#reclaimed wood bar table

[realloveormadness]

Transitional Basement - Lookout Example of a medium-sized transitional look-out basement design with white walls and a typical fireplace on a gray floor.

[urbanwoodsgoods]

Craftsman's Choice: Solid Wood Bar Stools for Timeless Elegance

Elevate your home bar or kitchen island with our exquisite wooden bar stools. Handcrafted from the finest solid wood, these stools boast unparalleled durability and charm. The warm tones of the wood add a touch of rustic sophistication to any space, while the sleek design ensures they seamlessly blend with modern or traditional decor. Whether you're enjoying a casual brunch or hosting a soirée, these bar stools offer comfort and style that will endure for years to come. Experience the timeless elegance of craftsmanship with our wooden bar stools. For more information, please visit our website here: https://urbanwoodgoods.com/collections/wooden-bar-stools

[voltronlookbook]

Family Room Home Bar in Denver

Family room - large rustic open concept medium tone wood floor, brown floor and exposed beam family room idea with a bar, white walls and a standard fireplace

[paulinecroze]

Underground Indianapolis An illustration of a sizable arts and crafts basement design with a laminate floor, beige walls, a conventional fireplace, and a stone fireplace

[rachelcharlenel]

Home Bar Single Wall in Philadelphia Example of a mid-sized arts and crafts single-wall medium tone wood floor and brown floor home bar design with shaker cabinets, dark wood cabinets and wood countertops

[championbuttmaster]

Houston Mediterranean Home Bar An illustration of a sizable seated home bar with a large tuscan medium tone wood floor, flat-panel cabinets, black cabinets, brown backsplash, and black countertops.

[lechapardeur]

Transitional Basement - Lookout Basement - large transitional look-out cork floor and brown floor basement idea with beige walls and no fireplace

[migvintof]

U-Shape - Contemporary Home Bar Seated home bar - large contemporary u-shaped gray floor and porcelain tile seated home bar idea with a drop-in sink, flat-panel cabinets, brown cabinets, concrete countertops, brown backsplash, wood backsplash and white countertops

[jouelacommelara]

Home Bar Bar Cart in Minneapolis Image of a small transitional bar cart with a brown floor and carpeting

[mary1in]

Galley - Home Bar

[guilty-ff]

𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐏𝐭.5

ᡕᠵ᠊ᡃ່࡚ࠢ࠘ ⸝່ࠡࠣ᠊߯᠆ࠣ࠘ᡁࠣ࠘᠊᠊ࠢ࠘𐡏 ˚⁎⁺˳ .

Previously: After years of brutal torture by Francis, Y/N finally escaped, fighting her way out of the lab and fleeing into the dense woods. Each step was a struggle, but she knew she couldn't stop. With the guards on her heels, she disappeared into the shadows, determined to reclaim her life.

This story takes place between the second and third movies (warning: not 100% movie/comic accurate)

Pairing: Wade Wilson/Deadpool x (fem!)Reader

Genre: Angst, revenge, Fanfiction, Marvel

Warnings: Movie Spoilers! Explicit content, swearing, torture, mental health, weapons

Word count: 3640

The slums were from now on her home. Y/n had escaped from the clutches of the facility, but the scars of her past- both mental and physical- were still engraved deeply in her body. The nights were the hardest, when the world around her was quiet and the memories screamed the loudest. She lived in a cramped, old apartment, the flickering neon lights outside her window casting shadows on the walls.

It had been weeks since her escape, weeks of hiding and laying low, blending into the filthiness of the city. Here, she was just another face in the crowd, another soul struggling to survive. But she was different. She could feel the darkness within her, the uncontrollable power that surged through her veins. She had to find a way to control it, to suppress it before it consumed her.

Y/n spent her days looking for information, piecing together bits of knowledge about mutants, about powers like hers. She searched through the back alleys and seedy bars, listening to rumors and whispered conversations. Slowly, she began to understand the nature of her abilities, the twisted gift that had been forced upon her. But understanding was not enough. She needed control.

One night, in a ed bar that reeked of sweat and stale beer, Y/n finally found a lead. She had been sitting at the counter, nursing a glass of cheap whiskey, when she overheard a conversation between two men at the next table. They spoke in low tones, their words slurred from alcohol, but Y/n's ears caught every word.

"Essex House... that place was a nightmare," one of the men muttered, his face half-hidden in the shadows. "They did some real messed up shit there."

The other man, a burly figure with a ashen beard, nodded grimly. "I heard they had a way to control mutants. Some kind of device."

Y/n's heart skipped a beat. She leaned closer, pretending to adjust her coat as she listened.

"Yeah, I know a guy who used to work there," the bearded man continued. "Big guy, real quiet. He hangs around here sometimes."

Y/n did not waste any time. She slid over to their table, her movements smooth. "Mind if I join you?" she asked, her voice low and steady.

The men exchanged a glance, then shrugged. "Sure, why not?" the bearded man said, gesturing to the empty seat.

Y/n sat down, fixing them with a piercing gaze. "I couldn't help but overhear. You mentioned Essex House. I'm looking for someone who worked there. A guard, maybe?"

The first man, looked her up and down suspiciously. "Why do you want to know?"

"Let's just say I'm looking for answers," Y/n replied, her tone leaving no room for argument. "If you can help me, I'd appreciate it."

The bearded man scratched his chin, his eyes narrowing. "I don't know his name, but he's usually around here. I'd be careful, though. He doesn't like to be bothered."

"Point him out," Y/n she said, her eyes scanning the bar.

The bearded man nodded toward the far corner, where a large figure sat hunched over the bar, nursing a drink. "That's him."

Y/n followed his gaze and saw the man- a huge, muscled frame with a shaved head and a face that looked like it had seen more than its fair share of violence. He was a mountain of a man, his broad shoulders hunched over as he downed another shot of whiskey. There was a darkness about him, an aura of danger that warned others to keep their distance.

Y/n thanked the men and made her way toward the bar, her eyes never leaving the figure in the corner. She did not approach him directly, instead choosing to observe him from a distance, waiting for the right moment. 

The man continued to drink heavily, oblivious to the world around him. It was not long before he started to show signs of drunkenness- his movements sloppy, his head nodding as if fighting off sleep.

Now. This was her chance.

Y/n moved swiftly, her steps silent on the worn wooden floor. She slipped behind the man, her hand reaching into her coat to retrieve a small vial of chloroform and a cloth. In one fluid motion, she pressed the cloth over the man's face, her other arm locking around his throat.

The man struggled, his instincts kicking in despite his drunken state, but Y/n was quick and precise. Within seconds, his body went limp, his heavy frame slumping against the bar.

She wasted no time. With the strength born from desperation, Y/n dragged the unconscious man out of the bar, navigating through the back alleys until she reached her hideout.

The basement of an abandoned building, it was cold and damp, the walls lined with old newspapers and broken furniture. She had set up a small, makeshift interrogation room- just a chair and a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

Y/n tied the man to the chair, securing his wrists and ankles with thick rope. She stood back, her heart pounding as she waited for him to wake up. The adrenaline was still coursing through her veins, her hands shaking slightly as she paced the room.

Finally, the man moved slightly, his dazed eyes blinking against the harsh light. He groaned, tugging at the ropes before realizing he was restrained. Panic flickered across his face as he looked around, his gaze settling on Y/n, who stood before him with a cold, determined expression.

"What the hell—?" he began, his voice stammered from the lingering effects of the chloroform.

"Shut up," Y/n snapped, stepping closer. "I'm the one asking questions. You're going to answer them."

The man's eyes narrowed, anger replacing his initial fear. "You've got no idea who you're messing with."

"Oh, I think I do," Y/n replied, her voice icy. "You used to work at Essex House. You were a guard there."

The man's expression hardened, his jaw clenching. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Y/n's patience was wearing thin. She had spent too long hiding, too long searching for answers, to be stonewalled by this brute. She leaned in, her face inches from his, her voice low and menacing.

"Don't lie to me," she hissed. "I know what they did in that place. The experiments, the torture. I know about the children. If you think I'm bluffing, you're sorely mistaken."

The man's boldness stopped for a moment, but he quickly recovered, sneering at her. "You don't know shit."

Her hand moved faster than he could react, striking him hard across the face. His head snapped to the side, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

"I said, don't lie to me!" Y/n shouted, her voice trembling with fury. "I know what kind of monster you are. I know what you did to those kids. Now tell me about the device that suppresses mutant powers."

The man spat blood onto the floor, glaring up at her aggressively. "Even if I did know, I wouldn't tell you."

Y/n's fist connected with his jaw again, this time with more force. The man groaned, his head lolling forward as he struggled to stay conscious.

"You have no idea what I've been through," Y/n said, her voice barely above a whisper. "The things I've seen, the pain I've endured. If you think for one second that I won't make you suffer, you're dead wrong. Now, talk."

The man's resolve began to crumble under the weight of her words, the fear returning to his eyes. He took a heavy breath, finally giving in.

"There's a wristband," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "It was designed to suppress mutant powers. But that place... it's gone. Some kid blew it up, the whole building came down."

Y/n's heart raced as she absorbed his words. "Where can I find one?"

The man hesitated, his gaze darting around the room as if searching for a way out. Finally, he sighed in defeat.

"Maybe there's still some in the storage rooms beneath the building. But it's dangerous. The whole place is crawling with security, even now."

Y/n stared at him for a long moment, her mind racing. She had what she needed, but the anger still burned within her, the memories of those children haunting her every thought.

"And one more thing," the man added, his voice a broken whisper. "There were others involved in that explosion. A man in a red and black suit... mutants from the X-Men... and some scary guy with a teddy bear."

The mention of the man in the red and black suit made Y/n's blood run cold. Wade. The man responsible for her suffering. But she pushed the thought aside, focusing on the task at hand.

"Thank you," she said coldly, before slamming her fist into his face one last time. The man's head snapped back, and he slumped in the chair, unconscious.

"You deserve much more, you little piece of shit," Y/n muttered, her voice thick with disgust. She untied him and dragged him out to a nearby street, leaving him there to be found. She had no use for him anymore.

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈•

The ruins of Essex House stood before Y/n like a tombstone, a monument to the atrocities that had taken place within its walls. The once impressive structure was now a gutted shell, its walls burned and crumbling, overtaken by creeping vines and nature's slow reclamation. The air was thick with the stench of decay and rot, a fitting aura for a place that had been a living nightmare for so many.

Y/n moved silently through the rubble, her senses heightened, every sound increased in the stillness of the night. The moon hung low in the sky, casting long, sinister shadows that danced across the broken ground. 

She had checked out the area earlier, avoiding the main entrances, which were still patrolled by security teams guarding whatever was left in the aftermath of the explosion, a few months ago. She needed to find the storage rooms beneath the building, where the guard had said the wristbands might still be.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she walked through a craggy opening in the wall, her eyes scanning the darkened interior. The building's skeleton remains were a labyrinth of broken beams and collapsed ceilings, the floors plastered with rubble and shattered glass. Every step was a calculated risk, the floorboards creaking ominously beneath her weight.

Y/n made her way down a long corridor, the walls covered in peeling paint and faded sceneries that had once depicted happy, smiling children- an ironic touch for a place that had been anything but.

Her breath stuck in the throat like there's a blockage as she approached a large door at the end of the corridor, its frame cracked and splintered. The guard's words echoed in her mind, urging her forward. She pushed the door open, and stepped into a vast chamber that had once been a laboratory.

Y/n's breath stopped as her eyes landed on the twisted metal chair in the center of the room. It was unmistakable- a torture device designed to restrain and torment its victims. The cold steel of the torture chair, the searing pain of electric currents coursing through her body. The sight of it brought a wave of nausea crashing over her, memories of her own time in such a chair flooding her mind, the mocking laughter of Francis as he watched her suffer in agony.

Flashback

She was strapped to the chair, her wrists bound with cold, hard metal. The room was dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of disinfectant and blood. Francis stood before her, his cold eyes glinting with sadistic glee. He was dressed in his usual black combat gear and white coat, his arms folded as he watched her struggle against the restraints.

"Ready for another round, sweetheart?" he sneered, his voice dripping with malice.

Y/n's heart pounded in her chest, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. She was drenched in sweat, her body trembling from the aftershocks of the last session. She had lost count of how many times he had done this to her, how many times he had pushed her to the brink of death, only to pull her back and start again.

"Please... no more," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Francis chuckled, his laughter a cruel, grating sound that echoed in the small room. "Oh, I'm just getting started," he said, reaching for the control panel beside the chair. His fingers danced over the buttons, and a low hum filled the air as the machine powered up.

Y/n's eyes widened in fear as the currents of electricity surged through her body, her muscles spasming uncontrollably. The pain was unbearable, like being ripped apart from the inside. She screamed, the sound tearing from her throat, but there was no one to hear her, no one to save her.

Francis watched with detached amusement, his expression one of mild curiosity. "You know, it's fascinating," he mused, his voice calm and measured. "Watching how much pain a person can endure before they break. You're tougher than most, I'll give you that."

Her vision blurred as the pain reached a crescendo, her mind teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. But she held on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her broken. She had to survive, had to escape, no matter what it took.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the currents stopped, and Y/n slumped in the chair, her body limp and exhausted. Francis leaned in close, his face inches from hers.

"Don't worry, darling," he whispered, his breath hot against her skin. "We'll keep doing this until you learn to behave."

Present

Y/n snapped back to the present, her hands trembling as she stared at the torture chair. The memories were like a vice around her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. But she could not afford to break down now, not when she was so close. She forced herself to move, to search the room for the wristband.

The storage room was hidden behind a steel door, half-buried under rubble. Y/n unlocked it with a crowbar she had found earlier, using all her strength to pull the door free. Inside, she found a small, windowless room lined with shelves. Dust coated everything, the air stale and suffocating. She searched through the shelves, her hands moving frantically as she searched for the device.

Finally, her fingers closed around a small, sleek wristband, its surface smooth and cold to the touch. This was it- the device that could suppress her powers, that could give her the control she so desperately needed.

But as she pulled the wristband from the shelf, a shrill alarm pierced the air, the sound reverberating through the building. Panic surged through Y/n as she realized she had triggered a security system, her heart racing as the distant sound of footsteps echoed through the halls.

She had to get out, and fast.

Y/n bolted from the storage room, clutching the wristband tightly in her hand. She sprinted down the corridor, her mind a blur as she searched for an escape route. The footsteps were getting closer, the shouts of guards filling the air.

She spotted a window at the end of the hall, its glass cracked but still intact. Without hesitation, she launched herself at it, her shoulder slamming into the glass. The window shattered with a deafening crash, and Y/n tumbled through the opening, her body twisting in midair.

The world spun around her as she rolled to her feet, glass shards cutting into her skin. But there was no time to stop, no time to recover her injuries. The guards were right behind her.

Y/n ran, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she sprinted through the darkened streets. The sounds of pursuit faded into the distance, but she did not stop. She could not stop. Not until she was safe.

Finally, after what felt like hours, she slowed to a halt, her body aching and exhausted. She had made it. She had escaped, and she had the wristband. But as she stood there, alone in the shadows, the memories of Essex House lingered in her mind, a reminder of the horrors she had endured- and the revenge she would soon unleash.

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈•

Y/n sat in her dimly lit hideout, the cold, metal wristband clasped tightly in her hand. She had waited for this moment, the promise of control over her powers finally within her grasp. With a deep breath, she slipped the wristband onto her wrist. A series of tiny, almost inaudible clicks signaled its activation. She felt a slight hum of energy ripple through her body, a sensation that was both foreign and strangely comforting.

"Okay, Y/n," she whispered to herself, her voice barely more than a murmur in the silence. "Time to see if this thing really works."

Her heart pounded in her chest as she picked up a small, sharp knife. She took a moment to steel herself before pressing the blade against the palm of her hand. Slowly, deliberately, she drew the knife across her skin, wincing as a thin line of blood welled up. She braced herself for the familiar agony of her powers activating, but to her astonishment, the pain remained localized. The cut did not heal as it usually would.

"It works," she breathed, a mix of relief and awe in her voice. "It actually works."

She wrapped her hand in a bandage, her mind already racing with the possibilities. For the first time in years, she felt like she had a measure of control over her life, over her destiny. She was not just a victim of her circumstances; she could be the master of them.

Over the next two years, Y/n threw herself into training with a passion that bordered on obsession. She perfected her combat skills, mastering various martial arts and weapons. She trained with knives, guns, and swords, each session pushing her limits further. Her hideout became a makeshift dojo, littered with training equipment and weapons of all kinds.

Her reputation in the slums grew as she took on hitman jobs to fund her training. She became a ghost, an unseen force of retribution for those who could not fight back.

One evening, she was approached by a woman with bruised arms and tear-streaked cheeks.

"Please," the woman begged, her voice trembling. "My husband... he beats me. I can't take it anymore. Please, make him stop."

Y/n looked into the woman's eyes, seeing the same helplessness and desperation she had felt so many times before. "What's his name?" she asked quietly.

"Jack. Jack Thompson. He works at the docks," the woman replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Y/n nodded. "Consider it done. He won't hurt you again."

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈•

Two years had passed since Y/n had escaped from Francis, two years of relentless training and hard-earned survival. She decided it was time to visit her own grave, a symbolic gesture to honour the person she once was. She made her way to a small flower shop, her mind set on finding the perfect bloom.

As she approached the counter to pay for a single white lily, she saw a woman laughing and chatting with the shopkeeper. The sight made her freeze. It was Vanessa. Alive and well, her smile as bright as ever. Y/n's heart clenched painfully in her chest, pulling her hood that covered her face even more down. She quickly paid for the flower and fled the shop, her mind a whirlwind of confusion and anger.

She reached her grave, a simple, unadorned headstone with her name etched into the cold marble. The vase next to it was empty.

"I see," she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. "Forgotten and abandoned, even in death."

She knelt down, placing the lily in the empty vase. "I can't remember my old self," she said softly, tears welling in her eyes. "She truly did die, as well as her trust in you."

Her thoughts turned dark as she slowly stood up. Wade had saved Vanessa, she realized, her mind piecing together the puzzle with cold clarity.

He must have used Cable's time travel device during the Mutant Rehabilitation incident to go back and save her... but he left me to die.

As she turned and walked away from the grave, she could feel a rising tide of hatred surging within her, anger directed at Wade for abandoning her, for choosing Vanessa over her.

Later that evening, Wade approached the same grave. He was dressed in his red and black costume, the weight of his grief and guilt heavy on his shoulders. In his hand, he held a brand-new flower and a polished vase. He had not missed a single visit, always coming back to this lonely, forgotten corner of the cemetery to leave a token of his sorrow and love.

As he knelt down to place the new flower in the vase, he noticed the fresh lily already there, wilting slightly in the cold night air.

"Who...?" Wade muttered to himself, confusion furrowing his brow. He looked around, but the cemetery was empty and silent.

He placed his own flower beside the lily, a pang of sadness piercing his heart. "I'm sorry," he whispered to the grave. "I'm so damn sorry."

He stood there for a long moment, staring at the headstone as if willing it to give him some sort of answer, some sign that she knew he had not given up on her, that he still mourned her every day.

But the silence of the graveyard offered no reunion, only deepened the gap of misunderstanding that was growing between them, unseen and unspoken.

As Y/n made her way back through the slums, her mind was a storm of emotions. She was determined now, fueled by a dark purpose. She had been forgotten, left to rot in the shadows while Wade had moved on, living his best life with Vanessa.

A twisted sense of revenge began to take root in her heart, and she knew that the next time she crossed paths with Wade, it would be on her terms. And when that day came, there would be a reckoning.

[golvio]

It was a bit of whiplash going from The Damsel to The Beast, particularly since the jumping off point I picked was stabbing her when she was gnawing her arm off (you very pointedly ignore that instead of recoiling in disgust to lock in Damsel or Witch). However...in retrospect, it kind of makes sense that the Damsel, Witch, and Beast routes can branch off of the same place.

All three routes deal with themes of dehumanization. Damsel is dehumanization through idealization, where she remains person-shaped, but loses a lot of what made her "her" in Chapter 1 in favor of being someone who could "make you happy." Witch is dehumanization through contempt or exploitation, where you either consciously betray her or just give up on her as soon as the Narrator pushes back, and she takes on some of the Beast's features but still remains partly human. With the Beast, it's total dehumanization through the reflexive disgust response brought on by seeing her gnaw her own limb off like a trapped animal. You get a glimpse of her as something other than human, and you become fixated on that, totally rejecting her until you mold her into something that's just as inhuman as you think she is. If you double down, she eventually becomes so dehumanized by the feedback loop of your treatment of her that she fully becomes an animal and loses the ability to speak.

That's why I think it's important that the two ways that the Beast seems to end on a more positive note (barring the secret ending you're unlikely to get the first time where you pick the exactly correct set of choices that get you to free her while playing dead) is by either her forcing you to understand her by "making you a part of her" (by eating you, which later causes you to "become her" so much that the two of you reintegrate into The Wild), or by you trying to talk to her once she becomes The Den and gets trapped in the little burrow leading upwards. Instinct alone can keep you alive, and territorial aggression can vanquish a predator, but it can't break the cycle of violence you've trapped yourselves in. Only reason and compassion can do that. You have to get in touch with your own humanity again to help her get in touch with hers.

There's also this theme of "regression"/"neglect" in her cabin. Her Chapter II cabin changes the least compared to the other Princess', but its change is marked by abandonment and decay as the cabin is reclaimed by nature and worn down by the elements. The wooden beams are beginning to fall apart with and termites have crept in to eat the table. It's as if the "default" cabin and the Princess herself are abandoning their humanity. In the Den, the cabin regresses to a crude Flintstones-style hut made of rocks or earth, and the table fully regresses to the stump of the fallen tree its wood was presumably harvested from. The Princess, too, regresses to a more primal form, losing her ability to speak and becoming a creature of pure appetite and predatory aggression.

In Chapter II, Beast gets a "nicer enclosure" in the basement more suited to her new form's needs, but in Chapter III, even though the exterior of the Den's cabin becomes a proper jungle, the room she's in becomes a dark pit completely devoid of light that she can't escape, filled with mold and decay, with her body becoming emaciated now that she's capable of starving, as she's become painfully aware of her own appetites. She becomes like a neglected exotic pet, left to waste away in the corner of a cramped, filthy cage. The tips of her new antlers are covered in blood, as if she's shedding velvet or they erupted suddenly and painfully from her own forehead, suggesting this transformation was a painful one.

It's...unnerving to see her become this. Even if she's more powerful, the only way she has to communicate with us is through her eyes. The only way she can think of to get us to let her out of the cabin is by devouring us. It's not even that she's actually hungry for our flesh, it's just that she wants to leave together, because she knows she can't leave alone. That urge to connect with us is still there, that need to make a bond of trust is still required for her to leave, it's just all warped by how inhuman we've made her.

It's also interesting to see that you can get to The Wild through either the Beast or the Witch. I didn't fully commit to Wild yet, as I'm saving that for a later playthrough where I knock out a lot of Chapter IIIs I didn't get to see during my first two times, but I think it'd make the most sense for me to approach it from the Beast's chapter, both through the themes of consumption/absorption, but also because it'll give me an opportunity to talk to her and gain new insights, given that she's not as talkative while she's trying to hunt you the first time around.

[urbanwoodsgoods]

Rustic Charm: Handcrafted Reclaimed Wood Dining Table

Discover the allure of our reclaimed wood dining table, crafted with care to infuse rustic charm into your home. Each table boasts unique character, courtesy of its natural imperfections and rich grains. Sourced sustainably, this piece adds eco-conscious elegance to your space. Gather loved ones around this timeless centerpiece for unforgettable meals and moments. Experience the perfect blend of style and sustainability with our artisan-crafted dining table. For more information, please visit our website here: https://urbanwoodgoods.com/collections/rectangle-dining-tables

[baileys-3]

Secret Dating Era Chapter Chapter 46 now Online on AO3

The Mid-Wilshire-Team goes to a restaurant. And yes it goes how you think it goes. Or not?

Sneak Peak:

Nyla had reserved a table for their group at a restaurant that offers a mix of good Mexican food, exclusive bar service, tasteful decor, and a cozy atmosphere. In the end, they all arrived together as the group had been waiting for Lucy outside a paintball arena, even though she took the longest to get ready – all thanks to his revenge shots. Oh, he's definitely going to be in trouble for that; he can't wait – because nobody was about to leave her behind and head to the restaurant. That's just not how they do things, 'cause, you know, teamwork and all.

The host greets their little Mid-Wilshire family at the entrance and leads them to their table. They walk through the massive space that was cleverly split into many small areas using room dividers, plants, and various decorations. The real showstopper, though, is the large U-shaped bar located roughly in the middle. The walls are filled with various bottles of alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks. Behind the counter, even though it's still early, the joint's already buzzing with two bartenders working their magic, crafting cocktails, and putting on a bit of a show.

They finally make it to their table, made from reclaimed wooden planks that clearly have seen some action in their past life. It's got its fair share of dents, grooves, and scratches, but that only adds to its unique rustic charm. Four benches surround it, all in the same style and decked with comfy cushions.

Celina trails up behind the waitress so she's the first to reach the table. She runs her hand over the worn wood and can't help but gush, "This is freakin' awesome. Turning something old into something new? The energy here... dang, it's off the charts."

[ladysif8]

Pairing: Steve Rogers/ Curvy Orginal Female Character

Rating: Teen and Up

Warning: None

Summary:

Steve has had an exhausting work week, and all he wants is to unwind and enjoy his Friday night with his buddies over a cold beer. Little does he know that his simple drink order will turn into two when he encounters a funny and charming redhead who quickly captures his attention.

Tucked away in the heart of a small town in southern Indiana, nestled amidst rolling cornfields and quaint countryside, lies a charming small-town bar known simply as "The Rusty Rail." Its weathered wooden exterior and flickering neon sign beckon locals and travelers alike to step inside and escape the day's worries.

As you enter, the warm glow of string lights illuminates the cozy interior, revealing a rustic yet inviting ambiance. The bar itself, fashioned from reclaimed barn wood, stretches along one side of the room, while mismatched tables and chairs offer cozy nooks for conversation.

The air is alive with the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses as patrons gather to unwind after a long day's work. With friendly smiles and quick hands, bartenders expertly craft cocktails and pour drafts from local breweries.

In one corner, a small stage hosts live music performances on weekends, drawing crowds eager to sway to the rhythm of country tunes or classic rock hits. Couples twirl across the worn hardwood floor lost in the joy of dancing beneath the soft glow of twinkling lights.

Whether you're looking to share a beer with friends, strike up a conversation with a stranger, or tap your feet to the music, The Rusty Rail offers a welcoming haven where time seems to stand and worries fade away into the night.

As Steve steps out of his Chevy, his tired muscles protesting after a long day at ForgeMaster Welding Co., he steals a glance at his reflection in the dusty truck window. His overgrown dirty blonde curls stick out from under his ratty baseball cap, its frayed brim shielding his eyes from the evening sun. Despite the scruff on his strong jaw, there's a warmth in his cerulean blue eyes and a genuine smile that reaches them, revealing his kind-hearted nature beneath the rugged exterior.

Steve, a big, beefy country boy, stands tall with a sturdy build, his broad shoulders straining against his snug black t-shirt. Over it, a plaid long-sleeve shirt in earthy tones complements his rugged appearance; its buttons are left undone to reveal a glimpse of his toned torso. His well-worn jeans hug his muscular thighs before tapering down to dusty boots, a testament to his hard work and adventures.

Running a hand through his damp hair, still slightly wet from a quick shower, Steve readjusts his hat before leaning against his truck. The sight of Bucky's sleek black truck pulling up beside him brings a heavy sigh of relief, the prospect of spending time with his closest friends lifting the weight of the week slightly.

As Bucky and Sam climb out of the truck, their laughter echoing in the parking lot, Steve feels a spark of energy in the air despite his weariness.

Bucky's concern is evident as he claps Steve on the shoulder, "Hey, Steve," Bucky greets him, noticing the fatigue on his face. "Tough day?"

Steve nods, pushing himself off the car. "You could say " he replies, stuffing his hands in his pockets, not wanting to dwell on the work week. "Just need an ice-cold beer and a break from thinking about work until Monday."

"That's the spirit," Sam chuckles, slinging an arm around Steve's shoulders as they head toward the bar. "First round is on Steve; let's kick off the weekend, right."

"Hey!" Bucky protests playfully.

Steve chuckled as they entered The Rusty Rail, the anticipation of the evening already lifting his spirits. Sam pushed open the creaky wooden door, and they were greeted by a wave of warmth and noise that chased away the chill of the evening air.

Inside, the cozy bar was alive with laughter, clinking glasses, and the low hum of conversation. The scent of roasted peanuts spilled beer, and a hint of tobacco hung in the air, mixing with the unmistakable aroma of aged wood and whiskey.

Strings of twinkling lights cast a soft glow over the worn wooden bar and the clusters of tables and chairs. In the corner, a jukebox played a lively tune, punctuated by bursts of applause from patrons gathered around the dartboard.

As they made their way further into the bar, Steve, Sam, and Bucky exchanged nods and greetings with familiar faces. Among them was Tommy, the owner of The Rusty Rail, who welcomed them with a warm smile and a friendly pat on the back.

"Good to see you boys again," Tommy said, his voice carrying over the crowd's buzz. "The usual tonight?"

Steve nodded with a grin. "You know it, Tommy. Cold beer and good company."

As they settled in, Bucky turned to Steve with a playful gleam in his eye. "Hey, Steve, how about a game of pool to kick things off?"

Steve chuckled. "Sure thing, Bucky. But I'll play the winner," he added with a wink.

With that settled, Bucky and Sam headed towards the pool table, their laughter blending with the lively atmosphere of the bar. Meanwhile, Steve found a barstool and leaned against the worn leather, catching the bartender Abby's eye.

"Hey, Abby," Steve greeted with a nod. "Can I get some peanuts?"

Abby, a familiar face behind the bar, nodded back with a friendly smile. "Of course, Steve. Coming right up."

As Steve waited for his cold beer and roasted peanuts, he couldn't help but soak in the comforting ambiance of The Rusty Rail. The clatter of pool balls, the chatter of friends, and the soft rock tunes from the jukebox created a backdrop of familiarity, easing away the stresses of the workweek.

As the door swung open with a creak, a group of women entered the bar, their laughter mingling with the buzz of the bar. Among them was a tall, striking woman with shoulder-length auburn hair that framed her face in a cascade of waves. Pretty blue eyes sparkled beneath a fringe of freckles scattered across her nose, adding a playful charm to her features.

She moved with an easy confidence, her attire accentuating her curves and drawing Steve's attention like a magnet. She sported a gray Carhart zipper jacket, adding a touch of casual elegance to her ensemble. Which paired well with her black razorback cami that highlighted the subtle curves of her waist. She wore a pair of , flat-legged jeans that hugged her curvy thighs and accentuated her shapely figure.

As she glanced around the bar, her eyes met Steve's, and a warm smile graced her lips. Steve, caught off guard by her beauty and charisma, almost lost his balance on the bar stool. He returned her smile with a slight nod, his cerulean blue eyes locking onto hers for a moment that felt suspended in time amidst the lively atmosphere of dusty old bar.

Steve watched with a mix of curiosity and excitement as the redhead from the group approached him, her smile captivating and causing his heart to skip a beat. As she drew closer, the warmth of her smile seemed to fill the space between them, making Steve's pulse quicken with anticipation.

"Is this seat taken?" she asked, nodding towards the empty stool beside Steve.

Steve shook his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "No, it's all yours," he replied, gesturing for her to take a seat.

As she settled onto the stool, Steve extended his hand. "I'm Steve," he introduced himself.

The redhead's smile widened as she shook his hand. "I'm Molly," she replied, her voice soft yet confident.

Steve's gaze lingered on Molly for a moment, taking in her auburn hair, pretty blue eyes, and the freckles that added a charming touch to her features. "What can I get you to drink, Molly?" he asked, turning to Abby, the bartender, who was already watching their interaction with a knowing smile.

Molly glanced at the array of bottles behind the bar before settling on a choice. "I'll have a whiskey sour, please," she said.

Steve nodded and turned back to Abby. "Add a whiskey sour to my tab, Abby," he instructed with a grin.

Abby nodded in acknowledgment, flashing a quick wink in Steve's direction before deftly preparing Molly's drink.

As Steve and Molly settled into their conversation, it was as if they had known each other for a lifetime. Their laughter rang out amidst the lively atmosphere of The Rusty Rail, blending seamlessly with the clinking of glasses and the hum of conversation around them.

"So, Molly, what brings you to this ole rust bucket tonight?" Steve asked, leaning in slightly with genuine curiosity.

Molly's eyes lit up with amusement as she replied, "Oh, just a girls' night out. We heard this place had great drinks and even better company."

Steve chuckled, nodding in agreement. "Well, you certainly found the good company part," he said with a grin.

Their banter flowed effortlessly, each topic leading to another as they discovered shared interests and common experiences. They exchanged stories of favorite travel destinations, childhood adventures, and even their love for classic rock music.

"You know," Steve remarked with a twinkle in his eye, "I never would have guessed you were such a fan of Led Zeppelin."

Molly laughed, a sound that warmed Steve's heart. "Oh, I have a soft spot for classic rock. There's just something timeless about it, you know?"

Their conversation meandered through light-hearted jokes, heartfelt anecdotes, and moments of comfortable silence that spoke volumes. It was a rare and special feeling to connect with someone on such a deep level from the moment they met.

As the evening wore on, their laughter grew louder, their smiles wider, and the bond between Steve and Molly strengthened with each shared moment.

As the previous song faded away, the opening chords of Luke Combs' "The Love We Make" started playing from the jukebox, filling the air with a cozy and welcoming vibe. The twangy guitar melody set a nostalgic and romantic tone, blending seamlessly with Luke Combs' soulful voice that carried the heartfelt lyrics with an honest emotion.

We've been burnin' both ends

Keepin' the lights on

So I've been thinkin' we need

A little time alone

So whatcha say we cancel our plans?

Tonight, I'm only gonna be your man.

The jukebox seemed to come to life with Luke Combs' vocals, creating a magical moment where the music and emotions intertwined, enveloping everyone in a sense of comfort and nostalgia. As "The Love We Make" played, couples in the bar started swaying to the music, their movements matching the heartfelt melody.

Molly's eyes lit up with delight as the familiar country tune began to play. "I love this song!" she said, her excitement contagious. Without hesitation, she jumped up from her seat and extended her hand to Steve. "Come on, let's dance," she urged, her smile inviting and playful.

Steve chuckled, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes as he downed the last of his beer quickly. "Well, when a lady asks, how can I refuse?" he replied with a grin, his hand slipping into Molly's as they made their way to the dance floor.

Let's get some candles burnin'

And some records turnin'

All the lights down low

Take it nice and slow

The way your body's movin'

Keep doin' what you're doin'

To me all night long

Writin' our love song

Girl, I want it, gotta have it

Let the passion take us to a higher place

Makin' the kind of love we make

The twangy guitar chords filled the bar as Steve and Molly swayed to the music, their movements perfectly in sync. The warmth of Molly's hand in his sent a jolt of electricity through Steve, and he couldn't help but be drawn to her infectious energy.

As they danced, the world around them seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them enveloped in the melody of the song. Steve found himself getting lost in Molly's eyes, feeling a connection that went beyond words.

The lyrics of the song resonated with them, painting a picture of love and intimacy that felt all too real in that moment. With each step they took on the dance floor, Steve felt his heart opening up to Molly in a way he hadn't experienced before. He made a mental note to get her number; Steve could really see something here.

Well, there ain't no way, baby

To get me out this house

When you look this good

What could I even think about? Oh

Besides turnin' round and lockin' the door

Watchin' your red dress fall to the floor

Steve wrapped a big arm around Molly, pulling her flush to his chest. Staring down into her sweet blue eyes, flushed cheeks, his hand slowly moved up cupping her face.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked, his thumb rubbing along her bottom lip.

Molly's breath hitched at Steve's question, her gaze locked with his as she felt the intensity of the moment between them. The energy crackling in the air around them seemed to draw them closer, creating a bubble where only they existed.

A soft smile tugged at the corners of Molly's lips as she answered, her voice barely above a whisper, "Yes."

Steve leaned in slowly, giving her a moment to change her mind, but Molly's eyes conveyed a sense of longing and anticipation that mirrored his own.

Let's get some candles burnin'

And some records turnin'

All the lights down low

Take it nice and slow

The way your body's movin'

Keep doin' what you're doin'

To me all night long

Writin' our love song

Girl, I want it, gotta have it

Let the passion take us to a higher place

Makin' the kind of love we make

Kind of love we make

So whatcha say we cancel our plans?

Tonight, I'm only gonna be your man

Steve leaned in slowly, giving her a moment to change her mind, but Molly's eyes conveyed a sense of longing and anticipation that mirrored his own. Steve leaned in to kiss her, their lips mere inches apart, ready to seal their unspoken feelings.

But just as their lips were about to meet, a chorus of hollers and laughter erupted from Molly's friends, "Molly!" breaking the spell.

"Moll's, come on!" One of them grabbed Molly's hand and playfully pulled her away, announcing that they were leaving. Amidst giggles and apologies, Molly shot Steve an apologetic look over her shoulder as she was whisked off the dance floor.

Steve stood frozen for a moment, his hand still outstretched towards Molly, who her friends were pulling away. He watched as she disappeared into the crowd, a sense of disappointment settling in his chest.

The music continued to play around him, the lively atmosphere of The Rusty Rail churning on as if nothing had happened. Steve took a deep breath, trying to shake off the sudden melancholy that had enveloped him. He was left in the middle of a song, standing alone in the middle of the dance floor lit up by the glow of neon bar lights.

Let's get some candles burnin'

Some records turnin'

All the lights down low

Take it nice and slow

The way your body's movin'

Keep doin' what you're doin'

To me all night long

Writin' our love song

Girl, I want it, gotta have it

Let the passion take us to a higher place

Girl, I want it, gotta have it

Let the passion take us to a higher place

Makin' the kind of love we make

Kind of love we make

Makin' the kind of love we make

As Steve made his way back to the bar, Abby offered him a sympathetic smile. "Tough break, huh?" she said softly, pouring him another beer without needing to ask.

Steve managed a rueful grin. "Yeah, you could say that," he replied, taking a long sip of his drink as he tried to shake off the disappointment.

Leaning on the bar, Abby's expression turned thoughtful. "She seemed like a good one," she commented casually, her eyes glancing towards the now-empty spot where Molly had been dancing just moments ago.

Steve nodded, the memory of Molly's smile still fresh in his mind. "Yeah, she was something special," he admitted, his gaze distant as he replayed their brief encounter in his head.

Abby reached out, squeezing his hand comfortingly. "Well, who knows? Maybe fate will bring you two together again one day," she offered with a reassuring smile.

Steve chuckled softly, a hint of hope sparking in his eyes. "Yeah, maybe," he mused, the possibility of a second chance with Molly lingering in his thoughts.

[icantlose]

Wolf's eye catches the trail of smoke as it rises lazily from the ashtray beside his bed. He watches as it twists and curls, almost as if it's alive. The ceiling above him is made of space-grade titanium and steel, a quiet reminder of the harshness of the world outside. But in this moment, he finds himself grateful for the sanctuary of his room. He shifts his position slightly, feeling the coolness of the sheets against his fur. The room is sparsely decorated, with little to suggest that anyone actually lives there. Wolf's eye scans the room, taking in the few pieces of clothing strewn haphazardly on the floor, the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the bedside table, and the eyepatch balled up beside it and his ashtray. 

The room isn’t well-light, most of the light pouring through the quartz window, coming from Solar’s bright red radiation burning out in the distance, the cluster of twinkling stars, and the bright lights affixed the space base itself. The room is cold, just the way Wolf likes it. The silence of the room is almost deafening, broken only by the sound of his own breathing and perhaps the faint thumping of his heartbeat if he listens hard enough. He feels the weight of recent stress pressing down on him, and he wonders if he'll ever find a way to escape from it.  Just how serious is Jack being with these threats, anyways? If Wolf is lucky, the old drunk will have pickled his brain just enough to forget about it sooner or later. 

Thinking directly about such stress inspires Wolf’s nicotine craving. Slowly, he reluctantly pushes himself up into a sitting position, a low groan emanating to suggest his discontent before he reaches over to the ashtray on the bedside table. His fingers graze the cool metal of the receptacle but before he can pick up his cigarette, it happens. Suddenly, it's as if the entire world around him is spinning, pulling him in all directions at once. The room around him blurs and distorts, and he feels like he's being stretched out like a piece of taffy. The sensation in his body is strange and he fears for a moment that he’s experiencing some kind of stress-induced health tragedy. Is he having an aneurysm or something? A symphony of ringing attacks his ears, the sound growing louder and louder, effectively snuffing out his sense of hearing. He tries to steady himself but he can’t move, though even if he could there’s nothing to grasp onto. This overwhelming sensation reclaims his attention, it's as if he's being torn apart like a jigsaw puzzle. For a brief moment, he’s not sure if he's even conscious or if he's experiencing some sort of bizarre dream and it occurs to him that perhaps someone in the bar downstairs might have spiked his drink, or perhaps sought to eliminate the Lord of Sargasso altogether. His head spins with vertigo, and he feels lightheaded and nauseous. His stomach churns, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before the whiskey in his gut meets the floor... Wherever the floor may be in this bright, spinning nightmare that he’s trapped in. But just as suddenly as it started, it stops. The light fades, the ringing in his ears subsides, and the world around him comes back into focus. Breathless and disoriented, Wolf takes a moment to collect himself, discovering that whatever hold was locking him in place has released and he’s able to moved once again. He looks around, trying to make sense of what just happened. Everything looks different, but familiar--Wolf realizes he’s no longer in the same room. He’s in a bedroom; dirty clothing scattered all over the floor, the ocean of recognizable posters on the wall cover the atrocious, cheap wood paneling from a time period he knows well enough. If it wasn’t the sound of Ørbit Perturber’s music filling his ears, it’s definitely the older woman with an expression of pure terror on her face that tells Wolf exactly where he is. ... Sargasso’s empty master bedroom is abruptly shattered by the same sudden, blinding flash of light. The bright illumination casts stark shadows against the cold metal walls, giving the room an eerie, otherworldly feel. With the flash of light comes the sound of a younger voice, filled with desperation, and it's urging a lie in a fearful attempt to avoid the inevitable consequences. The words are panicked, as if the speaker is in the middle of an argument.

The interruption of silence feels jarring, like a sudden jolt to the senses after a long period of tranquility, such as the sensation of falling and jerking awake just before one drifts off to sleep.

“--told you Grandma, I didn’t smoke any!”