#Political Statement T-Shirts

[noisycowboyglitter]

"How to Style the Trump Best Not Miss Tee for Any Occasion"

The "Trump Best Not Miss Tee" likely refers to a t-shirt design featuring a phrase or image related to former President Donald Trump, combined with the colloquial expression "best not miss." This merchandise item is part of the broader landscape of political apparel that has become increasingly popular, especially among Trump supporters.

Buy now:19.95$

The phrase "best not miss" is often used as a warning or a boast, suggesting that someone shouldn't fail or make a mistake when attempting something important. In the context of Trump-related merchandise, this could have several interpretations:

It might imply that Trump's political opponents or critics should be careful in their attacks or opposition, as Trump is perceived by his supporters as a formidable adversary.

It could be a reference to Trump's potential return to politics, suggesting that he shouldn't be underestimated or overlooked in future elections.

The phrase might allude to Trump's confrontational political style, framing him as someone who doesn't miss opportunities to challenge his opponents or promote his agenda.

It could be seen as a rallying cry for Trump supporters, encouraging them to be active and engaged in political processes to ensure their voices are heard.

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The t-shirt format makes this message wearable and visible, allowing supporters to publicly display their allegiance to Trump and his political movement. T-shirts are casual, accessible, and often associated with personal expression, making them an ideal medium for political statements.

This type of merchandise serves several purposes within political culture:

Identity signaling: Wearing such a t-shirt allows supporters to publicly declare their political allegiance and find like-minded individuals.

Conversation starter: The bold or provocative message can provoke discussions about Trump, his policies, and his impact on American politics.

Community building: It fosters a sense of belonging among Trump supporters, creating visual unity at events or in daily life.

Ongoing campaign tool: Even out of office, such merchandise keeps Trump and his political brand in the public eye.

Fundraising: Sales of official merchandise often contribute to political campaigns or associated organizations.

The popularity of items like the "Trump Best Not Miss Tee" reflects the intense personalization of politics in the Trump era, where support for a political figure extends beyond voting to become part of one's personal brand and daily attire. It also demonstrates the melding of political expression with consumer culture, where political beliefs are marketed and sold as products.

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Critics might view such merchandise as contributing to the polarization of political discourse or as an oversimplification of complex political issues. They could argue that it prioritizes confrontational rhetoric over substantive policy discussions.

Supporters, on the other hand, might see it as a way to show unwavering support for Trump and his political movement, especially in a post-presidency context. They might view wearing such apparel as an act of defiance against mainstream media narratives or the current administration.

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The existence and popularity of items like the "Trump Best Not Miss Tee" underscore the ongoing influence of Trump in American politics, the polarized nature of the current political climate, and the ways in which political expression has become intertwined with personal style and consumer choices.

[ocpdzim]

my advice to parents is do NOT. send your child to school wearing any kind of political statement on their outfit. please please please. just don’t do it. i don’t care what it is, don’t do it!!!! your child will get into conflict because of it and depending on their age may not even understand the political statement you are using them to make!!!! and if so they can’t defend themselves if peers take offense and won’t know what to do!!!

[thehouseofja]

[upscalebitch]

Go Krazyvibes on you!

[soupydumplingss]

So what a man gotta do? ~ OP⁸¹

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Fem!Reader

Short note: Reader has no idea that Oscar is a famous guy. Oscar can't handle babies to save his life. Reader is an overworker. The plot feels cliché but I am very unoriginal/j

Warnings: Light profanities, bickering

Summary: You are an overworked corporate freak. You were on business to Monte Carlo, Monaco. You were trying to enjoy a good breakfast, not hear some F1 racer's baby niece crying.

..........................................................................................

You were in your hotel bed, sprawled up between the sheets. It was a sleepless night. A ray of sunshine penetrated your room from a tiny creak of a window and hit your face. Your phone alarm rang loudly, echoing through the room. You were annoyed.

"End my misery, Good God," you huffed, annoyed.

You had no choice but to wake up. Your stomach was growling. As you tried to get out of your bed, you accidentally tripped and fell on your butt.

What a way to start the day, you thought.

You stepped into the large bathroom of your hotel room to freshen up. The morning seemed to run slow and lazy. You looked at yourself in the mirror while brushing your teeth. The eyebags under your circles had visibly darkened a lot more from overworking. You couldn't help but still think about work.

Man, I still have another program left. Why didn't the code compile? Did I write any statement wrong? Or was it the argument?

You were lost in your own sea of thoughts. You were pulled back to reality when your stomach growled again. The tap was running endlessly. You quickly freshened up and took a quick shower. You wrapped yourself in a bathrobe and got out of the bathroom. Shivers ran down your spine at the air circulating in the room, hitting the areas the bathrobe couldn't cover. You quickly wore an oversized t-shirt and a pair of jeans to head out for breakfast to a cafe.

Phone, check. Purse, check. Laptop in backpack, check.

You went downstairs at the reception to check out for some time. The receptionist flashed you a polite smile. You were headed to Café de Paris. The streets of Monte Carlo in the morning was a sight for sore eyes. Gentle breezes blew and hit your face every now and then. The road wasn't very busy.

"Taxi!"

You waved your hand at a taxi to take a ride to your destination.

"Où voulez-vous aller, madame?,The driver asked politely. where do you want to go, miss?

"Café de Paris. Combien cela coûterait-il?," you asked to make sure the driver got his pay and you reached your destination properly. cafe de paris. how much would that be?

"100€, madame."

You got inside the taxi to get to the cafe. The ride on the way there was pleasant. The rolled-down calm window allowed the occasional zephyr to hit your face ever so gently. The view of Monte Carlo was nothing short of an amazement. The lavish buildings, infrastructures, the hoard of luxury cars: Nothing about Monte Carlo was less than class and elegance.

You are drawn out of your reverie as the taxi suddenly stops. You stepped out of the car and paid the driver. Stepping into the café, your senses are overwhelmed by the smell of pungent caffeine, freshly baked goods, savories and drinks. The bright sunlight filters through the windows, bathing the room in a soft light. In the corner, you spotted an empty table. It was located near the wall of the café. A waiter appears nearby. He asks if he could assist you, and you inform him that you are looking for a table for one. The waiter escorted you to your table. He was waiting for your order. The light from the sun beamed through the window and hit his face as he took the order.

"One espresso, one chocolate chaud, le wrap saumon, and one tranche de cake. Will that be all?" The waiter asked, smiling.

"Yes, that will be all", you replied.

"It will be out in a few minutes", the waiter said as he walked away.

You were peacefully enjoying your breakfast in the cafe, enjoying the atmosphere and the taste of her delicious food. As you were eating, you suddenly heard the sound of a wailing and whining baby coming from the table behind you. A guy was trying desperately to comfort the baby, but the baby was only becoming more distressed and loud. You could feel your blood pressure rising, as you grew frustrated at the guy's inability to control the baby.

The child sounded hungry. Despite not being a mom yourself, you well knew how to handle and understand babies.

This guy is gonna get it from me.

You were getting visibly angry, and you turned to the guy and said, "I can't believe you can't handle your own baby!"

The guy, clearly frustrated by the situation and your anger, said, "I'm doing my best, but this baby is just so needy and always crying." The voice had a unique timbre to it, Australian accent rolling out.

You rolled your eyes and said, "You should have thought about that before having a baby. You're the father. Why are you so clueless?"

The guy was now getting annoyed and said, "Not like you're the mother. What's your problem? You should have some empathy."

You continued to bicker with the guy about his inability to handle the baby. The guy was beginning to become defensive, and said, "It's not my baby, it's-"

You became angrier, and said, "How dare you deny your own child?! Who do you think you are?!"

The guy realized that I was under the impression that he was the baby's dad. He smirked slightly in amusement before continuing, "You really don't know who I am?"

I looked at him in confusion and frustration. "And who are you sir?" You took in his features. He seemed tall, around 5'10. Maybe a centimeter or two taller. The guy looked athletic with dark blonde hair. Your eyes raked on him, head to toe. He has a strong jaw and large deep set blue eyes. He has a lean, muscular frame, with well-defined muscles on his arms and shoulders, and strong legs. He definitely wasn't hard on the eyes.

He noticed you eyeing him head-to-toe and smirked in amusement. Looked at you and spoke with slight arrogance. "I'm Oscar Piastri."

"Oscar Pastry? Who the fuck names their son 'Pastry?'"

"Piastri!," he interjected.

"Pastry or whatever, have some shame. You can't handle your own child." You rolled your eyes.

He was amused at your reaction. The fact that you didn't know anything about him made the situation funnier.

The baby started crying louder. As the verbal dispute escalated, other guests in the café began to look at them and whisper to each other. Some of them were trying to suppress their laughter at the sight of the F1 driver and the angry girl.

Oscar stood up from his seat and towered you. He countered, saying, "You think I'm not trying? Try sitting in my place and see how you handle the situation then!"

"If it's gonna shut your mouth then so be it!"

You took the baby in your arms and rocked it slowly.

"Boy or a girl?"

"Girl..." he looked at you wide-eyed. How easily you calmed his niece down. Though he was not ready to tell you right now that it's his niece, not his daughter...

"Name?"

"Ollie."

"Like from Oggy and the Cockroaches?"

"Shut the fuck up." He deadpanned. He looked at his now calm niece. He looked at you being gentle with her. He got weird butterflies seeing you like that. He saw how...motherly you are. Ollie was smiling in your arms and all giggly.

"Milk."

"Huh?" he snapped out of his thoughts.

"Milk, Pastry." You emphasized the stupid nickname to rile him up.

"It's Piastri." he rolled his eyes as he handed a bottle of milk from his backpack. "What's your name?"

"Y/N L/N."

"Ahhh I see...Nice name..." The name rolled off his tongue in a way that you liked.

You rocked Ollie in your arms slowly. Ollie was cooing cutely which made you smile. You fed the infant from the bottle as she peered up at you with her big, doe eyes. Oscar was looking at you in amazement at how easily you calmed his niece. He was smiling slightly at the sight in front of him.

"You know, you'd be a great mother..." he said with a slight chuckle.

"That came outta nowhere," you said. You chuckled in a breath, blushing at the comment. He noticed your flustered expression and smiled. He had a cheeky smile on his face.

"So, what brings you to Monaco?," he asked out of pure curiosity.

"Work," you sighed.

"What do you do for a living?," he asked.

"Software developer. I'm here to present our company's new project to our potential collaborator," you explained. He was listening to you carefully and nodded slightly in respect.

"You're very smart for a pretty girl," he said with a teasing smirk.

"And what does that mean?," you raised an eyebrow. You looked down and saw a now peacefully asleep Ollie in your arms. You carefully took out the bottle of milk from his mouth.

"Just that beauty and brains is a deadly but rare combination," he said with a playful shrug. You snickered.

"Pacifier." You extended your hand towards him to take the pacifier he'd hand you.

"You're a natural at this stuff," he muttered softly.

"Okay okay I get it. What do you do for a living though?"

"Wait— you don't know?" Oscar was genuinely surprised that you didn't know who he was. He was pretty famous after all, but you seemed to be completely oblivious.

"Am I supposed to know ya?" You scratched your head in confusion. He chuckled at your lack of knowledge on this.

"I'll give you a hint. I drive in weird shapes for living." He grinned as he waited for an answer.

"Drive in weird shapes?" You started pondering.

Well, he said weird shapes. Driving, the roads aren't of a specific shape so...

"You're a taxi driver?"

"What the—" He burst out laughing at your answer.

"What? Did I get it wrong?" Your cheeks flushed pink, a hint of embarrassment creeping up.

"You said you drive in weird shapes and roads aren't exactly always straight so I assumed..."

"Search my name, dummy." He had a shit-eating grin on his face.

"Uhm...sure?" You rolled your eyes and took out your phone. You typed with one hand while rocking Ollie in your arms. Surely he isn't any hotshot, right? Your eyes widened at the search results.

"Okay. No words." Your eyes darted from the pictures on your phone and him, your mind processing he was a Formula 1 driver and you had no idea all this time.

"Surprise sweetie." He ran his fingers through his head. Your eyes went on the first picture that popped up. A race win in Hungary...

"You still can't babysit your daughter." You retorted to mask the surprise on you face.

But Google didn't show any wife or girlfriend or children on his profile. Where'd he even get this girl from?

"Sorry to break your little bubble but that's my niece. I'm no father." He chuckled.

"No wonder. I thought google was inaccurate." I nodded slowly. But I immediately bit back. "Still can't babysit to save your life."

"So what a man gotta do?" Oscar asked with a grin.

You chuckled exasperatedly and shook your head. "So, when do I teach?"

"Come to Australia sometime." He smiled.

Can't believe I'm gonna have to teach a world-class Formula 1 driver on how to babysit his niece.

..................................................................................................................

IN HONOUR OF THE GREAT OSC PASTRY WINNING THE HUNGARIAN GRAND PRIX WITH A BROKEN RIB (ill pretend like it wasn't a maiden win and he lost the thrill of winning himself 😔💔) I had this in my drafts for a good amount time 😭 here's when I serve 😋

[sommerregenjuniluft]

@jegulus-microfic june 1st — pride — 1804words — nsfw! aka regulus purchases something and james is fortunate enough to unpack for @itmeanssungod & @veryinnovative

It’s been a while since Regulus started toying with the idea of trying out packing for himself. 

He doesn’t have too much dysphoria during sex anymore—which he is grateful for—since he’s completely healed from top surgery and especially with partners he knows. 

But lately Regulus has found out it feels really fucking good to just- keep the strap on afterwards. Just haphazardly yank on his boxer briefs once they’re done, purple tip peeking out over the top of the hem, and sex drunkenly stumble into the kitchen to get himself a gatorade from the fridge. Evan prefers water, which they keep in the room, and Barty prefers to crank open a window and smoke one.

It’s empowering in a way, he guesses. He’s still living with his brother and James is over more times than he is not. Just liking the company of a busy house full of people he reasons with a shrug every time the topic comes up. Missing the old days in a dorm.

Regulus is pretty sure there’s truth in that statement but he’s also not stupid and convincing himself he’s only imagining the looks James is sending his way has only worked for so long. It’s near ridiculous to think he’s been oblivious to it for so long.

But Regulus isn’t anymore because when he’d gone to get his gatorade James had, to spell it out politely, nearly died from choking on his pasta salad when he’d looked up from his phone and at Regulus.

So with the arrival of pride Regulus had saved up and treated himself with the purchase of a flaccid strap on. It matches his skin colour nearly perfectly, the head showing from under the foreskin. It’s got a nice feel to it, it’s proportionate to his body when Regulus looks at himself in the mirror and it’s comfortable where it’s hanging between his legs and resting in his underwear when he puts his clothes back on. It’s a little ridiculous but he knows it’s important so Regulus allows himself to tear up about it a little. About how bone deep good it makes him feel about himself.

He’s in grey joggers and a form fitting black T-shirt. Regulus turns to the side in front of the mirror, cups himself through the soft material of his pants. Barely audible he can hear James humming to himself in the kitchen. Regulus smirks.

“James,” Regulus greets as he enters the kitchen.

“Oh, hi, Reg,” James says, lifting from over the stove and taking out his airpods from where he was bobbing his head to the music playing on them. 

Regulus plops himself on a free spot on the counter and picks up a bottle of sauce he doesn’t recognise to busy himself with reading the label. “What are you cooking?”

James hums and proceeds to explain to him where he found the recipe on social media and what health benefits it has and how good it’s going to taste.

Regulus half listens and half plots internally how he’s going to subtly make James aware of his newest possession.

“Can I do something to help?”

“Err,” James blinks for a moment, then he lets out a chuckle, “The Regulus Black offering to help in the kitchen on his own volition? How much money do you need?”

Regulus rolls his eyes and swats him in the chest. “I was very much being sincere, for your information. But I can go of course, if my presence is not needed,” he says and makes to stand up.

“No no,” James replies quickly, raising his palms in a pacifying manner. They’re closer now and Regulus can see where James’ brain has momentarily paused its task of persuading Regulus to stay in favour of simply staring at him. His curls, his eyes, his lips. 

Regulus raises his eyebrows.

“You– ehm,” James starts, swallowing, “You caaaan– set the table?”

“Are you asking or telling?” Regulus inquires, taking another half step closer and delighting in the small intake of breath from James.

“Telling,” James answers. “Please.”

Regulus nods, biting back a smirk, and steps around James to get cutlers.

After he’s set those out he waits for James to go back to stirring the pasta that’s cooking on one of the back burners, right underneath the shelf with the plates. 

Regulus comes up from behind and sets a hand on James’ hip. “Pardon,” he murmurs and then stretches up on his toes, pressing his crotch right into James’ backside.

It has its desired effect immediately.

James’ breath hitches and in the next second he’s making an aborted noise deep in his throat.

Regulus’ lips twitch upwards at the corners, “Something wrong?”

James shakes his head, his voice cracking on the m-mh he makes, not opening his mouth. His hand is completely still where he’s got the wooden spoon gripped.

Regulus hums, leans in impossibly closer, really rubbing himself into James’ ass. James lets out a wheeze. Regulus tilts his head, mouth right next to the other’s ear, “How many do we need?”

“Hm?” James’ voice is thin.

“How many do we need, James?” Regulus repeats, fingers over his hip tightening marginally.

“Ah- um, what? Sorry, I’m—”

“Plates, James,” Regulus tuts, grinding his hips forward slightly, “How many plates?”

“O-oh,” James seems to take a deep, steadying breath, “Five?”

Regulus hums and then with one last little thrust grabs the plates before lifting back down and extracting himself.

He can feel James’ eyes glued to him the whole while Regulus is setting them on the table, neatly next to the cutlery. It fills Regulus’ entire body with a warm feeling. Eventually he saunters back over, coming to a stop right next to James, who is currently indecently staring at Regulus’ crotch. If it was anyone else in any other situation Regulus would have already punched them in the nose but this is different. This is Regulus purposely instigating and James stepping right into the trap Regulus has carefully placed between the foliage.

“Something you wanna ask?” Regulus ducks his head, catching James’ gaze where it’s evidently trained on his lap. 

He doesn’t quite manage to suppress his grin this time. James seems to notice that, sputtering at first before realisation dawns on his face.

“You– oh, you’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” James replies, eyes narrowed slightly, flush high on his cheekbones regardless.

“Doing what?” Regulus asks innocently. He sets his elbows on the counter behind him, jutting out his hips teasingly.

James groans obscenely and then proceeds to cage Regulus right in, settling two palms on either side of Regulus’ elbows. 

“Regulus.” There’s a warning quality to the way James presses out his name.

“James,” Regulus purrs, angling his face to look up at the older man through his lashes.

James breathes out roughly through his nose, pupils dilating. “You��re packing, aren’t you?”

“I might be.”

“And you wanted me to know.”

Regulus makes a non-committal sound.

“God,” James curses, “You’re so infuriating. Do you know how hard it is to not—” 

He doesn’t finish the sentence. James’ eyes are roving over his face for clues and Regulus guesses if James is taking the inch, Regulus might as well give him the mile. Or, rather, the rest of the inches.

“You wanna see it?”

James’ mouth opens soundlessly. It takes a moment before he answers. “It?”

“My cock,” Regulus explains, licking his lips. “It’s new.”

James moans quietly, “Yeah, Reg, I wanna see your cock, fuck.”

Regulus sets his hands against the muscle connecting James’ neck and shoulder, “Can you get on your knees for me?”

“Is the sky blue?” James retorts, eyes glazing over as he sinks down in front of Regulus without further prompting. When he looks back up at Regulus with big, Bambi brown eyes from behind his glasses he looks so sweet Regulus considers briefly if he might be in over his head. “Can I?” James asks, gently hiking his fingertips into the band of Regulus’ sweats. 

Regulus nods and with that James pulls the clothing down.

There’s a little bit of nervous yet excited sweat breaking out on Regulus’ palms but before he has the opportunity to overthink, he already hears the groan punching out of James. 

“Fuck, Reg,” James whispers. “Oh, Christ, you’re so gorgeous. Look at him.”

Regulus sucks in an unsteady inhale and twists his fingers into the unruly mess that is James’ hair, having to hold onto something suddenly.

“You like it?” Regulus rasps.

James answers with a slightly delirious laugh tumbling out of him. He shakes his head in awe, fingers digging into the soft muscle of Regulus’ thighs. “Reg, don’t slap me, I’m just being sincere when I say I wanna take you into my mouth so badly.”

Regulus dampens a moan into a sigh, “You can.”

James rips his gaze away from his cock, a starstruck look in his pretty, dark eyes when he gapes up at him. Regulus nods his reassurance.

“Oh fuck.” 

Then James is sucking Regulus’ flaccid strap into his mouth. Working his tongue around it, hallowing his cheeks and really giving it his all. Like his goal is to get Regulus as hard as fast as humanly possible.

And Regulus knows it’s logically impossible but he swears he can feel James tonguing at him, getting terribly aroused by the image and feel of James giving him a fucking blowjob right there in the kitchen. A small noise slips out of Regulus and he accidentally tightens his grip in James’ hair. James responds beautifully, moaning around Regulus in his mouth and eyes fluttering like he’s getting off just as much on all of this as Regulus is. His lips stretch prettily around the silicone and Regulus thumbs softly at the stubble on James’ jaw.

There’s a moment where their eyes meet when James takes him all the way into the back of his throat, making the end of the strap push back against Regulus’ centre, where Regulus has the sudden realisation that he’s going to come if James keeps this up.

And that is decidedly the moment the front door opens, the laughter of their friends echoeing through the hallway.

James keens when Regulus pulls him off and quickly tugs the waistband of his sweatpants back up and pulls on James’ shirt until he stands as well. He looks like a kicked puppy as Regulus ushers him back to the stove, shoving the wooden spoon against his chest to stir the probably totally overcooked pasta. His mouth is twisted into a pout or maybe that’s just them being swollen from having Regulus in his mouth. 

Fuck it.

He takes James’ jaw in a loose grip to get his attention again. “Finish this after dinner?”

James’ answer is a bright smile and a quick kiss he steals himself against Regulus’ wrist.

[necronatural]

Context on Project Moon discourse

I did some digging and watched some internet slapfights between Korean users, and collected as much context as humanly possible, trying to avoid hearsay where I can:

Misogynistic dudes start complaining about how sexless and non-waifu-female-heavy the game is, feeling the skimpy Sinclair outfit with the thotty little collar VS the fully covered Ishmael outfit is pointed feminist jeering (a law Hawkeye Initiative). Korean anti-feminists are really sensitive to pointed feminist jeering. More on that in a bit

Upon learning the identity artist is male, they trawl the rest of the staff to prove their stupid-ass theory.

They latch onto the lead CG artist, who has tweeted about feminism before.

Project Moon receives countless threats and people marching on their office IRL demanding to speak to the CEO.

The resulting hate campaign leads to Project Moon firing the lead artist for violation of contract; it was specifically requested by the company that all users delete political statements and controversial topics before joining, and the tweets the incels are using seem to prove that the worst case scenario for not adhering to the request has come to pass.

The thing is, she did delete the tweets.

This user has screencapped incels scrambling to justify their belief the game is for man-haters, including a statement that he had dug up deleted tweets. These are old records.

These are the retweets, all made before joining the company (but again, the policy was that the tweets like this should be scrubbed). Most of them are just being catty. The most extreme statements are a scathing satire even a child could understand, and some general feminist sentiments which are not incendiary in any way. It seems they were screencapped to cement a pattern of passionate feelings on feminism.

In Korea, feminism is considered a wedge issue, which means basic activism becomes extremely politically charged. Think of it like how trans issues are being treated in America at the moment, or how "Critical Race Theory" was a wedge issue like 2 years ago. Nevertheless, the most hateful statements in these tweets are not "feminist", but rather annoyance at misogyny, and pretty obviously jokes.

The tweet that the incels are latching onto here states "if being a feminist makes me Megalia, I am Megalia. If being against patriarchy makes me anti-social, I am anti-social". Megalia was a scumbag leftist radfem group originating from Korea's 4chan (anonymous messageboards). It was bad enough that banning gay slurs created a splinter group. Megalia was well-known for mirroring misogynistic behaviours back onto men. They were reviled. An actress lost her job for wearing a T-shirt this group sold, even though the funds were going to supporting women seeking legal actions. Association with Megalia was reputation poison.

Notice I refer to them in the past tense, because Megalia shut down in 2017. The tweet was in 2018. You could not get any more obvious that the statement being made was "you can insult me by calling me Megalia, but I still believe in feminism". There is no association with this incendiary group.

Incels "supported" their argument with an image of Yi Sang holding a vial in basically one of the only 2 ways you can hold a vial, calling it a reference to 🤏, an emoji used as the Megalia logo interpreted to mean "men have small penises". This insane interpretation is being used to cement the whole company as misandrist.

Therefore: Project Moon fired their lead artist even though she didn't violate her contract because insane incels did a "how dare you say we piss on the poor" bad faith misinterpretation of deleted tweets in order to justify their belief that Project Moon is a man-hating company, and as a man-hating company deserves to be annihilated, leading to threats to staff.

The artist for Leviathan later stated that Project Moon pushed the comic forward with no buffer, and when the schedule became unbearable, they just cancelled it. They were told there was an issue with production (supported by the fact the company dropped the translation in favour of focusing on the game), but this news has made the artist pessimistic about the company's treatment of their art team. (Update: deleted, with a statement they feel they felt attached to their debut work, and struggle with feeling like they ran away.)

Here's the artist Vellmori's twitter if you would like to support them through this period.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Ryan W. Briggs, Max Marin, and Ellie Rushing at Philadelphia Inquirer:

BETHEL PARK, Pa. — In the sea of caps and gowns, Thomas Matthew Crooks hardly stood out. Few people clapped when his name was called. A YouTube video of his graduation two years ago from Bethel Park High School shows a slender and bespectacled student receiving his diploma with a soft smile. But the class of 2022 awoke Sunday to learn that the 20-year-old Allegheny County man was notorious, the shooter in the assassination attempt on former President Donald Trump during a rally that left an ex-firefighter, Corey Comperatore, dead and two other attendees wounded. U.S. Secret Service counter-snipers killed Crooks moments after he opened fire on the Saturday night rally from a nearby rooftop. The FBI said Sunday they believed he acted alone. He had not been on the bureau’s radar.

Crooks’ actions shocked residents in his hometown, sparked countless conspiracy theories online, and prompted investigators to begin combing through every aspect of his life, looking for motive. The mystery has been fueled by a near-total absence of Crooks’ social media postings, political writings, or other digital fingerprints. Several former classmates appeared on national television Sunday, quickly casting Crooks as a stereotypical loner who was bullied heavily during his time at Bethel Park. One of them, Jason Kohler, told reporters Sunday that students tormented Crooks “almost every day” and that he often wore “hunting” outfits to class. “He was just an outcast,” Kohler said, “and you know how kids are nowadays.” Yet, two former students interviewed by The Inquirer disputed the characterization. They did not recall specific incidents of violence or other antagonism involving their now-infamous classmate in the community they described as generally tight-knit.

[...] The slight traces of public information Crooks left behind leave few clues about his political ideology. Federal campaign finance records show he made a $15 donation to progressive political action committee in 2021 after President Joe Biden’s election, but later registered as a Republican, according to Pennsylvania voter data. His father was a registered Libertarian, his mother a Democrat. Crooks’ body was found on the rooftop of an agricultural tool manufacturing plant a few hundred feet from the rally with an AR-style semiautomatic rifle — legally purchased by his father. The shooter was wearing a T-shirt promoting “The Demolition Ranch,” a YouTube channel for gun enthusiasts. If Crooks maintained any personal social media presence, it went largely undetected on Sunday. Discord, an instant messaging platform mainly used by video gamers, released a statement acknowledging Crooks held a “rarely utilized” account that contained no information relevant to the shooting.

Sigafoos did not recall Crooks making political overtures in class, but rather as someone interested in how government works, and “not trying to insert his own beliefs into it.” Another former classmate did not share this view. Max R. Smith recalled taking an American history course with Crooks as a sophomore. He did recall Crooks making political statements — but they shed no light on his actions Saturday. “He definitely was conservative,” he said. “It makes me wonder why he would carry out an assassination attempt on the conservative candidate.” Smith recalled a mock debate in which their history professor posed government policy questions and asked students to stand on one side of the classroom or the other to signal their support or opposition for a given proposal. “The majority of the class were on the liberal side, but Tom, no matter what, always stood his ground on the conservative side,” Smith said. “That’s still the picture I have of him. Just standing alone on one side while the rest of the class was on the other.”

The gunman who killed rallygoer Corey Comperatore and attempted the assassination of Donald Trump at Saturday night’s Butler, PA rally was not only a registered Republican but also a vehement conservative.

This should hopefully put an end to the right-wing’s nonsensical claim that a “violent leftist”/”Antifa” tried to kill Trump.

[s-4pphics]

look, wild cherries! 1 (a.a)

wc;cw: 1.4k, cherrychaser!abby, scumbag!abby, corruption kink, descriptions of sex MDNI, mentions of weed n alc, dubcon, my baby sucks in this but she’s hot so who cares <3, smut l8r duh, riley makes an appearance :D 

The first time Abby took a girl's virginity, she didn’t leave her apartment for four days.

She hadn’t been… hunting for a virgin that night, it was completely by happenstance: she was a sophomore at the time, and she’d got invited to a party at the girls soccer team’s frat house by one of her friends. It was pretty exclusive, and she was scared that she would be overlooked as a mere plus one by the entire team, but she ended up getting along really well with everyone there. 

Including a girl with a number seven pinned on her crop top. 

Abby was crossed as fuck, and she barely has any memory of that night, but she can’t forget the desperation on the school’s star goalie’s face when she pulled her into her bedroom by her shirt, asking—no, almost demanding to take her virginity. Please, Abby? Treat me good? Be my first?

It’s almost comedic that she forgot the athlete’s name because she’ll never forget the pink fairy lights twinkling, the array of plushies stacked up on her bed, the glittery duvet; All of it still picks at her brain til this day, and it had been two years since it happened; she was about to graduate, for fucks sake! 

The girl’s pussy had been so wet, squirting all over her pillows and blanket, crying out about how her stashed dildo was too big and couldn't take it, but Abby was able to convince her that she could. And she did, she’d took it so fucking good. 

Their fucking had started out pretty basic; Abby gave her some nasty, sloppy head, fingered her, made her squirt all over her blanket twice. It wasn’t until she slipped the fat tip of the dildo into the tight entrance and the girl let out a pained shriek of Abby! Oh, God, you’re taking my virginity! that her brain chemistry completely rewired, and her obsession ignited. 

She doesn’t know if it was the weed or liquor that made her core clench so tight that she moaned out at the statement, or if she’s always been a goddamn sicko, but she can proudly say that she hasn’t been the same since. 

The girl, however, would not leave her the fuck alone after Abby fucked her. She somehow found her account on Instagram and Snap and was obsessed with asking her out on coffee dates and inviting her to watch her practice, in which she politely declined every time. 

It had gotten so bad that Abby thought inviting her over for a quick fuck would make her stop, get it out of her system, but she ended up falling asleep in her bed right after she squirted on her dick. What the fuck!

Abby wasn’t an asshole often, but after the girl showered and ate the last of her Cinnamon Toast Crunch four days later, she lost it. She cussed her out and told her to leave. She made the girl cry, before she clumsily put her pants on, and left with a slam of the door. Abby never saw her on campus after that, thank god. 

Besides that weird ass experience, she loved fucking virgins. Loved making them dirty with her corruption. 

She loves having sex, but nothing strokes her ego—and dick—more than popping a pretty girl’s cherry. She’s seven virginities down, as of now. She loves making them sweat and beg and cry. It makes her so hot—

“Bitch, what the fuck are you staring at?” Her best friend, Riley, leaned closer to whisper to her. Abby blinked blankly as she broke her trance. 

Abby hadn’t taken her eyes off you since she walked into the campus library. 

Riley had texted her after class demanding that they go study for their chemistry exam. She almost didn’t show up, but she was so close to failing; One more D on a test would completely destroy her GPA and her scholarships would disappear with the snap of a finger. 

She wasn’t expecting the study session to consist of her mind trailing off as she stared at you, thinking about bending the pretty receptionist at the desk over and making her scream in front of everyone in here.

You were so fucking cute: circle frames around your eyes, two puffs surrounded by clips atop your head, cropped, purple sweater and jean shorts that showed most of your legs. She could see that you had on a pair of worn sneakers through the little gap of the desk you sat at, and all she could think about was your knee-high socks above her head as she pounded into that tight, gooey cunt—

“Abby, bro, what the fuck. Can you pay attention?” 

“Yeah, gimme a sec,” and she shot up out of her seat to walk towards you.

She could see that you had your AirPods in the closer she got, mindlessly scrolling through your phone. 

She cleared her throat, “Excuse me?” 

You instantly looked up when you heard her, and she was met with your bright smile. You smelled like candied apples, fucking shit—

“Hi! How can I help you?” you spoke in a hushed tone, and she nearly went cross-eyed. She could hear you begging for her cock, now! 

You can help by letting me rail you! 

“Umm… I’m a chem major, and I was wondering if you could help me find something on… like… ionic liquids?” 

She’s been in love with chemistry since she was a goddamn freshman in high school, she knew what ionic fluids were! She just needed an excuse to talk to you. She’s desperate! 

You nodded immediately, your smile softening, “Of course! I love chemistry, all the books are down this way.” 

You stood and walked out from behind the desk, guiding her to a secluded spot of the library, right by the windows. All she wanted to do was press you up against them and dig you out—

“Abby, you okay?” your gentle voice cut through the raunchy visuals in her head. 

“Y-Yeah! Don’t worry, did you say something?” 

“Yeah… there’s some books right here about ionic liquids!” you said cheerily, a bright smile growing on your face once more. 

“Oh, yeah, cool. Thanks.” 

“No problem! I’ll be over there if you need anything!” you said to her before turning to leave. She stopped you before you could. 

“Actually!” Fuck, come up with something! “I… uh… you said you liked chemistry?” 

“Sure do! It’s so interesting!” 

“Facts, I love it. I’ve loved it since I was little.” 

“Me, too! I used to get picked on for it, but I’m so glad I stuck with it.” 

“Oh, wait, do you major in chem, too?”

“Not anymore! I used to before I transferred, but I switched over to sociology when I got here. I still volunteer as a chem tutor, though.” 

Her ears immediately perked up. That’s the door she needed; she’d have that cunt in no time! 

She smiled slyly at you, “That's crazy you say that! I actually needed a tutor for this biochem exam next Monday.” 

She watched your brows furrow as she spoke, “Do you… would you mind helping me study? I’ve been having some trouble focusing, and I think having someone there would be a big help.” 

She noticed your hesitation, “Oh… um…”

Fuck! Dammit! “I mean if you’re not busy! If you are, I totally get it!” 

You shook your head at her quickly, “No no no! I’m… just a little swamped right now with some other students.”

“… Oh,” Abby said, disappointment evident in her tone before she disguised it. “That’s okay— “

She watched your expression drop at her tone before you shook your head, “I would have to cancel some sessions, but I think I can see you on Saturday! How’s that sound?” Abby grinned widely at your proposal. 

Sounds so good, fuck it sounds so fucking good. “That’d be great, I really appreciate it.” You smiled back at her. 

“Great! Here, lemme get your Snap,” you pulled out your phone and she pulled out hers. She was locked in, for sure!

After Abby added you, you gave her a gentle wave before walking back to your desk. She watched your ass switch in your shorts with every step you took. She couldn’t wait to watch it clap on her dick! 

She smirked to herself before walking back to where Riley angrily sat. 

“You’re a cunt, what the fuck took you so long?” Her best friend scolded her with furrowed brows. 

“Just talking to the librarian, damn, chill.” 

Abby opened her book with a cheerful grin, suddenly in a much better mood. 

She couldn’t wait to see you this weekend! 

a/n: damn another impulsive writing prompt😳 uhhhh this is gonna be short n nasty :p literally have the whole thing mapped out already LOL just needed to write abby so bad like i couldn’t hold back anymore shes so hot n sexy need her to corrupt me even tho im a worthless slut already <3

pt. 2 :0

[arcielee]

Hazy Shades of Spring

Summary: A professor runs into one of her students.  Paring: Modern Aemond Targaryen x Female!Reader  Word Count: 3483 Warnings: Nothing too spicy, so please don’t report. ♥ There will be a part 2 though for the smut.  Author's Note: This is for the poll you all voted for. I hope you enjoy and a huge thank you to @sapphire-writes for your read over/feedback, your modern Aemond has definitely set the bar (for me anyway).  Tags (Tumblr kindred spirits): @sirenofavalon​

It was the fourth walk-by from your waitress when you decided to request your bill and just accept that you, in fact, had been stood up. 

You were single and freshly thirty and dating had seemingly become a monstrous thing to attempt. You kept your humor with dating apps, but you also held a mild regret that curled in your abdomen that you ended things with Cregan; as amicable a break-up as it was, you were beginning to believe that complacency might have been the best option. 

Now you only had yourself to blame because you finally caved to the incessant needling of your colleague, Johanna Lannister, when she cornered you, again, and pressed her suggestion of a blind date with her husband’s brother. 

“It’s his twin brother,” she added to her attempt to make her point. “So you know he’s handsome…”

Your nose involuntarily scrunched with her closing statement, but you decided to set aside your judgment and agreed to it, if anything to shut her up.

Numbers were exchanged and you texted back and forth a bit; he was amiable enough with some wit to him, though not enough to laugh out loud, but it was enough to agree to meet for dinner. The semester had ended and you had submitted your grades, allowing you several weeks of freedom before the spring semester would begin. 

He suggested and seemed adamant about the new upscale restaurant that opened up downtown, which was an old theatre that had been purchased and repurposed for fine dining. When you arrived, its renovation was breathtaking: the inside arched upwards and there was a new mural of brilliant colors on the ceiling, with marble columns that led to a grand staircase and red carpeting that was a walkway over the polished floors. 

You knew it would be ritzy and opted for a black, flitted dress that complimented your figure and cut off just above your knees, with tights that showed a definitive black seam centering the backside of your legs and a heel with a clasp. You removed your cardigan before you approached the hostess, checking your phone to see the text, running late, be there soon.

Your grip tightened on the phone, with a fleeting moment to retreat homeward but you had put effort into your look tonight and you ignored the call of comfort for a baggy shirt and sweats. Instead, you get a table and order a glass of red wine while you wait. 

The time rolled away and your glass neared empty; you checked your phone to see that the courtesy text you sent to see if he was still alive had been left on read. It sends a bolt of vexation in your chest and you finish the wine; you were nettled by the inconsideration being shown by the damn Lannister twin.

An annoyed sigh leaves you and you can feel the pitied look of your waitress. “We do have a bar upstairs,” she offers with a small smile. “It isn’t as crowded as down here.” 

Fuck it. You tip her well and decide to climb the grandiose staircase, to make most of your night out as well as escape the music and murmur of the dinner crowd. The lighting was not as harsh and you seated yourself at the end of the bar, ordering a second glass of wine and retrieving a small notepad you have tucked into your purse. “Do you have a pen?” You asked the bartender and he is polite enough to retrieve you one. 

You allow the new scenery and your new muse, the feeling of absolute annoyance, to help create something for your editor; lost in your scribble and half a glass later, you are interrupted with a question.

“Professor?” 

Your hand stilled on the glass stem, your grip so tight you would think it would crack under the  pressure. 

Living centrally downtown did mean you would often run into students, present and sometimes past. You knew you were not as old and dusty like some of the other professors, but you kept your reservation with social interactions, giving a tight smile when they acknowledged you and looked for a segue out of any pleasantries they attempted to exchange. 

It wasn’t that you did not care for them, it’s just that you did not want to be reminded of your occupation outside of your working hours. 

This voice was familiar, with a distinct, low hum from the chest.

Aemond Targaryen. 

He was one of the top students at the university; he was never late with assignments, would always push for extra credit, and would meet any opinion with his own educated intellection, which often led to heated debates in business law. 

In the beginning, you struggled with your prejudice when he entered your classroom; you noted his gait and composure, how he held himself with an eerie elegance as opposed to his brother and his frat boy persona. Aegon had been a handful, often showing up under the influence of something and once making a crude pass when he asked about extra credit. 

You halted the attempt immediately and pushed him from your office; the thought of fraternizing with a student never crossed your mind.

That was until you had Aemond.

His family was known in King’s Landing, their family empire owning most of everything and their standing revered, with a hand in everything within city limits. Aegon only had passed your class, begrudgingly by you, due to the family’s repeated and generous donations to the university, though he hardly deserved the lowest grade you gave him. 

It was why you were not surprised when Aemond followed the same academic route, as it was expected for him to get a business degree of some sort and contribute. He had a different drive than his brother, he was present and moved with a determination, some unforeseen drive that pushed him and it gave him an almost arrogant air. 

The interactions you shared throughout the semester was a stark contrast to his stern demeanor; his voice was low and commanding, with a genuineness to his tone. He was never inappropriate and you found you actually enjoyed the interactions shared. 

He is also so very handsome, you cannot help but admit to yourself, your cheeks flushed when you turned to see him standing and watching you. 

Despite the scar that marred his face, a childhood accident was all he shared with you, his mien was still breathtaking. It was apparent he came from old money with the sapphire stone chosen to replace his missing eye and you could still see the gash that cut through from above his brow into the sharp contours of his face. His lips were curled, his head with a slight tilt as he peered at you. Tonight, he wore dark, fitted slacks and button up shirt, with a cashmere sweater and dress jacket. His silver chain peaked underneath his collar and his long, silver hair was not knotted back in his usual low, messy bun, but instead was draped over his broad shoulders.

“Oh, hello, Aemond, how nice to run into you,” you are quick to tuck the notepad back into your purse. “What brings you out tonight?” 

He always had this damnable, perpetual smirk that played at his lips, like he is aware of the effect he has on you. Aemond moved to take the seat next to you and you notice how the bartender is quick to serve him a drink. “My father insisted I help my uncle with the grand opening,” he explained, touching the glass but not drinking it. “I am shadowing the ordeal.” 

Of course they own this restaurant, your cheeks burning with the realization, but before you could excuse yourself, he instead asks, “You look lovely tonight. What brings you here?” He looks around, “Were you meeting with someone?” 

You fidget with your glass, clearing your throat. “Um, I was supposed to meet for a date and…” you faltered on the lie prepared on your lips and instead admitted, “I was stood up.” 

His expression is unreadable and he shrugs. “This seems to happen to the best of us,” and he finally lifts his glass to you. “Cheers to the best.” 

You give a small smile and the cheers allow you to finish your drink. Aemond gestures for a refill, but you push to stand. “Thank you, but I should probably leave. You are a student, I’m your professor…” 

“The semester is over,” his voice is low, his expression almost amused and you note how his eye takes in your form when you stand up. You pull your cardigan on, but it does little to cover your black dress and you burn from his steady gaze. “I’m hardly a student, except for a few filler courses this spring, but then I will be done. And besides, I already turned in my paper and you, actually, already submitted my grade.” 

“Oh, did I?” Of course I fucking did. 

Aemond hummed. “Yes, in fact. I appreciate the good score.”

The bartender rests the new glass in front of you and you lift it, “Well, it was well earned. And cheers, then, to the semester ending and good grades.”

The soft plink of glass and you see his perpetual smirk playing on his lips again. “You do look lovely tonight and I am obligated to be here. Enjoy your glass of wine and keep me company until it’s finished.” 

Since you had not eaten and were on your third glass of wine, it makes you agreeable to accept his company; you know your cheeks are rosy as you are swept up into conversation with him. Aemond always had a wit that would make you laugh, or maybe it was the wine, but either way you found you were enjoying yourself. 

With your third glass almost gone, your eyes catch sight of the cigarette case he placed on the bartop; the embossed design glinted under the lighting. “It’s a family insignia,” he explains, pushing it towards you. 

You pick it up, your finger trailing the dragon design. “This is in the mural in the lobby,” you muss and he nods. There is a satisfying click when you open it and the waft of cinnamon reaches your nose, which crinkles with your smile. “Clove cigarettes?” You cannot help but giggle with the discovery. 

He narrows his gaze on you, but his lips are still curled upwards as he leans over to take it from your hands. “It is my guilty pleasure, a treat when the semester ends,” he closes it. 

“We all deserve a guilty pleasure,” you agree, your attention falling to the empty glass in front of you. “I will have to ask for one, though,” you gestured towards the case. “I feel I need to indulge just a bit more, on this night in particular.” 

Aemond stands up and pulls your chair back, his hand offered to you so you can find your balance on your heels. You look up at him through your eyelashes and notice that even with your heel, he is taller still. 

He is gentle to take your hand in his own, his other hand on your lower back to guide you as you weave through the few patrons and staff. You eventually slip through a threshold that leads out to a secluded balcony that is decorated with lights, giving a golden hue. 

With the approach of spring, the night air is crisp and you wrap your arms around yourself and your thin cardigan. “Oh, this view,” you cannot help but smile, despite your shiver. 

Aemond hums his agreement, pulling off his dress jacket and handing it to you. You try to decline, but he insists, “I run warm. It’s a family trait.” 

You pull it on, engulfed in the fine fabric and his scent, a mixture of clean laundry with an expensive cologne. He walked towards the ornate balustrade that stems around the balcony and leaned his elbows on top; you followed him, the soft clicks of your heels on the stone and rested on his visible side, peering out towards King’s Landing. 

He pulled out the case and retrieved a black clove cigarette, lighting it and passing it to you, smoke pouring from his smile as your fingertips touch to take it. The drag is a mixture of the best and worst feeling; you allow your exhale to snake over your features and lick your lips to taste the cinnamon on them. “I haven’t had one of these,” you blush again. “It has been a while, but thank you, this is just what I wanted.” 

You watch him pull another and balance it between his lips. Wordless, you tuck yours into the corner of your mouth and place your hands to cup the flame as he lights it. With his exhale, he says, “Thank you.” 

The silence allows a moment to enjoy the city bustle below, but the sound of him clearing his throat brings you back to the balcony. “What about you?” You tilt your head to look at him, your brow quirked and he clarifies, “I had answered your questions and shared about my interests outside of my degree, but what about you and your passions?” 

You take another drag to mull over your reply. “Perhaps teaching is my passion,” you reply, your brow raised at him. 

He hums a moment. “I don’t think so,” his voice is so low that you need to turn to hear him, facing him and leaning one elbow on the bannister. His brow is cocked and his perpetual smirk playing on his lips. “I saw passion when you were focused on your notebook earlier, you had a glow with your penning.” Aemond blows the smoke above his head, “You do not have that same expression with your lectures.” 

You turn away and focus straight ahead, hoping the city lights would wash away the embarrassment that rushed to your cheeks. He makes almost an aha noise and steps closer towards you, peering at you. “I am correct about your passion outside of your teaching,” his tone is teasing.

“Well, yes,” your mind is buzzing from the wine, the cigarette amplifying it ever-so-slightly. He graduates after the spring, you reason and then decide to share, “I enjoy writing.”

This confession breaks the levy and your passion spills as you babble about your love for science fiction and how your interests were piqued by the classics like Ray Bradbury and Kurt Vonnegut, plus his pseudonym. Then you stop, your hand covering your mouth. “Sorry, I am rambling,” you blush again. 

“It’s cute,” he encourages. “Please, continue.” 

You sigh. “Unfortunately, there isn’t much else to add. Science fiction does not have the same audience  it once did and it definitely isn’t what sells as far as digital books,” you finish with a grim smile. “What sells then?”

You focus your eyes on him and cannot stop the fit of giggles that spill from your lips; he peers at you, his cheeks dimpling with a pursed smile of his own. “Smut, mostly,” you confess and he chuckles. “It is all,” you wave your hand flippantly, “porn with plot and I happen to have a knack for it. Plus, I am very fond of the residual income from my sales,” you finish your cigarette. 

“A knack for it?” His tone is still low and he flicks his own cigarette over the edge. “Like, the ability to incorporate it into any situation…?” 

“I mean, within reason,” you are unable to hold his gaze, feeling almost childish in his large jacket, your fingertips playing with the button stance. “It depends on the ratio of porn to plot, really. It kind of comes down to a science with the method.” 

“Oh?” He sounds amused and shifts himself, edging closer still, his gaze still locked on your face. “Enlighten me.” 

“Well,” you hem for your words, your wine-addled brain unable to stop them from leaving your mouth. “Obviously, as a writer, you wish to set the scene for your reader, the build-up to the moment, but you also don’t want clutter it so much when they are obviously looking for one thing-” 

Your words are stopped by the soft press of his lips to your own, his hands covering your hold on his jacket and bringing you against his chest. Your eyes widen for a moment before you relax against him, enjoying his taste, the mixture of clove cinnamon, smoke, and whatever whiskey he had at the bar.  

His large hands move to your hips, pulling you closer with a soft squeeze and you moan into the kiss, your fingers curling around the back of his neck and tangling in his hair. Aemond presses against you and your back against the bannister; you can feel him through his dress slacks, your own body betraying you by the warmth pooling between your thighs. 

“Wait, wait,” you break the kiss, your eyes wide again and looking him over.

The pupil of his eye is blown, almost black with his stare, and his lips curl upwards. “We should do this somewhere else,” he suggests, his tone velvet. “Take me home?”

You bite your bottom lip with your pregnant pause before nodding. You feel his finger curl beneath your chin, tilting your head to meet with his gaze. “I require verbal consent,” his tone still teasing you. 

“Yes,” you say, your cheeks are red, and his usual stoic expression brightens slightly. He takes your hand into his and you follow, Aemond pulling his phone and texting, his grasp tight as he helps you down the stairs. You avoid the looks of the staff and follow him to exit the restaurant. 

Out front is some black luxury car idling and Aemond moved to open the door for you, helping you seat yourself before closing the door and walking to the other side. Your eyes burn into the back of the driver’s seat, who turns and offers a smile, asking for your address before he closes the partition. 

You can feel the shift in the back seat as Aemond sits next to you, his expression unreadable once again. A beat of silence follows as the car begins to drive and only then does your liquid courage take its hold. You reach to pull him towards you and his mouth finds yours. His lips are so soft, so warm against your own, his tongue moving into your mouth and yours meeting with his languid movements to continue to taste him. 

He pulls you to straddle his lap, your dress bunching around your hips and his large palms are warm as they grab into the softness of your thighs, pulling you slow to grind against the growing bulge of his pants. A soft moan spills from your lips with the pressure and his mouth falls to your chest, his tongue following your clavicle and closing on the junction of your shoulder to your neck. You mewl when you feel his teeth bite into you, moving your hips against him which elicited a guttural groan from the back of his throat. 

You had forgotten how much fun kissing could be, the intimacy of hands pawing with purpose and the soft pants from the passion. The car stops and when you realize it is parked in front of your apartment building; you break the kiss and fall into your seat, your hands moving to righten your skirt. 

Another beat of silence follows and he finally says, “Is this your place?” His voice is gentle. 

You nod your head yes, you mind whirring with what had unfolded this evening and your eyes falling to his hands; you watched his slender fingers slowly drum the leather seat between before moving to palm your hand, his thumb gentle to run the length of your knuckles and back. “Nothing more needs to happen,” he offered you an escape. “But could I ask for a kiss goodnight?”

Your eyes lock onto his, your tongue wetting your lips and leaning to find his mouth once more. His lips fit so perfect against your own, his tongue trailing your bottom lip with a soft nip before he pulls back. 

You open the car door and climb out, hearing him shift in his seat to lean forward. “Goodnight, professor-”

But you turn on your heel, leaning over and well aware of your cleavage in this little black dress you wore tonight. “Aemond,” your eyes rest on his face, your cheeks growing warm once again. “Would you like to come up?” 

With the familiar curl of his lips, he tells the driver to go home. He pulled himself from his seat and reached again for your hand. Your cheeks burn with the feeling of how your hand fits in his own and you lead him inside. 

[kkanabel]

caffeine addiction - chapter 7 Bakugou Katsuki x Reader / Coffee Shop! AU

directory/m.list

⇦ previous chapter - next chapter ⇨

words: ~2.3k

The photo you took with Bakugou was admired, to say the least. 

After going home from the show and taking a long bath to wash the day off, you noticed that your aunt invited you to a group chat containing the two of you and the Bakugou family. 

You were in your bedroom, sitting in a fetal position on your bed with your hair wet. You were in your twelve-year-old t-shirt that was four sizes too big for you. It had so many holes in it that if you wore it outside, people would believe you were a rat that was scurrying about on the streets. But you loved it. And you were damn adamant about never getting rid of it.

Taking a piece of your hair, you brought it to your nose and breathed in the scent of your shampoo and conditioner before sighing in delight. This was the best part about washing your hair. Even though you may look like some version of a wet mop, you smelled so good. This is great. You loved the time after a show. Your entire body would be tired and aching afterward (especially your feet after wearing heels), but the afterglow of going to one was always the best. 

The slight soreness was somewhat satisfying, and you’d be able to go back through your photos and relive the entire show again through your photos as you listened to the barely-there noises of cars driving past your window and the occasional hoot of an owl.

The group chat was then flooded with the photos of you two. There was a particular photo they focused most on, though– the one with Bakugou glancing down at your lips as you beamed up at him. You couldn’t lie. It was a beautiful photo. The outfits you two wore were well-coordinated, but it was overshadowed by the sheer chemistry emanating from the two of you. 

Your hands were placed delicately on his chest whilst his hands rested on your lower back and underneath your chin, angling your face up to his. There was a ghost of a smile left on Bakugou’s face while he was glancing at your smile. 

You let out an audible “woah” and left a heart message next to that particular photo. You were proud! It truly looked like the two of you were a couple, and the clothes were definitely a highlight of the photo altogether. The photographer did a great job! You didn’t know how the photographer/editor was able to make it look so much like Katsuki was going to kiss you, but you weren’t complaining! It looked great!

The actual moment you were taking that photo didn’t feel anything like what the mood from the photo emanates. That amazed you. The photographer was truly talented.

And then the bribery started.

Before the afterparty ended, Mistuki and Masaru were holding a conversation with you and your aunt about the clothing. You mentioned how you really wanted some of the pieces from the runway, and you were probably going to desperately search the web for anything similar.

Usually, pieces straight from the runway aren’t the same ones sold at stores. When looking at luxury brands’ stores, they normally have a refined version of the things they sell at stores. The point of fashion shows are to market the brand and to make a statement (whether it be about society, politics, or whatever else). Of course, it depends on the brand, but Masaki is a brand that uses its fashion shows as more of an art exhibition than anything. You, however, have a tendency to actually want the pieces directly from the runway. 

After you wore them for the photos, you just wanted them more. So, this was a way for you to ask the original designers if you could purchase their pieces in a… sly way.

You didn’t expect it, but Masaru offered to give an outfit to you for free. You were especially surprised since you were willing to pay thousands for it! They said it was a gift for their old friend’s niece. You were ecstatic!

Mitsuki, however, being the opportunist she is, decided that they’d give an outfit to you for a favor or two. And you, being the clothing addict, agreed to “anything!” 

This is how she was able to coax you into getting your permission for posting this photo to their official Instagram. 

It’s unknown how she was able to convince her son for his permission, but it was likely something ten times more sneaky. To you, it was a small price to pay for these clothes you likely would have sold a kidney for. After all, it was Masaki! Straight from the runway! Masaru even personally tailored it to exactly your size! This was a chance that only a couple people in the world could receive. You were fine with it.

In fact, you were glad that you had to just show your face to a small fraction of the public. It’s fine! It’s a great deal, in fact! What you didn’t expect was for this photo to turn the viewing for a small fraction of the public into one of a big fraction.

Either way, this didn’t become an issue until a bit later.

Bakugou Katsuki was back to his daily routine. His attention was a little more split, however. The joint group chat between the owners of Masaki and Kindeki was blowing up at almost all times of the day. The designers of the brands had jumped straight into drafting up ideas as soon as possible, and it was headache-inducing. 

Bakugou was tired of his phone stuttering out notifications as if it were a bumbling high schooler trying to do a presentation. Thus, during his time at the café, his eyebrows were constantly furrowed into an expression of sheer irritation as he felt his phone vibrate against him in his pocket every couple of seconds. “Why can’t those damn geezers just talk about this in real life!?” he thought, opening his phone for the nth time to check up on what they’d been talking about.

His mom and your aunt were talking about the Ham and Swiss Croissants from Starbucks. This was the last straw. He turned off the notifications for the group chat altogether, finally getting a break from the incessant vibrating of his phone. From across the counter, Ashido looked at him with concern.

“Hey, you good? You’ve been staring at your phone all day like you did in high school whenever Midoriya got a better grade than you on a test.” 

Bakugou gritted his teeth and bared them at the girl for her remark, but answered nonetheless. “My mom and her friend from college keep bitching about croissants in a group chat we’re using to discuss details for a brand collaboration.” He rolled his eyes at the thought of it. He was going crazy. Why couldn’t they just use their own chat? Why the hell are they talking about croissants!?

He was leaning his hands against the back counter that held his expensive espresso machine. His “baby”, as his employees would call it. He leaned a little too far back and burned the back of his arm on one of the metal attachments to the machine which was still dripping with boiled water. As he hissed from the pain, he started whispering a scary amount of curses under his breath.

Then, the door rang. 

Instead of you coming back into the café, this one little dipshit is starting to come in instead. Some people were moving into the empty space next door to his café. They were setting up a boutique or some stupid shit, and this guy was one of their people. He kept ordering the same shit you’d always order. A peach lemonade and some version of an extremely caffeinated drink, and some other shit. This time, the guy came in with a Starbucks bag with something in there that smelled suspiciously like those stupid fucking croissant sandwiches. 

Bakugou forced a smile on his face as he was handing the man his order. He could feel his face twitching with poorly concealed anger, so it just made the man squeak and rush out of the place as soon as he could. Ashido chuckled at him from the cashier, watching as Bakugou quickly reverted his face back into one with a deep grimace. Yeah, he wasn’t going to be working as the cashier at all today. He’d scare them all off, and he’s already intimidating enough as he is.

As of this point, Ashido was getting concerned. She could see a vein popping up on his neck from clenching his teeth and fist so hard. He looked a little constipated, to be honest, but she kept these words to herself for fear that she may end up causing that vein on his neck to pop in sheer rage. 

She genuinely hadn’t seen him this angry in years, and she was wondering how high his blood pressure must have been. After knowing him for so many years, she was sure that the croissant conversation wasn’t the only thing that was getting on his nerves so much. It couldn’t have been. Normally, when the part-time workers at his café would start having personal conversations in the employee group chat, he’d just calmly ask them to bring the conversation to another place.

That was a similar scenario to what he described. Two people he knew quite well using a professional group chat for personal discussions– it was basically the same situation.

There had to be a certain trigger that was making him more irritated than usual. She saw how Bakugou reacted to the man that just left the café, and she couldn’t help but think that he was connected to all of this. Hmm, he was carrying a Starbucks bag, though. Maybe that’s why he was angry? Because he brought a bag with the logo of a massive coffee corporation into his café? But no, the man was clearly buying the drinks from his café, which basically cemented the fact that his drinks were better. Bakugou would normally be proud of that. 

Ashido kept thinking to deduce the reason behind his actions. Playing detective for the source of Bakugou’s emotions is one of her favorite hobbies. Especially when the café isn’t busy.

Maybe it’s because the bag smelled a little bit like croissant sandwiches? There has to be another reason other than the croissants. There’s no way he’d get that angry just because of a reminder of some pastries.

Ashido was hyper aware of his actions during her exchange with the customer, however. Partially because she was worried and mostly because she was curious. 

Before Bakugou could even take a glance at the bag in his hands, she noticed him clench up when he asked for “an americano and a peach lemonade– both large.” She could have sworn that Bakugou also let in a sharp breath when the customer said that.

What’s wrong with buying an americano and a peach lemonade? Tons of people ordered those. Maybe it’s the combination of the two? She thought. “But (Y/N)-san orders these and he’s never angry at-” her jaw dropped and she immediately clasped a hand over her mouth.

She had reached an epiphany. "It’s definitely because she hasn’t been visiting the café as often!"

Is that why he was so pissy?

Was it because he wanted to see you?

Ashido told Bakugou he should go on a break so that she could process this information while he went to calm down. She’ll tease him about it after his blood pressure goes down. He’s also been clenching his teeth so hard that his teeth will start falling out if he doesn't cool off somehow. 

As she washed her hands (because she touched her mouth earlier), she had a terrifying cheshire cat smile on her expression. From afar, a customer saw her and squeaked a little. 

It was his break, but he couldn’t fucking relax. Maybe he should just leave the café to Ashido for the rest of the day to cool off at the gym. But no, he couldn’t. He had to finish the day, or else it would damage his gold, coffee mug-shaped pride.

He has to, even if he’s starting to sweat from how much sheer anger he feels. His head and jaw ache from being clenched for so long, and he thinks his palms might bleed if he digs his fingernails into them any longer. He desperately needed this break. 

He was very a little irked at the fact that he hadn’t seen you stop by his café ever since the show. You were a regular at his café, so why hadn’t he seen you since?

Was it because he scared you off because of the way he looked at you in the photo?

It sent his mind spiraling. "Of course she wouldn’t show up again. It’d be fucking awkward. She probably thinks you’re a disgusting pervert because of the way you looked at her. Fuck, you barely know her. She definitely thinks you’re disgusting because of that.”

As of this point, he was standing in the employee bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror again. He looked at the wall desperately, wanting to punch it with all his might. But if he did that, he’d probably break his wrist again. Not a good idea to punch a concrete wall like that one time. “Calm down,”he thought, using breathing techniques that his old therapist taught him. 

He hasn’t felt this angry in years– ever since Midoriya got a higher grade than him on that government test in his senior year of high school.

So, he went back to the counter of his café, making himself one of those hot chocolates that you helped him develop a little while back.

Before he got back to work, he went to the back and did some push-ups in the pantry while thinking of you. He’s going insane. Again.

directory/m.list

⇦ previous chapter - next chapter ⇨

[noisycowboyglitter]

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[cult-of-the-eye]

Mag 81 A Guest for Mr Spider

FUCK FORMER HEAD ARCHIVIST

Wait I need to check the timelines - this was 2 days after leitner's death

New spooky music???

My man is so fucking dramatic I love him so much "grand of sand behind my eye" love the way he speaks

Yeah FUCK JURGEN LEITNER

Omg the greying hair is canon??

Child in the 90s makes him at most 27 GOD DAMN. I was imagining like mid 30s...can you imagine a fucking 27 yr old using words like "ilk" when talking to you

Oh shit he's an orphan poor guy

Yeah ok a lot of his personality seems to make sense if you realise he was raised by his grandma

You know those memes that are like people raised by their grandparents are exceptionally polite but in a brisk way, talk fancy and are super posh? Yeah that's him.

Getting such neurodivergent vibes

Yeah he sounds like a main character from the start Jesus Christ he's such a kid who got traumatised and then grows up to be a horror protagonist vibes

My First Leitner lol like kids had to be introduced to them at a young age like those my first toys

He's so funny I can just imagine him as an 8 yr old getting super like affronted at this like how dare my grandma think I am of subpar intelligence he's such a little bitch from the start

"The eponymous Mr spider" even talking about his childhood trauma he's busting out the vocabulary

Fuck that story actually kinda rattled me I had my hand over my mouth in shock for most of it

I think it was the bit where the horsefly brought his son and they were both crying that got me, I could definitely imagine it scaring an 8 yr old

The way it drags out as well, with the pages of the same scene it really heightens the suspense

Is his childhood bully someone we should keep track of?? Love how he says Michael probably cause he sees him as a bully lol

It's interesting how despite him bullying him (quite badly seeing as though he beat him up) he's still like yeah but he saved my life and that means he deserves to be remembered

My bro didn't save your life on purpose, he was just trying to make it worse and happened to come to a terrible fate cause of that

I guess underneath it all he was still a kid who watched someone die, knowing they'd get eaten by a fucking spider, he still held him in some regard

The way he specified the guy was his bully even after he was being eaten though lol

He was desperate to get the book back? That's a leitner thing I guess, the book makes you want to keep it so it can finish whatever it wanted to do to you

On my relisten (which I will do once I've finished the series I'm sure of it), I'll have to look out for any reaction of leitners name

I wonder why Jon didn't react more to Carlos vittery's statement, like it must've terrified him? I saw a post a while back explaining Jon's thoughts and IT WAS GENIUS it was like of course he doesn't react, he must be terrified that someone knew about his experience and somehow did this to mess with him or it was a joke and he can't let anyone know that the Head Archivist is not Good at This ugh it's so good I'll tag it if I can find it

AHHHHH HE REGRETS DISMISSING THE OTHER STATEMENTS AHHHHHH

HE FINALLY ADMITS THAT HE NEEDS HELP WE LOVE THIS CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT YES YOU FUCKING DO BITCH.

yeah at least he's right about Elias killing leitner

GEORGIE THE EX GIRLFIEND

ITS SO WEIRD TO SEE HIM ACTUALLY NICE TO SOMEONE WOW HIS VOICE CHANGES SLIGHTLY AS WELL HES LESS ACADEMIC

THE ADMIRAL

Awwww he's so cute with georgie

GHOST PODCAST GHOST PODCAST

THE WHAT THE GHOST T SHIRT IS CANON???? AHH THATS SO CUTE

Can he not go back to his own flat?? Did he bring all his clothes to the archive and then subsequently leave them there? Does he even have a flat??

God Georgie is so nice I would kill for her

It's so funny that an apparent supernatural cynic dated a ghost podcaster

WOW SEASON 3 OFF TO AN AMAZING START I CANT WAIT TO KEEP LISTENING IM GONNA TELL MY THERAPIST ABOUT THIS TOMORROW!!!

[thehouseofja]

[lamprophonia]

》 [ yandere!Jock. ] 《

character intro. masterlist.

yan!jock x gn!reader: random prompts. 1393 words. reader referred to as 'you'. general yandere content warning that goes for all my works, but nothing specific here.

DO NOT USE OR REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE.

author's note: was in the mood for a few random prompts. no real continuity between them, they're at different points within the larger relationship darling would have with elijah, i just wanted to write something slightly different than just headcanons :^) prompt list is linked to at the numbers.

☆ 23. "oh, don't worry, this isn't my blood. it's the blood of the person who touched you earlier today.”

at this point, you probably should have been used to the near constant presence of eastview's golden boy, following you around incessantly. still, someone putting their bag down and plopping down across from you at your library table made your head snap up.

you gave the visitor a cursory glance. unsurprisingly, it was him. elijah steele in all his glory.

surprisingly, or rather worringly, the front of his white t-shirt was spattered with reddish brown stains. blood. blood elijah didn't seem to be in any rush to clean or address in any other way as he just gave you the usual greeting of a nod and smile, pulling his books and his notes out.

you took out your headphones. "are you okay?" you asked plainly, not returning the greeting or the smile — your brows were furrowed in a concerned, confused, and almost stern look.

elijah's polite expression turned confused. "yeah? why wouldn't i be?" he chuckled. the look he gave you was one of intrigue with some sort of edge that felt almost patronizing.

"the blood," you responded, showing to the stains on his shirt.

elijah glanced down for a second, and his grin grew with understanding. "oh, yeah, i'm fine." he waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "don't worry. it's not mine."

although he got back to doing his work without flinching, his statement made you pause. "what do you mean it's not yours?" you questioned, looking him over. the skin on his knuckles was split and also bleeding. not a good sign.

"i mean, it's not mine," elijah repeated and lifted his head to meet your gaze again. the condescension behind his smug little smirk was almost palpable.

"it's the blood of that asshole that tried to shove you around a few days back. you don't remember?" he chuckled, speaking as if the answer should have been obvious.

"excuse me?"

"you're excused."

"no, i mean–" you gave a exasperated sigh, "why is his blood on your shirt?" you questioned. elijah didn't seem to be bothered by your frustration. worse, the little shit seemed to be entertained by it, his smirk growing into a proper smile.

"because i beat him up?" again, he answered as if it should have been obvious.

"elijah– the– what? you can't–" you sputtered, your confusion outgrowing your concern. "you can't just, like, randomly beat people up." the words felt stupid coming out of your mouth. why were you being forced to lecture an adult on not getting into fights? this isn't some complicated rule of etiquette, it's normal behavior.

"oh, on the contrary," elijah shot back with a shit-eating grin. "i am perfectly capable of 'just, like, beating people up.'"

"elijah, listen–"

"in fact, i'd say i'm quite good at it."

"elijah–"

"probably the best in the school."

"listen–"

"besides," he cut you off for the third time in a tone so firm that it made you stop trying to get a word in and close your mouth, "it was hardly random. he cut in line. he shoved you. he deserved it."

elijah shrugged, and the two of you were left in a staredown. the guy from a few days back was rude, sure, but he didn't do anything worth getting his teeth knocked in, or whatever else the bloody knuckles elijah was sporting suggested he did.

you pondered leaving for a second, not really feeling the idea of just glaring at elijah in silence. unfortunately, he noticed your glance towards the door and his hand quickly moved to his bag, ready to grab it and follow you if you left.

little shit.

not like there was anywhere else you could study in... relative peace. "i'm not happy about this," you grumbled, ending the staring contest by going back to your books.

you heard him snicker as you were putting your headphones back in. "believe me, sweetheart, i noticed."

☆ 128. "just give it a little time! you'll get used to it, i know you will!"

the past few weeks have been interesting for you, to say the least. moving to a new high school in your senior year would have been an interesting enough experience on its own. getting confessed to by the most popular guy in said new high school would have pushed it over the top, especially since you were pretty sure he was the fakest person you've ever met.

now, to add further onto this truly fascinating experience, it seemed elijah steele did not take the hint when you rejected him. instead, he's been... shadowing you, in a very talkative manner.

he's been acting like the two of you were friends, even though you've had maybe two conversations with him — one of which being the one where you shot sown his advances and called him out on his fake demeanour, so, really, it is beyond you how he got besties from that interaction.

but alas, there he was. sitting down right at your table during lunch, as he has been doing for the past three days, with a smile that suggested he thought everything about this was perfectly normal.

needless to say, you thought otherwise.

"oh, holy fuck, look at him," elijah snickering breaks you out of your thoughts. you shake your head slightly, realizing that you were staring at him, and turn to where he's pointing.

it's another lunch table where a guy — one you know from some class, actually, although his name escapes you — is walking up to a girl — some popular senior who you only know from instagram stories and anecdotes from parties elijah insisted on telling you. her name is like alexandra or amelia or something else starting with a. the guy is looking nervous as all hell, which elijah seems to find hilarious.

"moron. he thinks he has a shot with her," elijah laughed quietly, his attention completely focused on the guy apparently trying to ask the girl — alissa? — out.

yours was instead focused on elijah. on how he looked at the small scene unfolding, how he nudged you in the shoulder as if this was an inside joke. how, despite his sweet demeanor with all his other friends, now he was eager to rope you into making fun of some random guy you might have chem with. or bio.

you knew he was fake, but the mean glint behind his eyes you were seeing now was making discomfort pool in your stomach.

"why are you here?" you blurted out without thinking and immediately regretted it when you saw how elijah's head snapped back to look at you. a smile tugged at the corners of his lips, a hint of condescension behind it.

"what do you mean? why wouldn't i be?" he chuckled.

"we're not friends," you answered. your tone was a bit more harsh than intended, but the words remain true nonetheless. whatever. maybe a bit of harsh is what this situation calls for. "i don't like you, i rejected you. why do you follow me around?"

now, he laughed. "oh please, of course we are. besides," elijah leaned back a bit in his seat, his hands in his pockets, looking relaxed as ever. "i figured you could use someone to show you around."

"you know, since you're new and all that." he shrugged, conveniently avoiding the other two points you made. a good excuse, if there ever was one. one that fit perfectly into the sweet, golden boy reputation elijah held at eastview. one that did not fit at all into the patronizing look he was giving you.

"i don't even like you," you reiterated. "stop following me around."

he rolled his eyes, the smile not fading from his face for a second. "give it a few weeks. you'll get used to it. i'm not that bad, promise." he actually had the audacity to wink.

you gave an exasperated sigh. elijah, however, looked downright entertained by your frustration, not minding the glare you were shooting him.

you turned your head, searching for an empty table you could move to. behind elijah, the scene he called your attention to earlier was concluding. his prediction appeared to be correct — the guy was walking away from the girl's table, looking dejected.

unfortunately for you, the cafeteria was full. you'd have to settle for ostentatiously avoiding your tablemate's patronizing looks for the rest of the lunch period. not that he seemed to care, content to just look at you with an amused smile on his face.

[velvetures]

omg hey just here to shoot a request, idk if you do gaz as well but only soap is ok too. maybe something like soap x reader where the reader is a transfer from the american sector and she's just this super energetic, "AMERICA SCRAAAWWW" kind of person but is also super in learning about cultures and stuff. then the boys take her to this texas themed pub that she just criticizes the shit ton as she's from texas. i think it'll be funny to see a scot x texan lol thxx

God Bless Texas... and Scotland

A/N: I believe my goal here is to make something a little more on the joking/humorous side here... I'm not trying to get into politics or country pride on a deep level. This is just for fun. Nevertheless, thank you for requesting, I hope you enjoy the direction I went with this. This is sooo damn cheesy... Summary: On shore leave, you and Soap get into a conversation about what it was like in your home countries. A couple funny stereotypes and light-hearted argument later, the 141 decide that experiencing both sides of the coin are necessary to settle the score. T/W's: stereotypes ofc, cursing, friendly banter/teasing, and as always not proofread.

It all started when you came out of your private quarters into the shared living room with an old t-shirt on with the admittedly cliche statement 'God Bless Texas' printed boldly over the front inside of a state-boundary shape. Out of all of the members of the 141, you were undoubtedly the most... shall we say... patriotic. At least in terms of your state pride and your unwavering happiness of having family still living there who were so in support of you and your work. Having family in the first place was something different compared to the rest of the squad, and it made the whole pride of where you came from a lot more difficult to understand.

You'd spent years at this point being around the 141 and learning all kinds of very unique and traditional habits that they carried with them despite oftentimes not having a family to share them with. Most of those, they shared with each other, and after getting comfortable with you was extended as a way to bond with you outside of the missions and other job requirements that you did together. From Soap's requirement of the "First Footing" tradition on New Year's, Captian Price never missing a Soccer World Cup no matter where he is, and Gaz's refusal to have a Christmas dinner without Christmas pudding, there isn't a time when someone isn't explaining their desire to incorporate some country, cultural, or family tradition in one way or another.

So, naturally, Soap was ecstatic when he found out about some little niche place that had opened up an 'American, Texas-Themed' restaurant. He knew it would be totally overdone, as did everyone else, so they all thought it would be something of a light-hearted way to poke fun at your loyalties by taking you there as a "resident expert" that could point them in the right direction and away from everything else. Truly the idea of having at least on full hour of teaisng you with everything they could just sounded like a damn good way to spend an afternoon.

The place was a little hole-in-the-wall pub with a little bit of seating that wasn’t directly at the bar. Dim lighting made it feel pretty inviting, but the obvious country music choices including Texas natives: George Strait, Waylon Jennings, and Willie Nelson made it feel a little cheap. Especially with the taxidermy Longhorn head above the bar and the “cowboy” style of practically everything hanging on the walls. Although it wasn’t quite the most miserable place you’d even been, it certainly felt like a little more than just a healthy appreciation.

“Home away from home, right lass?” Soap’s devilish grin only made the wound sting your pride that much more.

"Ya know... actually, not one bit." You answer a bit awestruck and looking around the place with bated breath and the hope that it wouldn't get much worse than it already was.

To your irritation, it got worse. Much worse.

After getting seated by an -obviously- British woman forced to fake a deep and southern drawl, you were all handed menus that named off the most "popular" foods in the Southern United States that not only made you chuckle out loud with disbelief but actually voice the total inaccuracies of certain dishes that the men sitting around you actually thought were legitimate staple items.

"You actually eat rattlesnakes often?" Gaz thought it was a bit far off since he spent quite a bit of time in his service in South Carolina, but thought he'd clarify with you anyway.

"For Christ's sake, Garrick. No!" You roll your eyes, taking a drink of the iced sweet tea you were actually shocked to see was listed as a drink option.

That in itself was the largest contention point with Ghost who stared at you with an iron-clad will of hatred seeing you pleasantly drinking iced sweet tea like you were enjoying the abomination. To his horror, you were quick to compliment that they'd actually gotten it pretty close to how you made it yourself or people at home did.

"What is a pecan pie?" Captain Price was quick to question the dessert menu before a waitress had even come back around to take main course orders.

His question sounded somewhat confused and downright scandalized at the same time. And to be honest, you really didn't know how to explain that it was simply a pie with corn syrup and brown sugar-based sweet filling, covered with pecans that were baked in a regular pie shell. You attempted to describe the basic ingredients and how it was made to the table of interested men, only to have them all stare in guarded horror... Save for Gaz. He'd actually tried it while in the States and said he'd enjoyed it. Luckily he was on your side for that particular topic.

The men as a whole hilariously didn't order anything that you -or they- considered uniquely "Texan" or "American". Soap insisted that you pick a meal that sounded the most authentic to you and that they would try some of the food off of your plate. Of course, the idea sounded good to them, but you weren't sure you wanted to share a plate of food that could possibly be decently "American" when it would still be months before you could go back home.

You folded quickly and picked a meal that you believed would be safe enough to keep them from being outwardly horrified with you but would still be interesting to compare to the meals you grew up with at home. The most simple and safe option was what they called the 'Home Run Special', most certainly a knock-off of the American chain breakfast restaurant. It came with pancakes, fried eggs, bacon, biscuits, sausage gravy, grits, and hashbrowns.

When the platter came out, you were pleasantly surprised at the look of everything, seeing as it visually had promise and even smelled just about right as well. With one glance around the table, you saw every single man staring at the three-plate meal sitting in front of you and couldn't believe that all of that food was supposedly for one person. That comment alone did make you laugh. It was one thing that you weren't afraid to admit. You could eat a whole lot. And it was a family thing that you never could be shy to not own up to. Eating all of that breakfast to them might've seemed totally unacceptable, yet for you, it looked very accomplishable, given the food tasted good. They each wanted you to give your own personal opinions before they tried anything and watched you intently for any sign of your acceptance or lack thereof.

By the end of the meal, the men had all tried everything and had mixed opinions of what they thought was actually good or not. You believed the biscuits and gravy were totally garbage and vowed that you could make them better, and wouldn't even allow them to taste them for fear of cementing an even more concrete belief that biscuits weren't meant to be savory. They were half-and-half on the bacon, some saying it was really good while others complained it wasn't enough meat for so much grease. You... were quite pleased. Eggs were fine, they all didn't really pay them much mind, while the grits were such a contested topic that you weren't sure if they lost respect for you since you finished the entire serving.

"Although I've enjoyed the majority of the food and I was surprised with it... this isn't anything legitimate." You mutter with a full stomach, looking around the place and beginning to feel a little more homesick than you thought such a tacky pub could produce.

Soap, who was finishing off your pancakes nudged your shoulder a little and smiled. "You'll have to take me home with ya. Then I ken' really find out why ye' think Texas is so damn special."

"You have to take me home with you too Johnny," You take the fork out of his hand and eat one more bite of pancakes. "So I can see if God blessed Scotland, too."

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