#but this would be equal too if they had not placed the custom option on the top for no reason

[silver-horse]

Why is there an empty space next to Dark Urge???

They could have placed the custom Tav option next to Dark Urge. Or adjust the 3 portraits in the second row so that they are in the middle.

Do you also find this aesthetically strange? Why make it weird looking? Am I just fixated on symmetry? lol

I don't know. I am still wondering if there will be surprise origins revealed.

[rookthorne]

⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ 𝐌𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐟𝐮𝐥

There was never a boring moment during the festive season with your two loves, and it was no different during one of their many visits to your shop. Only, this time, Bucky had a trick up his sleeve.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𖠺 Tattoo Artist!CW!Bucky Barnes x Florist!F!Reader x Tattoo Artist!Nomad!Steve Rogers

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 𖠺 1.1k

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𖠺 Fluff, crack

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 𖠺 Yes, I can't get enough of these two.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔 𖠺 @stuckybingo 𝗡𝟮 — "Baby it's cold outside!" (December Adoptable) — Masterlist 𖠺 @rookthorne's Merry Buckmas — Masterlist

𝐆𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐈𝐧𝐤 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

It was a slow day. 

Customers came and went for hours on end — all pleased as punch at your array of impressive options and choices available to decorate for the season. Reds and greens lined the countertop edges in wreaths of holly, and along the shelves were rows of garlands prettied with poinsettias. 

It was also your turn to display an aged tradition, and you did so proudly — a giant Christmas tree, passed down the generations in your family, stood in the corner with spools and ropes of endless lights woven through the branches.

However, not only was it a slow day for you, but your favourite neighbours, too. And, while you were overjoyed to spend the lull of time with them, it came with a price. 

Because for the love of everything botany, they refused to settle down and act civilised. 

A surprised shout and loud crash came from the back room. “For goodness sakes,” you groaned. The words came out muffled behind your hands; no matter how many times you facepalmed because of one of them, it didn’t make it easier. “Bucky!”

“Sorry, sorry–!” Bucky rushed, and the wince of shame was plainly evident in his tone. You stuck your head just inside the doorway. Thankfully, nothing was toppled or broken — unless you took into account Bucky’s bruised ego. “Damned thing was not there before–”

“That has been there since the very first day I moved in here,” you argued back, pointing at your small fridge, which now sported a dent the size of Bucky’s palm on the door. The poor victim of such vandalisation was your most trusty appliance; the saviour of many days where neither you nor Wanda could venture outside to get lunch. “If you would just sit your butt down and stop wrecking my shop, I could get some work done.”

Steve started to snicker from where you left him behind the counter by the till. Blue eyes danced with mischief and a cunning, keen sense of trouble. You rounded on him and pointed at his chest with your forefinger. “That was not a cue for you to rile your husband up, you–”

“Alright, alright,” Steve soothed, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay—we’ll chill and behave for our Petal, right, Buck?”

“Yeah,” Bucky answered, and the sound of a chair scraping across the floor punctuated his voice. 

“Finally, some peace and quiet,” you quipped, striding towards the counter to pick up where you left off on the few arrangements. 

Beside you, Steve helped with his deft fingers unravelling ribbon and string, or handing you rolls of paper to place around the bouquets — the back room was equally quiet, and if you strained your ears, you could hear the hum of the fridge, as well as the scratching sound of graphite over paper. 

You should have known it was not to last. 

No more than an hour later, after you worked with Steve through the order of arrangements, did it happen. 

The snow outside the window danced as you watched, content to have a short break and stretch your fingers from all the cramped and fiddly movements. It was quiet — not a sound to be heard except the soft songs playing over the speakers, a playlist you made of all the classic Christmas songs.  

Not even the scratch of graphite on paper could be heard. 

“I really can't stay,” Dorothy Kristen sang, her aged voice like honey to your ears. The overlay of Franklin Sinatra’s line, “Baby, don't hold out,” made you think of Bucky and Steve — such old-fashioned souls, what would they have been like in the forties?

You blinked from your daze and looked around. Steve was focussing on a bundle of holly and amaryllises, his brows drawn close from the intensity of his concentration. “What are you doing?” you asked quietly. 

“Jus’– I wanted to sketch some ideas later and I thought—‘cause it’s Christmas—that maybe some holly designs might take off,” he explained, poking and prodding at the leaves until they sat just right. “I know Buck is wantin’ to do the same, or at least, somethi– FUCK!”

Steve’s answer was cut off by a sudden, loud shriek of fright falling from his lips, and he leaped a foot in the air, arching his back as though to get away from something or someone. 

That someone, as it happened, was his devious husband. 

Bucky fell into hysterics — his face turned red from how hard he was laughing, and you stared at him as he sank to his knees on the floor. The sound of his wheezes for air were as funny as the whole of the situation itself.  

“You fuckin’ bastard,” Steve grumbled when he finally came back down from the stratosphere. “Buck, I swear–”

“What did you do,” you demanded of Bucky, staring between the two of them. The fright had not only scared Steve, but you as well, and you hadn’t even seen it coming — there were no sounds as Bucky approached to do whatever he did to Steve. 

“The fucker put his cold as fuck hands on my back under my shirt!” Steve ranted. “Here I was thinkin’ he maybe wanted to be sweet on me, but no; fuckin’ no.”

It dawned on you — the lack of graphite scratches over paper, the fridge next to where Bucky was sitting in the back room... 

And you lost it. 

Your laughter echoed with Bucky’s, and you only managed to save yourself from falling to the floor by grabbing the countertop. 

“Oh, very fuckin’ funny—yeah, sure, it’s hilarious,” Steve rumbled, gesturing wildly with his hands, but he wasn’t fooling anybody — the quirk of his lips grew bigger until he was smirking, and his eyes, bright and fond, stared down at Bucky and you with something big swimming in them. “Wait– Were you in on this, Petal?”

“No!” you cried, getting to your feet and hauling Bucky up, too. “I swear—I didn’t know, I just–”

“Your face, oh my fuck–” Bucky tried, but he burst into laughter again. 

Steve shook his head and walked around the counter. “I’m goin’, see you two later,” he said, barely holding back his laugh. “Catch your breath and I’ll be back with drinks—if I feel nice.”

The door swung open, the bell rang off of the walls, and Bucky dramatically cried, “But Steve, baby, it’s cold outside!”

It was to no avail — the door swung shut behind Steve after he walked out, chin high and shoulders back, and both you and Bucky dissolved onto the floor once more, keening with laughter. 

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑 ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁

[da-birb-writes-sometimes]

This Wasn't in the Itinerary

Both of you work so hard, it's only right that you be treated to a vacation.

Character; Ruggie Bucchi

Content; fluff, gender-neutral reader, drabble

Word Count; 850+

AN; This is for a mutual of mine who brain rotted and I wanted to write a version of it. I hope you enjoy it!

“A vacation? That I get paid for,” Ruggie gave Leona a semi-shocked look. What's he playing at here?

Leona rolled his eyes, “Yeah, you’ve pulled your weight and then some, so yeah, you’ve earned it. Already booked you a room too, so don’t even try gettin’ out of it.” He tossed a key at Ruggie, who clamoured trying to catch it.

Ruggie’s brows were pinched, but he looked at the key; it looked fancy, way too fancy. “How much was this?” Did I really earn this? “I can’t-”

“Too late, room’s booked. They also got some fancy schmancy breakfast options too,” Leona handed him a card that had all of the information about the resort, all in pretty cursive. "So yeah, you can accept it."

Dear Ruggie Bucchi, Escape the stress of your life and come to The Canopy, a resort focusing on rewinding and letting your hair loose. Enjoy the fresh breakfast made by the best pastry chefs in the Sunset Savannah. Take a dip in one of the many pools on the grounds. Head out on a river cruise and look at the local wildlife. The Canopy is an all-inclusive resort, and we hope you enjoy your stay with us! Room Type & Number; Single bed with a minifridge, as well as a balcony with a hot tub. Room 183, East Wing.

This… this is real. “I-,” he took a deep breath and exhaled. “Thanks, Leona.”

“Don’t mention it,” Leona said nonchalantly He wouldn’t tell Ruggie, but he has been planning this vacation for him for weeks. “Just enjoy it. Ya earned it.”

. . .

When Ruggie arrived at his room there was already a small bag in the process of being put away, but it wasn't his. He double-checked the room number, yup, Room 183, East Wing. then why was there another bag in his room? But that scent smelled familiar-

“Ruggie?”

He turned around and saw you, standing in the doorway holding a brochure for some local shops. “Prefect?” He asked back, equally confused about the entire situation. “What are you doing here?”

You entered the room and went to your bags, looking over the card Professor Crewel left outside your doorstep. Or at least it said it was from the professor, but he hadn't said anything to you about it, but weren't complaining, you worked your butt off. Plus you didn't have to pay for any of this, so you weren't going to turn this down. “On a vacation. And you?”

“Same boat. Well, a forced one,” he also looked at your card. Room 183, East Wing. Had they double-booked the same room by accident? “Wanna talk to the front desk?”

You both looked at the bed; it looked nice, fluffy, and like it was made from the softest clouds. But it was a single, just big enough to hold one person. There was no way it could hold more without the two of you being crammed together. Ruggie could feel his ears heat up at even the idea of being in such cramped quarters with you.

You sighed and grabbed your bag, mentally preparing to talk to customer service. "Not really, but sure, why not?"

. . .

You both returned from the front desk to your room. Your shared room. And there were no other rooms available. Both you and Ruggie were stuck with each other, as the shuttle bus back to Night Raven College didn’t come back until tomorrow at noon at the earliest. So you would be stuck here for the night, sharing a single bed, together. But there were worse ways to spend your vacation, plus you like Ruggie.

“If you want I can take the floor, I don’t mind,” he offered, rubbing the back of his neck.

You placed a hand on his forearm, stopping him. “No, it’s okay,” you gave him a soft smile, “I don’t mind.” 

You got into bed a squished yourself to the edge so Ruggie could have the other half. Once he got comfy he looked up and then quickly looked away, and so did you. It was a tight squeeze, but like hell were you going to make him sleep on the floor. 

Huh, did he always have flecks of silver in his eyes? You shook your head, trying to shoo those thoughts away. When you looked back up though, Ruggie was already asleep, lightly snoring. Has he always been this pretty?

He shuffled over to you, slinging an arm across you. “Mmm, don’t leave,” he mumbled.

You stiffened but then relaxed, sighing. You carded your fingers through his hair and looked at him softly. “I won’t.” You sat there for a little bit before you too fell asleep, hiding your face next to his heart. A steady thump thump thump luring you deeper and deeper into a calm dream. 

. . .

“You did that on purpose didn’t you,” Jack asked, looking up at Leona.

Leona shrugged, “Eh, they don’t need to know that.”

Professor Crewel was not the one to gift you an all-expenses paid holiday, it was Leona. He had grown tired of the two of you not admitting anything and it was driving him up the wall, so he decided to speed things up. Hopefully, his plan turned out… the both of you deserved good things.

[fairyyeo]

white dress

pairing — beomgyu x reader

genre — fluff

tw — alcohol and food consumption

wc — 3.8k

a/n — hey 🤓 im still alive just being a slow writer with way too many ideas and no motivation. hope you guys enjoy this one i quite liked this idk just something i whipped up despite my million other wips. haha. yeah. anyway! please reblog if you enjoyed it means the world <3 also inspired by the lana song in case anyone wondered also also this is grossly self indulgent im not sorry !

————

"see you next time!" you called out, listening to the door bell ring upon the customer's exit.

you wiped your sweaty brow. the summer was hot—abnormally hot. not to mention, the customers were relentless.

to be fair, it was a friday evening and everyone rushes for an icy cola to refresh themselves after work on a sweltering hot day.

you were a waitress for the summer. you loved your job. the diner was just next to the beach, and only a short walk from your house. work didn't start until after midday, so you had all morning to... sleep in. because you finished relatively early in the night you often stayed up late, making the most of the darkness. when the sun's up it's far too hot, but in the night it's much cooler. the perfect temperature for anything and everything.

usually you hung around at home, drinking wine and reading. how could you not, when you had an ocean view? sometimes you walked down to the beach, to drink wine and read. or you walked to the park, also to drink wine and read.

sometimes, if you were feeling extra adventurous, you'd go for a swim or a bike ride. but usually you just downed your wine and escaped to your books.

you placed a sickly sweet strawberry milkshake in front of a customer and they quickly sipped the sugary drink, humming in delight.

the door bell tinkled as a boy, seemingly your age, sauntered in clad in a leather jacket layered over a white shirt. how he was coping with the heat in that outfit, you were unsure of.

"hi!" you put on your best customer grin. "what can i get for you tonight?"

the boy's eyes scanned the chalkboard panels on the wall behind you. his dark brows knit together as his equally dark eyes darted from left to right, reading over the options.

"i'll have a cola and fries, thanks." he nodded curtly at the end of his order, pulling the correct amount of cash from his pocket and placing it on the counter.

"i'll have that ready as soon as possible, take a seat wherever you like." you replied, motioning to all the different seats, inside and out.

the boy headed back outside into the heat and sat at one of the outdoor tables. thankfully, the sun was starting to set and the temperature would drop to its comfortable warmth soon, but until then it was still far too hot.

the only perk of sitting outside was the ocean breeze and the salty air smell that came with it. you couldn't blame him, you were rather fond of the smell yourself. it filled your house when you had the windows open, which you always did when it wasn't too hot, usually in autumn or spring. nonetheless, the smell sometimes seeps into the diner, especially if you sit right by the door. but it was too late to tell that to the boy, who had already made himself comfortable in his chair, facing the shoreline.

you quickly filled a glass with ice, topped it up with cola, and dropped in a straw before carrying it out to the jacket-wearing boy. you concluded that he'd want something to cool off while he waits for his food.

his head turned instantly as the door bell tinkled and you approached his seat.

"here you go, your fries will be out soon." you offered a smile as you placed the cola onto the coaster on the table.

the boy merely nodded again in thanks as you hurried away. he observed you closely once your back was turned. the short white dress under your red apron, the matching white ribbon tied in your hair. the slightly dirtied but also white tennis shoes that enabled you to move lightly on your feet while you worked.

he couldn't wait for you to come back out so he could get a good look at your face.

in the meantime, he took a sip of his cola through the red straw resting in the tall glass. it had only been about a minute but there was already an immense amount of condensation on the glass and he smiled to himself, this was the epitome of summer.

the sun was now just struggling to stay afloat on the horizon and the heat was becoming more bearable. the boy threw a glance over his shoulder perfectly on time to see you push the door open with your free hand and hurry back over to him with a serve of fries in hand.

just as he'd hoped, he managed to get a good look at your face, and god, were you beautiful.

"enjoy your food." you said sweetly, setting down the fries.

he couldn't just let you go.

"beomgyu." the boy stated.

real smooth. he internally cringed.

"excuse me?" you politely replied, believing you'd misheard him say something.

"my name's beomgyu. what's yours?" he asked out of genuine curiosity.

"y/n."

intrigue sparkled in his eyes for a brief moment, but it was fleeting as a shooting star. "and when do you get off, y/n?" instantly he liked the way your name rolled off his tongue. beomgyu caught himself wondering what his name would sound like from your lips, but he quickly shook the thought, getting far too ahead of himself.

you glanced through the window to the clock behind the counter. "uh, at ten o'clock tonight." usually it was earlier, but you were busier today, and the manager likes to stay open a little longer when the diner is bustling.

"can i pick you up then?" beomgyu asked, picking up a fry.

"i'm sorry?" you cocked your head, voice pitching up slightly in surprise.

"i'd like to see you again. is this evening too soon?" at least he was honest.

honesty is a virtue, as the saying goes.

your eyes narrowed. "i don't even know you."

it felt too good to be true. no one had ever taken interest in you before. you were too quiet to grab anyone's attention. all throughout school you hardly had any friends, and nowadays, the only people you consider friends are your workmates and manager.

and honestly, that was okay. you liked spending time with yourself, but you supposed one night apart from your books wouldn't kill you.

"i know it seems forward, but i would like for you to know me. just as i'd like to know you as well." he took a sip from his cola, the ice now entirely melted and probably watering down the drink. "it's more than okay to say no, i'll leave you well alone. i swear."

"no it's just..." you began, but paused, a little embarrassed. "no one's ever asked me out before."

beomgyu lifted his brows in shock—the most emotion you'd seen him show yet, "you're serious?"

you shrugged bashfully, fiddling with your hands.

"but you're beautiful..." he uttered more so to himself than to you.

you cheeks filled with heat, and it wasn't the last few rays of sun causing it. no one had ever said that to you either.

you slowly stepped back to the door without turning your back to beomgyu. "i'll see you at ten?" a shy smile appearing on your face.

beomgyu nodded, still looking a little distant and confused.

no one had asked you out before? it was impossible for him to believe.

about half an hour later, when the last of the sun was well and truly gone, you saw beomgyu get up and stroll over to his motorcycle—which you don't recall seeing him arrive on—before driving away.

you glanced at the clock: 8:26pm.

beomgyu would be back soon enough.

————

after cleaning the diner, hanging your apron in the break room, and locking up the store, it was 10:06pm.

truthfully, you doubted beomgyu would show up. you knew it was too good to be true. a wildly attractive, white shirt and black converse wearing, dark haired and dark eyed, shadowy and mysterious boy actually asking you out. there was simply no way.

you heaved a sigh and glanced into the unilluminated room, squinting to try and read the clock. you'd wait until 10:15pm. that was the lastest you could wait around without losing respect for yourself.

you were sitting at the outdoor table nearest to the diner entrance, your hands sandwiched between your thighs and the metalwork chair, which would definitely leave an impression on the back of your legs when you stood up.

at least it had finally cooled down a little, without the harsh sun the scorching heat became a more comfortable warmth. you shut your eyes for a minute, allowing yourself to relax.

when you opened your eyes again it was 10:11pm. the corners of your mouth turned down into a slight frown. it was then that you heard the grumble of a motorcycle get increasingly louder, and you suppressed a smile.

beomgyu was still wearing the same outfit as before, you were glad because he looked wildly attractive in that jacket.

"sorry i'm late." was the first thing he said. "i was picking up some things." he held up a brown paper bag that had been previously wedged between his thighs as he drove the motorcycle.

"i'm glad you showed." you said with a small smile.

"you thought i'd leave you waiting around?" he sounded concerned.

you shrugged. "i guess so."

beomgyu grabbed your hand and pulled you along gently towards his motorcycle. "then you're mistaken, and we really ought to start knowing each other." he picked up the helmet, "i would like to take you somewhere, if that's okay. it's just outside of town."

"you're not—"

"—going to kill me are you?" he laughed, predicting the words before they left your mouth. "do you trust me?"

weirdly enough, you did.

you were drawn to him like a moth to a flame, even if you didn't trust him, you weren't sure that you'd be able to resist accompanying him to wherever it was that he was taking you.

so you nodded which caused him to smile—the first time you'd seen him do so—and place the helmet over your head, fastening it well.

beomgyu hopped onto the motorbike and placed the brown paper bag between his legs. you followed, sitting behind him.

"come closer and put your arms around me, you'll feel safer, i promise." underneath his hard looking exterior, beomgyu seemed to be so gentle and considerate. "please, don't be shy."

you moved closer and did as his said, wrapping your arms around his waist so that your chest was flush against his back.

"that's better." he smiled in approval, though you couldn't see. "are you ready?"

"i'm still not convinced that i'm not on a one way trip to my death." you half-joked.

beomgyu laughed with you before replying, "hold on tight, okay?"

your arms drew tighter around his waist as beomgyu revved the engine and sped off down the now quiet streets. your hair was safe underneath the helmet, but beomgyu's was caught in the wind and would surely be tangled when you arrived at your destination.

the street lights blurred past and became few and far between as you strayed further away from town and along the coastal road. the smell of the ocean was mixed with the scent of grass and trees—that dense, lush nature smell.

you didn't get out of town much, never really having a reason to, so it was exciting to have a change of scenery for once.

"you good back there?" beomgyu called back over his shoulder.

your heart was full. you hadn't had this much fun in forever. it felt nice to be physically close to someone, to hold a conversation with someone besides customers, and to do something other than read books after clocking off for the night.

"yeah!" you smiled and beomgyu could hear the grin in your voice. that, in turn, made him happier.

soon enough, beomgyu began to slow down and came to a smooth stop at the edge of a forest. he hopped off the motorcycle and offered his hand to you as you did the same.

you unclipped the helmet and passed it back to him, allowing him to hang it over the handlebars.

"now, i know how this looks." he prefaced, "but i promise with my whole entire heart that i'm not going to—"

"—kill me?" you laughed, copying the way he'd predicted your words earlier. "it's okay, i believe you."

he sighed, wiping his brow dramatically with relief. "let's go then, we're nearly there." he picked up the brown paper bag in one hand and secured your hand in the other.

the moon emitted a soft light that was bright enough for the two of you to have confidence in your footsteps.

beomgyu was leading you along a forresty path that was gradually increasing its incline, though it wasn't too unbearable and your adrenaline from the motorbike ride was pushing you on.

shortly, you came to a small clearing, from which you had a breathtaking view of the moonlit ocean. you were quite high up, able to see the way the moon glistened off the surf.

"how often do you come here?" you managed to ask, still amazed at the view.

"oh, you know, just when i want to get laid." he said flatly with a shrug.

you laughed, not sure if he was entirely joking.

"honestly, i come here a lot, maybe once or twice a week? more so in the summer." he said truthfully, taking a seat at the picnic table in the middle of the clearing. "it's weird, i've never seen anyone here before, but it's a public area, got a trail and all leading right to it."

"maybe because you're here at," you checked the time on your phone, "11:03pm."

beomgyu laughed again, he found himself doing that a lot in your presence, something he didn't do a whole lot with anyone else.

it was a thick, hearty laugh, you'd noticed. almost like honey to your ears. you were very quickly growing fond of it.

"can't argue with that." he said. "i do love it here though."

"i can see why." you sat on the table with your feet on the bench, next to beomgyu who was pulling out a few beers from the brown paper bag he'd carried all this way.

"that's what you ran late for?" you teased, picking up a beer.

"in my defense i couldn't work out if you were a beer person or a wine person." he raised his hands in surrender.

"so why'd you go with beer?" you asked, twisting off the cap.

he hesitated and a sheepish smile crept onto his face, "because i'm a beer person."

the two of you laughed once more.

"to be honest with you i'm usually more of a wine person, but i don't mind a beer." you confessed, taking a sip.

"maybe next time we can get a bottle of wine." he proposed, opening his own bottle.

"you think there'll be a next time?" you asked.

beomgyu noticed your voice went shy and quiet like it was earlier when he first called you beautiful, and when he arrived to pick you up. he also then realised you'd become a little more chatty and a little more bold over the last hour. he was happy to feel you warming up to him and leaving behind your waitress persona.

"i can only hope so." he replied, gazing up at you.

you softly smiled back at him.

if angels were real, beomgyu had every reason in that moment to believe you one.

the soft moonlight on your features made you look celestial, like you were radiating an opalescent glow.

"cheers, then." you said lightly, clinking your beer bottle with beomgyu's. "is there anything else in the bag?" you motioned with your pinky finger.

"actually yes," he put down his beer and pulled out a pack of cherries. "they're in season, so i couldn't resist."

you gasped, "i love cherries, these look great. can i have one?"

"of course you can," beomgyu opened the lid and offered the pack, "here."

you picked one from the bunch and popped it into your mouth as beomgyu took out the last thing from the bag.

"want one?" he asked, taking a cigarette from the box and placing it between his lips before pulling a lighter from his jacket pocket.

you shook your head.

"will it bother you?"

you shook your head again, spitting the cherry pip straight out ahead of you.

"that's certainly one way of doing that." he chuckled as the the pip flew over his shoulder.

the two of you flourished in each other's company. as you continued to drink and chat, you found that beomgyu was easy to be around. he listened well, nodding along as you found yourself talking more than you had in your entire life. you weren't used to having such an opportunity, not usually spending time with anyone besides your workmates. you learned a lot about beomgyu as he shared information about himself where relevant. beomgyu had a voice similar to his laugh that was deep and hearty. you were quite content listening to him talk as well.

beomgyu never wanted this moment to end. he wanted to hear every detail of your life, all your hopes for the future, your deepest desires, your biggest regrets, everything and anything, he wanted to know about. he found you extremely endearing as he began to notice little quirks of yours, spitting the cherry pips, placing a hand on your heart when you laugh too hard, and the one that sent his heart racing more so than the others, leaning forward attentively with your chin in your hands when he spoke.

soon, the beer was all gone, the cherries were nothing but pits and stems littered around you, and beomgyu was lighting another cigarette.

"getting bored yet?" beomgyu asked jokingly, nudging your leg with his elbow.

but you answered sincerely, "not at all. right now, i don't ever want to go home."

he hummed in pretend thought, "does that rule my place out?"

you raised your brows at him, "i see what you're getting at here."

beomgyu hadn't realised how his question had sounded until you made that comment.

"well that's not what i meant." he ran a flustered hand through his hair, not wanting you to think he was some sleazy guy.

you laughed, "i know, i know." you playfully pushed his shoulder. "does the offer still stand despite that?"

his eyes met yours, wide, like he didn't quite catch what you'd said.

"don't you get all shy on me now mr. 'and when do you get off?'"

"i'm not shy!" he said in defense, "i just," he took a drag, "i don't want you to think that this is something i always do, that you're one of many. when i saw you this afternoon, i don't know, something was telling me i couldn't just leave without saying something."

beomgyu couldn’t believe how cheesy he sounded, but he really had a point to prove, so he endured it.

you on the other hand, were filled with butterflies. elation was the only word that could begin to describe how you felt. somewhere, deep down, you still didn’t believe the boy smoking in front of you to not be a sleaze, but in this moment, your self respect was no where to be found.

you leaned forward and stole the cigarette resting between beomgyu's lips. he frowned for half a second, brows knitting together and eyes meeting yours in confusion, until you leaned even closer and placed a kiss right where the cigarette had been not a moment ago.

you went to pull away but beomgyu only pulled you closer, deepening the kiss. his hands held your face for a moment before travelling down your body. he tasted of cigarette, a taste that was foreign to you, but not unwelcome.

beomgyu couldn’t comprehend a single thought, he felt dizzy. the faint scent of your perfume that clung to your skin despite the heat, the sweetness of your lips and the lingering taste of cherry, the feel of your hand threading through his hair, it was all overwhelming.

“you…” he breathed against your lips, “you shouldn’t of done that.”

“why not?” you kissed just below his ear.

he hummed. “don’t play coy with me.”

“let’s just get out of here.” you smiled, pleased with the effect you’d had on beomgyu.

————

the walk back to the motorbike was tense, beomgyu was exercising a lot of self control in keeping his hands to himself, as were you.

the drive back was much worse. beomgyu’s mind was clouded, he couldn’t think about anything but the feel of your lips on his. his entire body was in flames, especially with your arms wrapped around his torso. he noticed your were less tense than on the ride up, and he couldn’t help but feel happy that you’d grown comfortable to be close with him.

you directed him back to your place and he walked you to the door, ever the gentleman.

“so,” you smiled up at beomgyu, standing just inside your house, “thanks for a good time, beomgyu. goodnight.”

he nodded, taking in your beautiful moonlit features one more time for the night, because whether you liked it or not, he’d be back again sooner or later.

“goodnight, y/n.” beomgyu turned to leave.

“i’m joking, get in here!” you pulled him back, kissing him yet again.

“you’re too much for me.” he smirked, lifting you off the ground.

“you’re telling me you don’t want this right now?” you whispered teasingly, however, you also wanted to check that you hadn’t misread his feelings.

“quite the opposite actually.” beomgyu said, carrying you inside and shutting the door behind him.

————

that night was the first of many.

beomgyu was always there at 10pm to pick you up, no matter what, and from there the night began.

he came prepared with wine the next time, and cherries again, insisting that you might as well enjoy them while they’re in season.

sometimes you went back to the clearing on the cliff from the first night. but you ventured around more now, exploring new areas.

your concerns of beomgyu being a one night stand guy drifted away and were soon replaced with the fear of simply being his summer fling.

but when you heard the rev of a motorbike outside your work at 10pm on march 1st, you somehow knew this was forever.

[abugsjournal]

A Cowboy's Cup of Coffee ☕

Arthur Morgan x male reader

Summary: After a sweet apology from Arthur your budding friendship grows! You have plans to meet Arthur outside of work for the first time, but must deal with some drama in your café first.

Content Warning: Mention of drinking, men being creepy, threats of violence.

Chapter 2: Headaches

Arthur's POV

It's been about a week since your social blunder at the café. You've been offering to go on hunting trips to avoid going into town. You would rather come face to face with a bear than make a fool of yourself in front of Y/N again. You kick yourself for being worried about his opinion of you in the first place. That shouldn't matter, why are you even thinking about it?

Luckily, you don't encounter any bears, but today's hunting trip with Charles was the most successful one you've had since you settled down in this spot. Everyone back at camp was elated. So elated that as the hearty deer stew was being served, bottles of whiskey and rum were opened and passed around the campfire with equal enthusiasm. You remember the women's tipsy giggles, and the men getting a little loud and rowdy, but not much else.

As you open your eyes you feel your head screaming in pain. You roll out of your cot, swallowing and forcing the rising bile back into your stomach. The morning light is blinding, you squint and shield your eyes as you exit your text. As your vision adjusts you can see everyone else feels just as miserable. There's a collective groan as the gang members each start working on their tasks for the day. You know you'll be absolutely useless until you nurse this headache, but the smell of the coffee over the fire almost makes you gag. The only thing you think you could stomach is the coffee from the café in town. You sigh, weighing your options, and decide you would do anything to make your head stop pounding, even if it means risking an awkward conversation. As you ride into town, you rehearse a long overdue apology in your mind.

Y/N's POV

A few slow, monotonous days pass by you. You find yourself watching the door to your café, silently willing it to open. Every time you hear that bell ring you get a small rush of excitement, but it's crushed every time you look up and see a regular's face.

Did I somehow scare him off? You replay your last interaction with Arthur over and over again in your mind. It wasn't the first time you had caught a customer staring at you, but it was one of those rare instances where you weren't mad about it. Small towns feel smaller the longer you stay in them, so new faces excite you. Maybe you got too excited. You begin to convince yourself that you were too forward, or he was just traveling through town, or is flat out avoiding you when you hear the bell above the door ring once again.

Expecting disappointment at this point, you can't keep your eyes from widening in surprise when you see Arthur in the doorway. He is fidgeting with his hat in his hands as he approaches the counter. He has dark circles under his eyes and squints slightly as he looks in your direction. Working in a coffee shop for so long has taught you to instantly recognize a hangover. You intentionally keep your voice at a lower tone and quieter than usual as you greet him, "Hey friend, welcome back. Rough night?"

"Very fun night from what little I can remember, just a rough morning," He closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, "Listen, I just wanted to apologize for the other day."

"There's no need, really, you didn't do anything wrong-"

Before you can finish your sentence, Arthur interrupts you, "I was rude to you after you were kind to me and you didn't deserve that." He stares directly into your eyes, and you can see they're filled with sincerity, "I'm truly sorry if I made you uncomfortable at all, and for rushing out the way I did."

You feel paralyzed by the weight of his stare, and you can see the guilt in his eyes. Even though you don't think he did anything warranting such a genuine gesture, you can tell he won't let it go until you accept his apology.

"Alright," You sigh, "All is forgiven."

The beginnings of a smile quickly shift into a wince of pain on Arthur's face. "I'd love to accurately express my gratitude but I think I might die if I don't get some coffee in me soon," He slides some change across the counter towards you, "And whatever you have on the menu today smells amazing, I'll have one of those too."

"Thank you! It's mini strawberry shortcakes today, now go sit down before you pass out or puke on my floors." You smirk, trying to ease some of the remaining tension.

Arthur lets out a small chuckle, "Good idea." He slowly walks over to his usual corner table.

As you prepare his order you think about how to handle Arthur. Based on how he's acted the past few times you've seen him, you come to the conclusion that you'll have to let him come to you, like a stray dog. Being too friendly too fast might scare him off again. You're also thankful that instead of letting one awkward conversation snuff out the sparks of a new friendship, you were both able to move past it.

Small talk comes easy to the two of you now. Arthur comes in nearly every day. You ask him questions about work and he gives you vague answers. He asks you about baking and why the décor in the café is so "unique" as he politely put it. About a month of these pleasantries go by. One day he asks you what you do when you're not working.

"I sometimes try to come up with new recipes for the menu! Or I go to estate sales for cups and furniture."

"That doesn't count, that's just more work!" A laugh escapes you as you realize he's right, "Come on, you've gotta have other things you like doing."

You shyly mention that you like to draw and document the insects and plants in the area.

His eyes widen and the corners of his mouth curl up in excitement, "No way! I have a journal that I draw in."

"Really? I'm surprised, hands like yours usually aren't holding pencils." You smirk at him, narrowing your eyes and hoping your snide comment might pry more information about his unspecified line of work out of him.

He simply laughs, "Ha! Explains why I'm not very good at it."

You roll your eyes at another failed attempt to learn more about his job. Is he avoiding the subject on purpose or just being dense? "Well if you ever want to share of see some of my art, my house is just a ten minute walk down the road. It's the little one with the wooden wind chimes."

Arthur seems taken aback by your invitation and takes a moment to respond, "I'd like that. When should I head over?"

"I close up shop at two and if I get through my cleaning fast enough I can probably be home by four. Does that sound good?"

"I'll have to run a quick errand but it shouldn't take too long." Arthur drains the last of his coffee and stands up, "I'll see you later, Y/N."

"See ya, Arthur!" You wave goodbye as he leaves. You can't help but smile to yourself as you clean off his table. You check your pocket watch and sigh, it's only ten.

The minutes sluggishly pass by you as your giddiness grows. You try your best to avoid checking the time in between each task, knowing that will only make the day go by even slower. You're washing plates behind the counter when two unfamiliar men stumble through your doors. Before you can greet them they walk right past your register and over towards one of your customer's tables. You follow their gaze and see they have their eyes locked on Eva, the eldest daughter of one of the local farmers. She comes here in the afternoons to read without having to worry about her rambunctious little brothers bothering her.

She's so engrossed in her book that she doesn't notice the men saunter over, about two steps closer than they should be. The hair on the back of your neck stands up as one of the men clumsily places a hand on the table, knocking over her cup and spilling coffee into her lap.

"Hey! Watch it-" Eva looks up from her book and sees just how close these men are. Her eyes widen as they lean over her.

"What's a pretty thing like you doing sitting here all alone?" The shorter man's words practically slosh out of his mouth. He tries to put a finger under her chin, but Eva slaps his hand away.

The taller man grabs her wrist. "That's no way to treat someone who's just being nice to you, missy." He hisses through gritted teeth.

You clear your throat and stand with your arms crossed over your chest, hiding your shaking hands, "Excuse me gentlemen, I don't take kindly to folks that harass my customers. I'll give you to the count of three to back away from her and get out."

The men glare menacingly at you, "Or what?"

"Or this pot of boiling coffee is gonna make it real easy for the law to identify your ugly mugs." The thugs glance at each other, and then back at you, "One. Two-"

"Fine." The taller man drops Eva's wrist and drags his companion out the door behind him without another word. The scent of whiskey lingers in the air behind them.

You let out a long exhale. You knew you wouldn't have been able to win that fight if things had escalated, but they didn't need to know that. "Eva, are you alright? Do you need me to walk you home"

"Oh I'll be alright," She stands up and tries to wring the coffee out of her dress, "Thanks for scarin' them off!" She gives you a big smile as she collects her things. You wrap up the remaining shortcakes and send her off with a treat for her troubles.

You check your pocket watch again and you're grateful to see it's finally two. You flip the sign on the door to "Closed" and rush through your closing tasks, quickly forgetting about the incident as your planned meeting with Arthur grows closer. You can't remember the last time you were this anxious to get home. You finish your chores in record time, lock your café doors, and begin walking home. You're so caught up in your excitement that you don't look around for insects to draw like you usually would, but you do notice the squirrels and rabbits in the surrounding forest are skittish. They seem to make much more noise than usual as you follow the trail through the woods.

As you unlock your front door and turn the handle, you hear a voice behind you.

"Look who's all alone now."

//

Thank you so much for reading! Forgive me for the long absence, April is a terribly busy month for me and I was also getting extremely burnt out from work. To be super real the only reason I was able to get this typed out and posted is because I got sick and couldn't get out of bed all day (lol). Tumblr is also being super weird and not letting me indent no matter how I type this out or where I copy and it paste from. Anyone else have this issue?

Chapter 1 / Chapter 3 coming soon!

Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist!

Taglist: @photo1030

[olivia-anderson-fanfic]

OHSHCAU (Keysmash)

Part 3

Prev

You know how, when the school year starts up, a teacher might get everyone to go around the room and give a couple of vague facts about themselves? Or, even worse, they might split everyone up into teams based on some random, inconsequential factors and they would all be forced to work together on some dumb task? That way they can get to know new people better?

You know how everyone hates that?

Yeah. Marinette thought that, of all people, her fellow high schoolers would understand. But alas, here she was, glaring down Dick because he wanted to do a team-building exercise. Bastard. She was going to shoot him.

With a paintball gun! Because they were playing paintball!

Do not send cops her way! She will introduce neurotoxins to your system!

Anyways, she had no choice but to agree. Debt’s a bitch.

And, maybe, the idea of shooting the Waynes point blank in the face with paintballs would have swayed her regardless, but who knows. The option was never truly given to her, so who’s to say how she would have reacted?

Certainly, the Waynes would never know.

Which was probably for the best. They could end her life in a couple of phone calls.

She hummed as she absently messed with her paintball gun. They had been split off into pairs. Steph was still on the bench thanks to her copious amounts of injuries, unfortunately, so Marinette hadn’t particularly minded who she was going to end up with (she hated all of the Waynes equally, save fucking Tim, who would avoid her, anyway), and had allowed them to all pair off and leave her with the leftovers.

She was regretting that, now, of course.

Dick wrapped his arm around her shoulders and tugged her into his side. “Don’t get too competitive, please?” He said, and he sounded like he was one more ‘fuck you’ away from begging.

She glanced over his shoulder and found Tim making faces at her behind his back. He was supposed to be heading to one of the other nondescript, frankly unnerving steel tunnels that would lead them to a random place on the map. He should be spending this time with Damian so they could discuss their plans. He was not doing any of these things. He had followed Marinette and Dick to their room instead, and she would be concerned about him trying to figure out where they would end up for the sake of a tactical advantage… but, frankly, that was too smart for him.

He had no good reason to be here. How sweet of him to want to see her off.

She looked back at Dick, her eyes gleaming. “Of course I won’t. Only babies get competitive over stuff like this.”

Tim bristled. But his mic was on, so he was unable to say a word in protest. He could turn his face away from the people to mouth the curses he so clearly wanted to scream, but she could just look in another direction.

Her lips twitched into a kind of grin before she tamped it down.

Dick sighed. Deeply. “I’m guessing I can take that as a no.”

“Aw. You know me so well.”

He snickered. “Well, I’d hope so, since I hired you.”

“No one has ever lied to the people hiring them ever,” she said, nodding sagely.

He grinned. “Which is why we went with… atypical hiring practices.”

“You’ve basically kidnapped me and decided to hold my entire future ransom to make me work for you.”

“Shhhhhhhhh.”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“Oh, Marinette,” a voice called, and she was more than happy to let Steph drag her out from under Dick’s arm, even if this meant that a new arm was wrapped around her waist and a face came to rest close to her own.

Marinette raised an eyebrow, but wasn’t too surprised at the sudden closeness. They’d literally slept together, in the same bed, for days. She could handle a little bit of contact. And, besides, they’d both agreed that it fit their characters (a playful flirt would flirt with a girl next door, and a girl next door would blush and let it happen) and it would draw in more customers. Teenage boys and gay teenage girls would both rather enjoy watching ‘wlw content’ when given the option.

Besides, who doesn’t flirt with their friends a little? Now they got to monetize it. A win.

Marinette rested a lazy arm over Steph’s shoulder, careful not to jostle the microphone hovering by the girl’s chin. She gave it a pointed look, and Steph mouthed the word ‘off’. She untensed a little. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Your mic is off.”

“I didn’t get one,” she said, shrugging.

Steph blinked. “Oh. I can give you mine.”

“Well, if I accept that, how am I going to insult Tim without the audience knowing?”

Dick snickered. “You could try not insulting him.”

Marinette gave him a blank look.

He shrugged as if to say ‘well, I tried’. Which, did he really?

But her attention was quickly stolen away when Steph pulled something out from behind her ear and then presented it to Marinette, who looked at it how one might look at a dead rat their cat had just brought in.

“What the hell is that?”

“A mic,” Dick offered.

She glared at him out of the corner of her eyes, and then snapped her attention back to Steph when the girl leaned in to fit the device over her ear. “You’re not putting that on me.”

“What, is the scientist scared of technology?” teased Dick.

She gritted her teeth. “Chemicals are easy to understand. They’re predictable. This? Unreliable. Who knows who's listening in on those wavelengths.”

There was a beat of silence. The two Waynes looked at each other for a moment, something unreadable on their faces.

And then Dick sighed. “Listen, you know how our dad bankrolls the Batman?”

She nodded, still eyeing Steph as if the girl was going to jump her and attach the evil machine to her by force.

“Well, we get a couple of perks. Like this. If anyone tries to hack into these – which, really, why would they? – Batman will be alerted and I’m sure they will never be heard from again… or whatever it is he and his weirdo kids do.”

“Local Batman proves that all cops are corrupt,” she said, still eyeing it warily.

“Not a cop,” said Steph.

“Not corrupt,” said Dick.

She wasn’t sure who was being less realistic.

And it didn’t matter what they said, either way.

Batman was exactly the person she was trying to avoid, thank you very much. But it wasn’t like she could just say that, because being openly wary of the Batman in front of rich people was just begging for them to be suspicious of you. They were too used to their peers being affiliated with the Court of Owls. So, reluctantly, she let Steph place the mic.

The girl drew back slightly once she was sure everything was in place (and, more importantly, that it would stay in place even while they were all running around).

Steph grinned. “There. Done. All you’ve got to do now is press the button and you’ll be live. Anyways. Blush like I said something suuuuper hot, m’kay? They’re staring.”

“Maybe if you do something hot, I will.”

She hummed thoughtfully before she brought her free hand up to cradle Marinette’s face. She tilted her head up, her thumb caressing her cheek, their noses brushing. A quiet click sounded next to her ear as her headpiece was turned on.

“Fixed,” Steph said. Quiet, but close enough to the mic hovering by Marinette’s chin for their audience to hear.

“Thanks,” Marinette mumbled. Thank god she had melanin to hide the reddening of her face somewhat, but she was pretty sure it was obvious regardless.

“Anytime,” Steph teased, going so far as to press a kiss to Marinette’s nose before drawing back. She glanced at Dick. “Your mic is off, too.”

“What, not going to fix mine for me?” Dick joked, lifting a lazy hand to flick the knob by his ear.

Steph snorted. “I’d rather die.”

Dick grinned and immediately tugged Marinette closer to him again. Woe is her. If only she could retaliate by beating his ass like she so wants to do. She hates debt. Thankfully, he didn’t wrap an arm around her this time, instead he let her go in favor of crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re just jealous that you don’t get to teach this sweet little underclassman the ropes.”

Marinette was fighting a valiant battle with her face, trying to keep the unimpressed annoyance off of it. “You’re so kind.”

“Of course! It’s my job as the club leader to make sure that your introduction to the group goes smoothly!”

They wouldn’t be bothering with all of this otherwise.

For you see, a large part of being a Host was based around how physically attractive you were, and if they wanted her to be popular enough to pay off her debt, they would have to introduce her to the potential customers in a way that would draw their attention in that way. So, it had been decided that Marinette’s official introduction should be some kind of physical activity. Especially since their clients were all fellow teens, and likely would see a bunch of people fighting for their lives in slightly skimpy clothes and go ‘ooooooooooh’.

Steph rolled her eyes so hard she must have seen her brain back there. “It would have been easier if we’d just done a pool party.”

“My! A pool party?! Steph, have you no shame? What about her innocence?!”

“Dick. She’s wearing a crop top and yoga pants.”

“A crop top, yoga pants, and tasteful armor,” said Dick. His attempts at defending her honor were… definitely attempts. Marinette could give him that.

Marinette crossed her arms over her chest, grinning. “Would you prefer I work out in a hoodie and sweats?”

“Well,” said Steph. She brought her hands up to press against her own chest, winking. “I don’t want that.”

A glance up at the crowd showed that the people had caught the jist of what she’d said thanks to the overdramatic body language she had opted for. Thankfully. Marinette wasn’t sure how to naturally repeat that for the sake of the people watching.

Her eyes caught on one particular person in the crowd, though.

Fu, leaning against his cane heavily, watching her.

“Alright, Steph, stop flirting with the new recruit,” Dick said, slinging his arm over Marinette’s shoulders again, tugging her closer to his side. “Shoo. Scram. Other synonyms that start with ‘s’. I need to teach her how to shoot – shoot! No, wait, I’m thinking of ‘shoo’, and I’m pretty sure I already said that. Anyways. Leave so I can teach her.”

Marinette’s head jerked around to look at him, her eyebrows disappearing behind her hairline. “I know how to shoot. You just…”

She pointed her paintball gun at a nearby wall and pulled the trigger. A disappointed look crossed her face when, despite the gun clicking to tell her that the trigger was working, nothing came out.

“Hm,” she said, eloquently.

He snickered. “Well, I know why that happened, but before we fix that…” He reached a hand out to adjust her fingers. “Let’s not keep our fingers on the trigger. Unless you want to shoot at anything that dares to surprise you.”

Marinette absolutely wanted that. Unfortunately, she couldn’t say that while in character, so she was stuck smiling and saying, “Thanks, Richard.”

“Dick,” he corrected lightly, as usual.

“You don’t understand how much I can not call you that,” she said. Even if Dick was, often, a dick, and she didn’t usually mind going with whatever nickname or name someone called themself, it’s hard to say the word and still come across as demure.

“Well, then, you can call me something else. How does ‘my liege’ sound?”

Marinette snickered into her hand. “Terrible, King.”

“Oh. Hate that.”

“Got it, Queen.”

He sighed.

“Themporer?” she tried, batting her eyelashes.

“How many of those do you have?”

“So many, gender nonspecific monarch.”

“That one feels like a stretch.”

She shrugged. “Yeah, it is a bit of a mouthful.”

“You know, I’m starting to realize that you use humor to stall.”

Marinette’s face flushed at the direct callout. That had been unnecessary. And she couldn’t even curse him out for it. She hated life.

Whatever. She’d roll with it (not like she had any other choices). She gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. “What do you mean? I was trying to figure out your royal-title-specific pronoun preferences! I had only the best of intentions.”

“Of course, of course. Pretend to get ready to shoot your gun.”

Marinette huffed, mumbling that he was ‘no fun’ as she lifted her paintball gun.

He walked around her slowly, knocking his foot against the inside of her own until she moved them to be shoulder width apart, bending her arms so the recoil wouldn’t hurt as much, bending her knees slightly so she wouldn’t fall over at the lightest of hits…

“You sure know a lot about this,” Marinette said, eyeing him warily.

“Dad made me take some self-defense classes after I got held for ransom for the eight and a half-th time.”

“Eight times is a lot but I guess that’s still surprisingly competent for hi – wait, half-th?”

“Yeah!” he said, and then did not elaborate.

She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting.

He checked her form one last time before nodding to himself. He squinted at her gun for a moment, before cringing.

“I – uh – I’m not used to turning off the safety from an outsider’s point of view…”

“Then here,” she said, starting to stand up straighter and hand it over to him, only for him to rapidly shake his head.

“No, no, no, we need you in that position for as long as possible to get your body used to it.”

Marinette fought back a grimace, her eyes briefly flicking to the people still watching them intently. Dick, as the self-proclaimed ‘king’ of the Host Club, was easily the most popular among guests. She did not want to put a target on her back by looking like she was trying to come onto him. Or because it might look like he was coming onto her. She hated this fucking job. They were coworkers, damn it. She shouldn’t be stressing about getting, like, Court of Owls-style assassinated for being near him!

“Just – just… do it quick,” she said.

He nodded sharply.

Arms wrapped around her from behind, a chin coming to rest upon her shoulder. Warm breath just barely wafted over the side of her neck, earning a few goosebumps. His hands ghosted over the back of her own, briefly, fixing the positioning of her fingers once again (he really didn’t like her tendency to hang onto the trigger, apparently) before flicking the safety off.

He pulled back the second everything was in order, hands up like he was already actively surrendering. They sent the people watching them mildly embarrassed looks. It isn’t doing them much good, though.

Quick! Take legitimacy away from the intimacy!

“I need to stop bringing desserts from home, you’re getting heavy.”

Dick spluttered. “What?”

“I said what I said.”

She would apologize later.

… wait, would Babs count mental damage as adding to her debt?

She was going to apologize so profusely later.

Dick sighed, running a hand through his hair, briefly pushing his bangs out of his eyes. “Tell me why we made you the girl next door again?”

“Out of ideas,” Marinette said.

“Right, right. Any chance we can change it?”

“Well, you’re the king and all, you can choose,” she said, before winking and blowing a kiss to the people up on the viewing platform. “But, hey, everyone knows that most ‘harsh’ people are just hurt people trying to protect themselves from more harm. I’m sure that, with the right person, I could actually be the soft, kind person I portray. After all, every act needs at least a little bit of truth to work, right?”

She glanced at Dick out of the corner of her eyes. He gave the barest trace of a nod.

Good.

She had a bit of a reputation in the school. Not really because she was outright mean to people – she would never say half the shit she said around Adrien and the host club members to people she didn’t know, not without good reason – but because pretty much every student knew about her… antagonistic relationship with Tim. Because during the last finals season they had only been a step above fistfighting in the middle of the hallway. And not even because they had been scared of punishment or expulsion, but instead because Duke and Steph had physically dragged Tim away before he could jump at her.

Whatever. It was totally water under the bridge and she definitely didn’t want him dead anymore.

(Yes, Tim and Marinette could just put aside their differences, and show that they had changed… but Marinette would rather just kill him, to be honest.)

Regardless, it would be hard to convince the general population that the person that had almost fought another member was all that shy and kind. So, they needed to rework her image. Recontextualize her personality.

Whether or not Marinette or any of the other host club members really believed what she was saying didn’t matter, all that mattered was that their guests believed it. Thankfully, they had years worth of toxic media to back up their claims, and the rich kids who had never had real reason to distrust what they’d been told fell for it hook, line, and sinker.

Great. The goal for today is done. Now, if only she could get out of this stupid paintball tournament. She has changed her mind. A chance of shooting Tim in the face is not worth having to simulate a battle.

Maybe if she annoys Dick enough he might just call it off?

She watched him out of the corner of her eyes as they continued down the hallway. He caught her stare and, instead of being confused or upset or uncomfortable, sent her a tiny smile.

Yeah, she didn’t think it would work. You can’t annoy someone with as many younger siblings as he has. They are immune to outside annoyances by this age, she is pretty sure.

There’s no getting out of this.

She almost laughed. Story of her fucking life.

Dick rested his hand on the doorknob, glancing back at her.

“Ready?”

She flashed a wink. “As I’ll ever be.”

Their door opened up into what seemed to be a trench, carved into the ground. Once they had clambered out of the trench, their clothes already stained with dirt (at least she didn’t have to pay for any of it), they found themselves in a heavily wooded area, with a couple of concrete structures dotted around.

She walked to a nearby tree. All of them looked long dead, blackened, as if they had been burned. As if this was a real battlefield.

She rapped her knuckles against it lightly, and wasn’t surprised to find that, whatever it was made of, it wasn’t organic material. Judging by the sound, she would guess styrofoam, paper mache, paint, and a dream.

A quick check of one of the structures revealed it to have no ceiling.

The entire world around them was fabricated to give the people so far above them, standing on the glass and peering down at them with excited grins she didn’t want to look at, a good view of what was going on. No leaves, no roofs, nothing was allowed to take away from their fun.

Oh shit, she thought. This is what it feels like to be in the Hunger Games.

Or to be in one of Riddler’s escape rooms, she supposed.

She watched Dick carefully toeing at the dirt, checking to see how far down it went. Whether it could actually be used as padding, or if the metal hidden beneath would give some nasty bruises if someone fell on it for any reason. Such as dramatically falling over when shot ‘dead’.

Her lips twitched into a wry kind of grin. And he’s supposed to be the ‘dumbest’ one. Who does he think that he’s fooling?

It wasn’t until long after he had confirmed that the ground was, in fact, soft enough for them all to drop dead on without issue, that an alarm alerted them to the fact that the grace period was over, and they were now supposed to be hunting each other to the death.

Marinette brushed her bangs away from her eyes, taking advantage of the opportunity to see how the audience had dispersed themselves. They were, largely, grouped into four spots. No guesses why. Sureeeeeely not because this was where the four pairs of competitors were…

Okay, that wasn’t fair to the customers. There was no way for them to know that the glass wasn’t a one way mirror like they’d been told. They shouldn’t be aware of the fact that this was all a play that had been planned out well in advance. The Waynes weren’t the types to let on that they weren’t quite as ‘airheaded’ as they often portrayed themselves to be, for whatever reason.

Still… Marinette stretched lazily, rocking back and forth on her feet, trying not to laugh aloud at just how obvious they were all being.

“So, are we heading to the center or skirting around the edges?” she asked.

“Center,” he said, because that was where most of the male clients were, and therefore where Babs and Cass were likely to be. “Let’s see whether there’s a Hunger Games-style cornucopia or something.”

Marinette clicked her tongue lightly. “You can’t tell people what we’re ripping off.”

“I think they already know.”

She huffed, but it’s not as if she genuinely cared.

Without further ado, they were off.

*****

They happened across Babs and Cass in the middle. They seemed to be doing the same thing that Marinette and Dick were, picking around for anything that might be useful. As if the people who had made this place would make an entrance in a spot where they had special items.

“Find anything?” Dick asked, pointing his gun at Babs.

Cass retaliated by pointing her gun at him. He did not seem particularly pleased about this development.

Marinette wasn’t pleased, either, because this meant she had to point her gun at Cass in retaliation. Fuck this script for making her defend Dick Grayson of all people.

Their guests looked to Babs, expecting her to point her gun at Marinette and complete the circle, leading to a dramatic standoff…

Only for Babs to hold up her hands in the universal sign of surrender. “We don’t have to fight,” she said. “It’s better if we don’t. We can’t have Jason or Tim’s teams winning.”

If nothing else, Marinette had to admit that this strategy would have probably worked on her and Dick even if it wasn’t scripted. Because fuck Tim Drake. And, in Dick’s case, Jason, in particular, cannot win, because he would be insufferable about it. They would both take shady deals in a heartbeat if it meant that the other two teams wouldn’t win.

“What do you get from this?” Marinette asked, because it was expected of her.

Cass shrugged. “Fun.”

Valid reason. Marinette (and Dick, too, though she loathed to admit it) could sometimes be fun.

As for Babs…

“If we’re the last two teams, I want to shoot Dick in the face.”

Dick gave a screech of offense, complaining about his ‘beautiful face’. But Marinette sees now downsides! They shook on it before he could get a word in edgewise.

“Alright, team, let’s roll out,” said Babs.

“Don’t I get a say in this?” Dick whined.

“No. We are misandry-ing,” Marinette informed him.

“Perfect. Us girlies have to stick together,” Babs joked lightly.

“True. Can’t wait to kill ‘my liege’ for the sake of women everywhere,” Marinette said, snickering to herself.

Dick snorted at the ‘my liege’ callback, and then seemed to process what she had said. He pressed a hand to his chest. “Excuse you, I’m a girlie, too.”

“Woo, slay queen,” Marinette deadpanned. And then she frowned to herself. “Is ‘my liege’ a gendered term?”

“I… think so?” said Babs. The grammar rules for royalty is not the kind of thing the average teenager is looking up, after all. And, if Babs doesn’t know, then Cass (ESL speaker) and Dick (a liar pretending to be the ‘dumb one’ in a group already known for being stupid) had no shot. Pain. She must live without knowing for the next few hours. Why does god hate her so? Truly, she has suffered more than Jesus.

… perhaps it is jokes like that that make god hate her.

Whatever. She did not believe in Him, therefore He could not hurt her.

Anyways.

“Let’s roll out, then, I guess,” she said.

“Only I’m allowed to make that joke,” said Babs.

Marinette blinked. And then her face reddened. “Oh — I—!”

Cass shook her head in mock disappointment.

Marinette huffed. “Is it too late to un-team?”

“Nah, we shook on it, it’s binding,” Babs said.

Well. If that’s the case. They rolled ou— started off in search of others.

It was, honestly, a lot of meandering around. If they managed to go in the right direction too many times, the illusion would break, after all.

But, if nothing ‘entertaining’ was happening, they needed to work extra hard to have interesting conversations to listen in on. Which was hard. Usually, they entertained their guests by flirting, which was easy and didn’t take that much mental energy, but that was no longer really an option. They weren’t going to flirt with each other, especially since Dick and Cass were siblings and Dick and Babs were exes (Dick once again ruining things for everyone, shame on him). So…

Marinette walked alongside Babs. “If you don’t mind me asking, how the heck are you able to use your wheelchair when the ground is like this?” she said. The wheels didn’t look all that special, after all – it was all clearly high-quality, don’t get her wrong, but it wasn’t like she was looking at the wheelchair version of four wheel drive. And the gun in her lap was barely even moving.

“That’s the most fucked up question anyone’s ever asked me,” deadpanned Babs.

Marinette huffed. “Now, I just don’t think that’s true.”

“When have I ever lied?”

“I’m still convinced that the debt was a scam,” she sniffed.

Babs rolled her eyes but distinctly didn’t deny it. Because she couldn’t, clearly, not because she just didn’t feel that this was worth her time or energy. “This isn’t any worse than going down sidewalks.”

Marinette envisioned the Average Gotham Sidewalk. Then looked at the ground. She supposed that the sticks kind of resembled used syringes, now that she thought about it, and the dirt was surprisingly much smoother than the pothole-riddled concrete.

“Oh,” she said. “Okay, makes sense, yeah.”

Well. She had done her job. Someone else needs to pick up the slack, now.

Babs sent her a flat look that said she needed to say something that would interest the audience, not just her. She fought the urge to grumble under her breath. The microphone would pick that up, too.

She turned to look at Dick.

“Okay, philosophical question: if you are aware that you are in denial, is it really denial, or is it a weird form of acceptance?”

It was silent for a moment.

“Er… I guess… acceptance?”

“But then it’s not denial. Different stage,” Cass said.

“But if you’re aware of it, it can’t be denial,” Dick argued.

Babs sighed. “How ‘aware’ is this ‘awareness’? Because, I’m pretty sure, even people in denial kind of know things are weird.”

“Nonono, you’re aware of the denial,” said Marinette. “Like, you know the thing you’re in denial about is bad and you go ‘nahhhhh’. But it’s a conscious decision.”

“Then… ugh. Denial, I guess.”

Babs and Cass started arguing. Marinette was pretty sure this was the most talkative and passionate she had ever seen Cass.

As for the guests… they were either arguing vehemently themselves or watching other people argue with amused grins.

Marinette, discreetly, gave a little bow in Dick’s direction. He gave a huff of laughter.

By the time they stumbled across another person, Cass seemed pissed off enough to go all out. This wasn’t intentional, but it was still funny to watch Duke go from relatively calm and in control to immediately ducking behind a tree for cover for fear of death.

Until he started firing at them all, too, and they were forced to book it to the nearest shelter.

You might argue that they were cowards, and should help out Cass, and you’d be right, but…

They wouldn’t be much help, to be honest.

The way Duke and Cass were fighting was insane. Like they already knew what each other’s movements were going to be ahead of time, and thus were more intent on waiting for the other to slip up than outright outsmarting each other.

Marinette whistled lowly. “How often do you guys come here?”

“Here? This is the first time, actually,” said Dick, brightly. “But we have something like this back at the Manor.”

She hated rich people.

(This fact has been made abundantly clear over the past few chapters, but she would like to say it again. And again. For as many times as it would take for them to stop pulling Rich People Shit.)

“Woooow,” she said, trying to infuse as much fake cheeriness into her tone as was physically possible when her main thought was about how, technically, friendly fire is possible here. “What a perfectly amazing use of your money.”

He nodded his agreement. Whether or not it was joking did not matter when her blood was boiling beneath her skin. She started to lift her gun, intent on either helping Cass or betraying both Cass and Duke at once, only for a stray bullet to nail the wall by her head the moment she started to poke her head out.

She stared at the purple paint for a moment, eyes wide, before slowly shrinking back into hiding.

She was still pissed off, though!

Before her eyes could drift to Babs and she could weigh the moral implications of sending her out first, a handful of skittles was shoved in front of her face.

“Want some?” said Jason.

She nodded, taking all of the red ones and popping them in her mouth. Dick did the same, but with the green pieces, like a weirdo (who the hell prefers green?). Babs wasn’t nearly as picky, just taking a handful of the rest and popping them like pills.

And then she started to lift her gun.

Marinette nearly choked on her sweet treat.

“JASON?!” Dick yelped.

They scrambled for their own guns.

Jason managed to get a shot off on Babs before he was covered in yellow. Maybe they shot him more times than was strictly necessary, but that was what he deserved for using Skittles against them. Honestly, the fact that Dick didn’t believe in the death penalty was the only thing saving him right now.

As for Marinette… well, she had been too intent on looting his ‘corpse’ for more candy to bother with murdering him via paintball gun. After all, what if the Skittles ended up getting blood or — god forbid — paint on them? She wouldn’t even be able to kill him in retaliation for messing up her snack.

She grumbled when she found paintballs, but pocketed them for extra ammo, in case Cass won and needed more.

Then, finally, she procured her prize: a sharing size bag of candy.

Life is good.

Unless you are Jason Todd.

“Maaaaan,” he groaned. “Those are mine, y’know.”

“Shhhhh, you’re a corpse, you can’t speak,” Dick said, holding his hand out for some.

She set the paintballs in his hand instead.

And then watched on in horror as he bit down on one without thinking.

Dick stared at her for a moment, purple dripping from his mouth.

Marinette swallowed down the temptation to joke about him looking like a vampire in favor of frantically looking up whether paintballs were nontoxic or if they were about to cut this paintball tournament short.

… which she wouldn’t mind, actually, now that she thought about it...

She considered the google page saying that they were nontoxic (for humans, at least, apparently they were not good for animals, which Damian was going to be distressed about when he learned), wondering whether an ambulance visit would be added to her debt. And then decided she didn’t want to risk it.

“You’re fine.”

Want to know who wasn’t fine? Cass and Duke. Apparently, in the time it took for everything to settle, Duke and Cass had killed each other off. Or, well, Duke had slipped up and Cass had ‘died’ in solidarity with him. Mildly concerning behavior, but it was a paintball game and therefore has no real indication of actual behaviors. Hopefully. Marinette genuinely liked Cass.

No time to linger on that particular line of thought.

“If Tim wins I’m pulling a Cass,” Marinette told Dick.

Dick raised an eyebrow. “You’d already be ‘dead’ if Tim wins.”

She thought this over. “Then I’ll come back as a zombie and be killed again. Perfect.”

Jason did not seem to find this funny, but maybe he was still bitter about having his Skittles stolen. Dick grinned and, really, that’s all that matters.

“What do you think real life zombies are like?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Nonexistent.”

“Don’t know what I was expecting from the scientist,” he huffed.

“Fiiiiiine,” she said. She thought, long and hard, about what a real life zombie would be like. Blüdhaven got nuked a while back (deserved, fuck Blüdhaven), and she hadn’t yet heard of zombies, so radiation poisoning wasn’t going to do it. So probably an intentional thing — Jurassic Park style experimentation, or something. Which means that the circumstances would be controlled… except zombies would probably escape the labs, if Marinette were to ever see them. The body would have to be very cold to slow down decomposition. It wouldn’t even halt it entirely.

“Gross,” she decided.

Dick stared at her. “All that thought and you come up with ‘gross’?!”

“I’m not wrong. They’d be gross.”

“That is not the point!” he groaned. “Talk about whether you think they’d be fast or slow, strong or weak, intelligent or not! Talk about whether their decomposition would affect them!”

She snickered. “Careful, Richard, or you’re going to make people think you have a brain in there.”

For a moment, he froze. And then he purposefully relaxed, each muscle individually untensing, one by one. He laughed lightly, but it was a tad bit forced (when wasn’t it, though?). “Yeah, the zombies will come after me if they know.”

“Being stupid has its benefits, yeah?”

He chuckled humorlessly.

Before he could come up with a proper response, though, Tim wandered into their area, drawn by the sound of gunfire from Duke and Cass’s fight. Marinette and Dick pointed their guns at him immediately.

Tim narrowed his eyes. He pointed his gun at Marinette, but seemed hesitant.

Marinette fought off a smirk. She loved having plot armor. At the sight of her face, he only seemed more irritated, which was even better.

But there was nothing he could do.

He set his gun down.

“We could take him as hostage,” Dick offered. “See if that lures Damian –.”

“Nah, too risky,” said Marinette. Without any further ado, she shot Tim.

Tim fell over, and not entirely because that was standard for ‘dead’ people. He hugged himself. His dignity, breaking. In a very literal sense.

It was very quiet. Marinette’s hand found its way to her mouth.

Dick looked at her, his eyes wide and horrified.

“I know I hate you, but… I didn’t mean… I forgot that men have… Tim, I’m so sorry.”

Tim made a pitiful sound.

Shakily, he lifted a hand in a thumbs up.

She made a heart with her own hands. This did not seem to help in the slightest but, frankly, there wasn’t much else she could do.

Luckily, she didn’t need to think about it for long before she was distracted — a voice called from behind them: “Found you.”

She whipped around and shot Damian in the chest.

There were a few moments where no one knew what to do. The boy stared at the paint staining his armor bright yellow. Marinette’s grip felt clammy on her gun.

Dick tipped his head to the side consideringly.

She met his eyes.

She was no longer amused by the intelligence lingering in his gaze as he scrutinized her. She narrowed her eyes at him, briefly, daring him to say something. She wasn’t the only one hiding things, after all.

Play along, she told him. Help me fix this ending.

He relaxed his expression carefully.

They had an understanding. Despite Marinette’s supposed incompetence with guns, when startled she was quick to shoot and accurate. Despite Dick constantly acting as if he was dumb, there was clearly a brain hidden somewhere there. They both knew more than they tried to let on. Maybe that was why they didn’t have much trouble identifying each other’s acts… but, so long as their own secrets remained intact, they could keep each others’.

It was a little nerve-wracking, and yet, strangely, nice, to have someone you don’t have to lie to. That can see past it even when you try.

She smirked and lifted her gun. “See? This is why you keep your finger on the trigger, Dick.”

He grinned and held up his hands in surrender.

*****

Marinette and Dick grimaced as a cooler full of paint was poured over their backs. They definitely felt victorious right about now. This was their prize for winning. Yay them.

Sure, they didn’t exactly, genuinely earn the win, but that’s besides the point.

He looked at her. “You’ve got red in your hair.”

She yelped and brought a hand up to try and get it out, only to remember just a second too late that her hands, too, were covered in paint. She stared at the glob of paint-covered hair hanging limp in front of her eyes for a moment, devastated, and then glared at him.

“You did that on purpose.”

“I was just pointing something out for you,” he said ‘innocently’, unable to quite keep himself from smiling.

She hummed, and then slapped her hand onto his hair. He hissed and reflexively his hands flew up to touch the sore spot, only for him to realize that now he had been the one baited into getting paint in his hair.

“Marinette,” he said, smiling sweetly.

For a moment, one could almost see the regret flickering across her features.

And then he rushed forward to try and trap her in a hug. She shrieked, managing to get only a few steps before she was snatched up, dragged into the evil monster. She barely even had time to fight back before she was thrown over his shoulder, only able to yell off-brand curse words and try to writhe around in hopes of freedom – or, at least, in hopes that she could smear her own paint over every part of him she could reach.

Within minutes, they were swirling messes of red, blue, purple, and the occasional scrap of visible skin.

There were people laughing at their antics.

Both of them froze.

They looked up, and found the other members of the Host Club were enjoying the show.

As well as a few guests, but they couldn’t really retaliate against them.

So, Dick set Marinette down and they met each other’s eyes and silently resolved to make up for that by attacking their fellow club members twice as much to compensate.

*****

Marinette heaved a sigh as she sat on a bench, scrubbing paint off her arm with her millionth wet wipe of the day. Where did the green even come from?

It was then that she realized someone was nearing her.

She looked over her shoulder and found…

Well, someone her age. She recognized her, vaguely, from her English class, but their name eluded her.

The girl smiled nervously at Marinette, wringing her hands and somewhat avoiding eye contact. “I – uh – was wondering if you could Host for me sometime?”

Marinette stared at her for a moment, processing.

And then she lit up, practically jumping from her seat in order to shake the girl’s hand.

“That sounds great! What day would you –?”

She drew her hand back, and cringed at the red strings of paint now connecting their hands.

“I… don’t know if I have more wet wipes,” she said, blushing.

The girl smiled, amused. “If you walk me home, I’ll consider it even.”

Marinette hesitantly took her hand again, intertwining their fingers. “Okay. Don’t know if that’s much of a punishment, but if that’s what it takes to repay you…”

~~~~~~~~~~

TBC

Taglist: @ev-cupcake @thatonecroc @toodaloo-kangaroo @fangirlingfanatic

[ltbarnes]

Anachronism - Part II

Or the placing of persons, events, objects, or customs in times to which they do not belong

Summary: Sprained ankles, snowstorms, blood-thirsty wolves and feral super soldiers. What was supposed to be a peaceful walk in the woods surrounding the cabin you're staying in with your best friend Steve quickly turns devastating, forcing your path to cross with the mysterious and burly man who can't seem to grasp social cues and the concept of privacy. His past is a puzzle that can't seem to be solved and your feelings for the sweet and giant man quickly develop from friendly gratitude to something neither of you can't quite grasp.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader, Steve Rogers x fem!reader

Word count: 5.8k

Warnings: a little bit of nudity and some sinful thoughts, bears!!, manhandling, Steve panicking and Bucky being the sweetest

A/N: I made it!! Never thought I would be able to finish part 2 in time but it’s done!! The love on the first part has been amazing and please give me any and all thoughts on this part <3 I love talking with you!

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  • 

You had been gone for six hours by the time a barely functional Steve ventured out to search for you a second time.

15 minutes. That's how long you said you would be out, and Steve started glancing out of the window for you already after 13 to see if you were back.

And he tried to go out and search just half an hour after you left, but even for a super soldier a harsh snowstorm like this one is impossible to navigate in. His phone service was not working and contacting the compound was futile—they can't do anything as long as the weather is this bad.

He's fucking panicking. You're probably out here freezing to death if you already haven't. Leaving you to die like that is no option. For twenty hazy minutes Steve gathered anything that might be needed if he finds you half-alive in some ditch—warm water bottle, blanket, food, tracking device if Sam or Nat or anyone in the team feels like helping him some time.

Steve knew he shouldn't have let you go. He felt it this morning when he watched you walk out of the door with those ridiculously large mittens and the puffer jacket that could soften a fall from fifty feet high. But god, he can't say no to you even though he persisted for more than an hour in your argument. A flutter with those eyes of yours and he folds quicker than he can take another breath.

He's Captain America—a man who survived a world war, alien attacks, robots trying to take over the world and countless fights with the world's most notorious villains. He prides himself on having integrity equally strong as his vibranium shield and morals practically written in stone. Steve Rogers is an unmovable man and still he just throws away all logic and sense out of the window as long as you have a smile on your face.

His chest is heaving, out of breath. It doesn't happen a lot anymore now that his days of being an asthmatic, 90-pound sick man are long past him. You manage to make his goddamn body malfunction in a different way each time he meets you—today just happened to be the worst he's ever experienced. If you died like this while he sat inside looking over fucking sketches over the compound grounds he's not going to be able to live with himself much longer.

For so many years he's been able to keep you out of situations too dangerous for your own good. It's hard sometimes when you prance out in traffic without looking both ways or take shortcuts through alleyways on the way home from work in the middle of the night, but Steve's still been able to keep you safe. He has been there each time.

God, you fucking infuriate him. Sometimes he wants to throw you over his shoulder and lock you inside some closet where you can't get up to any trouble. Trying to negotiate your way out of being shot by a madman robber by offering him fucking cookies? Yeah, Steve was furious that day, but he adores you for it. Don't get him wrong—you're not some sunshine fairy girl like that teacher with glasses and colorful dresses in the sitcom you always watch, but still you offered a man with a gun to your head cookies. You barely even bake.

Honestly, Steve was annoyed by you for a whole two years before you slithered your way into his traumatized and lost heart. The 21st century is a labyrinth of parasocial relationships, too advanced technology and so much suffering existing along the endless progress that's been made since the 40's.

It all was just too much for him for a good while, and his range of emotions kind of just shut down. Work was all he had and the closest thing to a friend was Natasha, who he did not know at all at the time. Tony was a goddamn asshole and Fury was too vague and Steve was missing Bucky, Peggy and the Howlies so much that all woken time was either spent on grieving or fighting.

You were the first close friend he made in this century. One who he could spend entire nights talking to, and took him out on midnight pizza runs and showed him what the hell streaming was. A friend who showed him that things are better now in many ways.

But he knows now why Bucky was so goddamn irritated at him all the time—you aren't even throwing yourself into fights like he did, and still do, but instead manage to be so goddamn clueless and intelligent at the same time. And he doesn't want to find you stubbing your toe on the same treshold at least once a week as amusing as he does. Or that he looks forward to Monday meetings because he gets to walk past your little office, stacked with strange romance books you can read when Tony doesn't need help in the lab or Bruce has no samples to be incubated or whatever he does.

For a long time you were the only one he missed when he was gone on missions for weeks. Now the team is as much family as his real one ever was, and he loves them too, but you're still the first person that comes to mind when he drags himself half-alive and beaten to a pulp onto the quinjet after a gruesome fight.

Mostly he likes that you don't really need him. In reality you do so wonderfully fine by yourself, without anyone, and Steve loves your independence. He just seemingly likes worrying and fuzzing like a mother hen because he can. Because you let him.

You do stupid things sometimes and for those situations you really do need someone to either pull you away from the moving car heading towards you or scold you for being reckless, but you could live on a reclusive island entirely alone and wouldn't mind in the least. Maybe it's because Steve always wanted that quiet life—settling down in a house he built himself with a person he loves somewhere people won't bother him.

The snow is goddamn insatiable with working against him as he tries to find his way just a few feet away from the cabin. But he's been through worse and Steve would gladly cut off all his limbs and bathe in scolding lava to find you alive.

To hell with snowstorms and duties and work—he's going to find his best girl even if it makes a 100-year old super soldier hypothermic.

•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  • 

Your bladder is about to fucking burst.

For what must have been half an hour you've been laying awake to the sound of Winter's breathing, contemplating wether to go outside and potentially wake him up or just die.

But he's holding onto you so tightly, squeezing you to his chest with his nose buried in the crook of your neck, that you contemplate just holding it until he wakes. You feel like a stuffed animal he can't fall asleep without, the way Winter has tangled himself up in your limbs.

It makes you realize that you haven't felt closeness from a human like this in years. Maybe ever. You've never seen yourself as touch-starved but receiving such affection without any conditions or terms triggered some epiphany inside of you—you want to be held.

But ultimately, despite how heartbreaking it is, you are not willing to lay your life and dignity down for his and your own comfort in this moment.

The first movements of your newly awoken body generate cracking sounds that are a little too loud to not be concerned about. Good morning.

Somehow, in a manner you did not know you possessed, you slide out from his hold down onto the cold wooden floor without waking him up. You would've guessed he was a light sleeper.

A soft, breathy whine escapes his lips. You have to silence yourself with the palm of your hand to not laugh. Also desperately hoping that it's the loss of you on top of him that makes him upset in his sleep and not just the sudden lack of warmth.

His hair has been matted and tangled during the night, stray strands swept over his face, and he still he looks so good. You sit there on the floor staring at him for a good minute before you try to crawl away, struggling into your thermal pants and socks with a few silent curses slipping from your mouth.

If you're honest, you thought your foot would be fine by now. You clearly remember thinking to yourself that it would be over in five minutes when you fell. It's been a day and it's still swollen and hurting like a bitch—crawling to the door is the only way, though undignified.

You kind of miss being carried around while trying to haul yourself up to a stand with the help of the doorway. And you're also thinking about how Tony would have this picture printed and framed if he had a camera in his hand right now.

Outside it's still snowing, and the moderate layer of white, shimmering crystals covering the ground has grown to being outrageous during the night. It reaches up to your knees as you shuffle out just a short distance from the porch.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why am I doing this? Goddamn shit, ow," you whisper to yourself while trying to go about this in a dignified way that won't permanently disable you. "Ah. So cold. So cold."

And you're so hungry and tired and also might cry soon if things don't get better. Have you always been this sensitive? It feels like you're not. Circumstancial changes to your personality, hopefully.

Three days ago you were playing chess against Bruce in his lab while waiting for an analysis to process—that was, up until then, the most aggravating and complicated quest you had ever taken upon yourself (mainly because you do not know how to play chess). Right now you're peeing half-naked with snow up to your knees and a sprained ankle outside of a stranger's house who is most likely some kind of supernatural man and also very handsome. Is it weird that you're attracted to him?

Despite the rugged lumberjack-Tarzan type sleeping twenty feet away, you have a hard time seeing the silver lining in your misery. You're stuck and probably proclaimed dead. If you were a more positive person this could be counted as adventure time and great storytelling-material in the future—autobiography material, really. New York Times Bestseller List if you write it good.

But you're scared. You don't really know where you are and Steve might be out there looking for you. Yes, he is a super soldier, but it's not safe wading through a snowstorm without proper gear and knowledge. Steve can get cold too, despite how much he denies the slight shivers you've seen him develop during freezing walks in the winter. God knows he might wander off in the wrong direction and give himself hypothermia. Also a panic attack because this has to give him flashbacks to his time in the ice, right? Nightmares about being frozen solid like a popsicle?

By the time your teeth has since long started chattering, and you struggle to get up the zipper of your pants with your stiff fingers, a rustle in the trees surrounding the grounds forces you out of your daytime overthinking. The goosebumps on your skin instantly escalate to tiny mountains as you look around frantically for whatever threat is about to devour you.

Black fur emerges from between the branches, accompanied by a bark-like sound bordering on a happy chirp. You have to steady yourself to not fall over from shock as a bear cub wades through the snow, fuzzing up the powdery flakes as its dark coating slowly turns white from the steady snowfall.

Tears are dangerously close to being shed as you crouch down with your mouth agape. That was the last drop. A bear cub? Seriously? Sorting your thoughts through the big, blinking 'that is the cutest thing I have ever witnessed' is absolutely hindered by the fact that the bear is the cutest thing you have ever witnessed.

"Hi, baby," you say through a chuckle, stretching your hand out despite knowing that the bear could very well kill you. Because bear cubs are still dangerous, right? No?

It must be quite a few months old, if not a year, but the urge to hug it overpowers the underlying carefulness telling you to step away. Why did you ever think you had useful survival skills? A walking teddy bear comes into your sight and you abandon any reason.

The bear is hesitant as it catches sight of your figure, but it seems like the curiosity is stronger for it too. Slowly, and a bit clumsy, the cub makes its way through the deep snow until the wet nose nearly touches your fingers.

"Oh, you're so cute," you whisper with a blinding smile breaking through the chattering. "Where's your mother, huh? Have you gotten lost?"

It feels like maybe the soul of a tame cat has possessed this little bear as it latches on to your leg, paws embracing you with its nose snuggling into the stiff fabric. A shocked laugh escapes your lips as you gaze down at your new favorite being, possibly triumphing both Steve and Winter. Maybe it's too soon to decide wether or not Winter gets a place in your favorites category, but this one certainly does.

A shriek sounds through the air as your balance, which was compromised to begin with, falters and sends you to the ground with an especially hard nudge from the bear. Newly fallen snow wells up into the air as you hit the cold and soft layer with a thud, giggling like a little school girl as the bear releases a happy chirp.

"You want to play?" you ask, reaching your arms out while completely forgetting to be freezing cold like you should be. You didn't really have time to put on a jacket on top of your Henley before.

The bear pushes up snow with its nose, sending flakes into your face as if it splashes water jokingly. You throw some back, earning a shake of its fur to rid itself of the white formations.

But the door to the cabin is thrown open harshly, smashed against the wall, before you have any more time to resume your playtime. Winter barges out with his large and threatening build so tense that you fear he might pull a muscle. His eyes flicker over the scene, searching for your figure until he finds you half-buried in the deep snow with a bear hovering over you.

The panic is instant—you see it clearly from where you're craning your neck to catch sight of the sudden commotion. He's not wearing any shoes, but he runs out into the snow without hesitation anyways.

A growl sounds from his chest, puffing himself up to appear more threatening. For the first time you see the power he possesses—the real underlying danger inside of the man who has been so sweet to you these past 24 hours. But you're still not afraid of him.

"Wint—"

You begin calling out his name, try to explain that the bear wants you no harm, but the attempt is futile. Winter is fast, and before you can even say the whole of his name he has dragged you up from the ground with one arm while the bear fearfully runs away.

His hold is too tight for you to get a word out as he hastily brings you inside again, smashing the door shut and setting you down on the floor. This time he's careful of your foot, letting you hover just a few inches above the ground before slowly easing you down as to not lay any unnecessary weight on your ankle.

Winter's hands instantly find your face, eyes roaming over your body with frantic desperation.

"You—no hurt? Okay? Good?" he asks, tilting your chin up while inspecting the small patch of exposed skin on your neck.

His breathing is heavy. And you can understand what it looked like—he must've thought you were being mauled to death. Even though the bear was far from full grown they could still be dangerous, you think.

"I'm okay." You can't help but smile, despite it being a small one. "The bear just wanted to play. It was a really kind bear."

Winter furrows his brows into a frown, letting his gaze wander up to your face. A few seconds pass of him inspecting your expression, as if he's assessing wether or not you're sincere, before he lets out sigh.

A small pout grows on his face, drawing a giggle from your lips. He's cute like this.

"You were gone...so scared. Then I heard scream and saw bear," he tells you while shaking his head, tilted down towards the floor.

The smile on your face eases out into a sigh, hand instantly finding his forearm with a soft touch. "I'm sorry, Winter. I didn't want to wake you up and I had to pee. The bear just came out from between the trees and came up to me."

"But—no hurt?" he asks you once more.

You shake your head. "No. I'm completely fine. Just a little cold."

Winter lets out a puff of air from his nose. "Always so cold. All the time," he says, taking a step back from you to drag a chair out in front of you, before turning towards the fireplace.

"I am not. It just happens to be freezing outside and this cabin does not have any heat," you protest while sitting yourself down.

You watch as he reaches for the chopped wood stacked upon each other right beside the fireplace, throwing in a few more to feed the fire.

It crackles loudly, hypnotizing you for a few seconds before you start to feel the wet fabric clinging onto your skin.

"Do you have any other clothes?" you ask, arms encompassing yourself. "This shirt is all wet and cold from the snow."

Without any hesitation, he plucks his wine-red shirt off his back to reveal a tight, black long sleeve underneath. His right arm reaches the shirt out to you, meeting your doe-eyed gaze.

On a continuous roll, Winter has shown you kindness upon kindness ever since you woke up. It's all too much and you don't really know how to repay him. He's taken care of you so well, protected you and fed you and kept you warm and now given you his clothes. He barely even knows you.

With slight hesitance, you turn to the side and cling onto the hem of your shirt. You have to remind yourself that Winter probably won't mind if he sees you half-naked. He's already seen the bottom half of you in just underwear without having any significant reaction, so it'll be fine if he sees you in a bra too.

The collar gets stuck for a few seconds, and you struggle to get your head free for a good while. Gracious as ever. When you're exposed to the world again, you instantly feel the intense gaze of Winter on you.

His stare is zeroed in on your chest, the dark blue lace covering your breasts leaving little to the imagination when it comes to your nipples. No, you did not expect a single soul to witness your underwear on this trip while packing. But you kind of like dressing up for yourself a little bit too.

Winter parts his pink lips, drawn closer without even blinking. You sit there, gazing up at him while forgetting to take a breath. It's okay—he's just curious about the anatomical differences rather than the sexual aspect of it. You think.

"Touch...please," Winter murmurs as he stares at your breasts nearly spilling out of your bra.

And you have to suppress the sudden giggle that wants to escape. Winter looks like a kid staring at a lollipop, like he will burst any second if he can't inspect your fucking boobs.

"Ugh, they—soft. Look soft. Pretty," he whispers.

With a giggle you nod, giving him the okay to touch. You shiver now even before, despite feeling rather calm about it.

He uses his right hand to reach out. Ever since you flinched away from him that first time he's been hesitant to use his metal one while touching you, even though you don't mind. You have to tell him that.

"Never seen before—so soft. Oh."

His genuine excitement over having his hands on you draws a chuckle from your lips until he squeezes a little too hard.

"Be gentle. It hurts when you use too much force, okay?" you tell him.

He nods in answer, focus not straying from your breasts even once. He's mesmerized—he's never felt anything this pliable and cuddly on a person. In Hydra he only met rough men, consisting of hard muscle and rough handling. The entirety of you is just so soft.

"Off. Want away."

A tug at the strap of your bra paired with a wide-eyed gaze and pupils covering the entirety of his eyes signals that he'd be much happier without the offending fabric covering you. But you're not sure. It feels like a step too far.

Your fingers clasp softly around his, pushing them away from you gently. "Not today."

"Why?" he asks you with an expression bordering on a pout.

"Because I'm not comfortable with that. Do you remember when I explained that word?"

Winter nods while lowering his head to watch  his left hand as it flexes open, leaving a whirring sound after him. He looks a little bit upset about it, but doesn't pressure you any further. The truth is that you're worried he might not know what it implicates—what it might lead to. Because you sure as hell have a hard time controlling your feelings right now, and from what you've seen of Winter he doesn't have a lot of boundaries or impulse-control himself.

You put on his shirt in the silence, even though he's still looking at you. The cold temperature has made your nose runny and the only sounds in the room are now your sniffles, the crackling fire and Winter's whirring arm.

"I, uh, have to find—eat," Winter says, bringing his fingers up to his mouth while parting his lips. A soft smile cracks through your solemn exterior, relaxing into your chair.

"Food?"

"Yes. Food."

He looks down at you, eyes raking up the entirety of your figure, before reaching for a large fur that he drapes over his shoulders. You almost think you hear Winter whisper a "so small" to himself as he exits through the door, sending a gust of cold wind inside that makes you shudder.

As you follow him with your gaze through the window, he nearly looks like Leonardo in The Revenant with the rugged long hair and large fur as the snowflakes steadily rain down on him. Sam made you and Steve watch the movie a few weeks ago.

You wonder if Steve's been able to contact anyone. He definitely tried, if you know him as well as you think you do. Everyone back at the compound probably thinks you're dead by now, and might not look for you. If it weren't for Winter, you would be dead after all.

•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  • 

Two long and despicably boring hours drag on before you hear footsteps outside on the porch. And you can't help but stand up from where you've been sitting on the floor, limping towards the door as it's thrown open.

Winter has three fishes hanging from his hand. Slightly comical and also a little gross. There's probably some lake around here that he's been able to drill a hole into or something.

Your amused smile meets his stoic face that lights up just slightly when he sees you. Butterflies and heart eyes or what not—if he had been just a tinge more adapted to social cues he would've noticed the impact he has on you.

Winter's break in resolve quickly disappears as he realizes just what you are doing. He told you to not move a finger while your foot was still hurt.

"No. No standing," he seethes, nodding towards the tattered couch. You just give him a teasing smile in return. "Y/n. Little bunny," he sighs, laying down the fishes on his table and a handful of red berries that roll away.

"What, Winter?" you ask, trying to will the heat away from your cheeks. If you're honest, just standing like this is completely fine. It's walking that hurts like a fucking bitch.

With slow steps he nears your figure, towering over you with his massive build. You have to crane your neck to see his face, shuddering with the quiet growl sounding from his chest.

"No standing, I said. Only I carry you," he tells you, pointing his finger into your chest.

A gulp. An exhale that makes you realize how dry your mouth is all of a sudden.

"No?"

"Not listen to me. Makes me not happy—angry," Winter says. "Foot will be more bad if standing on it all the time."

Two dozens of minutes later he has obviously gotten his way. You don't think you could say no to him when he flashes those blue eyes of his without even trying.

Comfortably sitting on the couch that has been moved closer to the fire with a fur blanket wrapped around your shoulders, you watch him prepare food for the two of you once more. An old copper pan is filled with snow that has since long melted, now boiling so you can both drink some water for the first time in almost two days.

The palm of your hand is filled with cranberries that Bucky picked just for you—he told you so himself—that you've been snacking on. They're a little bit sour, but you're so hungry that you'd practically eat anything.

"Winter, can I ask you something?"

He turns his head around, facing you while laying down his knife.

"What did you do before coming here? Who were the people who called you, uh, who called you an Asset?"

A frustrated breath of air comes out of his nose, like merely the thought of his past angers him. And you begin to suspect that he has all right to feel that way.

"They made me kill. Have made many people dead with this arm."

Winter stretches it out in front of him, inspecting it like it is the first time. With disgust and a distaste so deeply ingrained that you can see his pained thoughts from here.

Within the blink of an eye he turns his attention towards the fire again, turning the fish so it doesn't get burnt. You don't say anything.

"They made me forget also. I did not want to, so then use special words and machine to make me do things." His back is tense now, the outline of his muscles distinct through the fabric of his shirt. "Hold me there for so long. Can't remember anything now from before."

The sound of a knife scraping against metal pierces through the air. It's the tip dragging against his arm, without creating as much as a dent despite the pressure.

"I do not want to hurt. Not you ever," Winter says.

The breath gets stuck in your throat, eliciting a choked, high-pitched sound as you try to find an answer worthy enough of the horrific crimes just confessed to you. All this he has been through, all the things he has done for the past two days, and he has the nerve to assure you that he means no harm.

"Winter," you whisper, barely noticeable when your throat is so thick and dry that you can barely speak. "Look at me. Please."

A sea of blue and sorrow and hatred and so much softness meets your own eyes. God, this man.

"You deserve good things. And I am not afraid of you, nor should you be of yourself. Honey, you've suffered enough. Don't let yourself be another source of pain."

Your palm comes to rest against his cheek, eyelids fluttering shut as he leans into your touch. You don't know if he understood every word, but it doesn't really matter as long as he understood the meaning behind them. And you think he does.

Winter cries. Tears, though few, leak down onto your skin as he silently grieves what life was taken from him. You don't know much about what he's lived through, but you know enough now to mourn for him too. You know enough to hold hate larger than you ever have for the people that used him.

That evil in the likes of villains on a screen exists among humanity is not new. You've heard about it in mission reports, in conversations between agents and seen it up front. Though nothing new, it hurts and aches in parts of your heart you thought were permanently disabled. Empathy has never been your strongest point but it might just break you right now.

"C'mere," you whisper while holding your arms out for him to escape into.

Winter drags himself forward to close the few feet between you, arms wrapping themselves around your waist as he buries his face into your lap.

What must be half an hour passes by with your fingers tangled up in his hair, nails gently scraping his scalp, and Winter's soft breathing warming up your legs. His own must be numb by now.

The food is long forgotten and probably burnt. You haven't really taken your eyes off of him for the entirety of this time. And despite what must be a routine lacking any sort of hair care, Winter has strands softer than a kitten's and a newfound source of jealousy for you. In these moments you don't particularly mind when your hands are the ones who get to feel his dark brown hair sift through your fingers.

But it hasn't been silent. No, you've rambled on about anything he might find interesting about your life to keep him distracted. He doesn't say anything, but you know he's listening. During things he doesn't like he squeezes your thigh, and sometimes he lets out quiet sounds as reaction.

"I love reading. I've probably read fifty books this year outside of research for work," you tell him, leaning your head back against the couch. "But not any classics, those are too hard to understand. I like simple stories with clichés and happy-endings. Makes me believe that I might find happiness like that someday too."

A particularly noticeable puff of air escapes Winter, hitting your leg with the warmth of it. An agreement, maybe? Or a silent plead for you to shut your mouth for a second?

"Oh, and I cook a lot too. But mostly the same three dishes. I'm not really that good, but I've perfected this tomato sauce I've been doing since I was 18."

You lift your hand to scratch your nose for only a second, and Winter still lets out a nearly silent whine for your absence. It makes you laugh, tugging on a few strands in answer.

"Do you want me to talk more?" you ask him.

He nods, holding onto you a little tighter.

"And is it really comfortable sitting on the floor? Don't you wanna come up to the couch?"

A shake of his head. Still. A nod.

Winter places his hands on either side of you, pushing himself up from the floor until he's standing tall right in front of your figure.

It only takes a pat of your hand on the cushion beside you for him to sit down. You push yourself into the armrest, legs crossed to your best ability with a foot that still has good swelling to it, to give him enough space. The couch is too small in reality and had its shining moments before you were born, but when Winter unfolds your legs and drapes them over his lap the two of you fit well enough.

“Thank you,” his rough voice croaks out after a silence so long you nearly forgot the meaning of speaking. The comfortable silence is always going to be good enough communication for you.

Your eyes are closed and too heavy to open again. What time it is you have no idea about, but it’s dark and you’re exhausted, but find some sliver of energy to answer him.

“What for?” you ask, soft voice on the verge of being slow.

“You are very…kind. Kind and uh, cute. Pretty.” His hand strokes up and down your leg, as if the thought of not touching you is unbearable. “Also smell so good. Want to be close all the time.”

The entirety of your body tenses up and you don’t know why. Why do your limbs turn to stone when his words burn in your veins, sends heat to your face and ears and heart that beats faster with each passing second?

You want to answer, but Winter beats you to it. Instead of expecting you to say anything in return he pets you on the head gently.

“Little bunny so tired. Already sleeping almost,” he says, more to himself than for your sake. You already know how tired you are.

The solid couch disappears from underneath you as he carries you with him to the bed. And just like last night, he maneuvers you until you’re laying flat atop of him.

A pleased hum sounds from your lips, snuggling into his warm hold with a tired smile adorning your face.

“Winter, tomorrow I would really like some pasta. A big pot that nobody else gets to taste but us,” you mumble. “Not even Steve.”

And Winter doesn’t really understand what you’re babbling about, but you can feel his smile despite your eyes being closed.

You could get used to this, and you haven’t felt like a life without Steve constantly nearby is something you could ever be without before. Two days and nights is all it took.

It scares you.

Part III

[feraltuxedo]

Served Cold

Throwback to that time I wrote a twisty political scandal fic disguised as a coffeeshop AU. I'm still quite pleased with this one, it was very fun to write the twists and turns, with suave coffee snob Crowley and thirsty, thirsty Aziraphale. If you like a bit of a mystery, a bit of a plot twist, and a good deal of capital-c Clues, you'll enjoy this.

Served Cold by FeralTuxedo M, 14205 words Summary: On a quiet Wednesday morning, a man with flaming red hair and a face tattoo saunters into a London café. But it appears that he’s there for rather more than just espresso.

Snippet:

This was exactly the type of customer Divinitea wanted to attract, Aziraphale thought. Modern, fashionable, rich. Too casually dressed to be a banker. No, this was someone with an undefinable job that was mostly done at posh brunch places with free wi-fi. He probably had the word entrepreneur on his business card.

He was clearly a bellend. But a very attractive one. Shame Anathema wasn’t here to admire him. Aziraphale would have to do that all by himself.

He turned to the stainless steel behemoth that was the coffee-maker, an expensive import from Italy which Anathema insisted would keep the customers coming back, and began the complicated series of steps that resulted in a steaming stream of thick black coffee pouring into a tiny and rather pretty duck-egg-blue cup.

Aziraphale served it to the stranger, placing the cup on an equally tiny saucer. The man had taken his sunglasses off by now and was watching him with curious brown eyes.

‘Is this place new? I swear it wasn’t here last year.’

‘It wasn’t,’ Aziraphale said. ‘We opened a few months ago.’

It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, fuelled by two bottles of Chardonnay and a dangerously outraged Anathema. Gabriel, of course, had been the cause of her outrage. And Aziraphale, who’d very much been drinking to forget, had instead ended up agreeing to her harebrained idea.

But the mysterious customer didn’t need to know all that.

He took a sip of his espresso and pulled a face. Aziraphale tutted.

‘Coffee not to your liking?’

‘Well…’ The man scrunched up his nose and tipped his head from side to side. ‘Since you asked. It’s a little over in the roast.’

Aziraphale just about stopped himself from muttering You’re a little over in the roast and instead focused intently on wiping the already spotless bar top.

‘But then,’ the man continued, ‘you’re not called Divini-coffee, are you? I bet your tea is top notch.’

Despite himself, Aziraphale laughed.

‘Divini-coffee?’

‘Did the pun come first or the menu?’

‘If you must know, I wasn’t keen on serving coffee in the first place. There’s a perfectly serviceable Costa just up the road, you see, and even a little independent place for those with a more discerning palate and a bigger budget—’

‘What, so you’d rather have people go to the competition for a hot drink? That’s one way to sabotage your own business.’

‘— then my partner made the same observation, and here we are with apparently subpar espresso that’s a little over in the roast.’

‘Your partner?’

‘Junior partner,’ Aziraphale corrected. ‘She owns 30% of the business.’

‘But 100% of the business sense, by the sound of it.’

‘She’s also the one who picks and orders the coffee beans, so you better take it up with her.’

The man shielded his eyes with the side of his palm and turned his head left and right, like a ship’s captain on the lookout for land.

‘Unless your partner is invisible, I don’t seem to have an option but to take it up with you.’

‘Fine.’ Aziraphale sighed. ‘Do you want a refund?’

He hoped not. They were already in the red for this month. On the other hand, Anathema was always very quick to offer refunds, going on the rather flawed assumption that a happy customer was, somehow, preferable to actual money in the till.

‘No need for such extreme measures,’ the man said with a wink, ‘It’s leagues better than Costa at any rate. Though I will take a few minutes of your company as compensation.’

God damn, he was charming. Aziraphale detested him for it, just a little. But then, because he was Aziraphale Fell and his only two weaknesses were French pastries and arrogant men, he did sit down with him. On the edge of the chair, of course, with his back straight and one eye on the door, just to make it absolutely clear that he was at work, and not usually in the habit of lounging about with customers.

The man grinned at him, clearly relishing the awkwardness. Aziraphale stared right back, eyebrows raised. He was not going to let this stranger fluster him.

‘You could at least tell me your name, if you insist on this—’

He flapped his hands between them to make a point.

‘Crowley,’ the man said, after a drawn-out pause.

He savoured the word like a fine wine, and Aziraphale thought it suited him perfectly.

‘Crowley,’ he repeated. ‘You go by your surname?’

‘Yup. I like it that way. Maybe you should try it, too, er… Aziraphale.’

Crowley’s eyes dropped down, once again, to Aziraphale’s name badge, and lingered there much longer than necessary.

‘Oh no, I shouldn’t think so,’ Aziraphale said lightly. ‘Anyway. Do you wish to converse at all, or are you perfectly happy just to stare?’

‘Was just admiring your apron, that’s all.’

‘Thank you. My partner hates it.’

‘I take it she’s not a fan of tartan?’

‘She says it doesn’t suit her.’

‘Suits you, anyway.’

Aziraphale mumbled another thank you. He was starting to get a little hot under the collar. It wasn’t hard to figure out why. He was fairly certain he’d seen this exact scenario play out on Pornhub. Minus the tartan apron, of course.

And really… it had been a quiet morning so far. Perhaps he could lock up the front door and drag Crowley to the back room. Have him rip the apron over his head and push him against the fridge and be done with him before Anathema arrived for her shift at lunch time.

Aziraphale sighed an inward sigh and, of course, did nothing of the sort. Good lord, he really needed to get laid. But ideally not at work. He had standards, after all. Unfortunately, Crowley appeared to meet all of them.

‘What do you want to talk about, then?’ he asked, trying hard to drag his thoughts out of the gutter.

‘Anything, really. The weather? Your favourite band? The embarrassment that is our current prime minister? Bet you’ve got some interesting thoughts to share.’

Aziraphale huffed. It was clumsy flirting, certainly more clumsy than he would have expected from a man who wore his trousers quite so tight.

[syneilesis]

Unfinished Synfic #2

Metafurically

Obey Me! | Satan x Reader; rom-com AU

In a curious turn of events, you’ve become the caretaker of six cute kittens, and have caught the eye of an equally cute, green-eyed blond.

Notes: Yes, that's actually the title; no, I don't regret it. It's been a while since I played Obey Me. I found that I couldn't juggle more than three mobile games lol the daily log in already exhausts me haha. I still have it installed so someday I'll probably play it again.

So like, in this AU, the brothers sans Satan go to the human world for some reason and they turned into kittens because they broke the law or something. You found them all sad and pathetic and so you brought them into your home to take care of them. They got attached to you like barnacles. Satan goes up to find his brothers but gets distracted by a curious little bookshop.

You're a part-time employee at Simeon's bookstore and a full-time grad student. At first you just find this blond green-eyed customer cute; he likes mystery genres too much. But then one day, he buys Howl's Moving Castle and all of a sudden you're in love.

I still have other notes for this one, like your names for the kittens (you're unimaginative sadly), but I'm too lazy to look for my notebook lol

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single bookstore worker in possession of a great inventory of books must be in want of an extra room.

“I’m not selling them,” you said, “I just need a place to store them.”

At the mystery/thriller aisle, Simeon ticked his checklist and smiled without glancing your way.

“Where do you even get your money for all your books? As far as I know, this is your only part-time job. And you’re still a grad student.”

You flinched a bit from his question, thinking about your life choices when it came to spending your savings. “Would you believe me if I said I keep an eye on sales and discounts? There are always monthly promos on this site that I frequent …”

Simeon frowned, before moving on to the romance section. “You’re buying books online?”

Oh, no. “I, ah. I mean.” What to say, what to say. “I could buy books here …”

From the bookshelves to your left, Simeon emerged, notepad under his arm, disappointment radiating from every pore of his body. You had no problems with offending people, unwittingly or otherwise, but there was something about Simeon that compelled you to avoid making him all sad and disappointed. The first time you had met him, in your interview for the part-time job, he reminded you of your grandma, all kind smile and cotton-soft voice. But that was before you discovered that he could give an impressive dressing down worthy of a ten-minute standing ovation—which you actually did, much to his chagrin.

Regardless of whether he’s kind or snarky, you just didn’t want to let him down.

Simeon sighed, already used to your impulses. “Have you even read them all?”

“Yes!” A beat. “Well, no.” Another beat. “I mean, I’m more than halfway through—”

“You should refrain from buying books for a while.”

“But think about the discounts.”

Simeon’s brows dipped and his mouth opened—most likely to give a sermon about the virtues of saving money—but whatever he was going to say was cut off by the sudden tinkling of the door chime, signalling a customer.

“I need to sort the newly arrived books; you handle this.” And with a last cursory look at the romance aisle, Simeon headed off to the storage room.

You return to your spot by the cash register, your eyes homing in on the person who entered. Tall, blond, and had a weird way of wearing his jacket. He looked at home surrounded by books, sifting through fantasy, sci-fi, romance, then lingering on the mystery section. At this point you would have asked if he needed assistance, but your preoccupation with your new batch of ordered books held you at bay. If he wanted to inquire about something, he would approach you anyway.

Minutes later, in the middle of mentally listing your storeroom options, Sherlock Holmes materialized in your line of vision.

You looked up, and all the cells in your body halted for one dazzling second.

Huh.

You would’ve tilted your head and stared some more, but work came first.

“Is this all?” you asked, your finger tapping the book.

Across the counter, the customer offered a friendly smile, nodding, his striking green eyes reminding you of summer foliage. “Yeah.”

For some reason you couldn’t reciprocate the smile. “Right.”

When Simeon came back to check up on you, he found you staring at the window in a daze.

“Did something happen?”

“Not really,” you answered, voice slightly dreamy. Then you turned to Simeon, and your lips stretched into a grin. “I’m feeling productive today. I think I can solve my storage problem and my dissertation problem.”

Needless to say, you were right on the money.

+

One week ago, you had been dealt with a conundrum.

“What.”

In front of you, blocking your way to the entrance to your apartment building, were six kittens IT STOPS HERE LOL

[heich0e]

JUST A TASTE - part one: salt miya atsumu/bartender!reader (haikyuu!) ao3 link word count: 3.3k tags: see series masterlist for more tags, enemies to customer service providers, f!reader, frequent mentions of alcohol a/n: this series is heavily informed by my understanding of western bar culture/mixology, so... suspension of disbelief, poetic license, forgive my ignorance, etc. my apologies + pls read at your own risk if that might bother you!

salty dog: 1.5oz gin or vodka, 4oz grapefruit juice, kosher salt, ice, grapefruit slice (optional for garnish). pour kosher salt onto a plate. rub grapefruit slice around the rim (or wet with tips of fingers and grapefruit juice) and dip the glass into the salt. reserve the grapefruit for serving if using. fill glass with ice. add vodka or gin, then top with grapefruit juice. stir gently to combine and garnish with the reserved grapefruit slice.

The most popular cocktail in the first bar you ever worked at was the Long Island iced tea.

You never knew why it was called a Long Island iced tea. The drink wasn't made with tea. You weren't even sure it came from Long Island—though the concoction undeniably stemmed from the excess of the west.

The cocktail's recipe was as complicated as the ambiguous etymology of its name: equal parts vodka, tequila, gin, rum, and triple sec; one and a half parts sour mix; all topped with a splash of coke to give it its familiar amber hue.

Like tea, maybe. If you'd never seen tea before.

The drink was stupid and convoluted, but they could get you fucked up pretty fast and didn't cost too much—which made it a fan-favourite among the broke students that crammed into the bar near your university campus every night of the week. Fridays they were even two for one, and the highest tally of Long Islands you'd ever made in a single night working the closing shift was three hundred and seventeen. It was on a Friday just after midterm week, and you’d almost thrown the last one right at the poor girl who’d ordered it at last call because you were so sick of mixing them.

Needless to say you were happy when you graduated and got a job at a nicer bar further in Osaka's city centre.

It was only supposed to be a temporary gig; just something to keep your lights on while you hunted for a job in your field. But all too quickly the career prospects that had seemed so promising with your diploma fresh in your hand quickly dried up, and so the drinks kept flowing.

The second bar was fancier than the one you’d worked at through college—the kind that named drinks after famous dead people and used coasters. It was frequented most often by young working professionals only slightly older (if at all) than yourself—dressed in suits and loosened ties, shirts unbuttoned at the collar, as they stopped by for a drink on their way home from the office or with a date on a Saturday night who they’d probably swiped right on on some app. You didn’t really mind working there all that much—the tips were more consistent, the spirits better quality, and you didn’t have to deal with obnoxious college boys slurring unsolicited advances at you over the counter while you poured them their fourth sake bomb of the night and resisted the urge to spit in it.

The most popular drink at this bar was a classic kamikaze, branded with a different name to justify the unnecessarily costly price attached to it. The recipe was a classic: equal parts lime juice, vodka, and triple sec; garnished with a slice of lime.

When you would leave the bar at the end of a shift, shuffling lethargically down the road to the humble apartment which you shared with two friends from college, you could still smell the sharp, astringent aroma of the green citrus fruit clinging to the tips of your fingers because of how many limes you'd used as garnish that night.

It was at that second bar that you learned to really enjoy bartending. It was easier to do in that place, when you weren’t focusing on quantity over quality; over making sure the senpai on the other side of the bar wasn’t getting too handsy with the junior girl you’d served one too many lemon sours that evening; over ensuring that someone didn’t steal the framed painting of Jumbo Ozaki off the wall (for the third time that month.) 

You found that, over time, the half-assed google searches and scanning job postings at the back of the Saturday newspaper stopped entirely; the books on your nightstand turned from a stack about finding your calling and nailing interviews to titles on mixology and spirits.

You got better at bartending too. You weren’t just fast and efficient (the only good thing that ever came out of that college bar job) but you had a good memory when it came to drinks—quickly becoming a walking encyclopaedia of not just recipes, but facts about spirits, wine, and beer that you used to charm customers into ordering the top shelf offerings, which translated into fatter tips left for you and your impressive wealth of trivia at the end of the night.

And then one day, an opportunity fell in your lap.

“I got a job at that new bar across town—you know the one on the top floor of that crazy high rise?” 

You looked up over the steaming bowl of ramen that was commanding the majority of your attention, your chopsticks pausing halfway to your open mouth.

Your coworker and friend, Shoji, peered back at you from the other side of the table after he said his piece. You should of known when he offered to take you out for lunch ahead of your shift that evening he’d had ulterior motives. 

“Ah,” you said, popping your food into your mouth and then speaking as you chewed. “Dees ah’ guilt noodows.”

“They are not guilt noodles, thank you.” Shoji laughed, slumping back in his chair as he watched you chew. He seemed to be contemplating something.

Shoji Taiyou was a few years older than you—closer to 35 than he was to your 25—and had been in the bar industry for twice as long as you had. He was still youthful in spite of it, with tattoos on his arm, a buzzed head, and a piercing in his eyebrow—and you rarely noticed the gap in ages between you. Above all else he was a good coworker. Reliable. The two of you had become fast friends when you’d started working at the second bar that took you on just after graduation.

You swallowed your mouthful of food.

“That place is fucking swanky—why the hell did they hire you?” you asked, but the comment had no grounds and you both knew it. He was as good of a bartender as they came, and had taught you a lot in the few years that you’d been working together. 

You’d miss him.

“My old friend from college is the manager,” Shoji said, reaching for his own chopsticks and picking out a piece of pork from his bowl. “He’s been trying to convince me to come on board for the past couple of months,” he explained, leaning on his elbow as he watched you fish out a shiitake from your own bowl of broth. “He came in last week to talk to me about it again—remember him?” 

You vaguely recalled the man, though you forgot his name. He was wearing a suit and had smiled a lot, showing off his unnaturally white teeth. He’d been pleasant enough. 

“He liked you,” Shoji said. “A lot.”

“I’m not interested in getting set up with your buddy even if he does run the fanciest bar in Osaka,” you said with a roll of your eyes, pointing your chopsticks at him warningly.

“He’s married,” Taiyou laughed. “And he doesn’t want to date you, he wants to hire you.”

You paused.

“Me?” 

Shoji had twice the wealth of experience you did, so it made sense he’d get scouted by another bar. But you? You were just a college grad who bartended because apparently art history majors were not, in fact, in such a high demand at the moment. 

“He said you made him one of the best cocktails he’s had in a long time.”

“I'm pretty sure he only ordered a highball...”

“Just think about it, will ya? He liked you, and I vouched for your skills,” Shoji said with a long-suffering sigh at your recalcitrance, letting his hand hit the table with a determined thud. The broth in your bowl rippled at the impact. “I’m putting in my two weeks today, so that gives you fourteen days to make up your mind as to whether or not you’re coming with me.”

And you did think about it.

A lot.

You thought about it while you worked that night—shaking a Martini over your shoulder for one of your regulars: a middle aged woman who was meeting with her lawyer as they discussed the third divorce she’d gone through since you started working at the bar. 

You thought about it while you shopped for groceries after your closing shift on the eighth day at the 24 hour grocery store by your apartment, choosing between vegetables and ice cream because your budget didn't allow for both. (You chose the ice cream.)

You thought about it while you vacuumed your apartment on the thirteenth day, tripping over the cord of the appliance with a face mask smeared thick across your t-zone that promised to help improve the brightness of your skin. It had been dull as of late, and you chalked it up to too much thinking.

You handed in your notice the next morning.

It hardly feels right to call the third bar you find yourself employed at a simple bar at all when it's so much more than that. 

It has stunning views of the city skyline from the top floor of a newly constructed high-rise. There’s polished glass, black marble, and a profusion of other modern finishes decorating the space in a tasteful, luxurious way that never feels too heavy-handed. But your favourite part of the modern, sumptuous bar has to be the atmospheric lighting that casts the entire space in a dim, ethereal glow without ever diminishing the view. 

Going to work every day still feels like a dream.

And it’s here that you really get to shine. 

The liquors behind the bar are expensive and imported. There are bottles of wine on the wine list that cost more than a month’s rent at your old apartment—which you’ve since given up in favour of a one bedroom closer to your new place of work, that you can afford now on your own thanks to the substantial pay increase you’d gotten when you’d accepted the new position.

The job comes with more responsibility, commensurate to the pay-raise, to be sure—you help to curate drink menus, source new and exciting additions to the spirit shelves and wine list, deal with any issues with distributors that crop up along the way. But you get to mix drinks, ones you come up with yourself, and it’s given you the space you need to thrive.

The clientele of the new bar is elite; politicians, actors, and athletes flock to the space in droves. They're the kind of people who don’t bat an eye at the hefty bills that land in their hands at the end of night, or think twice about how many zeroes they scribble on to the tip at the bottom of their receipt to be split between you and the waitstaff.

All in all, you find the patrons at the downtown bar to be mostly tolerable.

Except for one.

Miya Atsumu: professional volleyball player for the MSBY Black Jackals, part-time heartthrob, and full-time pain in your ass.

He shows up every Friday night with a date—a standing reservation in his name.

He always orders two cocktails.

Never the same one twice.

The women nor the drinks.

It had started a few weeks after you’d begun your new job: a busy Friday evening, as always, and the most popular drink that night seemed to be the cocktail that you and head bartender Shoji had come up with—a slightly more modern take on a classic whiskey sour.

You were in the process of making three more of the evening’s special when a head of peroxide blonde hair suddenly popped into your line of sight. You looked up, meeting a pair of suspiciously soft brown eyes peering at you from the other side of the sparkling bartop.

“Hello,” you greeted the man politely, wiping your damp hands on the apron tied around your waist, condensation from the shaker you’d just been holding clinging to your fingertips. “Can I help you?”

Your eyes flickered down to the man’s hands as he set them on the counter and leaned towards you—long, inarguably elegant fingers wrapped around two cocktails identical to the ones you’d just been preparing. One was mostly drained while the other barely touched, though you could spot the soft ring of a lipstick mark along the edge of the polished glass.

“I was wonderin’ if ya might be able to do me a huge favour,” the man asked, voice teeming with what you were sure was meant to be charm but immediately set your teeth on edge. You couldn’t help but have a sudden, visceral flashback to the college boys who would leer at you over the counter in your first bar, and you found yourself taking a half step back from him without thinking.

His eyes flashed with a quiet confusion at your unsubtle retreat, but he didn’t seem to let it stop him.

“Ya see, my date and I both ordered this cocktail—but she really hates whiskey.”

“It’s a whiskey sour,” you replied, forcing yourself to keep your tone professional though it still came out a little flat. Why someone who hates whiskey would order a drink that was made of it perplexed you—but it happened far more often than you cared to linger on in your line of work.

“I know—and I happen to think it’s delicious—I thought she’d like it too but she says she absolutely can’t drink it.”

“Alright, I’d be happy to make you something else,” you said, tone slightly clipped but still accommodating. “What can I get for you?”

“Well, what would you recommend?” he asked, his blonde head tilting curiously to the side.

Your eyes dropped down to the three almost completed cocktails in front of you, which you’d already allowed to rest for too long thanks to the unexpected distraction. You set about completing them while you spoke with the man. 

“Well, she doesn’t like whiskey. What spirit does she like?” You finished garnishing the cocktails, waving over the server who had been waiting for them at the edge of the bar to hand them off.

“Uh, dunno…” The man scratched absentmindedly behind his ear.

You blinked at him blankly, biting back a scoff.

“Alright, well does she like sweet things?” you tried again.

The man pursed his full lips. “Not sure about that either.”

“Is there anything you know about this woman?” The biting comment slipped out before you had the presence of mind to stopper it behind your teeth—and you momentarily panicked, wondering if he was going to take offence.

He merely grinned at you wolfishly.

“I know she's a swimsuit model.”

You very nearly sneered.

You curled your hands into fists out of sight below the bar, counting to five in your mind to calm the rage you felt building in your gut.

“Okay,” you said, turning away and grabbing some ingredients off the wall behind you.

It wasn’t anything particularly complicated—a slightly modified take on an Aperol spritz. The man watched you while you worked, mixing up the two cocktails with a measured hand, offering a few facts about the beverage along the way as you were accustomed to doing.

You finished the drink off with a bit of briney salt spray over the surface of the bubbling beverage, the champagne still fizzing from having only just been poured over the ice.

“What’s that?” the man asked, watching you mist the drinks.

“Saline solution,” you explained, running a clean cloth over the edge of the glass to clean up a little drop that had spilled over the lip. “It’s salty—like the sea. People say it reminds them of the beach.”

“Perfect fer a swimsuit model.” The man nodded approvingly, flashing you a winning smile.

“Sure,” you agreed half-heartedly, handing the drinks to the evening’s most annoying customer over the counter.

“I’ll be sure to let ya know what she thinks!” 

You bit back the comment sitting on the tip of your tongue telling him not to bother—catching yourself that second time before saying something you’d regret.

You didn’t need him to come and tell you his date enjoyed her drink—even though he did make a point of doing so on his way out, his cheeks flushed a little pinker and hair a little more dishevelled than it had been when he first approached the bar that evening. The three more rounds of the same cocktail that had been ordered for his table (and the hefty tip he’d left, with specific instructions that it was to go directly to you) really told you everything you needed to know.

It became a routine after that.

Miya comes in on a Friday night, some exorbitantly beautiful woman on his arm, and he’s quickly seated at whatever table the front of house staff has ready and waiting for him. 

Moments after that, he rises to approach you at the bar. 

He’ll offer you some minute detail about his date (though occasionally it is mercifully pertinent to their drink preferences—like a spirit they enjoy or a flavour they’re partial to) and you’re left to come up with a cocktail that will appeal to them.

“So, what’s the story with this one?” he asks one evening, a few months into the little ritual that has settled between you, leaning over the counter as you whip up a drink for his lady of the week. His hints that night were: daughter of a mogul, refined tastes, wants to get messed up.

“Comes from Monaco. They say the queen devised the recipe herself—all the bubble of champagne but twice the punch. Ladies weren’t allowed to drink hard liquor without it being seen as unbecoming, so this was a way they could get away with it and still have a good time.” You strain the slightly green tinted drink into the waiting champagne flutes below the shaker, watching as the frothy liquid pools in the basin of the glass.

“Nice.” The man nods in approval as you top both drinks off with a float from a freshly popped bottle of champagne. The colour of the drink softens even further with the addition of the effervescent wine, and in the dim light of the bar you can hardly even tell it isn’t pure champagne. 

“Two imperials for your prim and proper date.” You slide the drinks over to his waiting hands.

“She won’t be proper fer long." Atsumu winks at you over the counter and you wrinkle your nose in distaste.

Your interactions with the regular customer have also shifted in the weeks since he’d started bothering you with his patronage—far less professional than the tone you’d tried (poorly) to maintain on his first few visits to the bar. 

“Revolting,” you mutter.

“Thanks again! I’ll let you know how this one goes.”

“Just leave me a nice tip,” you say dismissively, wiping down the bartop with a clean cloth to prepare for the next drink orders waiting to be filled.

“I always do,” the man chirps back, flashing you the same grin he always does—charming, self-assured, and utterly carefree—as he steps away towards his waiting date once more.

But he’s right: for all of Atsumu’s shenanigans, he always leaves you a very generous tip at the end of the night. He always ensures to stop by on his way out—one arm wrapped around the waist of whatever absurdly good looking woman he’s conned into going out with him that week—to tell you that they loved their drinks and to slide a neatly folded stack of bills towards you across the counter.

He’s annoying, but he’s single-handedly financing your habit of buying the really good ice cream on your weekly grocery trip, so you don’t complain much. 

You watch as Atsumu crosses the length of the room to return to his table—this week he’s been seated at one not far from the bar, which affords you the perfect view of him sliding into his seat and handing one of the two drinks you’d just carefully prepared to the woman waiting for him.

She takes a sip and smiles, and you watch as Atsumu reaches out to brush a piece of hair behind her ear, his touch lingering just a moment longer than is necessary.

You look away with a roll of your eyes, setting to work on the numerous orders that have come in since you’d been busy preparing his drinks.

Good tipper or not, he really is completely shameless.

[coffee-in-veins]

Day 5: Ritual

an entry for darkest prompts promptober 2022

previous days: 1, 2, 3, 4

now available on ao3 too

Contains modified barks for Hopeless crusader and crusader’s skills from Darkest Dungeon 1 and the author’s dedication to a particular fan theory.

Ritual NOUN - a religious or solemn ceremony consisting of a series of actions performed according to a prescribed order; a series of actions or type of behaviour regularly and invariably followed by someone.

* * *

If there was something Dismas both adored and loathed in his husband in approximately equal measure, it was predictability. 

Reynauld had always moved in any given battle only after accessing all tactics of both allies and enemies. He had always forgotten to buy his personal pipe, and they had to share during smokes. He had always read verses during his pastime, despite knowing the book by heart for decades. He had always possessed a mysterious aura that made anything shiny and the rogue's trusty old flask disappear when he was nearby. He had always dragged Dismas out of death's hungry clutches. He had always nurtured the battered highwayman back to health. He had always believed they would prevail against the antediluvian horror.

And that was the word which suited the knight the most.

'Always'. 

It was an easy word, near Rey. For better or for worse, it constantly appeared in his vicinity, and soon enough, Dismas wasn't the only one noticing how it spread from the crusader, like roots from a tree. It became so prominent that people started referring to him as one of the few constants in their shitty lives, so much so that it became a proverb of sorts. The sun rose on the east, the Warrens smelled of shite, and you could find Reynauld in the transept. Three cornerstones of Hamlet's society - permanent and perpetual, therefore, familiar and soothing. 

When the sun disappeared altogether, consumed by the blackened disk in the blood-red skies and the seawater boiled and overflown what little remained of the ancient aqueducts that hid Swine barbaric society, was it really that surprising that it was only a matter of time before the god-fearing zealot forfeit his place in his usual sanctuary?

As close to an ill omen as it was, the highwayman knew there was nothing poetic in the matter, frankly. The former nobleman simply remained the only literate man amidst the barebone crew of remaining adventurers. And while Dis could read, too, it took him considerably more time and effort than the knight, and there was always too much shite to do to waste time like that. 

Not that there was much use left of the highwayman anyway. 

The rogue found his husband in the library, buried in books per his late custom. He sat near him and leaned on him openly, showing affection, receiving one just as blazingly and fearing no judgement. The world was ending after they ventured into the cursed Estate proper, so who the fuck cared?

"How are them preparations?" the rogue inquired, squinting at the chained tome. Whoever was chaning books, he thought not for the first time, was an even bigger madman than they were.

"It is futile," Rey sighed back and hugged him, pulling the smaller man close. His hand still jerked away when it found a mere empty sleeve in the place of Dismas' gun hand. "I'm no Alhazred, Light shine on his soul. I don't understand this-this heresy."

Piles of crossed and scribbled-over paper begged to differ. The rogue knew better than point that out. 

"We just need a bit of help," Dismas argued back just as habitually. "Some supplies t' bounce back. We crawled from worse befo'."

"I am but a man..."

"Rey," sky above, he didn't want to bring that up but there seemed to be painfully few options left. "Barristan lost his legs."

This startled the knight, almost making him jump up to his feet:

"What? When?!"

" 'bout an hour ago."

"Why didn't you-- I was-- I could...!"

For once, Dismas' voice was harsh:

"In yer condition, all ye could was t' die!" yet when the crusader flinched, he sighed and pulled him back to nuzzle his love's robe-covered shoulder. "We need ya here. We need you t' make it work."

"But the price. We risk so much and I'm not even sure those blaggards will let me pass even after all this witchcraft!"

It was easy to decide, near Reynauld. Always had been.

"Then make us yer guards."

"How can you say this," the zealot's voice was brittle. "I can't do this to you. Not to you of all people. No."

With a pained grumble, Dismas let torn leather of Uncatchable slip from the puss-covered bandages on his shoulder. Reynauld had always been sturdy. They'll manage, together. They have no other choice. 

"I'm on borrowed time anyway. Sepsis, they called it."

"But I called the Light..."

"n' ye got me out," the rogue insisted, turning Rey's face from the wound to himself. "But love, a defender without legs, a vestal without tongue n' a feverish thug with only one arm make one shitty likeness of a proper party. n' those other tenderfeet, they don't have 'em guts t' do what needs t' be done t' save this town."

Reynauld's eyes had always been those of steel blue yet now they became whitish, bleached. But his nod was certain for once and his lips were hot and dry when he kissed the highwayman's bruised forehead.

"You grant me the strength to overcome whatever appears on our path."

And Dismas smiled, triumphant against all odds.

He had spent the last seven years of his life risking - and losing! - life and limb to protect this hellhole he tentatively started calling home. He had spilt more blood than remained flowing in his veins. He had suffered, and lost, and endured, and bounced back. Surely, he thought, mouth filled with a familiar metallic salt, surely, the townspeople would give them the benefit of a doubt. Surely, they'd understand that their desperate bidding on this insane plan was to get them out of the noose.

It was only when the doors fell under the unending onslaught of a makeshift ram, when the boots stomped the runes, when the candlelight went out, when Reynauld was grabbed, when Dismas suddenly could only see the dirty insides of an old sack, he understood a simple thing. 

He thought wrong.

And as he returned to his teal being, weightless, and numb, and angry, it was easy to slash through the cloth and flesh alike. Just as easy as it was to return to his rightful place by his beloved's side, mourning the head cage he was put into, or the unjust heretic brand on his brow, or the scold's bridle they couldn't remove. Because through damnation, and the teal, and the blood, there was one seemingly minuscule thing that remained blessedly the same. 

They still had their 'always'.

[emersonfreepress]

For trans MCs, you said gender angst can/will manifest in the form of people who knew MC pre-transition can accidentally call them by their wrong pronouns and their deadname. I'm curious about the mechanics of it.

How will you handle the deadname part? Will we have to enter a name or will the narration be like

"And there is you, with the name you...

a) used to have (enter the deadname) b) still use even after transition (name remains the same) c) no longer use after transition. (skip entering a deadname)"

Related to it: will we get to be nonbinary and trans?

Can MC be nonbinary from the start even if cis? Like with the deadname option, will it be like:

"Before coming out as nonbinary, you...

a) used she/her pronouns b) used he/him pronouns c) ... well, you don't want to think about that time (avoid putting pronouns)"

Coding and narration-wise though, I can see that would be hard, especially if those few people who knew MC pre-coming out have dialogues or direct conversations with MC, or even just talking about MC's past to someone else.

Like using direct speech if pronouns and/or deadname is put:

""Yeah, then (Deadname) did (former pronoun) best," said Character A."

vs indirect speech if not:

"Character A said you did your best, using your deadname and former pronouns before apologizing and correcting themselves."

So I'd understand if you don't implement such options.

Ok, there's at least three questions here 😅 That's why it took me a while to properly finish this answer, I think I ended up confusing myself a few times lol

Regarding MC deadnames

I only plan for deadname customization around the time of the first scene it is actually relevant to, which isn't until Thanksgiving-times (typical). You'll be able to write in a custom one or choose that you've always had the same name. That won't extend to misgendered pronouns, though; it wouldn't be anything like the examples used here. Feels shoehorned/immersion-breaky.

Can MC be non-binary and trans?

We don't get assigned or raised as our gender, yeah? Non-binary is trans, so yes.

Can MC be non-binary from the start?

Yes, but with caveats.

I wasn't any less agender when I was using she/her pronouns for the first 20 years of my life; I just didn't have the vocabulary or established language to express it. I still had the queer feelings and thoughts, but I only had the words available to me through others and a ton of straight, cisgender media. I probably referred to myself as a tomboy or a person a thousand times more than I ever referred to myself as a girl. That word bothered me; not she or her. That was the word that was heavy to me, it meant too many things. It held the weight the of the expectations of my family, my peers, and the world at large. It shackled me to activities and mannerisms that I had no inclination towards, it forced me to conform to mannerisms and assumptions that never fucking fit.

When I still thought that not being a boy automatically means you're a girl, all I ever understood about myself was that I was not a boy and that I despised being a girl, wished I didn't have to be a girl, largely hated girls who naturally enjoyed conforming to things that tore me apart inside. There was a distinct hatred of being born a girl but an equally distinct disinterest in being born a boy instead. I didn't know "neither" or "none" was a box I could check or a thing at all and yet that is always what my gender has been.

ANYWAY let me hop off this soapbox ffs /personal rambling over. all of that is to preface the following:

As progressive and different as Emerson is, singular they as an indicator of gender identity and neo-pronouns were beyond obscure of a concept in the late 90s to the general American public; forget about it as an actual practice or show of respect. Book 2 takes place in 2008 and will introduce singular they/them as a third pronoun option if MCs want it. All the rest of my IF projects (🤞🏾🤞🏾🤞🏾🤞🏾) will take place in the current day or the not-so-distant future (or literal Hell ☺️) and will have they/them and pronoun customization as options. Because moderntimes.

So! As it stands, Book 1 limits the MC to using one of the two binary pronouns (he and she) but both books will use 5 variables to represent MC gender: cis boys and girls, trans boys and girls, and non-binary kids. Non-binary MCs get the additional option to clearly indicate that they don't ascribe to, subscribe to, or generally mesh well with binary gender norms and expectations—they will be written as non-binary. it's kinda important to me

I also want the beta and final version to have a "gender angst" toggle that runs the game filtered in such a way that largely leaves out most gendered flavor text and most references to being trans outside of just a few scenes or lines. This would also let MCs use "they/them" pronouns throughout the game without fanfare. I talked about it a bit here.

Idk if it will work for all queer players... and it's possible this is an unsatisfying answer for some folks. But it's what this one queer coder wants to do for their game, so 🤷🏾‍♂️

Ultimately, this is all smoke and vapor until it is properly coded and written anyway. Execution speaks louder than planning, so I'll be trying my damn best ☺️

[afterthegreatunknown]

Randomity: Bartering, Jaywalking, and Discussion: Not In That Order

One thousand, two hundred, and fifty dollars is a budget that can work for one person. Can such a budget work for seven people? Not really. There’s no way seven people could make that budget work, unless the group got lucky. And luck rain down on the group consisting of the Quagmire triplets, Hector, and the Widdershins family.

The group of seven, upon reaching Crown City (after half a day of walking there from Crown City Beach plus a night's rest) found a donation/second-hand store. There they bought some new clothes, as well as two duffel carry-on bags, and a mini-sewing kit at reasonable low prices for their budget. Good luck continued to rain down on them, for nearby was a laundromat that allowed dollars exchange for coins and detergent for customers (also at a reasonable low price).

Now, why would they need two duffel carry-on bags and mini-sewing kit? Quigley couldn’t carry everything in his backpack. Another two bags were needed to carry the rest of their belongings. And the mini-sewing kit was brought to sew up potential rips and tears on their clothes.

As the group currently walks around, watching a black-haired woman with sunglasses approach a mini-van, a collective thought hits them. They need a vehicle to travel back westwards…and hitchhiking is not an option. If they hitchhike, V.F.D. could find them and do who knows what with them. There’s also the regular hitchhiking risk of being pick by a criminal to worry about.

The black-haired woman soon opens up the passenger door of the mini-van, and places a decently size cardboard sign on the dashboard. The sign reads, “WILLING TO BARTER AND/OR TRADE: Call Ella Jane Wile at 555-9023.”

“If we had a ride like that,” says Hector, slowly down his walking pace to admire the minivan from afar, “we wouldn’t need to potentially hitchhike all the way back westward.”

“I’ll agree to that,” comments Isadora. “And that mini-van appears to be the right size. A seven or eight-figure seat configuration, from what I can tell from here.”

Quigley stares at the minivan as he readjusts his backpack. “It’s too bad we have nothing good to trade with what is equal to a minivan.”

Widdershins stops in his tracks suddenly, and then curls the end of his mustache. “Why don’t we try bartering for it? Aye. It’s an option on the sign.”

Hector completely comes to a halt, which in turns has Isadora and Quigley bumping into one another. Duncan also comes to a stop, but he avoids getting bump into, for he was walking ahead of his siblings. Fernald and Fiona simply stop walking, and stare at their stepfather.

“We can’t,” says Fernald. “If we have nothing to trade, then we have nothing to barter with.”

Duncan briefly scratches the small area between his ear and cheek as he stares at Hector, and the minivan. “Well, bartering is the direct transaction of goods or services with other goods or services. We could barter with Hector’s handyman skills in a service. Who to say Ms. Wile has something in need of fixing, or something that’s in need of maintenance?”

“Who to say she doesn’t?” asks Fiona. “But you do have a point. If she does need something fix or in need of maintenance, Hector’s handyman skills may be our only hope to get that minivan.”

“I don’t like the idea of me being our golden ticket,” says Hector, staring back at the woman now talking to someone on her cellphone, smacking the palm of her hand onto the mini-van hood. “Even if I wasn’t, intruding on her making a possible important phone call that I suspect she’s not happy about won’t do us any good in our attempt to barter.”

A silence rolls over the group as they watch the woman talk on her cellphone. Widdershins soon shrugs his shoulders, and brushes them off, despite it not being dirty. He then looks both ways, looking for incoming cars driving by. Luckily for him, there are none.

“He or she who hesitates is lost, handyman! It’s not our only hope, but our only chance!” Widdershins then jay-walks across the empty street to the woman. Well, jay-running across the now empty street. Still, walking or running, he’s disregarding traffic rules for the pedestrians.

“Are you—Stepfather! What the hell!?” Fernald soon runs after his stepfather, but he didn’t look both ways on the street. He still manages to avoid getting hit, for there are no incoming cars.

“Stepfather! Fernald! Wait!” Fiona quickly follows after Fernald. Like her stepfather, Fiona looks both ways before running out on the street. And just like the previous two, Fiona doesn’t get hit either, because there are still no incoming cars. That is truly, a real sign of good luck.

The now group of four watch Widdershins crossing the street at last, and taps the woman’s shoulder. The woman in response, nearly strikes him across the face. Widdershins ducks in time, and yells loudly to where the group can hear him. Widdershins then talks to himself, and whatever he said, the woman somehow heard, for she tilts her head with curiosity.

As the Quagmire triplets give glances at one another, Hector takes note of the woman. The woman is now staring intensely at Widdershins, before she speaking to him. From what Hector could infer, the woman asks a question. A ‘yes-or-no’ question, for Widdershins’ inaudible response to her has him also nodding his head.

The woman and Widdershins don’t speak much, for Fernald arrives soon, with Fiona quickly joining several seconds later. Quigley quickly observes how Fernald waves his right hook in the air, which sends Fiona in a brief panic. Duncan and Isadora meanwhile, notice the sudden smile on the woman’s face, as if she’s happy the Hook-Handed Man has, well, hooks for hands. Eventually, the Widdershins family and the black-haired woman soon enter a discussion. It’s a discussion that ends with the woman waving from across the street.

“What do you think the Widdershins family said to her?” asks Duncan, watching the woman now clapping her hands together.

“I can’t really guess,” says Isadora, as she sees the Widdershins family and the woman jaywalking together, “but whatever said, it wasn’t a mess.”

“Hopefully,” mutters Quigley, going quiet for the Widdershins family —and the woman— have rejoin them on their side of the street.

The woman quickly places her sunglasses to the top of her head, showing them all her green-color eyes. The she stares at them with that now close-up smile on her face, has the Quagmires and Hector feeling rather nervous. Hector more so, faintly recalling a person he never met but heard from others. However, knowing that it’s very unlikely the woman is said particular person, Hector pushes aside his uneasiness, and gives the woman a smile.

“I assume you’re Ella Jane Wile?” asks Hector, giving out his hand.

“Yes, I am,” says the woman—Ella Jane Wile— and briefly shakes his hand. “No need to call me by all of that. Ella Jane will do just fine. And you’re…”

“Hector.”

“Hector. Well, Hector,” continues Ella Jane, pulling back her hand, “your friend and his stepchildren told me of your group’s current problem. I’m willing to give you my old mini-van, if you assist me in something that’s a bit unorthodox.”

“Unorthodox?”

“Yes. Unorthodox.” Ella Jane tucks a strand of her black hair behind her ear. “What I need assistance for isn’t even something for me. It’s for an associate of mine. She’s in a rather terrible situation that has yet change for the better.”

Ella Jane then looks down at the phone still in her hand. “In fact, several minutes ago, I got a phone call from a mutual acquaintance that the situation gotten worse. All I can say is in public is that my associate needs the someone with the skills of a handyman, someone who can menace without causing harm, and someone willingly to drive her to safety without hesitation.”

“And we fit the bill,” says Widdershins, pointing to Hector, Fernald, and then himself. “So, Hector, you’re willing to help a woman who’s just want to help someone else?”

“I’m willing to help. But…where would the children be during all of this?” asks Hector.

“The children will be in my apartment safe and sound, while us adults take care of the matter,” says Ella Jane. “In fact, my apartment is nearby. I can take you all there right now. Us adults can also discuss the matter more there.”

“Please lead the way then,” replies Hector.

Ella Jane nods her head as she moves her sunglasses back down onto her eyes. She then turns around, and begins walking in the same direction the group was walking in before.  Everyone else follows, Ella Jane starts humming a rather somber and slow song. But the only people paying attention to Ella Jane’s humming is Fiona and her stepfather. Fiona, walking beside her stepfather, sees the confusion —or slow recognition— on his face.

“Do you know what Ms. Wile is humming, Stepfather?” asks Fiona.

“Possibly,” replies the man. “It reminds me of a Duke Ellington song I heard before. That’s all.”

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

Lemon, vermilion, and turquoise blue for the watercolor asks, please!

Thank you for the ask! From this list.

lemon; what’s your comfort food?

Hm. I do love potato things. Potato casserole and good old fries (preferably with some equally healthy meat option) are things I often throw in the oven when I feel like I could use some nice food.

When I’m miserable enough to not want to cook, though, it’s always gonna be toast <3

vermilion; what’s your favorite accent?

Okay, honestly? I HATE ACCENTS. I have a hard time understanding people half of the time already if they speak perfectly clear textbook language. I once asked a customer on the phone for his name 7 times, spelling it out at the end, and still didn’t get that it was PETER. That’s how much I hate accents. Then I feel horrible for not understanding someone when it’s obvious it’s their second language; sorry I’m not making fun of you, the words just don’t arrive in my brain.

And that’s in my native language. English makes it way harder.

Written in books it’s just as hard to read. I do not enjoy this. I don’t hear a voice in my head when I read. All I see is funnily written words that take a moment longer to decipher.

turquoise blue; if you could start a garden, what would you plant?

I mean, I could. If I had the motivation. I once did, but a) it’s work and b) god I do not want to garden in front of a horde of annoying little goblins screeching at the top of their lungs and calling “hello! hello! hello! hello! what are you doing? hello!” over and over.

(Should one be allowed to forbid children from playing outside? No. Should I have to endure it 2m in front of me while doing work I didn’t like in the first place? Also no! Also oh my god, it’s not only the children screaming, apparently no one in this family has indoor voices.)

Didn’t have much luck with sub ground plants like carrots and radishes; very small, got very eaten by stuff. I’d probably go for potatoes (they are magic. you put one potato in and pull several out! :o) and green beans (god I love green beans) and perhaps cucumbers - I know zucchini grow fast, but I do not want several tons of zucchini. Tomatoes would be nice, but I would not have the patience to grow them from seeds, so it’s also a bit expensive, getting the plants. Perhaps some salads. Would likely get eaten by slugs :(

We do have some apple trees, a quince tree that produces like 3 fruits a year, a plum tree no one took care of so it’s too high now to reach anything, and our cherry tree died last year :( I’d like to get a new one, or mirabelle plums, but there isn’t really a good spot to plant a new tree. The old cherry tree was in the middle of a lawn, and it was annoying. In general, fruit trees are the best. And bushes. We used to have red currants, which were fun to harvest, but no one actually liked to eat them :D I love raspberries, but I so do not want to deal with the thorns.

I don’t care much about flowers. I’d like to murder every last rose that’s still in this garden, because they grow wild parts that are thorny all over the place, and I don’t like thorns. Something that is perennial. Perhaps a nice flowering bush. Oh! Some more hibiscus :) I have one that’s mine. And dandelion. It has a hard time growing in my garden (oh, the irony), but all my hamsters loved it.

I’d also like to rip out one of the flowerbeds, because it’s overgrown anyway, and the path next to it is really narrow. Would love to have a wildflower meadow mix there, but on the one side of the house it’s super hot and dry in summer, and on the other it’s very dark and everything is full of moss. So currently it’s “whatever manages to survive can stay”, lol.

Just a bunch of tasty things, and a bunch of nice plants that do not require replanting and can be trimmed down to size once a year, I guess.

[pizza-pie-in-the-sky]

The End of Our Journey - A Reflection on Pizza and More

What a journey, right? I can't believe this project has come to an end! It feels like it lasted only a moment, on the other hand, I am well aware a few weeks passed, it's kind of funny. During this project, we visited so many restaurants, with so many different kinds of pizza, and with many different aesthetics, different interpretations of this supposedly simple meal… I think throughout the whole span of this blog, I noticed some important aspects of these restaurants that I believe are important to share!

~ Alex.

There are many aspects, and criteria of sort, by which our group, so me as well, of course, considered these restaurants and decided if we liked them or not. However, I think it goes further than that. After all, the subjects which we covered can't just be equaled to likes/dislikes, as they're deeper than that.

Say, dietary restrictions related to the menus; I am not a person with a celiac disease, so I don't need to search through the menus carefully, because if I pick a wrong dish, it will make me seriously sick. Still, few restaurants that we visited had such information, or we had to figure it out based on the ingredients, which isn't even always safe! Something that I think more restaurants should took into consideration, is clearly marking their options according to particular diets (not only gluten-free, but also lactose-free, vegan, vegeterian, and etc.), due to the safety of their customers. I think it would be highly appreciated by everyone, as well as would make things simply easier! After all, it can't be that hard, right?

Another thing I wondered about, and which I think should be considered, is accessibility of these restaurants. Even though decor is important and it's really nice to sit in a gorgeous restaurant, eating delicious food, it would also be nice if these were accessible to as many people as possible, and sadly mobility was sometimes the issue in the places we visited. I don't mean that from the standpoint of correcting every single place I went to over the course of the past month (and more), what I'm trying to say is, if these restaurants can, they could make the interior more spacious, simply by changing the placement of a few tables, or could inform of the amount of space the restaurant has to offer (and in what way!)! This could be very useful to people struggling with mobility on daily basis.

What I also mean by the restuarants' accesibility is financial accessibility - not everyone can afford to go to a good, italian restaurant or just a pizza place that often, and to some of them even at all. I think it's important to talk about this, and I believe we should have focused on this aspect more - especially that we visited restauarants that were both great and easily affordable!

The last thing I wanted to mention is the approach of these restaurants to the culture of making pizza, and along those lines, that of Italy. Some of the restaurants we visited leaned into the "italian aesthetic" more than the others, some decided to go for their own, unique design, and some seemed to overlook it for the sake of simply developing their own, recognizable pizza-look that would invoke both them and the aesthetic in some strange, yet attention-grabbing way. I wanted to mention that, because this marks a, very intriguing to me, form of appreciating cultures of pizza and Italy, in a way!

(One last thing I hope for is that these don't sound too judgemental, I'm only trying to share my thoughts; hence, if you have any insight into this discussion you're invited to share it here <3.)

So, I think this food blog-project was a huge success for us! Thank you to every person reading this for being on this journey with out group. Goodbye, I wish you a good day/night, filled with pizza of all kinds to the very brims, wherever you are, haha <3.

~ Alex.

[ledenews]

The Rose Bowl Has New Name, New Family Ownership

The Rose Bowl Lanes has been a fixture of the Edgington Lane area of Wheeling since 1969 when the business moved from its location at Bae Mar Place to its current home at 89 Edgington Lane. It’s a family-run establishment with a loyal following of league bowlers that keep the house packed. Since 1987, that family was the Manukins—Jerry Sr. and Jr. along with family matriarch Judy. Jerry Sr. began working at the Rose Bowl long before his family took it over, starting out as the house mechanic before making the jump to ownership. These days the lone bowling house in Ohio County is still open and going strong. It’s still family-owned too, but that family now is no longer the Manukins. Jerry Sr. recently turned 83 years old and had been thinking about retirement, but admitted that selling the Rose Bowl was a decision born of opportunity, not of necessity. “We weren’t actively looking,” Jerry Jr. admitted. “The occasion arose, and we took it,” Jerry Sr. added. “We figured it was starting to be time. I’m 83 years old and it’s time for someone else to take it over.” That occasion occurred this previous winter when the Miller family, whose youngest son Kaden bowls on the Wheeling Park bowling team, showed up early for one of the Patriots’ matches. Dirty Dog Lanes logo Kaden’s father Pete was talking with Jerry Sr. when the two started spitballing potentialities. “I was talking with Jerry Sr. and he looked at me and said ‘You ought to buy this place,’’’ Miller recalled. “I looked at him and said ‘You ought to sell it to me,’ and that’s how it started. “The opportunity was there, but I had no inclination at all that they were selling. I figured Jerry Jr. would take over when Sr. was ready to retire, but he told me that, after working for so long here with his dad, he couldn’t see himself doing it without his dad by his side.” And with that, Dirty Dog Lanes was born. While the name has changed, the spirit of the Rose Bowl and what made it special has not. It’s still family-owned. The Millers have two sons and extended family, all of whom will be working at the lanes. Even the new name is a nod to the family’s other business—the Dirty Dog Tavern, a popular night spot and eatery near the campus of West Liberty University. The name change is a nod to keeping the family businesses a part of the same brand, something Pete and his wife Cheryl hope to eventually pass down to their two boys. “We have two kids we want to pass our name down to,” Cheryl said. “We don’t want to tarnish the Rose Bowl, but it’s a transition. They made it successful for years and years, but we want to brand it and carry on in the tradition of a family-owned establishment. “We want to stay true to that and not change much, just enhance it a bit.” Forthcoming Changes? One of the bigger changes being seen locally and nationwide is the conversion to the “pay-per-hour” bowling model. Both St. Clair Lanes and Chestnut Lanes in Barnesville have done so with equal amounts of success. Might such a change per possible at Dirty Dog Lanes? Don’t look for it anytime soon. “It’s pretty big in most places, but it’s probably not anything that’s coming in the near future (here),” Pete Miller said. “I like the by-the-game model. People can come in here, have fun, and don’t have to feel that they are pressured to hurry up and throw.” Miller noted there is a regular group of four that comes in for open bowling. They take their time, maybe stop for a smoke break outside or two, but bowl a few games before leaving. They are consistent customers. It’s also not so busy that the group, or others like it, need to be hurried along because other groups are waiting. So no, no pay-per-hour bowling is coming anytime soon. The Manukins, though, did admit that it was an option they were exploring. “We were starting to think about it right before Pete approached us,” Jerry Jr. said. “Our machines and scoring are capable of doing it, but we never did.” During and post-COVID, the Rose Bowl took advantage of its loyal league bowlers and primarily operated its open hours are league nights which, at the Edgington Lane bowling house, ran seven nights per week during league season. Open bowling was a bit sparse. That is one area the Millers are looking to expand upon at Dirty Dog – open bowling opportunities. “This place is established and well ran,” Miller said. “There will be changes, but nothing too drastic. This is a well-oiled machine and we want to take it over and run it pretty much as they did. “But we are going to try to do a little more open bowling, plus we’ll have a little more staff than they did. “We’ve had pretty good turnouts for our cosmic bowling. People are coming in, having fun, and it’s a diverse crowd. We have young and old, men and women—a bit of everything.” Those who’ve frequented the Dirty Dog Tavern know of its extensive, and popular, food menu. Miller said many of those options will eventually be available for purchase at the Dirty Dog Lanes as the menu is being revamped. Manukin Jr. will also still be sticking around the bowling house, not only as a member of various leagues but also as an employee—his own employee. He’ll be operating a pro shop inside Dirty Dog Lanes separate from the house itself. “We’re hoping by the middle of August it’ll be up and running,” Miller said of the pro shop. He’ll be ready to go, selling balls, drilling balls, merchandise, and anything you need. “He’s still here now bowling in leagues and drilling balls for people. This will make it a little more official. He’ll have a place of his own.” While not official, Miller said he’s thinking of calling it the Rose Bowl Pro Shop, a way to pay homage to the history and success of the bowling house his family stewarded for more than 30 years. Going Forward An article on the Manukin Family and the Rose Bowl appeared in the Wheeling newspapers back in 2007. The history and spirit of the Rose Bowl will be preserved at Dirty Dog Lanes. While Manukin Sr. is retiring from the bowling game, he’s not hanging up his proverbial work hat just yet. In his spare time, Jerry Sr. has become an author, publishing two books within the past few years, both of which fall into the category of Christian Literature. “Only You And God Knows You: ‘I don't understand the Bible, but I do understand God and life”’ and “I Would Gladly Meet You Half Way If I Knew Where To Start: God Knows My Life” are both available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble, both in hardcover and paperback, along with digital copies. He has another book in the works and is looking for a publishing company that will help him promote his writing. “I started about four years ago,” Jerry Sr. said. “The thing about it is, my advice to people is to take notes of your thoughts. “If you think something, write it down, otherwise, you will forget about it.” Read the full article