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#i have a box with strips of plain leather from when i wanted to get into leatherwork but didn’t

narodnanosnja · 3 years

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Construction of opanci as described in Opančar i opančarija

As promised, a bit about the construction of opanci. Information regarding this craft is rather scarce because in many ways, it was considered a household chore. And later, with the profesionalisation of the craft into a trade, a trade secret, with every tradesman having their own construction style. Please note that the trade opančarstvo was and still is in official trade regulations deemed seperate from cordwaining. Most existing descriptions of construction either focus predominantly on the tanning of leather (since the two crafts were inseperable: once you had the leather, the rest was trivial, so to speak); or were made by ethnographers more concerned with documenting the existance of the craft and people's relationship to it, than towards the details of what it actually is. I have managed to locate only a single written resource: Opančar i opančarija by Ferdo Hefele, published 1890. (I suppose this work was made in the crucial historical moment when opanci were still regular footwear, but there was also a sizeable enough literary culture, and also an interest due to the Iliric movement.) Possibly, there exists one more, but it only exists as an unpublished manuscript, and I haven't managed to reach the author.

The sole itself is, not at all confusingly, called opanak. (At some point you could even buy just the soles, and then make the rest yourself.) The sole is made either from vegetable tanned leather or rawhide. Rawhide is easier to obtain if you're doing everything from scratch, just salt and dry stretched the cleaned skin of whatever animal you just ate. It is also more waterproof than tanned leather. However, it is also harder, stiffer and less durable. Apparently, rawhide can be softened by working oil into it and bending. The edging of the sole is made from whatever material the top is made. The main disambiguation between different types is by the construction of the top: either braided (putranci) or whole (kapičari). Then by whether or not there exists a heel piece (petaši) . And then by the type of fastening or lack thereof. Also by whether or not the sole has a beak (kljunaši or šiljkaši). Finally, the braiding can be done in leather/rawhide strips, leather/rawhide strips that have been spun like yarn, prepared intestines, spun prepared intestines, or string. The material that the braids are made from is in all cases called oputa. An approximate amount of oputa needed for a pair of opanci is two arm widths (from one tip of fingers to the other when you stretch out your arms).

(Modern iteration using rubber, typically tire rubber, for the sole also exist, but the attaching of the sole is done in simple sewing to the kapica, and as far as I know, only kapičari types exist. These could be considered as a transition towards modern footwear, however, not only did modern footwear exist alongside opanci for centuries, but also a whole different construction based on opanci exists in bespoke cordwaining, but more about that in some other post. These theories are completely amaterial and historically revisionist.)

First, the sole must be wetted so it can be molded. This is why only vegetable tanned leather or rawhide can be used, other kinds of leather are not suitable for wet molding. Then it is cut, holes are prepared, and it is then edged. The sole is cut somewhat larger than the footprint, depending on how high you want the sides to be. Tradespeople used to have standardised patterns for every shoe size, but it is honestly rather arbitrary. If you want your opanak to have a beak, extra material should be left at the tip.

The sole is edged with the material of the top in a simple blanket stitch. Edging is started from the tip, and the tip must be firstly tied together. Care should be made that the spacing and tension is uniform. If done properly, the sole will start to curl into a bowl shape. (Fun fact, some dialects call opanci bowls, ie. šolje!) Then, either a whole piece of leather called kapica (lit. little hat) is attached, or paralel oputa is pulled from one side to the other, starting at the tip. These transversal bands of oputa are called vrnčanice. Here, the fact that the blanket stitch was used comes in handy, and the oputa used in either method should not obscur the topline of the blanket stitch, but rather weave below them. The last vrnčanica is usually decorative or somehow elaborate, often done in the prepletanje or vrnčanje methods described below. After this is completed, the opanak is stretched onto a last. The last can be any kind, really, but it looks the best if the toe box is tapered, especially if a beaked variant is being made. Traditionally, no difference is made between the left and right foot. In the past, when made inside the household, any vaguely right sized block of wood or stone would be used. Once on the last, the vrnčanice are tightened and the braiding can start.

Braiding can be done in many ways. Simplest is plain weaving, where oputa is woven in a plain weave into the vrnčanice. If the oputa was spun, then the process is called presukivanje, where two pieces are used in tandem: when one is above, the other goes below, and when they meet, they are twisted together like you would to ply yarn. So if you spun them in Z direction when preparing, you would spin them together in the S direction in between the vrnčanice. After this spinning, they would change places: the bottom is now on the top side, and the upper one is now below. Lastly, if the oputa was not spun, a process called prepletanje can be used. Here also, two pieces are used at once, one below when the other is above. Except, when they meet, a hole is made in the upper piece through which the bottom is threaded (see gif below). Preplet can also be done with one piece of oputa that gets threaded through itself. A technique similar to prepletanje is used to join two pieces of oputa if your piece is too short.

In case a kapica is used, braiding in either preplet or vrnčanje method should be employed on the oputa connecting the kapica to the edging. Kapica can also be directly attached while edging the sole. But this would requier a different order of operations (first molding on the last, and then edging, or similair). Of course, none of this is a science, and every craftsperson makes theirs a bit differently.

The heel piece is attached in the same manner as kapica, or built upon the sole from braiding. It is also not mandatory. The fastening method attachment is also varied and not mandatory, from simple loops, to belts attached in the same manner as edging.

Opanci can be decorated in many ways: with artful braiding, braids in different colours, strips of oputa pulled through kapica and the heel piece, fringes, etc.

The whole book, describing the specifics of production of some region specific types, as well as the tanning proccess, statistics, a short story about the adventures of a boy becoming a master opančar (I'm high key amused how anything used to go in old books), and plenty more can be found here: libgen link , archive.org link , scribd link .

#opanak #opanci #footwear #traditional footwear #cordwaining #leatherwork #folk #folk clothes #slavic #balkan #ex yu #slav #ethnography

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myheelsdontmatchmysweatpants · 3 years

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This is my first collab fic and I could not be more excited! I'm so thankful that I can be part of the group!

The AU for this month was Sex Work. The Masterlist for this collab can be found here. Please take some time to check out everyone's contributions! There are other fics and amazing art!

That being said here is my fic, big BIG shout out to @doinmybesthere for being an amazing beta reader and sweet angel bb. ily Emme!

Please please please read the warnings. They are there for a reason!

Warnings: consensual noncon, mentions of being burnt, stabbing and blood; no prep penetration, disrespectful use of the word "whore", blackmail, psychological abuse?, Mineta (nuff said) he gets what's comin to him

You’re in the doctor’s office getting a regular checkup when you overhear the nurses in the station next to you talking.

“Look! They posted the new hero rankings today.”

“I forgot those were today, too bad they can’t have the conference during the pandemic. I miss seeing Deku all cute and blushing.”

“FUCK” In your brief moment of panic you forgot where you were. You cringe and look at the nurses, trying your best not to look like you were gonna be sick. “Sorry ladies, didn’t mean to yell.” No point in offering an explanation. You wouldn’t be able to tell them anything anyway.

As you very impatiently wait for your blood results to come back you check the tacky red cell phone you have to keep with you at all times. You had put it on silent since you were in the doctor’s office and you were glad you did. Taking a quick look at your screen had your stomach dropping into your ass.

M.M: Gonna move my appointment up to today.

M.M: You better get ready. I’m not happy.

M.M: I’m sure you saw the postings. Number 36.

M.M: I made sure to pay for any accidents in advance.

M.M: I’ll see you tonight.

Why does he have to be so fucking horrible? Accidents my ass.

The messages make your skin crawl, you should have figured the hero rankings would piss him off but honestly you never paid enough attention. With a heavy sigh you opened up your web browser and pull up the list.

“Number 36...number 36…. Number 36…” When you finally reached the hero you were looking for, you let out a sigh.

Hero Ranking Number 36: The Rainy Season Hero Froppy

Well at least you had her outfit already, for some reason she was one your client asked for a lot. Not that you wanted to ask him why, not with the way his black eyes looked whenever he saw you dressed up like her.

I don’t know if I should feel glad that he isn’t actually taking this out on her. Or upset that I’ve had to deal with this for months.

“L/N, Y/N?” The doctor walks up holding their clipboard and closing the privacy screen. Your file almost too much for the metal clip at the top. “Your test results came back negative and your burns seem to have healed very well. I would tell you that any strenuous activity should be avoided but we both know you can’t do that.”

Their poor attempt at humor had your stomach rolling. “Haha anyways Doc, I think I’m gonna need another medkit to take home today. I can schedule my next appointment online, right?”

You can’t handle the thinly veiled pity in their eyes and look down, reaching over to your side to grab your purse. You hear them moving around and a dark blue plastic box is put on your lap.

“If I remember correctly this is your favorite color, right? You are able schedule an appointment online but if you would like I can schedule it for you. How about in two days? Afternoon work for you?”

You look up after clutching the kit to your chest, you know they are just trying to be nice. All of the nurses are especially nice to you and as endearing as it might be to some people, to you it just feels dirty.

“Afternoon is perfect, thanks Doc.” You get up and walk towards the privacy screen. Before leaving you stop for a moment “Blue ismy favorite color.”

As you make your way back to your living quarters you scroll through the internet looking at every picture of the Pro-Hero Froppy you can find. Your quirk can project a person’s desires onto your body by reading them in their eyes. It’s easier when the person has a clear view of what or who they want. However, your client’s desires are such a jumbled mess that it’s easier if you know what it is beforehand.

Hopefully, I can act like her enough that I don’t have to look at his desires this time. I can’t stand how disgusting they make me feel.

You pass by a few familiar faces on your way back to your rooms but don’t pay them any mind. They in turn leave you alone, most of them knowing that when you have that look on your face you were in a mood.When you first were offered a position at the brothel you thought it would be easy money. You had been stripping for several years, known for how you looked different to everyone who saw your dancing. The beautiful, enchanting, flexible Erised. You had built up your quirks ability to be able to project almost a full clubs worth of desires. Sure, it caused extreme fatigue and chronic migraines but the money you raked in was well worth it.

A few months ago

After an especially successful night a patron walks up to you after you leave the stage.

“I have a job opportunity for you, courtesy of my employer.” He hands you a card you read “Heroes Consulting Agency” in bold silver letters.

“I’m a stripper hun, not sure I can do the type of consulting you’re looking for.” You go to hand it back, but they put their hand up.

“I’m afraid I must insist, why don’t we treat you to lunch and you can listen to our proposal?”

You put your hand back down and study them. They are dressed in a white button up with a vest, definitely out of place in a strip club. You would look in their eyes, but they didn’t really have any, their whole body seemed to be made of dark smoke. You don’t work in the nicest of places so someone with their kind of full body quirk isn’t unusual.

“Alright, I give. I’m not really one to pass up free food.” The rational side of your brain is telling you that you have more than enough money to buy your own food but the stingy part telling you to take it while you can is a little louder.

“Excellent choice Miss Erised. Someone will meet you at the address on that card tomorrow at around 5pm? Should give you enough time to recover from the side effects of your quirk.” They give a slight bow and walk off towards the exit, a large something getting up from a seat and following closely behind.

Sam, one of the waitresses walks up to you with a tray filled with drinks. Her normally short stature elevated with high heeled leather boots. “Did you know that person Y/N?”

Oh man, I do not have the energy for this.

You turn to her and survey the tray before grabbing something that looked like a fruity cocktail. “No, but they offered me a job. Gonna go have lunch with them tomorrow.” Sipping from the glass you tuck the card into your bra, making sure to not show it to the girl.

“That’s weird, don’t they know you’re a stripper? What is someone dressed that nicely want to hire you for? Also did that person look familiar to you or is that just me?” Any normal person wouldn’t be able to keep up with her unending questions, but you had known her for years. The tray in her hands tips dangerously to the left but she balances it out without a second thought.

Guess she does have to be quick on her toes to be a waitress at a strip club.

“They were here for my dance so yes they do know, either way I’m getting free food so…”

She huffs, aware of your attitude for anything “free”.

You finish the drink and place the empty glass back taking a couple bills from your bag and tucking them into her apron.

“Thanks for the drink Sam, but I gotta leave before my headache hits.” You walk off before she can say anything further. You really wanna be nice to her but her endless energy really gets on your nerves sometimes.

By the time you make it to your modest apartment, you can feel the pain starting behind your eyes. You drop your stuff by the door without turning on any lights and walk to the box safe hidden in the kitchen. After you make sure all the money is secure you grab a glass of water and head to the bedroom. The bottle of pain killers already set out on your nightstand. You should really take a shower but for now, you strip down, take a few pills, drink the whole glass of water, and lay down. It takes a while for the pills to kick in but once they do you finally fall asleep.

When you finally wake up the next morning your headache is gone, and you have to piss like no one’s business. You grumble as you stretch your tight sore muscles and get up to go to the bathroom. After taking care of business, you get into some light clothes and walk into the kitchen to make some food. Thankfully, you had some leftover rice and spam in the fridge, so you pop that in the microwave. You put the kettle on for some green tea and down another glass of water as it heats up.

Remembering the offer from yesterday and the promise of free food you pad over to your pile of things by the door and grab their card. It’s sleek looking with a plain black background and silver lettering. The address isn’t something you recognize right away so you look it up on your phone.

“What the fuck?” Why is this place in a business park?

You scroll down and check the street view; the building is a high rise surrounded by a mostly empty parking lot. The entrance of the building is blurred, probably to keep the privacy of anyone entering or exiting.

“Well, I guess it’s a nice gig. Better dress the part.” Or maybe you’re gonna get murdered.

“Wow, I really have to stop watching all those true crime shows.” You put the card in your wallet and head back to the kitchen. The microwave beeps and the kettle whistles shortly after. When you’re done eating you put the dishes in the sink to soak and head to the bathroom to finally take a shower.

By the time you have finished showering the whole bathroom is filled with steam and your body has a pink flush to it. You open the door to air it out and finish cleaning up for the day. Your outfit consists of your nicest jeans with ankle boots, a long sleeve blouse and a dark cardigan. You grab one of your smaller over the shoulder purses and leave your apartment.

One of the things you allowed yourself to really splurge on was a car. Public transportation was not as reliable as it could be and with your hours not the safest either.

By the time you make it to the building the sun is starting to set, giving the sky beautiful pink to blue coloring. As you park and get out of your car a young woman walks up to you.

“Welcome Miss Erised! Please follow me and I will escort you through the building.” The woman’s blonde hair is in two messy buns, her face childlike. Her voice was high pitched enough to grate on your nerves a bit, but you ignored it.

As you follow the person through the lobby you take a glance around. Looks like a high-end hotel lobby. There is a front desk area with a marble counter top, women that are dressed in matching button ups with their hair up in buns or ponytails. Random potted plants and small trees dot the area, and a nice chandelier hangs in the middle of the ceiling. No one besides the women at the front desk are in the area.

“Doesn’t seem to be busy right now.” You didn’t even really mean for her to hear you, but she did, and you sounded like an asshole.

They turn their head slightly with a knowing smirk. “It would seem that way wouldn’t it?”

Conversation halts while you stand in the elevator which you were thankful for. They had chosen a floor close to the middle of the building, which gave you just enough time to rethink your life choices.

By the time you got to your floor you are tired of the silence. Normally you hate small talk, but you figured you would give it a shot. “Do you like your job?”

The woman turns to you and smiles, here canines peeking out a bit while shrugging her shoulders. “It keeps me busy, plus I get to make so many friends.” The gleam in her eyes flashes menacingly for a quick second, you decide to pretend you didn’t see it.

As you get to the end of the hall, she opens a door and gestures you inside, closing it behind you. There is a nice desk to the left of the door, other than that the room is sparce. The person sitting in the chair has quite an eclectic look about him. Grey hair parted to the side, shrew eyes behind circular wire rimmed glasses, a gold chain peeks out from the slightly open white button up with a purple blazer. He reeks of cigarette smoke the evidence of his habit tossed into the half-filled ash tray on the desk.

“So nice of you to join me Miss Y/N. Why don’t you have a seat, we can talk about your new position.” He gestures to the only other chair a smirk on his face that shows of his missing tooth.

“I haven’t accepted the job yet Giran, and I thought I told you I don’t want to work for you.” You aren’t used to seeing him in this type of place. But you do know him so there is no need to put on a show. You lean back in the chair and cross your arms.

“How rude of me, you won’t be working for me, but I have been given authority to hire for this company.”

You don’t bat an eye; most large companies use outside help for hiring. “What is this position you would like offer me?”

“This company provides heroes with a way to alleviate their… desires in a safe and discrete way.”

“So, you hire prostitutes for heroes to have sex without worrying about anyone telling the press about it.”

“That is correct.”

“I don’t know if your just stupid or if you forgot but I’m a stripper not a hooker.” You sit up in your chair fully ready to leave the room.

“They would provide you with a fully furnished apartment, medical coverage with 24/7 access to their fully trained medical staff. Any cash given to you by your clients you can keep, however they would take a percentage out of the money they initially pay for your services.”

“Let’s say I’m a little interested, how much is the initial pay for my services?” You want to deny the offer, nothing wrong with having sex for money but it isn’t really your thing.

Giran doesn’t answer right away, instead putting out what is left of his cigarette only to pull another one out of his blazer and lighting it up. “The starting hourly rate is $2,500 an hour, they would take 30 percent from that.”

Holy shit, that’s as much as I make in a day and I would be making it an hour? You keep your face neutral but something in your eyes must have tipped him off.

“You would start tomorrow; most clients keep a contract with their favorite employee and we actually have someone lined up for you already. He has extremely specific tastes and you are the perfect person to fill in.”

“I’ll have to talk to the club owner; would it be possible to start later?” You don’t want to seem to eager, especially not in front of him.

“I don’t see that as a problem, they can give you one week but that’s it.”

You stay silent, making it look like you’re thinking about it. After a moment you lean forward in your chair and stick your hand out. “Sounds like a deal to me.”

Giran grabs you hand and gives it a firm shake. “If you ever need help or have any questions call the number on the card. Now I believe you were offered dinner, let me take you to one of my favorite places.”

You let his hand go and rise from the chair. As Giran comes around the desk and walks towards the door, he stops for a moment and turns to you. “Welcome to the team.”

Dinner was actually genuinely nice; the food was good, and you were able to have a comfortable conversation with Giran. Of course, he didn’t tell you anything about himself, but you had no problems with that, you didn’t wanna share anything to personal about yourself either. He dropped you back off at your car after dinner and shook your hand again before driving off.

By the time you got home you had decided what you were gonna tell the club owner and mentally packed your apartment. Not wanting to take all of your things you moved most of it to a secure storage facility. Having had it for a few years already in order to store the overabundance of clothes you owned.

After the week was up you had quit your job and packed all of your belongings. You realize you don’t know where you are supposed to go so you pull out the card and call the number.

“Hello, how can I assist you?”

“Giran never told me where I would be moving my stuff to. Could you give me the address?” You pick at your nails while waiting for him to answer.

“Of course, Miss Erised. Will you be needing any assistance for your move?”

He sounds so polite; I wonder if he is always like this.

“No, I’ll be fine on my own thank you.”

He gives you the address and let you know that you can call if you need any additional information.

“Good luck Miss Erised.”

When you get back to your apartment you immediately go into the shower and wash up, using the tea tree oil that Froppy had said she uses in an interview.

I don’t understand how people can like this stuff, but he gets easier to handle if I smell like those women.

When you are done you towel dry your hair and make sure to lotion your whole body. When your hair is dry enough you straighten it and leave it down. He likes it better when its down.

You go to your closet and rifle through until finding the very skimpy version of Froppys hero costume. All it really has in common with the original is the tan harness and the green with black and yellow stripes. Otherwise, it is a one-piece bikini without a crotch. You grab your black leather over the knee boots and get dressed. After checking the time, you give yourself a moment to mentally prepare.

I hate this, I hate him. Disgusting filthy little bug. A false hero, a plague. I can’t wait to leave this place.

Standing in the middle of your room you close your eyes and take deep breaths, allowing your consciousness to drift. You have found that the best way to endure these sessions is to detach yourself from the situation. Only focusing on the absolute necessary and maintaining the effects of your quirk. Giving yourself another minute to get into character you walk to the door joining your apartment to the “service room”.

Thankfully, he hasn’t shown up yet, you shut the door hearing the lock click into place, the door seamlessly vanishing into the wall. Sitting on the edge of the bed you face the door that Mineta will walk through and wait.

No matter how many times we do this I never lose the feeling of wanting to vomit while bathing in bleach.

When he walks in you see that he is wearing his hero costume, as atrocious as it is. He never really deviated from the original design. You immediately start your performance.

“Mineta? What am I doing here? kero” You clasp your hands together in front of your chest and look around frightfully.

“Hello Tsu, what a pleasant surprise to see you here.” He walks up, taking off his gloves and throwing them to the side.

“I don’t understand, do you know where- “Your sentence is cut off, pain in your cheek sharp and hot.

“I don’t believe I gave you permission to talk Miss thirty sixth hero.” He stands there with his hand still up as you cup your cheek and look up at him, the tears in your eyes real. He pulls his hand back again as if to slap you and you flinch.

“Good girl, now finish taking off my outfit for me.” Mineta walks back a few steps and holds his arms out. Your fingers are clumsy as you take it of piece by piece.

Mineta abruptly grabs a fist full of your hair and yanks your head back. You grab his hand with both of yours trying to ease his grip.

“Do you think if you do it slow enough, I’ll get bored and go away?” He pulls harder. “Huh? You really think you’re gonna get out of this don’t you.” He tosses you towards the bed and you scramble to get back on your feet.

The tears in your eyes have started to spill over and you start babbling. “Please let me go Mineta, I don’t know what I did but please pleasejust forgive me kero. I won’t tell anyone about this just please don’t hurt me kero.”

He doesn’t answer you, just finishes taking off his outfit before he is walking towards you again, a vicious gleam in his beady eyes.

You back up until the back of your legs hits the bed. You open your mouth to speak but before you can utter a single word, he slaps you again.

“I told you not to speak unless I told you to once already. Now I’m gonna have to punish you, aren’t I?” He shoves you onto the bed and follows, using his knees to push your legs open he sits up and gives himself a few pumps.” No need to prep you, I want this to hurt.”

You are sobbing at this point, your hands covering your face when you feel him push into you. A scream rips out of your throat and you reach forward to push him away.

“You know Tsu, these meetups have been the best. I’m thinking next time I will find the REAL you and have even more fun.” He closes his eyes a leans his head back, fully immersed in only getting himself off.

To engrossed in his own world, he doesn’t realize that you have gone still. Your tears have stopped, and you have pulled your hands back from him.

DISGUSTING

“Find the real me?”

VILE

You break character, bringing your full consciousness back. You voice is just a whisper at first, so he doesn’t hear you, doesn’t stop thrusting.

FALSE HERO

“Find the REAL me?!” You are screaming at him now.

He finally stops, hearing you the second time. For a second you see fear in his eyes before they fill with rage.

MONSTER

“Hey! You better start doing the job I paid you for, I don’t come here for you to question me.” He lifts his hand up, as if to slap you again. Before his hand comes down you grab it, squeezing until he yelps in pain.

This job is over, he isn’t worth keeping around anymore.

“You think I give a shit about a little piss ant like you?!” As you sit up, he yanks his arm away and pulls out of you. Stumbling back, he starts shaking a finger in your direction.

“You can’t talk to me like that! You’re just a whore!”

You dart forward before he can put more distance between you and grab him by the neck. As you pick him up you snarl and let your quirk fade away.

“I may be a whore but I not a monster like you. You are just a fake hero, a plague on this world and I will get rid of every single one of you.” You throw him onto the ground still holding on to his neck and squeeze.

“In other news, Minoru Mineta also known as the pro hero Grape Juice has gone missing after several videos of him have gone viral. He was last seen leaving a brothel that has requested to remain nameless. The videos contain triggering scenes of the pro hero having relations with a prostitute while she is dressed in various hero suits the resemble his old female classmates. He even refers to them by name. The videos contain triggering images, and it is recommended to not seek them out. The original videos have since been taken down but are reuploaded onto the internet on several other sites. The prostitute shown in the videos has also gone missing. Any information on the whereabouts- “

The T.V. turns off, the voice of the news anchor no longer filling the dimly lit bar. The people present remain silent for a moment before a man with burns all over his body starts to laugh.

“You could have really fucked that up Doll. Good thing we got enough evidence.” You sneer at him, making sure you change your appearance to match your own desire. He flinches when he sees his own face.

“I wish you had cut him! There wasn’t enough blood to keep his appearance up for awfully long!” The young woman with two messy blond buns in her hair twirls a knife around.

“I’m terribly sorry Toga, but I didn’t have anything sharp with me.” You pick at your nails and look over at Kurogiri, who is busy pouring a glass of whiskey for Dabi. “Do I get a break after this one or do you and boss man have another gig for me?”

#lillith masterlist #lillith writes #lilliths writing

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gaetoeinhaler · 4 years

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𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞

barbatos x bratty! female! reader smut

smut/18+, degrading, spanking, tail(s) usage ÔwÔ

requested by @peachykindalovesyou

my requests are open! ;0 feel free to hit up my dms or ask box!

1,462 words

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earlier, i'd gotten scolded by lucifer. for something i didnt do, but was dragged in by mammon. like usual. though, this time it had gotten out of hand. mammon thought it'd be a good idea to try and steal one of lucifer's coats, that he usually has draped over his slim thick shoulders, only to be yelled at by lucifer half way through his escape and then drag me in, saying i was apart of his idiotic schemes.

already pissed, i scowled the whole way to rad. the thing is, this took place in the morning. the worst part of the day already.

walking down the halls of rad, not paying attention to anything i was saying or doing. hell, i could've gone off on diavolo for standing.

nearing my locker, that's when i bumped into someone. of course, being the pissed off person i am, i went off on them.

"YOU DUMBASS BITCH!" i hissed, fed up with life and turning to face whoever i bumped into. "WATCH WHERE YOU'RE GOING YOU FUCKING SINISTER HOE!" i seethed, glaring at who it was.

it was barbatos. oh shit. oh shit 2x. now i'm ready to delete myself from life.

there stood one of the most powerful demons of devildom, surprised and shocked. he hadn't been yelled at like that before. he was about to apologize for bumping into the exchange student, before being yelled at with such vulgar language. he took the guess that she had been upset, for whatever reason, but he knew behavior such as this would be unacceptable. specifically, if its him.

they'd been deep in the exchange program to know (y/n) well. well enough that they'd know the rules, as well as what would happen here in devildom with sort of behavior like that.

a small smile was placed upon the butler's features, realizing what he could do. "oh? is that so?" his voice was calm, as if nothing even happened. his eyes, though, told another story.

i knew i was done for as soon as i looked in his aqua eyes.

"did you forget what power i have, (y/n)? or need i remind you?" he kept a calm demeanor. "i should have you killed, hung and chopped in the most brutal way possible, for acting out in such a way." he leaned in, staring into my eyes to where aqua met (e/c) orbs. "but, i believe a different punishment would do."

"but-" i sucked in a breath. "class starts soon and i-" i was cut off, his hand cupping my left cheek and tilting my head up. "not to worry, i can write a pass."

without second question or thought, he led me to where his office in this college like academy was. opening it up, and pushing me in, i looked around. i'd never been here before. lucifer's yes, diavolo and barbatos', no. it was plain colors. dark brown with a turquoise pattern among the floor and walls, with a small lamp on the darkened colored oak wood desk as the only light source.

everything was neatly placed, as if every thing had a certain measurement, a certain coordinate within the office.

barbatos' hand on my shoulder brought me back to reality, snapping me out of my trance. a frown was on his face as he moved to stand in front of me.

"don't get distracted. it'll only worsen your punishment." he spoke, monotonous. no emotion within his voice, though a displeased and disappointed look in his eyes. i gulped, nodding slightly.

i dropped my backpack in one of the chairs by the door, following barbatos towards what would be his desk. he stared me up and down, before speaking once again. "strip." he commanded. i froze in place. strip? as in get naked?

his eyebrows furrowed. "must i say it again? strip." he seemed more aggressive now, as if loosing patience.

not wasting time, i started to bring the clothing of my uniform off of my body. starting with the bow around my neck, then the rest of the dark clothing. once in only my bra and panties, a small smile formed on his face. pleased that i had listened. "come here." he ordered. walking towards him, i stood in front of where he was seated.

"good. now, bend over my lap." he patted his lap, signaling for me to follow his orders.

taking a deep breathe, i bend my self over, already wishing i hadnt cussed him out. i could feel his gloved hand hover over my ass, before leaving. he slipped the white glove off his hand, exposing his skin. "wouldn't want to get my gloves dirty, especially from a little slut, bent over like this." he whispered, before setting the leather piece down on his desk.

his hand hovered over my ass once more, before pulling down my panties and exposing my skin. i could hear his chuckle. "count, would you?"

his hand met with my skin, before lifting. swinging his hand down, the loud smack of skin being smacked filled the room, before it dropped dead. tears formed within my eyes from how hard it was, by a small tingle of pleasure waved throughout my body.

"one," i whispered out, waiting for the next. and it soon came, leaving a louder smack and harsher sting of pain. but another tiny tingle of pleasure. "two."

"continue counting, and don't stop."

was all he said, before picking up his pace and leaving more stings of pain, more tingles of pleasure, more loud smacks in the room.

once at a perfect twenty five, i could feel how sore my ass was. a few tear stains were left upon my cheeks, but arousal and pleasure was evident from what i had received. his finger pressed against my folds, feeling how wet i had gotten.

"look at you, getting wet from what was supposed to be a punishment." he chuckled. "filthy slut."

"don't move." he whispered, before switching forms. "your punishment is far from over." his hands removed my underwear fully, fully exposing my nether regions. i couldnt see anything, as i had been forced to stare at the carpeted wooden ground.

"lets see if a dirty whore like you enjoys this," he whispered, before pressing something cold and scaly to my folds, dipping it in and stretching my velvety walls.

i moaned softly, feeling whatever it was start to get bigger the more it went deeper, hitting my core. my walls adjusted to the sudden size, my head tilting to look across the floor and seeing two tails. that's when i realized that both his tails were inside me. they slid out, before thrusting back in, hitting deep in my core.

a loud moan ripped through my throat, feeling his tails give me no time to settle before thrusting in and out. stretching me out more, my mouth spewing of pleasure filled moans. tears filling to the brim of my eyes. a moan, louder then the rest, escaped me as they hit a certain spot.

a dark chuckle came from him. “such a dirty little whore, bent over my lap like this.” he said, watching his tails plunge themselves within my entrance, hitting that special spot every time.

his hand reached down, under me. the pad of his thumb rubbed at my clit, building up my orgasm and waiting for it to come.

the circling of his thumb against my bundle of nerves, adding more pleasure to wave through my body. his tails thrusting themselves within my vagina, hitting my g-spot.

my walls clenched around his tails, making it harder for them to move within me. shortly after, a loud moan flew from my lips, my eyes rolling to the back of my head. i could feel myself come undone, warm juices coating his tails as they slipped out.

some of the juices dripped from off them, landing onto the carpeted floor. regaining my breathe, panting as i stared at him.

he pulled out a tissue, and started to wipe his tails clean of my orgasm, his voice filling the room. “you’ll be late to class if you don’t hurry and clothe yourself. i’ve already got a slip wrote.”

he threw the tissue away, and picked up a pink slip.

“hopefully this taught you a lesson for talking in such a way to a powerful demon, especially when inside a very high class academy.” he handed me the slip. “if not, and you decide to act out again, i shall make sure your punishment is worse then what is was. understood, miss (y/n)?”

#obey me #barbatos #obey me smut #obey me! smut #obeymebarbatos #obey me barbatos #barbatos x reader #barbatos x female reader #female reader #female insert #female reader insert #barbatos x reader insert #barbatos smut #obey me shall we date #smut

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harlot-of-oblivion · 3 years

Text

Tales of Miss Fortune

It’s been awhile since you’ve heard a certain red devil callin’ but you soon find yourself fighting alongside Dante when trouble comes a knockin’.

Here’s the rootin’ tootin’ spooky treat I’ve been promising for weeks! Happy Halloween and Blessed Samhain, y’all! 🌹🤠🌹

Rated Explicit for: Vampire and DT Smut, Blood Drinking, and the usual violent demonic fighting with the addition of vampiric dusting.

Chapter 1: Fallin’ for a Gun Street Girl

Some people believe that there’s life after death while others say it’s just an underwhelming ending. You used to think the latter until experiencing the cold embrace of death for yourself. Now, you know that there’s a way to live a life after death…just not in the way that most folks tend to envision, such as spending an eternity in heavenly paradise or burning in hell.

Death truly is a cruel mistress to the living, but to vampires such as yourself…let’s just say that you and death have been bedfellows for well over a century now.

And you would think that someone would change after being dead for as long as you have, and yet here you are…still hanging out at rowdy bars, observing small groups of people gathered around various tables from your usual spot in the corner. It feels like any other normal night; the cackling of drunk patrons and clinking of numerous bottles is like music to your ears. But you feel like there’s something missing…and you finally figure out what it is after catching yourself looking up with every swing of the front entrance for the past hour.

Dante is a no show…again.

Your eyes glance down at the empty chair sitting right next to you, wondering if he’s been busy since the last time you saw him or just plain avoiding you altogether. Neither of you made any plans to hook up after that night in his shop, so you aren’t really surprised by the lack of interest. Afterall, the Legendary Devil Hunter has better things to do than to hang around a dead woman…at least, that’s what you tell yourself while pushing him out of your thoughts.

But you quickly find that it’s easier said than done as your eyes dart towards the pool tables, shivering at the memory of your own game of strip pool with him. It was one of the most fun nights of your undead life…hell, you can’t even remember a time where you were that happy when you were alive! But you know that getting attached to mortals usually invites trouble, and you don’t want to be a burden for an exceptional mortal like the Son of Sparda himself.

I’m bettin’ it was just a one-time thing anyway, you surmise, tearing your eyes away from the pool table while kicking your feet up on the table. He’s probably found someone alive and a lot prettier than-

The sudden screams of terror just outside the bar brings your thought to screeching halt. The few patrons who aren’t shit faced drunk immediately notice the commotion before bolting towards the exit. You tip your hat up and tilt your head with interest, listening to the inhuman shrieks that ring out like a hellish choir while everyone else starts panicking. It only takes a few more seconds and a couple more guttural growls before everybody gets wise enough in their drunken stupor to start rushing out.

Almost all of the drunkards are gone when the front windows explode in spray of glass. A horde of demons come barreling through and instantly set their malevolent sights on the stragglers, raising their jagged blades and claws high in the air before moving in for the kill. But you prove to be a lot quicker on the draw with your guns as you shoot each demon in speedy succession, distracting them long enough for the rest of the patrons to get away and live for another day.

“Hoo wee!” you yowl as the horde turns their attention towards you still sitting in the corner with your legs propped up on the table. “I’ve never got a good look at you demons before…y’all look like the hindquarters of bad luck!” you admit with a small shrug while the ugly sons of bitches start closing in on you. “But that’s alright…” You kick your feet off of the table before using some of your vampiric strength to fling it towards the center of the group, knocking a few demons down with a splintering crack.

“Cos yer about to meet Miss Fortune herself!” you boast, cocking both of your guns before raising them up in a challenge.

The demons hiss and spit like a herd of angry cats while spreading out through the bar, ignoring the obvious gap you’ve created with the table. You’ve never tangled with fiendish entities before, but this tells you that these demons aren’t the brightest crayons in the box. Your lips curl into a cocky grin as you aim your trusty guns towards the first casualties of this hellish brawl.

“C’mon now! It ain’t good manners to keep a lady waitin’!”

Your final taunt pushes them to pounce at once, giving you an opening to dash through the gap you made in a blink of an eye. You run past the broken remains of the table before turning around and taking aim, boosting your speed with blood while taking the first of many more shots. Misery and Woe were custom made to handle supernatural entities, and it seems they do just fine on demonic threats judging by the guttural screams of pain. All of them drop dead one after the other in a satisfying spray of blood within seconds, standing no chance against your heightened sense of accuracy and deadly aim.

“Huh…well, that was easy,” you quietly quip while reloading your guns.

Another round of demonic howls echo just outside the now thoroughly trashed and bullet ridden bar. Your keen sense of hearing detects the rustling of fighting and some gunshots among the ruckus. Something deep down in your gut knows who it is that’s letting loose on them demons…and you can’t help feeling a little excited at the thought of seeing him again.

You quickly make your way outside, breaking the front door off its hinges as you zoom out of the bar. The familiar scent of blood greets your nose as you scan the numerous bodies of dead demons on the street. Your eyes shift from side to side, scanning the area for any sign of who may be responsible for this onslaught of pure and utter chaos.

“Howdy, Darlin’.”

Your instincts kick in as you swing around and point your guns at the devil of your desire. His cheeky smirk widens as he casually approaches, bringing back memories of the pool game you’ve been trying to forget for both of your sakes. You slowly lower your arms while shaking your head in disbelief before flashing him with a confident grin.

“Well, well…look who finally decided to grace me with his devilish presence!” you exclaim with just a hint of sarcasm. “It only took a horde of demons and some gunfire to summon ya, but now that you’re here…” You pause when more demonic screeches echo in the distance, turning your head to glance over your shoulder at the oncoming wave of demons before looking back at him with a toothy grin.

“Wanna have some fun, Cowboy?”

Dante chuckles as he stands next to you. “With you…always,” he replies with a flirty wink before brandishing a huge sword from out of nowhere.

Your heart would be fluttering at his words if it were still beating, but there’s no time to dwell on these cumbersome emotions with imminent danger around the corner. You tip your hat to him before raising your guns just as more demons come running down the street. Both of you keep your ground to the very last second until springing into action.

Dante sprints towards the oncoming horde while you hang back and spray them with a hail of bullets. You admire the sheer power behind every stroke of his blade from afar, yearning to feel his robust arms around you again while shooting down more and more demons. C’mon now…this ain’t no time to be droolin’ like a waterfall, you mentally berate yourself before honing all of your focus on the task at hand. It only takes a few minutes for both of you to mow down the majority of demons before he brings up the obvious with his laid-back yet direct flair.

“So, I uh…haven’t seen ya since that night at my shop.”

Your face falls flat as you lower your guns. “Really, Dante? You wanna get into it right now?”

“Seems as good as any other time,” he retorts with a shrug before cutting down the last demon left standing with a broad sweep of his sword.

“And I suppose you’ve been avoiding my usual haunt since then for no particular reason either, hmm?” you ask while gesturing towards the bar with your head before raising a brow at him.

“I’ve been busy with a couple jobs lately,” he explains, resting his sword on his shoulder while walking up to you. “And besides, you know where I live,” he points out with a nod of his head as he stands right in front of you. “I even left ya an open invitation so that you can freely enter the shop whenever you want, Darlin’.”

His striking blue eyes glow in the moonlight as he scans your face, longing to see them spark with desire again. Your head starts spinning as the scent of gunpowder and leather mixed with a little blood wafts under your nose. You want to tell him that you miss his rousing company, his rowdy laughter, his searing hot kisses…but your keen ears pick up the rustle of fast approaching steps just behind him.

You quickly step to the side and take aim before firing at the pissed off demon. He whips around with Ebony and Ivory at the ready, but you beat him to punch as the demon falls dead on the ground. “Ooh! Better luck next time, Cowboy,” you crow with a playful smirk while holstering your guns.

Dante lets out a soft bark of laughter while shaking his head. “Next time, huh? I really like the sound of that.”

You chuckle and bite your lower lip as your hunger for him begins to stir. “Me too. It’s just…I got the impression that you didn’t wanna…what I mean to say is-”

“It’s not customary for our kind to engage in such barbaric relations with mortals.”

Both of you swing around towards the source of the phantom response, guns pointed down a dark alleyway. You glare at a pair of vampires walking out of the shadows before fanning out as eight more reveal themselves while swiftly surrounding you. One of them tilts his head as he inspects Dante with a critical eye. Your heightened senses tell you that he must be the leader since his blood is the most potent out of all of them.

“But I suppose a hybrid such as yourself would be an exception.”

Dante chuckles softly. “Looks like we got some party crashers,” he casually comments while turning so that both of your backs are pressed together.

All of the vampires quietly laugh as their daunting stares pin both of you down like a pack of ravenous wolves. You glance down at the bloody street, noting that this is the first time you’ve encountered your own kind around these parts…which is odd since that’s exactly why you hangout around here to begin with. But now you can’t swing a damn lasso without roping one on the very same night of a random demon attack!

The more you think about it…the more it reeks of something fishy.

“All this your handy work, I presume?” you inquire, motioning to the carnage all around you with a flick of your wrists.

The lead vampire smiles and turns to you. “In a manner of speaking…we simply pointed out that an infamous devil hunter frequents this very lively bar.”

Your eyes narrow at the implication of his words. “An ambush, huh?” You turn your head and meet Dante’s befuddled gaze. “Who’d you piss off this time?”

“Hell if I know,” he mutters while shrugging his shoulders.

You chortle at his carefree attitude and ready yourself for the challenging fight ahead. Dante turns and addresses the lead vampire with his disarming smirk. “We’re kinda in the middle of something, so if you could just-”

The vampire closest to the leader interrupts by loudly humming in delight. “No wonder our mistress sent us to collect such a delectable prize.”

Dante ignores the obvious attempt at flirtatious intimidation. “Well, I’m real flattered and all, but-”

“HE’S MINE!”

Your feral growl grabs everybody’s attention as you make a show of flashing your fangs, warning everyone to back off before things get messy. “Ooooh! Looks like this one’s already been claimed,” another vampire chimes in before letting out a baleful cackle.

“And here I thought we could talk this out like civilized kin,” the leader laments with a shake of his head.

The lustful vampire laughs before inflaming your possessive fury by sauntering up closer. “Such a shame that someone as old and infamous as you would be meeting her Final Death over-”

It only takes one explosive round from Misery aimed straight at their mouth to shut them the fuck up. The redolent air instantly becomes hostile as that vampire crumples down on the street, helplessly twitching while the remaining vampires snarl and hiss with outrage. Dante summons his sword and crouches down into a ready stance while you cock your other gun.

“I ain’t one to repeat myself but lemme make it very fuckin’ clear for y’all,” you begin, slowly raising Woe at the first vampiric casualty of this unfortunate encounter. “If any of you worthless ticks so much as touch a white hair on his head…” You aim and pull the trigger, reducing them to a pile of smoldering ashes with the force of your second shot.

“I’ll have ya begging for mercy before sprinkling yer ashes all over this goddamn street.”

And with that one final warning, the leader raises a hand and signals the rest of his cohorts to attack. Dante springs into action while you stand your ground, waiting until they get close enough until the very last second. You turn into mist just as one vampire raises a hand to swipe at you with their vicious claws, sifting through their bodies and reforming right behind them.

The barrels of Misery and Woe glisten in the pale moonlight as you let loose a barrage of bullets at inhuman speed. Two more vampires turn into dust while another clutches the back of their wounded head as they drop to the ground. You reload your guns as quick as a flash and take aim to finish the job, but the only survivor of your sly tactic zooms by and slashes your shoulder.

You snarl as sharp pain shoots down your arm, distracting you from weaker prey and focusing your attention on the asshole who ruined your favorite leather jacket. This vampire is almost as fast as you, swinging his clawed fists with precision towards the few vital points of your body. But you prove to be not only faster but wilier as well, dodging every single one of his blows while leading him towards some burning debris in the street.

You feint to left before shifting right as soon as they’re close to the flames, purposely letting him puncture your shoulder while using a large portion of blood to boost your strength. Your jaw clenches tight, holding back your yelp of pain as he growls victoriously at their measly accomplishment. But the joke’s really on him as you holster one of your guns before extending your nails into razor sharp claws.

Your lips curl into a devious grin. “You must be feeling pretty lucky right about now,” you note, making sure he meets your unwavering gaze. “But lemme fill ya in on a little secret…”

You swiftly jab your hand up straight towards his chest, long claws striking true with their target as they pierce his lifeless heart. His face contorts with agonizing shock as you twist your wrist, burrowing deeper until the tip of your claws stab through his back. You easily lift him up off the ground before turning around towards the blazing fire.

“No one’s lucky so long as Miss Fortune’s in town.”

You hurl him straight into the fire with one strong thrust, dislodging your claws from his chest before pulling your hat down in front of your eyes while turning away. The hot flash of flames lights up the night while tormented screams echo down the street, sending chills down your spine as you struggle to remain in control. Your feet move of their own accord away from the flaring threat, instinctually knowing that your quarry has met his Final Death.

Your eyes zero in on your previous prey limping away from the fray. You dash right up them and stomp your foot on their back, keeping them still as you carefully aim for the killing shot. Your finger slowly squeezes the trigger, relishing in their pitiful plea for mercy before ending their miserable undead life. But you don’t have long to delight in the bloodbath as Dante’s harsh grunt meets your ears, bringing your attention back over to his side of the fight.

Multiple piles of ash now litter the street alongside demon corpses. Dante is engaged with the only vampire left, which happens to be the leader himself. You get ready for a real challenge by reloading your guns with explosive bullets, but all logical thought flies out the window when you witness this leech attempting to…bite…and feed…

Something in the darkest recesses of your mind snaps and you suddenly find yourself using more blood to boost your speed before hurtling towards the object of your ire. The leader senses your approach and tries to act accordingly, but Dante seizes the chance to turn around and swing his sword at him. The blade cuts a deep gash across the leader’s neck and a thick spray of blood spatters across Dante’s face as you close in on your target.

“If a man is the sum of his misfortunes…” You stop just short of running into him and swiftly shove both barrels of Misery and Woe into his gaping mouth. “Then you’re one unlucky sonuvabitch,” you finish, enjoying the fear in his eyes as you pull both triggers.

You let out a satisfied growl as his undead brain gets blown to bits, smirking as his blood splatters across your face. He falls to his knees but the bastard refuses to meet his Final Death, still swiping his clawed hands around clumsily. But Dante swoops in and lops off his head with a single sweep of his sword before you can take aim with your guns.

The leader’s body crumbles to ash, leaving just the two of you in a sea of dusty carnage. You look at your devilish lover just as he turns his gaze towards you; both of you are covered in blood and still buzzing from the battle. Your keen hearing picks up his rapid breathing and heartbeat, which only stokes your flickering hunger into a blazing inferno.

“Dante,” you purr sensually while holstering your guns.

“Oh fuck,” he murmurs hoarsely before stalking over to you.

You meet him halfway before both of you just pounce on each other. Dante wraps his arms around your waist while your hands encircle his neck before both of your lips crash down and meet in a desperately heady kiss. You moan as he slips his tongue past your fangs while the scent of leather and gunpowder drives you wild. Finally seeing him fight and absolutely covered in gore pushes you to indulge in what you’ve been secretly missing since that night at the shop.

And it seems Dante agrees since his hands grope your ass and urge you to jump into his embrace. You oblige and hop into arms, wrapping your legs around his waist while nibbling on his lower lip with your fangs. He groans softly and tears his mouth from your starving lips before turning his face away, baring his neck to you as he treks back towards the bar. Your predatory gaze hones in on the pulsating vein being kindly offered, swiftly leaning in and scraping your fangs against his skin before sinking in for a luscious feast.

Dante grunts at your bite but his hurried pace never slows as he arrives at the entrance of the bar. He steps over the broken door and heads to the closet surface that isn’t totally ripped to shreds: the fucking pool table. But you don’t even care to comment with wry quip with his deliciously smooth blood trickling down your throat…he could’ve fucked you right then and there on the street and you wouldn’t have cared so long as his crimson nectar was on your tongue.

You suck a few more greedy mouthfuls as he sets you down, taking note of his strategic position of facing the entrance before tearing away from his neck. He instantly captures your bloody red lips with his hungry mouth, swirling his tongue around your fangs as he clutches you tight against his body. You feel the pin prick of claws press against your hips before he tears your jeans along with your panties, shredding them off until you’re only wearing your cowboy boots below your waist.

Your heightened sense of hearing catches the sound of approaching trouble a few meters outside of the bar. Dante notices too as he tears away from your lips and tilts his head towards the sound of approaching adversaries. His lips curl into a cheeky grin as he kneels down between your legs while reaching behind his back.

“Do me a favor and shoot down whatever comes our way while I take care of business down here,” he requests, brandishing both of his guns with a twirl before handing them over.

You take the guns just as a couple of demons come hurling through the shattered windows. “Sure thing, Cowboy,” you comply with a wicked grin.

Your hands swivel around and take aim while Dante dives in between in your legs, licking and sucking your wet cunt as you fire rapid shots at the encroaching demons. You gasp and moan between shots as he finds just the right spot, flicking and twirling his tongue while his nose rubs your clit in the most maddening way. This causes you to miss a few shots due to the delectable distraction down below, swearing up a storm with every errand bullet.

Dante silently chuckles at every curse word that flies from your mouth. “What’s the matter?” he pipes up between lavish licks, gazing up at you with a mischievous red gleam in his eyes. “I thought an infamous pistolero like yourself wouldn’t be so easily distracted!”

You hiss at his playful jeer while shooting down a demon that got really close to the pool table. “Less talkin’ and more lickin’, Cowboy,” you quip back, deciding that you would have better luck with your aim by switching positions. You clench your thighs around his head and swiftly turn your body around until you’re riding his face.

“Mmm, you’re gonna meet the devil at this rate, Darlin’,” he murmurs against your slit, nipping and sucking your folds before his tongue strokes even deeper inside you.

You feel like you’re floating away while shooting down the remainder of the demonic wave, twitching in pleasure until finally coming on his scruffy face with an ecstatic moan as you fully give into his devilish tongue. He greedily suckles every pulse of your cunt, slurping every drop of your pleasure as you fall against the soft green surface of the pool table. An intense heat emanates from his mouth as he slowly pulls away from in between your thighs, and you look over your shoulder to see a most wondrous and intimidating sight.

A true devil with smoldering red scales and spikey plating is standing behind you, smirking with familiar lips while glowing red eyes roam your prone body. You’ve only heard rumors about his demonic form but to see it for yourself is truly astonishing…and incredibly arousing. You lift yourself up from the pool table with a soft grunt and shuck off your long leather jacket before leaning back down, making a show of spreading your legs nice and wide.

His gravelly growl sends pleasant tingles down your spine as you give him a good view of your ass and sopping wet cunt. You peek over your shoulder and flash him a naughty grin. “C’mon, Cowboy,” you purr while wiggling your hips provocatively. “Show me how a real devil rides in the rodeo.”

Dante chuckles huskily while grabbing your hips with his clawed hands. “Are ya ready, Darlin’?” he asks gruffly, wrapping one arm around your waist and pulling you up towards his crimson chest before pressing his lips close to your ear. “Cos I’m gonna have you screaming my name all night.”

You gasp as an unfamiliar length slides in between your slick thighs, surprising you with its unusual yet tantalizing texture. Your eyes glance down and catch a glimpse of his member as it glides against your slick slit, noting its reddish black color and thick ridges all around the shaft. You whimper at the thought of his devilish cock slipping inside you, stretching you out while filling you up to the brim…just the feel of it has your thighs clenching around him with anticipation.

Sharp fangs nibbling on your ear breaks you out of your carnal daze. You thrust your hips back against him while reaching back to grab one of the long spikes protruding from his head. Another fiendish growl makes your body quiver as he turns your head to capture your lips with a searing hot kiss. He gently guides you to bend over the pool table, never breaking away from your wanton mouth while adjusting himself between your legs.

Dante slowly slides every inch of his ribbed cock inside you, pulling a pleased moan from your throat as his tongue licks one of your elongated fangs. You softly whine as he finally bottoms out, silently begging him to give you a taste before the imminent display of shameless debauchery. One corner of his mouth quirks into a smirk as he cuts the flat of tongue against your fang. You revel in the thick smokiness of his blood while his clawed hands rip your buttoned shirt open and slice your cotton bra between the cups before groping your breasts.

You ready yourself for one helluva ride…but both of you break away from each other’s lips as the clamor of more approaching demons meet your keen ears. Dante lets out an irritable growl while you reach for his guns still lying out on the pool table. You flip them around in a flashy fashion before presenting them with flourish above your head.

“I believe it’s your turn to do the shootin’, Cowboy.”

A sudden blast of blistering heat hits your back, almost blowing your gambler hat off as he gives your breasts one last squeeze before withdrawing with a teasing scrape across your nipples. He takes his trusty weapons from your grasp and points Ebony towards the entrance while resting Ivory just above your navel as he wraps his arm around your waist. You would be holding your breath if you still had the ability to breathe as he waits for trouble to come knocking, staying completely still until the very last moment…

Dante slowly pulls out, leaving only the tip inside you while the first wave of demons come crawling through the broken windows. Then, he slams his hips back against you with a sharp slap as he fires the first of many shots. You moan unabashedly as he sets a steady pace, pounding into you with brutal force while shooting down a stream of demons. It doesn’t take you long to reach your peak again, coming from the new sensation of his devilish cock while a barrage of bullets whiz through demonic skulls.

Your body falls limp against the pool table as Dante swings Ivory towards the back of the bar. He fires a rapid hail of bullets as more demons come through the back entrance while keeping his ruthless pace. The metallic ring of bullet casings bouncing off the hardwood floor keeps the insatiable flame of your desire burning as your hunger demands more blood and more pleasure.

You lift one of your legs up onto the pool table, resting your knee against the edge while propping yourself up on your arms. Then, you thrust your hips back to meet every hard pump of his cock, keening with every brush against your sweet spot as he buries himself even deeper inside you. Your ears pick up some faint cursing as some of his shots fly by a few encroaching targets.

“What’s the matter?” you ask as he points Ebony towards the demons. “I thought an infamous devil hunter like yourself wouldn’t be so easily distracted,” you taunt, mirroring his exact words from earlier while looking over your shoulder and meeting his smoldering gaze.

Dante growls and quickly disposes of the remaining demons, wrapping both arms around you as soon as the last one disintegrates with a pitiful shriek. He pulls you up until your back meets his glowing red chest and picks up the pace, scaly hips slapping against your ass while his warm grunts puff against your cool skin. The slide of Ivory presses against your breast while the barrel of Ebony rests above the apex of your thighs, rubbing your clit with every hard thrust as he nuzzles the back of your head. You groan as intense pleasure starts to build up again, making you mumble incoherently while holding onto his arms with your bruising grip.

You tilt your head and bare your neck, hoping that he sees the invitation to partake of you. The exhilarating feel of sharp fangs nipping and grazing along the soft flesh you’ve exposed lets you know that he got the message. His guttural purr sends tiny tremors of delight throughout your body, making you ache for his bite as you rush towards rapturous release.

Dante drags his demonic tongue against your neck before sinking his fiendish fangs into your supple flesh. His name bursts from your lips as you tumble over the edge again, body shaking in his fervid embrace as he takes a couple swigs of your blood. “Mmm…fuck, I’ve missed the taste of you,” he groans against your neck, relentlessly thrusting through your orgasm and smacking his lips before going back for more.

The rustle of something unfurling knocks you out of the hazy aftershocks of your mind-numbing orgasm. You glance over your shoulder just as Dante spreads his demonic wings out wide. Their swirly red patterns hypnotizes you, pulsing with his heartbeat while gradually glowing brighter as he chases his own pleasure. You moan at the impressive display of power while leaning down against the pool table, silently encouraging him to fuck you with wild abandon by thrusting your ass back with enthusiastic fervor.

Dante drops both of his guns on the pool table and grips your hips with his wickedly sharp claws. His booming growl sends darts of pleasure straight down through your cunt as he pounds into you with renewed vigor. Your enraptured moans mingle with his gravelly growls as both of you come careening over the edge together among the blood and gore. You scream his name over and over while he cums in great spurts, slicking your cunt with his white-hot seed as the lewd squelching from his frenzied thrusts echo throughout the ruined bar.

Both of you ride the pleasurable wave, gasping and writhing against each other to the very end. You collapse against the pool table while Dante leans over and rests atop your back, warming the crook of your neck with his panting breath. Your thighs twitch as his cum drips out from your sated sex, making you feel some carnal satisfaction deep within the primal recesses of your mind.

You let out a blissful sigh while leaning back to nuzzle his spiky head, softly purring as his warm lips press numerous kisses against your neck. You bask in this tender moment, giving into this feel of emotional closeness before the inevitable parting of your ways. But you don’t have time to dwell on that bittersweet notion as the familiar sense of dawn approaching washes over you.

Your entire being instantly reacts to the slow ascension of the sun, quaking in fear while wriggling out of the warm embrace of your devilish lover. “Whoa! Easy there,” he coos as you reach for your long leather jacket. “What’s the hurry, Darlin’?”

“The sun…I can feel it rising,” you explain, quickly slipping both of your arms through your jacket before buttoning it up. “I gotta go…but I dunno if I can make it to my sanctuary before…” you trail off, trembling at the thought of meeting your Final Death under the rays of the morning sun.

“You can stay at the shop if you want.”

His nonchalant offer gives you pause as your head snaps over your shoulder, noting that he’s reverted back to his human form. You think it over for a moment, weighing the pros and cons of taking him up on his gracious offer. “If you have a dark basement…or a way to block all sunlight from entering a vacant room,” you suggest, desperately hoping that he really means it since his place is a lot closer than the crypt that serves as your temporary home at the local cemetery.

Dante cups your face with both of his hands. “I won’t let anything happen to you during the day,” he swears while meeting your frantic gaze.

You stare into his striking blue eyes, searching for the slightest hint of deception among their depths…but the genuine gleam within his unwavering stare eases your worried mind. Your lips curve into a grateful smile while clasping his arm with one hand before tipping your hat in appreciation. “Then you better ride like the wind, Cowboy,” you murmur, swiftly bringing your face closer by raising yourself up on your tippy toes.

“Don’t wanna end up as a pile of ash before giving ya hell for ruining my one good pair of jeans,” you softly tease while nipping at his lips with your fangs.

His breathy chuckle brushes against your face. “Didn’t hear ya complaining at the time…too busy having a drink on me,” he teases right back before capturing your lips with a scorching kiss, making you moan softly while both of your tongues gently glide across each other.

Your insatiable hunger starts to stir once more, but the nagging urge to seek shelter from the rising sun wrangles it back as you break away from his lips with a rueful sigh. Dante smirks knowingly as he reaches for his guns on the pool table, holstering them behind his back before leading you out of the destroyed bar. He summons Cavaliere while you hiss and turn away from the flashing light of false dawn.

“C’mon, Darlin’,” he murmurs, gently guiding you towards his fiendish ride.

You hop on and make yourself comfortable while he swings one leg over and sits down behind you. “Better hurry…I’m already…” you mumble, barely able to keep your eyes open while fighting off the familiar feel of falling into torpor.

“Don’t worry, I’ll carry ya into the shop and protect you during the day,” he whispers by your ear, wrapping one arm around your waist while his other hand revs the engine.

“Promise?”

“You have my word, Darlin’.”

Dante puts the pedal to metal with those final words of assurance, zooming down the street at breakneck speed towards the shop. Your lips curl into a fond smile as you do your best to hold on during the ride while fighting off the need to rest. But you know that’s a fool’s errand, so you close your eyes and leave yourself in the capable hands of your remarkable devil.

And as you finally succumb to the lull of torpor, you remind yourself that getting attached to Dante will only invite more trouble down the road…but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

I’d like to thank @bettybattaglia for her wonderful suggestion about missing gun shots! And I gotta give a shout out to @varen-neoraven for beta reading for me!

Tagging: @drusoona @exsultry @a-midsummer-nights-odyssey @leviathan-dee

#dante #dante x reader #devil may cry #dmc #cowgirl vampire reader #Tales of Miss Fortune #Fallin' for a Gun Street Girl #back in the saddle and ready to ride!#YEEHAW! 🌹🤠🌹#harlot writes

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malecsecretsanta · 3 years

Text

Merry Christmas ninwrites!

For @ninwrites. I was so thrilled to get you for Secret Santa this year as your Malec fics are some of the very first that I ever read when I fell into Shadowhunters way back in 2016. You gave me so many great prompts this year that I really struggled deciding what to write, especially because I know we share so many common interests! Part of me wanted to write a sweeping sci-fi, and another part of me wanted to write a clever procedural, and then I know how much you love superheroes and I also love superheroes, so that could've easily happened ...

But in the end, I decided to strip everything down and write a story about second chances. About seemingly unrequited yearning and human connection and liminal spaces and time unravelling backwards and friends-to-almost lovers-to-strangers until serendipity intervenes. Of course, I went drastically over the word limit but this happens every year so I am no longer surprised.

Merry Christmas! I hope you enjoy this little microcosm of a story!

Tags: malec | rated: t | extended oneshot | human AU, roadtrip, friends-to-lovers-to-strangers-to-lovers, hurt/comfort, surrealism

Read on AO3

*****

saudade in the key of highways

saudade

/saʊˈdɑːdə/

noun

(especially with reference to songs or poetry) a deep emotional state of nostalgic or profound melancholic longing for an absent something or someone that one cares for and/or loves. Moreover, it often carries a repressed knowledge that the object of longing might never be had again. It is the recollection of feelings, experiences, places, or events that once brought excitement, pleasure, and well-being, which now trigger the senses and make one experience the pain of separation from those joyous sensations. However it acknowledges that to long for the past would detract from the excitement you feel towards the future.

"as we fall / into the common, suspended disbelief of love, you ask / will I still be / here tomorrow, next week, tonight you ask am I really here."

— Olga Broumas, Beginning with O; “Bitterness”

first chord

There is rhythm to this loneliness.1

The endless darkness. Passing headlights; the hum of the engine; the splutter of the heater fighting against the cold that claws and scratches at the windshield. The highway, deserted, is like a strange and eerie dream that travels on and on and never ends.

The rental car: new. Nondescript in its newness. Two hands on the wheel; the faded hum of the radio, a soft accompaniment to the bright beam of the headlights. The car has a cassette player, but no cassettes. It never has any cassettes.

There’s a gas station like a beacon in the distance: a faint glow of sodium yellow that slinks along the horizon but never draws closer, spilling light like fuel out across the open fields.

Alec prefers driving at night. There is never any need to ask for directions because he never passes anyone he could ask for directions; he might be the only car he’s seen in fifty miles.

The radio crackles, then laughs, ‘ we know it’s only November but nothing gets us in the mood for Christmas like -’

Almost immediately, the signal drops, but the interluding white noise is familiar too. It fills the silence with unimportance, an invisible presence in the passenger seat who doesn’t require conversation or stops to stretch their legs, but is company enough for long drives across the country.

Moments on the road are filled like this: a hundred similar soundtracks for a hundred indistinct highways, their miles wearing down the tread on Alec’s tires and the lines of Alec’s palms, where he grips the steering wheel for hours without a break, in much the same way.

‘So if you’re listening at home, or you’re stuck on a late-night shift, or if you’re driving cross-country and need a pick-me-up, give us a ring and tell us about your favourite ever Christmas song!’ says the radio. ‘But to get us started, we have Marnie from Portland on line one -’

Alec punches the buttons on the radio until he finds a classic rock station. He taps the steering wheel, not to the beat of the song, but to dispel some of the restless energy that tingles in his fingertips.

A sign on the roadside passes him by at high speed; it tells him that he’s a hundred miles from nowhere in particular - but at the last intersection, a similar sign told him he was a hundred-and-one, and now he’s acutely aware of creeping ever closer to his destination.

It’s a destination he’s not sure he wants to reach. A destination he calls home.

There is rhythm to this loneliness . Alec is used to it: the anxious churning of his stomach, the longing for the road to continue beyond its end; the endless, perpetual, and pointless journey of back-and-forths.

One: drive across the width of the country. Indiana, Iowa, Nebraska, Oregon, again and again. A country of ochre-yellow wheat; plains and flatlands; tractors abandoned on the roadside.

Two: report to the local field office, where he’s given a desk too small for his long legs and a computer he doesn’t have a password to. Talk to the county sheriff who snaps at him, ‘ the FBI has no business out here, we can handle this on our own ,’ and then to the man who refuses to open his door wide enough for Alec to get a good look at his face, but whose eyes skip over Alec’s badge and land on the gun on his hip and he thinks the same thing as the sheriff.

Three: avert his eyes from the body lying on the steel table in the morgue. Pretend that federal intervention was warranted, even though he knows this case is another crime of opportunity and the sheriff was right. The sheriff is always right. ‘ Waste of the FBI’s time, if you ask me. ’

Four: write up another field report that uses all the same words as the one before. Mail it back to Washington. Hopefully it will reach the Assistant Director before he does.

Then, five, begin the drive home.

Rinse. Repeat. Repeat again. Avoid his mother’s calls when he stops for the night at an interstate motel. Make excuses not to see his father when he’s in town. Pretend like he’s not bothered missing out on another promotion, because that would mean moving to a desk job and he likes being out in the field.

He likes driving. This is the mantra he repeats in his head rather than listening to the song on the radio.

There is rhythm to this loneliness .

The car’s engine rumbles on an empty stomach and Alec glances down at the fuel meter, ticking ever closer to the red with each passing and uncountable mile. The gas station in the distance begins to draw closer, finally allowing Alec to catch up, as its cluster of lights shift and reform into the familiar shape of civilisation.

Alec’s turn signal lights up the immediate stretch of highway with flashing orange and a click-click-click sound in the front seat of the car. There’s no-one behind him and no-one ahead of him, but he slows almost to a stop as he eases the car off the road and onto the crunch of hard-packed sand.

A single streetlamp overlooks the highway, casting a pool of unsettled yellow-white light across a phone booth that stands slanted upon the roadside. The gas station lingers a little further back: a small, stout building with a flat roof and a pile of browning-Christmas trees propped up out front. Its two gas pumps advertise diesel at a discounted price, but one of them appears to be out of order.

Beside the gas station, there is a diner; it’s old and clapped-out and almost empty at this time of night, but the bright light beaming through its windows in all directions is painful to look at. The movement of people inside is like a scene playing out in an old movie, stuck on repeat over and over again, the tape unable to skip forward. A repeated moment, and one which Alec has played his part in too many times to count.

Again, his stomach rumbles loudly and he guides the car to a stop before pulling up the handbrake.

He’s alone at the pumps. As he steps out of the car, the silence greets him; the wind falls and the road is swallowed up behind him by an encroaching night, compressing the universe into a single point. A single flicker in time.

Alec retrieves his service weapon from the glove box and clips it onto his belt, pats his chest for his badge tucked into his breast pocket, before drawing his overcoat tight around him. He won’t linger out here, not when it feels like something just out of sight is holding its breath and shifting in and out of bounds; he’s far too afraid of falling back into the passage of time.

Instead, he turns towards the diner; the bell above the door jingles the same as it always does. The TV in the corner is on mute but hums with static. The sound of plates clattering in the kitchen is enough to drown out his shoes on the chequered floor as the waitress looks up at him but doesn’t say hello.

Corner booths are best placed for people-watching and people-hiding and Alec, in his non-descript suit that matches his non-descript car, sinks onto the squeaky red-leather bench without being seen at all. He sighs heavily, rolling the stiffness out of his shoulder that has been bothering him for the last fifty miles.

There are scuffs on the leather and old coffee stains on the table, but he fishes his keys, wallet, and badge out of his pocket and tosses them on top of the menu; he already knows what he’s going to order and there’s no need to look. He’s been craving something greasy since he left Portland this morning, fuelled only by a cup of filter coffee from the machine in the motel lobby.

Alec grinds the heels of his palms into his eyes, a soft groan catching in his throat. In the same moment, the lights overhead seem to flicker, although not for long. Must be a short circuit. The waitress rubbing down the bar doesn’t look up, focused too intently on a coffee-ring stain that isn’t really there.

Diners late at night are strange places. Liminal places. Places of beginnings and endings and threshold moments and tangled journeys, forever caught in that feeling of arriving or departing - but the longer one lingers, the more reality begins to distort.

Alec is not alone in the diner, but the diner is alone in the night that laps and recedes against the windows that look out over the parking lot. Beyond, the gas station hums with a familiar argon sound, bright and electric and not-quite-right in the dark and, behind that, the edge of the highway outlines this displaced moment.

There is nothing else. Alec’s eyes haven’t adjusted to the dark, and for all he knows of the endless fields of wheat that stretch out to the horizon, he cannot see them. The bell above the door chimes again and a young couple slips into the diner, their arms slung low around each other’s waists, giggling as they take up two stools against the bar. Three seats down from them, an old man in a trucker hat and a Chicago Bulls’ jersey is frowning at the TV above his head, trying to lip-read the late-night news anchor because there are no subtitles. In the far corner of the diner, a group of teenagers are tossing fries at each other and one of them makes a milkshake bullseye.

Alec doesn’t know why these people are here, in the middle of a late-night nowhere. He can’t remember the name of the last town he passed through, but it wasn’t more than a handful of houses and a couple of telephone poles kept upright by plywood and nails.

He glances back out at the parking lot, but his rental is the only car there. Strange.

Strange, but not unexpected. He has learned not to question it, these fragments of unaligned reality, because soon enough he’ll be on his way again, a burger in his belly and bacon grease smeared across the corner of his mouth, and this diner will cease to exist as soon as he’s out of sight and over the ridge of the highway.

Perhaps it will appear again somewhere else. Perhaps he will come across this place again, another mile or two down the road, inhabited by a different group of late-night travellers who will watch him from the corners of their eyes but not say a word, because a lone man in a cheap suit is no more out of place here than they are at two in the morning.

The waitress brings over his burger and a side of fries, setting a mug down in front of him and filling it up with coffee from her pot. Alec nods at her in thanks and she blows a bubble of gum that pops across her mouth and sticks to her teeth, before she retreats behind the register and starts again on that stain.

Alec doesn’t waste any time tucking a napkin into his shirt collar. His tie is cheap and he doesn’t really care if he ruins it; there’s a spare in the bag in the trunk of his car anyway. He takes a large swig of coffee, and then a bite out of his burger, and ketchup and burger juice leak out through his fingers, splattering on the paper wrapper that covers his plate.

It tastes the same as it always does. His stomach growls loudly as he takes another bite and ketchup drips down his thumb.

Movement through the window catches his eye. He looks up and there, on the very edge of the light emanating from the gas station, is a man in the phonebooth next to the road. His back is to Alec but he’s gesturing wildly as he talks into the receiver, and the wind, now returned, billows through his long woollen coat.

A slice of tomato falls out of Alec’s burger with a distinct plop . He’s not sure why the man draws his attention, but Alec has long since learned to trust his gut - it’s an invaluable skill to have in the Bureau , his father would say. It will get you places. It will make people see you as someone they can trust to watch their back. You can’t buy that sort of loyalty, Alec.

The man is tall. He has dark hair and long legs and he grips the edge of the phonebooth with his free hand. He seems to be having a very intense conversation, unlike the hum of background noise that surrounds Alec now.

The man is an anomaly. He is not someone Alec has seen at a diner before - not a truant teenager or a trucker or a pair of lovers on a late-night tryst - and he doesn’t fit the narrative.

Alec wolfs down the rest of his burger, barely pausing for breath, and washes it down with a swig of coffee that burns slightly too hot. He leaves his fries untouched and throws down a twenty dollar bill, stuffing his badge and wallet into his pockets as he makes for the door.

The bell jingles a third time. Alec wipes the back of his hand across his mouth as he steps out into the cold, no doubt smearing ketchup across his chin. He knows his suit is creased and his shirt is rumpled from the drive, his hair upswept by the sudden gust of wind that threatens to knock him off his feet, and he can almost hear Jace laughing in his ear, alright, G-Man?

Alec passes by his car and heads straight for the phonebooth, but the closer he gets, the more he can hear of the man’s one-sided conversation.

“And there’s no way you can get a guy out here tonight?” the man is saying. “I can pay extra for the trouble. Uh-huh. Yes. Yes, it’s pretty urgent.”

Alec draws to a stop when the length of his shadow steps upon the backs of the man’s shoes. He shoves his hands into his pockets so as to appear as unthreatening as possible when the man inevitably turns around, but -

“I don’t see how a service can advertise itself as 24-hour and then not be available in an emergency,” the man says into the phone. He sounds stressed; there’s something about the cadence of his voice that rumbles through Alec’s chest and draws the hair on the back of his neck up on end. Something decades-old familiar. “The least you can do is give me the number for another rental service. A cab company. Something. Anything .”

The man turns away from the phonebooth, catching sight of Alec from the corner of his eye and holding up a finger as if to say hold on a minute , but he stops, whatever words on his tongue extinguished into roadside dust.

Alec’s eyes widen. He knows this man.

Fuck. He more than knows this man. He remembers the first time they met, the firm confidence of his handshake, the bright colours of his shirt, the way Alec thought, at the time, this man is going to change you .

It’s Magnus. Magnus Bane.

Alec never expected to see Magnus again. Not since -

Well, not since then .

“Magnus,” says Alec, like an exhale. And God , his mouth has not formed that name in years; he’s heard it, sometimes, inside his memories, but never beyond. “What are you -”

Magnus stares at him in disbelief, and Alec can hear the man on the other end of the phone line asking hey, are you still there? Hello? where Magnus holds the receiver away from his ear.

Something doesn’t make sense here, but Alec can’t put his finger on it. Not once has he met someone at a diner who he recognises. They’re all meant to be faceless people; people he could meet again a hundred times and still not recognise.

But Alec would recognise Magnus Bane with his eyes closed. It’s been years, and yet the feeling that floods his chest now, is -

An ache.

“Yes, sorry,” Magnus says suddenly, half-turning back to this phone call. His disbelief becomes a scowl. “No, it’s fine. I’ll call them myself. Thank you. Okay. Goodnight.”

The man on the other end of the line hangs up first and the dial tone echoes in the night for a moment, and then another, and then another.

Alec swallows thickly. He draws his hands out of his pockets and folds them behind his back, clenching his fingers in a tight grip where they can’t be seen.

Carefully, Magnus sets the phone down inside the phonebooth, and turns back to Alec, and then - he smiles.

“Alexander Lightwood,” he says, with a shake of his head. His smile grows broad, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “God, what are the chances? Any other night, and I’d think this was a figment of my imagination, but with the way today’s been going, I-” He stops himself and takes a half-step forward. “I haven’t seen you since -”

“Since before Quantico,” Alec interrupts. He knows he’s staring but he can’t help it. “Ten years. Yeah.”

Ten years, three months, and twenty one days. Alec has been counting. If he looked down at his watch, he would know the amount of time that has passed to the minute, to the second, in fact, but he’s not about to admit to that.

He never expected to see Magnus again, and yet -

He hoped.

“Ten years, really?” Magnus remarks, folding his arms across his chest. Alec follows the movement with his eyes. “Yes, I suppose it must be. 1985, wasn’t it? Christ, that makes me feel old.”

He looks Alec up and down, focusing on Alec’s dust-scuffed shoes, and then on the gun that sits snug on his hip. The corner of his mouth lifts, and his smile becomes a little more genuine.

“I see it’s Special Agent Lightwood now, though. Congratulations.”

“Alec’s still fine,” Alec says quickly. “I mean - you can still call me Alec. That’s fine.”

“Alec,” says Magnus, sounding it out. He’s always held Alec’s name with a special sort of care, but now, he says it like he’s saying it for the very first time. “Alexander.”

Alec doesn’t know what to say. He stares at Magnus, at the space between them that is too large for strangers who have just met, and which belongs only to two people who once knew each other well.

Serendipity laughs at Alec now; it sounds like the dull hum of neon light in a desert. It sounds like a hundred unanswered phone calls stretching back years.

“Alec -?”

“Sorry, this is - this is weird, I’m being weird,” Alec blurts. “I didn’t, uh - I really didn’t expect to see you, especially - especially here . I mean-” He squeezes his fingers tightly behind his back to stop himself from talking with his hands. “What, uh, what are you doing out here? I thought you still lived in L.A.?”

Magnus rolls his eyes. “Where to start?” he says softly, “I had some car trouble. The tire blew like a mile back and I swerved off the road and hit the fence. It won’t start now, which is something of a mild nuisance - because apparently we’re so deep in the ass-end of nowhere that I can’t get a mechanic to look at it until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest - but not as much of a nuisance as the meeting I will definitely miss if I’m stranded out here for the next God-forsaken twenty-four hours.”

Alec’s eyes flick to the highway, as if he might be able to see a mile into the distance and find the 1970 Dodge Challenger that Magnus had, far too many years ago and long-since sold for scrap, wrecked upon the roadside. It is, of course, too dark to see much of anything.

“I don’t even know if I’ll be able to call a cab out here,” Magnus continues, his mouth drawn down into a frown. “And I’m far too old to be hitch-hiking. The thrill of climbing into a potential serial killer’s car lost its appeal some decades ago.” With a brush of his fingers, he flicks away hair from his temple and huffs. “I suppose if I started walking now, I might reach Salt Lake by, I don’t know, Friday morning at best.”

Alec’s eyes snap back to Magnus. “You’re heading East?” he asks, far too eagerly. “Are you coming home?”

Something minute pinches in Magnus’ expression at that word. Home . Alec doesn’t miss it.

Magnus shakes his head.

“No,” he says, and he looks away, but there’s nothing there to pretend to be looking at. “No, not quite. If I had the time to drop by and see everyone, I would, but - I’m due in Baltimore in four days for a meeting with our investors.” He smiles wryly to himself. “And I thought it would be, oh, I don’t know, meditative or something equally asinine to make the drive across the country myself, rather than fly. See the sights. Enjoy being off-grid. Which, in hindsight, was very, very stupid.”

“What are you gonna do?”

Magnus shrugs. “Wait, I suppose. There’s not much else I can do. My cell phone is out of battery and I used up the last of my change on the payphone, so it looks like I’m stuck here until tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Alec says awkwardly.

“Yeah,” agrees Magnus.

In the glow of the gas station, reality trembles, hollowing out the shadows on Magnus’ face and flickering across the back of Alec’s knuckles. The motion of coming and going calls Alec back to the road and he glances back at his rental car.

It makes sense to offer Magnus a lift. Alec is heading in that direction, and he has an empty passenger seat and a working heater in the car, and a Bureau credit card in his back pocket.

It makes sense, and yet, he still hesitates.

“Well,” Magnus announces, “I don’t want to keep you. I might as well see what sort of coffee this place has on offer if I’m to be stuck here until tomorrow. I don’t suppose I could interest you in a drink before you go -”

“I’m actually on my way back to D.C.,” Alec says, thumbing over his shoulder at the car. He wets his lower lip with his tongue. “Baltimore’s not that far of a detour, so I, uh. I could give you a lift. If you want.”

“If I want?” Magnus repeats.

Alec swallows and nods. “If you want.”

Magnus’ face softens and he smiles at Alec. “Well, I’m not going to say no, am I? Although I don’t think I’m going to get my deposit back on my car.”

He looks over Alec’s shoulder at the rental. His expression changes, and if Alec were a kind stranger offering a ride to a man in trouble in the middle of the night, perhaps he wouldn’t notice.

But they’re not strangers, and in Magnus’ eyes, there is something Alec can’t quite place. It seems a little wistful. A little sad.

He says, “I would like that very much, Agent Lightwood.”

interlude

It’s 1985 and a man stands on the edge of the sidewalk, watching as a car turns right at the end of the street and disappears. He waits, half-expecting it to come back, circling around the block and pulling up beside him, the window already rolled down, but it doesn’t.

Ten years pass, and it doesn’t, and the man has to live with it.

Empty spaces and hands on the steering wheel and loneliness and want . In the end, that’s what everything boils down to.

I want you to come back. I want to see you again. I wanted you to stay.

This is the rhythm Alec knows well, played out in the key of highways.

I want something I still don’t have a name for.

second chord

The soundtrack to night-driving is a composition of three things: the car heater as it puffs out warm air; the rental wheezing in the cold, coughing and spluttering with seasonal flu; and the deep stretch of silence.

Usually, Alec welcomes the silence.

In the passenger seat, Magnus shrugs out of his overcoat and tosses it into the backseat, scrubbing his hands together in front of his mouth as he wills circulation back into his fingers. His shirt, open at the throat, looks thin and flimsy and hardly warm enough for a Midwest winter, but the soft shimmer of the satin is devoid of the harsh shadows that cut across Alec’s chest like the black line of a seatbelt.

Alec forces himself to look away. Keep your eyes on the road, he tells himself. And think of something to say before he thinks you’ve forgotten how to talk entirely. He fiddles with the dial on the radio until he finds the company of static, but it morphs all too quickly into Wham!’s Last Christmas .

Alec grumbles below his breath.

“Still a Grinch, I see,” Magnus says with a smirk. “Where’s your festive cheer?”

Alec returns both his hands to the wheel. “It’s too early for Christmas songs,” he replies, “Thanksgiving was literally three days ago and it’s not even December yet.”

“Are you saying the dulcet tones of George Michael don’t do it for you?”

“I prefer Mariah Carey,” Alec mutters. It makes Magnus laugh.

Alec glances at him from the corner of his eye as Magnus begins tapping his finger to the beat of the song against the door handle.

Alec, too, feels restless, but in a different way. He can’t stop looking, stealing glances at Magnus in the rearview mirror. Perhaps he is a trick of the light. Maybe Alec has been driving too long without a break and now he’s seeing people from his past who shouldn’t be here - but are.

Nothing that happens on the road is real, after all.

He digs his fingernail into the skin of his thumb and begins picking.

He’s lived this moment before; he knows he has. Him and Magnus alone in the front seat of a car and Alec’s tongue heavy in his mouth with all the things he doesn’t know how to say, and all the things he couldn’t say ten years ago, because he wasn’t brave enough then.

Hell, he’s hardly brave enough now. He wonders if Magnus remembers any of it.

The space between them is too large for small talk. Conversations that begin with All I Want For Christmas Is You is overrated though, now that you mention it , or so, how is your mother?, or even do you remember the last day we saw each other? are not enough to bridge the gap carved out by a decade of silence.

The thought stretches Alec so painfully thin. He picks at his thumbnail until it begins to sting, then winces, and draws it to his mouth to soothe it with his tongue.

“So,” Magnus begins, in the same instance. He’s still drumming his fingers to the beat of the radio, but now he’s slightly out of time. “What are you doing all the way out here in Idaho?”

Alec could laugh. “I was in Portland,” he says, “Local P.D. request FBI consultation on a case, so. Yeah. Turned out they didn’t need my help.”

“And they made you drive all the way out there?” Magnus asks, and Alec nods. “Sounds grim.” He stops tapping and runs his index finger across the dark polish on his thumb in thought. “Are you still living at home?”

Alec clenches his hands on the steering wheel. “No, I - I moved,” he says. “Uh, not long after I graduated the Academy, actually, but only to D.C.”

“Ah,” Magnus remarks. He pauses for a moment long enough to become awkward. “Still close enough to see your mom on the weekends, though.”

Alec nods again. Close enough , yes , but he doesn’t say it out loud. Close enough for New England ghosts to haunt every intersection between the city and his parents’ big white house in the country whenever he makes the drive upstate.

In ten years, he’s barely moved fifty miles, and Magnus -

Well. The same cannot be said for Magnus.

Magnus clears his throat, louder than the hum of the radio. “And your parents?” he asks. “Isabelle?” He scans the horizon, fixed on the markings in the road disappearing beneath the wheels of the car. “How are they? Well, I hope?”

“Same as always,” Alec shrugs. “Overbearing. Dad’s retired now, and Iz moved to New York for work last year. Max is in college, so mom’s started questioning him about his life choices instead of mine.”

“Only took thirty-five years,” Magnus chuckles. “How is your mom? Are you seeing them for the holidays?”

Alec makes a noise that amounts to yeah, something like that .

What he doesn’t say is this: his parents’ marriage has been strained a while now - not as many years as Magnus has been gone, but close enough - and Alec is thirty years too old to be used as ammunition, or worse, a bartering tool in a messy ending. The divorce is only a matter of time now.

If only the road continued on forever, he would not have to go back home for the holidays. He wouldn’t have to sit through another Christmas of icy silences and thinly-veiled insults and his mother trying to butter him up while his father does the same to Isabelle. He wouldn’t have to lie awake in his childhood bedroom and listen to his parents screaming at each other downstairs, all the while wishing for the tap-tap-tap of pebbles thrown against his window, begging for it to be open.

A lot has changed since Magnus last saw him, and Alec didn’t have to move across the country for that.

A lot has changed since Alec stood on the sidewalk and watched Magnus’ car turn the corner at the end of the street for the very last time and not come back.

A semi-truck appears in the distance: first, as a pin-prick of light, and then as two beams of headlights striking the highway and the growl of its engine. The whole car rumbles and Alec grips tight to the steering wheel as the headlights blind him and shapes dance across his eyes. The light bleaches through Magnus’ dark hair and streaks across the skin visible beneath the open collar of his shirt; he holds his hand over his brow and winces.

The truck is thunder: a brief jolt and a flash, and then it’s gone, an aftershock of red light disappearing in the rearview mirror.

For a while, there is only silence. A mile, maybe more. Long past the truck vanishing from view, its light fading into the dark; and it’s the sort of silence that is thick and heavy and awkward.

At the five mile mark, Magnus inhales and turns in his seat to look at Alec.

“So, the FBI,” he says, like he has an obligation to fill the quiet, because letting it stew is somehow worse. “What’s that like? Maryse must be proud.”

“Yeah,” Alec mumbles. “She is.”

“It suits you, you know? Alec Lightwood, Special Agent. Not that I didn’t always know that it would.”

Alec’s mouth twitches, a smile in another lifetime. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Magnus gestures with his hand. There are rings on his fingers that fail to catch the thin and distant light, but his fingers, long and slender, draw focus.

“You’re smart. Logical. Far too severe for your own good, which I imagine serves you well in law enforcement. You’ve always had a keen sense of justice,” he explains. His voice softens. “You know I’ve always thought that about you.”

Alec swallows thickly. “Magnus, you don’t have to -”

“And besides,” Magnus interrupts. “I always knew you’d look good in a suit.”

Alec looks down at himself. “What, even a suit off the rack?”

“Well, I didn’t want to say anything.”

Shakily, Alec laughs under his breath, but he relaxes his hands on the wheel and his knuckles fade from white back to pink. He lets the tense line in his shoulders fall flat.

“I don’t really have anyone to give me advice on what I should be wearing anymore,” he admits. “Or what colour ties match my -”

“Complexion?”

“Yeah. That.”

“Green. It’s dark green,” Magnus says. He smiles to himself, amused by something far back in time. “Do you remember that time when-”

“Yes,” Alec says. Yes, of course I remember. I haven’t forgotten a single thing . “Yeah. Yeah, I do. I still have that tie, the one you picked out for me that Christmas.”

“And the pocket square? They were a matching set -”

“Still the only pocket square I own,” says Alec.

Magnus chuckles to himself, swiping his thumb across his lower lip in thought. The nostalgia becomes him; his expression softens with the memory of something fond.

The same cannot be said for Alec.

If only pocket squares could be metaphors for other things. For years gone by and silences that were once not this awkward and filled with jilted conversation. Or for a place once frequented but now abandoned; or a past that Alec still calls his now .

Alec is too clumsy at this; he doesn’t know how to step back into a space once occupied with ease, making smalltalk and laughing about Christmases in 1979 as if they were yesterday and they haven’t gone ten years without talking.

He’s not like Magnus; he couldn’t drop everything and leave it all behind. He didn’t get to move on. He had nowhere to go, trapped in this endless back-and-forth of travelling, always returning to the very same place once departed.

interlude

On a postcard never sent:

What is worse: the separation, or the place where we will meet again, afterwards, that looks and feels like nowhere and is no longer familiar?

I miss you. I am afraid that I will no longer know you when I see you again.

third chord

Two motel room doors. Two identical rooms with identical twin beds and box-set TVs with only five channels and VCRs that don’t really work. Two sets of keys, although the weight of the fob in Alec’s hand feels more like brass than cheap white plastic.

He’s been here before: a shared dorm room, long, long ago. And then, after that, two houses on the same suburban street, sharing the same zip code. And then, finally, two cities, half a world apart.

He and Magnus, half a lifetime spent apart.

Alec did not notice the growing distance until it was too late; in hindsight, he’s not sure if that hurts more or less, to be blindsided by a farawayness he never saw coming. But here, now, there’s five-and-a-half feet of space between his shoulder and Magnus’, standing in front of their respective motel room doors, and happenstance has crossed their lines again.

Alec looks down at the key in his hand and then back up.

Beside him, Magnus casts a long and lonely shadow, thin and black as it stretches back into the dark. The wind ruffles his hair and plunders the pockets of his coat in an act of midnight robbery. The cold has chapped his lips already and he grumbles below his breath as he jams his key into the lock with frost-bitten fingers.

Alec doesn’t mean to be looking, but he is. He’s not sure he’s looked away since Magnus stepped out of that phone booth, as if slipping through a gap in time connecting two unrelated places that somehow ended up overlapped.

Magnus’ door clicks and he pushes it open with a soft, “aha!”, flipping on the light inside. The light tumbles out of the room - cheap, yellow, glaring - and Magnus bends down to grab his bag from his feet.

He pauses, then, in his open doorway.

“Well, then,” he says, looking at Alec with a half smile. “Until tomorrow, I suppose?”

“Yeah,” says Alec. He clenches the key in his palm until the metal digs into his fingers. If Magnus notices, he doesn’t let on. “Listen, Magnus. About what happened, when you left-”

“I’m glad, you know,” Magnus interrupts. “For whatever serendipitous force brought you to that gas station tonight. It’s good to see you. I mean it.”

“It’s good to see you too,” Alec replies. “I didn’t think - I didn’t think that day was going to be goodbye. I didn’t realise. If I’d known, Magnus ...”

“I didn’t either,” replies Magnus. His voice becomes softer. His eyes, too. Apologetic in a way that might take Alec years to unravel - or seconds. “But these things happen. You can’t stay stuck in one place forever, Agent Lightwood.”

Alec nods stiffly but says nothing.

Magnus offers him another smile, leaning heavily on his door frame.

“Alexander?” he asks, as if oblivious.

Alec squeezes the key tighter in his hand. “Yeah?”

A pause, then. Deliberate and weighted, and for a moment, Alec wonders if Magnus is going to answer the question that hasn’t been asked.

(Do you remember the day you left?)

(Let’s not talk about it. Let’s not talk. It’s in the past and we’re both different people now.)

But, instead:

“I’ll see you in the morning, Alec,” he says. “Goodnight. And thank you, again.”

The door closes and the light vanishes, and Alec is left suddenly in the darkness, gazing at the space once occupied. The night around him is cold. A whisper sets heavily upon his tongue but goes unspoken.

Everything always goes unspoken.

interlude

Somewhere between here and 1985, there is a man who doesn’t regret letting his feelings go unsaid. There is a man who moved on with his life; a man who doesn’t live in a moment years ago, with someone else’s hand playing idly in his hair.

There is a man who meets an old friend at a gas station in rural Idaho and it doesn’t hurt in a way he can’t ever explain.

Alec wishes that he knew him.

fourth chord

It’s always night, on the road.

As with endless highways and endless diners, other things begin to repeat themselves too. Alec prefers driving at night. It’s quiet; he can hear himself think; he can run red lights without being pulled over, without anybody in the world seeing him at all. He affords himself this one little thrill, the knowledge that the power to swerve off the road is clenched in his fists.

A fuel tanker passes the car on the opposite side of the highway, the sound of its exhaust like a fog horn parting thick cloud; for a moment, the low hum of the radio is wiped from existence. Alec eases the car over into the middle of the lane with the barest adjustment of the wheel, avoiding the spray of wet grit kicked up by the truck’s wheel arches. As the rumble fades, the melody of late-night jazz begins anew.

He glances sideways at Magnus in the passenger seat. His temple rests against the window and his eyes are closed but he’s not asleep; Alec can tell by the way he’s drawing his thumb in tiny concentric circles against his index finger again, as if deep in thought.

It was always a tell of his.

There is so much of him that hasn’t changed. So much of him that has crossed the threshold from Alec’s memory and fanned out into reality, and Alec is not quite sure where it all meets and blends together. Magnus is half a stranger and half a man ten years younger than he is now, with expensive clothes and the same aftershave and a twinkle in his eye and a strange, unspoken grief on his face whenever he thinks Alec isn’t looking.

But Alec is always looking.

There are memories in the footwell and on the dashboard and in the usually-unoccupied passenger seat of his rental car. Memories that Alec often revisits on other long and inconsequential journeys as a way to pass the time as the odometer climbs.

Magnus is always the main feature of those memories.

It’s 1978 and Alec is a junior in college and Magnus is stumbling into a lecture hall half-an-hour late with a thermos in his hand. He’s wearing the shortest shorts Alec has ever seen, and he’s slumping into the seat next to Alec, whispering in Alec’s ear that he’s so hungover he’s about to revisit Thanksgiving dinner.

Then, it’s 1981 and Magnus is trading secrets with Isabelle at a drive-in movie theater while Alec buys the popcorn; and he’s flattering Maryse’s cooking while leant across the kitchen island, chin in his hand; and he’s slamming the door to his and Alec’s shared dorm, before sneaking back in an hour later, only to find Alec waiting up for him with an apology at the ready.

It’s 1982 and he’s laughing. He’s giving Alec the grand tour of his mother’s home, three streets down from the house where Alec’s parents live. I can’t believe it took moving away to college for us to meet , he says to Alec. We’ve lived this close for so long and we didn’t even know.

It’s 1984 and he’s curling his hand over the back of Alec’s neck, feeling out the knobs in Alec’s spine. His breath is warm against Alec’s jaw as he whispers gentle words into Alec’s ear.

It’s 1985 and he’s packing up his car for the very last time.

Yesterday is tangled in Magnus’ hair. Memories twist time out of alignment and rearrange it into something, and someone, that Alec does not recognise. Ahead of them, in the distance, on the horizon, is a year from a decade ago.

But here in the car, moonlight makes crosses on Magnus’ body. He is beautiful, still. Older, more refined, more improbable , but the composition of him is something that makes Alec’s heart ache as if he’s eighteen again and they’ve only just met.

The mole above his eyebrow is too familiar.

The lines around his eyes that appeared only after his mother passed. Alec remembers that summer well. He remembers listening to Magnus cry as he stood in Magnus’ kitchen doing the dishes that had been neglected for a week.

The map of his hands. A journey that Alec never took but longed for. Longed for and left to gather dust, like an atlas tucked away on the highest shelf of a bookcase.

In the dark, Magnus cracks open one eye, as if aware of being scrutinised. Alec turns his attention back to the road, but it is too late. He’s been caught.

“What is it?” Magnus asks, and his voice is smooth and rich and fills the car like music, even so shortly after waking. “Are we out of gas already?”

“No,” says Alec. “We’ll be fine for a while.”

“Hungry, then? We could stop for a late dinner. Or early breakfast. I’m not entirely sure what time it is, but I can always eat.”

Alec doesn’t reply, but he presses his mouth into a thin line.

Magnus’ eyes narrow. “What is it?”

“What’s what?”

Magnus scoffs. “You’ve always been many things, Alec, but able to lie to me is not one of them.” He laughs a little. “You think I’ve forgotten the look on your face when you’re trying not to spill your heart?”

No , Alec thinks. No, of course you haven’t. You should’ve, but you haven’t. You should’ve, because then at least one of us could say they moved on.

Alec exhales through his nose and flexes his fingers on the steering wheel. He glances in the rearview mirror, but there’s nothing behind them for miles. Much like pocket squares, perhaps that is a metaphor too.

“You never called,” he says, trying to sound casual.

Immediately, Magnus tenses. He shifts in his seat and sits up a little straighter, angling himself to look at Alec.

“I did,” he says, “At the start. You never answered.”

“You were in L.A. The time zones -”

“Oh, come on,” Magnus laughs. “You could’ve called me, you had my number. I know you did, because I wrote it down for you and left it on your bedside table, the day I moved.”

Alec squeezes his eyes closed; for a brief moment of respite, the road ahead of him vanishes. He thinks about letting go of the wheel at 90 miles per hour - not because he wants to, but because the thought of picking up the phone and hearing Magnus’ voice on the other end was always something that felt like driving his car into a ditch.

It’s the fear of impact. It’s the old hurt of being abandoned. It’s the longing to have run after Magnus’ car and asked to go with him that day in 1985. It’s all such a blur. Alec cannot sift between it all.

Magnus sighs heavily, knocking his head back against the seat. He looks at Alec from the corner of his eye and studies him at length.

“Maybe we should stop,” he says slowly. “The next town, find a diner. Get some food.”

“It’s fine. I’d prefer to keep driving,” Alec says, “If we keep stopping, you won’t make your meeting in time.”

Magnus frowns.

You clearly want to talk about it , Alec imagines him saying. Evidently, there are things that went unsaid.

Magnus says none of those things. His phone begins to ring and it shatters the strange tension in the front seat, splitting it like a sudden burst of lightning. Magnus twists around and reaches into the backseat, rummaging through his bag. He returns with a cellphone in his hand, pulling out the antenna and flipping it open.

He meets Alec’s eyes in the rearview mirror as he presses it to his ear.

“Magnus, speaking.”

Magnus listens to the voice on the other end of the line and taps his fingers on his knee. He makes a low noise of disapproval to whomever he’s speaking.

“Yes, yes, Raphael, I know,” he says. “My battery died and I didn’t have a chance to charge it - do you know how much payphones cost? Do I look like the sort of person who carries change in his pocket?” A brief pause. “Don’t answer that.”

Alec reaches for the dial on the radio, intending to turn the volume down, but Magnus’ free hand darts out and swats his fingers away.

He mouths the word no and returns to his phone call, but Alec’s hand remains outstretched.

There’s a tingle in his fingertips, a short spark of static that leapt from Magnus to him, and he stares down at his hand as if he’s been burned.

And it makes Alec realise, oh.

So you’re lonely -lonely.

“I’ll be in Baltimore in four days. I ran into an old friend who offered me a lift,” Magnus continues into his phone. He listens to the other speaker for a moment, glancing briefly at Alec’s hand and frowning. “You’re lucky I phoned you at all after all that car trouble. It was a courtesy only.”

The radio briefly breaks into static before the song resumes again. Magnus begins drumming his fingers on his leg, listening intently to his phone call. He uhms and ahs and says something about investors and capital and shareholders and begins talking numbers that are too big for Alec to really understand.

He opens up the glove box and pulls out an old diner napkin that Alec shoved in there three states ago, and scribbles down a note, but he has to tap his pen against his thigh for the ink to flow.

Alec curls his hand into a fist and rests it on his thigh, but the tingle doesn’t go away. He listens to Magnus talk - this whole other person that Alec doesn’t know, but who he was clearly always meant to be - but all he can think about is how long he has gone without being touched.

Do you know? he thinks. Do you know that the last person who touched me was you? Do you realise at all?

interlude

Driving is like running. The rhythm of the road; the splattering of rain against the windshield; the thrum of a heartbeat as the speedometer tips over ninety. Clear head. Relentless motion.

Forward, forward, forward, always and forever. Try to keep up. Don’t stop. Keep going. Don’t look back.

fifth chord

The diner is the first sign of civilisation that Alec has seen in over a hundred miles - and it is the same diner as it always is, an eminent glow on the 3AM horizon that creeps closer and closer like a spaceship hovering over the fields and drawing circles in the wheat and the barley.

It draws circles around Alec too, this singular moment in time. This microcosm that exists in the form of red leather seats and bright, fluorescent light, and the same empty parking lot and abandoned phonebooth on the highway verge. The waitress changes; sometimes, the group of teenagers in the booth at the back is an old couple embarking on a long trip south before they get too old to make the drive; and instead of a man at the bar watching the baseball, every few miles there will be an off-duty sheriff nursing a cup of diner coffee.

In the end, it’s all the same. A small pocket universe that Alec has crossed a thousand times in a thousand different rental cars.

Perhaps the people in the diner do not exist outside of it. Perhaps they are like pictures on a TV screen that cease to be once the lights have gone off and the static has fizzled and died.

Perhaps they exist only because Alec and Magnus are passing through, creating the world around them as they go. The Midwest has that quality about it.

“I can’t remember the last time I ate diner food,” Magnus says as Alec holds the door open for him and the bell jingles above their heads. “L.A. is on a health kick right now. Everything is kale. Try ordering a steak at any restaurant within a half-mile of downtown and they’ll have the bouncer throw you out on the sidewalk with your drink still in your hand.”

“Not sure they know what kale is out here,” Alec murmurs, leading the way to a booth by the window. He slides onto the bench as Magnus slumps down across from him, dramatically throwing his head back and closing his eyes. “You’re probably safe here.”

Magnus cracks open one eye to look at Alec. Beneath the table, his toes nudge against Alec’s, and then he shifts so that their knees knock together too. He throws a grin at Alec and expects a volley.

Alec tucks a smile into the corner of his mouth and rolls his eyes. He feels fragile, but he’s always been good at acting like he’s not. He picks up the menu and pretends like he doesn’t already know it like the back of his hand.

The waitress approaches their table with a megawatt smile that only brightens when Magnus turns his focus on her, casting her in spotlight. She laughs, tucks her hair behind her ear, and asks where they’re from. Magnus says Los Angeles. The waitress tells him she has a dream of becoming a singer and moving out West, seeing Hollywood and all that .

Alec has never been, but there was a summer back when Alec was in college, where Isabelle decided to follow a boy to California, swept up in the promise of love and adventure and new opportunities. Jace and Alec had protested, their mother had expressly forbid it, but Izzy had gone anyway, and it had ended in heartbreak six months later, as these things always do.

“Everybody in L.A. is from somewhere else,” Izzy had told him, when she came home for Christmas and Alec picked her up at the airport, her life packed up into suitcases in tow. “I don’t know how to explain it. You’re drawn there because of all the - you know, all the sparkle. The glamour, Alec. But really, people there are just running away from somewhere else. Somewhere they don’t really want to be.”

“You don’t want to be here?” Alec had asked.

Izzy shook her head. “It’s not that. It’s more … you don’t realise what was good in the place you left until you’re somewhere else. But then you’re too far to phone, or it costs too much to get a plane ticket, or you just don’t want to give people back home the satisfaction of knowing that they were right.”

Back in the diner, the waitress scribbles down their order on her notepad, pours Alec a coffee, and then tells Magnus she’ll be right back with his seltzer water.

Alec can’t help himself. “Seltzer water,” he murmurs. “And you say you don’t fit in in Los Angeles.”

Magnus laughs. “I didn’t say that .”

The diner coffee is cheap and watery; the burger Alec gets has no bacon, but too many gherkins soaked in brine. The fries are soggy, left bathing in grease all evening, but the waitress brings them an extra portion at no extra charge, because she mistakes Magnus’ friendly conversation for flirtation. Her number is tucked on a napkin beneath the plate.

Magnus rolls his eyes as he shows Alec, but he’s too good a person to crumple it up and toss it to the side. Instead, he slides the napkin into the pocket of his jacket, a keepsake. A souvenir of someone else’s dreams for the future. In that sense, it almost seems precious.

“What?” Magnus asks when he notices Alec staring. “What’s the matter?”

Alec turns his attention back to his food, pulling out a soggy gherkin from his burger and draping it across the edge of his plate. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it. I was just thinking.”

“Thinking?”

Alec’s eyes dart to the pocket of Magnus’ jacket and then away again.

“Alec,” Magnus gently scolds. His smile becomes sympathetic. “Just ask me what you want to ask.”

“Are you gonna call her?”

Magnus shrugs. “Probably not. But who knows. Sometimes the people you meet by accident re-enter your life further down the line and become important. I don’t know where her story might take her.”

“What about your story?”

“My story?”

Alec nods, but says nothing.

Magnus leans forward across the table. “You know my story, Alec.”

A man lights a cigarette at the table two rows behind them; he draws smoke into his lungs and it escapes through his nose, a thin grey stream falling upwards, towards the tiled ceiling. Alec watches him tap the filter on the ashtray in the middle of his table and a clump of ash disintegrates from the lit end; it lands silently, like snow. Like dust on the highway.

Magnus follows Alec’s line of sight and turns in his seat, glancing over his shoulder at the man. When he looks back, he has one eyebrow raised expectantly.

The smell of cigarette smoke fills the diner - acrid, bitter, and faintly earthy. It takes Alec back to college, to sitting out on the back porch of Magnus’ mother’s house before Magnus sold it because he couldn’t bear to look at it any more. He can picture the pack of Morley's tucked beneath Magnus’ thigh. He can still remember the way the unlit cigarette bobbed between Magnus’ teeth as he told his secrets to both Alec and the dark.

“I quit, you know,” says Magnus, in the present. “They say it’s bad for you.”

“I always told you it was.”

Magnus smirks at him and leans forward again, his elbows resting on the table. He steals a limp fry from Alec’s plate and pops it into his mouth. “I listened, didn’t I?” He nods over his shoulder towards the cigarette-smoking man. “What do you think his story is?”

“Huh?”

“What do you think his story is? Why is he here, alone at a diner in the back-end of Wyoming, past midnight in the depths of November? Smoking a cigarette? He must have a story.”

Alec’s never really thought about it. He’s always imagined the inhabitants of the diner as a backdrop, not as characters in their own story.

He looks harder at the man now: he’s older than both Alec and Magnus, salt-and-pepper hair thinning at the back. Once handsome, perhaps, but the years have stretched out his face and made his jaw sag. He’s wearing an ill-fitting suit, his shirt rumpled and his tie missing, the top button of his collar undone. He takes a deep puff of his cigarette, looks at it, and then extinguishes the lit end, grinding it into the ashtray.

“I don’t know,” Alec says slowly, looking back at Magnus. “Some sort of business trip?”

Magnus’ mouth lifts at the corners, drawing Alec in. “Perhaps, but I don’t think so. You see how he’s fingertips aren’t yellow? He’s clearly not a smoker, but he’s stressed enough to do it now.” Magnus reaches across the table and taps his finger against Alec’s fourth knuckle on his left hand. “And he’s not wearing a wedding ring, although looks like he was until recently. You see the mark?”

Alec steals a glance at the man, and then shuffles forward on the bench, so that he might drop his voice low and conspiratorial.

“Divorced, then?” he proposes.

“Maybe,” Magnus grins, “Or cheating, and he’s about to go back home and face his wife and pretend like his fishing trip with the guys from the office didn’t turn up much success, so they’re going to try again next weekend. He’s probably never fished in his life.”

Alec laughs then, loud enough to draw some attention. The sound is foreign in his mouth and a flush surges up the back of his neck as he sinks lower in his seat, hunching his shoulders and biting down on his smile.

Magnus looks delighted; in his eyes, Alec sees the reflection of the fluorescent lights above their heads, laid out like stars.

“You just made all that up from looking at him?” Alec asks.

Magnus beams at him. He reaches out and touches Alec’s fourth knuckle again. “Why, of course,” he says, and then he nods his chin towards the sheriff sat alone at the bar, making smalltalk with the waitress. “Now, how about him?”

sixth chord

The sun rises over the endless Nebraskan fields in shards of light.

Alec adjusts the rearview mirror. He will remember this moment later in figments of pale winter blue, snow-hazed pink, and November sky through the passenger window as Magnus gazes out across the passing countryside: a blank canvas for a painter to fill with bodies.

The color changes depending on where Alec chooses to angle the reflection of the mirror. Slightly to the left, and Magnus’ hands are stained in a pale wavering indigo, a purple so rare that it is only ever seen in the fleeting hour between twilight and sunrise. Move the mirror to the right, and that colour becomes orange, then gold.

Magnus swipes his hand across the condensation forming on the inside of the window, smearing colour across the landscape, but the story he might paint is hidden from view. Alec knows the start and he knows the middle - the brushstrokes the ones Alec remembers, but it’s the details that differ now - and it’s the end of the story that is vague and undefined in sepia.

Alec thinks about cigarettes again. He wants to ask Magnus who it was that finally got him to quit. Or when exactly he started drinking seltzer water instead of shitty beer from Walmart, or decided that listening to the dial tone while waiting for Alec to pick up the phone was too much.

‘Let’s start the morning right with some ‘old but gold’ ,’ announces the radio. ‘ We’re going back twelve years to 1983 with this first track …’

Magnus makes a nose of protest in the passenger seat. The indigo has already faded from his hands, moving on to become something else, something more.

Faithfully by Journey begins to play. Alec recognises the song; in much the same way that a breath of fresh air on a cold winter morning can take him back to another place and another time, the first note paints a picture in his memories.

“This song played at Isabelle’s quincea ñ era,” he remarks. “D’you remember?”

“I remember,” Magnus says, tipping his head back against the seat and staring up at the roof of the car. He closes his eyes and basks in the light of the early morning sun. His smile grows gold. “That was the summer she dragged us all to see them in concert, wasn’t it? Jace had me make a tape for her, for the party. She played it on repeat all night.” Magnus pauses for a moment, letting his words sink in. “I also remember asking you to dance to this.”

Alec remembers that too. “Dad didn’t like that. He was pissed.”

”I’m not surprised. He tolerated me, at best. He was clearly jealous.”

Alec huffs on a laugh. “Jealous? How’s that, exactly?”

“Mhm, jealous,” Magnus reminisces. “Specifically of when I spun you around and dropped you on your ass in the grass and you laughed like I’d never heard you laugh before.”

Alec’s neck grows warm, a flush curling around his throat. He pinches at the skin between his thumb and forefinger where his hands both rest on the wheel.

“I was drunk,” he says, like an excuse. “I don’t remember much after that.”

That’s a lie. He was drunk, but he remembers being sprawled out across the grass and staring at the sky and laughing, until Magnus dropped down beside him, his hands planted either side of Alec’s head as he bent over him, and kissed him on the corner of his mouth. And he had laughed it off like it was nothing, pulling Alec back to his feet, but Alec spent the rest of the summer picking that feeling out of his teeth.

Magnus turns his head to gaze out the window again. The curve of his smile speaks of fondness, of a quieted sense of longing and looking back. He seems at peace.

“I was drunk too,” he says, after a beat, to the countryside.

And oh, Alec wants that. He covets that like he covets touch. To be able to look back and not feel all this … regret.

Isabelle’s fifteenth birthday was the first and only time they kissed. Magnus probably doesn’t even remember that night, not beyond the dancing, the beer, the spinning around and around in dizzying circles. There’s no way he would remember a kiss that wasn’t really a kiss.

Alec never once told him how he wanted to do it again.

That was the problem, in the end.

interlude

“You haven’t moved on?” says a man, once, in a bar. He’s tall and handsome, with curly blonde hair and large hands that Alec has imagined once or twice upon his chest, although it never makes his heart leap like it should.

His name is Andrew. He works in the building next door to the J. Edgar Hoover Building in Washington. They met at a coffee cart on the corner of the block, and this, now, is their third date.

Alec had thought it was going well.

“What?” says Alec, turning to look at Andrew, leant beside him at the bar. “What do you mean?”

“You haven’t moved on from whoever it is that you loved first,” says Andrew. He pulls his American Express from his wallet and passes it to the bartender to settle their tab, but they’ve only had one drink so far. “And you know, that’s okay. I get it. The first is always different, especially when it gets left unfinished. But I can’t see this working between us if you’re still in that place. You’re a good guy, Alec, but I deserve more than that.”

seventh chord

“Take the next left.”

Alec scowls at the road before turning to look at Magnus. He is bent over an atlas he found beneath the passenger seat - it’s not Alec’s and must’ve been left behind by whoever rented the car before him. The pages are dog-eared and coffee ring-stained, and Magnus’ finger is pressed against the thin line of the highway that divides Nebraska in two.

“What? Why? This is the quickest way.”

Magnus glances up, a look of mischief on his face. He grins at Alec.

“There’s something I want to see and we’ll be passing right by. Seems like a shame to miss it while we’re here.”

“What is it?”

Magnus’ tongue pokes out between his teeth as his smile broadens. He mimes locking his mouth with an invisible key, tucking it into his shirt pocket.

Alec huffs. “Magnus, we’re in Nebraska. All they have here is grass. And nothing. And more grass, and more nothing.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Magnus folds the atlas up and sets it on his lap. He pats it with his hands. “What’s so wrong with a little spontaneity?”

“Uh, the fact that you have to be in Baltimore in three days? For an important meeting?” Alec says, gesturing with his flat palm at the road ahead. “You know I’m still on the clock, right? This is Bureau time you want to waste.”

“It’ll be an hour’s detour. We can afford it.”

“ Magnus .”

Magnus just grins at him. It’s the same grin that used to get Alec into so much trouble back in college; it leans against his doorframe with arms folded and a come-hither look in its eyes, and Alec has never been able to say no. Not to Magnus.

Magnus laughs. “Wow, they really did shove that stick right on up your ass at Quantico, didn’t they?”

Alec glares at him, but Magnus reaches out and pats Alec on the forearm, gently curling his fingers around Alec’s wrist. His touch, unfairly, is warm.

“Come on. The turning’s coming up,” he says. “Time to make a decision, Agent Lightwood. You don’t always have to play by the rules. Live a little.”

Alec rolls his eyes, but flicks the turn signal and merges into the outside lane, slowing as the turning approaches. Magnus beams at him and his laughter is buoyant, delighted as he claps Alec on the shoulder. His hand lingers, fingers pressing into Alec’s shirt, thumb against Alec’s pulse point.

Alec takes the turning.

He takes the turning and he wishes, only once, that Magnus might tell him exactly what those rules are. For a situation like this, he wonders, when you’re in the front seat of a car on an endless highway with a man you haven’t seen in years and who, once upon a time, you would’ve followed anywhere.

Although, in the end, not everywhere.

A sign on the roadside welcomes them to Alliance, Nebraska, but instead of houses and street lamps, it’s grass that stretches for miles in every flat direction, endless swathes of frostbitten green. The road, now, is dirt and dust, and in the distance, a single white building and a cluster of standing stones appear as a landmark on the horizon.

Alec slows the car, but as the stones come into focus, he realises they’re not stones at all.

“Are those … cars ?” Alec asks, squinting into the distance. He looks sharply at Magnus. “Magnus, what -?”

Magnus holds up the atlas, his finger pressed against a roadside attraction labelled Carhenge .

“Please tell me that’s not what I think it is,” Alec says.

“Stonehenge replicated entirely out of cars, you mean?”

“Yes. That .”

“Well, it’s not as exciting as the World’s Biggest Ball of Paint , sure,” Magnus grins. “But when in Rome, Alexander. When in Rome.”

Alec pulls off the road, passing by the visitor’s sign that reads: Carhenge and Car Art Reserve. Welcome! The parking lot, little more than a field worn thin by tire treads, is scarred by muddy trenches that have frozen solid in the night and not yet thawed, and the rental’s suspension works hard to navigate them.

Alec huffs as he pulls up the handbrake and cuts the engine, but Magnus is already twisting in his seat to reach for his coat. He shoots Alec a cavalier grin as he opens the car door and tumbles out into the cold, and the blast of icy-cold air hits Alec square in the face.

Alec grimaces, but in front of the car, Magnus knocks his knuckles against the hood and gestures for Alec to follow him. Alec grumbles and pats himself down for his keys-wallet-ID-gun , before grabbing his own coat and shoving open the driver’s door.

The only other vehicle in the parking lot is a campervan, shiny and white and sparkling in the winter sunlight, either a midlife crisis or an early retirement investment. An older couple - a man and a woman - are standing in front of it, peering over a large DSLR camera. He’s in socks and sandals and she has binoculars looped around her neck, and if the weather was any warmer, Alec is sure they would both be in cargo shorts too.

“What attracts people to places like this?” Alec mutters, stuffing his hands into his pockets and turning up the collar of his overcoat as he hurries after Magnus. He hunches his shoulders, but the wind feels like it’s gusting through him, with nothing to stop or hinder it across the plains. “Why would you drive all the way out here to see … this ?”

“It’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey, Alexander,” Magnus teases, walking backwards so that he can face Alec. “Why do we do anything without purpose? Because it’s there, and because we can.”

Behind him, the large circle of cars stands out of the landscape, spray-painted grey to look even less like standing stones. Alec grits his teeth.

“It’s about those little moments that break up a long drive,” Magnus continues, nudging Alec’s arm. “Or making small and inconsequential memories that can be revisited whenever one needs something slightly absurd to fall back on. It’s something to do with another person, even if that person is insistent on being a grouch the entire time we’re here-”

“Alright, alright, I get it,” Alec grumbles. “Let’s just hurry up and look because it’s fucking freezing out here and I wanna get back in the car.”

Alec’s dress shoes sink straight into the mud as they traipse across the grass towards the circle of cars; the squelch-squelch-squelch of his feet is loud enough to be heard over the wind. Along the horizon, the sun is weeping yellow, low in the sky and sinking moment by moment towards sunset, and the shadows that stretch out lengthways from the stones-that-are-not-stones are long and warped.

Alec stops when his toes meet one such shadow and he looks up at the stack of cars towering over him. He tilts his head to the side, but it looks no better from an angle. Magnus steps away from him, meandering over towards an information sign.

“ ‘Carhenge is formed from vintage American automobiles, all covered with gray spray paint,’ ” he reads out. “‘ Built by Jim Reinders, it was dedicated at the June 1987 summer solstice in memory of his father. ’ Huh. How about that.”

“My dad would kill me,” Alec mutters.

“Oh, yes, mine too,” says Magnus. He bends down and squints at the smaller text on the sign. “‘ Carhenge consists of 39 automobiles arranged in a circle measuring about 96 feet in diameter.’ ”

“That seems excessive.”

“I think it’s strangely compelling, actually,” Magnus says. “There’s something about roadside Americana that has its own distinct charm. It’s a product of human eccentricities and I like that.”

“Oh yeah, and what are you seeing?” Alec says, gesturing with his hand. “Because all I see is a 15ft tall metal monstrosity.”

Magnus wanders back over to him, pressing up against Alec’s arm for the sake of warmth. He folds his arms across his chest, shoving his hands under his arms, and huffs out warm air that forms white clouds. He gazes up at the monolith above them.

“Well, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Alexander,” he says. He frowns then, studying the twisted shapes of metal and fibreglass as if they’re some extraordinary work of art kept behind velvet ropes and a glass case and only allowed to be looked upon for a fleeting moment, and not an old car barely spared from rusting. “Michelangelo despised the roof of the Sistine Chapel, and yet it’s one of the most impressive feats of Renaissance art that still exists.”

“ Magnus ,” Alec presses.

“Mhm?”

Alec pauses. He studies Magnus’ face in profile: the line of his nose, the sharp cut of his jaw, the purse of his lips as he contemplates some deeper meaning that passes Alec by. High in his cheeks, the cold paints his skin red.

Alec thinks he understands a little, then. Nobody really comes to Alliance, Nebraska to see thirty-nine vintage cars spray painted grey and stacked together like some prehistoric monument from halfway across the world. There are other things worth looking at.

Alec shrinks down into the collar of his coat. “Michelangelo is overrated anyway,” he grumbles.

interlude

Here is the creation of a new memory: the orange-gold of a sunset, the cold metal of a rental car against the back of Alec’s thighs, and the warmth of a cheap coffee in his hands, steam rising and obscuring the face. The sky, shifting into navy, into darkness, into the pitting of stars as the temperature plummets and each breath becomes a plume of smoke rising heavenward.

Here, sat together on the hood of the car, Magnus touches him. Not an accidental brush of the fingers or a friendly hand on the arm while driving, but instead, Magnus tips his head to the side, letting his temple rest on Alec’s shoulder.

Here, Magnus’ whispered name crosses Alec’s lips. A question posed to the night, painful and tender and purple like a bruise (‘ what are you doing? ’), but Magnus doesn’t reply. He hums and turns his head and presses his nose to Alec’s coat.

Alec’s doesn’t dare move. Magnus’ hair tickles his jaw, and Alec wants to turn his head and press his nose there and breathe him in, but he doesn’t. Ten years ago, maybe. But not now.

So, he looks up, and he exhales as the last fragments of the sun shatter into a thousand tiny pieces. The night sky, in its infiniteness, mirrors the high plains of the Midwest: how endless, how deep, how black it all is, away from the city.

How less lonely it is with another body tucked against his shoulder. How much it hurts.

eighth chord

They find a cheap motel, afterwards, on the outskirts of the Alliance city limits. This time, there’s only one room left. One room with two twin beds made up in ugly floral sheets, and a TV without cable, and a minifridge, because that’s how it always is; how it’s meant to be; how it was, once, years ago.

Standing in the doorway of the room, Alec thinks back to their college dorm. He thinks about being eighteen and away from his parents’ home for the very first time - only one city over, but far enough, far enough to breathe - and Magnus crashing into that room, laden with boxes and a bright smile.

He thinks, aged eighteen, God, he’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen .

He thinks, aged thirty-something, that’s one thing that hasn’t changed.

Magnus, in the present, slumps down on the bed furthest from the door with a heavy sigh and immediately toes off his shoes and flings off his coat. His suitcase is beside him on the bed, but Alec’s bag - Alec’s bag is still clenched tightly in his fingers.

He doesn’t move from the doorway. He can still feel Magnus’ head against his shoulder, Magnus’ weight against his side, and he’s not sure he’s taken a proper breath since; but then Magnus looks up and catches his eye and tilts his head as if to say, what next, Alexander?

He offers Alec a smile which Alec can’t return.

Alec swallows thickly and nudges the door closed with his hip. He pads over to the other bed, his feet sinking into the plush carpet and leaving tracks, and he sets his bag down on the very end of the mattress, and -

What next, Alexander?

There was never a what next . That’s the problem; it’s always been the problem. Alec, afraid to put a name to the feelings in his chest and step outside his comfort zone, and Magnus, unwilling to push him. This is the point they always reached: the touches, the glances, the wondering. The waiting for someone to do something. Around and around again, until Magnus couldn’t do it anymore.

This is always the point. The moment, repeated, just like the highway. Just like the diner.

Magnus exhales and cards a hand through his hair, combing it back against his head. He looks away from Alec, eyes drifting across the room until they settle on the cheap plywood door that leads to the ensuite.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he announces, and then he’s up, grabbing a towel off the bed and disappearing into the bathroom.

The shutting of the bathroom door is too soft and too careful, and Alec sinks down onto the end of his bed and rests his head in his hands. He closes his eyes and focuses on the outline of his badge in his jacket pocket, digging into his chest. The weight of his service weapon on his hip. The scratchy linen of the bed, the stains on the ceiling, the fuzzy TV as it cycles back and forth through the few sparse channels, even though the remote is on the bedside table and out of Alec’s reach.

He tries not to listen to the sound of rushing water through the walls.

He goes to shower, after. When Magnus emerges from the bathroom with wet hair and a freshly-scrubbed face, there are no words exchanged as Alec passes him by.

The bathroom is small and full of steam, windowless and ventless and hot like a sauna and that’s definitely a fire hazard. Alec peels out of his suit and tugs the tie from his collar. His undershirt goes next, and then his belt, which hits the floor with a heavy clank. He stares at himself in the mirror but the reflection that stares back at him is blurred by condensation, and Alec’s finger is drawn to it, if only to leave a mark.

He wonders what Magnus would say if Alec told him of how he would write Magnus’ name in the steam on his mirror in the days after he left, standing in front of it to watch until it faded.

And it faded every time, until Alec stopped doing it.

He steps out of his pants and underwear, a puddle of creased suiting on the floor, and climbs into the shower, turning the dial up as hot as it goes. He stands beneath the spray until it scalds his skin pink, and then, once done, sits on the edge of the tub with a towel wrapped around his waist and finds himself craving a cigarette. He doesn’t smoke, not really. He just needs something to do with his hands.

When he leaves the bathroom, the TV is quiet and the light is off. A faint, electric glow escapes the bottom of the curtains, the same blue colour as the NO VACANCIES sign that overlooks the parking lot outside.

Magnus has his back to the bathroom door, his hands tucked beneath the pillow where he rests his head. He’s not asleep yet; Alec can tell from his breathing, not yet slowed. He will be able to count every long second that Alec spends staring at him, watching the rise and fall of his body beneath the covers, and he will be able to hear the moment Alec sighs and turns and leaves, padding across the room to his own empty bed.

Alec has lost count of the number of times he’s rolled over in the dark of a shuttered room that smells of mothballs and stale cigarette smoke, and reached for something that’s never been there. That hasn’t been there for years.

His mattress dips in the middle with the weight of one body. The pillow scratches at his cheek. He sets his service weapon on the bedside table, within easy reach, but hides his badge within the pocket of his jacket, out of sight but not quite out of mind. This is how it always is.

He listens to the rustle of blankets from the other bed and wonders, briefly, if Magnus has turned to look at him in the dark. He wonders what Magnus’ expression might be, and if Magnus stares at him now with the same sort of regret that Alec fails to hide.

He is still in love with Magnus. He never stopped being in love with Magnus. This, too, is still the same.

interlude

In a wealth of human experience, the worst, by far, is what if .

ninth chord

Magnus taps his fingers against the car door, beating out an inconsistent rhythm. Alec knows it’s not a love song, but it could be something similar - a song about lost chances or maybe second chances. Sometimes, it’s difficult to distinguish between the two.

‘ THE PEOPLE OF IOWA WELCOME YOU ,’ reads a passing road sign, and it catches Magnus’ attention for a moment long enough to falter his rhythm. ‘ FIELDS OF OPPORTUNITIES. ’

There is little else to distinguish the crossing of the state line: the fields still stretch in endless directions, swathed in a fog the colour of glass. They set off late from the motel this morning because Magnus overslept and then insisted on breakfast, and refused to ask for the cheque until he had seen Alec consume something other than filter coffee.

He had offered to drive too, but Alec remembers what his driving is like: one arm propped on the wheel and the other fiddling with the radio, eyes barely on the road because, to Magnus, highways are straight lines from point A to point B and he has no time for speed traps or taking corners slowly or braking .

Alec, meanwhile, always has his hands at ten and two.

“Alexander, can I ask you something?”

Alec reaches for the dial of the radio and turns it down; this time, Magnus doesn’t try to stop him.

“I’m not stopping at another Carhenge,” Alec says. “Once is enough.”

Magnus rolls his eyes and continues tapping his finger against the car door.

“No,” he says, “No, I’ve seen my fill, I think.”

“But?”

Magnus smiles a little. “What makes you think there’s a but?”

“Because you haven’t said a word since I told you there’s no way in Hell you’re driving,” Alec chuckles. “And you’ve been thinking about something. I can tell. You do this thing with your hand -” He mimics the rubbing of his thumb and forefinger together, and then the touching of his ear. “And then you touch your ear. You used to have that piercing, remember? You’d always fiddle with it when something was on your mind.”

Magnus tugs gently at his earlobe. “I didn’t think I was so easy to read.”

“You’re not,” Alec smiles, “I’ve just known you too long. Or, uh. Knew you too long.”

Magnus hums at that. He begins spinning one of his fingers around his forefinger.

“Do you think I’ve changed? Since then?”

Alec shrugs. He’s never been that good of a liar, not in front of Magnus. And Magnus knows that; he told Alec as much, two days ago “A bit. It would be weird if you hadn’t.”

“Hm,” Magnus considers. “You’ve changed, you know. And it’s like the strangest sense of deja-vu, because I know I know you, and yet there are these little details, these little things that seem slightly off. That I don’t recognise and I don’t know where they came from.” Abruptly, he stops fiddling with his ring and curls his fingers into the palm of his hand. He smiles wryly to himself. “And why should I? You don’t stay the same person your whole life.”

“I don’t think I’ve changed,” Alec murmurs, chewing on his lip. “I’m pretty much the same person I was back then.”

Magnus shakes his head, his smile fading. “That’s not true. I can see it in your face. You laugh more. You roll your eyes at me. Tell me no. You didn’t used to do that and I would drag you into so much shit , Alec. God, I was such a bad influence on you back then.” He pauses then, and his expression sobers. “But then, sometimes, when I catch you looking at me now, you seem ...”

He trails off, searching for the words with a flick of his hand. Alec doesn’t know what he means.

“I seem like what?” he asks.

“You seem so sad .”

Alec laughs in disbelief. “Sad? What - Magnus - I’m not sad, what do I have to be sad about?”

Magnus runs his thumb over his lower lip in thought. “That’s what I wanted to ask. Last night, in that motel room, I wondered - well. I wanted to ask if you resented me, after I left.”

Alec’s hands clench on the wheel. “If I resented you?” he repeats carefully. “Magnus, I didn’t resent you. Where’s this come from? What - what sort of question is that?”

“A genuine one,” says Magnus. “Just humour me a little. I want to know.”

Alec’s heart thumps in his chest. He forces himself to stay focused on the road. “Why are you asking about this now?”

“Why not two days ago when I found you at that gas station, you mean?”

No , Alec thinks. Not then. Before. Ten years ago, maybe.

Why didn’t you ask me then?

“Yeah,” Alec lies. “Something like that.”

Magnus frowns. “Do you not want to talk about it?” he asks.

“Do you?”

Magnus hesitates. He presses his mouth into a flat line and with his clenched fists, he taps his knuckles against the glass of the passenger window. The beat is one-two three-four , like a pair of heartbeats.

“I want to make sure you know why I had to go,” he says, eventually. “You understand that, right?”

“Right,” says Alec, unconvincingly.

Magnus huffs and leans his head into his hand, rubbing at his temple. When he continues, his words are addressed to the horizon and the straight line that leads them there and disappears into a singular point in time and space.

“I know I hurt you, Alec,” he says. “And I think you’re still hurt, in a way, because you’re both the most obtuse person I’ve ever met and yet the only person who I was always able to - who I can always see . And ... can I be honest here?”

Alec nods, but says nothing.

“Right, well,” Magnus continues. “How do I explain this? It’s … it’s frustrating . Sometimes. The way you keep looking at me out the corner of your eye like it causes you suffering to do so but you can’t help yourself. The way you didn’t pick up any of my phone calls, back then. The way we just … the way we just ended. Snuffed out like a candle.”

“But you’re the one who left , Magnus,” Alec interjects. “You’re the one who - it wasn’t me. I didn’t decide that.”

“I didn’t want to be stuck there. I wanted a career, Alec, I wanted to see what else there is ,” Magnus says, gesturing with his free hand to the open road and empty Iowan landscape. He sounds weary. “And there is so much else, so much more than a nice house in a nice neighbourhood with a white-picket fence and a dog and two-point-five kids. I couldn’t wait around for you to - I didn’t want to live the life my mom lived. She never left that place, not once. The same four walls, the same dead-end Middle American town until the end of her days. And that ... that was too small for me.”

He talks about getting out the same way painters talk about muses, the same way a traveler searches for God in the landscape: something they had to see before they died. A holy calling.

He always has.

Perhaps Alec is the ghost lingering at those New England intersections that keeps Magnus far and away from home. Alec, too afraid to cross over the threshold of a highway, destined to haunt the same small town for the rest of his life.

Too afraid to wander so far from home that he might not be allowed back. Too afraid to say something that he can’t recant, even if it’s the truth.

Alec chews on the inside of his cheek. “Didn’t you ever ... didn’t you ever think about that sort of life? With the house, and the yard, and the dog?” he begins. “Just a little? Just a bit?”

Magnus shakes his head. “I didn’t want that,” he murmurs. “It’s not me. You know that. And after my mother passed and I sold the house, I - God, sometimes I would sit on the front porch and watch all the cars go by, passing through that town like it was nothing, like it wasn’t even a blip on their map, and I would think the world moves on without you . It doesn’t care if you don’t catch up. It doesn’t care if you’re - if you’re waiting for someone to say something they never want to say.”

He glances at Alec as he says it, and Alec realises then that he knows.

Magnus knows. Perhaps he’s known a while; perhaps he’s known since they were young that Alec loves him but refuses to say it. It is Alec’s worst kept secret, after all.

“I had to get out, Alec,” Magnus continues. “Sometimes I thought, if I stayed, I’d suffocate.”

I was suffocating too , Alec thinks. A gay man in the early 80s didn’t get to breathe . That’s just how it was.

Magnus, of course, already knows that. Alec would only be preaching to the choir if he said it aloud.

Instead, he mumbles, “I wanted to say it.”

“What was that?”

“I wanted to say it,” Alec repeats. He sinks his teeth into the inside of his cheek and wishes he could squeeze his eyes closed for just a moment - but there’s the road. There’s always the road. “I just - I couldn’t. Not then. But I wanted to say it. The thing you were waiting for. From me.”

Magnus’ mouth falls open a fraction, as if, somehow, he is surprised by such a revelation. Alec feels Magnus’ stare boring into the side of his face and he fights every muscle in his body not to turn and look back, because he knows exactly what he’ll find in Magnus’ eyes and he’s not sure he can stomach it.

He has looked at Alec this way before. Hell, a thousand times before. He’s trying to understand Alec - why here and why now, why are you finally saying something after all these years of pulling me along at the other end of a string, leaving me hoping and desperate and in love with someone who couldn’t ever say it back - but Alec is not that complicated.

He’s just scared. Scared of change. Scared of veering off the side of the highway that he has driven all his life, even though a part of him wants to know what it feels like. A part of him longs for the impact because, at least then, it will all be over.

And Magnus -

Magnus has always been so difficult to pin down, so close to chewing through his own foot to get away (and Alec had always hoped he’d never quite manage it, so that he might stay with Alec, forever, in some selfish vision of the future). It’s inside of him, that need to wander and see the world and meet new people and learn from them and be better and be something . The need to throw the roadmap out the window at high speed.

“Was that -” Alec begins, but clears his throat again. “Was that not enough? For you to stay, I mean?”

Magnus’ expression softens. His shoulders slump and his hand falls away from his temple and his mouth curves upwards at the corner and he says nothing. In his eyes, however, Alec finds an answer.

Sometimes, you cannot wait to be loved at someone else’s pace. Sometimes, you deserve more than that. I deserved more than that.

And maybe -

And maybe I’m still waiting.

interlude

Another postcard, this time purchased from a roadside gas station and then left crumpled in the glove box of a rental car:

I loved you then. I love you now. I still don’t know how to say it.

tenth chord

The day Magnus left was a Sunday. The beginning of August, 1985. The sun was bright that morning, harsh on the roof of Magnus’ new car as he piled boxes and suitcases into the trunk.

Alec had not understood what ending meant until he was standing on the sidewalk and watching Magnus pack up his life into ten square feet. He had not understood that some endings aren’t peaceful or satisfying or tie up all the loose threads of a story tangled by the writer; some endings are excoriations. They leave you raw and wounded.

The realisation, now, is that letting Magnus go a second time will be a worse experience than the first. This time, Alec already knows what it’s going to feel like.

In the rental car, the heater works hard to circulate warm air into the front seat. The windshield wipers battle against the thick blanket of fog that has rolled in across Lake Michigan and which obscures the signposts for Chicago from view. Frost covers rural Illinois in a comb of silver, not quite yet snow, but soon. Soon enough, the country will be white and glistening in the low sunlight as far as the eye can see.

Magnus has his coat draped over him like a blanket, his arms backwards through the sleeves and his head resting against the window. He hasn’t slept, but he’s been quiet for a while now, watching the world pass by with little commentary, save for when a song to which he knows the words plays on the radio.

On the side of the road, timber-frame houses disappear in and out of existence, reappearing in various states of disrepair. A barn, an old farmhouse, a disused gas station, a tiny church built on stilts that extends out over a frozen lake on a wooden walkway.

Magnus makes a noise of interest as they pass it by, turning in his seat to look back at it as it vanishes into the fog.

“Did you see that?” he asks. These are the first words he’s said to Alec in nearly a hundred miles. “That church.”

Alec glances in the rearview mirror but, as always, they are the only car on the road and the fog swallows up the passing seconds behind them. He’s not sure how long they’ve been on this road without a turning, nothing but an undeviated line for miles, and sooner or later, the end of the road is going to take them by surprise.

Alec takes his foot off the gas and presses down on the brake instead, and the car lurches to a near-stop. Magnus jolts forward in his seat, his seat belt cutting into his chest and stopping his momentum. He turns to stare at Alec, but Alec throws his arm over the back of his seat, knocks the gearstick into reverse, and spins the car into a three-point U-turn.

Magnus sits up in his seat, his coat slipping down from his shoulders and onto the floor.

“Baltimore not on the cards anymore?” Magnus asks, as Alec turns the car around and begins driving back the way they came. “Alec, what’s going on?”

Alec leans forward over the steering wheel, squinting out into the fog. The shape of the gas station reforms out of white cloud, and then, beside it, the shimmer of the frozen lake and the small church that sits atop it. A place for prayer amidst the smell of petrol fumes and gasoline and road dust.

A traveller’s chapel , Alec notes. It seems apt.

The church is small and squat and built of dark, gnarled wood, falling apart at the seams. From a distance, it seems almost black, but the need to pull off the road possesses Alec and he pulls into the parking lot of the gas station, before locking the handbrake.

Once parked, he turns to look at Magnus, both hands still clenched on the wheel. The radio crackles with white noise, interspersed with the tune of a Christmas song that Alec doesn’t recognise. Magnus reaches out and turns the volume down.

There’s never really been a need for words.

Alec unclips his seatbelt first. He doesn’t pat himself down for keys-wallet-ID-gun . He grabs his coat from the backseat and leaps out into the cold, and doesn’t look back when he hears the passenger door slam and Magnus follow after him, albeit at a distance.

What Alec finds is this: the wind is brittle and the walkway that leads out over the lake creaks and groans beneath Alec’s weight, but doesn’t make a noise for Magnus. On the highway behind them, a truck rumbles past, but the fog is so deep that Alec cannot see it, save for the glow of its headlights. There is a small placard nailed to the outside of the church that reads: Visit Your Roadside Chapel and a big red arrow points down at the doorway.

Alec reaches for the doorknob and gives it a twist. Behind him, he can feel Magnus watching him, arms folded across his chest to ward off the cold, in silence. He says nothing to Alec, no witty remark about the FBI’s predilection for breaking and entering, no tired smile, no weary remark about how he’s tired of waiting, which they both know means far more than it seems.

The door to the church is not locked and it opens with a fair shove, and out spills the smell of damp wood and dust and old smoke. Magnus coughs lightly, wafting his hand in front of his mouth, but Alec steps inside.

The church itself is small and cramped, barely wider than the span of Alec’s arms from wall to wall, and the cold sweeps through the gaps in the walls, carrying with it the earthy smell of burning. There are no church pews, but a padded piece of wood for kneeling in prayer sits beneath a floor-to-ceiling cross, and bible verses are scratched into the plywood walls in a messy hand. Empty beer cans and extinguished cigarettes litter the floor, and cobwebs are strung like garlands above Alec’s head, which he reaches up to swipe away.

A row of candles stand where the altar should be. Soot still clings to the wicks, as if freshly extinguished.

Alec steps forward and his feet crunch on dried leaves that have blown in through the door. He lifts his foot and looks down and finds a crumpled receipt stuck to the sole of his shoe, grey with running ink and dozens of footprints that have come before Alec’s. The date on the receipt is fifteen years ago. It was issued in Dallas, Texas.

This is a space of comings and goings. Of passing throughs. The afterimages of a thousand travellers linger here like memories and, carved into the cross above Alec’s head, he notices the words: what is more important to the traveller, the journey or the destination?

The silence sings, or maybe it hisses, like the wind rustling through the endless miles of wheatfields between here and where they’ve come from.

What is more important to the traveller, the fact that we got lost along the way, or that we made it back here, in the end, and met again?

Alec looks back over his shoulder, and Magnus is there, standing in the open doorway, waiting. His nose is red with the cold. The light behind him casts him in the pale yellow of a winter twilight. He is watching Alec with an expression that Alec doesn’t understand.

“Magnus?” Alec asks, low and gentle.

“Yes?” he replies.

“Do you have a lighter?”

Magnus’ mouth tips upwards at the corner. “I said I quit, remember?” he says, but he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a shiny, silver Zippo lighter, engraved with his initials. He places it in Alec’s outstretched hand, but his touch lingers against Alec’s wrist and the staccato of his pulse. “Here.”

Alec turns to the candles and flicks his thumb along the lighter. The flame is summoned into existence, its light dancing across Alec’s thumbnail as he lights the wick of the tallest candle.

He lights it for his mother, and then, once it catches, he lights another for Izzy, and then one for Jace and Max and his father. He recites the Catholic rotes his grandmother taught him beneath his breath, in Spanish, a whisper. Then, a prayer for Magnus, and for his mother too, wherever she might be.

And lastly, a prayer for himself, aged eighteen and away from home for the very first time. Aged twenty-three and in his graduation gown, Magus’ mortarboard on his head and Magnus’ arm around his shoulders, laughing in his ear. Aged ten years younger than he is now and standing on the sidewalk of his parents’ house, watching Magnus’ car pull away.

Magnus joins him at his side, his head bowed and his hands clasped in front of him. An inch of space exists between their shoulders, but, even now, Alec can feel the warmth of him through his coat.

Alec has missed this. He will miss it again, he’s all too sure, but maybe it’s okay to have it only for a moment.

Maybe that’s enough. Maybe it has to be.

“Alexander?”

“Yeah?”

“I meant what I said yesterday,” Magnus says quietly. He tugs on the sleeve of Alec’s coat and turns Alec to face him. His eyes are bright - not wet, but earnest - and drop to Alec’s lips before returning upwards. “That it’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey. You know that, right?”

He squeezes Alec’s arm. He wants Alec to understand something that still remains out-of-focus.

“What do you mean?” Alec asks.

“I am sorry for the way we left things,” Magnus says, “And I’m sorry that it hurt more than I realised it would. I really am. But it doesn’t have to end the same way this time. You can change the way you remember it. Make it mean something, something fond that you can look back on. You can make it good, if you want.”

Alec frowns. They’re a day away from Baltimore. In forty-eight hours, Alec will be back home in D.C., and in a week, Magnus will return to L.A. and the life he has built there, where he drinks seltzer water and no longer smokes and talks a mile-a-minute on an expensive cell phone about investments and equity and big-ticket numbers, and is loved by Alec at a distance.

It’s not like the highway extends into the sea. All roads eventually end, and this one must too, amounting to nothing more than four days in a nondescript rental car with Christmas music playing on the radio, but -

This doesn’t have to end the same way this time.

“Doesn’t it?” Alec asks, unable to help himself.

Magnus shakes his head and lets go of Alec’s arm. He takes a step forward and lifts the last unlit candle, holding its wick to the flame of another until it catches.

“No,” he says. “No, it doesn’t.”

interlude

Nothing that happens on the road is real. This is what Alec tells himself between diners and gas stations and faded markings down the centre of the highway.

I can love you now, while the engine’s still running. And you might love me too, while the engine’s still running. Sometimes I think that you do, when I look at you from the corner of my eye.

In the distance, Chicago rises from the fog, lit up in one thousand pin-pricks of light. It makes the world glow in the colour of cities and concrete and it feels a bit like a dream after so long passing through nowheres.

If we drive far enough, we might make it back to the place we once called ‘now’. If we drive fast enough, maybe that day will end differently and you’ll stay.

The speedometer tips over ninety and the countryside blurs into rooftops and stop lights and traffic backed up across the bridge that spans the highway. Streetlights line the side of the road and pass across the rental car in flashes of strobe and yellow.

“I don’t want you to stay there,” says Magnus, in one such patch of light. Sometimes, it’s like he can read Alec’s mind. “I want you to write a different ending, Alec. I want you to want it.”

eleventh chord

Chicago is behind them as they cross into Indiana with the stroke of midnight, a dull orange glow that seems too bright for the eyes after so many repeated nights driving in near blackness.

Their destination is getting closer, and Alec eyes each passing road sign that counts down the miles to Cleveland, then Pittsburgh, then Baltimore, then home with a heaviness in his heart that beats a slow rhythm.

It’s the rhythm that he knows - that lonely beat that matches the roll of the odometer on the dashboard - and yet it seems too fast now, accelerating towards an end point at which he has a choice to make.

He tries to match it, that rhythm. He tries to strike a chord with the bouncing of his leg in the footwell, with the tapping of his fingers on the steering wheel. He glances across at the passenger seat to see if Magnus is looking back at him, but he’s not - he’s staring ahead through the windshield and holding himself unnaturally still.

Alec wants to slow down below the speed limit; put his foot on the brake; stall the car. Drive it off the side of the road and into a ditch and then shrug and say, guess we’re stranded for another night ‘til the tow-truck can get here . And maybe that’s dishonest - or too honest, because the thought of spending the night in the car together, crowded around the heater as if it’s a bonfire keeping them warm, does something strange to Alec’s insides - but the relentless momentum if the car is no longer a balm on his nerves.

He can’t help but think about what lies in wait at the end of the road. Another goodbye. A polite smile and a parting hug and some kind and empty and wistful words; longing and loneliness and more of the same heartbreak, made worse by the fact he knows, now, what they could’ve had, if things had ended differently the first time.

Alec doesn’t want to leave this car; he wants to keep Magnus here forever, the two of them trapped in this rocking motion of roads and highways, where Magnus tells him over and over again that it doesn’t have to end and Alec believes him.

Alec wants to keep driving off the very edge of the continent and into the Atlantic Ocean. He wants to arrive in Baltimore and say, take me with you . He thinks about grabbing Magnus’ hand when he steps out of the car, and saying, don’t leave me behind this time. Take me with you. Take me somewhere that isn’t here. I’ve had enough of coming and going back to the same place as before. You’re right about that. You’ve always been right about me.

Magnus shifts in the passenger seat, clearing his throat.

“We should probably find a motel. It’s getting late,” he says. He doesn’t need to say it, because Alec is already thinking it: tonight is the last night. Tomorrow, Alec will be in his own bed, and Magnus, in some fancy hotel room paid for on a corporate credit card. “We both need a good night’s sleep. For tomorrow.”

“Right,” Alec echoes. He clenches his jaw. “Tomorrow.”

The air in the car is thick and heavy, so Alec reaches for the radio to try and suffocate his own thoughts. He skips through the stations until he finds one that sticks, and then turns up the volume. The voice of a man quoting late-night scripture fills the front seat:

‘So, flee youthful passions and pursue righteousness, faith, love, and peace, along with those who call on the Lord for a pure heart.’

Magnus exhales through his nose and runs his palms up and down his legs, digging his fingers into his thighs. His eyes catch Alec’s in the rearview mirror.

A decision, then. Alec has seen this look before.

“I really think we need to find a motel,” Magnus says again, more forcibly this time. “Let’s check the map. Can you pull over?”

“Huh?” says Alec, “Just switch the light on, it’s okay. I don’t mind. Pick somewhere that sounds good and tell me which exit I need to take.”

“Alec,” Magnus insists. “Pull over.”

Alec looks at him, confused. “What? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Really. I just need you to stop driving, please.”

“Okay, uh. Okay. Hang on, I’ll just -” The turn signal flashes and Alec steers the car off the side of the highway and onto the grassy verge. The tires sink into the mud and the car jostles them from side to side until, finally, coming to a stand still.

Magnus unclips his seatbelt and reaches for the glove box, retrieving the atlas from inside. He spreads it out on the dashboard between them, running his fingers down the page until he finds where they are, and then flicks on the cabin light above their heads.

The car becomes an island, then. The sky is clear and the road behind them is almost empty, and the world outside is completely black and they are floating in an endless void. And all that exists is Magnus leaning across the gearstick and grabbing Alec’s hand and pressing his fingertip to a point on the map and saying, “there.”

“There?” asks Alec, looking up at Magnus’ face. His voice is a whisper now. “What’s there? A motel?”

“A motel,” Magnus agrees, shifting forward on his seat, closer to Alec. His grip on Alec’s wrist is vice-tight, his rings cold against Alec’s skin. “What do you think?”

Alec pauses. There is an unasked question here, hidden in the silence between words. It’s a proposition and Alec wants to get the answer right.

But Alec also wants to kiss him. He can smell Magnus’ cologne, the aftershave patted onto the slope of his jaw in the bathroom of a cheap motel that morning. He can feel the heat of him. He can feel the flutter of Magnus’ pulse where Magnus’ thumb is pressed insistently against his skin.

He wants to kiss him and muster the courage he could never find before, and he wants to say fuck it . Give him that moment of undoing, or redoing, or whatever the fuck it is that he wants the last few years to have meant.

He’s pretty sure that’s what Magnus wants too.

“Alexander?”

Kiss me now while the engine’s still running.

“I don’t want this to end.”

“I know you don’t,” says Magnus. “I don’t either.”

“No. No, Magnus, you don’t know. You don’t - you can’t ,” Alec insists. “You can’t know because I never said anything. That’s the whole point. I never said anything, even though we both knew how I felt. We both knew. And despite all that, we still didn’t do anything about it because in the end, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. I loved you and I think you loved me and it didn’t matter.”

He and Magnus exist in a not-time. This place isn’t real; Alec can speak to these feelings and not be beholden to them in the morning, or at the end of the road, or wherever it is that they’re heading. Not if he doesn’t want to.

But he does want. He wants more than one man with a body can bear.

I loved you then but it didn’t matter. But it matters now because I can say it. Because we have circled around and found each other again after all this time and that -

That has to mean something.

Magnus’ hand relaxes on Alec’s wrist; his fingertips brush across the back of Alec’s knuckles, across the roadmap between them on the console. It is tentative and questioning and even now, still says, you can drive away if you need to.

Alec inhales deeply. He shakes his head.

He meets Magnus’ eyes on purpose.

“I was afraid that the next time you walked into my life, I wouldn’t know how we fit together,” he whispers. “I was worried that something inside of me, inside of you, would’ve changed, because things always change after this long, but - it hasn’t.”

Beneath Alec’s palm, Washington lies hidden. In the dark, the paper rustles.

“You haven’t, Magnus. Not when it comes to me.”

interlude

The radio sings, ‘It will never be the same, baby.

We will always be the same, baby.’

twelfth chord

Alec’s hand shakes as he fumbles with the key in the motel room door.

Magnus stands a half step behind him, his breath forming white clouds that float and dissipate over Alec’s shoulder. The smell of his aftershave carries. There’s a deliberate space left between their bodies, greater than the distance that has existed between them in the car for the last four days.

It’s the furthest they’ve been apart since Alec approached that phone booth back in Idaho.

“Fuck,” Alec mutters, as the key sticks in the lock and refuses to turn. His palm is sweaty and anticipation licks up the side of his throat where the collar of his shirt is too tight. “Sorry, just give me a sec-”

Magnus leans over his shoulder and takes the key from him, sliding it into the lock with ease. The door clicks, and then swings open.

This motel room is just like all the rest: two beds, one TV, the oddly stained carpet. Thin plywood walls. A single light that plunges the whole room into that low-res yellow of cheap nighttime lodgings.

Alec places both their bags on one of the beds, exhales, and then, when he turns back, Magnus is standing against the closed door. His head is tilted back, his chin aloft, and his arms are folded across his chest, the sleeves of his coat tight around his arms.

His eyes are dark and molten. Where Alec is an unlit cigarette, he is the match.

And that’s enough. All things end and all endings are terrible in their own way, and Alec doesn’t know why he shouldn’t lean into the inevitable if it’s something he can’t avoid.

He abandons the bags and steps towards Magnus, grabs him by the lapels of his overcoat, and kisses him.

Immediately, Magnus opens his mouth to Alec; the sound he makes into the kiss has the hairs on the back of Alec’s neck standing on end. They stagger back against the door with a thud , and Magnus grabs at Alec’s coat, shoving it from his shoulders, then pulling Alec’s shirt out of his belt, his hands slipping beneath Alec’s undershirt so that he can feel skin.

Something rattles around inside of Alec and maybe it’s his heart come loose at last. He kisses Magnus ever deeper for it; his chest aches; his heart aches. He should’ve kissed Magnus sooner, and yet it feels like this is the only moment in time and space where it’s meant to happen: some dingy motel in rural America where it’s just the two of them and Alec has made a choice where he refuses to let this separation be the same as the last.

They’ve never needed to speak. The span of time hasn’t changed the connection between them; Alec could be his twenty-three year old self; he could be his eighteen year old self; his self from five days ago, picking up the keys to a rental car in the backwoods of Oregon state - he would still be in love with Magnus, whether or not he has said it out loud.

Alec cups the sides of Magnus’ jaw and tilts his head back, deepening the kiss. Magnus’ tongue presses into his mouth, his hand flat against the small of Alec’s back, his fingers pressed against Alec’s spine. He pulls Alec closer until their bodies are flush.

And oh, it’s so easy for Alec to lose himself to the push and pull of it: the lick of Magnus’ tongue, the pliance of his mouth. His hands are so warm as they settle on the slope of Alec’s waist.

Alec feels like he’s standing in the middle of a highway, staring down the headlights of an oncoming truck, willing it to move first or be moved . His heart is pounding loudly in his chest. The light is so bright that he is blind to everything else.

Is this driving off the edge of the road or is this the impact?

The kiss leads to the bed. The bed leads to shucked clothes and kicked-off shoes and Alec tossing his badge and service weapon blindly onto the bedside table as Magnus kisses down his throat and the blood rushes to Alec’s head.

Magnus pins him back against the starchy motel pillows, one hand splayed on Alec’s chest - stay still, don’t move - while his other hand cups Alec’s hip and his thumb slips into the band of Alec’s underwear.

No. It is the destination.

Magnus runs his hands down the inside of Alec’s legs, his palms smoothing across Alec’s thighs. His eyes meet Alec’s as he presses his mouth against Alec’s knee.

Alec’s eyes fall closed.

He wants to say something about endings, to gasp, to whisper it. He wants to ask what happens next: if he is to leave Magnus on the side of the road in Baltimore tomorrow and never hear from him again; or if Magnus will fly back to Los Angeles in a week’s time and only look back on this moment as one of those pocket memories of his, something fond to warm him on colder nights.

Alec doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to be an uncalled telephone number in Magnus’ diary again; he doesn’t want to stop here , with Magnus’ mouth slowly kissing up his inner thigh. He cannot let Magnus slip through his fingers a second time, so he reaches out and pulls Magnus towards him, up the length of his body, crushing his mouth against Magnus’ and swallowing Magnus’ untethered gasp. He kisses Magnus’ jaw, and then the side of Magnus’ neck, and then he presses his nose to Magnus’ shoulder and breathes him in.

He says nothing, but he has to screw tight his eyes to stop himself from doing something stupid, like letting a stray tear roll down his cheek and wet the pillow. Magnus wraps his arms around him and holds him tight, words whispered in Alec’s ear that he’s been waiting ten years to hear and which Magnus thinks must all be said in one night.

Alec is too old for messes of the heart like this, but maybe that’s the problem: how long they’ve delayed this particular end, to the point that neither of them know how to exist in a world after .

interlude

The final postcard never sent:

“The boy in the yellow shirt walks like there is all the room in the world. I am standing on the edge of what is an ending world.” 2

I read this in a book that Catarina leant me. I think it’s about us, or at least it’s about me, the first time I laid eyes on you.

Come to L.A.

thirteenth chord

Alec wakes up alone in the bed, his arm outstretched across the mattress, his hand palm-up to the ceiling. There is an ache in his legs, bruises scattered across his thighs like the shattered glass of a windshield spread across the road. The smell of sex hangs heavy both in the air and on his skin where sweat has dried and not been scrubbed away, and when he tries to speak, his voice is hoarse and raspy.

Beside him on the bed, the pillow is cooling - but not yet cold.

Disappointment curls in Alec’s gut, but in his head - well, that’s empty, devoid of the constant noise that has existed there for the past few days, if not years. He hasn’t noticed until now that it mimics the sound of a car engine, a forever rumble.

There is simplicity to the silence now. The carpet is cold when Alec’s feet hit the floor, a draught slicing beneath the bed. Magnus’ suitcase is gone from the other bed; his clothes gathered from the floor. The smell of his cologne has faded, replaced by the musty smell of floral bedsheets and mothballs and wallpaper that has absorbed the smoke of a hundred cigarettes.

The only evidence of Magnus being here is his absence.

His absence - and the way Alec’s mouth tingles when he brings his fingers up to touch his lower lip.

Alec brushes his teeth to the sound of the faucet running, water gushing down the drain. He splashes his face and dresses in the crumpled clothes from yesterday that still smell like the front seat of the rental car and shakes carpet fibres out of his overcoat where it still lies by the door.

Keys. Wallet. ID. Gun. He moves through the motions on autopilot, patting his pockets and then his chest as he mentally tallies up the parts of himself worth collecting - but then stops. Standing in the middle of the motel room with his bag in his hand, he turns to look at the unmade bed, the sheets kicked into a pile, a backdrop to a journey he has taken so many times before.

The difference, now, is in the details. It feels significant. It’s worth remembering.

Crossing to the window, he throws open the curtains and sunlight streams into the room, flooding every dark corner. Alec squints against the light, raising his hand to his face to shield his eyes. A faint sheen of frost forms fractals on the outside of the glass and, beyond that, the roof of the rental car, the prelude to the first snow of winter.

Leant against the side of the car is Magnus.

Alec inhales deeply, his breath clouding upon the window. The cold draws down into his lungs - a sharp ache inside of him that he holds for a count - and then he exhales. Deflates. Sinks back into a rhythm that is both familiar and somehow different to the one he has known for so long, as if the world now beats in imperfect time.

Magnus is propped against the hood of the car with his eyes closed and his head tipped back to catch the sun, and he doesn’t stir when Alec shuts the motel room door behind him and the gravel of the parking lot crunches beneath his shoes. On the side of Magnus’ neck, there is a hickey bitten darkly into his skin. It’s the colour of rare indigo.

Alec doesn’t feel the need to avert his gaze now.

“Have you ever been on a roadtrip?” Magnus asks, opening his eyes when he feels Alec’s shadow cross his body.

Alec frowns at him as he bends down to grab Magnus’ suitcase, before tossing both their bags into the backseat. “Isn’t this a roadtrip?”

Magnus waves his hand aimlessly. “No, this is serendipity, Alexander. I’m talking about a comprehensive tour of all the worst diner coffee in the continental United States. Hiking in the Grand Canyon. Exploring the redwood forests of the Pacific Northwest.” He looks at Alec and smiles a coy smile, pushing away from the car. “You know, in Indiana, they have the World’s Largest Ball of Paint? I’d like to see that sometime. All the best roadside Americana that the country has to offer.”

Alec rounds the car to the driver’s door, opens it, but doesn’t get in. He leans his arms on the roof of the car and Magnus, on the other side, turns to face him.

“But Baltimore,” says Alec.

Magnus’ smile softens. “But Baltimore,” he agrees, across the span of the roof. He glances at his watch. “Providing we don’t hit gridlock outside the city, I should be right on time for my meeting and Raphael won’t have the pleasure of removing my head from my shoulders. You always were excellent at keeping me punctual.”

Alec smiles quietly, ducking his head. “Yeah, well, one of us had to live in the real world.”

He climbs into the car and Magnus follows, folding himself into the passenger seat and draping his coat across his lap. He buckles himself in and then leans back to look at Alec as Alec slots the key into the ignition.

“What?” Alec asks. He reaches up to touch his neck, in the same place where the bruise forms on Magnus’ throat, but can’t find any tenderness. “Is there something on my face?”

“No,” Magnus says gently. “No, not at all. I was just thinking that sometimes the real world is rather overrated. In my experience, the longer one can put off returning to it, the better.”

Alec turns the key and the car splutters into life. The heater blows warm air into the front seat, condensing upon the windshield, and when Alec reaches out to direct the flow of air downwards, Magnus covers Alec’s hand with his.

It’s a reflection of the night before, but without the urgency.

Magnus curls his fingers around Alec’s hand and brushes his thumb over Alec’s knuckles. Then, he brings Alec’s hand up to his mouth and presses his lips to Alec’s fingers, his eyes falling closed and his eyelashes casting feathered shadows on his face.

Alec holds his breath. He waits for Magnus to say something, to say so let’s not go back to the real world yet because I’m happy here , but he doesn’t.

Happy is too vague a concept. Not that Alec isn’t happy here, in this particular not-real moment, but it’s a feeling that belongs to strange, liminal motels and repeated diners. It is hard to grasp, and harder still to fathom how it might slip into the spaces occupied by a life back in the city at the end of the road.

Magnus sets Alec’s hand down on the gearstick between them, and settles back into his seat, kicking his feet up on the dashboard. He tips his seat back and rests his head against the window as Alec puts the car into reverse.

The road is quiet but not deserted. Alec knows that they will meet traffic before too long, but, for a moment, he imagines the highway stretching beyond the horizon and continuing into the sky, winter-blue and endlessly deep, leading above and beyond the curve of the Earth.

There’s a very thin dusting of snow on the hard shoulder, and the sun, shockingly bright, refracts off it with a white glare. It’s the sort of daylight that possesses Alec, that fills him up and makes him feel separate from his body.

If Alec rolled down the window, that daylight would spill in and flood the car, crisp and cold and foreign. But here in the warmth, he unspools a story in his half-awake mind: him and Magnus and the unending road. If they stop moving, they’ll die. If they stop driving, they’ll die. There was a Keanu Reeves movie about that recently , Alec thinks. It probably didn’t end well.

“Do you mind if I smoke?”

Alec glances sideways at Magnus. “What happened to quitting?”

“Oh, I did,” says Magnus. He produces an unopened pack of Morley’s from the folds of his coat and inspects it curiously. “But I got this from the motel reception this morning on a whim and it feels like a waste otherwise.”

Alec rolls his eyes. “Right,” he says, but he cracks open the driver’s window and the cold rushes in. The wind ruffles through his hair, funneled by the cuffs of his jacket up the length of his sleeves and into his coat. A shiver ripples down his spine and he grimaces.

Beside him, Magnus pulls a cigarette out of the pack with his teeth and cups his hand around his lighter as he lights it, before holding it out to Alec.

“I haven’t smoked in years,” Alec says, but he takes the cigarette anyway and taps the lit end against the ashtray on the console. “You can’t laugh.”

Magnus lights a second cigarette, the clink of his lighter sharp, like metal. He draws in a deep breath, pulling smoke down into his lungs, and then exhales. The grey plume rises towards the roof, only to be sucked suddenly out of the open window.

Magnus coughs, clearing his throat, and takes the cigarette from his mouth, only to pull a face at it.

“Tastes like what I imagine licking the floor of that motel would be like,” he says, before stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray. He frowns at the packet in his hand, before throwing it into the glove box. “Let’s stop at the next gas station. I need something to wash that out of my mouth.”

“Okay,” says Alec, unable to stop himself from smiling. His cigarette warms his fingers. His stomach growls at the thought of cheap diner coffee and a greasy bacon burger for breakfast. He presses his foot down on the gas and shifts the engine up a gear.

A passing road sign reads: Baltimore, 405 km . About a five hour drive.

Alec will miss this rental car.

interlude

In the dark of a motel on the night before, Magnus’ eyes are almost black. Alec studies him from across the pillow, their noses nearly touching. Magnus’ hand, splayed on Alec’s ribs, draws gentle circles into Alec’s skin, while Alec’s ankle lies tangled with both of Magnus’ legs.

Magnus’ body is warm. It’s rhythm is familiar in the way that it matches Alec: how he moves, how he breathes, how the sound of his heartbeat disturbs the silence of the motel room.

If Magnus were to speak, he would say, ‘something is only beautiful because it does not last forever .’ But he does not speak, so Alec cannot say back, ‘ that’s not true. You’ve always been beautiful .’

Instead, he leans forward and he kisses Magnus and he earns a soft groan for his troubles as Magnus curves into him like the other side of a parenthesis, ‘til now unpaired.

Magnus’ hand slides upwards, cupping the back of Alec’s head. His thumb caresses the shell of Alec’s ear and the soft hair above it.

He pulls himself against Alec’s chest, his other hand trapped between them, pressed over Alec’s heart.

He kisses Alec back.

outro

The woman in the apartment above Alec’s has Christmas lights in her window: red and green flash in alternating patterns and Mariah Carey’s faint warble can be heard from the sidewalk as Alec gazes up at his building and allows himself to watch, if only for a moment.

His bag is heavy on his shoulder and his suit is stiff across his back; the thought of a shower is calling him home, but he wants to linger outside a little longer. The cold is sharp against his face and draws a red flush to his cheeks. His breath escapes him in white clouds, tumbling upwards. Baltimore lingers on his skin with the memory of a parting kiss.

He is, now, alone.

On his doorstep, his neighbour has left him an early Christmas card; she has done the same for the last few years, concerned for the young man who lives alone and never has his family visit once December comes around. As Alec unlocks his front door, he slips his finger beneath the seal of the envelope and tears it open, and the message inside is the same as it always is, wishing him and his loved ones well for the holidays.

He places the card on the sideboard by the door as he toes off his shoes, and wanders into his living room, dumping his bag on the floor as he goes.

The stillness in his apartment is strange: the air is musty, the windows unopened for nearly two weeks now, and while there’s no dust on his coffee table yet, the scattered paperwork and unwashed coffee mug are somehow disturbed by his presence.

There are dishes in his kitchen sink and his bed is still unmade; the space is exactly as he left it, and returning to it feels a little like disembarking an airplane after a long journey spent cramped in one mindset, and now having to reacclimatise to solid ground.

Alec is not sure why he expected his apartment to be changed. Even in some small way, like the rotating characters at a diner, or the different coloured carpet at each roadside motel, or the occupancy of his passenger seat by a man he thought he’d never see again, he hoped for something new. Something welcomed but unrecognised, symbolic of a new start or, perhaps, a second chance.

Oh. Maybe he’s the one a little changed, then.

It’s not about the destination , after all , he tells himself, reaching for the remote to turn the TV on for background noise. It’s about the journey.

Briefly, he wonders if this happens every time: if each successive back-and-forth across America wears him down just a little, like the treads on car tires, and it’s only now that he has changed enough to notice that he no longer fits into the routine once occupied with ease. In his footsteps, he brings the liminality of the road into his own apartment, the threshold moment between one state of being and the next.

And Alec is okay with that.

He locks his service weapon in the safe on his desk. Loosens his tie. Pulls a bent postcard from Carhenge, Nebraska, a receipt from a gas station just outside of Baltimore, and a nearly-full pack of Morley’s from his jacket pocket and sets them all on the coffee table, before throwing his coat over the back of the couch to take to the dry cleaners tomorrow.

His suit jacket goes next - two days old and creased around the elbows - and then his belt, a heavy thunk on the floor, before he pads into the bathroom and turns on the shower so that the water might have time to heat up before he gets in.

He strips down to his underwear and wanders back out into his living room, and it’s then that he notices the red flashing light on his answering machine: a voicemail.

He hits the play button - ‘ you have three unread messages ,’ says the disembodied voice - and he pours himself a glass of water as he listens first to Jace ramble on about not coming home for the holidays, and then to his mother discuss her plans to visit her solicitor next week.

Alec empties his glass and sets it in the sink to be washed later. He heads back to the bathroom, rolling the stiffness out of his shoulders, and the answering machine beeps to signify the final message.

‘ Alexander, it’s me. ’

Alec stops and turns to stare at his answering machine as if it might come alive in front of him.

‘ You’re probably not even back in D.C. yet, but - well ,’ says Magnus. ‘ I made it on time to the meeting, in case you’re interested. I’m never going to hear the end of it from Rafael, of course, and he’s never going to let me drive anywhere alone again, but it’s looking like we’ll be able to close a deal before Christmas. It sounds like I’m going to be back and forth between L.A. and Baltimore a lot next quarter.’

In the background, Alec can hear the sound of people, of a bustling street, of taxi cabs blasting their horns as Magnus tries to hail one down.

‘ But I all that aside, this couldn’t wait and, I suppose, serendipity can only get you so far.’

Alec reaches for the handset, poised above the redial button, but then something in Magnus’ tone changes. In his words, Alec can hear the sound of his smile.

‘ How far is the drive from Los Angeles to Indiana?’ Magnus asks. ‘No, wait, how far is the drive from Baltimore to Indiana? I’ve been thinking a little more about the World’s Biggest Ball of Paint. Perhaps you’d like to see it with me.’

The beat of Alec’s heart shifts in its rhythm once again. He holds his breath. He imagines himself taking a step over that imaginary threshold.

‘There are too many things I haven’t told you yet. ’

*****

“They have worries, they're counting the miles, they're thinking about where to sleep tonight, how much money for gas, the weather, how they'll get there - and all the time they'll get there anyway, you see.”

― Jack Kerouac, On the Road

#ninwrites #malecsanta20 #*fic20 #*gifts20

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advernia · 4 years

Text

fic: to be cold like alleyway cobblestones

— just one of the many joys of being young and murderous. - mafia!au: of the things people do in the dead of night.

1: contains death + violence; the former's depicted in one scene only + the latter's all non-graphic, but still tread lightly.

Where are you?

It's not like you wanted to be here, it's more of you had to be here. Yes, here of all places, surrounded by piles of boxes and barrels and warehouses of years know how old. To be drenched in fog and to breathe in the seawater air, rusting copper and thick smoke that passes through your nose now clinging to the back of your throat.

Somewhere in the darkness and under the sickly yellowish lighting there's the shuffle of clothing and thump of shoes on cement. How many are there, it's hard to tell. Your eyes and ears aren't trained for this sort of night life. In fact, not a single part of you is. Maybe that's why you feel even smaller than ever, even when you're standing by in your best leather boots.

It is 10:32 PM.

What is going on?

To be fair, you were expecting this kind of reception. All of you were. That's why there are holsters secured on both sides of your waist and a little bomb nestled in your jacket pocket. That's why you made sure to secure your own copy of the map to drill all the curves, nooks, and crannies of this whole area in your brain hours before the negotiation was to take place. They told you that the memorizing isn't necessary, but you'd like to think that you know better so you practiced 'better safe than sorry'.

Turns out that you're right, and you'll be using that knowledge way earlier than you expected.

It is 10:58 PM.

How did this happen?

Your side could use the classic 'we tried' defense. No, it wasn't a lie or a joke, not even in slightest. You were paying close attention to the conversation, getting all those details in your head while doing your best to observe the surroundings and the non-verbal communication flying about. Gritting of teeth, crossing of arms, stiffening of shoulders, curling of fists. Ah, this wasn't looking good. You can practically feel the air growing stiffer by the minute.

Then some genius pulls out a gun.

It is 11:27 PM.

Why you?

You're stepping on spilt blood, hold the weight of triggers in your hands, hear gurgling cries with the crunching of muscle and bone as accompaniment, and breathe in touches of sulfur and death. You're a pretty thing standing in the makings of a morgue with your skin still unscathed and limbs in all the right positions, eyes able to see and heart still beating. So maybe, just maybe, that's why.

That's why someone's running towards you at full speed, screaming hell's wrath with teeth bared and the sharp tip of an iron blade aimed at your chest.

Shit, a familiar voice hisses. Others follow, but you can't hear what they're saying and suddenly everything's a blur too. The sentiment is fitting, you think. Shit. You're no statue, but your feet are rooted to the ground and you forget how it is to breathe. Shit. Your attacker's coming closer and closer and he isn't stopping for no one, not for you or for anyone else. Shit. Your shaking fingers manage to curl around something solid, and for a moment you think yourself going mad when you actually feel comfort in the touches of cold metal against your skin.

Shit.

When your arms lift themselves up, two barrels are able to take aim.

Shit.

The man and his knife are about to step into your personal space.

Shit.

Your fingers pull at the -

Oh, your lips shake.

It is 12:01 AM.

It is 12:01 AM, and you just killed someone.

........................................................

The third bout that leaves her mouth has lesser chunks and is now mostly saliva. They leave her mouth in lengthy trails, drops falling down, down, down.

Doubled over with her head between her knees, she gasps repeatedly for more air than she really needs and more that she can release in grave huffs. It's almost like she's reminding herself how it is to breathe while emptying the contents of her stomach. Inhale, exhale. Through the nose, then out again. She figures that she must look all sorts of pitiful, some strange girl huffing and puffing with her body dangerously close to the pier's edge.

And while she's watching the remains of her lunch mingle with the sea, the world around her still goes on. Of course it does, because time is not so kind and sensitive enough to stop for every unfortunate soul struck with the impulse to throw up. If it did, then maybe she would go about slower in trying to breathe and getting rid of the acid in her mouth. If it did, then maybe she wouldn't start worrying about the impending blare of police sirens echoing faintly in her ears.

When something warm - a hand - rests on her shoulder, she raises her head slowly before turning it around.

The first thing she sees is a gloved open palm offering a handkerchief. It is pure white. No crease, no fold. The sight makes her lips purse, teeth gnawing at the insides of her cheek. She takes the cloth anyway, with the reluctance of someone who doesn't want their hands to get burned. It's ridiculous. She's ridiculous.

She lifts her head for whoever took pity on her. The ends of her lips pull upwards, urging the shape of a curve. She hopes it looks natural. It feels like it is.

For her efforts, green eyes smile back at her. It's still dark and the lighting around the place is still dim and sickly and the fog doesn't make visibility any better, but she knows those eyes. Most people just call them green, but personally she likes calling them mint. The color, the herb, the taste. A calming cool pastel, a blooming verdant vibrancy, a rush of a fresh sensation in the mouth that lingers long to carve its name on the tongue.

Not too chilling, too cold, too spicy, too menthol-like. There has always been something familiar about those small eyes that has become soothing to her.

"The others have gone ahead. We need to leave too," he whispers. The hand set on her shoulder squeezes gently before moving over to touch her arm. "Can you stand?"

She nods, fingers wiping away the tears that had formed in the edges of her eyes before the handkerchief dabs at her mouth.

"I'm fine," she tries to say, smoothing her voice into something convincing. It doesn't work because the consecutive throwing up session had her throat now running dry and empty. Another thing empty. No food and energy and melody left in her and all that's left behind is a horrid ungodly cross between hoarse and mechanical. Grating and lifeless. Skin, muscle, and blood for a shell but nothing inside. Not the least bit human. Who's going to believe her now?

Even her legs quake when she tries to stand. How embarrassing, her own body won't even listen to her. She's thankful for the hand that keeps her steady, it takes hold of her arm and weight into stride and lifts her up to her feet; not letting go till she's ready and standing upright. The hand goes as far as to smooth the stray strands of her blonde hair back in place, tucking locks behind her ear and keeping them away from her eyes.

How nice. Maybe now she's a bit presentable.

"I can carry you back."

"W-wh-what? Oh no, no, it's okay. It's nice of you to offer. But I can walk, I promise."

A low hum, the peer into her eyes that leaves little space to speak of in between two faces.

"... I'll hold onto your hand to be safe. Is that better?"

Well. Still a bit embarrassing. But maybe she should listen to her shaking knees and stop being stubborn for once.

There wasn't much of her pride worth salvaging right now anyway.

"... All right, then."

........................................................

Car rides can sure brew fun conversations.

"So about the one you killed - "

"The one she shot," the sudden correction is hostile, and it's quickly met with a pointed snort that follows with the turn of the wheel. The van tilts sharply to the left, and through her slightly lowered window, an angry chorus of car horns trumpet their way in.

Watch where you're fucking going, shitty asshole, goddamn kid and other curses also reach her ears.

So much for safe driving.

"Four bullets to the torso, four bullets to the neck - what else is a man going to be but dead after that barrage?"

The facts are laid out by a voice that brought to mind those of television news show reporters: neutral in volume, plain in pitch and timbre, objective in content. She could hear it now: this just in - unknown assailant shoots a middle-aged man multiple times, flees the scene immediately and leaves victim bleeding to death on the pavement; more details after the break. Her eyes turn up to the rearview mirror, finds the driver's gaze away from the road and instead set on her. Silver irises make for pretty jewelry but also sharpened knives, a dangerous mix of allure and pressure. She can't handle it and opts to look away, her insides twisting themselves into knots.

She thinks he hears him laughing.

Beside her, a hiss. "Just because this sorry excuse of a van isn't ours you decide to drive like the ruffian you truly are, how predictable. If you keep going recklessly, we're bound to catch unwanted attention."

"If you wanted to drive so much then you should've said so in the first place, stickler. The police aren't that stupid to prioritize a speeding ticket over a distress call, now are they?"

"Shame on you to assume that there's an extent to stupidity."

The banter would continue to go on without her help so she leans her head against the window, gazing at the scenery outside. A street never dead despite the early hour, cars constantly passing through. Beggars making themselves small in between the crooks of alleys. Drunkards stumbling about the sidewalk. The occasional salaryman making their way home. Teenagers in groups or adults on their lonesome. Bars and convenience stores flashing their bright lights.

Still the same as ever.

"Clean them."

The stern voice pulls her out of her head, and she sees something land on her lap - it's a long strip of cloth and on top of it a thin bottle, transparent liquid sloshing about inside. Right, how could she forget: her hands go to the holsters on her waist and she pulls out her revolvers, cringes a bit when she sees the splatters of dark red across the front sights and barrels.

Ah... those must be dry by now.

She takes the bottle, about to pop it open -

"Again, don't forget to unload them first."

Despite herself, a soft laugh escapes her lips. She glances at him; he who never missed all the small details, he who constantly reminded her of the same thing during these nights. He's watching her with an eyebrow raised, maybe wondering why she hasn't followed his instructions yet.

He's still the same as ever too - it's oddly comforting, in a way.

"I know," she says with a wry smile.

........................................................

When the waves of police cars have gone far far away, they leave their getaway van in some unassuming convenience store parking lot space.

Upon their arrival at the city's center, they split into two groups. Group A reconvenes with the rest of the team; Group B goes back to base.

When they drew straws, she considered being part of Group B a stroke of luck, but -

"So like I was saying earlier, the man you killed..."

They're taking a short break on a park bench, and his sudden quip has her choking on her 250 lin bottled water and it gets everywhere: around her chin, across her shirt, down to her pants. She looked embarrassing, that's for sure; and of course he decides to act like a true gentleman by sitting beside her wordlessly as she tries to get through the worst of her coughing fit, just staring at her with obvious interest.

No pats on the back, are you okays, there, theres - just the chirping of crickets, quiet rustling of leaves, and his soft laughter ringing in her ears.

"Still jittery, huh?"

"If you knew, then you shouldn't have said that in the first place...!"

"Good point."

She flashed him a scowl before letting out a few more coughs.

"Why," she starts a few seconds later, voice warbling at the edges, "do you keep mentioning that man?"

"Oh, just to serve as a usual reminder. I'm sure you know that if you didn't kill him in time, then you would've died."

"... I know."

"You say you do, but it still doesn't give you any satisfaction, doesn't it? Especially for someone like you."

She inhales sharply, hands wringing themselves together on her lap. His pointed emphasis on her state didn't offend her much, possibly because she accepted it to be the truth for some time now: get over it, she told herself multiple times. It comes with the job, it's natural, she sung to herself. You did what you had to do, it was unavoidable, she cried to herself. Those were just the beginning of the many words she'd use the first time, the second, the third, then so on and so forth until she had pushed herself into a cycle of guilt; the next unwanted experience breaking her down just as easy, just as vicious and relentless like the first time she felt blood drown her hands.

It's a terrible, terrible, such a terrible feeling; to be thankful that you took someone else's life just to be able to live one more day longer. To understand that to live; you must plunge a knife on someone's chest, shove poison down their throat, steal the air out of their lungs, and rain bullets on their body.

Eyes close themselves tightly, teeth dig harshly into the insides of the mouth.

If she could wail to the heavens, she would.

... Just where did it all go wrong?

........................................................

2: cleaning tumblr drafts, i stumbled on this and tried to find its main file but... it??? doesn't??? exist??? this was a shame to scrap entirely, so i patched it up the best i could... ran out of steam come the ending tho....（´＿｀） 3: i remember aiming for a no-name drop kind of thing, so i tried my best to hint at who is who solely through description! in order of appearance, alice's companions are mousse (pier scene + hostile corrector), dean (alice's seatmate in the van scene), and dalim (van driver + bench scene) - idk if i managed to pull it off, but dean really got the short end of the stick since his scene's the shortest aha....

#ikemen kakumei #ikemen revolution #ikerev fanfic #ikerev alice #shifting narratives....... working through the transition is fun #now that i think of it this is fic is a chunk of formats i've always wanted to try #tho mafia huh... ugh... i wanna play my piofiore when i get home orz #but wHEN

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airiwrites · 4 years

Text

Hajime iwaizumi x f!reader

Genre: fluff

Warnings: mentions of nsfw

1.5k words

Taglist: @parolesdesanges

Send me an ask or dm me if you want to get added to the taglist

┌──❀̥˚──◌─ - ────❀̥˚─┐

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BE-

You groaned as you turned off your alarm and stretched out your stiff body. You lightly gasped as you remembered the reason you set an alarm that early for a Saturday morning. Slightly turning to your right,you checked to make sure Hajime was still sound asleep and facing away from you. Thankfully the alarm and you moving around did not wake him.

You layed there as you watched Hajime’s chest go up and own as he breathes.You lightly placed a kiss in the middle of his shoulder blades, quietly got out of bed and put on his shirt from the night before. As you were buttoning a couple of his buttons, you looked over in case he woke up and then tip-toed to your bathroom to freshen up.

You tip-toed out of your bedroom and silently closed the door before going to your small kitchen. You started taking cooking things out and began mixing pancake ingredients together, since you know they're Hajime’s all time favorite food.

You and Hajime have been dating for a few months now,you met him in California and right away you made yourselves very comfortable with each other. Perhaps because in the week you met,you basically roomed together. As you placed some bacon strips on the skillet, you smiled at the memory of you both running into each other while you were both on vacation. When you returned back to japan and began dating, you took turns sleeping over at each other’s apartments every weekend. Although you established it was way too soon to move in together, the idea was for sure in their near future. Perhaps by the end of the year.

While the bacon and hashbrowns were finishing up, you began putting the pancake batter on its own skillet and waited for the bubbles to appear before flipping them.you sliced a few strawberries and bananas you got from the farmers market the day before, and placed them in a small bowl. You've been planning this morning for a few days already. Even though you knew Hajime was not big on celebrating his birthday, you wanted to at least make him breakfast in bed. It did take you a while to find out when his birthday was since he was being too stubborn about it. Thankfully, you got a glimpse of the date when he was carded at a restaurant you had gone to a month or so ago. Because you kept quiet about you knowing when it was, Hajime had no idea what you were up to this morning.

This is going to be the best day ever!

Once you finished the pancakes, you set the plate along with the hashbrowns and bacon on a bed tray, as well as the bowl of fruit. You placed two mugs of coffee; cream and sugar for you and plain black for him. Something was missing,you looked around the kitchen when a small vase caught your eye. You quickly rinsed it out and added some water before you went out into your small balcony.

Realizing too late that you were wearing only Hajime’s shirt, you felt a tad exposed when you saw your next door neighbor having her morning coffee in her own balcony. You quickly grabbed a couple of Lavender stems from your small garden when your neighbor made eye contact with you. She gave you a sly smile that caused you to blush bright before returning a small smile. If the noises from the night before weren’t enough, then you wearing Hajime’s shirt was a dead giveaway to your neighbor. You really need to learn how to keep quiet whenever Hajime spends the night. Oh well.

You returned to the tray and placed the Lavender stems on the small vase and added a single candle on the pile of pancakes. You picked up the tray and carefully walked back into your bedroom.

...

You peeked in and noticed he was still asleep before you crept in and walked to his side of the bed.

“Hajimeeeee…” you softly sang, “Wake up sleepy head.”

“Hmmm,” he replied groggily as he opened his eyes, “Good morning, Sunshine. Why aren’t you in bed with me?”

“IT’S YOUR BIRTHDAY!” you couldn’t hold it in any longer, “Happy birthday! I brought you breakfast in bed!”

“What?” he replied as he sat up, “Wait, what? When did you-- I mean, how did you figure it out?”

You sat the tray down and tugged the ends of your hair.

“I have my ways,” you laughed then nervously bit your lip, “Is-- is this okay? I mean I know you said you’re not big on birthdays. I wanted to respect that, so I understand if this is too much. Or even silly--”

“Y/n” he cut you off and grabbed your hand, “This is perfect. You did not have to do this, but thank you.”

“Good,” she replied softly, “I’m glad. Blow out your candle, unless you want to eat wax. Oh! And don’t forget to make a wish!”

He chuckled and closed his eyes before blowing it out. When he opened them, he finally noticed your little outfit and smirked.

“Come here,” he said as he motioned you to the side of the bed, “and care to explain to me why you’re wearing my shirt as well as why the hell do you look so much better in it than me.”

“Can’t be walking around naked,” you replied as you climbed into bed. You ran your fingers through his hair and softly met his lips, “I hope you’re hungry.”

“You know it,” he growled.

“I meant food wise,” you rolled your eyes and giggled as you pushed him away, “You already had enough of me last night! My neighbor can attest to that, apparently.”

“Enough? Never!” He passed over your cup of coffee before taking a sip from his, “Wait, what do you mean your neighbor?”

“Yeah,” you blushed as you told him about how your neighbor saw you and how she just knew what had happened the night before.

They began eating the food as well. Every now and then you would feed him a strawberry and Hajime would nibble your fingers. Once you finished eating and were sipping your coffees, you remembered something.

“Oh!” you climbed off the bed and took the tray, “Can I give you your gift now?”

“Uh, sure,” he replied, “But you didn’t have to get me anything, Sunshine.”

“Shh…” you shushed him as you grabbed a small box from your drawer, “it’s your birthday and I get to do what I want.”

“Okay,” Hajime chuckled, “you’re right. It’s YOUR day, and we can’t ruin it.”

“That’s right!” You replied when you were back at his side. You timidly handed him his gift, “Here you go.”

“Thank you,” he unwrapped the box, revealing a leathered box. He carefully opened it and came face to face with a watch.

“A watch for your collection,” you whispered, “do— do you like it?”

Hajime brought you to his chest and held you tightly, “I love it, Sunshine! Thank you.”

“Happy Birthday, Cupcake,” you replied, causing Hajime to smirk.

Suddenly, you felt him place the box on the bedside table next to their coffees before grabbing your hips. Before you knew it, he had flipped you over against the mattress. Hajime then captured both her hands above your head with one of his.

“Hajime, wha—,” you were cut off by his lips.

While his left hand held your hands, his right hand slowly began to unbutton the shirt, carefully still leaving you covered. He left your mouth and trailed kisses down your jaw, to your neck, which caused you to arch your back. He then trailed kisses down your sternum before settling on your stomach and began peppering you with kisses. You sighed in total bliss as he continued to pepper your stomach letting go of your hands from their tortured prison. You gently ran your fingers through his hair and enjoyed the moment.

You gasped when you felt him move further down and tried to sit up.

“Hajime wait,” you said, “wait, wait.”

Hajime looked up alarmed and noticed your eyes were on something else. He followed your eyes and landed on the wall that separated your bedroom and your neighbor’s apartment. This caused him to smirk and gently kiss you again.

“Hey,” he nuzzled your nose, “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to keep you quiet this time, Princess. Besides, it’s my birthday.”

“Okay,” you whispered and grabbed his face before kissing him.

It’s a good thing Hajime never said that he’d promised to keep you quiet. Otherwise, that would’ve meant he had broken it.

The neighbor on the other hand, decided it was a good idea to go to a museum for the day or something.

└────❀̥˚── - ─◌───❀̥˚┘

#haikyuu #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fluff #hajime iwaizumi x reader

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iphoenixrising · 5 years

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For 700 Followers!

Hi babe.

That is terribly angsty and now I’m intrigued.

(Just a note for babe not familiar with No Home for Dead Birds or Fracture: I write a scene in which Tim literally has a gun to head. This is not lighthearted angst, please be warned if you read this.)

At one time, his colors had been red, gold, and green.

At one time, he’d been part of something bigger, something important. A legacy.

At one time, he’d been able to fly without being afraid of falling.

Being Robin had been the epitome. Even with all the terrible things he’d endured, all the injuries, all the catastrophes, all the insane megalomaniacal baddies breathing down his neck, he wouldn’t have traded the tunic for anything in the world.

(Dick had known it, had known how painful it was for Tim give it up once his Dad found out.)

He would have died with the R on his chest and never had a single regret.

Realistically, he couldn’t have been Robin forever, and he’d known that someday he would have to give it up and either move on with his life as a regular person, or take on another name, another mask, to keep fighting the good fight.

He hadn’t expected Dick would take it without a thank-you or fuck you to mark the end. That hadn’t been in the plan.

But it’s fine because Dick was the first and Robin had been his anyway, right?

Right.

Wrong.

Staring down the .45 in hand, the gun his father hadn’t had the chance to use to save his own life, Tim Drake wonders how it all came down to this.

(Last one left standing. Of fucking course.)

How it had all come out so badly, how he could barely step foot back in Gotham, how he had to avoid the Manor, the Carriage House, his own family home. How he couldn’t pick up the phone or answer texts coming from his former team. How he could barely keep himself the fuck together now that Bruce was back. How his hands would start to shake when the Manor phone number popped up (Alfred). How his mind’s eye would go back to Dick at the Big Computer in the Batsuit, telling him they were still equals. How he would imagine what would happen if he hadn’t caught himself when that zip line was cut. How he would sit in his safe house, off the Bat radar, and mourn the times when he was actually–

(happy)

–part of a family.

The pictures from an old Vans shoebox, the ones he’d taken back when he’d had the run of Gotham, following Batman and Robin (Jason), are burning in the kitchen sink. He watches Nightwing’s blurry face melt away and pretends there aren’t tears in his eyes.

The old memorabilia from Haley’s Circus is in a storage unit outside the city, along with a box that has his last Robin suit.

The lawyer has strict instructions to deliver the key and a letter to his former adopted father, Bruce Wayne, upon news of his death so anything incriminating can be properly disposed.

(They wouldn’t need any of it anyway. They could just shred all of it and wash their hands of him. The Robin that never should have been.)

A map with all his safe houses would be send to Conner Kent, along with a letter of apology.

His favorite nerd shirts would go to Ives.

The sundries in his Perch would be for Steph, and the penthouse itself would go to Babs in case things in the theatre went sideways.

Bart would get a zip drive with all their old shenanigans on video, the only copies left once his systems uploaded relevant data to Titan’s Tower and his electronic footprint would be–

gone.

The box with the Red Robin costume he wore was already sealed and addressed to Jason Todd. The note on top was short and sweet: You were right. It never should have been me after all.

He’d already arranged for his share in Wayne Enterprises to be returned to Bruce Wayne immediately, handing him his family’s company back without any strings attached.

Months ago, he’d returned The Red Bird to the Cave when he was sure no one would be around to catch him. The implication that Robin would need the car one day right there in the fact he’d brought it back because honestly, it was never really his in the first place.

Alfred would get his pick of antiques from Drake Manor, and the house itself would be given to the city to be used as a halfway home for runaway teens. He’d made sure the funding would be there to run it for a few years. The donation was made in his mother’s name.

The hilt molds to his palm, the barrel glinting bright in the night. To his credit, his hands aren’t shaky when he slides the clip home and pulls the slide back to put one in the chamber.

(The team had been working fine without him for a while now. Even if they did need someone, there was another Robin to join the roster and keep them moving forward.)

An abrupt light in the darkness, his phone screen lighting up with a missed call notification.

Missed call: Dick the OG

Ironic since the last time he’d come this far, it had been him calling out to the last person he thought could pull him back.

(Not this time. He has a new little brother, a new Robin.)

Slowly, without putting down the .45, he presses the ignore when the phone starts buzzing against with another incoming call. He thumbs the button on the side to turn the phone completely off without listening to the voicemail.

The clip makes a difference, but the absurdity of it, of the last time he did this, was when his future self was a murdering, gun-toting Batman, and the only way he could see to stop it was to stop himself.

The press of the barrel is familiar, and not in that soothing kind of way.

He blinks, just blinks, and his face is wet, which is really stupid because no one is going to miss him any damn way.

His chest gets tight when he fingers the trigger guard, giving himself the time he needs to do it right. In the final moments, he inanely thinks about the time he was huddled against Dick, right after he'd almost tried cloning his dead best friends in an insane attempt to bring them back. It's really the last time he remembers being held, being warm, feeling like he still fucking mattered. It was Dick holding him tight with restraining, breathing against the top of his head, fingers buried in his hair.

It's when he could be weak while still in the mask, babbling to Dick about how he can't do this, he can't lose them all. He was crying then, too, when he told Dick about his mom and dad leaving, leaving, always fucking leaving. About how he got used to seeing their backs more than their faces. How he was left standing on his own for too damn long to just let it keep happening. He couldn't keep losing them, couldn't keep seeing people walk away, how it fucking breaks him.

And in the here and now, his chest hitches, eyes fluttering, hand tightening down because he'd said...and Dick had...

"But I'm here, Timmy. I'm always going to be your big brother!"

It had been the last time he'd been surrounded by the famed octopus hold.

(It was the last time for a lot of things.)

He laughed, smothered in Dick shoulder, something further away from a sob. "Then I guess you'll at least never leave me, right?"

"You will never be able to get rid of me. C'mon. We're going the hell home and having a movie day. Screw the Lazarus Pit, Robin. It's time for some R and R."

Dick had half-carried him to the waiting Batplane and talked him down out of trying to use the Pit for his own gain ever again.

The first knuckle rests on the smooth curve, a six-pound trigger.

(In the end, they all leave.)

(Not again.)

Conner's terrible mohawk and leather jacket.

Bart racing Wally at a hotdog eating competition.

Cassie running full tilt to throw herself at him when he'd come to Titan's Tower to ask them for help when Ra's was going to kill everyone Batman ever loved.

Raven nuzzling Gar out of plain sight so no one would think she was totally gone for him.

Jason coming to the Tower, alive good God, and the Robin he used to be super-imposed to be his hero and enemy in the same ghostly figure.

Bruce putting a hand on his shoulder on a ride back to the Cave, chasing the dawn, the Good work, tonight tired but sincere, and his whole body lights up.

His mother looking at peace in her coffin, a lily in her folded hands.

His eyes close on the out-of-the-way safe house, the plain beige walls, stripped and soulless. He keeps the team in his mind, the times he was happy.

Now.

Instead of a resounding boom followed by his grey matter splattering his personality, intelligence, imagination, him all over–

the wall to the safe house caves in under a super punch.

Conner is white as a sheet on the other side, brick and mortar crumbling under his hands. "No! Tim. Tim. Put. The. Gun. Down."

His mouth is dry and his brain pan full of nothing but pain and disappointment.

(But you brought it all on yourself, didn't you? The Robin nobody wanted. The son nobody asked for.)

He isn't numb enough to be calm, cool, and collected. "All...all you have to do–" a hitch in his breathing "–is walk away."

The meta floats in a little closer, hovering over the flooring instead of outside. His hands stretch out, gaze focused and intense.

"Can't do that, buddy. Looks like I should have been more of an asshole after all the League of Assassins shenanigans. Sorry, my bad."

Kon knows he's in trouble when Tim Drake doesn't laugh.

"Tim," he goes to serious in about two point five seconds because the hand holding that shiny automatic tightens enough for him to hear the screws in the hilt strain, "Tim. It's me here, okay? It's just you and me, just like it's always been. We’re besties, whether you're Robin or Red Robin or Tim fucking Drake because that guy is so damn cool." He inches closer, wondering if he's fast enough, wondering if he can really get to Tim in time–

Like the former Robin can read his mind, those violet-blue eye give him a blink.

"I’ve always wondered if you really are faster than a speeding bullet."

“No!”

(...as it turns out, he isn’t.)

#so there's that #winter answers #700 followers #loves to you babe #warnings for possible triggers #you will probably cry #tim drake #kon-el #i cried so yeah #comment if i should continue #my fic #my writing

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sonipanda · 4 years

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Now these little beauties were sent by an amazing friend of mine, and I have to say when I first saw them on Instagram in white/black, I instantly fell in love with them. I thought they looked so bold and would look amazing in Spring.

However, I was sent the black pair, which is just as brilliant as this can work with me all year round!

The Spec

Colour: Black

Size: XS

Denier: 20

Materials: 92% polyamide, 8% elastane

Price: £39.00

Website: Wolford – Marie Tights

My Outfit

I went a little dark today with colours; I went for an maroon/burgundy crochet jumper tucked into my faux leather shorts and added some boots into the mix. You can easily swap for flats or Timberland boots, but this worked for me today.

My Deets

Jumper: Vero Moda

Shorts: H&M

Tights: Wolford

Boots: Simmi

The Review

From The Website: Generously adorned with floral charm. These tights, featuring a modern take on the floral design, truly impress from the waist down to the toes.

20 den / Matte look / Knitted waistband

The Packaging: now these come all fancy dance … and I mean like woah! I haven’t seen this before, and you’ll see why below. It comes in a slimline box with the model in the right bottom corner and the back goes into a little more detail.

Now to get in. there are 2 tabs at the back held by the ‘quality checked’ sticker, and when you get in, you will find these wrapped in tissue paper instead. I thought this looked amazing and real luxe.

I have never seen that before, and I am loving it!

These also have slight foot and leg shaping to them, but it isn’t that visible. You can see what I mean below.

Getting Them On: now as I don’t want to ruin these in any way, I popped on my hosiery gloves and did my scrunch and roll. I took my time doing so, especially going over my anklets. I then slowly tugged them up the legs and set them in place.

On The Legs: oh my god I am loving these so much. I love how bold that floral print is, and how it works all around the legs right up to the waistband. It’s statementy, it’s bold yet classy, it works all year round and this is certainly a pair that I will be pulling out a lot more when I get a chance to be in the same pair again.

The quality of them are amazing; Wolford is known for that and I always see why. I hardly snagged these let alone ripped them. They have a good bit of stretch to them as well so they cover all the gapping parts on the legs well.

The fit of them are true to size with a little leeway for the next size up to squeeze into. I wouldn’t recommend it, but if you’re a daring person then yeah go for it. I felt they hugged the legs really well and there was no issue for them being too short, too long or too tight.

The feel of them are so lovely; they are smooth, they are soft and there is no roughness to them at all. I have done some floral pairs before, where they have a rough feel to them over the legs, and I was never keen on being in them for too long as it just bothered me. This is nothing like that, and I loved being in mine all day.

The design is just beautiful; so feminine, so alluring and a real eye-catching piece when your outfit is a little plain.

The Toes & Ankle: oh now I am loving this. Not only do they have reinforced toes, but you get the contrast toes! This basically means that you get a blocked out strip going across the toes in a thicker denier and then it works into the design. I personally love this as it just adds a little more to the design itself.

I know it would look better if it was invisible/no reinforced toe so you get the design right to the toe seam to wear open toe shoes and sandals, but this is just as good to be fair.

Around the toes, there is plenty of wiggle room and no extra pressure is added here either during the day. The same goes for the feet and ankles; they fit so well and there is no sign of wrinkles either.

The Waistband & Gusset: and once again there is no Wolford branding on the band itself. I find it super weird, but I suppose this might be the way forward for them instead?

The band itself is always great, and I never encounter any issues with it. Even with this pair, they were super snug against the waist and didn’t restrict me during the day. I felt so comfortable being in them.

The design starts from under the band and works right to the reinforced toe, so you can wear anything short with this pair without having to worry about a boxer brief.

The gusset is a small cotton patch, which is palm-sized and sits flush against the skin too.

My Thoughts?

I am loving this print, and I have truly missed being in these prints. I used to be in them all the time, every single day and I ended up switching for a while. I think it’s time to bring some more prints to the blog this year! Anyways, I love this pair and would certainly recommend them!

Wolford Marie Tights Now these little beauties were sent by an amazing friend of mine, and I have to say when I first saw them on Instagram in white/black, I instantly fell in love with them.

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mayve-hems · 4 years

Text

One Moment At A Time

Type: IMAGINE | ONE SHOT | MULTI CHAPTER

Summary: Delaware has been in and out of the foster care system for the longest time until she docks with the Hemmings. Through harassment, playful actions, and a few received slaps, Michael Clifford has decided to make her time there incredible and unforgettable.

Word Count: 16.0k

Note: If you would like to request a one shot / imagine / story prompt then I am accepting requests currently and I would love to take them! This took me a while and I didn’t have much time to proofread it, but I hope you’ll like it! Alng with that, Mali-Koa is younger than she would’ve been at this time, and the age difference between her and Calum is a lot less than real life.

Warnings: Sadly, none :)

She was proud of her name throughout grade school, the middle years of uncomfortable pubescence, and the first weeks of high school, but after her last foster family, she couldn’t help but hate every syllable and letter among the long word. The last house she was at, the woman that acted as a mother told her to come up with a nickname or something else to be called rather than Delaware because that’s such a stupid name. “Della,” the fat woman told her before tucking greasy strands of hair behind her large ears. “That’s much better than Delaware. If you stay for a while, we’ll get the paperwork to change it to Della entirely and you’ll never be disgraced with the idiocy of your birth mother.” Then, she stroked Delaware’s shoulder with an inconsiderate hand and commented on bleaching purple hair dye from her long locks so she’d appear more presentable.

After a year of living in an abusive foster house, Delaware cringes when somebody even whispers her real name. She’ll flip around when she hears that word, no matter the conversation, and tell them that it’s Della, and if you dare say, Delaware, she’ll smack you upside down and backward. She said that to her teacher on accident, just a few days before packing up her bedroom, causing a suspension and the demand for her to be removed from the Karlsen household ASAP. She didn’t realize Mr. Lund had been telling another student about his trip to the state Delaware the summer before, and he wasn’t forgiving from her threat.

Mrs. Hemmings- sorry, Liz, was very considerate and made a point to ask Delaware what she’d prefer to be called. She’d fostered a kid that preferred to go by Styles, his last name, then Harry like everybody else had taught him. Delaware mumbled ‘Della’ before tucking long box-bleached hair underneath her grey hoodie. Liz carried a bag up the stairs for Delaware so she could idle in the living room with a mess of boys.

They all looked exactly alike- and that majorly fucked with her head. Liz hurried back down the stairs and captured Delaware’s pale hand in her own and lead her to her new bedroom. A white-walled room with shaggy carpet that would scratch your skin if you fell asleep on top of it. Liz sat Delaware -the girl frozen in fear of being snapped at- on her new bed and pulled five different pillowcases from the top shelf of the closet and asked her to pick the one she liked best. Delaware pointed at a jersey sheet with purple and gold planets swirling around a peach background. Liz walked out of the room to grab the bedsheet set that Delaware picked out, and Delaware finally had a moment to take in the look of the room.

A stripped mattress on a black bed frame against a wall, with just a few inches in between the left side of the bed and a large windowsill. Then, there are two black box shelves underneath the white sill that seem to be onto a foot tall and a foot wide each. That interests Delaware. What in the world could be put there? On the other side of the sill sits a blank desk with a brand new stationery set and plain notebooks. The sliding closet door is a mirror and a few feet away from the desk. Delaware can’t see very well inside of the closet, but she notices clothes. Like shirts, and a few pairs of jeans, and a black flowy dress that would be something she’d have to dream for.

“Here,” Liz says, setting down the bedspread Delaware picked out. “I can put this on for you. Unpack your stuff the way you’d like, okay? Make this room the way you want to feel at home. Even if that means buying posters, and I have some Christmas lights downstairs if those interest you, and whatever else you say your room needs. Ask for it, and we will get it just for you.”

A warm feeling spreads through Delaware’s body, from her neck down to her frozen toes. She opens one of the bags she’d brought from the Karlsen house and pulls clothes from inside. They’re wrinkled, and most of them haven’t been washed since the week before she’d left. The Saturday after her suspension was laundry day, meaning nothing had been cleaned before that. She thought about it for a second. Should she ask if these can be washed first, or should she wait until Liz asks her?

“Is there a laundry basket I can use?” Liz barely hears. Delaware is so soft, so quiet and unheard that she’s surprised by her behavior. Her other foster child is so loud and outgoing she half expected Delaware to be that way. Though, she should have expected that almost all of the other kids she’d had been closed off and emotionless. He’s only an exception because he and her youngest son had been best friends for the longest time until his mother gave up, and Liz took him without a second thought. She pushed and pushed for adoption to come through fully, but his mom kept trying to clean up from her drug addiction and every once in awhile she’d say that she wanted her son back from Liz. No matter what, Liz will still adopt Ashton in a heartbeat.

“Of course, Della,” Liz gripped the bedsheet onto one of the corners and let the others sit as she reached underneath the bed frame for a large white basket. “Here. I’m going to do a load of laundry in a little bit. Feel free to put whatever you need in here, and if there are any special instructions for things just let me know.”

Delaware threw things in the basket and hung clothes in the closet, dividing the clothes that had been there and hers with two plastic hangers. Inside the closet, she was given a small dresser that she stuffed with her pitying amount of clothes. The clothes she’d left in the laundry room and the shirts Mrs. Karlsen’s daughter had borrowed are still there, waiting for somebody to take them to Delaware, but she’ll never be given them back. She’d given Madison Karlsen, the eldest of the children, a shirt from her first foster family. One with her name on the back of it in large black letters that looped together. On the front was the family’s brand -her first foster family lived on a farm- on the left breast. Delaware had to leave that family because her father was granted custody for two weeks before getting another DUI. It was to prove that she’d always have a residence there if she wanted to go back, and even though she’d fought for that family again, the social worker said no.

It didn’t take Delaware long to unpack her clothes and the few sketchbooks, reading books, and shoes she’d brought. Liz was still busying herself to make sure the corners of Delaware’s bed were tucked with love. She wiped her hands on her blue jeans after tucking the corners and looked over how Delaware placed things. All the books she owned on the box shelves underneath the windowsill, a pair of black Converse on top, and the closet closed quietly behind her.

“Would you like to meet the boys? They look like they bite, but in reality, I’ll kick their butts.”

Delaware giggled with her hand covering her crooked teeth. “Sure.”

Liz leads her down the carpeted stairs and into the lounge. Her sons, all four of them were playing Fifa on the flatscreen and the voices of Calum Hood and Michael Clifford were coming out of Luke and Ben’s phones on the coffee table.

Liz and Andrew have two living rooms- one where the boys play their video games and hang out with their friends, and the one where Liz and Andrew can watch TV in peace, without listening to the constant bickering of four boys arguing over who gets to control the remote. A lot of times, the boys will take up every inch of space on top of their leather couch, and one of them will have to plant his butt on the hardwood, just to watch TV with their parents. Liz finds humor when Luke and Ashton have to argue over who gets to sit on the floor and who gets to sit on the couch, and the occasion Ashton sitting on top of Luke and crushing him.

“Sup, mom,” Ashton greets Liz, looking over his shoulder at her. Just an attempt to get on her good side after refusing to clean his room.

“Hey! Mom!” Calum screams through Luke’s phone. “What’s up! I gotta’ come over for dinner, right? Because you love me more than Mike?”

“Hell no, Calum!” Michael screams in Ben’s phone, overhearing Calum’s convincing plea to Liz. “Mom, you love me, right? Like, more than Jack, obviously, but you’ll give me the pizza instead of Cal? I’m really hungry over here and my mom hasn’t fed me today and-”

“-Don’t guilt-trip her Michael Gordon!” Calum interrupts. They start to bicker over who will get pizza from Liz. It’s not like they have to ask anymore- they can show up unannounced and she’ll fill their bellies as if they were her other children. Except, she kind of prefers Ashton over all of them- he’s the one she chose.

“Anyways,” Liz ignored the boys arguing through speakerphones, speaking low enough for her sons to hear her. “Della, that’s Luke, and over there is Jack -he’s the oldest so he won’t bother you much-, and that’s Ben, and he’s Ashton.” Delaware follows Liz’s finger from a boy in a black tank top and a quiff that reaches the ceiling, to one with a hoodie covering his head and staring right at her, to the one that looks like a replica of the hoodie boy, to one that seems to be apart of the brotherly bunch with a few different facial features. “This is Della. Be nice or I’ll hit you all.” Liz wags her finger threateningly to her sons. They all drop their controllers and put their hands up in surrender. “That’s what I thought. Tell Michael and Calum that I will give them both pizza if they just shut up.”

“Got it!” The arguing boys confirm at the same time.

“I’m putting on pants right now, Mom, and I’ll be there in five minutes!” Calum screams. He ends the call before Liz has a moment to tell him that they have company. She drops her head into her hands.

“Hell no! I’ll fucking get over there before him, Mom! Bet my ass-”

“-Michael!” Liz screams. She grabs onto Delaware’s hand to lead the short girl into the other living room to meet Andrew.

“What?”

“Language!” She turns to Delaware. “They’re Michael and Calum.”

“The only reason we put up with them is because of Luke,” Jack yelled over his shoulder.

Luke shoves his older brother. “Liar! You brought Calum around here when you were trying to get with Mali-Koa!” Liz pretended to not hear her youngest and continued to lead her new favorite kid through the house.

“So your name is Della?” Michael Clifford asked through a mouthful of pepperoni pizza and Pepsi. Jack knocked on the younger boys’ head when he walked past his spot at the table, grimacing at Michaels’ poor table manners. Michael flipped Jack off in response, so Jack puffed his chest out quickly to make Michael flinch. “Jesus Christ, dude! Calm your tits.”

“Yes, my name is Della,” Delaware answered. Her nimble fingers picked at the slice of cheese pizza she’d picked straight from the box and set on a napkin, and still hasn’t taken a bite from. She pulls small pieces off the crust and lays the bread in her mouth, rather than taking bites. With different foster families, she had to learn quickly that you let everybody else fill up on food before taking seconds. She’s had one family that starved her for two days because she took seconds, so one of the biological children didn’t get to take an entire serving for lunch the next day.

“Like Delaware?” Michael swallowed his pizza to avoid another slap from Jack. One thing Jack Hemmings hates about still living at home is his little brothers’ friends constantly playing video games, eating food, or just lounging around the house. He avoids bringing his friends home in embarrassment that Michael will be standing among the dining room table, in just his underwear … again. “How weird would that be? Naming your kid Delaware. Like could you imagine naming your kid Delaware,” laughed Michael. He prepared to shove the rest of his slice into his mouth. “I’m going to name my kid Kansas. That’s a cool name.” He shoves the rest of it into his mouth, stuffing the crust past his stretched-out lips and practically down his throat. “I should write a song called Pizza!”

Delaware stared at the atrocity happening at the table. “Gross.”

“This shit is normal,” replied Ben. They’d run out of chairs, not taking into consideration that Delaware would be joining them. Rather than getting out another chair for her, Ben gave up his and sat his butt on the round wood. Liz barely walked in before turning straight out of the dining room. She’d given up on it all. “Isn’t your name Delaware? Like, Mom told us to call you Della, but your real name is Delaware?”

Delaware took her stare from Michael and turned it to her napkin. Her cheeks and ears were beginning to burn a dark shade of red. “Yeah,”

“Wait what?” Michael said, choking down the carbs in his mouth. “Your parents named you Delaware? Like the state?”

“Shut up, Michael,” Calum slaps Micahel’s arm, resulting in a high pitched whine from the blond fringe sitting next to him. “Your middle name is literally Gordon!”

“Your middle name is literally Gordon!” Michael mocks in a high pitched, girly voice. “Whatever, Thomas.” He flicks Calum’s ear. “What’s your middle name, Delaware? Is it Boston?”

Delaware doesn’t look up from her food. She just stares at it and ignores Calum and Michael’s argument over whether or not Boston is in Delaware or New York, ignoring Luke’s gripes that it’s in Massachusetts and that they’re both idiots. Delaware picks at the crust of her pizza again, but she doesn’t place any of it in her mouth. Her poorly-manicured hands just shred the crust into tiny pieces until she physically can’t tear them anymore. She jumps when she feels a nudge in her ribs.

“I don’t think that’s how you’re supposed to eat pizza, man,” Ashton laughs, taking a small bite of a cheese breadstick. Delaware doesn’t understand what he’s meaning; desiring more information about what he’s inferring, she just stares at him. She’s not putting anything into her mouth, so why would that make any sense. “You’re supposed to actually eat it, Della. You’re not a freak and can’t like … eat, right? We have a blender if-”

“-I can eat. I’m just not hungry.” She wanted to say his name, to amend the sentence, just in case somebody thinks she’s talking to herself. She’s never been around so many people at once, sitting at a single dinner table and not tied down into a seat and listening to chewing the scraping of forks against plates. Most foster homes she’s been to, you sit, you eat, and you don’t speak. You eat with their parents, sit next to your 'siblings’, and finish your plate by the time you leave the table. Delaware wonders if people that don’t finish their plates -actually, napkins- of pizza will hand off to Michael and he’ll be a human garbage disposal.

“Wanna know a funny story? Luke wanted caramel popcorn this morning and he put maple syrup on buttered-”

“-Ashton I swear if you finish that story, I’ll finish you,” Luke warned with a smile on his face, distracting from the pizza sauce on his cheek. Jack grabbed the bottom of Luke’s shirt and tore it up to Luke’s face to wipe the sauce from his oblivious brother. Luke swatted his brothers’ hand away from his face, and smack Jack’s forehead. These boys seem to be really into fighting.

“That is one weird daddy kink, Luke”

With wide eyes, Delaware stood from the table and turned on her heels to face the staircase just feet away. She sprang towards the stairs, not wanting to know the rest of what the bumbling idiots have to say. That’s just one weird conversation, especially for brothers. How in the world does Liz put up with all of this?

Of course, only the Delaware Williams would end up suspended on her first day of school. She’d asked Michael three times to stop calling her Delaware and to call her Della as everybody else had been, and he continued, saying it was her first name so that’s what she shall be called. She turned around and slapped him- didn’t even leave a mark, just stunned him for a few moments. Liz decided that Delaware shall serve her detention sentence, finish her suspension, and would be okay. She’d asked Michael to stop, but if she does it again then she’ll get in trouble at home.

Delaware was so thankful for the Hemmings taking her in, and not treating her like a criminal for something she didn’t even have time to think about doing. Though, she felt like she was a terrible person and a disgrace to everyone around her. She sat down in detention silently, sitting next to a girl with long dark hair, and plugged in headphones.

It only took a few seconds before she was pelted in the back of her head with a ball of paper. She whipped around to the girl with dark hair and shot her an angry look. “What?”

“Nothing,” the girl smiled and laughed a little bit. “Just wondering what little miss princess is doing in detention. Don’t you know, Luke, Ben, and Jack haven’t gotten single detention in their lives. Now, what’re you going to do?”

“Sacrifice children,” Delaware answered before rolling her eyes and laying her head on the desk. “Who even are you? Why do you know me?”

The girl smiled. “I’m Calum’s big sister, Mali-Koa. But, you’re the talk of the school. Now tell me, did you really give Michael Clifford a shiner like everyone says you did?”

Delaware rolled her eyes at Mali-Koa. Still, she didn’t reply verbally, just a little bit pissed off. She shoved her earbuds back into her ears, but Mali-Koa snatched one of them away. “What do you want?!” Delaware screamed.

Mali-Koa laughed. “You’re a blonde-haired beauty, and you’re listening to Slipknot? What the fuck?”

Delaware grabbed her earbud from the older girl. “Yeah, I know. I need a fucking makeover. Are you done now?”

Mali-Koa’s grin dropped into an actual smile. One that kind of frightened Delaware- the one that you see when someone has a good idea, rather than a sadistic one. She’s used to seeing people with sadistic smiles, ready to destroy everyone around her. She didn’t know people could actually be genuine. “Are you serious about needing a makeover? I’m studying cosmetology. I’d be willing to help.”

Delaware sat up. She noted how Mali-Koa’s got dark eyes that seem as if she put contacts in to darken them. Underneath sunlight, Delaware wonders, they’d probably be a beautiful shade of brown turning into pools of honey. She wishes she’d have an eye color that cool. She’s been stuck with a basic forest green that she’d never been taught to appreciate. “Are you being deadass?”

“Why not?”

“How do I know I can trust you to not completely fuck me up?”

“C'mon, I look like Calum. And Calum wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Fine, when?”

“When detention gets out, sweetheart,”

They barely stopped at the store, picking up a two-dollar box of a natural-colored hair dye so Delaware wouldn’t be forced to dye her hair back just because their school doesn’t allow odd colored hair. She opted for a boxed black, ready to no longer be a bleach blonde her ex-foster mother forced her to be. She’d sit her down in only a sports bra and shorts, and would bleach every part of Delaware’s hair with extra strength bleach so she’d fit in with their family. She never did.

Delaware drug Mali-Koa up the stairs, feeling the boots of her brand-new school uniform creating blisters on her feet as she hopped two steps at a time. Liz laughed and asked what they were going to do. Noting the hair shears shining through the plastic bag is Delaware’s hand, she figured somebody was going to have a change.

That happened with a lot of the foster kids she’d gotten. Originally, Ashton had a long fringe, and when Liz took him to get a haircut for school, he cut it all off and let his curls grow out the way he liked. She smiled, fit him in the family Christmas photos, and even helped him keep his curls healthy. Liz just wanted to love all of the children that came into her life and support their logical decisions. Her mission with Delaware includes letting her know that people love her, and she’s not as lonely as everyone’s made her think.

“Your daughter is getting a makeover!” Mali-Koa laughed and followed Delaware into the bathroom she shares with Luke and Ashton. Ben and Jack have bedrooms in the basement, creating their own space for their college-manliness instead of video games, stuffed penguins, and Cheetos. They both closed the bathroom door and locked it. Delaware glowed after hearing Liz tell them to have fun instead of letting Mali-Koa know that Delaware technically isn’t her daughter. Mali-Koa found it precious. “How short do you want your hair?”

Delaware stripped off her polo shirt so she’d be in only her undershirt and skirt, and not get little particles of hair and hair dye on the expensive fabric. She threw the polo into a laundry basket full of men’s pajama pants and the shorts she’d changed out of that morning. Her fingers grabbed the ends of her dead hair, sliding her thumb over all the split ends and rotten strands. “You think I’d look cute with it to my shoulders? And like, bangs too?”

Mali-Koa envisioned Delaware with bangs and short hair. She has a small forehead, meaning that her bangs would be very short and look a little bit odd. With short hair, though, her face would look slimmer and angular, and you’d be able to see the skin tearing itself on her collarbones a lot more. She wouldn’t be able to hide the birthmarks behind her ear and along the top of her spine and the tattoo she pretended to never get right above her left breast. “I think you’d look great, but the bangs … not so much.”

“Then just cut it, man, cut as much as you think needs to be cut.”

Mali-Koa sectioned Delaware’s hair into two sections with hair ties showing where to place the scissors. Delaware closed her eyes and listened for the sound of hair shattering in half, and when she heard it, she felt like a million pounds had been lifted off of her shoulders. Her eyes opened wide when Mali-Koa told her to open, and she was surprised by her looks.

After being a young child, she wasn’t allowed to cut off her hair. Whenever her biological mother or biological father had met her foster family, they’d told them to have her hair grow as long as they could manage, because otherwise, she’d look ugly. They all went along with her parents’ requests and ignored Delaware’s pleads for short hair that she wouldn’t spend countless hours taking care of. They all just wanted to please her family, instead of pleasing her.

“Do you like it?” Mali-Koa asked Delaware after feathering out some layers of her hair and brushing the little pieces of hair off her shoulders. Delaware’s eyes were as wide as green saucers as she nodded her head. She couldn’t speak out of amazement that she went along with cutting her hair off and that she liked it. “Ready to dye it?”

They dyed her hair black, shoved a sewing needle through her septum in an attempt to open the piercing she’d had previously -and it worked but with a lot of blood, did charcoal face masks together, put a lipstick on Delaware’s lips, lined her eyes with eyeliner, and Mali-Koa had Delaware take out her contacts and put her round-framed glasses on instead. Delaware couldn’t recognize herself, couldn’t remember who she was besides a blonde girl with no taste in boys. Mali-Koa watched Delaware stare at herself in the bathroom mirror, watching in amazement and humming along with Jaymes Young. Delaware smiled, and so did Mali-Koa.

Luke pounds his fist on Delaware’s white wooden door, trying to capture her attention. “Della!” Luke yells out, still pounding the side of his hand against the wood. “I heard that you have Cal’s sister! We need her!” From behind the door, Delaware and Mali-Koa giggle at Luke’s yelling and a video they’re both watching on Mali-Koa’s phone. One thing that Delaware still doesn’t have- a phone. But she doesn’t mind. It just means that she doesn’t have to deal with people’s drama and manipulation of text messages. “Della!” Luke drags out.

Delaware decides to finally open the door up, running a hand through her hair. “What?” She demands, opening the door wide for Luke to see her and her new friend. She adjusts the uncomfortable septum ring in her nose just a little bit. Surprisingly, Liz didn’t mind Delaware repiercing through her septum, breaking the scar tissue open from a few years ago. Luke has a lip piercing, and Jack and Ben got their ears pierced on a bet together not long before Delaware arrived, so she’d given up on the no piercings rule.

Luke lets out a high pitched scream. “What did you do with my sister, holy shit!” From downstairs, they could hear Liz stammering about Luke’s language. Luke stares at Delaware with wide eyes, not realizing he’s even staring. “What did you do to her, Hood?”

“What do you want, Hemmings?” Mali-Koa sits up from Delaware’s bed and makes her way to the boy in the doorway, holding a comb and a pair of kitchen scissors in one hand near his face. She grabs both of them out of his hand but has to pry his fingers away.

“Michael wants his hair cut, and I fucked it up so I was … ” Luk’s distracted by Delaware moving around the ring in her nose. She stares back at him angrily. “You look so weird. Like … what the fuck? What the hell did you do with my sister?”

“I gave her a makeover,” Mali-Koa shoves Luke away from staring at Delaware, pushing him fully into the hallway. She shoves past him and towards his bedroom. “I swear if you messed up Michael’s hair, then you’re paying. And if you touched Calum’s-”

“-Ugh, I didn’t touch Calums! Just fix Michaels, please!” Luke looks back at Delaware just standing in the doorway, watching Mali-Koa walk down the hallway and shoving herself into Luke’s room. “Aren’t you coming?” Luke asks. Delaware looks at him in surprise, wondering why he’s calling her his sister, why he’s asking if she’s coming with them to fix Michael’s hair, and why he’s just… being so calm. It dawns on her that he’s being so calm and collected, but still freaking out over his new little sister cutting off her hair, is because he thinks of her as family.

Delaware bites down on her lip. “Of course,” she follows Luke to his bedroom.

The view there is horrendous; clothes were strewn everywhere, Michael’s fringe all over the floor, dishware and cups left on Luke’s desk for whatever reason, and messy cords littering his entire TV set up for a gaming system. Michael, though, was just sitting on a dining room chair, with a towel tied around his neck, a caramel apple in one hand, his phone in the other, and half of his fringe cut in the wrong direction.

“Della, can you go get the hair scissors?” Mali-Koa requests then hand the kitchen sheers to Delaware. Delaware nods her head and leaves the room.

“Holy shit, that’s Delawa- ow!” Michael screams loud enough for Delaware to hear when putting the kitchen shears into the sink. She giggles a little bit at whatever must’ve struck Michael and feels a sense of belongingness at their protection of her. “Calum Hood I swear to God I will not hesitate!” Delaware slides past Liz at the stovetop, starting a dinner of chicken, and hops up the stairs.

“Remember, he’s ticklish!” Liz calls after her new daughter. Delaware confirms that she heard and runs back into Luke’s room, almost landing inside of Ashton’s just before Lukes, then handing Mali-Koa the proper scissors.

“Now, Micahel, what do we call her?” Mali-Koa threatens, holding Michael’s caramel apple in her nondominant hand. Michae looks back at her scared. One hand, with the caramel apple he’s about to cry over, and the other hand with a sharp pair of scissors, and a face full of determination. He should really answer this question correctly. “Michael? What do we call Luke’s little sister?”

“We call her Della,” Michael mumbles, holding onto his biceps. “Not Delaware because she doesn’t like Delaware. She likes Della.”

“Exactly,” Mali-Koa says as if she’s talking to a small child. She hands Micahel his caramel apple back and he takes a huge bite of the sticky fruit. “Now, what do we not let Luke, Ashton, and Calum do?”

“We don’t let them cut my hair because they’re stupid fuckers that can’t cut a straight fucking line!” Michael flips off the group of boys sitting on Luke’s bed.

“Shut up, you’re not even straight!” Ashton whines, feeling offended at what Michael and Mali-Koa are agreeing on. Nobody knows if Michael if straight, bi, gay, or whatever other sexuality he’s questioned upon himself. The week before he started high school, he’d called Luke crying because he thought he was only attracted to witches. They all put it off to the fact he’d stayed up three days straight watching Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone over and over again, trying to memorize the entire movie. He doesn’t even remember calling Luke that day.

“Suck my dick, Irwin,” Michael bit into his caramel apple again, basically breaking his jaw. “I want to buy a onesie, but I don’t know if it’ll suit me.”

Mali-Koa halted attempting to section off her younger friends’ hair correctly to give him a soft rasp upside his head. “You’re an idiot.” Mali-Koa started feathering out the long strands to match the shorter ones the boys created and tried to match their cutting style. His fringe would be fine… but he doesn’t have to know that. “Yeah, dude, I’m going to give you a quiff.”

“What? No! I don’t want to be gay like Luke!”

“Oh shut up, Gordon!” Luke whined.

“That brings me back to something,” Michael chews the sticky caramel stuck in his teeth and shoots an uncharming smile towards Delaware. “What’s your middle name? Is it Boston?”

“Boston is in Massachusetts, you fucking idiot!”

“Well, let Delaw- Della answer us. Is your middle name Boston?”

Delaware shook her head, laughing as she did so. “I can promise you that my middle name is not Boston.” Delaware tucked a few strands of hair behind her head, coming out of her shell just a little bit. “I think we should change yours though. I hear Carol is really pretty.”

“Oh hell no!”

“Michael, you are yelling!” Ashton informs Michael, using a hand gesture commanding that he brings his volume down just a bit so they don’t have premature hearing loss. “We could change it to Mary. I used to know a Mary- she played the piano.”

“I don’t play the piano, idiot, I play the guitar,” Michael wiped his mouth quickly to remove the sticky sugar, and just like Luke the night before, he had it on his cheek. “You guys make no sense. You’re all supporting 'we should all be unique together!’ and it turns out that we’re all the same. My middle name is cooler than all your stupid ones, so suck my dick and choke on it.”

“Language!” Liz screams, barely hearing Michael.

“Sorry, Mommy!” Michael screams back. “I am Gordon. And I am so much cooler than all of you!” Mali-Koa had to hold Michael’s head in place when she continued snipping the ends of his hair. “What type of person looks at an almond and thinks, 'Look at those titties’?”

“Does that mean that you look at a cow and you think 'Look at those titties’?” asked Ashton.

“Yes,” Michael answered. “Because you’re the cow.”

Ashton picked a ball of socks from the floor and threw them at Michael. “You look like a fish.”

“You are a fish, bitch,”

“I thought I was a cow?”

“You’re the whole zoo. Thick as hell,”

“Only for you,”

Delaware pointed towards Ashton and Michael, conversing over… God knows what and looked at Luke. Knowing what she was asking, he shook his head. But still, she’s convinced that the two of them are dating somehow.

Delaware ripped open her door. “Benjamin Hemmings if you don’t give me my bra back I swear to God!” She ran after Ben, supporting hot pink A cups over his One Direction shirt- both stolen from Delaware. Her feet hammered against the ground.

“Delaware Williams if you don’t shut up!” Ben mocked, running away from his little sister. She followed him down the hallway, past the kitchen, and into the living room where they’d argue in front of a sleeping Liz and a tired Andrew. “Give me my headphones back!”

Delaware held up Ben’s earbuds with a pair of scissors threatening to end its life. “I won’t hesitate! Take off my bra!”

“Woah!” Andrew called out in an attempt to calm the boiling situation. Both teenagers turned their attention towards the stretching man, scared for a punishment. Andrew just couldn’t comprehend the scene in his living room without busting out laughing fits. His nineteen-year-old son, standing in his daughters’ bra. Lovely. “What the hell is going on? Why are you… ” Andrew pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why are you wearing a bra?”

“Because I want to be beautiful, Dad!” Ben replied with a sassy snap at the end of his sentence.

Andrew sighed. “Give Della her bra back. Della, aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for the Homecoming game?”

Della looks to the side and drops the headphones/scissors mix to the floor. “Maybe.” She touched the curls that Mali-Koa’s pinned to the back of her head. Just half of them are ready, and she still has to wait on the other half. Della wasn’t excited for the homecoming game, though. Yes, she’d been elected for the homecoming queen, but she still wasn’t too thrilled about standing in the rainy wind for half an hour while her heart breaks over losing. “Can’t I just skip it? It’s not like Luke was elected so everybody doesn’t need to go and with nobody there for me-”

“Delaware Williams, we are all going, and so are you. Go finish getting ready before I kick you,”

Delaware retreated to her bedroom, carrying her hot pink bra in her right hand, and continued with Mali-Koa’s hair violations. Curling irons, hair gel, hair spray, hairpins, tiny rubber bands, and the occasional clip-in flower was stuck to Delaware’s scalp and she flinched at the feeling. Mali-Koa braided two sections halfway down Delaware’s hair before tying them off and curling any pieces she could manage. She took as long as she possibly could to make the perfect hairstyle, and after two months of being best friends, Delaware appreciated Mali-Koa being there for her.

“Dude, do I have to cover my tattoo?” Delaware asked, staring at her reflection in only a strapless bra and spandex. She pointed to the baby handprint in a bed of sunflowers right above her left breast that her best friend’s mom tattooed on her underage skin last year. Delaware’s biological mother had a daughter before Delaware, but she hadn’t survived after several complications with their mothers’ pregnancy and died just a few hours after birth. The girl, Adelaide, took her last breath and placed her hand right above her mothers’ breast, where Delaware eventually got a tattoo of her handprint.

“Yeah,” Mali-Koa sighed before pulling a bottle of foundation from her makeup box. “Lay down, it’ll be easier.”

Mali-Koa worked quickly on blending the tattoo away underneath a pile of foundation and powder. Her purple beauty blender pound into Delaware’s skin, hitting a sensitive nerve she didn’t realize existed, causing Delaware to flinch. Mali-Koa laughs and slathered a layer of powder above the drying foundation and relished in the fact it was hidden. However, Delaware looked like a completely different person without solid black lines and yellow shading taking up her skin.

A knock on Delaware’s door interrupted her confusion about how different Delaware looked. “Password?” Delaware asked, sitting up and pulling a shirt in front of her boobs.

“Luke sucks balls,” Michael replied and opened the door. Not the proper password- but it’ll manage. “Your mom says your report card is in and you’re in trouble and holy shit you’re shirtless.”

“Thanks, Einstein,” Delaware replied. She and Michael locked eyes for a few minutes. “Can you leave now? I’ll be downstairs when I get into my dress.”

Mali-Koa ended up pushing the staring boy out of Delaware’s room so she could dress in the apparel. A dress she regretted even buying- luckily, it was cheap. A two-piece dress with a strapless black floral top, and a black flowy skirt that ended mid-thigh, and started above her belly button. She looked gorgeous, obviously, but Michael managed to have a staring problem again when she walked down the stairs. Luke smacked the side of Michael’s head.

Liz had agreed with Delaware that she’d sign the paper for Delaware to become a cheerleader, as long as Delaware had good grades at the end of the grading quarter, unlike Luke and Michael. Delaware gladly agreed, especially after trying out for cheerleading, and worked her small butt off to achieve her short term dream. Every time she went to a foster house, she’d have one request: to be put in dance classes or some sort of physical labor including costumes and smiles. Liz would oblige as long as Delaware continued with school work and chores, bettering herself for a nice future.

Delaware skipped towards Liz and grabbed the document with her name on it to read the grades. They were all exceptional- 100s in every class, and extra credit in most. She’d talked to her teachers about finishing her tenth-grade year in one semester, and starting her eleventh in the next. They drew up worksheets, made after school lesson plans and attached them to a flash drive that she’d learn off of. But, she did it. Finished half of her tenth-grade year in a quarter, and amazed her foster parents beyond extreme. Luke was just barely passing the classes she’d been excelling in, and Ashton was scraping by his twelfth-grade year with D’s and C’s.

“So, does that mean I get to be a basketball cheerleader?” Delaware asked with a hopeful tone, handing Liz the paper again. Liz smiled and continued looking it over. Her grades were amazing, she went to school every day and never skipped class, she’d been a teacher’s pet too. Originally, she’d started her school year with an F in biology and no determination to get it up. Then she learned about cheerleading, made the deal with Liz, and had it up to an A in twenty-four hours. “Please, please, please, Mom!”

Liz shook her head jokingly and looked to Delaware. She was glowing; a beautiful girl with a highlight on her cheekbones and hair pulled back delicately. “Give me the paper and I’ll sign it.”

Delaware squealed, jumped in the air, and wrapped her arms around Liz’s neck. Happiness and excitement were radiating off her bones and blinding everyone in the house. Even Calum, playing video games down the street while he’s supposed to be in football practice could feel her excitement. “Thank you so much! This means everything to me!”

“Just don’t fall behind in your studies, okay?”

“Got it.”

Liz signed on the dotted line, and Delaware almost ruined her makeup with tears.

Delaware shivered and waited for the ceremony to start. She began regretting not taking Luke up on the offer of his letterman jacket but cuddled into her best friend Calum’s side instead. He’s a football player, in their ugly gold and black uniforms, and his large letterman jacket. He wrapped her inside of the fabric and shivered with her. A long speech from the announcing lady made them both groan in unison while she continued blabbering on and on until every homecoming candidate was frozen.

Finally, she told everyone she’d begin announcing. Mali-Koa was nominated for the senior homecoming queen alongside a boy Delaware didn’t know. The boys’ little sister, Florine Knapp, was nominated alongside Michael for the junior king and queen. Calum and Delaware were for the sophomores, and freshmen candidates failed to show up. Less competition, honestly.

The homecoming floats were ugly and faulty. The football field was soaked through and would create a muddy Calum Hood. Everybody outside was freezing underneath mountains of blankets. It just wasn’t turning into a good last football game for their town. Delaware was completely unimpressed but still walked to the track when her name was called.

“Delaware Williams, foster child to Liz and Andrew Hemmings, foster sister to Luke, Ben, and Jack Hemmings, future basketball cheerleader, and scholar,” The lady stated, causing Delaware to bite her tongue. In their house, you don’t throw around the word 'foster’. It’s all or nothing, even when it comes to talking about genetics. Delaware feels like if she could, she’d turn into a Hemmings instead of a Williams, just to feel apart of a family that loved her. That obviously loved her. Another thing, you don’t leave out Ashton. Ashton is just as much of a Hemmings as the boys, and Delaware. “She’s accompanied by Calum Hood,” and the list went on. “And our homecoming queen and king are,” a drumroll from the marching band started. “Delaware Williams and Michael Clifford,”

How the hell did I manage that? Delaware wanted to scream out.

She stepped forward, closer to Michael Clifford in a tacky suit and harder hair than normal, and took his hand in her own. Thick rings dug into the skin between her fingers, and the ring with Delaware’s birthstone sat a little crooked on her middle finger and dug into his. It was a mutual thing; ruining each other’s fingers with rings. Delaware smiled and stepped closer to him so they’d stand together and receive their crowns. Delaware smiled, waited for Liz and Andrew to snap photos, then kissed Michael on the cheek.

Yeah, she could get over being called Delaware all the time, but now it's just an attempt at embarrassing him in front of the bleachers full of school supporters. Michael blushed and tried to hide his face behind his other hand, but Delaware grabbed it away from him. Michael giggled, and walked her off the field, to their positions as King and Queen of the New Broken Scene.

“Give me my burrito!” Delaware squealed, grabbing the tinfoil out of Michael’s hands, having to climb a little bit to grab it from above his head. Michael laughed, pulling it further away from the beautiful girl across the booth, but ended up throwing it onto her plate. “You’re a whore, you know that right?”

“Hoe,” Michael corrected. “I’m a hoe for any and everybody. Sleeping with sirens and piercing veils, babygirl,”

“Just kidding. You’re stupid,” After ditching their homecoming dance, they walked in the rain to an indoor mini-golf arena, playing a few games before skipping to the local Mexican restaurant for delicious food. Liz laughed when Delaware told her she wouldn’t be at the homecoming dance, and to tell Jack to not wait to pick her up. They all guessed she’d find ways around the dark gymnasium with sweaty kids and two smoke machines; she’s just not that type of person.

Michael opened his straw partly and shot the plastic-wrapped at Delaware’s nose, causing her to flinch just a little bit. She balled it up quickly and threw it back at him. “Hey!” Delaware yipped when a plastic fork hit her in the boob. “I swear I’ll get Ben to beat you up.” She slipped off Jack’s letterman jacket as to not cover it in food.

After complaining of being cold, Mali-Koa stole Calum’s jacket from him, leaving Delaware without anything to cover her reddening arms. Her limbs were beginning to go numb. Jack ran home quickly, dug around in the basement, and pulled his old letterman jacket from a box he’d forgotten about. He handed it to Delaware and told her to use it as long as she’d like- even if it meant forever. Hemmings it across the back of the golden fabric, with letters for several different sports and manager pins. She was amazed at how it fit her just a little too big but still looked nice on her. She sat atop Michael’s shoulders, watched the game underneath a large jacket, and took photos with all of the boys as much as possible. It was a night she’d remember forever.

“What’s your tattoo of?” Michael asked, pointing to the black lines starting to peek through the foundation. He took a huge bite of his soft taco.

“It’s my sisters’ handprint when she was born,” Delaware dismissed before digging into her food as well. It tasted like the perfect burrito; meat, rice, beans, queso, avocado, and whatever the hell else was added. She was in love with a two-dollar burrito that was made in minutes. Nobody could ever top that burrito.

“Was she in foster care like you?”

Delaware went silent. She didn’t have an answer. How do you tell someone that your sister is dead? How would you answer that question if she was alive- yes, she is in foster care like I am but we were split up because the system is bullshit. Or- no, she isn’t because our parents actually wanted her or she was adopted quickly because she’s perfect. Even though she’s quite open about foster care, it can still be a somewhat touchy subject for her.

“Della?”

“No,” Delaware answered quickly. She didn’t want to reply, she didn’t want to think, she just wanted to relish at the moment she was given. Tacos in a hole-in-the-wall restaurant with a boy that was nominated homecoming king, while she was the queen. She was nominated for homecoming queen after years of being bullied, and she had a huge crowd cheering her on, taking photos of her making cute faces next to her brothers, and two adults claiming her as their child. She had a family that loves her, one that bought her a phone and helped her sign up for cheerleading. One that doesn’t want to give her up when the time comes. “So your middle name is Gordon, right?”

“Yeah. What’s yours? Boston?”

“I’ve told you several times! It’s not Boston!”

“Then you have to tell me it,” Michael says before taking a long gulp of soda. “It’s the law.”

Delaware chews her burrito and swallows before answers. “You have to guess the letter it starts with.”

“It’s either M or N,” replies Michael. Delaware is stunned- he’s right.

“How do you know that?”

“Because, D is four letters from the beginning of the alphabet, and W is four letters from the end. M and N are equal distances between the two.”

“How the fuck do you know that?”

“Because,” Michael says. “I got bored in chemistry today. Basic knowledge, you know.” Delaware stared at him in amazement. “So am I right?”

“You’re spot on,” Delaware’s mouth hung open. How had she never put two and two together? Also, her biological parents are idiots. “It’s May-Nova.”

“Delaware May-Nova Williams?” Michael asked. He didn’t wait for a reply. “Your parents must have really hate you.”

Delaware continued staring, not knowing how to answer. Yes, they did. That’s why I’m in foster care. Or, no, they didn’t. They’re just idiots.

They ate their food, conversing over Delaware’s odd name, Michael’s stupid middle name, and the fact that Mexican food will forever be Delaware’s first and only love. At the end of their meal, Delaware got Jack on the phone for a ride home in the rain, rather than walking. He obliged and drove to them quickly instead of partying as he’d planned. Delaware jumped into the shower the moment she walked through the door, pulling pins from her hair and forcing Luke to unzip her dress.

“Mali-Koa Hood, get your ass up here now!” Delaware screamed out, entering her room in only a towel, and ready to watch sappy movies and talk with her best friend. “Mali!”

“She’s at the dance!” Michael yelled back.

“Language, Della!” Liz screamed, wishing to break the habit of her children cussing constantly. She’ll do it, you know. She’ll end the cussing eventually.

“Then somebody get up here and watch movies with me!” She locked her door, though, before a stampede of teenage boys killed her while she’s naked. She slipped into Nike shorts and a random shirt she didn’t realize she owned before opening her bedroom to her male friends waiting for her casually. “Is there something you’d like?”

“You said Disney movies,” Calum mentions, motioning to her TV sitting on the black desk. It’s small, but it suffices.

“I did not say Disney movies,”

“More importantly you said Lilo and Stitch,” Michael states, eyeing her hand-me-down XBOX. Luke gave it to her because he’d gotten a new one for his birthday before she’d arrived, and now she can play video games with Calum, Micahel, Ashton, and Luke without having to sit in somebody else’s room.

“I did not say Lilo and Stitch,”

“And you also said popsicles,” Ashton laughs.

“I didn’t say popsicles but if you brought me a red popsicle-” Ashton hands over a red popsicle he knows she loves. He’s studied that she’s the only one eating them, devouring them in moments of the first taste. All of the others aren’t too fond of them, but she’s a cherry fiend. “-I love you forever.”

“So Lilo and Stitch?” Michael asks.

“Yeah, no,”

“What about The Emperor's New Groove?”

“No,”

“On The Road To El Dorado?”

“You have to have the password.”

“It’s Luke sucks balls,”

“You’re absolutely correct. Grab a blanket, homies,”

Calum, Ashton, Michael, Luke, and Delaware all fit on her twin bed, laying on top of one another, but paying attention to the TV with such intent they forgot that they had a pizza in the oven. Michael cried when Liz informed them that the pizza was burnt- he didn’t know it was in the oven, but a burnt pizza broke his heart. Delaware fell asleep on the makeshift bed Michael and Calum had created out of their bodies to make her comfortable. It was just a good night for her.

For their first basketball game, Michael and Delaware agreed upon wearing matching spirit clothes, supporting their schools’ black-out game. They obviously had to wear the given black polo required, but they paid five bucks to wear jeans that Tuesday. On days of games with themed student sections, you’re allowed to pay for different trousers, as long as they’re appropriate. Michael and Delaware stayed up late, listening to GreenDay on the sound system Delaware was borrowing from Luke, and created patterns on ripped skinny jeans with neon paint. The class with the most supporters in the student section wins frozen yogurt during lunch the next day.

Liz took pictures of Delaware and her friends, almost causing the brunette to be late to school. The typical photo of Delaware sitting on Luke’s shoulders, leaning against Michael’s front with their arms woven together, and the weird poses Calum and Ashton thought up on the spot. Michael and Delaware also colored their friends’ skinny jeans and paid off their debt to the administration. Delaware would have tons of photos to reflect on whenever she leaves the Hemmings house, and it breaks her heart to think that eventually, she’ll have to leave the best friends that she'll ever have.

Michael and Delaware kicked their legs up onto their uncomfortable desks to show off the jeans. Delaware stared back at Ashton, Calum, and Luke sitting a row behind the pair. Luke sighed and copied them before Calum and Ashton replicated them too.

“Thank you,” Delaware shook her head. “Rude, am I right?”

“Downright disrespectful,” Michael answered.

In her small cheer uniform, Delaware waved at the crowd gathered for the basketball game, more specifically her family. Liz and Andrew snapped even more photos of her. She’s a flyer, meaning that she’s thrown into the air a lot, and had to ask Liz to pull her hair back into double dutch braids. Though, Michael kept drooling during the basketball game and couldn’t focus on the fact he’s supposed to be dribbling a ball, not staring at the cheerleaders.

“Clifford,” His coach called, pulling him from the game and sitting his butt on the bench.

Michael didn’t mind- even more of a chance to stare at Delaware. Her cheer uniform was long-sleeved, covered her from her knees to her neck, disregarding her hands, and had gold lining along the hem. She was exactly like every other cheerleader; uniform, hair, and small golden bows tied with ribbon. But Michael knew exactly which one she was, even in a group huddle of screams and chants. He knew that she was Delaware Williams instead of some prissy cheerleader that wouldn’t talk to him. He just knew.

At the end of the game, Delaware pulled Jack’s letterman jacket on her shoulders and posed with cheerleaders wearing the same outfit she was. The only difference between all of them as she had a lot more letters than they did and the last name on the back wasn’t correct. That didn’t discourage anyone from turning every cheerleader around and taking photos of their last names. Their school takes photos like that as a promotion to families and showing off a kids’ heritage.

That means that Luke, Ben, Jack, and Ashton have photos with their last names shown off in photos. Hemmings- every single one was a Hemmings. And now, Liz had her daughter with the Hemmings name glowing in the center of the photo. She couldn’t help but immediately create a photo collage of them all together. Ashton had been a football player and a wrestler for a couple of years. Luke, Ben, and Jack were all football players with the occasional basketball season and a few track and field meets. She chose the photos of them all during tenth grade; Delaware at her first basketball game as a cheerleader, Ashton during wrestling season right after breaking his arm, Luke just a few weeks before at a football game, Jack just finishing a 3200-meter dash, and Ben when he’d gotten a concussion during a football game and kept playing with tears running down his cheeks. She smiled and showed Andrew who adored what she’d done with the photos.

“I deserve ice cream!” Delaware screamed with a fist in the air and her other hand on top of Calum’s head. It was normal for her to be sitting on their shoulders, rather than walking. Liz and Andrew occasionally worried that she would fall and break something, though. “I deserve some good oreo ice cream with white chocolate chips on top and cookie dough pieces on the inside!”

“Dude you literally ate an entire package of Oreos earlier,” Michael replied, cuddling further into his own jacket. “And like four cupcakes, and we even got hamburgers for lunch. Are you trying to die?”

“Mali-Koa and I are having a competition to see who can reach 100 pounds first,” Delaware answered as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. It never dawned on the boys that the reason Delaware was so light, was because she’d been underweight. “I’m at eighty-eighty pounds and I’m determined to beat her!”

“Jesus Christ, you’re tiny!” Calum laughed. He unlocked the side of his car with keys in one hand, and helped Delaware off of his shoulders by practically tossing her in the air and catching her with a key in her side. “So, ice cream?”

“Please!” Delaware whined. She looked around at Liz and Andrew, searching for an answer she already knew. “Mom? Please?” Liz wanted to say no, she wanted to tell Delaware that eating too much is unhealthy, even if you’re attempting to gain weight. Delaware has a small form of lactose intolerance so a mass amount of ice cream will mess with her body, and Liz knows this. Still, she stares into Delaware’s forest-green eyes and nods her head sadly. “Yay! Where can we go? What’s good around here?”

“There’s an ice cream shop just down the road,” Michael said, pointing in the direction of a corner store he’s always wanted to try. They advertise cherry ice cream with chocolate chunks, cookie dough without salmonella, and sticky caramel apples dipped in peanuts. “My mom says they’re pretty good.”

“Wow, you have a mom?” Delaware asked, referencing the fact that Michael seems to be at the Hemmings house all the time, and never goes home. She swears he’s there when she wakes up, goes to sleep, and tries to shower at 3 AM. “What do you say? Ice cream shop? That’s what I thought.” Delaware climbs into Calum’s car without an answer, sitting in the passenger’s seat and hooking her phone up to the aux. “Come on guys! They’ll close before we get there.”

Practically everyone is wrapped around Delaware’s finger.

Michael knocked on Delaware’s bedroom door. She stood up from her bed, the room illuminated by fairy lights Mali-Koa and her had hung around the creases of the ceiling. Michael opened the door when she took forever to answer it and stared at her.

Delaware had asked Michael to come over- said that it was too dire of a situation for just Calum and way too much for any of her brothers. She needed Michael, the boy that seemingly understood her. But before he could ask her what’s wrong, she crashed into his chest, hot tears rolling down her cheeks. She had given up to just listening to her hammering heart exploding in her chest, bursting her eardrums with every pop. Delaware was embarrassed- hurting, even when Michael shushed her sobs in his chest and shoved her further into her room, closing the door behind her.

“Della- shh, Della what’s wrong?” Michael asked, pulling Delaware into his lap. Normally her bed is made, pristine sheets folded at the corners and an extra blanket sat at the end of her bed with a fleece interior. Liz had made it. Now, underneath him, the sheets were messy and unruly, not even tucked between the bed and the wall, as if somebody had a fit and tried to rip the seams apart. “Delaware, you have to tell me what’s wrong.”

She sobbed, let the tears roll down her cheeks and land on Michael’s black shirt. Michael didn’t care that he could feel tears pressing into his skin, or Delaware’s messy braids rubbing the underneath of his chin, or a few hiccups that erupted from her throat. Delaware tried to stay strong, to suppress the tears before they released and whisper that everything was okay. She just couldn’t. “They’re sending me back.”

“What?” Michael asked abruptly. He let go of her side to wipe his face before he started crying. There’s no way he heard that correctly- absolutely no way that she’s going back into the foster care system, away from the Hemmings family, away from him! That’s not allowed. He won’t stand for it and will go out with a fight. “Delaware?”

“I got a letter in the mail today,” Delaware hiccuped before digging her face into Michael’s chest. It hurt, so he pulled her away so she could see him. Maybe he’d be able to read her face to know that it’s a lie. Haha, he’d answer before shaking his head jokingly, of course, they are. But he couldn’t. Delaware wasn’t lying, and she certainly wasn’t going to pull a prank like this. “It says my permanent residency will be enforced the day after Christmas, and I’ll have to live with my legal guardians. Which means, I’m going back home. To my biological parents. Where I’ll die!”

Michael laid back so Delaware would have something softer to lay on besides him. But she still laid on top of his chest, wrapping her legs in his. He remembers when he made friends with different foster kids the Hemmings had. Styles- the boy with curly hair that taught Michael how to kiss a girl. Or every time Ashton’s been sent back to his mom, only to end up with Liz and Andrew once again. There’ve been more kids that broke Michael’s heart, when their parents’ decided to shape up and want them, or the ones that were too much of a hassle for their school and ended up expelled, meaning that Liz and Andrew wouldn’t be able to send them anywhere else.

Michael reached for the blanket and pulled it over both of them. Delaware began to calm down a little bit. “It’s going to be okay. Things like this can change and-”

“They don’t change, Michael! Once you’re sent back, you’re sent back until they fuck up again. My mom values being able to say she straightened up and got me too much to fuck up before I get there!” Delaware spat. Michael ran his hands through the ends of her hair and grabbed the thick hair ties to release all of her hair. She didn’t argue when he pulled the rubber bands out and combed his fingers through her soft locks. “I don’t want to go back.”

“I don’t want you to go back either, Delaware,”

Delaware was so upset, she didn’t correct him about calling her Della. She just wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear for good. “I finally got a family, and now … they’re just sending me back.”

“Hey, Della,” Michael said, trying to make her a bit perkier. “How about we just … have the time of our lives before you go? Like do a bunch of fun stuff or something or just … try to make it okay before you go?”

Delaware shrugged.

“What about right now we just go to sleep?”

Delaware nodded.

“Want me to play some music or the TV? I can go get a blanket and lay down on the floor and-”

“-No,” Delaware cut off. “Lay right here and sleep. Please, Mikey?”

Michael rubbed his hand along her back. She shivered a little bit. “Of course.”

Delaware closed her eyes and began to drift into unconsciousness, right on top of Michael. He ran his hand through her hair, let his other one lay right underneath her dark grey shirt, and just stared at the ceiling for a little while, pondering life. His heart was breaking, shattering into small pieces that nicked his insides. Everything just hurt and he cried silently, as to not disturb the girl sleeping on him. Her hand moved up his side, and he caught a glimpse of her left arm covered in sharpie tattoos.

While she slept, she was beautiful. Not just a beautiful teenage girl but the goddess she deserves to be, and the pain on her face seemed to disappear when she settled further into sleep. Michael’s heart healed itself, broke again, and kept on the routine until he finally fell asleep. His eyes closed, lingering on the thought of being in love with Delaware.

Something he’s never thought of before.

“You okay?” Ben asked Delaware. She nodded her head and stared at the drawing she’s creating on Jack’s bareback. “Are you sure? You seem really off.”

“I’m fine,” She dismissed and pressed the cool tip of her favorite black sharpie into his skin to further her design. She was running off envisionment before copying it onto his skin. So far, she’d created a snake uncoiling with a blank belly, but the back of daisies and sunflowers. Around the mouth of the snake, she outlined a sun that connected to its closed jaws. She didn’t know what she’d do with the rest of the sun, but she was going with whatever she felt.

Jack didn’t mind- it was like a miniature back massage as he played COD. “He’s right, sis,” Jack whispered before killing Luke’s character. They heard a scream resonating in Luke’s bedroom. “You’re off lately. Are you doing okay?”

“I’m fine,” Delaware outlined the snake and sun with a light hand and began to make mandala designs outside of the lopsided oval. “Just a little stressed.” Half circled went along the oval as small flower pedals. Should she put even smaller half-circles inside of them or stack them on top of one another to make fish scales? She decided on the fish scales route.

“How’s your boyfriend?” Luke respawned, and Jack killed him immediately.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,”

“What do you call sleeping next to Michael Clifford then?”

“Nothing. I’ve slept next to Calum before, and Luke, and Ashton, and you guys.”

“No, Della, you like him,” Ben answered for Jack. “We aren’t stupid. How do you think Luke and Ashtone ever got girlfriends? Certainly not with their good looks!”

“You and Luke look exactly alike,”

“Shut up your opinion is irrelevant,” Ben rolled his eyes. “All I’m saying is, ask him out.”

“I don’t have a crush on him,” She switched from scales to large spirals that took up a lot of space and had a thick tail. Around the first spiral she made, she created daisy petals all around the object, then a circle to cut the pedals off from everything else. That was the design she liked. “He’s just a friend.”

“Bullshit.”

Delaware elected not to inform anyone besides Liz and Andrew about the letter she had gotten. They said they were going to try and put an appeal in for Delaware to stay with them, and to prove that her biological parents aren’t fit to take care of her. Liz held Delaware the morning after she got the letter and promised they’d get it sorted out. But they both knew that it was almost impossible. Liz told her to wait until Christmas to pack up, just to make sure she had room for every she’d gotten for the joyous holiday. Delaware persisted that she didn’t want anything; she didn’t want anybody to spend money on her, to buy gifts, or include her on their normal holiday traditions. Liz told her that her argument was stupid, and she’d always be family.

“Ask him out, Della, or I will,”

“Didn’t know you swung that way, Jack,”

“Oh shut up, you know what I meant!”

Delaware laughed. It was a relaxed Saturday morning for them. Though, in her head, she kept remembering that she had only three weeks before being sent back to a home she never wanted.

After that morning, Jack stopped allowing Delaware to draw on his back. She could draw anywhere else, just not on his back. Luke woke up one morning to Delaware running on coffee and snacks, trying to finish the sleeve she’d been creating for Jack. It ranged from the sleeve of his tank top, down to his fingers, and included several flowers, a lions mane, the outline of bones in his hand, a sword he’d found a picture of online, a blackbird, five pairs of small feet walking towards his hand, five skull rocker hands, a copy of his favorite cartoon character, and the planets swirling down his forearm.

“If you take a shower within the next twenty-four hours, I’ll kill you,” Delaware told Jack before passing out in her bed, next to Michael, who had been asleep for several hours already. Seemingly, after they had less than three weeks, Michael stayed over just about every night to comfort Delaware. She couldn’t sleep without him anymore. Her best friend jumped from Calum to Michael.

Michael threw a pair of black Converse at Delaware. “Get up you’re learning how to skateboard.” Delaware didn’t react. “Delaware May-Nova!”

“Fuck you!” Delaware screamed and pulled the blankets above her head. “It’s like two AM.”

“You didn’t even go to sleep until two AM,” Michael snapped back and tossed a pen in her direction. They stayed up late, FaceTiming since Michael was on a family vacation for a weekend. Delaware knew he’d be home early in the morning, but she didn’t think she’d be attacked by high tops. “It’s seven. Wake up!”

“No!”

“I’ll make you coffee!”

“I hate coffee!”

“I’ll get you cotton candy ice cream out of the freezer!”

“Will you put gummy bears on top?”

“Of course,”

“Okay,” Delaware threw the blanket off her body, thinking that Michael was out of the room. He was hit with a sight of a girl in her underwear and his hoodie and swooned over the view. “Get out.” Delaware hopped to her closet to pick out an outfit. Liz took her shopping several times, allowing her to choose all the clothes she wanted, regardless of the price. If they fit and be used a lot, she could get them.

“But my hoodie,” Michael protested, not wanting to let go of the vision of Delaware engulfed in fabric reeking of his cologne. Delaware pulled it off in a swift motion and threw it at Michael’s face. He didn’t get to see what was underneath before forcing himself out of the room. “Hurry up!”

“Get my ice cream,” Delaware replied before pulling tight black skinny jeans onto her legs and up her thighs. With Delaware and Mali-Koa’s weight gaining competition, she was starting to learn that she couldn’t fit into kids’ jeans anymore. Not that she actually cared; it would be easier to buy adult skinny jeans with rips in the knees and the lack of jewels on her butt. That’s if she ever gets to go shopping again- her biological mother isn’t a good provider and forced Delaware to wear clothes from her childhood, starving the growing girl to make sure they’d fit.

“Ice cream isn’t a good breakfast!”

“Then we aren’t skateboarding,” Delaware searched for a warm shirt, or even a large hoodie that would look good on her while she skated to her death, but nothing went. She walked to her door, opened it up and gave Michael a full view of her black sports bra. “There’s nothing to see. Give me your hoodie.”

“No!” Michael hugged his hoodie close to his body. “Mine. Get your own.”

“Fine. Luke!” Delaware screamed. Luke and Ashton had been getting ready too, after being pelted with Vans and Converse until they sat up, with direct instructions to teach their little sister how to stand on a skateboard. They tried to teach her once when she first arrived, but she ran straight into a curb and ripped a perfectly good pair of jeans. “Bring me a hoodie!”

“Get your own, Della!” Luke yelled back.

“See,” said Delaware. “Now you have to give me your hoodie or I’m going to go around shirtless and catch a cold and-” Michael cut her off by shoving his hoodie into her small belly. She smiled and slipped it back on. Michael was blinded by the sight, admiring Delaware when she sprayed perfume all over herself. “Stop staring. It’s creepy.”

“You’re creepy,” replied Michael. “Pull your hair back or something.”

Delaware raked a brush through her curly hair. “Just because you said that I won’t,” They met Luke and Ashton in the hallway and skipped down the stairs together. “Michael? My ice cream?” Michael groaned and cut into the kitchen to rip open the freezer. He pulled the carton out while the other two boys made themselves something logical for a good day of skateboarding. Michael scooped some ice cream into a bowl, added a few gummy bears on top, and presented the decorated bowl to Delaware that kissed his cheek.

“See, told ya’ Della,” someone said. Delaware jumped around to Jack, shirtless, and standing next to Luke. His back was to her, and she could suddenly see why he could no longer be her canvas; he’s gotten the snake she drew tattooed on his spine, coiling up more professionally than she drew, with the same blank belly and flower-clad back. Above the snake were five symbols; a football, a beaker, a drumset, a guitar, and a daisy. Delaware poked Jack’s spine, right where the snake was tattooed. “Fuck! You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“So. Got something to tell me, Jack Hemmings?”

Jack scrunched his face up. “Oh shut up, it’s a cool design.” Jack poked Delaware’s nose with the tip of his pinky. “Eat your ice cream and make out with Micahel Clifford before I punt you.”

Delaware enjoyed her breakfast from the countertop and argued with her brothers over who’s turn it was to fold laundry. Everybody including Michael claimed it’s Luke’s turn, but Luke protested that it’s obviously Delaware’s turn because she’s wearing Michael’s hoodie. Michael threw a frozen waffle at Luke and informed him that he needs to get clothes folded because Michael will start running out of clothes if he doesn’t.

“Then stop giving her clothes, dude,” Luke answered and shoveled a heaping spoonful of cheerios into his mouth. Michael laughed, told him that when a girl steals your clothes then you don’t ask for them back. “Then quit being in love with Della. It’s easy, dude.”

“I’m not in love with Delaware,”

“Well, she’s in love with you,”

“I am not in love with Michael!” Delaware squealed. She finished off the last of her sugary breakfast and hopped down from the counter to rinse her bowl.

“The fact he can call you Delaware, the fact that he bribed you with ice cream, dude,”

“You’re stupid,” informed Delaware. “And anybody can bribe me with cotton candy ice cream, gummy bears, and red popsicles. Now, let’s skate!”

“Yeah, no,” Ashton said. “Let me eat in peace, then I’ll deal with your high energy. Did you drink like seven five-hour energy?”

“No, eight, actually,” Delaware clapped her hands. “I just have naturally high energy.”

“Yeah,” Liz said before stepping into the crowded kitchen. “And if you don’t take your meds, then you’ll be bouncing off the walls. Delaware May-Nova, take your medicine, now!”

“Your middle name is May-Nova?” Luke asked before taking another bite. Delaware turned around to the medicine cabinet to grab down the two orange pill bottles with her name on the front and grabbed the capsules she’s required to ingest. She held both pills in hand and filled a cup of water. Delaware downed the whole cup. “That’s weirder than Delaware.”

“Your middle name is Robert,” said Michael.

“Yeah, and yours is Gordon,”

“Touche,”

“I happen to think Gordon and May-Nova are nice names, Luke,” said Liz. Michael looked up at his mom with wide eyes, scared that she’ll have some snarky remarks for him. “Now if they’d just start dating, I won’t have to hear about ‘oh my gosh you’ll never believe this!’ from Michael all the freaking time.”

“Exposed,” Ashton drags out.

“Ashton, take your medicine too or I’ll kick you,”

Ashton sighs and replicated Delaware’s movements. “I swear, Delaware and I are so threatened around this place. It’s like we’re never free.”

“You’re freer than I am!” Luke whines.

Liz rolls her eyes. “That’s because you got caught sneaking out, so I locked your window. Della, Ashton, if I find out you guys are doing that, I’ll do the same thing to you.”

“Don’t worry, mother,” Delaware said. “Not the party type. Never will be.”

Michael taught her how to skate, how to play the guitar, how to dribble a basketball and lose to him. Michael taught Delaware as many things as he thought he could in the two-week period until her departure back to hell and away from the people that loved her. He just didn’t teach her how to live without him.

Delaware became dependent upon the blond, needing to talk to him somehow before she went to sleep, sneaking out to go on 3 AM dinner dashes to McDonald’s or somewhere cheap, stealing his clothes just have a nice scent before she falls asleep. Delaware was in love with Michael- hardcore in love with him to the point she didn’t realize it.

The fateful day was coming closer, but on Christmas Eve, Michael planned an entire night out for Delaware and him, getting special approval from Liz and Andrew to keep Delaware out later than her curfew for the night of her life. Liz agreed, as long as he’d keep her safe, have her home before dawn, and would call her while bringing Delaware home. Liz was afraid that something would happen to Delaware; that she’d get hurt, or she’d be kidnapped, killed, tortured, but Liz knew that Delaware had been stressing for a long time and needed a night out. After dinner, Delaware and Michael played video games until everyone was on the verge of sleep, then Michael drug Delaware out of the house to skate to the nearby park.

“Is this seriously it, Clifford?” Delaware asked, hoping off her board before hitting the curb. Black converse hit the ground, shattered the paint on the bottom of the shoe, but still braced her feet. “A park? How lame.”

“Would you shut up?” Michael asked, grabbed Delaware’s free hand to jog behind him. They ran to a dark spot in the park, and Michael left her alone for a few seconds. She was scared but thought being killed would be better than going back to her biological parents. Honestly, going home is the worst Christmas present the foster care system could have given her. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” Delaware groaned. Christmas Eve is cold, with a large chill in the air and a long burst of wind. But Michael plugged something in, and white Christmas light illuminated the spot around them. He’d set up a blanket, with ice cream and gummy bears inside a picnic basket, and some stray paints Delaware knew disappeared, and a large canvas. “What’s this?”

“Thought we could have fun tonight,” Michael shrugged, stuffing his hands inside his pockets. “We can go home if you w-”

“-No,” Delaware dismissed and settled herself on the blanket. It's the one she’s never seen before; one that smells of Michael, with red flannel patterns, and IDIOT printed on the back like a marker drew it. “Let’s paint.” She picked one of the three bottles of paint from the ground and shook it a little bit. Even with the lights, she could just barely tell it’s an iridescent blue. “Did you grab any paint brushes from my bedroom?”

Michael looked down. “Shit.”

Delaware laughed. “It’s fine. We have fingers for a reason,”

“I could make a dirty joke out of that, you know? I could be the wisest-”

“-You’re never the wisest so don’t even finish that.” Delaware squirted some paint onto her pointer finger and dabbed it on Michael’s nose. His eyes crossed to look at the blue dot staining his skin. “Look, Michael the Blue Nosed Idiot.”

“I am not Michael the Blue Nosed Idiot, you’re Delaware-” Michael picked the pink bottle from the ground and popped off the cap. “The Pink Nosed Beauty.”

“That took a turn,” Delaware turned her attention from the dot of pink on her nose to the canvas in front of her. It’s one that’s large and probably cost a pretty penny. She squirted a bunch of paint out onto it in a swirling motion and started to spread it out with her finger as a tye-dye. “So. Do you like bread?”

“Yeah,” Michael replied, joining in on Delaware’s technique. He added a swirl of pink inside of the large blue one, and began spreading it with his fingers. It’s a messed up tye-dye of course, but whoever ended up with the canvas would remember the cracks of Michael the Blue Nosed Idiot. “Do you live too far from here?”

Delaware’s throat began constricting. “Yeah, actually,” She choked out and coughed to cover a suppressed sob. “It’s a few hour drive. It took us two days to get here.”

“Did you stay in a hotel?”

“Uh … yeah.” She didn’t want to answer, she just wanted to paint and cry and scream about how much she loved living in this place. “It was a cheap one. I had to sleep on the floor because there was only one bed. There was a pool, but it closed before we arrived.”

“Did you have a good breakfast there?”

“I didn’t eat breakfast. We were in a rush to get here,” Delaware sniffed, trying to forget how she’ll have to go through all of that again. She wants to stay with Liz! She wants the mother she never got that dried her tears countless times from trauma that flashed through dreams, hiding everything from the other teenagers, and reminded Delaware to take her medicine every morning, bought her appropriate clothes for different seasons, and allowed her to cheer. Liz supported Delaware at every basketball game she’d had so far, taking photos of her like Delaware requested, and tried to understand cheerleading terminology just so they could talk. Liz was the perfect mother, and Delaware wanted to do everything to not leave. Delaware laughed to hide her crying. “The foster care woman told me that I would be here until I graduated. I wouldn’t leave again unless they wanted me out, and not once had Mom and Dad voluntarily kicked a kid out.”

“It’ll be okay,” Michael whispered in a low voice. “We’ll all keep in touch. Calum, me, and your brothers will all come visit. A lot. I’ll move out where you live and we’ll go to school together. My parents’ don’t really miss me much, and I just turned seventeen so I mean-”

“-God, you’re such a weirdo.” Delaware wiped her nose and sniffed again. “Never, and I mean never live where I’m going. It’s a poor neighborhood, and my parents barely work. It’s full of low-lives that have no jobs and scrape by on food stamps. I want better for you, no matter what!”

“Then you have to come back after high school,” Michael told her. “You have to get into college here- or I’ll have you live with me next year! You can come to my birthday party and just not go home. You’ll be sixteen by then, so you don’t have to go home.”

“You’re an idiot, Gordon,”

“And you’re beautiful, Delaware May-Nova.”

“Why do you call me Delaware all the time? Why not like … Della? Everybody else calls me Della, but you always call me Delaware, even after I hit you.”

“I did it to annoy you because you were so cute when you got worked up over your name,” Michael confessed, adding more paint onto the canvas. This time, purple. Delaware took a scoop of purple onto her finger and slide it across Michael’s forehead. “Gross!” Michael laughed. “After a while, I just … I love Delaware so much more than Della. Like- you’re a Delaware, not a Della. As Luke is a Luke and not a Lucas. You understand?”

“Kind of like you’re a Michael Gordon?”

“Like that.”

“But even you said that Delaware is just so peculiar, and not at all normal.” Delaware laughed a little bit. “Who names their kids Delaware and Adelaide? That’s so fucking stupid.”

“It’s not.”

“Yes, it is,” Delaware looked to the sky. The clouds were gathering, but still, she could see the constellations. This would be the last time she’d see them in this park- she expects to be packing everything up tomorrow, and not going outside besides whatever they do as a family. “I was born in Delaware, and my sister was born in Adelaide. I guess my mom needed a reminder of where we were from or something.” Delaware rolls her eyes and shakes her head back to the canvas. “I wish I had a logical name, like Michael or Luke or … anything that’s not Delaware.”

“Like Jayde?”

“Yeah,” Delaware shivered. “That’s what I told mom I wanted to change my name to. Just something simple to blend in with my brothers. Not be a complete maniac and be named Delaware,” Delaware looked around to park. “Can we go elsewhere? It’s really cold.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think that through,” Michael closed the cap of the paint he was using and stood up. “I’ll make Calum clean all of this up. Want to get something to eat?”

“We just ate dinner, Micahel,” Michael hoists Delaware up by her right arm, pulling her into the air before she crashes to her feet. “The competition between Mali-Koa and I is over. I’m not eating that much again.” Delaware won, by the way.

They watched a movie in the cinema downtown, walking there and back to the park. Then, Michael stripped himself of his jacket for Delaware and appreciated how she looked. A goddess; she’s always the goddess in his world and the only one that could win his heart. Three-day-long Harry Potter marathons, Pokemon competitions, and favorable anime aside, Delaware Williams was Michael’s first love, and he’d only admitted it recently.

Michael took pictures with Delaware, afraid he’d forget what she looked like after she left. They smiled, snapped goofy photos with odd faces, then he pointed the camera at her. They weren’t on a blanket anymore, but when he stood above her for a photo of a sprawled-out Delaware in the grass, he got the perfect moment. She put on makeup for him- curled her hair, wore brand new skinny jeans, and a shirt she knew he liked. She even thought to doll herself up with a matching bra and underwear set, though, he wouldn’t see it.

“Delaware,” Michael breathed before tripping over a rock and landing right on top of her. They were close- so close they were breathing the same air at different times and staring. Green eyes hit a reflection of a different hue, waiting for something to happen. Nothing happened. “Dela-” Delaware pulled Michael close and pressed her lips to his. It was tongues and teeth, cherry lip balm mixed with cold air and goosebumps, relishing in the dewy grass and warm jackets. Michael held himself above her, but Delaware grabbed his collar and pulled the older boy even closer, just wanting to feel the warmth and comfort of a human being.

“You kiss like a bitch,” Delaware giggled, releasing her grip on his shirt but just lingering a little bit, with his lips touching hers.

“You surprised me,”

“Noob,”

Christmas morning; Delaware was not ready for it. Ben, Jack, Ashton, and Luke woke her up in matching pajamas, disturbing her two-hour-long nap. Delaware and Michael walked all over the town, kissing, hugging, and sitting to watch the stars collide and connect. She almost screamed at her brothers, sleep-deprived and wishing to wait a little bit longer before facing the day, but she sat up, took the pajama set they gave to her, and closed the door to change.

Ashton and Jack had stayed up until Delaware was brought home with blood-red lips and eyes full of twinkles. Ashton stayed up with Delaware and talked about the night with her, and stayed in the room until she passed out. Delaware couldn’t complain about having such little sleep, especially since Ashton got much less. She felt bad, but wanted just a few more days with this family. Just a few!

“Morning,” Liz said, wearing the same pajamas everyone was wearing. Including Calum and Michael. Black flannel pants with a short-sleeved grey shirt. Delaware observed everybody; everyone except Liz and Andrew had a symbol on their left breast. Jack had a football, Ben had a beaker, Ashton had a drumset, Luke had a guitar, and Delaware had a daisy- just like Jack’s tattoo. Delaware stepped out of the room, towards the downstairs bathroom for a small mental breakdown. It’s tearing her apart- she can’t leave this place.

“Babe,” Michael whispered, pulling his new girlfriend into his arms. They’ll find ways to contact, to visit each other, and more importantly, to stay happy together. “It’s going to be okay. You’re not leaving forever, just a few years. That’s all okay?” Delaware cried harder in his arms. “Hey, shh,” Michael cooed. “You have Christmas presents to open.”

Michael’s family didn’t do much for Christmas, and Calum’s family does their Christmas celebration the night before, rather than that morning. Liz always invites them over and hands them a small stocking full of candy and a single ornament each. They’re her kids too.

“Yeah,” Delaware answered and nodded her head. Michael dried her tears and the tear stains next to the guitar symbol on his shirt. It’ll be okay- they all understand how emotional Delaware is going to be for a little while. “Let’s … let’s go open things.”

Liz gave every single person in her living room a stocking with their names stitched on the top. They got equal amounts of treats, an ornament, and a surprise iTunes gift card. Delaware smiled, thanked her, and kept it close to her body.

They began to dig into the presents scattered underneath the Christmas tree. Delaware opened her first present and looked over the package of canvases like they were her babies. Four of them- four pristine canvases wrapped in plastic wrap and sealed underneath a piece of cardboard to keep them all together. She opened another one; the same, but the canvases were black instead of white. A box of paints, new jeans, hoodies from her favorite bands, and expensive paint brushes she’d been wishing for her entire life. Slowly, she began breaking down. She can’t keep all of these things! It’s rude to steal from these people, to take their money from them that they earned with hard work. She swallowed and set everything into a pile. Her brothers were still digging into presents, and Michael was sat behind her, with her in between his legs and her back pressed into his chest. She leaned back further, as to grab comfort from him. If her biological mom were to find any of these things, she’ll pawn them for money, take them and give them up without guilt, or destroy the things she won’t get money for. Delaware isn’t allowed to have nice things.

Nice things are for good children. Delaware is not a good child.

“Della, are you okay?” Liz whispered, inching closer to Delaware to make sure she wasn’t dying. Delaware shook her head and looked at the mom she’d always wanted with tears rolling down her cheeks. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I can’t keep all of these things,” Delaware shook her head. “I just can’t. You guys- you guys are my family but I just … I can’t keep these things. It’s not right. And Jack, you got a tattoo, including me, and I feel so sorry because I’m not going to be around-”

“Hey, you’re always our family, Della. Okay? Did you get that? You are my little sister? Don’t be ridiculous.” Jack answered, pushing aside a new laptop he’d gotten. He wrapped his arms around his little sister and held her for a few moments. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Della, you still have a few more gifts. And don’t worry about a single thing. These are all yours,” Liz said and took a box from the back of the tree. She sat it in Delaware’s lap and waited for her to tear the green wrapping paper with Delaware written across the top. Delaware ripped it a little bit, caught a glimpse of golden fabric, and tore the paper even more.

A letterman’s jacket, specially made for Delaware, with Hemmings written across the back and her letter for cheerleading pinned on the breast. Delaware held it close, cried right above the fabric -so she wouldn’t ruin it- and told Liz thank you a thousand times. She slipped it over her pajamas; it fits just right. Not too big, not too small. Just enough room for her, some thick clothes, and her phone. That broke her heart even more.

Everyone finished opening their gifts, and packed the wrapping paper up in the recycling bin. For breakfast, they had pancakes with bacon and eggs, orange juice, and Liz made sure that Delaware took her medicine. When she goes to her mom, she knows that she’ll go without medicine, as her mom doesn’t believe in taking Delaware to the doctor, especially for medicine that helps her function. Delaware took her plate and cup into the sink, rinse off the both of them, and stared right at the Christmas tree. It’s in the boys’ living room, so she can see it perfectly.

Tucked underneath all of the branches was a green box, one that hadn’t been there when they were cleaning up wrapping paper. It’s thin, maybe half an inch thick at most, but had a lot of surface area. Delaware pointed to it.

“There’s another gift,” She whispered, but everyone heard her.

“Who’s it for?” Jack asked. He looked over at it. “Go grab it, Della.”

Della walked to the box, picked it up and carried it back to the counter. It was perfectly wrapped, without a single crease in the tape. “It says Jayde. Who’s Jayde?”

Liz pointed to Delaware. “That’s what you wanted your name to be, right? Jayde May-Nova?”

Delaware nodded her head.

“Then it’s for you.”

Delaware looked down, and began to tear away at the paper, but it was wrapped a lot. Her entire body was shaking, even though she’d taken her anxiety medicine to calm her nerves. She shoved all of the paper off; every last bit. She was left with a picture frame. For a moment, she hesitated turning it over, afraid to be cut by the large frame. Shakily, she flipped it, but she couldn’t read it through all of her tears. She wiped her eyes and stared at the frame in front of her. The writing was fancy, but it was obvious what it had said.

Certificate of Adopting for Jayde May-Nova Hemmings finalized for 12/26

Delaware pressed her hand to her mouth, suppressing a sob, ready to scream out until her voice was empty and cracked. She fell to the floor, practically fainting from seeing the document. Michael picked her up. A camera was recording her reaction, seeing that this was something very important to her.

She looked at her brothers. Luke, Ashton, Ben, and Jack were smiling, with tears in their eyes.

“You didn’t think we would actually let you go back to your moms, did you?” Jack asked before standing up to engulf his little sister in a hug. “We’ll never let go, Jayde.” Delaware looked around, at her family- the real family that chose her, changed her name, and legally adopted her. Her biological mom, somebody that doesn’t deserve life. But Liz Hemmings- God, she’s an angel.

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the-blind-assassin-12 · 5 years

Text

Passing Through

Part Four: Snowed In

A/N: I really missed Ryan. It’s good to be back to this story. This picks up immediately where we left off in part three- you and Ryan are about to be snowed in for...a while...better get comfortable.

Word Count: 4,472

“You could let me do that,” he offered, stooping next to you and sitting on the red brick ledge of the hearth. He pulled his snowy boots off and set them next to yours, beside the stack of wood he’d brought in from the porch.

You had been trying to get the fire going, but so far had only been successful in creating a large pile of ashes under the grate from all the newspaper you’d lit as kindling. Kevin had always taken care of getting the fire started, and you realized that you really had no idea what you were doing; that you’d never lit a fire in your own damn fireplace, and that you only wanted to now because Ryan was there and he’d need the extra warmth in your drafty living room. When you were home alone, you never bothered with the flue or the firebox, never touched the woodpile that had become a permanent fixture- and likely home to countless spiders- on your patio. You simply layered up your socks and spent most of your time in your bedroom either crashing into the mattress after a long day, or occasionally wrapped in an afghan and seated at your keyboard well into the midnight hours.

Suddenly that thought bothered you- that you couldn’t do something for yourself. You watched as the bright orange flame hungrily burned through yet another wad of paper, a disappointed scowl on your face. With a sigh and a shrug you turned to Ryan. “I guess that’s for the best if we ever want an actual fire.” You handed him the box of long-handled wooden matches, sitting back on your heels in defeat.

Ryan set the matches aside, reaching for the dwindling stack of newspaper to your left, leaning over you with a smile. “Lemme show you a trick I learned for startin’ fires,” he winked and you half expected the spark in his eye to jump into the hearth and ignite. “Makes it real easy, watch.”

Eyes glued to his fingers, you watched him tear the newspaper into thin strips, folding and ripping it until his hands were full of black and white fringes. Setting the pile of paper shreds aside, he pulled a small wood handled pocket knife from his jeans and flicked it open, the silver blade catching the light from your empty dining room. He tested the blade against his thumb, tapping the sharp edge against his cracked and calloused skin. Deeming it up to snuff, he picked through the wood pile until he found a small piece of pine, dry bits of bark falling between his fingers and onto the bricks. Concentrating on the soft wood, Ryan took the knife and used it to carve peels from the branch, repeating the motion until he had a cluster of curled ribbons next to the newspaper strips. “Learned this from a…” he paused, flicking the knife closed again, eyes narrowing slightly as his lips twitched. He cleared his throat and looked over at you. Is that… you thought you saw a twinge of sadness in his warm brown eyes, but before you could be sure he blinked and it was gone. “From a good friend’a mine, out on the rails.”

Out on the rails. You’d guessed that Ryan was a freight hopper and he’d just confirmed it. You’d known a few back in your busking days, when you and Kevin hitched rides and splurged on bus fare when you were in between cities. You’d even hopped a train once yourself, and even though it was a solid five years ago, you could still feel the rush that widened your eyes and swept through your blood when you gripped the steel rungs of the ladder to climb up into the car that had just started to rumble over the tracks. You could remember pushing off through your toes, your boots leaving the rocky ground to reach for Kevin’s hand as the wheels that could crush you picked up speed just inches below you. It was the most dangerous thing you’d ever done, but it was also the most free you’d ever felt, the wind whipping at your face and your fingers as you went wherever the rails took you, the landscape stretching out for miles in all directions.

You looked over at Ryan, picturing him choosing a car in the train yard before he and his long limbs ambled up inside of it, could easily see him leaning against the corrugated steel walls with a lit cigarette between his lips and an open notebook on his thigh, jotting down lyrics and thoughts. The image made you smile. Most people would see someone like Ryan and not be able to look past the illegality of his actions, the danger he put himself in, the instability of his life. But you knew better having tasted that life for yourself. He’s a free bird, a hawk spreading his wings to ride a breeze. He was wrapping the shredded newsprint around the pine curls, fingers nimbly assembling a fire starter as he’d clearly done thousands of times before.

“So you just,” he held up the bundle for you to see the way he’d interwoven the paper with the ribbons of wood. “And if stuff’s wet, you could tie some twine around it, light that like a wick. But everythin’ here looks dry enough to me so,” he reached into the fireplace to nestle the fire starter under the grate, a few pieces of crumpled paper and some bark chips surrounding it. “Let’s give this a shot,” he wiped his hands on his pants and sat back, grabbing for the box of matches and pulling one out. You watched the head strike the phosphorus strip, igniting with an audible sizzle and spark. Carefully lighting both ends of the little pine and paper package, Ryan dropped the spent match in with the pile that you’d used before leaning further in to blow gently at the small flame that danced beneath the grate, feeding it oxygen and helping it grow. Lips pursed, he continued to supply the fire with air until he saw a splinter of wood from one of the larger logs catch. Satisfied that his work was done, he leaned back and looked over at you. “There we go,” his smile flashed in his eyes.

“Thanks, Ryan, that’s a really good trick.” You grinned back at him, all the feelings of inadequacy for being unable to start your own damn fire banished by the warmth from his smile and the growing flames. "And now I finally know how to use my fireplace." You laughed and shook your head.

He chuckled. “S’my pleasure, least I can do. It is a good trick, works every time.” He scooted back and off of the red bricked hearth and rose to his feet. “I’m just gonna…” he pointed in the direction of the bathroom and you nodded.

“Yeah, of course, I’m gonna,” you stood as well and gathered the two empty glasses that were still sitting by the window. “You want another?” you asked, indicating the glassware.

He smiled with just the corner of his mouth. “Sure, thanks.” He retreated down the hall and once you heard the click of the bathroom door, you let out a breath, looking around the room. When you left to go downtown that morning, the sun was throwing harsh white light against your plain white walls and empty white carpet. Now the amber glow of the fireplace illuminated Ryan’s bag and guitar case, his boots and coat. What a difference a day makes…feels more like home than it has in…stop it. You pushed those thoughts from your mind, reminding yourself that this was only temporary. He’ll be back on the rails, soon.

But you knew you’d never be able to forget the kindred soul you’d been fortunate enough to find. Wouldn’t want to even if I could. You refilled both yours and Ryan’s glasses from the growler in your fridge and set them down on the counter before opening the door to the small laundry room off the kitchen that doubled as storage, finding the air mattress and extra pillows that you’d bought for all the people you thought might visit you out in Colorado when you first moved out here. It was still in its original packaging. Least I know it doesn’t have any leaks. Ryan seemed as good a guest as any to break in the mattress. Pulling it down off of the shelf above the dryer, you took it from the box and brought it out into the living room just as Ryan came back out from the hallway.

“Hey grab those glasses, would you?” You called over your shoulder to him as you unfolded the navy blue full sized mattress, plugging it in to let it fill.

Ryan brought both glasses back over to the living room, moving to the wall so that he was out of your way. “You don’t have to do all’a that,” he said, motioning to the mattress.

“Yeah I do. Let that fill up, I’m gonna grab some blankets. Sorry it’s drafty in here,” you shrugged towards the large window that took up most of the front wall. “Old windows.”

He shook his head as you walked passed him, heading back to the storage shelves to grab the red and green plaid blanket. “S’more than I need.”

“Well, it’s what I have, and you’re welcome to it.” You came back out with the blanket and two pillows, tossing them towards where Ryan was sitting before checking the air in the mattress and turning off the filling pump. You took a seat next to him, wrapping your fingers around the glass he offered you. “Look, Ryan…” you turned to face him, struck again by his soft, warm leather eyes and the quiet calm that pooled there. “I…earlier, when I said that about needing a place to sleep and renewing my lease and all that-“

“Hey, I told you,” he tilted his head. “Just forget about it, I know you didn’ mean anything-“

“No. I didn’t mean anything by it, but it still bothers me that I said it and I want to tell you why, okay?”

Narrowing his eyes at you, he weighed your words. “Okay…”

You took a long pull from your glass and set your beer down before scooting over to the fire to give it a poke, arranging the now steadily burning logs into a better configuration. Sitting back against the wall next to him, you picked your glass back up and tapped your fingers against the rim before speaking. “It bothered me, Ryan, because that’s not who I am. Saying things like that? That’s not me. Never was. I used to travel, like you. No real permanent address. Guy I was dating, Kevin, he and I would pick a bus or hitch hike as far as we could, find a place that would rent to us for a month or two at a time. Even hopped a train, once.” You looked up to see his eyebrows rise at that last detail. “My point is, I get it, what you’re doing, what you’re choosing. I miss it… and…” you sighed.

“What made you stop then?” He asked.

It’s a simple question. Should have a simple answer, but… Another sigh. “Kevin wanted to stick somewhere and give it a shot, so… I agreed. And then…” you trailed off.

“Then he decided to go again,” Ryan finished your sentence for you, no pity in his tone, just understanding.

“Yeah. And I got stuck… after my mom… I lost touch with my brother and my dad and…and I just got stuck.” It was the first time you’d said it out loud, but it was true.

“Well, the road ain’t goin’ anywhere, Junebug. Rails ain’t either. You unstick yourself, you can get back out there.” He smiled. “Lot’sa people out there to share your music with.”

“Yeah…yeah…when I unstick myself…” you let out a breath and bit your bottom lip. “Thanks, Ryan.”

“Yeah.” He took a drink, grinning around the rim of his glass, a thin layer of foam clinging to the hair above his lip before his tongue darted out to remove it. “Just got one question for you.”

“Go ahead and shoot,” you said, opening your arms to indicate that there was nothing off the table. You’d already been more open and candid with him than anyone you dealt with on a daily basis.

“Did you have a road name when you were out there hoppin’ freight an’ hitchin’ rides?”

You gave him a quizzical look, laughing with a tilt to your head and a wrinkle in your brow.

“Lotta hoppers take road names,” he explained, lifting one shoulder and tilting his ear towards it. “‘Specially if they’ve been in some kinda trouble or if they’re runnin’ from somethin’. Oz was from Seattle… never knew his real name, and his girl’s name was Robin.” Ryan tapped his fingertips together, bending his knuckles as he spoke, eyes focused on the thin black lines and dark dots that ran up and down his digits as the orange light from the flickering flames illuminated his cheeks. “‘Cause she sang like one, not cause that was her,” he shook his head. “Never knew her name either. Oz wasn’t musical but Robin sure was.” His lips turned up, pulling his beard with them. “Played together a few times, Robin’n Georgie, Cowboy’n me, with another one’a their crew, Louie. Oz, Nikki an’ Kissie-“ he turned to you when he heard the subtle snicker at the name. “Kissie was a hit with the college girls.”

“Naturally,” you wrinkled your brow and nodded, drawing a laugh from Ryan, who shrugged again.

“Worked out for him, worked out for them- he wasn’t lookin’ for anythin’ and they were just lookin’ for somethin’ new. Anyway, the rest of ‘em would come and watch us play, look after our stuff for us, grab us some grub. We’d pool our earnin’s an when we could swing it we’d get a motel room. Stayed together for about three weeks before splittin’ up again. Longest I ever stayed with that many people, it was nice…”

“Sounds like you had a lot of fun together,” you said, taking a sip of your drink, the foam clinging to the rim of your glass. “Like you all made a real impact on one another.”

“Hmm, yeah,” he smiled wistfully, spreading his fingers out and holding up his hand. “Got these when I was out there with them.”

You looked at the tattoos on his fingers that had caught your eye nearly from the moment that you met him. “Yeah?” you asked and he nodded eagerly. You were always intrigued to hear the stories related to the ink that people chose, but everything about Ryan, tattoos included, piqued your interest more than most. “What’s the story there?” Setting your glass down, you pulled your knees to your chest under the blanket, hugging them close to your body for warmth.

“Well, these were my first,” he said, turning his upper body towards you slightly while flexing his fingers. You traced the lines with your eyes, stopping yourself from reaching out to trace them with your fingertips, noting the small black dots and the connected horizontal and vertical lines. “Got ‘em when I was 17, first year on the road. That was my first time out on the West Coast…think that’s why we ended up stayin’ so long, just… just mesmerized by the Pacific an everythin’ out there. The trees’n the sky…it’s different…”

You knew what he meant. It was the same sky no matter where on Earth you were standing, but the view was never the same. The angle, the clouds, the colors. You’d never been further west than where you were currently sitting, but getting out that way had always been a dream. “Where were you all? California?”

He shook his head, a few pieces of hair falling over his ear before he dragged the unruly strands back. “Nah, Coos Bay, Oregon. Little fishin’ town on the coast. Its-” you felt your eyes light up when you heard the town name. “You know Coos Bay?” he asked, just as surprised as you were to hear him say the name.

“Yeah,” you nodded enthusiastically, your own locks tumbling into your face before you mirrored his action and pushed them out of your way. “Never been there, but it’s on my bucket list.” Ryan fixed you with a quizzical look, clearly interested as to why a small town- though one of the largest on Oregon’s coast- that most people haven’t heard of would be somewhere that you wanted to see. “I told you I was a runner?” He nodded, eyebrows wrinkled, still not sure where this was going or where your interest in Coos Bay came from. “Well, Pre- Steve Prefontaine- is my running idol and that’s where he’s from. Always wanted to visit. There’s a bunch of memorials there to him and… I don’t know,” you shrugged. “Always wanted to go and see where he grew up…thank him for the impact he made on my life.”

“Yeah…you know now that you…” he scrunched one side of his face up in concentration. “I think I do remember seein’ a mural or somethin’ downtown with that name…sounds…s’a name you don’t really forget, ain’t it? Prefontaine? S’a mouthful.”

You laughed. “Yeah, sure is. So anyway, I’m sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt you.” You motioned to him to continue with his story.

“Nah, s’alright…but yeah, so we were out in Oregon, buncha young, dumb kids from all over the place… but it felt right bein’ together like a group. Felt like a tribe, ya know? Buncha wanderers. So Nikki, girl from…I think Santa Fe? She had a tattoo gun, wanted to get some practice in one night, so we all decided to let her.” He laughed. “Hindsight says we probably shouldn’ta… not guaranteed things are clean and sterile out on the road like that…we were in a motel that night so I guess it coulda been dirtier, but…like I said, young’n dumb. But we all wanted to get somethin’ similar…somethin’ that would connect us all even when we scattered all over again. Nice as those three weeks were…we all knew we couldn’t stick in one spot forever, ya know?”

Yeah. I know… You did know. You’d felt stuck for the last three and a half years and the urge to go was always there…but so was that voice in the back of your head, the one laced with doubt and reminiscent of Kevin’s condescending tone. You nodded.

“So we all got these lines’n dots… like places on a map’n roads an’ rails between ‘em. Got ‘em in all different places. Georgie got his on his shoulder,” he reached across his chest to tap his left shoulder. “Right where his fiddle sits. Cowboy got his on his hands… wanted mine on my fingers ‘cause that’s what I use to make music… shoulda thought about how I’d have to take a few days offa playin’ to let ‘em heal, but…don’t regret it. Robin’s are behind her ear and Oz went bold about it, got ‘em on his face, right around the corner of his eye.” The hand that he used to indicate the location of Georgie’s ink moved up to his face, pointing out the spot Oz chose.

I could listen to his stories all night. The way Ryan spoke about things that mattered to him was enchanting, like listening to his music. He put his whole soul into it; you could see it in the shine of his eyes and hear it in the tone of his voice. When he touched each spot, his fingers, his shoulder, the side of his face, it was like he could feel the connection to the people he was telling you about. It was like you could feel it too. “So do you still keep in touch with all of them? Do you get to see them when you’re traveling?” You couldn’t help but ask questions that would keep the story going.

Ryan nodded, looking down with a sniff. “Yeah,” the word came out more quietly than he’d been speaking just a moment ago, and your heart faltered at the slight change. Shit. I shouldn’t have... “Yeah, I still see some of ‘em…” Picking his head back up, eyes finding yours, he gave you a sad smile. “Nikki found a place to put down roots. Went to school and graduated. Her’n Kissie got together...think they’re still makin’ it work...but I don’t see mucha them anymore. Still got Georgie’n Louie, and I still meet up with Robin from time to time...she ain’t been the same since she lost Oz though…he uh…” Ryan cleared his throat. “Oz had demons, you know? He struggled. Drugs’n all that… been about six years now I guess. And Cowboy…” He stared into the fire as your heart sank further. You didn’t dare breathe until he spoke again. “Lost him a year ago...year ago today.”

Your chest tightened as though someone had spun the crank on a vice, that breath you’d been holding fleeing from your constricted lungs. “Ryan…” You’d stopped yourself from reaching out to follow the lines on his fingers, but this time, before stopping yourself even crossed your mind, he’d leaned forward and you’d placed your hand on his back.

It’s a special day for me too. That’s what he’d said when you’d shared what the day meant to you. But you never thought that this was what he meant. You never thought that he’d be hurting in the same was that you were, that he’d be feeling the same things, reliving memories and missing a part of him all at the same time that you were missing a part of yourself. You kept your hand on his back, and he didn’t move away. Your thumb swept slowly up and down over the soft fabric of his tee as he started speaking again, the vibrations of his deep voice rumbling through your palm as a log burned through in the fireplace. “S’what I’m doin’ in Denver. The buddy I was supposed to stay with… Cowboy’s brother. Reason he got stuck up in the mountains is ‘cause he was pickin’ up Cowboy’s girl Virginia and their kid over’n Utah. We’re supposed to meet up for a couple’a days an…” he looked up and towards the window, where the snow was still coming down in silent sheets. He looked back towards you and you let your hand fall away as he sat back against the wall. “I’m sure I’ll get to see ‘em in a day or two. Once this all clears out.”

“Ryan, I’m sorry about your friends…” They were too young. Like my mom. So much more life to live.

He looked down through his lashes at the lines on his fingers. “S’alright, Junebug. Got ‘em with me always.” He picked up his right forearm, rolling it so that you could see another small tattoo that you hadn’t noticed yet. The firelight threw a warm glow over his skin as you read the black lettering: (like a you or a me). “Got this a few weeks after he… after the funeral.”

You recognized the line. “That’s from an E.E. Cummings poem, isn’t it?” You knew that it was.

“Yeah,” the sadness was gone from his voice and it was leaving his eyes, too. “His brother read it at the service…said Cowboy read it at his High School graduation… I never knew that, but, it fits. If you’da known Cowboy… it fits him. An’ it… I donno, it makes me feel connected to him still…he’n I were so much alike…”

“He’s still a part of your life, Ryan, he always will be.”

“Yeah. Yeah… jus’ like your mom.”

You nodded. “Yeah.” You sniffed and sat up on your knees, moving towards the fireplace to throw another log on. Since Kevin had left, you’d gone through this day alone. Processing your emotions and memories, replaying conversations you wish you could have had, or ones you wish could have gone differently. It was comforting to have someone else there…someone who understood, someone who’s presence felt right, even if just for the day.

“Hey,” he’d moved behind you, trading your hand on his back for his on yours, the weight of it grounding you and feeling foreign and familiar at once. “We’re gonna be alright, you know? Just gotta keep on livin’ like they’d want us to.”

You brushed your hands together to get rid of the dirt from the log you’d added to the fire before turning to face him. There were only inches separating the two of you. You could see every detail of his face so clearly- each pore, every line, faint freckles and that one distinct birthmark, the patchy bead and every crack in his lips. You couldn’t remember the last face you’d studied so closely, or the last face that had been so kind, so warm. Despite the heavy topic you’d fallen into, you felt your lips turning up into a smile, felt your heart lighten. “Yeah, you’re right.” You sat back against the wall and he followed suit, leaning into the pillows and blankets you’d piled there. “You mentioned that harmonica before…” He nodded, a glow in his eye that was more than the reflection of the flames. “Wanna play a few songs? For Oz and Cowboy and my mom? I’ll grab my keyboard and…”

“Yeah, Junebug, sounds like a plan.”

The snow was piling high outside, the sky dark and the wind howling. You’d likely be stuck inside all the following day. If I have to be snowed in with anyone… I’m glad it’s him. You didn’t know how long you’d have Ryan in your life, didn’t know if this was meant to mean something or if the two of you were just meant to pass through one another’s worlds just for today, just to be there for each other in the storm. But one thing was certain, and that was that the man who was reaching into his pack for the small silver instrument had landed in your life for a reason. And who am I to question the reasoning of the universe? He blew a short burst of air through the mouthpiece of his harmonica, the bluesy notes adding to the warmth from the fire. No matter how long you’d have each other, you were glad that you were together for the night. Sometime tomorrow or the day after, things would thaw, and you knew he’d be on his way, heading out to meet up with his people. But tonight we’re in this together.

@something-tofightfor @its-my-little-dumpster-fire @suchatinyinfinity @thebbtongue @lexxierave @thesumofmychoices @songtoyou @traeumerinwitzhelden @gollyderek

if you’d like to be added or removed please feel free to let me know!

#passing through #PT #passing through part four: snowed in #ryan brenner #ryan brenner x you #ryan brenner x reader #ryan brenner fanfic #wanna know about ryan's tattoos?#okay i will tell you #snowed in

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grand-theft-carbohydrates · 5 years

Text

Stormbreaker Screenplay 2.0

Written to cope with my utter disappointment with the movie.

INTRODUCTION.

Earlier that day… A smart leather briefcase makes its way down a hallway, attached to it is a man in a navy suit, he is middle-aged and unremarkable, one of those banker types, this is IAN RIDER.

The hallway is so stark and white it would not look out of place in a hospital. He walks past two people dressed in white HAZMAT suits. There is an elevator at the end of the hallway which has a both a card scanner, and a 7-digit-code. He punches in the code without even looking. As the elevator door closes, one HAZMAT SUIT turns, in one fluid, graceful motion, and watches him.

CUT TO…6:30pm in the evening, a street somewhere in CHELSEA… Two large, loutish figures swagger down the sidewalk, swearing and grunting. Wannabe thugs, teenagers in baggy clothes and too much hair jell. But in the darkness the effect is menacing, rather than ridiculous. They're drunk and bored, a volatile combination…

Something shiny catches their eye, it's a brand new racing bike parked outside a dairy. THUG #1 gives a low WOLF-WHISTLE, it's one hell of a bike, high-tech and silver, looking like something out of a Bond movie. They waste no time trying to cut the lock with their pocket knives.

A VOICE interrupts them: Um, excuse me?

The THUGS look up. This little blond kid steps out of the dairy. He's about fourteen years old and wearing a school uniform. In one hand his holds a Cornetto, in the other, a juice box. It's ALEX RIDER.

ALEX: Excuse me, but, um, that's my bike.

CUT TO…The briefcase and IAN RIDER goes through an arduous security check, involving x-rays, metal detectors and sniffer dogs. It seems that they are as concerned with who goes out as who comes in. IAN RIDER explains something to A MAN ON THE PHONE.

IAN RIDER: …Family emergency. No, nothing serious, I should be back by Monday.

CUT TO…A Cornetto lies melting on the pavement, beside it, a puddle of red, oozing from a flattened juice box. ALEX wets a napkin on his tongue and dabs ineffectually at a red stain on the front of his shirt. His tie is a little crooked, and a few strands of hair have fallen over his eyes. The prone and prostrate forms of the two THUGS can be seen lying on the ground behind him.

ALEX throws his ice-cream, juice-box and two confiscated pocket knives into a nearby rubbish bin, looking very pleased with himself. THUNDER rumbles in the distance, and suddenly it starts to rain, rather put-out by the weather ruining his cool moment, ALEX hops onto his bike and pedals home.

CUT TO…IAN RIDER climbs into a sleek, silver BMW. He is meticulous, making all manner of small adjustments before he drives. As the car speeds off we hear a phone call he makes off-screen. An odd, brusque phone call. He wastes no time on pleasantries.

IAN RIDER: This is Rider. I'll arrive back in London in three hours and thirty-seven minuets.

He hangs up, hesitates, and enters another number… but he doesn't dial, he just stares at the row of digits, his face inscrutable. A moment later and the phone is turned off and returned to it's holder.

Heavy purple clouds sit low on the horizon, the BMW files like silver arrow. Thunder rumbles in the distance, a storm is coming.

CUT TO…A warm, brightly lit kitchen, rain patters on the roof outside. A young red-headed woman, is preparing dinner to the beat of LOUD ROCK MUSIC. This is JACK STARBRIGHT, the housekeeper, she is 28 years old and American. If a hurricane could cook, it would look something like this. However, this is controlled chaos, and she is a skilled chef.

JACK: AL—EX!

ALEX'S muffled answer can be heard from downstairs, in the laundry room.

He is stripped to the waist and wearing a towel hat, scrubbing at his stained shirt with a Tide Pen. His head bobs to the beat of MUFFLED ROCK MUSIC. It is plain to see he is unusually fit and muscular for his age.

ALEX: JA—CK?

JACK: DINNER'S READY!

ALEX: COMING!

ALEX grabs some clean clothes and runs up the stairs two at a time. He emerges at the top, completely dressed in a new set of clothes, in the way movie magic. He runs through the living room, and then doubles back and runs through again, because he forgot to do a sock-slide across the hardwood floors. He barely misses a cabinet full of antiques. JACK can evidently see through walls…

JACK: Alex!

ALEX (innocently): …Jack?

JACK: I swear to god, if you break another plate, I'm putting you up for adoption…

ALEX: (He glances guiltily at a conspicuous gap on the top shelf) It was only an ugly one… If you ask me, I was doing the country a service!

JACK: Don't just stand there, set the table! And clear that junk away!

ALEX: Half of this is yours!

They dance around each other in a familiar routine, and settle down for their dinner of two. Alex puts food away like he's performing a magic trick, checks his phone, and plays with a football under the table, it's an impressive display of multitasking. He laughs at a text.

JACK: Uh-uh. If you choke to death doing that, don't come crying to me for help.

ALEX: Hey, you're on your phone too.

JACK: I'm a adult, I've earned this right. (she puts it away) So, how was your day?

ALEX: I've changed my mind, go back to your phone, you've earned it.

JACK: (She steals the football from him) Well?

ALEX: (trying to steal it back) Oh, super exciting. Let's see…A plane crashed on the field, Tom got mauled by a lion and Beyoncé performed in the cafeteria.

JACK: (laughing) Did they catch the lion?

ALEX: (steals back the ball) Well actually, Beyoncé rode off on it—

The doorbell rings.

ALEX: (He glances at the downpour outside). Man, Jehovah's witnesses…nothing puts them off.

The doorbell rings a second time.

JACK: Uh! I just sat down. Coming! Coming! Hold your horses!

JACK gets up to answer the door. Alex tries to eat, but he keeps glancing back up. Finally his curiosity gets the better of him and he jumps up.

CUT TO…JACK looks through the peep-hole. She sees something that makes her eyes widen in shock. Her hand trembles on the doorknob.

CUT TO …ALEX makes his way into the hallway.

CUT TO…. The door opens to reveal two uniformed police officers, collars turned up against the torrential rain. They take off their caps in unison and tuck them respectfully under their arms. Their postures stiff and unhappy.

OFFICER #1: Is this the residence of Mr. Ian Rider?

JACK: Yes.

OFFICER #2: Mrs. Rider?

JACK: No, I'm the housekeeper…what is it? What's happened?

CUT TO…ALEX hears their voices speaking in hushed and somber tones. Funeral voices. He catches a few stray words here and there. CAR CRASH… SLIPPERY ROADS… NOT WEARING A SEATBELT… SO SORRY…

There is a low throbbing sound in his ears that is slowly growing louder. When he is finally able to move again, it feels like he is walking underwater.

ALEX: Jack?

JACK: (in tears) Oh Alex! It's Uncle Ian… He's dead.

JACK hugs ALEX and the police come inside. The door closes. Outside the wind howls ever louder, sheets of rain lashes against the windows and LIGHTENING flashes in the distance. FADE TO BLACK. In the distance, THUNDER.

QUE MAIN TITLE: STORMBREAKER

END.

—

Notes:

I would like to thank AmberLily34567 for reviving my interest in this story.

- I'm trying to find a good balance between the high-energy, slightly over-the-top feeling of King's men, and the very dark tone of the book.

- Man, reading Alex Rider when your older vs when you're younger is such a trip… 12 yo me: WOW Alex is so cool and mature! 18 yo me: he's a BABY who the HELL thought this was a good idea. I'M CALLING CPS.

- A movie called Stormbreaker, without any storm imagery, seems like a wasted opportunity! Embrace those clichés!

SPOILERS ALERT

- The man in the HAZMAT SUIT is Yassen.

- Ian was shot somewhat close to London, and the storm covered up the gunshots. It was done by underlings, hence the sloppy job that left the car looking like Swiss cheese.

- Yassen kills Ian, but does not pull the trigger. That's how he justifies it.

- Ian had very bad luck. His actions made Yassen suspicious, but he might have survived, had he not resembled John so much…

- Ironically this resemblance is exactly what saves Alex…

- Ian entered Alex's number, in a moment of sentiment, because he knew that he might not make it out alive. In my interpretation, Ian genuinely loves Alex, and wanted to protect him, not just to make him the perfect spy. It makes their relationship far more painful and complicated.

#alex rider #stormbreaker #screenplay #fix it of sorts

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ladyshandioftheendless · 5 years

Text

StarChild Assassin: The Final Part

So..it’s come to an end at last.. Thank you all for taking this ride with me~ I appreciate all of your encouragement and your love for the crazy stuff I’ve written~ You guys rock!

~Shandi

While settling into their new jobs, Peter encounters a familiar face from his past, while Eric gives Paul a wonderful surprise.

LIPS LIKE POISON Part 20

Out of all the possible places for them to end up, Peter never dreamed getting away from his former turbulent life was what it would take to finally bring him to Vegas. It was everything he’d always hoped it would be. Big. Flashy. Loud. His holy land. It still amazed him that Eric remembered. The two-floor townhouse they lived in was only a few miles away from the bright lights of the Strip (Mostly to make the commute to work easier. Gene had a head for practicality after all). He found himself looking out the window every night with an excitement he hadn’t felt in a long time. Tomorrow he and Eric would be starting their new jobs.

One floor below Eric and Paul were settling into bed. Eric was still wearing a huge smile as he cuddled his boyfriend. “Did you see the look on Peter’s face? I hadn’t seen him look like that in years. It was just like the good old days~” Paul lazily stroked his boyfriend’s hair. “It makes me happy to see you happy, baby~ You excited to be playing again?” Eric sighed happily. “I can’t tell you how happy I am~ I’m not just playing alone, I’m playing with Peter! I…I think I’m gonna cry..”

“Awww, baby you are crying~”

“I’m emotional! Hold me!”

Paul laughed and held his boyfriend close, kissing his cheek and his lips. “Don’t lose it completely before you even start..I haven’t had a chance to watch you and yell ‘that’s my baby’~” Turning off the lights he stroked Eric’s chin to calm him, drifting off to sleep to the gentle sounds of his purrs.

In the morning Eric sat in front of the vanity mirror while Paul brushed and pinned up his hair. “I dunno how I feel about wearing a wig..” Paul huffed. “I will not have you doing terrible things to your gorgeous golden mane, baby. Besides..you can just think of it as part of your costume~”

“Well..yeah I guess that works for me~”

“I hoped you’d say that~” Paul took out the wig from its box and placed it on Eric’s head, adjusting it until it fit just right. “That feel okay? Not too tight?” Eric studied his reflection. He never thought shorter black hair would fit him so well. “It feels just fine, babe. Thanks~” Paul took a few steps back to admire his boyfriend from afar. “Nobody will ever be able to tell that’s not your real hair. I am good~” Eric grinned, grabbing his boyfriend’s waist and pulling him closer for a kiss. “You’re better than good, babe..you’re incredible~” He glanced up at the clock. “Oh shit we’re gonna be late if we don’t leave right now! Sorry to kiss and run! Seeya tonight!” He grabbed his keys, giving Paul one last kiss before rushing out the door…and nearly running into Peter. “‘Bout time y’got the lead out your ass! We gotta go!”

“I know..my fault..”

“Have a good day, you two~”

Peter’s eyes went wide as they turned onto the Strip. “Holy shit…everything is so much bigger than I imagined as a kid. There’s a wild energy in this place that you can feel as soon as you enter. I’m here. I’m workin’ here. If this is a dream I don’t ever wanna wake up.” Eric smiled. “Even if it is a dream I’m glad we’re sharing it~”

“Me too, Little Cat~”

‘Little Cat’. Hearing that nickname no longer hurt. And hearing Peter say it now gave Eric the most joy he’d felt since he met Paul. As they pulled into the hotel’s garage Peter caught sight of a very familiar statue. “W-what is this..? Where are we..?” Eric couldn’t keep himself from smiling any longer. “This is where we’re working now! The New York, New York! Thought I’d keep it a secret as a surprise~ You like?” Peter could only nod his head in stunned silence. “It’s like..being home away from home. You had this all planned out from the beginning didn’t ya?”

“Guilty as charged~”

“Bet your ass I got some words. But later cause we gotta get in there!”

After finally finding a parking space they booked it into the hotel in search of the Event Coordinator. A half an hour of getting totally lost later they managed to find her. “Excuse us!!” Eric yelled, completely out of breath. “Really sorry..ahh..we’re uh…Eric Mensinger and George Criscuola..we..applied for the stage show positions..?” The Coordinator huffed and them with her hands on her hips. “It’s about time you got here..I was about to mark you down as no-shows! Dressing rooms are this way! You got 15 minutes to get ready! Rehearsal’s in 20 and don’t worry about the makeup we’ll figure that out later!” Eric and Peter glanced at each other. So much for a no-pressure job. Once they were shown to their room they got to work picking out costumes. “Oh I like these~” Eric said, taking two that he favored off the rack. Here ya go..Panther~” Peter looked his costume over with amusement. “Panther eh? And what are you gonna be?” Eric grinned, holding up his shredded and spotted costume. “I’m Jaguar~”

“The Untamed Cats are loose again~”

Rehearsals went better than they expected. They were even applauded for their skills with their drum sets. Peter felt re-energized and Eric was just plain overjoyed. He knew his mentor hadn’t lost it completely. With their jobs secured they went back to their dressing room to change and celebrate with a drink. A feeling nagged at Eric that something wasn’t right. “I..didn’t leave the door open..did you..?” Peter shook his head. “I’ll check it out.” He pushed the door open slowly. Whoever was inside had their back turned to him, but he’d recognize those curves from fifty feet away.

“It really is a small world isn’t it..?”

“Vinnie..”

“Even with a different hair color I recognized you.” Vinnie turned to him, his face an impassive mask. “I like to visit the other hotels to watch the rehearsals for their new shows. I couldn’t believe it was you. I had to see for myself.” Peter nodded the all-clear to Eric and closed the door. They needed some time alone. “I’d ask how you got back here but I think I already know the answer. Are you..stayin’ here too?” Vinnie nodded. “I work at the Luxor. Quite a ways from here but something compelled me to come.”

“God knows why after all the shit I did to ya.”

“If you actually believe that what you did was wrong, you’ve already taken the first steps to changing.” Vinnie took a few steps closer. “For a long time I believed you were perfect. That your abuse was love. When you hurt me..I thought I deserved it. I was convinced I couldn’t do better. It takes an even longer time to see reality for what it truly is after your blinders are taken off.” Peter sighed deeply. “Can’t disagree there..”

“I never thought I’d hear you say those words. You really have changed~”

Peter sat in his chair at stared at himself in the mirror. “For a long time I kept tellin’ myself there was worth to what I did. I was takin’ my revenge out on the world for the shit I’d done to myself. I used people. I killed em. I stole. I cheated. And I didn’t give a damn about the consequences cause I thought I couldn’t be touched.” He pointed to the door. “That kid out there..he was the only one who saw through it all. He chased after me..he begged me to let him help me..even though I’d been tryin’ to kill him. If that’s not a fuckin’ wake up call I dunno what is.” Vinnie sat in the chair beside him. “Call me crazy but..in some strange way..maybe we were meant to meet again like this. Just to..show each other how much we’ve grown..” He reached out to touch Peter’s hair. “I want to try again with you. Even after everything…I thought my feelings for you would disappear..but seeing you again now just brought them all rushing back like a tidal wave. Let’s…let’s give ourselves a chance to love each other the right way..” At that moment Peter couldn’t find the words to reply. He just pulled Vinnie into a tight embrace. “You’re a fuckin’ jewel, Baby Doll and you deserve to be treated like one. If you really think I’m worth it then all I can give you is my word that I won’t fuck it up this time.” Vinnie nuzzled his neck. “Come see me at the Luxor tonight~ Room 1135.” When the door opened again Eric jerked his head up. Seeing Vinnie nod to him and leave he went inside. “Peter? Everything okay?” Peter was quiet for a while before he answered. “Hm? Oh yeah, fine. Just had to repair some bridges. Let’s get out of this stuff and get outta here huh? I wanna go home and freshen up for later.” Eric smirked. “Ohhhhh I see~” Peter sighed, already picturing the relentless teasing he’d have to put up with on the drive back home.

“Welcome home boys~!” Paul hugged them as soon as they walked in the door. “I hope you’re both hungry cause I ordered pizza!” Eric smiled and pulled his boyfriend close for a kiss. “Mm..you’re so thoughtful, babe. I’m starving~ Peter however..he’s got a date~” Paul’s eyes lit up. “You don’t say~?” They heard Peter stomp up the stairs in a huff. “Dammit Eric don’t make me smack your Little Cat ass!!” After hearing the door slam they burst into laughter. Kicking their own door closed, Eric ripped off his wig and tossed it onto the couch. “Ugggggh freedom!! I dunno how people can wear these things all the time..especially if they still have hair! They make your head sweat..and itch!” Paul helped him pull out the ridiculous amount of hairpins he’d used earlier that morning. “Poor baby~ Why don’t we eat..and then we can take a niiiice cool shower~?” Eric nodded eagerly. “Ohhhh babe that sounds goooood~ Let’s get into that pizza then cause I want in that shower like..hours ago.” While they had dinner Peter let himself in, dressed in a crisp white button up shirt with pinstriped slacks and vest, complete with his favorite black leather shoes. Paul had to do a double take. “Ohhhh my, baby..I didn’t know your Big Cat cleaned up so nicely~ Maybe I should have him take me out sometime~” Peter chuckled. “Sure why not? With you an’ Vinnie on my arms lookin’ pretty I’d be the envy of Vegas~” Paul choked on his drink. “Did you say Vinnie?!”

“Yeah I did. Met up with him earlier. I’m goin’ over to the Luxor to see him. Borrowin’ the car. Don’t wait up for me, kids~” He picked up the keys and was gone without another word. Paul was still in shock. “H-he didn’t just say Vinnie..did he..?”

“Yep. He did.”

“So it’s true?”

“Yep. Saw him myself.”

“Well, what are the odds..?”

“Astronomical..but here we are.”

“Oh this’ll be fun to tease him about~”

“I get to do it first~”

“No fair! You got to do it while you drove back here!”

Eric shot his boyfriend a suggestive look. “I’ll wrestle you for it~” Paul laughed. “You’re more than welcome to pin me to the floor..but..shower first~” He got up from his chair and grabbed his boyfriend’s arm, leading him to the bathroom. “Lemme take care of you, Pussy-Cat..I’ll even wash your hair~” Eric was already half way undressed. “Can’t say no to an offer like that~” Once the shower was ready Eric stepped in, closed his eyes and let himself relax. The cool water felt amazing. His boyfriend’s gentle hands just made the experience even better. He purred like a contented house cat while his hair was being washed which amused Paul to no end. “I hope I can get you purring like that in bed tonight~” Eric reached back to stroke his boyfriend’s thigh. “You keep using your hands like that and it’s all but guaranteed~” He groaned as his boyfriend grasped his cock and nibbled at his ear. “Why don’t we get a head start right now~?”

“Fuck yes…make me really purr, babe~”

They ended up staying in the shower for much longer than they intended.

Eric and Peter fell into their routine pretty easily. They rehearsed daily until the show was to open two months later. The morning of opening night Paul helped Eric apply his makeup and wig. “I saw a commercial for the show earlier~” Paul said as he painted on Eric’s ‘whiskers’. “’Come experience the Music of the Wild! Only at the New York, New York Hotel & Casino, the biggest urban jungle on the Strip!’ I can’t wait to see you tonight, baby..I’m so proud of you~” Eric’s blush was well hidden by his white facepaint. “Thanks, babe~ I’m so damn nervous but I’m excited too! Looking over at Peter always helps me calm down though, you know? I think as long as I do that I’ll be alright~” Paul kissed the top of his head. “You’re both gonna go up on stage and you’re gonna rock that show. I just know it. And I’ll be right there cheering you on~” There was a knock at the bathroom door. “Just me, Little Cat!” Peter said. “I’m ready to go whenever you are!” Eric exhaled, looking himself over in the mirror one last time. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, I guess. Almost done! Be right out! Babe, since Peter’s got his own car now I’m gonna drive over with him so you can take our car to the show tonight. Don’t forget to get there early~” Paul took both of his boyfriend’s hands and squeezed them tightly. “I won’t, promise~ Go out there and kill ‘em, Jaguar~”

Driving over to the Strip was nothing short of chaotic, but by some miracle Paul managed it. After parking in the garage he raced into the hotel. While standing in line he reached into his jacket to find his ticket. Feeling someone tap his shoulder he turned, coming face to face with Vinnie. “You!”

“Yes. Me.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Why do you think I’m here?”

“My guess is to see Peter.”

“Your guess is correct~”

Paul sighed and let his shoulders relax. “Of course you are. Sorry..sometimes I forget we’re not still in real New York. This place..brings back a lot of memories..” Vinnie nodded slowly. “It certainly does. Fortunately for us, our pasts were left back in real New York. I’m willing to forgive and forget if you are.” Paul took Vinnie’s hand and shook it. “We’ve come too far to let whatever happened fuck anything up now. It’s forgotten~” They handed over their tickets and went inside. The interior was beautiful and elaborately decorated to look like a jungle. Paul looked around in awe. “Wow..they really do go very big here don’t they?” Vinnie chuckled. “Well..it is Vegas~” While looking for their seats in the front row they discovered they sat only a small distance away from each other. Paul raised a curious eyebrow. “I’d say this was a coincidence but I don’t buy that for a second. Do you?” Vinnie shook his head. “No way in hell~” They both laughed quietly as the theater went dark.

The show was quite the spectacle. The dancers were beautifully painted to look like various jungle animals. The band was lined across the back of the stage with Eric and Peter’s drum sets on opposite ends. As the crowd applauded and cheered for them Paul struggled to fight back his tears. They were both incredible. And together they were magic. In the middle of the second act some of the dancers leapt from the stage prowled through the aisles, looking for people to take with them. Paul was completely caught off guard when one of the zebras took his hands and lifted him out of his seat. Before he knew it he was on the stage with a few other bewildered people, not knowing what they should do. He was so distracted by the other dancers he didn’t notice Eric climb down from his drum set and approach him. Only when his hand was taken did he stop looking around frantically and realize his boyfriend was there. “Oh my god, Eric what’s going on?!” he shouted, not even sure if he could be heard over the loud music. Eric just smiled and got down on one knee in front of him.

HE WASN’T!!

Sure enough Eric took a small box out of one of the pouches on his costume and opened it, revealing a gorgeous silver ring lined with small diamonds. Paul was struck absolutely speechless. He covered his mouth with a shaky hand, using all of the self control he could possibly manage to nod his head. It all seemed like a hazy dream. Eric stood, taking the ring from its box and slipping it onto his finger. The crowd cheered loudly. The dancers jumped around the stage in celebration. Paul saw none of it. All he saw was the man he was now engaged to. As they kissed the crowd went wild.

To everyone else this was just Vegas.

To Paul it was the most wonderful day of his entire life.

~END~

#Shandi's drabbles #KISS AU writings #the StarChild Assassin #LAST CHAPTER I'M CRYING #Eric and Paul are adorable bfs~#Peter gets some closure #haha I said I wasn't gonna give this a happy sappy ending~#OOPS #ANOTHER SUPER LONG ONE ENJOY

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sidhewrites · 5 years

Text

Untitled #4

Dust settled on every surface in the kitchen. Every table, every shelf, even on the imperfections of the plastered walls. Nina looked on with a scowl, hands on her hips, and a furrow in her brow. This was ridiculous. It was as if the room hadn’t been used in years. The pantry door hung open, and the latch to the door was undone.

“What did I say about sleeping on the job?”

Nothing stirred. Shelves and counters looked back at her, nothing stirring among the plates or cutlery, nor the bread boxes or charms or the still-drying bones hanging by the empty hearth.

Nina clapped her hands together. “All right, everybody up! There’s work that wants doing!”

Slowly at first, and then all at once, the dust moved. The soot stirred and the ash shuddered. It came together, forming hundreds of tiny little spheres that floated just an inch or two in the air. They blinked open their eyes slowly, like children being woken from particularly pleasant dreams, but Nina would have none of it.

“Up. Now.”

Dozens of tiny voices complained, and a few waved little stick-like hands her way.

Nina tut-tutted, and reached for her work-apron, wrapping it round her waist. “Don’t give me your attitude. The fire went out in the middle of the night, and the entire castle is gone cold. If you want breakfast, I suggest working quickly.”

The complaining gave way to grumbling, but the sprites went to work, ash tending to the fire, dust to the shelves, and soot to the shadows.

“Neighbor,” she warned, stepping further into the kitchen. Nina tugged her hair from its plait and into a presentable coiffure, though it would be a while yet before she went out. “Neighbor, come here.”

The soot protested and slunk further into the dark.

She sighed. Why must sprites be so willful before dawn?

Nina hiked up her skirts and knelt down, peering through the cracks in the wall, into which Neighbor had squeezed itself. “Come out. Now.”

A tiny voice spat a wordless curse her way.

“You know what you did.”

Neighbor hissed.

“If you stay here, I’ll seal up the walls, and I’ll go to Town alone.”

He grumbled, but relented. Town meant food to Neighbor, and food really was the best way to get anyone to do anything. He sifted himself out from the wall, shaping himself into something resembling a fox, his teeth and tongue sharper than needles. Nina was grateful no-one else could hear what he had to say; no doubt some of her older patrons would faint at the first three words out of his wicked little mouth.

He climbed up her legs with tiny feet, finally perching on her shoulder, bits of soot flying here and there as he moved. But it always came back quickly enough. Neighbor never quite lost his shape, but he never quite kept it either.

She scratched behind his ears before sending him away to do his chores. It took only one threat, and then Nina was able to turn back to the kitchen. It was now alive and pristine, not a speck of dust left idle. The hearth blazed bright, and the dust had pulled a pewter cauldron from its shelf to be filled with whatever Neighbor caught in the cellar. They liked the rats and fell things, and the occasional lost bird or hare. Some of the dust sprites skittered down the pantry wall, carrying a half-loaf of bread on their backs, with a few more close behind bearing cheese. They moved about bowls and plates and righted a broom when they knocked it over.

Nina put her hands on her hips again, satisfied this time with what she saw. Productivity. Organization. Not a single lazeabout. And there shouldn’t be, not after what they’d done last night. Her toes had nearly frozen off, and frost most likely still clung to her mirror. Her travelling coat was nowhere to be seen, which means it was almost certainly half buried in the snow.

The minor sprites weren’t clever enough to think for themselves on their own, but a larger one -- perhaps one that could take on the shape of a fox -- could certainly make a few suggestions here and there and watch the results unfold.

The dust sprites offered Nina a dull knife and pulled out a chair at the center table, while the ash cluttered about the doorway to pick up her travelling boots and lay them at her feet. “Thank you, dears.” She more fell than sat in the chair, and cut herself some bread and cheese for breakfast. “I’ll be needing my cane today. Ash, kindly go and fetch it.”

They obeyed, leaving her side only to return with a gnarled wooden walking stick, with nothing but a strip of leather adorning the handle. It was plain and unassuming, and it did its job marvellously.

Within minutes, Neighbor returned victiorious, clutching something That Was Once a Hare in his teeth. Nina pulled it up with a thank you, before inspecting the carcass. A viscous, green-black liquid dripped from its wounds and mouth, and she scowled down at Neighbor. “Did you latch the cellar doors?”

Neighbor chittered.

“All four of them, Neighbor?”

He sat upright, nose in the air, offended that she thought he’d ever fail his duties, and certainly hadn’t done so just last night.

“Thank you, Neighbor.” Nina never failed to thank her sprites. She might scold them without hesitation, but it was wise to never insult them, even when it was deserved.

He chuffed.

Nina tossed the hare into the now-blazing hearth. Greenish flames blazed up, sending sparks flying across the room. The dust and ash sprites cheered in their little voices, catching the sparks and skittering beneath the logs to catch the gristle as it fell.

“Neighbor,” she called. He had just started to slink off again, and snapped back to a sitting position. But his soot was agitated, betraying his dread and shame. “Where is my travelling coat?”

He looked away, seemingly distracted by something on the wall.

“I need to travel to Town, after all, and I can’t go without it.”

He did not look her way.

“I suppose I can always stay home. My bones are aching, anyway, and the houses can go one more day without cleaning.” Had he really forgotten her earlier threats so quickly?

Neighbor grumbled, and bent his dark head low. He hissed about this and that and how lovely the midnight snow is on a cloudless night.

“Are you really going to make me walk out there to get to my coat? Will you be so cruel to your mother?”

Nothing.

“My bones hurt from the cold night already -- no doubt blown out when someone opened the door to take my coat out. I can’t imagine it would have wanted to go outside on its own and leave me colder than ever on my way to Town.”

This time, he let out a low whine. A surrender.

She spoke sweetly at first. “Thank you, Neighbor. That’s a very kind thing to do. Go.” The last word was a barked order, one that left Neighbor grumbling as he dissipated into a cloud of soot that squeezed under the door and into the pre-dawn light.

#idk man but i wrote it!!#writeblr #original fiction #mystuff #sootwitch #short story #writing

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mini-james-bond · 5 years

Text

Stormbreaker Screenplay 2.0

Written to cope with my utter disappointment with the movie.

INTRODUCTION.

Earlier that day… A smart leather briefcase makes its way down a hallway, attached to it is a man in a navy suit, he is middle-aged and unremarkable, he could have been anyone, a banker, a lawyer or a businessman, but something about his brisk, purposeful movements and piercing gaze sets him apart. This is IAN RIDER.

Something shiny catches their eye, it’s a brand new racing bike parked outside a dairy. THUG #1 gives a low WOLF-WHISTLE, it’s one hell of a bike, high-tech and silver, looking like something out of a Bond movie. They waste no time trying to cut the lock with their pocket knives.

A VOICE interrupts them: Um, excuse me?

The THUGS look up. This little blond kid steps out of the dairy. He’s about fourteen years old and wearing a school uniform. In one hand his holds a Cornetto, in the other, a juice box. It’s ALEX RIDER.

ALEX: Excuse me, but, um, that’s my bike.

IAN RIDER: …Family emergency. No, nothing serious, I should be back by Monday.

IAN RIDER: This is Rider. I’ll arrive back in London in three hours and thirty-seven minuets.

He hangs up, hesitates, and enters another number… but he doesn’t dial, he just stares at the row of digits, his face inscrutable. A moment later and the phone is turned off and returned to it’s holder.

Heavy purple clouds sit low on the horizon, the BMW files like silver arrow. Thunder rumbles in the distance, a storm is coming.

JACK: AL—EX!

ALEX’S muffled answer can be heard from downstairs, in the laundry room.

ALEX: JA—CK?

JACK: DINNER’S READY!

ALEX: COMING!

JACK: Alex!

ALEX (innocently): …Jack?

JACK: I swear to god, if you break another plate, I’m putting you up for adoption…

ALEX: (He glances guiltily at a conspicuous gap on the top shelf) It was only an ugly one… If you ask me, I was doing the country a service!

JACK: Don’t just stand there, set the table! And clear that junk away!

ALEX: Half of this is yours!

They dance around each other in a familiar routine, and settle down for their dinner of two. Alex puts food away like he’s performing a magic trick, checks his phone, and plays with a football under the table, it’s an impressive display of multitasking. He laughs at a text.

JACK: Uh-uh. If you choke to death doing that, don’t come crying to me for help.

ALEX: Hey, you’re on your phone too.

JACK: I’m a adult, I’ve earned this right. (she puts it away) So, how was your day?

ALEX: I’ve changed my mind, go back to your phone, you’ve earned it.

JACK: (She steals the football from him) Well?

ALEX: (trying to steal it back) Oh, super exciting. Let’s see…A plane crashed on the field, Tom got mauled by a lion and Beyoncé performed in the cafeteria.

JACK: (laughing) Did they catch the lion?

ALEX: (steals back the ball) Well actually, Beyoncé rode off on it—

The doorbell rings.

ALEX: (He glances at the downpour outside). Man, Jehovah’s witnesses…nothing puts them off.

The doorbell rings a second time.

JACK: Uh! I just sat down. Coming! Coming! Hold your horses!

JACK gets up to answer the door. Alex tries to eat, but he keeps glancing back up. Finally his curiosity gets the better of him and he jumps up.

CUT TO…JACK looks through the peep-hole. She sees something that makes her eyes widen in shock. Her hand trembles on the doorknob.

CUT TO …ALEX makes his way into the hallway.

OFFICER #1: Is this the residence of Mr. Ian Rider?

JACK: Yes.

OFFICER #2: Mrs. Rider?

JACK: No, I’m the housekeeper…what is it? What’s happened?

CUT TO…ALEX hears their voices speaking in hushed and somber tones. Funeral voices. He catches a few stray words here and there. CAR CRASH… SLIPPERY ROADS… NOT WEARING A SEATBELT… SO SORRY…

There is a low throbbing sound in his ears that is slowly growing louder. When he is finally able to move again, it feels like he is walking underwater.

ALEX: Jack?

JACK: (in tears) Oh Alex! It’s Uncle Ian… He’s dead.

QUE MAIN TITLE: STORMBREAKER

END.

—

Notes:

I would like to thank AmberLily34567 for reviving my interest in this story.

- I’m trying to find a good balance between the high-energy, slightly over-the-top feeling of King’s men, and the very dark tone of the book.

- Man, reading Alex Rider when your older vs when you’re younger is such a trip… 12 yo me: WOW Alex is so cool and mature! 18 yo me: he’s a BABY who the HELL thought this was a good idea. I’M CALLING CPS.

- A movie called Stormbreaker, without any storm imagery, seems like a wasted opportunity! Embrace those clichés!

SPOILERS ALERT

- The man in the HAZMAT SUIT is Yassen.

- Ian was shot somewhat close to London, and the storm covered up the gunshots. It was done by underlings, hence the sloppy job that left the car looking like Swiss cheese.

- Yassen kills Ian, but does not pull the trigger. That’s how he justifies it.

- Ian had very bad luck. His actions made Yassen suspicious, but he might have survived, had he not resembled John so much…

- Ironically this resemblance is exactly what saves Alex…

- Ian entered Alex’s number, in a moment of sentiment, because he knew that he might not make it out alive. In my interpretation, Ian genuinely loves Alex, and wanted to protect him, not just to make him the perfect spy. It makes their relationship far more painful and complicated.

#alex rider #stormbreaker screenplay #fix it of sorts

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