#Extra Stout

[savage-kult-of-gorthaur]

CORRECTION: KICK YOUR SHOES OFF, THEN, ENJOY YOUR GUINNESS STOUT ACCORDINGLY.

PIC(S) INFO: Resolution at 2138x2880 -- Spotlight on a Guinness Dry Irish Stout lithographic poster design titled "After Work Guinness," artwork by British illustrator, Tom Eckersley (1914-1997), c. 1950. Printed by Mills & Rockleys, Impswich.

PIC#2: Resolution at 736x1111 -- The same poster deign without the poster folds.

EXTRA INFO: The design features a man in red and pink peeking between his shoes, while enjoying his Guinness; lettering in red and black. Estimated worth at $800 to $1,200.

Sources: www.bonhams.com/auction/24683/lot/136/tom-eckersley-1914-1997-guinness-after-work & Swann Galleries.

[whatsontap]

[hollowsart]

my one writing crime was writing "ravenette" (truthfully should've been spelled 'ravenet' as it was in reference to a guy) when really.. "black haired" would have worked just fine.

but also I rarely even refer to characters by their hair color anymore if at all. I have grown and my writing has gotten better over time (I rarely write. I don't care much for it cuz it is very difficult for me..)

Anyways, I love growth and change and self improvement. I am a far better person than I was 10 years ago and even 5 years ago, and my writing has also improved a bit, too.

[fiachrahackett]

Topography (2021)

[invinciblerodent]

Oh, respeccing my boy to give him some fighter levels may have been a slight mistake. This isn't fighting anymore, we're just bullying people.

I feel SORRY for the BHAALISTS now. REALLY weird feeling.

[newsleverage]

Passersby Descend on Fallen Trailer Conveying Legend Extra Stout in Aba

[muntzerism-diggerism]

Almost St. Padraigh's day and still no bottle guinness at the beer store...

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

A Hole in the Heart

Between this and the drunken confession from Leona fic 😭 I must be in my Savanaclaw era… Maybe I’ll write a food-related Jack fic too, who knows www

Imagine this...

There’s a cute guy working behind the counter.

You can only afford to dawdle for so long. Your eyes are supposed to be focused on reading the menu mounted overhead or browsing the glossy breads and cakes on offer. Instead, your gaze drifts up to the employee—a hyena beastman—sheepishly awaiting your order.

He leans on the glass display case, face nestled in his arms, cheek to forearm. His dirty blonde hair sticks up like someone has aggressively ruffled his head. The boy blinks at you with big, blue-grey eyes, mouth permanently etched into a sloped smile that suggests he is capable of stirring up trouble off his shift.

An apron hangs loosely from his lanky frame, and a cap is clamped down between two large, twitching ears. His tail, short and stout, wags like a metronome, in time with the rhythm he taps out with a finger.

Yeah, he’s definitely super cute, you conclude.

“… Hey.”

You jolt at the hand passion waving in front of your face, at his voice. It’s casual and warm, like the sound of an old friend’s greeting after a long day.

The bakery employee lifts his head and quirks a brow. “You decided what you want yet? You’ve been starin’ for a while now.”

W-Was I really staring?!

A hand flies to your face, testing it for signs of self-consciousness. Your skin is flushed and tingles, like flames have been lit under it.

“S-Sorry, I must’ve dozed off,” you mumble, burrowing into your collar and praying that he doesn’t notice. Focus here, you remind yourself. “You have so many options, I’m having a hard time deciding. What do you recommend?”

“Me?” He fully draws himself up, trading his smile for a smirk. “I know just the thing. Hang on a sec!”

The employee peels away and snags a donut from the display case, wrapping it in a checkered napkin. The pastry is plump and full, fried to a golden perfection and covered in a shiny sugar glaze. 

“Oh… It doesn’t have a hole in the center,” you realize.

“The holes are usually there to help the dough cook evenly. We repurpose what’s punched out as donut holes,” he says, eyes glittering with gluttony, “but nothing beats having the whole thing, hole and all.”

“Pfft. When you put it like that, it feels sort of sad.”

“How do you figure?”

“A donut with a hole sounds like a person that’s missing their heart. Some important part of themselves just… poof. Gone.”

“A person missing their heart, huh? You got an imagination on ya.”

D-Did he just compliment me?

Your heart leaps up and lodges in your throat. It’s suddenly difficult to usher your words out.

He shakes his head and turns away, setting to his work. The boy becomes but a blur of activity, and you watch him, mesmerized.

He generously ladles chocolate sauce onto the donut, garnished by a handful of sliced nuts. Then he glops on a healthy helping of custard cream, a spritz of whipped cream, and a big spoonful of berry jam. The result is one decadently sticky pile of sugar with everything under the kitchen sink thrown onto it.

He presents the towering donut to you with a flourish. “Ta-dah! I give you… the Ruggie Special!” 

You gape at it, unsure of what to do or say. There’s no way I can finish this before class starts, you fret—but you accept the donut in a daze, not wanting to reject all his efforts. Your fingers and his graze, sparking a thrill within you.

“What’s ‘Ruggie’?” you ask shyly.

“That’s me.” He winks and points to himself. No, to the name tag pinned to his chest. “Ruggie. Ruggie Bucchi.”

H-He told me his name. You clutch your hands together in an attempt to calm them. Is he flirting with me?

“W-Wow, you have a menu item named after you? That’s cool,” you babble. Oh no—you’re so horrid at small talk, you scold yourself.

“Unofficially, yeah. The boss doesn’t mind if I use the extra ingredients lying around to experiment. Oh, speaking of—” He holds out a hand. “All that extra stuff’s gonna cost ya. That’ll be 700 madol, if you please!”

“700…?!” You startle, as if waking from a dream. The donut’s mountain of topples wobble, threatening to tumble. “That’s over 5 times the cost of a single plain donut!”

“Well, this is a single plain donut with all the fixings,” he corrects you with a snicker. Ruggie points to your Special. The chocolate sauce is rapidly dribbling down, cream leaking into the napkin. “Look, it’s already getting all over you. Better cough up the cash and get to eating it real quick~” 

“Nrgh…” You reluctantly fish out 700 madol and slap the bills onto the counter. “Here. Just take it already.”

“Nishishishi, thank you for your patronage!” Ruggie happily scoops up the money and deposits it into the register. The bills are swallowed up by the metal contraption, as if it is feasting on your misfortune.

Why do I feel like I just got duped by a pretty face?

Your stomach lurches, disappointed with yourself. Friends and classmates always teased you for this. Head in the clouds, too sentimental, unlucky with guys, so quick to fall in love and even quicker to have your heart broken—all phrases they used to describe you.

Someone absolutely hopeless in their flights of fancy. A donut wandering around with a hole where their heart should be, seeking what they lack.

You flush deeper. Maybe I’m proving them right. I’m seeing things that aren’t there.

“W-Well, thank you for your recommendation,” you say hurriedly.

“No prob,” he replies with the tip of his hat. “All in a day’s work.”

A day’s work, duh. Stupid, stupid. He was only buttering you up to swindle you into a sale.

The donut is oozing into your palm now. You frown and attempt to mop what is spilling with your tongue. Ruggie laughs a little—and you’re not sure if he’s laughing with you or laughing at you. Truthfully, you don’t know which you’d prefer.

“Need more napkins?” he offers, a wad of them at the ready. “These’re free.”

“Th-Thank you,” you mutter, grabbing them with your free (clean) hand. “I have to get going, or I’ll be late.”

“Uh-huh. Don’t they all?”

You gather yourself, hurrying to the door and flinging yourself through. It swings as you exit, the bell above jingling and ringing out your departure. The warm, comforting smell of sugar dissipates into the outdoor air.

“See ya around,” he calls after you, a teasing lilt in his voice. You don’t see what kind of an expression he’s making, but you don’t dare allow yourself to look back and find out.

You try to busy yourself with scrubbing clean. A bathroom—you should have stopped by the bakery’s bathroom to wet the napkins, to wash your hands with soap. But you have your pride, and you refuse to march back in, to have him mocking you a second time.

You wipe at your thumb, but the napkin catches and sticks at the corner. There’s a blot there, dark-colored and bleeding.

… Huh? What’s that?

You lift the napkin and squint at the smudged shapes scrawled onto it. Letters and numbers come into view.

Ruggie Bucchi, followed by a series of numbers strung together. A phone number.

Everything in you stills.

When did he…?

You rifle through the rest of your napkins, looking for other hidden messages. Nothing else, just the one. 

But if he passed me his phone number, that means… He’s interested in me too?!

Excitement kicks up in you again. Hope, dancing a little jig.

You melt, pressing the napkin to yourself. Your heart practically beats right out of your chest, as if it wants to see the proof with its own eyes.

Ruggie. Ruggie Bucchi… The quick-witted guy in the donut shop, the boy with an impish grin and fast fingers.

The hole in your chest fills, having found its missing part. Whole at last, tasting sweeter than any confection.

You’ll have to text him first chance you get.

[savage-kult-of-gorthaur]

THE ART OF THE TASTEFUL, VINTAGE POSTCARD -- BECAUSE IT'S "THIRSTY THURSDAY."

PIC(S) INFO: Part 1 of 2 -- Mega spotlight on two extra vintage Guinness Extra Stout postcards, more than likely printed in the UK, c. 1971.

Resolution at 982x1486 & 972x1487.

Source: https://x.com/JohnFit39306470/status/1403455801327591424.

[alchemistc]

i present my latest offering of an au first meeting: the poker game.

Big Blind

Tommy's been on plenty of bad dates in his time, but this one might actually take the cake for worst first date he's ever had. They're just -- not right for one another, and it's clear they can both feel it, but for some reason Jeff just -- keeps talking. About his border collie rescue, and his sixth fourteener (this year), and the his upcoming promotion and the Cybertruck he's thinking about getting wrapped in matte black --

"Jeff," Tommy cuts in, when he starts in on Tesla stock talk. "I'm gonna pay the check and head out. It's been..." he gestures. Considers calling Stout right here at the dinner table to tell him no more blind dates with his stock broker brother-in-laws friends, no matter how gay they are.

He's gonna get shit from Stout's wife the next time she stops by with a casserole, but honestly a half-hour tirade on politeness from Heather Alexandra Stout sounds better than learning how much of an Elon Musk fanboy Jeff really is. Jeff looks like he might be offended by the implication that he wouldn't have paid, but Tommy's already waving down his server and gesturing to the bar by the time Jeff even thinks to reach for his wallet.

"You have a good night."

Andrea slides his check under his elbow with a raised brow and doesn't say a word when he hands her his card immediately, but he can tell she's judging him. Third date in a month he's barely contained his disdain for long enough to pay up, although this is the first he's outright ditched before the bill was even paid.

Gary slides a beer across the bar to him and refuses the cash Tommy tries to give him for it. "Do I look that pathetic, Gary?"

Man of few words, Gary just taps his nose and tips his chin to his date, who is doing a terrible job of trying to sneak out the door.

"You're too good for him, anyway," says Andrea, back already with his card. He tucks an extra twenty into her folder and downs the beer in silence while they watch through the window as Jeff seems to get into an argument with the Uber pulling up in front of the restaurant.

"Maybe it's me," Tommy says, and Gary hums in commiseration. Or maybe he just has gas. "Maybe I'm the problem."

It's been a string of bad dates, and before that a relationship that'd gone up in metaphorical but nearly literal flames. Tommy's spent a lot of introspective time wishing he could kill Gerrard with lasers so that he doesn't have to blame himself for staying in the closet so long that blind dates and Grindr meetups were his real introduction to the dating scene.

"Someday, Tommy, you'll meet someone who can't get enough of your morbid humor and your pessimism and your obsession with haunted cars."

"One car," Tommy argues, although that's beside the point. "I think maybe I should give the search for love a break, Gary."

Gary hums, again.

Tommy drinks the rest of his beer in companionable silence and pulls up his phone to order an Uber himself. Jeff is, thankfully, long gone, and Tommy's halfway through confirming his home address when he remembers the invite he'd received last week that he'd hesitated scheduling a date around. He shoots off a text instead, and updates the address before he slides from the bar stool.

Gary shoots him a look. "Headed home?"

Tommy shifts on his feet. Shoots a look behind the bar. "Nah. Gonna try to hit up a work thing. Pour me a shot of Tullamore for the road?"

Gary accepts the twenty this time and doesn't make a comment about the way Tommy downs a sipping whiskey, which Tommy appreciates.

He's halfway to his destination, enjoying the chat with his driver, when the text comes in from Lucy.

Had to bail, but you should go if the date went that badly. Williams will enjoy slowly ruining the remainder of your night.

Tommy taps his phone once, twice, three times before he makes up his mind not to be the asshole who changes his destination halfway through the ride. Worst comes to worst, he'll tap out early and Venmo Mehta the rest of his stake.

Better than moping at home with the pint of freezer-burned Ben and Jerry's.

-----

He's fairly rushed down the stairs once he's in, because apparently Williams is on some sort of time crunch, or something, and he's fairly certain the drinks are catching up to him as he takes in the table. Mehta and Wilson are regulars, and he's seen Rosen around, but there are two new guys settling in across the table and Tommy has to take a long, long moment to remind himself this is technically a professional setting before he can look too closely at either one of them.

Yeah. Shit, he'd definitely drank most of that second pitcher by himself, listening to Jeff talk.

"Kinard. We weren't expecting you." Rosen's eyes glimmer with amusement. He'd caught maybe six months of her probationary year, but every time she sees him she likes to remind him of the first time she'd seen him post-transfer, at a gay bar in WeHo, and introduced him to the first guy he'd dated seriously in his entire life. Tommy returns the favor by reminding her exactly how terribly that had ended for all parties. "Poker night dress code usually includes more buttons than date night," she jabs, finger circling the olives in her martini glass, and Tommy contemplates tossing one of Mehta's chips at her. Her grin goes wide.

With the momentary distraction, Tommy feels a little more prepared to face the two men now eyeing him curiously.

"Tommy," he says, leaning over the table, hand out to shake. Turtleneck raises a curious eyebrow when Mr. Red Velvet Smoking jacket practically leaps across his lap to shake back. "I'm over at 217."

"This is Eddie," Red Velvet introduces, and Tommy's gaze dances between them, curious. "I'm Evan. We're with the -- wait, 217 -- Chimney's Tommy?"

Tommy's brows dance up the same time as Eddie's do. He is still shaking hands with Evan. Or - holding is more accurate, he supposes, but for the sake of his sanity and the possible date Evan and Eddie are on, if he's reading the introduction or any of the vibes right (they're both stunning and Tommy is smarting from another shitty date, so who knows), Tommy keeps it to shake in his mind. "Well I don't think Howie can claim ownership of my person, but -."

"Sorry, no, I just meant..." Evan's gaze drops to their clasped hands, still now over the felt of the poker table. He gives one more firm pump and drops Tommy's hand. "We're both at the 118. Pretty sure you helped save this guy's ass once." He tips a thumb sideways to indicate the man he'd introduced as Eddie.

Tommy's eyes drift. He's had a few drinks, and up until about halfway through the date he'd been expecting a very different outcome for his night, so he's maybe not keeping a lid on things the way he normally would in a work setting. He's guessing the ass he's purported to have saved would look great, if it weren't firmly planted in his chair and out of view. The rest of the view ain't bad, either.

And.

Shit.

Williams is giving him a look, which means he's not being even a little subtle. "The gas main explosion," Tommy finally gathers from the cobwebs of his brain, and wouldn't it be his luck to transfer out of the 118 just in time for two annoyingly attractive men who may possibly be boning each other to take his place.

Evan grins. Beams, more like, and Tommy slides firmly into his own chair and tries not to be blinded by it. Or entranced by it. God he needs to get laid. Get this - whatever this is - out of his system.

Tommy's cool. Tommy's calm and collected and he hadn't even had that much to drink, actually, so why is he having such a hard time behaving like he's had forty years of experience dealing with attractive men?

Tommy sorts through the memories.

Eddie he can pinpoint fairly easily -- he'd shot off a message to Chim the moment they'd learned one of the 118 had been shot, and had been happy to break the news of his recovery to an anxious Harbor station in the tense days after it had all gone down. Evan, though - he doesn't have a clue who that could be. He's still got a few buddies from B Shift he talks to on occasion, but he doesn't remember any stories about an Evan from them, and Howie hasn't mentioned one, either.

Of course, it's not like either one of them does a great job of keeping in touch.

The mystery is solved a moment later when Williams tips her head at him. "Feels like we're being overrun by the 118 tonight," she says with a grin, but her gaze slides to Evan, rather than Tommy. "And we've got an honest-to-goodness legend tonight."

"You know I still can't believe you survived that, Buckley," Mehta says, and the puzzle piece slots itself into place. "Uh, although we're all glad that you did."

Buckley. Tommy shifts. Reassesses. Eyes the glance between Diaz and Buckley like he's gonna figure out their deal while he's already four and a half drinks deep into the night and hasn't already heard the larger than life tales of this duo from half-a-dozen gossipy paramedics. According to some, there's a secret torrid love affair going on behind the scenes of their codependent friendship. According to others, the ones he more or less trusts not to stretch the truth too far, they're friends -- closer than most, and maybe a little weird about each other, but friends all the same.

Buckley's a shark. Or, if Williams is to be believed, a bit of a cheat.

As the game goes on, and the conversation drifts from the morbid details of Buckley's three-minutes-seventeen-seconds of lifelessness, past the special skills near death experiences are rumored to cause, past the time out where they'd all admired the pictures of Buckley's Lichtenburg scars ("They faded pretty quickly," Evan says, with a soft little frown like he's a bit disappointed not to have any physical proof beyond a few shots of his naked brick shithouse of a chest.) Tommy can't help but admire the shift from bashful to smirking and smug as Evan keeps racking up monumentally improbable hands. He's a bit of a brat, actually, and Tommy can feel Rosen's eyes burning into the side of his head every time he ups the ante just to watch the flicker of triumph aimed in his direction every time Evan wins a hand Tommy raised.

Tommy's no slob with cards, on a normal day, but he's too busy trying not to read anything into the way Evan's eyes keep drifting to the v of the shirt he hadn't buttoned back up just to spite Rosen, or the way he keeps licking his fucking lips every time Tommy takes a sip of the whiskey at his elbow to really care as his chips dwindle to nothing. Tommy can't be entirely sure, but it seems like maybe Evan pouts, a little, when Tommy pushes back from the table to join the rest of the losers crowded around to watch Williams, Mehta and Buckley battle it out.

He's trying to think of a subtle way to ask Howie if Evan Buckley is just like that with all the men in his life when Eddie slides in beside him with a refill on his whiskey. Tommy grimaces. "I shouldn't."

"Thought you were trying to drink away a bad date?"

Tommy shoots Rosen a glare over Eddie's shoulder, but she's too busy chasing her straw with her tongue to notice.

"He was a Tesla fanboy," Tommy intones, and the braces himself for the reaction. He's used to it, now -- the constant cycle of coming out and waiting to see which new acquaintances bow out of getting to know each other any better. This is... earlier, than he usually drops it, but he hasn't been in the mood to lie about it in years, and Eddie had asked. He gets a raised brow and a grimace.

"Don't tell me you didn't know ahead of time," Eddie says, and Tommy loosens the grip on his glass.

"Hazards of blind dating."

Eddie's look is commiserating. He tips his beer bottle against Tommy's rocks glass. "Yeah, my tia keeps finding reasons for me to run into the eligible daughters and granddaughters of all her friends." Which Tommy supposes is answer to half of the question that's been plaguing him since he sat down.

Buckley gets cocky a few times, but it's clear the night is going his way even before Jeshan Mehta's pot gets swept up in Evan's arms. Williams holds out as long as she can.

"Beginner's luck!" Buckley crows, when Williams' last chip is added to his pile. Eddie's been supplying him with a steady flow of drinks for the past thirty minutes, and his smile is crooked as he tilts backwards in his chair for a fist bump. His eyes flick to Tommy's once he's received his congratulations from Eddie, and Tommy pretends he's not a little bit fascinated by the pull of his jacket over his arms, or the way his closed hand lingers near Tommy's even after Tommy has smacked his knuckles against his as well.

Evan Buckley is frustratingly adorable. Tommy's had too many drinks for any kind of decent decision making. He bows out while Evan and Eddie are collecting his winnings.

-----

Tommy's eyes flick to the readout on his phone. He doesn't recognize the number, but it's a local area code, so he picks up on the forth ring. "Go for Kinard."

"Uh - hey, hi. Hey Tommy." The voice is familiar, sweet and low. "It's Buck - Evan. Evan Buckley. I uh -- I got your number from Chim, I hope that's alright?"

Tommy's got a solid fifteen minutes before he has to leave for work, a raging headache that has thus far refused to accept electrolytes or Advil as tribute to his overindulgence the previous evening, and a full understanding that he's going to spend his shift listening to Donato swear up and down she's the better option for finding him a man, but the voice on the other end of his phone might at least give the headache a run for it's money.

"Evan. Hi."

"Hey. So -- you dipped before I could ask -- which is fine, obviously, I'm not -- uh..." He pauses. Tommy can practically picture the way he wets his lower lip while he searches for the right words. "Anyway I was wondering -- would you maybe wanna grab a beer, sometime?"

Tommy spends about fifteen seconds rearranging his entire schedule in his mind. Says, cool, calm, collected: "Sure. When are you free?"

Evan's voice goes distant for a second -- he's putting Tommy on speaker. "I, uh -- I didn't expect you to say yes so quickly. Actually I didn't expect you to answer -- who answers unknown numbers, anymore?"

"Who calls expecting to get sent to voicemail?"

The brat rises up immediately. "Uh, literally everyone. The missed call is just an excuse to text. It's basic phone etiquette, Tommy."

Tommy likes the way he says his name. Soft, sweet and slow, rolling over his tongue like molasses. This feels incredibly like flirting, but he can't get a fucking read on this kid. "Clearly I've missed out on an important cultural shift. I can hang up and we can do this the right way, if you want."

"No!" It's sharp -- louder, like he's raising the phone back towards his mouth. Tommy can't hide the grin leaking across his face. "Uh -- no, it's fine. Too late, anyway, I already know you don't know phone rules."

"Hopefully that doesn't change your opinion of me too much."

"I could be convinced to ignore it, with the right incentive."

"I'll buy first round," Tommy says, and wonders if he's got any other shirts he can play off as fitting better with three buttons undone. The flirting should be enough, but -- Tommy's still not sure drinks isn't just drinks.

"Wednesday night," Evan says, voice further away again. Tommy has a sudden, desperate urge to see what his Google calendar looks like. For all that he'd cut loose at the poker game, Tommy bets it's color coded by type of activity. "If that works. Or Saturday, any time, really. I'm uh -- I'm free then."

If Tommy bows out of trivia on classic car week Cynthia will have a whole ass bitch fit. And it makes him seem a little less eager, to boot. "Saturday. I've got a shift early Sunday, though, so maybe something in the afternoon?"

"Yeah -- yes, th-that works." The stammering isn't something Tommy can get a read off of. He'd done it just as much with Eddie as he'd done with everyone else. "There's a new brewery just off Pico and Prosser -- Chim said you were a fan of craft beer?"

Sounding more date like by the minute, but -- some guys toe the line. Could be Evan Buckley just wants to know more about flight operations, for all Tommy knows. "Text me the details. Look, Evan, I'd love to stay on this rule-breaking phone call and chat but I've got to head in for a shift. Just -- let me know the plan." He's got five minutes to brush his teeth and rue the moment he'd asked Gary for his first whiskey of the night. He's also rolling back his last few sentences and cringing at how abrupt he'd been. "And yeah -- good to know Chim hasn't forgotten the three facts I ever told him about me."

Evan laughs, just a soft little huff but Tommy already knows the grin behind that sound is all sorts of knee-meltingly sweet. "Cool. So. Yeah, I'll text you."

"I'll talk to you later, Evan."

"Yep. Talk to you -- talk to you soon."

Tommy waits a moment in silence. The call doesn't end. "Goodbye, Evan."

Evan huffs out another awkward laugh. "Yeah. Bye, Tommy."

The call disconnects just in time for Tommy to press his forehead into the cool tile beside his bathroom mirror. He might be monumentally screwed if this isn't a date. He hasn't been this fucking charmed by a man since -- well, it's been a while.

Tommy's phone buzzes in his hand. It's a pinned address from a number he doesn't have saved. Tommy swipes into the contact and updates it before the next text makes it through. Saturday 3PM?

Tommy brushes his teeth, downs the rest of his preworkout in the hopes that it'll ease some of the nastier parts of his stupid decision to keep drinking liquor past midnight, and stares at the text all the way out to his truck.

See you then, Tommy sends back, and he has to toss his phone into his passenger seat when he gets a series of incomprehensible emoji's almost immediately in response.

He holds up a hand to Donato the moment she catches his gaze, halfway across the parking lot. The brow goes up, the hand slots to her hip, and she rolls her tongue over her teeth, clearly ready for her speech about how Stout doesn't have a clue how to find Tommy a proper date. Tommy has other problems.

"You worked with Evan Buckley, for a while, didn't you?"

Her head tilt rights itself. The second brow dances up to meet the first. Whatever she'd meant to say disperses behind her eyelids as she seems to work through something in her mind. "Oh, this is compelling," she says, and practically skips forward to loop her arm in his.

[carbonfiction]

i’m a resident jean hater because she’s really not all that (she makes me insecure as hell because she’s tall and slim and i’m short and just a liiiittle bit stout) and plus she only has that hot demure boring energy like wheres the fun in that? boring ahh hell😹plus she’s got a fake ass MD. would logan immediately lose interest in her the second charles hires the new young social studies teacher that prances in with her big framed specs, bouncy fat rack curls and nervous disheveled bubbly personality? she has so many facts on the top of her head from all the wars he fought and what?? he also sees her in the lab??? she has a plant mutation and she dabbles in biology???? AND she was in law school????? so she’s got a mouth on her… and when he finds out by eavesdropping that she’s a virgin and a squirter one night that the girls all confess secrets he loses it, completely tuning out jean’s confessions. he wants to ruin that smart girl 🐱 so bad.

can i please take the 🐳 emoji as an anon because this is my third ask and i’m both the bathtub and glasses anon i LOVE to yap

DEAR ANNNONNN HELLOO!! god im so sorry this took so long to reply to🥲 but you ABSOLUTELY can have🐳!!!

Honest that is so real as a fellow stout girlie (despite being on the slightly taller end)

Personally I just could never get into movie jean for a litany of reasons; i was and still am so much more of a storm and rogue kinda girl. And Especially within dynamics w logan; storm as a relationship interest is everything to me. (Ill never forget or forgive for what they took from us dofp stormverine kiss getting cut)

But logan and a fairly 'innocent' mouthy smart girl??? Oh that man is following like a puppy. He his obsessed.

I feel like he would love a smart girl so much. Theres just something so alluring about someone so confident in their knowledge and skills. not to mention the cocky twang of pride that threads through him whenever he sees you correct someone on a piece of info; never condisending but explaining the actual fact to who whomever got confused. (likely poor scott which instantly wins you extra brownie points bc you?? Gorgeous and smart girl happily correcting scott on a mistake??? His knees are buckled)

But there issss another perk of him having a smart, inexperienced girl.. And thats when he can turn his smart, headstrong princess all dumb.

When simple touches from his fingers, tongue and eventually, cock can all change you from chatty, brainy and sometimes even a little bratty into a babbling, brainless mess soaking through his sheets.

Getting to finally fuck the brains right out of his cleverest girls pretty head by way of her tight puffy cunt? Truly his favorite thing at the end of a long day.

(I rambled my way through this im so sorry- is it even cohesive idk?? but i do have manymanymany thoughts on smart girl reader that i might have to expand on at some stage..)

[bestanimal]

Round 3 - Actinopterygii - Argentiniformes

(Sources - 1, 2, 3, 4)

Order: Argentiniformes

Common Name: “marine smelts”

Families: 4 - Argentinidae (“herring smelts”), Bathylagidae (“deep-sea smelts”), Microstomatidae (“pencil smelts”), and Opisthoproctidae (“barreleyes”)

Anatomy: large eyes; additional cartilage and gill rakers on the fifth ceratobranchial act similarly to a gizzard; no or very little teeth; no or physoclistous gas bladder; dorsal fin located on the second half of the body; some have an adipose fin; silvery or dark coloration; some are bioluminescent

Diet: zooplankton, particularly krill and copepods

Habitat/Range: oceans worldwide, live close to the sea floor; some found down to 2,500 m (8,202 ft) deep

Evolved in: Early Cretaceous

Propaganda under the cut:

The Barreleyes (family Opisthoproctidae) (image 1, 4, and gif), also called Spookfish, are perhaps the most famous family within the Argentiniformes for their bizarre appearance. Barreleyes have large, barrel-shaped, tubular eyes which are usually oriented upwards to detect the silhouettes of prey, but can also be directed forwards. These eyes are enclosed within a large transparent dome of soft tissue, looking like a clear, gelatinous helmet. This giant “lens” presumably allows the eyes to collect even more incident light, as well as protects the fish’s eyes from the stinging cells of siphonophores, from which barreleyes are believed to steal food.

Species within the barreleye genera Dolichopteryx, Opisthoproctus, and Winteria have a number of luminous organs; Dolichopteryx has several along the length of its belly, and Opisthoproctus has a single organ in the form of a rectal pouch. These organs glow with a weak light due to the presence of symbiotic bioluminescent bacteria, specifically Photobacterium phosphoreum.

The Javelin Spookfish (Bathylychnops exilis) is the longest species of barreleye at 50 centimetres (20 in) long. Most species are much smaller, less than 20 centimetres (7.9 in). The Javelin Spookfish is also known as the “four-eyed fish” due to its unique eyes. They have two spherical eyes that are dorsally directed and two secondary eyes that are ventrally directed, each with their own lens and retina. It has been suggested that the purpose of these eyes is for detection of threats from below, since the extra eyes point downwards.

The Brownsnout Spookfish (Dolichopteryx longipes) is the only vertebrate known to use a mirror (as well as a lens) in its eyes for focusing images.

The largest Argentiniform is the Greater Argentine (Argentina silus), which can reach up to a length of 70.0 centimetres (27.6 in). Greater Argentines form large schools close to the sea floor and are often caught and sold as seafood, usually processed into fish meal.

The Stout Blacksmelt (Pseudobathylagus milleri) (image 3) is also called the Owlfish due to its large eyes, which are much larger than other species within its family, Bathylagidae.

This is a more newly established order that was once included within the Osmeriformes (“true smelts”), along with the Alepocephaliformes (“slickheads” and “tubeshoulders”), but has since been found to be a much more basal lineage. As such, its position on the Actinopterygiian tree may be subject to change, and the families currently included within it may fluctuate. Hopefully not until after this tournament is over…

[alfons-sylvatica]

Real Victorian Recipes to Eat With Crown

This is made mostly with love (for both IkeVil and old recipes)... I've tried to preference British cookbooks but that wasn't always easy.

These recipes are pulled from whatever Victorian era (1837 - 1901) cookbooks I could find on the Internet Archive and Survivor Library (though I also tried searching Project Gutenberg and Google Books) that I feel best matched our dear Cursed boys.

I haven't actually tried any of these recipes, I just like looking through old books and magazines because it's fun... I do however like cooking and baking, so even without making them, I tried to pick recipes that I think would go together well. Recipes linked... eat at your own risk, I guess? Also, a thank you to @rogerbarel who made some helpful suggestions...

William Rex: Strawberry meringue (1893) served with "strawberry vinegar, of delicious flavor" (1887), optional whipped cream (1889) Let's reeeeeeally be decadent: have some strawberry meringue and serve it with some strawberry vinegar! Maybe consider having some extra "meringue paste" on the side, or if you'd prefer, make some whipped cream instead and serve that with it.

If you’re concerned about this meal suggestion, bear in mind that the strawberry vinegar seems to be more of a syrup.

Liam Evans: Salmon steak maitre d'hotel (1893) with an English salad (1887) Look, I'm gonna be completely honest with you guys... I had no idea what to give Liam. Given the fact that he doesn't like sweets really limited me. I would have liked to assign him something sweet because that's kind of what his character draws to mind for me, but I couldn't. Instead, I drew upon the Chara Cafe x Ikemen Villains collaboration for an idea and this is the closest thing I got.

Harrison Gray: Harrison Cake (ca. 1889) with optional brandy peaches (1888) For a sweet tooth like Harry, I suggest you both enjoy a… *checks notes* Harrison cake. Sweetened with both molasses and sugar and with a "fruit and spice” note in the recipe, I would maybe suggest you have it with some brandy peaches as well. You know, if you can afford the sugar crash and inevitable nap you'll both need later.

Note: Yes, I know Harry likes mint. But I couldn't resist and I don't think he could either.

Elbert Greetia: "A healthful appetizer" (1889) thirty minutes before meal, tomato salad (1885) and English chicken cutlets (1887) I’m not sure how much luck you’re going to have making sure Elbert eats enough, but you can give him “a healthful appetizer” thirty minutes before dinner… I would probably recommend that you follow it up with a tomato salad. The English chicken cutlets are mostly for you, but if there’s enough for two, maybe Elbert would be willing to eat half of one. Unfortunately, I can't directly link to the page with the tomato salad recipe, but you can find it if you CTRL-F "tomato salad" within the linked PDF.

Alfons Sylvatica: Fried ham and eggs (1861) served with at least one Tom Collins (1882) Alfons apparently can eat anything, so you’re going to have to do the same if you want to keep up with him. After a night out, how about enjoying a few Tom Collinses with your fried ham and eggs? What better way to stave off your inevitable hangover than with greasy fried food and hair of the dog that bit you?

Note: In Alfons' main story, he's said to drink the anachronistic White Lady cocktail (it wasn't invented until ~1920). A Tom Collins would be more historically accurate and has a fairly similar flavor profile... Also, if you're wondering why I didn't give Alfons a Bloody Mary, it's because it also would be anachronistic, as it seems that at the earliest it was invented in the 1920s.

Roger Barel: Beefsteak pie (1889) with imported beer A hunter needs a hearty meal so how about some beefsteak pie? Might I suggest you pair it with some imported beer such as Guinness (since 1759) if you prefer a stout, or Weihenstephaner (since 1040!) if you’d prefer a lighter beer?

If you don't consider Guinness an imported beer since Ireland became a part of the United Kingdom in 1801, you could instead enjoy some Stiegl (since 1492) or Yuengling (since 1829).

Ellis Twilight: Steamed cranberry pudding (1895) with cream sauce (1895) Ellis loves cranberry jam and whatever makes you happy... The author is happiest in winter around Christmas and steamed cranberry pudding was apparently commonly served around Christmas in the Victorian era. It just feels like a good compromise, okay?

Jude Jazza: Peach covered tart (1877) with black coffee and Woodbine unfiltered cigarettes Did you want to make sure Jude doesn't share any of his food with you? Give him a peach covered tart. Make sure you serve it with some black coffee and some Woodbine unfiltered cigarettes.

Note: While tea was growing in popularity in Victorian England, it was apparently much more common for members of the working class to drink coffee. I almost gave Jude Capstan cigarettes because they were advertised as "Navy cut cigarettes" but supposedly Woodbine, or "Woodies" (introduced in 1888) were more popular with the working class. I think even though Jude picked up a smoking habit due to his business, he would probably still smoke the cheaper, stronger Woodies.

Victor: Scones (1890) with clotted cream and black currant jam (1861) Victor is known for his scones, so obviously you both are going to be enjoying scones today. The author is writing this in July, so the jam of choice is black currant jam, since apparently that’s in season.

You can ask Victor for red currant jam (recipe on opposite page) and he’d probably oblige you, but for whatever reason, Victor gives me black currant vibes.

[leupagus]

Honestly I think there needs to be more West Wing AUs that are set in a world where "The West Wing" TV show actually existed

So I was talking with etben and whetherwoman and basically incepted myself into this extremely dumb idea, because who doesn't love a good political AU (especially in the present moment tbh)

-

Samira's alarm went off at six. She’d set it the night before, giving herself an extra ninety minutes of sleep on the assumption that none of them would get to sleep before midnight watching the early returns rolling in, states lighting up in blue or red across the half-dozen TV screens set up in the Marriott Hotel and Conference Center's main ballroom. It had almost been a disappointment when the race was called by most networks at around 11:45, plastering pictures of the Vice President (now President-Elect) next to the 286 electoral votes that had cinched the race.

The victory speech had been short and sweet; Santos had written a longer one in the event they’d lost, but in her words, “All they want to know is that you’re grateful they voted for you and that you think America’s cool. Everything else can wait until tomorrow.” In light of that, pretty much everyone had gotten hammered right after the cameras were off — the campaign staff and  the President’s staff that had tagged along with them to Minneapolis. (Robby had probably gotten the drunkest out of all of them, the visible relief that after January 20th he’d never have to be president ever again more obvious than the smell of bourbon.) 

Samira wasn’t much of a drinker herself, but even she’d indulged last night. Judging by the headache blooming between her eyebrows as she squinted at her phone, over-indulged was probably a better term. Hence this hotel room, just three flights and two hallways from the ballroom that had held about 3,500 screaming Democrats the night before. It was pitch-black in here with the curtains drawn, and the brightness of her screen was almost nauseating until she turned it all the way down.

Her notifications were a complete mess, group chats and media pop-ups vying for attention alongside her mom and stepdad’s voicemails that were probably going to involve a lot of crying from her stepdad and stout assertions that she, Dr. Samira Mohan, Communications Director of the Abbot for America Campaign, had single-handedly won them the election from her mom.

She let the phone drop face-down on the mattress and burrowed her head further into the pillow. November in Minneapolis was no joke and even with the heater on, it was cozier in this bed, curled up against the warm body that was even now wrapping a half-asleep arm around her waist, murmuring— 

There was a loud knock on the door; not the tap-tap-tap of room service or even Parker’s chipper shave-and-a-haircut salute, but someone using their fist to pound at the door. “Dr. Mohan?”

Maks’s voice — the VP’s head of security, who had a fondness for Werther’s Originals and always had cat hair on his trousers. He didn’t sound very friendly at the moment, and Samira scrambled out of bed to answer the door, tripping over something invisible in the darkness and almost eating it on the doorknob before she managed to get it open.

“What is it?” she asked, breathless from the adrenaline and a sudden looming dread. “Is the Vice President—"

Maks’s expression was dubious. “That’s what we were lead to understand last night, ma’am,” he said, bafflingly. “The President would like to speak with him, however, and it seems like neither of you are answering your phones.”

“Neither of—" Samira stared at him for a long moment before she began to put things together: Maks���s presence, the thing she’d tripped over on the way to the door, the warm body in her bed.

The shirt she’s wearing with the words BEAT NAVY emblazoned on the front.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, and for the first time in five years she saw Maks almost smile.

“I told the President we’d be able to bring the VP up in ten minutes,” he said. “Think that’s enough time?”

“Oh my God,” Samira repeated, and closed the door.

“So,” she heard from the direction of the bed (the king-size bed, she’d murmured in his ear last night, and he’d chuckled and said something about how he wasn’t much for kings but maybe he’d make an exception, his hand big and just a little sweaty as she linked her fingers with his). “Uh, good morning.”

“Oh my God,” she didn’t-quite-shriek, and slapped at the wall until the overhead light went on.

Jack — Vice President of the United States John Dickinson Abbot, now President-Elect of the United States — blinked at her from where he’d sat up. “You’ve said that a few times,” he ventured, swinging his legs over the side. “Usually you don’t invoke higher powers this early in the day.”

“That’s because you’ve never seen me this early in the day,” she hissed, going over to the small dresser attached to the desk and rummaging around for her clothes. She found some panties — the Patagonia ones she usually wore, not the lace thong she’d had on last night, premeditated, Jack had teased her as he’d pulled them off — and hopped around getting them on, almost tripping over the same goddamn thing she’d tripped over before.

It was Jack’s prosthetic, because of course it was.

“I have definitely seen you before six in the morning, doc,” he said, reaching for her — no, reaching for his leg, which she’d picked up rather than allow it to remain a hazard. “I’ve seen you before six in the morning this week.”

“Okay, yes, but you’ve never seen me before six in... this context.” She flapped her hands in the space between them to express the context, namely sleeping with her boss and the future President of the United States.

“Hard to believe Santos is our chief speechwriter and not you,” he observed, but she couldn’t help noticing his blush which — thanks to the fact that she was wearing his undershirt — she could see went all the way down his chest. She had the sudden urge to climb into his lap and press her lips against it, feel how hot his skin would be.

“How did Secret Service even let you stay here?” she demanded instead, finding a pair of slacks and hunching over to put them on. “Isn’t that kind of insane?”

“Extremely insane,” he agreed somberly as he put his prosthetic on with quick moves that revealed he’d been naked under the covers. She got another quick flash from last night, making fun of his Fruit of the Looms as they’d tumbled into bed, laughing and giddy and—

“Okay, whatever,” she said, trying to scrape all memory of last night out of her brain. “You need to get dressed and get out of here.”

Jack sighed and scrubbed at his face. “I was really hoping to get more respect after I’d won the election,” he said mournfully.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Samira snarled, wrestling Jack’s stupid undershirt off and throwing it at his head, “would you prefer Mister Vice President or Mister President-Elect when I tell you to get out of my room after our one-night stand?”

He looked up at her with a wounded expression, though his eyes did take a brief detour at her breasts until she scowled at him and crossed her arms over her chest. “One-night stand as in—"

“Oh, no,” she said firmly. “We are not doing this again.”

“Was it that bad?” he asked, wincing. “I know it’s been a while—"

She resisted the urge to stomp her foot. This guy was unbelievable. She should never have voted for him. “That’s not relevant!”

“…I meant for me,” he said evenly. He put his undershirt on and Samira grabbed her bra from where it had gotten flung over the TV, fastening it just as Jack’s head reappeared. “Aw,” he added glumly.

“It wasn’t bad,” she said, because she had never been able to resist Jack Abbot’s sad expression and really that fact alone should have warned her off this campaign from the start. “It was… really good. Great, actually."

“Gotta say, wasn’t expecting you to sound so annoyed about it,” Jack commented, and Samira would’ve explained exactly why she was so annoyed except Maks started banging on the door again and Samira really wasn’t in the mood to have to explain to President Rabinovitch why his Vice President and successor was taking so long to put his pants on.

"I could have been a doctor," she muttered, going over to the door.

"You are a doctor," Jack called after her.

"I mean a real doctor, with a stethoscope and whatever else it is they have," she snapped as she hauled the door open, remembering just after she did so that she hadn't yet put an actual shirt on.

[girlsoutlate]

this is my new account, so i'm reposting my 1 piece of work, hope you enjoy!!

readers thoughts are in pink, ever so light implied john price x reader, light questionable behaviour from men (not 141)

thinking about subtle sarcastic reader, especially to the type of man she'd encounter while working in the army. being a civilian and a woman many on base just looked over her, or looked too intensely at certain parts of her. but after months of working she's found her place, she's now respected by those who surround her. but what happens when some higher ups come and visit?

working closely with the 141 was no easy task. going from mundane paperwork to the flurry of action from a mission was difficult for you to handle, let alone helping them. you'd grown closer to them though, no more bouts of shyness stopping you from being yourself. instead you'd grown in to steady workplace banter with all.

unfortunately today couldn't be one of those days as some ever so important higher ups were holding a meeting with the 141, and since you handle the majority of the paperwork you were so graciously invited to attend.

you wished you had a little bit more time to prepare for this. these were important people, who wouldn't be nervous? apart from soap who appeared with a shit-eating grin at your office door, gifting you another surprise meeting. or gaz who could charm any conversation his way a bit too easily, with suave compliments and easy-going humour. don't forget ghost who doesn't even need to look engaged because of his mask, or be expected to speak due to his... unique personality. oh and the captain has been to countless of these meetings, so he can't empathise with you either.

but, one thing you could all agree on is that meetings were incredibly boring. for two reasons mostly. either the attendees were so dense it seemed they hadn't stepped on planet earth before, let alone a military base. or the subject matter was so bland you all wondered why there needed to be a meeting in the first place.

as your heels tapped hastily along the hallway you wondered which it would be. arriving barely on time with a tight clutch on haphazardly organised documents and a cup of coffee you opened the door, and had an inkling it wouldn't be any. you were met with two male voices. one high, clipped and plummy, the other harsh and american.

"-- that's what i expected from someone of her-oh hello! nice to finally meet you" the man at the head of the table said. an older, short and stout man with thin wire-rimmed glasses and a black tailored suit. a typical english man in an authoritative position. "ah, sorry i was late you'll have to excuse me. i thought to bring my extra notes, i hope i didn't make you wait long." you replied. "not at all, my colleague mr sullivan and i were discussing stories from our base". your gaze flicked over to what must be the source of the american voice. perfectly gold hair stuck down with copious amounts of gel, paired with lightly tanned skin and a too white smile didn't make it hard to guess. "civilians eh?" the taller man began "don't know what's up with the ones here, especially the woman we were just talki-"

"right" prices deep gravely voice cut over the grating one "meeting should start we're all 'ere". murmurs of agreement filled the room, and so did glances between the 141 that you didn't pick upon. however you did notice they were unusually quiet though you brushed it off, they were probably tired. "gosh where are my manners" the man at the head of the table exclaimed "my name is mr buckton and i'll be leading this meeting." briskly taking a few steps towards you he shook your hand roughly. being polite you attempted to make eye contact, yet his eyes were still looking straight ahead? lingering only on your chest for a moment he then made eye contact with you, a wide grin crept on his face. "come, your seat is next to mine" he prompted, gesturing you to walk infront of him and take your seat. as you walked infront of him his eyes now travelled further south. a small grimace shared from gaz to soap went undetected by the three sitting at the top of the table. mr buckton at the head, you to his left and then the captain and ghost next to you. opposite was mr sullivan, with gaz then soap next to him. with you all seated the meeting began.

for once the meeting was actually worth being held. despite it not being anything too serious you did well, even with your nerves. you answered questions and expanded in the points of others. as you suggested plans of action mr buckton steadily kept his eyes on you, while mr sullivan constantly scribbled notes down. soon enough the meeting was a breeze. well for about twenty minutes. across from you, mr sullivan was very inquisitive about anything you said. asking you to back it up or to show proof. not thinking much of it you obliged. it was a little odd but you knew your stuff and why not show off infront of higher ups? however the sentiment was not shared with the rest of the 141. who even asked for evidence about evidence? they understood wanting clarification on certain things, but it was growing incessant now. you were capable of your job and they knew that - that's why you were there. price especially helped you in the growing awkwardness; his job had never been so easy with you working underneath him. gaz and soap constantly gave eachother questioning glances, not wanting to explicitly speak up if their captain didn't. ghost was pissed he couldn't hide his eyes rolling as well as his scowl behind his balaclava. although they were growing increasingly annoyed the meeting continued, with more ridiculous questions being asked. professionalism was continued with a grim expression for another twenty minutes or so. hardly.

until mr sullivan basically dislocated his back by stretching in his chair with an exaggerated yawn leaving his cavernous mouth. "thought you woulda brought coffee since you kept us waiting for so long, cant believe you didn't make me some fresh". with beady eyes on you he smiled lazily. oh he has to be joking you thought to yourself there's no way this guy is real. play them at their own game. "why would i make more? i've already got some for myself" you smiled sickly back at him back, one that gaz has used on you many times when he's late giving you a report.

the table fell unusually silent again, and that's when you noticed it. the crackling of unease filling the air. sharp eyes from the 141 darted from eachother to you, to mr sullivan and back again.

"don't be so mean, i'm literally a dying man" he snarkily replied, eyeing you coolly. "one can hope" ghost muttered under his breath.

"i have urgent needs that need to be taken care of, won't you help?". mr sullivan continued, a slimy smile displayed as he noted the effect his badly hidden innuendo had on you. you felt your cheeks warm. he smirked at this, finally affecting you after bugging you the whole bloody meeting. fuck impressing him he's an arsehole.

"well, i'm sure you'll be alright by yourself. seems it happens a lot." you said back, indifferent. as soon as that left your mouth a strange sharp bark that hastily turned in to a cough came from soap. all heads from the table whipped to look at him. "pardon me" he shakily said, quickly taking a sip of his drink, watery eyes not straying from the blank wall above ghosts head.

"let's get back on track hmm?" mr buckton suggested "so cheeky, must be that time of the month". he turned to you with an eyebrow raised with an impish grin.

what. what the actual fuck. not only was this unprofessional, but who even though if that? let alone say it out loud.

price coughed uncomfortably and turned away. gaz and ghost looked at eachother in disbelief. and soap was finding that wall even more interesting. surely it could not get any worse.

"oh you all know what women are like, don't pretend. especially when they're frustrated" mr buckton let out a giggle "you know from work". you actually spluttered, eyes wide with disbelief. the feeling of unease in the air was now a full jolt of electricity. just as you felt price boiling with anger you leaned forwards to mr buckton. if everyone on the table wasn't watching you, they certainly were now.

"tell me" you said. mr buckton looked at you shocked, mouth gaping open. "tell me what women are like. you know i've been so airheaded this last week i hardly know my left from my right!". just to amp it up a little you slowly crossed your arms just underneath your chest, accentuating it. "you've explained so much to me this meeting surely you could explain this?"

the 141's eyes grew to the size of saucers, there's no way these two would actually fall for this? right? at this point mr bucktons and mr sullivans jaws were practically falling off. the latter was sadly the quickest to start talking 'so, when women start-". a smart rap in the door interrupted. a male voice said seriously

"emergency call for you mr buckton".

"oh, oh you must excuse us. i have to end this meeting" mr buckton declared "i simply cant miss this". messily shuffling their papers together both men swiftly said their goodbyes to you all. with that they just about made it out the door without tripping over their own legs.

a second passed after the door banged shut before gaz burst out in howls of laughter, clutching his ribs, soon joined by soap who could barely look at the wall for any longer. ghost stared at the door muttering who knows what under his breath and the captain sat there with his gaze fixated on the table mortified. he turned his head to you apologising profusely and asking if you're okay.

you just nodded vaguely and replied "men"

all likes, reblogs and comments are so appreciated!! this is my first time writing something properly so i hope you enjoyed it

[thatweirdtranny]

i got a beer 😌

by talos i need a beer