𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐔𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐓 𝐏𝐔𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐑 ⋆━━⋆ 𝘎𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘏𝘢𝘸𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘦

𝐱𝐱𝐢. 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬, 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐩 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐬

[tw: blood, gore, clowns, kissing, grayson davenport hawthorne, fire]

WOULD IT BE SO BAD IF WE KISSED?

And let the world drown as the bullets missed.

·······•✦•······

Grayson, in fact, had a lot to say.
With a very very red face.
And not so much about the mime-clown thing.

"Were you out of your mind, Arlene?!" Grey eyes pierced into my very confused ones. I never thought I'd see the day the Great Hawthorne's cheeks would be as rosy as a field of roses. His posture wasn't regal or aloof anymore, his hands shot up to drag across his face. "The fan, the expressions—do you have any idea what the media will interpret that as, Miss Grambs?!" 

I could've guessed. I bet I would later, and then regret my sole existence. But right now, I was fighting a war against my facial muscles, trying not to crack a grin at how messed up the eternally perfect man in front of me had become.

Guess I should give Kezia some credit for whatever she made me say.

"What— why— kis— you—" Grayson sucked in a deep, frustrated breath as he tried to compose himself. A beat of silence went by and when his narrow glare peaked behind his silk-like gold lashes, my army lost its war.

I burst out into a fit of laughter. My shoulders shook, and I was sure I had a grin so wide that my eyes would crinkle. "I'm sorry, I—" my words drowned in soft laughter. Come to think of it, when was the last time I laughed like this?

The cool, steely shards that Pretty Boy possessed as eyes, softened. His brows smoothened and his shoulders relaxed. If I hadn't been so busy trying to stop my giggling, I would've frozen at how those grey pools seemed to drink me in.

A moment later I managed to calm my mirth. Clearing my throat, I looked up at the Hawthorne boy with crossed arms and lack of amusement, in front of me. "Right," I straightened up, "Sorry not sorry about whatever that was, blame it on Sinclair. What you saw, I don't really know, but what I said was pretty much successful since you're here."

I held up the weapon fan, "This thing was given to me by the mime." That single sentence seemed to vacuum all the lightness in the room. Gold and Silver held each other as the walls felt closing in. "We gotta do something about it. And quick."

"We?" Grayson arched a brow. "And why must I be a part of this 'we'?"

"Because 'we' don't want a psycho clown running around and attacking pretty people with gifts and knives?"

Grayson's eyes were the same icy grey, just a bit bored now, "That is truly unfortunate. But none of my concern." He tapped his fingers on his coated forearm, "My only obligation is to make sure that you, Miss Grambs, do not bring any disgrace or ill to the Hawthorne name."

This man-

"Is bossing people around and worshipping 'the Hawthrone name' your only personality trait, Pretty Boy?" I matched his unamused gaze, tapping my foot on the ground impatiently.

All I got in reply was the most elegant, royal, and sassy shrug known to human existence. "Seems like so, Doll."

In all my nineteen years of living (minus the fifteen years of white), I doubt someone got onto my nerves as much as Grayson Davenport Hawthorne did. I couldn't believe the audacity of the man. Maybe he really did wake up to a billboard blaring: the world bends to Grayson Hawthorne's will, every morning.