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lexi-maurer-adventures · 2 years ago

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The Trip to South Korea!

Wow, I can hardly believe it’s already nearly been a month... wild. Anyway! I’ve got quite a bit to share, starting with how my trip to the country went. So buckle up, because it was quite the ride and there’s a lot to tell!

As y’all already know, my dad worked for Delta airlines for a long time and thanks to his employment there we got to partake in certain flight benefits. Although I got to fly free as a kid, I can still fly for quite cheap thanks to him. The catch though is I fly standby, which means I only get on the plane if there’s an extra seat AND I’m high enough on the waiting list.

Well, despite the difficulties that I knew flying standby can have, I still wanted to give it a shot for my flight to Korea in February. I bought my cheap yield fare ticket (only $200!!) and my dad watched the flights to see how my chances were looking. Things seemed to be promising up until the week before my flight, but then one of the planes that makes the *nonstop* flight from Atlanta to Incheon BROKE DOWN and caused two departing and return flights to be canceled. Needless to say, the flights for the next week were packed, and despite my parents taking me to the airport for the 12:05am flight two nights in a row, not a single person on the waiting list could get on (I was over halfway down the list to make it worse).

My parents and I were teetering at our wit’s end, and in a rushed decision decided to buy a positive seat ticket on a different airline with a short layover in Texas (the nonstop flight had doubled in price since just two days prior). Well, the Lord’s providence became so evident as the rest of my trip fell into place. Finally I was able to leave the airport on the plane instead of returning home, and my journey had begun!

The flight from Atlanta to Dallas was only about 2 hours, but then the flight from Dallas to Incheon was 15 hours... aha. However! I had in-seat entertainment, episodes of shows downloaded to my laptop, and the window seat so I could try to sleep some of the flight. To make it even better, my seat was in the Premium Economy section (which I hadn’t planned for but ended up being a nice surprise when I bought my ticket). I had lots of leg space and a wide seat, plus three meals and an unlimited supply of snacks and water that we could leave our seat to get whenever we liked. I was still relieved when we finally landed though, and was more than ready to get to my Airbnb and sleep. However, it took about 2 hours for me to get through customs, get my bags, exchange some US cash for the Korean currency (”won”), get a Korean SIM card, and find the subway to take me the 45 minute trip into Seoul.

The adventure was not over when I got to the subway though, because I learned exactly why my family was so skeptical when they saw how much stuff I was bringing. I had two large rolling suitcases weighing about 50lbs each, plus a 20lb backpack and another 20lb duffle bag (WHO DID I THINK I WAS??), so it was just a *tad* difficult maneuvering all those bags onto the subway cars and through the stations. There were a couple times where I’d be visibly struggling with them, and some sympathetic passerby would stop and help me get my bags through a door, onto an elevator, off the escalator, etc. I’ve never felt so like a hopeless American tourist until those moments.

I had just managed to get off the subway with the help of two sweet old Korean men who insisted on getting my bags for me (I wasn’t worried about anyone stealing from me because trust me that those 140lbs of bags weren’t going ANYWHERE very quickly), and they asked me in Korean where I was headed. I answered them, but to my dismay they stopped and shook their heads, pointing back in the direction we had just come and repeating the name of the stop that I *SHOULD* have gotten off at :’). After I thanked them and lugged my bags back down through the elevator to the station, another kind Korean lady helped me get back on the subway and sat down beside me. She had to have been sent by God, because after she asked me where I was going, she took it upon herself to help me get to where I needed to go. One of my bags in tow, she led me off at the correct station, called me a taxi and waited with me by the street until they arrived and helped me get my bags into the car. She also gave me her number telling me she teaches Korean at one of the universities, and if I ever had any questions that I could text her.

For a little added context: I had been up since 3:30am Friday morning, my flight landed at 5:30pm Saturday evening, and I finally arrived at my Airbnb around 9pm (nearly 28 hours, excluding the 14 hour time difference). By that point I was ready to crash, so I was grateful I hadn’t attempted to take a bus instead of a taxi. When I got to the Airbnb, the owner who I’d been texting with was waiting outside the building for me. He helped me carry my bags up three flights of stairs to my room (I tried to pay him for his time but he adamantly refused), reviewed the housekeeping rules and gave me my key, and left me to get settled in. The room I paid for is in a hostel, so the space is quite small and most often rented by students due to its affordability. The room was quite clean though, plus I had a bathroom to myself, so I couldn’t ask for much more.

Despite the time difference being so large, not surprisingly I was able to sleep most of the night with no trouble-- and that was how my first night in Seoul, South Korea went!

#south korea #studyabroad #travelblogpost

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aequoranimae · 2 months ago

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4th-7th july

I had no time to linger in the beauty of Venice on the morning I left. Leaving my keys in the door to my room, I crossed back over the Rialto for the last time to Venezia S. Lucia, subsumed by a crowd of mostly Americans either arriving or taking off, followed by their small entourages of children and suitcases. After a bit of cross-language miscommunication I managed to order a croissant and a cappuccino from the station café and board my train to Florence. Our carriage was overflowing with Americans—their endless complaints and random commentary brought all the chaos of the station on board with us. Behind me one large blonde family fought over where to put their truckload of suitcases, the mother loudly accusing the carriage of taking their luggage spots; in front of me a Mississippi woman and her two daughter all one by one took out their makeup bags to apply a full face as the train moved; they bonded with a couple from Detroit with their young children over bottles of wine from the train café. All of this at eleven in the morning with only a two-hour trip to Florence seemed really unnecessary, but once they got started there was no icy glare from the older German woman beside me that could stop them. I suppose it was July 4th (“our country’s birthday!”, as the luggage-afflicted mother exclaimed at some point), so they were bound to be excitable.

Arriving in Florence I escaped these travelling companions and decided to walk as fast as I possibly could to my accommodation—I was already so sweaty and miserable that it seemed worth it to get it other with as soon as possible. The pavements were very narrow and well-patronised and the only relief was when I arrived upon the square of a church and was able to walk without risking any imminent collisions. My accommodation in Florence is a bed and breakfast on one of the streets that leads to the Duomo in the primordial soup of the tourist. I climbed to the first floor where I was greeted by one of my hosts and given some tips about the city until her husband came her with a very tearful child who needed a hug and I left them to it. My room is small and quiet, with an old-fashioned lock on the door I find too difficult to operate so I only close it behind me, and at least somewhat cool. When I settled enough to face going back out there to see Florence, I walked only twenty seconds down the street before I reached the piazza where the Duomo towered in its stark lines of white and deep blue-green, decorated everywhere with the saints and apostles, imposing on the cloudless sky. I admired it for a bit and then kept walking in search of a late lunch, given I’d eaten nothing since breakfast and had faced many tests to my fortitude in the meanwhile. Around the corner from the Palazzo Vecchio where I saw the Fountain of Neptune and a terrace of marble statues I skipped the absolutely huge line of tourists for one focaccia shop for the sake of the other focaccia shop next door, which was delicious and arrived instantly.

My next Florence mission, not so glamorous, was to do my clothes washing since I had nothing left to wear. So I sat sweating an a dingy laundromat until I could seize any empty machine. While I waited I walked around the corner to get a scoop of gelato—lemon flavour, an old favourite of mine that I don’t think I’d tried in a long time. I hauled my damp laundry back to hang up in my room and then flopped on the bed under the ceiling fan for a good long while. For dinner that night I did as my host had suggested and went across the river to eat at the better restaurants. On the way I saw the apparently well-known “Florence cowboy”, who was a man in appropriate Old West attire just sitting on his horse at one end of the bridge. Not moving, not saying anything. This man and his horse were as still and regal as the marble statues of Florence. And when I was coming back from my dinner of wild boar ragu and tiramisu at a very charming little restaurant beyond the Pitti Palace, he was still there, motionless as ever as the masses of tourists flowed around him and his steed. When I passed back by the Duomo, its walls were gold instead of ivory in the low sun.

My first morning in Florence I woke up especially early for my entrance to the Uffizi Gallery. While I sat outside waiting for my time slot I ate an apricot jam croissant and examined my rash of mosquito bites still raised on my arms and legs from Venice that made it look I had caught some type of plague. But at quarter to nine I left this study behind for the security line into the Uffizi, from there me and the other early patrons filed into the first rooms containing medieval altarpieces of the Madonna and Child. But everyone was really there for one reason—the signs on doors leading through the renaissance galleries and the halls and terraces of Greco-Roman busts for Botticelli. I wasn't an exception to these mob interests, for a long time Botticelli's Primavera has been an important work to me for no less populist reasons than most who show up in droves to photograph the Birth of Venus. It meant a great deal to me to see it with my own eyes, its soft forest floor and canopy rich with fruit and flower—and the figures, whose placement is not natural in the landscape, but iconographic. I was also touched by the Calumny of Apelles adjacent; of course the Birth of Venus had a room of its own, or at least any pictures of Botticelli’s on the surrounding walls went unnoticed by the crowd or by me. Outside in the long galleries I admired most of all the frescoed ceilings, some of which showed scenes of myth while others were of the grotesque style, strange creatures and pretty laurels painted on white and cream. What I found was that the rest of the Uffizi rooms downstairs were oddly quiet, not that I blame any person for really only coming to see the Botticellis. So after the initial stampede through the first ten rooms it became a very peaceful and civilised affair, most visitors not bothering with the lower galleries in the first place. By then it was still only ten o’clock, so even the gift shop was quiet as I secured my Primavera postcard and looked towards the rest of the day.

Feeling inspired, I committed to a hike up the hill on the other side of the river, reaching the summit of the old Belvedere fort where I could stand in the searing heat and look out across the city of Florence, white walls and the red-tiled roofs above them, and the Duomo rising most prominent between them, five times taller than the rest. From there I walked on dripping sweat to the Bardini gardens for a bit of shade under the trees in the muggy air, wishing I were one of so many little yellow-spotted skinks baking on the walls, accustomed to heat. I drank a limonata on ice on the terrace of the gardens overlooking the sloping green and the city beyond it. Two dark red squirrels played in the tree by the terrace, running in circles around the thickest branches before disappearing back into their hidden nest. Besides the cranes from restoration works dotting the skyline, the city seemed at a distance to be as it was five hundred years prior.

The illusion of course was shattered the moment I descended into the visitor centre on the gardens’ lower perimeter and came across a vending machine, but I didn’t mind so much, I enjoys the comforts of the modern world. For lunch I had a panini with anchovies and olive tapenade and crossed back over the river into the heart of the crowded city. I happened to pass by the Basilica of Santa Croce and decided to take a look inside at the paintings and the tombs of Florentine intellectuals. The basilica was beautiful within, frescoes still pretty and warmly coloured despite the ruination they suffered in floods some thirty years ago.

I got a scoop of gelato (stracciatella), I went back to my apartment for a rest before dinner. I worked out where to go for a bowl of pasta while standing outside a basilica ringing the evening bells—a street preacher came up to me babbling in Italian, waving his Bible, but I sent him on his way. For dinner I had a bowl of pasta with spicy tomato sauce not too far from home, as I was feeling a bit weary emotionally and needed to get to bed early—I had another early appointment the next day.

In the morning I walked over to the Palazzo Pitti beyond the river to see the Palatine Gallery there. Like the Uffizi these rooms were heavy with friezes and paintings on every available surface, mostly mythological scenes and pictures of the Medicis and the Italian rulers of later centuries. I liked most the painting of Judith with the head of Holofernes, still brandishing the sword. After the Palace I wandered around the city a bit and then went to meet my friend Maddy for lunch, who’s been doing a short course here during the university break as part of our Arts degree. We got sandwiches and sat on the steps of the Uffizi to eat, then we visited the Museo Nazionale del Bargello with a scoop of gelato on the way to keep us going. These galleries contained some religious relics and a lot of the classical decorative arts, including china and ivory statuettes. But downstairs the old palace possessed a hall full of sculptures by Michelangelo and his other great contemporaries, which were amazing even though by the end of the gallery tour we were feeling desperately thirsty and neither of us were wearing brilliant footwear (I have been surviving solely on a pair of Converse which are close to wearing right through the soles and have developed some structural issues after weeks in Europe; Maddy has been confined to ballet flats coming apart at the edges). So we each bought a litre and a half bottle of cold sparkling water from the supermarket and drowned our suffering all the way back to the Duomo, where she dropped me off at my door.

My dinner that night was no different to what I have been eating every night—pasta, thought his time with simple beef ragu instead of wild boar. I had less secure plans for the next day, willing to go where it took me—I ended up back outside the Fountain of Neptune and entered the Palazzo Vecchio, that at mid-morning still had no line inside, and I sailed in on my student ticket to see the rooms of Pope Leo X and the painted halls depicting great battles and the four elements with water that recollection of Botticelli, Venus emerging from the waves; and Diana on the ceiling opposite her brother, driving a chariot of one white horse and one black. I was amazed by the Palazzo Vecchio and found it far more beautiful than any of the other Florentine palaces I had seen so far, perhaps it had something less of the cold and neo-classical about it, even if its interiors were just as excessive. The best room in my eyes was the last one, which was no grand hall, but a smaller chamber whose walls were covered in a series of colourful maps from that antiquate era. The lands were marked on occasion by an animal like an elephant to signify the Orient, most bore no resemblance to world maps today. But the roots of thinking have not changed. We see the world through these eyes.

In the afternoon I visited some churches—the Chiesa di Santa Trinita where Caroline Bonaparte, the emperor’s younger sister, was buried. She was the wife of the Napoleonic general Murat, appointed King of Naples, but outliving the empire of her husband and her brother, she died unfavoured and her body was hidden and then buried for safekeeping there in that chapel. There is still a Prince Murat today and he has clearly made sure the tomb of his ancestor is well-preserved—the white marble was gleaming, almost too pure. In the floor of the chapel a tile indicated hic iacet for the place her coffin was placed, innocuously, deep below the surface. I followed my usual routine of a sandwich (this location’s special was a prosciutto and cream cheese filling, so delicious I almost collapsed there in the sweaty gutter from joy) and an afternoon rest in the semi-cool dark of my room. In the evening my friend Maddy reappeared outside my door and we walked across town to an eclectic little cocktail bar where the bartender worked like some sort of artisan, sculpting pieces of lime peel and treating each drink as a new masterpiece. Patience was a necessity as he worked away the hours at his craft. At nine we went around the corner to a traditional restaurant and I had my beloved wild boar ragu and Maddy ate polenta with braised meat. I ordered a glass of wine and our charming old Italian waiter poured with so much heart that we had to share it. After some tiramisu we paid up and wandered back through the city at night, laughing at ourselves. The city of Florence was still colourful, the carousel was still lit up, and they have powerful lights fixed to all the rooftops surrounding the Duomo, so at night time it still glows as stark white as in the day.

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americantouristerans · 4 months ago

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bike42 · 5 months ago

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Monday September 2, 2024

We slept in, then went down for a late leisurely breakfast. After breakfast, we booked our train for tomorrow, then took a walk down to the river, and along the river for a 5 mile loop. Good to stretch the legs a bit after two days of doing the tourist shuffle.

Back to the room, I did a yoga session while Jeff napped, then we showered and headed out to meet the Food Tour we’d booked for this afternoon.

We met Leslie and the 12 of us headed out to six different locations. We were mostly Americans, with one couple from Iceland (there was another couple from Waunakee!!).

Leslie was a terrific guide, originally from Chile, she studied language in college and learned Brazilian Portuguese, and really struggled with Portugal Portuguese when she moved here three years ago. Written Portuguese is a lot like Spanish, but the pronunciation is very different I guess!! We noticed some issues with “Google translate” as that is also Brazilian Portuguese!!

Leslie told us there are 3 pillars of Portuguese gastronomy:

*Roman: wine and Mediterranean diet

*Moors: fruit, almonds, rice

*Age of Discovery: flavors from all over the world

We made six stops on our tour and had more food and drink than we could handle, but it was a great experience and a lot of fun. Each time we sat with a different couple so we enjoyed getting to know each other as well.

#1 Manteigaria Silva

Marmalada (Romeo and Juliet): Quine (fruit), cheese and bread. Port wine, fortified (added brandy which stops fermentation and keeps it sweet).

#2 Solar da Madalena

Pork Sandwich and Beer

Pork is marinated with white wine and bay leaves, served with mustard and peri peri (hot sauce we had last night for the first time).

#3 Taberna da Baixa

Red wine, Cheeses, Pumpkin jam and Chorizo brought to the table flambé

#4 Rei do Bacalhau

The waiter plopped a large carafe of

Portuguese “water” (white wine) down on each table of 4!

Yummy Seafood with rice

#5 Ginjinha

Cherries fermented in brandy - a drink brought to Lisbon from a former monk. They say it’s “medicinal” and it did taste a bit like cough syrup! Reminded me of the Cherry Bounce my dad used to make

#6 Espacio Alentjo

“Green” white wine from the north coast of Portugal - grapes picked early so they don’t become too salty

Cod cake - like a crab cake, without much actual cod.

Our tour finished about 6pm - early by Portugal standards, but we were full and quite buzzed! We walked back up the hill and found a gelato shop a few blocks past our hotel. The streets were bustling, and it was an enjoyable evening.

Back to our room to finalize what’s going in our packs versus what’s staying in the suitcase at the hotel. I’ll be offering snacks, as my snack bag seems to weigh more than my small bag of clothes! We have a scale in our room so we can do a pack weight before we head out tomorrow!

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niwarcorner · 8 months ago

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americantouriste · 1 year ago

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americantourister · 1 year ago

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haleylongcore · 2 years ago

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Parisian Lifestyle: Leisure, Community, and Equal Access

One thing I’ve noticed about Paris is that areas are specified and reserved for certain activities. Eating only happens when sitting, drinking happens in a separate part of the restaurant, and there are designated areas for certain social activities.

We visited a park between the Louvre Museum and the Place de la Concorde on Monday, May 22nd at around noon. The park was split up with several grassy areas, and a large fountain in the middle with chairs around for seating. The fountain is called the Grand Bassin Rond and the park area was around it. On the inner circle around the fountain, I noticed it seemed to have a larger quantity of people and a larger amount of tourists. While there were people simply lounging in the sun, there were individuals who had suitcases with them. I also observed that the environment had a bit more energy and movement, as there were also a lot of people walking through. I saw people riding bikes, and also walking their dogs.

There were separate, more private areas in the park further away from the bustling inner circle that seemed to be mostly Parisians rather than tourists. The park had lots of statues and beautiful flowers, and the further away from the fountain you get, the more peaceful it is and the more able one is to enjoy the scenery. I saw couples sitting and eating lunch in the park in these areas, as well as people sitting and eating under the line of trees that bordered the park. There certainly seemed to be a distinction in the park between where the tourists congregated and where the Parisians congregated.

Parks are an example of how there are specified areas for shared activity and socializing. There are so many parks all around Paris, and they have places for sitting, viewing nature and flower displays, enjoying sculptures and statues, and even giving places for playgrounds for the children. Having these areas that anyone can access is important, and shows the importance of leisure in Parisian culture.

I’ve generally noticed that drinking and eating occur as an event, rather than simply needing to diminish hunger. In America, we walk and eat all the time so that we are able to fit the task of feeding ourselves into our busy schedules. In Paris, eating is an activity that is given a great amount of time and is often used as a social period as well. It’s a time to gather with others, and also to relax and enjoy leisure. There is always some sort of drink with a meal, I’ve noticed, as drinking is a big part of Parisian culture. They have a culture where eating, drinking, and socializing are normally occurring together, and having time for these things is carved into the social structure. Once again, leisure is shown as a high priority.

I’ve learned a great deal about the priorities within the social lives and work/life balance in France, and it seems like they have their priorities straight. Parisians are allowed a large amount of time for lunch to get a meal and are given a maximum number of hours they can work in a week (35 hours). Additionally, maternity and paternity leave is guaranteed, as well as needing to have at least 48 straight hours off from work once a week. If they are outside of their work hours, they cannot be contacted about work and if you try to, they simply will not answer. They also generally don’t discuss work when they aren’t working. As for social nets, there is community housing built, as well as free healthcare. This is completely different from America. An average “full-time job” means working 40 hours a week. People work overtime to make extra money and are often overworked in general. Even with being overworked, many Americans still can’t make ends meet. Often what makes it difficult to make ends meet in America is medical debt piling up and having to put money towards paying it off instead of paying for the basic necessities of living. France seems to care about taking care of each individual, and ensuring that its citizens aren’t living at work, but have plenty of time to enjoy their personal life as well. This is incredibly appealing, and how it should be. I wish America were able to move in this direction.

In relation to French politics, I think the priority for leisure, accessible social safety nets, and a more equal work/life balance can be connected to the motto, “Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity”. These goals were created by the people of France during the 1789 French Revolution when they overthrew the government. The point of these values was to neutralize the class system that had previously been in place, and to ensure that everyone had equality and no one was incredibly more privileged than anyone else. Today, these values are still impacting the way rights are given. French working people have so many rights because no one should have more or less freedom than someone else to be financially stable, have access to healthcare, or ability to have time to enjoy life simply because of their occupation. Everyone is encouraged to cooperate in the community and work together, which is why the value of Fraternity lends to social safety nets and free healthcare. Freedom to an enjoyable life and the basic care you need is encompassed in the 3 main values of France, and so rules are implemented that allow for French citizens to take the time to enjoy leisure, to gather with loved ones, and be able to separate work from their real lives.

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fridayfirefly · 4 years ago

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Sunrise on Gotham

Read Sunrise on Gotham on AO3

Masterlist

Written for Maribat March Day 29 - Wait!

Gotham wasn’t Marinette’s first choice for the location of their class trip. In fact, the grim American city hadn’t even made her top ten list. Marinette wanted to go to Amsterdam, a city rich with history and culture. But when Mm. Bustier announced that a vote for the class trip location would be held, the class voted almost unanimously. After all, Lila’s long-distance boyfriend, Damian Wayne, lived in Gotham. Wouldn’t it be great for Lila to be reunited with him? And Lila traveled so frequently that she had already visited all of the other cities Mm. Bustier suggested. Would it be fair to make her go visit a city she had already been to? Marinette scoffed as she overheard the class discussion. She knew that this was just another one of Lila’s lies, perfectly designed to manipulate the people around her into doing what she wanted.

Marinette kept her mouth shut while her classmates all decided to vote for Gotham. But that didn’t stop her from putting her checkmark next to Amsterdam on the ballots Mm. Bustier passed out. Maybe that would have been the end of Marinette’s bitterness if Lila hadn’t “accidentally” glanced at the ballots on Mm. Bustier’s desk she was leaving the classroom. Marinette could still remember Lila’s sickeningly sweet voice, feigning concern for Marinette, asking why Marinette wanted to go to Amsterdam so badly.

As Marinette scrambled for an answer, Alya turned to her with cruelty in her eyes. “I can’t believe you’re trying to sabotage Lila and Damian’s reunion. You’re so selfish, Marinette.”

Marinette didn’t bother replying - it never helped. As she left the classroom that day, she could see the disappointment in Adrien’s eyes. Her crush on the blonde model had long since faded, and alongside it went the rose-colored glasses she used to see him through, back when they were both thirteen. Now, four years later, all she saw was a selfish boy who cared more about avoiding conflict than actually solving problems.

Four months later, the plane landed in Gotham just as the sun began to rise. As her class walked from the airport to the hotel, Marinette felt herself zone out. Even though it wasn’t her first choice, Marinette could still appreciate the sight that was the Gotham skyline. Looming silver skyscrapers were framed by the gray, cloudy sky. As Marinette took in her surroundings, she began to wish that she could stop and get her sketchbook out. Ideas for a Gotham-themed fashion line popped up in her mind like weeds, and she needed to stop and pick them before she could properly zone back in. Gray was a color she had never properly worked with, which would make incorporating the color a nice way to challenge herself. In her mind, shades of gray instinctively started organizing themselves into the different ways she could pair them together.

“Wait!” A hand grabbed Marinette’s arm, pulling her back. Marinette gasped as she realized that she was about to walk onto the street, straight into traffic. She whipped around to face her savior.

The first thing Marinette noticed was his height. She was used to feeling short, at 5′2″, most people were taller than her. But he seemed to dwarf her. She figured he was 6′0″ at least. The second thing she noticed was the look of concern in his eyes. “Are you okay?” He asked.

Marinette nodded jerkily, trying to control her breathing. Having a panic attack alone in the middle of downtown Gotham would be just about the worst thing for her to do. She was supposed to be Ladybug, the savior of Paris, yet she was so unaware of her surroundings in a completely foreign city that she almost got killed in traffic. “I’m okay, I was just daydreaming,” she babbled, “Usually I’d be more aware of my surroundings, but I just got off of the plane and I’m not used to jetlag.”

The stranger had a bemused smile on his face as he walked her talk. Marinette blushed as she realized how dumb she must look to the handsome stranger. “Your accent, is it French?”

Marinette nodded. “I just got here from Paris. I’m on a class trip.”

“Where’s the rest of your class?”

Marinette looked around, trying to figure out which way her class went, but they were already gone, out of sight. “I’m not sure...” She trailed off. “But I have the address for the hotel on my phone, so I’ll be able to catch up with them there.”

“Gotham is known for being difficult to navigate. I can take you there if you’d like.”

“Sure,” said Marinette, pulling her phone out to check the address. “It’s called the Gotham Grand Hotel. It's on the corner of 7th Avenue and 22nd Street.”

“That’s about twelve blocks away. It’s pretty far. Are you sure you’re up for the walk?”

Marinette nodded. “I’m sure I can make it."

His smile returned as he introduced himself. “I’m Damian, by the way.”

“I’m Marinette,” Marinette introduced herself as Damian led the way.

A moment later, Damian's phone started to ring. He answered it while still walking. "Hello.”

A brief pause, then. “I’m on 4th Avenue, by the Starbucks.” Another pause as he listened to the person on the other end of the phone conversation. “I’m not free right this moment, but I will be in a few minutes." Another pause. "I'm helping someone get around the city. She got a little lost on her school trip, and you and I both know that the city isn't exactly safe when you don't know your way around it."

Marinette was beginning to wonder who exactly Damian was talking to, but she didn't want to be rude and interrupt. Instead, she got her phone out of her pocket and sent a quick text to Alya, telling her that she would be a little late because she got disoriented on the hectic Gotham streets.

"I'll be free until five tonight. Father's insisting that I come and have dinner with the family, and I have my internship afterward, from seven to nine." Another pause, this one longer. "I suppose that would work. I was planning on going out to eat at some point, anyway. I'll just have to ask Marinette if she's okay with it."

Damian put the phone down and turned to face Marinette. "My boyfriend, Jon, offered to pick us both up and drop you off at your hotel on our way to get brunch. If you don't feel comfortable with that, I understand."

"Oh, it's perfectly fine," Marinette assured him.

Damian frowned slightly before replying to his boyfriend. Marinette knew that Damian probably thought she wasn't being cautious enough, but she didn't care. After four years as Ladybug, Marinette was confident that she was capable of taking care of herself.

A minute later, a car pulled up beside them. “This is Jon’s car,” said Damian as he grabbed the door for her.

“Thank you,” Marinette smiled in return as she pulled her suitcase in after her. "Hello, Jon. I'm Marinette."

"Welcome to Gotham, Marinette." Jon leaned past the driver's seat to shake her hand. Marinette noticed that he had a very friendly face: a nice smile and kind eyes. "How are you enjoying the city?"

"It's nicer than I expected, I suppose, but I didn't exactly have high expectations. Gotham has a reputation in Europe for being the worst tourist destination in America."

Damian nodded. "That sounds like Gotham. It'll grow on you, though."

"Like a fungus," added Jon.

"If you say so." Marinette cast a distasteful look out the window of the car at the gray streets.

"Do you have any plans for lunch?" asked Jon.

Marinette shook her head. "Not really. The hotel has a restaurant on the ground floor, but their lunch menu is pretty limited. I'm vegetarian, so my only option is a salad."

"Would you like to come to brunch with us?" offered Jon.

"Are you sure you want me there?" Marinette didn't want to be a third wheel if brunch was supposed to be a date between Jon and Damian.

"Of course," said Damian.

"Alright. I don't think I'll be missing anything if I go with you. Our itinerary keeps us pretty busy at the beginning of the trip, but we were given today to rest up, to help get rid of the jetlag. I switched my sleep schedule a week ago, though, so my body is already running on Gotham time.”

Damian nodded thoughtfully. “Do you want to check the itinerary, just to be sure?”

Marinette shrugged. “It can’t hurt to check it one more time.” She pulled the paper out of her suitcase. “Our class doesn’t have anything planned until tonight. We have dinner at a restaurant called..." Marinette consulted her itinerary, "The Coast, and then we’re seeing Wicked at one of the theaters downtown.”

“I've been to The Coast before with my family. They have very good vegetarian options. It is very expensive for a high school class trip,” Damian noted.

“I go to an accelerated school. The school has a very large budget, due to the amount of tuition, and the number of alumni who give back to the school.” Marinette shrugged, a nervous tick. She didn’t like talking about how much her tuition cost. Even with her 50% scholarship to Francois Dupont, tuition was still a struggle sometimes. Her parents didn’t make that much money from the bakery, and compared to the elite professions of some of her classmates' parents, Marinette was often considered to be poor. It left her feeling out of place, guilty every time she felt embarrassed by her working-class parents.

“That sounds-“

Marinette continued to babble. “I’m grateful for the opportunities that François Dupont gives me. Much more grateful than a lot of my classmates, anyway. Some of them only read the itinerary for the first time on the plane ride to Gotham. One of my classmates, Chloé, threw a fit because she believed that the entire trip would be a shopping spree through Gotham. Other students got mad for other reasons. One of my classmates made some promises that she had no business making - telling everyone that we would be getting way more free time than we were actually given. It’s a shame. I used to love being a part of Mme. Bustier’s class, but everything fell apart after...”

Marinette stopped half-way through her sentence and stared down at her hands as she realized that tears had sprung to her eyes. She felt the red flush of embarrassment begin to overtake her face. "I'm sorry."

"You don't need to apologize. It sounds like you have a lot going on with your class at the moment."

"That's putting it mildly," said Marinette. "It's been... difficult, to say the least."

"Do you want to talk about it?" asked Jon.

Marinette shook her head. "Not really. Even if Gotham wasn’t my first choice for our class trip, I still want to at least try to have a good time.”

“What was your first choice?” asked Damian, a hint of curiosity to his voice.

“Amsterdam,” said Marinette longingly. “But Lila wanted to visit her boyfriend in Gotham, Damian Wayne, so the whole class ignored the fact that Gotham is the most crime-ridden city in America, all so that Lila could visit her boyfriend.”

Damian looked shocked. “Did she say her boyfriend is Damian Wayne?“

Marinette nodded. “Uh, yeah.”

Jon snorted. “I know that you like girls too, Damian, but I figured you would tell me before adding a third to our relationship.”

Damian rolled his eyes, quipping back something just as clever. Marinette was too stunned to listen, as she realized that the rich and powerful Damian Wayne whom Lila claimed to be dating was the same Damian who helped Marinette on the streets of Gotham. Marinette stuttered out, “I didn’t- I didn’t realize that you- you’re Damian Wayne.”

Damian chuckled. “I can tell. I have to admit, I’m not used to not being recognized. I'm pretty famous around Gotham."

“The Billionaire Bisexual Ice Prince of Gotham,” quoted Jon with a grin on his face. “The tabloids love Damian.”

“It’s unfortunate, but it can’t be helped. The tabloids obsess over everything even slightly unconventional, and to them, the bisexual bastard son of billionaire Bruce Wayne is the perfect target. Even more so when he started dating another man.” Damian's voice was smooth, but there was an undercurrent of bitterness to it. Marinette got the sense that he didn't often open up about his relationship, for fear that the media would not be kind about it. Marinette sympathized. Françoise Dupont had been a progressive school: they had a GSA and a no-tolerance policy (not that the policy was ever upheld). She hadn’t been bullied, per se, for being bisexual, but she had experienced the all too familiar feeling of being othered for who she happened to love.

“Nice use of alliteration,” said Jon. His words would have lightened the mood if it wasn’t for the slight strain to his voice.

It was obvious to Marinette that this was a sore subject between the boys. “So how long have you two been dating?” asked Marinette, hoping to lighten the mood.

“Two years, but we’ve been friends since middle school,” answered Jon. “Damian was the world's most uptight twelve-year-old, so I took it upon myself to get him to loosen up. We became friends and everything since then just sort of fell into place.”

“An apt recounting, even if it omitted some pertinent details.” Damian conceded.

“Like what?”

“Like the fact that I was the one to ask you on a date, and you were so shocked that I had figured out that you were bisexual that you dropped the glass in your hand, shattering it,” teased Damian.

“I thought I was being subtle about it,” Jon defended.

Marinette giggled. If she could just spend all of her time with Jon and Damian, rather than her class, she might just have fun on her class trip.

Damian turned to Marinette. “He had a pride pin on his jacket and listened to Carly Rae Jepsen. Subtlety is not, and has never been one of Jon’s string suits.”

Marinette noted that she had a pride pin of her own attached to the front strap of her backpack. Most people never took any note of it - Marinette had quite a few pins on her backpack - but Marinette got the feeling that Damian was aware of it.

"We're here," said Jon, parking the car in front of a little café.

"Café Carlisle has good vegetarian options," Damian assured her as he opened up her car door and helped her out. "They make a superb gourmet grilled cheese sandwich and tomato basil soup. I would recommend it to anyone."

"That's pretty high praise. I get the sense you don't give false compliments."

"I don't." It was a simple answer. Marinette was beginning to get a clearer picture of Damian, who didn't waste unnecessary words but was never afraid to speak his mind.

"Then it had better live up for expectations," teased Marinette.

Damian smiled at her as he held open the door to the restaurant. "It will."

As Damian led Marinette to a booth in the back of the restaurant Marinette caught sight of the reflection of her little group in one of the windows. There was a look on Jon's face that Marinette wasn't sure how to interpret. He had a smile on his face, but it wasn't the joking smile Marinette saw a lot of in the car. It was more of an indulgent smile, giving Marinette the sensation that Jon knew something that she didn't. Marinette wanted to turn around and ask him what it meant, but part of her brain begged her not to ruin this budding friendship before it had even begun.

Marinette had only known Damian and Jon for twenty minutes but already had the strangest feeling that there was a connection between them, some sort of relationship that needed nothing more than a little bit of shown vulnerability to create a deep bond. The only thing Marinette could think to liken it to was love at first sight, but it was beyond that. This wasn't infatuation or obsession (both of which Marinette knew well from her days of crushing over Adrien). This was deeper. This was the knowledge that Damian and Jon had seen her vulnerability and had embraced it, showing vulnerability in their own way. Neither boy had said it out loud, but given that they had both closed themselves off from physical affection as soon as they were in public, Marinette made the assumption that any sort of public display of affection was off-limits to them anywhere that the tabloids could see. It put the fact that they had been incredibly open about their relationship in a new light. It reassured Marinette that she wasn't just imagining their connection. Damian and Jon must have felt similarly about her to be able to talk to her about their relationship.

"Marinette?" Damian spoke her name, snapping Marinette out of her thoughts.

Marinette blushed. "Sorry, I tend to daydream a lot."

Damian smirked. "I'm aware. You almost wandered right into traffic the last time I caught you daydreaming."

Jon stifled a laugh. "What could you possibly be thinking of that would make you so focused that you managed to ignore the traffic right in front of you?"

Marinette launched herself into a spiel about her newest design inspiration, explaining as she went that she was incredibly passionate about fashion and designs and that her designs often had her zoning out for hours at a time. Jon and Damian looked so interested in her explanation that Marinette blushed, not used to having anyone's undivided attention.

Marinette wasn't yet certain where she stood with Damian and Jon in terms of the relationship between the three of them, but she couldn't wait to find out.

@maribatmarch-2k21

#maribat #Damian Wayne #Marinette Dupain-Cheng #daminette #maridami #marinette x damian #MaribatMarch2021 #miraculous ladybug fic #my work

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rhysismydaddy · 4 years ago

Text

Fanny Pack Sexiness (Nessian Smut)

Prompt: *sensually unclips fanny pack* this is weird, i know. but i just saw a tweet and i thought if anyone could write this, it would be you.

Laughed so hard when I read this. If this isn’t Nessian, I don’t know what is. NSFW warning because I do love a fanny pack moment ;)

_________________________________________________________

Nesta glared out the window, keeping her unspoken vow to not look over at the atrocity that was her boyfriend.

Well, that wasn’t not fair.

The boyfriend himself was actually pretty nice to look at.

Broad shoulders, a tall frame filled with meaty muscle, curly brown hair, and golden eyes made him interesting enough, she supposed.

But it was what the bastard had chosen to wear that had driven her insane all day.

The monstrosity was strapped around his waist currently, and she could’ve sworn it was laughing up at her.

Consider this the first and last time she would ever travel with him.

Because since it wasn’t obvious enough they were American, Cassian had chosen to wear a fanny pack. Over an I <3 LONDON shirt. Which he’d paired with khakis.

He looked like the cover of a tourist’s guide made for forty year-old, single men who lived with their mothers.

And she knew it was at least partly her fault he was dressed so stupidly, but she refused to apologize.

Last night, they’d been heading out to dinner, when she commented that almost always, he wore all black. Honestly, it wasn’t even a complaint, considering she was guilty of the same thing.

Why bother trying to put together prints and fabrics and colors, when black looked so nice on her?

Anyway. She hadn’t been complaining. Teasing, but not complaining.

But noooo. He’d immediately gotten that annoying, competitive look in his eyes that both made her smile and want to strangle him.

“What would you like me to wear, Nesta?” he’d asked, golden eyes practically glowing.

She’d sighed, probably making things worse. “I’m just saying, we look a little goth when we’re together.”

Cassian had just smiled down at her, then walked out of their room. She hadn’t thought any more of it when he’d slipped back in later that night, but then this morning, when he’d gotten dressed in the bathroom and opened the door with a flourish, she’d almost hit the floor.

He was not built for fanny packs and khakis.

He was built for... well, he was built to be naked all the time, but since that would probably get them sent back to the states, tight black shirts and jeans was a decent second option.

Plus, as if it weren’t bad enough already, he’d been adding to the ensemble all day, building up to the horrendous outfit she was currently avoiding looking at.

His faded combat boots had been replaced with flip flops. His hair was tucked under a very large hat with a Big Ben outline across the front. He’d even stopped to buy a fucking old-fashioned pipe from the William Blake exhibit they’d gone to see.

He was trying to drive her crazy.

But little did he know, she had a few tricks up her sleeve. After three years together, she knew how to drive him crazy, too.

So she’d plotted and schemed all day. And as they rode back to their hotel in the cab, it was finally time for it to come into play.

Trying to be discrete, she nodded at the driver.

Cassian’s eyes shot to her as the man slammed on the brakes. It had costed her twenty Euros, but seeing the look of shock on her boyfriend’s face was so worth it.

Especially as she shouted, “Drive him to the other side of the city and kick him out!”

And jumped from the cab.

It was still moving a little, but she’d been prepared and hit the ground at a run.

Manic laughter came out of her as Cassian turned around in the now-speeding cab, shouting something unintelligible back at her.

He wanted to dress like a tacky tourist and drive her crazy?

Fine.

She’d just have to show him what he was missing out on.

A little over an hour later, the door to their hotel room swung open, hitting the wall angrily.

“That asshole took me halfway to fucking Essex, then had the audacity to charge me for the ride. Next time you have someone kidnap me, at least pay the fee, woman! I swear-”

Whatever he was about to say lodged in his throat as he took a look at what she was wearing.

It was all new, and his eyes took in every piece of the wardrobe with a predatory gleam that sent her toes curling. But she acted unaffected, even as she bent down to fix the strap of her very high, very uncomfortable shoes.

“What’s going on?” he asked, voice rough.

Straightening, she shrugged and fluffed her hair. “I’m going to dinner.”

“You mean we’re going to dinner.”

Finally.

Nesta turned towards her boyfriend, enjoying the way his eyes dipped to the almost indecent amount of cleavage on display.

She traced her eyes over his entire rumpled, touristy outfit. “I’m not going in public with you while I look like this and you look like that.”

His eyes narrowed as he finally caught on to what she’d done. “I’ll change then.”

It was a struggle not to laugh. “Well, you seemed so intent on replacing your wardrobe, I figured I’d help you out and dumped your suitcase.”

That was a lie. It was safely hidden down at the front desk.

“You did what?”

Ignoring the question, she said, “You’re welcome. And since you can neither change nor go like that, I guess I’ll just see you later.”

Making her way to the door, she was abruptly stopped by a hand smacking into the wall closest to her, an arm now blocking her path. “Nesta Archeron, you are not going out looking like a goddamn supermodel while I sit here with my thumbs up my ass.”

��How you fill the alone time is irrelevant to me, Cassian.”

His other hand made its way to the wall, too, caging her in.

“I know you wouldn’t throw my clothes out. Where are they? Tell me, and we’ll go to dinner.”

She shrugged, resolve to keep the secret building by the second.

She was aware they were both a little competitive, but she didn’t care. She was winning this, one way or the other. He’d admit he’d been wrong to dress like an idiot today, then--and only then--she’d give him his clothes back.

“I know what you’re doing,” he told her, the tone of his voice proving that it was working.

He was suddenly so close she couldn’t think about anything else.

Even dressed in head to toe tacky, he somehow managed to suck all the air out of her lungs.

One hand turned his hat backwards so the brim wouldn’t poke her, and he leaned in close enough to run his nose down her neck.

“Tell me, Nesta.”

“No.”

His teeth nipped at her skin, and she shivered. “Do I need to fuck it out of you?”

Gods, yes. Please.

That hadn’t been her plan at all, but her body was more than on board with it.

Except there was a bit of a problem.

“You are not fucking me with a fanny pack on, hate to break it to you.”

Cassian pulled back far enough to wink at her, then his mouth was on hers, dominating her in the way that she’d only ever let him do. He pressed her against the wall, chest tight against hers, as he slipped his tongue in her mouth.

Hands on her waist lifted her, and then she was being thrown halfway across the room onto the neatly-made bed.

Propping herself up on her elbows, she glared over at him.

“I was being serious, Cassian. You’re not getting any while you’re dressed like Uncle Sam.”

He swaggered over to the foot of the bed, the comment not at all impacting his confidence.

“Allow me to remedy the problem then, princess.”

The hat’s the first to go, and it was a relief to see his unruly hair finally free. She heard the slap of his flip flops on the floor and figured he kicked them off, too. Cassian tugged the horrible, bright yellow “I <3 LONDON” shirt over his head, then stared at her, eyes narrowed.

“I’m keeping the fanny pack.”

It was adorable how wrong he was.

Raising an eyebrow, Nesta leaned back and let her thighs fall open, keying him into the fact that she’d somehow forgotten to put on underwear tonight.

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t move to take off the damn pack.

So she ran a manicured nail over her bottom lip, then slipped it in her mouth and sucked on it. She was pretty sure Cassian was about to pass out as she released it with a pop, then brought it between her legs.

“Nesta.”

“Hmm?” she responded, the sound drawn out and breathy as she pushed the finger inside herself.

“I like the fanny pack.” He sounded so sad, it was almost comical. Like a kid on Christmas who’d just been told Santa hadn’t come.

Too bad.

“Then stand there and watch.”

Oh, he did. His eyes were intent on her hands, both the one between her legs and the other that made it’s way to her breast.

She rolled a nipple between her fingers and groaned, and he leaned down to fist the sheets at the end of the bed in his hands. “Fuck.”

Nesta refused to give first. Absolutely refused.

And she knew what it would take for him to give in. So she added another finger, back arching off the bed, and worked herself until she was so close she couldn’t stay still.

His knuckles were white as he gripped the comforter tight enough to threaten the strands, but it wasn’t that that forced him to lose their little battle.

It was the sight of her coming undone before him.

She moaned, and it might’ve been his name that fell from her lips, as release found her. When she heard the strangled, creative curse he let out, she knew she’d won.

Forcing her eyes open, she watched as he finally unhooked the fanny pack and let it drop to the floor.

It was the sexiest thing she’d ever seen.

Cassian quickly kicked off his hideous khakis, then prowled up her body, dropping little love bights on her thighs, her hips, her breasts.

“That was so hot,” he groaned as he settled between her thighs, bracing himself on his elbows.

“That was the idea, idiot.”

He stopped for a moment, pulling back to give her a sour look. “I think I’m going to make you apologize for that.”

Before she could tell him there was a fat chance of that happening, he pushed into her. Nesta gasped, and his mouth was suddenly on hers, absorbing the sound.

After a brief moment to adjust, his hips grew rough against hers, the grip he had on them almost bruising, but she didn’t care.

“Fuck, Cass,” she groaned, arching into his touch as he drew little circles on the bundle of nerves between her legs.

He picked up speed, pounding into her so hard she started shifting up the bed until he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, keeping her in place.

Release started building up in her, and she could tell it would be almost too intense when it crested. But just before she got to find out, he slowed his rhythm, swirling his hips slowly against hers.

An indignant, hateful sound left her mouth, and he pulled back enough to smirk down at her.

“Say it,” he commanded, eyes like molten caramel as they watched her hips try to gain more friction. “Say you’re sorry, and I’ll give you what you want.”

“Fuck you,” she panted, barely resisting the urge to punch him. “You insufferable, arrogant bastard.”

“Not exactly what I want to hear, but close.”

A maddeningly slow circle of his hips had her regretting ever going out with him.

Another had her planning his murder.

Yet another had her cursing the day he was born.

“Say it, Nesta. You know you want to.” He dipped his head to kiss the base of her throat.

Her body was so strung out it was a miracle she didn’t burst into tears, but she somehow managed to hold off for another few minutes.

But then he grabbed her hands and pinned them above her head and all but growled, “Just fucking say it. Say it so I can fuck you like you deserve.”

And she was just desperate enough that she said, “I’m sorry I called you an idiot, you horrible asshole.”

He smiled down at her, and she glared. “Such beautiful words.”

“Cassian, I swear-”

The words became lost in her throat as he finally, finally started moving again, somehow harder and quicker than before.

Release immediately crashed into her, and she moaned as she drew tight around him.

“Good girl,” he murmured, and even though she currently hated him, the words just made the release that much sweeter.

Especially as he didn’t stop. Her body was trembling underneath his, but he kept going, even dipping his head to kiss his way down to her breasts.

His tongue swirled around the peak of one, and she groaned loudly as the wave inside her seemed to crash once more, leaving her scattered and broken in the aftermath.

Cassian finally followed her lead, collapsing on top of her and pressing her into the mattress below as he said her name in a helpless, loving sort of way.

Their breath was uncontrolled and loud, and it took a few minutes before either of them could speak.

Then he asked roughly, “Now, where’d you hide my shit?”

“Front desk,” she panted, pushing her hair off her forehead with a tired hand.

He drew back, looking over her partially-clothed body in a satisfied, male way that made her smile. “I really like that dress, in case it isn’t obvious. Want me to go change so we can eat something?”

Before she could respond, his mouth was at her ear, hot breath raising goosebumps across her skin. “Or do you just want to eat here?”

Suddenly, food was the last thing on her mind.

Her hands found their way to his hair as she drew him back down to her.

“Just get it tomorrow,” she murmured, lips finding his again. “And never wear that fanny pack again.”

_________________________________________________________

Like I said, I had WAY too much fun writing this hahaha. Kinda really loosely based on when Joey (Friends) went to London and dressed like a tourist :)

Tags: @sjm-things @santas-dwynwen @thebitchupstairs @sayosdreams @perseusannabeth @cursebreaker29 @a-bit-of-a-cactus @elriel4life @girl-who-reads-the-books @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @highqueenofelfhame @tswaney17 @rowanisahunk @superspiritfestival @studyliketate @over300books @justgiu12 @maastrash @aesthetics-11 @bamchickawowow @b00kworm @sleeping-and-books @musicmaam @hizqueen4life @maybekindasortaace

#nessian #nessian fanfiction #nesta #nesta archeron #cassian #cassian x nesta #acotar #acotar fanfiction #acomaf #acowar #acofas #a court of mist and fury #a court of thorns and roses #a court of wings and ruin #a court of frost and starlight #nesta x cassian #nesta x cassian fanfiction

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qqueenofhades · 4 years ago

Note

If anyone is an enabling mood..HI, I AM ALWAYS IN AN ENABLING MOOD, YOU WANT ENABLING? HERE IT IS. I have soft loving enabling tho cos I don't like being mean it makes me sad.

As we all expected, I am very, very easy to enable. Credit to @voidxces for the beautiful and inspiring edit. Mildly smutty bits, hence the full story is below the cut.

Valletta, Malta

December 15, 1999

The customs line at Malta International Airport is long, maddeningly slow-moving, and the one guard stamping passports looks to be about ninety, as Joe shifts from foot to foot and tries to remind himself that they have nothing but time. (Unless, of course, the Y2K nuts are all correct and they’re two short weeks from the end of life as we know it, but if nothing else, living for almost a thousand years means that he has seen countless doomsday prophecies come and go without so much as a whimper.) It was a crappy flight from Paris – overbooked, understaffed, the inevitable screaming child two rows behind them and now determined to keep up the racket in the passport queue – and Joe’s trying not to look as stressed as he feels. This is their getaway for the holidays and the new year, the turn of the millennium, a huge and significant milestone for any number of reasons, and he’ll feel better once they’re out of here. Nobody’s at their best in the cattle corrals and the fluorescent lights of border control, another reminder of how much things have changed over all the years they’ve been coming to Malta. The first time they were here in 1501, all they had to do was sail up, get off the boat, and pay a bribe to the port official. Joe votes they try that now.

The line shuffles forward another inch, the child behind them screams even louder, and as Joe is silently reciting the Bismillah and reminding himself that the Almighty values patience, Nicky turns around. He sizes up the mother – tired-looking, hungry-eyed, apologetically trying to corral the fussy baby and a toddler of about three or four – and smiles gently. “Hello,” he says in English, then glances at her passport and sees that she’s Italian. “Buona sera, signora,” he goes on, not missing a beat. “Hai bisogna di aiuto con qualcosa?”

The tired mother starts, her eyes welling with tears. Joe’s willing to bet that nobody has offered to help her for this entire trip, and has to smile softly to himself that of course Nicky has swooped out of the Maltese night like, well, a knight, her countryman in a time of crisis, to do exactly that. Joe is already feeling better just to watch Nicky be Nicky, as his lover takes hold of the baby, joggles him on his hip and tells him that he’s a handsome fellow and to stop screaming and to give his mama a break, as the mother tends to her toddler, gets herself sorted out, and thanks Nicky profusely in what sounds like Calabrian. Joe’s mostly able to pick out the specific regional accents, and he guesses that this woman is a migrant, one of the workers who travel around Europe in the growing season to pick fruit and vegetables in hot fields under hard bosses who only pay in cash and owe a cut to the Mafia. He takes out his wallet and quietly offers her all the Maltese lira they changed for back in France, and she shakes her head and tries to refuse. He insists – she looks somewhat surprised that he speaks Italian too, but not unduly – and while she won’t take it all, they manage to give her back her baby, some money, and reach the front of the line without actually noticing the rest of the wait. Joe hands over a French passport that reads Joseph Jones. Nicky hands over Nicholas Smith. The guard looks at them, asks a few questions in his quavering old-man voice, stamps the visa pages, and once more, they’re in.

Outside, Joe and Nicky collect their bags, help the woman to the taxi rank and make sure she’s on her way to wherever she’s staying, then go out to catch the bus. Valletta sparkles in the distance as they draw closer, this magnificent collection of fortresses and gardens and churches, domes and spires, palaces and piazzas, museums and terraces, city walls and citadels, Benjamin Disraeli’s city of palaces for gentlemen. The place was largely built by the Knights Hospitaller after their exile from Rhodes and the Great Siege of Malta in 1565, and Joe and Nicky have watched it transform over the centuries, but it has still managed to retain that unique spark of what they love about it. It is familiar, comforting, lovely. If the world is going to end, no better place to be than here.

The bus stops in downtown, they thank the driver in fluent Maltese, and get off, hauling their bags and suitcases. The December evening is cool and misty, fog floating over the cobblestones like elegant wraiths, the streetlamps casting pools of golden glow that look like doorways to another world. They walk casually hand in hand to a corner store that is about to shut up shop for the evening, buy a quick dinner, and then continue up the street. Somewhat appropriately, they are staying in a rented house near St Sebastian’s Bastion, Is-Sur ta' San Bastjan, on the northeastern tip of the Valletta peninsula near Fort Saint Elmo. They know the elderly owner well, who has left the key in the postbox for them, and they unlock the door, ascend the narrow, creaky stairs to the top-floor garret, and find that a small Christmas tree and a plate of imqaret have been left to welcome them. The windows open out over the city wall and the dark, glittering ocean. It is quiet, at last. Just the two of them.

“Finally,” Joe says. He picks up Nicky’s bags when he puts them down, and carries them into the dark bedroom, switching on the lights. They set down their convenience-store repast and eat, affectionately nudging each other’s knees under the too-small table. They’ll do more shopping tomorrow; they will be here at least until January (assuming, of course, no apocalypse). Joe smiles at Nicky, happy to be here, happy to be with him, happy to be sharing this small and unremarkable meal with a soft rain pattering on the steep slanted roof. When they’ve finished and tidied up, Joe murmurs, “Not too tired, are you?”

Nicky answers with a devilish quirk of his eyebrow, as if to say that of course neither of them were actually planning to go to sleep without celebrating their return appropriately. He wraps his arms around Joe’s waist, and they waltz into the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind them and drawing the curtains, sinking down on the amply-sized bed and undressing each other with slow and leisurely care. Even after a thousand, a hundred thousand times, it never fails to thrill. Their mouths meet in the dimness, their hands trace the well-loved lines of the other’s body, the faint scars and lines that never go away even through all the regenerations, the secret places, the curve of lips, the plane of shoulders and spines, the tensed tightness low on stomachs, the bend of a knee or the bone of an ankle. Joe pushes Nicky down beneath him, and Nicky arches his back, wrapping his legs around Joe’s waist. In quiet and tender and timeless communion, they find their way back home again, in each other and with each other, in touches and kisses and slow thrusts turning faster, and finally, sated, they sleep.

They wake in the morning with slants of winter sunlight filling the room, the high white ceilings, the gauzy curtains fluttering in the constant draft that they’ve never found, the way they’ve woken up in this room since they first met the owner in 1973, and which makes Joe think poignantly, as he always does for just an instant, of their lost home in Constantinople. They get up and dress, then leave the house in search of breakfast. The stone of the streets is pink and amber and gold and fawn, and the light has that particular early-morning quality where it seems to shine through sheets of bleached linen. The city is already awake and bustling, and Joe and Nicky make their way to their favorite café. They can sit overlooking the water and eat as much pastry and drink as much coffee as they like, and they make a good several hours of it. The sun comes up over the street, the palm trees rustle in the breeze, and a few tourists wander by with fancy Nikons around their necks, looking lost. One asks in English if they know where the Grandmaster’s Palace is, and Nicky is happy to point them in the right direction.

“You know,” he says, when they have finally finished breakfast and are wandering happily through the baroque streets, hands and shoulders brushing, “it’s 1999. This is our nine-hundredth anniversary, strictly speaking.”

Joe raises an eyebrow at him. “More like our eight hundredth,” he says playfully. “If we’re going from when we actually figured anything out.”

Nicky shrugs, grinning sheepishly, even as both of them fall contemplatively silent. 1099 is a long, long time ago by anybody’s measure. Joe thinks of himself, kneeling in prayer in the Tower of David, the dread whispers that the Franks were coming, the way he can remember parts and pieces and that first death bright as flame, but the rest of it has faded into the soft greyness of endlessly passing time. They did go to Jerusalem earlier this year, in July, since it seemed like the thing to do; there were a lot of First Crusade remembrances going on, some of which they wanted to be associated with and some of which they didn’t. There was a tweed-jacketed history professor who was deeply appreciative of the detailed account that Nicky was able to give on the breach of Jerusalem’s walls (he asked if he had published any articles on the subject, Nicky said hastily that he was just an enthusiastic amateur), and then there were some whackjobs who were trying to inflame religious tensions, as usual, and basically acting like it was a good thing that the heretics got what was coming to them. Lots of Americans with placards. Lots of Israeli secret service and bearded guys who were probably covert Hezbollah. Lots of people who all think they know exactly what the crusade’s legacy means, and which Joe and Nicky couldn’t help but regard warily. Everything seems twisted up these days, poised on the brink. That guy named bin Laden whose pals tried to bomb the World Trade Center in 1993, he’s been talking as usual. Death to the Western crusaders. So on and so forth. Thus far, nobody’s really listening outside the Middle East, but when you’ve seen this so many times, it’s harder to ignore.

Joe shakes himself, not wanting to think about this on their long-awaited getaway. They’ve been in Kosovo on and off this year, even if the last thing any of them really wanted was to go back into the Yugoslavian wars, and Andy and Booker are off to enjoy the last few weeks of the twentieth century elsewhere. Someone like Andy, the turn of a millennium is old hat, but even for as long as they’ve lived, this is Joe and Nicky’s first new set of a thousand years. The Year Two Thousand. Sounds appropriately science-fictiony. How, Joe thinks. How on earth did Yusuf al-Kaysani from Cairo end up here.

That, however, is only incidental to his enjoyment of the rest of the day. They walk on the city walls, they go up to the Grand Harbor and take in the sea view, then to the Barrakka Gardens. Nicky gazes pensively on the monument of remembrance and out over the glittering blue water, as Joe sits down on a bench and watches him. He has always simply enjoyed looking at Nicky, watching him breathe, watching him be, watching the way he leans on the railing and shields his eyes against the sun with the casual, unconsciousness elegance that permeates everything he does. Whether the name is Yusuf al-Kaysani or Joseph Jones or anything else, it doesn’t matter. Even among all the change and clutter of the modern world, this adoration, this soul-deep delight, is the one thing that remains constant.

That is how the next several days pass. Joe and Nicky visit their usual old haunts in Valletta, eat well, make love, and catch up with the apartment’s owner, Ġużepp, who is now in his eighties, has known them for over twenty-five years, and never seen them age a day. He has never asked why. His wife died a long time ago and they never had children, and perhaps he sees them as sons, as a strange but poignant blessing for a lonely old man, two people who clearly love this place as much as he does. He asked them once when they first came here, and Joe wondered if they should just tell him that it was the sixteenth century. Somehow it seems as if Ġużepp might not be surprised.

A few days before Christmas, a storm blows in from the Atlantic just as dust blows in from North Africa, and the world turns silver and ocher and rust and wet, the windows sparkling as if stained in silver nitrate and the streets and domes and splendid churches of Valletta painted in watercolor impressionism on the blurry glass, anything or anyone outside the bedroom barely seeming to exist. Joe and Nicky spend the time productively, which is to say they have so much sex that they can barely walk. They twist into each other, explore and challenge and unstring and repair each other, touch and caress, kiss and lick and suck and mark their territory all over again, leaving no inch of flesh unexplored and no sinful act undone. “You know,” Nicky murmurs, eyes closed, smiling, sweat beading on his brow, hand stroking up the line of Joe’s spine as Joe nips at his neck. “We really are a pair of heretics, aren’t we.”

“Speak for yourself, Nicolò.” Joe leans down to steal another kiss from his lover’s bruised, teeth-marked lips. “Heretics according to who?”

Nicky hums, as if to say he is happy to get into a theological argument at a later date, but can’t be arsed to do so right now. Joe slides down next to him, sliding his hand across Nicky’s chest and stomach, curling lower, as Nicky whines and reflexively tries to pull back. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

Joe laughs, as he always does, pressing a kiss into Nicky’s shoulder and thinking – as he also always does – Allah and all His angels forbid. He has always secretly, shamefully prayed that if that terrible moment came, if one of them lost their immortality first, that it be him. He knows this condemns Nicky to live on without him, but he cannot face the prospect of doing it himself. Dying for good, even after this long, somehow seems easier. At least he’s done that before, often. Living without the other half of his soul, not so much.

The rain clears on Christmas Day, the light is fragile and golden and perfect as heaven, and they call Andy and Booker (Andy’s somewhere in Argentina, Booker is on a beach in Thailand) and wish each other happy holidays. Nicky mixes up a feast, Joe helps (if by that you mean stirring the occasional pot and taking full advantage of Nicky’s “Kiss the Cook” apron) and they open their door and visit with the neighbors who drop in to bring more pastries and Christmas wishes. Ġużepp turns up, they invite him to stay for supper so he won’t be alone, and after the token protests, he agrees. As he is insisting on doing the washing-up, he asks, “How long have you two known each other?”

Joe and Nicky glance at each other. They’re fairly sure that Ġużepp knows they’re a couple, even if they haven’t said so openly, just in case an old Maltese Roman Catholic would prefer to know it implicitly but not have it confirmed. Finally Nicky says, “A very long time.”

“I thought so, somehow.” The old man reaches for a dish towel. “You seem that way. Have you been happy here? All the times you’ve been to Malta, to my house?”

“We’ve been very happy,” Joe assures him. “This place has been special for – for many years. I am Arabic, Nicky is Italian, it is like it was made just for us.”

Ġużepp smiles. “Your families?” he asks. “They are happy with it?”

Joe thinks of his mother, far off and so very long ago, and how Maryam al-Katibi always wanted him to be a better man. How he forgot about time and its passing, and never saw her again after he left. It remains one of the greatest regrets of his life that she never met Nicolò, as he thinks that they would have liked each other very much. But as far as their family goes now –

“Yes,” he says, thinking of Andy and Booker. “Yes, they are.”

“I am glad,” Ġużepp says stoutly. “It is good for a man not to be alone.”

(It is, and both Joe and Nicky have clung to that, and they don’t know now that this is the last time they will see Ġużepp, as he will die before they return here in 2004 when Malta becomes a member of the EU, but on this sweet, poignant night, as time speeds on its passing, as they both reflect on all those many years, and God said that it was good.)

The last week of 1999 and the twentieth century and the second millennium count down to its inevitable end. There aren’t exactly prophets in sandwich boards shrieking on the streets about the end times, though it’s undeniable that there’s a sharp-edged anxiety as Y2K draws closer. On December 31, Joe and Nicky sit on the beach at the famous Blue Lagoon, watching the sun go down over the island of Comino, holding hands. At last Nicky says – half joking, but only half – “If the world does end tonight, I want you to know that you are still the best thing that ever happened to me. Except for that pastry the other day. That was really very divine.”

Joe laughs, takes his hand to his lips and kisses it. “Always, my heart,” he says. “Always.”

The world gets softer and darker, and lights come on over the bay and the archipelago and the boats bobbing at anchor, and Joe thinks that it must be the year 2000 somewhere else, and everything still seems to be fine. He wasn’t really worried, but he knows that fear that the next year might bring with it something too terrible to be gotten around, and that if you could just cling to this moment now when things are all right, they might stay that way forever. Finally he and Nicky get the water taxi back to Valletta, and it’s getting closer and closer to midnight, and they sit down on a bench and count down with the rest of this sliver of the world, all the way into the next stage of forever.

When it becomes plain that the world has not ended, nor indeed does it seem likely to do so, everywhere seems to let out its breath at once. Huge and glorious fireworks thunder in the dark sky over the city, in riots of color and noise and sound, and Joe and Nicky can hear cheering and toasting from what seems like every house in the city. They kiss and then kiss again for good measure, swept along on a tide of jolly and relieved and mildly (or well, considerably) inebriated strangers, an impromptu street party that both of them feel down to their nine-hundred-and-fifty-year-old sinews, the sort of magic that still catches them dead to rights even after so long in this beautiful, stupid, dangerous, exasperating, maddening, heartbreaking, filthy, glorious, transcendent, irreplaceable world. They throw their arms around each other’s necks and gaze deeply into the other’s eyes, as even all the gaiety and festivity and bacchanal falls into nothing, passing over them like waves. “I love you,” Joe says, as he has said it so many times in all the languages he knows. “Ti amo.”

Nicky smiles that smile that makes the world shine, and spins Joe lightly on the spot, and the next thousand years seem, just then, like the greatest blessing that any man has ever had. “I know.”

#the old guard #the old guard fanfiction #joe x nicky #kaysanova #that time in malta #coffeemakesmeahappybean #ask

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freddie-weaselbee · 4 years ago

Text

E2: The One in New York City//F.W.

Series Summary: FRIENDS but with Harry Potter characters after Hogwarts graduation, trying to figure out their lives and relationships. Non Voldy AU. Begins around the end of FRIENDS season 4 with The Wedding and semi follows plots in season 5.

Pairing(s): Fred Weasley x Fem!Reader, Romione, Ron x Lavender, Hinny, Georgelina

Warnings: Language, mentions of sex, planned pregnancy

Summary: Years after Hermione came back into their lives, the gang finds themselves traveling to New York City for the wedding of the one and only Ronald Weasley. As tensions rise and feelings are revealed, the group has to take on New York and hope for the best.

Word Count: 3.6k

A/N: A little taste of the story: “I’d pee on you any day of the week.” “What the hell did I just walk into?” Message me to join the series or general taglist!

May 2004

“Guys, hurry up! The flight leaves in four hours! It could take time to get a taxi, there could be traffic, the plane could leave early! When you get to New York there could be a line at customs, come on!” Hermoine Granger was racing through the flat of Fred and George Weasley, the one above their infamous joke shop, Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. She grabbed clothing from their drawers and tossed it haphazardly into suitcases, while the twins in question were lounged out on their sofa observing the scene.

You sat wedged between the two boys, leaning your head against Fred’s shoulder with your legs draped across George’s lap. You laughed as Hermione was practically hysterical about getting everything ready, even though she wouldn’t even be going to America.

“Good thing she’s not gonna be on the flight,” Fred whispered into your ear. “A six hour trip to New York? That’s a lot of Hermione.”

Smiling you turned to look at Fred who was holding something in his hand. “What’ve you got there?”

He grinned cheekily and gave you a better look. ��Condoms, Y/N! You never know what American hotties I might meet overseas.”

Rolling your eyes you turned to George, who was giving you the same grin. “And I suppose you’re just as prepared as your brother?”

“Of course! Y’know, I feel bad for poor Ronniekins, getting himself all tied down to one woman. Me and Fred, we know how to live, isn’t that right mate?”

“You said it.” You sighed and settled into Fred even more, relaxing for a few minutes before Hermione would drag you all to the airport and you and Harry would be stuck trying to teach the Weasleys how Muggle planes worked.

There was an audible pop as Ron apparated into the room, standing off by the kitchen.

“Hey!” he greeted, causing you to sit up from your comfortable position wrapped in Fred’s arm and go meet your friend with a hug.

“Hey.” You squeezed him tight, noticing how his nerves had overtaken him.

“Are you ready yet?” he asked, fidgeting with his wand.

Before you could respond Hermione came barging out of George’s bedroom and threw two suitcases onto the twins’ laps with what could only be described as superhuman strength. “She’s ready. You have the tickets?”

“Harry and Gin do, they’ll be here any second.” The only current couple of the group, and an engaged one at that, suddenly arrived with another loud pop, startling Fred who had begun to count his condoms to make sure he had enough.

“Hey big brother!” Ginny hugged Ron with enthusiasm, but not as much as Harry showed as he threw himself onto his best friend.

“You’re getting married Ron!”

“I know!”

They stayed wrapped in their hug as they jumped around and around, George clapping along and laughing at the duo.

“Don’t know why Lavender would want to marry a specky git like you,” said the younger twin, “but at least we get to travel to the states for it.”

“And have wedding food,” said Fred.

“Oh and you can’t forget the hot bridesmaids, right boys?” you questioned jokingly.

They shared a mischievous look. “Never.”

A loud bell sounded through the loft, signaling that someone had come in.

“That must be Luna!” Ginny exclaimed. She sprinted down the stairs and wrapped the blonde girl in a hug, being gentle as to not crush her or her pregnant belly.

“Hello Ginny, how are you?”

“Never better! Thanks again for offering to help Hermione watch the apartments and oversee the shop and employees. Ron really wishes you could make it to the wedding, but seeing as you’re about to burst--”

Luna interrupted her old friend with a soft laugh. She was 8 months pregnant with twin boys, and was left home alone for a few weeks while her husband dealt with a work issue in Eastern Asia. Which meant she had plenty of free time to make sure things were running smoothly in London while her friends were overseas.

The two girls were joined by the rest of the gang who had been pushed down the stairs by a frantic Hermione. “Get going, all of you! You’re going to miss your flight.”

“New York baby!” The twins had jumped down from one of the landings, somehow managing not to injure themselves. Although they were now 26 they were never without their childlike energy.

“I’m walking here!” cried Fred in a horrid New York accent.

“Yee haw, cowboy!” said George, doing a little cowboy dance.

You sighed and slapped your head with your hand. “Okay, cause that’s not gonna get annoying.”

They ignored you and continued with their yelling and dancing, dragging as much luggage as they could out the front door of the shop.

“Well,” said Ron, “we’re all here and ready. I guess we should get going!” Harry and Ginny gave Luna one last goodbye as they followed you out to the alley, leaving only Ron, Hermione, and Luna left in the shop.

“So, we’re off,” said Ron, a little awkwardly. He and Hermione had a bit of a rough past, having dated on and off for the past few years. But that was all behind them now, and she was happy that he had reconnected with their friend Lavender from Hogwarts and had fallen in love.

“Have fun, Ron,” replied the bushy-haired girl.

“Thanks,” he said, giving his friend a tight hug. “Ugh, I can’t believe you’re not gonna be there!”

Hermione sighed and pulled back. “Oh I know, I’m sorry.”

“So-so come! Why don’t you come?”

“What?”

“To New York!” Ron was holding Hermione’s hands and jumping up and down. “Come to New York, please? It’ll mean so much to me.”

Hermione hesitated for a moment. She wanted to go, to have a great trip with her friends and visit the historical places she’d read so much about. But she didn’t have it in her to watch her ex-boyfriend get married to someone else.

“Yeah, well, I gotta work, I’m sorry. The Ministry is really up my arse these days, pardon my language.”

“Mione, this is my wedding,” he said, giving her his best puppy dog eyes.

You stuck your head back through the door and called out to them. “Alright, y’know what? Now we really are late, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!”

Ron sighed and let go of his friend, grabbing his suitcase before heading out the door. “I’ll see you when I get back, Mione. Bye Luna!”

Luna and Hermione both gave small waves as Ron pulled the door shut. A resounding “New York, baby” could be heard even from deep inside the shop, and Hermione giggled as her friends made their way to the London airport.

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

“Alright,” said Ginny as you all stepped out into the streets of New York City. “Harry and I will help the groom and bride-to-be get everything set up for their big day. Which means you, Y/N, get the honor of babysitting my older brothers.”

“Ginny I can’t handle them all by myself! We’ve been here for less than 5 minutes and look at what they’re doing already.” You all turned to look at the ginger twins, who were standing on top of a map of the city and staring down at it.

“What is going on with you two?” you asked, but you were quickly silenced as Fred placed his finger on your lips.

“We’re concentrating. We went in the map so we can figure out where we are.” He kept his finger there until you finally removed it and looked at the map they had made, complete with little pop ups of all the important places they wanted to see.

“If you see a little version of me in there, kill it.” Harry laughed at your quip and grabbed Ginny’s hand, waving goodbye as the couple and Ron made their way to meet Lavender and her family.

“We got it!” screamed the twins. They stepped out of the map and started walking right, on to their first tourist destination. “Here we go.”

“Okay, listen,” you said catching up to them, “we’re not gonna have to walk this way the entire time are we?”

Fred shushed you and George groaned. “Y/N, you made me lose it!”

George put the map down and stood back on it. “A lot harder when the map doesn’t change specifically for you and show you exactly where you are, huh?” you asked, referencing the parchment the twins used for years back in Hogwarts.

They ignored you and took off down the street again, their long legs moving so fast you had to almost sprint in order to keep up the pace. This was going to be a long day.

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

Meanwhile Harry, Ron, and Ginny had made it to the Brown’s apartment in New York. Although Lavender was raised in England and attended Hogwarts, her extended family lived in the States and her parents moved there after she graduated. The apartment was rather large, but that was no surprise as the Browns were a wealthy family.

“Oh Won Won!” Ron was greeted at the door with a vibrant Lavender throwing herself into his arms. Ron laughed and spun her around, giving her a quick kiss before finally setting her down.

“Hey Lavender, I missed you.” He smiled warmly at his fiancee, soon to be his wife. After Padma left him right before he was going to propose years ago, Ron decided not to waste any time in popping the question once he and Lavender started dating. They’d only been going out for a few months before he asked, but despite the worried opinions of their friends they were convinced that this was the right thing to do.

Lavender pulled Ron down for another kiss, this one much more passionate than the last. “I missed you too.”

They were pulled apart by an awkward cough from Harry, an arm around Ginny who was covering her eyes to avoid watching her brother make out with someone in front of her.

“Sorry Harry, Ginny,” said Lavender. “It’s great to see you both. Come on in, will you, we have a few last minute preparations to attend to.”

They followed the brunette into her family’s apartment, which was decked out in reception decorations that still needed to be set up. “Where’s the rest of your group? They are coming, aren’t they?”

“Y/N and the twins are out exploring the city,” said Ginny. “I figured you probably didn’t want Fred and George to be around anything important, especially with their history of pyrotechnics. And I don’t trust them alone in the city, so Y/N’s making sure they don’t burn down half of New York.”

Lavender laughed and poured some tea for her friends. “And what about Hermione, is she at the hotel?”

The room suddenly got very tense and Harry quietly sipped his tea, trying to disappear from the awkward scene.

“Umm,” Ron began, “Hermione’s not coming. She can’t get time off at the Ministry and she’s helping watch over our apartments and take care of Luna.”

Lavender nodded sadly, sighing deeply at the news. “I guess it’s all for the best then. She never did like me, did she?”

“No, that’s not true at all,” Ron argued, taking his fiancee's hands. “She’s just...she takes a while to warm up to people. She really wishes she could be here, but you know how work is.”

The girl smiled slightly at Ron’s comforting words. “Yeah, thanks Won Won.”

He squeezed her hands gently.

“Alright then,” said Ginny, “what needs to be done? Even though Parvati is your maid of honor and I swear I’m not upset about it--” Harry elbowed Ginny hard, “--I’m still one of your bridesmaids, and I want my big brother’s wedding to be as amazing as possible. So, what should we do?”

“Well,” Lavender said, clapping her hands, “I need a new venue. The one I had was going to be absolutely gorgeous, but they tore it down early, which means we need a new spot.”

Although Lavender said these words calmly, it was obvious that she was on the verge of tears and the stress was getting to her.

“Got it,” said Ginny. “Let’s go check out the old venue and see if there’s anything we can do. I promise you Lav, this day is going to be amazing, for everyone.”

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

“This is going to be horrible!”

Hermione was pacing around her apartment, the one she shared with you and Ginny. She was packing up Ginny’s belongings for when everyone returned from the wedding. Once Ron moved out of his and Harry’s shared apartment across the hall, Ginny would move in with her fiance, leaving only you and Hermione to share the space. Hermione decided that packing for Ginny would help take her mind off of the wedding, but unfortunately her assumptions were incorrect.

“What’s the matter?” Luna asked from the sofa, leaning comfortably against a pillow with the Quibbler in her hands.

Hermione sighed as she continued to pack. “I’m just bummed about the way I left things with Ron. I shouldn’t have lied to him about having to go to work. He seemed so mad at me.”

“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself,” the blonde said, not looking up from her reading. “If someone I was still in love with was getting married…”

Luna jumped as a vase hit the floor and shattered. She looked up to see a wide-eyed Hermione staring at her. “Still in love with?!”

“Yes,” she said matter-of-factly.

“I’m not in love with Ron!” Hermione screamed.

Realization flooded Luna’s face. “Oh, no, good! Yeah, me neither.”

Hermione sat down across from her friend, ripping the Quibbler from her hands and attention.

“Luna,” she said, “I’m not going to Ron’s wedding because he is my ex-boyfriend and that would be really uncomfortable. Not because I’m still in love with him! I mean, I like Ron as much as the next girl. Clearly I still have feelings for him, but feelings don’t mean love! I mean, I still have loving feelings for Ron. But, but that doesn’t mean that-that I’m still in love with him! I-I have sexual feelings for him, but I do love him--oh!” she gasped at her own words. “Luna why didn’t you tell me?”

“We thought you knew!” she said, surprised that Hermione was for once in her life so oblivious. “We talk about it all the time!”

“You all know?” Hermione asked. “Does, does Ron know?”

“Oh no,” Luna answered calmly. “Ron doesn’t know anything.”

Hermione started pacing once again, this time much more frantically. “Oh, I can not believe you didn’t tell me!”

“We thought you knew!” Luna replied. “It’s so obvious. That would be like telling Ginny ‘hey, you like to play Quidditch,’ or you know, ‘George, you’re gay.’”

The pacing girl stopped dead in her tracks. “What?”

“Oh please,” replied the younger blonde, “she’s always got a broom in her hand!”

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

“Alright! The Empire State Building. Hands down, best State building I’ve ever seen.” George pulled out his Muggle camera, still trying to figure out which buttons did what. They were a lot smaller than the one Colin Creevey used to carry around at Hogwarts and George still hadn’t gotten the hang of using Muggle items.

“What do you think of the Empire, Y/N?” Fred turned his head to you as he asked his question. Your legs had gotten tired from jogging to keep up with the ginormous twins so Fred had offered to let you ride on his back the rest of the way, an offer you couldn’t refuse.

You hopped down and quickly covered your eyes to hide from the bright flash of George’s camera. “I don’t know, I can’t see it with that thing blinding me, George.”

He quickly apologized, but not before snapping a picture of Fred wrapping his arms around you and smiling while you glared at the camera.

“Someone’s grouchy today,” Fred said, swaying you back and forth a few times before releasing his grip.

“I’m just tired, jet lag y’know?” He nodded and pointed to his back, letting you know it was alright to get back on. You didn’t hesitate to jump onto the redhead as he followed his brother into the massive building in front of you.

After waiting in line for what seemed like hours you finally made it onto the elevator to take you to the top of the building. George continued to take pictures of anything and everything, including you flipping him off from on Fred’s back. As the doors opened and you stepped out onto the observation deck, you were amazed by the incredible view before you.

Thousands of tiny buildings filled with thousands of tiny people stood before you, or rather below you. It was like you were on your broom and flying high in the sky, except this time time you didn’t have to focus on keeping your broom in check. You could just stand and stare.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Fred came up next to you, leaning on a railing in front of him. He hunched down enough that his face was right next to yours as the two of you stared at The Big Apple.

“It really is.” You looked around for George, but he was off pestering other tourists to take pictures of him and the city behind him. “Remember when we were playing Quidditch at the burrow, and I flew up this high and stayed there for hours?”

“How could I forget,” Fred laughed. “We had to send search parties for you, thought you had been snatched up by dementors or something.”

“Nope, just got a little distracted by the view.” You continued to watch the amazing landscape and incredible sky, not missing the looks Fred was giving you. “What’re you looking at, Weasley? Don’t tell me that I’m more enchanting than the city. I mean, we all know it’s true but try not to make it so obvious.”

You pinched his cheek and he swatted your hand away playfully. “Don’t be stupid,” he said. “I was just remembering the time I peed on you to combat the jellyfish sting.”

“Fred!” you whisper yelled, laughing as he put his hands up. “We said we would never talk about that again. I don’t need that reminder!”

“I’m sorry, it’s just too good of a story! Really shows the strength of our friendship.”

You rolled your eyes at your best friend. Technically you would’ve considered Ron to be your best friend, as you’d known him the longest and had been the closest with him for so many years. But the past few years, living close to Fred and hanging out with him almost every day, he had become the most important person in your life. He was always there to make you smile or laugh when you had a rough day, or wrap you up in a blanket and watch a movie after a horrid date with some arsehole. He was one of a kind, and you were so glad he was in your life.

“Y’know what Fred?” you asked, scooting closer to him. “If you ever got stung by a jellyfish, I’d pee on you too.”

Fred wiped away fake tears from his eyes. “I’d pee on you any day of the week, Y/N,” he said, pulling you into a tight hug.

“What the hell did I just walk into?” George was standing behind you and Fred, having only heard Fred’s last sentence. The two of you cackled with laughter, bringing George into the hug with you and just enjoying the moment.

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

“Hey Luna?” Hermione called from her bedroom. She and her friend had spent the day discussing her feelings for Ron and trying their best to help her get over him. Apparently recounting the horrors of their relationship was not helping in the slightest.

“Yeah,” Luna called back from the kitchen.

“Do you remember where the pygmy puff food is?” Her muffled voice sounded rushed and anxious, even more so than Hermione usually was.

“Yeah, it’s under the front counter of Fred and George’s shop. Why?”

Luna turned her head to see Hermione come flying into the room dragging a packed suitcase behind her. “Because I’m going to New York.”

The pregnant girl nearly had a heart attack at Hermione’s declaration. “What? What do you mean you’re going to New York?”

Hermione grabbed a few more essentials from around the apartment, rushing in order to catch the next flight. “Yeah, I have to tell Ronald that I love him. Now Luna, you take care, you don’t have those babies until I get back.”

“I--but what about all of the finding his flaws and burning his picture rituals we’ve been doing?” Luna asked, straining to stand up and chase after her friend.

Hermione easily moved past the slow-moving girl, zipping up her bag and heading to the door. “Yeah, that didn’t work. I know he loves Lavender but I have to tell him how I feel! He deserves to have all of the information and then he can make an informed decision.”

Phoebe shook her head and continued to hobble around the room. “No, Hermione, it’s too late, you missed your chance! I’m sorry, I know this must be really hard, it’s over.”

The other girl paused for a moment and took a deep breath. “Y’know what? No. It’s not over until someone says ‘I do.’” And with that she took off out of the apartment and to the streets of Diagon Alley, on her way to another country to declare her love for Ron Weasley.

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