#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?'

[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.

[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!"

[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..........

[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.

[ac-19]

Please more Jason Hayes and Drew Franklin imagines! I could read imagines about them all day🤪

Here's some Drew for you babe ❤️ more Jason coming soon 😉

Could be Part 2 of Friends or? Or could be read as a stand alone.

Messy - D. Franklin (Bravo 6)

Summary: things get messy when you're you're on the same team.

My phone went off awakening me from the deep slumber I was in and I almost panicked when I saw an arm wrapped around my waist but I couldn't help but smile to myself as the events of last night came to my mind. 

"Morning."

His morning raspy voice made me want to take him right then and there again but instead I reached over and grabbed my phone off the nightstand.

"Let me guess, we're getting spun up?"

"We have to be at base in an hour for debrief but most likely."

Drew placed a series of soft kisses on my neck, and I smiled. 

"I'm gonna go take a shower."

He groaned. 

"You're such a buzzkill."

I chuckled as I wiggled out of his arms and grabbed a shirt that was laying on the ground and pulled it over my head. 

"You're more than welcome to join."

I walked across my apartment to my bathroom and turned the hot water on, and I chuckled when I heard footsteps heading my way. I pulled the shirt over my head and disposed of it on the ground, and stepped into the shower. Not a minute later, Drew's arms were wrapped around my waist and he was back at placing soft kisses on my neck which led to Drew's definition of a quickie, that almost made us late for debrief. 

"Thanks."

I walked into the debrief room followed by Drew, and all eyes were on us as I walked over to sit beside Sonny while Drew sat on the other side of the table. 

"Did you two get in together?"

I scoffed and shook my head as I leaned back in my chair. 

"Just because two people walk into a room together doesn't mean they drove in together, Sonny."

"But.."

I rolled my eyes.

"Drop it."

Blackburn walked into the room, and I was grateful because that meant I got away from Sonny's question for a small amount of time. The debrief went by quickly, and with the news of a month-long deployment hanging over our heads, we all headed out to get our affairs in order before leaving. 

"(Y/N/N) you and Drew both walked in with wet hair and..."

I took a deep breath as I turned around to face Sonny. 

"If you don't want me to out you and Davis to the rest of the team, you better think carefully on your next words."

"Copy that."

I nodded and turned on my heel and headed to the parking lot. I drove back to my apartment and packed a bag, did some laundry and threw out all my soon to be expired food before I headed back to base. I climbed on that plane and settled into a spot and grabbed my headphones and pulled them over my ears. Drew walked onto the plane last and completely ignored me which stung a bit, but I couldn't think about that right now, not with a month long deployment in front of us. 

After two weeks of deployment I finally came to the conclusion that Drew was in fact a one night stand kind of guy. I understand the whole team was around but there was no need for him to completely ignore me, like I somehow didn't exist to him anymore, but I couldn't feel those feelings right now so I pushed them deep down inside me and focused on my job. I was the first one through the doors and first one in the fight for the last two weeks of our deployment and I think Jason picked up that something was bothering me but he never came out and asked me about it. 

When we landed back in VA Beach, my first stop was the grocery store before I headed back to my apartment. I saw Drew's van parked halfway down the block, but I really wasn't interested in talking to him, except I didn't really have a choice when I found him standing outside my apartment door. 

"Can we talk?"

I scoffed as I unlocked my door and walked inside my apartment. 

"Oh, now you want to talk to me."

"Let me help you with those."

I pulled my arm away as Drew tried to grab my bags of groceries. 

"I've got it."

Drew nodded and followed me inside my apartment, and I didn't fight him on that. If we were gonna argue, I didn't want all my neighbors to be witnesses. 

"I'm sorry."

I nodded as I started unloading my groceries.

"(Y/N)."

I shook my head as I closed the door to my fridge and turned around to face Drew. 

"You ignored me for a month while we were deployed. I get the rest of the team was around but you acted like I didn't exist and you think what? Now that we're home I'm just gonna fall into bed with you again? I already made that mistake once, it won't happen again."

"Mistake?"

"Look Drew it's like you said, team relationships are messy. She should have never done this."

"If that's how you feel."

"I think you should leave."

Drew nodded and walked out of my apartment without another word. That was weeks ago now and unless absolutely necessary we didn't really talk to each other and team dynamic just wasn't there anymore so when I walked into base this morning I walked straight to Blackburn's office. 

"Petty Officer (Y/L/N). Come in."

I nodded as I walked into Blackburn's office and took a deep breath.

"I'd like to make the formal request to switch teams."

Blackburn furrowed his eyebrows.

"Did anything happen with Bravo?"

I shook my head. 

"No, I just want a change of scenery."

Blackburn nodded. 

"You know I have to talk to Jason about this."

I nodded. 

"I know."

"And if he denies the transfer, my hands are tied."

I nodded. 

"I understand, but if I know Master Chief Hayes he won't block my transfer."

Blackburn nodded. 

"You sure nothing happened?"

I nodded. 

"Yes sir."

"Okay. I'll talk to Master Chief Hayes about this later today, but are you good with staying on Bravo until a new spot opens up?"

I nodded. 

"Of course sir."

He nodded.

"Dismissed."

I nodded and walked out of Blackburn's office only to come face to face with Sonny and Omar. 

"(Y/N), feels like we haven't seen you in weeks."

I nodded. 

"Yeah, I've been busy."

Sonny nodded as he pointed to Blackburn's office. 

"Everything okay?"

I nodded. 

"Yeah. I'm gonna hit the gym, I'll see you guys later."

Omar nodded, and I scurried away without another word. I knew they were going to eventually find out about my transfer request, but I don't think I could talk about it with them right now. I went to my cage and changed into some workout clothes, but instead of going to the gym, I drove across town to the cemetery and walked over to Clay's grave. 

"Figured I'd find you here after the talk I just had with Blackburn."

I put my head down and sighed before I looked back at Jason.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to blindside you."

Jason nodded. 

"Does this have anything to do with whatever is going on between you and Drew? Don't think I haven't noticed things are tense between you two."

I shook my head. 

"This is for me."

Jason nodded. 

"I don't know what happened between you and Drew and really it's none of my business, but I don't want to lose you on my team. I'm not gonna block your transfer and force you to stay on the team if you want to leave but just know that I want you here."

I nodded as I took a deep breath and looked down at Clay's grave.

"Clay and I were at the top of our Green Team class and we were so competitive so when we both got a spot on Bravo we always had to one up each other and it was great while it lasted, but right now I just feel like the team isn't a family and I've actually been considering this since Clay's death."

Jason nodded. 

"Look, the team not vibing right now has probably more to do with me than anything. Clay always knew how to push me, in the right ways and ever since he died I think we're all having a tough time adjusting, but we're gonna get back to the Bravo we were before."

I nodded. 

"Just think about staying okay?"

I nodded as Jason squeezed my shoulder and walked off. The tears welled up in my eyes as I looked down at Clay's grave. I really wish he was here right now to give me advice, probably a scolding, too, but mostly, I just wanted a hug from my best friend. After sitting at Clay's grave for way longer than I probably should I head back to my apartment and was stunned when I saw a bouquet of flowers laying by my apartment door. I looked around, but there was no one around, so I picked them up off the ground and picked the card that was in the flowers. 

"meet me at the Bulkhead tonight please."

I recognized Drew's handwriting and I sighed as I unlocked the door and walked inside my apartment.  

I debated not going, but ultimately, I got myself ready and settled onto a dark blue pockla dot sundress, which showed off some cleveage and my white converses. I quickly did my makeup and curled my hair. If nothing else, I was going to look hot tonight. 

I drove myself to the Bulkhead and sat in my car outside for a few minutes but I eventually walked inside and headed straight to the bar. I couldn't do this sober.

"Whiskey please."

"Add whatever she's drinking to my tab."

I looked over at Drew who was sitting by himself at the end of the bar. I grabbed my whiskey and walked over and sat down on the stool beside him.

"I didn't think you were gonna show up."

"Honesty I didn't either."

Drew nodded.

"You don't have to leave the team."

I sighed.

"Of course Jason told you."

I picked up my glass and took a big gulp out of it.

"Look I fucked this up, I should be the one to leave."

I shook my head.

"You deserve to be on Bravo."

"So do you."

I shrugged.

"Ever since Clay died I've been debating leaving Bravo, I guess this was the push I needed."

"Look I'm sorry."

"It's like we always said, team relationships are messy."

"This isn't about us being on the same team."

I furrowed my eyebrows and looked over at Drew.

"What is that suppose to mean?"

"Means that it scared the shit out of me when I woke up with you in my arms and I thought to myself, man I could see myself doing this everyday. I've never felt like that about anyone, so us being on the same team doesn't have jack shit to do with why I fucked things up for us."

I nodded.

"I get it."

"You do?"

I nodded as I traced the rim of my glass with my finger and looked over at Drew.

"I don't think Sonny ever mentioned it when he went on a rant about my life, but my ex cheated on me the night before our wedding. Some bullshit about having one last wild night before settling down so I might of blew this out of proportion too, I'm sorry. I wanted to protect myself from getting hurt like that again."

Drew nodded as he picked up his beer and brought it to his lips.

"That guy sounds like an asshole."

I smiled and nodded.

"That's something we both can agree on."

Drew downed whatever was left in his beer bottle and put it down on the bar before he looked over at me.

"So what now?"

"You want to get out of here?"

Drew smirked.

"You read my mind."

I smiled as I downed the rest of my whiskey and Drew threw some money on the bar and we headed towards the exit.

"Your place or mine?"

I laughed.

"No offence, but mine. It's actually got indoor plumbing."

Drew laughed.

"Fair enough."

We walked over to my car, and I walked over to the driver's side only to duck when I saw Sonny and Omar walking towards the entrance of the Bulkhead. If they saw Drew and I together we would never hear the end of it.

"Drew."

Drew quickly turned around and looked at Sonny and Omar.

"Didn't think we'd see you out tonight, it's been a while."

Drew nodded.

"Yeah well like you said it's been a while so thought I'd make an appearance tonight."

"Is that (Y/N)'s car?"

"Nah I don't think so, must be a car just like hers."

Sonny nodded.

"Right."

"Alright well I'm gonna go order us a round."

Drew nodded.

"I'll be right behind you guys."

I waited a few seconds until I heard the tump of the front door of the Bulkhead close.

"You're clear."

I chuckled as I stood up and looked at Drew.

"I have to go in there."

I nodded.

"You know where I live."

Drew nodded.

"Before you go, one thing."

"What's that?"

"You have to stay."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"On the team I mean."

I nodded.

"I know what you meant."

Drew smiled as he walked over to me and leaned down and planted his lips on mine. I slipped my hands around his waist and smiled against his lips.

"You've got some making up to do Drew Franklin."

Drew nodded.

"Right now I've got to go inside and have a drink with Sonny and Omar but later tonight I'm all yours."

I nodded.

"Don't be too late."

"Trust me after a few hours of Sonny and Omar I'm gonna be clawing my way out of here."

I chuckled.

"You better get in there."

"I gotta give my girl one more kiss before I go."

I smiled as I leaned up and planted my lips on Drew's. As risky as this was I couldn't help but feel the happiest I had been in a long time.

[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

[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.”

[gothhisoka]

𝖍𝖚𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖚𝖓𝖎𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖘𝖎𝖙𝖞

𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 18- 𝔞 𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔨𝔢𝔡 𝔫𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱

Fandom: Hunter x Hunter

Ships: Chrollo x Reader, Leorio x Kurapika, Hisoka x Illumi

Genre: romance, dark academia, royalcore, university AU

Word count: 3k

Background: This is from my (gothhisoka) fanfic on Wattpad and AO3 called Hunter University. It is Chrollo x OC, but I decided to change it around for Tumblr. Both Chrollo and y/n are hiding things from each other but are both feeling the same attraction. A masquerade ball is held at your university. You don’t know if he even wants to dance with you, but apparently he does. He wants to do even more than that.

Tags: Fluff, first kiss, sfw

The masquerade hall was astounding. The high stone walls were adorned with scarlet silk banners. Golden fabric streamers hung from every banister of the second-level balconies. As in the entrance, symbols of cherubs and mythical creatures were splashed across the ceiling in a dizzying array. The light was dim, for all the chandeliers were set low in the traditional style of Venetian masquerades. Candelabras were scattered on every table and upon every wall.

Symphonic music was emanating from the open stage in the front of the room. A live orchestra was playing a gentle concerto as the students poured in. It was only 7:10, so not many were on the floor. The true dancing would start in another couple of minutes.

It was a scene out of a fairytale. The hundreds of breathtakingly dressed students only added to the general fervor of it all.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Chrollo said as he looked towards you. It was unclear whether he was talking about the room or how you looked tonight. Your bright eyes shone out underneath a bronze mask, which was catching the candlelight within its shiny material.

Still entranced, you were led by Chrollo to the table they had reserved. The troupe followed behind, engrossed in their conversation while you both remained in your own little world. He put his hand on the small of your back, simply aching to touch you once again. The feeling was mutual.

On the table, there were glasses already set up accompanied by a lavish bouquet of flowers. Uvogin pulled out a couple of bottles of champagne he clearly swiped from the restaurant. Everyone dropped off their bags at the table.

It appeared as if not all of the troupe members would be dancing. Franklin was already seated with his arms crossed. You looked at him questioningly, after which he said, "I have to guard the stuff." It was clear by his tone that he actually meant "I don't like to dance."

You smiled placidly and nodded in understanding. He was an unusual sort of guy. She was beginning to like him already. In fact, the whole Phantom Troupe was becoming gradually more likable as the night progressed.

You looked for Kurapika to bid him one last warning before he got whisked away by Leorio. By the time she spotted him, it was already too late.

You watched as Kurapika scratched at the back of his head, suddenly unaware of what to do with his arms. He was apparently awestruck by his dance partner's appearance.

The two made their shy greetings. Kurapika reached for his hand as any chivalrous partner would do. 

Soon a waltz commenced, floating around the room. A subtle violin and cello duet beckoned people out onto the floor.

You watched as Kurapika led Leorio out, their suit jackets glimmering synchronously as the lights passed. They took position still near their group's table, but far enough to have room to dance.

The wide floor soon filled with numerous other couples. Hisoka led Illumi out alongside Uvogin and Nobunaga. Hisoka and Illumi were practically professional dancers from the very start, moving to an elaborate step that drew the attention of all the students. People nearly cleared the floor to make room for them. This annoyed Illumi to no end, while Hisoka displayed a wild grin. They twirled, dipped, and did intricate step sequences, unquestionably rehearsed to perfection.

The rest were not as remarkably polished. Still, they appeared to be equally enjoying themselves.

Leorio and Kurapika laughed as one of them accidentally stepped upon the other toes or missed a movement. While they lacked coordination, they surely didn't lack chemistry. This was a good sign.

You could see their mouths moving but the music drowned out their voices. Kurapika attempted to guide Leorio in the basic box step, turning him once in a while. 

Most ignored the cameramen or simply didn't notice them lurking in hidden spots. You had some otherworldly feeling that sensed them under the shadows in the balconies. 

"Are you done watching?" Chrollo asked, holding his hand out to you just as Kurapika had done with Leorio.

You hadn't realized you were still staring out towards the masked partners on the floor. The ball was entirely overwhelming; the sound, the rapid movements, and the room itself were causing your head to spin.

Nonetheless, you snapped out of it and processed what Chrollo had just said. You just got offered a dance. A dance with him. 

You knew his indicative gestures were leading somewhere. That somewhere was here, into his arms. 

In front of hundreds of students, not to mention journalists itching to get a photo of the boy who was so famous. Not to mention his dance partner, who was no more than a low-level hunter wannabe.

Now's not the time to get nervous. This is what you wanted. Isn't it?

You stared down at his hand as if to ask "for me?"

You peered up to see the most gentle face slowly becoming riddled with doubt.

"This is what you want, isn't it?"

Is it? 

Now that you are actually here, in the position that used to be visible only in your imagination, you feel immense pressure.

In these weeks past, you didn't even question what you were getting herself into. To be fair, you weren’t sure what this night would be, exactly. Would you be met with a closed-off boy whose coldness warded you away or the courteous man who would rather teach you nen lessons than see you fail?

Is it even safe to get this close?

Chrollo's personality had shifted in the span of the night. It became full of genuine interest rather than his usual impassive curiosity. He, as a person, was becoming all the more real.

Real was dangerous.

This stream of consciousness only took a second. It took one look into Chrollo's eyes to know what your answer would be.

"This is what I want."

It was the first step. No, rather it was your first leap off a skyscraper.

You were falling. Hard.

His grip was delicate, holding your hand as if it was made of glass. Chrollo felt strange, being so unsure. He was normally an expert at figuring out people– what they felt and why they acted the way they did. 

You, on the other hand, were a labyrinth. He had always been so hesitant for this reason. Chrollo needed to be able to figure out a person in order to get close to them. With you, there was something buried deeper than you let on. It was virtually impossible to uncover. You put up almost as good of a front as Chrollo.

Or perhaps it was Chrollo's own mind that was muddied at the thought of you. His intentions versus yours, his morals versus yours. It all began to matter very much. What would he think in the end, after he got out of your what he so desired?

Nevermind that now. For Chrollo was feeling a mutual enthusiasm that you were plainly exhibiting. He led you out to the floor.

The Phantom Troupe watched with apprehension. They weren't used to their boss being so amiable. He couldn't be swayed by a simple person, and yet here he was.

"Can you dance?" Chrollo turned to you, putting an arm upon your shoulder. You already almost melted under the single touch.

You had reached the middle of the floor, far from the troupe. Was he that confident in his own dancing? The center could be viewed from all sides and balconies. You were sure to stand out.

"Not well," you said candidly.

Chrollo began a light step, swaying from side to side. This newfound tenderness was surprising. He was treating you as if you were a queen. And you couldn't get enough of it.

Wanting to grasp for more of this certain side of him, you said, "I can do more than this."

"As you wish," Chrollo said with a gracious smile.

He immediately followed a more complicated step, falling in line with the other couples on the floor. You pretended to ignore their whispers.

Just as you thought. He is an incredible dancer.

Every time you struggled to keep up he would adjust his pace. You worked like hands on a clock, moving as if set to one another's rhythm. The music now was a quicker allegro beat.

Your attire fanned out as you turned: your right hand in his, your arm on his shoulder. 

Now it was the students' turn to stare at Chrollo and you. It was unclear if it was because they recognized the boy under the mask, or they were observing the electrifying chemistry.

You couldn't help but beam as you sailed across the floor. Chrollo did not break eye contact and you did your best to do the same. 

A feeling overcame you as you continued to hold his hand in yours. It couldn't be described as fireworks or sparks, as often depicted by the romance novels she's read. It was more of an awakening.

Despite the weather turning cold, you felt as if it was spring. A revival. Things were blossoming, the rain washed away the grey of winter.

He was your spring.

It was odd. For Chrollo could be explained more effectively as ominous and intimidating, unlike a bright spring day. He should've been cold stone walls, closed doors, secret passageways.

But no, he was warmth itself.

If only you would turn away for a second you would notice a coldness settle that hadn't been there before. 

The way he looked tonight in his dazzling suit and mask, the way he said all those uncharacteristically gracious words: these were the things you would have etched in your memory for a very, very long time. Now, without Chrollo it would feel as if something were missing.

You would not realize this yet, as you were still in a state of pure elation. It was only the beginning.

But this was the connection you felt. Having it defined opened up a world of possibilities. 

Who would've known, it all came into fruition at a masquerade ball.

                                          ━━━━━♥♠♣♦━━━━━

After a couple more songs, you left the floor. Sweat prickled at your brow. You were left panting after a rapid final dance.

Several students couldn't help but clap. You hadn't even done a thing. You were sure it was Chrollo's dancing that gained all the attention.

"You're better than I expected," you said.

Chrollo brushed back his hair which had fallen in his face with all the movement.  "I would say the same to you, y/n." He smiled, sizing your up.

You didn't dispute his return of the compliment. He was right. 

At the group table, Kurapika and Leorio were sitting drinking glass after glass of the bootlegged champagne. It would've been inappropriate to bring alcohol to such a prestigious event if many other tables weren't doing the same. Apparently, the students here did know how to have a good time.

Chrollo went to talk to Franklin as you sat next to Leorio and Kurapika.

"You both were amazing!" Leorio exclaimed as you approached. 

You grinned, "Where have you two been?"

"We were on the floor too, didn't you see us?"

You tried to laugh it off, "No... I was a little distracted." 

To be fair, you didn't notice the cameras, the students, or the other dancers either. 

"Sooo are you two going back out?" Leorio asked, leaning on his hand. His words slurred slightly.

You looked over your shoulder at Chrollo. He looked serious as he talked to Franklin. "I'm not sure. Are you two?"

"Yes, we plan on trying the group dance. Just like we practiced," Kurapika said, giving you a knowing look.

The synchronized dance was the signature of the ball. All those who learned it were allowed to participate. It was the last dance, so they would still be sitting for a while. The time was now around 9:00 and the hall would be closed by 12:00 a.m.

Before they could converse any further, Chrollo gently put a hand on your shoulder. "Sorry to interrupt, but I have something to show you, y/n."

He held his hand out again. This time you took it with no hesitation. 

"Ok," you leaped up, flattening out your dress.

You were all too willing to go wherever Chrollo pleased. There wasn't even a point where she needed to remind herself who this man was. His charm had influenced you too far already. There was no going back.

Kurapika gave you a warning look. You threw him back a smile. This did nothing to reassure him.

Chrollo interlaced his fingers slowly with yours, hesitating as you crossed under the balconies. You could've dissolved right then and there. It only further confirmed his gentlemanly attitude and respect towards you.

You couldn't even look at him. You felt your face growing hotter by the second. Thank god for a mask and several layers of foundation.

To your surprise, you were led far from the dance floor. You ended up at a small door in a quiet corner of the ballroom. The spot was underneath the alcoves and not a soul was in sight. Moonlight poured in from the tiny stained-glass windows.

"It's through here," Chrollo said, his voice barely audible over the orchestral music.

"Do I get to know where you're taking me?" You stopped in your tracks. You were thinking of what Kurapika would say. Even though you would follow him at the drop of a coin, you weren’t that stupid. He is a man, before all else. 

Something flashed in Chrollo's eyes. Was he hurt by your sudden distrust? 

"I'll show you. I promise you'll like it," Chrollo replied, creaking open the door.

There was nothing at first, only darkness. But stepping through the door bestowed an even more enchanting sight than the ballroom.

You gasped, "I didn't realize there was a courtyard out here."

Chrollo looked at you as if he were seeing you the first time tonight again. The profile of your face was highlighted by the moonlight. your jawline was your only feature that stood out, the rest of your was soft under the haze of darkness. The surrounding blue contrasted against your fading red lipstick. your hair had grown significantly more disheveled but it still looked utterly smooth. If Chrollo was bolder he would've run his hand through it and took you by your waist and done things he surely would regret for initiating too soon... he wanted to savor the moment when it inevitably came.

He smiled, despite himself. Neither of you noticed the cold, still warmed from dancing only moments ago. Chrollo watched as your eyes soaked in the scene before you.

It seemed as if the bushes and trees saved their last breaths for this space alone. Fall leaves hung over a gravel path. Ivy snaked up the surrounding structures, all encapsulating the tiny yard. A small table sat in the center of the path upon which a lantern was placed. He had come prepared.

The whole night: he had anticipated it all. He had realized your love, and, at this moment, you realized his. What he had yet to figure out was the depth of those feelings or where they came from. Or, most importantly, what was tucked underneath those feelings. That was what tonight was for.

The orchestra still echoed faintly through the ancient walls.

"Shall we dance? I never did like dancing in front of a crowd,"

You redirected your eyes to an equally beautiful scene. You were still in reverence. It was obvious now that he had planned it all.

Your heart swelled like an ocean wave, but all you could manage to get out was, "Are we supposed to be here?"

Chrollo looked at you dangerously, "To remind you, I'm not supposed to be anywhere." 

Before you could say another word, Chrollo stepped forward and lifted both his and your own mask off of your faces. 

"There."

Chrollo's undivided visage was in view now. The curve of his nose and tops of his cheekbones caught the light of the moon. His downcast eyelashes were full, framing his silver eyes.

As for Chrollos view, he simply needed to see your whole face to be sure that what you felt was really true. When he saw the arching of your lips and widened eyes, he knew it was.

He grasped your hand in preparation to waltz, deliberately intertwining his hand with yours. 

Timed perfectly, the music slowed. It was a couples' number. Inevitably, this had also somehow been planned by Chrollo.

This dancing was quite different than before. It was full of significance.

The song picked up with a violin. Chrollo pulled you close, your bodies almost touching. Your heat radiated off of one another. You felt almost giddy with attraction. What you wanted to do to him was far past your confidence, but you wanted it all the same.

His eyes didn't leave yours. A slight smile persisted on his lips. He hadn't enjoyed himself so much in years. And the last time he felt something like this, it wasn't nearly as genuine.

You swayed from side to side with only the moonlight and distant concerto guiding your steps. You made a move to rest your head on his shoulder. It was so that you could not look into his eyes as you spoke your next words. You snaked your arms behind his neck while he placed his around your hips. It felt good to be so close. You felt secure in his arms.

You really hoped this was going where she thought it was. But you needed to be certain.

"I want to know if this is true," you whispered, breaking the tranquil silence. Your breath was hot against his neck. It drove him absolutely mad. 

Unknowingly, you had echoed back the words Chrollo had been retracing in his head throughout the night. Is this true?

He feigned ignorance of the meaning behind your statement. "What's true?" Chrollo whispered back.

"Is all this premeditation for something else? Another scheme?"

Chrollo suddenly turned serious, "I will never do that to you again. This is for real."

You pulled back to look into his eyes, "But what is this?" 

Your face was lined with apprehension. After all that happened tonight, it still wasn't clear. Chrollo needed to change that.

He looked down at you, attempting to convey what you meant to him in his eyes. They overflowed with tenderness, admiration, and worship, even. 

You hadn't realized that he had these emotions in him. Now you understood. It was all because they were reserved for you.

His movement was swift. He lowered his face to yours, soaking in your divine scent. You didn't anticipate what was about to happen until his lips delicately brushed against your own, asking for an invitation. He clearly didn't need one, for your body responded immediately. Your hand trailed up to the side of his face. Chollo pulled your hips towards him. Your eyes fluttered shut.

And you kissed. 

It was intoxicating.

The taste of him nearly silenced your thoughts. It was a tang of wine and sweetness. You tried to let the feeling seep into your bones, agonizing over its ephemeral nature. 

Your surroundings dissolved into the inky night. You focused on how soft his mouth felt, how his hands upon your hips made you want to yield to all he could offer, and, in turn, all you could ever desire.

Seconds later, you unwillingly pulled apart. Your whole body tingled, edging for more. Both of your heartbeats were fluttering a rapid cadence. Remaining there for a moment– foreheads touching, breath tickling one another lips– you savored each other's presence. 

Your kiss was unlike anything either of you had experienced before. It was born out of lust but resulted in something deeper. Floating to the surface was an unbound attraction sparked by one mouth on another.

You both were left smiling with flushed cheeks. Goosebumps prickled on your arms.

"I hope that made it clear," Chrollo said pulling away at last.

The warmth disappeared and you were left in a state of longing. You could still feel the touch of his lips upon yours, a ghost of his sensitive movements.

You smiled lightly at him, "It did."

Chrollo held out an arm for you. "We best be getting back now."

You were frozen in place, coming to your senses. Holy shit.

The enormity of what that kiss meant came crashing down upon you. What would this mean moving forward? Everything had seemed so temporary with Chrollo, coming in and out of your life as he did in the past month. Was this temporary as well?

There was no time to dwell upon the future of their relationship. Although the promise of privacy in the courtyard tempted you to stay, there was still one more number to dance. 

                                      ━━━━━♥♠♣♦━━━━━

[duchessfics]

Hi sweetheart, it’s so good to see you back! This is such a cool idea :)

I’m about 5’4 with dark blonde hair & green eyes.

In the future I hope to become a journalist, & I really enjoy writing, especially political pieces as I have very strong opinions. I’m a passionate feminist & a lesbian, so I often advocate for LGBTQIA + rights.

In my spare time when I’m not writing essays, I will often listen to music, & I also paint to relax a lot. My favourite artists atm are Fleetwood Mac & Lady Gaga.

I hope this is enough! Lots of love <3

Hello to you too! I’m glad you like it. Here’s who I think you would pair very well with...

Miss Lana Winters

Here is the song that I think sets the dynamic for your relationship (feel free to listen as you read ☺️):

Songbird by Fleetwood Mac

You and Lana meet when you are accepted as an intern within her department and right away she is impressed by your passion and drive for journalism. At the same time she remembers starting out and tries to push you so you have even more opportunities than her down the road.

As a result you end up working your ass off writing different columns and having them brutally edited by her and her team. It’s not easy to have your writing torn apart, but you want this so bad you can taste it. So you keep showing up each day and try to take in as much information and insight Lana offers.

For your final task you write about lgbtqia+ tropes in media and performative “wokeness” by primarily cis, white male executives. And for the first time in years Lana is invested in this coverage and even offers to help you in getting interviews as well as researching the topic. In the process you both spend hours together in her office and coffee shops, inevitably getting to know one another personally as well. 

However you don’t have the guts to actually ask her out on an official date. Not because you’re expecting disinterest, but you don’t want to mess up this awesome work opportunity. But Lana wants you. And when Lana wants someone or something she gets it.

When you do actually start to date, Lana shows a much softer side, leaving small notes of encouragement in your lunch bag, lots of forehead kisses due to the height difference between you two, many a slow dance in your apartment between sips of wine and kisses.

On the other hand, at work you both maintain a professional exterior. (But everyone in the office knows you’re together just based on the way you look at each other in passing) At the end of the day when everyone goes home you move from your cubicle to her office and even though you’re still working it’s just nice to be in each other’s presence.

Lana always has you read her columns and articles before she sends them to the editors, trusting your opinion as number one. And you do the same with her. While it doesn’t happen often because you agree on most things, it does give Lana a little thrill when she writes something that you may not necessarily agree with leading to a passionate speech of your opinion. That passion and authenticity is what drew you to her in the first place.

When it comes to birthdays, holidays, or your anniversary it is always a safe bet for Lana to buy you a new record and/or more painting supplies. She loves encouraging your personal hobbies

Some songs that are “Your Songs”:

I Want a Little Sugar In My Bowl--Nina Simone

My Girl--The Temptations

(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman--Aretha Franklin

Ain’t No Mountain High Enough--Marvin Gaye, Tammi Terrell

While some may think it’s strange there is a cup of a couple paint brushes on your nightstand, they are there because if Lana is struggling to fall asleep or wakes up from a nightmare the only thing that calms her down is you “painting” on her back or over her face. And it’s even better when you whisper what you’re “painting” on her so she can distract herself by imagining the image.

Lana adores your green eyes and you will sometimes catch her studying them to see how the color shifts in different lighting or clothes that you wear. And your eyes paired with your hair is just perfect to Lana.

Even though Lana was the one who asked you out, you are the first one to say the words “I love you.” Now Lana isn’t surprised since you’ve been going out for awhile, but she does gat a little emotional at the declaration. But it’s all happy tears because you are the light of her life and she never thought she would experience that again.

I hope you like it, @in-cordelias-coven! And if you are interested in getting paired yourself feel free to send in an ask or submit a post! 

[feministkilljoysrg]

Dearest killjoys,

It’s been a while! Since our Biennale event at Pari, we’ve been resting and focusing on our separate lives. Time will tell to see if FKRG will continue on, maybe in a different form, or maybe after a prolonged break.

Thank you to everyone who came, witnessed, and engaged with our event. We talked about prison abolition and how carceral ways of thinking restrict the lives and imaginations of many.

Here are some resources that we drew upon:

Carceral Capitalism by Jackie Wang

‘Alternatives to (Disability) Incarceration’ in Disability Incarcerated by L. Ben-Moshe

Belonging to bad: Ambiguity, Parramatta girls and the Parramatta girls home by Corrinne Franklin

Counter-carceral acoustemologies: Sound, permeability and feminist protest at the prison boundary by Emma K. Russell and Bree Carlton

Beyond Prison by Ellen O’Brien

Community Defense: Sarah T. Hamid on Abolishing Carceral Technologies

We’ll keep you posted as we rest and think about how to keep the killjoy spirit alive.

X

[intoanothermind]

The Glue - Part Four

T H E   G L U E

Word Count: 2.1k words

Synopsis: Glue or Variable? This is the big question about Frankie’s existence. Assigned to the same role as Newt in WCKD’s Lethal Experiments, Frankie suddenly realizes that she will become just a variable to activate brain reactions in her former Group A friends. Without memories and being the only girl among several boys, she has the feeling of already knowing some of them. The new question that matters to WCKD is: will Frankie play her role as a variable correctly?

- Newt x OC (Frankie)

Masterlist

<Part 3 | Part 5>

(This will be a miniseries of Newt from Maze Runner. It will consist of 7 parts and a spin-off. I won’t do a reader insert as usual, but you will soon understand why.)

—

P A R T   F O U R

The girl shifted in her bed unable to sleep. At the age of fifteen, she was about to have hormones on her skin, and her recent thoughts were bothering her to the point of dropping her sleep. She had grown there inside the CRUEL, not just mentally. Not only the girl, but her friends also developed and she found herself thinking of one of them more and more often. The skinny little boy had become a handsome teenager, still thin, but with more apparent and defined muscles.

Her blond hair darkened to almost brown, and although she still had a few childish features, Newt had become a handsome young man. Cuter than the girl had imagined before. And thinking so much about her friend made the girl restless under her own skin. The girl looked around at the girls she had known for years: Teresa, Rachel, Alice, Skylynn, Hayley, and several others she had not had as much friendship with as the first. He lifted his chin to read the inscriptions on the metal sign hanging a few months ago on his headboard.

                  Franklin

                  Group B

                  Subject 5

                  The glue

The words, so similar to Newt's inscriptions, gave the girl a certainty: She couldn't sleep until she saw him.

The girl got rid of the covers as if they were a straitjacket. Feeling slightly more relieved, she checked to see if the other girls slept and crept out of the room when she realized yes. He only bothered to silence his steps, knowing that no one else would be awake at this hour. For a second she stopped, thinking Newt would be asleep too , but then she remembered that he didn't mind being woken up by her. Smiling, she continued her way down hallways she knew as the back of her hand. He opened the door to bedroom GA1-10 , silently counting five beds, and headed for it. The boy in bed 2 shifted, and the girl stopped, mentally praying that Thomas would n't wake up and see her there.

Your request has not been fulfilled.

- Frankie? He asked, his voice slurred and sleepy. - Why are you here?

The girl swore silently before answering.

"I can't sleep, and I came to see Newt." She confided. Although not as friendly with Thomas as she was with Newt and Minho, she saw no problem talking to him.

“Al right!” She could have sworn Thomas rolled his eyes, but it was too dark to know. “Just don't wake up everybody.”

The girl smiled, even though she knew he couldn't see it. “Thank you, Tommy!” She whispered.

Thomas waved at her and lay back down. The girl continued on her way, not really caring if the others were already awake. Thomas was part of the new Creators, so if he allowed it, anyone else's opinion was disposable. She saw Newt in his bed, lying almost on the edge of the bed and leaving much of it free, as if already anticipating her arrival. She smiled, approaching the boy with soft blonde hair and angelic serene features. She sighed, lying on the bed and settling beside him. Newt shifted, as if recognizing her physical and mental presence there, and his foggy brown eyes widened, understanding his predicament.

“Frankie?”

“Hi blondie.” She whispered, smiling slightly.

“What are you doing here?” Newt asked, closing his eyes momentarily with sleep, but pulled the girl's lean body to tuck her against him.

She shuddered at his touch, but tried not to show too much.

“I can’t sleep.” She whispered, her face buried in the boy's broad chest. "My thoughts won't let me relax."

“What thoughts?” Newt asked , still with his eyes closed, as he reached a hand to her friend's hair and stroked the brown strands.

The girl cringed. “Better not to know.”

“You know I won't give up until I can't anymore, don't you?” He asked, and the girl realized that this could be her chance. Her chance for a first love or losing her best friend.

But she realized she wanted to risk it. For Newt she would risk her life.

“Newt.” She called, her tone lower. “Do you really want to know what bothers me so much lately?" She asked before she lost her nerve.

“Of course I want.” he replied, feeling the anxiety almost waking completely.

He wanted to know. Newt had realized that the girl had been lost in thought and always blushed when he drew her out of her mind, and became increasingly curious about it. She shifted in his arms carefully, and Newt pulled back a little, waiting for her to adjust. But he felt his heart explode in a swirl of sensation as he felt her lips on his. Newt opened his eyes in surprise, but when he realized that his dreams really did come true, he closed them again, enjoying the cherry and chocolate taste of his girl's lips. He wrapped her around the waist and she seemed to relax in his arms, parting her lips to receive his tongue.

The girl was ecstatic. Finally had taken the courage to do what her body and heart have long asked, and one felt the happiness when Newt responded. She had been unsure at first, as she had never kissed anyone before, but when the blonde squeezed her around the waist and as he explored her mouth further, she relaxed and stopped caring about it. Nothing else mattered but her along with him and the happiness that took her completely. When the air was needed between them, the girl broke away from Newt, breathing hard, but with her eyes closed to avoid seeing his reaction. Although Newt responded to her kiss, she didn't know what to expect from now on.

"Frankie..." Newt began, choking on the words, and the girl opened her eyes. “That was...”

"Sorry, Newt, I shouldn't have come." She whispered, still worried that the others would wake up.

She was about to get rid of Newt's arms and get out of there never to look back in his face in shame when he stopped her. The girl looked up, finding his brown eyes shining to her. Her small hands were flat against the boy's chest, which held one hand around her waist like a cage and the other caressing her cheek fondly. Newt leaned down and touched his lips to hers in a simple peck full of affection and desire.

"You have no idea how long I waited for this." She heard him murmur against her lips, and smiled, her heart bursting with even better sensations than before.

“Good to know.” She whispered, her fresh breath hitting the boy's lips, which shuddered.

"You know I won't let you get away, don't you?" He whispered.

The girl smiled and kissed him again, promising she didn't intend to run away from him.

Never.

Not from him.

~ * ~

I woke up from my dream with my body being rocked. I opened my eyes slowly, trying to drive drowsiness out of my body. I blinked several times, trying to wake up. It wasn't enough to wake me up, but I could see that it was Minho who was rocking me. He grinned, making his eyes even smaller as soon as he saw me awake.

“Minho?” I asked, looking around and noticing that no one else was near the edge of Deadheads, where I slept.

Ben was in the distance, waving at us as he waited for the Doors to open on a new morning.

“I came to say goodbye.” Minho answered, capturing my attention again. I raised an eyebrow in question and he shrugged. "I missed you and decided I could say goodbye to you every day."

I smiled, nodding. “Of course! And I'll be waiting for you every day on the way back.”

Minho smiled back, leaning over me to kiss me on the cheek before running toward the already opening doors. As soon as he was out of my sight, even before reaching the Doors, I turned aside, trying to sleep again, but couldn't. Rough thoughts disturbed my mind, and I felt some sort of struggle or anguish in my chest. As if I was predicting something bad that could happen. I simply shook my head, dispelling the melancholy thoughts, and stood up. I didn't do much different from the day before - I just tucked my sleeping bag between two roots and fixed my hair with my fingers. The difference is that I could go to Homestead to brush my teeth. Which was a blessing when Newt provided me with a brush the day before.

I scratched my right eye to ward off sleep, and headed for headquarters. I was about to enter the bathroom when I was barred.

“Good morning, Frankie!” Exclaimed Newt excitedly.

I giggled. “Good morning, Newt.”

“I'll let you use the bathroom, but I wanted to warn you that today you're going to work with the Builders, all right?” he said.

“Sure.” I nodded in agreement.

~ * ~

“Frankie, I already said you better go work with Frypan.” Said Gally, possibly for the tenth time.

“Greg challenged me.” I said, shooting a hard stare to Greg, who worked not far from us. “And besides, it's my bathroom you're building.”

I kept carrying a few logs that had come with me to the Box until I tripped over my own feet and almost fell to the ground if it wasn't for Gally's quick reflexes.

“All right, Greenie?” Asked Gally, and I nodded back.

“That's what you get letting a little girl do men's work." I heard Greg mutter and I had to take a deep breath to control my anger.

“Stupid slinthead.” I muttered under my breath, but Gally could hear it and giggled.

"Why won't you help Frypan or Chuck in the kitchen?" Suggested Gally again.

I snorted mentally. “Why do you want to get rid of me so much?!”

"It's not to get rid of you." Said Gally, a little uncomfortably. "But if you get hurt, Newt eats me alive."

I frowned. "And why would he do that?"

Gally bit her lip, seeming to hold back the laugh and as if he knew something I didn't know.

"You have no idea, do you?" He asked with an enigmatic smile.

“Of what?” I asked, increasingly confused.

Gally shook her head but kept silent.

“Go before you get hurt.” He insisted again, and I got annoyed.

I threw the logs on the floor and marched furiously into the kitchen. Frypan was busy with dinner, and I preferred not to get my hands dirty. What if my food wasn’t good enough, and the boys hated it? I would rather not be screwed the rest of my life.

"Something for me to do, Frypan?" I asked him, propping my hip on the sink beside him. "Preferably not involve me cooking anything at all."

Frypan laughed and waved to the back of the kitchen.

“Chuck is back there cleaning the tank. What do you think about helping the boy?”

I made a face but nodded. “Better than spoiling the food here.”

~ * ~

“Tired already?” asked Minho, and I just mumbled an answer.

With my head down between my arms crossed on the table, all I could think about was sleep. My day was tiring, and not just working with the Builders or in the kitchen - or even going to wait for Minho in front of the West Door - but it was my mind that was exhausted too. I was just on my third day there in the Glade, and I was as confused and stressed as someone who had spent years there, like some of those boys.

"Wouldn't you rather go to sleep, Frankie?" Newt asked right next to me.

I raised my head slightly from the dining table where we were sitting, seeing Newt, Alby, Minho, Chuck, and some of the Keepers looking concerned at my decaying appearance that was calling for a good, wonderful night's sleep.

“All right, I'm going.” I muttered, rising from the table. “Good night.”

I got a lot of good night murmurs back, and for a second I considered inviting Chuck to sleep with me, but dismissed the idea when I saw him having a good time talking to Jeff, one of the Med-jacks. When I reached the edge of Deadheads, I didn't think much before grabbing my sleeping bag and crossing the skeletal, gray trees that hid the beautiful, living forest behind them. All I wanted now was a good place to sleep and hide from what tomorrow awaited