in real deep.

He didn't want to move. He pushed all of her hair over one shoulder. He was taken aback by her level of relief and concern. As usual he had underestimated her affection for him, or perhaps he just kept forgetting. A defense mechanism of sorts. He sighed and held her face gently and pulled away so he could look her in the eye. “I’m fine,” he said, smiling. “See?”

Mary Beth nodded, her cheeks red and she kind of cast her eyes downward like she was embarrassed. “I know. I'm sorry.”

"Don’t be sorry."

They met eyes, and there was a moment, but then Mary Beth defused it by tucking her hair behind her ears and moving away. She went past him, and he exhaled and watched her go, and then he locked the door and closed all the curtains, and he leaned his gun against the kitchen table and removed his neckerchief and rolled up his sleeves and took a deep breath. He went over to the gramophone, where Mary Beth stood now with her arms crossed, watching the record spin. Arthur examined it with his hands on his hips. It was playing a lovely waltz, violins and a piano and everything. “It works,” he said after a little while.

“Yeah,” said Mary Beth. “It’s pretty new. I think it’s nicer than Dutch’s.”

This was amusing. “Don’t tell him that.”

“I never would.”

Arthur was rocking back on his heels a little bit now, looking at Mary Beth and her pretty face, her warmth, smiling at the gramophone. He was done with the day. The day was over, its various procedures and protocols taken care of. All these things he had to do to safeguard against so many of life's uncertainties. Riding, hunting, preparing, protecting. But that wasn’t all there was to it, was there? Life.

When he had been outside before, getting dirty and cold, spooking that bear, he felt good about their dinner, their conversation, and how it had been so warm in the meantime, even despite this newfound tension between them. It made him think of her, and, again, how he just liked hanging out with her, and how he knew her touch now, her taste, and he'd felt her, and he'd let her in, and he hadn't allowed this for himself in so many years. So many. It changed things, and while he was outside, away from her, he missed her, and he did not want her to be worried, and it was too much. It turned out that it was too much, but for a man like Arthur, too much was probably just enough. It was only that he needed a little bit of hindsight. What does a man want at the end of his day? When his duties have been fulfilled, and the moon is high. What did Arthur want? He glanced around the room now. His gun was leaning by the door. His hat hung up for the evening. He felt accomplished in some weird way he could not pin down and could not describe, and yet, he was unfinished.

“So,” he said, deferring to her. "What do we do now?" She always had good ideas.

She had both of her hands behind her back. She looked at him, hopeful and a little pleased with herself. She said, “Do you wanna dance?” And she held out her hand.

Arthur smiled. He took her hand in a familiar fashion. He said, "Sure."

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan #rdr2 fanfic #mary beth gaskill #arthur morgan x mary beth gaskill #arthur x mary beth #a funeral

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encountersincamperland · 6 years

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Lingering in Langres

In 2005 we were on a three week trip to Italy, driving through France with the intention of getting to Tuscany to camp near Lucca and up the Sergio valley. Our drive through France was quite leisurely but not so casual as to forget the time limit on our journey. At one point our road took us beneath the ramparts of the town of Langres and I was tempted to stop and view the town but our itinerary pressed us on. We subsequently camped in a site some miles down the road where we experienced a massive thunderstorm with clouds that darkened, and lightening flashes that illuminated the campsite pool we were swimming in. We scrambled out of there sharpishly with little thought for soaking trailing towels. Despite the intervention of new adventures, I did not forget Langres and a wish to return one day. And so it was we did, when we arrived there is in September 2018 as part of our Franco Hispanic trip that was intended to cover eight weeks in time and several thousand miles in distance.

Langres of course is famous for its cheese and it is one of the few French cheeses among a multitude that big stores like Tesco bother to stock in the U.K. Apart from that, the town's history, resulting from having been built on a high plateau giving viewing access in every degree, meant it had to be fortified and defended and the ramparts regularly updated to cope with the increasing ability of enemy guns and cannon and to support the weight of ever heavier poundage of defensive weaponry. Those walls are still intact all round, having avoided Nazi bombardment during the Second World War for example. This makes them a joy to walk and a morning's entertainment in the doing. It was these walls that so attracted me in 2005.

We were in our Mazda Bongo and we had decided to camp right on top of the town with the walls only a few yards away and a great view over the south champagne country side. Our first night we decided to eat out. Usually we cook as we have all the accoutrements necessary and we can have as much culinary delight eating camper made food washed down with a bottle of local wine, especially as every time you raised your head from the plate you were reacquainted with the view.

But on our first evening we found the appropriately named Rempart restaurant with a reasonably priced formule. We ate there. We were joined at the next table by an English couple on their way to their own holiday home in Provence. It's remarkable how much of ourselves we reveal to each other as strangers who are unlikely to encounter each other again: things that might take considerably longer to divulge to close friends. Remarkable but not unusual. This is what we experienced again and again on our journey, the openness of people prepared to be friendly. And the resultant effect of a reciprocal lowering of guard made for interesting and unflagging conversation. After all I thought in a moment of whimsy, in Langres we had the town walls to protect us if our parley went all askew. But it didn't and in any case we all tend to be on our best behaviour in these situations which does not make the content of conversation any less interesting.

The first noticeable thing about the couple apart from their being English was that the woman was bald but for a fuzz of hair growing back, which perhaps incongruously with her strong nose and evenly defined mouth gave her a patrician look like some bust of a Roman senator. Her animation appeared not to be daunted by her experience which looked like she had been coping with cancer and her attitude might have conveyed a command to others to live with her look as she was getting on with it. But indeed she was too gentle for any of that and did not need some kind of defiance. She had been confronted by mortality and required to consider it while the rest of us, well I do, tend to look the other way in matters of death. As they explained, and it was the husband who first mentioned her illness, it had been touch and go as to whether they would have set out for Provence this time. But here they were in Langres, a place that had taken us several days to reach, their having gone via the tunnel and a fast drive down a blue motorway all in one day.

We had been using green,red, yellow and even at times white roads, meandering across the land. They with a different timescale and perhaps a need to return for further treatment were on a more limited time budget. But we didn't dwell on the woman's illness although we would have been amenable to listening to her recount the details of her trauma. But she was on holiday and her illness was a job. So we talked about the land and the sun and the food and Provence and happily worked our way through a menu.

The husband told us how he had bought his first property at the age of 18 in Normandy with £500 he had saved. Given his age this was a lot of money in those days, over £7000 in today's money which begged the question how did he save that much as a teenager, surely not from a paper round. But on this occasion my nosiness did not get the better of me so we never found out. What he bought was a ramshackle affair, maybe a bit like an Irish crofter's cottage after the land clearance bailiffs had done with it. Bit by bit he did it up with the help of family and friends and they all spent many a happy time there through the years. But as the family grew bigger and the time people wanted to spend there increased, there came a desire for a larger somewhere that was warmer hence the move to Provence. He was an enterprising man with a love of France and a youthful energy that remained with him despite the years so that you could easily imagine him as an 18 year old setting out on his first building project. We did not find out his or his wife's names and we did not discover what they did for a living but we regaled each other as couples with stories of the places we had been’ almost vying with each other to bring alive the memories and outdo each other with descriptions and hyperbole. It was all good fun and we parted with smiles, we at least impressed with them. What they made of us is their business.

The next day we decided to stay longer in Langres and the events following are recorded in another piece.

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theliterateape · 3 years

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The Clincher

by Paul Teodo & Tom Myers

You’re ready.” Big Sal sat on a splintered step leading to their run-down two-flat, blowing hot stale smoke from his old stogy into the sweltering heat.

“I ain’t.” His son, the subject of his assessment, pulled at his sweat stained collar as if it were a noose. He was jumpy, his engine running fast and his mind even faster. He winced as he stood.

“The Irish kid from St. Patrick’s?” His father pointed to the oozing scab bulging from Sal’s swollen shin.

“Spiked me good.”

“Have your mother take a look at that.”

“I’m fine.”

“We need you. The tourney’s startin’ next week.” His father didn’t look at him when he talked. Sal could tell something was up.

“You needin’ me don’t mean I’m ready.”

“Nobody’s ready, Son…,” he paused and spit into the grass, “’til they step up.”

Sal picked at his leg until it bled. “Those guys been playin’ forever. I got just two years under my belt. And it’s a church league.”

“Sally, you’re ready.”

He hated when the old man called him that. His father was Big Sal. Momma called him Little Sal. Angie, his sister-Jr. The nuns-Salvatore. And his buddies called him Sal or Chooch. His head spun on a swivel, answering to all the names that seemed to be blowing around in the wind.

“What’s the other guys got to say?”

“Fuck the other guys. It’s my team.” His father still didn’t look at him. He took another pull on his cigar.

“What’s up, Pops?”

“Nothin.’”

“C’mon.”

“Nothin’s up except we need you.”

Big Sal started the Guidos in ’57. Nobody thought he could play after the punch press took three fingers off his right hand. Left him with just a thumb and a pointer. He got a few grand settlement and used it to start up the team. He swung a mean one-handed bat; a singles and doubles man, never hitting below .400. He was the Guidos’ founder, manager, coach, and frontline pitcher. And his hurky-jerky motion annoyed the hell out of hitters.

At first the team was just a bunch of burnt-out baseball guys looking for a reason to get out of the house. Then it got serious. The trophies, the fights, the bets. Sixteen-inch no-mitt softball became an obsession. Nothing got in the way. That’s how it went when guys had too much of what they didn’t want in life.

It’d now been fifteen years. Same deal every year. Start up in early April, end with the last tourney in September.

They played all over the city, but home for the league was Grand Crossing. 77th and Dobson. A nice big park with five fields. Lush green grass in May and June, yellowing in July, and by August, crispy brown blades; bees buzzing throughout the outfield, hovering, like miniature helicopters, above the white flower-topped clover. Dry, make-you wanna-cough-your-ass-off dust-devils whipping through the infield; twisted wire back-stops, razor sharp metal edges, daring you to ignore where you were running, just waiting to slice open your sun-burnt skin. A permanent piece of stiff white rubber screwed into the rock-hard earth: The Mound. Big Sal’s stomping ground.

The teams were from around 63rd south to 87th, and from Stony Island west to Cottage Grove. All vying for bragging rights, trophies, and the money. It got bigger every year, and so did the fights. No trouble with the cops, each team had one. The Guido’s? Frankie Pissani, a 30-something bruiser, with a buzz cut and an ugly scar, the only thing defining his bulbous head from his thick neck.

The Guidos, The Irishmen, The Bombers, The Polskis, The Panchos, The Dwarfs, The Dandys, and The Dukes were the regulars. And a few stray clubs filled in the last four slots each year. They’d all throw their thousand bucks into the pot and fight it out ‘til the champs, at the end of the year, stood drunk, proud, and a few grand richer.

“If you put me on the team because you run it, the other guys’ll be pissed. They’ll crucify me.”

“It’s rough out there, Sally. You made your mark. It’s time to step up.”

“I’m 19. Those are grown-ass men, Pops.”

“You’re hittin’ .600.”

“It’s a church league.”

“You spray to all fields. You got some power. And you’re growin’ into more. You run like a goddamn deer, and you got a cannon for an arm!” His father’s voice rising. “It’s your chance, Sally. You’re a natural!”

“C’mon pops, it’s a different league! At Franny’s, guys aren’t out for blood. Priests and nuns are watchin’ the games.” Sal nodded toward the park directly across the street. “I seen how you guys play. You take it serious.”

“It is serious.” His father’s eyes narrowed and peered onto the field. He pointed toward the diamond that young Sal gazed at nightly from his bedroom window. “It’s where you go to prove yourself.”

“You guys play with the Clincher. We use the Wilson.”

“A ball’s a ball.”

“A Clincher, Pops. The way those guys crush that ball, it’ll break my fuckin’ hand.”

“Church league’s over, kid. Time to step up.”

“I don’t…,” Sal started down the steps.

His father grabbed his arm between his thumb and pointer. His grip was like a vice. “You gonna do this or not? Freddy’s out, you know that, the Polack stomped his knee, and Rico had another one of them episodes.” His father tossed the stogy stub into the street, “and the cops hauled off Johnny D. So we’re short. We need you.”

He’d never heard the old man beg like this.

“You got money on the game, don’t you?”

The old man couldn’t avoid his son. His eyes flashed. He drew closer. “None a your fuckin’ business, Sally.”

Sal backed away. “Ma told me you quit!” A quiver in his voice.

Their house was a shit-show. Everything busted, leaking, or falling apart. In hock up to their ass. Collection notices stuffing the mailbox. And Ma threatening the old man everyday- quit or get out.

“The last time, Sally. It’s my last bet.”

It was always the last time.

The two stood, on the heated sidewalk, glaring at each other, rigid. Sal held back tears.

The echoed thump of a wooden bat slamming into a puffy Clincher, from the diamond across the street, broke the stark silence between the two.

His father leaned into his son’s face. The stench from the stogy hung between them. “It’s what we do.”

“You promised Ma.”

His father’s eyes narrowed. “You in or you out?”

***

“The old man wants me to play for the Guidos.”

“Shit, Chooch. That’s the real deal. What you gonna do?”

“I ain’t ready.”

“You’re good,” Vinny said, taking a monster bite off an olive-oil-dripping pepper and egg sandwich. “Better than a lotta them old guys. You got some wheels. They got fuckin’ bow-legged waddles.”

“Jesus.” Sal nodded at the mess caked in the corner of Vinny’s mouth.

Vinny wiped some off his cheeks. “Best eggs ever.”

“Yeah, I know, you raise the goddamn chickens in your backyard.”

“And with some garlic and a little provolone,” he raised the sandwich, “heaven in your mouth.” Vinny nudged the mess Sal’s way. “Wanna bite?”

Sal shook his head. “But they been playin’…”

“You been playin’,” Vinny interrupted, mouth still stuffed.

“Church league, Vin.”

“You scared?” He popped a pepper into his mouth.

Sal’s head snapped towards Vinny. “Nope.” He spit onto the cracked infield dirt and turned away.

“I’d be.” Vinny spread dust around home plate, scraping his spike on its hard rubber. He kicked the plate a few more times and spoke again like he was searching for what to say. “How’s the leg?”

“Fine.”

He finished off the sandwich, pulled a snot rag from his pocket, and wiped his mouth. “Seamus got you good.”

“Seamus is an asshole.”

“We all got our assholes, Chooch.”

Sal didn’t respond. He was somewhere else. Thinking about the old man. The bets. The bills. Ma.

Last time.

Or he had to leave.

He wasn’t ready. It was a church league, for Christ’s sake.

Vinny slammed into Sal’s daydream, his urgent high-pitched voice like a banshee. “Man, you gotta do what you gotta do.” He stood closer, his breath reeking of garlic, eggs, and peppers, poking Sal in the chest. “And I’m not one to push. But Sal,” his voice lowered, “it ain’t about talent.” Vinny was good for Sal. “Chooch.” He moved even closer. He slid his hands between Sal’s legs, squeezing his testicles. “It’s about these.”

***

“You’re in left.” His father pointed and handed him a green, white, and red jersey: Guidos emblazed on its front, 13 sewn on its back. “Play shallow. Most a these guys spray. They only got two bombers. We’ll let you know when they come up.”

Sal stripped off his shirt and lifted the jersey. He paused, eyeing it. “Pops, that’s your number.”

“Not anymore.” His father pointed his finger to the outfield. “Now get out there.”

“Left?”

“Yeah.”

“Put Dominic out there. It’s my first game.”

“Nicki runs like he’s pullin’ a fuckin’ truck.”

“He knows…”

“Left for Christ’s sake! Get your ass out there.”

Sal slipped the jersey over his lean body. The body of a scared kid, on his way up, a kid who was being ripped apart. He jogged slowly to his position, his knees weak, and his hands trembling.

In the church league, he went after everything. His confidence was over the top. He’d get bored and call guys off flies all the way in center just to keep his head in the game. His teammates, were relieved most of the time, fearing they’d fuck up in front of the small crowds who’d show up for the games. Sal could go back on balls like a cheetah running down an antelope, and come in on em’ like the street racers on Cottage Grove. Not one error in two years.

Today, none of that was happening. He just wanted to stand out there and be left alone. But that was impossible. In 16-inch, more balls were hit to left than anyplace else. Sally was in the middle of a tornado, not knowing when the next blast would knock him on his ass. The church league drew family members, a drunken priest or two, and a couple nuns. These games had two-three hundred hard-core fans, sprawled on blankets, kitchen chairs, and tops of coolers, sucking suds and smoking cigarettes, many who – like the old man – had dough on the game.

Big Sal warmed up. Wrapping his two good fingers around the rock-hard Clincher. Faking, snorting, and swearing. Looping the ball, with a high arc, towards home, with a vicious backspin, or without any spin at all. Using every trick the rules would allow, and cheating whenever he could get away with it. Keeping all but the most expert batters from stepping into a pitch. This was a hitter’s game and most pitchers were guys who were a liability in the field or who had connections. And Big Sal was the connection. It was his team. His severed fingers paid for it. And even more important, he pissed off every batter he faced.

***

Sal was jumpy as a cat dangling over a pot of boiling water. He felt like he didn’t belong and was terrified something would come his way. He dug in the burnt grass with his spikes and waved off unseen bees buzzing around his head. He’d seen The Dandys before. A bunch of emaciated guys who looked like they’d missed way too many meals. But somehow they fielded a team that always came in over .500. Last year they’d gone to the semis in the September Tourney, never scoring more than 8 runs in any game. Their fielding was superb, guys gliding over large swaths of outfield, running like stallions, chasing down fly balls destined for glory, limiting big-thumpers to long outs, and bruised egos.

First batter: About 6’1, skinny as a rail, face peppered with pimples. His long hair greasy and tied in a ponytail. He dug in with a pair of beat up high-top Chuck Taylor’s, kicking up dust. The old man ready to wheel and deal. His motion never the same: a fake here, a juke there, and a dead pause in the middle of his underhand windup, and he never stopped jawing at whoever was at the plate. At home, he was quiet. On the mound, a foul-mouthed heckler.

He had inside information on everyone that came to bat.

The Dandys were a mixed breed. They were littered with Poles, Germans, Asians, and even an Arab. What their nationalities lacked in commonality was made up for with the abundance of their physical acumen. They all could fly. A single was always a double, a double was an opportunity for a triple, and anybody that touched 3rd upright was expected to stretch it into a homer.

The odd site of the old man’s thumb and pointer wrapped around the Clincher coupled with the back spin he got off his funky grip made the big white ball look like a gigantic snowflake dancing and darting in the middle of a winter storm.

The old man started in on the scrawny Dandy.

Sal heard his father all the way from left.

“You skinny piece of shit.”

“You got nothin.’”

“I hit better with one hand.”

“Undernourished moron.”

“Last night your mother rolled over and kissed me goodbye.”

No batter was left un-assaulted.

The Dandy ignored the old man and put his bat on a knee-high floater that rocketed towards Sal. The Clincher’s irregular trajectory quivered like a knuckler. It closed in on him like it was launched from a broken bazooka.

Sally froze.

Ma said he quit.

One more time and he’d be gone.

The crowd roared as the Clincher darted towards him, seeming to pick up speed. Sal heard nothing, as if he was alone, in an empty field. The dead silence was stark, eerie.

Sally stood, unmoving, the ball whizzing by his head. He did not turn to track it down.

One more time and he’d be gone.

The Dandy tore around the bases like a thief being run down by the cops.

He stood, statue-like, on the burnt outfield grass.

Joey Riggio, the center fielder, lumbered after ball. By the time he got to it, the Dandy was standing at home, giving the old man the finger.

But the old man’s back was to the Dandy. He was headed towards his son, bat in hand.

Sal remained motionless in left. An odd silence blanketed the field.

“What the fuck are you doin’, Sally?”

Sal’s eyes met his father’s.

Big Sal raised the bat over his head. “I said, what the fuck are you doin’?!”

“Last time, Pops.”

“What?” his father raged.

“Last time. I made sure.”

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investnlord · 3 years

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Annie May

Hardcastle — 05/06/2020 *** Spaghetti — 05/06/2020 i look around *assess inventory Hardcastle — 05/06/2020 You’ve got you and no one else And a wallet in your khakis And this man with the rusty pipe wants it* Spaghetti — 05/06/2020 *assess cut of man's jib Hardcastle — 05/06/2020 He’s emaciated and strung-out He’s breathing hot madness into your face. Maybe actually rabies “Stand and deliver” he growls* Spaghetti — 05/06/2020 ok i guess it takes two to tango i strip off my pants and whirl them around like a bullroarer i move my hands to signal a "let us tussle"-style maneuver * Hardcastle — 05/06/2020 He makes ready but you see cowardice in his bloodshot eyes He swings the pipe. Do you dodge? * Spaghetti — 05/06/2020 i dodge, and i think i do it deftly* Hardcastle — 05/06/2020 You’re lack of inhibiting khakis gives you the perk MAXIMUM FLEXIBLE You’re deft as hell and he smacks the ground so hard the pipe rebounds into his weak spot The mugger shatters into a million pieces. VICTORY You may now choose your class- warrior, mage, stealth, other* Spaghetti — 05/06/2020 wow i busted that dude into chump dust i've had enough of this unnecessary bloodshed i roll other* Hardcastle — 05/06/2020 Please fill in the name and description of your class* Spaghetti — 05/06/2020 healer; also kind of a chump, but has like spells to feel good and shit, but is probably just carrying a lot of weed and shrooms, really* Hardcastle — 05/06/2020 You are holding You leave your mud floor cottage where this entire story has transpired until now. You stand in the village green (mud) Who do you seek?* Spaghetti — 05/06/2020 man definitely not a cop uhh hmm who's got the best snacks in town* Hardcastle — 05/06/2020 Why that’s Annie May across the way That sweet scent of baked goods wafting in the warm summer breeze You approach the hovel’s intoxicating entrance and peek in. Do you enter?* Spaghetti — 05/06/2020 no i politely knock on Annie May's door i don't live there knock knock, Annie May* Hardcastle — 05/06/2020 You knock at the ratty cloth that serves as a door You poke your head through and realize HOLY FUCK IT’S A GODDAMN GHOUL COOKING UP ANNIE MAY IN THE BAKED GOODS JESUS CHRIST WHAT DO YOU DO OH GOD* Spaghetti — 05/06/2020 oh my god OH MY GOD what the FUCK Annie May was nice this is way not cool, ghoul i uhh am very determined to fuck him up it's a shame i.. swore off violence! shit this is doing a real number uhm attempt to heal Annie May with my special supplements* Hardcastle — 05/06/2020 Wise choice healer Spaghetti — 05/06/2020 (thanks dude) Hardcastle — 05/06/2020 You put some mushrooms in Annie May’s very dead mouth and BOOM Magic is done. Just gotta let it take root Spaghetti — 05/06/2020 nice yeah see, i knew this would work Hardcastle — 05/06/2020 The ghoul has other plans and just like power grabs you in the dingus Puts you through the hovel’s mud brick wall You awake from your daze. It was just wet mud after all. You look back toward the smoking chasm you flew from. What do you do?* Spaghetti — 05/06/2020 wow holy shit dude i am feeling like a way bad vibe at least down south this is a terrible trip well for one let's re-up and eat an edible next i want to investigate the chasm* Hardcastle — 05/06/2020 The small nugget you ingest restores your balls And gives you the spirit of the all-consuming eagle pulsing warrior spirit into ever fiber of your being eventually to consume you entirely and end your cyclical travels on the seashell of the conscious plane But you’ll deal with that vibe later You look within the hovel and see Annie May is on the same trip She has risen with a vengeful spirit which has handily removed the ghouls feet and put them right into her famous Monday Pies Would you like a Monday pie?* Spaghetti — 05/06/2020 wow yeah i'll just dog-ear that page maybe when i'm like watching beavis and butthead reruns i can think about the astral plane i'll order pizza hmm Annie's never made one of these before say Annie what's up with the Monday Pie* Hardcastle — 05/06/2020 Well it’s Saturday for one thing But they smell nothing like ghoul feet By the way the ghoul cannot be killed. At least with materials of this plane. Thing’s just chillin on the floor waiting for an ankle to get too close You’ll need to bribe the wizard, or come up with another solution. What do you do?* Spaghetti — 05/06/2020 (is Annie May the wizard) Hardcastle — 05/06/2020 (These are mysteries we cannot know for sure) Spaghetti — 05/06/2020 hmm ok offer the wizard a fresh nug* let's see what this cat's into Hardcastle — 05/06/2020 You stand in the tower of the wizard. Annie May is at your side with the snarling ghoul in a bag on her back. You hold a Monday Pie. The Wizard charges up his wand and takes a big blue hit off that nug Spaghetti — 05/06/2020 god yeah dude smoke up Hardcastle — 05/06/2020 Sitting back in contemplation he assesses your situation. “We don’t usually use that kind of magic here man” Gesticulating at the ghoul “we gotta get that shit outta here. It smells” He gestures to the mysterious big black hole in the corner. Do you enter?* Spaghetti — 05/06/2020 hmm yeah he does offend let's see Annie May, will you accompany me on this journey?* (txt really likes big black holes of chasms) Hardcastle — 05/06/2020 Annie May nods in agreement. The wizard also joins to see this through to the end. The ghoul snarls. The Monday Pie sweats... You step through the hole There is an eagle’s scream. And you blink as your eyes adjust to the fluorescent lighting of a hospital ER waiting area. Before you can say “drop that fucking ghoul and let’s get out of here” another member joins the conversation. And he ain’t pretty. “SHOW ME YOUR HANDS RIGHT NOW” the cop spits all over your pantsless legs and Monday Pie. What do you do?* Spaghetti — 05/06/2020 ahh fuck i hate cops this is exactly what i didn't want to happen hmm, uhh well for one i quickly adjust my healer's robes to cover my ACAB, FTP tats next, i throw what's left of my stash at the wizard i say to him "dude, i told you i don't want to smoke drugs with you" and look at the cop like eh?? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ * Hardcastle — 05/06/2020 Ssssssssnap! Dude whips out his resisting arrest wand and pepper spray He puts a sticker over the body cam “STOP RESISTING” He’s gonna fuck your shit up anyway! Give orders!* Spaghetti — 05/06/2020 ok ANNIE MAY LOOK HOT AT HIS DIRECTION WIZARD GO GET A BIG GULP GO FOR HIS TASER * Hardcastle — 05/06/2020 The Wizard does the old swish and flick and knocks the less than but not really non-lethal off the cop’s belt Annie May is defs dummy thicc but I didn’t know we had to use that here Spaghetti — 05/06/2020 it's a cop man figured it'd work but i do plan to apologize to her later Hardcastle — 05/06/2020 Well he glances over long enough for you to make your move which is...* Spaghetti — 05/06/2020 PICK UP THE TASER* Hardcastle — 05/06/2020 Aight Now the gun is out pew pew He’s putting it in your face. Next move?* Spaghetti — 05/06/2020 crap of course he has a gun well shit i tremble a bit 'ol blue shakes in my hand but uhh man fuck it! tase the dude! ACAB* Hardcastle — 05/06/2020 All cops Are buddies You snap him with the taser and he shits himself as he goes down Annie May screams and throws the ghoul at him The hole forms behind you and the wizard just jumps in that shit because he has priors. You see the fearful around you. What do you do? Spaghetti — 05/06/2020 man you can never trust a wizard, can you see if i ever invite that guy over to smoke again never down like down, you know? i grab the cuffs and handcuff the cop i take his radio and mutter "all clear, 10-4" into it and put it into my khakis which i've put back on I take Annie May's hand and leave the ghoul behind leave room, assess surroundings* Hardcastle — 05/06/2020 You’re back in the realm of the normal Spaghetti — 05/06/2020 crap dude i hate normies Hardcastle — 05/06/2020 I know rite But you got rid of the ghoul Time to enjoy some Monday Pie?* Spaghetti— 05/06/2020 HELL YEAH i'm fuckin starving*( Hardcastle — 05/06/2020 It’s full of ghoul feet ***

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