#Custom T-Shirts No Minimum

[printingstore02]

Unlock Your Creativity with Custom T-Shirts: No Minimum Orders Required at 3v Printing Store in Atlanta

In the bustling city of Atlanta, where creativity knows no bounds, 3v Printing Store stands out as a beacon for individuals and businesses alike seeking personalized apparel solutions. Specializing in DTG (Direct-to-Garment) printing, we offer a revolutionary approach to custom t-shirt creation that transcends traditional methods.

One of the most significant advantages of choosing 3v Printing Store is our commitment to flexibility. Unlike many printing services that impose minimum order quantities, we believe in empowering our customers with the freedom to express themselves without constraints. Whether you need a single custom t-shirt for a special occasion or a diverse range of designs for your team or event, we've got you covered.

Our DTG printing technology enables us to reproduce intricate designs, vibrant colors, and subtle details with unparalleled accuracy and quality. From elaborate graphics and photographic prints to bold statements and minimalist designs, the possibilities are endless. No matter how complex your vision, our experienced team ensures that every detail is faithfully rendered on the fabric of your choice.

Beyond the absence of minimum order requirements, 3v Printing Store prides itself on delivering exceptional customer service and quick turnaround times. We understand that deadlines matter, which is why we strive to expedite the printing process without compromising on quality. Whether you're planning a last-minute event or need a rapid replenishment of your merchandise, you can rely on us to meet your needs promptly and efficiently.

Moreover, our commitment to sustainability sets us apart in an industry often plagued by environmental concerns. We prioritize eco-friendly practices throughout our operations, from utilizing water-based inks to minimizing waste and energy consumption. With 3v Printing Store, you can feel good about your custom t-shirts knowing that they're produced with the planet in mind.

Located in the vibrant heart of Atlanta, our storefront serves as a creative hub where individuals and businesses converge to bring their visions to life. Our knowledgeable staff is always on hand to provide guidance, inspiration, and technical expertise, ensuring that your custom t-shirt experience exceeds expectations.

Whether you're a local artist looking to showcase your designs, a small business seeking branded merchandise, or an individual celebrating a special milestone, 3v Printing Store welcomes you with open arms. Explore the endless possibilities of custom t-shirts with no minimum orders and experience the difference of DTG printing in Atlanta.

At 3v Printing Store, we believe that everyone deserves to wear their uniqueness proudly. With our custom t-shirts and DTG printing services in Atlanta, express yourself without limitations or minimum orders.

[3vprintingstore05]

Express Yourself with 3v Printing Store: Custom T-Shirts No Minimum, Custom Hoodies No Minimum

In a world that celebrates individuality, 3v Printing Store is your go-to destination for expressing your unique style through custom apparel. Whether you're looking for custom t-shirts or hoodies, we break the traditional barriers by offering a no minimum order requirement, allowing you to order a single piece tailored just for you.

Our custom t-shirts no minimum are crafted with care, using top-notch materials to guarantee comfort and durability. The possibilities are endless – imprint your favorite quotes, showcase your artistic creations, or commemorate special occasions with personalized messages. At 3v Printing Store, we understand that every person has a distinct taste, and our no minimum policy ensures that you can bring your vision to life without worrying about large quantities.

For those chilly days or to make a bold fashion statement, our custom hoodies no minimum are the perfect canvas for your imagination. Whether you're designing for a group event, sports team, or just for yourself, our printing technology ensures vibrant and long-lasting prints. With 3v Printing Store, you're not just getting a hoodie; you're getting a unique piece of wearable art.

Our user-friendly design tool lets you unleash your creativity, allowing you to upload your own artwork or choose from our extensive library of graphics and fonts. Personalizing your apparel has never been easier, and with our commitment to quality, you can trust that your custom t-shirts and hoodies will be a true reflection of your style.

At 3v Printing Store, we take pride in offering a seamless and affordable customization experience. No matter if you're an individual looking for a single custom t-shirt or a group in need of personalized hoodies, our no minimum order policy ensures that everyone gets the same exceptional service.

Embrace your uniqueness and let your creativity shine with 3v Printing Store's custom t-shirts no minimum and custom hoodies no minimum – because expressing yourself has never been this easy.

[printpapausa]

Are you searching for the most effective way to promote your business? Consider cheap t-shirt printing. Apart from being affordable, it comes with many benefits. Let’s take a look. 

[sewwhatcustomapparels]

The Power of Personalized Fashion: Custom T-Shirt Services by Sew What Custom Apparels

In an age where personal expression and brand identity are more significant than ever, custom T-shirts have become a powerful tool for individuals and organizations alike. Sew What Custom Apparels is at the forefront of this trend, offering top-notch custom T-shirt services that cater to a diverse range of needs. From unique personal designs to cohesive corporate branding, Sew What Custom Apparels ensures your vision is brought to life with quality and creativity.

Unparalleled Quality and Craftsmanship

At Sew What Custom Apparels, quality is the cornerstone of everything we do. Our custom T-shirts are made from premium fabrics that provide comfort and durability. We employ advanced printing techniques, including screen printing, digital printing, and embroidery, to ensure that your designs are vibrant, precise, and long-lasting. Our attention to detail and commitment to excellence mean that each T-shirt not only looks great but also stands the test of time.

Tailored Designs for Every Occasion

One of the standout features of Sew What Custom Apparels is our ability to cater to a wide array of design needs. Whether you’re an entrepreneur looking to promote your brand, a sports team aiming for a unified look, or an individual wanting to express your unique style, we’ve got you covered. Our skilled design team works closely with you to understand your vision and create a custom design that perfectly captures your message. From simple logos to intricate graphics, no design is too complex for us to handle.

Versatile Printing Methods

Choosing the right printing method is crucial to achieving the best results for your custom T-shirts. Sew What Custom Apparels offers multiple printing options, each with its own advantages:

Screen Printing: Ideal for bulk orders, screen printing provides vibrant colors and high durability. It’s perfect for designs with few colors and large, bold graphics.

Digital Printing: This method offers flexibility for small batches and detailed, multi-colored designs. It’s perfect for intricate graphics and photographs.

Embroidery: For a touch of sophistication and durability, embroidery is the way to go. It’s perfect for adding a professional look to your custom T-shirts.

Eco-Friendly Commitment

Sew What Custom Apparels is dedicated to sustainability. We use eco-friendly inks and materials whenever possible and employ responsible sourcing practices to minimize our environmental footprint. When you choose us, you’re not only getting high-quality custom T-shirts but also supporting a company that cares about the planet.

Easy and Efficient Process

We’ve streamlined our process to make ordering custom T-shirts as easy as possible:

Consultation: Contact us to discuss your project. Our team will guide you through the options and help you choose the best fit for your needs.

Design: Work with our design team to create a custom design that meets your specifications.

Selection: Choose from a wide range of T-shirt styles, colors, and sizes.

Printing: We’ll select the most suitable printing method for your design and start production.

Delivery: Your custom T-shirts will be delivered to your doorstep, ready to wear and enjoy.

Customer Satisfaction Guaranteed

Our commitment to quality and customer satisfaction has earned us rave reviews from clients:

“Sew What Custom Apparels exceeded our expectations. The T-shirts for our event were perfect, and the quality was outstanding.” – Mark A.

“The custom T-shirts we ordered for our team look fantastic. The design process was smooth, and the final product was even better than we imagined.” – Lisa B.

“I needed a unique gift for my friend’s birthday, and the custom T-shirt from Sew What was a hit. The quality and design were top-notch.” – James C.

Get Started with Sew What Custom Apparels

Ready to make a statement with custom T-shirts? Visit sewwhatcustomapparels.com to learn more about our services and start your order. Whether for personal use, promotional purposes, or special events, Sew What Custom Apparels is your go-to source for high-quality, custom-designed T-shirts that stand out from the crowd.

Express yourself with Sew What Custom Apparels—where your ideas become reality.

[idesignpacific]

Idesigns - Customizable Long Sleeve T-shirts

Hey everyone! For those looking to Stand Out this summer, check out our customizable Long sleeve t-shirts! We have a variety of colors and sizes available to make sure you find the right fit. Get creative and show your style today with iDesigns!

[ladytemeraire]

The main thought ringing in my head at the three-quarter mark of Jenny Nicholson's Star Wars Hotel video is how badly Disney missed the mark on not targeting the demographic of LARPers, cosplayers, and RenFest nerds as opposed to... whoever the hell they were actually targeting, with that combination of experience and price point.

Like. Not to further out myself as a massive goddamn dork, but there was a span of nearly ten years where I was going to the Ohio RenFest at least once a season, every season. And even there, the years where I went in some form of costume and played along with the actors as opposed to wearing jeans and a t-shirt, my experience was so much richer. There was such a different level of banter and playfulness and entertainment when I actively leaned into the immersion. I had so much fun interacting with the shopkeeps and cast members as an elf or random Fantasy Medieval Maiden, because they saw the costume and on some level went, "You! You are One Of Us!" and matched that energy, and thus gave me the chance to match it in return.

(One year, early on, when my "costume" was a frilly blouse, leggings, boots, elf ears, and a hastily sewn cloak, I had a random older gentleman run up to our group, press a gold coin into my palms, kiss the back of my hand in a very respectful and courtly manner, and disappear into the crowd. No context, no further story or plot or interaction, but almost fifteen years later I still have that gold coin on a shelf of tchotchkes.)

Watching every time Jenny tried so desperately to lean into the Galactic StarCruiser/overall Star Wars experience, to actively engage with the story and the characters, only to be lowkey ignored or actively rebuffed or scorned, legitimately broke my heart a little. (The bit in the experience finale where she was like "it felt like we were supposed to respond somehow, but I didn't because it was embarrassing, which is its own form of Force torture" was simultaneously hilarious and extremely relatable and incredibly sad.) Setting aside the issues with the app and tech, let alone the refusal to address legitimate complaints until she took to Twitter, not even getting a hint of reciprocal interaction from the actors when your choices supposedly matter in your overall experience would be so incredibly disheartening.

Ohio RenFest tickets were about $20 when I started going in high school, plus whatever food and merchandise you wanted to buy. Nowadays, even with inflation, they're still only $35 for adult tickets, which gets you access to everything, and you can absolutely get a full day's experience out of that with only the additional cost for food and beverages. I cannot fathom spending six thousand fecking dollars for two days ("two dollars per person per minute" will live rent free in my head for a while) on what is supposedly an immersive experience, marketed as living out your Star Wars story, only to get the absolute bare minimum in return. It really feels like such an indicator of how modern-day Disney is willing to cut corners as much as possible while leaning on brand recognition, and especially on nostalgia, in order to milk every last red cent out of their customers, until they run out of both money and goodwill. And that is so, so incredibly sad.

[intheorangebedroom]

Tonight you belong to me, prologue

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town. 

This is the beginning of what you wished had no end.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, orange besties 🧡 See series masterlist for extensive a/n blurb and especially for trigger warnings. Tread carefully. Ily 🧡 Please be gentle, I'm terrified 🫣

Word count: 5.1k

[series masterlist] * [next]

Prologue: In The Beginning

He comes to you every Friday. 

He gets in after dark. He is gone before dawn. 

In this shady motel on the outskirts of town, where no one will recognise your car. The curtains are yellow, and the carpet is brown. There’s a dollar store painting of the Appalachian above the bed, and the tap runs either trickling and scalding or high pressure and cold. 

You hated that in particular, in the beginning. Now you don’t care. You don’t wash him off your skin anymore. Not until you’ve got no other choice. 

Because he can’t mark you, you’d been firm on that point, he likes to come on your skin. 

When he’d finally spoke, that very first time, he’d told you he was Frankie, but you assume it’s not his real name. Which is fine, you didn’t give him your real name either. 

“Frankie” had been far subtler than you, regretful, perhaps, you like to entertain the delusion, when he’d hinted that you couldn’t leave any trace on his body. 

And, in the beginning, you couldn’t imagine that it would ever matter. 

You were wrong. 

You were wrong about a lot of things, in the beginning. 

—

Friday night. Again. 

The swinging door creaks on its hinges to let in the regulars at random intervals. Mostly men, mostly middle-aged, mostly unshaven. Mostly clad in the working-class uniform of jeans, boots and t-shirt. Few of them sit around the round wooden tables. The bar isn’t large, there’s only four of those.  

When they come in small parties, the men favour the two pools on the right. They’re lined with blue felt. The casing is made of plywood. No one ever plays darts, no one ever feeds the jukebox. Its electric cord lays unplugged on the floor, coiled like a sad sagging tail. 

If they walk in alone, they tend to sit at the bar. Head turned toward the giant television screen hung on the wall to their left, where younger men in more colourful uniforms fight, run, kick or throw balls in all shapes and sizes. Its noise is at the forefront, the middle-aged men’s conversations a low humming sound that falls into the background. 

The long and angled bar itself takes up most of the rectangular room’s space. The counter is stripped-down to the bare minimum. Stainless steel, easy to clean, practical. Four beer taps and a gambling machine and beyond the counter, a large mirror with three rows of dusty liquor bottles. 

Food is served, occasionally, as evidenced by the paper napkins dispensers and the two yellow and red plastic condiment bottles on each table. 

The barman runs the place on his own. You drink here every Friday evening, and you’ve never seen more than six customers at once, you included. Admittedly, you might not be very observant. 

Being observant requires endurance, far more than you possess and are willing to deploy and direct towards others. You’re not selfish, not in the least. But you’re tired. You’ve been tired for years. There’s no rational explanation for your exhaustion. No honourable, awe-inspiring, valid ground. You don’t even know what wears you out. It might be sadness, disappointment, or boredom. Or all three in equal parts. All you know is that, come Friday night, your head needs the support of the gray wall behind you.

The creaking noise on your left signals the arrival of another customer, stomping in with a sure gait. Your eyes stay shut. You don’t come to the very aptly named Hole in The Wall seeking the company of other people, whoever they may be. 

You come here to hide for a few hours, between the styrofoam ceiling and the dusty carpeted floor. To drink your week away in peace, but not in nerve-racking silence. Alcohol, you found out at a young age, has interesting properties: it blurs out the sharp edges of your dark thoughts in just the right amount. 

Back in spring, when you stepped in here for the very first time, you looked comically out of place in your corporate attire, and you did raise quite a few eyebrows from the other patrons. Five months later, they must have learned to see past the charade of your overpriced clothes, because none of them pays you any mind anymore. It’s better than anonymity: it’s casual indifference.

You loosen your grip around your tall cocktail glass and let the condensation drip down onto the cardboard coaster. Reluctantly, you lift your weary eyelids to locate the square napkin lying somewhere on the table and dry your fingertips on it.

That’s when you see him taking a seat at the counter, directly across from your small table. 

Years from now, you will still remember the precise circumstances of your first, brief encounter, even though you’re not fully paying attention yet. Nothing indicates tonight will be any different. Nothing suggests you are about to live through a pivotal moment in your existence.

Details will stand out, however. Mostly visual, surprisingly, given the dim lighting of the place. The back of his trucker hat, midnight blue plastic mesh, flattening the dark curls on his nape. The washed out denim of his shirt, worked-in, greenish in the diffuse artificial light, pulled taut across his back, as he sits facing away from you. 

The square shape of his shoulders is backlit against the bar’s mirror. Your empty gaze finds the solid slope of his broad silhouette, and you let it rest there, lazily following his movements whenever he picks up his glass. It’s the same comfort you find when you rest your empty head against the hard wall. It’s aimless, inconsequential.

Later, on different kinds of Friday nights, the sight of his muscles bunching as he tugs off his shirt will bring you back to this very moment. The thought will reshape into a sharp, wistful ache deep inside your heart. What would have happened, to you, to him, if he had chosen to stop for a drink at another bar, somewhere further down the road? What if you had done the same, back in April? 

For now, your mind is blessedly blank.

Does he catch your reflection in the mirror? Does he feel your gaze on the back of his head? 

After a while, how long, you cannot tell, he pivots slowly on his stool, grounded and dense. Slowly, like a mountain would if a mountain came to life and decided to walk into the ocean. He doesn’t turn around completely, just enough to look at you, one of his arms still propped on top of the counter. 

The right side of his face is darkened by the shadow from the brim of his hat, but you can make out the pronounced crease in his brow. His eyes are black, and unfathomable, like the ocean at night, but alight with a bright glimmer. They find yours instantly. 

Something shifts inside your rib cage, something close to the heart, close to pain. 

You feel exposed, entirely bare. Your breathing subsides, you cannot move, trapped in a nightmare-like stretch of time as he glares down at you, immobile, impressive, gigantic. Dark eyes boring into yours. You’re drowning in them. 

You don’t want it to end. 

Inevitably, he breaks eye-contact, and swivels back toward the mirror. He sits still for a few seconds, before grabbing his glass to finish his beer in long gulps. 

You watch him lift his hat and brush his hair to the side with a large hand, and he’s out the door less than a minute later, without so much as a glance in your direction, a conscious choice, given the minute proportions of the place. 

He leaves you sitting there, with your brow pinched and your empty drink, struggling to understand the rippling effects of his massive presence on your body and your brain.

You bring your fingers to your chest and rub them over your sternum, where the shifting sensation continues to prickle. 

Neither a second drink nor a third helps dull the feeling, but a fourth one is not an option if you want to get home without a DUI. 

It follows you into the darkness of the deserted parking lot, on the drive home and into the glass prison of your clinically clean apartment. It’s there when you get into bed, when you lie wide awake at 3am next to your sleeping fiancé, and it’s still there when you wake up, hungover and sore, four hours later. 

Nestled between your lungs. The memory of his cold hard stare. Of his soft sad eyes. 

It bypasses your most foolproof diversions of painful pleasure and pleasurable pain. Your attempts at hard work and your compulsive distractions. It robs you of your appetite, of your lucidity, of your ability to rest. It corners you in the first floor toilet of your office building on a Thursday morning, on the verge of a panic attack, until you consider calling your sister for help. 

Ava would figure it out. She’d get you out of that loop in which you’ve locked yourself up, she’d know what to say. With her crude words and her unforgiving formulations, she’d admonish your silly overreaction and dismissively rebuke your daydreams over a mundane interaction, probably throwing in something about your heteronormative fantasies. 

Dude, you’re all worked up because of a staring contest with a rando in a dive bar? she’d say. She’d toss the rhetorical question at your face, you can hear her as if you’ve already sweated through the conversation. 

She’s often harsh but she’s always right. 

And normally, you’d be seeking that out. For your little sister to bully some good sense back into your nebulous brain. 

But something has shifted. 

Dark curls, thick fingers, flexing shoulders. Solid arms. Cold, hard stare. 

He abraded something on the surface of your skin, and you don’t think you’re capable of withstanding Ava’s sarcasm in your current state. 

By the following Friday, you feel so vulnerable you consider going to another place, or not going out at all. 

Only, the alternative is worse. 

You walk into The Hole in The Wall convinced that your unsteady gait is betraying your apprehension, squinting to adjust to the dim light of the place. The bar is nearly empty, as always, save for a couple of bearded graying men you vaguely recall having seen here before. They all look the same to you, anyway. Another thing you hate about yourself.

The barman tells you to sit while he prepares your drink. The gesture is kind but uncustomary, and it only serves to increase your uneasy feeling. 

Within an hour of waiting, because that's what you've been doing, you register with an icy trickle of shame dripping down your sides, you realise he won’t be coming. 

That man’s presence here last week is the very definition of sheer happenstance. Nothing more. Nothing else. If anything, you’ve been a nuisance to him, ogling him while he was simply trying to unwind with an afterwork drink. 

You’ll never see him again. 

And it’s fine. You’ll move on, drift back into drifting, avoiding at all costs to process what happened to you when you met his gaze. The tree hiding the forest. 

When you walk up to the counter to order your second drink, the question slips away from you. 

“Can I have the same thing the man in the trucker hat had last Friday, please?”

The barman looks up at you from the tray of clean dishes he's pulling out of the dishwasher and he huffs. He’s handsome, by most standards, you notice for the very first time. Very tall, and broad, green-eyed with a three-day stubble. He’s probably a couple of years above forty. His head is shaved bald. He’s manly in a burly, albeit fatherly way. 

“Oh sweetheart, d’you know how many guys with a trucker hat I see here every day?”

It’s not meant to make you feel small, his tone is gentle. It’s a straightforward, factual answer. 

“What do you wanna drink?” he asks when you don’t answer. “Tired of that G&T yet? Cos I got good beer. This is a beer place, you know? Wanna try a light blonde, to start? Something stronger? An IPA?”

What do you want. You’ve been drinking gin all your life because that’s what your mother always has. Starting at 5pm in the afternoon. Would you, indeed, like to try a light blonde? Something stronger? An IPA, to start? 

It’s a brand-new world unfurling in front of you, a yellow brick road paved with what-do-you-wants.

“Sure,” you nod, “I can try an IPA.”

—

The barman goes by the name of Mark. He’s also the owner of The Hole in The Wall, you learn. Bought the place two years ago, after a painful divorce. A cliché, he adds, with a charming, self-deprecating smile.

The interaction’s short and altogether not unpleasant, and the beer, to your surprise, is fresh and enjoyable. It’s much tastier, in fact, than the cheap, tepid gin you’ve been sipping so far. It gets you drunk just as fast, but this time when you leave the bar, your mind is quiet, if not at ease. 

The following week, a heatwave hits the Tampa Bay. The melting asphalt sticks to your leather soles, like your sweaty clothes to your clammy skin, like your brooding mood to your dampened dreams. In a couple of days eventually, August will draw to an end, but the summer won’t end with it. It never truly does. It taunts you all year round, a sweltering reminder of how much you hate living here.

And if it wasn’t for the humidity, you’d be jogging the short distance between your car and the cool haven of the air-conditioned bar. 

You push the swinging door forward, eyes shut in anticipation of the blinding darkness and you stand in the entrance for a few seconds. The familiar and comforting smell of moldy dust mixed with beer yeast greets your senses as you take in the chill air grazing your naked arms. 

And then you reopen your eyes. 

He’s here. 

Trucker hat, blue jeans, gray T-shirt. Different clothes, same silhouette. He’s sitting at your table, his position a magnified echo of yours two weeks ago, hand loosely wrapped around his pint, seemingly asleep with his head propped against the wall. 

Mark looks at you and tilts his head in his direction, wiggling an eyebrow with a silent question of “Is this the guy you were asking about?”

Your breathing’s so loud you think everyone must hear it over the droning television. Mark’s brow furrows with incomprehension at the alarm widening your eyes, and you anchor yourself to his face, walking toward him in slow motion, climbing on the first high stool you reach.

“Hey. You ok?”

You stretch your lips in a wince of a smile.

“So? What will it be today? Wanna try a Free Dive? It’s local.”

You nod in silence, but then he grabs a large glass, and you ask tentatively, “Can I have only half a pint?”

Fuck, your mouth is so dry.

Behind you, to your right, you feel more than you hear the man shift in his chair.

Mark sighs, his left hand paused on the tap handle. 

“I don’t have beer glasses this small, sweetheart. Get a pint, the first one’s on me, okay?”

You reiterate your silent nod. He places the beer in front of you, and you swallow the first swigs too quickly. The back of your throat throbs with the fast flowing intake of the cold liquid, or perhaps it’s because of the frantic beating of your heart.

He’s getting up now, you can tell by the friction sound of the chair dragging on the carpeted floor, and your frightened expression turns downright pleading as you hear him close the distance between you.  

He’s at your back, sliding his thick naked arm past yours to return his empty glass to the counter. His movements are slow, deliberate. You get a whiff of his scent, a masculine musk, with a faint smell of laundry detergent, it’s wholesome, safety, comfort. You turn your head. He’s looking at you. Looking at you with intent.

He’s so tall you have to lift your chin to hold his gaze. Hard cold stare, soft sad eyes, it’s swirling violently inside your exhausted chest and he’s leaving again already, walking toward the door like nothing just happened.

He pulls it inward and you watch him exit the bar into the dusk light.

Did he come back for you? Are you going insane? 

Sixty-seven seconds. Sixty-seven seconds is the time it takes you to decide your next move. The one that’s going to forever change your life. The one that could be everything or turn out meaningless. 

“I’ll be right back,” you tell Mark, sliding your handbag on the counter and you stand up to follow him outside.

The sunset sky is a pink shade of orange. Shadows are stretching long onto the asphalt, drawing a distorted world upside-down. 

He’s not here anymore, you waited too fucking long. You quickly scan the parked vehicles on the other side of the road to your right, and the parking lot in front of you, but it’s empty, save for your anthracite sedan, a black truck and what you assume must be Mark’s old SUV, because you see it every week. 

“Fuck,” you breathe out, pressing your fingers to your sternum. 

You look to your left, where the parking ends. There’s a white utility vehicle advertising a plumbing service and a dark blue city car. Beyond them, the lot extends into a narrow stretch of gravel behind the small rectangular building. There’s a pile of junk, and the tailgate of a red truck.

Your hand drops to your side and you start walking toward it, going around the white van. 

He’s there. He’s waiting for you by the front of the red truck, behind the building. His hands propped on his waist, head down, hidden under his cap. 

You keep walking toward him, the sound of your shoes on the dirty ground grating your ears, but you stop short when he raises his head, fuck he looks even taller at this distance, with his elbows spread.

It’s like he senses your apprehension, or perhaps he shares it, because he folds his arms over his chest, hugging himself. 

For the very first time, you can fully make out his face. Strong features, a strong curvy nose, a patchy beard peppering a sharp jaw, and plush lips. Your gaze follows the solid column of his neck down to his suprasternal point peeking above the V-collar of his worn-out t-shirt, before it’s drawn back to his eyes.

He stands there perfectly still for you to detail.

Above you, the sky has turned a rusty blue. The humidity is stifling. It’s Friday the 30th, 2019, 8.17pm.

“What do you want?”

His voice is deep, and low, barely louder than a murmur yet intense, his words full and round. 

The question, however legitimate, hits you square in the solar plexus, right under your aching sternum. You fear that if you don’t speak fast enough, he’ll leave you again, alone with the memory of his soft sad eyes and his hard cold stare. 

“I don’t know,” you whisper, and god, if it’s true, what are you doing here? 

He huffs, and it’s the very sound of disillusion. His eyes grow dimmer, you think you’re not the one darkening them. Unfolding his arms, he removes his hat and takes a step closer, then another. You could touch him, if you reached out with your arm stretched. 

He looks at you like he’s already seen how your story ends. 

You could back away. You don’t. 

He moves slowly, thick body thrumming with undiluted strength and unreleased tension, eyes searching yours, giving you the time to leave, should leaving be what you choose, should you turn around and run before the hanging threat breaks like dark stormy clouds and drench you soaked. 

He slowly moves forward until he’s towering over you, until his chest touches your breasts, until the pilled cotton of his t-shirt catches at the satin material of your blouse. His scent floods your senses, he leans down into the curve of your neck and inhales you there, long, deep, unhurried. You hold your breath, still, in turn, for his exploration, nails digging into your palms, heart tripping.  

And then, he touches you. With his lips, a feather-like caress over the soft skin under your ear. Your eyes flutter shut, your thoughts are suspended.

“This what you want?” he murmurs.

His words sink under your skin, they harden your nipples, raise goosebumps on your nape in the muggy evening heat.  

“Yes.”

The cap falls onto the gravel. His hands go to your hips. Clutching you there with a rough grip and he’s tugging you closer, flush to his chest. He licks up a broad stripe along the line of your throat, pivots with you in his arms and backs you into the side of the truck, you have to grab his forearms to keep your balance. 

A guttural sound catches in his throat, like a grunt he tries to hold back, for your touch, for the taste of your skin, for your pliant docility.

Your head rolls back, you’ve gone weeks without a skin on skin contact, and now this man is hunched over you, his body swallowing yours, this stranger who’s infected your dreams with his cold hard stare and his soft sad eyes, his mouth roaming the expanse of your throat, short beard prickling your skin, and the shifting sensation inside your chest drops to your core where it catches fire.

His kisses are lips, teeth and tongue, rough and scraping at you raw in all the right ways, they trail up along your neck, under your jaw, and when they find your lips, he presses you harder into him. He tastes like beer, unfamiliar, you want to get used to it. 

The seams of your blouse strain when he pulls it out of your skirt with an impatient tug. His hands slither under the hem and find the naked skin of your back. His palms are strong, rugged and scalding and his fingertips calloused, they make your skin sizzle underneath their pressing, crackle like snapping wood, like fireworks at a summer county fair, like sweet candy wrapping. 

You're leaking hot and sticky between your hips, responding with your entire body, opening up for him, letting his tongue in past your lips with pathetic grateful little moans, winding your arms around his shoulders, over the cording muscles of his back, musky sweat dampening his t-shirt. The thick, solid shape of him, that got etched behind your eyelids.

You’re a want and a need and an empty flutter, entangled with him, whoever he may be, his tongue swirling inside your mouth, the scrape of his teeth on your lower lip, his splayed hands covering your back, his knee spreading your legs open. 

He’s voracious, harsh in his own need, snatching from you what you’re already willing to give, angling your head with a sharp pull on your hair to deepen his kiss, grunting his approval when you moan at the sting. 

Arousal keeps dripping down your fold where his thigh prods firm and brawny against the black material of your skirt that hinders the pressure. 

He growls, frustration rumbling low and menacing inside his throat. He grabs your ass and squeezes, thick middle finger pushing against the fabric of your clothes into the cleft between your cheeks and you jolt, leaping forward further into him. His belt buckle bites into the soft flesh of your belly, right where you're burning empty and wanting and shameless for him. You feel him hot and hard against your hip, and he tightens his hold, cages you within him. 

He’s big all over, larger than life proportions, you surrender to the fact with your lust-drunk mind, from the height of his frame to the girth of his sex, from his grip on your senses to the sorrow in his eyes. 

It blooms inside you like pain, blossoms of mahogany red spreading along your limbs in relentless waves, the power he already wields over you and you don’t even know his name.  

You buck between his arms, a first and very last attempt at freeing yourself, unconvincing with the scrap of your fingernails along the pebbled skin of his neck, and you press back into him again, squirming against his throbbing length, offering him some friction.  

He pulls out all of sudden, breaking the kiss, and you're left panting, ankles swaying, you’d drop to the gravel without the support of the truck, still sun-warm in the early evening, yet colder than his feverish body. 

He shakes his head with a silent no, his shoulders heaving, a wordless warning hissed through his clenched bared teeth. The simmering anger under the surface only makes you want him more, the unyielding restraint shining dark in his eyes.  

But it’s over. You know it. He gave you this, and took it back. With shaky hands, you smooth down the wrinkles of your blouse where he’s bunched it in his fists. You lick his taste off your trembling lip. You will not cry. 

He shakes his head again, you watch him through welling tears, confused, eyes flickering between his. 

Behind him, the city car’s engine revs up to a start, aggressive headlights backlighting him. His throat bobs up and down in chiaroscuro as he swallows hard. You know what you must look like in the crude white light. Supplicant, dependent, awaiting. Disheveled by his hand. Tires grate on the gravel as the car reverses away from you into the night, and with it the headlights, leaving you standing in the brown city night, urban semi darkness, and you see him shut his eyes. 

He smiles, a puzzling, sorrowful lift of his plush lips, and a new sort of ache washes over you. You raise forward on your tiptoes to peck a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth. His entire frame quivers for you. A muscle clenches in his jaw, the deepening crease in his brow redefines his traits in shadows. 

He leans into you, like he wants you but he doesn’t want to want you, like he’s giving in but not entirely, because giving in would be the end of him, of you.

The flat of his palm to the swell of your breast, and he kneads your soft flesh, slowly at first, growing urgent. The back of your head hits the truck’s window when he pinches your nipple, hard, with two fingers, and you bite down a moan. 

He’s engulfing you again, lips latched around your other nipple, tongue swirling and licking through your blouse and your thin bra and you hold on to him, you cling to his frame when he bunches up your skirt around your waist, leather boot nudging your foot to the side, cock throbbing on your hip, slick dripping down your walls. 

“Stop me,” his mouth brushes the shell of your ear. It’s not a dare, it’s not a plea, it’s your last chance to back down before the free fall. 

Your pulse stutters, you arch into him without hesitation, but he pins you back against the truck with his chest, cupping you through your underwear and he curses into your neck at the sticky leaking mess he finds there.

Your naked leg hitches up rigid and tense against his leg, curled fingers, curled toes, and he hooks his index into the cotton of your panties. 

A brief stroke of his knuckles into the soft, smooth dip between your sex and your inner thigh, unexpectedly tender, before he parts your soaked lips with his two middle fingers, coating them in your sticky slick desire, and he sinks them inside your empty cunt. 

You crumble around the intrusion, forehead hitting his collarbone, slack-mouthed, a short exhale of a silent “oh.” He brings his left hand to the crown of your head and cradles you there, while his fingers pump in and out of your heat fast and rough. His thumb glides through your folds and starts rubbing at your clit, deft and precise, and you shudder between his arms, you slump into his hold. 

He keeps stroking your hair, gentle soothing sounds murmured into your ear as he fucks you raw with his hand, attuned to your moans and your every reaction, gauging what you can take before his fingers curl deeper inside your cunt, merciless, thumb pressing tight circles on your bud at an increasing pace.  

Your breathing comes in ragged and short while his intensifies. It’s pouring into your ear hot and overwhelming and you’re dissolving. Sweat beading at your temples, heat raising from his exerted muscles. 

You focus on the sensation of his flexing muscles under your clawing hands to stave off your building orgasm, it’s growing bright and blinding, searing and violent but it’s inevitable, and soon, too soon, your release flows hot and sticky into his hand. Your whines resound inside his chest but he keeps going, low husks of shhh, come on now, that’s it, until your trapped body trashes with the overstimulation.  

It’s like he can’t let go, pressing his nose heavily to the side of your face, and you struggle to resurface, blood thrumming in your veins, his angry cock pulsating against your hip. 

You let out a dry sob when he slides out of you and the rubber band of your panties slaps your sensitive skin. You don’t miss the flat drag of his tongue licking your taste off his palm, you furrow your fingers deeper into his arm with a short clench of your eyes. 

“Fuck,” your hear him quietly groan, and his fingers disappear into his mouth. 

You want to stay tucked up against him, curled up into his hold. You could live the rest of your life there, you think, between his hands and his scent, between his chest and his truck. 

You lock your ankles and your knees, hoping they will not fail you and you stand, pushing away from him and into the side of the truck. You readjust your skirt, slide it down, palm it smooth. Brush the damp hair from your forehead with the back of your trembling hand.

In your peripheral, he’s leaning down, picking up his hat from the ground and combing his fingers through his hair before he sets the cap back on his head.

You look up dazed and heavy-lidded and you brace yourself before meeting his gaze, cold hard stare, soft sad eyes, and he says,

“I’m Frankie.”

****

Bonus (having déjà vu? that's normal 😝 Gonna use this gif at the end of every first chapter I manage to yank out of my crazy in love brain):

Taglist (thank you 🧡 if you don't wish to be tagged anymore, just drop me a DM 🧡): @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @nicolethered @littleone65 @the-rambling-nerd @saintbedelia @pedrostories @trickstersp8 @deadmantis @hbc8 @princessdjarin @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos @gracie7209 @mrsparknuts @mylostloversbookmarks @its-nebuleuse @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine @all-the-way-down-here

[kafka-ish]

I think if Art wasn’t as serious about tennis he’d be such a coworker. Maybe it’d be in between summers at Stanford and it’s your first week there. He’s scheduled to train you, show you the ropes but when you first walk in he thinks you’re just another customer, a really pretty customer that’s got him changing up the script. Hey! How’s it going? What can I do for you? Find everything alright? He’s already thinking of ways he can slip you his number, maybe he’ll write it on your receipt. And he’s typing in his ID to give you his discount, anything until you say, “Actually, I work here.”

Art stops typing. Looks up, completely dumbstruck because you’re too pretty to be selling yourself out for some minimum wage corporation, to be doing any sort of labor. You need to be taken care of; any reason you should step foot in here would be to pick out a new tennis racket for a match you have. But you’re here. You work here. So he cancels out the order and says something about how he’ll get you a t-shirt, stay there.

He’ll take you to the back where the employee bathrooms are. You watch his fingers when he punches the numbers. “It’s like a six,” he says, and you think about that every time you use the code to get in. He waits for you outside the door while you’re changing, wishing he could get a glimpse, wishing he could be on the other side. He gets hard just thinking about it. He thinks about the kind of bra you’re wearing, if you’re wearing one, what you look like underneath the fabric. And he thinks you look so cute in that work-issued uniform even if the collar of your shirt isn’t folded over correctly - it only gives him the urge to reach over and fix it. Sorry, he says when he retracts his hand and sees the look you give him. He doesn’t mean it, not entirely, by the way a smile starts working its way on his face.

Art would give you a tour before you get started. He wants to show you around and he loves that he gets to be the first one to make an impression. Fucking revels in it. But he’s also weighted with the worry of making a good impression so some of his delivery is awkward: this is the stockroom it’s where we get stuff to… stock / we separate brands in sections so if someone asks where adidas is you can point to the three lines back there / managements making us ask everyone if they wanna round up their change but you don’t have to. I just ask anyone who’s paying cash. Or if they’re cute. The system makes you put their email in. He flushes a little because he doesn’t know why he says that last part.

I think Art would be so patient when he’s training you. He would take his time to over-explain everything and he doesn’t realize he comes off sounding like a douche. Telling you what all the buttons mean and asking if you want to come with him when he’s about to stock something just so you can see where it is for next time, obviously. But it’s just an excuse to talk to you!! He doesn’t know how and he figures since you both work there it’s an easy in and you think it’s so adorable that because it’s a slow day he’s pretending to be your first customer, gathering random items, having you scan them, and reminding you to ask if he wants to round up his change for charity.

“Not today”

“Okay, your total will be—”

“Hold on. You don’t want my email?”

“Well, you said no so…”

“No. Convince me. Really try and convince me.”He wants to know what lengths you’d go for him if this is how you’d happen to meet. So you say, okay it’s for this charity you guys are having.

“Say it’s for homeless animals. They eat that shit up,” Art lets you in on this piece of information like the manipulator he is.

“Is that what you do?”

And Art would make sure to stay near you just in case you need something, always bags the customers’ items so you can focus on the transaction. He loves the way you say his name, how timid you are when you whisper Art when you need help. He imagines that’s how you say it when he’s eating you out.

[bobateababe]

~winding down~

Distressing after a long day Ft: Nanami nsfw-ish

Nanami

Nanami always rushes home to you. After a long day of complaining customers and demanding bosses, the first thing he needs to see, to feel and touch, is you. And it's always been you.

He opens the door, and the scent of freshly baked bread fills his nose..he inhales deeply, closing his eyes and savoring the moment of being home. He doesn't bother taking off his jacket, and only does a bare minimum of kicking off his shoes and making himself to the kitchen.

And there you stand, humming jovially in the kitchen...baking his bread, wearing his clothes, in his kitchen. The sight was so pure he might've dropped dead. Snaking his arms around your waist he attacks your face and neck with kisses. You yelp, squealing as he showers you with his love. "Ken!" you laugh. "I didn't even hear you come in!"

He softly bites your neck, sinking his teeth into the soft smooth texture of your skin, inhaling your sweet, strawberry-like scent.

"mmh" he sighs. "Been waiting all day f'you princess..fuck, is that my shirt?" You chuckle, smirking slightly. "mhm! It's just so comfy ken, and it smells just like you." "I've missed you sweetheart. I swear I was goanna go crazy in that damn office if I had to work overtime" he says nuzzling his face in your neck.

You exhale, "oh I know," You capture his lips in a kiss, kissing him softly and sensually. " I know my darling, I'd go crazy too if you left me alone to make bread by myself."

He chuckles, turning you over to face him and kissing your lips softly multiple times. "mmmh.." he sneaks his hand under your shirt, grabbing one of your tits and squeezing slightly. "Ken.." you whisper.."T-the bread isn't finished yet."

"Fuck the bread" he whispers huskily, then grabs your neck and attacks your lips with a full on kiss. "I just want you...you're all I need." He lifts up your shirt completely, sucking on each of your nipples before biting them.

He looks up at you from your breasts suddenly, his eyes wide and blown with lust. "How have I not made you my wife?" he sighs looking in your eyes. Tears of happiness form in yours...a happy, lovesick smile resting on your face. "I think we ought to get married, don't you Ken?" He smiles and shakes his head, slightly pulling down the hem of your shorts and kissing your womb..."Keep up that talk, and I'll just have to put a baby inside you."

[sweetlikehoneystingslikeabee]

This is a weird question but do you have any hcs about what the rogues wear to bed? I can picture what the Gotham City Sirens would wear but not the male rogues.

Does Two-Face have custom pajamas sewn together? Can Black Mask just throw on a t-shirt, or are his pjs as dressy as his regular clothes? Are all of Riddler's pjs green? What the hell would Scarecrow even wear?

The people need to know!

"Pajama Party" Rogue Party

Quick picks!

TW: None

Riddler

They are not all green, but green shows up often even in his out of work clothing. Either as trim or the spare speckles of paint or markers he's used. His pajamas are not free from this.

He likes soft, but also good-looking pajamas (in case of guests). However... does he wear them? On the occasions he actually goes to bed and doesn't just pass out over an invention or plans, yes! Otherwise...

Penguin

Silk. Monogrammed. Paid way too damn much for them but they're also perfectly tailored to his... proportions. He figures it's not that dissimilar to how he has to have his suits customized. The soft feeling of them against his skin is blissful. Makes him feel rich.

Mad Hatter

Has multiple nightshirts in a variety of colors and patterns. He doesn't actually like full two-piece pajamas because they remind him far too much of the scrub-like outfits he was made to wear in Arkham.

You could 100% get him on wearing kigurumi onsies if they were cute enough.

Scarecrow

He has a similar habit to Edward in that he falls asleep working pretty often. When he sets aside to actually go to bed, he wears a lot of old t-shirts with sweatpants. Many of them are from his days of being a professor (bought from the college store) or ones he came across over the years.

Music Meister

Buys cheesy print pajama sets on sale at like Kohl's or target. Multiple have music notes or even musical puns on the shirt. One shirt just says "I wish I lived in a musical" and he answers the door holding a yellow mug with the word "playbill" on it.

Victor Zsasz

Sleeps in whatever he's wearing that night or the nude. Have fun finding out which one when he gets in bed with you. Sometimes has the decency to pull off clothing that's caked with blood. At minimum he won't wear clothes with wet blood on them to bed! The bar is low but it's still a bar, right?

Killer Croc

There's a fair amount of times he sleeps in the nude simply because he already has a harder time finding clothing in his size. If he does wear something out of respect for whatever current company, it's a tank top with the largest sweats he could find. They're still stretched out from being over his thighs.

Harley Quinn

Oversized t-shirt or tank top with pajama shorts. She has a couple cute kigurumi onesies (including a hyena set to match her babies) for in the winter that she adores. Ultimate comfort creature when it comes to bed time.

Poison Ivy

It depends on if she's expecting to "impress" anybody. If she is, it's straight up lingerie that compliments against her green-hued skin. Teddies, corsets, whatever is going to make her target that much more susceptible. If not, it's a light silk robe where shes' still very attractive, it's just for her and not anyone else. Harley bought her a flannel set during a particularly harsh winter that she still pulls out when it gets too cold.

Two-Face

Jokes on you, it's not a pajama set split in the middle! ...It's actually a robe set along with rabbit slippers that are split in the middle. One white rabbit slipper, one pink and several multicolored robes sewn together from pairs. Harvey is kind of boring, he likes either monochrome with no pattern or stripes. Harv's side is leopard print or something else showy.

Black Mask

When he was growing up/a young man before the Incidents, he would wear five-hundred dollar minimum pajamas that had designer names on them. He still owns some of those sets so he does in fact wear them from time to time. However, his are more likely to have a fancier aesthetic than him spending that much money still.

Mr. Freeze

Due to the temperature requirements of his body, there are times he'll sleep in the suit. Is it good for him? Absolutely not, it does murder to his back. Plus the suit is a bit heavy for a mattress... he does have a sleeping chamber set to a low temperature where he'll effectively sleep in trunks on the bed with only a sheet covering him.

Ra's al-Ghul

Usually sleeps shirtless in a loose pair of cotton pants when he's closer to home where it's much warmer. In Gotham, though? In the winter? He'll wear thicker robes that will actually keep him warm.

Bane

He wears boxers to bed. He'll combine it with socks in the winter. It doesn't get more complex than that, honestly.

[printingstore02]

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[3vprintingstore05]

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[printpapausa]

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[haewangsong]

About this whole situation

i feel like the least you can do

is to just... not say you're going to keep enjoying the game.

Enjoy the game, no one can hold you accountable for that, but the moment you're posting on social media about the fact you're going to just ignore everything and support or say that project moon did their best you're just harming the artist they unfairly fired. I know it's hard. I know how devastating it is but at least,

the best thing you can do if you cannot bring yourself to stop playing- is to stay silent.

Also just for some context: (it gets kind of long but long story short. PJ Moon did not make this choice to protect the artist, but they did it because it is the easiest thing.)

Korean women that are angry are angry because this has happened before- in 2016, a VA that wore a t-shirt that was associated with feminism went under attack to the same group of DC incels claiming she's a feminist and should be fired for that.

What the company did- was to fire her, creating a whole whirlpool of situation that got other women targeted and fired. I'm pretty sure the VA here in question got blacklisted from the gaming company.

There are sources revealing that from 2016 to 2020, over 14 women got fired because of similar accusation, and I'm not even sure it counts freelancers that were just silently put off to work.

The National Human Rights Commission of Korea, for fucks sake, has made a testament on 2020 in how the censorship on feminism happening in the gaming industry is a hate crime.

So what Project Moon did here was, it was to do the easiest and most inhumane choice possible, which was to fire a female artist over a similar controversy, bringing the nightmare-ish situation that happened in 2016 back all over again. In 2023. That's why people are disappointed. That's why Korean women feel threatened by this situation. Saying that this was all to protect Vellmori is an insult to her, and to the other female workers who wrongly loose their jobs over situations like these.

The hilarious thing over this whole situation? Every single company that has fired their workers like that has fumbled over themselves! The company and the game that fired the VA got ultimately labeled as a feminist game and lost its male customers too- because they had to keep firing people the moment incels didn't like them, until they couldn't. So incels are saying the game went down because of feminism. Another game? The representative is on fire because to no one's (except for the incels) surprise they fired all of the workers in the project because the game wasn't making any money anymore- making these fired workers reveal the fact that they've been mistreated, overworked, and abused over years. That is two example of many! But what about the games that did the extremely brave and difficult decision to just ignore the incels and go on with their game?

They're fine. They're okay. They had their lows just when the incels attacked, but Korean chauvinist pigs are just so childish that either they decide that it isn't fun to dox people anymore, or comfort themselves saying that oh well, they aren't that feminist after all or, well it's too fun so I don't care it's feminist! This are the pigs PJ Moon cave in. There are games that are boring as hell from smaller companies that survived and are still surviving because their customers are loyal, because the customers know that at least they won't fire their workers over stupid reasonings, the bare minimum!

So just- stop saying you're going to support the game- at least please don't for a while. I can't stop you from playing, but this is something PJ Moon has to take on themselves or this will create the same nightmare-ish situation that happened in 2016 all over again. Don't enable them. Stop giving them the message this is okay. Stop saying it was to support Vellmori, because ruining a young artist's career by telling her she's fired in a phone call after 11pm is not protection. It will never be.

[whumpster-fire]

How to Swear Like a Steam Engine (And Other Sentient Locomotive Slang)

If there’s one thing engines enjoy doing, it’s complaining and insulting each other, and they’ve developed their own slang to do it. Phrases like “fusspot,” “cinders and ashes!” and “bossy boiler” are common in the Railway Series, but there are many other terms.

The following list of phrases and expressions are commonly used by engines on American railroads, in particular on the Jefferson Great Divide Railway in the mountain west of the US. Some may be common in Sodor and the rest of Britain as well, others are specific to America. There are other lists on the internet documenting the various IRL slang used by human employees, and a lot of that is used by engines as well, but this is specifically the slang terms that were more or less developed within the locomotive subculture.

All Smoke and No Steam: All show and no substance. A person or engine who talks a good game or puts a lot of effort into appearing to be helpful but can’t back it up. An engine that’s making a huge cloud of smoke and a lot of noise looks impressive but if what’s coming out the smokestack is all smoke and no steam it’s not actually doing any work. Can also mean empty words or promises that won’t be fulfilled in the abstract.

“He’s all smoke and no steam!” = talks a good game, is all hat and no cattle, etc.

“That rule’s all smoke and no steam” can mean a rule isn’t / won’t be enforced, or that it will be enforced but it doesn’t actually make things better and is just a way of looking like something’s being done. E.g. “The new safety regulations are all smoke and no steam, management’s still going to come down harder for being late than for safety violations.”

“Their threats are all smoke and no steam” (when referring to customers/clients/workers) = they complain loudly but they’re not actually going to do anything like stop buying tickets, or ship freight by other means, or quit, or strike.

Amtrash: Derogatory term for Amtrak and its engines, used by freight railroad engines. Amtrak is the USA’s quasi-nationalized long-distance passenger rail network. Most of the track it runs on is owned by other railroads which are freight-only, and there’s quite a bit of resentment between them. See also: Useless Pacific, Nofucks Southern, Satan Fe, All Trains Smell Funny, Borington Northern, Misery Pacific, Criminally Slow and X-pensive, Southern Pathetic, Big Nasty Stupid Fuckers. The US only had its railroads forced into a Get Along T-shirt for like three years and that was during WWI-era, so there are a lot of rivalries between different railroads there.

Ballast Plow: A large truck, especially a flatbed, that stalls at a crossing – because if it gets hit it’s likely to bend around the engine’s front and be dragged down the track instead of getting thrown aside, digging into the embankment and scattering ballast everywhere.

Buckled Rail: A buckled rail (usually happens due to thermal expansion of the track in a heatwave) is at a minimum extremely painful to run over and can often damage engines or rolling stock and derail trains. “I need that like a buckled rail!”

Cattle Cars / Cattle: Derogatory term for a passenger train / passengers, particularly unruly and annoying passengers. Engines aren’t supposed to say this within earshot of passengers (and coaches get offended too).

Cowboy / Car Wrangler / Rodeo Clown: Shunter/switcher engines. Definitely popularized in the American West.

Did you fill your Tender/Bunker from the Ash Pit?: Ash doesn’t burn and would make a mess all over the cab. Basically translates to “Who pissed in your cornflakes?”Can also refer to an engine who has no steam or energy.

“Did you fill your bunker from the ash pit this morning? You’ve done nothing but complain and insult everyone all day!”

“Did you fill your tender from the ash pit today? I might as well be pulling this train by myself!”

Did They Fill Your Tender With Rocks?: Less profane version of the above.

Drink Hard Water: Hard water, i.e. water with lots of mineral content, is not good for a steam engine because mineral deposits (boiler sludge and scale) can accumulate in the boiler and other plumbing and be very uncomfortable / difficult to clean out.

“Go drink hard water!” = Go jump in a lake / go to hell / go fuck yourself. Basically “go somewhere else and have a miserable time while you’re there.”

“I’d rather drink hard water!” or “That’s like drinking hard water!” = Hell No.

Dry Crownsheet: VERY strong expression meaning an engine is tired or frustrated to the breaking point and about to lose their temper. “My crownsheet’s dry” could be compared to “I’m going to blow a fuse” or “Blow my stack” but that doesn’t cover the intensity. The crownsheet is the top of a locomotive’s firebox, and allowing the water level in the boiler to drop low enough that the crownsheet is exposed can cause it to overheat, weaken, and fail, which is a common cause of boiler explosions. If that weren’t bad enough water suddenly being reintroduced to an overheated crown sheet can flash to steam and cause a catastrophic pressure spike. Blowing a fuse means a safety mechanism has activated to prevent catastrophe. A steam locomotive with a dry crownsheet means the safety mechanisms have already failed and is on the verge of a devastating explosion. Used figuratively, means an engine has run out of ability to cope with stress and is one more tiny irritation away from taking it out on whoever’s unlucky enough to have added the proverbial final straw, or just anyone nearby, without regard to consequences for themselves.

“Don’t worry, it wasn’t your fault. He rolled into the yard with his crownsheet dry” = He wasn’t angry because of you, he was already angry and something was going to set him off sooner or later.

“Listen, I got a dry crownsheet from my last train. If any of you cars start anything I’m about ready to jump the track into the river and pull you all along with me.”

“Please just get me out of this station! My crownsheet’s about dry and if I have to hear the passengers complaining I don’t think I can take it!”

Find a Scrapyard: This basically means “Kill yourself,” so… not a very nice thing to say.

Fire Me Dry: Basically equivalent to “Fuck me” as an expression of exasperation. If an engine’s fire was lit with no water in the boiler at all, it might not cause an explosion but would still destroy the firebox. Apparently Furness Railway No. 1 was severely damaged and later scrapped due to this.

Flatlanders: Insult used on many mountain railways to make fun of engines and crews from plains regions who aren’t used to running the difficult routes.

“Boy, if those flatlanders think one in one-twenty’s a hill, I can’t wait to see ‘em coming up the pass!”

“They way some of these flatlanders talk you’d think you can’t climb anything over 1% without cog wheels.”

General Sherman, Sherman’s Army, Sherman’s Necktie: Refers to “Sherman’s Neckties,” a tactic of destroying sections of rail by heating them and twisting or bending them until they were unusable. This phrase is pretty much US-specific, and likely originated with engines used in the US Civil War picking up the term from humans, but has spread to subsequent generations of engines who often weren’t taught the historical context and only knew that Sherman was a man who commanded an army and destroyed a lot of railroad track. General Sherman and his army have become almost folkloric figures that various causes of track wear and failure are attributed to, sort of like Jack Frost. Can also refer to incompetent track maintenance / rough and poorly maintained track, or to the crews and vehicles responsible for it. Though they sometimes use the term for an engine who’s particularly hard on the rails or otherwise damages the track.

“That crew really did a General Sherman of a job with these rails.” = Sarcastically saying the maintenance crew made the rails even worse.

“Be careful at that junction, it’s a real Sherman’s Necktie.”

“Ouch! Who laid these ties, General Sherman?”

“That new road-rail’s a real General Sherman. Take any track he’s been over slow or you might break an axle.”

“Hey, General Sherman, try checking a switch is set right before you barge into it.”

“In case you’re wondering why the spur’s been closed all day, General Sherman over here spun his wheels ‘til he damn near hit ballast.” (Diesels in multiple unit operation can occasionally spin their wheels on a stopped train for so long they grind/melt halfway through the rails)

“They ought to put you in a siding and necktie the rails” (similar to “They should lock you up and throw away the key)

“Keep an eye on the track ahead of you: General Sherman’s hard at work on days like this” = a warning given in very hot weather that could cause buckling of the rails.

Getting the Rails Painted: A euphemism for a person or animal being run over by a train. Alternately: “Paint my wheels” or “Paint my pilot.” Obviously no sane engine wants this to happen but some engines use this phrase as gallows humor between each other. Occasionally said to humans who break safety rules by a furious engine.

“What the hell are you doing walking between moving freight cars? You almost painted the rails back there!”

“I heard they got the rails painted at the 58th Street Crossing?” “Yeah. From what I heard, poor guy must’ve been drunk and fell asleep on the tracks. They didn’t say whose train it was but Robbie’s been in the shed all week.”

“Some idiot ducked under the crossing gates on a bike and just about painted my pilot.”

“I got my pilot painted by a herd of deer yesterday. I swear, once they get on the track they must think they’re a train, they just run along it!”

Go Get Your Ash Pan Raked: Removing the ash that collects under an engine’s firebox could be considered the closest steam engine equivalent to using the bathroom, but the connotations aren’t quite the same. Cleaning out the ash pan is a task firemen hate, so telling an engine to get their ash pan raked basically means “Go be someone else’s problem for a while (instead of mine)” Basically translates to "Fuck off."

Hotbox / Hot Axle: A hotbox or hot axle is an overheating axle and/or bearing box, usually on rolling stock but sometimes on engines. “One hot axle stops a train” is a common proverb that means a small missed detail can cause a massive inconvenience or impediment – compare to “For want of a nail” or “One bad apple spoils the barrel.” It doesn’t matter how many cars are on a train, a single hotbox can force the entire thing to stop until the problem is fixed. In slang use, of course, a hotbox can refer to anything small and seemingly irrelevant that manages to cause a disproportionate amount of annoyance, delay, or wasted time. It could be a physical object, a rule or procedure or an event. It is also a common insult: sometimes directed at engines, but more often at people or other vehicles. It basically means “killjoy” or “wet blanket,” with a specific connotation of “You and your opinion aren’t important but you are holding everyone else back / ruining things for everyone by making a ton of noise.” Common examples of hotboxes include an overly officious inspector or manager, a broken down road vehicle blocking a grade crossing, a track maintenance crew that’s working slowly and blocking multiple trains, a small weather event that still sometimes manages to delay everything, or an unruly passenger who causes an entire train to be stopped on their account (or unsuccessfully demands it be).

“Sorry I’m so late. Some drunk hotbox picked a fight with the conductor and the cops had to drag him off the train.”

“Will you quit being such a hot axle? Everyone else is enjoying the roundhouse party, if you don’t like it just sleep outside!”

“They’d better fix those jammed points soon, they’re hotboxing the whole damn yard!” (note: the use of "hotbox" as a verb among engines probably predates the drug usage)

Icicles In My Smokebox: Hyperbolic complaining about cold weather. There are many parts of a steam engine that are susceptible to things freezing where they shouldn’t, such as the feed hoses from the tender, water tanks, and possibly journal boxes and other running gear could feel stiff and numb if the oil gets cold enough. Naturally, when engines are complaining about the cold they’ll claim the hottest parts of them, which have absolutely no chance of freezing while their fire is lit, are freezing. Other variants include “Frost in my flues,” “If they put ice cream in my firebox it wouldn’t melt,” and “Cold enough to freeze your smoke halfway up the stack,” and “So cold a snowman could fire me all day long” (standing next to a firebox door shoveling coal is hot work, if it’s that cold in the cab it’s pretty darn cold)

Idiot Siding: Off the rails, specifically a safety siding where the rails end in a sand or gravel bed, or wherever a train that runs over trap points / catch points / derailers gets sent. These devices intentionally derail an uncontrolled or runaway train to prevent it from obstructing a main line or endangering people further down the track. If a train ends up here either somebody didn’t check the switch alignment, moved when they weren’t supposed to, or lost control of their train, hence the name.

If it gets any hotter my fireman’s gonna be out of a job: Hyperbolic complaining about the weather – implying that the heat of the sun on an engine’s boiler is enough to raise steam without them needing a fire.

In My Cab: Sarcastic way of saying another engine (usually) or a non-crew human is being bossy, or controlling and/or micromanaging, or giving advice on things that are none of their business. Basically meaning “You’re acting like you think you’re my driver.”

“Get out of my cab, I can sort these cars how I want!”

“Manager’s been in my cab all week.”

“Who let you in my cab?”

“Yeah, sure thing. Hey, while you’re up there in my cab, why don’tcha polish my gauges?”

Lionel Lines / Lionels: Derogatory term for narrow-gauge railways and trains, named after the popular brand of toy and model trains. Visitors to the JGD are strongly advised to NOT use this term around the resident standard-gauge engines. They are very protective of their narrow-gauge friends due to certain incidents in the past.

No Ashpan: e.g. “You’ve been running with no ashpan all day” or “He ain’t got no ashpan.” The ash pan is a tray underneath a steam engine’s firebox that collects ash and cinders that fall through the grates. An engine with no ashpan would leave a trail of red-hot cinders everywhere it went, which could be scattered by the wind from a train at speed, starting fires around the track – especially in the dry climate where the JGD is! Basically it means someone leaves a trail of destruction wherever they go. This is a very strong way of calling someone clumsy or incompetent (as in “You fuck up everything you touch”). It can also be used to refer to someone who’s rude, tactless, cruel, or toxic.

Pulling With Your Regulator: Wasting effort, doing more work than you need to. A steam engine’s power can be controlled using the regulator/throttle (reducing available steam pressure / flow rate to the valves) or by using the valve gear control (the “Johnson Bar”) to reduce the amount of time the valves are open. Controlling power and speed using the Johnson Bar (admitting small amounts of high-pressure steam into the cylinders) is more efficient than using the throttle (letting lots of low-pressure steam into the cylinders).

“Sure, you could shunt those cars like that, but you’ll be pulling with your regulator. Those grain hoppers are going out tomorrow morning and you’ll have to get ‘em out from behind everything else.”

Put on a Liquid Diet: A coal-fired or wood-fired steam engine being converted to an oil burner.

Rolling Dumpster: Insulting term for a tender. Not like a slur against tender engines, in fact it’s probably mostly tender engines who use it. E.g. “Why don’t you get that rolling dumpster off that siding and do some work for once?”

Sand in my fire and coal on my wheels: An engine feeling sick, confused, or discombobulated. Ironically oil-fired engines do actually periodically get sand thrown in their fire to clean their tubes out.

Scalding: Yelling at someone, dressing them down, treating them with cruelty. Engines can’t be physically scalded, but they know the meaning from the injuries that escaping steam can cause to humans.

“I’m sick of that stationmaster. He scalded me and my crew for running two minutes behind schedule without even asking why!”

“Geez, ask a simple question, get a scalding.”

“If that switchman isn’t fired tonight, he’ll wish he had been after the scalding I give him next time he see him. Throwing a train onto a siding at that speed could’ve derailed me, not to mention if there’d been a train there!"

Slug: Someone who blindly follows orders with no initiative or independent thought, or a yes-man or toadie. Used by diesels. A slug is an extra motor unit that can be coupled to a diesel-electric engine that draws excess power from it to provide extra traction while shunting, but a slug is not alive in the same way that tenders aren’t alive.

“Oh, company policy says, the rulebook says – quit being such a slug and live a little!”

“Yeah, the guy’s just Bernie’s slug. Always following him around hoping to be noticed. Pathetic.”

Smoke out the Stack: Similar to Water Under the Bridge. Expression meaning something’s in the past and no longer relevant.

“Hey, sorry about this morning.” “Ahh, don’t worry, that’s smoke out the stack."

Squishies: A very rude way of referring to careless yard workers and light road or rail vehicles, as well as people who trespass on tracks.

Sugar in My Fuel Tank: An unpleasant surprise. Originated in petrol-powered vehicles, but spread to diesel locomotives even though sugar in a diesel tank doesn’t really cause that much damage.

Teakettle: Insulting term for steam engines, especially small ones.

Tender-first: Doing something totally wrong, i.e. Ass-backwards. This one translates very literally. A tender engine running backwards can’t see very well and neither can its crew.

This Train’s Leaving. You can be on it, beside it, or under it: Means “My mind is made up. You can either help or leave me alone, but if you get in the way there’s going to be serious trouble.”

Thrown: Throwing a switch is what changing it from one direction to another is called, but when an engine talks about getting thrown it means being switched in an unexpected or unwanted direction, particularly at high speed. Like other types of sentient vehicle engines need a human operator to move with full control, but they also run on rails and cannot “steer.” In essence a train moves in one dimension while a car or boat moves in two and an aircraft moves in three. Even the most free-spirited engines don’t usually truly want the ability to go any which way: they like the certainty and predictability of knowing where moving forward will take them. However, engines do value the limited autonomy they do have. An engine can’t control itself without a driver, but as anyone who’s read the Railway Series will know, it is extremely difficult to move an unwilling engine. Thomas and James had runaway incidents because they were either trying to move without a driver on purpose or didn’t realize there was no one at the controls, and once they had made the choice to let themselves start moving, they couldn’t change the state of their controls by themselves. But an engine won’t move without their consent. Switches are a different matter. An engine is reliant on someone outside the cab to set the points, and being sent down the “wrong track” against their will feels very violating to many engines in a way that being physically pushed or pulled by another vehicle doesn’t. It’s like being manhandled. There is an expectation that switch operators follow the instructions of either an engine, their crew, or the dispatcher or yardmaster who is expected to tell the engine in advance where they are supposed to go. It’s also physically a jarring and unpleasant out-of-control feeling for an engine even when traveling at a safe speed – basically the train equivalent of going up or down a staircase and expecting another step that isn’t there, or suddenly hydroplaning or hitting a patch of ice in a car, or having your feet start to slide out from under you. And it’s often downright dangerous, either because a train is moving too fast for the curve of the switch and is derailed or because it’s sent into a collision on the other track or off the end of a siding (e.g. the Flying Kipper crash). Engines being engines, the term is also used hyperbolically to complain about an abrupt change of routing or scheduling with little warning, e.g. “Well, nobody told us about the special using my regular platform, until the last signal, they just threw me to Platform Five!” or “Today’s ore train was late. Dispatch gave them the tunnel instead of me so they didn’t have to stop going uphill, but I didn’t hear about it until they threw me on the passing siding!” It can also be used figuratively, similar to “thrown off track” or “thrown off,” to describe an unpleasant surprise or failure of communication.

Traveling In Style: Slang for a vehicle, especially a locomotive, being transported on a flatbed.

Tubes in a Twist / Knot: Expression of an engine (or human) being irritated, or feeling sick.

“What’s gt your tubes in a twist this morning?”

“That’ll put a knot in the foreman’s tubes for sure!”

“Are you feeling okay? You look like you’ve got a knot in your tubes!”

Turf Train: Affectionate term for farm tractors pulling multiple trailers or appliances.

Turn Your Grates: Implying that an engine has a buildup of ash on their firebox grates that is preventing their fire from getting enough air – almost always used figuratively to imply the engine’s mind is clogged with useless thoughts or strong emotions that are keeping them from thinking clearly. Or that they’re just being an idiot.

“Turn your grates before you run your mouth” = Think before you speak, in particular about whether you’re coming from a place of emotion or bias.

“Turn your grates and look at the track” = You have your mind on something other than what you’re doing, stop thinking about that and concentrate.

“Your cars are right on Spur 7 like I told you, turn your grates and look again!”

“I know the last diesel who visited was rude, but let’s turn our grates and keep an open mind about the new ones.”

Yoopers and Burlies: These are JGD-specific slang. The railroad connects to two major interstate railroads, Union Pacific and the Burlington Northern and Santa Fe Railway (BNSF). At some point some engine heard about the word “Yooper” to describe people from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, decided to start calling engines and employees from Union Pacific this, and the name stuck. “Burlies” are BNSF engines. Prior to the 1995 merge of Burlington Northern and the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway, the term was used for Burlington Northern, but there wasn’t really a term for Santa Fe engines other than “Santas” or “S-Fs.” A few engines tried to get “Reindeer” adopted as a term but it never caught on. Yoopers and Burlies are common on the JGD because both railways have trackage rights on one or more of its major routes.

You Got Your Valve Gear Backwards On the Left Side: Steam locomotives reverse by using their valve gear to change the timing of their valves. If one somehow had its valve gear operating backwards on one side, one cylinder would be trying to go in reverse and the other forward and it wouldn’t get anywhere. Used figuratively to mean “You’re sabotaging yourself” or “You’re the cause of your own problems.” Mostly used by older engines.

[daddy-dins-girl]

If there’s one thing I LOVE about Pedro Pascal it’s that he literally only owns like 5 shirts.

I feel like he’s that guy where if he opened a new account at a bank or bought a new vehicle or something and they’re like “hey, giving away free t-shirts today to every new customer” my man would wear this shirt minimum twice a week. Like he’ll just be out there representing JPMorgan on the daily because he’s a sustainability icon, thank you.