#is there an english word for tapioca?

[hey-i-am-trying]

Qsmp ended but let's keep exchanging culture and language

I think it would be nice if we kept doing it even if we don't have the ccs anymore to be the voices of those exchanges. We could share expressions, untranslatable words or just little words we think are nice. You can also share some culture detail or facts about your country or language.

So, I will start with some of my favorites things in brazilian portuguese.

Untranslatable word

Cafuné - The act of brushing someone's hair tenderly with your fingers.

Anteontem - This one is not very exciting but I found funny that english doesn't have anything similar. It means the day before yesterday.

Expression

While we have a verb that translated to "give birth" (parir), we use "dar à luz" a lot too, the literal translation of this expression is "to give light".

"Amigo da onça" translated to "friend of the jaguar", we use to call someone that fakes to be a friend just to betrayed the person or use them.

Word I just like

Humming birds in portuguese are called beija-flor(flower kisser)

Fun Fact

Although tapioca and cassava are pretty popular in Asia, they are originally brazilian.

One of the most popular foods in a brazilian barbecue is chicken hearts, usually served in a skewer

[glossysoap]

(A little angsty snippet I just thought of. Like a RTC au)

After about a year since your dissapearance, Gaz goes missing on a mission. One second hes there, telling the team he's cleared a building, the next his com is quiet, his weapons are on the floor and he's gone.

Simon and Johnny just completely crumble. It happened again. They let someone else that care for dissapear. Price shuts everyone out completely. Task Force 141 is in a dissaray, half their members gone, the remaining falling deeper and deeper into depression.

----

Gaz won't stop struggling against the multiple black clad men. Not until he sees you standing in the corner of the room. Dressed in a similar uniform, and a blank expression on your face, you're watching him. He freezes.

"Y/n..."

----

You visibly stiffen. You felt like you were hit with a truck. Memories of...this man popped in your head again and again. He knew you. You knew him! Eyes widening when he was shoved into the chair, you stepped forward and grabbed a doctor's wrist before he could start activating it. Your metal arm whirred and readjusted.

Then the room was plunged in chaos. You dodged arms and weapons and grabbed the man, yanking him out of the chair before quickly pulling him out of the room and rushing down the hall, heavy footsteps following closely behind

(I reached my creative limit, you can continue writing the scene lol. Does y/n and gaz get out? Do they get back to 141? Or do they get caught amd gaz is killed or trained to be a new soldier🤔🤔)

déjà vu ; ready to comply - verse

warnings/tags: this is a drabble so it won’t be perfect. gore, description of torture, weapons, maybe some inaccuracies when it comes to geography but this isn’t school so 🫣

notes: russian will be in bolded italics, and english translation will be in non bolded italics. chapter 10 of rtc is coming soon i promise i promise i promise!! hopefully this is enough to tide you over in the meantime.

this isn’t canon in the ready to comply fic. here’s the fic itself that you’ll need to read in order to understand.

word count: 4,000+

playlist: i was all over her - salvia palth, digital silence - peter mcpoland.

🏷️: @viylikescats @warenai @briacreations96 @fullmoon-94 @breadboyayay @breadboyye @kiroshang @zvdvdlvr @lunitalloronaa @itzzjxlyn @lonely-ofc @m0rganit3 @badbishsblog @wolfyland07 @angelsdemonsmonsters @unkn0wnd3ad @itstokyo-cos @c1rice @venusianlustt @bugonawall @wakusbonkus @shadowycreatormentality @blackrose4242 @blackgaladriel @lilpothoscuttings @thvxr @tapioca-marzipan @luvmeijii @atjamesbbarnes @h-leigh @writingmybeloved @chloeforde @divine--serenity @hunterbunter3000 @zittles3000 @thriving-n-jiving @mar-mar-mel @namgification @ivymarquis @crazy-phan-girl13 @goodsoup03 @schaarfyx @rhyanna6012 @abbiesxox @kenz-ee @whateverwhocares6 @sae1kie @thychuvaluswife @elichisstuff

Ten months had passed since you were captured.

Winter had changed to Spring, the snow that stuck to the grass had melted away. Flowers bloomed in their absence. The sun was blinding, almost mockingly so — how could it be so bright and light when you were dead? Shouldn’t it be dark and gloomy? Full of thunderstorms and howling wind?

Spring had changed to Summer, bringing sweltering heat and humid air. There was a pool available for marine training on base, so it was always utilized for anyone to cool off if desired. When the base was stricken with heat waves, you could always be found in that pool. Sporting a swimsuit in your favorite color, keeping yourself afloat by resting your elbows on the edge of the concrete behind you. You would just relax in the cool water, legs swaying in the natural current created by other swimmers. You would lean your head back and close your eyes, basking in the refreshing cold instead of the sweltering heat.

That summer after your disappearance death, though? It couldn’t be more different.

It was full with recruits and some soldiers, looking to cool off from the hot temperatures. You weren’t in the pool, enjoying the cool water and relaxing, without the stress of assignments. You were no where to be found.

Soon, Summer had turned to Fall. Leaves changed colors before falling off of the trees from which they were hanging. The green foliage would turn into shades of orange and red. The sweltering temperatures would finally change into a pleasant chill. People would bundle up, but not to an overwhelming or inconvenient degree — just a light jacket would do.

Fall was always your favorite season. You enjoyed the weather, as it wasn’t snowing just yet, but it definitely wasn’t full of heat waves anymore.You especially enjoyed the little things. You enjoyed layering your jackets and wearing boots. You enjoyed the taste of warm apple cider or hot chocolate on a particularly chilly night. You enjoyed the feeling of curling up in front of a fire, bundled up in a blanket (that you would never admit was stolen from Soap and Ghost).

Soap and Ghost knew it all too well, how the chilly season was your favorite.

They would always see you sipping on your hot drinks while you worked on your reports, your lips quirked up at the edges as you savored the sweet taste. Ghost would notice when your eyes searched your room for your favorite jacket, then your eyes would brighten when you see him retrieving it for you. He always knew where it was, miraculously. Sometimes, he would even catch you before you put it on yourself, and he would come up behind you and put the jacket on for you. He would be so gentle, pulling the sleeves on each arm and making sure the jacket was on comfortably. He would make sure to adjust the collar when he faced you, taking note of your wide eyes and flustered gaze under his attention.

On particularly chilly nights, Soap would notice how you blew air into your hands to warm them up. He would jog over to you and offer you his jacket to wear, and have you stuff your hands in the pockets. When he was feeling more bold, he might unzip his jacket and gesture for you to walk over to him, before enveloping you in his big arms and the jacket at the same time.

(….)

Soon, it was November 2020. Ten months since you had been captured. Ten months since a cloud of darkness settled on the task force. Ten months since a hole was carved into the hearts of Soap and Ghost.

The 141 was stationed in Moscow to investigate a potential terrorism threat, with their plane five minutes from touching down.

“Let’s go over the plan again. Ghost and Soap, you’ll be providing air support from the neighboring buildings. Gaz and myself with be inside, gathering intel and clearing the building. All clear?” Price’s voice echoed throughout the aircraft.

All of the men nodded.

(….)

The building was quiet, Gaz noticed. Too quiet.

He could hear the floorboards creak under his boots with every step he took. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears as he held his rifle, pointing the weapon forward in case he came across any hostile.

The scope light on his rifle illuminated the dark, dusty hallway.

He kicked open door after door, peering inside the rooms and scanning for any hostiles or hostages. Rifle raised and ready to empty a magazine into any enemy soldier that enters his sights.

After fifteen minutes, Gaz had cleared the first five floors of the building of any hostiles. He had also found multiple documents detailing the future plans of the terrorist group.

He only had one more floor to clear. The penthouse.

Every room on the last floor was ransacked. Desks rummaged through, papers strewn about and blood splattered on the walls. The flickering light fixtures had fallen from the ceiling and were now dangling from exposed wires.

Every other room had a dead body or two in it, blood pooling around their bodies and intestines spilling from their guts. Gaz could guess how long some people had been dead for by the rotting stench that flowed through the room, and how their skin had lost any warmth or color.

Nevertheless, he still stepped into every room and skimmed through the papers and yanked open the desk drawers, hoping to find any intel worth using.

In a few rooms, he found files that may bring the task force to new leads. The files ranged from coordinates to details on dirty politicians. He slipped the files into his backpack before zipping it shut.

He quickly finished clearing that floor and reached to click on his radio, clicking until he was tuned into the task forces radio.

“Bravo 2-6 to Bravo 0-6. All clear. Ready for evac—,” Gaz was interrupted by a soft thud behind him, before a needle pinched his neck. He turned around to see who had ambushed him, but his vision went black before he could make anyone out.

At the sound of Gaz’s radio abruptly cutting out, Price’s brows furrowed as his hand reached for his radio.

“You’re cutting out, Sergeant. Repeat your last.”

Static. No response. Nothing but static.

Hearing the conversation, Soap and Ghost looked at each other as a feeling of dread washed over them.

Something wasn’t right.

(….)

Their feelings of dread were confirmed when they arrived on the penthouse floor. What they saw was Price kneeling in front of Gaz’s combat gear and weapons, all strewn across the floor.

But Gaz was gone. Nowhere to be found.

(….)

The next day, Kyle gasped awake, eyes wide and darting around to scan his surroundings. He was being dragged by two soldiers, dressed in all black and faces completely covered with masks. Heavily armed with assault rifles and tasers — all weapons that were second nature to him. But seeing those soldiers so heavily armed only served to remind him that he was completely unarmed himself. He had no gear to protect himself from injuries either.

Speaking of injuries, if the pain radiating from his shins were anything to go by, whoever captured him must have sprained them. They also felt raw and inflamed, like they were scraped.

Not only was he unarmed and stripped of any combat gear, but his muscles felt numb and sluggish. It was as if his body lost circulation and needed to be shaken for the pins and needles feeling to go away.

His legs were heavy as his feet dragged along the floor. If those soldiers weren’t dragging him from his underarms, he surely would’ve collapsed onto the floor by now. His mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

He must’ve been drugged.

He was being dragged down a hallway with grey walls and flickering lights, concrete floors that were stained with blood and waste. He could smell the metallic scent and the pungent smell of ammonia with every breath he took.

Screams echoed through the hallway and sent a chill down his spine. The screams came from men and women, even children. All at the top of their lungs, no doubt leaving their throats raw. Some of the people even screamed for help.

As each scream and wail hit his ears, his breath quickened and his heart raced with panic. He needed to get out of here.

It took every bit of willpower in his body and every cell of strength, but he started thrashing in the soldiers’ grasp. His muscles burned as they awoke, jolting his nerves with every movement he made — but he persisted nonetheless.

He kicked and screamed in an effort to escape from their hold but to no avail. All it did was make the soldiers’ huff in frustration and jerk him forward, still dragging his body like a ragdoll down that hallway.

After a minute, the soldiers reached a metal door. It was engraved with crimson octopus with a skull for a head. The tentacles of the octopus spanned out around the skull, almost in a perfect circle. Rust and dirt lined every crevice of the insignia, from the eye sockets of the skull to the suction cups on each tentacle.

The door was metal and had multiple locks and latches, as well as a keypad. It was also equipped with a fingerprint scanner and retina scanner.

Without releasing Kyle from his grip, one of the soldiers used one hand to key in a code and press his thumb against the scanner. He then pulled his mask down in order for his retina to be scanned.

The door opened with a creak.

Once the door was opened, the two soldiers dragged Gaz into a room filled with other soldiers. The room was filled with security cameras, headlamps, and medical equipment. A chair was in the middle of the room, with a couple of doctors stationed next to it.

Gaz’s wide eyes darted around the room nervously, looking at every threat and accessing the situation. He was desperate to find any means of escape.

As his eyes went from soldier to soldier, doctor to doctor, they landed on a face that made his breath catch in his throat. One that he hasn’t seen in nine months.

Yours.

He freezes in shock. He felt like he was hallucinating at the sight of his friend standing there, alive, when you had been assumed dead for nearly a year.

You stood across from him on the opposite side of the room, leaning against the wall. Your gaze was cold and calculated as you stared at his thrashing figure. Your (eye color) eyes didn’t hold any emotion or recognition, nor did the rest of your face. Your jaw was clenched and your lips were pressed together. Your brows were relaxed and your head was held high. Your (insert hair texture) hair was kept out of your face with (braids or hair tie).

The more his eyes lingered on you, the more changes he noticed.

You had gained a substantial amount of muscle since the last time he saw you. Before you were captured, you had the muscle build of a civilian — someone who wasn’t trained in the special forces.

Now? You looked like you had skyrocketed past basic training and could easily hold your own against any of the task force.

Your face was now littered with scars, lines of raised and blistered skin left behind from missions and training. All the marks of a worthy asset.

Some scars healed jagged and some healed straight. Some were still fresh and inflamed, others were old and already healed completely. One started above your left eyebrow and cut straight through, almost slashing your eye but just missing it. Another started underneath your right eye and spanned across the bridge of your nose, then ending under your left eye. Another started just below your right cheekbone, slashing down past your jaw and ending at your jugular. Another scar started right above your upper lip and slashed through your lip, before continuing down to your chin in perfect symmetry. The scar tissue on your upper lip puckered, leaving your mouth almost in a permanent snarl.

The scar that made Gaz’s eyes water was the nasty slash that spanned all the way around your neck, in a perfect circle. Little slits decorated that nasty slash, marking the slash every few inches.

Gaz’s eyes widened as the realization hit him, of what caused that scar. Barbed wire.

Your nose was crooked as if it was broken over and over, before healing incorrectly.

He also noticed how similar your clothes were to the soldiers’ attire. You wore black cargo pants that were equipped with thigh holsters on each leg, one holding a hand gun and the other holding a tactical knife. Your kneecaps were protected by leather knee pads. You were wearing black combat boots as well.

You wore a black leather jacket and a black tactical vest, straps buckled on your chest. The jacket was long sleeved only on your right arm, but completely sleeveless on your left arm — revealing your metal prosthetic arm.

Gaz gasped at the sight of the metal arm in place of where your flesh used to be.

“..(Y/N)?”

You visibly flinch at the man’s words, eyes widening as images flashed through your brain. The laughs that burned themselves into your memory were now echoing through your mind. It was as if a puzzle piece fit back into place.

“You’re the new medic, right?” A voice came from your right, all young and British. You looked up from your medical instruments to see a soldier jogging towards your station. He had darker skin and kinky hair that was cut very short. His eyes were a warm brown framed by thick lashes, and his smile felt infectious. He was sporting a light blue button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He wore tan tactical gear, complete with a tan bulletproof vest and tan cargo pants. A patch of the United Kingdom’s flag was velcroed onto his vest, matching the hat he sported as well.

“Right you are, Sergeant. Y/N L/N at your service,” You joked as you held your hand out for him to shake, meeting his soft yet calloused hand with yours.

“Please, call me Gaz. It’s nice to have someone to keep us from killin’ ourselves out here.” He grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners.

You were pulled out of your memory by the sound of the man, of Gaz, shouting.

“Get the fuck off me!” He shouted, thrashing in the soldiers’ grip as they tried pulling him over to the chair. The same chair you were shackled to ten months prior. The same chair where you witnessed your own arm being torn off, your muscles shredded and bone splintered off.

With that thought in mind, suddenly something switched. You wouldn’t let anything happen to him. You wouldn’t let any harm come to the one fragment of your past life that you can remember.

You pushed off of your position on the wall and charged at them, without an ounce of hesitation. Even as doctors and other soldiers around you called your serial number, or demanded that you stand down, you ignored them all.

Except, three guards already began advancing on you. You didn’t waste any time in taking them out.

The first tried to strike you with a taser baton to incapacitate you but you easily dodged him, elbowing him in his throat before kicking his shin and sending him to his knees. The next two tried taking you on at the same time. You started by punching one in the throat and sending him coughing to the floor, which let you take on the other guard. You grabbed his neck with your metal hand and brought his head down to meet your kneecap, a loud crack hitting your ears. He bounced off of your knee and fell back on the concrete floor, blood flowing from his nose and mouth.

The first guard was scrambling to his feet so you pulled a knife from your holster and threw it at him, hitting him square in the neck. His carotid artery began spewing blood as he fell back to the floor, gurgling as blood trickled from his mouth.

You gazed upon every other soldier and doctor in the room, assessing whether they were a threat anymore. They were all wide eyed and skittish, and some had even stepped backward.

You were now able to set your sights on one of the men holding Gaz. You used your metal arm to grip his throat and you squeezed. Only a few seconds passed before he let your friend out of his clutches. The cold steel of your hand almost crushed his windpipe as you dragged him by his throat to stand in front of you — acting as your human shield.

The second that the HYDRA soldier was in front of you, you snaked that metal arm around his neck to keep him in your grasp. You used your other hand to reach into your holster and grab your handgun.

The other soldier that was holding Gaz dropped him instantly, letting him fall to the floor. Thankfully, the drugs had worn off long enough so he had regained feeling in his muscles. His knees were still aching but aside from that, he was able to move. Your friend wasted no time in scrambling up from the floor and limping to stand behind you.

The soldier in your hold was squirming and thrashing in your grip, but due to your genetic enhancement, his struggle was useless.

You pointed the gun at any soldier or doctor who dared to step towards you and your friend. Your eyes darted to every soldier and doctor in this room, with your eyes narrowed and teeth bared.

Almost daring them to challenge the very weapon that they created.

“Вы не тронете его.” You will not touch him. You growled, before emptying a round into everyone else in the room.

(….)

The second that you left that room, you told Kyle to take the soldiers’ assault rifle while you were still using him as a human shield. You tossed your own handgun to the floor as it was empty, and pulled out a similar gun from your human shield’s holster.

“I’ll lead, you cover me from behind.” You murmur as the two of you began sprinting down the hallway.

“Roger.” He nodded without hesitation.

You knew the guards rotation patterns and schedules like the back of your hand after being kept here for so long, so you knew that the hallway would be clear except for two guards at the very end of the hallway.

Once you neared the end of the hallway, you motioned for Kyle to stand behind you.

You approached the two soldiers and they quickly started shouting when they noticed you using a soldier as a shield. You aimed your gun at them and tightened your hold on the soldier in your grasp at the same time.

The soldier in your grip began coughing and gasping for breath, clawing at your metal arm. At the sight of their fellow soldier suffocating, the two soldiers raised their hands in surrender.

But you didn’t release the human shield.

You emptied a round into the two soldiers, letting blood splatter the walls and enjoying the sounds of their cries of pain as bullets tore through their flesh.

You enjoyed watching as their bodies crumpled to the floor in a pitiful pile, their intestines spilling out of their stomachs. One of the soldiers even whimpered at the sight of his organs spilling out.

You knew he was feeling nauseous looking at the red flesh and muscle tissue, mixed with blood clots and plasma.

“Не слишком хорошо, не так ли? Смотреть, как твое собственное тело разрывают на части?” Doesn’t feel too good, does it? Watching your own body get torn apart? You spat.

You yanked your metal arm and heard a sickening crack as you snapped the human shields neck like a twig. You tossed his corpse to the ground next to the two others.

“You alright? Ready to go?” Gaz spoke up beside you, still holding the assault rifle. You could feel his eyes on you as you knelt down and took any of their handguns, ammo, knives and grenades.

“Yes and yes.” You muttered, kicking the corpses aside before punching in a code to the keypad which unlocked the doors.

When you kicked the door open, you saw that there were no guards in this hallway — just like you expected.

The two of you wasted no time sprinting for the set of stairs leading to the exit hatch.

Once you reached the hatch, you keyed in the exit code. The metal creaked as you easily pushed the hatch open, letting light pour into the stairway.

You and Gaz stepped out of the bunker before you pushed the hatch door closed with a clank.

Once the hatch door was closed and locked, you turned to look at Gaz who was already staring at you in disbelief. Taking in all of your enhancements and changes, let alone the fact that you were still alive.

He was about to open his mouth to ask you, were you really okay? Why was your arm replaced with a prosthetic instead of simply repaired?Most importantly, how were you alive?

But before he could, you spoke, “Can you walk?” You nodded towards his injured legs.

He glanced down and almost nodded before realizing that he couldn’t possibly limp all the way to a boat or plane, then all the way to the base.

He looked back up at you with a sigh and shook his head.

“No problem.” You shrugged before cupping the back of his knees with one arm and holding his back with another arm. Without breaking a sweat, you lifted him up off the ground and into a bridal carry. He yelped and wrapped his arms around your neck.

“Take the gun and keep it to cover us, just in case.” You ordered, receiving a nod in response.

From there, you ran away from the bunker while you carried him in your arms. Gaz pointed the rifle behind you and scanned your surroundings to ensure you weren’t being followed.

Orange leaves crunched beneath your boots as you ran, and the pleasant wind blew against your cheeks.

A few minutes passed as you made the trek from the bunker all the way to the shore. From hills, to valleys and finally the docks.

When the wooden docks came into your sights, you slowed down to a jog before carefully setting your friend down. He winced when his feet hit the floor, but continued providing cover for you nonetheless.

You scanned the docks for a moment before you finally landed on a miracle; a motorboat that was tied to the dock. Your face split into a rare grin as you reached to pat Kyle on the chest, without taking your eyes off of the boat.

“There’s our ticket out of here.”

(….)

Twenty two hours later, you had approached the docks of Seoul. Luckily, the motorboat was full on fuel and stocked with water, so your journey to safety wasn’t as bad as it could be.

The two of you stepped out of the motorboat and made it to solid ground on the wooden docks. Gaz cracked his joints and stretched, letting out a sigh of relief.

“How are you feeling?” You asked, eyeing your friend up and down.

“Better. Mostly just hungry and homesick.” He replied while gathering any supplies from the motorboat.

“We’ll hitch a ride on a plane and there’s going to be food there.” You told him, scoping out the nearby civilian life and storefronts. “Where am I taking you?”

His brows furrowed in confusion.

“Back to the boys..?” He trailed off, as if it was self explanatory.

You quirked a brow.

“Who?” You asked.

His eyes widened in realization. You remembered him, but you didn’t remember the rest of the 141. You didn’t remember your life with them either.

“It’s nothing. Just England is fine, then I can take the lead from there.” He forced a smile.

You noticed his air of unease but nodded anyway.

The two of you abandoned the boat and headed towards the town, carrying the supplies and weapons with you.

Once you entered the town, you had found a directory with a map on it. On the map, it showed where the nearest airport was. Luckily for both of you, it was close by with only a few miles on foot.

The two of you made the trek to the airport in good time, weaving your way through the crowds in order to enter the building.

On the way to the schedule board, you passed a gift shop. You peeked inside to find it empty, as the employees were away from the shop. You saw a duffel bag that looked perfect for carrying all of your supplies, and you made quick work of snagging it and shoving everything in it.

You and Gaz headed towards the flight schedule board, where you could see a scheduled flight for England would be boarding in half an hour.

Right next to you, you heard a family speaking in obnoxious British accents, arguing over their travel plans. You assumed that they were vacationing in Seoul and about to return home to England. They were arguing so fervently that none of them noticed as the mother dropped some things from her purse. Two of the items being tickets. You also spotted a couple of pounds. Your lips quirked into a smirk as you hatched a plan.

You could feel Gaz’s eyes on you as you walked up to the family, a faux sweet grin painted on your face.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you two, but I noticed that you dropped your phone, ma’am.” You picked it up, along with the two tickets and the money, and gave the woman her phone with a polite grin.

“Oh, you’re an angel!” She fawned, her red lips stretched into a smile. She waved at you and pocketed her phone, before turning back to continue arguing with her family.

You turned to Gaz and gave him a peek of the tickets and the cash before shoving them in your pocket.

Gaz raised his brows, impressed.

With some stroke of luck, the two of you managed to slip past security. After that, you didn’t waste any time jogging to the boarding area. You two then waited in line to hand your tickets to the receptionist.

Luckily, the names on the tickets were believable to be your actual names, as the woman smiled and sent you two on your way.

You returned the smile before grabbing Kyle’s hand and all but dragging him through the hallway that led to the plane.

You and Kyle glanced at each other with relief once you sat in your seats.

(….)

The flight to the United Kingdom lasted thirteen hours.

You had wanted to stay awake for the entire flight so that he could sleep, but he insisted on you sleeping for the first six hours while he stayed awake. Then he would sleep for the next seven hours, and you would stay awake.

Sleep came way too easily for you. Maybe it was because even a plane seat was more comfortable than the small cot in your cell. Whatever the reason was, you weren’t complaining.

When you were awake, you took any food that you were offered, no matter if it was just some peanuts or a plain sandwich. It was better than the slop or the protein shakes that you were used to.

Once the flight landed, you gently shook Gaz’s shoulder to wake him up. He mumbled something incoherent as he awoke, before stretching and letting out a yawn.

The two of you stood up and you reached to get your duffel bag from the overhead luggage area. You let Gaz lead the way down the stairs of the plane and out to the terminal.

Gaz flagged down a cab with a raise of his fingers and the two of you piled into the car, your luggage sitting on your lap.

He told the driver a random location, one that pricked the back of your mind and made you wince in pain.

It was so familiar but so not familiar at the same time.

You tried to shake it off as you clenched your eyes shut, leaning your head back against the headrest in an attempt to quell the pain.

Before you knew it, the car came to a halt. You opened your eyes and saw Gaz thanking the driver. You reached into your pocket and pulled out all of the cash you stole, before handing it to the driver. You didn’t know if it was too much or too little, but by the excited nature of the driver, you could guess that it was too much.

The two of you climbed out of the vehicle and shut the doors behind you, watching as the cab pulled away.

You turned to see where you were dropped off, only to be hit with an onslaught of shocks radiating in your brain.

The two of you were standing in front of the military base belonging to the 141. You didn’t know who it belonged to, nor did you care. You just knew that it was way too familiar and also too alien at the same time.

The big walls of the base resembled a fortress, the familiar brown and green colors of the building sending shocks to your heart.

You could feel your heart pounding in your ears and your breath quicken as you noticed more familiar features.

The security outside. The big double doors. The military vehicles parked outside.

Your ears rang and your vision blurred. This was too much, too much, too much.

You could only feel Gaz’s hand pulling you along, all the way to the curb and to the double door entrance. He only stopped for a moment, to allow the security camera to grant him access.

(….)

One day after Gaz disappeared, the team landed in the United Kingdom.

Simon and Johnny had resorted to staying in their quarters, mourning one of their only friends. Gaz’s disappearance also reminded them of your disappearance ten months earlier, which ultimately resulted in your death.

The two men usually laid in their bed, nestled in each others arms and gripped each other tight. Price was the only person they had left besides each other, and even he was isolating himself from everyone.

The captain took Gaz’s disappearance the worst. He blamed himself for not being on the same floor as him the entire time. He could have taken out any threats while Kyle raided the rooms for intel. He should have done that. Gaz would still be here if he did.

Even worse, Kyle’s disappearance served to remind Price of your disappearance. Your screams echoed in his head, even after all this time. Knowing that you had sunk to the ocean floor and died a cold and lonely death after being swiped right from under their noses only made Price spiral.

He imagined Gaz being hurt just like you were. Stabbed, bones cracked, and drowned.

Price had taken to isolating himself in his office, cutting off any contact with Simon or Johnny. Even Laswell.

The three men not only had to mourn one of their best and brightest soldiers and their best friend, but they also had to mourn you all over again.

What was the point to completing missions if the team would get smaller and smaller each time? What was the point of staying a team if there was barely any team left?

(….)

A few days after his disappearance, what remained of the task force was still mourning their lost soldier.

Simon and Johnny had only left their room to meet Price in the conference room. The meeting was called in relation to disbanding the task force, due to the loss of half of their members.

It was on the first floor, so they walked to the elevator closest to their room.

Simon pressed the button leading to the bottom floor and leaned against the wall of the elevator, threading his hand with Johnny’s as the door shut.

The two men stepped out of the elevator and saw Price waiting outside of the conference room, throwing him a nod of acknowledgment.

The three men were about to walk into the conference room when a buzzing sound caught their attention. It was the same buzzing sound that rang out when the receptionist let someone inside the base.

Because the entrance was right across from the conference room, the three men could easily see who was coming in.

When they saw their teammate who they thought was dead, they all gasped in disbelief. Price’s eyes pricked with tears at the sight of his protégé alive and well. Soap and Ghost let out a relieved sigh at the sight of one of their only friends safe and sound. It was as if their feet moved on autopilot with how they were already running to meet Gaz at the front door.

“No- don’t leave!” They heard Gaz plead to someone that they couldn’t see.

Gaz pushed the door open further, thus revealing who he was talking to. If seeing Gaz made the boys gasp in disbelief, seeing you standing right in front of them damn near took their breath away.

You froze when the door opened all the way. Your eyes darted from the bearded man with tears in his eyes, to the man who wore a skull mask and glossed over brown eyes, to the man with the same cerulean eyes you had dreamt about.

“(Y/N)?”

©️ glossysoap 2024. please do not steal, copy, plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my works without my permission. do not steal any elements of my theme without permission.

[billygoat26]

I've been seeing a lot about KOSA on here

Don't get me wrong, I don't support it.

So I'll just say this; if any of you have read Fahrenheit 451 then you know what I'm gonna be talking about. (Censorship. It's- it's censorship.)

Basically, if you haven't read it, the book is about a time somewhere in the future where all books get burned, the only "stories" are little comics but it's just images... no words at all, and television has become the new "family." If you get caught with books, your house gets burnt down, the books burned as well.

BUT. Instead of trying to summarize the entire story, let me just show you parts of Beatty's speech.

"The fact is we didn't get along well until photography came into its own. Then--motion pictures in the early twentieth century. Radio. Television. Things began to have mass."

"And because they had mass, they became simpler," said Beatty. "Once, books appealed to a few people, here, there, everywhere. They could afford to be different. The world was roomy. But then the world got full of eyes and elbows and mouths. Double, triple, quadruple population. Films and radios, magazines, books levelled down to a sort of paste pudding norm, do you follow me?"

"Picture it. Nineteenth-century man with his horses, dogs, carts, slow motion. Then, in the twentieth century, speed up your camera. Books cut shorter. Condensations, Digests. Tabloids. Everything boils down to the gag, the snap ending."

"Classics cut to fit fifteen-minute radio shows, then cut again to fill a two-minute book column, winding up at last as a ten- or twelve-line dictionary resume. I exaggerate, of course. The dictionaries were for reference."

"Out of the nursery into the college and back to the nursery; there's your intellectual pattern for the past five centuries or more."

"Politics? One column, two sentences, a headline! Then, in mid-air, all vanishes! Whirl man's mind around about so fast under the pumping hands of publishers, exploiters, broadcasters, that the centrifuge flings off all unnecessary, time-wasting thought!"

"School is shortened, discipline relaxed, philosophies, histories, languages dropped, English and spelling gradually neglected, finally almost completely ignored. Life is immediate, the job counts, pleasure lies all about after work. Why learn anything save pressing buttons, pulling switches, fitting nuts and bolts?"

"The zipper displaces the button and a man lacks just that much time to think while dressing at dawn, a philosophical hour, and thus a melancholy hour."

"More sports for everyone, group spirit, fun, and you don't have to think, eh? Organize and organize and super organize super-super sports. More cartoons in books. More pictures. The mind drinks less and less."

"Now let's take up the minorities in our civilization, shall we? Bigger the population, the more minorities. Don't step on the toes of the dog-lovers, the cat-lovers, doctors, lawyers, merchants, chiefs, Mormons, Baptists, Unitarians, second-generation Chinese, Swedes, Italians, Germans, Texans, Brooklynites, Irishmen, people from Oregon or Mexico."

"Authors, full of evil thoughts, lock up your typewriters. They did. Magazines became a nice blend of vanilla tapioca. Books, so the damned snobbish critics said, were dishwater."

"We must all be alike. Not everyone born free and equal, as the Constitution says, but everyone made equal. Each man the image of every other; then all are happy, for there are no mountains to make them cower, to judge themselves against."

"A book is a loaded gun in the house next door. Burn it."

"...there was no longer need of firemen for the old purposes. They were given the new job, as custodians of our peace of mind, the focus of our understandable and rightful dread of being inferior; official censors, judges, and executors."

"Colored people don't like Little Black Sambo. Burn it. White people don't feel good about Uncle Tom's Cabin. Burn it. Someone's written a book on tobacco and cancer of the lungs? The cigarette people are weeping? Burn the book."

"You can't build a house without nails and wood. If you don't want a house built, hide the nails and wood. If you don't want a man unhappy politically, don't give him two sides to a question to worry him; give him one. Better yet, give him none. Let him forget there is such a thing as war."

(Source of the quotes: beatty-speech-to-montag-excerpt.pdf (wordpress.com))

(Page numbers for physical copy: 51 - 60)

I hope you get the point- we're heading down a daaaangerous path and chances are, this is- or at least is very damn close to- our future. If you want to have a good education (or your kids to have a good education), then take into consideration the things you either vote for or support, etc.

[rmd-writes]

Nice ask day ASK: happy belated birthday, Rail-Me-Daddy Writes!!

Now I’ve wished it early and late.

All in all, I hope it was great.

(And that’s a poem.) 🥳

I stole this ask from ccf, but I’ve added my own twist: what is your favorite travel memory, specifically related to food? 😋

Hi Jazzerdoc, thank you!! I’ve had an excellent birthday weekend filled with some truly incredible food! 😋😍

A favourite food-related travel memory - I once spent 6 weeks in Rio de Janeiro, living on Copacabana Beach. There was a bakery around the corner that I went to almost every day and most days I’d buy pão de queijo (a delicious tapioca based cheese bread). I knew a little Portuguese but it wasn’t good - by the end of the trip I could speak well enough to have a simple conversation in Portuguese though! Now, a Brasilian friend had warned me that if I mispronounced pão that I’d basically end up saying something that sounded like the word for dick 🙃 the pronunciation can be tricky because it’s tonal and not really a sound we use in English. Anyway, because of this, my terrible Portuguese and the fact that the bakery was mainly staffed by men, I generally placed my order by pointing and saying please and thank you in Portuguese. In the last week I was there though, I gathered the courage to actually ask for what I wanted in Portuguese instead of just pointing. And the bakery staff laughed a little and clapped! 😅😅

[peanutbutterex]

Hello again fellow Monkees fan! 😁 I am glad you know the proper version of Mommy and Daddy as well as I! Micky saying they were not political is very funny though! I would say Zor and Zam at least is also rather political in its anti-war message, dear Micky. 😆 Daily Nightly could be political as well, considering the riots that inspired it. Which leads to my next question. Have you ever been able to work out just how Daily Nightly is about the Sunset Strip riots? It's a beautiful and poetic and very abstract song and I have never been able to parse what Mike's words meant! When Mike went experimental with his lyrics, he really went experimental! Daily Nightly, Circle Sky, Tapioca Tundra, Auntie's Municipal Court...all abstract and poetic songs and some of my favorites!

Not only their songs but so much of the TV show has political undertones too, like the line “well kicking people out of their homes is the american way” (honestly the entire monkee mayor episode is incredibly political) and even if they fell flat due to the episode itself being racist, even jokes at the expense of racism! Wild to me how anyone could ever say they weren’t political.

In terms of Daily Nightly, my assumption is it is describing the imagery of the riots. We can even assume there was fire like the line “lost in scenes of smoke filled dreams” and many allusions to light. I have not really sat down with the lyrics to fully analyze them so i do not have a fully flushed out answer, especially with my lack of knowledge of the sunset strip riots.

His abstract lyrics are beautiful. Despite me having a degree in English literature and loving literary analysis, i have not really taken the time to dissect what these lyrics mean, but I can appreciate their beauty and how much of a wonderful poet Mike Nesmith was. It is such a tragedy that we lost him the way we did.

If you ever want to come into my dms and talk more about the monkees know that I am always open!! Or even just sending me asks :) it is a joy having these discussions :)

[nightmaretist]

BARK BARK BARK // Van & Inge

PARTIES: Van @vanoincidence & Inge LOCATION: A park. TIMING: 15 june. CONTENT WARNINGS: None. SUMMARY: A dog didn't like Inge's mare-ish vibes and chased her into a tree. Van bares witness and tries to help a little, but she's pretty exhausted and mostly amused.

The string of curses that left Inge’s mouth was a combination of English and Dutch and somehow some third language, too. It was hardly like she was occupied with the linguistic nature of her cursing, though, as she was at present being chased by a massive dog. The creature seemed to have gone rabid from its unease and saw it fit to yank free from its owner and start sprinting, flashing its shiny teeth.

Now, it wasn’t like she was afraid. Ingeborg Endeman created fear, invented trauma and terrified for a living, so she did not get scared. She was just worried about the very real threat of this dog burrowing its teeth in her leg and revealing a lack of red blood, as well as its teeth ruining her delicate decades-old skirt. She didn’t mind a scene, but she would mind one like that. And so she ran, heeled leather boots hitting the ground.

It would be perfect if a storefront appeared on either side, but the park offered little places of shelter. There was nowhere to go but up. So up Inge went, clambering into a tree with haste, watching as the dog jumped up and down, trying to nip at her feet. When her eyes fell on a passerby she yelled: “Hey, you! Help!” She was not afraid, please remember that.

Van stuck the straw from her drink into her mouth, jabbing down at the leftover tapioca pearls at the bottom. They were a little too squishy to go through the straw now, so it was a stab and jab kind of deal. Once she’d gotten one, she let go of the straw from her mouth and pulled it out through the small hole she’d poked through the plastic, biting off the pearl. She wasn’t normally a taro kind of girl, and it never tasted right, but she’d been in the mood for something purple to match her outfit. Except she’d sucked down the entire drink within ten minutes and now she was at the beginning of a tummy ache. “Should have gotten it with soy.” She frowned as she found a trashcan to throw the near empty cup into. 

The sound of a dog barking made her look up, exhaustion evident beneath her eyes. The dog was chasing somebody and that… somebody was climbing up a tree. Suddenly, Van was amused. It was like something straight out of a cartoon. Maybe if she’d been a little less tired, she would have been more concerned. 

The woman began to shout, and with Van being the only one in the vicinity, she assumed that it was she who was being beckoned. “Me?” She pointed at herself with her index finger, then looked at the dog, its front paws scratching into the tree trunk while its jaws snapped wildly, spit flying from its jowls. “What did you do to him?” Because he wasn’t reacting to her, which meant that the brunette in the tree had done something. “Did you pretend to give him a treat and take it away? Is it your dog?” 

Give it a few days, perhaps even one of them, and Inge would laugh at this. It would be a moment to look back at fondly, to potentially recount when she met someone new and wanted to exchange exciting anecdotes. In the moment, however, she was nothing if not agitated. She was too unfocused and frazzled and in public to elevate her spirit and body into the astral plane and this entire ordeal was bound to become the source of at least some public ridicule. She really hoped no teenager was filming this. Or worse, a student.

The dog kept snapping and barking, tireless in its stupid rage and ferocity. If she wasn’t so annoyed, she’d pay a little more attention and focus on the details of that jaw snapping, the spit flying. Instead, it was just the young woman she was trying to get her to help that she focused on.

“I did nothing!” The words were exclaimed, her voice an octave higher than she had intended for it to be. “Not my dog either. Its owner has to be fucking somewhere, but it just must’ve whiffed something and —” Inge’s hands pointed wildly at the dog before grabbing the branch she was sitting on again, making sure not to lose her balance. Now that would be even worse. “Can you, I don’t know, throw a stick? Find its owner?” 

The woman’s voice was shrill, full of desperation for somebody to believe her. Van had been there before many times. Only, not in public. She looked at the dog as it continued snapping its jaws, tail low to the ground, ears peeled back. Whatever it saw in the woman, it didn’t like it. At the woman’s suggestion she do something, Van sighed. “Yeah, sure.” She looked over her shoulder, tired gaze sweeping the green behind them, but there was nobody looking slightly upset that their dog was up a tree. Instead, all either she or the other woman gained were stares. 

“I don’t think they’re owner is here and like, I don’t… want to get bit.” Van tried her best to get the dog’s attention by clapping her hands together, but it did nothing. She had some of her slim jim left, the plastic folded over itself to keep it from getting fuzz from her backpack on it. “Hold on.” She dug it out and unwrapped it. “Dude, I hope you’re not on a diet.” She waved the meat stick around, but the dog didn’t even look in her direction. Van looked up at the woman in the tree with a helpless expression. “Any other ideas? You a cat person or something?” If she weren’t so tired, maybe she’d take the situation more seriously. Anxiety, for once, was on the backburner. 

She really wasn’t afraid. Of course, it was easy to claim such a thing when you lacked the flow of blood of mortals and your heart didn’t tend to start pumping excitedly. When you had seen terror in its purest form and caused it. Inge refused to be afraid, even if her voice jumped higher and there was an edge of panic to it. No, this was nothing but pure frustration. Her own gaze drifted over their surroundings, trying to find whatever idiot owned a dog this aggressive, but finding nothing.

“Their owner is a shit, then.” It was fair enough that the other didn’t want to get bit, but Ingeborg found she couldn’t care as much as she perhaps ought to. Her eyes were hopeful when the other waved a meat-stick around, but the dog didn’t budge. Inge steadied herself on the branch she was perched on, breaking off a stick and tossing it down. Hitting the dog on the face did nothing if not infuriate it more. “Yes, sure, I’m a cat-person, but that doesn’t warrant this kind of response, does it?” She was a plant-person, actually, but this could already look suspicious enough for someone in the know of mares. She let out a bark of laughter, ironically. “Fuck! I mean, that’s hardly on you, sorry. But can you believe this?” 

Van made sure to keep her distance from the dog, just in case it decided to turn and chase her instead. She really wasn’t sure what had happened to make the dog so upset in the first place, but she wasn’t sure that she believed the woman in the tree had done nothing to elicit this kind of response from it. 

As the woman broke off a stick from the tree, Van winced, watching it fall down to the ground, but not before smacking the poor animal in the face. Honestly, it probably didn’t hurt very much at all, but she couldn’t help but understand the dog’s rage a little better. The woman spoke again and Van lifted her gaze up to meet the brunette. “Maybe it can sense that you don’t like dogs. Dogs are like, weirdly in tune with that kind of shit.” With a sigh, she looked over her shoulder, scanning for anybody who might be upset that their dog was off leash and barking at some random woman. Still, nobody came into view. “I’m not sure what I believe anymore.” There was some truth to her words, but they weren’t meant for this situation. “I mean..” Van cleared her throat, pausing only momentarily, “do you have any snacks in your pockets? Maybe it wants those.” 

Maybe this was her own fault, for having called out to the stranger. But what was a panicked mare to do? She could have tried to remain calm and wait for the area to clear so she could go into the astral plane and back home, but in stead here she was. Attention on her. The dog still fucking barking. Inge was starting to get a headache. 

“Yes, maybe that’s it,” she said, knowing full well that that was it. Sanne had explained it to her, all those years ago: animals don’t like us, they think there’s something wrong with us. It had been a nightmare to walk around her hometown, with all the cattle and other animals. Inge patted down her jacket, which did have multiple pockets of which she didn’t always remember the content. “Just chocolates, don’t think I should poison the thing, right?” No, she had little interest in that. Despite her tendency to scare the bejeezus out of people who others might consider innocents, she had little interest in harming animals. Hell, she didn’t even eat them. Just as she was about to open her mouth, a stout man ran in their direction, a leash swinging in the air, apologies falling off his tongue.

“Sorry, sorry, don’t know what got into her, this never happens!” He did look genuinely apologetic. Inge didn’t care. If he couldn’t handle a big dog, he shouldn’t have gotten one. The dog’s head turned at the sound of his voice, though, and that, at least, was something good. “Come here, girl, come to dad.” It took all her might not to gag at that.

“No, I don’t think so.” Van’s frown deepened as she craned her neck to get a better look at the woman in the tree. It didn’t seem like she was carrying any bundles of salami, either. She’d seen it in a cartoon once. Van was silently grateful that it hadn’t been her up in the tree. What would she have done? Would anyone have stopped?

Just as Van was about to suggest that the woman get out of the tree to try and pet the dog to show it that she was kind, a man jogged up to them. Van turned around to look at him, his expression melding from fearful to relieved. The dog turned around at the sound of his voice and let out a high pitched whine before returning its attention to the brunette in the tree. The barking had stopped, at least. 

“Can you get your dog? She’s stuck.” Van’s voice came out a little more monotone than intended. The exhaustion really was catching up to her. The man nodded, desperate in his movements as he approached the dog, picking her up without issue. If Van had tried that, she had no doubt that she’d have gotten bit. The man apologized again before he began to coo to the dog who was wiggling in his arms. 

At least the man was strong enough to carry his stupidly big dog himself. Inge watched him from where she sat in the tree, eyes near-blazing with indignation now that her panic was subsiding. “You should really get a stronger leash, or one with a stronger grip, you know! This is outrageous. Look at me!” She gestured at her position in the three. It was his fault, really, and not hers. How could she help it that her nature upset animals? 

“I really am sorry, you’re right — but please understand, it’s never happened before, I’m telling you, I have no idea — well, I’ll just get out of your hair and get her out of here, alright? So sorry.” 

She watched him try and traipse off, the dog struggling in his arms but at least on his leash again, now. Inge stared at his back, hard, but eventually tried to let go of her frustration and focus on getting out of the tree. At least her limbs were still as nimble as they had been when she was thirty three, because if she’d had to do this in an actual 77 year old’s body, she would have been majorly fucked. Still, there was a lack of some grace as she jumped from the last bit of the tree.

“Well.” She looked at the other. “I appreciate you not laughing at me.” She really did, though she did think that in a few months - or perhaps years - she would be laughing about this herself. “I really thought it would never leave me alone and I’d just have to sleep there.” Inge wanted to get away from this horridly embarrassing scene. She tried to pat her hair, wondered if there was a stick in there. “Right.”

Van couldn’t blame the woman in the tree for talking sternly to the man with the wiggling dog. Even as he walked away with it, it still barked and let out high pitched whines that made her ears hurt. 

She watched with mild amusement as the brunette slid out of the tree, half-expecting her to scrape her backside on a rogue branch. She didn’t, however, and her feet were firmly planted on the ground. Van watched her for a moment before shrugging. “It would have been funnier if the dog had been smaller.” With a raised brow, Van tilted her head to the side. “You would have actually slept up there? Really?” She looked back up at the tree and shook her head. “At that point, let the dog bite you. Think about the bugs that could have gotten you instead.” She scrunched her nose. 

Van took a small step away from the woman and shoved the beef stick into her pocket (something she’d started doing in an attempt to mirror Nora), and let out a small breath. “I’m just glad it didn’t turn on me. Then we’d both be stuck up there.” 

Inge tried to look at her backside, trying to gauge if there was any green stuck to her trousers but unable to get very far. She still tried beating some off the dirt off regardless, having given up on trying to seem like a graceful person. Tomorrow she’d try again.

“I wouldn’t have had to climb as high if it was a smaller dog, too. But its barks would’ve been much more grating, so.” She let out a sound of amusement and frustration, somehow conveying both emotions into one. “God, maybe I would have. I’d prefer some bugs over potential rabies.” Besides, there wasn’t really any blood for mosquitos to suck from her veins anyway. What she left unsaid was that she’d just have astral projected herself home.

“Either way, nice of you to stick around and not let me sort-of-fight this battle alone. And fair enough, I wouldn’t wish being stuck in a tree as a dog barks up to it to my worst enemy.” She absolutely would. “Anyway. I’m running late to my appointment as is, so I really should go. Have a nice day without any other feral dogs, will you?”

[peridotglimmer]

🌻what makes you want to give up on writing? what makes you keep going?

🎈describe your style as a writer; is it fixed? does it change?

💌share something with us about an up-and-coming work (WIP) that has you excited!

Hi Diana! Thank you for asking!

🌻what makes you want to give up on writing? what makes you keep going?

Writing makes me happy; it's my happy place. It's a way to express emotions and explore complex subjects. (And to make the blorbos kiss).

Dickheads like this make me want to give up:

(No worries, this is an old comment, but this one truly affected me back then. Honestly, it still does, even if just a little bit. Don't be a dick to fan content creators. Just keep scrolling.)

🎈describe your style as a writer; is it fixed? does it change?

Oh, it's definitely changed. First of all, my English has gotten much better since 2008, when I first started writing fic. I learnt English when we lived in the US from '01-'03, but my level of English kind of remained at that 3rd grade level afterwards. Writing fic and interacting with fandom online has improved my English immensely. I still make mistakes, but they're not as horrific anymore. (I once had a character use the word "broth" to informally refer to a woman multiple times throughout a fic around 2009 or 2010. I was looking for "broad".)

Other than that, I fluctuate between styles a lot. During Timeless it was more decorative, though not purple prose just yet. When I'm feeling particularly passionate, I'll write prose poetry. Currently I'm on a dialogue-heavy spree, and I like it.

Also, I've matured, as had my writing.

💌share something with us about an up-and-coming work (WIP) that has you excited!

As excited as I am for my Hitman ballet AU, I don't want to spoil it too much. So instead I'll tell you something about the Christmas fic that I hope to get done before the new year (not my Yuletide assignment): I'm shoving Diana Burnwood into a Renee Zellweger romantic comedy whether she likes it or not, featuring small town hunk 47 and his little sister Victoria. And tapioca, probably.

fic writer asks

[unladielike]

STARTER CALL ( @eliteimperialism​ ) — 𝕤𝕙𝕚𝕘𝕖𝕞𝕒𝕤𝕒 𝕚𝕤 𝕡𝕖𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕕 𝕓𝕪 𝕒 𝕔𝕦𝕣𝕚𝕠𝕦𝕤 𝕘𝕣𝕖𝕞𝕝𝕚𝕟.

     “Hey, Shiggy, I have a question!” Vivian soon calls out. For once, though, she’s speaking English instead of Japanese, making it rather apparent that at the very least, she remembers how Shigemasa said he was bilingual.

     "How come you guys call boba tea 'tapioca juice' in Japanese?" she then questions while poising a single finger beneath her lower lip. "As far as I can tell, the word 'juice' refers to a drink made from the extraction or pressing of the natural liquid contained in fruits and vegetables... which boba tea isn't. I mean, surely, you would agree it's mostly tea rather than juice, right?"

[thuidium-delicatulum]

3, 4, 5, 8, 13, 14 (and drink some water regardless of the answer!), 16, 18, 24, 26, 29

(only answer the ones you're comfortable with!)

YISSSSS SO MANY QUESTIONS THANK YOUUU

3) [colour that gives me the ick] that one shade of yellow... like mustard but a bit lighter and NOT nice hah

4) [mythical creature that i believe to be real] tbh im pretty open to believing in a lot of things. i believe in ghosts and other supernatural things ?

5) [favourite form of potato] i like mashed potato it makes me happy what can i say it tastes nice :]

8) [do you change into specific clothes when you get to the house] yes hah i change into blue jeans and a band shirt and my favourite sweater because its comfyyyyy

13) [first thing you're doing in the purge] it sounds pathetic but texting/calling my friends to ensure their safety because i care about their lives more than my own and then somehow getting to them [idk about this part but i WILL find them] and then going to live in a forest because WHAT TEH FUCK ELSE

14) [do you think you're dehydrated?] so i dont have a water bottle and i drink water like every other day when i remember so yes quite probably

18) [boba/tea order] um boba would be classic milk tea with tapioca and tea [im not sure if this is what it meant but yeah] would be english breakfast tea with a small amount of milk + no sugar !

24) [which do you find yourself using, american or british english]i dont really understand this question but im british so i use a lot of typically british words [bloody, crap, idk wardrobe, lift, loft that kinda thing] but i guess sometimes i use more american words

26) [hows your spice tolerance?] hmmmm i really like spicy food and i enjoy the sensation of spicy food but my eyes water really easily so im not sure i guess pretty high

29) [preferred pasta] FUSILLI IS PERFECTION but i also like macaroni and those little butterfly thingys [I CANT REMEMBER THE NAME IM SORRY]

ty so much for the ask have a great day :] [sorry this took a little while i kept forgetting what the questions were]

[brigittas-writing-nook]

Swapping Foods: Wheat Part 2

"Swapping Foods: Wheat Part 2" Disclaimer: None of the information provided in these posts should be taken as medical advice. Please consult with your doctor before trying recommendations or if you have concern Some posts may contain affiliate or third-party links. Welcome back! As I mentioned part 1 of Swapping Foods: Wheat, I’m going to share some brands I like for gluten free flours, pastas, and baked goods. There are also a couple of flour blend recipes. Let’s dig in.

Flour

There are a variety of gluten-free flours on the market today. The one I use most often is King Arthur™ Gluten-free Measure for Measure flour. It has the xanthum gum in it, and it works for everything from cakes to cookies to biscuits. I would argue it’s better than wheat flour for making a roux. I haven’t tried their Bread Flour, because it has pea protein, so I would love it if someone would try it out and let us know how it worked out for them. Shop King Arthur Baking

If you want to make your own blend (or you need a rice-free blend), here is a recipe for the blend I created 15 years ago (and this went through a lot of trial and error). Gluten-free All-purpose Flour Blend Makes 8 cups (approximately 2 pounds) - 1 cup each of:- Amaranth flour - Sorghum flour - Millet flour - Bean or Almond flour - Tapioca starch/flour (same thing) - Arrowroot or Corn starch - 2 cup potato starch - 4 teaspoons xantham gum Blend together either by hand or with a stand mixer (my Kitchen-Aid® stand mixer makes this so much easier and quicker than by hand). Store in a container in the fridge for up to 90 days (can store for up to 6 months in the freezer. There are other gluten-free flours available to add to mixes. Teff and buckwheat will add more fiber to a blend. Corn flour (not cornmeal; they are two different things) can also add a different texture and flavor to a flour blend, though I would stick to using it when making tortillas (corn flour) or cornbread (cornmeal). Here is the higher fiber blend recipe. Gluten-free Higher Fiber Flour Blend Makes 8 cups (approximately 2 pounds) - 1 cup each of:- Amaranth flour - Sorghum flour - Tapioca starch/flour (same thing) - Arrowroot or Corn starch - ½ cup each of:- Millet flour - Bean or Almond flour - Teff flour - Buckwheat flour - 2 cup potato starch - 4 teaspoons xantham gum Blend together either by hand or with a stand mixer. Store in a container in the fridge for up to 90 days (can store for up to 6 months in the freezer.

Pasta

There are a lot of gluten-free pasta options on the market now (significantly more than back in 2009). Some have bean flours in them, while others have corn or quinoa. Some are strictly rice-based. All of them have different cooking times, though, so read the package instructions. And follow them! Gluten-free pasta has a very short window between al dente and mush, and that window changes depending on the brand. Different brands that I have used include (but are not limited to): - Barilla (watch the time on these) - Trader Joe’s (don’t cook this too long, or it gets sticky) - Simple Truth (Kroger) - Tinkyada (their lasagna noodles are perfect!) - Jovial (I discovered thanks to my family giving me 7 boxes of different pastas for Christmas a couple of years ago)

Baked goods

There are many more gluten-free breads out on the market now. I’m a personal fan of Canyon Bakehouse products, because their breads don’t dry out as much in the refrigerator as other brands. Their English muffins are fabulous! Other brands that are available include (but not limited to): - Udi’s - Trader Joes (excellent muffins, especially the coffee cake ones) - Aldi - Simple Truth (Kroger) - Schär - Bfree - Against the Grain - Katz (their donuts are yummy, and they have toaster pastries!)

About Roux

A brief word on this style of sauce: gluten free flour (in my opinion) makes a better roux than wheat flour. It thickens better (probably because of the starches in the blends) and has a nice mouth-feel. Krusteez and King Arthur™ seem to work best in roux. Make sure to cook the flour before adding liquid, just like you would with wheat flour. That’s all for today. Let me know if you use any of these products and what you think of them. Next week, we’re going to talk about food allergy tips for Independence Day (in the US). Be safe. Eat safe. And savor life! Want to receive posts in your email? Subscribe below. Read the full article

[glossysoap]

ready to comply ix - плоды моего труда

плоды моего труда or fruits of my labor, is defined as:

the profits or gains achieved as a result of hard work.

warnings/tags: red room typical misogyny, sterilization, allusions to past s/a but none of it is acted upon towards reader, violence, fighting, blood, choking.

notes: flashbacks will be in italics. russian language is in bolded italics, english translation is followed right after in non bolded italics. reader is still gender neutral, because the topic of sterilization is only discussed. it’s never confirmed bc i want to leave everything up to interpretation!

the first pov is the redheads pov and it picks up right after the events of chapter 1 (not prologue). but the readers pov jumps forward to the where chapter 8 left off. the pov’s will be separated by a divider.

prev chapters here!

word count: 3,717

🏷️: @viylikescats @warenai @briacreations96 @fullmoon-94 @breadboyye @breadboyayay @kiroshang @zvdvdlvr @lunitalloronaa @itzzjxlyn @lonely-ofc @m0rganit3 @badbishsblog @wolfyland07 @angelsdemonsmonsters @unkn0wnd3ad @itstokyo-cos @c1rice @venusianlustt @bugonawall @shadowycreatormentality @blackrose4242 @blackgaladriel @lilpothoscuttings @thvxr @tapioca-marzipan @nickangel13 @luvmeijii @atjamesbbarnes @h-leigh @writingmybeloved @chloeforde @divine--serenity @hunterbunter3000 @zittles3000 @thriving-n-jiving @mar-mar-mel @kitty-satan1 @namgification @ivymarquis @crazy-phan-girl13 @goodsoup03 @schaarfyx @rhyanna6012 @abbiesxox @kenz-ee @whateverwhocares6 @sae1kie @thychuvaluswife

When you looked at her with glossy eyes as you were about to be dragged away, she felt like she was eleven years old again.

Her emerald eyes stared at yours that were filled with tears, seeing a reflection of her sister’s crying face in yours.

Like she was right back at that hangar with her six year old sister, fighting tooth and nail to protect her. To keep her safe from the men that were sent to take them to Russia. She knew what would be awaiting them when they arrived, all of the cruelty subjected to girls way too young to experience it.

She remembers it like it was yesterday.

Their ‘parents’ has brought them to an airplane hangar where they were met with at least ten soldiers. All heavily armed.

Melina, their mother was remorseful, but ultimately did nothing to stop the soldiers from stomping over to the two young girls and grabbing them. The six year old shook her arm away from one of the soldiers and broke into a sprint towards her father, Alexei.

She was caught by a soldier after running a few feet, the soldier having such a firm grip on her wrist that it made her wince.

“Daddy!” The blonde girl would cry with fat tears running down her cheeks, looking at her father. Reaching out to him for help, still clutching her stuffed animal in her tiny hand.

“I’ll handle this.” Alexei told a soldier as he stood next to the plane.

The eleven year old saw her sister struggling in the soldiers grip, and quickly yanked her own arm away from the soldier that was holding her.

“Yelena!” The eleven year old screamed as she ran towards the screaming six year old, her dyed blue hair blowing in the wind.

The eleven year old kicked the soldiers arm, making him let go of the six year old who then ran to stand behind her sister.

“Get away from her!”

The eleven year old took the opportunity to disarm the distracted soldier by yanking out his pistol from his holster, and pointing it at him.

“Do not touch her! I will shoot!”

She put an arm in front of her sister’s trembling form and surveyed all of the soldiers around them while still pointing the gun at anyone who approached them.

“Don’t touch her! I will kill you all!” The eleven year old screamed as she shielded the six year old behind her.

“Honey.” Suddenly, Alexei spoke from the side.

The eleven year old jolted to face him, still aiming the gun even if it meant shooting her father.

“You’re going to need to hand me that gun.” He urged with his hands raised in an attempt to calm her down.

Her lips trembled as her fears became cemented in her mind. He was really going to let those men take her and her sister.

Her hand shook as she lowered the gun, still staring at her father.

“I don’t wanna go back there.” She whimpered. “I want to stay in Ohio.”

Their father walked forward until he was in front of them before gently taking the gun from the eleven year old.

“You can’t take her. You can’t.” She cried, just imagining her baby sister enduring the same treatment that she did.

“She’s only six.” Her baby sister wrapped her arms around her older sister and hid her face in her stomach, tears staining her older sisters shirt.

“You were even younger.” She remembers her father muttering.

She was yanked out of her thoughts by you screaming as you were dragged away by two hulking HYDRA guards.

“No! Get off me! No, no, no!”

She had no choice but to watch as you struggled in their hold, kicking and screaming. You thrashed and scrambled so hard and desperately, even in your injured and hypothermic state.

Your bloodied body getting shoved into that chair was the last she saw you before she was pushed out of the room. Two soldiers locked the door from the inside after she was pushed out, ensuring that no one would interrupt the procedures.

She stood alone in that cold hallway with tears burning her waterline, lips pressed together to silence her sobs. Your screams echoed from the room and out into the hallway, the bloodcurdling wails sending chills down the redheads spine.

She forced herself to walk away from that room, wincing with every step - both from her untreated injuries and from your cries of pain hitting her ears.

She limped and limped. Passing by other surgical rooms and asset cells, most of them occupied by people suffering the same pain as you. Every cell held a different voice, all screaming for help. Some men, some women. Some voices were mature, seasoned with age and experience. Others were young, too young. Young voices that never got to experience the joys of childhood.

Finally, after passing blocks of cells for a few minutes, she arrived at one of the female restrooms. She typed in her serial number into the keypad and opened the door once the keypad turned green.

She stepped in and locked the door behind her, resting her back against it with a heaved sigh.

The room was way too quiet. Even though she couldn’t hear your screams anymore, she didn’t have any trouble imagining what you were enduring.

You likely would have been shackled down by your wrists and ankles to prevent you from lashing out. You would still be in shock from getting captured, quickly inconveniencing the doctors with your cries and thrashing. They would likely have you pumped full of sedatives while they began with their experiments. They would’ve began with the first dose of the super soldier injection, a drug that heightens speed and strength, and provides accelerated healing.

Then they would make a small incision on your neck before inserting a microchip and planting it into your muscle tissue, and stitching you back up. That microchip would serve as a tracking device, ensuring you as their property. It would also ensure your obedience, as it would send shockwaves of electricity through your body with just a press of a button. A button that your handler would have access to at any moment.

If you were born with reproductive organs, you would soon be cut open on an operating table and those organs would be cut up and scooped out. Leaving you without menstrual cycles and stripping you of the ability to have biological children. You would be rendered infertile, just as she was.

She squeezed her eyes shut at the thought. She could only hope that you weren’t cursed with the same fate as her.

Throbbing in her shoulder yanked her from her guilt, reminding her that she needed to set her shoulder back into place.

Stepping away from the door and up to the mirror, she took in her appearance. Bloodied, hair mussed up and green eyes glossed over. Tear tracks staining her pale cheeks. Red lips still trembling.

Soon, two weeks had passed since she saw you last.

She didn’t even know if you were alive. Some sick part of her hopes that you weren’t, then that would mean you weren’t in pain. You couldn’t be hurt anymore. You would be at peace.

If you were alive, she could only imagine that you were stuck in the cryogenic chamber to accelerate the healing process before being sent to some empty cell.

Her questions were answered when she heard a knock on her cell door. Her head jolted up before she sat up from her cot, ready to be given an assignment.

The door creaked open before a private walked through, eyeing her cautiously. She noticed that he was carrying a stack of folded clothes.

“Вы должны помочь с новым активом. Подписывайтесь на меня.”You’re needed to assist with the new asset. Follow me. The soldier ordered.

Her brows furrowed in confusion but she got up and began following him nonetheless. She couldn’t imagine that it was you because they had recruited other assets since you were captured.

The soldier stopped at a cell after a few minutes, and she stopped right behind him.

“Вы должны оставаться вне камеры, пока вас не вызовут. Если вас вызывают, то вы должны следить за тем, чтобы, если актив пришел в сознание, они не проявляли никакой агрессии, пока я их раздеваю. Если они проявляют какие-либо акты насилия или неповиновения, вы позаботитесь о них. Это ясно?”You are to remain outside the cell unless you’re called. If you’re called, then you are to ensure that if the asset regains consciousness, they do not display any aggression while I am undressing them. If they display any acts of violence or disobedience, you will take care of them. Is that clear? He orders, not leaving much room for disagreement.

She nodded before taking position next to the cell door. Once he unlocked the door and pushed it open, she was able to get a glimpse of your familiar figure in her periphery.

Turning her head only confirmed her suspicions further when she saw your unconscious form laid on the cot inside that cell. Her heart skipped a beat.

Her eyes widened as she saw your unconscious form laid on the small cot, still dressed in your bloodied and tattered uniform.

You were alive.

Your arm was replaced by a metal prosthetic and your body was covered in scars, gashes and bandages — but you were alive.

Then it sunk in. He was going to undress you? In your weakened and vulnerable state of unconsciousness where you couldn’t defend yourself?

She didn’t hesitate to abandon her position at the door and storm inside the cell, then locking it behind her to prevent any other soldiers from coming in. The soldier that was standing at your bedside jolted in surprise from the door slamming, nostrils flaring when he saw that she had abandoned her post.

“как насчет того, чтобы остаться снаружи, разве ты не поняла, вдова?” What about staying outside did you not understand, Widow? He snarled, turning towards her.

“Я прекрасно понял. Я также понял, что ты приказал мне защищать тебя не просто так. Потому что ты знаешь, что не можешь защитить себя. Не против актива, и не против меня. Ты это знаешь, и я это знаю.” I understood perfectly. I also understood that you ordered me to protect you for a reason. Because you know you can't defend yourself. Not against the asset, and not against me. You know it, and I know it. She spoke methodically, her plump lips curling into a small smirk.

He huffed, eyes narrowed into a glare as he mulled over her words. He was merely a private, after all. He wasn’t well trained in self defense or weapon use, and even if he was, he wouldn’t be able to fight off the Widow. After a moment, he relented and tossed the stack of clothes into her hands.

“сделай это быстро.” Make it quick. He muttered before hurrying out of the cell and shutting the door behind him.

She moved to lock the door once more, just in case. Looking down at the stack of clothes in her arms, she sighed.

She took quiet steps towards your bed until she was standing right next to it. She knelt down next to it and set the pile of clothes on the bed next to you so her hands were empty.

She took a deep breath and began with your pants. With a grimace on her face, she gently unbuttoned and unzipped your medical pants. As more of your (skin color) skin became exposed, the more a pit of guilt opened up in her stomach.

It felt wrong to see someone like this. Especially you, the person she had dragged into this hell hole in the first place. It felt dirty.

But just like she knew that none of the male soldiers could be trusted to capture you, she also knew that none of those male guards or doctors could be trusted to change your clothes. So if she had to be uncomfortable in order for you to be safe, then so be it.

She winced as every scrape and gash along your legs became visible, making sure to pull the fabric down slowly and carefully so as not to irritate your skin. Soon she had gotten your pants down to your ankles, and she reached down to hold your feet while pulling your pant leg off. After pulling the pants off, she gently placed your ankles back down on the bed.

She unfolded the clean pair of black cargo pants and began putting those on. She started at your ankles, bunching the fabric up to put your feet through the holes. She then carefully pulled the pants up along your legs, going especially slow whenever passing a scrape or gash.

Soon, the pants were all the way on and she was able to zip them up and button them.

Now to change your shirt.

Glancing at your new prosthetic arm, she was glad that the muscle shirt they had provided came with a short sleeve on that same side.

She wore a grimace and furrowed brows as she eyed the tattered fabric of your shirt. She settled on just ripping the bloody shirt off of you to avoid agitating any injuries or waking you up.

She gently grabbed the fabric at the bottom of the shirt with both hands, before ripping it apart with a grunt. The fabric ripped apart with a snickt, tearing in half all the way up to the neck line. She grabbed the band of fabric with both hands and with one final grunt, she ripped the thick fabric apart.

After that, all she had to do was gently pull the sleeve off of your right arm and doing the same with what little fabric remained from your left sleeve.

She made sure to give you as much privacy and dignity as possible by keeping her eyes away from your revealed skin, and quickly moving to grab the clean shirt. Once she unfolded it, she gently lifted up your right arm and threaded it into the right sleeve.

Then she moved on to your left arm, biting her lip as she touched your cold metal arm. She slowly began lifting it up, making sure not to make any sudden movements so you wouldn’t wake up. There was always a possibility that you could attack her, especially with her handling your metal arm.

Luckily, you remained asleep and she was able to pull the short left sleeve onto your metal arm. She gently set it back down.

She moved to pull the fabric over your head until your head was through the hole of the shirt. Once your head was through, all she had to do was pull the remaining fabric down your stomach and then you would be fully dressed.

She climbed off of your bed and stood next to it, looking down at your sleeping figure with a sigh.

Quietly, she stepped out of the room and took her position next to the same soldier.

That was the last she saw of you for six weeks, until she saw you in that training room, about to spar against Asset no. 101943. The original Winter Soldier.

(….)

It had been eight weeks since you stepped on the helicopter with the intention of helping that injured woman, only to get captured by that very woman. The second you set foot on that aircraft was the second you stepped into her trap, effectively signing your death certificate.

Eight weeks since the task force saw you alive.

Eight weeks since you had an actual meal, instead of the bland protein shakes that guards would leave in your room. Only ever feeding you just enough to force calories into you, just enough to keep you alive for them.

Eight weeks since your bleeding body was dragged into that bunker and strapped to that chair.

Eight weeks since your arm was cut off and your life was permanently altered.

Six weeks since waking up in a new room and seeing the new arm for the first time. Six weeks since seeing that flash of metallic that would just never leave your line of sight. It would always be there, always standing out to you. Blinding you.

Reminding you that you would always be a mangled mess of flesh and metal.

Six weeks since isolation from the outside world began.

Two weeks since you began exhibiting symptoms of extreme dehydration and isolation.

Two weeks since you began hallucinating. Two weeks since you hallucinated that your comrades, the men you loved, were massacred in front of you. Their brains had been splattered across the walls and their blood had pooled on the floor, intestines spilling out from their mangled bodies.

Two weeks since you were dragged from that room and shackled to that chair, where you underwent the first session of brain washing. Two weeks since your memories were stripped away down to the very foundation.

Two weeks since you forgot your team. Your Simon and Johnny.

Two weeks since you forgot your own name.

Two weeks since your identity as (first name) (last name) was stripped away and replaced with a serial number. Two weeks since you were no longer a human, but a machine.

Eleven minutes since you were woken up by the door to your cell creaking open, and Rumlow storming in with two soldier in tow.

Eight minutes since the two soldiers finished searching you.

Eight minutes since you were escorted out of your room by Rumlow and those two soldiers, with the latter nudging you along by the edge of their rifles.

Two minutes since you set foot in the training room with Rumlow and the soldiers in tow.

One minute since you studied the many other assets in the training room, all wearing the same outfit as you. All injured in some way, shape or form, but still forced to push through it.

Twenty seconds since you heard Rumlow‘s voice echo throughout the room, “Asset no. 09012020 and.. Asset no. 101943.”

Ten seconds since you heard the sound of boots stomping on the black mats.

Eight seconds since you saw the source of the stomping in the form of a hulking asset. The asset had dark, shaggy wet hair that hung past his ears and some fell in front of his eyes. His eyes were icy blue, not vibrant and lively like the cerulean that keeps crossing your mind - but an angry, cold blue. His brows were furrowed and his stubbled jaw was clenched. His metal arm was a perfect reflection of yours, only more muscular to match his other arm.

Eight seconds since you saw the feared asset storming towards you.

Now, you were circling each other on the mat, sizing each other up. Only, just a few glances in your direction told told him that you weren’t much of a threat. You were scared and off kilter, and that would make the win all the more easier for him.

You felt completely out of your element, like a seal about to be devoured by a great white shark.

Your heart was pounding in your ears and your breathing was growing heavy with every second spent looking at your opponent.

Your senses were overwhelmed by the heckling of other assets, most of them yelling for your opponent to finish you off. Some of them were rooting for you, the new all-too-green recruit to take their newfound strength and put the Winter Soldier through a wall.

No matter what they yelled, it was all distracting.

You tried to focus on blocking your face and dodging any potential hits from your opponent, jolting out of the way whenever his fist darted out.

Every time he attempted to punch you, you would dodge and block his hits by jabbing his forearms.

After a minute of evading, you decided to cut him off with a punch of your own. Across his nose, against his jaw, anywhere you could get your fist on. You didn’t think it would do any damage but clearly you were wrong, if the blood trickling out of his mouth was any indication. After every punch you landed, you delivered a swift kick to either one of his legs in an attempt to throw him off guard.

He let out a grunt any time your fist made contact or your foot came down against his legs. His jaw clenched both in pain and anger, his expression serving to make you guard your face even more.

Only, he took that opportunity to punch you in the place that you weren’t guarding - your abdomen. Thankfully your wound was already healed, but it still delivered a hell of a shot.

It might not have caught you off guard so bad if it wasn’t with his metal arm, but it was.

At first, the gut punch just made you recoil ever so slightly. But that’s all it took for him to use it to his advantage and send more punches and hits to your stomach.

Pain grew and bubbled in your abdomen with every hit, making you double over and consider tapping out. Your hand was only a few inches from the mat, ready to waive your white flag when suddenly you were yanked from your hunched over position. His metal hand was wrapped around your throat and he squeezed and squeezed, pulling you up to your feet.

You gasped for air and clawed at the metal arm, desperate for any relief. He only pressed more pressure on your windpipe while walking until your back hit the wall. He shoved you against the cold wall, still having your throat in a vice like grip. He held you against the wall by your throat and raised you until your feet were off the ground by a few inches.

Your eyes widened at the feeling of your feet swaying.

Your vision blurred and your hands shook while you kept clawing at his arm. You wheezed and gasped for air as you kicked and thrashed against the wall.

Black spots began to fill your vision as he just kept on squeezing.

next chapter

©️ glossysoap 2024. please do not steal, copy, plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my works without my permission. do not steal any elements of my theme without permission.

[ao3feed-brucewayne]

A Touch Of Cold

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/rQgpMik

by Living_Free

Jason Todd - The infamous Red Hood - is finally forced to admit defeat in the face of… a cold.

Luckily, he is saved from a mucus-y fate by his Outlaw friends when they bring in the cavalry - or the colony, in this case.

Will Dick and Damian’s wholesome relationship manage to make Jason puke? Or will that be down to Dick’s horrendous cooking?

Will Tim be able to regrow his spleen?

And will Damian and Alfred ever recover from the memory of tapioca?

Words: 2007, Chapters: 1/2, Language: English

Fandoms: Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen, M/M

Characters: Jason Todd, Artemis of Bana-Mighdall, Bizarro (DCU), Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Tim Drake, Cassandra Cain, Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake’s Spleen - The Rebirth

Relationships: Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent

Additional Tags: Batfamily (DCU), Batbrothers (DCU), batbros, batfam, Batfamily (DCU) Feels, Fluff, Crack, Humor, Family Feels, Good Sibling Tim Drake, Protective Dick Grayson, Protective Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson is Damian Wayne's Parent, Jason Todd-centric, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Good Sibling Jason Todd, Good Sibling Cassandra Cain, Tim Drake Regrows His Spleen, Scientific explanation for the Lazarus Pit, Tim Drake Drinks Boba, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/rQgpMik

[ao3feed-timkon]

A Touch Of Cold

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/C60fR1F

by Living_Free

Jason Todd - The infamous Red Hood - is finally forced to admit defeat in the face of… a cold.

Luckily, he is saved from a mucus-y fate by his Outlaw friends when they bring in the cavalry - or the colony, in this case.

Will Dick and Damian’s wholesome relationship manage to make Jason puke? Or will that be down to Dick’s horrendous cooking?

Will Tim be able to regrow his spleen?

And will Damian and Alfred ever recover from the memory of tapioca?

Words: 2007, Chapters: 1/2, Language: English

Fandoms: Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen, M/M

Characters: Jason Todd, Artemis of Bana-Mighdall, Bizarro (DCU), Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Tim Drake, Cassandra Cain, Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake’s Spleen - The Rebirth

Relationships: Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent

Additional Tags: Batfamily (DCU), Batbrothers (DCU), batbros, batfam, Batfamily (DCU) Feels, Fluff, Crack, Humor, Family Feels, Good Sibling Tim Drake, Protective Dick Grayson, Protective Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson is Damian Wayne's Parent, Jason Todd-centric, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Good Sibling Jason Todd, Good Sibling Cassandra Cain, Tim Drake Regrows His Spleen, Scientific explanation for the Lazarus Pit, Tim Drake Drinks Boba, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/C60fR1F

[rawchefyin]

🧋🧋🧋When ChaTime opened up in Malaysia, there were looooooong queues of people waiting in line to drink the bubble tea. We never bothered to queue up but then there were less people we decided to give it a try and got hooked. This must have been at least 10 years ago. But as I moved towards a healthier lifestyle, I stopped drinking bubble tea as I realised it just wasn’t healthy. A few years ago, I tried making raw vegan versions of the tapioca pearls (without the tapioca, of course) but I couldn’t get the right consistency. After testing many recipes, I gave up. But recently, I felt I should give it a try again. This time I decided to see if I could use apples as the base and psyllium husk and Irish moss as both the binders as well as ingredients that could give it the chewiness that Asian food has. I don’t think English has a word to describe it. In Taiwan they call it QQ. Anyways, here’s the first iteration of my raw vegan bubble tea made with apple “pearls”. I added ground chia seeds as well to give it the chewy texture. This one is made with macadamia milk and unrefined coconut nectar as the sweetener. And Malaysian loose leaf tea to have a local take on it. I wanted to just make the basic, traditional milk tea first before going on to the other exciting and colourful flavours that you now get at the bubble tea shops. The pearls need a bit more work to make it even more QQ but hey, Mr Jazz Guitarist is one happy camper coz I finally allow him to drink bubble tea again! Who here loves bubble tea? Comment below 👇👇👇 (Added @organicule cacao powder to the pearls and that made a world of difference!!) https://www.instagram.com/p/CpJOMtFhglr/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[dhr-ao3]

you had me at taho

you had me at taho https://ift.tt/Q8jZh4m by iloveskittles Tahô [noun] a sweet snack made with soft/silken tofu, often topped with sago or tapioca pearls and a caramelized sugar syrup. Words: 1705, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: F/M Characters: Neville Longbottom, Pansy Parkinson, Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy Relationships: Neville Longbottom/Pansy Parkinson, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Meet-Cute, Fluff, taho, neville has big hands, pansy wants to hold them, and his shoulders are wider than the Pacific Ocean, Pansy wants to live on them, Neville is a Filipino Street Food Vendor, Pansy is a little confused but she’s got the spirit via AO3 works tagged 'Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy' https://ift.tt/jVrP9Cn December 21, 2022 at 06:52AM

[dtaegis]

carinha vc gosta de cuscuz ou tapioca