The bathroom stalls were covered in black ink coming from the hands of endless students who had come through that school before him. All of them inscribing, leaving a little piece of themselves behind for someone else to read. Their secrets, their desires, who they loved, who they hated were all painted up there with ball point pens and sharpie markers.
It was all there, on those pink walls.
And if you looked hard enough, in neat and delicate writing left by a boy that no one really knew read a phrase that had people wondering just who this boy was.
I’m in love with my brother.
Of course there were only two people in the world that knew who wrote it and all across America, they were leave little parts of themselves on the bathroom stalls as a reminder of just how taboo their love actually was.
The coffee goes down smooth, the column of her throat tensing in a way that makes Frank’s stomach jump.
His fingers twitch at her almost inaudible hum of satisfaction, for the first time in so long aching to feel something other than the cool metal of a trigger.
He withdraws his gaze, looking down at the paper on the table between them, clearing his throat to say, “This is it? An address and the combination to a safe that’s probably empty? It’d be quicker if i just put two in the back of his head.”
She shakes her head, and there it is again, that fucking distraction that comes with her hair brushing against the cream of her skin, words quickly tumbling out into the quiet, “I need those contracts to prove he’s been laundering money for crooked politicians… then you can do whatever the hell you want.”
It almost sounds cold, words clipped, even a little vindictive, but Frank can see the way her finger twitches against her mug, the searching look in her eyes - he wishes he could stop seeing - so he just nods, picking up the paper and tucking it under his jacket.
”RUN!” He screams at her from the entrance to the building, bullets whizzing by his head as he turns back to face the people chasing them.
It’s hard for her to leave him, but she knows he’s more than capable of handling himself, and the contents of the safe clutched to her chest need to make it out of the burning building or this whole escapade of theirs was for nothing.
Hours later, she pulls up to their meeting spot, limping, cold fingers clinging to a delicately carved wooden box, it’s brass latches frosty in the night air.
With each passing minute, a little sliver of hope is shaved away, and tension begins to collect in her shoulders, You shouldn’t have left, ringing in her ears.
But then there are lights cutting through the woods, footsteps crunching through the dry leaves, and before Frank even steps into the clearing, she’s running, box flying to the ground.
She stares down at the box in open astonishment, fingers shaking with anger as she reaches down to pick up the etched glass bottle, tracing the the lettering she hisses, “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Frank only shrugs in response, turning away from her to retrieve two glasses from his cabinet.
He pours them both a healthy portion of the amber liquid and pushes one tumbler toward Karen, his eyes scanning her face, watching the rage shimmer just beneath the surface, “Must’ve known you were onto him. Ten to nothing all physical evidence of the corruption is gone.”
She snatches up the glass and gulps down the burning liquid, uncorking the bottle the pour the glass full again, and snarls at no one in particular, “Why does this have to be so fucking hard?”
One corner of Frank’s mouth twitches up, his eyes catching the light of the moon as it passes through the window. “If it were easy, the cops would have done it a long time ago.”
Five hundred dollar bottle of rum empty, Karen moves from her seat in Frank’s makeshift kitchen, feeling wobbly and more than a little done with the world.
She barely notices the throbbing pain in her knee, wincing only slightly as she moves toward the cot in the corner, but Frank is too perceptive, jumping up to stop her. “Let me see.”
It’s a bruise, black and ugly in the middle, varying purple hues toward the edge, and she knows it’ll hurt like hell in the morning, but all she can think about right now is the way his palm cradles the back of her calf, his fingers tracing along the skin to see if it’s more than just a bruise.
He’s on his knees in front of her, probing the injury, and the alcohol makes her bold, light-headed as she reaches out to thread her fingers through his hair, the unruly curls that he’s let it grow into.
It’s a nurturing move, a desire to comfort that she has been long tasked with suppressing, and she waits for him to snatch his fingers away, to stomp over to the other side of the cabin, to slam the door and leave her alone in the dark.
Frank would never admit it to a soul, but he’s touch starved, and Karen’s fingers against his scalp, pushing his hair back away from his face, feel like fire against his skin.
He’s not like he used to be, not present one-hundred percent of the time, and his mind can sometimes play tricks on him, can wander away into impossible realms, so he doesn’t trust the scene before him: a beautiful woman with bedroom eyes and soft hands.
“Frank,” she says, his name so soft in the air between them that he’s not quite sure it’s real, and the rum doesn’t help either, making him feel warm underneath his rib cage, almost as if his heart has started to beat again.
But her touch, it’s like an anchor holding him to earth, and he knows it’s real, not fair, but real.
All of her distractions are bundled up into one neat package before him, her soft lips, the flush of her skin, the pulse jumping at her neck that is begging for the pad of his thumb, it’s all here, and for the first time in a long time he thinks he can afford to be distracted.
1. Write down everything he said that made your heart beat faster. Every word that found a home in your soul and kept you warm on nights when you were too cold to breathe.
2. Take your time. Write as neat as you can. Elegant cursive, bubble letters, calligraphy. Make the penmanship as beautiful as the words it is saying.
3. Read it over and over and over again. Feel the way you felt when he first said it to you. Forget how much it hurts now.
4. Light it on fire in the bathroom sink. As the edges curl and the letters melt, forget it all. It’s not a part of your life anymore and you don’t need to keep it. It’s gone.
5. Now write down everything he said to you that made you blush a deep red. Everything he said to you that made your thighs tremble and your breath shaky.
6. Make the penmanship sloppy, like the way he would’ve kissed you. Write it down quick and messy and don’t worry about how the things you are writing would make a priest impure. Write it all anyway.
7. Read it. Just once. Let yourself imagine what you could’ve been one more time.
8. Then light it on fire too. Forget it too.
9. Now write down what he said to you that hurts. Write down the words he threw at you as he left, write down the excuses he made, write down the words he stabbed into your chest. Write down what he said that made you cry.
10. Make the words harsh and sharp. Scratch it out with a knife onto the page if you have to.
11. Don’t read it again.
12. Light it on fire. Watch it burn. Forget.
13. He wanted to burn you down but don’t let him. Get there first. You’re the one who’s holding the matches.
I am late to the show but total head canon that Party used to find torn pics out of edgy fashion magazines for the Look™ and would pin them up in his lil room like some personal post-apocalyptic Pinterest board and when getting deets on new Dracs to go hunt he'd lowkey hope that it'd take him to an abandoned shopping mall so he could find something like the nice pictures he kept so that way he could live his dream... Bc even though everything's gone to shit doesn't mean style has to.
Thick as thieves - Without the thieves part... || Newt Scamander x Reader
Based off Anonymous’ request: ‘Newt taking in a Hufflepuff apprentice, but ends up practically adopting them?’ (I left the ending open to whether it’s a romantic relationship or a friendship, and Y/N’s bag is the one above ^^) ~ (And I’m just putting Y/N as a female but if there are changes wanted i can try to make them) This is set a few years before the New York incident so Newt is considerably younger.
Y/N Y/L/N fumbled with her bag nervously as she pulled out a thick notebook, full of neat, slanting writing. She lay down on her stomach, peering into the darkness of a corner of a large barn. Y/N had come across a fully grown Moke, a large green-silver lizard, and it had led her to a large barn just outside of London.
She scribbled down notes as she watched it curl up around three eggs protectively, and she smiled in excitement.
“Hey there, its okay, can i take a look at your eggs?” Y/N whispered, holding out her hand for the Moke to sniff, before it pushed it’s eggs towards her.
Y/N pulled them gently towards her with her wand, examining them intently, scribbling down the appearance of them, before she felt a smooth piece of wood being pressed against her back.
in primary school i had like ok handwriting but apparently not good enough to get a pen license IM STILL MAD ABOUT THAT and like my teacher gave out pen licenses to everyone in the class except me and a guy called emerson anyway i came home and mum was like i have a sURPRISE FOR YOU cause she knew that day was when they were giving out pen licenses and she reached out gave me a pen with my name engraved into it and i was like …. i didnt get my pen license … and she was so sad and i was so sad and it was the worst day honestly i literally feel so sad just writing this thinking about it omg
anyway from then on my handwriting improved randomly and in high school people would always compliment me on it and teachers would be like wtf ive never seen someone write so neat and ppl would get me to write letters to the teachers for them and pretend it was their parents and like it was the BEST getting compliments on that because it was something i was so self conscious and sad about and it was like a massive fuk u to the teacher that didnt give my license to me on t he same day as like the rest of the class in grade 5
anyway moral of the story sometimes u get better at things that u were once shit at and its cool but also sometimes u stay shit but like in this case i didnt stay shit fuck yeah tbh!!!!!! i think emersons writing stayed shit tho