#drew franklin imagines

[ac-19]

Fight - D. Franklin (Bravo 6)

Warning: mention of physical abuse.

Summary: when you show up to base bloodied and bruised, Drew is determined to find the guy that laid his hands on you.

"What are you doing over here by yourself?"

I chuckled lightly as I looked over at Drew, who was pulling a stool out to sit beside me at the bar.

"Probably the same thing as you, hiding from Sonny. And Omar."

Drew nodded.

"Yeah, sounds about right."

I smiled as I took a hold of my beer bottle and downed the rest of it.

"Hey bartender, can we get two beers? On me."

The bartender nodded and proceeded to put two beers down in front of Drew and I.

"I can buy my own drinks, you know."

Drew shrugged as he picked up his beer bottle.

"You shouldn't have to."

I smiled to myself as I picked up the beer bottle off the bar. Drew and I grew on each other over time since we both joined Bravo around the same time, and both had the same lone wolf attitude. Plus, he wasn't hard on the eyes either, so that was a plus.

"Look at you, still the same ole slut I see."

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. This was not happening right now.

"What the fuck did you just call her?"

I opened my eyes back up and put my head down. I really didn't feel like dealing with my ex-boyfriend right now so if Drew was willing to take on this fight for me I was going to let him tonight. Daniel and I's relationship was over long before I joined Bravo so there was no need to mention him, but I guess they were going to find out about him now.

"Sorry man, but she's just a plain old slut. Isn't that right (Y/N)? This the new guy your fucking this week?"

"Daniel, you need to leave."

"Fuck that, let's go outside. You and me."

Drew pushed himself up, and I quickly got up. I couldn't let Drew piss away his chance at staying on Bravo for this guy. Plus, if he was gone, that meant I was stuck with Sonny and Omar, and I couldn't handle them by myself. I put my hand on his chest, and Drew looked down at me. I could tell he was angry from the look in his eyes, and as much as I wanted him to lay Daniel out right now, I couldn't let him do that.

"He's not worth it, okay? Let's just go."

I took him a few seconds, but finally, he nodded.

"Yeah let's go."

Drew took a step back and I quickly walked off towards the exit. I caught Sonny's eye as Drew and I were leaving and he gave me a questioning look and I just shook my head. I pushed open the door and ran a hand through my hair as I walked outside.

"Who was that guy?"

"My ex."

"You should have let me lay him out."

"And let you get kicked off Bravo? No thanks. I'm not going to be the reason that happens."

"Would be a damn good reason. He has no right to talk to you like that."

I nodded.

"Hey, you okay?"

I nodded.

"Yeah. I'm gonna go home."

"I can drive you."

I shook my head.

"I'm good, really. I'll see you tomorrow."

Drew nodded.

"See you tomorrow (Y/L/N)."

I walked off towards my car and headed back to my apartment. After the night I had, I took a quick shower, put my pyjamas on and curled up on the couch with my blanket and pillow and put on my favourite TV show.

I must have fallen asleep because I woke up to someone pounding on my front door. Once I gained my senses I could hear the yelling that was coming from Daniel who was obviously the one pounding on my door. I looked at the clock on the stove 3 am. Shit. I really didn't want to get kicked out of this apartment so I quickly got up and opened the door.

"What the fuck Daniel?"

"Where's your boy toy to protect you now huh?"

"Go home Daniel. I'll call you a cab. Hell, I'll even pay for it."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"(Y/N) open up. We see your car out front."

Daniel pushed past me and I sighed as I let the door close behind me. I really wished I had gotten my gun out of my safe. The next hour or so consisted of Daniel and I screaming at each other and before I knew it I was looking at myself in my bathroom mirror with blood dripping down my lip and bruises forming on my face and neck. Daniel had left a little while ago and I was honestly surprised that nobody in my apartment building called the cops. I had locked up behind him and sat on the floor by the front door for a while until I got the energy to get up. While I was lost in my thoughts, a knock on my door almost made me jump out of my skin.

Shit that was Sonny. Did I miss a call from the team? I hurried to the living room and picked up my phone off the floor. Shattered great.

"She has to be here."

Another knock on the door and I sighed. I should open the door, but the last people I wanted to see right now were Sonny and Omar. Eventually they left and I quickly got myself put together and I cleaned the nasty cut on my lip, threw on a black quarter zip sweater, some faded blue jeans and my sunglasses and decided to head down to base anyways. Worst that was gonna happen was that I would get benched for this mission.

I pulled up to the base and took my regular parking spot and headed inside. First person I saw was Liza and I ducked into another hallway to avoid her. I made my way to the basement where my personal equipment was without seeing anybody else and I was grateful. I pushed open the door and sighed as I pushed my sunglasses to the top of my head.

"(Y/L/N) that you?"

Shit. I pulled my sunglasses back down over my eyes and pulled my hair in front of my collarbones to try and hide the bruises as much as possible, but even in this dark basement I doubted I could hide my busted lip.

"Yeah. Overslept, did I miss anything?"

"Sonny covered for you, said you were on a weapon run."

I nodded as I walked past Drew and headed over to my makeshift cage.

"We're spinning up tonight."

I nodded.

"Sounds good."

"Everything okay?"

I nodded and before I knew it Drew was standing in front of me and I swallowed the lump in my throat. He reached up and pulled my sunglasses off my eyes and I could tell by the way his jaw clenched shut that he was livid.

"Who did this to you? Was it that asshole from the bar?"

I shook my head.

"Doesn't matter."

"Like hell it doesn't. Tell me where he is."

I shook my head as I reached over and grabbed my sunglasses out of Drew's hand.

"Just drop it."

"Where the fuck his he?"

I flinched at the tone of his voice and swallowed the lump in my throat.

"Can you just brief me on the mission?"

"(Y/N) it's just the two of us here."

I shook my head.

"I'm not weak."

"I know you're not."

"All this is making me feel weak enough and you feeling the need to fight my battles for me isn't helping. I'm just here to do my job."

Drew put his head down and nodded.

"We're heading back to Thailand."

I nodded.

Drew reached out for me and I backed up and shook my head. He backed off and I took a deep breath, blinked away the tears and started to get my gear sorted. I didn't see the rest of the team until I was boarding the plane alongside Drew.

"Thank you."

"There she is... (Y/N) what the fuck happened?"

"I'm good."

"If you're coming to scold me, I already took one beating today I don't think I have it in me to take another one."

I walked past everybody and headed to an empty corner of the plane and laid my bag down on the floor and slumped down in my seat. Drew sat down not too far away from me but I didn't mind. We took off and nobody came to talk to me until Jason walked over to me.

Jason nodded as he sat down beside me.

"You solid?"

I nodded.

"I'm solid Jase. Wouldn't vbe here if I wasn't."

Jason nodded.

"Look I know you don't like to share things with us but everyone in here is here for you. We're family. A disfunctional one but family nonetheless."

I nodded.

"I've already got the I'm gonna kill him speech from Drew. I'm not gonna let you all risk your careers over me."

He nodded.

"Anything you need."

I nodded as Jason pushed himself up and looked over at Drew.

"Look out for her."

Drew nodded and I put my head down and closed my eyes. It had been a long night and I could really use some sleep.

The events of last night flashed before my eyes and I could feel someone's hand on my shoulder and I started hitting the person who was standing in front of me.

"Hey, hey it's me. It's Drew."

I opened my eyes as much as I could. I could feel that one of them was swollen and instantly started bawling. Drew wrapped his arms around me and I clung to his chest as he sat down beside me.

One by one the other guys came over and sat down beside us and I could feel someone rubbing my back, which I was pretty sure was Drew.

Jason was right this was my family. A disfunctional one but a family.

[electricpurrs]

i feel such a joy and peace in my heart when the red team is all crumpled together in the warthog. it just feels like the right place for them to be

[shoot-the-oneshot]

NEW YEAR NEW PROMPTS!!! Request are open!!! Send em in

- [ ] 74 “Help me set this fucking thing on fire.”

- [ ] 75 “have you eaten today?” “Yeah” “okay have you eaten more than a fruit roll up”

- [ ] 76 “tell me again.”

- [ ] 77 “be my good girl.”

- [ ] 78 “who did it?”

- [ ] 79 “I don’t care where I am in the world I’m with you, I’m right there with you.”

- [ ] 80 “Tell me. Do you plan out all of the dumb stuff you do? Or does it just come naturally?"

- [ ] 81 "I plan but it never goes how I want."

- [ ] 82 “I might have done some bad things in my life but you are by far the best.

- [ ] 83 "I gave a dude your number, he wouldn't stop bothering me, give em' hell,"

- [ ] 84 "do you have my sad hoodie? I need my sad hoodie,"

- [ ] 85 "oh really?" / "yes, really." / "lying doesn't suit you, sweetheart”

- [ ] 86 “Weird way to propose, but ok."

- [ ] 87 Why do you insist on giving me pet names?

- [ ] 88 "you? beat me? what a joke,"

- [ ] 89 of course the flowers I got you were the best, you think you can do better?'

[alonahawk]

Note(s): Hey guys! This is my first fanfic, so I hope you like it!

English is not my first language, so I'm sorry if it's not perfect ;)

Word count: 2,587 words

Disclaimer: I do not own any rights on this picture.

Changes

Chapter 1: Green Team

Summary: This is about you're becoming a SEAL sniper and how you're able to adapt to situations. But what about your spotter?

(Drew is also new in the Navy)

I was dreaming about these days for a long time. There I was, another day in Green Team.

Halfway through, the Individual Specialty Training was waiting for me, it was the first day. I decided to become a sniper, so I trained twice as hard to reach my goal.

A sniper doesn't work alone, he always has a spotter by his side.

And our instructors assigned us our comrades.

I wasn't happy about the instructor's decision, they assigned me Drew Franklin.

He wasn't really talkative and in my opinion he was just arrogant. But nonetheless we had to work together, that's what our instructors wanted to see. A SEAL has to be able to adapt to everything; comrades, situations, changes, everything. So I didn't have a choice.

"From now on snipers and spotters are like a married couple. You will do everything together. Training, eating, even shitting. And believe me, that will pay off. Tomorrow at 0300 at the armoury. Good luck ladies, you're dismissed!"

This were the last words from our instructor on the first day.

Great. Me and Drew like a married couple? I couldn't stand him. We looked at each other but didn't say anything. Then we made our way to the barracks.

And as if I knew, even our rooms were assigned to us.

"(Y/L/N), Franklin" was written on the door sign.

'Really? Alright, get used to it. Show your instructors that you're able to adapt. Adaptation is the key to success. Anyway as a sniper, especially as a SEAL sniper.' I thought to myself.

I opened the door and unpacked my bags. So did Drew.

"Well then, good night, Drew."

"Yeah, good night."

Wow, we changed a few words. The first time this day, late in the evening.

'What should go wrong? We are going to be the elite, so we can handle this, I think.' The last few thoughts before I drifted into a short but deep sleep.

0215, the alarm clock went off. Time to get up and prepare for a long day outside. Drew and I walked to the armoury to get our weapons and equipment. This stuff was heavy as fuck but it wasn't for nothing that the motto was "The only easy day was yesterday". The next thing was a long march to the shooting range. We got a training in adjusting our equipment and zero our weapons with some shooting training at a closer distance. After the first training day outside we marched back to the barracks. We were given a moment to shower before we had to go to theory class. That was the hardest part of the day, not to fall asleep. Even that was a single test, staying awake after a long and exhausting day.

We learned about camouflage and approach, aiming right when it's windy, typical shooting errors and how to correct them, pulse control, breathing and estimating distances.

Drew and I changed a few words, but only what was necessary for our duty. And so it continued for the next few weeks.

Shooting training, spotting training, observation training and theory class.

Until the ballistics training came. Mathematical formulas about the bullet drop. This was like Kryptonite to me. I tried and tried and calculated like a maniac until late in the night but I didn't get the right results.

One night I put the paperwork aside and was so fed up that I decided to ask Drew the next day.

I hated to admit it but he was a genius at it.

This is one of the spotters' duties. Quickly calculate the circumstances, such as the wind, distance, speed of moving targets and so on.

But for now I just wanted to sleep.

The morning dawned and hell, it was damn early. As always. One month left until the final exam.

This day the Ghillie wash took place. We went out to our training area and went through sticks and stones, through water, shit and mud. The Ghillie suit we prepared by ourselves had to merge with mother nature. That's how we looked. But in the early evening we were back in the barracks.

I cleaned my weapon, prepared my equipment for the next day and then I took a long, hot shower. The mud was even in my ears and it felt like it took forever to get it out. After the shower I put on my sweatpants and my almost oversized Navy shirt. Then I gritted my teeth and went over to Drew who sat on his phone watching videos.

"Uhm... Drew? Can I disturb you for a moment?"

"Yeah, what's up?"

"I'm desperate with these calculations about the bullet drop. Maybe you can help me when you have time?"

He looked at me curiously but didn't hesitate.

"Sure, take a piece of paper and sit down."

He put his phone aside and patted his bed next to him. I didn't expect that, but I did so. After a few minutes of explaining I thought that I understood it. I began to calculate by myself and the results were the correct ones.

"Wow, now I understand. This is great! Thank you, Drew."

"You're welcome." He sighed. "Uhm... While we're at it... Can you maybe help me a little bit with the shooting training? My scattering circle is too big and I don't know what I'm doing wrong."

"Yeah, of course. We can start right away tomorrow if you want."

"That would be great. Thank you, (Y/N). I think we should sleep now, the morning is almost knocking on the door. Good night."

"Yes, you're right. Thank you again for helping me and good night."

I went over to my bed and took off my sweatpants. I slipped under my blanket and saw Drew undressing himself. He took off everything except for his boxers. Seconds later I registered that I was staring at him. 'What the hell am I doing?' I turned around immediately and hoped he didn't notice. I felt blushing and my heart rate increasing.

'Holy shit. What is happening here right now? Am I going crazy now? Actually I can't stand him but I'm staring at him and blushing? It must be the fatigue, body and mind are reacting to sleep deprivation, that's completely normal. Just sleep, don't think about it anymore.' I told myself.

I used the special breathing technique to lower my heart rate and soon I was asleep.

The next morning we headed to the shooting range. Even if everyone has their job, everyone has to be able to do everything. Just in case. At first we snipers had our turn. Every hit was perfect. Then there was the time for the spotters' shooting. I was a little nervous. Drew relied on me. He lied on the floor behind his rifle and I watched every move he made. In the first round he had to fire five shots. I layed next to him and there were indeed a few things that I saw.

"Does your position feel good for you, Drew? If not, try to vary it a bit. It should feel both stable and comfortable. When inhaling and exhaling the crosshair should only move up and down, not sideways. Then your position is good. Another way to try is, find a good position and look through the scope. Aim at the target. Then close your eyes for a moment and breathe normally. Open your eyes again and see if the crosshair is still aimed at the target. If yes, it's perfect."

"Alright, I will try. Thanks for your advice."

Next round, another five shots. It looked a lot better.

I thought, I saw a slight smile on Drew's face.

"Nice, it worked really well." He hesitated a moment. "Not as perfect as yours but the results are great. Thank you."

'Wow, this wasn't as bad as I expected. Maybe we can learn more from each other, it would be a win-win situation for both of us.'

Later in the evening when we got back to the barracks we prepared our stuff for the next day and took a shower. The same procedure as every evening. We headed to the dining facility and grabbed something to eat.

This was the first time we talked to each other at dinner.

"(Y/N), thanks again for your help today. Really, it means a lot to me. The final exam is in two weeks and I don't want to fail because of my scattering circle."

'Drew talks to me and then also like that? What happened to him? On the other hand, maybe he isn't as arrogant as I thought first.'

"You're welcome. Really. I'm glad that I could help you. I think we work well together."

I gave him a slight smile and he smiled back.

After dinner we went back to our room. Time to sleep.

And so the next week passed. One week left until the final exam. We got this weekend off. But we decided to stay in the barracks and have a lazy weekend. Somehow things got better since I asked him for help.

It was Friday afternoon, we got our things done, but what now?

Drew got an idea. "Hey (Y/N), wanna go out tonight and drink some beers? Just chill, drink and talk?"

"Uuumm, yes, why not? We worked so hard the last few months, this would be great to get out for a few hours."

We showered, changed our clothes and headed outside. There was a bar not too far away, so we could walk there.

Drew and I took a seat in the corner of the bar and ordered two beers.

We looked at each other and smiled. I took a deep breath.

"Listen, I'm sorry for being such an asshole the whole time from the beginning. You didn't talk about anything, you hardly spoke at all. So I thought you were ultra arrogant. But now since I asked you for help I knew I was wrong. I like working with you, we're good buddies in my eyes."

Drew laughed.

"That's funny. I wanted to say exactly the same. I was glad you asked me this evening. I didn't know how to start a conversation, I'm not really good at such things. Many people think like you, although it's not my intention at all. I'm sorry, too. But you're right, we're good buddies and I hope it gets even better."

We drank a few more beers before we headed back to the barracks. Arrived in our room we changed clothes and went to bed. And there I caught myself staring at Drew again.

'(Y/N), focus. You're drunk and it's time to sleep, not to stare at your buddy like you've never seen... such a well-built man... in your life before.'

"(Y/N), are you still awake?"

Jeez, my heart skipped a beat.

"Hmm, I think so, what's wrong?"

"This whole sniper and spotter thing... The instructor said that we have to do everything together."

"Yeah, but that's what we do, don't we?"

"Hmmm... Not entirely... I heard from other spotters that they even sleep with their sniper in one bed. To know their buddies completely, even their heartbeats. To communicate without speaking out in the fields. Should we... do that, too?"

"Ummm, okay... Then... Let's give it a try. I'm on my way."

I didn't even hesitate for a second, grabbed my blanket and headed over to Drew. He left space for me beside him. So we were laying back to back and it felt so soothing.

"Better?" I asked.

"Much better. I wish you a good night, buddy."

"Good night, buddy."

I closed my eyes and had the deepest and best sleep for a long time.

From now on we started to feel the connection between us. Our instructor was right, it would pay off. And we proved that we were able to adapt to situations.

The weekend went by quickly, we watched movies together, drank beer and actually talked a lot.

Now the final exam was waiting for us.

One week to prove all our skills.

Drew and I operated like a Swiss clockwork, everything was going perfectly.

The final day has come.

There was a big ceremony, when we ran into the barracks everyone stood saluting on the side in rows. We were exhausted as fuck but we made it. Finally.

We lined up in rows and the commander started speaking.

"Congratulations comrades. On this day, you've passed the Individual Specialty Training. You've earned the titles SEAL snipers and spotters. The badges will then be awarded. The training is not over, you will be sent to your units, where you will become a part of your SEAL team. You will continue to learn there and become even more professional operators. But one team in particular stood out. Sniper (Y/L/N) and spotter Franklin. Congratulations. You are role models for every comrade. Highly professional and extremely resilient, physically as well as mentally. Always focused on the operation. In addition, comrade (Y/L/N) is the first woman who made it as a SEAL. Good job."

I was so proud of us. We were awarded our badges and got time for the rest of the day to pack our equipment for leaving the training.

Drew and I had big grins on our faces. Like little children at Christmas.

Back at our room we hugged each other tightly.

"Yeaaaaah, we made it!" I felt tears of joy welling up in my eyes. "Now we are SEALS and soon we are on a team, this is still so surreal."

Drew looked at me and hugged me again.

"Oh yes, now we belong to the very best, this is so great! We should pack our bags, weekend is waiting."

We began packing and suddenly something occured to me.

"Uhm, Drew? Now the training is over and we've got weekend. But we still are sniper and spotter. Should we go on like before? I mean, like living together in a shared apartment? I don't have an apartment at the moment, because I decided to search for one in VA Beach in case I become a SEAL. We can search together, if you want?"

"Oh yes, you're right. I didn't think about it. You've got no apartment? Where are you living at the moment except for the barracks? It would absolutely make sense, so... That's a great idea!"

"A friend of mine offered me to stay with her, she lives in Longview, Texas."

"Oooooh! That's far away. Where are you going to sleep this weekend?"

"I thought about a motel."

"Really? I got my van here, if you want you can come with me. A roadtrip to VA Beach. And when we got there, we will search an apartment."

"This would be so great, buddy. Thank you so much."

"Hey, no worries, alright? Always remember the words of our instructor. We're like a married couple now." Drew winked and smirked.

"Alright, then let's go. VA Beach we are comiiiiing!"

We headed to the van and drove towards VA Beach.

[d-criss-news]

How Maybe Happy Ending Became the Surprise Hit of the Broadway Season

DO ANDROIDS DREAM? The leads of Broadway's Maybe Happy Ending: Darren Criss, in Saint Laurent by Anthony Vaccarello, and Helen J Shen in Michael Kors Collection. Swarovski ring. Hair, Edward Lampley; makeup, Kuma. Photographed by Norman Jean Roy. Fashion Editor: Edward Bowleg III. Vogue, March 2025.

---------- Bringing the androids to life, as it were, are stage veteran Darren Criss and Broadway newcomer Helen J Shen. Backstage in his dressing room before curtain, Criss, 37, is bursting with chattiness, hazel eyes flashing and ring-laden fingers aflutter. He credits much of Maybe Happy Ending’s success to its extensive Korean incubation, comparing it to a nearly decade-long out-of-town tryout. “The level of nuance we focused on from the beginning is stuff that you don’t typically get until months in the weeds,” he says. “The trial and error has been happening long before us,” says Shen, who’s 24 but could easily pass for far younger, sitting serenely in a Winnie-the-Pooh sweatshirt. A classically trained pianist who competed internationally before studying theater performance at the University of Michigan (where Criss is also an alum), Shen has had a busy 2024, starring off-Broadway in The Lonely Few and Teeth. Meanwhile Criss is best known for the five seasons he spent as the endearingly charming, openly gay Blaine Anderson on Fox’s Glee. For this performance as an android with creakier movements than Shen’s, he drew on something he’d never put to use professionally: his college semester spent studying commedia dell’arte in Italy. “Stereotypical modern acting is about what you don’t see, and what I’m doing here is what you do see,” Criss says. His robot had been programmed to display unsubtle emotions: happy face, sad face, surprised face. These expressions and Criss’s faintly wooden physicality, inspired by the harlequin figure, “immediately make people more willing to connect to the show’s nonrealness,” he says. In rehearsals, he kept top of mind a note from Arden: “Just because it doesn’t feel real doesn’t make it not true.”

GROUP INTELLIGENCE Shen and Criss are joined in the cast by Dez Duron (center left) and Marcus Choi (center right). Costume design by Clint Ramos. Hair and wig design, Craig Franklin Miller; makeup, Suki Tsujimoto.

Underscoring that feeling of unreality is the shape-shifting set, involving a rotating turntable, proscenium LED tiles, and hologram-like projections. “The backstage mechanics are so unbelievably intricate,” Arden says. “My hope is that it’s working so well the audience doesn’t even notice.” The set was inspired by how we consume media on our phones; Arden estimates that the show spends more time in a vertical orientation than horizontal. Likewise, switching between sliding rooms on tracks emulates the effect of swiping on a personal device, and simple theatrical techniques like irising, created with black panels and neon, mimic how we pinch and zoom. Another influence was manga, which can tell big stories briskly, gracefully pushing readers from one image to another. The emphasis was on containing and focusing the audience’s point of view, Arden explains. “I wanted to take the audience on an adventure, leaving more to their imagination rather than trying to show everything.” Within those silently whizzing frames is a comforting, retro future-scape that the director compares to 2001: A Space Odyssey. “There’s this mix of cold futurism with warm sentimentality that’s also present in the score,” Arden says of the set. “You’re watching a classic Burt Bacharach musical, even though we’re driving a flying car.” The team has been floored by the rabid army of fans. Dubbed Fireflies, after a magical moment in the show, they range from repeat viewers dressing up as their favorite characters to those creating art inspired by HwaBoon, the emotional-support potted plant that many find the production’s low-key true star. (Arden calls her “a fabulous silent diva” who appeals to wallflowers in the audience.) A significant portion of those waiting by the stage door to meet the cast are Asian American, and while nearly all the actors in this production are also of Asian American descent, Shen shies from labeling the show narrowly. “It’s important to mark accomplishments, but whenever we put that pressure on to be a mouthpiece for any group of people that is multifaceted and contradictory and complicated, it’s going to fail.” Although actors of various races and ethnicities have previously portrayed the robots, almost every production has been set in Seoul. Yet Criss maintains “the show is as distinctly Korean as Romeo and Juliet is distinctly Italian...It’s where we set our scene, and some aspects of the show might spring from the culture.” (South Korea has the world’s highest density of robot workers.) “But it’s a story with universal themes: We all live, we all end, we all, hopefully, at some point, love or are loved.” The offbeat premise and ingenious staging prove that no algorithm can yet prescribe a hit Broadway musical. “As we enter into this world of AI, theater is one of the last completely human-made, -operated, -performed, and -received art forms,” Arden notes. “And that’s why we go to the theater—to learn something new about what it is to be alive.” How delightful that it’s possible in a musical about robots.

[dravenscroft]

'I found myself imagining Franklin’s crew all turned to wolves, transformed by the harsh landscape, the starvation, the hopelessness. A howling pack a hundred strong of men changed into beasts.'

-

A little art from my Arctic horror novel, This Savage Kingdom!

I drew the wolves very detailed (and highly stylized) but ended up removing the lineart for that ghostly vibe. Here they are, though! Speculate as to whichever cold boy you think is which 😂

[2demondogs]

Get These Damn Angels Drunk | Dutch/Carmichael

Tags: young VanDerMatthews, seduction but no smut, Dutch has a plan, canon-typical violence, smoking, power dynamics Word Count: 4.2k A/N: The fleeting idea of why Sheriff Carmichael might have been too embarrassed to comment on their escape from Kettering came to my mind. I realize I spell it both Carmichael and Carmicheal. This is because I don't care about him. I am sorry. (Not enough to fix it lel)

The only thing Dutch despises more than being confined is being well-behaved.

In the past, before Hosea's terrible voice of reason came to him, he would have been running his mouth where his feet could no longer run. Good behavior is a concept so foreign that, after a few whisper-arguments across the cell hall with Hosea in their first week locked up in Kettering, Dutch was forced to ask what exactly behaving behind bars... meant.

It didn't mean full honesty, no; to quell Hosea's nerves after a particularly heated discussion with one of their buyers, they'd agreed on a story to tell the police which made their scheme appear far more juvenile. Dutch could pass for twenty on a good day, Hosea for twenty-six or -seven — they have played to their youth before to slink off unscathed. Dutch still upholds that they jinxed themselves, that instead of discussing the thought whatsoever they should have turned on their heels and skittered off with the three-hundred bucks.

His own greed was part of the reason they continued, but his hindsight remains twenty-twenty.

Even if he cannot call the sheriff a lucky invert for locking up two handsome fellers as themselves — a choice slur for mutton-shunters, which he favored in his youth and finds ironically hilarious now — Dutch has used the time Hosea's been in fitful slumbers to think.

His personal wants are taken into account, because otherwise he has nowhere to stem an escape from. That old story about Benjamin Franklin asking a rival to lend him a book; small favors, big turnarounds.

First, a cigar. His fingers itched for one the whole first week, so badly that they began to twitch, too. Dutch finds himself pressing his fingers to his lips in that familiar grip-pattern now and then, holding his breath as if he's got a something to puff on while he stares out the barred window into the alleyway between the sheriff's office and a general store. (Sometimes a feller takes a piss near the boxes stacked in the back, but not much beyond the light changes out there.)

Second, to be with Hosea. It might have been easier, to be apart, if they were not able to see and speak to each other across the two sets of bars that separate them.

As it is, they talk all day and stare all night; Dutch feels the terrible limbo of their separation eating at his dignity each hour. Some days, he yearns to ask Hosea to speak filth to him so he might imagine they are holding one another like animals do — another day goes by, another inch of what recognized softness exists between them turns carnal, it seems.

It was fresh morning outside when he murmured this plan to Hosea. They've become used to the lawmen feeding their horses around nine or ten, heading to the general store to restock each other's smokes and drinks; they treat it like a damned university, really, and that only pisses Dutch off more.

If they want to be beacons of purity, why not act like ridding the world of Sin is their job? He feels like a child put into detention for throwing rocks at another.

Not that he would know from experience with the latter just how redundant every piece of it feels.

Hosea seems amused, but willing. Dutch had not thought of any jealousy or anger he might react with, not until Hosea's brows drew together at the end of his spun-thread and he feared he would be upset — it wasn't until that moment he realized, should Hosea have offered to be the sacrifical succubus, he'd've turned green — but the blond simply asked: "Everyone 'round here knows our looks, and we only got changes on the horses. How do we get out of the building?"

The solution to that is rather simple, they decide.

"Sheriff?"

A sigh, heavy and rough with smoke. The smell of burning tobacco drifting down the hall from the front desk makes his question sound more genuine.

"C'mere," Dutch calls. His rings clink against the cell bars as he wraps his hands around them. "Will ya?"

A Lord is muttered. "The Hell's it now, Landers?"

Dutch sees Hosea's mouth curl into a grin at the pseudonym, has to bite his cheek and clear his throat to stave off a smirk of his own. The blond curls into his bed as Carmichael's bootfalls near them, standing a respectable distance from Dutch's door.

He thinks I'll swing at him. Smart man.

"I asked you somethin' boy," the man says. His eyes are narrow and green, hooded by tired old lids. He must be a few years older than Hosea from how he carries himself, but his face is more unlined than Dutch's own.

Ancient princess of shit.

"I smelled your cigarette," Dutch starts, softening his voice as if he were pleading. "Y'see, I smoke cigars everyday myself. At least, 'fore I wound up here. So, now," — holding out his hand, tensing the muscles in his wrist to make his fingers twitch — "I got the shakes from quittin' 'em, like that." Carmichael nods, as if considering before Dutch even gets to the point: "What I'd like is to roll a cigar. Get this misery outta myself. I had a rolling case in my satchel."

His lips remain pursed beneath the undergrown mustache on his lip, smoke falling out of Carmichael's notrils as he takes the filter between his thumb and forefinger to point his middle finger towards him. "Nice sob story," he says. "What can you do for me, son?"

This wasn't expected.

The two outlaws believed they were on good enough behavior — if a little quiet, when the sheriff was around — to at least earn a smoke.

Inwardly, he berates himself for not considering that regardless of their behavior, they did scam enough money out of this man's town to get themselves a hundred barrels of flour.

Outwardly, Dutch wheels his plan forward and drags his eyes down Carmichael's body. He isn't an ugly man: he might be a princess degrading the title of lawman to businessman, but he clearly grew up working harder than this. A farmer's son, he would guess, or a farmhand in his last years of youth.

Some money or a good harvest came his way, and out of the sun he went. Yet he still worked, still kept himself built right. His shirt fits snugly over his arms and chest, hidden by the vest buttoned firmly down his torso; the trousers at his hips—

The man clears his throat before Dutch's eyes can laser through how the pant legs crease around his knees.

"What can you do for me?" Carmichael repeats, each word its own sentence.

Dutch looks towards his eyes, tries to find something to arouse genuine want along those smooth cheekbones.

"I'on know," he says, quirks the corner of his mouth up. "What'd'ya like from me, hoss?"

Panic flicks through Carmichael's eyes. It's nearly audible how the man reads deeper into things Dutch has said or done over the course of his hold here — things that had no such meanings, yet now sound suspiciously fond of the man in charge, suspiciously compliant. Hosea shifts in the cell across from his, and he hopes the mirth in his eyes reads suitably to the man between them.

Panic bleeds into something affirmative, yet unreadable to Dutch. The rosiness he can see along the sheriff's cheeks fills in the blanks.

"I'll get you your cigar," Carmichael says finally. As he's stalking towards the lockers, he hears him murmur: "Invert." He's tasting the word, not spitting it out, and Dutch will insist he was able to read his sexuality off his face if Hosea ever asks how he thought this plan would work.

He doesn't seem to be asking much from his cell. Hosea stands, comes to the bars to laugh silently, and scurries back to his cot as the sheriff walks towards them again. Again, Dutch feels immature — this prison thing is just one big child's game.

"I cannot give you your lighter," Carmichael says, as if reading a script off the back of his lids every time he blinks. He must give other prisoners their smokes more often; Dutch realizes these men must really dislike the two of them, neither having been offered a smoke break since the night they were thrown to rot. "I also cannot give you your razor blade. What's that for, anyways?"

"In the tin?"

"Aye."

Dutch raises his brows, genuine surprise. "Not a cigar smoker, are you? Don't roll your own smokes at all?"

"I ain't one for, ah," — Carmichael glancing around, tapping his fingers against the tin in his hands — "Working on pleasure. Always bought cigarettes. Pre-made."

Dutch must swallow the delight at it. Oh, he's bit the bait. "I find the work the most pleasurable part," he says, holding his hand out for the tin as if the words spoken are totally innocuous.

Carmichael flinches — flinches, by God, Dutch can hardly contain himself — before handing the tin through the slats. It is a few items lighter, and he sees the light of the noon glint off his lighter in the palm of Carmichael's hand.

"I gotta stand here," he says, once Dutch turns to sit on his cot and sort through the supplies in his tin.

Dutch is hardly paying him mind with the immediate promise of nicotine at his lap. No whiskey to moisten the tobacco with, he must have removed that, too. Deputy probably drank it, he thinks sourly.

"I gotta light it for you, since you ain't allowed to have this." He lifts his head, nods with a small smile.

"I understand. Can't give maniacs matches, can we?"

"You're far from a maniac," Carmichael says. "Bit too smart to be crazy, y'all are. That's why you're dangerous."

"You're complimentin' some criminals, sheriff?" Dutch asks.

"Naw." He can hear the shit-eating grin in his voice, doesn't need to look up from pinching the tobacco into its wrapper. "Much less impressive to have arrested some lucky assholes."

He huffs a laugh.

If only he believed that, he thinks, he might have saved himself from his fate. As it stands, Dutch finishes rolling his cigar and stands, stretches his legs out one after another 'til the stiff knees crack. He can feel eyes on him as he watches the toes of his boots shift.

They hadn't given them the county stripes — honestly, Dutch was beginning to think the men up front forgot the men were even holed up in here. His clothes are soaked with dirt and sweat, though, which is a divine enough punishment for imitating men of luxury; he'll be glad when the strench of tobacco covers this reek back up.

"Care to trim it?" Dutch asks, holding the butt firmly between his fingers, the tip of the cigar through the bars. "That's what the razor is for."

He fights the urge to speak a sarcastic good boy when Carmichael follows his instructions.

The lighter flicks open and on, the sheriff steps closer; Dutch presses his nose uncomfortably between the cool steel bars to let the end light from between his lips. Slowly, he raises his hand to touch Carmichael's knuckles, dancing over his fingers as he gently pushes and pulls his hand back and forth. The back of his hand is hairy, thinly so; dark brown sunfreckles and a few small age spots spatter it and up onto his arm.

"Let me," — the cigar perched between his teeth makes it come across less sultry than intended — "Guide ya hand, sir."

Touching him becomes self-explanatory when the end lights more evenly after the change in tactic — Dutch will be damned if his first smoke in weeks is ruined by an unruly burn. The man still flushes, again, must feel hot as an ember.

He knows, because he's met his eyes again, feigning timidity at the proximity.

Dutch's gaze lingers as he withdraws, hollows his cheeks more than he needs to — although the cigar is a little too tight, his hands having fallen out of practice without the constant stream of leaves between them — and tongues the smoke around in his mouth. The rush is immediate and almost dizzying. He keeps the butt close to his face, draws it along his stubble as he does when he smokes deep in thought.

It helps to taste it, some; it also helps to spread that rouge down Carmichael's neck. He moves his jaw, shows the nicotine-stained teeth that line it as he sneers.

"I oughtta tack sodomy above your head, fool," Carmichael spits, then.

Dutch must not feign surprise for the second time. "Why?" He draws, sacrifices a short hit to exhale it quickly. "I ain't fucked no men yet."

Yet.

The sheriff looks like he would very much enjoy replying to that. And although the cigar could burn something, could catch his clothes on fire if he really wanted to try; although he, an inmate, has now provided the sheriff with a threat of sorts — Carmichael wordlessly motions for the rolling tin back and pivots to look at Hosea's hat-concealed face before returning to the front.

He tips his hat up once he's gone, and sees the humor on his face. "Wrapped around your finger," he mouths.

"Just like you," Dutch replies silently. The older man scoffs.

Night has fallen before Sheriff Carmichael makes his first supposed-to-be routine round of the next evening. Dutch was able to sleep a good few hours away while Hosea traced random bricks in the walls or woodgrains on the floor planks. Neither has had adequate, regular rest since those doors closed.

He and Hosea have been playing games they've forced up from their childhood memories to pass the time: the game of this hour is guess what number he's thinking of. Hosea keeps thinking of the number thirteen because they are so terribly unlucky, and Dutch keeps winning. Each time he does, Hosea stretches his curled back out and lets his boot soles press against the bars in a full-body stretch, spreading his legs nicely, before proclaiming: "Again."

If not for the boots that stepped between them, they'd have changed gears to guess what word he's thinking of.

Sat in front of their bars, Hosea cross-legged and Dutch with his haunches splayed beneath him, they must look like bored animals. Dutch has a feeling that this angle makes Carmichael nervous — he turns his head minimally, lets his eyes turn up instead.

The man sets his jaw. Before he can speak, he is slipped from the cavernous, almost disassociated mindset that had been guessing thirteen and back into that of the predator.

"You a righteous man, sheriff?" He asks, voice quiet. He focuses on his eyes; he has decided Carmichael's eyes are rather alright, a light green and very expressive.

In them, he sees the repression that's been radiating off the man since yesterday's morningtime.

His face flickers. "Why, son?"

He bites his cheek to stave off a grin, ends up looking more coyly amused than anything. "Ain't no righteous man ever looked at me like that."

Carmichael is still — he might harkon to call it hesitating — before slowly lowering onto a knee. "And what is like that?" He asks, tone low, eyes squinting as if to size Dutch up one last time.

He leans forward, swallows the joy of the man's fingers twitching where they rest of his bent knee, tips brushing against the folds of his khakis. "I'd say it's hungry," Dutch says. "Would I be right, sir?"

"I ain't no sodomite," Carmichael says, sticks a finger through the bars and into Dutch's forehead. His voice sounds as unconvinced as he looks of his own words. "I ain't."

"Eyes don't lie." Dutch smooths over his shirt, shifts where he sits on the hard floor as it begins to make his tailbone yell. He'll be glad when this game can be over and won; he's never had a man dare to put his damned, rotten finger between his eyes like it was a gun, like he ought to be scared of it.

Pathetic. Self-important. He will like to have been, in any capacity, the unsightly taker of this man's homosexual virginity, just as well as he will like to be on his horse and out of Kettering.

"'Mon," he goades, as the sheriff looms before him, fighting with himself in the quiet. "I ain't known you to back out of a," — licking his lips, feeling almost like a prostitute for how hard he has began trying to seduce him — "Tight spot."

Self-important, Carmichael is. He mutters insult after insult; Hosea must be an invert, too, I won't bother takin' you down the block 'cuz he pro'ly likes to watch. He lets them tumble out as if speaking them louder than the jingle of his keychain will change that those keys are unlocking the cell door, or that his words are constructed sloppily in the way that a man who is really self-depreciating insults another.

Dutch has risen to his knees, then pushed himself up to standing — only to be backed into a corner the moment the door clinks shut, key still in the lock. His head is pushed where the corner of the bars meets solid brick wall, hair and skin scraping the rough texture as his ears and shoulders are pinned uncomfortably, one clipped by grit and one chilled by metal spindles.

Carmichael is mad, and he thinks he's stronger.

Stronger than Dutch; stronger than his desires.

If only he knew how weak finally giving in can make a man of brawn. Dutch had discovered it when he laid with Hosea those months ago; his knees gave out on him as if he were the eldest there, his heart wanted to burst out of his chest and it made him dizzy, so dizzy — he fell into Hosea and thought no more about whether it was immoral for a sinner like himself to commit yet another crime.

Their mouths meeting is less of a kiss and more of a brawl, Carmichael already slipping through the cracks of decency. Dutch has fondled his way across his shoulders — broad, pleasantly, they must take the same shirt size — and into his hair, tipping his hat off his head to tumble down their side.

Fingers press hard into his throat, his clavicle. The button at his collar pops, tugging chest hair with it, before he realizes Carmichael is undressing him, not strangling him; the bloodrush of not knowing is intoxicating.

It may be business, but there's pleasure in doing such a menial task with the right man, as fleeting as it may be.

And it is pleasant, for a moment.

Carmichael allows Dutch to taste his teeth as long as groans fall out of his open mouth, a real ego-glutton; the man's stubble is prickly and if he squeezes his eyes shut and holds his breath to escape the scent of cologne and leather, he can almost pretend he's kissing Hosea. His darling smells more like horses and earth and metal.

It is irking him how he bites so callously at his jaw, and then his neck; Dutch winces as he sucks hard and fast at his jugular, worse than a damned vampire. It stings, and although the sharp pain down his chest lights him up—

The sheriff's hands are ripping at his belt — expensive leather, expensive buckle, the godforsaken rat — and he has suddenly had his fill of playing cooperative. Dutch grabs at his shoulders, his shirt; he grabs softly at first, then hard enough to bruise.

Carmichael does not notice nor care, not until he is twisted violently into the bars, and Dutch clings onto his biceps to throw the stunned man into the brick wall as hard as he can. The shout is cut off quickly. His nerves are strung tight and his muscles are weaker for it, but the pig is unconscious and bleeding from a long scrape on his sunburnt forehead when Dutch kneels beside his body to double-check.

Hosea's high whistle makes him near jump from his skin. He looks up and meets his eyes as he feels for a pulse on Carmichael's neck; there is one, and it's racing.

"My, Big Cat, you've still got it." He's grinning, broad as spread hands, hazel eyes sparkling as if he were one of them caught in all the action.

Dutch huffs a laugh as he drops the wrist and stands up. It's hoarse.

"Get ready to strip 'im before he comes to," he says, messes with the cluster of keys to open his cell. "I'll find somethin' to tie him up with."

He thumbs through them to find Hosea's — if mine's A3, he must be B3 — feels himself go near-crosseyed with the excitement of freedom, and humiliating the passed-out dope in his old room.

Hosea grazes a hand along his open collar when the bars are slung aside, but passes quickly by. There's no time to waste here; the deputy could pop in at any moment, maybe even a townsperson who'd witnessed another, devilish pair like Dutch and Hosea passing on through. While it is enticing to think of, the risk far outweighs the reward, now.

A hammer is striking in his chest, strikes against a fist there as he trots to the front of the police station. He rummages blindly through the desk and then passes into the deputy's office. From what Dutch had seen, he did seem like the outdoorsy type — just as well, he finds a lasso hanging by the door from a thin wooden peg.

Spare? Favorite? It will fit fine around Carmicharl's wrists and ankles either way, although he cannot think of which origin would add more flavor.

The humor gets to him, then, and when he comes down the corridor to see Hosea smacking a half-conscious sheriff's head back into peaceful emptiness by way of the hardwood, he barks a laugh.

His partner looks up at him, pale blond eyelashes catching the light of the moon. It draws deep shadows over his eyes and mouth, makes him look wild.

"What's so damn funny?" Hosea asks. He laughs, too.

Grins don't leave them, not even as they toss Carmichael every way to Sunday robbing him of his clothes. He is limp as a cadaver. Their mouths only waver having to look at his nudity in any exact detail; suddenly, Dutch is no longer able to convince himself of his physical alrightness, is more interested in worming his way into the pack of smokes that fell from his trousers and lighting two cigarettes for themselves.

"I don't reckon you'll need his underthings, will you?" Hosea asks. Dutch uses his turned, questioning face as an opportunity to stick a lit smoke between his lips.

He scoffs, brings his own to his mouth as he discards the matches on the ground. "Take 'em off anyways."

That— that is boisterously funny. Dutch doesn't believe he's ever heard Hosea giggle before, not even once in their years running together. The cigarette drops from his lips and burns into Carmichael's back, and Hosea plucks it up easily to take a drag.

He aches to kiss him. His throat hurts for his lips, their tender affection over his hate-bruised skin. Ever the gentleman, Hosea does brush a kiss along his cheek as he helps Dutch button the last of the stolen shirt's front — but not more, yet. He complains that kneeling on this tough ground makes his hips ache, and Dutch strokes his hair once, twice. It is wiry with dirt and sweat.

Carmichael's skin is warm enough beneath his palms that Dutch doesn't care to check his pulse again. He holds the arms and legs of the man steady, Hosea securing them together in a mean hogtie.

His prick should smart a storm when he's awoken, if the muscles twitching in his ass and thighs as they drag him towards the center of the wooden floor say anything.

Overkill? Certainly.

Delightful? Monstrously.

"All he's missin' is an apple in his mouth," Hosea says dryly, blows out a cloud.

Dutch almost hollers.

No one suspected anything of Sheriff Carmichael's shadow escorting a lone criminal out of town. Hosea kept his head down, hat pulled firmly over his brow; Dutch gripped his forearm, though no handcuffs bound his wrists behind him. The man carried Dutch's hat in his fists to hide their freeness.

How suspiciously obedient. What training does Carmichael put on his prisoners? Dutch thinks, bites back a fresh fit of laughter that would break their already imperfect, night-covered illusion.

He can hardly contain himself.

Their horses were kept in the sheriff's stables this whole time. At least the animals feed them, they agree, glancing over the other, tempting opportunities to snatch a pack-mule from the unfamiliar horses stalled up.

Hosea's Penny was the happiest of the two to see her man, jaw hanging loose as if to smile when her big brown eyes settled on Hosea's softened ones.

Dutch's horse was a fresh reign — he hadn't even named him before they were took up, and the animal started seeing the broad-brimmed police hat on his head.

That makes him angry. He wishes he'd put his cigarette out on Carmichael's shriveled up balls instead of his front-desk nameplate

[hedgiwithapen]

DHD: PTAcule free space. Collective date night? Unusual combinations of battle couples? Formal vote to refuse Icicle’s application even though he promises he won’t be evil and/or creepy this time? (Everybody Lives AU encouraged)

"Remember," Crusher said, the joking tone suddenly gone from his voice, "You promised, no judging."

"None," Barb said, just as seriously, adjusting the gloves on her hands awkwardly. They still felt too tight. Paula's fingers were longer than her own, but the gloves had been a gift, weeks ago. Like the crossbow, Barb had left them in the box. She'd never thought she'd need them.  

That was how all of the Crock's gifts were. She was glad to have them now. 

"Leave them alone," Paula said. "You won't get used to them if you don't let them be. We have bigger things to worry about right now."

"I know." Barb took a breath. "I...you're sure this is the right place?"

The tall, plate-glass windowed office building towered above them, twinkling with ambient light from the streetlamps, taillights, and other city pollution. Funny, all those years of living in southern California suburbs, and under a dozen months in small-town Nebraska had broken the part of her mind that accepted Skyscrapers as normal. In Blue Valley, only the hospital and the clocktower  stood higher than four stories. Twenty was unthinkable.  

"You were expecting a warehouse?" Crusher asked. "Maybe dilapidated, a couple rusting shipping crates outside?"

"Something like that," Barb said, still stunned. "This is where...?"

"This is where the last signal from baby Midnight's goggles came from. Either they're here, or someone in here knows where they are. Ready for your first heist?" Paula  put a hand, haltingly comforting, on her shoulder. "Let's go get our Pat and the kids," Crusher whooped, shrill, and slammed his bat hard through a window. It shattered. Suddenly all Barb could see was the glass on the pitstop floor, what was left of Stripe...

"Barb, we need to move," Paula said, tugging her along. "Stay close. We'll take care of everything."

Security must have been anticipating something. a line of them were waiting in the hall. Crusher reached for an explosive, sending it sliding down the polished linoleum with a perfect kick.   The blast was contained, but Barb still felt the heat of it on her face. She expected a surge of guilt, watching people die. 

They'd taken her kids. They'd left Mike's bike mangled on the side of the road. She felt, exactly as promised, no judgement towards Crusher, and no pity. 

Paula put the tip of her crossbow bolt below the eye of a survivor.

"Where did your boss put Stripesy and the children?" she asked conversationally.  

"I--"

"Think carefully. If you tell us, maybe I'll let Stripesy decide if you live. He's the kind that might show mercy.  We aren't. "

"He's on the 15th floor.  the kids are in the basement. I don't have access--"

"Who does?" Barb asked, shouldering past Crusher, who let her. He was already using the end of his bat to poke and corpses for security passes.

"Soray."

"Oh, you're going to be Sorry," Paula said, pressing the sharp point close enough it drew blood.

"Wait, no, please, Franklin Soray, he--right there." he gave a feeble twitch. Crusher retrieved the badge. Paula looked at Barb. 

"Your call," she said, quiet.

"Leave him," Barb said. She told herself it wasn't about mercy. It was about priorities. 

They split up. Paula squeezed both they hands, and then vanished up the elevator shaft Crusher pried open for them.  Barb held the crossbow she'd been given tightly. She'd never ventured into the tunnels below Blue Valley, but somehow, she imagined they'd be a lot like the twisting maze of concrete Crusher slammed through like a jaguar through forest undergrowth. 

"After, we're going to work on Cardio," he said with a grin unmarred by the splatter of blood on his face when he'd broken at least a guard's nose. Barb hadn't looked at the man long enough to judge if the angle of his neck was natural or not, and again told her heart not to care.  

"Sure," she panted. "Absolutely. Where...?"

Another door, this one labeled a stomach clenching "Special Collections/ New Acquisitions" opened under the badge Crusher held. Another corridor of doors stretched out.

Crusher pointed to a scuff on the frame of one door. "Artie left that. C'mon."

Alarms started to blare, but Crusher wasted no time. "Hey ducklings! Gonna have these open real quick. everyone away from the doors, kay?"

"Dad!" Artemis yelped from behind her door. A muffled "Mr Crock?" sounded like Beth from the one behind it. 

"Yup," he turned to Barb, offering her the detonator to the explosives she hadn't even seen him rig. "Wanna do the honors?" She very much did. 

17 stories up, Paula slunk through the halls, careful of the after-hours lighting. It provided such nice shadows. Two more near silent interrogations led her to a very locked office door, one with the blinds hastily installed on the outsides of the windows. Amateur move, really. Anyone with half a brain would know something was different here, and anyone who knew to be looking for a hostage would find them easily enough. 

She opened the door.

"I need more time," Pat's voice croaked from where he was hunched over a desk. Her eyes caught, in the single bulb of lamplight, the sight of bruises, of a chain around his ankle. "It's not done, please--."

"Halftime," she said easily, dropping to the floor and trading lockpicks for her crossbow. "Easy, Patrick."

"Paula?" he said, like it was a question.

"Mm," she agreed. "Barb and Crusher are getting the children. They should be getting them--" The building swayed slightly. Distantly, an alarm sounded. "Now." she looked at the papers he'd been working on Blueprints for something. "We taking these or trashing them?"

"Trashing," Pat said hoarsely. Paula handed him a harness pulled from her backpack, and set to work filling the metal trash can that stood in the office with papers and a lit match.

"We're taking the long way down. Hope you're better with heights these days." 

The window took a few blows to break, but crashed to the ground far below. Paula lifted her crossbow from the floor, setting a bolt with a long cable attached and firing. the other end secured, she smiled. Smoke was filling the hall, which would prevent any other security from reaching them in anything resembling enough time for recapture.

"Shall we?" she clipped into the zipline. Pat followed. Far below, the light of the Cosmic staff lit the figures of the rest of the family, booking it for the minivan obtained for the rescue.

[coffee---bean]

big summarising of my thoughts and development, the past week... (pt. 1)

ok!

sitting with connor in backspace talking about our ideas.

i wrote down some ideas, whatever first came into my mind - sex, the desert, circles...

i tried connecting a bunch of different ideas -- "prairie madness", the idea of going crazy cos you live in a really flat nothing-ness area -- solitary confinement -- the forces holding atoms and our bodies together -- electrical wires holding society together -- the internet as a desert -- and "prairie madness" in that desert, feeling meaningless or alone in this vastness...

i thought about the origins of the word "isrealite" - someone who wrestles with God. in the context of the bible, that's kind of supposed to mean, someone who fumbles their relationship with God, not understanding that God already knows everything about them. someone who fights unneccessarily, basically.

i thought about the idea of a wrestling ring in the desert, kind of like the frank ocean lyric from the song solo, from blonde:

There's a bull and a matador dueling in the sky

like, these great fighters, mythical figures representing something incredible, fighting for the content of our souls, maybe. i think this scene from stanley kubrick's spartacus movie was rattling around my head:

as well as the interesting modern example of the same idea - WWE, wrestling. people taking on personas to fight one another in a kind of comic book narrative, feeling like the perverse supercharged aesthetic opposite to the spareness i associate with the desert or religion.

the kind of raw energy of two people wrestling eachother just feels very tense and exciting. it's inspired by my experiences wrestling my friends, too!

i think i imagined the ring as a set of poles and chain-link fence because of some vague idea of what an independent wrestling match might look like, inspired by the first x-men movie, i think?

and, also watching UFC fights with my friend dan, at work. the brutality of it, and the ring, also.

i wanted the vibe to be sweat, blood, tears...

connor drew this little drawing -- the wrestling match in your mind. the constant fighting with yourself, yknow! i love this drawing because the shape of the cage feels like a little bird-cage. and i think it helps communicate the psychological symbolism that "wrestling with God" really means in your mind - God being some kind of inner peace, and wrestling with that is hard...

i started planning the idea of building the wrestling ring and having a live fight in front of a screen being projected on.

just more planning, like making the ring lifted off the ground, so the pit could be filled with sand. i began thinking about prison, wrestling and the idea of prayer. i was thinking about being trapped in a wrestling match like a prison sentence.

i made a work called boat simulator two last semester in a VR class, which was a kind of adaptation of the stranger by albert camus. in that work, i imagined life as a prison sentence, trapped in our perspective and bodies, and death being the release. that's a dark idea, especially since in real life prison is such a horrible experience, but i don't necessarily think life is bad just because we don't get to choose every aspect of our lives.

i was thinking about the difference between wrestling and prayer as a response to prison. the wrestling is like the constant fighting and freaking out, and the prayer is more like the moment of giving up and asking for something.

i started collecting quotes and ideas about prayer and prison. here's my thought process in the form of quotes. first i started with three songs with prayer in the title:

prayer by kendrick lamar -- this song wasn't really worthwhile. i haven't heard it, but reading the lyrics, the point felt both very stupid and also not really relevant to my work

ultralight prayer by kanye west / kirk franklin -- this is a little extra song created from the song ultralight beam from the life of pablo, using the ending vocals by kirk franklin. the feeling of this song really spoke to me. i identified the soft synths, the gently distorted drum sample -- a very sparse mix focusing on a 4-chord progression -- and this lyric:

This prayer is for everyone that feels they're not good enough This prayer's for everybody that feel that they're too messed up For everyone that feels they've said "I'm sorry" too many times You can never go too far when you can't come back home again

this will come up later, but the idea of prayer not for yourself, but for other people, is something that kind of changed my approach to this piece.

prayer by brockhampton (kevin abstract, mainly) -- this song is one of my favourite song-types: the quiet, short song where someone sings out to the void... hoping, crying, uncertain... the song structured like an unfinished thought, flickering in wind...

I love these niggas so much I love these niggas so much I love these niggas so much God, please, don't make me grow up God, please, don't make me grow up God, please, don't make me grow up God, please, don't make me grow up God, please, don't make me grow up God, please, don't make me grow up

the simplicity of the lyrics, the desperation, the churchy synths -- and the way it connects these lyrics and these feelings to the idea of prayer really opened up my mind about this idea. it made me think about my own prayers.

the only time i've ever really prayed is right before a test, when i was freaking out in bed the night before, feeling like i was going to die. i really think that's the worst i've ever felt, in my life. i remember crying about how scared i was before the HSC.

this song feels like an important part of the piece!

----------

other brockhampton influences on this work

this performance of the light pt. 2, live at the chapel

this is one of the most amazingly vulnerable songs i've ever heard -- i cry everytime i hear it. both of the artists talk about some really powerful emotional experiences in their life. joba talks about his father's suicide, and kevin abstract talks about carrying a lot of childhood trauma with him.

What type of man can find the right time to fly in? Especially when my cousin dyin'

what kind of man am i, if i can't find the right time to be there for the people around me? if i can't connect with the people around me?

To see the world move without you feel like a daydream

the feeling of not being able to take part in the world. watching everyone else have fun. being dissociated, unable to act, to fix things.

The light is worth the wait I promise, wait Why did you do it? The light is worth the wait I promise, wait Screaming, "Please, don't do it"

please don't die, too late. it's so heartbreaking. this song is performed live in a place called the chapel, which is a quite bare looking wooden church-performance space.

that reminds me of the beautiful simple wooden church from there will be blood, directed by paul thomas anderson, although jack fisk was the production designer, i believe...

also!

the song 2pac

another short song, another very simple synth loop and drum loop. the emotion really comes from those synths, but moreso from the performer, who is once again performing a kind of prayer or sermon. it's a very traditionally gangsta verse, but there's so much heartbreak hidden right underneath the surface.

Fuck the damn detectives, momma called the Reverend I know she praying for me, but I'm in the shadows Hella drugs and ammo, kicking doors, my MO

there's something resigned about this. like this is all he feels he deserves, all he is worth. this reminds me of an experience i had while i was on ketamine, watching the iron giant.

upon rewatching, this scene isn't really as profound as i thought it was when i was on drugs. but there was something about the iron giant seeing a thing that looks exactly like him, and being told "he's not the hero, he's the villain", and at the time i felt this huge weight of a child being told they are a villain over and over, beginning to believe it.

i feel that same pain in this song! i listen to it over and over, slowed down and with reverb.

i was also just thinking about how i tend to be attracted to short, solemn, prayer-like songs. here's a few more examples, which leads us to our next quote!

something about him by brockhampton

her majesty by the beatles

get lost by kanye west

and..........

[horrorslashergirl]

For all the KINGS out there

MEN ARE NOT TRASH.

This is probably unrelated to my blog, but I had to write this out because it keeps haunting my mind. The constant hate men get on Tumblr and other social media platforms have been getting out of hand. I lost count of how many times I heard or read this phrase: "Men Are Trash." by women and I kept wondering... How can one person assume every single man on this planet is like that? Have you talked to all of them to prove this theory? Before I speak more, I want anyone who reads this to know it's not a hate-related post, but rather a wake-up call... especially for women who have been brainwashed by society.

NOW. Tons of women spoke about how men are useless, trash, and unneeded in society and how the world would be better without them.

The question is... Who works mostly in the construction industry? Who works mostly in the military department? The special forces? What about engineering and mechanics? Who is mostly down in the mines... getting all dirty and putting in loads of physical work?

Let's see something else...

Leonardo da Vinci

He invented the helicopter and the battle tank. He came up with designs for mechanical looms and hydraulic saws. He drew plans for submarines and robots. The list of his contributions to the world of engineering is virtually endless. 

Thomas Edison

A keen businessman with unbridled imagination, he is credited with thousands of inventions, including the phonograph, the electric light bulb, the telephone (although Alexander Graham Bell made it to the patent office first on that occasion), the movie camera, the microphone, and alkaline batteries.

Benjamin Franklin

His legacy includes the lightning conductor, bifocal lenses, and, according to some, the first experiments in nanoscience.

Nikola Tesla

Nikola Tesla was arguably the greatest geek who ever lived, always fixing things that weren't broken and coming up with amazing inventions in the process. We have him to thank for alternating current, the modern electric motor, remote-controlled boats, and, rumor has it, radar technology and wireless communications.

What about social media? Something that most women wouldn't be able to live without?

Facebook: Mark Zuckerberg

TikTok: Zhang Yiming

Twitter: Jack Dorsey, Noah Glass, Biz Stone, Evan Williams

Youtube: Steve Chen, Chad Hurley, and Jawed Karim

Instagram: Kevin Systrom

Still not enough? What about the luxury brands women are dying to have?

DIOR, Louis Vuitton, Dolce & Gabbana, Gucci.

Oh, and let's not forget the brand of cars...

Ferruccio Lamborghini, Enzo Ferrari, Ettore Bugatti, Henry Royce & Charles Rolls, Ferdinand Porsche & Ferdinand Anton Ernst Porsche

Everything surroundings us... MEN have built, and I find it highly offensive to call all men trash. The Audacity!

The thought of waking up one day without men on this planet is simply a nightmare. Now, I am no doctor but I am pretty sure the human race needs MEN too so we can reproduce because, from my knowledge, women aren't capable of parthenogenesis.

Now, many women say that men have an easy life and lots of privileges, but I would like to disagree because if you said that, then you don't know anything about men at all. Just look up the case of 53-year-old journalist Norah Vincent, who pretended to be a man for a long period to see what living as a man is like. The experiment ended up in a tragedy as she committed suicide. She couldn't stand living as a man; she said it was so horrible, and she was shocked by how WOMEN treated her as she kept the disguise of a man.

I get it. Maybe some women ended up with shitty guys, but that's no excuse to treat the entire male population like that. There are good men and evil men... JUST like there are toxic women and good women.

This world needs women and men... to work together and not let social media brainwash them... and ultimately kill something beautiful.

Again, this post is not hate-related but a cold bucket of reality because sometimes we need reality to hit us upside the head and wake us up.

I see many posts like "You go, Queen!" or "Slay them, princess!"

Well... I just wanna say, "Keep your golden crowns straight, Kings!"

[ac-19]

Friends or? D. Franklin (Bravo 6)

Summary: friends or more?

"Hey, I know you hate these. Say the word, and we'll find another way."

I shook my head as I looked back in the mirror at Jason who was leaning on the door frame of the bathroom I was getting ready in for the op.

"I'm good."

Jason nodded.

"You sure about going with Drew? I could send Ray with you instead."

I chuckled and put my head before I turned around to face Jason.

"No offense Jase, but I'm twenty-seven years old and I'd like to believe I look my age so I doubt anybody would ever believe Ray and I were dating. That's the reason I always went out with Clay because we were the most believable as a couple other than you and Mandy."

Jason nodded.

"Yeah, you're probably right."

I nodded.

"I can handle Drew."

Jason nodded.

"We roll out in fifteen."

I nodded as Jason pushed himself up right and walked back downstairs where the rest of the team was. I turned around and quickly finished curling my hair and applied some lipstick before I headed downstairs with the rest of the team.

"I guess you're my girlfriend now."

I shook my head as I stood beside Drew as Lisa briefed us on the mission. Next thing I knew Drew and I were walking over to the club where we were going to spend the next few hours probably hunting our target and dancing too if I had anything to do with it.

"Can we drink on these ops?"

I chuckled as I looked over at Drew.

"If you're footing the bill, yeah. As long as you don't get wasted."

Drew nodded and put his hand on the bottom of my back as we walked inside the club and through the crowd. We made our way to the bar and Drew ordered us two beers.

"I heard you used to do these missions with the other Bravo 6."

I nodded as I leaned my forearms onto the bar in front of me.

"He's got a name. Clay Spenser."

Drew nodded.

"But yeah I used to."

"You two ever?"

I started laughing.

"No. He was married to one of my best friends."

"That don't mean shit these days."

"Maybe not to you, and anyways when you're on the same team relationship's are always messy. Is all the sneaking around really worth it?"

Drew shrugged as he angled his body forward and leaned onto his left arm which was on the bar.

"Depends on the person."

I shrugged.

"I guess, but for real Clay and I we were..."

"If you say Battle Boos I'm walking out that fucking door right now."

I shook my head as I grabbed onto the beer bottle the bartender had just put down in front of us and then without a second thought I grabbed onto his hand with my free hand.

"Let's go dance for a while."

Drew quickly grabbed his beer off the bar and followed me to the dance floor. I inhaled sharply as Drew wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me flush against him. I turned my head to avoid Drew's gaze and hopefully he couldn't make out the blush on my cheeks in this dark club. I swallowed my spit and breathed in as I felt his hot breath on my ear.

"Gotta make this shit believable right?"

I nodded as I wrapped my arms loosely around his neck and turned my head to look up at him only for our noses to brush against each other with how close our faces were to each other.

"Right."

"Bravo 6 and Bravo 7 check in."

Drew stood back up straight and I turned my head to look around.

"Do you see him?"

I peered over Drew's shoulder and nodded.

"Bravo 1 this is 7, he just walked in. Sitting at the bar."

"How much security?"

I leaned my head against Drew's shoulder as we swayed back and forth.

"Three men."

"Good copy Bravo 7."

"This could be classified as messy."

"Keep it in your pants 6, it's for the op."

"Right. For the op."

We spent another hour "dancing" and nothing was happening and I was getting fed up. My feet were starting to hurt and I wasn't drunk enough to be here.

"Time for another drink?"

I nodded as I looked up at Drew. He unwrapped his arms from around me and I instantly missed the warmth of his body against mine.

Focus.

He clasped his hand in mine, and we headed towards the bar and towards where our target was sitting. Drew pulled me forward and he stood flush behind me, and wrapped his arm around my waist.

"Two more please."

The bartender nodded and I took a peek over at our target who was just sitting there laughing and smoking a cigarette with his friends.

"If you don't stop moving your ass around like that, we won't be going anywhere anytime soon."

My cheeks turned a light shade of pink as I turned my head to look at Drew.

"Sorry, my feet are killing me. Moving my legs around helps a bit with the pain."

He nodded as he reached up and pushed back a strand of hair that had fallen on my face.

"Here you go."

I quickly turned around and took hold of the beer that the bartender just put on the counter.

"Shit."

"What?"

"He's gone."

"Bravo 1 this is 7 we lost eyes on the target."

"2 you got the tracker on his vehicle?"

"Negative."

"He couldn't of gone far."

"Let's go outside."

Drew nodded and grabbed onto my hand as we pushed our way outside the club. Our target was standing outside by the door smoking another cigarette and I looked over at Drew.

"You were fucking checking her out weren't you?"

I urged him to continue with my little fake fight in order to buy Omar some time to hopefully get a tracker on the guy's car.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I saw the way you looked at her."

"You're a lunatic you know that?"

"Right I'm the crazy bitch."

"You've been checking guys out all night too, including this guy. Yeah I saw the way you looked at him, what does he have that I don't huh?"

I furrowed my eyebrows at Drew. Where was he going with this? He pushed past me and walked straight up to our target.

"Excuse me sir, my girlfriend here seems to think you're better looking than me."

I quickly turned around.

"Oh for fuck sakes, I never said."

"You didn't have to say it, I saw the way you've been looking at him all night."

"I think you need to control your girl."

"Control me? Who the fuck does this guy think he's talking to?"

Drew stepped forward.

"You can't talk to my girl like that."

"Oh yeah, what are you gonna do tough guy?"

He pulled his shirt up revealing a gun tucked in his waistband and I looked over at Drew. We didn't have any weapons it was time to walk away.

"This the type of guy you want babe? A short, fat fuck who clearly carries a gun for show, I bet you don't even know how to use that thing."

I took a step forward and before I could get Drew out of there the guy took a hold of his gun and pistol wiped Drew which landed him on the ground. Come on Omar, hurry up.

"1 this is 2, tracker secured."

Next thing I knew our target was kicking Drew in the ribs as he laid on the ground.

"Bravo 6 what the fuck is going on?"

I looked back and saw Jason standing in the shadows. I quickly focused my attention back on Drew and stepped forward.

"Bravo 6 cut the shit."

"Okay, okay that's enough. Lets just go home babe."

"Yeah I think it's time you take him home."

The target walked off and I quickly bent down to help Drew up.

"What the fuck was that?"

"Anything for mission sucess right?"

I shook my head as Drew stood up. The huge gash on his forehead was gushing out blood, and I sighed as I reached up to check it out.

"I'm fine."

Drew pushed my hand away softly and I nodded.

"Okay. Let's get out of here."

Drew nodded and we walked up the street and met up with the rest of the team. The ride back to the safe house was silent but Jason didn't hold back his dissapointement when we walked inside.

"What the fuck was that?"

"Jase mission was a success."

"It could of been a disaster Ray. Since when does Bravo 6 get to do as he pleases without checking in first?"

"It wasn't all Drew, I was part of it too."

"You should of known better. You told me you could handle going with Drew but clearly not."

"How is this our fault? We had to do something. We were in there for over an hour I think the better question here is why did it take Omar so long to put a tracker on the guys motorcycle ?"

"Coming after your 2IC do you want to get kicked off this team?"

"Right about now, sounds like the best fucking option to me. Clearly you don't trust Drew and I. I've been on this team for almost a year now I should of earned a little more respect than that."

"You'll earn my respect when you stop fucking things up."

"Okay, everybody take a breath. Mission sucess; who cares how we got there right Jason?"

Jason looked over at Drew.

"Get him stitched up."

I nodded and I headed towards the kitchen.

"What the hell was that?"

"Got the job done didn't it?"

"You two looking to get yourself kicked off this team?"

I ignored Sonny and got the med kit and headed towards the table that Drew was standing in front of.

"Can you sit please?"

"I'm fine."

"The huge gash on your forehead would disagree. Sit down."

Drew sighed, and plopped himself down in the chair. I could hear the snickers coming from Sonny and Omar but I just chose to ignore them.

I stepped in between Drew's legs and he let his left hand linger on my exposed thigh, from the dress I was still wearing, for a second before Sonny said something and he quickly pulled his hand away as he turned his head to look at Sonny.

"Guys you're not helping here."

"Oh come on you just need to flash Drew over there and you'll have all his focus."

"How is he not stitched up yet?"

I sighed as I turned around to look at Jason.

"I give up. Stich him up yourself."

I dropped the glue I was holding into the med kit, turned around and walked off. I shouldn't let comments like Sonny's bother me anymore, but they did. I hadn't been standing in the room by myself for more than a minute when Drew walked into the room holding the med kit.

"I'm sorry."

I shook my head as I pulled out a chair and grabbed the med kit out of Drew's hand.

"Why you saying sorry?"

"For those two idiots out here."

I chuckled lightly.

"Sit down."

"Yes ma'am."

I shook my head as I grabbed some gauze and the glue out of the med kit and started cleaning up Drew's wound.

"You know Jason is right, that was a really stupid move you pulled back there."

"Worked didn't it?"

"I guess, but you could of stopped it anytime why didn't you?"

"Because so long as he was focusing on me, he wasn't focusing on you."

I nodded as I finished cleaning up his wound and applied the medical glue before covering it up with a bandage.

"Look (Y/N)..."

"We roll out in ten."

I turned my head and nodded at Brock.

"Copy that."

I turned back around to face Drew.

"What were you gonna say?"

"Not important. We should get out there."

I nodded. We rolled out to check out another target before coming back empty. The tension was still high for the rest of the night and I was hoping that when I went down for coffee the next morning that it wouldn't be as high.

"If I'm sweet on Davis we need to talk about how Drew here is sweet on (Y/L/N)."

I stopped dead in my track as I easedropped on the conversation happening in the kitchen. I've had the biggest crush on Drew since he joined the team but no way he felt the same.

"Yeah right Sonny."

"Oh come on, we seen the way you were looking at her yesterday after the op."

"It's called acting boys. Look team relationship are messy, there's a reason why all three of us are single."

"Right."

"And one night stands are the way to go boys. You get a good fuck with no feelings mixed in."

I put my head down and headed towards the porch to get some fresh air.

"What are you doing out here?"

I chuckled as I looked over at Lisa.

"Probably doing the same thing as you, hiding from the boys."

She nodded.

"Can I be honest with you?"

I nodded.

"Always."

"Whatever is going on with you and Drew, be careful. It can get messy really quickly."

I nodded.

"You and Sonny right?"

Lisa put her head down and I smiled.

"I'm not gonna say anything, you've got my word. I just wish it wasn't so complicated."

Lisa nodded.

"You and me both. I'm just trying to warn you before you get to deep in it. Team relationship never work."

I nodded.

"Thanks for the advice Lisa."

She nodded.

"I better get back inside before Jason explodes at me again."

"Yeah he's been a little on edge this deployment. You're just doing you're job and you're pretty damn good at it so don't let Jason get to you okay?"

"Same goes to you, I heard the beating he gave you yesterday."

I shrugged.

"It is what it is. Being a women in this business is not easy."

"Amen to that."

I smiled.

"I'll catch up with you inside."

Lisa nodded and headed inside. I leaned my forearms onto the railing and sighed. Sure I thought Drew was hot and maybe just maybe we had a thing for a minute yesterday on the op but it was over now and I needed to get my head back in the game.

The next few days were spent hitting different targets and working crazy hours only to be sent home with basically nothing accomplished.

I could tell the guys were going stir crazy by how crazy the team group chat had been going off the last few days since we had been back home. I groaned as my phone buzzed again and again on my bedside table.

I pulled my pillow over my ear and groaned even further when I heard a knock on my door. I ignored the first few knocks but whoever was at the door was persistent so I rolled out of bed looked down at my over-sized Navy shirt and shruggred as I walked to the door. It was close to midnight whoever was at the door was getting me in my pyjamas.

"I swear to god if it's Sonny standing behind this door, I'm gonna freaking lose it."

I pulled open the door to my apartment and the last person I was expecting was standing on the other side.

"Drew."

Next thing I knew my back was up against the wall and Drew's lips were on mine. I quickly gained my composure and kissed him back. As much as I wanted this I couldn't do the whole one night stand thing so I pulled away and wiggled out of his grip.

"What's wrong?"

"I can't do this if it's going to be a one night stand thing."

"What are you talking about?"

"I overheard you one morning talking with Sonny and Omar in Thailand and you said one night stands were you're thing, a good fuck and no mixed feelings, but I can't do this not without feelings."

Drew just smirked as he walked over to me.

"Ever since that night in the club, I keep telling myself I don't have feelings but I do. I like you (Y/N). A lot for that matter and I know this is going to be messy but I don't think I'll ever be a one night stand only guy when it comes to you."

Without another thought I smashed my lips against Drew's and wrapped my arms around his neck as he wrapped his arms around my waist. Davis' word were somewhere in the back of my mind but right now I could care less.

This felt right, and when something feels this right you don't try and fight it right?

[shoot-the-oneshot]

SEAL TEAM MASTERLIST

Request are open!!

Most recent prompts list

Brock Reynolds

Callsign Guardian Angel

Clay Spencer coming soon

Sonny Quinn coming soon

Drew Franklin coming soon

[alonahawk]

Note(s): This is part 2, I hope you enjoy it!

I made a little bit of a parallel universe ;)

Disclaimer: I do not own any rights on this picture.

Word count: 1,909

Changes

Chapter 2: Time to prove

Summary: The first deployment is coming up, time for you to prove to Bravo. Can you convince them?

As we arrived in VA Beach, we had to introduce ourselves to Commander Blackburn.

I knocked on his door.

"Come in."

We saluted.

"Commander, we are ready to start our duty."

"Ah, Petty Officers (Y/L/N) and Franklin. I was expecting you. You are the new sniper and spotter. Let me see... I've got two vacancies in Bravo team. This will be your new place. Here is a barracks plan. We are here and there are the quarters of the Bravo team. Contact Master Chief Hayes for further instructions. Any questions?"

"No, Sir."

"You're dismissed."

We went over to the quarters of our team and knocked on the door.

The door flew open.

"Master Chief Hayes? We are the new sniper and spotter, Petty Officer (Y/L/N) and Petty Officer Franklin."

"Oh, right. Commander Blackburn told me about you. Come in."

We walked in and looked around. We were really excited, but tried our best not to show it.

"Guys, this is Petty Officer (Y/N), our new sniper. And this is Petty Officer Drew Franklin, the spotter. (Y/N), Drew, these are Chief Warrant Officer Raymond Perry, Senior Chief Special Warfare Operator Omar Hamza, Special Warfare Operators First Class Sonny Quinn, Trent Sawyer and Brock Reynolds."

Sonny raised his eyebrows.

"A woman? Did you have the same requirements as everyone else?"

"Yes, Sir."

"We call ourselves by our first names. I have to say, that's actually impressive."

"Thanks, Sonny."

"Guys, get your gear, we're going for urban warfare training. Drew, (Y/N), you're Bravo 6 and Bravo 7. I will take a look at your training level. Let's go."

"Yes, Boss."

The training took the whole day and it was very demanding, but it it made a lot of fun and it was a really good feeling belonging to a team now.

"Hey Boss, let's go to the Bulkhead, the newbies have to pay a few rounds for their arrival."

"That's a good idea, Sonny. Bravo, in one hour at the Bulkhead."

We showered and then Drew and I headed to his van.

"This is gonna be a hard evening, especially for our wallets."

"Oh yes, I think so, too."

"But maybe we've got a little time for a beer before the Bulkhead?"

"That's a great idea (Y/N), let's get one."

After the beer we went to the Bulkhead.

I looked around and saw the rest of Bravo team.

Drew went to the counter and ordered beers for all of us.

There were another two women sitting at the table.

"Hi, I'm Mandy, Jason's girlfriend. Nice to meet you."

"I'm Lieutenant Lisa Davis. But in private call me Lisa. Nice to meet you. I heard you were really good at the training today."

"Yes, such capable newbies are indeed rare."

"Ray, you and your enthusiasm. They are good but we will see when we're on deployment."

Drew and I looked at each other. Jason did seem to be very critical. But we would make it, we were sure about it. I got another round of beer for all of us and we played darts and talked a lot. Late in the evening we all went home very drunk.

As we got to the van Drew dropped the key and almost stumbled over his own feet.

We both began to laugh so hard that we got tears in our eyes.

"Wait, let me get it before you stumble again."

I leaned with one hand against the van and with my other hand I tried to pick up the key but Drew gave me a slight nudge. I fell over and grabbed his hand, he also fell over and there I laid on the floor with Drew over me.

We couldn't help but laugh.

We looked each other directly in the eyes. For a moment time stood still. I saw something in his eyes that I've never seen before. I couldn't tell exactly what it was but it felt so warm and good. I took a deep breath and inhaled Drew's fragrance, it was as if everything else around was gone, as if it's just the two of us on the whole world.

"You're ok, (Y/N)? I hope I didn't hurt you."

"Yeah, everything is fine, don't worry. But we should get up, this floor isn't really comfortable." I smiled and blinked.

"Oh yes, you're right." Drew stood up and reached me his hand.

"May I help you?"

"That'd be great, thank you."

Finally we made it to get the key to open the van.

Time to sleep.

I was so damn tired and drunk but I couldn't stop thinking about what happened moments before.

'We're just buddies, close friends, aren't we? Anything else would be complicated, we're on the same team. Hell, can't I just close my eyes and sleep?'

Somehow I eventually managed to get a few hours of sleep.

The next day began with a run in full gear. Great. My head felt like it could explode any second. But somehow I made it to finish.

"Good job, Bravo. Take a short break, afterwards we will train at the shooting range."

None of us seemed to be really sober, except for Jason and Omar. Omar didn't drink any alcohol but Jason? How could he be so fit after this evening?

"Is Jason always like that after such evenings?" I asked. Sonny smirked.

"Yeah, but we got used to it. After all, it's up to yourself if you're drinking too much. You can bet that the next day is going to be demanding."

"Yeah, right. Good to know."

We emptied our water bottles and headed to the shooting range. Jason was already there, waiting for us.

"Alright, first we will train with our assault rifles and pistols. Then, Sonny, (Y/N) and Drew, you will train with your special weapons."

The training was intense and took about three hours. After that we had to run one mile again, do 50 push-ups and then it was Sonny's, Drew's and my turn. Our special training took another two hours.

"Good Bravo, that's it for today. In 10 we're going back to base."

As we prepared for marching back, I heard Jason talking to Ray and Omar.

"(Y/N) and Drew seem to be really good and resilient. I'm excited how they will prove at the next deployment."

"See, Jase, like I told you."

"Okay, okay, Ray. But nonetheless we have to wait until deployment. They still have to prove themselves."

"Of course, you're right. But things are going to be good, believe me. Should we go back?"

"Yeah, it's time. Guys, let's go."

We marched back and prepared our equipment for the next day.

After a hot shower, Drew and I went back to his van. I told him what I heard Jason saying at the shooting range.

"Wow, that sounds great. So I think after our first deployment we will be fully integrated to Bravo."

"Yep, but we should keep it to ourselves, I don't think that Jason knows that I've heard it."

"Of course. This will be our little secret." Drew winked. "Wanna play cards?"

"Oh yes, let's play a round."

One round turned into several and after a long evening playing cards we eventually went to bed.

The week went over very fast and the weekend stood ahead.

Finally we found an apartment not too far away from the base. Every evening we worked a little bit on our new home, so we could move in on time.

It was Friday afternoon, so Drew and I decided to hit the gym. We were training for about an hour and then our phones rang.

Man, I was so excited. I checked my phone first.

"Briefing in one hour. This is gonna be our first deployment. Time for proving, buddy."

"Hell yeah, let's go!"

One hour later we were briefed by Commander Blackburn.

"Your destination this time is Sweden. I know, it's different than usual but we suspect an act of terror. And you will prevent it. Coordinates will follow. Departure in 30. Good luck."

As we arrived at our safehouse we got our orders from Jason. Drew and I had to observe our target person and secure the surroundings.

"Everyone else follow me. We have to check every building if there are evidence or other persons who are in contact with the target person. We're starting at nightfall. Go and get some rest."

As the night began to fall, Drew and I headed to our observation post. Jason and the rest of our team walked towards the city.

"Bravo one, here Bravo 6. Everything is clear."

"Understood, Bravo 6."

They went into the first house. I checked the building while Drew went on checking the surroundings.

As the boys walked into the fourth house, I saw a person through a window on the second floor.

"One, here seven. One person on the second floor, be careful."

"Thanks, seven."

Omar neutralised the person and they went on.

Next building.

They splitted and Trent seemed to find some evidence.

"Bravo one, here four. Here's a laptop and it's on. I can see a plan with markings."

"Good four, take it with you."

"(Y/N), look. Tangos over there."

"Shit. This is going to be nasty. Bravo, here seven. Fourteen tangos on their way to you, prepare for it. We will neutralise as much as we can."

"Seven, here one. Negative, keep your cover. Only intervene if necessary."

"Understood, one."

The gunfight began and suddenly I saw Sonny getting into trouble. The tango grabbed Sonny at his throat. I took aim and fired. Hit.

"Thanks, seven."

As the gunfire silenced, I heard Ray through the radio.

"Bravo, here Mako. I got some information about our target person, he should be three streets ahead."

"Mako, Bravo, here Bravo one. Understood, let's get out of here and get this shithead. Six and seven, I'll send you the coordinates."

We got the coordinates and we shifted to the designated position.

"One, here seven. In position."

"Understood, seven."

They entered the building where the target person should be. I could see movements on the third floor.

"One, here seven. Movements on the third floor."

"Can you see details?"

"Just silhouettes, three, maybe four persons."

"Thanks, seven."

We saw muzzle flash.

"Bravo one to all, jackpot. We're going to exfil."

We left our observation post and met the rest of our team.

Not far away from our exfiltration point we were attacked again. We all took cover and shot back but this time Jason got into trouble. He was shot in his arm and one tango sat on him, holding a knife in his hand.

"(Y/N), cover me. I'll go and help Jason."

"Understood, Drew. Be careful!"

Drew shot the guy and helped Jason to get cover.

Meanwhile the rest of us shot the rest of our enemies and secured the area.

Trent went over to Jason and treated his wound.

"Thanks, Trent. We can go. Guys, let's get outta here, we're done."

We made it to our exfiltration point, without any further interruptions.

[cinebration]

Too Young (Forrest Bondurant x Reader) [Request]

I’m fine thank you can I describe my request because there is a no word for this at least i dont know I’m 21 so if you include this in imagine i will be really happy i love forrest bondurant he is shy caring strong and little bit mad giant bear a i want it fluffy and little bit angst I thought forrest wouldn’t want to love younger than him. I hope i can tell what i request because english not my native thank you so much again not much forrest imagine i really love this — Requested by @shooterere

This turned into something more than I expected. I had fun!

Warnings: none

Gif Source: fandomfatale

Pa operated one of the smaller bootlegging businesses in the county, but the moonshine he made was worth a hundred of the bottles being churned out by other operations in the immediate vicinity. People paid good money for your pa’s moonshine, though you wouldn’t know it to look at you and your family.

You lived in a ramshackle house on the edge of a farm known for producing one good crop for every five. You had just as many siblings, all of them younger than you, racing around the house like demons and driving both you and your beleaguered mother to wits’ end. So when Pa asked you to make a delivery, on account that the oldest of your brothers was a scant fourteen, and the fact that no one would stop you, you leapt at the opportunity. You put on your Sunday best, though it wasn’t much, and drove the old beat-up Ford truck down the country road into town.

It was there you met Forrest Bondurant. He operated the gas station you pulled up to after you delivered the moonshine. The smell of pie wafting from inside the restaurant behind the station was too good to resist.

He sat alone, his hat resting on the table in front of him. Glancing up when you entered, his brow furrowed as you slowly walked through the restaurant and up to the counter. You ordered a slice of the pie and a small cup of coffee, no cream, no sugar.

“This ain’t the watered-downed stuff,” the waitress told you.

“I know.”

The apple pie was thick and rich with apples and cinnamon flavoring. As you sat eating it, you swept your gaze around the room. There weren’t many people inside, but as soon as you fixed on Forrest, all else fell away. He met your eyes levelly, a frown pulling on his mouth. Tucking an errant strand of hair behind your ear nervously, you returned to your meal.

He approached you a moment later, the scrape of his chair back against the wooden floor alerting you to his intentions. You swallowed thickly, working up your courage as your heart fluttered with hope.

“You Frost Farm’s oldest?” The way his voice purred made a shiver roll through you even as disappointment followed it. He wasn’t interested in you, only in who your pa was.

“Yeah,” you answered, looking down.

“What are you doin’ here?”

“Making a delivery.”

“Your pa sends you off to do that yourself?”

“My first time today, but he hurt himself, so I figure I’ll be doing it for some time.”

“How’d he hurt himself?”

“He fell,” you lied.

Forrest’s gaze burned through you. Standing firm, you ate the last of the pie and swigged it down with the dregs of the coffee, the bitter mingling with the sweet down your throat. Excusing yourself, you slipped off the stool and kept yourself from sprinting away to the beat of your thumping heart.

~~

Forrest showed up the next day at the farm. You were out in the field, elbow-deep in the dirt, when the truck engine chugged up the dirt road. You recognized it vaguely as one you had seen parked outside the Bondurant gas station. You didn’t see who exited the vehicle.

Turning back to your work, you yanked out another weed and ignored the beating of the sun overhead.

When your stomach rumbled as the sun reached its zenith, you rubbed off the dirt on your apron and headed back inside for lunch. The truck was still parked outside the house.

As you neared the front door, it opened. You froze in your tracks. Forrest Bondurant stepped across the threshold, bidding your parents goodbye with some mumbled words. He paused when he saw you.

“Mr. Bondurant,” you said, nodding nervously.

He nodded back, putting the hat firmly on his head. His gaze swept over you. You became painfully aware of the dirt across your hands and knees and how it stained your apron and dress.

“I’m taking you for your other deliveries,” he mumbled suddenly. “’Til your pa gets better.”

You blinked in surprise, tried to find words. “Thank you.”

He nodded and stepped past you, leaving you stunned on the porch.

~~

The first few deliveries, made in your truck, not Bondurant’s, passed in awkward silence. You didn’t quite mind it so much, if it weren’t for the fact that being nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with the man was sending your senses quite mad. Not even the Franklin boy from the farm next door had made you as deliciously nervous as Forrest did. Your head swam with it.

But the trips after that improved when you began talking to him. You didn’t say too much, because he seemed too quiet to listen to you ramble on. Rather than complain about your siblings or the lack of help for the farm, you focused instead on the moonshine business.

“I dunno know if Pa told you, but we got into trouble with the law,” you said after a delivery. “They wanted our earnings, but Pa told ’em that we don’t have enough to pay. They broke his leg for that.”

“Were you there?”

“Outside, looking between the slats. I waited ’til they were gone before I went in to help Pa.”

Forrest frowned. “Why were you there?”

“I work the stills.”

He fixed you with a stare.

“It’s nothing,” you assured him. “I like the work, honest. It’s very methodical, and I like that.”

Forrest remained silent for the rest of the drive ’til you neared town.

“Show me,” he said.

You hesitated. “But you’re the competition.”

“I won’t steal your secrets. I just want to see.”

You wanted to show him, to impress him, but the idea of the Bondurants taking over your stills or trying to use your methods nagged at you. The desire to please him won out. You turned the car toward the farm and drove well past it, deep into the woods extending beyond it. Then you hooked a right and stopped the truck.

From there, you walked Forrest all the way down into a small ravine that led to a cave in the hill swelling behind it. The cave smelled cool and a bit damp, but you had remedied that with some techniques to moderate the temperature. Forrest made a circuit of the room, eyeing your still critically as you walked him through parts of your process.

“Figure we could make gin this way eventually, too,” you said, “when they lift the Prohibition.”

He looked at you keenly.

“They’ll do it,” you assured him. “Otherwise we’ll have ourselves another war.”

He grunted noncommittally and took a swig from a nearby bottle, testing the quality of the moonshine. The soft light from the oil lamp you had lit bathed his face in warm golds. Caught up by the vision, you reached out and gently touched his cheek.

He froze, turned woodenly to you. The guarded look in his eyes discouraged you.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled.

“You’re too young.”

“I’m twenty-one.”

He shook his head.

Frustration welled up within you. You glanced up at him, your hand clenching into a fist at your side. “Too young. Too female. Too fragile. You sound like every other man I’ve ever talked to.”

He blinked in surprise, taken aback by your sudden emotion.

“I can do more than you think I can, and I’m not that fragile. I’ve had to grow up fast, because Ma’s too weak and Pa’s not got enough boys yet to help him.” You grabbed his hand suddenly, pressed his palm flat against yours. “Feel that? I don’t have soft hands. Those are working hands. When I’m not in the fields, I’m in here, making the best goddamn moonshine in the county. I don’t have time, you see, to waste on being young.”

Forrest stared into your face as the wind died out of you. You turned away, suddenly embarrassed by the outburst. “Get out of my workshop.”

He didn’t even hesitate. He walked right of the cave. You waited fifteen minutes before realizing that it was rude to let him walk all the way back to town on foot. You raced to the truck and drove down the road until you found him lumbering across the dirt. You drew up beside him and wordlessly opened the door. He hesitated before climbing up into the cab.

“Sorry,” you mumbled.

You felt his eyes on you the entire drive, as though he were trying to keep you rooted to the spot. At last, you arrived at the gas station.

“You don’t come with me on deliveries anymore,” you said.

He didn’t get out of the car. “Who else has said those things to you?”

“What things?”

“About you being too weak.”

You shrugged. “Everyone. Probably your own damned brothers, for all I know. ‘Waste of a pretty face, making that girl work the fields. She ought to be providing a family.’ But I like the work. I like working.”

The cab filled with silence as Forrest stared out the windshield at the dark restaurant. Exhaustion settled in your bones from the emotional outburst and the pain of rejection.

“If you worked here,” Forrest said suddenly,” your hands wouldn’t be so rough.”

You frowned. “But I don’t work here.”

“I could get someone to work for your pa on the farm,” he continued in a low rumble. “And you could work here and your workshop.”

“Are you offering me a job?”

He grunted.

“Why?”

He shifted uneasily on the seat. “To keep you around, if you won’t let me make deliveries with you.”

The pieces didn’t quite fit together. “Why would you want to keep me around? I’m too young, you said.”

“I did,” he agreed.

“Then why?”

He fixed his eyes on you with a look that said, Do I really have to say it?

You met his gaze for a long while before slowly nodding, feeling something like hope flutter in your chest again. He nodded back, grunted quietly, and wished you a good night as he climbed out of the car.

[deadpresidents]

Unfinished: April 12, 1945

As March 1945 drew to a close, Franklin Delano Roosevelt was exhausted. At the beginning of February, Roosevelt had attended the Yalta Conference with Winston Churchill and Joseph Stalin -- a meeting which required the American President to undertake a physically punishing and extraordinarily dangerous trip halfway around the world to the Crimean Peninsula in the middle of a raging world war. At Yalta, Roosevelt’s appearance had shocked the foreign leaders and their aides. In his last face-to-face meeting with Churchill, on February 18, 1945, FDR was seen as a dead man walking. Churchill���s personal doctor, Lord Moran, told a friend that Roosevelt had “only a few months to live”.

Being President of the United States for just one term is taxing enough on a young man or a healthy man. Franklin Delano Roosevelt had been President for twelve years. He had campaigned for the Presidency and been victorious in four national elections. His Administration faced one of the greatest domestic crises in American History -- the Great Depression -- and the greatest crisis and bloodiest conflict in world history -- World War II. FDR had attacked these problems (and other issues that arose during his terms) with energy, creativity, and a relentless pursuit of victory.

A healthy and athletic man who stood nearly 6′2″ and weighed about 200 lbs. as Assistant Secretary of the Navy under Woodrow Wilson, Franklin Roosevelt had been stricken by polio in 1921. The disease robbed him of his ability to walk and, at the time, looked as if it had robbed him of a political future. He rebounded politically but physically he was never the same. Confined to a wheelchair, the muscles in his legs withered like the branches of a tree in winter. Although he could not walk under his own power, FDR taught himself to stand while wearing heavy steel braces around his shins. He needed the assistance of a muscular partner -- sometimes one of his sons, sometimes a military aide -- in order to feign the appearance of walking. Through sheer will, however, Roosevelt learned to take a few steps without anyone’s help -- a handy skill that he would show off at important campaign rallies. But as he began his unprecedented fourth term in the White House in the early months of 1945, FDR no longer had the energy to show off.

Roosevelt was as gravely ill as Lord Moran suggested. The successful 1944 Presidential campaign had severely drained his already tapped-out reservoirs of energy and stamina. His fourth inauguration was low-key, partly because it took place in the midst of war and partly due to the President’s failing health. Instead of the traditional inaugural ceremonies at the U.S. Capitol, Roosevelt took the Oath of Office at the White House and gave his brief fourth Inaugural Address from a balcony at the Executive Mansion. The famously verbose Roosevelt gave the second-shortest Inaugural Address in American History. By the time the crowd realized that he was talking he had already finished. Only George Washington’s four-sentence-long second Inaugural Address in 1793 was shorter than the address given by FDR on January 20, 1945.

FDR now looked entirely different than the man who had told the nation that “the only thing we have to fear is fear itself” in 1933. Dark circles surrounded his eyes, which seemed sunken into his skull. Since his first Inauguration, Roosevelt had lost 40-50 pounds. His hands shook so violently at times that some observers wondered how he was able to eat. He smoked constantly, but rarely finished his cigarettes. Most shocking of all, FDR no longer went to great lengths to conceal his disability. Frail and tired, he found it almost impossible to wear the heavy braces that he long wore on his crippled legs. On March 1, 1945, Roosevelt addressed a joint session of Congress on the results of his Yalta Conference with Churchill and Stalin. In an unprecedented move, the President sat in a chair on the floor of the House of Representatives and apologized to Congress, beginning his speech by saying, “I hope that you will pardon me for this unusual posture of sitting down during the presentation of what I want to say, but I know that you will realize it makes it a lot easier for me not to have to carry about ten pounds of steel around on the bottom of my legs.” It was the first time that President Roosevelt had ever publicly acknowledged his physical disability.

Twelve years of the Presidency, economic depression and war had strained Roosevelt’s health, but the 14,000-mile trip to the Yalta Conference on the Black Sea had pushed FDR to the limit. On March 30, 1945, Roosevelt arrived in Warm Springs, Georgia for a few weeks of relaxation and, hopefully, recuperation. Roosevelt loved Warm Springs. He had started visiting the small town in western Georgia in the 1920s, hoping that the warm waters from the natural mineral springs nearby would help him regain the use of his legs. When he was Governor of New York, FDR purchased a small house that he used when he visited Warm Springs. As President, the home was called the “Little White House” and although FDR only visited it sixteen times during his Presidency, many of those trips were for 2-3 weeks each. When his train pulled into Warm Springs at about 1:30 PM on March 30, 1945, many longtime residents said that things seemed different. Roosevelt looked terrible and while he waved to onlookers, it was with noticeable weakness.

The first few days in Georgia were tough. FDR was obviously ill and seemed to struggle making it through a church service on Easter Sunday. Roosevelt also avoided his beloved Warm Springs pools. Instead, the President rested, caught up on sleep, and visited with guests. The goal was for FDR to regain enough of his health to make a trip to San Francisco for the charter meeting of what would become the United Nations. At the Little White House with Roosevelt were some personal aides, military attaches, and cousins Daisy Suckley and Polly Delano. During his first week at Warm Springs, Roosevelt did very little work, dictating a few letters and reading briefings, stronger and more animated in the mornings and evenings but completely drained in the afternoon. Another goal for Roosevelt was to gain weight -- by the time he left Warm Springs, he hoped to be up to 170 lbs.

Still, there was no noticeable improvement in FDR’s health or spirits. Then, on April 9th, Lucy Mercer Rutherfurd arrived. As President Wilson’s Assistant Secretary of the Navy, Franklin D. Roosevelt had become involved in a passionate love affair with his wife’s social secretary, Lucy Mercer. It was 1918 when Eleanor Roosevelt discovered the affair between Franklin and Lucy and threatened to divorce him unless he promised never to see or speak to Lucy again. FDR agreed to the ultimatum -- an ultimatum that was strengthened by his mother’s threat to cut off his inheritance if he and Eleanor were divorced, as well as the fact that Franklin’s budding political career would be crushed if the affair was revealed. The relationship between FDR and Eleanor was never again passionate or loving after the discovery of the affair, but Eleanor kept her word and remained married to Franklin. Franklin, however, didn’t keep his word to Eleanor.

The Franklin-Lucy affair probably resumed shortly after Roosevelt’s first Inauguration in 1933.  By that time, FDR and Eleanor had more of a professional relationship than a personal one. He respected the First Lady’s political viewpoints, supported her activism, used her as a sounding board, and tried to act on many of her suggestions. Personally, however, there was no passion or tenderness or intimacy between the First Couple. It was FDR and Eleanor’s daughter, Anna, who helped rekindle Franklin’s relationship with Lucy. She arranged for Lucy to visit the President in the White House when Eleanor was out of town. And on April 9, 1945, Lucy Mercer Rutherfurd was in Warm Springs, Georgia visiting President Roosevelt due to Anna Roosevelt’s invitation.

FDR was so excited to see Lucy that he didn’t wait for Lucy to make the drive all the way from Aiken, South Carolina to Warm Springs. The President and his cousin Daisy decided to meet Lucy’s car en route. At Manchester, Georgia, 85 miles away from Warm Springs, the highway rendezvous took place. FDR looked happier than he had in months as Lucy got into FDR’s car along with her friend, painter Elizabeth Shoumatoff. Lucy had brought Shoumatoff along to paint a portrait of the President -- a portrait that she hoped would be an improvement on the recent photographs that had made Roosevelt look “ghastly”.

For the next two days, Roosevelt and Lucy enjoyed their time together, going on small drives, eating happy meals, and sitting together while Shoumatoff prepared to paint the President’s portrait, studying photographs and making preliminary drawings. Daisy Suckley had the opportunity to observe the unique relationship between FDR and Lucy Mercer and also had some private conversations with the President’s longtime mistress. In her diary, Daisy recorded her thoughts about the two after she accompanied them on an automobile drive that they took: “Lucy is so sweet with F(ranklin) -- No wonder he loves to have her around -- Toward the end of the drive, it began to be chilly and she put her sweater over his knees -- I can imagine just how she took care of her husband -- She would think of little things which make so much difference to a semi-invalid, or even a person who is just tired, like F(ranklin).”

On April 12th, President Roosevelt woke up and ate a light breakfast. He had a slight chill despite the warm, humid weather that day and wore his cape draped over his shoulders throughout the early afternoon. Roosevelt did a little bit of work, reading the Atlanta newspapers and dictating some correspondence. Elizabeth Shoumatoff had set up her easel in the living room where the President worked behind a card table that served as his makeshift desk. As Shoumatoff painted, FDR continued reading, and at about 1:00 PM, Roosevelt said, “We have got just about fifteen minutes more to work.”

In the quiet of the room, Daisy Suckley thought that the President had dropped his cigarette and was searching for it because his head slumped forward suddenly. Roosevelt could barely lift his head when Daisy asked what was wrong. He placed his left hand gently against the back of his head and, in a barely audible voice, told Daisy, “I have a terrific pain in the back of my head!”

Roosevelt quickly slipped into unconsciousness as the women in the room summoned help. They called for a doctor who was staying in a cottage close to the Little White House and they helped two of FDR’s valets carry the President into the bedroom. Roosevelt’s hands and feet were ice cold, but he was still breathing. Smelling salts were administered but FDR was unresponsive. As the doctor and aides tried to help the President, Lucy Mercer Rutherfurd and Elizabeth Shoumatoff recognized the hopelessness of the situation. They also recognized the potential scandal that was possible if it was learned that the President collapsed in the presence of his longtime mistress.

Shoumatoff packed up all of her paints and the unfinished portrait she had been working on. Lucy Mercer grabbed her belongings and took one last look at her beloved Franklin. He was still alive when they left, but he was breathing laboriously and his eyes no longer recognized Lucy. Lucy and Elizabeth Shoumatoff had been on the highway back to Aiken, South Carolina for an hour when President Franklin Delano Roosevelt died in Warm Springs at 3:35 PM. The official cause of death was a cerebral hemorrhage. FDR was 63 years old.

Eleanor Roosevelt was notified of her husband’s death a few minutes after 4:00 PM. She summoned Vice President Harry Truman to the White House while he was having a drink at the U.S. Capitol with House Speaker Sam Rayburn. Truman wasn’t told why he needed to hastily come to the White House, but he knew it sounded urgent. As Truman left the Capitol, he ran into a young Congressman who questioned the Vice President about his speedy exit -- a young Congressman named Lyndon Johnson.

At the White House at 5:30 PM, Eleanor Roosevelt broke the news to the Vice President simply a directly: “Harry, the President is dead.” Truman was stunned and asked what he could do for the widowed First Lady. Eleanor smiled sadly and asked, “Is there anything we can do for you? For you are the one in trouble now.” At 7:00 PM, Chief Justice Harlan Fiske Stone administered the Oath of Office to Truman as the 33rd President of the United States.

By that time, Eleanor was on her way to Warm Springs to claim her husband’s body. At about midnight, she arrived at the Little White House in Georgia where she asked about her husband’s last hours. It was then that she learned news almost as shocking as the President’s death. Eleanor found out that FDR had been with his former mistress Lucy Mercer Rutherfurd when he was stricken. She spent 45 minutes alone with his body, picked out the clothing for his burial, but never lost her composure despite the shocks that she experienced that day.

A funeral train returned FDR’s body to Washington, D.C. the next day. Roosevelt was embalmed by morticians who found that the President’s arteries were so hardened that they could barely inject the embalming fluid into his body. FDR’s body laid in state in the East Room of the White House almost 80 years to the day that Abraham Lincoln’s body rested in the very same place following his assassination. On the 80th anniversary of Lincoln’s death -- April 15, 1945 -- Franklin Delano Roosevelt was buried in the garden of his beloved estate Hyde Park on the Hudson River in New York. Upon his death, the New York Times wrote of the deceased President:

“Men will thank God on their knees a hundred years from now that Franklin D. Roosevelt was in the White House. It was his hand, more than that of any other single man, that built the great coalition of the United Nations. It was his leadership which inspired free men in every part of the world to fight with greater hope and courage. Gone is the fresh and spontaneous interest which this man took, as naturally as he breathed air, in the troubled and the hardships and the disappointments and the hopes of little men and humble people.” 

Elizabeth Shoumatoff’s Unfinished Portrait of President Roosevelt -- which she was working on when he died -- now hangs in the Little White House in Warm Springs, Georgia.

[peanuts-fan]

Schulz widow responds to the haters / weirdos / fault-finders

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I am posting this article from last year because it is Peanuts-related

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Jean Schulz responds to the controversy over Franklin's role in 'A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving'

Ethan Alter (Altered-States) Senior ‘Writer’, Yahoo Entertainment Fri, December 11, 2020, 11:56 AM PST

https://www.yahoo.com/entertainment/a-charlie-brown-thanksgiving-franklin-controversy-jean-schulz-195611449.html

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Just as A Charlie Brown Christmas has been a seasonal pop culture gift for 55 years and counting, it’s hard to imagine a Thanksgiving weekend without at least one helping of A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving. In recent years, though, the 1973 animated special — written by Peanuts creator, Charles Schulz — has been accompanied by a side of controversy. At issue is a sequence from the half-hour cartoon where Charlie Brown and his friends sit down for their version of Thanksgiving dinner, featuring toast, popcorn and jelly beans in place of turkey, mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce.

During the meal, though, one friend seems left out in the cold: Franklin, the only main Black character in Peanuts, is seated in a beach chair by himself on one side of the table. Even though he’s part of the group, he’s still distinctly separate from them. It’s an image that increasingly bothers modern-day viewers of A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving, several of whom took to Twitter over the holiday to express their complicated feelings about the special, and Franklin’s legacy.

This unedited image is from a 1973 cartoon that I watched every single Thanksgiving as a kid. Seeing Franklin at that table was a big deal to us.

Dang. Diversity without equity and inclusion is a sad, subtle thing, isn’t it? Then and now.#dontstopatdiversity #resetthetable pic.twitter.com/iiyDrTRmGs — Kimberly D. Manning, MD (@gradydoctor) November 25, 2020

[wahhh wahhh wahhh (Peanuts adult voice) wahh wahh wahh]

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Speaking with Yahoo Entertainment, Schulz’s widow, Jean Schulz, addresses the debate by noting that while her husband wrote A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving, he wasn’t involved in the animation process. That fell to director Bill Melendez, who first collaborated with Schulz on A Charlie Brown Christmas in 1965. The duo continued to work together on animated Peanuts specials for decades, alongside producer Lee Mendelson. (Schulz died on Feb. 12, 2000, one day before his final Peanuts strip appeared in newspapers.)

“The scene would not have had nothing to do with Sparky, because it was purely the animators and the directors working on it,” Jean explains. (“Sparky” was Schulz’s childhood nickname.) “The director parcels out the scenes to the animators, and the animators who drew that scene aren’t alive anymore or we don’t know how to find them. The [controversy] first popped up a couple of years ago. I’ve probably watched the special a dozen times, and I hadn’t noticed it. But I wouldn’t notice it: It’s to be noticed now.”

Jean Schulz at the Los Angeles premiere of 20th Century Fox's The Peanuts Movie in 2015. (Photo: Michael Tran/FilmMagic)

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Jean previously shared her thoughts about the controversy in a blog post published last year on the website for the Charles M. Schulz Museum and Research Center, where she serves as the president of the board of directors. “While it can’t be known now which animator drew that particular scene, you can be sure there was no ulterior motive,” she wrote. “I fall back on Peppermint Patty’s apology to Charlie Brown explaining she meant no harm when she criticized his poor Thanksgiving offering, which goes something like: ‘There are enough problems in the world already without these misunderstandings.’ To suggest the show had any other messages than the importance of family, sharing and gratitude is to look for an issue where there is none.”

Even if the animators didn’t intend offense by isolating Franklin, the special’s critics feel that it reflects an insular point of view about inclusion. “Having [Franklin] on this long side by himself, you could interpret it that no one wanted to sit next to him,” Darnell Hunt, dean of social sciences and professor of sociology and African American studies at UCLA, recently told Yahoo Life. “Today this would not be acceptable. It really does speak to the need for more inclusive creators and storytellers behind the scenes who produce these images.”

In a panel discussion organized by Schulz Museum in November, a group of Black cartoonists directly addressed the Franklin question. “I can’t believe how accurate that drawing is — I feel like I’m that dude on that side of the table to this day,” remarked Robb Armstrong, the creator of the comic strip, Jump Start and a close friend of Schulz. In fact, in the 1990s the older cartoonist asked Armstrong for permission to give Franklin his last name. “I know people are like, ‘That’s racist!’ First of all, Charles Schulz named that dude after me — he is not a racist. He is a wonderful human being who decided to put Jesus on a CBS Christmas special. He wanted Franklin to be that, but he knew he didn’t have it in him. Franklin is still an underdeveloped character... but the guy knew his limits.”

For her part, Jean admits that her husband struggled to find ways to integrate Franklin into the core Peanuts crew when writing both the comic strip and the animated specials. “People would say, ‘Franklin doesn’t have the personality quirks that the others have — he doesn’t have Lucy or Linus’s or Peppermint Patty’s quirks.’ It goes back to Sparky’s approach: He wrote what he knew in his strip. Franklin is a limited character, and it’s not for any particular reason except that he was not in Sparky’s familiar childhood [experiences] that he pulled his themes from.”

At the same time, Schulz was also keenly aware that Franklin occupied an important place not only in the world of Peanuts, but the world of comics in general. In the wake of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s assassination in the spring of 1968, schoolteacher Harriet Glickman wrote a letter to the cartoonist urging him to introduce a Black character into his widely-read comic strip. “Sparky pondered it, and eventually agreed it was something he could do,” Jean says. So Franklin made his first appearance on July 31 of that year, encountering Charlie Brown at the beach.

Franklin made his first appearance in Peanuts in a July 31, 1968 comic strip (Courtesy Peanuts Worldwide)

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Interestingly, that strip predates the famous 1969 episode of Mr. Rogers Neighborhood, where Fred Rogers invites Black police officer, Officer Clemmons (François Clemmons), to share a wading pool foot bath. In both cases, Schulz and Rogers are using an ordinary summertime childhood moment to illustrate to young audiences how we’re more alike than different. In their gentle way, they may also have been challenging the segregation of American pools and beaches overseen and enforced by white adults at the time.

According to Jean, the beach setting was most likely a narrative choice rather than a political statement on her husband’s part. “Sparky thought, ‘I want to do this — how on Earth do I do it in a way that’s natural?’” she explains. “The easy thing would have been to have Franklin be a new kid who moves to town and lives across the street. But instead, he had them meet in a very neutral place, and then it’s revealed that he goes to Peppermint Patty’s school across town. I wish he was here now, because it never occurred to me to ask him how he hit on that idea. I always say that in all the years I was married to Sparky, it seemed like he created the strip so effortlessly. It’s my penance now to study all the things I took for granted then.”