#Oh well!!! Must find a couple meals I can rotate through

[mossistyping]

I've ordered 4 helmet stickers for my water bottle to show everyone exactly what kind of loser I am <3

[prepare4trouble]

"I don’t have enough middle fingers to let you know how I feel" with Ivar, if you’re up to it 😊 Thanks

I didn't know until I googled it to see how feasible it was to set this one in the past rather than a modern AU, that that particular gesture has been around since ancient Greece. Given how many cultures turn up in Kattegat, it seemed entirely feasible that someone might introduce it to our favourite Vikings...

I was aiming to write a couple of hundred words, but it kinda got away from me.

Oh, and it might be worth mentioning in case it isn't obvious, that this is set in the years we don't see, between the two halves of season 4.

Ivar stretched out on the hard, sunbaked ground outside the hunting cabin that he and his brothers had claimed as their own. He placed his hands, fingers interlocked, underneath his head and stared up at an endless blue sky.

Days like this were a rarity, and all the more precious for it. After a busy morning and a good meal, the brothers relaxed in the afternoon sun before they needed to make their way back to town.

“I saw something interesting at the market yesterday,” Hvitserk said. His words broke through the silence, and Ivar found himself glancing, interested, in his direction. He noticed Ubbe and Sigurd doing the same.

“Well?” Sigurd asked after a moment. “What was it, then?”

Hvitserk smiled. He glanced at each of his brothers in turn, then his gaze settled on Sigurd, who had asked the question. “This,” he said, then lifted one hand and raised his middle finger in Sigurd’s direction.

Sigurd frowned, and looked around as though hoping that somebody would be able to provide an explanation. Ivar watched, interested. He didn’t know exactly what was happening, but it was clear from the amused look on Hvitserk’s face that it wasn’t good, and the fact that it was aimed at Sigurd just made it all the better.

Hvitserk held the pose for a few seconds, then dropped the hand and turned away as though his point had been eloquently made.

A burst of laughter from Sigurd told him, most definitely, that it had not. “What was that supposed to be?” Sigurd asked.

Ivar rolled over onto his side, to get a better view of whatever it was that was happening between his brothers. Ubbe, he noticed, was watching closely too.

“It’s a hand gesture that I saw one of the traders in the marketplace making,” Hvitserk explained. One man said something the other didn’t like, so in response, he did this.” He made the gesture again. “I like it. I think it could catch on.”

Ubbe cleared his throat. “We can all see that it’s a hand gesture, Hvitserk,” he said. “What I think Sigurd is asking, is what is it supposed to mean?”

Hvitserk looked at his hand, rotating it slightly to view his finger from another angle. “It’s an insult,” he said.

“An insult?” Sigurd repeated. “How is it an insult? I mean, I’m not feeling particularly insulted right now. Is anybody else?” he glanced to Ubbe, then to Ivar, and back to Hvitserk, then shrugged. “It seems not.”

Ivar smirked, reluctant to say anything that might be misinterpreted as taking Sigurd’s side, but unable to resist. “He’s right, Hvitserk, if you have to explain your insult, perhaps it’s not as effective as you were hoping.”

Hvitserk’s smile wavered slightly. “It’s… I think it must have something to do with putting it up somebody’s…” he stopped, then shrugged. “I’ll ask him If I see him again. The point is, it’s insulting. If we were from that trader’s homeland, Sigurd would be furious.”

“Would I, though?” Sigurd asked. “Why wouldn’t I just do this?” He raised the middle finger of both hands, and directed them at Hvitserk, who glared at him in frustration.

“No, you can’t do that.”

Sigurd looked at each of his hands in turn, then grinned. “But I can,” he said. “So what now? Do you pull off your boots and start showing me your toes?”

Hvitserk shook his head. “Never mind. You don’t understand.”

Sigurd shrugged. “Maybe not, but I like it,” he said. He turned his fingers in Ivar’s direction and waved them around. “What do you say to that, Ivar,” he asked.

Ivar shrugged with one shoulder. “Nothing,” he said.

“No, I suppose there’s nothing you can say, and you certainly can’t wave your toes at me. Besides, if you stick up a finger while your eyes are that blue, you might break it.” Sigurd smirked. “Or I might break it for you.”

“Don’t, Sigurd…” Ubbe said warningly.

While his brother was distracted by the warning tone in Ubbe’s voice, Ivar flipped onto his front, and covered the short distance between himself and Sigurd. Before Sigurd had the chance to realise what was happening and defend himself, Ivar had grabbed him by the wrist and pulled his hand downward. He enclosed Sigurd’s still extended middle finger in a tight fist, and began to bend it backward.

Acting on instinct, Sigurd tried to pull his hand back, but Ivar’s grip was too tight. He tried to kick his younger brother in an attempt to free himself, but Ivar responded with a snarl as he bent the finger back further, applying more pressure to the joint until Sigurd stopped struggling an gasped in pain.

“Let me go,” he managed to say, still trying to pull his hand out of Ivar’s grip, and finding that to do so only made it worse.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ivar saw Ubbe get to his feet as though to intervene. Hvitserk watched, with an expression caught somewhere between horror and fascination.

“You’ll break my finger? Ivar asked. “Well, maybe I’ll break yours.”

Sigurd’s eyes widened in understanding, and he went as still as he could.

“My bones might break more easily than yours, brother, but believe me yours will break. All it would take is a little…” he bent the finger back further still, to the point where he could almost feel the joint about to come out of place. “...encouragement.”

Sigurd whimpered. It wouldn’t take much more; just a little bit of force and the willpower to actually make himself do it. And maybe it wouldn’t break, maybe it would dislocate. Either way, it would be a while before Sigurd threatened him like that again...

“That’s enough, Ivar.”

Not relaxing his grip on Sigurd’s finger, Ivar turned to see that Ubbe had finally decided to intervene. He turned his attention back to Sigurd.

“Ivar, I said that’s enough.”

On another day, Ivar might have ignored him for just a second longer, long enough to apply a little more pressure and educate his brother on just how weak his own bones could be. But not today; it wasn’t worth it. Maybe when they were at home, and he wasn’t so reliant on his brothers to get him back to Kattegat...

Slowly, but not entirely reluctantly, he released his grip on Sigurd’s hand. As soon as he was free, Sigurd leapt to his feet and backed away, cradling the injured hand in his other. He glared at Ivar, and Ivar smirked back.

“I don’t have enough middle fingers to let you know how I feel about you, brother,” he said. “But remember, cross me again and neither will you.”

“Ivar…” Ubbe said warningly.

Ivar held up both of his hands, palms outward, in a gesture of surrender. “Relax, Ubbe, I’m not going to hurt him,” he said. “Not today, anyway.”

Ubbe sighed. He backed away and sat down again, keeping his eye on Ivar as though he expected him to attack again. Ivar put on the most innocent expression that he could muster, and smiled sweetly.

Ubbe shook his head, apparently unconvinced. He turned to Hvitserk. “This was your fault, you know. If you pick up any more interesting gestures at the marketplace, maybe it would be better to keep them to yourself.

Hvitserk shrugged, then slowly raised a middle finger to his older brother.

[insfiringyou]

BTS - Going Solo (Part One) - Jimin x Ara

Contains: Angst. *Potential trigger warning for descriptions of panic attacks*

Set a few months following their scene in ‘Private Moments’, Ara is faced with a decision which will change the course of her future. 

(Part Two will be uploaded soon, after a few fics focusing on some of the other members.)

You can find out more about our headcanon universe and ongoing storyline here and more about our headcanon girlfriends here.

To read each member & their girlfriend’s headcanon universe fics in order, follow the links here: RM   /   Jin /   Suga /   J-Hope   /   Jimin   /   V   /   Jungkook & our full masterlist of fanart and fanfictions can be found here

If you wish to follow all member’s storylines in chronological order from the beginning, you can find them listed here.

Content below the cut

‘Jimin,

We just spoke, and you asked if I was happy. I think I am. At least most days.’

Ara typed slowly. Her nails had just been manicured and were longer than she was used to. The sound of acrylics against the keyboard rang through the small hotel room. 

‘When I’m with you I can feel really happy. You can be so sweet and loving and I appreciate you always check up on me - to make sure I’m okay. Touring is hard. You know it better than anybody else, and you tried to prepare me for it.’

She gave a soft sigh, knowing no one else would hear. The words were spilling out of her fingers before her brain had time to catch up, though she knew based on experience she would eventually work out what she was trying to say. The room was dark and the white glow from the word document was starting to make her eyes water. The contact lenses had been in all day and were getting on her nerves. Still, she persevered. She could remove them once she had finished. 

‘I’ve been asked to renew my contract.’

She stopped typing, heart thudding, and realised she felt scared. Her hand moved automatically to her stomach and she exhaled slowly before taking a deep, drawn out breath. She had been practicing and it had gotten easier. At first she would panic, and find her chest rising and falling like crazy, on the verge of hyperventilation, but soon she learned the trick; it was her stomach which was supposed to be moving, not her chest. Her cheeks were a little warm and she knew it was shame she was feeling, not embarrassment. She hadn’t told him yet, despite having known for over a week. Tentatively, she continued, fingers picking up speed as she became used to the sensation of the new nails. 

‘You remember me telling you the first was on a trial basis, based on sales. Well - whatever target they set for us, we must have hit it. Even you have noticed the increase in publicity lately...the T.V appearances. They’ve asked me to film a reality show. I don’t know what they’re expecting.’

Her brow furrowed, wondering...

‘I guess they might have asked you too?’

The laptop stayed silent for a long time and she rested her hands against the small, cheap desk as she gazed at the screen. Her mind suddenly seemed blank and she felt stupid. She would never send the document to Jimin, just as she hadn’t sent the ones she had written before; three month’s worth of unopened, worthless ramblings saved in some obscure folder on her desktop, trapped in the harddrive somewhere between her acoustic recordings and photographs of hairstyles she had saved from Pinterest. She often wondered why she even bothered to save them. Her counsellor had told her, time and time again, that keeping a diary would be helpful. She could record her mood swings and track her periods, along with keeping count of what she ate; wholegrains made her bloated, red food colourings brought out a rash. She sometimes worried she might be lactose intolerant, though could handle it in coffee. That type of thing. She kept it up at first; bashfully bringing the sparkly diary into the small office she visited once a month and reciting what she had written to the man opposite. He would nod sympathetically as she spoke, making a comment from time to time; asking how she felt about what she had put. But the company was paying him to do this; all the girls went, and she sometimes wondered if it was the food diary he was really interested in. If her manager was keeping track, making sure she and the other members were not overdoing it on the full-fat salad dressing and milky lattes. 

The diary entries began to dwindle and, not long after her last week-long visit back to Seoul, the meaningless letters on her laptop started. They were usually addressed to Jimin, though she had written several to her father and one to her brother. She wasn’t good with words; she had been told that often enough at school when she would have to read out loud from the book of the week in Literature, or come up with an argument in Business Studies. Her mouth would stumble and she’d turn red, both ashamed and humiliated, until the teacher inevitably took pity on her and told her to sit back down. Writing in private was much easier, especially when she knew no one but her would see.

‘I don’t know how to feel.’

The cursor hovered, blinking at the end of the last line. There was a heavy knock at the door and Ara jumped, hands automatically reaching for the laptop lid, before a familiar female voice called out.

“Ara? Are you coming?”

She quickly gathered herself, clicking the save icon at the top of the screen. The company had arranged a group meal in the restaurant downstairs, though she had forgotten, her mind distracted by more pressing thoughts.

“In a minute…I just need to change my lenses.” She called back, moving her finger against the touchpad as a pop-up appeared. She selected the save button once more, mouth twisting as she read the title in the little window: ‘Untitled #12.’ She wondered if she would ever get around to renaming them properly.

***

“Your hair has so much texture. I wish mine were thicker.”

Ara murmured in reply before catching the young stylist’s reflection in the mirror and realising how rude she must have sounded. Da-eun had come to the company some months before and was undeniably sweet. Too sweet, Ara sometimes thought, for the business she was in. The other makeup artists and hairdressers loved to keep one ear to the wall, in case there was a chance of promotion or, she rather cynically suspected, a way to increase their pay by selling gossip, but Da-eun didn’t seem like that. At least not yet.

After a moment’s hesitation, Ara smiled into the glass at the figure behind her. “I’m glad I have you to do it for me. The roots are a nightmare!”

Da-eun returned the smile and seemed to relax, but a curious expression still played on her features as she ran the straightener gently across the dyed tips of hair. “Are you tired?”

“I didn’t get much sleep.” Ara confirmed, briefly closing her eyes. Da-eun knew not to press her, but she couldn’t help but worry the younger woman might know more than she was letting on. They had shared hotel rooms in the past and, perhaps it was the stylist's instinct, used to paying close attention to detail, but she always seemed to tell when something was amiss. It was frustrating sometimes. 

“I looked at the schedule. You’re not going on set until last so you’ll have time to rest before you go out.” Da-eun murmured helpfully. Ara nodded, relieved. It occurred to her, not for the first time, that Da-eun should quit while she could; while she was still young and hopeful and kind. 

“I just don’t have the energy right now…” Ara sighed as she felt her hair being released. The younger woman finished working the ends and unplugged the device from the dressing room table. 

“Did you sign the contract yet?” 

Her voice was inquisitive and a little optimistic. Ara had never asked, but there was always the chance that Da-eun’s contract was somehow tied to her own; that if the group were to disband, she might lose her job. Ara shook her head lightly.

“No.”

Da-eun raised an eyebrow. “Are you having second thoughts?”

“I just haven’t had time to read it properly.” She said, truthfully. “It’s come around sooner than I thought…”

The stylist moved forward, reaching for the set of hairbrushes on the counter, before selecting the biggest. She teased through the ends of hair with her short fingers before brushing lightly along the bleached roots, smoothing the locks. 

“There’s been rumours.” The younger woman said, voice suddenly low as though she were worried about being overheard. A thick curtain set apart the dressing room from the photography studio, but it was always possible someone was listening. 

Ara blinked, tensing a little. “What?”

Da-eun smiled gently. “That you’re making a solo album.”

“Oh…” The older woman wasn’t sure what she had expected, but this news took her by surprise. “I wasn’t planning on it.” She shrugged.

“That’s a relief.” Da-eun beamed with a small laugh. “I’m looking forward to going home soon. Aren’t you?”

Ara opened her mouth to speak, not sure what she was going to say, but the curtain beside them drew apart suddenly; startling them both. 

“Oh! Costume change…” Da-eun exclaimed, setting down the brush and turning to accommodate the older woman who had just entered. Mimi was a year older than Ara and usually less prone to accidents, but the leather strap on her camisole suggested a wardrobe malfunction which needed attending to at once.

“Sorry to interrupt…” The other woman murmured apologetically, gesturing to Da-eun. “Could you fix this for me?”

“Sure.” She nodded, stepping away.

Ara’s phone had vibrated against her thigh twenty minutes before but she hadn’t wanted to risk opening the text, especially with someone standing over her shoulder. As Da-eun seated Mimi in the rotating chair on the opposite side of the room to take a look at her costume, Ara took the moment to slip the device from her pocket and flick through the recent notifications. Unsurprisingly, it had been Jimin who had texted and she read the sentence a couple of times before returning it to her pocket.

‘Two more weeks. I’m looking forward to seeing you. It’s been too long.’ 

***

Ara sipped from the glass, the cool water clearing her throat and offering a much needed refreshment from the events of the day. Her voice had become raspy from singing, but luckily she didn’t need it to type. 

‘Jimin,

I was cleaning my closet before we went on tour and found the dress I was wearing on the night we met.’

She found herself smiling, a little longingly, at the memory, a strange anecdote coming to mind.

‘It still has a Daiquiri stain on the hem and it’s too big for me now. I don’t know why I’m saving it.’

The thought made her sad, somehow. 

‘I wonder if you remember that night as clearly as I do. I didn’t want to leave. I knew you were with someone else, but I didn’t care.’

A deep frown played on her otherwise gentle features.

‘Does that make me a bad person?’

It wasn’t until she read the line back, she realised the thought had never occurred to her before. Not once in five years. She wondered why it suddenly seemed to matter. With a sigh, she continued, committing her trail of thoughts to the page.

‘You told me it was over the next time we met, and I believed you, but part of me wondered if you’d go back to her, once you knew how inexperienced I was. I guess I know how you feel sometimes. The whole thing has taken me by surprise as well. I never felt like anyone would want me.’

Her chest ached as she typed the final sentence; overwhelmed by emotion. It was true that the compliments and flirty glances she often received were met with an automatic but fleeting sense of glee. It felt novel, after so long of feeling like she didn’t deserve it. It sometimes still felt that way; back in the hotel room, after the cheers of the crowd had faded. She had brought the subject up with her company counsellor who had laughed it off, explaining that everyone suffered with imposter syndrome from time to time; she wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last. On the matter of flirting, she had kept that one to herself. It felt too personal and she was sure it would come across as vain. Occasionally it was unwarranted; the older mens’ eyes moving down her legs when she took to the stage in a short skirt back in Seoul, or the way she jumped in alarm when someone once slipped their hand down the back of her jeans while she stood tightly packed in an elevator in Osaka. But other times she found her heart racing and stomach churning; not thinking of Jimin until she tucked herself in bed at night. A pretty, tall waitress brushing her hand as she handed over the bill in a Thai restaurant, or the hotel doorman who had helped her move her luggage earlier in the week and smiled kindly at her in the lobby. She knew Jimin, of all people, would understand. She had seen the way he played the audience, like he had a secret to share with them all. Early in their relationship it had made her crazy; the way he seemed to flirt with anyone he came into contact with, often without even realising. But now the tables had turned. He would understand; but she wasn’t sure he would accept it. 

She glanced a warily at the shadowy corner of the room where an oversized bouquet of red roses sat on the dresser. They had arrived earlier to the hotel room, along with a postcard sized letter from her manager. He had been unable to make the trip to Taiwan but was waiting for her in Tokyo; the contract was ready, whenever she was ready to sign. The flowers seemed like a bribe; the gesture leaving a sour taste in her mouth. She wondered if the other two girls had received any, or if the privilege was all hers. 

The sound of her ringtone, a chirpy, summer tune, alerted her to the fact that an hour had already passed and it was getting late. She quickly swiped the screen and raised it to her ear, not wanting to wake up the neighbours.

“Hello?”

There was a pause before Jimin spoke. “How are you?” 

“Good.” She squinted at her watch with a frown. “What time is it there?”

“2am.”

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” She asked, a little baffled. He hadn’t called her this late in a while.

“I only just got in. There was a company dinner.” He explained. “What are you up to?”

She hesitated. “Just thinking.”

He laughed, softly mocking her. “Just thinking?”

She shook her head, dismissing it. “Oh, it’s nothing…I was drying my hair.” She lied, fingering the ends of the bone-dry locks in an automatic response. “Da-eun dyed the tips purple for the photoshoot.”

“I liked the pink.” He groaned, a little sulkily.

“They thought purple would fit better with the concept photos.” She mumbled deflatedly. “It’s not really my choice.”

“You could change it when you come home.” He said hopefully. She heard the flirtatious grin in his voice and could picture his smile on the other end. “They can’t do anything about it once your contract has ended.” 

“Maybe.” 

She sounded distant and he noticed the change at once.

“Are you okay?” 

She closed her eyes tightly, temporarily blocking out the glare from the laptop screen. “I’m fine. It’s just been a long day.”

“Did you take a look at the brochures I emailed you?”

“I haven’t had time. I’m sure whatever you pick will be fine.” She knew she sounded a little irritated but was unable to mask it. The weight of the day suddenly seemed to dawn on her and she wanted nothing more than to go to bed. The last thing she wanted to talk about was moving house. 

“I’d really like you to help.” He argued lightly. “There’s a three bedroom going for sale on the Han River. Yoongi says it’s a good deal.”

Ara sighed. “I’m sure he’s right.”

A pause. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I wish you’d stop asking.” She pleaded, feeling on the verge of tears. Jimin seemed to hear the tremor in her voice and thought for a long moment before he spoke, tentatively.

“Maybe you should ask the doctor to change your medication again.”

Ara clutched the phone tightly. “It’s fine.” She tried to smile, hoping it would show in her voice. “I’m feeling much better, just tired.”

“Is that a side effect?” 

He sounded concerned and she nodded to herself, though she knew full well she hadn’t taken the time to read the little leaflet properly. “Probably. Maybe I just need some sleep.”

“Okay.” He agreed, though she sensed his trepidation. “I’d better go then.”

He sounded disappointed and Ara felt guilty once more. “I’m sorry Jimin.” She apologised softly. “It really was nice that you called. It’s just these time zones…”

“I understand.” 

She wondered if he did. Her eyes felt damp beneath her heavy, false eyelashes, making them itch. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

***

She had forgotten her contact lenses and had to rummage through her Birkin to retrieve her reading glasses. They felt strange on her nose and she wondered how she had ever made it through high school wearing them. At least she had been given a moment’s peace to read through the contract. The office overlooked Ueno Station and the rush of traffic below would be too distracting had someone also been watching her. 

‘As a permanent member of the label you should not bring the company into disrepute…’

She read carefully, though the paperwork seemed much larger than the last one she had signed. Some of the phrases looked familiar, such as the declaration of her dedication to being a ‘brand ambassador’, but others were definitely new. Her gaze hovered over one line:

‘...should not jeopardize future success…not limited to personal relationships, controversial thought or opinion including strong ties to political associations, ideologies or groups.’

She expected no less, particularly after Mimi was caught on camera reading a Betty Friedan book. The first part was more complicated and she wondered if Jimin’s management had asked something similar of him. 

With a sigh, she continued down the page, skimming the text now but picking up on key words which seemed important, ‘Maintain a visible and transparent social media presence….Agree to the screening and management of said accounts with the view of protecting our artists and their wellbeing.’

By the time she reached the end, it did not seem to matter and there was a strange comfort in realising this. The past three years had been carefully planned, organised, operated; her future written for her from the moment she stepped foot on stage for the first time. The moments of quiet between shows, or during her increasingly short stays back in Seoul, only seemed to complicate things further. Her thoughts were a mess whenever she stopped to breathe for a moment, and maybe it was easier to shut them off altogether; to give over all control and decision-making to someone else than to try and deal with them all herself. 

The fountain pen was heavier than she expected as she picked it off the table. It had the company brand embossed on the side in gold-leaf which seemed to reflect the fading light outside as the sun set below the concrete structure of the art museum to the West. Slowly, she signed her name on the final page; the ink blotting a little as she moved aside the bound file and repeated the motion on the second copy. The second attempt was neater as she grew used to the feel of the pen in her hand. There was a knack to it; just like many of the things she had grown to learn in her adult life; underwear should be washed on the delicate cycle, t-shirts should be turned inside out before they are ironed, glasses should not be left in the sink too long, should they smash. She had an assistant to do those things now, and her clothes were mostly dry cleaned these days. 

She neatened the piles of paper and put the lid back on the pen, so the ink wouldn’t dry. The first contract had been signed in black Biro, which hadn’t come with such demands. Reaching down, she picked up her black handbag and carefully folded her personal copy, slipping it between her lipstick and glasses case before adding the pen. She had probably paid for it anyway; in her own way. The green light on her phone was blinking and she slid it from the pouch in the lining. The text had arrived while she was in the meeting, which is why she hadn’t heard her phone go off. Her thumb paused over the messenger button for a moment, before she tapped the screen lightly; Jimin’s name and picture coming into view in the little window above the text. 

‘One more week! :)’

***

Thank you for reading. To read each member & their girlfriend’s headcanon universe fics in order, follow the links here: RM   /   Jin /   Suga  /   J-Hope   /   Jimin   /   V   /   Jungkook

& Our full masterlist of fics and original art can be found here

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[curvynerdfan]

Remedies and Recipes

Hey y’all! A friend of mine gave me the idea of Geralt rescueing the reader on a hunt and I kind of went wild with it(almost 2400 words). I hope y’all like it!

Requests are open!

I’m sorry if there are any mistakes, I read over it myself a couple of times and then post

Warnings: curse words?, burns

Geralt x Reader

Geralt of Rivia was renown for his skills at hunting down the most dangerous beasts known to man but even he was wary of the creature he was sent after this time. A dracolizard was from the same origin as dragons, yet more dangerous since there are many more in existence. This draconid can run and fly at astonishing speeds and is the only creature of dragon descent that still breathes fire. Even worse, a dracolizard had a venom-spiked tail. To be frank, Geralt wouldn’t be trekking through the wilderness to kill the beat if it wasn’t for Y/N.

Y/N was beloved by the town of Biala and one of the few people the Witcher held near and dear. She was known for being one with nature. Y/N had what could be considered a green thumb and a free spirit. Many townsfolk would rush to her when a loved one was sick or injured. Y/N cared deeply for the creatures that lived near her cottage and consistently fed and cared for the critters. When Geralt would visit, he’d hunt in the woods nearby but was always aware of her “sanctuary safe line” and made sure not to hunt an animal she may have a connection with. In thanks for all the times she has healed him and provided companionship, Geralt liked to hunt for her and stock her pantry with meat for the winter. Wolves protected her land from trespassers but would also cuddle her in the firelight. She loved to traipse through the woods and collect herbs and plants to use for remedies and recipes. Geralt can only assume that is how the dracolizard captured her.

Geralt tried to push worries out of his mind but all he could scent was burnt flesh and trees. He wasn’t sure how many people the beast had killed and devoured and it took everything in him to keep his head on straight. Usually that wasn’t hard for him to focus on a hunt. Y/N was special to him and now that he was being honest with himself - he’d break if something had happened to her.

Now that he was getting closer to killing the creature, he paused to down an elixir and coat his sword in draconid oil so the blade could slice through the dracolizard’s tough scales. He decided it would be best to leave Roach with his belongings tied to her and let her roam. After he killed the monster he could always whistle and she would find him. He was only six or seven miles from Y/N’s cottage and hoped that he wouldn’t have to search much further. Dracolizards were semi-intelligent, not as smart as a full-fledged dragon, but still very adept. Hopefully, the monster realized that Y/N was more valuable alive but wasn’t smart enough to realize you were important to the man hunting it.

Just as he readied himself and let Roach loose, he heard a vicious screech that made him flinch. Oh, he was definitely close. The elixir was beginning to kick in, as well. His reflexes were enhanced and he could now hear the beasts scales scraping against the charred trees to his left. He steadied the blade in his hand and grasped his shield.

The lizard-like monstrosity noticed the amber-eyed Witcher and raised it’s broad wings in offense. A growl escaped from it’s massive nuzzle filled with razor sharp teeth. The dracolizard’s body was pure muscle. Geralt broadened his stance as the monster began to stalk him. The two rotated in a circle, Geralt keeping a close eye on the creature’s spiky venom-filled tail. The last thing he wanted was to be struck by that.

Suddenly the dracolizard lunged at him letting at another gnarly screech and gnashed it’s teeth at his face. The Witcher blocked with his shield and swiped his sword at it’s chest, managing to rip through some of it’s flesh before rolling out of the way. Geralt quickly hopped back onto his feet and brought his foot down onto the beast’s massive tail. He hoped that this would deter the creature from using the powerful weapon against him. In retaliation, the monster unhinged it’s jaw and released a blast of unrelenting fire in the Witcher’s direction. Geralt barely managed to protect himself with his shield and realized too late that part of his shin was in the line of fire.

Geralt smelt the burning flesh and felt the searing pain and grit his teeth in annoyance.The monster then attempted to fly off but Geralt did not plan on letting it live to attack another dat and dropped his sword and shield in favor of grasping the draconid’s tail. Once he had a decent grasp around the wound he made earlier, he dug his heels in and pulled back. He continued to step backwards,planting his feet and pulling until the beast lost momentum and pain caused it to fall back to the ground and land stomach up.

Geralt quickly lunged for his sword and rolled away from another fiery blast. He ducked behind one of the few remaining trees and waited for the fire to stop. Geralt took a deep breath and launched himself out of his hiding spot, sword raised ready to strike. The dracolizard leapt forward and snapped its jaws. As Geralt ducked, he jabbed the sword upward and into the monster’s neck. Thankfully he hit the beast right in the middle of its throat and as it fell from its charge at him, it fell onto the sword. Unfortunately for Geralt this meant the gigantic draconid was on top of him.

The Witcher huffed in annoyance, “Fuck.”

He began to push the dracolizard off of his body with a groan. Geralt managed to get onto his knees and worked on catching his breath. Once he had a semi steady breath again, he heaved the monstrosity onto his shoulder and stood, shifting the beasts neck off of him. Free from the extra weight, Geralt shook his head and tried to clear his mind.

Once he had his bearings, the Witcher scanned the surrounding area for any other beasts or adversaries in his vicinity. The silence and lack of movement brought relief and worry for the mutant. On one hand it was nice to know that nothing else was going to attack him today but on the other hand, he still doesn’t know where his Y/N is. No, not HIS Y/N, just Y/N.

“Y/N! Y/N are you out here?” Geralt paused to listen before repeating.

He stomped through the forest searching for any signs of life. He kept searching and was becoming frantic looking for her when he heard a small whimper.

“Y/N”, he gasped.

Geralt lumbered towards the boulder he heard the noise come from.

The Witcher couldn’t help but gasp at the sight of her, “Oh, Y/NN.”

Her skin was a sickly pale, several shades lighter than her normal glow. There was a nasty bruise across her face and her nose had dried blood from when she must have hit her head. There was a large, grotesque burn spanning from the edge of her right shoulder and up her neck as well as several smaller burns and scalds on her body. Geralt grunted in annoyance. He wished he had decided to visit a day sooner. Y/N whimpered again and her face scrunched up in pain.

“Shhh, Y/N. It’s all gonna be okay. I’m here now, nothing else will hurt you ever again.”, Geralt soothed softly. “I’m gonna pick you up, okay?”

Geralt asked but didn’t expect a response and he didn’t get one. He bent down to pick her up trying to be wary of any obvious injuries. The Witcher slowly slid an arm under hers and then the other underneath her legs. Geralt let out a classic hmm, lifted her off the ground and away from the ground.

Y/N’s head lolled against his shoulder, “ mm, careful Gera---,” her words faded out but eventually she came to again to warn him, “there’s a , mmm there is a monster here” , she mumbled, “it’ll burn ya.”

Geralt couldn’t help but chuckle lowly and shake his head. Even gravely injured Y/N was worried about the Witcher’s safety. He whistled for Roach but kept his pace steady in the direction he last saw his mare. Roach trotted up to him and he gently asked her to stand as still as possible. Geralt lifted Y/N above his head and placed her on his mare. He then quickly mounted Roach and wrapped his arms around Y/N. He clicked his tongue and led Roach back to Y/N’s cottage.

As they approached the cottage, he noticed smoke bellowing from the wood-burning stove. Y/N had a knack for creating wonderful meals out of what the forest provided and he wouldn’t be surprised to see some type of stew or soup hanging above the fire.

He hopped off of Roach when he got close to the entry-way and quickly lifted Y/N off of Roach. He carried her cradled in his arms and nudged the door open with his foot. He walked through the threshold and straight towards her large bed. Geralt gently layed her down and began to rummage through her herb and medicinal plant collection.

“Need a new salve”, Y/N managed to groan out, “ used the last of it on other victims.”

Geralt hummed in acknowledgement, “Of course you helped everyone possible”

He began to collect the different ingredients he needed. He sliced multiple pieces of aloe vera from one of her many plants and then added calendula, lavender and comfrey. He ground the ingredients together with a mortar and pestle. Once he was sure the mixture was properly prepared, he paced back to her gently propped her against the pillows.

He peeled her dress away from her wounds and flinched when Y/N groaned in pain. Geralt wanted to get her out of the dirty dress and into something more comfortable but didn’t want to do so when she wasn’t coherent. There were also more pressing matters at hand. Once the dress was off of the burns and out of his way, he began to cover the burns with the salve. By the time Geralt got to the neck and shoulder burn, he could tell that Y/N had begun to relax. He gently dabbed the concoction onto the massive burn and reminded himself to ask her tomorrow for scar remedies. Y/N sighed and seemed to be drifting off to sleep.

“Not yet, love. Let me get you some water first then you can sleep all you want.”, Geralt promised.

“Mmmm, love? Finally admitting that you have feelings for me handsome?” Y/N asked gently with an edge of humor in her voice.

“Yeah, I guess I am”, Geralt said and quickly ducked out of the house, heading for the well.

Geralt led Roach to the well and filled up the trough with water for her. He decided to take off her saddle and anything else connected to her, happy to let her roam in the safety of Y/N’s sanctuary. He mumbled at Roach about his slip of the tongue and she neighed back.

Geralt shook his head in amusement “I know, I know.”

The Witcher then pulled more water from the well and filled a pitcher and a bucket to bring into the house. He gently shut the door behind them and placed the bucket on her vanity. Walking closer, he poured some of the water from the pitcher into a cup for her. He then cradled the back of her neck with his other hand and helped lift her so she could sip from the cup.

She hummed when the cold water hit the back of her throat and cooled the inner heat from being surrounded by the burning trees. Geralt then moved across the room to pick up a rag and dip it into the bucket of water. He then used the rag to wipe the dirt and soot off of her face before dipping it again and cleaning her arms and legs, careful to avoid the burns where he had just placed salve.

Y/N was beginning to softly snore and had snuggled down into her pillow. Now that he knew she was safe he decided to clean himself up and apply salve to the burn he received while slaying the dracolizard. He peeled off his leather armor and stripped off his shirt. He reaused the same rag from before. Geralt dipped it in the bucket of clean water and began to clean the dirt, soot and draconid blood from his body. Lastly, he cleaned his lower half, stripping completely to cange into a pair of the loose pants Y/N kept here for his visits and long stays. Completely clean, Geralt pulled a chair towards the bed so he could sit and watch over his self-proclaimed “love”.

Y/N’s eyes open at the sound of a chair scraping against the wooden floors. She lets out a grumble and Geralts’s eyes shift quickly to scan and make sure she was okay.

“Join me… love” She whispers with a little chuckle.

“ I, uh…” he stumbles over his words.

“Geralt, get in the bed.” she demanded, “I am trying to tell you, I love you too…” she paused and started to fall back asleep before mumbling out “ so, get over here and cuddle me”.

Geralt huffs in disbelief for crawling into the bed with Y/N. He gently slides towards the middle of the bed and lets her move and contort herself until she is comfortably resting with her head on his chest and right hand resting gently on his torso. The Witcher hums in content as the lovely beholder of remedies and recipes rests against him. He tenderly kisses the top of her head and lets himself loll to sleep as well.

💕I hope y’all enjoyed it 💕

Taglist: @justahopelessssromantic

[angryhausfrau-writes]

Something Old and Something New - Chapter 9: ...and a Show

Dinner feels like it's dragging on forever. Part of that may be the requisite several courses – canapes, soup, fish, entree, salad, and cheese plates - plus aperitif and digestive. And that's not counting the wedding cake as the dessert course. And all of it must be eaten in tiny delicate bites so as to appear refined and ladylike.

Frankly, Marjory is ready to throw propriety to the winds halfway through the third course. All she wants is to dash her silverware to the floor and run off with Charles to the honeymoon suite. Or Timbuktu, she's not picky. Anything to get away from the constant barrage of insincere well-wishers and political maneuvering.

But that's rather the whole point of the evening, so she will bear it with as much grace as she is able. And Charles is certainly in his element – powerful and cuttingly condescending and so completely the scion of American aristocracy. It makes Marjory laugh, it really does, to imagine just what the cowed and condescended wedding guests would say if they could see that Charles has his knee pressed against Marjory's under the table. If they knew just how kind and doting and sweet he can be. They'd all be shocked – and none more so than Charles's grandmother, who's watching over the wedding guests as they speak with the head table like a queen deigning to entertain petitioners. Cold and callous and utterly unsuaded by their pleas for mercy.

Though in all fairness to her, most of the guests attempting to curry favor are making a rather poor showing. Offerings of money and social connections means very little to a Winchester or an Oakes. They have both in spades – certainly more than a mere relatively impoverished offshoot of the Vanderbilt family. But custom dictates both sides play this game. They can no more refuse to petition the family than Charles can refuse to hear them out.

But all of this means that dinner takes several hours. And is almost interminably boring throughout.

Marjory can see that the back table, where all of the fun people are gathered, have similarly taken to rotating places throughout dinner so they can use the meal for a presumably much more enjoyable type of socializing. The focal point of the maneuvering appears to be Hawkeye – and she'll have to schedule a gossip session with Honoria, conveniently seated next to him, to pick up all the scuttlebutt once her honeymoon is over. Whatever the MASH contingent comes up with in the way of salacious gossip is bound to be infinitely more interesting than whatever one of the silver-spoon-set's mistress or polo pony or whatever has done now.

And Charles clearly agrees - Marjory can tell just how eager he is to join his friends at their table. But they must stand strong. Must endure.

She squeezes his hand surreptitiously in comfort. It can't be much longer now. They're bringing out the coffee and brandy and cigars. And then they'll have a few minutes to themselves before the room is cleared for dancing. They ought to be able to sneak away out of the spotlight then.

--

After dinner – and what appear to be obligatory stops at some of the more prestigious tables – Charles and Marjory come join the MASH table. And Trapper can see why they'd wanna join the unwashed masses. It seems like they're having a whole hell of a lot more fun than the stuffed shirts focused on propriety or whatever. And as much as Charles likes to pretend he's all proper – with a stiff upper lip and a heart made of stone - he really ain't.

And Trapper figures Charles oughtta have a good time on his own goddamn wedding day of all days. So he's happy enough to wave him over to join their Korean reminiscences – even if he's heard all of Charles's stories about eighty times by now. It's worth sitting through them again if it makes Charles look a little less like his public facade.

Plus, it gives him a chance to congratulate the other half of the happy couple. And maybe rib Charles a little about marrying up - cuz there ain't no way he's anywhere close to Marjory's league. And by Charles's blushing besottment, he knows it too.

And it's nice to chat with him for a bit. But they just saw each other and there's other fellas from further away who ain't seen him as recently wanting to say their own congratulations. So Trapper kinda backs off from the crowd, pulling Hawkeye along with him.

Cuz honestly? It's a lot. A lot of people, a lot of half-strangers – the partners of fellas stationed at the 4077 or people who'd only drifted through for a day or two, not permanent assignments, not part of the regular crowd. People who've all heard the legend of the famous Hawkeye Pierce and want a glimpse of the man. Want to crowd around and touch him like he's some kinda reliquary instead of a human being.

And Hawk's starting to look pretty run ragged at all the being at the center of attention-ness. All the feeling like he's gotta entertain people, be who the stories have made him out to be. So Trapper starts looking for an exit. And there – there's a door to the veranda right off the ballroom. Perfect.

“Hey, Hawk, I'm gonna step out for a smoke. Care to join me?”

The speed at which Hawkeye takes his arm and says, “Lay on, Macduff!” makes Trapper sure this was the right call. And he can't say he's too upset about a little alone time with Hawkeye, either.

--

“If I have to mmm hear one more mm question mmmm about when me and Margaret mmm me and Margaret are getting hitched mmmm oh Trap! I'm going to absolutely lose it!”

Trapper moves his kisses to Hawkeye's neck. He's talking too much right now to make his mouth a good target. And kissing him under the jaw usually gets him to cut out the griping pretty quick.

“No hickies, Trap! I mean it!”

Though maybe not in this case.

“Well, us coming out here alone and you coming back in with love bites would probably stop the questions about why the two of you ain't married yet.”

He licks over the spot he'd previously been trying to bite.

“But I promise I won't do anything to get us arrested.”

“It probably wouldn't work anyway,” Hawkeye says through a gasp. “They'd just think Margaret had snuck out here somehow.”

“Might be nice to have such an iron-clad beard. We could get away with a whole hell of a lot with Maggie as a built in alibi.” After all, that'd been the impetus behind them both chasing nurses so hard back in Korea. Part actual enjoyment – at least on Trapper's end, if not so much on Hawkeye's - part competition, and part cover.

But Trapper doesn't want to spend his limited time alone with Hawkeye thinking about that, so he goes back to mapping his skin with his mouth.

And gets pushed away when Hawkeye clutches a dramatic hand to his chest. “Trapper! How dare you suggest we move to Jersey! I absolutely refuse to live further south than Brooklyn.”

“You're such a snob, Hawk,” Trapper says, leaning back in to press another kiss into his skin. “But I guess you're right that Margaret wouldn't wanna leave off bossing around her nursing staff and move up north with us either.”

“So I guess we're stuck as bachelors, then.”

“Guess so.” Trapper kisses Hawkeye deep and full on the mouth. And they stay like that for a while, Hawk finally settled enough to sink into it.

Then Trapper pulls back a little and lights a cigar - since that's their whole cover for this little assignation – pulling on it just enough to light it. He needs all the air in his lungs to kiss Hawkeye.

Eventually, they hear the door to the veranda scrape open and Trapper puts some space between himself and Hawkeye. Who nearly undoes his efforts when he takes the cigar from Trapper's loose grip, wraps his lips around it, and takes a drag that Trapper feels in his dick.

“You're a fucking menace,” he growls, before taking the cigar away to prevent any further teasing.

--

BJ loses track of Hawkeye somewhere in the confusion of backslapping and well-wishes surrounding Charles and Marjory. And, noticeably, Trapper's gone as well.

And it's not that his frantic search for Hawkeye has anything to do with imagining what the two of them are doing by themselves, away from the party. It's just that BJ wants a chance to talk to Hawkeye away from the crowd of other wedding guests, that's all. His search is completely justified and not at all blown out of proportion.

When BJ finally finds Hawkeye, he's out on the veranda. And he is with Trapper.

They're standing in the lee of the building and Trapper seems to be acting as some form of windbreak for Hawkeye, practically looming over Hawkeye as he lounges against the wall. And it does something to BJ to see them like that.

Hawkeye's got a cigar in his mouth and he takes a long, slow drag. Then Trapper leans even further into his space and says something BJ can't quite hear but that ends in a growl. And then he's pulling the cigar from Hawkeye's mouth and taking a drag himself.

BJ is definitely interrupting. And he feels a little bit bad about it – but he really does want a chance to talk to Hawkeye – and just Hawkeye. And this seems like his best shot at it. If he can get Trapper to leave, that is.

“Hey, Hawkeye, can I talk to you for a minute?” BJ asks. As if all of this is normal and he isn't interrupting an obviously intimate moment.

Hawkeye just stays where he is, lounging against the wall, completely relaxed, and looks expectantly at him. And Trapper makes no move to move away from Hawkeye, either.

“Alone.” And that maybe comes out ruder than he'd intended. But if it works, BJ isn't going to exactly split hairs over the etiquette of horning in on his crush's elicit relationship.

“Figure I'm just about done out here anyway,” Trapper says after a beat of silent communication between himself and Hawkeye – which BJ has been seeing a little more of than he'd like tonight, if he's being honest.

And then Trapper stubs his cigar out on the wall next to Hawkeye's head. He's leaning in again, bracketing Hawkeye with his arm and BJ is. BJ is...

And then Trapper's pulling away, thank God, and saying, “I'll go see if Kat has an opening on her dance card.”

“Save a slot for me, will you?”

“You've always got a slot on my dance card, Hawk,” Trapper says with a wink.

BJ knows he's just joking. But. But what if he isn't.

He puts that out of his mind and just enjoys having Hawkeye all to himself for a while. And it's almost like being back in Korea together. They're on the same wavelength, practically finishing each other's sentences, full of inside jokes. And BJ thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can tell Hawkeye how he feels – all of how he feels.

But then BJ has to open his big fat mouth about Trapper.

--

When Trapper gets back inside, the band is just finishing tuning up and he gets to watch Charles and Marjory sweep across the floor in an elegant waltz. And it ain't really his favorite way to dance, but there's no denying they look real happy dancing like that together and he's glad he gets to see it. Especially cuz he missed the wedding ceremony. This feels like maybe almost as meaningful as witnessing the vows. Certainly more meaningful than the Godawful speeches from earlier.

And then there's all the other dances between different members of the wedding party, which kinda ruins that whole intimacy and tenderness deal. Especially the truly awkward looking dance between the bridesmaids and groomsmen – well, awkward on the part of Honoria's date, who seems to deeply regret whatever life choices led to him having to dance with the groom's drunk sister - who appears to be trying to drag him into a foxtrot rather than a waltz. But at least there's some entertainment value there.

And honestly, that seems like a pretty good idea, the foxtrot thing. So Trapper has a few dances with Maggie and Kat that are nice and sedate and in three-quarter time. But when Honoria stumbles back over, the two of them manage a pretty decent swing rhythm over top of the orchestral music. Which spurs other couples to try the same thing.

Letta and her husband show off an excellent Charleston – and Radar and Patricia are doing something that is very obviously not a waltz. Must be some new craze all the kids are into.

Trapper wishes Hawkeye were here, cuz he'd love this. And he'd prolly try and put a lindy to the slow waltzes, which is bound to be worth seeing. But he's still shooting the shit with BJ outside, so Trapper just pulls Donna out onto the dance floor. And she's game to get tossed around a little, so that's fun.

“Not feeling like hotfooting it with the rest of the youngsters, Padre?”

Francis smiles up at Colonel and Mrs. Potter as they make their way off the dance floor – which has grown rather crowded and frenetic of late.

“I'm afraid that attending the seminary doesn't keep one up to date on the latest dance hall crazes very well.”

Sherm laughs. “No, I guess it wouldn't. And they're sure pulling out all the stops – I haven't seen dancing like this since VE day in Paris.”

“Well, we're not exactly the dance hall crowd ourselves anymore either, dear,” his wife reminds him.

Sherm harrumphs in grudging agreement. “Getting old's the damnedest thing – pardon my French, Padre. Half the time I feel like a damn newlywed, just setting up house with the missus. And then I look in the mirror and I ask myself when I got so Goddamn old. Again, pardon my French.”

Francis just waves his apologies away. “I've certainly heard worse language than that, Colonel. I was at the front, after all.”

“I'm sure you did.” Colonel Potter laughs. “I don't envy you having to hear confession for this bunch.” He gestures to encompass the dance floor. Which is filled with several couples dancing quite close together indeed.

“Let's just say that my life has gotten significantly quieter since I left Korea.”

Not that he actually heard many confessions while at the 4077 – not official ones, anyway. Sure, there was always the occasional soldier passing through the hospital wanting to unburden himself before he went back home or back to the front. Or Catholic members of the MASH unit who would confess to months worth of sins all in one go, in order to receive the Eucharist at Easter or Christmas mass. But most of the confessions Francis heard were closer to conversations. Conversations full of deep seated fears and guilt and longing and grief, but conversations. Without the trappings of the confessional or the stole or the traditional forms of penance.

Because the majority of his flock hadn't been Catholic, and some hadn't even been Christian. And it was his job to administer over them all in whatever way they needed – his own personal theology be damned. It was his job to help them.

But the Philadelphia diocese doesn't quite see things that way. He isn't there to help, he's there to administer – and that's it. He's there to tally up all of his congregation's sins and punish their trespasses. He's there to uphold the might of the Church – and therefore the almighty God – before all else.

So it's just as well that Francis has been mostly doing youth outreach, these days.

Most of the young men he coaches simply want someone to listen to them. To hear their problems without judgment. To feel like they matter, in the vast scheme of the universe – that they are seen in the eyes of God.

And Francis may not hear so well anymore, but he's able to do this one small thing. Just as he was able to do it for his flock in Korea. Who have all managed to come home – mostly safe and mostly whole – and about as well as anyone could be after experiencing what they'd all gone through together.

“Do you ever miss it? Korea, I mean.”

“That's a hell of a question, Padre.” Sherm sighs. “I've been through three wars and each one was worse than the one before. But Korea – getting to know all the folks at the 4077 – that was almost worth it. Worth the mud and the blood and the shi- the crap. Worth being away from my wife and kids and grandkid. Almost.”

Sherman looks out at the dance floor again. At all the smiling, laughing kids - who managed to make it home, who've managed to be happy.

“So I don't really miss Korea all that much, but I sure did miss this.”

Francis nods in understanding and they sit together in silence that's something akin to communion.

--

Hawkeye comes back inside to find that the 4077 has caused a whole pile of chaos and consternation – and he's missed being at the heart of it!

But it looks like the little dance party that's sprung up in his absence is still going strong. They've attracted a bit of a crowd, too – mostly bored kids and all the MASH guys not busy dancing with their own dates – all standing around the dancing couples in a loose circle. It looks a little bit like an exhibition and Hawkeye can see that Trapper is showing off some of the fancier steps he knows while dancing with Kat. And it looks like he's having a pretty good time – but Hawkeye's willing to bet neither of them would mind too much if he cuts in. And since BJ's run off to dance with Peg, well, there's not much point in him standing around on the sidelines.

“How'd it go, dear?” Peg whispers into BJ's chest as they waltz together. “Did you tell him?”

BJ sighs. “I wanted to, I really did, Peggy. And I tried. But I made the mistake of mentioning Trapper - and then Hawkeye was too busy gushing on about him to listen to anything I had to say.”

He looks over to where Hawkeye and Trapper are giving the kids who've congregated around their little group swing dancing lessons – with Hawkeye focusing on footwork, and Trapper throwing the kids around like grinning, giggling sacks of potatoes.

“And I – I couldn't just stand there listening to that. Not without doing or saying something stupid.” Not without wrecking his own chances of Hawkeye hearing him out. His own chances with Hawkeye.

“Well, I'm glad you didn't put your foot in it,” Peg says matter-of-factly. “And I'm sure you'll have plenty of opportunities to talk about it later,” she adds in consolation.

They dance on in silence for a while.

“That's the thing, Peg – what if I don't? What if I can't?”

BJ glances over at Hawkeye again, who's now looking warmly, so warmly, at Trapper as he very seriously leads a little girl through a slowed-down Charleston. He looks fucking besotted.

“It's not like me telling him will change anything.”

It's pretty obvious that Hawkeye isn't going to hear BJ's confession and come rushing into his arms. It's obvious that, for whatever reason, the barrel of commitment issues that is Hawkeye Pierce loves Trapper – has chosen to spend his life with Trapper.

And maybe, BJ consoles himself, it's just a case of Trapper getting there first. Staking his claim. Because BJ still doesn't understand what it is Hawk sees in the guy, what it is Trapper can offer him that BJ can't offer more of or better or.

He shakes his head to dispel that train of thought. Because that way lies madness. And he's been trying not to be so petulant about this.

And Peg's giving him a look.

“I'll try to find a chance to tell him as soon as I can.”

Peg nods. “That's all I ask – that you try.” She moves her hand off his shoulder to cup his neck. “Now how bout you stop thinking on Hawkeye and show your wife a good time?”

BJ pulls her even closer – till she's practically plastered to his front – and does his best to put Hawkeye out of his mind. But it's not easy. Not when Hawkeye is so bright and shining and right there, head thrown back in joyous laughter. And so, so beautiful.

--

Him and Hawkeye are making a pretty good showing of teaching dance moves to all the kids who've been let run loose by their rich snob parents – parents too busy with squabbling and grandstanding and standing around drinking champagne to look after their own damn kids – and so used to servants, prolly, that they don't even think that it could be their responsibility.

And Trapper don't mind doing it, really. He likes kids, and it ain't their fault their parents can't be bothered with 'em. It's pretty fun, even, once he convinces the kids they gotta behave like decent human beings and wait their turns or he ain't gonna teach 'em. So, Trapper don't mind at all what his evening's turned into.

But Trapper knows Hawkeye – better than he knows himself sometimes. And he can see that mischief's brewing, can see it in his eyes.

So he ain't surprised when Hawkeye starts making noise about this being fun and all but he really wants to dance the lindy sometime tonight. And he starts making an exaggerated show of looking around for a dance partner. And Trapper just knows what's gonna come next in this little production Hawk's putting on.

“Does anyone here know the lindy hop? Anyone at all?” Hawkeye looks pointedly around the crowd, practically daring them to come forward.

Next to him, Trapper sighs resignedly – though he really don't mind all that much, if he's being honest – and raises his hand.

And Hawkeye starts in on the next act of the pageant. “Anyone other than Trapper? A woman, maybe? A woman of the female persuasion?”

No one says anything. And Trapper makes eye contact with Letta, who most definitely knows the lindy, he's sure of it. But she just winks at him and stays silent.

“Looks like you're outta luck there, Hawk,” Trapper says with a commiserating hand on his shoulder.

“I know. I was really looking forward to it, but I guess that's just how it goes.”

And Hawk looks at their audience with sad puppy-dog eyes, a cue for the next act to start. Cuz they need someone else to step forward for the next part of this little play or it won't look right.

Max takes the cue – and she always was quick on the uptake when it came to schemes and practical jokes. Always willing to help out a friend.

“Nah, c'mon Hawkeye. You talked it up all the time in Korea – how good you were at the lindy. And now you're gonna wiggle outta showing us again? We ain't even being shelled.” Max takes a breath so the next line has maximum impact. “I think it's just that you ain't even all that good.”

And that – that's perfect.

Making it a challenge. Making it so that Hawkeye loses face if he doesn't do it. Making it so that it plays right into the competitiveness of American masculinity.

And then Charles – who'd wandered over sometime during the dance lessons, apparently – makes it even more iron-clad.

“Yes, Hawkeye. Show us your prodigious skill on the dancefloor that I've heard so much about – and have yet to see in person. If you're not bluffing, that is.”

And that seals the deal.

“Why Charles, you know I could never refuse your oh-so-reasonable request. And certainly not on your wedding day!” Hawkeye grins up at Trapper, full of delight and mischief and tenderness. And then he holds out his hand, like some kinda gentleman or something. “May I have the honor of this dance?”

And Trapper takes his hand in kind, fluttering his eyelashes and acting like a real blushing belle – just really playing up the farce of it. The joke of two guys dancing together. The joke of it being Hawkeye leading.

Cuz then, they ain't looking close enough to see how Trapper leans into it. Just how tender Hawkeye's hand is on the small of his back when they come together. Just how well the two of them fit.

And the lindy's a good choice for this kinda thing. They ain't dancing too close together – most of the steps involve them flinging themselves away from each other, orbiting their joined hands, before crashing briefly together for a moment before being thrown apart again. And the pace is fast, frenetic, not at all romantic. Not visibly intimate.

Though Trapper doesn't know how it couldn't be intimate, not when it's Hawkeye, not when it's the two of them together.

The trust it takes – the soul-deep knowing of each other it takes – for them to switch who's leading in the middle of a step and not lose the thread of the dance. For them to part with Hawkeye leading and join back together with Trapper in charge, cuz he can toss Hawkeye around a little, show off some of their fancier steps. Cuz he can be the steady anchor for Hawkeye when he goes flying through the air in joyful abandon. Cuz he can be there to catch Hawkeye when he comes back around. Trapper doesn't know that there's anything much more intimate than that.

This. This was what he wanted, what he needed. The feel of Trapper's strong arms and steady hands. The knowledge that he's there to guide Hawkeye through the steps – and that he won't let him stumble. The feeling of freedom as he flies across the dancefloor, knowing Trapper will be there to catch him as he descends back to earth.

Hawkeye feels like his face is going to split open, his smile's so wide.

And he would love to dance with Trapper the rest of the night. To revel in that feeling until the end of time. But eventually the band ends their current song and they have to stop. Because they can get away with one song – already longer than he'd usually have when dancing the lindy, due to the slow tempo of the waltzes the band keeps playing – but two songs would be out of the question.

So the song comes to an end and he and Trapper separate. With plenty of backslapping and joking around and a general air of it all just being one big joke. And Hawkeye sketches an elaborate bow at the raucously cheering crowd of kids and MASH vets – and even some of the Back Bay brigade, who have deigned to stop and watch the show, are applauding genteelly.

“Thank you, thank you, you're too kind. Really.”

And Trapper's standing next to him, a friendly hand clapped to his shoulder. A hand Hawkeye can subtly lean into, press himself against. Use to shore himself up as he comes down from the adrenaline rush of the dance.

“Really, thank you. We're here all week.” Hawkeye grins at Trapper. “Or the rest of our natural lives, whichever comes first.”

“I don't think I can afford to put us up at this hotel for the rest of our lives, Hawk. Might not wanna tell 'em that.”

Trapper has started steering them off the dancefloor, through the crowd, and over to their table. So one of the snobs overhears that comment and laughs meanly. And Hawkeye can feel Trapper tense where he's still got an arm slung over Hawkeye's shoulders.

“Hmm, that's true. But surely you can afford to buy me a club soda.” Hawkeye fans himself dramatically with a hand. “I'm parched.”

“Sure, Hawk. I think I can swing that.”

Trapper relaxes slightly, with a task to fulfill and an excuse to get out of there. So Hawkeye relaxes too, and turns to chat with the Padre and the rest of the MASH folks. Because everyone seem to have taken Hawkeye sitting down as the official signal to end their own dancing and start congregating around the table.

And part of him hates being the social center of the 4077 again. Hates being pushed back into the role that'd driven him literally insane back in Korea.

But part of him is glad because it means he can deflect all of the attention off Trapper and onto himself.

And he isn't worried about getting lost again. Not with Sidney sitting across from him and BJ at his elbow and Trapper across the room. Not with Father Mulcahy smiling at him in gentle understanding and suggesting a poker game as he brings out a deck of cards.

[heyitsani]

I’m Hopeless Now

Keep on Truckin’ AU Part 3

Word Count: 4491

Rating: Mature-ish

Warnings: Robincest (obviously, even if they’re not siblings in this au), mentions of terrible parenting, parental death, death by overdose, drug use, foster care

Pairing: Dick Grayson/Jason Todd

Summary: Jason takes Dick out on their first date and gives the other man a glimpse into a part of his life few know about.

Notes: There is just so much fluff in here. But the next installment has some angst, not like HEAVY angst but it's there.  Next up is Duke’s introduction to the ‘verse!

Also, I'm not a Spanish speaker but there are a few Spanish phrases in this story. If there are mistakes, let me know and I'll make the edits. Google and a Cuban friend were my sources. Grammatically, I went off what I know from my Italian knowledge. But I apologize if I got anything wrong.

Translations: mi amigo: my friend Ay amigo encontraste uno bueno: Oh friend, you found a good one tu cita: your date

You can also read this on AO3 here

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

The dull thud of his head hitting the wall of his closet was the only sound outside of Jason’s muttering under his breath that could be heard in his place currently.  He liked silence, it was steadfast, and it allowed him to think clearly.  Though in the time he had spent over at Dick’s the past week, he had come to find having soft music or the tv on low volume constantly in the background was nice as well.

It had all been overpowered by Dick’s constant need to talk, but Jason hadn’t minded that either. 

Jason knew that because he had been an only child to a pair of parents that absolutely should not have been parents, he never got accustomed to constantly having people coming and going.  But the time at Dick’s had showed him he could actually enjoy it.  Only a small portion of the time had been just the two of them.  If it wasn’t one of his brothers, then Dick’s friends (yes, he had managed to meet a couple more of the infamous harem) had an on-going rotation.  Kory and Roy had proven to be Jason’s favorites so far.  But from what Dick had said about Donna and Barbara, he was sure they would make that short list as well.

But while he had enjoyed the constant noise of Dick’s, right then he needed the silence he was used to because he was having a crisis:  He had absolutely nothing to wear to the date he was taking Dick on in just a few hours. 

He had done his research and asked the few friends he had been able to get away from Dick to see what the other man liked, and it had all been a resounding and firm fun.  It didn’t matter where or what, just make sure it was fun and lively because the man enjoyed life.  He liked to smile, laugh, and soak in the presence of people who were enjoying themselves.  Jason’s past dates had all wanted expensive and to be spoiled.  Dick was the son of a billionaire and that meant he already knew expensive.  And while he wasn’t spoiled, he probably knew that already as well.

With the help of Roy, he had decided on a Cuban restaurant that was one of Jason’s favorites because the music was live and the food was amazing.  The staff knew him well and he loved submerging himself in the culture.  It was lively and fun and there was no way someone like Dick wouldn’t love it.  He was just slightly bummed that he wouldn’t be able to test out Dick’s dancing skills since he was technically still healing from being shot.

And while Jason had clothes he had worn there in the past, this was different.  He was taking a date there and not just any date.  Dick fucking Grayson.  The first guy he had been head over heels for in a long time.  The last time he had felt this strongly about someone, she had broken his heart and Jason had sworn off serious relationships.  Rose had done her damage.  Dick had started to heal it.  Without even meaning to, he had started to mend the broken part of his heart that Jason had tried to protect and build walls around.  The man was something else.

Glancing over his limited “date worthy” options, Jason gave up and grabbed a deep red sweater that had always been a crowd pleaser in the past and a pair of black slacks.  Casual but polished.  It would have to do. 

He grabbed the pair of shoes he usually wore with the pants he had picked out before leaving his closet and dropping the items on his bed.  He had just over two hours to shower, shave, and primp before he was due at Dick’s.  He could do this.

He couldn’t do this.

He wasn’t sure what he had been thinking, but standing in front of Dick’s door he was starting to second guess why a man like Dick would ever want to go on a date with a man like Jason.  What could he possibly have to offer the older man?  And Jason knew that this was stupid, that Dick was a smart man and wouldn’t agree to a date or even openly say he wanted to date Jason if there wasn’t something he liked about the younger man.  But the panic was still there.

“There’s a security panel in his living room,” a laughing voice came from behind Jason, causing him to turn quickly to see Dick’s brother, Tim, standing there.  “You know he probably knows you’ve been standing here for like five minutes freaking out, right?”

“What?  I’m not…”  Tim raised an eyebrow and Jason let his shoulders slump.  “I’m totally freaking out and I have no idea why.  What are you doing here?”

Tim held up a bag that looked like it had containers of food in it.  “Alf can’t make it the normal day this week so he made the meals at the manor and asked me to drop them off.  I thought you two would already be gone.”

“I’m still early.”

“I don’t care.  All I want to know is if you want to come in with me now or wait to actually knock and have him open the door?”

Jason considered his options and shrugged.  “Now, I guess.”  Tim nodded and slipped his key into the lock, pushing the door open and heading inside.  “Not like he doesn’t already know, right?”  Tim laughed and headed further into the penthouse.

“Dick?!  I found a dude dressed for a good time in front of your door and let him in!”  Jason felt his cheeks warm at that comment but just took a deep breath and followed the path Tim took.

“What?”  Dick’s muffled voice came from the direction of his bedroom before Jason watched him come out wearing a pair of dangerously low slung dark gray pants and his dark blue button up unbuttoned, exposing a tempting amount of skin.  Well tempting if it hadn’t been partially marred by an angry looking healing patch of skin from his injury.  “Jay!  I’ll be ready in like two minutes!”  Jason shrugged as he watched Dick rush over to give Tim a hug before pressing a kiss to Jason’s cheek with a whispered you look amazing and rushing back into his bedroom.

“Maybe he hadn’t noticed,” Tim commented as he opened the freezer and started moving things around to fit the containers of food he had brought.  “By the way, Damian ran a background check on you and is impressed at your culinary school accomplishments.”  Jason sputtered at that and looked at Tim with wide eyes, but the college student wasn’t paying him any attention.

“How..?  Is this a weird Wayne thing that Roy warned me about?”

“Yup.” 

“What did Roy warn you about?”  Jason turned his head to look at Dick who was now completely done up and moving to the couch to pull on his socks and shoes.

“Weird Wayne things,” Tim called out, head buried in the freezer still.

“Oh yeah.  Did Dames do something?  Or was it Bruce this time?”

“Demon brat.”

“Don’t call him that.  What did Dami do and do I need to talk to him about it?”  When Tim didn’t answer, Dick glanced over at Jason to see if he knew.

“Background check.  Apparently, my culinary school accomplishments are reason to be proud.”  Dick looked like he was considering the actions before shrugging and going back to his shoes.  “Have you done a background check on me?”

“Nah,” Dick said, standing and smoothing down his pants before moving over to where Jason was still standing and smiled up at him.  “Bruce did it long before I even considered it.  All I had to do was mention you one time at Family Dinner and he knew.”  Knew?  Dick must have seen the question in his eyes because he laughed and pressed a hand over Jason’s heart.  The motion did not send a wave of warmth through his chest.  Nope.  “He knew I wanted to know more about you.  That I would want you to know more about me.”

“That predictable?”  Jason teased, raising his hand to cover Dick’s.

“Maybe.  Or maybe he could tell it was different this time.”

“Jeeze, now I get what Damian was complaining about.  You’re disgusting.”  Jason looked over to see Tim giving them a look that spoke of bad smells or unpleasant flavors.  “Aren’t you guys going on a date?”  Dick huffed out a laugh and Jason dropped his hand from Dick’s so the other man could move away and gather whatever else he needed.  Which was a wallet from the kitchen island and a cell from the docking station near the couch. 

“All right, I’m good to go.”  Dick told Jason as he double checked everything.  “You’ll lock up and set alarms before you leave, Timmy?”

“I might hang out for a bit, if that’s cool?  B has Selina over today and Damian is on high alert.”

“You got it.  Guest room is yours if you want it.”

“But…”

Even Jason knew what that but was about and he couldn’t help but shake his head at the implication.

“What kind of harlot do you take me for, Tim?  Not on the first date!”  He was joking, though.  With Dick?  He totally would fall into his bed on the first date.  If he hadn’t been shot a few weeks ago.

“Uh huh,” came the unimpressed reply.  “Have fun you two.  Bring back ice cream if you can.”

Dick called out his goodbye and grabbed Jason’s hand, tugging him toward the door before Jason could say much more than a goodbye as well.

“Who is Selina?”  Jason asked curiously as they headed for the elevator. 

“Bruce’s on-again/off-again girlfriend.  They’re obviously on at the moment.”  That was all Dick offered as they stepped onto the elevator and he hit the bottom for the lobby.  “So, where are we going?  Roy hinted that he knew but you have been so hush hush on it.”

“That’s only because it took me a while to figure out where to take someone who has probably experienced every date worthy spot in this city.” 

Dick pressed a hand to his own chest and tried to look offended.  “Are you calling me a serial dater?”

“Nah, but Wally did suggest that you had made the rounds in your circle of friends…”  Jason teased, smirking.

“Hogwash,” Dick waved his hand.  “I’ve never dated Kal or Donna.”

“Only those two?”

“Eh, it’s hard to keep track of who I actually dated and who I’ve just ‘had fun’ with.”  Jason knew Dick was joking, thanks to Wally actually clearing up the fact that Dick had really only dated and/or slept with a small portion of their friend group and he had been joking.  But the idea of Dick being so flippant about something Jason had been so serious about in his own life was a change.

“Your dating history aside, I actually just meant that I know Bruce Wayne likes to spend his money on Gothamite businesses.  So, I assumed that included restaurants.”

“That’s absolutely true.  But there are plenty of places I have never been.”

“And I found one, according to Roy.  One that I frequent actually.”  Dick raised a brow in question, the ding of the elevator reaching the lobby filling the small space.  Gesturing for Dick to go first, Jason followed him toward the front door where the valet had allowed him to park his motorcycle earlier.

“I assume it’ll be good food then.  A man with your talent wouldn’t accept anything less.”  Jason simply nodded and thanked the man holding his keys out for him.  “Are you going to tell me?”  Jason just shook his head and smiled, handing Dick a helmet he had brought along before grabbing his own.  Dick simply rolled his eyes and tugged the helmet on.

The ride to the restaurant was short, no more than ten minutes, but Jason was man enough to admit that he wished it were longer just for the fact that Dick would keep his arms wrapped around his waist.  But since he couldn’t actually just drive randomly around the city, he settled for grabbing Dick’s hand to hold while they walked up to Havana, the music already easily heard from outside the building.

“Here?”  Dick question, flicking the thumb of his free hand toward the double doors of the restaurant Jason had chosen.  Jason nodded and watched Dick turn back to take in the choice.  The smile that spread across his face was enough for Jason to know he had made the right choice.  “I have heard about it but you’re right, I’ve never been.”

“Well, allow me to introduce you to one of the best restaurants in Gotham,” Jason told him as he tugged open one of the doors and let Dick walk in before him.  The warmth of the room hit them immediately and Jason took a deep breath, letting the spices fill his senses before he smiled at Sofia, the owners daughter who happened to be the hostess for the night.  “Sofia,” he greeted, smiling softly at the teenager.

“Jason, hi!”  The girl smiled brightly before looking at Dick and Jason could tell the moment she recognized exactly who he was.  “Oh wow.”  Jason couldn’t help but chuckle, but Dick had his attention turned elsewhere so he nudged his date.

“Oh, sorry.  This place is amazing,” Dick commented, looking toward Jason before turning to look at the girl who was so obviously fangirling.

“This is Sofia, she’s the owner’s daughter,” Jason supplied, and Dick turn his charming smile onto the girl.  “We’ll take a table for two, Sof.”  The girl nodded, but her eyes remained wide and on Dick.  Not that Jason could blame her.  Richard Grayson was a beloved celebrity of Gotham.  Bruce had his own following, but Dick was considered the sweetheart of the city.  He charmed everyone who came into contact with him.

“This way,” the girl said, trying to maintain some sort of professional appeal as she led them to Jason’s favorite spot and set their menus down before they took their seats.  “Jorge will be over in a minute.  Do you want the usual drink?”  Being a regular meant the staff knew Jason’s favorites but they didn’t know Dick’s.

“I’ll wait for Jorge,” he told her, and she nodded with a smile, glancing one last time to Dick who flashed her another bright smile, before she rushed off.  “You have a fan.”

Dick snorted and picked up the menu.  “I tend to have them everywhere.  She was sweet though.”  And Jason just couldn’t get over that.  How could someone be so used to that sort of attention?  “So tell me, Mr. Todd, what is your usual?”

“They make a fantastic daiquiri,” Jason shrugged, unapologetic from the seemingly “feminine” cocktail.

“That we do!”  Jason looked over to find the familiar waiter standing by their table, smiling at the two of them.  Though, Jason could see the question in his eye when his gaze landed on Dick and moved back to Jason.  “Shall I have two whipped up?  It’s mango season and we just had a fresh batch delivered.”

“Oh yes, that sound like heaven.”  Dick’s reply surprised him, but it probably shouldn’t have.  So, he simply nodded his agreement.

“And the usual chips and dip, mi amigo?”  Jason nodded and Jorge headed off to the bar to take care of the starters.

“You know, I should be upset you brought me to a place made for dancing when I’m under strict orders to avoid it,” Dick drew his attention.  Jason leaned his elbows on the table and smiled at Dick, shrugging a shoulder.

“When you’re given the all clear, I’m more than happy to bring you back just to get you on that dance floor.”

“I’ll be holding you to that,” Dick smiled, leaning onto the table as well.  And there was no doubt in Jason’s mind that he would do just that.  “So you come here enough that you have regular orders and the waiter calls you his friend.”

Jason shrugged a shoulder.  “Jorge calls everyone friend.”  Dick raised an eyebrow and Jason couldn’t help but chuckle.  “Okay fine, yes.  I come here at least once a week.  Most of the time I carry out, but a couple times a month I eat in.  A lot of them also order from my truck.”

And Jason had really liked that they respected him as a customer enough to try and support him as well.  It was a true brotherhood of sorts.  And a lot of Gotham had that same vibe.  You look after me, so I look after you.

Jason kept his eyes on Dick and observed him taking in everything around them.  It was so strange to see someone who wanted to take it all in.  In the past, his dates had always been more focused on the moment between them.  But this sort of air between them spoke of comfort and not feeling like they had to impress each other.  They had already done that.  Jason was already gone and he could tell in the small touches and the smiles that Dick was right there with him. 

So instead of focusing on Jason, Dick’s eyes scanned the room.  Jason watched his head bob to the upbeat music coming from the stage.  He saw the longing as sapphire eyes drifted over the couples dancing, pausing at a mother/son pair that caused what looked like pain to spill into his eyes.  But it was gone as quickly as Dick moved his eyes over to the bar area where there were rowdy customers enjoying a sporting event while drinking.

“This place is magical,” Dick said, finally turning his eyes back to Jason.  The smile on his face was comfortable and relaxed.  He looked no different than when they were on the couch eating a meal Jason had prepared.  And Jason couldn’t help but feel the same. 

The moment was broken by the return of Jorge with their drinks and the chips.  He gave a warning to Dick about the spice levels of the salsas he had put down but Dick simply waved a hand at that and went right for the hottest.  And since Jason had already made his spicy chili for the man and had watched him not bat an eyelash, he just watched Jorge’s eyes widen as Dick showed no signs of trauma as he went in for another.

“Ay amigo encontraste uno bueno,” Jorge clapped Jason on the shoulder with a bright laugh and Dick smirked.  Jorge probably had no idea Dick could understand.  “Do you know what you’d like?”

Jason looked over at Dick and raised an eyebrow to see if he knew what he would like.  Dick held up a finger and opened the menu quickly to scan it as he chewed before swallowing.  “Oh, you do have it!  Rabo encendido, por favor,” Dick said, accent perfectly on point and Jason tried not to take too much pleasure out of Jorge’s surprise.

“Si, best there is amigo.”  Jorge looked over at Jason who simply nodded as he grabbed Dick’s menu and handed both his and Dick’s over to Jorge.  “Alejandra is in the back, I’ll let her know you’re here.  She’ll want to meet tu cita.”  Dick’s laughter as Jorge walked away was worth the flush he could feel on his face at the teasing.

“Hey,” Dick pulled his attention away from him watching Jorge head to the kitchen.  He found Dick with his drink raised for a cheers and a cheeky smile on his face.  “To us?  It only took us forever to get to this point, but I’m glad we’re here.”

Jason grabbed his glass and clinked it with Dick’s, his smile going soft and that warm feeling in his chest returning.  “Yeah, to you not dying and me not thinking you just ditched me.”  Dick snorted into his cup and Jason wanted to pinch himself because how could that action be just as endearing as the moment they had earlier with Dick’s hand pressed over his heart and his own hand covering Dick’s?  He was a goner.  There was no hope for him in that moment.  None at all.

The ease the date started with continued on through the meals and Jason found himself enjoying a more lively side of Dick as he fed off the environment of the room.  The cheerful banter he exchanged with the owner of the restaurant and Jorge left Jason even more glad he had decided on a place that meant something to him personally.  Yes, there were other restaurants in the city that he was considered a regular at, but not like this.  Not since Alejandra had known the woman who had raised him.  How he had stayed at the Rivera house after she had died.  But Dick didn’t know any of that.  He didn’t know how much this place meant to him and the impact it had on his career choice because Jason had never told him.  Instead he watched Dick form his own opinion on the people he cared about and let him charm them without any influence.

“You know,” Dick’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts, drawing ocean blue eyes to sapphire.  “You haven’t told me how you came to be a regular here.”  His eyes were bright, cheeks splashed with red from the alcohol consumption, and his smile loose.  A smile always so freely given.

“I’ve known Alejandra since I was young.  She helped me when I had no one else.”  He watched Dick tilt his head to the side, prompting him to continue.  Taking a deep breath, Jason let it out slowly and steeled himself for sharing this.  “She was my mother’s friend, the only one that I know of outside of her drug addicted friends.”  Swirling the melted frozen drink in his glass, he let his eyes slip just past Dick’s shoulder.  “When my dad just stopped coming home, I spent a lot of time with Alejandra because my mother wasn’t exactly a good parent.  And when Catherine died of an OD, Alejandra took me in.”

The hand that appeared over the one still swirling his drink around caught Jason off guard and he looked back to Dick.  “You don’t have to do this here.  I didn’t know, I’m sorry.”  And it struck him again, with those words, that he really had no idea how he had managed to score a guy like Dick.  His date who just wanted to know more about the past that Jason kept under lock and key. 

“I want to tell you.”  Which was absolutely the truth.  Jason wanted to let Dick into every corner of his life, let him fill in the empty spaces of his heart.  “But maybe not here.”  He watched Dick nod in understanding and Jason felt his shoulders relax a little.  He hadn’t even noticed that he had tensed up, but obviously Dick had.

“Let’s square up here and then head back toward my place.  There’s a gelato place a block away that Timmy likes the best, we can take a walk.  Looks like a nice night.”

Jason sighed and smiled.  “Yeah, that sounds perfect.”  With a glance over his shoulder, Jason coughed Jorge’s attention and the man gave a nod before getting to work on closing their tab.  Jason pushed to his feet and looked at Dick who’s brow had furrowed in an adorably confused expression.  “They have my card on file.  And Jorge knows to add 25% each time.”

“I was thinking we could split the bill, though…”  Jason laughed at that idea.  The glare Dick sent him was just as cute as the confusion and Jason just held out his hand to help Dick out of his own chair.  “Fine, but I get to pay for the gelato.”

“Sure thing, Handsome.  Sure thing.” 

Dick gracefully got to his feet and brushed off phantom crumbs while keeping hold of Jason’s hand.  Jason watched him in amusement before letting the older man lead him toward the exit.

“Bye Jay!  Bye Dick,” Sofia called out from her post near the door.  Jason paused to kiss the girl’s cheek and Dick gave her his blinding smile and a wave before the pair slipped back out into the cooling Gotham night air.

The pair were silent as they made their way back to Jason’s motorcycle and then back to Dick’s apartment building.  It wasn’t until they were close to the gelato shop that Dick paused and turned to face Jason.

“Before we’re back in a crowd of people or with Timmy, I just wanted to say thank you.  Not just for the amazing night, but for letting me into that piece of your life.  I don’t ask about your past because I can tell it’s private.  And if you want to tell me one day, then I’ll be happy to listen,” he spoke softly and Jason just remained silent, letting him say his piece.  “But don’t think you ever have to tell me anything you don’t want to talk about.  There are things that will take me a while to talk about and I know you’ll respect that.  I just want to make sure you know that I’ll do the same.”

Waiting a moment to be sure that Dick was done, Jason took a step closer and placed the hand not still being held by Dick’s onto the older man’s cheek.  “I don’t know what I did to deserve someone like you, but I’m really fucking glad I did it.”  He cut Dick’s responding laugh off with his mouth, pressing their lips together in a way not too dissimilar to the kiss they had shared in the hospital not too long ago.

The feeling of Dick’s hand slipping around his hip to clench at his sweater on back told him that he had made the right move.  The press of their bodies together coupled with the hum of approval from Dick was all the encouragement Jason needed to slip his hand from Dick’s cheek to his hair to angle the other man’s head just so.

When Jason finally pulled back, he couldn’t help but smile at the sight of Dick chasing his lips.  “Let’s get that ice cream and head back to give your brother some.”

“If you’re interested, we can put in a movie?”  It was the first time Dick had sounded a bit hesitant with him since they had decided to give a relationship a try and it made Jason’s heart clench a little.

“That sounds perfect.”  Dick’s responding smile had Jason leaning forward for one more kiss before they walked the rest of the way to the gelato shop.

[isitgintimeyet]

Road To The Aisles

AO3

Previous

Happy Sunday. Hope it’s a good one for everybody. Another chapter and the wedding is getting closer. Time for a hen party...Warning: nsfw

Thanks to @mo-nighean-rouge @wickedgoodbooks @happytoobserve and to everyone who reads, comments, likes or reblogs x

Chapter 20: A Convivial Carousing

“What's so unpleasant about being drunk?"

"Ask a glass of water!”

― Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy

Claire thought she had been quite clear about this to Geillis. She distinctly remembered sitting in her office a few weeks ago when the subject had first been broached. Geillis had run through a list of possible suggestions for a hen party; beginning with a weekend in Benidorm (“imagine, sangria by the bucketful and eye candy in speedos”) all the way to a meal out with friends (“nice and safe”) detouring via an Ann Summers’ sex party (“It’s jes’ like a Tupperware party, ye ken, but with more cocks”), skydiving (“that adrenaline rush, as good as sex, I reckon”) and a burlesque dance class (“yer man’ll thank ye fer it later”).

When Claire had vetoed all the suggestions apart from a meal and drinks with friends, Geillis had then changed tack and began listing some well prepared ideas to “make the evening go with a bang, aye?”. Using the power of veto once more, Claire had made clear her thoughts on ‘pin the cock on the hunk’, any games involving dares or forfeits, any performers of the semi-(or un-)clad variety or costumes announcing that they were a hen party.

Geillis had tutted vociferously but eventually shrugged and agreed to Claire’s conditions.

So, why was she now sitting in this cocktail bar, wearing a sash proclaiming her to be a bride, while sucking her (admittedly rather moreish) cocktail through a plastic penis? She looked along the table at her friends, each wearing a matching sash and all busy writing on cards provided by Geillis, sharing their tips for a sexually successful marriage.

Jenny caught her eye and smiled. “I dinna think I ought tae be suggesting sex tips fer ma baby brother. It’s a wee bit —“

“Yucky? Disturbing?” Isobel ventured.

Geillis just caught the tail end of the conversation. “Only if ye’re doing it right.”

She winked before resuming her writing.

Claire drained her cocktail and moved on to the next already waiting for her. She studied Geillis over the rim of her glass, noting the glint in her eye as she wrote her contribution on the card. No doubt sharing some tips from her and Dougal’s activities, Claire told herself, interesting to read but maybe not her and Jamie’s type of thing.

As Geillis worked her way around the table, gathering up the cards, the door of the bar opened and a ‘fireman’ came in, tall and broad shouldered in his overly tight uniform. He carried his helmet in one hand and a portable speaker in the other. He stood for a moment glancing around before spotting Claire and her friends. He strode towards them, a cheeky grin on his face.

Claire felt herself redden and prayed for the ground to swallow her up. She cursed the sash proclaiming her to be the bride again; she cursed the balloons, spelling out H-E-N, tied to her chair; but most of all, she cursed Geillis, who had promised faithfully that there would be absolutely no adult entertainment this evening.

She glared across at Geillis, who returned her gaze with a confused expression of her own and shook her head slightly. Claire quickly watched the rest of her friends for any knowing smiles.

By now, the fireman had reached their table.

“I’m here on an emergency. Someone,” he looked directly at Claire. “Someone is too hot to handle.”

He sucked the air through his teeth noisily, in a parody of a passionate sigh. Claire did the only thing possible. She drained her cocktail and reached for the next one waiting for her.

“So,” the fireman drawled in a fake American accent, rotating his hips suggestively. “I’m going to have to use my hose… my extra long—“

He stopped abruptly as one of the bar staff tapped him on the shoulder and whispered in his ear, gesturing to a room off the main bar area.

Shamefaced, the fireman shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry, hen,” he now spoke with a broad Glaswegian accent. “This isna the right party. I’d best be heading.”

His eyes lingered on Geillis, now smiling coquettishly, before he turned and followed the barman. His arrival at the correct party was heralded by a series of loud whoops and cheers, clearly audible even over the hubbub of Saturday night two-for-one cocktail drinkers.

Claire breathed a sigh of relief and felt her stomach muscles unclench.

“Ye ken, Claire, I wouldna do something like that tae ye.” Geillis patted her hand. “I kent how much ye didna want that kind of thing. So, why don’t we have another cocktail, I’ll collect up the cards and we’ll see what kind of perverts ye have fer friends.”

Whether it was the sheer relief that Geillis had no embarrassing entertainment on the agenda, or the heady mix of cocktails coursing through Claire’s veins, but she finally decided to give in and throw herself wholeheartedly into the silly and potentially embarrassing hen party spirit.

Clearing her throat dramatically, she read each of the cards out loud, everyone trying to guess the originators. Some were obvious; who else but Geillis would have written about, in great graphic detail, a suggestion involving handcuffs, floggers and a black leather dominatrix outfit? And it was clearly Isobel who gave advice about the healing power of a hug. (“Not necessarily sexual,” she clarified. “But vital.”)

But Claire would never have guessed that it was Mary, the shy but efficient theatre nurse, who advised her to have a ‘toy cupboard’ next to the bed and always have spare batteries to hand. And as for a now clearly drunk Jenny’s confessions about her role playing adventures with Ian (a somewhat complex plot involving a Highland warrior and innocent serving wench fleeing the redcoats), well, Claire felt that was something best kept between the girls, and not to be shared with her future husband.

The rest of the evening passed in a whirl of chatter, laughter and alcohol. Claire knew she was drunk, not steaming drunk like Jenny, whose eyes were closed and her chin propped up with her hands, but in that tipsy phase when everything is wonderful… and shiny... and hilarious… and full of love.

Suddenly the bright overhead lights made Claire’s eyes begin to water. “What’s going on?” She asked.

Geillis began to gather up her belongings. “That’s it. It’s one am. Time tae go home.”

“But… but… can I not have another drink? I liked the..er.. orange one. Can I have another orange one?”

Geillis laughed and picked up Claire’s bags. “Ye’ve had about half a dozen different orange ones, Claire. It’s time fer the taxi.”

“Where’s Jenny?” Claire looked around.

“Ah, Weel, Isobel is seeing her home. I tell ye, it’s jes’ as well ye’ve some sensible friends, otherwise I dinna ken how ye’d go on. C’mon now, taxi’s waiting.”

Claire stood up as Geillis reached across and untied the balloons. Claire grabbed her arms and pulled her close.

“Can I thank you, G, for tonight, and for… well, for everything.” Her breath was warm on Geillis’s cheek. “You’re a real friend and, amazingly sober, I must say even after…”

Claire tried, unsuccessfully, to peer at her watch over Geillis’s shoulder. “...even after ...after lots and lots and lots of cocktails.”

Geillis kissed her cheek. “Nae bother, I didna have a lot tae drink. I knew ye wasna a big fan of the whole hen party thing and I wanted tae make sure this night was jes’ right fer ye. Now let’s get ye home. Back tae yer fiancé.”

“Thank you, G… have I already said that?” Claire started to follow Geillis out of the bar then stopped abruptly, putting her hand to her mouth.

“What’s the matter? Ye’re no’ going tae puke are ye?” Geillis quickly began to search for a plastic bag.

“No… no, I’m not puking, but, G, imagine… it’s all thanks to you that I’m here, getting married to Jamie. If you hadn’t given him my number in ED, we would never have got together, never dated, never fallen in love…” Claire sniffed and rubbed her eyes.

“Och, away wi’ ye. I tell ye, the pair of ye were born fer each other. Ye would have met either way. Mebbe me giving him yer number was jes’ a shortcut.” Geillis gave Claire a quick hug before pulling away. “Now come on, the taxi driver will have started his meter and I am no’ paying any more than the price I agreed on the phone!”

************

Jamie glanced at his watch as the doorbell rang. He yawned, stretched and switched the television off before walking to the front door.

The doorbell rang again. As he unlocked the door, it rang for a third time, a prolonged, urgent ring. He opened the door to find Claire giggling as she leant against the door frame, her shoulder pressing into the doorbell.

He waved to Geillis in the waiting taxi before following Claire into the hall. She spun around and flung herself into Jamie’s arms, nearly causing him to lose his balance. Ignoring his sudden exhalation of air, she kissed him noisily on the lips before nuzzling his neck and blowing raspberries against his skin.

“A good night, I take it. And a wee bit drunk too,  are we?” Jamie ventured a guess.

Claire pulled away, indignantly. “No, I’m not. Are you? You seem a bit unsteady there on your feet.”

“Well, what have you been drinking then?”

“Oh, some absolutely scrummy cocktails. I started with a slow comfortable screw. Have you had one of those?”

Jamie smiled. “Frequently.”

“How about a slow comfortable screw against the wall?”

“No’ fer a while.”

“And I had a silk panties martini… to match what I’m wearing.” Claire undid the zip on her jeans to confirm.

“Then I had a couple of flaming orgasms… mmm, so good.”

“Ah so, multiple orgasms. I tend tae stick tae the one, myself.”

“And I think there might have been a slippery nipple in there somewhere,” she hiccuped.

Jamie steered Claire to the stairs. “You head up tae bed, Sassenach.”

“Are you not coming too?” She pouted.

“I’ll be up in a minute. Just locking up.”

***************

Armed with a bottle of water and two paracetamol for the morning, Jamie entered the bedroom, fully expecting Claire to be fast asleep and snoring. On the contrary, she was still very much awake, lying on top of the covers, clad only in a red thong and matching red bra. The rest of her clothes lay in a heap on the floor.

“See, red silk panties,” she giggled, flicking the elastic on the thong.

“Aye, not quite silk though, jes’ a wee bit of lace as far as I can see. Now, come on, get in tae bed. Ye’ll be needing yer sleep.”

“But I’m not tired,” she protested as she scrambled onto her hands and knees and worked her way down the bed to where Jamie stood. “C’mon, Mr. Fraser, let’s have some fun.”

She knelt up and let her hands run around the waistband of his jogging bottoms, her fingernails lightly raking the skin.

Jamie inhaled deeply. “Claire, Sassenach, no. I dinna want tae take advantage of ye when ye’re drunk.”

“Jamie,” Claire’s voice was stern. “I may have had a few to drink, but I am fully aware of what I am doing...”

She edged the waistband down over his hips, his cock already standing proud. She ran a finger down its length, watching Jamie’s stomach muscles tense as he tried to calm the sensations she was arousing. He could feel her breath warm against his thigh.

“... And so it seems does our friend here. Don’t fight me, Jamie. I’ve had a plastic penis in my mouth for most of the evening. Now it’s time for the real thing.”

Grabbing his buttocks, she pulled Jamie closer to her before bringing one hand to cup his balls, massaging them in her palm. She wrapped her other hand around the base of his cock as she took him fully in her mouth.

Jamie closed his eyes and finally allowed himself to succumb to Claire’s ministrations. The warmth of her mouth as she rhythmically worked up and down, her tongue stroking and caressing made him harder than he thought possible. He entwined his fingers in her wild curls, encouraging her to take more of his length into her mouth.

He pulled back slightly as he felt his excitement building, keen to try and prolong the experience. Claire moaned, a small mew of disappointment, and brought him closer to her again, resuming the same relentless rhythm.

His breathing grew ragged. “Sassenach,” he groaned. “Sassenach, I canna … I canna…”

She felt his release, warm in her mouth as he stilled then withdrew. Jamie, panting, opened his eyes to see Claire, kneeling back on her heels, her curls in wild disarray, cheeks flushed, breasts nearly escaping from the confines of her bra. Her nipples, dark and erect, were visible through the red lace, her panties clearly damp.

She smiled, a lazy smile of self satisfaction as she swallowed then licked her lips. Jamie gasped at this wanton image in front of him.

“Sassenach,” his voice was husky. “I’ve an idea. Can I get our special camera?”

Claire nodded. “Ooh, yes. I’ve a couple of ideas myself, Mr. Fraser.”

As Jamie went in search of the camera, Claire lay back on the pillows and laughed. All those tips tonight for a successful sex life, she told herself, and I don’t think we’ll need any help in that area… ever.

[theheartchoice]

dean/cas  |  15x13 coda  |  2.6k  |  (ao3) 

It feels strange, being back in his own clothes after wearing those of this world's Dean. Perhaps now that he's felt what is native to this universe against his skin, something from another universe, a place he called home, feels foreign in an understandable way. 

But it's more than that. Even back home he always felt like he was wearing someone else's clothes, living in someone else's skin. He loves hunting, loves his family, and at the very least has an appreciation for the funded support and security their life afforded them - especially after hearing what the other Winchesters have had to contend with. But at a certain point one may take stock of their life only to realise that the person in the mirror, however familiar, is also alien, somehow. 

However different their lives have been, the shock of meeting, of their paths converging, had worn off soon enough and was replaced with a respect for those differences. What this world's Sam and Dean have here is something he didn't know he wanted, and yet knows is vital to achieving true happiness. It was the very thing missing from his former life. 

Freedom. 

To not be dictated to, not have one's every move scrutenized, and not be restricted in the daily aspects of one's life - right down to the trivial, and moreover, the private. To wear what one wants, drink what one wants, live one's day as it comes and not be scheduled to the minute of every hour for months in advance. 

He mourns the loss of his world but he can't bring himself to miss it all that much. Things may be uncertain - which is a novel feeling - but they are no longer confined by Hunter Corp. or indeed the wishes (or rather, the demands) of their father. Here, they can live however they choose, and in meeting this world's Winchester brothers, in hearing their story, in learning about their world, he knows the possibilities outside of hunting are plentiful.

For the first time, retirement is a viable option. 

Laying the cherry-red-and-black plaid button-down on the bedspread, along with the dark crew-neck cotton shirt folded neatly, and the hip-riding jeans that do everything to flatter their respective bowleggedness, boots tucked in at the foot of the modest frame, he wonders if this world's Dean might allow him to keep one such outfit for himself. He's not certain if it's entirely his style, but he honestly doesn't know what his style is, yet. 

All he knows is that these clothes were comfortable; he's never known any garment to feel soft in that worn-in kind of way, a way his own clothes never had a chance to become. Blood stains and monster guts don't exactly wash out, even with their layers of top quality protective gear meant to keep it at bay, so every couple of months his wardrobe would cycle out and brand new pieces would filter in to fill his closet. It was like shedding one barely-worn skin for a stiff new one; nothing ever fit quite right, despite the tailoring. 

Slipping his beige jacket back on he reaches into the breast pocket and retrieves the pair of prayer-bead bracelets, sliding them back over his wrist. He hadn't wanted to remove them, but unlike his brother he heeded the warning of this world's Winchesters to make themselves appear authentic. His own clothes may not feel authentic to him - even less so now than they did previously - but these beads were chosen and paid for by him alone, with no middleman involved. They hold meaning, they are special, and perhaps the only thing not cycled out of rotation with the rest of his wardrobe when hunting made a mess of things. 

When he does change clothes again, he thinks, when he finds his own true sense of style and comfort, he knows these beads will stay with him; no matter what he wears, no matter where he goes, or who he discovers himself to be. 

There are three things that travelled with him through that portal that he knows are worth keeping, because they are real: his love for his brother, his love for his long-deceased mother, and his love for a lost Angel. 

  *  *  *

  Dean has said, as others have written, that soup is good for the soul. Now that Jack's soul has been restored - and his true appetite returned - it seems a fitting first meal. Which is why Castiel is currently defrosting a batch of Dean's homemade chicken soup in the microwave. 

He remembers the first time he tried to operate one of these machines; things did not go as planned. But the subsequent lesson from Dean had been worth cleaning up the mess. It had been just the two of them, standing side by side in the bunker's kitchen for what seemed to be longer than necessary to explain the basic functions and demonstrate to Castiel the best settings for particular needs - culinary, or otherwise. 

They've come a long way since then, despite their many painful trials. Castiel has learned much, and Dean's trust in him has grown. Even without words spoken, he knows this. He can feel it through the connection they share, have always shared, the profoundness of their bond; with his Angelic perception, Castiel can sense variations of emotion from Dean's soul. He can feel Dean's trust in him through the solid walls of the bunker just as he can see it in the form of a rotating container through a microwave window. 

There are some minutes left in the defrost-and-reheat cycle when the other world's Dean enters the kitchen. Castiel knows it's him before he speaks, before he himself turns around to see. 

"..Castiel?" 

It's Dean's voice, but not quite. Still, Castiel knows it as well as he knows Dean's soul: this Dean has something he wants to say. Castiel turns to face him, offering a friendly smile. "Hello, uhm.. Dean." It feels strange because it's Dean and not Dean, but it's not exactly the first time this has happened, so he pushes through the strangeness of it all. 

"Hi." His eyes are bright as they flick to the microwave humming on the benchtop. "I was hoping we could talk. Do you have a moment?" His smile is tentative, warm, but edged in sadness. It's familiar, in a way. The fidgeting of his hands is something new, but Castiel knows Dean to fidget in other ways when something is on his mind and making him restless, nervous, even. 

"Of course." Castiel moves to round the counter as the other Dean steps forward to join him. 

"There's something I want to ask you, before we leave." 

It had been a matter of tense discussion on the drive back from the church; while Jack slept beside Castiel, Dean, Sam and himself had talked about the Winchesters from the other world: where they should go, whether they would be safe from Chuck, whether they should stay in the bunker for a time - which was something neither Sam nor Dean found agreeable, and Castiel had conceded that it would not be sustainable. 

With Billie's plan in motion and Chuck's own endgame nearing, the safest place for the other Sam and Dean is as far away from the bunker as possible, for now at least. If they failed in their mission, however, no place in the world, or in any realm, would be safe for anyone. 

"You cook?" 

Is this the question the other world's Dean had wanted to ask him? "I.. microwave." A shy smile sneaks onto Castiel's face and the other Dean nods, looking perplexed. "Dean cooks, I just.. help where he needs me." 

"Oh." His face falls. "We've.. never needed to. Cook, I mean. There's always been room service, restaurants, and the like when we're away on a case. And we have―had―personal chefs at the estate, so.." 

"Ah. I see." The reminders of the loss of their world must be everywhere. Castiel wishes he knew this Dean well enough to know what to say to lessen the pain. Despite his mostly cheerful demeanor, Castiel can see the fluctuations in the wavelength of this Dean's soul; he is hurting. And this is familiar: observing Dean feeling one thing but expressing another. 

He can't help but wonder how much of the Dean he knows is carried through to other worlds, other Deans. Do they all have a love for cooking, or a desire to learn how to cook? Do they all have an unparalleled care for some sort of vehicle? Are there Deans out there who Castiel would not recognise by sight or sound? 

"You're an Angel." 

The statement brings his attention back into focus. "Yes." 

"And yet, you're so.." 

Castiel raises an eyebrow. 

"..human." 

Oh. It is possible, despite the spellwork needed for them to open a rift into an alternate universe, that this Dean has not encountered any Angels himself, or at least not ones who have made their home on Earth, among humanity; changing day by day, becoming more like humans in innumerable small - but not insignificant - ways. 

"It's just.. peculiar. My Castiel―" 

"―Your Castiel?" The clothing, the mannerisms, the stories of their world all differentiate this Dean from the one Castiel knows. But it's still jarring to hear that, of all things, in Dean's voice; to be claimed, in a way. Not like ownership but familiarity; intimacy. He's almost unwilling to let their conversation progress until this Dean clarifies what he meant. 

"Uhm," the other Dean clears his throat at what Castiel knows is his own visible confusion. "There was an Angel, in our universe, also named Castiel, but.." he looks away; at the floor, the wall, the microwave and it's container of soup. "We never met." Castiel waits, watching him as he watches the soup, until he says, quiet, "Not in the mortal realm, at least. He was.. out of my reach―quite literally―but.. he saved me, once. He watched over me.. And I would pray to him, now and then. Talk to him. Thank him.. Ask him how things were in the divine realm," he chuckles softly, ducking his head. 

"Did he.. respond?" Castiel keeps his voice equally quiet, suddenly eager to know as much as he can about this other Castiel and his relationship with this Dean. 

"In a way. Not with words, but he would.. visit me. In my dreams." 

Castiel has many questions, but the other Dean pushes on. 

"I was just wondering if you knew what happens to them. To Angels." He glances up at Castiel. "Where do you go?"

"Go? You mean..?" 

"I don't know what happened, exactly, but a few years ago the dream-visits stopped. And now, with our world gone, I just.." He lets go a sigh, shoulders drooping on the exhale. "You being an Angel, I hoped you might have a real answer. One way or another." His eyes are sad, his soul less luminous, for a moment, and it's achingly familiar; it's the presence of loss, deep in one's being. Castiel deplores the sight of it, the all too familiar pull of it. 

He wishes he knew the answer, if only because for certain things not knowing is worse than knowing, even if the outcome is not what one hoped for. It's a cruel reality, living with false hope. But, when there is no certainty, one cannot assume there is no hope. 

"Your world may have been vastly different to ours, in many ways―including your Angels, for all I know. But if there's one thing I've learned in my time here, in this world, it's that nothing is really impossible. You being here, now, proves that, I think." 

The other world's Dean brightens some, his soul noticeably less pained, however slight the change may be. The persistence of sadness dulls it in ripples, but sparks of hope shoot through the shadows. "Thankyou." His smile is less tentative as he turns to take his leave. 

The timer beeps, but before Castiel can retrieve a bowl from the cupboard the other world's Dean speaks up again. 

"He's lucky to have you." Castiel stills, glancing toward the doorway, seeing only earnestness in this Dean's face and soul just as he hears it carry through his voice. "I hope he knows that." With a small wave he disappears into the corridor, leaving Castiel to ponder on that sentiment, wondering whether the distance that his relationship with Dean has come in all these years is as far as it will ever go.  

 *  *  *

 It's instinctual. 

It's been a long time coming, and Dean feared maybe it never would, that Jack might never be himself again, but it's him. It's their kid, sitting hunched over and alone, tears of remorse flooding his voice and spilling down his cheeks. 

Dean's arms are wrapped around him, gathering him into a hug before he even registers his feet having moved. He tightens the embrace as Jack's chest jumps with hiccups, his hands grasping at Dean's shirt, tears soaking through the layers of cotton and warming his skin in a way that tears shouldn't; but this is Jack. 

As much as Dean can tell Jack's hurting right now, he also knows this is a good thing. The same way he knows it was a good thing when Sam got his soul back, and when Cas was freed of the Leviathan, and when Dean himself was rid of the Mark of Cain. 

They all have baggage. They've all done bad things they can't undo, and it hurts. But none of them were themselves when those things went down. And he's so tired of being angry, tired of defaulting to hatred, tired of not being able to change things for the better, to undo what's been done. 

But this right here―? This kid, pained and crying into his chest, snot and all―? It's a win. 

Sam sits on Jack's other side, rubbing his shoulder and back, letting him know he's there for him, too. They all are. Jack gravitates to him after a little while, leaning into his side as Sam pulls him near. Cas sits opposite them at the little wooden table, their family huddled together in the residual warmth of the kitchen, each of them silently reeling from the events of the day. 

They're one step closer to defeating Chuck, according to Billie, but for once it didn't cost them anything; instead of losing something, they gained something, someone. 

Dean catches Cas' eye across the table, presses his leg up against his where no-one can see. He smiles a tired, hopeful thing, wishing he was dumb enough or daring enough to reach across the scant space between them and take one of Cas' hand in his where they rest folded in front of him. 

Cas returns his smile, looking just as tired, just as hopeful, his leg pressing against Dean's under the table, and it feels like an answer to a question Dean still doesn't know how to ask. 

 *  *  *

 At a rest-stop by the Kansas state line bordering Oklahoma, while his brother fusses with a paper map and wonders aloud why on Earth this world's Winchesters don't have a dedicated GPS for each of their procured vehicles, Dean takes a moment outside of the car.

Under the fading stars as dawn approaches, prayer beads held in his hand instead of adorning it, he voices an invocation; murmured between his lips, held close to his heart, sent out into the universe―to every universe―impelled by his soul. 

Just one word, born of and survived by hope. 

A name. 

.. Castiel ..

[johannstutt413]

Manticore sighed, chewing at her lunch dejectedly. Even without her power active, she felt invisible, and as she watched the dozens of other smiling faces of those Operators sitting next to each other, celebrating their friendships, it stung worse than her tail ever could. She wished someone would notice her-

“Excuse me, Manticore?” A voice? She turned to find its source - and the shock took her breath away. “Are any of these seats taken?”

“No, Doctor...it’s only me here...” It took a couple of tries to get the words out, but the Doctor didn’t seem to mind.

They took the seat on Manticore’s left and looked directly at her. “How are you feeling today?”

“Feeling...about what…?”

“Anything, really.” Most of their face was obscured, but their smile was plainly visible. “I just saw you sitting here by yourself and wanted to see how you’re doing.”

She looked over at the meal line. “You saw me...from over there?”

“Yeah. Is that strange? I know you turn invisible in combat, but does it happen off the field as well?”

“Sometimes, yes...Often, even...I never can be sure...”

The Doctor nodded. “That must be rough. I know I hate when my abilities act up on their own.”

“Your abilities?...” Manticore didn’t see anything that indicated the Doctor’s race - not even a tail. “What are your...abilities, Doctor?”

“I can see the blood in people’s veins and...move it a little, I guess. Sometimes it’ll fire off when I’m not paying attention, and an Operator will suddenly have a nosebleed they didn’t have before. I’m fortunate it doesn’t get worse...usually.”

That did sound terrible, honestly. “The other Operators...still talk to you...though, right, Doctor?”

“Yeah, but...I dunno. There’s always a little bit of distance there - you know, like they’re trying to pass me a note and have to take the time to write it down first.”

“If they need me...they tell me with notes...” She sighed. “I’m afraid I have to...have to go now, Doctor...Thank you for talking to me.”

As Manticore stood up, the Doctor reached for her hand. “Hey, Manti- do you mind if I call you Manti?”

“Not at all...” Were they giving her a nickname? She’d had codenames before, but never a nickname.

“Well, Manti, I was wondering if you would volunteer for the assistant rotation this coming week.” From this angle, not even their lips were visible, but it seemed to Manticore they sounded a little nervous. “That way we could have some more time to get to know each other.”

She couldn’t believe her ears. “You want to...spend time with me?”

“It’s hard to be friends with someone otherwise, isn’t it?”

“I’ll sign up...right away!” Manticore took the offered hand and squeezed it. “Thank you, Doctor!”

Beneath the hood, the Doctor’s blood-red eyes sparkled, even if no one saw them. “No, Manti...Thank you.”

The next few days passed for Manticore at the speed of molasses; she’d signed up to be the Doctor’s assistant for the next month, and it was only four or so days before her first day doing just that, but since she needed special permission to go out on deployments, the whole period was spent either under observation and testing by the Medics or daydreaming about her time with the Doctor. Honestly, it didn’t matter what was under that hood - they could have seven eyes and a mouth full of spiders, and Manti would cherish every word they said to her. Still, it was curious that they never went anywhere without their hood on...what were they so scared of? So long as they were helping Manticore by giving her a friend to be with, maybe she could help them in this way...No, that was ridiculous. She’d only just spoken to them yesterday!...But the Doctor seemed to have felt a connection between them as well, so maybe…

Finally the day arrived, and as Manticore approached the door to the Doctor’s office, she could feel her heart skipping beats. She knocked softly. “Doctor?...It’s Manticore...”

“Manti? Here kind of early - I like it.” There were a few moments of quiet as the Doctor came to the door and opened it for her. “Good mor- Wow.”

“What is it?” She could guess, of course - Manticore normally didn’t spend much time on her appearance, since it’s not like anyone paid attention, but now that she had someone to impress, she’d done her best to do just that...and it seemed to be working.

The Doctor put a hand to their face. “I...um, I think I triggered my power on myself on accident. Sorry, come on in.”

“Of course...how can I help, Doctor?” Manticore watched them intently...Whatever happened, there was enough blood in their cupped hand to be an issue. “Is...is it normal for so much...to come out?”

“Yeah, it’s okay, don’t worry.” They took a deep breath, and in moments, all the blood was once more flowing through their veins.

Manti’s eyes sparkled. “Wow...that’s amazing, Doctor...”

“You think so?” The Doctor’s hand was still near their face. “Heh...Well, you’re pretty amazing yourself, Manti.”

“Really?...”

The hand slid back, taking their- or should I say, her - hood with it; if Manticore didn’t know better, she could be Warfarin’s sister. “Your abilities, your resilience, the fact that you’ve stayed so approachable even as people walked by you without a word almost every time...and you look absolutely delicious.”

“Oh...thank you, Doctor...” She blushed. “Doctor, do the others...know you’re a Sarkaz?”

“I don’t like people to see me like this, but for you I’ll make an exception. After all, you might see me in less later on.”

Manticore knew she had to be invisible right now - there was no way she hadn’t disappeared, but the Doctor was looking directly at her still. “Well, Doctor...I don’t see why...you should hide yourself...from the world...”

“It’s alright, Manti; I know my eyes scare people-”

“But I’m not scared,” she interjected, “and I know people...aren’t afraid of Warfarin...because of her eyes, but because...she takes more blood than she needs. Doctor, they wouldn’t...be scared of you...They’d fall in love with you...”

The Doctor’s smile loosened up - from a tad predatory to simply happy. “You think so?”

“I know so, Doctor...because you wear your kindness...on your face...that kissable, kissable face...Eeep!”

“You said it, not me,” she laughed. “I’m sorry I didn’t say my intentions sooner, Manti; honestly, I remembered your name as I saw you sit down, and that was about it, but you struck me dumb where I stood. It has to be your invisibility that keeps people away, because with a figure like that- I’m getting another nosebleed, I can already feel it.”

Manticore, who’d been standing in the middle of the room for all of this so far, walked over to the assistant’s desk and sat on the edge. “Do you need a...transfusion, Doctor? I don’t know...if you can drink it...because of the Infection...but if you want to...”

“I’m already Infected, too, so it wouldn’t be an issue...but are you sure? Sometimes I get a little...overzealous.”

“Be as zealous...as you like.” She slid off her jacket, letting it fall to the ground as her tail pulled the Doctor’s chair closer. “I might lose control...a little myself...”

[mylifeasaserver]

My Day As It Happened: Mother's Day 2019

9AM: My stupid ass wakes up because my stupid ass volunteered to go in early because my stupid ass wants more money for storm chasing.

9:30AM: My stupid ass finally gets out of bed. I rush through the shower and head to work, making the critical mistake of missing breakfast when I have a long day ahead.

9:45AM: My stupid ass shows up to a packed parking lot with a ton of people out front. I get out of my car and some jackass in the parking lot asks me if I know how long the wait is. I inform him that I don't, I just got here. He tells me to call and find out for him, I decline. He tells me I'm lazy, in return I call him a jackass.

9:50AM: I walk in and I'm informed that I have 5 tables waiting for me - they know I always show up early so they went ahead and sat me. Joke's on them though, I only came in early because I have to poop. The GM is very displeased when I tell him I'm going to the employee bathroom and it won't be safe to enter until the door handle stops glowing.

9:56AM: I have successfully completed one of those dumps that really gives you a boost and improves your mood - deny it if you want, but you know exactly what I'm talking about.

10AM: After a thorough hand washing because I'm an asshole but I'm not disgusting, I find out that the GM went to each of my tables while I was ascending to another plane of existence and informed them I was on my way but would be a few minutes. Since they had a seat, all were comfortable with a couple minute wait.

10:15AM: All 5 tables have drinks and their orders are in. I stacked the tickets and put them all in at once. The GM tells me not to do that, but has no response when I ask him which tables I should've ignored in favor of a slower approach. It's now I'm told about our sales contest.

10:20AM: A server in the next section over asks me to pick up a 2-top she's too weeded to take. I agree. It's my newest friend Jackass, from the parking lot. OH BOY! He asks me if I regret giving him grief earlier since now I'm not getting a tip, and tells me to be honest. The smug look falls off his face when I tell him I don't care, as I'll have more than enough tables today so his non-tip won't even register. I'll still give him passable service though. He orders.

10:55AM: All 6 of my tables have their food, full drinks, and their check. All of them, even Jackass, are happy with the level of service they were given. I know because Jackass was the worst tip at 13%. It was nice that we could reach some level of understanding.

12:15PM: The kitchen comes to a standstill. No orders leave for 15 minutes, and none of the servers know why. I never did find out. I didn't ask either, so there's that.

1:30PM: We're off wait, and sections are adjusted for the night servers. Most of us get a 5 table section. The hostess, the really good one, starts apologizing to me. She double sat me 2-tops and doesn't want me to get mad at her. I laugh because double sat 2-tops is nothing. She's a good kid. I tell her if any server gives her shit about such a ridiculous thing to tell them to go bus themselves.

2PM: I get double sat again - a 5-top and a 10-top, but right next to one another. Company policy is anything over an 8-top requires 2 servers, but company policy can go fuck itself.

2:15PM: The 5 top has ordered, the 10 isn't even all here. I cleverly get drinks for those that are there, because that's less I have to do later. One of the adults spills his water.

2:20PM: The water mess is cleaned up, and the people at both tables have a good laugh as I give the adult a kid's cup. Now having a good time, both tables interact with one another and me. A good tip is all but guaranteed. I have no other tables, so I take the time to fuck around with people in my section.

2:30PM: The rest of the 10-top arrive, and they all order what I recommend. All ten of them - this really bodes well for the sales contest.

3PM: The 5-top is happily chatting with one another after finishing their meal. At this point they can camp all night and I wouldn't care. The 10-top is happily eating the food I recommended. Since the window (where food magically appears in the kitchen for servers to run, for those of you who don't work in a restaurant) is clear and I have no dirty tables, I start walking around the dining rooms looking for dishes to take or refills to get to help coworkers. I find two tables that say they've been waiting 25 minutes for service.

3:15PM: I find out that Duckface showed up, checked in with the hosts, and then promptly got sent home because she wouldn't put her goddamn phone away. Nobody thought to tell the hosts. Now I have tables in 2 dining rooms. Delightful. Their orders are in and I offer both tables a free dessert for the inconvenience.

4PM: Both neglected tables have eaten and enjoyed their free dessert. I tell the GM what I did and he flips his shit - telling me I can't go giving food away. I tell the GM I planned to pay for the desserts myself and show him the slip to prove it, and then tell him I'll buy anything I want for my tables. I get enough off of both tables to buy the desserts 7.5 times over. I know how to handle annoyed people.

5PM: I have no tables anywhere in the dining room, but the hostess who sucks at her job decides to try something new: following rotation. Soon I have 3 tables. All are super chill people.

5:30PM: The GM asks me if I can take a 17-top on my own. I look at my three tables - none of which need a damn thing - and tell him that yes, I can take a 17 on my own. Company policy clearly only applies when it's convenient, so I can conveniently circumvent it when it suits me. I make a mental note to remember this table for when I defy policy in the future.

5:45PM: I only have the 17 people at this point. Their order is in. They have drinks.

6PM: The order for the 17 top comes out of the kitchen. 3 steaks were overcooked, 2 plates had the wrong sides, and 2 of the delivered plates weren't what was supposed to be part of the order. First thought I have? HOW DID I FUCK IT UP SO BAD? Wasn't me. Fortunately, the steaks were mid rare, sides are an easy fix, and the other 2 plates were an easy fix. The people were cool about it. I do not offer free desserts.

7PM: The 17-top is done eating. Prebussing is done. Checks are split and delivered. The hostess asks me if I mind being skipped in rotation so I can help another server who is having a rough time of things. I may have misjudged her, so I'm glad I follow my own advice and don't give the host(esse)s any shit. I don't care if I don't get any other tables at this point of the night since I'm due to be cut soon. The server in need of help has a particularly difficult table that's trying to do their best to be the most pain in the ass group in restaurant history. She has 2 other tables that I more or less take over. I more or less don't take the tips though, because that's not helping. I make a mental note to remember these tables for when I need help in the future...just in case.

7:10PM: The Table of Pain has successfully given their server a mini breakdown, and while she's composing herself the good manager makes a grave mistake and asks me to care for this table. The regret of this decision could weigh on her for quite some time, depending on how this plays out. The table is four bastardly old people who aren't happy with anything and hate everything. They seem to freely hurl insults at me as they did the server who is still out back.

7:15PM: I've decided that I give zero fucks about what these people think. If they want to be pissy assholes I will happily deliver a reason for it. They inform me that every time they come to our restaurant the food is bad, the service is bad, and our prices (which are pretty fucking cheap) are too high. I tell them it's mighty stupid to keep coming back when things are that bad, but that's more on them than on us. Much to my disappointment, they respond favorably to this treatment. They must have assumed I was joking.

7:20PM: I tell the Table of Pain that since they clearly don't know how to order food I'm going to order for them (coincidentally the dinner in the sales contest.) Again, they bewilder me by responding favorably to it. I decide that if they like abuse that I'm here for them. I allow them to order sides and I put the order in.

7:30PM: The Table of Pain officially becomes mine, and the other two that I more or less took over have left. Oh goody. I refill drinks at my sole table, and tell them that I don't care whether they want more to drink or not so they can deal with it. I think I have this figured out.

7:45PM: The food arrives. I put the main course (same for everybody) down on the table, and tell them they can figure out who gets what side, and then I put them down wherever there was room. The good manager hears this and drags me into the office to ask me what the hell I'm thinking.

8PM: I'm cut. I'm also not going to give the Table of Pain a chance to say they were ignored.

8:30PM: The Table of Pain is done eating. I tell them they can figure out splitting the check on their own and they decide to surprise me by using the word "please" in asking me to split it for them. I say "Fine, if you're gonna be nice about it." I split the checks and tell them to leave and not let the door hit them on the way out. They clearly must assume I'm kidding. Again I'm dragged into the office so the good manager can try and figure out what the hell I'm thinking. If they complain I'm being written up. SO SCARY!

8:35PM: The Table of Pain flags down a server and asks for the manager. She goes out. They tell her they actually enjoyed themselves "for once" and their waitress gave them a hard time and they liked it. MOTHERFUCKERS I WAS TRYING TO PISS YOU OFF SO YOU WOULDNT COME BACK! Now I get to clean my section, do my sidework, and roll silverware.

8:45PM: Reap the rewards of a 4% tip from the Table of Pain and discover the hostess that I previously thought sucked at her job had already cleared and wiped my tables for me. Now I'm tipping her out because despite company policy forbidding it, my GM has taught me to ignore policy when it suits me.

9:15PM: My side work is done. My section is cleared. I find out that I won the sales contest - and it wasn't even close - and one of the prizes offered was to skip rolling silverware. **for those wondering, the other choices were to get cut early one night this coming week, choose your section, or a free meal** I gleefully claim my prize of not rolling silverware and run the hell out of the building. All in all, a decent mother's day to work. Decent money too.

Normally I don't use my blog to advertise for anybody or anything, but my friend Jess has started doing art commissions. I enjoy her work and have ordered a painting for myself. Even if you don't want to buy, give her page a visit and say something nice. And if you do want to buy or have questions, talk to her. She's a good friend of mine and she's super nice. -J

theart-ofjess.tumblr.com

[quicksilversquared]

How to Fake a Marriage: Ch 40

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(AO3) (FF.net)

Nino was jittering almost nonstop. While Adrien couldn't blame him, it was starting to attract some stares.

"I just can't believe she's home," Nino told him as they waited for Alya in the Paris airport's baggage claim area. "I mean, I've known her schedule and when she was going to be coming home for months, but I've gotten so used to hearing from her when she's traveling and telling me where she's off to next for a week that to hear that she's coming home properly, and I can wake up next to her every morning..." Nino shook his head, grinning. "It was something I really took for granted before she left. I didn't think about how different it would be to start my day without Alya right next to me, even if we don't always talk much when we're getting ready for work. It's just- all these little things that I didn't notice after living together for two years that just really tripped me up when she wasn't there."

Adrien nodded. Although he couldn't admit it, he knew what Nino meant. Even if Marinette had gotten up before he had, he could still tell that she had been there. Waking up truly on his own when he was home was different, and it definitely wasn't something that he preferred.

Even if waking up with Marinette occasionally draped across his chest and making it hard to breath (or the inevitable cuddling, even in summer months) wasn't always sunshine and roses, he preferred it to his lonely bed.

"So I'm looking forward to all of the little things most, I think," Nino finished. He grinned. "And once Alya's rested up, I'm looking forward to splitting meal duty again. There's some things that she makes that I don't dare touch, and I've been rotating through the same menu ever since she left."

"That's the best part of splitting cooking duties." Adrien checked his phone. Marinette had said that she would be arriving soon- dress shopping with Mylène had run over and so she hadn't been able to hitch a ride with him to the airport- and he wanted to make sure that she would be able to find them. There were no messages yet, though, so maybe she was still on the bus to the airport. "That, and not having to eat the same thing for a week straight."

"Do you think you'll find an apartment to share with Marinette when you two move back, then?" Nino wanted to know. "So you two can keep cooking together?"

Of course, Adrien wanted to say. They wanted to stay together, and they certainly wouldn't be able to have their privacy if they stayed in his old room at his father's house and they wouldn't have enough space long-term for both of them plus Marinette's designing if they stayed in her old room. Besides, they wouldn't want to impose on her parents. But Nino didn't know that they were dating, so instead Adrien settled on a "Maybe. I'd have to ask her."

Nino shook his head, utterly exasperated. "You two might as well be married, really. You're glued at the hip anyway."

Adrien only grinned. If only Nino knew...

Adrien's phone buzzed then, and he hurried to pull it out. There was only a short message from Marinette.

At airport. Headed inside.

Shoving his phone back in his pocket, Adrien immediately looked up and started glancing around. After a minute, he spotted Marinette in the crowd nearest to the door and rolled up on his toes to wave to her. She spotted him and waved back, hurrying towards them.

Next to him, Nino craned his neck. "What? Did you see Alya?"

"No, Marinette. And Alya's plane isn't scheduled to land for another..." Adrien checked his watch. "Five minutes, if it's on time. And Alya said that she would text you when she landed, yeah?"

"Right, sorry. I got excited." Nino settled back down. "I gotta say thanks to you guys for coming to Paris for this. I would have been a mess waiting here by myself."

"Could Alya's family not made it at all?"

Nino shook his head. "The twins are busy with school, her mom had a huge catering event that she couldn't get out of, and her father was supposed to come but then the zoo's panther came down sick and he couldn't get away. He did lend me his car, though, so that we wouldn't have to wrestle with all of Alya's things on the bus." He winced. "It was just a whole slew of unfortunate timing, really. We'll swing past the zoo on our way home so that they can see each other for a bit, and then we'll go to the hotel to see her mom, and then we'll go to their place for dinner."

Adrien laughed as Marinette scooted up to his side. "Alya's going to be dead on her feet after all of that."

"You aren't just going to let Alya sleep when she gets home?" Marinette asked. She looked a bit harried, hair more ruffled than normal and clothes a bit rumpled. "Does she know that?"

Nino grinned. "Yeah, I told her last week, and she approved the plan. Of course, that was before she got on an 18-hour flight."

They all laughed.

"So how was your day?" Adrien asked Marinette. "You look a bit worse for wear."

"Gee, thanks." Marinette rolled her eyes at him. "It was all right. We did find Mylène's dress, though, so there's that."

Adrien grinned at the news and Nino looked over, finally distracted from Alya's impending arrival. "Oh, that's great! She was really hoping to find something today, wasn't she?"

Marinette nodded. "She really was. Mylène was completely burned out when we started since we hadn't had much success before, but then we looked back at some of the dresses that she had liked parts of and she found a skirt that she really liked and a top that was almost perfect, and they can be combined together for a nearly perfect dress."

One of Adrien's eyebrows quirked upwards. "You keep saying almost. What was wrong with it?"

"The top- it's this gorgeously cut halter top with a kind of low back, and Mylène has two moles on her back that she doesn't want showing," Marinette explained. "She doesn't like having her entire back exposed like that. So I came up with this idea of having an Eiffel Tower made of lace fill in that space a little bit. And then there can be some more of the lace in four flare panels on the skirt, which would tie the design in more. It would replace the existing lace, and then we asked- well, I recommended, and then Mylène asked- for the gold beading to be replaced with silver."

"Wait, so did you actually find a lace Eiffel Tower to fit in the area?" Nino asked, looking properly interested. "Or is this something that you would make?"

Marinette looked sheepish. Adrien sighed, but he couldn't help but smile fondly at her. "You really couldn't resist, could you?"

Nino laughed.

"It'll make the dress perfect!" Marinette protested. "And it's easy to make, too. I have the dimensions that I need to make sure that the thicker section for the first floor will be right where it needs to be to cover the moles. Mylène loved the idea, because then she gets to have a fairly open back that she's still comfortable with. So she has the new dress on order, and I'll make the lace sections as soon as I can." There was a pause. "Uh, but I might need to ask Madam Rosalie if I can use one of the company machines to do it. I'm sure she'll say yes, as long as they aren't needed."

"What are you going to do when you aren't at Madam Rosalie's anymore?" Adrien teased. "You won't have access to all of those lovely machines of hers."

Marinette stuck her tongue out at him. "I'll figure things out. And once I get into a new design house, then hopefully they would have the same kinds of machines. If not, well..." Marinette threw up her hands. "I'd be really tempted to buy ones of my own, but they're so expensive!"

"So will you be too burned out to help Alya find her dress?" Nino asked, grinning at Marinette. "I've heard that it's taken a couple outings."

"Oh, gosh." Marinette looked exhausted. "Yeah, Mylène had too many friends and cousins along for our first trip, so it was a complete bust. They all had ideas for shapes they wanted to see, and they were all wrong for her." She paused. "When is Alya going to go dress shopping?"

"Well-" Nino glanced around, then turned back to them. "We were thinking of telling you guys together, but as long as we're talking about it- Alya and I are going to get married this spring. So I'm guessing that she'll start looking at dresses pretty soon."

Marinette's eyes were huge, and Adrien was sure that his were the same. Sure, they had known that there was a possibility that Nino and Alya would go for the shorter turn-around, but they had thought it wouldn't be terribly likely. After all, Alya had stuff she had to get done for the newspaper, and there were a few final leads for her research that she wanted to follow up on before she forgot about them. The two of them had talked about moving to a new apartment shortly after Alya's return, too, or at least within a few months, and that was another big thing on their plate.

It would be a lot, even without the wedding planning.

"I just- wow, you guys must be superheroes to be able to balance all of that," Adrien told Nino. He smothered the grin that came with the words so that Nino wouldn't notice anything off.

Marinette noticed, though. Adrien heard her exasperated huff by his side and had to keep from grinning at that, too, especially when her fingers jabbed into his ribs.

"Well, we're going to be keeping it fairly simple. Church wedding so we can have both wedding and reception there instead of having to find some venue for both that actually has an opening when we want it, for one." Nino nodded like that was a big decision off of their backs. Adrien and Marinette waited for more...and got nothing.

"And...?" Marinette prompted. "Flowers, food, dress, suit, decorations...?"

"Tablecloths, napkins, style of silverware?" Adrien added, grinning wider when he got an elbow to the stomach from both Nino and Marinette.

"I think the church has a standard set of tablecloths and napkins and silverware that they use, thank-you-very-much," Nino sniffed. "But we can ask, I guess. It would be good to make sure. And we were planning on ordering the croquembouche tower from your parents' place, Marinette- we'll talk to them about that soon and figure out flavors, I guess. See, we have been planning."

Adrien applauded sarcastically. Nino elbowed him again.

"Look, Alya's flight just landed," Marinette cut in before Adrien could start listing off other details required for wedding planning, just for the express purpose of bugging Nino. "Nino, how big of a plane is it? How long should we expect it to take for Alya to get off?"

Nino groaned. "I don't know. It might be a while. I don't think she's near the back of the plane, though, so there's that." His phone buzzed and he pulled it out. "It's Alya. She said that it might take a good ten minutes before she can get off, and then there's the getting through the airport."

"So that's, what, a good fifteen to twenty minutes of time for us to quiz you about stationary for wedding invitations," Adrien said, grinning. "So, have you decided what kind of parchment you're going to use?"

  By the time Alya arrived, Nino had a whole list of things for him and Alya to think about for their wedding written up and looked about ready to throttle Adrien, who was helpfully not helping matters by asking about matching pocket squares for the men and table centerpieces for the reception.

"Do I even want to know?" Alya asked in exasperation after she had given Nino a kiss. "Marinette? Do I even want to know what these two clowns have been getting up to?"

"Adrien's not being helpful," Nino said right away, before Marinette could say anything. "I regret inviting him along. Is it too late for me to find another Best Man?"

They all laughed as Adrien spluttered.

"No, we do have a lot to consider," Alya admitted as soon as she spotted the list Nino held and caught on to what was going on. "I knew that as soon as we decided not to wait a year. But at least next year should be calmer. And we already decided to put the honeymoon off for a bit, since I've already been traveling so much recently."

"We both did," Nino added. "Since I've taken several weeks off of work in the last few months to visit. So we might wait for next winter and go somewhere warm and sunny, or go on our first anniversary or something. We didn't discuss that part too much yet. We've been busy."

"And we're about to get busier, even if we'll be in the same place." Alya ran a hand through her hair. "But let us have a few days to relax first! I need to shower, and I need to sleep. When are you two taking off?"

"Tonight. We have work and school tomorrow!" Marinette added when Alya's expression dropped. "We already took today off, and we're going to be missing more, I'm assuming, with coming back to help you guys with wedding stuff."

"Of course, of course." Alya stepped over to give both of them a hug. "I'm so looking forward to when you two are back in Paris and we can just see you whenever. That's, what- five months yet?"

"Four and a half?" Adrien suggested, exchanging a look with Marinette. "Yeah, that sounds right."

"Four and a half," Alya repeated. "That's so long, unless you're talking four and a half months to plan a wedding. In that case, it's short."

"And you don't even have that," Adrien pointed out. "Good luck with that, really."

Alya waved an airy hand. "Oh, my mom and Nino's are working to put together a list of relatives to invite and we've got a list of our friends already. We're not doing super extended family or anything, so it shouldn't be too large of a crowd. We'll be fine."

"I'll take your word for it." Adrien grinned as Alya turned and they followed her to the luggage carousel. "And I'll be a listening ear for when you decide to panic because your candlestick holders are lopsided or something."

"Candlestick holders? Is that what you've been bugging Nino about? Marinette, control your boy."

  Alya practically talked their ears off as Nino navigated their way out of the airport and back towards their section of the city. She wanted to know which of her vlogs they had watched (all of them, Alya), and then dove into a deeper detailing of some of the users that she had found most interesting.

"I've got so much material to go through for my articles for the paper, and then I gotta organize it for my book," Alya finally finished as they pulled in to a spot in the zoo's parking lot. "Like, I could go on for days. The vlogs I posted were just barely scratching the surface, really. And I got so much traffic on the Ladyblog for those. I'm still getting a lot of traffic, more than I've gotten for years. The ads I decided to put on the site are actually earning me a decent amount of money now."

"Are you going to keep doing the vlogs?" Adrien asked as they all piled out and headed for the zoo's employee entrance. "Like, just updates on what you're working on? I'm sure people would love to hear hints about your work and see more of those awesome drawings."

Alya laughed. "I gotta keep some stuff secret for my book! But maybe I could do little updates every two weeks or something, depending on how busy I am. I might only be able to manage once a month for the next few months," she added, glancing over at Nino. "Since I've got the wedding planning to do, too. But yeah, it would keep some interest in the Ladyblog going, and keep people interested in my book."

"It's a good way to keep the Ladyblog active while Ladybug and Chat Noir are out of the country, too," Nino chimed in. "For however long they'll be gone. And there hasn't been even the slightest whisper of where they might have gone. They've shown up during the holidays, and that's it. Oh, and Alya- your father said to meet him by the panther cage."

"Sweet!" Alya pulled a key out of her pocket and let them in the door, then led the way towards the panther enclosure. "And speaking of the superheroes- so you all saw the picture they submitted to the Ladyblog, right? Of them kissing at Christmas?" Alya let out a little squeal. "It was so cute! They're adorable together. I wonder how soon they'll be getting married."

Nino laughed. "Alya, they've only been together for, what? A year?"

"They've been confirmed for a year, but they could have been together for ages before that!" Alya was in full Ladynoir shipper mode, her face alight with enthusiasm. "They might have been together for years but have just been keeping it on the down-low. Either way, they're perfect for each other. Why wait?"

Marinette glanced towards Adrien and wasn't surprised to see him glancing back towards her, a small smile playing on his lips. She felt her cheeks flush and she glanced away for a second, suddenly feeling unreasonably shy.

"ALYA!"

The moment was broken when Alya's father spotted them. He was washing his hands and arms and wearing an apron. He shed it and quickly came towards them, scooping Alya up in a hug and swinging her around. Alya gave a delighted laugh, hugging her father back as he set her down. He gave her another hug, then released her to get a good look at the ring on her finger. Nino stepped closer with a grin and was given a hug as well. Marinette watched with a fond smile, pulling her coat tighter as a chilly wind blew across the zoo.

Adrien was at her side in an instant. "Are you cold?"

"Only when there's a wind." She stepped closer to his side, but not too close. They had gone for a year and a half without arousing too much suspicion from their friends in France, and now Marinette was determined to make it the rest of the way. "I'll be fine, kitty. I promise."

"If you say so."

Soon enough, Alya's father had to return to his work and they were on the way to the Grand Paris. Marinette noticed Adrien scanning Chloe's social media as they drew closer and raised an eyebrow at him in question.

"I just don't want to run into Chloe," Adrien admitted with a sheepish grin. "But it sounds like she's in the middle of a spa day right now, so we should be all right. From what I remember of her, when Chloe spends the day at the spa, she spends the entire day."

Nino laughed. "You'll have to deal with her occasionally when you come back to Paris."

"Yeah, but I can wait until then, believe me." Adrien pocketed his phone, zipping the pocket back up to keep it safe. "I think she's gotten worse over the years. I thought she would grow out of it."

Alya made a bit of a face at that, then shrugged. Her eyes caught on Adrien's coat then, and she gave it a proper look over. "Hey, that doesn't look like one of your father's designs. It looks nice, though."

Adrien grinned, and Marinette couldn't hide the pleased smile when he smoothed a hand down the front of the coat proudly. "Yeah! It's Marinette's design. I love it. I've brought all of my other coats back to Paris to leave here, since it's all I'm going to wear for the rest of the season."

"You don't say."

"Well, all of the coats that my dad picks out for me are boring," Adrien complained. "I mean, they look nice, but he's known for a fairly strict style most of the time. Strict and clean and classic. I like the imagination in Marinette's designs more."

They didn't stay at the Grand Paris for long, because Mrs. Cesare had to get back in the kitchen to help prep for a particularly large catering event. Their final stop was at Alya and Nino's apartment, which had only gotten more stuffed with things since the last time they had visited.

"I've been bringing back stuff that she bought back whenever I visit," Nino explained to Adrien and Marinette as they all piled in. "And she went to a lot of places, so..."

"He would come with a half-empty suitcase and leave with a bursting one, every time," Alya said with a laugh. "And there were a few things that I shipped. I'm not normally a huge shopper, but there's only so many times when I'll be able to travel like that."

"So you guys get to be buried under a pile of stuff until you find a new place," Adrien summed up. "And you get to plan a wedding like that. Uh, have you considered renting out a storage unit to use until you can actually move? Because add in wedding magazines and you trying to get your research in order to all of this- plus anything to look at apartment listings- and you'll be wasting half of your time trying to find stuff."

"That's not a bad idea, really. It would make moving easier, too if we don't have to pack up and move everything at the same time." Nino glanced around their living room area. "I'll look into that, actually. Right away. And then we can maybe invite Ivan and Mylène over to help move stuff and pick their brains about wedding planning."

Marinette laughed. "You know that they're giving themselves a full year to plan and order things. Mylène ordered her dress earlier today, and they aren't getting married until fall."

"Yeah, but they've done research. And they would actually be helpful with sharing it, unlike Mr. Candlestick Holder over here." Nino gave Adrien a stink eye. Adrien only snickered in response. "And they did say that we could call them up to brainstorm together, though they don't know what kind of schedule we're planning on and- wait, don't you remember that?" Nino asked when Alya looked puzzled. "It was when they were congratulating us. Maybe you just forgot about it because Ladybug and Chat Noir sent in their congratulations right after and you were too busy squeeing over that to pay attention to other stuff."

Adrien and Marinette exchanged a grin. They had posted a photo that they had taken while transformed of themselves holding up a card congratulating the Ladyblogger on her engagement after she made a short post on the Ladyblog sharing the news. They had both gotten excited texts from Alya over that, though the Ladyblogger was slightly disappointed that the photo, which had been taken in front of a plain white wall, hadn't given her any clues about where the superheroes were.

"The people I was working with then actually sent someone over to check and make sure that I was okay," Alya admitted, giggling a little at the memory. "They thought that I had injured myself somehow or something, and I had to explain what was going on. They responded so quickly, too!" Alya added. "Like, within a day. That means that they're paying attention to the Ladyblog and my research, and that's so cool!" She spun around in a circle, grinning widely. Nino grinned, amused by his fiancée's enthusiasm, and then edged past her to bring the first of her suitcases back towards their bedroom.

"So if you're done spinning, I have something for you and Nino to open before Adrien and I have to leave," Marinette said, glancing at the clock. Adrien had already pulled his phone out to summon the Gorilla to bring them to the train station. She handed Alya the large, lumpy package that she had carried up the stairs. "It's a joint Christmas gift."

"Cool!"

As soon as Nino returned, he and Alya pulled the wrapping paper off of their present, and Marinette grinned as she watched their jaws drop once the quilt came into view.

"This is- wow, Marinette," Alya finally managed. She unfolded the quilt partway, draping it over their knees. "This is so pretty! And it's huge, so it'll cover our bed easily. I love it!"

"Look, Alya- that's the date we got together," Nino pointed out, running his fingers over the stitched date. "And the cat face- so cute! And then- oh, this is our first date, with the ice cream."

"It's a- what did you call it, Marinette? A double ring wedding quilt?" Adrien asked, looking at Marinette for confirmation, and she nodded. "A traditional wedding gift."

"It's gorgeous. I absolutely love it," Alya told them. "And we'll definitely appreciate it, since our bedroom here is a little drafty."

Marinette was grinning, clearly thrilled with their reactions.

"There are more of our dates on here," Nino announced. He had been steadily working his way across the chains, apparently having caught on to the pattern of where Marinette had had her quilter sew. "The big things, like the night I had my first gig as a DJ and then we had a date afterwards, and that time we went on that hike and then shared a tent afterwards, and- oh! Here's our engagement day, in the second to last ring."

"I'll fill in the date for your wedding once you decide," Marinette told them. "I had my quilter do the rest, but it'll be easy enough to finish up that bit. She told me what kind and color of thread she used so that it'll match."

"Oh, cool!" Alya was inspecting the dates as well now. "I love it! It's really personalized for us. How on earth did you remember all of these?"

"I looked back at my diary for those years for most of them," Marinette told them, still beaming proudly. "I had a general idea of when it was for a lot of the dates, but I didn't know the exact date until I looked it up."

"I love it!" Alya exclaimed again. She jumped up to hug Marinette. "Seriously. Best gift ever."

  As always, their visit had to be cut too short. Adrien had classes the next day and notes to catch up on, and Marinette had to be back at work. They had said their good-byes to their friends and made them promise to keep the two of them updated on the planning progress.

And then they were back on the Eurostar, headed for London.

"I can't believe they went for the get married in under a year option," Adrien said with a bit of a laugh once they were settled and the train was underway. "Absolutely insane. But at least it'll keep them busy in Paris, so we won't have to worry about them coming over and. Uh." He glanced around, suddenly realizing that maybe it wasn't a fantastic idea to blurt out anything about their living arrangements while out in public. He scrambled for a way to better finish his sentence. "And we'll have plenty of excuses to go back to Paris to help and to get our things back there."

"It's going to be a matter of balancing trips back with spending enough time in London," Marinette pointed out. "You have your studies and I have my commissions. And it would be expensive to travel back and forth every weekend to help."

"Not to mention tiring," Adrien agreed. "And they'll have their families to help, and other friends. Alya's dress shopping might be hard, though, if she wants your help."

Marinette sighed. "It will be. And she can't drag that out forever, even if she is going with the off-the-rack option. She'll need to get it fitted, and that takes time. So I might need her to send me pictures, or maybe we can video chat or something."

"I'm sure you'll figure it out." Adrien patted her arm, clearly restraining himself from wrapping his arm around her shoulders instead. "You said that you would tell her what kinds of shapes to look at, right? So she can use that to narrow her options down and then you can come in and help her make a final decision."

"Well, she'll be the one making the final decision. I'm mostly there to give feedback and steer her and her consultant in the right direction." Marinette flopped back in her seat. "Man, if they could have waited, I would have been able to go dress shopping with her in person, and we wouldn't have to worry about the whole scheduling thing."

Adrien just gave her shoulder another sympathetic pat.

It was dark by the time their train pulled in at the station, just in time to only just miss their bus.

"Great," Adrien groaned, rubbing his grumbling stomach. "Just great. Now we'll have to wait, what? Half an hour?"

Marinette was glancing around. The area near the train station was bustling, as was normal, but there weren't a ton of people out an about, since it was cold and damp and miserable. If they went even a street over, they might be able to duck into an alleyway unnoticed. From there, they could transform and just hope that people had their blinds closed and wouldn't look up when they were walking in the street.

And if they did...well, hopefully the Ladyblogger was too busy in Paris to hop a train over to London and investigate.

With Adrien still grumbling and looking around, Marinette snagged his arm and pulled him along the sidewalk. He yelped, then caught on to what she was thinking and immediately trotted after her, trying not to look like he had just thought that someone was attempting to abduct him. It didn't take long for them to find a suitable alleyway, and then Ladybug and Chat Noir were bounding over the rooftops, each lugging a suitcase in one hand.

"Uh, do you know the way?" Chat Noir asked after a few minutes of jumping over streets and scrambling to keep his balance on snow-slick rooftops. "I honestly have no clue where we're supposed to go."

Ladybug giggled. "I don't know either. I was just planning on going in this general direction for a bit and then checking my yo-yo to see how much I had to alter my course. Which-" She landed on a rooftop and paused, flipping open her yo-yo to see a map of their section of London. "We need to be headed a bit more to the left."

"And how much farther do we have to go?"

"At the speed we were going? Ten more minutes, tops." Ladybug picked up her suitcase and started running again. "Ugh, I wish the suitcases could have gotten sucked into our transformation. Running with them is a pain."

Chat Noir could only nod and wince as his suitcase twisted in his hand and whacked a chimney as they passed. They would be lucky if they weren't spotted- or, worse, reported to the police as suspected intruders. Normally they were a whole lot quieter and a lot more agile.

"I kind of feel like I've been hit by Reverser again," Ladybug said with a bit of a giggle as her suitcase knocked loudly against another rooftop. "I haven't felt this clumsy as Ladybug for ages."

"I wish we had brought backpacks or something. Or cord, to turn our suitcases into backpacks."

"Oh, that would be a fashion statement."

A wet snow started falling as the two superheroes made their way across London, making the roofs even slicker. Chat Noir had to reach out and grab Ladybug at one point when she started sliding on the shingles, nearly losing his grip on his suitcase in the process.

"Almost there," Ladybug managed, struggling to her feet. "I can see our building. I'd say if we can get a block closer, that's good enough. Then we can drop down and detransform and just walk."

"Sounds like a plan!"

Getting down from the rooftops didn't go much more smoothly than running and jumping across them. Ladybug slipped and fell most of the way before catching herself, bending a gutter rather badly in the process when her yo-yo snagged on it.

"I'll have to come back and fix that some other night," Marinette said with a sigh once they had detransformed. She peered up through the snow- sleet, practically- at the damaged gutter. "Hopefully I can just yank it back into shape."

"It's amazing that we didn't leave a trail of bent gutters and broken shingles behind us when we were fighting in Paris," Adrien commented, pulling up his hood against the weather. "Or broken statues and chimneys from your yo-yo."

"I think Lucky Charm fixed a lot of damage," Marinette pointed out. They stepped out into the street, pulling their suitcases along the slushy sidewalk. "Because my yo-yo definitely broke a lot of stuff. The Eiffel Tower, for one."

Adrien sniggered. "Out of context, that sounds absolutely ludicrous," he said, grinning. "A yo-yo, take down the Eiffel Tower? But it is crazy strong."

"Most of the akumas we fought sounded just as crazy." Now that they were history, Marinette could laugh thinking back on some of the designs. "There was the giant baby, Mr. Pigeon-"

"Oh, but he was terrifying. To my nose, at least."

"You are a terrible cat."

Adrien only laughed.

As they rolled into their building, one of the wheels on Adrien's suitcase, abused beyond what it could take, popped off and rolled into a corner. Adrien groaned and ditched his listing suitcase to go after it. When he held it up, Marinette had to laugh.

"I'm gonna have to get new wheels," Adrien grumbled, coming back with the dinged-up wheel in hand. A chunk of it was straight-up missing, presumably from a direct hit to a chimney. "I mean, they weren't in great shape before, but I think they aged twenty years in a single trip across London, and- oh, crud." Adrien had turned his suitcase over to try to replace the wheel and found the axle bent way out of whack. "Okay, can we take the elevator? This suitcase is a mess."

"Of course." Marinette led the way to the elevators, her own suitcase wobbling unevenly behind her. "C'mon, kitty. Let's get home and then we can fix everything up."

[rememberthattime]

Chapter 47. Fiji

I was born on May 13, 1989. I don’t remember much about the day, but from pictures, it looked like a great time. My parents were celebrating, there were balloons, someone brought a children’s Chicago Cubs baseball set.

Today is my 30th birthday, so I’m reflecting … looking back all the way to the very start.

It’s interesting to imagine my mom & dad’s thoughts in that delivery room 30 years ago. They must have been terrified by the responsibility of raising a toddler (I would be), but also excited for their new son’s future. What will he grow up to be? Where will he live? What will he do? Their dreams for me had to be bigger than their 1980’s hair.

In the least dramatic way I can say this: they couldn’t have predicted where I’d end up 30 years later.

Birthdays are important to celebrate, but especially milestone birthdays. This is mainly Chelsay’s influence speaking, but I agree with her: milestone birthdays are ones you’ll always remember. 15 years from now, we’ll think back and ask: “What did we do for your 30th birthday?” ... I won’t let that be an ordinary memory. Life is busy though, so it’s tough to carve out a day for festivities, let alone plan them. Even a month ago, Chelsay and I didn’t know how we’d be celebrating. Chels had plans in motion, but my work complicated things by scheduling meetings in Atlanta the week before. My trip back to Sydney would require 24 hours of flights, so would we still be up for a big celebration? The answer is Yes. I’m not 70, and I just said milestone birthdays were important, so we’re making this happen. Work would pay for me to get from ATL back to SYD via any route, so Chels and I started looking for convenient connecting destinations. Hong Kong, Tokyo, Patagonia, and Hawaii were all considered, but in the end, we found the perfect blend of celebration, relaxation, adventure, and convenient flights in Fiji. Fiji is a county made up of 330 islands, and each island chain has its own unique characteristics. Viti Levu is the main island and home to Nadi Airport, but most tourists don’t stay here. Near Viti Levu are the Mamanucas, small sandy dots amongst the expansive blue. The Mamanucas are stunning, but they’re typically more resort-y and popular with nearby Aussies & Kiwis. Then there are the Yasawas, where Chelsay and I chose to stay. The Yasawas are further from the mainland, and their remoteness means their less touristy.

This is a double-edged sword though, because less tourists means there’s less tourist infrastructre, so finding a comfortable option would take some research. We eventually decided on Paradise Cove, which perfectly balanced vacation comforts (comfy bed, outdoor shower, and excellent food, which can’t be understated on a remote island) with a sense of wild adventure (fewer guests, great snorkelling, and hiking paths around the large island).

I nailed my meetings in Atlanta, so my birthday weekend was off to a good start even before boarding the plane. For the next 24 hours of flights, I had nothing to worry about - just enjoying a few movies and catching up on sleep. Chelsay and I met up in the Nadi Airport after extremely disproportionate flight times (hers was only 4 hours), and caught a ferry to Paradise Cove. Seaplanes were an option, but they were 5x the price and this wasn’t our honeymoon. The other advantage of the ferry is that it allowed us to see the different Fijian islands up close. Viti Levu and the Mamanucas were very nice, but Chelsay and I knew we’d made the right choice as we arrived in the less crowded Yasawas.

We were in heaven as we stepped onto the sandy beaches of Paradise Cove. A jungle of palm trees lined the beach, at first hiding the resort before eventually revealing a dream island getaway: shaded cabanas, pool-side lounge chairs, and a bar concocting frozen, fruity treats.

The pineapple on top of this pina colada was that Chelsay told the resort it was both of our birthdays, so they upgraded our villa and outfitted it with balloons and welcome drinks. As birthday surprises go, drinks on a beach in Fiji was pretty good.

After drinks on the beach, scuba diving wasn’t really an option, so we decided to snorkel in Paradise Cove’s house reef. I was really surprised by its color. It was just last week that I wrote about the scale of the Great Barrier Reef... but out in the middle of the Pacific, Fiji’s immense soft coral, highlighter vibrancy, and sea life abundance were incredible.

Now, it was inevitable that jet lag would catch up to me. Atlanta is 16 hours behind Fiji, and I was mentally nearing midnight. Chelsay was also dealing with severe time zone change (2 hours), so she was equally down for a nap. We gave ourselves 90 minutes but would wake up well before our 6:30 dinner. Apparently we woke up to the alarm at 5:30... I don’t remember. I guess I turned it off and only woke up once Chelsay checked her phone. 6:20. Woof. I say all this only to give you an idea of the mental state I was in over dinner. It was similar to that infamous Innsbruck dinner, where Chelsay and I giggled through our whole meal in a tired haze. After our mains, I asked Chelsay if it was time to call it a night... Despite having sour straws in the room, she insisted we stay at the restaurant for dessert. “Alright, well if we’re going to be here awhile, I need some extra bug spray.” I stumbled back to the room and, as I was re-applying, I heard singing in the distance. “Must be the ‘Kava Social’ by the fire pit,” I thought. ...These resorts always put on a show. Still in a sleepy haze, I leisurely made my way back to Chelsay. As I got closer though, I realized the singing wasn’t coming from the fire pit… it was coming from the restaurant. I turned the corner and could see they were surrounding Chelsay and I’s table... and Chelsay had her hands clasped over her mouth... and they weren’t making eye contact with her... and they had a cake. OH NO! They’d been singing this whole time for me!!!! Ahhhhh-I rushed back to the table, face bright red, and started clapping along as they sang a Fijian happy birthday song. I don’t know what they sang actually... it could’ve been the alphabet. I just tried to focus on Chelsay and not on the fact that the song had been going for at least three minutes. I thought to myself, “Chelsay must be so embarrassed!” And then I thought, “Oh no everyone thinks I was taking a shit!” The song finally wrapped up, and the waiters were laughing with Chelsay and I. They accusingly pointed out that it was the longest they’ve ever had to sing happy birthday… “Guys, I swear, I was putting on more bug spray!” Luckily a nearby couple caught the awkwardness of camera.

The next morning, Chelsay and I had scheduled back-to-back dives. We’ve been diving quite a bit recently, but it was still fun to float around the bottom of the ocean. Much like the local humans, Fijian fish seemed incredible friendly: the sea life was very comfortable with divers, staring back at Chelsay and I from only a few inches away.

After our dives, Chels and I took a 1.5 hour hike around the island, stopping at a secluded beach for private snorkelling. Along the hike, the resort had set up a few small exercise stations. One station was a tire flip... like what NFL prospects train with. This is probably why all the Polynesian players are so big. Anyway, Chelsay challenged me to flip it and I did so without difficulty. It must not have looked hard, because Chelsay confidently stepped up to try it herself. She bent down, grabbed the tire, lifted from her legs for less than one millisecond, and walked away with nothing but a “Nope.”

At dinner that night, first of all, there were no birthday song surprises. Second, we had phenomenal steak with a spread of beetroot, pea, and garlic purée. It was exceptional, as was every meal we ate at Paradise Cove. This can’t be overstated. I mentioned earlier that food in many Yasawan islands is poor, often limited to rice and fries. These resorts just aren’t prepared to meet all vacation comforts... Paradise Cove was ready though. Over our three days, we enjoyed tasty local kokoda, beef lettuce wraps, coconut crusted chicken, and their many fresh catches of the day.

The next morning, Chelsay and I joined a snorkel excursion through a nearby island channel. In Fiji, these channels serve as a funnel for pods of manta rays, which are probably my favorite non-dog animal. See, ever since our failed hunt for mantas in the Maldives, I’ve had an appreciation for how hard they are to find. Even though we’ve since seen entire pods of mantas, I’ll always jump at the slightest chance to see another. Our boat between the two islands, and the guide jumped in the water. He wore a weight belt so that he could sink down where the mantas swim, which I only mention because I want to remember how easily he descended 10 meters (30 feet), sitting in the dark blue for 2 minutes before resurfacing. This guy is a fish. On the other hand, Chelsay had a less graceful descent. When we scuba dived the day before, we exited the boat by sitting on the ledge, tanks over the water, and just falling backwards. The weight of the tank would naturally fall into the water and 360-degree flip you back to the surface. When snorkelling though, you don’t have the weight of the tank. Chelsay threw herself back and entered the water, but was too buoyant to complete a flip. She’d contoured herself into an arch, with her belly sticking out of the water and fins frantically trying to rotate over. She probably scared the mantas away. It took about 30 minutes of tense anticipation, but while staring down at the blue abyss, we heard the guide yell, “Manta!” Chelsay and I swam over quickly to take in the majestic giant. At around 3 meters wide, this female manta was bigger than me, yet swam with such gentle grace. Its grace is deceptive though, because it’s actually still moving quickly - between our hunt and subsequent chase, I probably swam 3 km that morning.

Chels and I were tired when we got back to Paradise Cove, but it was our last day so we decided to snorkel the house reef one more time. It was cool to see the soft coral again, but we were pooped. I actually had to tow Chelsay back: you know, when I swim in front and my wife just holds onto my foot.

As I was towing her, we passed over a shallow part of the reef but I kept powering along. Suddenly, Chelsay let go of my foot and started slapping the water. I stopped in my tracks, unsure what she was freaking out about. She swam off, so I followed, and it wasn’t until we’d gotten to shore that she told me what it was: apparently a venomous white-banded sea snake popped out and launched within 1.5 ft of me. That was enough sea life for this trip, so we spent the rest of the day on the resort’s inflated jungle gym. We laughed, played around, and attempted backflips (key word: attempted). Just a reminder that I’d turned 30 a few days before.

That note actually transitions well into my conclusion…

A lot of people get anxious about their 30th birthday. It isn’t a vitality thing - too early for that - but the anxiety comes more from gauging where you are vs where you thought you’d be. Life isn’t a checklist, but it’s natural to have expectations for when you turn 30, 40, etc. Well, I’m writing this from my villa patio in Fiji, so I’m nailing the “Where you are” part. To answer that question less literally though, I’ll instead consider “Where I am” against Chelsay and I’s life motto, something we wrote in our wedding vows: “We’ll never let age get in the way of our youth.” This is perfect motto for age-related milestones because youth isn’t a concept tied to age. It isn’t chapter in your life that just fades away. It’s a mindset, and it’s one you can measure whether you’re 5, 20, 30, 40, or 80. To be youthful is to be energetic, playful, and optimistic. Now I’m technically 30, but this milestone age doesn’t bother me. “Where I am” is energetic enough to swim with Mantas, playful enough to laugh at awkward cake situations and splash around on an inflatable jungle gym, and optimistic enough to make a celebratory Fiji weekend happen despite all of life’s complexities. I’m not worried about turning 30, because after the past weekend, I know I’m as youthful as I’ve ever been.

[scroll-the-adventurer]

Devil Tied in a Chair

So recently I reblogged a post asking writers to reblog, and that kinda made me want to post some snippits of my WIP and some short stories that take place in the universe I’m playing with. So below the cut there’ll be a bit of that. This bit is actually 2 short chapters. It doesn’t really have a place in the current story I’m working on, but it is a little side adventure, maybe something that happens shortly before the main story. Either way it’s a pretty fun romp if I say so myself.

Prologue: A wizard known as Wanderer stays true to his namesake, scouring the solar system for knowledge and new magicks. As one would imagine, this is dangerous work. Like any final frontier, the cold black is full of all kinds of desperate riffraff, liking to survive by taking from another. Today Wanderer found himself on the losing side of a conflict with such riffraff, and it’s time to sort this out the way a wizard knows best.

Story below the cut

There are 99 pirate clans in Federation of Flags. Out of the 99, Wanderer has had dealings, or otherwise running-ins with 72. Out of the 99, only 6 recognize wizardry as existing and utilize as a tool in their ranks. Out of the remaining 93, all of them are incredibly superstitious and the bulk of their crews straight up fear magick. As they should. Today Wanderer found himself with his hands tied, sitting in a chair, with a bag over his head.

“So, that’s a bit of a junker ya were flying in our sector.” Came a voice from the black. Lesser voices snickered and chattered from beyond. “We found yer stash in the vents. I suppose you fancy yerself a smuggler. You must be new to it as ya’d know that all smuglin’ goes through us in our sector. Or if ya ain’t new, you musta missed the memo that this here sector changed to our hands last year. Wanna tell me what’s in those boxes before I have one'a the boys torch it open and damages what mights be inside?”

Wanderer stared into the black and sternly asked “What colors are you flying?”

“Oh, he thinks he’s interrogating me?!” the room erupted into laughter and howling. “Listen to me when I say I’m the one asking questions. What’s the combination to yer boxes? We wanna take a look inside, and I’d be sure ya wanna keep your fingers.” The dominant voice reached out of the darkness and Wanderer felt it grab his wrist, a pressure on the first digit of his right pinky.

Wanderer rotated his hand in his bindings and grabbed the hand of his captor, with the ring and middle fingers curled and contorted against their palms. Warm blood escaped the edge of the joint where the pirates blade slipped across in the movement.

“Tell me what colors you’re flying and I’ll give you the combination to the first box. We have a deal?” The voice was silent in the dark for a moment, then an answer came with a slight quiver.

“That-That sounds fair.”

“The blue box, labeled ‘toiletries’, 487A685G. What colors are you flying? Don’t worry, if I’m lying you can take that bit of pinky. Send a guy to check my stuff.”

The darkness made an audible gulp as the hand shook loose from Wanderer’s grasp. A few people were heard leaving the room. “We’re ah- We’re Crimson Concordant. We own this section of-”

“Awesome.” Wanderer said “I want speak with Ralph”

“Ralph? Which Ralph are you talking about?” The voice spoke with a clear of the throat.

Wanderer turned in his seat, lifted both his bound together arms and pointed, with his ring and index finger of his left hand, into the crowd he could see clearly in his mind, and said “I want to talk to that Ralph.” As a scream came from the direction he had pointed and someone could be heard running out of the room, as some others entered. It would seem that there was a Ralph and he nearly shit himself as he ran past those who went to check the cargo.

“Sir.” Came a younger voice. “The blue box were full of bottles filled with… things? And this silver statue. I don’t know what that is. I’ve never seen anything like it…”

“I want to talk to Ralph the Red. The guy who commands this floating pile of shit? The Captain? Orange box. 654B5874. Go ahead. Have a look and get your boss down here.”

There was silence for a second and then foot fall headed back towards wherever they were storing Wanderer’s goods. Time passed as Wanderer sat idly in his chair. The room has gone quiet, aside from the odd whisper here and there.

“Sir. I don’t know. It’s dark stuff, Sir. We opened the box and a bunch of moths flew out. Shrunken heads. Bones. The whole inside is crusted in this… black. Sir, I don’t think we…”

“Lad, you don’t think. You do want I ask of you. Stranger, how’d you know Ralph Biggins was sat over there? And how do you know our Captain?” The voice asked, appropriately in the dark.

“If you ever make it to Captain, you’ll know me too, Sam.” There was the sound of stumbling over chairs.

“What kind of Devilry is this? Somebody club the demon! Knock him cold before he lays a curse on us all!” The interrogator shouted as more chairs fell, draped in panicked men. It sounded to Wanderer that the whole of the room’s occupants were backed up against the walls, save for the couple cautiously making their way, step by step, towards their prisoner.

Once they were a few paces away, Wanderer suddenly stood from his chair and began floating several inches off the floor, as the chair flew across the room with supernatural force, smashing the door control panel and locking the crew in with him. Screams let out, as the bag lifted off Wanderer’s head and he could see his was in the mess hall. His interrogation was probably meant to be this meals entertainment. Sam was near the door, begging for a security detail to come and unlock them from their new hell, as the door opened and he and everyone else bolted past the tall man with the red beard who freed them.

“Oh hey Ralph! Long time no see!” Wanderer exclaimed, hovering a foot and a half off the ground.

“So there I am, flying for Ganymede when one of your boys shoots a fucking harpoon through my cargo hold? Like, not a mag-graple, but a literal barbed harpoon. When the fuck did you guys start using harpoons? I had to shut off air to the back half of my ship and shit. It was kind of a pain in the ass.” Wanderer was understandably upset.

“Well, my boys didn’t know who you were. Kind of hard to let the patrols know you’re on the 'Don’t Fuck With’ list when your name and ship ID changes every time we see you. And you still swear you’re not a smuggler?”

“That’s fair, but nothing on my ship is illegal. Frowned upon, yeah. Dangerous as a portal straight to hell, certainly. But I’ve got the proper paper work for the human remains, which I’m transporting to put to rest, by the way, and everything else more or less in the clear to most local governments, or at least they wouldn’t know what they even are, so they can’t charge me with anything.”

“So why did you put them in the vents?” Ralph inquired

“Because…” Wanderer hesitated. “Because they wouldn’t shut up…” he answered, staring deep into the coffee Ralph had given him.

“So how did you know Sam’s name?” Ralph wanted to change the subject

“Oh, I’ve got copies of Ganymede’s entire police record stored in my prosthetic eye. And it’s not just a computer and a camera, ya know. It’s got audio capture functionality too. I just ran a vocal analysis on those records once he started interrogating me. I knew who he was around the time I got them to search  my first box. I had an audio map of the whole room and half of the crew in it by the time Sam drew blood.” Wanderer explained like it was just another average day’s occurrence.

“I figured you had some kind of trick. So how’d you pull off the flying?”

“…I’m a fucking wizard, Ralph. You tie me up and sit me in a chair for 20 minutes, I can find a way to levitate. I could imposed my will over quantum forces, pleading with the machine spirits of the grav-pads in your mess hall for their aid, or just fucking blast magick out of my ass like a rocket. I’m a fucking wizard, Ralph.”

“Sure, Stranger.” Ralph was skeptical of what he’d just seen, but knew to take what Wanderer said with a healthy dose of respect. “If anyone could do something like that, it would be you.”

“But seriously.” Wanderer took a sip of his coffee. “When did you guys switch over to fucking harpoons?”

[waynebomberger]

Eat Up: The Best Restaurants in Nashville, According to Me

Many of you are probably coming to Nashville soon for the NFL draft, or maybe CMA Fest or a bachelorette weekend or another excuse for a long-weekend getaway. No matter how you’re experiencing Music City, you must make time to eat your way through it—the food scene is absolutely on fire, and some of the best restaurants in Nashville are also the best in the country.

The restaurant scene is so dynamic, in fact, that many have closed already before I even had a chance to write them up (R.I.P. Kuchnia & Keller, I hardly knew thee, though I loved what little I saw—and tasted). It’s harder than ever to be a restaurant in Nashville and make it long-term, so kudos to those chefs who are killing it.

Looking for where to eat? Nashville has so many good restaurants, it can be hard to decide which one is your best bet. So I broke it down by occasion in hopes of solving all your Music City dining woes.



For a one-of-a-kind experience: Tailor Nashville

For years, Vivek Surti was Nashville’s most famous chef without a restaurant. He worked for the wine auction, he ran VEA Supper Club on the side, and he cooked for just about everyone around town who would ask him. He’s a phenomenal chef who fuses his Indian heritage with other South Asian cuisine for a mashup of tasty dishes unlike any other. All of Nashville rejoiced when he finally bit the bullet and opened up Tailor Nashville, a dining club-type experience in Germantown, with partner Heather Southerland at the end of last year. The eight- to 10-course menu rotates seasonally and features a snack, vegetable, fish or meat, rice dish and a dessert for $60, which does not include sales tax and gratuity. Drink pairings are an additional charge, which I highly recommend. There are only 35 seats available at 6pm and 8:30pm on Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday, so if you’re coming from out of town, make sure you make a reservation well in advance.

For any occasion: The Farm House

I’ve professed my love for Chef Trey Cioccia’s winning combination of atmosphere and contemporary Southern fare on the blog before, but every time I go back, his ever-changing menu impresses me even more. Pork belly pop-tarts? Pimento cheese beignets? Gnudi of the day? Forget about it! Just give me one of everything, please. On top of dinner six nights a week, TFH serves lunch from Tuesday through Friday and brunch on Sunday.

For your new neighborhood hang: Hathorne

I was a huge fan of John Stephenson’s all the years he was at the helm at Fido, then I followed his food to the Family Wash (R.I.P.), so I was really excited when he debuted Hathorne on Charlotte Avenue last winter. There’s so much to love about Hathorne, from the design that incorporates pews recovered from the church next door to the plates of shaved Brussels, pork pierogis, roasted heirloom carrots and grilled acorn squash that are meant to be shared. Hathorne has a daily happy hour from 5 to 6:30pm, then a “joyful hour” from 10 to 11:30pm, staying true to its mission to bring in the neighborhood locals.

To impress an out-of-towner: Pinewood Social

If you haven’t heard of this restaurant-meets-bar-meets-swimming pool-meets karaoke joint-meets bowling alley-meets cafe, you’ve been living under a rock (or else not reading C&C … or Vogue … or Esquire … or any of the hundreds of publications that have featured it in the handful of years since Pinewood’s inception). The drinks are stellar, the food is great, and the atmosphere is on point—what more could you ask for out of a dining experience?

When you’re feeling indulgent: Biscuit Love Brunch

There’s no nicer couple in town than Karl and Sarah Worley, and it doesn’t hurt that they also have the game-changing recipe for the best biscuits in Nashville. After two years of dominating the food truck market, this dynamic duo launched their own brick-and-mortar in 2015, open seven days a week from 7am to 3pm. There’s never not a line, so you’re better off going on a weekday if you can. Just know: It’s worth every second you wait. Also know: You should order the Lily while your friend has the East Nasty, which was named as one of Bon Appetit’s favorite sandwiches in the country a couple years back. Or have your savory but order a plate of bonuts for the table. If you’re not feeling biscuits, there are plenty of other options on the menu, like the Lindstrom, a seriously decadent shaved Brussels sprouts salad. Want to feel cool? Order the “Nasty Princess” (a mash-up of the Princess and East Nasty) off-menu. Pro tip: Biscuit Love has another location in Hillsboro Village that is often less packed during peak meal times. There’s also a third outpost down in Franklin.

For Sunday Supper: City House

City House is a must-eat any night of the week but it’s especially good each Sunday night when the menu rotates to include even more creative pizza and pasta dishes (I still remember an apple, onion and chili pie I had years ago). You’ll need a reservation to get into Sunday Supper, though you can always nab a seat at the bar if you forgot to call a couple weeks in advance. Note: City House is great for small groups, but can be really loud and not ideal for a first (or second or third…) date. The belly ham pie with a cracked egg on top never goes out of style.

When you’re downtown for lunch: Liberty Common

The fist thing that will catch your eye is just how downright dreamy the interior of Liberty Common is. On my inaugural visit here, I was dining alone and working from the bar, but I couldn’t stop creeping around taking photos of the design. It’s just so damn pleasant. And it boasts murals from one of our favorite artists Tara Aversa, the visionary behind the Manchester Magnolia, too. The food itself is very Parisian bistro style, and the drinks follow form. Traditionally, Nashville didn’t have a lot of great downtown restaurants, particularly ones that cater to the business crowd, so I’m pleased as punch that Liberty Common has joined the fray.

For a stylish diner vibe: The Mockingbird

The tagline says it all: “modern dinner, global fare.” The menu at the Mockingbird is all over the place, which is precisely why I like going there. It’s the kind of restaurant you can dine at with friends who all have very different culinary preferences, whether you want a corned seitan veggie reuben and your bestie is dying for a chicken pot pie. It’s comfort food at its finest, in a very stylish space (and I love that all the food is served on mismatched plates procured from antiques stores). If you have a chance to chat with owners Brian Riggenbach and Mikey Corona, take it—they’re both a riot. And don’t leave without ordering a platter of cookies served in a birdcage.

When you’re in the mood for Italian: Nicky’s Coal Fired

I first met Tony and Caroline Galzin when they were at Fifty-First Kitchen and were instant fans. Not only are the Chicago transplants great people, but they bring a different kind of culinary pizzazz to the Nashville restaurant scene. When they opened up Nicky’s Coal Fired in the Nations a couple years back, they were one of the only restaurants in the area; now, the neighborhood is positively booming, and their seats are packed with those flocking to taste the artisan pizzas fired up in their four-ton, coal-fired oven named “Enrico.” Nicky’s also has a selection of antipasti and seafood dishes, though I usually order one of the seasonal pasta dishes to start and share a thin-crust pie or two with friends as my main. The cocktail menu is on point, and there are always a selection of spritzes from which to choose.

For a classy business affair: Etch

This downtown spot is the brainchild of culinary master Deb Paquette, who whips up inventive fare, such as an octopus and shrimp bruschetta or a cauliflower steak. Deb has led the charge on Nashville’s food evolution and now has Char and Etc. in Green Hills, as well. It’s also one of my very favorites in town—and I’m not just saying it because my college roommate is the ace pastry chef (proud friend alert)! Just ask Zagat or a number of any other ratings guides: Etch is la creme de la creme, whether for lunch or dinner. The cauliflower appetizer is a must-do anytime of day, and my regular lunch order is the creamy, oh-so-tasty Thai Chicken & Quinoa. And tasting your way through the dessert menu, created by my former roommate Megan Williams, is a must-do, so be sure and save room in your stomach!

For the best Indian street food: Chaatable

Maneet Chauhan is a ball of sassy energy, and that energy could not be more apparent than in her latest concept Chaatable, which channels an Indian street market in all its colorful glory and dreamy Indian bites with punny names like the O.M.Ghee, This Spuds For You, Puff Puff Pass and the Go Shorty. She also collected thousands of Indian bangles to build a bangle wall, which serves as the perfect greeting (and so very Maneet, too) when diners walk in. Pro tip: Don’t leave without ordering one (or three) Pani ‘Rita, the tamarind margarita that is currently one of my favorite drinks in Nashville.

To satiate your sweet tooth: Jeni’s Splendid Ice Creams

Have I gotten the point across yet? I LOVE JENI’S ICE CREAM. And now that there are multiple locations in Nashville, my waistline is in immediate danger. I finally met Jeni Britton Bauer at the opening of her Hillsboro Village store—dangerously close to where I live—and had a major fangirl moment. I’ve tried about every flavor she makes, and while you can’t go wrong, the combo of salty caramel and brown butter almond brittle is always my favorite.

For breakfast/lunch/dinner any day of the week: Fido

The sweet potato waffle can’t be beat, but neither can the burger, or the coffee for that matter. Basically, all you need to know is that Fido is as good as they come, and if you find yourself hungry in Hillsboro Village no matter the time of day, you can pop in and fulfill your craving, no matter what that may be. Then head across the street to Jeni’s for dessert or next door to Hot & Cold for a Las Paletas pop, and all will be right with the world!

For the best $200 you’ve ever spent: Catbird Seat

Before I ate there, I wondered just how any meal could be worth $200 (note: that price does include pairings). Well, let’s just say, I would have paid double that for the feast we had at our inaugural Catbird experience last spring! The restaurant itself is very no-frills, which means the focus is entirely on the food and whatever the chef and his team are whipping up that night. Reservations open up exactly 30 days in advance, and as there are only two seatings of 20 people Wednesday through Sunday, you better get on that if you want to indulge in this sinful experience.

For your green juice fix: Juice Bar

Like every other city in America, Nashville has experienced a boom in juice spots. I do several juice cleanses a year and have yet to find one I like as much as the Juice Bar, which now has multiple locations in Nashville and Williamson County. My go-to location is the Germantown one, as street parking is easy during the day. I also frequent the Juice Bar in Berry Hill, but often there’s nowhere to park (#NashvilleProblems).

For a menu you’ll have to Google: Rolf & Daughters

You won’t understand half the ingredients on the menu, but that’s half the fun. People bemoan the service (or lack thereof) at Rolf—it’s a hipster hangout first and foremost—so know before you go. But that’s never deterred me from heading to RAD when the urge strikes. And if it’s a nice evening, arrive early and claim a spot on the patio, which is first-come, first-served.

For a community experience: Josephine

This 12South hotspot debuted at the tail end of 2013 to much excitement, but its new 10-course X|X: Josephine experience really helped keep it relevant. Each Friday and Saturday night at 8pm, 10 lucky diners take the table as they are served a steady stream of 10 dishes on a long 2-by-10 wooden board, each  presented by theme (e.g., snacks, asparagus, spring, pretzel, morel mushroom, scallop, pork belly). Better yet, the meal is just $90 with an optional $55 for six beverage pairings, an absolute steal for as much food and drink as that gets you. Just be sure and make reservations, as with just 10 spots at the table, they go quickly!

For bad-ass BBQ and bushwhackers: Edley’s

BBQ purists may call it too trendy, but I don’t care. I LOVE this BBQ joint that now boasts three locations locally, one in Chattanooga and one in Kentucky. The Tuck forever gets my order, and even though I nearly died from bushwhacker consumption a few years ago (don’t ask), I can’t stay away. Love nachos? Can’t go wrong with BBQ nachos, topped with a heaping pile of pulled pork.

When you’re looking to eat on Braodway: Acme Feed & Seed

The walk-up counter on Acme’s ground floor is always a safe option if you’re out on Broadway midday or into the evening and looking to grab a quick bite among a sea of trashy country music star-backed options (though I do like the food at Whiskey Row if we’re being honest).

For a drink on the go: Bajo Sexto

A cocktail I can carry around downtown with me? Don’t mind if I do! Jonathan Waxman’s first Nashville endeavor has authentic Mexican food and delicious drinks, like the bourbon horchata, and it’s conveniently located between the Omni, the Music City Center and the Country Music Hall of Fame, so perfect for those of you staying downtown.

For all. the. meat: Martin’s BBQ

Pat Martin has become legendary in Nashville with his huge of the whole hog and his ever-expanding empire. He’s now got three locations in the Nashville area, as well as has expanded to neighboring states, too. My favorite of his many spots is the downtown outpost with its 13,000 square feet of space for dining, lounging, drinking beer and playing games with your buds.

For beer with a side of tacos: Butchertown Hall

Butchertown Hall is dangerously close to my Nashville yoga studio, and it’s open all afternoon long, something I struggle with in Nashville with weird hours and so many places closed from 2 to 5pm. So it’s become my go-to spot post-yoga when I’m getting a late lunch or drinks with friends. The street tacos are bomb, and the beer selection is mighty. The clean design and so much natural light only makes you want to camp out here for hoursi. On warmer nights, Butchertown’s lovely side patio is perfect for sipping saison after saison.

For the celebrity chef experience: Chauhan House

Every time I’m feeling indulgent and wanting all the curry, I head straight for Chauhan Ale & Masala House, Maneet Chauhan’s first of four concepts to open in Nashville. I particularly love it for lunch, a time of day when I feel like Nashville dining options aren’t abundant. The lunch items may be heavy, but man is that meat-and-three worth it (though I often oscillate between the thali and the chicken tikka masala—both are oh so good). Weekend brunch is also the prime occasion to make a ressie for Chauhan. I crave that Stop Monkeying Around always, and the What Came First, the Chicken or the Egg? is divine.

For a meal in a coffee shop: Frothy Monkey

Frothy Monkey is the coffee shop empire in Nashville, and yet people often overlook them as an option for meals, which is insane as their food is oh-so-good and runs the gamut of sandwiches, salads, soups and heartier entrees. The Nations location has become one of my lunchtime go-tos when I’m meeting a friend for coffee with a side of food. Looking to start your evening somewhere? Consider going to Frothy for Wine Down Wednesday with three pours of wine (or six beer tasters) and snacks for the bargain deal of $15.

For brunch without a wait: Saint Anejo

There’s hot chocolate French toast, there’s chicken and waffles with jalapeno syrup, and there’s a horchata French toast. I say order them all. Also a winning factor? Two-for-one cocktails every single weekend day. Done.

For old Hollywood glam: Sinema

Sinema debuted in the summer of 2014 to become one of the pricier joints in town. It’s definitely a special occasion type of place, but even if you aren’t in the mood to spend $35 in a plate, it’s worth grabbing drinks in the upstairs lounge and popping into the bathroom for a #SinemaSelfie.

For the best chocolate in town: Goo Goo Cluster

I’ve often sung the praises of Nashville’s own century-old candy company but the new chef series, in which they roll out a different Premium Goo Goo every week or two, has me stopping by the downtown shop more often than not to see what these culinary masterminds have whipped up on any given week.

For a true taste of Nashville: The Farmers’ Market

The Nashville Farmers’ Market is open every day of the week and boasts dozens of purveyors of local food and products, from Music City Crepes to Batch. It’s always bustling, and it’s always good. If you need a lunch spot that’s guaranteed to fill you up and leave you satisfy, this one’s for you, and you’ll be surrounded by actual Nashvillians who break from the office to eat here daily.

For a bit of everything rolled into one: Walk Eat Nashville

In Nashville for a short time and don’t have the chance to try it all? Book a spot with Karen-Lee Ryan’s Walk Eat Nashville, and I guarantee you will get the highlights reel in your informative and tasty, three-hour walking tour of East Nashville, SoBro or Midtown.

For pizza, pizza: Five Points Pizza

Nashville used to have hardly any pizza options, and now it’s got several. Five Points Pizza, with a location in East Nashville and one off of Charlotte is by far my favorite. You can order whole pies or from a select menu of pizza by the slice. I often get carryout from the right side of the restaurant, though if it’s not packed and you feel like a brew, settle in at a booth on the left side and enjoy the craft beer selection.

For dinner with a side of champagne: Geist

Germantown is the neighborhood in which I spend the most time, and I was happy when Geist joined the fray back in 2018. One of my favorite mixologists Freddie Schwenk heads up the bar which is set in an old 1900 blacksmith shop, and I often just order “whatever Freddie is feeling today.” I don’t drink a lot of bubbles, but even I can’t deny the attraction of the Champagne Garden, with its champs served outside in a full outdoor garden and courtyard; there’s even the option to saber a bottle if you’re feeling frisky. On the food front, Geist has a small selection of sharable veggie plates, starters (may I recommend the bacon jam and baked brie?), and entrees like salmon, scallops and cavatelli. If the key lime pie is on the menu, you must order it—it poses as a real lime, but is actually pie inside when you crack it open. A true work of art!

For dinner with a dose of history: Woolworth on 5th

The most interesting thing to be about Woolworth is not the food—though, don’t get me wrong, it’s great, too—but the fact that this historic building was the site of many sit-ins during the Civil Rights Movement, and that the owners decided to keep all of those scuff marks intact as a reminder of the turmoil this city (and the South as a whole) went through not that long ago. The Art Deco-y Woolworth on 5th is a great spot for a work lunch as it’s right downtown in Nashville’s version of a financial district, but it’s also a good spot for a pre-show dinner with TPAC right around the corner. Expect Southern fare like fried green tomatoes, fried chicken, and shrimp and grits.

For the best damn rabbit rolls in town: Black Rabbit

Rabbit rolls may seem like a weird thing to be obsessed with, but that’s likely because you haven’t been to Black Rabbit, a chic, 1920s-inspired lounge on the cusp of Printers Alley that will offer small plates, creative craft cocktails and live piano music on any night of the week. With Kathy Anderson behind the design, Black Rabbit’s ambiance is built around the old wood floors and exposed brick walls leftover from the late 1800s and utilizes velvet sofa, leather lounge chairs and plush booths for seating. The wooded chef’s island provides prime seating for those keen on studying the talents of this passionate team of chefs, who will be cooking up various canapes like butterfolds, squab rillettes, rabbit spam sliders, twice-baked patatas bravas, roasted oysters and pickled shrimp. This swanky cocktail lounge off of 2nd Avenue is a much elevated breath of fresh air for downtown with an expansive whiskey collection and a cocktail menu that reads like a tome. Don’t overlook it as a dinner spot, though; you’d be remiss to pass on Chefs Trey and Chad’s elevated fare.

For sushi and other Asian fusion: Sunda

Chef-owner Billy Dec brought his popular new Asian concept from Chicago and opened a Nashville location, as well, last summer. There aren’t a lot of places that will get me to the Gulch anymore—it’s way too hip and far too crowded for this simpleton—but Sunda will do just that. Not only is the interior large, roomy and chic, but the menu boasts dim sum, sushi, nigiri, noodle dishes, curry, ramen and so much more. It’s basically a one-stop lunch, brunch or dinner spot for all kinds of Asian fusion (and a really great sake selection to boot).

For an excuse to dine in a restaurant: Henley

From a style standpoint, Kimpton’s lobby-level restaurant Henley is one of the most polished places in town, weaving in bold art and tile patterns with an equally creative menu to follow suit. Whether you’re staying at the hotel or just looking for somewhere to eat in Midtown any meal of the day, Henley is one of your top contenders.

For the hardest weekend brunch table to land: Tavern

Call it a college bar if you will, but M Street’s Tavern has been a mainstay of mine in the seven years since we’ve been back. It’s consistently delicious, and one of the only places in Midtown open in the middle of the day, so my gal Beth and I have had many a mid-afternoon cocktail with snacks (the buffalo cauliflower has never let me down). It’s also a slam dunk for weekend brunch—if you can get a table. Avoid at all costs on a Vandy home weekend, but any other time, get there minutes before they open and grab a table (or put your name down). If you’re there promptly at 10 (or maybe just before), you should get in just fine. And the hash and the red velvet waffles with cream cheese drizzle are totally worth the wait, too.

When you’re feeling Japanese: The Green Pheasant

If you haven’t been to Two Ten Jack, start there—but I’d venture to say I like the food at the Green Pheasant even more than I do the original izakaya and ramen joint in East Nashville. Even better that it’s based downtown and the perfect dinner spot before a night at the Symphony or a show at the amphitheater. The menu is small, but plates are very sharable. On my first visit, I went with five girlfriends, and we ordered pretty much every dish on the menu and shared them. I immediately went back the following week with SVV, because no one appreciates Japanese food more than he does. A few standouts: the spicy crab noodles, chicken wing gyoza and the broccolini. Park in the adjoining parking garage, and you can get your parking validated to make it just $5 for 2.5 hours.

For seafood in a land-locked state: Henrietta Red

Ben and Max Goldberg teamed up with their childhood friend, Chef Julia Sullivan, and her business partner, Allie Poindexter, at the helm a couple years back to open this bright spot in Germantown, an Instagrammer’s dream with its striking tile and abundance of natural light. Sullivan brings her culinary panache, honed at such notable restaurants as Blue Hill at Stone Barns and Per Se, to the kitchen, and the raw bar is laid out to be communal with an additional 70 seats in banquette- and table-style seating in the adjoining dining room. In addition to a dozen or so types of oysters, other seafood dishes like smoked mussel toast, wild striped bass and wood-roasted mackerel round out the menu. My favorite excuse to go to Henrietta Red, though, is the weekend brunch, which I’ll put up against any other in town.

For the best tacos you’ll eat, ever: Mas Tacos Por Favor

Ask an East Nashvillian old or new what their favorite restaurant is, and nine out of 10 of them will tell you: MAS TACOS. You order at a window, then your name is called out, and they move very quickly, so don’t be deterred by the line. Since these are street tacos, I recommend three to make up a full meal—and you can’t pass up on the fried avocado one—as well as a side of street corn and agua fresca. Mas Tacos totally upped its game when it added a bar, and margaritas became part of the mix, though you’ll order those at the back bar. On warm evenings, the patio is the perfect place to dine.

For brats and baseball: Von Elrod’s

One of my qualms with Nashville dining has always been that the patios aren’t big enough. Enter: Von Elrod’s with its massive outdoor space. This beer hall with a focus on German cuisine debuted a couple years ago right across from First Tennessee Park where the Nashville Sounds play, and it’s a great spot to get a brat and a pint or two before you head into the stadium for the evening. Von Elrod’s boasts 36 beers on tap with even more available by the bottle. They’ve also got weekend brunch and offer specialty classes like pretzel-making.

For vegetarians: Butcher & Bee

Let’s state this upfront: Butcher & Bee is not strictly vegetarian, and yet, I feel like it has one of the best menus for veggie-loving diners in town. It’s the kind of place you go for healthy shared plates and a mean cocktail, and you must take my word for it that ordering the whipped feta is a non-negotiable; ditto to the fire-roasted carrots. Another, more under-the-radar veg spot is Sunflower Cafe in Berry Hill.

For all things Greek: Greko Street Food

Nashville restaurant vets and first cousins Bill Darsinos (Southside Grille) and Tony Darsinos (Gondola House Pizzeria in Hermitage) joined forces to bring Greek food to East Nashville. Designed to offer an authentic Athens street food vibe, Greko will serve an array of dishes like fresh-baked pitas; lamb, chicken and pork cooked on a rotisserie over a live fire; souvlaki; and Greek fries with oregano and Myzithra cheese. All of the meats will be cooked over a live vire, and the bulk of the ingredients, such as olive oil and wines from their home region of Nemea, will be imported directly from Greece.

For a happy hour kind of dinner: Lockeland Table

Anytime I’m in East Nashville between 4 and 6pm, you can bet I’m likely kicking it at Lockeland Table with my friend Matt for the daily Community Hour, which features a selection of $5 cocktails and some snacks to share like Korean beef tacos and deviled eggs with chow chow at discounted prices.

For when you need a brunch ressie: Le Sel

French brasseries are not a dime a dozen in Nashville, so Le Sel filled a void in the market when it came to town with a European-influenced menu heavy on the oysters and plenty of wine selections to match. Le Sel offers dinner, though I’m not overly wild about French cuisine, so I prefer it for weekend brunch (if you love ratatouille, though, this is your place). Savory crepes, croque Madams and Bayonne ham Benedicts? I’ll take one of each!

For breakfast any day of the week: Marché Artisan Foods

Margot McCormack is one of Nashville’s food pioneers, and her pair of restaurants—Marché and Margot—in Five Points are always packed, no matter how buzzy their newer neighboring restaurants are. I love this European-style cafe for weekday breakfast, as it’s not too crowded (weekends are another story), and it’s really hard to find places in town that serve a full brunch menu Monday through Friday.

For that international flavor: Thai Esane

I could eat Thai food every day for the rest of my life and never grow tired of it. Unfortunately, while Nashville dining is many things, diverse it is not. Which is why Thai Esane’s 2014 opening was greeted with a collective cheer from those of us who crave Asian food at every meal.

For a swanky night out in the Gulch: Tànsuǒ

Tànsuǒ, another Maneet concept, is sandwiched between Chauhan House and Mockingbird. The darkly-lit, bi-level space is meant to reflect a Chinese night market (albeit, a very cosmopolitan one), and the menu is an exploration of contemporary Cantonese cuisine like Toishan Pork Sui Mai, Peking Duck and a spin on classic Chinese fare such as General Tso’s Chicken.

*****

The above is an exhaustive, though not completely comprehensive list of some of favorite places to eat over the years, but just know, that these are definitely not the only options. And many oldies but goodies like Cafe Coco or Miel that often fly under the radar didn’t make the list simply because I haven’t been there in eons to even know what the food is like anymore (and others like Firefly Grille and Tin Angel have recently closed, R.I.P. to them, too).

Here are a few more Nashville restaurants to check out, depending on what you’re in the mood for:

Hot chicken: Hattie B’s, Pepperfire, Bolton’s Spicy Chicken & Fish, Party Fowl, Prince’s Hot Chicken

BBQ: Jack’s Bar-B-Que, Peg Leg Porker

Burgers: Hopdoddy, Burger Up, The Pharmacy, Gabby’s, Farm Burger, Hugh Baby’s, M.L. Rose, Jack Brown’s

Pizza: Folk, Emmy Squared, DeSano, Slim & Husky’s

Steaks: Kayne Prime, Oak Steakhouse, Bourbon Steak

International: Lyra, Epice, Plaza Mariachi, King Market, Azadi International Food Market

This post was last updated April 2019.

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from Camels & Chocolate: Travel & Lifestyles Blog http://bit.ly/2i41ich

[blackidyll]

@svengooliecat replied to your post “ramblings ramblings ramblings”:

this sounds like it would make for a fantastic fic...10/10 would read. My condolences on your loss, tho, and having to deal with the govt.

Thanks :) (and sorry for the late reply, I’ve been away this weekend without net access). 

TBH a big part of why I’m not actually writing the fic is because I don't want to do hours of research into funerals in Britain and the legalities of death and the governmental processes involved LOL and also because other than copious amounts of angst and worrying and a lot of introspection on the nature of their line of work a lot of the fic would just be random things that annoys Q to no end. Like: 

Q gets informed about Bond’s “death” by the police while some of his neighbours are around (because Q’s ex-royal navy now-personal security consultant boyfriend has been out on business for more than two weeks now and that flat must get lonely) and when he finally gets time to place a call to Moneypenny she assures him that there’s no confirmation that Bond’s actually dead (”It’s so hard to tell with him, so we draw no conclusions until we have a body”) but also they have to go head with killing Bond’s cover and so on because something clearly went wrong on their mission, and: 

Eve: so we’re going to have a funeral for closure Q: and what will we do when people ask to see James one last time? Because believe it or not, Eve, but he can be surprisingly charming when he wants to be and half our neighbours either love him or are in love with him.  Eve: so it’ll be a closed casket funeral  Q: And that means the so-called body is too mutilated for the public to see. Thank you, Eve, thank you so much I’m never getting a moment of peace now. 

And sure enough Q doesn’t get much of a moment alone after that news goes out. Friends and neighbours and almost everyone he and Bond have had contact with in this undercover mission have turned out in support. Whenever he’s gone for too long someone comes up to find him, and there’s rotation of people who volunteer to bring meals and stay overnight and try to help out with the whole process (”What do we do? When does the morgue release the body? What arrangements do we need to make? Paperwork?” “I don’t know, let’s Google it” and meanwhile Q is thinking I honestly don’t know either, because I’ve either ordered the extraction/clean up team to do their jobs and just attend the funerals afterwards or I’ve just directly hacked into the relevant agencies to check off all the right forms so he pulls off the distressed and confused bereaved boyfriend quite convincingly). But actually Q just wants like an hour to himself so he can get into Q-net and actually set his systems to find Bond, because he trusts in his Q Branch comms team but they’re not him and they don’t know Bond like Q does. And then Moneypenny reminds him that even if he had privacy he’s still undercover as a civilian, so Q can’t raise any flags doing the type of searches he’s used to, and certainly not without the system setup and network of connections he has in Q Branch or his home office. 

The frustration of not being able to do anything productive + the continued radio silence from Bond makes Q a bit of a loose canon the next couple of days, so Moneypenny and 0010 show up as Q’s “best friend from uni, and a fellow officer from James’s RN days” to help manage the situation, maintain Q’s cover but mostly to contain Q (because Q conducted some rather illegal operations very well indeed on his own before his recruitment to MI6).

Also greeting visitors and well-wishers is unexpectedly very tiring? Everyone keeps giving Q their condolences and he has no idea what to say in return, because even if this wasn’t fake what could he say? And they all want to reminisce about Bond, of course. And Q knows that it’s just a cover, that many of the stories they share are just things Bond or he have had to do to maintain their cover... but sometimes they’ll say things like how it was the way Bond was always looks at Q that clued them in that they were a couple, when they first moved into the flat, or how it was always so endearing to see them interacting, because somehow Bond always anticipates what Q needs before he says anything out loud, whether it’s passing Q the milk for his tea or fetching him a tool from his toolbox when Q is tinkering or gently steering him down the sidewalk when Q is too engrossed on his phone, and those, Q knows, aren’t part of the cover at all. 

And then, inevitably, there are the gossip-mongers, the curious busybodies who want to get all the juicy details (”but no really, how did he die again?” or “how did you feel when you got the news, it can’t have been pleasant at all” or “oh dear, the mortgage for this flat can’t be cheap, however will you manage now? Will you move out?”) and come by in groups and make little side remarks to each other just in Q’s hearing, and Q can’t help himself, his responses become politer and sweeter at each question until Moneypenny has to intercede when someone mentions, “well dear, you’re young yet, you’ll find someone else” because Q might not be a field agent and he’s undercover but he’s also very fond of tasers and has built them into all manner of common household items. 

Q gets two whole hours to himself after Moneypenny gets him out of that room, and while he’s busy hacking into MI5′s systems (because now M’s got a team watching to make sure he doesn’t use his own credentials to log into Q-net, damnit) he also thinks to himself that if he’s already on a short-fuse, he can’t imagine how someone who is truly grieving would cope with the whole situation, and because he’s painfully practical, makes a mental note to put contingencies in place so that when the inevitable happens, he doesn’t get blindsided by in all the minutiae and legalities involved. The both of them being attached to MI6 makes things both simpler and more complicated, because Q can cut through all manner of red tape easily, but the nature of their work means neither of their legal covers actually really exists so it’s not like their relationship will ever be official in the eyes of the law. 

(and because Q is aware that the world more or less runs on chaos and entropy, he also plans to customise contingencies for his own file, in case he’s the one that turns out dead first. He’s well aware of how Bond copes with the death of a loved one, especially one that falls in the line of duty). 

After it all, Q’s already erratic sleep pattern gets even more shot to hell, because Bond’s alive, they’ve left those cover identities behind them, but Q’s brain won’t turn off and he keeps getting flashbacks to the fake funeral whenever he closes his eyes, and it doesn’t make any sense because it wasn’t real, but he can’t stop thinking about it. So he just plows through work or shuts himself in his workshop until Bond drags him back into bed, and if they somehow always wake up with Q clinging so hard to Bond’s wrist or arm Bond never says a word, and from then on Bond goes on missions and even if 99% of his mission kit gets destroyed he somehow preserves his comms unit or phone, so he can always ping a well encrypted I’m alive signal at Q every couple of days. 

As you can see... I have quite a few headcanons about this random semi-AU 00Q verse haha. Thanks for letting me share them. 

[sylveon-official]

back at it again with the mpreg trash

title: Stay Gold rating: T pairings: Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky, Victor Nikiforov/Yuuri Katsuki warnings: abo, mpreg, childbirth

btw y’all have no idea who i am but thanks @tomakehimfree and @n-s-f-w-sportsbaes for high key inspiring me to start writing this shit again but now just for the yoi fandom lol

read on archiveofourown or under the cut.

At age 18, Yuri Plisetsky certainly expected to be back at his fourth consecutive Grand Prix Final since making his senior debut. As the current defending three-time gold medalist, he has a title to uphold after all. So needless to say, Yuri certainly belonged on the side of the rink watching the free-skate unfold beside the rest of the GPF finalists – the problem was, he wasn’t actually one of them. Yuri’s pretty the ISU would have disqualified him as early as the five month mark when he started showing – now that he’s a healthy eight months and some change into his pregnancy, he’s quite sure his globe of a belly would get in the way of some of the more technical requirements involved in his free-skate routine. 

Not that he hadn’t seriously thought about how he could start adjusting the elements to accommodate his growing belly when he found out about his pregnancy a good couple of months into fine-tuning what would have been his new routines for the current season.

But alas, Yuri’s baby-daddy extraordinaire and favorite for GPF gold in Yuri’s absence, one Otabek Altin, had shut down any and all innocent fantasies Yuri had of even so much as stepping foot on the ice for the rest of the season. By principle, Yuri understood, of course – the ice isn’t exactly a forgiving surface when you’re baking a vulnerable human child inside of you. The last eight months hadn’t exactly been a breeze when, on top of the moodiness and the weight-gain and the nausea, Yuri wasn’t even allowed to use the ice as a means of stress-relief.

So yes, after Yuri’s second gold medal-win at Worlds eight months ago, he had all but planned to return and defend what should have been his fourth senior division GPF win in a row. But after a wild night of celebration with a certain Worlds silver-medalist, which may or may not have been so spectacular it triggered Yuri’s heat a solid month early… Yuri guesses maybe he should have foreseen his current position on the sideline of the rink rather than in it.

Yuri supposes he should at least be grateful that he’s here now, that the skating Gods decided to take pity on him by conveniently hosting this year’s GPF conveniently in Saint Petersburg. Arms folded on the edge of the barrier, Yuri eyes his mate as he reaches down to remove his skate guards. Otabek was at a comfortable 3rd place, 2 points ahead of the pork cutlet bowl after the short program yesterday. Yuri is confident he can at least snag the silver, depending on Katsudon’s performance today – to be fair, he’s supposedly retiring this year, so he’s been more motivated than ever to grab the gold in order to fulfill Victor’s stupid wedding pact. Yuri knows they’ll get married regardless of the results, but he guesses it’d be kind of romantic if the piggy could actually pull it off.

Yuri wrinkles his nose once he realizes he’s just had a thought that’s included “Victor”, “the piggy”, and “romantic” all in the same sentence, but just as easily discards it under the pretense of pregnancy brain. Yuri Plisetsky hasn’t been getting soft in his journey to accidental parenthood, not at all – his brain is just getting all messed up because of the hormones, he thinks, even has he returns the friendly peace sign Katsuki throws at him from the other side of the rink.

Otabek must have noticed, because a second later he’s shooting a small, wry smirk at Yuri that his him rolling his eyes.

“What, Beka?”

Otabek merely catches his hand in his from where he’s kneeling on the ground getting in a quick calf-stretch before his turn on the ice.

He presses a soft kiss to Yuri’s fingertips before teasing, “Conspiring with my competition?”

Yuri huffs and snatches his hand away, flicking Otabek softly on the side of his cheek.

“The old man’s finally retiring this year. I’m just cutting him some slack. 

“And I’m sure it has nothing to do with the help he’s been to you the last eight months?”

Yuri pulls a face that has Otabek chuckling to himself. Sure, the Katsudon has probably frequented Yuri and Otabek’s Saint Petersburg apartment more than his and Victor’s own in Yuri’s third trimester, but wasn’t like Yuri was begging for the other omega’s constant doting on. Even if he didn’t mind the weekly pork cutlet bowl meals he’d been spoiled with, it wasn’t necessary – except for when he’d called the pork cutlet bowl himself over to the apartment at 5 in the morning on a Sunday to satisfy his craving for one, but that was only one time. Okay, maybe two. Three tops.

Otabek pulls himself up just as China’s Guang Hong is wrapping up his final step sequence.

“Well. Don’t fuck it up.” Yuri allows a small smile to tug at his lips as he drops a hand to his mate’s hip.

“Hey. Language.” Otabek chides, patting the side of Yuri’s belly.

“Ugh, let me live while she’s still in there feeding on my organs.” Yuri heaves a dramatic sigh and runs a hand across the back of Otabek’s undercut before bringing their foreheads together.

“Stop making her sound like a zombie. Feasting on organs… very un-ladylike.” Otabek frowns faintly then presses a chaste kiss to Yuri’s lips.

“Hey, I know your family’s traditional, Otabek, but if our princess wants to be a flesh-eating zombie, she’ll be the best damn brain-eater in all of Russia, fuck your gender roles.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Otabek shakes his head, but he’s smiling that half-smile he does when he’s trying to contain an even bigger one, one of those rare, toothy grins he only does when he’s about to say something really sappy.

Before he can quite get to that point, Guang Hong is taking his bows and the announcers are getting ready to call Otabek out to the ice. 

Yuri presses one last kiss to Otabek’s lips and pulls a simple thumbs-up.

“Davai, Beka. 

Otabek nods his head once and returns the gesture, a determined glint in his eye. He fondly rubs his hand over the side of Yuri’s belly, a habit he’s taken to lately before heading onto the ice that leaves Yuri feeling vaguely like one of those big-bellied Buddha statues people rub for good luck at temples in Japan. He’s almost affronted enough to say as much, but the next moment the announcer is calling Otabek’s name and he’s skating out into the middle of the rink to start his program.

Yuri sighs into his palm as he watches his mate glide across the ice and into his starting pose. Impending fatherhood has inspired him more than ever to skate a solid program – “It’s because I’m skating for the two now”, he’d said after his Rostelecom Cup win before embarrassingly kissing Yuri’s forehead, then leaning down to kiss his belly – the resulting video had stayed viral for weeks. Yuri had smacked him upside the head and told him to stop taking flirting advice from Victor. Training under the skating legend this past year had done wonders for Otabek’s actual skating, but been questionable for his personality, and Yuri made sure to tell his mate as much 

Otabek is coming out of a perfectly rotated quad toe-loop combination when he fumbles and just nearly gets by without touching the ice as he transitions into an arabesque. Yuri finds himself tensing up along with his mate.

“Beka, davai!” His cheers probably get drowned out by the noisy stadium, but it’s basically tradition by this point that he root for his mate from the sidelines. “Come on— ugh.”

Yuri’s screeching comes to a sudden halt as a familiar stab of pain shoots through his lower back and creeps down into his lower belly.

“Not now…”

Yuri grits his teeth together and rests his palm on his lower back in an attempt to massage out some of the tension. At eight months, he’s no stranger to false labor pains and the intensity has only been building the closer he gets to the real thing. Yuri places his arms back onto the barrier and bends at a ninety-degree angle to stretch out his throbbing back, belly hanging heavily between his thighs. He slides his feet outward so that his legs are resting in a half split – he may be about forty pounds heavier, but he’s still managed to maintain his flexibility for the most part. This was a fact that he was sure to rub into the Katsudon’s face during the off-season this year when he’d gotten a little bit soft and a little less flexible.

Usually his flexibility does wonders to soothe away the tightness, but this time Yuri jerks when it’s back just as suddenly as it had gone. The shock of it makes him bury his face in the arm folded on the barrier, his other arm shooting down to cradle the underside of his bump.

“Ah, what the fuck, baby…” Yuri whines into the crook of his elbow and rocks backward on the balls of his feet to stretch out the cramp.

He’s on his toes, pushing his backside out when he feels more than hears the distinct squelching of liquid in his favorite tiger-print maternity pants. Panicked, Yuri looks out into the rink where Otabek is executing a perfect camel spin, then to the audience behind him who are too busy cheering to notice his embarrassing predicament, before he catches Yuuri’s concerned gaze from across the rink.

Victor is working on tightening Yuuri’s laces, prepping him for his turn on the ice after Otabek. Yuri must be making a rather troubling face though, because the next moment, other Yuuri is waving off a confused Victor and jogging over to the other side of the rink as fast as his skate guards will allow 

Yuri is busy groaning through what he now clearly realizes is a real contraction when Katsuki makes it to his side.

“Yuri?” he ventures, placing a hand to his back and rubbing soothing circles onto it. “Are you—oh.”

Yuri figures he must have spotted the fluid leaking steadily down his pants and onto the floor.

“Yeah, oh. What the fuck am I— what do I—haah, fuck…” Yuri hates how pathetic he sounds even to his own ears, but he’s kind of at a loss here. He’d had a C-section scheduled for two weeks from now and he is sorely unprepared to face a genuine labor, especially when he’s in an ice skating arena with thousands of screaming fans and the world’s top figure skaters to witness it.

“I-I don’t really…” he hears Yuuri suck in a deep breath, steeling himself, before placing a firm hand on Yuri’s lower back and grabbing the crook of his elbow with the other one. 

“Here, let’s sit down first.” As he’s guided into an upright position, Yuri breathes a sigh of relief when he sees that Otabek is still fully concentrated on his routine, prepping for his mid-routine jump combination. 

Yuri practically melts into the other skater’s side the moment he sits them down on the bench behind them. Yuuri brushes on hand through the side of Yuri’s hair that isn’t pulled back into French braids, working out a few tangles that have already managed to gather there.

Yuri moans, long and low, as another contraction rips through his lower belly and back. He muffles the end of it into Yuuri’s neck, drawing in a deep breath and finding his nerves somewhat calmed by the scent of another omega.

“That’s it. I’ve got you, Yuri, you’re okay.” Yuuri whispers into his hair, hand cupped firmly to the base of his skull. 

“I’m not, though!” Yuri wails, sliding down into Yuuri’s chest. The increasing pain is becoming too much for him to process coherently, and he fists a hand in Yuuri’s jacket to take off some of the edge as the other skater shushes him softly, gently rocking them back and forth.

“Yurachka?” Yuri briefly recognizes the sound of Victor’s low, concerned voice as he places a comforting hand to his trembling shoulder before directing the rest of the conversation to other Yuuri.

“Yuuri, you’re up any minute now. Why don’t you let me take care him—,” but Yuuri cuts him off before he’s able to finish the suggestion.

“Get medical.”

There’s a short, but weighted pause.

“Is he in…-?”

“Yes. Get medical.” Yuuri repeats more firmly and then the sound Victor’s feet pounding on the concrete resonates vaguely in Yuri’s mind, hazy from his pain-addled state. 

When the latest contraction has passed, Yuri looks up at the rink just in time to lock eyes with a very conflicted-looking Otabek, poised in a lazy spread-eagle that Yuri knows by the swell in the music he’s holding out for a few beats too long. Otabek’s about one minute out from finishing his program and Yuri swears he won’t let him hold their newborn for a month if he gives up the podium when he’s this far in.

“Otabek Altin, don’t you fucking dare get your ass off that ice!” Yuri screeches loudly and suddenly enough to make other Yuuri flinch in surprise and for Otabek to tear away from his gaze and into a triple flip Yuri knows he’s just made the snap decision of adding in for technical points to make up for the short step sequence he’d just omitted.

Post-outburst, Yuri collapses against the other omega once more, but this time it’s accompanied by a puzzling sensation in his pelvis.

“Ooh…” Yuri breathes out shakily, thighs trembling along with it as they try to accommodate the growing pressure in his hips.

“Yuri?”

 “Ah… It feels… It feels like…” Yuri’s head lolls against Yuuri’s shoulder as he tries to piece together the sensation, but a second later, and the pressure is culminating into a stinging pain that instantly has him in fat, wet tears.

“God, she’s-she’s coming now—,” Yuri starts, chest heaving with the weight of his sobs.

“I know, I know, help is on the way, I can see them heading over—” Yuuri assures, hurriedly, but he doesn’t understand.

“No you stupid Katsudon! I can feel her— coming out— ahh, fuck! Fuck!”

Yuri sees brown eyes widen in panicked understanding before he’s being hauled up without warning. 

“Okay, up we go!”

“What are you doing—ow!”

Yuri cries loud, wet sobs as the other man guides them into an alcove that leads to the stadium lobby. His weight starts to give out from under him when they’re about halfway down the hallway. Yuuri allows it, helping him to the floor with control. 

“Sorry. I thought you might like some privacy for this.” Yuuri explains before yanking off Yuri’s shoes and hooking his fingers into the elastic band of his pants.

Yuri doesn’t ask questions, just helps him by shimmying his hips until the pants are discarded. Yuuri quickly replaces them with his own Team Japan jacket draped over his knees. Yuri at least has enough energy in him to bitterly note that he’d much rather his baby be born underneath his own Team Russia jacket – isn’t this some form of skating treason?

He doesn’t have much time to think about it before the pressure intensifies more still with the assistance of yet another powerful contraction that’s telling his body to push now. He’s screaming so loud he doesn’t even register when the hallway begins to fill up with paramedics and camera flashes.

“Give the boy some privacy, da? Have some respect!” Yuri peaks through sweaty bangs to see Victor quite literally shoving at the press that have invited themselves to witness the birth of Yuri’s child, which has apparently turned into a public event right alongside the Grand Prix Final itself.

The medics and some guards step in to form a barrier against the flashing of cameras and clashing of microphones as Victor makes his way to Yuuri’s side.

“I talked to the ISU reps. They’re taking a break in the set. Can’t be good press to continue the competition when the reigning champion is giving birth next to the rink…” Yuri hears him whisper to his mate as paramedics start to make themselves present on Yuri’s other side and between his legs.

“Little Yurio here just couldn’t bear to give up his Grand Prix Final glory even when he’s unable to compete, hm?” Victor teases which earns him an audible smack in the chest from the Katsudon and mouthful of Russian expletives from Yuri.

“Mr. Plisetsky, I’m going to ask you to push on the next contraction. The baby’s crowning, so this shouldn’t take long, okay?” the medic between his thighs explains calmly, lifting up the jacket over his knees just slightly. 

Yuri braces himself by clasping hands with the omega beside him and biting his lip, eyes flitting briefly to the opening of the hallway, crowded with medics and guards and ISU officials. Otabek is obviously done with his program by now so why isn’t he—

Yuri catches the flash of Otabek’s red sequin-patterned shoulder pads pushing his way through the crowd just as he’s hit with the next contraction.

“Beka!” Yuri screams at the top of his lungs as he pushes, blindly reaching out his other hand and narrowly avoiding smacking a medic in the face as he makes a grabbing motion intended for Otabek’s arrival. His hand is occupied on the second push, accompanied by a familiar hand pushing sweat-slicked hair out of his eyes.

“Oh, Yura…” Otabek presses a kiss to Yuri’s forehead and the sensation is relieving enough to make Yuri heave out a sob completely unrelated to the immense pain he’s currently experiencing.

“Thank God…” Yuri sobs on the next push as Otabek whispers sentiments of what must be encouragement in Kazakh close to his ear.

“I have no fucking idea what you’re saying, Beka… but…” Yuri gasps between more words of encouragement from the medics, Victor, and Yuuri that just one more push is all it’ll take.

“… but you fucking better have won gold for me and our princess.”

Yuri’s fiery emerald gaze pierces Otabek’s own slightly taken aback hazel.

One more push is indeed all it takes for the Altin-Plisetsky heir to come kicking and screaming into the world, perfectly in tandem with Yuri’s own flailing and screeching.

 * 

“What took you so fucking long back there, anyway?” Yuri asks hours later at some ungodly time in the morning when he’s nestled in a hospital bed with his newborn sleeping soundly against his bare chest.

“Language.” Otabek sighs, tenderly stroking his daughter’s cheek from his seat at the side of Yuri’s bed.

“Oh… right.” Yuri blinks down at his child and absently brushes back her impressive brunette curls with his thumb. He did say he’d stop once she wasn’t leeching off of his innards.

What took you so… freaking long?” Yuri rasps out, voice scraped raw from the excitement and anxiety that comes with birthing your child in the middle of a major national ice skating championship competition.

Otabek gives him a long look before sighing and digging out his phone from his pocket.

“I’m assuming you haven’t seen the news.”

“No, sorry, was too busy sleeping off the exhaustion of pushing of a fu-freaking miniature human from out of my body with zero preparation or pain medication in the middle of an ice skating arena.” Yuri deadpans and Otabek responds with a fond smile and a full kiss on the lips.

“I know. I’m very proud of you.”

Yuri feels his entire face and neck heat up and he wonders how the hell Otabek still manages to make him feel like he’s being courted all over again, even now when the evidence of their bond is softly sighing into the skin of his chest.

Otabek must know exactly what he’s thinking because he’s got that smirk on his face that Yuri would love to smack off if it didn’t mean jostling his sleeping infant.

The next moment, Otabek is tapping something into his phone before wordlessly holding it up under Yuri’s nose. Yuri grabs it with the hand that’s not supporting his baby’s back to scroll through the article. The first image on the page is an overhead shot of a massive hoard of people surrounding what looks to be the alcove he’d given birth in. Oh. He guesses that’s a sufficient excuse.

There are a few obscured shots of his red, sweaty, screaming face, body contorted on the ground in painful-looking angles that make him grumble in annoyance, but what grinds his gears the most is the title.

Gold and Silver for Yuri Plisetsky and Otabek Altin at Most Drama-filled Grand Prix Final in Figure-Skating History 

“Yuri Plisetsky’s surprising pregnancy might have rendered him unable to compete at this year’s Grand Prix Final, but that didn’t stop him from stealing the spotlight yet again and bringing home the gold in the form of a precious new baby girl.

Otabek Altin, Plisetsky’s mate and father of the newborn, managed to snag silver with his performance as Plisetsky’s unexpected labor occurred just off the ice.”

Yuri hands the phone back to his mate and sighs dramatically.

“You know, ‘gold’s all around for the Altin-Plisetsky family’ would have made a much catchier title…” Yuri smirks and Otabek pulls a face.

“I’d say I did alright all things considering.” Otabek raises a challenging eyebrow that has Yuri laughing quietly.

Once the tension is broken, Otabek cracks and sighs forlornly into his hands. “This is why I hate social media… they’re already making me out to be the monster who chose the competition over supporting my mate through labor… and I still didn’t get a gold medal out of it.”  

Yuri smiles softly, reaching out to run his fingers along Otabek’s back.

“At my next interview I’ll tell them I would have choked you mid-labor if you didn’t finish the program.” Yuri can tell the gentleness of his tone combined with the expected crassness of his words makes Otabek’s body wrack with silent chuckles. 

“Besides, Katsuki was more motivated than ever when I promised him godfather privileges if he didn’t follow us to the hospital and finally got that stupid gold instead.” 

“Victor’s going to be jealous.” Otabek observes, lifting himself back into a seated position.

“Yeah, well, seeing as I basically handed him the reason he and his precious piggy needed to finally tie the knot, his entire head should be up my assho—”

“Oh, Yurio!”

The hospital door is kicked open with gusto as Victor and Yuuri make their presence known with an impressive array of Congratulations balloons, bouquet assortments, and gift boxes.

“Congratulations!” Victor singsongs in a voice entirely too loud while in the presence of an infant. His fiancé frantically shushes him a fraction of a second too late, and Yuri quickly finds himself with a chest full of red-faced, crying newborn child.

After Yuri’s gone red-faced himself with a barrage of Russian expletives that Otabek is familiar enough with to call him out on and twenty more minutes of calming down their screaming child, all thanks to a very understanding nurse, the group has managed to situate themselves comfortably in the room with baby sleeping soundly once again, this time against her new godfather’s chest.

Yuuri suddenly gasps as he watches the baby suckle gently at the golden medal against his chest.

 “I have an idea!” he whispers, carefully returning the bundle of newborn to Yuri’s own arms.

Yuri narrows his eyes, but doesn’t question it as the other omega takes off his gold medal and gently places it around Yuri’s own neck.

The silver medal two men had earlier delivered to Otabek hangs proudly from his neck.

“Oh, how nice!” Victor stage whispers loud enough for the baby to squirm in Yuri’s arms. Yuri shoots a warning look to the other Russian who puts his hands up in defeat.

Yuuri takes out his phone and counts down.

* 

After some much needed rest, Yuri is up later that morning, bottle pressed firmly to his daughter’s lips after a few failed attempts and assistance from yet another nurse.

Otabek is at his side, dutifully checking Yuri’s Instagram for “any important updates”.

Yuri catches his thumb pause in its scrolling and a slow smile spread on his lips from the corner of his eye.

“What?” Yuri prompts, leaning slightly in Otabek’s direction. 

Otabek simply turns the screen to face him. When he sees the image on the screen, Yuri is overcome with the sudden urge to cry, scream, and envelope Yuuri Katsuki in a hug so bone-crushing, he actually cracks a rib. 

It’s the picture he’d taken earlier when he’d put his medal around Yuri’s neck, Otabek with an arm around him as they smile proudly and tiredly into the lense, captioned:

Here’s to the real winners of this year’s Grand Prix Final. Congratulations @yuri-plisetsky and @otabek-altin on Yuri’s 4th and most precious GPF gold – Alina Altin-Plisetsky.