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idlesana · 1 year

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fairy of shampoo

sana x reader ; fluff

summary: your manager decides you need to teach the new coworker the ways of your job. only issue is the new hire is drop dead gorgeous and almost inevitable to fall for

"so, y/n," your manager started, eyes trailing from you to graze over the neatly stapled packet of papers in front of him. his eyes flicked from separate parts of the first page, before licking his lips-- in more of a focused manner-- and readjusting his gaze.

you'd been confused since you walked in. you were a good worker, maybe even the best here, and hadn't done anything "talk" worthy.

that's why you were shocked to feel a tap on your shoulder by your boss mid serving a table-- talk about embarrassing.

"hey, we need to-"

"ah!"

was your last exclamation before spiling waters all over some new elderly guests.

maybe that was fire worthy and your boss tapping you was just a test of reflexes in the workplace. or not.

your boss seemed to of noticed your haze as you spaced out into thoughts of earlier, a light flush of embarrassment flushing your cheeks for the second time around.

he, or rather, soobin, cleared his throat.

soobin, your boss of however long now. he seemed a bit young to be running the shop, especially for its current size and reputation, but he explains it as his "dad suddenly abandoning all business projects to move to maui with his new fiancé and leaving him to handle everything".

"listen, we have a new worker joining the team." he said, adjusting in his seat to make his posture more prim. he sniffed, clearly looking for more words as he let his eyes space out on his office decor.

you looked at him with a raised brow and squinted eyes, wondering what he was getting at.

you'd never trained a new hire before-- it was always one of the other, more experienced guys. also guys who'd been giving walk throughs of the job to every new hire. it was routine at this point.

"she's,"

there it is. your expression relaxed, slumping back into the stiff office chair across from his desk.

the word 'she' was enough to enlighten you. you were the only other girl who worked dining hall, if that's what this mystery girl was going for, she'd be bombarded by some teen boys who'd never really touched a woman. or even really seen one for that matter.

"she's super pretty, like i asked her if she came from a modeling agency and she laughed at me. and her laugh, so melodious, so congenial-"

"soobin."

"sorry. but you get my point! not even i can stop thinking of her, imagine those 18 or 17 year old dweebs that-"

"soobin."

"sorry. shouldn't have said dweebs, informal. those... degenerates that've never spoke to women. i mean look they drool over you all the time! imagine them trying to teach some lady i thought was a model! and she's flirty too. bad."

"soobin. one, don't say degenerates. as funny and true as it is this isn't exactly workplace vocabulary. two i bet the flintiness was the delusion seeping into your brain and corrupting it with false hearings." you sighed, fingers now pinching the bridge of your nose, unsure of how your boss could be so, so ridiculous sometimes.

"she was flirting! she said i looked good in a suit." soobin 'hmped' clearly taking some offence to these accusations.

"whatever you say. what's her name and when do i need to get started."

"friday, five pm. her name is sana."

"what?!" you almost yelled, at least it felt that way-- you'd only raised your voice a little. "five pm? friday? that's when i make triple the amount of a usual night soobin." you huffed, crossing your arms over your body and tilting your head at him.

on a friday, the typical crowd varied, but the crowd were all big tippers. from elderly couples drowning in money to drunken men trying to find a girl to take home. working as a female server on a day like that was as good as being a celebrity.

"i am your boss, y/n."

"ugh, not this."

"and you will listen."

you were sat at a table, acrylics tapping hastily on your phone in order to match soobin's load of texts. you let out a small scoff, eyes rolling at his adoration toward the new girl, and his very obvious crush.

minatozaki sana-- the new hire, the statuesque beauty that had your boss on edge. you hadn't seen her yet, but despite your annoyed behavior you were presenting, you were eager. not only because there was a new girl and all the stares would disperse to her, but also to maybe have some eye candy at work. you called it inspiration-- and wouldn't let it become anything more.

you sighed again, now ignoring soobin's rush of anxious messages and opting to scroll instagram, liking few posts here and there. sort of relaxed minus the hustle of workers and customers around you. but not all peace lasts forever.

"hey!"

you jumped a little, only mildly startled by the honey sweet voice. you looked up, cheeks flushed, only to meet the eyes of an angel. soobin was not wrong.

sana was in baggy jeans, high rise, and not too big, just right. a pair of boots, even from the distance you could read the small prada logo on them. her shirt was fitted, again, not too tight but not too loose, and it had some cute logo on the front. overtop was a racer jacket, matching the color of the logo on her white shirt. it was oversized and looked so warm-- you started to feel jealous at your lack of jacket. her hair was dark and wavy, perfectly framing her face, and her perfectly carved jaw, and her warm eyes you couldn't pull away from, and those full lips that-

"are you alright?"

that voice, ugh, it wasn't fair. it was warm and partially low, much to your demise.

"uh- sorry! yes, sorry." you faltered, voice shaking and body turning into a 90 degree bow. you heard sana begin to laugh, only making your face hotter. it was just as melodious as soobin explained.

"don't be. you're cute. i'm sana." she chimed. you'd swore you'd start sweating at this point, face hot and definerly red.

"s-sana! i'm y/n. i'll be showing you around i suppose." you stuttered, mentally slapping yourself. you needed to get ahold of yourself before all hope is lost with sana, but god would it be hard when she looked and talked how she did.

"pretty name, suits you. let's go?" she smiled, turning her head slightly to motion behind her.

"yeah.."

this walk through would be the way you died.

you'd mentally decided your own fate only half way through the walk through. with sana's random and most definetly not work place friendly flirtatious quips and the 'subtle' touches she'd leave on your skin-- you were positive you were done for.

"so, is that all?" sana smiled, snapping you away from your thoughts. the smile on her face was enough to put you to your knees, having to use all the strenght you had to stand upright.

"uh, yeah! you start monday i think, and i'll be working the same hours as you, just in case you need help." you smiled back, positive there was a pink tint to your cheeks.

"perfect. you know you're-"

"sana! i see y/n has showed you around."

soobin.

you could hear the way he was making his voice more stable, and even a little deeper. he wore his most expensive suit, one you'd recongnized from when he made you join him to shop for date attire. dior pocket square adding the smallest detail. a grin was adorning his face, subtle and clearly having flirtatious intent. sana turned from you hesitantly, only before throwing a warm smile on her face.

"oh, hello soobin. good to see you." sana winked, which in any other scenario, would make you melt and would burn your cheeks up. but the only thing hot now was your blood as you clenched your teeth together, forcing a tight lipped smile onto your face.

you were beyond jealous.

"you look as gorgeous as before! still such a model." soobin flirted, words rolling off his tongue smoothly, and causing sana to let out that heavenly giggle.

"and you still look good in a suit, i see." sana responded, hand reaching out for his forearm. you felt your heart nearly sink.

"uhm, i got to go." you coughed, not really wanting to interrupt, but wanting to leave asap.

"what?" sana muttered, watching as you scrambled to put your items into your purse.

"i-uh." you started, eyes trying not to meet hers. "i just am feeling, tired." you lied, standing up straight and bowing to both sana and soobin. you quickly turned on your heel, hearing your shoe squeak on the floor.

"wait!"

you felt a hand hit yours, enveloping it in a sudden warmth, contrasting to the cold weather. it locked perfectly with yours, and the skin was so soft against you. you turned around, eyes meeting sana's at a closer distance that you'd been expecting. you had almost let out a sound at the small gap between the two of you.

"i want you to take my jacket, it's freezing." sana beamed, holding her leather racing jacket in her free hand. you were still focused on the distance and how sana's hand hadn't left yours.

"you don't have to." you muttered, eyes shaking as they met hers. you'd sworn her look was of adoration-- but you brushed that off as overthinking.

"i do. to thank you. please take it." she nudged the jacket into your chest to accentuate her point further.

"i, okay." you said, unable to resist sana's hopeful expression. you started throwing the jacket over your arms, noticing the sweet smell that infiltrated you nose, and the warmth the jacket had provided you.

"should be helpful since i walked here."

"what!?!?"

and that's how you ended up in sana's car, that honeyed and husky voice humming along to whatever song came on-- even singing some lyrics.

"thank you sana, you didn't have to." you hummed, turning to look at her as she drove. her side profile was flawless, as if she had jumped out from an illustration.

"i did! you showed me around today. plus, i'd never let someone as gorgeous as you walk home at this hour." she smiled as she said those words, almost knowing you were staring. your face heated up for what felt like the nth time today. however, you couldn't shy away from looking at her.

the car came to a stop, a new red light illuminating her face.

"if you think i'm that pretty just ask me out, you could look at me much longer." sana grinned, turning to meet your now burning face.

"i-i'm so sorry! i didn't want to make you uncomfortable." you murmered, turning away and looking down at your hands in your lap.

"hey," sana started, reaching to grab one of your hands over your thigh as she kept driving, "it's okay."

what wasn't okay was whatever was happening right now. not that you didn't want it to happen, but god were you going to melt away right into the seats of her sports car.

you couldn't respond, to worried about your voice giving out. this left the both of you to drive in silence, other than sana humming to some new song.

monday came faster then expected.

you went from worrying about sana in your bed all weekend, unable to shake the thought of her. her and her soft hands, and welcoming perfume and perfect lips.

now, you were at work, trying your darndest to ignore sana until the end of your shift. whether it be pretending to be extra busy, or holding more eventful conversation with customers.

which, shockingly, worked.

but of course,

"hey! let me drive you home y/nnie." sana called to you, watching you slip on your normal sneakers you'd worn before changing into uniform.

today sana's outfit was more laid back, just some grey baggy sweats and an oversized black hoodie. she still managed to look like a runway model in her cozy clothes.

"you don't have to, sana." you smiled back, trying your hardest to resist her charms. you stood upright, watching as she walked over to you, reaching out that glorious hand to yours.

"come on. i want to talk to you."

back in sana's flashy white sports car. you found yourself wondering where sana got all this money as you watched streetlights and corner stores pass your vision.

there was a lack of sana's humming, and no song on the radio at all. the silence was comforting and sweet, but you sensed sana's thoughts the whole car ride. feeling her eyes on you at any stop light. similar to what you did her the first car ride.

what else was different, was the car being parked at an unfamiliar location. obviously not the lobby to your apartment building that you'd entered time and time again.

you looked around, rubbing your eyes and letting out a small groan as you stretched. you found yourself almost in awe, admiring the coolly lit lamps and the blossoming trees, small white flowers falling to the floor with each gust of wind.

you turned to sana, who for once, looked nervous. light pink tint on her cheeks and a bashful smile on her lips. you couldn't help but smile back.

"what's this?" you asked, tilting your head at her.

"the trees are blossoming this season, i figured you'd like to see. let's go walk? there's some benches down this way." sana said, voice hopeful and cheery, yet still managing to fluster you.

"i'd really love to sana, but i don't have a jacket and it's a little cold, no?" you frowned, not wanting to upset her any. especially not after the thoughtful surprise.

sana's smile didn't falter, she only unbuckled her seatbelt, letting out a quiet 'hold on', before reaching behind her seat, retrieving a white hoodie. you couldn't help but coo at her thoughtfulness, letting your fingers sink into the fabric as you took it from her, putting over your own body.

immediately, the same sweet scent from her jacket the first time you saw her wafted into your nose, filling your senses and warming your body up.

"let's go?"

sana and you had been hand in hand since leaving her car.

her hands were soft, actually, soft was an understatement. they were near perfect, fitting yours perfectly, size a little larger, acrylics at the ends of her fingertips that were neat and new. her hand provided another warmth like you'd never felt before, less of a physical warmth and more of a comforting, mental warmth. one that made your heart flutter and your cheeks burn with color. an effect sana seemed to always have on you.

"here's good." she mumbled, nodding her head toward a bench sat under a lamppost and trees surrounding.

as the two of you sat, you took note of sana's fidgety, nervous state. you'd only seen her a couple of times, but you knew of her typical confident demeanor.

as you sat, sana's eyes locked with yours, reflecting a more timid and sheepish emotion, not the usual flirtatious one.

"so, y/n," sana started, eyes pulling away from yours to try and focus on the trees and not the overwhelming weight on her heart. her nerves were getting to her, it was obvious, from the shaky eyes to the bouncing of her leg.

you took note of this, putting a reassuring hand on her previously bouncing knee, looking at her with a concerned and welcoming expression.

her eyes met yours once again, face less stiff and more comfortable. rosy flush on her cheeks and warm smile illuminating her face.

"so, i know we only have known each other for like, a day, or whatever," she contiuned, reaching for your hand on her knee to hold, body turning to face you with regained confidence.

"but, i really like you, a lot. and i'm sorry if it's creepy or if you don't even like girls but, there is just something about you. like, you're so gorgeous and even the way you put your hand on my knee to reassure me and the way you talk with that flawless voice. it's all a lot for me, not in a bad way, just a wow kinda way, if that makes sense. i can't sit back and watch our coworkers drool over you knowing we have equal chance, i just want to know you're mine. sorry thats creepy and-"

you cut her off by pressing your lips against hers. she tasted like strawberry chapstick and everything sweet and her lips were just as pillowy against yours as you'd imagined the first day you saw her. she hummed into the kiss, moving her hand up to your jaw to better lean into the touch, your hands moving to tangle in her hair, the both of you pulling each other flush to one another. before letting anything get too far, you made the move to pull away, to both of yours dismay. but you couldn't stop thinking of how late it was getting and also how hard it was starting to get to breath. she let out a groan, one of more annoyance then anything, before looking into your eyes with a familiar smirk on her lips.

"i like you too, sana. a lot" you responded, head turning away as you tried hiding your reddened cheeks.

"i can tell." she grinned, teasing tone lacing her words.

"hey!"

the two of you started walking back, hand in hand once again, laughing about some random topics, before sana's phone went off.

"who is it?" you asked, quirking a brow, genuinely curious as to who it could be.

"ah, our boss, soobin." she sighed, putting her phone back in her pocket.

your eyes immediately widened and jaw slightly dropped. uh oh.

#sana x reader #sana scenarios #sana imagine #minatozaki sana #sana imagines #twice sana #twice imagines #twice x reader #twice reactions #twice imagine #twice #sana reactions #sana drabble

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hugsandharrifield · 3 years

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Pizza Boy AU

Delivery- Steve X Dwight

I couldn’t help it the @thenervousleader ‘s aesthetic post got the brain weasels flowing so here you guys go... ---------------------------------------- It was a cool crisp fall day, a little to cool for Dwight's liking. Thankfully he had one of his extra hoodies stowed away in his car. Technically he's not supposed to put it on over his Pizza What uniform but he has never really heard any of his bosses complain about it. Besides it's not like they were there when he was delivering food anyways. The customers never complain as long as they get their pizza hot and fast.

Dwight looked down at his next delivery address and a small smile crept on his face. It's a regular of his named Steve, he was a pretty damn cute guy and while he wasn't like the best tipper ever he did tend to tip like a dollar or two more than most people did. Dwight ended up delivering to him at least once or twice a week.

He'd always get the monthly specialty pizza, and a 2 liter of Sprite. This month was an artichoke with chicken and alfredo sauce which actually sounded pretty good to Dwight. It didn't take him long to get to Steve's house as he had been there about several dozen times at this point. Dwight pulled up and parked grabbing the pizza sleeve and the bag with the 2 liter. He walked to the front door leaves crunching underneath his feet the wind chill. He reached out and pushed the doorbell and heard a voice yell "Just a sec."

The sound of someone running and rummaging through stuff and opened the door appearing slightly flush and out of breath. Steve cracked a big smile when he saw him. "It's you! my favorite delivery guy!" He teased. God he was just gorgeous with his long wavy hair and the moles and the perfect smile... Dwight's knees felt weak.

Dwight shrugged and smiled trying to seem casual. " I'm glad you think so, make sure to tell my boss."

Steve tilted his head. "I mean if you need me to talk to him" Steve laughed as he held out his hands for his pizza.

Dwight laughs handing over the pizza "I'm good, soo artichoke and chicken with white sauce?"

Steve shrugged " I like trying new things... have you gotten to try it?" he took the pizza and the 2 liter and then leaned over to grab something probably some money from a nearby table.

"It just changed on the menu today so not yet but I'll probably take one home tonight when I get off." He said thoughtfully.

"Right on man." Steve held out Dwight's payment and looked strangely flushed for some reason "Keep it all , There is a little something special in there for you."

Dwight smiled "Thanks for the tip"

"Yeah.... No prob" Steve still acting little weird has this strange awkward smile and closed the door

That was a little odd. Dwight turned around walking towards his car, and counted the money while shuffling it around a piece of paper slipped out from between the bills. It fell to the ground. "What?"

He bent over and picked it up, on it was some writing

If you are interested call me 555-2934 - Steve Harrington Dwight was flabbergasted... What? Did he just... No way... I think he totally did. This is the best tip ever!

He clutched the piece of paper to his chest and did a small jump before he got back into his car. Well he definitely was gonna call him later tonight he mused as he drove away.

#steve harrington #harrifield #dwight fairfield #stranger things #dead by daylight #fanfic #au

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ialwayscomewhenyoucall · 3 years

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On Me...or on You?

destiel au

rated t

~2.2k

“Dean! Table six has been waiting for almost ten minutes. And I can’t see that guy’s face, but his posture is very tense.”

“You know I suck at this, Charlie.” Dean checks all his pockets for his pen, comes up empty, then sighs thankfully when Charlie hands him one from behind the bar.

Nodding, Charlie says, “You really do. But you’re stuck. We all are, really. So go take care of the guys at table six and then go see if the rowdies in the corner need refills.”

Dean grimaces. “Do I have to?”

Charlie grins. “They’ll probably be obnoxious, but they’ll be good tippers. Trust me.”

“I can’t believe I’m working for tips,” he grumbles, pulling out his notebook.

“Just show ‘em that smile, Dean. You can’t lose!” she teases.

Dean wishes it worked that way. He really is terrible at this job. Sam–his brother–is lucky they’re close, and he doesn’t hold all those childhood pranks against him. If he was one to hold a grudge about the shaving cream in his shoes, or the saran wrap on the toilet (although really Dean feels like he deserved that one, since it was April Fool’s Day and he wasn’t smart enough to look) he’d be out of here in a heartbeat. But he loves his brother, dorky guy that he is. Despite his fascination with computers and his propensity to spend most of his free time with his nose in a book, he’s a fantastic chef, and he’s worked hard to build this place into what it is.

It’s not Sam’s fault he has one waitress out on maternity leave and had another ask for sudden time off to visit her sick mom in Idaho. It is Sam’s fault he’s got irresistible puppy dog eyes, but that’s really Dean’s problem, not Sam’s.

Two men sit at table six, and Charlie’s right, the dark haired one looks...tense. The other one, smaller, with longish, light brown hair, seems in a fine mood, though. Actually, he looks like not much could get him down. He’s–Dean blinks, then looks again. Yeah, he’d seen right the first time. The guy is sucking on a bright red lollipop.

Huh. Something new every day, right?

Dean pastes a smile onto his face and steps up to the table. “Hi, welcome to The Bunker. I’m Dean, I’ll be your server tonight. Can…”

And then his thoughts fall out of his head, because the dark haired guy looks up at him, and it doesn’t even matter that he’s glaring. He’s the most beautiful man Dean’s ever seen. Sexy hair, right on the line between black and brown, standing out in all directions like someone’s been running her–his?–fingers through it. Piercing blue eyes. And he’s not smiling now, but somehow Dean can tell he’s got a showstopper. There are faint lines at the corners of his eyes that show that they’ll just crinkle up when he smiles.

Dean wants to feel the weight of that smile.

“Do you think we could possibly have something to drink? We’ve been waiting for awhile,” the man says, and Dean’s nearly struck dumb again by his voice, low and rough and mesmerizing, even when it’s speaking somewhat angrily at him.

Unfortunately, Dean’s mouth chooses this moment to speak without permission from his brain.

“Oh, you can have whatever you’d like, darlin’.” The words pop out, dripping with innuendo, followed by that smile Charlie’d mentioned.

And then his ears hear what he’d said, and he feels the blush taking over his face.

“I mean–uh–oh fuck,” Dean says, and then he realizes he probably shouldn’t swear in front of customers either. Sam’s going to murder him.

The light haired man slurps his lollipop and then cackles. “I like this one, Cassie. You should keep him.”

“Gabriel. I did not ask for your opinion. And I didn’t even want to come here with you. If you can’t keep your...your comments...to yourself, I’m leaving now. And you can find your own way home.”

“I’ll be good,” Gabriel says, and he looks almost chastised. “You have to stay, Castiel. Trust me, the food here is excellent. And the desserts..” He looks up at Dean. “Is Eileen here tonight?”

Dean, surprised, just nods.

“I don’t know where she was trained, but Eileen makes the best desserts around.”

Finally finding his voice again, Dean says, “She got her start in New York City. She worked in some pretty high class places there, actually.”

The dark haired man–Cassie? Castiel?–tilts his head and asks, “What’s she doing in Kansas?”

Dean smiles at this, a secret kind of smile. “She fell in love.”

Neither of them has a response to this, and an awkward silence falls over the table. Finally Dean remembers that, oh yeah, he’s supposed to be working here, and he manages to take their drink orders without incident. He brings them to Charlie, slumping down on one of the barstools and repeatedly hitting his forehead on the worn wood of the bar.

Charlie, her usual buoyant self, snatches his notepad from his hand and goes about mixing the drinks. After about a minute he sits up and looks at her, and she grins. “Well, that seems promising.”

“Were you watching some alternate version of Dean Winchester? One who didn’t act like an idiot in front of a customer–twice–and ruin any chance he could possibly have with the most attractive guy he’s ever seen?”

Shrugging, Charlie says, “He didn’t slap you. And he didn’t leave. And his brother seems to like you.”

“I guess he–wait, his brother? Charlie, do you know more than you’re saying here?”

Charlie doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed, but of course she doesn’t really have an embarrassed face. “Maybe,” she says, smiling sweetly. “But it’s nothing nefarious. Just a little harmless...hope.”

“Charlie,” Dean says, and there’s warning in his voice.

“Gabriel comes in here a lot, okay? He loves Eileen’s desserts, I’m pretty sure he’s had all of them at least twice, and he’s pretty fond of Sam’s cooking too. He saw you one day, and we got to chatting, and he mentioned his brother, and…” She shrugs. Then she leans across the bar, grinning. “He’s dreamy, right? Just your type. And did you see his arms? I mean, he’s certainly not my type, but those are nice arms. I’m pretty sure about that.”

“Yeah, they really–” Dean starts, then he glares at her. “Charlie! You know how I feel about being set up. Not like it matters, since I already blew it.”

Waving her hand dismissively, Charlie says, “Oh, you did not. Here. Take them their drinks and tell them–while you look at Cas–that they’re on you. Trust me, you’ll be fine.”

“Cas,” he says. He likes the way the name feels in his mouth. Charlie grins.

Dean takes the tray of drinks uncertainly, but as he’s walking to the table his confidence grows. Sure, it means buying drinks for the two men, but it’ll be worth it means he’s still got a shot with Cas.

“Hey,” he says as he walks up to the table. “Sorry about earlier. I’m not–well, anyway. Let me make it up to you. Drinks are on me, okay?”

Gabriel’s smiling, and Cas seems to be softening, but then something goes horribly wrong. Just as Dean says “okay” his foot finds a spot in the carpet or a chair leg that shouldn’t be there or something; whatever it is, it causes Dean to stumble forward, and the drinks slide off the end of the tray and right into Cas’s face. He looks up at Dean, hair plastered to his head, the skewer of pineapple and cherries from Gabriel’s drink sticking out of his collar. He looks less than pleased.

“Oh,” Dean says, a horrified tone in his voice. “Oh fuck. Oh dammit I said fuck again. Oh...Ah, I’m so, so sorry. Can I...can I help?”

Cas’s gaze is almost painful. “I’m fairly certain you’ve helped enough, Dean.”

The words sting. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Look, I’ll send Charlie over to help you clean up, she’ll take care of you. I’m really–” But he looks at Cas, and his heart breaks a little at a connection missed, or lost, and he doesn’t apologize again. Once was enough. Instead he says, “I hope you’ll come back again. Sam’s cooking, Eileen’s baking, even Charlie’s drinks. They’re all worth it. The Bunker is a good place.”

He nods his head a little, waves Charlie over and goes to check on the booth in the corner. He smiles his charming smile, brings the rowdy, celebrating girls all the drinks and desserts they want, and by the time he’s finished taking care of them, Cas and Gabriel are gone.

Charlie’s right though. The girls are great tippers.

Dean’s warming up the next night when there’s a knock on his door. He looks up from his bench to see Charlie leaning against the doorframe, an odd smile on her face.

“There’s someone here to see you, Dean,” she says. He can’t quite get a read on her voice. She sounds like she’s hiding something, but he can’t figure out what.

He glances at the clock on the wall. “I’ll be out in ten minutes, same as always.

“You can’t come out now?”

He’s annoyed, but only slightly. “I never come out early, Charlie. It breaks the routine. Ten minutes.” He looks at the clock again. “Actually, nine now. Now get out of here so I can get ready.”

“But Dean–”

“Out, Charlie.”

She leaves.

Dean spends a moment or two thinking about the oddness of the encounter; Charlie knows his routines, and knows not to disrupt them. But then he gets back to getting into the mindset he needs, pushing Charlie from his thoughts. He’ll figure her out later.

When Dean steps out onto the small stage wedged into the corner of the dining room there’s a smattering of applause. He smiles and waves then sits down at the baby grand piano that fills the stage. “Hey Baby,” he murmurs, running a hand along the smooth wood. The piano’s been his as long as he can remember; he started taking lessons when he was five and he’s been enchanted by her ever since. He started singing along when he was seven, and started writing his own songs when he was ten. When Sam bought the space for The Bunker he made sure there was a place big enough for Dean to play–because that was what they did. Sam played with food and Dean played with music. This was a way for them to work together.

There are lights in his eyes, so Dean can’t really see into the dining room unless he squints, and it’s usually not all that important to him. He just lives with the music, sometimes doing covers, sometimes doing his own stuff. And everyone seems to like what he does, so he just keeps on doing it his way.

He can’t really see, so he’s surprised when just before he starts the first song, he hears a voice say, “Dean?” It’s a voice he recognizes, a voice that sends a spark down his spine.

His hands slip onto the keys, discordant notes ringing out through the dining room. “Sorry,” he says, flashing his charming grin at the room. “Just a little startled. Can you all give me just a moment?” He keeps up the smile, then steps to the edge of the stage.

“Cas?” And there he is, dark hair disheveled, blue eyes confused, sitting alone at the table nearest the stage.

“I don’t understand,” Cas says. “I thought you…”

Dean rubs at the back of his neck, an embarrassed grin on his face. “Nah, I was just helping out last night. Trust me, I’m not meant to be a server. I’m the talent. I also happen to be the owner’s brother, which is how I got wrangled into helping when two of his waitresses were out. Trust me, he doesn’t ask me often, I’m horrible at the job.”

“I noticed,” Cas says dryly.

Dean only laughs.

Cas looks at the piano on the stage, then back at Dean. “So you...play?”

“And sing. Which I should be doing now. Stick around until my break?” He doesn’t know why, he has no right to even hope, but he thinks Cas might agree.

He does.

THREE MONTHS LATER

“Thanks everyone, you’ve been great,” Dean says, stepping off the stage and meandering through the dining room towards the bar. He accepts compliments from several diners, offering smiles and the occasional handshake. He’s at ease among the crowd, but he’s got a destination in mind, and it’s not until he climbs onto a barstool that he feels truly happy.

“Hello Dean,” Cas says, turning to smile at him.

Dean had been right. That smile, it knocks him out every time.

He slips an arm around Cas’s waist and drops a kiss on his shoulder. “Hey Cas. Missed you.”

“You saw me two hours ago,” Cas says.

“It was a long and difficult two hours,” Dean pouts.

Cas huffs a laugh. “You were at a piano, Dean. You probably didn’t even notice time passing.”

Dean smiles into Cas’s shoulder. “Alright, it felt like a few minutes. But I still missed you.” He looks up into Cas’s eyes, says, “I’m on my break. Let me buy you a drink?”

Cas’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. “Nah,” he says, waving Charlie over. “That’s dangerous. This time the drinks are on me.”

#lirael writes #destiel fic #destiel au #fluff #fluff and nonsense #chef!sam #waiter!dean #charlie bradbury #musician!dean #first meeting #dean can't always control his mouth okay?#and it's adorable

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 years

Text

Omertà👄6

Warnings: noncon sexual acts (sexual intercourse); tags to be added throughout series

This is dark!Bucky and dark! Loki and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your father was a bookie and taught you everything you know about numbers. After his death, you were taken on as a bookkeeper for Loki Laufeyson, resident crime boss in Manhattan. But can you keep your place in the background when a man from Brooklyn threatens to drag you to the forefront?

Note: I finished this chapter yesterday which us about all I could do with the pinched nerve in my neck :D I am always so thankful for everything y’all do; reading, like, commenting, etc <3

Hope you enjoy it. Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

You couldn’t shake the weight that hung from your shoulders. The wire that dogged your every step and threatened to trip you up. The realisation that all that had transpired was nothing compared to what could; what would come. Deep down you knew none of it could end well. If anything, you were only delaying the inevitable. Your dissemblance, if not your death.

Lopez was just unlocking the door as you walked up to The Attic. He struggled to balance a coffee cup atop a white box of donuts. You grabbed the cup before it could tip and he let you in first. He offered you a jelly filled powdered creation but you passed. You weren’t very hungry. You had felt sick since the night before.

You left him to his sugary feast and let yourself into the back office. You took your time, retrieved the ledger from the safe, and paced the office for a while. Were you impatient for Loki’s arrival? Anxious?

You sat and let out a breath. Your phone vibrated and you squinted at it as the screen lit up. The private number wasn’t so private. Bucky’s message blared at you in the morning haze. ‘10pm.’ Simple enough but an order. You swiped it away and opened the thick book of numbers. It would be done soon and you’d have a new, fresh set of margins to fill.

The door finally flew open and Loki entered, muttering. He didn’t acknowledge you as he swept his jacket off and threw it over his desk. He reached in his pocket as he stomped back and forth and sighed as he stared at the screen. He answered with a growl.

“I told you-- Goddamn it,” He was snarling already. He always impressed you with how furious he could be so early in the day. “No, no, don’t! I’ll take care of it--” He checked his watched and reached for his jacket as quickly as he’d disposed of it. “I’m on my way. No, don’t let him do that. No!”

He sent you a glance as if only just noticing you. He gave a hopeless sneer and shook his head as he turned away. Confused and even a little amused, you watched him stroll right back out. The door slammed and made you flinch.

There was an initial gratitude for his absence followed by the fear of his eventual return. It was one thing to spend the day with him in that office, undisturbed, another to have him there irritated. If he did come back, you expected nothing but trouble.

👄

Loki did not return. You let out a breath of relief as you packed up but then recalled, tomorrow would be another. He would likely make up for the day he’d missed; hours stolen from him. Your torment would only get worse.

And the night that awaited you. You weren’t stupid. You knew what Bucky expected but it didn’t make it any easier. You always wondered how famous queens could march to their executions with their head high. You suspected you were coming to understand them. It wasn’t courage, it was that they had no other choice, so if one must do something they should do it in their own way.

You had some hours before you were due. You pondered staying in just to see what would happen but it wasn’t really a mystery. While you never shied away from adding to the kindling, you didn’t need to be engulfed by the flames.

You did nothing. Didn’t change, didn’t ‘freshen up’, you just waited. The time passed quickly but not easily. It felt like a noose tightening around your neck a little at a time.

The She-Wolf looked more sinister against the night sky. There weren’t many stars in the city and while the neon sign glowed, it wasn’t so serene as the moon. You gathered your wits and approached the door. The bouncers looked at you dully but said nothing.

You entered and were met by thumping music and a haze of voices. The air was a swirl of perfume and alcohol and it got stronger as you followed the short corridor to the barroom. The stages were full and red, blue, and purple lights bathed twirling and twisting bodies in lurid shadows. Men flipped bills at the dancers and sipped from bottles and glasses.

You thought of turning back and marching out. You could call Loki and tell him everything. The devil you know… But would he believe you? Would he care? And what would he do but play his hand in turn? You went to the bar and ordered a gin.

As you reached into your purse and awaited the bartender’s return, a large hand came down on the leather trim beside you.

“On the house, Lola,” Steve called over the bar as he leaned on it. “You’re late.”

“No, I’m not,” You insisted. “I was here exactly when I was told to be. You’re late.”

Your gin was placed before you and Lola sent a lingering peek at Steve who acknowledged her with a wink. He took the glass before you could and waved you away.

“He won’t wait any longer,” He leaned in. “So get that ass in motion.”

You huffed and bit back a sneer. He directed you across the room to a shadowed doorway just beyond the stages. He hung back to let you through first and followed closely. His hand slapped your ass as you started down the hallway and you stopped short. You spun and he evaded your slap by stepping back.

“Ah,” He barely kept the gin from spilling. “You wouldn’t want to waste this. You’ll need it.”

You lowered your chin angrily and glared up at him.

“Just tell me where to go and keep the drink.” You snapped.

“Very end, on your right.” He replied.

You turned and continued on, keeping far enough ahead of him that his hand didn’t stray again. You stopped at the door with the golden ‘6’ on its face and disclaimer which forbade recording beyond that point.

“Go on,” He got close. “I can help you inside if you really want me to.”

You rolled your eyes and turned the handle. You stepped through and he caught the door before you could shut it on him. You ignored him and looked around the room. There was a low stage at the centre, curved couches framed it, and lowlights lent a soft glow to the space. A private room reserved for bachelor parties and loners.

Bucky sat on the velvet sofa which faced you. His arm was stretched over the back as he watched you, his other hand around a short glass of dark liquor. He smiled as Steve closed the door and hovered behind you.

“You want the drink or--” Steve wondered.

“Only if I can throw it in your face,” You spat and slowly began forward.

“Sweetheart,” Bucky stood. “You look… well, as always, gorgeous.”

“I’m done with the games,” You stopped just between the sofas opposite him. “I just want this over with.”

“Don’t sound so excited,” He set his drink aside and rounded the lit stage. “And this isn’t just going to be over with. We’re gonna take our time.”

You inhaled and glanced over your shoulder at Steve’s silhouette. He sipped noisily from the gin.

“You know, I spend so much time here but never really get to enjoy the show.” He purred. “So I thought you could indulge me.”

“Excuse me?” You recoiled as he touched your arm.

“Don’t worry, I’m a great tipper. Hell, you’d probably make more here than with that snake,” He smirked.

“I don’t--” You peeked at the stage. “I wouldn’t know-- No.”

“All the other girls start out there,” He pointed past you. “Strangers pushing ones into their panties, feeling them up, literally drooling on them. Which do you prefer?”

You bit your lip and swallowed. You hung your head, just for a second, and brushed past him. You set your purse down on a small round table and stepped up onto the stage. You turned back and looked at Steve again. Bucky chuckled.

“Sit,” He called to Steve.

“What--” You blinked.

“He’s my talent manager. He’s a fan of the art.” Bucky resumed his spot on the other sofa as Steve found his own on the one across from him.

You pushed your shoulders up uncomfortable and tried not to shudder. You gripped the pole then drew away. You tried not to look at Bucky or behind you at Steve. You weren’t sure what exactly he expected from you. You surely weren’t going to be doing acrobatics. The music pumped through the wall and further agitated you.

“I want to see how your little present,” Bucky urged. “Show me. Make it interesting.”

You stretched your fingers and tried to blur out the room around you. You weren’t a dancer, you weren’t flamboyant in any sense. You surely didn’t have rhythm. You grabbed the bottom of your shirt and lifted it. Bucky tisked.

“Slow down, sway your hips,” He said. “Shake your ass.”

“Mhmm,” Steve hummed from behind you.

You ignored him and shook off the disgust. You moved your hips just a little as you took your time raising your hem. You focused on breathing, on the distant beat of the club speakers. You let the shirt fall away and felt along the top of your skirt.

You felt the weight of their gazes and your fingers crawled over to your zipper. You took your time to unhook the small clasp, to push down the metal tag. The skirt slackened and you shimmied as you inched it down your legs. You bent as it was tight and did not slip upon its own. As you bared the panties you heard another purr from behind you.

You stood and kicked away the skirt, you caught the pole as you wobbled in your heels. You stared at Bucky. He tilted his head as he eyed your bra. He lifted a brow, a silent command. You reached back to unhook it and drew the cups away from your chest. You flung the bra away and resisted the urge to cover yourself.

Bucky leaned forward as he admired the gleaming panties and you stepped around the pole as if it could hide you from the man behind you.

“Go,” Bucky breathed. “Steve. Out.”

“Ah, come on,” Steve moaned.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” He warned and you heard Steve move behind you.

The door opened and closed as you stood frozen on the stage. Bucky sat back and rubbed his thighs.

“Come here,” He cooed.

You hesitated. Your mouth was dry. You made the few steps across the stage. You climbed down before him as his hands continued to rub his legs. He pushed his knees apart and lifted his arms over the back of the couch.

“You look great,” He said. “They fit you perfectly.”

You stopped before him and he licked his lip.

“But I think I’d like them better… off.” He grinned.

You were dizzy. What were you doing? Your hands balled into a fist and his eyes caught the movement. He shook his head in warning.

“I can bring Steve back in.” He said. “You don’t want that because then he’ll expect me to share.”

You unclenched your fingers and hooked your thumbs under the panties. You dragged them down your thighs and let them slump around your feet. His eyes flicked up and down your body. He nodded to his lap.

You kicked off your heels and stepped closer. You grabbed his shoulders as you straddled him and he brought his hands around you. He brushed his palms down your back and ass. He squeezed and urged you closer. He lifted one hand to the back of your head and pulled you down until your lips met his.

You squirmed as he held you in place and his tongue poked past your lips. Your teeth grazed his tongue and he pulled away. He gripped your head with both hands and his eyes burned as he looked up at you.

“Sweetheart,” He said. “Play nice and I’ll do the same.”

You looked away and he forced your mouth back to his. He was forceful, hungry. His hands went to your neck and he squeezed just a little. You winced as you felt him growing hard beneath you. His hands continued down until they were on your ass once more. He rocked your hips so that your pelvis rubbed against his.

He turned you suddenly, almost lifting you entirely as he flipped you onto the couch beside him. He pinned you beneath him as he kept his lips to yours. He moaned and slowly drew his mouth from yours and left a trail of spit along your cheek.

He grabbed your leg and pulled it around him as he writhed against you. His hand slipped from your leg and up your thigh. He pushed it between your bodies and cupped your tit. He shivered and nibbled at your ear.

“I wanted you the moment I saw you,” He whispered. “Sitting there in that ridiculous get-up. I knew you needed this; needed me.”

You said nothing and turned your face away from him. He continued a trail along your neck as he held himself over you and his hand ventured further. He pressed two fingers along your stomach and wandered lower. He ticked your trimmed fuzz and slid his fingers over your folds.

“Do you always make them wait, huh?” He teased. “You like it, being chased?”

You shook your head and pressed against his chest. You suddenly felt as if you were being crushed; as if you couldn’t breathe. You grasped at his lapels as your lip trembled.

“Please…” You uttered. “Please…”

“Please what?” He purred.

“Off, get off,” You whined. “Stop.”

He stopped and inhaled your scent as his nose tickled your neck. He sat up suddenly, surprising you, and his dilated eyes bore into you. His hand shot to your throat again and his lip curled as his lust was cut with wrath.

“You are so fucking stubborn,” He hissed. “You still don’t realise you’re not the one in charge.”

He stood and took you with him. You latched onto his wrist as you stumbled on your feet. He spun you and shoved you so that you caught yourself on the sofa. He grabbed your hands and placed them on the back of it and held them there. He used his knee to push yours apart.

“Look at that ass,” He let go and smacked your ass with both hands. “I don’t know how any man could miss that.”

Your nails dug into the velvet as he lingered behind you. You didn’t dare look back. For the first time since you were a kid, you were terrified. His jacket hit the sofa next to you. The clink of his belt buckle sounded and he let out a heavy breath. He rubbed your ass with his rough hands and pinched your thigh.

“If you wanna be mine, you can be.” He moved closer and you went rigid as he poked you with his cock and slid it up and down your ass. “Just mine. You understand? It wouldn’t be so bad.”

You hung your head and shook it. Your shoulder dropped as you scoffed. He guided his cock down below your ass as he gripped your hip and tilted your pelvis. He rubbed himself against your folds and sighed. He leaned against your back and his hot breath whispered in your ear.

“You’ll change your mind,” He impaled you in a single motion and you grunted through your teeth as your hands almost slipped from the couch. “I know you will.”

He pulled back and slammed into you. You threw your head back in pain as your legs shook. He thrust again, harder. His pants chafed against your bare flesh with each buck of his hips. He grabbed your shoulders and jolted you violently, each time he groaned in delight.

You slapped at the couch with one hand. You let out a moan as your walls clenched around him. The noise seemed to enliven him. His hands dropped down your arms and grasped the velvet next to yours. He pushed you further onto the couch as he climbed up behind you and pounded into you.

He bent his head and dragged his teeth along your shoulder. His nose brushed your neck and he kissed there before he bit you. You whined and he sped up again. You cried out in shock as he sent ripples through your entire body. Your hands slipped over the edge and you hung over the back of the couch.

He snickered and righted himself, crashing into you over and over until your hips were against the couch and you were folded over the back, clawing at it. The wet sounds of your arousal made your stomach turn and yet fueled your reluctant pleasure. It hurt and yet it felt great.

Your legs quivered and pathetic mewls streamed from you as your fingertips dangled over the floor. You closed your eyes and pressed your face to the velvet. You couldn’t hide your orgasm from him as your cunt pulsed around him and fed his fervour. You went entirely limp as your nerves bounced beneath your flesh.

“That’s it, sweetheart.” He growled and rammed into you harder and harder.

He rubbed your back with one hand as his other clung to your hip. He grunted and his voice sputtered. He pulled out suddenly and warmth spilled down your leg. You cringed as his cum dripped down to your knee and he panted loudly behind you.

He got off the couch, one knee at a time. His hands hesitated as he withdrew them and sniffed. You heard a crack, the sounds of his neck or his knuckles as he stretched. You lifted yourself up shakily from over the back of the couch.

“Don’t make a mess,” He warned and you blindly stood up, careful not to spread his cum onto the velvet.

You looked around the floor and avoided his gaze as you turned and headed for the stage. He stopped you, a hand on your arm.

“What are you doing?” He smirked.

“Getting my clothes.” You said stiffly.

“Why? I’m not done yet.” He drew you to him and leaned down to kiss you. “Sweetheart, this place is open all night.”

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mercurygray · 3 years

Note

Hello ma'am! Please may I have “I’ll still be here when you’re ready.” + Liebgott and the OC of your choosing? <3 - @softspeirs

Thanks for the prompt, @softspeirs! Okay, I’m...why we can’t have nice things. I wanted to see if I could do something that was soft but in a different way for this one - and write Joe with someone I don’t have romantic designs with.

TW: Gore and battle injury.

Joe Liebgott looked like something out of Macbeth.

Billie remembered seeing a production once, downtown, with her folks - she'd worn beaded green charmeuse and a strand of pearls, and one of the box attendants had winked at her when she'd gone by. Banquo's ghost had looked like this, ragged and bloody, looming out of the darkness to haunt his killer.

But Liebgott wasn't dead - though there was something of death about his eyes, a stunned silence that looked off into the middle distance and would not be moved. Half his face was covered in blood, and a deal of his jacket, too, but he seemed unconcerned by this. He was just sitting outside the aid station, staring.

"Joe?" She laid a hand on his shoulder, and he jumped, coming back into himself from...where ever he'd been. "Need me to check your head?" She gestured to the blood.

He touched his hairline, as if just remembering something. "It's not mine, it's...it's Tipper's." He raked a hand through his hair, and she realized his hand was shaking a little. "Said he might loose the eye."

A true statement - Ed was with the surgeon now and he didn't look good, but then, neither did Joe. Billie looked at her friend, jaw clenched, shoulders curled in on themselves, his body in some kind of strange rictus, holding everything in, clinging on for dear life. I'd be clinging, too, if I carried Tip here with half a leg gone and his eye falling out.

But if I don't do something now he's gonna keep carrying him the whole damn war.

"There's a basin in the next room, some water," she offered, tilting her head inside "Why don't you go wash your face?" She watched him move to his feet, nodding, agreeing with her, and followed her inside, shuffling in the direction of the small, windowed watercloset the medics had turned into a slop sink. Billie swung the door wide, ready to close it again. "I'll be here when you're ready to go."

He nodded, and she closed the door behind him. She thought again of Macbeth, of his Lady meeting him with bloody hands. A little water clears us of this deed. She steadied her breath, in and out, resting her weight against the closet door, and began whistling over the sound of one man crying.

#i have written a thing #joe liebgott #billie mitchell #1940s girl gang #thirsty thursday #mercurygraypresents

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johncribati · 4 years

Text

NOTE: This Hypothetical Byleth moveset has been in my drafts since before they showed up in Smash. You’re just gonna have to trust me there. But I believe that 100% that this would have made a better Byleth than Sakurai could have dreamed of. I just did some minor editing to it to make it presentable.

Byleth for Smash Bros.

Not only would it make the community salty over ANOTHER Fire Emblem Character, but it would give us an opportunity to finally have someone who isn't locked to swords.

I thought at first it would work with a stance system like Shulk, where they would have a standard moveset but be able to swap their weapons out, but I've got one better.

You know how Peach and Daisy's Forward Smashes can be three different weapons depending on the angles? Imagine that, but... All the moves. All their attacks (except Throws) can pull out one of three weapons depending on the input.

Some other things before we begin:

Along with the input gimmick, Byleth can also cancel any attack into another that uses the same weapon.

Unless specified otherwise, Sword attacks are short-range, moderately fast, with middling damage, decent knockback, not much startup endlag. Lance attacks would generally be longer-range and slightly slower to come out than swords, with a Tipper Mechanic that offers more damage and knockback.

Axe attacks are the slowest, but have better range than swords and offer the most damage and knockback, even more than tipper Lance.

Gauntlet attacks are the fastest and most spammable. Almost no startup and hard to punish on whiff, but there's enough endlag on hit (and only on hit) that it's hard, but not impossible, to chase the opponent down with a different type of weapon attack. Byleth would also be the only Fire Emblem character that can cling to walls, using the spikes from their gauntlets

With that being said, let's flesh out this moveset!

Jab

Tap the button for a single quick thrust with a lance.

Double-tap for you two sword slashes.

Holding for a flurry of punches with gauntlets.

F-Tilt

Tap: wide vertical sword slash.

Double-Tap- One-two punch with the gauntlets

Hold- Step forward with a strong upward Axe strike. Big damage and good launch power.

Up-Tilt

Tap- Lance. High launch power if tippered, but thin hitbox.

Double Tap- two Gauntlet jabs upward. Sacrifices range and knockback for raw damage. Can catch taller enemies from the side and good for aerial follow-ups

Hold: Axe swing upward in almost a full circle from back to front. Slow with a lingering High- damage hitbox

Down Tilt

Tap- Sword jab like Marth et al.

Double-Tap- Double Lance jab along the floor. Pops foe upward

Hold- Sweep with Axe, similar to Ike

Dash Attack

Tap- Slashes with Sword

Double-Tap- Lunges with Lance, reminscent of the Soldier's attack animation in the GBA games.

Hold- advances with a flurry of Gauntlet strikes. Runs for as long as you hold, and can be held indefinitely at ledge.

Neutral Aerial

Tap- Top-to-bottom Axe swipe

Double-Tap: Front-to-back sword twirl like Marth

Hold- pulls out lance and spins it for multiple hits. Lasts until the button is let go or Byleth lands. No landing lag.

Other Aerials work on Smash, Tilt and Hold inputs. If you input a Hold, it will supersede the smash or tilt input.

Up-Air

Tilt- the same Sword slash that all the other Fire Emblem characters have.

Smash- lance stab upwards

Hold- Spins axe above like the Ike-copter of days past. Gets a good vertical boost (about body height) the first time, a smaller one the second (about half) and an even smaller on the third (about kneee to foot length). No more boosts after that, but kind of hovers in place for a bit before continuing to fall.

Forward-Air

Tilt- Gauntlet Jab

Smash- triple Sword stab

Hold- Axe slash

Back- Air

Tilt- Spins around with a hook punch with the gauntlet

Smash- Turns around and stabs with the spear

Hold- turns around and flips in the air with the Axe. Reminiscent of the Mercenary animation from the GBA games.

Down-Air

Tilt- Gauntlet. Like Little Mac but actually decent

Smash- Sword slash downward

Hold- Drop downward with the lance, like Toon Link/ Bowser/ Zero Suit Samus. Small earthquake.

Grabs are with one hand and pummels are with the gauntlet

Up-Throw- Tosses the opponent above their head. Input the A button after the throw to stab with the Lance, with a tipper if timed properly. Tipper kills around 110 for mid-weight characters.

Down- Throw- slams opponent into the ground for a bury. Input A to chop them with the Axe before they pop up. Its actually easier to mash out at higher percent, though. Kill throw at about 95 for Mid-weights

Forward-Throw- slashes with a sword.

Back throw- Tosses opponent behind and slams them with the gauntlets.

Neutral Special is a charged move. Involves Tap, Double-Tap, or Triple-Tap inputs followed by a hold to charge.

Hold on first tap- multiple Sword slashes. Safest on shield.

Hold on second tap- Lance thrust. Tipper breaks Shields instantly.

Hold on the third tap- Axe slam. Produces a small earthquake, similar to Roy's Flames and Chrom's wind, that hits front and back. Insta-kill at full charge, but minimal shield damage.

Side- Special

Tilt- forward Javelin toss. Can angle slightly while winding up.

Smash- Hand Axe. Straight shot that boomerangs. Hold Down the B Button for more distance.

Hold- Draws a bow, fires an arrow on release.

Down- Special- Instead of a counter, you get Instruct. It will Increase damage and knockback for a selected weapon for ten seconds

Tap for Gauntlet

Double Tap for Sword

Triple Tap for Lance

Hold for Axe

Up-Special

Smash- Dolphin Slash with gauntlets. Or... A Shoryuken I guess.

Tilt- Throws a Javelin with a rope attached. Tether recovery but can also function like Isabelle's fishing rod. Can perform a different up-Special if you catch an opponent while you're in the air.

Hold- Ike-Copter 2.0. Imagine K-rool's up special with a bigger hitbox above them, but not as much vertical.

Smash attacks work like Peach and Daisy- Different angles for different weapons.

F-Smash-

Neutral- Spear Thrust

Upward Angle- Axe slam

Downward Angle- Gut punch with gauntlet

Up-Smash-

Neutral- Again, Spear Thrust

Backward Angle- Swings Axe from front to back.

Forward angle- Swings Sword Back to Front

Down Smash- Slams weapon into the ground, creating an earthquake.

Neutral- Gauntlets. Fast and with little endlag. High- damage but trips instead of launches. Worst range.

Forward Angle- Sword. Better range, but slower than Gauntlet. Best damage, middling knockback.

Backward Angle- Lance. Best ground range and high knockback to grounded opponents. Kicks Up rocks into the air to damage opponents that try to jump over it. Lots of endlag, though

Taunts!

Down-Taunt

Tap- Byleth slams their axe into the ground and poses

Hold- Byleth buries a Lance in the ground like a flagpole and salutes.

Up-Taunt

Tap- Byleth raises a gauntleted fist into the air and cheers

Hold- Byleth raises their sword skyward. It twinkles.

Side-Taunt-

Tap- Shadowboxing with the gauntlets

Hold- twirls the lance idly.

#super smash bros #Super Smash Bros Ultimate #fire emblem #Fire Emblem three houses #byleth

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marcoacesabo · 5 years

Text

That’s Plagiarism!

It started off innocently enough. Small little stories appearing in the newspaper every few months or so. Sabo would marvel at how similar they were to his own stories sitting in his journal but they weren’t exactly word by word.

It was the idea mostly, and he did really enjoy the story, though it kinda sounded like it was written by a child sometimes. Heaven knows how they got past the editor’s desk but they had interesting plots and were worth finishing.

Then one day a new little dabble appears that had him standing up with a shout of rage as soon as he finished the first paragraph.

“That bastard!” Crumbling the newspaper he starts to pace, angrily mumbling under his breath more curses upon the author's life.

Koala looks up from where she was going over some reports from their spies. “What is it, Sabo?”

“This!” He throws the papers on her desk continuing to pace. Without them in his hand, he had no choice but grab onto his coat and wrinkle it about. Another thing that thief is to blame for. Now he has to iron. “Can you believe it!?”

“Ugh...A love story?” Koala doesn’t sound as offended on his behalf as she should be. He whirls around, slamming both his hands on her desk and a craze look in his eye. She jerks back surprise but not threaten.

“My love story!”

“What?”

Sabo angerly jerks his wrist in the general direction of the crumbled papers as his brain shifts and rolls uncomfortably but he ignores it in favor of being self-righteously vengeful. “That’s my story! I wrote it!”

“You did? When?”

“I..” There is a sharp pain now in his skull when he tries to think of the answer. He doesn’t know. He can’t remember. Closing his eyes, he reaches up to put pressure on where it hurts as it starts to get too much.

Attempting to ease the pain he groans. Koala’s chair searches against the floor before her dainty hands are on his pounding head.

“Sabo are you okay? Sabo?”

He shakes his head because it’s getting hard to think but he knows that story. He wrote it! He knows he did...it was an about a Nobel boy falling for the Sea’s child...running away togther...it was based off someone...who? Who did Sabo write that for?

“Sabo? Can you hear me? You need to calm down. Breath with me. Sabo?”

Shaking his head, the pounding got heavier and he stumbles to keep himself upright when his knees start to shake. It’s only then that he’s aware of his irregular breathing and the cotton stuffed into this mouth.

“Sabo, honey, listen to me. Stay grounded. I know what your experiencing is scary but it’s not dangerous. You’re going to be okay. Breath with me” Koala tells him but she sounds so far away even though she is standing right next to him. Her warm hand in his palm leads him to his discarded chair.

She helps to lower him down, and yet he can’t get his breathing under control. It’s too much. It’s all too much!

“My story...mine...mine...” He can barely breathe but somehow the words get past his lips as he shapes and colors start to blend together around him. Sabo doesn’t know what’s happening but the pain is starting to increase.

Koala shushes him, her warm hand rubbing circles into his back. “It’s okay. Just focus on staying grounded. count with me okay? one...two...three...four..”

It takes a while but eventually he is able to count along with her and his breath comes under control once more. It’s when he is able to get control of his limbs that he realizes he just had an anxiety attack.

“Are you feeling better now?” Koala asks still holding his hands but looking into his eyes without a trace of pity. The only thing swimming in her gaze is worry and he is more than ever grateful for her friendship.

“Yeah...yeah, I think so.”

“What happened?”

“I..ugh...I don’t know” He admits running a shaky hand through his long hair, “I think...I think it had something to do with my past.”

“Did you remember anything?” She is gentle in her tone. Sabo shakes his head then pauses as he something does emerge.

“I remember writing..in a tree house I think? Little stories.” He takes a big breath “I was really proud of them but I didn’t want...someone to find them. I don’t remember who.”

He falls silent and it’s not until Koala squeezes his fingers that he snaps out of his thoughts. He’s not sure where all this is coming from but suddenly he has the biggest urge to protect those childish writings he did.

“I want to hunt down the author,” Sabo says, jaw clenches tight as the feeling violation sits into his chest. “And I’m going to punch them in the face for plagiarising my work. I’m going to break their nose.”

It takes him weeks to get a lead. Dragon wasn’t all that happy about Sabo asking for days off to deal with a personal matter but when he had nearly three other anxiety attacks it was decided by the medical staff of the Revolutionary Army that he needed this time.

With his leader’s blessing, he packed a small boat and head off, to the nearest newspaper office. Someone had to know where the stories were coming from and he was determined to find the trail left behind.

The first place was a bust- though he did get some juicy information that made Dragon very happy once he reported it back- he was able to get an idea of where to go next.

Traveling to the New World was a slight inconvenience. Yet he was able to corner the editor who was in charge of the paper publishing his work. He didn’t even have to threaten him.

Instead, all Sabo had to do was walk in with his best-kicked puppy look asking about the one stealing his work. Stating the pain of having it all stolen after the hours of working on it as a kid.

As a fellow writer, the editor had eaten his story up. It may have helped that Sabo knew the next chapter storyline before they had a chance to publish it. Sadly the man himself did not know who the person was, only knowing it was coming from an island near the southwest part of the new world.

He gave him the Island name and the address. With that he bid the man goodbye, stealing the list of revolutionary army members that an anonymous tipper drop off on his way out.

Hey, he’s a spy first and for more, who wouldn’t expect him to go through all the letters and documents the night before he spoke to the editor? He calls Dragon about the leak in their network as he sails burning the paper to a crisp.

“What did you say the island’s name was?” Dragon gruff voice makes the snail look even more disturbing with the bloodthirsty smile the man wears. Sometimes Sabo wants to tell his boss to not smile but knows better of it.

“Mist Meadow, sir”

“Hn” Over the years Sabo has gotten good at translating Dragon’s grunts. This one meant not expecting that, but it would make sense when one stops to think about it.

“Sir?”

“That island is under an emperor's territory.”

“Who?”

“Whitebeard”

Well, things just got a little more complicating. “I’m still going. I need to.”

“Why?”

“Plagiarism!”

There is a slight pause. Sabo watches the den den mushi’s face for any hints of what he is thinking but it gives nothing away like Dragon does. Then a quick “Be careful. You mean a lot to me”

Warmth fills his chest. Sabo knows some people think Dragon is cold and standoffish but the man never fails to let his subordinates know how important they are. Whether it’s from congratulating them on a job well done or simply telling affection starved people like Sabo that they matter, the comments came freely from him. “Of course Sir.”

One last disturbing smile- the poor man just has that kind of face, not his fault really- before the line disconnects.

Sabo leans back in his boat, mind whirling. “Whitebeard huh? I’ll need to be careful when I arrive. But at least the man himself won’t be there.”

Whitebeard was in fact there.

Sabo curses his luck as he hunches his shoulders trying his best to not stand out in the cheering crowd. The Whitebeard parade down the street waving at the island people like they are on a celebrity runway. They anchored about ten minutes ago and the excitement still hasn’t died down.

He kinda wants to leave but it would make him stand out for breaking from the crowd.

Suddenly the ladies and a good portion of the men start to lose their mind with screams, shocking Sabo enough that he actually almost lets them trample him. Luckily he is able to dodge them at the last second, though it’s like being a rock in the middle of a river as they all rush forward to the metal fence hand outstretched for a waving man.

Sabo scoffs as the guy tilts his orange cowboy hat at a lady down front and she actually swoons enough that she almost falls. What is this? Some kind of-

His back snaps into a solid rod when another man walks up to cowboy hat, holding a very familiar book. Sabo forgets his place, pushing through the crowd of adoring fans, eyes on the two men who are flipping through his childhood journal.

There is too much noise to be able to hear them but he can read lips decently enough. The taller one is saying something along the lines of sending the next chapter to the press and Cowboy is flashing a smile so deadly that three people pass out.

Sabo is not impressed at all. He makes it the fence and screams with all his strength, toping the other voices when he adds a bit of haki. “Hey, asshole that’s called plagiarism!”

The two men whip around to look at them and Sabo almost dies. Okay wow. He can see why Cowboy has so many fans. Danm those freckles? Deadly. those ads. Deadlier.

Cowboy blinks at him, turning to look at his companion and- oh that’s not just not fair. He’s hot too. What? Did Whitebeard make it a requirement to be unfairly attractive when it came to recruiting?

Sabo punts his mind out of the gutter to focus on the fact his writing was stolen. He points an accusing a finger at Cowboy allowing words to fall out of his mouth without much thought. Somehow it’s like the words are a habit “You know you aren’t supposed to read that! The Forest Curse on you! Curse!”

Cowboy pales and steps back making everyone snap to attention finally taking notice of the disturbance of the parade. The pounding headache returns when he gets an answer he wasn’t really expecting. “The Forest Curse isn’t a joke! I’m not Luffy!”

“You’re going to die alone!” He shouts back for a reason he can’t explain and then-

Then Cowboy is throwing himself forward with a shout. Kissing his cheeks and squeezing him just a tad bit too tight in a hug “Sabo! If I knew that you are petty enough to come back from the dead over your work I would have it publish sooner!”

#marcoacesabo #That’s Plagiarism! Au #Sabo was that petty as a kid Ace don't even question #Establish MarcoAce #He publish it in Sabo's memory #Ace found Sabo's notebook and took it with him #His memories were trying to trigger due to his rage

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sirkkasnow · 5 years

Text

14 When All Else Fails, Make Amends

Ao3 link

07/27/13-07/28/13 Saturday - Sunday

Good luck with cleanup, was the message that chimed Stan awake in the morning.

Clary had already gone down to Greasy’s by the time there was enough daylight to work by. The usual suspects, minus the kids who were still sacked out upstairs, gathered to bring the Shack’s yard back into something resembling order before the first tours of the day showed up. They settled for getting some of the tables and chairs stacked away into the loaner truck and leaning folded tents against the lee side of the house. Another few trash bags got added to a mountain that would require a special pickup from the town garbage truck.

Stan had gotten a report on the night’s numbers from Soos, though, and that kept his steps light no matter how many discarded party cups he had to pick up.

A chill wind had blown through somewhere in the wee hours which kept the work bearable until the sun finally made it above the treetops. Dipper and Mabel eventually staggered out to collapse on the couch. They’d recovered enough energy to razz the cleanup crew, at least until another text from Clary chimed on all the Pines’ phones at once.

Lunch special is complete! Who wants a full pancake breakfast on me?

“Heck yes!” shouted Mabel. “Come on, people, wrap it up, it’s free pancakes!”

They’d managed the equivalent of sweeping most of the trash under the rug, as it were. Soos waved them off as Stan loaded himself, Ford and the kids into the El Diablo and ran everyone down to the diner.

The Saturday morning crowd was more dense than usual. Someone had written Clary Merrick’s Chicken Dumplings! on the chalkboard at the front door. “Good grief,” Ford muttered.

“Cursed by our own popularity,” Stan agreed as he shouldered the door open and held it for the kids.

Susan met them with a pink-cheeked giggle. “That was some party, huh? Come on, we’ve got a booth reserved for ya.” She shooed the four of them down to the far end and poured coffee. “Server’ll be out in a minute!”

Stan was expecting Clary. When she showed up in a pink uniform and a crisp white apron, pen tucked behind one ear, he cracked up and couldn’t quite stop himself. They’d even slapped a bit of masking tape over her nametag and scrawled in CLARY with a marker. She looked down her nose in wry disdain. “Very funny. I’ve got another forty minutes to go and then I’m done for good, so order up before my employee discount evaporates.”

“You look lovely,” Ford said, valiant as ever. She winked, smile widening, and Stan hit him with a warning kick under the table.

“So.” Mabel’s eyes were gleaming. “We can have anything we want?”

“Anything at all, honeybee.” Clary flipped out a ticket book and readied her pen. “What’s it gonna be?”

Ford and Dipper were relatively straightforward. Mabel’s order rattled on for most of a ticket-book page, Clary making swift notes as she went. Finally she glanced in question at Stan, who smirked. “Anything?”

The corners of her eyes crinkled, though she kept a straight face. “Anything. Keep in mind that I already know you’re a lousy tipper.”

“How exactly d’you expect me to figure a tip on zero dollars?”

“Maybe you should give some consideration to services rendered.” Clary tilted her pen over towards the wall clock. “Thirty minutes.”

“All right, all right.” He made a show of studying the menu, then settled on the best of the club sandwiches - extra turkey, extra bacon, extra pickles, easy on the mayo - with a short stack of pancakes, hash browns, and everything else he figured he could get away with stuffing into a takeaway box. Clary didn’t flinch, mildly taking it all down as the kids’ eyes widened.

She ferried it all out over the next fifteen minutes. The scarred surface of the booth table was jammed near to overflow with pancakes, side dishes and Mabel’s assorted syrups. Stan chomped into his sandwich with gusto. Nothing was quite as delicious as free food. He watched in amusement as Clary waltzed up and down the diner to refill coffee and clear plates.

The clock had about made it to noon when she swung by the Pines table again. “Got everything you need, hon?”

“Doin’ fine for now but I wouldn’t mind seein’ the dessert menu - “

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Pines, but it’s time for my shift change.” Clary straightened, reaching behind to untie her apron. “Hey, Susan?” she called out.

“What’s up, sweetie?”

“I quit!” Clary tossed the apron over the counter and slipped into the booth, Dipper scooting over to make room. She reached across the table and nimbly stole the untouched half of Stan’s sandwich.

“Hey - “

“Who’s paying for this?” she shot back.

Stan must have looked crestfallen, because both the kids were beginning to giggle and Clary was struggling not to join them as she took a bite. “Fine. I’ll consider this my tip. Sorry I missed you all this morning - did cleanup go all right?”

Ford pushed his empty plate to the middle of the table. “I believe we managed to get it all under control. Will you be coming back to pack this afternoon?” Stan settled for the pancakes, still sulking a bit.

“I’ll get started. Looks like I’ll be staying through the weekend, so long as that’s okay. I want to get a decent night’s sleep or two and I still have some unfinished business in town.” Clary settled back with a sigh and accepted a spare napkin from Dipper. “I’m so glad everything went well.”

Mabel squinted down the table from her seat by the window. Her eyes flicked to Stan, who did his best to radiate innocence. “So maybe until Monday?”

“Tuesday, I think.”

“Great.” Mabel clapped hands together smartly and turned her razor focus to Ford. “Grunkle Ford, now that we’ve got all the obligations out of the way, can we make time to head out on that ghost expedition of Dipper’s? I’m pretty sure we could get it done in one overnight hike.”

Dipper blinked in surprise next to Mabel, then flinched - Stan was pretty sure that was a pink Mary Jane tagging him in the ankle. He caught on quick, though, and leaned forward with eager eyes and steepled fingers. “That’s right. I’ve figured out a route that’ll hit everything worth investigating and it’ll be one day out, one day back. If we head out tomorrow morning, we could make it in plenty of time for dinner on Monday!”

Ford tensed up, unused to being the center of both their attention. “...I’d hate to abandon our guest for the last couple of days before she departs.”

“Oh, I’m stayin’. Lots of cleanup t’do, yet.” Stan swabbed up maple syrup with another forkful of pancake.

“I’ll get the truck back to Tate and clear up the last loose ends,” said Clary. “I still owe a few people favors.”

“We can’t go incommunicado - “

“I can show Grunkle Stan how to use the tracking rig, and we can carry your uplinks, right? We’ll be in touch the whole time! Listen, we’ve already sketched out what we know are the safest stretches of the woods after the glitterbomb thing, and we can check on the aftereffects while we’re at it.” Dipper fished out a notepad and started scribbling.

Stan felt his brother’s resistance begin to crack. “Mabel, you want to come along on this - ?”

“You bet. I’ll be your documentarian.” Mabel tugged out her phone, sat back and got a snapshot of the whole table. “We can borrow that action camera thingy and get some video too. Come on, the weather’s going to be perfect for a couple days and we have to get it all done before we start doing birthday planning!”

Ford blanched. “We just finished the biggest party we’ve ever thrown - “

“That’s no reason to rest on our laurels. We’re about to turn fourteen, we’re going to high school in the fall, we’ve got to throw one heck of a bash. What we did over this last week? Nothing but a rehearsal!” Both Stan and Ford inched back a bit in their seats.

“Easy, Mabel. I need some recovery time and they probably do, too.” Clary polished off the last bite and dabbed at her lips with the napkin. “If you’re done, why don’t we pack up and maybe we can figure it out on the way up to the Shack?”

They were still hashing it out when Susan came over with a couple of takeaway boxes. Clary settled up and left too much of a tip, as usual, which wasn’t even going to her. Some of the things that woman did made no sense.

Stan held the door for everyone as they headed out into the sunshine. He turned a palm out behind his back and scored low-fives from both Dipper and Mabel as they passed.

By the time they were back home - Clary had walked that morning, so she joined them in the car - Mabel, Dipper and Ford had negotiated more or less exactly what the kids wanted. The house echoed with voices and footsteps as camping gear, cameras, maps and backpacks were rustled up from various corners.

Stan left them to it and sidled up to Clary. She’d barely made it up the outside steps and simply leaned into the side door’s frame, watching the chaos swirl past. “So?”

“So.”

“We on for this weekend?”

She shifted enough to catch his eye. “We’re on.”

“Tomorrow lunchtime?”

“Perfect. Looking forward to it.” Clary pushed off from the doorframe, her smile a warm flicker. “See you for dinner. Me, I’m going to go sleep like the dead.”

She was as good as her word, too, disappearing into her storage room for the remainder of the afternoon. Stan gave up almost immediately on keeping up with the kids and sacked out on the couch for a good couple hours.

Dinner came early, thrown together from admittedly excellent leftovers. The conversation consisted mainly of intense discussion about safe trails, the most sheltered spot to set up camp and various anomalies that both Ford and Dipper wanted to catalog on their overnight.

Clary didn’t even blink save to ask a question or two. She was playing it frosty, which meant Stan was too, which meant Mabel was glaring daggers at both of them after half an hour of innocuous discussion and list-making.

“I’ll get the plates,” Mabel declared loudly when they were mostly done. “Grunkle Stan, help me get all this back to the kitchen!”

He obeyed, trailing along after with an armload of dishware, and dropped it off in the sink only to be accosted by Mabel standing on the stepladder and towering over him. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“I am not spending two whole days distracting the nerd brigade so that you can finish cleaning up the lawn, mister.” Mabel set hands to her hips and stared him down. “She’s done being mad and that’s great. So what are you going to do about it?”

“Take it easy, pumpkin, I’ve got it all handled.” Stan dragged the stepladder a few inches closer so that she could help dry dishes.

“You’re going to tell her how you feel?”

“I’m gonna tell her I hope I can still see her again after all this.” Because oh boy anything else might be more complicated than he could handle. “An’ then we see what happens, I guess. Don’t worry ‘bout me, sweetie. Your grunkle’s a master at the art of romance.”

He winked and she rolled her eyes. “Don’t you dare let her get away. This one’s a keeper.”

“Uh huh. Pressure much, Mabel?”

The expedition headed out bright and early on Sunday morning after a hearty breakfast. Clary and Stan waved them off from the porch, watching them strike out into the forest with packs and walking sticks. Mabel made a point of spinning on her heel as they hit the treeline, flashing a wink and a double thumbs-up with such enthusiasm that Stan wondered if she’d sprained an eyelid.

Clary's smile was brilliant even behind the cover of her hand. “She’s about as subtle as a sack of sledgehammers.”

“Definitely gets that from my side of the family. Think you can make yourself scarce for an hour or two?”

“I have a few people to visit, a couple bills to pay, and then I’ve got to start packing.” She hooked the car key out of her pocket and gave the miniature Mystery Shack dangling from it a twirl. “Meet you for a late lunch?”

“Anytime before three’s probably fine. You be careful in that thing, all right? I haven’t had time to really go through the guts...drives all right, at least, but with McGucket messin’ with it…”

“I will be careful. Scout’s honor.” She flashed him a three-fingered salute and jogged off to the Fairlane. Stan watched warily as she buckled in, fired it up, and headed out down the long drive, then fished out his phone and started making calls.

He had a productive few hours in her absence, helping Tate load the loaner pickup with the last batch of party chairs. Dipper had left the laptop behind, and after some fiddling Stan managed to get the tracker going. A trio of colored dots marked Ford and the kids on a projected trail map.

Mabel answered first when he toggled the uplink console, her bright voice warbling with distance. “Love Patrol Alpha Summer Expedition Number One, reporting! Is that you, Mystery Base?”

Stan grumbled in resignation. “Yeah, yeah, Heartbreaker, that’s me. Listen, I got the map goin’. You three holdin’ up all right?”

“We’re making great time, and I am documenting everything! Not a single track, not one tiny clue is going to escape our notice while we’re out here. Grunkle Ford says it’s about another two hours until we get to the spot Dipper wanted to look at so badly, and after that we’ll make camp.”

“Uh. Great. Keep us posted, okay? I might be doin’ dinner or somethin’ with Clary so maybe we’ll check back in before bed and then at breakfast time.”

“We’re not going to have any emergencies while we’re out here, come ooooonnnn.” Stan closed his eyes for an exhausted moment, unwilling to lay odds on that. “It’s all under control. You two have a nice time and be ready to tell me everything later, got it?”

“Roger, Heartbreaker.”

There were a few other bits and pieces he wanted to line up for the day and those fell into place easily enough with a quick trip down to Greasy’s. By the time he heard the distinctively smooth, deep note of the Fairlane’s engine as it rolled up around two-thirty, he had a couple of trout butterflied, deboned and laid out on ice. Stan fired up the skillet and had butter sizzling merrily as Clary leaned into the kitchen doorframe.

“All done for now, and what, pray tell, have we got for lunch?”

“Only the good stuff. Fresh this mornin’.” He waggled brows at her as he strapped on an apron, dredged the fish and tossed the first fillet into the pan.

“There is no way you had time to go catch that.” She headed for the fridge, reaching in to pull out a few containers of leftover sides.

“Hey, I delegated. Tate came by to get the pickup and he dropped these off. Guy’s, like, a fish whisperer or somethin’, he walks down lakeside and they jump into his creel, it’s weird.”

They swung around each other comfortably in the confined space. Clary set up the table with plates and glasses, not bothering to do more than pop the lids off a motley assortment of Tupperware. The conversation was relaxed and drifting - the most scenic route to Portland, the best lunch counter on the way to Seattle.

Clary sat back with a sigh once she’d finished off her trout. “That was worth the wait.”

“It’s nice t’have lunch right out of the lake, isn’t it? Saved my bacon a few times the first couple years here.” Stan gathered plates as she scrubbed the serving containers. “So, if you can put off packin’ for a little while - you seen the new exhibit yet?”

“You know, I haven’t? Things were too nuts last week.” She leaned aside to let him drop the plates off in the sink, kept on washing and handed them off one by one once he had a dishtowel.

“Up for a private tour? It’s Sunday, last batch of payin’ customers was like half an hour ago.”

“With pleasure.”

Once they’d stacked away the last of the glassware, Stan offered his arm. She laid a hand lightly at his elbow with a quirked little smile and he led her out through the unaccustomed quiet of the Shack.

“So we’re already gettin’ rave reviews.” The museum was silent save for their footsteps, sunlight pouring in bars of honey gold across the plank floors. “‘Mr. Mystery’s still got it.’ And ‘It’s Air-Conditioned!’ I think Soos is already workin’ up a plush or a keychain or somethin’.”

They ducked through the exhibit’s moss-draped doorway, the interior almost chilly and dark enough to disorient after the main room. Stan laid his hand over hers to keep her close as they wove through the narrow corridor. He and Soos had done a hell of a job here on short notice, he thought, with some nifty projection work and vents set up to blow cold air across the feet of tour-goers.

He’d written most of the spiel and leaned over to half whisper to Clary as they walked slowly through. “Dark things dwell in the far corners of these northwest woods, y’know. Things that slumber under our mountains an’ spread nothin’ but shadow when they wake an’ roam the world.”

“This all sounds suspiciously familiar.” Excitement hummed under her low murmur; she was as thrilled as any tourist.

“‘Course it does - this’s all new to us, missy, but the Shack’s crew of intrepid adventurers just got back from a dangerous trek all the way out into the far reaches - “

They rounded a corner, the sound of tinkling glass drifting up over a tiny hidden speaker, and she actually flinched at the forced-perspective replica of the crystalline stag set up to sparkle ominously at the far end of the space. Stan squeezed her hand in reassurance, trying not to laugh. “Mabel did that one. Nice, eh?”

“This is fantastic.” Clary looked up into the darkness overhead, where he’d set up a scatter of glinting glass eyes picked out by pinlights. “You did all this in like two weeks?”

“Well - not alone. Soos an’ Melody have been crankin’ up the exhibits since they took over the Shack. This’s what kept us all so busy while you were cookin’ for everyone in town. C’mon.” He tugged her down past the Crystalline Abominations display, where the lighting came up by subtle degrees. “Check this out.”

Clary’s original taxidermy critter, tidied up and reworked a bit, perched on a branch in a glass case. The placard read ‘mustela merrickii’, explaining its exotic origins and its favored diet of nightmares, and beside that sat a portrait of ‘Dr. Clara J. Merrick’ in old-timey explorer’s gear rendered in sepia inks.

Stan rocked back a step, utterly pleased with himself, as her eyes popped wide and she clapped both hands over her mouth. “This all okay? Ford did the watercolor over there. Seemed only fair t’name it after you.”

She was quiet for a few seconds too long. He shifted his weight from foot to foot until she turned, splayed fingers only half hiding her sly, delighted grin. “You couldn’t wait to get rid of me when I first got here. This whole routine was designed to creep me out and scare me onto a bus.”

“...yeah, that’s fair. You turned out to have a stronger stomach than I expected.”

“Ha. I’m glad I exceeded expectations.” Clary bumped her shoulder into his. “Thank you for letting me leave a mark here. I must have a copy of that portrait - I had no idea Ford was an artist, too.”

“We may or may not have included a nice rendition in your partin’ gifts.”

She cracked up as they wended past winged weasels tangled in shadowy papier-mache tentacles. “Do I get the home game? Have I scored the grand prize?”

“You’ve got a workin’ car, I guess, but as for the rest of it, what were you hopin’ to take with you?” She pulled the curtain aside at the end of the walkthrough and Stan brushed past, half holding his breath as he stepped out into the light.

Clary looked him up and down, her mouth quirked with something between amusement and regret. “I cut a bulk deal with Soos for snowglobes and a couple bobbleheads, so that’s covered, but I can’t say that’s all I was interested in. What’re you doing tonight?”

“Might have somethin’ in mind. I mean, y’know, if you’re up for it.” He held up both hands as she drew indignant breath. “All I’m sayin’ is that there’s no way you went thrift shoppin’ with Mabel and got out of it without somethin’ glittery, right? Show me the gaudiest thing you’ve got. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“What time?”

"Right around dark? Don't worry about dinner."

She shook her head at him but her eyes were sparkling. "Sounds good. I'll track you down out on the porch."

They split up for the rest of the afternoon. Stan spent half an hour tidying up the car, vacuuming out the random debris that had accumulated through the summer’s errands and adventures. Clary steadily trekked back and forth between the Fairlane and the house. Boxes and bags slowly filled in the wagon’s wayback, more stuff than she’d come in with for sure.

Once the day began to fade, she slipped off to take over the bathroom for a quick shower, then vanished into her storage room. Stan went through after and took some time scrubbing himself to respectability. He shook out the old bronze hustle suit from the back of the closet, the scent of cedar sharp in its synthetic fibers. This thing had never needed an ironing since he’d picked it up years ago and it didn’t need one now, which was great, because he had stuff to do.

He still looked damned good in it. Stan squared himself up in front of the mirror, splashed on a bit of his favorite aftershave to make him extra irresistible, got his hair where he wanted it and strolled out to the yard.

Striking a casual pose against the front fender of the Stanleymobile was fine for like, a minute, but his back was beginning to creak in protest by the time Clary finally stepped out onto the porch. Stan pulled himself upright with a suppressed grunt and headed over to meet her as she came down the steps.

Mabel had delivered, all right. Clary’s outfit was some kind of barely-structured 80s-vintage tunic top over skinny leggings, all steely spangles that managed to both drape and cling distractingly, one shoulder and its black bra strap left bare. The scarf was amethyst silk shot with silver threads, hair twisted up and secured with a couple of borrowed glitter clips to tumble down in waves. Her fancy purple eye makeup was definitely out of Mabel’s makeover kit.

“Not half bad,” he said as off-handedly as he could, and she flashed him a grin.

"Sauterne gold." Clary reached out to straighten his lapels and tapped the heavy medallion at his breastbone. "Don't you embody an entire decade of regrets. You wear it a lot better than that old sedan did."

“It was a good decade! They don’t make ‘em like this any more, am I right?” He swept an arm out in a grand gesture, indicating his own awesomeness as he caught her hand in his. “C’mon, let’s book it, we’ve got the evenin’ to ourselves and I don’t wanna waste a minute.”

'Where are we headed?"

"That's a secret." Her eyes rolled heavenwards but she trailed along at his side, allowing herself to be handed into the car and buckling in as he headed around to slip into his own seat.

“No hints whatsoever?”

The car rumbled reassuringly to life and he piloted out along the drive, fingertips tapping along the window frame. “Only if you close your eyes.”

The sky was darkening rapidly, a smudge of deepening blue through the trees, and her smile was a bare glint in the passenger-side shadows. “We’re going to Greasy’s.”

“There is a lot more to town than Greasy’s!”

“I’ve spent most of the last week at Greasy’s and we are absolutely going there, because you know better than to take me to the local bar.” Clary leaned against the window and obediently closed her eyes.

“There are actually a couple classy joints in this burg, I’ll have you know.” Which of course they weren’t going to. The El Diablo rolled smoothly on down to the diner. Stan glanced over to make sure she hadn’t peeked, then hopped out, scooted around the front of the car and drew her door open. “All right. You good to step out blind?”

“So long as I have you to lean on.” She got her feet on the pavement, her hand latched in at his elbow, and he leaned back a bit to get her upright. Stan managed to kick the door closed behind them and got her up to the front step.

“All right, all right, take a look already before I regret this more than I do.”

She obliged him, lashes fluttering up, and gasped in delight that was at least half manufactured. “Why, Stan! It’s Greasy’s! Only it’s all twinkly!”

“Very funny.” He had managed to get the twinkle lights going with the bribed-and-blackmailed help of a couple of the staff, and the diner glowed against the dark backdrop of late evening. “Look, I thought we’ve had more’n enough big drama for the week, right? So this way we can snag a snack, someone else can cook an’ handle the dishes, it’s Sunday night so it’ll be pretty dead….”

“Do we get to dance?” Clary’s hip grazed his as they stepped inside. The late-night waitress spared a cheery little wave from behind the counter. As he’d hoped the place was pretty much empty since he’d kept his preparations so modest - no sound system and definitely no inviting the locals.

“All taken care of.” He pointed down to the booth at the end, where Mabel’s karaoke machine sat sparkling on the table, a tiny disco party light duct-taped to the top. Stan walked Clary down with solemn dignity even though she was laughing into his shoulder. “Lady’s choice. Anythin’ you want.”

“Anything at all?” she needled, kneeling on the bench seat to flip through the tunes on offer. “You’re leaving yourself wide open there, Stan.”

“Princess, I am at your disposal tonight.”

Clary glanced back at him over her bare shoulder, eyes narrowed. “Ditch that jacket and show me how fancy those feet can get.”

He tossed his jacket onto the unoccupied booth seat, then ducked his head to grin as a familiar disco bassline overlaid with swooping strings welled up on the karaoke speakers. “What, no Glenn Miller? Not gonna wring another couple slow dances outta me?”

“This is no ballroom. We’re going to have to improvise.” Clary crooked a finger at him, pacing backwards onto open floor where the smaller tables had been moved aside. “Come here, loverboy.”

Stan rolled his shoulders, cracked his knuckles and stalked out after her with rising glee.

The world contracted to the circle of his arms and her within it. No paying customers, no expectations, no obligations, nothing but the determined steady thump of the beat and the faint insistent nudge of she’s leaving at the back of his head - he pushed that down and aside.

He had better things to worry about. Balance and counterbalance played out in turns and dips. Clary leaned into his palm at her waist and spun away, strain and flex flowing through his frame according to rhythm and melody and her trust in his grip.

For three tracks there wasn’t a word to say, just an occasional huff of breath or a chuckle. The fourth song was a slow one and he cautiously eased into her space. Clary looked up to him with narrowed, knowing eyes. Her arm slipped around his shoulders and she settled against him - no ice block this time - so he laid his cheek against her hair, their feet light, tracing out overlapping box-steps without a hitch.

He wanted so fiercely to stay there in the bubble of the moment that he had paid no attention to the slow trickle of people who’d wandered into the diner, but a faint cough from a booth somewhere down the line drew his attention. Stan swore under his breath as he counted heads. They’d picked up an audience and at least one idiot was angling a phone down their way.

Clary laughed dryly as a pivot gave her the same view. “Why don’t we take a quick break and let some of them come take over the floor.”

“Long as you’re willin’ to DJ, that sounds fine to me.” She left her arm linked in his as they returned to their booth and swept her professional hostess’ smile across the room. Embarrassed observers picked up menus or sheepishly shuffled down to dance in the space they’d just vacated.

“Chocolate shake? We should split it. Lunch was late.”

“On it, sweetpea.” He left her fiddling with the music queue and caught the waitress in passing to place the order, watching the swirl of traffic up and down Greasy’s center aisle. Apparently word had gotten out that Clary was about to go, and Gravity Falls wasn’t quite done enjoying the novelty of the Shack’s temporary-resident lawyer.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” Clary said gently to Manly Dan as Stan stomped back down to their booth with shake in hand. “My dance card’s full tonight. Perhaps I’ll be back for a visit sometime. I won’t forget!”

Stan skewered Dan with a glare that actually shifted the big fella back on his heels and slid onto the seat alongside Clary, between her and the rest of the crowd. “You’d think they’d move on to somethin’ else by now,” he groused as she unwrapped the straws.

“What can I say? People keep telling me it’s been a dull summer compared to last year.”

They only got through half the shake. Constant interruptions from well-wishers grew more frequent as the place became more packed - no way this was a normal Sunday crowd, people were coming in for a last gander at Miz Enigma - and Stan’s patience was stretched painfully thin by the time Clary finally leaned over to murmur into his ear. “Why don’t you bring the car around to the side. I’ll be right there.��

“About time we skipped,” he gritted out, cutting through to the front door with heavy strides. His last glance caught her perched upon the table’s edge, microphone in hand, thumbing through songs and chatting with a couple of the museum staff.

The El Diablo glided smoothly up alongside the diner. He sat and waited, thumbs tapping an annoyed staccato on the steering wheel, listening to the muffled racket of enthusiastic singing from within.

Five minutes.

Ten.

Fifteen. He was about ready to charge in there and throw her over his shoulder, scandal be damned, when the side door opened a sliver and Clary slipped through with his jacket over one arm. She dropped into the passenger seat and fumbled with the belt in her haste. “I got the sheriff going on a medley. Get us out of here, please.”

The tires were already squealing as he backed up and peeled out along the main drag. “So am I rubbin’ off on you or what? That was pretty slick, though I like a little flash an’ dazzle on the way out.”

Her low chuckle was edged with sharp relief. “Maybe I’ve learned a thing or two. Any chance we can find some peace and quiet?”

Stan took a left, cutting away from town into dark, dense pines. “I know just the place.”

Tumblr masterpost

Clary plucks the pen from behind her ear and flips open the ticket book, looking over the table expectantly. “What’s it gonna be?”

Sandwich!

Pancakes!

Everything!

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luminous-grace · 5 years

Text

“Slow night?”

Castiel jerks his head up from where it’d been resting on his arms. He blinks a few times, his gaze landing on a blurry shape shifting its weight awkwardly in front of him. Grumbling, Castiel fumbles for his glasses. “You could say that.”

Distractedly, he waves his hand at the overhead sign. “All the prices are right here. One dollar for a kiss, fifty cents for a kiss on the cheek, etc. If you want to buy more than two at once we ask that you first go to the back of line to give others a turn.”

The man laughs. “Oh no, sorry. I mean, not that I’m not interested but I just came over here to make sure you were sleeping and not, like, actually dead.”

Castiel frowns, finally locating his glasses. He slips them on and once he does the most attractive men he’s ever seen blinks into focus.

Castiel stares. The man seems to be around his own age, maybe a few years younger. He’s sporting a dark grey henley and a leather jacket that clings to him perfectly, as if its entire purpose is to wreak havoc on Castiel’s higher brain function. In the end, it’s the bright green eyes and lopsided grin that have Castiel doing the double take. He’s so focused on his examination that he completely misses the treat being offered to him until it’s practically shoved under his nose.

“Here, uh, I figured you could use this. On the house.”

Castiel blinks, finally looking away, and his gaze falls to a cupcake covered in slightly too much rainbow frosting and dozen little white sprinkles. His stomach growls, and the man grins.

“See, I knew they were keeping you trapped here.”

Cas huffs a laugh, but takes the offered treat.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” The man scratches at the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “To be honest, talking to you seemed like a good excuse to take a breather from my own crap.”

He gestures behind him to another booth about twenty feet or so away. Squinting, Castiel catches sight of an assortment of baked goods and a little cardboard cutout of a pie. Farther back, the giant banner Castiel had spent entirely too much time on hangs from the ceiling, the words "FUNdraising Carnival Night” glaring at him in large block letters.

“Also,” Castiel’s gaze snaps back as the man continues speaking, “you got a little, uh-” he gestures at his face and Castiel raises a hand in confusion only to brush away a couple of those tiny star confetti’s scattered across his booth.

Castiel frowns at it tiredly. “Ugh. Thank you. I’m sure I’ll be finding fifty more of those later.”

“Long day?”

Castiel sighs, removing his glasses for a moment to rub at his eyes. “Long night, I suppose. All that paper grading finally caught up to me.”

“Oh shit, do you teach here?” The man sounds annoyed on his behalf. “And they’re making you work the booth, too? That sucks, dude.”

Castiel shakes his head. “I teach at the university next door. My daughter, Claire, attends here and I’m volunteering for the evening. Are you a parent?” Castiel adds as an afterthought. Mostly to be polite, but also because he doesn’t think he’s seen him around before at any of the school functions before.

The man shakes his head. “Nah, my brother’s kid is a student here. I’m just helpin’ out the cause.” He leans over to nudge at a shoebox lying at his feet. Its contents jangle. “Band.”

Castiel gestures at the half-full jar in front of him. “Soccer team.”

The man grins, sticking out his hand.

“Dean.”

“Castiel.”

The sit in companionable silence for a few minutes. The hallway they’ve been assigned to is deserted except for the two of them, and if it weren’t for the muffled sounds of music floating from the central hall, Castiel might think that everyone else had gone home early.

“So a kissing booth, huh?” Dean’s voice breaks the quiet. “Gotta be honest, I didn’t know they still did those. Did you draw the short straw or something?”

Castiel rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat to it. “My brother’s idea, unfortunately. He said that with my “‘irresistible charm’” I should have customers lining up. Why he’s even thought about that, I don’t think I want to know, but my daughter jumped at the chance chance of embarrassing me, so.”

Dean snorts. “Middle schooler?”

“Middle schooler.”

Nodding sagely, Dean takes a sip of his drink. “So how’s business been? Any of these parents out here hot for teacher?” He waggles his eyebrows, and Castiel feels his mouth twitch.

“Well, considering my only options are total strangers or the parents of my daughter’s friends, I’d say I’m doing about as well as could be expected.”

Dean winces. “Yeah that sucks, dude.”

Castiel picks at the wrapper of his cupcake. “It’s not so bad. Mr. Turner’s already been though a couple times. Single dad, sweet man.” Castiel gives up on the wrapper, opts instead to use his finger to take a long swipe of frosting off the top before popping it in his mouth. “A very generous tipper.”

Dean chokes. “Yeah?”

Castiel snickers, abandoning the cupcake to wipe his hands on his thighs. “Yeah, if you consider fifty cents for a peck on the cheek generous.”

"Huh.” Dean says. They talk for a while, after that. They discover that Castiel’s daughter is only a year ahead of Sam’s, but that little Mary is so smart they’ll probably be sharing classes by next year. She’s learning to play the french horn, much to Sam’s dismay and Dean’s glee, which Claire’s soccer team is all set to win their tournament the upcoming weekend provided they can get enough money to get there.

Every so often, Dean’s gaze will drop to Castiel’s lips before he seems to catch himself, jerking his eyes back up and going slightly pink at the ears. Castiel isn’t shy about letting Dean know he’s been found out, and each time it happens the other man seems to grow more and more flustered.

Eventually, Dean gestures somewhat desperately at the sign above Castiel’s head. “Pretty cheap going rate. What’ve you made so far?”

Castel tilts his head, eyeing his jar critically. “I’d say... around thirty dollars or so? So all in all, not terrible.”

Dean snorts, mutters what sounds like “buncha tightwads” under his breath before raising his voice again. “So how’s this whole thing work, anyway? I give you cash and however much I give decides what I get?”

Castiel shrugs. “Essentially, yes. It’s all strictly PG of course, and I reserve the right to veto.” He drops his voice, so Dean has to lean in even closer to hear. “Somehow, I doubt that’ll be an issue.”

Dean grins at him, and there’s something new in it now that sends a rush of heat through Castiel. "So what you’re saying is, I get to lay one on the hottest guy here and donate to a worthy cause at the same time?”

Mouth twitching, Castiel lets his eyes drop to Dean’s lips momentarily before flicking back up.

“Your very selfless act of charity is appreciated.”

Dean inhales sharply, and they’re close enough that Castiel can see it when he bites his lip, eyes fixated on Castiel’s mouth. He starts to lean in, and Castiel lets his eyes flutter closed-

“Shit.” Castiel opens his eyes in time to see Dean pull back abruptly.

“What?”

Dean starts reaching for his pockets, hands patting himself frantically. “I, uh, think I left my wallet in the car.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, because what the fuck. “Are we really keeping up that pretense now?”

Dean pauses, mouth opening and closing a few times “Okay, you got me there. But-” he continues, “I do actually want to support your shit, man. Just give me like, two minutes.”

Castiel sighs, unable to bring himself to be properly annoyed because damnit, who even is this guy? “If you insist,” he says instead. “I’d hurry though. My booth closes in-” he makes a show of checking his watch “-about five minutes.”

“Shit.” Dean jumps up quickly, causing the chair he was in to topple over. He glares at Castiel as if daring him to laugh before jabbing a finger his direction. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Dean hurries out of sight, and Castiel takes a moment to shake his head at himself. He sets about carefully dismantling his stand, starting with the decorations and leaving the booth itself for last. He’s just sat back down for a moment to check his phone when the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps makes him look up.

Dean skids to a halt in front of him, doubling over to plant his hands on his knees, panting.

Castiel opens his mouth to speak but Dean holds up a finger. He wheezes a couple more times before straightening up and slapping a crumpled wad of cash down onto the table.

Castiel blinks at money and then back up at Dean. “Did- did you run here?”

Dean glares at Castiel incredulously. “Dude you’re like, twenty different levels of hot. Of course I ran.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow, and Dean flushes. It’s sort of adorable.

“Dean, there’s like $40 here.”

“Okay, in my defense-”

“You gave me a cupcake. I think technically I owe you money.”

“Listen-”

But Castiel doesn’t listen, choosing instead to tug Dean downward to kiss him. It’s a little awkward and he has to lean up across the booth to reach a still standing Dean, but the surprised noise the other man makes against his mouth as they meet is worth it.

It’s just a quick press of the lips, there and back in a moment but it sets Castiel’s heart racing. Reluctantly, he breaks away first- mostly deserted or not, this is still a public place- but the second Castiel pulls back Dean’s chokes out a “nuh-uh”, fumbles another dollar down, and reels him back in.

The second kiss is firmer, more sure. Dean slides a hand up the the side of Castiel’s face to cradle his jaw, fingers carding through the hair at the nape of his neck and Castiel hums in appreciation. Their lips slide across each other for a moment, parting before coming together again and again, each time a little more purposeful. Feeling daring, Cas tilts his head, lets his tongue drag ever so slightly across Dean’s bottom lip. He’s rewarded with a gasp, and feels Dean’s fingers tighten against the side of his face.

Dean pulls back slightly, knocking their foreheads together as his other hand comes up to cup Castiel’s face.

“Shit. Can I buy you a drink, Cas?”

“What about your booth?”

Dean nips at the corner of his mouth. “Brother’ll take care of it."

Castiel smirks, turning his head to press an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of Dean’s palm just to watch the way his eyes flash. “I don’t know,” he says slowly, cutting his eyes purposefully to the money on the tabletop. “Are you sure you can afford it at this point?”

Dean lets out a low laugh. It sends a thrill of heat through Castiel, who has to dart in again to see how that laugh tastes. This time the kiss is a little wetter, a little dirtier. Castiel isn’t sure who opens for who first, but he does know that Dean tastes like sugary sweet rainbow frosting and Castiel can’t get enough of it. Dean’s hand slides to rest against his hip, warm and heavy, and Castiel shivers as his thumb traces circles there. Castiel fists his hand in Dean’s collar, bites at his lip in payback and the other man groans, the sound quickly swallowed up between them.

Dean pulls back first this time, dropping his head to Castiel’s shoulder. “Fuck,” he exhales on a shaky laugh. Castiel can’t help but agree. They stand there for a moment, breathing heavily, and it’s only the threat of potential detection that keeps Castiel from shoving Dean back into the dark corner of the hallway for round three.

Dean must have a similar thought, because all too soon he’s taking a step backwards. Carefully, he reaches forward to smooth out Castiel’s tie before letting his hands drop to his shoulders. He nods to himself. “Drinks first, then...” Dean lets the sentence trail off, and Castiel smirks at him, sneaking a hand down his side to tug at a belt loop.

“Dessert?”

Dean groans. “God, fuck you. Okay, let’s go or we’re never gonna make it past my car and I really want to buy you a drink.”

Castiel grins, taking pity on him. He steps back before reaching down to pick up his Dean’s shoebox and his own jar of money.

He shakes the jar lightly, turning to Dean with a grin. “It’s my treat.”

#what is this #idk but here it is in all its 0-100% glory ksnfldskf #destiel #deancas fic #destiel fic #supernatural #spn #my fic

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thebestbatz · 2 years

Text

I love this silly guy

#art #digital art #gravity falls #gravity falls au #tilted falls au #tilted falls #till cipher #bill cipher #dipper pines #bipper #tipper #tilted falls bipper #tilted falls tipper

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yeehawbisexualold · 7 years

Text

Killian, the Bail Bonds Assisting Barista

Happy Birthday @emmasfairytale! This isn’t exactly fluffy but it is a coffee shop au so I fulfilled one of those things! Ily angel and I hope you had a great day! ♡

He’s an unarguably good looking man and that pisses her off. A lot.

She hates when skips are good looking. Not because she’s worried she’ll find herself attracted to them; that’s never a problem for her. It bothers her because she knows the type: shitty person, blessed with naturally good looks, uses said good looks to manipulate women into ignoring their horrible personality and accepting their ugly behavior.

Knowing what this man did—beat up his girlfriend and get himself arrested for aggravated assault—she’s entirely certain that his good looks were what convinced the girl to be with him in the first place. With his light green eyes, tousled dark hair, and a nice smile, she can see just how a certain type of woman would fall for his total lack of any other positive attributes.

The longer she sits there, at the two person table in the corner of the coffee shop near her office, listening to this man try to charm his way into her pants, the more frustrated she gets.

She looks around, trying to focus on anything other than the man across from her lest she lose her temper too soon, and realizes how nice the place is. The skip had already been seated with two coffees when she arrived (red flag number 1, ordering for her) so she didn’t have much of a chance to examine the place other than the points of exit. It’s a simply decorated place, nothing too kitschy considering the fact that it’s named The Jolly. There’s a simple, long black board behind the counter displaying the menu, an array of black chairs and tables around the open space, and the only indication of a seafaring theme, a row of nautical mugs displayed across the counter.

A barista with bright blue eyes and a tray of coffee in his right hand passes their table and gives her an assessing look. She shrugs delicately and returns her attention to the idiot across from her.

The guy said he came to this place often so the barista probably just recognized him and wondered why she was here with him. He’ll find out soon enough.

She’s ready to pull the trigger, her hand resting on the cuffs strapped to her leg beneath her flowing, a line dress, when the same barista walks by, tripping and spilling the entirety of a mug of coffee into the man’s lap.

Chris, the smarmy bastard, jumps out of his seat, toppling his chair over in the process.

“What the hell, dude?” he shouts, shaking out the leg that received the brunt of the mess. “What the fuck kind of place are they running here that this shit happens?”

“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” the man says, not looking the least bit apologetic.

“You sure as hell should be!” he grunts, no longer as loud but still as forceful.

“Here,” the barista offers, pulling a towel out of his back pocket.

Emma intercepts it.

“Let me help you,” she says with a coy grin. She gets out of her own seat and kneels next to Chris.

With one hand lightly dabbing his pants, she pulls the cuffs off her leg with the other. Mr. Macho Man is too busy being a smug bastard, grinning wildly to himself about the girl kneeling next to him and helping him dry off, to notice her actions.

“That’s a good loo—”

She cuts him off with the clank of the cuffs around his wrist before he can finish saying what she can only assume to be “that’s a good look for you.” And before he understands what’s happened, she’s got the other wrist trapped behind his back in the cuffs as well.

“Thank you,” she says to the barista standing dumbfounded next to her and ignores the indignant sputtering of the wet man in favor of his awed “No problem, lass.”

She marches the bail jumper out of the coffee shop with as little fanfare as possible. The man’s undeniably an idiot but he seems to have enough sense to realize what’s happening and how unlikely he is to get out of the situation.

It was a fairly easy catch, as far as these situations go and after getting rid of Chris Brown 2.0 she finds herself equal parts grateful and curious of the man who helped her. She heads back to the coffee shop with the intent to thank him. But when she walks in, he’s nowhere to be seen.

“Hi,” she greets the pretty, red headed girl, with a name tag reading Ariel, behind the counter, “I’m looking for the man who was working here earlier today.”

She looks confused for a moment then a look of realization dawns on her face.

“You must be talking about Killian! Dark hair, blue eyes?”

“Yes, is he here?”

“He’s gone for the day,” Ariel explains. “He actually wasn’t supposed to work but Ashley called off because her baby was sick so he had to come in.”

“Oh.” She tries not to obviously deflate but she is disappointed she won’t be able to thank him.

“Did you have a problem?” she asks, concerned.

“No. No, I just… he kind of unknowingly helped me out with catching a bail jumper earlier and I just wanted to give him a nice tip.”

“Oh! You’re her!” she exclaims, eyes widening in excitement. “Killian always says it’s improper for the owner to accept tips but I’m sure he’d like to talk to you. Let me go get him. He’s right upstairs!”

The girl doesn’t exactly run around the counter and through the door leading to what she assumes is the stairwell but she doesn’t walk either. And after a few moments of standing there awkwardly, Ariel reappears with who she now knows to be Killian.

“Ah, you’re back. Here to arrest anyone else?” he asks with a smirk and she notices that he as an accent.

“No, I just wanted to thank you for your help… and I was wondering if you did that on purpose.” He raises a brow. “You know, spilling the drink on him.”

“I did,” he says evenly, nodding his head.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why?”

He bares his teeth in what she can only call an unamused grin.

“He’s in here often enough that I know what he’s like. Peevish, rude, a terrible tipper. He went off on one of my baristas the other day when I wasn’t here. Probably would have banned him from the establishment if she didn’t insist on me not doing so. I noticed you looked uncomfortable so I just did the first thing that came to mind to help you out of the situation.”

“Mmm,” she hums, unsurprised at his description of him. “Maybe next time if a guy does something like that, ignore the baristas wishes and make sure he stays gone.”

His eyes widen slightly at her suggestion but otherwise, he doesn’t seem to disagree with her.

“As you wish.” And then after a brief pause, “Do you mind if I ask what he did to end up in cuffs being very nearly pushed out of my establishment?”

“He beat the shit out of his girlfriend and skipped bail.”

“And that would make you a bail bonds person?” he questions tilting his head to the side in a manner entirely too endearing. He got the phrasing right and everything so it’s a little hard for her to resists his charming mannerisms.

“Yup.”

“Terribly sorry if this is too forward, lass, but do bail bonds people enjoy coffee or do they have a different choice of beverage for dates?”

She should tell him she hates coffee and walk out. She already thanked him for his help. But there’s something appealing about him that she can’t quite pin down. Maybe it’s his stupidly good looks, maybe it’s the way he had enough sense to wish to ban an aggressive man from his place of business, or maybe it’s the way he spilt hot coffee down a man’s lap to help a woman that appeared to be in distress, and it could possibly just be his damn good coffee. So instead she surprises herself and doesn’t walk out.

“Most bail bonds people enjoy coffee, myself included, but what this bail bonds person really enjoys is hot chocolate.”

“Hot chocolate?”

“With cinnamon.”

“Aye, of course,” he says, grinning wildly and moving behind the counter.

“If you’re going to make me drink hot chocolate with you, then you’re going to tell me what made you chose the name, The Jolly,” she tells him with a grin she can’t stop from forming on her own face.

“I’m fairly certain I’ll be open to answering any questions you have.“

#captain swan #cs ff #cs au #actual angel adithi turns 17 and is gifted with subpar coffee shop fic #@god delete all the typos pls #my fic #otp: women don't play no games

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somewhereapart · 7 years

Text

Wings

For the OQ Prompt Party, Day 3. #151 Regina owns a bar and Robin is a regular who has a secret crush on her.

Roni knows what all her regulars drink. She prides herself on it – after all, it’s good business, and she may have fucked up plenty of other things in her life, but she’s a good businesswoman. At least she has that left.

So she knows that Sophie always orders an amaretto sour, no less than two, no more than four – unless that absolute loser Jaxon has gone and gotten his dick wet somewhere else again. Then she might hit five, even six or seven, and Roni discreetly calls her a cab.

Jasper always orders a gin fizz, because he thinks it’s retro and he’s a terrible hipster in entirely the wrong bar. Maria bolsters her courage with Long Island Iced Teas, and then finds a friend to take home for the night. Aaron drinks Patrón Cafe all night long, as he sits at the corner table and scribbles stories on napkins (he says it helps him stay awake, Roni very much doubts that). Henry always orders hard cider, and she feels a ridiculous urge to cut him off after three.

Finn drinks whiskey. Neat – with a glass of ice on the side, and a water back. Except on Tuesdays, because Tuesdays are dollar wing nights – and Finn never misses out on dollar wings. On Tuesdays, Finn arrives promptly at seven, orders a dozen flaming buffalo wings, and washes them down with two Sierra Nevadas. And then he orders whiskey, neat, with a glass of ice on the side and a water back.

And tonight is a Tuesday, so she’s watching the door, keeping an eye out for those deep dimples and cobalt blues.

Finn is nice to look at. Easy on the eyes, and a great tipper, and that accent of his… well, it does things to a lady, that’s all she’s going to say about that.

And she likes his taste in liquor.

She also likes his predictability, his timeliness. She could set her watch to Finn Archer on a Tuesday night. Or she could most Tuesdays, anyway, but it seems tonight is not one of those nights.

It’s 7:17 on a Tuesday night and the third stool from the left is empty.

She tells herself not to be disappointed. Tells herself not to be worried. He’s probably just gotten himself a life (good for him), or a date (fuck her, whoever she is), or he’s stuck working late at the shelter.

And she wouldn’t care normally (she wouldn’t, really, she wouldn’t), but that bitch Victoria had come by again this afternoon, with her pencil skirts and her too-skinny heels, and her offer of a whole lot of money to buy out everything Roni has worked so fucking hard for. That whole lot of money, and just a little bit of not-so-veiled threats of what could happen to said business if she doesn’t just agree already and let this silly tug-of-war go.

(Victoria drinks Chablis. Victoria is a cunt.)

The whole thing left a sour taste in her mouth, and she could really use a joke, and a dimpled smile, and a bit of overzealous yelling at one of the soccer matches she’s started to play on the TV with the best sightlines to the third stool from the left.

So he’s late, and it’s annoying, and she cares, a little.

She has her back to the bar at 7:23, when she hears his voice rasping familiar over the Stones on the sound system (she can’t get no satisfaction either, Mick). He says her name, “Roni,” and she smirks, and pushes the register closed.

“You’re late, Phineas,” she clips as she turns, and then all the blood in her body runs straight down to her shoes.

His lip is split, and his nose is bleeding, and there’s a rough red spot below his eye that’s already starting to swell.

“Oh my god, honey, what the hell happened to you?” she asks, and if she could hear the tenderness in her voice, she’d feel like an idiot, but she’s too busy crossing the space between them and pouring ice into a glass as he presses a shitty bar napkin to his lip to stanch the bleeding.

“What does it look like?” he mutters, wincing slightly as she presses the cool glass of ice gingerly to that rough redness around his eye. “Got jumped two blocks over on my way to get my bloody Tuesday night wings.”

She thinks of Victoria, of We’re trying to improve the area, Roni, to keep it safe for customers of fine establishments like this one, and grits her teeth. If this is at all her fault… (Guilt worms deep into her gut, churning and hot, and she doesn’t like the sight of blood on him, doesn’t like it, hates it, it makes her sweat, makes the edges of her vision pulse blue for reasons she can’t quite fathom.)

“Did you get a good look at the guy?” she asks.

“Guys,” he grunts, pressing another napkin to the thin stream of blood trickling from his nostril to the quickly saturating square held against his lip, and this is just ridiculous. Napkins aren’t going to do the trick. “And no, not really. I mostly got a good look at their fists.”

“You need to vary your routine,” she mutters – first rule of safety, never walk the same paths every night, take a different route, a different time. Whatever. Things men never have to learn, until they get pummeled on dollar wing night.

Finn scoffs a little, clearly not amused with her, and gripes, “Right, I’m sure it was my routine they were after and not my wallet.”

She rolls her eyes, and gives a holler to her waitress to keep an eye on the bar, then walks Finn around to the other side and leads him back to her office.

“Sit,” she orders, pointing him toward her desk chair. That anxious guilt eases just a little when she catches the way he smirks (and then winces) at the order.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he murmurs, sinking into the chair as she fishes out her first aid kit and plunks it onto the desk, flipping it open and pulling out an ice pack. She gives it a good crack, then hands it over, and roots around in the damn thing for some gauze and alcohol wipes.

“You wanna call the cops?” she asks, turning back to him as she rips open a wipe. She mutters, “This is gonna sting,” and then she dabs the blood away from his nose, swipes down over the stubble on his upper lip, then folds it and wipes it gently over the split.

Finn hisses sharply (and his nose oozes a bit more, so she tips his chin up, back), and says, “I’m not sure there’s much of a point. They’re long gone now.”

“Maybe,” she admits. “Doesn’t mean you can’t file a report. And everyone around here has security cameras.”

His brows lift and fall, half-hidden on one side by that ice pack he’s dutifully holding to his face. She dabs at his lip gingerly with a clean square of gauze – it’s still bleeding, but she doesn’t think it needs stitches, so she presses the gauze firmly in place and watches the way the smile lines around his eyes deepen as he winces.

Those eyes really are so blue…

She’s never seen them quite this close; she and Finn have never been quite this close. Close enough for her to smell him, a mix of sweat and something woodsy. Close enough to see the silver streaks infiltrating his temples, his beard.

Close enough to become suddenly very aware of the warmth of his hand cupping her thigh, just above the back of her knee.

They realize it at the same time, they must, because those too-blue eyes widen ever so slightly just as she stiffens and blinks.

Well, this is… new. She should back off, should step away, should probably give him a hard sock in the shoulder for putting his hands on her uninvited. But he’s already injured, and truth be told, she doesn’t exactly… mind the warm weight of his hand where it is. It’s very low, not anywhere really… out of bounds. Except that all of her is out of bounds, because he’s a patron and she’s not a hooker.

She should really make him move.

Any time now.

Right now.

His thumb moves, strokes ever so slightly up and then down, and she forces herself into action, clears her throat and mutters a warning, “Phineas.”

“I’m beginning to regret ever telling you my full name,” he tells her, hand falling away before he gives her a proper, “And...Sorry. Instinct.”

One dark brow rises up, up. “It’s your instinct to caress my thigh?” she questions doubtfully, and the uninjured side of his mouth curves up.

“Alright, ‘wildest dream’ might be a more appropriate term,” he teases, his voice lower than it’s ever been before (they’ve never been this close, close enough for soft utterances and for his thumb to still be pressed against the outside of her knee, even with his hand back in neutral territory on his own leg).

She realizes she’s practically standing between his legs – is literally standing between his legs, and her skin flushes hot, her heart knocks twice.

She scoffs, “Right,” and shifts to take a step back, but she’s still holding that gauze to his lip, so she’s... sort of stuck here.

Not that here is a bad place to be.

“You doubt me?”

“Little bit,” she clips. “I don’t think I’m anyone’s wildest dreams, sweetie.”

He looks at her then, really looks at her. Eyes she could drown in, pulling her down deep, and there’s something he wants to say. She can see it in his eyes, in the way they flit over her face, the way his mouth twitches slightly under the gauze pad she’s holding.

And then he swallows and grimaces, tilts his head forward and says, “I’m swallowing blood; you’re not supposed to put your head back with a bloody nose.”

Right. She should have known that. She does know that. How she gets so rattled by a pair of blue eyes, she’ll never know.

Her “Oh,” sounds incredibly lame, but he either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care, too busy holding out that ice pack to her and asking if she can take it for him for a bit. She nods, and they swap, and now she has two hands busy trying to ease his pain, as he uses one of his newly freed hands to gently pinch his nose shut.

It looks like it hurts; he should probably ice that, too.

“It shouldn’t take too long,” she assures him. “You’re not gushing.”

Finn lets out a little grunt of acknowledgement, and then he’s glancing at her again. No, looking at her again. Staring.

After a minute, he asks her a very stuffy, “You really dob’t tink you’re anyone’s wildest dreabs?”

Roni snorts – she tries not to, really she does, but, “Okay, please don’t try to flirt with me right now; you sound ridiculous.”

“Not flirting. Honest questiob.”

It is, she thinks. His sincerity has her focusing suddenly on his lip, easing the gauze away to check if it’s still oozing.

“I think…” she murmurs, because he’s going to wait for an answer. She knows him well enough to know that. She wants to tell him that she thinks wildest dreams are useless, and that the last time she was somebody’s, he ended up dead and they don’t want that, now do they? But that’s… personal. Too personal for a guy who comes in three nights a week to drink her whiskey and watch soccer and eat wings.

So she doesn’t say any of that, she just says, “....that we could butterfly this and you’ll be alright.”

Finn rolls his eyes as she tosses the bloody gauze to an empty patch of desk and nicks a steri-strip from the first aid kit. She needs two hands to trim and apply it properly, so she drops the ice pack on the desk for a second, too, and tilts his chin up just a little for better light.

She’s squinting at the little gash as he lets go of his nose (thank God) and says, “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

Roni freezes. Blinks. Watches crimson leak slowly from his lip as he moves it again to add, “Stunning, in every way.”

She swallows heavily, and he continues, says, “And you’re funny. Smart. And you don’t take anyone’s shit, which I like.” That thumb brushes her knee again, up, down. “And you’ve a very kind touch, as it turns out.”

Roni licks her lips and stares even harder at his, finally placing the steri-strip over the cut, holding it together as best she can.

When she finishes, she reaches for the used gauze, the steri-strip wrapper, avoiding his gaze as she tidies up. She’s not sure why, she just… didn’t expect this. From him. Tonight. Or ever.

He’s a nice guy, a good tipper, who drinks good whiskey and makes her laugh, but she never realized that he looked at her and felt all of that. And it’s not a bad thing, she just… she’s just surprised, that’s all. Caught off-guard.

His head dips down, tilting into her peripheral vision as he says, “I’m sorry if that was too forward. And maybe I should have saved it for when we weren’t alone in your office for the first time, and me all beat to shit. You don’t have to… say anything. I just thought you should know you’re brilliant, and I don’t come here just for the wings. Although they’re brilliant, too.”

She cracks a smile at that, risking a glance back in his direction to find him looking apprehensive and hopeful, and God, so fucking handsome. He really is, isn’t he?

Roni takes a deep breath and reaches for the ice pack again, lifting it gingerly to the nose that’s still bleeding just a little.

Then she meets those blue eyes, takes a leap and tells him, “I like you, too. Phineas.”

He grins, as best he can, anyway, and when that warm hand finds its way to that same spot just above the back of her knee, well, this time Roni doesn’t do a thing about it.

(FFn/Ao3)

#somewhereapart writes #outlaw queen #oq prompt party

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