applesaucedream | Saving Lives a Mile High [open to all]

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Saving Lives a Mile High [open to all]

Welcome to another ordinary day in Manhattan. This barely even qualifies as a dream at all, it's so like waking life. The dreamers will find that they're their own perfectly normal selves going about their perfectly normal business and thwarting perfectly normal crimes in their perfectly normal spandex outfits.

What's that? No, of course it's normal to wear spandex (or leather, for the more chic among you) and go around beating up muggers and thwarting your villainous counterparts, don't be silly. What else would you do with your afternoon, not use your superpowers to better the world? That's grossly irresponsible of you; don't you know that with great power comes great responsibility?

So get out there and make the world a better place -- and be sure not to let that disguise slip if you do make it in to work today. Wouldn't want anyone to learn your secret identity, after all.

[OOC: Characters will find themselves thrust into the role of superhero...or at least, super-powered human. Whether they'd use those powers for good or evil (or use them at all), they'll think they've always been this way (or maybe just since that time they fell in toxic waste and developed ~~cancer~~ telekinesis). Usual dream party rules apply: all players and characters welcome regardless of membership status. Characters will remember or forget the events of the dream at players' discretion.]

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The sudden shift in Iman's demeanor is a surprise, and Greta finds herself leaning forward a little, as if to help retrieve a dropped object or--or offer comfort, though that would be absurd; Iman doesn't need a hug. She's fine. Just... quiet and earnest and not at all what Greta had expected.

"Yes," she breathes in a distracted sort of acknowledgment of what Iman has said. She's not sure she really agrees with all of it, because there's nothing regular about being a hero, but far be it from her to argue the point. Not when Iman is being so kind, or looking so uncharacteristically vulnerable.

As far as unexpected things go, though, Iman Asadi asking her out is still right at the top of the list. There are probably reasons she could and should politely decline, lots of them, good reasons, but she's having a difficult time seizing ahold of any of them just now. It's only a drink. It's not even a date, not really, just Iman making sure she's all right, which is noble of her. It would probably be rude to refuse, even if Greta really wanted to.

Which she doesn't, if she's being quite honest with herself.

"Um." Her smile isn't entirely devoid of bafflement, but it's getting a bit closer to normal. "Yes. I--that sounds nice."

Edited 2015-07-07 12:45 (UTC)

"Good!" Iman beams happily and loops her arm through Greta's, drawing her along. This is all very sudden but she's inclined not to worry about it. This woman is just too adorable and stunned and Iman isn't going to just walk away from that all untouchable and mysterious. And there's something - well she can't quite put her finger on it, but there's some intrinsic sense that this is just the thing to do, and she was never one to question impulses.

"There's this great little place I know just around the block here," she chatters as they go. "Good place to take a breather. I'm glad I happened by. You know, if you want, I could probably show you a few basic defense maneuvers. You know, just in case I'm not around next time." She winks. Is she coming on too strong? She feels strangely giddy.

Oh, goodness. This is really happening. Greta has to resist the urge to giggle or squeal or make some other highly embarrassing noise as Iman so casually takes her by the arm. As if they've known each other for ages, as opposed to being two complete strangers - one a famous hero and the other a comparative nobody, no less. She feels as if she's wandered into some strange bubble of unreality, but it's such a pleasant diversion from the daily grind that she doesn't dare examine it too closely. What a story this will make: Iman Asadi buying her a drink, and--and teaching her things.

"I don't know," she demurs, blushing faintly at the thought of Iman doing so much for her - to say nothing of the thought of tangling with the next mugger, herself. "I can't imagine doing the sort of things you do."

Admittedly, she's not a coward, either. The sensible thing would have been to drop her bag and bolt when that man came after her; instead, she'd clung to it. Foolhardy of her, really, but she hadn't wanted to let him take it. She just... can't quite picture herself actively going after someone the way a hero would. And isn't that what heroes are for - doing the things regular people like her can't?

"Eh, you can do plenty," says Iman with a dismissive wave. "The average human is capable of so much. You don't have to get to the kinds of things I do just to defend yourself. All you gotta do is a practice a bit." She nods decisively, like that's that, and steers Greta into the little hole-in-the-wall she tends to frequent. They know her there and it's off limits for trouble - perfect for an incredibly impromptu date.

Gosh, is she really doing this?

"What can I get you?" she asks, signaling the bartender for her usual Negroni.

That's the sort of thing heroes are supposed to say, and if Iman had said it with any gravity, Greta might have privately dismissed it as not really applicable. But Iman's tone is almost blasé, as if she's explaining that the sky is blue or grass is green. She's taking it for granted that Greta's perfectly capable of defending herself with some practice, and that's...

... Well, it's not the sort of thing she hears every day. She finds herself unable to come up with a response, but that might be just as well. It's hard to imagine what she could say without embarrassing herself to some degree.

The dim interior of the bar does nothing to dispel the unworldly feel of this whole situation, but that's probably just as well, too. She's never been here before, so what better place to do something she's never done? It can be strange across the board. Forget her friends - she isn't even going to believe this happened when it's over.

"Moscato?" she requests. That seems a safe enough bet. She doesn't want to be a mess. "And thank you," she adds, referring to far more than just the drink.

Iman smiles at the thanks, and takes both their drinks to a little table tucked away in a corner with two high chairs sitting reasonably close together. She sits nearer the wall and sets Greta's glass down for her.

"So what do you do?" she asks casually, taking a generous sip of her cocktail.

"Bake," she replies with a wry twist of her mouth once she's settled herself. Not that she doesn't enjoy it - she really does - but it just sounds so incredibly ordinary next to 'superhero.' "I have a little shop in Greenwich Village. Well, it's not just mine, it's..." she flaps a hand vaguely, "family-run. But I do most of the actual baking, these days." Even if it means shooing her father out of the way with a broom (something her mother is willing to stoop to, even if Greta herself wouldn't).

"Nice," Iman comments, nodding in between sips. "That's a skill I never picked up. So now you have something you could teach me."

The mention of family catches her a bit off guard, and she surreptitiously checks again - no ring on her finger. Maybe she's the younger generation. Still, better to ask than to guess. "You run it with... parents? Husband?" She smiles easily, not remotely sly. "Wife?"

Greta's smile is a little uncertain at first, as if she can't quite believe Iman's interest is sincere. It broadens at the thought of teaching her, though. That would certainly be something. It wouldn't be that hard to repurpose a cape into an apron, and she comes perilously close to snorting into her wine glass at the thought.

"Parents," she replies, and if there's a faint hint of good-natured reproach in her tone, it's less because she's scandalized by the 'wife' comment and more because wouldn't her mother just love it if there was a spouse involved, gender notwithstanding. "And they'd be thrilled if you stopped by for baking lessons, I'm sure. Although..." she gives Iman's metal arm a considering look, wishing she could examine it more closely but resisting the urge to do something as presumptuous as reach for it. "Is your arm flour-proof? Because I have to warn you, it gets into everything."

"What, this?" Iman glances down at the appendage as though she'd forgotten it was there. "Can just take it off, no problem. How do you think I shower?" She looks back up at Greta, grins (only a little cheeky), and takes a nice, lingering sip.

Time seems to move unusually fast. Small talk becomes easier the further they get into their drinks, especially after the third round. Iman hasn't had food in a while and Greta seemed already a little punchy to begin with. For better or for worse, they're both drunk.

"I'm gonna do it," she affirms, brazen and maybe a little overenthusiastic. "Gonna teach you what to know. No, do. What to do. Know what to do. How to knock a guy down on his ass. That'll teach him. I'll teach you now! Come on. Upsy-daisy." She slides off her stool, reaching out to guide Greta by the arm. She's being a first class dork but it's okay. Greta likes her and it's okay. She just knows that somehow.

"Oh." Well, that makes sense. And there's no reason she couldn't learn to bake one-handed. If anyone would be up to such a challenge, a superhero would.

Greta's probably drinking more than she should, but she wants to keep up. And as things progress, it becomes easier to forget to be overawed by Iman Asadi, and to instead just think of her as Iman. A little too easy, perhaps... but oh well, there's no helping it, and Greta doesn't want to help it. Iman is nice, and she's charming, and Greta likes her tremendously, and why shouldn't she?

That, more than anything else, is what prompts her to respond to the dubiously-timed offer with an enthusiastic "Yes!" and a palm slapped down onto the table top for emphasis. This is a great idea, because she wants to spend more time with Iman - not just today, but other days. And if she does that then it's probably only a matter of time before she ends up in the tabloids, and if that happens then it's practically a given that some villainous sort will try to make a name for himself by tying her to the spire of the Empire State Building or something - she's not an idiot, she knows how these things work - and while being rescued by Iman again sounds incredibly thrilling, she'd like to at least be able to give that hypothetical ne'er-do-well a few things to think about before she's subdued. The thought of just going along quietly and sitting in a cell or something... ugh. That sounds terrible. She doesn't want to do that, she wants to be brave and--and useful.

So she slides off of her stool with a modicum of grace that promptly disappears once her feet hit the floor. The room seems to be taking longer than usual to stop moving, and she grabs hold of Iman's shoulder with a cheerful, "Whoops!" What an embarrassing faux pas on the room's part. Iman is a much steadier point of reference - forget you, room - and Greta leans her forehead against Iman's temple and shuts her eyes and giggles quietly to herself until she feels steadier.

There, that's better. See, she didn't need the room at all. "Okay," she says, straightening and opening her eyes. "We should absolutely do that. But not in here, because this room's all unsteady." That last is in a polite undertone, as if to save the room the embarrassment of being openly disparaged.

Iman giggles at Greta's enthusiasm and softens almost immediately when the woman leans on her, even with the few inches she has on her, leaning and letting Iman steady her with an arm around her waist. This is nice. Good day. Good impulses.

"Agreed," she says, waving at the bartender as she leads Greta out the back way, where there's a nice alley. Not exactly a picturesque date location but a good place for a bit of impromptu training, which of course is laughably unwise in their current states, but life's too short for wisdom. Iman flashes teeth in a broad grin and takes Greta's hand in her organic one, stepping away like they're about to dance. "Okay so step one is balance," she says very seriously, and almost immediately her footing falters and she staggers slightly with an embarrassed laugh. "S'very important. Can't do anything without balance. We might be in trouble."

Greta snorts inelegantly - but not unkindly - when Iman falters a little. For her own part, the closest thing to 'balance' that she can achieve is limiting her swaying to a ten-degree arc. That's probably close enough, isn't it? It's not as if this is a formal lesson. They're in an alleyway, for goodness' sake.

"Right," she says gamely. At least she has the 'active listening' part down. "What next?"

"Well, next is..." Iman hesitates, trying to actually get her brain to work solidly enough for a logical, ordered lesson plan. It's pretty hard. Who's she going to demonstrate on, Greta? She doesn't want to demonstrate on Greta. She is, in fact, getting rather distracted just looking at Greta. "Um. Uh." She laughs, embarrassed, moving her mechanical hand to sort of cup her own cheek, a comically coy gesture with such an imposing limb. "Y'know I don't usually fight this drunk," she admits.

She sort of steps forward a bit, nudging Greta gingerly along, until they're at a wall, Greta's back against it, for the lesson. "Let's start smaller," she says, releasing Greta's hand. "Say someone has you cornered. If it's a dude there's two great options. Knee him in the junk, that'll work every time if he's not expecting it, but lots of times that's exactly what he's expecting - so what's even better is to sort of drop down and launch yourself up and headbutt him right under the chin." She demonstrates the motion slowly, crouching and then popping up gently, not under Greta's chin, but instead rather close. "Um. That. That'll knock him back and you can make a run for it."

Is she leaning closer or is that the alcohol?

Greta waits patiently, unperturbed by Iman's floundering. This must not happen often, impromptu self-defense lessons in an alleyway after several drinks, but she has complete faith that Iman will come up with something.

"But you could," she offers by way of encouragement. Iman could do anything, she suspects. Anything she wanted. What must that be like?

It's a faint surprise when her back bumps up against the wall, but not a troubling one. The wall makes it easier to stand without swaying, and a villainous sort would try to corner her, wouldn't they? Perfectly sensible. It's just that it doesn't leave her with anywhere to go when Iman finishes her demonstration.

She's so close.

Greta starts to lift her arms automatically, but she doesn't know what to do with them next. Is she actually meant to fight back? She doesn't want to. Her hands hover at Iman's sides, because there is no way to touch her that wouldn't be presumptuous.

Is Iman leaning closer, or is she just imagining it? She searches the other woman's eyes, uncertain and inquiring, and then forgets what she was supposed to be looking for. Her cheeks are flushing - probably from the alcohol. "Yes," she hears herself say, as if from a distance. In response to the lesson. Probably.

She has completely lost track of what was going on, and that's okay, because Greta is really lovely and looking at her. Iman can't keep from breaking into a grin. This is all very sudden, but for some reason she doesn't feel rushed at all. For some reason she feels like she's been waiting for this for a long time.

"Yeah," she agrees to - whatever the 'yes' was for. The grin softens into a shy little smile and she lowers her hands briefly, to set Greta's at her waist, before lifting them up again, the organic one cupping around the back of her neck and the mechanical one resting very gently on Greta's shoulder.

"This," she says, "I don't recommend in an professional capacity."

She leans in rest of the way and kisses her, soft and tentative and brief; when she parts she doesn't quite pull away, eyes opening to look back at Greta's.

Iman guides her hands to her waist - the touch of her metal fingers is less hard than Greta would have expected, less cold - and for a befuddled moment she thinks the lesson is continuing, that this is going to turn into some kind of ninja throw or something. Ridiculous.

Then Iman's hand curls around the back of her neck, and Greta's breath hitches. Oh. There's no mistaking her intent, not anymore, and an incredulous part of her echoes, seriously? just before Iman's lips meet her own.

Apparently, yes.

She's never been kissed by a superhero before.

And then Iman pulls back a little, and Greta makes some sort of noise, an aborted half-syllable of surprise and objection. Why did she kiss her? Why did she stop? Greta didn't even get a chance to kiss her back, and that's just--just not fair.

But Iman's not going anywhere. She's just standing there, waiting, watching her reaction. Presuming nothing. Greta could push her away, just once, gently, and that would be the end of it. Why does that mean so much?

She shivers, and her hands forget their inertia and slide down to Iman's hips, pulling her closer. There's so little space between them, anyway; she scarcely has to dip her head for her lips to find Iman's again. It's so easy, and she can't suppress a faint hum of satisfaction, as if sampling a dessert-in-progress and finding it perfect.

Greta's hum is low and almost dignified, but Iman actually lets out a delighted squeak when she's pulled back in. This has her adrenaline rising much quicker than the initial test; she feels elated and, oddly, relieved. Somewhere at the back of her mind under the slosh of alcohol ~~and false memories~~ she thinks finally, she's been waiting and hoping, and that doesn't make any sense because she just met this woman, how could she feel so satisfied by such an impromptu kiss, how can she possibly know that she's in love with this woman?

The thoughts don't rise quick enough; she moves her hand from the back of Greta's neck to the back of her head, fingers tangling gently into her hair, her other arm shifting down to wrap around her back. Yes, okay, she would like this to continue, please, for the foreseeable future, because Greta smells like flour and tastes like sweet wine and her hands are so nice, and Iman wants this moment to keep happening and to progress. She really, really doesn't want to wake up.

Wake up?

Her hand has slid onto Greta's cheek and she's just caught Greta's lower lip gently between hers when she freezes up completely, memories and explanations rushing back in a disorienting swirl still deadened under psychosomatic drunkenness.

What is - what is this?

She blinks, dazed, and looks at Greta, her expression failing to reached bewildered and so settling for awe.

The squeak is a surprise, and the corners of her mouth tick upwards. That she could even elicit such a sound from Iman is a thrill: she is a famous hero, and Greta is no one, a baker, and yet here they are, making out in an alleyway like a pair of teenagers. Is this even real?

She doesn't care. Iman's fingers are in her hair, and her lips are soft, and she's being so gentle - reverent, almost, as if Greta is the lofty, unattainable one, and she can't believe her good fortune. Which doesn't make the least bit of sense, she's not--there's nothing intimidating about her, surely?

She's sliding one hand up Iman's back in what she hopes is an encouraging sort of way; the other is experimentally fondling the hijab when Iman suddenly stills. Oh, dear. Should she not have touched the scarf? Greta opens her eyes, expecting to see shock or reproach and not the expression Iman's currently wearing, which is... stunned, but not in a bad sort of way.

What's happened? What is she missing? Why have they stopped? Is... is that all?

"Iman?" she hazards, searching her gaze for some sort of explanation. "Is--are you..." she fumbles uncertainly, terrified all of a sudden that she's made some sort of mistake, got the wrong idea. Well, of course she did. She's only a baker, and Iman is a hero, and they might get a moment in an alleyway but nothing that will last; she doesn't get to keep this. Why would she?

She releases Iman's hijab, and wonders if she ought to extricate herself completely, but she can't bring herself to do that. Instead, she finds herself lifting her hand to Iman's face, brushing her fingertips against her cheek. "I--" she starts.

And then she wakes up.

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Saving Lives a Mile High [open to all]

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ur a monster

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