#charlie rowe gif hunt

[ofnailbatsandaxefives]

In the source link you will find #130 gifs of Charlie Rowe in Slow Horses season 3. He is white (English, Scottish, Ashkenazi Jewish, Greek, French and some Manx) Do not use in gif hunts or make icons. Remember to please like and reblog if you decide to use.

[echantedtoon]

Until Death Do You Vow Ch2 A Saving Plan

(EDIT: None of the things in the beginning of this chapter is cannon to The Groom of Gallagher Mansion. It's just made up for the story for Y/n's college scenes.

Warnings for mentioned murder, death, and illness.)

"Class, turn to page one hundred and thirty two. Today we'll be reviewing the foundation of our town and the roll it had in the battle of-"

The sounds of many pages turning in the large room as at least fifty students turned to the appropriate places in their textbooks. Others took out note books lined with lots of notes from previous lessons with room for future ones. Pencils and erasers at the ready for the task ahead of taking down important information. Highlighters in bright yellow ready to highlight any very important details hidden in the professor's speeches. Lights dim as the first slides showed in time with the words the professor spoke.

"Now this here is General Markus G. Tuttle. He was one of the founding fathers of our city and first established it with five other men back in sixteen hundreds under the orders of the current reigning monarch of the time."

The current slide showed up a picture of an old painting taken at the city's local museum. It's old pain chipping away but still held together enough to show the picture of a man in his late fifties in a war uniform.  The professor looked up at the slide before adjusting his glasses and looking back at the younger crowd. 

"Who here can tell me who the reigning monarchs were?" Murmurs and coughs were circulated around until one hand raised up in the very back row. He pointed at it after a moment of straining his eyes to see around the dimly lit room. "Yes. You, Y/n!"

"The reigning monarchy during that time was lead by King Cedric Roland Jackson Snider the Forth and his wife Queen Stacia Emily Snider." Your hand slowly lowered after your answer and the professor nodded in approval.

"Excellent! Yes! Both King and Queen during that time funded their exhibition out to the area where our town would first be established. Who can tell me what the original purpose of the exhibition was?" Again unsure looks were given around until once more your hand raised in answer. "Miss Y/n?"

"The original exhibition was to survey the area and establish a trading route halfway through the path leading to the next country, but the fertile grounds and booming wildlife changed their minds into establishing a large farming and hunting community instead."

"Right you are! Yes! The booming wildlife untouched by most of mankind is what drew them to that idea when first coming to the area! After discovering most of the untouched riches that lay within the surrounding forests and the nutrients in the ground, General Markus Tuttle had it in his mind to return and convince the reigning monarchy into establishing a community and improving the agriculture of the country's economy. Now who can tell me the original name of the town?" You waited to see if someone else would raise their hand and someone else did. A boy in the very front row. "Yes, Charlie!"

You didn't bother interrupting and only listened to the professor continue his lesson and turn to the next slide which was a picture of some old relics from the same time as the founding of the town. You busied yourself by writing down words in the notebook you always took with you during these classes. The words forever being inscribed upon the surface of the paper with ink- Something poked your arm making you pause.

"Psst. Hey, Bud. I gotta tell you something."

Tired f/c eyes deadpanned looked at the mitchmatched eyes of the man sitting next to you blinking behind glasses. A head of red hair met you as he again poked your upper arm.

"What, Taylor?," you whisper hissed back to him voice low to avoid drawing attention. "I'm trying to take notes here. You should be taking notes too! You have no idea if this'll be on the finals!"

Taylor, your best friend and dorm buddy, didn't seemed phased by your words in the slightest and only whispered back. "We need to talk about the OHSIC. It's important!"

"We're having a meeting anyways tonight. You can wait until then."

"WHAT?! BUT THAT'S STILL HOURS AWAY-"

"Mr. Potts." The professor gave a look of silent disapproval as the lesson paused. A good few heads also turned to stare at the seemingly frozen red head next to you suddenly in the spotlight. "Is there something so important that you have to disrupt my lesson? If so please share it with the class."

In an instant Taylor's face went an embarrassed red and he shook his head no. "N-NO! I was just-...Uh. A-Asking to borrow a pencil! Yeah!"

The professor narrowed his heads. "Well then next time ask quietly or better. Next time actually come prepared and not disrupt the class. Now then. " He turned back to the board. "As I was saying, most of the earliest population consisted of farmers and their families and their farm hands and their families. However there was a couple dozen larger plantations usually owned by the wealthier families of the time. One of the most famous ones being-"

Taylor gave a sigh of relief as the faces of their classmates turned away from them and focused back onto the lesson the professor was giving.

"I told you. Just wait until all our classes are finished and we'll talk at the weekly meeting. Ok?" You looked back to the notebook after giving Taylor a quick reassuring pat on the hand.

His cheeks turned back to the faint color of pink before he pulled his hands back and looked away. "F-Fine. But don't take too long."

You only smiled at his pouty tone. You were used to it by now though. It's just how Taylor was ever since you both met two years ago in your first year of college. You both just happened to be taking the same classes as each other two of them being Local History and Folklore Studies, also known as Folkloristics. It was the study of all aspects of culture, particularly material culture or the products of a society. Or in other words local folklore, myths, and legends. And in this city there was certainly quite a lot. You weren't sure why but you were always fascinated by the paranormal and fantasy sides of things. You supposed that's what drew you both together as friends. Granted Taylor was WAY more into the cryptozoology parts than you were but it was still a  thing you two could bond over. Local History and Folklore Studies were the best ways to find out about any spooky happenings that were around the city and a way for you to study for that job you wanted. You were hoping to get a job ast the local museum and become a writer on the side. What better way to achieve both your passions? Which was also why you took the Language Art classes the University offered. 

But you weren't expecting to make a friend in Taylor but it was easier when you both realized you had a lot in common and you saw each other so often. Taylor may have been eccentric, quote 'nerdy', and over passionate about everything he was passionate about but he was honestly one of the easiest guys to talk to you've met. 

Other than Ia-.....

Anyways- It was sorta hard not to be friends with him and hang out with him especially when you both stayed in the same dorm building on campus. It was halfway through the first year of college that he made his club and by the second year you agreed to joining after he practically begged you to. It was a pleasant distraction after all you've been through, and you could rely on Taylor to at least be there for you. Even if he could be a lot, he was a good friend you could count on. 

The rest of the classes were spent on collecting notes as usual with each one but you noticed that Taylor seemed more anxious and impatient about something the more time had passed. Guess whatever it was was eating at him a lot. So when you're last class ended for the day and you gathered your things, it shouldn't have surprised you when Taylor grabbed your arm practically dragging you behind him pushing past people and giving you both dirty looks as he pushed through the crowds.

"Taylor! What the heck?! You dug in your heels and yanked your hand from his with a frown. "What are you trying to do? Pull my arm outta socket?"

"Y/n, class is over! You gotta-"

"Stop by my dorm room and put my books away!" You frowned. "Not to mention I left the notes for the next meeting on my desk."

"That can wait! We gotta talk NOW!! It's a matter of life and death for the club!"

Your brow rose. "I doubt that but fine. I'm gonna go put my stuff away and grab the notes. Just go and I'll meet you at the library as usual." You turned away and began walking.

"I- You- BUT- ...RRRRRR!!" He gripped his head before stomping off making you roll your eyes at his antics. 

Always so dramatic about things. You were sure whatever it was it wasn't as bad as he was making it out to be-

"THEY'RE GONNA SHUT DOWN THE OHSIC!!!"

Ok. Maybe you were mistaken.

You had just arrived with the small notebook you set aside just for OHSIC meetings and you were just expecting to go over your failed attempt to pull in more members by handing out homemade flyers and go over more ways to get members when Taylor grabbed you by the shoulders when you first stepped foot in the University library. His panicked voice echoed in your face. 

...You blinked. "What?"

"The Union Chairman said he's going to take away all the funding and space for the club because we haven't been retaining members!" Hr finally let go of you and began to pace as you blinked shaking your head. "'The space is being utterly wasted on us'. Can you believe that stupid pig faced jerk?!"

"Taylor, keep it down. We're in the library. Do you want us to get kicked out of here too?" 

Your frown seemed to cut through his rambles because he sighed and rubbed his face. "No. Sorry I guess. B-But we gotta do something!"

"Ok. Time out!" You held up your hands in a 'T' shape making Taylor once again as a hand pointed at him. "Back up to the beginning. What's going on?"

Taylor blinked before groaning which turned into a sigh. "This morning. I-I got called into a meeting with the Union Chairman." He motioned his hands around with a scowl. "He basically said he's going to shut down the club if we don't get members soon and FAST!"

Your face contorted into one of shock . Well you couldn't say you were too surprised by the outcome. The club has had trouble retaining membership for a while now with the only consistent members being Taylor who was the founder and you being the vice president of only because you were the only other member who showed up. Mostly only because it was a good distraction for what happened two years ago (even if you had gotten over it by now) and because you felt bad for Taylor putting in so much work into the club. 

"Really? I wasn't expecting it to happen this soon. I thought they would've waited at least until this Christmas break before deciding to drop funding."

"You knew this would happen?!"

"Not so soon but eventually. The club's been in in hot water for a while now Taylor."

He growled again running his hands over his face and messy red locks screwing up his glasses. "They said they wanted to use our space for the JUGGLING CLUB!! THE JUGGLING CLUB!! Can you believe that?!"

You rose a brow at Taylor's logic. By his logic clowns juggle things. Clown are scary and evil. Therefore by default the juggling club was scary and evil. Maybe that's what had gotten to him the most and made him so angry? Either way you just shook your head and sighed.

"Well the whole point of today's meeting was to figure out new ways to get new members anyways." You lightly waved the notebook in your hands. "So do you want to start the meeting now and see if we can figure something out?"

He lit up fixing his glasses and turning. "Right then! Vice prez, let's get brainstorming!" You rolled your eyes and followed Taylor to a hidden table in the back between a few shelves where he sat down. "Alright! Roll call! Say here if you're present!"

"Taylor, we're the only ones here. *sigh* But here."

"Here! All members of the OSHIC are accounted for. As club president I dub this meeting started! Now that's out of the way, it's time to get down to business!" He pointed at you . "We need to start finding new members to save the club fast! Any ideas?"

"Not a single one." You dropped the notebook on the table and gestured to it. "We've tried everything and nothing's worked. At least nothing long term. I've written it all down here and we've been through it over and over again."

He groaned slumping over to press his face against the table. "Great. This is just what we wanted today....What if we put an ad on the University's web page?"

"We tried that. Ten times in the last two years." Taylor groaned muffled by the table again. "What if we do a ghost story contest? Maybe that might attract a few people from the writing classes."

"Not a bad idea but what would we use as a prize? Between us both we both got like twenty bucks to spare and I don't think hand me down furniture and broke college kid ramen is a very enticing prize."

It was your turn to sigh. He was right about that part. "It's too bad we don't just have something cool like a magic wand like Cinderella's fairy godmother or something really cool like some alien tech. We'd be getting hundreds of members and some money offers too. But that only happens in movies."

"Yeah...Hey. Wait a sec." Taylor's head lifted up from the wooden table as his eyes widened, glasses crooked. "That's it!" You jumped as he suddenly leaned back up smacking his hands onto the table. "That is it!"

"Uh...What is?"

"Most of the people leave the club because it's not enticing enough or they get bored, but if we can actually get some actual proof that the paranormal exists then that'll make more people more interested!"

Your brows rose again. "Uh huh. And how exactly are we supposed to do that? We haven't actually been able to get anything besides some muffled audio recordings from the ghost investigations you had us do. And even that won't be convincing to most people."

Taylor laughed awkwardly looking away nervously. "Ahaha. Rrriiiight. *Ahem* Anyways-" he quickly changed the subject. "This town's huge! There's gotta be at least ONE paranormal hotspot that we can take advantage of! All we gotta do is find one and get some proof and BINGO!! CLUB'S SAVED!!"

"That's your plan?"

He placed one hand on his hip frowning. "You got any better ideas?"

"Touche. But how are we going to get proof? It's not like we can just waltz into the woods and ask Bigfoot and the forest elves to pose for us."

Despite chuckling at your words Taylor spoke with a serious voice. "We'll just have to do a little research! And lucky for us we're in the best sort of lace for studying!" He gestured to the walls around him as if to answer his own words. "C'mon! There's not a moment to lose! I'll check out the computers and see if there's anything interesting we missed! You scan the shelves!"

Your face deadpanned as he was already standing up to make his way to the nearest computer. Of course you'd get the harder job. You sighed and with a roll of your eyes you stood up to go browse the shelves. By now you already knew where most of ghost stories and haunted history books were so it was so easy to walk over towards the shelf and pulled out the first book that might be useful in your search titled 'Real Hauntings and Unsolved Murders'. Cue ten minutes later of you flipping through the pages as Taylor was... somewhere around here also assumedly researching. 

"... Hey! There's a bus station where someone was murdered twenty years ago. They say his face was pale and looked like he saw the devil himself before he died." You called out looking up at the rows of shelves. "You wanna try and have a seance there? Maybe we can conjure something up."

There was a moment before Taylor leaned back in his chair to poke his head out three shelves down from you. His nose crinkled as he shook his head. "Nah. It'd be weird if we just lit candles up and used a ouija board at a public bus stop. Someone might even call the police and get us in trouble. Besides it's too noisy and crowded there. Even if we did get anything it'd be hard to make out from the noise mess." His head disappeared and you sighed. 

Unfortunately he did have another good point. Back to the books. You skimmed through the rest of the book which was mostly uninteresting old murders and legendary ghost stories from around the world which weren't helpful to you. So you placed it back and picked up another book titled 'Cryptids of The Century.' You flipped through the first chapter talking about the author and her experiences before skimming the stories told. 

"..Taylor!"

"Yeah?," his voice called back to you.

"You remember that old pond that used to be by the park?"

"Yeah?"

"They say a siren lives there. You wanna try and see if we can get anything from there?"

Another small pause. "Didn't they drain the pond and fill it in to expand the park's playground on top of it?"

You wanted to smack your face. Instead you sighed. "Right. I forgot about that. I'll keep looking. Any luck on your end?"

"No dice," he called back, "I've been scanning through every search pop up in our area but most of it are things we already checked out, proven to be fake, or don't have enough backing to be worth the effort. UGH! I didn't think finding at least one good haunting experience would be this hard!"

"Keep looking, Taylor. I'm sure we'll find something." You looked back to the book. "Even if we gotta dig through the boring haunts, we'll find something to use."

There was more silence as you flipped through a few pages talking about an alleged unicorn sighting from over a hundred years ago when Taylor hummed again loudly in thought. 

"Boring haunts. Hey. I think you might have something there!" You looked up from the book but didn't see him. "It just crossed my mind!"

"What did?"

The sounds of a chair scraping could be heard before Taylor appeared standing up and smiling excitedly. "Something we've never done before!" Your face looked even more confused so he continued to explain excitedly holding up his hands. "Okay, okay. Here's the plan! You know that old house way out there on the corner of town? That old Gallagher place where all those deaths and murders happened ages ago?"

You paused for a long moment before you understand what he was talking about. "Wait. You mean the old Gallagher Mansion?"

He nodded excitedly with a bright smile. "Don't you see? We've never checked it out! We all thought it was too boring. Too bland. Too.. vanilla. But no! Maybe we made a mistake trying to find new things when we've left the biggest stone in town unturned!"

You hummed again at his words before staring down at the book you still held in deep thought. That... wasn't a too bad of an idea. You both really hadn't been there before as everyone knew it's reputation quite well around here. It's a hot spot for college dorks to drink and hope no one notice, an occasional haunted house for paranormal investigators, and home to a few basic ghost stories a lot of the older locals take pride in. Heritage and horror in one neat package. Other times it was an attraction for the tourists' haunted tours during Halloween but mostly it was just one of the older abandoned houses around here. There was a few but most were in the woods where the forest drew over the abandoned parts of the earlier town. 

"That's an idea I'll give ya that." The book closed before you pointed at him. "But there's been TONS of investigations done there and no one's really proven anything's there. Plus people use that old place for parties all the time and no one's really came back with ghost encounters. Even if they did, it just could've easily been a hallucination from the booze they always have at those parties."

"I know but isn't it worth at least one shot?" He countered back. "We've never even tried to see the place before and who knows. Maybe the ghosts never revealed themselves to anyone partying because they don't like it. Would you want to talk to a whole bunch of drunk college jocks if you were a ghost?"

"Probably not. But I guess that's a fair enough point. There's no harm by looking at it I guess."

Taylor happily lit up with a wide grin and held up a hand. "Right then! Vice Prez, tonight we're hitting the books! Research like your life depends on it!"

You sighed placing your book back on the shelf. It'd be a long night you could see. "You're lucky you're my friend. Go look up the mansion on the computer, I think I already know the book I need."

"Right! This will be what saves the club! I just know it!"

You rolled your eyes as Taylor disappeared again and went to pull out the book you needed. A book titled 'Unusual Murders and Mysteries.' You remembered there was two whole big chapters dedicated to the Gallagher Mansion when you skimmed through it once trying to research good ghost hunting spots for the club. You opened it up and turned the pages until they got to the parts you needed. Stopping and carefully beginning to read the words written there. Meanwhile Taylor typed away at the keyboard quickly. You just turned the first page when Taylor shouted again.

"Eureka! I found them!" Taylor's shout caught your attention enough to walk over and peep around the shelf at his smiling face. He smiled at you before looking back to the bright screen where a web page was open to a black and white old photo of a grand mansion and the article under it. "According to this...The Gallaghers were a well off military family from Europe who came to America in the mid eighteen hundreds." He scrolled down more giving you the summery of the large article before stopping on another article next to two old black and white photos of an older couple. "Archibald Gallagher, the family patriarch, found success as a cornmeal Barron. He married a woman named Mildred and together they had a total of.." He paused again to scroll down more until he stopped on a bigger black and white photo. It was the older couple again and seven younger men and women whom looked about your's and Taylor's age. "Seven children."

"Wow. Quite the large family." You commented looking at the large family portrait. 

Taylor shrugged. "It was normal during those days to have large families. But all of the Gallaghers were quite exceptional except for-"

"Elias right? That's the ghost that's rumored to haunt the mansion."

Taylor nodded. "He would be.." His eyes squinted at the old family Portrait before pointing out one person that stood behind who you assumed to be one of his sisters sitting in a chair and between two tall men who must've been his brothers. You could barely make him out from the crowded photo. "That one there. Elias was born the black sheep of his family. All of his other other siblings were born healthy and strong, but Elias's birth came with a lot of complications."

"He was bedridden for most of his childhood right?"

Again Taylor nodded. "Pretty much the epitome of the sickly Victorian child trope."

You frowned. "I don't think it should be talked about like that."

He shrugged before moving onto the next paragraph of the article. "They all died under mysterious circumstances other than Elias who's death was arguably the most normal out of all the family deaths if you can count murder normal."

"How though?"

"Well a lot of rumors say it's cuz of a curse, but nobody can agree why they were cursed to begin with. The eldest died in a freak accident involving a horse and from there it's a chain reaction of freak accidents in short susession, completely unrelated to the previous deaths but without fail it would kill the next eldest child like a couple of dominoes hitting them in some pretty gruesome ways." Taylor looked almost pitiful at the dates of deaths and the causes of the deaths listed next to the names of each Gallagher family member. 

"That's got to be so hard on the family dealing with so much tragedy."

"I don't think Archibald and Mildred were too happy to write Elias down as their sole heir after his brothers and sisters all passed on but somehow he managed to dodge the curse. At least until his own death when he was murdered but he still managed to outlive his parents too." He squinted at more of the deaths listed in the article. "Also not too long after rewriting the will both of them died during a bridge collapse on what was supposed to be a calm carriage ride. Same energy as scented candles setting fire to your apartment."

"That part about him surviving for so long is a big strange." You hummed. "Why would the curse skip the youngest sibling and go after his parents only to then come back for him?"

"There was and still is speculation about Elias spinning elaborate murder schemes to take down his family but here's the thing." Taylor rubbed his chin in thought. "Elias had few people to write too and even fewer people who'd write back. According to this, Elias became a permanent shut in after becoming head of the entire Gallagher Estate. I'd probably do that too if it was me."

You nodded in agreement. "Who wouldn't after something like that happened to you? But..Elias was killed himself wasn't he?"

"Yep! Murdered."

"By who?"

"That would be.." Taylor scrolled down more. "Gerald and Violet Dupont. According to this, Gerald Dupont was the Gallagher's groundskeeper and after the death of the rest of his family he introduced Elias to his sister, Violet Dupont, as a fellow heiress without a partner. You can guess what happened after that."

"The whole courting thing, proposing, and a romantic fairytale wedding right?'

He waved a hand. "Everything but the wedding part. According to these old newspaper clippings-" He again gestured to the screen. "Elias died the night before his wedding ceremony while the Duoonts were caught red handed tearing the mansion apart looking for the family's fortune."

"Wait. I know this part." Taylor looked up at you as you flipped through the still open book in your hands. "He was found with his head decapitated from his body using an axe and the Duponts were arrested on charges of murder. Without anyone else to claim the property it was soon abandoned after Elias's burial."

"What a way to go huh?"

You nodded. "And selfish. To murder just to steal a poor man's family legacy. They must've taken advantage of his own grief."

Taylor nodded before looking back at the screens. "Which is why besides ghost hunting, we'll also see if we can find out where the fortune is. Treasure hunting isn't our primary goal but it's still worth looking out for."

You nodded. "Good idea. Even if we don't find any ghosts, finding a legendary fortune would also make us famous but are you sure there's even any treasure? I mean wouldn't someone have found it by now?"

"All these old newspaper clippings keep mentioning how big the inheritance was but some assets were never accounted for in the banks. Rumor has it that the Gallaghers kept some of it hidden on the estate."

"Alright but those are just rumors. That doesn't really mean there's a treasure and that doesn't necessarily mean there's a ghost either."

Taylor hummed. "Maybe but we have to try."

"That's another thing." The book closed with a thud and pointed at him. "If no one's ever seen the ghost, or at least recently-" The rumors had to have started from somewhere. So there might've been a ghost at one point or a long time ago someone THOUGHT they saw the ghost of Elias Gallagher. "-how are we going to get him to show up for us? No other investigation has ever been successful and no one else has claimed to see him."

Taylor legitimately looked shocked at the revelation before again he hummed and a hand rubbed his chin. "That's... Actually a fair point. Even if he's there he might just want to be left alone and not talk to anyone."

"So there's no way we could get him to talk even if he supposedly was there? Great. That's another dead end." You turned to leave but stopped when Taylor's hand grabbed yours.

"Wait a sec. ... Maybe it's not WHY. Maybe it's a matter of how and when!" He turned to you as you blinked confused. "Think. Why would Elias want to talk to anyone? Drunk people party in his home and investigators usually come demanding he show himself. So maybe it's just how we go about trying to communicate with him, and when. And it just so happens that this week happens to be one of the best days to do a ghost hunt! What's the last day of this week?"

"Um...Friday?"

"Friday THE THIRTEENTH!," Taylor corrected you with a bright smile. "Paranormal activity increases more on Friday the Thirteenth more than any other day of the year except for Halloween! And not only that! This Friday the Thirteenth is supposed to be a blood moon! Which also increases paranormal activity. And on top of BOTH of those it's also gonna be a FULL MOON too! How lucky can we get? The moon being in its fullest cycle is said to increase in power. This is like the best combination possible!"

You blinked at him before slowly nodding. "Ok. That's all really good conditions. But even with all of that and even if we ask him really nicely, all that stuff still doesn't guarantee anything. If that was true then that crew who did the investigation on All Hallows Eve, which is arguably more powerful than Friday the Thirteenth, would've gotten something."

Again Taylor hummed in thought looking you over, then back to the computer screen, then back to you gears whirling in his head. Before he smiled very widely and in a way you didn't like. "Oh I think I have an idea. Get ready, Bud! We're gonna investigate the old dump! I just know there's something we can find in there. It's our last hope!"

[seblaine-rph]

do you have any suggestions for alt fcs for finn?

Personally, I love him as a dopey white guy simply because it means that an exploration of the "idiot white guy learns better" concept is available. His decision making in season one was very, very white hetero male, in my opinion. He didn't like certain things, but he went along with them because they didn't hurt him personally. He was a leader, but not because he really seemed to have earned it but because he was the quarterback, so it was handed to him. When he joined the Glee club, he was forced to be introduced to a minority crowd and eventually learned some good things and became a better person and leader. Aesthetically, he's got to have some muscle but not be super buff or without a little body fat. Someone with a great smile that melts hearts but also a dopey smile that makes people laugh.

This is a list of men of all ethnicities that I could see as Finn, you'll probably want to do a quick Google search for problematic issues before picking for sure because I did not. I just asked Google or comedians under 40:

Devin Druid

Antoine Olivier Pilon

John Boyega

Lucas Hedges

Bowen Yang

Tye Sheridan

Liam James

Hasan Minhaj

Tony Revolori (I looked at a Willow gif hunt and idk for sure if you'll have resources of him smiling, his face is just the right kind of cute)

Charlie Rowe

Nat or Alex Wolff, but more Nat than Alex

Kelvin Harrison Jr.

Connor Jessup

Chad Michael Murray

Manny Jacinto

Marshall Williams played Spencer on Glee, but his look fits

Will Poulter

Cameron Monoghan

Josh Hutcherson

George MacKay

Logan Lerman

Jack Whitehall

Jaboukie Young-White

[mercerislandbooks]

50 Years of Island Books: Nancy Stewart

If a bookstore could have a house band for kids, Nancy Stewart would be it! Nancy has been an Island resident and children's singer-songwriter for nearly forty years and over that time has become a fixture at Island Books storytimes. Her passion for the connection between early literacy and singing is infectious, and at times makes Saturday mornings noisy and happily disruptive.

Miriam: Can you tell me about how you first came to Island Books, Nancy? What was the Mercer Island community like at the time?

Nancy: We moved to Mercer Island in 1981, and even then, Island Books was the hub of the community. I was still performing in nightclubs at the time (among other things I was the house entertainment for an elegant little restaurant called Klahowyan, located in a little one-story mall across from the QFC). I began singing for children and when I made my first children's recording in 1989, I took it to Island Books. When I asked Fam Bayless, the owner at that time, if she would sell it, she said, "Well, I'll listen to it and if it's good, I will." It was that simple, and that began the wonderful relationship I have had with Island Books for the last forty years. In those days bookstores were the main retailer of children's music. The bookstore hand-sold our cassette recording for many years, and then the CD, along with many of my other titles, although Goodnight, Sleep Tight was always the best seller. Mercer Island looked quite different then, of course, but it always had a reputation for being a great place to raise kids, and a beautiful place to live. 

(An off-topic random piece of Island Books trivia I'm sure you know, the inside of the playhouse is decorated with sweet little drawings done by local artist and art teacher, Poo Putsch. I featured them as part of my sing-along scavenger hunt when I started Sing With Our Kids in 2012. Most adults have never been inside, so don't know).

Miriam: I didn't know that! There are so many personal touches and hidden stories in the store. Can you tell me about the most memorable events you participated in at the bookstore? We'd love to hear if you have any special anecdotes or mishaps to share.

Nancy: Ooo. So many events over almost forty years! The only mishap I can remember happened early on in my time at the bookstore, and it wasn’t exactly my mishap. Roger and Nancy were big fans of my Goodnight, Sleep Tight Lullaby recording and had the great idea of hosting pajama concerts at the store. What could go wrong? We got great crowds that could fill up the entire children's area. Barney (The Purple Dinosaur) and Friends was a very popular children's show at the time, and I had commented on how children often said, “Barney wrote that,” when I sang a traditional or even my own songs! Roger was very proud of the fact that he didn’t own a television and his kids wouldn't even know who Barney was. The “mishap” occurred one evening when Roger’s young son, Lewis, was in the front row. I asked for requests, and he began loudly chanting, “Barney! Barney! Barney!” Roger feigned total mortification and I, of course, never let him forget it! 

In 2012 when I launched my Sing With Our Kids Community Project, I knew I wanted Island Books to be an active partner. I scheduled a formal meeting with Roger to pitch my plan, and he immediately and enthusiastically got onboard. And that led to the next memorable event. 

Flash mobs were popular then, and I thought it would be amazing to have a flash mob with young children and their families at Island Books. I asked my fans to arrive at the store on a certain date and time, and simply browse in the children’s area. I would ask Roger if he had a copy of the Wheels on the Bus, and when he handed it to me, I would begin reading and singing. Families were to join in singing and make their way towards me as we all gravitated to the game area in a small mob. I’d even enlisted my friend, Charlie Williams, aka “The NoiseGuy,” a sound impressionist and comedian to perform his Noisy Alphabet after we sang. I had told everyone in advance we would video the whole thing and post it on YouTube. The excitement and silliness in the store that morning was incredible, and it was one of my favorite events ever. Roger was over the top in his impromptu role, and the parents and grandparents were dressed up and ready for the camera. Everyone sang along and it was an absolute blast! You can see video here https://youtu.be/DnFA4DOIwdc . It’s not great, but it is fun!

Miriam: That is awesome. Tell me about how Covid affected your relationship with the bookstore.

Nancy: I can’t reflect on Island Books without including Covid times. When Laurie bought the store, she asked the customers what changes they would like to see, and one of them was having a weekday storytime. She asked me to do it and we agreed on Wednesday mornings. It was very popular, and we had large groups of regular attendees. I had also just revamped the Saturday Evening Storytelling series and had scheduled some great guests. Then came March 23rd, 2020. I remember finishing what became my last storytime on the 18th, and it was eerily quiet in the bookstore. We all knew things were going downhill quickly, and sure enough, on March 23rd Governor Inslee issued the stay-at-home order. 

It was heartbreaking and surreal, but Laurie didn’t skip a beat. She asked if I could video and post Wednesday storytimes to keep them going. I knew nothing about how to do it and had only my phone and some lighting I borrowed from my son. For the next few months, I would let myself into the store through the back door and set up in the back of the children’s area. I won’t lie, it felt a bit dangerous. Laurie was working at her desk, but most of the time I didn’t even see her. I’ll never forget sitting by myself in this familiar beautiful space, now seemingly frozen in time. Although publishers had issued emergency permission to read and video their books, the first time I tried it my video was taken down within an hour. After that I only sang my own songs, and used my own visuals, sometimes just holding up a favorite book. It was surreal. You can still find those storytimes here https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLyQQLjelm7Rt-0bLnkwZ6QDjsJxIULP3m

But we made it through, thanks to Laurie’s tireless work and ingenuity, and of course, dedicated staff. Our sweet, sweet families are back, and Island Books is once again filled with all the community sights and sounds that help make this such a magical place. The old ceiling fan once again works its magic calming fussy babies and customers once again must take the alternate path through the store as we spill into the main aisle on Saturday mornings. It’s the most joyful full-of-possibilities place I know, and it’s enough to make me want to sing (and read, of course)!

Miriam: Me too. I have the best memories of bringing my kids to your storytimes when they were little.

To our Island Books community: In the next 50 Years of Island Books installment, I’ll be talking to our key sales reps from the big publishing houses. They all have long-standing relationships with Island Books, and play an important role in our history.

—Miriam

[hotsvgargifs]

click on THE SOURCE LINK to be directed to #38 gifs of CHARLIE ROWE as JAMIE in the short movie THE FORGOTTEN C (2020). he was born in 1996 and is WHITE so please keep that in mind when using him! all gifs were made by me, from scratch, so please DO NOT claim as your own, post in gif hunts or use in celeb rps. feel free to make them into crackships and gif icons as long as you give me credit! please LIKE and/or REBLOG this post if you use, as I am a new gif maker. thank you so so much! please be respectful of my work as this takes time and every content creator wants to be appreciated, if my rules are not taken into consideration, i will put them in a discord server. <3

trigger warning(s): covid, cancer gif pack features: n/a

[jeremyallenwrench]

Charlie Rowe - Salvation S2

Please message me for access to #415 gifs of CHARLIE ROWE season 2 of Salvation. All gifs have been made by me, so please like or reblog this if you find them helpful! Due to people not following my rules, I am now only sending links to those who confirm with me that they have reblogged the post (or have explained why they are unable to do so.) Give me a heads up if you use them to create gif icons or crack ships - I don’t generally have a problem with it, but I have a few rules as far as crediting me! 

[perfectlywrongformend3s]

Dead Girl Walking-Charlie Gillespie

GIF: @gillespiecharlie​  

Ok this is a weird request but I like could not get the thought out of my head so hoping you can help. Ok so like don’t know if you’ve seen the heathers musical (highly recommend the bootlegs on YouTube if not) but like Charlie’s reaction to watching you perform dead girl walking with your co star. Or performing it with Charlie… please😭😭 

Requested: Yes

Words: 1023

Warning: language

A/n: I am so sorry for getting this out late but I had a writers block, but I am good and better than before. Also Happy New Years guys.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your POV

I was in my dressing room getting ready for my next scene with my stage lover Oliver. I am a little nervous about this scene since it’s more sexual one where my boyfriend Charlie will be watching. I told him early today before we left to go.

‘Flashback’

I was finishing getting ready to go to the theater with Charlie for the play I’m doing. Before we walked out I stopped him.

“Charlie?”

He turned around to face me and smiled “ Yes angel.”

I looked down, but felt him bring my head back up. “ You know you can tell me anything.”

“ Yea, I know. It’s just kind of hard to say.”

He then rubbed my back and told me…

“ Take your time darling.”

I let out a deep breath and told him about this one scene.

“ Well there’s this scene in the play were it gets sexual and I just wanted to warn you. I didn’t want you to get mad, not that I thought you would get mad.”

Before I could say anything Charlie put his hands on my face and said…

“ Thank you for letting me know. I also know that it doesn’t mean anything so it’s fine darling. When you tell me these things it means you trust me.”

I smiled and pulled him into a loving hug. He responded to me by pulling me in a little tighter.

‘Flashback over’

I was trying to calm my nerves when I heard a knock and a voice letting me know that it was time. I took one more deep breath before heading out to the stage.

I saw Oliver in his position so I took one last breath before singing.

‘ The demon queen of high school has deceed it,

She says Monday, 8 a.m, I’ll be deleted,

They’ll hunt me down in study hall, stuff and mount me on the wall,

Thirty hours to live,

How shall I spend them?’

I turned around to face the crowd to sing…

‘ I don’t have to stay and die like cattle,

I could change my name and ride up to seattle,

But I don’t own a motorbike,

Wait, here’s an option that I like,

Spend these 30 hours gettin’ freaky, yeah!,

I need it hard,

I’m a dead girl walking,

I’m in your yard,

I’m a dead girl walking.’

I started walking to the upper part where Oliver was and sang…

‘ Before they punch my clock,

I’m snappin’ off your window lock,

Got no time to knock, I’m a dead girl walking.’

Oliver then jumped and sat up to say…

“ Veronica, what you doing in my room?”

I then said,

“ Shhh! Sorry, but I really had to wake you,

See, I decided I must ride you till I break you,

Cause Heather says I got to go,

You’re my last meal on death row,

Shut your mouth and lose them tighty-whities.’

I walked closer to him and ripped the buttons of my jacket open that I wear.

‘ Come on,

Tonight I’m yours.’

Oliver was about to put his hand on my waist when I then pushed him saying…

‘I’m your dead girl walking,

Get on all fours.’

Oliver had his hands going up my legs while I was singing…

‘Kiss this dead girl walking,

Let’s go, you know the drill,

I’m hot and pissed and on the pill,

Bow down to the will of a dead girl walking.’

Charlie’s POV

I was watching Y/n perform and let;s just say she was doing an amazing job. It got to the point where she told me that it would get sexual, but I kept telling myself that it was just part of the show. I saw her co-star putting his hands on her legs and I couldn't help it, I just wished it was me up there with her.

‘ And you know, you know, you know,

It’s cause you’re beautiful,

You say you’re numb inside,

But I can’t agree,

So the world’s unfair,

Keep it locked out there,

In here it’s beautiful.’

I watched as she took off her coat and screamed…

‘ Let’s make this beautiful!’

Oliver then said “ That works for me.”

They then went in for a kiss and it made me jealous because she’s mine and I don’t really want her to kiss anyone else other than me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I could tell the song was almost over because Y/n would play it all the time to practice.

‘Slap me, pull my hair,

Touch me there and there and there and there,’

When I saw what Oliver was doing I got a little more jealous.

Your POV

I sang the last note out with Oliver.

“ Yeah!”

The both of us were out of breath. I smiled at him and then got up to change so we could finish the show.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I was heading out to meet Charlie until Oliver stopped me.

“ Hey I just want to say that you did an amazing job.”

I smiled “ Aw. Oliver, you did a fantastic job.”

We both shared a hug before heading our separate ways. I saw Charlie leaning against the car so I ran up to him and wrapped my arms around him. He hugged me tighter.

“ You did so good babe.” he said

I smiled and thanked him. I then leaned in to kiss him which he gladly responded with. Before we got in the car I asked…

“ So how were you feeling?”

He let out a sigh, but said…

“ I was already feeling a little jealous. But I know it’s just for the play.”

“Baby. There’s no need to be jealous, ok. I’m all yours Char.”

He smiled and kissed me again before we got into the car to head home.

[winchester-fantasies]

Something a Little More Recreational

Summary: An encounter with Dean leaves you questioning if there’s something more between you. After you’re attacked, Dean proves he’ll be there to pick up all the pieces.

Word Count: 3714

Warnings: trigger (sexual assault), violence, light angst, light swearing, implied smut, fluff, age gap

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Winchester Fantasies’ Masterlist

     You walked down the hall, your bare feet making soft pats across the cold floor of the bunker. Your fingers trailed against the cool wall, your skin snagging on an occasional crack in the ancient surface as you limped along the brightly lit corridor.

     You had been hurt in your last hunt, earning yourself the sideline. Your friends were now taking care of the next hunt, leaving you alone with Sam and Dean Winchester. Not that it was much better having them around. It had only been a few months since you’d come over into this new universe, and you hadn’t had much time to rest let alone make new friends. The Winchesters were virtually strangers to you. You knew them only as the strong and mysterious heroes who had saved you and your camp from Michael.

     This was the first real reprieve you had had since moving into the bunker, and although you had loved getting to selfishly enjoy your bed, it was short-lived. Boredom set in on day two, and you had watched every movie on Netflix at least twice. You couldn’t take it anymore and decided to take an impromptu exploration of the bunker.

     You half regretted your decision, the wound on your upper thigh beginning to smart with the denim of your jeans rubbing roughly against it. The muscle in your thigh was still weak, and your legs nearly gave out more than once. But you were curious and determined to find something entertaining.

��    You found the maintenance room first which was of little interest to you. Next you found the armory and gun range, which intrigued you. You knew Dean used it quite often for practice, and although you were well versed in using firearms, you wanted to desperately spend an hour or two in the range and work on your marksmanship simply for fun.

     You walked to the garage where rows of vintage cars lined the far wall. You were still fascinated by vehicles with them being such a rarity in your own universe.

     The gym sat off to the right of the garage, and as you passed, you marveled at all of the machinery and the large punching bag hanging in the corner of the room. Once you healed, you wanted to spend some time in the gym. Not that you needed to work out. You were strong, healthy, and in good shape despite your wider hips, thick thighs, and the little bit of extra pudge that sat in your lower belly.

     You exited the garage and sauntered to the other side of the bunker. You were well acquainted with this part of the cavernous building. You knew the war room and kitchen by heart now, but you hadn’t really had much of a chance to check out the library.

     Your eyes scanned the books, your mind hungry for something to read. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d read or even held a book in your hands. You found one that looked promising so you took it from the shelf and curled up in one of the leather back chairs in the corner. You lost yourself in the well-compiled book of lore. When you looked up at the clock, an hour had already passed. You put the book back but not before earmarking the page you left off on and promising to finish it.

     You walked into the kitchen, your mouth dry and begging for water. You found Dean at the table, glass in one hand, bottle of whiskey in the other. He tipped his head in recognition as you walked to the sink, filling a glass with water.

     “Mind if I sit here?” you asked as you approached the table.

     Dean frowned. “Do I look like I care?” he returned gruffly.

     “No, I guess not,” you shrugged, pulling out a chair and sitting down gingerly, your wound still tender.

     You took a sip of water while Dean downed the last remaining remnants of amber liquid and poured another. He took a sip and smacked his lips. “So what are you doing here instead of on a hunt?” he asked with a frown.

     “Injured,” you said simply, motioning to your leg.

     “Hmm,” Dean nodded. “What was it?”

     “Vamp.”

     Dean huffed. “Nasty sons o’ bitches.”

     “Yeah,” you said with a harsh chuckle.

     “What was that?”

     You shrugged. “I’m just annoyed.”

     Dean cocked an eyebrow. “That wasn’t annoyance. That was hate.”

     You dropped your gaze. “Yeah, well, I froze.”

     Dean sent you a smirk. “Happens to the best of us, sweetheart.” He tipped his glass towards you before taking another sip.

     “So why are you drowning yourself in whiskey?” you asked as Dean poured himself yet another glass.

     “Oh, you know. End of the world; Michael; Lucifer. Typical shit.” He took a sip. “Good old family business,” he added sarcastically.

     “It’s just no matter how much me and Sam do to rid our world of evil, it never makes a fucking difference,” he said gruffly, his thumb and forefinger running over his eyelids and pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’ve lost so many good people along the way. Good people. Charlie, Kevin, Jo and Ellen, Bobby.... Our Bobby,” he quickly corrected.

     “Yeah, I understand,” you murmured.

     Dean guffawed. “What do you know about loss? You’re just a kid! What are you, twenty?”

     You grit your teeth. “Twenty-seven. I look young for my age.”

     Dean raised his eyebrows. “Oh.”

     “And for your information, Dean, I know more about loss than you think,” you chuckled bitterly. 

     “You see this?” You pointed to two circular scars on your left wrist. Dean nodded. “My father,” you said bluntly. Dean’s eyebrows shot up.

     “And this,” you said, pointing to your other wrist where two more scars sat. “Brother.”

     “And this one.” You tilted your head to the left, revealing yet another set near your jugular. You ran your fingers over the raised scars. “Mother,” you said quietly. Dean’s eyes were wide as he stared into yours. 

     “I killed them. Nasty sons o’ bitches,” you mimicked Dean with a sardonic smirk. You reached across the table and took the half empty bottle from his hand. You poured a generous amount in your own glass and downed it in two gulps. You hissed at the sting as it went down your throat.

     “I...I didn’t know,” Dean said, a feeble attempt at an apology.

     You huffed. “No one else does either. Well...except for Bobby. If it hadn’t been for him, I would have died. Luckily he had a cure.” You paused. “Or maybe I should say unluckily. Death would be preferable to this shit of a life.”

     Dean frowned. “Don’t say that. Sure it sucks you had to kill your family, but from what Bobby’s told me about you - and he’s told me a hell of a lot - you’ve saved his ass and countless others’.”

     You were speechless. You didn’t even know Dean knew who you were. And Bobby talked about you? Yeah, he was like a father to you, but he’d never given you any indication you were anything more than a fellow comrade.

     You weren’t sure what to say so you cleared your throat and pushed back from the table. You hissed in pain as you got up from the your chair, your hand flying to your thigh. A warm liquid met your fingertips, and you found blood seeping through your jeans when you looked down. “Fuck!” you snapped.

     “Oh, shit,” Dean said. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” he said, pushing back from the table.

     “I’m fine,” you said angrily. “I’ll do it myself.” You took a step towards the doorway, but a sharp pain shot up your leg. You cried out, and your knees buckled, sending you to the floor with a heavy thud.

     Dean ran over and knelt beside you, his hand coming to your shoulder. “Hey, you okay?” he asked worriedly.

     “No worse for wear, I suppose. But my pride’s gonna need a bandage or two,” you chuckled ruefully.

     “Your leg’s gonna need it, too,” Dean stated, nodding toward your thigh. “Bleeding’s getting worse.”

     “C’mon,” he said, standing and helping you up. You begrudgingly took his hand before he helped you down the hall to your room, your going slow as you practically hopped on one foot.

     You were panting by the time you reached your bedroom. “You stay here,” Dean said as he helped you lean back against your headboard. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”

     He returned moments later, arms full of bandages, gauze, and hydrogen peroxide. “Strip,” he said gruffly.

     “Excuse me?” you asked incredulously.

     “If I’m going to clean your wound, you can’t be wearing those,” he motioned to your jeans. “So pants. Off.”

     You sighed and rolled your eyes. “Fine,” you grumbled. “But don’t look.”

     Dean chuckled but turned around. You unbuttoned your jeans and started pushing them down. “Fuck, this hurts!” you snapped when you reached the wound.

     “Dean!” you squealed when he turned around to see what was wrong. “Turn around!”

     “Sweetheart, if it hurts that much, let me help you.”

     “Fuck that! Turn around, Dean!”

     Dean rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

     Once he had turned away, you started on your jeans again. “Son of a bitch!” you yelled as pain shot through you thigh.

     “Alright, that’s it!” Dean exclaimed, dropping the supplies to your mattress. “C’mere,” he said gruffly, taking a hold of your ankles and puling you roughly towards him.

     “What the fuck, Dean?” you yelled, smacking at his hands as he gripped the sides of your waistband. “Keep your damn hands to yourself!”

     Dean sighed heavily. “Look, sweetheart, I need to clean that wound, these need to come off, and you’re obviously in no shape to take them off yourself. So I’ve gotta take them off.”

     You sighed and narrowed your eyes in contempt. “Okay, fine. You win,” you frowned.

     Dean sighed again before continuing pulling down your jeans. He was slow and unhurried. Despite your original refusal of his help, your skin tingled where his knuckles ran over your skin.

     “You good?” he asked once your jeans were off and tossed into the corner. You nodded as he helped you settle back against your pillow. Dean nodded his head in approval.

     “I’m going to clean it with some peroxide,” he said, reaching for the brown bottle. “It’s gonna burn like hell.”

     “Okay,” you said. He put a towel under your thigh before opening the bottle and pouring a stream into your wound. You clenched your jaw at the pain and gripped the sheets in your fists. Your wound bubbled as the peroxide burned out the infection.

     “Okay,” Dean said, taking the towel out from under your leg and wiping around the wound. He patted your calf. “You did great, sweetheart. Sam cried when I used peroxide on him,” he said with a playful wink. 

     You giggled as he took a bandage from the first aid kit. He placed it gently over the wound, taping the sides down. His touch was gentle, and you couldn’t help the butterflies that surfaced.

     His hand stilled on your lower thigh, and a warmth filled your belly as he looked up at you, his green eyes sparkling in the light. “Better?” he asked.

     You swallowed. “Yeah, much better. You’re really good at that,” you said without really thinking about what you were saying.

     Dean chuckled. “Well, thanks, I guess. You rest up now. No more getting out of bed.”

     “But...” you whined.

     Dean held up his hand to silence you. “Listen, sweetheart, I’m not taking off those pants again unless it’s for something a little more recreational.”

     You ducked your head, blushing profusely. Dean took that as your acquiescence and exited the room with the left over supplies.

     You stared at the door long after he had left. Had he been serious? No, you scoffed. He was only joking. Right?

**********

     A month had passed since your encounter with Dean. Dean would tip his head in greeting when he’d see you, and you were friendly in the halls, but other than that you were essentially strangers again. You told yourself you didn’t really mind. It gave you more time to focus on hunting and freed you up to spend more time with friends. Like tonight.

     Your friend, Luke, had asked you out on a date. You had had no idea he liked you as anything more than a friend, but you had always harbored a small crush on him. And since it was obvious Dean held no attraction for you, you took Luke up on his offer.

     You donned your friend, Sarah’s, strapless leather dress. The one that hugged your curves and accentuated your hourglass figure in just the right way. A windswept chignon and burgundy lipstick completed the look. You strapped on Sarah’s matching stilettos, and you were ready to go.

     You felt out of your element as you walked down the hallway that led to the library, your heels clicking on the floor. You didn’t usually dress up like this, but Sarah had encouraged you, saying it’d drive Luke crazy. If that were true, maybe you’d finally get some action. Something to get your mind off the green-eyed hunter.

     “Speak of the devil,” you murmured. Here came Dean now, head lowered as he stared at the phone in his hand. He smiled at something he read, and you felt a pang of jealousy. He was probably talking to some chick.

     “Hey, Dean,” you said nonchalantly, trying to keep the nervousness from your voice.

     “Oh, hey, (Y/N),” he said absentmindedly, and your heart sank when he didn’t raise his head as you passed. However, you missed his double glance, and the way his eyes slid down your body, landing on your ass, admiring the sway of your hips as you walked.

     “Hey, Luke,” you greeted as you walked into the war room, finding your date seated at the map table.

     A low whistle fell from Luke’s lips as he rose from the table, his eyes roaming over your body appreciatively. “Wow. You look fucking hot, (Y/N)!” he exclaimed. You lowered your gaze to the floor as heat rose to your cheeks. You were a little uncomfortable with his bluntness, but you shrugged it off as he extended his arm to you. “Ready, milady?” he asked.

     “Why, yes, kind sir,” you said playfully as you placed your hand in the crook of his arm.

     The evening passed pleasurably. There wasn’t much you didn’t already know about Luke, but you enjoyed yourself nonetheless.

     A few too many drinks later, and you stumbled back to the bunker a little after 10:00. You giggled as you unstrapped your heels, tossing them across the floor as you walked into the library. The bunker was quiet. Sam and Dean had gone out for the evening, and everyone else was either hunting or asleep.

     You giggled again as Luke came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and grazing his lips over your neck before swiping his tongue over you skin. “Mmm, you taste so fucking good,” he growled lowly.

     You turned in his arms, raising yourself on tiptoes to peck his lips. “Hold that thought,” you said. “I’m hungry.”

     “Again?” Luke asked incredulously. “We just ate!”

     “Yes, but we didn’t have dessert,” you said, wiggling your eyebrows playfully. You ran to the kitchen, grabbing the pan of leftover brownies and the jar of peanut butter.

     You returned to the library, finding Luke seated in one of the leather back chairs. You hummed as you spread a generous spoonful of peanut butter over a brownie. You heard Luke approach from behind, and you turned as he came closer. You held up the sweet treat. “Peanut butter and brownies. Two of mankind’s greatest inventions.”

     “I like brownies as much as the next guy, but you’re the only dessert I’m having tonight,” Luke groaned, placing his hands on your hips.

     You sat the brownie on the table before wrapping your arms around his neck. “Is that so, Mr. Hotshot?” you asked coyly. “A bit presumptuous, don’t you think?”

     You were startled by his lips crashing onto yours, the front of your teeth pressing bruisingly against the inside of your lips. He shoved his tongue past your lips as he roughly explored your mouth. You brushed off the uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach and surrendered to his kisses.

     His hand slid down your side, settling on your thigh. His hand ghosted over your developing scar, but then his fingers clamped down hard, sending a wave of shooting pain down your leg. You cried out as you broke away from the kiss. “Luke, you’re hurting me,” you gasped.

     Luke didn’t seem to hear you as his grip tightened, causing you to cry out again. “I ought to take you right now,” he growled in your ear. “One-up that vamp. Fuck you so hard you won’t walk for a month.”

     You whimpered as he spun you around and shoved you down onto the table. Your cheek crashed into the cool wood, and you tasted blood from where your teeth had indented the inside of your mouth.

     “Luke, please,” you begged as fear started to take over.

     “Is that what you want, (Y/N)? Want me to rip you in two?” he asked, ignoring your plea. You could feel his erection as he ground down onto your ass. One hand held your head firmly against the table while the other still clamped around your thigh, and you knew there’d be bruises in the morning.

     You had known Luke practically your whole life. You thought you knew everything there was to know about him. But this was a side of him you’d never seen before, and you didn’t like it or this sick game he was playing. Sarah said this dress would drive him crazy, but this was bordering on madness.

     You heard Luke unbuckling his pants, and you closed your eyes as you waited for the inevitable. It wouldn’t be the first time you’d been in this situation. Bobby would take care of Luke once it was over. You just wished he’d been sooner.

     You suddenly felt Luke’s weight fall away from your body. You raised your head just in time to see Dean throw Luke into the bookcase. Books tumbled from their places as Luke slid to the floor. Dean stalked over to him and pulled him up by the front of his shirt, slamming his fist into Luke’s jaw and causing him to crumple to the floor once again.

     Sam helped you up from the table and turned you towards him, his hazel eyes filled with concern. “Are you okay?” he asked, turning your head gently from side to side, surveying the damage done.

     “I...I think so,” you said, and Sam smiled sorrowfully.

     A loud crack filled the air, and you and Sam turned to find Dean kneeling over Luke, holding him down as he pummeled his fist into his face repeatedly.

     “Dean, Dean!” Sam shouted, running over to his brother. He pulled him back just as Dean raised his fist for the final blow. Dean stumbled back, his chest heaving.

     “You ever touch her again, and I’ll fucking kill you!” Dean shouted as Luke coughed, a spurt of blood shooting from his mouth.

     You stared wide-eyed as Dean finally turned towards you. “You okay, sweetheart?” he asked gently. He ran his bloody knuckles across your cheek as you looked up into his mossy eyes. Blood speckled his face, melding into the freckles that dotted his cheeks.

     You swallowed hard and nodded. “Y...yes,” you breathed.

     “Good,” he said gruffly before he abruptly turned away. “Take care of this piece of shit,” he growled to Sam, motioning to Luke who still lay on the floor, nearing unconsciousness. Dean stalked out of the room, leaving you speechless.

**********

     You spent the next two weeks hidden away in your room. You felt empty, the only feeling being shame. It wasn’t the first time it had happened. The other times it had been strangers, monsters hell bent on causing pain. But this time it was Luke, your friend, someone you trusted with your life. This wasn’t something you’d be able to get over easily.

     A light knock sounded at your door, shaking you from your reverie. When you didn’t answer, the door creaked open, and Dean peeked around it. “Hey, sweetheart.” He smiled, but you didn’t return it.

     He sat down on the side of your bed. He reached over, settling his hand on your leg. “You doing okay?” he asked gently.

     “No, not really,” you said, your voice monotone. You stared straight ahead at the wall in front of you. You couldn’t look at him. It would be too much.

     Against your willpower, a tear escaped, sliding down your cheek and settling onto your pillow. “Oh, sweetheart. C’mere,” Dean said. You didn’t answer. “C’mere,” he said again, tugging at your hand until you sat up. He pulled you against him, your face burying into his chest. You couldn’t hold back the dam anymore as tears coursed down your cheeks and settled into his flannel.

     “It’s not your fault,” he whispered as if reading your thoughts. “He won’t hurt you anymore,” Dean added firmly, and there was something in his tone that told you not to ask what had happened to Luke. 

     Dean held you close until your tears finally subsided. You pulled away, your eyes red-rimmed. You reached up, running your fingers over his stubbled cheek.

     Dean’s lips were suddenly on yours, but unlike Luke’s, Dean’s kisses were soft and gentle, and you welcomed his touch.

     Dean laid you down gently on the mattress, his lips never leaving yours. His hands roamed freely, but you weren’t afraid, not like with Luke.

     Dean pulled away as his hands settled on your waistband, his fingers deftly unbuttoning your jeans. “Dean, what are you doing?” you panted as he started sliding down your pants. He paused his movements when he reached your thigh. His fingers ran over your scar, the sides of it still showing signs of Luke’s violence.

     “I told you, sweetheart. I wouldn’t be taking these off again unless it was for something a little more recreational,” he said with a provocative smirk.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thank you for reading!

***Please do not share my content on any other platform without my consent.

[foreverwayward]

The End

Dean x Reader, Sam, and more

Word Count: 792

Warnings: angst, feelings, fluff, death

Summary: It’s the end of the road for our hunters. The question is: what happens when the fight is finally over?

The cold cement floor was slick with the warm, fresh blood that pooled around the hunters. 

Dean, Sam, and Y/N had lost. The hunt had gone so terribly wrong and the three slowly bled out in the dimly lit warehouse. They were all that was left after the battle. 

Castiel himself was given a hunter’s funeral after his death only days before.

Breaths grew slower, more shallow. The air felt tight and painful to drag into their lungs as it rattled in their throats. 

Dean could barely move as his hand touched his bleeding stomach. He looked down only to see his palm drenched in red. “Sammy...Y/N…” he uttered weakly.

The three were only feet away from each other, but just out of reach. 

Sam groaned as blood dripped from his mouth. “I’m here, Dean.”

“It’s alright. We’re together.” Dean took a sharp breath and winced. “We did good, guys.”

Y/N faded in and out of consciousness as the world slowly went foggy around her. “Guys...” she wheezed. “I love you.” A long drawn out sigh fell from her lips as she whispered her final words.

The brothers’ eyes welled with tears and their hearts broke with more pain than their fresh wounds. 

Dean sniffled and turned his head as best he could to look at Sam. He had tears falling down his face as he stared back at Dean. 

The older Winchester put on a brave face and reached as far out as he could. “It’s okay, little brother. I’m here.” 

As Sam weakly reached out for Dean, his hand went limp and his eyes shut as his body finally was at rest.

Dean fought through the sobbing that he could feel building and cleared his throat; a soldier to the end. He looked up at the skylight to see the glowing moon and stars and a small smile curled at his lips. 

“I’m proud of us.” The hunter closed his eyes and accepted his fate with pride as he too slipped away.

All that remained was silence and the strong smell of iron. The three laid sprawled out on the floor, their hands all reaching out for each other. They had spent their lives fighting as a family, and it was as a family that they parted this life together.

------

The bunker was buzzing with laughter and the sound of plates and utensils. Long tables had been strung out together throughout the library and covered in homemade food. 

They were home.

Sam, Y/N, and Dean laughed without a care in the world as they looked down the long row of tables. They smiled with sheer joy seeing those they had lost throughout the years. 

Jo and Ellen were joking with Bobby as they served themselves more chicken and potatoes. Charlie and Kevin couldn’t stop bonding over their love of fandoms and all things nerdy. 

At the head of the table sat John, a smile on his face and joy in his heart with his family gathered around. John’s hand took Mary’s and he lovingly kissed her knuckles as she smiled from ear to ear. A lifetime spent apart long forgotten. 

Castiel sat between the brothers, beaming with love as he radiated his true self. 

Sam leaned over to kiss Jess and took her hand as they both shared a silent moment together. Reunited after 15 years, they were like two halves finally becoming whole again. 

Y/N and Dean had never seen Sam so content and happy and it warmed them like nothing else.

Dean’s hand reached for Y/N’s and she glanced up at him with a smile. 

In life, they had let their love pass them by. Never exchanging their feelings, they both only loved each other from afar. But, the words were no longer necessary. The love was there, and there was no denying that. They could spend forever together knowing that they had always belonged at each other’s side. 

They shared their first brief kiss in front of family and friends before Dean wrapped his arm around her.

As dinner went on, Dean cleared his throat and stood up with his beer in hand and everyone turned in his direction. “I gotta tell ya, I don’t think it gets much better than this, guys. We went through Hell—all of us. But, it was worth it...just to find you all again. Cheers.” 

The group raised their glasses and chanted in agreement as they toasted.

There was no more pain and no more suffering. If the world still existed outside the bunker doors, it was finally at peace. 

Never again would they lose someone they loved. Never again would they draw their weapons. Never again would the world fall on their shoulders.

The war was finally over and their reward was each other. Heaven was with the ones they loved. Their Heaven...was family.

Carry on my wayward son,

There’ll be peace when you are done,

Lay your weary head to rest.

Don’t you cry no more.

------

Forever tags: @gemini0410 @huntersociopathavenger @paintballkid711 @crystallstaircase @love-nakamura @da5haexowin @coffee-obsessed-writer @flamencodiva @salt-n-burn-em-all @spnbaby-67 @sandycub @mrsambroserollinsacklesmgk @hunterscabin @rainflowermoon @akshi8278 @maddiepants @deansenwackles @lauravic @mrsjenniferwinchester @sea040561 @mirandaaustin93 @son-ova-bitch @wonderlandleighleigh @nerd-in-a-galaxy-far-away @becs-bunker @klinenovakwinchester @squirrelnotsam @waywardmoeyy @bunnybaby121115

[charlieoswin]

Chapter Update (X) (X)

CHAPTER 22 - Night School

gifs obtained from gif hunts.

"Wha—he could be right outside!" Scott exclaimed.

"He is right outside," Stiles countered.

Scott's eyes jumped between Stiles and the frayed wires of the car battery, finally settling on the row of windows above their heads. "Just—just let me take a look."

Still pressed to the wall, Scott shifted to his knees. His head slowly rose and he peeked over the window ledge. Swearing under her breath, Charlie followed suit. Behind the glass's climate-controlled seal, the parking lot was completely vacant. Not a werewolf in sight, murderous or otherwise. "Where's Derek?"

"I don't see him," Scott murmured. "I don't see anything—he must be behind the Jeep."

Charlie's next thought was for escape. Three cars. The Jeep's battery had decided to take Algebra II, the Camaro's keys were shoved in Derek's pocket, and her Impala…. Charlie's nose found itself pressed to the glass, the eyes above it glaring down at the asphalt below. The Impala, stationed off at the center of the parking lot, sat lower than usual. The base of the tires were slack and deflated. Her fingers gripped the window sill tighter as unmitigated rage displaced fear. "That son of a bitch slashed my tires!" she growled. "There was no way we'd get to my car—it's way too far off! That's not strategic, it's freaking petty!"

Stiles grabbed the back of her jacket, yanking her down to the floor. "Okay, Charlie, that's so not the priority right now." He looked up to Scott, whose eyes were still scanning the lot. "Anything?"

Scott exhaled and shook his head. "No. Nothing."

"Move now?"

Scott wrenched his eyes from the lot to stare down at them, terrified but determined. "Move now."

[stxrlightrph]

hello!! is there any possible way to request charlie rowe gif icons from you? mainly as his role of leo in red band society? i really enjoy your gif hunts & his resources are limited! thank you sm

It might take me a day or two because I still have a couple things I need to do first, but it will be my main priority once I’m done. If I don’t have them up by Monday, feel free to shame me. 

[yasbxxgie]

Black Farmers Grapple With A Changing Economy: Shifting market forces, immigration reform, and a lack of interest from younger generations mean that black farmers in the small town of Covert, Michigan, are at a crossroads

Steven Hawkins is younger than a good number of his blueberry bushes.

We are standing in the space between rows of Bluecrop berries, and he is scratching his chin thoughtfully as he tries to work out how old this particular section of his farm is. “This was the first field he planted,” he says, referring to his father. “You see how tall these are? They don’t handpick these. These are big bushes.” He gestures vaguely. “Sixty-three years old. Everything over here pretty much is 63, give or take a year. I wasn’t even around when these were planted.” Steven is himself 58 years old and his earliest memories are wrapped around these bushes; he has never known a world in which blueberries were not a part of family life and preoccupation.

In the town of Covert, Michigan (as well as the neighbouring towns of Watervliet and South Haven), blueberries are cheerfully ubiquitous. “Wherever you go in Covert, there’s blueberries. And the county we live in, Van Buren County, has a lot of blueberries,” says Steven as we drive over to another of his family’s farm sites. By the time I leave, several days later, I will have learned to spot blueberry fields from the window of a speeding car, and I will be able to discern varieties by taste, if not appearance. Casual visitors to Covert can’t miss the blueberry “propaganda” leading them into this small town. Even before they arrive, they are primed: Mixed in with the billboards bearing ads for gentlemen’s clubs and anti-abortion messages along the I-94 that brings you here are notices to suggest this part of Michigan is a veritable fruit basket, waiting for you to come along and pick your own colorful selections. Fruit and vegetables — pears, peaches, grapes, apples, cherries, and of course, blueberries — form the bulk of the economic farming backbone of this town (population: 2,888, according to 2010 census figures).

Covert is very country — there are signs advertising “fast rural internet” affixed to utility poles, no traffic lights, and bunny rabbits literally gamboling in the brush — and there is a sleepy feel to the place that belies the motto on the town marker: “A COMMUNITY ON THE MOVE!” It is a place where simultaneously very little and very much has changed over the years. In summer 2017, I spotted at least two Confederate flags flying proudly.

A cursory look at population data over the last couple of decades tells a clear story about a shifting demographic in line with America at large: Between 2000 and 2010, the population of Covert decreased from 3,141 to 2,888 (black people were proportionally the highest decrease) while the Latino population almost doubled, from 478 to 881, in the same period. In 2014, the Detroit Free Press named the town as “the most diverse community in Michigan.” It’s important to say: Covert is not — and has never really been — a black town. But with its long history of integration, and its proximity to summering black middle-class Chicagoans over the years, it sure feels like it is.

A quiet slide has happened in this farming town, and black farmers, who make up only 1.46% of the national figure, are at the forefront. Second- and later-generation black landowners and farmers like Steven Hawkins are not as common as they used to be here. Driven by a number of factors including immigration reform, the changing whims and forces of a global market, and, perhaps most pertinently, lack of family interest from younger generations, black farmers in Covert are at an interesting tipping point. With an aging population — and young people with their eyes on the nearby urban enclaves of Ypsilanti, Chicago, and Detroit, among others — a very specific kind of civic agreement, built on decades of familiarity, is disappearing alongside title deeds and family legacy.

American communities like Covert may never recover. And one has to wonder if the US is set up to support these kinds of jobs anymore. Farming has never been solitary work, and requires a hands-on approach that an increasingly globalized world does not make room for, especially for generations not necessarily weaned on farming practice.

Farming as an occupation is a romantic American notion. The onward march of modernity — in which people trade malleable rural earth for unyielding urban concrete — has gifted the farming community a certain level of unknowability. What we do “know” is largely idealized: Farmers work long hours, the work is backbreaking, they are the best, most salt-of-the-earth people, and they deserve all the praise, because they’re a big part of America’s economic backbone. The mean salary for a farmer in Michigan is just over $66,000, while the national annual mean is $75,790. Figures from 2012 suggest farming is slightly less robust than it was at the 2007 census: The total number of US farmers declined, and while farming was more ethnically diverse, there were fewer new farmers altogether.

In the popular imagination, the farmer is also white; think of Grant Wood’s 1930 painting “American Gothic,” reproduced over and over with only slight tweaks. On the one hand it is right to think of American farming in this way: The 2012 US Agriculture Census reported just over 2 million white farmers, operating on almost 855 million acres of farmland. But American farming has many faces, as ordered by powers greater than just a will to till the land. The majority of farming may be white, but that’s not the whole story, especially not in a town like Covert.

From 1844 until 1877, Covert was called Deerfield, which becomes self-explanatory when you consider that Steven gets to indulge his bow-hunting hobby during hunting season. (He showed me a photo on his phone of a young buck he shot last summer.) The small township has a curiously integrated past, with its earliest black settlers leaving the South in search of free living, and finding themselves living cheek by jowl with white people. The integration of Covert was a blip in the national picture in the 1860s, but its schools were racially mixed, as were its politics — in 1868, at a time when black men were unable to vote in the state of Michigan, the population of Covert elected one to the office of highway overseer. While the history of Covert is one of startling white and black coexistence, the reality of integration is a little more complex (see, for example, A Stronger Kinship: One Town’s Extraordinary Story of Hope and Faith by Anna-Lisa Cox for details of the “emancipation festivals” held in the 1870s).

“I won’t say harmoniously,” says Steven, laughing, “but they did live together and weren’t forced to. School was integrated, and you know, in other towns, they were forced to integrate, there was busing and all that. Covert didn’t have to go through all of that.” He talks about the town’s proximity to the Indiana border, and the Underground Railroad. “You’ve got a lot of blacks that came up from the South that was runnin’ away, they came in through the Underground Railroad: towns like Cassopolis, Vandalia, Niles, Berrien Springs. Those are all border towns, and the Quakers would house…hide the blacks.”

Steven is a jovial man with a relaxed mien; it is difficult to imagine a situation that would ruffle his feathers. It is a handy disposition to have as a farmer, since, as he puts it, “the weather determines everything. It’s timing, and Mother Nature controls all that.” When I call him a farmer, he issues a gentle protest. “I’m not a farmer!” he says with a laugh. “I’m a play-farmer. I play-farm. Real farmers do it year round. They live it year round, in my opinion.”

Real or not, 2017 marks Steven’s 31st year of involvement in the family farm. But the Hawkinses have been in Covert for substantially longer than the farm has been operational. Steven’s grandparents, Octavia and Charlie, lived in Chicago, and like a swath of Chicago’s black middle class, treated Covert as something of an annual summer retreat. Octavia Hawkins was a leader of the United Auto Workers Local 453, and a cofounder and first treasurer of the National Negro Labor Council. “My grandmother was an activist, politically conscious and always fighting for the cause, for the people,” Steven says proudly. His grandfather Charlie was a chef. “Most of the people when I was young, they moved here from the Chicago area — they would come down here with relatives in the summertime.” Eventually his parents, Sylvester and Carolye, joined them. Steven is the last of their four children, and the only boy. Alongside his farming, Sylvester poured hot steel at Bohn Aluminum for decades, and died of brain cancer in 2003; Ms. Carolye, now 88, is a retired teacher who taught in Covert’s integrated schools, and who still lives in the farmhouse close to the family’s original fields. She plays bingo every week, and still plays the piano in her church choir. Before I leave, she tells me that she’s a member of the “CRS Club” — the “Can’t Remember Shit” Club — before adding faux-demurely, “I don’t curse, I’m a church girl.”

Back in the 1950s, when the Hawkins family moved into Covert for good, they were at the vanguard of a small but tight movement of black farmers. “There was always black farmers,” recalls Steven, “but never a lot. My father was one of the few at that time, one of the first black farmers in Van Buren County that had blueberries. Everybody else might have had what they refer to as a patch — you know, 50 plants on your property, that’s a patch. We’ve got a lot more than 50.”

When blueberries were designated a “superfood” by trendy foodies in the mid-’00s, the Hawkins family had been growing the fruit for decades. “When [my father] started, blueberries weren’t as popular,” says Steven. “Trying to sell your berries was difficult. None of these processing places were around. He had to be part of a co-op.” Sylvester was, for quite a few black blueberry farmers in Covert, a spur. Steven gestures to a blueberry field that belongs to one of his friends, Leroy. “He started farming all because of my father. He would tell the young guys, ‘If you live here, what else are you gonna do? You might as well buy some blueberries, make some extra money.’”

Glover Dandridge, 83, was Sylvester’s brother-in-law and friend. He’s lived in Covert for almost 50 years and, until recently, ran a bar, the Blue Star Lodge. He helped Sylvester plant some of his first blueberry bushes “on weekends, and after work.” He told me Sylvester’s ambition was simple: “to be the largest black grower of blueberries in Covert.” And so Sylvester began by buying a parcel of land opposite his parents’ house in 1954. That expanded over the years to what the family holds now: some 150 acres growing 11 varieties of highbush blueberries, across four sites. “We would be considered a medium-sized farm, right on the edge of being a big farm,” says Steven with no false modesty. Steven was 27 when he bought into the farm along with his sister Paula (who now runs payroll); his two eldest sisters declined a partnership offer. As the farm has grown, his role has evolved correspondingly, moving seamlessly from lender to copartner.

“I’m not a big fan of farming. This is what my father did,” Steven says with another easy grin. “Do I understand the fact we got the land and do I appreciate that this is what he left us? Yes, I do appreciate that. But the idea of being a farmer? That’s not something I really enjoy.” He chose early retirement and is now self-employed, running an emergency medical transportation company with his wife in Ypsilanti. “My father would say this is God’s country,” he says. The family legacy has hung over him as long as he’s been alive; Steven has had time to come to this conclusion, and make peace with it.

In 1945, a man from Mississippi by way of Chicago came to Covert, and being an enterprising sort of man, decided he could make a life there. He wanted to make this corner of Michigan look more like home, eventually going as far as planting nine apple trees for his nine sons, some of which are still standing. “My great-grandfather was here in ’45,” says Barbara James Norman as she gestures at the original farmhouse on the property, “and paperwork says he didn’t buy it, but rented it. I came in ’48.” She still lives in the farmhouse she grew up in, more than a hundred years after it was built.

Barbara’s own ancestors were comfortable with the outdoors. Her grandfather was a keen shooter and hunter, and also a canny businessman. “He owned a cab company in Chicago, and he had a restaurant in one of our buildings, and he tried other stuff up here too – he had as many as 200 pigs. He was an entrepreneur, and he’d say, ‘Baby, while you’re sleeping, the cabs are making money.’ My grandfather was always telling me when I was a teenager, ‘Plant these, baby, these are for your grandkids.’ And I was like, ‘I don’t even have a boyfriend.’” She emits a raspy laugh, her puckish face scrunching up. “Once he planted the blueberries, that was it. His thing was a business that would make you money 24 hours a day.”

A fourth-generation farmer, Barbara cannot remember a life in which she was anything less than at peace with her decision to be a farmer. To make sure her descendants never lose that connection, she’s tending to what she hopes will be the sixth generation: her grandkids. On the day I visit her, she’s just returned from Chicago, wearing a National Farmers Union baseball cap, and beside her is her 91-year-old great-uncle Leo Simmons (one of those nine sons).

Barb’s Blueberry Batch is doing just fine. “With farming, you work five, six months out of the year, and then you can live the rest of the year, you know? I think it’s good…but people don’t think farming is a business. They’ve got that stereotype of slaveowners or whatever, but I do all right, you know?” She huffs out a laugh. She grows organic Bluecrops and Jerseys on 25 acres of a 53-acre farm, but doesn’t sell to the usual processors and markets anymore. Instead, her biggest client is Detroit Public Schools — a partnership now in its sixth year — and she also sells to a food co-op in Plymouth, Minnesota. Barbara does almost no hand-picking, but rather sells directly off the bush. “I don’t need labor, not really. If you want my berries, you bring your crew.”

Barbara’s a Covert mainstay, and so she’s had a front-row seat to all sorts of change: She knows who’s passed on, who’s selling, and who’s potentially buying. She knows farming isn’t nearly as attractive to her grandkids’ generation as it was for her 50 years ago. “To attract them into anything,” she says, “you need to start in the womb. Just like you read to them in the womb, you need to start teaching them the value of the land. My grandsons have had a garden since they were 3.” The divorcing of black Americans from the land — something that was sped up drastically by the Great Migration — smacks of a cruel symmetry, considering the history of how they came to arrive en masse on this continent. Land ownership among black Americans peaked more than a century ago, and various factors – from discriminatory practices by official bodies such as the US Department of Agriculture (USDA) and arcane laws to mass migration and industrialization – are to blame for that. For Barbara, helping people gain a deeper understanding of the potential of the land is her passion. “Some people think money is power. I think power gets you money, and I think land is power,” she says. “Go back to the land — they’re not making anymore.”

Barbara’s mission is to make sure people are exposed to this way of life. She regularly invites Michigan and Illinois schoolchildren to the farm — “They walk the land, they pick berries, they’re just loving it. I do it every year” — she’s a vocal advocate of the USDA’s many programmes and she teaches farmers about risk management, and how to diversify to survive. “The Agriculture Department is the second-largest budget in the nation, second only to the Department of Defense,” she says with a sharp smile. “And it’s kind of a well-kept secret.” (She’s not exactly correct, but the USDA is certainly in the top 10 highest-fundedgovernment departments.) Barbara tells people about the 1890 scholarships to HBCUs, and has personally taken Covert students on college tours. The pride is evident in her voice when she says, “I’ve had maybe four not-successes, but I bet I got about 19 or 20 success stories.”

Barbara’s mission is clear, and she is a steadfast champion for this way of life: More than just a means to an end, farming is about legacy, and specifically black legacy. But holding on to her family’s blueberry farm legacy — and helping others to build up theirs — is one thing. Barbara’s farm operates differently to many others in this township. She no longer needs pickers, but so many farmers still rely on seasonal labor. What use is a family legacy of a few acres if no one is around to farm the land? Selling becomes the obvious choice.

The two issues of labor and legacy are inextricably linked, as is perfectly illustrated in the story of another black Covert farmer less than a mile from the Hawkins homestead, Carol Baber.

A soft-spoken woman raised in Eau Claire, a village about 30 minutes from Covert, Carol is a 20-years-strong transplant to Covert. She worked for 18 years as a supervisor in the kitchen at Covert Public Schools before retiring and had been planning to open a daycare centre. When I ask what brought her to town, she laughs before saying, “I married Harold Baber, and he brought me here.” She is the proprietor of Baber’s Berries, a six-acre farm that grows two varieties of blueberries, Bluecrops and Elliott’s. Their little holding was all Harold’s idea, with the encouragement of one Sylvester Hawkins.

“He worked on the Hawkins farm for a time,” she says of her husband. “He always loved blueberries, so when we bought this place, he put his own blueberries out there. They’ve been here since 2001, I believe.” Harold died of cancer a few years back, and Carol assumed responsibility for the business. It is safe to say, however, that she never wanted to be a farmer. “If this wasn’t right here at the house,” she says, gesturing out of her kitchen windows, “I would’ve sold it a long time ago, is all I can say. It was my husband’s thing. I was just… I didn’t wanna be a farmer.” She giggles, but it’s a laugh filled with resignation. When I press her about the potential significance of holding on to her late husband’s legacy, she holds firm. “Uh-uh. I keep it because it’s here at the house. You see, it’s a ‘U,’ right here. And I just don’t want anybody else out there. So that’s why I keep it. And it does pay for my son’s college, the berries. So…” This time when she trails off, her laugh is knowing.

Unsolicited family legacy aside, Carol Baber’s most pressing headache is labor. All her berries are handpicked. Blueberries are graded — the handpicked ones generally get the best price at market, but they are also the most labor-intensive to produce, and picking conditions must be dry (“Nobody wants a wet berry,” Steven tells me, sagely, when I ask), which means picking during the hottest, most arid hours of the day. And that’s before the other maintenance issues that concern a blueberry farmer: weeding, pruning, fertilizing, spraying, and so on. “It’s hard for me because I don’t have any equipment,” Carol says. The Hawkinses help out with spraying (she buys the materials), but “it’s really hard to keep the grass down. So I’m working on trying to get a tractor.”

Most acutely, she needs pickers. “It’s really very difficult because you don’t have anybody to pick the berries,” says Carol. “My family helps me out a lot.” Her 9-year-old niece, unable to be a picker due to labor laws, helps by cleaning the berry buckets. Carol is herself one of nine children, and her siblings pitch in every summer. I join them in the midday sun to fill a pail with late-season Elliotts. It is careful, boring, and uncomfortably hot work. Carol’s sister Rheba Bell tells me being in the fields at midday is love as a verb: She says, laughing, “If she wasn’t my sister, I wouldn’t help at all!”

But of course, Covert’s picking was never done just by local hands. There was a time when migrant workers rolled through town with their specialist ability (usually honed over a period of years) and kept things running smoothly. When I visited Covert in late July and early August, there were signs up all over town and in neighbouring areas bearing the legend “PICKERS WANTED.” All the farmers I spoke to lamented the turnout. Steven recalls up to 60 pickers a day when he was a child. “Now we’re lucky if we get 20, or 25 on a good day,” he says. “Growing up, we used to have families out,” Barbara tells me. “Most of the kids who grew up in Covert picked in these fields before half these people around here had blueberries. Now some of them won’t let their kids come out and pick.”

Keith Colombel, a Hawkins family friend, worked on the Hawkins farm after high school in the late 1970s. For the last six summers, he’s been back in Covert after living all over the region, working the harvesting machine, driving berries to the receiving and processing areas, and spraying pesticides and fertilizer. He remembers a time when whole families would take to the fields come picking season. “When summertime came, you knew you was in the berry field,” he says in a voice reminiscent of the singer Lou Rawls. “You know, that was your money for school clothes. That was just the norm for all the families back then.”

Rick Anderson has been a blueberry farmer since 1973, when he relocated to Covert to start the farm with his parents. The plan had been to stay for a single summer before returning to Chicago to teach. He ended up working full-time, joining his parents on the farm in the evenings and on weekends. Their initial 40 acres — with roughly 15 dedicated to blueberries — was a fruit basket: cherry trees, McIntosh apples, Glohaven peaches, and about 200 Stanley plum trees. Eventually, the Andersons began experimenting with breeding their own blueberries. “Our very first propagations were done in a cold frame on the side of that chicken house. We made some cuttings that winter and started maybe five or six hundred.” They survived, and thrived, thanks to Rick’s mulching.

The growth of the Andersons’ operation occurred gradually, over a period of years. And a big part of their success was the picking workforce that Rick used to be able to rely upon. “It’s difficult to find good farmworkers now,” he says. “We used to have families that would come from Texas and Florida and made the circuit every year, but we don’t see that migration anymore.” There’s a wider issue of immigration and seasonal workers — mostly from Mexico and other North American nations — that will only become more and more troublesome in the current political climate. For Rick, who machines most of his berries these days, eliminating his need for human labor, it predates President Trump. But the background terror of the Clinton and Bush Jr. years has given way to something even more visceral in recent months.

“I can’t tell you how many times — even before Trump took office — how many times we had people working, back when we handpicked, and then the police show up. And we were friends with the police here, they’ve always been good to us and a lot of times, they would just stop to say hello, and our workers would just…” He splays his hands and makes a “poof” sound. “They’d disappear into the woods. And that was before there was any question about illegal immigration. I’m talking 15, 20 years ago. So you can about imagine what it’s like now. The ones that are here are scared. And they’re very insular, they stay to themselves, they really don’t mingle, and you can’t blame ‘em. It has definitely affected our workforce.

“It’s a shame, it really is, because we need our farmworkers. And there aren’t a lot of people who are actually willing to do this kind of work for the kind of wages that we’re paying and can afford to pay.”

There is a less depressing side to this tale of uninterested younger generations and a much reduced workforce: Some of those initially migratory workers have chosen to settle here — as suggested by the jump between censuses in the proportion of Covert’s population listed as “Latino or Hispanic.” (The 2012 Census of Agriculture recorded a decrease in Spanish, Hispanic, or Latino farm operators in Van Buren County between 2007 and 2012, but an overall increase in average farm size, from 39 acres to 69 acres. That acreage shrank for black or African-American operators over the same period. The number of farms decreased for both groups.) “Some of those families have settled here, and they bought their land, and they’re now successful berry farmers,” says Rick.

Steven concurs. “The Hispanics are really the only ones getting into blueberry farming on this end. So all the homes that when I was a kid were occupied by [black] people that I knew, the majority are Hispanic now. And they’re farming — they still farm. The African-Americans? Not so much.”

Steven knows what he’s talking about. On his family’s farm, Benny Enriquez lives with his wife Guadeloupe in the (now expanded) two-bedroom house Sylvester and Carolye first moved into in the 1950s. Benny is Mexican-American, and began a working relationship with the Hawkinses as a migrant worker almost 40 years ago. He speaks almost no English, and he is among the most trusted pairs of hands in the operation.

It’s an easy conclusion to come to, but the shift in ownership is not necessarily about a tribal, racial animus. Even though it’s never been majority black, Covert was a sort of black town. Like with many rural American communities in the age of globalization, there’s been a drift to urban centres. When she was a child, Carol Baber’s aunt and uncle used to live close to where she lives today, and she remembers Covert had a commercial strip: a grocery store, and other shops. These days she has to go to South Haven (7 miles away) or Coloma (9 miles out) for her groceries. “We used to have stores downtown,” says Keith Colombel. “We had a bank down there, a barbershop, about three or four gas stations. The Greyhound used to stop in Covert, and you could go anywhere you wanted from there. And once all that stopped…” He doesn’t have to finish his sentence. Covert is exactly the sort of place that most people just leave.

But sometimes, and increasingly in recent years, it is also a place where people — like Benny, like all the other recently arrived Latino fruit farmers buying farmland — are coming to settle down, and thrive.

On the Saturday morning before I leave, Glover Dandridge drives me around town to show me all the previously black-owned blueberry farms. Some are overgrown and look abandoned. He points out farmland that used to belong to a Jamaican by the name of Brown, one of the first black blueberry farmers around here, by Glover’s estimate; another farm that once belonged to a surgeon called Wilson from Chicago; yet another that was owned and run by a trumpeter from Chicago. Many of these farms have been purchased by Latino people, he tells me.

On one of the Andersons’ farms, Glover points to a conspicuously staked realtor sign swinging in the breeze on the frontage, a smiling white man above the words “For Sale.” “Selling everything,” says Glover, sombrely.

When I speak to Rick Anderson, he is resigned. He’s had many careers alongside farming — running secretary of state offices, rights representative in the Michigan Department of Civil Rights, security personnel at a nuclear plant, and car salesman. In his forties, he moved to the nearby city of Holland, where he still lives, and retrained as an electrician.

But at 65, he is finally thinking of what he wants for his future, and selling makes sense for his circumstances. The blueberry market has exploded, and farming, even aside from picking labor, is not inexpensive. “Everybody is raising blueberries now,” he says. “They’re raising them in Chile, in Argentina, in Australia even. Georgia, Florida. There was a time when this part of West Michigan was the premier blueberry growing spot. It no longer is. We don’t have that market share anymore. It’s just a matter of supply and demand. You got oversupply, you got less demand, and less money.” He recalls something Sylvester Hawkins told him several years back. “He said, ‘Rick, you know, blueberries are a good thing to get into if you can afford it.’ I never forgot that. If you have the wherewithal, you can do pretty well. If you don’t, then you’ll die on the vine.”

He wants to spend time with his wife, who is a cancer patient, and he wants to make sure his two younger sisters are taken care of. “If I survive another five years, I’ll be 70. It’s time to kind of let it go,” he says.

The presence of black blueberry farmers, growing this crop, in this part of Michigan, is no accident. Men like Sylvester Hawkins encouraged and built up the community, and all the farmers I spoke to had benefited from the presence of other black farmers. But if their descendants are selling up and moving on, particularly as a response to better educational and economic prospects, who can blame them? Certainly not the Latino farmers who appear happy to take over and maintain farming as the business of Covert. The new owners of Rick Anderson’s farm may well be Latino. That’s just what Covert’s (admittedly not infallible) demographic data and anecdotal evidence suggest.

“We’re gonna disappear,” says Steven. He has two sons in their twenties, both of whom live in Ypsilanti, a city two hours east of Covert. “We’re gonna become extinct as farmers because there’s no connection.” That lack of connection is a bit of a self-made problem, he admits. “It’s a twofold thing. We worked hard to show our kids what we considered a better life, and they’re taking advantage of those opportunities. They’re doing exactly what we told them to do.” He laughs ruefully. “Can you be mad at them about it? No. But do you hope and pray that some of it rubbed off? Of course.” His sons are now at the age he was when he first bought into his father’s farm. But his children are millennials, and the world economy is very different. “The job market in our era was a lot better, the pay rate was a lot different,” he says. “By the time I was 27, I’d been working at UPS for five years and they paid well. Rent wasn’t as high as it is now, I made a lot more money than [they] make, and I was able to save.”

Each farmer I spoke to is either hopeful of a future in which their children will want to remain involved in their birthright, or they stoically envision a reality in which black Americans’ bond with the land dissolves entirely. For many, the farm is a jewel in their family’s crown, a rite of passage for younger members of the family, earning their first paychecks alongside migrant workers as well as being part of the societally valued “job creator” class. The challenges faced are recast as the building blocks of pure American grit, aka an asset in the world. But that earlier noted aversion to picking is only exacerbated as the younger generations in these farming families become adults. Why become a farmer? What does it mean if there’s no new blood to take over?

Carol Baber’s son is at college, and she knows he has no interest in working on the family farm. “My son? Uh-uh. He likes air conditioning!” She laughs uproariously. “If I pass away, he’s probably gonna sell it. It’s not attractive to young people. You have to have that farmer in you to want to be a farmer, you know?”

“I say I didn’t do as good a job brainwashing with mine as my grandfather did with me,” says Barbara James Norman. “And right now, we’re rounding up the next generations, trying to see who will partake. Who will do something?” Concessions are being preemptively made. “You don’t have to necessarily farm all of it, or as much as I do,” continues Barbara. “But if you need to eat, you don’t know what’s going to happen with the economy. Just as much as you can, wherever you can.”

Rick Anderson’s three daughters live out of state, working as a law librarian, human resources specialist, and engineer respectively. Despite some interested sounds from his eldest, he says his children are “not really equipped” to be farmers like he and his parents were. Selling had never been the intention, until it was. “I don’t like it,” he says heavily. “I would have rather my daughters were able to just take this over and run it.” Blueberry farming cannot be done from a distance. “It takes a lot to do this,” he gestures at the fields behind him. “You have to totally… You’ve gotta burn your ships. It’s a tough way to make a living.” All his daughters are single, and the reality, Rick says, is that that makes life as a farmer harder. With uncertainty built into the job, you need all the backup you can get.

“All the blueberry farmers I know, their spouses all worked. My mother worked while my dad worked the farm because they needed the insurance, they needed the extra cheque, [for] their retirement.”

Money is as important as familiarity with the crop and locale, and the fact is, absentee farmers spend more. Steven and his sister Paula struggle with their weakened bonds to Covert as is, relying on family friends like Keith Colombel or Lorraine Cunningham (who has worked on the family farm for decades and looks in on Carolye Hawkins as needed). “I’ve been gone…in another year, it’ll be 40 years,“ Steven says. "I know a couple, a handful of people, a few senior citizens that are still around. People can say ‘I know your family’ but they don’t know me and vice versa. It gets difficult to operate because in farming a lot of things are done on the barter system. Used to be, when I came up, it wasn’t so much money exchanging hands, it was: You do this for me, I’ll do that for you.” With familiarity comes a discount. “Sweat equity. It was always give and take, and you don’t have that with the farmers that are here now. Everything from a distance, you’ve got to pay. And that’s money out your pocket.”

In the meantime the first set of Hawkins siblings have started having some tough conversations. “We’re both in agreement that we don’t wanna sell the land, but maybe the farm is too much for us based on our lifestyles,” says Steven. Both he and Paula work full-time jobs wholly unconnected to farming, elsewhere in Michigan. Land leasing is an option, at least up to a point: “Keeping [the original plot] and the farm by the house intact, and leasing out the other parcels to other people who want to farm it.” The key is maintaining ownership, even though there is no guarantee it will remain in the family after he and his sister are gone.

“If my sister and I gave this up, my kids, Paula’s kids, they might say, ‘OK, we could sell all this land and make some money.’ They don’t have the same ties here that we did. They loved coming down here in the summer — my sons still love coming down here in the summer. They come, and they enjoy themselves, but I haven’t heard them talk about coming back when they get older.”

Barbara Norman has hope, though, that her grandchildren will keep things going on the family land. “We always had family togetherness,” she says, “and it is trickle-down. We’re not as mighty as that generation there” — she smiles and points at her great-uncle Leo — “but we got a lot of traits from them. It takes family togetherness.”

“I think I’ve been blessed,” Barbara says softly, looking around at her blueberry bushes. “Because all my life, I’ve been able to walk on the land that my family owns. I’ll die right here.”

Photographs:

Steven Hawkins and Carolye Hawkins

Robert Dotson (left) waits as David Broady carries a harvest lug filled with blueberries to load on the farm truck, Covert, Michigan, Aug. 3, 2017

Steven Hawkins poses next to his farm truck, August 4, 2017

Barbara James Norman poses in front of the 100-year-old farmhouse at her blueberry farm, August 5, 2017

Rheba Bell looks through leaves to pick blueberries at her sister’s farm, Baber’s Berries, in Covert, August 5, 2017

Annette Williams picks blueberries at her sister’s farm in Covert, August 5, 2017

Aaron Hawkins and his brother Devon Hawkins pose in front of their house in Ypsilanti, Michigan, August 8, 2017

The Hawkins family’s farmhouse

[jeremyallenwrench]

Charlie Rowe in Salvation S1

Please message me for access to #229 gifs of CHARLIE ROWE from his role in Salvation, Season 1. All gifs have been made by me, so please like or reblog this if you find them helpful! Due to people not following my rules, I am now only sending links to those who confirm with me that they have reblogged the post (or have explained why they are unable to do so.) Give me a heads up if you use them to create gif icons or crack ships - I don’t generally have a problem with it, but I have a few rules as far as crediting me! 

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click on THE SOURCE LINK to be directed to #82 gifs of CHARLIE ROWE as FREDDY MESSINA in the tv show ANGELYNE (2020). he was born in 1996 and is WHITE so please keep that in mind when using him! all gifs were made by me, from scratch, so please DO NOT claim as your own, post in gif hunts or use in celeb rps. feel free to make them into crackships and gif icons as long as you give me credit! please LIKE and/or REBLOG this post if you use, as I am a new gif maker. thank you so so much! please be respectful of my work as this takes time and every content creator wants to be appreciated, if my rules are not taken into consideration, i will put them in a discord server. <3

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