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buckyalpine · 1 year

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Your Daughter ii

Bucky x single mom reader, Steve, Sam

This is just all FLUFF

Imagine Bucky babysitting your four year old daughter for the first time. You have a conference you have to go to last minute and you’ve never left her alone with anyone else before. Bucky hates seeing the way the worry eats you, wondering who could look after her on such short notice. He loves spending time with your baby so he has no problem offering his time if that's something you’re okay with.

You don’t want to pressure him into anything but you’re beyond grateful because there's no one else you trust more and you know she’d feel safe with him.

“Be good for Prince Charming, alright?” You whisper, making her giggle, giving her a kiss on her cheek. She nods, going back inside to finish her breakfast, already excited about the weekend she’s going to have with mommy’s special friend. Mommy had lots of friends but Bucky was her favorite.

As soon as you’re out the door, Bucky starts to feel nervous. He wants to do a good job and show you he’s in this for the long run, he’s here for the both of you. Your daughter is an absolute angel, so he knows he has nothing to worry about but still. He looks over the checklist you left for him, memorizing everything on it just to be safe.

He goes over to the kitchen, where your little one has finished eating, tip toeing over the sink to wash her hands. He lifts her onto a stool, helping her clean off before they go over to the living room and plop down on the sofa.

“What do you want to do today princess”

“It’s Saturday” She made a thinking face while clambering into his large lap, “Oh! We bake on Saturday”

Bucky couldn’t remember the last time he picked up a whisk or spatula but he wasn’t going to break tradition or disappoint the cutest face he’d seen in his life. He nodded, scooping her up in one arm, scrolling through recipes on his phone, setting her down on the kitchen island.

“How about sugar cookies?” He took your daughters wide eyes and clapping hands as an immediate yes, grabbing what he needed from the cupboards and fridge. It didn’t take long for the kitchen to turn upside down but the sweet aroma of cookies wafting through the house made Bucky smile. He chuckled at the soft giggles your little one made as she iced each cookie, pink frosting smeared across her nose and cheeks, though not seeming to care one bit. Bucky felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, immediately grabbing it incase if was you.

“How you holdin’ up punk” Bucky can could hear the smile in Steve’s voice, his best friend knowing how big a step this was for him.

“We’re both alive” Bucky snorted, looking at the mess of sprinkles and sugar around the kitchen, nothing too disastrous. “We made enough cookies to feed an army”

“Say no more”

Bucky and your daughter both do a perfect job of cleaning up the mess, thought struggling to find enough containers to put all the cookies in. She decides a tea party would be a good idea as an excuse to eat the cookies that didn’t fit into the boxes.

Who was he to disagree? He helped her pick out a dress to wear along with matching shoes, softly brushing her hair and tying bows into her pigtails. He changed out of his flour covered clothes, cleaning himself up for a distinguished night of apple juice, cookies, carrot sticks and Beauty and the Beast.

The doorbell rings and your daughter sets down her cup, wondering who it could be.

“Mommy’s home?” She looks at him with curious eyes, just a tad bit disappointed all the fun is already ending. Or so she thought.

Your babygirl has no idea what to do with herself when she's surrounded by Prince Charming's handsome friends. She hides behind Bucky’s large form, peeking from behind him before taking Steve and Sam’s large hands in her tiny ones over to her set up.

If only you were there to witness the sight of the large men all clambered together in a circle with their pinkies up, holding cups that could fit in their palms. They’re all in various get ups your little one dressed them up in, tiaras, feathers, lace and beads strewn across them.

Steve made a mental note to cry happy tears later, not now, watching your daughter dote over Bucky the most, constantly filling his cup, inching towards his side whenever she sat down.

Sam was between wanting to laugh at the super solider nearly topping off the 1 foot chair he was given and crying over how cute little your babygirl was, politely making the rounds with her tray of cookies. His eyes may or may not have glossed over when she ignored her own chair and decided Bucky’s lap was a comfier place to sit.

“You sit down and relax princess, how about you get changed and let us take care of all this” Steve smiled, clearing up the cups and plates, letting Bucky take your daughter up to get washed and changed into her pj’s. By the time she was back down, all she had to do was get comfy and pick a movie, happily snuggled between the her favorite Prince and his handsome Knight friends.

As you walk though the door, your eyes grow wide at the mass of large shoes on the mat, smiling curiously when you can hear your baby's favorite movie and the smell of cookies still lingering around the house. You quietly padded down the hall, biting your lip seeing the three men all squished together on your sofa with your babygirl tucked right in the middle, their eyes all glues to the screen.

Sam pawed at Steve’s thigh, silently asking for a tissue, as Belle cries over Beast, waiting for him to wake up. Your daughter was the first to notice you were home, the rest of the audience too heavily invested in the movie.

“Mommy look! It’s our favorite part!” She wiggled out of her comfy spot, jumping into your arms as you scooped her up.

The three men, looked up at you, all teary eyed, while your little one grinned, excited to see Beast transform into Adam so he could be happy with Belle. You giggled, watching Steve pass the box of tissues over again, collective sniffles shared between the three.

Sam and Steve shared knowing glances, noting the way Bucky’s cheeks were now tinted pink, looking lovingly at you and your daughter. They quickly said their good byes, not before promising your little one they’d be to see her again; they wouldn’t miss her tea parties for the world.

You tucked your daughter in for the night, making your way back down to find Bucky holding two mugs of tea, setting them down on the coffee table and tugging you into his lap on the couch.

“Welcome home, mama” He smiled, kissing your hair, his hand massaging up and down your spine. He’d never felt more loved and happy in his life, feeling like he finally had a little family to himself, a place to call home.

“She loves spending time with you” You relaxed in his hold, toying with is dog tags, smiling to yourself over how perfect it all felt. The piece that always felt missing in your home was complete when Bucky was around. “We both do”

He smiled against your hair, feeling more confident in his decision, thinking about the ring that sat in his drawer back at the compound.

Soon.

“I love you” He smiled, holding you tightly in his arms, “I love you both”

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whoopseydaisy · 4 months

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The Overflowing Heart

I will tell you how I made this witch’s token, but you will have to find a way of your own. It is as Grandmother Wren told us,

“Remember always that some portion of magic is yours to wield, and that the world contains many, many truths.”

the recipe:

3/4 oz Kazuki gin

1 1/2 oz. Sake + tea mixture

1 oz. fresh squeezed grapefruit

3/4 oz. Strega

shake over ice, and serve in your finest or favourite tea cup

garnish with dried rose petals

notes:

Sherringham Kazuki gin— a collaboration of one of my favourite distilleries and my favourite local tea shop, Westholme Tea Farm. Made from Japanese cherry blossoms, and locally grown tea leaves with notes of yuzu, grapefruit, and juniper. I first visited Sherringham in a trio of my own, on a day long adventure, visiting a beach someway up the island. Westholme is run by an old coworker of my Aunt’s, and his partner who makes gorgeous pottery. I could not put words to my excitement when I first heard whispers of their collaboration.

Sake + Tea Mixture— I can never fully recreate this just the same. There is magic in that, I think. I have little left. I made it by taking a sprinkling of the following teas from Westholme, and cold steeping them in a mason jar with a large ice cube, topped with sake and a splash of moon bathed witch water.

featuring:

Blossom: (jasmine green, floral), for the cottage’s calendar

Bi Luo Chun: (green, delicate and earthy), for i thought it was grown here, over seven long years (I rolled a nat 1 on my perception check)

Pur-eh: (fermented, earthy), for its mushroominess and it’s connection therin

Dog: (black assam, vanilla and cardamon, from the Chinese Zodic series), the cardamom pod and a few leaves, for our beloved Fox

Witch Water: the witch water used in this potion was bathed in the Friday, October 13th New Moon (a day so witchy I thought for sure the class would be released that day!) in an empty kazuki gin vessel

Grapefruit— because it was pink and in season and a citrus I love dearly

Strega— the witch liqueur! According to legend, Giuseppe Alberti was given the recipe for this elixir after saving a witch falling out of the sacred walnut tree, under which witches would convene to dance and perform their rituals.

for the cocktail chapter of the @worldsbeyondpod unofficial cookbook

#worlds beyond number #wbn unofficial cookbook #wbn #the wizard the witch and the wild one #ame the witch #grandmother wren #cw alcohol #styling inspired by artwork featured in the witch class playtest im pretty sure by Tucker Donovan #if this turns into a hit post play go play Wickedness and stream Ghost Quartet #how the fuck do i condense this recipe into a tweet who the fuck knows #feat. all of my magic witch’s tokens and my principles of green witchcraft book in the background #sometimes a witch character and a cocktail inspired by her is something that can be so personal #check out the Neat the Boozecast episode on Strega for all the cool witchy details and history!!!!

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rejoicingtoday · 2 months

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National Margarita Day🍹: A Celebration of the Iconic Cocktail

National Margarita Day is coming up on February 22nd this year. It’s a fun holiday to celebrate the popular margarita cocktail. Lots of people enjoy margaritas, especially in the summer. The drink is made with tequila, lime juice, and orange liqueur. It has a tangy, citrusy taste that people love.

National Margarita Day provides an opportunity for people to come together and celebrate this iconic drink. It’s a time to appreciate the Margarita’s unique flavors, versatility, and cultural significance. Many bars, restaurants, and cocktail enthusiasts participate in the festivities by offering special Margarita promotions, hosting Margarita-themed events, or crafting new and creative Margarita recipes.

History of National Margarita Day

National Margarita Day is all about celebrating this yummy tequila drink, but where did it come from? No one knows for sure, but there are two fun stories!

One says a bartender named Danny whipped one up in the 1930s for a customer who couldn’t stomach most alcohol. He mixed tequila with lime and salt for a smoother sip, and boom, the margarita was born!

The other story says it evolved from another drink called the Daisy, originally made with different liquors but eventually switching to tequila and adding orange liqueur for more punch.

So, the margarita’s origin is a delicious mystery, but National Margarita Day is the perfect excuse to enjoy this refreshing drink, salty rim or not!

How To Celebrate National Margarita Day

Celebrating National Margarita Day can be a fun and enjoyable experience. Here are some ideas on how to celebrate this special day:

Enjoy a Margarita at a Bar or Restaurant: Visit your favorite bar or restaurant known for their Margaritas and indulge in a delicious Margarita. Many establishments offer special Margarita promotions or menu items on National Margarita Day, so take advantage of the opportunity to try something new or savor a classic Margarita recipe.

Host a Margarita Party: Set up a fun bar with tequilas, mixers, fresh lime, and toppings. Let everyone mix their own masterpieces and hold a taste-off! Don’t forget fancy glass rims and yummy snacks to complete the fiesta!

Try Different Margarita Variations: National Margarita Day is your chance to get fancy with this classic drink! Don’t settle for the usual – try adding fresh fruits like strawberries, mango, or watermelon, or spice things up with jalapeños or habanero. Feeling adventurous? Freeze it for a cool treat! Find recipes online or unleash your inner mixologist and invent your own unique margarita. Cheers!

Attend Margarita Tastings or Events: Check if there are any Margarita tastings, workshops, or events happening in your area on National Margarita Day. Some venues or mixology schools may offer special Margarita-focused events where you can learn about the history, techniques, and art of crafting Margaritas. It’s a great opportunity to expand your knowledge and palate while enjoying the festivities.

Make Homemade Margaritas: Snuggle up and celebrate National Margarita Day at home! Grab some tequila, orange liqueur, lime juice, and ice (recipe optional!), and whip up your own delicious margaritas. Feeling creative? Play with the ratios or add a twist with fresh fruits or herbs. Cheers to a cozy celebration, margarita-style!

Facts and Stats about Margarita

Margarita reigns supreme as the most popular cocktail, with a whopping 60% of Americans favoring this tequila-based delight.

According to a NielsenIQ CGA survey, the Margarita reigns supreme as the most popular cocktail in the United States, with 60% of cocktail enthusiasts favoring it. This classic concoction is followed by the daiquiri (44%), piña colada (36%), Long Island iced tea (33%), and the refreshing mojito (29%).

In the United States, annual margarita sales are estimated to surpass a whopping $800 million each year.

Frozen margaritas have indeed become a popular choice, accounting for approximately 80% of margarita sales at restaurants and bars.

To celebrate the grand opening of the Margaritaville Casino at The Flamingo hotel in Las Vegas, a massive margarita named “Lucky Rita” was created. It took a monumental effort, requiring approximately 300 hours and 60 people to prepare.

58 countries imported over 100,000 liters of tequila in 2023. Among them, 7 saw imports surge past 100%, with Ukraine (+421%), Switzerland (+176%), and Estonia (+131%) leading the pack.

#margarita #cocktail #lemonade #drinks #tequila

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heich0e · 2 years

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallowed your mouthful of food.

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

You’d miss him.

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

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

“He liked you,” Shoji said. “A lot.”

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

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

You paused.

“Me?”

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

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

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

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

And you did think about it.

A lot.

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

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

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

You handed in your notice the next morning.

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

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

Going to work every day still feels like a dream.

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

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

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

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

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

Except for one.

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

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

He always orders two cocktails.

Never the same one twice.

The women nor the drinks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked at him blankly, biting back a scoff.

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

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

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

He merely grinned at you wolfishly.

“I know she's a swimsuit model.”

You very nearly sneered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It became a routine after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Revolting,” you mutter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good tipper or not, he really is completely shameless.

#miya atsumu x you #miya atsumu x reader #miya atsumu #atsumu x you #atsumu x reader #miya atsumu fanfiction #atsumu fanfiction #hq fic #hq writing #writing

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chvoswxtch · 1 year

Text

come have a drink at mine 🥂 (closed)

☾ masterlist for my 2k followers friends celebration!

you can find the details/breakdown of this celebration here!

☾ margarita:

»— dancing with our hands tied. (frank castle)

»— adore you. (frank castle)

»— willow. (frank castle)

»— cinnamon girl. (frank castle)

»— anything. (frank castle)

»— pick me. (matt murdock)

»— apocalypse. (matt murdock)

»— new years day. (matt murdock)

»— sorry. (matt murdock)

»— gold rush. (matt murdock)

»— the devil is human. (matt murdock)

»— everyday you play. (billy russo)

»— high maintenance. (billy russo)

☾ margarita on the rocks:

»— cardigan.* (matt murdock)

»— dress.* (matt murdock)

»— cruel summer.* (matt murdock)

»— all of the girls you loved before.* (matt murdock)

»— fire & gasoline.* (matt murdock)

»— holding out for a hero.* (frank castle)

»— fallin' all in you.* (frank castle)

»— only we know.* (billy russo)

»— exile.* (javier peña)

☾ old fashioned:

»— billy russo & jealousy

»— austin's favorite dilf: joel miller*

»— frank castle & being an ally

»— frank castle doesn't mind blood

»— frank castle's meat*

»— frank castle & jealousy

»— frank castle takes a goddamn day off

»— matt murdock loves yoga

»— matt murdock joins the mile high club*

»— matt murdock being the third wheel in his own relationship

»— matt murdock & frank castle are really great boyfriends

☾ martini:

»— golden hour

»— i am not a woman, i'm a god

»— dancing queen

☾ glass of wine:

»— court's ranch water recipe

»— the eras tour (court's version)

»— court's wine recs

»— all things jewelry, tacos, & chocolate chip cookies

☾ tequila shot:

»— casamigos with jessica

»— patrón with foggy

»— 1800 with din

»— jose cuervo with dean

»— don julio with frankie

»— herradura with yelena

»— macallan with matty

»— clase azul with natasha

»— el jimador with bucky

☾ glass of champagne:

»— prosecco with matty

☾ long island iced tea:

»— cast your mutuals: marvel edition

»— cast your mutuals: colors edition

»— cast your mutuals: favorite songs edition

»— cast your mutuals: who's at the bar edition

»— fuck, marry, kill- jessica/elektra/karen

»— bonus round with matty, frankie, & dean

#court's 2k follower celebration #court's 2k friends celebration #come have a drink at mine #matt murdock #daredevil #karen page #foggy nelson #frank castle #the punisher #billy russo #elektra natchios #jessica jones #natasha romanoff #dean winchester #bucky barnes #the winter solider #javier peña #din djarin #joel miller

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slutforstabbings-archive · 1 year

Note

I saw you’re taking requests 😊 could you do Corey planning a romantic evening in—candles and roses all over the place, romantic music, a nice dinner and then a movie after—the whole spiel. Hope that helps the fluff funk! Good luck with writing by the way, don’t push yourself too hard! ❤️

Ummm, I only know how to push myself too hard but thank you for you concern lol. I really enjoyed writing this, it definitely helped me get more comfortable with fluff! I think this is gonna find its way into my long fic I'm working on. Thank you sm for the request, I hope you like it <3

LoveSong

Corey Cunningham x gn!Reader

1754 words

taglist: @rebel-blue @nachtmahr666

Corey parks his motorcycle on a side street instead of his usual spot by the door and lets himself into your apartment with the key you gave him. It feels weird, he’s never been in here without you before. But you wouldn’t have given him a key if he wasn’t allowed to come and go as he pleased. He’s been planning this for a week, going back and forth with himself if it was too corny or not. He struggles to close the door, his hands are so full of all the stuff he needs to make tonight perfect.

He goes to the kitchen and spreads all his supplies on the island. Two bouquets of roses, one to tear apart for the petals, a bottle of wine that he hopes is good for as much as he paid for it, a salad kit, a frozen lasagna from the take and bake section of the fancy grocery store, a big long loaf of Italian bread, a pack of tea lights, a carton of raspberry sorbet, a real vase so you can stop putting the flowers he gets you in containers you fished out of the recycling.

Your oven groans like it’s haunted as it preheats. Corey darts around your kitchen, starting and stopping different tasks, feeling scattered. He places the wine and the sorbet in the freezer. He fills the vase with water and dissolves the plant food, but forgets to put the flowers in it. He grabs a small bowl from the cupboard then abandons it on the counter. He pulls all the petals off a single rose, then remembers a story you told him.

“One time a roommate I had put a bottle of wine in the freezer and forgot about. I guess because hard liquor doesn’t freeze she thought it would be okay but wine is way too low in alcohol content for that. It expanded when it froze and the fucking bottle exploded on me when I opened the freezer. Scared the shit out of me.” You laughed and shook your head. “Our freezer was sticky and full of broken glass the rest of the time we lived there.”

Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck. He opens the freezer apprehensively, squeezing his eyes closed in case of projectiles. The wine is still liquid and the bottle is intact. Close call. He breathes deeply and tries to organize his thoughts. One thing at a time. The oven chimes. Lasagna first, then. He reads the instructions a third time and notices something new. TIP: it says next to a little drawing of a lightbulb. Place a cookie sheet under the lasagna pan to catch any sauce or cheese that bubbles over. He finds a cookie sheet and slides the lasagna onto it and into the oven.

The rest of the preparations go more smoothly. He follows a recipe he bookmarked last night to make garlic bread. He finds a giant mixing bowl and fills it with ice for the wine, like how fancy restaurants always do it in the movies. He does his best to clean off your dining table. Usually when the two of you sit here to eat, you just shove all the shit that accumulates over the week to the side. But you know what’s on the table and Corey doesn’t, so he awkwardly stacks things instead, placing the piles all at one end so there’s room for the spread he envisions. Then he smooths one of your kitchen towels flat on the table and sets the lasagna in the middle. He brings the salad and the garlic bread into he dining room and tries multiple placements to see what looks best. He feels so out of his depth but he’s determined to do a good job. He Googles table setting diagrams and does the best he can with your mismatched thrift store dishes.

He’s doing the last few steps, sprinkling rose petals in a path from your front door to the dining room with one hand, and scrolling through all the playlists you’ve made him with the other when he hears your car crunch the gravel outside. Corey sprints to the dining room, slipping on his sock feet and gut checking himself on one of the dining chairs. Wincing, he hides where you won’t see him from the door, and presses play on a song just as you unlock the door.

______________________________________________________________

As you stand at your front door preparing to insert your key into the lock, you hear a thump and then a very faint groan come from inside. What the fuck was that? You unlock the as door as noisily as possible and swing it open very slowly. The last thing you want is to surprise an intruder. You peak inside hesitantly. It smells good. Why does it smell good? Just as you start to fear something way freakier than a simple robbery, you notice the song playing over your speakers.

Whenever I’m alone with you… You make me feel like I am whole again. Wasn’t Corey just saying he was glad you introduced him to The Cure? You step inside and finally see the rose petals scattering the floor and the warm glow of candle light coming from the dining room. That cheesy motherfucker, you think as butterflies fill your stomach. You smile and bite your lip in spite of yourself.

“Where are you, you big sap?” You call out.

“Follow the petals!” He shouts back.

You follow the petal trail into the dining room and see him standing at the head of the dining table, beaming above all his hard work. Your mouth hangs open in shock as you take in all the details. More rose petals surround the table, on top of which you see a dozen roses in a gorgeous crystal vase, a delicious looking dinner and -

“Are those proper two course place settings?” You laugh.

“They’re my attempt,” Corey says sheepishly.

You come around the table and grab his face in your hands. “This is so…” You trail off, opting to kiss him instead of finishing your thought. It conveys what you mean much more eloquently anyway. When you release him he pulls a chair out for you.

“Thank you, sir,” you say. His face instantly turns bright red and he clears his throat.

Corey piles salad on your plate and pours you a glass of wine. The two of you eat and try to talk through your giggles. You knew he had a romantic side, but this is really something else. Somehow you feel even more giddy than when you first met him, even more like a silly middle schooler writing Mrs. Corey Cunningham all over your notebook. You watch his every movement. Could it be possible he’s becoming even more of a babe? Or is it just because you love him?

God, that’s a scary thought. You’ve been suppressing it violently every time you have it. It just seems so fast, you’ve only been “official” for a month. But trying to shove it down the past few days has made you feel like a cartoon character on a sinking ship, plugging holes with every finger and every toe just for more to appear and the water to keep rising. He smiles at you, all long teeth and crinkled eyes, and the boat capsizes. You love him, you love him, you love him. And now that you admit it to yourself, you have to admit it to him too.

Before you can say anything, he stands.

“Are you ready for dessert?” Corey asks

“There’s dessert?”

“Of course,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Stay here.” He stacks all the dinner dishes onto the cookie sheet and takes it to the kitchen. You idly wonder if he’s ever had a job as a bus boy. You try to guess what dessert is by the sounds you hear him making in the kitchen. Something refrigerated, or maybe frozen. That doesn’t narrow it down very much.

He returns with a bowl heaped with scoops of something the color of blood, two spoons sticking out. He sets it on the table and scoots his chair closer to yours before sitting down. You take a hesitant bite. Raspberry. It’s delicious. You devour the bowl together without speaking, just watching each other.

“Corey…” You finally break the silence. “This was really special.”

“It’s nothing.” He shrugs.

“It’s a lot more than nothing. You put a lot of hard work into this and it was really cool. No one I’ve dated has ever gone out of their way for me like that before.” In the short time you’ve known him, he’s done more for you than your ex did for your entire three years together. He looks at you like you’re God. He cares if you cum. He listens.

“How is that possible?” He asks. You snort at the question.

“I thought that was just how it was.” You say, shaking your head. “Corey I… I love you.”

Before you realize what’s happening he’s out of his chair, pulling you up from yours into a tight embrace, pressing you against him like he wants to fuse your bodies together. You squeeze him back and you can’t fight the goofy smile you break into.

“I love you,” he says back, voice strangled with emotion. He releases you just enough that he can look at your face. “I’ll never treat you bad. I’ll never hurt you. I’ll never walk away from you.” You look into his eyes. He looks so intense in the candle light, lit almost like the villain in a black and white movie. To your own astonishment you believe him.

“I have one more thing planned,” he says after a long pause. He leads you to the living room. You sit on the couch. Corey turns on the tv and connects his phone. You see the name of the movie he’s casting and laugh.

“The Lobster?” You say, incredulous.

“You said it was your favorite romcom,” he says.

“That was a joke,” you say, face scrunched to keep yourself from dissolving into a giggle fit. “I do really like the movie but it’s a dark comedy. It’s not a date movie, unless you’re on a fucked up date.”

“You’re on a date with me,” he says.

“Point taken,” you say, amused and surprised at his self deprecating joke. You pat the couch next to you. He puts his arm around you as he sits down and presses play.

#corey cunningham #corey cunningham x reader #corey cunningham x gender neutral reader #fan fiction #mine #ask

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