#pretend the lipstick is soot

[very-feral-lesbian]

buck: how’d you guys know that me and tommy are together?

also buck:

[kekaki-cupcakes]

hi! hope you're well!

could you please do one where jason breaks up with Piper because he realises he's in love with reader since he was little?

like reader and jason are the bestest friends with mutual crushes but were too oblivious to do anything about it and the seven have to drop the fact that reader likes him back?

Thanks

heya! I combined this ask with someone who was asking for a Jason x reader songfic with the song Bad Idea Right? by Olivia Rodrigo <3

Romeo and Julieting---Jason Grace x reader [soundtrack: Olivia Rodrigo]

»»————-　★　————-««

“It’s a bad idea, Pipes!”

Piper pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. “You are going to go to their cabin, you are going to make them sit down, and you are going to tell them that you have a crush on them, okay? And then you can both have a cutesy little romantic moment or whatever you're supposed to do in a relationship, okay?” 

“What do you mean, ‘whatever you’re supposed to do in a relationship’?” Jason asked with a confused frown. He glanced up at Piper who was pacing back and forth as he sat cross legged on her bed, picking at her Olivia rodrigo doona cover. “We were in a relationship, like, five minutes ago.” 

Piper cocked her head at him with a raised eyebrow, “that didn’t count and you know it, now go kiss them!”

“Not with tongue though,” Leo added, slurping a juice box as he spun in circles on the chair by Piper’s desk. “At least not the first time, it’d be a bit over the top. I mean unless you’re into that I guess-” 

“What are you even doing here?” Jason asked him, not unkindly. 

Leo smirked and then became distracted by the make up box on Piper’s desk, pulling out a dark lipstick and uncapping it with wide eyes. He turned back to Jason, “oh I’m watching you fail at both of your relationships.”

Jason frowned, “I just got dumped, why are you making fun of me?” 

Leo twisted the base of the lipstick and then proceeded to lick it. He screwed up his face and put it away quickly. “You two forgot you were dating for an entire week, I had to remind you when you started drooling over a certain demigod that you already had a girlfriend.” 

“Okay, that’s fair,” Jason muttered. Piper chuckled and moved her things away from Leo’s curious grabby hands, quickly taking her eyeliner off before he tried to taste test that as well. “But… but I can’t just walk up to them and be like, ‘hey, you’re my best friend, wanna kiss?’”

Leo blinked. “Why not?”

Jason wasn’t sure how his friend was still alive, but then he remembered that Leo had died already anyway. Piper shrugged, “don’t blame him, he doesn’t know how romance or social situations work.”

“Hey!” Leo hissed, pointing at her with a contour brush he’d managed to find, “that’s homophobic!”

“How can I be homophobic?” Piper screeched, pointing to the rainbow flag pinned up lopsidedly above her bed, next to the hello kitty poster and the giant banner that read ‘i fucked your mum and all i got was this stupid flag’. 

Leo just stuck his tongue out at her. Then he turned to Jason. “If you don’t go romeo and juliet your way into a make out session, I will personally turn your stash of musk sticks into soot.”

Piper fiddled with her portable speaker, connecting it to the demigod proof phones Leo had managed to whip up in under three days after he discovered the Pokemon Go map reached CHB. “

“What do you mean Romeo and Juliet?” Jason asked.

“You gotta go up to their window and pretend it’s a balcony, Grace,” Piper said. SHe looked away from Olivia Rodrigo’s spotify and to the window. “It’s even raining outside. Perfect.”

Jason crossed his arms stubbornly, “I can think of a million ways it could go wrong.”

“Well I can’t,” Leo said as he started curling his eyelashes. The speaker next to him skipped a few beats and staticked it’ way through the music for a moment. Piper grinned. 

“It’s a bad idea! I’m not doing it!”

Seein' you tonight, it's a bad idea, right?

»»————-　★　————-««

Jason sucked in a breath and shut the Aphrodite cabin door behind him, hitching up his checked purple pajama pants and plodding through the dirt between the cabins lined up. 

Seein' you tonight, it's a bad idea, right?

Even if he didn’t work up the courage to tell you how pretty he thought your eyes were when you smiled and how endearing it was that you wrapped and arm around his shoulders every time you were walking together and how that thing you did with your tongue on your lip drove him crazy, he’d still get to see you. So technically he was just visiting his best friend, what was wrong with that?

Seein' you tonight, it's a bad idea, right?

Maybe the fact that if said best friend asked to kiss him Jason wouldn’t even hesitate.

Seein' you tonight, it's a bad idea, right?

»»————-　★　————-««

You pulled your curtains shut and waited for your younger siblings to finish putting all of their teddies to bed before the lamps were clicked off. After a few minutes, only the snores of your cabin mates and the rain on the roof were audible.

Hypnos dragged away everyone else in your cabin quickly, but you lay awake staring at the roof, your doona pulled up to your chin. A few polaroids were stuck to the walls next to your head, and the axolotl Squishmellow Leo had bought you for your birthday was in bed with you. You hugged it to your chest and shuffled around, trying to get to sleep.  

You ignored the first tap at your window, which was probably just a Harpy checking everyone was tucked into their beds and not planning to sneak out. 

The second one however, roused you from the warmth of the blanket Annabeth had crocheted as she discovered her skills with weaving. You paused in front of the window, sitting cross legged on your pillow. Whoever it was outside tapped again, so you pulled back the curtains and peeked out with narrowed eyes. 

A grin spread across your face before you could help it, and you heaved the frame up, poking your head out into the night to whisper shout. “What are you doing dude? It’s pouring!”

Jason blinked up at you with soggy hair and muddy pajamas. He plodded through the puddles up to your window. Luckily he was tall enough that you were eye level when he hopped onto a little boulder. “Um…”

“Gimme a second,” you muttered, and crawled out of bed to the shoe rack by the door. Avoiding the floorboards you knew would creak, you hopped back into bed and slid the pink spotty umbrella through the window, opening it up above Jason. 

He smiled, the scar on his lip twisting. You restrained yourself from reaching out to touch it and instead held the umbrella for him. “Is there a reason you’re Romeo and Julieting?” 

Jason eyes were wide and pale blue, like the sky behind a thin veil of clouds. “How am i the only one who- never mind. Uhm… I need to tell you something. 

The rain made it hard for you to hear whatever your best friend was muttering, so you beckoned him closer with a confused smile, “yeah? Did you forget how to use the toaster again? Because honestly I don’t know why you’re opposed to Leo just-” 

“Because of hygiene, for one,” Jason started, “but that’s not why I’m here.”

You gave him a second to think, not used to the genuinely fearful look on his face dripping with rain you hoped wouldn’t turn to tears. You didn’t really know where this was going.

He took a deep breath, his fingers curling around your window sill. “If this goes wrong, please blame Leo and Piper.”

“I could blame them for anything, and I’d be right.” 

Jason ducked his head and spoke to the ground. “I kind of… really like you. I’ve liked you for a long time, actually. I didn’t realize for a while, but it’s sort of…Yeah. It’s you.” 

So it wouldn’t be Jason crying, you realized. It would be you. 

You took a second to try that deep breathing thing someone had told you about, and smoothed out the front of your mickey mouse pajama shirt, blinking rapidly. The reality hadn’t really set it, you were in a sort of shocked state, so you tried to talk before you burst into tears. 

“Uhm,” you said weakly. “I think you might’ve forgotten about your girlfriend again, Jase.”

He went pale. Then he started shaking his head like a wet dog, which he sort of was, really. “No, no not like that. I mean, yeah I like you like that, wait- okay. Piper broke up with me, like five minutes ago, and-”

You took another deep breath and then handed Jason the umbrella. He took it with a lost expression, and you shut your window quickly, breaths turning as shaky as your hands. You were your childhood crushes rebound. You sort of wished you hadn’t opened that window, actually.

Jason tapped again, a lot quicker this time, and urgent. 

Ignoring him was the obvious choice, but that felt too kind. You yanked open the curtains again and then the glass, sticking your head out with a sharp glare. “I will not be your rebound-”

“She broke up with me because of you.” Jason blurted as soon as he realized you could hear him. 

He paused then, and you took in the holy depressing sight that was Jason Grace in dirty pajamas standing outside your window in the middle of the night, rain and tears dripping down his cheeks. “Well, not completely. We never really liked each other, it was all because of Hera, really. We just, well… neither of us could be bothered to figure out our feelings so we stayed together.”

Jason looked down at the ugg boots covered in grass and soil he was wearing. You were pretty sure they were Drew’s. “Apparently she got sick of me pining over you, so she dumped me so that they could make me come here and well, yeah, tell you.”

You blinked in shock for probably too long.

“I don’t wanna make you do anything, and you don't have to say anything, ever, actually.” Jason said quickly, with only honesty on his cute face. “You don’t have to keep being my friend, if you don’t want to, but I won't be weird, I promise. We can pretend this didn’t actually happen. I just sort of wanted to tell you, so I didn't have to hide it forever, I guess.” 

“They?” You asked.

Jason glared in the direction of the Aphrodite cabin. He spoke in a hollow voice. “It was an ambush. There were no survivors.”

You grinned, and then reached out into the pouring rain and held the umbrella, your hand over his. Jason whipped around with red cheeks and a frozen expression. “Uh-”

“Jason,” you began softly. “Did you want to Romeo and Juliet me?”

He blinked. 

“That means come here so I can kiss you,” You muttered, and dragged the son of Jupiter closer by the front of his shirt. Jason’s eyes widened and he made a shocked little sound.

He hopped back onto the boulder and reached up to your window sill though. His eyes were that bit lower than your own in that way you knew exactly what he was thinking and of course you’d oblige. 

“Just c’mere,” you whispered, trying to hold in your smile. Jason leant forward eagerly, and you held the umbrella in one hand tightly, the other sliding up to cup his jaw. You’d wondered what the scar on Jason’s lip felt like. 

Turned out it was just as soft as the rest of him. 

You tilted your head as heat seemed to build in your veins, making your head light. You couldn’t help but pull him closer, if that was even possible, and kissed him firmly. He made another odd sound and opened his mouth slowly.

From what you’d heard from your older siblings, kissing was awesome. You’d always thought it sounded a bit gross though, I mean, someone elses mouth? Their tongue?

This badly timed badly worded fucking adorbale boy in front of you proved that theory wrong. Jason threaded his fingers through your own and you leaned further out the window, drawing him back in and pressing your mouth deeper into his own, lungs burning.  

“Oh my gods,” Jason croaked, opening his eyes a little when you finally pulled away, gasping for air and trying to straighten out your thoughts. 

“Oh my gods,” you agreed, slipping your hand around the back of his neck and holding him close, fingers fiddling with the baby hairs there. Jason grinned, his cheeks as red as his lips. 

“Oh my gods! Go Jason!”

You both turned to see Piper and Leo cheering from behind another cabin, holding a barbie umbrella between them. 

Jason blinked at them, and then turned to you, “I told you, it was an ambush.” 

»»————-　★　————-««

[candiedspit]

Hypochondria

Tomorrow it will be all champagne and light and that deep undercarriage of a voluptuous sadness; a forever pang. Tomorrow my tide will turn into oblivion and I will walk as I was meant to walk with the others snubbed by time. Tomorrow it will all be over with. Tomorrow, thirty. I say it with a touch of my teeth.

I have built a little life for myself; a light box. 

I have black, gnarly cigars in the afternoon as I read The Post, pretending I am a business man waiting on a very important call. Any minute, the white house. My mouth tastes of rye and soot. And in the evenings, I pair my cigarettes with a tall, beaming glass of hot milk. I spend my time well. I go out on the rooftop naked as a seal as my laundry hangs from pink plastic clips and dries in the upheavals of a great wind. Nobody sees me aside from the sun, that glorious bastards in his spins of heaven. I walk from corner to corner beneath a pair of violet sunglasses; I love only mangled hearts. My latest rose was an inmate at the penitentiary. His name was Mark. In photos he sent, he is dark haired and tall and with the face of someone who would walk on a tightrope for the chance to be held. That Bukowski nose. He loved honey bees, the glean of a sharpened knife and the idea of me. 

I spritzed my letters with vanilla perfume and admitted my sins in ballpoint. I’m a bad whore, I confessed once. Just the muddied technicolor slick coating the streets once the rain has passed. A dream you had as a child, sick in bed with dengue. 

Do you ever get so sad you can’t walk? He asked in return. 

I never replied again. 

I taped the letter up above my bed where it still rests. He sent one last letter a few weeks later which simply read: Darling? I couldn’t bring myself to answer him, his glaring question. I often dreamt of him and I in a tugboat. In the dreams, we danced against the backdrop of a wondrous moonlight, free as animals. I miss him as one misses childhood. But to the plains you can never return. He touched me with his ink. But we could not have lasted. He was in for fifteen more years. He never told me what he had done. Just something awful. 

In the photos I sent him, my hair is bleached and cut three inches above my shoulders. I stare into the camera as though it could love me. But nothing ever does. I don’t deserve him. Or anything much. I’m a Leviathan, a creep. In the very pit of my soul is a desire for carnage. I would hurt you given the chance. And I would not look back. As a child, my mother told me I ought to be a starlet. But I have nothing to offer. She must have mistaken this cruelty for attraction. If you scooped your hand into my skull, you would come back up with a fist full of dirt. So, I keep myself away, tucked in corners nobody can reach. 

For the last ten years, I have worked as a telephone girl, someone men call when they are unable or unwilling to allow themselves the grace of touch. When a mere voice is enough. I am fast, quick and easy. I say all the right things. No hang ups, apologies or arguments. I speak, tease and hang up. I call them sweetheart and leave. My hours are from ten in the evening to four in the morning. The sea of men beckons through the night: Fonda, Fonda, Fonda! My name is the sound the mind makes in a silent room. 

My apartment is speckled with porcelain cats and bras and orange wigs and sheer curtains and seashells and emptied pill bottles. I drink from long glasses. I do not do the dishes. 

Ruby wants to take me out tonight. 

Ruby is my only friend, someone I met at a karaoke bar at eighteen when I was all pleated skirts and lipsticks and mangos. When I hadn’t yet realized how deep my black root ran. Ruby is a beautiful person. She works in a cafe, has many friends and does many things. But each week she carves out hours for me. Sometimes we talk shit for hours, the words babbling over themselves. Other times, we sit in front of the television like infants, dumb and silent and content with light and noise. 

Ruby is due to arrive soon. 

I put out my burning cigarette and rise from the velvet of the couch and put on a fresh pot of coffee. I dress myself in a simplistic black dress with stretched stockings covering my pink, smooth legs. Chandeliers hang from my ears. As I straighten my hair again, the doorbell rings out a penetrative aria. And suddenly — Ruby is there in an olive green dress coating her body like the prettiest of cellophane. Her hair is especially red, burning through the daylight like the first fire from which humanity was birthed. In which humans realized exactly what they were and imagined what they could be. Her naked shoulders are exposed and smattered with freckles. I kiss her on the mouth and she steps inside.

We are going to the ballet. For a few hours, we will sit in the midst of a crowd and watch the thin, elegant dancers twirl and leap and stagger through the bliss of music and lace. Mozart will play overhead like some kind of dream. And in the morning, the world will be over with.

Let some light in for Christs’ sake, Ruby says, getting up to split the curtains open. Sunlight blasts through the room like the shine of an atom bomb. 

I should not have let myself live. 

[harryspet]

rogue angel [5] bucky barnes

[Warnings] dark bucky barnes x reader, forced age regression, dd lg dynamic, angst, fluff, panic attack, extreme violence

A/N: Lots of both angst and fluff in this one! I made myself cry a little while writing this lol. Enjoy!

series masterlist

word count: 2.7k

The abandoned warehouse smelt of ash and fire, it’s walls covered in soot. Bucky scowled as he took in the scene before him. Sam was standing over the dazed man, his foot having just landed a kick to the man’s stomach. 

“Hard to find,” Another kick, “But easy to take down.”

“Sam,” Bucky sighed, “He’s down, okay? Thank you.”

Sam stopped, taking a look at his friend. Something was different about him. Bucky was usually moody but, after seeing him for the first time in weeks, he couldn’t help but noticed that something had changed. For now, he couldn’t tell if it was a good or bad change. 

Sam knew about you, of course, and he’d spent awhile trying to convince Bucky not to take you. You knew now how that turned out. 

Still, Sam was as loyal as ever.

The man groaned, struggling in the vibranium handcuffs wrapped around his ankles and wrists. He spat blood onto the concrete and then whispered some curses in Sokovian. 

Bucky crossed his arms, “Who’s looking for her?”

The man chuckled, choking a bit on his own blood. He was middle-aged but his hair was completely silver, his face so scratched and burned that even Bucky was struggling to look at him. If gore was a person, this was him. 

“You think you’re the only one with a score to settle with that one?” 

Bucky didn’t have a score to settle. He only wanted to help her but, if the crowd this man ran with thought it was the opposite, it was a good thing. 

“Who?” Bucky continued, his patience wearing thin. 

“She’s killed hundreds of people including my wife. Unlike you, Barnes, she’s going to pay-”

“She’s been brainwashed,” Bucky countered, “Hydra was the enemy so you should give up on your little plan for revenge. She’d probably kill you faster than either of us could anyways.”

“I don’t care,” The man spoke through gritted teeth, “I’ll look into those eyes if it’s the last thing I do.”

Bucky wouldn’t let that happen, not when you’ve come so far. You were finally starting to adjust to the new life he had planned for you. He’d protect you like Hydra never could. Bucky reached into the waistband of his pants, pulling out the black pistol he had stowed away in his truck earlier. 

The sound echoed through the warehouse and the forest surrounding them as the bullet entered the man’s leg. The man screamed, the terror evident in his scarred face, as Bucky cooly lowered the gun, “Tell us who you’re working with and I won’t send you to hell with your wife.”

Bucky felt no sympathy for the man. It was likely his wife was a low life just like him. 

Sam could handle blood and gore but not this version of Bucky. Bucky had been a killing machine when they first met and didn’t take killing lightly after his recovery. Sam knew that something had to be seriously wrong for Bucky to go this far. 

“Fuck!” The man cried out, unable to provide himself any source of comfort in his tight bonds. He cursed some more in Sokovian and Bucky felt nothing seeing him in pain, not when he was trying to kill his little angel. 

As Bucky lifted the gun again, the man spoke, “I’ll see Rogue Angel in hell then. She’ll die soon anyway-”

Bucky fired and the bullet landed precisely between the man’s eyes. Bucky moved to walk away and Sam hurried after him, “What the hell was that? I spent all week tracking him down!”

“He either wasn’t going to tell us anything or he didn’t know anything at all,” Bucky stated firmly, “We have to move on. Follow another lead.”

“Is she really worth this much trouble, Buck?” Bucky paused, facing his friend. 

“I appreciate everything you’ve done, Sam. I just ... ��� Bucky’s voice trailed off, his anger starting to boil over as he tried to search for the words that wouldn’t make him come off like an asshole, “Yes, she’s worth it. I can’t let them get close to her.”

Sam nodded, understanding, and Bucky was eternally grateful for it. He was so on edge at the moment and now he was regretting even leaving his little angel. 

+

“Rory?” 

The boy set the princess crown on top of your head, adding more accessories to your new look, “Yeah?” His tongue was out, a focused look on his face, as he began to add small stickers onto your cheek. 

“Does … d-does your Mommy ever punish you?”

Rory snapped out of his daze for a moment, looking at you with one of your yellow bows in his short hair. You were sitting on top of his bed and he stood in front of you, “Sometimes,” He spoke as he placed a star sticker on your cheek. 

“What does she do?” You continued. 

“It depends,” You noticed his face was turning red, “I like some better than others. I don’t like spanking and I don’t like going to time out.”

You nodded, understanding. Bucky had yet to spank you and your punishments usually ended up with you tied to your bed, “Does she touch you … down there?”

Rory blushed even more, “On my little boy parts? Yeah but I like those punishments.”

“You’re okay with it?” You looked up at him with a furrowed brow, “It doesn’t feel weird?”

“It feels nice,” Rory nodded, grinning, “It kinda hurts when she keeps going after I … you know but it’s worth it. Even when she doesn’t let me … you know, she lets me touch her mommy parts and cuddles me after.”

He spoke so casually that it made your eyes widen in shock, “Oh.”

“You don’t like it when your Daddy touches you?”

You immediately shook your head, “Of course not,” You answered quickly and Rory frowned as if you had rejected his feelings with your words, “I mean, I don’t think so. It’s just weird.”

“I used to feel the same,” Rory spoke honestly, turning your head so he could give you earrings. They were plastic, clip-on, and had fake red rubies but Rory thought they suited you, “Most of the time it doesn’t really feel like a punishment because I know how much my Mommy cares about me. I never had anyone like that before her.”

You thought about it for a moment. Bucky punished you because he cared for you? Like most of this situation, it didn’t make much sense to you. 

You could tell Rory liked playing dress-up with you and part of you didn’t mind looking so pampered. It was like how you enjoyed drawing, you were expressing your creativity. As you pretended to put lipstick and blush on Rory’s lips, you imagined he and you were going to a ball together. Like the party in the movie Frozen with lots of royalty there and fancy dresses.

“Hey, kiddos,” Wanda entered the room, a white apron on her hips, “Don’t you two look pretty!”

“Mommy, look!” Rory’s face seemed to light up at the sight of the young woman, “I did her makeup, see!”

“I can see that,” Wanda nodded, coming closer to where you two sat on the twin-sized bed, “You did such a good job, baby.”

You watched him become extremely bashful, it almost made you smile, “Thank you, Mommy.”

“I did his makeup too,” The words left your lips faster than you could stop them. Why did you say that? You didn’t need her praise?

Wanda’s eyes widened with both surprise and joy, “Wow, Bucky told me you were an artist but I didn’t think you were this good! Great job, princess,” Part of you was satisfied that she had recognized your work. 

You used to go on mission after mission, killing and getting back unscathed and you never got a pat on the back for that. 

“If you guys are done playing dress up, what do you say we go make some desserts in the kitchen? 

+

You’d never baked anything in your entire life but Wanda and Rory were there to walk you through every step. Wanda would get all the materials together and then allow one of you to add it to the mixing bowl, “Mommy, can I show Y/N my big boy trick?”

Wanda grinned, handing the boy a brown egg. Rory looked for your reaction as he cracked the egg only with one hand without getting any shells in the mixture, “That’s really cool,” You spoke shyly but Rory beamed at the compliment. 

The two seemed to work together despite the fact that you knew Rory didn’t originally come here willingly. Both their eyes lit up in the presence of one another. Watching it … was nice. You wondered if you’d get to that point with Bucky … Before you could think about it for long, Wanda’s voice interrupted your thoughts. 

“Why don’t you try cracking it against the table, darling?” Wanda handed you an egg of your own and you took it hesitantly, “Tap it gently a few times and then slowly open it.”

You did as she said, exhibiting the most patience you had in your entire life. As you made a small dent in the egg, you held it over the bowl, letting the egg drop into the bowl, “You did great!” Rory exclaimed and a small smile spread across your face. 

Baking allowed you to only think about the task at hand, not what tragic thoughts your mind usually wandered too. 

The batter you and Rory made ended up going into a tin cupcake tray. This was the first time you could remember even being around sweets for the longest time. Being a supersoldier meant keeping your body in peak physical condition and sweets were never apart of your diet plan. 

After waiting for the cupcakes to bake and cool off, you were back at the kitchen table decorating them. Rory chose to layer his cupcakes with ten layers of icing and sprinkles. You went the route of pink icing and slices of strawberries that you used to make cute designs. 

You were so into decorating that you almost hadn’t noticed Bucky had returned. He was a little disheveled but, ultimately, grateful to be gazing upon you. 

“There you are, Bucky. We’re almost done decorating,” 

He immediately kissed your forehead, lifting your body so he could move in the chair beneath you, seating you firmly on his lap. Your kept your face stoic despite that beating in your heart. You simply grabbed another cupcake and began to ice it. 

Bucky took in Rory’s appearance, assuming you had something to do with it, “It seems like today’s been a fun day.” Bucky touched your waist and, out of the corner of your eyes, you noticed what you assumed was gun residue on his fingers. 

“We had to get ready for the ball,” Rory confirmed and Bucky grinned. Wanda was right about this being a good idea. You looked more comfortable in the new dynamic. 

“I’ll grab some Tupperware so you can take your cupcakes home, darling,” Wanda walked to the main part of the kitchen. 

Rory slumped in his chair, frowning, “Mommy, does Y/N have to go home today? She hasn’t seen Toy Story, I wanna watch it with her.”

Wanda returned with the plastic container, swiftly handing it to Bucky, “It’s a long drive back, baby, so they have to leave soon. We’ll have another playdate soon.”

Rory crossed his arms, tensing up at the idea of his new friend had to leave. You had to admit too that this was the most fun you’d had in a while, “You and your Mommy will come to visit us next time and I’ll build a campfire for us and … guess what?”

Rory perked up at Bucky’s words, “What?”

“We’ll make s’mores and you can meet our puppy, Archie.”

Our. There was a lot of weight on that word.

“He can do lots of tricks,” You confirmed, much to Rory’s delight. 

“Woah! Mommyyyy,” Rory whined, “Can we get a puppy too?”

+

After a long drive home and a bath, you waited on Bucky’s bed for him to return from the shower. He’d helped you into a fresh pull-up and a red onesie that said: “Daddy is my superhero” in white letters. 

You held Lucy in your lap as your eyes gazed around the room. It seemed Bucky trusted you enough to leave you alone like this and, part of you wanted to prove that you could be good and that you wouldn’t run at the first option. That part of you liked that Bucky trusted you. 

Maybe you were worthy of someone’s trust. 

You slid off the side of the bed, dragging Lucy with you as you gained your balance. You could hear the rain hitting the roof and the house rumbled as lightning struck in the distance. You didn’t mind the rain but … the storm was another thing. You put one foot before the other, using your weak legs to the best of your ability. 

You approached the window across the room slowly, pulling back the red cream colored curtain in order to look outside. It was like you were looking into the abyss. It was pitch black outside and you could barely even see the outlines of the forest. 

You stared up at the dark blue sky, your breathing starting to get heavy. The black clouds seemed to gather together before lightning ripped through them, the white zig-zag line was closer than you expected. 

The booming thunder came next and your body tensed up as you fell back. 

“Shock her again.”

“I need them. I-I need my family.”

“Again.”

Bucky was running a towel through his hair when he heard the thud. He dropped everything as he rushed from the bathroom, finding you laying in the fetal position by the window. You were gasping for air even though there was nothing blocking it from you. 

You felt no control at all and the terror seemed to flood every part of your body, paralyzing you. “Y/N, breathe in and out. You have to breathe,” Bucky kneeled down beside you, his heart racing, as he saw that fear in your eyes. He knew you were having a panic attack, he’d gone through so many himself, often by himself. He wanted to be there for you because no one had been there for him. 

“Again! Shock her again!”

“In and out,” He showed you what to do, breathing in and out himself. 

It took you a long moment but you finally started to catch your breath, “I-I betrayed them,” You spoke shakily, starting to hyperventilate once again, “They’ll kill me! I betrayed them-”

Bucky laid down beside you, and you stared back at him, “Breathe, please breathe,” Bucky continued, reaching over to wipe your tears,  “I’m not going to let anyone hurt you, Y/N, I promise.”

“I-I can ...  protect me.”

“You don’t have to anymore,” Bucky assured you, reaching to grab Lucy who had fallen to the side. He placed her in your arms and you gripped her to your chest. “I’m going to take care of you. I know you’re scared, we live in a scary world, but Daddy’s going to protect you.”

“I …. I didn’t want to hurt those people …” 

Bucky understood what was happening, all the realization was hitting her, “Of course you didn’t. You’re a good girl, angel.”

“I-I’m good?”

Bucky nodded, his blue eyes seeming to soften, “You don’t have to hurt anyone else.”

You stared at him for a long while, taking in his every feature, and your gaze met his lips. You leaned into him, and Bucky grabbed your waist, sliding you closer to him. As another bolt of lightning lit up the dark room, you pressed your lips to Bucky’s. 

As he leaned into you, Bucky noted how your lips were soft, curious, and inexperienced. 

When you opened your eyes and pulled your lips away, Bucky had a soft smile on his face. He’s wanted to do that with you since he found you in London. Your face was unsure but you knew one thing. You didn’t want to be alone tonight. 

“C-Can I … Can I sleep in your bed, Daddy?”

“It would be my honor, princess.”

+

Predictions for the future? Imagines? 

if you’re in the mood, send me a “get to know you” ask or check out my recent drabble!

[henryholmesacademia]

Predilection Chapter Two

A/N: I just wanted to thank you all real quick for all the notes on the last chapter. It means so much to me! Here is chapter two I really hope you enjoy! I also think I will TRY to update every Friday. 

The woman sighs as she presses a hand to the windowpane to admire the moon. Glass cold under her touch from the bitter air of the night. The city of London is displayed out in front of her. Street lamps were being turned off for the night, as were the lights that shone through the other windows. Even cities had to retire at some point. 

She revels in the small rush of adrenaline this afternoon gave her. Seeing him again, made what one could have considered flutters in her stomach if she ever had those in the first place. Unlike her acquaintance, she did on occasion show her emotions. One could even say that she “wore her heart on her sleeve” as it was. But she’s learned how to keep up a face. Only let others see what she allows them. It makes her job easier, it helps appeal her skills to potential employers. This employer, especially. 

She heard the creak of the floorboard from in front of her room that she rented. The sound of the paper scraping the bottom of the door as it moves from the hallway into the room. While it was not a calling card from her “favorite player”, she was not any less disappointed with the simple words written on the page. 

Limehouse. Tomorrow. 

Well then, this should be fun. 

—— 

Miss Harrison was a lady by no means delicate, but still, the utter stench of the alleyway had her gagging as soon as she crossed. She covered her nose and mouth with a hand as she had given her handkerchief to Sherlock last night. Well…she slipped it in his pocket in hopes of toying with him. Her favorite sport. 

The lock of the door catches her eye, as there was no lock and the rest of the wooden place looked to be hanging by a single beam. 

“Good gracious!” She exclaims looking at the damage. “This is well above my pay grade.” She mumbles as she squeezes in between two fallen pieces of wall. 

Getting dirty was a daily occurrence in her job, she was not immune to it. But she refuses to believe that in only a minute of walking through the door she is expected to get her new white gloves, courtesy of a recently widowed Lord, covered in soot. 

The half-burned book is one that she does need to properly dispose of, the wooden crates need to be broken apart further than they already were, and the science equipment out in the open truly needs to be made scarce. These ladies were attracting too much attention to a cause that needed the element of surprise. 

Her cleaning expedition takes her longer than she thought, and given the sound of the creaking floorboard getting louder, she wasn’t the only one sent here. She makes her way to what was left of the back of the location and fixes her appearance in the reflection of a broken mirror. Using a piece of mirror that was on the floor, she uses it to look behind the doorway to see who her soon-to-disappear guest is. 

She would recognize those broad shoulders anywhere, so what business does Sherlock have with this? She takes a moment to fix her lipstick as well as dab some of the sweat that accumulated on her brow, and after she checks her pocket watch, she concludes she has a few minutes to torment him. 

“Well, well, well, Mr. Sherlock.” She moves from behind the barely-there wall. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say you were following me.” Her smile can only be painted as smug while she clasps her hands in front of her figure, having made sure to remove her scoot-covered gloves. 

“Did you do this?” He gestures around to the nearly empty room, oblivious to her flirtation as always. How typical of men. 

“No ‘hello’?” Her eyebrow quirks up, but she catches his stern look and decides to tell him the truth. “This is not my work, Mr. Holmes. This was the state I greeted it in.” Well, some truth. The walls are still in the same condition she found them in. 

“I find that hard to believe.” He states. “This is very different from the way I left it when I came earlier.“ 

"Returning to the scene of the crime, were you?” She walks closer to him. “Believe me, Mr. Holmes-" 

"I have a hard time doing so.” He cooly responds as his hand drags against the wooden table. 

“And he comes with a bite!” She feigns shock at his response. “Mr. Holmes, I can assure you that this is the state I found it in. I was just as shocked as you when I first found it." 

"What are you doing here?” He inquires while looking at the now empty table. 

“I was looking for someone if you must know. I assume you are doing the same." 

"Who are you looking for?" 

"I could ask you the same question.” She counters. “You can’t help but ask what a missing marquee would be doing here. Unless it’s not the marquee you are after." 

"Good day, Miss Harrison.” He tips her hat. It seems she had hit a sore subject. 

“I can help you.” She offers. “It is what I am doing for my employer. Whoever it is you are looking for, judging by their connection to this location, has to have some relationship with the person I am looking for."  

He stops on his way out. "Thank you for your generosity, but I must decline. Excuse me." 

"Mr. Holmes, with all due respect, your talent lies in solving mysteries and I specialize in finding people.” Not to mention putting an end to them. “You work alone with nothing besides very few inquiries, while I have endless contacts and acquaintances.” She reasons. “The person you are looking for, are they worth the time that could have been avoided if you would have accepted my help?" 

"Stubborn woman.” He mutters under his breath. 

“What is stubborn about knowing what you want? I know that this is a case that I want to help you with.” She walks over to him and straightens his tie. “Mr. Holmes, tell me you have not forgotten what a great team we make." 

He gently removes her hand from his tie. "I try to forget." 

"Oh, how your words of indifference wound me.” Her teasing voice contrasting with the faux look of sadness on her face. She makes her way to the door. “Are you coming or not, Mr. Holmes?" 

——

"You are being awfully quiet.” The young detective looks up at the voice that calls him from across the carriage. “You have always been the quiet sort, but I thought by now you would have been interrogating me." 

"I have no patience for questions that go unanswered.” He answers, honestly. He knows the young woman in front of him to be mysterious, flirty, and too modern for her own good. Or rather his own good. The detective knows of her games. He’s found himself on the receiving end of them plenty of times. 

He observes the countryside passing through the window and thinks to himself how her games have improved if she is now able to pay for carriages instead of stealing train tickets. His train ticket if we want to nitpick. 

He then observes his companion, the closed-lipped smile on her face as she pulls out a pocket watch, his pocket watch. “Quite a pickpocket you are. I nearly had forgotten." 

"I took it as a keepsake, Mr. Holmes. It felt as if you were always with me.” She holds it closer to her figure so that he would not try to take it back. “For the next three minutes, you can ask me any question you would like and I have to answer honestly." 

"You have done this before and you never gave a satisfactory answer. The statements were only truthful because they were broad answers without substance." 

"And you remain aloof as always. Every one of those answers was on a need-to-know basis. You asked me when I was returning, and I replied that you would be aware of when I returned. Were you not aware?" 

"After how many days? How long were you in England before you decided to start your game? Before you sent your inner circle of people to torment? A week? A month?” His voice was getting louder toward the end of his accusation. 

“None of this is a game, Sherlock! I do not know what else I could do to prove that to you!” Her eyes close as she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and index finger. 

The remained silent for a few moments, her using his first name did not go unnoticed but he did not choose to acknowledge or dwell on it. 

Sherlock breaks the silence first. “When I asked you why you were running away…" 

She looks at him, both sadness and fondness in her face as if she was replaying the moment in her head. "My answer was truthful." 

And there they left the conversation. 

Silence fell upon the carriage with the only noise being the driver’s commands to the horses and the stomping of the hooves. 

——

They arrived later that afternoon to a small, quaint inn. An elderly woman greets them and compliments them on their appearance as a couple, saying that their children would be beautiful. 

Before Sherlock can disagree with her forwardness, his companion links her arm through his, giving a smile and a small ‘thank you’ as she takes the key and gently pulls on his arm with a ‘Don’t stand there all day, my dear.’

Sherlock is surprised at the size of the room. The quality of the bed with all of its pillows and embroidered blanket. No expense seemed to be spared at the cost of decorating the room with high-end lamps, antique furniture, and quite beautiful light fixtures.

While he knew his companion never struggled or wanted for money, this was beyond the price he remembered her being able to afford. He had not heard of a death in her family for her to garner an inheritance. She never spoke much of her employer. Never gave any description or revealed any useful knowledge. 

"It is easier to get around if we pretend to be a happily married couple. No one will try to stick their nose in our business.” She gets her bag from him and places it on the bed. “This brings back so many fond memories. Don’t you think, Mr. Holmes?" 

"That was only one time, it was very long ago, and we agreed to never speak of it again.” He can’t help but feel as if he had forgotten something. A factor of some sort. He can’t quite put his finger on it. 

“I have never forgotten.” She smiles. “Now, let’s talk about dinner." 

——

"This is why I do not travel with companions.” She hears him mutter as he flips his watch out and places it back in his pocket. So much time was being wasted waiting on their dishes. “What information can be gathered here?” She had dragged him out to a very elegant restaurant with a very spacious dining room. Every woman wore an elegant, no doubt imported, evening gown while every man wore a tailored suit and tie. 

“My dear, Mr. Holmes, there is so much knowledge to be obtained here. Once you get some food in your stomach and a glass of alcohol in you, you will see I am right.” She reaches over and pats the back of his hand reassuringly. “I would have thought that you out of all people could have known what information could be gathered here.” She leans closer to him over the table and whispers in his ear. “In a room full of high society’s best. The only people who think their secrets matter when in reality the cook knows more than the husband who is having an affair, the widow who killed, or the child who spent their inheritance for the wiles of the world. These people, Mr. Holmes, have power and leverage as well as their weaknesses. You just need to prey on the right one." 

She returns to her seat when the server comes and places their plates in front of them. The detective looks around, to try to see what she has taken notice of. "Is that why you ran away from this life?" 

"Running away requires fleeing from something that you are afraid of. I am not afraid of a life of pearls, having a maid wait on my hand and foot, or having a husband. I just simply choose not to have it. I would much rather be here having dinner with you. You make for a wonderful companion, unlike the boring businessman I would have sitting in front of me if I did marry." 

"I do not believe he was a business-" 

"By the door, a man just walked in who owes me a favor. Go and give him my name, he will help you find who you are looking for.” Her eyes seemed to dart toward the powder room. “You speak with him while I go and powder my nose." 

"How will he-" 

"Believe what you want, Mr. Holmes, but trust me when I tell you that he will help give you the information that you need to find whoever it is you are looking for. He will not speak to you if I am here, when you finish speaking to him, go and wait for me outside of the powder room. Now get up, and go offer to buy him a drink." 

For once, he seems to follow her orders and he is able to gain some information, but it piqued his curiosity about why the man’s face resembled that of having just seen a ghost when her name was mentioned, and immediately began looking for the woman. After the exchange, he waited for her near the wall of the powder room. One woman passed in front of him and she gave him a glance of indifference out of the corner of her eye. Unusual, but not uncommon. Until his companion arrived and seemed to be placing a paper in her bag. She looks up in shock to see him. "Done so soon? How many drinks did you give him? He never gives information that easily.”

“What are you hiding in your bag?” She had wanted him to not see it. What else is she hiding from him?

“My heart. Which is why it is so small. Shall we finish dining?” She tries to step away from him, but he stands in front of her again. 

“What are you keeping from me?” He blocks her passage. For just one weekend, could she not be honest with him? 

“Both everything and nothing, Mr. Holmes. Now let me through." 

"You said you weren’t playing a game. If we are to be partners, you need to tell me the truth." 

"Let me ask you a question, have you told me who you are looking for?” She raises an eyebrow.

“You haven’t told me who you are looking for either.”

“Then I guess we both are hiding things from each other. We both acknowledge it, now let’s put it past us." 

"Because that went so well-” he is cut off by her hands being placed on the sides of his face and pulling him down to meet her lips. Her hands tangling themselves on the hair that reached his neck. His hand went to her waist to steady himself.

Sherlock heard a scoff and the rustling of fabric before she pulled away. 

She smooths the front of her dress while he is standing there, just mildly confused about what had happened. 

“Well then, shall we go finish eating?” She leaves him there, only calling after him over her shoulder. “Are you going to stand there in shock all night or are you going to come to eat?" 

They are silent during dinner, the only noise being the sound of silverware scraping their plates. The ride back to the inn being as quiet with them looking in opposite directions. 

It wasn’t until the young detective arrived at the room that he finally figured out what was wrong with the situation. 

There was only one bed.

——

A/N: I am a fanfiction writer, I couldn’t not use the “there was only one bed” trope! Until next Friday, lovelies!

@maan24​

[colonel-insomniac]

So there’s not that much anywhere for Patbob Spongerick, and while it is not necessarily mentioned outright, I decided to take it upon myself to add to the community. Let me know what you think!!!

——————————————

“You’re just too good to be true, can’t take my eyes off of you…”

Bobby Porous danced to Frank Sinatra’s cover of the song I Love You Baby. In his mind, the music was all pinks and greens, flowers and their leaves, maybe a little hint of gold, too.

He’d been listening to the song on a loop for the past hour and a half, and so consequently, his hair was sticking slightly to his forhead. The strands pressed to his forehead had turned from their natural shade of burnt orange to a coppery kind of red-orange admist the sweat.

“At long last love has arrived, And I thank God I’m alive…”

Bobby supposed that it wasn’t really dancing; he mainly was jumping around his living room, spinning around the room, and weird arm gestures that weren’t really anything. He was having fun though, and really, that was all that mattered to him.

It’d been a couple days since the volcano incident, and Bobby tried his best not to remember those two days, and preferred to push them to the back of his mind. He had to deal with the nightmares at night, on his own. But he had Gary, so maybe he wasn’t really alone. The day the volcano was supposed to erupt, he told the citizens of his beach town that he wasn’t scared, that as long as they had each other, they’d be fine, but he was terrified. Sandy looked like a shell of her former self, Patrick looked scared and stayed as close to Bobby as he could, his hand seeking out some sort of contact from him. As for Bobby, he just knew his face was smudged with dirt and soot, streaked with tears and sweat.

He wasn’t sure where that left him with his friends, when they didn’t burn alive. Yeah, they’d held the concert in celebration of not…dying, and even Edward had praised Bobby, but he wasn’t sure what was happening in the world around him. After the concert ended, he managed to slip away while everyone was distracted, and hid himself away in his home. After those two days, he needed the alone time, and since then, he hasn’t left the house. He hasn’t turned on the TV, or checked any of his messages, or updates on social media, nothing.

And well, here he is, trying to heal from the horrors of facing his mortality. He’d downloaded the song to his phone as a result of the echoes of the song in his head, the earworm whispering the tune as he hummed along to what he could remember of the chorus.

“The sight of you leaves me weak, there are no words left to speak…”

And so he danced. Not good, but no one was watching him, so what did it matter?

Thoughts of his best friend just kept flooding his mind, and thinking of Pat with Sinatra’s singing made Bobby feel a desperation that just kept clawing at him. It made his heart beat faster, and made him feel like he needed to go to Patrick. He so badly wanted to let himself loose, running until he reached Pat’s house, just two houses down. But everytime he got to the door, he couldn’t bring himself to open the door just yet.

God, it left him so conflicted, and every single time, he had to take the music with him to the bathroom where he just sat under the spray of hot water. It killed the mood, leaving Bobby numb. It didn’t help that his phone screen lit up with a message from Pat at least once an hour. Bobby’s stomach churned with nerves mixed with the longing to respond and just invite Pat over, pretend that nothing happened. He felt guilty, though he shouldn’t, and it made it almost impossible not to cry.

“Oh pretty baby, don’t bring me down I pray…”

Three and a half knocks on a door echoed through Bobby’s house, a code between him and Pat, so they knew it was the other. For a split second, Bobby forgot that he gave Pat a spare key, and hoped that maybe Pat forgot, too. He wasn’t ready to face him yet.

But maybe Bobby’s luck was all used up when they defeated the volcano, when the heat licked Bobby’s face in waves as he dropped the Eruptor Interrupter into the bright orang-yellow lava. Bobby reaches out of his curled postition and reaches towards the faucet, and makes the water searingly cold. It soothes the phantom heat when he thinks about that day.

Footsteps grow louder outside, and Bobby knows from the gait that it has to be Patrick. The shower curtain jerks close, but only after his sweet Gary hops onto the ledge at the back of the tub, away from the water.

“Now that I’ve found you stay, and let me love you, baby, let me love you…”

“Bobby?” Pat’s voice rings in Bobby’s head, the first voice he’s heard in days, apart from his own and Sinatra’s.

Bobby’s breath catches in his throat, a dry sob. “Are you okay, buddy?” Pat asks, approaching the curtain but sitting on the ground and leaning his back against the tub.

“Yeah.” his voice is a whisper, probably inaudible to Pat over the sound of water hitting the floor of the tub. So he repeats the word a little louder.

“I haven’t…you haven’t talked to me in days and I was—scared. I don’t know what I thought but…I wouldn’t blame you if you’re still mad at me, you know?” Patrick’s thoughts stumble over each other in Bobby’s mind, tripping over one another as he tries to get to the one that’s most important to him.

“I’m not mad.” Bobby says, simply, knowing he won’t leave it at that. Bobby’s been told he has issues with being quiet. “I just….” He trails off, thinking.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. Just thought maybe I oughta stop pitying myself when you didn’t reach out to me and check on you face to face.” Pat sounds unsure of himself, and it makes Bobby’s heart splinter.

“It’s just that it’s been hard, since…y’know, and I can’t stop thinking all the time.” Bobby lowers his head and rests it on a knee, watching the water lap at his toes before going down the drain.

“I wanna hold you so much, at long last love has arrived…”

A hand appears in the tub from the outside, and Bobby’s eyes focus on that, knowing that the hand belongs to Pat. Hesitantly, he reaches over and places his small hand inside his best friends bigger one. Bobby always thought their hands fit like pieces in a puzzle, they belong together, whether it be as best friends or more. Bobby thinks he’d be scared to take that leap, if it came to that.

“Jeez, Sponge,” Pat uses his nickname for Bobby. Sponge, because he takes everything from everyone— “your hand’s freezing. You have to get out of there before you die.”

That manages to tease a small laugh out of Bobby, because even he knows that isn’t possible. “It helps.” He replies when Pat turns the water off. He’d had to search for a bit before he found the faucet, probably because Pat didn’t wanna invade Bobby’s privacy like that. “I always feel like the heat from the volcano is still searing my skin.”

The curtain is flung open, and a towel chucked his way. Bobby notices Pat is looking straight up at the ceiling, away from Bobby. That scares Bobby, and makes his eyes brim with tears. Bobby tells himself he’s being irrational, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling. He buries his face in his towel and wraps it around his freckled body when he’s dry. Only then does Pat look at him for the first time in days.

“I love you baby, and if it’s quite alright, I need you baby…”

“Bobby, look in the mirror, your lips are blue.” Bobby glances at his reflection and immediately thinks of the Coral Blue Number 2 Semi-Gloss Lipstick, a joke from the time he, Squidward, and Mr Krabs went on a celebration vacation. He smiles slightly at the memory, a wisp of a good thought crossing his face in the mirror.

“Bobby?” He shifts his eyes towards Pat’s reflection, listening. “Go get dressed. You’re naked and in a towel.” Pat states, and Bobby smiles, the first one in days. Gary follows close behind as Bobby takes the brief walk to his room, and throws on the first pair of PJ shorts and shirts that his hand touches. For the first time in what seems to be forever, Bobby doesn’t even care if they match or not.

“Star?” Bobby calls out to Patrick, the nickname slipping out of habit.

“In the library.” Pat’s voice calls out. Spongebob honestly doesn’t know how he managed to get a library in his house, but it definitely was the most expensive part of his house. He wanted to create a space that felt safe, while also allowing him to keep up with his obsession with collecting books.

Bobby notes how filled the shelves are, a couple spaces left. It makes him wonder what will come next, after all this.

“Trust in me when I say…”

He doesn’t want this to be it for him and Pat. They came this far, and Pat was likely still beating himself up over leaving Bobby in the first place. There’s no reason he shouldn’t just forgive Pat right now.

It’s been days, he needs to make up his mind.

“So….” Bobby starts, unsure of what to say, but knowing he was only slightly uncomfortable.

Patrick doesn’t say anything, just opens his arms. An invitation.

Bobby feels as though time has frozen. He wonders what would happen if he walked away now. Was time actually frozen, or were things processing slowly, just like when Pat saved him on the volcano?

This is a decision that Bobby knows will either reinforce their feelings or have them walk away, on two separate paths. This is a leap, not a step, not a jump. It’s a leap of faith, and like Sandy said, “If you wait, it’s too late, you’re defeated.”

It’s like trying to jump over a chasm. Terrifying, heading into the unknown.

Bobby walks forward, towards Pat. As soon as he’s able, Pat’s arms wrap around Bobby, whose cheek rests on Patrick’s chest. Pat rests his chin on the top of Bobby’s head. Suddenly, it’s as though Bobby knows that it’s okay that not everything is fine.

“I’m so sorry.” He mutters to Pat.

“You don’t need to be, buddy, I was the one who made the mistake, not you, and I promise that I’ll never do it again.”

Bobby feels his face warm up, and finally, finally something else other than guilt and desperate sorrow fill him. He hugs Pat tighter.

When they separate, they find their hand is holding the others.

Bobby bites his bottom lip in thought, eyebrows scrunching together as Pat looks at him, curiosity laced in his eyes. Eventually, Bobby nods, a small smile gracing his face as he shares what he imagines Sinatra would agree with—sharing music means you need to project it from what you’re feeling.

Bobby sings the song this time, imagining the music surrounding him, finally bringing the color back to the world.

“And let me love you baby…”

“Pat, I love you.” Bobby says, when he finishes the final note.

“Love you too, Bobby.” Pat replies, smiling when Bobby stands on tiptoe and places a kiss on Pat’s cheek.

“Let me love you….”

[khali-shabd]

Oli and Poorvi

“Did you hear? Apparently, that kid Kernfell tried to ask Samantha out last night. It was fucking hilarious! Look, I even video taped it!”

The iPhone screen lit up with moving pixels; muffled, erratic sounds coming out of its tiny speaker. A gaggle of cruel supermodel girls surrounded it, giggling uncontrollably at whatever heartbreak they were witnessing. They were all tall and pale and secretly broken, finding some twisted respite in the pain of dejected boys. The girls gazed them walking past with glazed over eyes, forming an impenetrable force field around their little group, one that nobody ever dared to cross.

Among them, though, was an odd one out. Brown skin instead of pale, shorter than the rest, less cruel than the rest. Tired, tired brown eyes that tried to light up like a phone flashlight, instead of the forest fire they were meant to be. Trying to be lesser than they were capable of. Trying hard, too damn hard, to remain behind the force field. But all of this was hidden behind the surface, behind the porcelain mask she threw on to be invited to the party, to be as much like everyone else as she could be. Her eyes left the screen for a moment, traveling around the hallway unprotected. Then they steeled, and she focused on the screen again, a hard laugh leaving her mouth a second after it left that of the other girls. It wasn’t real.

Oli knew this because she had seen the softness, the vulnerability, the kindness hidden within her; and because she knew that the girl did everything she did to simply survive. Yet, Oli couldn’t help but turn away- disgusted- and stalk off to her classes, since she gave more of a damn that she wished she would about Poorvi’s life.

***

Olivia Carter had grown up right across the street from Poorvi Gupta, silently watching as the latter grew up. What else could she do? Olivia had seen it all, from the very beginning to the very end.

She had watched Poorvi when the two of them were just starting school, mesmerized by the other girl’s infectious laugh and sunshine smile, never daring to approach the radiant angel who intimidated timid Oli with her unfiltered happiness in everything she did. Poorvi had noticed the quiet girl who hid behind walls, with pigtailed red hair and shy blue eyes, but she just couldn’t understand why she always ran away with her red hair flying whenever Poorvi tried to approach her. After a two, three attempts at befriending her, she gave up. Everyone always did. A six-year-old only has so much patience.

Olivia had watched from the back of the classroom at school, when Poorvi flitted from person to person, buzzing with energy, filled with enthusiasm for the beginning of a friendship, and school and God knows what else; her crest falling only slightly when some of the girls didn’t respond. Still, she moved on, her amaranthine excitement magnetic. By the end of the school day, she had the adoring attention of nearly half the class on her, and Oli had nothing but cold nothingness to accompany her. But Oli pretended to be what she wished she could- Poorvi’s best friend, like Abigail Lee. Still, it made her happy, in some screwed up way, that Poorvi was happy, although it was in a time without prejudice, when they were nothing but what the adults told them to be. Sadly, these carefree times were never to last.

Olivia had watched, at the age of eight, when Poorvi came home crying for the very first time. She had seen what had happened at school, and like the coward she was, she had simply watched as Abigail Lee’s older brother had spit out vicious words, his face twisted into a snake-like leer as he made fun of Poorvi’s skin. It was a pretty russet, smooth and beautiful like the rest of her- but he found that disgusting. Oli couldn’t fathom why he would think that- but she still had a lot of hard truths left to learn. The girl had stared at him, ashen but brave, refusing to back down. Then a teacher found the boy shouting down at the little girl in the hallway as he picked up his knee-bruised little sister from the nurse’s office, and took him to the principal’s office. Poorvi had immediately run to the bathroom after that, nauseated. Oli didn’t see her until much later, when the girl wiped the tears off her face, and plastered on a smile to greet her parents at the house. If Poorvi noticed Oli watching, she didn’t say anything about it.

She had watched as Poorvi came home crying more and more often, too sensitive and easily reached for her own good. But Poorvi also kept getting better at hiding it.

She had watched as slowly Poorvi changed, from the idealistic, unaffected child to a hurting adolescent, plagued by whispers and rumours and idle talk spilled carelessly out of the lipsticked mouths of her ‘friends’. Poorvi remained the dream girl, of course, but the dream girl had nightmares. She lost herself to them. She wore what they wore, said what they said, acted the way they wanted her to- she became a mirror with no sense of self. But Oli had seen the spark in her eyes first, and she knew that no fire that bright is extinguished like a candle-flame. Oli could still see the Poorvi that she remembered, hidden deep within the the chocolate brown eyes of this one. The Poorvi she remembered still came out on warm, starry nights to paint the light she exuded with swift, precise strokes of a paintbrush. Once, when they were thirteen, she caught Olivia watching from her own balcony- their sad eyes met for a brief second, and the universe ceased to exist. Then Poorvi looked away and the moment passed, forgotten.

They were sixteen now. Olivia was still watching as Poorvi came home from prom, a glittering tiara on her head, wearing an emerald green gown, giggling with Chloe Hudson and Daniela Lopez. They ran up the stairs of the deserted house, emerging at the terrace with cigarettes and a lighter in hand. Olivia could only watch as she took a long drag, poisoning her lungs with the toxic smoke, exhaling the black particulate matter and leaving it to mingle with that of her friends. She thought Poorvi saw her that night too, through the haze of soot, when her eyes wandered to the window of the whitewashed home in front of hers, lingering on the heartbroken face looking out from behind it.

[queenieschronicles]

Vide Cor Meum

Thomas Shelby x Reader

Summary: What would a man do to protect his family, wealth, and business? Marry his daughter off to Birmingham’s most ambitious: Thomas Shelby.

Word Count: 2760

Warnings: N/A

A/N: I hope you enjoy!

Part II Part III Part IV

You threw a smile over your shoulder as the two Carrol brothers said their goodbyes and promised to be back tomorrow. You waved and closed the door behind you. Before turning to face your father, you adjusted your dress and put on a straight face.

You took a seat across from him. You pressed the warm cup of tea to your lips. Your father gave you a peculiar look; you smiled at him with your eyes. He folded his newspaper and set it on a silver tray standing by.

“Have fun in the gardens?” He inquired.

You nodded, playing with the hem of the white tablecloth. You were always entertaining neighbors. Where young, single girls lounged about, young, single boys came to seek fun.

“Emma and Jane truly are wonderful company.” You took a bite of a biscuit.

He sat back in his chair,” Yes. Well, we have business to discuss.”

Your brows furrowed. Business was usually left up to him and his board. You couldn’t even pretend to know what this was about.

You remained quiet and let him collect himself. You wondered if someone had died or maybe one of your sisters had had another child you were to be the godmother to.

“You’re going to marry Thomas Shelby.” He stated firmly.

Your head tilted forward. You gave your father a look of disbelief. You expected him to start laughing and reveal his big joke. Instead, he held his good posture and the look of solemnity.

“The hell I am!” You protested.

“You are of age, (Y/N). I’m not waiting for either of the Carrol boys to ask for your hand. Besides, you have a duty to this family.” He took a drink of his tea.

“Is that what you told Cornelia and Victoria when they were getting married?” You glowered.

The dynamic between you changed. It was no longer diplomatic. You watched as your father set the cup down and shift to face you straight on. You knew what was coming next. He wasn’t going to ask you nicely. He wasn’t giving you an option.

Anyway, no one defied Thomas Shelby and lived. Your father wouldn’t be the first.

“Your sisters married in a timely fashion. You’re taking your time. Well, the clock is ticking and it has finally chimed. Thomas will be coming for the party tonight. In fact, it’s been set up as your engagement party. You’ll be married tomorrow.”

You gave an obedient nod in reply. Removing yourself from the table, you exited into the hall. You climbed the stairs feeling as if you were weighted down by lead. You entered your bedroom and sank against the door when it shut.

You always imagined growing old in this house. You never had plans to marry. You would always have companions. There was no need for a husband. The quiet country life of Highbury was all you needed.

Then Thomas Shelby happened. You hadn’t even remembered the last time you’d seen him. Perhaps it was London or it was Cheltenham races. You hadn’t a clue. You only knew that your father and Thomas Shelby had gotten along infamously. You had danced with him. You had been hit on by his brother John and complimented graciously by Arthur. You remembered his stoic, stern features and his ability to hide what he felt. You remembered your sisters being head over heels. He was also the only man who had ever made you feel like you didn’t hold all the cards.

You stripped yourself on your way to the bed and sprawled out. You thought yourself into a deep sleep to which you wouldn’t wake until the maid came to fetch you for dinner. You promised to be down shortly.

You slipped out onto your balcony in your robe to check the weather for the evening. You slid your hands along the smooth stone until you were flattened against it. You smiled as the fresh air filled your lungs.  Nothing could compare to this bliss.

“You’re going to catch a cold wearing that.” His voice was smooth and smoky.

Your heart leapt wildly. Your eyes widened. You caught him looking over from the balcony over. He had one hand in his pinstripe pants and the other held a cigarette firmly. You hadn’t expected him to be here already.

You pulled your robes tighter around you feeling terribly naked.

His striking blue eyes took in your bare legs and followed the curves of your body to your face. A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.

You hadn’t remembered him looking so handsome.

“You see, the cold already took your voice.”

You scowled. “I can speak just fine thank you.”

A flicker of amusement lit his eyes. He drew a short inhale of his cigarette before ashing it over the side of the balcony.

“As for your concern of my health, I’ll be just fine. I’ve been out here in far less and survived. And if it’s the exposure you’re worried about, you’ll see far more of me when we’re married.” You retorted.

A self-satisfied smirk highlighted his strong cheekbones. “I’m looking forward to it.”

A knock on your door caused you to jump. You closed the balcony doors behind you as you went to answer. It was your mother to fetch you for dinner. She brought you a pale pink dress for dinner and the party. It had an overlay of lace and fringed at the bottom.

She left you to get ready. You freshened up and applied lipstick to your lips. You approved of the reflection in the mirror and left for dinner. All the eyes on you made you a tad uncomfortable, but you held your head high and strode to the empty chair next to your sister.

Thomas regaled a triumph in France and a time before the war. You listened vexed as your sister praised him for his courage. You busied yourself with your food.

“How do you like your room, Thomas?” Your father asked taking a drink of his scotch.

“It’s charming. It has a stunning view.” Thomas watched you over the brim of his glass.

You choked, your spoon clanking against the bowl. Everyone’s eyes were on you. You gave an apologetic smile and took a drink of water.

You stared at him. He smiled back at you. Your family carried on talking about the marriage and the plans for the wedding. You and Thomas drowned them out. A silent conversation ensuing between you. He was so sure of himself. You were no threat and that bothered you. You promised to be a challenge. He wasn’t so easily deterred.

“Where are you thinking of holding the wedding?” Your mother cut in.

“There is a church near the house I bought us that I thought might be nice. I was going to wait to share the news, but I was hoping we could have the reception at the house after the ceremony.” Thomas smiled pleasantly.

You watched him with scrutiny. He was self-assured and charming. You could see why people were entranced. He had sharp cheekbones and striking eyes that stood out from his dark tresses. He was polished and mannered. He didn’t look like a boy from the ash and soot streets of Birmingham.

You slid into self-preservation as the wedding conversation continued. You wanted nothing to do with it. You were relieved when Weston came in to announce the guests were arriving. Your family began to stir from their seats. You were at the door when your father stopped you.

“(Y/N), Thomas will escort you.” He reprimanded subtly.

You waited until Thomas offered you his arm. You took it, gently letting your fingers curl around his arm. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear,” You look beautiful tonight.”

“I didn’t earlier?” You pressed.

An urbane chuckle sounded from him. You glanced at him catching the beautiful smile he wore. You refused to warm up to him. It wasn’t going to happen. You would allow yourself to think he was handsome.

“Beautiful is only one way to describe how you looked earlier. Other words come to mind though: seductive, wicked, appetizing…” He whispered.

Your lips upturned deviously.

You took your time introducing Thomas. People were surprised and congratulatory. Many wasted no time in expressing their shock that Miss (Y/L/N), would ever get married.

“You’re behaving better than I expected.” He handed you a glass of champagne.

“I was told to move to Hollywood. They said I’d make a brilliant actress.” You took a sip.

A minor twitch in his jaw betrayed the amusement he felt. That and his expressive eyes which were softer than you were used to. He knew he would have his hands full with you. This marriage wasn’t going to be what he expected.

Thomas noticed someone approached from the corner of his eye. It was a burly man with blond hair. He had broad shoulders and soft brown eyes. Thomas noticed your smile become soft and wide. He narrowed his eyes on the stranger.

“Elliot Carrol, I didn’t think you were going to be here tonight.” You took the hand he offered you.

Elliot pressed a kiss to the back.” Miss a (Y/L/N) party? Leland and I could never do that. Besides, we heard the news.” His brow quirked in curiosity.

Thomas pressed a hand to the palm of your back. You released Elliot’s hand and pressed yours to Thomas’s chest.

“This is Thomas Shelby, my fiance.” You swallowed the word. “Tommy,” you crooned,” this is Elliot Carrol.”

Thomas looked down at you and then to Elliot. He shook his hand,” It’s a pleasure, Elliot.”

Elliot nodded,” It truly is. How long have you known our (Y/N/N)?”

Thomas smiled, his hand wrapped around your hip, pulling you into him. “I’ve known her for years. I met my (Y/N/N) when we were teenagers, then again in our twenties, and most recently in London. We’ve a long history. I’ve always known she was going to be mine.”

Elliot’s fists tightened. The two men sized each other up. The tension rose instantly. This wouldn’t be your mess if you weren’t the one getting married.

You laughed to diffuse tension,” Oh, I’m sure that’s not true. I’ve always been such a handful.” You leaned into Thomas and squeezed his shoulder. His hand tightened around your waist possessively.

Elliot smiled at you. You watched him with tender fondness.

“You are a delight, (Y/N).” He watched the band start up over his shoulder. He offered his hand again,” As old friends, may I have this dance?”

You felt Thomas tense beside you. You watched Elliot feeling those old feelings you always had. The Carrol brothers had been your neighbors since you were roughly seventeen. They had been nothing but kind and fun. You spent many days here and there listening to them tell tales and talk of life.

Momentarily, you forgot you were to be married tomorrow.

You took his hand and he whisked you right out of Tommy’s grip. His hands replaced Tommy’s, but they were familiar and warm.

“Just one dance.” You decided mostly for yourself.

Thomas’s jaw clenched. His eyes narrowing on the bumbling oaf and you –his fiancée – dancing with said oaf at your engagement party. Thomas didn’t share. He wasn’t going to share you with any man. He downed the rest of his champagne and watched you carefully.

You laughed, leaning closer to Elliot. He made it easy to be comfortable. He made it easy to have fun. You smiled over his shoulder until you saw Thomas. Everything blurred except for him. He stood crystal clear in a three-piece looking like the grim reaper.

You were inexplicably drawn back to him. Your grip on Elliot’s shoulders weakened. You tried to offer Thomas a smile, but he just watched you. You rested your head on Elliot’s shoulder to hide from him.

The music slowed. You pulled yourself back from Elliot. You felt an overwhelming feeling of guilt. Tommy might have been partially right about your history. You couldn’t stand the thought of marrying him. Or maybe you couldn’t stand the thought of marrying your equal. Elliot went to grab your hand again when Thomas reclaimed it.

“Excuse me, Elliot. I’m going to steal my girl for a dance.” He pulled you into him.

You went willingly. Your arms automatically reaching his shoulders. You stepped into him with ease. His hand flexed possessively on your waist. You leaned your head on his shoulder and focused your eyes on his white dress shirt.

“What is Elliot to you?” He studied the crown moldings of the room and the baroque wallpaper.

Your grip on his hand weakened. He tightened his, reminding you not to let go.

“He’s a neighbor.” You answered softly.

“Is that all?” He pushed.

“That’s all.”

His hand hooked around your waist, his finger splaying. You closed a nonexistent space between the two of you. Your hand moved farther up toward his neck.

“I won’t share you.” He didn’t skip a beat.

“You won’t have to.” You murmured quietly.

The two of you danced in a tranquil silence. You pondered why you disliked Thomas so badly. He killed people. He was a criminal. One of the first times you met him he had dirt on his nose. You tried so hard to remember why you didn’t want anything to do with him.

“You can’t see Elliot anymore. Or any other man pining after you.” The music died.

You stepped back to look up at him. His eyes were dark. There wasn’t a hint of amusement on his face or a glitter of admiration. His jaw was taught. His lips were pursed. His blue eyes were calculating.

As if dancing could make you forget who you were, you narrowed your eyes.” I’m not just business Thomas. I’m a person. You’re not going to tell me what to do and who I can and can’t see.”

For show, you entertained the room with a curtsy and you walked away. You wanted no part in this. You had been perfectly fine being an old spinster. You were happy to marry off all your nieces and nephews. You weren’t going to have a man tell you what to do.

Thomas caught your arm in the vacant hall. The force jerked you around until you were looking at him.

“You don’t get to walk away from this.”

You tore your arm away,” Watch me.” You turned and marched up the stairs.

He was hot on your heels.

“You’ve been given to me.” His tone hushed.

“I’m a fucking human, Thomas, not a damn mantel piece.” You shot back.

“Would you fucking listen? This marriage wasn’t won in a poker game.”

“Oh no? Was it forged under some blackmail? Maybe some laundering or threats.”

You turned a hard right when you reached the top. You could feel him closing in. He grabbed your hand this time and yanked you to the side. Your back hit the wall. A dull pain reached into your shoulders.

Thomas pressed your waist back and supported himself with one hand on the wall. “You think I would do that?”

“What else then if not?”

“I’m making a good business. I may not have the cleanest hands, (Y/N), but I didn’t force your father’s hands. I didn’t threaten him.”

You held his gaze waiting for some crack in his lies. All you saw was a solemn honesty.

“We’re getting married tomorrow whether you like it or not.” He stepped away from you.

“This is business, Thomas. Just like John and Esme. So, why? Why marry me?”

Thomas looked at you,” Some questions are better left unanswered.”

He began to walk away. You stepped in front of him and put a hand on his chest.

“Don’t you walk away from me! Tell me!”

He lifted your hand,” Go to bed, (Y/N). It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.”

You sank back, retracting your hand. You glared at him and stomped to your bedroom. You immediately felt like a child throwing a tantrum. He was so composed and put together. You burned with embarrassment.

You stripped down and put your pajamas on. You sat at your vanity and stared at yourself. It finally hit you that you were going to leave all of this. Tomorrow you would be in a new house with no one but your husband. That, in itself, was the strangest idea.

You brushed through your hair and crawled into bed. You squeezed your eyes shut hoping tomorrow wouldn’t come.

[takingthisworldbystorm]

Burgundy Wings

The city streets of Los Angeles are best when dark and cold. The rainbow puddles mix with dust along the concrete and Koreatown is alive with a drunken murmur, and you embrace a certain familiarity with a constant screaming in the distance, usually about god or money. The flashing lights of the city burn green to yellow to red and no direction points home except for a vandalised sign reading “The Ash” with an arrow going down the street into a blackened alley between the Korean family-owned convenience store and a Carl’s Jr. where a teenager holds a fistful of ripped pieces of yellow construction paper. “Tickets are five dollars,” he says to the stout girl before him with uneven bangs and a cigarette hanging from her lip.

She shifts the methanol aside with her tongue and holds a cold stare forwards, biting down on the filter as she pulls out three dollars and eight quarters from her tan jacket pocket. The boy pretends to count the money over again as he ushers her past him towards a chipped red door with a burn-out neon sign nailed to the front. She could hear the music screeching from even before she opened it, loud and experimental and overflowing with a distortion reverberating against the manilla walls. The band at the front holds the microphone too close and each of their instruments seems stained with a waterproof mascara she recognises from the other night. At the back is a single barstool balancing on crooked floorboards, hoisting up a man with black gelled hair and torn up oxfords. He holds a flask kept in a hollowed out bible and lets his fingers rap against its spine in rhythmic sync with the drummer’s excitement. He seems to hum along as if he’s heard this sound a few more times than anybody else in the room would ever care to.

He’s the first thing she sees when she walks in, and she can’t help but take note of the bright red tinge on the end of the cigarette behind his left ear, ash falling to the ground against the floorboards. Without thinking, she puts out her own on the sleeve of her jacket and drops it in an empty water bottle labeled “Anna”.

The bassist has his solo now and engulfs the room with an unwanted exhilaration that tells her to walk forward into the crowd jumping violently to the melody, movements a nauseating blur that parts to either side to let her pass until the blast comes to an abrupt end with the windmill of a guitar chord.

Silence follows as she stands there, isolated as tall bodies obscure her view of anything but the cigarette-eared boy as he stands and walks forward with his fingers tracing along the wall.

A figure on her other side slumps against her shoulder just as the burning red fades to nothing when he takes a turn behind a black curtain. Startled, she turns around to face the reason she’d come at all.

“Hey, Emerson.” Behind her is a large girl in Doc Martins and an orange pixie cut, eyes winged even and dark in an unkempt hello. Trix holds out her hand to meet Emerson’s, calling her by last name, with the other still slung around her neck. “Took you long enough.”

“The subways don’t run every ten minutes this late at night.”

“But you still came.”

“Show me I made the right decision.”

“Of course you did. I know you hate going to bed early in that shitty apartment of yours.” Trix twirls away from her and unravels her arm to reveal an unopened bottle of cinnamon whiskey. “I’m gonna make you forget everything you don’t want to remember.” Emerson looks at her and smiles.

“Your life is a cliché.” 

“You live for it.”

Emerson rolls Trix’s sentence around her tongue for a moment. Live for it, she thinks. She exists for the promise of living, and maybe that’s not nearly enough for the world, but it’s everything she knows how to fight for anymore —really, she almost says, there’s nothing left to live for except the days blurring into nights blurring into the taste of absinthe on the tongue at six in the morning. Nothing to live for except the smell of cinnamon.

Every moment, every drink, every breath she took choked in a chaos that made living something palpable, something tangible. It seared through her blood and made the tips of her fingers numb, apologising to a world hell-bent on its beauty rest. Last night when she found herself on Trix’s motel floor with a faded memory and a gummy bear bottle filled with multicolored pills to last week when a stranger bandaged her knuckles with masking tape and strung-out cotton balls to last year when she had awoken next to a rose, a rainbow tie, and a card reading, “I don’t care about the church” addressed to her with fragile black ink all over the petals; it was a life —though mostly forgotten— made unforgettable. She lived to wake up with the taste of blood in her mouth and to pray it was her own.

“I’ll be back,” she says.

Trix stands back with her mouth slightly agape in response to Emerson’s nonchalance towards the liquor, though she quickly finds comfort in her unpredictability when she sees Emerson’s gaze fixed on a pair of oxfords on splintered hardwood.

He’s on stage, bible in his pocket and taking note that the microphone heavily smells like beer. He flicks his eyes over the room and holds it close, no doubt leaving lipstick smudges.

Emerson listens. He’s a terrible singer. The song is kept at monotone and she recognises a hoarseness in his voice that’s been lying to the world in trying to convince it that it was Billy Joel. 

“He’s good.” Trix says, twirling again and pouring herself another drink.

“He’s alright.”

“He can play.”

“I can play.”

The song lasts for a long two minutes, followed by another two after two until the sight of blaring lights finds refuge in the the absence of sound, another anxious clapping evolving into applauding screams. He curtsies, tucks his hair behind his ear and briskly taps his way offstage while the drummer throws himself into the arms of the audience. 

She finds him outside near a dark puddle and a dampened wall. Rusty rainwater drips from the bricks and onto the alleyway like an installation at a contemporary art museum. He moves the cigarette from his ear to his lips, staining it with his lipstick. He leans against the wall with his hand folded into the arm of his sweater, scraping soot into drawings with his toe against the concrete as a couple wearing plaid walks by. 

When he sees her, he looks down at his hand, balancing the filter between calloused fingers, and he smiles at his lipstick smudge.

“Burgundy,” he tells her, “is my favorite color.”

Emerson takes that as any as the invitation she didn’t know she was looking for, sitting down across from him and taking out her carton.

“These things will kill you,” she says as he leans in to light the one between her fingers with the one between his teeth, orange flecks flaring and falling into pavement.

“When I die,” he says, “it’ll be a bullet.” He exhales away from her, a courtesy. “A car crash. An overdose. A suicide.” He knows the way she’s looking at him now, so he keeps going.

“Something stupid,” he says. “Something preventable. Something my fault.”

She smiles, but not because she doesn’t believe him. “Sounds romantic.”

“It’s not.”

“They’ll write about you in history books.”

“That’s a thought. I’d like a chapter labelled Icarus the Insane.”

“Icarus,” she says, realising what he had said and extending her hand at his momentary shock in revealing himself. “I’m Emerson.”

“Emerson.” He mimics her in letting it roll off his tongue like a sugarcoated poison, taking her hand and pausing for the next drag to place the name on her.

“Icarus your stage name?”

“First name,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “What’s Emerson?”

“My last name.”

“It doesn’t suit you.”

“It is me.”

“It’s a name.”

“It’s my name.”

“What’s your first name?”

“Althea,” she says. “But Emerson means I came from somewhere.” 

He laughs.

“We all come from somewhere. This isn’t Sesame Street. We don’t all walk out on set fully formed and in costume and smiling at babies to grow up faster.”

“You don’t like Sesame Street?” She asks.

He shakes his head. “Everything’s too perfect. It’s a mind-numbing promise of some goddamn utopia. I want to believe it, I do, but that’s just not the world.” He pauses to exhale, masking the air with soft, winding billows. “I mean, shit, I wish it was.”

“I guess.” She looks at him, her inquisitiveness displaying itself as less genuine than she really was, although purposefully.

“Althea doesn’t suit you either,” he says. “I had a beta fish named Arun I won at a fair as a kid once.”

“So you’d prefer my name be Arun.”

“It’s Hindi —or Cambodian, or something. Translates to some meaning about the sun. Something about the reddish tint in the morning sky.”

“Call me Emerson.”

“What’s wrong with Althea?”

“That’s not me.”

“Well, then be an Arun.”

“I mean, but it’s night out.”

“So?”

“So there’s no morning sky. No reddish tint.”

He looks at her with a look of hilarious absurdity on his face as if he’s just heard the most ridiculous thing in the world, stifling a laugh with a smirk and stamping his drag out before planting burgundy on the corner of her mouth and turning back into the doorway towards the music. “Check again,” he tells her as he points at the smudge, and is gone into the electric crowd.

She doesn’t see him again until next week’s show when he brings her a bouquet of dandelions and they dance under a broken stagelight flickering in the back. He counts the chips in her nails and she blows flecks of ash from his nose into his eyes. She tells him about how she can never run in her nightmares, like the world goes slow motion and her feet can’t bring themselves up in time, and he tells her that’s stupid and she knows.

When she finds herself in front of the family-owned Korean convenience store in the middle of the night buying a bag of Saeoo Snek, she contemplates this and decides that never sleeping at night at least postpones having to write it all down again to show her therapist on Thursday. She strains her ankle on the last stair to the parking lot and limps her way down the street when the store owner tells her that she forgot her scarf. She didn’t come in with a scarf, but she takes it anyway and thanks him for the trouble.

Though it takes a bit of a walk, she finally finds herself on a small patch of grass between crosswalks and lays out her coat like a picnic blanket when an old man walks up to her asking for change. It’s not a lie when she tells him she doesn’t have any, but he sits down next to her anyway and they end up sharing the bag of chips while people cross over their island illuminated in green light.

“They’re too salty,” he says, and she agrees. He makes himself out to be some sort of chef, and she thinks he very well could have been one before the economy turned to shit. Emerson offers him some of the pills in the gummy bear bottle from out of her jacket pocket, but he politely declines and doesn’t look at her any differently. When the bag is done he turns to her and asks her the stupidest question she’s ever heard.

“Say, girl, are you happy?” He rolls down his sleeves and crosses his arms, itching his ear with his shoulder as if trying to find some sort of fidget animation to fall into. 

“What kind of a question is that?”

“Oh, well,” he strokes his beard like she expects him to. “I’d think the important kind, I guess?”

He’s so matter of fact about it that Emerson can’t help but stare when her phone begins buzzing in the grass to a text from Icarus telling her to meet him at the train station. The old man takes his leave at this, saluting her as he walks away and leaving Emerson regretting having not asked him if he wanted her scarf. 

“I admire the color,” Icarus tells her when she jumps the turnstile of the station to find him huddled in the corner next to a shattered outlet and a nondescript puddle. The station is mostly empty except for a woman and a stroller on a bench at the other side, and the overhead lights flicker yellow to white to grey in no particular pattern. Icarus reaches up and rolls the fabric through his navy nail-polished fingers.

“Althea Arun Emerson: a real humanitarian, some sort of savior,” he says.

He rolls his eyes and smiles at her when she doesn’t, leaning against one of those green suicide hotline signs like every train station is supposed to have, the last few numbers scratched out silver from years of people carving in their initials. She can’t help but notice a handful of small white pills trailing away from his feet and condensed at the bottom of the train tracks below, split into dust along the electric third rail.

“I couldn’t... for some reason...” he says when he notices her staring. “This sign, and your damn name in my phone…” She holds him up as he tells her thank you and asks her will you protect me and she nods her head yes, yes. 

She sits herself down next to him there in the corner, takes a sip from the flask in his bible to find his vodka tasting instead of an apple juice she was acquainted with in childhood, and doesn’t move when he falls asleep on her shoulder. She wraps her jacket around him and checks her own heartbeat as the passengers shuffle around them on the floor of the station with each stop and pick up, holding the scarf to her chest and thinking that burgundy was the coldest color.

It’s not a bullet that gets him. It’s not a car crash, not an overdose, not a suicide. It’s an old woman in a family-owned convenience store at three in the morning strung-out on some sort of powder and a knife. He doesn’t know this, of course, when he goes in to buy Saeoo Snek for a friend of his before his next show, and nobody else would know until she gets a call saying he’d been stabbed and left out on the street in a Carl’s Jr. parking lot for the police to wrap in yellow, and she wouldn’t know for sure until the police ask her to identify a man with black gelled back hair, torn oxfords and a flower behind his ear.

“That’s him,” Emerson says as they wipe the lipstick from his mouth, and she goes home to open the bottle in her jacket pocket and watch an episode of Sesame Street.

[dandrabbles]

Study Hall - Scene 4

Two years. That’s how long it’d been since Rat had seen his dad. They didn’t know when his dad’s bus was supposed to be in. Tuesday before six. That was all the man on the phone had said.

The Reserves office was a concrete box set up at the front entrance of a park, behind a big black steam engine that was meant to draw in curious tourists but mostly gathered dirt. There was no tree cover near the office, just low scrubby bushes that Park Officials kept neat once a month. Inside, there was air conditioning and water and a gray emptiness that made Rat anxious. The war took everyone, even the Reserves. So he’d let his mom go in on her own and parked himself on the curb to wait.

He’d watched his mom inside through the glare on the windows. For a while, she’d paced, but eventually settled on her own in a chair against the front window, plastic the color of corn barely holding together beneath her thighs. At one point a woman in a grey-green uniform brought her water in a styrofoam cup. Once the woman went away, his mom had braided her hair until it fell down her back in a neat tail, all dusty brown shot through with grey, the strays lit up gold in the sun. She’d let it grow after his dad shipped out. Grew it until the ends were split and dead and heavy, until the only way it looked presentable was tied up in that long braid. It was her way of dressing up.

Sitting outside, the heat off the asphalt cooking through the rubber soles of his shoes, Rat worried the dog tags around his neck. The metal scratching set an ache into his molars like crunching down on ice, kept him from pacing like his mom. Until the door swung open behind him with a canned chime. There was the soft crunch of footsteps and then his mom was sitting beside him. She brought the smell of lilac laundry detergent with her everywhere she went, and under that, cigarette smoke and the sour, metallic tang of beer.

“We’re gonna be here a while,” she said. She held the empty styrofoam cup by its lip, pinched between her forefinger and thumb, and gestured with it towards the street. “Lady inside says they haven’t gotten a call about any bus on its way yet.” She reached over and tugged at the scuffed leather shoulder of Rat’s jacket. “You’re gonna get heat stroke.”

“I’m good,” Rat said.

“No one’s gonna wanna touch you all sweaty like that.”

“Dad wouldn’t, or you wouldn’t?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“You’re not him, then. Are you.” Rat snatched the cup from between her fingers and palmed it, squeezing it to deform and reform the body of it like a stress ball. “Ain’t gonna be hugging you.”

“Don’t be a shit,” she said.

“Can’t be any other way than how I was raised,” he said. He ripped a chunk of styrofoam free, then another, until the cup lay in a little pile between them and flecks of white dotted his jeans.

His mom watched him and pulled out a pack of Camels. It took her three goes to get her cigarette to light.

“You’re gonna taste like tar when you kiss dad,” he said.

“Worse things to taste like,” she said. She handed over the pack and lighter. “Besides,” she said. “I have gum.” She finished the cigarette fast, rubbed it out on the cement next to the pieces of the cup, pulled out another. Every time she ashed her cigarette the cinders drifted down and stuck to her skirt, rubbed gray smudges into the light yellow fabric and floral pattern. She did laundry daily. And for what? She carried laundry to her room to fold, cigarette in her mouth, leaving soot on the fresh, warm linen.

She was going to smoke herself through the pack at the pace she was setting. He wished she’d go back inside and sit with that Reserves woman. Out here, in the orange glow of sunset, her anxiety left him raw in a way he resented. Bad enough that he had to worry for himself without having to think about her too. The night she got the call, he’d found her sitting alone on the toilet lid, three Coors cans on the shag mat between her feet, her breathing sobbed down to hiccups. She’d chainsmoked five Camels and was starting on another. Rat only found her because of the smell. All that smoke trapped in their little bathroom and no window open. Neither of them knew what was coming. How could they?

Rat blew smoke into the air. “Maybe try the gum instead of inhaling another fucking cigarette,” he said. He flicked his to the ground, scrubbed the half-smoked body out with his boot. His mom didn’t say anything. She left her cigarette dangling between her lips, the filter smudged coral with her lipstick, smoke laying thick enough to water Rat’s eyes and burn his throat.

The sun dwindled until it was just the suggestion of light along the treetops. Only then did the bus come. A metal brick on wheels, painted white with a peeling advertisement on the side, the US Army logo tattered. Sweat stuck Rat’s shirt to his back under his jacket. It cooled with the fading light until he was left shivering, or maybe that was the nerves. He should have smoked the rest of that cigarette. Even though the nicotine would have kept his hands steady, his mom never offered him another one, just smoked three more down to nothing before she gave up to the cold.

He watched as the bus parked its long body at the far end of the parking lot. Watched as the doors opened and the driver clambered down the steps to the ground. He was fat, rolls strained his khaki uniform as he fumbled with cubby doors marked “storage.” There was only one duffel bag in the black belly of the bus. Only one passenger. Rat wrapped his arms around his legs, hugged them in against his chest and watched. Somewhere in his periphery the chime of the door rang again. His mom and her lavender smell, the hurried pop of gum in her cheek, the way smoke still clung to her. She had to know that gum wasn’t enough.

Then a body came down the bus steps, propped on crutches it seemed uneasy with. They fumbled for purchase in the narrow stairway, first the left crutch, the body heaved down, the right, all of them fighting for space despite the clear lack. There were only three legs. Crutch, leg, crutch. Where a left leg should start, a nub of folded pant leg. Rat was grateful for the growing dark and the length of the parking lot. He could see the outline of the body, but no clear face. Didn’t want to see the face yet. Until his mom grabbed hold of his jacket and hauled him up.

“Get up—so fucking rude. Not even listening,” she said.

It was all too fast after that. The parking lot too small. The body next to the bus too familiar, getting closer, smiling, teeth colored with coffee, no stubble. Then everything stopped. The three of them stood a few feet apart with the churning engine and the dark and the cool air between them. Rat tried to find something to look at: the bus, the driver holding the duffel, the place a leg used to be, should have been. It was all there could be.

“Two years and you’ve got nothing for me?” His dad’s voice was the same. Maybe a little harsher, like it was coated in sand.

Rat didn’t look up. He imagined his dad, M4 in hand, spread low on the side of a dust-strewn street, bullets ripping out through enemies, all that sand getting up under his shemagh, down his throat, drying everything out. Somewhere, maybe too close, an explosion—and then? Nothing. Then this parking lot and the quiet darkness. Behind his dad’s not-leg a cockroach scuttled behind a tire and disappeared. His mom was crying. “Hey, Pops,” Rat said.

“Jacket looks good on you,” his dad said. He cupped the back of Rat’s head, pulled him in against his chest and held him there. “You look good.”

Rat stood there against his dad’s chest, closed his eyes, breathed in the strangeness of him. Dust, sweat, the sharp, decaying must of oil. Maybe it was just the bus. Maybe this was how his dad was supposed to be now. Then his dad let go and his mom was in Rat’s place, the sound of her happy sobbing too loud. The bus driver hovered and Rat found himself wandering down the length of the bus, looking up into the tinted windows, squinting hard to find another body, taking the duffel from the driver’s pudgy hands.

“Anyone else on there?” Rat said.

“You hoping for someone else?” the driver said.

He looked back at his parents, outlined in the sparse light from inside the bus, both of them clutching the other. “No,” Rat said.  

His dad’s crutches had fallen to the ground at some point, and from this angle, with the dark and the way the light hit him, Rat could almost pretend he stood on two feet. Then he saw the shadows. Their bodies stretched three times their length, two distorted giants with three legs between them.

“Two year deployment. S’not a bad return rate,” the driver said. “Shame about the leg, though.”

Rat wheeled around and slammed the duffel into the man’s gut. The driver stumbled against the bus and the cubby slammed closed against his back. “Say shit about my dad again,” he said.

“You brat—you fucking crazy?”

His parents were quiet. The bus driver was quiet. All that was left was the echo of that cubby closing and the bus engine, like a clap of thunder without lightning, all of them left waiting for another flash of light, anything to count off of, to tell how close the storm was, when the next crash would come.

Rat spat on the asphalt. “I’ll be in the car,” he said.