#my hair isn’t currently highlighted or dyed but I’ve done it in the past

[ijustdontlikepeople]

I was tagged by @allsassnoclass @lover-of-mine

Rules bold the true ones

APPEARANCE

i’m over 5’5” // i wear glasses/contacts // i have blonde hair // i prefer loose clothing to tight clothing // i have one or more piercings // i have at least one tattoo // i have blue eyes // i have dyed or highlighted my hair // i have gotten plastic surgery // i have or had braces // i sunburn easily // i have freckles // i paint my nails // i typically wear make-up // i don’t often smile // i am pleased with how i look // i prefer nike to adidas // i wear baseball hats backwards

TALENTS AND HOBBIES

i play a sport // i can play an instrument // i am artistic // i know more than one language // i have won a trophy in some sort of competition // i can cook or bake without a recipe // i know how to swim // i enjoy writing // i can do origami // i prefer movies to tv shows // i can execute a perfect somersault // i enjoy singing // i could survive in the wild on my own // i have read a new book series this year // i enjoy spending time with friends // i travel during school or work breaks // i can do a handstand

RELATIONSHIP

i am in a relationship // i have been single for over a year // i have a crush // i have a best friend i have known for ten years // my parents are together // i have dated my best friend // i am adopted // my crush has confessed to me // i have a long distance relationship // i am an only child // i give advice to my friends // i have made an online friend // i met up with someone i have met online

AESTHETIC

i have heard the ocean in a conch shell // i have watched the sun rise // i enjoy rainy days // i have slept under the stars // i meditate outside // the sound of chirping calms me // i enjoy the smell of the beach // i know what snow tastes like // i listen to music to fall asleep // i enjoy thunderstorms // i enjoy cloud watching // i have attended a bonfire // i pay close attention to colours // i find mystery in the ocean // i enjoy hiking on nature paths // autumn is my favourite season

MISC

i can fall asleep in a moving vehicle // i am the mom friend // i live by a certain quote // i like the smell of sharpies // i am involved in extracurricular activities // i enjoy mexican food // i can drive a stick-shift // i believe in true love // i make up scenarios to fall asleep // i sing in the shower // i wish i lived in a video game // i have a canopy above my bed // i am multiracial // i am a redhead // i own at least three dogs

TAGGING: anyone who like to share ♥️

[spidersbane]

Hello! Can I get MCU, The Hobbit, and The Man From U.N.C.L.E. ship? 💚

Appearance: She/her. 179,5cm tall, rectangle body shape. Fair skin complexion with quite a few birthmarks. Dyed brown with honey-red highlights, shoulder-length, straight hair with bangs. The left eye is a mix of two colors – a smaller portion of (darker) greyish-blue and a larger portion of hazel; while the right eye is just a (lighter) greyish-blue. Heptagon face shape with two dimples on the left cheek and one on the right cheek (only visible while smiling). A gap between the upper front teeth.

Personality (good and bad traits): Ever since I was a kid, I was always quite mature for my age – I identify myself as an old soul. I come off as polite and well-mannered to strangers, yet I tend to keep it to myself by being reserved. But, that’s because I have social anxiety and I’m nervous and shy when meeting/talking to people. The only people I’m comfortable with being with my inner circle – closest friends and family. I am usually more “open” with my friends than with my family. With my friends I can be my “truest-self” – I smile more, I laugh more, I feel more accepted and understood. I am the mom and the fashionista of the group. Don’t get me wrong, I am fiercely protective of my family, especially of my mother and younger sister. But, lately, I’ve been feeling like the “black sheep” of the family, Cinderella who’s been taken advantage of. I express my affection for the people I care about in little, but practical, ways. I can be a little stiff when it comes to open, gushy displays of affection. Others turn to me for help and advice. I’m kind-hearted and generous, always ready to help a person in need. Always have been motherly towards children. Very awkward at keeping small talk (usually with people that I’m not that close with). Absolutely, hate speaking in front of a public, and if I do, because of my nervousness, I tend to mess up my words and/or I practice whatever I’m about to say in my head at first. I appreciate the simplicity and am often most comfortable when I’m not getting too much attention from the world. I am sensitive – both to criticism and to others’ feelings (I sponge up the feelings and moods of people and the environment around me). Have a hard time saying no or expressing my true thoughts, feelings. I get influenced by other people’s opinions/thoughts quite hard (I take everything to the heart), that is why I tend to keep a lot to myself (may come off as a little bit tense, secretive, mysterious). I avoid the harsh reality by daydreaming (almost every day) – imagining myself in situations far from my current circumstances. Sort of like a self-escape. I worry a lot and overthink almost everything. I am easily distracted and my attention span can be quite short. I have an internal struggle between my needs and wants. I can lack focus and be indecisive as a result – when I decide on one route, I am pulled in another direction at the same time (“But what if…”, “on the other hand...”). That is why I’m having a bit of a struggle with deciding what I want to do in the future (career-wise). I am easily overwhelmed by pressure and stress. There is a self-destructive side to me (self-critical, lack of self-confidence) that I’m working on by confronting my fears (coming out of my shell). Don’t like taking pictures, or other people taking pictures of me. I feel most content when I’ve straightened out all the details of everyday life. I have a routine, that I follow by mostly every day, and if something small changes in that routine, I start to have a small internal anxiety attack. Also, I like to do things my own way, like, when it comes to cleaning the house or organizing stuff, etc. I get triggered even if people don’t do the laundry the way I do. I guess you could describe me as a perfectionist, clean/control freak. In triggering situations I can be impulsive, spontaneous, quick to act. Quick flare-ups of anger/annoyance when being provoked on my patience. Even when I’m feeling low, I manage to find humor in life and have fun with whatever I do have. Although I tend to bottle things up, I am an emotional person and my emotions are genuine – I love and care deeply and passionately and wish no ill will upon anyone, yet it hards for me to imagine someone falling in love with me or just liking me.

Hobbies, likes: My hobbies are cleaning, writing (re-writing song lyrics, making small notes, writing stories), listening to any type of music, catching up on my favorite films and TV shows, hanging out with friends, going to the cinema, or the club, being out in nature, reading, traveling. I like history, cooking, fashion magazines (or fashion in general), road trips, spirituality, mythology, books, orange juice, previous decades, cottage-core, dark academia.

Overall: Hufflepuff. INFP-T. Bi-sexual. Pisces-Aries cusp sign. “Looks like could kill you, but is actually a cinnamon roll.” A feminist, support LGBTQ+ community. That’s it, thank you!

hey @pataim ! thanks so much for sending in your request, and thank you so much for your honesty about yourself. like it takes a lot to air yourself out like that, and I admire your strength for it. but also fINALLY a 'Man from U.N.C.L.E' ship! I love that movie and attempt Illya's accent all the time, so this will be fun :)

For the MCU/Marvel - I ship you with Steve Rogers/Captain America ! 

no one can tell me that Steve doesn’t have a set routine honestly, so let me just get that out there 

he seems intimidating at first, esp as a public figure and Avenger, but Steve is nothing but passionate about what he does. so it may clash w your lack of direction, but I could honestly see him envying that a lil bit, like it’s not that you don’t have direction, it’s the fact that you still have a choice in the matter. 

your love of history put you in a museum, here you bumped into Steve in a horrible disguise. he struck up the conversation first, and once you got past the whole “holy crap that’s Captain America”, you could actually engage with him in the material and boi was he smitten 

he would love to join you when your rewatched your fave things, bc not only is he catching up on more media he missed out on, he’s also getting to know your interests in a way that’s comfortable with you. it avoids all the small talk, but leaves room for discussion after the film/show ! 

since you tend to sponge up a lot of what other people believe, it’s totally Steve who actually tries to question what you think and what you feel about things. he’s someone who encourages you to have your own opinions and to stay true to those thoughts. so while with him, you can rely on him to learn about yourself, you also gain skills for independence

overall, Steve is super patient, and despite his chaotic job as Cap, he takes comfort in his routine, and would find comfort incorporating a partner’s routine into his life. and as you grow in a relationship with him, he’s patient about teaching you how to be your own person, and helping you learn more about yourself. and while it’s uncomfortable, you grow stronger throughout being with him :) 

For The Hobbit - I ship you with Bilbo Baggins !

Bilbo is the definition of introvert, and you're right there with him

not that introversion is ever a bad thing, bc it isn't. but Bilbo is quite content to sit in his little hobbit hole and vibe. like Gandalf had to come find him, ya know. dude disappeared from his own bday.

but anyways. it's not that Bilbo lacks purpose, it's just that he's more content with a quieter life. and it seems like his quiet life would balance you out well! like the Shire is so so chill, and there doesn't really seem to be a lot of pressure on the hobbits to pick a profession. like they just genuinely do what needs to get done.

similarly, Bilbo is the type who seems a little bothered by mushy displays of affection. exhibit a: disappearing from his own bday. like he's much more the type to refill your tea when y'all are reading by the fireplace, which he would totally do w you

it will probs take you a little while to warm up to each, given just how introverted you both are. but when he explains that he has set ways of doing things, then if they're compatible w your ways of doing things, then it doesn't take you long to open up to him

like it'll be a little jarring, but he takes comfort in his routines too. and it'll be an event trying to incorporate both of your ways of life together, but he's willing to do it

overall, yours is a very quaint partnership, built on deep respect for one another. neither of you are going to push the other to do things you aren't into. and y'all just live your best lives together tbh :)

For The Man From U.N.C.L.E - I ship you with Illya Kuryakin !

I love my big Russian spy so much, so this is fun for me

so Illya is the epitome of reserved and generally quiet, so it might take a while to really break down his walls and talk to him. and he's not quite sure what to do with you once you join the team

but, he's playing his game of chess alone, and when you sit down and ask to play with him, he opens up a little more after that

if you're one who get sent out on mission with the team, get ready, bc sometimes those missions require a lot of improvising. but you'd probably be at whatever 'base' was, helping run operations from a more secure place. but Illya and Napoleon improvise a lot, leading to a lot of headaches for you and Waverly

Illya has small bursts of anger, but similar to Gaby, most times, you can intervene and he doesn't get violent. or when he does, he tries to make sure it isn't in front of you. but bc you care so deeply for him, you're there for him in the aftermath. and that's how you show your love for him.

by patching him up if he gets cut, by talking him down when he's angry. and just generally trying to take care of him. and he totally does the same for you, especially if you get sent out into the field

and much to Illya's dismay, Solo doesn't refrain form making jokes about you. but if you can take them in stride, then Solo welcomes you into the team just as well :)

[dameronology]

london calling {poe x reader} - 1

a modern coffee shop au 

in this chapter: you could have sworn that london was trying to eat you alive. you didn’t ask the universe for a reason to stay in the city but it gave you one anyway - in the form of poe dameron, your new manager. 

warnings: swearing 

this was based off of a dream i had & then @cherieboba​ mentioned an AU...and now we have this. enjoy!

- val xx 

‘Will you watch where you’re fucking going?!’ 

You hated Tuesdays. Tuesdays were truly and completely awful in every sense of the word. They were slightly better than Mondays but still...undeniably dreadful. This one had been no exception. You’d woken up late (and hungover, but that wasn’t relevant) and you were convinced that the Department of Transport had personally paid every single commuter to make your life a living hell that morning. Whatever patience you’d had upon waking up - and trust me, it wasn’t much - had worn completely thin by the time you’d been released from the hellish grips of the London Underground. 

Your main concern was getting to work on time. The start of your shift coincided perfectly with the morning rush - also known as two straight hours of grumpy, uncaffeinated commuters. It was your job as a barista to provide them with coffee and to do-so in a timely manner. Anything less than thirty seconds would often result in a middle-aged, greying businessman coming for your ass. This morning, you were prepared to bite back. 

‘How nice of you to show up.’ 

‘I know, I know!’ You pushed past your co-worker, tugging your apron around your waist as you did. ‘I overslept,’

Finn rolled his eyes at you, shaking his head. ‘Then you owe me five pounds.’

‘Why?’ You grumbled, pulling an order receipt from his hand.

‘The bet, remember?’ He replied. ‘You have officially been late twenty times so far this year.’

You let out a groan, mind going back to New Year’s Eve. The pair of you had made a deal that whoever was the first to be late twenty times owed the other a fiver - and it looked like you would be paying for his lunch today. It was unusual for you to be late so many times in a row but in the absence of a manager or acting boss, you’d let yourself slip a tiny bit. You knew that had to end today, however, because your new manager was due to start. 

‘I’ll give it to you when I get paid.’ You said. ‘My rent is already late and that five pounds could be detrimental-’

‘- I’m just taking the piss.’ Finn chuckled. ‘Get these orders done and we’re even.’ 

He slid you the pile of receipts and you immediately slipped into autopilot. You’d been a barista for the better part of five years by that point; your hands could be at work whilst your mind was elsewhere. That was certainly the case today - your mind was raking through your financial woes and the fact that your rent was due four days ago - as you worked. After fifteen minutes of here’s a small skinny latte for Brian! and a large Americano to go for Roger!, you’d completely ridded the shop of the queue. 

‘Busy morning, huh?’

You peered up from the coffee machine, eyes falling on the man in front of you. He was holding a half-empty cup of coffee, a smile on his face and warm brown eyes examining the mess of coffee and milk around your work station. He had a tangle of messy curls and...well, hot fucking damn. What else were you supposed to say?

‘Uh, yeah.’ You smiled. ‘Highlight of my day, I suppose.’

He grinned at you. ‘Do you enjoy working here?’

‘Yeah.’ You nodded. ‘I mean - it gets stressful but a job’s a job, right?’

‘Right.’ He replied, eyes falling to where your name tag rested on your apron. ‘I’ll see you around.’

Trying to hide the blush on your face, you picked up the empty milk cartons and carried them through to the kitchen at the back of the shop. Finn was already in there on his phone, swiping through Tinder. Your best friend’s love life was often a subject that came up on shift - as far you were concerned, he deserved the world. It was finding the world that was the hard part. 

‘Hot customer alert.’ You greeted him. ‘And I mean hot.’

‘What kind of cute are we talking?’ Finn looked up from his phone. ‘Like...Leo Dicaprio in Titanic cute kind of hot or Leo Dicaprio in the Revenant, large and hairy kind of hot?’

‘Kind of in the middle.’ You replied, dumping the cartons in the bin. ‘He said he would see me around, so I guess he’s a new regular?’

‘Actually,’ somebody else’s voice came from the doorway. ‘I meant see you around as in I’m the new manager.’

You had never wanted the ground to swallow you more. Seriously - if the jaws of death could have opened right there and then, you’d be willing to jump into them with the tip of your hat and a so long, folks! This was definitely the worst Tuesday of your life. That was truly saying something, because you’d spent all of last Tuesday scraping dried milk off of a table. And, the Tuesday before that, you’d got stuck in the doors of the tube on the Jubilee Line and then -

-Not relevant. The presence of other shitty days didn’t erase the fact that you had just called your manager hot and compared him to Leonardo Dicaprio. Right to his face. 

‘Hey, Finn?’ You glanced up at your co-worker. ‘I think it’s time I quit-’

‘- no, I take it as a compliment!’ He chortled. ‘I’m Poe, Poe Dameron. You’re the assistant manager, right?’

‘Yeah.’ You nodded, trying to hide the blush creeping up your cheeks. ‘Unless you fire me.’

‘No, I like a colleague who bigs me up.’ Poe grinned at you. It only made the blush worse. ‘It’s a nice store. I’m excited to work here.’

‘And I assume you know how to make coffee?’ You quirked an eyebrow at him. 

‘I could do it in my sleep.’

You handed him an apron. ‘Brilliant.’

It seemed as though whoever was above had answered your prayers, because another queue quickly began to form and you had to get back to work. Poe and Finn chatted amongst themselves, bonding over the fact that they were both Americans working in London. You, meanwhile, focused on pumping out oddly specific coffee orders. 

‘A hot-but-not-too-hot black Americano for Holdo!’ You called. 

Mrs Holdo - or, Holdo as she insisted on being called - was one of your regulars. She was a high powered business woman who stopped by the coffee every morning. It was usually one of the highlights of working the morning shift. You were convinced she was on steroids of some point because she was the literal definition of a power bitch. The fact she dyed her hair lavender made her even more iconic. 

‘Morning!’ You beamed at her, sliding her drink across the counter. ‘How are things at the law firm?’

‘Stressful, as always.’ She grabbed the cup. ‘New manager, I see?’

‘Oh, yeah.’ You glanced over your shoulder at him. ‘That’s Poe.’ 

‘You talkin’ shit?’ He grinned at you, giving you a wink. 

Once the queue had died down again, you made yourself a coffee. A few people were fluttering about the shop; it was the usual, really. There was a businessman on his laptop at one table and an artist at the next. One of the perks of working in such a central area was all the people you got to meet. It certainly made the job more interesting - and you had a feeling that your new manager was only going to add to that. 

‘So - tell me about yourself.’ Poe leant against the counter next to you, nudging you with his elbow. ‘Other than the fact you think I’m hot and that you probably love Leonardo Dicaprio.’

You let out a groan. ‘You’re killing me, man.’

‘If that’s the case, I hope you get someone to cover your shifts before you die.’

‘Isn’t that your job?’ You shot back. ‘Being the manager and all.’

‘You are my assistant manager-’

‘- no I am the assistant manager.’ You cut him off. ‘And I’ve been here five years so I know all that you could possibly need about running this place.’

‘Mm?’ Poe raised his eyebrows. ‘Care to share?’

‘Finn can’t be on shift with Hux - he’s an irritating part timer, really up himself - because they will kill each other.’ You paused to take a sip of your coffee. ‘And Kaydel is super sweet but she’s always late, so it’s best to put her on afternoon shifts.’

‘Like you were late this morning?’

You groaned again. ‘It was just one of those mornings - it was one thing after the other. I swear it won’t happen again. 

Poe gave you a soft smile, the sarcasm fading from his face. ‘I’m just kidding. Don’t be so hard on yourself.’

With that, he took the coffee from your hand and took a sip. ‘Jesus Christ, what is in this?’

‘Four shots of vanilla syrup.’ You snatched your drink back from him. ‘Let me guess - you’re the kind of guy that exclusively drinks espressos and judges people for adding sugar?’

He simply raised his eyebrows, holding his hands up in defense. 

--

Nine hours later, your shift was finally over; you were closing with Poe, who was currently sweeping the floor and singing I Want To Break Free. Your feet were aching but thanks to the free coffee, you were slightly buzzed. You’d decided that you liked your new manager - there were some pitfalls, however. Watching him flirt with every woman that came in was bordering on painful by the time lunchtime came around. 

‘Rey’s here!’ Finn popped up from behind the coffee machine. He was supposed to be cleaning it, but it looked as though he was counting coffee beans instead. ‘Do I look okay?’

‘No different than usual, Finny.’ You replied. 

Rey was your room-mate and best friend (Finn would argue differently). She worked in a primary school a few streets away from the coffee shop. She usually came in after you’d shut to get a free drink - she also drove to work, which meant you didn’t have to take public transport home. After a nine hour shift and with an impending caffeine crash, being shoved into a small tube carriage was your idea of hell. With that said, Rey’s driving wasn’t much better. 

Fiddling with your keys, you unlocked the door to let Rey in. She looked tired - presumably from chasing after little children all day. You could see a bottle of wine sticking out from the top of her bag. That was this evening’s plans solved. 

‘Hey!’ She greeted you brightly. ‘Hey, Finn!’

‘Rey, hey!’ Your co-worker waved at her. ‘I mean hey, rey!’

‘I’m just gonna clock out.’ You said, glancing over your shoulder at Poe. ‘If that’s cool with you?’

‘God knows, god knows I want to break - oh yeah, that’s fine!’ He suddenly pulled his headphones out. 

‘This is Rey, by the way. She’s an honorary team member here.’ You explained. ‘And this is Poe, our new manager.’

‘She thinks I’m cute.’ Poe grinned. 

You turned to face Rey. ‘I’ll explain later.’

‘Right. Of course.’ She gave you a wink. ‘I went home at lunch to feed Chewy. He’s eaten another pair of your shoes.’

Chewie was your six-month-old border terrier puppy. He reeked havoc pretty much everywhere he went - usually leaving a trail of fur behind him - but you loved him dearly. He’d earned his name after eating through eleven pairs of shoes in his first week at your apartment. 

‘Of course he has.’ You grumbled. ‘See you tomorrow!’

‘See you!’ Finn waved at you, before giving Rey a sweet smile. 

‘See you in the morning!’ Poe called. ‘And be on time!’

tags: @thespareoom @softly-sad @interwebseriesfan24 @yougottakeeponkeepinon​ @princessxkenobi​ @blue-space-porgs​ @cherieboba​ @highlycommendable​

[whumpallday]

Whumpee’s-R-Us VS Whumpee Barn: First Impressions

So, this post was inspired by @shameless-whumper‘s Unboxing and @my-whumpy-little-heart’s Defective. We always hear about the rivalry between Whumpee’s-R-Us and Whumpee Barn, but why not end the argument once and for all? 

TW: Dehumanization, mild physical abuse.

“Hey guys, welcome back!” A blue head of hair pops up on-screen, smiling at the camera. “It’s Starr here, from This-Or-That, where we compare to see what really works!” The camera cuts to another angle, highlighting her short haircut.  “Sooooo, over the past couple weeks, we’ve had a new trend take the internet by STORM. Box Boys!!” A couple pictures of advertised Box Boys show up to the left of her face as she holds up her hand, pre-choreographed to look like she’s holding them. “Yep! These little cuties have been all over the place, so naturally I was dying to do a video about them!” 

“However, you know me and you guys know I can’t do something without comparing to see what’s good, and what’s better!” The camera angle changes again, this time showing her as she sits at her desk, talking with her hands. “So here’s the dealio guys. I talked with Whumpee’s-R-Us and Whumpee Barn, the two main companies that I’ve heard about. They were both super helpful and they each agreed to send me one, so I could take it to the test, and see whose product was actually better!” 

Starr leans in, cupping a hand to her mouth like she’s telling a secret. “Don’t tell them, but I think they both just wanted to show each other up.” She laughs, and pulls away. “So, I’m way excited for this, so let’s get right into the video! But before we do, don’t forget to like and subscribe, and hit the little bell so you get notified on all my updates!” She winks, and then the camera changes again. 

The camera switches to a full-studio view, showing the white backdrop and a couple of shelves. In the center of the camera is a bar-stool, and sitting to either side are two big boxes. Starr walks on camera from the left, and sits down on the bar stool smiling. 

“So guys, I know you’re all so excited to get to the unboxing, I know I can’t wait! Unfortunately, you guys know the drill.” She looks to the left and the camera slides to a familiar thumbnail, with the words Website and Customer Service Review on a blue speckled background. Her fingers come from the right, pushing that away and revealing a close up of her on the camera. 

“So, first impressions of each website." The camera shows the Whumpee's-R-Us website as it scrolls down the page. "Whumpee's-R-Us had a really great layout, it was easy to find everything I wanted, and their customer service was eager to answer any questions I had. Their website was also really modern, with tons of examples of Box Boys."

The view switches to the Whumpee Barn website. "Whumpee Barn's website was a bit harder to look through, and there definitely weren't as many options. The website had a more rural look to it, a bit more rustic. But I guess that's what you get when barn is part of the title, eh?" She laughs, then continues.

"I ended up going random for both my boys, there were just so many options!" The camera switches back to Starr, smiling into the center. "But back to business. For websites, I give Whumpee's-R-Us a 5-Starr rating, because of the clean, sleek look, and it was really easy to navigate." A small counter pops up on the bottom of the screen, with five little pictures of her face, all of them colored in. 

"I'm giving Whumpee Barn a 4-Starr rating. It was really good, but it could be a bit more up-to-date on the current styles and trends.” She flips her hair, revealing a purple layer underneath the blue. “Okay! Now it’s time to start on the unboxing, which I’m excited for, and I know all of you are too!!” 

The camera cuts to a full-room view again, with Starr standing between the two boxes. She waves. “So we’re about to open the boxes, and I couldn’t decide which one to open first, so I flipped a coin and we’re opening the W-R-Us first!” She claps her hands, and walks around one of the boxes, labeled Whumpees-R-Us. She grabs some scissors and starts opening the box, grabbing the instructions. 

“Okay guys, here are the instructions for the W-R-Us Box Boy. It says to start with water, and then...” She squints. “Percussive impact with the palm or back of hand.” She smiles at the camera and shrugs. “I’m sure we’ll figure it out!” 

She removes the rest of the packing, then shoots the camera a big smile and it zooms in. “Guys!!! Look at him! He’s so cute!!!” She pulls up a thin, pale and blindfolded boy, dotted with freckles and with a mess of bright red hair. She grabs a water bottle and undoes it, gently holding it up to his lips. “Hydrate him, remember? Probably hasn’t had any water for a while.” 

The boy barely reacts to being pulled up, but as the water is put to his lips, he starts drinking. Quickly, like it was going to be taken away. Starr lets him drink as much as he wants, until the bottle runs dry. She turns to the camera with wide eyes. “Wow! Sure was thirsty! Okay! Onto step two. Percussive Impact.” 

She gently taps his cheek with her hand, increasing the pressure as he doesn’t respond. She looks towards the camera and shrugs, then slaps his cheek, making his head turn from the impact. After the slap, his head turns back towards Starr hesitantly, as if looking for her. 

Starr smiles, then takes off his blindfold revealing bright green eyes. They look wildly around the room, trying to take it all in. She squeals a bit. “Awwwww.... He’s even cuter!!” She takes his face in her hands, smiling up at him. “Aren’t you the cutest thing ever?” His eyes go to her, and the corner of his mouth twitches up in a hesitant, almost smile. 

Starr drops his face, leaving him in the box as she stands up and goes over to the Whumpee Barn box. “Okay! So we’ve done one, and he’s adorable, let’s see how the other one compares!” She smiles widely, walking to the other box and starting to open it up.  

She pauses as she brings up these instructions, on a booklet. “Wow! This is quite the user manual! W-R-Us had one of those too, but it wasn’t as big.” She starts flipping through it. “Hmm... User warranty, disclaimer, etc and legal stuff... Ooo! Found it! Opening the product. Step one: Remove packaging from Product.” She takes off the top layer of bubble wrap, revealing the back of someone kneeling in the box.

“Step two. Use collar to bring product to kneeling position. Hmm, this is new, the W-R-Us one didn’t come with a collar, they just came with a blindfold.” She shrugs, grinning at the camera and grabs the collar around the boy’s neck, yanking him up. The boy flinches at her touch, but comes up, kneeling upright and breathing heavily. 

“Oooo! He’s a cutie too!” She turns his head towards the camera, showing off an olive toned skin, with brown wavy hair. His jaw is clenched, and the blindfold doesn’t conceal a frown on his face. 

“Next they say to give him water too, so here goes!” She holds the water to his lips and he pulls back at first, then realizes what it is and starts drinking. His lips are slightly chapped. 

“Okay! Now we can take the blindfold off so here goes. Let’s see how this guy compares to the other!” Starr reaches for the blindfold, untying it and not being too gentle. The blindfold comes off, and she turns his face towards the camera. Blue eyes stare back, eyebrows furrowed and a glare on his face. Starr doesn’t seem to notice, turning his face back to her.

“Another cutie!!! Honestly guys, I’ve got the real haul right here!” She stands up, looking between the two boys sitting in the boxes. “I’m gonna cut to review, and we’ll do the rest of the unboxing in another video!” She waves, and the camera cuts to her, sitting at the desk again. 

She snaps her fingers, and a tally board comes up on-screen, with two sections. One with W-R-Us and one with W-Barn. 

“Soooo, First-Impressions-Tally! You all know how this works! Since this is a multi-video review, we’ll keep track of the tally’s and the one with the most at the end is the winner! This test will go on for three months, so I’ll try to give them out sparingly.” She winks into the camera, referencing her love of showering the coveted “tally-marks” in previous videos. 

“So, right off the bat I noticed that both W-R-Us and W-Barn tried to keep quality high, and sent adorable boys. That gets them both a tally mark.” A line appears in each box, and a picture of both of the boys pops up. The redhead, looking into the camera with hunched shoulders and a bit of a hesitant look, and the blue-eyed boy, sitting up straight and glaring into the camera. The pictures shrink and move to the bottom right of the screen. 

“However, I did notice that the W-Barn Box Boy is going to need a bit more training. I definitely did not like the way he was looking at me. So that’ll give one tally to W-R-Us." The tally appears in the corner, in a little sparkle of glitter. 

Starr flips her hair, showing the purple underneath. “That’s about it for the initial review, I’ll be uploading more content and reviews soon, so make sure to hit the notifications bell if you want to see more W-R-Us vs W-Barn!” 

She leans back, and the two pictures of the box boys come back up, filling the screen. 

“I’m so excited to finally have my box boys, but I’m so sure it’ll be totally worth the wait! This video is getting a bit on the long side, but I’m just dying to know! What do you think I should name them? I’ve got two, and I wanna hear all your suggestions! So, leave a comment in the comment section down below, and I’ll announce names in my next video!” 

The pictures disappear, and the camera focuses back in on her face. “As always, this isn’t possible without you guys and I love you all to bits! Don’t forget to like and subscribe, and click to get notified of all my new uploads! We’ll see you next time, on This Or That!” 

Next one here.

[malecsecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @actuallyredorchid!

Thank you for your great prompts, I tried to combine as many as possible into one fic (and it evidently ran away with me …)

malec | rated: t | extended oneshot | canonverse time travel, first meetings, developing relationship, established relationship, 5+1 things

fic summary:

Magnus Bane meets a man from his future, interwoven throughout moments in his past.

Read on AO3

*****

Your Name for a Capital

“In my dreams I am kissing your mouth and you’re whispering ‘where have you been?’ I say, ‘I’ve been lost but I’m here now. You’re the only person who has ever been able to find me.’”

— Sue Zhao

ONE | MADRID, SPAIN, 1619

Magnus Bane saves people. Somewhere along the line, this became fact. Somewhere along the line, he lost someone he couldn’t get back, and he decided no more. That’s enough . He suspects it was his mother.

Catarina says that other people’s happiness takes priority over his. You need people to need you, Magnus.

Magnus laughed at her the first time she suggested it: you’ve only just met me , he had said. How can you know that?

You rescued me from that stake , she replied matter-of-factly. You didn’t have to, but you did. That’s how I know .

I just wanted to make an impression , Magnus had said. He didn’t want to tell her that she was right.

And Catarina being right is the reason why Magnus is still awake and hasn’t been home since the morning before, wandering the deserted streets of a slowly stirring city as the last of his adrenaline fades: last night, the High Warlock of Madrid had refused a newly-turned Vampire in need of a potion to quell his hunger, and Magnus has never been one to stand idly by. He knows how the High Warlock looks at him and sneers, an ugly wrinkle to his nose as he calls Magnus young and inexperienced and insolent , but Magnus doesn’t like playing by the rules.

He saves the people he’s not meant to save. There’s an opiate thrill in it, swooping in at the last minute and saving the day, and he chases the rush, the way adoration and gratitude burn through him leaving him breathless and ignited. The taste of power in his fingertips, willful and impassioned and destined to do good - he needs it. He needs to know that it’s still possible for him after he left everything in the East Indies behind.  

Madrid is sleepy shortly after sunrise; the sky is a brilliant blue but the streets are steeped in shadow that remains icy cold to the touch. There are alleyways and dark corners aplenty for demons to hide, but Magnus lingers in the intermittent shards of early sunlight that slip through the spaces between the townhouses. The city rarely feels this still, but the cobble beneath his feet and the granite on either side muffle all sound in the narrow, valley-like streets. Magnus feels like he’s walking along the bottom of a steep canyon and his every step might echo.

The clack of wooden shutters against the side of a house echoes too. The opening of balcony doors. The yowl of a stray cat. All the sounds of a home that has been made a home; the city begins its wakening, and Magnus finally feels his sleepless night weighing on his shoulders. His bed calls out to him. He might as well get a few hours of shut-eye before the High Warlock comes looking and chews him out.

And then, Magnus hears the echo of something else. He’s not sure what catches his attention: a shout, a clatter – but it’s his magic that stirs first. He feels it in his fingertips, a twitch, as it scuttles up the back of his neck forcing him to turn his head, like the restless spasm of a nerve.

He strains his ear to listen, but the silence suffocates all noise, and the world holds its breath, deathly still.

Clang !

A resounding clamour behind him; a body shoved against a wall, a low grunt.

Magnus stops in the middle of the street and turns a full circle, listening for another sound. The wind, the rattle of wagon wheels on the cobblestone, the city’s murmur - another muffled shout. The twang of a bowstring. The recognisable hiss of a demon evaporating in a shard of sunlight.

He reaches out with his magic, probing for disturbances in the air; in return, he feels the bitter, swirling energy of Shax demons, a lot of them, biting and snapping at his magic as he reels it back in.

Strange , he thinks. But not unheard of . Shax demons rarely attack in the daylight, but they’re drawn to concentrated power, unusual magic wetting their appetite, and in a city like Madrid, there is plenty of that to go around. The leylines that spread out across the country gather in the Plaza del Arrabel, and it’s not inconceivable to find a spider waiting at the centre of the web.

Or a Shax. Regardless, they both have too many legs for Magnus’ liking.

Cautiously, Magnus extends the shield of his magic again: the demonic energy is familiar in the way it always is, reeking of Edom and the planes below, red and brimstone-coloured in Magnus’ mind like Hellfire. But there’s another layer, another current clashing with it and forming a riptide: it’s faintly white and silver, cutting through the stench of Hell. It tastes Angelic - pure and metallic like Adamas - and Magnus’ magic recoils at the touch, but it doesn’t burn as it usually does.

It’s not a Shadowhunter. Well, it is, because the Nephilim are loud and brash and unmistakable in everything they do, but it’s not Angelic power as Magnus knows it.

It’s different, obscured. Distorted somehow.

Another loud crash rings out through the empty streets.

Magnus gathers his magic into his palm, wisps of blue and purple that coil like a serpent in his waiting hand. He slips down a sidestreet, his magic wavering like a compass needle as it guides him towards the epicentre.

Trust the Nephilim to get in over their heads , he thinks. And expect a Warlock to come save the day.  

He can hear Catarina scolding him: I told you I was right.

The old parts of the city are like a maze: twisting, turning, easy to get lost in for anyone but Magnus - but he’s drawn towards the sound of a fight, his magic crackling in his fingertips, eager and impatient.

The stench of the Shax demons gets stronger as he draws closer and he wrinkles his nose. He can sense five, maybe six, not enough to be a problem, but too many for Magnus to waltz into the middle of a battle and not risk being hurt.

And one Nephilim.  

The Angelic power crackles in the air, scattering across Magnus’ skin and raising the hairs on his arms. It pulses and spasms, unstable in a way Magnus has never felt before, as if suddenly cut free from age-old ties and left to convulse as feeling and freedom rushes back into its metaphysical body all at once.

Shadowhunters are usually so cold and controlled. Their power is regimented and stern, never wandering and never wavering, and yet this - this is rogue.

And there’s something more. Magnus doesn’t notice it at first, but as he plasters his back against a wall to catch his breath and his bearings, he listens to the hum of his answering magic, and he feels it. A presence, heavy and unfamiliar, intangible in a way Magnus’ magic cannot grasp. It has no smell, no taste, no colour at all, a blend of magic existing in a dimension he cannot fully grasp, but he feels its effects so strongly it overwhelms him.

The air seems to shimmer like a mirage. Magnus can feel the leylines thrumming beneath his feet and it makes him uneasy, but it makes his heart pound too.

You’re reckless with yourself , Catarina would say. You’re going to end up hurt.

But Catarina isn’t here.

Magnus straightens out his doublet and smooths his hands down his breeches, flexing his fingers as he moulds the magic from blue to red and the intent becomes him.

Then, he steps out from behind the wall - and it’s exactly as he expected.

Six snarling Shax demons circling a lone Shadowhunter, froth dripping from their open jaws and their shrill cries piercing the air like the dying herald of a wounded animal. The Shadowhunter is pinned against the wall; he has a bow in his hand and an arrow poised, but he holds himself still, waiting for one of the demons to pounce before he looses it.

He doesn’t look hurt. In fact, he looks remarkably unbothered, and the only thing askew about him is his dark hair, ruffled by the wind, and the scuff of dust on his knees. He breathes deeply, and even at a distance, the deep rise and fall of his shoulders is apparent, but his eyes are focused, moving from demon to demon, anticipating their every move with the expertise of a man who has spent years training to hunt monsters.

The Shadowhunter’s gaze flicks to Magnus, over and above the wall of prowling Shax demons. His eyes briefly widen, his eyebrows jumping in a way that highlights the thin scar that runs through his left brow, but his stare is vibrant, honeyed-brown in the early morning, and alive . Magnus’ magic jolts in response.

And maybe he imagines it, but the corner of the Shadowhunter’s mouth tips up into the crooked inkling of a smile. He nods at Magnus.

And then he leaps into action.

The Shadowhunterdraws back his bowstring and releases, his flying arrow piercing straight through the hide of the closest Shax demon. The demon shrieks, clawing at its own chest, but the arrow glows bright white, and in a sudden burst of ether, the demon dissolves into a cloud of black dust.

But before the Shadowhunter can blink, a second demon lunges for him from the side. The Shadowhunter ducks beneath the outstretched claw, spinning onto his knees and stabbing the sharp end of his bow into the demon’s belly. The demon throws its head back with a scream and strikes at the Shadowhunter again - but Magnus thrusts his palm out and blasts it with a torrent of magic, carving its body in two and turning it to dust.

The Shadowhunter glances over his shoulder and Magnus grin, the blue tendrils of magic twisting in between his fingers, but the Shadowhunter doesn’t stop; he’s on his feet again and moving, notching another arrow like he’s done this a hundred times before and trusts Magnus to watch his back. He draws the bowstring back to his lips and the arrow soars, so fast and hard that it pierces through the third demon and out of the other side, as if its flesh has been turned to butter. The bow in the Shadowhunter’s hand quivers.

Magnus has never seen a bow like it, sleek silver and glowing with faint runes embossed on the metal. The Adamas sings and Magnus can feel its residual power meshing with his own magic; it invigorates him like a gasping breath, like a punch of energy he’s never felt before, white-hot and celestial and setting his own magic alight as if drawn, instantly, to the point at which Magnus is most flammable.

An arrow whizzes past Magnus’ ear and the breath of it slice into his cheek as it disappears over his shoulder. His fingers shoot up to his face to feel for the thin line of a cut, but his hand comes away bloodless. Magnus’ mouth falls open on instinct, but the Shadowhunter is grinning at him like he’s God damn pleased with himself, and he fires another arrow over Magnus’ head. Magnus twists around as the Shax demon behind him falters - the shafts of two arrows protruding from its chest - and evaporates, its remnants splattering across the cobblestones.

One demon left. Magnus turns to face it as the Shadowhunter does, reaching back for his quiver.

The Shadowhunter sucks in a breath, grabbing his last arrow and notching it in his bow. The Angelic power shudders, and so does the presence that belies it; it radiates out along the shaft of the arrow, gathering in the point.

His fingers twitch, the arrow flies, but Magnus waves his hand in a sudden arc, launching the last demon into the wall where it explodes in a shower of black dust. The Shadowhunter’s arrow misses, embedding itself in the wall with a silent puff of plaster.

The sound of a clock tower bell striking upon the hour rings out in the immediate silence. Each clanging ring pulsates like a drumbeat, disturbing the dust and demon viscera settled on the road.

Magnus smirks to himself, dusting his palms on his doublet and sweeping his windswept hair back against his head. He can feel his heartbeat racing, his breath panting. Exhilaration makes him grin. His eyes flick towards the Shadowhunter who stoops to collect his spent arrows and slots them back into his quiver.

Magnus’ head is buzzing.

“That was impressive,” he says, eyes raking over the Shadowhunter’s broad back. His clothes are like nothing Magnus has ever seen before, tight-fitting and embossed with metal; and instead of buckles and clasps, his shiny leather jacket fastens with a line of silver teeth. He wears no armour. No waistcoat, no stockings, no simple cravat.

But he’s tall and handsome and well-built, with the gait of a soldier and a dark, inky Deflect rune snaked around his pale throat. Definitely Nephilim .

So why doesn’t he feel like a Nephilim?

Magnus raises his eyebrows, running his teeth over his lower lip as he appraises the long line of the Shadowhunter’s legs as he bends over to yank his last arrow out of the ground. “You dispensed those Shax demons rather proficiently, I must say.”

The Shadowhunter pauses and glances back over his shoulder, looking Magnus up and down, and laughs. Laughs. Not at Magnus, per say, but he laughs as if he’s genuinely delighted by the fact Magnus just saved his life, and yet is completely bemused by it.

His laughter lights up his face, attractive creases forming at the corners of his dark eyes as he straightens and turns to face Magnus. “You’re supposed to say well done ,” he says.  

Magnus raises his eyebrows, unamused. “Well done?”

“Yeah,” the Shadowhunter grins. He slings his bow over his shoulder and walks up to Magnus like they’re old friends who often spend the morning dispatching demons in a back alley - but Magnus refuses to budge. “You say well done , and then I say: more like medium rare .”

Magnus frowns. “If that’s a jest, I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“It’s our thing,” says the Shadowhunter, but then he glances around, his gaze sweeping up the walls of the overlooking townhouses. He seems to realise where he is for the first time and his cheer wavers for a moment. “Or it will be, I guess. Where, uh - where am I?”

“Did you take a bump to the head back there?” Magnus scoffs, but the Shadowhunter’s earnestness makes him pause; the Shadowhunter grips the limb of his bow where it’s looped over his shoulder, thumbing at the metal. He genuinely doesn’t know. “We’re in La Latina.”

The Shadowhunter scowls. “Spain?”

“What do you mean, ‘ Spain ’? Of course we’re in Spain,” Magnus laughs sharply, “We’re in Madrid. I’ve met my fair share of Shadowhunters in my time, but never one quite so directionally challenged. Where did you think you were?”

The Shadowhunter shrugs, his cheeks tinged pink.

“Dunno,” he says, and Magnus struggles to make sense of the curious twang of his accent, but he can’t place it. His English is good, fluent even, and yet Magnus has travelled the world over and never met anyone who sounds like this. “I figured Europe, but I wasn’t sure. I didn’t know where I’d end up, but - shoulda known it’d be here. With you.”

He smiles at Magnus again, as if that’s enough to answer the myriad of questions Magnus now has. He seems delighted to see Magnus, to see him here despite not knowing where here was, and as his eyes roam over Magnus’ face, pinning every detail to memory, Magnus doesn’t have the faintest idea why.

The Shadowhunter must be concussed. Perhaps that explains why the power leaking from his runes is going haywire. Magnus should really do him a favour and take him back to the Institute, leave him out on the front steps. Not only will the Head of the Institute then owe him a favour, but the High Warlock will also hate the fact Magnus has been out helping amnesiac Shadowhunters in his spare time.

Two birds with one stone, really.

Magnus narrows his eyes. “Evidently, you know who I am and expected me to be here,” he says carefully, but the Shadowhunter doesn’t show any signs of annoyance at being found out. He even has the nerve to take a step closer. “But I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of your company before. And I am not one to forget a face.”

The Shadowhunter rolls his eyes. “It’s fine,” he says, but the fond exasperation in his voice throws Magnus. What on Earth is wrong with this man - “You don’t know me.”

“But clearly, you know me,” Magnus presses. “If the Institute has some business with me that I don’t know about, they can come knocking on my door and pay for my services like everyone else. They don’t need to accost me in the street.”

“I’m not here on any business,” says the Shadowhunter, looking down at himself and drawing Magnus’ eye back to his clothes. He’s too pale to be local, his skin untanned by the Spanish sun, and his gear is shiny and elegant, his leather boots well-polished. His trousers are practically painted onto his long legs, and his collarless shirt clings to the faint outline of muscle on his chest.

It makes Magnus feels uncharacteristically underdressed. Or overdressed. He’s not quite sure. Self-consciously, he straightens out the sleeves of his doublet and adjusts the frill of his cuffs. If he’d known he’d be meeting mysterious Shadowhunters in the depths of the old city this morning, he would’ve worn his best hat, the one with the feather, God damnit.

The Shadowhunter is still watching him. Openly, gently; it’s all wrong. A Shadowhunter has never looked at Magnus like this before: like he wouldn’t rather see Magnus locked up in some dungeon or put to use warding the Institute, as has always been his only value in the eyes of the Nephilim.

Maybe he’s playing you , Magnus thinks. He’s acting friendly to get what he wants, whatever that is. He’s not what he seems.

Or maybe he’s exactly what he seems and you’ve just forgotten how to trust people.

Magnus frowns, and looks down at his ringed hand before he extends it to the Shadowhunter, letting the wisps of his magic curl and then fade around his fingers. The Shadowhunter is unfazed.

“Alec,” says the Shadowhunter, his smile turning playful. He reaches out and grasps Magnus’ hand with a sure grip, and it makes Magnus’ magic stutter again.

“Alec. Short for Alexander?” Magnus guesses, “Alexander whom? I thought you Shadowhunters were excessively proud of your lineages. Do you not have a family name?”

Alec bites his lip and shakes his head, holding in a laugh. He withdraws his hand too soon. “Yeah, I do. But, well - I guess that’s spoilers.”

“Spoilers?” Magnus repeats, rolling the unfamiliar word around in his mouth. “Hm.” He considers cutting his losses - he’d rather not get involved with a troublesome Shadowhunter who speaks in riddles and won’t even tell Magnus his name - but his curiosity has been piqued. Curiosity killed the cat, Magnus , Catarina would tell him. She’s probably right. This might be the weirdest thing that’s happened to him all decade - and that includes a very unfortunate incident involving Ragnor, a bottle of tequila, and the fact he is now barred from purchasing a copy of Don Quixote de la Mancha anywhere in the city.

“You’re a long way from home, aren’t you, Alec?” Magnus probes, circling Alec slowly. “And if you truly aren’t here on Institute business, how did you end up in my neighbourhood encroached upon by a swarm of Shax demons, might I ask? They don’t rarely attack people in the daylight.”

Magnus’ magic flexes in his fingertips, reacting to the unknown undercurrent that still lingers in the air. It’s not Angelic. He can discern that now, but it’s not Demonic either. He doesn’t know what it is: a shiver of someone else’s magic, but it doesn’t belong to this Shadowhunter. Too powerful for that.

It feels like temporal magic. Vast and unwieldy and unable to be bent and shaped like other forms of energy. Magnus doesn’t know it well, but he’s been working on his portal theorem for a while now, and he’s read every musty old text the Silent Brothers have to offer on the subject of how magic threads itself through time and space. He just hasn’t been able to grasp it yet.

The unfamiliar magic flutters in a realm he can’t comprehend; it’s like reaching for a handful of water, only for it to flood between his fingers. Magnus frowns, but when he glances up at Alec, he finds Alec watching him expectantly, like he’s waiting for Magnus to come to a realisation that must be inevitable.

Oh , Magnus thinks. He knows what it is. He knows exactly what it is and must know that I can feel it.

“Wrong place, wrong time,” Alec says cryptically. His voice is low. Magnus feels it ripple down the back of his neck.

“Do you believe in chance?” Magnus asks.

Alec’s mouth quirks again. “Not really.”

The demonic energy has faded and no more Shadowhunters have come running. Whatever or whoever Alec the Shadowhunter is, Magnus doesn’t want to let him go now. He’s too interested.

This is going to come back and bite him.  

“So, what now?” He doesn’t realise he’s said it until it’s said, and it hangs, suspended, in the space between him and Alec that has contracted without Magnus really noticing. Did I take a step forward, or did he - “Where are you headed?”

Alec says nothing, meeting Magnus’ eyes and holding his gaze. The temporal magic quietens, but doesn’t vanish. Instead, the buzzing in Magnus’ temples simply fades until it becomes a hum of background noise.

Alec looks at him. Alec looks through him, as if all Magnus’ smoke and mirrors are nothing but fantasy and he can see straight into Magnus’ chest, to a part of Magnus that Magnus doesn’t even know exists, let alone how to control, but he’s sure he’s exposing all his secrets.

Magnus clenches his jaw and shifts in his boots, refusing to be unwound. His magic pulls taut, straining at his skin, reaching out for the other magic he just can’t seem to grasp; it dips and dives through his metaphorical fingers, slippery and unwilling to be caught. The silence stretches on a beat too long.

And then Alec shrugs again, breaking the spell, his eyes flicking away like it was nothing. His smile turns gentle. Illuminated. Almost dazed. The slow rising of the sun over the rooftops glances off his cheeks and forehead, highlighting the threads of deep brown in his hair and drawing Magnus’ attention back to the honey colour of his eyes.

“Anywhere,” he says simply.

Magnus blinks. “Anywhere? What does that mean?”

“It means I’ll go anywhere,” Alec clarifies, “I have nowhere to be. Not for a while. Where are you going?”  

Magnus’ mouth falls open. Oh .

What is happening here? Who are you?

Why are you looking at me like that?

His magic reaches out for Alec on its own accord. Alec can’t see it and likely can’t sense it either, but Magnus feels his power reaching, eager to grab fistfuls of Alec’s jacket and pull him closer.

A thought: you can trust this Shadowhunter. He isn’t like the rest. He isn’t like anyone you’ve ever met .

Magnus clears his throat pointedly. “I was on my way to Plaza del Arrabel,” he lies. His bed can wait. He’s going to do something stupid first. “Perhaps you’d like to see it. I could show you the way.”

“I’d like that,” Alec smiles.

&&&

Magnus leads the way through the old city: he loves the narrow Gothic streets, their sun-baked cobblestones, the earthy colours and heavy stone, the ornate windows and doors with heavy cast-iron knobs and a thousand stories to tell. He knows the name of nearly everyone who lives here: the merchant on the corner, the painter in the attic room, the greying musketeer who frequents the tavern in the basement, spinning tales about his days in the regiment that get more and more grandiose with each successive glass of wine.

The street smells like people wilting in the heat, and the pot-holed stone shimmers. A church casts a shadow that blends with the dappled shade of a single olive tree bursting out of the earth. Magnus can hear the strum of a sitar seeping from a high-up window and it coaxes his blood to sing.

He walks beside Alec, but doesn’t noticed the distance between them disappearing until Alec’s shoulder brushes against his. Magnus glances sideways at Alec, but Alec doesn’t notice, enraptured by the sight of a shoe-shiner polishing the boots of a man in armour; of a young woman setting up her stall of apples and cantaloupe melons to sell; of two horses tied to a hitching post and huffing in the slowly rising heat.

Magnus summons two apples from the grocer’s stall and holds one out to Alec: it’s ruby red and glossy in the sunlight, but Alec still squints at him, glancing back at the woman at the stall. Magnus rolls his eyes and snaps two gold coins into her pocket for her trouble, and that makes Alec smile triumphantly as he takes the apple from Magnus’ hand, his fingertips brushing against Magnus’ rings.

The apple crunches as Alec bites into it, the flesh crisp and sweet, and the juice rolls down his chin. Magnus watches, transfixed, until Alec meets his eye and raises his eyebrow as if to say what? Magnus laughs quietly to himself, but it sticks in his throat.

Deliberately, he lets their shoulders brush again. His pinkie strokes against the side of Alec’s and the magic sparks like flint.

Alec doesn’t react, taking another bite of his apple as he looks upwards, his attention now caught by a woman leaning out of her window three floors above their heads, reeling in her washing line; everything is a marvel to him, save Magnus. He’s not surprised by the touch. Not repulsed by it either. It’s almost as if he’s used to the familiarity, as if he’s expecting it, and that -

That makes Magnus nervous.

Madrid lives and breathes in its people. It’s a city adored by the sun and swathed in music at all hours of the day and into the night. Dozens of intersecting lives, and yet Alec doesn’t fit in at all. It’s like he’s stepped out of a different time.

And yet why do you feel so endlessly familiar? I would remember if I’d met you before.  

“You know, I’ve never been to Madrid before,” Alec remarks then, taking the tip of his thumb into his mouth as he licks off the apple juice. “Which is weird when there’s been an Institute here for so long, but I never really travelled before I met - uh. Yeah. I should make the most of it while I’m here, huh?”

Magnus snorts. “You keep saying these cryptic things that make me more and more confused as to how it was that you accidentally ended up in Madrid,” he says. “Which Institute are you from?”

“New York,” Alec says automatically, before he pauses, the apple pressed against his lips. He turns to look at Magnus. “I mean, uh - shit. New York probably doesn’t exist yet, does it?”

Magnus narrows his eyes, and with his free hand, he lets his magic curl. Quietly, probingly, curiously - a question posed ( who are you ?).

And much to his surprise, he feels a ripple of an answer in return, spoken in a language he doesn’t know how to translate. The magic coaxes him back to Alec with a magnetic pull. A shift in the fabric of the universe, unnoticeable and untraceable, but not unlike a faint shimmer in the air above hot cobblestones or the glimpse of a shadow from the corner of the eye. Something that’s not quite right, but which disappears when looked at for too long.

Temporal magic. Of course. It makes sense now.

Alec didn’t know he was in Madrid not because he wasn’t expecting to come to Madrid, but because it doesn’t look like the Madrid he knows.

He’s a long way from home, indeed.

“I can’t say I’ve ever heard of New York,” Magnus says slowly, “York in England is a delightful place, of course - I’ve been many times, but - something tells me you’re not from around here.”

Alec shrugs meekly, taking another bite of his apple. “Like, I said -”

“I know what you said,” Magnus insists, “I’m asking how did you get here ? How did you end up in this particular year ?”

“Ah,” says Alec.

“I’m still trying to master cross-time magic, but I know it when I sense it, and you are drenched in it,” Magnus continues. “If someone has beaten me to the creation of the portal -”

“Not a portal,” Alec admits, “Spell. We were trying to bind a demon, I got hit with some residual magic. This is a side effect.”

Magnus’ eyes widen. “So, you are from the future.”

Alec shrugs again, but he’s biting back another smile. He seems infuriatingly unconcerned by this revelation. “Promise you won’t tell anyone?”

“Oh, I am a warlock of my word,” Magnus says, marking an X across his heart with his index finger, but he can feel his magic vibrating, and it’s a miracle his hands aren’t shaking too. “What are the Nephilim doing with temporal magic?”

“Not us. We called in an expert. A Warlock.”

“Oh, a Warlock. And what is their name? I might know them.”

“Spoilers, sorry.”

“But the spell was strong enough to send you back in time,” Magnus remarks, “Which suggests the caster was someone particularly powerful, and I can only think of a few who might be able to wield that sort of magic -” He taps his index finger against his mouth in thought. The High Warlock of Rome has long been interested in manipulating time with magic - but only because he’s incredibly vain and fears getting any older. And then there’s Ragnor, who has been helping Magnus collect old tomes for his portal research, and so help him God, if the old bastard’s gone and stolen Magnus’ work in the future - “If I guess correctly, would you tell me?”

Exasperated, Alec rolls his eyes. “Spoilers,” he says again.

Magnus clicks his tongue. “Very well. Keep your secrets, but permit me one last q uestion ... when is it in the future that you come from?”

Alec licks his lips but shakes his head. His smile is coy. “I’m not going to tell you that either,” he says, “Sorry.”

“Good God,” Magnus laments, throwing his hands up in the air, “Ruin my fun, why don’t you. Can you not give me a clue? A hundred years? More?” He gestures at Alec’s clothes. “I want to know when it is that I might look forward to this strange fashion.”

“I’m from ... a while in the future,” says Alec, glancing up at the yellow-stone buildings that tower above them. His brow furrows. “I think.”

“You think?”

Alec nods. He glances around, and while a few people are eyeing Alec strangely, no-one stands within ear shot. Still, Alec drops his voice low. “Yeah. It’s, uh - it’s temporal hopping. Jumping through time. I’ll bounce around a bit until the residual magic wears off, and then - yeah. It’s not permanent. I’ll probably just disappear without warning.”

“I see.”

“You’re … you’re not freaked out by that?”

“If by ‘freaked out’, you mean to ask if I’m alarmed, then of course I -” Magnus stops himself. He’s not alarmed, but he should be. Men don’t just step out of a rip in time and claim to know him; it’s the stuff of fairytales and the theatre and the tall tales that find people accused of witchcraft and burned at the stake.

And yet he finds no space inside him to feel fear or shock or anything but the small flicker of deja vu and the unparalleled sense that he knows - this . The marvel in Alec’s eye as he takes in the city; the way he holds himself completely still and statuesque when Magnus speaks to him; and the soft laughter that underlies his words

Did I call out to you across time? Is that why you’re here?

“Magnus?”

Magnus looks up. It’s the first time Alec has called him by his name.

But Magnus never told him what it was.

It all comes together in a rush: he knows Magnus in the future.

Oh, God, what have you gotten yourself into, Bane?

“I’m not alarmed,” Magnus says, “Perhaps I should be, but I’m not. You live as long as I have, and you see enough that the world stops surprising you. Well -” He looks Alec up and down. “Almost. Here and there, there are a few bright spots.”

Alec beams at him, and it lights up his entire face. And the rest of the world - it fades away. Magnus wonders if he will miss it at all.

&&&

They come upon a large archway and Magnus guides Alec into the deep shadow and out the other side where the street opens up into an enormous plaza, three hundred feet across in each direction. The leylines gather here, and Magnus can feel the humming of energy beneath his feet like a network of blood vessels, pumping magic into the city’s heart: Warlock magic and Angelic power and Seelie spellcraft, and as Alec steps out into the sunlight, something else entirely. Magnus feels the change ripple through the leylines, spreading out and away from them and radiating across the square: not an earthquake, but still a seismic shift, a change in the fabric of the planet for those that might be looking.

But no-one is looking. That’s the beauty of Madrid, a place where Magnus needs not have a name if he doesn’t wish to have one.

In the centre of the plaza, there is a market, a patchwork of coloured tents and twisting pathways, hemmed in by tall red townhouses with slate grey roofs and elegant spires tipped by flags fluttering in the breeze.

The air is lively with chatter and smells of cattle, the merchants driving hard bargains and flashing brilliant smiles, herding the morning crowd towards their stalls lined with trinkets, gold and silver and impressive jewels alongside the vibrant colour of fresh fruit and smoked meat. A wagon rolls by, pulled by an ox that haws and huffs in the heat; in the back, crates of plump, red tomatoes that make Magnus’ mouth water.

But Alec’s focus is elsewhere. The sky is an endless canopy of blue, and he turns his face to the sun, his eyes fluttering closed. His eyelashes cast thin, delicate shadows upon his cheeks, and as the sun warms him, the corner of his mouth tilts up serenely.

Magnus is transfixed. He’s young, reckless, a hedonist; he considers himself a purveyor of beautiful people as much as he has a taste for danger, some soul-felt thrill to be found in complimenting the strength in a handsome man’s jaw or trading coy smiles with a woman in a lively crowd. He knows how to enjoy the sight of a man completely at peace.

But this - he doesn’t know this. Alec is both timeless and other-worldly; and as the rest of the world rotates around him, he doesn’t move.

For someone stepped out of time, he seems so permanent, like a man who has found his fixed point in the universe after a lifetime of searching. He exists differently to the passage of the sun in the sky and the bustle of movement through the market; he exists where Magnus exists.  

His immortality is not the same as Magnus’ - he’s Nephilim and Magnus can see the signs of age beginning to mark the corners of his eyes -  but, like Magnus, he views the world from a distance, through the perspective of someone who has seen different far-off times and places.

Looking at him makes Magnus feel younger than he has felt in centuries.

They meander through the labyrinth of market stalls, and it doesn’t take long for Magnus to notice what catches Alec’s eye.

His fingers trail across the spines of old leather books, and he admires a pair of earrings curled in the shape of two silver snakes while Magnus watches from afar. An artisan’s stall stacked with bright coloured jars of painter’s pigment leaves him looking wistful. A blacksmith displaying an array of ornately carved knives has Alec’s hand drifting to his side, his palm splayed over a rune Magnus cannot see.

None of these things match Alec - and Magnus doesn’t know how he knows that - but Magnus sees the love reflected in Alec’s eyes, a homely and unfettered sort of love, and he wonders who he thinks of.

But it’s the jewelry that draws Alec like a moth to a flame, the barest glint of gold and silver pulling him this way and that as Magnus dips through the crowds behind him. Rings and necklaces, small trinkets for the pocket, even a chain for the ankle adorned with fine jewel-coloured charms - Alec has to look at them all, has to weigh them in his hands and brush his thumb over the metal with a small but fierce scowl.

Magnus wants to ask him what he’s looking for, but perhaps that would disturb the trance - if Alec knows he’s been caught, he might stop, and Magnus is fascinated by his scrutiny. He studies each ring with the diligence Magnus might afford any Shadowhunter - but in the training room or on the battlefield, and not here, in a sunlit market of Madrid at noon.

Magnus allows his eyes to wander over Alec’s body: his long legs, his strong chest, his large alabaster-white hands as he cups the pendant of a necklace and inspects it in the sunlight. He wears no jewelry of his own, no necklaces, no cufflinks on his jacket, no rings save one.

A plain silver band winks at Magnus from Alec’s fourth finger.

“You’re married.”

Magnus doesn’t mean to say it - it’s nothing more than a passing observation, but -

It feels important. A detail meant to be noticed. And now that he’s seen it, it’s like the temporal energy swarms there, gathering on the ring in a cluster of dense magic.

Alec sets down the necklace in his hands and grins at Magnus, but this time, it’s accompanied by the most exquisite pink flush to his cheeks.

Yes, Magnus thinks, yes, I can see how someone would marry that.

“Yep,” Alec admits. The look in his eyes is tender and adoring as he looks down at his wedding ring, rubbing it with his thumb, and then back up at Magnus. “About a month ago.”

“Well, congratulations. What’s her name?”

“ His name.”

Alec holds Magnus’ gaze with diamond-like focus. He says nothing, but Magnus is unable to look away.

Magnus wets his lip and measures his words; it seems as if they might matter.

“How peculiar,” he says slowly, watching Alec’s face - he doesn’t give anything away, but his shoulders fall with the quiet release of a breath that Magnus might call relief. “Although, not as peculiar as a Shadowhunter wearing a ring. I was of the opinion that it was a rune on the hand and a rune on the heart.”

“It is.”

“Oh? So he’s not a Shadowhunter? Now I’m especially intrigued.”

Alec grins, his mouth parenthesised by dimples. He turns back to the stall and picks out another necklace, the fine silver chain and pendant glinting in the light.

Magnus frowns, stepping up to Alec’s side to peer over Alec’s shoulder..

The necklace is pretty. Magnus might wear it himself. He can imagine how it might feel draped against his chest, beneath his collar, the cold kiss of metal.  

“What do you think?” Alec asks, and he’s close enough that he need only whisper. Magus feels the puff of his breath against his jaw. “I like this one.”

Magnus hums, reaching out to take Alec’s hand and rub his thumb over the pendant cradled in Alec’s palm.

“Yes,” he says, “This one’s nice, indeed.”

&&&

The sun sets slowly, staining the sky in shades of orange and pale blue. Lanterns flicker to life, suspended from the awnings of the market stalls and dancing in the open windows that overlook the square. Shadows stretch long and thin and dark, and Magnus finds himself sat on the steps of the bronze statue in the middle of the plaza, still sun-warmed against his back.

He’s sat here a hundred times before, content to watch the day pass him by as people come and go. He has the time to spare; immortality lends itself for lounging and for lingering.

Now, though, Alec’s tall shadow looms over him, illuminated in gold around the edges by the dying of the sun.

Magnus looks up at him. Alec holds out a bag of mazapanes.

“Want one?” he asks.

Magnus takes a handful and pops one into his mouth: the taste of marzipan and almonds melts on his tongue and fills him with quiet fondness for this city he calls home.

Alec folds himself up on the steps beside Magnus, his legs stretched out in front of him and his shoulder pressed up against Magnus’. He’s warm to the touch, and Magnus feels his magic laving at Alec’s skin, wherever it can find space to shimmy beneath his clothes.

From the corner of his eye, he watches Alec lean back against the statue and exhale, his whole body relaxing. He tosses a few candied almonds into his mouth and then licks his fingers absently, all the while staring at the sky. The orange glow catches in his eyes and highlights the different shades of brown.

“Thank you for today,” he says, without looking at Magnus. “I had a good time.”

“I should be the one thanking you,” Magnus says, “This will make for an excellent dinner time anecdote that I’m sure no-one will believe. Heavens, I might not even believe it by this time tomorrow.”

Alec laughs softly. “I mean, thanks for not running away. I know this must -” He gestures with his hands. “- kinda weird.”

“Why would I run away?”

I feel like I know you. How impossible is that?

“I dunno. I just figured -” Alec stops mid-sentence, a frown furrowing his brow.

“What?” Magnus asks, “What’s the matter?”

Alec sets the bag of mazapanes on the steps and inspects his hand, curling and uncurling his fingers into his palm. “The magic’s fading,” he says, “I think.”

“Oh,” Magnus replies, “Are you sure?”

Alec holds out his palm to Magnus and Magnus reaches out with the invisible touch of his own magic, probing at the energy that licks across Alec’s skin: sharp, staticy, but there’s a restlessness to it now that wasn’t there before. The threads of the universe begin to fray and Magnus can feel them tickling, like fingertips skittering up his arm or like an intimate breath ghosting across the back of his neck.

The rest of the world seems to slow. Alec’s presence here distorts space-time just enough for Magnus to notice. The people passing by walk slower. Distant bird calls become longer. The sunset is paused, suspended in a forever yellow.

Alec’s going to disappear.

Magnus doesn’t have much time.

“The magic,” he starts, but he doesn’t know how to continue. He has so many questions still to ask and he’s not going to get answers to all of them. “The magic I feel on you, it’s volatile. It’s moving.”

Alec nods, still staring at his fingertips. “Yeah. I can feel it. It’s what happened just before I jumped the first time. It’ll stabilise for a bit, and then flip out again. Guess I’m about to go somewhere else.”

Magnus swallows thickly, and then, tentatively, he reaches out and touches his fingertips to the centre of Alec’s palm. The magic ripples as if Magnus is a stone in the water. He sinks too fast for his own liking. “The magic’s strong. I don’t think I can influence it, but I might be able to calm it,” he murmurs, gently pushing his own magic into Alec’s skin - his Angelic power hums, but Alec doesn’t resist. Magnus’ magic slips into his blood like sunlight. “It feels familiar, in a way. I don’t know why.”

Alec glances up at him, his mouth opening into a soft round oh . “Familiar?”

“Does that surprise you?” asks Magnus.

Alec shakes his head. He holds up his hand to the sunset, and it’s then that Magnus sees his skin has turned translucent and now, it appears near gold, like a shard of sunlight in which dust particulates dance. Slowly, Alec begins to fade away.

“No,” Alec says, turning his hand this way and that, and the pricks of dusk-coloured gold glint like jewels.

And Magnus - Magnus longs to touch him again, but fears his hand might pass right through, like wisps of fog and smoke that might disperse with even the tiniest shift. He cannot move; he doesn’t want Alec to go. There’s a feeling in his chest too big to comprehend; he hasn’t yet learned the way to grasp it, to hold it within himself. He wishes he knew what it was.

Alec’s shadow disappears, fading sunlight trickling through him. His legs, his arms, his body, now dust. All that remains is a whisper, before he is whisked away through the recesses of time that Magnus has yet to experience.

“No, Magnus,” he says, his voice lingering, “That doesn’t surprise me at all.”

Magnus doesn’t move for a while after. He watches the sunset pale into the faintest of yellows, and then lilacs, and finally deep, deep blues as the sky becomes pitted with stars. Madrid dances on. Laughter and music takes over the night, drunken cheers and singing, people spinning in the plaza around and around and around, but Magnus is unwilling to join them. Not yet. Maybe later. Maybe in a moment.  

He looks down at the steps. The bag of mazapanes is still there, solid to the touch, and yet an afterimage lingers upon it, invisible fingerprints that only his magic can sense.

He feels changed somehow. A part of him has shifted out of plane and now exists a step ahead or a step behind everything else.

Oh , Magnus thinks. I should’ve asked when I’d see you again.

TWO | LIMA, PERU, 1791

Nights in Peru smell like the sea: salt and seaweed and high winds that bring the Pacific inland as waves, washing over the taste of roasting bananas and coffee beans drifting up from the streets. The sky is navy blue and the moon, a thin white monolith, is suspended in a field of stars and constellations that Magnus has spent centuries learning.

He sits on the balcony of a townhouse, overlooking a small courtyard and nursing a cup of rich, red wine that reminds him of the dusty hills and towering mountains that surround the city. He doesn’t know how many cups he’s had, but it’s enough to warm his blood and linger like a hum in the back of his throat.

And it’s enough to forget a broken heart. Not enough to be rid of loneliness, but not even Catarina and Ragnor dragging him halfway across the world could do that, despite their best intentions. He can outrun a string of failed affairs, but he cannot escape the fact he’s four hundred years old and wants a little more than some smeared night he can’t remember with someone he’ll never see again.

Magnus sips quietly at his wine. Downstairs, there’s a party in full swing, drunken and exciting and billowing with oaky cigar smoke. Ragnor will be sitting in an armchair in the corner, and Catarina will be making elaborate excuses for Magnus’ absence, he’s quite sure.

But it’s the noise - the constant noise - he needed to escape. I need some air , he’d said to Cat. Just for a moment. I’ll be back . That was almost an hour ago, but she hasn’t come looking for him, not to introduce him to some doe-eyed stranger, nor to check that he hasn’t drunk himself into a self-deprecating stupor in the bathroom once again.

High above, the shadow of a large bird briefly crosses the moon; it soars on updraughts that Magnus cannot reach, borne away with ease, not minding where it ends up. It might be a condor. He envies it. They probably mate for life. How dreadful.  

Magnus tilts back in his chair, taking another sip of his wine, and sighs. The chair creaks and he closes his eyes, letting his breathing slow and the tension drip out of his body. He can hear a flute playing from a downstairs window and the thin, delicate notes drift upwards, longing and melancholy and dreaming of a wide expanse of wilderness, of freedom, of the loss of a great love. Magnus doesn’t really know which, but the song is beautiful and it lulls him into a doze.  

There are worse places to be alone. The night is balmy and he’s always loved the enduring magic of this place, the way the city is steeped in layers and layers of history, where the ancient world meets the new, and travellers from across the continent pass through in search for gold. So many men have spent their lives chasing paradise, but truly, Magnus might have found a slice of it right here.

He could fall asleep and never wake up again, and he doesn’t even think he’d mind. Catarina might find him faded away with the dawn and a soft smile on his face, a spilled cup of wine at his feet.

And yet why does your heart still ache? Why is it that you close your eyes and still dream of all the someones who have left you behind?

This is too much longing for one person. Too much time spent alone with the world; he knows all its corners far too intimately. There’s nowhere else left to see.

Behind him, the curtains rustle as someone steps out onto the balcony: a man, judging by his soft huff of breath as moves towards the balustrade. If he’s handsome, Magnus might take him back inside to bed. A whirlwind love-affair. He could stay in Peru a few decades. He wouldn’t mind that. His sheets have been cold for a while now, and he longs for cooling sweat and breathlessness and the feeling of being wanted. He longs for a flutter to stir his heart.

Magnus meets the man’s eyes and the thought fragments with a quiet, rippling chime, indistinguishable from the soft music in the distance or the sound of Magnus’ nail tapping against his wine glass.

Oh . A dream. A dream of a dream. A summer’s day in Madrid, years and years ago is borne back to him on the breeze.

It’s you.

I thought I dreamt you.

The curve of his back a beautiful parabola as he leans over the railings and gazes out across the rooftops, his profile highlighted by the flickering yellow glow of lantern light and the deep blue of the settled sky. His hair is the same inky black as it was all those years ago; the rune on his neck, just as stark. His clothes are different now, soft worn fabric clinging to his broad shoulders, while his pants hang loose about his hips. He goes barefoot.

And he hasn’t aged a day since Magnus saw him last. Perhaps it’s only been days for him. Not like the centuries for you.

Magnus barks out a laugh, swinging back in his chair and hoisting his feet up onto the balustrade. He swirls his drink around and presses the glass to his lip, but doesn’t take a sip. He must be drunk if he’s conjuring up memories from his past when he’s so desperate for companionship.

“God,” he laughs, shaking his head. He wonders if his longing can be heard through time. “Catarina and Ragnor always insisted that I made you up, but I told them you were real. Either they will kick themselves when I tell them later, or they’ll have me institutionalised. One can’t be sure.”

Alec, his impossible Alec, turns to look at him, his body still bent over the railings. His smile is fond and sleepy, like he’s been stolen out of a moment just before bed. It makes Magnus’ heart skip a beat.

“How long has it been?” Alec asks.

“One-hundred and seventy two years. Give or take a few, I’m sure. I might have lost a decade around the turn of the century through no fault but my own.”

Alec whistles a low note and looks back out across the city. The nighttime toys with the shadows that stretch and pool upon the mismatched rooftops: wells of deep purple and blue and odds with this glow of orange that seems infinite and ephemeral in the same moment, fading into the sky like a halo. Upon Alec’s skin, the colour is exquisite. It makes his eyes simmer with a gentle opal-dark fire.

“That’s a long time,” Alec says quietly, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? You have nothing to be sorry for. You can’t control it, the magic is volatile. You said so yourself.”

“A hundred and seventy years is a long time to go without seeing someone.”

Magnus hums, hiding the quirk of his mouth behind his glass again. He tips it back just enough to taste the wine on his lower lip, his tongue. It draws Alec’s eyes.

“It is,” he murmurs, “But worth the wait, I dare say.”

“You knew I was coming back?”

Magnus rolls his shoulders and slips out of his chair, joining Alec against the balcony. He molds himself into the space beside him, resting his glass on the railing and curving his body towards Alec, an open question. Alec shifts to face him, a timeless answer.

“Temporal hopping,” Magnus explains, “I’ve been reading up on it in the hope that you might come back to me. The magic may not be stable, but it still requires an anchor. Something that stays the same in all the places you’re drawn to. Usually it’s a location, the place where the original spell was cast, but given I’ve found you in both Spain and Peru now, I’m inclined to say that your anchor might, in fact, be a person.”

Alec’s mouth twists up into a smile. “Yeah?”

Magnus scoffs, buffing Alec on the arm with the back of his hand. It’s an excuse to touch him, to know that he’s real, to feel that forgotten ripple again. “Oh, come now, don’t play coy with me. I’ve had almost two centuries to think about it.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “You and I know each other in the future, don’t we?”

“You could say that.”

Magnus raises his glass at Alec. “You knew my name that day we met. I never told it to you, but you knew it all the same.”

“I did.”

“And in the future, we’re well-acquainted?”

Alec blushes, colour rounding at his cheeks. “Yeah. Yeah, definitely.”

“And I work with the Shadowhunters? Are we in business together?”

“Sometimes.”

Magnus scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You’re still just as cryptic and infuriatingly tight-lipped as before, I see.” His attention drifts down to Alec’s hand, curled over the balustrade. His wedding ring looks molten tonight.

“Your husband,” Magnus says, glancing up at Alec, “What did you say his name was again?”

“I didn’t.”

Magnus’ heart skips a beat. He wets his lower lip and is glad he’s got one hand on the railing and the other on his glass, so that Alec can’t see his fingers shake. “Ah,” he says, his voice a murmur, “You called that spoilers , if I remember correctly.”

“You do.”

Magnus hums, swirling the wine around in his glass. He considers the way the purple splashes up against the sides and leaves behind a fading red residue.

“I have a hypothesis,” he says boldly, “About why you wouldn’t tell me your name, last time. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

Alec chuckles to himself, looking to the sky. The constellations are reflected, dizzyingly, in his eyes. “You said you’d figure it out straight away. I shouldn’t have second-guessed you. You’ll say ‘I told you so’.”

“Future me sounds terribly astute.”

“Future you is a pain in my ass,” Alec teases, but the look in his eyes is endless. It speaks of a man deeply in love, the sort of love that has transcended a thousand hardships and never wavered, the sort of love both effortless and consuming - all the things that Magnus wants for. His chest aches again, some parts longing, and other parts jealousy. It makes that passing thought of taking a stranger to bed feel lukewarm.

And what’s the point of any of it being lukewarm -

Magnus’ smile becomes wry. He doesn’t want to dwell on that. Instead, he offers, like a baited line, “So, Alexander Bane, is it?”

“Lightwood-Bane,” Alec corrects. He thumbs at his wedding ring again, twisting it around his finger. It must be a habit. “Magnus, uh - my Magnus, he told me I shouldn’t tell you very much.”

“What a spoilsport he is,” says Magnus, but he leans in closer to Alec, drawn to the bob of Alec’s throat as he swallows, the gentle tremor of his nerves attuned to Magnus’ magic. What does he have to be nervous about? He knows Magnus. Incredibly well, it seems.  “So, it was my future self who cast this spell that backfired on you? How inconsiderate of me.”

Alec nods. “The demon was stronger than the binding spell you prepared. You managed to seal it, but - well, yeah. This happened. You said it would wear off pretty soon, but there might be, uh - bad side effects.”

“Side effects,” Magnus muses, “If me getting the pleasure of your company is a bad side effect, then -”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Alec interrupts quietly. “I mean - I won’t stay for long and I can’t control it. I don’t know where I’m going to end up. Or when.” His hand has shifted near to Magnus’ upon the railing, and now, Alec’s staring at them both, wondering where to draw the line before he oversteps. Magnus wants him to overstep.

This is his husband . It doesn’t seem real. Right now, in fact, it feels impossible, and it makes that too-large feeling build inside his chest again, constraining at his ribs and longing to be free; in the almost two hundred years since that day in Madrid, he still hasn’t learned how to contain it.

He has never imagined himself married. He’s never imagined finding a person who’d want to marry him . It makes no sense, and yet he doesn’t question it. It fits , he thinks. It fits with me. I feel whole. Too whole.

Perhaps it is a ruse. A drunken delusion, a joke. A cruelly crafted one for sure, but Magnus cannot bring himself to care. Not when Alec is gazing at him so softly, and the starlight is tangled in his messy, bed-ruffled hair.

He wants this man. He doesn’t understand it, but it hardly matters, because his head is wine-addled and he feels not himself, caught in Alec’s inexplicable pull and dragged, stumbling, off course.

It scares him. It does. There’s some part of him he has no control over and he’s not used to trusting himself to someone else’s hands.

“So what did my future self have to say about me?” he asks, and he wonders if Alec can hear the tremble in his voice. “Did he warn you of how devilishly handsome I am?”

He reaches out and trails his fingers down Alec’s shirt; the fabric is gossamer-soft to the touch, and Alec’s chest is warm and hard beneath it, but what surprises Magnus most is way his magic pulses in his fingers like it’s mimicking a heartbeat. A beat and an answer. An echo that doesn’t seem to fade away.

His hand falters. Alec notices this time.

“He didn’t tell me anything. That’s not how it works,” he says softly, “All time is concurrent. The past and the future - they happen at the same time, so this - us. Us meeting here. This hasn’t happened before.”

“Did I tell you that?”

Alec smiles sheepishly. “Yeah. Yeah, you did.”

“Oh,” Magnus murmurs, brushing his near-shaking fingertips over the slip of Alec’s clavicle visible beneath the neckline of his shirt. He marvels at the way Alec’s throat moves as he swallows; as he holds in a breath. He drops his voice to a whisper; any louder, and his magic, and the way it leaps at the touch, might bleed through. “So, your undoubtedly charming husband has no memory of what happens here tonight?”

Alec shakes his head. “Us meeting here - it makes a different future. My future is - it’s not going to be the same as your future. But they both exist. It’s, uh - kinda complicated.”

“Infinite futures. Hm. How extraordinary.” Magnus’ fingers drift along Alec’s collarbone, smearing through the invisible current that trips across Alec’s skin. His magic verberates, resonates, reflects. It’s like he’s ghosting his fingertips along the frayed edges of a nerve that stems from his own body - the frayed edges of a tiny rip in time and space - and every slight quiver threatens to make his breath hitch. He touches Alec and he feels it in himself. A part of him, a part of Alec, inexplicably tied. “I wonder if we meet in every one.”

Alec exhales slowly, steadying himself. He briefly glances away, out into the city, his eyes dancing from rooftop to rooftop. Magnus follows the working of his jaw. “If you did know. If you in the future did remember this, I don’t think you would’ve told me. Not when we first met, at least.”

Magnus’ hand stills against Alec’s sternum. The closer he gets to Alec’s heart, the stronger the pulse, the more he can feel the familiar undercurrent that lingers beneath the temporal energy that surrounds him. He looks up. “Why not?”

Alec screws up his mouth and hunches his shoulders, but it seems far less easy than before. “When we first met, I was scared. If you’d told me that we met before, I would’ve - I would’ve probably run, if I’m honest. I was kinda dealing with a lot back then.”

“But now?” Magnus asks.

“But now I’m happy,” says Alec.

Magnus doesn’t know what to say to that. He hears the sincerity in Alec’s words; it speaks of a terrible vulnerableness, a terrible loneliness left behind but not completely forgotten, one that Magnus knows too well, but it also -

Alec’s eyes meet his, and he smiles his lopsided smile, his eyes creasing up again, and it’s inutterable: this warmth, this tenderness, this growth from a shell of man that Magnus doesn’t even know and has never met, but he feels the entire story resonate as the magic does. The love radiates from Alec like he was fashioned from it, like the Angel gifted him devotion instead of skin and bones.

And to think it’s just a fraction of the love he must feel for his husband , Magnus thinks. That he feels for me, but not me.

Never me.

Magnus lays his palm flush against Alec’s collarbone. The familiar magic answers him, a surge more profound than before: that threads of torn time and space intertwine with something else, another magic so endlessly recognisable that it makes Magnus gasp.

Beneath the quivering Angelic power, and beneath the remnants of the backfired spell, Magnus finds a reflection of himself, every will and wish and want he’s ever known, because that’s what Alec is drenched in. His magic. Magnus’ magic - and how did he not notice it before, because it breathes and moves the same, answering the quirk of his fingers in a way he knows innately.

Magnus’ magic . Evolved to be softer and kinder, stronger and more encompassing, woven through with Angelic power, caressing at Alec’s skin and absorbed into his very being. And the pulse that Magnus feels within it is Alec’s blood, Alec’s heartbeat, Alec’s soul, bared to Magnus as he pushes and prods at this impossible man who stands before him.

Magnus rubs his fingertips against the slip of Alec’s bare skin. The strong tendon of his neck. The base of his Deflect rune, and it summons a trail of goosebumps down Alec’s throat and across his shoulder.

He watches Magnus’ intensely. Magnus can’t meet his eyes; he summons blue smoke into his fingers and marvels at the way it clings to Alec’s skin as it does to his own hand. Like it cannot tell the difference between him and Magnus.

How is that possible?

It feels so intimate. Magnus feels so known.

“I can feel -” he starts, before he realises he’s talking at all. “I can feel myself. I’m all over you.”

“Yeah,” Alec whispers. He reaches up and covers Magnus’ hand with his own, holding Magnus’ hand against his heartbeat. His wedding ring catches the midnight glow of the city and turns gold. “Yeah, I should hope so.”

“It’s my magic, but - it’s so strange. It’s like seeing your reflection in a mirror and noticing something is not quite right, but you can’t put a finger on the difference,” Magnus murmurs. “It knows you. It’s like it’s changed because of you.”

How can I feel so connected to someone I don’t even know?

“It can do that?” Alec asks.

“It appears so,” Magnus says, before frowning. He pulls his hand away from Alec. “It makes sense. If what you say is true, and all time occurs concurrently, then it appeals to reason that the pool from which I draw my magic transcends space-time too. I just haven’t yet learned to wield it the same as I do in the future. With you.”

Magnus snaps his fingers, summoning a blue flame into his palm. The light of it dances across Alec’s face as Magnus holds it between them, watching as it sways and shifts, despite the stillness of the night.

“My magic knows you,” Magnus repeats, “It knew you before we even met. How impossible does that sound?”

“Nothing’s impossible,” Alec whispers, “Not for us.”

Magnus’ chest clenches. Us , Alec says, as if that’s something Magnus understands at all. Us , he says, as if Magnus’ last string of relationships haven’t all ended in heartache.

Us , he says, because when he fades away at the end of this night or in the early morning or whenever, he goes back to that, to them, and Magnus is left - here. Alone.

“Magnus?” Alec asks, stepping closer. His hand brushes Magnus’ sleeve and leaves ripples in its wake.

“Tell me about him,” Magnus whispers, half-breathless and half-hoping. The loneliness solidifies within his chest, filling the chasm of space he’s nursed with endless glasses of wine; now, the longing has mass, has weight. It won’t be ignored or shoved to the side. “About the Magnus Bane you know. Tell me about him. About the both of you.”

Tell me I get to have what you have. Tell me I get there.

“What do you want to know?”

“How did we meet? What was our courtship like? Was it you who asked me to marry you, or was it -”

Was it me?

Alec glances down at the wine glass in Magnus’ hand, and then at the near-empty bottle that sits abandoned next to his empty chair. “If I tell you all that, will it help?”

“What?”

“You’re lonely,” Alec says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and so easy to say. “I know you are, but I - I don’t - if I tell you all those things, it won’t make it easier.”

Magnus frowns. “How could I be lonely when you’re here?”

Alec sighs softly and turns back to the city, leaning his wait once more upon the balcony. He folds his arms upon the railing. The swell of his spine can be seen through his shirt, his back a long, curving arc.

“There’s a man who plays the charango,” he says then, and the soft glow of the city almost swallows his words up. “You’re probably going to meet him soon. Here. He’s good for you. You still think about him often.”

“I don’t want anyone else,” Magnus says, sliding his palm across the back of Alec’s neck, thumbing at the skin below his ear - but Alec turns his head away, his jaw working. “Alexander - you feel this, don’t you? It’s inexplicable. The connection. My magic. I’ve never felt anything like it before.”

Magnus rubs his fingers against Alec’s neck and feels Alec lean into the touch.

Do I touch you this way often? Are you used to this?

“There’s a party downstairs,” he finds himself murmuring, “Catarina and Ragnor are there. We can go down there together.”

Alec shakes his head softly. “And if I disappear in front of everyone?”

“That’s the beauty of magic,” Magnus says, “It explains the unexplainable. A party of inebriated Warlocks won’t question a thing.”

“Magnus -”

Magnus sweeps him thumb across Alec’s pulsepoint. He takes another step closer, crowding Alec against the balustrade, ducking his head to intercept Alec’s line of sight.

“I have rooms inside. A bed. We could share another bottle. See where the night might take us.”

“Magnus,” Alec says again. His eyes meet Magnus’, and then flick towards his hand, which he holds out over the balcony edge. “Look.”

He’s already fading.

“So soon,” Magnus whispers. “You stayed a whole day last time.”

“I know,” Alec murmurs, twisting his wrist and sifting his fingers through the moonlight. “I’m sorry.”

THREE | BLACKFRIARS, LONDON, UK, 1872

As rain lashes against the concrete, the wind over Blackfriars Bridge wails like an abandoned child at the side of the road. Below, the Thames churns, infinitely black and grotesque in the dark, eager to swallow people up and never spit them out again. Its stink is sewage and its rush of water is a hiss that presses against Magnus’ back, whispering in his ears.

You sure you still don’t want to jump?

It’ll be cold. You’ll feel something. You’ll feel nothing. Both will be good.

The rain soaks Magnus to the bone. His frock coat clings to him like a second skin and his hair hangs limp across his forehead, rainwater streaming down his nose. His hands grip tight to the railing of the bridge, his fingers stark and cold. He doesn’t remember taking his gloves off. Hell, he doesn’t remember putting them on.

He only remembers standing on the edge and looking down.

You’re not actually going to jump , Camille had said. You’re not a coward.

Maybe I am , Magnus had replied, Maybe I always have been. I’ve spent my entire life running.

His skin still stings with the indentations of her nails on his arm, yanking him back from the edge. He can still hear her hiss, her sharp words, her fury. The rare fear in her eyes as she screamed at him to climb down from the railings.

This is ridiculous! she had snapped. Come and find me when you’ve sorted your head out, Magnus. I refuse to deal with this for you.

Magnus leans forward over the railings, staring down at the bubbling river. A stagecoach splashes water up the back of his legs, the horses snorting and the coachman tilting his tri-corner hat down to keep the storm out of his eyes.

Camille left. She always leaves. Unwilling to stand out in the rain and ruin her hair, unwilling to give any part of herself up for others.

She knows Magnus won’t jump now, so her work is done. He’ll live and he’ll drag himself back to her when he’s ready and she’ll say I told you so, Magnus. Why don’t you ever listen to me ?

Magnus feels cold - the sort of unforgiving cold that seeps into the bones and into the blood and drags thoughts to a shuddering halt. The wind is bracing, carrying with it sharp shards of slush-turned-sleet that cut into Magnus’ cheeks. He doesn’t know how long he’s been out here; he doesn’t know how long ago Camille left. Sunrise might be on the horizon, but he’ll never know, not with the smog that rises from London in the distance, thick pillars of soot black that blend into the clouds of rain and smother the stars.

He stares at the spot on the railings where he stood grasping at the lampost, his toes curled over the edge - an hour ago? Or was it two? Three? Time has slipped away from him, as it always does. What is time to someone who’s going to live forever, bound endlessly to watch humankind search for meaning in their fleeting lives -

Search for love -

Numbness tingles in Magnus’ fingertips, and he wishes for it to go away, he wishes for time to stop, he wishes for a feeling other than tenderness bruising in the hollow parts of himself, but -

The rain stops.

His magic flinches.

And Magnus looks up, blinking back the raindrops that cling to his eyelashes and pushing back the hair that lies limp over his forehead. A hand extended over his shoulder, and a large black umbrella hiding him from the clouds above.

It’s like a breath, a breath stolen after being underwater for so long - not enough to quell the painful ache in his chest, but enough to fill his lungs. He’d almost forgotten what it feels like.

He’s lived an entire lifetime since then.

“It’s going to get better,” comes the familiar voice that Magnus has missed eighty-one years now, a rumble he feels deep in his water-logged chest. “I know you probably don’t believe me, but - I promise.”

Magnus looks up at him. At Alec , rain-flecked and stepped out of the storm, holding an umbrella aloft above them like it’s the only thing he was put on Earth to do. He steps between Magnus and another passing carriage, shielding him from the splash of the wheels in the puddle. Alec grimaces, his nose scrunching.

Magnus laughs wetly. “You can’t say that. You have hindsight. That’s cheating.”

A raindrop trickles down Alec’s temple and Magnus follows it, across his cheek, drawn to the pull of his lips, dripping from his jaw and onto his shirt. His mouth is twisted with worry; his eyes flick between Magnus’, searching for some strength Magnus doesn’t know how to give. Not anymore.

Magnus sniffs, scrubbing his palms across his face, but it won’t make a damned bit of difference. He looks disgusting. He looks like a man who was about to jump off a bridge. He knows he does.

Why couldn’t you have shown up when I was on that ledge? Why couldn’t you have been here a day ago, a year ago, a lifetime ago, before it all went wrong?

“It’s not cheating,” Alec murmurs, “Not when it’s the truth and you need to hear it.”

He steps closer, crowding Magnus with his body, protecting him from the wind. He brings the handle of the umbrella down between them, and invites Magnus to hold it too, as if they’re sharing a flickering candle.

Alec’s hands are warm where Magnus’ are ice cold. He almost feels real. Oh, God, I’ve missed you.

“You’re soaked,” Alec says, his eyes wide and his brow furrowing. He rubs his hands over Magnus’ knuckles and huffs on them loudly; Magnus sucks in a splintering, wet breath. “Jesus, Magnus, you’re gonna get a fever -”

“Warlocks don’t get fevers.”

Alec scowls at him. “We both know that’s not true. I know what you’re like when you’re sick, and it’s the worst.”

“Me, insufferable?” Magnus laughs weakly, “I couldn’t imagine such a thing.”

Alec rolls his eyes, looping his arm around Magnus’ shoulders and clutching the umbrella between them.

“C’mon,” he says sternly, “Let’s get outta the rain.”

Alec grips his shoulder, his fingers pressing into Magnus’ skin through his overcoat - but unlike the prick of Camille’s nails, Alec’s hand is firm. He rubs his palm up and down Magnus’ arm.

Magnus feels like crying. Shock, relief - he doesn’t know what it is that clogs his throat and forces him to suck in sharp and shallow breaths. Perhaps it’s the realisation that he was a single step away from a plummet into the cold current of the Thames. Makes sense .

At the end of the bridge, Blackfriars station glints in the dark, its white tin rooftops spit-shiny. Alec pulls Magnus across the road, dodging carriages and offering his hand to Magnus to step across a puddle, and then he ducks into the station awning, and the braying of the wind is suddenly silenced.

Alec steps away from him, battling with the umbrella, and Magnus scrubs his hands down his face and pushes his limp hair back against his head. He flicks his hands and rainwater spits across the floor, accompanied by a pathetic spurt of magic that dies blue at his feet, extinguished like a damp flame.

Beside him, Alec flops back against the brick wall, tilting his head back and cricking his neck. Tonight, he’s in a suit, so deeply blue it might be black in any other light but the flickering of an underground station. It sticks to him, his shirt slick against the curve of his chest and abdomen, the silver buckle of his belt shining with rain. He picks at the cuffs of his jacket, but it’s sodden. He frowns, rolling up his sleeves and revealing his forearms covered in runes.

He’s without a tie, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Magnus wonders if that’s the fashion, or, perhaps, someone has already removed it for him.

Briefly, Magnus wonders if the cold of the rain masks colour in Alec’s cheeks or the redness of kiss-bitten lips. He wonders where Alec was and what he was doing before he was summoned to the banks of the Thames in a rainstorm.

None of the things he imagines makes him feel any better.

“We should probably wait it out. Your place is kinda far,” Alec remarks, peering out into the rain with a frown. “Every time you’ve taken me to England, it’s been like this.”

“Every time?” Magnus asks.

Alec looks back at him and smiles - not his crooked, heart-racing grin of a smile, but something small and quiet and precious that Magnus hasn’t seen before.

“We stayed in your apartment in Soho when we were on our honeymoon. For a bit,” he says, and not even the streaks of rain on his face can hide the delicate blush now. “It rained for three days without stopping.”  

“It always rains,” Magnus murmurs, “That’s why I love that apartment. You can always -”

“You can always hear the rain on the roof,” Alec says, “You say it helps you sleep.”

Magnus swallows thickly, but the lump in his throat makes it difficult to breathe. He shakes his head, but the tightness doesn’t go away; he only succeeds in splattering Alec with more rainwater.

Of course he knows that. He knows everything , and that’s unfathomable, because if he knows everything, he must know this: this wretched, inhospitable, ugly feeling that festers and bubbles inside Magnus’ chest that won’t go away no matter how much alcohol and reckless hedonism Magnus doses it with.

He knows everything.

“Alec -”

“Yeah?”

Deep breath, Magnus. No matter how much it hurts.

“Did you know I’d be on that bridge?”

Alec doesn’t blink; he doesn’t hesitate. He sets the umbrella against the wall and steps in close to Magnus, and Magnus can feel the warmth of him, ever-glowing and always-tended, even now. The longing to place his hands on Alec’s chest, to sink his fingers into Alec’s skin and step inside him and inhabit him - if only to know himself as Alec does - it possess Magnus, an urge.

“Yeah,” says Alec, meeting Magnus’ eyes deliberately, “I did. That’s why I went and found Camille and sent her to you.” He laughs softly. “She didn’t react well to a Shadowhunter telling her what to do, but I guess she listened anyway.”

Magnus’ heart lurches. “You sent Camille?”

“Yeah. But she would’ve come on her own.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“You should. She did,” Alec says, before adding, “Her one good deed.”

“Why -” Magnus says, but he feels the slap of Camille’s words again, the sting against his face, and he winces. He knows Alec notices the twitch. “If you were here, why couldn’t you - why didn’t you -”

“Why didn’t I talk you off the ledge myself?”

“Yes,” Magnus whispers, and he squeezes his eyes closed, and this time, water beads along his lashes and falls freely down his face. “Yes, Alexander. Precisely that.”

Alec glances down, fiddling with his wedding ring, twisting it around and around his knuckle. He chews on the inside of his cheek. Whatever he has to say, it hurts him. He doesn’t want to say it.

“It has to be her.”

“I don’t believe you.”

A man ducks into the station from out of the rain, shaking his umbrella and tipping his top hat at Alec and Magnus as he hurries towards the ticket office. The cold follows him like a draught and Magnus wraps his arms around his middle, digging his fingers into his sides. The wet fabric of his frock coat squelches.

He listens to the man’s footsteps as they disappear, and then he glances at Alec again, but Alec’s mouth has settled into a tight, straight line.

“Different futures,” Magnus says, “You said it yourself, nearly a hundred years ago. My life in this timeline might not end up the way it does in yours.”

“It will. I know it will.”

“You can’t know that,” Magnus presses, “You appearing here has changed that, Alexander. You’re a ripple in time. You must know how ripples work.”

“That’s why I had to make sure it was Camille who found you,” says Alec, “I can’t - I can’t change the past that made you who you are, Magnus. I had to make it right. Because if it was me -”

“If it was you, perhaps I wouldn’t have been there to begin with,” Magnus says bitterly, “And if it wasn’t you, and it wasn’t her - if I was alone up there, perhaps I would’ve jumped. You can’t know.”

“I know you ,” Alec says. “You wouldn’t have done it. People need you.”

Magnus shakes his head. It always comes back to that: people need you. You need them to need you.

“And you?” he says, his voice rendered hoarse. “Do you need me?”

Alec closes the space between them, shrugging out of his suit jacket. He shakes it out and drapes it over Magnus’ broader shoulders, and while the sleeves might be wet, the silk lining is warm and smells of Alec.

Then, he pries Magnus’ hands from his arms and covers Magnus’ fingers between his own two palms, gently rubbing at Magnus’ knuckles.

“I need you,” he says simply, “Now, in the future, in a hundred different timelines. Always. I need you to be alive to meet me, the past me, because he’s the one that needs you the most. And I think you need me too, even though I know that’s difficult for you sometimes, because you like to pretend that you can do everything by yourself and you don’t like showing people when you’re hurting, but - trust me. You can trust me. Let me take care of you. Let me return the favour.”

He brings their clenched hands up to his lips and presses his mouth to Magnus’ fingertips. The cold, the numbness in Magnus’ hands, it abates. In its place comes the rush of temporal magic, and a flutter not unlike a cautious heartbeat.

“It gets better than this,” Alec whispers. “I swear.”

&&&

The downpour doesn’t let off, and they find themselves on a bench on the empty platform at Blackfriars station, the smell of wet cobblestones replaced by creosote and stale air. This far below ground, they can’t hear the rain, but each train that rolls into the station is battered by a storm that rages a hundred feet above them.

It would take ten minutes to hop on the tube and ride to the stop closest to Magnus’ apartment in Soho, and another five minutes to run to the front door - but Magnus doesn’t mention it. He doesn’t want to move from here, he doesn’t want to lose the warm, solid press of Alec leant against his shoulder, his eyelids slowly drooping.

He doesn’t want to risk standing and disturbing the magic that keeps Alec tethered here. A little longer , he pleads with the universe. Just give me a little while longer with him.

Alec’s head drops onto Magnus’ shoulder and he lets out a snuffle that makes Magnus’ heart clench, and then a grumble as he cracks open one eye.

“What were you doing?” Magnus asks gently, toying with Alec’s long fingers, still tangled with his. “Before you came here?”

“Dinner,” Alec mumbles, words half-slurred. He gestures vaguely at his ruined suit. “The Clave has you running in circles at the moment, and they sent me to consult at the Institute in L.A. It was my first night back in Alicante.”

“We live in Alicante? In Idris?”

“Mhm,” Alec murmurs, “‘S nice. Not as bad as it sounds.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it. What were we having for dinner?”

“I didn’t finish making it yet,” Alec hums, “You were home early. We got distracted.”

Magnus rubs his thumb against Alec’s wedding ring; the metal warms quickly beneath his touch, but he feels the magic shiver, as if rain-cold. He hears Alec yawn, but the weight of him against Magnus’ shoulder is slowly lessening, bit by heartbreaking bit. Magnus lets his eyes fall closed.

This way, he won’t have to see him disappear.

“How very kind of you to make time for me,” Magnus whispers.

“I’ll always make time for you, Magnus.”

Magnus hums. “Hm. ‘ It’s rotten work ’, I believe dear Orestes said.”

“Not to me, it isn’t.”

It doesn’t make sense. None of it does. His devotion, his dedication, how he slips through time and touches Magnus and changes him so quietly and yet so fundamentally, only to disappear again and leave behind only memory to while away the years.

Alec’s will alone makes waves in the magic that surrounds them, the magic that binds them together in all this impossible possibility.  Perhaps his love for Magnus is enough to bend time and space. Certainly, it has been enough to draw him here, to Magnus’ side, over and over again.

You’ve figured it out, haven’t you? Magnus thinks. How to love someone fully and truthfully and with everything that you are. I’m jealous of that. I want it. I want you.

When Magnus opens his eyes, he is alone again.

FOUR | MONTMARTE, PARIS, FRANCE, 1929

Magnus is drunk. And not happily drunk, not the sort of drunk that’s dizzy and forgetful and where all the world seems like a miracle - he’s way past that. His stomach wrings itself in knots and he tastes acidic bile up the back of his throat and his skin feels hot and sweaty to the touch. He slumps over on a bar stool, his shoulders hunched and a glass of cognac between his hands, half-drunk. The ice has melted, the liquor lukewarm. His nails tap relentlessly against the crystal of the glass, but it’s like there’s cotton stuffed in his ears because he can barely hear the chime.

The bartender tries to pour him another, but Magnus waves him away. Whatever words he says are slurred. Magnus can’t remember them anyway.

How many days have you been sat here? he wonders, squinting down at his glass. The colour of the brandy swishes between brown and amber-gold. How much time has passed? How long has it been since you ended it? When was the last time you saw the sun?

The cognac has pooled in the hollow of his stomach; it sloshes around and Magnus has to grip the edge of the bar to stop him doing something stupid, like falling off his stool or upchucking all over his waistcoat. He glances down at himself and finds the buttons misaligned and his pocket watch missing  and the untucked tails of his shirt stained with sticky splashes of his drink. He waves his fingers, banishing some of the mess away, but the blue magic swirling in his palm makes his head spin.

Around and around, it goes. Around and around, Magnus goes, repeating the same mistakes time and time again.

This always happens , he tells himself. You get too attached and they break your heart and you drink the pain away and do it all again. You deserve it. You never learn.

On a stage in the corner of the bar, a jazz ensemble is packing up their instruments: one man with a saxophone, another with a double bass. The singer, a woman with sharp painted nails and a sharper smile, is smoking a cigarette and already turning down drinks from her admirers.

In the low light, she looks like Camille.

Magnus’ head throbs, and he grimaces, pressing his hand to his temple as he slouches lower over the bar.

Why are you still mooning over her? Ragnor had asked him earlier this morning when he had stumbled upon Magnus on his front porch. She never cared for you, Magnus. She only cared for herself. I don’t know how you stayed with her for so long.

I’m too afraid of being alone , Magnus had thought, but did not voice. Ragnor could see it in his eyes, and the slow turning-down of Ragnor’s mouth had been too much, and Magnus had to leave.

He spent the day wandering the streets of Montmatre. It feels appropriate: Paris, the city of lovers, and therefore, the city of scorned lovers. Montmatre has always felt especially unforgiving: a woman who eats you up and spits you out, lost and disoriented in her winding streets, while, in the distance, the Eiffel Tower and the postcard picture of France play pretend.

Magnus doesn’t know how he came across this bar. It doesn’t seem to matter. Ten drinks in, all brandy tastes the same. Perhaps it’s time to switch to whiskey; it’s his heartache drink after all.

Magnus leans forward and lets his forehead rest on the bar, but the room still spins. His skin, sticky, flushed; he wants to be rid of it. Strip it off and start again, someone fresh and new and unknown. He won’t stay here, but London holds more memories he wants to outrun. He could head south where the sun is warm and the afternoons are lazy, or across the sea, and spent the night in a daze in the gardens at Santo Domingo -

Ripples follow him everywhere. He needs to go somewhere new, somewhere far away where the past can’t find him. Magnus tips his head to the side, resting his cheek on the bar. He curls his fingers and summons forth the thought of a portal, shimmering orange-red around his rings, but he doesn’t give it form. The magic weaves in and out and around his fingers, endlessly curious, tiny appendages tracing the lines in his palms from end to end. He could push out his hand and make a doorway to another world. It would only take a second and he could stumble through, and wake up tomorrow in a gutter where at least the sun might be shining.

Look at you , he thinks, curling the portal magic into his palm and extinguishing it. Planning to run away again. You’ll regret this in the morning. You’ll regret this when you’re sober.

Magnus closes his eyes and clenches his jaw, but his stomach churns again and he tastes cognac on the way back up, no longer sweet and purely bitter.

Across the bar, the bartender frowns at him and pushes him a glass of water on a napkin.

Magnus murmurs a reluctant merci , but nudges the glass away again with his fingertip. He doesn’t want to drink it; he doesn’t want kindness. He wants to wallow and remember why he’s alone again.

His temple pulses. Pressure builds in his forehead and behind his eyes and in the bridge of his nose, pinching and pulling at his skin as if vying for his attention.

And then a warm palm presses between his shoulder blades and Magnus’ entire spine lurches; he’s not sure what’s going to come out: all the brandy he’s drunk in the last half hour, or some biting remark about leaving him the Hell alone, he’s not interested . Both are going to cut up the inside of his throat and taste like vomit.

He sits up too quickly and twists in his seat, but comes face to face with a shirt and the smell of expensive cologne - sandalwood . Soft and earthy and delicate against the sweet stench of spilt beer and cigarette smoke.

The hand on his back arches, fingers pressing into the knobs of his spine.

“Hey.”

His voice, Alec’s voice, whiskey-warm. For a moment - and then it’s sour again.

Oh, of course. You’re so drunk that you’re imagining Alexander now? It’s been decades. Alec is not here. You just want so desperately to feel loved.

Magnus looks down at his half-finished cognac. He laughs in disbelief.

“You were right about Camille,” he murmurs, swilling the brandy, wondering if he might find himself in the bottom of the glass. He’s drained far too many bottles in his time, searching for exactly that without much luck. Instead, he finds heartache and hallucinations of men he hasn’t seen in forever.

“‘That night was her one good deed’, that’s what you said. Would’ve been nice if you’d given me a forewarning about her. But instead, here I am, drowning my sorrows -” He gestures suddenly with his hand and knocks his glass; the drink sloshes onto the bar. Magnus pouts.

The room spins, but now the edges are blurred. It could be magic, it might be magic, picking at the threads of time and space and slowly unravelling them, or maybe he’s past the point where he’s going to remember tonight and everything else he does now is moot. He has free reign to be stupid.  

Alec’s hand sweeps up Magnus’ spine, a trail of white-hot heat that sticks to Magnus’ skin beneath his sweat-soaked shirt and waistcoat; Alec curls his fingers over Magnus’ shoulder and pushes Magnus back onto his bar stool.

Pretty strong for a figment of your drunken imagination, Magnus thinks. He didn’t even realise he left his seat.

“Magnus -” Alec starts, slipping onto the bar stool next to him, and now, Magnus gets a good look at this apparition: the fierce set of his mouth, the handsome three days of stubble along his jaw, the bruised, worried look in his eyes that Magnus in no way deserves to receive. He’s no older than that night at Blackfriars. Never older. He’s like Magnus, in that way.

And oh, Magnus hates him. Hates the part of his brain that summoned him.

Don’t talk to me , he thinks. Don’t you dare to talk to me. I can’t hear your voice, not tonight. Not when you’re just like the rest of them, but somehow worse than all. Never staying, always leaving.

Magnus grabs his drink and throws the last dredges of it down the throat. He slams the glass on the bar and turns to Alec - and it really is Alec, and not a stranger with Alec’s face.  Magnus stares at him, searching, but his vision blurs, smeared by invisible fingers. The magic swarms around him, around Alec, drawn towards him like he has a magnet at the centre of his chest that thumps with the same beat as a heart.

“You’re not even here,” Magnus mumbles, but he reaches out to jab Alec in the chest, and Alec is as solid and warm and unmoving as ever. “I’m just pretending that you’re here so that I can shout at you. So that I’m not alone for yet another night -”

Alec wraps his fingers around Magnus’ wrist, stilling the prod of his finger into Alec’s sternum.

“Magnus,” he says quietly, “I’m here, I’m real. Are you okay?”

“Do I look okay?”

Alec’s frown deepens. He stares at Magnus openly, the colour in his dark eyes swirling, but he holds Magnus’ hand fast against his chest, even as Magnus tries to pull away. “No, you don’t. What’s happened?”

Magnus laughs sharply. Drunkenly. “Everyone keeps leaving me. That’s what.”

He grabs his empty glass and leans across the bar, flagging down the bartender (“ un whisky, s'il vous plaît ”), but Alec takes it from his hand and sets it aside, out of reach. He hands Magnus the water instead.

“Magnus, you know that’s not true.”

“Oh? I do, do I?” Magnus retorts. “The man with the charango? Do you remember him? Five years that lasted, and then it was over. I watched him get on a boat in Callao and never come back. Or how about Camille? Or you .”

Alec glances around the bar, dragging his stool closer, but Magnus could not give a damn if anyone is staring. The cognac lights a fire in him; he feels it scorch, he feels it sear. It turns his insides black in sudden, irrational anger.

“Magnus, c’mon -”

“Is it easy? To come and go and not have to say goodbye over and over again and not know when will be the next time I might see you? If you���re coming back at all?”

“Magnus -”

“It’s been fifty-seven years, Alec!” Magnus snaps, surging to his feet. The stool topples over, and Magnus grips the edge of the bar to save himself from the same fate. Blood rushes to his head and black spots pitter across his eyes as he sways. He clenches his teeth and screws tight his eyes until the ache fragments through his jaw and up into his temple. “Fifty-seven years since that night on the bridge, do you know that? I’ve been counting. And every night since, I’ve looked for you, I’ve waited for you, I’ve - I’ve - every single man I’ve walked past, I’ve had to stop and check and see if it’s you. I’ve hoped for you .”

Alec stands too, reaching for Magnus’ shoulder. “Magnus, you’re drunk. Let me take you home.”

Magnus snorts, clumsily batting Alec’s hand away. “‘Let me take you home?’” he parrots, “Did that work on me the first time, hm? Is that the line you used? Is that the line I used?”

Alec suffers every blow, his mouth twitching, but the look in his eyes only grows more determined.

How much does it take to push you away? Magnus wants to beg. What do I have to say to make you leave and not come back?

“No,” Alec says quietly, and he touches Magnus again, his hand on Magnus’ shoulder, his thumb brushing against Magnus’ neck, slipping beneath his cravat to find his pulsepoint. “No. I said, ‘relationships take effort’. And then you said, ‘I’m all for effort’, and you meant it.”

Magnus scoffs, but his heart aches painfully, like Alec has wormed his way past Magnus’ outer walls and taken his heart in a vice and squeezed. It sounds like him. It sounds like the sort of thing he’d say when faced with a beautiful Shadowhunter with infinite patience and a mouth worth kissing.

Magnus’ head swims again, and he staggers off balance. Alec is quick to catch him, looping his arm around Magnus’ back.

He buries his nose in Magnus’ hair, just behind Magnus’ ear. Alec breathes in deeply, and it steadies him. He breathes in deeply, and for a moment, Magnus wonders what it must be like for Alec to see the person he loves most in the world try agonizingly to pull himself apart, while Alec knows he won’t be around long enough to see it through.

“Let me take you home,” Alec whispers, “Please.”

&&&

Montematre is moonlit as they stagger from the bar. Alec is strong, strong enough to support Magnus’ weight, probably strong enough to carry him, but Magnus’ coordination is shot to pieces.

It’s not the only thing that’s shattered. His resolve lies in fragments at his feet.

Red lights gleam in the dark as women hang from windows and call out to the late-night drunks in the street, beckoning them upstairs for the price of a few gold coins. A parade of towncars hurtle past, a young woman hanging out the window and screeching with laughter, waving her hat in Alec’s direction as the roar of the engine rumbles. They fade into the distance. And as far as the eye can see, there are rooftops, and there are men on the rooftops, singing love songs to a city that longs to be serenaded, who will stay up until the sky turns from blue to blush with the twilight.

Magnus dares not look up. He stares at his feet, willing his double-vision to go away so he can walk a straight line long enough to reach his apartment on the banks of the Seine - or at least summon a portal there.

He leans into Alec’s side, unbalanced, pressing his nose against the collar of Alec’s shirt; there’s that sandalwood again and leather and the sweet sugar of magic, comforting, familiar, too much. Far too much.

Magnus needs more. Instead of whiskey, let him drown in this.

He pulls himself close, until every point on his body is flush with Alec, and he feels the surprised gasp leave Alec’s mouth and it almost feels good . Alec’s arm tightens around Magnus’ back, his fingers gripping Magnus’ waistcoat to stop them from toppling over, but there’s a part of Magnus that wants to tumble to the ground. He wants to fall through the puddles that fill the gaps in the pavement, into the upside-down world, the other future where Alec is from, where they’re in love, where this Alec loves all of him as he is now, and not just a figment.

Magnus buries his head in Alec’s shoulder. Words escape him, humid and nauseous against Alec’s throat.

“I can’t wait another hundred years to see you again, Alexander.”

He hates it, he does. He hates the way Alec looks at him with a history they haven’t yet shared.

Alec’s fingers dig into his ribs. A moment of hesitation. “You won’t have to wait that long,” he murmurs, quiet enough to be a secret. “I promise.”

Magnus scoffs bitterly. “You don’t know that.”

Alec stops, forcing Magnus to stop too. Magnus squints at him, seeing double, but Alec shakes his head. “Magnus, I do.”

“How?”

“Because,” says Alec, and once again, Magnus feels the tug of magic kneading at his skin, a string of fate that wraps around his bottom rib and leads beyond his chest and enters Alec’s in exactly the same place. “You and me, we always find our way back to each other. Whatever happens.”

He’s said those words before, Magnus knows he has. Not to him, not yet, but - one day.

How far away is one day, Alec?

It doesn’t matter. Alec believes it with every fibre of his being anyway. Magnus knows that too.

&&&

Sunrise hesitates just below the horizon by the time Magnus’ apartment comes into view, his feet aching terribly, blisters on his blisters. He’d tried to call a portal, but his magic had spat out hisses and sparks, and now, he doesn’t want to know how far they’ve walked across the city in a strange stupored silence.

The sky is pinkening in the distance, spilt with shades of orange as Magnus stumbles into the lobby of his building and Alec nods at the doorman. In the elevator, Magnus mashes the button for the penthouse and then leans back against the handrail, tilting his head against the mirrored wall. He pushes his shirt sleeves up about his elbows and undoes the buttons of his waistcoat, letting it hang loose, and then he catches his own reflection in the mirror on the other side: his cravat is crooked and his hair unkempt; his red-shot eyes; his makeup smudged and day-old.

Alec slides in next to him, his hands folded behind his back, and Magnus watch him in the mirror too. His eyes roam the long length of Alec’s body, his heavy boots and his fitted trousers, up to the holster lashed around his thigh and the buttons of his shirt. Magnus lingers on the lines of his neck disappearing into the open collar of his shirt, and then on his mouth as Alec worries on his lower lip, deep in thought.

Everything blurs in and out of existence. Magnus’ heart beats sluggishly, pulling itself through the cognac settled in his stomach.

The elevator shudders upwards and their eyes meet in the reflection in the mirror.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Alec asks.

Magnus shakes his head. “No. Not really,” he murmurs. His temple now aches with the early onset of sobriety. “It’s a terribly sad story that doesn’t bear repeating. I’ll be fine once I’ve slept it off.”

Alec’s frown deepens, and he looks down, fiddling with his wedding ring again. The silence is only disturbed by the ding of the elevator as it rises floor by slowing floor.

“Can I tell you something?” Alec asks, after a moment. He turns to Magnus; the magic confined to the small space of the elevator ripples but has nowhere to go. It bounces back against the mirror, colliding with itself, and Magnus has to pull his eyes away from the mid-distance, from the patterns no-one can see but him, to look at Alec.

“Always.”

The corner of Alec’s mouth twitches upwards, almost a smile, but it fades. “When we meet, I - I never thought I’d get this. I never thought I’d meet someone like you and I’d decided that was okay. Well, not okay, but liveable. I had my job, my family, my parabatai - other things. I thought I could get by without-” He gestures between them. “- this.”

“And then I swept into your life and changed all that?”

Alec’s smile blooms again, distant, sad, somewhat wry. Faint colour creeps up his neck. “No. No, you came along and it - it made it worse. It was like, I could see what I could have and then it was even further out of my reach, y’know? Everything else in my life, it was like black and white, but you - you were colour. And that terrified me. I got one tiny look at it - at us - and it made me realise that that’s all I’d ever get because I wasn’t allowed to want it. You don’t just get to be a Shadowhunter and - well. This.”  

“This,” Magnus repeats. “Married?”

“Not just that. It was everything. And I ran away from it - or I tried. I was going to do something really stupid, but you … Magnus, you never gave up on me, even then.”

A breath catches in Magnus’ throat; the hand of magic encircles its warm fingers around his windpipe and applies just enough pressure for his next words to come out as a whisper or maybe as a croak. “What are you trying to say?”

“I thought I was gonna be alone for my entire life. I’d accepted it, just like you,” Alec says honestly, “I was wrong.”

The golden hand above the elevator doors tips over, and the doors open onto the penthouse. Magnus cannot move. His hands grip the bar behind him, and he stares at Alec, unwilling to blink, unable to take a breath.

He feels both cut adrift and rooted to this moment, held only to the ground by the steadfast look in Alec’s eyes. The universe moves around him, his determined heart at its very centre.

No, not the universe. Just yours.

Magnus sees that now.

“Magnus …” Alec whispers, stepping forward and reaching out. His fingers brush against Magnus’ bare forearm leaving goosebumps in their wake.

Magnus jerks away. He feels the sickness of the alcohol, but not the dizziness.

You talked about being scared. I know that too. I’m scared of this hurting my heart more than everything else that’s happened before.

“Let’s go inside,” he murmurs, “I need to lie down.”

&&&

The haze before the dawn echoes with the rattling sound of tires on Parisian cobblestones, the moonlight barking of neighbourhood dogs, and the ever-present rumble of Paris’ heart slowly stirring into wakefulness, but Magnus’ room is still and silent. His bed is unmade where he left it yesterday morning, sheets rumpled and half-draped across the mattress, pillows strewn against the headboard. Clothes litter the floor, unpaired shoes and untied cravats, a dress of Camille’s or two. On the bedside table, there’s an uncorked and half-emptied bottle of whiskey.

Halfway between dreams and sleep, Magnus is vaguely aware of the throbbing in his forehead, but he’s too delirious to feel real pain, not with Alec floating at his back like a ghost, close enough to feel, not quite close enough to touch.

Good , Magnus thinks distantly, his eyelids heavy as he drops down on his mattress and kicks off his shoes, his whole body suddenly sore. It’s more a hollow, tender feeling, as if his skin has coloured with poppy bruises, and clumsy, invisible hands poke and prod at these tender spots, as if seeking out old wounds. But the feeling doesn’t ebb or flow or fade like it should - it just lingers, a present thought in his foggy head.

The dream is strange: emptiness and longing, the vastness of a lonely city, the sickening of alcohol, the want for pliant skin just for the sake of touch. The overwhelming presence of Alec in his space, standing before him with his hands clasped behind his back, both a dutiful soldier and a perfect husband, drenched in Magnus’ own magic and the nauseating spin of time and space that’s not meant to be.

Magnus feels like he might vomit. God, what is wrong with me .

“Alexander,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. I need you. I need you in a way that I don’t think you can give. Not yet.

Alec kneels down in front of him and lays his left hand on Magnus’ knee, his ring attracting the faint wisps of light that slip through the blinds.

“You’re allowed to want things,” he says, “You taught me that.”

“Even things I have no right wanting?”

“Even those,” Alec murmurs. “I wish I could give them to you.”

Magnus stirs, reaching out blindly for Alec’s jacket - the need to pull him close is overwhelming - but it’s Alec’s hand he finds, Alec’s hand that squeezes Magnus’ fingers tightly. His wedding ring feels cold now. Magnus’ focuses on that against the pounding in his head.

With his other hand, Alec loosens the cravat around Magnus throat and pulls it free of his collar, folding it carefully upon the nightstand. Then, he smooths Magnus’ hair away from his forehead, his fingers lingering against Magnus’ temple, as if drawn to the point where the blood pulses the loudest, knowing his touch will quiet it.

He knows everything about Magnus. All the tiny little things that no-one has ever paid attention to, Alec knows them intimately.

“Magnus,” Alec murmurs, his finger ghosting around the socket of Magnus’ eyes. “You need to sleep. Sober up.”

“I won’t until you’re gone.”

“It could be hours yet. C’mon. I’ll stay here with you.”

Magnus rolls onto his side, his cheek hitting the pillow - and the room swirls in dark colour - and he looks Alec in the eye. Alec’s expression is grave, his mouth drawn in a severe line. A crease appears between his eyebrows, and Magnus wishes it gone; it makes him look far older than he is. It makes him look as old as Magnus feels, like he has lived all these lifetimes between their visits too.

“Stop that,” Magnus whispers. He untangles his hand from Alec’s and presses his thumb between Alec’s eyebrows, smoothing out his frown lines.

“Stop what?”

Magnus shakes his head, and drags his thumb down the length of Alec’s nose, across his cupid’s bow, and onto his lips, pushing down until blood gathers at the touch and Alec’s lower lip blooms in a dark, perfect red.

Alec exhales carefully, cool against Magnus’ skin. His eyes are wide when Magnus finds them again.

“Will I see you again?” Magnus asks. He has to know. Sooner or later, Alec is going to vanish with the morning and not come back. The residual temporal energy will only last so long.  

“The magic’s not gone yet,” Alec replies, but the sorrow lingers. “Maybe - maybe I’ve got one jump left. I don’t know.”

“Am I getting close?”

“Close?”

“Close to you, in your present. My future. Wherever it is that you are and I am not.”

Alec doesn’t speak for a moment, but Magnus can see him thinking. His thumb rubs at the bare knuckle of Magnus’ fourth finger.  

“It’s soon,” he settles on, but he still won’t tell Magnus exactly when. “But I can’t-”

Just give me a year , Magnus thinks. Give me a decade. Something to hold onto.

“But you can’t just wish away your life waiting to catch up, Magnus,” Alec continues, “There’s so much - there’s so much you’re gonna miss, and you’ll regret it if you do. There’s so much ahead of you that makes you who you are -” He takes Magnus’ hand by the wrist and draws his fingers close; he presses a soft, worshipful kiss to the pad of Magnus’ thumb. “It makes you the man I fell in love with.”

Magnus’ heart lurches. “Are you always so frank?”

Alec smiles softly. “You love it.”

I do , Magnus realises. God above, I do.

FIVE | BROOKLYN, NEW YORK, USA, 1989

“That’s the last of them,” says Catarina, as the portal closes behind her, the swirling orange magic dissipating into sparks that extinguish on the rug. “I never thought we’d get the High Warlock of Madrid taking refugees from the Circle - what did you offer him? Diamonds? Jewels? Oh, Magnus, it better not be your apartment in London, I know how long he’s been coveting that.”

“I am most certainly not giving him the apartment,” Magnus says, “The old coot just owed me a favour from a very long time ago and I decided to cash it in. The High Warlock may be a stick in the mud, but very few people hate Shadowhunters as much as him. He won’t let Valentine Morgenstern come within a spell’s throw of the Warlock community in Spain.”

Magnus swans towards his drinks stand and picks up two glasses: one, tall and thin-stemmed with a trio of olives propped against the rim, and the other dark and purple and glittery. He holds it out to Cat, but she raises her palm and shakes her head.

Magnus raises his eyebrows, a silent ‘ suit yourself ’ as he takes a sip of his drink. “Besides,” he continues, licking the taste of the martini from his lips, “There’s nothing he could give me in exchange for that apartment. Where else would I stay when visiting Ragnor, if not there?”

Catarina rolls her eyes. “You haven’t visited Ragnor in fifty years. You and I both know that’s not the reason you want to keep that apartment. I seem to remember you insisting that you needed it for a very special occasion, last time the High Warlock tried to buy it off you.”

Magnus waves his hand noncommittally. “I was drunk. Whatever I said can’t be held against me.”

“So you’re denying it then?” Cat says, but her eyebrow is raised and her mouth curves into a wry, crooked grin. She folds her hands across her chest and cocks her hip. “You don’t remember saying you were going to spend your honeymoon in London and you’ve already planned it all out, despite the fact you and I both know you’ve never been married, not once in eight hundred years, even though I’m pretty sure a number of people have asked you -”

“I said no such thing, and even if I did, I maintain that I was incredibly drunk. You’re putting words in my mouth, Catarina.”

Magnus flicks his fingers and the balcony doors swing open, daylight streaming into the loft from across the East River in shafts of yellow. He squints, raising one hand to shield his eyes. The shapes of skyscrapers coalesce; the Brooklyn Bridge catches the reflection of the water and the brown stone ripples.

Magnus wanders out onto the balcony, setting his glass down on the edge and spreading his hands wide. He surveys the city: the bustle of Brooklyn, the cacophony of car horns and the sound of construction, Manhattan looming in the distance.

The city that never sleeps. Except when Shadowhutners are killing and torturing Downworlders and then, then it’s time to turn a blind eye -

Catarina hesitates in the doorway, watching him from afar. He doesn’t turn back to look at her, but he can feel her eyes on his back.

“Are you worried?” she asks. It’s a loaded question and only has one answer.

“I’m worried about a lot of things,” Magnus replies, “I’m worried that Valentine Morgenstern and his lackeys are going to wipe out the Downworld population of New York. I’m worried that we can’t trust the Shadowhunters to look out for our best interests any more, not if it means going against other Nephilim. We’re on our own.”

“The Shadowhunters have always been that way,” Cat frowns, “Trusting them is stupid, you’ve said so yourself. Nephilim are all the same.”

Not all of them , Magnus thinks, not one. I still have hope that things can change.

But we can’t afford to wait for that. Too many Downworld lives are on the line.

Magnus sighs heavily, turning to face her. He leans back against the edge of the balcony. “No, you’re right,” he says, “I’ll summon the other Downworld leaders and we’ll discuss how best to deal with the New York Institute. I’ll send you a fire message so you can be there.”

“I’ll do my best,” says Cat, “I’m moving a lot of people out of the city this week. I’ve got a clan of Vampires going to Tokyo tonight, and another six Warlocks to send to Madrid. It’s hard enough summoning so many portals, but harder still when we have to hide the magical trace from the Nephilim so that they don’t know what we’re doing. My magic is shot and I’m exhausted.”

Magnus smiles tightly. “You worked for the Underground Railroad in the fifties, Cat. There’s no-one else I would trust with this.”

“Yeah, the eighteen fifties. That was a long time ago, Magnus. I thought we’d seen the last of this. Genocidal maniacs hunting and killing our people.”

So did I , Magnus thinks. So did I .

&&&

He lingers on the balcony a while after she’s gone, long after his drink is empty. He runs his fingers up the stem of the glass and listens to it sing, a sound shrill and sharp against the rumble of the city at large.

He has so much to do - potions to make and clients to call, and there are a stack of fire messages on his desk waiting to be read, all from young Warlocks desperate for his help to get out of the city before the Circle find them - but he finds he cannot move, not for a quiet moment that seems slotted in between the passage of time. His eyes follow a lone seagull coasting on the updraughts, hanging motionless in the bright blue sky. It bobs in the wind, its caws carrying across Brooklyn, and it lulls Magnus into a stupor where the rest of the world is drowned out.

His magic envelops him, a shield between him and New York, between him and the world he has stopped running from and finally turned to face. He taps his fingernail upon the stone edge of the balcony and listens to his magic reverberate - tip, tip, tip - and then he feels a swell, a gentle pushing on his wards at his front door.

Magnus frowns, peering back into the loft. The protective magic shifts again, but rather than someone trying to break in, scratching and plucking at the spell, desperate to unravel it, it feels as if its a curtain parted and someone slips through quietly. Very few people can get past Magnus’ wards - he can count them on one hand. Catarina, Raphael, Ragnor - if the old bat ever left his cottage in England to say hello to a friend who misses him -  

Frozen, he watches as the front door opens, and then, slipping into the loft like he’s lived there all his life - Alec.

His Alexander. Of course the wards already know him. He was woven into their magic before Magnus even cast the spell.

Magnus’ heart beats loudly, a rhythm he hasn’t felt in a long time, a reverberation in his chest that he knows intimately, locked away in his memories.  

He watches Alec’s eyes dart around the loft, lingering on the drinks bar and frowning at the large sofa Magnus has been planning to switch out for something more modern. He sets his bow and quiver down by the door, and then his fingertips trail across the back of an armchair, and he steps around the rugs on the floor without even looking, as if he already knows where they lie.

A smile curves Alec’s beautiful mouth: it’s soft, loose, completely at peace. His gaze flicks up and he sees Magnus standing on the balcony, and that same smile blooms with the sunlight as it passes across his face.

And in that moment, Magnus realises: this is his home .

This loft in Brooklyn is Alec’s home. It’s their home. They live here together, they’ve made a life here together; this space is Alec’s space.

“Hello, stranger,” Magnus says, leaning back against the balcony, basking in the roam of Alec’s eyes up the length of his body as he, too, steps out into the view of Brooklyn. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

“What year is it?” Alec asks. He’s wearing his usual jeans and jacket, but his shirt shines with subtle silver thread, and Magnus knows that same shirt sits in his closet right now, still in its garment bag. Magnus bought it only last week.

.

“1989,” Magnus says, curving his body towards Alec as Alec rests his hip against the stone railing. “George Bush is President, the High Warlock of Bangkok skipped my birthday party, and Madonna released an excellent fourth album. It’s hard to guess what might go down in history.”

“Sixty years since Paris,” Alec remarks.

“The blink of an eye,” Magnus says, offering a smile. “You don’t have a single grey hair.”

Alec ducks his head on a blush. The corners of his eyes crinkle. “Got a couple wrinkles though. Perils of the job, I guess.”

Magnus hums. He could say that the faint lines around Alec’s eyes make him handsome, or he could remark on how he wouldn’t mind feeling the bite of Alec’s stubble against his skin - and it all would deepen the colour in Alec’s cheeks - but he’s content enough just to look.

So, he looks. He looks, he marvels, and while the ache in his chest is still there, it’s quietened. It’s softened. It doesn’t bruise him anymore because he’s made peace with it, with the tenderness of his skin and his carefully-concealed heart whenever Alec is nearby.

The magic trickles across his skin, the barest touch. A long time ago on the streets of Madrid, it was a flood, a wave punching against his chest, but now, the same temporal magic fades, hissing across the metaphorical sand as it retreats back into the sea.

The spell is weakening, the tear in space and time slowly stitching itself back together, and soon enough, Alec will no longer be able to step through. But Alec - oh, his eyes have softened and he gazes at Magnus with such an overflowing amount of love, and Magnus wants to know how he ever missed it.

How he ran into that Shadowhunter all those centuries ago and didn’t know what this was at first glance.  

I should’ve known you then as I do now. I should’ve known you then as you’ve known me always.

“What?” Alec asks, his smile slanted.

Magnus shakes his head. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”  

Disantly, Magnus hears a hiss, the whistle of a fire message cutting through his wards. He snatches it out of mid-air, embers cooling on his fingertips, the edges of the parchment scorched.

“Is it urgent?” Alec asks.

“No,” Magnus replies, but he scrunches up his mouth and frowns anyway. “It’s Catarina. She’s been moving Downworlders out of the city and needs my help with masking the energy signature of a portal.”

“Moving Downworlders - oh . The Circle. Valentine.”

“The fact that you’ve heard of him doesn’t fill me with much hope,” says Magnus, snapping his fingers and turning the fire message to ash. He nods at Alec to follow him inside.

“I don’t know him, I’ve met him,” Alec corrects, “Wish I hadn’t.” His voice drops and he fiddles with his ring. “Wish you hadn’t.”  

“There are a great many things I wish I hadn’t done,” says Magnus, leading the way into the loft and towards his study. “But as someone very wise once told me, you can’t just wish away the things that made you who you are.”

Even with his Shadowhunter reflexes, there’s something endearing in the way Alec almost walks into a bookcase, unaccustomed to it being next to the door. Alec glares at it, and Magnus huffs with laughter, sliding behind his desk. He picks up the stack of unburnt fire messages next to his quill and leafs through them.

“The Circle is torturing Downworlders,” he says as Alec hovers on the other side of the desk. “Catarina and I are ferrying as many as we can out of New York to sanctuary cities. The New York Warlock council is not happy with me, of course, because they think we should stay and fight, but - as High Warlock of Brooklyn, my responsibility is to the safety of my people first, and not to the war that Valentine Morgenstern is so eager to fight. It’s kept me very busy.”

“I’m glad,” says Alec, “I mean - I’m not glad that this is happening, just that you’re - that you’ve found purpose. Back in Paris, I thought - I was - you save people , Magnus. That’s what you do.”

“You flatter me.”

“It’s the truth.”

Magnus hesitates, but Alec doesn’t look away. The way he stares, sometimes, wide-eyed and earnest and unblinking, makes Magnus feel so see-through. And it’s in those moments that Magnus finds he knows himself, the truest version of who he is and what he can do: he sees himself as Alec sees him.

Whole.

Magnus clears his throat pointedly and summons his caldron and pestle and mortar to his desk.

“I need to make a magical restoration potion for Catarina,” he explains, “Can you pass me the cypress? It’s in the jar on the -”

Alec reaches out and grabs a small glass jar from the shelf behind him, handing it to Magnus. He doesn’t read the label, but as Magnus uncorks the jar and turns it upside down, a few green branchlets shake out into his palm. Magnus inhales the sweetness of pine and the dry peppery smell of juniper.

“You knew where that was without even looking,” he murmurs, staring at his hand, “I know what that means.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means I’m getting close.”

Magnus crushes the cypress leaves in his fist and tosses them into his cauldron, and then he steps around the desk, crowding Alec against the pantry. The glass jars clink as Alec’s shoulders knock against the shelf.

“It’s a different me,” Alec murmurs, “I told you, when we first meet, I’m -”

“You’re still you,” Magnus says. “That’s all that matters.”

Magnus cups Alec’s neck, kneading his thumbs into the soft, pliant skin beneath Alec’s jaw. It makes Alec’s lips part on instinct. His heartbeat is traitorously loud.

“I think this is the last time I’m going to see you,” Alec whispers. “The magic left over from that spell is wearing off, so I probably won’t - “ His sentence breaks and he swallows thickly, and Magnus follows the slow, pronounced bob of his throat. Magnus strokes his fingers over the tendons in Alec’s neck, feeling them jump and shift with his touch. “I probably won’t get to …”

“You have your own future,” Magnus replies, “And I have mine. You’ve known from the start that this meeting was an accident.”

Alec chews on his lower lip, his head jerking. His eyes have grown dark, his irises eclipsed by his pupils. One hand comes up to cover Magnus’ against the side of his throat. His wedding ring glints and feels cold against Magnus’ fingers.

“It happens soon,” Alec confesses, and the words tumble out as if he might regret them if he says them any slower. “Less than thirty years. In Manhattan -”

“Spoilers, surely?”

“- and I take one look at you and it terrifies me, because I want it so much and I’d never wanted anyone like that before.”

Magnus sucks in a sharp breath, and then he surges up onto the balls of his feet, threading his fingers through Alec’s hair, and he kisses Alec hard.

Alec stumbles back into the shelves and the jars and pots and trinkets clink and jangle, but none of them break, and Alec grips Magnus by the lapels of his jacket and pulls him close.

Magnus’ magic stutters - and then it leaps. He feels it surge into Alec at every point they touch, and Alec returns it in like: Magnus’ own magic, but more, outpouring with this timeless and irrevocable love that makes no sense, and yet, here Magnus is, cradling it between two palms and feeling the way is disturbs the universe - palpable, tangible thing.

Alec kisses him deeply, his tongue flicking against the seam of Magnus’ mouth, his teeth nipping at Magnus’ lower lip. He kisses Magnus like he’s been kissing him for years - and God, he has, he has - and he knows each and every way to make Magnus’ heart beat faster.

Then, Magnus can feel his smile: tiny, guilty, perfect, and the kiss softens. Alec presses his lips to the corner of Magnus’ mouth, to his jaw, to the soft skin of his cupid’s bow as Magnus, each one more gentle than the last as Magnus threads his fingers through the dark hair above Alec’s ears.

And Alec trembles, the magic they share trembles, shivering through Magnus’ fingers and up his arms and into his chest where it bounces across each rib. It breathes, and Magnus takes each of Alec’s shaky inhales and exhales as his own.

The kiss fades, until it’s just the brush of Alec’s lips across his, and then Alec tilts his forehead against Magnus’, his breathing deep. His fingers are still knotted in the lapels of Magnus’ jacket.

“I never -” Alec whispers, and Magnus feels every word against his mouth. “I never thought that I’d - that felt like our first kiss again. I never thought I’d feel it a second time.”

Magnus brushes his nose against Alec’s. “And which of us did it better?” he asks, “Him or me?”

“You. Always you,” Alec murmurs, “He is you.”

The buzzing in the magic has yet to dissipate, and Magnus can feel the invisible threads of the fading spell wrap their tendrils around Alec’s arms and legs and begin to tug. They don’t have long.

Magnus closes his eyes, holding Alec near to him. “I stand no chance, Alexander,” he confesses, “The moment I meet you, I’m already going to feel so -”

“I’m going to feel the same thing. I promise.”

Magnus shakes his head. Alec doesn’t understand it; he can’t. The feeling has always been too big for Magnus, to unwieldy for him to grasp, and yet Alec lives and breathes it: this thing called love.

“It makes no sense, but I know you,” Magnus says. “I know who you are in the same way I know my magic. It’s intimate. Inherent to who I am, and yet it’s a life I haven’t yet lived.”

“It’ll make sense,” Alec replies, and his lifts his hand to cup Magnus’ jaw, but the touch of his fingertips is incorporeal. His eyes find Magnus’, endlessly. “It makes sense to me.”  

“I look forward to meeting you,” Magnus whispers, as Alec’s skin turns translucent and becomes the same dust particulates always suspended in a beam of silent sunlight.

PLUS ONE | MANHATTAN, NEW YORK, USA, 2016

The lights of Pandemonium pulse with electrochromic intensity: blue, purple, green, white, strobe passing across the crowd like a searchlight, plunging young thrill seekers in and out of shadow. The floor is sticky with spilled beer, the air is sweet and sickly with Seelie magic, but it’s the music that laves across Magnus’ skin and always fills him with that heady rush.

That, and the power flickering in his fingertips as he summons a portal, the thrill of holding a Shadowhunter by the throat with just the lick of his magic, the power pulsing from the red jewel in his hand, returned to him by Clary Fairchild and that insufferable blonde Shadowhunter, and engraved on the back with the single word, amor -

True love can never die .

“Look out!”

The arrow comes out of nowhere, piercing a hidden Circle member through the heart. The man falls with a thud, but electricity skitters up the back of Magnus’ neck.

He turns. The archer comes striding down the stairs and pushes his way through the crowd, brushing Magnus’ shoulder on his way to retrieve the arrow. He’s young - painfully young - and skittish and beautiful and, at last, unfamiliar.

There’s not a single wisp of temporal magic to be felt. The universe, for once, is whole and faultless.

It’s taken almost four hundred years.

“Who are you?” Magnus asks, already breathless. He knows the answer. What was it he’s supposed to say? More like medium rare?

He watches the Shadowhunter toss his Seraph blade in the air and catch it. The roaming yellow-gold lights of the club pass across his bare forearms, the empty space on his left ring finger.

Heat unfurls beneath Magnus’ skin.

The magic sings.

[lovemesomesurveys]

2 for 1 special.

1. Are you one of those survey takers who take off tags? Why or why not? No, that’s really shitty. There’s rarely a tag on the surveys I find, whether there wasn’t one to begin with or someone else removed it, but if there is one I keep it there.  2. What kind of signs do you use when you pose for pictures? (i.e peace signs, thumbs up, rock, etc) I don’t make any signs. My signature pose is I slightly angle my head a certain way and give a closed mouth smile. 3. How often do you clean your room? Ugh, my room is bad right now. It’s really cluttery. I have too much stuff and not enough space. I’ve been wanting to go through and get rid of some things, but I just can’t seem to muster up the energy. Or the motivation. :/ It’s driving me nuts cause my room used to always be clean, but now it’s messy like me. 4. Where do you find new bands? I generally find new music on Spotify, but sometimes from my brother. 5. Do you have a favorite survey taker around xanga? If so, who? Well, obviously not Xanga (RIP), but there’s a pretty great group of us survey takers on here. Ya’ll know who you are. (:

6. How about survey maker? Do you have a favorite? I did, but they don’t make surveys anymore I don’t think. :( 7. What color is your computer chair? I always have my laptop on my bed. 8. When you buy a magazine, do you cut out the pictures that you like so you can put them on the wall, or do you keep the magazine the way it is? I did in my preteen and early teenage years. 9. Do you like to read? If so, what kind of books do you read and who is your favorite author, if you have one? I love to read. I like YA, NA, mystery, and psychological thriller.  10. Do you make 'To Do' lists often? No, but if I actually have something I need to do I’ll sometimes set a reminder on my phone. 11. Who is your worst teacher? And why is he/she the worst? I’m done with school. 12. Do you organize your files on your computer? Yeah. 13. Isn't it funny how almost every survey asks what your favorite color is? That one doesn’t bother me. There’s other repetitive questions that irk me, though. 14. How long can you go without eating? My appetite fluctuates. There’s days where I hardly eat anything or don’t eat anything until much later in the day. There’s bad days where I don’t eat at all, but I don’t allow more than a day, though. If my appetite is that messed up I have to make myself try and eat something.  15. Do you carry a bag when you go out? I’ve been using a mini backpack. I’ve been into those instead of a purse now. 16. Have you seen that Converse high heels? Would you wear it if you had the chance to? I’ve seen them... they don’t appeal to me at all. I couldn’t wear them anyway. 17. Do you have a motto in life? Or any saying that you believe in? Meh. 18. How often do you pray? Not as often as I should /: <<< I tell myself I need to more, but for some reason I don’t.  19. Do you have any bad habits? Oh do I. 20. Do you want to change your name? If so what name do you want? No thanks. I've already been Stephanie for so long. To change my name now would just be weird. . . <<< Haha, same! 21. Do you like wearing flip flops? I never wear flip flops or any kind of sandal or open toed shoe. 22. What Math subject is your favorite? (I.e. Algebra, Statistics, Business Math, Trigonometry, Geometry, etc.) None of them, you sicko. 24. How about Science? I like psychology, which falls under the social sciences category. 25. Would you ever dye your hair? If so what color? I’ve dyed my hair numerous times. I had blonde highlights for several years, went black one year, and since 2015 I’ve been dyeing my hair red. 26. What is the funniest thing that happened to you today? Nothing so far, it’s only 5 in the morning. Only 5 in the morning, ha. I need to go to bed. 27. Do you wish during 11:11? Nope. 28. Do you know the site PostSecret.com? If you do not, check it, now! I’m familiar with it, yes. It’s been around for several years. 29. Do you have a favorite Youtuber? If so, who? And what is your favorite video by them? I have several. 30. If you have to pick JUST ONE between TV, iPod, and computer, what would you pick and why? Computer. I can do pretty much anything on my computer. <<< Yeah, that’s an easy one. I swapped iPod for iPhone and still picked computer. 31. Do you study for exams? What subject do you study the most for? I did when I was in school. I studied for all my exams. 32. What is something that you do not like? A lot of things. 33. Have you ever liked a band because of their looks? No, I like bands/artists for their music. If they’re attractive, that’s just an added bonus. 34. Do you have trust issues? It’s not really that. I just have a hard time opening up to people and expressing myself. I tend to keep a lot to myself. 35. What is the appropriate length for a survey? I like at least 25 questions, but more is better.  Do you keep notes, drawings or letters that people give you? Yes. Have you ever been locked in a car with a bf/gf? No. Have you had a bf/gf that you never kissed? No. How do you know you love someone, personally? I just know. I don’t feel like getting all deep right now. Would you ditch friends to be with a bf/gf? No. I mean, unless my boyfriend really needed me in that moment or something came up. “Ditch” sounds harsh, though. I’d let them know and try to reschedule.  How many true best friends are present in your life? I just have my family, which I’m perfectly fine with. Do you currently have a significant other? No. Do your parents approve of the people you hang out with? I’m 30 years old and don’t have any friends, but they never had an issue with any of my friends. Would you be able to stand being in the same room as someone you hate? I don’t hate anyone. If I really didn’t like someone; though, I could still be civil. I wouldn’t have to interact with them, and if I did I would be polite, but keep it short. I wouldn’t say more than I needed to. I’m sure it would be awkward, though. Even uncomfortable, depending on the situation.  Do you depend on people at all, in any way? Yes. I’ve become pretty dependent these past few years, especially. Have you ever lost a close friend? That’s life. Has anybody ever held a grudge against you for a dumb reason? Not to my knowledge. Think of your current or last bf/gf. Do you/did you love them? I did, but no, not anymore. I don’t have any bad feelings towards them, though. Has anybody criticized the way your significant other looked like? I’m single currently, but that didn’t happen in the past. Not to my face, anyway. Do you date different people til you find the right one, or do you wait? I’ve been single for almost 7 years.  Have you ever stayed up late talking to a bf/gf on the phone or online? Yes. Do your friends like the people you date? Do their friends like you? My friends had an issue with Joseph because they didn’t like how he treated me. Do your parents let you date, or do you sneak around? I’m 30 years old. I can’t use “my parents don’t let me date” as an excuse for why I’ve been single haha.  Have you ever felt backstabbed by a close friend? Yes. Do you have any handshakes with anybody? No. Do you feel you can rely on anybody to always be there for you? Yes, my family. Have you ever regretted ignoring anybody? I’ve regretted pushing certain people away. Have you ever kissed someone in their bedroom, or in yours? No. Has a friend of yours ever confessed their love to you? Not romantically, but I had a friend who got really lovey dovey when she was drunk and would start crying and telling me she loved me lol. Have you gone out with someone, then ruined the friendship you had before? Yes. Can you trust any of your friends at full capacity? I trust my family with my life. Is the word 'love' even in your vocabulary? Yes. Who do you think is more confusing, males or females? People in general are confusing. Have you written or drawn anything for somebody else? Written, yes. Can you be your complete and honest self in front of anyone? Yeah. Do you tend to hide your emotions from certain people? Yes. I also downplay a lot. Do you have any pictures of yourself with a bf/gf? Yeah, somewhere. Do your friends know how to make you smile in tough times? I don’t have friends, but yes my family does. Do you have inside jokes with anybody? Yeah. Has anybody said they loved you, but you didn't love them back? Yes. Is there anyone you don't like that always seems to be everywhere you are? Myself. Haaa. Is there anyone you care about more than you care for yourself? My loved ones. They’re the most important thing to me. Who in your life is your number one priority to make sure they're happy? I want my loved ones to be happy. 

[littlemisssquiggles]

Pinehead Headcanons: Oscar the Brunette

Okay; time for a bit of fun and silliness again with my headcanons. Here me out on this one fellow Pineheads.

What if...while in Atlas, Oscar gets roped into dying his hair by Neon Katt. Let’s say, Neon Kat isn’t a natural ginger and every one in a while she likes dying her hair different colours to keep her appearance as fresh and funky as her personality. So for whatever reason, Neon persuades Oscar to give dying his hair a try since he’s the young impressionable farm boy from Mistral has never done anything unique different with his hair short of cutting it before so feeling bold, Oscar gives in to Neon’s proposal.

It was originally meant to be something great however the whole ordeal ends up going not so good when the dye Neon used reacts differently to Oscar's hair turning it an unexpected colour as opposed to what he was going for.

So much to Oscar’s embarrassment, he’s stuck wearing a cap for most of the day to hide the botched job Neon did and even when the cat Faunus tried to fix it, it just made things worse for poor Oscar.

Ultimately, it was Ruby who came to his rescue and she fixed Oscar's hair.

But despite the day he had, Oscar still opted for the change. So with Ruby's aid, Oscar successfully dyes his hair and rocks it as a dark brunette which Ruby remark ‘surprisingly suits him’.

Forgive the randomness of this Pinehead headcanon. I was just really curious to know what Oscar would look like if he had the same shade of brown as the original Ozma. So I did a few photo edits with Oscar as a brunette. Nothing too fancy. Just the ole lasso and colour blending mode and these were the results. And frankly...

It ain’t half bad. Now I wonder how he’d look with just brunette highlights or something like that. Y’know just give his hair the kind of gradient look at the tips like Ruby’s.

I know Oscar is perfect just the way he is with his black hair however I’ll admit there were times when I actually thought Oscar's hair to be dark brown or brownish black instead of black. I did notice that in warm shots, his hair does appear browner while being black in cooler shots. Wouldn’t be surprised if there is a bit of brown in Oscar’s hair colour. After all, my hair is black but not totally since you can see a bit of brown when it’s hit with sunlight. Perhaps it’s the same for Oscar. His hair isn’t entirely black.

Anyways, this still left me curious to see what he would look like rocking Ozma’s hair colour and I actually kind of dig Oscar the brunette. It’s not bad at all. He can work it.

I’ve never been a fan of the whole 'Oscar will be more or exactly like Ozpin' theory. If anything I never felt like this theory made sense. Why create an entirely new character just to have him become exactly like a character we already know just in a different body? 

If the CRWBY Writers made Oscar exactly like Ozpin in the end, my automatic question would be why make Oscar in the first place? Why not just have had Oz regenerate as teenage boy but still be the same character? Why go through the hassle of introducing and making your audience invested in this entirely new character who you brought in the show’s fourth season if you’re intention with him was just to technically make him a new body for one of your old characters who the audience has known since the start of the series?

And upon learning of the other Wizards, I still find this theory silly since every Wizard succeeding Ozma was an extension of him; Ozpin included. 

I’m going to be frank here guys, Oscar becoming Oz after the Merge makes zero sense, at least to this squiggle meister, because if it happens it would render Oscar’s entire characterization pointless. You made him just so he can be a new body for Ozpin when you could have just as easily done the same thing without needing to go through the process of creating a new character and fleshing this new person out.

It also doesn’t make sense for Oscar to be just like Ozpin since…Ozpin wasn’t even Ozpin. Neither were the other Wizards. Let me remind folks once more that Oz described himself as culmination of countless men who have given their lives to protect human. Ozpin isn’t just one person. He is himself---or what’s left of his original self plus the souls of all the other Wizards of Light.

If anything, I’d like to assume that all the past Wizards live on as part of this one entity I dubbed the Wizard Persona. Makes more sense to me if it’s like that.

That’s why I prefer my headcanon of Oscar being Ozma’s true incarnate a lot more. To me it sound better to have Oscar be made complete by the Merge than to just have him disappear entirely and let someone else take over what’s left. It makes more sense in my head to have Oscar be revealed as the embodiment of the original Ozma’s first form revived in Modern Remnant. It provides Oscar’s purpose in the narrative with more meaning as opposed to just have be another life for Ozma to live.

I love the idea of Oscar being revealed to be Ozma---the original Ozma all along but ultimately make the choice on his own to live his new life as Oscar because that’s who he is now. He isn’t Ozma anymore. Hasn’t been for many years. It’s unfortunate that he had to bring the other Wizards like Ozpin into his war. They were all basically casualties and it’s their lives that Oscar will carry on his chest. However it will give him a much bigger drive to end things with Salem.

Oscar is meant to be the end. If Ozma was the beginning who kick-started this never-ending clash with Salem and the Gods then Oscar will be the endgame to bring it all to a close. He will be the last life and it would make sense it he was always supposed to be the last life since he was born of the flesh that was one Ozma’s. He is Ozma.

I understand that Ozpin is the current embodiment of the Wizard Persona that will ultimately become a part of Oscar as well but people do realize that much of Ozpin's classic mannerisms and posture were inherited from Ozma, right? I understand that he was the first Wizard we met before we even knew there were others before him. However it still remains that Ozpin is essentially an extension of Ozma. Any quirks that we know him mostly for has been shared by other Wizards before him.

So it’s not so much Oscar is going to become like Ozpin, it’s more like he’s going to become like Ozma.

To me, it makes more sense for Oscar to become more like Ozma in the end especially if it ties into my theory where Oscar is Ozma. 

I'm still sticking to my guns on Oscar being similar to Eriol from Sakura Cardcaptors; being the second half of the revived Ozma representing his original form that was revived by possibly the God of Darkness.

I'm still a firm advocate for Oscar not disappearing with the Merge but rather be made whole by it.

I'm also sticking to my guns on Oscar resembling his original self---Ozma as he grows older especially if he becomes a brunette at some point.

Now of course this all just me tossing out ideas for funzies. But who knows it could be interesting if Oscar dying his hair brunette does become a thing. Could be cute for him. But who knows?

~LittleMissSquiggles (2019)

[inthesummerswelter]

recipe for disaster: chapter fifteen

She wakes with a muffled shout dying on her lips and an arm half-thrown out to defend herself. Penn’s chest heaves with exertion as she peels her eyes open, and only the sounds of half-spoken, half-sung melodies, drifting on breezes from the kitchen that float on through her bedroom door, slightly ajar, remind her of where she is. They’re lulling and tranquil and, for a fraction of a moment, her eyes slip shut, wanting nothing more than to escape what is no doubt coming up ahead.

But, her dreams now are nothing to desire, three weeks full of ghosts and gaping, hungry grins, and she wrenches herself back into consciousness, what she considers the lesser of the current two evils.

Rolling to the floor, Penn uses her momentum to wrap her duvet firmly around herself before struggling to her feet. The sun shining through the cracks in her drawn blinds is too bright, the noise of the traffic on the street below too loud.

Everything is too sharp, too much.

She shuffles to the kitchen, nearly tripping on an up-turned corner of a rug here, a discarded shoe there. Someone decided last night to make her flat a minefield apparently. Fuck them.

(Fuck her. She’s the mess here.)

He’s in the kitchen making something, making omelettes. Or at least she hopes he is. It’s the only egg-based sort of breakfast that Ashton’s got down to a 98% success rate, and her stomach’s settled to the point where she thinks she might actually want to eat something this morning.

The chair at the small table - her chair, mind, the simple birch one that looks like a throwback to the mid-sixties - seems too small now for her plus her swaddling of blankets, and it takes a bit of wiggling and effort to get herself wedged in there.

Ashton is still clanking spatula and skillet together, wistfully humming away at a tune Penn thinks she heard a lifetime ago on a classic rock station crackling from an old radio under the shade of a lawn chair.

She rubs her temples tenderly with her index fingers, working at the headache knotted around in her brain. The sound of the dish clattering on the Formica tabletop in front of her does nothing to help, and she just knows, right off the bat, that this is going to be a bad morning.

Penn can tell from the way his humming becomes markedly less free, markedly more tense and wooden, and the way that his body stiffens up as he makes the turn to walk back towards the counter to grab two steaming mugs and a plate of his own.

He looks like summer on the outside, she thinks blearily, still not having shaken off all of the drowse of sleep mixed in with the aftereffects of overindulgence. Sun at his back, it turns him into a statue of spun gold, highlighting his hair in a blaze of light.

For all the warmth of his appearance, Ashton carries bags of his own under his eyes, inky thumbprints stamped under hard chips of hazel-green, and the rigid set of his shoulders telegraphs his displeasure as clear as day.

“Eat up, Penny. Time to rise and shine.” And face your demons. That bit goes unspoken, for now.

He’s slipping into the chair opposite her, a plate of his own in hand as well as a mug of tea. A strong black cup of coffee is deposited in front of her, but she’s definitely more occupied by what he has just said.

“What?” Her voice croaks its way out of a desert cave. Clearing it with all of the barely-existent saliva she possesses, she tries again. “What did you say?”

Peering up at her from over his mug, she sees his eyebrows knit together in confusion, no doubt mirroring her own. “I said that it’s time to rise and shine. However, I’m not sure you’re very shiny right now.”

She bristles slightly as his dry tone.

“What?”

He flaps his hand at her, obviously done with the conversation at this point. “Never mind. My humor’s apparently lost on your post-drunk self.”

Frowning down at her breakfast, Penn can feel her already black mood start to sour even further.

“It was a mistake,” she murmurs sullenly into her folded eggs, not having even touched her fork yet. “Everyone makes mistakes, okay?”

With her stillness comes his jagged movements, slicing his own omelette into cross sections, exposing their innards with medical precision and a scalpel-sharp knife.

“A mistake? A mistake?” His voice, rising steadily in pitch as he cuts viciously through the egg, breaks on the last syllable. “Was it a mistake for you to come back for the third night in a row drunk out of your fucking mind? And then was it a mistake for me to come around, like I always fucking seem to do, and make everything better? Put you in bed and stay up late to make sure you don’t drown in your own vomit?”

“I’m not a goddamn alcoholic, Ashton!” she shouts suddenly, her hand itching to slam itself onto the table. She restrains it, though, forcing the impulse down deep under her skin. It would only make things worse.

His utensils still, scraping sharply against the ceramic of the plate as they screech to a halt. “Not yet,” he mutters, and those two words, filled with horrific amounts of underhanded accusations, spur her into action.

“You know what, I don’t even know why you bother, if I’m on such a bad path already. Why don’t you just let me ruin my own life in peace and stop making me feel so goddamn guilty about all of my choices?”

Ashton’s head snaps up at that, immediately choking out the beginning of a rebuttal.

“Because I care about you! Okay? I -”

But he cuts himself off, mouth opening and shutting once before a dull red flush rises up high in his cheekbones as he stares off over her left shoulder, determinedly avoiding her gaze.

“No, you don’t,” she responds quietly. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

A stretched-out silence adds to the chasm Penn can feel growing between them.

“I suppose we’ll just add that to the ever-growing list of things you just don’t want to talk about,” he finally grumbles, setting down knife and fork in lieu of a gulp of tea, ruffling his hair with the other hand in a futile attempt to have it lie flat.

Her hands clench in her lap, covered by the folds of the duvet, just knowing that he’s talking about what happened on the terrace.

“It’s a mistake - that was a mistake - because...because you and I want...different things.” It’s a cleaver in her heart, to say these words. Because saying them out loud makes them true, and she wants nothing more of them to not be true.

His reaction confirms them, though.

Immediately she can see it again in her mind’s eye: two silhouettes slowly molding together to become one, cast in shadows against the warm glow of the lamps in his flat on that night that feels an age ago.

And if there was anger in his face before, there’s fury now. Penn can see the way the tension builds in his face, coiling tight in the furrow of his brow and grinding along his jawline.

She’s not surprised when he lashes out again with harsh words, already curling in on herself in preparation to take the blow.

“And what the hell do you think I want? You know nothing of what I want, you don’t care what I want, and that’s the fact of the matter.” It’s him slamming things around now, snatching up his dishes and dumping his uneaten meal into the little aluminum compost bin she keeps in the kitchen, letting the lid fly back with a crash.

An uncomfortable silence, punctuated with the sounds of Ashton in the kitchen.

It’s not until she hears him clucking his tongue, calling for the dogs, does she looks away from the window that shows the progress of the sun moving across the sky.

“Cards! Clove! C’mere, time to go.”

Gathering her blankets up around her, Penn squeezes her way out of her chair and marches into the living room where he’s clipping their leads onto their collars.

“And what do you think you’re doing?” she asks waspishly. The pups look up and turn their heads back and forth between the two, panting grins that slowly disappear as Ashton rises up to his full height.

In return, he just laughs at her. “You didn’t know? Christ, you didn’t even realize. Penn, I’ve been keeping them over at my flat for the past couple weeks. You’re out all day at work, and then you drag yourself in at all hours of the night and immediately pass out. The first time I came over to check up on you, you were out cold on the kitchen floor and they hadn’t been let to go outside since early that morning. Sue me, but I’m pretty sure that’s not an okay thing to do.”

Throwing her hands up in the air, Penn stomps her foot on the ground and screams, “Fine! I’m a bad person, okay? I’ve fucked up a hell of a lot and obviously you’re just so much better than I could ever be, so just leave me the fuck alone!”

Immediately something changes in his expression, and he steps towards her, stretching out a hand. But Penn’s not having any of that, thank you very much. They made this bed up together, and they’re going to lie in it, goddamnit.

She doesn’t think she can take it if they don’t.

“Don’t. Just go.” She’s already turned away, having looked at the clock on the wall and realizing she’s got little time to spare if she wants to make it to work within the hour.

Penn doesn’t see the way his face falls, ever so slightly, flinching at her dismissal. She doesn’t know what words were on this tip of his tongue, mere millimetres from becoming truths in the air. She doesn’t notice how he looks back at her, just once, as he herds the dogs out the door, backpack slung over one broad shoulder.  

So instead of taking a stride forward, they shuffle three steps back.

 Being back in the kitchen isn’t as nice as Penn expected.

Fast-paced and rushed?

Yes.

Mind-numbing?

No.

Fragments of thoughts race a kilo a minute through her brain, never pausing long enough to actually formulate into a distinct idea.

It’s all for the better, really, because she’s got enough problems as it is.

A drastic menu change during her leave of absence means she no longer has her usual spot up near the head of the kitchen, dealing with the important entrées and working with the proteins. Instead, Penn is relegated to helping with the prep work for the following day: taking stock of the back room for ordering produce and cheeses, counting the meat in the walk-in-freezer, and even helping Josh, one of the lower line-cooks, with making the bread for the next day.

She’s starting to measure out the proper amounts of flour to put into the mixer when Liam comes by and places a sympathetic hand on her shoulder.

“Delacroix wants to see you. He’s waiting in his office. And, my condolences on your loss.”

Sweet as ever, Liam is.

In spite of herself, she lets a tiny grin slip as she pats him on the cheek tenderly, then dusts off her hands and begins her walk to the corner room. The blinds are drawn, shielding them from the bustle of the kitchen, and for that she’s glad.

Looking up from a vintage swirling around his glass, Delacroix tilts it at her, in a toast.

“Any for you?” he says, taking a sip himself, consequently staining the edges of his moustache a light burgundy.

“I’m fine, thanks.” She flutters nervously around the chair in front of his desk, acutely aware of how disheveled she must look after a long day of toting around sacks of flour and mountains of yeast.

“You seem, how do you say, a bit distraught lately. Yes, to be expected after...well, after. But, still. I see. I notice. Let it not be said that Delacroix does not care most deeply for his employees’ welfare.”

Still loath to touch anything for fear of leaving white prints, Penn perches on the edge of the leather seat. “I’m...coping. It’s not been easy. But I’m dealing with it. Best I can.”

He doesn’t respond, instead favoring taking another drink of wine.

“That doesn’t mean that I need more time off, sir! I think, I know, that keeping myself busy is helping taking my mind off it for now.”

Suddenly, she’s terrified, panicked that he’s going to tell her to go back home for another two weeks, to go back to that empty home where her only friends are ghosts.

Delacroix leans forward, bracing his elbows against the surface of the desk as they support the weight of his body, a look of concern upon his face.

“Penn...is there anything that’s bothering you right now? That you might wish to talk to me about?”

And, oh God, does she want to.

But what would she say?

Yes, she’s a bit out of sorts right now, trying to absorb both the majority of her gran’s funerary costs and the monthly rent on both flats?

That none of her family has shown the remotest interest in helping her pay the lease or work on moving her things out of her gran’s former flat?

That she can’t take off work to do it herself, because she’s starting to run behind on her own bills and needs every pence she can get?

Not to mention that she's only in possession of two close friends, one of which is travelling the world and consequently never around or in an area with enough signal to return her calls? The other, as it so happens, would probably be happiest with never seeing her again and has possibly absconded with her dogs.

Add to that the money she spends on alcohol, the only thing that knocks her out enough to even get her to fall asleep anymore, and the horrific dreams that plague her constantly. As a result, she never gets more than five hours on a good night.

But she tells him none of that.

“Nothing, sir. It’s nothing.”

His mouth twists suddenly before settling back into the half-grin perpetually on his face. She knows that expression, can recognize it a second before it even occurs, like an old friend come home again.

That’s the look of disappointment.

Flapping his hand at her, he sends her back out into the kitchen, to finish helping Joshua prepare the bread dough in time to let it rise before tomorrow. If her hands were dusty with flour before, they were the colour of salt, of chalk, now. All pale and ghostly, they’re the colour of nothing as they pound into the pliable dough, pushing it down relentlessly.

They finish, and Penn manages to wipe a smear of flour across her brow before remembering to wash her hands in the sink. The mirror tells all, reflecting back the loose hairs escaping from her barrettes, the unflattering spots of sweat glistening across the planes of her face, only disrupted by the dark circles smudged under her eyes.

It shows the truth of the matter: she’s absolutely exhausted. The dimness of the overhead lighting above the sink causes the unnaturally pale cast to her skin to glow, normally a darker olive tone, throwing the light smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose thrown into darker prominence.

Splashing a bit of water onto her face, Penn makes her way into the small locker room, collecting her things before stepping out into the evening air.

He’s waiting for her there, just outside the back double doors on the cobblestones that have the beginnings of grass shooting out between their edges, leaning against the dark brick walls of the building. She almost knew he would be. He’s waiting, and he’s smiling with a grin that’s just a touch less shit-eating than normal and just a touch more sympathetic. Holding out a bottle of something or other in his left hand, Louis also extends his left, reaching forward, almost bridging the gap between their two bodies.

With arms stretched out as if in supplication, it is as if the world holds its breath as he looks into her, half of Michelangelo's Creation of Adam come again.

There are no touches, though, and she doesn’t stretch out her arm in return to complete the image. Instead, just the stars reflecting themselves in the blue of his eyes, and rather than crossing the distance he murmurs, still with the softened grin upon his face, “Wanna get trashed again?”

Everything begins moving at a normal speed again, the sounds of late-night traffic filtering back in slowly, and she’s almost relieved. That was just on the border of entrancing, intoxicating.

She can practically see Ashton’s honey-hazel eyes now, brimming with reproach, but that doesn’t stop Penn from reaching for the bottle in his hands with a choked out, “Fuck, yes.”

Everything’s just a little bit easier to handle when you’re numb.

   Later, when she’s laying on top of her bed, limbs askew, chef’s coat and pants tossed into a heap in the corner, she reaches out for her mobile, hand groping along the side table.

Pressing the buttons without looking at the screen, she brings it up to her ear, working her mouth around in an attempt to make sure her words come out exactly how she wants them to.

Although, Penn thinks as the dial tone begins, it really doesn’t matter. He always knows what she means.

“‘ Lo? Penn?” There’s static in the back, and vaguely she wonders where he is, if she’s woken him up. But then again, it’s almost 3:00 a.m. her time, so the chances of it being day on his side are relatively high.

“Where are you?”

“Currently? In a shabby hostel somewhere in the Andes.”

She doesn’t speak for a long time, preoccupied with listening to his steady, even breaths.

“Zayn? How do you know?” It’s hard, making sure her voice doesn’t tremble as she speaks.

“You just do. You just know.” He pauses, the sounds of him shuffling through his bag coming through the line. “Hang on a mo’ and I’ll show you.”

And the call ends.

[koisurufortunecephalopod]

A Comprehensive Guide to DESURABBITS

Hey guys, your friendly cephalopod here to tell you all about the group I’ve fallen in love with! 

(ripping of shades sorry not sorry)

So what is this group?

Formed as DEATHRABBITS (デスラビッツ) in late 2013 when the idol group usa☆usa Shoujou Club (usa☆usa少女倶楽部) of Mochizuki Emi, Okawa Yuzu, and Yasui Karin did a crossover unit featuring the section chief of their indies label G-ANGLE RECORDS and vocalist of the digital hardcore unit AKIRADEATH, Kanzaki Akira. While “Bucho” supplies backing death metal screams and often stands around menacingly in the background, the girls sing and dance like any other idol group. Their style is often described as “Japanese Death Pop”, often compared to BABYMETAL and (OG) LADYBABY with how it has maybe a slight bit of an edge compared to other songs in the idol genre, plus metal influences. 

For the past six years, they’ve evolved their sound in a variety of different ways, trying different styles with their latest released song “Sotsugyou Shoujo- Mirai E” taking on more of a rock influence. They’re one of those groups that tends to just throw stuff at the wall to see what sticks. One of these being “ramen editions” of their singles. Starting in 2016, the singles sold at their live shows are packaged with dry ramen, and purchasing one also sends packets of ramen to disenfranchised areas of Malaysia. Unfortunately as of 2019, this is being discontinued (although the members and staff have expressed interest in replacing this with ramen edition goods). They’ve also changed their name (confusingly) a few times as well-- to Desu.Rabbits (です。ラビッツ) in 2016, and recently to DESURABBITS (デスラビッツ) in February 2019. Either way, most fans affectionately refer to them either as “DesuRabi” or “Rabbits.” 

Also fun fact, Bucho is bffs with Ladybeard because of course those two are friends. They crowdfunded a unit song that’s a collaboration between their groups called “DEADLIFT RABBITS”

Members!

Mochizuki Emi (望月愛実)

Currently 17 and about to start her final year in high school, Emi is the youngest member of the group and was only a sixth grader in elementary school when she joined. Her parents were both involved in the music industry, leading her to become interested in becoming a singer from an early age. She’s the lead vocalist of the group as well as the center of all currently released songs. She’s the one who gets all of the long solo parts and has always had a rather strong voice since she joined.  Emi’s grown up A LOT since the early days (they’ve never posted heights on their profiles, so we’re not sure, but she has guessed that she’s grown about 15cm (~6 inches) and has gotten a much more mature hairstyle. As the baby of the group, in some of their older material, she would often come across as a little spoiled and quick-tempered and compared to that she’s really mellowed out, becoming more mature and cool-headed.  Her English pronunciation is impeccable, but she actually isn’t very good at speaking it in conversation.  Before member colors were abolished in 2019, her image color was pink! She also posts song covers on her personal Youtube channel, but it hasn’t been active for a while. 

Okawa Yuzu (大川柚)

Yuzu is the leader and often the one tasked with leading MCs and acting as the spokesperson of the group. Since joining, her catchphrase has been “Always full of energy,” which is something that describes her well. While she isn’t necessarily a ball of sunshine bouncing off the walls, she has more of an intense “Let’s give 100% to everything” sort of energy to her. She takes her role as leader very seriously; consulting with staff about the direction of the group and recently dying her hair ash pink and requesting that her new costume look “strong and like she can fight in it” in order to really highlight how their new era is about taking a new direction.  Since early childhood, Yuzu has aimed for a career in show business. Originally wanting to be a talent or a broadcaster, she eventually studied dance in order to become an idol. From there she made connections with singer-songwriter and producer of other idols and artists (such as KOTO, Terashima Yufu, and TsubasaFly), SAWA. She is the best dancer in the group, so look for her if there’s a dance break.  Her voice is the deeper one out of the girls, although she doesn’t get as many solo parts as Emi. It was announced recently that she will be getting her first center song as the double A-side with “Sotsugyo Shoujo”, “Demo, Nigenna.” She’s also an avid bookworm and very studious, and will be attending university this spring.  Her member color was previously purple! 

Yasui Karin (安井夏鈴)

Karin is the oldest of the three girls and the mood maker. She’s carefree and my pace beyond my pace. If she actually speaks during an MC (and isn’t just staring off into space the entire time), she will most likely forget what she’s saying halfway through the sentence because she’s always off in “Kariko World” as she calls it. She has a very distinct way of speaking that’s very slowly rhythmic, so she will often get speaking lines in songs (and recently something of a rap verse). Her singing voice is also the most “idol-like” of the three-- high pitched and sweet-- but while she also doesn’t get many solos, it’s very easy to pick out. Also she has such sweet guitar skills. She and Tomo-zo should totally collaborate. Totally. I can’t find much about her background, but I do want to say on a personal note that she was the first member to remember my name and that I was a Bucho oshi after even the first time I saw them. And every time she’s the one taking the cheki, the camera “somehow” doesn’t have any film in it and you two just have to hold that pose for a bit. Karin will also be attending university in the spring and I am so proud of her.  She used to be the green member!

Kanzaki Akira (神崎晃) Bucho (部長)

The 41-year-old section head (or “bucho” in Japanese) at the record label G-ANGLE RECORDS with a background in singing in metal, grindcore, enka, and classical styles who was a vocalist in a handful of metal and rock bands from high school that never went anywhere, Bucho officially emerged in the music world in 2006 with the underground digital hardcore duo AKIRADEATH. As such, Bucho’s role in DESURABBITS is to provide backing death metal vocals (and rap). At 190cm (~6′5′’) with his gas mask and body armor, he can strike an intimidating figure. Despite this, he usually plays the part of a bumbling goofball of an “uncle” figure to the rebellious teenage girls. He himself is a huge idol wotaku (which is really annoying at events when you’re trying to get a two-shot with him and he’s wandered off to get in line for a different idol group. The girls however seem to find it hilarious to yell across the very crowded room for him to get back here because Loren wants to take a cheki with him) and has done video streams talking about the state of the idol industry. While he definitely doesn’t dance (but is incorporated into the choreography sometimes), he does his best in the back to kind of furi-copy or give gestures for the wota-gei if he’s not bumping into things.  As technically a part of the record label staff, there is something of a debate over his status of a member. Since the early days of the group, there was a theme of “Emi, Yuzu, and Karin vs. Bucho,” with even several of their one-man concerts being titled as such and given the caveat of “if tickets sell out, Bucho will be fired.” However, as of their 2019 makeover, it was announced that they will be “graduating” from this image and “allowing” Bucho to be a member.  In the earlier singles, his involvement was a lot larger (often having full verses), but his vocal parts have been scaled down a lot since 2015. Since 2018, he has remedied this by often having a DJ set up behind the girls and DJing live along with their performances (doing some sick mashups while singing, it’s pretty sweet), and their most recent song plays this up. He also does solo DJing as “DJ Bucho.” Not to be confused with “DJ Akira,” which is just what he calls himself when he talks in an “ikemen voice.”  His member color was black!

Okay, so what about their music?

WELL I’M GLAD YOU ASKED. HAVE A COMPREHENSIVE LIST OF MY OPINIONS. 

“Idol STAR WARS”

Their very first song. The girls are at peak baby. Emi is a literal fetus. 

I actually really like the instrumental for this, it has a bit of a gritty electronic edge to it. It sets the precedent for their style of “cute but with a screaming man”, but is a bit more so, because Bucho actually has verses???

The chorus is pure sugar pop though I love it

But what I love more is Bucho just hecking going off with the verbal keysmash screams after the final chorus. Fucking spectacular you funky bastard.

I’m pretty sure they only filmed like seven minutes of video for the music video. I’m not convinced Bucho and the girls were ever in the same building. 

“Hell Near Bucho ~ Ugokisugi da yo Nihonjin 2013 ~”

The B-side off of Idol STAR WARS, so still pretty old form with the line distribution but

Bucho screaming about having a hernia for four minutes

ngl because of the title being partly in English and the album version having a random-ass intro with an American woman talking about Bucho battling an endless battle with the enemy of “hell near” i didn’t actually make the connection for months and thought this was like. DesuRabi Lore. 

OKAY BUT THAT CHORUS IS SO CATCHY AND PEAK IDOL I LOVE IT

And A+ screaming I love it

I really want to see it live at least once because the “Hell! Near! Bucho!” chant part sounds like it would go so hard

“Koisuru Kisetsu”

Second single, getting into their style a bit more

But they still acknowledge that like... Bucho has a name.

I highly recommend checking out the subbed version because the things Bucho is screaming about are just. What.

Literal Rabbits to represent Emi, Yuzu, and Karin

Emi, Yuzu and Karin just being like “The lyrics are kinda dark... Bucho’s singing about his love life again lmao let’s just hecking change this song because we wanna sing something else

Just hecking shove him behind some fake cherry trees. He’ll be fine.

“Omatsuri JAPAN!! Kokuhaku Night”

This is probably their most straight-up idol song. Like you could legit just have this song without him grunting in the background, but why would you want that.

Like that sounds weird by itself but trust me it really pumps up the energy of the song

It’s one of the songs that’s an absolute bop at lives, especially when they shuffle around who does the “Daisuki desu” line. And then we mosh. 

Listen it just has such a great energy that you don’t always get in the “cute summer love song” niche of idol songs and I greatly appreciate this

“DESURABBITS Gun no 7 Kajou”

Another one I highly recommend watching the subbed version for because it outlines the “Seven rules of the DESURABBITS Army”, and is basically the theme song and list of principals for the group and fans. 

Music and MV aside, I want to say that this was one of the things that REALLY sold me on the group, as the rules are all “do your best at your life outside lives, be kind to one another and the live venue” and the fanbase really reflects that. Like they’ve welcomed me more than Gachamen/pinkos which is kind of an accomplishment. 

Like you don’t gotta make your edgy idol group 2edgy4me, you can still be about respecting the fans of other groups and the other fans and just having a good time. 

ANyways

Yuzu: Yeah we have no idea what the fuck Bucho is ever saying

Emi’s vocals in the pv are really great for her age and I wish there were better quality live versions for it recently bc dang she’s improved so much

This is another goes absolutely insane at lives with the “WE! ARE! DESURABBITS! DESU!” chant it’s amazing

I do kinda love the bit where it looks like they’re going to go into a dance break and all they do is... spin. 

Also they call Bucho a mascot character

“Usagi no Kimochi”

Honestly this song is just kind of hilarious once you realize that it’s basically just “don’t talk shit online and come watch our shows”

Complete with Bucho fucking murdering the Twitter bird

They’re starting to change their styles a bit with many tonal shifts and fewer Bucho parts. I’m not personally too into the verses, but I do like the choruses

I really dig the way they go in on the “pyons” at the beginning as well as the piano parts

DJ AKIRA GA KONNICHIWA

“Chuuni no Natsu. Ojisan no Natsu.”

This is a very good summery idol song just in general and mood which I love, with that lovely piano, string, and Emi-solo intro. Very refreshing and nostalgic with a good energy to it. 

THEY LET BUCHO SING!!!! About how much he wants to go to the beach but can’t because he has work just let him go. 

But for real, I really love his singing voice here. It matches well and has a bit of a punk rock sound to it which is my jam outside of idols. Also in the last chorus the way all four of them harmonize is surprisingly nice!

Also as a song that really sums up the relationship between Bucho and Emi, Yuzu, and Karin, it’s hilariously fitting. 

KUSAI, KUSAI!

O-Ji-SA-N!

“Nande?”

First things first the video is amazing like could you guys not shoot on the same day who came up with the story what is going on who believes Bucho could fight ninjas

But honestly that’s kind of the point

ngl this is my favorite DesuRabbi song, because: 

A) HOOKS FOR DAYS. From the “nande naze nande naze nande naze” to the “chikirichi, chikirichi, chikirichi” to the “nande, nee, nande”

B) honestly joining the fandom I was in the mindset where I needed something to express my “why what what the fuck what why what”

and this song supports that that is okay. If you can’t have a happy idol song that is just like “lmao we don’t know what’s going on and that’s fine” idk you’re a stronger person than me I guess??

Also the video

This also really marks the shift into Bucho taking a backseat to the girls, which ye Emi’s voice is clearly getting stronger

But tbh the highlight for me is Karin’s solo at the start of the bridge. Her voice is perfect for the whimsical tone they’re going for at that part of like “hey it doesn’t matter my dude!”

“Shitsuren Shitara Wasabi”

Okay, just gonna be up front, I’m not the biggest fan of their 2016-2018 “です。ラビッツ” era songs. They tried experimenting with songs a lot more with tone changes and different styles, and honestly I just found them lacking the same energy. However, I love this song a lot as it has that with that same “throw a bunch of things at the wall at once”

The tone is a lot more mature than their older material, but you still get the energy, especially in that chorus

The girls are the focus, and even though Emi still has ALL OF THE SOLOS, Yuzu gets some spots too, especially her spoken line which kind of makes this “her song” among her oshis and I’m really happy that she got that since she was the only one who didn’t have that before this

The lyrics are just so hopeful and good??? Idk maybe I’ll translate someday

WASABI WASABI WASABI KURE

“Sotsugyou Shojo-Mirai E-”

Or as I like to call it “When the heck did you guys get a budget???”

This is the first song with a different producer and uh... yeah you can tell. It’s radically different with a darker, rock image, but the lyrics are really hopeful and nice. I translated them over on my jp twitter if you’re interested??

THAT BASS THO

Yuzu’s voice suits this well with her very short solos. I feel like Karin’s solo singing part barely sounds like her, but I do like her little “rap”

And of course Bucho’s rap. What a nerd I love him. 

Seriously where did they get a music video budget

I’m more into their old stuff just because that’s what I like, but I do really appreciate that they went for a harder sound but keeping the hooks and the hopeful outlook and the weird old man who stands behind them

This is most definitely the most intense dance they’ve done. Emi and Karin tried very hard. 

Okay we get it so how do we follow them?

Unfortunately, on one hand, DesuRabi very much are focused on live performances as part of the underground idol tradition. They don’t have a very active release schedule, and while their Youtube channel sometimes posts live videos, it’s a bit sporadic. HOWEVER, they are a group that if you somehow manage to get to Japan, I would HIGHLY recommend checking out, if only for the fact that they have lives almost every weekend which are very cheap and very easy to get tickets to. Unless it’s a larger event or through a different event planner, usually you just reserve under a name and email and pay at the door. The DesuRabi Army is super nice and accepting and I will possibly be there. 

But other than that: uh yeah, social media. 

Official Youtube

Official Website

Twitter (group)

Twitter (Emi)

Twitter (Yuzu)

Twitter (Karin)

Twitter (Bucho)

They’re all fairly active on twitter (although Karin will sometimes just kind of... fade from existence). Emi, Yuzu, and Karin seem to have SOME rules on when they can reply, but Bucho just replies whenever he wants, which is often. Even sometimes when he isn’t tagged in the conversation or following you. They’re always very excited to see foreign fans, so tell them Loren sent you!

[amayapowell]

The Wedding Weekend

*Bing* Ladies and gentleman, on behalf of our flight crew, we would like to welcome you to San Francisco International Airport. Local time is 8:23 am and the current temperature is a pleasant 62 degrees.

Eleven hours was a long flight for a weekend, but it was worth it to see two of her best friends get married. It’d been four years since their Hartfeld graduation; when everyone went their separate ways and it was their wedding weekend that would bring them all back together. She takes out the rehearsal invitation for an old Hollywood night of dinner and dancing, where they’ll all arrive as the Golden Age of Hollywood cinema. Lucky for her; the hottest up in coming designer on the New York Fashion scene is another best friend.

Her cab pulls up in front of the Hotel Majestic to a crowd and a familiar frame. Tall, broad, defined, herculean. His hair was a little greyer since she’d seen him last but he was unmistakable. The sound of the paparazzi cameras flashing was barely audible over the hoard of screaming girls reaching out for an autograph or a picture or a feel.

“Oh my gosh Chris Powell, can I have your autograph too?” She screams out with an embellished girlish squeal.

Without turning around, his head lifts with a beaming smile growing across his face. He’d know that voice over any crowd. And in an attempt to not sound too eager, he apologies to his wading fans.

“I’m sorry guys, that’s it for today. My dates here.” He turns around to the disappointing moans of the dispersing crowd, to dip down and meet her in a hug that only he gives. She throws her arms around his neck while his hands meet at the small of her back.

“Is this ok? Or is security gonna tackle me?”

“They’re checking the hotel for bombs so you should be good for a few minutes.” He flashes that boyish smile she loves so much.

“You look amazing Laney come here.” She smiles at the nickname he gave her when she started at the Knightly News their Sophomore year. She was his Lois Lane to her Clark Kent. He picks her up once more and holds her in a tight hug; slightly swinging their bodies together. After setting her down and grabbing her bag, they both make their way inside.

“You don’t look so bad yourself Rookie of the Year. Look at you…new title, new city...You’re having a pretty good year Kent. How are you liking Seattle?”

“I love it! The hiking, the water, the seafood. It’s not Maine, but it’s a close second.” Chris looks around the lobby as if to verify that they were alone. “Where is everyone?”

“Looks like we’re the first. We’re still a little early though; it’s only a little after 9:30 and you know how Abbie is with her schedule, so they should be here soon.”  The air is heavy between them, as his stare stints the rest of her speech.

“Soooo your date huh?”

“How else was I going to get them to leave?”

“So, does this mean I’m going to be on tonight’s highlight reel? You know I’m more CNN than ESPN?”

“Probably just local, nothing national.”

She shoves him playfully. “Alright Kent, so where’s your real date to this little shindig? I see from your fan club that you’re not lacking any options.”  

“HA!”

“What about that Chelsea what’s her name? I saw those pictures of you two looking pretty cozy after your signing.” Chris tilts his head and raises an eyebrow.

“Stalk much?”

“I’ve got contacts at TMZ.” Chris laughs and shrugs his shoulders.

“Publicity. My agent’s bright idea. Those were the longest three dinners of my life. Besides Laney, you know Clark Kent only has eyes for Lois Lane.”  He says while giving her a sly little wink.

“What about you, famous journalist? Who are you here with Anderson Cooper, Trevor Noah?

“Why is Trevor Noah here?” Her eyes jolt around the lobby until they settle back on him with a smile.

“Hardly famous. But nope, flying solo. After three months in Korea, I still haven’t gotten used to the accents or the food. So that doesn’t make me much of a date. I can’t tell you how much I’m dying for some greasy American fast food.”

“Sounds like we need to welcome you back properly.” He claps his hands and rubs them together. “Alright then, that settles it, burgers and beers on me tonight.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that Kent.”

“I hope so.” Silently they stare into each other’s eyes when another familiar voice breaks the tension.

“Holy shit I won already. Pay up Laio!” They both turn to see Kaitlyn, Zack and Audrey heading their direction.

“This is not a part of the terms and you know it.”

“Please, we’ve been here two seconds and they’re already making out.”

“Um hello?”

“Laney and I were just catching up guys.”

“Overruled. They haven’t seen each other in what four years, judges allow for catch up time.”

Amaya and Chris steal a glance through their bickering.

“College nicknames and an almost make out…I rule I’ve already won.”

“You would.”

Amaya walks in between them reaching out to a tall buxom blonde standing behind Kaitlyn.

“Audrey thank God for a friendly face.”

“You love me.” Kaitlyn says while pushing her into Audrey’s embrace.

“This is nothing. They went on like this for the entire plane ride. But least I had Henry to keep me company. Although now that I see you in person, I can see what all the fuss is about.” She extends her hand towards Chris.

“Chris Powell, I presume.” Chris blushes reciprocating the gesture.

“Guilty. It’s nice to meet finally you Audrey. Although from the stories and your pictures, I feel like I already know you.”

“What pic…”

Amaya’s eyes widen as she clears her throat.

“Ugh…Where’s Hankie?”

“He’s on the phone, he’ll be right in.” Zack says setting down his carryon some nearby couches.

“Save some of that love for me.” Hank breezes through pulling Amaya into a hug. “Amaya. Gorgeous as ever. When are you going to run away with me?”

“Play your cards right and this might be your weekend.”

“He’s too high maintenance for you.”

Henry stops short of his next thought and leans around Amaya.

“What about you handsome…Run away with me?”

“Hey Henry. Lookin’ sharp!” Hank scoffs behind a wink.

“I know.”

“Seriously love. When are you going to let me do a spread on you?”

“When I am worthy of a Henry Cavendish spread.” She dips her head while giving an embellished bow.

“It’s true, not many are.”

“And so modest.”

“But you are perfect for this seasons cross overs. An AP award-winning journalist and recent Emmy nomination would look great in Vooogue...”

“This is who your next spread should be on. The newest Seattle Mariners Ace Pitcher. A top pitching prospect with 131 strikeouts and 117 innings. From college football God to Rookie of the Year?  I’d say you can’t get a much better crossover than that.”

The group stairs silent and wide-eyed back at her.

“Groupie. How do you know all that?” Kaitlyn asks while sitting down next to Zack.

“Journalist��it’s my job.”

“Sounds like you should be my agent.”

“It’s probably a pay raise so I may take you up on that.”

“I’m sure she’ll take the perks of the job as well.”

“I’ve been gone for three months…Is this going to be pick on Amaya weekend?”

Kaitlyn and Zack respond in unison.

“Probably.”

The six of you sit in the lobby talking and catching up when Zack starts whistling and clapping loudly. The rest of the group all turn to see Tyler and Abbie walking in hand in hand and join in the cheers of welcoming the soon to be Bride and Groom.

“Guys!” Abbie squeals as she lets go of Tyler’s hand and runs towards the group.

“Amaya, you’re here!”

“Of course, I’m here. There’s no way I would let you get married without me. Trades smadge. They’ve got nothing on your wedding. Soooooo are you guys ready for the next step?”

“I think prepared is more of the question?”

“Actually guys, there's a subtle distinction between the two. ‘Being prepared’, I think means having done work in advance so that there is a plan in place to ensure that everything runs smoothly as our life as a married couple begins. ‘Being ready’, I think refers to an emotional preparedness or readiness. And although extremely anxious, I can’t wait to make this woman my wife.”

Abbie shakes her head at her husband-to-be’s response. “That was ‘yes’ the long way.”

All of the girls coo and aw as Abbie snuggles up to Tyler for a kiss.

“Tyler thanks for the advanced copy of your new release, but I cannot get past level three.” Chris questions Tyler, while Abbie huddles alongside the girls.

“I am so excited! This weekend is going to be so much fun!” Abbie says practically bursting with excitement. “I cannot wait to get all dressed up for tomorrow night.”

“Whose idea was that anyway?”

“That was I.” Zack yells over his should half eavesdropping on the girl's conversation.

“An idea he stole from one of my recent Vanity Fair shoots.”

“Oooo fancy.”

“And this place is the quintessential turn of the century location for such an occasion. A photographer’s dream!”

“Speaking of which. Amaya here’s your dress. I’ll stop by your room tomorrow for any alterations.” Kaitlyn hands her a garment bag with red sequins shimmering through the clear plastic label spot from a nearby luggage rack.  

“Thank you. I’m sure it’s perfect! And Audrey you’re still gonna do my hair and makeup right?”

“Of course. I’ve brought all my stuff for the weekend.”

“And I will be stopping by everyone’s rooms to get a few time machine transformation shots.”

“Hankie you’re not going to be working the entire weekend, are you?”

“Oh no. I brought my assistant Claire with me to shoot the majority of this weekend’s events. But I’d still like to get a few shots in myself. And don’t worry you two, I trust her with my life. Now she’s not as good as I am, but what can you do?”

“Humble, isn’t he?”

Ignoring Zack’s remarks, Henry continues his thoughts. “She’ll be here in time to set up for the rehearsal dinner tomorrow.”

“You guys are the best friends…everything is going to be just…perfect.” Abbie's face starts to frown and her eyes appear to well.

“No, no, no, no, no. No crying already.”

“I’m just so happy we’re all together again. Wait, where’s Zig and Dan?”

“Oh, they couldn’t get an earlier flight out of Tokyo, so they’re coming in on a red-eye tonight.”

“That sucks. It’s bad enough that James and Jules couldn’t be here.

“Thus the life of a big shot movie director. Gotta tour the rounds.”

“Well since the whole gang’s not here yet, why don’t we all rest up a bit and then we can meet up for drinks later?”

“Oh, you read my mind! I don’t know about you guys, but jet lags a ‘B’ and I don’t want any bags under these eyes for wedding pictures.”

“So, we’ll all meet in the Butterfly Lounge for drinks tonight and then make our way back to the 1950s tomorrow.” Abbie squeals clapping her hands together.

Everyone hugs and retires to their separate rooms. Leaving Chris and Amaya to look around and notice that they are the only two remaining, so they take the last elevator up together.  Once the doors are closed and with no time wasted, they both drop their bags slamming into each other in a passionate, long awaited kiss. He eases her back towards the wall with his hands cupping her face. While her hands wander aimlessly behind her, fishing for the emergency stop button. The elevator comes to a jerking halt, leaving her hands to now wander freely beneath his shirt.

This was nothing new. They had been sneaking off to see one another since “technically” breaking up when school ended. After Chris’ stint in the NFL didn’t pan out, he caught the eye of a baseball scout and moved to Utah to play triple-A ball, and with Amaya staying in New York after graduate school, a traditional relationship was hard to continue. It wasn’t ideal, every few weeks or a month (if they were lucky) but neither could stay away. Their friends, of course, didn’t know. It was just easier to say you broke up with no communication; than to answer any questions.

“I missed you last month. I thought you were going to meet me in Arizona after Spring Training.” His voice barely above a whisper, hovering over her mouth as his hands tilt her head to the side giving him access to the hollow of her neck.

“I know me too. But trade negotiations were getting heavy and…mmmm.”

Pleased with himself, his lips curl up from the sides.

“I love it when you talk about trade negotiations.” She giggles; still enjoying the feel of his mouth against her skin.

“I had big plans for us.”

“Oh yeah? What kind of plans?” Her eyes flash with fire, bolting down to her hands as they move further up his shirt.

“This is a good start.”

Just then, a voice comes through the elevators loudspeaker.

“This is emergency service, is everyone alright in there?”

A breathless ‘Yes’ barely escapes her, until she clears her throat, trying to get her mouth to form at least somewhat of a proper response. But it’s his mouth that’s making it hard for her to find the words.

“We’re fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oohh yeah.”

“Well we can’t see anything wrong from our end, so just hang tight and we’ll check things out as quickly as possible.”

“Mmm hmm…Take your time.” She says letting his mouth finds its way back to hers.

“God, I missed these lips. I swear they’re my kryptonite. And this body.” He leans back slightly to admire her form as his hands slowly make their way down from her neck, to her arms, finally settling on her hips. “But these thighs. These thighs…will be the death of me.”

His hands gradually start to inch up her dress, as he continues to kiss the straps down from her shoulders; following his own map from memory. When he suddenly pulls back, eyes wide with curiosity and darkening by the second.  

“But what a way to go. Now…do you want to know what I miss?”

“I’m more of a visual learner.”

She inches up on her toes and kisses her way up to his ear lobe and gives it a little nibble just before whispering.

“Your. Flourless. Chocolate. Torte.” Then she curls her tongue up the back of his ear lobe and presses it between her lips; lowering herself back to the floor and tugging in a downward motion. Her eyes never leaving his.

“You’re evil. You know that?” He pulls her tight against his body.  

“How about we continue this without Oz listening in?”

She bites her bottom lip and raises her eyebrows suggestively, using her hips to nudge him backwards; leaning around him to push the emergency stop button again. He groans at the feel of her hips connecting with his growing excitement.

“Then you should probably stop that.”

The elevator jerks once more; continuing its upward motion and emergency service comes through a final time. “It looks like we have motion again. Is everything back to normal?”

Grabbing her bags and his, he turns to back to her.  

“It feels like it.”

“Great, have a wonderful day!”

The elevator dings when you arrive on the third floor. She exits first, making sure he has a good view of what’s to come until turning around to face him continuing her walk backward.

“So…how about that chocolate torte?

“Oh, trust me; I want some chocolate, but that’s not the one I want. When were you going to tell me you weren’t wearing anything under that dress?”

“I thought it’d be a nice surprise.” She winks back towards his direction.

“Don’t play with my emotions woman.”

He quickens his pace, reaching out for her, causing her to squeal and speed up to avoid his grab. Before you know it, he’s chasing her down the hall towards her room, reaching for the camera around his neck.

In her suite, there’s a bottle of champagne chilling on the edge of the bar, a bouquet of roses, a bath gift box, a box of Ghirardelli chocolates and a basket with an array of snacks. Chris gives a long drawn out whistle.

“Nice digs Laney.”

“Abbie and Tyler sure know how to show their bridal party a good time.”

“Are you sure this is all from them?”

“Who else would it be from? I’m sure your room has all the same stuff.”

“Believe me when I say that ‘mine does not’. My agent’s waaay too cheap to book me this nice of a room, let alone a suite with champagne.”

“Oooooh, big time pitcher too big to book his own rooms now.” She teases while grabbing her luggage for the bedroom.

“Take that back.” Chris slowly circles the room towards her.

“Or what?” Chris darts in her direction causing her to squeal, fending off his tormenting fingers to no avail. He tackles her to the bed tickling her mercilessly. Laughing hysterically, she pleads in between gasps.

“Chris! Stop!”

“What happened to or what?”

“Ok…Ok…Oookkk!”

“Ok, what?”

“Ok, I admit it.”

“I’m listening.”

“You’re the strongest, manliest, most handsome man in this room.” He finally lets her loose from his grip to let her catch her breath. She lays there next to him; resting her head against his left arm, as he slowly glides his free hand up her stomach pausing at her chest. Turning her head to the side, silently she stared back into his eyes. Words weren’t necessary. They’ve been here before, but this time was different.

“I’ve missed you, Laney.”

“Me too.”

He slowly gestures his head closer; so that his forehead was touching hers as if asking for permission to get closer. But knowing her own weakness and exactly where it would lead, she leans in only to give him a quick peck on the tip of his nose.

“Come on. Open that bottle, I believe I was promised a proper ‘welcome’.”

 _______________________________________________________

 “Mmmm…Oohh my God!”

“Is it bad that I am extremely turned on right now?”

She opens her eyes, just to give him a crooked smile while licking the sauce from the corners of her mouth.

“Welcome home Laney.”

“I can’t believe you brought that thing.” She says with her mouth still full.

“Why? I think I’m starting to get the hang of this photography thing. I might have a little side hustle on my hands.”

“Oh yeah? Let me see.”

She takes a few shots and reviews them from the comfortable spot she’s made herself on the bed.

“Oooh, this one’s a keeper. I wonder how much I could get for this on E-Bay?”

 “I don’t think anyone’s going to pay for a picture of my eating a burger.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. I might not even need to go to E-Bay. I could start a bidding war just from that crowd this morning.”

He gives her an exaggerated laugh while standing to retrieve his camera.

“Alright, Annie Leibovitz, that’s enough out of you. Besides, it’s coming up on seven now. We should probably start getting ready for drinks.”

“You’re right. And maybe ease up on the picture comments when we get down there, huh? You almost got us caught.”

He reaches down to help lift her off the bed.

“I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t even think that they don’t know that I’ve been to your place yet.”

“Yeah, yeah…well if I hadn’t been so quick on my toes, you’d have a lot of explaining to do.”

“I see. So, you want a reward now?”

“What’d you have in mind?”

“Maybe we’ll talk about that chocolate torte?”

“But it won’t be yours.”

“I’ll give you something else that’s mine. Come on.” He kisses the tip of her nose and reaches around to give her a playful smack on the rear.

“I think this is going to be a good weekend.”

[belphegor1982]

Got tagged by @kikabennet! 

when did you last sing to yourself?

Yesterday, since I’ve currently been awake for an hour and a half. Might have been either “Bonnie Portmore” or “Here’s a Health (To The Company)”. I’ve been putting a lot of shanties and pirates/sailing-related films soundtracks on to draw to (and hopefully write to) lately. (EDIT: Ooops - yep, wrote that yesterday around 11AM, so make that this afternoon; I hummed while I drew along with the first 3 Pirates of the Caribbean soundtracks. It’s so darn hummable.)

if a crystal ball could tell you the truth about anything, what would you want to know?

Who was the Man in the Iron Mask!? (I know better than to ask personal/family truths :S Besides, I’m curious.)

(putting the rest under a cut...)

what is the greatest accomplishment of your life?

Being able to speak (mostly) and read/write English fluently.

what is the first happy memory that comes to mind, recent or otherwise?

When my mum was in the hospital with my newborn baby sister, my dad would take me see them, and before that we’d stop for ice cream and a ride on the merry-go-round. That’s what comes to mind when I read “first happy memory”.

if you knew that in one year you would die suddenly, would you change anything about the way you are now living?

I’d go see my family and friends who live far away a lot more, and eat a lot more of my favourite things.

do you have a bucket list? if so, what are the top three things?

I don’t, really ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

describe a person close to your life in detail

The Best Beloved is tallish (1,77m - that’s… 5′10?), with dark brown hair, green eyes, skin that tans easily even in winter, and glasses. …and that’s as much detail as I’m comfortable putting.

do you feel you had a happy childhood?

On the whole, yes. Could’ve done without the bullying at school and the undermining of self-confidence at home, though.

when did you last cry in front of another person?

Don’t remember, so it must be at least a fortnight.

pick a person to stargaze with you and explain why you picked them

My dad, who used to sail with a compass. I don’t think he knows much about constellations, but he’s always willing to share memories, even if sometimes he doesn’t remember he’s told them multiple times.

would you ever have a deep conversation with a stranger and open up to them?

Probably. I shouldn’t, though. Strangers being by definition strangers, you never know where that information is going and how it might be used (possibly against you).

when was your last 3am conversation with someone, and who were they to you?

We both were tired and ended up going to bed around half past midnight, so no 3AM conversation, but my friend Sandrine last week.

if you were about to die, and you could only say one more sentence to one person, what would you say and to whom?

…I have no idea? I think I’d concentrate really hard on not dying :S

what is your opinion on brown eyes?

Why would it matter tho I have brown eyes and for the longest time I thought they were boring. It doesn’t help that brown hair and eyes are basically the default where I grew up/live. Then I grew up and moved on.

pick a quote and describe what it means to you personally

George Bernard Shaw’s “Life does not cease to be funny when people die any more than it ceases to be serious when people laugh.” Life is complicated, all about balance between extremes and absolutes. Don’t trust people who tell you the world is grim and serious just because they are. And while getting the giggles at a funeral/wake is inappropriate, it doesn’t mean you’re heartless.

what would you title the autobiography of your life so far?

Wait, What

what would you do with one billion dollars?

I’d keep half a dozen millions for me (car and house debts), my family and my friends, and give the rest to social services, healthcare, and public services in general.

are you a very forgiving person? do you like being this way?

Ehhh… It’s complicated. I tend to hold grudges when I can remember why, but I rarely do something about it. On the whole I’m pretty “live and let live”.

would you describe yourself as more punk or pastel?

Neither, really. I’m too soft for punk, but pastel’s not really my thing either.

how do you feel about tattoos and piercings? explain

I’m too much of a wuss to even consider getting either, but they look great on other people. When I get a spot on my tongue I wonder how people with a tongue piercing manage to keep it, though. It’s very distracting.

do you wear a lot of makeup? why/why not?

As a rule, no, but if I work or if I’m invited somewhere I’ll throw on a bit of eyeliner and lipstick. (I should raid my makeup drawer, really, some of my lipstick cases are almost 20 years old and you should NOT do that.)

talk about a song/band/lyric that has affected your life in some way

In high school I saw a psychologist (junior high was NOT a happy time and the bad stuff just overflowed at one point) and went to an outpatient clinic every Wednesday. They had lots of activities, like painting on silk, various art stuff, and a band, and I loved that band. I was one of the only ones who’d request songs to sing in English. The guitarist introduced me to the Beatles’ “Something”, which I didn’t know, and to this day when I hear this lovely song I think of that guy who had a great smile, a great sense of humour and a great moustache (think George Harrison on Let It Be) who helped me get better.

list the concerts you have been to and talk about how they make you feel

Not to brag, but back in my uni days I did go to a number of them - K’s Choice, Coldplay, King Khan And His Shrines, M, Tom McRae are among the ones I remember. And a couple months ago I went to a rock concert with three bands one after the other. I love live music, it feels amazing. It courses through my body, makes me grin like a maniac, and want to jump and flail around just to vent the excess energy. And all this without a single drop of beer! (can’t stand the stuff :P)

who in the world would you most like to receive a letter from and what would you want it to say?

I’d love a letter from the national loto that says “here’s a giant check even though you haven’t scratched a ticket in years” :P More seriously, I LOVE receiving letters from my Internet friends.

do you have a desk/workspace and how is it organised/not organised?

I don’t really have a workspace. I have a desk, which has the desktop screen, keyboard, mouse/graphic tablet, and a whole lot of mess of papers, pens, boxes, and stuff. I can use either that desk or my laptop in my armchair.

what is your night time routine?

Finish watching the movie/tv show, look at Tumblr a bit (and/or stuff on the laptop, like TV Tropes), go to bed, read a bit on my Kindle, kiss the Best Beloved good night, switch off the lights, and try to sleep.

what’s one thing you don’t want your parents to know?

Anything about my intimate life, thanks.

if you had to dye your hair how would you dye/style it and why?

I experimented a bit with henna back in the day, but generally I just have haircuts (I have too little hair to risk harming it). I’d like some reddish highlights one day, though.

pick five people to go on an excursion with you. who would you pick and where would you go/what would you do?

Eehhh... I’d rather stay at home and chill :P Okay, I’d take the Best Beloved and my friends Melody, Nico, Sandrine, and Aldric, and head to Marquèze. (wish their website had an English version, it’d be better.) It’s an ecomuseum about local life in the early 1800s/early 1900s, with preserved traditional houses and people showing skills like dyeing fabric, shepherding, making flour (there’s a watermill) and all sorts of cakes and bread and snacks, and an entire day isn’t too much to visit everything.

name three wishes and why you wish for them

I wish:

I had a decently-paying job from home,

my friend Sandrine’s mum were/will be all right (don’t ask),

we had the house extension built already

what is the best halloween costume you have ever put together? if none, make one up

We didn’t have Halloween when I was growing up, it really only started to be a thing in earnest a decade or two ago. Although... One time when we lived in Bordeaux, the Best Beloved and I were invited to a housewarming party on Halloween, so people would wear costumes. I went as a witch, with a long black skirt, long-sleeve thing with black lace (-ish), long black and white wig, and of course black lipstick and lots of black around the eyes. The Best Beloved had made a cloak, a scythe of sorts with cardboard and foil, and had a scary death head mask on. We didn’t have a car and the friend lived in Saint-Médard (which is relevant), so we had to ask around the bus drivers for which bus went there.

So picture the two of us dressed as we were, mask and all, well after dark, asking around for the “S&M” bus. Yep :P (People stared at us during the ride, and unlike the Best Beloved, I didn’t have the luxury of a mask to hide my laughter...)

what’s the worst thing you’ve ever done while drunk or high?

The only time I got slightly tipsy I went a little pink and apparently talked a little louder than usual. I’ve never got drunk (too afraid of stomachache later) or high (it took my mum two heart attacks to quit smoking and I’m wondering if she hasn’t taken it up again, I can’t hold a cigarette, tobacco or otherwise).

what’s one thing you would never do for one million dollars?

Hurt people, probably. If I wouldn’t do it for ten dollars I wouldn’t do it for a million - if you agree to one or the other the rest is just haggling over price.

if you’re a boy, would you ever rock black nail polish? if you’re a girl, would you ever rock really really short hair?

I don’t think I have the right face shape for that - my face is too round, longer hair suits me better.

what’s your starbucks order, and who would you trust to order for you, if anyone?

I live 126 km (78 miles) from the nearest Starbucks, when I walk by one the queue is huge, and the prices are well beyond my range :> But I’d trust the Best Beloved. He’d still ask me, though.

what is the most important thing to you in your life right now?

Being happy and/or stress-free. Also the oncoming Papa Bear Awards nominations in a week and the Eurovision Song Context coming up in May :D

Tagging @radarsteddybear, @rose-of-pollux, @truxi-twice, @myrling-art, @iorvethscommando, and @toooldforthisbutstill! :o)

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, ROGUE! You’ve been accepted for the role of BEATRICE.  Admin Rosey: Oh my sweet goodness, there has never been such excitement thrumming in me. While reading this application, I was exposed to new facets of Brielle that I had never seen before. There’s a certain intrigue that you breathe into her, Rogue, a certain amount of strength that is further highlighted by the gentleness of her speech. You captured her voice so vividly, throwing in the smatterings of Russian just add a genuineness to her that makes me smile. The lyricism of your writing, the hold that you have of her character...I couldn’t be happier to add Brielle to our ranks. Please, be gentle when ruining us with her. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | Rogue.

Age | Twenty-One.

Preferred Pronouns | She/Her.

Activity Level | I’m as active as the roleplay I’m in. I generally do any replies I get within the day I receive them unless things are insane irl.

Timezone | PST.

Current/Past RP Accounts | Oh god I haven’t played in like… years? I’ve played with Rosey in the past so she knows somewhat how I am. I found one from OSB! I don’t remember my other urls laksjfd.

In Character

Character | Beatrice / Brielle King.

What drew you to this character? | When I was going through the bios, that very first sentence of hers stood out to me. There’s something wonderful about a laugh so charming and vivacious the whole world stops to listen. This might sound strange but I’ve also been on a kick with D&D of wanting to play the courtier background, which to me is always more interesting than the noble background. Nobles are trapped by prestige, by attention, and by duty. Courtiers have none of that. They play the politics, they learn the game, and they try their best not to die surrounded in opulence and glory they can never reach. What I liked about Brielle is that she is wise enough to know how to promote her own interests, independent enough to seek freedom yet damaged enough to do it by hopping from one cage into another. There is a sense of inevitability to her in spite of how much she seems to believe in more, like a train coming quickly from behind. I like the ‘sweet when she has to be, fierce when she needs to be’ type.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? | — Brielle stands at a sort of precipice, both settled in and a recent addition in a city as beautiful as it is deadly. All her life, all her line, all her blood has been devoted to is the needs and desires of others, in spite of the moments and choices she’s carved out for herself. In fair Verona, she is attached but she is also free in a way she has never been, for it is easier to disobey a lord ruler than to disobey a father, and she’s done the latter for years, hasn’t she? Loyalty is something that is earned. There are those individuals within the system who have earned it from her, and for that, she will keep her peace. The for nowis left unsaid but it beats like a war drum beneath her tongue, watching, wondering, curious of what happens the moment she chooses to push. Will she take that great leap into things unknown? How long can she rattle the bars of her cage before they break or are reinforced? Will she fall into depravity or be pulled into the light? The thing about the Montagues is that sometimes, their intentions are noble, and sometimes noble deeds are the furthest from their minds. Eventually, she will need to choose just how obedient she is, and just how filthy her hands can be. I would love to see her pulled between those two through various means.

— There is a moment in the bio that I really like, sort of related to my first idea but more specific. It mentions her hands having shed no blood, and that is something I would love to explore. The title of solider is not given without some expectation of violence on the behalf of the holder, and running drugs is not always easy. When Brielle runs into complications, how does she handle them? When she is required to make others submit to the rule of the Montagues, how does she accomplish that without bloodshed? She must be smarter and work twice as hard as someone who would use the threat of violence and back it up, but eventually, that might not be enough. She’s too new to have been asked to kill, but it’s only a matter of time, if what she hears about Catherine is to be believed. Brielle isn’t quite the paragon of commitment Catherine is; she’s far too cynical to believe that she can always maintain the principles of her old life. If the gun is in her hand and a Montague’s voice in her ear, can she do it? Can she pull the trigger and damn her soul when she isn’t even sure of its existence anymore?

— Brielle is nothing if not ambitious, and I would certainly like to explore that. She’s crossed enemy lines and made ties not just with Montagues, but with a Capulet. That opportunity is certain to interest her. She’s never been content to play second fiddle and let someone else do the difficult jobs, and I imagine the first time that Catherine Daly mentioned the idea of an emissary, it intrigued her. Something that called to the parts of her that loved the game and the parts of her that loathed the bloodshed, in equal measure. Unlike her friend, Brielle will not let her sense of fair play interfere with what needs to be done. If she favors the outcome, she knows that sometimes, a bad deed equals a brighter tomorrow. Negotiation is about compromise, and Brielle is quite clear on where she stands. She has compromised herself, once, twice, a thousand times, choosing again and again to delve into darkness and difficulty rather than letting those around her coddle her. In order to obtain that coveted position, she’ll need to find a way to make herself useful beyond the mere tasks required of soldiers. But then, hasn’t she always been invaluable? Hasn’t she always been more than mere anything? Soon, everyone will know it.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | I don’t mind my character dying, though I would appreciate the opportunity to play her for a bit beforehand. If a tree falls in the forest, does it make a sound? If a character without deep connections dies, does anyone feel it? etc.

In Depth

Please choose between the interview or the para sample.

What is your favorite place in Verona? | Brielle knows the politically expedient answer, and it waits on the tip of her tongue, her lips curving slightly. Yet at the last moment, she stumbles, divulging the truth as a means of endearment. She isn’t sure why her superiors feel the need for these little anecdotal meetings, but she’s positive that her answers will determine her future. If she lies, she will need to lie well, and spend that coin on answers that matter rather than things like this trifle.

❝ I enjoy spending time with my horses, ❞ she answers with that soft smile that’s fooled more than one who dared underestimate her. Moye solnyshko, her father called her, even as he cried when she told him she was leaving him behind. Said with love and said with betrayal, it mattered to her only in that he was so naive, not to see what was burning in her from the start. ❝ Some say our dear Verona has the most beautiful stables in the world, and I see they are right. ❞ There are those who call Russian a cold, harsh language, but they have never heard Brielle speak it. When her accent hovers lovingly over Verona’s every syllable, it is clear that there is warmth in the Russian sun just as bright as any other star.

What does your typical day look like? | One leg crosses over the other as she studies the art lining the walls for a moment, her high ponytail swishing long, dark hair over her shoulder. Her elbow rests against her knee, chin cupped in one delicate hand, and for all the world, she looks like some sort of fey portraiture. ❝ I’m usually best used as a runner, ❞ she begins, fingers tapping against her cheek in a soft rhythm. ❝ Either messages or product, sometimes both. I receive my orders and carry them out, no matter when they come in or what I’m doing. That’s the job, and why I’m good at it. ❞

This last is said with a cocky sort of smile, the kind so often found on the faces of those too young to have been laid low and accepted it. It can look a little different on a thousand faces, and on hers it’s full to the brim with infectious vigor, her eyes crinkling at the corners. ❝ When I am not doing that job, I tend to my other one. Horses are demanding business, and racing requires practice and discipline. It leaves little time for leisure, though I won’t say no to a Tamora at The Two Gentlemen, generally speaking. ❞

What has been your biggest mistake thus far? | Some people are ashamed of their mistakes. She has a lot of pride, yes, but Brielle is lucky enough to be proud of those too. Every nick and scar on her body is a mark of pride and power, a spark in the bonfire of her life. Truthfully, she’s young enough and wise enough to know that her best and worst mistakes are still to come, but she’ll carry those too, and she’ll grow. Adaptability is everything.

So it’s with surprising ease that she answers. ❝ I was thirteen the first time one of myhorses broke their leg. It is a fact of life, especially breeding horses for racing. I had seen it before, but it was distant from me. I did not have to feel it as I did with Ippolit when he buckled beneath me. The doctors make their decision quickly, but it was Father who usually finished it. ❞ Her eyes trace the carpet with precision. Sometimes, things that are easy can still be painful. ❝ He was absent that day, buying for our masters, and the task fell to me. In the end, they gave me a choice: my gun, or their needles. ❞

Her gaze shifts up with an almost violent jerk of the head. ❝ I was a girl. I loved Ippolit. I turned away, and he died without me, in the arms of strangers, alone, and afraid. That, I think, was my biggest mistake. ❞ The steadiness in her is unnerving. In this moment she isinfernus, the blazing conviction of someone still carrying a bruise on their heart. ❝ Never let anyone else kill something you care about. If it must die, put it down by your own hand. That was my lesson, and my mistake. ❞

What is the most difficult task asked of you? | She tilts her head with coquettish amusement. ❝ The most difficult task asked of any woman worth a damn: to put herself away into a box made by someone else. ❞ There is something ironic in that, considering the way she’s tied herself up here in Verona. She cuts that off at the knees: ❝ If I’m going to bind myself to something, it ought to be my choice. ❞

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues? | Brielle licks her lips, very well aware that the chair she sits in, the house she currently boards in, and her very life is paid for by the Montagues. She certainly doesn’t imagine they expect any genuine answers to this, even if someone did have an opinion which clashed with the opinion of the familia. Therefore, her answer is something of a routine. As it should be.

❝ I believe in the righteous house of Montague. I won’t say I’ve never passed the time of day to a Capulet soldier, but at the end of the day, war is war, and we are players in a grand game. I understand my place. ❞

I didn’t have much time to put this together as I’m going on a bit of a voting bender tonight and am trying to get in before next acceptances, but I did go through and create a tag for quotes I associate with Brielle.

[dawning-star]

Layers: Rinalys

LAYER ONE : THE OUTSIDE

Name: Rinalys Dawnstar Eye Color: Lilac purple, ringed by deep violet Hair Style/Color: Deep pink in color with lighter shaded highlights, reaching several ilms past her shoulders at present. Height: 4′10″ Clothing Style: The quality and style have improved since working for the shop. It’s often clothing that allows her to move quickly and easily while not being uncomfortable. 

LAYER TWO: THE INSIDE

Your Fears: Getting dragged back to her past and losing what she has currently. Dying as well, especially alone. Your Guilty Pleasure: Reading books meant for a younger audience. It’s mostly practice but some of them actually do interest her a little bit.  Your Biggest Pet Peeve: Not being taken seriously. Being looked down upon (not literally, that’s pretty inevitable). Your Ambition for the Future: To build upon this place where finally feels she belongs and settle the questions that linger of her past.

LAYER THREE: THOUGHTS

Your First Thoughts Waking Up: “...I’ll be cold if I leave this spot.” What You Think About the Most: “Lately? I guess the shop, or Isterre or the others. Though I’ve had some nagging thoughts as well that the others don’t know. Mostly on my parents and homeland. Things long lost to me.” What You Think About Before Bed: “Plans for the next day, and whether or not the nightmares will be kept at bay. The usual?” Your Best Quality Is: “I think they said willfullness? Though I think they were just saying too damned stubborn too...”

LAYER FOUR: WHAT’S BETTER?

Single or Group Dates: Single To be Loved or Respected: Loved, it’s not really a feeling she’s had as much of Beauty or Brains: Both, ideally Dogs or Cats: Cats

LAYER FIVE: DO YOU?

Lie: If the situation calls for it. Believe in Yourself: Not particularly Believe in Love: Yes Want Someone: Yes

LAYER SIX: EVER?

Been on Stage: No Done Drugs:  No Changed Who You Were to Fit In: Sometimes it feels like it.

LAYER SEVEN: FAVORITES

Favorite Color: Deep Green Favorite Animal: Cats, especially coeurl kittens Favorite Food: Does alcohol count? Favorite Game: She’s not really experienced much for games to have one...

LAYER EIGHT: AGE

Day Your Next Birthday Will Be: Tuesday How Old Will You Be: 27, roughly? (Her exact age isn’t for certain due to her circumstances. So she has gone with her best guesses) Age You Lost Your Virginity: Late teens Does Age Matter: Not as much as some might believe.

LAYER NINE: IN A BOY OR GIRL

Best Personality: One not afraid to say what he feels and set her straight if she falls off track one way or another. Supportive and maybe a bit more patient than she is.  Best Eye Color: No preference Best Hair Color: Darker shades are always nice Best thing to do with a Partner: To just be with them, enjoying closeness.

LAYER TEN: FINISH THE SENTENCE

I love: Being free to live my life. For other things, that hasn’t been said yet so I won’t say it here first. I feel: Happy, yet restless as ever. I hide: Worries, fears. I miss: Family.  I wish: Some things of the past had been different.

Tagged by: @quills-and-curiosities

Tagging: @thedarknesssings, @houserosaire, @quills-and-curiosities Pick another muse you three. And adding @strayed-from-the-sun for a Dimi cat

[theantibridezilla]

Subtle Fantasy Colors from Overtone!

I normally don’t cover haircare products on TAB mainly because I’m natural and the natural hair blogging community is fairly well saturated. However, today’s feature is about color and actually goes well with the Pantone Color of the Year Ultra Violet, that I’ve been highlighting. Now when it comes to color, I’m no novice. I’ve been coloring my hair (or extensions) since about 2007/2008. I’ve done standard drug store/beauty supply box dyes, I’ve done Wella, BAQ henna rinses on my natural hair and my preferred ones which I’ve been doing since about 2013 are actually color rinses rather than dyes. I’ll dig deeper on that in a bit (yes, this will be a bit of a long post) but let’s just say although I’m not a licensed beautician or anything, I understand the mechanics of dying hair. And long before fantasy colors were trending, I was dabbling in that world with navy, teal, dark green, fuchsia, and purple thanks to process friendly rinse (NOT dye) brands like Manic Panic and Creative Image Adore.

In the past two to three years, fantasy hair colors (i.e. pastels, gray, rainbow hair, etc) have trended across Instagram and in the mainstream beauty space. If you’re unfamiliar with dying hair and especially what it means to “lift” hair, here’s the crash course. It’s very easy and literally a one step process (typically) to go darker than your natural hair shade because you’re only depositing color - just add the dye or rinse to your hair and you’re done. It takes more work and processing to go lighter. If you want a clearly visible lighter hair color (i.e. pastels or vibrant bold hues) on your current dark hair, you need to bleach first (developer + bleach powder) to at least a strawberry or honey blonde shade and then deposit color. And depending on how much lighter you’re trying to go from your natural hair shade, you may need to use some pretty strong developer which comes ranging from 10 to 40 with 40 being the most intense lifting power. If you just want something subtle, you can deposit a dye or rinse and depending on your starting color you may end up with something visible under low light or under sunlight (depending on the strength of the rinse/dye).  

As a general rule, aside from when I used to apply BAQ henna to my hair and scalp when I was newly natural, I DO NOT color or do any kind of chemical processing to my natural hair. When I want to wear a new hair color, I turn to extensions and full lace wigs. And because I love to do an ombre from a natural-ish dark brown/brown-black shade into some form of fantasy color, it means that when rocking colorful wigs/extensions, I always have to first bleach using 20 developer to the ends and then deposit the color. I use a 20 developer because it lifts enough in one application for me to see visible results but I don’t have to be concerned about over processing. Why? Because if you’re buying extensions they’ve already been processed somehow unless you buy truly virgin hair - which tends not to be in typical African American textures. So, when I buy an Italian Yaki or Coarse Yaki unit in natural brown, there’s at least one texturizing process that’s already been applied. Bleaching it means at least a 2nd process and actual dye rather than a rinse would be a 3rd process. The more you process hair, the more you damage it and reduce the life of a unit. And if you’re doing a home color job, it’s best to be as gentle as possible to prevent over processing and damaging the hair (especially if it’s the hair growing out of your scalp).

I say all this to say, Overtone offered to send me samples of their hair color and after doing a bit of researching and learning that it was a rinse and not a dye, I was hyped to check them out. They sent me their Extreme Purple deep treatment and the Extreme Purple daily conditioner as well. The deep treatment is the rinse which will deposit the initial color and the daily conditioner basically acts as a touch up to condition while maintaining the color of the hair. They also sent me a tester amount of their rose gold deep treatment but I currently don’t have any units light enough for the color to even appear and I didn’t feel like bleaching anything. So, I’ve tabled that experiment for the moment. I actually did this color project right before NYE for NYE and my baby shower. But if you follow my on Tales of a Mommy 2 Be, or either of my IG accounts, you know that I’ve been rocking my natural hair almost exclusively for the last 2 months. So, this weekend I washed and conditioned the unit I colored using Overtone’s conditioner - and am now rocking the new look as you see above.

Now, one thing I really loved about Overtone’s FAQs is that they were very honest about what results you could expect to achieve. For instance, they make it clear that if you apply their rinse over previously colored hair (especially a fantasy color), you may not end up with the shade you purchased from them (i.e. adding red rinse over previously colored blue hair can get you purple). And they specifically noted that because it’s a depositing rinse and not a dye, if you’re brunette or darker, unless you bleach your hair prior to applying their colors, you may be left with a more subtle color. The reason I bring this up is because one, it’s important to manage expectations especially for hair color newbies. And two, there are other brands out here lying to people saying they can lift brunette and dark hair to super light fantasy colors without the use of bleach - and this just isn’t chemically possible. Looking at you Lime Crime with your Dark Unicorn dye.

Anywho, back to my experience. So, I have lots of wigs lying around and I opted to pull out an oldie but goodie to test the Overtone color. I chose an Italian Yaki wig I’ve had for about 3 years now and one where I originally bleached & dyed the ends using a teal shade from the Adore rinse line but that ended up depositing as this awesome forest green shade (see collage). I loved this color because I bought this wig for my trip to Seoul and Tokyo years ago and it was just an awesome unit! I even touched it up many times to keep that awesome green shade. But it was time for a change as the unit was now faded to bleach blonde ends, a sad looking greenish middle and the untouched natural brown roots. Now, because I was going to use a unit that had been previously colored, I already knew a few things:

Rich fantasy colors from Adore don’t fully rinse out no matter how hard you wash - even after washing the hair twice with Dawn dish soap (a beauty hack to strip color!).

Because they don’t fully rinse out, as vibrant as that purple hue from Overtone was, the likelihood that the end result would be that Extreme Purple was 50-50.

So, knowing these things, I was really open to seeing what would come of this project and I wasn’t going to be angry if the color wasn’t awesome. I applied color from the ends up to a little bit higher than where the green had been placed to ensure that the green would be completely covered. However, to hedge my bets, I did put the wig in a plastic bag and then left it in my cap blow dryer on high for about 20 - 30 minutes to help the color penetrate better. (Note: the blow dryer trick can work on anyone. If you’re dying your real hair, you can just cover with a plastic cap or bag and the heat off your head will help to make the color penetrate better).

What I Love About Overtone:

The Deep Treatment is actually really thick like a slightly goopy paste, making it easy to apply. The color sticks to where it needs to be and it’s not messy like when I usually use my Adore rinses which are very runny. I recommend using a tinting/color brush versus your hands so that you can be more precise.

The smell is divine, it’s minty fresh. Now, I don’t mind Adore rinses either because it’s not funky. But Overtone knocked it out of the park with that scent. I was able to apply this while my husband was home without him complaining about the smell.

Although I’m not vegan, it is a vegan friendly product which is also sulfate free.

Rinsing out with Overtone was WAY easier than when I use Adore. Adore rinses (for as long lasting as they are) never fully rinse out. You’ll stand there for 30 minutes trying to wash that rinse out of the hair. And every time you wash your hair afterwards...yup you’ll see color in the water. Overtone clearly deposited color, but didn’t stain my sink (I used the stainless steel kitchen sink just to be safe because I’ve definitely accidentally dyed my bathtub a time or two!).

Even though I didn’t get that Extreme Purple hue, I did get an obvious color change, which lets me know that this product is a strong color depositing rinse. That makes it a very good alternative to traditional hair dyes.

After washing and using their Extreme Purple Daily Conditioner, very little color rinsed out and my navy hue still looked very vibrant.

What Could Be Better:

Honestly, nothing. I like that they’re truthful on their website about potential results. I liked how easy this was to apply and that it wasn’t stinky. And most importantly I liked that even though I didn’t end up with a purple color, I still had a clear color change.

The Results:

As you can see in the opening post pic and in the one immediately above, it’s not really purple, except for at the very ends of my hair which were faded to a true blonde. However, the color I got, I LOVE because it’s everyday wearable. As much as I love bright fantasy shades, the reality is that I do have corporate clients I consult with - it’s not okay to go into meetings with bright pink or purple hair. I’ve been trying to do brown into navy ombre for a while but truth be told, Adore’s Royal Navy rinse would always deposit as teal on dyed blonde hair. For whatever reason, the previous Adore teal rinse mixed perfectly with Overtone’s Extreme Purple to create this beautiful subtle navy which is slightly visible, but isn’t shockingly bright. So, I give Overtone two thumbs up as they gave my beloved Italian Yaki unit new life!

For more info on Overtone or where to buy visit www.overtone.co or follow them on IG @overtonecolor

[thephantomcasebook]

The Last Crusade

“How goes the day, Ben?”

“I’ve seen better …”

Slowly, the sorrowful and regretful dying man looked up from where he sat lifelessly against the tomb. His eyes seemed hazy in their death throes, his sight darkening into the long night. But it was not so hard to see the figure that stood before him. Their hue and raiment carried a soft blue glow that highlighted their frame. After all these years, so many parted and tormented by history, he did not flinch, marvel, or worship the sight that stood before him. He simply stared, convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was unworthy of the sight as his part in this story ended.

She was not the saintly figure that he had carved to perfection on the stone slab of her tomb. She was as she had always been. There was no Empress’s dress, no crown upon her brow, or long luxurious locks flowing. The perfectly athletic girl still had a large forehead, her fine nut brown hair was in a top bun, the rest spilling messily down her pale neck. Her supple skin, scraped sinfully smooth by a childhood in sand, had scars and blemishes. She still wore her blue, silver, and black robes that she had made especially for their first meeting as allies and lovers on “The Supremacy” many long years ago. She was still young, beautiful, and filled with a light that could not be extinguished.

But rather than return it. Rather than enthrall himself to a face, a figure, that he had not seen for so long, the man just lowered his head to his chest. Her lovely young face watched the tired old man with the saddest smirks of pained sympathy, her head cocked to the side as she stood over him. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe she was there, it was simply that he did not feel worthy of basking in her ethereal presence. Her spectral eyes looked glassy, opening her mouth to speak, holding a hand out to go to him, to touch him. But she withheld her comfort, knowing him better than anyone alive or even dead. Instead, she held him in her gaze with a deep and endless love of a great compassion. No one was harder on the man than himself when he had perceived to have wronged someone, especially when he felt he had failed her, the woman he loved.

Copper colored suede boots left no tread or disturbance on the floor filled with rotted leaves of many long passed planetary autumns. She walked past the drooping figure slumped at the foot of the tomb. Her eyes not flinching, though terribly sad did they behold the fallen hero. But instead of going to him, she instead strode soundlessly to the head of the tomb. There she looked down at the carved figure that was supposed to have been her. For a long time she studied it, a small smirk touching her lips. Not for the first time, but with long drought, did she look upon herself through the eyes of the man who had loved her long before either one had been born. Her fingers traced the hairline with amusement.

“She doesn’t look like me at all …” She said with a frown of some offense to what she studied. There was a long pause from the slumped figure that had not moved for a long time. She looked frightened, even in her current form, filled with sudden doubt.

“Of course she doesn’t …” A condescending voice finally answered her from the ground. “Do you think I want to spend all of eternity with that twelve-inch forehead, predator’s teeth, and constantly sweating complexion?” The voice echoed with haughty dismissal that was peer bite. The girl gave a toothy grin despite the look of insult that came over her face.

“Well your big nose and pasty skin isn’t exactly getting carved into likeness anywhere I last checked.” She countered.

“It’s a lucky break that we ended up having two of the most beautiful children in the Galaxy …” The man gasped. “Between your forehead and my nose, we could’ve done some serious damage with a brood of little Toydarian nightmares.” He teased gently. The humorous noise he made was mixed with a groan of pain from his mortal wound. The biggest of sad toothy grins came over her beautiful face as she whimsically gazed over the tomb, the hallow altar of this palace of sorrow.

Though ever a look of positivity, the optimism of light ever in her being, her face gave way to sorrow the longer she looked upon her likeness, her own tomb. Her delicate fingers that knew such hardship all of her life, traced her own face. From just a touch could she feel all the sadness, regret, and shame that had been heaped and prayed upon the crypt in the center of this cathedral dedicated to one man’s guilt. She felt but just a taste of what her passing; her disappearance from the universe had done to one who had loved her above all else.

“I’m not in here …” She said softly.

“I know.” A quiet voice confirmed stoically.

It was then that the young woman slowly turned back to the figure of the bearded hermit that was obscured. Her eyes grew glassy. He didn’t need to say more, and neither did she. When she had died, her body, her spirit, had disappeared, became one with the Force. Nothing had been left in her wake. All that was left was her phantom weight and the feeling of the emptiness in her lover’s arms where she had once been. It was now so clear to her what this place was, what it truly was.

It was a prison.

The Supreme Leader, the most powerful man in the Galaxy, had felt the only person in the universe he loved die in his arms. He had won a great victory, the whole of the Galaxy to fall into a thousand year darkness, ruled by a god like being. But instead, he destroyed his Empire, had forsaken his power, and for the price of peace he built this sepulcher in the obscurity on the edges of the unknown. And there, with the carving of the woman he failed, he locked himself away forever. And for many long years he stayed there, till the Galaxy, till time, had forgotten him. Every day he sat by the girl’s image and repented, grieved, and waited for his destiny, for his prophesied doom, to find him. His only purpose was to mourn the many mistakes he had made and betrayals of trust and love that his hate had engineered, till the day that his fate came to this overgrown temple. Then he’d give aide in one last act of redemption before he allowed his penance to end, for his doom to take him for all his crimes. Chief amongst them, not taking a young girl’s offered hand of love in a throne room.

FULL STORY RIGHT HERE!

[lovemesomesurveys]

What’s your favorite exercise workout? I don’t exercise. What’s your favorite thing to do? Read the daily devotional from a website I found and really like, play with my doggo, spend time with family, go to the beach, drink coffee, do surveys, scroll through Tumblr, watch YouTube/listen to ASMR, check my social media accounts, watch TV, sleep... What did you do for your 17th birthday? I don’t recall. Does your local Wal Mart have benches in them to rest? Yeah. Was your favorite stuffed animal really a teddy bear growing up? No. I remember having a baby doll I carried around with me when I was really young.

If your house was haunted, what would you do? Move. Are you crazy in love currently? No. “Looking so crazy in love's got me looking, got me looking so crazy in love. Uh oh, uh oh, uh oh, oh, no, no” Are you good at swimming? Nope. I can’t swim, I’d have to use an inner tube. I don’t care for swimming; though, anyway. I’m a scardy cat. What’s worse: Slow internet or slow walkers? Slow internet, most definitely. I spend a lot of time online, so. However, slow walkers are quite annoying, I’m sorry. Especially for a wheelchair user like myself. Please don’t stop suddenly in front of me or move slowly. It really pisses me off when people have the nerve to look back at me cause they’re worried about me running into them. Speed up then lol. What is the rudest thing a guy has ever done to you? Use me and play me like a fool.  Do you sleep with the sheets tucked in or out? In. What do you do to fall asleep faster? All I do is listen to ASMR, scroll through Tumblr/do surveys, and watch TV until I just fall asleep. It happens when it happens. Do you carry a bottle of water wherever you go? No. Are you afraid that one day you might get cancer? That is something I’m afraid of. Are you a fast or slow walker? Apparently I’m fast, but it doesn’t feel that way to me. I guess cause I’m on wheels I am a little faster, but I have a manual chair, not an electric one, I don’t go that fast. People will like jump to the side or scurry along as if I’m Speed Racer (which, by the way, I’ve heard that joke since I was a kid and it got real old real fast, so anyone who says it to me isn’t being funny or original at all. Same with speeding ticket comments. -____-). I’m also not reckless, I pay attention where I’m going. As long as you don’t make any sudden stops in front me, we’re fine.  Do you usually have to wear a belt with your pants? I never wear belts.  Does it bother you when people’s underwear hangs out? I mean, personally I’d rather not see it. You’d say, “well don’t look”, which I try not to, but I sit low and unfortunately I’m at butt level a lot of the time. -___- Are you usually the person to try new things with your hair? No. I had blonde highlights for years, dyed it black once one year, went back to blonde highlights for several more years until I went all out and bleached my hair to dye it red, which I’ve done for the past few years. Same with hairstyles--I had bangs from the time I had hair until I was in my early 20s. I had long hair until I cut it shoulder length in high school and then went even shorter (I had “the bob”) in my early 20s until I decided to grow it back out again in my mid 20s. When’s your birthday? July 28th. Do you own a bobble-head toy? Yep, a Chewbacca one.