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pearcethinks · 5 months

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pov its the last day of school until thanksgiving break and you and your friends cant stop singing hamilton songs so you disguise a turkey as lin manuel miranda in hamilton

#hamilton #thanksgiving #disguise a turkey!!!!!#hamilton musical #lin manuel miranda

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alexdoes-arthere · 6 months

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So you guys remember those disguise a turkey things? I had to do one for my digital journalism class so ummm. Donnie turkey

That shell is my favorite part oml

#averageenbyart #rottmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt donnie #rottmnt donatello #why does he look like that #he’s so cursed #silly moment #turkey #thanksgiving #disguise a turkey

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epf-headcanons · 1 month

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Fun Fact Time #4

On last year’s Christmas Eve party, they decided that JPG would be in charge of the turkey, so G built a high-tech stove to help his friend cook

Hahah, no. He didn’t have good intentions. That was just an excuse to convince JPG to cook the turkey at the agency, so, when nobody was paying attention, G stole the turkey and hid it. It caused a massive chaos, but he still believes it was a great Christmas prank.

#club penguin #g club penguin #gary the gadget guy #herbert p bear #jet pack guy #jpg club penguin #klutzy the crab #rookie club penguin #captain rockhopper #dot the disguise gal #dot club penguin #herbert club penguin #christmas #turkey

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roesolo · 1 year

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Blog Tour Catchup: Turkey's Valentine Surprise!

Blog Tour Catchup: Turkey's Valentine Surprise! @amazonpub @blueslipper @barbfisch

That festive, costume-loving Turkey is back to celebrate Valentine’s Day! Turkey’s Valentine Surprise, by Wendi Silvano/Illustrated by Lee Harper (Dec. 2022, Two Lions), $17.99, ISBN: 9781542023665 Ages 4-7 The sixth book in Wendi Silvano’s and Lee Harper’s Turkey series, Turkey wants to deliver valentines to all of his friends… in disguise! His friends figure him out every time – but Turkey’s…

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#disguises #friendship #holidays #Lee Harper #Turkey #Turkey&039;s Valentine Surprise #Two Lions #Valentine&039;s Day #Wendi Silvano

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greystarget · 2 years

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Tom the turkey disguise project halloween

#TOM THE TURKEY DISGUISE PROJECT HALLOWEEN PROFESSIONAL#

#TOM THE TURKEY DISGUISE PROJECT HALLOWEEN FREE#

Save some money and shop your closet or save some time and pluck a disguise straight from the shelf-the choice is entirely up to you and your Halloween-loving crew. Most of the unique homemade costumes on this list can be done either way. But since I was the art teacher, I always demonstrated how easy it was to draw a turkey yourself and then dress him up in disguise. It has been fun to see the project grow in popularity through Pinterest. Transformers: Robots in Disguise (Saban/Disney, 2001) anime series. Xandy followed her lead that year and we had a teacher and a nurse.

#TOM THE TURKEY DISGUISE PROJECT HALLOWEEN PROFESSIONAL#

Sometimes the directions are specific- like the year Katy had to decorate hers to look like a professional of some sort. See more ideas about turkey disguise, turkey disguise project, turkey project. Turkey Project Pumpkins Each year, the students and families at the elementary school disguise turkeys so they can blend in and not become someone's dinner. There are no rules about whether you have to buy or DIY, either. The Turkey Disguise Project was one of my favorite Thanksgiving themed projects to do with my students. Tim Allen, Patricia Richardson, Jonathan Taylor Thomas Nurses (Touchstone TV. Explore Amber's board 'Tom the Turkey Disguise' on Pinterest. When it comes to trios, there are so many fun options.įrom famous trios like the '90s squad from Clueless, to classic Disney characters, to nods to iconic moments in pop culture, you'll surely find the costume meant for your group of three. Students will then write a short persuasive writing as he tries to save him. Turkey doesn't want to be eaten for Thanksgiving dinner so he needs your help.

#TOM THE TURKEY DISGUISE PROJECT HALLOWEEN FREE#

And, if you're an extrovert who does want all the attention? You'll surely get it when you show up to the Halloween festival or theme party in a standout disguise that matches your partner or pals. Disguise a Turkey Free This family project and persuasive writing lesson is sure to be a hit Families will use the turkey template to make a turkey in disguise. Have students cut out the design, color and glue on to a forward facing turkey. Use cotton balls to complete Santa and the Snowman. Included are templates for Santa Clause, A Snowman and a Superhero. If you're shy, dressing with an entourage may just boost your confidence, since all eyes won't be solely on you. Use these templates to disguise your turkey for the disguise a turkey writing lesson. She left the top flap open and put googly eyes under the flap, so it looked. Truly, it might be the only kind of group project you'll ever enjoy. She colored Tom Turkey, then hid him behind Christmas paper, folded like a present. The turkey, of course, had flowing blond hair - along with Kimmy's multi-colored dress with "New Kids on the Block" written all over it, paired with a green cardigan.The only thing more fun than dressing up for Halloween is going in on a group costume with your three favorite people, like your best friends, your family, or your coworkers, and even your dog. "The #NewKidsOnTheBlock episode is one of our favorites so we just had to recreate that iconic look!" They did a great job and thanks to all the family members who helped their children make these so adorable. "We can't wait for #FullerHouseSeason5! My daughter Shelby had to #DisguiseATurkey & chose character #KimmyGibbler," she wrote. We read Twas the Night before Thanksgiving and created turkey disguises with our families so they would not be eaten on Thanksgiving. Poor Tom the turkey doesnt want to be eaten for Thanksgiving dinner. However, the end result of Rebecca's daughter's project was anything but ordinary. Disguise a turkey this Thanksgiving with our free printable turkey template and. It's a pretty common take-home activity for young students to be assigned in November. Perfect for getting your toddler in the Halloween spirit. Turkey In Disguise Football Player School Project 2015 Turkey Disguise Project Turkey Disguise Sport Themed Crafts Please think of a way to disguise Tom Turkey and protect him this year. Will you PLEASE help me disguise myself? If you give me a disguise, then maybe the hunters will leave me alone. Learn how you can get your toddler to easily decorate a pumpkin. I just know that they want to eat me for Thanksgiving dinner! You are my last chance to escape from these hunters. Instructions for the homework assignment read: "I NEED your help! The hunters have been trying to find me. 23, a mom named Rebecca took to Twitter to share the result of a "disguise the turkey" project recently completed by her daughter. And one girl's incredible Kimmy Gibbler-disguised turkey was so clever, it even got Andrea Barber's stamp of approval. The results are always adorable, and sometimes even hilarious. They're given a turkey cutout and instructed to create a "disguise" for their paper friend, so he'll avoid ending up as a Thanksgiving meal. Every year ahead of Thanksgiving, elementary and pre-school kids are tasked with a common project.

#Tom the turkey disguise project halloween

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zepskies · 5 months

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Smoke Eater - Part 11

Pairing: Firefighter!Dean Winchester x F. Reader

Summary: Dean Winchester is the cocky, but well-respected Lieutenant at Firehouse 25. He leads by example, but he’s also known to break a few hearts. He’s starting to crave something he’s never had, though. Something stable. Something real.

That’s when he meets you, on a truly terrible day, trapped in a rickety old elevator.

🔥 Series Masterlist

Word Count: 5,400 Tags/Warnings: Major angst warning. But also major hurt/comfort.

Part 11: “Heart of the Home”

You sat very still.

Your hands were gripped together in your lap when the doctor entered. He was tall and lean and blonde, and he would’ve reminded you of your boss, except this man had a kinder face.

You were sitting on the edge of your grandfather’s bed, hoping the doctor would say the bloodwork and scans came back fine. That they wouldn’t need to admit George into the hospital for further testing. That he could go home in the morning.

But your life had never been quite that easy.

“Okay, George. I’m sorry, but we need to admit you,” said the doctor.

He explained that while the malignant tumor of his cancer had been removed last year, the scans that had been done last month hadn’t been able to detect the bright spots now formed on George’s lungs and lymph nodes.

The oncologist would have to confirm, but you all knew where this was headed. Likely those “bright spots” were tumors.

George nodded slowly at first, taking it all in. He asked what his options were, as far as treatment.

“Your oncologist will go over those options with you,” the doctor replied. “We’re going to move you up to Oncology shortly.”

George thanked him.

And you sat very still.

A hand fell on your arm, finally earning your gaze. George’s face was oddly calm, though the worry in his eyes was for you. You realized that he’d gently called your name, though you hadn’t heard him. Your ears were ringing.

His mouth parted to tell you something, but nothing came out. So instead, he tugged you into his arms, and he heaved a long sigh.

“I guess we’re here again,” he admitted. He let out a chuckle. “The Lord does like his tests…but maybe that car accident was a blessing in disguise, huh?”

You heard his voice, but your mind was buzzing—mainly with the doctor’s words, and with a bone-deep feeling that threatened to consume you.

Your car, your fault. Options, again. Here again.

Your fault.

When you didn’t answer, George pulled away a bit to give you a questioning look.

“Sweetheart?” he tried. You laid a hand on his arm.

“You still haven’t eaten dinner, have you?” you asked. Neither had you, for that matter. “I’ll get us something that isn’t rubbery turkey.”

George blinked at you, confused, with a growing edge of worry.

“Isn’t Dean getting your meds? Why don’t you wait for him to—”

“I’m fine,” you said, already getting up to grab your purse. “I’ll be back.”

George called your name again, but the ringing in your ears was now pulsing in time with your heartbeat.

You made your way down the hall to the lobby at a brusque clip, even with your neck brace on. You didn’t see Dean, but he certainly saw you as he was walking back into the hospital. Frowning, he followed and called out to you.

You slowed when you saw him, and he soon caught up with you. He rested a hand on your back.

“Hey, where you goin’?" he asked.

“We haven’t eaten in a while. I’m going to the cafeteria,” you said. Though you seemed distracted, your eyes meeting his only briefly. It triggered a small spidey sense running up Dean’s spine.

He gave you your prescription pain medication, which you took with a small “thank you.”

“Everything okay?” he asked. “How’s George doing?”

“Fine. He’s resting,” you said. And by the look of you, that seemed to be true. But he spotted the tremble in your hands when you took the pill bottle package from him. It made him stop you when you tried to keep walking down to the cafeteria.

“Okay, you wanna run that by me again?” Dean asked.

You frowned, and your brows knit together. “What?”

“Is there something going on?” he pressed.

You sighed, but you didn’t answer him. You looked exhausted, and like you’d rather swallow your own tongue than speak. You shook your head and laid a hand on his wrist.

“I’m fine. Dean, thank you for everything you did tonight, but you still have to work tomorrow. Go home, get some rest,” you said.

You turned from him again. That was your first mistake. He reached out and grasped your hand to stop you.

“Hey, wait a minute,” he said.

“What?” you said in irritation. Your second mistake was not being able to look at him.

Dean was frowning in earnest now. Worry clawed in his gut, which was also telling him not to let you walk away from him. His grip shifted to hold both of your arms and move directly in front of you. He dipped his chin, trying to get you to meet his eyes.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he said gently. “I need you to talk to me.”

You inhaled a shuddering breath. A wave was rising inside you, threatening to pull you into its undertow. Your eyes burned, red and shining. Dean finally saw it when you raised your head, what little you could. Your mouth began to quiver, looking into his eyes. And it was done.

You could no longer be still.

Dean held you when you fell apart in the hallway.

Dean called out of work the next day to stay with you and George. Gordon would be acting Lieutenant until his next shift, and Dean was sure the man would take full enjoyment out of it.

He couldn’t care about that right now though. He felt that his place was here, being your quiet wall of support while you and George and the oncologist talked about treatment options.

“Normally, at the stage we’re in, I would be recommending chemotherapy,” said Dr. Benton.

“Normally?” you echoed.

“At the rate this is progressing, the treatment would have to be aggressive,” he said. His gaze focused on George. “However, at your age, and the current state of your overall health…at this point, I don’t think the rigors of treatment would be worth diminishing your quality of life.”

“What are you saying?” you asked. Your voice cut like a whip, earning the other men’s gazes.

George was the first one to lay a hand on your arm. “You know what it means, honey…he’s saying it ain’t worth it.”

“Of course, it’s worth it,” you retorted. With your brows furrowed and lips pursed, your eyes went from him to the doctor. “Just because he’s older, we shouldn’t even try? Is that what you’re saying, doctor?”

At that, even Dean drew closer to lay a hand on your back. Meanwhile, George squeezed your arm.

Benton shook his head gravely. “That’s certainly not what I’m saying.”

“How much time would I get, if I started treatment,” George asked, before you could volley further with the doctor.

Benton met the other man’s gaze.

“I’m going to be honest with you, George. You may get a few more weeks, or even a few months. But that is a best-case scenario.”

Dean drove you all home that day, after George decided to formally waive treatment. Both men knew you were angry in your silence, but neither one wanted to press you. Dean was too wary, and George was too tired.

Once he was settled in bed, you hadn’t even left his room yet before you grabbed a notepad off his desk and wandered into the hall. You started to make a list of things you still needed from the grocery store, among other things. Dean took that piece of paper out of your hands.

“Good. I’ll handle this,” he said. “Meanwhile, you can get upstairs, take a shower, take your meds, and get some sleep.”

You frowned at him. “You haven’t slept either, Dean.”

“I’m used to it,” he said, giving you a wink and a slight smile. Overnight shifts could be a bitch at a firehouse, but Dean was no stranger to having his sleep interrupted.

“Listen to him, honey. He’s speaking sense,” George called from inside his room. The bedroom door was still open. He was settling into his bed while trying to stifle a cough. He sipped at a cup of water you’d brought for him.

Still, you looked reluctant. Dean held your arms and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“Come on,” he said. “You were in an accident yesterday. You’ve had one hell of a night. You need your rest, or you’ll be no good to anyone.”

And if you pushed yourself much more, he worried that he’d have to take you right back to the hospital. Dean would rather not have that scare so close to the last one.

He brushed your cheek with gentle fingers. With the limited mobility your neck brace provided, you did your best to look up at him. Your eyes were softer.

“Okay,” you breathed.

“Okay? All right, good,” Dean said. You held onto his jacket for a moment, leaning against him.

“Thank you,” you whispered. You felt the burn of tears behind your closed eyelids. A few of them squeezed past and slipped down your cheeks. Dean held your face, brushing the tears away with his thumbs.

“Hey, I’m here, all right? Just let me help you,” he said. “You can lean on me when you need to.”

“I haven’t had that in a long time,” you admitted. “Part of me doesn’t know how to lean.”

“I get that,” Dean said. But you both knew that there was a long and difficult road ahead. He knew he didn’t have to remind you of it. “Whatever you need, you just tell me, okay? If nothing else, I’ve got a strong pair of shoulders.”

Somehow, you smiled. You pressed your forehead against his chest and inhaled deeply, to steady yourself.

“That you do, Lieutenant.”

You left for your room soon after, but not before you brought him down to you for one more tearful kiss.

Dean then watched you climb up the stairs to your room and nearly went up to help you, but he heard George call his name. Dean ventured back into George’s room and heeded his beckoning hand.

“You hungry? I can scramble some eggs or something before I hit the store. I think I saw two more left in the carton,” Dean said. George shook his head.

“Come ‘ere a sec.”

Dean took the hint and sat on the edge of the bed.

“I just wanna thank you for everything you did yesterday. Everything you’re still doing for us,” George said. He looked exhausted, but whatever he wanted to say was important enough to fight off sleep. He clasped a hand on Dean’s arm.

“You don’t have to,” Dean replied.

George huffed. A smile made his eyes gleam brighter.

“I knew you were a special one, Dean Winchester. Knew it the night I met ya, on your very first date with her.”

Dean blinked, but his pause drifted into a reserved smile.

“How’s that?” he asked.

“Well, I’ll be honest. When I heard that black Chevy rumble like hell’s wheels onto the driveway, I thought I might have to worry about you,” George chuckled.

Dean’s lips quirked.

“But no, it wasn’t that. It wasn’t the pretty flowers, or our mutual love of killer sharks,” George quipped, making Dean’s smile more genuine. “It isn’t your job either, or the fact that you saved her. I just believe that you can see a man’s mettle in his eyes…and I saw it in you when I shook your hand that night.”

Dean took that in for a moment. His hand flexed over his knee. Then he met George’s gaze, though he didn’t know what to say. Sometimes though, honestly was the best bet.

“I’m sorry for what you’re going through,” he said at last. “I can’t imagine…”

George let out a breath through his nose. “I’ll tell you a secret.”

He pointed to a picture frame on his bedside. It was of him and his wife, Sophie, when they were around your age and Dean’s. The couple were sitting on a pier that hung over the edge of the lake in their hometown.

She held him from behind, with her arms wrapped around his neck. Her long hair was being carried by the wind, getting swept into George’s eyes. He was smiling too hard to care.

“I’m ready to smile like that again,” he said. He had tears in his eyes, but he was already lighter at the thought. “I know it’s selfish…but I think I’ve missed her long enough.”

Dean paused. Then he cleared his throat past a small well of something he couldn’t name. He wondered if his dad ever had thoughts like that.

“Well, I’ll let you get your rest,” he said. “I’ll be back.”

George nodded and gave Dean’s arm a squeeze. “All right. Drive safe. Don’t hit any goddamn trees.”

He shot Dean a knowing wink, and it almost had the younger man laughing. George’s sense of humor was something else.

Dean then left George to rest. He made sure he had his wallet, keys, and your grocery list before he left your house and went back to the car. He checked his phone and saw a missed call…from Cas.

Dean was reminded again about Azazel, the kingpin who might’ve ordered a hit on his family. Along with the recent murders and arsons, and the connection from one of the victims to your company, Savage & Co.

Dean returned the call as he climbed into the Impala.

“Dean. Everything all right?” Cas asked. “Sam filled me in about the accident.”

“Yeah, everyone’s okay…well, not really. I’ll explain later,” Dean replied. “Listen, about what we talked about at the bar.”

“Yes.” Cas said gravely. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go to your father about this yet.”

“Funny, I was thinking the same thing.” Dean sighed. “My girl just got some real bad news. I know you gotta keep digging into Savage & Co., but can you keep her out of it?”

“Is she all right?��

“Yeah, more or less…it’s her grandfather.”

“Ah, I see,” Cas said. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks, man. I’d rather her just focus on what she needs to do right now, you know?”

“I get it. And believe me, we’re keeping the investigation of Nick Savage quiet for now,” Cas said. “But if we find something, or worse, if I can’t…I’ll likely need to question her. She works directly with Savage, and from what I can tell, she’s instrumental in bringing in and maintaining several of his major accounts.”

Dean stopped at a red light and took a moment to rub a hand over his tired face, rubbing his eyes. “You don’t really think she’s got any idea of what that asshole’s into.”

“I’m not saying she does. But in working so closely with him, perhaps she’s noticed things about her boss, and the company. Things she’s kept to herself, out of self-preservation.”

Dean frowned. He didn’t want to think about shit like that. It made his stomach churn at the thought of you working for someone who might be doing business with a crime lord, let alone Azazel.

“Well, when that day comes, give me a heads up, okay?”

“Will do.”

“Thanks, Cas.”

Dean offered to take another day off to help you, but you wouldn’t let him. He needed to go back to work, and you were able to arrange working from home for the next few weeks.

Even Nick couldn’t refuse to accommodate you in a situation like this. He knew very well that if he pushed you too hard, you’d go directly to HR.

So he backed off, and told you to take as much time at home as you needed. It allowed you to put him, and that afternoon in his office, away from your mind to focus on taking care of your grandfather.

Though you called your best friend the day you got home from the hospital, Andréa didn’t come by your house to see you and George until the end of the week. She cited mounting projects at work and some kind of tiff with her cousin Meg, but it all sounded like excuses to you.

However, she was gracious enough to bring dinner for the three of you on a Friday night. She cut up with George like normal, and even got him laughing, until a coughing fit forced him to stop. It also took most of the joy out of the rest of the evening.

While George went up to his room to rest, Andréa later joined you in the kitchen. You were washing the dishes, trying to focus on what you were doing. But your mind was buzzing continuously with future tasks and worries. Always, tasks and worries.

“How are you holding up?” Andréa asked. She rubbed your back, and you gave her a slight smile.

“All I can do is make him comfortable, for as long as possible,” you replied. There were tears in your friend’s eyes, but she dabbed them away with the back of her hand.

“What do you need? Anything, you just tell me,” she said.

It was a little easier for you to contemplate leaning on Andréa. You had been friends with her for years, and she was like another daughter to George.

On the other hand, asking Dean for help always made you hesitate. What you two had was still so new. You worried that this was too much for your relationship, too fast.

“Well,” you sighed as you wiped your hands dry on a kitchen towel. You didn’t exactly want to talk about it, but there were things you had to start planning, even if you didn’t know the exact timeframe.

However, as soon as you opened your mouth to reply, Andréa’s cell phone rang. She held up a finger to you and checked it. To your surprise, she actually answered it.

“Hey, babe,” she replied with a smile. You heard Benny’s deep voice on the line, asking a question. “Yeah, I’m still here. I’m probably leaving soon though.”

She continued her conversation for a few more minutes, but you didn’t hear anything after that. A tension headache was sharp behind your eyes, while anger (yes, anger) rolled hot under your skin. Your lips pursed. You busied yourself with straightening up the kitchen until she continued her call for another few minutes.

“Sorry about that,” she said, finally turning her attention back to you. “So what do you need?”

You put away the last dry dish and turned to her coolly.

“Nothing.”

Andréa frowned. She knew there was something off with you, but her furrowed brows betrayed her confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” you repeated. “Don’t you need to head out, anyway?”

“No, I was just…what’s up with you?” she asked.

“What’s up with me is my grandfather’s dying!” you snapped. You left her in the kitchen, precisely so that she’d follow you out. You grabbed her purse for her and went to the front door, where you stepped out.

Andréa was dismayed and confused as she followed you out onto the porch. She raised her brows at you when you shut the door and crossed your arms at her.

“I know you, and this isn’t just about that. What’s the problem?” she asked.

“You can’t seem to detach from your boyfriend for more than five minutes to just be my friend. That’s the problem,” you replied. “But why should I be surprised? Like always, you’re too wrapped up in yourself to consider anyone else.”

Her brows knitted together; she looked hurt by your words, but also defensive.

“How can you say that when you’ve been exactly the same way?” she accused. “Since you met Dean, I’d be lucky to see you once a week—”

“I call you every week,” you began, counting the list with your fingers. “You’re always busy, but you never give me a day that works for you. And when we do make plans, you usually cancel. Why? Because you’re going sailing with Benny. You’re going to a restaurant, hours away, just to try the new sushi bar beer garden, or whatever the hell. Or you’re going on an impromptu road trip, or you’re planning a summer trip to Greece. Give me fucking break, Dre.”

By now she was frowning angrily, her arms crossed. “You’re mad at me because I have a life?”

“No. I’m happy for you that you found someone. I really am,” you said. “But we clearly live in two different versions of reality. I just don’t have the time or the energy to entertain yours.”

You knew you were being too harsh. You felt incredible guilt as soon as it all left your mouth…but part of you also felt like a weight had been lifted off your chest. The problem was, you still felt heavy. Just in a different way.

Both of you were crying when Andréa left your house.

All too soon, a week became a month. In that time, Dean called you every day to check on you. He spent most of his evenings with you and George when he wasn’t on shift. And when he was, sometimes Meg would drop in.

She understood your argument with Andréa, and she respected you for taking a stand when you needed to. She even confided you that she’d had similar frustrations with her cousin lately.

But Meg wasn’t your only visitor. Ellen had come a few times to bring you lunch and dinner, even breakfast, though you hadn’t asked her to. You realized then how close Dean must be to his friends at the firehouse, along with the Harvelles; Ellen also refused to take any money from you for the food.

By the end of the month, George mainly spent his days sleeping. Pain medication made his days nearly painless, but not without struggle. You were doing your best to care for him while continuing to work full-time from home. You were also exhausted, though you refused to admit it.

Today was a better day, however, because George was awake. He was also more aware of his surroundings than usual.

He stopped you from adjusting his pillow so you would sit down on the edge of his bed. He took your hand in his, brushing a thumb over the back of it.

“I’m okay with this, you know,” he said. You pursed your lips, but he stopped you from whatever you were going to say. “I don’t want to leave you. You know that…but I’m so damn proud of you. Your Gram was, and still is…”

Your lower lip wobbled as you tried and failed to keep your tears at bay. They stung in your eyes and slipped past your defenses, down your face.

“The house is yours. But if that’s too hard for you, just sell it,” he said, heaving a deep breath. “It’s just the bones. You’re the heart. And you always have been.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but not a sound would come out. You held his hand with both of yours and stared down at them. Until his voice once again commanded your attention.

“I always thought…moving to the city ruined my daughter. That we should’ve stayed in Lebanon. That maybe I gave her too much freedom, and I failed her somehow along the way,” George said. His eyes were heavy with old heartache. And yet, they soon began to lighten.

“But the day we lost a daughter, we gained one too,” he said. Then, he chuckled a little. “And I know I never failed with you, sweetheart.”

That proved to be too much for you. He pulled you into his arms like you were still a child, and he held you for a long time while you cried yourself out.

Though he eventually spotted Dean hesitating in the doorway. He’d probably let himself in with the spare key you’d given him.

George raised a hand from your back and silently beckoned Dean inside his room. He was getting tired, drifting off thanks to the morphine.

“Hey, lookie there. The boyfriend’s here,” George whispered with a bit of cheek. You sucked in a breath and raised your head, wiping at your eyes before you turned around. Dean met you with an attempt at a smile and a gentle hand on your back.

“Just got out of work?” you asked. He’d been on a 24-hour shift, and you’d missed him. You stood and stepped into his welcoming embrace. He dropped a kiss on your forehead.

“Yeah. I’ve got the next couple of days off,” Dean said. He greeted George next and asked him if he needed anything.

“Just some water,” the older man replied.

“I’ll get it,” you said with a sniff. “Need to start dinner too.”

“I already brought some food. You like Italian, right?” Dean said, with a subtle smile. It earned your sigh and a grateful smile. He knew very well that it was now one of your favorites. Italian meatballs always reminded you both of your first date.

“Thank you,” you said, grasping his hand. He squeezed yours with a nod, before he let you go.

When you were out of earshot, George cleared his throat past a wet cough. Dean reached over and grabbed him a tissue. George took it with a nod. Again, he encouraged Dean to come closer.

“I’m not worried,” George said, between deep breaths. “You know why?”

Dean just stared back for a moment. He genuinely had no idea what the man might say next.

“Tell me,” he said.

“My granddaughter’s strong. Always has been, because she had to be,” said George. “But you’re gonna be there when she’s not.”

Dean considered the weight of that charge. The anxiety in his chest felt familiar; like the day he got his badge at the Fire Academy, knowing then the responsibility he held in his hands.

That’s a lot to put on just three months of knowing this girl, came a more selfish thought. It sounded a lot like the guy he used to be, not too long before he met you.

But when Dean thought about you, and what you’d begun to mean to him…

He realized that he only had one answer.

“Yes, sir. I am,” said Dean.

George gave a tired smile. “Good man.”

And that night, an agreement was made.

In the morning, your grandfather was gone.

Dean held you through what he thought was the worst of your heartbreak. But after that dour morning, it was like a switch flipped inside you.

In the days after George’s death, your shutters came up. You threw yourself into checklists and task after task—in funeral arrangements and planning and contacting distant relatives and friends.

This was your failsafe. Your version of “autopilot.” And these things needed to get done, after all.

But Dean worried when he no longer saw the softer side of you. Like your heart had been wrung dry.

He inevitably had to go back to work, but in between the demanding hours of his schedule, he tried to get you to slow down. He saw the warning signs of you running yourself into the ground. He just didn’t know how to help you land.

So Dean picked up slack where he saw it, often without you asking him to. He began fixing the house, one section at a time. He enlisted Benny’s help, since he actually had a small construction business. Dean even paid for the materials himself without you knowing.

And one sunny afternoon, he took a break from repaving part of the cracked and uneven driveway to grab a beer inside. You were sitting at the kitchen table with stacks of papers all around you, your cellphone on speaker as some kind of elevator music continued to ring on a loop.

“Can you believe I’ve been on hold with the funeral director for 20 minutes?” you told him in irritation. But you didn’t truly take sight of him until he came back from the kitchen.

He wore a familiar ensemble of jeans and black undershirt with a plaid shirt, rolled up to his elbows. He was covered in a fine layer of sweat, and his hands were dusty and stained from his work on the driveway. Dean looked tired, and that made you feel guilty.

Meanwhile, he frowned and popped open a beer. “You want one of these? Looks like you could use one.”

You shook your head. With a sigh, you hung up the phone. You’d try calling again later. Instead, you focused on the next item of your checklist for today.

“Food. Because we’re gonna need to eat after the service,” you inclined your head. “Okay, still need to come up with a list of caterers, because I don’t think I can cook for that many people.”

Dean nodded at that. “Let me talk to Ellen. She’ll give you a good price, and her food is good.”

You looked up from your notepad and considered him thoughtfully. You wouldn’t have thought to cater from a bar, but he was right. Ellen had great food at the Roadhouse.

“Okay, I’ll call her,” you said.

“No, I’ll call her,” Dean insisted. He set down the beer on the table and leaned his palms flat on its surface. “Sweetheart, I told you I’d help you with all this. You don’t have to do it by yourself.”

“Dean, you’ve done enough,” you replied. Your brows drew together stubbornly. “You’re paving my driveway right now, for God’s sake! This is my responsibility, not yours.”

Dean frowned, making you sigh. You leaned back in your seat and crossed your arms.

“Look, we’ve only been dating for three months,” you said. And in your mind, a good chunk of that time had been spent in the worst hell of your life. “This right here? It’s a lot. I’m not expecting you to deal with all this…”

You bit your lip, and your gaze fell away from his as your insecurities took hold. The thoughts that had been plaguing you every night since this all began, on the night of the car accident.

“And…if you’d rather take a break from us for a while, I’d understand,” you said.

Your voice was more collected than you felt. But that didn’t make it any easier when Dean stared back at you, mostly incredulous. You even thought you saw a thread of hurt there, and it made your heartache worsen.

Dean came around to your side of the table. He dragged a chair back and sunk into it, facing you directly.

“You think that’s the kind of guy I am?” he asked.

You immediately shook your head. You weren’t trying to upset him, or imply that he wasn’t reliable, or trustworthy, or whatever was running through his head. You were just trying to be realistic.

You’re so pragmatic it hurts, as Andréa had often told you.

“Dean, it’s not that…” you began, a bit helplessly. “I just—”

“Just, nothin’.” His chair scraped toward you as he reached out for your hand. He made sure you looked him in the eyes when he said this next part.

“I’m not leaving you with this.”

Your gaze met his, though you desperately tried to keep your heart from rising into your throat.

“I’m not leaving you,” Dean said. His tone, his eyes, his hold on your hand was firm.

For a moment, you stared at him, unblinking, even as tears swam in your eyes.

He’s not leaving you.

Not like everyone else in your life.

You were grateful. Too grateful, even, for words.

When you finally broke down into tears, Dean realized what an idiot he’d been. Your wall of stoicism had been just that—a flimsy wall. Now it was shattered, and so were you.

It scared him just how much, as he gathered you onto his lap and into his arms. You didn’t seem to care that he was dirty and covered with sweat. You clung to him strong, and he held you back just as tightly.

“No matter what I did, it wasn’t enough,” you confessed. “You save people all the time. I couldn’t save anyone in my life.”

Dean frowned. He cupped the back of your head, and he felt your tears sliding down his neck. His voice was thick with emotion when he was able to reply.

“Oh, baby. It’s not your fault.”

“I can’t…I can’t do anything. Anything that matters.” Your voice was a broken whisper. It damn near broke his heart.

“Now you know that’s not true,” he said. “I’m not gonna let you lie to yourself like that.”

You trembled and heaved with sobs, and he continued to hold you.

Just be there, Sam had told him, when Dean had called him from the hospital. Sam reminded him again last week, when George finally passed.

Is that all I’m supposed to do? Dean thought. His brows furrowed, but he tried to hide his frustration.

He was used to people depending on him. He led a team. Before then, he’d looked out for Sam all his life. Dean had never had to help someone get through this kind of grief though. He just wanted to help you, in whatever way he could.

Because he was worrying, just like you. That whatever he did, it wouldn’t be enough.

But he couldn’t leave you.

I can’t, and I won’t, he thought. So he took a breath, and he said the first true thing that came to mind.

“You’re the strongest woman I know, you know that?” Dean said. He spoke low and steady, but with the conviction he felt. “And that’s a tall order, considering some of the badass ladies I’ve got in my life.”

A smile tugged at his lips when he considered people like Ellen and Jo, Jody and Donna. He might’ve lost his mom, but he and Sam hadn’t lacked when it came to influential women in their lives.

“But I saw it the day we met. I see it every time we’re together,” he continued. “You work hard as hell. You take care of everyone around you…”

You were still quiet, trying to stifle your crying.

Dean let out a breath. “Man, if you only knew how much you’ve been helping me. Keeping my damn feet on the ground with this whole…arsonist mess my dad’s been investigating. Digging up the past, my mom, the whole damn thing.”

With a sniffle, you uncurled from him, just enough to reveal your face. Your grip on his shirt loosened, your palm flattening on his chest. He held your hand there and turned his lips to your forehead. He sensed that you were calming down. That you were listening.

“That matters to me,” he told you.

You nodded and tightened your hand on his. “Me too.”

Your voice was still shaky, but it sounded a little stronger.

“See? You might as well face it.” Dean grinned. “You’re a badass chick with a big heart.”

You snorted in response. Your lips even twitched at a smile. He spied it when he looked down at you. And you rested easier against him as your tears subsided.

“Thank you,” you whispered. He dried your cheek with a brush of his hand.

“For what?” he asked.

“For staying.”

AN: So first off, I'm sorry for the gritty "reality" of this one. It's just where the story took me, though it serves a purpose narratively and for both the reader and Dean's character development.

But also, I think this has just been on my mind, since both my grandmother and great uncle (brother and sister) died within a year of one another due to different forms of cancer. My great uncle passed in May of this year, and my grandmother two years this past October.

Again, I'm sorry if this one was too heavy, but art does imitate life and this was probably my brain trying to express those emotions I couldn't fully make sense of at the time. George will be missed, but will still be felt in the rest of this story, as I'm sure any of you who've lost close family members will understand. 💙

Next Time:

The identity of Azazel will finally be revealed in Part 12. But first...

You nodded. “By the way, it was nice of Sam and Eileen to come. And Meg and Cas.”

Dean smiled.

“They can be your people too,” he said. “If you want ‘em to be.”

You couldn’t help it. Your tears brewed and bubbled over. And you moved slowly across the couch to twine your arms around his neck. Dean’s lips tugged at a smile, and he welcomed you with an arm wrapping around your waist.

Both of you were still wearing the same clothes you’d been wearing all day; you in your black dress and Dean in his slacks and white buttoned-down shirt, though by now without the jacket, and the shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

You were infinitely exhausted. But one thing had become clear to you over the past few weeks.

“Thank you. Thank you for today, and for every day since we met,” you said shakily.

Keep Reading: PART 12

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Series Tag List (Part 1):

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @letheatheodore @agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesbrainworms @foxyjwls007 @wincastifer @iamsapphine @simpforbuckyb

@vanillawhiskeyflavoredkisses @roseblue373 @this-is-me19 @emily-winchester @spnexploration @deans-spinster-witch @deans-baby-momma @iprobablyshipit91

@melancholictearz @nic-kolas @katherineann814 @sleepyqueerenergy @wayward-lost-and-never-found @thewritersaddictions @just-levyy @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @deanwanddamons @antisocialcorrupt @lacilou @adoringanakin @theonlymaninthesky @teehxk @midnightmadwoman @brianochka @branj19

@agalliasi @venicesem @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @solariklees @xsophianicolex @deansbbyx @candy-coated-misery0731 @curlycarley @sarahgracej @bagpussjocken @ultrahviolentart @chernayawidow @beskarfilms @mimaria420

#Heart of the Home #Smoke Eater #Part 11 #dean winchester #Firefighter!Dean Winchester #dean winchester x reader #Dean Winchester x female reader #firefighter!Dean Winchester x Reader #dean winchester x you #firefighter AU #dean winchester AU #Castiel #spn #supernatural #benny lafitte #jo harvelle #ellen harvelle #zepskies writes

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blazeismyname · 6 months

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For Spanish, we needed to disguise a turkey. Look me dead in my virtual eyes. You know what I did. The Dvurkey breathes life.

(I did heavily improvise on the dislikes since I was limited to a vocabulary list. Also, "hace frio" is directed at where he currently is. Space)

I hate how popular this has gotten -Update 1

Every time this gets a little popular again I die internally -Update 2

The moment this reaches JONATHAN SIMS HIMSELF, I will literally disintegrate. -Update 4 (deleted 3 cause it felt like to much)

#the mechanisms #the mechs #the dvurkey #jonny d'ville #all hail the dvurkey #our humble first mate

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petermorwood · 28 days

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How on earth did these goats get there?

*****

In reality the goats are lying on their sides on rocky ground, looking up at a crane-mounted camera. The photograph was taken some years ago, part of a series reconstructing Central European folk customs and traditions which have fallen from favour or are now prohibited.

This old-fashioned rural blood-sport was originally practiced in parts of Anatolia, Turkey, where the game was called keçi fırlatmak, and also in the Carpathian Alps of Romania, possibly imported during the Ottoman conquest. The name there was aruncarea caprei.

*****

The goats would have been coated in a strong adhesive traditionally distilled from pine resin.(represented pictorially here by darker patches of dye on the flanks) and were then thrown upwards towards a cliff or rock-face with makeshift catapults, often a primitive form of counterweight trebuchet assembled from wooden beams and weighted with rocks.

The game ended when the glue dried and lost adhesion, and the goats fell to their deaths. They were then cooked and eaten, their meat being valued like that of Spanish fighting bulls.

The meat of the last goat to fall (başarılı keçi or cea mai durabilă capră) was prized as a special delicacy and selected cuts from the legs of this particular “winner” goat were often smoked and dried into a kind of jerky.

*****

In his “Grandes Histoires Vraies d'un Voyageur le 1er Avril” (pub. Mensonges & Faussetés, Paris, 1871) French folk-historian, anthropologist and retired cavalry general Gilles-Etienne Gérârd wrote about witnessing a festival near Sighișoara, Transylvania, in 1868.

There he claims to have seen catapults improvised from jeunes arbres, très élastiques et souples - “very springy and flexible young trees” - which were drawn back with ropes and then released.

Bets were placed before the throw, and marks given afterwards, according to what way up the goats adhered and for how long. The reconstruction, with both goats upright, facing outward and still in place, shows what would have been a potential high score.

The practice has been officially banned in both countries since the late 1940s, but supposedly still occurred in more isolated areas up to the end of the 20th century. Wooden beams from which the catapults were constructed could easily be disguised as barn-rafters etc., and of course flexible trees were, and are, just trees.

*****

Gérârd’s book incorrectly calls the goat jerky “pastrami”, to which he gives the meaning "meat of preservation".

While pastrami may be a printing error for the Turkish word bastırma or the Romanian pastramă, both meaning “preserved meat”, at least one reviewer claims that Gérârd misunderstood his guide-translator, who would have been working from rural dialect to formal Romanian to scholarly French.

Since this jerky was considered a good-luck food for shepherds, mountaineers, steeplejacks and others whose work involved a risk of falling, Gérârd's assumption seems a reasonable one.

However, several critical comments on that review have dismissed its conclusion, claiming "no translator could be so clumsy", but in its defence, other comments point out confusion between slang usage in the same language.

One cites American and British English, noting that even before differences in spelling (tire / tyre, kerb / curb etc.) "guns" can mean biceps or firearms, "flat" can mean a deflated wheel or a place to live, "ass" can mean buttocks or donkey and adds, with undisguised relish, some of the more embarrassing examples.

This comment concludes that since the errors "usually make sense in context", Gérârd's misapprehension is entitled to the same respect.

*****

The good-luck aspect of the meat apparently extended to work which involved "falling safely", since its last known use was believed to be in ration packs issued to the 1. Hava İndirme Tugayı (1st Airborne Brigade) of the Turkish Army, immediately before the invasion of Cyprus in July 1974.

Nothing more recent has been officially recorded, because the presence of cameras near military bases or possible - and of course illegal - contests is strongly (sometimes forcefully) discouraged, and the sport’s very existence is increasingly dismissed as an urban or more correctly rural legend.

The official line taken by both Anatolian and Carpathian authorities is that it was only ever a joke played on tourists, similar to the Australian “Drop-bear”, the Scottish “Wild Haggis” and the North American “Jackalope”.

They dismiss the evidence of Gérârd’s personal observation as “a wild fable to encourage sales of his book”, “a city-dweller’s misinterpretation of country practices”, or even “the deliberate deception of a gullible foreigner by humorous peasants”.

And as for those paratroop ration packs, Turkish involvement in Cyprus is still such a delicate subject that the standard response remains “no comment”.

#goats #mountain goats #climbing #falling #good-luck food #rural myth #pinch of salt #A day in April

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redhoodforreal · 9 months

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Bruce call it psycological-preventive-training instead of D&D, still steph kill us all in horrible way. She's a monster, the devil in disguise, she will never ever be de DM again.

Dick was splatted like after 10 minut, Tim drowned to save us, I was eaten alive by monster and the Brat, who survive the most, was killed that a fucking boss disguised as a turkey, he's weake against turkey and Steph know it.

#i will have my revenge soon #batfam #batman #gotham #only in gotham #red hood #robin #red robin #dc robin #nightwing #tim drake #spoiler #timothy drake #jason todd #dick grayson #damian wayne #stephanie brown

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writingraven · 2 years

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Animal Symbolism

♘

➸ alligator: aggression, survival

➸ ant: teamwork, hardworking

➸ armadillo: active, boundaries, objectivity, protection

➸ bat: nocturnal, cleansing

➸ bear: adaptability, introspection, power, strength

➸ beaver: alterations, balance, builder, gatherer

➸ bee: development, diligence, consciousness

➸ bird: transition between life & death, freedom, mobility

➸ bobcat: fierce, intensity, loner

➸ buffalo: abundance, bravery, freedom, life, respect, sacredness

➸ bull: strength, warning

➸ butterfly: carefree, grace, metamorphosis, transformation

➸ camel: endurance, weary

➸ cat: grace, healing, independence

➸ cougar: courage, leadership

➸ cow: nurture, patience, stoicism

➸ coyote: adaptability, insight, playfulness

➸ crane: independence, solitude

➸ crocodile: fierceness, leadership

➸ crow: flexibility, majestic, perspective, warning

➸ deer: gentleness, kindness, love, peace, sensitivity

➸ dog: loyalty, protection

➸ dolphin: harmony, kindness, playfulness

➸ dove: gentle, purity

➸ dragon: nobility, wisdom

➸ dragonfly: carefree, change, illusion

➸ eagle: connection to creator, divinity

➸ eel: disguise, flexibility, strength

➸ elephant: long-life, self-preservation

➸ elk: agility, freedom, friendship, stamina, strength

➸ fox: cunning, deceit, intelligence, provider

➸ frog: cleansing, healing

➸ giraffe: mobility, watchfulness

➸ goat: stubbornness, vitality

➸ goose: communication, faith, travel

➸ gorilla: adaptability, strength

➸ grasshopper: faithfulness, luck

➸ grizzly bear: hunter

➸ hawk: courage, messenger, truth, wisdom

➸ hedgehog: curiosity, overcoming, protection, reliance

➸ hippo: protection, stability, strength, survival

➸ horse: loyalty, mobility, stamina, strength, wisdom

➸ hummingbird: connection, lightness, messenger, speed

➸ jaguar: ferocity, power, valor

➸ kangaroo: feisty, fun-loving

➸ koala: affection, amicability, compassion, faith, gentleness

➸ ladybug: fortune, innocence, love, resolution

➸ leopard: aggression, ferocity, speed

➸ lion: power, respect, strength

➸ lizard: agility, conservation

➸ manatee: peace, unassuming

➸ monkey: agility, observation, playfulness

➸ moose: headstrong, longevity, unstoppable

➸ orca: focus, power

➸ otter: efficiency, playfulness

➸ owl: connection, insight, intuition, patience, psychic vision, solitude, wisdom

➸ panda: gentle strength, luck, peace

➸ panther: astral travel, femininity, guardianship, power, rebirth

➸ peacock: immortality, pride, vanity

➸ pegasus: lightning

➸ phoenix: hope, prosperity, rebirth, renewal

➸ pig: abundance, intelligence / ignorance, stubbornness, uncleanliness

➸ quail: harmony, protectiveness

➸ rabbit: alertness, clever, lust, overcoming

➸ ram: achievement, new beginnings, sacrifice, teaching

➸ raven: cleverness, intelligence, mischievousness, wisdom

➸ roadrunner: agility, speed

➸ scorpion: defense, self-protection

➸ shark: authority, curiosity, efficiency, guardianship, movement, observation, perception

➸ sheep: conformity, innocence, vulnerability

➸ snake: cunning, fertility, life, malice

➸ spider: balance, creativity, destiny, fate

➸ squirrel: adaptability, change, playfulness, resourcefulness, renewal

➸ swan: acceptable, beauty, grace

➸ tiger: awareness, courage, determination, ferocity, protection, strength

➸ turkey: abundance, blessing, connection, generosity

➸ turtle: longevity, protection

➸ unicorn: grace, purity, singularity, uniqueness

➸ whale: community, healing, strength, wisdom

➸ wolf: freedom, guidance, loyalty

➸ zebra: free-spirit, safety, strength, socialization

#writing #writing tips #story ideas #reference #fantasy #knowledge #writing reference #fantasy writing #world building #writing fiction #animals #animal symbolism

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hobgobknowsbest · 7 months

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I've come to think of the recent trend making goblincore "pretty" as sort of like... a renaissance faire. We all know the medieval times were nothing like they are represented as at a faire, but it's still nice, still entertaining. People dress up as these idealized, pretty, fantasy versions of squires, knights, princesses, princes, queens and kings, laughs are had, money is spent, and everyone eats a giant turkey leg.

Same general idea. Who wouldn't love to live in a sun-dappled hole in the ground, in the middle of the woods, somehow subsisting off the land without the hardships that come with that lifestyle, happily gardening and sipping tea by candlelight? Chasing down the occasional human, causing mischief in the local town that's close to your acres of forest?

Perhaps I'm too stuck in the moment, but all I can see is what's at hand; the here and the now of it. Goblins and bugbears, bogarts, púca, changelings and creatures of all shapes and sizes, trapped in our little meatsuits, suffering from a whole new kind of culture shock day in and day out.

You can't stop humanity from encroaching too far upon nature's domain because they already have, and now you find yourself amongst them. Behind enemy lines, more or less.

You can't make yourself a hole in the ground because every inch of this land is somehow owned, regardless of whether or not someone has ever even set foot upon it.

It becomes less about roleplaying a hobbit on the weekends, and more about surviving with the power of sheer spite.

Your disguise is mostly above suspicion, so you can, for the most part, act and dress however you like. At your core, you are still the antithesis to humanity, so you find yourself stitching your clothes together, proud of your rips and tears. You earned them. You can't fully grasp the idea of money, no matter how hard you try, and so "the grind" is likely something you don't participate in.

Now, rules you are familiar with, but the ones you find in front of you have no sense to them, and feel as if they aren't directed towards you.

You're leery of people in general, and so are slow to make friends. You find yourself, more than likely, getting close to those who have been rejected by society as well: punks and felons, anarchists, street kids and van-lifers. You probably consider yourself a member of one of these little communities yourself.

It's a lonely sort of life, at the end of the day, no matter what you surround yourself with. No matter what you decide to distract yourself with. Finding more of your kind is difficult, even with the aid of the internet, but you can likely spot them here and there, and it is refreshing to bounce your unique energy back and forth.

What I'm trying to say, while I derail myself here, is that I'm coming to the conclusion that there's two sides to goblincore: there's the fashion side, and the lifestyle side. Everything becomes a fashion statement at some point, so I can't really complain.

If someone I met started dressing like me in real life, I'd be flattered, y'know? It'd be weird, as it'd be their own strange version of my normal dress, but it's still oddly endearing. A little Single White Female, but still endearing.

But if you're a lifer, if you've lived this way well before it was given a title, trust that your kind are out there. You're not alone.

You just might have to dig through a little bit of trash to find them.

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arabidoll · 2 months

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The image the west painted about arabs and SWANA ppl centuries ago, how is it still used today, and why is that image harmful to SWANA group

First of all, what is Orientalism? based on the definition by Edward Said, orientalism is a "created body of theory and practice" which constructs images of the Orient or the East directed toward those in the West.

Representations of the East as exotic, feminine, weak and vulnerable reflect and define how the West views itself as rational, masculine and powerful. These can be seen in paintings as well as media.

The painting were obsessed w the idea of the Harem women, which affected all SWANA ppl, including Persian and Turkish women as well. Stereotypes and orientalist depictions of arabs and SWANA ppl are still used till this day.

Le Corsaire (1856), takes place in Turkey and focuses on a love story between a pirate and a beautiful slave girl. Scenes include a bazaar where women are sold to men as slaves, and the Pasha's Palace, which features his harem of wives.

Petipa's The Pharaoh's Daughter (1862), an Englishman imagines himself, in an opium-induced dream, as an Egyptian boy who wins the love of the Pharaoh's daughter, Aspicia. Her costume consisted of 'Egyptian' décor on a tutu.

Fatima (1897) and Fatima’s Dance (1907), which were the very first portrayals of Arab woman as a veiled belly dancer. These sexualized and objectified Arab women.

Sheherazade (1910), involves a shah's wife and her relations with a Golden Slave. It includes an orgy in an oriental harem. When the shah discovers the actions of his numerous wives and their lovers, he orders the deaths of those involved. Also based on One Thousand & One Nights.

The sheik (1921), takes place in Algeria, where Lady Diana disguise herself as a dancing girl to become one of the prospective brides, yet is unable to go through with the deception bc the sheik liked her. the sheik later abducts her, intending to make her fall in love with him.

The movie didnt even have the accurate Algerian traditional clothing and Algerians dancing clothes arent the “belly dancing inspired” clothes. The stereotype that a SWANA man would abduct a white women to make her fall inlove w him too…

Lalla Fatma N'Soumer, an Algerian anti-colonial leader during 1849–1857 of the French conquest of Algeria and subsequent Pacification of Algeria. She is an Algerian national hero. The pictures show the Algerian traditional wear, which isnt close to the ones in the movie.

Here is an Algerian woman wearing a Haik, again not dressed as the movie shows.

Mickey in Arabia (1932) by Disney, taking place in the Arabian Desert, where Mickey and Minnie are exploring the area I assume. Later, Minnie gets kidnapped by a Sultan. Again, portraying men from SWANA or arab men in this case as predatory and barbaric.

Abdullah the Great aka. Abdullah’s Harem (1955), about an Arab sheikh and a European model. He’s always with the Arab women he bought, along with belly dancers. He still tries to seduce Ronnie. He then attempts to drug her in order to sleep with her, but fails and gets dethroned.

So far all these movies continue to have the same narrative, continue to sexualize Arab and SWANA women, always portraying them as belly dancers and/or harem women. The Arab and SWANA men as barbaric and predatory. Themes that will continue to exist till this day.

Babes in Baghdad (1952) Arabian Nights princess goes on strike demanding equal rights for women, to the frustration of the caliph. Aided by the caliph's godson, she enables the caliph to see the error of his polygamous ways, and he eventually settles down with his wife.

The Queen of Babylon (1954), about a king's concubine that loves a Chaldean rebel in ninth-century B.C. Assyria. I Am Semiramis (1963), in ninth-century B.C. Assyrian Queen Semiramis loves an enslaved Dardanian king. mind u assyrians dont dress like egyptians

Fast forward to the 90s and early 2000s, the same stereotype surrounding SWANA ppl persisted Aladdin(1992), Aladdin meets Princess Jasmine, daughter of the sultan of Agrabah. They both have to deal with evil sorcerer Jafar from overthrowing Jasmine's kingdom.

Jasmine was sexualized (even tho shes a minor), she seduces Jaffar, and was put in a harem/belly dancer fit. the same portrayal of Arab women. The movie also features harem women. Jaffar w big nose, painting arab men as ugly, sinister and ruled by sexual desires, again.

Braceface (2002), the harem thing again. Totally spice (2002) with harem inspired fits Around the World in Eighty Days (2004) by Disney, Arab sheikh his wives that were objectified through the scenes.

After 9/11, “Arabs are terrorists” and xenophobic remakes towards arabs increased. Air Marshal (2003), The stone merchant (2006), The kingdom (2007), and many more all portrayed arabs as terrorists. Family guy(?) and shameless (2012, S2) with jokes about k!lling iraqis

Bratz: Desert Jewelz (2012) and Aladdin (2019) had the same orientalist themes as the 1001 Arabian nights (1959) and as well as the older movies.

Today, inaccurate and offensive Arab/SWANA representation is still the same. Arabs are either rich sheikhs, terrorists, or exotic belly dancers. not only that, u rarely see any arab or SWANA actor/actress get good roles, its always reduced to the terrorists role.

Whats mentioned in the thread isnt only harmful to how SWANA ppl are viewed, but how they’re treated as well. In 2002 to 2005, Philippe Servaty engaged in sex with over 80 Moroccan women, promising to take them to Belgium.

He asked them for sexual photos and photographed them in poses that could be seen as degrading. They included ejaculating on the face of a veiled woman and having another woman kneel, bound, and gagged while he urinated on her. After returning to Belgium, he published the photos.

with assyrians and persians ppl still use the same harem belly dancer clothing and its not even accurate. egyptians are always portrayed as belly dancers, also inaccurate.

SWANA ppl are still treated as fictional characters. Dune (2021) uses orientalist themes and is inspired by SWANA cultures. many offensive media made ab arabs, but wont i b able to fit all here. racism/xenophobia against ppl in SWANA didnt start with 9/11 and its not over either.

twt original thread here!

#orientalism #threads #swana

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cheesewedge · 8 months

Text

A Stranger's Keepsake (18+)

Summary: Arthur runs into a strange man on the way back to camp. A strange man with photos of a woman in his tent...a very familiar woman.

Word Count: 4,387

Tags: blood and gore, graphic depictions of violence, stalking, arthur x original female character, established relationship

A/N: This was inspired by the encounter you have with that giant creep who stalks poor Charlotte.

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The crisp Heartlands night nips at Arthur’s fingers on his way back to camp, crickets his only company among silver fields laid out in every direction. A buck’s head slaps against his horse’s rear. Two turkeys dangle from either side of his saddlebag. He picked raspberry bushes clean for Maria, dozens of them wrapped in his bandana and tucked in his satchel with the fresh herbs she asked for.

He yawns. Horseshoe Overlook isn’t much farther but he isn’t in any hurry to return. The simple hunting trip was as good an excuse as any to free himself from camp, and while his mare gently trots down the dirt road, the solitude nearly coaxes his eyes shut.

“Evenin’, friend!”

Arthur’s hooded eyelids flutter open. He frowns, looks around. Atop a nearby hill, a man stands alone with campfire smoke billowing to the stars.

“Er, hey there.”

“You look like you could use a break. Y’ came at a good time, fire’s nice and warm.”

“Nah, ‘m alright, partner.”

“Aw, come on now, friend. Saw you was real tired. I got some coffee brewin’ here.”

A sigh. He looks around again. “Sure, why not?” He steers his horse up to the man’s tent.

A smile blooms on the stranger’s face when Arthur dismounts. “Have a seat. Plenty of room by the fire in case you need ta rest those weary legs. I know how hard it is for a travellin’ man.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Arthur pours coffee black as the night around them. He sits on a crate by the fireside and observes the stranger. He stands tall even though he isn’t. There’s a button popped open over his stomach. Suspenders work to keep his trousers level with the doughy folds of his hips. A bowler hat doesn’t disguise where the hair stops.

The man smiles again. “Coffee’s nice and fresh. Just made that pot but lord knows I’ll need more to see this night through.”

“Is that right?”

“Yessir.” He pops open a lock box to retrieve a pair of binoculars.

Arthur’s eyes flick to the man’s tent. It isn’t the tattered canvas he notes, or its impressive size. It’s not the empty cans and bottles littered all over the grass, the man’s filthy bedroll — it’s the photos. String after string dangle from the canvas, each pinched between the teeth of a clothespin. The lantern below them illuminates the figure of a woman in every one.

“Norman, by the way,” the man says and reaches out his arm.

“Arthur.” He swallows Norman’s hand when he shakes it. “What’s all that there?”

“Oh. I just… I like to see her. Makes me feel like she’s here with me.”

“That your wife?”

“One day, friend.”

Arthur quirks a brow and rises from his seat. Cans clatter at his feet, every step bringing the lavender fields of Big Valley, the mountain range of the Heartlands, further into focus. His vision blurs. The strand bobs up and down in an aggressive ripple when he plucks a photo off the line.

“Whoa, careful there. Took me a while to get all these. Ain’t she a beauty?”

Arthur’s lungs burn from the breath he holds. On the bank of the Dakota River Maria sits with her face tilted towards the clouds.

“Spotted her a few weeks back. No idea where an angel like that came from, but that there’s my future wife. Mark my words.”

Arthur doesn’t speak. All he can do is stare at the photo. At Maria’s long curls that tumble down her back while she rests by the fire, a gingham blanket sprawled out beneath her. Norman continues to leer at the picture and Arthur’s gaze flits to the rest of them. Maria braids Ophelia’s mane in one. Cooks a slab of meat in another. He gawks at picture after picture of her wringing out her clothes, riding down the road, asleep in her bedroll.

“Always see her in and around here. Tried to talk to her once in Valentine. Saw her comin’ outta the saloon with a feller’d had a big scar on his face. Told her she was just about the prettiest thing I ever seen.” Norman stops to rub the back of his neck with a faraway smile. “...She smiled at me. Thanked me. Felt real good to know she liked me too. I tried to get her back into the saloon with me but the feller she was with pulled them along. Nasty piece a’ work. Real controllin’ type.”

Arthur spots a photograph above Norman’s bedroll. Hidden in a cluster of trees Maria sits with her journal in her lap, boots kicked off to the side of her blanket. She rests with her knees tucked to her chest, her slender calves on display and her sleeves rolled up to the elbow. He bends a knee to yank the photo off the line.

“That there’s one of my favourites. She usually gets all undressed just before bed but I seen her a few times like that. It’s like she knew I was watchin’. Almost grabbed her right there.”

Arthur rises like a long dormant god. He doesn’t know what change in him Norman notices first but Norman notices something because his smile cracks.

In the light of the fire he notices Arthur clutching the photo so hard that his fingernail is white. He clears his throat. “T-tell you what, friend. Can see ya like that one. W-why don’t you have it? H-had the shop print up a few of those anyhow. So, uh, you keep it, friend. I should really get goin’.”

For a moment neither move.

The wilderness is filled with song, crickets and turkeys in chorus for miles, yet Arthur still hears the man swallow as he raises his hands to his waist and takes a step back, his eyes filled with a sort of confused betrayal that almost makes him childlike when he packs away his utensils, bends over the fire to retrieve his mug and dump the remaining coffee into the grass. He looks up.

“T-there anythin’ else I can do for you, friend?”

Blood splatters onto half the photographs, remnants of brain and skull sprayed out like shrapnel. Arthur stands with his finger on the trigger, the barrel of a volcanic pistol pointed at Norman’s face. He snarls and holsters his gun.

He snatches the corpse by the collar, no mind paid to the slop that seeps out of his head, and rifles through his coat. Forty cents and a tin of cover lotion is all there is until Arthur reaches into his breast pocket. Another photograph. Maria rinses her face with water from the river, her shirt hung over Ophelia’s rear, in nothing but a camisole and black trousers with a rip on the knee. Arthur flips the picture. Scribbled text indicates when and where Norman saw her, the dates tracing back a week. The film sticks to his fingers. He shoves Norman to the dirt.

He kicks through the discarded bottles and rips down every photo to throw into the fire. Only after the paper curls and disintegrates does he loot through the rest of Norman’s camp, bread chunks and mangled pelts not worth the hassle. He mounts his horse and snaps the reins all the way back to Horseshoe Overlook.

His legs throb by the time he reaches camp and gallops through the trees up to the horses, tossing the reins over the post next to Ophelia. He brings his leg over the saddle and drops to the grass with dinner bubbling up his throat.

Arthur hangs his head and grabs a wild carrot from his satchel, a slight tremble in his hand while his mare nibbles the snack. He closes his eyes. The stem disappears into his horse’s mouth just as Maria’s telltale laugh rings out across camp and he whips his head toward the noise.

She’s one of the only stragglers left with Mr. Pearson, John, and Uncle by the fire, the four of them bundled under pelts with bottles of beer in their hands. She’s stripped down to her chemise, a sign she’s headed to bed soon. Curls twist and spill from her hair bun onto that red wool coat she refuses to replace. Firelight glimmers on her face. He watches her.

John cracks a joke that sends the four of them into a fit of laughter. Maria weakly swats at him. He fends her off with one arm and a wide smile and Arthur swears she calls John disgusting. John says something again and Maria breaks out in laughter brighter than the fire.

They need to go somewhere. He doesn’t know where they need to go but as her laugh chimes out again all he knows is that they need to go somewhere.

Arthur gathers the spoils of his trip and crosses camp, dropping the carcasses beside Pearson’s tent.

“Good job, Mr. Morgan,” Pearson says from the campfire.

“You’re comin’ in late,” John adds.

Maria smiles when she sees him and takes a sip from her bottle. “You get into any trouble, cowboy? There’s blood on you.”

“Oh, I-I jus’ ran into some folk.”

“And now they’re dead?” she asks with a smirk.

“Ol’ Arthur Morgan!” Uncle bellows from his chair. “Where does all that anger come from?”

He ignores the question. “Ran into an interestin’ lead,” he tells Maria. “Might be worth lookin’ at. A stage ‘sposed to be runnin’ through here.”

“Jesus, another one?” she asks. “We’ve robbed just about half of ‘em at this point. You think someone would catch on.”

“Let’s hope not,” John says and Maria grins, clinking her bottle against his.

“S’ comin’ through Strawberry in the mornin’. Should get movin’ now if we wanna catch it.”

Maria throws her head back. “Ugh. But then I have to get dressed and it’s so late and now I have to—” she places a hand on John’s shoulder to lift herself up, “—spend time with you.”

The men chuckle, Arthur included, and she smiles at him before disappearing into her tent. “Gimme a minute,” she calls from behind the canvas.

Arthur isn’t far behind when he walks into his own, just beside hers. He twists the lantern on his night table to life, a dull glow illuminating the blood on his fingers and something wet and red on the toe of his boot.

His clothes stink of rusted iron and when he sheds his shirt and coat he sees just how much of Norman he brought back with him. He kicks them to the side of his clothing trunk. Changes into a fresh pair of everything. He reaches into his satchel and by the time Maria pokes her head in, Arthur has his canteen tilted, water spilling all over his hands and into a dirty puddle at his feet.

“Hey, you.”

He scrubs his hands over his face and wipes them dry on his pants. “Hey there.”

Maria waits in a white button up shirt over a camisole. Black trousers with a rip on the knee. Arthur looks at her.

“What?”

“N-no. ‘S nothin’.

She looks down at her outfit. “Do I look okay?”

“Y’ look beautiful. Come on. Let’s go ‘fore it gets any later.”

Arthur makes his way to the horses without a word of goodbye to the men, though Maria wishes them all goodnight before catching up to him.

“So, where are we going?”

“Ain’t far. Can stay in Strawberry for the night.”

There’s a smile in her voice. “Yeah, I bet…”

“Ain’t nothin’ like that,” he says with a smirk. “Just wanna get chu outta here.”

“And here I thought there was a stage coming.”

“There is.”

“Mm-hm.” Maria hoists herself onto Ophelia. “Well, whatever your plans are, I do need to be back by tomorrow. It’s my turn to help in camp so I’m afraid I’ll be stuck here all day.”

He mounts his horse, scans the area. “Okay,” he says. “Good.”

They pass through the swell of trees and onto the road embossed with hoof prints and wagon tracks, camp not even out of sight before he narrows his eyes at any shadow in the forest, jerks his head to any animal in his periphery.

Maria’s stirrup clinks against his and she looks over with a grin. “Hey,” she says with a playful shove to his arm. “Move over.”

Arthur glances down. “‘M-’m sorry.”

“You wanna hop in my saddle too?”

He chuckles. “Said I was sorry.”

“I know, sweetheart, I’m only teasing you.” Arthur cranes his head back to glare at something she doesn’t see. “You sure you’re okay? You seem…I don’t know.”

He turns back to the road. “Naw, ‘m fine. What chu get up to today?”

Maria frowns. “...Nothing too exciting. I went shopping for supplies with Lenny and then made a stop in the general store. Though, I will have you know that I almost bought a new coat to replace my beautiful red one you hate so much. And then I didn’t.”

“Ha. Aw, come on, never said I hated it. It looks good on y’. S’ just seen better days.”

“Haven’t we all, Mister Morgan.”

‘So…y-y’ain’t run into any trouble when you was out?”

“Like what?”

“I don’ know. Anythin’. Jus’ wanna make sure you didn’t see anyone or run into any problems.”

“No, my love. I was perfectly safe.” She reaches across the space between them, squeezes his hand, and pulls back. “Did you run into trouble when you were out?”

There’s a grin on her face when he looks at her. He rubs the back of his neck. “I-well, to be honest, I ran into a feller comin’ home. He was just outside a’ camp. Too close outside a’ camp. Ain’t got no idea how long he was sittin’ there. Bastard’s been here ‘least a week from what I saw. But he—”

Arthur stops cold in the road.

“W-what’s wrong?”

A figure looms in the distance and he squints to get a better look. They’re unmoving, a quick appraisal proof of their slender legs and broad shoulders. They stand stiff and defiant, like they’re ready for something. He nods towards them. “There.”

She bends forward. “Arthur, I don't think there’s anything there.”

“Wait here.”

“Arth—”

“Shh. Jus’ wait here.”

The shadow waits, unperturbed. Arthur doesn’t see a gun belt or bandolier as he nears closer, no barrel poking out from behind their back. Stars dust the sky like salt from a shaker but their light can only hint at what’s in front of him. He draws his repeater.

“‘Y got a problem, buddy?”

They remain still.

Arthur cocks the hammer. “I said, y’ got a problem?”

He trots towards the figure until it’s in full view, a cold wavelet of relief and shame trickling through him. He blinks. Two splintered planks of wood point in either direction, nails bent and rusted in their foreheads. Valentine this way. Emerald Ranch that way. He lowers his gun.

Ophelia snorts as Maria trots up next to him. She watches him gawk at the street sign and runs the back of her finger down his cheek. “Hey. What’s going on with you?”

His ears burn when he slings the repeater behind him. “‘M sorry. Jus’...thought I saw somethin’.”

“No, that’s okay. I just want to make sure you’re okay. Y-you’re starting to scare me a bit.”

He reaches over and places a hand on her thigh. “‘M sorry, sweetheart. I ain’t mean to scare y’. Let’s just keep goin’, okay? Please.”

“Arthur, are we in danger?”

“No. No, y’ain’t in danger no more.”

He tries to move his hand off her leg but Maria grabs his wrist. “What does that mean?”

“N-nothin’. S’over now. Come on, let’s go. I don’t want chu campin’ out here.”

“No. You tell me what that means.”

Arthur sighs and hangs his head. “Please, jus’ come wit’ me. I promise to y’ I’ll tell y’ everythin’ once we get to Strawberry, okay? But let’s get goin’.”

Maria hasn’t loosened her vice grip on his wrist, her eyes wide with a kind of fear Arthur hates being responsible for. She watches him, waiting for an explanation, her gaze darting over him like maybe the answer is in the scars on his face. He places his hand over hers until the sting of nails in his skin at long last subsides.

“‘M sorry.”

She doesn’t say anything.

“Will y’...? R-ride with me.”

“I am riding with you.”

“Naw. With me. Feel a whole lot better with you behind me.”

The confession brings out a sad, bemused smile. “...You promise to tell me what the hell’s going on when we get there?”

Arthur smirks and crosses his finger over his heart, and she rolls her eyes though her smile gets a little bigger. “Move over then.”

The remainder of their journey is blessedly filled with her voice, Maria answering every one of Arthur’s prompts. Tell me more ‘bout your day. Naw, all of it. I like listenin’ to you talk. That’s good. Charles and I went huntin’ too once a little while ago. Bison. Micah ain’t givin’ you any more grief is he? Y’ sure y’ain’t run into any trouble? Y’ comfortable back there? Sweet girl, you fallin’ asleep?

She’s halfway there by the time they make it into Strawberry, a quiet, drowsy mumble her only response when Arthur announces their arrival. “Come on, darlin.’ Let’s get chu inside.”

He helps Maria down and she leans against the hitching posts to watch him tether their mares, a tired smile gifted to him when he takes her hand to guide them inside. He holds on as they speak to the hotel clerk, clutches her fingers tighter on their way up the stairs, and when they make it into their room the first thing he does is bolt the door shut.

Maria hums on her way to the dresser, her head craned to every new detail of a room they’ve stayed in before. Arthur notices too. The fresh leaves that sprout from a vase on the bedside table. The change in sheets, lily white with an intricate black pattern that makes them look fancier than they are. A stain in the carpet is gone.

She drops onto the bed. “So, are you finally gonna tell me what’s—”

He crosses the room to the closet beside their bed and yanks open the door. Hangers clatter against each other, rushed to one side of the rod, then the other, before he shuts the door. A sheer curtain of lace hangs down to the floorboards over their window, burgundy drapes pinned back in front of it. He tugs the ropes and the thick cloth tumbles down like the end of a stage show.

“What are you—?”

He roots through his satchel and she can hear the clink of metal. He pulls out his little tin mug, a spoon, cursing under his breath until he locates a fork.

“Arthur?”

He walks over to the vanity and opens one of its slender drawers. He sticks the head of the fork inside and closes the drawer over the tines, his hand pressed firmly against the wood to keep it shut. Maria watches him, listens to him grunt and push down on the handle as if pumping water, and when he pulls it out of the drawer again the fork’s head is a capital C, the tines hooked like claws.

“Arthur?”

Back and forth back and forth he bends the metal until the head snaps off. He unlocks the door to their room and sticks the crooked fork head in the latch and closes the door again. She’s off the bed when he slides the broken handle through the tines. He tries to open the door. Jiggles the knob. Every time, the fork quivers but doesn’t break. He sighs and twists the lock below the doorknob too.

“Arthur, look at me.”

She’s behind him when he turns around, arms crossed over her chest and a look of worry he hardly sees anymore. Her boot tap tap taps on the floorboard. “You promised.”

“I know.”

“And you’re scaring the shit out of me.”

“Yeah, I know that too. ‘M sorry, sweetheart, I really am. Here, come with me.”

He takes her by the hand and leads her back to the bed, his eyes on the carpet throughout the entire story. How he was comin’ home and how he found the man and how naw, he seemed fine at first until he saw all the goddamn photos, some of ‘em taken in broad daylight and some of ‘em taken when she was sleepin’ and how he tore down every one of ‘em before comin’ to get her. He tells her all about how short he was and how he kinda reminded him of them things outside a church or big buildin’, yeah, a gargoyle, tha’s it, and how he was fat and bald and probably ain’t never fired a gun in his life.

Maria’s hand is limp by the time he finishes, her eyes lost to the wallpaper. She swallows. “A-and…” She tries to find the words but all she does is take a long and laboured inhale. Arthur shimmies out of his coat to wrap her in, his large hand running up and down her arm.

“How many were there? Photos. H-how many did he take?”

Arthur sighs. “‘Bout a dozen I reckon.”

“Jesus Christ. I…I am so goddamn stupid.”

“Hey, now—”

“How in the hell did I not notice something like that? He was following me around for a week, a week, Arthur, and he took all those goddamn photos and I didn’t—”

Arthur cups the side of her face and draws her head to his lips. “This ain’t your fault,” he says into her hair. “Y’ didn’t do anythin’ wrong. There’s a lotta sick folk out there and there ain’t no sense tryin’ to make heads or tails of it. And it ain’t your fault when they set their sights on y’.” He kisses her head again. “‘M sorry I didn’t see the bastard sooner. ‘S my job to keep y’ safe and I…I didn’t.”

She faces him. “How could you have known?”

“I don’t know.”

“Arthur, if I can’t blame me, you can’t blame you.”

He exhales. “Alright.”

They sit there, tangled in each other’s arms without a word. Maria wraps her fist around his fingers and kisses his knuckles, reaching into his lap to rest her other hand on his. He smiles.

“Thank you, Arthur. For bringing me here and for just…I love you.” Another kiss to his knuckles. “I love you so much.”

“I know, sweetheart. Me too. More than anythin’, I do.”

“Are you okay?”

“Sure. Ain’t about me.”

“Arthur.”

He looks at her. With those big brown doe eyes and those long dark curls and that glorious golden skin of hers. “I’m jus’...I’m jus’ so goddamn afraid of somethin’ terrible happenin’ to y’.”

“Might be an occupational hazard I’m afraid,” she whispers.

He presses his forehead to hers. “That ain’t funny.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Arthur, I—whenever you go out on a job, whenever you head into town, whenever someone so much as looks at you funny I’m always so goddamn scared that something bad’s going to happen.” She runs her thumb across the scar on his chin. “It’s been a long time since I’ve loved someone as much as I love you…” Her voice trails off, a fine glaze over her eyes when she drops them to her lap. “A long time since I’ve lost someone I love as much as you, too. And I…I don’t have it in me to survive that again.”

“Sweet girl. Yer talkin’s if y’ already lost me.”

“Some days I’m terrified I will,” she whispers.

His calloused finger rests under her chin and lifts her face to his. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere. And I ain’t lettin’ you go anywhere neither.”

“We keep each other safe.”

“I love you.”

“I know. Me too.”

He tilts her lips to his. The kiss is short, timid, and when she pulls away with a blush on her cheeks it reminds him of their first. He smiles.

“Well, cowboy. Guess we better get to sleep so we can catch that stage.”

“You know damn well there ain’t a stage.”

She laughs. “I do.”

“Still. That don’t mean we gotta head back right away. Maybe it came late,” he says, a second kiss pressed to her lips. “Maybe it didn’t come at all.”

“Mm. And what do you reckon we do with all our free time?”

“Got a few ideas.”

“Nap?”

“Ha. Well, there’ll be plenty a’ time for that too.”

“Not with you there won’t be,” she says with a smirk, and rises off the bed.

Arthur chuckles and works himself out of his clothes while Maria undresses beside him. She finishes first and snuggles under the bedspread in only a camisole and bloomers, her hair freed down the curve of her back while he strips down to his union suit.

She wolf whistles before he slips in next to her. Dons a southern accent. “My, my, Mister Morgan.”

“Shut up,” he says with a grin.

“My stars. I ain’t seen you this indecent in a long time.”

“Sorry I don’t go gallivatin’ around in my bloomers all the time.”

She laughs. “Oh, I’m sorry. Sorry for not wanting to fall asleep in my clothes like a barbarian. Who goes to bed with their boots on?”

“I do.”

“Well I think you’ll find this much more comfortable.”

“Y’ may have to lose a few more layers ‘fore I’m really comfortable.”

“I will if you will.” She inches closer to wrap an arm around his torso. “I love you.”

He yawns wide and long and silent. Kisses the top of her head. Sleep is already heavy in his bones when he closes his eyes. “Mm, me too.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve said that a lot tonight, haven’t I?”

“Don’t be sorry, darlin’. I ain’t ever gonna tire of hearin’ you say it.”