#but in both photos bending towards him bathes the audience in light

[septembersghost]

take my hand, take my whole life too

Elvis photographed in Memphis, TN, 1956 and Dallas, TX, 1976

these photos struck me being taken twenty years apart and yet the soul of them being so similar - outstretched hands reaching towards him in the light, him leaning forward in their direction in a reciprocal exchange, the touching power of that energy and shared love and expression.

it reminds me again of what Larry Geller wrote: "He was bursting with love and on stage he had a safe way of expressing it, through his music...he was reaching out, and they saw it; in their reaching back, he met them halfway. It was a love affair from the beginning, and his voice, his magic, never left him."

[tweedlydumbtweedlydoo]

I like, like you (Drew Starkey x reader)

Requested by @netflix-imagines​ // Summary: You and the cast have a relaxing day at the beach and you catch the eyes of a certain cast member.

A/N: I’m sorry for taking so long to get this out! I hope you guys like it. It’s cringy and awkward and horrible writing and i’m so sorry lolz but anyways. hope y’all like it! 

Tag list is at the end. Let me know if you want to be added xx

**MASTERLIST**

Requests: OPEN {CLOSED}

** Who I Write For **

********************************************************************************************NOT MY GIF, CREDIT TO OWNERS 

*this photo. lemme have ‘em all. oh goodness. <3

“Come on we’re going to the beach.” Maddie exclaims, throwing a beach towel at you.

“Geez Maddie, warn a girl.” You toss the towel to the side, marking the page in your book, “I don’t want to go to the beach today. I’d rather sit here with my book in the air conditioning.”

She gives you a smirk and leans over the back of the couch, her face at your shoulder, “Drew will be there..” She sing songs.

“Oh that note, I’d love to go to the beach.”

She laughs and shakes her head, “You’re so in love with him.” She says as she follows you to your room.

You pull a bikini out of your drawer and get dressed, “He’s just so damn handsome, Maddie. I mean have you seen him? The hair? The smile? That body?” You let out a small moan. “He’s a hunk!”

She laughs and sits on the bed, “Down girl.” She tosses you your cover up, “Why don’t you ask him out today?”

“Are you crazy! Hell no. He’s got a girlfriend.. and I am definitely not his type.”

“Didn’t I tell you? That wasn’t his girlfriend. They both have the same taste in woman.” She gives a small laugh, “He’s single and you are most definitely his type. You’re stunning! How could he not like you?” She motions to your body.

You playfully roll your eyes, “We’ll see how today goes…”

~

“Your girl is coming.” Chase smirks as he nudges Drew. Him, Drew, Rudy, JD and Austin were on their way down the walkway toward the beach.

“I don’t have a girl.” Drew says, glancing back at him.

Rudy rolls his eyes, “Oh bull shit.”

“You know who we’re talking about.” JD says.

Drew looks around at the boys, “Uh, I don’t?”

“y/n, man!” Austin puts his hand on Drew’s shoulder.

Just at the mention of your name, his cheeks grow pink, “She’s not my girl.”

“Oh, come on. She so would be if you’d grow a pair and ask her! You’ve had a crush on her since our first reading.” Chase says.

“Yeah but she doesn’t like me back.” Drew defends, “We’re friends. Co-workers.”

“I highly doubt she doesn’t like you back.” JD says, “You forget we’re friends with her too.”

“She’s told you guys she likes me?” Drew stops and turns to face his friends.

“No. She doesn’t have to.” Rudy smirks, “the way she talks about you and the way her eyes light up when you come near tells us everything we need to know.”

~

The boys picked a quiet spot near the water and set up the pop up tents and games. You, Maddie and Madison arrived not long after.

“I see you girls show up after all the hard work is done.” JD says.

“Well, yeah. We timed it perfectly.” You laugh.

Austin pokes Drew, “There’s your girl.”

Drew groans, “Stop.” Drew pulls the shirt off and hangs it up in the tent.

You look up at the right time to see Drew peeling the shirt off his body. The way his muscles moved…

“Hey, you want to lay out over here?” Maddie asks, pulling you from your daze.

“Yeah. Sounds good.” You follow her to the side of the tent and put your bag down before pulling out a towel from your bag and laying it out next to hers. You slip your cover up off.

Drew’s eyes are on yours as he’s pulling sunscreen from his bag. His eyes glanced over your body. He didn’t know you had a freckle on your back shoulder.

“could you make it more obvious?” JD laughed.

“you’re literally undressing her with your eyes.” Rudy adds.

Drew blushes that he was caught and quickly looks away when you turn around. He hoped he hadn’t gotten caught.

“You’ve gained an audience.” Madison comments quietly after you’d discarded your bathing suit cover.

“Oh, you got his attention girly.” Maddie smirks when she sees Drew looking at you.

You blush and glance over your shoulder to see him turning away, a pink tent on his cheeks. You see the sun screen in his hands and take a deep breath. Be bold. Be confident.

You turn around and start toward him, “Want me to get your back?”

He looks at the bottle in his hands and then back at you, “Yeah if you don’t mind.”

“No, I don’t mind.” You smile, taking the bottle and put a good amount in your hands before lathering his shoulders and back in the sunscreen.

“Drew!” Chase whispers and then motions to his balls, “Grow a pair!”

Drew rolls his eyes and hopes you didn’t see Chase. He glances down at you over his shoulders, “So… have you ever been to this beach?” He winces at his stupidity, seriously Drew? That’s the best you can do?

You let out a soft laugh and shake your head, “No, I haven’t. Have you?”

He nods, “Yeah. Me and the boys come here every once and a while. It’s on the quieter side of town, which we like.”

You nod, “it is quiet…” You finish up his back with sunscreen, “There you go. All done.”

“uh thanks for that.” He gives a smile, taking the sunscreen bottle from your hands and putting it in his bag.

“No problem.” You flash a smile and head back to your towel, sitting next to Maddie.

Drew heads towards the water where the boys are, “have you ever been to this beach?” Austin jokes.

Drew groans, “Stop. I didn’t know what to say.”

“You could have come up with something better than that.” Rudy teases.

“you know, like will you go out with me?” JD adds.

~

“Let’s play chicken!” Rudy calls out from the water, “Let’s go girls.”

You groan as Madison pulls you up, “It’ll be fun!” You three head toward the water where the boys are standing around.

“Me and Maddie will be on a team against…” Chase looks at you and then Drew, giving him a smirk, “Drew and y/n.”

You and Drew exchange a look, “Y/n probably doesn’t..”

“Let’s do it.” You nod, walking over to him, “It’s just a game of chicken, right?”

He clears his throat and nods, “yeah, sure.”

“Well, do you expect me to grow longer legs to get on your shoulders or are you going to bend down?”

He blushes, “Right!” He goes underwater and moves under your legs and when he stands, you’re on his shoulders. His hands grip your thighs to keep you steady and you grip his hair.

“Shit, easy on the hair.” Drew groans.

You blush and slowly let go, “Sorry, didn’t expect you do that.”

“It’s okay.” He chuckles, “alright we ready to play?”

Maddie smirks at you, looking between you and Drew. You roll your eyes and shake your head.

~

After the game of chicken, the group decides to head back up to the beach and have a quick lunch. As you’re heading in, Drew calls you back. Time for Drew to grow a pair. “Hey, y/n?”

“Yeah?” You stop and face him.

“Can you stay in with me a little longer? I wanted.. uh to talk to you?” He runs a hand through his hair.

You glance back up at the group and back at him, “yeah sure.” You wade back into the water and over to him, the waves crashing softly into your bodies.

“I’m just going to cut to the chase and get to it.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, “Okay?”

He takes a deep breath, “I like you, y/n. Like, like.”

You can’t help but blush and glance down at your hands, running them over the surface of the water, “I like like you too, Drew.”

His eyes go wide at you, “Wait, seriously?”

You laugh and nod, “yes, seriously.” You step closer to him, holding your hand up to block the sun as you look up at him.

“I uh.. okay.” He chuckles, “Really didn’t expect you to like me back. So, how about a date?”

“A date sounds good. I’d like that.”

“yeah.” He smiles, “me too. How about tonight after our day at the beach? I don’t know if I can wait any longer..”

“Tonight is great.” You smile.

“Kiss her you idiot!” Rudy yells out.

You and Drew both blush. “Just ignore him..”

“Maybe you should listen to his advice.”

Drew takes a step closer to you, “I should huh?” 

You nod, “You should.”

Drew reaches out and cups your cheek, “if you insist.”

The two of you smile into the kiss and laugh when the group erupts in whoops and hollers.

“Aye Drew Starkey does have a pair of balls, ladies and gentlemen!” Chase calls out.

“I told you he liked you!” Maddie calls out to you.

“We’re never going to hear the end of this are we?” You ask, looking up at him.

He shakes his head, laughing, “Nope. Probably not.”

Obx taglist: @poguestyleskye​ , @alexa-playafricabytoto​ , @kaelyn-lobrutto24​ , @prejudic3​ , @turtlee-says-rawr​ , @outrbank​ , @k-k0129​ , @annedub​ , @rockyyc77​ , @ilovejjmaybank​ , @treestarrrrrrrr​​ , @thedarkqueenofavalon​ , @write-from-the-heart​ , @eclecticpuppyhollywoodhumanoid , @lasnaro​ , @kiarasgold​ , @normatural​ , @kaylinfayezink​ , @lordsagittarius​ , @moose-squirrel-asstiel​ , @thelovelydreamer17​ , @chasefreakinstokes​ , @fanficscuziranout​ , @diverrdown​ , @tregua-oca​ , @junkiemuppettxx​ , @afterglowsb-tch13​ , @hardyxlove​ , @cinnamon-roll-seth​ , @copper-boom​ , @aomi-nabi​

Rafe Cameron // Drew Starkey taglist: @pm-my-hubbies​ , @timotaychalabae , @fratboystark , @fangirlvoice

All my works tag list:  @blossomreed​ , @mggstyles​  , @simonsbluee​

[momentofmemory]

FICTOBER 2020 - day twenty-five

Prompt #25: “Sometimes you can even see.”

Fandom: The Old Guard

Characters: Nile Freeman, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani

Words: 1937

Author’s Note: In the aftermath of a rough mission and all the philosophical questions it entails, Joe takes Nile to the Aarhus Art Museum in Denmark. All pieces mentioned were displayed in the Objects of Wonder: From Pedestal to Interaction exhibit, which ran from Oct. 2019- March 2020. Nile POV.

>> the sweetness remains

Nile scrolls mindlessly through Pinterest, wishing for not the first time that she’d been allowed to recreate her socials.

Copley had barred her from practically all of the actually useful ones, but she’d bullied him down to just having an account on Pinterest, with the argument being that no one cared about the site. Granted, she doesn’t really want to be on Pinterest either, but sometimes the comfort of an app with infinite scroll is all she’s looking for in a distraction.

And right now, she really, really needs to be distracted.

Overly photoshopped cat pics.

Memes ripped straight from tumblr or twitter.

The most white girl aesthetic imaginable.

Three slugs ripping through her abdomen and spitting her liver out the other side—

Nile breathes in sharply. Exhales.

Her thumb resumes scrolling.

Photos of downtown that feel like home.

Recipes for harvest butternut squash soup.

Tips for keeping braids fresh longer.

Nile scrolls, and scrolls, and breathes.

Her abdomen still aches every time her lungs expand, even though she knows it really doesn’t. It’s perfectly healed; not even a scar for her troubles. But it’s hard to forget how her instincts had screamed that a gut shot like that shouldn’t be survivable, even as she pushed herself towards the next target.

(She didn’t survive it.)

(She didn’t survive the next half dozen times it happened, either.)

“Did that phone of yours do something to offend you?”

“Whoa!” Joe’s sudden appearance next to her only makes her clench her phone tighter. She forces out a laugh and eases the tension out of her fingers. “Feel like you should know better than to sneak up on someone that’s part of a bunch of immortal warriors.”

“Most of them would have caught me coming long before you did.”

Nile snorts. She scrolls a few more seconds, then closes the app and opens Temple Run. The game’s ridiculously old, but she’s a millennial. Sue her for being nostalgic.

She can feel Joe watching her as she starts the round.

“Am I correct in thinking you enjoy the arts, Nile?”

It’s not the question she was expecting, and she winds up tilting the screen to the left a half second late, and her character falls off the bridge.

It’s okay though, because she can just use a gem and respawn in the same place, so it’s basically like not dying at all.

Right?

“Uh, yeah,” she says. She winds up restarting the round entirely. “The military was supposed to pay for my degree, but I don’t think I can cash that if I’m technically KIA.”

“That would present a certain set of problems,” Joe agrees. “Andy talk to you about that?”

“Yeah.” Nile’s stomach twists. “Guess it depends on how easy it is to schedule classes between firefights.”

She’s practically laying the opening for a talk out herself, but Joe seems uninterested in taking it.

Instead, he shifts beside her, propping an elbow on his knee. “What kinds of art did you want to specialize in?”

She dies again. This time, she begrudgingly uses the in-game save. "I prefer classic sculpture, but I’m not against modern.”

“You like what was modern art for me, then.”

Nile rolls her eyes. “I dread the day I become as weird as you guys.”

He laughs, patting her on the shoulder as he stands. “I suspect by that time you’ll be too busy tormenting our next recruit. But unfortunately, the exhibit we’re going to will be more in the contemporary style.”

It takes Nile a half second to register his words. “Wait, what?”

“The description said it would be 1960s to the present only. If it suits you, we could hold off on our discussion of it for another thousand years or so. I’m sure we can claim it as classic at that point.”

“What?” Nile locks her phone and zeros her attention on him, registering the mischievous glint in his eyes this time. “Museum?”

“The Aarhus Art Museum has a special exhibit on loan from the Tate Modern at the moment.” He glances down at her phone, the corner of his mouth forming a grin. “I’m told its purpose is to help move its audience’s attention from their devices.”

Nile scowls and looks back down at her phone. “I died a dozen times yesterday. I’m allowed my coping mechanisms of choice.”

And.

Whoops.

“Of course you are,” Joe says, offering his hand to her, and she’s once again surprised he doesn’t force the conversation. “But phones are portable. You can take it with you to the museum.”

Nile worries at the edge of her lip with her teeth. She doesn’t really want to go anywhere right now, but…

But Joe’s brown eyes are warm and welcoming, and his callouses help steady her when she takes his hand.

“You said contemporary sculpture?”

The grin he gives her is blinding. “For now.”

_________________

It’s a twenty-five minute drive from their safe house to the museum, and the route takes them next to the Bay of Aarhus for most of it.

Nile stares out at the water, determined to not give Joe any more ammunition for making fun of her regarding her phone.

It’s hard. She’d never considered herself a technology addict—never had enough time to be one—but she really, really wants to stop thinking about the fact that she knows what the inside of her liver looks like.

Or did look like, she guesses.

Nope, nuh-uh, not going there—

“D'you know about the Ship of Theseus?” She spits it out before she can decide against it. She figures if she’s thinking about it, she might as well talk about it. “And don’t say you were there for it. You’re not Andy and I at least know enough about you to know when you’re lying.”

The grin on his face tells her that he was very much intending to before she called him out on it. “It’s a thought experiment. The character Theseus owns a ship that, over a long span of time, has all of its parts replaced, until nothing of the original still remains.”

“Yeah, and so then the question is, is it even the same ship,” Nile finishes.

Joe weaves in and out of traffic, a pensive look on his face. “I assume you aren’t asking simply to test my knowledge of early western philosophy.”

“No.”

Nile looks down at her hands. She can still remember how horrifically mangled they were from her impromptu dive off a skyscraper, but at least—at least she’s pretty sure they’re the same ones she had before.

Though that might not last long.

“In your opinion,” she says, cautiously, “if—if there’s nothing left of the original—if you have to rebuild something that many times—”

“Nile.” The sound of the car’s turn signal distracts her spiraling thoughts. Joe nods towards the windshield. “We’re here.”

It’s a large, red brick square building, fairly nondescript but for the circular and multi-colored glass walking track at its top.

“Come on, he says, parking the car. “I find physical objects superior to mental ones for solving such issues.”

Nile doesn’t understand why the one time she wants to talk about something like this is the one time Joe decides to go full mysterious.

She climbs out of the car and follows him inside.

Despite her misgivings, she quickly discovers Joe was right. The exhibit is genuinely incredible, and there are pieces from multiple names she recognizes—Anish Kapoor, Donald Judd, Rasheed Araeen—and pieces she finds herself strangely moved by, such as Damian Hirst’s Away from the Flock, Richard Long’s Red Slate Circle, Rachel Whiteread’s Airbed II. Nile stares at that last one in particular for a long time: a concrete casting of an airbed, the artist’s presence made known in the negative space where her body had pressed the material down.

Joe, however, seems to be moving with a specific purpose in mind, and it’s not until they round one of the walls of the orange-pink room that Nile has a guess as to what it is.

In the far corner, bathed in the additional light of a single fill light, is a massive pile of multicolored cellophane wrapped hard candies.

Joe walks her over to it, an almost reverence to his steps.

“Untitled: Portrait of Ross in LA,” he says. “Are you familiar with the piece?”

She shakes her head, bending down to inspect it. It doesn’t look like much more than what she’d seen from a distance—candy, multicolored, on the floor. She looks to Joe for an explanation.

“Felix Gonzalez-Torres’s partner died from AIDS,” Joe says. The grief on his face is hard to look at. “To honor him, he made this as a portrait—one hundred and seventy-five pounds of candy, representing Ross’s weight from when he was still healthy.”

Nile looks at the pile—it’s a lot, but it’s not a hundred and seventy-five pounds worth of a lot.

Joe notices her confusion and smiles. “Take one.”

“What?”

“Take one,” he repeats. “The purpose of the work is to invite you to partake in both enjoying his presence and lamenting the lack of it. A sort of communion—choosing to take part of his body into your own. It was a powerful statement when so many were afraid to even be in our presence at the time.”

Nile looks at the pile again, and just like with Airbed II, her heart aches at what isn’t there, rather than what is. She selects a red piece and brings it out of the pile, cupping it in her hand and considering its weight.

“What happens when it runs out?”

Joe selects his own piece—a green one—and it rolls around in the palm of his hand. “It has. Many times. But that’s the beauty of it—it’s the curator’s responsibility to replenish the pile, metaphorically granting immortality and new life to the loss.”

The cellophane crinkles in Nile’s hand as she unwraps the piece. “How do they decide where to get the candy from?”

“The only firm rule is the original weight. Outside of that, there are no set instructions for the candies themselves.” He chuckles, threading his fingers behind his neck and leaning back against the wall. “Sometimes you can even see these strange combinations of greens, oranges, and purples.”

Nile considers the candy. “Not your favorite?”

“It has an almost Halloween quality to it. I tend to prefer the rainbow.”

The candy in her hand feels heavier than it did before—weighed down with the knowledge of what it represents, what it’s taking away.

She slips the candy into her mouth and her eyebrows raise in surprise. “It’s sweet?”

“It’s candy,” Joe says, unwrapping his own piece. “Did you expect something else?”

“I thought it’d be…” She pauses, trying to parse out her feelings. “Bitter. Or sad, somehow. Considering.”

“It could have been,” Joe agrees. “But the portrait isn’t meant to represent just grief and loss. Candy is a happy thing—a reward for yourself, or a lover’s gift on Valentine’s. And even when it’s gone, the sweetness remains. Still lingering on the tongue, or dwelling in the mind. It is the love of friends and partners that keeps the memory alive—and what keeps this the same portrait, even though its pieces have been cycled through many times.”

The candy melts away on her tongue, and she closes her eyes in grief for its loss, appreciation for what it was, and hope for the pieces that would come after it.

She swallows the last piece of it down.

Her stomach settles.

[scribeofmorpheus]

Pirouette Prologue

A Bodyguard AU!

Pairing: Bodyguard!Bucky x Reader

  Series Masterlist  | Main Masterlist | AO3

Words: 1.6k

Warnings: Violence and blood.

Taglist is open -comment or send an ask!

Abstraction. That is what drives the penultimate scene of your ballet production as a man in a devil costume sautés towards you in maladroit strokes.

Pointed toe facing forward, arms careened overhead in an arch, you wait patiently for your dance partner to hit his mark. Your breathing is soft and deep. A quiet, contemplative moment.

Then the music swells and the concerto grows darker, the tempo rises quicker and quicker in an ominous premonition.

The audience members hold their breath as this masquerading devil ensnares you within his callous touch. Under his epileptic caresses, you begin to move. Writhing and struggling as he chases after you once you break free.

Delicate steps meant to invoke the essence of innocence and fragility unfold in a sacred dance between two opposing forces. The dance escalates into a crusade between light and dark. Your movements are losing their delicateness, trading it in for a show of distress. His movements are a darker contrast to your own. Always a step behind. Always overshadowing your shadow. Morphing it into an inhuman silhouette.

Gasps leave agape mouths as a violin screams through the hot air in a flat note. Faint, beautiful melodies of a grand piano are drowned out by the cacophony of chaos –the distortion of the devil’s symphony.

Your skirmish grows more desperate, your movements becoming less fluid and more forceful. As the climax fast approaches, you feel your chest strain against your corset.

You swing your leg from front to back, tilting your upper body slightly backwards, opposite to the direction of your leg. The masked devil hovers over you, lips obstructed by hard, red plastic. With a chaste kiss, both your bodies tumble to the ground, folding into a death pose.

The music stops, the main stage lights turn on with a shuttering echo and suddenly, the whole theatre is stripped of its silence and replaced by thunderous applause.

Your dance partner rises from the ground and leans over to help you up. You bow and wave as rose petals shower at your feet. A blush sets on your face as your eyes begin to well up with pride.

This night, like every other night, was worth all the dislocated toes and worn-out shoes you’d suffered. Beyond a doubt.

Antoine, the director, saunters over, his flamboyant holographic coat shifting like plastic, “You two were spectacular out there!” He sends out blow kisses, a big elated grin on his middle-aged face.

“A true compliment to the genius behind our success,” your dance partner, Julian, replies.

On either side of you, the set crew walk past carrying several prop pieces to be returned to storage. Antoine is already focused on his phone when it beeps. “Oh, how enchanting! One of the columnists in the New Yorker just sent me a proof of his review.”

Julian arches a brow, hand peeling off his red mask completely, “Isn’t that against policy?”

Antione hushes him with a coy wink, “It’s only frowned upon when the reviews are less than stellar, and they aren’t! Now go and do… whatever it is young kids like yourselves do on a Friday night!”

You bit back a smile as you watched your director strut towards the set crew, barking orders in his pleasantly light tone.

“Hey, Y/N, you were great today,” Julian ruffles his jelled back hair, shooting you a dastardly smile. “Like always.”

You mimick his action and undo your bun, hair flowing downwards. The uncomfortable pull on your follicles subsiding. You take a breath before answering, “I’m only as good as my partner.”

He blushes, hands fidgeting as he walks with you towards your dressing room, “Listen, a few of us were planning on going out for drinks –to celebrate. We’d love to have the star of the show kick back a few shots with the rest of us.”

“I’d love to,” you place your hand on his shoulder, slightly annoyed at the fact you were going to have to cancel. Again.

Julian’s lips screw upwards, “I know that look, there’s a ‘but’ coming isn’t there.”

“But… my brother promised to take me out. He promised it would be a night to remember. One of his famous extravagant outings that starts with dinner and a bottle of overly expensive champagne, and ends with a drunk spur of the moment trip to Milan… again,” You giggle at the memory. “But have a few shots in my honour.”

Julian leans over and places a kiss on your cheek. Somehow it doesn’t feel nearly as chaste as the kiss from before. You clear your throat when his lips linger a little too long and he jumps back in a subtle and swift motion.

“See you during rehearsals then,” he stretches his arm muscles until they let out a satisfying pop as he makes his way to the adjoining dressing room.

Halfway through applying your mascara, your phone starts to vibrate against your propped up elbow causing you to gasp in freight and drag the wet, black brush across your one closed eyelid. You glance down at the screen trying to see who it is. The illuminated screen displays a blurry photo of Tony’s sleeping face partially covered by a green party hat with a fake twirly moustache scribbled on his upper lip in permanent ink. You beam a smile as your thumb taps on the screen, fond memories of his last New Year’s Eve party flashing by in a bright reel of happy laughs and multicoloured streamers.

“Hey, Wonton,” you call him by his nickname, bringing your phone to your ear. “You almost here or…?”

“Prima! Hey, sorry to do this to you again, but…”

A sigh fills the room. You know what’s coming. It’s par for the course with him lately. “Something’s come up, hasn’t it?”

“Impromptu meeting with the board, they’re still a little wary about the clean energy deal, you know how these suits can get.” He gives a speedy reply.

You slump back into your chair, your hand already armed with a face wipe, dragging the wet material across your downcast face. A smudge of black smears down the corner of your eye. You draw out the silence so he knows how unhappy you are with this sudden change of plans. A tactic you’d perfected since childhood.

After a beat, you answer him, “I can’t say I wasn’t looking forward to our dinner, but we all have jobs to do and Stark Industries pays the bills.”

Tony exhales and you can practically envision him pinching the bridge of his nose, “Look, I could ask Pep to go with you. I still have the reservation and she’s almost wrapped up here.”

“No, that’s alright. Talk to you later Wonton.”

“Later and congratulations, I hear your closing night was a big success. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there in person.”

You stare into the mirror, glaring at the forced smile that you have on show for no one but yourself. You’re trying to make yourself feel better, but it isn’ working. “I’m a big girl, I can stomach a little disappointment. Now go save the world.”

You chuck your phone onto the dresser and finish wiping off the evidence that you had spent a good fifteen minutes doing your make-up. A yawn slipping between pressed lips as you grab your coat and bag off the rack.

Maybe Julian and the others haven’t left yet.

The sound of your heels clomping down on the polished floor is very pronounced in the dimly lit studio. A shiver runs up your spine when you realise how hauntingly empty the building is. You don’t like being the last one to leave. This place always carries an eerieness to it.

You knock on Julian’s door, hoping he and the others are still around, but the silence persists. With another sigh, you decide to give up on the prospects of doing anything fun besides soaking your raw muscles in an Epsom salt bath for the rest of the night.

Yellow ochre is the shade of colour that streams off the alleyway street lamps behind the theatre. Empty food cartons and discarded newspapers tumble in the cold breeze. The faint stench of booze and urine and cigarettes staining the walls.

An unsettling sensation sinks to the bottom of your stomach, and seeing as how you already ate earlier, it isn’t hunger gnawing at your digestive muscle. Clouds of mist form when your warm breath meets the chilling air, the hairs on the nape of your neck stand erect –prickling with static and something else. You brace your arms around your waist, tucking your chin under the cover of your upturned coat’s collar. It feels like something is watching you in the obscurity of dark corners.

Like second nature, your pace quickens, heels echoing even louder in the cold night air. To your utter despair, just when you are about to turn the bend -into the safety of light- rough hands yank at the straps of your bag, pulling you back into the darkness.

Your body hits the ground, hard. Skin grazed apart leaving a raw ache on your knees and now twisted ankle. Your head is cracked open when it slams against the sharp edge of a dumpster. A stream of blood courses down from your brow, covering one eye in warm, red liquid. You let out a yelp, pain going unnoticed as your fight or flight instincts kick in.

In the midst of your scurry, you hear, but don’t see, a person shout in a gravelly voice, “Gimmie your purse and your jewellery, now!”

You reach into your coat for your phone, but your shaky fingers are unable to get a good grip and regrettably, your phone lands screen-side down onto the ground. A cracking noise letting you know the screen has shattered and so has all hope of calling for help. The pounding in your brain gets stronger the more panicked you become.

The imposing presence hovers closer, a sickly energy surrounding his large frame. What is happening now is a more savage re-enactment of your ballet, only this time you are not the one in control. You cannot foresee the turning of events before they transpire because you haven’t rehearsed this particular dance with the devil.

Your stomach tangles into itself, bile and acid burning at your throat as you try to scream. All senses are rendered inert from the loss of blood. Your body convulses from fear as that shadowy figure staggers closer –his movements are crude, hindered by inebriated muscles.

Using what last few senses you have left, you brace your head and recline in a foetal position –waiting for the worst of it to pass while you cower under the flimsy protection of shivering arms. Then you hear a struggle. Faint echoes of a grunt born from pain and surprise. Profanity being bellowed out of a clenching jaw, and not too soon after, you hear a heavy thud. The kind that reminds you of bones hitting into metal. It’s quiet now, except for the rattle of rolling trash cans.

“Are you alright?” a strong, concerned voice asks. “Do you need me to call you an ambulance?”

You peek through the cover of your arms catching sight of an ocean trapped within a set of sad eyes, a gentle hand stretching out towards you.

“Who…” the world spins faster on its axis, taking you along for the ride. Mouth turning dry and raspy, you try your words one more time. “Who are you?”

“Bucky,” the stranger says as his arms pull you onto his lap, half his face illuminated by the cold artificial blue of his cell phone. He plucks the hairs sticking to your bloody face away as he dials 911. “My name’s Bucky.”

Then everything goes black.

 Tags: @hosiebarnes

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[spideycents]

B-Roll // Shawn Mendes - 2: quiet on set

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

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The first extras call for The Breakfast Club is posted almost a week after I apply to be a makeup assistant. It's the middle of the night on what is hopefully our second to last day of filming at this camp. The goal is to wrap second team shoots tomorrow night, then we'll be done, but we keep having to pause filming for stupid rain that won't seem to go away.

   During one of the rain breaks, we're at the top of the hill at the onset extras holding under a really large picnic pavilion. Everyone's on their phones or asleep or playing group games to try to stay awake. I'm spacing out and Michael's on twitter when Julie-Anne squeals loudly and shows us the casting call.

   "They're looking for high schoolers!" she says excitedly.

   "Sheet!" Michael sits up quickly and types fervidly on his phone.

   "Are you gonna apply?" Julie-Anne nods at me while she works on her own application.

   I shrug. "Later."

   "Why not now?" Michael questions me like I'm crazy for not jumping to apply instantly. "We've got plenty of time."

   I purse my lips. "I know, but my phone's in my jacket and I don't feel like getting it out right now."

   They both laugh and Julie-Anne says: "Mood!"

   They're quiet for bit while they finish their applications and find other days to apply for. The irony that we only ever get hired as teenagers when we're all in our 20s now. Extra irony that Julie-Anne is the oldest, but she looks younger than both me and Michael. I don't know why, exactly. We assume it's her round cheeks or the freckles, but we're not entirely sure. She claims she found the fountain of youth. I wouldn't be surprised since her whole family looks pretty young. Especially her mom and she's practically the spitting image of her.

"And done," Michael exclaims loudly and drops his phone into his lap. He falls back in his chair, flails his legs out, and let's his head fall back so he's staring at the ceiling, then he lets out a rather obnoxiously loud Dying Puma.

At least 20 heads turn and look in our direction. Julie-Anne and I both giggle wildly, but Michael's head is still tilted back, and his eyes are closed, so he's oblivious to the audience he's gathered.

"I have three left," Julie-Anne grumbles.

   "Bitch." Michael lifts his head and looks at her with super squinty eyes. When his face is as pinched as possible, that's peak judgement. "Gotta get that Verizon."

   She glares at him. He smirks. She sticks her tongue out him. He bends his right arm and twirls his wrist, then opens his hand and juts his chin out slightly. She flips him off. He flips her off too. She looks away. He tilts his head back again.

   It's basically the silent equivalent of an argument that goes:

   "Fine."

   "Fine."

   "Good."

   "Good."

   "Fine!"

   "Fine!"

   Then they both humph loudly and storm off in opposite directions.

   The most Julie-Anne and Michael ever do is stop looking at each other. It's okay anyway, their arguments never mean anything. They can't even jokingly insult each other without feeling bad about it. Michael was just joking once when she was throwing away everyone's trash for them. He told her that while she's at it, she should climb in there too. She actually tilted the trash can and lifted her leg to get in, for the meme, but Michael was already freaking out and apologizing because he felt that that was the meanest thing he's ever said to her. That happened eight months ago and he still brings it up.

   "I really hope we all get booked," Julie-Anne mumbles, but she doesn't look up from her phone. "And I hope we get to work with Shawn."

   "SAME!" Michael super exaggerates the word, turning each letter into its own syllable.

   The switch in language when talking about celebrities after you've worked with them, is so apparent to me. Other fans might say they want to see someone, we talk about working with them and mingling like we're co-workers. When, in reality, the most I've ever said to a principle actor was when I told Alexandra Shipp that I liked her shoes and she told me that costumes picked them out, then she walked away.

***

We wrap second team the next day and as we're pulling off the lot as the sun is rising, Michael plays One Last Time from Hamilton and as happy as I am to see the park get smaller and smaller in the rear-view, it's a little bittersweet.

   Michael leaves to go back home later that evening, after first getting a well deserved, and extended nap on my couch.

   It's a struggle, saying goodbye to him. Even if we don't know when we'll see each other next, the universe somehow finds a way to always bring us together every couple weeks. The longest we've been apart since we met was 23 days, and that was within the first few months of our friendship. Sure, we text and call and facetime and Skype and DM on basically every social media platform possible, all day, every day, but the separation anxiety is still so real. I'd say I have a panic attack about losing him and Julie-Anne every other day or so. It's exhausting.

   I still don't know how to tell them about all this shit in my head. They've given me so many opportunities, so many windows, and I keep not taking them. Being open and vulnerable with anyone is terrifying. I still have to work myself up for a few days, sometimes weeks, before I can tell my mom something and I tell her everything.

   "Sorry Dad."

   He's sitting at the breakfast table, painting with watercolors in one of his sketchbooks. He doesn't look up from his work while he speaks. "What are you sorry for, Rosie?"

   I smile slightly at my dad's nickname for me. He's been calling me Rosie or Rosebud since I was little.

   I wring my hands in my lap. It's a nervous tick I picked up from my mom.

   I shrug and drop my head so my chin is tucked into my neck and I'm staring at my hands. "Everything, I guess."

   Dad laughs lightly. "I'm going to need you to be more specific."

I'm not looking at him directly, but I can see him in my peripherals and he's watching me intently, but with kind eyes. Which is how he usually looks at me lately, unless he's mad, but that almost always fades within minutes. He started looking at me with those gentle eyes a few years ago. Whenever it happens, I feel like I'm six years old again, but not in a condescending way. I feel innocent. I feel cared for. I feel protected, safe. He looks at me like that and I feel like I'm home.

   I mean, I literally am home. I've been home for awhile, but that's beside the point.

   Today's different though. Today I don't deserve to feel warm and fuzzy. I deserve to feel small and weak right now, because that's where I am today. I'm 23 years old, I'm not in school, I'm broke, I'm unemployed, and I'm still living with my parents. I feel about as small as anyone could possibly ever feel.

   I scratch red lines into the back of my left hand. "I don't know." I shrug again. I shrug a lot. When you don't know things, shrugging's what you do, and I don't know anything.

   Dad rinses off his brush, then dries it and sets it down on a paper towel on the table beside his laptop. "Lyla," he sits up straighter and turns toward me. "Are you okay?"

   I don't look at him, but I nod. "I'm okay," I say a little louder than the whispers I've been at. "It's just a weird day."

   "Well, you know can talk to me about anything," he's quieter now too. Somehow our big kitchen now feels cramped. Like it's the middle of the night and we're talking softly so we don't disturb anyone.

   "Maybe later." I push my chair back and get up.

   "Can I give you hug?" Dad asks quietly.

I'm glad he doesn't stretch his arms out toward me cause then I feel like I have to hug him or than I look rude.

   "Not right now," I mumble and go up to my room.

   "I love you." His voice echoes up the stairs, filling the hallway. All our doors are closed so it feels like the sound just keeps bouncing back and forth. Even after silence has fallen, I can still hear his voice in my head and my ears ring with regret.

   I lock my door behind me and turn off the lights before climbing onto my bed. I pull my comforter around me and curl up into a ball in the back corner. I have a big bed so seeing all the empty space around me just makes me feel smaller.

   Nothing in particular happened to trigger this sudden onset bout of weirdness, but I guess that's how depression works. Some days are good and others are weird. I don't want to say bad, because they're not really. I just drift through them. I'm probably like this today because I've been non-stop for the past few weeks and now that Michael's gone, I've kind of hit a wall. I just need some introvert time to recharge so I can get all my energy back.

   It's funny to word it in that way.

   Recharging.

   It's like people are batteries and we spend our energy until we're drained so then we have to find a way to get all that energy back. I get my energy back from alone time or caffeine usually, but a good song or a good movie or book also helps, but that's mainly just to make me feel better. Spending time outside or eating a good meal or getting a good night's sleep is also extremely refreshing. But, so is a nice shower or a bath. Honestly, I find energy through lots of things. Even being around my friends or family when we're happy will help. It varies for everyone though, but whatever you have to do it's basically like plugging yourself into a wall until your angry red light turns into a bright, happy green one.

   Speaking of charged.

I unplug my phone and roll over so I'm facing the wall while I unlock it and scroll through my different feeds. I like some random Instagram posts from different celebrities and some wedding photos from someone I knew in college who invited a ton of our friends to their wedding, but didn't say a word about it to me. It's annoying to hear about your friend's engagement through a Facebook post, like everyone else they don't care about.

Yay.

I close Instagram and open Twitter.

My feed has been nothing, but angry political debates since 2016.

I've thrown my two cents into the void, but the only people who follow me are my friends and family and a few random One Direction fans from the good old days in 2012/ People rarely see my posts and I don't want to seek out people and start drama with them or respond to problematic tweets that I see from people I follow. A lot of people get really vicious and evil with their responses and I know I'm not the kind of person who can walk away from that kind of battle unscathed. There's definitely a war raging on the internet and I'll stick to serving as medic rather than a soldier.

I scroll a little farther down Twitter, but there's not a single happy or wholesome thing in sight.

I close Twitter and open Tumblr.

Thank God for memes.

As I'm scrolling, I catch a few South Park posts and DM them to my cousin, Esther, and I spot some Marvel things and share them with Michael, and then Shawn fucking Mendes appears on my dash.

Michael's right. I'm never going to be free of him.

It's a gifset of him lying half-naked on a couch.

It's a nice couch.

I scroll down to find another post about Shawn directly below it and reblogged by the same person too.

This is just one photo, a black and white still on him sitting on a bed. Subject matter aside, I have to admit that's a pretty good shot. The way the light's hitting him, the contrast of the shadows, the general composition...it's just really pleasing to look at.

I heart it and keep scrolling. A few memes and text posts and random quotes on nature photos later and I run into another Shawn post.

Another gifset and this work of art is a collection of moments of Shawn licking his lips.

Lovely.

Leave me alone, Mendes.

I close the app and lock my phone. I push it away and pull my blanket over my head. I lay there in the dark for a little, listening to my breathing and the faint murmur of my dad watching Seth Meyers downstairs.

My phone buzzes once.

An email.

It's probably spam, but I turn over and grab it.

It's from the movie.

I got the job.

I'm going to be working as a makeup assistant on The Breakfast Club remake.

I might have to put makeup on real actors.

I might have to work with Shawn Mendes.

I might have to put makeup on Shawn Mendes.

Oh my god.

—-

It’s cringey, but now it’s public so... *shrugs* Tell me your thoughts in the tags or message me.