#the wig slid back so there is a bit of forehead visible

[intyaleglorfindeliel]

[cutesuki--bakugou]

Chocolate Comfort

Characters: Bakugou x Koge (OC), ft. Natsuki, brief mentions of Seijirou, Dokuji, Matsuki, Atsuki and Otoha.

Rating: Teen | Cursing

Warning: Could be upsetting to those who suffer and struggle with bullying, some derogatory word usage, fluffy dad!Baku supporting his daughter

Words: 2839

a/n: I just love their relationship and want to write and develop it more, no real excuse otherwise. 

The sound of slamming doors was an almost daily occurrence in the Bakugou household. With such strong willed and easily frustrated people, it was never a surprise to those that lived there or to frequent guests when a door or two would slam, echoing through the two story house. So when the front door slammed with the arrival of his daughter as she came home from school, Bakugou didn’t even bother to look up from the book he had in his hands. He did keep his focus for the moment on the shuffling at the entrance, also a common set of noises that came with the shedding of coats and shoes before stepping foot into the house. His back to the entrance, he couldn’t see her, though there was a sound that hidden between what was normal that instantly peaked his interest. 

A sniffle. 

It was a quiet one, as if the tiny wild-haired blonde had tried to muffle it to keep any attention away from her, but the ever observant Bakugou noticed it without fault. His little girl was not of the sniffling sort, either when it came to crying or being sick. She had gotten sick only a couple of times in her young life, and crying was out of the question unless it was a seriously huge deal. The last time he had seen her cry was just over two years ago, when she had come out to him and his wife as lesbian. There hadn’t been a single tear since, and as another sniffle reached his ears, he knew that there was something going on. Though, he knew damn well that if he wanted any chance at getting through to her, subtlety was key. 

“Welcome home, Natsu.” He called from the living room couch, marking his place in his book before shutting it quietly. Then came the confirmation that there was indeed something wrong. Silence. All Natsuki did was make her way up the stairs towards her bedroom, stomping so hard that Bakugou was surprise her feet didn’t go right through them. Frown crossing his lips, he watched her, though he was unable to see her face. Only her body posture gave away that she was upset, head down and shoulders hunched up with fists clenched at her sides. In that moment, he couldn’t help but to see a bit of his teenage self in her, recognizing that bothered posture as if he were looking in a mirror. 

“Well someone’s--” SLAM. “-- upset.” Koge spoke softly from the entrance to the kitchen, pulling Bakugou’s eyes away from the stairs and to his wife. Her pale blue gaze was locked on the path her daughter had taken, currently wiping her hands on a rag. “I bet even the neighbors could hear her stomping around like that. Did she say anything to you, Katsuki?” 

“No.” Bakugou stood, removing his reading glasses from his face and placing them down onto the coffee table along with his book. “I think she would have started screaming if she opened her mouth. It’s weird though, usually when she’s mad she will come and actually rant about it.” 

Koge gave a small sigh, placing the rag into her apron pocket. “Then she must not be mad. Maybe something’s made her sad?” 

“Maybe.” He made his way over to his wife, kissing her lips softly. Koge smiled up at him, placing her hand on his cheek gently. 

“I’m about to start dinner. Why don’t you go up and talk to her?” 

“I may never come out alive. Are you sure you want me to risk it?” Bakugou placed his hand on the back of hers, turning his head to place a kiss against her palm. Giggling softy, Koge stepped in closer as his kisses continued up her arm. 

‘You should probably take an offering. Maybe those spicy chocolates and some milk? That’s always her go-to emotional binge eating option.” She let her arms wrap around his neck as he caressed her petite body to him tightly, her lips lost to his in another kiss. 

Once releasing her, Bakugou followed her into the kitchen, their hands hooked together only by a couple of fingers. Coming to a stop by the fridge, he opened it up and pulled out the milk while Koge fetched the chocolates from a hidden spot in a low cabinet, where she stashed all their goodies that she didn’t want their teenage children to find. These particular chocolates were made with spices that could easily give Koge hiccups, but her heat loving husband and children were admittedly addicted to them. So, they stayed hidden until it was deemed appropriate to pull them out, or until Bakugou had to get up in the middle of the night for a quick sweet snack. 

“Did you want a plate or something for them?” Koge looked up at Bakugou as he poured an oversized cup of milk, catching his gaze for a moment before he shook his head. 

“No. I think I should take the whole thing. We’ll just get more for ourselves later, but she’ll probably want to binge on them.” Once milk was sufficiently poured, Bakugou put the jug away and sighed, reaching up to ruffle his hair in preparation for walking into the dragon’s lair. “Alright… If I don’t come back, it means I died.” 

Koge giggled softly, rubbing his back as he took the milk and chocolates into his hands. “You’ll be alright. You can always get through to her, better than any of us. You can call me for backup if you want.” 

“Natsu is sixteen now, who knows what the fuck is going on. I just hope it’s not dating… I don’t know jack shit about relationship crap.” He began to make his way towards the stairs, Koge following for the moment. 

“What does that mean? You married me, didn’t you?” 

“Yeah, but you were my first girlfriend and we never broke up. We didn’t go through that type of drama. I just wigged out when you tried to kiss me in public for the first year.” He shot her a snarky smirk over his shoulder as he started up the stairs. Koge gave a roll of her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“Two years, actually.” 

Bakugou merely answered with a shrug, starting down the hall and making his way to Natsuki’s bedroom. He could already hear the alarmingly loud heavy metal music, once again bringing back memories of his troubled youth. With a sigh, he stopped at the door, holding the bag of chocolates under his left arm to free up a hand so he could knock. After a couple decently hard taps with his knuckles, he called to his daughter loud enough so she could hopefully hear him over the music. With no answer, he opened the door, peeking into the room to find that it was completely pitch black, except for the orange and purple string lights she had along her walls near the ceiling. 

They created enough light so that Bakugou could see her, sitting on the bed with a giant pillow in her arms, her face shoved into it. Once inside, he let the door shut behind him before heading towards her stereo, turning down the music to where it was barely audible. “That’s a band I used to listen to all the time. Not exactly when I was having a bad day, but it was my thinking music. The heavier, the better.” 

There was no response from Natsuki, just the soft rustle of fabric as she lifted her head up just a bit to peer at him from behind her bangs. Making his way to her bed, Bakugou plopped to sit down, dropping the chocolates beside her in a way to make it obvious what they were. Now that he was next to her, he could see that she had also pulled her blanket up over her body, covering nearly every inch of her. Slowly, a petite hand slid out of the blanket to take the chocolates, pulling them into the darkness of her little cocoon. 

“Hot turds?” Natsuki spoke quietly, the rasp of her voice giving enough away to tell Bakugou that she had not only been crying, but did a scream session into her pillows. Deciding not to jump straight into the interrogation, Bakugou nodded.   

“Hot turds. Truffles. Whatever they are.” 

“I’d still eat them if they were turds.” Now her voice was muffled as she had already started eating. “They’re so fucking good.” 

“They are,” Bakugou skipped out on scolding for language at the moment, tapping his fingers against the cup in his hand. “The fucking best.” 

“Why does everyone hate me, Daddy?” 

Frown crossing his lips, Bakugou resisted the urge to pull her in for a hug, knowing she was a ‘touch only when I want it’ type of person. “Everyone doesn’t hate you, babygirl. You have friends, your mom and I and your brothers. Eguchi and Doey. You have a lot of people that love you.” 

“But they don’t… Not my friends.” Sniffling, Natsuki shifted the pillow in her arms, finally giving Bakugou a view of her flushed and tear stained cheeks. How upset she was was visible in her furrowed brow and pained glare, which was locked on the bag of chocolates in her hands. “Everyone just pretends to like me…” 

Bakugou handed the glass of milk towards her, letting her gulp quite a bit down before he spoke. “Did they do something today?” 

With a soft hiccup, fresh tears joined the old, making her fair blonde hair stick to her skin. “It was Hori.” 

“The girl you’ve been going on dates with? Didn’t she say she’d be your girlfriend?” 

“She was just pretending. Her and all my ‘friends’ were in on it, so they could learn a bunch of secrets about me. T-they were spreading lies that I hit on girls in the bathroom, that I peek at them in the stalls and in the locker rooms.” Having obviously already gotten past the initial sadness, frustration and anger was starting to peek through as she began to stuff her mouth with the candies. “They made such a r-racket today after g-gym that the coach had to make me l-leave! They were telling me that I’m no better than the perverted boys, that I should have to be with them like the d… dyke I am. And you know what I did?” 

“You stood up to them?” 

“No! That’s the worst p-part!” Natsuki brought a hand up and smacked herself in the forehead, making it clear that most of the frustration was towards herself. “I didn’t do anything but stand there and cry! All day, people were avoiding me, running out of the bathroom when I’d walk in and not walking next to me, holding their skirts to their bodies like they thought I’d try to take pictures under them! I-it’s all over social media, the only person who stood up for me was Otoha since she’s an upperclassman, but she’s so timid they just made fun of her, too.” 

Bakugou was at a loss for words, having never been met with a situation like this before. The more she talked and explained the bullying she endured, the angrier he became. His babygirl was everything to him, and knowing that he hadn’t been able to protect her from such emotional trauma made him feel like a failure as a father. But what could he do? Confront their parents? Confront the children? The school? He had to do something, and he would do anything to protect her. 

“Matsuki wasn’t there for me to go to, or to talk sense into anyone like he had always been able to do before. Because Mr. Smart-Butt just had to graduate early.” With the cup of milk sitting between her legs, she crossed her arms over her chest, though it looked more to Bakugou like she was hugging herself. “I’m so stupid to think that people actually liked me. That I could have real friends being the freak that I am.” 

“You’re not a freak, Natsuki.” Bakugou had to stop her there, feeling his stomach clench at the way she degraded herself like that. “Liking girls and being quirkless doesn’t make you a freak.” 

“That’s not what everyone else thinks. They all see me as something weird and scary, especially now with all these stupid rumors. Even the teachers are being weird! I’ll never have friends or be normal…” 

“Who the fuck wants to be normal?” Bakugou leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he clasped his hands in front of him. “I want you to tell me something, Natsuki. Who matters most to you?” 

Wiping her face, Natsuki struggled to speak behind hiccups. “Y-you and Mama. My brothers… Uncle Seiji and Doey.” 

“Do we love you?” 

“Y-yes. Well, Atsuki is up in the air, I think.” Natsuki shrugged. “Daddy, where are you going with this, I don’t get it.” 

“After you graduate, who’s going to be in your life? Those people from school? Natsu, the people who don’t care about you won’t be with you after you move on with your life. You are training to become a badass fighter under a famous pro hero. You are going to be successful and happy with people around you that love you for everything that you are. And where will those bullies be?” 

“Who gives a fuck.” 

“Who gives a fuck! Exactly!” Bakugou held his arms open, motioning with his right hand for her to come to him. “Come here, babygirl.” Sniffling, Natsuki scooted closer to him, leaning against his side as he put an arm around her while she sipped at her milk. “I know things are hard right now, with Matsuki out of school and all these new changes in your life trying to be who you are. But you can’t let these stupid insecure girls scare it out of you.” 

“But no one listens to me when I try to tell the truth. How do I prove I’m not a pervert?” 

“Baby, all you have to do is stand your ground. Sometimes the more you try to prove something, to fight against it, the more you just condemn yourself to more ridicule. The right people will come around in time. Those who don’t matter aren’t worth your tears.” Bakugou reached up and wiped her cheeks, softly pushing her hair back out of her face. “You know who you are. You know what the truth is. You’re my daughter and you don’t take shit from anyone. Just… try to not get in any fights. You’ve already gotten too many write ups for that.” 

Natsuki sighed, shoving another chocolate in her mouth. “Can I at least punch Hori? Please?” 

“No, Natsu. I… am sorry about Hori, though. I know you liked her a lot.” 

Grumbling in annoyance, Natsuki just gave a shrug. “Whatever, she’s not worthy of me, anyways. You never went through stuff like this?” 

“Ah, I mean… I had people that hated me. The majority of the school, in fact… I had a couple of friends and your mother who always stood by me, helping guide me out of my shit attitude I carried for a long time. But I never gave up on my goals and who I wanted to become. And if that meant I had to be an asshole to some people, then I was going to be a fucking asshole to them. Because in the end, they didn’t matter. No one was, or is, going to stop me from reaching my goals. I had the people that mattered, and still do.” 

“I can’t wait to be out of high school… I’m only a first year and I already hate everyone.” Natsuki handed a chocolate to Bakugou, who took and ate it without question. 

“Just remember to use those emotions to drive you towards something positive, like your training. Beat the shit out of Doey tomorrow while you rant about this to Eguchi, too. I’m sure he’ll have some type of advice for you that may or may not match up with mine.” 

Natsuki finally cracked a smile, leaning her head on his shoulder as she looked up at him. “He’d just tell me to beat them up. You’re… not gonna talk to the school, are you?” 

“I am, Natsuki. I can’t just let this type of behavior go. I’ll call their parents, too. I love you too much to let little shit head girls make you cry.” 

“I love you, too, Daddy. Thank you for coming to talk to me and letting me eat all your special chocolates. Can we go do some training before dinner?” 

“Sure. A little constructive training is good to get out all that rage. And it’ll make you hungry, too. Mom’s cooking your favorite.” 

“Score! I -- burp -- Oh geez, too many chocolates.” 

“That was weak.”

“Like your stinky face! Hey, no tickling, you’ll make me spill my milk!” 

[superiordragonlorde]

Scars

Day 3- Scars for @fma-angst-week. Oh boy, another one. Sorry, but the only thing I’m kinda good at for this is writing, so voila! Warnings: Scars are described in some detail so if that wigs you out please don’t read. Also, talks about death.

I guess you could see edwin if you tilt your head just right...

Ok, well enjoy!

     Winry Rockbell has seen a lot of scars in her time as an Automail Mechanic. Plenty of people have them (from work, surgeries, past injuries), but she’d never met someone with as many as Edward Elric.

     Scars are permanently tattooed over his body. There’s the largest and most visible of them on his shoulder, right where the automail port used to be, then the less visible but still monstrous one on his thigh where the automail leg connects, and thousands of smaller ones she'd heard varying degrees of stories for. They decorated his torso, right leg, and left arm in jagged, crisscrossing lines. There was even one placed on his forehead, just above his right brow. The ones she hated the most though were twins, mirroring one another over his left hip: one on his stomach, the other on his back.

     She’d only seen them when she’d demanded to see his newly acquired arm, after the Promised Day when they’d returned home. At first, she had only been able to marvel at the somewhat foreign arm. It had been so soft, thin, and underused, lacking the muscle and harshness the other arm had. It’d spoken of an innocence long forgotten and was strangely devoid of the puckered, paler strips of skin the rest of him shared. She’d also wanted to see the scarring left by the port on his shoulder to determine what surgeries he’d have to undergo once again, so she could remove the bolts drilled into his shoulder bone. He’d slipped off his shirt without fuss, obviously pleased by her reaction and still elated about having his beloved brother back in his own body. A smile had seemed to be forever engraved into his face. That was until he’d heard a sharp gasp.

     He’d looked up to see Winry placing a hand over her mouth, eyes wide and filling with tears. Ed had blinked, blindsided by the sudden change in mood.

     “Winry.” He’d stretched out his new flesh hand towards her. “What-”

     “Edward.” Her voice had been hushed and shaking. “What did you do?” His hand had stopped, hanging in the air. What had he done? He’d done a lot of things: things he’d regret, things he would never apologize for, and things that were absolutely stupid and amazingly ingenious. He hadn’t been sure which one she was referring to.

     Winry had fallen to her knees and her free hand had reached out, trembling, to trace the thick, ridged flesh above his hip. He’d opened his mouth, prepared to say something, but words hadn’t been able to form on his tongue. Her fingers had brushed over the scar, tentative and fearful as if the force of her touch would solidify the horrifying reality. A shaky sob had escaped between her fingers. She’d pulled her wet blue eyes away from the disfigured flesh to lock onto Ed’s. His eyes had softened as they’d met hers, probably already guessing what thoughts were racing through her head.

     “What happened?”

     She didn’t get an answer then. He’d looked away, face partially hidden by the fringe of his bangs, and had pulled his shirt back on. She’d wanted to demand him to tell her. She’d wanted to lug her wrench at him and force him to talk. But her fear, hidden by anger, stilled when he’d murmured, “It’s hard to think about.”

     Edward never backed down for anything, not even his fears. If he didn’t want to tell her then he must have had a good reason, Winry had tried to reason with herself. He wouldn’t keep a secret like this just because of his pride or anything like that, right? Still, the questions she couldn’t ask never ceased to nag at her.

     She’d catch him, every once in a while, reaching or stretching at an odd angle and biting down a hiss. He always had tried to be subtle, straightening himself out, then placing a hand on his hip. But his hand was always too high up to rest on his hip, and his fingers would slowly massage the area where the scar was. She’d seen him massage his back too, exactly across from the old wound, and her stomach and heart had both plummeted at the thought of two of those scars.

     She wasn’t the only one that saw it. She and Alphonse had shared a look at one point after Ed had twisted around to reach up and grab a plate from the kitchen cabinets, only to nearly drop it, face pinched before quickly smoothing back over. No one made any comments about it.

     It appeared as though everyone wished to forget those scars, ignoring the suffocating elephant that followed Ed wherever he went.  Winry guessed that Alphonse already knew the story behind them. He’d always get a flash of worry in his eyes when Edward tried to hide his pain, but it never lingered for long nor did it look like he was trying to puzzle out how they'd appeared. But she still wanted to know. She still wanted an answer.

     The plausible stories behind the scars swam in her brain as she sat next to Ed on the couch. All four of them had been in the living room, enjoying the soft music on the radio and reminiscing about the past. Now, the radio had been turned off, Al had passed out in his chair, and Granny had called it a day, heading off to bed. Winry had rested her head on Ed’s shoulder with his arm laying along the back of the couch. Her fingers had been rubbing and tracing the hem of his shirt, but during their talks it had ridden up, showing a sliver of his abdomen. Along with the raised ridges and valleys of the scar. Her finger had brushed against it on accident at first. She’d stilled when Ed inhaled sharply at the touch. He’d stiffened but otherwise didn’t move and Winry decided that tonight she would push her luck. She traced her fingers along the edge of it. Ed remained stiff, the muscles around the scar jumping and twitching at the contact. When she’d navigated the perimeter of the corse tissue, she grazed her fingers over the rest of it, catching every dip and rise. It trembled beneath her hand, but Ed never moved. She glanced up to see his face but found it turned away. She could see his jaw working, grinding his teeth against one another. Her hand stilled as she waited. He was going to do something. He always ground his teeth when he was about to do something he didn’t want to do but felt like he needed to do anyway. She had to prepare herself for whatever it was.

     “It was in Baschool,” Ed started. His voice was quiet and Winry felt the need to hold her breath so she could hear it all. “After Scar pretended to kidnap you, Kimblee went out looking for you guys. I tried to stop him and I thought I did. But he pulled out a damned Philosopher’s Stone and destroyed the whole mine shaft right under our feet. I fell and when I woke up a- I got a-” He paused, his jaw working furiously. He released a whooshing sigh and covered his eyes with his hand. “A metal pole went straight through me. I had to pull it out. Heinkel and Darius helped me, but I had to use my soul like a Philosopher’s Stone to heal myself enough so I wouldn’t bleed out. They still dragged me to a damn doctor though.” His hand slid down from his eyes to settle over his mouth, his gaze traveling to the ground. “Using my soul though, it took a lot out of me. I’ve probably cut my life short by a few years. I guess that’s better than dying under all that rubble and letting Kimblee win.” He let out a forced chuckle, the silence pressing down on him. He didn’t dare look at Winry. He knew he’d made her cry. It seemed to be the only damned thing he was good at, aside from getting his brother’s body back after fucking up their lives. But she wasn’t sniffling or giving off soft sobs. She hadn’t even moved the entire time he’d been talking, like his words had turned her to stone. Or she was furiously fuming and trying to restrain herself from gifting him with another concussion from her wrench. Either way, he’d rather not look just yet. But then she moved and he found himself tensing again.

     Winry straightened herself up, no longer leaning against him, and Ed could feel her eyes boring into him. Her hand still remained on his scar though, warm and calloused from the work she’d poured into her automail. But her other hand started to scale up under his shirt, to the matching scar on his back. That hand did the same exploration as the other one, carefully tracing the scar before settling her palm over the rough skin. As soon as her hand stilled so did she, and Edward felt like he was leaning over the edge of a cliff. He wished she’d just push him over it already.

     “I was afraid,” Winry murmured. “That you had two of them.” Ed finally turned just enough to see her out of the corner of his eye. Her head was bowed, eyes fixed on where her hands were placed. “I kept seeing you rubbing the scars, and whenever you rubbed your back, all I could think was- I didn’t want to think about you getting hurt like that. I knew you got into a lot of fights. I mean, you always busted up your automail.” She gave a shaky chuckle as Ed now fully watched her. “But, I never really thought that much on how... how much you...” Her fingers started to dig a bit into Ed’s hip. He tried not to squirm. 

     “You could have died, couldn’t you?” They both already knew the answer, but if Ed gave her a solid reply with no room for interpreting, then that would truly cement the fear that hovered over them.

     “Yeah.” Ed nodded, eyes dropping down again. “Yeah, I could have.” Winry’s fingers dug deeper into his hip and he let out a harsh hiss as his hands flew to the old wounds, hoping to remove her iron grip. She released her hold before he’d reached them and flung her arms around his neck, pressing her face into his shoulder.

     “You idiot!” she whispered harshly, the words catching in her throat. “You stupid, stupid idiot.” She sobbed, tears seeping into Ed’s shirt. He wrapped his arms around her, hoping to hold her together as she broke down. His hand rubbed her back as thoughts he had been pushing aside for so long tumbled around in his brain again.

     He really could have died. If he’d died, would the Promise Day have never even happened, or would Father have just forced someone else to see Truth like he had with Mustang? What would have happened to Alphonse’s soul? Would the bond to the armor stop working if he was dead? He did use his blood after all, so wouldn’t it be connected to his own soul as well? Would Al even be able to get his body back if he wasn’t there? And if he’d died, then Winry would have cried, just like she was doing now, and he- Ed tightened his grip on her, resting his forehead on her shoulder. He wouldn’t have been able to tell her goodbye. He wouldn’t have been able to tell anyone. He would have been left alone, bleeding to death at the bottom of a crumbling mine shaft in an abandoned town, if the hypothermia didn’t get to him first. As much as he hated to think about it, the idea was terrifying.

     All these thoughts, buried in the back of his mind for so long, made Ed’s chest constrict and his throat close up. He tried to take a deep breath to calm himself and push those thoughts back again, but the air shook on its way to his lungs. Winry must have heard it because her embrace tightened around him and she began to stroke smooth circles between his shoulder blades. Ed could feel his eyes getting wet. He tried to force the tears back with the spiraling thoughts. It worked. A little bit.

     They both stayed where they were, clutching each other as the realization of a future they had so narrowly avoided settled into acceptance. Ed pulled away first, once he’d gotten his breathing steady and under control. Winry followed suit, wiping her tears away with the heel of her hand.

     “You need to be more careful,” she scolded, giving one last sniffle. “If you get sharp pains or something hurts, your body is telling you to stop doing what you’re doing. I don’t want you cutting your life any shorter than you already have just because you’re too stubborn to stop while you’re ahead.” She tried to throw Ed a stern glare, but it was ruined by her still wet cheeks and red, puffy eyes. She looked so pitiful. He couldn’t say no.

     “Yeah, sure,” Ed sighed, waving his hand in nonchalance. He could feel a slow release of tension on his shoulders he hadn’t known he was holding. “I’ll be more careful. Promise.” Winry gave him a sharp, satisfied nod. Ed smirked, returning it, before letting out a monstrous yawn.

     “Listen to your body when it tells you to sleep too,” Winry added. Ed scowled at her.

     “Tell yourself that, Gearhead.” He stood and stretched, minding the twinge his scars gave him. “You’re the worst when it comes to allnighters.” Winry sputtered, face turning red as she tried to form an argument. Ed couldn’t help the smile that stretched over his lips as he headed off to his own room, rousing his sleeping brother along the way.

     “What’s got Winry so upset?” Al’s voice slurred as he asked, still half asleep as they trudged down the hallway to their rooms. Ed shrugged.

     “She’s just worrying about stupid stuff.” Al cast his brother a suspicious glance, his sleep-muddled mind becoming more alert.

     “Brother,” Al started to scold. “What did you do?” Ed gave his brother an incredulous look.

     “I didn’t do anything!” he defended himself, hunching up his shoulders. Al was obviously not convinced, but the want for sleep he had been deprived of for so many years made him lenient. He shrugged, giving his brother a parting wave.

     “Alright, alright, fine,” he yawned. “I believe you. Just don’t come begging for help from me when she finally throws a wrench at you.” Ed whipped his head around to throw back a retort, but Al had already wisely shut his door, ending the conversation. Ed sighed, smirking. It was just as well.

     He shut off the lamp by his bed and crawled in, minding the automail leg as always. He’d only been under the covers for about ten minutes before he heard his door creak open. He didn’t move. Years of fighting and honed instincts told him to wait for the intruder to come closer before attacking. Let them believe he’s still asleep, then he’ll have the benefit of surprise. The intruder took a few steps into the room. Just a little closer...

     “Ed?” Ed flinched at the voice, cursing himself silently for expecting an enemy when it was just Winry.

     “Yeah?” he mumbled, relaxing his head further into his pillow. What in the world did she want? Winry padded closer. It was too dark right now to really see any details on her face, but he watched a barely formed silhouette pull back the sheets, plop a pillow next to his, and climb in. He blinked, baffled.

     “Winry?” He silently pleaded for her to make a noise. To just say something, preferably why she was here. She only snuggled closer to him, her breath tickling his bare shoulder. Ed could remember a few other times she’d done the same thing.

     It was after the disaster of human transmutation when they’d tried to bring their mom back. When he’d healed enough to sit in a wheelchair, she’d come by his room every few nights to sleep with him. She was always mindful of the bandages, avoiding the empty spaces where his limbs used to be. It had become almost normal for Ed to wake up with a sniffling Winry crawling towards him, nestling her head close to his left shoulder, never saying a word. Every now and then she’d brush her fingers over some part of him, checking to make sure he was still there, he’d guessed. She’d done it a few times after his automail surgery too. It’d been years since then. He’d thought she’d grown out of it by now. But apparently, she hadn’t. Or what he’d told her had frightened her enough to fall back on it. Either way, she was here and, though he’d never admit it, Ed was glad she was. If he was left alone with those thoughts in his head, he’d never get to sleep or just end up having nightmares.

     Just as Ed expected, slim fingers fluttered over his arm, checking to see if he was really there. He laid his hand over hers and felt her flinch. Neither of them dared to move, but Winry eventually did relax and gave his arm a small squeeze. Her breaths deepened and evened out a few minutes later, comforting Ed and pulling him into a soft, dreamless sleep.

Alright, another one down. Thank you for reading!

[thearcaneescape]

Chapter 1

It was a long time coming, but breaking up with Joshua was the most cathartic experience in Hoseok’s life. Granted he’d gone to cloud nine when he got his dream job, but this was a feeling of absolute content. What he wasn’t expecting, however, was finding himself in a gay club in Soho called The Arcane Escape.

“First time here?”

Hoseok jumped at the voice that came from behind the bar. The club was oddly muted, a very 1940’s aesthetic in place. The bartender was no older than 21, with a strong jaw and nose, dark brows visible with his slicked-back hair, a single strand curling coquettishly on his forehead. Like Superman.

“Ah, yeah. Just got out of a dead-end relationship and some friends told me this club was cool.” He looked around once more, eyes falling on one of the waiters (waitresses?). “It’s a cool concept for a gay club.”

The bartender chuckled, making Hoseok turn around to catch a glimpse of the young man’s bunny teeth. “Yeah, you can thank Sugar for that one. She owns the club.”

“You didn’t tell me we had new patrons in, Jungkook!” A soothingly nasal voice floated over to where Hoseok and the bartender (Jungkook, as Hoseok now knew) were. A tall queen with long black hair in a shoulder-length, wavy bob, plush ruby lips and broad shoulders sauntered over, wearing a red backless dress with little ruffled sleeves that covered her shoulders, a white feather boa draped in her arms.

“That’s cuz he just got here, Jeannie.” Jungkook raised an eyebrow at her, a smirk playing on his thin lips. “Interesting choice of outfit. Not performing tonight?”

Jeannie shrugged gracefully, ruby lips pouted and eyelids fluttering closed. “Gigi wasn’t here last week, as you know, so I gave her my shows for the week. I gotta say, she looks lovely in her choice of corsetry tonight.” When Jungkook cleared his throat and muttered something about getting another bottle of Jack, she blew a kiss at him and then turned her attention to Hoseok, who blushed red in turn. “Now, what’s your name, darling?”

“Hoseok.” He blurted out, feeling his face burn red. Jeannie smiled, gently, cooing softly at his blushing.

“It’s nice to meet you, Hoseok.”

Hoseok quickly found out quite a bit about Jeannie. His real name was Seokjin, and during the day he worked at a cafe near the bar, a well-known place called L’Eto. Hoseok also learned that he got his name from I Dream of Jeannie, because it sounded enough like his nickname and also because he loved the pun on the word “genie”. Apparently he loved puns in general. (“I couldn’t love them in captain, it’s not a high enough rank!”)

Suddenly the lights dimmed and a tall queen, taller than Jeannie, walked onstage, wearing a gloriously pink silk robe, pink heels and a long wavy blonde wig. She had the true definition of bedroom eyes, with glossy pink lips and smokey eyeshadow.

“Good evening, ladies, gentlemen and all those in between or outside the norm. My name is Sugar, and as always, I am thrilled to have you here at my establishment. The cabaret will begin shortly, and I hope you all have a lovely time.” She winked at the crowd with a thick falsie and sauntered offstage.

The first few queens were quietly insulted by Jeannie as their acts went by, ranging from “absolute bitch” to “she didn’t laugh at my joke the other day”. When a shorter, curvier queen got on stage, however, the beauty sitting next to Hoseok at the table he’d guided him to slapped his arm in excitement.

“That’s Gigi! She’s in a relationship with Victoria.”

Gigi was an absolute beauty, softer and more delicate than Jeannie, but she had an aura of raw sensuality about her, even with her angelic face. Full, dark burgundy lips, similar to Jeannie’s but poutier, sleepy eyes and golden skin, the pink wig on her head carefully styled in tight waves pinned back with delicate hair pins with glittering pink crystals and pearls like a 1920’s flapper. The robe she was wearing was reminiscent of what Sugar had walked onstage with, but much more sheer, giving a glimpse of the glittering pink bustier, corset and panties she was wearing. She started dancing, sending small winks and smiles at the audience, walking up and down the stage as she lip-synced to Marilyn Monroe’s Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend, but the voice was just a bit different to what Hoseok thought Marilyn Monroe sounded like.

“Oh, Gigi and I are two of the only three queens who sing live. Victoria does a great Mae West impression as well.” Jeannie piped up, catching Hoseok’s small frown. When he turned to look at him with an astounded look on his face, the drag queen laughed, a sound not unlike a windshield wiper. “You look equal parts surprised and offended. Victoria always goes after Gigi, so you’ll see what I mean.”

During that short conversation, Gigi had shed her robe, and the crystal-studded lingerie glittered in the lights that shone onstage, dainty fingers grazing over stockinged thighs, the edge of the thigh-highs digging into the flesh of her thick and powerful legs. The robe had also been covering the odd skirt that connected to the corset, like a midi skirt but without a front, exposing the panties she had on but covering her butt. It swayed from side to side, giving a sneak peek at the backside that went with powerful thighs. Small hands picked at the corset slowly as the song reached its end, and the corset was pulled off, showing the panties and the silk garter keeping the stockings up, and when Gigi turned around to finish the song with a wink over her shoulder, Hoseok’s face burned red. The clapping was uproarious, and the mic taped to Gigi’s chest caught her giggles and the breathy thank you before she skipped offstage. Jeannie was laughing and he motioned for Hoseok to turn around and look at Jungkook, who was burning red. The lights dimmed and a low sultry beat started, deep bass and drums, a snapping of fingers before the lights turned on, tinted red and sensual. The queen standing onstage was tall and willowy, like an Alphonse Mucha painting in a floor-length see-through gown covered with glittering red and black crystals, various pieces of jewellery dripping from her neck and arms, a red crystal and gold diadem in her delicately curled blonde wig. The crystals that gathered at the chest fell over and narrowed into a long winding snake that very much resembled the Gucci snake and covered her crotch. She looked expensive and refined, like a fine wine that was only opened for royalty. And then she started singing.

“Holy shit.” Hoseok felt chills go down his spine as Victoria sang her own rendition of Peggy Lee’s Fever. Her voice was beautifully deep, sultry and smooth, and Hoseok could just melt into it.

“Isn’t she great?” Jeannie was smiling proudly, leaning his chin delicately on his hand, taking care not to smudge his foundation. As if sensing Jeannie’s praise, Victoria chuckled and smiled proudly at the audience during a break in the song. It was a boxy smile, not entirely unattractive, but charming in a different way to her aura as she sang.

At that moment, Jeannie turned to look at Hoseok. “I know she smiles like fucking Valentina, but she’s much nicer I swear.”

“I’m sorry, but I have no idea who that is.” Hoseok frowned in confusion, trying to rake his mind through all the names Jeannie had mentioned in his ramblings.

“Oh, she doesn’t work here. She was in RuPaul’s Drag Race, and she just rubbed me the wrong way. Victoria doesn’t appreciate that people tell her her smile is like that little bitch’s smile.” Jeannie whispered conspiratorially at Hoseok, but then sighed when he spotted someone approaching the table. “Aaah, they heard me. I love them, but sometimes…”

“Who’s “they”?” Hoseok asked, but his question was quickly answered when a tall young person with purple hair slicked back into a tight ponytail, wavy tresses cascading down their back slid into the seat next to Jeannie.

“No, Joon.”

The young person opened their mouth and then closed it, pouting slightly. “Why?”

“Because I heard you rant about this this morning. I am not letting you subject a potential friend to your political rants so early in the relationship.”

“Joon” crossed their arms over their chest, pursing thick lips in thought. Hoseok could feel a sense of domesticity between “Joon” and Jeannie, warm and loving.

“So, Joon, this is Hoseok. Hoseok, this is my amazingly smart, yet loose-lipped, partner, Joon.” Jeannie motioned gracefully between each of the other occupants sitting either side of him.

“It’s nice to meet you.” Joon’s voice was deep, comforting in a different way to Victoria’s, and the smile that they gave Hoseok was warm and dimpled.

“Yeah, same.” Hoseok grinned, bright and genuine, the last few notes of the song dying off as Victoria walked offstage, mic in hand and still singing. Joon stood up, tugging on their tie, a grey and black striped number that went well with the pinstripe vest and trousers. They looked like a very progressive mobster.

“I’m gonna get changed. It’s almost closing time.”

Jeannie nodded, stretching his arms in front of himself before standing up as well. Joon gave him a kiss on the cheek before they made their way behind the bar.

“Do you want to go meet the other queens?”

Most of the other queens had already left, leaving Victoria and Gigi gossiping and wiping off their makeup alone. Jeannie threw open the door to the backstage dramatically, also throwing the feather boa onto one of the chairs nearby.

“I bring a new potential friend!” He sang out, pulling out the pin that held the wig’s bangs in place.

“Oooh!” Gigi shot up from her seat, pink wig still styled in the same delicate finger waves, all the pins removed from it. Victoria had lost her wig, grey-brown hair tousled and feathery. Hoseok raised his hand in greeting as Jeannie disappeared behind a screen, the sound of a zipper and then a soft groan of relief floating out from behind it. Victoria and Gigi were out of their clothes, the bedazzled items hanging on their respective mannequins.

“Hi! I’m Jimin.” Gigi, or Jimin, outstretched his hand, fake nails now easily discernible. They were the same shade of pink as the lingerie set, almond-shaped and studded with rhinestones. Hoseok shook his small hand gently, trying hard not to coo at how cute they were.

“I’m Hoseok. It’s nice to meet you. Your set was one of my favourites.”

Jimin giggled, a faint blush appearing on his round cheeks. Victoria also stepped forwards, giving Hoseok a more adorable version of the boxy smile he’d seen before.

“I’m Taehyung.” He also outstretched a hand, and Hoseok also took note of the difference in styles as he shook it. Taehyung’s hands were large, with slender fingers and painted-red fingernails that matched the dress.

“Oh, man, your set was absolutely stunning, man.” Hoseok blurted out, excitement running through his body. “Everything just went together so well, and your dress is unbelievable.”

Taehyung chuckled, his nose scrunching up as he smiled and did a little happy dance. “Thank you so much! Me and Jimin make all of our outfits, so that’s high praise.”

Hoseok would’ve choked on his spit if Joon hadn’t walked in and patted him on the back.

“Jin, are you ready?”

“I just need to clean my face and then I’ll be done!” Seokjin’s voice came out from behind the screen and the man himself soon followed, pitch-black hair free of the wig. He was wearing a pink hoodie and black jeans, the hoodie's sleeves falling past his fingers.

“Oh! Thanks for giving me the shows, Jinnie. Uni was just hell last week.” Jimin said, carding a comb through his hair, which wasn’t a wig like Hoseok thought. The thin-toothed comb scraped through the layers of gel needed to keep the finger waves intact. “To be perfectly honest,” He grunted when the comb caught on a piece of gelled hair. “I would much rather rip my hair out doing this than write a 10,000 word essay for a class I fucking hate.”

“I hear ya.” Joon muttered, walking past Hoseok to help Jin pack up. The suit was gone, replaced by a knee-length black skirt and a grey shirt, purple hair loose from the hairband and falling to the left of their face. They had black knee socks on and ratty-looking black trainers on their feet. “I miss the essays, though.”

“Can you write my dissertation, then?” Taehyung piped up, a mischievous smile on his face. Hoseok laughed with Jimin and Joon when Jin mock-gasped and went on a short spiel about how even though his partner had a genius-level IQ they couldn’t use them for writing dissertations.

“You’re a fashion student, Tae. Joon was a music student.” Jimin piped up, hair finally free from most of the gel, some parts frizzy and fluffy. He tugged on a beanie to keep his hair hidden and rested his chin on the taller man’s shoulder, having to stand on his tiptoes to reach it. “I can help you with your essay.”

“You don’t know anything about fashion history, though.” Tae muttered as he grabbed Jimin’s arms and brought them to wrap around his waist, making him giggle. “It’s like me helping you with your dance routine.”

Hoseok perked up at that, turning his eyes towards the other couple. “You’re a dancer?”

Jimin nodded, pouting cutely. “Yeah. I need a partner for this project but all of the other people in my course have already grouped up.”

“I work in a dance studio. Do you have to work with a classmate?”

Jimin shook his head, eyes turning into crescents when he smiled. “Nope! When do you want to meet?”

“My schedule is Wednesdays and Fridays from 1pm to 3pm. Anytime after that would be great. Jay lets me stay in my area of the studio after hours.”

With a squeal, Jimin untangled himself from Taehyung and bounced over to Hoseok, pulling out his phone. “Here, put in your number and I’ll text you when I can go to the studio.”

Hoseok started typing in his number when another presence made itself known. Jungkook barreled in, out of his spiffy suit and in all black, a skin-tight black turtleneck under a black leather jacket, black jeans cinched tight around his tiny waist with a black belt, a few rips and tears in the fabric showing strips of light brown skin and the dips of powerful muscles. On his feet were well-worn black Timberlands, some of the leather scratched grey and faded.

“Anyone need a ride home?” He had a backpack hanging loosely from his hand, looking like a goddamn model and making Hoseok pause as he typed the last digits of his number.

“Me and Joon are going to dinner, and we live like two blocks down from here.” Jin finished swiping some moisturiser under his eyes, and then leaned down to grab his own bag from underneath his station.

“We’re taking the Tube. I don’t trust you driving.” Taehyung wrapped his arms around Jimin and picked him up, making him squeal. Hoseok jerked himself out of his handsome-man-induced stupor and finished typing in his number before handing Jimin back his phone.

“How about you drive Hoseok to his place? You’re the only one he hasn’t talked to properly.” Joon finished clumping up their hair into a messy bun, piercing-covered ears on show. “Don’t be shy, Kook.”

Hoseok gave Jungkook a tentative smile and the younger shrugged, smiling wide and bright, again giving Hoseok a look at those adorable bunny teeth. There was some shyness there, but there was also something that seemed like a desire to impress.

“Alright then.” He lugged the backpack up to his shoulder, walking out of the dressing room in two long strides.

“Ah, Hoseok, before you go, let me give you my number if you ever want to come over to my and Joon’s place for a meal.” Jin rattled off a series of numbers to Hoseok, who typed them down quick and easy.

“It was great meeting all of you!” Hoseok waved his goodbye with a big grin and ran after Jungkook. He’d forgotten how much he liked making new friends.

[ritebeforeyoureyes]

Confessions

Sorry this took me so long to write, I’ve been busy and have had major writer’s block with this chapter but it’s finally here!

Masterlist – Plot: Tom tries his hand at romance.

Confessions (Chapter Twenty Six)

Carelessness – it’s the only way to describe Tom and Zendaya after they got back together. They very quickly became that couple, the couple who started to make everybody cringe. At first it was the hand holding and a kiss here and then. But this then resulted in an excessive amount of public displays of attention. The shameless flirting and the full-fledged make out sessions soon became a common occurrence, so much so that their friends were forced between eye rolling at them or eye rolling at Ryan Reynold’s role as Green Lantern. It was customary movie night at Zendaya’s house and they weren’t even ten minutes in before Zendaya was already on Tom’s lap.

“Ya’ll need to get a room.” Jacob – who was equally as disturbed by the sight of Tom’s tongue in Zendaya’s mouth and Blake Lively’s noticeably bad wig in the movie – was the first to comment on the couple’s avid PDA. His remark caused the room to erupt into a bout of laughter and innuendos and Zendaya pulled away with a furious blush to her cheeks, her head falling into the crook of Tom’s neck in an attempt to hide herself.

“They’re just jealous.” Tom simply trailed his fingers through the soft tendrils of her dishevelled hair, his eyes narrowing at Jacob mockingly.  

Zendaya peered up at Tom between the curtain she’d made with her hair, her heart still swarming at the sight of him. Sometimes it amazed her, how gorgeous he was. Him, casual and laughing with their friends, was the most beautiful thing Zendaya had seen. They had told her, a countless amount of times that being in love was blinding and she’d foolishly believed that it was impossible. She didn’t think her judgement could be clouded by a person - not even by Trevor, and they’d been together for years!  And yet here she was, staring at Tom as if he was a puppy that she’d received on Christmas morning; her heart telling her to show him off to the world like he deserved. Despite Trevor persisting for years, Zendaya had never considered changing their ‘friend-zoned’ title in the eyes of the public world and now, that was everything she wanted with Tom. She suddenly wanted the world to know he was hers and that thought was both exhilarating and frightening. Of course, Zendaya wasn’t immune to reason, she knew the moment her and Tom went public, their lives would change.

But with a little encouragement from the likes of their parents and their closest friends, Zendaya and Tom eased back in front of paparazzi. They didn’t openly come out and say that they were dating but, their openness was evidently visible. They would get spotted shopping or hanging out and every time that a question about them dating came into the spotlight, Zendaya mocked it with a few snapchats or tweets. She never denied or confirmed anything, her mind happy with spending time with Tom whilst simultaneously fulfilling the need to express how deeply she cared about him. And frankly, Tom wasn’t complaining. He was no longer ducking behind cars or calling them ‘a couple of besties.’  They were just being themselves and it was more then he could have hoped for.

In fact, it seemed like Val and the whole stalker ordeal had, inadvertently, helped Tom and Zendaya’s relationship ­progress. They were being honest with each other and relaxing more in front of the media.

They were truly happy.

“Given what’s been happening over the past few weeks, I have to tell you something.” The two were currently in bed, their bodies entangled as Tom spoke. Zendaya pressed her nose along his chin whilst he swept his lips over the small frown between her eyebrows. “The right way.”

Tom combed his fingers through the wispy short strands of her hair, his free hand skimming along like silky texture of her curved hips before he pulled away.

“Tell me what??” Tom chuckled heartily as a soft note of curiousness became visible on her lips. He pecked her quickly, as if to placate her, before pulling back once again.

“I want to tell you when it all changed.” Zendaya’s lips were parted and bright with hues with pink and red from having kissed Tom earlier. As he stared down at her, she felt her skin grow taut and her heart beat aggressively.

“When what changed?”

“When I realised I loved you.” Tom slipped his lips down to the tip of her nose, her body shivering under his touch. His prideful smile grew wider as he felt her breathing hitch in her throat. “I told you I loved you because for hours, I knew I might never seen you again and then, there you were-“

“Do you regret it?” Zendaya asked suddenly, her hands falling from his shoulders.

“Do I regret loving you? Never.” Tom scoffed, his head falling so that their foreheads were resting against one another. “Do I regret how I told you? Always.”

Tom was a pretty romantic guy and he’d never really done anything monumental for Zendaya, not in the conventional cliché type of way. His declaration of feelings for her had ended with sex and he’d asked her on their first date when she was slipping out of the shower. Tom had hoped that their first ‘I love you’ would have been different. He wanted the rose petals and candles, he wanted teddy bears and a gourmet meal. He hadn’t expected to blurt it out in a dark corner of their premiere after-party and that had been nagging at his mind for weeks now. He wanted the world for Zendaya, especially after everything that she’d been through recently and he felt that now, was the perfect time. She had returned to her fun, loving self and she had been trying for his sake, to combat the whole let’s-go-public-issue and he appreciated that. He appreciated her and he was finally showing it.

“Tom-“

“No, Z, you deserved more than that.” And as perfectly as he’d timed, Tom pressed a button on Zendaya’s remote so that the TV adjacent to her bed illuminated with a slideshow of pictures. As an embodiment of their goofy selves, most of these pictures consisted of Tom and Zendaya pulling silly faces. But, there were the odd few of them smiling at each other or with their close friends and co-stars. It was like staring at the transition of their relationship and Zendaya felt her heartbeat profoundly.

“Tom, this is-“ Zendaya couldn’t even find the word to describe it, the tears in hers eyes seemingly saying enough.

“Nothing.” Tom slid his hand under bed before pulling out a bouquet of flowers. He knew red roses were a bit of a no-go for Zendaya following Val’s break in and so, he’d stayed clear of the stereotypical flowers, instead deciding on a bouquet of exotic, spring colours. The colours seemingly symbolised Zendaya’s boisterous personality and he thought they were perfect.

“You got me flowers?” Zendaya chuckled seizing the bouquet in her hands dramatically, the flowers now hugged closely to her chest. “You shouldn’t have-“

“Shut up, you loser.” Tom nudged her side playfully. “I’m trying to be romantic.” After a light pause, the slideshow ended and Tom turned towards his teary eyed girlfriend. “I love you, Zendaya Maree Coleman … with all my heart.”

“I love you too.” There was no hesitation, Zendaya was quickly responding, the flowers forgotten and her body in Tom’s tight embrace. She hugged him like her life depended on it, her nose trying to mesmerise his addictive scent. She knew he was scheduled to leave to shoot his latest project and as selfish as it was, she didn’t want him to leave, especially after the moment they had just shared.

“That was the moment you deserved.”

If you enjoyed this piece and would like to help further me and my work, please support me whilst I try to raise money to do a ‘walk for charity.’ The money you donate will help create awareness for cancer research and will allow me to have added support throughout my journey. It is one hundred per cent a voluntary pursuit and greatly appreciated, however, your lovely comments and votes are always welcomed too. Thank you for being the greatest: https://ko-fi.com/D1D072V0

[bspoetryandart]

Another abandoned story

           Anna looked out the big front window of the supermarket as she picked up a hand basket; the moon was still visible up in the sky, a phantom sliver not completely overpowered by the sun.  She turned her attention back towards the vegetables, and it struck her that she was doing something wrong: a lady eight months pregnant should use a pushcart instead.  She would have to get used to taking it easy at least this last month.            She walked through the produce area, eggplants shining excitedly under the buzzing fluorescent lights.  The carrots seemed to glow in the case on the wall as water misted down onto them, and onto the lettuce, celery, scallions, and fresh potted herbs. It all looked so delicious she was almost sad to leave the area, but what she craved lay elsewhere in this store.            An old lady in a babushka looked her up and down as she turned the corner by the bread; she smiled, seeming to size Anna up in an instant, and pointed.  Her crooked finger, dry and gnarled as a tree branch, or rather, pasty and twisted like the poor excuse for a cruller they had in the bakery here, arced past the boys bowling with paper products to the second to last aisle.            Anna nodded and propelled her cart faster, the back right wheel spinning and skittering around like a gyroscope.  Pasta, rice, cereal, coffee, canned soups; frozen, frozen, oh- ice cream!- nevermind, nevermind; cleaning products, paper products, pet food, hygiene.  Here she was now, condiments, one aisle over from cookies and salty snacks.  The good back wheel of her cart left a skid mark as she whipped down the aisle, dodged around the old ladies arguing by the Worcestershire, avoided the kids playing with the ketchup, and arrived by the pickles.            There were so many to choose from: kosher, kosher dills, garlic, garlic dills, bread and butter, spicy, spicy bread and butter. The nuances of each pickle seemed to tickle her palate as she read the labels; she could feel the caress of the seeds, silky smooth on her tongue.  For general consumption, she would get the garlic dills, but today was a little hot, and she had always thought that kosher dills were better in the heat.  At the same time though, she was making macaroni and cheese for dinner, and she liked bread and butter better with that. But she could really go for a spicy one right now.            Anna loaded a few jars into the cart, limiting herself to three varieties.  She took a deep breath and nodded, readying herself to leave the aisle.  One step, two steps; oh heck, make that four varieties, she thought, grabbing a jar of sweet curry flavored pickles.  She had only ever seen them in this supermarket, so what would it hurt?            The checkout girl greeted her with a smile, pushing unwieldy glasses back up a petite nose as they slid down her oily skin. Her greasy hair was held back by an elastic band that may have looked stylish on a nun.  Anna smiled back thinking, gosh, that’s probably how I looked too before I discovered sex; but look where that’s got me to.  The girl gave Anna her change without any fuss over her belly, and Anna was extremely grateful for that.  The only thing worse than being pregnant was being reminded that you’re pregnant.            Anna took the paper bag with her pickles, hugged it, and left the market.  As she walked toward her car, she shifted the bag to rest in the crook of her left arm so she could fish the keys out of her purse.  She pressed the button for the doors and heard the lock clack open.  She opened the door and reached inside to unlock the back door.  She set the grocery bag onto the back seat, reaching in it to withdraw one jar.            Perhaps the sound of the jar unsealing masked the squeal of approaching tires, or maybe just the salty sweet curry flavor of the pickle, with just that hint of black pepper that married the flavors so well mesmerized Anna as she bit into it, setting the jar onto the roof of her car, that she didn’t notice at all as men jumped out of a white van behind her. She breathed in deeply, the pickle stub in her fingers right below her nose, savoring the rich aroma.  As she went to take a second bite, the men threw a bag over her head and hauled her through the open van doors.            The men piled into the van behind her, quickly, efficiently; though the last one paused a moment before stepping in.  The pickle lay on the ground at his feet.  He stepped on it as if stubbing out a cigarette, grinding it into the asphalt before throwing himself into the van as it started to speed away. 

           Police Chief Bob Chevaux sat behind his desk, tie loosened, peering intently into a magazine as his brows knit and he rolled a toothpick between his molars.  He was attempting to enjoy an art magazine his wife had subscribed to for him, saying he was so near retirement age now that he needed to learn to appreciate the things around him.  He flipped another page; all these abstracts looked like some genitals or other no matter what the commentators said.  He wished he could appreciate a beer as the glossy pages closed on themselves in his lap.            The morning light reflected off the top of his head as he leaned forward to grab his coffee cup.  A small amount of steam still rose from the surface; he set the cup back down. Bob pulled a small white handkerchief from his jacket pocket and mopped his bald pate with it.  He shouldn’t be sweating so badly.  At least not yet.            Outside, he watched a school bus drive slowly past, the children all laughing and playing on their way to class.  If only he were as carefree.  If only he didn’t have to go pick up one of his best friends from the prison he was sent to due to a case.  Casey had been forced to murder someone in order to show loyalty to go deep enough in the Brotherhood and get the information necessary to bring them down. Nine hundred innocent lives had been saved by Casey’s heroic efforts.  But that hadn’t been what put him away.            Bob reached for his cup again.  He inhaled deeply, exhaled, then threw the cup and his head back. The feeling of whipping his head back made him smile, if only momentarily. He savored the taste of the coffee and the feeling of an empty head for as long as he could before the memories overtook him again.            He had been seated right beside Casey in the courtroom when Elaine DeCroupier, Casey’s wife, had been murdered in the gallery. Everyone was shocked, the Great One’s third mistress, long thought dead, stabbed Elaine dozens of times as news crews covered it from every angle, never stepping in to stop the carnage, occasionally stepping in to correct her makeup or change the lighting.            Casey had calmly pushed back his seat on the floor of the courtroom, unbuttoned his jacket, drawn his gun, and, shrugging, put two bullets in the back of the woman’s head.  Just as calmly he had sat back down and buttoned his jacket back up.            “Chief Chevaux,” the intercom blurted, “it’s time for you to leave.”  Bob waved his finger over the intercom button for a second before pressing it.  The box seemed to sigh as he leant toward it.            “Thanks, Janice.”  He stood and stepped over to the large mahogany armoire that seemed mildly incongruous with the office of the Chief of Police.  Everything else in the room was made of disposable particle-board and aluminum framed furniture, the kind you see in a second-rate dentist’s office.            The armoire stood taller than Bob, with ornate clawed feet and a spectacularly engraved pair of doors depicting scenes from Milton’s Paradise Lost.  Looking at the tiny engraved images was about as close as the Police Chief got to literature. His passions lie outside the realms of museums and libraries.            A tiny sliver of light illuminated the center of the armoire as he began to open the doors.  He paused; in the little streak of light he could see nothing, just the gap of empty shelves and the mahogany back of the piece.  He opened the doors more, watching as the light flooded in, reflecting perkily off row upon row of expertly styled wigs in every color.  All the wigs had exquisite bangs.            Chief Chevaux looked at the back of the left door for a moment, leaning forward to kiss a picture of Maria Callas, her voice almost present even in the cheap black and white photo.  Then his eyes darted back to the wig heads.  Today felt platinum.            Taking a wig from the second shelf, right beside the one with red-orange ringlets, Bob leaned forward, then flipped his head backward with a mane of the purest blonde, hands frantically calming the stylish mess, cut almost even with his jaw-line, bangs slightly curled to plump them away from his forehead.            He looked at the back of the right door now, into the waiting mirror.  His wrinkled face looked so much younger with these bangs hiding the deep furrows of his brow.  He ran his fingers through the hair once more, methodically, then patted the bottom edge of the cut, appreciating the slight stylish taper.  Closing the armoire doors, he smiled and inhaled deeply.            “Laaaa, la la la..” he sang, how he imagined Maria might have warmed up for a performance.  If only the wigs imparted him with more than charisma and masculine good looks, if they could just give his raspy toad voice a little touch of the angelic.  He sighed and turned back to his desk.            Chief Chevaux packed what little he had brought to work today into his briefcase, snapped it shut on the desktop, then lifted his uniform hat from the surface and placed it atop his head.            Leaving his office, there was no one in the upstairs hallway to greet him.  He closed his door quietly and turned to the stairs.  As he approached, he could hear the hustle and bustle of the main office below him.  He adjusted his tie, brushed the sleeve of his jacket, and descended.            As he passed each person in the office, they smiled and nodded to him genially.  Generally he was a well-liked boss.  He tried to be fair in all dealings, never raised his voice, always encouraged his officers to greater personal growth, and had been asked by several of his subordinates to be godfather to their children.  A few hens with pointy glasses and neckerchiefs accenting their cheap floral dresses and wilted cardigans flocked over to the watercooler.  They stayed silent as he passed by, trying not to too obviously rubberneck as he left the building.  Temps.  They were just jealous of his shining locks. 

           The baby lay on his back in his crib, looking up at the ceiling as he had been doing for the last month.  Sometimes he looked at the walls of his crib, but that usually left him with a bad stiff neck and made him cranky for the whole day.  He burped a little; the hiccup compression of it seemed to loosen his bowels slightly.  He sighed.  Soon he would have to cry and that always made him cranky too.            He shook his little fists and little feet, kicked his legs, and yawned as wide as his chubby chin would allow without resistance. Light played through the curtains, leaving shadows and wisps of shadows on the ceiling as a light breeze rustled the fabric.            And then something was different; he couldn’t put his finger on it right away, not that he would be able to for at least a few more months, but hey, semantics, but something was certainly changing for him. His body began to feel lighter, as if he wasn’t being pulled as roughly by gravity into the pillows.  He was just getting used to the idea of gravity, that force that makes things move down, not that he knew what down was, except sometimes after feeding time when the gas made him cranky and then for a short while he got to view the ground.            “Gravity,” he thought, “must be some kind of universal force that draws objects together based upon relative masses and distances.” He nodded to himself.  He would have to test that next time he was in possession of a spoon.  But then it occurred to him, “Oh, I think I just died.”            It may seem an odd thought for a baby to have, what, not knowing much yet of what it means to be alive, but certainly the cracks that were appearing in the ceiling weren’t really there, nor the glow that burned brighter and brighter behind those cracks as they widened and flakes of reality snowed down upon him.  Certainly it seemed that something other than life was taking place here.            Much as people misunderstand the life they are given, so it would seem that they misunderstand death as the baby faced it. The room continued to peel away, much as an eggshell falls away from a chick as it pecks its way to freedom.  As the bland white walls fell away, so it seemed did the crib; he was now just floating in space, bright space.            Everything around him seemed warm and bright, soft to the touch, rounded and comfortable, rolling hills like breasts as far as his little eyes could see; the air here smelled sweet like milk and baby powder. He floated into the distance of his own private universe, not hungry, not cranky, not falling as he should if he knew anything concrete about the effects of gravity, but he was just a baby, so what did he know?            Back at the point of origin, the place where he had emerged into this new, warm, safe place, where he had left behind his fear of itches he couldn’t scratch, of psychologically loaded diaper smears, of formula that hadn’t quite dissolved properly likely because the water was just a tad too cool or ‘safe’ to quite hydrate those granules of powder, anguished cries rocked his body as it cooled in the crib, his mother desperately hugging his empty shell as tears streamed down her face. 

           “Are you sure?”  Reginald’s voice was excited but tinny through the cell phone speaker.            “Yes, very,” Detective Marcus Crosby replied. There was a puff of smoke at the end of the driveway, agitated road dirt that was visible between the buildings adjacent the gate for a fleeting moment.  “Have to go,” he said over a protest, snapping the phone shut beside his ear. 

           “….but..”  Reginald heard the snap of Crosby’s phone right before the line went dead. He sighed and lowered his head back to the pillow it had been resting on; he let the hand and arm attached to the phone relax at his side.  It took a moment for his sleep riddled brain to catch the enormity of what he’d just been told-            -his enemy, their enemy, was out of prison- before his legs started to kick of their own volition, his arms began to flail, his mouth curled up into a smile as bright as the day he first joined the Brotherhood.            He sat up and looked across the room at his desk; it was on the other side of a heap of fast food cartons and crocheted piglets. The blue button down shirt with its matching elastic waist pants stared back at him, the buttons on its chest shiny plastic pupils in their pocket eyes.  The tie beside it seemed to signal something furtively.  Reginald threw his legs over the front of the bed and stood up. He waded past the one hundred and forty-one yarn piglets, one for each member in prison, and looked right up into the ugly face of the work shirt.  Can you make that a diet?            “Not today,” he whispered, a renewed sense of purpose creeping up his spine to awaken the sleeping need for…something, he was sure of it.   “Not today.”            He, Reginald, was the most senior active member of the Brotherhood of the Black Crescent, one-hundred-and-forty-second in command from the Great One, largely by virtue of having forgotten to set the alarm the day the compound had been raided.  He and the ten men under him, most of whom were also drunkenly passed out in that motel by the highway, were the only members not present to be arrested; the only members now not behind bars.  And now they must be the ones to revenge upon their tormentor.            Sure, Casey had served three plus years so far for manslaughter involved in the bringing down of the Brotherhood, but that was nothing, a pittance of punishment compared to what he had done to them in court following the raid.  Not only had he not been professional at all in the way he handled himself before the jury, getting them to laugh, laugh!, at the Great One, but he had also incessantly taunted them, misspeaking their name as the Brotherhood of the Black Croissant, or the Black Currant, or, worst of all, the British Broadcasting Company, which he wasn’t sure why it bothered him so except that it did in a men-in-pantaloons-with-bad-teeth-making-puns kind of way.            It hadn’t been their fault that the name had to be shortened, there was just a slight oversight in the Master Adjunct’s zeal to get business cards: he had accidentally made the image file for the printer an inch too wide.  They had been the Brotherhood of the Black Crescent Moon until that little box of twenty five thousand showed up at their compound.  Luckily, the Great One’s name and phone number had been left aligned so they didn’t have to print a second batch, these things weren’t cheap for a growing cult. 

           “Your total will be sixty-three fifty-eight,” the tinny drive-thru speaker vomited, “please drive around.”  The driver of the van put it into gear and pulled forward.            “Keep her quiet now,” he said, peeling off his mask as he approached the takeout window.  The other men nodded and kept their places on and around Anna.  She was laying on her back, one of them on her legs, one on her chest, another holding onto the bag that kept her from seeing anything.  Under the linen, a gag had been roughly shoved into her mouth.            The driver rolled down the window of the van as the fast food attendant’s window folded open.  The driver smiled, straightening his hair a little nervously.  The cashier smiled back.            “Sixty-three fifty-eight, please.”  The cashier ticked his head slightly sideways after he spoke. The driver rummaged in his wallet and pulled out a bunch of twenties.  The cashier accepted them with a nod.  “One moment, your change.”            Magically, a set of white bags appeared beside the cashier as well as a tray of soda cups.  He put the money into his till and counted out the change, first to himself, then verifying the receipt, then he leaned forward and counted it into the driver’s hand.            “…four, five, seventy, eighty.”  He smiled again, then looked beyond the driver to the back of the van.  His smile faded, the gleam left his eye, then just as suddenly his professional face came back on, if a little creaky.  “Why are you sitting on a pregnant lady?”            The driver met his eye, then looked back into the van. With a jerk of his head he indicated they should get off of Anna.  The accomplices looked back and forth at each other nervously as the cashier’s smile became better oiled again.            “I bet you didn’t even order her anything to eat, did you?”  Another magic bag appeared beside him, and the cashier straightened up, then looked up at his invisible help, shrugging, covering the microphone of his headset with his hand.  “Kidnappers these days.”  The takeout window accordioned closed again as he started pressing buttons on the register.