#flat franklin

[fdrlibrary]

The elves had a helper today for decorating the President's Study 🎄

[chiropteracupola]

'The Polar bear at Blair Atholl,' 2024.

[comparatorclock]

Benjamin Franklin: The only thing flat-earthers fear, is sphere itself

[bittertasteofhoney]

Good Day Sunshine | Ch. 8

Hello, Sunshine?

Summary: You try and fail to turn off the town’s commentary but Joel catches on as he grows worried about your distant state.

|| smut,  jackson!joel,  jackson!joel x f!reader, unprotected sex (please do not do this), p in v, oral sex (female receives), public sex (sort of), creampie, couch sex, riding, makeout session, age gap (but legal!), reader is afab ||

Notes: And the plot continues, with a touch of smut, of course. Joel finally gives us a little concert moment because I could not avoid writing this after Sunday’s episode.

18+. Read at your own risk. You are responsible for your own media consumption. Minors DO NOT ENGAGE.

The characters, names and characterizations belong to HBO Max and The Last of Us franchise. This work is my creative property and aside from re-blogs and shares, I do not give permission to share or copy my work without permission or consent.

Previous Chapter.

After your shift, you usually took the right to go down the path leading to your faded yellow door and Joel’s arms. Instead, you went left and went down the dirt path that led to one of the outer borders of Jackson until the physical wooden barrier stopped you. 

This one featured long gaps between posts fortified by metal chain links, offering a glimpse into the wild Wyoming landscape. You gingerly gripped one of the posts and leaned your forehead against it, staring blankly at the harsh wilderness. 

Was it true what they were saying? Was Joel just playing parlor tricks on your mind?

You wanted to brush off the thoughts, but the reality of how you and Joel grew close kept plaguing your mind. You weren’t sure if he truly disliked you when you first met him, but months later, you definitively knew that a lot of that dislike was misdirected and originated as attraction. But did that encompass the brunt of it?

An hour passed before a group of patrols cut you away from your thoughts. You squinted at the sky to see that it was a dusty rose color and closer to dusk than day. You took a deep breath before spinning on your heel and down the path towards home.

When you stepped onto your beaten stone path, Joel was already sitting on your stoop with his head resting on his chin. When he heard your footfalls, his head perked up and he caught your eye with a confused look.

He called out your name and stood slowly. You tried to offer him a small smile, but it ultimately fell flat, and the space between his eyebrows shrank even more. 

“Everythin’ okay?” You stood there debating whether to let on about the truth of your day and ultimately decided a head shake would suffice. He closed the distance between the two of you instantly and cradled your head against his shoulder as he held you.

“Whatever it is, just talk to me and we can sort it out.” You pushed against his embrace slightly to look into his eyes. All you saw was raw concern. Maybe they were wrong. 

You swallowed and smiled, something that looked more akin to a wince and took his hand. “C’mon, I’m hungry. It’s been a long day.” 

He nodded, clearly wanting to say more, but followed you inside to the comforting promise of a tasty meal and heaven between your legs. 

You were quiet through dinner, pushing your vegetable soup around your bowl rather than eating it, and Joel took slow bites, trying to determine what was on your mind. As far as he knew, your day was a normal one—filled with picking and deliveries, but that was an everyday schedule for you. He had no idea your world was a little off its axis.

It was killing him not knowing what diluted the smile on your face. Did Tommy say something stupid? He knew he shouldn’t have rhapsodized about ya’ll’s relationship, but when he couldn’t keep the grin from his face, his younger brother demanded to know why he was suddenly at ease in Jackson—and smiling, of all things.

Turns out, all Joel needed was a little Sunshine. 

After another ten minutes of distracted silence from your end, Joel stood and held out a hand for you. Confused, you placed your palm delicately within his and stood slowly. He walked you to the back porch and sat you down, motioning with one finger that he would be right back.

A few minutes later, he returned with a piping cup of tea and honey, a cup of coffee for himself, and, after a second trip inside, his guitar. You sat up straighter as he handed you the tea and looked at the guitar questioningly, “Where did that come from?”

“Had it leanin’ on the porch when you got here. Figured I’d finally play you something. If that’s okay.”

Your face softened. “Of course it is.” You curled up in your chair with your tea as he propped the guitar on his knee. 

He gave you a long look before his fingers started moving across the strings. You leaned a head on your hand, closing your eyes as he began to sing.

Well, mostly talked than sang, but his timbre and tone were enough to lull you into the song. It was earnest more than musical and soothed a part of your soul. Perhaps the specific part that was doubting the two of you in whatever this relationship was blossoming into. His stripped-down version of the tune was so different from the original that it took you an entire verse and chorus to pick out that it was Hello Sunshine by Aretha Franklin.

When the realization hit you, you opened your eyes and beamed at him, only to find him softly smiling at you through the words. You closed your eyes again and sank into the memory of your mom pulling out her old suitcase record player from the eighties and playing this exact LP. This was long before anyone ever called you Sunshine, but the memory was tinged in a golden light. The two of you spinning around, and your father singing along off-key.

When he finished, you cracked open your eyes again and stared at him through a loaded silence. You decided to keep the memory to yourself and let it continue to soothe you as his fingers began to twist across the strings once again, playing scales and ditties. 

You took a long sip of tea before setting your sights on him again. “Play me another?” He just smirked to himself and nodded as he leaned into another tune. This time it was Time in a Bottle by Jim Croce. His voice wouldn’t have won any awards, but it was one of the most beautiful things you’d ever heard. 

After that song ended, he paused and looked at you again. You smiled. “Now, I want you to keep playing for a bit. We’ll finish our tea and coffee, and then we’ll go inside because after hearing you play, I have no intention of sleeping tonight Joel Miller.”

You made the man blush. 

You spent the next hour listening to him as you sipped your tea and he his coffee, which was brewed from a bag you now kept tucked in your kitchen cabinet just for his visits. The outrageous trade requirement was worth it to see him comfortable. As he twiddled his fingers through what sounded like the beginning of While My Guitar Gently Weeps by George Harrison, he placed his guitar on the ground mid-song and walked over to you, crouching down. 

“Everything okay?” He locked eyes with you and nodded, before placing your tea on the deck next to you, leaning in and kissing you breathless. You gasped but cradled his face as your tongues tangled together.

As if it were a simple, everyday gesture, he slid his hands up your legs under the maxi skirt you wore to work, not stopping until his fingers were beneath the flimsy material of your panties, prying your legs apart. 

“Joel! Anyone could see-” He shushed you, smirking like a bastard.

“Not if you keep quiet for me, darlin’.” You blushed and watched as he slid your panties down and lifted the skirt over his head. You barely had time to attempt another chastization before his tongue licked a long, hot stripe across your center.

You almost screamed out, but clamped a hand over your mouth. The man was insatiable.

He alternated between circling your clit with his tongue and moving down to tongue fuck you, letting his prominent nose step in to drive you crazy, nudging your clit as he moved. He growled as you shook beneath him, and the vibrations almost gave you away because you could barely hold it together.

You kept peeking over your fence line to see if anyone was walking by, but luckily, the dusky hour had most people inside enjoying a good meal rather than taking a nightly walk to check to see if two grown adults could barely keep their hands off each other.

You removed your hand from over your mouth, shuddering as you pleaded with him, “Joel, please.” You could almost feel him grin between your legs as he nipped your clit with his teeth and soothed the jerking sensation with his tongue. He again move down to insert his tongue in you but picked up the pace, truly fucking you senseless with just his mouth. 

His hands were now gripping your thighs tightly, unaware of just how wound up he was as you approached your orgasm. It was crazy. Anyone could walk by, and you couldn’t decide if that drove you crazy because it was reckless or made you burn like a furnace, seeing how seemingly mad he was about you.

After you cried out and came on his tongue, he wasted no time helping you up on shaky legs and bridal carrying you into the house. He brought you to the couch and stripped as he nonchalantly stated, “Now, you’re going to ride me darlin’ until neither of us can take anymore.”

How could you refuse a direction like that?

When six in the morning rolled around, you peeled yourself off his sleeping form on the couch and padded to the kitchen to make a cup of tea that you would hopefully finish this time. You placed the water on the stove, grabbed the bag of tea, and absentmindedly stared out the window as you waited for it to boil.

You hadn’t realized Joel woke up until he was standing next to you, shooting you a worried look. “You okay?” 

You jumped and threw a hand over your chest. “Oh my god, you scared me! Yes, yes I’m fine.” He didn’t look too convinced.

He gently pushed you to the side and took over making your tea as you sat down at the kitchen table. You were quiet again, and it didn’t sit right with him.

He said your name softly, causing you to look at him in question. “Please just tell me what’s on your mind. I can tell somethin’s eatin’ you up.” You immediately tried to shake your head, but he raised his hand. “Don’t bullshit me.”

You sighed heavily and simply shook your head. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He waited for you to continue, so you crossed your legs anxiously as he stared at you with those penetrating brown eyes. “It’s nothing really. I’m just having an off-week. Don’t worry about me.” 

You still hadn’t convinced him. He was worried, but if you weren’t going to tell him, he would ask around. 

He held onto his suspicions as the week went on, growing more and more concerned. The only time your mind seemed to be in the room with him was when he was kissing or fucking you. He even snuck into the gardens between patrols to pull you behind the greenhouse for an impromptu makeout session while you rode his leg to see a spark in your eyes, but he knew it couldn’t continue like this. 

By the end of the week, he cornered Tommy after a supply run in the stables. At first, he didn’t know how to approach the subject, but after Tommy eyed him a few times during the awkward silence, he just spit it out. 

“You heard any talk around town? About me and-” Tommy cut him with a dark look, stopping his sentence short. His eyebrows shot up, and he took a step forward. “What is it? She hasn’t been herself for days, and I’m runnin’ in circles trying to figure it out.” 

Tommy let out a loaded sigh and threw his hands up. “No easy way to say this but, people are sayin’ she’s lookin’ like a fool for being with you. Sayin’ you were nothing but ugly to her and she’s takin’ it lying down because you’re sleeping together.”

Joel saw red, and Tommy put his hands out in defense, worried his brother would start swinging. “That ain’t comin’ from me! And trust me, I shut that shit down when I heard it, but it isn’t keepin’ people from whispering.”

Joel could barely speak; he was so angry. “I’m guessin’ she heard it? That’s why she’s been in her head so much?” 

Tommy nodded, and Joel leaned against one of the paddocks to take a deep breath. 

He wanted to punch any person who made your smile disappear, but really, the one he had to blame was himself. He was the reason at the core of it. 

And fuck, if that didn’t kill him.

Next Chapter.

Tag List :) @silksepia @hello-nah817 @longlivetheloneliness @keseqna @millers-girl @treacherqus @lemonboi @spnfic85 @secretlettersfromyourlove @nosebeers

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

Coyote

The car from Hardcastle and McCormick. A few differing origin stories about how and when it was built made it hard to pin down stats. The most common stats attached to it is a custom built tube frame and chassis, a flat six Porsche 2.0 engine and 4 speed transmission. The Franklin Auto Company made the original Coyote 2 seat roadster, 1909-1910, 2 were made. Ford Motor Company attached the name to an engine. And then of course there's the Roadrunner issue.

[spider-stark]

RECKLESS

paring | foggy nelson x reader

summary | statistically speaking, fucking your annoying coworker is never a good idea. but who cares about statistics?

warnings | MDNI 18+, sexual themes & situations, no real plot (just concepts & vibes bb), your yearly reminder that i can't write smut, not edited we die like foggy in dd:ba (fuck that show)

word count | 660+

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

“Holy shit, holy shit, holy–”  

“Foggy!” Your voice was sharp. His face—cheeks tinted rosy pink—was so close to yours that, with the slightest movement, your noses were at risk of bumping together. “Stop. Talking.”  

His breathing was erratic. His gaze flitted between your eyes and your lips, as if unsure of where to look. “Sorry.” A second of quiet, and then: “It’s just—are we doing this? Like, actually doing this?”  

You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to kill him.  

You wanted him to shut up and to never stop talking ever again.  

“Foggy?”  

“Yes?”  

“I mean this in the nicest way,” you told him, though your tone indicated otherwise, “but don’t you think now is a little too late to be asking that?”  

Your skirt was pushed up to your goddamn waist. Whatever skin wasn’t covered by the thin fabric of your panties was pressed to the smooth, cool varnish of his desk. His palms pressed flat against the side of your thighs, fingers occasionally flexing with the urge to squeeze, held back by a most infuriating sense of restraint. 

His hips were wedged between your legs. Even through the barriers that separated you—his slacks, your panties—you could still feel him pressing against your core.  

Hard.  

Thick.  

“Well, you know what they say.” He gave a little shrug, nervous and adorable. “No time like the present, amirite?”  

You couldn’t agree less.  

But this was what Foggy was good at, wasn’t it? Pushing your buttons, getting under your skin. The two of you were opposites. Oil and water, yin and yang. If you said down, he said up, if you said red, he said green.  

And if you said Let’s Fuck, Foggy Nelson was for sure the type of guy to look you dead in the eyes and say: Actually?  

“Franklin–” his nose scrunched at the use of his real name “–I can feel every inch of your dick pressing against my–”  

His grin widened. “How are you feeling about that by the way?”  

You sucked an agitated breath through your nostrils.

“Presently? Not so good, Franklin.” Your glare bored right through the soul of him, menacing as it was in any courtroom as you stressed, “Not. So. Good.”  

You hated this.  

You hated him.  

Just minutes ago, the two of you had been at each other’s throats—a common occurrence during late nights at the office. The catalyst had been stupid. For tomorrow’s opening statement, you wanted to present the teenaged client as wholly innocent. But Foggy—stupid, stupid Foggy!—wanted to paint them as misguided youth. That way, he argued, if the plaintiff brought forth enough evidence to prove the client guilty (which, to be fair, they definitely were), then the jury might still take pity on them if it seemed they’d been failed by a larger system.  

It was risky. Reckless. No better than a blatant admission of guilt, really.  

And that was exactly the point you’d been trying to make—your finger jabbing against his chest, his jaw clenched with frustration—when, suddenly, the Earth shifted on its axis and his lips crashed against yours.  

As a lawyer, you prided yourself on being a person of extreme logic.  

Facts and figures, reason over impulse. You valued sense. Statistics. You never made a move without ensuring that success was not only possible, but probable.  

And workplace relationships? Ugh…  

Let’s just say the numbers weren’t in your favor on that one.  

“Foggy,” you raked your fingers through his soft blonde locks. Tugged, relishing in the way his eyelids fluttered shut, plush lips parting with a sweet, almost whimpering, sound. “I’m only going to tell you this one more time.” Your voice was low, firm. “Stop talking and start fucking. Got it?”  

He was already nodding, already fumbling for his pants, before the last word had even left your tongue. “Yes ma’am,” he choked out, so dutiful and submissive that you forgot all about facts and figures, reason over impulse.  

Fuck statistics.  

You were doing this.  

Definitely, definitely doing this.

a/n - god. if i knew how to write smut? i'd love to continue this. such a fun concept (in my opinion). anyways, hope you all enjoyed this little short piece about the most precious human to ever live (count your days, born again).

as always, could be ooc, but I do my best so cut me some slack lmao

[joelssimp]

STILL | CHAPTER 18

CW: alternating pov, food and drink consumption, smut (MDIN) use of spanish the way is supposed to be used, fingering, little overstimulation blinkandyoullmissit, unprotected p-in-v, creampie birthcontroldoyourmagic. Soft Pedro, and fluff.

6.1K words

previous chapter | masterlist | next chapter

18 - Sweet Spanish

I didn’t want to leave his apartment.

Not because it was some five-star place—it wasn’t. It was just warm, familiar, smelled like his shampoo and the cinnamon/apple tea he kept buying for me even though I never asked. And it felt safe. Or maybe he felt safe. But the minute Franklin showed up on set with his perfectly timed power play, I knew I had to give Pedro space to deal with whatever storm was brewing on his end.

And now, here I was. Key in the door, gear bag slung across my aching shoulder, box with my new lens tucked like a fragile secret under my arm.

Right back at the flat I share with Kate.

I took a breath before opening the door.

The light in the kitchen was on, soft and yellow. It smelled like microwave popcorn and lavender oil, the kind she uses when she wants the good sleep. Kate was at the counter, hunched over her laptop, hoodie pulled over her head. When I stepped in, she glanced up but didn’t say anything.

I shut the door quietly and crossed to the hallway. My bedroom was only a few steps away, but even the floorboards sounded louder than usual, announcing how awkward our interactions have been lately.

“You haven’t been around much,” Kate said, not looking up.

I stopped, turning halfway to face her. “Yeah. I crashed at Pedro’s for the week, it’s closest to the studio.”

There was a pause… Just long enough to sharpen the silence between us.

“Right. I’m going to…”

I let the word hang for a second before heading into my room. The door clicked shut behind me, and I exhaled through my nose like I’d been holding my breath the entire way back home.

The lens box felt heavier now.

Not physically, but in meaning, and in the way he saw me. The feeling was new, being taken care of was never easy when it comes to me. And maybe it wasn’t even my fault to begin with. It was the way I had to grow up, the way I knew Matt was the older one by minutes, but I was the one taking care of him. 

I placed the box on my desk like it might burn me. Because I knew what Kate saw on set: Pedro giving me something beautiful, expensive and personal. And she didn’t know what it had cost me to accept it. She didn’t know what I had given up—my savings, my plans, the future version of me that dreamed in gallery walls and portfolios—a version that longed for a brother who still hadn’t opened his eyes as himself to the world again.

I sat on the bed, kicked off my shoes.

Through the wall, I could hear Kate’s keyboard. Clicking even faster now.

We hadn’t talked since the morning where she threw a jab with her own words and I hadn’t quite caught it, just threw one right back without thinking. A sharp exchange that felt wrong.

I missed the ease we had in the beginning of all of this. The way she made me laugh when I was homesick, or the nights answering emails and editing pictures over a bottle of wine… That instant bond that felt like it was made of steel and shared ambition of two photographers with dreams big enough to fill up the empty spaces.

But now, it felt like we were orbiting the same place on different planets.

Later, when I went to get a glass of water, she was still there. Same position and that same energy.

“You gonna show it to me?” she asked, not looking up.

I blinked. “Show what?”

“The lens. Pedro’s gift. 15-35mm right? That shit is expansive as hell…”

I leaned against the fridge, the cool of the handle grounding me.

“It’s not… It wasn’t planned. I wasn’t expecting it.”

“I’m sure,” she said, and the sarcasm was so faint I almost missed it. “He must really like you.”

My stomach twisted. “Kate—”

“I mean,” she continued, finally glancing up, “I guess that’s what happens when you sleep in the boss’s bed. You get upgraded gear.”

It landed like a slap.

I stared at her, stunned into silence for a second. Then I straightened. “You don’t know anything about what’s going on.”

“I know enough,” she shot back, eyes hard. “And it’s not just about you anymore, is it? You’ve got Franklin sniffing around set, Bella acting weird, Pedro distracted—”

I cut her off. “My brother relapsed in a fucking hospital.”

That shut her up.

“My savings? The ones I had for the lens? They’re gone. I gave them up so Matt could move into a place where he might actually get better. So yeah, Pedro bought me a lens. But only because I gave up everything I had to help someone who wouldn’t survive without me.”

The silence that followed spoke louder than anything she could ever say. The kind that pressed against your ribs and made it hard to breathe through the fact that she just pointed out that she thought I was sleeping with him to get something in return.

Kate looked away. Embarrassed, and even a little guilty.

“I didn’t know,” she muttered.

“No. You didn’t. Because you didn’t fucking ask.”

I left the glass of water on the counter and went back to my room. Couldn’t look at her anymore, my heart thudding loudly inside my chest, hands sweating like crazy. I hate this, all of it.

Outside my window, the sky was starting to shift—dark blue giving way to the palest edge of morning. The end of night shoots meant daylight again and maybe a new rhythm.

I didn’t change out of my clothes.

Didn’t brush my teeth. Didn’t even bother to pull the curtains shut.

I just let the weight of everything — the lens, Kate’s eyes on me, Matt’s silence on the other end of the country, Franklin showing up — drag me beneath the duvet like I was disappearing into the ocean floor. Cold sheets, one pillow, blackout brain. Sleep took me the way a wave takes driftwood: no fight left in the wood, just surrender.

I don’t know how long I was out. I drifted in and out a few times, heat sticking to my back, breath caught in my throat. The first time I woke up to the sound of some light rain, sun was still out in a golden glow, maybe late afternoon? I drifted. Then again, woke up to a dream I couldn’t quite keep hold of, something heavy but not important enough for my brain to hold on to, it was dark outside, my vision was blurry. I drifted again. And for the last time waking up, it was because of my stomach growling like it had been empty for days.

I didn’t fucking care.

It was the first two full days off work after the night shoots ended, and my body felt like it had given up. Like it didn’t want to be here unless it was behind a camera or in Pedro’s arms. Nothing in between made sense.

I must’ve slept nearly twenty-three hours when the ringtone echoed off my nightstand. It felt like a bolt of electricity in the dark room. I groaned, dragged my hand across the mattress, and blinked blearily at the screen.

Pedro P.

My stomach flipped. Two more rings, and I accepted the call.

"Hi," I croaked. My voice sounded like gravel.

“Hey, baby,” he said softly, his voice still thick with sleep too. “You okay?”

The knot in my chest loosened just from hearing him again.

“I’m… I’m just tired,” I whispered.

“Yeah, Mandy said she texted and didn’t hear back. Your dad called too, I’m just checking in. You ghosted the whole world, cariño.”

I smiled a little looking up to my ceiling. “Didn’t mean to.”

“You’re allowed to,” he said. “I just… I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone in the dark with it all.”

I could feel his warmth through the phone. Like he was right there, in the room with me, his thumb brushing my cheek instead of the screen. That made my chest tight, and I had to close my eyes.

“I didn’t want to talk to anyone.”

“I’m not anyone,” he said, quietly.

I opened my eyes with that. “I know.”

There was silence for a few seconds. He was measuring his words carefully. Caring in a way he knew how to.

“Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“Water?”

I shook my head, then remembered he couldn’t see me. “No.” It came out low.

“Okay. Can you do something for me?”

I hummed in response.

“Go brush your teeth. Wash your face. Drink a full glass of water. And then, if you want, you can go right back to bed. I just need to know you’re not disappearing completely.”

The lump in my throat was too real now.

“I already fucking miss you,” I said, quieter than I meant to.

“I miss you too. So much.” A pause. “I’ll come by tonight, if that’s okay. Or I can pick you up, take you back to my place.”

“No,” I said quickly. “Let me come to you.”

Another pause.

“Okay,” he agreed. “Late afternoon?”

“Yeah. I’ll be better by then.”

“You don’t have to be better,” he murmured. “You just have to show up. I’ll take care of the rest.”

That quiet promise made it all worth it for me. We stayed on the line just a few more seconds before he said goodbye.

My body was heavy, I sat up in bed, dizzy from the sudden movement, like my brain forgot how to function with gravity again. I had to take a moment to just adjust.

But I got up.

I brushed my teeth, washed my face, drank a glass of cold water from the tap.

Kate and her judgement stare were still asleep in her room. I made some breakfast and went back to my room to work on some of yesterday’s pictures.

Franklin waited just long enough to make it feel like a trap.

He didn’t come in hot. Didn’t shout or wave his arms or do the usual agent dramatics. No, he just stood there for a second, hands in the pockets of his tailored pants, looking between me and her like he was watching a car crash in slow motion.

And I saw it. That flicker, the disapproval was like a goddamn reflex.

So I kept my arm around her a little longer.

Let her smile, let her hug me again for the lens, let her go off a minute later with that look in her eyes that made me forget the talk I need to have to set on my own boundaries. And when she disappeared behind the trailers, I turned to him.

“Let’s take a walk,” I said.

We didn’t go far. Just enough to get out of earshot, out of line of crew sight.

He didn’t waste time.

“You know this isn’t a good idea.”

I folded my arms, stared out toward the empty parking lot. “I’m not interested in what’s a ‘good idea’ to you, Frank.”

“You really want to do this right now?”

“Seems like you do.”

He scoffed. “Look, I’m not here to police your personal life, Pedro, but this — this is messy. She works on the same set and she’s way too young—”

“Don’t.” I turned to face him fully. “Don’t give me the script. I’ve heard it. I’m older, she’s on crew, it’s unprofessional, it could look bad… Blah blah fucking blah.”

“You’re not seeing the bigger picture—”

“No, Franklin. You’re the one here not seeing the bigger picture.” My voice came out low, but firm. “Because the only people whose approval I give a damn about when it comes to who I love? My family. My people. And guess what? They’ve met her. They’ve seen us together. And they’re all in.”

He looked like he’d swallowed something sour and I kept going.

“Lux said she hasn’t seen me like this in years. Bruno and Pedro adore her, Bruno is even taking photography classes because of her, and my mom—” My chest tightened, that ache slipping in. “Javi said our mom would’ve loved her.”

Silence.

“You’re thinking about press, headlines, and all the fucking narrative.” I took a step closer to him, not a threat, just a warning. “I’m thinking about the girl who gave up her savings to save her brother’s life when he needed her the most. The same girl who falls asleep with her camera next to the bed because she doesn’t know how to exist without seeing beauty in everyone. That’s who I’m talking about.”

Franklin exhaled slowly. “And what about when it goes south?”

“Then I’ll deal with it like an adult,” I said. “But right now? I’m not giving this up. You got me?”

He studied me for a moment. His eyes were sharp, mouth in a straight line, and then, finally:

“You really are in it.”

I nodded.

“Don’t let this get messy, keep it clean, keep it out of the frame. In the quiet, and if she truly likes you, then she’ll understand.”

I didn’t promise anything. Just turned, already pulling out my phone. Already missing her.

Because I knew she’d be gone to her place this morning, back to face Kate’s cold stares, and back to a place that it’s not my arms.

And I didn’t want the space. So the next morning I called to check on her, after too many worried messages from Mandy. She was deep in a wrong darkness that was slowly trying to catch up to her, so I offered to go to her or to pick her up.

There was a plan: An easy night at my place. Food and good company.

I lit up a candle. Not because I’m fancy — I just knew she liked the smell of apples and a little cinnamon, so I found one on sale that morning when I ran to get fresh bread.

And garlic. She said garlic makes a place feel alive, so I chopped way more than necessary. My fingers reeked and I didn’t care. The pasta was boiling, sauce ready, and Bella was on their way down with a bottle of something red that someone from the crew recommended. I didn’t catch the name — just nodded and told her, “Bring it. We’re drinking like artists tonight.”

I kept checking the clock. She was supposed to come by around six. I told her earlier, “Don’t overthink it. Just come. Let yourself be taken care of for a night.”

And I think she really needed that. I think she needed not to plan. Just walk into a space and be wanted there.

I hear the knocking five minutes early.

She always knocked. Never let herself in, even after all this time.

I opened the door and she was already smiling at me — hoodie sleeves pulled over on one of her hands, hair kinda messy from the wind outside, and a just little color back in her cheeks.

“Hey,” I said, grinning just from looking at her.

“Hi.” Her voice was quiet, eyes scanning behind me. “Smells like… something’s burning?”

“Shit—no. No, that’s just the bread. Hold on.”

She laughed, kicked her shoes off and followed me into the kitchen, where I dramatically fanned smoke out of the oven, and took the garlic bread out, just a little burnt.

“Real chef behavior,” she teased, hopping up on the counter like she lived there.

I couldn’t help it. I stepped between her knees and kissed her, slow. Mouths parting just enough so I could slip my tongue inside hers for a little moment, tasting her sweet mouth on mine one more time, like we got all the time in the world.

“Hi,” I said again against her lips.

She whispered it back.

When Bella showed up ten minutes later, they found us dancing like idiots to whatever old reggaetón playlist I had playing.

“Oh my god,” Bella groaned, walking into the apartment with a wine bottle in their hand. “Am I third-wheeling this domestic fantasy again?”

“You were invited,” I called over the music. “Which makes you our responsibility now. It’s like you’re our child.”

“You love me,” They replied, deadpan, already heading toward the kitchen like they lived there too.

Both of them got along like really good friends. It wasn’t slow, seemed like something about them just clicked.

Dinner was good. I mean, the pasta was probably overcooked, but she made all the right noises. Bella rolled her eyes but went in for seconds. The three of us crowded around my tiny table with legs that still squeaked, lit by that one flickering candle I forgot to trim.

“Do you remember the sound of the guy who dropped the boom mic on day two?” Bella asked, mouth full of garlic bread.

“Oh my god,” she groaned. “Like a dying goat and a drunk chicken had a baby.”

I laughed so hard I almost snorted wine.

And that’s when she said it.

She leaned her cheek into her hand, looked across the table at Bella — squinting at her with pretend judgment — and said, “Mira esta… little puta.”

Bella choked on her wine.

I blinked.

She just grinned. Proud, the pronunciation was just too right, I could tell she’s been practicing.

“You did not just call them that,” I said, pretending to be scandalized by it, but the truth was: I was amazed.

“Lux has been teaching me a little,” she shrugged “and that was the first thing I remembered.”

Bella looked between us, delighted. “What does that fucking mean?”

“Okay, well—” I started, shaking my head. “Great. Now my girlfriend is fluent in spanish insults.”

She leaned forward, eyes dancing. “Not just insults. I’m getting better at all of it. Soon I’ll be able to tell you off and seduce you in Spanish.”

Bella held up their wine glass like she was toasting a national holiday. “To whatever the fuck that was.”

I tapped my glass against both of theirs. “To the most dangerous trio of little putas in Alberta.”

That brought a real laugh. And she laughed so hard, she nearly fell off her chair.

The rest of the night passed us by in a simple warmth I hadn’t felt in a while — The low hum of leftover music, the warmth of food, good and funny company, and safety. No talk of agents, or money, or jealous best friends, or even brothers in hospitals. Just full bellies and flushed cheeks and maybe too many half-finished wine glasses scattered on the counter.

I locked the door after Bella left, turned the music down low, and came back to find her in my kitchen, rinsing the wine glasses from our dinner. Her sleeves were rolled up, shoulders a little more relaxed than from when she came in, and there was something about the way she moved — like she could finally exhale.

I leaned on the doorframe, watching her with that soft buzz in my chest that only she could bring out in me.

“You always clean up after seducing your man with your Spanish?” I teased, and she didn’t turn around, but I could feel her smile.

“I’ve been taking lessons from Lux now and then. Her Spanish is way better than anyone I’ve seen”

“And she taught you that little puta is like a love language?”

She laughed, glancing back at me over her shoulder. “I used it correctly, didn’t I?”

I walked up behind her, wrapped my arms around her waist, and pressed my mouth to the shell of her ear. “Very correctly,” I murmured. “And dangerously cute.”

“Dangerously?” she breathed.

I nodded, kissing down the line of her neck, slow and warm. “Eres tan hermosa que me olvido cómo hablar inglés.”

She froze, and I could feel her smile. “That sounded... intimate.”

I turned her around, her back against the counter now, her hands still wet from the sink. “It means,” I said softly, brushing some of her hair back around her left ear, “you’re so beautiful, I forget how to speak English.”

Her eyes searched mine, with that little spark again.

“Oh,” she whispered.

I dipped down and kissed her — soft, just for a second — then leaned back and whispered against her lips, “Ven a la cama conmigo.”

Her brows arched, impressed. “I understood that one.”

“Yeah?” I asked, brushing my knuckles along her jaw.

“You just asked me to go to bed with you, right?”

I grinned. “Correct again.”

She pulled away, slow, biting her lip, got off my grip and walked backward toward the bedroom. “Well then,” she said, lifting a brow, “you better show me what else you know how to say.”

I followed her like I was bewitched.

She pulled her hoodie off, and left it on the chair. My shirt followed. We were slowly stripping down our own clothes until we were in my bedroom and then the lights were low, the sheets cool, her skin warm under my hands. Her laughter melted into soft gasps as I kissed down her stomach, letting Spanish fall out of me like I’d never forgotten how to speak it.

“Quiero saborearte,” I whispered, and she shivered. “Cada parte de ti. Cada centímetro.”

“Say it again,” she breathed, nails dragging gently over my shoulders.

I obeyed, slower this time. She didn’t understand, but caught the meaning in my eyes even if the words came too fast. And when I came back up to kiss her — all tongue, teeth and full of want — she whispered back as soon as we stopped to take a breath:

“Soy tuya, Pedro.”

I paused.

She blinked up at me, cheeks flushed, lips puffy and parted.

“Where’d you learn that one?”

She smiled. “I have my secrets.”

“Mi amor,” I groaned again, eyes closed and my forehead resting against her shoulder. “I’m so fucked.”

She laughed under her breath, her hands still tangled in my hair. “I know what mi amor means.”

I smiled, lifted my head but my eyes were still closed for another second, just trying to restrain myself — her heartbeat was against my chest, her scent all around me, the heat radiating from her skin against mine. She was real, right here, under my body.

I was slowly pulling her out of the darkness, and proud to be able to do so.

My head went back a little more, eyes open this time, just enough to look at her. “Say it again,” I murmured. “I like how it sounds coming from that mouth of yours.”

“Mi amor,” she whispered, testing the shape of it on her tongue.

I kissed her hard for that alone. Then I said quietly, “It’s not just a phrase for me.”

She blinked at me, something soft stirring in her eyes.

Her hand slid along my jaw, fingertips slow. “Then what else are you saying when you say it like that?”

I exhaled, letting my thumb trace her cheekbone.

“That you’re mine,” I said in a whisper. “That I care more than I know how to explain. That I’d break every rule I’ve ever followed just to keep you close.”

She didn’t look away. “What was the other thing? Right before mi amor.”

I chuckled. “I said I’m so fucked.”

She grinned. “That part I understood.”

But then her voice dipped, quieter now. “What else do you say when you lose yourself like that? I want to know. Teach me.”

I swallowed hard — she had no idea what she was doing to me.

“You sure?” I asked, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead.

She nodded. “Tell me what it means when you say things like... like before. Like quiero saborearte.”

My breath caught.

She smiled, a little crooked, and a little mischievous. “I remember how you said it.”

I looked down at her — flushed cheeks, swollen lips, eyes full of fire and affection — and nodded.

“It means,” I said slowly, brushing my lips along her collarbone, “I want to taste you.”

“Oh,” she breathed deep.

“Cada parte de ti.” I kissed the curve of her shoulder so slowly. “Every part of you.”

She swallowed, fingers tightening on my back.

“Cada centímetro.” My mouth grazed her skin again, a little lower. “Every inch.”

“Pedro…”

Her voice cracked, and I felt her pull me in. Her hips shifted beneath mine, slow and needy. We were already so close, already so wrapped in each other, but the way she looked at me in that moment — eyes wide, heart open — I had to keep going.

“Tú me vuelves loco,” I whispered against her belly.

She looked down at me. “Say that again.”

“Tú me vuelves loco.” My voice was hoarse now. “You drive me crazy.”

I left open mouth kisses in every inch of her skin, watching how her breath hitched with every single touch, and going even more down with all of it. Even left little bites here and there.

“Quiero hacerte el amor,” I said, going back all the way up to her lips for another kiss.

Her hands froze on my back.

“What does that mean?” she whispered.

I took my time answering — kissed the corner of her mouth, her jaw, her pulse point.

“It means… I want to make love to you.”

She pulled back just a little — enough to look at me. Enough to see that I meant it, meant every part of it.

“Not just fuck?” she asked, teasing but also testing me.

“Not this time,” I shook my head. “Not just that. Not anymore.”

Her eyes softened, then turned molten. “Then do it,” she said. “Show me.”

Something about the way she said it — no fear, just quiet challenge wrapped in trust and lust — hit me low and hard.

I didn’t answer her with words. Not yet. I only nodded, and kissed her.

Slowly.

Deeply.

Like it was the last kiss I’d ever get, or maybe the first one that truly mattered in our relationship.

She parted her legs beneath me — no hesitation, just this soft, aching surrender that made my chest feel like it might break in half.

This wasn’t about need anymore, or heat, or any of the things we’d already indulged in over the last few days. This was different.

I wanted to worship her.

Her skin, her voice, the way her fingers curled against my shoulder as I kissed the edge of her breast like I’d never tasted anything better. 

“Tan hermosa” I said, dropping my mouth against one of her nipples. Her back arched into me.

My tongue circled it slowly at first, and I felt it coming alive inside my mouth. She moaned my name and my hand found the other one. The tip of her nipple in between my thumb and my index finger, I rolled it more than once. Her hands found their way up my neck into my hair.

I sucked, nibbled a little, and licked. Her hips rolling against my tight making me growl against her skin.

“Just like that” She said breathless.

I was painfully hard, and she could feel it with every roll of her body. Her right hand left the base of my neck, and came all the way down to feel me a little more. I gasped when she cupped and made the perfect pressure.

“Is this because of me?” She asked, trying to sound innocent, and I just nodded.

Told her she was beautiful — not in some throwaway compliment, but like I meant it. Because I did. God, I did. I’d never wanted someone like this. It was an overpowering feeling.

Every sigh that slipped from her lips felt like it belonged to me.

Every soft curse, every plea, the way she said my name like it was the only thing she could remember in all of this — all of it only made me want to give her more.

I moved down slow, steady — like the world had narrowed down to just this room, this bed, this moment.

My mission was to make her come at least once before I could think of myself. So I hooked my fingers on her underwear, slipped it down and went to work on giving her the best orgasm she could have.

She was dripping. I slipped two fingers against her folds and they came out soaked.

We locked eyes and I slowly sank two fingers right inside her tight and warm hole. She was already clenching when I started to fuck her with those two fingers, applying just the right pressure to her clit with my thumb.

“Voy a destrozarte” I said low, nuzzling just below her ear “Gonna wreck you, Cariño” She gasped — a sharp, guttural sound — as my fingers worked her open, slow but relentless. One hand fisted the sheets, white-knuckled, the other tangled in my hair like she needed to anchor herself to something real.

“Sí,” she moaned, breath catching on the edge of it.

God, that sound — that one word — went straight through me. I curled my fingers just right, found that spongy place inside of her and her whole body arched, hips bucking, thighs trembling around my wrist.

“Say that again,” I growled, low and hungry, watching her fall apart.

And she did — barely coherent now, that sí spilling from her lips in broken rhythm, each one softer, wetter, more desperate than the last. My name came next, raw and unguarded, dragged from somewhere deep inside her, and each one in a higher pitch than the last.

It was more like a plea as I continued fucking her with my fingers, hitting the same spot over and dragging that orgasm as long as I could.

I only stopped when she was writhing, crying out, her legs shaking around my forearm and her hand trying to reach for mine as she shattered, undone and so damn perfect.

She collapsed beneath me, breath hitching, body still twitching with the aftershocks. I didn’t move — just leaned in, pressing the side of my face against hers, my lips brushing the curve of her cheekbone as she trembled.

“Tan jodidamente perfecta,” I whispered, my voice hoarse in her ear. “So fucking perfect.”

She whimpered — soft, helpless — and I felt her smile through it, a little too gone to come back.

I kissed her temple, went down to her jaw, let my nose skim along her cheek as I whispered again, slower this time.

“Siento todo de ti. I feel everything.”

She turned her head toward me, found my mouth with hers — barely a kiss, more like breathing the same air together. Her fingers slipped into my hair, tugging gently, grounding herself.

“Pedro,” she breathed. Just that. Just my name.

I eased my hand from between her thighs, kissed the damp skin of her neck, her shoulder, her collarbone, savoring the quiet shudders still moving through her.

“Estoy aquí,” I murmured. “Contigo. Dentro de ti. Pronto.” (I’m here. With you. Inside you. Soon.)

Then I lifted my head, let her see everything on my face as I moved over her, slow and certain.

Because there was no going back. Not after all of this.

And when I finally sank into her, she gasped my name like she was feeling it for the first time — like it didn’t belong to me anymore. I stilled, buried to the hilt, both hands gripping her hips as she fluttered around me, all heat and heartbeat and barely-contained sound.

I stayed there, deep, still, letting her body take me in, inch by inch, like we had all the time in the world. Because if I move too fast, there’s no way in hell I’m lasting.

Her eyes didn’t leave mine. They burned into me, wide, open and glassy. Daring me to move while I was buried so goddamn deep I could barely breathe.

She didn’t move — not right away. She just clenched around me, slow and deliberate, and I had to close my eyes for a second to stay grounded.

“Fuck...” I groaned, jaw clenched tight. “Just, wait—fuck baby” 

She smiled — just a flicker. A quiet fuck-you kind of smile, and then her hips rolled up, meeting mine like a challenge.

“I’ve got you,” I whispered slowing my heart just enough so I could fuck her properly. “I’ve got you, mi amor.”

And then we moved.

There was nothing gentle about the way she pulled me in. Nails dragging down my back, thighs locking hard around my waist like she needed me deeper, closer, until our bodies stopped being separate things.

We found a rhythm — unhurried but relentless. That push and drag, skin to skin, every thrust pressing a sound out of her I wanted to memorize.

I swore under my breath — all in Spanish now — things I’d never said out loud to anyone before. Things I didn’t even know I felt until her body gave them permission.

“Hermosa… preciosa… mi vida… mírame, no pares…” (Beautiful... precious... my life... look at me, don't stop)

Halfway through, her mouth crushed into mine — not a kiss so much as a claim. Teeth, tongue and breath — all of it shared. All of it messy, hot and all ours.

I was lost in my own feeling and her body clenched around me so tight, sudden and sharp — a tremor I felt all the way through my spine. She gasped my name again, but this time it was broken — like it came straight from the part of her brain that didn’t have words anymore.

And I followed, helpless against it. Buried deep, mouth open on her shoulder, a groan ripped from somewhere low, rough and so honest. My body was shivering, and pumping her so full, I felt her third and short orgasm be triggered with my cum.

It was more like a silent surrender on her part, and she was done. So done, she couldn’t move properly.

So we didn’t move too much.

Her fingers threaded into my hair. My arms were locked around her like instinct. We stayed like that — no shift, no reach for the covers, no need to say anything. Just the sound of us catching our breath and slowing our heart rate down to an acceptable rhythm.

My body fell by her side, my — now soft— dick slipped free, and we just stayed.

I didn’t ask if she was okay, not like I had to, she was floating on my bed. Her hand moved lazily across my ribs, drawing shapes she wasn’t thinking about. Her face stayed tucked under my jaw, lips parted against my throat. I could feel the heat of every exhale.

I ran a hand up her spine — slow, gentle. Felt the last of her shivers melt into stillness.

I’d had sex before. More times than I could count. Intimacy, even. But this wasn’t about any of that. This was... intense, and it felt like staying and not pulling away. 

I breathed her in — her skin, her hair, that stubborn soap she carries everywhere in her camera bag. The smell of her was already a memory. Already my memory to keep.

She shifted, barely. Just enough to rest more of herself on top of me and to put her legs in between mine. A sigh slipped out of her, like her body had finally relaxed enough to stay unguarded.

Then I felt her smile against my skin — the soft curve of it against my neck — and I knew she was still awake. Or at least trying not to fall asleep.

“You realize what you did to me back there?” I murmured, voice still low and lazy, and mind still half-drunk on her.

She didn’t answer — not out loud. Just nuzzled in closer, smug as hell.

“That Spanish?” I said, brushing my lips against her hair. “The sí, the way you said my name, like you’d been practicing how to ruin me?”

Her laugh was a warm breath on my chest. Quiet and dangerous.

“I’m serious,” I said, feigning offense. “You knew what you were doing.”

“Lux is a very patient teacher.”

“Yeah, well—” I leaned in, kissing just under her ear, the same place I’d started earlier. “Whatever she taught you? It worked.” I bit down, gently. “You wrecked me.”

She shivered — pleased, smug, so soft I wanted to start all over again just to watch her unravel.

“I should call her,” I said, mock-serious. “Tell her she’s banned from teaching you anything else.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“No?” I brushed my lips against hers, slow. “She keeps giving you vocabulary like that, I won’t survive another week.”

She smiled against my mouth. “Then you better keep up, mi amor.”

I groaned, pulling her tighter. “God help me,” I muttered. “I’m so fucked.”

[ltjwfairholme]

What a 55″ Rifle Tells Us About the Height of Fairholme’s Brother

As my first post here, I wanted to share a small piece of research from my long-running interest in James Walter Fairholme and the Franklin Expedition.

In these two 19th-century studio portraits, we see Fairholme’s older brother William, confirmed through family identification. In the right image, he is standing beside a Pattern 1853 Enfield rifle-musket — a weapon with a known length of 55 inches (139.7 cm).

The rifle rests flat on the ground and reaches to about mid-chest, which typically corresponds to ~72% of adult male height.

So by proportion:

139.7 ÷ 0.72 = 194 cm (~6′4″)

That would make Fairholme’s brother exceptionally tall for the time — and it directly supports this earlier Tumblr post that estimated James himself was very tall, based on how the sleeves of a shared coat fit him compared to James Fitzjames. Huge credit and thanks to @cockroachesunite for that brilliant piece of visual analysis — it inspired me to look closer at the portrait and rifle.

With both the coat sleeve comparison and this rifle-based scaling pointing to similar results, we can say with confidence:

The Fairholmes were a remarkably tall family.

[averalia]

Between The Lines

Pairing: Franklin Saint x Reader

(Fem! reader/Petite reader)

Summary: While Franklin is out handling business, you decide to run a few errands, a seemingly simple act that quickly escalates into a dangerous encounter, forcing you to confront the harsh realities of his world and the precariousness of your connection to him.

Warnings: Violence, slight cussing, Emotional distress, mature themes, brief mention of drugs. One Shot!

Blue = Internal Monologue

A/N: how. This is my first time posting fanfiction, so please be kind!

The late afternoon sun bled across the sky, painting the familiar streets of South Central in hues of bruised orange and purple. It should have felt like home, but lately, everything felt…off. A nervous flutter tickled my stomach, a familiar ache that always settled in when Franklin was gone.

He’d disappeared again, vanished into the intricate, dangerous world he inhabited, leaving me with that hollow feeling and a task he'd specifically told me to avoid. Stay low, his voice had rumbled against my skin, a warning and a promise all at once. But sometimes, staying low felt impossible.

Sometimes, the need to feel close to him, to his world, was stronger than the fear. I gripped the envelope tighter, the paper whispering between my fingers. It wasn't just about the errand. It was about him. It was about the way he looked at me, like I was both his safe harbor and his greatest weakness. And maybe, just maybe, I was both.

I glanced over my shoulder. The setting sun glinted off the chrome bumper of a car parked across the street. Just shadows. Just shadows, I told myself, a flimsy reassurance against the prickling unease that crept up my spine.

Franklin's absence always amplified my anxiety. He was a force of nature, a whirlwind of charisma and barely-contained ruthlessness, and without him, I felt adrift, vulnerable. Like a kite without its string, tossed about in a sky threatening to turn stormy.

This simple errand, a favor for Mr. Johnson, felt like a reckless step closer to the darkness that clung to Franklin like a second skin.

The corner store was just ahead, a beacon of normalcy in the growing twilight. Mr. Johnson, a kind old man with eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled, would be waiting for the delivery.

It was a small thing, a way to help him out. Franklin wouldn't approve. He'd been clear – no favors, no entanglements. But Mr. Johnson had always been a quiet source of comfort, a reminder of the warmth that still existed in this harsh corner of the world.

I pushed open the door, the cheerful jingle of the bell a jarring contrast to the tension in my chest. Mr. Johnson’s face lit up when he saw me.

“Y/N! You’re a lifesaver, darlin’. I was starting to get worried.”

“No problem, Mr. Johnson,” I replied, forcing a smile. “Just a little something for you.”

I handed him the envelope, and his smile widened. “You’re a good girl, Y/N. Franklin’s lucky to have you.”

His words, meant as a compliment, sent a chill down my spine. Lucky. Was I lucky? Or was I just… a loose end?

I gathered my groceries – milk, bread, a few other things – and stepped back out into the gathering darkness. The streetlights flickered to life, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to mock me.

As I reached my car, a dark sedan slid to a stop beside me. Two men emerged, their faces hard and unreadable. My heart lurched against my ribs. This wasn’t good.

“Y/N,” one of them said, his voice flat and menacing. “We know who you are.”

My breath hitched. They knew. They knew about Franklin. And that meant I was in serious trouble.

“We know you’re Franklin’s girl,” the other one added, his eyes raking over me with a predatory gleam.

My blood ran cold.

“He’s not here,” I said, trying to sound braver than I felt. “He’s… out of town.”

“That’s what we heard,” the first one said, taking a step closer. “Makes things… easier.”

Easier. The word echoed in my mind, a chilling premonition. Easier to get to me. Easier to send a message to Franklin.

“We just want to talk,” the second one said, but his eyes screamed otherwise.

I knew what they wanted to talk about. Franklin. His business. The money.

I clutched my grocery bag tighter, a pathetic attempt to shield myself. “I don’t know anything,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

One of them grabbed my arm, his grip like a vise. My groceries tumbled to the ground, the carton of milk exploding in a white, spreading stain.

“Don’t play games,” he snarled. “We know you know.”

He shoved me against my car, the impact knocking the air from my lungs. My head slammed against the metal, a jolt of pain shooting through my skull.

“Where is it?” he demanded.

“I… I don’t know,” I stammered, tears stinging my eyes.

He hit me, the force of it sending my head reeling. My lip split, and I tasted blood. The world tilted and blurred.

The world swam before my eyes. The metallic tang of blood filled my mouth, a taste I knew all too well. He hit me again, a brutal slap that sent me sprawling onto the cracked pavement. My head smacked against the ground, and a wave of dizziness washed over me. Their voices, distorted and distant, seemed to echo from a nightmare.

“Where’s the money, bitch?”

“Tell us, and this can all be over.”

Money. It always came back to money. Franklin’s money. The lifeblood of his empire, the source of his power, and the constant threat hanging over us like a dark cloud. They thought I knew. They thought I was part of it. But I was just… me. Franklin’s girl. A title that suddenly felt less like a declaration of love and more like a brand, a target on my back.

I tried to push myself up, but my body screamed in protest. Pain throbbed in my head, my lip pulsed, my arm ached where he’d grabbed me. Terror, raw and primal, clawed at my throat. Not just for myself, but for Franklin. What would they do to him if they couldn't get what they wanted from me?

(Flashback – A month ago)

Franklin had been unusually quiet, his gaze distant as he stared out the window of his penthouse. “This life… it’s not for everyone, Y/N,” he’d said, his voice low and grave. “It’s dangerous. I don’t want you caught in the crossfire.”

“Then don’t,” I’d whispered, my voice trembling. “Get out. Get us out.”

He’d turned to me, his eyes a complex mix of tenderness and something darker, something I couldn't quite decipher. “I can’t,” he’d said simply. “It’s… complicated.”

(End Flashback)

“I don’t know anything,” I whispered, my voice hoarse and broken. “Please… I swear.”

One of them kicked me in the ribs, the force of it sending a jolt of pain through my body. I gasped, struggling for breath. The world tilted precariously, the streetlights blurring into a hazy mess of yellow and white.

“You think we’re stupid?” he sneered. “You think we don’t know who you are to him?”

They knew. They knew I was his weakness. They knew I was the key to getting to him. And in that moment, the terrible truth crashed down on me. Being Franklin’s girl wasn't a privilege. It was a liability.

They continued to badger me, their voices rising, more aggressive. I tried to answer, but my words were jumbled, incoherent. My mind raced with fear, with images of Franklin – his smile, his touch, the way he looked at me like I was the only person in the world.

Franklin… Where are you? Please, come back. Please, I need you. I’m so scared. I don’t know what to do. I love you. God, Franklin, I love you. And maybe that’s why I’m here. Maybe that’s why I’m willing to risk everything. Because I love you, even knowing the darkness that surrounds you. Even knowing that it could consume me too.

Suddenly, headlights sliced through the darkness, a sleek black car screeching to a halt. My heart leaped in my chest. A fragile spark of hope flickered within me. Two figures emerged. Franklin. And Leon.

Franklin’s face was a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. His eyes, when they locked on mine, burned with a rage so intense it stole my breath. Leon’s expression was grim, his hand resting on the handle of something concealed beneath his jacket.

“Get the fuck away from her,” Franklin’s voice was low, dangerous, a growl that vibrated through the quiet street.

The two men who had been attacking me turned, their bravado instantly crumbling. They recognized the tone, the unspoken threat that hung heavy in the air.

Franklin moved with a speed that was both terrifying and mesmerizing. He was on them in a flash, a whirlwind of controlled violence. Leon stayed back, his expression chillingly detached.

"You touch her again," Franklin hissed, his voice laced with venom, "and I will fucking kill you. I will kill your families. I will burn everything you have to the ground. Do you understand me?"

The two men nodded frantically, their eyes wide with terror. They knew. They knew who Franklin was. And they knew they had made a terrible, potentially fatal, mistake.

Franklin turned to me, his expression softening slightly, though the fury still simmered beneath the surface. He knelt beside me, his touch gentle as he brushed a stray strand of hair from my face. “Y/N,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Are you okay?”

I nodded, tears streaming down my face. “I’m okay,” I managed to say, my voice trembling. “You’re here.”

He helped me up, his arm wrapped protectively around my waist. He shot a look at Leon, who nodded and moved towards the two men, his expression suggesting their conversation was far from over. I didn’t need to hear what Leon said to them. The fear in their eyes told the whole story.

Franklin led me to his car, his grip firm but gentle. He didn’t say anything, but I could feel the tension radiating off him, the barely contained rage that threatened to erupt.

At their house, he helped me inside, the silence between us heavy with unspoken emotions. He guided me to the bathroom, his movements careful and deliberate. He sat me on the edge of the tub and began to clean my wounds, his touch surprisingly tender despite the storm raging inside him.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice thick with tears. “I messed up. I shouldn’t have gone there.”

He looked at me, his eyes searching mine. “Don’t,” he said, his voice low and firm. “Don’t blame yourself. They’re the ones who messed up. They messed with you.”

He finished cleaning my wounds and began to wrap my arm in a clean bandage. The silence stretched between us, punctuated only by the soft sounds of his movements and my shaky breaths.

“Franklin,” I said softly, “I was so scared.”

He looked at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of tenderness and pain. He reached out and gently cupped my face in his hands. “I know,” he whispered, his thumbs brushing away the tears still clinging to my lashes. “I know. But I’m here now. I’m here.”

He pulled me close, holding me tight against his chest. I could feel the steady beat of his heart, a comforting rhythm in the chaos of my emotions. I closed my eyes, burying my face in his chest, breathing in his familiar scent – a mix of expensive cologne and something uniquely him. I was safe now. At least, for the moment.

He carried me to the living room and gently laid me on the couch. He sat beside me, his hand stroking my hair. “Tell me what happened,” he said, his voice quiet.

I recounted the events of the evening, my voice trembling as I relived the fear and the violence. Franklin listened intently, his expression growing darker with each word. When I finished, he was silent for a long moment.

“They won’t touch you again,” he finally said, his voice low and dangerous. “I promise you that.”

He leaned down and kissed me, a soft, tender kiss that spoke volumes of his love and his protectiveness. It was a promise, a reassurance, a silent vow.

Later, as I lay in bed, wrapped in the warmth of his arms, I couldn't shake the feeling of unease. I knew that Franklin’s world was a dangerous place, and that being connected to him meant being exposed to that danger. But I also knew that I loved him, deeply and irrevocably. And maybe, just maybe, that love was worth the risk. Maybe it was worth facing the darkness together.

[roosterforme]

Emergency Contact (Rooster x Reader)

Part of The What If Collection of blurbs for Roo and Baby Girl. My masterlist. Banner by @mak-32

Warnings: injuries while deployed, stitches, bandages, angst (deals with the events from Deployment Diaries Parts 18 and 19)

When Bradley asked you to be his emergency contact, you were overjoyed. This meant he was serious serious. He must have told his mom at some point that he was going to switch it, and she must have agreed that it was a good idea. You'd call Carole and Goose if anything happened. Of course you would. 

But that had always been a far off scenario in your mind. Something that was never actually likely to happen. You'd never expected the day to arrive where you had to be the one answering the horrific phone call.

"This is Admiral Priscilla Franklin. I have you listed as the emergency contact for Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw."

"Oh," you gasped. Your hand came up to your forehead as you slowly sank down to sit on the kitchen floor in your yoga pants and sports bra.

"I'm afraid there's been an accident."

You felt yourself on the verge of hyperventilating. You were listening to Admiral Franklin, but her words weren't making sense. You'd barely been able to confirm your full name for her.

"Lieutenant Bradshaw was involved in a mission related incident. I can't provide you with much more information than that."

Your eyes were filled with tears as you choked out the words, "Is he okay?"

There was such a long pause. Part of you wished that Bradley had kept Carole as his emergency contact, because now you were going to have to be the one to soften the blow about an injury to her instead of the other way around. 

Unless it was worse than that. Admiral Franklin wasn't saying anything. What if it was worse than an injury? You were laying flat on the floor, your tongue too heavy and awkward in your mouth as you gagged. 

But you needed to know right now. "Is he okay?" you demanded louder, sucking air into your burning lungs."He's stable at the moment. We are waiting for him to regain consciousness. He has broken ribs, lacerations and most likely a grade three concussion."

He was alive.

As you got some scant details about what happened, you started sobbing. When you ended the call, you collected Tramp in your arms, and he licked your face all over. Someone would be contacting you the following day about collecting Bradley from the San Diego International Airport like he was a piece of lost luggage. 

You didn't want to call his parents. It was so late in Virginia, you would most certainly be waking them up. But when you looked at your lock screen, it was a photo of you and Bradley with Goose and Carole when you'd been in Virginia for Thanksgiving last year, and you just cried harder until you could barely see through the tears.

Once you managed to prop yourself up against the cabinets, you wiped your nose all over Bradley's soft UVA shirt and forced your fingers to work. Unlock the phone. Go to your contacts. Locate the Bradshaws' home number. Tap it. Your hand was still shaking when you heard Carole's voice loud and sharp after just two rings.

"Sweet Girl. Tell me what's wrong."

Your body was shaking with wretched sobs as you tried to get the words out. "He was in an accident. A bad ejection. He's unconscious but still alive."

You'd never seen Carole upset before. She always seemed to know what to do. And even now, while her voice shook slightly as she woke her husband up, she sounded so strong. 

You heard Goose's groggy voice, and you relayed all of the information you had. 

"We'll be out tomorrow," Carole said immediately.

"No," you replied softly. "I think you should wait until I know when he's coming home. Just in case he doesn't even come back to San Diego. The Admiral mentioned seeing a specialist."

There was a long pause on the other end of the call as you wiped your eyes on the sleeve of your boyfriend's shirt. "You'll keep us updated?" Goose asked. "And you'll tell us if you change your mind and want us to come out now so you're not alone?"

"Of course," you adamantly insisted. "I'll call as soon as I hear anything at all."

Then Carole's voice was back, and it was as reassuring as talking to your own mother. "The instant you tell us to get to San Diego or anywhere else, we'll be on our way. So you just give us the word, and we're coming, Sweet Girl."

----------------------------

You were barely given any notice at all. Six hours from now, you needed to pick Bradley up from the airport. Apparently he could walk on his own, which was the best news you could imagine hearing. You called Carole and gave her the update, and she purchased tickets for the first flight out the following morning while she was on the phone with you. 

But nothing prepared you for the mess you found when you finally laid eyes on him. "Oh, Roo. Oh, Bradley." You covered your mouth with your hands. He truly looked terrible. His face was swollen and bruised, and you could see stitches peeking out all over the place. His left arm was bandaged and resting in a sling. But he was smiling down at you as you wiped tears from your eyes, and he ran his right hand along your hair.

"Can I touch you?" you asked softly, and Bradley slipped his right hand around your waist, slowly pulling you closer until your body was gently touching his.

"Please touch me, Sweetheart. It's the only thing that will make me feel better."

You laughed through your tears as you let one hand rest gently on his chest. "You scared me," you whispered, throat tight with emotion. "Like a whole lot, Roo." You let your other hand trail up over his neck and swollen cheeks, avoiding the clusters of stitches when you could.

"I'm sorry, Sweetheart," he whispered back, kissing the tears on your cheeks.

It wasn't an easy task, but you got him home and cleaned up and into bed. He was having a hard time breathing, and the ninety-eight stitches on his left arm were almost enough to turn your stomach. His handsome face was creased with pain, even after you helped him take his medication. But every time he whispered your name or laced his fingers gently with yours, you couldn't help but smile. 

Very carefully, you climbed in bed next to him and pushed his hair back from his forehead before you kissed him. "Your parents will be out tomorrow. They can't wait to see you."

"Thanks for taking care of everything and letting them know what happened," he murmured, the pain medication finally kicking in and helping his big body relax. "You're the best. I love you." He was thankfully asleep before you could even return the sentiment. 

The next morning, he only woke long enough for you to change his bandages and give him a million kisses and feed him some toast in bed. You felt wrung out and overly emotional and exhausted by the time you heard Tramp run for the front door. It must be Goose and Carole since you told them to just let themselves inside when they arrived. But when you looked down at the old sweats and Bradley's undershirt you had been wearing, you felt your cheeks grow warm. 

You looked like a mess. Your bedroom, bathroom and kitchen were a mess. They were about to see how bad their son looked as he napped in bed, and on top of everything else, you looked terrible too right now. 

But before you could even fully register your embarrassment, Carole's petite form was standing in your bedroom doorway with Goose behind her, Tramp jumping up to try to get his attention. 

"Oh, Sweet Girl," she sighed, glancing at Bradley and then looking back at you. "You wonderful, sweet thing." She had tears in her eyes as she approached you. "Look how well he's doing. Oh, Goose, look how she's taking care of him."

You let Carole collect you in a hug, and you sagged against her, too tired to try to explain to her that you were tired and out of your element. Instead you just let her hold you as Goose kissed the top of your head and made his way to sit in the dining room chair that you'd carried in and set right next to Bradley's side of your bed. 

"Let Goose sit with him until he wakes up and needs you, okay?" she whispered. "And then the four of us can talk together."

"Okay," you agreed softly. Because while it was a privilege to be Bradley's emergency contact, it felt nice to not have to take care of everything alone now. 

Carole led you into the hallway. "Let's get you fed, and then I'll help you get yourself in the bath. And later on, Goose can walk Tramp while I make dinner. And then you can focus on Bradley like I know you want to, and he can focus on you. And we'll be here to take care of everything else."

"That sounds good."

[fdrlibrary]

DUN-DUN DUN-DUN DUN DUN DUN DUN DUN 🦈

#FlatFranklin has made his way to the Jaws Bridge on Martha's Vineyard.

[shittyassffblog]

In Sickness and In Health

Someone said they wanted noah taking care of Y/N when they were sick and i took that upon myself lol (not at all procrastinating my dissertation noooooo) anyways here. They're married too yay

If anyone wants to go on a taglist for when i post send me an inbox and i'll add you to it!

Warnings: illness (cold and coughing), fluff, any others please tell me.

You woke up to the most annoying sound of your alarm going off. You had never been more pissed at your alarm before and soon you felt it. Your left nostril all blocked up. You groaned out loud and turned under your covers only for the other nostril to be blocked off too now. You opened your eyes to see the other side of the bed empty. Noah must be at the gym.

You got up from the bed to get a shower, hoping that would clear up some of the goo in your nose. As you got undressed, you called your work to tell them you were sick. You put on some calming music and got in the warm water. You lost track of time in there, the warm water being so soothing. You quickly washed your body and hair and got out again. You took your time doing your skincare, rubbing your whole body with bodyoil. You walked into your bedroom to find Noah half dressed, looking through his drawers for a pair of underwear. You hugged him from behind and he juped slightly.

"Hey princess, what are you doing home?" He asked, turning around and hugging you close.

"I'm sick." You said simply, your stuffed nose providing evidence of your claim.

"Then what are you doing out of bed?!" He asked incrediously. You smiled.

"I can shower by myself baby, you go shower." You said and siled at him.

"No?! I'm gonna make you some tea and some good breakfast, and then we will spend all day on the couch cuddling." He said with a firm grip on your arms.

"Okay but could you shower first? You smell." You said and he laughed.

"How would you know that, you can't smell anything." He said kissing your forehead and going to take a shower. You laughed to yourself and went to get settled on the couch with your phone.

You were a good 20 minutes into your tiktok scroll when Noah emerged from the bathroom, wet hair and a pair of black tight underwear on.

"You should never wear anythign else." You said and he grinned.

"What do you want for breakfast?" he asked and you pondered for a bit.

"Waffles with berries and whipped cream." You said and he laughed.

"Be serious, you can't have that if you're sick. You need healthy food." He said and you pouted. "What about avocado toast? You can have the berries on the side." He said and you sighed through your mouth.

"Alright. But I want juice as well." You said and he laughed again.

"Sure angel." He said.

"Can i have the controller?" You asked pointing to the Playstation 5 controller that was by the TV.

"Of course baby. You want the blankets too?" he asked and you nodded. He wrapped you in the blankets tightly and handed you the controller and turned on the TV, handing you the remote.

"Wait here gorgeous, i'll fix you some food." He said, kissing your head and you smiled as you started up GTAV on the giant flat screen that adorned your wall.

Noah soon returned with the food he promised, placing the plate on your lap and the glass of juice on the little table beside your couch. He plopped down beside you and you handed him the controller to continue the game while you ate.

"You're so trash at this." You said, mouth full of food. He was so concentrated on the game his tongue was sticking out of the side of his mouth, turning the controller the way he wanted the car to go.

"Yeah well i was learning guitar when i was a kid i didn't play car games." He said and you laughed. Once you were done eating you put down your plate and drank half of the orange juice. You took back the controller, putting Franklin in the game out of his misery and finished the mission. You then put the controller down and opened tiktok, scrolling a few videos down.

"Aren't you going to practice?" You asked Noah, who was supposed to be in the soundproof basement. He shook his head and pulled you close so your head was resting against his chest.

"No, cancelled." He said squeezing you tightly into his body.

"Why?" You asked looking up at him.

"Would rather make sure you were okay. It's never nice to be alone when you're sick." Noah said and your heart warmed. You truly had found the best husband ever.

"But don't you need to practice some of the new songs?" You asked and he shook his head.

"No we're good. Just relax baby." He said and you turned back to your phone.

-

You woke up to the sound of plates clinking in the kitchen, and you looked out the window to see the sun was setting. You didn't know how long you had been asleep for, you don't even remember falling asleep, but apparently now the sun was setting, and from the sounds of it, Noah was doing the dishes. You got off the couch and walked out to find him, wrapping the blanket around you.

"Baby." You said groggily. Noah turned around quickly and smiled when he saw you.

"Hey sweets. You okay?" He asked as he hugged you around your blanket. You nodded into his chest.

"yeah j's missed you." You said and ge chuckled.

"I'm right here baby." He said as he started to sway you slightly back and forth.

"You wanna watch a movie?" he asked and you nodded. You shuffled back into the living room, Noah right on your heels, and you put on Twilight, which Noah had never seen.

"I swear i'm only okay with this cause you're sick." He said and you looked at him.

"Sure. That's the only reason." You said and laid your head in his hand. He han his large tattoed hands through your hair softly as the events of Bella and Edward took place on the screen. You almost fell asleep again if it wasn't because you absolutely loved this movie.

"Is there more of this?" Noah asked and you chuckled.

"Yes. 4 more movies." You said and he yelped in surprise.

"They made that many?!" He asked and you laughed.

"Yes, it was very popular book series, it made a lot of money!" You laughed as he found the next one.

"You need anything before it starts?" He asked as he ran his hand along your leg.

"A cup of tea would be nice, yeah." You said and kissed his hand. He got up to make the tea and you were suddenly filled with a feeling of complete love and joy for the tattooed man you were sharing your life with. You had never felt so loved before, never felt so cared for and you adored the way he was taking care of you and making sure you felt good. Loving Noah was the best thing that ever happened to you and as he came back and sta beside you, unpausing the movie and being so invested in a thing you really loved, you couldn't stop yourself from kissing him deep.

"Great now I'll get sick." He said, no real venom behind his words, and a big smile on his lips.

"And i will take care of you." You said and kissed him again.

________________

So yeah that's it guys. Hope you like itttt. send me requests and feedback in my inbox <3

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This 1877 home in Franklin, Pennsylvania needs some work and sprucing up, but the interior is stunning. 4bds, 3ba, $279K.

Plus, there's this little servant's house that could be rental income.

The entrance hall needs brightening, but it has original ceiling beams, floors and railings.

It looks like it's currently being used as an office building, but luckily, they haven't renovated it and everything is still intact.

For some reason, they put up this door w/side panels right behind the columns- that has to go. Look at how close it is- it's up against it.

Closeup of an original fireplace. Isn't this unusual? Next to it is an original heating grate. Even if it's not functional, it's a great feature.

This is actually the dining room with two built-in cabinets and an original fireplace. Look at the wonderful inlaid floor.

The kitchen had a DIY reno where they painted all the wood a flat black.

There's a small pantry.

This room is also an office and features a built-in bookcase. I hope they didn't ruin the bottom with all that stuff.

Details of a stained glass window.

Apparently they finished the lovely floor around the bed. I kind of like the flowers on the wall.

This is a nice bedroom with a beautiful fireplace, but again, they finished the floor only around the bed.

The ceiling in this room has a beautiful design.

Look at the wonderful original marble sink.

It isn't often that you find an original bath. Only the toilet is new.

There's a sunporch in the back, but you can't even get in with all the office stuff.

The basement. It may be the old coal room behind this door.

Up in the attic is a lovely stick construction room with a great fireplace and leaded glass windows.

I always liked Victorian stick construction and this vintage bath is great- the sink and toilet look original.

This is a beautiful room.

The lot is .86 acre.

The muddy creek along the property is called French Creek.

[sleepyhutcherson]

you’re home

masterlist

pairing: franklin fox x gn!reader

summary: where franklin, your boyfriend, surprises you with his return from a long work trip.

word count: 1.2k

tags: fluff, no use of y/n, clingy, touch starved, established relationship, petnames (love, babe, baby), just fluff literally.

author’s note: i adore this man. i need this man. he was such a cutie ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡) seriously criminal how little content there is of him. expect more content of him from me tho. (also half asleep as i edited this, sorry for any spelling errors lmao)

You were a little bothered Franklin hadn’t called you, usually he would have called by now. He’s been out of town due to a work trip, it was sorted out last minute and with your work schedule you weren’t able to tag along with him. He would be gone for four weeks.

It’s been two weeks since he left, since then you’ve both clinged onto your phones eager to see each other through FaceTime or simply hear each other’s voices. You would text back and forth on a daily basis, meaningless conversation, just enjoying the mere words being exchanged.

You arrived from work an hour ago, you had just showered and were just starting on dinner. This was around the time Franklin called. You were feeling extra low today, missing your boyfriend a little more than usual. So you waited for him to call, anxiously stealing glances at your phone eager to pick up the phone the moment it rang.

A few minutes had passed, you were cutting up some vegetables, waiting…patiently. You try to discard the worries running through your mind, convincing yourself he was probably stuck at work. Still, you couldn’t help but feel a little worried. It wasn’t like him. For the past two weeks he’s called at the same time every day. Maybe he was just tired today? No, you think, he would call anyway. He would, you know him. You were being dramatic probably so you forced yourself to focus on your hands as they prepared your meal, your eyes flickering towards your phone that you made sure to place with the screen facing up in case you for some reason missed the ringtone.

But nothing, even after 15 minutes.

You shoot him a quick message then asking if he arrived at his hotel he was staying at safely, keeping your chats opened up hoping you would at least see he was typing back. Yet nothing appeared. God, you were overreacting surely.

The sound of someone trying to open the front door of your flat startles you, your heart practically springs out of your chest. Before you can even react, the door opens, and Franklin steps inside with his suitcase. You’re heart races, more than happy to see him. There’s a cheeky grin on his face when he sees your reaction, his arms opening up the second he sees you making your way towards him. “Hey, baby,” he coos, wrapping his arms around your waist, kissing the side of your head, taking in your scent. He melts into your touch, the familiar scent of your shampoo comforting him.

“You’re home,” you breathe out, relieved to see him—to have him back. Your hands are behind his neck, inching slowly up to the back of his head, your fingers entwined with his hair.

Franklin buries his face in the crook of your neck, nestling up there, tickling you slightly. “I missed you,” he whispers, kissing the smooth skin on your neck. He feels so vulnerable right now, your bodies pressed up against each other, sweet words being exchanged between each other. He pulls you closer, barely any space left between the two of you, desperation and greed taking over. He kisses up to your jaw, soft kisses being left on your skin, whispering between each peck how much he missed you, how much he longed for you, how much he’s been waiting to see you: how happy he was to have you this close to him again.

“I missed you, too.” You say with honesty. Your hands play with his hair the way you knew he liked it, tilting your head back a little to give him more access to your neck. The way he kissed you now was different from before, the kisses he left behind were so pure and slow as if he was making sure to take his time. To really enjoy the moment. You loved it, honestly.

You try to withdraw from his grasp a little—only to get a better look at him—but his grip tightens on you, not enough to hurt you but enough to show you he doesn’t want you to let go just yet. “Don’t. Not yet.” you hear him muffle into your neck. He was practically clinging onto you, not wanting to be without your touch ever again.

One of your hands continuously plays with his hair, the other rubbing softly against his back in a comforting manner. “I was worried about you,” you say then, “you didn’t call or anything.”

Now he pulls away, “I know,” he cups your jaw now, locking his deep brown eyes with yours, you nearly melt at the mere glance. “I wanted to surprise you.”

You smile, “you wanted to surprise me?”

He nods, cheeks pink now. “I thought maybe you would want to see me.” Suddenly, he’s much more shy with his words.

Your hands rest against his waist, his breath catching when you start rubbing his clothed skin with your thumb. “Maybe I did,” you pull him closer to you, his hands on the sides of your face, thumb gently rubbing your cheek.

He raises a brow, a smile on his lips. “Ah, did you?” There’s a playful demeanour between the two of you, one that is so familiar to each other. One that you both missed. Your noses brush against each other’s for a brief moment, you let out a soft giggle and Franklin loses it there his lips pressing against yours, and you welcome his kiss immediately. The kiss is soft, your lips moving in sync, your hands trailing slowly above his waist and fuck does it make him weak, the way your hands feel on him.

When you pull away, your hands move up to cup his face. “I’m glad you’re home,” you whisper with a smile, his eyes boring into yours.

He presses a kiss against your cheek but he lets his lips linger there for a moment longer. He would love to stay like this forever, your hands cupping his face, the softness of your palms against his skin, his lips against your flushed cheeks. “I missed you so much,” he says, his words clear but muffled against you. Still, you don’t miss the way his words are chocked up.

You pull him back, your hands gently on his sides again, you knew he loved being touched like that. His eyes are slightly glossy with presumably tears but he isn’t sad, a huge smile is plastered on his lips, and he genuinely seems thrilled. He is happy, that’s the thing. He’s so happy to be in your grasp, to have your lips bestowed on him merely moments ago. “You’re here now, love.”

He presses his lips against yours briefly, just to feel them again. You chase after his lips, your hands moving to the back of his neck to pull him towards you, and you kiss him once more, deepening the kiss this time. You were both happy to be in each other’s presence again, happy to be touched by the other—to be held. Franklin was very obviously in love with you just as you were with him.

When you pull away, he smiles at you like a lovesick idiot, murmuring an “I love you” as he pulls you in to embrace you, wanting to endure your warmth, your scent—you, altogether.

taglist: @cancelledkaley @stanheights-boyfriend @jhutch-bf @laurrrelise @joshfutturman @gryffindorsblog @sofiehutch @obsessivemuso-withnofriends @helen-on-earth

love you all xx ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡)

[milliebobbyflay]

One thing about bigotry that a lot of people don't get is that it's more of a cultural byproduct of oppression than the other way around.

"Oppression" as it were, the designating of one group of people as a class to subjugate for the benefit of another, is typically born of chauvinism and convenience more than hatred or ignorance. Benjamin Franklin famously, after observing the students of an all black school in Philadelphia, concluded that black children were no different from whites—yet despite seemingly purging himself of his personally bigoted beliefs he had no trouble breaking bread with virginia slavelords for the sake of their shared bourgeois revolutionary project.

The subjugation of these people is then maintained, either actively through the direct use of targeted state power by the ruling class and their institutions, or passively, by relying on inertia and the negative feedback loop of material deprivation to keep them perpetually marginalized.

I would argue that, observed as a social phenomenon rather than a feeling or character flaw, bigotry is best understood as the byproduct of the (often willing) erasure and ignorance of historical conditions of oppression, the series of rationalizations and prejudices that fill in the gap where historical analysis is withheld or deliberately sidestepped. After all, if one is ignorant of the historic conditions of the formerly enslaved peoples of the US, one must still account for the observable poverty which ravages black communities, as well as the resulting crime and social discontent. Whatever vulgar account fills in that gap, be it "inferior biology" or "bad culture," it doesn't really matter—with the history of material subjugation and expropriation erased, any answer will necessarily be posed in response to the question of "what's wrong with these people?"

This is where the liberal theory of bigotry falls flat, and why it's important, if you want to actually be a meaningful ally to trans women, to understand transmisogyny. This is why it's not enough to abstractly or individually love and support trans women, or to attempt to brute force one's brain into seeing us as fundamentally identical to cis women. We are not. Your brain will demand an explanation for why every single trans woman you meet will act like a victim of severe abuse, and that explanation can either be "trans women are systemically abused on a nightmarish scale," or it can be "I guess I just keep meeting the bad ones."

[highways-are-liminal-spaces]

I genuinely want to know what it is about Hollow Earth stuff and unsubstantiated claims that historical figures supported them, because I have found lists like this one, which enumerate explorers whose observations/writings "confirm" or "support" theories of a hollow earth (and no..... they don't, for the most part at least) and then those lists used as sources that all of the aforementioned explorers subscribed to the theory.

I returned to my Terror fic to write a few little codas, so naturally this meant a lot of additional reading about the 1850s and I have found my favorite ever conspiracy theory: