unhalos

[unhalos]

the americans: season 1.

dialogue prompts from season one of fx's the americans.

is your mom a good cook?

nobody really wears cowboy boots anymore.

do you play at all?

don't you worry about god?

weed burns my throat.

you don't have a family, do you?

do you want to talk about it?

i don't lie to you. i never have.

that's all you want to say?

i take it you're the guy i'm supposed to talk to.

how dare you? was it just to get back at me?

i was just trying to do right by you.

no point in going to bed.

it never really happened that way for us, did it?

i've heard so much about you.

i think we'll do great things together.

we manage fine on our own.

i try not to think about it too much, but today was hard.

you don't look like a burglar.

are you trying to get me killed? is that what you want?

what if you were followed?

one mistake. that's all it takes.

you think you understand everything so much better than i do. why?

i fit in just fine, but i remember where i came from.

history repeats itself, so you do have to worry about it.

how worried do we need to be?

you have to rely on yourself in this world, do you hear me? only yourself.

you never talk to me. why is it so hard?

it just doesn't feel like it did before.

i won't tell if you won't.

i feel like i'm standing on a diving board over a pool with no water in it.

i think we're both a little lonely.

i hope we'll be able to meet again.

i don't need you to fight my battles for me.

you are not my daddy.

you can't wait for the law to give you your rights. you have to take them. you have to claim them every second of every day.

you know what i wish before i fall asleep every night? that i'll wake up and not be worried.

everything that happens is my fault.

coincidence is god's way of winking at you.

i know where you are. i've lived it.

you already did it. there's no undoing it.

you think i owe you an apology.

i'm sorry i didn't kill you.

i don't make vows i can't keep.

i'll keep you safe.

you know, i envy you.

we'll disappear together, and they will never find us.

i was afraid you wouldn't come.

run. disappear. go where they'll never find you.

i missed you. i didn't want to.

i want us to be able to say what's true.

i don't think i should have gotten you into this.

i'm here because this is where i want to be.

i was thinking about when we first met. do you remember that?

we can get past this. it doesn't have to be like this.

we didn't take a vow to be unhappy.

you're kidding, right? i mean, this is a joke, isn't it?

i've waited my whole life for you.

i'd do anything for you. anything. all you have to do is ask.

just tell me one thing: is this real?

it's alright. it's over. the hard part's over.

i didn't want this to happen, but it happened.

things just got a little crazy, you know?

you got anything salty? pretzels or nuts or something?

you can't be married and not have secrets.

i don't see a lot of future in my sleep tonight.

you do not get to speak to me like that.

i may look dumb, but i'm not.

the world is a lot darker and a lot uglier than i think you know.

find somebody that'll love you for being so strong.

we all die alone. before that, we make choices.

to being free and easy.

what's a four letter slang word that finishes the sentence, "do you wanna ____?"

do you care about anything? do you love anyone?

not everyone is your enemy.

i admire your predictability. it's comforting.

there's nothing more satisfying than finding another loner to be alone with.

believing in people isn't easy for you, is it?

you really believe all that, don't you?

we see what we need to see in people. things that aren't really there.

i made a pro and con list.

i know you better than you know yourself.

you always did insist on the truth.

come home.

[unhalos]

this used to be cherry's blog and is now my multi so hi. gonna reblog a meme in a little bit <3

[unhalos]

... information. main blog. carrd commission blog.

[unhalos]

not a cop, never a psychic, but she could be close to somethin' magical. could be a daydream, a reverie, an escape from the nine-to-five livin'. a muse, but never the artist, because dipping into silver-lined dreams ain't no game for someone who can't afford livin'. diggin' change outta dirty pockets, salivating over dollar bills in the interim, sweatin' and swoonin' and slick-kissing her way towards sunshine— [cherry can barely afford the now. what kinda room does that give her for later?] like the crack of dawn against darker skies, the speckled rain upon desert lands, she's a breath of fresh air — 'til she's not — and a pretty, pretty picture — til she ain't. so, before the sex, the drugs, the shit-i'm-gonna-come's; before the fucking, the sucking, the sweet, sweet, praise, everybody wants a piece of cherry. afterwards, nobody wants to see her stems. leftovers, she thinks, are the bane of her existence.

but ain't he sweet for offering, anyway? [crinkled baggies, razor-sharp lines, the night before's remains,] she ain't in no place to say no. shit, she bets he's hopin' she'll say yes. being pretty, being passable, becoming that certified, pornified, pleasurable experience, it's enough to get her in the door. whether or not he locks it, is up to him. "ain't a psychic," she chuckles out, all light and airy with an affection not-earned, always-given. "just observant." observant, as in attentive, as in eager — her palms itch at the thought. "how 'bout i get a drag of that—" she inches closer, her smile honey-warm. "'n then we can figure out the rest."

the cheap thrills, the crazy trips, the coos and crinkles and come-back-soon’s. the fist bumps. the benedictions. the pocket-sized scales. the canticles sung by a slovenly choir.  (  as you clamber up the stairs to purgatory, an angel will advise you:  chill out. don’t make a fuss. kick off your heels. bid adieu to your apprehension.  )  crossroads motel contains a curious assortment of inhabitants. short-term tourists, broker than the cockroaches swarming their cupboards. pierced pill-poppers, whose whims defy traditional logic. street-walkers, beguiling random johns with the bubblegum pop of their lips.  (  wendy had given him an exhaustive summary of that one.  )  then there’s jesse, armored in artificial mania, brandishing glass pipes and breezy non-sequiturs. a charlatan, certainly  —  but isn’t he cute? 

cute like a teddy bear, torn to unveil the cotton stuffing. cute like chump change wedged under the pillowcase. cute like a childhood pet, wagging his tail, scratching and scratching and scratching the windowsill until someone scolds him. pummels him. dealer’s choice.  (  it looks like you’re holdin’, she deduces, stunningly incisive. it doesn’t mean he’s held.  )  backlit against the terracotta sunset, jesse ashes his blunt. musters a seraphic smile.  “  nah. nah, not a cop. maybe, like, a psychic.  ”  peek into his crystal ball. read his calloused palms. demystify his pitiful intentions.  “  whatchu want?  ”  the million-dollar question, replete with intrigue.  “  hey, you know, since you’re my next-door neighbor in this shithole—   ‘s on me.  ”

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she saw him come in. huddled close, bordered behind a guy that spoke in low tones like he was lazily puffin' smoke with every sentence. talking in hushed voices, half-mutterin' the name leon like he was scared somebody might realize he exists. but, 'course, cherry realizes everyone exists — because her method of stayin' alive is knowing all the dirty, filthy, fucked up details, souped up 'n sugared down 'til they're fizzle-poppin' on her tongue like candy. (razzles, she thinks, are a lost gem on society. somewhere, cherry pops her gum.) don't matter the hunchin' over that he does, she notices it all. the way that sometimes, when he thinks nobody's looking [and she's always lookin',] he stumbles on out of that motel room with smoke-slick smiles and that leon guy chucklin' behind him. maybe they're fucking, she thinks, 'cept she's got half a suspicion that neither of them know how it looks from the outside. codependent, maybe, then. or maybe she's just bored, tired of the hum-drum of motel rooms and secretive spaces and spit-laced lube dry on the curves of her thighs. maybe she's just looking for a story.

ELLIOT ALDERSON [@unerror] : "i don't want to cause any trouble."

he don't want any trouble, but trouble's already found him. laced up in some peeked out lingerie, wrapped up in a silk robe, a joint tucked behind her ear and hidden by a mess of curls that still glint with glitter. poppin' strawberry flavored gum, (not razzles, although a girl can dream,) and fluttering faux-lashes in the dead of the night. "you ain't causin' trouble." a soft snort, her form draping itself against the side of her motel room door. "i'm just makin' conversation." her smile's sweet enough to eat, and a finger loops around the string of her robe. "road trips ain't no fun if you don't make a few friends along the way, right?"

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on the nights that the world gives in and cherry puts out, she thinks she could make a living off of this. rich folks with rubber-banded bills, stuffed full of shame 'n desire 'n all their deleted search history snug against their belt. men with thousand dollar cologne, women with curiosities, people who rub 'n tug for long enough that they gotta come see somethin' for themselves. she don't mind it. the cheap thrills, the dirty results, the moans and groans and the please-don't-tell's that follow. the wants. the needs. she gets her fix, too, because even though she ain't askin' for no refund, isn't searchin' for some suck-n-fuck exchange, they always feel bad enough to give her something. (gifts, and garters, and vintage treats in blue boxes. glamour, and glitz, and guilt wrapped up in a bow.) it keeps them sane. it keeps her pretty. no matter the ugly outsides, tumbled and jumbled and jagged against the roof of their mouths, [askin' for one room, two beds, like it ain't a dead giveaway just by the tax bracket that follows,] it ain't nothin' she feels bad about. and all that crystal persuasion, housed up and shacked up in the rooms next door, well— ... that's just a perk, ain't it?

JESSE PINKMAN [@tocook] : "it's not what you think, okay?"

she's seen him before. 'course she has, with his doll-blue eyes 'n the too big clothes. fumbling 'n stumbling 'n shaking the vending machine to life in the mornings. he's an eyesore against her glossed lips, glittered jackets, false-lashes and faux-feathers and everythin' in between. (like she said before— it keeps her pretty. it don't mean she's kept.) "it looks like you're holdin'." cherry flips open a phone, then closes it. flips it open again, then snaps it shut. it slides between the band of her bra, tightened flush against her flesh, and her hand flips a stray curl from her features. "or sellin'." her tongue swipes across the bottom of her lip, gloss smearing to a peach-strawberry taste. "at least smokin', by the looks of it." a short exhale, airy. "c'mon— do i look like a cop?"