Drunk Texting Is(n’t) Bad for Your Health- Chapter Seven

Series Summary: Talk about your unconventional meet-cute! Bucky receives a text by mistake requesting he prove he’s not Reader’s sister. The easy dialogue between Reader and Bucky sparks a natural friendship, but could it lead to more? Bucky still deems himself unworthy of any form of affection or love. Reader is hellbent to prove him wrong. With the help of some (meddling) friends along the way, Bucky may get his happily-ever-after after all.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 2684

Warnings: ANGST, bad language words

A/N: Thank you, thank you, thank you for all your love and support for this series! Everyone who has liked or reblogged this week after week means the world to me!

A/N 2: I split their date into 2 parts because I wanted to give perspective from both sides. Enjoy Bucky’s POV first!

DO NOT copy or replicate without my permission.

An anxiousness bubbled up inside Bucky as he and (Y/N) stepped out of her office building and onto the crowded Manhattan sidewalk. It was five o’clock, meaning every other yuppie in New York was trying to get somewhere as well. Walking shoulder to shoulder with her felt like a feat in itself. Everyone around them seemed to be heading in the opposite direction, and they were fighting against the current like a pair of spawning salmon swimming upstream.

With his size and stature, most passers-by gave Bucky a wide berth. But with (Y/N), they didn’t. They jostled her like a small boat caught at sea during a storm; they gave her no mind in their rudeness. She fought to stay astride him as businessmen shouldered past her like a runningback fighting to make it to the endzone.

A feeling of protectiveness washed over him. Longing to whisk (Y/N) away from her place on the dirty cement increased with every step. The defensive surge fizzing right below the surface wanted him to tuck her into his side and glower at anyone who dreamed of coming close.

Bucky couldn’t, of course. He had to play it as if they’d only met a few days ago, no matter how much he wanted to. Instead, he grasped her empty hand and led her through the swarm of fellow New Yorkers.

(Y/N)’s hand was warm inside his, and the very thought of him touching her made his pulse quicken. The reaction wasn’t unpleasant. Though, it fuzzily reminded him of his teenage years. He was nearly one hundred years old! He shouldn’t be acting like a lovesick fool.

But here he was- swooning over a girl like he was fifteen again.

Bucky felt a yanking on his arm as (Y/N) pulled him from the stream of rushing bodies. Unmoving, at the edge of the rush, he found it was easier to breathe again. The fretfulness bled away once they were standing still.

He peered around, questioning why they’d stopped. Wedged between two high-rise buildings was a squat cafe. The shop’s window front beamed onto the footpath like the mecca it was, calling bystanders in from the street. Above the green striped awning over the entrance spelled out Deja Brew in colorful, blocky letters. Bucky chuckled at the play on words.

Towing the door open, (Y/N) tugged him in further.

Stepping inside the brightly lit coffee shop, Bucky was blanketed by the overpowering scent of fresh coffee grounds. It was potent, hanging thick in the air. Taking a deep breath in, he was transported back to a rickety kitchen and a second-hand table, where he and Steve would take their morning coffee and breakfast. The smell reminded him of simpler times. Times before all the trouble Hydra had caused. He let go of a nostalgic sigh.

“Right?” (Y/N) asked, standing at his side. He’d nearly forgotten she was there. “I love it here. It always feels like coming home.”

Bucky grinned down at (Y/N), understanding how she felt. The exposed brick walls, the tidy, destressed floors, and the primary colors being strewn about the space gave him a sense of sentimentality.

“I come in here several times a week,” she explained. “Not just because it’s convenient, but it reminds me of growing up.”

Bucky nodded in agreement, taking in the warm atmosphere of the quaint shop. “I get that.”

The pair strolled up to the counter and, presumably, the barista taking orders. Without looking in their direction, the young man in an apron spoke in a monotone, “Welcome to Deja Brew. What can I get started for you?”

A smile slowly crawled across (Y/N)’s lips. “Hey, Bryson. Didn’t know you were working tonight?”

Bryson’s head whipped up so fast; Bucky thought it might detach from his shoulders. His cheeks dimpled, and the corners of his striking green eyes crinkled into a bright smile. “Hey, beautiful!” Bryson beamed. “I’m doing a double--covering for Kari. I wasn’t expecting you tonight.”

“You know me,” (Y/N) said with a tinkling laugh. “Just can’t stay away.” Bryson replied with his own laughter.

A flare of jealousy twisted unexpectedly in Bucky’s gut. Was (Y/N) flirting?

Bucky supposed he could consider Bryson classically handsome. He was taller than Bucky with short, sandy brown hair and broad shoulders. His muscular frame filled out the black polo shirt he wore, but he wasn’t overly bulky- like he played baseball in college. There was a smattering of light freckles over his high cheekbones and straight nose. And eyelashes to rival Steve’s.

Was this his competition?

Bucky grumbled to himself and gritted his teeth as he watched the two giggle over some inside joke. There was an envious gnawing behind his ribcage as Bryson leaned onto his elbows over the countertop, inching closer to (Y/N). That was his girl!

Without warning, like a shaken soda bottle, his voice exploded from his mouth, dripping annoyance, “I’ll take a medium Americano, a chocolate croissant, and whatever the lady is having.”

Shocked back into the present by Bucky’s gruff words, Bryson shot upright. His startled green eyes shifted from (Y/N) to Bucky and back again. Bucky could barely contain his eye-roll as the other man feigned busyness after being caught slacking. It was apparent Bryson only had eyes for (Y/N), or he would have noticed she wasn’t alone, despite Bucky standing mere centimeters away from her.

Possessiveness tingled at Bucky’s fingertips, and the compulsion to wrap his arm around (Y/N)’s waist was strong. He wanted so badly to reach out and pull her close. Show this punk who she belonged to.

Regardless of his feelings, though, Bucky had no claim over (Y/N). He’d known her as Bucky for a scant three days. He imagined she’d known Bryson a lot longer. He couldn’t profess his desire to be hers in such a short time, no matter the urgency. It would come off as weird and controlling.

So, he resolved to bite the inside of his cheek and grin and bear it. He could bide his time, right? He’d waited seventy years. What’s another seventy more?

Bucky cringed internally at the thought of waiting.

“(Y/N), you know this guy?” Bryson inquired, acting as if he’d finally grown a pair, with a bite to his words.

Bucky’s pulse fluttered as (Y/N) turned to face him, a smile on her lips and something sparkling in her eyes. “I do,” she said. “He’s my date.” She grinned bigger with a cute scrunch to her nose as she said date.

Bryson’s eyes widened in alarm, then quickly narrowed in suspicion as he observed the flowers (Y/N) held. Bucky wondered, momentarily, if he was the first guy (Y/N) had ever brought into the shop. Was Bryson just as jealous as he was?

It wasn’t until he saw the almost imperceivable head tilt to get (Y/N) to step away from Bucky’s side did he realize what Bryson’s genuine concern was about.

(Y/N)’s brow furrowed in confusion as she took a stride to her right.

In a hushed whisper, Bryson asked, “You know who he is, right?” Bucky’s super-hearing picked up every word.

(Y/N) unsuccessfully tried to blink away her uncertainty, causing her eyebrows to pinch together further. “Who exactly is he, Bryson?” (Y/N) pondered, an edge of irritation leaking into her speech. She crossed her arms over her chest, drawing her sweater tighter around her body.

Bucky could hear it in her voice. (Y/N) knew precisely what Bryson had meant and was trying to draw it out of him.

“You know,” Bryson said, not even trying to whisper anymore. “He’s that guy.”

(Y/N) cocked her head to the side a fraction. “You mean the guy who the US government exonerated for any and all crimes he may have committed as The Winter Soldier? You mean that guy?” (Y/N) deadpanned, uncrossing her arms. Bryson stared at her blankly.

“What about the guy who got drafted into a war unwillingly?” (Y/N) continued. “Or the one captured by the enemy and experimented on against his will?” Her hands curled into fists as the tension in her body rose. Bryson’s eye contact suddenly became very jumpy, unable to focus on her now and for a good reason.

“How about the guy who fell from a train- survived- and had his arm barbarically amputated?”

Bucky watched (Y/N)’s hands tighten further, blanching her knuckles of any color. He shuffled forward, ready to jump in if need be. Although, she was doing a good job holding her own.

“Don’t forget about that one guy who was tortured and abused, brainwashed, and forced to commit unspeakable atrocities for over seventy years, all in the name of a cult,” (Y/N) stated, pressing her palms flat against the countertop and ducking her head, trying to catch Bryson’s eye. His face flushed visibly in embarrassment.

“In case you aren’t caught up on your current events, Bryson, that guy’s name is Bucky Barnes,” (Y/N) spit sardonically.

Bryson raised his eyes at this, and the look on his face darkened. “Regardless of whether he was brainwashed or not, he’s an Avenger,” Bryson sneered, his gaze sliding to Bucky. “And that makes him dangerous.”

What the hell was this guy’s problem? Bucky wondered, wanting to wipe the smirk off his smug face.

(Y/N) let out a humorless huff of a laugh. Her lips spread into a thin line. “No more dangerous than the possibility of being struck by lightning or getting hit by a subway train.”

Bucky chuckled inwardly as Bryson flexed his jaw in frustration. (Y/N) was really getting to him.

Bryson’s expression morphed into something more sinister. “I mean, are you really going to take the word of some ‘expert’ from a third-world country that he won’t turn into a murder-bot again?” The air-quotes in his tone punctuated the contempt he undeniably felt.

Anger blossomed in Bucky’s chest at the degrading mention of the Princess of Wakanda. He owed everything to Shuri. If it weren’t for her, he definitely wouldn’t be in New York right now but on the run again. Shuri saved his life.

Bucky took a step toward the counter, intending to do something, anything to shut this jackass up. Instead, (Y/N) placed a calming hand to his sternum, stopping him from doing anything rash. The look of disdain on Bryson’s face amplified the longer (Y/N)’s touch lingered on his body, and that was equally as satisfying as causing this prick bodily harm.

“While your concern is unwarranted,” (Y/N) assured, “it’s also unwanted. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

She gazed up into Bucky’s blue eyes fondly; a charming smile curled at her lips. “Besides, I don’t think he’d hurt a fly now.”

“It’s your funeral,” Bryson mumbled under his breath. (Y/N) didn’t catch it, or she paid it no mind.

The affection Bucky felt for (Y/N) at that moment swelled exponentially. He was in love with her, he realized. It was no longer just a crush.

No one, other than Steve, had ever championed for him as openly or as forcefully as she had just then. The adoration accumulating in his heart felt like it would erupt at any minute. She made him want to believe in love again. She made him think he might be worthy of that love someday.

He’d have to find a way to earn it, somehow.

Staring into her beautiful face and seeing compassion and empathy made him want to press his lips to hers. He still couldn’t believe she’d found him on accident. It was all so serendipitous.

There was one crucial roadblock obstructing his path to happiness, though. One he couldn’t possibly ignore for much longer without consequences— figuring out how to tell (Y/N) he and James were the same. But how?

Until then, he’d enjoy the ride.

“Hey, Bryson,” (Y/N) vocalized, her timbre a saccharine sweet. “I’ll take a medium iced mocha with extra whip and a white chocolate raspberry scone as well.” She winked at Bucky.

A scoff came from low in the pastry case causing Bucky and (Y/N) to titter in laughter.

“Wow. That was-” Bucky started, trying to find the words to explain how her coming to his defense made him feel.

(Y/N)’s pupils dilated, the gravity of the situation sinking in. “Oh, my God!” she said in a near panic. “I’m so sorry!”

Bucky smiled at her warmly. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.” He brushed a stray hair from her cheek delicately, his fingers dallying along the soft skin. The palm of his hand settled just below her ear, on the side of her neck. His thumb bobbed up and down with every clench and unclenching of her jaw.

“You must be so sick of hearing the same argument over and over again. People deciding your guilt or innocence based on first glances,” (Y/N) murmured, finally dropping her hand from his chest.

Bucky wondered if she could feel the pounding of his heart through all the layers of clothes he was wearing. “It’s nice to have a cheerleader, for once,” he answered honestly.

The corner of (Y/N)’s mouth quirked up. “I’ll always be in your corner, Bucky.”

His stomach dipped at her words’ implications. He whole-heartedly believed she would. “Thank you.”

(Y/N) shrugged in response. Over her bouncing shoulder, Bucky caught a glimpse of Bryson scowling at the two of them from his spot at the espresso machine. Bile churned in his belly. Bryson was turning into a nuisance, like a mosquito at a summer barbeque.

Bucky brought the hand at (Y/N)’s neck down to her upper arm and rubbed it gently. “Why don’t you find us a seat. I’ll finish up here,” he said, giving her a lopsided grin. She returned the gesture and nodded her head in acquiescence, sweeping past him.

Bucky followed her movements through the coffeehouse as she picked a cushioned bistro set positioned near the front windows. The waning light of the day cascaded through the clear glass, highlighting her delicate, feminine features. She was breathtaking.

Turning to face the dreadful barista, the grin on Bucky’s lips faded into a frown.

Bryson set their order down roughly on the register counter and proceeded to punch in the items on the touchscreen. He remained silent, mulishly waiting for payment. The death glare he wore seemed to be permanently etched into his features now.

Bucky could tell he was seething; the vein in his forehead throbbed with every beat of his pulse. Instead of engaging, though, Bucky smirked and slid a twenty-dollar bill toward the other man.

Bryson angrily scooped up the money. He bent his head closer to Bucky, gnashing his teeth. “If you hurt a single hair on her head, I will burn you to the ground,” he taunted, reaching into the till for change and tossing it on the counter.

Bucky’s expression never faltered. His exterior remained composed, cool as a cucumber. Inside, he raged like a bull seeing the color red. He wanted nothing more than to mop the floor with this asshole’s face. Alternatively, he gathered the littered change and dumped it all into the tip jar sitting beside the register. He stared Bryson dead in the face, a ghost of a smile still clinging to his mouth. “And if I ever hear of you treating (Y/N) with the blatant disrespect you showed her today…” Bucky paused, his voice calm and controlled. He leaned forward, pushing in closer to Bryson’s ear. “They’ll never find your body.”

The joy he felt coursing through his body as Bryson’s eyes stretched to the size of saucers and his Adam’s apple wobbled as he gulped in fear was indescribable.

Bucky gathered their drinks and pastries, pivoting towards the table where (Y/N) sat. He shouted over his shoulder as he walked away, “Have a good day, Bryson!”

Chapter Six (Part 2) | Chapter Eight

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Flower Person

Fandom: The House in Fata Morgana

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationship: Maria Campanella/Iméon

Summary: Iméon wasn’t the kind of person to care about flowers and she never liked receiving these as gifts, but could she really refuses it when a pretty blond woman she doesn’t know show up on her doorstep with a bouquet of lilies? [Femslash February 2021 Day 24: Lily]

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Link on Archive of Our Own

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Notes: So, I admit I actually tend to headcanon Iméon as being nonbinary/trans masc, which wouldn’t really fit a femslash event, but well as far we know in FataMoru canon she still identifies as a woman. Another headcanon of mine is that Iméon does remember her past life even after being reincarnated (which is what happens in the short story ‘Tír na nÓg’), and I wrote the fic with that in mind. Also I know Iméon likely just goes by ‘Noémi’ in the modern era, but… weh, I’m too used to refer to her as ‘Iméon’ lol.

This takes place after Reincarnation so spoilers for all the games, and there are also brief references to the short story ‘Girl Hunt Girl.’ (If you don’t know about it, it’s just a very short post-Reincarnation story where Iméon meets Ceren in Paris by saving her from a conman.) And warning for slight drinking/alcohol, I guess.

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Iméon had never been a flower person.

It wasn’t like she hated them or anything, but she couldn’t really unsderstand what people found so captivating or pretty about these plants. They smelled nice, sometimes, she supposed — but that was the extent of the qualities she’d gave them.

She had told as much to Michel once when they stopped by a flower shop so he could buy a few roses for his wife — the fact this guy ended up getting married was still mind-boggling to her even months after she’d learned that fact — and he laughed, saying he used to think the same ‘back then’ but that now he couldn’t help but love them. He hadn’t explained to her how this change of heart happened, but Iméon could guess pretty easily it was also a courtesy of Giselle.

In any case, that was also why people never offered her flowers as gifts, either — the only time she could remember this happened was when she was maybe eight or so and her grandma had given her a bouquet of hydrangeas. Iméon had never been able to tell the absentminded sweet old lady that she couldn’t care less about those flecks of blue-purplish petals and she’d unfortunately had to keep them in her room against her will until they withered.

Tonight, however, would mark the second time of flower-offering she’d received in her life, because the first thing she saw upon opening the door after it rang twice was a huge bouquet of lilies, followed by a turf of messy, short blond hair and a pair of clear green eyes that popped out just barely above the white bell-shaped plants.

“So, okay, here’s the thing,” her visitor started, trying to speak clearly in spite of the enormous gift in her arms that was camouflaging almost all of her upper body. “That’s kind of a long story, but bear with me. There’s this dude where I work — a client — who sort of got a crush on me. Not, like, the creepy kind, but still pretty annoying. He hit on me a few times, and despite me trying to fucking tell him subtly, ‘Hey, dude, not interested, let it go,’ he brought me this tonight upon seeing me. I thought at first about throwing it away in the trash cause flowers are not my thing, you see? But then my boss — I mean Giselle, you know her too, right? — threw a damn fit, ‘bout how it wasn’t nice for him and those were such beautiful flowers or something, so I was like ‘then take them cause I don’t want this’ but she refused cause Michel is allergic to lilies or something and — who the fuck even is allergenic to goddamn lilies? Anyway, after that I—”

Iméon blinked incredulously, trying to makes sense of why there was a short irritated blond woman with a thick Italian accent she didn’t know in front of her who kept rambling on and on at her at eight in the evening. She seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t recall why — where had she seen her before?

“—asked my stupid childhood friend cause of course she’s the kind of gal who’s into flowers and stuff, except I forgot she was in Amsterdam to introduce her creepy boyfriend to her parents, but as a result the only person left was fucking Jacopo and I sure as hell wasn’t going to show up to this dumbass’ door to give him some lilies — and then it hit me; ‘Oh, there’s this chick who’s friends with Michel and Ceren and doesn’t live far away, so why not check her out!’ And so here I am.” She finally stopped and breathed in deeply. “So. Yeah. Want some lilies?”

The names of Michel and Ceren awakened Iméon’s memories and she realized it was, indeed, because of these two that this woman was familiar to her. More than a year ago, she had met Ceren by coincidence and helped her out of some trouble and since then they’d become good friends, and she managed to meet Michel again a few months later. Seeing her old friend from a past life neither of them should remember had been quite a shock — though a pleasant one — but discovering that somehow he’d gotten married to a bubbly lady and now lived in the same building as the goddamn little witch who’d messed around with them had been quite confusing. And to top it off, apparently Michel also knew Ceren because she herself was friends with said little witch. Fate really was a funny thing.

In any case, about three weeks ago she’d briefly gotten introduced to this woman by Giselle, but it had been a five minutes meeting so the encounter had quickly left her mind. If she recalled her name was… Martha? Marianne…? Mar—

“Oh, Maria,” she suddenly said out loud, snapping her fingers, and the woman frowned at her.

“What?”

“Your name. It’s Maria. Right?”

“Wait, you only now remembered who I was?”

“Yep.”

“Maria is like, the less forgettable name in the world? How did you do to forget that?”

“Sorry. I’m just not good with names. And faces. And people.”

A big silence propagated between the two of them, and then Iméon cleared her throat.

“You know… if you wanted to ask me out on a date, you could’ve just… said that. Or ask Michel my number or something.”

Maria arched an eyebrow at her, looking genuinely surprised. “What? Wait, no, that wasn’t… it’s not what it’s about.”

“No?”

“If I wanted to ask you out, I’d just do that. I’m not the kind of person to make excuse or beat around the bush.”

Iméon literally knew nothing about this woman, but somehow she could believe that.

“Oh. Okay. So it’s… really just about the lilies.”

“Yeah.” Maria marked a pause. “It did sounds less weird in my head when I thought about coming here. But I’m just, uh… a bit desperate to get rid of these.”

Iméon hummed thoughtfully and crossed her arms. Desperate was indeed quite an apt descriptor — her hair was all disheveled, her clothes unkempt and she appeared out of breath, as if she had run left and right for a long time to try to get someone who’d agree to take in the huge bouquet.

Iméon wasn’t a flower person, but… she didn’t mind accepting a few lilies for this one time.

“All right. I’ll take it,” she conceded, and Maria seemed so relieved to hear that it was almost comical.

Iméon gathered the flowers into her arms, the soft perfume tickling her nostrils and the petals brushing her cheeks, and then she turned around towards Maria once again. She was clearly about to leave and go down the stairs, but somehow Iméon felt a tinge of pity for her to have to yet again hurry to go home, so she grasped her wrist.

“Hey, no need to rush out of here. I was just about to eat something, so… Wanna have dinner with me?”

“What? Really?”

Iméon flashed her a smile. “Sure. I mean, you’re a friend of Michel, so I’d feel bad to just let you go home like that.”

Maria stared at her in silence for a while, as if hesitating, then returned her smile. “Oh well. Not like I had anything else to do anyway.”

And so the both of them stepped into the small two-room apartment together — the inside was a mess, to be honest, with various clothes and papers laying around, but Iméon didn’t care in the least and neither did Maria apparently as she threw herself on the couch without eve asking. Iméon somehow managed to install the lilies in an empty jar on the table, then tranquilly started to prepare their meal. The dinner only consisted of a quick reheat from yesterday’s leftovers and Iméon had always been far from being a super good cook, but it didn’t matter much as the room quickly got filled with cheerful chats and laughters. They talked about their common friends and then their jobs and movies and Maria’s home country, and while Iméon wouldn’t reveal too much about herself and was careful to keep her walls up even once they added a few beers in the mix, she had to admit she felt quite comfortable with this woman whom she couldn’t even remember the name a few hours prior.

Maria was a fun and easygoing person to talk to and despite her crude words and rough attitude she had a smile as bright as the sun, and it just felt nice to be around her.

“So you’ve only moved in here recently?” Maria asked.

“I don’t like to stay in a same place for too long. That’s just not in my blood. I travel a lot too, went to a bunch of different countries…”

“Hmm. I get that. I traveled around quite a bit too before coming to Paris.” She sighed, then stared vacantly at her beer. “I wonder if I should try going moving somewhere else again. I mean, I like it here, but…”

Maria fell silent, suddenly looking surprisingly melancholic. But in a way, Iméon felt she could understand that. She herself had spent most of her life jumping from a place to another ever since her parents kicked her out of the family house, and she liked living that way, but occasionally she wondered if it wouldn’t be best to find somewhere to truly settle in and call home. Maybe she envied Michel’s stable life a little bit for having this, or Ceren’s airheadness for never even questioning what the future might held in for her.

In that sense, she got the feeling Maria was more similar to her because of that. Weird, given she’d basically been a stranger to her only a few hours ago.

As Iméon was still lost in her thought, Maria abruptly rose up from her chair, almost knocking over the lilies from the table. “Oh, wow, fuck! I didn’t realize it had so damn gotten so late! I should go now.”

Iméon looked at the clock, and it was indeed already past three AM. She also had not noticed the time flee at all.

“You sure you don’t want to spend the night here?” Iméon asked while Maria hurriedly put on her coat. “I mean, we did drink quite a bit, and there’s no metro at this time…”

“Nah, it’s fine. I’ll call a taxi or something. Ugh, and tomorrow I have to work… I’m going to be a fucking mess and Giselle’s gonna have my head.”

“Giselle?” Iméon repeated, because she didn’t know Michel’s wife all that well but somehow she couldn’t picture her as the kind of employer who’d got angry at anyone.

“Yeah, she seems all cute and sweet like that, but she’s actually fucking scary and ultra perfectionist at work. Don’t let her fool you.”

“Huh… I’ll remember that.”

Maria grabbed her last beer and gobbled up all that was left of it in one shot, before quickly heading towards the door. She stopped her pace on the doorstep, however, and turned around towards Iméon.

“Thanks for tonight,” she said, smirking. “It was fun. Let’s do this again.”

“Sure. No problem.”

Maria stared at her, seemed to hesitate, then finally leaned forward and kissed her. It was a pretty brief kiss, lips only brushing against each other, but Iméon still hadn’t really expected it and she blinked back at her when she pulled back.

“I thought the bouquet wasn’t an excuse?”

“It wasn’t,” Maria argued. “That was just as thanks for the meal. Now, I really have to go, so see ya!”

She waved at her with a smug smirk, as if she was quite proud of herself for what she had just done, and then disappeared in the stairs. Iméon still felt pretty confused, but she was much too tired to try to think more about it.

So she got back inside her place, locked the door, and found herself face to face alone with the big bouquet of lilies.

For a brief second, she felt kind of bad for the guy who’d bought it for Maria in the first place, and it was kind of annoying she’d have to keep that bouquet until it wither away like her grandmother’s hydrangeas, but…

If it meant she’d get to have a fun evening dinner and a kiss from a hot Italian woman, maybe it had been worth it.

The wall and the baby (DC Universe, AU)

Amanda Waller, AKA the wall was known for many things. Her hard nose attuide, her belief that she knew right and damn everyone else, and her big baby husband Bruce Wayne. They had met at a gala, where Bruce had been head over heels with her despite well, less the striking figure but it didn't take long to figure out a few things about the Billionaire playboy. One, he was a chubby chaser who had actually kept drooling as they chatted, blushing and saying sorry when she had pointed it out with a smirk. Two, Due to his parents passing away in a skiing accident when he was 12, he had a VERY strong attraction to ladies who gave off a semi mommy energy. Now normally anyone who worked under the wall would of told you that the last aura she projected was that of a mommy, but since she had been there to suck up for some more founding for task force X, she'd had on a kinder face then normal. She did have to admit that it was cute seeing this handsome young man stumbling over his words and clearly love stuck, and so had come home with him that night. And the next night and the night after that. They had barely dated for a bare four months before they were walking down the aisle, Waller in a dashing white dress and Bruce in a pair of short alls and a puffy butt as by that point he was living as her big baby, 24/7. She assumed control of Wayne enterprises and put the corporation to work for Task force X, though most of the day to day was handled much as before, by Mr.fox. Bruce's days meanwhile were filled with making pretty pictures for mommy, playing with his toys and playing in mommies office, and of course, making mommy presents.

It was 7:30 am as Waller came into Bruce's nursery, wrinkling her nose a little at the smell that filled the room but it was all part of the mommy game and she forced the look off of her face as she made her way over the plush carpet that filled the room. Technically she could of sent Alfred in to wake Bruce up but she still felt bad about making Bruce sleep in his nursery last night instead of in bed with her, she'd been up late monitoring a mission to take out a drug cartel in San Baquero. For the most part Bruce just thought she had a very special job with the government and didn't ask too many questions, and in a way he wasn't wrong. but that still didn't mean she wanted him to see the ugly side of her work. shaking those thoughts out of her head, and hat a pain it was gonna be to replace Knockout on the team, she leaned over the side of Bruce's crib railing and smiled. here was a fit young man who could of been a star athlete, and instead he was sucking on a pacifier wearing a light grey onsie that helped keep him from wiggling out of the custom made extra bulky diapers that made it a chore for even Bruce to waddle, and let him stew in his messes for hours on end just like he wanted. 'Sometimes I wonder what I did to end up so lucky~' Waller gushed mentally, then gently patted the bugling (and not just from natural bulk) seat of Bruce's pamper butt. "Hey there sleepy head, time to get up~" she called softly. She of course had been up since 5 am, but unlike Bruce she thrived on little to none sleep and actually was more grumpy when she got a full 8 hours in. Bruce gurgled behind his paci and opened one eye, then grinned and let the paci slid out of his mouth. "Nggggh five more minutes mommy~" He giggled playfully. the big baby knew Waller let him sleep in as long as she could if he wanted to come in with her to work, and he'd been VERY clear that he got to come into the office today. "Sorry my adorable little stinker, if you wanna be mommies cute widdle secretary you have to get up now. for one thing, SOMEBODY needs a diapie change." "-GASP- Did Alfred poop himself!" Bruce asked and giggled like he'd told the funniest joke ever. "heh, you're such a goof ball~ come on Bruce Sweetie, let's get you changed before you make mommies nose fall off."

One smelly diaper change later (which had left Waller seeing just how 'happy' he was to see and regretful they didn't have time for a quick roll in the sack) and Bruce was dressed in triple thick diapers and a black diaper shirt with light grey overall's on, Black and grey being his favorite colors. His bottom was puffed out and he was forced to crawl to the dining room where he was helped into his high chair, and while Waller had her normal steak and egg's with black coffe,she would pasue now and then to spoon anther mouthful of apple cinnamon oatmeal into the mouth of her big baby who gurgled and coo'ed, gushing about how much 'artz' he was gonna do for mommy t'day. "I'm gonna draw you a duck, and a bat, and and a fire truck and and and-" he babbled, only shush as mommy got anther mouthful in in mouth, taking care not to get any on his clothes. "Mhhm I bet you are, and they'll join the rest of your pretty pictures on my office wall, though I might bring some home for the fridge. what do you think Alfred?" She asked, amused and turning to look at the butler. The older man gave a smile. "well i for one would be VERY much honored if I could have some of Master Wayne's artwork on the fridge. But I didn't wanna speak up." he said. Waller had been worried the seemingly stuffie old butler would of been a stick in the mud when she and Bruce had first started dating, but in fact the old Englishman had helped give her pointer for dealing with his immature employer. "oh! I sowwy Alfred! I didn't even think bout that!" Bruce said, looking guilty. "Think nothing of it Master Wayne, I was just saying." "Nooo I'ma draw you a super cool picture!" Bruce promised, then grinned impishly. "Butttt not gonna tell ya what it is, it'll be a surprise!" he added with a giggle. "I shall be waiting with baited breath." Alfred chuckled and cleared the dishes away as Waller helped Bruce out of his high chair. "We should be back around 5:30ish Alfred, and I'm thinking me and Bruce would like some-" Waller started, but was cut off by her little guy as he wiggled his massive diaper butt back and forth. "Grilled cheese and fries! grilled cheese and fries!" He chanted. "heh..Grilled cheese and fries apparently." Waller said and ruffled Bruce's hair.

One half hour drive later and Bruce was crawling next to mommy as they made they're way though the hall's of Cadmus, getting amused looks and waves from staff who knew all about him, and baffled looks from those who had just been transferred. (and in one case the new head of genetics looked at her coffee she had been drinking from and dumped it in the nearest waste basket.) Getting into her office, it was almost exactly what you would expect for the head of a secret branch of the government charged with policing meta-humans and nipping problems in the bud. A high tech desk with a built in computer that could connect Waller to any database she might need, a direct line to the president him, a selection of hand guns in protective cases that only Waller could open (the glass had been installed after Bruce had mistakenly believe they were toys, thankfully no one had been hurt). The office would of had a cold and sterile feeling to it, if not for the corner of it that was dedicated JUST to Bruce. there was a patch of extra plush carpet, a small toy chest with just stuffies, a little desk (fisher price but bigger for the big baby) for him to make his drawing at and of course lots of crayons for him, and the walls were plastered with all the pictures he had made so far. Of course justifying having her big baby in the office hadn't been easy, even for Waller, at least till she pointed out just how much Wayne enterprises helped with the budget for the last line of defense against say, a rouge justice league. add in the expense of his little space was coming right from the Wayne/Waller fortune and well, The president had dropped the topic fairly quick. Bruce took his seat at his drawing table, and getting out some paper got right to work making arts, after getting a pair of headphones on that would be playing nursery music. marveling at just how god damn cute her widdle Brucie was, then brought up a chat with Rick flag so they could go over options for replacing the decreased Knock Out.

Bruce was humming away, rocking to his favorite song, 'the wheels on the bus' when he felt a cramp in his tummy. Looking up at the clock he was a little shocked, he mostly had a soiled schedule for his BM's but he knew when a poopie was brewing and it was a full 2 hours early, with it only just going onto 9:30. He looked over and Mommy was still making a call with one of her friends, and while she mostly dotted on him she had asked him to try and refrain from 'playing the butt trumpet' when she was on a call. He tried to focus on the picture he was making for Alfred, he was drawing his own superhero he had come up with, even though he knew for the most part mommy didn't like them. This superhero actually had no powers, and was like a ninja with a whole bat theme going on, and Bruce called him Bat Dude. he knew the name could use a little work but for now, it would work. As he colored in Bat dude's cape, all black of course, the cramps got worse and he leaned forward to try and help with the pressure. all that did however was bring thing to a boil and he could hear himself, even with his music playing loudly in his ear's let out a massive roar of a fart. if mommy hadn't of been on a call, and giving him a glare, Bruce almost would of been proud of it. Instead he gave a meek smile and lisped out a sorry, then made a face and stuck out his touage as the smell reached him. Looking over at mommy, who normally could take on his smelliest diaper with a bare reaction, he watched her nose twitch and she reached into her desk and brought out a scented handkerchief and pressed it to her face. "S-Sowwy.."

Rick flag did his best not to react to the sound that interrupted their call, but he was only human and the corners of his mouth were twitching as Waller was forced to grab a scented handkerchief and pressed it to her face. "Ma'am, If you need to call me back, I understand you may have other pressing concerns." He said. "I'm Muting my end of the call, but stay on for a few colonel, and I'll let you know." Waller said, hitting the button and muting Flag before he could reply. He was a good soldier and she knew he'd follow his order's anyways. Getting up from her desk she walked over to Bruce who was hunched over, holding his tummy. "are you ok sweetie?" She asked, leaning down and rubbing his back. "I..I don't think so.." Bruce said, of course having slid his head phones off as she walked over. "what's wrong Bruce?" she asked, putting a hand to his forehead and noting a slight fever for the first time. "Tummy hurts. gonna go uh-oh any second. I sowwy." Bruce whimpered, tearing up. "Shhh it's ok Bruce. you can go ahead and go uh-oh, and while you do that Mommies gonna arrange for one of her work friends to take over for her. I think somebody needs to go home, he's under the weather." she said warmly. She of course wouldn't of gone home if it was just her who was sick, having famously stayed at her desk and suffering though a Thangarian flu last year, but she wasn't gonna make her little guy suffer here when he could be looked after in the comfort of their home. As she moved back over to her desk to let Flag know he could make the final selection for the new member of task force X himself, as she trusted his judgement, as well as trying to decide between Eiling or Hamilton for taking over for her, a long booming blast came out of her little guys butt. Turning around she was almost transfixed on the site of the rapidly growing seat, and for a second wondered if maybe just maybe, if this wasn't some sorta meta human power manifesting. Sure, super human pooping would be a first but who knew with some of these freaks? She banished that thought almost right away even as the fumes from Bruce's diapers filled the office, so powerful she almost swore for a second she could SEE them. One because she had secretly had Bruce tested for the meta gene, and Two because she could never consider her little guy a 'freak'. "Guess it's a good thing we triple diapered you huh?" She asked, as Bruce was standing now, the back of his overalls straining as he grunted and groaned, but he nodded lots. "Oh god mommy, Hurts!" he whined and then sucked on his thumb, finishing his uber mess off with a last few weak sputtering farts. Alarms went off in the office as air quilty dropped, and Waller made the command decision to just make her calls from the car..as well as change Bruce outside.

After a check up with a trusted family doctor, one Leslie thompkins, Bruce was diagnosed with just a bad tummy bug..and being guilty of having been sleep waking in the middle of the night and raiding the fridge. Alfred had just assumed that Waller had been doing it since between his diapers and the high railing.. In any case there were changes to be made around the house, more baby proofing to be done, and Waller just spent the day field testing a new set of nose filters that would keep one save from toxic gasses and did a decent job with bad smells. Snuggling with he big baby on their bed, and watching tv, Waller again thought about what life might of been like with out the little stinker..and decided it wasn't worth thinking about before planting a kiss on his forehead.

the end

so unfamiliar now

Spiraling - A Fallen Hero: Rebirth Fan-fiction

Unless you want Ortega hounding you to the end of your days, you’re going to have to put on a show and convince her she doesn’t need to keep worrying about you. You’re fine. Everything’s fine. She’s fine. Wait – [Horseshoe Crab]

It’s my birthday today so have a second update this week!!!!!

[Read on AO3]

If you’re going to get Ortega to lay off of you, you need to start thinking about your appearance again. Dressing in hoodies to look inconspicuous doesn’t do you any good if it actually ends up drawing more attention to yourself. So… What do you dress like?

Once upon a time Ariadne fancied anything and everything from skirts and the femmest outfits she could get her hands on all the way to shrugging on a leather jacket and gloves as part of her roller derby get-up. What could possibly be a logical progression from that?

Don’t want to look too affluent. A waste of resources. But you don’t want to look destitute either. So… Clean, some color. Mostly greens, some purples and black for variety. Cloth and cotton, things you can layer. Mix in some new items with thrift store purchases to fill out the rest.

One day at the mall, you stumble across a cute pair of shoes with a 1” heel and add them to the pile. The old Ariadne would never have worn something like that, but fuck her. She’s dead.

Should you start doing make-up again? Stare yourself down in the mirror in the morning and make a face. Bad enough you have to see that wretched thing as much as you do already. The concealer work is enough. Leave the eyeshadow and lipstick in the past. Anyone misgenders you, you can just beat the shit out of them. It’s 2020 now, you’re totally allowed to do that, super villain or no.

God. Do you look human yet? You don’t feel it. What is Ariadne like? How do you play this? Do you play up the stutter or tamp it down? Does she find it cu– Fuck. Fucking hell. No. No you are not thinking about that. Jesus fucking christ.

You pull fabric around your shoulders, frowning in disapproval at the mirror. Once upon a time, Ortega’s mother gave you a serape like this for Christmas. That one was a rainbow of color. This shawl is a duller green, with a white geometric pattern along the edges. Still, it’s long enough, draping down to your waist. You could hide your arms completely underneath, maybe a few other things if there was a call for it. Kind of like the cape for your villain suit.

So is this you, now? Or at least, if not you; is it Ariadne? You’re allowed to change, right? Will she even buy it? You’re not sure that you do.

When you get the phone call from Ortega one evening you go along and let her make plans. You’ve got time to kill before your next big operation anyway. And you can field test your new wardrobe.

–––

“Ariadne! Hola!” Ortega raises her arm, a bright smile on her face. Looks like the last of the stitches are gone. Thank god. She’s got jeans on, another flannel shirt. No jacket today? If it wasn’t for the gave-away glint of metal embedded in her arms and hands she’d look like a textbook middle-age butch lesbian.

Did she always dress like that? Is it because she’s seeing Jane now? Swear she flirted a little more femme when she was with men. Not that you were paying attention at the time. Of course not.

Shut up.

You raise your hand back, “Hola yourself. Y–you look happy today.”

“I like the new look.”

You blink, glance down at yourself. Doubt creeping back into your head. “Uh. Well. It’s uh, it’s just stuff I had… laying around… you know.”

“Uh-huh. I’m sure.” She doesn’t believe you at all, damn her.

“D–don’t think it’s for your benefit!” You hiss back, you reach up and grab the edges of your shawl, pulling the green fabric closed over your body. “B–because it’s not!”

Her smile broadens. “I didn’t say anything, Ariadne.”

“F–fuck you.”

“I like the shawl, it’s cute.”

Oh god. You can’t look at her. Face warm. Ortega has a girlfriend, what the hell is she doing? “G–good for you. You um, you want to – to get on with w–whatever the fuck we’re doing today?”

“Alright, alright.” She laughs, turning and beckoning you to follow. “We’re already here actually.” Ortega gets about halfway to the front doors before she realizes (acknowledges?) that you aren’t following her. She turns her head, flaps her arms in a ‘what?’ gesture.

Pulling your shawl tight around you, there’s newfound gratitude for how your sunglasses help to mask your eyes.

You stare up at the front facade of the Los Diablos Children’s Hospital, white tiling and red brickwork and dozens of little panes of glass like too many eyes. “Ortega…” you try to keep the panic out of your voice. “I thought you said we were doing something fun.”

She walks back to you, tight frown on her face. “We used to do this all the time, remember?”

You stare at her, “Do what?”

“Visits? Readings? You know?”

Bite your lip, is that true? Ortega seems so sure of it, but… Thinking back to hospitals all your memory coughs up is a very different kind of picture. One that makes your stomach roil and your head dizzy. True or not there’s still one problem: “Ortega… I’m trying to keep a low profile, remember?”

Ortega sighs and pats you on the shoulder. “Look, there’s no PR crew, no cameras, I haven’t even told Chen. The only person who knows we’re coming is the lady in charge of managing volunteers, Sue, and as far she knows you’re just a friend I’m dragging along.” She steps beside you, hooking her arm in yours. “So, you’ve got nothing to worry about, okay?”

You tense up as Ortega half-walks, half-drags you to the doors. “If – if, um – ninjas descend from the ceiling and kidnap me, I want you to know…”

“Yeah?”

“I f–f–fucking hate you.”

Ortega laughs, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Bright lights and white walls, men and women in scrubs, medical masks. You keep your shades on, damn politeness. Mercifully, hardly anyone spares you a thought, eyes sliding off. Fewer people than you'd believe recognize Ortega out of her Ranger’s outfit. At the same time, you do get the sense she’s a known quantity here, this isn’t her first rodeo. You’ll just have to trust her; there’s an uncomfortable thought.

You wish you had the Rat-King handy, you can wrap a song tight around your head but you could stand to have a little help filtering out the background noise. Maybe it’s your own baggage, but the chatter of hospital thoughts always has this tension to it – forced cheeriness.

Hang back and let Ortega talk to the front desk, a few minutes of waiting and the woman, she mentioned, Sue? –Susan?– comes out frowning behind the too-thick fireproof doors. Straight brown hair, dressed in white, stud earrings.

It makes an interesting contrast between her and Ortega. Ortega’s sporting her Ranger-branded sports jacket today. Ranger-blue indigo shirt underneath. Her bronzed skin a touch darker in shade than her conversation partner. It’s a good look for her – the outfit that is.

You guess.

Not that you’re an expert on Ortega’s style choices or anything.

What do you care what she looks like?

You don’t.

Shut up.

Sue and Ortega make small talk, and Ortega keeps glancing your way. Expecting you to join in? You’d rather hang back. Not talking to any doctors today, thanks.

You worry the sleeves of your shirt, pulled down to the wrists. Rub the fabric between your fingers, trace patterns over your thigh, anything to do that isn’t further chewing up the inside of your cheek.

It’s been weeks now and neither one of you have discussed the kiss in the Hospital. Maybe Ortega doesn’t even remember. Some drug-fueled fever dream.

Or…

Or maybe she hated it? Is politely letting you pretend it never happened. She’s with Jane, you have to remember. Ortega is a lot of things, but she’s not a cheater.

And now Ortega’s beckoning you over. Welp.

Take a breath, in – hold – out. You’re not scared. What are you scared of? You are Ghost, the mysterious plight of Los Diablos. They ought to be scared of you. Ortega taps the side of her head. No shades? You make a face and she gives you a serious look. You huff and pull them off, fold up and tuck them in your purse. White walls. White lights. Can feel your heart jump. Fuck. Ortega smiles at you, you fake a smile back.

You’ve got this. Everything’s under control.

Here we go.

Sue hands the two of you off to a nurse who in turn acts as your guide. You trail behind, not paying much attention to his and Ortega’s conversation. What you bother to pick up confirms that Ortega’s made a habit of these low-key visits apparently, to different hospitals across the city. Ever since returning to the Rangers.

Did Ortega used to drag you along to official Ranger PR events? You can almost remember. The memory of remembering. Try to think too hard about hospitals though, and you get panicky. Short breath. Little dizzy. A hospital is the last place you want to pass out at, thanks but go fuck yourself.

–––

A pair of tiny arms clings to your leg and a jolt of panic shoots through you. “Uh… H–h–hello?”

A girl with cropped brown hair stares back up at you. “HI LADY! I like your hair!!”

You glance at Ortega, she’s got her back to you, teaching a boy how to do some fancy handshake. You catch the eye of the nurse, hanging back by the doorway. He gives a small smile. No help there. Look back down at the kid, “T–th–thanks? Um– Don’t you want to talk to Charge over there?”

She remains undeterred. “What’s your name?”

“Ari?”  You glance towards Ortega again. Help. She remains utterly unaware of your plight.

“Are you a boy or a girl?”

You choke. “W–w–what? I’m uh– I’m a girl.” Fuck. What did she pick up on? You usually pass just fine these days. Could just die right now, that would be great, thanks.

“Oh. Okay!” There is absolutely no hint of embarrassment in this girl’s mind. “Are you Ms. Charge’s girlfriend?”

You hunch down and very gently try to pry her arms off your leg. “What um, what gives you that idea?”

She tilts her head, staring you down with full intensity. “‘cause you keep looking at Ms. Charge AND everyone knows the hero’s girlfriend ALWAYS has red hair!!”

You smile to hide the panic. “W–what uh, what makes you say that?”

She gives you a doubtful look, can’t believe an adult doesn’t know this. “‘cause it’s in all the movies!! Duh!!”

“Ari!’ Oh thank god. You breathe a sigh of relief as Ortega walks over, the other kids curiously watching behind her. “Making friends?”

“Hi Ms. Charge!!” The little girl fixes her full attention to Ortega.

“Hello!” She smiles widely, “Introduce me to your friend, Ari?”

“Uh–”

“My name is Casey!” The little terror cuts in. “SHE never asked!” Casey huffs. “Your girlfriend is RUDE Ms. Charge.”

“Girlfriend?” Ortega raises her eyebrows at you.

You shake your head wildly, suddenly way too warm. “S–s–she came up with that one herself!”

An hour and a half later of helping Ortega handle the meet and greet and you’re free again.

You slip your shades back on as the two of you exit the hospital. Run a hand through your purse to find the chocolate bar, peel off the wrapper at one end with shaking hands. “That was… that was something.”

Ortega claps you on the back and you stumble forward a step. “See? I told you you’d be fine.”

“Y–yeah, well…” You frown, “If you d–don’t hear from me in a week, you only have yourself to blame.” You break off a piece of chocolate, “Want any?”

“I’m good.”  Ortega smiles, you shrug and pop the candy into your mouth “So…” Her smile fades as she glances towards you, “what did you think?” The two of you leave the parking lot, walk the sidewalk, you follow her lead through the streets.

“What d–did I think?”

“Want to come with me the next time I go?”

You give her a wry smile, “Y–You’re not gonna just, uh, just spring it on me again?”

She smirks back at you, “Me? Spring something on you? Never.”

“F–f–fucking smug-ass liar.” You punch her in the shoulder, and Ortega overplays it, comically swinging to the side. “W–why do I keep letting you do this to me?” You keep asking yourself that, and the answer hasn’t gotten any less terrifying.

“Do you remember the last time we did one of those visits?” Ortega glances at you as the two of you hurry across the street.

“When was that?”

“It must have been… well, right before–” She grimaces.

“Oh.” You chew your cheek, trying to think back. Can feel your stomach lurch as the world tilts under you. You have to stop and steady yourself. Cover it up by shaking your head. “I… kind of do? I–I–I haven’t thought about this in years, sorry.” You furrow your eyebrows, “I…”

“You were–” Ortega stops herself, “Oh, sorry, go ahead.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, finish your thought, it’s fine.”

Damn.

“I… think this might be… um, the first positive experience I’ve had with a hospital in… in years.” You grimace, keenly aware of the line you’re skirting. “Between uh… you in the hospital and…”

“And…?” Ortega slows down to match your pace.

Shake your head, “No, it’s – it’s nothing. Sorry. I don’t want to talk about it.” You try to smile even though it feels fake. “What were you going to say?”

“Oh, well–” Ortega rubs the back of her neck, “I was just going to say; I had to step outside to handle a phone call. And–” She laughs, “You were on the verge of panicking, all ‘Charge! Don’t leave me alone with these kids!”

You come to a stop, and groan, run a hand over your face. “Oh my god.”

“You remember now.”

You bite your lip, nod your head. “Uh-huh.”

“How did you get into teaching them about taxonomy? You never told me.”

You can feel the heat on your face now. “Okay. Look. It–it–it made sense at the time okay!? I thought it’d be easiest to keep them from going crazy if I r–r–read them a story?”

“Okay?” Ortega stops walking, leans her shoulder against a boutique storefront’s window, watching you with a smile. You cross your arms under your shawl to try and keep your hands from shaking.

“Okay. So. I just – just grabbed the first children’s book I saw. It–It–it was this animal book? I think? But it was all cutesy and inaccurate.” You bite your lip. “And when I pointed out a mistake, they all laughed so… I just… kept… doing… that…?”

She laughs at you.

You cover your face in your hands, heat going straight to your ears. “D–don’t laugh!”

Ortega covers her mouth, “Okay, okay. Sorry, you’re just so–”

You drop your hands to your sides, “I’m just so what?” You narrow your eyes at her.

She doesn’t miss a beat. “We’ll have to get you a book to read, the next time we go.”

Oh god.

“You’re going to – to kill me Ortega…”

Her smile falters, “I hope not.”

The two of you walk the next block in silence. Is it as awkward for her as it is for you?

Finally Ortega stretches her arms over her head and says, “I don’t do these hospital visits often enough these days.”

Watch her face from the corner of your eye, trying to get a read on her. “How come?”

Ortega sags, shoulders slumped forward. “Too easy to get caught up in work. Especially lately.”

Ah.

You have to keep your face blank, don’t let your heart race. “S–still obsessed with trying to figure out Ghost?”

She gives you a grim smile. “You know it.”

The Grind-Chapter 15

He escorted me through the tinted glass doors into the predicted booming music filled bar room, people packed from wall to wall, over to a tall tabletop nestled in the corner. Very gentlemanly, he pulled out the empty chair to offer my seat.

“Alright, Liv Elliott, can I get you a drink? What’s your poison?”

“Thanks, uh, I’ll just have a beer, please.” I answered, quivering with slight nerves. He maneuvered his way through the crowd headed in the direction of the bartender, while I waited fretfully alone with my thoughts. He seemed to be nice enough, and clearly easy on the eyes, so much so that my agonizingly neglected sex life was taxing me towards the direction of just sleeping with the man tonight for the hopeful intent of an orgasm.  But, he wasn’t my Colton. My emotionally confused, tormented, asshole Colton.

Snap out of it, woman. The guy dumped you. Very cruelly so. MOVE ON.

Drinks in tow, Luke two-stepped and squeezed through the crowd, making his way back to me.

“A beer for the lady,” he served with a wink. But it wasn’t the same wink that so long ago made me weak. It wasn’t like.. don’t say it, you pathetic fool. “You look stunning in the neon lights, you know?”

Dear God, please be joking with that line, man. He let loose a smothered laugh. Sweet relief. He wasn’t serious.

“Thanks, I think?” I accepted the cheesy, sarcastic compliment. “Tia mentioned you were a personal trainer. That must keep you pretty busy.”

“I do my fair share of push-ups, I guess, yeah. But I enjoy it, honestly. Especially when my clients see the results their looking for. It’ all worth it then, ya’ know?” Okay Luke, so you’re kind, and not a total airheaded muscle bag. Noted.

“Yeah, I’m sure the downtown housewives have a fit over you, huh?” I winked. “Ha ha ha, very funny. I’ll have you know I have several house dads on my clientele list as well, thank you.” He chimed matter of factly. “But, enough of me for now. I need to hear all about the glamourous, successful, posh life of the rising journalist, Liv Elliott.”

Wow. What load of shit had Tia been feeding this poor fellow? “Not much to know, sadly. I’m a bit of a workaholic these days. I was recently promoted at the newspaper I work for, which has definitely added to my work load.” I tapped my index finger on the dampened bar napkin beneath my sweating brown bottle. It did sound a bit tragic when I heard myself say it aloud. I was a soon to be 23 year old single woman, living in a bumbling metropolis, no children, no heavy responsibility other than a steady job which most of the time felt more like a paying hobby than an actual career, and I spent the vast majority of my life tucked away at my desk, or in my lonesome apartment with my nose tucked into my computer. Aside from the occurrences when Tia would suggest dinner, or the occasional appearance at a newly opened nightclub, which I was strangely enough beginning to enjoy a bit.

“Nothing wrong with dedication in my book! I admire that you take what you do seriously. And the fact that you’re a complete knockout just adds to the allure.” Luke said with eyes zeroed into my own.  Swallowing the last swig of my drink, a pang of guilt flinched in my belly. I was genuinely enjoying the banter of small talk the evening had consisted of thus far, but the feelings didn’t go much deeper than that. Not to say necessarily I wanted to be there with Colton instead, because every ounce of remaining conscience within me advised otherwise. I felt it wasn’t wise to be out without anyone yet, considering the state I was in. After returning from the short visit back to Indiana, sure my emotional state was frequenting more on the border of happiness, and almost contentment rather than the doom & gloom of before. But, I was far, far from ready to dive into the dating pool again. The proven dangerous, unruly, painful dating pool. My heart not quite nursed back to it’s original state, and ready to open up to the next Pittsburgh man. Regardless of how purely genuine and handsome that man may be. Luke didn’t deserve to be trampled on, and strung about by an unstable mess of a woman living in a never-ending state of confusion.

“Oh gosh, Luke. Thank you, really.” I tucked a curled strand of hair behind my reddening ear. “Can I be super honest with you right now? At the risk of sounding like a total heartless wench…”

His look narrowed behind stringy eyelashes, and he leaned in. “Uh, sure? Yeah. Shoot.”

Flashes of  what I imagined would’ve likely been a stable, routine, safe and steady relationship with the confused man across from me sparked through my thoughts. All the attributes any sane woman would hunt out in a partner, yet all the things to me that seemed, dull and tedious.

“You have been nothing short of a total charmer since our introduction tonight. And I-” I began before Luke interjected with a cautious smile, and knowing nod.

“Ohhhh, I think I know where this is headed.”

“Any woman, I mean literally any woman, including my clearly stupid self, would be lucky to be in your company. Which is why, I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror again if I carried this far enough to let you get hurt.” My saliva thick with nerves and what I hoped wasn’t regret as I let my date down as easily, and earnestly as I knew how. “You have no idea how bad I sincerely wish I could slap the ignorant decision I’m about to make right out of me… But, I’m just not ready, ya’ know? I’m kind of a pile of wreckage at the moment, and you don’t deserve to have to glue it all back together.”

He bobbed his head lazily and relaxed back into his chair. “As much as I don’t like it, I understand it. Tia kinda informed me that you were still reeling a little from your last relationship. But, since you were honest, can I be the same with you?” He asked politely.

“God, of course. Please!”

He pursed his mouth seriously before beginning. “The loser who did whatever he did to screw you over so badly, is a mindless asshole, who is apparently blind as well. I’ve spent all of a couple hours with you Liv, and even I can see what kind of woman you are. So, don’t sell yourself short, okay? Whether you give him another chance, or someone else who comes along, make sure he deserves you. And hell, by the way Tia talked you up, she might make her own play at you before it’s over.” I laughed at his response, especially his dig at my proud bi-sexual friend, who never hesitated to playfully suggest I take a walk with her on the other side of the sexuality fence.

As the conversation came to a close, Luke took my hand into his, and ushered me kindly to my car outside. I kissed him tenderly on the cheek before he reached down to open the handle of my door.

“If you think it’ll keep Tia off your back, I could always tell her our night ended at your place with hours of relentless love making, if you want.” I puckered my mouth in sincere contemplation of his suggested lie, but considered it be best for both our reputations if we kept it honest.

“As tempting as that little strategy of yours sounds, I think I better just suck it up and take the scolding from her. But thanks for lookin’ out for me.” A thoughtful smile slid onto his lips as he closed to door after I slid into the seat, before he jogged carefully across the crosswalk.

 Following my date with Luke the night before, Tia had texted begging to meet up for brunch at a place closely located between the center of our apartments. I groaned at the backlash I’d no doubt have to suffer at her hand after I spilled the details of how things had played out with her set up. She’d arrived at the restaurant before me, and was seated at an umbrella covered, mosaic table on the front patio, already sipping leisurely on a mimosa. When she saw me approaching, she raised her hands to a cheerful clap, obvious that she hadn’t spoken to Luke yet. Or maybe, talking to Luke was exactly why she was so unreserved with her merriment towards me. Had he decided to go ahead with his salacious fictional story about what had happened a few hours ago between us?

“I ordered you a drink. Now sit, and spill, LC!” She’d decided that would be her given name for me, given my middle name was Caroline.

“Hello to you, Miss Nosey. Whatever happened to not kissing and telling?” I was giving it my all to avoid crashing her excitement.

“Don’t you dare! I need to hear everything!” She gasped with an exasperated eye roll.

When the waitress came back to our table, delivering my fluted glass and jotting down our order, I was thankful for the 3 extra minutes I had that allowed to me to escape her insistent questioning.

“Alright, but when I start talking, you have to swear you won’t interrupt. Just let me say my piece, okay?” I arched a pinky at her in expecting hers to return in a swear.

“I already don’t like what I’m hearing, ma’am….” She sighed between sips.

“He’s like, beautiful. Like Tom Cruise in Top Gun kind of beautiful. And he was so damn polite, Tia.  The perfect gentleman. But, not in a stuffy way, ya’ know?”

“Yes, Liv. I do know. Which is exactly why I wanted you to go out with him to begin with. Go on…” She cocked an obvious displeased brow at me.

“And trust me 100% when I tell you that after I spent some time with him, I really, really tried, Tia. I wanted something to spark, I wanted to feel that little flutter in my belly around him,” I stressed in a contrite tone. “And I know if it had been any other normal, remotely rational female, that it would’ve happened that way…” Before I finished my plea, I downed the hefty remains of my mimosa hoping for an extra ounce of liquid courage. “I’m just n… not ready, I don’t think. I mean, I feel a million pounds lighter than I did 6 months ago, definitely. But, I don’t feel quite ready to move forward with dating anyone just yet.” I ended my thought, hoping there was a sliver of her that would understand where I was coming from. “Do you hate me?”

She huffed dramatically. “Oh fuck, Liv. Stop it! You  know I don’t hate you. Its your life, and I’d never encourage you to do something you don’t feel up to. And, just because I know you’re driving yourself crazy with it, I just want you to know its okay to still love him. Colton, I mean.” I halted any movement as her words registered to me. Breathing included. “I know you despise him for what he did, and rightfully so. The shithead deserves it. But, it’s okay to love him, too. Don’t beat yourself up over that. Love is this stupid, weird, jolting roller-coaster that makes no sense. And whoever you strap into that seat with, whether it be Luke, or Colton, or some rando you haven’t even met yet, it’ll be right. You’re smart, LC. Trust yourself. And if you happen to strap in with someone who turns out to be a vicious psychopath, then I’ll be in the seat right behind you to throw the dude over the side, alright?”

The girl was a God send. I was so unbelievably thankful for my dangerously loyal friend. Something that now made my life somewhat whole. Almost as whole as the veggie omelet I inhaled, after a side order of cheese grits, of course.

“You’re the best. Like, the best of the best, you know that?” I complemented.

She shrugged daftly, smearing cream cheese heavily over her blueberry bagel. “You don’t deserve me, Elliott. What are your plans today?”

I hadn’t thought much about an agenda for today past the brunch with Tia, but I’m sure it’d consist of something along the lines of a yoga session in the living room, maybe a little research for the next match I had to cover, and lastly spending way too much time pruning in a bubble bath.

“Nothing as of yet. Where are you headed? Work today?” I supposed.

“No, I actually have the day off so I’m gonna head over to the Temple for an extra workout.” Tia was referring to Temple Fitness, the gym close by where she was a member.

“Do you have anything coming up? Like, fights, I mean?” She was still striving to get her feet wet in the world of fighting, so competitors weren’t exactly banging her door down with opportunities.

“Not yet, damn it. But my trainer keeps me in shape at all times, just in case something comes along,” she informed me.

Then, a strange glimmer lit inside her blue irises. “As a matter of fact, why don’t you come down with me? When’s the last time you put a workout in, you delicate little pansy?”

As much as I didn’t appreciate her brutal sarcasm, she was actually right. Not to discredit the wonders of hot yoga, but I hadn’t actually had my heart rate elevated in, well, nearly a year. With Colt out of the picture, I’d lost my running partner. Who was also my bedroom partner, which had been my definite first choice in the cardio department.

“Hey, I resent that remark, thank you very much! No matter how accurate it may be. I’d just be in the way though, Tia. You’re training, and I’d just be, standing around.” I laughed off her suggestion.

“There’s plenty of equipment, you bimbo. Ellipticals, treadmills, a pool. Plenty of things to keep you busy, and get your saggy little tush in shape,” Tia winked. “Or, the fancy MMA columnist could maybe do a little training herself to see what a day in the life of her subject is really like.”

I was instantly intrigued at the bold proposal. I’d gotten to sit the sidelines on everything Colton underwent in the days leading up to his match, but nothing remotely close to suffering it firsthand. We’d learned in school that there was no better way to “know” than to “do.”  I would truly have the insiders point of view if I dabbled around with all that entailed in the life of a mixed martial artist, along with that added bonus of gaining what I very much lacked in muscle mass. Not to mention, the education of a bit of self-defense, which wasn’t a bad idea now that I no longer had my own personal body guard to escort me through the ruthless streets of the city. Damn, Tia and her endless ideas that sent my boxed zone of comfort crumbing around me.

“God, I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this. Is there anything you can’t talk me into? Like, it’s getting ridiculous. Stop forcing me to be all, spontaneous and what not.” I spat sarcastically at her.

“Well, I haven’t talked you into bed yet, my oh easily persuaded friend. I’ve spared you,” Tia gawked foolishly across the table. I can only imagine the pink cloud of mortification overcasting my gaping jaw.

What crazy plan had she wrangled me into? My hesitant agreeance already a hard to swallow regret. But, she couldn’t drag me into too much trouble with just a bit of exercise, right?

tags: @torialeysha @eap1935 

Time for some hair advice y’all probably already knew, but I’m a clueless gremlin with exactly 3 brain cells devoted to beauty care, so forgive me if this is old news.

I’ve always had really greasy hair. If I don’t wash my hair every 24 hours on the dot, I look like I soaked my head and slicked it down. It’s really quite horrible. All those articles about how you’re not supposed to wash your hair but once every 3 days? No way I’m getting away with that. I have to wash it every day or it gets stringy, flat, and oily. If I so much as look at conditioner, it gets even flatter and weirder. And dry shampoo only helps for about an hour before the oil takes back over.

It’s only gotten worse since I got pregnant, I could only get in about 12 good hours before looking like the over-the-top book description of Snape. So I was complaining about it to the lady who was trimming my hair a few weeks ago. I asked if there was anything I could do, and she told me to get a sulfate-free shampoo and conditioner.

The oils your scalp produces are primarily to keep your scalp and hair healthy, and keep the scalp protected. When you use a shampoo, you’re supposed to be washing off excess oils and surface grime, but sulfates are a powerful surfactant and strip out all oil possible. This often strips the necessary oils, which makes the scalp go into overdrive and produce even more oil to try and compensate. Then, because you’re a greaseball, you wash it more frequently, and you perpetuate a cycle of you and your scalp both going WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU to each other. Sulfate-free surfactants aren’t powerful enough to strip all the oil out of your hair and scalp, just enough to get surface crud off the strands, which is what we’re all after. The conditioner is just for the ends and strands of your hair, not your scalp, and is supposed to keep the hair strong and hydrated so you don’t have to make as much oil to keep it healthy and undamaged.

I was skeptical, of course, because who puts conditioner on greasy hair? But I figured it’s worth a shot, and at the very least-- a) sulfate free is probably better for me now that I’m housing a very tiny human, and b) even if the conditioner doesn’t work I can always use it in place of shave cream on my legs (it makes your skin v smooth, y’all). So I stopped and got some.

Y’all, I can go almost 2 days now without looking like someone poured a vat of cooking oil on my head. I didn’t think I’d see results this fast, as the lady said that it can take a few weeks to transition fully and retrain your scalp to stop with the oil overproduction, but within a few days I was already getting longer wear out of my daily shower. And if I can manage to stop putting my hands in my hair, I bet it’ll get even better! (I’m a bad hair-fiddler, and it makes the greasy problem worse.)

It just really shocked me because usually, the answer to oily hair is advertised as shampoos for oily hair specifically, and they all contain massive amounts of sulfate and other really powerful surfactants that strip out every molecule of oil in sight. Which sounds great, but is apparently making the problem even worse. But I swear, after a few days’ adjustment, I no longer have to meticulously time my showers for 12 hours on the dot or risk feeling like a snail convention rolled across my head. I also now don’t do the conditioner every day, only about twice or thrice a week.

Also, while most sulfate-free shampoos are pretty pricey, the one I found isn’t too bad, given that I have short hair. It’s Not Your Mother’s Way to Grow (red bottle), and I got both the shampoo and conditioner for under $10. You don’t need a ton to get a really huge lather and cover all your hair, so it lasts for a really long time. I might not recommend the shampoo for super long or thick hair, tho, because you’ll probably go through it faster and it is still somewhere around $4 a bottle. But that’s way cheaper than the other sulfate free ones I was seeing for $8 or $10 just for the shampoo. It’s also paraben and dye free, as well.

So yeah! Avoid sulfates and finally control your oily hair! I learned something!

Royed Gift Exchange 2017

Hello all! So, this is my secret santa gift for @stargazerlilith for @royedgiftexchange ‘s 2017 Gift Exchange! This was my first year participating in the exchange, and I had a lot of fun coming u with an idea for my gift, especially since they gave me very broad parameters! Basically, when I recieved my partner, my class was reading Herman Mellvile’s Moby Dick, so I was inspired to do a nautical/ age of sail AU. I hope you like it, stargazerlilith!

Plight Aboard The Match-stick

by: lovely-qualms (on AO3 by the name Zozo0_219)

rating: T (language)

relationships: Roy Mustang/ Edward Elric; Maes Hughes/ Gracia Hughes

Summary: On a late- 18th-century cruise ship with Al and Winry, Ed falls out and is rescued by a notorious pirate crew aboard The Match-stick. Drawn to the slightly rag-tag crew, Ed finds himself especially drawn to the Captain, Roy Mustang.

Hark: whalers, merchantmen, and militia vessels! Gaze towards the setting sun, then a mite to the left. See there, a ship- cousin to the rest, but invariably different. Many have perished under the flags of red; even the most hardened of sailor men wish not to see the ghastly animal of a figurehead, less mermaid than the warped ancestor to a mermaid.

Now, just beyond eyesight opposite this ghastly roving tar glided a true Amestrian beauty. The orange glare of sunset glinted off of her shining metal walls and monstrously large steam pipes. Smoke roared out of these pipes like air from a popped balloon. One of the very first steam-powered ships to carry leisurely passengers across an ocean, The Plight (as she was christened upon the end of construction) cut through the waves as if it were as easy as taking a lovely stroll on a paved trail.

On the vast main deck of The Plight, many men and women strode about, having just dined in the lavish dining rooms (or having avoided the dining rooms in sea sickness). It was on this deck that two young men and a young woman sat about a pristine white table, discussing several papers strewn about betwixt them.

The oldest of the two men was rather violently gesturing to a few of the pictures, which depicted several different alchemical arrays with one hand; the other arm in the clinical grasp of the young woman.

“… And that,” He exclaimed, slamming his free hand down on the small table, “Is why plant alchemy is, by a significant degree, lamer than metal alchemies.”

The younger man raised a skeptical eyebrow, “Brother, your entire argument was, and I quote, ‘plants are lame, metal is cool’.”

“So?”

“So, it’s a weak argument! Plant alchemy is super interesting, as well as a specialization open for a lot of research!”

The older brother rolled his eyes and tried to shift in his seat, but was prevented from doing thus by a screwdriver jabbing him in the side.

“Stop moving, Ed. You’ll make me mess up.” The lady huffed.

“Hey, what was that for?” Ed asked the young woman, affronted. “You and Al are just out to get me today, huh. How much longer is that going to take anyways, Win?”

“You should have asked that before you punched a wall, maybe I’d want to give you an answer then.” Winry snapped.

Ed scoffed, throwing his flesh arm up in exasperation, “How was I supposed to know that there was a screw loose?”

Both of his comrades looked at him blandly, saying in unison, “Daily maintenance.” They broke down into chuckles while Ed grumbled and pointedly looked down at the arrays laid out in front of him.

All three looked up as, from the dark clouds quickly moving towards the setting sun, thunder rumbled. Several people looked up similarly and turned to head back into their living quarters, but the trio stayed outside, content to ignore the thunder for the time.

---------------------------(several hours later)------------------

As the deep, bruise-like clouds rolled ever further in, it almost made the foreboding ship, The Esperanza (re-christened The Match-stick by much less artful minds), lose sight of The Plight, were it not for the few rays of sun that glinted off of her gargantuan metal sidings.

From the prow of The Match-stick, a woman stood fixedly, squinting at the clouds with cold eyes. She held back her burgundy skirts and thick front-lock of blond hair with her hands, arm looped around a rope as to keep herself from being knocked overboard by the turbulent storm. Despite the wild rocking of the ship, the lady stood seemingly effortlessly, never blinking from the clouds that built up in the sky.

Suddenly, she turned and, using the ropes as steadying forces, brought herself down a steep staircase to the main deck, and then through a door to the Captain’s Quarters.

“Sir,” She said, drawing the attention of a silhouette that stood in the middle of the small room, in front of the only lantern present. A curtain was drawn over the one small window, which surely only showed the various tumultuous waves outside.

The silhouette turned at his address, waving down her military salute, “Riza, what do you have?”

Riza entered the room and sat at the table across from her Captain, noting from the new angle of him how the lantern light made him look much more tired than he probably was. “She’s The Plight, sir. I don’t think it wise to go after her.”

The Captain raised the eyebrow not hidden by a dark eye patch and replied, “Why?”

Riza stared at him blankly, “Sir, have you been outside today?”

“…”

“There’s a thunderstorm a’ brewing, sir, and The Plight is sided with metal. That’s all not to mention that The Plight is about two times taller than The Match-stick.”

The Captain scoffed, “Miss, I’ve watched you raid voyagers five times taller than our lovely Match-stick.” He waved his gloved hand up and down to signify the irrelevance of the comment.

“Captain Mustang, sir, that doesn’t discredit that the ship is made out of metal, and there’s a storm approaching.”

Mustang crossed his arms, “I say we go for it.”

“And I say we don’t kill ourselves for extra supplies.”

Roy scoffed, “We only have half a year’s worth of stock left!”

Riza replied, standing from her seat, “We just raided The Meriwether for her limes, armory, and fresh water so we are very well set on the essentials at the moment. Also, we quite literally have ten fishing nets and an ocean’s worth of fish to fry! And don’t even think about saying that ‘we don’t have the means to fry fish’ because there is always fire on this ship, sir.”

The Captain and First Mate locked gazes for a minute, as if in silent competition. Eventually, Mustang looked down with a sigh, and Riza knew she’d won.

“Very well, Hawkeye, but tell the lookouts to keep The Plight in their eyesight. I don’t want to lose her because of a damn storm.”

Riza saluted again with a “Sir,” before turning and leaving Roy to his business. She tugged her thick brown coat tighter over her loose burgundy bodice as she stepped outside, the wind having gone cold during her time in-quarters.

She smiled just slightly over her victory and headed towards the middle of the ship, to where oil vats used to stand, as the Esperanza was once an Amestrian whaler. The carpenter’s table and blacksmith’s forge were still in place, but held less distinct uses than before, as this crew was not interested in hunting sperm whales.

The main deck was very expansive, and it took very careful footing for Riza to not get tossed side to side as she made her way to the old carpenter’s bench. There, Third Mate Jean Havoc sat with a mug of liquor and a smoking pipe, apparently not keeping an eye out on the distant luxury voyager.

“Jean,” Riza called, receiving a short wave from the redhead, “Inform the crew that Captain Mustang has ordered us to keep The Plight in sight, but not to move forward until the storm has passed.”

Jean mock-saluted Riza with a lazy smile before standing to bid her orders. A large wave promptly knocked the side of The Match-stick and caused Jean to spill his liquor onto his baggy blue shirt and grey coat. He cursed loudly in embarrassment, shuffling past Riza to avoid looking at her, which made the blonde woman almost chuckle. Almost.

Riza heard Jean’s commands of, “Oi! Don’t lose The Plight, we’re aiming to raid her when this weather clears!” and “Lads, lower the red flags until we’re ready to go at ‘em!” which were followed by various affirmative shouts.  

The night was nearly completely upon The Match-stick, with just a glimmer of sunset behind The Plight. Riza looked about, signaling to a few sailors that it was time to show the sea what The Match-stick was really capable of. Holding her skirts up to her mid-shins, Riza made her way back to the prow of the ship, fishing from her pocket a jar of whiskey. Up the spray-wet stairs (for it had not begun to rain quite yet) Riza carefully strode, cautious of her heeled boots on the slippery old wood. Once she reached the top of the prow, she came to a contraption that, on any other ship, would raise confusion.

Roy Mustang had an infamous flair for the dramatic, and the line of pipes that ran down the outside of the ship’s equally metallic bulwarks was proof of such. If one cared to take a closer look, they would notice many slots along these pipes, and from these slots, they would see whale-oil-tempered wood chips or rope (depending on that month’s raid). The pipes extended from either end of the ship, making a loop at the prow and further out, ending cupped in the hands of the ghastly mermaid.

At the prow, where Riza now stood with her large jar of alcohol, a spout of sorts was crafted which ended at a capped-off funnel. Riza uncapped the funnel and uncorked the jar of whiskey with her teeth.

“Aye! Away from the bulwarks!” She yelled, receiving shouts of ‘aye aye’ or ‘yes ma’am’ from the other sailors. She pulled that night’s length of rope a bit closer to the entrance of the funnel and poured half of the whiskey onto it for good measure, downing the rest with impressive ability. The blonde woman stomped very hard twice on the floor, as beneath her resided the captain’s quarters.

Despite the wind, Riza was sure everyone in immediate proximity of the prow could hear a distinctive ‘snap’ from inside the Quarters just before the metal piping burst into flames. The fire trailed in a snake’s path down the piping, bursting out of the many slits until the entirety of The Match-stick was surrounded in snaps of fire but for a few three-foot gaps for the small chance that one needed to grab the bulwarks.

This fire show is what gave The Esperanza the new, feared christening The Match-stick. In the night, Mustang’s crew had no fear of invaders or losing their sight, just as other ships doubly searched the ocean for a glint of flames, in order to steer clear in the opposite direction. It would seem that the fire was a poor choice, but the crew never alighted the flame on raiding nights, and the heat provided useful for cold stormy nights such as the one Riza and her comrades faced at present.

Done with her duties for the evening, Riza turned on her heel, striding down the top deck’s steps and onto the main deck. At the Captain’s Quarters’ door, she turned back to look at the sailors in her direct proximity. They all saluted with a sharp, “Ma’am!” She nodded, saluted back, and opened the door to the dark Captain’s Quarters.

“Sir, I’m going to light more lamps in here, this is ridiculous.” Riza commented to Roy, who remained a silhouette.

As she held a match to one of the oil lamps right in front of the Captain and the spermaceti oil in the wick flared up, Roy whined childishly, “Hawkeye, it’s bright!”

“Sir, you were the one who wanted to raid The Samuel Enderby because, quote, ‘Sperm whale oil is damn well brighter than the vegetable swill we have right now’.” Riza said with an eye roll, “Also, if you’d stepped outside at all today it wouldn’t hurt your eyes to look at lamp fire. You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

Roy groaned, pulling his coat up over his face to block the light, “You’re worse than my mother was.”

Riza quirked an eyebrow, heading to another lamp, “Well, did you sleep?”

“…Not last night, no.”

“Well, then my mothering is justified. Clear off a spot on the table.”

Roy bade her order, pulling various sketches of arrays and maps, as well as some mathematical tools and a compass away from the spot in the middle of the table at which he sat. He deftly sorted the papers into a box that was nailed to the table as Riza set out a couple more lamps around the room.

“The last ship we ‘met with’ held quite a few alchemical texts, but they’re all in code. I’ve spent a lot of time this week decoding it. Luckily, the code is centered around geographical locations, and I happen to have an affinity to collecting maps from ‘meetings’.” Roy explained.

Riza moved to sit across from Roy. She wasn’t able to sit for half a second before Cain Furey, one of the Sailors closest to Riza, burst through the door, glasses askew and eyes frantic, “There’s an unconscious man overboard and Jean’s jumped in to save him.”

----------------------------------------------------

To say the least, Ed was surprised to wake up at all, much less to realize that he was no longer floating in frigid ocean water. If not for the meager lantern light, Ed probably wouldn’t have realized that he was below decks in a definitely-not-cruise ship. He didn’t hurt in any places except the usual automail port ache, nor did he feel particularly sick.

‘Wait,’ He thought, ‘I’m not on the cruise ship anymore.’ His stomach dropped. He had no idea where he was, nor whose company he was in, in the middle of an ocean and separated from his only friend and family member by who-knows-how-far.

“Just typical!” He said gruffly, punching the air in frustration. That was a bad move, as it displaced his weight on the hammock, and it tipped him over onto the slightly damp floor. “Shit!”

Ed heard a bark of laughter come from behind him, and he quickly stood and pivoted towards the sound. There stood a snickering, scruffy, redheaded man and a blonde woman who was looking disapprovingly at the redhead.

“Do you feel well?” The woman asked, not sounding entirely concerned.

Ed said, “Yeah, I’m doing alright, considering I fell out of a damn cruise ship.”

As the woman beckoned him to get up and follow, the redhead asked, “Were you on The Plight?”

“Yeah,” Ed replied. They exited the dark room, and after a short hallway, climbed up a ladder and through a hatch onto the ship’s chilly deck.

The sun stung Ed’s eyes a bit after the dark, but not enough that he couldn’t get a good look at his surroundings. They were on a large wooden ship, not unlike a whaling vessel, except all of the mechanisms for oil-extraction and harpoons were gone. At the remaining blacksmith’s furnace stood a brunette lady and a blonde man who looked around Ed’s age, both in grimy white button-downs and overalls. Behind them, a large table was filled with metal scrapings and paper. A man with glasses and a brunette lady in gypsy silks sat at a clear spot at the table, playing cards. High above, Ed could see two men in the lookout stands. Several other men ran bout the deck, doing various sailors’ duties.

It wasn’t the barrel of swords, excessive rope and whiskey, nor was it the generally loose garb of the crew, but the blood-red flag and black flag depicting a flaming skeleton that struck Ed as odd.

He turned around, finding the first blonde woman looking at him with slight amusement. He just now noted the intricate pistol tied around her red dress at the waist by a thick leather belt. “You’re pirates. I’m on a pirate ship.”

The redhead chuckled, “Doesn’t take a genius to figure that out, eh Riza?”

“Be quiet Jean.” She said back, prompting a smirk from Jean. She turned back to Ed, “You’re right. I’m First Mate Riza Hawkeye, that it Third Mate Jean Havoc. You’re on board The Match-stick.”

Ed snorted, “What kind of a name is that for a pirate ship?”

“You’ll understand come nightfall if Heiderich can fix the bulwark rigging in time. We set the sides of the ship on fire.” Riza said nonchalantly.

Ed balked, “I’m on a pirate ship with a bunch of lunatics.” He said, almost to himself.

Jean broke into laughter at the comment, “Not a bunch, just the Capt- ow! You’ve got a sharp elbow!” Riza nudged him quickly in the side, looking a bit over Ed’s shoulder.

“Captain Mustang, sir,” she said to the person she was looking at, gesturing to Ed, “The man we pulled from the water last night.”

Ed turned around to see the new arrival. The Captain didn’t look quite like Ed would have expected a ‘lunatic pirate captain’ to appear. He looked a bit older than Ed, but not OLD old, as most sea captains appeared. He had shiny black hair, one lock of which just barely covered a thick silk eye patch over his right eye (the other eye, Ed noted, looked at him rather smarmily). He wore a (rather gaudy, in Ed’s opinion) long, embellished, dark blue military coat, which was open to reveal a pristine white frock and leather belt like Riza’s, which held a sword as well as a pair of durable-looking gloves.

Ed didn’t quite know what to do as the Captain approached them, for he wasn’t quite versed in Pirate manners, so he simply stood there until the man was upon them.

Captain Mustang addressed the Mates first, “At ease, Havoc, Hawkeye. Continue with your duties.”

They replied with a sharp, “Aye aye!” before retreating to the top deck, gathering with a tall dark haired man next to the large steering wheel.

The Captain turned to Ed, extending his hand, “Captain Roy Mustang.”

Ed eyed him warily for a moment before shaking the hand with his automail one, “Edward Elric.”

“I trust you’re not too hurt?” Roy asked, releasing Ed’s hand.

Ed looked at him blankly, “I fell out of a cruise ship.”

To his surprise, Mustang laughed loudly, “You fell out of The Plight? How’d you manage that?”

Ed thought back to the evening previous, explaining on the way:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The thunder began to pick up around The Plight as Al, Ed, and Winry continued to sit at their round table.

“We should go inside.” Al said, eyeing the sky.

Ed waved him off, “We’ll be fine,” as Winry finished up on his arm and began to wrap her tools up in a durable canvas bag. As she was doing this, an exceptionally loud crash of thunder sounded very close by, causing her to jump and let go of the bag. It slid to the end of the deck.

Al, bless his soul, stood and ran to fetch the bag, but as luck would have it, a gigantic wave and wind hit the other side of the ship, throwing the younger Elric almost over the end of the ship.

“Al!” Ed shouted, running over to him. His foot caught a slippery patch of deck, and Ed went over the railing.  Instinctually, he managed to grab a lifesaver float that was tied to the railing, but the rope was loose, and it simply came down with him.

As he fell, Ed could make out Al and Winry looking over the side of the deck, screaming, and then his vision went black as he hit the freezing water.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I was knocked out because of the force of the water on my head, and I didn’t wake up until just about now.” Ed finished his explanation. “You can fill in the rest from there.

Roy was silent for a moment before saying, “We’ve been eyeing The Plight for days. Once the storm lifted, we were going to raid her, but we lost her in the storm and subsequent chaos when Havoc lifted you out of the water.”

Ed made a frustrated noise, lacing his hands in his hair, “Damn.”

Roy turned on his heel, still looking back at Ed, “You hungry at all?”

Without blinking, Ed replied, “Starving.”

Roy chuckled at Ed’s quick response, “Go sit at the old carpenter’s bench behind the furnace.” He turned to the aforementioned table, calling for a ‘Noah’. The girl in gypsy clothes stood, coming towards them.

“We have leftovers, if that’s what you want.” Noah said to the Captain.

Roy nodded, “Just for Edward here, thanks.” Noah looked Ed up and down with a kind of mooned-out look, before retreating down the hatch. “She’s our cook and local telekinetic.” Roy explained lightly. “Come.”

They walked to the old carpenter’s bench and Roy pushed most of the metal and paper into an old basket before sitting down across from Ed. Ed was beside a dark-haired man who looked not incredibly older than he. The man put some cards he’d been playing with Noah back into a pile.

“Furey, care to play a round?” Mustang asked the man.

“Sure!” Furey replied, dealing some cards out. “Should I deal you in too?” he asked Ed.

Ed shook his head, “I suck ass at cards.”

Roy laughed, “Suit yourself.”

“Stop laughing at me, will ya? I’m grateful and shit that you didn’t leave me to die and all that, but it’s getting annoying.” Ed snapped.

Furey paled a bit at Ed’s gall, but Mustang just smirked behind his cards, “What can I say? You make me laugh, it’s not my fault.”

“It is your fault when you’re being damn annoying about it.” Ed muttered.

The Captain’s smile grew, “This is how you talk to one of the ocean’s most feared pirate captains?”

Ed looked at him blankly, “You are the ocean’s most feared pirate captain.”

“I said ‘one of’, Edward.” Roy commented nonchalantly, taking out a card and slapping it over Furey’s.

Noah appeared back on deck, and she set a plate of food in front of Ed, “Deal me in, please.” She said before sitting by Roy.

Ed dug into the food, commenting as he ate, “Still, I’d picture one of the most feared pirate ship’s crews to be, like, huge burly guys who punch sharks in their free time or some shit. Not some pretty-boy Captain and a generally happy crew, by the looks of it.”

The furnace sputtered in front of them as Roy’s smirk grew. Furey slapped another card over Roy’s, followed soon after by Noah’s own card.

“I, Edward, have something the other captains don’t.” Roy said simply, browsing his cards contemplatively.

Ed took another large bite of his food, “If you’re talking about setting the damn boat on fire every night, there’s a reason the other captains don’t do that.”

“Close, but not quite.” Roy responded. Slapping down another card, Roy quickly reached down, grabbing his gloves from his belt and tossing them next to Ed.

Ed was surprised to see matching red arrays on each glove, “You do fire alchemy. You know, that makes the whole ‘ship on fire called The Match-stick’ thing even dumber and more gimmicky. That’d be like if I went around telling everyone to call me ‘Full-metal’ or some shit because I have two automail limbs and do general elemental alchemy.”

Roy looked up from his hand of cards, “You’re an alchemist?”

“Yeah, that’s why I was on The Plight. My brother and I were going to a university in Munich to specify our alchemical talents.” Ed explained.

The blonde boy at the furnace turned around, pooling blue eyes surprised, “You said Munich? That’s where Gracia and I are from!” He commented, gesturing between himself and the woman next to him. She looked up and smiled, pushing back a bit of her short hair, and smudging soot along her temple in the process. The two were busy hammering away at some long curves of metal, which Ed could guess belonged to a part of the bulwarks that was missing some sheeting.

“Me too.” Noah said simply, not looking up from her cards.

“Really?” Ed asked, “Why did you all leave it?”

The blonde boy shrugged, “The city’s landlocked; I feel more at home surrounded by water than soil.” He and Gracia turned back to the furnace.

“Edward.” Roy said, drawing Ed’s attention back to the Captain, “Would you care to help me decode a few alchemical texts?”

This piqued Ed’s interest, “Well no shit I would; it’s not like I can be of any other use here.”

Roy stood, “Right then. Furey, Noah, take Breda and Fallman’s lookout posts for the time being. Edward, follow me.”

Ed stood as well, “You know you can just call me Ed. That’s what everyone else calls me.”

Roy stood, a look of contemplation on his face. Then he smiled, “Right then, Ed, let’s go.” The two walked across the expansive deck towards a door under the top deck labeled ‘Captain’s Quarters’. Roy stopped Ed at the door. “Wait here.”

The Captain went inside and came back out with an armful of papers. They then went in the opposite direction, back down the hatch and through the small hallway. Instead of going into the hammock room, they went down another ladder and into a decently sized room. There were two tables and three bookcases nailed to the floor. The cases all had locked glass doors, and books and papers filled most of the shelves.

“The Match-stick was once a whaling ship. This was where sailors would hang the blubber and stab at it until it separated from the skin. Now, I use it like a library of alchemical texts that I collect during various raids.” Roy explained, setting the papers down on one of the tables. They sat across from each other, Ed already picking up papers with interest. Mustang laughed, “Shall we start then?”

Ed looked up at him quickly, “Yeah, lets.”

----------------------------------------------------

Two weeks passed, and those two weeks turned into two months before Ed realized it, and he felt like he’d finally gotten used to life aboard The Match-stick.

He found himself more often than not bickering with Mustang about the coded notebooks or playing cards with Furey and Noah (who was much wittier once she became more familiar with Ed).

Despite being feared pirates, Ed found himself warming up to the rest of Mustang’s crew, as well. The three mates Riza Hawkeye, Maes Hughes, and Jean Havoc respectively were pretty decent company, but they were often busy with various responsibilities. The blacksmith Gracia Hughes (Maes’ wife) and her protégée, Alfons Heiderich, were always willing to talk to Ed about their home and trade. Heiderich was also skilled in automail, which Ed was happy to hear, as his arm had taken a beating-to by the waves. The lookouts, Fallman and Breda, Ed didn’t get to see as much, as most of their days were spent high above the rest. There were a few more men on board, but the rest of the sailors didn’t talk to Ed in favor of getting their work done to return to their hammocks to sleep.

At nights, Ed found himself up by the prow of the ship, losing himself in his thoughts and worries about Al and Winry, or burying himself in Mustang’s alchemy library.

Ed also found himself taking up a kind of repairman role aboard, as he wasn’t bogged down with work, he could easily transmute items back to their newest conditions. He refused to simply dwaddle around and be in the way of everyone while he was still an honorary crew member, so he took the job in a heartbeat. He usually took all of the work that Gracia and Alfons weren’t already able to blacksmith back to perfection, but they would also give him some of their work if they were ever feeling particularly lazy.

Ed found himself living a life he’d never have thought he’d live two months ago.

`````````````````````````````````````````

On a warmer, cloudless night, Ed hung-sat from one of the rope ladders near the prow of the ship, staring up at the countless stars that dappled the sky. Because of the warmth, the crew had decided not to light the bulwarks that night, so Ed had a completely unobstructed view of the sky. On top of his usual thoughts about whether or not he’d ever see Al and Winry again, Ed’s mind was clouded with some confusion.

He had, as of recently, found himself looking at Roy Mustang more and more frequently. If it were just that he was simply seeing the Captain more, Ed wouldn’t have been confused. However, with every hard look Ed snuck at Roy, he had begun to notice little details that he’d somehow missed before.

For example, Ed had been helping Heiderich re-adjust parts on the furnace, and Roy had walked up to them just for a standard check-up. It was a warmer day, so Mustang had neglected his jacket and rolled his white frock sleeves to just above the elbow. Ed hadn’t been able to shake just how damn good Roy looked like that, and throughout the entire day he would catch glimpses of this very casual take on his Captain, and- ‘it’s warm and sunny that’s why my face feels like a damn volcano, yeah that’s it’.

Another time, Ed was talking to Roy at the prow one night, and they had eventually fallen into a comfortable silence. Ed made the mistake of peeking over at Mustang and nearly lost himself to how beautifully the stars reflected back into the Captain’s eye, and how incredibly deeply serene Roy looked in that moment.

Edward thought about these moments, the accidental bumps and touches that almost made Ed jump, the catches of light in Roy’s hair, everything that was clouding Ed’s mind and making it so damn hard to think about anything but fucking Roy Mustang.

Ed closed his eyes, focusing on the creaks of wood, the splashes of the ocean on the ship, and the rustle of wind in the sails that had become staple sounds in his current life. He chuckled, muttering, “Al, Winry, what you two wouldn’t give to see what I’ve turned into; I’m by all rights a pirate in love with my own damn Captain.”

-----------------------------------------

Meanwhile, the three mates (plus Gracia) were below in their barracks, sitting around the lantern with bottles of whiskey and cards. They’d been playing poker for a good while and had since settled into a bored, almost sleepy daze.

“Hey,” Jean piped up, “Do you guys think Capt’n Patchy and Ed…well…”

Riza finished for him, “Have a thing for each other? Yes, I do. Undo my hair, will you?”

Jean reached out to fiddle with Riza’s intricate bun, and Gracia spoke, “I definitely see it on Edward’s side. He’s become really blushy recently.”

Maes nodded absentmindedly, “Yeah, Roy’s been acting weird, but I kind of summed that up to not having a raid for months. You know he gets antsy when we stay put for too long.”

They resumed their silence, Jean still working carefully and diligently on Riza’s hair.

---------------------------------------------------------

Two more weeks passed, and in those two weeks, there was a raid. A merchant ship, The Grande Celeste, had been spotted just west of them one early morning, and by a dark and cloudy night, The Match-stick had snuck slowly in right beside the ship and had tied fast-lines to her sides. The next moment, The Match-stick was alight at the bulwarks, and the crew aboard The Grande Celeste stood no chance.

Roy boarded the merchant ship, followed by his mates and Furey, with great ease and demanded of them six month’s stock on any food and fresh water. They got their loot, and all but Mustang were back aboard The Match-stick when one brave young merchant-sailor took out a pistol, hitting Mustang in the arm.

Ed, who was waiting halfway up the lookout tower, went lightheaded when he heard the shot, having to grip the roped doubly to keep his balance.

Riza took the young man out cold with one shot, but when Mustang got back aboard, it was clear that his injury required some serious attention. The ship’s doctor, a reclusive man named Marcoh, had repaired the wound supremely, and Roy was out of the old man’s den in just a few hours.

When Ed saw Roy reemerge from the hatch, he had wanted to cry, scream at, hell, even kiss that damn bastard, but he remained in the ropes in hopes that when he came down he could keep his emotions in check.

He stayed in the same spot for the entire day.

At sunset, he felt the rope ladder shift, and another form climb up next to him.

“Hey.” Noah said simply, “I have food for you, you know. Come down so I don’t have to throw it out to the sharks.”

Ed looked into her concerned gaze, and he remembered that Noah was both telekinetic and incredibly sensible. She knew exactly why Ed was up here all day, but would never broach the subject until Ed mentioned it first.

He nodded, “Okay, I’ll be down in a bit. Thanks.”

Noah smiled, “Of course,” and carefully backtracked down the rope. Two plates of food awaited them on a barrel at the bottom of the ladder. Ed took one, and was about to turn and retreat below decks when Noah stopped him. “Edward, can you take this plate to Captain Mustang? He hasn’t come out of his Quarters for a while.

In honesty, Ed didn’t want to see Mustang at the moment, as he really didn’t know how his emotions would play out and he wanted to just hide away until he calmed down more (even if it took a damn century). However, he nodded and took the second plate, balancing both against the rocking of the ship as he walked the short distance to the Captain’s Quarters.

Ed paused outside of the door, still not really wanting to go in. Despite how close he and Roy had become in the past months, Ed had never actually stepped into the Captain’s Quarters. Now it seemed weirdly personal to Mustang himself, and Ed felt like he was breaching the Captain’s privacy (although he knew that was dumb, as Riza barged in all the time). Nevertheless, Ed followed through and was inside the dark room in a heartbeat. There was one lantern dimly lighting up the room, so it took Ed’s eyes a second to adjust.

“Ed?” Roy’s voice spoke from a silhouette standing near the lantern.

“Food.” Ed replied, lifting one plate in explanation. He quickly brought the plates to the table where the lantern sat, fidgeting around in his pocket for a matchbox, “I’m going to light some more lanterns in here.” Was he simply making excuses not to bring up his suppressed emotional turmoil? Yes. Was it working? Almost. His words thus far had come out a tad harsher than he’d intended, and he was sure Roy was suspicious of how little Ed was talking as he groped around the dark room to find lanterns.

When Ed had struggled around the room in silence for at least five minutes, only lighting two more lanterns, he felt two hands grab either of his arms and turn him around. Ed looked pointedly to the side, noticing that Roy’s sleeve was still drenched in blood. It made the blonde’s heart ache.

“You haven’t changed your damn shirt since the morning?” He asked in his best attempt at a measured tone.

“Are you angry at us because we shot the man on the merchant ship?” Roy asked, taking Ed completely by surprise. In honesty, Ed hadn’t even shed one thought over the poor soul, as he’d been so worried and upset over Roy’s injury.

“What?”

“Listen, I know you didn’t become a pirate by choice, per say, and maybe we should have just left you on some shoreline a while ago and let you rejoin your brother. We can still do that, by the way. But either way, a lot of people don’t take raiding ships all too well, especially when there’s bloodshed, so I’m sorry you had to experience that.” Roy said, his hands tightening just slightly around Ed’s arms.

Ed looked at Roy incredulously, “Roy fucking Mustang, do you really think I’d abandon ship because of one gunshot? Of course I miss Al and Win like shit, but I’ve had two limbs blown off, idiot, I can stand gunfire. I’m upset because your arm got gouged and there…” Ed stopped himself, though he knew it was far too late to turn around and just fucking run out of the room. ‘There was nothing I could do to stop it’.

“There what?”

Instead of finishing his thought, Ed let his emotions get the better of him. He reached up, holding onto Roy’s shoulders, and brought his lips up to meet his Captain’s. Ed was so surprised that he was actually kissing Roy Mustang that he froze up for a second, but then Roy was kissing him back, and- shit- he felt like he was floating.

Roy pulled away from Ed, and the blonde was afraid again, but that went away when, instead of moving away, Roy pulled Ed into a loose embrace.

“And here I thought you didn’t want to boot my ego, Edward.” Roy mumbled.

Ed let out a loud laugh, “Don’t make me take it back, bastard.” Sure, Ed missed Al and Winry to the moon and back and he would never not miss them, but Ed was damn happy on The Match-stick, and with Roy, he figured he’d stay pretty damn happy.

A story

This years model. Heather was filled with excitement as she drove her car closer to her final destination. This would be her first real modeling job and the start of her new career in fashion. All of her friend at the mall said she was crazy for calling the number on the business card a strange man handed her in the food court three weeks ago. After all she was hardly the classic model type with her soft round hips and full breasts, but the man assured her there was work for women of all sizes in today's modeling industry. She blushed as the man complimented her on her piercing blue eyes and long Raven hair. "You could do very well in this business with only a little guidance." He said as he walked away from her that day. Heather was determined to prove her friends wrong and leave them all behind in their dead end jobs at the mall. Heather took the chance and set up a formal interview. It was in a regular office and she filled out employment paperwork before entering Sam the agents office. Sam spent the time asking her questions about herself and explaining exactly what kind of work she would be doing. It was all very profesisional and not a sleazy come on like her friends warned. Once Sam was through Heather was given several outfits to try on and sent to the photographer for test shots. She felt glamorous and sexy as the photographer directed her actions. She changed several times before coming to the last of the outfits. It was a tiny black lingerie set and she felt a little self conscience when she stepped in front of the backdrop with her body barely covered. But as the photographer shot her she began to feel free and empowered. He was a young good looking man and his comments about how she was sexy turned her on. She fantasized that he would ask her to strip and take her right on the studio floor, but alas he only took photos and then thanked her and told her to get dressed. It was about a week later when Sam called, "It's a fetish fashion shoot for a very important client, fifteen hundred dollars and you'll be there most of the day." Heather couldn't believe her ears, fifteen hundred dollars was more than she made in a month. "What's a fetish shoot?" She asked Sam. "It's pretty standard stuff, a lot of lingerie and bondage gear. That's a huge market in this country, everyone wants the fantasy, you understand." Heather didn't understand but she wasn't about to turn the opportunity down. Heather checked the address one more time before turning her car through the gate and up the long winding drive of the secluded mansion. It was by far the biggest house she had ever seen. She was met at the door by and man who took her meet Sasha, the photographers assistant. She was a thin young woman with short cropped hair and dark eyes. "Wonderful to meet you Heather, we loved your test shots and couldn't wait to meet you in person. Come with me and let's get your hair and makeup done and you dressed." Sasha took Heather by the arm and led her down a long hallway to a large dark studio. The only lights were on the makeup area. "Take your clothes off and put on this robe." Sasha said as she handed a plush white bathrobe to Heather. "You mean all my clothes?" Heather asked sheepishly. "Of course, we aren't doing a shoot for faded jeans and lumpy sweaters." Sasha said laughing at her. Heather smiled and slipped off her clothes she felt a little nervous as she slipped her panties over her hips and stepped out of them. "You're even prettier in person." Sasha said as she looked at Heather standing naked in front of her. "Don't be shy we are all professionals here. If you're a good girl today we will be working a lot together. You can make a ton of money in this business." Heather put on the robe and sat down in the makeup chair. "Good girl", there was something about the way Sasha said it that both interested and terrified Heather. Her heart began to beat harder in her chest. Her mind drifted to the girl in front of her, she liked the way Sasha touched her as she fixed her hair and applied her makeup. She wondered what it would be like to kiss her and feel her body against hers. This was a new world after all and Heather had heard stories about the open minded people in fashion. Kissing another girl would have been most taboo among her old friends, but she wasn't so sure about her new ones. At least until Sasha opened her robe and began applying makeup to her breasts. "We can't have your beautiful boobs all shiny can we?" Sasha said as she brushed the power against heathers breasts. It tickled a little and the feeling caused Heather nipples to stiffen. Sasha noticed and ran the tip of her finger around her hard nubs. "This is good can you keep them like this? It will be better for the shoot." Sasha asked moving her finger from the right to the left. "I can if you keep doing that." Heather said surprised at the words that came out of her mouth. "Oh you naughty girl." Sasha said as she pinched Heather's nipple in her fingers. Heather drew a breath in deep as the girl tugged her nipples. "You're going to have to learn to behave, at least until it's time not to. Now open your legs I have to check your shave job." Heather leaned back in the makeup chair and pulled her legs back exposing her freshly shaved pussy to Sasha. "You did a pretty good job, but you missed some strays. We film in high def so I'll have to clean you up." Sasha ran some warm shaving lather into her hand and spread it along Heather pink labia. She picked up a straight razor from the table and began to slowly drag it across her pussy. Heather held her breath as Sasha glided the razor along her most intimate of areas. "Hold still little girl, I don't want to cut you." Sasha quickly finished then took Heather by the hand and lead her to the dressing racks. Heather was fitted with black stockings and garter belt, a black lace quarter bra that pushed her breasts together and displayed her nipples. Heather looked at herself in the mirror and never felt so sexy in her life. Her hair and makeup were perfect and the black of the lace framed her body like a work of art. "Almost done" Sasha whispered into her ear. "Hold out your hands and spread your legs." Heather did so and Sasha wrapped black leather cuffs with silver rings around her wrists and ankles. Heather stepped into a pair of stiletto black heels as Sasha wrapped a leather collar around her neck and snapped a sliver chain leash to it. The cool of the chain as it hung between heathers breasts felt wicked and wonderful. "I've never done anything like this before Sasha, it all seems like so much to process. I've never been this exposed before in front of a stranger." "No one has ever done this until they do. Do be afraid, I'm sure you will be perfect. You look super hot and we are going to have the best time." With that Sasha picked up the leash and pulled Heather to her and gently kissed her on the lips. "I don't want to ruin your lipstick, not yet anyway. It's time to go meet the boss." Sasha took the end of the leash and lead Heather into the darkness. "Here's our new girl, Dan this is Heather." Sasha said introducing her to the man. Heather held out her hand and Dan shook it and pulled her closer to him. He was an older man with a handsome face and an imposing build. His hands were large and powerful and Heather's hand felt tiny in his. "Wonderful to meet you Heather, you look perfect. Should we get started?" He asked. "You're the boss." Heather said, again surprised at her boldness. "Yes I am indeed." Dan said as he adjusted the lights in front of the backdrop. Sasha held Heather's leash tight and just off camera as Dan directed her into different submissive positions. Back arched on all fours, then head down ass up, Heather moved quickly from position to position ask Dan directed. The work was hard , but the more she moved for him the better it made her feel. By the time she was spreading her legs wide it was apparent to everyone she was enjoying herself. Dan took what seemed like five hundred pictures before directing Heather to come to the next set. Her gave her ten minutes to cool down and get something to drink before they start again. "How am I doing?" Heather asked as Sasha handed her a glass of ice water. "You look beautiful, but we have a long way to go. Just keep being a good girl and doing what he says and you'll be fine." Heather slipped her hand onto Sasha hip, "Do you think when we are done we could go get a glass of wine somewhere?" Heather asked trying her hardest to sound sophisticated. Sasha dropped her hand to Heather's, "I'd like that very much. It time to get started again. Sasha led Heather to the next set. "Ok, ladies lets get busy, Heather I need you on all fours on top of this framework." Heather looked down and saw a frame made out of square metal tubing in an elongated H shape with a middle support and a ring at the neck. "This thing is wild."she said as she knelt down. "It's stuff like this that pays your modeling fee little girl. Some of the benches and racks we sell here are thousands of dollars a piece. It's up to us to show the buyers how much fun they can be." Dan explained as he positions the middle support under Heather and clipped her ankles wide to the frame. A thick leather strap went across the small of her back and Dan pulled it tight and secured it to the support. Then he clipped Heather's wrists and moved her throat to the neck ring. Dan clipped Heather's collar to the post then slipped the metal ring around the back of her neck. Securing her head in place. "How do you feel, Heather?" Dan asked as he picked up his camera and began taking pictures of her from different angles. "Helpless and exposed." Heather answered fighting to get more comfortable. Dan put down his camera and wheeled a video camera into position and pointed it at Heather. "You are helpless and exposed. And now we need to show our customers how much fun on of these bondage racks really are." Heather looked on in shock as Dan began undressing in front of her. "What are you doing? Let me out of here I never signed up for anything like this." "Shut up, little girl." Sasha yelled at Heather, then lashed a thick leather belt across her ass. The pain was like a shock of electricity and the heat radiated from the lash. Dan stepped out of his pants and knelt in front of Heather. He took her hair in his left hand and pulled her head back by it. "Open your mouth, slut." He growled at her. Heather shook her head no and clinched her jaws. Dan opened his hand and slapped it hard across Heather's face. He repeated his command. Heather again refused. He slapped her three more times, each harder then the previous. Tears began streaming down her face. Dan began slapping both left then right each time saying open your mouth. By the tenth slap Heather opened her mouth wide. But Dan didn't stop slapping. Her face burned and tears rolled down her checks by the time Dan finally pushed his cock into her open mouth. Heather wrapped her lips around his thick shaft and began sucking. Dan kept one hand wrapped tightly in her hair and used his hips to fuck the young girls mouth. Heather had given a few blowjobs before but nothing like this. Dans cock was thicker and longer that any of the boys she had been with before. She gagged as the head pushed to the back of her throat. Sasha knelt down next to her and whispered in her ear, "take him all and watch your teeth. It's better when you are obedient to him." Sasha stood and picked up the leather strap. Dan pulled from Heather's mouth and said, "Ten." Sasha lifted the strap and lashed it ten times across Heather's pale ass. Each lash painting stripes of pain into her flesh. Heather screamed and cried into Dan's groin as Sasha finished the punishment. Dan pulled Heather's head back up and forced his cock back into her mouth. This time she worked extra hard to avoid him feeling her teeth. Heather's mouth began to water as her body began to react to the pain and humiliation. Her nipples turned hard and her pussy dripped with juices. She felt herself slipping into a new strange state of mind. Sasha's hands caressing and beating her body, and Dan's cock violating her throat made her feel like the center of attention for the first time in her life. She was being raped and the idea of it exhilarated her. All of her deepest desire began to manifest into reality. Sasha knelt down behind Heather and she began to push her tongue deep into the folds of Heather's wetness. "She's dripping wet, sir. You were right about her." Sasha pushed two finger inside of Heather's pussy and curled them up against her G spot. "I always am,now prepare her for me slave." Dan said to Sasha. Sasha rubbed Heather's clit with her thumb as she worked her two fingers deep in the girls pussy. It wasn't long before a strange wonderful feeling came over Heather. Her body went taut and the feeling of no control crashed into her body. Sasha continued to work her tongue along the wet pink folds as Heather's first real orgasm invaded her. Dan could feel her moans against his cock as he fucked her soft mouth. Heather lost count as to how many times she climaxed under Sasha's expert use. But it was sheer delight when Sasha moved her tongue from Heather's pussy to her tight virgin asshole. It felt so dirty and so wicked that Heather couldn't help but groan. It had been something she had always desired in the deepest part of her mind but never dared ask anyone for. Sasha ran the tip of her tongue around the rim then pushed it inside her puckered hole. The feeling was a thousand times better then Heather every dreamed. "Is she ready?" Dan's voice cracked the silence of Heather's ecstasy. "Yes, Sir. She's ready for you." Sasha stood up and went to the table and grabbed a small bottle of lube and a thick pink dildo. Dan walked behind Heather and knelt down. Sasha lubed up the end of the dildo and handed it to Dan. He pushed the thick pink head against Heather pussy and forced it deep inside her with a powerful thrust. Heather screamed as the rubber cock stretched her tight hole. Dan worked it in and out of her until Heather juices coated the pink shaft. Each thrust opening her wider. Sasha squeezed some lube into her hand and ran it around the head of Dan's cock. She spread Heather's ass cheeks and put a drop of slippery on her asshole. "No please don't, I've never done this before." Heather begged as she felt Sasha guide the head of Dan's against her virgin ass. "Please!" She screamed as the head popped inside. The pain invaded her body immediately. Sasha released her cheeks and reached around her and took both of her nipples in her fingers and pinched them hard. "Take him, little girl. You need to give him something no man a has had before." She hissed into Heather's ears. Heather clawed and the ground as Dan pushed deeper into her tight ass. His cock in her ass pressing the dildo down and against the back of her pubic bone. Dan pulled back then pushed deeper. Heather whimpered as her asshole slowly opened to accept his thickness. Sasha brought over a hitachi wand and pressed the humming ball against Heather clit. She clipped it to the middle support so that with ever thrust her clit ground against it. Dan worked deeper into her and slowly the pain eased and drifted to pleasure. Sasha opened the ring that held Heather's head in place. She pulled the support bar out of the frame and laid in front of her with her legs spread wide. Heather looked down at her tiny shaved pussy. Sasha cupped Heather's face in her hands and Heather obediently dropped her mouth to Sasha's pink slit. Sasha scent and taste invaded Heather's senses as Sasha pulled her head tight to her pussy. Heather dipped her tongue deep inside and collected the girls sweet juices. She moved her mouth around until she found Sasha tiny pink clit. She sucked it into her mouth and flicked her tongue across it hard until she felt the girl cum. It gave Heather pleasure to please Sasha like that. She knew that after this there would be no going back to her old life. She wanted the girl and even with the pain she wanted Dan to control her. Dan was deep in Heather's ass now. Every stroke hammered her deeper into pure submission. Heather's groans of pain soon changed to moans of pleasure. Each of her holes filled and used completely. Dan's hips slammed flat against her supple ass and drove her mouth hard into Sasha's pussy. Heather felt the heat rise in Dan's cock and she felt his release deep inside of her ass. The hot jet of his cum pumping inside of her. It seemed like forever until his thick spunk stopped and he pulled his cock from Heather's ravaged asshole. Dan stood and picked up his clothes. "That's lunch." He said as he walked away fro the girls still entwined on the floor. - [ ] Sasha unbuckled Heather wrists and ankles then pulled the dildo from her pussy. "What happens now?" Heather asked still on her hands and knees. Sasha smiled and spread her ass cheeks apart" "lunch." Then lowered her lips to Heather's ass. Heather moaned as Sasha licked Dan's cum from her ass. "Do you think I can stay for dinner, Sasha?"

Prompt: "So there I was,like, COVERED in hot oil.."

Pt. 3 of @mustardyellowsunshine ’s wonderfully invigorating writing prompts is another sentence challenge. Once again. I will be delving into the world of my Ballet! AU. Simply because you guys seem to like it so much! this time im aided by a delicious cup of wine and come soothing music. Please forgive the rambles. *cracks knuckles* Lets get this show on the road!

@inunanna @grapefruitwannabe as always, i write for you two beautiful ladies. 

Enjoy!

Inuyasha sat with his back against the glass in the ballet studio, a cool bottle of water in one hand and a small towel in the other to wipe his brow of sweat, listening intently to the story being told to him. A gentle smile gracing his lips as its teller waved her hands around animatedly.

“Yeah, I had to go on stage wearing this GOD AWFUL feathered headdress and Sango was in this little-bow-peep style dress and a bonnet and next thing I know, one of the live sheep goes crazy and mows over Hojo, like straight up takes out his knees, and takes a dive straight into the crowd!” Kagome laughed, unscrewing her own bottle of water and taking a sip.

Inuyasha let out a snort and fiddled with the towels corner as he pictured the ridiculous situation. “Does stuff like that always happen at the French Ballet?”, Inuyasha asked, looking up to take in Kagome’s relaxed figure. She was sitting cross-legged in the center of the room, gently massaging the tops of her feet. Surprising enough, her feet weren’t terribly calloused or red. She seemed to take great care of them to ensure comfort in the pointes. “Uhm the proper name is The Opera National de Paris and.. actually yes. There were two other incidents in similar nature while i was there.” She giggled, shaking her head as a smile spread across her lips as she recalled far away memories. “Do you speak french?” Inuyasha asked, toying with his water bottle cap. He had noticed the proper inflection she used on the words and wondered if her year spent in Paris had yielded any reward. 

For some reason he wanted to keep hearing her talk. Usually he avoided any and all communication with humans and demons alike. But with her, in this moment, it felt magical. Here she was, like a celestial being, her skin baring a slight glint from their impromptu dance session. And her voice rubbed against his canine ears like a soothing balm to his soul. He didnt want to leave and break the spell. So the best way was to keep her talking.  

“Juste un peu. Assez de passer.” Kagome smirked, holding up her thumb and forefinger an inch apart and squinting her eyes for emphasis. “Did you just say you had to go poo? Cause we just officially met and thats hella nasty.” Inuyasha joked, cocking an inky brow in her direction and allowing a playful grin to dance on his lips. At that Kagome burst into laughter, the sound dancing between them like a dandelions seeds in the wind. Kagome raised up her arms, stretching, and allowed her body to be taken back until she rested on the floor, her legs still crossed. “Do you know anything other than Japanese?” Kagome asked, turning her head to look him in the eye, her stormy grey meeting his honey irises. “I had to learn a little bit of Swedish when I worked at a spa for a while..” Inuyasha shrugged, shivering at the memories of having to clean the onsen and public showers and change the linen in the massage rooms. The oils had always given him the worst headaches. “Well do you remember any of it?” Kagome asked, her own eyebrow conveying her interest. 

Inuyasha sighed and straightened his back, his eyes falling into a disinterested half-lid. “ En unge spydde i badet igen. Var är desinfektionsmedel?” He asked, obviously drawing on past irritations. “What does that mean?” Kagome asked, a playful laugh bouncing on her words. Inuyasha watched for a moment as her ribs moved gently with her breaths. “Well..” Inuyasha groaned, scratching his head, “It means ‘A kid threw up in the bath again. Where is the sanitizer?’ Unfortunatly it was something i had to ask quite often..” he growled, shaking his head at the memories. 

“My mom took me to a spa for my 18th birthday while I was on holiday from competition.” Kagome sighed, shaking her head, her bangs shifting side to side as she recalled the event. Inuyasha watched intently, nervously picking at the towels corner. He knew how emotional he tended to get when talking about his own mother, and if had known his story would lead her to talk about her own then wouldnt have brought it up. “I didnt mean to-” he started, fumbling over his words. He was cut off by her hand waving in his direction. Her eyes were now closed as she recalled the story. “Its fine. I remember my mom and Sota and even Kawaguchi-sempai in positive tones. I honor them by talking about them. They impacted so many people. They deserve it..” Her voice was a whisper now as she drew her legs into a bent position, allowing her to reach her shin and touch the thick scar that reminded her of the day two years ago that nearly destroyed her. 

“Any way. I was freshly 18.” Kagome started, a new happy tone in her voice as she chuckled. “I was young and shy. I had only been touring for 6 months with the NNT” She acknowledged Inuyasha’s cocked brow in question and continued,” Thats short for the New National Theatre in Tokyo. Anyway, I still wasnt super comfortable with my own body in public. Hell, at the time i could barely change in the dressing room without turning beet red! But I agreed to go with Momma. I was only in town for a week and had never been to a spa before.”

She re-adjusted to sit up and look at him, her knees bent up to her chest as she absent mindedly rubbed her scars. “So first thing they do is take us to our own rooms, yeah, i didnt even have mom in there. And the guy, YES A GUY, gave me a sheet and told me undress and lay on the table. So he leaves and i look around the room and its got all sorts of curtains and candles and stuff with mood-lighting. 18 year old me is coming out of her skin at this point but Momma payed for it so I got undressed and got under the sheet and put my face in the little holder thing and just tried to not die from embarrassment,” She stopped momentarily to take a sip of her water and Inuyasha leaned forward, listening intently to this slice of her past. 

“Next thing I know, dude comes back in and he’s super awkward about it now. Later I found out that he had been told I was traveling with the NNT and wanted to relax and the pressure of massaging a ballerina git to him because as soon as he gets in there he is stuttering when trying to explain to me what to do. And that makes me nervous because I don’t know what to do. So he grabs the oil and is massaging my legs when he goes around to my feet without telling me and his sleeve hits my foot and I jerk and scare him.. and his elbow hits one of the candles and wax splashed all over the curtain and goes up in flames. So he’s freaking out and throws water on it.. and it explodes!” Kagome shook her head as she chuckled at the sheer hilarity of it.

Inuyasha’s eyebrows were raised in curiosity, this really did sound crazy. He watched intently as Kagome sighed and covered her eyes with her hand, readying for the best part of the story. Her other hand gestured limply to the side,“ and so I’m screaming and the guy just sprints out of the room yelling ‘fire, fire!’ And so I just grab the sheet and run out of there. Well running and oily feet dont mix so i end up slipping and busting my ass and tailbone. The fire alarm goes off and everyone is outside and i see mom and the other patrons and I notice they are all in robes.. and I’m in a sheet. And then I notice a different kind of burning. The dude has apparently grabbed a heating oil… so there i was ,like, COVERED in hot oil and wrapped in a sheet and the media shows up. I get a microphone shoved in my face and cameras are flashing next thing I know I’m on every tabloid this side of Tokyo with a shot of very unflattering side boob and a whole ass cheek completely covered in oil..” Inuyasha burst into laughter at that because he suddenly recalled that exact picture.

It had been less than flattering because of the flash on the oil and her shocked face paired with the large purple bruise on her butt. Not to mention her hair had looked like a birds best from the bun. The article had read “Local ballet prodigy from the New National Theatre Ballet, Higurashi Kagome, gets herself into a slippery situation while on Holliday”

” I looked like a bruised oil slick.” Kagome groaned, flopping back onto her back remembering the PR nightmare the week following the incident had been.

Inuyasha smiled gently and took in the woman infront of him who had opened up to him tonight. Usually she held herself with such poise and grace. Her stoic demeanor in the studio seemed intimidating to those unaware of the carefree and gentle woman beneath the surface. But he looked at her now, laughing and blushing at an embarrassing memory and saw so much more. He wanted this. He wanted the carefree easiness that came when talking to her. He wanted her to laugh, because damn it if it didn’t brighten his world. Taking a breath, he readied himself for his next words. His heart fluttered in his chest and his cheeks and inner ears reddened as he shrugged his shoulders, averting his eyes.

“…a cute bruised oil slick.”

Of Blood and Brass: Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Exposition

The first thing that visitors noticed was the noise. To be perfectly clear, it was the change in noise. There was a hush, a wave of whispering like grass before the wind, a rumble of exclamation like the engine for the rumor mill being kick-started. Where there had been auditory chaos, an entropy of noise spread in all directions, there was an epicenter of looking, listening. Every stand-owner’s heart beat faster, every company man stood taller, every crier and hawker of wares shouted louder into the openness of sound and then, suddenly, quieted. As suddenly as it came, it went, right back into the chaos.

There were five of them. Five not-quite-right visitors. No entourage, no accountants attending, nobody. Only five.

<><><> 

Deep in the HCEC’s Outer Pavilion, where hundreds of shopkeepers had set up stands in appropriated bazaar spots, someone in workman’s garb (simple, yet clean) wandered through, occasionally buying food and munching it idly, picking up odd trinkets and mechanisms, weighing tools and implements in a broad hand. There was an air of practical curiosity around the figure, a humble nobility in the appraisals.

Eventually, the sprawling exposition campus of Broadson’s Farming Manufactory saw that figure, far enough back from the stand to keep out of conversations, but close enough to clearly be interested. A broad, slow smile crept across the features of this working-class visitor, below eyes that took in every rivet and gear of the massive combines that sat smoking and gleaming in the Inner Garden, eyes that ravenously took in the shirtless laborers feeding the boilers that had been red-hot for hours. Sam Broadson got chills from those eyes. They had no place in a face like that.

<><><> 

Tesibius’ voice took some getting used to. It was like children’s stories about river spirits talking; somehow, the random splatters and burbles of a stream were supposed to form recognizable words. Being encased in a closed system of glass tubes and brass bands, the Inquo’s voice was a combination of fluid moving through a brass organ somewhere deep within the system, and the odd settlings and gurglings of the water in general. Calling it a voice was really not doing it justice. He said things. People knew that he said things, and responded accordingly.

He was in favor. He still thought that, as a side trip, they could break into some hidden vault with unknown treasures (at least two pairs of eyes rolled, but you couldn’t tell with the Shaman’s mask). Whether that happened or not, this would represent access to a whole new biome, a place where alchemical and biological wonders would be in excessive abundance. That, in turn, would open doors to a serious alchemical monopoly.

The construct leaned forward, resting gentle clockwork appendages on the table’s varnished surface, careful not to leave the faintest mar.

Furthermore, the thought continued, surviving accounts of the Underdark described an organism that distilled and used ambient magical energy. Finding a third form of energy production besides chemo- and photo-synthesis would jumpstart sufficient research to make one despair of the endless questions. Among them, the construct noted seriously, was the creation of a biological construct to house the Inquo form, such as it was.

Tesibius smiled (or, at least, the board members knew he was doing that smiling thing, despite no outward physical changes). Who wouldn’t, on top of all that, not want to wonder at the marvelous craftsmanship of the Lady of Life in the presence of no less than dragons? Content with arguments placed on the table, the construct leaned back, fingers clicking softly in concert 

<><><> 

A tall figure with fiery red hair strode through the HCEC. The spontaneous exposition and convention that had sprung up in the days following the out-of-the-blue article in the Courant interested that figure not at all. Wherever the red hair was seen, so were the piercing eyes, appraising machine shops, workbenches, craftsmen and artisans in the slightest glance, carrying a weight of sneering judgement the most haughty monarch could barely manage. Though hundreds, even thousands of visitors crowded every hall and corridor, this one stood out. You couldn’t help but try to impress those deadly eyes, and fail.

The impatient path was abruptly halted in front of the alchemical spread of Haven Haemonetics and Homunculi. A much shorter tiefling with his half-orc girlfriend ran right into the impeccably dressed figure, and the apology immediately offered died on his lips. Those eyes, up close, were like watching knives being made for the express purpose of a slow death. The tiefling just stopped moving, barely breathing for the fear, and his girlfriend ran away at a dead sprint that would have done her orc chieftan grandfather proud.

Leaving the devil-spawn idiot behind, the figure strode into the Haemonetics sprawl. There were visits at every stand and bench, listening to lectures, testing the samples, measuring with deadly eyes the enhanced volunteers the company produced. No longer mired in the old accusations of necromancy, HHH was using alchemy to increase speed, strength, reflexes. In short, while their PR focused on labor abilities and medical applications, there was really only one thing that the visitor stayed at for longer than a minute; military applications. Super soldiers. Enhancement in a test tube.

Kan DerVeeldt, senior consulting alchemist for the HHH, saw those eyes change. It was the hunger, no longer judging but coveting, that made the cold sweat break out. There were bad memories of a particular gnome he associated with that look.

<><><> 

While the construct Tesibius was making his points known, Irvin sat back and looked over the article again. He skimmed a few lines, and then his eyes unfocused. His breathing quickened. His fingers started counting, then just shaking. The very tips of his hair started to change color imperceptibly to an iridescence. Dragon blood and scale, a whole new class of reagants, sample collection, traps, products…

“I’ve decided.” The outburst cut through the pause after Tesibius stopped talking. “I want to go.” There was a short, awkward silence as the rest of the board waited for further explanation, watching the gnome’s hair turn an excited yellow. Just as a different voice was about to be raised, the pieces of Irvin’s thoughts came crashing together into the whole he was waiting for. “It goes like this. Farthington: you get an unreasonable new hold on the weapons market with that plant they just mentioned. Tesibus is already in; I want to go. Kai: you know you can't ignore the possibility of a totally unique and new adventure, and Shamus over there is outvoted no matter what he wants, whatever the hell he wants.”

The Shaman rested a pair of dull-colored fingers at the bridge of his mask’s nose as the alchemist strolled over to the construct and started a muttered conversation. A burned but recognizable tail (nobody wanted to know why, how, or when that tail was procured or turned into functional charcoal) was produced as charcoal as drawings and schematics began to flower on grubby paper. Completely oblivious to all but these plans, the gnome sat on the edge of the table at Tesibius’ hand, diving right into the ideas that came to mind like a wildfire.

<><><> 

One moment, there was an empty space of floor. The next, there was an officer.

The uniform was not recognizable, but it was more than that. The way that the boots shone, the polish on the bronze buttons and low-profile medals, the featureless deep of the black and the brilliance of the red, all of it was secondary, costume, the frame. It was the eyes (it was always the eyes). Below a helmet that would have been as bright as chrome for lack of surface imperfections were it not jet-black, two killer’s eyes coldly inspected the vista before them. Those eyes had watched cities burn on their master’s command. They knew the screams of the dying. A bed of ice would be a comfort compared to the mercy in those eyes.

The position was perfect; in the main convention hall, the two primary armaments manufacturers had set up right next to each other, with rows of military products gleaming, ready for inspection. APCs, models of airships and carriers, mobile fortifications, gleaming guns, tickets to weapons tests later in the week. The officer could see attendants spot-polishing as necessary, demonstrating loading and unloading. From the occupied position, the military wealth of Haven was laid out and visible.

The officer stood there for two hours, perfectly still, merely watching.

<><><> 

"What a wonderful opportunity for profiteering. What a wonderful chance to acquire spoils." The metal of the Shaman’s bones produces a series of clacks that brings the room to silence for a while. A sarcastic laugh rings out, tinged with the otherworldly quality of his strange lungs. "I do not doubt there are spoils to be found. Maybe we could get ourselves a barking dragon."

Casting aside the pretense of humor, he gently laid his beautiful tin mask on the table, revealing the protruding metal bones and unsettling glass eyes. The visible and colorless muscles settled into a neutral expression as he paced softly on the thick carpet.

"What I am about to say is not going to be popular, but I must offer my perspective so that our group can function as it needs to. I am truly privileged to be in such good company as I seek my answers and ride my life into the infinite. I mean this. But, as I have said in the past, I cannot support profiteering. The Underdark is not a treasure trove; it is an unholy abscess. It may contain answers, knowledge—spoils, even—but we cannot forget that Khoriv fell into the maw of something great and terrible. The Underdark is a shadowy wyrm that writhes in its apparent stillness."

An escaped terrarium beetle, flipped onto its back, took a moment of the Shaman’s time, pausing to crouch silently and flip it over with his little finger, rising to continue his address.

"We see cause and effect, and we need cause and effect, but seeing this opportunity as either cause or effect is folly. The moral world is made of arcs and tendrils, though we perceive instances. I am eager to join any expedition so long as we fear the shadows and respect them as they thrash about."

No one cared to meet the glass eyes as they scanned the room, but the expressions of the other board members illustrated some lack of understanding, some concern, some worry.

"Fear not. I am eager to seek out any knowledge that may help me make sense of my condition, our condition, and something in me longs to delve into the Underdark. It feels right, though I have my worries. Let us respect the unknown, terrible, entropic dangers that await us."

<><><> 

Sister Lai of the Order of the Silver Star knew her place. One of the most shunned religious orders in Haven (and that was saying a whole lot), they were one of the three groups which considered dragons to be not-bad. The heretics of the Ascendant Fire claimed that through eventual reincarnation, all stood a chance at becoming a dragon, and the apostates at the Silver Flame claimed that slavery under the dragons had been the only way to achieve righteousness. The Black Sorrow didn’t count, since they were equal opportunity death-cult evil-worshippers. The Silver Star, however, knew that because the dragons were not completely evil, they were capable of understanding right and wrong to a greater extent than small-minded mortals. They knew morality was a longer game, and though Sister Lai did not understand what that long game entailed, she trusted that a dragon could, perhaps, eventually explain it.

She had helped Mother Superior Foli set up the tiny corner stand after paying the convention manager the space rent. They had handed out a few dozen pamphlets, not counting the three that were shredded by angry members of the Silver Flame. It was a good day; there was less hate with the rumor of dragons around.

There was a moment when Mother Superior Foli and Sister Cho had left her alone to man the stand while they went and got food. A moment when a tall figure clad in a featureless white robe approached the stand, their face filled with a surprised curiosity, as if there was an unrecognizable but lovely smell in the air. Sister Lai had been surprised herself, for a moment; if the robe was so white, why wasn’t it more shiny and obvious? As the figure stopped before the stand, looking over the pamphlets and artwork, Sister Lai got a look at the eyes, filled with a sadness deeper than oceans, a mirth higher than clouds, a strength like cold stone. Their eyes met, and Sister Lai experienced a vertigo, double-vision, as she saw something impossible.

The figure left, and Sister Lai could only say to her fellow nuns, “It wasn’t white… it was silver!”

<><><> 

Howard Armon Dalius Farthington rotated his ring, a broad steel band emblazoned with the symbol of his work, with mild unease as the Shaman finished talking and returned to his seat. Feeling that the time was right for his own intervention in the discussion, he cleared his throat, pulling the protruding coat of his pinstripe suit into better position around his expansive self.

"Gentlemen!" Howard leaned forward and laid his workman’s hands on the table in front of him, palms face-down, fingers splayed. "I must say, that I would like to hope that none of us would take our own mortality, nor the risk of foregoing enjoying any rewards from this little venture, quite so lightly! Indeed, my dear Shamus, I myself wouldn't underestimate the dangers posed in exploring the vast and unknown Underdark! No, not even if I had my trusty original Dailus Mark I with me!" Howard chuckled at his own joke and beamed at them all brightly. A faint groan of indeterminate origin issued from someone else, but the momentum was his.

"Oh no, no, no, no, no... such casualness won't do. No, it won't do at all." Howard spoke quickly and in a slightly chiding manner, as a father reclining would speak to a growing son. "But gentlemen," he said, resting one thick hand upon the Courant, "in all seriousness, I think that we absolutely must embark upon this quest. Fame, fortune, and knowledge are always useful in my book and I never turn down a chance to make either history or bank. But I think that prudent precautions are important and a level of preparation ought to be considered. Only one life to live, eh?" Howard smiled, nodding at the Shaman in respect.

The prototypical capitalist then turned his attentions on Tesibius and Irvin. "And I just have to hear what you know about this thaumo-synthetic plant, my good Tesibius! And Irvin," Howard said, shifting his gaze towards the alchemist, "if you're in the business of learning more about dragons, just let me know! I have been eager to make some better connections in the Imperium for some time now.” He paused, speaking more to himself. “Real dragons! If I could only have access to some of their military-industrial technology and methods..."

Howard seemed lost in thought for a brief moment before shaking himself out of dreams of gears, steel, and profits. He then put the end of the rolled up newspaper to his chin, his brow furrowed. "Hmmm," he said before looking up and moving his eyes to the only member of the board yet to speak at the table. "You've been rather quiet Kai, what are your thoughts on the matter?"

Kai sat up straight, his reverie broken, his gaze now focused in the present. Since his turn reading the article, his mind had packed up a few important things already. A few small tomes, custom-bound down the street and prepared for loving decoration once their crisp, blank pages had been filled; writing utensils for the road (good, solid charcoal, not one of those ridiculous tail disasters); a small pack of necessities. His mind had already left the building with these items in tow and started traveling, for the moment the words "enter the Underdark" had crossed his retinas, the rest had been merely a symposium of little bright points of happiness. Reconstructing the tension. He shivered with delight as that phrase passes through his consciousness again now.

Ponderously, he said, "I can't recall the last time you bothered to ask my opinion, Howard." Kai does not mean this as a barb, of course. He is simply casually observing the length of time this has taken. It's generally clear they will not agree, but here lies a clear exception.

"I am for it, of course. I understand your concerns, Shaman, of course, but I am sure you know full well not one among us will not seek to pursue this opportunity. I have little doubt we will succeed in acquiring the privilege," he noted, not cockily, just matter-of-factly. "The chance to learn firsthand what has become of an entire society, an entire region lost to the records of history, in all this time isolated from the rest of the world -- what could possibly be more interesting? Sure, we could stay here and read about it someday. But as lovely as books can be as a source, there is absolutely nothing quite like seeing a thing with your own eyes and experiencing it with your own mind. And the fact that it comes with an adventure and so many other mysteries only adds to the case. Surely, we must go. Even were we certain to only find this writhing, unknowable, probably metaphorical wyrm of yours, still I would insist. Would we be true disciples of the Nomad if we planted our roots here and ceased to seek out the new and the unknown? Should the day come that I desire such a thing, I would renounce my path immediately."

He stood up, eager to begin his preparations. "I believe we are decided, then?"

There was a brief pause before the shaman raised his voice hesitantly. "The very notion of such an adventure gives us all pause, indeed." He clasped his hands, tendons clearly twitching, and began to speak cautiously: "A major point of concern is, I believe, the military inclinations of the dragons. If we allow them access to our technology, I fear the worst regarding how… creative they might get. That being said, a sort of performance or exposition may be one of our only ways into their inner sanctum.”

His hands moved, balancing in the air the ideas put forth. "I feel as if we have sufficient Nomadic ability, and technological, alchemical, financial prowess that we could use to show ourselves off not as able fighters but as… entertainment? A distraction. Of course, this would not be our true goal, although a troupe of performing artists is no less noble than any other institution of purpose. We could be... The Halcyon Troupe. Or Group, depending on our mission." He chuckled, a thin sound from such a throat as his.

"I say we dazzle them, confuse them, and keep things strictly superficial, strictly economic. They will doubtless inquire about my appearance, but careful costuming should take care of that. As for Tesibius... Do we want to reveal our mechanical man? I don't know if my ideas are making any sense, or if they are feasible, but perhaps they resonate with the group in some way?"

Tesibius considered the idea. He was in favor either way, but in his consideration there were some minor problems. First, while he was capable of deception magics through his own powers, he was more a student of life magics and could not put up more than a simple defense. Second, any deception could be brushed aside by the legendary prowess of dragons. These were ancient creatures, steeped in lore and power, and the obscuring of form by a spirit less strong than they would go over poorly. Finally, and with emphasis, he really wanted to get in the good graces of the dragons, and not risk anything. There were some things they might not want to show the dragons, but why risk it? One thing the Shaman got right was the idea of entertainment; they should be dazzled, blown away by the work put on by the Foundation.

Howard nodded, starting his addition in the not-quite-silence after Tesibius stopped speaking (it was always strange not going off of auditory cues for conversation). “We must play to our strengths, which are many. Anything less and we risk the money, the fame, the opportunity, and I think we are all clear on how important this is. I believe we have significant preparation ahead of us; we should meet at the end of business today and go over our initial plans, start fitting them together.” He clapped his hands together and rubbed them as over a fire, a wide and predatory grin fitting his features well.

<><><> 

The Farthington Industries and the Transitive Anthropology Foundation separately applied for and got huge exposition spaces in the HCEC Main Convention Hall. Howard Farthington was a high-leverage sort of man, and despite the obvious complaint of “they’re basically the same thing, why do you need two you complete bastard” he was able to strong-arm the ad hoc exposition board into doing what he wanted. It was capital well spent.

The Farthington/TAF campus was, therefore, easily twice as large as the next biggest competitor (as it certainly was understood to be a competition). Half of the convention hall was filled with a tightly organized display of the absolute mastery of the combined organizations. Petrochemicals and alchemicals were produced in small and fiercely precise batches, overseen by Irvin and his immediate staff. A small weapons foundry, with the fastest assembly workers in the company, had been running the whole day, producing dozens of Mark I rifles every hour. Lecturers were drawn from the general research staff to describe the host of products and projects being developed within the massive facilities to the north of Haven proper. Kai himself was doing a lecture series describing the expeditions funded by the organizations in great detail, resplendent in his traveling gear, walking through his memories with the hundreds of available artifacts. The Shaman was part of a small, slightly disturbing, yet quite popular exhibit where he did calisthenics (with his mask on) while people watched. Howard was everywhere, gladhanding politicians and competitors alike, always watching for the dragons, always counting ticket sales.

Tesibius was manning the terrarium exhibits, his nature hidden from view with a small cloak of magic and flannel. Visitors came through regularly, more to enjoy the peace and quiet, to marvel at the biological curation, than to investigate. It was a quiet corner, and it was his. Tesibius was happy, for his work to be appreciated, and to walk among the humans. It had been a while.

Sometime in the late afternoon, he found himself alone among his plants and creatures. He did not tire in any normal sense, but it was nice to not worry about people touching fragile specimens. The construct wandered through his territory, taking note of any problems. His attention was so focused on his work that he almost ran into a visitor. Tesibius looked up to offer an apology, but stopped short. A question then rose in his mind, but was quieted almost immediately as the obvious answer prevented it.

The visitor was tall, not tall and thin, but off-scale tall. His clothes were woven from a fine golden flax, with threads of red woven in intricate patterns. He was completely bald with skin as dark as charcoal, which provided an exquisite contrast for the light green eyes that now curiously took in the construct’s appearance. Tesibius, however, saw something vastly different. To a spirit, the world looks far different than that seen by mortals.

He saw the years and the power. He saw the vast knowledge that he was measured against in that inscrutable mind. When a hand extended to touch him in the center of his ‘chest’, he expected a far different set of digits than the hand of flesh and bone. When a grin of surprise spread across the visitor’s face, he expected a far different set of teeth than the perfect pearly whites on display. A spirit’s double vision takes in what is, not just what is seen.

This visitor, this dragon, was practically twitching in excitement and curiosity. Tesibius knew (he knew) that he was completely unknown to this ancient mind, and currently unknowable. He felt that, perhaps, there was more than just economics behind the treaty. The two creatures from outside the mortal ken spent a few more minutes together before the dragon bowed, and left.

<><><> 

“You what?”

I know what I saw.

“There’s no way, we didn’t see it, him, her, whatever, at all-”

That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.

“No, good Tesibius, there honestly isn’t a way that happened. My man at the ticket booth saw no-one like that.”

Your man was wrong.

“How did you get so lucky? How? I must have seen half of the visitors to the expo, my throat will be sore for weeks, and I didn’t so much as catch a glance

Really?

“Really.”

Do you want tea for that?

“Actually, would you mind? I’m sure you’ve got something good.”

“Tea needs aside, I was kind of expecting someone to show up. I heard just before lunch from one of my old staff members who got poached by Haemonetics that a really weird guy, all red or whatever, rolled up and acted like he knew everything.”

“Who?”

“Who what?”

“Who got poached?”

“That kid, the uh, where’s he from, back country Arimicia, the hick. Wanted to study creature development for farming. We stay in touch.”

I liked him.

“We all did.”

“If this was a dragon, are we surprised that it moved in mysterious ways? It went where it wanted, saw what it wanted, and left. As the wind blows without source or home, so a dragon must fly… or move.”

“Honestly, that’s an entirely fair point.”

“Did you hear about the officer?”

“I saw him when I went out for some food. He stood like a stone of hate, like an engine of fury and death idling in the snow. I avoided him like the plague.”

I am even more glad I didn’t leave the terrariums.

“Seriously.”

“So what now?”

“I guess we wait? It all kind of went according to schedule, and a lot of other deals and business happened besides the dragons.”

<><><> 

The sigil of the Imperium is straightforward and immediately recognizable. On a background of an context-appropriate color, a metallic circle is embossed, circumscribing a dragon displayed affronte with head to dexter. Banners of Saurian legions have text, mottos of their company, names of their origin districts, sometimes additional details. The diplomatic corps has the dragon passant in peacetime, perched overt in war with small humanoids in its claw.

A package had arrived at the foundation, with two letters. The first was from the attache to the Imperium embassy in Haven (an incredibly imposing Saurian by the name of Doriadus). Inside was a congratulatory letter with a request for an audience in three days’ time to discuss the second letter. The second letter, which Howard had resisted opening until the board had gathered, was contained in an envelope of unmatched paper quality. On its surface, a red-gold sigil, with the words De Imperium Draconis Nobilis in impossibly fine letters below. The silence was a physical presence in the boardroom as Howard solemnly opened the envelope and withdrew the letter.

By authority of the Golden Emperor, Protector of the Imperium, Flame of Bahamut, Mighty and Invulnerable:

In accordance with the Eighth Treaty of Haven, signed on Midsummer’s Day in this year of the Age of Fire:

By unanimous vote of the Council for Underdark Expedition Selection:

The submission by the Farthington Industries Company, and by extension the Transitive Anthropology Foundation, for exploration of the Underdark through the Coboldia Delve is probationally accepted. Further progression towards a successful bid will be fulfilled by more extensive presentation.

The five representatives of the Council will examine the board members of the Transitive Anthropology Foundation accordingly:

Tesibius, Inquo and construct of ancient make, by Cauraelus of the First Order.

The elf, shaman of indeterminate origin, by Ardurian of the Second Order.

Howard Armon Dalius Farthington, master of his industries, by Ordiadus of the Third Order.

Irvin Wildhair, artificer and alchemist, by Elodicius of the Fourth Order.

Kai Longstrider, adventurer and nomad, by Harodaius of the Fifth Order.

A representative will inform you of the additional details and examination criteria that you will need to meet in order to submit a complete bid for the exploration contract. A successful bid will result in a final interview with the Council, financial backing from the Imperium for preparation, and travel visas through the Neutral Zone and to the Delve.

Offer no less than all you have to show.

 <><><>

Three other companies received similar letters, the Courant quickly learned: Haven Haemonetics and Homunculi, the dwarven construction firm Kopatel, and an international team representing the HCEC itself. The dragons had made their offer to Haven’s (and the world’s) finest, and though generous things were being given, they were offered in a claw.