#dilapidations bristol

[lanticbuildingsurveyors1]

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[lanticbuildingsurveyors]

Schedule of condition Exeter

If you need more specific information about creating or interpreting a Schedule of Condition Exeter or related legal considerations, consulting with a property expert or legal advisor familiar with local regulations and practices would be beneficial.

Visit us:- https://lanticbuildingsurveyors.co.uk/services/schedule-of-condition/

[moreuglyhousephotos]

HAUNTED HOUSES - Dilapidated, abandoned, spooky homes for sale in Petersburg, Virginia, Bristol, Virginia, & Logansport, Indiana. Perfect for Halloween. 10-5-24

[surveymerchant]

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[immemorymag]

𝐒𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧 𝐑𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲⁣

⁣

"After my social documentary photography work in North Wales in the late 1970s I relocated to Swindon in Wiltshire to take up a Science teaching post in 1979. I also ran a school photography club and taught adult education photography courses at night schools.⁣

My own photographic activity at that time was photographing ⁣Motocross and Speedway racing on weekends as I was a motorcyclist ⁣and very interested in motorbikes. I earned a bit of freelance money ⁣selling prints and supplying the local daily newspaper with Swindon ⁣Speedway coverage.⁣

My Rockabilly photographs came about when I took my camera to a gig at a run down Swindon pub called The Greyhound. The band playing that night were The Polecats who had just had a record hit the charts and there were a lot of rockabilly fans crammed into a ⁣dilapidated backroom. This was my first introduction to live frenzied rockabilly dancing and moshing and the energy was amazing. ⁣

I think I shot a 36 exposure roll of Tri-X on the band and the dancers. My favourite photo that night was a post gig shot of the bass player leaning out of a 1960s Vauxhall Cresta window cigarette in hand and a slicked back James Dean hairstyle.⁣

Every Saturday morning and afternoon the Swindon Rockabilly kids hung out at a 50s style Milk Bar called The Tartan Cafe. I took a ⁣bunch of 7x5 black and white prints of the Polecats gig down there ⁣to show them and was surprised when they insisted on buying them at 50p each. I also photographed them in and around the cafe and took prints in to show and sell to them. Soon after I photographed the more famous band The Stray Cats in Bristol and those pics were ⁣

popular too"

[viking-raider]

The Immortal Sky - Part V *MATURE*

Summary: You’re more than half way to Bristol, when Henry finally chases up to you. The reunion doesn’t go how either of you had expected.

Pairing: Henry Cavill/You

Word Count: 10,705

Chapters: I II III IV

Warnings: Futuristic!AU, Dystopian!AU, Language, Angst, Fluff, Slapping, Name-Call, Arguing, Conflict, Hurt/Comfort, Dirty Talk, Loss of Virginity, Smut - Fingering, Penetration, Cowgirl, Cream pie, Praise Kink

Inspiration: I’ve always wanted to write a Futuristic!AU

Author’s Note: Thanks to @wondersofdreaming​ for being a fabulous Beta and Brainstorm buddy! Please, tell me what you think!

You had managed to reach, what had once been, the town of Cherhill, whilst still being utterly oblivious to the fact Henry was trailing after you. The two of you had been playing a complicated game of cat and mouse, since you snuck out of his flat in London.

Frustratingly for Henry, he struggled to keep up with you, almost always an hour or more behind you from the last stop over you had taken. At one point, he had even been a mere thirty minutes behind you, in Froxfield, and was sure he'd catch up to you at the next safe house, only to spend an hour checking the two safe houses there and asking people if they had seen you, only to learn you had stopped in the mini-town long enough to replenish your supplies and get a thicker coat, before moving onto the next place.

“At least, she's keeping warm.” Henry said to himself, as he stepped out of the supply store and headed on his way to the next town, two hours away, in Marlborough.

Making it to Marlborough, Henry went to the only safe house the town had, a residential home, that was also the supply location for the area. He walked down the cracked and uneven sidewalk of the neighborhood, most of the houses on the street were dilapidated, boarded up or charred remains. So, it made finding the house easy, it was the best kept house on the block, but still in a level of disrepair.

“What do you want?” Asked a man standing outside the rough picket fence that bordered the dirt lawn.

“I'm looking for someone, a girl.” Henry told him, pulling his mobile out and showed him. “Have you seen her?” He asked, looking up at the windows at the second floor of the house.

The man leaned forward, squinting at the screen of Henry's mobile. “No.” He shook his head and pulled back. “We haven't had any girls come here in about a week.”

Henry sighed and rubbed at his gritty face, his temples throbbing, then turned away from the man. “I swear, when I get my hands on that girl.” He grumbled the empty threat, for the millionth time.

Pulling up the map on his mobile, Henry calculated the distance and time to the next mini-town of Cherhill, and how much time he had in the day. It was an almost three and a half hour walk to Cherhill from Marlborough, with two hours of sunlight remaining. So, sucking it up, Henry decided to chance it and walk there through the night.

Getting into a room in Cherhill, you gingerly peeled your shoes and socks off your feet and rubbed at the raw skin and fat blisters that covered them. You weren't accustomed to walking for so long, for so far, and they felt like they had been worn down to your ankles.

Luckily, this pit stop was a little more accommodating, and you had a little bathroom in the room you were put up in, with the most absolute, teeniest tub you had ever seen in your life, and you lived near the bottom of London! But, you filled it with hot water and removed your clothing, sitting down on the dark stained toilet seat and soaked your feet into the water. Dipping a threadbare washcloth into the water, you used it to rub away some of the grit and dust that was caked into your skin. Once you soaked your feet for a little while, you rinsed your hair out in the sink, wishing you had some shampoo or soap, but settled for the plain water. Semi-refreshed, you redressed, nibbled on something for a late lunch and rested back against the bed, staring up at the water stained ceiling.

“Eric, how far is the next checkpoint?”

“Three hours, Ms.”

“When's sunrise?” You asked, rubbing at your eyes and pinching the bridge of your nose.

“Four hours, Ms.”

You laid there for a long moment, considering the sanity of walking yet another ten kilometers to Chippenham. “Oh, what's the worst that can happen?” You sighed, getting up and packing your things. “At least, I got to rest my feet.” You quipped to yourself, going out into the hall.

“Shit!” You snapped suddenly, looking down the long hallway and seeing the very last person you wanted to see, before dashing back into your room, in a complete panic. “How the fuck did he find me! How did the fucker even know I had come this far?!” You paced the room, shaking.

“Of course!” You berated yourself. “He's a goddamned High Marshal! It's all he does! All day, for years on end. But, why is he even bothering to come after me?” You shook your head, trying to clear the panic. “I'll worry about that later, I need to get the fuck out of here, before he sees me.”

You frantically looked around your room and spotted a godsend.

“Praise the gods.” You huffed, relieved for this room actually having a window.

You dropped the room key on the bed and rushed the window, pushing it open and looked out. You were on the third floor, so it was a fair drop to the ground outside. But, luckily there was a small metal balcony outside the second floor window of the room below yours. So, wiggling out your window backwards and hanging from the window frame, you dropped yourself the meter down to the balcony with loud clang and a shake of the rickety supports bolting the balcony into the red brick wall of the building.

Crouching there for a moment, to give the structure a moment to settle, you dropped the last meter to the ground at the first level of the building, then tucked tail and ran. Just as Henry's head popped through the open window of your abandoned room, he caught sight of you as you dashed around the side of the building.

“Fuck!” He barked, charging out of the room and down the hall, stomping down the six flights of stairs to the main lobby, then out the entrance door, calling your name as he chased after you through a cluster of trees.

Henry had made it to Cherhill an hour before sunrise and exhausted as all hell. He had already decided to get a room, whether or not you were there, to take a power nap, before he fell flat on his face. He was no good as spent as he was from looking for you, then to take you back to London, for the trials. He still didn't know how he was going to get his hands on Mikey, but part of him didn't give a fuck about your brother, it was you, he was worried about.

Entering the safe house, a rundown, three story hotel, Henry took a deep breath in and out as he approached the front desk and the male behind it, reading some cover-less and water damaged book, and readied himself to hear that he had never seen your face before. The guy looked over the top of his book as he heard Henry step up to his counter, slowly setting it down on the desk on the other side of the counter, and stood.

“Wanting a room?” He asked, looking Henry over.

“Yeah.” Henry nodded his head. “Can you tell me if you've seen this girl?” He asked, turning the screen of his mobile towards him.

“Oh yeah, I have.” The guy nodded at your photo. “She got a room here not that long ago, a couple hours maybe.”

Henry's hope went up a teeny bit. “Is she still here?” He asked, in suspense.

“Uh..” He turned his back to Henry and stepped into a little room for a moment, before returning. “Her key is still gone, so she must still be in her room. Unless, she forgot to return it, it happens more than you could realize. But, it's not a surprise, many people up and leaving out of the blue around here..”

“What room is she in?” Henry asked, interrupting him, even more antsy.

“Third floor, room six.”

“Do you have a master key to open the door?” He asked, chewing on his lip.

“Yeah, but I can't just go up there and open her door for you.” The guy protested. “It's against policy.”

Growling, Henry turned on his heels and headed for the stairwell leading up to your room. If he wasn't going to open your door, then Henry would just kick it in. He wasn't going to go up there and knock, so you would have the time to figure out how to slip by him again.

“Hey!” The hotel worker yelled, running around the counter and rushed after Henry.

Stomping up the stairs, the guy managed to get ahead of Henry and block the doorway that led down the hallway of your floor. Standing his ground as Henry stopped before him, huffing angrily, like a bull just entering the ring to fight the matador.

“Get the fuck out of my way.” Henry hissed, between clenched teeth. “Now.”

“It is against Hotel policy to disturb the guests. If you don't leave this instance, I will be forced to call security.”

“Oh really!” Henry snapped, brows lifting. “And who is the security in this shit hole?” He asked, folding his arms over his chest.

The guy gulped as he watched the biceps of Henry's arms bulge through his clothing. “I-I am.” He squeaked, like a frightened mouse, facing down a panther.

“That's what I thought.” Henry chuckled, as a door slammed somewhere in the building. “You'll be getting out of my way.” He said, grabbing the front of the guy's shirt and jerked him out of the way, before storming down to your room door.

Henry thrust his size eleven boot through the flimsy door of your room and stormed in, feeling the cool breeze bellowing in through the open window. “Goddamn it!” He hissed, stomping to the window and thrusting his head out and watched you dive around the corner of the building.

“Fuck!” He barked, charging out of the room, down the hall and down the six flights of stairs to the main lobby, then out the entrance door, calling out your name as he chased after you through a cluster of trees.

Whether or not you liked it, Henry was there chasing after you, no longer just missing you at every mini-town from London to Cherhill. He was in minutes of you, charging through the thicket of trees to the East of the hotel you both had bolted from. Henry could just see you ahead of him, maybe half a soccer field away from him, so he started pushing himself and closed the gap between you, within a few short minutes.

“Stop!” He yelled, reaching out and grabbed the back of your backpack, yanking and sending you backwards, before locking his arms around your upper body, trapping you against his chest; both of you gasping for air.

“Just stop.” He panted softly, dropping his forehead against the crown of your head. “Please, just stop.”

You growled, almost sounding like an angry cat, as you kicked your legs out and struggled in Henry's embrace. But Henry's thick arms only held onto you tighter, not picking up his head as you did, but grunted as you fruitlessly tried jabbing him in the side with your elbows and stomp on his foot.

“Stop it.” He barked into your ear.

“Let go of me!” You screamed, half hoping someone would hear and come help you, giving you the advantage to run again.

“I'm not.” Henry rumbled, spinning you around to face him and keeping a firm hold on you. “I tracked your butt for nearly a hundred and sixty kilometers, to take you back to London, and that's where we're going, as soon as we can.” He told you, with a heavy sigh.

“I'm not going back to London, so you can get fucked!” You barked at him.

“Ah!” He snapped and just managed to block your attempted knee shot. “Yes, you are.”

“Then, I'll run again!” You hissed, still struggling with him.

Henry sighed again, squeezing his eyes shut, taking a hold of your elbow and marched you back to the hotel. “Room.” He growled at the hotel guy, who looked like he wanted to protest, but gave Henry a key anyway.

“What are you doing with her?” He called after the two of you.

“Mind your own business, shithead.” Henry barked over his shoulder as he pulled you up the stairs to the second floor. “Sit down.” He ordered, carefully pushing you into the room and pointed to the chair.

You stood in the middle of the room, arms defiantly crossed over your chest. Henry stared back at you, a war of unsaid words flowing between the pair of you through looks alone.

“Why did you run?” Henry asked, finally breaking the tense silence.

“My business.”

“Your business is my business, since you want to act like a fucking brat and run off in the middle of the night, without word or reason. Especially, since you've gotten me in hot water with my boss. So, out with it.” He scolded you, his body tense.

“I know it's about your brother.” He said, when you remained silent. “I know that he's a Runner, working for Jaxon Quinn in Bristol. That he's going there to get training to be a big time Runner, and you're terrified that he's in some sort of trouble.”

“Congratulations.” You smirked at him, smugly. “Now, get the fuck out of my way!” You barked, starting for the door, but Henry blocked it. “Get out of the way!” You yelled, pushing at him, but he didn't move.

“I'm not.” He told you, softly, but firmly, shaking his head.

“You're going to get him killed!” You screamed, your voice breaking.

Henry blinked down at you, shaking his head again, and reached out to cup your face in his hands, tilting your head back to look up at him, seeing the furious and frightened tears in your eyes that you had been trying to keep at bay since having the nightmare. His thumbs smoothed over your cheeks, wiping away the dripping tears from your lashes, his face pinched with concern and confusion at how upset and desperate you were to reach not only Bristol, but your brother.

“You have brothers, Henry.” You sniffled softly, voice weak. “Wouldn't you do anything in the world, that you could, to save and protect them, if they were in danger?”

You tried to reason with him, pleading to his sense of family and the protective nature you knew Henry harbored in his soul, the reason you knew was why Henry wanted to be a Marshal; he couldn't protect people as a Cleric and Royal, the way he could as a Marshal. Henry's face softened, so did his heart, he would do everything he could, including giving his own life, to save one of his brothers, if they were in danger and trouble. He understood, mostly, what you were doing with running off and trekking through dangerous lands to reach Mikey.

“What trouble is he in?” He asked, blinking at you.

“I-” You frowned, you knew Mickey was in trouble, terrible trouble. But, you didn't know what that trouble actually was, and sighed. “I don't know exactly.” You admitted, gulping. “But, I know he is.”

“I just—I just feel it, Henry.” You told him, choked up.

Henry sighed, feeling the space between the rock and a hard place he was currently trapped in, get a whole lot tighter. He didn't know what to do with your brother, but he saw how deeply you felt about it and couldn't ignore that. So, he moved back a couple spaces and just focused on you, now that he had you.

“We'll figure it out.” He told you, softly. “But, for now, why don't we just rest. I'm sure we're both drained after all of this.”

“That's an understatement.” You laughed, nodding your head and letting your shoulders melt under the weight of exhaustion and stress.

“Give me your shoes.” Henry said, suddenly.

“What?” You snapped back, your nose wrinkling in confusion as you looked up at him.

“I said, give me your shoes.” Henry repeated himself, pointing down at your filthy trainers. “You can't run without them.”

“You wanna bet!”

“We both know you can't, love.” He chuckled, smirking at you, smugly. “So, take them off and give them to me”

You sighed. “Henry, I'm not going to run again, I promise.”

“Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.” Henry quoted, lifting a brow at you.

Rolling your eyes, you sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled your trainers off, tossing them to land at Henry's feet. Henry bent and picked up your shoes, shrugging his backpack off of his back and opened it, taking a couple of things, then shoved your shoes into his pack, zipping it up and connected the zipper to the hook below it, locking the backpack closed with a combination number; that wasn't his life pin.

“Why are you here, Henry?” You asked, narrowing your eyes at him as you flexed your sore toes.

“To get you.” He replied, uncapping his water bottle.

“Why?” You asked, drawing it out. “You wouldn't just chase me because you wanted to. What, you worried about losing out on your six thousand credits? Wanting them back.”

“No!” Henry barked, enraged at the thought that all he wanted out of you was money. “I was worried about your fucking safety.”

“I made it here in one piece.” You said, gesturing around.

“That's not what I meant.” He mumbled, moving across the room to the window. “Completely.”

You narrowed your eyes at his broad back. “What aren't you telling me?” You asked, feeling the vibe fill the room.

“What am I not telling you? What haven't you been telling me?” He hissed, turning back to you. “You ditch out in the middle of the night, without a word or note telling me to get fucked, to trek across this barren waste, risking your safety, for your drug dealing, crime running brother, because you feel he's in trouble.”

“Don't mock me.” You growled back at him, your own anger bubbling. “I knew you wouldn't believe me, if I woke you up to tell you that I had a dream about him being killed. I knew you'd fucking mock me about and tell me it was just a dream and to go back to bed. That you wouldn't understand the deep gut feeling I have that it isn't just some random dream I had.” You paused, trying to get a hold of yourself.

“It's a deep and hot feeling in my gut, like a sharp knife to my bowels; that hurt so much. That bond between him and I, vibrates with it. I couldn't just sit in your flat and ignore it, and I sure hell wasn't going to tell a High Marshal about my brother being an Adjutant Runner for Quinn. That would be a career maker for--”

You froze and stared at him, wide eyed, feeling the pieces fall into place. Henry knew about your brother, he knew everything about him and his activities, and knew that you were running straight for Mikey. It was perfect for Henry, follow you to Mikey, drag both of you back to London and turn Mikey into the Supreme Marshal and the Clerics. He'd be hailed a hero, given a promotion and a medal and who knows what else for it.

Oh, you felt like clawing his beautiful blue eyes out of his smug fucking skull.

“You fuck.” You said, your voice dripping with barely contained anger and slightly sibilant. “You're just using me to get to Mikey.”

Henry pressed his lips together and pushed his jaw forward, then nodded his head. He grabbed the back of the chair and set it down in front of you, plopping down on it. “I was going to come after you, before I knew anything specific about your brother. I figured, since you were heading for Bristol, that he was into some sort of crime, people don't tend to go there if they're not. I was afraid you would get hurt, and god knows what else.”

“I didn't give a fuck about the money I spent to get you out of Twist's hell hole, or the money you took for the mobile and backpack you have.” He said, eyeing them. “Just you. But, my boss, Supreme Marshall Dylon Reyes, called me, while I was out looking for you. To tell me that the Council of Clerics were starting the trails on Twist and his associates for their operations, you're a witness in that case.” He explained to you.

“A witness.” You echoed.

“Yes. You were there, one of the victims. So, the Council would want to talk to you, ask you questions and take your statement about anything you saw or heard there, the things you went through. My purchase of you, was done to verify that Twist was indeed selling people as Slaves and Servants. Keeping you, was, I don't fucking know. I was just told that it was final and I had too.”

“So, you did.”

“Obviously.” He snorted, lifting a brow at you. “But, it was also to keep an eye on you, to make sure you were kept safe from any of Twist's allies and higher up bosses.”

“Why would they care, I'm not the only one that was there.” You said, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Of the fourteen people we took out of that warehouse that had been kidnapped, just like you, under the same pretenses, you're the only one that had a buyer. So, you're considered more high profile.”

The muscles in your jaw twitched and your skin tingled with the hot heat of your fury, that unleashed with rock solid slap to Henry's tired and scruffy cheek, actually jerking his head to the side, from the force. Henry grunted and hissed at the searing pain of the slap, like lava had been splashed in his face. His hands gripped his knees and he shook his head against some of the pain, before looking back at you, his blue eyes darker than a stormy ocean and jaw tight.

“This is your fault.” You barked at him, trembling. “If it wasn't for you, if you had just purchased someone else in that line up, I would be home right now! I would have been able to convince Michail into not going to Bristol with that damn handler, months ago. Months ago, Henry!” You screamed, wanting to strike him again, but his hands shot out and gripped your wrists, pinning your hands to your thighs.

“I fucking hate you, dear god! I fucking hate you, so much.”

“I can live with that, if it means keeping you safe.” Henry growled through a tight jaw.

“I don't need you to protect me!” You snapped, jerking against him.

“Like fuck you don't!” He hissed, bringing his face closer to yours. “Your dear brother works for Jaxon Quinn, the second worse fucking Crime Boss this country has!”

“I know who the fuck he is!”

“Did you know he's the one that helped Twist fund that little warehouse you were imprisoned in?” He asked, lifting his brows at you. “Did you know that he's got people out here wanting to kill you? Because, if you can't make it to that interview with the Clerics, everything about Twist and that operation won't end well. They'll just get stuck with a few millions in fines, a couple of banishments, maybe someone getting sent to the Iron Tombs prison or executed. All of which people like Jaxon Quinn don't fucking feel, cause millions of credits is pocket money to him, just like the lives of the people that will be ruined and snuffed out, because there's thousands of people waiting in line to take their places.”

“Such as your brother.”

Your blazing anger turned to ice in your stomach and you nearly puked your guts out at the thought of a hit-man around some corner, waiting to kill you, or your brother taking the place of someone that had been killed by the justice system of London for their part in Quinn's business.

“That's why I came after you.” Henry said softly, easing the pressure he was putting on your wrists. “People are out here, wanting to kill you. You have a price on your head, and you're about to walk into the house, where every last one of those dirt-bags, live. Do you understand the danger you are in? Your feeling about Mike being in trouble could be true, but it also could just be the realistic feel of a nightmare.”

“But, the danger you are in is real.”

He tried to make you understand, he was desperate that you understood that your life was in danger and you being out here and heading for Bristol was only increasing that danger and making it easier for them to find and kill you.

“It won't stop me.” You said, softly. “I have to get to Mikey before something happens to him.”

“I'll tell you what happens to him.” Henry said, frustrated and tired. “You find him, his handler finds out that you're his sister and they kill you both.”

“No questions. No begging. Just both of you dying.”

A chill raced down your spine, the revelation spiraling around your brain. “That must be it.” You said, eyes flaring at Henry. “What if he does find out about Mikey being my brother, somehow?”

Henry let go of your wrists and rubbed at his face, hunching over his chair. “I don't know, maybe.” He huffed into his palms. “Is there a shower in this place?” He asked, looking up at you.

“I don't know if this room does, but I had a micro-bathtub in my room.” You retorted, looking towards the half open bathroom door.

Getting up with a tired and sore groan, Henry pushed open the bathroom door and found it did indeed have a shower and another micro-bathtub, so much to his relief. He turned back to you, studying you for a long moment, before taking off his jacket, shoes and socks, then pulled his sweater over his head, tossing them all onto the chair.

“I'm going to take a shower.” He told you, his voice measured with the still rocky trust the two of you had for each other.

“Okay.” You replied, staring back at him.

Henry slowly turned towards the bathroom, like he expected you to suddenly bolt for the door or window, but you stayed where you were on the edge of the bed. Sighing, Henry entered the bathroom, but didn't close the door all the way, in case you ran and he needed to go after you; possibly naked and wet. He spun the loose hot tap and the shower head sputtered to life, he stood there for a long time, waiting for the water to heat up, as he stared at his exhausted reflection through the spiderweb cracks running through the broken mirror, before removing his jeans and boxers, dropping them on the tank of the old toilet and stepped under the weak spray, with a loud groan.

You sighed, hearing the shower turn on and moved your backpack into your lap. Unzipping it, you removed your water bottle and a package of food you bought at the last supplier's. You sat there eating your food and drinking your water, trying to block out the thought of Henry naked just mere feet from you, and being able to catch a glimpse of his body through the fogged up mirror above the chipped sink and the open door.

“You know, Teddy Wang said you held him up at knife point.” Henry said, coming out of the shower in nothing but socks and his jeans, as he rubbed a hole strewn towel over his dripping head; still chuckling at the thought.

“Because, I did.” You retorted, glancing out the window and not his warm and pink torso.

Henry stopped and blinked down at you. “Really?” He laughed, a grin of amusement spreading across his lips.

“Yes.” You snapped, looking back at him. “He wouldn't tell me what I wanted to know, so I took out the knife my dad gave me and told him what I would do with it, if he didn't.” You informed him, angry at his amusement.

“Lord, I can only wonder what you told Fynn, to make him talk.” He roared with laughter.

“I told him, I would use his own door to bash his head in.” You replied, narrowing your eyes at him.

“I was sure you could take care of yourself, but I didn't take you as such a violent little thing.” Henry said, still unendingly tickled. “I mean, maybe I should be surprised. You did nearly take my head off with that slap of yours.” He chuckled, rubbing his cheek at the residual sting.

Letting out a frustrated growl, sick of people not taking you seriously, and the situation period, you launched off the bed and towards Henry, catching him off guard enough to send both of you into the wall. But, Henry recovered quickly, turning and pressing you up against the wall.

“Easy there, little nugget.” He grinned at you.

“Don't call me that!” You barked, struggling against him.

“Call you what?” He chuckled, enjoying your little rampage. “Nugget?”

“Yes!” You hissed, pressing your palms against his bare chest and tried pushing him off of you.

“Or what, Nugget?” He continued to chuckle, barely teetering as you pushed against him. “Hey now!” He snapped, squeezing his legs shut, planted his hands under your arms and pushed you up the wall, until your faces were level. “That's the second time you tried kneeing me there. That's not very nice, Nugget.”

“Oh my god, stop calling me that, you big brute!” You huffed. “Or else!”

Henry smirked at you, bringing his face close to yours. “Or else, what?” He said in a low and deep voice.

You knew you should just give up, he had you out matched in nearly everything, your feet were dangling above the dingy carpet, as he held you up against the wall, like you weighed less than the wallpaper peeling off of it.

So, you did something he wouldn't expect.

Licking your lips and taking advantage of how close his face was to yours, the tips of your noses lightly brushing, you tilted your head and kissed him on the lips. Henry nearly dropped you, in shock of feeling your warm lips against his, his mouth falling open and his pupils dilating. You didn't pull back, but you didn't deepen the kiss either. Henry slowly closed his mouth, his full lips cradled your bottom lip for a moment, before he pulled his head back and looked at you, licking his lips and tasting the sweetness of yours on his tongue.

He let out a shuddering breath, eyes darkening as he stared into yours. He saw a look eclipse your face and brought his lips back to yours, kissing them with a soft smack echoing in the room. You let out a soft breath through your nose and whimpered, eyes half falling shut. Henry smirked and chuckled softly against your mouth and kissed you deeper, his arms moving to wrap around you, pressing you closer against his body. You wrapped your arms around his neck and picked up your hanging legs to wrap them around his waist, nudging your mouth against his, feeling a growing bubble of desire and need for him.

One arm hugged around your waist, Henry planted a hand on the wall by your head, swirling his tongue against your mouth as his head tilted to the side, moaning deep in his throat and chest. His hand went to tangle in your hair, as the pair of you heatedly made out. The kiss was hungry and almost sloppy, you panted as Henry kissed down your mouth and chin to your neck, nibbling and biting at the pounding pulse under your jaw. You pushed your head back, letting your eyes finally fall closed as he sucked on your throat, whimpering softly as he sank his teeth into the bruised skin.

“Fuck.” He huffed and pressed his forehead against your temple. “I want you.” He moaned against your cheek, out of breath and gasping for air, as his blunt fingers and nails clawed and tugged at the waistband of your pants. “I've wanted you.” He admitted, eyes rolling shut as his clothed cock rubbed against your covered pussy, begging to be buried in the heat it knew was there, like it was sonar.

Chuckling, you nudge your cheek against his, amused by the turn of events. You had only kissed him to see if he would let you go and quit calling you, Nugget; not have the two of you melt into a heated and passionate lip battle, leaving both of you breathless and clearly wanting for the other. You would be lying, if you didn't admit that you had thought about Henry like this from time to time, wanting to see what he looked like naked, all in a hard pant, his skin damp with sweat and a pink glow from his spent effort; the feel of him inside of you. But, it also gave you qualms, deep in the pit of your stomach as well, a soft shyness washing over you for a moment, before you felt the nudge of Henry's hips against yours again, throwing it out the window and into the dying sunlight.

“Me too.” You admitted into the shell of his ear, nose brushing the still damp curls around it. “I want you too, Henry.” You whispered, breathless, and hugged your legs tighter around his hips.

Henry let out such a growl against your neck, that you let out a needy whimper, as he pushed you both off the wall, taking a step back and turning towards the bed, laying you down on it. He unhooked your legs from around his hips and fumbled with the button of your pants, before shoving them and your underwear down your hips and thighs; so you could kick out of them, while he removed his own jeans. Henry was attacking your mouth and throat again, his hands diving under the hem of your shirt and going straight for your breasts. You moaned at the feel of his lips against your skin, his hot hands squeezing and kneading your breasts in his palms, and the free feeling of his cock rubbing shamelessly against your bare folds, making the muscles of your thighs tremble from how good it felt.

“You like that, don't you?” He asked, in a husky voice, loving the sounds you were making as he humped against you.

“God, yes.” You mewled, dragging your nails down his broad back.

He chuckled, bracing his arms at either side of your head and looked down at you, watching you melt into the mattress beneath you. “You're still a virgin, aren't you?” He asked, his head tilting as he shifted his weight to one arm and glided his fingertips over your stomach.

You looked up at him and gave an audible gulp, nodding your head and looking up at him like a frightened rabbit. A smirk grew on his scruffy face, fingers circling your navel before dipping low, to rub the pads of two fingers against your sensitive clit. Henry wasn't put off by your virginity, but he didn't want to ruin it by succumbing to his animal desire to thrust his, well-endowed, cock into your tight, little hole and fuck you within an inch of your life, either. You whimpered and bucked up against his fingers, crazy for more friction. Henry clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, shaking his head at you and grinning like a hungry wolf.

“None of that, Nugget.” He cooed at you, removing his fingers from your wet folds and licked them clean; his eyes never leaving yours. “Have you ever touched yourself?” He asked, tilting his head at you.

You nodded your head, mutely.

He reached out and took your hand into his, pulling it down between your legs, and flattened two of your fingers down on your clit, and pressed them down with his own, gently guiding both of your hands in a slow and easy motion against it, watching your face for a few moments, before removing his hand, letting you continue touching yourself on your own, and looked down between your bodies. You had heard enough about sex from Mikey and your co-workers to know, this wasn't how you did it, but you did know about touching yourself, you had done on and off since you were a teen. But, you had never done it in front of anyone before, and doing it with Henry leaning over you, his eyes intent on your fingers, made you incredibly self-conscious.

“Henry..” You moaned out, trying to put the sound of a question in it, but your brain couldn't form it.

Henry's eyes flickered towards yours and smirk. “What, you just want me to shove my massive cock in that tight and little hole of yours?” He quipped, teasing you softly, his fingers brushing the skin between your breasts. “If I did that, you wouldn't be walking anywhere, for a very long time.” He chuckled, kissing the tip of your nose.

His fingers moved down your torso, skirting around your still working hand and teased a fingertip between your folds, ringing it around your entrance and coming back with a thick string of come. “Take that finger,” He tapped your middle finger. “and slip it in that sweet hole of yours for me.” He said, nodding his head at you, encouragingly.

“I--” You choked up, eyes wide, and gulped. “I've--” You gulped, flustered.

“Oh,” Henry chuckled, brushing your hair off your sweaty forehead. “You're a button rubber.”

“A what?” You squeaked, confused and caught off guard.

“You rub your little button.” He cooed, tapped your clit, with a smirk. “To get off. Without touching your core.” He gently pushed the very tip of his thick finger into your entrance. “A virgin, in almost every way.”

“That's okay, you can do it.” He encouraged you. “Nice and easy, Nugget.” He purred, moving his finger out of your way.

Gulping again, you slowly inched your hand away from your clit, fingers cupping your folds for a moment, as you hesitated, trying to muster the courage off of Henry's face and into yourself, before, very slowly, parting your folds with the tip of your middle finger and towards your entrance. It felt strange to push your finger into yourself. It was deep, wet, so much warmer than you thought, and soft. You touched something deep inside of your cunt and gasped, toes curling.

“Oh, someone found her sweet spot.” Henry chuckled, playfully tapping you on the nose.

“It feels so good.” You whimpered, rubbing at it a little bit more, biting your lip.

“That's good.” He smiled, watching you start to mindlessly thrust your finger in and out. “That's it.” He encouraged you, basking in the sight, rubbing his palm up and down your quivering thigh, before turning his hand to join yours. “No, no.” He murmured as you started to remove your finger. “Keep that finger right there.” He said, the tip of his finger brushing the underside of yours.

Henry tickled the edge of your folds for a moment, before slipping it under yours and gingerly pushed it in to join your own finger inside of you, stretching you wide open. He leaned down and pressed his lips to the corner of your mouth as you whimpered, uncomfortable at the almost painful stretch of your combined fingers. He shushed you and timed his thick digit with your smaller one, gently joining the tip of your finger at your sweet spot, and added even more pressure to it, making you cry out loud, throwing your head back.

“You're doing so well.” He praised you, nuzzling the side of your face with his. “I can't wait to have my cock inside of you.” He panted, eyes rolling shut at the idea. “Let's see if you can take one more.” He said, curiously. “Pull your finger halfway out.” He instructed you, rubbing his next finger in the juices dripping from you, then poising it at your hole.

“Just like that, good girl.”

Carefully shifting his first finger around yours, Henry pressed his new finger through the ring of muscle surrounding your entrance, taking it slow.

“Just relax.” He cooed at you, pressing his knees against the edge of the bed to shift his weight and used his now free hand to caress the side of your hot face and rubbed his palm over your chest, trying to help your relax. “Deep breaths. That's it. Very good.” He smiled at you, his finger halfway in.

“Henry, please.” You mewled, chewing your lip to bits.

“Hush.” He whispered, caressing the pad of his thumb down the bridge of your nose. “Gotta get you nice and open for my cock, love.” He told you, breathing heavy has the rest of his finger slide home with the first. “It'll hurt so much more, if I don't, and I don't want to hurt you, darling.” He said, a rush of icy goosebumps racing over his body at the sweet whimper that left your parted lips.

“Put your finger back in.”

“I can't.” You whimpered, shaking your head at him.

“Yes, you can.” He said softly, nodding his head and holding your eyes. “Come on, sweetheart.” He cooed at you, sweetly. “You can do it for me, can't you? Don't you want me to be inside of you?” He asked, coaxing you. “Keeping you nice and warm.” He added with a chuckle, feeling the creeping cold of the night outside coming through the thin walls and windowpane, chilling the sweaty skin of his naked body.

You gulped at the tone of his dirty talking, feeling it going straight to your pussy, making Henry chuckle as he felt the pooling wetness growing around your combine fingers. Whimpering softly, you pushed your finger back into the tight space above Henry's big ones.

“There, see.” Henry smiled, kissing your forehead. “Not so bad, is it, love?” He asked, crooking his, and your, fingers into your sweet spot and rubbed at it, with measured experience. “How's that feel, baby?” He asked, leaning in to kiss you, lazily.

“It feels so good, Henry.” You moaned against his mouth. “So fucking good.”

“Just wait til you have my cock in you, it'll feel a million times better.” He promised.

“I want it now.” You whined, nudging him.

“Just a little bit long, honey.” He cooed, kissing your hot cheek. “There's a little something I want you to give me first, just to make sure you're nice and relaxed, and comfy, for me to nestle inside this sweet little hole of yours.”

“Hen--”

“Ah-Ah, Sshhh.” He interrupted you, shaking his head and starting to work his fingers in and out, taking your finger with them. “Enjoy it, darling.”

You moaned aloud, licking your lips and pushing your head back, eyes rolling shut at the phenomenal feeling of the teamwork your joined fingers were pulling off inside you. You rocked your whole body down on your and his fingers, driving them deeper inside of you and stretching you wider with each motion. Henry smiled down at you, watching you lose yourself in the motion and moment; and he hadn't even given you the best part yet. He slowly slipped his fingers free of your core, you blissfully unaware of the change as you continued to fuck your own finger.

“I can't wait to have you squirt all over my cock.” He said aloud, his eyes glued to your finger, then watched the change slowly wash over you as your orgasm neared. “That's it, sweetheart. Fuck that finger good, come all over it.” He said in a husky and arousal dripping voice, feeling himself get even harder at the sight, and started rubbing your swollen clit.

“H-Hen-Henry.” You gasped, breathing hard, as your toes curled against the amazing hot flood rushing through your sweaty body; rubbing your clit alone had never felt this good.

“Come.” He hissed, eyes huge and focused on you. “Come for me. Soak the the bed, baby. You can do it, come on.” He encouraged you, a free hand moving to his hot and swollen cock, giving it a few pumps.

“Fuck! Oh, fuck!” You mewled, face contorting as your orgasm started to peak. “Henry!” You cried out, before finally falling into your orgasm and drenched your finger, leaving a damp spot on the duvet beneath you.

Henry licked his lips, the heavy and pleasing aroma of your arousal filling his nose; it made him hum. “See that? Told you, you could do.” He said, when you were halfway recovered. “And you didn't even need my fingers.” He added, with a sly grin.

“Huh?” You squeaked, looking down your heaving body to see his fingers still resting lightly on your clit, and your own finger still inside your core. “Oh fuck.” You chuckled shyly, your face heating up.

Henry chuckled and kissed you deeply. “Now, you can have my cock, sweetheart.” He smiled slyly at you.

“I don't know what—” You cut yourself off, feeling self-conscious again, and looked away from him.

You didn't know what to do once he was inside of you, you hadn't known what to do with your own finger inside of you, if it wasn't for Henry's fingers there as well, and him instructing you. But, Henry was very experienced in the art of lovemaking, and wasn't surprised or bothered by your inexperience in it; he had his own solutions to such things. So, he wrapped your heavy legs around his waist and your arms about his neck, before putting his arms around your waist. Henry lifted you up, so he could stand to his full height, slipping an arm beneath your bottom as he did, to keep you from slipping.

“It's all right, sweet girl.” He assured you, moving to the head of the bed and sat down. “Take your shirt off.” He told you, tugging on the garment.

Biting your lip shyly, you grabbed the hem of your shirt and pulled it off over your head, tossing it to the floor. Henry smiled and smoothed his palms up your back to the clasp of your bra and popped it free. Slipping the straps of your bra off your shoulders, Henry tossed the undergarment to the floor with your shirt and leaned forward to place open mouthed kisses to the supple skin of your breasts, nuzzling his face between them and leaving, almost painful, love bites in their wake. You whimpered, hugging your arms around his neck and hiding your face into his hair, feeling the solid and hot flesh of his cock press up against your thighs and ass.

Moaning against your skin, as your shifting rubbed your ass down against his cock, Henry turned and laid back on the bed, his head on the dingy and flat pillow, all the stuffing flattened from years of use. He held you in his lap, as you straddled him, and pulled up his knees to give you a little more stability. Henry gripped your hips to move you, so you knelt on your knees over him, then reached between your legs to take himself in hand, lining up with your sticky entrance, and pushed his hips up enough to press the fat and swollen tip of his cock just into you, then held his hips there.

“Very slowly, push yourself down.” He instructed you, nodding his head at you, as he broke out in a sweat, that plastered his curls to his forehead. “That's good. Keep it up, baby.” He said, breathing hard.

You pushed your hips down on Henry's cock, feeling how hot and hard it actually was as it filled you more and more. There was only a little bit of extra stretch as he entered you, but it wasn't uncomfortable and the slickness left over from your orgasm helped make it easier to do. It took some slow patience, but you finally had your fill of Henry inside of you, shifting in his lap.

“That feels so different.” You whimpered, feeling like he was deep inside of your stomach.

Henry smiled up at you, chuckling. “I'm sure.” He replied, nudging his hips upwards. “I'm nice and deep into your cervix.” He commented, feeling it wrapped around his cock. “Are you okay?” He asked, taking a few deep breaths, to keep a handle on himself.

“I'm-I'm fine.” You assured him, flustered at the feeling of him rubbing up against your cervix. “Wh-what do you wa-want me t-to do?” You asked, gulping thickly.

“So eager.” Henry teased, kneading your hips in his palms. “Just follow my motion.” He said, looking up at you.

Gripping your hips more securely, Henry started moving you back and forth on his cock, keeping himself firmly housed inside of you, while hitting all the right places, including rubbing your still sensitive and swollen clit against his belly. You gasped aloud, your hands gripping his wrists, and rocked faster, but Henry held you off, keeping your motion slow and steady, not wanting either of you to rush it.

“Easy, baby girl.” He cooed at you, letting go of your hips and rubbing his palms up and down your thighs. “We have all night, sweetheart. Take your time. I'm not going anywhere, I promise.” Henry shifted his hips as you continued to ride him in an easy pace, feeling the sticky smear of your juices all over his stomach and cock.

Henry had dreamt about this, in the lone times he didn't have crippling nightmares.

You would come into his bedroom, like you would when he was having a bad dream. Running your hand up and down his chest, touching his face and playing with his hair, before moving your hand down his taut stomach and into the elastic waistband of his pajama pants; rubbing his soft cock and fondling his balls, making him slowly grow against your warm palm. Wrapping your hand around the base of his then swollen cock, your hand would slide up and down the long length, swirling your thumb around his sensitive head; smiling so sweetly at him, when he moaned deep in his throat and thrust up into your grasp. Your pace was maddeningly slow compared to the hot need Henry had to be inside of you; spilling his load as deeply as he possibly could into you, and hear you call out his name as you orgasmed.

It didn't take long for that to happen as you lifted away the fabric of his pants, his eyes dropping to your still stroking hand. Smirking, you let his cock fall heavily to his abdomen and stomach. Henry gulped as you moved over him, straddling his waist and kneeling over him, hands braced against his broad chest for a moment. You reached back with one hand, taking up his cock again and bringing it to your weeping pussy, sliding him into the comforting, eye fluttering, warmth of your core, making Henry call out and grab your hips, planting his feet and thrust into you with one fluid motion, burying himself so completely inside of you.

“Oh!” You gasped suddenly, bringing Henry back from remembering the dream. “Henry.” You whimpered, as you felt the intoxicating build of a second orgasm.

Henry's hands moved from your thighs to the back of your arms, pulling you down on top of him. Wrapping his arms around you and kissing the top of your head, he kept his knees bent, using his planted feet on the squeaky mattress to push up into you. Keeping the same easy rocking, but driving himself so much deeper, that it sent spasms of pleasure throughout your whole body. You moaned into his neck, panting opening mouthed against the skin of his shoulder, sounding so soft and sweet in Henry's ear.

It wasn't long before Henry felt the unraveling snake of pleasure overcome him, his cock pulsed and throbbed inside of you, his natural instincts kicking in and made his movements involuntary as he continued to wildly thrust, his balls tightening in preparation. You could feel every muscle in Henry's body tense up, his loud, uncensored and lewd sounds grunting and moaning into your ear and hair, both of you could feel the rapid beating of your hearts pounding together with your chests pressed together; the feeling of his cock throbbing into you keeping in time with each heartbeat. He was at the point of no return now, with a few more thrusts, he push himself as deep into you as he could, scrunching you both up in the process, and came.

The strong and hot spurts of his come going off inside of you, drumming your cervix like a demolition hammer. You let out one sound, then came and squirted around Henry's still spewing cock, drenching his abdomen and balls with your release; leaving yet another puddle on the bed. Both of you became dead weight, spent from all the walking and stress, magnified by the mind-blowing orgasms you shared. Henry's hands slowly came to life, rubbing up and down your back and sides, head turning to kiss your temple as he did.

Neither of you said anything, neither of you needed to say anything. It had all been spoken in that intimate moment, saying what words could not. You sighed softly, the scent of his sweaty skin in your nose as you nuzzled his neck, feeling the deep tug of sleep take over you. Henry smiled softly, brushing his fingers through your hair, kissing your forehead as he felt you fall asleep, the soft change of your breathing, chilling his skin. He pushed his head back into the pillow and mattress, staring up at the stained drop ceiling with a huge grin crossing over his face, he hadn't felt this satisfied and relaxed in a very long time, he had never felt this complete either, as he fell asleep with you.

You woke a little while later, still laying on top of Henry, his soft cock still buried in your sore pussy. Biting your lip, you carefully sat up, freezing as Henry moaned and shifted in his sleep. You reached out and gently soothed his curls off his forehead, until he relaxed and dropped back off into a deep sleep, before carefully moving off him, biting back a moan as his cock slipped free and you could get off the bed.

Henry stirred again, and you again played with his hair.

“Ssshh.” You whispered to him softly, heart pounding. “Sleep sweet, Henry.” You cooed at him, using your other hand to rub his chest, knowing how well it calmed him. When he finally relaxed again, you tiptoed into the bathroom, carefully feeling for the toilet in the darkness, not wanting to turn the light on and wake Henry up. Finding it, you groaned as your butt touched the ice cold seat, and relieved yourself with a sigh. Stepping back out of the bathroom, you glanced around and spotted Henry's backpack. Every nerve and cell in your body told you to grab it and break into it, taking back your shoes and the rest of your stuff, and bolt out of the room; nighttime be damned, you needed to get to Mikey.

You almost did go for it, before you heard Henry softly mumble out your name in his sleep. He was dreaming about you. So, it wasn't only you that dreamed of him, that your mind-blowing and intense sex wasn't just because you had given him an opening to do so. Henry actually wanted to have sex with you, because he was in love with you.

“Goddamn it.” You huffed softly, your breath coming out in a light fog in the chill of the room, feeling the chemicals of your flight mode die away as you watched him sleep from the foot of the bed, and he mumbled out your name, yet again.

Shaking your head, you grabbed the first shirt like object off the floor and pulled it on, before stepping over to the curtain-less window. You were so conflicted, you wanted to leave and get to Bristol, it was only a ten hour walk from Cherhill, and according to the antique clock on the wall, it was only three in the morning. If you left now, you could power walk it to Bristol, gaining more time between you leaving and Henry potentially waking up. Then, by the time he reached you again, you would be in the heavily populated city, making it a million times easier for you to hide from him, as you searched for your brother.

You looked over your shoulder at Henry and sighed, but you couldn't just abandon him again either. Especially, after the night you both had. It would have been a kick to his trust if you had ran again, but an even bigger drop kick to his heart, ruining whatever was potentially happening between the pair of you. He would never trust you again, he would never love you again. He would either finally treat you like the Slummer Slave he had purchased, or he would just throw you to the Council of Clerics, letting them do with you as they pleased. Sighing again, you rubbed at your tired face, turning back towards the window, and looked out over the back of the hotel, the half moon resting on the tips of the trees beneath it, throwing a eerie silvery light through their branches.

“What am I going to do?” You asked yourself, breath fogging up the windowpane in front of you, oblivious of Henry starting to stir on the bed behind you.

The slow alarm sounded through Henry's skull as his body realized that your weight was no longer on top of him. His unconscious mind's first attempt to remedy this, was to roll over onto his side, figuring you had simply rolled off of him in the might. A hand sluggishly moving out over the mattress in search of you, but came up empty. He moaned in his sleep, brow furrowing, before his alert blue eyes popped open and panned around the room in front of him, the bathroom door was dark, but open, a quick glance to the room door showed it was still locked, but you could have taken the key and locked it behind you as you ran again.

His heart started to pound, with the anxiety of possibly losing you, and anger that you had broken your promise not to run again. He rolled onto his back, to get up out of bed, but paused, finding you standing at the window, wearing nothing, but his knit sweater, to keep the chill of the room at bay, to some extent. He was relieved to see you hadn't run after all, but he could tell by the way you stood and hugged your arms around yourself, that you were having a mental war with yourself. Frowning, he sat up, reaching out for his boxers and pulled them back on, before standing up to move behind you.

You gasped at the touch of Henry's hand on your hip. “Christ.” You let out in a frightened huff.

Henry smiled softly at you. “I'm sorry.” He chuckled softly. “I didn't mean to scare you.” He said, kissing the back of your hair and wrapping his arms around your shoulders, hugging you back against him, to share the extra warmth of his body, and rested his chin on the top of your head.

“Anything interesting?” He asked gently, looking out the window.

You knew what Henry meant, he wanted you to confide in him, tell him what you were thinking and what was clearly bothering you. You sighed and squeezed your eyes shut, your stomach was in knots, as you thought about him and your brother, torn between the two men. Did you tell Henry you weren't going back to London with him, no matter what, breaking his heart and incurring his wrath? Or, did you let your brother reap his choice to work for dangerous people, potentially getting himself kill? It had been Mikey's choice to work for Jaxon Quinn, he knew the risks and rewards of doing so.

Everyone did.

You sighed again, the weight of your conflict sounding with that outtake of air. Henry took a soft intake of air through his nose and let it out again, your body was tense against his. He really didn't need to ask what you were thinking, or really how you were feeling, he could sense it, and had known about it the moment he learned all the facts in the matter. He just figured it would help you relax and come to a conclusion on what to do, if you talked about it.

“He's my brother, Henry.” You whispered, leaning your head back against his chest, but kept your eyes out the window.

“I know.” He replied, gently.

“But,” You frowned at the faint reflection of you both in the window, a new knot twisting in your stomach.

“But?” Henry frowned back.

“But, I-” You chewed on your lip for a moment, mustering up some courage. “I also love you.”

Henry felt a tingling warmth in his chest, hearing your words, pressing his lips together as he tried controlling the smile on his face. “I love you too.” He confessed, feeling a weight lift off of him.

“I don't want to choose.” You added, almost soundlessly.

Henry sighed, the smile turning into a frown as he heard your words. “I know you don't.” He said, softly, and closed his eyes, feeling the swell of conflict fill him as well.

He honestly didn't want to make you choose between him and Mikey, knowing that whatever choice you did make, you would end up regretting it, because it wasn't the other option. He felt you get squeezed into the same rock and hard place he was currently trapped in.

“Come back to bed.” He said, finally. “It's cold.”

Neither of you moved for a moment, before you let Henry pull you back to bed, slipping under the thin duvet with you and curling his body around yours to keep you warm, letting you use his arm as a pillow. But, as you both, slowly, drifted back off to sleep, Henry had already made the choice of what the two of you were going to do next, when the sun finally rose again.

[myhauntedsalem]

Rose Island Newport, Rhode Island

An 18.5-acre island in Narragansett Bay off Newport, Rhode Island, Rose Island allegedly received its name due to appearing like the shape of a rose at low tide. Fortifications were constructed during the American Revolution on island due to its strategic location at the entrance to Newport Harbor. British and colonial soldiers alike used the island to defend Newport. From 1798 to 1800, the U.S. government began constructing Fort Hamilton but never finished it.

The U.S. Navy stored explosives during World Wars I and II as part of the Navy Torpedo Station on Rose Island. The government stopped using the land after World War II (except for the lighthouse) and declared it government surplus. Today, the only inhabitants of the Torpedo Station are three species of snakes, plus thousands of nesting birds that are protected by the State. The stone barracks from the fort still remain. Many of these buildings are in danger of collapsing and is considered unsafe for visitors to explore in or around them.

Designed and built in 1879 by Vermont architect, the Rose Island Lighthouse served as an aid to navigation for a century. It stands atop Fort Hamilton’s former South Battery on the southwestern point of the island, replacing a private light maintained by the Bristol Steam Boat Company. A brick oil house was added to the station in 1912 along with a brick fog signal building that was placed on a rock just west of and below the lighthouse. Lighthouse keepers were not paid well. They sometimes had to develop creative ways to feed their families, growing crops and caring for farm animals who sometimes wandered from the lighthouse grounds into the military compound, much to the officers’ annoyance. Keepers also battled rough weather conditions.

The Rose Island Lighthouse narrowly avoided destruction on August 7, 1958 when two tankers collided in heavy fog near Fort Adams and burst into flames. The Graham floated dangerously close the lighthouse, forcing the keepers to flee from the intense heat. However, the tide and wind turned and took the ship away from the lighthouse. Eighteen men from the two ships were killed in the incident.

It was abandoned as a functioning lighthouse in 1970 and vandalized after the Newport Bridge was built nearby. In 1984, the Rose Island Lighthouse Foundation was founded to restore the dilapidated light on behalf of the City of Newport who received it for free from the United States government. Today, visitors can spend a night as a guest or a week as the “lighthouse keeper,” completing many of the chores required to keep the lighthouse in good condition for a fee.

It is believed the island does not only hold the ruins of its military influence. Newport was known for its epidemics of diseases such as influenza, smallpox, and cholera. The Fort Hamilton barracks were used as a quarantine station during a 1823 outbreak of cholera. Victims of these epidemics along with military men who died in Newport are believed to inhabit a number of unmarked mass graves. In the late 1800s, witnesses reported “ghouls” stealing bodies from the island in the name of medical research. However, today, no one knows where these bodies are located. But one old military cemetery was uncovered in 1938 during construction of a water tower. Several human skeletons were found wearing Civil War-era clothing along with various artifacts. The remains and artifacts were placed in a large metal box and reburied in an unknown location on the island. Could such stories aid to Rose Island’s haunted status?

Guests have reported hearing disembodied voices, witnessing doors slam before their eyes, and having unexplainable feelings of depression. One ghost rumored to dwell in the lighthouse is Keeper Charles S. Curtis who served thirty-one years (1887 – 1918) at Rose Island. Overnight guests claim to have heard him walk down the stairs at midnight, as was his custom in life, and make a thorough inspection of the facility. He often makes a brief stop in the kitchen before returning upstairs. Curtis’ grandson, Wanton Chase, was sent to live with his grandparents on the island in hopes the salty air would improve his health. 

Years later, Chase was instrumental in restoring the lighthouse to its former 1912 self. This included assembling an antique kitchen wood stove from memory. Unfortunately, the keeper at the time managed to put the stove together before his arrival. When Chase stood before the stove, he saw something he wasn’t expecting, the ghostly image of his dead grandmother Christina Curtis. This was followed by the smell of sugar cookies.

[aeriallidarbristol-blog]

Aerial LiDAR Bristol

Drones are a fantastic tool to our surveying arsenal as they allow us to effectively collect data from otherwise out of reach places and accessible areas, or high-risk areas such as railways, motorways, dilapidated structures or small islands. Our team can complete surveys that originally would have been completely impossible in the past.

https://aerial-lidar.co.uk/

[televisedbirdwatching]

Corbusian Hellscapes Vol. 2: Pruitt-Igoe

Last weekend, I watched a documentary on the Pruitt-Igoe housing projects in St. Louis (if you’re interested in watching it yourself, you can find it on Kanopy, which you probably have access to through your local library). The Wendell O. Pruitt Homes and William Igoe Apartments were high-rise development projects built in St. Louis in the mid 1950’s. Designed to re-house people affected by slum clearance policies popular with housing authorities in the early post-war period, the Pruitt-Igoe buildings were futuristic in their design, and were supposed to set a new standard for public housing policy. Instead, the project is uncontroversially regarded as a failure, and was demolished in 1971.

Many people know of Pruitt-Igoe’s demolition thanks to this scene from the cult movie Koyaanisquatsi.

“The Pruitt-Igoe Myth,” which borrows the name and repackages ideas from Katherine G. Bristol’s 1991 paper linked here, sets out to challenge the predominant idea that Pruitt-Igoe’s failure was a direct result of its design. When the first explosives brought down the first buildings, architecture critic Charles Jenks said “Modern Architecture died in St. Louis, Missouri, on July 15, 1972, at 3.32 p.m. (or thereabouts), when the infamous Pruitt Igoe scheme, or rather several of its slab blocks, were given the final coup de grace by dynamite.” Instead, Katherine Bristol argues that the demise of Pruitt-Igoe was primarily driven by social and economic factors.

"This paper is an effort to debunk the myths associated with the demolition of the Pruitt-lgoe public housing project. In the seventeen years since its demise, this project has become a widely recognized symbol of architectural failure. Anyone remotely familiar with the recent history of American architecture knows to associate Pruitt-lgoe with the failure of High Modernism, and with the inadequacy of efforts to provide livable environments for the poor. It is this association of the project's demolition with the failure of modern architecture that constitutes the core of the Pruitt-lgoe myth. In place of the myth, this paper offers a brief history of Pruitt-lgoe that demonstrates how its construction and management were shaped by profoundly embedded economic and political conditions in postwar St. Louis”

Pruitt-Igoe was a failure but it came from good intentions. Here, Mayor Raymond Tucker looks out over a section of the Mill Creek Valley slated for demolition in 1956- just as Pruitt-Igoe was beginning to peak in population. A 1950 report on slums in America had this to say “The 1950 census showed that of a total of 29.2 million urban dwelling units in the nation, 1.6 million were in dilapidated condition. But many of 27.6 million non-dilapidated structures were not much better. Of these 2.2 million lacked indoor toilets, 4.7 million were without private bathing facilities, 3.2 million had no bathtub or shower at all, 1.1 million lacked running water and 3.1 million had cold water only. In 1950 a total of slightly over six million homes, approximately 20 per cent of all city dwellings, failed to meet minimum standards of decency and sanitation.”

Part of this history includes demographic shifts that would create constant vacancy problems at Pruitt-Igoe. In the post-war era, predominantly black populations moved out of the rural south and into northern cities in search of economic opportunity. While black inner-city slums grew, middle and upper-class whites moved outside of the city limits, creating new towns and suburbs. Some of this phenomenon was motivated by shifting consumer preferences and the idealization of the suburban home. Some of this phenomenon was motivated by overt racism: a memorable moment in the documentary included archival footage from St. Louis local news, in which a new suburbanite tells the interviewer that he liked his new ranch home better than his city home since he no longer had to live near “ you know, trash people”. However, as middle-class whites vacated city properties, they created a market vacuum that allowed lower-income black residents to rent these properties, meaning there was less reason for Pruitt-Igoe-style housing (this is one, strange type of “filtering,” which I’ve talked about on this blog before). In effect, by the time Pruitt-Igoe was built, it was no longer needed. Occupancy peaked at 91% in 1957, three years after opening, and consistently declined until 1972.

Newsreel from 1968 in which many of the buildings lost heat and water over the winter. 

Pruitt-Igoe’s constant struggles with vacancy highlight an issue brought on by the project’s financial structure. The money for the construction of Pruitt-Igoe was federal money under the direction of the St. Louis Housing Authority. In a utilitarian effort to house as many people as possible with a limited budget, the Housing Authority chose to build Corbusier-esque high-rise apartments. The furnishing, the windows, and the electrical systems were cheap and inadequate from the beginning. The cost for maintenance and upkeep of the buildings, however, was not included in the federal grant and was instead funded through the rent paid by tenants. Since there were never as many tenants as expected, there was never as much money for maintenance as needed. A lack of funding combined with cheap initial construction meant that the buildings quickly fell into disrepair and disarray, re-creating the slums the residents had been forcefully displaced from a few years earlier.

What Bristol wants to argue is that economic and social factors were the primary causes of Pruitt-Igoe’s failure. However, this is not to say that the design features of the Pruitt-Igoe buildings are blameless. For example, the buildings featured “skip-stop elevators” that only stopped every three floors- the idea being that residents would have to walk through common areas in order to reach their apartments, creating social cohesion and a community feel. Instead, Bristol writes “The undersized elevators are brutally battered, and they reek of urine from children who misjudged the time it takes to reach their apartments. By stopping only on every third floor, the elevators offer convenient settings for crime. ....The galleries are anything but cheerful social enclaves. The tenants call them ‘gauntlets’ through which they must pass to reach their doors.” Jane Jacobs, writing in “The Life and Death of Great American Cities” about similar high-rise projects in Brooklyn, notes that in order to supplement the fact that children cannot play in apartment hallways, architects create play-spaces in the large flat areas between buildings. “In most cases… the most significant change is this: The children have been moved from under the eyes of a high numerical ratio of adults, into a place where the ratio of adults is low or even nil… To think this represents an improvement in city child rearing is merely daydreaming.” The design of Pruitt-Igoe, founded on Corbusian ideals, ended up providing excessive private space, away from public eye, where intruders and residents alike could commit violent acts, form gangs, and sell drugs.

Recommended further reading:

Bristol’s 1991 paper on Pruitt-Igoe.

This short video on high-rise public housing.

A report on slum clearance policies in the immediate postwar period.

[cloudwomensquarterly]

Store Street By Elena Chapman

photo © Onasill ~ Bill Badzo  Some rights reserved

Store Street

     It was a cold Saturday morning in October. Whilst the usual herds of workers slept in their beds, Kitty Page was heaving herself to Store Street. Friday morning, Kitty was galumphingly searching for her keys, sieving through her puddle of clothes, opening moaning cupboards and slamming timid drawers. She was already ten minutes late for work and spied the set of keys lying on the kitchen table. An hour after slipping behind her desk, her hands ran over the familiar fluffy feel of her keyring in the back of her bag. The borrowed set was quickly forgotten about and remained on her desk. That evening, Kitty was chugging down her vodka lemonade in GAY when her phone rang. She picked up on the third ring. She bellowed over the music that she’d get them first thing tomorrow morning, hung up, and made her way to the dance floor.

     A light drizzle fell from the pregnant clouds parading the dark October sky. A breeze touched the trees and whisked autumn leaves around Kitty’s ankles. Store Street’s rusty coloured bricks reared against the darkened sky and Kitty made her way over to the oak door chiselled into the bright bricks.      As Kitty fumbled in her handbag for her work fob, a wad of last night’s receipts dropped into a puddle. She fetched a sigh, plugged her stained Oyster card in her mouth, bent over and picked up the receipts. She winced at her reflection in the murky water – black circles ringed her eyes and her straightened blonde hair was spiking at different angles. 

     Leaning on the oak door, she placed her fob on the sensor, smoothing back her hair, and waited for the familiar beep before throwing herself into the reticent building. 

     When you enter Store Street’s narrow square entrance, in the middle sits a heavy square lift that has sat there since the 1930s. To your left is the open mouth of the stairwell, spiralling up like a snake up to the top floor, choking the lift’s frame. From the stairs you can spy on the lift’s car and the mechanics through large dusty windows. The once white walls of Store Street are now blemished with dark scratches and paint stains. Like most days, a lonely plastic bag patiently sat by the door, waiting for a volunteer to take it out. Kitty plonked the soaked receipts on top of the bag, wiped her hands against her jeans and started up the stairs. 

     She climbed just shy of the last set of stairs when she stopped. Last night’s vodka slushed around in her belly, threatening to crawl back up her throat with every step. Her hands planted on her knees, she regained her breath, then carried on up the stairs when, suddenly, a screech like a tortured child rattled up the building. Terror leaped in her and she stood dead still. With a tortured whine, the lift lurched into life and crept up the rail. She gazed in fixed concentration at the approaching car and the strained ropes and wires. Red lights winked through the dust as the lift rose above her.

     Kitty gave a measuring glance as the lift stopped on her floor and crept up the last few stairs. The doors creaked opened. Kitty waited a few seconds, but when no one got out she lugged herself through the office door. The lift stood silently, just as it had when she walked in a few minutes earlier.      

     She stood with her back to the door, short sharp gasps of breath escaped her mouth. She paced her way to her desk and grabbed the abandoned keys. She stole one last glance over shoulder before making her way out of the room. 

     Daring to look from the corner of her eyes, Kitty’s gnawing intuition made her etch slowly towards the tenebrous mouth of the lift. She plucked her phone from her backpocket and ran the torch around the dilapidated lift. Deep scrapes scarred its wall, splatters of white paint lingered on its floor and a dim bar of flickering light suffocated in its dust and fly-filled coffin. 

     Her eyes descended to a small wet patch on the dull thin carpet. She dropped to one knee then inched herself back, glanced at the ceiling, then clapped a hand over her mouth. A humming noise began to tickle her ears. There was a moment of silence before plumes of red spray spurted from the walls. Cacophonous snorting laughter and tortured and ululating screams boomed around her. Kitty pressing her hands against her ears and snapped her head following the sounds. Kitty caught a whiff of an iron scent seething from the lift. 

     A slow repetitive thump began to compete with the choir of screams which seemed to rattle Kitty’s ribcage from the inside out. A red fog drifted from the stairs and coalesced around her feet. The heavy and monotonous thump thump thump grew louder. A muddy pair of feet were spuming up hazes of fog as it marched around the corner. Kitty slowly got up from the floor and gazed up. A woman stared at her.

     Her face dead white, the woman’s grey eyes were vacant and inhuman. Half her face was peeling off, exposing raw and pulsing flesh. The woman’s frail body was dressed in a low collar shift dress coated in dirt that hung just above her knees. Her legs and neck were dotted with purple bruises and mud. Her mouth drew back into a grimacing smile and blood leaked from her upper lip. Kitty noticed a hint of scar from her philtrum down to her chin. 

     The bashing of rushing blood and erupting screams roared and echoed off Store Street’s walls. The woman shifted her eyes and slowly held out her hand. Overwhelmed with dizziness and languor, Kitty only managed to shake her head. Her rubber soles whistled as she took a large step away, anchoring herself against the banister. Then, with a snap, the lift returned to its quiescent state and the woman, fog and blood all disappeared. The sudden crescendo made Kitty trip down the stairs and her head connected with the cold floor. She blinked back the pain and barreled her way out of Store Street. 

     The next morning, the sun was cowering behind the clouds. A heavy shadow made Melissa Smith look up from her clutter of papers. Fear and panic was scrawled on her colleague’s face. 

     Hunched over, Kitty fiddled with her fingers and her eyes were shimmered with tears as she relayed the events of Saturday morning.

      “I haven’t got time for this silly story, Kitty.” Melissa put her hand up and returned to her pile of invoices. 

     “I’m not making this up!” Kitty’s voice was thin with fury. Melissa sent Kitty a single peremptory dour look. Kitty locked eyes with her then straightened herself up, her face fervent with anger. She did not have the temerity to argue any further so made her way back to the desk and it was not spoken about again.

     Kitty harboured the hope it was all some sort of mind blip or belated illusion from the night’s concussion of drinks but still took Store Street’s steps two at a time. Kitty was also assiduous on removing her shoes, so she could surreptitiously whisper across the floor to not wake the lift. Quickly, her thigh muscles began to tighten and bulge and her breathing began to gain a slow capable rhythm.

     Three weeks after that cold Saturday morning in October, the lift cracked and hissed to life again. Kitty was hefting a folder full of reports on a lazy Friday afternoon when a scream ricocheted in her left ear, making her jump. Kitty cut her eyes in the lift’s direction just as its door opened. The same lulling humming rhythm began to brew and the cold prick of fear returned. 

     Kitty dropped the folder and turned for the exit when she stopped. Her eyes widened. An impregnable power engrossed her. She eased her way closer, her face dead white. The screams and snorting laughter began to crackle like an out of range radio before spurring into full pitch. She began to creep up and then peered in. It was a roaring bloody windstorm. Blood was seeping through the walls and ceiling, now in thicker sprays. A gale was howling, twisting the blood around in crimson sheets. 

     A shadow of fear fell on her face then an inimical force pushed her in. Her mouth peeled back in a scream but suffocated from dark red blood sliding down her throat. Blood snaked across her and the wind twisted her red matted hair in front of her face. The lift jolted. She looked around in dazed incomprehension. The door was closing. She ran for the door, the treacle texture below pulling her back. The woman from before appeared in front of the door. The peeled part of her face flapped with the wind. She gave a single shake of the head and her face split into a bleak grin cracking her face like a fault line. She shouted over the contending vociferous wind and choir of screams. When the lift’s lips finally sealed, a fire alarm rolled throughout Store Street, swallowing up Kitty’s screams.

     Melissa was slumped over her laptop and rolled her eyes when the alarm rang. Knots of workers spilled out of the office and leisurely descend downstairs. Herding the remaining people out of the office, she heaved her bag onto her shoulder before checking the emptiness of the office. As she shut the door, she saw the folder sprawled to the side of the stairs.

     A momentary coldness crawled up her spine as she remembered her conversation with Kitty. She darted her eyes at the lift. The sign above her crackled to life: In case of fire please use the stairs. Melissa backed away, balking the idea, and headed down the stairs.

     Kitty’s wails began to weaken. Her panic and fear had shifted gear. With her shoulders slumped, she knelt in despair as the blood surged around her. She stared up at the single light and closed her eyes. A single tear cut through the blood on her face as the last person left Store Street.

With several years of academic writing behind her, Elena Chapman saw an opportunity to express her creativity through short stories. Elena was raised in Bristol and now lives and works in London. An avid reader, Elena has always enjoyed writing and hopes her stories will become a strong voice for females by challenging society’s stereotypes. Elena’s passion for running often features in her work. Elena's first short story was published in STORGY Magazine, November 2018.

Photo Creative Commons License Some rights reserved by Onasill ~ Bill Badzo

[lanticbuildingsurveyors1]

Building Surveyor Exeter: Your Partner in Resident Management Company Success

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[lanticbuildingsurveyors]

Dilapidations survey Bristol

A thorough examination of a property is usually required for a dilapidations survey Bristol in order to determine its state and point out any areas of damage or decay. In order to ascertain the tenant's obligation to maintain and repair the property in accordance with the conditions of the lease, these surveys are frequently carried out prior to the conclusion of a lease agreement. Are there any particulars regarding dilapidations surveys Bristol that you would like to know?

Visit us:- https://lanticbuildingsurveyors.co.uk/services/dilapidations/

[anthonysstupiddailyblog]

Anthony’s Stupid Daily Blog (342): Wed 22nd Feb 2023

I binge watched the entire fist season of The Outlaws today. I don’t watch that much TV nowadays but man this show is incredible. It’s created and written by Stephen Merchant and follows a group of criminals renovating a dilapidated community centre as part of their community service. All the characters are really well written and not a lot of fleshing out needs to be done on any of them. Often with TV shows the first series serves as a sort of sacrificial lamb where the writers can experiment and see what works and what doesn’t but occasionally a show knocks it out of the park right from the get go and this is certainly one of them. The show is best described as like a funny, much less violent version of something like The Wire or The Shield and stylistically resembles a modern day western that happens to be set in Bristol. Merchant himself is really good in this as a newly divorced socially awkward lawyer, as is Christopher Walken as an elderly lifelong conman and Eleanor Tomlinson: Oh My Days Eleanor Tomlinson. I had never heard of Eleanor Tomlinson before today and now I’ve dismissed every other girl I’ve ever fancied as a hideous pig in comparison to her. Holy shitfingers she is gorgeous. Her character, an upper class social media influenced is really funny too. Each episode is an hour long which I normally hate about tv shows because of my short attention span but that didn’t play in at all with this show as I happily sat for six hours and watched the entire show. I wanted to get stuck right in to the second series but I figured I’d only get about half way through before I’d have to go to sleep so I’ll wait until my next day off and binge watch it then. I also listened to the radio dramatisation of the zombie movie Pontypool which was called Pontypool Changes Everything. When I watched the film I thought that the concept of a radio station getting reports of a zombie outbreak happening in its home city and covering the events as they came flooding in would be a much better fit for a radio play rather than a movie. I gave this a listen and while it definitely is more effective it’s still not done in the way that would make it most effective. I think that they should have just had the host and his boss wearing microphones and headsets but instead we have the host wearing the gear and we hear what he says during his broadcast but we also hear them talking off air which kind of ruins the illusion because it should be presented like we’re listening to this radio show and if that was the case we wouldn’t hear the banter between the host and his boss while the show was in commercial break. I’m fully aware that there would be zero chance of anyone listening in to his show and thinking it was real (…maybe Trump) but that’s not the point. If you’re going to do something like this be a stickler for detail as the finished product will be better. Much like the movie the radio play uses the idea of the infection spreading as a result of language being spoken and that if you say your infected word you end up becoming a zombie…I dunno it’s something like that anyway. Personally I think this is an unnecessary plot device which I’m sure sounded good when the writer thought it up but in execution it just feels convoluted and there’s for the sake of trying to look clever. There would have been more than enough mileage in a story about a radios station being made aware of a zombie outbreak and reporting on it and then the zombies trying to get inside. Yeah plot wise it wouldn’t be original but that’s why you get deep into character and motivation to get the audience invested. It was still an entertaining enough listen but I just think they missed the ball creatively.

[musicarenagh]

Deadheading Unleashes Their New Release "Break"

Deadheading Unleashes Their New Release “Break”

Lizzie Adsett and Lucja Kardasz are on vocals, bass, and guitar, respectively. Deadheading was created in the cold summer of 2019, when both members were experiencing major emotional difficulties in their personal and professional lives. “We cried in front of a dilapidated church in Bristol and found a musical outlet for our deep feelings and tenderness.” Deadheading originated in beds, fields,…

[bowersurveyors]

Bower Surveyors

Address : 96 Bromley Road, Bristol, BS7 9JE

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Phone :07760 421754

Business Email : info@bowersurveyors.co.uk

Commercial Building Surveyors undertaking a variety of services including schedule of dilapidations, schedule of condition, technical due diligence, PPM schedules, defects report, party wall awards and building condition surveys.

Hour : Monday-Thursday  09:00-17:30, Friday  09:00-16:30

[rufusdawes]

Rays of Sunshine

Like most children, I too am trapped inside the body of someone no longer able to identify as a child. It does mean however, that I still want to climb trees, stick my tongue out and screw up my face after eating disgusting grown up foods like mushrooms or oysters (to be fair I won’t actually go near either), and have a favourite animal. Well, on that last point I have several. Obviously dogs. Especially ones from my past, present and future, as well as every single one I will never meet, and all their canid cousins. Secondly, reptiles. Again this is not restrictive, though if an adult were to ask then I’d say snakes and then fine if pushed, pythons. OK, if you’re really interested, let me get my book of Australian reptiles and I can show you all the ones I’ve seen in the wild since I’ve been ticking them off since I got here. Lastly, rays though specifically this time, the stingray family.

Fortunately, I was spending holidays just after New Year’s at some friends’ house in south-west Western Australia. A stunning property sitting atop 30 acres with an olive grove, fruit trees, a small dam, and enough potential to create quite the permaculture retreat, it’s also nestled just a short drive from each of the Indian Ocean, the Southern Ocean, and the Blackwood River. Two of these supposedly contain at least four species of our stingray family which, in turn, could make me one happy little traveller.

On January 1st, 2005, I landed in Perth, WA, with a mate as we set off on an Australasian adventure from our homes back in Bristol, UK. Our very first week on Aussie soil saw us take a drive into the south-west corner of WA, including a night in Bunbury where we were able to handfeed the resident dolphins. Further down the coast, and following some Lonely Planet advice, we rocked up at a beach called Hamelin Bay. Here, we were advised, one would often see stingrays humbugging the returning fisherman for scraps as the caught haul were prepared in the shadows of what remained of a decaying wooden jetty, once used to service timber milling operations.

In 2005, we were not disappointed. My memory of the entire five week trip largely following the urban coastal part of this isle is somewhat hazy. Not through any drink or drug induced haze but merely through my own inability to remember anything other than that which may crop up during a round of Jeopardy. However, my one crystal clear memory is of stroking these huge cartilaginous cousins of sharks in the lapping shoreline of the tranquil Indian Ocean (pic below).

It was another thirteen years until I saw another in the wild. This was during a free diving adventure off the coast of Bali, involved the largest of the stingray family, the manta ray, and can be read about in a previous blog ‘Among the Fields of Bali’. Three years further along and I’m back at Hamelin Bay, just a ten minute drive from my friends’ house and almost just as I remember it.

The friends have an eleven month old son and it was he we were entertaining with an evening dip at the beach. I spent the appropriate amount of time pretending not to be excited about being back at Stingray City before getting unnecessarily excited about being back at Stingray City. To mask my inner stan, I casually sauntered towards the boat ramp and beyond, the dilapidated pillars of the jetty to find… nothing. Nada, zilch, squat. Natch. Uh oh. Upon my return to my friends I was informed that some rays had been brutally butchered by a few callous locals a few years ago. Unprotected as they were, they were fair game for a ‘catch’ and the laws insufficient for those actions to be classed as illegal. Now, the shoreline is a protected zone for the rays however, it seemed that they had not yet returned. I left deflated.

A day or two later I was in the township of Augusta which sits just up from the estuary of the Blackwood River before it empties into the Southern Ocean and is also just a ten minute drive from my holiday basecamp. Along the riverbank sit numerous cleaning stations. These are small, wooden structures utilised for the cleaning and filleting of caught fish before they’re thrown onto a barbecue at the campground behind for the freshest of feeds. The resident rays are wise to the process and loiter when someone is nearby. Here I was able to amble among eagle rays and spotted rays. If no scraps are on offer, the rays will nudge into you like a hungry puppy and loiter at your feet expectantly. I spent too many hours across a few days paddling with, and photographing these rays. In the absence of the Indian Ocean mob, I was delighted to be entertained by half a dozen or so of these wee fellas, but it wasn’t the same.

A week later, I returned alone to Hamelin Bay and trundled down to the shore to reminisce. It was sixteen years to the day when I was there earlier this trip. Now, these seven days on, I was enjoying the twilight views and a cooling ocean breeze in ankle deep water. From the corner of one eye, a dark shadow caught my attention. Watching carefully, is it a rock? Are the gentle undulations of the tide suggesting underwater movement where none exists? Perhaps it’s just a mass of seaweed. And then, a turn! A tail flicks behind it as the shadow nears. A ray is back! It turns out they didn’t disappear. My attendance earlier just unfortunate timing. On this occasion I counted a dozen or so patrolling the shoreline, a mix of black and silky stingrays. As more onlookers arrived, the rays approached, seeking the scraps they are so often presented. Considerably larger than their freshwater brethren, they are just as demanding nudging the calves and resting above feet awaiting their feed. They are rewarded often enough though are unable to distinguish between the mass of legs as to who may be a provider. It can be a surreal thirty seconds or so feeling the sand move between the toes as a result of the ray drawing water through its mouth an inch from your foot and out through the gills where gas exchange occurs, before the ray loses patience and moves onto the next grounded limb.

I returned one further time, on my last evening in the region, to wander among these graceful beauties. Sitting on the beach after my final frolic and staring out across the Western Australian horizon, I was a pretty content human. The inner child had been allowed out to play for a fortnight and is delighted to announce that his favourite animal is now the stingray. Well, at least until someone lets me pet their dog.