0135am, The Inkwell Reception. Rated Mature for language.


"You turning in yet?"

Olive, one of his apprentice Tattooists, was just heading out the back door with a rucksack slung over one shoulder. She raised a dark eyebrow at Dietrich as he turned around on his chair. "Nah," he grinned. "Got a drunk call from an old buddy, said he's droppin' by. Y'go on ahead kid." The witch shrugged and left, door slamming shut behind her: the sound ricocheted across the back streets of Knockturn.

And in its echo, the front door clicked open. Voices slipped in. Dietrich was up in an instant and headed towards the reception desk when the troupe came marching in...

"AAAAAYE!! DIE SPINNE!" It took a sec for him to recognize Balfour Spectre - in work clothes no less - stumbling into the tattoo parlour with an impaired bunch've drunks behind him. ""Lookit you, ye haven't changed at all mate!"

Oh, for fuck's sake, that was a sure sign he was plastered. Calling people things like mate and old boy. But Dietrich couldn't complain; he came out from behind the desk, grinning at the partial Scotsman and grabbing him into a hefty bear hug. Huh. Guy still wore that fancy ass cologne.

"Hell's bells Spectre, what in Odin's name have you been drinkin'?" He released the other man, smiling broadly at the pair who had followed Balfour in to the parlour. Feisty looking witch and another fella. "Mind your volume or you'll wake my lady love upstairs.[1]" If she wasn't already awake. Loud patrons in Knockturn Alley? Not exactly unusual.

Balfour slapped a hand on his shoulder, leaning for support, and Dietrich tried not to laugh. "Tattoos, old boy. We've come to get tattoos. It's for the dragons. You know the dragons. They're so beautiful," whined his friend pitifully while he reached into a pocket to take out a joint.

"Well y'came to the right place," Dietrich lit his Gillyweed and quickly stuck it between the Dragonologist's lips to shut him up. "Y'all getting inked then?" he looked at the other two - sizing 'em up quickly. "Dragon party, yeah?"

1.	Bai Yi Ling

Al had never been a man to say no to a drink—and he had said yes to far too many tonight.  He enjoyed the way he felt, looser—calmer—quicker to laugh. He also had a tendency to go along with things he would never have done sober. After one particular night of drinking with Margo Amherst, Al had woken up dressed in complete hula gear. Where they got that gear, he never did find out. Unlike dressing up in hula gear, however, getting a tattoo was something that he wanted  to do sober—but never wanted to do alone.

And so he was at this Dietrich fellow’s parlor with Balfour and Margo, face hot from drink and inhibitions loosened. Still in uniform, he had gone straight from work to the bar.

“Hi there~” Alphonse’s words seemed to sway with his movements. “So you’re the tattooing bloke I’ve heard…” He paused, making a conscious effort to make sure his words were comprehendible. “So much about!” He joined Dietrich and Balfour in the hug as a total third wheel. Might as well hug the fella who was going to put a permanent piece of art on his body![1]

1.	Alphonse is not that much of a hugger sober.

Margo wasn’t a stranger to tattoo shops.  She had two large pieces of art already on her body.  One very blue, purple-fire breathing dragon on her back that liked to prowl and a set of claw marks across her shoulder that revealed glittering scales underneath.  It had been attained after a particularly bad bout of trying to be an adult and her natural instinct for rebellion kicked in. 

It seemed a pattern was emerging.  She’d been toying with the idea of finally growing up: she’d almost been succeeding.  Having a more stable position in a field work area was definitely helping.  But with the epidemic and the long hours… it was never more imperative to cool down and take time for one’s self. 

She wasn’t, of course, doing this alone.  Al and Balfour had suggested drinking and Margo had been down before they’d even finished the sentence.  Next thing she knew they were an entire bottle and a half of firewhiseky into the evening and talking of tattoos.  She’d been thinking of something new and upon finding out neither of the boys had been inked, she’d employed a heavy amount of pressure and cajoling to make this happen. 

Shoving her hands in her pockets, Margo nodded at his observation.  Her previous pieces of art were clearly visible while she only wore a tank top.  She’d abandoned her leather jacket long ago, favoring carrying it as the alcohol gave her a false illusion of intense heat.  “These boys might be looking for something small,” she smirked at the man hug that commenced, glad she was standing back for this, and pursed her lips.  She had her mind on something a little more intense that she’d seen in some pictures,  Flames with a touch of feminine: it’d surely be a surprise to anyone who thought they knew her. 

“Maybe something matching,” she looked at them with a lopsided smirk.  “You know, hearts and kisses.  The works.” 

Briefly, Balfour wished he could say that this was the first time he'd had the opportunity to be bear-hugged by two drunk men in an ink parlour. Alas.

"What's that?" he picked himself out of the embrace while still partially learning against Dietrich's shoulder. "Hearts and kisses? No! No, you... you... you perilous wench!" A finger jabbed itself in Margo's direction, although it lacked all the conviction of his words. For some reason (quite possibly that last shot of Firewhiskey) the notion of being tricked into a dime-store tattoo felt like a very real one to him. "Dragons. Dirk. Dietrich. Dragons you understand old boy? Hibradean.. hibre... you know which one."

This last bit was pointedly directed at the tall blonde wizard who now had his monster of an arm slung around Al's shoulder. He took so well to drunk people - they had met as inebriated brothers, to think of it. "That I do~" replied the spider with a sober, diverted grin that irritated and amused him in equal measure.

The parlour had begun to stop spinning at last.

"Downstairs then? Who first?" Balfour tried standing on his own and was quite pleased to see that he could manage. "I'm not up to drawing straws-" he focused on Alphonse for a moment before abruptly deciding to start ambling around the front desk. "- so I'll be going last, aye? Got to get a hold of my senses before letting this bastard do me," his mouth ran away as he resisted the urge to clutch at something for balance.

A stairway in the back of the parlour would lead them to the inking rooms below but the trip down seemed like a Homeric voyage to Balfour's positively sauced acumen.

At the first cry of Balfour, the figure in Dietrich’s bed began to stir—little movements at first: a soft sigh exhaled, first deep breath taken since sleep began—lashes fluttering ever so slightly—and then, grander ones: pale limbs stretching upon turning over, toes curling inches away from the foot of the bed—soft sheets pooling from a bare hip, welling onto the mattress in a silent whisper of cloth.

And when the commotion had yet to abate—eyes slowly drifted open. Perhaps it said something, that not a hint of annoyance was to be found in them when it would have half a year ago– but as voices filtered through the floorboards, it was hardly important now.

Instead, Bai Li sat up, letting the rest of the sheet fall. Seeing how it appeared that she wouldn’t regain her quiet anytime soon (–less so, in fact, when the other side of the bed remained as cool as it was), she might as well see what all the noise was about. And so with that the witch swung her legs over the edge and rose, gathering a satiny black robe from the back of a chair and slipping it on before silently padding down the hall.

The voices did not grow louder, as she neared, but they did grow clearer—enough that they could be separated into two, three voices (–four if she did not include that of her love–), one of which stood out clearest, as the most familiar.

Recognizing it with some surprise, Bai paused, blinking. Surely not…?

She did not hurry, for one did not have to be a Legilimens to see that he– they– would not be going anywhere anytime soon (except the basement). Rather, she hesitated; random strangers were one thing, for they were often fleeting and thus inconsequential, but professional acquaintances were another story entirely. To let them see her in such a state of undress…

And then she shrugged, because it was late and she wasn’t the one drunk.

Cinching her robe more securely, Bai made her way downstairs. A sliver of leg peeked through with every step. “Dietrich?” she called, ducking her head, and only minutely paused when she saw that, yes, it was Balfour at the heart of the racket, along with Alphonse Zephyr and a tall (and notably more sober) woman who was currently regarding them all with a smirk. Watching the Head of Beast Division sway by the front desk, Bai was inclined to join her—so she did, approaching them with a slight but warm smile that only matched her appearance. “A bit late for a social call, isn’t it?” she teased, idly twisting her hair into a bun.

Balfour released himself from the hug, but Al had yet to shimmy away from under Dietrich’s massive arm. Dear merlin, what did his parents feed him growing up?! He was taller than most people Al knew, and it wasn’t as if he had only been surrounded by short folk for most of his life.  Al gave Dietrich a little squeeze and finally let go. It seemed that Balfour did not want to go first. Fine. Al would, as he was not a giant wuss.

Then, a familiar face appeared.

“Bai!! Hello!” Al exclaimed enthusiastically. They had worked together a few times, on miscellaneous projects that he could not currently recall in his inebriated state. “Looking as….. Like you…. As ever?” He grinned,  “You’re this man’s lady love?” He jutted a thumb at Dietirch before he realized that he really didn’t care.

And so, he stumbled his way down to the inking rooms, “A dragon, a young Chinese fireball if you will—on my shoulder.”  Al motioned vaguely towards his shoulder and rammed himself into the wall. “Breathing fire, sometimes. I want  her to move, too..”

 The whole situation was absolutely fantastic, really.  Margo was definitely drunk, but somewhere along the way she’d sort of learned how to keep her wits about her – and the second tattoos had been mentioned, well… Margo wasn’t the type to make a bad choice about body art.  She already had two fantastic pieces, she didn’t need to pick something terrible.

Didn’t mean she wasn’t going to try and convince someone else to get something terrible though.  Balfour wagging his finger at her was just enough for her to bust out laughing – again.  “If you insist on a dragon…” Margo shrugged, “Doesn’t suit you like a heart with mum written in it might.”

Of course, Balfour wasn’t even the worst off.  Al was practically tripping over himself – hugs abounds, leaning on Dietrich.  She snorted, reaching up to run her hands through her hair.  She was about to declare what she wanted when some half-naked bint popped out from nowhere and Margo blinked.  “Sorry to interrupt, mate,” she looked to Dietrich.  “I’d be right pissed.” 

That was true enough.  A good bedmate was enough to make Margo lock herself up for days on end (if that was an option), so sorry on that one, but it didn’t seem to faze either of them.  Margo just shrugged and followed along with a casual amble.  “I’m thinking something on my leg,” she smacked her thigh, hand smacking against leather.  “Fire – definitely something like that.  Get ideas while these blokes get a bloody dragon on ‘em.”