towel bars

anonymous asked:

OMG please continue the Yoonseok drabble from #19 with Vamp Hobi. Maybe this time Hobi tried to flirt with Yoongi but for the first time failed in flirting? lol

There’s literally no way Jung Hoseok can fail at flirting and that goes triple as a vampire tbh. BUUUUUUUUT I WANNA WRITE MORE WITH THESE TWO SO LET’S DO IT! (This is a followup to this drabble, in case you missed it.)

“So did you ask him?”

Yoongi sighs. He’s enjoyed almost three weeks without the vampire, and now, rather than waiting to walk Yoongi home, Hoseok plants himself down on a barstool, leaned in, hands clasped around a sweating glass of rum. As far as Yoongi’s aware, alcohol has next to no effect on vampires. He wonders if it’s just a comfort thing.

“Ask who?” Yoongi asks in his best disinterested tone. He grabs a towel from behind the bar and starts to wipe up a spill a few seats down. “And ask what, for that matter?”

“Your friend. With the strawberries,” Hoseok says. “And you know what.”

Yoongi hums. Of course he knows what Hoseok is talking about. But god knows he doesn’t want to engage this jackass. Because no, no he didn’t ask Taehyung. He doesn’t want to know. He’s aware of the implications of being marked and he 400% does not have time to deal with everything that that entails. Feelings are too goddamn complicated and he’d rather just continue to exist in a space where he doesn’t know it’s happened. He kind of hates Hoseok a little for even reminding him, not to mention for telling him in the first place.

“Just FYI, you’re shit at shielding your thoughts,” Hoseok says before a one-sided cheers, then a couple of gulps of his drink. “For instance, you’re a liar.”

“I’m not–”

“You don’t hate me.” Hoseok’s smile is a bit off, crooked more to one side than the other, a hint of his fangs showing, and it’s a giant neon DANGER! sign flashing. But apparently, Yoongi has never been very good at seeing signs. “In fact, right now, just beneath those thoughts of your friend - you’ll have to deal with that one day, by the way - are the deeper, base thoughts of me ripping your clothes off, pinning you to your bed, wrapping my hand around your co–”

“Okay, you can leave at any time,” Yoongi says. His cheeks burn and his trend of lying continues as he tells himself it’s not because of Hoseok. “I’ll get your tab.”

“I want you.”

“…Okay? That sounds like a you problem.”

“I want you, and I can’t, technically, have you,” Hoseok says, “with your friend’s scent all over you. Unless I want to run the risk of running afoul of the authorities.”

“You don’t strike me as a rule follower,” Yoongi mutters. He slides a printed receipt closer to Hoseok, then rolls a pen toward him.

“Mm, not usually,” Hoseok says. “But I like living.”

“You’re not alive.”

“You know what I mean.” He signs the receipt and finishes off his glass. “So. What that means is you need to come to me. You need to get your friend to let you go.”

“I don’t hear an upside for me in any of this,” Yoongi says.

Hoseok’s laugh makes Yoongi practically vibrate. “You get that fantasy of yours turned into reality,” he says. “Very filthy, by the way. 10 out of 10, would fantasize again.”


@thecraftycracker I guess this is your fault:

“Ok, so it’s an extra large triple Ethiopian Yirgacheffe hazelnut latte with whipped cream, gingerbread sprinkles, cinnamon, and a single drop of sriracha for Wade,” said the handsome barista, sliding the elaborate drink across the bar, “and a flat white for Steve. Enjoy, fellas.”

“Thanks,” said Steve, doing his best to conceal the blush he felt rising in his cheeks when the barista - whose name, he was reliably informed, was Bucky - flashed him a little smile before going back to work. “I don’t know how you can drink that stuff, man. What’s the point of getting the expensive single-origin stuff if you’re just gonna bury it under all that crap?”

“The Yirgacheffe’s got lemony top notes,” interjected Bucky, as he wiped the steamer wand down with a bar towel. “With the hazelnut and cinnamon, it tastes kinda like Christmas cookies. Not saying it’s what I’d ever drink, but… I get it.”

“Thank you,” said Wade, glaring pointedly at Steve. “See, not so ridiculous after all, Mr. Unsweetened Flat White.”

“The sriracha’s just weird, though,” added Bucky.

“Thank you,” said Steve, glaring pointedly at Wade.

“Guess your palette’s just not as refined as mine,“ said Wade, as they settled in at their usual table.

Wednesday mornings were Wade and Steve’s Old Soldiers’ Weekly Caffeinated Bitchfest (as named by Wade), when they met at an agreeable café in the city centre to shoot the shit, reminisce about the good times (though their respective definitions of "good times” we’re not always in agreement), and generally avoid actually talking about any of the struggles that came with being not only combat vets, but the former guinea pigs of a top-secret military science fair project that, it turned out, fared better for some than for others.

“Okay, yeah, that’s good,” said Steve, as he relished his first sip, dark and smooth.

“So, Rogers,” whispered Wade, leaning as far forward across the table as the cramped space would allow, “when are you going to get your shit together and ask that soft barista bear out on a date?”

Steve blushed. He blushed harder than he thought it humanly possible to blush. He blushed with the sort of humiliating intensity that it was probably visible from the space station. Bucky, oblivious to their exchange, was fixing his hair into a small bun just above the nape of his neck, before beginning to refill the muffin display.

“Waaaaaaaaade,” he protested, “I can’t.”

“Why not?” countered Wade. “Guy literally drew a heart around your name on the coffee cup. He’s hot for you, Steve. Bucky Barista probably lies awake at night longing for your beautiful dick.”

Steve had been too busy noticing Bucky to notice the inscription on his cup; indeed, there was his name, encased in a soft heart.

“Oh my god, could you at least please keep your voice down?” said Steve. “Look, I do like him, okay? But you can’t just ask out somebody you have to see all the time. What if he says no? We’d have to find a new coffee shop, and I don’t know anywhere else in the neighbourhood that’s gonna be as accommodating to your… flavour needs.”

“He’s not gonna say no,” argued Wade. “We’ve been coming in here for, what, six months? He’s had your name and your order memorised for five of them. If I were him, I’d have notebooks filled with nothing but our names written together, and so many thematic playlists for every kind of sex I’d have imagined us having while masturbating.”

Steve buried his head in his hands. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that,” he said. He was grateful that Bucky was out of earshot then, speaking in hushed tones to a well-dressed blonde woman. Steve casually looked away when he sensed they were about to look in his direction.

“Fine, fine,” conceded Wade, “but just trust me that this guy wants to do all kinds of wonderful gross stuff with you, like visit Ikea to buy lamps for the attractive little loft you’re inevitably going to rent together.”

“Even if that was true, it’s kind of hard to find anybody with, you know, shared life experience,” argued Steve.

“Have you seen the guy’s arm?” asked Wade. Steve had, of course, noticed Bucky’s arm, though it was not polite to stare. Bucky kept his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows most days they saw him, and the shining metal fingers moved with such perfect dexterity that it was easy to forget that it could not have been anything other than an extension of his own body. “There’s no way that’s a standard issue prosthetic. He might get it more than most. If you don’t make a move, I’m gonna have to go full wingman on you.”

Calm thoughts, Bucky told himself. He was used to carrying himself with an air of ease and confidence, as befits anybody working in a public-facing vocation, but then there was Steve. Steve had been coming in every Wednesday for a flat white and to talk with his friend Wade - who swore loudly, which was oddly endearing - for almost as long as Bucky had been manning this particular bar,

Was drawing a heart around Steve’s name too forward of a gesture? Or was it too subtle? It was entirely possible - probably, even - that what seemed like flirting was actually Steve’s easy, affable nature, and Bucky’s attempt to suggest that they take their relationship beyond the reach of the espresso machine was a critical misstep. Mercifully, there was no time to dwell, as another of his regulars appeared just as he was refilling the muffin display.

“Detective Carter,” he greeted her, with a playfully curt nod.

“Sergeant Barnes,” she replied.

He shook his head. “No Sarge, just Bucky,” he corrected her. “The usual?”

“Uh-uh,” she said, slumping forward onto the bar. “Bear claw, two lattes.”

“Two?” he repeated. “Long day?”

“You remember that case I was working a few weeks ago,” she said, “the one I obviously couldn’t tell you about except there was a whole thing and I had to work with someone from federal?”

“The little red-haired girl?” asked Bucky.

“Well, we closed the case a few days ago, and… we’re meeting for coffee in the park,” she told him.

“That’s great, Share,” smiled Bucky, feeling the milk grow warm and voluminous with steam. “Tell me where you’re registered and I promise I’ll buy you the second-least expensive thing on your wedding list.”

“Come on,” she blushed. “It’s not like it’s going anywhere anyway. She’s FBI, I’m NYPD. I’m not sure that’s wise.”

“Oh please, as if you’d let something as minor as that get in the way of your job,” he argued, weaving the softly foamed milk into an intricate flower atop Sharon’s drinks.

Sharon let out a soft laugh. “Isn’t that more or less what I told you last week about flat white guy? You know, the one you keep making shy faces at whose shirts are all just that much too tight?” she asked.

“Okay, yeah,” he agreed. “I… I drew a heart on his coffee cup.”

“That’s great,” nodded Sharon, resting a hand on his forearm. “At this rate, you might see a movie together in only another five years or so. Talk to him. He’s literally looking at you right now.”

Bucky looked across the bar out of reflex, but Steve’s head was turned towards the window.

“You were saying?” he sighed.

“Please don’t make me talk to him for you,” she said, but inspiration had already struck him.

“It’s okay,” he said, bracing himself. “I can do this.”

Wade had had it up to here with these two assholes mooning over each other in silence. It was gross, and Wade was not usually one to be fazed by gross things. That was just how gross it was. If someone did not do something, this could well stretch on until the end of time itself, he thought, and he suspected that Steve was probably even more fun when he was in less of a state of constant sexual frustration. And if Wade was any sort of judge of character (and his judgment was, of course, impeccable), Bucky the barista most definitely knew his way around a wiener. And any and all other relevant erogenous zones. It was not something Steve readily discussed, but Wade suspected that someone as seemingly normal as Steve had to have at least one weird sex thing. Maybe his hair was inexplicably ticklish. Maybe he liked the feeling of freshly shaven legs against silk bedsheets. This was getting oddly specific, thought Wade, but then again, Steve was by no means forthcoming with this kind of stuff.

Either the lesbian with the great hair at the bar had inexplicably ordered them a snack, or Bucky was bringing them an extra for being such fabulous regulars, thought Wade, as Bucky set a small plate of biscuits down at their table. Or maybe it was that actually, Steve, Wade was right all along and Bucky is super in love with you, dumbass.

“Christmas cookies,” said Bucky. “With ground hazelnuts, lemon zest, and a liberal sprinkle of cinnamon.”

Steve took a bite, and let out a little sigh of appreciation.

“Wow,” he said. He was making what Wade suspected was dangerously close to his come-face.

Wade was more than happy to try one, which was almost as good as his coffee.

“Good shit, my man,” said Wade. “So when does your shift end today?”

“Wade, please,” cautioned Steve, which Wade happily ignored.

“Uhh, six-thirty,” said Bucky.

“That’s great, because I’d like to invite you and my friend Steve here to my favourite Ukrainian restaurant,” replied Wade, “except I’m going to get a wicked case of stomach flu sometime between now and then, and you two are gonna have to go without me. Please order the cheese blintzes, and don’t let the waiter’s toupee put you off.”

“I do like blintzes,” Bucky grinned, running a hand over his hair. “Sorry to hear about your stomach flu, pal.”

Steve blushed. “I hope you feel better soon, Wade,” said Steve, turning to Bucky. “It’s okay, you don’t have to - ”

“No, I’d… I’d genuinely love to get blintzes with you,” said Bucky. “Six-thirty?”

“Six-thirty,” Steve agreed. “I’d like that.”

Fucking finally, thought Wade.

Every fictional character ever is out to kill you for a reason that no one will tell you. Describe your race through the multiverse as you try to stay alive while you solve the mystery and clear your name. You have nothing with you but a roll of duct tape, a condom, a towel, and a Snickers bar.

           though bouncer wasn’t something wes ever thought he’d have scribed onto his resume, here he was. as a writer, unless you settle down and conform to some sort of desk job, your best bet is freelance. even then, nothing is certain and jobs in the field you actually want to write in are few and far between. as he holds a bundle of ice in a bar towel, he’s realizing just how much he misses pressing pen to paper. the blonde tried not to make too much of a fuss of the injury to his temple, as it was - as odd as it is to say - not the first time this has happened. “you’d think men with tacky pinky rings died off during the italian mob era in the 20′s.” sarcasm was his go-to in situations like this. somewhat as a coping mechanism, but also with the attention not to worry his coworker, who had probably seen the incident and was now walking his way. 

anonymous asked:

Could you do a thing where the reader works at a bar and Geoff is a regular there and there's flirting and stuff 😊

“Back for more, are we?” You chuckle, getting a glass down from the shelf above you and filling it up with his usual, whiskey. “Yeah,” He responded, unamused as you gently swish the glass in his direction.

Keep reading

mxsicxm  asked:

❜ you're so pretty !! ❜


| |The sea I so loved, she rejects me, she rejects me!:;

It was a blank stare, a profound stare - the gaze didn’t quite denote disbelief, just a vague lack of understanding.
   Tourmaline cast itself to the side, and then over a broad shoulder, as though attempting to glean the actual cause of the exclamation, maybe she meant those flowers over there, flowers were pretty, after all.

             “Think yer’ confusin’ me with someone, lass.
  Someone that doesn’t go about lookin’ like an unkempt, albino bar towel.
   Ain’t like I wouldn’t appreciate it, but m’just not convinced of yer’ eyesight

He had seen her before.. a little while ago… that bar… when he had received the epithet of ‘Bloody Moon’ quite on accident, or was that another bar fight?
             Having been intoxicated to the point of bloodshed, he couldn’t really remember much other than a terrible hangover and a restraining order from a patron he had more than likely hit on the previous day.

                     “Ya’ got a messed up definition of what’s good lookin’, maybe?

                                                                     ;;Take me then, it’s where I belong, the sea, sea,
                                                                                                   by the wrathful God of the sea.| |

You`re Perfect


Anon Prompt: I was wondering if you could write me an imagine where the reader is weasels sister and when he goes to the bar he finds her instead and he tries to hide but she makes him take the hood off and hugs him telling him that he’ll always be perfect for her

A/N: Awwwwwww I would love this to be an actual cannon thing but for now we will have to settle for fanfiction (Deadpool 2?)

Warning: Swearing and serious fluff

Originally posted by marvelgifs

“Weasel!” Wade yelled out to the empty bar. 

It was 5am and the bar was closing down, even mercenaries had a bedtime.

“Weasel man!” Wade shouted again, he was desperate to talk to his best friend.

“Where the fuck are you?” he was getting pissed.

“Woah Wade dude. Calm down! Weasel went home” you rounded the corner, wiping your hands on the bar towel.

“Y/N? What are you doing here?” the merc suddenly felt nervous.

“Weasel headed out early so I offered to take over. I know it wasn’t my night to work but he deserves time off” you smiled fondly at the thought of your nerdy brother.

“Oh right. Well I`ll just go” Wade rubbed the back of his neck through his hoodie.

“Nah you can stay. I was just about to have a closing drink” you pulled two stools off of the bar and patted one for Wade to sit down.

“What can I get you?” you slung the towel over your shoulder and you walked back round the bar.

“What do you recommend? Usually your drinks poison the tough bastards who come here” he chuckled.

“Hey! My drinks are inventive” you threw the dirty towel at him which he swatted away.

“Dan the Destroyer did not enjoy it when you handed him a ‘Sex on a Beach’ cocktail. He crushed it in his hands” he remembered falling off of his bar stool from laughing so hard.

“He shouldn`t call himself ‘Dan the Destroyer’” you giggled at the memory.

“Whiskey for the fine fellow, bottom shelf” you waggled your eyebrows and sliding a glass across to Wade.

“You are treating me well tonight” he tipped his glass in your direction.

Making your way around the bar, you sat down next to him with your own whiskey. 

“To mercenaries” you toasted and Wade clinked his glass against yours.

“Why were you in such a hurry to find Weasel?” you asked him after a beat of silence.

“Oh no reason” he mumbled.

Wade knew the exact reason he was looking for Weasel: you.

In the four months that he and Vanessa had been broken up, Wade had taken solace in the bar and that led to many nights like this very one.

You were the sun during his darkest time, and after Vanessa broke up with him, he went out killing anyone he could get paid to kill. Many drinking nights were spent joking and talking together as you slowly healed his broken heart.

About 2 weeks ago, Wade decided that he liked you, he liked you a lot, but he wanted to ask Weasel what you thought about him.

Weasel had been MIA every time that Wade had ventured into the bar, and he was getting antsy to find out how you felt about him.

Around 6am, two whiskeys later, and a shit ton of laughs, Y/N yawned.

“I think it`s time to get home” you nudged Wade.

He had his hoodie covered head resting against the bar, almost like he had fallen asleep.

“Wade baby. Wakey wakey” you giggled and pinched him.

“What!” the man shot up from his position and his hoodie fell down, exposing his head.

You were shocked at his appearance, the scarred flesh pink, and painful.

“Don`t look” Wade pulled the hoodie up and turned away from you.

Walking around him, you stood in front of him and reached up to remove the hood from his face.

“Don`t hide from me. These scars are what made you, your struggle created the incredible man in front of me, and I haven’t seen anything more beautiful” you tentatively reached up to touch his cheek.

His eyes closed at the gentle contact, your words flowing through him as comfort lined his veins.

“Y/N, I`m not perfect” he thought you only deserved the best.

“To me, you are perfect” you had been in love with Wade for the past 3 months.

Wade pulled you towards him, wrapping his arms around you as he felt a tear escape his eye.

That was the moment Wade fell in love with you.


I’m a worrier and a catastrophist. What this means is, if you invited me to a birthday party and i watched you stick candles in the cake, I would worry about the candles burning down too quickly, before the wish was made. And then as the candles were blown out, I would think about all the airborne pathogens that were now blown over the surface of the cake; I would think about tuberculosis and smallpox and lung tissue scars. I would probably even have a vision of myself at next year’s birthday party attached to a portable oxygen tank.

Automatically, my mind always runs ahead and scans the future for the worst possible outcome and this, then, becomes the thing that I expect. To the catastrophist, a knock on the door is never a girl scout selling cookies; it’s the girl scout’s third cousin who just escaped from jail and is carrying a machette.

About six months ago, the towel bar in my bathroom started to jiggle on the wall. “Oh great,” I thought, “now the tiled ceiling ceiling the same contractor put in is going to come crashing down and kill my dog.”

My dog loves the bathroom because there’s a heater in there that I can’t turn off. He sits below the towel bar and bakes himself.

When I step out of the shower and see him curled up in front of his heater, the towels hanging from the bar above him, I begin to worry. Even as I shave, I’m glancing down at him in the mirror and saying to myself, “I wish you wouldn’t sit there. it’s dangerous now. That towel bar just isn’t secure.”

If you were to watch a movie of me shaving in the morning, you might mistakenly believe I was somebody who “lived in the moment” because look, I’m just standing there shaving.

But my mind is not shaving along with my body; my mind is in a courtroom during the trial for the contractor who installed the towel bar that fell and killed my dog thereby causing me irreparable psychological damage.

So yesterday, the towel bar came off in my hands. It didn’t fall on the dog -but it would have, had I not caught it. (So says the catastrophist.)

So I sat on the floor and figured out how the stupid-ass thing was attached because you can’t see the screws. (Burn in Hell Restoration Hardware.)

But then if you’re sitting on the floor with your face mashed against the wall and you look up, you do kind of half-see a tiny little hole with some sort of possible screw-like thing inside. Because I have two red tool boxes and not just one, I located the correct gizmo and was able to inelegantly but effectively re-tighten the screws and make the towel bar stable once again.

And when I was finished, I experienced the most unfamiliar thing: calm. And I realized that taking action and doing something I didn’t know how to do but had to figure out on the fly had been enough to occupy my brain and prevent it from skipping ahead in search of the next cliff, hurricane or Very Bad News waiting for me around the next corner with a chloroform-soaked rag and a burlap potato sack.

By doing something that required my focus and attention because it was new, I accidentally slipped and fell into the moment.

Thinking about the loose towel bar constantly: stressful, crazy-making. Stepping inside the loose towel bar to see what’s going on: calming, like a nap.

When your actions and your thoughts are in the same room at the same time doing the exact same thing, you’re “living in the moment.”

It doesn’t count to be like me, shaving with your hands and face but with a wayward mind that’s occupied with worrying about Possible Outcomes of An Imagined and Dreaded Future Event.

I have a friend who’s been sick and tired of New York City for years and wants to just run away to a goat farm somewhere and make artisanal cheese. She imagines she would be happy petting the goats and collecting their milk and turning it into a soft and expensive cheese she could then sell to Whole Foods so that mothers in $700 sandals could buy it and spread it on crackers for their gluten-sensitive children.

But would this really give her the peace of mind she seeks? She’s not unlike me, worry-wise. I can’t help but picture her on her goat farm at 4am out there in the barn milking those critters and even while she’s squatting down in the hay among the hanta-virus rats milking her goats, I bet she’d be thinking, “If I can’t find a way to speed these goats up and give me more milk, the bank will foreclose.“ I have no doubt that as she milked her goats in her charming country barn, all her thoughts would be about how she will soon be living in her elderly parents’ garage, eating cat food form a can.

Because if you can’t be content where you are, you won’t be content where you wish you were. That’s why they don’t let alcoholics make geographic changes for at least a year. It’s like, first you have to make peace and be content here, where you actually are. Then you can move and continue being content someplace new if you want.

To really live in the moment you have to do what my personal trainer told me to do at the gym back in the 1990’s when everybody had a personal trainer and wore their cell phone on a belt clip. He said, “Put your mind in your muscle.” Meaning, if you’re doing bicep curls, look at your bicep muscle, stare at it while you raise the weight, concentrate to make certain you are not involving your shoulder muscles (cheating) but limiting the motion only to the muscles involved.

Which is why I admire people who are late. Somebody should do a study, for real. Because I am almost never late: I arrive way too early. Because I fear being late, I worry about it and then imagine the consequences. So I’m early and totally stressed out with lots of free time to enjoy all those stress hormones eroding my insides.

But people who are late are late because they’re occupied with something else. They obviously aren’t worrying about being late because if they were, they’d have arrived early like me.

People who are late are late because they are busy doing something else and are doing this something else so fully, thoughts about What’s Next? haven’t entered their brains.

Maybe this isn’t true 100% of the time, but I can tell you, the people I know who are always running late for everything are also the people I wish I could be a little bit more like because as busy as they may be, they don’t seem as anxious.

I think that secretly, people who get furious at people who are late are jealous because they wish they could be late, too. Just a hunch.

Here’s the thing about living “in the moment” and I talk more about this in THIS IS HOW (which you should buy right now so I can afford better towel bars): as soon as you ask yourself, am I living in the moment? you take yourself out of the moment.

“Living in the moment” is something you realized you did, in retrospect. It’s not something you realize you’re doing right now. Because, like I just said, if you realize you’re living in the moment right now, you’ve just taken yourself out of it. And once you’re free of this instant in time, there’s no telling where your mind will go.

You also can’t remind yourself to live in the moment so don’t bother writing "Live in the moment” on a sticky note, that only increases your carbon footprint and, worse, turns you into the kind of person with trite, motivational slogans stuck to everything.

The only way to truly live in and experience the moment is to do the thing you’re doing. If you’re sitting, sit. If you’re busy researching something, read the thing you’re reading and don’t angst over how much more reading you have yet to do.

How do you know if you’ve been living in the moment? That one’s easy. After I had secured the towel bar I felt like I’d taken a nap. I’d lost all track of time.

When you lose track of time, that’s how you know that you’ve just been living inside it.

OK, I have to get back to writing my novel now because if I don’t turn it in by the beginning of December, I’ll be living in my brother’s garage eating cat food from a can.

Augusten Burroughs