alder smoke blues .

[dasia mae knight]

Pale blue eyes watched him as he fidgeted. It was a habit she'd noticed in many of those she knew who smoked - still when smoking, but otherwise tetchy and prone to tapping away on any surface available, searching for something to do with their hands. She wondered if he woke up with a hacking cough, or if Pearl had minded that ashy taste when they kissed. Maybe she was a smoker too. Glancing away, she picked up the folded piece of paper she'd only just been gifted, turning it over between her own slender fingers. She decided she'd put it in her bedside drawer, only to be read in the event that he disappeared again and she was left needing a fix.      It's tempting to criticise his smoking. The odd cigarette was inoffensive, even sexy, but chain smoking... she could only look at him as he inhaled, her eyes trailing down his neck to his chest, following the contamination of his poor lungs. To mention it would be redundant. Still, the concern for his health was etched upon her face, head tilted and small frown in place. As his hand finds her ankle she digs her heels into his knees gently, giving him an affectionate little nudge. "I'm sure you could read this from my face, but you shouldn't smoke so much. You're already a grumpy old man living inside a young man's body, you don't need to look it too." Unsurprisingly, it turned out that she couldn't help herself.     Ignoring his reluctance, Dasia watched Desmond's approach in the reflection of the glass. There's a streetlight somewhere beneath them, casting the two of them in a low golden glow. She found herself missing the hideous orange glow of London streetlamps, so aggressively orange, so deeply unflattering. Her frown was replaced with a small smile as he spoke. "It's cheating if you already know," she said softly, unsure as to whether he was telling the truth or just fully committed to playing the game. In any case she pressed her own finger against the glass, surprised by how cold it was to the touch. "Her. Something tells me that she's from Connecticut, from a deeply traditional family." She watches as the thirty-something blonde walks past, her shoulders taut but her pace slow. "Married an accountant. Two kids, both inevitable honour roll students. But in truth she's been in love with her son's piano teacher from the first moment she laid eyes on her... she'll never do anything about it, not just because of her family, not even because of how much her parents would loathe it. But because she hates herself for it." Notes: it's 3am and i'm home from drinking FORGIVE ME. Listening: warpainttt.

[desmond hudson]

<sub>-----FROM DEEP within his throat comes a grumble, his eyes slanting, and lips closing around the filter of the cigarette; daring her to continue. She's right, before the words even spill from her collagen filled lips he knows what she's thinking. Her blue eyes stare critically, following his hand as he blindly searches for the silver lighter, watching it glint an orange flame and fill his lungs with the sweetness of nicotine. The cigarette props between his lips, and it's almost as though he's mocking her with his own free will, so obviously making a scene with his Marlboro. This is his reaction to her comment, and it's nothing short of childish, delivering a 'just watch me' performance.

-----STANDING beside her by the window, there's a smirk pulling across his cheeks. He can't recollect his unfortunately un-gifted neighbour's name, but among the mass of papers there's sure to be there beginnings of a story about him. How Desmond was simply jogging up the stairs to his apartment, bumped into the petite man, and suddenly he was being served twenty years of history within an hour conversation. He often found himself becoming trapped in the lives of others, simple eye contact led to someone expressing their past, present and future. Maybe it was his silence that egged people to continue, and to fill the air. Perhaps that's why Dasia felt the need to carry on; to fill that air he left so dry.

-----HE PEERS down from the window at the woman, her hair becoming golden wisps underneath the street lamps. He watches her walk boyishly down the street as Dasia tells her story, her movement lacks fluidity, it lacks passion. Desmond feels her story becoming a reality too close to home, and it's suddenly an intrusion. That's a tragedy, he cuts her short. His arms reach above her height, his fingers grabbing at the window pane, and pressing it open to let air float in. Tell me hers next,</sub> he prods his index finger forward to a teenage girl frolicking beneath his apartment. His back turns as he saunters through the room, a trail of toxic fumes following behind him as he picks and fidgets through ancient works.

_{-----MUSIC rumspringa
-----NOTES forgive me. this is actually AWFUL.}

[dasia mae knight]

Ever the finicky older sister, Dasia's frown deepened as he wilfully ignored her nagging. Though her eyes were narrowed she couldn't help the grin that soon broke out across her face, the childishness of her friend bringing her back to how he used to be with a warm rush of affection. Maybe he hadn't changed that much. She shook her head as she took a sip of her now cold coffee, wishing she still had her stilettos on so she could give his knee a good jab. Even more tempting is the option of tearing the stick from his fingers and tearing it in two in front of his very eyes. In all likelihood she'd probably end up going with him to buy another pack later on, when she'd buy gum and pointedly slip it into his pocket. As if she could judge the bad habits of others.   Between the darkness of Desmond's apartment and the glow of the streetlight, the window had become particularly reflective, and Dasia studied his smirking mirror image in the glass. He looked less tired than he had before. As unruly as his beard was, it was also neat, showing signs that he'd bothered to take care of it in at least some minimal little way. She wondered if it was marriage itself, or  rapid divorce that had changed him the most. It was not until she was prompted to speak that she realised she'd been staring, and as such she couldn't have been more grateful when he moved to open the window and turn away.     Turning her attention to her new subject, Dasia's brain whirred with possibilities for the pretty young thing. Prom queen? Too obvious. Cheerleader? Same vein. Cheating boyfriend.. it was all so cliche, she'd need to stop watching so many teen movies. Slumping against the wall and easing herself to the floor with the grace innate to dancers, she leaned her forehead against the glass and watched the girl, speaking without really thinking. "She's always been considered pretty. Not beautiful, not cute, but very pretty. Girl next door. She's got  a boyfriend and he makes that worse, spending plenty of time drooling over more overtly sexy girls, making her feel like she should change herself - physically, emotionally, the works - to become this perfect little girlfriend, angel on the streets but devil in the sheets kind of deal. Eventually they'll split when they go to separate colleges, and he cheats with the first girl who offers. She'll end up in a downward spiral that blurs the lines between what's really consensual and what's..."   Hearing herself, she clears her throat. After a second of silence she affixed a firm smile on her face, having looked away from the scene below. "I'm bored. Want to go buy more cigarettes? I could do with the air." Notes: animals. Listening: SECOND PAGE !!! let's ignore this poop.

[desmond hudson]

<sub>-----DESMOND is half listening as she chatters on, narrating the young woman's short years. Giving a structured summary, filled to the brim with typical teenage shit. As Dasia's London accent bubbles from her lips, that man finds himself slouching over a fountain of papers. He absentmindedly picks through them, faking a sense of organization while he waits for her story to close. His index finger tears inside of an envelope and tears it open, pinching the papers out. Through thick lenses he reads the opening line, 'Dear Mr. Hudson, your book 'The Yard Sale'... it's absolute horseshit, and immediately he becomes bothered by it. Ripping the letter in half, and then into quarters, he sets the confetti aside, making a mental note to burn it.

-----HE IS in the middle of ripping up a second 'Dear Mr. Hudson', when he hears Dasia's speech trailing off. He flicks his attention toward her, the rough edge of his features softening when he sees her on the floor. A neat little pile of limbs, and her hair falling like Rapunzel's. His fingers rip the papers once more, quiet silently, and he eases his way over to her. Ah, he takes a moment to consider her offer. Thinking how he didn't want to make a second trip to see old Anwar down the end of the road as he'd been there already this morning, but then considering the tight and seemingly air constricted apartment. Yea sure, let's go, and with that he presses the remains of his cigarette into the outside of the window pane, letting it fall down several flights of stairs onto the pavement.

-----HE TURNS into a gentleman momentarily, giving her his hand and pulling her tiny figure up. As he walks towards the front door, he grabs his wallet from the desk and shoves it into his back pocket, mumbling as he talks. We'll go a bit out of our way for this one, he mentions, thinking of the familar shop clerk. Don't want Anwar to think I've a bad habit, he grins at her from the side. Shoving his feet into a pair of Vans (which are in his humble opinion, too new looking), his takes a minute to look her up and down. He makes a point of this, and raises his eyebrows, you're warm enough? Desmond outreaches his hand, to take the fabric of her sweater in his fingers, and shrugs as if he can't believe it. . Alright, an illfitting cargo jacket is pulled onto his shoulders.

-----MUSIC chocolate genius...
-----NOTES OMG SECOND PAGEEE.</sub>

[dasia mae knight]

It's severely tempting to push the window the window up wide, and to lean out and shout down to the girl that all she had ahead of her was heartbreak and second guessing. Fighting the good fight against the mistreatment of women was a cause that was evidently very dear to Dasia's heart, but it could also make her sensitive, and almost bullying in her approach to tackling the problem. She'd tell happy women that their happiness would be short-lived, she'd tell well-meaning male allies that they were trampling on her safe ground. She'd lecture and she'd preach, and worst of all, she'd hypocritically judge others for doing the things she herself did. She was a prostitute, but was staunchly anti-pornography. She was a rich, white, blonde-haired, expensively educated young woman, but she was prone to telling others to check their privilege. In short, she was a pain in the ass.    So it was with great difficulty that she kept quiet, letting the girl live on in her supposed ignorance. If it were anyone but Des pottering around and making clear his boredom, Dasia might have bothered to move, and to change the subject. But the beauty of their friendship was that they could co-exist in the same room, though drifting into separate worlds. Words tumbled from her lips and she didn't know if he was listening, almost not even expecting him to. Similarly he could do as he wished undisturbed, so long as he let her ramble on and gave her the odd hot drink. It was probably the whole reason he tolerated her in the first place - she was merely background noise, and about as least an invasive a guest as he was bound to find.     It wasn't without raised eyebrows that she took his hand, clutching both of hers to her heart once stood. "Oh Des, you perfect Prince Charming." Her smile returns at his comment about Anwar. It was typical of him to know the name of the shopkeeper, and Des' familiarity with fleeting acquaintances always surprised Dasia, not least because she was from London and lived in New York (in neither city did your neighbour say hello without some hesitance), but because he was so evasive of most forms of social contact. He lived in a movie where the most fleshed out characters were the extras. Pulling her huge heels back on, she pulled her hairband off, shaking her blonde locks out. There was no way she'd have left the house otherwise. "Friends don't make friends trek around in Louboutins." She waves away his comment about dressing warmly, since she was hardly going to swap out Chloe sweater for something warmer. "Come on, you're so slow," she says, grabbing his wrist and pulling him out of the open door. Notes: this really wasn't deep or dope. Listening: deep and dope classical.

[desmond hudson]

<sub>-----THERE WAS an obvious difference between the way Desmond dressed and the way Dasia Mae dressed. But in the long run, they both probably looked within the shadows of their closests with the intention. The man had no sense of style, and his wardrobe was quite muted. Old ratty cardigans (yes, cardigans), stained tee shirts, cord pants.. but it wasn't as though he couldn't dress nicely. Back home in Boston he had a closet stuffed full of designer clothes; clothes that were without tatters or coffee stains. For Christmas his fathers made a point of getting him new clothes, which still sat in his childhood home, tags still intact. He shunned the status of clothing completely, but yet accepted it wholeheartedly in the form of thrift. Deep in his consciousness, he didn't want to be viewed as the overpriviledged young adult, who recieved everything on a silver platter.

-----HE HAZEL eyes tilt as he watches her pull her gigantic red soled shoes back on her feet, reaching for her shoulder to keep her steady, and almost afraid she'll stumble over like a newborn foal. Christ, he whispers, pulling at his own jacket. He looks homeless compared to the likes of her, if it wasn't for those brand new black Vans, he'd probably give off that impression easily. His hand catches Dasia's back, and he ushers her outside the apartment, catching the lightswitch on the way out. His hand dives into his pocket, and upon hearing the jingle of keys, he slams the door shut.

-----DESMOND rushes quickly down the stairs, trying to avoid bumping into neighbours. When he makes it down onto groundfloor, he looks behind him, turning to peep a look upward. And there she is, feet clipping slowly down, taking her sweet time. Trying not to look bothered, he leans against the railing, picking his glasses from his face, and placing them within the confines of his jacket pocket. If the apartment caught on fire, you'd never make it out alive, he critically looks at her feet, pushing his frame up vertically and gesturing towards the door. Go on, get a headstart.

-----MUSIC blackwater fever
-----NOTESOK so this is SO SO bad and rushed. I'm so sorry..</sub>

[dasia mae knight]

Between the leather leggings and the heels, it was fairly obvious that utility was not high on Dasia's list of priorities when it came to clothing. Despite this, and despite the copious amount of time and money she spent on make up and non-surgical procedures (rhinoplasty barely counted as surgery, as far as she was concerned), she was also very cagey about being seen as vain, and even the kindness of a steadying hand on her shoulder offended her. Shrugging it off, she shot him a half-playful glare. "I've spent more time in stripper heels than you have walking, I can manage." Still, the fact that Desmond lived in an apartment above a flight of stairs proved strategically challenging. It was easier to wear painfully high stilettos on a stage, since any good pole dancer spends more time working themselves around the pole than they do on their feet, depending almost entirely on some serious upper body strength. It was the shit ones who just gyrated around the pole.   Still, they'd probably have less difficulty getting down the stairs than she did. Ever cautious, she gripped the bannister for dear life, edging down the stairs as if they were going to move under her feet at any moment. The clicking sound had lost its innate sense of satisfaction by this point, instead mocking her with seemingly endless gaps between each step. She could feel Desmond's impatience radiating off him from storeys below. Without gaining any speed whatsoever, she eventually reached the bottom of the staircase, and offered him a wide smile. "Like I said, I manage." That didn't stop her from threading her arm through his, leaning into him for some structural integrity.    She was immediately glad to have gotten out of the apartment. The ever constant hum of traffic was soothing, and the crisp night air was as refreshing as it was bracing. Height difference closer to being balanced out, she took advantage of the fact that she could now comfortably rest her head against his shoulder. "Don't you just love New York? There isn't a city in the world like it." Her heels still clicking against the pavement, she lifts her head to look at him directly. "Did you miss it? Did you even think about it, or could it not compare to paradise?" Notes: NOW THIS IS JUST SAD. Listening: fiona apple.

[desmond hudson]

<sub>-----DESMOND was out of his element in the streets of New York, and it was clear - it was always clear - that he wasn't. As Dasia's skinny arm hooked onto his sturdy frame, he suddenly felt as though he was being dragged by two forces. The first being Dasia, her blonde hair flouncing in his face as she sashayed in front of him. The other was a magnet, his feet felt heavier than they did a moment before, and it was as though he was being pulled back into the safety of his apartment. This would have been the opportune moment for a cigarette. Had a cigarette not been the reason he was in this situation.

-----HE TAKES a left from the apartment, nodding at her question. Awh yea, New York's great. I love the smell of dog shit, the man stops in his tracks, pursing his lips, and scratching thoughtfully at his beard. No, his arm stretches across her waist, pulling her the other direction. Changed my mind, to Anwar's! a hand cuts across through the air, his pace strengthens as he walks right of his apartment.

-----THE CLICKING of her stilettos gets on his nerves, and he's once again left wanting to rip them off her feet, but he chooses to say nothing of it. Ask her why she wears those horrifying skyscraper shoes, and she'll take it as an insult, coming back with a ten minute argument on how he just feels emasculated. Or something along those lines. His hands shove into the depths of his pocket, teeth chew the fat of his lip. I didn't miss New York, was sick of it, needed to clear my head, he confirmed, pausing to collect himself. Glad to be back though, missed the people, his shoulders bump against her in play, arm tightening to brace her.

-----MUSIC bear's den.
-----NOTESI'm laughing over how bad this is. OOPS</sub>

[dasia mae knight]

The difference in their surroundings makes an immeasurable difference to her comfort levels. Whilst his sink to new lows, Dasia perked up, cheeks pink in the cold and a small smile now a permanent feature. The smell of cooking hot dogs wafts over and though she'd never in her life dream of eating one, the smell's nostalgic and reminds her of the rush she got when she first moved to the big city as a painfully naive eighteen year old. All of a sudden she was yanked in the opposite direction, and almost fell over her feet as Desmond turned them around to go to his original, and much closer, option. Though she can't be sure, she had a distinct feeling that he'd gotten cold feet. She'd rushed him out into the big wide world long before he was ready, and he'd decided to retreat back to the comfort of his routine. It was endearing, and despite initial stiffness as his arm finds her waist, she soon returns the gesture by snaking her arm around his too.   "It's so weird that you always smell really good," she said, their close proximity prompting the observation. "Do you actually own cologne, or do you naturally smell like Calvin Klein? It's kind of counterintuitive to your look." As soon as his arm is removed she misses it, realizing that he'd been right about the fact that she'd be cold and noticing a distinct difference sharing his body heat had made. Ignoring the blisters she could feel forming, she picked up her pace, hoping the elongated strides would get her blood pumping and warm her up. It would be murder on her pride to admit that he'd been right out loud.    His not missing New York felt like a personal affront, but he very quickly redeemed himself with a playful push. "You're deranged, Boston. There isn't a place in the world better than New York." They pass a bench and Dasia seizes the opportunity, shrugging his arm off her so she could pull him over to it by the hand. She clambers up onto it, placing her hands on his shoulders. As strong willed as she liked to believe she was, she was a baby when it came to pain and her shoes were threatening to make her bleed. "Desmond Hudson, I Dasia Mae Knight have a confession. You're right about these shoes." She looks him dead in the eye, as if this is a gravely important matter. "I'm afraid you're going to have to give me a piggyback to your friend Anwar's. I promise I'll write a strongly worded letter to Christian Louboutin as soon as I get home, and I'm sure he'll compensate you for these emergency measures." Before he can argue she's turned him around, pulling off her shoes with immense relief. With them hooked onto the fingers of one hand, she clambers up onto his back, praying he doesn't topple over and humiliate the both of them. Notes: i became illiterate today. Listening: silence.

[desmond hudson]

<sub>-----HE LAUGHS at her remark, he exagerattes it, forcing it from the depths of his ashen lungs. Desmond tries to fit into a level of comfort, and relax in the confined streets of New York City. His hygeinic routine was lacking, but not exactly disturbing. He begins his routine in the morning, starting with Old Spice body wash, a dab of wax in his hair, and a cigarette. Eau de cologne a la... nicotine, his Boston accent slaughters these words, he's stumbling all over himself. He's always convinced Dasia's just trying to fill the air with her words. He tends to roll over what he's about to say before he actually says it, laying out if it's logical, or if he sounds like an idiot, or worse off, a fake. While Dasia seemingly has no insecurities when it comes to her own words, no filter from mind to mouth. He'll find himself listening to her talking about shoes, or the way he smells, half the time it doesn't make sense, but he loves that about her. He admires it, but it's something he doesn't wish to duplicate.

-----WHEN Dasia peels herself from his grip, he finds himself shaken from a daze. It's only when she yanks his hand, he trudges out of it, quite literally. His feet are dragging, it's like he's a leashed cat, so unenthusiastically being dragged around the block. He narrows his eyes curiously at her, watching as she sets one foot on the bench then the other, using him as a branch. As she holds her hands on his shoulders, he mirrors her, placing his on hers, returning her look of honesty. Teeth display a grin, years of orthodontics finally being shown off, yea.. that's what I thought. His scoots himself the other direction, not wasting his effort to groan about her shoes, or hold it against her. Realizing, that yes, betraying her height must being a rather difficult thing for her to go through.

-----DESMOND fixes his arms beneath her legs, holding her knees into his side. He bounces her slightly, adjusting her weight like a backpack. You're aware there's a charge, right? he kids, holding her steady as he moves forward. It's a cool night, only April and not spring-like by any means, it's been a long winter. Against his muscular arms Dasia's bare feet are freezing, and he's immediately hit with guilt, unable to do anything about it. Almost there, he notes to her, thumbing through conversation in his mind; there's a lot to discuss, but most of it's sentimental or maybe even controversial. Fuck, I did miss you, he finds himself muttering, giving her leather clad calves a reassuring squeeze.

-----MUSIC bear's den.
-----NOTES</sub>

[dasia mae knight]

It was nights like these that she loved most. Crisp and clear without being freezing, there was even the odd star visible in the sky, not quite obliterated by light pollution. She loved wandering the streets of Manhattan, even if it was with feet that felt like they were on fire. His company helped too, not least because she felt safer walking around at this hour with his tall presence at her side... she'd taken a cab to get there in the first place, so reluctant to walk it alone. A light laugh escapes her lungs at his response. "Yeah, something like that."       Childishly pleased to be taller than him, she was trying to keep her facial expression stoic once she launched into her confession. Even with the aid of botox it wasn't very convincing. Treated to the incredibly rare sight of a smile wide enough to show his teeth, his smile makes her smile, and she's struck by the urge to touch him more, to touch his face or his hair or something. She stifles it long enough to climb onto him, grinning as he adjusts to her weight as if it was nothing. Being this close to him makes that smell all the more encompassing, and she squeezes him a little, as if she can physically stop him from leaving again. "Thanks Des," she murmurs, leaning her head against his shoulder again. "My hero."     Being carried is a lot more comfortable than she expected, his steadily paced walking making for yet another soothing experience. It's enough to quieten the chatty girl, who's too swept up in enjoying the smell, feel and - most importantly - heavy accent of her best friend to even consider raising more inanities. "You can forward any bills onto that senator of mine." She nods as he assures her that they're almost there, cold but not really minding it-- in fact, almost wishing that they weren't nearly there. As she always suspected, her silence gave Desmond a chance to come up with conversation in his own good time, and it seemed like he was more willing to contribute to the conversation now that it was on his own terms. So she waited it out, arms draped around his neck. She was not prepared her for his next sentence. Freezing up, for some reason the innocuous sentence hits her straight in the chest and her heart is beating so hard she's sure he'd be able to feel it against his back. Seizing control of herself, she tightened her grip in a hug. "Missed you too. A lot... I felt a little lost," she admits, glad for the lack of eye contact. Notes:  ah shit i'm late for work! WORTH IT. Listening: jay z.

[desmond hudson]

<sub>-----WALKING through the streets, he feels quite judged. It's late at night, but the parties are still raging, and people are still floating around.The odd person walks by them, most of them with their heads down in pure ignorance, some roll their eyes at the pair, while others smirk. He's convinced those who smirk are thinking 'poor bastard', something among the links of pity, as Desmond likely looks downright miserable. He fixes his gaze on the pavement, looking enough forward so he knows he's not going to lead them into a pole.

-----AS SOON as the words escape him, he shakes his head. It's an honest shake, and he doesn't know what to do with himself. His arms fall tighted around her knees, as if someone has taken a wrench to them. It's such a delicate sentence, but for him it's more powerful than others. He can feel the same off Dasia, who he feels pause against his back, before recoiling her arms around his neck. Lost. And there's that pang of guilt, an iron rod submerging itself into the depths of his chest, then weighing at his throat. His cheek presses into her forearm in a brief gesture of affection, words hit his tongue, but like a fish gapping for air he holds them back. I'm sorry for that, it's a genuine apology, and it's all he has for a minute, trying to match emotions with words but seeming unable. I wouldn't have... you know, written about you, if you weren't important. I must've written a thousand poems about that shopkeeper, but there's at least a million on you, he rushes through, readjusting her weight once more, and following quickly with a joke. Don't ask to read them, they're all dramatic and horseshit quality, it's an insult to my talent.

-----MUSIC bahamas
-----NOTES this is super crap, and short. but i really wanted to get a reply in before work :c</sub>

[dasia mae knight]

Dasia's dead to the world around her. There are open windows with the muffled sound of chatter and Katy Perry pouring out of them, mingling with the noise of the traffic to create a backdrop of sound that anyone born and raised in a city subconsciously tunes out. She's particularly adept at tuning out the reactions of others, since her appearance tends to garner her a whole lot of both negative and positive attention... especially when she's on the arm of some overweight fifty-five year old man, who's insisting that she's his new girlfriend. So used to playing a part, and in spite of being so horrifically sensitive when it came to the remarks of those she respected, she couldn't give a single fuck what light strangers decided to see her in.     It was a trait shared by Desmond, though he took it to a whole new level. A pleasant quiet persists between them, and it's quite different to the silences that she usually finds so intolerable. It was a rare moment of unity, the two of them inwardly reflecting on their friendship, but somehow managing to share in their reflections at the same time. The apology catches her off guard yet again, the breath catching in her throat. God, if she cried she'd never be able to look at herself again. The rush of having him back was only just sinking in, where previously she'd fretted that his visit would prove fleeting. But here he was, not only sounding like he was going to stay, but like he'd missed her almost as much as she'd missed him.      Opening her mouth to tell him he shouldn't be sorry, she closes it again as he starts talking about his writing. She can't find the words to respond. An initial flicker of irritation at the mention of her influence is quickly quelled by his explanation, and it's his explanation that makes her chest constrict and swell both at the same time, her lip caught between her teeth as she processes what he's said. His joke makes her smile, and smiling gives her a chance to pull her thoughts together. "You shouldn't be sorry. You don't even need to explain your book, D. You don't owe me anything." Heaving herself forward, she plants a kiss on his cheek. "Just promise me you won't leave again. Not without taking me with you." Notes:  UGH IH THIS REPLY GOD. Listening: mahler.

[desmond hudson]

<sub>-----AS HIS lips draw closed, he's not sure what to anticipate in reply. It's not a lie, but it's not as forward as it could have been. The women in his life - Dasia, Ava, Pearl, even his biological mother Elisabeth - had all had their impact in the events that occured within the pages of his novel. Ava gaves a sense of professionalism and tenderness to Odette Beaumont, Pearl gaves her naivity, his mother's beauty graced her, but Dasia was the backbone. She gave the character fight, and strength, the ability to pull herself from the depths. Had Dasia not dug into his life, Desmond was almost sure there would be no book.

-----HE'S GLAD her response lacks the sentimence his contained, afraid he'd have to pull more words from his soul, chunks of his dignity barely hanging. Her lips press against his cheek, and his body tips forward, attempting to knock her back. Expecting a red stain on the peak of his cheekbone, he childishly lifts his shoulder and rubs his face against the cameo green. I'm driving to Chicago to visit my sister in a couple of weeks, he takes note outloud, barely taking a moment to consider. If you can tolerate my driving.. it's fucking terrible, but if you can stand it, you can come.

-----JUST AHEAD of them lies the yellow glow of the '49er Convinience Store', he gives her once more readjustment, leaning and heaving her weight forward. Watch your head, Desmond forewarns, ducking sightly to allow her head more room as he enters the store. Indian music hits his ears immediately, and he's thankful it's not Top 40 bullshit, or Carly Rae Jepsen. Buddy, he tips his head at Anwar, who looks curious from behind the counter. Alright, off, the man crouches for Dasia to get off. Two things from the candy aisle, two things.

-----MUSIC dead kennedy's
-----NOTES this is just bad.</sub>

[dasia mae knight]

Desmond has fallen silent again, and she can feel in his body language that this time, he's not bracing himself to speak. It would be a lie to say she wasn't a little disappointed. Annoyed at herself for not divulging a little more of her own soul for him to go off, she realized she'd maybe been a little cautious, try too gently to tease words from his psyche, scared that she could overstep his boundaries at any moment. She'd played it too safe, and now he'd retreated back to his usual comfort zone. But what could she have said? With a frustrated little sigh, she let the moment slip away, their intimate interlude evaporating into the night.     That didn't stop her smirking as he rubbed her lipstick from his cheek. It was this mercurial element to their relationship that scared her so much: one moment she was overcome with warmth for the man, the next her stomach would be full of butterflies over some flippant compliment he probably didn't even know he'd made, and the next she'd be overcome with blind rage and maybe even a little hatred. But she chose to relish the positivity while it was there, volatile as it could be. "That's kind of you, but I'm sure she wouldn't appreciate the gatecrashing. I should probably visit my own sister." She thought briefly of Agnes, guilt simmering away with the thought of her. Better to stifle that too.     Before she knows it she's no longer burdening him, instead pulling her shoes back on to her feet with a steadying hand on a shelf full of questionable looking baked goods. Her pout makes way for glee, though, when he makes a promise of indulging her sweet tooth. "Oh, you're too kind! I mean it's Sophie's choice, but I'm capable." In truth it's an easy choice, and in seconds she's picked up two packets of Sour Patch Kids. In fact, she tears into the packet before he's even had a chance to pay.      "If there's one thing keeping me in New York," she says, cheeks full of sweetly sour gelatine, "it's these bad boys. Full of all sorts of ingredients that're banned in the EU. Killjoys." That coy smile of hers returns as she glances at the shopkeeper. "Hi. I'm sorry, how rude of me, I don't think we've met. I'm Dasia, Desmond's wife. Has he mentioned me at all? I've heard a lot about you." Notes:  i waffled i'm sry. Listening: beethovennnn.