#lingo soup

[art-of-mathematics]

[Behold! Another incohernt (non-)sense post is coming!]

In German, the idiomatic expression "Der rote Faden" (literally translates to "the red thread" - The English equivalent of that idiomatic expression is "common thread".) refers to a recurring characteristic or theme (as to quote wiktionary)

- or a coherent "line" in the train of thought

- or a coherent alignment of plots in a multitude of intertwined events - as I would put it.

However, some "red threads" /"common threads" can be a bit "disheveled" in some constellations of events one could regard as "wicked problems":

... and that is where my brain.exe stopped working at knowing what I actually wanted to write here... I forgot the "red thread", as I cannot remember the final statment I actually wanted to deliver in the first place.

Yet, you see, this textpost I just wrote has like "fragments of a red thread". You see my train of thought might be full of gaps, but in the end you might still have gathered some sort of insight (Of course I refer to you having gained insight into the working mechanism of my "nonsense facility" - aka my brain /nonserious)

you see: Its a bit nonsensical, but yet, you might came to grasp what I started to attempt here... And if you have read this far: Congrats for using that much time for reading my brain dump.

Here is the quick drawing I made that inspired me to write this nonsense post:

Frontside + Backside + Light shining through = this fancy lil piece of paper:

[knotty-et-al]

Wordplay with German words:

"[Alb](T)raumschiff"

Albtraum = Nightmare

Traum = Dream

Raumschiff = spaceship

Neologism "Traumschiff" = "Dream ship"

or neologism "Albtraumschiff" = "Nightmare ship"

[onyxbird]

Saw a mention of "Thief juice: it's a mouth crime" in the Leverage tag and it sparked a glorious thought:

Brewpub menu using con names

A fair number of them look like straight-forward descriptions, nothing notable except perhaps the unusual inclusion of "the" before all of them, e.g., The Cuban Sandwich, The Cherry Pie, and The Apple Pie (most customers don't understand why the apple pie crust vents/decorations sometimes resemble life preservers, but it certainly doesn't occur to them to connect it to the very literal name).

Things turn significantly more confusing for most patrons with other menu items. Customers familiar enough with con-artist lingo recognize some of the established con names enough to figure out the naming theme, and some of them can guess at associations between some of the food and their namesake cons, but for the most part it's a mystery.

"The Fiddle Game" is Eliot's chili, at Parker's insistence. Hardison was initially a little concerned, since the "fiddle" is supposed to be an overvalued item that is actually essentially worthless, and, Parker, maybe we shouldn't be applying that to any of Eliot's food? But after Eliot gruffly cut him off and tried to pretend he wasn't a little choked up about it, Hardison decided not to stand in the way of Parker insights. (And he supposed she had technically named the chili after the con, not the fiddle itself, and the con was solid. A classic.)

No one on staff quite understands the private joke between the owners and head chef about using horsemeat in "The Lost Heir" burger--they all know it's actually bison.

And, finally, one of the most baffling to their clientele is also one of Eliot's few suggestions of non-literal con names for food, and an ongoing good-natured argument between Eliot and Hardison: Splitting a sandwich between two people with sides of soup or salad is "The Vegas Wake-Up Call." (It's like the Cuban Sandwich, but "the boyfriend shows up").

(BTW, for anyone else needing to reference Leverage con names, @glen-reeder compiled a list.)

[penvisions]

garnish {chapter 3}

Pairing: Chef! Joel Miller x Bartender! Reader

Summary: Thoughts about Joel Miller have you desperate for something you hadn't sought out in quite a while: human touch. So when your friends suggest a girls' night out, you readily agree. It's just your luck that the very man plaguing your thoughts happens to be at the bar picked out for the night.

Word Count: 6.5k

Warning: alcohol consumption, drunken interactions, creepy flirthing, unwanted attention, fighting, bar fights, nonconsensual touching (not joel), protective joel, injuries, blood, degrading talk, power dynamics, abuse of power, restaurant lingo, triggers associated with the food industry, smoking, cigarettes, joel miller is a conflicted man, kissing, drunk makeout session

A/N: this story is literally keeping me from climbing the walls in my apartment, i've applied to over 20 jobs the last few days and made even more calls to see if places were hiring. the issue isn't finding something, it's finding something willing to pay me for my experience and skill set. but i found out a local coffee shop is opening a new location and i should be getting a call back with interview times for that today, they need cooks and bakers and i can definitely do that

ao3 || series masterlist || main masterlist

It was Wednesday, your normal day off for the week, but Joel had scheduled you two hours of prep, the shift reminder notification early that morning. It had woken you up, having allowed yourself to sleep in after the rather busy shift the night before. It had been a record-breaking sales day, the concert downtown only blocks away bringing increased foot traffic. It had been a week and a half since that terrible Sunday shift where you had finally given into hunger and had ordered food only to be told you had messed up. You had gone hungry that night, nothing in your kitchen at home.

You hadn’t spoken to Joel beyond confirming that dishes were ready to go out and helping to take updated pars out to the servers’ board for them to be aware of throughout services. Lists were left atop the sandwich prep station, and you completed it every shift you had before making your way toward the bar. They were in his writing, some things new with recipe page numbers for the guidebook stored on the expo line.

You had completed a few things on your list and were moving onto the next thing when his booming voice sounded from the walk in.

“Where are the rest of the yellow onions?”

Everyone in the kitchen looked over their stations, including you. The yellow onions you had chopped up for the red lentil soup were sitting in the pot you had atop a portable burner on the left side of your station. Cutting board beside it as you chopped the carrots that were to be added next.

“Whose used yellow onions today?” His brow was furrowed, lips downturned as he gazed around the kitchen. The three confirmations of ‘here, chef’ had him moving intimidatingly through the space, the first two seemed to come out of their interaction unscathed. But you felt like you weren’t about to be so lucky.

“When did you start the prep for these? They look nearly caramelized already.” He stirred the wooden spoon resting in the deep pot, getting a feel on the state of the onions cooking inside. You had stepped aside, hands behind your back as you let him inspect your station. He turned to watch as you answered, professional air about you as you briefly met his eyes with your own. You spoke in an even tone, worried about how he was going to react. He had already proven himself comfortable with cutting you off and denying you food that you had paid with your own money. And that was when you hadn’t actually done anything to warrant that type of reaction.

“I started this half an hour ago, gathered them from the walk in as I gathered everything else, chef.”

“Did you happen to notice that you grabbed the last ones? There are none in the box, left empty on the shelf. That you too? Don’t understand the way things work here, do ya?” He turned with a sharpie held tight between his fingers and he jutted it at the dray erase board beside the walk-in door where things low in stock were to be written down. “In case anyone is unclear on how this kitchen operates: things low in stock are to be written on that board there BEFORE we run out. Boxes or containers that are emptied while grabbing items are to be discarded or put into dish, not left on the shelf for the next person to find.”

“Yes, chef!” The chorus rang out evenly throughout the room.

He turned back to the portable burner and clicked it off, turning the nob off and the whoosh of gas going out was loud in the slight hum of busy work that the kitchen returned to once he had finished speaking.

“Why don’t you go clock yourself out.”

“Chef, there-“ You tried to talk to him, let him know that you had left nearly three pounds of onions left in the box. It wasn’t empty when you left the walk-in. You had been too wrapped up in your work to notice who else had gone in afterwards, though you wouldn’t have sold them out to begin with.

“Go. Clock out, now.”

“Yes, chef.” You wouldn’t raise your face to meet his look. Trying to keep your anger in check lest you give him a real reason to go off on you. Instead, you moved to grab your sharpie laid out over the recipe binder. The small field notes pad of paper beside it with the notations for a double batch written neatly on the page it was open to. Joel blocked your movement with a sidestep, his broad figure blocking your reaching hand.

“Now means now.”

“My-“

“Is now mine. Go.”

Your eyes flicked up and you tried your best not to pin him with the annoyance that was humming through your very blood. This man was nothing but a nuisance, you had only agreed to come into the kitchen because they were short staffed. But it was degrading work, to be around this man who deemed nearly everything below par and had extreme standards for the way things were to be done. The two instances of common decency he had offered you had to have been a fluke, maybe he had been extra tired and worn out those days, didn’t mean to let his guard down. Either way, you were quickly getting over the fluctuating temperatures of his attitude. At first it had been jarring, but you weren’t about to let it get to you any longer. You were determined to face it head on or dish it back out in what ways you could safely do so without risking your job.

You were lagging outside of the back door, standing with the bar back, whose name was Millie and a server who were both on break. You each had a cigarette in hand, swapping stories about the worst pick up lines that you had been approached with. You had removed your apron, it was folded carefully in your crossbody bag to be washed when you got home, simple black long sleeve Henley along with it. That left you in your black denim with that kitschy cute heart belt buckle and a dark green racerback. You had left your hair up in its normal fashion of low buns on either side of your head, short black beanie atop your head.

“You gotta admit,” Your laughter ringing through the air accompanied by the giggles of the two girls in front of you. “He was honest, what better way to start a conversation, though I could’ve done without the-“

All the laughter cut off as the backdoor opened and Joel appeared with a bag of trash. The two younger girls snubbed out their waning cigarettes and scurried inside, deeming breaktime over with his sudden arrival. You watched as Joel tossed the bag over the lip of the nearby dumpster before removing his gloves and tossed them in as well. He removed a pack of his own cigarettes from the breast pocket of his chef’s coat, and you could see the spiral wiring of your notebook peeking out over the top of it. His eyes took in the way your lips moved as you took a long drag from your own, bringing your phone out to ignore him.

The snick snick snick of his lighter resulted in a deep grunt, and you looked at him out of the corner of your eye. The cigarette he had pulled out was between his plush lips and his dead lighter was being pushed back into the pocket of his chef’s pants. When his eyes flicked to you, your attention snapped back to your phone. He cleared his throat, and you cocked an eyebrow up at the sound, turning to give him the barest hint of attention. He was leaning heavily against the side of the building, his hands stuffed in his pockets as he regarded you.

“Do you-

“Nope.” You took the last drag before snuffing out your own cigarette and tossed the butt into the pail beside the door. You started walking toward the parking lot, your truck beeping with a press of the control in your hand. The strap of your bag over your shoulder caught the man’s eye as you began to move away.

“You’re just gonna walk off from your shift?”

“Today’s my day off, chef.” You didn’t look back at him but could tell that your words had affected him.

“Shit, I-“ He straightened up and moved away from the wall, taking a step toward you, his hands coming out from his pockets to take the unlit cigarette from between his lips.

“Don’t worry about it. Now you don’t have to worry me using up all your inventory, right?” You pulled another cigarette out from the pack still in your hand along with your phone and brought a lighter out from your own front pocket. You took a long drag and blew the smoke in his direction over your shoulder, aware of his gaze on your back and you hopped into the cab of the truck.

The next day, everything that was on your prep list had been completed and the one for today had instructions on where to find the mise for each recipe. Everything was already prepared for you and were just combining and finishing the last few steps of each one.

“Hi there, what can I get started for you?” You placed a coaster down on the bar top before a glass of water, eyes coming up as you smiled at the new guest. Your smile faltered a little when the face of your biological evolution professor beamed back at you, but you didn’t let your surprise show other than that.

“I heard a rumor that the bartender here made the best whisky drinks. Here to test out that theory.” His voice was smooth, something you had often spoken aloud to your friends that made the class lectures rather easy. His baritone deep and the ways in which he spoke with such passion and interest in his material was an added bonus to understanding the class subject matter than most.

“Let’s get to testin’, what your preferred whiskey?” You busied yourself making the drinks that had been rung up the last couple of minutes, the man having sat to the side of the well in the last seat along the right side of the bar.

“I’m a Bullet man, myself. But I’m up for whatever you think is best.”

“Oh, well, of course the one I think is best is our top shelf.” You tossed the man a playful smirk, aware that it was a possible line being crossed. But neither of you were on campus, you were at work, and he was one of your bar guests. His laugh was beautiful as he knocked his head back, the line of his throat catching shadows from the strong lights over the bar.

“I actually prefer Woodford, it’s not too expensive but its leagues above some of the stuff on the shelves like Evan Williams.”

He was funny, quick-witted. Matching your jokes as fast as he could. Bringing up documentaries he had recently seen.

“No, but like that’s the thing! There’s been no discovery of this caliber ever before, its unprecedented in nearly every aspect.” You were making a round of lemon drops for a group of girls on the other end of the bar, loading up the shaker and then securing the smaller component over it before lifting your hand and shaking it. As you did so, you reached over to grab the coup glasses you would need for the pour. A figure appeared at the well, taller than the servers and barback, who had gone on break a few minutes ago.

You glanced over at Joel, the man had his hands atop the plastic mats, eyes taking in the organized garnish container and the jars of small straws and picks for the servers to complete their drinks. You nodded at him to let him know you saw him and would be with him as soon as possible before you held the shaker tight in one hand and used the heel of your palm to knock the smaller part loose. Your hand was steady as you parted the two components enough to strain the bright pink liquid from the ice, not looking up from it.

“To actually have fossil evidence of not just any Hominid species, but of a newly discovered hominid species, with a crafted tool in their fuckin’ hand! Like, I got chills, and I was pretty sure my attention was plastered to the screen. Didn’t even touch the food I made that night. I immediately started just taking notes throughout the whole thing.”

“To be fair, it was just as intriguing to find out that the child’s body had been in the cavern wall, not even properly buried like the rest of the bodies in the Dinaledi chamber.”

“Oh my gosh, I know! That opens a whole plethora of questions about what that child was even doing, was he the one carving those symbols into the wall, was he alone- hold on one moment.” You moved over to the other side of the bar, two coup glasses cradled carefully in each hand, and you took the four of them over to the girls who had been watching you make them. They were all bright smiles and excited giggles as you told them you used Meyer lemons for a sweeter drink and added a bit of cherry juice for the color.

“She’s a busy one, guests seem to love her.” Your professor smiled over at Joel, who was watching you flit around behind the bar much like he had been admiring all night. Joel’s eyes snapped to the man beside him and he just nodded, crossing his arms over his chest.

“She knows what she’s doing.”

“Not much of a talker in class, but her papers are beyond wonders. The way her mind makes connections is amazing. And the way she uses her words so carefully, so eloquently.”

“You go to school with her?” Joel questioned, mind going over the small interactions he’s had with you recently. You tended to stutter over your words around him, as if you were hesitant to speak in the first place. He didn’t like the comparison, now, seeing you in your element and recalling the way you had always been professional around him. But this, you behind the bar and completely enthralling as you entertained so many people and mixed drinks like it was second nature. Firing back jokes and conversation as if it was the easiest thing in the world. Your laughter ringing through the space of the dining room. He felt the pull of a frown, not liking the shift he was causing in you lately.

“Oh no, school is way behind me. I’m her professor.” The grunt Joel made seemed to display his trepidation at the revelation and the man was quick to jump into defense mode. “It’s not what it looks like, she’s at work and I’m just here on a friend’s word that it’s a good place. Didn’t even know she was here until I sat down.”

“Sure.” Joel said in a tone that said he didn’t buy a word the man was saying.

You were back with them by the well, professional smile in place as you addressed Joel. You were busy tucking a receipt and some bills of money into your server’s book, secured underneath the counter and atop a cooler beside the drink station.

“Yes, chef?”

“Bourbon for the steak sauce. And whatever amber you have on tap.” He tried to muster up the courage to lighten up his face from a frown, but the way your eyes flashed away from him told him it didn’t work.

“Heard, chef.”

You busied yourself with retrieving the bottle of bourbon he had asked you to tack onto your order. He hadn’t wanted to deal with the liquor vendors himself and sure you would find a better deal than him anyway.

“It’s gonna be a 6.7 percent amber, it’s smooth and the notes of pecan to cut the malt. Only one I have on tap at the moment, that okay?” You talked over your shoulder, picking up on the waves and attention from the other patrons of the bar top, reaching to get more than the one glass needed for just Joel’s request. You poured two blondes, an IPA, and a stout and placing them in front of those who had been nursing them all night before going to pull the tap for the amber. It poured for maybe two seconds before it sputtered and compressed air forced itself out of the spicket.

“I told Millie to change out the keg last night, I’m sorry, chef. It’s gonna take me a minute before I can step away and replace it.” Your brows were furrowed in a worried expression, not wanting this to be something he used against you. You were really hoping to get something to go later, needing to finish a paper that was due tomorrow before class. He must’ve clocked the rising panic in your eyes because he squared his shoulders before shoving off the drink station.

“I gotcha, which label am I looking for?”

“Oh, um, Riverbank Red.”

“Heard.” He turned to move toward the small walk-in just behind the bar, the heavy door opening easily underneath his hands. You could hear him rustling around inside, the hiss of him removing the empty keg and then the clunk of him placing the new one in its place. The two knocks on the wall alerted you that it was all set and you pulled the tap, compressed air working its way through the hook up before foam began to stream. Letting it run for a few seconds, you turned around and grabbed a fresh pint glass for Joel’s drink. You used the previous one and filled it, cutting off the tap and took a long pull from it.

When you lowered the glass after your drink, you found two pairs of eyes on you. You looked between your professor and Joel, both on each side of the corner of the bar. Some of the foam from the outside of the glass when the tap died out had run down your chin and settled on your chest. The cut of your shirt was a little low, your simple, silver chain necklace catching the soft glow of the bar lights much like the foam.

You avoided meeting either of their gazes as you poured a second pint for Joel and walked it over. Before you could place it atop the drink station beside the bottle of bourbon already waiting, he reached out for it and his thick fingers brushed yours. His beautiful, brown eyes flashed down and caught yours, full of something you didn’t recognize, prompting you to pull your hand away as you struggled to catch your breath.

His teeth clicked with the clenching of his jaw, his hands tightening around items he came over for and he turned to make his way back to the kitchen.

“He’s not much of a charmer, is he?”

“He just has an asshole voice, don’t mind him.” With a somewhat fake smile plastered on your face, you turned back to your professor and started making him another drink as more rang through the printer. “Now, what were the most concrete dates we had archived for allusions to tool use?”

The alcohol in your system was washing your stress and anxieties away. Moving your body along to the song that was bumping from the speakers of the bar that held a small dance floor. Your friends’ bodies were moving alongside you, along with you, tangling with your own in a heady and exciting way. It was such a relief to not have any worries at the moment, only blipping thoughts of ‘oooh this is a good song’ and ‘another drink, yes please’.

You were taking a break, downing a glass of water and ordering a round of shots for everyone. There were five of you altogether and they huddled around you as you passed one to each of them, smiling widely at the bartender across from you. He just chuckled with a shake of his head and moved on down the bar to help out two waiting men. If you had been paying attention, you would’ve recognized one in a particular. But you were too preoccupied with the rather loud cheers the girls were trying to agree on before someone finally just shouted, ‘drink up, bitches!’ and you were downing the shot along with them.

The burn of it down your throat was anticipated and you gathered the empty glasses from them while they sputtered and coughed, not able to handle it as well as they normally could with already being more than tipsy. You were leaning over the bar a little, on your tip toes to place them atop the washer on the plastic pad you knew the bartender liked to gather used cups before loading them up.

A large hand found the exposed small of your back, your crop tank top allowing for the skin to be on display. It was dangerously close to the waist of your skirt, and you jerked back with a start, face contorting into one of anger.  

“Hey, who the fuck do you think you are?” You settled back on your heels, the height of them making you a little taller than normal. Your eyes swept over the crowd around the bar and found that your friends had returned to the dance floor, leaving you to deal with this on your own. Not that you couldn’t, but it would’ve been nice to have a witness. The man in question was rather tall, blonde, nice suit, but his forwardness left little to be desired.

“Just helpin’ to hold ya steady, looked like you were about to flip over the bar, little lady.”

“Keep your hands to yourself.”

“Didn’t mean to offend-“

“Yeah, well, ya did. Don’t fuckin’ touch me, got it?”

“C’mon now. You were gettin’ all close and personal with your friends, maybe I wanted a feel for myself.”

The man stepped closer to you, and you could smell the alcohol on his breath, cheap and cloying as it wafter over into your personal space. His hands were coming up as if he were going to wrap them around your hips and pull you to him. His eyes were raking slowly up and down your body, taking in the short skirt and crop tank top you had deemed appropriate for the night. The cleavage peeking out of the top of your shirt glistening with the glitter body spray you had used before leaving your apartment.

“Leave me the fuck alone.” You spat, stepping away from the man only to collide with another’s back who had been passing by.

“Watch where-“ Joel of all people turned around, a scowl on his face. You felt like a deer caught in headlights, totally caught off guard that your boss was here in the same bar. The beer in his grip had sloshed over his fingers when you slammed into him and it was dripping to the already sticky floor. There was another man beside him, similar height and build. He had the same brown eyes and you realized they must be related.

Joel’s eyes took in the slightly panicked air about you, gaze moving behind you to see the man you had been fleeing from in such a haste.

“He touch you?”

“Don’t know if that’s any of your business, old man.” The man stepped forward and hooked a finger on the strap of your crossbody, pulling you backwards and you stumbled at the bold move. “We’re just two friends having an intimate-“

You maneuvered your stumble into a pivot and raised your clenched fist to deck the guy across the face, cutting off his words. You felt the crack of his nose beneath your knuckles, the action splitting two of them open. There was a gasp and a bark of laughter from behind you.

“I said, don’t fuckin’ touch me.” You sneered, anger lighting you up from the inside out. You didn’t pay the dull ache of your new injury any mind as you brought your arm back closer to your body, but you did flinch when the man’s hands shot out and his nails scratched along your neck where he had tried to grab you.

Joel was moving with a grunt of effort before you could fully register that the man had lunged at you.

Body slamming into his and pinning him face down against the bar with a hand tight on the back of his neck. His forehead had cracked against it, and he had shouted out weakly at the pain the action must’ve caused. His arms were twisted behind up, Joel’s right one holding them tight by the wrists. As he did so, the man with Joel had pulled you away from the confrontation, hands far more gentle with you than the man now pinned to the bar.

“You okay?” Joel looked back at you, his eyes hard and his expression schooled into one of control despite the way he had just cracked that man’s head on the top of the bar. When you didn’t answer, he looked to the man who had pulled you further out of harms way. “Tommy, she okay?”

There was no time to answer him, the bartender was out from behind the bar in a second, security that checked identification alongside him and they were forcefully guiding the man toward the door. He was putting up a rather good effort, but the two men were stronger than him. He turned with one last look over his shoulder and spat at you. The spray of it startled you and the tears that formed were angry, wet, ugly things.

Suddenly, the girls were swarming you, all talking at the same time and guiding you toward the bathroom to help get you somewhere safe to gather yourself. You let them guide you away from Joel and what you assumed was his brother, not glancing over at them lest they see more of the tears than they already had.

The bathroom muffled the booming music enough to hear your own thoughts, the lights a little brighter to help you process what had just happened. The girls were dabbing wet paper towels underneath your eyes to wipe your smeared makeup, to sooth the scratch marks on your throat. They plopped you down on one of the chairs off in the corner, removing your bag from around your body and just allowed you to take however long a moment you needed. Someone fetched a bottle of water from somewhere and you gulped down half of it without taking a breath. Your hands were shaking and you lifted your hand up to inspect the damage on your knuckles.

Someone gasped and it startled you, making you jump in your seat and then the bartender was there with a first aid kit.

“Me’n my boyfriend kicked him out, some cops were walking down the way and he taken to the station.”

He said as he kneeled in front of you, tearing open a package of sterile gauze. He dabbed some disinfectant on it before gently taking your hand and patting it across the top of your hand.

You found yourself back up at the bar, seated in a stool with your bag laid over the back of it. Your friends had checked on you again and pouted at your insistence of not going to another place with them. They wished you a good rest of the night and told you to check in with them when you got home, you returned their kind words.

You downed the last dregs of your cocktail, a vodka something, and gathered your keys from your purse.

Heels heavy, you stumbled over your own feet as your head swam and the lights of the bar flared. You reached out for the back of the stool but ended up grabbing onto a man’s arm. It was warm and strong and white-hot desire raced down your spine at the contact. Bringing your face up to apologize, it was lost in your throat as you realized it was none other than Joel Miller you were holding onto. You stepped back, turning from him to properly retrieve your bag this time.

“You’re not the boss of me here, lemme go.” You struggled against the hold he had on your upper arm, where he had turned you to face him. He seemed to realize you were uncomfortable and he dropped his hand, allowing you to turn back to face the bar. Jerry looked from your annoyed expression to the man behind you, taking in the situation and trying to determine how best to deal with it.

“Hey, man, good on you and your brother for helping us get that guy earlier, but I don’t think she likes the attention.”

“She’s drunk, you really gonna let her leave alone?”

“She comes here a lot, knows her limits and she’s got me to look out after her.”

“She’s drunker ‘n you think.”

“I am not.”

“Darlin-“

“I am not your anything, Mr. Miller.” You turned back on him with such a glare he was surprised you could hold the look in your state. He could see the way your head was lolling with every turn, your movements loose and uncoordinated. “This is a public space, I am not your prep cook and you are not my boss. You can’t lord over me and refuse me food here like at work. And I want…I want French fries.”

You stumbled as you turned around to face him again with heat behind your words. Eyes flaring in anger as he tried to reach for you again. Your body sung where one of his arms wrapped around the small of your back, helping you to keep upright as your balance faltered. The heels weren’t helping. You wished you had just stayed home, the sting of being ditched by your friends, the sting of his treatment at work and the workload of your classes, all of it was a lot and tonight was supposed to help you get out of your head, not make things worse.

“You-“ You swayed on your feet, leaning back from him slightly. The length of his forearm supporting you as you did so and stabbed a finger into his chest to emphasize your next words. Ignoring the way that his chest was firm and hot through the fabric of his shirt, he would probably have chest hair and it would be as peppered as his scruff… “You’re mean.”

His brother was doing his best to smother his laughter behind a hand, but you could hear it and you pouted even more.

“Your little brother is laughing at me and you’re a meanie.” You shoved away from him again, the warmth of his arm gone from your back as you turned around to retrieve your bag from the back of your stool. “I’m leaving.”

“The hell you are, you can’t walk, let alone drive.”

“Don’t need help. I’ve been on my own for as long as I can remember.”

“Sweetheart, you-“ Tommy tried to step in, hoping that maybe he could help out the situation. It was clear they were both worried but you were just being so stubborn. Jerry was right, you didn’t like the attention, you didn’t like getting felt up and your boss had been there to witness the aftermath. That he was still there and seeing you in such a way.

“I’m not your sweetheart.” Your voice held more bite than you thought you were capable of in your current state. Tommy stepped back with his hands held up in surrender. His brows furrowed as he shared a look with his brother.

“Lemme call you a cab, please.”

“No, I don’t need anything from you. You made it clear how you feel about me, barking at me all day when I’m helping you with your kitchen because the staff don’t wanna show up and deal with you.”

“Oof, that’s a hard hit, brother.” Tommy reached over to help you drape your purse strap over your shoulder, the crossbody secure over your form and he stepped away as you pushed at his hands much like you had done with Joel. “You really did a number on her.”

“Lemme just, please, lemme take you home. Need to make sure you get home okay.” His voice was pitched quiet, leaning a little into your space with an open expression. His hands were at his sides, not reaching out to touch you again, his fists clenched at his sides. Your eyes lingered on the way his mouth formed around the words and you swallowed the harsh ones you were about to fire back at him. All you could manage was a small nod.

That’s how you found yourself in the passenger side of his own truck, waiting in a short line of a drive through.

Once your fries, and some for him too, had been passed through the window, he was following the spoken instructions to your house. Watching the way you watched things pass by the window as you munched on the salty treat in your lap out of the corner of his eye. The dried blood on your split knuckles making his stomach lurch as he thought of that man putting his hands on you and the look on your face when you tried to flee. The look on your face when you had run into him, eyes wide and panicked.

You had calmed down, now in a lazy mood after the adrenaline packed events of the night.

“You do know what you’re doin’, just don’t think I’ve ever said it out loud ‘fore now.”

“Hmm?” You rolled your head along the back of the seat to face him, bringing a fry up to the seal of your mouth as you did so. He had to look away from the sight, your entire body and demeanor relaxed. Your expression was so open and curious, eyes soft as you looked over at him. Containing none of the animosity and worry he seemed to pull from you at work as you looked him over. He was in a pair of dark wash jeans that his thighs looked good in as he drove, a simple white Henley for a shirt. It allowed for the tan of his skin to pop, the grays that speckled his hair looking good in the lights of passing cars and lamps.

“You-uh-you, nevermind.” Joel’s deep voice wavered before he cut off, not being able to handle the earnest gaze you had pinned him with, his hands tightened on the steering wheel.

“Mkay, whatever you say.” You turned back to look out with window, letting him know that your complex was around the corner.

He parked along the curb beside the gate that opened up into the parking lot. Watching him as he hopped out of the cab and toward your side of the vehicle, his expression hard to read. He was opening the door and leaning into the can to undo your seatbelt. Not wanting to risk you trying to do it and spill your fries, knowing you would probably tear up at the mishap should it occur. He said as much under his breath when you asked him what he was doing and you couldn’t help the giggles that bubbled up from your chest as you agreed with him, it would be tragic.

Once unbuckled, he reached for the fries in your hand and put them back in the bag they came in, tucking it into your purse that was still across your body.

“Will you let me help you step down?”

At your nod, his hands came around your waist, the wideness of them allowing his fingers to span across your back in a tantalizing way. He lifted you a little, holding most of your weight as you hopped down from the cab. His arms tensed around you as you felt yourself wobble, forgetting you were in heels for the entirety of the drive. Another round of giggles bubbled up and you found yourself leaning more into Joel’s space. His body was warm where you were pressed up against his front, the scent of cedar stronger tonight than it had been all those nights ago when he insisted on making you food to take home.

“I wish you liked me.” You spoke quietly into his neck, lips brushing against the skin there as you did so.

You felt his fingers twitch where they held onto you before you were pulled back a little so he could look down at you.

“Darlin’, I do like you, that’s the problem.”

“Doesn’t have to be.” You wrapped your arms around the back of his neck, pulling yourself closer to him.

“You’re not in the right state to be talkin’ about this right no-“

Surging up, you smothered the words from his lips with your own. His arms tightened around you, pulling you flush against him as he kissed you back. As if he was unable to stop himself despite the words he had just been ushering. It was all teeth and tongue, sparking heat that pooled low in your middle. A whimper sounded in the air, Joel swallowing it as he licked into your mouth. Your nails dug into the curls at the base of his neck and you pulled.

A deep groan rumbled through his chest and you pulled away to catch your breath, looking at the face of the man who had been consuming your thoughts for weeks now.

He looked back at you, took in the way your eyes were blown out and dilated, the puffiness of your swollen lips, the quick breaths you were taking to recover from his mouth on yours, the heat that he was causing was all consuming and you knew that he could feel through your skin underneath his hands. He was swooping back down to capture your lips, his hands moving up to cradle your face in his hands as he did so and you melted at the action.

Consciousness hit you like a jolt and you were shooting up from your bed. The covers fell from you to pool around your waist, and you looked around the room, nothing looked out of place but something felt off, so incredibly off. Your bag was on the bedside table, an empty greasy bag crumpled beside it and your lips were tingling with the memory of pressing them against someone else’s.

“Oh, fuck.”

You had drunkenly kissed your boss.

And he had kissed you back.

previous chapter || next chapter

[captain-mj]

Good morning afternoon evening and midnight Captain. Just wondering have you ever thought about some bad guys like Roba or Makarov or something hosting illegal dog fights but then there’s actually no dogs but instead just wolf shifters and Ghost being a victim who was forced to fight and kill to survive?

I’m just trying to help with your muzzle kink and that’s all, totally not because I wanted to see Soap being a badass dog rescuer that takes down the bad guys and comforting a shaking Ghost and gaining his trust and wrapping him in blankets and feeding him soup, nor am I desperate to see how Ghost turned from teeth baring to tail wagging when he sees Soap and give those guilt puppy eyes when seeing the scares he made back when he didn’t trust Soap and chomped on the hand that tried to feed him.

Yeah I totally don’t need to see those, just trying to help with your muzzle kink. And I definitely won’t bite you if you don’t give it to me :3

This reminded me a little of Days of Hana (don’t recommend it emotionally destroyed me) but I’ll do it for ya

Btw, I use military lingo throughout but they are just a group of rescuers. Also, Ghost is shifted like 80% of this so fair warning if you wanted him to shift back and forth.

Despite the muzzle, they did not end up fucking?? Y'all want a part 2 that is just porn ask I guess??

Soap was part of the initial bust. There were four people undercover that he was aware of, Just enough to take the guards and everyone there down without having to have too many people infiltrate the place.

He watched Gaz and Alejandro talking, pretending to be making bets. Price was closer to the arena.

Arena May be a stretch. It was a dirt floor with silver influenced chains around it to keep the wolves in.

The one in the arena was small and limping. He growled at the gate on the other end, clearly anticipating what came next.

“Bringing in…” The announcer made a drum roll and everyone quickly brought their attention back to the arena instead of the bets they were making.

“The Ghost!”

Soap frowned, not understanding the excitement. Everyone seemed to recognize the names except him and his crew. He didn’t have to wait long in suspense.

“Ex military. Brought here from Mexico after being a guard dog for a cartel leader! Undefeated champion.”

He was huge. Easily Soap’s height and built. Soft dark fur that looked like it had start getting matted. The weird thing wasn’t his size actually.

It was the design on his face. It was a skull, clearly painted on to him.

His teeth were huge and he bared them immediately. It was vicious way to go.

The other wolf started to Yelp, trying to escape the ring. And Ghost. The nerve and resolve that had been there before disappearing as soon as he appeared.

Soap couldn’t let this happen. He looked at Price who thankfully gave him the signal.

They started firing immediately and both wolves went on the defensive, hiding from the fray. Ghost met Soap’s eyes and they were so… human. While yes, Soap knew logically they were human so of course their eyes would be, it was still startling. He looked so intelligent.

Soap shot one of the guards and they quickly started arresting the voyeurs. Instead of helping them with that, Soap found how to get under the stage to where they were holding the other wolves. Most immediately shifted back, thanking him profusely.

He made his way to the arena and saw that Gaz had a gun on Ghost who was snarling. The other wolf had been hurt, but it didn’t look fatal.

Just barely though. They’d have to get him to medical fast.

“Careful, Soap.” Alejandro called out, steadying the gun. “And you don’t make a move, Ghost.”

Ghost snarled at him but stayed still, thrashing his tail. He looked so angry. So vicious. Soap worried he might lash out and kill him if he got too close. But he pushed on, getting the other wolf safe and away from Ghost before readying a leash. It was one of the one's with the control pole so as soon as he got it around Ghost's throat, they'd be home free.

Now, how the fuck would he get it around his throat. Soap stalked around Ghost but Ghost circled him back, refusing to leave himself exposed for very long.

"Listen, I want to help you, okay?" Soap tried, hoping he wasn't completely feral. If he was too far gone, they might have to put him down. He really hoped that wasn't the case. Judging by the many scars all over him, Ghost had a rough go of it.

Price shot Ghost and there was a loud bark before he collapsed, the dart hanging from his shoulder. "Took a few tranqs just in case."

Soap nodded and looked at him, giving him a thumbs up.

Ghost was put in a cage. He tried not to look at him, hoping he slept a while. Looked like he needed it.

They managed to get the names of everyone else and start working to get them home. The meticulous records the fighting ring kept made it easier.

Soap was surprised to see that what the announcer said was true. Ghost had been bought from a cartel for quite a bit of money. There was a note that he didn't really shift back, but Soap was sure once Ghost realized he had been rescued, he'd shift back and they could return him to any family he had.

Ghost woke up and Soap smiled. “There you are! Sorry for the cage, i promise it’s a formality. As soon as you shift back, we can help you.”

Ghost growled at him, clearly afraid. His eyes were huge and he was shaking.

“Come on, i don’t want to have to call you Ghost.”

He lowered his head, the paint starting to wear off.

Everyone on Soap’s team knew they weren’t real wolves, but it was easy for them to treat them as such. That was not to say it was with any cruelty. It was more wary and clinical. But Soap never had that problem. Maybe it was cognitive dissonance he had. Or didn’t have. Soap wasn’t a shrink.

Soap only saw a person there. A very scared, very hurt person.

He grabbed one of the blankets nearby and opened the cage. “I understand if it’s modesty. You can cover up if you want.”

Ghost stared, almost impassively. Like Soap spoke a language he didn’t understand.

It hit Soap then that maybe he was. Mexican cartel. He may just speak Spanish.

“Hey, Alejandro! Can you help me with something?”

Alejandro nodded and came over but Ghost immediately started to bark at him, shaking. He took a few steps back and Soap watched his hand twitch as he tried not to grab his gun.

“Nevermind. I’m going to need some Spanish lessons from you soon though.” Soap waved him away and closed Ghost’s cage, a little worried he’d run off. He looked at Ghost. "I'll be back soon, okay?"

Ghost continued to shake until Soap left. There was a ton of paperwork and he had to talk to Price, so Soap didn't get to see Ghost again until the next day.

He still hadn't shifted back, just sitting there. Soap felt so bad. He talked with the cooks and managed to get a beef soup for him. He also grabbed another blanket for him.

Ghost didn't react when he put the soup in front of him, just laid there. Soap had to lean partially into the cage to throw the blanket over him but as soon as he did, Ghost bit him. Luckily not too hard, just enough to break skin. He yanked away from him, surprised and a little confused.

Ghost noticed the food and quickly started eating. He ate slowly, trying not to spill or get it into his fur. Soap went to move away but Ghost snarled like he was threatened and Soap quickly stopped moving.

Once he was done, Ghost let him leave, laying back down on the floor. Soap stood next to the door and kept it open. "Do you want to get out?"

Ghost looked at him and slowly backed further into the cage.

"Alright... just... tell me when you want to get out okay? You can shift as soon as you're ready."

Ghost nodded and Soap smiled, glad to get an actual reaction. He left Ghost, sure he'd shift soon.

Two weeks. Everyone else had been either returned to family or was recovering in the nearby hospital with family. And Ghost was still just slumped in the bottom of the cage.

Soap kept him fed and Ghost didn't immediately snarl when he came by. He didn't seem to like Alejandro, remembering how he went to shoot at him. Price and Gaz didn't get a better reaction though as Ghost would just blankly stare for the most part. Sometimes, he'd catch Ghost and Price in a staring match which was weird.

"Captain..." Soap started and he could already see Price's face scrunch up.

"No. You are not taking that thing home."

"He's a person."

"Yes. He is. When he's shifted. Right now, he's dangerous."

"Look, I think if he's away from all the stress, safe in a residential home instead of on our base, he would feel more comfortable."

Price sighed. "Fine. On one condition."

"What is it?"

"He stays muzzled."

Soap slammed his hand down. "It's inhumane!"

"He's dangerous. You know I wouldn't do this if I didn't have to, but you're suggesting taking a dangerous person, one we don't, into your home. What if he's a criminal? What if he's waiting to get you alone? We don't know. So he stays muzzled. You're lucky I'm not insisting he has a shock collar."

"I wouldn't put a shock collar on a dog." Soap snapped.

"Neither would I. But a person can learn faster than a dog. So keep him muzzled unless he's eating." Price clicked his pen. "I'll fill out the paperwork for you. Tell me as soon as anything happens."

Soap wanted to argue, but he was worried Price would tell him that he couldn't take him. So Soap shut up and went to get him.

Ghost didn't really react to being muzzled or collared. He just started somewhere else. Soap decided to give him a small head pat, just to test it, but Ghost's tail stayed still. He didn't growl though, so that was a plus.

Soap started to walk and Ghost trailed behind him, not seeking him for comfort despite how clearly distraught he was. He treated Ghost with as much dignity and respect he could in the situation, even if the car ride home was the most awkward experience of Soap's life.

"Do you like music?"

Ghost stared silently.

Soap turned on the radio and pop music filled the car. After a second, the music changed to a rock station. He looked over to see Ghost looking out the window.

Weird. Soap changed it back. A minute later, back to the rock station.

"Are you doing that?"

Ghost looked at him. His eyes were human. Gorgeous too. Soap tried to piece together what he'd actually look like, but... it was hard to guess from the way he looked now. He noticed most of the paint had worn off him, just leaving the soft black fur behind.

Soap frowned. "If you did, just nod and I'll leave it okay?"

Slowly, Ghost nodded.

"Thank you." Soap turned it up a little and Ghost went back to looking out of his window. His tail gave a simple thump, not quite a wag but it was a sign of life that hadn't been there before.

He took Ghost into his apartment, surprised when he beelined to the couch and curled up on it. Soap pulled one of the blankets on top of him and Ghost slowly relaxed, eyes closing. A few minutes later, Soap heard some soft snoring.

Soap thought of what Ghost might look like again. Ex military. Maybe he had tattoos? Tall. Dark hair. If he and Alejandro were right, he might be Hispanic and ex Mexican military to be specific.

Dark brown eyes of course.

Soap gently tapped Ghost who swung around and went to bite him, only stopped by the muzzle. Maybe it was a good idea.

"I'm going to be gone a while, okay?"

Ghost stared at him for a minute before settling back down. He watched Soap leave and stretched. After a moment, he paced around the apartment, mapping it out. Simple two bedroom two bath. Well decorated, but clean. Fewer knickknacks than he expected, but it made sense if Soap was always out trying to help poor unfortunate souls like himself.

Ghost laid in the bathtub for a while, just relaxing. He closed his eyes and enjoyed himself. Maybe later, he'd turn the water on. All of the leather against his skin was something he was used to. It didn't feel nice, but comfortable.

Soap walked around the apartment, trying hard to find him. He started to panic, wondering if he left. He hadn't exactly done anything that would prevent him from leaving.

Ghost was snoozing happily in the tub, giant head on the edge.

Soap stood there, really taking in his size. He filled the tub to the brim and while most of it was probably fur, he must be massive when human.

It started slow. Ghost always seemed to be watching him right from the edge of rooms, always close to the exit. He also sat very politely during meal times. Soap made them eat together and Ghost always let him take off the mask.

Ghost noticed that Soap would disappear every few days. Every four days to be exact. And when he came back, he smelled of cologne that definitely was not his own.

Ghost didn't fucking like that. It hurt his head. He sat grumpily near Soap, not quite close enough to touch. The smell had finally worn off of him so he could stand to be in the same room.

"Ghost?"

Ghost grunted, letting Soap know he was listening.

"If you shift back, I won't say anything to anyone. Just... so we could talk. I want to help you."

Ghost got up and left the room, curling up in Soap's bed instead. He didn't want to. He'd have to talk about what happened and Soap would see his scars and he didn't want to.

Soap didn't bring it back up for a while. He kept feeding him and started to scratch him behind his ears when Ghost let him put the muzzle back on. It was a weird stalemate.

Until Mr. Awful Cologne came by. Soap flushed when he opened the door and cringed. "Ah, Marcus, loo-"

"I wanted to drop by! We're always at my place lately." He had flowers.

Ghost thought he looked like a chump, but maybe that was what Soap was into. He settled his head on his paws but he was huge and took up the entire couch, so Marcus didn't miss him.

"Soap."

"Yes."

"Who is that?"

"Look, it's not like that. He's... a special case."

"You have a werewo-"

"Wolf shifter. Important distinction."

"Whatever, in your house."

Ghost rolled his eyes and Marcus paused.

"Look, it's complicated. He hasn't shifted back and it's a whole thing. I promise, he's just here until he recovered."

Marcus glared at Ghost. He must've noticed something because he dropped it and helped Soap find a place for the flowers.

Ghost saw the cigarettes in Marcus's back pocket and he knew what must be done. He waited. And waited. Marcus turned his back and so did Soap. Quick hands grabbed the cigarettes and the lighter before disappearing.

It was a few hours later that Marcus noticed. Soap and him had went to his room, shutting the door but clearly not having sex if the TV and complete lack of any thing else was to go by.

"Did you take my smokes?" Marcus sounded irritated, like he had been since he saw Ghost.

"No. You know I don't like that kind."

"Well, unless your do-"

"His name is Ghost."

"Stole my smokes." Marcus stepped out and froze.

Soap looked around the corner to see... Ghost. He could tell by the muzzle.

The giant man. Huge fucking man. Why was he so big?? He had to be 6'4!! And he was jacked.

Soap had guessed right about the tattoos though. His chest and an arms were covered in them. The blanket around his waist prevented him from seeing much more but Soap could see the shape of his hips. Smoke poured out of the holes in the muzzle and Ghost eyed them.

Ghost was gorgeous. Drop dead gorgeous. His hair was a warm ginger color and his eyelashes were a soft blond. Even with the muzzle covering the bottom half of his face, it was clear he was good looking. Not to mention the clear definition of every muscle in his body. Yeah there were scars too, but Soap liked them.

"You have shit taste in smokes."

Manchester... was not what he predicted. Also, Soap had kinda figured out he spoke English a while ago, but he hadn't been expecting him to be English!

"I..." Marcus trailed off, staring at him. He looked scared, but Soap didn't get why. It was just Ghost.

Well... Marcus didn't really know Ghost how Soap did. He didn't know his favorite shows like Soap did. Or that he preferred rock music. Or that he preferred his steak medium instead of rare like Soap assumed.

"Are you going to leave already?" Ghost growled and he tilted his head, shadows falling over his eyes and they shined unnaturally. More smoke billowed from the mask and Marcus made the smart decision to just let him keep them. He flicked the lighter on and off, liking the clicking noise it made.

Soap stared at him. "All I had to do was get you cigarettes?"

Ghost grunted and looked away. He pulled the blanket up a little more, but it uncovered his legs and he grumbled about it.

Soap tried not to stare, but Jesus Christ how could you blame him?

"Simon."

"Huh?"

"You said when we first talked, you wanted something besides Ghost. My name is Simon." Ghost blew more smoke, leaning against the wall.

Soap nodded. "Simon. I like it. Now that you're talking, we can try to fi-"

"My family is dead Johnny. Saw their bodies myself. Any friends I had are long gone too." He took a drag.

"That why you didn't want to shift back?"

"Exactly why. What was I going to do? I knew once I talked, you guys would throw me on the streets. That's the next step right?"

"No. Absolutely not." Soap was almost offended that Ghost thought so low of him.

Ghost frowned, Soap couldn't see it, but he could see the way his eyes shifted. "I bit you. I caused you a lot of trouble."

"But I won't throw you out. I'd like to think we're a bit closer than that."

Ghost stared at him. His long hair got in his eyes. "Johnny."

"Yeah, Simon?"

"I'm going to take a bath. I need one. Do you have any clothes I can borrow?" He batted his eyelashes and Soap felt like he was under a spell.

"I'll see what I can find."

"Thank you." He sighed softly and the black leather tugged tighter against his skin. "And I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Scaring you."

"You were frightened too. Don't worry. I didn't take it personal." Soap grinned, even though he felt much more nervous now than he did twenty minutes ago.

Ghost left and Soap sent Marcus a text. "I don't think this is working out."

He then went rooting through his drawers to find anything that might fit him. He ended up with a tight t-shirt and sweatpants that would be too short.

They'd go shopping later.

[playertwotails]

Okay 4 things in the new Scrapnik Island Issue #3 I can't get over.

For #1:

Sonic is in danger and Tails immediately makes guns for himself and his new squad. Just no Sonic around and he goes straight to making lethal weaponry.

Bonus 1.5:

He blep when concentrating

For #2:

Tails went full Black Ops strike team with a little 'gamerish trying to sound cool' lingo there and I love him for it. "Stay Frosty you guys" is so cheesy and I love it. Look at him take charge and lead a covert ops team. He got whole outfit on too. It's a look not gonna lie.

For #3:

Mecha does remember Tails can fly right????...like he's not a character you can let gravity decide this with...he can fly. I feel like next issue is gonna have a moment with Tails where he basically comes back, looks Mecha in the eyes and is basically is like "...are you dumb???...cause I think you might stupid or have very poor planning....I can fly rust nuts remember"

Maybe the walls are too close for him to fly but this has to come back and bite Mecha in the ass. It's just shock value bait I'm calling it now you can't just drop a flying character and think "welp that's the end of that!!... dum de dum dee dum going about my day now" with no consequences.

And lastly #4:

I will never shut up about this. Look at Sonic he gets one hint Tails might be in danger or hurt and protective older brother instincts go into over drive. He get out of those restraints before Tails shows back up okay and he might be catching a metal body, forget any moral codes he has. Sonic just looks like he's about to go off on Mecha when he thinks Tails might be in danger.

Extra Bonus:

Do you know how much I would give if they let Tails go off here. You know Tails the character who canonically was living on his own as a tiny child in the woods and then found and practically raised by Sonic cause he had been abandoned and ostracized by his own village and possibly parents. Just when Mecha said this I wish they basically let Tails reply with a:

"Bitch join the club, you ain't special"

Cause like out of anyone Mecha could talk to that understands that feeling of being abandoned and forgotten....it's gonna be Tails. He chose the wrong person to try and use the "oh you could never understand me" trope on. Welcome to Tails whole backstory Mecha you empty soup can for a brain.

[blocked-zombieartist]

Hawthornes and Illness, Part 3

Grayson Davenport Hawthorne:

-Does not get sick very often(shocker, considering how much he works), but when he does come down with something, like Jamie, he gets it HARD

-He doesn’t like needing to rely on others to do for him, and tries to do everything for himself. This usually only makes him feel worse, and he’s sick for longer. 

-He also always tries to work while he’s laid up in bed. At this point, when Gray starts showing signs of illness, it’s Nash’s automatic protocol to take all Grayson’s devices except his phone. One time, Grayson still tried to work on his phone, but Nash found out and took that away too and gave him a walkie talkie in case he needed something. The problem for Gray? Nash gave the other walkie talkie to Xander, who was constantly checking in and using all the walkie talkie lingo. It got on Gray’s nerves and he promised to never work on his phone while sick again.

-Like his brothers, he also loves Nash’s chicken noodle soup, and since he’s the second oldest, Nash taught him how to make it. However, Grayson says it still doesn’t taste exactly right when he makes it for himself. The truth is he loves Nash making it for him and will accept that little bit of care.

-He drinks tea regularly, and when he’s sick is no different. He prefers an Earl Grey tea or chamomile(somehow, don’t ask me how he actually likes that). He lays off the coffee while sick because it keeps him awake when he only wants to sleep.

-Reads a lot while laid up. Also always needs to sleep and has multiple blankets every time, as he always gets a fever.

-Cuddles Tiramisu while he’s sick. The dog practically refuses to leave his side while he’s ill. Grayson doesn’t mind at all. He likes the quiet company. If his throat allows he will sometimes even read aloud to her❤️

-His favorite person to take care of him is Nash.

-Always feels guilty because he thinks he needs to be perfect and deliver impeccably 24/7. 

-Spends time on Pinterest looking at photographs planning what he’s going to take pictures of next.

-One time when he was younger, he got sick and Jameson and Xander created their own little play and performed it for him. Nash thought this was adorable and recorded it. Grayson has a copy and will once in a while watch it again. He always finds himself smiling at his baby brothers’ antics.

[becomingstargirl]

#1: Soup or Salad?

Once upon a time,

There was a boy.

And he was very cool, and he had superpowers, and he never had to worry about homework, ever.

This boy had a very special power. 

He could never die.

Well, he did, but he always came back good as new, except sometimes there’d be a new scar someplace funny. Like his butt! Haha. 

And he liked sports a lot, so he tried to play sports, but he couldn’t always get the money to buy stuff like new shoes or a ball, so he stopped. 

And he liked to play with toy trucks, but there weren’t a lot of kids that liked to play with him, and the ones that did weren’t nice to him. So he stopped doing that, too.

He died. The end. 

BUTTERS: Kenny?

BUTTERS: Ken! Ken, wake up. I hate to bug you, but it’s your turn to take out the trash. I’m workin’ the late shift at Bennigan’s tonight, so you’ve gotta tidy up while I’m gone. 

KENNY: Wugh... huh?

KENNY: Oh.

KENNY: Sure is, huh?

BUTTERS: Sure is. It’s been like that for a week an’ a half. 

KENNY: Sorry.

BUTTERS: Don’t be sorry! Sorry’s for sissies. Just get it done before I swing on back? 

KENNY: Sure. No problem. 

BUTTERS: Thanks! You’re the pits, Ken!

KENNY: ...

KENNY: Is that the word he meant to say?

BUTTERS: Loo loo loo, I got some apples, loo loo loo, you got some too…

BUTTERS: Oh! I better not neglect my online buddies! I should ask 'em a question or two!

BUTTERS: “Hey, fellas! :) I’m headin’ to work, but I’ve got a good feeling about this shift. I’m even learnin’ fancy new lingo to use on the customers! I tried one out on my roommate, and he seemed to like it somehow. I just got one question…”

BUTTERS: “Should I eat soup or salad on my break? They’re both so tasty, I really can’t decide!”

[katyawriteswhump]

Steddie holiday drabble: Dirty Little Secret

For @steddieholidaydrabbles day 11 prompt, Royal AU (also boarding school AU--whoops!)

When Steve is sent to school in the UK, he hates everything about it. Apart from the hot guy who lurks in the shadows and seems to get away with anything he likes…

Rating: T

CW: corporal punishment, bullying, cultural prejudices, swearing. Tags: hurt/comfort, whump, fluff. WC: 979

***

From the moment Steve arrived at that creepy castle-come-college, he couldn’t do anything right. 

“You’re using the wrong spoon, Harrington,” sneered some stuck-up idiot, at Steve’s first mealtime in the vast, mediaeval-style hall.

“He wouldn’t know,” jeered another. “Americans scoff cow-pie with their fingers.”

“Hilarious,” snarked Steve. “If I’m using the wrong spoon, how come you’re the one who’s drooled soup down their tie?”

A shout of “Touché!” broke the loaded silence. 

Steve spotted the shouter sitting alone on an otherwise empty table. He flashed Steve a grin which was… Woah! Not actively hostile? And kinda cute.

The kid beside Steve tugged his hair: “Has nobody invented scissors on your side of the pond? Matron’s going to scalp you, mark my word.”

“He’s got longer hair than me.” Steve pointed to the boy sitting alone. 

“He’s not an ignorant little yank with no manners.”

“Oh, sod off.” Steve had mastered some of the lingo.

In the dorm later, somebody stole Steve’s blankets from his bed. After a night shivering, he wore the wrong sneakers—sorry, trainers!—to gym class.

The teacher didn’t let him change into boots. Steve slipped endlessly on the muddy rugby field. The only rule he fathomed was that it was fine for any bastard to dump their butt on his face. Afterwards, the teacher summoned Steve to his office.

Steve mumbled: “What’ve I done now?”

Seriously, this son-of-bitch should worship Steve! If he had the right kit—and knew the rules—he bet he could whip some serious rugby ass.

“Hold out your hand.”

“Why?”

“Don’t be insolent. Do it. Palm downward.”

Steve obeyed, flexing his fingers apprehensively. The teacher produced a wooden cane. Steve’s blood jumped. “No, no, no, no. I’ll watch my mouth. Wear the right shit… uh, kit. Please!”

“You’ve earned five. One more word, it’ll be ten. On your rear.”

Steve battled his panic, fretted his lip. The cane came lashing down, razing a fiery trail across his hand. He smothered a whimper, swallowed bile. By the fifth strike, his knees had turned to jello. His hand was red, his knuckles puffy with one split.

“You’re dismissed, Harrington.”

He drifted mindlessly through the showers, got dressed, wandered out, cradling his hand. Totally lost, he encountered his hated dining companions:

“His socks are falling down! He’s so stupid, he can’t hook his suspenders.”

Steve was terrified of losing his shit, giving these dickheads the triumph of seeing how badly he was hurting, how horribly alone he felt. So…

Steve shoved the lead bully, who crashed onto their butt.  “What moron’s wear sock suspenders? Screw the lot of you!” 

Steve could’ve handled any one of them; with wrecked knuckles, though, no way could he handle six. He wound up curled in a ball, enduring a brutal kicking. As the blows kept coming, he sank beyond wretched, losing his fight against furious tears.  A shout interrupted: “Hey, scumbags—scoot! NOW!”

The kicking stopped. Steve curled even tighter. Everything hurt, his head pounded, and he tasted blood. A gentle touch on his shoulder made him flinch: “Hey, are you alright?”

Steve swiped his damp cheekbones, peeped up. His rescuer was the boy who dined alone, with the cute smile and long, unruly hair. Up close, his brown eyes were mesmerising… and kind.

“Come on, you.”

Dazed, Steve let the other boy help him up. He took him to the matron, who seemed oddly nervous at their arrival. Steve perched on the edge of a bed, while his knuckles were bandaged, his other wounds tended. The other boy—Steve still didn’t know his name—held ice to Steve’s swollen brow till Steve’s uninjured hand stopped trembling enough to hold it himself.

“You can go, Matron,” said the boy. She obeyed. With a curtsy! These Brits sure were odd. Steve was still hurting badly, still furious at the whole world. Yet, now they were alone, he longed to throw his arms around this other boy and sob shamelessly. He was so mixed up.

“Steven Harrington, right? The US envoy’s son?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Eddie. Can I call you Steve? The surname crap makes us sound like a load of wankers. Which, let’s face it, most kids in this dump are.”

“No shit.” Steve chuckled, which made his face ache. 

“Besides, it’s hopeless for me.”

“Huh? Why?”

“Nobody dares say it.” Eddie leaned closer and his adorable grin spread slowly. “I’m the illegitimate son of the Duke of Cumbria.”

“He’s a prince! So you’re—”

“A dirty royal secret.” Eddie jokily pressed a finger to his lips, which Steve couldn’t stop staring at. Steve’s heart hammered like he’d met the Stones or the Beatles. Though, Eddie was the opposite of famous: “This dustbin has hid little secrets like me for centuries. I still get MI5 protection, if needed, and… nobody dares lay a finger on me. Or my chums. Not that I have any, because—”

“—they’re all complete wankers?”

“You’re fluent already, Stevie.” Stevie? Steve blushed and looked away. Eddie tenderly cupped Steve’s chin and turned his face back, tugging a slight smile from Steve, in defiance of his split lip. Eddie grinned all the harder.

The ‘dirty secret’ didn’t just get his own table. He got his own spacious dorm room. Steve moved his stuff in two days later, to find Eddie in a different mode—twitchy and bashful, endlessly fiddling with his hands. “Thanks,” murmured Eddie, as if Steve had done him the favour.

“Woah. That’s my line, right?”

“No. Look, I need to get this out.” Eddie paced, folded his arms. Unfolded them again. “I’m gay, Steve. And I like you. I’m not going to press myself on you or anything, but… It’s okay to have second thoughts. I can arrange for you to have a separate room, if you prefer.”

Steve shrugged, trying to keep it casual. “No sweat, Eds.”

He only hoped it wouldn’t be too long before his almost-prince stole a kiss. 

***

Thanks for reading :)

[yourbustedkneecaps]

i’m suddenly having shiro brainrot which is a little weird since i started as a keith kin let’s be real and i have like a gazillion headcanons for this man that make So Much Sense in my head but mean Legitimately Nothing in the grand scheme of things

i’m expecting this to quickly become a ramble

Shiro (as part of Gen Alpha) knows what vine & tiktok are. he’s not exactly proud of his knowledge of social media but he definitely understands memes and internet lingo

this bitch was 100% self-labeled emo at one point. he was cringey even considering he never went all out in the fashion department. this quickly spiraled into him settling into being a little more goth/punk

he listens to the oldies. as in the classics like queen, the beatles, bon jovi, etc. he also listens to/likes more “emo music” than keith does

he also vehemently rejects his time as a classical musician (he was barely seven and he still doesn’t fully understand how reading music works)

contrary to popular belief, he can cook and bake. he’s just not very good to anything other than simple dishes like noodles/pasta, soups/stews, burgers/hotdogs, etc

he cooks like a dad, basically. no big flair, just aggressively mid home cooking

he grew up living with his step-grandparents instead of his dad & mom (long fucjing story)

he loves pastries especially muffins :)

he sucks at biking— like legitimate bicycling, however he can roller skate a bit

there’s probably definitely maybe going to be more i just don’t know if i’ll post it

unless someone’s interested before the Pure Strand of Brainrot sets in i guess lol

[art-of-mathematics]

I brewed Torus soup.

I would advice to eat the torus soup only with your eyes and to enjoy the delicious meal solely in your mind, so its full flavour spectrum of mental bullshittery can unfold itself and entangle your brain further (instead of fucking up your digestive tract by eating it orally/literally).

//joking

[ID: a bowl filled with colorful hair ties with an attached sign, reading: "yummy TORUS SOUP - liquid ingredient not included - (cursive) add liquid ingredient with your imagination."]

[knotty-et-al]

Today I got some lingo soup for ya: (with a slightly philosophical garnish and some [almost punny] metaphor noodles)

[Beware of surreal imagery and loosen your associations, we will associate freely now: ]

"The disheveled common thread... ...returns as colorful web"

In German, the idiom "common thread" is literally translated as "RED thread" ("roter Faden").

That is why I kept spinning that metaphor noodle soup even further, and came up with the idea of the "colorful web" that emerges from the disheveled fibers of that "red/common thread".

What does it mean?

It just means that I could connect the dots about my biography and the life circumstances that we were/are in - and that now I can clean up that mess. It just means coming to terms with what happened - and yeah, it was shit. I'm happy it's over now. And although cleaning up the mess our past has left behind is extremely exhausting, I look forward to the life I have still ahead of me.

I am the colorful web of the disheveled fibers that never formed a functional thread. That's neither tragedy nor anything unique, it is just as it is, an adaption to circumstances, an adaption to feed the intrinsic will to live: Nothing more, nothing less.

[2024/03/11]

[garyroachsanderson]

Will never not get over the bestfriend hcs pls bless us with more🛐 Also love your writing!!

hi thank you!! here’s more

141 - best friend hcs

(requested)

GHOST:

long periods of silence where neither of you say anything, but its comfortable. you’re both doing completely different things but it qualifies as hanging out

if you have a personality similar to him: you didn’t approach him at first, you both kind of orbited around each other. he eventually just started hanging out more, being closer to you in battle, until you both decided to hang around each other. you have his back, he has yours.

if you dont: you probably approached him at first. his personality off out you, but you continued your kindness until he saved you during a mission. from that point on, you became inseparable. he has a soft spot for you and you only.

soap probably tried to befriend you at some point, to which ghost scared him off. its not that he’s obsessive or anything, he just wants soap to piss off and find his own friend, because he knows if you were friends with him he’d get you mindlessly injured at some point.

you passed out during a mission after being shot, and it was the only time the team had ever seen ghost cry. you were fine of course—he just thought you were dead because he didn’t know if you could take a bullet.

awful jokes. terrible jokes, even.

one day, you decided to retaliate.

“ay, l.t.?”

“what?”

“what do you call a soldier who shits himself often?”

“…”

“a LOOtenant.”

“go right to hell.”

SOAP:

blood brothers (siblings?). there has definitely been a point where you shook hands and shared blood

you’re the one who gave him his haircut. he trusted you with a razor, and you buzzed it into a terrible mohawk. he thinks it suits him, and tried playing it off by saying he loves it. now, he chooses to cut it like that

many “why are you buying clothes at the soup store” incidents

as the only one who can understand his accent, you often have to translate for him. though, if you have an accent, it has the same effect as putting two phones with ‘talking tom’ installed on them next to each other.

“i dare you to shout that over comms”

“you always fucking win at uno” (he doesnt know how to play and gets angry)

you unintentionally learned scottish

he definitely wanted to be bffs the second he saw you. he simply thinks you are cool

PRICE:

you are a literal teachers pet

you consistently stand up for him when the conversation turns

def a niece/nephew and crazy uncle type relationship. “(reader) gets to hold the guns because i said so”

you two play so many card games you dream of aces and spades

“and why does (reader) get shotgun? i called it first”

“because they’re better than all of you combined”

terrible old man jokes but kind of funny. you know a lot of like 1960s lingo

if you were to ever be injured it would definitely be a NO NO NO SOAP NO NO NO moment

the reason hes taken such a shining to you is because he thought you were stupid when you joined the ranks. when you saved his ass from SEVERAL attacks, his opinion changed.

ROACH:

:)

rock, paper scissors is your favorite game to play together. he cant often beat you, and spends a lot of time trying to get better, which is why when he hits his head he plays rock paper scissors with himself

you helped him instead of crack jokes when he was a newbie, which is why you’re each other’s favorite. he reminded you of yourself when you were younger

alternatively, you were the newbie after roach. he didnt want you to feel the same shame that he did when he joined, so he protected you from the higher-ups jokes, and you never drifted apart

you’re the only one hes ever actually gotten to tell he was transgender. price saw it in his file, and wanted to name him ‘cockroach’.. but he didnt have one. hes kept it a secret from everyone else, though.

on the day of shepherds betrayal, it was you in ghosts shoes. you actually managed to get a bullet in shepherds heart, but he got you as well. you managed to drag him away into the treeline, and you somehow managed to fucking live.

once again, same room! price thought it was only fair.

he has a sewn on patch of whatever your callname is, and you have a sewn on patch of a roach on your shoulder.

[trikeyaredilfs]

Michael De Santa is the kind of man who does these things:

Warning: there are hot takes ahead

- will pitch a fit when a barista does not know that “the normal” is. It will become the whole “do you know who I am?”

- will either drop a few thousand on a tip or will write “get an actual job” on the tip line. There’s no in between.

-will fully cause an accident and will still get out of his car throwing his hands up at another driver.

-will 100% say in almost in conversation that “the movie adaptation was just better than the book.”

- will fight someone in for saying one of his favorite films are bad

-will just buy an entire new car before getting it repainted.

- “that’s movie business, baby.”

- “it’s showbiz.”

-will actually spend an hour in the bathroom on his hair.

- will get pissed off if someone scuffs his shoes. (Probably will fight someone)

- gripes about video games and will not recognize them as a form of cinema.

- political rants. So. Many. Political. Rants.

- will say he hates politics and then turns around and gets so into politics it’s not even funny.

- “kids these days have it so easy-“

- “i hate this movie” *watches entire movie and enjoys it*

- will be a drama Queen. He is so dramatic it’s bad.

- he is incredibly homophobic/transphobic because he is repressing his own feelings. If he likes you, then you’re the “okay” kind and he will respect you. But if he doesn’t like you? It’s about to get set back a few decades.

- bought gendered toys for his kids. Refused to let Jimmy play with dolls/“girl toys”

- has caused numerous accidents texting and driving and refuses to stop

- actually does volunteer at soup kitchens during the holidays because he was also homeless at one point

- donates to rehab charities

- is actually acutely aware of his biases and is seeking help to get over them, regardless

-has pissed on more than a few cop cruisers. (And in them)

-plays video games in his alone time because he does have a want to become good enough in order to completely serve Lester/Jimmy by completely blindsiding them

-tries to use teen slang and lingo. Half his search history is figuring out what the hell Jimmy or Tracy (or Franklin) just said.

- will fight anybody who is openly racist.

- keeps a list of the sex offender registry in his car and just picks a few off when he’s bored or mad.

- has slept with Trevor and then spent almost a week justifying why it wasn’t gay.

-has a savior complex from hell.

- will cross a road to stay away from dogs, their fur gets everywhere, they’re slobbery, he hates them with a passion. (Yes, this includes Chop.)

[samurailoveballadhistory]

The difference between zenzai and oshiruko differs depending on where you’re form. I’m assuming that they’re talking in the Kanto style lingo here, because Kojuro’s oshiruko in the game is the coarse bean soup and in Kansai terms that would’ve been a “zenzai”. 

“Smooth” bean soup means that you can’t see the beans, and it really just looks more like a red liquid.

Regionally-speaking Nobunaga’s territories are closer to Kansai (it has its own region designation, not Kanto and not Kansai), but well, Voltage staff seems to be usually Tokyoites (Kanto).  

Table of difference below:

[echthr0s]

(context for how I got onto this tangent) so I'm very "it doesn't matter how you type/speak or how badly you spell or whatever because I'll usually figure out what you're tryna say" and I wonder how much of that is because, between hyperlexia/general autistic shit and how English was taught in the schools I went to, I happen to be Quite Good at the English language (as in, phonics, grammar/style, and spelling), and that strong foundation of The Rules means I can easily figure out how someone is fucking it up

like I actually love misspellings because a lot of the time they make perfect sense. like when my friend types "exaughsted" and at first that just looks Wrong but when you say the word "exhausted", WELL, that's exactly what the fuck it sounds like! it's a perfectly reasonable phonetic spelling and as far as I've seen, every single one of his chronic misspells are just phonetic interpretations. love that!

if you're not thinkin about that sort of thing, I imagine "exaughsted" just looks like alphabet soup (yes you might still figure out from context clues etc but!)

I type the way I type bc well 1) I can do whatever the fuck I want ofc but actually 2) I really do love the way internet lingo works, I think it's its own distinct and ever-evolving dialect with its own rules and things it does better than Standard English (like expressing tone). but I think approaching netspeak* with a strong SE foundation is... idk, important? I wouldn't be the one to know if it really is important, but it feels like it should be, yknow

like when you're learning to draw it's widely agreed upon that learning the boring ass fundamentals is what's going to enable you to do all the wild and cool things you want to draw in the future and do it well -- to be able to expand your style freely, to better grasp how to draw a new thing, stuff like that. I feel like language is similar

*I'm guessin we don't call it this anymore considering "the net" is kinda oldtimey phrasing BUT it's a good word god dammit