#suds moustache

[yamujiburo]

Jessie vs the Restaurant Health Inspection got me thinking, like

I can totally see Jessie and James's first plan being something like 'kidnap the restaurant inspector', a plan which involves Jessie in a suit and obviously fake moustache doing the restaurant inspection even though they could have just forged the results form because that's how Team Rocket's collective logic works

The second plan is help clean the restaurant. Honestly helpful, except Delia wakes up, goes to open the restaurant and, well

There's suds blocking the windows, ominous mechanical and sploshing noises coming from within, a van that has "MOBILE PIKACHU RESTAURANT WASH" written on it parked nearby, and for some reason Meowth is out front wearing a set of ear plugs and putting every single bit of cutlery through an autoclave?????

The inspection has to be rescheduled because whilst the restaurant is more hygienic than most operating theatres at this point, it smells so strongly of cleaning products that it isn't fit for eating in

(Delia forgives Jessie when she realises it's basically anxiety, like when Growlithe eats your shoes because they miss you)

Ohhhhh my god

#ask yam

[theywhowriteandknowthings]

my number for your ask game is 48 👀

For my ask game 48: Dancing in the Dark – Bruce Springsteen Marcus Pike x Reader

Warnings: food and alcohol mention (blink and you'll miss both) otherwise it's just a fluffy piece I want to make into a series) @angelofsmalldeath-codeine I blame you for my Marcus P obsession. Thank you @noxturnalpascal and @beefrobeefcal for taking a quick look at this before I posted!

You can't start a fire You can't start a fire without a spark This gun's for hire Even if we're just dancin' in the dark

You groan as the final whistle blows. The Bulls played awfully all game and you can’t believe you wasted money on such a poor performance. At least you didn’t blow out on the court-side seats like you’d planned. Then you look to your left to see Marcus’ brow furrowed in frustration and you can’t help but smile.

He looks cute like this.

You think as you let your eyes roam over his profile, picking up the way his facial hair is growing out. He’d told you it was an undercover thing for work, and you had teased him relentlessly for it in the beginning.

But now that you let yourself ogle him you realise you really quite like it. You love the way his moustache grows out more prominently, framing his top lip in a way that just begs to be smoothed over with your fingertips. Then, there are the little sparse patches where hair refuses to grow, small enough to look stylistic – purposeful – but large enough that you know you could plant soft kisses and sharp nips that would make him growl.

Stop it.

You’re staring and your stomach lurches as you avert your eyes to the floor. You don’t notice the way Marcus’ lips twitch up as you do so, having clearly caught you in the act. You’re sworn off dating, and no matter how much you want to cross that line with Marcus, you won’t. You can’t get hurt again.

“So, commiseration drinks?” he says softly as he nudges your elbow with his. You look back up into those impossibly dark brown eyes and you nod a little too eagerly.

“Sounds perfect.”

~*~

The bar is packed with Bulls fans in their red, white, and black sports gear, and you’re lucky to grab a table just as another couple gets up to leave. Marcus is getting drinks as you sit, knee bobbing up and down as you tear an innocent coaster to smithereens. He weaves through the sea of disappointed patrons expertly, not spilling a single drop of either of your drinks.

“What’d the coaster ever do to you?” Marcus asks as he places your drinks down, scooting his chair around the table so your knees bump together as he sits.

Heat floods to the tips of your ears as you try not to lean into the friction through your jeans. You can smell the Old Spice deodorant that Marcus wears and, like always, it makes you weak. The citrus and sandalwood accented with the musky smell that you know is purely Marcus floods your senses. You lean forward, bracing your elbow on the table as you cradle your cheek in your palm.

“Sorry just needed to do something with my hands, anxious habit,” you admit with a grimace as Marcus takes a sip of his beer, froth clinging to his moustache.

“What’s got you nervous eh?” he asks as he leans in closer, the noise of the bar muting both your voices. You chuckle and point to his mouth.

“Doesn’t matter, but you’ve got something in your ‘stache.”

“Oh shit,” he laughs before running his tongue over his top lip, “Did that help?”

“No,” you snort as you grab a napkin from the holder, “Here, let me.”

You dab at his mouth, clearing the offending suds from his facial hair. You try not to read into the way his eyes hood slightly as he watches you clean him up. You certainly don’t watch the way his neck muscles flex and contract as he swallows heavily as your knees bump together once more.

“There you go.”

“Thanks,” Marcus’ tone is low, husky even as you pull your hand away. His tongue darts over his bottom lip this time as he refocuses his gaze on you.

There’s a tension in the air between you and you place your hand on his knee, testing the waters as you wait for his response.

“I have a confession to make,” he mumbles as his eyes dart up from your lips to meet your gaze.

“You been hiding something from me Pike?” you tease, hand still firm on his knee, unmoving as you wait for what you’ve been wanting to hear for months.

“Yeah,” he pauses and his plush lips twist into a grimace, “I don’t actually like basketball.”

Your heart hammers in your chest as you try and make sense of his confession. Your stomach drops as you feel rejection prickle under your skin.

“Oh,” you eek out, already feeling tears burn at the back of your eyes. You pull your hand away from his leg and straighten up, leaning back as you try to figure out how you’re going to get out of here without crying. You’d hoped Marcus was different, that he hasn’t just been taking pity on you. That he isn’t just humouring his single and desperate co-worker.

Maybe he’s just trying to perform damage control before you do something stupid like tell him you like him. Maybe he’s picked up on your pining and knows better than to string you along. Your thoughts continue to spiral so heavily that you barely hear his next sentence.

All you want to do is run away, get home so you can scream and cry at your pathetic self for getting invested in yet another person who wanted to be just friends.

“Yeah, sorry, I just didn’t want to give you the wrong idea.”

The wrong idea.

“No, it’s ok,” you wheeze as you feel your chest getting tighter, your breaths coming in shallow rasps as your vision swims with tears.

“Because I don’t just want to go to basketball games with you,” he says your name softly and your eyes lift back up to meet his gaze.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Marcus says with a soft smile as he leans forward and takes your hand in his and heat rises to your cheeks, “I want to go on a proper date with you, because I like you.”

Your brain short-circuits as you try to process the new information over the roaring in your ears.

“You like me?”

“Yep.”

“Like, like me?”

“Uh-huh.” Marcus’ face is twisted in an amused smile as he tries not to outright laugh at the bewildered look on your face.

“Fuuuuuck,” you wheeze as your fingertips drum on the tabletop with nervous energy, “Marcus, I like you too.”

“I kind of guessed, you’re not very subtle with your ogling.”

Your mouth hangs open as heat burns under your skin, your eyes narrow as you glare at him. You want to say something witty, quip back at him but you can’t. The only thing that occupies your mind is that Marcus likes you.

“So, what now?”  

“We could go out, get dinner, catch a movie, or…”

“Or?”

“We could head back to mine and order take-out? I know this amazing Greek restaurant that delivers.”

“I think you know my answer, Marcus.”

You stand and Marcus pulls you against his side as he steers you back through the sea of Bulls fans, your drinks forgotten. He leans in as you snuggle against him, lips ghosting against your ear as he speaks.

“It’s a date.”

Tag list: @pr0ximamidnight @ktheunready @harriedandharassed @survivingandenduring @wannab-urs @neverwheremoonchild @noisynightmarepoetry @casa-boiardi @xoxabs88xox @guelyury @its-nebuleuse @deadly-femme-bimbo @covetyou @christinamadsen @mirandablue1 @clawdee @youandmeand5bucks-blog @hiddenbabynyc @stevie75 @star017 @vabeachazn @darkheartgatita @pastelnap @beskarandblasters @jksprincess10 @beefrobeefcal @anoverwhelmingdin @pedroshotwifey @bitchwitch1981 @dameron-grant-spector @livingdeadmaria @nashja @lightdragonrayne @shotgun-shelby @yorksgirl

Join my taglist here

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #spotify wrapped #spotify wrap 2023 #ask game #req #request #ask #marcus pike #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike fanfiction #marcus pike fic #fluff #fluff and angst #the mentalist

[alain-keler]

Madrid, 30 janvier 1976.

Franco est mort le 20 novembre 1975. Un peu partout en Espagne, les forces démocratiques tentent de faire entendre leurs voix. Ici une réunion d'ouvriers grévistes se déroule dans une église. Cette photo n'a jamais vu le jour. Elle est restée sagement sur sa planche contact pendant 48 ans. C'est en regardant mes planches restées dans une de mes nombreuses boîtes que je l'ai trouvé. De temps en temps je retourne sur mon passé de photographe. J'aime bien cette photo, la position de ces deux hommes, le contexte politique. Je n'ai pas trouvé mon carnet de l'époque, seule cette légende laconique au dos de la planche contact "réunion dans une église d'ouvriers grévistes", avec la date. J'avais un copain à l'AFP qui me donnait ces informations. 

J'étais jeune photographe pour l'agence Sygma. Je venais de passer deux mois au Portugal, partageant un appartement avec des journalistes débutants, un cameraman pour Visnews, une révolutionnaire italienne qui, même révolutionnaire, cuisinait des pâtes extraordinaires, à l’italienne ! Mon séjour au Portugal se termina par une tentative de lynchage sur ma personne. Une foule conservatrice me prenant pour un agent cubain. Il faut dire que j'avais une moustache à la sud-américaine, conservée après un long voyage en Amérique latine. *

* Voir le livre America Americas, latina, publié aux éditions de juillet en 2022.

[elizaabandon]

Sebald's Saloon & Bathhouse (Dutch van der Linde x Reader, NSFW)

I saw this TikTok of Dutch in the bath:

And I had to write a fic about it.

Rough and unbeta'd. Completed in an afternoon. Forgive any errors or inconsistencies.

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption Pairing: Dutch van der Linde/Reader Rating: Explicit Summary: You’ve been struggling to make ends meet and you’ve recently had to take a job working in a bathhouse. One snowy afternoon, a dangerous outlaw happens by, and the owner insists you be the one to see to him.

Excerpt:

He let out a long groan of pleasure as he eased himself into the hot water, his voice low and rumbling and somehow reverberating through you. The water splashed a little and he groaned again, his breaths coming out short and sharp. You knew it was a combination of pain and relief, but it sounded positively orgasmic. What a voice the man had. So guttural and commanding. Something almost melodic about it, but animalistic at the same time.

“Are you ready for me, Dutch?”

A low laugh. “I am ready for you, my sweet.”

You turned and swallowed hard at the scene before you. The man was leaned up against the back of the bath, his arms resting on either side of the tub, his knees bent, legs clearly too long to straighten out. His hair and moustache were wet, and soap suds were slowly dripping down his chest to the water below. Steam was rising up into the cold air, and a candle was flickering behind his head, illuminating the room with a soft, golden glow.

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38718969

#red dead redemption #reddeadredemption2 #reddeadredemption #dutch van der linde/reader #dutch van der linde x reader #rdr2 #my fic #dutch van der linde

[brookstonalmanac]

Beer Events 2.1

Events

Foster's beer 1st public tasting (Australia; 1889)

Cincinnati, Covington and Newport Brewers Exchange founded (Ohio, Kentucky; 1897)

Champion Brewing changed its name to Lone Star (1940)

H.L. Buffington patented Portable Cooler Cabinet Construction (1966)

William Hunt patented a Container for a Keg (1966)

Malley Brewery patented a Continuous Brewing Apparatus (1966)

Schaefer Brewing patented the Preservation of Beer (1966)

Mack Johnston patented a Single-Opening Beer Keg (1977)

Federal law H.R. 1337 went into effect. legalizing homebrewing in the U.S. (1979)

Sierra Nevada Bigfoot released (1983)

Rene Sauvage, et al., patented  an Installation for Steeping Grains (1994)

Miller Brewing patented a Light Stable Hop Fraction and Method of Making the Same (2005)

Breweries Opened

Boston Beer Co. (South Boston, Mass.; 1828)

Berliner Kindl Brauerei (Germany; 1872)

Sierra Nevada Brewing (California; 1980)

Portland Brewery’s Flanders Street Pub founded (Oregon; 1986)

Catamount Brewing (Vermont; 1987)

Old Columbia Brewery (California; 1989)

New England Brewing (Connecticut; 1990)

Hale’s Ales (Wash.; 1992)

Old World Brewing (Arizona; 1992)

Tumbleweed Grille Brewery (NC; 1992)

Woodstock Brewing (New York; 1992)

Syracuse Suds Factory (New York; 1993)

Lagunitas Brewing (California; 1994)

Randy’s Fun Hunter Restaurant & Brewery (Wisconsin; 1994)

Bayhawk Ales (California; 1995)

Beau Ce Broue brewery (Quebec; 1995)

Browar Belgia (Poland; 1995)

Draught Horse Pub & Brewery (Texas; 1995)

Faultline Brewing (California; 1995)

Flagship Brewery (England; 1995)

Old Broadway brewery (North Dakota; 1995)

Trailhead Brewing (Missouri; 1995)

Triumph Brewing (New Jersey; 1995)

Bare Bones Grill & Brewery (Maryland; 1996)

Blue & Gold Brewing (Virginia; 1996)

Dunedin Brewery (Florida; 1996)

J.T. Garrison Brewing (California; 1996)

Main Street Brewing (Texas; 1996)

Siletz Brewing (Oregon; 1996)

Treasure Coast Brewing (Florida; 1996)

Wild Duck Brewery (Oregon; 1996)

Appalachian Brewing (Pennsylvania; 1997)

Beowulf Brewing (England; 1997)

Clocktower Brewing (Canada; 1997)

Forest City Brewing (Illinois; 1997)

Kelley Bros. Brewing (California; 1997)

Mystic River Brewing (Connecticut; 1997)

Nimbus Brewing (Arizona; 1997)

North Fork Brewers (Washington; 1997)

Rio Salado Brewing (Georgia; 1997)

Seidermann Brewing (Arizona; 1997)

Southeastern Brewing (South Carolina; 1997)

Strip Brewing (Pennsylvania; 1997)

Trout Brooks Brewing (Conneciticut; 1997)

USA Cafe (Texas; 1997)

Westwind Brewery (New Mexico; 1997)

Willoughby Brewing (Ohio; 1997)

Your Father’s Moustache (New York; 1997)

Yukon Brewing (Canada; 1997)

La Lambic du Nord (Canada; 1998)

Max Lager’s American Grill & Brewery (GA; 1998)

Silver Gulch Brewing & Bottling (Alaska; 1998)

Erie Brewing (Pennsylvania; 1999)

Lightning Boy Brewery (Montana; 1999)

5280 Roadhouse & Brewery (Colorado; 1999)

Mystic Brewpub & Restaurant (Penna.; 2000)

Spinning Dog Brewery (England; 2000)

#Events

[completementalest]

Pédalage entre deux mers

Notre idée initiale était de pédaler dans le sud-est du pays près des frontière syriennes et irakiennes (en gros dans la zone où on mange plein de pistaches) mais les tremblements de terre de février changent nos plans. En partant de chez Ceren et Sebastian, on longe la côte vers l’est en direction d’Antalya. On passe régulièrement de paysages très agricoles à des stations balnéaires remplies d’hôtels et de russes. On arrive à faire quelques incursions en montagne mais comme il est encore tôt dans la saison on est un peu empêchés par le froid et les intempéries. Une fois, surpris par la pluie en haut d’un col, on a la chance de se faire inviter par un imam à mettre notre tente sous un abri dans l’enceinte de sa mosquée. On est en plein Ramadan donc le soir c’est très animé et on est au premières loges pour chaque appel à la prière (d’ailleurs ça grésille sévère dans les hauts-parleurs !). Après une petite semaine, on arrive à Antalya, grosse ville côtière où on retrouve soudainement l’été. On est hébergés chez le très généreux Burak, pilote d’avion de profession, qui nous emmène manger des pizzas et boire quelques bières. Il nous raconte plein d’anecdotes sur son métier, y compris sur les vices de fabrication de certains avions (super réconfortant comme info). Notre visa touche à sa fin alors on dit au revoir (pour de bon cette fois) à la Méditerranée et on prend le bus pour rejoindre Trabzon, au bord de la mer Noire. La région est beaucoup plus conservatrice et c’est encore plus prégnant en plein Ramadan : beaucoup de cafés et magasins sont fermés la journée et les villes s’animent au coucher du soleil. On suit la côte en longeant la mer de près (même si on ne peut pas vraiment accéder à l’eau) pendant que sur notre droite s’étendent des collines toutes en rondeur, recouvertes de théiers et noisetiers. Hasard du calendrier, France Inter sort un podcast en plusieurs épisodes sur l’histoire d’Erdogan (« Erdogan : la tentation de l’Empire ») et son parcours politique. On découvre qu’on est précisément en train de traverser la région où il a grandi, ça explique les grandes banderoles à son effigie (on est à un mois des élections présidentielles). Ici comme dans le reste du pays, on a parfois le sentiment d’être plongés dans les années 70 car on croise une palanquée de Renault 12 et de nombreux hommes (ok pas les plus jeunes) arborent de grandes vestes de costume en velours gris et d’épaisses moustaches.

Les turcs trouvent toujours le moyen de se montrer généreux et aidants, on en fait encore une fois l’expérience quand Simon a des ennuis mécaniques sur sa roue arrière et qu’on nous voit en train de (tenter de) bricoler sur le bord de la route. Un monsieur s’arrête en voiture et propose d’emmener Simon faire le tour des mécaniciens vélo dans la ville voisine. On se met rapidement d’accord sur un point de rencontre car Elsa doit pédaler pour les rejoindre... Simon retient station de bus, Elsa retient mosquée (pratique comme il y en a à peu près partout), et comme on n’a pas de carte sim locale, le qui-proquo se transforme en galère de plusieurs heures pour se retrouver. Un monsieur aide Simon a faire le tour de la ville en voiture pour essayer de retrouver Elsa puis lui offre à manger car c’est déjà l’heure de l’iftar (le repas qui casse le jeûne le soir). On finit par se retrouver et le même monsieur nous aide à trouver un endroit pour poser la tente, il pousse même le zèle jusqu’à prévenir la police qui vient s’assurer qu’on n’a besoin de rien. Le lendemain, le mécanicien qui répare le vélo en cinq minutes (pourquoi ça a l’air trop facile quand c’est les autres qui le font ?) insiste pour ne pas faire payer la réparation... En plus il nous donne des autocollants Maşallah.

Pour notre dernière nuit et après un petit aller-retour vers les montagnes d’Artvin, on plante la tente chez Yaşar, un cultivateur de thé qui tient un petit restaurant dont la spécialité est la pomme de terre cuite au poêle à bois (gros plaisir). On passe la frontière sous la pluie, en compagnie de centaines de routiers. Comme pour nous assurer que la générosité turque n’a pas de limites, un douanier nous offre une tablette de chocolat à la pistache (oui c’est important de le préciser).

Güle güle chère Turquie !  

Dans les orangeraies.

La belle côte.

Fraîcheur camping.

Fraîcheur des pins.

Encore la belle côte.

Dans deux mois ce sera Palavas.

“Papiers siouplait”

Camping avec les chèvres.

C’est parti la montagne.

Pique-nique sous la pluie, merci les abribus.

Il fait froid, on sort les doudounes rouges.

L’abri près de la mosquée.

Sur la route d’Antalya.

Antalya la balnéaire.

Antalya et ses falaises.

Burak, en costume de pilote, et nous, en costume de cyclisme.

Maison pour 20 heures.

Bonjour la côte nord.

Le thé dans son habitat naturel.

Réparateur de “bisiklet”.

Dodo dans les fougères.

Sur la route d’Artvin.

Camping spot convivial de qualité.

Dans la cabane de Yaşar.

Yeux du matin avec Yaşar.

“En récompense de votre courage et témérité, la Turquie vous offre une tablette de chocolat à la pistache. Prenez soin de vous et güle güle !” signé le douanier.

[procastinatorinrehab]

Olivier Durand.

Il s’appelle Olivier Durand. Il est un chef cuisinier de nationalité belge qui a 27 ans et qui parle français, anglais, allemand est espagnol. Il habite à Brussels et il parle tous ces langues pour étudier et pour le travail.

Il est passioné par la gastronomie, la musique et les animaux. Son rêve c’est d’apprendre à faire bien les spécialités culinaires de tous les pays du monde. Il habite avec sa femme et leur chien. Il aime jouer de la guitare, aller a la plage et faire du snorkeling. Il adore d’avoir des soirées dont il fait de la cuisine pendant que sa femme lui chante et lui aide. Il fait du sport avec sa femme du lundi au vendredi. Il déteste les retards et les injustices. Il est grand et mince, sa peau est mate, il a les yeux marrons et le cheveux noirs et mi-longs. Il porte des lunettes, une moustache et une barbichette. Il est dynamique, généreux, adroite, responsable et très drôle. 

La Camargue.

La Camargue fait partie de la Provence, et est un parc naturel situé dans le sud de la France.  C'est bordée par la mer Méditerranée et se trouve entre la ville d’Arles et Saintes Maries de la Mer, cette dernière est sa capitale. Il est recommandé d’arriver en voiture, puis marcher ou faire du vélo pour avoir une meilleure connexion avec la nature. Vous pourriez voir des taureaux noirs, des chevaux blancs et des flamants roses entre autres espèces sauvages.

On peut voir le phare de la Gacholle, on peut faire du vélo et admirer des paysages merveilleux.

On peut voir les murs du XIIIe siècle d’Aigues-Mortes et on peut découvrir l’histoire qui remonte au règne de Louis IX à travers des reliques architecturales brillamment conservées.

On peut observer que l’on peut avoir une aventure safari guidée d’une demi-journée en 4x4 et découvrir des paysages authentiques, la faune et la cuisine locale.

Merci d'avoir visité😄

[hun-ting-ton]

Travel diary : Roma.

1) Dessin réalisé en visitant le Vittoriano, monument colossal construit en l’honneur de Victor-Emmanuel I, premier roi de l’Italie unifiée. Lors d’une pause dessin sur ses marches supérieures, notre vue ne peut se détacher de cette énorme statue qui représente ce défunt roi. Vue depuis derrière, un élément nous fait particulièrement rire (hormis la virilité clairement affichée de son canasson) : une moustache de Victor-Emanuel dépasse du visage malgré un casque imposant. Elle deviendra le sujet principal de mon premier dessin du voyage.

2) Alors que nous visitons la Galerie nationale d’art moderne et contemporain, une statuette de babouin hyper stylisée et anguleuse retient mon attention. Elle est l’œuvre d’un artiste au nom surprenant :  Rembrandt Bugatti. Aucun lien de parenté avec le fameux peintre, mais frère du célèbre constructeur automobile Ettore Bugatti.

3) Un dessin final qui a failli ne jamais voir le jour. Je n’étais pas du tout satisfait des premiers traits et j’étais prêt à déchirer cette page. Finalement j’ai calmé mes ardeurs et me suis dit que le défi de ce voyage serait de transformer un dessin médiocre en dessin potable. Au début il ne s’agissait de ne faire figurer qu’un seul bar sur cette page. Au final, elle regroupera des éléments de plusieurs endroits différents : un bar qui se vante de faire le meilleur café de la ville, un délicieux restau « Asie du sud-est » et un bar de quartier qui propose des panini « bœuf Angus/pecorino ».

[barklyvanish]

#harry potter #butter beer #sorcery #witches and warlocks #the sword in the stone #j.k rowling #wizarding world #wizards #madame mim #the elephant house #daniel radcliffe #rupert grint #emma watson #ron weasley #hermione granger #embarrassing #embarrasment #feel the fool #beer suds #beer moustache #suds moustache

[philoursmars]

Germignies-Sud - le Retour !

Bon, quoi de neuf ?Des photos non prises hélas d’un chevreuil détalant juste sous mon nez et de quelques chardonnerets.

Restent les bouleaux (pas toujours très en formé !), des champignons inconnus (je cherche toujours un mycologue compétent !)...et d’inattendus bambous en pleine forêt (je pose devant) !

#nord #terril #mycologie #champignon #bouleau #betulus #bambou #moustache #germignies #germignies-sud

[wittylittle]

Quelle finale ennuyante. Sauf quand Kevin a gagné.

#en français #montréal #québécois #od afrique du sud #od #kevin #moustache #occupation double

[cozyenigma]

Suds

Something short and sweet for you!

Pairing- Wilford/Reader

Word Count- 723

Request?- Yes!

Summary- The quiet evening you’d planned has a bit of a wrench thrown in the works. One with a moustache and a penchant for mischief…

Tag List- @cookielover0001010​ , @swag-droid​ , @watchoutforfrostbite​

At this point you had a bit of a routine. Getting up and working was a well worn part of it. Now that that was over you were forcing yourself into doing the rest. Chores needed doing. Despite you staring at them, the dishes didn't magically clean themselves to your disappointment.  The soap suds were piled high now. Steam was curling up off the water as you shut off the tap.

Your mind was elsewhere, planning out the rest of your night so you didn't notice the company. In the next instant there were arms around you, palms flat against the counter and a warm body against your back. You jumped, surprised, and the cheery laugh chased away any doubts as to who it was. Not that there was much to begin with

"Wil..." You tried to put some warning into the word. From how Wilford simply pressed closer and your own smile, it didn't quite come across.

"Aw c'mon sweetheart," he rested his chin on your shoulder, "haven't seen ya in forever!"

"You saw me this morning."

"Close enough." Wilford pressed a kiss to your neck and you squirmed, his mustache tickling just a bit.

This time you didn't even give him a warning. Scooping up some suds, you quickly boop him on the nose. Wilford went cross eyed to see the bubbles. You couldn't help but laugh, especially when he looked your way. The blob of suds wiggled a bit with the motion which didn't help.

"Really now?" Wilford drawled, something gleaming in his eyes.

"You can't blame me," you tried, pleading almost as he just looked at you like that. That look promised mischief.

"Ya did start it."

That was all the warning you got before Wilford snagged his own handful of suds. You yelled, laughing halfway through as he tried his damnedest to get his revenge. There was no room for escape. Wilford had you well and truly trapped, one arm snagging you around the waist now. Cringing back, your shoulders winding up into your neck, you just manage to avoid soapy doom.

The suds went everywhere anyways as you catch his hand in yours. It's warm still. Both from him and the bubbles. He wiggles his fingers a bit before holding your hand back.

Wilford was an affectionate man. If it wasn't an arm around your shoulders it was both wrapping you up in a hug. Little kisses in passing and lingering touches. Still, you were surprised to find you couldn't actually remember just holding hands. At least not recently.

His hand easily dwarfed yours, his fingers could almost touch. It was a bit of an awkward position from how you had grabbed him but neither of you let go. Silly revenge forgotten, Wilford just squeezed your hand.

"You're lucky you're cute," right by your ear.

Those chores probably weren't going to get done. Not at this rate with Wilford shifting his grip and intertwining his fingers with yours.

His hands were calloused, you realized now. More so than you expected them to be really. Part of you wanted to delve deeper into that, wondering what he'd done to get them. You might even get an answer.

Well you might've if Wilford's other hand wasn't inching towards the sink again.

"Hey," you snatched his hand back, shooting him a look out of the corner of your eye. "We were having a moment here."

"Still having one," he argued, "maybe I just wanted to hold your hand?"

Pointedly you looked down. You raised both of your hands which were, coincidentally, still holding both of his.

"Well, maybe I wanted to hold both," Wilford shrugged. He brought his arms in for a hug. "Ta-da!"

You rolled your eyes but couldn't help the smile that crept up on you.

"Mind if I steal ya away for a while, gumdrop?" Wilford's fingers were drumming out a little beat.

Knowing him you'd be gone all night. But then again- knowing him you'd be gone all night. There was no telling what he had planned, it could be nothing at all, but it was already more appealing than this.

So you said, "Steal away."

That was all the invitation he needed. You were there and then gone in a little poof of pink, leaving your dish water to cool and suds still splattered around your counter.

#wilford warfstache x reader #wilford x reader #writersofmark #Wilford Warfstache #youtuber ego #reader insert #markiplier ego x reader #ego fanfic #My writing

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Day Thirteen: Rosy Cheeks

A/N: Lambert shaves off a huge portion of his beard accidentally and is then forced to remove it all when he’s unable to salvage it. He knows his arse is going to get handed to him by the others and the rest of the winter’s going to be hell; Aiden has other ideas.

Once they got into deep winter, Lambert’s body started to channel its inner Gemmerian and his beard became somewhat unruly. Aiden only tolerated it for so long before Lambert was dispatched to the shaving bowl with some oils and a straight razor. It was midafternoon, Eskel had Ciri in one of the workrooms nearby practicing bomb making - Lambert was no longer trusted with this task - and so he took the opportunity to have a bit of a tidy up.

Shirt chucked on the bed, towel draped over his shoulder, he peered into the aged, cracked, smeary surface of the only mirror he had access to without having to actually talk to Vesemir, and began to prune back the scraggly mass on his face. Lathered up, he swept the razor carefully up his throat and around his jaw, taming the line of his beard back to its usual place, and then - 

Boom!

The entire castle shook. Ciri had thrown a powerful dancing star bomb out into the courtyard, and Lambert could hear her yips of triumph. It was an impressive bang, but it’d claimed a more devastating victim than a few unsuspecting target dummies. Lambert stared into the mirror with wide-eyed shock. The explosion had caused him to jump spectacularly; he hadn’t cut into his skin, but he’d wicked off a huge part of his beard in one startled swoop. 

His gaze dropped into the bowl where the remnants of the left part of his beard floated on top of the soap suds. Mocking him. “Fuck,” he breathed, barely able to comprehend the gravity of what had just occured. “Fuck,” said with more gusto as he leaned closer. This wasn’t salvageable. There was no fucking way he could walk downstairs with a beard like this and not get his arse royally handed to him by the dickheads currently whooping in the courtyard.

No. Wait, he could save it - he - right. Just a little bit off on the right side - you know, to match, and then a bit off underneath to bring it all into line. Ahh, now that looked fucking horrific. Maybe a moustache and a goatee? Oh, fuck, now he looked like the bard; he’d sooner die than be seen in public like that. A little bit more and -

Lambert stared at the tiny soul patch left on his chin and the patchy moustache that had never really filled out in the first place, realising he now had to do the unthinkable. Go smooth. He held his breath as he lifted the straight razor to his chin. It took a mere flick of the wrist to remove the final vestiges of his facial hair; the moustache disappeared quickly after. He hadn’t been this babyfaced since before the Trials. They’d roast him. There’d be nothing left of his pride by the end of the winter.

He needed to hide this somehow. With a quick fumble around the room - opening bags, peering in cupboards - he managed to find an old, grey scarf. It was thick and scratchy, irritating his skin almost immediately, but it covered the entire lower part of his face when he wrapped it tightly enough. Perfect. If anyone asked, he was just cold. And would continue to be so for about four weeks. This was going to work.

With his sword belts on his shoulder, Lambert headed down towards the courtyard. The others had headed inside by the time he stepped out into the cold, and he sucked in a shocked breath. The frigid winds cut through the aged wool and he could feel its icy talons raking over his skin, turning his cheeks rosy. 

“What took you so long?” Aiden appeared from the shadow of the castle wall and Lambert’s entire body went rigid, fingers flexing around the thick leather strap across his chest.

“Uh, just… you know, the razor was blunt, had to sharpen it, then couldn’t find the foam. Usual shit.” Voice muffled by the thick fabric over his mouth, Lambert mumbled through his explanation and then turned his back. Aiden’s bullshit detector went haywire and he cleared the distance in several bounding leaps. 

“Show me.” He reached for the tail end of his scarf, but Lambert batted at him. The scuffle that ensued mostly consisted of slapping palms and pinching fingers as Aiden tried to duck and weave around Lambert’s elbows. His victory was assured when he managed to unbuckle those sword belts with a deft flick of the wrist, and then mount his back. Knees digging into Lambert’s waist, he wiggled his fingers beneath the folds of wool and found… bare skin. “Lambert!” Aiden chirped with glee, then whipped the scarf away.

The cold rushed in and Lambert sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. The surface of his skin prickled painfully, still raw from the shave, and more exposed than it had been in literal decades. He slapped his hands to his cheeks as Aiden dismounted, and tried to turn his face away. “You bastard,” he seethed.

“No, c’mon, c’mon, lemme see,” Aiden, with his full auburn beard and bouncy curls, pawed at Lambert’s arm until it dropped away. Lambert glared at the ground, unable to meet those green eyes brimming with barely contained mirth.

“Oh, baby,” Aiden purred. His hands stroked along Lambert’s jawline and forced his face up. The skin on his cheeks was already a bright, rosy red thanks to the brush of cold winter air. “You look…”

“...like a prepubescent student from Ban Ard, fuck off,” Lambert growled, trying to tug away, but Aiden held on with a firm grasp. 

“Mmm, not really what I was thinking,” Aiden leaned forward and placed the gentlest kiss upon silky smooth skin. The heat of his lips sent sparks flying to the back of Lambert’s neck and down the length of his spine. They didn’t stop. Those lips wandered ponderously over skin they’d never tasted, leaving behind traces of dampness that prickled in the cool air. 

Slender fingers traced his jawline, worn, callused tips tender in their exploration until they traced over his hairline. Aiden tugged, pulling Lambert closer, coaxing his head back to expose his freshly shaven throat, tickled by the coarse hair of Aiden’s own immaculately trimmed beard. Lambert’s eyes blew wide, a reedy little whine fell over parted lips; his entire body had gone limp as his Cat scooped him up, their hips slotting together to share their burgeoning-- 

“Oh, eww,” said a young, petulant voice. Ciri, who’d escaped her reading now that Vesemir had finally fallen asleep, then proceeded to blow a raspberry. “Get a room.” 

Aiden chuckled and lifted his lips away from where he’d been tenderly lapping at Lambert’s quickening pulse. “C’mon,” he held his wolf until those booted feet had found purchase again. “Heaven forbid I permanently scar your niece by giving you a boner.”

Lambert growled. “She’s not my niece,” he glared at her pointedly. “We’re now estranged.”

“You say that at least three times a week,” she pouted, arms folded. “Finally got rid of that ratty beard, I see. Shame you couldn’t stick it on your hairline.”

“Oh my - ,” Lambert swirled around to launch into a scathing tirade, but Aiden was too quick; he scooped Lambert from the floor and slung him effortlessly over his shoulder. “Put me down. Put me - Aiden, someone needs to teach her some ma - Aiden!”

“Catch you later, Ciri,” Aiden called back as he carried his squirming wolf into the keep. Those beautiful, rosy cheeks, already chapped by the cold, needed some proper attention; kisses, kitten licks and maybe some soothing balm to take the sting away.

Thirty-One Days of Decembert

#rawrkinwrites #Decembert #13. Rosy Cheeks #Lambert #Aiden #Lambden #Ciri #A Close Shave

[brookstonalmanac]

Beer Events 2.1

Events

Foster's beer 1st public tasting (Australia; 1889)

Cincinnati, Covington and Newport Brewers Exchange founded (Ohio, Kentucky; 1897)

Champion Brewing changed its name to Lone Star (1940)

H.L. Buffington patented Portable Cooler Cabinet Construction (1966)

William Hunt patented a Container for a Keg (1966)

Malley Brewery patented a Continuous Brewing Apparatus (1966)

Schaefer Brewing patented the Preservation of Beer (1966)

Mack Johnston patented a Single-Opening Beer Keg (1977)

Federal law H.R. 1337 went into effect. legalizing homebrewing in the U.S. (1979)

Sierra Nevada Bigfoot released (1983)

Rene Sauvage, et al., patented  an Installation for Steeping Grains (1994)

Miller Brewing patented a Light Stable Hop Fraction and Method of Making the Same (2005)

Breweries Opened

Boston Beer Co. (South Boston, Mass.; 1828)

Berliner Kindl Brauerei (Germany; 1872)

Sierra Nevada Brewing (California; 1980)

Portland Brewery’s Flanders Street Pub founded (Oregon; 1986)

Catamount Brewing (Vermont; 1987)

Old Columbia Brewery (California; 1989)

New England Brewing (Connecticut; 1990)

Hale’s Ales (Wash.; 1992)

Old World Brewing (Arizona; 1992)

Tumbleweed Grille Brewery (NC; 1992)

Woodstock Brewing (New York; 1992)

Syracuse Suds Factory (New York; 1993)

Lagunitas Brewing (California; 1994)

Randy’s Fun Hunter Restaurant & Brewery (Wisconsin; 1994)

Bayhawk Ales (California; 1995)

Beau Ce Broue brewery (Quebec; 1995)

Browar Belgia (Poland; 1995)

Draught Horse Pub & Brewery (Texas; 1995)

Faultline Brewing (California; 1995)

Flagship Brewery (England; 1995)

Old Broadway brewery (North Dakota; 1995)

Trailhead Brewing (Missouri; 1995)

Triumph Brewing (New Jersey; 1995)

Bare Bones Grill & Brewery (Maryland; 1996)

Blue & Gold Brewing (Virginia; 1996)

Dunedin Brewery (Florida; 1996)

J.T. Garrison Brewing (California; 1996)

Main Street Brewing (Texas; 1996)

Siletz Brewing (Oregon; 1996)

Treasure Coast Brewing (Florida; 1996)

Wild Duck Brewery (Oregon; 1996)

Appalachian Brewing (Pennsylvania; 1997)

Beowulf Brewing (England; 1997)

Clocktower Brewing (Canada; 1997)

Forest City Brewing (Illinois; 1997)

Kelley Bros. Brewing (California; 1997)

Mystic River Brewing (Connecticut; 1997)

Nimbus Brewing (Arizona; 1997)

North Fork Brewers (Washington; 1997)

Rio Salado Brewing (Georgia; 1997)

Seidermann Brewing (Arizona; 1997)

Southeastern Brewing (South Carolina; 1997)

Strip Brewing (Pennsylvania; 1997)

Trout Brooks Brewing (Conneciticut; 1997)

USA Cafe (Texas; 1997)

Westwind Brewery (New Mexico; 1997)

Willoughby Brewing (Ohio; 1997)

Your Father’s Moustache (New York; 1997)

Yukon Brewing (Canada; 1997)

La Lambic du Nord (Canada; 1998)

Max Lager’s American Grill & Brewery (GA; 1998)

Silver Gulch Brewing & Bottling (Alaska; 1998)

Erie Brewing (Pennsylvania; 1999)

Lightning Boy Brewery (Montana; 1999)

5280 Roadhouse & Brewery (Colorado; 1999)

Mystic Brewpub & Restaurant (Penna.; 2000)

Spinning Dog Brewery (England; 2000)

#Events

[bird-in-a-cage]

Good morning! I saw the Fanfic prompt list, and by God there are some amazing ones, but I'd love to see 34 with Harringrove of course

Hi! Sorry this took me like a whole day to pull together but hopefully it’s okay!

This list is here if anyone wants to suggest another.

#34: “You might not like me, but you definetely want me.”

High school wasn’t anyone's idea of a good time. It couldn’t be. Not with the constant pressure to be either;

a) A good student

b) A good sportsman

c) The hot one

Or, and most preferably

d) all of the previous points combined

Steve was a terrible student. It's not that he didn’t try, because he tried very hard to keep at least an average grade. It's just academics in general and trying to force algebra into his brain in Mrs Michel’s swelteringly hot classroom weren’t his thing. The incident at the Byers’ had changed a lot. There was a lot more out there to worry about now than simply falling behind. His social standing had taken a serious nosedive, what with loosing Nancy to Jonathan, her stalker. Neither had publicly actually said anything yet but it was so obvious it was like a slap in the face that the whole student body could hear the vibrations.

So sports. Steve had always been good at sports. Until of course that fucking California metalhead had to show up and take the one last thing Steve had. Getting knocked to the floor repeatedly every gym class left him floundering. But it wasn’t just in gym that Steve hated him. It was everything. His car was better (Steve could pretend that his BMW was nicer, but really it was just okay at best), he was a better student without seemingly having to even try, girls were climbing over themselves just to stand near him. Steve tried not to let any of that bother him, but the monsters of that faithful November night had stayed silent, almost disappeared, meaning he had to focus on something else. A Billy Hargrove shaped something else. Take out one monster and replace it with another.

Unfortunately for Steve they shared a class outside of gym: history. History was hard enough as it was, with its long boring facts to remember and lists of endless dates. Steve didn’t understand why he had to remember any of this. Really. Who still needed to know when the Battle of Gettysburg was? Why was it important to everyday life to know the exact dates in which Columbus sailed the world? It didn’t help matters that Mrs Click wasn’t exactly an enthusiastic teacher. Steve could count the minutes he had before his brain just shut off, usually eight, before his attention was dragged to the feeling of little scrunched up paper balls bouncing off the back of his head.

He knew it was Billy, he was class stupid not life stupid. Sometimes the balls landed on his desk, cluttering up his space. A quick whip round always proved fruitless as Billy would always be looking away, or trying to balance a pencil on his upper lip, or pulling one of his curls straight and just watching it spring back into place, or something else just as dumb.

Everything about him was dumb. His dumb blonde mullet, his dumb dangly earring, his dumb denim jeans that were purposly too tight because that was the oldest trick in the book. It wasn’t as if Steve drove himself crazy at nights just thinking how dumb Billy Hargrove was. Dumb moustache, dumb fat lip, dumb tongue that would poke out and roll over his dumb teeth. And it definitely wasn’t a growing constant thought of that dumb tongue doing some not so dumb things against Steve’s that caused him to get hard alone in his room.

Rage boners. That was totally a thing. A secret thing that no one else could ever know about ever.

They shared gym class last thing on a Friday. That’s when things always got fierce. Everyone was eager to just get out of school for the weekend, it made games extra rough. It made Billy’s dumb tongue stick out of his stupid dumb mouth even more. Made him spit crappy dumb insults that Steve tried to ignore and 100% didn’t shoot straight through him like lightening hitting a metal pole.

Steve was first into the showers, when the water was blisteringly hot before it got used up by everyone else. Not that many showered last thing on a Friday afternoon but their hygiene was their own problem. It meant Steve could have even a brief moment alone, breathe heavy in the steam, drag his nails sharp over his scalp to forget that stupid, dumb, shit eating grin that followed him around behind his eyelids.

Monsters in the dark were easier to forget than that know-it-all grin.

He felt the water suddenly shut off. Rubbing suds off his face he opened his eyes and there it was. That dumb fucking grin attached to that dumb fucking face, dumb fucking mullet gone flat in the humidity, dumb blue eyes piercing through the fog. Steve went to turn the water back on and just ignore this was happening but it was quickly shut off again. In the background sneakers squeaked out the door. Free for the weekend.

Steve went to speak, ask what the fuck, but was pushed back the short space against the grimy tiles of the shower wall, Billy’s mouth on his like it wasn’t the weirdest thing in the world. That it wasn’t hot and pressing and dangerous. That Steve didn’t just immediately buckle to it and cave for more. That the small whimper that left his throat was a completely normal reaction to this completely normal event. That that stupid, dumb fucking tongue didn’t feel like ice rolling over fire when it licked into Steve’s mouth. That the hand on his hip wasn’t bruising a mark. That blunt nails digging into his skin didn’t feel good.

Steve was hard when Billy took a step back, leaving him boneless, only supported by the wall behind. His grin had turned into a smirk. A smirk of I knew it. It was worse than his shit eating grin.

“You might not like me, but you definitely want me,” his voice dripped thick like bitter honey before he cranked the water back on and left Steve alone. Naked, damp and hard.

Just a rage boner. Nothing more.

#harringrove #prompt list #this was pretty fun to do! #i haven't written anything short in a long while #steve harrington #billy hargrove #billy x steve #steve x billy #stranger things #my writings

[photosansapp]

un livreur qu’a bien préparé ses cartons dans son camion

des chauffeurs-livreurs qui font coucou à la caméra depuis la cabine de leur camion

un homme qui fait un selfie et qui montre son copain qui fait des cartons et qui fait coucou à la caméra

un vieux qui regarde par la fenêtre et qui contemple le dehors

la main d’une vieille tenue par la main d’une jeune munie d’une montre arrêtée à 16h00 dont la trotteuse ne tourne pas

un couple de vieux qui font coucou avec leurs mains à un téléphone intelligent

une petite noire aux cheveux frisés qui frotte une tablette intelligente allongée sur un canapé

un homme et puis une femme qui font du piano à quatre mains

une jeune femme avec un chignon qui consulte son téléphone intelligent alors qu’elle est à son bureau parce qu’elle est au travail chez elle dans une lumière douce

une autre jeune femme le soir qui écoute de la musique avec ses écouteurs sans fil le soir dans la ville qui s’allume

quatre jeunes adultes qui font la cuisine en riant dans une maison de campagne il y a une blonde et forcément un barbu dans le groupe

un vieux qui promène un enfant dans une vieille brouette dans un jardin

trois employés qui parlent à la caméra et il y en a un qui porte une pancarte sur laquelle est écrit quelque chose et qui est montrée à la caméra comme Bob Dylan

un vieil employé avec des lunettes rectangulaires un peu modernes qui fait un mouvement de tête à la caméra pour dire « allez venez avec moi »

un jeune père qui fait coucou à un ordinateur portable Apple et qui tient un enfant métis chinois dans ses bras ou peut-être handicapé trisomique on se sait pas

une jeune femme qui fait un petit applaudissement avec les mains et qui rit en regardant vers le bas

une jeune femme qui vient récolter des carottes et qui enlève délicatement le reste de terre sur des carottes pourtant parfaites

un homme sportif en polo et qui porte un masque sur le porche d’une maison américaine et qui donne un panier de légume au propriétaire qui sort prendre le panier

une jeune femme brune assistante médicale qui montre des résultats à une vieille dans son lit

une vieille femme sur son chariot roulant devant la fenêtre qui sourit et qui pointe son doigt sur une tablette tactile

deux employés qui claquent leurs mains en l’air à une femme qui vient à leur rencontre et qui est visiblement plus gradée qu’eux puisqu’elle porte une chemise

un jeune couple et leur deux enfants qui applaudissent vers l’extérieur à leur fenêtre en étage élevé

une femme qui applaudit sur son balcon, elle a les cheveux gris et elle est un peu moche mais pas trop vieille

une femme brune en peignoir rose qui applaudit accoudée à sa fenêtre, on est vraisemblablement dans le sud ou bien alors en Grèce pour que ça coûte moins cher à filmer

un monsieur en moustache qui applaudit avec ses deux jeunes enfants à son balcon d’immeuble d’une rue de Paris un peu trop propre

des employés chauffeurs-livreurs qui s’applaudissent devant leur camions bien alignés face à la caméra

un jeune adulte noir avec une barbichette qui tape dans la main de quelqu’un et qui sourit

un autre jeune adulte noir avec une barbe qui rit avec un troisième jeune adulte les cheveux dégarnis et qui sont tous les deux des employés

une employée avec un tablier qui montre un appareil ménager à une cliente avec une écharpe qui est venue avec sa fille

un homme noir qui prend en photo quelque chose en visant par l’œilleton de son appareil reflex

les doigts d’une main qui pincent les cordes d’une guitare

un guitariste un peu espagnol mal rasé avec les cheveux longs qui joue de la guitare

une tablette intelligente posée sur la table basse d’un salon sur laquelle on voit le visage d’une femme qui sourit

un enfant de dix ans ou moins qui rigole à un adulte qui fait des gestes avec ses bras

un petit enfant face caméra qui est poussé dans sa chaise roulante en plastique probablement par son père qui a une barbe de trois jours, un polo rose et un bermuda blanc

deux petits enfants chinois qui regardent une tablette intelligente la nuit et recouverts d’une couette

la main d’un adulte qui porte la main d’un enfant vue avec un flou artistique

une composition en trois images verticales d’un chauffeur-livreur barbu qui fait le V de la victoire à la caméra, d’une femme employée qui fait coucou à la caméra et d’un autre chauffeur-livreur qui fait aussi un V avec ses doigts alors qu’il charge ou décharge un paquet depuis la plateforme de son camion

une autre composition en trois images verticales avec un chauffreur-livreur qui sourit à la caméra posée sur le siège passager, d’une femme aussi chauffeuse-livreuse qui parle face à la caméra alors qu’elle conduit et d’un autre chauffeur-livreur qui rit face à la caméra en relevant et pliant ses bras comme pour gonfler ses biceps et montrer qu’il est fort

encore une autre composition en trois images verticales avec un chauffeur-livreur qui fait un geste d’éclat avec sa main droite écoutant visiblement un bon morceau de musique alors qu’il roule, d’une femme noire qui rit en glissant vers la caméra avec des lunettes noires dans sa cuisine, et d’un homme debout qui fait rien dans son jardin mais qui semble remercier la caméra.

#écriture #texte #texte français #publicité #pub #coronawahsing #corona #suce #pompe #gens #corporate #histoire #montage #pue #séduction #commercial