Drag Drabbles

You + me + the devil makes 7// Sharon X Reader

A/N: This took me so long but I'm proud of the concept and execution. Happy reading!

She was odd looking. You know she was. Her lips- too big, too distinguished. Her chin too recognisably dimpled. Her eyes too doll like and dead. Her soul too black, her spirit too scarred. But she was broken, and you had all the right pieces to fix her.

You'd always go out to gay bars in Pittsburgh, but you'd just had a bad breakup with your previous partner. It had been brutal, they'd tried to swing for you but you had the intuition to swerve and duck. You had the nerve to successfully get away and leave with no cuts or bruises. But you loved them, you knew their arguments were because you did something stupid, something you shouldn't have done and they had a very short temper. "I have to forget." You told yourself, justifying that all would be okay, as long as you blocked their violence out of your mind. As long as you forgot it would sort itself out, right. You were almost too optimistic for someone who'd escaped an attack. But you were young and dumb and restless in your search for your happy ever after. You didn't fancy going out to a gay bar and surrounding yourself with happy lovers and pickled livers. You didn't want to drown your sorrows to the Spice Girls or TLC. You wanted comfort and intimacy.

So you, as a newly found lone wolf, braved the cold Pennsylvania air. You walked and walked through the streets, past the local shops, the drunks, the sledging children and the frosty purity of snow. Ice almost looks like glazed tears. If only you could cry, if only you could feel anymore. But you can't. You're more than a little fucked up. In the distance you spot a pub. Next to it was a mattress, and a tiny scraggly child sat alone in the cold. You felt sympathetic for this poor creature, but you weren't rich enough to give and spare change and not giving enough to think richly about the change needed in this world.

The pub was comfortable abode that's minimalistic and stereotypical until you reach the front. The walls were bare bricks, old fashioned and pretty plain. Cracks emerged in most of the bricks, texture making the pub familiar and homely. The windows were glazed red, as if they were meant to be in some kind of satanic church. They were broken in strange patterns, almost like art. In them, you could almost make out figures, objects that could be interpreted as evil in subculture, but harmless in ours.

You walk to the door, as black as twilight and push it open. You feel a sense of fear and evil, stronger than the windows ever executed. Screams echo in the midst of your mind, but you're already hypnotised.
There she sits, crouched over an empty glass, slumped onto the rotting elm bar. She rotated her head less than 20 degrees as the huge door creaked with haunting screams of pain. She was weird looking but you couldn't help to stare. Captivated by her caricature, exaggerated beauty, you stumbled to the stool next to her. Most of the other stools had broken, snapped in half, covered in cobwebs and macabre paraphernalia. She swigs the last dregs of whiskey in her glass. She doesn't notice that you're staring, extremely focused on her. She was odd looking. You know she was. Her lips- too big, too distinguished. Her chin too recognisably dimpled. Her hair, dark,  matted and unkept. Her eyes too doll like and dead. Her soul too black, her spirit too scarred. Her heart- shattered. Your heart- broken.
A barmaid bustles over but you're fixated on this strange person. Where are you? You look up at the blonde girl and murmur "Two double whiskey's." You watch her leave to get the glasses, dissipating into the strangely crooked pantry.

The strange creature you were staring at leaned towards you and nudged you. "Thanks. I'm Sharon by the way." You thought of smiling. She returned back to her original position and for a short second you see a tear forming in her eye and dropping into the glass. The barmaid shortly returns with the drinks, and strangely, when you hold out a $10 bill she declines it, pushing it back towards you. Awkwardly, you look around the room and it's a lot bigger than you previously thought. A spotlight in your mind had focused on the incredible stature next to you but now it had widened.

Not the only thing that had widened was a man in the corner of your vision. He sat, elephantine, whalelike and gross, his arms wider than two regular thighs. His eyes glistened, wide with hunger and gulosity. In front, sat a greasy excess of fried foods. As he shovels food into his voracious mouth, his huge gut jiggles and ripples, applauding his insatiable appetite.

Secondly, there was a couple, two older people, age lines starting to form and divide their faces. They sit in majorly close proxemics, the woman straddling and wrapping her legs around the man. They proceed to make out sloppily while your eyes linger on them. They look as if they're about to undress and fuck in public. They're both so driven, their eyes fiery with red and orange and yellow flames.

Next to them, in a booth of his own is a grey haired man, a cigar smoking in his mouth as his grubby hands busily shuffle a thick pile of twenty dollar bills. He leans back, hugging the excessive amount of money and taking a drag of the cigar. He's contempt, although he longs for more and more money. The thing that really touches you is that outside there's a homeless child, freezing and dying of starvation and this grey haired banker sitting in the warm glow of the furnace with enough money to pay for rent or even a hotel for the boy.

The thud of large metal darts sticking into cheap cork disturbs your thoughts. There's a man- ivory skinned, tall, muddy short hair styled as if he spent hours on it, around 20 years old- and a auburn haired woman who looks as to be his sister playing darts. The man wins, scoring 180, and cheers obnoxiously. "I'm a winner, and none of you will ever feel this thrill. You're all losers. I can challenge  anyone, and I will win. Especially you." He boasts, pointing to the woman, who's eyes have turned a similar colour to her hair. All you want to do is win, you want to have that, you want the pile of money, the positive sexual relationship, the food- all of it.

A flash of green.

The woman is now wrestling the man, glass raining down from her hand. She made a feral noise, something that a deadly, predatorial snake would make. She was possessed by anger, thoughtless about hurting her brother. The barmaid idly sauntered to the beastly woman, and removed her, taking her to a seat and retrieving her a drink. The man stood up and shot a smug glance at his sister before sitting at the other side of the fire.

You turn back around, as the action is over for a moment and see 7 peanuts lined up in front of you.
"Did you?" You ask Sharon.
She shakes her head.
Deep in thought you count the people in the room.
A fat man. (1)
A couple. (3)
A banker. (4)
A boasting 'winner'. (5)
A wrestling angry woman. (6)
You, and Sharon. (8)
"There's 8 people, not including the bar maid so why is there only 7 peanuts?" You ask yourself.
"Don't waste your time on figuring everything out, Pumpkin. We all sin a little." Sharon says.
You recount, thinking of the couple as one. You remember that their is 7 deadly sins. The fat man is obviously gluttony, the couple- lust, the banker- greed. The winner- pride, the loser- wrath/anger. That's only 5. You and Sharon are left.

You stare at her, trying to figure out how she knew, how she's inside of your head and under your skin. She knows things that you don't. She lights a cigarette. "Can I have one? I don't mind sharing." You ask, full of stress and anxiety.
"Not until you figure it out, doll."
You wish you had the cigarette in hand to relieve your addiction demon.

A flash of green.

And you work it out. You're envy. You're not meant to be a narrator you're intradiegetic, a seventh of the action. And with this theory of you being a green-eyed monster, you unravel why: you envy the past version of you- before you became scarred and broken. You envy everyone in this room and your ex as they're all better off than you.

"I'm envy." You state. Sharon cooly passes you the lit cig.
"Well done." She smiles.
"And you, you're sloth."
Sharon nods, moving closer.

The heat of the fire shines a orange glow on your flesh. A magnetic force pulls you two together, bound by sin, tainted by a red horned viceroy. Your soft lips touch Sharon's rubber, swollen ones and you feel both pain and pleasure, black leather and lace. Your dark souls take the lead, and you don't realise that they're twisting, tangling like a pair of satin ribbons. The kiss breaks but your eyes are shut, grasping on to the final strands of whatever this was.
"Welcome to Hell, Pum'kin."