Staff Meeting

Fandom: Stargate Atlantis

Characters: Elizabeth Weir, Radek Zelenka, Evan Lorne, Rodney McKay, Laura Cadman, Chuck Campbell, John Sheppard, David Parrish

Rating: T

Word Count: 1005

Tags:  Microbrew AU, beer, vague implied cannabis use, brewing, ficlet

Summary: Just another weekly staff meeting at Atlantis Brewing Co.

Notes:

Prompt: by @colonelshepparrrrd | inspired by my favorite photo of David Nykl:

"Hipster AU where they all work at a microbrewery."

Setting: Portland, Oregon.

Pronunciation: Gose (GOHZ-uh.)

Read on AO3

“Could I have everyone's attention please?” Elizabeth said as she made her way to the front of the room.

Laura turned from her conversation with Radek to head toward her chair. The bespectacled man looked back down at his journal and scribbled in it. Rodney came in from the back room with his clipboard and slumped next to Radek, tilting slightly to read his notes. Evan came out of the office followed by Chuck holding a stack of papers, the two of them sitting. They all settled down and looked up at her before turning toward the sound of light snoring. Laura sniggered and kicked the side of John’s chair, the man jerking upright, barely saving his shades from falling off his face.

“I’m up, I’m up.” He said.

Elizabeth smiled in amusement. “Thank you. I am happy to inform everyone that Evan has secured a spot for us at The Oregon Brewers Festival!” She waved her hand toward Evan as everyone started clapping. The man smiled bashfully as he moved up next to her. “Take it away Evan.” She said before sitting next to Chuck.

“Now, I know we tend to go huckleberry this time of year, but with the festival coming, David and I are thinking about doing something different.” He looked around at everyone. “Rose hips.” He held his hands up at the mummers, “Listen, it’s native, and it has a very subtle sweet flavor." He smiled warmly. "I think it would be a nice change." He shrugged. "Maybe a pilsner?”

“No,” Radek looked up from his journal and leaned back in his chair. “it should be sour beer.” He tilted his head, “Something like-”

Rodney snapped his fingers, “Gose.”

“Ah, yes.” Radek nodded. “We will use Brettanomyces yeast.” He leaned back chewing lightly on his thumb, elbow resting on his other forearm. “Hm. But-”

“-We need another flavor.” Rodney cut in, his face screwing up slightly.

Evan’s eyebrow lifted, “What kind?”

Radek twirled his hand around, “Fresh, citrusy.” He rolled his eyes at the sharp look Rodney shot him, “But not citrus.”

Evan grinned, “Like some local douglas fir tips?”

Radek tilted his head, “I am unfamiliar.”

“Oh, man,” Laura moaned. “I had a doug fir pale ale at Zwicklemania,” she smacked her lips, “it would be perfect.”

“Well, this settles it.” Radek pointed at her, “Who am I to argue with our top taster?”

Laura’s lips quirked up, eyes shining happily.

Rodney groaned, “Yes, please give her an even bigger ego.” Everyone turned and looked at him with arched brows. Rodney grimaced, “What!?”

Evan chuckled. “Cool, David and I will get everything worked out from our end.” His eyes moved to John, “We could use a hand, you down?”

John shrugged. “You know me,” his lips curled up head tilting, “I’m down for anything.”

“Yeah, we know,” Rodney said, followed by a few sounds of amusement from Laura and a snort from Radek.

Evan sat back down next to Elizabeth as Chuck bounded up with his stack of papers. “As usual, let me know if anything is off for deliveries or if your schedules need to be changed.” He squinted at Laura as she took hers, “NOT at the last minute.”

She shot him a sly smile. “I would never.”

“Seriously?” Chuck sent her his best bitch face before sitting back down.

Everyone groaned as Rodney stood and moved to the front of the room. “Alright, you clowns, listen up.” He looked down at his clipboard. "Quit smoking in the downstairs bathroom." He rolled his eyes. "It smells like a Bob Marley concert down there." He flicked them to the side, "Looking at you Sheppard."

John tilted his head, glancing over his shades. "I don't know what you're talking about Rodney."

Rodney slanted his mouth. "Uh-huh, sure you don't.” His eyes slid to Laura, "and do I even need to say it out loud?”

She quirked her lips. “Jealous?

Rodney rolled his eyes skyward, "Knock it off, or I'll have to take drastic measures."

"Fine," she shrugged. "Still say you're jealous."

"Jesus Christ." Rodney's ears turned red as he looked at Chuck, the man freezing, eyes wide.

“We know you’re the one who started the rumor.”

Chuck swallowed, “W-which rumor?”

“Well, that distinction doesn’t really matter considering you start,” Rodney slit his eyes, “ALL OF THEM.”

Chuck pressed his lips together, crossed his arms, and leaned back before shrugging lightly.

“No more.” Rodney made a pained noise as Chuck shrugged again. “Anyways,” he ground out before looking at Radek. “We still need to talk about-”

“Yes,” Radek grimaced. “This new batch, measurements were off.”

Rodney shook his head. “My measurements were perfect, it’s the pick of flavors that really caused-”

“No, measurements were off, the beer is only-”

“As good as the brewer," Rodney mocked using finger quotes, "yes, we have heard it a quintillion times already.”

Elizabeth made an amused face at the others and stood, brushed off her pants, and headed toward the office. Evan and Chuck followed closely behind.

Radek pushed his glasses up his nose. “Well, then you know that-”

“-No, It’s completely salvageable, we make it cheap, slap some-”

Radek stood, his hand slashed through the air, “it will never be sold.” He curled his lip. “I will not sully our name with shit beer.”

“Come on Radek, we can’t just scrap the whole thing. It’s not even that bad.”

John tilted toward Laura and pointed at his watch, eyebrows raising several times. Laura smiled slyly, the two of them heading downstairs.

Radek’s nose scrunched up, “It tastes like donkey piss.”

“Oh? Are you very familiar with this flavor?” Rodney said, “I didn’t know donkey piss was a Czech delicacy.”

“Rodney," Radek intoned.

He huffed, “Alright, fine.” He pulled a pen out and crossed it off his list. “Done, scrapped, no more.” His hand waved around, “Happy now?”

“Quite,” Radek nodded. “Now. Let’s talk about-”

“-The Gose?” A lopsided smile split across Rodney's face.

Radek grinned back, his dimple popping out. “Of course the Gose.”

restaurant au (wheeler sibs)

rewatching the bear thinking about my au idea where joey inherits his father's restaurant i don't really have things hammered out just yet but i did find some test pieces i wrote exploring joey and serenity's relationship to each other (and their trauma)

read it tell me if you like it might make me feel motivated to write more

Joey pressed his head against the window of Serenity’s car as they crawled through the streets of Domino. The old neighborhood left an unpleasant broiling in his stomach, a nostalgia that soured like milk. It’d been years since he’d been here, even longer for Serenity. The last time she’d seen this place, she’d been driven away in the backseat of a car as the two cried out fitful goodbyes.

Joey had already re-acquainted himself with his childhood stomping grounds. He’d come back the week before to clean out his dad’s rathole apartment and go through the mess of papers and receipts crammed into odd corners and underneath stale pizza boxes. He’d died right outside, too drunk to walk, and he’d tripped on the stairs before bashing his head into the sidewalk. The police had told Joey he’d died on the way to the hospital, saving everyone a lot of time. Joey was still listed as his emergency contact. The thought had burrowed between his lungs, making it hard to breathe. Five years without so much as a phone call, and Joey was still the only person he’d had.

A week of digging through the old man’s life. A week of trash bags and old photos and empty beer cans. A week wondering what he was even doing here. And then he’d found it, stuck into a stack of personal paperwork that had been crammed into a desk drawer so tight it’d barely opened. The address had been a familiar one, and the streets leading up to it even more so. Serenity pulled up to the curb outside and put the car in park. She didn’t turn it off. Her hands stayed on the steering wheel like the Uber driver onto her next gig.

Joey leveled his head to peer out the window. The place had changed enough. The corners had different stores on them, and the billboards were changed. They’d redone the sidewalk outside, and now it was coffee shops and microbrews. The small shop front stuck out like a sore thumb. It had been boarded up for years, so long the cardboard was peeling back, showing corners of the faded wall and dirty countertops inside. It was a restaurant. It had been a restaurant. Years and years and years ago. It’d been theirs.

Serenity didn’t take her hands off the steering wheel. She breathed in and out intentionally.

“It looks pretty bad,” Joey said.

She shook her head with a strained laugh. “I didn’t think it’d look good, Joey.”

He unbuckled his seat belt. “Are you coming inside?”

She looked for the first time. Serenity had been quiet through this whole process. He didn’t ask her to clean the apartment with her, or attend any funeral. She’d been empathetic and sorry since he first called her from New York, but she hadn’t been sad. As far as Serenity was concerned, she didn’t have a father, didn’t have to worry over one, didn’t have to shoulder any trauma from one. But they’d both been here. They’d both reached their little hands over the counter or played in the back office behind the kitchen. There’d been happy memories too. It was the first crack she’d shown on her face, the first tremor in her lips. She stared at the store front like it was a haunted house.

“You don’t have to,” Joey said.

“No,” she said and cut the car off. “No, I said I would.”

“You don’t have to,” he repeated.

“We’re already here, Joey,” she said and opened the car door.

The lights didn’t work inside. Flipping the switches didn’t do a goddamn thing. Joey doubted anyone had paid the electricity bill for years. Even in the dim space, with decades between the last time they’d been inside, Joey knew the way through the kitchen. He followed the line past the prep stations, around where the grill had been, where a sink full of dirty dishwater still sat stagnant. An alcove of lockers sat on one side, and a small door led to the back office. Ancient grease caked the walls and the stainless steel. The front wasn’t much better off. Dust covered everything. The vinyl seats were torn with stuffing eaten out of it. Bugs moved in his wake. Plenty of creatures had probably made their home here. Serenity’s phone cast blue light across the graying walls, leaving stark shadows around her.

“This place is a dump,” she said, scrolling through something on her phone. “I can’t believe it’s still here. You’d think the city would shut it down.”

“I bet he got letters about it.” Joey kicked one of the stools at the service counter. The scraping sound echoed over the tile. Sunlight peeked in through the cardboard on the windows.

“The rent in this neighborhood is crazy now.” She flashed the Zillow listings she was looking through. “Maybe someone would actually buy it.”

“Yeah.” He breathed out, eyes scanning the decay and rot. The dust made the place feel oppressive, and his chest tightened. “I bet someone’s been waiting to snatch it up.”

“I can’t believe it’s still here,” Serenity said again. She glanced up from her phone, and then her eyes went down again.

“It’s a mess,” Joey said and turned back around.

“It always was. You remember when we played here as kids?”

“I remember throwing raw hamburger meat at cars,” Joey said.

She laughed, slapping a hand over her mouth. “We did do that! I totally forgot. No wonder I’m a vegetarian now.”

“And they’d stuff us with fries to keep us quiet.”

“We were little brats.”

They moved back into the kitchen, using the phone light to navigate to the office. Their laughter echoed off the aged equipment. More paperwork was stuffed into more drawers. Joey’d never accuse his old man of being organized. Ledgers were kept with a language all their own.

“Did he ever let you work the line?” Serenity asked.

Joey shook his head as he opened a folder of what looked like overdue bills. Large red letters stared angrily up at him.

“I never worked the restaurant here,” he said.

“But it’s kind of where you got your start.” Serenity glanced at the empty kitchen. “You didn’t go to culinary school for no reason.”

“I didn’t go to sling burgers.” He tossed aside the folder and picked up another one. Names were side by side with numbers. Wages owed, he figured out. He doubted anyone had been receiving regular checks.

“It was really cool to see you in New York,” she said. “The whole meal I kept thinking, my big brother made this. I thought for sure they were gonna turn us away at the door too.”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t that fancy.”

“It was pretty fancy! Tristan wore a jacket.”

“He did that to impress you,” Joey said with a grin.

“Nah, he was worried the whole time we weren’t ritzy enough for your new friends.” She smiled fondly at him. “You finally made it to the big leagues.”

Joey was grateful for the shine of her flashlight, that he couldn’t quite meet her eyes. He opened the bottom drawer, and a heavy bottle clunked against the filing cabinet. He pulled it out, and the clear vodka reflected blue light. Half the bottle had been drank. The levity left the room at once, like all the air had been sucked out. Serenity turned her head away. Joey held it fisted in his hand, and for a brief moment he imagined cracking it against the desk so it shattered apart, spilling vodka and glass all over the floor. Instead he set it on the table and stood up from the chair.

“I don’t think there’s anything left here,” he said.

Serenity didn’t say anything, and he felt that weight pushing his lungs apart. He shouldn’t have asked her to come with him, but he didn’t think he could face it alone. The good times hurt worse than the bad sometimes. Happy memories wrapped his head in barbed wire. It wasn’t something he’d ever wanted his baby sister to feel, and yet he’d dragged her through the trenches with him.

And then she said, “Do you think there are any glasses?”

Joey rubbed his eyes. The glare of the phone was getting to him. “I dunno.”

“I know they usually sell this stuff off, but I bet there’s something. Bring the bottle.”

He followed her around as she opened every door and cabinet she could find. Eventually she managed two tupperware containers, rinsed with the water that shuddered out of the faucets. Clean enough for the both of them, they settled at the counter. Serenity sat so her feet rested on the stool, and she poured them each a shot.

“It’s been a fucked up week,” she said.

Joey didn’t respond. She hadn’t been the one digging through literal garbage. Avoiding drinking when working in restaurants was nearly impossible, though he did his best. But it had been a fucked up week, and standing in the wreckage of his childhood, Joey downed the shot in one go. Serenity shot hers back and poured them both another one.

“Did mom say anything?” Joey asked. He’d been dreading the question, but now seemed as good a time as any.

Serenity downed a second shot and squeezed her eyes shut. “Not really. And what’s she supposed to say anyway? ‘Sorry that abusive piece of shit died’?”

“She doesn’t like to talk about it,” Joey said.

“No.” She swished the bottle. “I told her you were in town.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“She was gonna know anyway. I thought maybe she’d call you, or I dunno.”

Joey tossed back the second shot. The burn didn’t do anything to lighten the weight in his chest. “I don’t expect her to do any of that.”

“I just want…” She trailed off, tipping the bottle into her cup again. Joey took the bottle from her and poured some in his. “Do you ever think things could be different? We could be different?”

“Yes,” he said. “Constantly. All the time.”

Her lips quirked up in a smile. “I was so proud of you when you went off to school. Not even ‘cause you thought you wouldn’t go. You found something you loved to do. That’s more than most people.”

“What about you?”

She laughed. “No one loves being an accountant, Joey. I picked a safe job and a safe career.”

“That’s more than most people have,” he said. “It’s not like I love waking up every day not sure where I’m gonna be.”

“But you’re where you’re supposed to be. You’re at this restaurant–”

“I’m not going back to New York,” he said.

Serenity’s mouth snapped shut. She wobbled a little bit as the alcohol hit. He didn’t bother pouring another shot as he tipped the bottle back into his throat.

“But you–” She peered at him like a puzzle she was figuring out. “You’re at a Michelin star restaurant. You’re doing what you love.”

“I don’t love it there,” Joey said. It was the first time he’d explained his reasoning out loud. The words had rattled around in his brain for months, and now he had to put them in order. “You gotta understand what it’s like in the restaurant business, Serenity. Every day you wake up at the crack of dawn and put your heart and soul into something that hates you. Every day is eighteen hour shifts where your chef screams at you and holds you to the fire because you’re not doing something absolutely perfect. Every day is blood and sweat and tears and for what? A restaurant I don’t give a fuck about? It’s not about the food for them. It’s not about feeding people. It’s keeping that fucking star and making sure people know it. You can only tweezer so many sprigs of mint onto an aperitif before you start to feel like an asshole.”

“So what?” she said. “You’re just going to abandon your whole life up there?”

He sunk his head down onto the counter. It smelled like mold and rat shit. “What life? I got nobody there. You’re here. Tristan is here. Everyone there is so fucking full of themselves there’s no room for anybody else. I wake up, I work, and I get just enough sleep to keep myself from going crazy.”

“But you worked for this. You put yourself through school. You made it.”

“Yeah, well.” He closed his eyes. Underneath the grime and grease, he could imagine for a second what this place used to be. “Not everything is what we dreamed.”

She went silent. He didn’t know how long it stretched between them. The vodka burned in his stomach, rising up like acid reflux. He wished for the hundredth time since getting the news about his dad that he could cry about this whole thing. It’d be easier just to be sad and not relieved, and then sad again over the worst chapters of his life closing. Sometimes it was easier just to take the pain of it.

“I thought,” Serenity said slowly, “you were happy, at least.”

“Are you?” he asked.

She grabbed the bottle from him and swigged it. He nodded. It was answer enough.

“I try thinking of the last time I was happy,” Joey said. “Is it fucked up if the answer is here?”

Serenity laughed. “Yes!”

“You remember this place too.”

“We were babies, Joey.” She shook her head. “And it was before shit got really bad. This place is just…”

They looked around at it. Empty, dirty, it felt like a void. But the sunlight peeked through, and it streaked bright light across the dingy ceiling, making it look alive.

“It’s got good bones,” Joey said. “Nice front of house, in a busy area. Someone’ll snatch it up.”

“It’d take an industrial crew to get this place clean,” Serenity said with a sigh.

“Most of the equipment’s sold off too.” He swirled the vodka in its bottle. “But that’s an easy fix. I still know some people around here.”

“They’d probably bulldoze it anyway,” she said. “They’d be paying for the lot.”

“Yeah.” Joey thought as he took another shot. The melancholy was stirred in the gears of his mind as they started to churn. “Yeah. It’d be a shame to see the space go to waste. A little clean up, some new equipment, it’d be a good bistro spot.”

“It doesn’t–” She looked at him. “Joey, it’s not gonna matter. We’re selling it.”

“Why?” he asked. He stood from his chair, spreading his arms out. “People would kill for a spot like this.”

“So let ‘em pay,” she said. “Joey, I think you’re drunk.”

“Probably.” The buzz went straight to his head, but he could see it. Not how it used to be, but how it could be. “Don’t think of it as some shitty burger joint. We could pull out the booths and the seating nice. Those windows are huge, you’d be able to see onto the street. Nice ambiance. Keep the counter seating here, it’d be great for lunch or a bar.”

Serenity laughed. “It’s not happening! This place is a dump, Joey, it always has been.”

“Then back of house,” he barrelled on. “Remodel would be easy, it’s already all emptied out. Efficient work spaces, minimum time between spaces. Windows, people love to see the chefs. And the food–”

“What would be the food?” she asked. “Burgers?”

He shook his head. “Karaage, probably. I used to eat that all the time when I was working. Maybe izakaya style. Friendly, welcoming. Not too full of itself.”

“Japanese, then.” Serenity nodded. “You really want to do a sake bar?”

“No,” he said with a laugh. “I’m just tossing out ideas.”

“Joey, I know you’re spiraling or whatever, but coming back here isn’t really moving forward.” She ran a hand through her hair with a huff. “Maybe you should take some time. You can crash on my couch. Once we sell the place, you’ll have some money to start something else.”

“I just think there’s something here,” he said.

“Fine, okay,” she said. “Let’s say we don’t sell it. How are you gonna get the money to fix it up? Restaurants cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. They take real work. You’re going to have to get new equipment, staff it, pay people, pay vendors.”

“I’ve got connects. I can beg, lie, cheat, and steal. It’s nothing I haven’t done before.” He took his sister’s hands, squeezing tight. “Give me at least a little bit of time. I wanna see what this place can be.”

“You said you were tired of not knowing where you’re gonna be,” she said. “Joey, this is all risk. There’s nothing here that’s worth it.”

“What about you?” he said. “What about me?”

They looked at each other, two kids again, holding on tight. Serenity shook her head and picked up the bottle again.

“The place is yours,” she said. “I don’t want it, and I can live without selling it. I just don’t want you getting caught up in something to torture yourself. It’s okay, you know? You don’t have to be stuck here.”

“What if I wanna be?” Joey asked.

She downed the drink and coughed out a laugh. “Then you got bigger problems than the both of us. But I’m your sister. I love you. I don’t want you doing anything alone.”

He threw his arms around her and squeezed her tight. She laughed again, hugging him back. They rocked back and forth for a minute. The vodka was definitely affecting them. And Joey loved nothing more than to do something stupid.

“Okay,” Serenity said. “I’m done breathing in mold. Can we go to a real restaurant now? I would die for some hot wings.”

“Alright, alright.” He released her. “Let’s go.”

They locked the door behind them and stepped into the sunlight, a little rocky on their feet. Joey knew Serenity would give him a bigger fight when they sobered up, but the idea had wormed its way into his skull. His brain was on fire. He felt the same way he always did when making a life changing decision that should leave him buried in the dirt.

He felt alive.

Made For You | Chapter 6

Summary: Dean and Sam like what they have together, and if screwing your brother screws with the universe’s “grand plan” while they’re at it, then even better. Neither of them has ever cared much for tradition or fate, but it turns out there are some destinies you can’t escape. Sometimes, someone is just made for you. 

Pairing: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader Rating: 18+ Warnings: Incest Tags: AU, Time Jump, Omegaverse, Alpha!Dean, Harvelle’s Roadhouse, Alpha!Jo, Omega!Reader, flirty Dean, age difference, taboo relationship, scent attraction, innocent reader, Virgin!Reader, romantic reader, true mates, Jo is super pushy, reader is fed up with her shit Word Count: 2.4k Created For: @spnabobingo - Female Alpha

A/N: Sorry for the late post! Some of you might have seen my website or the ask I answered last week – I haven't been feeling very well the past few weeks, so I needed to take a bit of time to catch up with myself. This series will resume posting every Tuesday, as scheduled, from next week.

Series Masterlist

Your POV

You roll your eyes at Jo as she slides into the booth across from you with yet another tray laden with pitchers of cocktails. She flashes you a wink as she grabs your glass and proceeds to pour a luminously blue liquid into it that smells like a candy shop. 

“I thought you were supposed to be the adult here,” you shout at your companion over the loud thumping bass of the club music. 

Jo had insisted on bringing you along for the ride on her trip into Lincoln this weekend. The reason she’d given your father and her mother, Ellen, had been to introduce you to some of the microbrew suppliers for the Roadhouse. Both parents had thought it was a great idea and were happy that you and Jo were starting to show an interest in how Ellen’s business operated. 

You know, however, that the only reason Jo had volunteered to take the quarterly meeting with the suppliers was so she could get laid. Actually, as she had explained to you vividly on the three-hour drive to the city, she was looking to find an omega who wasn’t twice her age, didn’t have a beer belly or a beard, and would let her sit on his face. You really could have done without knowing that last part. 

Even though Jo is almost double your age (she’s just a few years younger than your father) she has always felt like more of a big sister than a substitute parent. She acts like she’s still twenty-one at heart, and you could tell the lack of a viable dating scene around your hometown was really starting to wear her down. It was pretty unusual for Alphas to be unmated by her age, and the available patrons at the Roadhouse have been thin on the ground lately. So, even though you aren’t exactly wild about sneaking into a club with the fake ID she had procured for you, you hadn’t had the heart to turn her down when she’d asked you to come with her. 

Once you were in the club you stopped worrying so much about being underage. Clearly, no one is checking IDs at the bar here, and you have the admittance stamp claiming you’re twenty-one inked in big, bold digits across the back of your right hand, so as the drinks flow between you and Jo, you start to relax and enjoy yourself. That is, until Jo starts to pester you about your own love life. 

“See any alphas you like the look of?” Jo asks you with a smirk as she misses her straw with her mouth trying to drink her own purple cocktail. 

“We aren’t here for me,” you point out in accusation. “So how about you tell me if there’s any omegas who are catching your eye.” You take a sip of your cocktail, trying to determine what the flavours are besides sugar, alcohol, and blue, but you’re coming up empty. 

“I have my feelers out,” Jo smiles secretively, and you roll your eyes. 

“So, what? You’re just going to sit here all night and feel? We drove like three hours for this,” you complain. 

“They’ll come to me, just wait and see,” she answers, giving you a look that suggests she thinks she’s being incredibly clever. It’s not that you’re doubting that people will come up and flirt with her, they always do because Jo is positively stunning, but you’re just surprised she’s being so passive about this exercise. She’s typically much more of a hunter. 

“I don’t need you to sit here and babysit me,” you say, leaning closer to her over the table, guessing correctly why she might be holding back based on the sheepish expression that flashes on her face. “I’m a big girl, I can take care of myself,” you reassure her. 

“Are you suuuuure you don’t see an alpha you want to get to know a little better?” Jo double-checks, her eyes flicking towards the dance floor of the club, and you follow her line of sight to see several guys milling around the edge of the crowd in the centre, all their gazes darting towards your table in a sort of shy optimism. 

“I told you in the car, and I’ve told you plenty of times before, I’m not planning on losing my v-card in some random hook-up,” you laugh as Jo pouts childishly. “I’m not getting laid tonight, because I don’t want to. You, on the other hand, clearly need to; so go!” You shoo her out of the booth, stealing her drink from her hand and taking a tentative sip. Deciding you like the purple cocktail better than the blue, you swap her pitcher for yours. 

Almost as soon as Jo reaches the dance floor she’s hounded by a group of omegas, all vying for her attention and affection. You smile absently to yourself as you watch her disappear further into the mass of writhing, pheromone-soaked bodies, then you happily settle back into your booth with your phone and Jo’s cocktail. 

You’ve always told Jo that you aren’t into the idea of just having sex with someone new whenever the mood strikes, despite her persistence to bring you over to her way of thinking. You don’t have any problem with people who do start having sex as soon as they present, it has just never particularly appealed to you. Sure, your heats the past two years haven’t been walks in the park, but they weren’t awful. You’ve gotten by just fine on your own with the knotting toy that your father had very awkwardly taken you to buy after you presented. The idea of shacking up for your heats, being so bare and intimate with somebody who might not even remember your name by the time their next rut rolls around, just makes you feel sad; people should be worth more than that. 

So, as you’d explained to Jo several times over the course of your teenage years, and as you had reiterated in the car on your drive to Lincoln earlier today, you don’t plan on losing your virginity until you’re in a real relationship with somebody. The part you’ve never elaborated on is that you are holding out for a very special kind of relationship. You want your first time to be with your true mate. 

You know it’s cheesy, and you know Jo would laugh at you if she ever found out, but you don’t really care. You believe that your true mate is out there somewhere, just like your dad has always promised you he would be, and you want to wait for him. You don’t even particularly care if you’re his first, too, you know you can’t control that, so there’s no point getting your heart set on the idea. But you can control your own actions, and you are happy to wait, even if Jo continues to tease you about it every day until you’re finally mated. 

One Week Later

You wipe the heat from your forehead carelessly with your serving apron before grabbing the food from the hotplate and loading up your tray. You push out of the swinging kitchen door with your hip and glance around the Roadhouse, looking for the table that order belongs to. You spot them on the other side of the pool tables, some of the regular truckers that pass through this route, so you plaster on your friendliest smile and begin to weave in their direction. 

As you come around the back of the table and begin to pass the burgers to the correct recipients, movement over by the bar catches your attention. Jo is there, chatting amiably with a customer you don’t recognise. One of the patrons at your table notices the direction of your gaze. 

“You know him?” the man asks gruffly, jerking his head towards the stranger, and you shake your head, pursing your lips as you consider your view of his back. 

“Nope,” you shrug, “but stop looking so suspicious. You were all new here once too,” you remind them with a smile. 

This group of regulars aren’t just truckers, they’re hunters, too. Not everybody that visits the Roadhouse is a hunter like Ellen and Jo are, but a majority were. And hunters are always on their guard, always ready to pick a fight. The hunter community has a tendency to attract a few too many damaged and trigger-happy members – not usually a good combination. 

“We haven’t been new here since before you were born,” the woman at the table smiles widely, showing off one of her missing teeth, and you giggle. 

“I know, I know,” you wave away her comment. “Just don’t go scaring away paying customers, or Ellen will run you out of here herself.” 

You smile and excuse yourself, heading back towards the kitchen. Before you go back through the door though, you pause and look over your shoulder, back at Jo and the newcomer. He’s leaning across the bar familiarly, clearly turning on the charm, and you smirk to yourself. Whoever this guy is, he might actually have a shot with her – he’s was easily one of the most attractive men you’ve ever seen at the Roadhouse, or anywhere else for that matter, and you can only see his profile. You shudder to think how much better he would look up close. 

Thank god Jo’s working the bar today, you comfort yourself, heading back to check if Ash has the next ticket ready to serve.

Jo bursts through the kitchen door in a rush of girlish excitement and runs directly at you, nearly bowling you over as her shoes slip a little on the tiled floor and she catches herself by throwing her arms around your neck. 

“What’s the big hurry?” you smirk knowingly, expecting her to start gushing about the attractive man at the bar and how he was all over her. 

“Tonight’s the night,” Jo smiles, giddy and out of breath, looking much more your age than her own. 

“What night?” 

“The night you finally learn why I’m a sex addict,” she answers and you choke on your own snort of laughter. 

“What do you mean ‘learn why’?” you scoff. “Believe me, you’ve given me enough details in the past, I don’t think I could learn any more about your sex life unless I watched you in action,” you laugh but then your face drops in seriousness. “That was a joke, just to be clear. I have no interest in watching you get it on with Mr. Handsome out there.” 

“Me? Oh no, Y/N,” Jo shakes her head, her slim lips curling into a scheming smile that fills you with mild dread. 

“Jo…” you caution, giving her a stern look. “I’ve told you-” 

“Y/N, you have to at least go talk to him. He’s gorgeous, and funny, and an alpha-” 

“And probably old enough to be my father–” you remind her with a critical quirk to your brow. “Your age, not mine.” 

“It just means he will know exactly how to treat you right,” Jo smirks, undeterred by your protests. “Just think of all the things he could teach you…” she trails off suggestively, as if she was trying to seduce you herself instead of convincing you to sleep with some stranger. 

“He probably isn’t even interested in me,” you shake your head in annoyance, trying to think of any reason you can to make Jo drop the subject, but you have a feeling she would continue to hound you until the man in question was out of the Roadhouse and back on the highway to wherever he was headed. 

“He absolutely is,” Jo retorts, looking very self-satisfied. “You should have seen his face when I pointed you out to him, I could tell he wanted to mate you right on the pool table in front of the whole damn bar.” 

“Jo!” you hiss, looking around in embarrassment, hoping Ash hadn’t overheard that. “You pointed me out to him? What did you say?!” You really can’t believe her right now. 

“Just that you’re omega,” she shrugs innocently. “But he could tell that the second he scented you; thought he was gonna go feral for a second,” Jo snickers.

“Huh?” your face scrunches up in confusion. “You can’t go feral just by scenting someone, especially not from across the damn room like that.” 

“Well, maybe he’s more pent up than you are, I don’t know,” Jo rolls her eyes. “Though I would find that hard to believe, considering you’ve literally never had sex. Your heats have gotta be getting tough to get through on your own by now,” she looks at you with sympathy and you feel frustration pound in your chest. 

You don’t want her pity, you are perfectly happy living your life how you want to. Sure your heats aren’t exactly a walk in the park, but omegas live without partners all the time, you’re hardly the first one to shun the biological necessity to mate as soon as your body turns eighteen. And it really isn’t anybody’s business but your own, but for some reason, Jo’s prodding is setting you on edge much more than usual. 

“Look, just bring him his order and talk to him,” Jo sighs, putting on a pleading face and pouting her lips. “Pleeease?” 

“Jo, I’ve told you, I don’t want my first time to be a one-night stand, I want it to be someone I care about,” you protest yet again. 

“Okay, fine, so don’t have a one-night stand with him, but you’re never gonna find someone you do care about unless you actually talk to an alpha other than me once in a while,” she points out, and you hate to admit it, but you don’t have a retort to that; she was right. You aren’t ever going to have a relationship with someone, let alone find your true mate, if you never even speak to alphas of the opposite sex. 

“Right, will you stop bothering me if I bring this guy his burger,” you sigh in defeat, not in the mood to keep resisting when Jo clearly isn’t going to let you weasel out of this. Her smile brightens immediately. 

“Yep,” she says simply, then turns on her heel and goes to collect the food from Ash, arranging it on a tray and forcing it into your hands. “Go get 'em, tiger,” she giggles, shoving you towards the kitchen door, and you roll your eyes at her one last time before you push through to go back into the bar.

Chapter 7 posting on July 26th or subscribe to my website to read up through Chapter 10 today!

Series Tags: @outofnowhere82

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📓 :)

I have a very silly idea for a modern au for the fellowship of the rings (and I'm not normally very interested in modern verses so this is a first for me). Everyone lives in this little town on the US west coast. The characterization can be described as deheerkonijn's gigolas works (/complimentary) meets McSweeney's satire column (/derogatory yet self aware). There is microbrew. "Pothead Gandalf" gets elevated from subtext to overt truth. The whole plot of the fellowship of the ring gets translated into small town feuds, HOA violations, and the semi-futile struggle against corporatization.

The Novigrad Beer Festival

Remember how I was talking about a brewery AU? Well... @srapsodia​ and I may have gotten a little carried away. Please take a look at their gorgeous illustrations (in the fic), I’m obsessed.

Jaskier’s had a working relationship with Geralt for months, selling each other’s beers at their respective breweries. Geralt is passionate, interesting, excellent at banter... in fact, he’s perfect - aside from the fact that Jaskier doesn’t even know what he looks like. At the Novigrad Beer Festival, he’s determined to find out.

1.9k of fluff and crushing. Contains alcohol/drinking.

~

Jaskier fiddled nervously with the lanyard around his neck, sliding his pass in and out of the little ID holder. He nearly dropped it more than once - swearing at himself as he did. He wasn’t nearly well-known enough to hope the security at the door would recognise him, and he’d promised his boss - several times - that he wouldn’t lose the plastic card that was his ticket in and out of the Novigrad Beer Festival.

He had, by his estimation, around thirty minutes before Zoltan expected him back. The brewery - Chameleon - was way back on the edge of the field - far away from the stage and sandwiched between the handful of sweet wine sellers and a microbrewery from Temeria that specialised in aromatic pale ales, staffed by a pretty woman with a cloud of chestnut coloured hair. Jaskier hadn’t been terribly surprised that they’d been put out of the way - they were famed more for their unusual flavour combinations and range of sours than traditional IPAs or bitters, and so would garner less of a crowd.

Thirty minutes of freedom. Thirty minutes in which to find Kaer Morhen Brewery, seek out the mysterious Geralt, and…

…and he didn’t know. He’d figure that out once he actually found him.

He’d been talking to Geralt for nearly four months now. Zoltan had put him in charge of their outreach, and Kaer Morhen was one of the breweries they’d had a working relationship with for years - way before Jaskier had started working at Chameleon. Kaer Morhen brewed what Jaskier thought of as old man beer - traditional to the core, but very good at what they did.

The “working relationship” meant, in brief, that they stocked each other’s cans and bottles - which worked out well for both of them, at such opposing ends of the microbrew spectrum - and were making tentative steps towards a collaboration some time next year.

It also meant that all their communication was now going through Jaskier - and a mysterious man working at Kaer Morhen called Geralt.

The job was an easy one: mostly arranging deliveries when they ran out of stock and occasionally exchanging ideas. There were dozens of breweries in the area that Chameleon had a similar relationship with… yet Kaer Morhen felt different.

No: it wasn’t the brewery. It was Geralt that felt different.

They’d fallen into a quick, easy rapport: he’d email Geralt complaining that their fridge was out of old man beer and they needed more, and Geralt would email back with faux-indignation before requesting a restock of the one with the artsy can. That didn’t help - they all had artsy cans - and Geralt fucking well knew it.

It was easy talking to Geralt, be it over email or over the phone or - eventually - over text. Zoltan had raised his eyebrows at that, but as Jaskier had pointed out, Kaer Morhen was entirely family-run, and texting Geralt at 7pm on his personal number was far more likely to get a quick response than one sent to their business email address at midday.

Jaskier had found himself recommending their beers more often, clearing their shelf on the fridge quickly. It was just because their beer was good, he told himself. It was not because he wanted an excuse to message Geralt.

Not that he needed an excuse. A quick request for two dozen bottles of Steel - their most popular IPA - could result in several hours of chat, even though Geralt had sent a dispatch notice to their courier within a minute.

The problem - both when Jaskier was lying awake in bed thinking about Geralt and the one that was immediately presenting itself to him - was that he had no idea what the brewer actually looked like.

Their social media page had been utterly unhelpful. It was all new beers and re-stocks and the occasional, slightly off-centre photo of a new bit of equipment or a delivery of hops. The staff may as well have not existed.

He’d tried looking through their followers too, going off name alone - but that was equally fruitless. He found a couple of names he recognised from their work together - Eskel, Lambert - but both had such strict privacy settings that he couldn’t get much further than their names and profile pictures, neither of which were particularly helpful. (A goat! He’d complained to Priss at the time. Who sets their profile picture to a fucking goat?!)

Zoltan had been just as unhelpful. When Jaskier had asked - in a final act of desperation - what this mysterious Geralt person looked like, Zoltan had only shrugged.

“He’s got white hair,” he said, and that was all he said. Jaskier rather suspected he was being vague on purpose.

Well. Now he had a chance to find out.

Jaskier didn’t even know how old Geralt was. Older than himself, he assumed, and judging by his perfect grammar, complete lack of anything more complex than a smiley face and non-existent social media presence he wasn’t exactly online - not in the same way that Jaskier was. He could be ancient. He didn’t even know what a meme was, for Melitele’s sake, before Jaskier had introduced him to the concept. That, plus Zoltan’s sparse description, had meant he’d had to accept some time ago that Geralt might be rather older than himself.

That had given Jaskier pause. He had nothing against older men, of course, but the issue lay more in if Geralt - if he was older - would have anything against him. So to speak.

He dropped the plastic ID card and swore, quickly stooping to grab it. He needed to rein in that train of thought. He’d only ever spoken to Geralt online, and whatever this infatuation was, it was entirely one-sided. He had a crush on the man who lived inside his computer, nothing more. However funny and charming and incredibly good at banter Geralt was, Jaskier had to remind himself that it was, for the most part, imagined. He was getting the best parts of Geralt, not the whole.

That didn’t make him feel any less nervous. It didn’t stop his stomach from doing flips as he made his way slowly down the long row of tents, reading each sign with his heart in his throat, looking for Kaer Morhen Brewery.

He knew Geralt was going to be here. He’d told Jaskier so himself, and had even suggested they meet, if they could get a spare half hour together. Jaskier kept reminding himself of that fact: Geralt wanted to meet him. He wasn’t imposing.

Jaskier walked slowly by each tent, reading. And then - there - a few meters away. Kaer Morhen Brewery. He recognised the logo immediately - a howling wolf silhouetted against a crescent moon.

And standing beneath the hastily printed and sloppily laminated sign, sorting out neat piles of coins, was a man. Jaskier swallowed. He was older - quite a lot older, actually - his grey hair pulled into a half-ponytail at the back of his head. Was this Geralt? Fuck. There was only one way to find out.

Jaskier sidled over to the tent.

“Hi,” he said, and then immediately regretted not opening with something smoother. “I’m Jaskier, from Chameleon.”

The man looked up. “Ah yes,” he said, “Zoltan’s newest. Good to finally meet you.”

“Likewise,” said Jaskier, leaning against the makeshift bar in an attempt to look casual. “So, ah, forgive my ignorance, but… are you Geralt?”

The man burst out laughing.

“No,” he grinned, folding his arms. “That’s my son.”

Son? Jaskier floundered, confused, before his mind caught up with him, a little relieved. This must be Vesemir, the owner of the brewery, which meant...

“He’s over there,” Vesemir continued, gesturing behind him with a nod and a small smile.

Jaskier swallowed. He peered over the older man’s shoulder, straight into the eyes of—

He suddenly forgot what beer was. He also forgot what sentences were, what words were and, finally, what his own name was - till all that was left in the now ringing space between his ears was the man in front of him, his white hair and his golden eyes, and the way his too-tight t-shirt was clinging to his arms.

Oh.

Oh, no.

~

Geralt was very vaguely aware, in a distant, other-worldly way, that his hand was wet. Wet and cold. That was odd, really, because he was feeling extremely warm everywhere else.

Jaskier. There was no one else the guy leaning against the bar could be. He’d not even seen a picture of him, aside from out-of-focus shots in the back of photos of Chameleon, but he knew it was him.

His face was flushed, his eyes were wide, and he was wearing what was without a doubt the ugliest, most luridly coloured shirt Geralt had ever seen. And it worked, somehow - what would have looked ridiculous on anyone else made him look… Geralt wasn’t even sure how to describe it. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to try, because anything he could come up with wouldn’t even touch on how—

“Geralt!”

He blinked.

“Geralt, what the fuck?!”

He looked down. The beer he’d been pouring - just to test the pressure - had filled the glass and was now spilling down his fingers and onto the bar below. Shit.

“Uh...” he managed, before Lambert pushed him aside, releasing the handle and finally stopping the steady flow of the bitter they’d been perfecting for nearly six months.

“For fuck’s sake.” Lambert swore, chucked a tea towel at him and shepherded him towards the bar, towards Vesemir, towards—

“Hello,” Geralt managed, weakly, the tea towel hanging forgotten in his hand.

Jaskier’s mouth was ajar. He shut it, quickly. “Hi.”

Vesemir glanced between them. Geralt hoped he wasn’t blushing, but knew he probably was: he could feel his ears burning.

“I’ll leave you to it then, shall I?” Said Vesemir, scooping up the change he’d been counting out, ready for the rush later in the evening.

“I… yeah,” said Geralt - and then realised, with some terror, that he was still staring at Jaskier. He pulled his eyes away to look at his father properly. “Yes,” he said, “Right.”

Vesemir rolled his eyes - a fond expression that Geralt was all-too used to - before heading through the flap of the tent behind them and out to the yard beyond. After a few moments, Geralt heard the tell-tale sound of Eskel bursting into laughter, and winced apologetically at Jaskier.

“So,” he said, desperate to move on and aware they hadn’t really been introduced. “Jaskier?”

“Yep,” Jaskier grinned, and stuck out his hand. “Geralt?”

Without thinking, Geralt took it - and then immediately grimaced: his hand was still coated in beer. Jaskier didn’t even seem to notice - or if he did, he didn’t care - and his grip was firm, if a little sweaty. It made Geralt’s stomach flip.

“That’s me,” he said.

“Nice to finally put a, ah… a face to a name,” Jaskier said, with a little smile.

“Yeah,” Geralt agreed. And then added, instantly regretting it - “Really nice.”

Jaskier’s grin spread - lighting him up - and Geralt realised, suddenly, that their hands were still gripped across the bar. He let go quickly and self consciously, his palm tingling, hoping that Jaskier didn’t think he was utterly mad. He resisted the urge to wipe his hand on his trousers, lest Jaskier think he was reacting to him, not the increasingly sticky beer drying on his fingers.

“Do you want to, ah…” Geralt looked around, feeling suddenly out of his depth. “Do you want to get a drink? Before the rush?”

Jaskier smirked. “Sure,” he said, eyes sparkling. “Know any good breweries around here?”

Have you done your fankids' (+AU) go-to drinks at bar yet?

(With the assumption that they’re all of legal drinking age, of course).

I don’t see them necessarily as huge bar goers, but I do think if/when they’d hit up a bar, it would also depend on the situation. 

Andrea isn’t big on drinking (GOTTA STAY SHARP. ENEMIES COULD COME AT ANY TIME.) but Gabe fixed her a Michelada on her birthday/clone-flushing day so she tends to order that if the situation calls for it. Faustine’s also managed to convince her to carry around a gin-and-tonic at a party once to seem less “intimidating” so she’ll go with that if it’s a classier setting.

Faustine likes an Italian Greyhound with a sprig of rosemary and a lemon peel-rubbed rim. Yes, that specific. God help you if you get the proportions off.

Seye goes for the manhattan. Classy and can kick your ass. It suits him. But he’s also partied with the grunts in Talon’s lower ranks, so it’s not all hoity-toity cocktails.

Aedan is the kind of guy who will order a pint--either pale ale or amber--and take forever to finish it because if you thought he talked a lot before...

Samir, like Andrea, is not really big on drinking. And will frequently be the “Team Sober Person” to give Marti a break because Marti usually feels she has to take that job as the team leader. But he has partaken in the odd negroni or wine-tasting with Jaime. He likes to stay sharp though.

Rajeev’s not really big on the taste of alcohol (also alcohol can impede muscle growth, so he doesn’t want to mess with his SICK GAINS), but he doesn’t mind a hard cider or fuzzy navel.

Marti tends to stay sober because Team Leader, but when she gets the chance to relax, she likes hibiscus margaritas. Because they’re pretty.

Jaime doesn’t really have a consistent choice. He likes to go with whatever’s local. Microbrews, whiskey, sake, the cocktail of the week. Anything goes, really. His varied palate actually makes him crazy perceptive when it comes to wine-tasting. There’s a special place in his heart for Billie Quintero’s agave hooch back in the southwest, though.

Rei has a surprisingly good palate for beer between Swiss Oktoberfests and her time drinking bougie microbrews with the Midori Rider crew in Hollywood, so she’s up with Aedan nursing a pint. But her real favorite drink is an elderflower liqueur and chamomile toddy all warm and cozy at home. The overwatch cookbook called it “Valkyrie’s Flight.”

And for the AU kids...

Guillaume prefers staying sharp most of the time and has no problem being the Team Sober Person, but he does have a good palate with both wine and sake.

Annie’s more easygoing--she’ll usually stick with a beer or a slushy margarita--something you can sip at under an open sky on a hot evening.

56! KaiJou!

Have a first meeting AU!

“I don’t do hugs.”

As Joey threw together his fifth Manhattan of the hour, he kept one eye peeled on table four. Admittedly, he’d started doing so because one of the men, whom he’d dubbed Mr. Gin-and-tonic for the drink he’d ordered at the bar, was the sort of tall, dark, and handsome Joey would swoon over if he wasn’t on the clock. His lean figure, trim suit, chestnut brown hair, and steel blue eyes made him prime eye-candy material. 

But after the last 30 minutes or so, Joey kept watching for an entirely different reason. 

Red flags were flying all over that table. Most notable was the way Mr. Gin-and-tonic’s dinner companion, whom Joey mentally referred to as “Pinky” because of his long pastel hair and matching suit, would reach across the table to touch a hand that quickly and physically rebuffed the advance. Pinky blatantly ignored clearly broadcast boundaries while wearing a smile that he probably thought was increasingly seductive, but in reality, came off as sleazy. 

Joey had worked years in the service industry, and he’d seen the best and worst of humanity through it. He couldn’t see Mr. Gin-and-tonic’s expression, but he did recognize the defensive set of his shoulders as his back was turned toward the bar where Joey poured cocktails and microbrew drafts. If Joey were another diner, instead of a member of the staff, he’d loudly confronted Pinky the creep. Instead, he would have to opt for a more subtle approach.

His chance came when Mr. Gin-and-tonic rose abruptly from his chair and seemingly excused himself to use the restroom.

Joey slung off the waistcoat he wore on shift and made a beeline for Bret, the restaurant’s host. “I think we have an ‘Angela’ situation at table four.”

Bret knitted his brow in concern. “I thought table four were businessmen.”

“Yeah, well, I think Pinky wants to be more than business partners and won’t take no for an answer,” Joey muttered darkly.

Bret peered around him, and whatever he saw made him frown deeper. Joey turned in time to catch the last glimpse of Pinky’s long hair before the man vanished down the hallway toward the restrooms. Presumably in search of Mr. Gin-and-tonic. Wow, Pinky really needed to back the hell off.

“Go and check it out,” Bret said. “I’ll tell Krissy to handle the bar while you’re gone.”

“You’re the man, chief!” Joey peddled back with a mock salute.

As Joey crossed the restaurant, he undid the top two buttons of his dress shirt and ruffled his blond locks free of the styling product he used to slick back his hair for work attire. With that, he should be able to pass for one of the hip yet wealthy professionals that frequented the restaurant. He hoped Pinky was the kind of self-absorbed guy who didn’t pay attention to the wait staff and wouldn’t recognize him. He hurried past the double doors leading into the kitchen toward the restrooms situated at the very back of the building. 

He heard them before he saw them.

“Come now, you needn’t be so reserved,” purred a voice with a distinct German accent. 

Joey peered around the corner in time to see Mr. Gin-and-tonic sidestep another one of Pinky’s bodily advances.

“No thanks. I don’t do hugs,” snarked Mr. Gin-and-tonic in a deep, gravelly voice. While he sounded calm on the surface, his expression came close to cracking into a thunderous snarl.

Joey weighed his options. Mr. Gin-and-tonic might resort to violence to fend off Pinky, who frankly deserved it. But if punches were thrown, it would create a ruckus, and the police might get called in. That would disturb their dining guests and eat into the tips the front end would otherwise collect, himself included.

No, Joey needed to defuse the situation.

He stomped noisily past, startling Pinky with his sudden appearance. Several steps past their hall, he doubled back just as quickly and beamed at the two men.

“Hey!” Joey kept his eyes on Mr. Gin-and-tonic, so there was no question whom he was greeting. “I thought I saw a familiar face out there! It’s been forever! How’ve yah been, man?!”

For a moment, he feared Mr. Gin-and-tonic wouldn’t play along. Then a spark of recognition flashed through those baby blues, and Mr. Gin-and-tonic glided toward Joey with a surprisingly warm fake-smile. It threw Joey for a second, because wow, he was even more handsome like that.

“Yes, it’s been a while,” Mr. Gin-and-tonic purred and even went as far as to drape an arm across Joey’s shoulder. “I trust you’ve been well.”

The touch and his voice coursed through Joey’s body like an electric shock. God, Mr. Gin-and-tonic even smelled like heaven, all crisp and masculine. Joey wasn’t going to swoon, though his knees trembled a bit.

But Joey was determined to see his rescue mission through. “Totally—”

Pinky interrupted, “Is this a friend of yours, Herr Kaiba?” He wore a displeased expression with lips flattened straight.

Mr. Gin-and-tonic—no, Kaiba, Joey corrected himself—reached up and fixed Joey’s collar with long, manicured fingers. “In a manner of speaking,” he drawled. “Would you give us a few minutes, Schroeder?” Though he’d phrased the request as a question, the dismissal couldn’t be clearer.

“Ah, yes, take your time. I look forward to continuing our discussion when you return,” Pinky said with a fake grin and scurried away.

As soon as Pinky was out of sight, Kaiba dropped his arm and stepped back, snarling, “Good riddance.”

Joey was mesmerized by the quicksilver transformation in his features. Kaiba leaned back against the wall, crossed his arms over his chest, and studied Joey long and hard. The silence that followed was heavy and oppressive. Joey squirmed under the other man’s piercing gaze.

“Hey, I hope you don’t mind, but I was watching from the bar, and it seemed like you could use a helping hand,” said Joey. When Kaiba said nothing in response and continued to stare at him with a gleam in his eyes, Joey started to babble, “Just so you know for the future, we have this code word, it’s like a safeword, here. If you ask for ‘Angela’ at the bar, we’ll do our best to get you out of awkward situations. Usually, it’s like bad dates, y'know, like creeps and weirdos who lie on their Tinder profiles and whatnot. We have a poster about it in the women’s restroom, so they know they can count on us to help them out of a bad or dangerous situation. But we can’t put the same poster in the men’s room, cuz that kinda gives away the game. But everyone should get help if they need it, no matter if you’re gay or straight. Now that you know, you should feel free to use it in the future if you need—”

“And what?’ Kaiba smirked, and boy, it was not a bad look on him at all. “You’ll be my knight-in-shining-armor.”

Joey felt his cheeks heat. “Sumthin’ like that.”

Kaiba pushed off the wall and approached Joey again, stopping when they stood toe to toe. “I suppose thanks are in order, Mister?”

“Wheeler,” Joey managed around his clumsy, graceless tongue. “But call me Joey. Everyone does.”

Kaiba hummed thoughtfully, then introduced himself with a lazy tilt of his head, “I’m Seto. A pleasure to meet you, Joey.”

AU Yeah August 18/31--Bartender AU

@theavengays suggested Sam/Sharon! (Somehow this also turned into a Stripper AU and I��m not sorry.) Watch out for under the cut!

--

“Oh fuck,” Sam said.

Steve looked up from wiping down the bar. “What? That group at table three spill their pitcher again?”

“Worse,” Sam replied, looking pained. “Can you just strangle me with that towel?”

“Huh?” Steve asked, and looked toward the door. Then he grinned like a cat who had eaten the canary and managed to get a bowl of cream out of it. “Oh. Ohoho.”

“Shut up,” Sam said, glaring at him.

Steve pointed at him and laughed.

“What’s going on?” Bucky asked, peering through the window to the kitchen. “What’s happening? Did the group at table three spill their pitcher again?”

“The pretty blonde girl that Sam has the biggest crush on is here,” Steve answered smugly.

“I hope you both die,” Sam said as they both began to laugh at him. “She’s not coming up to the bar. Why isn’t she coming up to the bar?”

“Maybe she remembers last week when she ordered a beer and you asked if she’d rather have a sex on the beach,” Bucky chortled.

Sam stopped where he stood, staring into space. He’d hoped to block that out. He’d only asked her that because she’d previously had a Malibu cocktail and he’d wanted to offer her something similar, not realizing until after he’d said it that it had really sounded like a come-on. She’d sort of laughed but then softly insisted on her microbrew and Sam had left at the end of the night, gone home, and gotten absolutely plastered, hoping to block out the night. Unfortunately, as a bartender, he could hold his liquor and he mostly just woke up still drunk and even more embarrassed.

“Maybe she’s waiting for a friend,” Steve offered after a moment, smile fading.

“Yeah, or maybe she’s trying to decide if she wants to eat,” Bucky added.

“She’s not looking at the menu,” Sam said.

“You don’t have to look at a menu to decide whether you’re hungry or not, Sam,” Bucky told him snidely.

“Listen,” Sam began, scowling at him, but then whipped around when he heard a squeal. “Oh,” he said sadly. “Looks like she was waiting for someone.”

The pretty blonde had popped up out of her booth and was hugging a man who had just come in the door. Sam wished the guy was ugly or something. It would have made the hurt more bearable. As it was, the guy was ridiculously handsome, and the pretty blonde buried her nose in his shoulder and sighed like all was right with the world.

Oh God. Was that guy here to beat him up after he hit on his girlfriend? Would he believe it was an accident and he was only trying to help?

“You could take ‘im,” Steve muttered.

“I mean,” Sam said after a minute. “Those thighs are pretty impressive. If he’s anything like Natasha, he could snap my neck with no effort.”

“Thighs?!” Bucky sputtered, peering through the window frantically.

Steve turned to give him a perplexed stare. “You’re an ass man.”

“I have depths,” Bucky informed him imperiously. “Also thighs are just an extension of ass get the fuck outta my way so I can see.”

“Well they’re coming up to the bar so you can’t see his thighs anyway,” Sam retorted. If the pretty blonde had a boyfriend, he could at least find joy in razzing Bucky.

“Hi,” the pretty blonde said, smiling at him.

“Hi,” Sam sighed, like the lovesick dope he was. If the pretty blonde’s boyfriend killed him, he’d probably deserve it.

He only realized they’d just been standing there, smiling at each other, for a few minutes when the pretty blonde’s boyfriend murmured, “Um… I, uh… my lunch isn’t that long…”

“Oh!” the pretty blonde gasped. “Oh, sorry!”

“You work closing shift, man?” Sam had to ask sympathetically. The guy looked exhausted, and also like he could use three giant hamburgers. “That sucks.”

“Are there day strip clubs?” the pretty blonde asked wonderingly.

“None that I would work at,” her boyfriend said.

Sam gave the guy another once-over. Oh. A stripper. No wonder he… looked like that.

“Anyway!” the pretty blonde said. “Could I get a couple cheeseburgers with… everything on them, and an oatmeal stout?” She bit her bottom lip, then leaned in and quietly added, “And maybe… a sex on the beach?”

Sam stared at her, stunned.

She swallowed thickly, then fluttered her lashes at him. It was very attractive.

“You’re really gonna flirt with him in front of your boyfriend?!” Steve asked, offended.

She jerked to look at him, startled. “Huh? What do you―my boyfriend…” She jerked backward again, surprise quickly changing to disgust. “Ew! Tony’s my cousin! Gross! And do you really think I’m the type of person who would do that?! What an asshole!”

“Can I still eat here,” Tony asked Sam desperately as she and Steve began shouting at each other. “I’m not yelling at your coworker like Sharon is.”

“Of course you can eat here,” Sam said, pain in his chest immediately fading. He thought he should probably stop Steve and―Sharon?―from arguing, but she looked like she could take him, and Steve probably needed his ass beat honestly. “Have a seat.”

“Thanks,” Tony said, sitting at the bar. “I’m working at both my jobs today and I wouldn’t have had time to eat until after work at the club. Sharon said your food was really good and also she wanted moral support when she flirted with you because last time you gave her an opening and she panicked.”

Sam stared at him. “...I mean, to be fair, my opening was unplanned and sort of risque.”

“But Sharon loves sex on the beach,” Tony said, frowning.

“The drink,” Sharon said hastily, lunging back into the conversation. “I love the drink called sex on the beach.”

Sam stared at her. “Wait, so you actually liked that joke?”

“Yeah but I panicked,” she explained. “And I remembered being a barista and not liking my customers flirting with me and I panicked even more because what if I was doing that to you?”

“I flirted with you first,” Sam pointed out.

“She’s dumb when she panics,” Tony offered.

Sharon slouched on the bar, looking incredibly sorry for herself. “It’s true I’m so dumb. I overthink things. And now I’m never gonna have a chance with you.”

Sam was bewildered. He was pretty sure he’d been incredibly obvious about still being interested. “Why?”

“Because I’m meeting Steve in the back alley during his break so we can fight,” she said sadly, then shot Steve a dirty look.

Sam glanced at Steve, who looked just as mulish. He looked back at Sharon. “I mean. He’s been needing his ass kicked for at least a couple weeks now.”

“Hey!” Steve exclaimed, offended.

Sharon seemed to consider this. Finally, she slowly asked, “...If I win, do we get to date? Is this a Scott Pilgrim vs. The World type thing?”

Sam thought about it for a minute before saying, “Sure. If you kick Steve’s ass, I’ll take you out on a date.”

Sharon whipped around to glare at Steve, who glared back, and Sam only seriously considered that that might have been a mistake in that very moment.

Before he could say anything, Bucky was ringing the bell in the window and setting down two plates, because they were always slower toward the early morning on a Wednesday night and had heard Sharon make the order. “I have two burgers with everything on them and―Bambi!” Bucky gasped.

Tony stared at him blankly, then suddenly pointed at him and squawked, “Good tipper!”

Sam put the grave mistake he’d made on the back burner immediately, gleeful. “You guys know each other?”

“He stuck a twenty in my panties!” Tony said happily.

Bucky looked moderately pained, but only because Steve had turned from glaring at Sharon to grin at him like an asshole. “He flipped himself upside-down on the pole and spread his legs, what the fuck else was I supposed to do.”

“I worked very hard to learn how to do that without falling on my head,” Tony said proudly. “I only concussed myself twice!”

“...Tony,” Sharon said softly when the trio all turned to stare at him in horrified disbelief. “You can’t brag about concussions. We’ve talked about this.”

“It only happened twice,” Tony mumbled, pouting, and stuffed three fries into his mouth at once.

Sam decided to just get him his oatmeal stout and then start mixing up a sex on the beach. He tried not to look to smitten as he handed it over to her, but Steve smirked at him the same way he’d just smirked at Bucky, so he figured it didn’t work.

.-.-.-.

Sharon kicked Steve’s ass from one side of the alley to the other, so Sam took her to the fanciest restaurant he could afford.

Corsets_and_Cardigans

Highest Rating: E Fandoms:   Marvel Cinematic Universe   Tags: James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark,  Pepper Potts & Tony Stark, Happy Hogan/Pepper Potts, James "Bucky" Barnes & Natasha Romanov, James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Sam Wilson (Marvel), Natasha Romanov (Marvel),  Bruce Banner, Peter Parker, Fluff, Smut,  Humor, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics,  Getting Together, Established Relationship, BDSM,  Alternate Universe, Soulmates, Royalty, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Happy Ending, Negotiations, Armor Kink, Lingerie, Sugar Daddy, Silver Fox, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Magic, Shibari Short Prompts: 1)   Chef Steve + Microbrewer Bucky + Restaurant investor Tony 2)   Spoiled house-husband Bucky Barnes 3)   Taking a joyride Long Prompts: 1)   Steve is a huge fan (and has a huge crush on) Youtuber Couple Bucky and Tony. Nat and Sam hatch a plan for him to win a contest to fly out to meet them and star in a video. 2)   Retired fighters and Alpha Couple Steve and Bucky run a gym in Brooklyn where they train boxers and MMA fighters, and teach self defense. One morning, they find an abused Omega seeking shelter on their stoop. 3)   Tony tries a new coffee shop, and the Baristas sure are cute...and familiar. After a few weeks of flirting and pining, Tony realizes they starred in his favorite porno.

Do Not Wants: High school AU (unless they are teachers), underage, MCD, Unhappy endings, super open or unhopeful ambiguous endings,character hate/bashing, scat/watersports, gore, vore, blood play (except for vampires), non-con, body shaming, the boys being evil or Dark, ageplay, on screen abuse (this includes ignoring safewords), animal abuse Likes: Pretty much all meet cutes and AU’s and tropes, A/B/O, BDSM, humor, boys getting horny over fancy clothes, lingerie, Superhero/regular, Big and small Steve, Long and short hair Bucky, episolaries or unique formats, everyone having fun and a good time during sex. Happy Endings/Happily ever afters. Endings that are hopeful, even if they’re not officially together, it’s obvious they are going that direction, making plans and excited for the future. Treats: Moodboards, Baking recipes, anything fall or Halloween themed, pictures of cute animals. I knit, sew, cross stitch, and bake, anything themed there. 

Socials: Main blog. I keep my writing and A03 handle off this account due to RL people Side blog. very new, baby blog for writing Discord name is: MrsMoodybear (Heather)#2262 Ao3    CLICK HERE TO VIEW ALL STOCKINGS OR TO CLAIM THIS STOCKING. CLICK HERE FOR INFORMATION ON FILLING STOCKINGS. Treats open on September 25th.

modern!au yennefer is a microbrew snob. geralt is a bud light guy and he doesn't get it. Or no. No worse, he's a nattie guy like some kind of perpetual frat bro. Jaskier drinks PBRs because of that Lana del Rey song but actually he prefers fruity cocktails.

frank punisher gentrifying 30 something who drinks microbrews au IG

part 6 pre amnesia au

“There you are,” Étienne called him from the living room, “I thought you were studying, why don’t you come watch the game with me – it’s Habs vs. Oilers,” Edward blinked, mildly surprised by the invitation; it wasn’t that his roommate hadn’t invited him to hang out with him before, but Edward had quickly learnt, in the two months that he had been living here and ever since the hockey season had started, that Étienne took his hockey very seriously and was a die-hard Habs fan, therefore, he hadn’t been sure how willing he would have been to watch the game with him, “Eum, sure,” He opened the fridge and rummaged through it for a moment, “Need anything?” He offered, taking out the carrots and dip, “Nah, I’m good, but if you want, help yourself to a beer – you can take a microbrew if you want – but if there’s only one ask first? There’s some I haven’t tried yet,” Edward nodded but still went for the Heineken – he knew how particular Étienne was about his beer and even though he appreciated the offer, he felt better going with something safe that was in larger quantities – in case.

 With his snack and beverage in hand, Edward went to the living room and found Étienne sitting cross-legged on the sofa, wearing his slightly-too-big Habs jersey and a pair of shorts, his attention on the television screen and the remainders of his dinner on the coffee table; Edward took a seat next to him and offered him a carrot, “I don’t know if I should accept an offering from the enemy,” Étienne joked and Edward rolled his eyes, amused, “Yeah, watch out, it might be contaminated with looser cooties,” Étienne laughed and took the carrot munching on it for a moment, “You didn’t miss much – still no goals and an anemic power play,” Edward nodded and uncapped his beer – it was nice watching the game on the television for a change and having someone to watch it with – someone who was cheering for the opposite team, would surely be interesting.

 “You know, we should do something to make this game interesting,” Étienne suggested, a few minutes later, “Something to make this worthwhile,” He added – Edward looked at him carefully, intrigued and slightly afraid of what it might be his roommate would suggest – he was starting to know Étienne and knew he could be a little impulsive and that he could have some crazy ideas, “Like what?” Étienne grinned and Edward wondered if there would ever come a time when he would regret those words, “A bet of sorts – loser has to do all the house chores for a week? Two?” Edward was pensive for a moment – the deal was surprisingly tame, all things considered – he thought about it and made a quick calculation in his mind – the Habs’ track record against the Oilers was terrible, his odds of winning were quite high, actually, and he would get out of chores for a bit, “Three weeks and we have a deal,” He stuck out a hand and smirked, feeling quite confident, “Bold move, Murphy, but you have yourself a deal,” Étienne shook his hand and they resumed watching the game.

 The final score was 6 for the Oilers and 2 for the Habs.

---------

PREVIOUS: V

CURRENT: VI

NEXT: VII

Bakery AU, Part IX

One more chapter to go...

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII, Part VIII

~*~

“Tell me what?”

Tim’s heart starts to race, a last ditch effort by his body to give him the brainpower needed to get the words out of his mouth. He takes hold of Jason’s hand and removes it from his chin, but he doesn’t let it go. “I know you’re Redwing.”

To his credit, Jason doesn’t even flinch. “Right,” he drawls. “Tim, I think you’re a little sleep deprived.”

“Oh, I am,” Tim agrees. He forges on. “But I know I’m right.”

“Really? How so?”

“Because I figured out that Dick Grayson was Robin when I was nine years old.”

Jason’s grip on his hand tightens, the only sign his words are affecting him at all. “Okay, suppose I buy this tale. How did you figure it out?”

Tim launches into a story that has never once passed his lips. About how as a young boy he went to the circus with his parents and met an acrobat who promised to do a quadruple somersault just for him. He spoke of how that night ended in tragedy, with the acrobat’s parents falling to their deaths when their ropes snapped. “I kept tabs on Dick after I heard Mr. Wayne took him in. Sometimes I saw him at society events it was okay for kids to attend. When I was nine, I caught a clip on one of those paparazzi TV shows of Robin. They were running a brief segment on local urban myths. The video was absolute crap even if they did try to clean it up, but it wasn’t the person I recognized. It was what he did that struck me the most.”

“What did he do?” Jason prods when Tim pauses to gather his thoughts.

“He did a quadruple somersault. There’s only person in the world who can do it. Dick Grayson. After I figured that out, the rest was easy.” Tim bites his lip, stopping the flow of words.

There. He’d done it. No going back now.

Jason places his hands on Tim’s shoulders, holding him firmly in place as he stares intently at him. “Are you telling me a nine year old boy figured out one of the most closely guarded secrets on the planet?”

Tim nods. “If you’re referring to Batman, yes. He goes to great pains to hide it. Superman on the other hand…a pair of glasses? Really?”

A heavy hand covers his mouth faster than Tim can blink. “I think that’s enough tonight. You’re tired and obviously getting to the point where you’re not thinkin’ straight.”

What? Tim stiffens and jerks himself away from Jason. “You think I’m making this all up? I’m exhausted, but I’m not stupid. Jason, I have never, ever, spoken about this to anyone before. If you don’t believe me, fine. I was trying to be honest with you, because if you want whatever this is between us to work, then you need to be honest with me.”

“I don’t think this is the time or place to be having this conversation. You don’t have a door right now, remember?”

Tim’s mouth snaps shut. Son of a bitch. Had he been speaking too loudly? He doesn’t think so, but Jason is right. All that’s keeping the rest of the world out of his little shop is a piece of plastic. “Sorry. Sorry, you’re right. I’m just…”

“You’re tired, Tim.” Jason hauls him back in and plants a tender kiss on his forehead. “Go take a nap. I’ll finish cleaning this up.”

There isn’t anything Tim can do but nod. He’s blown it. He knows he has. Goddammit, why did he say it? Had he really misread things so badly? What’s going to happen now? Jason would be fully within his rights to never see him again after this little bomb. Fuck.

Tim lets Jason direct him into the kitchen and, under his watchful eye, gets his blanket and pillow out of the storage bin. Jason doesn’t comment about it, which says a lot about where this is all heading. He makes a little pallet under his desk and lays down. Through bleary eyes Tim watches Jason turn off the light and close the door, leaving it open just a crack. This is the last time he’s going to see Jason, he knows it. It hurts so bad that he doesn’t want the same thing as him.

So much for that gamble.

As Tim falls into a fitful sleep, he swears that he hears the low tone of Jason’s voice speaking to someone. “B? You won’t believe what I just heard…”

~*~*~

The next day Tim decides is quite possibly one of the worst he’s had in a while. Jason is gone when he wakes up to the alarm the man apparently set for him. No note, no nothing, not that Tim expects anything after the mess he made of things last night.

Stephanie tries to get the story out of him when she arrives an hour later with breakfast and coffee, but he refuses to say a word other than that he and Jason had a disagreement. This isn’t something Steph can help with. It’s all his fault.

“Do I need to call him and tell him to stop being an ass?” the blonde asks pointedly.

Tim loves that her loyalty is unwaveringly with him even if she doesn’t know all the details. “No, I’m pretty sure this is all on me.”

“Oh, Tim.” Steph wraps her arms around him and holds him tight. “Are you guys done then?”

He sighs into her freshly washed hair. God, he has to stink to high heaven at this point. “I don’t know.”

Steph squeezes him, then draws back, hands still on his arms as she gives him a serious look. “You know what’s going to make you feel better?”

“The ability to rewind the last twelve or so hours?”

“A shower. Go home, Tim. Get cleaned up, and for God’s sake, brush your teeth.”

Tim laughs weakly because what else can he do? He put himself out there and got rejected.

This is why he doesn’t date. It always hurts when things fall apart.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. It takes a few phone calls to get someone out on a Saturday to replace his door, and as soon as that was done, Tim calls it a day. He and Stephanie already have a plan in place to get things back up and running tomorrow, even if it will take at least a week to get a new display case. That’s fine, they can still take the truck out and Tim can set out a tray with a single cupcake of each design for any walk-ins to choose from while keeping the rest in back. They can make this work. Gotham and a broken heart are not going to keep Tim Drake down.

As he walks home in the late afternoon sun, Tim decides to allow himself one night to wallow in his misery. He deserves that much. A quick stop by the store gets him a six pack of his favorite microbrew and he swings by a Chinese restaurant that makes what he swears are the best noodles in town. Literally, since they make their noodles right there.

Properly fortified, Tim brings his prizes home. Another shower and a change of clothes later, he settles onto his sofa to binge watch Netflix. There are some shows he needs to catch up on.

He does not think about Jason. Much.

Three hours later, he’s finished half his stir-fried noodles and three bottles of beer. Sleep sounds like a great idea, lightweight that he is, so Tim manages to put away his food before returning to the sofa where he puts on a BBC nature documentary to fall asleep to.

He cuddles under his afghan and is out in under a minute.

~*~*~

It’s late when Tim wakes up. He feels like he should still be asleep, but something has drawn him out of that sweet oblivion where he doesn’t think about Jason. Everything is quiet, so he decides it must be his faintly hurting head that woke him. Some headache meds and water will fix that, as will sleeping in his bed rather than the living room.

Tim opens his eyes blearily as he sits up. Then he opens them wider and jerks upright, the afghan pooling around his waist.

Standing in front of his muted TV is Batman, outlined by the glow of the screen behind him.

Oh, shit. Why…Oh. Oh. Jason must have told him everything. Of course, he would, the little bomb Tim dropped on him last night impacts everything his family works so hard for. God, how could he have been so thoughtless?

His inner fanboy cowers in the corner of his mind, wailing in fear even though Tim is reasonably certain Batman won’t actually hurt him. Scare the crap out of him, yes. Intimidate him, hell yes. This is very intimidating, yup. Babbling seems like a stupid thing to do right about now, so Tim keeps his mouth shut and waits for Batman to say something.  

And waits.

And waits.

Seriously? Is he waiting for Tim to speak up first? He has not had enough sleep for this. Tim shoves the afghan off his lap and swings his legs to the floor. “Would you like some coffee? If you’re just going to stand there, then I’m going to need some.”

Batman doesn’t move. If anything, he frowns harder without even moving his face.

Now there’s a trick Tim would love to learn. He makes his way into the kitchen and flips on the overhead light by the sink to see by. Coffee prep is something he could do in his sleep, so while the little pot is brewing, Tim takes two mugs out of the cabinet and sets them on the counter.

“Do you take cream or sugar?” he calls out, not really expecting an answer.

He doesn’t get one.

Black it is.

Tim pours two cups and returns to the living room. He doesn’t try and hand Batman his cup, but he does place it on the coffee table in front of him before sitting back down on the sofa. This is by far the strangest interview he’s ever been part of. It must be a neat trick, using your reputation to get everything you need to know out of a person without having to say a word.

This could go on all night. “What do you want to know?” Tim asks eventually.

“Start from the beginning.” Batman’s voice is a low growl, one that makes Tim’s throat hurt just listening to it.

So Tim starts there, telling Batman how he met Dick, the promised quadruple somersault, and the tragedy that occurred later. He tells him about how he kept tabs on the former acrobat through the news, that he just wanted to be sure the boy was happy. Then he tells him what happened when he was nine… “I’m not sure there are many people who could have made that connection,” he admits slowly. “I mean, sure, the people at the circus probably can if they ever happen to see Robin, or Nightwing now, do that. But outside of there? I don’t think I would have if I hadn’t been there that night and saw it myself.” As well as everything that happened after, but there’s no need to rehash that again.

“You were very young.”

Tim nods. “I was almost four. My mom always said I have a mind like a steel trap. That when something goes in, it’s not coming out. I think that’s part of the reason why I didn’t forget. I couldn’t, even if I’d wanted to.” He sips his coffee, debating about the next part. This is where he could get into some serious trouble.

Well, this is supposed to be a confession of sorts. And it does feel good to get everything off his chest after holding it so close for years.

“When I figured out who was under Robin’s mask, I decided I needed to see Dick in action again for myself. We lived in the city, and Mom and Dad were never around much, so it was easy to sneak out…” Tim tells Batman about how he used to map his and Robin’s patrol routes, how he would hide and wait half the night for even a glimpse of his hero. As he got better and grew more confident, that was when he started bringing a camera.

If Batman was rigid before, then those words made him even more so.

“Those first photos were horrible,” Tim admits with a wry shake of his head. “It took a lot of practice to learn how to shoot at night, just as it took a lot of trial and error to learn to develop my own pictures because these were not something I wanted to take to the convenience store and have just anyone see. But I got better and by the time I did, there was a new Robin.”

Jason. The Robin he got all the best photos of.

“I took my pictures for a little over three years,” Tim continues. “And then my parents were murdered in a botched kidnapping. My life was turned upside down for a time, but when it became clear that I was going to end up in foster care since I had no family to take me in, I knew I couldn’t keep any of those pictures. I couldn’t risk it, even if no one knows the faces beneath those masks.”

“What did you do?”

“I took them up to the roof of my parent’s townhouse and burned them. Each and every one.” It still hurt, even after a decade and more having passed. But it hurt like ripping off a bandaid hurt, and no longer tore at his soul. “All my negatives, I soaked in bleach.”

Batman gestures to the pictures hanging on the walls. The black and white photos are taken from various angles high above Gotham. “You didn’t stop taking pictures completely.”

Tim shakes his head. “No, but I didn’t take those until I’d graduated from culinary school and had my own place. I like photography, it’s something I’m good at. But it’s a hobby now. A skill I can put to use in my shop for my website.”

“You understand the concerns I have.” It isn’t a question and Tim doesn’t pretend to take it as such.

Still, he knows he’s expected to answer. “I do. Honestly, I wasn’t planning to say a word about this to Jason at all. Until last night, I thought what we had was just a mutually beneficial arrangement between two consenting adults. He’d never given me a reason to believe otherwise.”

“Until last night,” Batman states, echoing Tim’s words. “Why did you tell him this?”

Tim hedges and sips his coffee as he tries to gather his thoughts. For all that opening his mouth had been a mistake, the reason why he did hasn’t changed. On that one fact, he still feels like he’s on solid ground.

“Because last night he said he cares about me. That what keeps him coming back is me.” No need to mention the frosting part. Nope. “I’ve known for a little while now that I like him more than what our arrangement calls for. I figured that if he wants a real relationship, then he has a right to what I know so that he doesn’t have to lie to me when the shit hits the fan or he gets all battered and bruised and needs to cancel plans we’ve made. I can’t imagine it’s easy for anyone who tries to date one of you guys.”

“It isn’t. Especially for someone like you who cannot protect himself.”

The implication is clear as day. Tim tightens his fingers around his warm mug. “I know I’m putting myself in harm’s way if Jason and I keep seeing each other. I know I can be used against him or as a means to hurt him. I know all of this. But isn’t it up to us to decide if that’s a chance we want to take?”

“Yeah, B, stop stickin’ your nose in our business.”

Tim almost spills his coffee as Jason comes striding around from behind the sofa in full Redwing regalia. It’s an impressive sight, from the battered leather jacket to the dark gray uniform underneath that fits him like a glove. How long has he been here? Oh, shit, what has he heard? Tim tells himself to get a grip. Everything he’s said to Batman is stuff he plans to tell Jason, if the other man ever gives him a chance.

He’s here though, so that has to mean something. Right?

Batman doesn’t move, but it’s clear when he turns his attention on his son because that weighted gaze no longer sits like a ton of bricks on Tim. “I am trying to ascertain what this man’s intentions are towards all of us.”

Jason snorts incredulously. “No, you’re trying to be a dad for a change and scare away a potential boyfriend. B, Tim knows and hasn’t said a word to anyone. Do you have any idea how much easier this makes things for me? I don’t have to fucking lie for a change.”

Tim clutches his coffee mug, afraid to make even the slightest of noises for fear of interrupting what is clearly a very important argument. Inside, his heart sings with joy because Jason is fighting with Batman for him. If that’s not a sign from the heavens, he doesn’t know what is.

“What happens if it doesn’t work out?” Batman says to Jason. “Think about the damage Tim can do in a single moment of petty spite.”

“I’d never do that,” Tim interrupts. This is something he has to speak up about. “What you guys do is so much bigger than anything I deal with. You’re important. You all mean something to the world. For however long this lasts between Jason and me, I’m glad to be able to support him in whatever way I can. And when it ends, well, I’ll at least know that for a time, I made him happy. Because I can’t imagine you guys get that a lot.”

Both men turn and stare at Tim, heavy and weighted and wow, this must be the same feeling that makes bad guys quiver in their shoes. But Tim holds firm and doesn’t drop his gaze.

“B, you’re done here,” Jason finally announces. “You got what you came for. Tim won’t spill the beans. Now get out.”

“Redwing—”

“Get outta my business, B. I can either air dirty laundry about you and Catwoman or toss you out that window. Take your pick.”

Batman looms over his son, but Jason is clearly having none of it as he just stares him down. All the long years of exposure must make him immune. Tim finds that impressive because wow. Just wow.

That heavy gaze settles back on him for a moment before Batman walks away without another word, brushing past the sofa towards the window leading out to the fire escape. Tim feels a faint rush of cold air on his neck and then nothing. He turns around to look, just to be sure. The only thing he sees is the faint movement of his cheap window blinds.

“So that’s what being interrogated by Batman feels like.”

Jason snorts and picks up the coffee Batman never even touched. “Sort of. There’s usually a lot more punching and getting tossed off the side of a building involved.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Tim feels faint at the thought. Although jumping off the side of a building doesn’t sound too bad if he’s with the right person…kind of like skydiving perhaps.

An awkward silence falls over the room, neither of them seemingly able to start the conversation that needs to happen. Tim fiddles with his mug and steals glances at Jason, who seems lost in thought as he drinks the not-so-warm coffee. What’s going on in his head? How does Jason feel about all this? He apparently likes the idea of him knowing who he is if his statement to Batman was legit.

Tim takes a deep breath and breaks the ice. “How much of that did you hear?”

“All of it. I followed B here and snuck in through your bedroom while he loomed over you like a creepy fuck until you woke up.”

“How long did that take?”

Jason chuckles quietly. “About half an hour. Color me impressed.”

“I may have had a few beers earlier tonight.”

“Lightweight,” Jason teases, but there’s a fondness to it. “You were quite the little stalker once upon a time, weren’t ya?”

Tim nods, feeling steadier now that they’re talking about his past. “I guess you could call it that. At the time though, I was so incredibly lonely that sneaking out for even a glimpse of my heroes was enough to negate the creep factor.”

Jason walks around the coffee table and takes a seat in the recliner. Under the jacket, Tim can just make out the stylized red bat on his broad chest. “You’ve mentioned before that your parents were never around that much.”

“No, they weren’t.” Tim takes a sip from his mug. It’s almost empty. “I had a hard time mourning for people who were never there. I got lucky when I was placed with Grandma Ives. She gets kids in a way I’d never seen before. Probably because she had six of her own, plus over a dozen grandkids. She helped me figure out what my grief was really about and gave me something constructive to do while I worked my way through it.”

“She the one who taught you to bake?”

“Yes.” Tim has many fond memories of Grandma Ives. Perhaps one day, he can introduce Jason to her.

“Did you really take all those pictures of me?” The question seemingly comes out of left field, but Tim has a feeling it’s a precursor to something bigger.

“I did.”

“Is it… Is this the reason you want to be with me?” Jason gestures to his uniform, to the mask he’s still wearing.

Tim is shaking his head before Jason finishes speaking. “No. Not at all. In the beginning, I was shocked that someone like you even spared a glance in my direction. I kept telling myself not to look too deeply into it, to not get attached, that we were both getting something we needed. But when we went out for dinner to that bar, it felt like a date. I wanted it to be a real date so badly that I had to keep reminding myself it wasn’t.”

Jason sighs heavily and leans forward, his solid arms resting on his thickly muscled thighs. “I think of that night as a date. It was all so clear in my head what I was doing, sweeping you off your feet and romancing the crap out of you, but in hindsight, I can see why you believed what you did.” He sounds defeated, which no. No. Tim is not letting this happen.

Standing, Tim sets aside his coffee and kneels in front of Jason, resting his hands over the man’s gloved ones and forcing him to look at him. This close, the lenses in his mask are disconcerting, but Tim knows Jason’s eyes are on him. “We’re both idiots,” he pronounces. “Doing everything ass backwards from the way we should have.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve fucked up,” Jason tries, but Tim shushes him.

“Me neither. But I think we have a good reason to want to do this right. If you want to, that is.” Tim trails off, his momentary boldness tapering into uncertainty.

Jason grabs hold of his hands, holding them firmly in his gloved ones. “I want to. Christ, I want to. But the risks…Tim, already the thought of something happening to you hurts like hell. If we go further…”

Tim raises their joined hands and presses a kiss into the material of Jason’s gloves. “I understand. Just know that I’m willing to take those risks. But really, the choice is yours, not mine. What you do, who you are…it’s all so much bigger than just me.” His confidence shocks him, even if it is nice to know he can bring it out when he needs to, despite the less than stellar circumstances.

“I need some time to think.”

“I respect that.” Tim tries to stand, but Jason rises along with him and draws him in close, pressing his forehead against the top of Tim’s head.

“Tim, this isn’t good-bye. I will let you know what I decide. And in person because you deserve that much, even if it’s not what either of us want.”

It’s more than Tim can reasonably expect. “I appreciate it.”

Jason pulls back a bit and runs his fingers over Tim’s cheeks, seemingly memorizing the planes of his face. “I’ll see you soon.” He leans in and presses a brief kiss against Tim’s mouth.

And then he’s gone, vanishing into the night.

When you see this post an excerpt from a WIP!

Fuck. Okay. I saw this through @unicornsandbutane . Uh. So. Remember that Spiritassassin past life dreaming AU I was talking about? It. Uh. Goes something like this.

(Sorry this is huge. This was going to be a chapter. They didn’t say how long the excerpt had to be and I don’t know when I’ll next get to this because I’m…well…me.)

Context: force sensitive people in one life dream about their past lives. Baze and Chirrut dream about one another. Baze denies this. Heavily. That some new age shit.

He meets Chirrut for the first time after dreaming about him dying in his arms.

Chirrut has retinitis pigmentosa. He can still see but is in the process of becoming fully blind. Baze doesn’t know.

Okay. I- Uhm…

/VAGUE PRESENTING GESTURES ——– ——–

The client can smile as much as he wants as long as he pays is a personal rule.

Baze is starting to question that rule.

He is hours in and halfway through being swallowed by the innards of a sink that probably hasn’t been replaced or altered in more than fifty years, and still can’t make head or tail out of what the client actually wants him to do.

“If,” the man says, still smiling like the sun, “if I wanted to make the house safe for a blind person, how would it be modified?”

Baze grunts something about the stairs and keeping a clear floor. None of which particularly requires an interior contractor. He sees no reason to lie about the difficulty of his work when the man is probably just looking to sell a house.

“If I wished to install disabled ramping what would I do?“

Baze grunts again.

Not enough space for ramping. Install a chair lift like everyone else.

“If I-”

“Pipes and wiring,” Baze interrupts, his patience narrowing.

“Come again?”

The tilt of the other man’s head is birdlike, cheerful. The nightmare from the night before has unsettled Baze too much to be easily shaken. He rubs his forehead to clear it, feeling the start of a headache.

“Old house, old wiring,” Baze grunts.

“And…what does that mean?”

Baze sighs through his nose, and pulls his glasses back on. He dislikes doing so. Dislikes the looks of amusement he gets while holding documents at arms-length and studying layouts even more.

He hates old manses. The owners are either stingy or gullible, and rarely know what needs to be done.

If this guy wants a pretty interior job he should have called Jyn first, gutted all the beautiful wood paneling, the antique tiling of the floors and remade with a modern interior, calling him up when they were done. Baze chews on the end of his pen in distaste.

“Means the house came first. Electricity came later.” He thinks of the trio of children he saw giggling together on the trolley, barely six years old, watching a video on their parent’s phone. “And usage has gone up. You want that done first."

The owner just gazes at him, eyebrows lifted.

He has no idea what he is talking about, obviously.

Baze taps the sink in the kitchen on the print.

“Is this an original?”

“I don’t have the slightest idea,” the other man laughs.

He comes uncomfortably close to see the print, then turns his head to look at Baze. He is grinning at the beaded chain for his glasses. Librarian comments incoming, no doubt.

Baze’s mother would have knocked his knees out from under him with a volume of the Britannica, and she was barely five feet tall, with a limited grasp of English–-a textbook example on why quiet wasn’t the same as peaceful and neither were librarians.

Baze foregoes the commentary by folding the print back under his arm.

Might as well take a look.

Judging by the sink fixtures, the kitchen had a rehaul during the sixties. He wrinkles his nose as he opens the cabinet, pulling out bottles.

He half-expects to find a bag of weed somewhere under the sink. Keeps his nose out for the stink of it.

The client’s perpetual smile makes him seem the type.

He half-expects protests, the defensiveness of a dealer.

The stillness and the slight creeping sensation down his spine makes him crane his head back to find said client instead matter-of-fairly checking out his ass.

Baze snorts.

Well. That’s this city for you.

Nobody has much to look at in steel-toed work boots and tan coveralls. And Baze has even less to look at these days. He’d once been a trim man. Now he’s just a sad forty-year-old nearsighted divorcee checking the nuts of an S-pipe as a favor to a brilliant young architect who’d found him at random by looking up welders in the phone book.

Jyn Erso is twenty-two, driven, and all business. Something more than a client. A grudging friend. He’d done all-night work with her in near-silence together for her grad display. You don’t pull rush jobs like that for just anyone.

They meet once a week for drinks. They aren’t what he’d think of as particularly close friends because Jyn has a guardedness to her that tells you it isn’t a date, and if you try anything she’d crack your nose and leave you in the hospital. Not that Baze would try anything. But there is something particularly depressing about meeting up with an attractive and intelligent young woman who talks shop, having a nice evening, and then going home alone to your own unfinished house.

When Jyn had said her best friend needed to have his house looked at for renovations, Baze had had the sinking feeling that that was it, that he was being couched into approving of some future boyfriend, herded headlong into some sort of fatherly role.

He did not expect Chirrut Îmwe, answering the door before he could knock.

“You’re the inside man?“

Baze had blinked.

“Something like that.”

“Chirrut. Chirrut Îmwe.”

His handshake had been firm, vigorous, his hands as calloused as Baze’s.

“You’re…Blaze Malbus?”

“Baze,” Baze corrected with the long patience of a lifetime with an unusual name.

He’d kept clean-shaven and his hair close-cropped for years to try to cut down on the drug dealer jokes. He’d been a child during the Haight-Ashbury days, and still had never taken a hit. Straight A student. Good future.

Then his father had died when he was seventeen, and someone needed to bring in money for the house.

He knows all about how being good at something doesn’t cancel out bad luck, how the unexpected normally goes hand-in-hand with ‘unpleasant’.

In fact, Chirrut is unexpected in a lot of ways.

Trim black turtleneck. Woven bag. Loose pants and sandals. A red wrap around his waist that’s got an interesting and subtle woven texture to it. Clean-shaven. Close-haired. Chinese, like him, which had been another surprise. And definitely older than fresh-faced Jyn, though he has the peculiar agelessness to him that comes with a heavy fitness lifestyle. Probably another fucking righteous vegan, Baze thinks.

He thinks again of his dream, the details all blurred together, just a lingering sense of unease, of loss. Something that makes him want to wipe his fingernails on his coverall and expect to be talked down to by another idiot who doesn’t know which way a screw turns but makes more money than him and believes that’s because he’s lazy. Unintelligent.

The bad dream seems to be leaking into his sense of the man. He’s seen plenty of people like Chirrut. Has been checked out by far more intimidating-looking ones.

Baze wonders with a snort if he’s being set up, if Jyn has made some assumptions. Unlikely. Jyn usually keeps her head down when it comes to the affairs of others.

“I’m not that kind of plumber,” Baze says, too tired to keep any real heat in his voice.

Chirrut gives a bark of laughter that’s completely unselfconscious, a smile that’s much too even not to have been set that way as a child, with plenty of complicated orthodonture. Money, Baze thinks a little bitterly. Something he doesn’t have much of even before the ex-wife remarried, stopped demanding alimony in advance, and filed a totally unnecessary restraining order.

“Aah, well, you never know,” Chirrut breezes.

He is so blithe even Baze has to snort.

“Try turning the water on,” Baze mutters.

Chirrut steps over to the sink and Baze listens to the pipes, squints with his little penlight tucked behind his ear, the red beads of the chain clinking on pipe.

“Pour a glass for me. I want to check the clarity. Something transparent.”

Chirrut shuffles slightly above him.

“Don’t worry. There’s beer in the refrigerator if you get thirsty.”

“Beer,” Baze repeats.

Chirrut gives a noncommittal noise.

The only thing that’s thirsty here is you, Baze thinks a little uncharitably, making his way gingerly out from under the sink and unbending slowly, and with a wince.

“You don’t seem the type.”

Chirrut’s face shifts into comic dismay.

“My feelings are grievously injured and I rescind the offer of my specialty homebrew. You can drink out of the sink.”

Baze laughs, despite himself.

“That your business?”

“A hobby.”

Something odd has passed into the man’s face, the smile sagging at the corners.

Baze doesn’t ask.

Somehow it doesn’t surprise him that Jyn befriended a microbrewer.

“It was once women’s work, you know, the making of beer,” Chirrut calls.

His voice is a little too loud and bright in the low space.

Baze considers this tidbit, and how he’s probably supposed to react to it. What might be hinted and what might not be.

“Don’t tell that to Jyn,” he decides on.

Chirrut rips out another laugh, this one with a wicked edge.

He has a great laugh, Baze thinks absently. He must have caused plenty of trouble in his time. This too doesn’t surprise him in terms of Jyn’s choice of friends.

Against his better instincts he finds himself oddly okay with being watched by this hovering fellow. Always asking questions about what he’s doing, why he’s doing it. It should be annoying. Somehow it isn’t, comforting to talk about tangible things with that lingering dream hanging over top of him. The sense of incoming, inevitable failure and loss.

Baze often dreams of failure.

“How did you meet?“ Chirrut asks out of the blue, after hip-checking a table by accident.

Clumsy, Baze notes. Like anything that isn’t directly in front of him isn’t there.

"Hm?”

“You and Jyn.”

Baze is surprised at the heavy, intent look on the other man’s face. Blinks as he realizes.

Oh.

“Phone book.” Baze grunts, “Under ‘Welders’.”

Nothing weird, he wants to add. Doesn’t, since he’s sure somehow that would make it worse.

…Is he actually going to be given the shovel talk by a Five-foot-Eight beatnik?

Baze doesn’t know whether to be flattered or concerned. Jyn is a very pretty girl, with a good head on her shoulders. Nice tits, too, if he’s completely honest. She could do a lot better than him for sure. He hopes, in a blaze of worry, that she knows it. Good God does he hope it.

He blinks.

The rising, tight tilt of the other man’s chin is very much like Jyn’s.

“You?” Baze asks, trying to keep the uneasy frown off his face.

“Destiny,” the other says.

Baze laughs before considering whether he’s supposed to. A dry noise.

“Really.”

The corners of Chirrut’s mouth go mercifully up. He leans back against the counter.

“I wandered into the grad installations by accident and she almost murdered me with a power sander.”

He makes it sound like the most casual and reasonable thing in the world. Baze swallows down another laugh.

“Get out.”

“That’s what she said,” Chirrut deadpans back, dislodging Baze’s laugh from his throat despite himself. Despite how utterly cheesy it is. Chirrut, he notices, turns his whole face like a cat when he peers at him. A flicker of surprise.

“…Have we met before?” Chirrut asks faintly, something uncertain in his features.

Baze snorts, shaking his head.

“Definitely not.“

Chirrut frowns but goes on with a shrug.

"Anyway, my Tai Chi was completely ruined, I offered her free self-defense lessons to compensate her for the fright, and we’ve gotten along famously ever since.”

Baze makes a listening noise.

The thought of anyone weaponizing Jyn Erso’s anger is completely terrifying. He’s half-convinced Jyn’s lambent rage is its own renewable energy source.

“You give her your beers?”

Chirrut gives him a look of practiced disdain his mother would have been impressed by.

“Forget I asked.” Baze mutters, shrugging.

“Have you met Galen Erso?”

Chirrut’s dark eyes are narrow, intent. Without the easy smile his whole face is narrow and long, proud-looking somehow. Something in the combination of lips and chin and brow.

Baze searches his memory for the name. Finds nothing with a slow shake of his head.

“Who?”

“The father,” Chirrut’s chin tilts up again, a slow fury in his dark eyes.

Baze frowns, guessing.

“…Alcoholic?”

“Mm,” Chirrut agrees, his chin set and stubborn like a little fist, “The quiet kind.”

Baze considers this more carefully, a slow frown settling. Next Thursday he’ll relocate them to a cafe, he thinks. Cut down on the girl’s intake. Someone has to take care of her.

“You try talking to her?”

Chirrut gives a sharp laugh again.

“Have you tried stopping Jyn from doing something before?”

Baze thinks. Chirrut’s already grinning, shaking his head, utterly fond.

“When Jyn Erso rebels, the whole world follows,” the man says.

Baze frowns. He’s starting to realize why a thirty-something-looking bohemian fitness freak of a man in a Bill Gates turtleneck is Jyn’s best friend.

“I have Thursdays,” Baze says stubbornly.

“Are you serious?” Chirrut laughs.

“Your day must be either Tuesday or Wednesday–”

“It’s Friday, actually,” Chirrut cuts him off, the laughter still in his eyes. He looks utterly unintimidated. Amused, even, arms folded across his stomach.

“Then if she matters to you–”

“Good God, you’re like an old woman,” Chirrut interrupts, laughing.

Baze’s fingers tighten. He’s a big man, and he knows it.

Chirrut is not, and still meets his look without an ounce of fear, a blasé arrogance. Baze notes suddenly the outline of his shoulders. The trimness of his waist, remembers he’d said self defense classes.

“Jyn’s an adult. She does her work and does it well. Life doesn’t end because of a bit of Black Porter on a Friday Night,” Chirrut says, shaking his head slightly.

Baze’s disapproval sits heavy in his belly, welling up in frustration. A great weight of words he can’t say to a stranger, a friend of a friend.

“I can see why you and Jyn are friends,” he settles for, leadening it with the full force of his disapproval.

Chirrut shrugs, a manic glitter in his eye.

“I like a straightman with me when I cause my trouble,” he pauses, inclines his head with a smile, “Or woman.”

Baze lets out a breath in disgust.

He bets it’s the same bar on Friday. He has half a mind to make the time to fish them both out. A growing protectiveness.

“Don’t drag Jyn down with you in whatever trouble you get into.”

Chirrut makes a rude noise, his dark brows knitting irritably, ”Yes, mother hen. Will that be all?”

It comes so sharply, so abruptly Baze just stands there for a moment, realizing how far he’s overstepped.

He almost wants to apologize. Feels the sting instead of the comparison. Dismissal.

Baze bits down his words.

“…I’ll send you an estimate.”

“Well, good. You stay right there and estimate,” Chirrut drawls, bumping the same table, catching the same vase, “while I get you a crate.”

Baze blinks.

“A…what?”

“You need a drink!” Chirrut hollers down the hall, “You need about five drinks!”

“I don’t need anything!” Baze yells back.

He winces at the sound of his own voice.

Chirrut Îmwe has apparently gone selectively deaf.

“I don’t accept drinks from strange men,” Baze mutters, a little hot around the ears when he realizes the other man is indeed bringing up a loose crate filled with dark bottles.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m a painfully ordinary man cursed with spectacular beauty,” Chirrut replies back, making a face, “and not at all strange.”

Baze doesn’t laugh. Can’t. Caught by a strange sense of panic.

Chirrut taps a finger against the little barrel, something challenging in his dark eyes.

“Stardust Ale. Last year’s vintage. It’ll give you something to talk about with my friend.”

“I…can’t accept this,” Baze says quietly.

Chirrut is waving him off with a noise of irritation, shoving the thing into his hands.

“Go on. Get lost. Make your estimates. Come back when this,” he taps the crate, “is gone. Get drunk with some friends. This is my number,” he’s scrawling something large and loose on the side of the wood.

Baze gives him one last, exasperated look as he does so, as he’s manhandled to the door by prodding and pushing hands.

“And wear something different next time,” Chirrut adds, calling after him down the steps to the tilted street, “You look like a Ghostbuster!“

It's Only Fair (NORAD Boys AU, 9/?)

Jared’s been in his new house for approximately 37 hours, but until Jensen steps over the threshold, it doesn’t feel like home. Of course, Jensen’s brought Icarus with him and Harley and Sadie immediately dive for the tiny newcomer, sniffing every inch of him and dancing around like marionettes. Icarus seems a bit overwhelmed, so Jensen scoops him up and cuddles him close to his chest. However, as tall as Jared’s babies are, this doesn’t do much to distract them. “They’re just enthusiastic,” says Jared, clamping a hand down on both their necks. Jensen nuzzles Icarus’s head with his chin. “He’s okay. Just surprised him, that’s all.” Jared snaps his fingers. “Bed. Now.” Harley and Sadie slink off to their giant denim beds. “Maybe you should put him in my room.” “He’ll be okay.” Jensen sets Icarus on Jared’s battered brown recliner. He sniffs the pillow all over and then flops down on his belly. “He’s settling in already.” “There’s ribs in the slow cooker, and I’ve got potatoes roasting in the oven,” says Jared, extending a hand to take Jensen’s suitcase and backpack. “Have a seat at the table. I’ll be right back.” Jared stashes Jensen’s luggage in his bedroom and grins when he sees the package on the bed. Tonight is gonna be amazing, if all goes well. When he gets back downstairs, Jensen is in the kitchen uncapping bottles of the local microbrew he picked up at the corner store. He offers one to Jared. Jared clinks the neck of his bottle against Jensen’s. “To the first amazing night of many in this house.” “Cheers.” Jensen takes a long swig of the beer. “Hey, that’s pretty good for hipster beer.” “Not everybody in Tacoma is a hipster,” argues Jared. “Only because y’all are here.” Jensen points his bottle at Jared. “Pretty sure they don’t let hipsters in the Armed Forces.” Jared laughs. “Yeah, they wouldn’t last very long in BMT. Plus, no manbuns or neckbeards allowed.” “I bet you could rock a manbun,” muses Jensen. “Too bad you can’t grow your hair any longer than that.” “Believe me, I already get shit for having it this long,” replies Jared. “My COs whip out the rulers all the time. I have to get it trimmed every three weeks to keep it within regulation.” Jensen trails his fingers through Jared’s hair. “Crying shame. You’ve got great hair.” “When I retire, I’m never cutting it again.” Jared chuckles. “I’m going full-on Gandalf, beard and all.” Jensen raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know how I feel about that.” “Well, you got a long time to figure it out.” The oven timer buzzes. “Have a seat, the potatoes are done.” Jared dishes up the ribs, which are pretty much falling off the bone, and the potatoes and adds some Spanish corn from the stove. By the time he gets it to the table, Jensen’s practically drooling. Jensen takes one bite of the meat and moans out loud. “Oh my God, this is better than your dick.” “I still have some of the sauce,” replies Jared with a smirk. Jensen looks up, eyes wide. “I might actually hold you to that.” “I got other plans,” says Jared in a low voice. “Oh really?” Jensen’s eyebrows shoot toward his hairline. “Do tell.” “It’s a surprise.” Jared takes a bite of corn and washes it down with beer. “But you’ll like it.” “I’ll be the judge of that,” replies Jensen. “But if it’s anything like your cooking, I might have to move in here.” Jared’s cheeks heat up. “You’d have to marry me to qualify.” Jensen sucks some meat off the bone in a way that’s more than a little obscene. “Not out of the question.” He smirks. “I could get used to this.” Jared nearly chokes on his potato. “Moving a little fast there, aren’t we?” “I’m a TV star. That’s how we roll.” Jared shakes his head. “Let me at least become an officer first, okay?” “That’s where you get to wear the fancy uniform, right?” Jared chuckles. “That’s part of it, yeah.” Jensen looks him up and down. “Do they make dress uniforms in Sasquatch size?” “You better hope they do, or I’m gonna show up naked to our wedding.” Jensen actually does choke on his food then. He coughs a few times and pounds his chest with one fist. “Fuck, don’t do that!” “Sorry.” Jared reaches over and taps Jensen’s back a few times. “You okay now?” Jensen nods. “No more n-word at the dinner table, capisce?” “Got it.” Jared finishes his beer. The rest of the meal passes uneventfully. Jared rinses the dishes and puts them in the dishwasher, and then he pours himself a generous shot of 151 and adds Coke to it. He takes it up to the bedroom with them. He stops Jensen outside the door. “Gimme a minute, okay?” Jensen starts unbuttoning his shirt. “One minute.” Jared hooks the straps of the sex swing over the door. It’s supposedly rated for up to 300 pounds, and Jensen’s less than 2/3rds of that, so he figures it should work. He opens the door less than halfway and seizes Jensen’s wrist, pulling him inside and slamming it behind him. Then he slaps the mask over Jensen’s eyes and slides the strap over his head. “What the—” Jared puts his hand over Jensen’s mouth. “I’m in charge now,” he says in his best drill sergeant voice. He finishes unbuttoning Jensen’s shirt and pulls it off, then slips Jensen’s undershirt over his head and removes his jeans and boxers. “You’re in my world now.” “I don’t know what this is,” says Jensen, “but it’s really fuckin’ hot.” “You steal other people’s powers, right?” Jared guides Jensen to the back of the door. “Now I’m stealing yours.” He wraps the wrist cuffs around Jensen’s wrists and pulls the straps taut, yanking his wrists above his head. Jensen’s getting hard already, and Jared’s pretty much there too. He wraps the leg straps around Jensen’s thighs and draws them taut, lifting Jensen off the ground. Jensen’s face goes pale. “This is safe, right?” “Far as I know.” Jared guides Jensen’s hands to the handles and clasps his fingers around them. “Hold on tight, babe, ‘cause it’s gonna be bumpy from here on out.” Jensen’s cock is flushed deep red and leaking, so Jared bends down and flicks his tongue over the slit, tasting the bitter tang of precome. Jensen grips the handles so hard his knuckles turn white, but Jared isn’t inclined to rush this. It’s quite a switch, having Jensen completely at his mercy, and he has to admit that it’s partly just the thought of how completely unlikely it is that his character would ever get into this situation that’s driving some of this. He’s read a lot of Kane slashfic, and Kane is a total dom. Luckily, Jensen doesn’t seem to be. Jared kneels down and takes Jensen’s cock into his mouth. He traces the underside of the head with the tip of his tongue, and Jensen groans loudly. “Fuckin’ tease.” Jared laves a thick stripe down the shaft to the base of Jensen’s cock and then circles it with his tongue. He starts to suck and he can feel that Jensen wants to thrust further into Jared’s mouth but he has no leverage. Jared draws back until he’s got the head of Jensen’s cock between his lips and then runs the tip of his tongue along the underside one more time. He flutters his tongue over the slit and Jensen cries out. Jared releases Jensen’s cock and covers Jensen’s mouth with his own. He thrusts his tongue past Jensen’s lips, mingling the salt of Jensen’s precome with the sweetness of barbecue sauce and the spices and heat of the corn. Jensen drops his head back, breaking the kiss, and Jared lets him catch his breath. He’s got better things in mind. Jared pulls a bottle of lube out of his pocket and then sheds his own clothes. Jensen whimpers at the loss of contact, but Jared doesn’t rush. Jensen is so hot like this, completely at Jared’s mercy, unaware of what fate awaits him. It’s so unlike the show, where Jensen’s always in control, always has one-up on everyone around him. Jared squeezes lube onto his fingers and slides one into Jensen’s ass. Jensen bites off a moan at the sensation, and Jared kisses his neck to distract him. Jensen won’t be filming for another couple of months, but Jared doesn’t want to mark him in places he can’t hide without effort. He kisses a trail down Jensen’s chest to one nipple and takes it between his lips. He sucks at the tender flesh and flutters his tongue over the sensitive bud. Jensen gasps and throws his head back, the cords on his neck standing out. Jared adds another finger. Jensen’s starting to relax, although Jared can tell that it’s forced. He bites down gently on Jensen’s nipple and Jensen lets out a guttural shout. Jared starts to scissor his fingers and turns his attention to Jensen’s other nipple, coaxing it into hardness with the tip of his tongue. He gently grazes his teeth over the tip as he adds a third finger. Jensen’s panting now, his cheeks blazing red with exertion, and his hair is damp with sweat. Jared pumps his own cock a few times in preparation. “You ready?” asks Jared. “Fuck yeah,” rasps Jensen. Jared spread lube over his own cock before entering Jensen, who’s holding onto the handles of the swing for dear life. His thighs are spread wide and straining against the bonds. Jared steps up to Jensen and eases his cock into Jensen’s slick, waiting hole. Jensen gasps and hits his head against the door. “You alright?” “Yeah,” breathes Jensen. “Keep goin’.” Jared presses further into Jensen’s ass. The tip of his cock slides past the ring of muscle to hit the sweet spot, and Jensen cries out. A single tear slides past the bottom edge of the blindfold and Jared catches it with his tongue. Then he slips his tongue between Jensen’s lips and swallows his breathy gasps. He starts to fuck Jensen in earnest, not roughly, but hard enough that he’ll feel it tomorrow. He breaks the kiss to let Jensen breathe and sucks at the hollow of Jensen’s throat instead. Jensen’s starting to tense up, so Jared runs a hand up Jensen’s neck to cup the back of his neck and leans in close. “Relax, baby. I got you.” Jensen presses his forehead against Jared’s. Jared rubs the back of his neck tenderly as he continues to plunder Jensen’s ass. Jensen’s gripping the handles of the swing so tightly that his fingernails have cut into his palms and blood has seeped around the edge. Jared gently eases Jensen’s fingers away from his palms and entwines his fingers with Jensen’s. “You’re okay, you’re safe. You’re not gonna fall,” Jared assures him. “Trust me.” “I do,” breathes Jensen. Jared kisses both of Jensen’s scratched palms and then presses his lips to Jensen’s in a gentle caress. Jensen goes rigid and Jared realizes that he’s on the brink. He hits the sweet spot once, twice, and a third time, and Jensen shoots his load all over Jared’s abs. Jared thrusts a few more times before he achieves his own release and slowly, carefully, pulls out. He then pulls the blindfold off and lets Jensen look at him. “Holy shit,” gasps Jensen. “That was—fuckin’ hot.” “You liked that?” Jensen nods, still panting hard enough to make speaking difficult. “I’ve never….done anything….like that.” “Well, maybe next time I’ll let you string me up,” says Jared with a smirk. Jensen raises an eyebrow. “You think it would hold?” “It’s supposed to.” Jared kisses Jensen, but it’s sweet, not salacious. “We’ll just have to find out, won’t we?” “I’m game if you are.” Jared runs his fingers through Jensen’s sweat-soaked hair. “I guess it’s only fair.”

How to Visit Québec City on a Budget

I’ve visited Canada many times but have always missed is Québec City. I’ve only heard great things from everyone who has ever been there. Luckily, my friend Pamela is an expert on the city. She runs walking tours there and even recently published a guidebook to the city. Given that fall is supposed to be one of the most beautiful times to visit, I thought now was a perfect time to have her share her expertise!

I fell in love with Québec City the moment I stepped off the overnight train from Halifax. The cobblestone streets, outdoor patios, European architecture, and delicious poutine (and French men!) tugged at my heartstrings.

A French colony founded in 1608 by Samuel de Champlain, Québec City was then known as New France. Over the course of its over four hundred years, the city went from being French then British, and then French again, creating a delightful mix of architectural styles.

While most are initially drawn to Québec City by its history and European charm, the people, food, and culture are why they inevitably fall in love with the city. The locals are a community very passionate about all things Québec and wants visitors to experience that same passion, regardless of one’s travel budget. I can’t preach the gospel of this city enough. It’s like a big little village and one of my favorite places in the entire country.

Though Québec City can be expensive, there are plenty of ways to visit this city on a budget and still enjoy everything this place has to offer!

Things to See and Do

Québec City has things to see and do for pretty much every type of visitor; it doesn’t matter what time of year you visit. There are, of course, a few things everyone should see and do:

Explore Vieux-Québec (Old Québec): While doing it on your own can be fun, make time to take a walking tour. If you’re on a tight budget, there is a free walking tour with Samuel Dubois, a funny local guide who lives off the tips he receives from travellers. His tour takes you through the Old City and is filled with humorous facts and stories. Samuel is also a craft beer connoisseur, so if you’re looking for recommendations, he is your man! If you have a little money to spend and want a historical walking tour with a costumed guide, Cicerone’s walking tours are highly recommended!

Visit La Citadelle & city fortifications: Québec City is one of the oldest fortified city in North America. Spend some time at the Citadelle (which is still operational and home to the Royal 22e Régiment). Admission is $16 CAD and includes entrance to the Citadelle, a museum tour, the changing of the guard (in summer), and the Beating of the Retreat.

Dufferin Terrace: The terrace is the oldest boardwalk in the city and runs along the front of Fairmont Château Frontenac. In summer, you can relax on the boardwalk, watch street performers, and buy chocolate-dipped ice cream cones from Au 1884. In winter, toboggan down the slope of the Dufferin Slide, one of the first tourists attractions in the city.

Climb to the top of Terrasse Pierre-Dugua-de-Mons: Capture a postcard-perfect shot of Château Frontenac and the Saint Lawrence River. There is a wooden staircase after the gazebo on Dufferin Terrace.

Ride the funiculaire: From Dufferin Terrace, take the funicular (inclined railway) down the cap (promontory) to Petit-Champlain (one of the oldest shopping streets) and Place Royale (site of the first colony). Rides are $3 CAD one-way. Tip: If you hate hills like I do, walk down the steep hill (Côte de la Montague) and take the funicular back up to the top of the cap.

Musée de la Civilization: Québec has many museums, but this is probably the best one for learning about the history of Québec. Regular admission is $16 CAD but if you are 18-30 years of age, it is only $10 (not including special exhibits).

Cathedral of the Holy Trinity: This cathedral was the first Anglican church built outside Britain, and it houses a silver communion set given by King George III. Be sure to take the guided tour for $6 CAD; it is offered by one of the best English historians in Québec City.

The Morrin Centre & Maison de la Littérature: Located across the street from each other, both of these buildings turned libraries are some of the funkiest attractions in town. The Morrin Centre started as an army barracks, then changed to a jail (where many public hangings occurred), then a college, and now a beautiful Victorian (English) library. La Maison de la Littérature is a French library housed in a converted church (which was once English). Both libraries are FREE.

Take a bus to Montmorency Falls: Skip the tours and take public transportation to Chute Montmorency (Montmorency Falls). While they are not as wide as Niagara Falls, they are 30m taller and are stunning, especially in fall when the surrounding leaves change color. From Place d’Youville, take bus #800 to the falls. A round-trip will cost $7 CAD.

Walk the stairs of Sous-le-Cap: Walk along rue Saint-Paul in Vieux-Port. When you get to the Savonnerie you’ll see a very small path between the buildings; follow it to rue Sous-le-Cap, one of the oldest streets in the city. The street is tiny, with layers of wooden stairs that stretch across the alley. This was once a busy shopping street back when the houses had a front-row view of the Saint-Lawrence River.

Amusement Park at Méga Parc: This is Québec’s version of Mall of America. Méga Parc has 19 attractions/rides, including a skating rink, an arcade with 60 or so games, mini-golf, and a rock-climbing wall. Unlimited access is $30 CAD per person. To get here, take buses #801 and #803.

The Plains of Abraham: Head into the neighborhood of Montcalm and walk around the Plains of Abraham, the site of the famous battle of 1759, which lasted 15 minutes and resulted in the British gaining control of the city. Today the Plains of Abraham is a large park with running and walking tracks, Martello Towers (small defensive forts built during the 19th century), busts of historic figures, gardens, and pretty views of the Saint Lawrence River.

Relax at Place des Canotiers: A new public space beside the Saint Lawrence River, this urban square has places to sit and relax, as well as fountains and mist you can walk through. A go-to spot on hot summer days, this is also where the cruise ships and tall ships dock.

Leave the tourists behind: In the middle of summer, when the Old City is bursting at the seams with tourists, you’ll find me in along rue Saint-Joseph Est in Saint-Roch, rue Saint-Jean in Saint-Jean-Baptiste, and 3e (Troisième) Avenue in Limoilou, where I can enjoy the quiet, local side of life. Prices are generally a little cheaper in these areas, and there are plenty of fabulous restaurants, microbreweries, cafés, and boutiques to keep me happy.

Where to Eat

If you’re a foodie, staying on budget in Québec City can be a bit hard. But to save money, it is always a good idea to venture away from the Old City; by doing so you will find more chef-run restaurants and usually cheaper prices. There are also plenty of options for cheap eats like poutine, burgers, shawarma, etc. Here are some of my favorite restaurants:

Chez Ashton (Vieux-Québec, Saint-Roch, or Montcalm): Delicious gluttony made of fries, squeaky cheese curds and piping hot gravy. Almost every restaurant sells poutine, but the best traditional poutine in the city starts with Chez Ashton. A Québec institution, it serves up poutine in large, round foil containers. In winter the price of poutine fluctuates depending on the weather. For example, if it is -25°C (-13°F) outside, then your poutine at Chez Ashton is 25% off!

La Pizz: Located in Place Royale, La Pizz serves up fairly good pizza, which starts at $9 CAD for a small. (Once you’ve finished, walk next door for some pints at Pub L’Oncle!)

Le Bureau de Poste: This little gem has a yummy $4.95 CAD (!) menu, $6.50 CAD cocktails, and $5.50 CAD pints! Go forth and have fun, and be sure to enjoy the patio in summer.

Fromagerie des Grondines et ses amis: Embrace your inner cheese addict and go here for gourmet grilled cheese sandwiches. So good and not too expensive. Sandwiches start at $7.50 CAD.

Marché d’Emma: Located across the street from the hostel, this small épicerie has a nice selection of Québec craft beers, wine, frozen pizzas ($5), gourmet foods, and non-perishables. They also have fresh baguettes most days.

L’Inter Marché: Located on rue Saint-Jean in Saint-Jean-Baptiste, this small grocery store has a small selection of produce, meats, dairy, non-perishables, frozen foods, and breads. Prices are often better than at the épiceries.

The food scene in Québec City is ever-growing, and we now have a few options for vegans and vegetarians as well. As in other major cities, almost every neighbourhood now also has shawarma or kebab. There is also a sushi craze happening right now. Tip: Avoid the Chinese food in the Old City — it is not that good.

Where to Party

There are a few bars and pubs in Old Québec that can be quite touristy depending on the time of year, but try these:

Bar St-Angèle: A night of cheap beer, live music, and quirky locals. It is a must before venturing into the more “civilised” pubs and bars in the city.

Maurice Nightclub: While Bistro Plus (1063, Rue Saint-Jean) can be fun, the best nightclub in the city is Maurice on Grande Allée. Dance, drink, sweat, and then go eat poutine or shawarma before heading back to the hostel.

Le Drague Cabaret Club: A gay bar/nightclub with drag shows and karaoke.

Pub Nelligan’s: A lively Irish pub popular with locals. Rustic ambiance, live Irish shows from time to time, and a mix of Québec and Irish beers (and liquor).

Le Cercle: A bar and live music venue, Le Cercle is a local favourite. Indie bands sometimes play in a funky room in the basement.

Le Projet: An eclectic gastropub, Le Projet has roughly 24 microbrews on tap. Buy food on-site or pick up a poke bowl from Bols et Poké on your way and eat it there.

La Barbarie: By far the most popular microbrewery in the city. Beer is brewed on-site, there is plenty of seating, and while they don’t have a license to serve food, you can have a pizza, Chinese food, or whatever else you’re craving delivered to the bar.

Where to Sleep

Auberge Internationale de Québec is the best hostel in the city. With a superb location in Vieux-Québec (Old Québec), this hostel is large with a bar, common rooms, and communal kitchen. In high season beds range from $27 CAD to $30.50 CAD per night. In low season, beds range from $22 CAD to $30.50 CAD per night.

Couchsurfing is quite popular in Québec City, which has a very large Couchsurfing community with over 10,000 hosts. Always look for hosts with good ratings and reviews, and bring a small thank you gift for your host (it could be a bottle of wine or craft beer) as you are being invited into their home, for free! (Matt says: Speaking of Couchsurfing, we are hosting a Q&A with Couchsurfing on September 28th, so mark your calendars!)

If you want to experience the local vibe of the city, I suggest mixing things up a little: stay a few nights at a hostel to explore the historic areas, then Couchsurf or rent a room on Airbnb in another neighbourhood to get a true feel for what everyday life is like in Québec City.

10 Ways to Save

Québec City is one of the more expensive cities in Canada but there ways to save money on your visit. Here are ten high impact ways to save money on your visit:

Take a FREE walking tour of the Old City.

Eat poutine (under $10 CAD) at Chez Ashton, one of the cheapest places in the city.

Buy food at a neighbourhood grocery store.

Eat croissants for breakfast, they are only $2.50 CAD! Paillard on rue Saint-Jean (to the right at the bottom of rue Sainte-Ursule) are the best.

Buy a bus pass. A 1-day bus pass costs $8.50 CAD, the equivalent of 2.5 rides. A day pass gives you unlimited travel for 24-hours.

Go to Méga Parc, an indoor amusement park and shopping mall, after 5pm and get in for half price ($15 CAD).

Walk along the city fortifications and atop the city gates. Its FREE!

Visit the churches and libraries as they are FREE and quite beautiful.

Visit Bar Sainte-Angèle for cheap beer!

Couchsurf for most of your visit and save money on accommodation (plus meet amazing and friendly locals).

Getting Around Québec City

Québec City is a walking city. It is very easy to explore the main neighbourhoods (Vieux-Québec, Petit-Champlain, Place-Royale, Vieux-Port, Grande Allée, Montcalm, and Saint-Jean-Baptiste) by foot. The outer neighbourhoods of Saint-Roch, Saint-Sauveur, and Limoilou can be reached by bus.

A single bus fare is $3.50 CAD, unless you go to an authorized seller and buy a ticket; then the cost is $3 CAD. You can also buy passes that cut the cost, especially if you want to venture out to places like Chute Montmorency (Montmorency Falls):

A day pass is $8.50 CAD

An unlimited weekend pass is $15.50 CAD

A 5-consecutive-days pass is $29 CAD ($24 CAD for students)

Download the RTC (Réseau de Transport de la Capitale) Nomade mobile app to check routes while you’re out exploring. The app gives you information on schedules, as well as the closest stop to your location and when the next bus will arrive.

*** Come explore this lovely city, sit on a patio, eat poutine, and drink with the locals, and marvel at the beauty of Château Frontenac as it looms over the lower city. Sit at the top of Terrasse Pierre-Dugua-de-Mons to watch the sunset and snap a picture-perfect shot of the château, Old City, and Saint Lawrence River.

I came to Québec City because I love the architecture, the culture, and the history. I stayed because of the food, people, and the big-village vibe. Québec City has a charm and magic about it that is infectious. It is a Northern paradise of food, culture, and architecture – and I hope you come and visit soon!

Pamela is a Canadian travel writer and blogger who left her job in 2010 to travel the world. While Southeast Asia and Scotland rank among her favourite destinations, she fell head-over-heels for Québec City and now calls it home. While travel is still a big part of her life, Pamela runs Urban Guide Québec City and has recently published a guidebook on the city that focuses on local artisans, producers, and businesses. If you’re going to the city, it’s a must buy!

Photo Credit: 2, 6

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