#and good old chips/fries

[sophiexteresa]

I love potatoes. Even more than garlic bread.

Any kind. And if you feel like it put in thr tags your favorite kind/ why you dont.

[yokelfelonking]

Post 9/11 Trivia

Most folks on this site were either children on September 11, 2001, or weren’t even born yet.  But America went crazy for about a year afterwards.  Here’s some highlights that I remember that might not be in your history books:

There was national discussion on whether or not Halloween should be canceled because…fuck if I know why.  After planes crashed into buildings in NYC it follows that 6-year-olds in Iowa shouldn’t be allowed to dress up like Batman and ask their neighbors for candy, I guess.  (Halloween wasn’t canceled, by the way.)

On a similar note, people asked if comedy - any sort of comedy - was appropriate anymore, ever.

People sold shitty parachutes to suckers “in case your building gets attacked and you have to jump out the window.” There were honest-to-God news reports warning people not to jump out of the window with shitty mail-order parachutes because they wouldn't work.

As a follow-up to the attacks, someone mailed anthrax to some prominent politicians and news anchors - you know, famous people - along with some badly-written notes about “you cannot stop us, death to America, Allah is good” and after that every time some random dumbass found a package in the mail they didn’t recognize they thought that the terrorists were targeting them, too.

Everyone was similarly convinced that their town was going to be the next target, even if they were a little town in the middle of nowhere. "Our town of Bumblefuck, South Dakota (population 690) has the largest styrofoam pig statue west of the Mississippi! Terrorists might fly planes into that too! It's a prime target!"

People started taping up their windows and trying to make their houses or apartments airtight out of fear of chemical and biological attacks. There were news reports warning people that turning your house into an airtight box was a bad idea because, y'know, you need air to breathe.

"[X] supports terrorism!" and “if we do [X], the terrorists win!” were used as arguments for everything.  "Some rich Arab you never heard of donated to his organization that backs Hamas which backs al-Queda, and also owns stock in a holding company that has partial ownership of the Pringles company, so if you eat Pringles you're supporting terrorism!" "The terrorists want to tear down our freedoms and our way of life and rule us through fear! Eating what you want is one of our freedoms as Americans! If you're afraid to eat Pringles, the terrorists win!" (I promise you that this sort of argument is in no way hyperbole.) (This argument is how Halloween was saved, by the way.  “If we cancel Halloween, the terrorists win!”)

People worked 9/11 into everything, and I mean everything, whether it was appropriate or not.  If you went to the grocery store the tortilla chips would remind you to support the troops on the packaging. Used car sales would be dedicated to our brave first responders. You couldn't wipe your ass without the toilet paper rolls reminding you to never forget the fallen of 9/11, and again, this is not hyperbole. My uncle, who lived in Ohio and had never been to New York except to visit once in the 70′s, died of a stroke about 8 months after 9/11, and the priest brought up the attacks at the eulogy.

On a similar local note, on the day of 9/11, after the towers went down, gas stations in my home town immediately jacked up gas prices.  The mayor had the cops go around and force them to take them back down.  I doubt any of that was legal.

Before 9/11, Christianity in America - and religion in general - was on a downward swing, with reddit-tier atheism on the upswing. Religion was outdated superstition from a bygone age. The day after 9/11? Every single church was PACKED. (This wasn't a bad thing, but the power-hungry on the Evangelical Right saw this as a golden opportunity to grab power and influence.)

EDIT: By Popular Demand - Freedom Fries. I initially left these off because they came a couple years after the initial panic and most people thought they were kind of absurd (and I don't recall anyone really going along with it other than maybe some local diners here and there). France didn't want to get involved in our world policing so some folks were like "TRAITORS!" and wanted to call french fries "Freedom Fries" instead, so as to stick it to the French.

Besides dumb shit like that…it’s really hard to overstate how completely the national mood and character changed in the span of a day, or how much of the current culture war is a result of the aftermath. (9/11 was the impetus for the sharp rise in power of the Evangelical Right, who made themselves utterly odious and the following backlash helped the rise of the current Progressive Left, for instance.)

And if all of this seems batshit...well, it was. But I want you to think for a moment how people react today over even trivial shit. People send death threats over children's cartoons. They call for blood if the maker of a video game had an opinion they don't like. If someone made a racist joke a decade ago when they were a teenage edgelord, folks will go after people who even associate with them. "DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND ALL THE HARM THEY'RE DOING!?"

Now take that same level of over-the-top histrionics and apply it to the unprecedented event of passenger planes crashing into crowded buildings in America's most populous city and killing thousands of people all at once. "DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND THAT WE WERE ATTACKED!?"

[writersdrug]

My brain is open to your bartender Ghost thoughts

Give me them all 🙏

Lordy this au isn't even an hour old and I have so many thoughts

He doesn't really know what to expect when you come in the morning after the interview. At eight am sharp, he watches as you trudge inside, wearing ripped tights, shorts, knock off combat boots, and a baggy shirt that's messily tucked into your waistline. It looks like you had put on eye liner last night and gone to bed, black lines smudged in a perfect "bedhead" look.

"Really?" He asks, arms folded and muscles buddging. "Come t' the interview in a skirt 'n dress shirt, n' show up t' the first shift lookin' like a wannabe biker chick?"

You scoff, pulling your hair up into a bun. "Didn't realize I'd be walking into the asscrack of "The Devil Wears Prada"..."

He huffs and shakes his head. You hve tough skin - good.

He had Soap come in early that day - poor man usually worked between 4 pm 'til whenever Ghost decided to close. He's still rubbing his eyes and yawning when a pen and spiral notepad are shoved into your hands, Simon pushing you towards towards the cook's table with a hand on your back.

"Hey, welcome to the 141." You say, no attempt at politeness in your tone. Ghost huffs fondly, appreciating how you cut through the bullshit. "Any appetizers today?"

"None o' that keech," Soap says, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching his brow. "Canna have a rusty nail 'n th' smash grunded, wel doon 'n with the bun scud - cannae stand th' aoli. Chips oan the side."

You stare at him, eyes wide in disbelief, before turning to Ghost. "Do they all sound like that?"

He grunts. "If they're drunk."

"Are you drunk?" You ask Soap.

"Feck if I know, tryin' tae figure it oot myself." He groans.

Ghost helps you decipher the words Soap had vomited out. You successfully punch it into the POS, only needing a few pointers from the giant over your shoulder. For the rest of the morning amd afternoon, he taeaches you which button on the soda gun was which, the difference between tonic water and club soda, how to run the industrial sanitizer - with a "ye best make sure that shite is rinsed 'fore ye stick em in there" from Soap - where the new kegs go when Gaz brings them in, where to find napkins and condiments in the walkin, how to cut fruit for the bar, and lastly, how to split your tips.

"But why do I have to pay you?" You ask Ghost, sitting at a table with your calculator app on your phone and a basket of fries between the two of you. "You make loads of tips just pouring liquor."

He chuckles, watching you pop a fry into your mouth. "'N you get a cut of sales from the kitchen, since you're part of it."

You perk up at that. "I do?"

"Seven percent." He confirms. "A decent payout on weekends."

"And Soap doesn't get tips."

"Johnny boy gets paid by th' hour."

"I don't?"

"If ya do well enough, ya won't have to." He says, resting his meaty forearms on the table. "You'll be walkin' out with hundreds."

You chew your lip nervously; Simon's eyes linger on the movement, shifting his weight - the polyester seat creaks beneath him as he observes you fretting silently, the silence only broken by the sound of Soap prepping in the kitchen. "Don' worry too much 'bout it. You're young - jus' keep a smile on 'n you'll be fine. Soap 'n I got your back tonight, but I'm not pickin' up your slack after the week passes."

The fry you're steering towards your mouth falls to the table as Simon stands up. "Tonight?!" You exclaim, shimmying out of the booth.

"Yep. Sixteen hundred."

You glance at your phone. "That's in an hour!" There are kegs stacked by the front door, unpolished and enrolled silverware on the bar top, and half of the chairs are still stacked on the countertops.

"Best get to work then, hmm?" Ghost says, grabbing a container of lemons and moving behind the bar.

[obaewankenope]

American to English translation for fic

So I read and write fanfic, as do lots of others, and I've noticed that when it comes to British shows or movies, Americanisms or American terms crop up often. It's mostly because most don't know we have specific terms for things in the UK, and I've seen references here and there before, but I've decided to write one of my own. Feel free to add to it tho! I'm gonna put it up on Ao3 too and any additions, I'll reference the tumblr and link them on Ao3 too.

AO3 link is here!!

Anyway, here we go I guess.

Some Americanisms to English-isms

Gas = fuel/petrol/diesel (we tend to specify the type of fuel the vehicle uses, diesel vehicle or petrol vehicle for example)

Gas station = petrol/fuel station

Gas court = petrol/fuel court, or sometimes forecourt (not often with this one tho)

License plate = registration plate/reg

Diner = cafe

Fast-food = takeaway (this is sort of interchangeable. McDonald's is called fast food, a meal from a pizza place that delivers is takeaway)

Motel = hotel

Side-note: We tend to use specific named hotel chains like Premier Inn (or Prem-Inn for short) or Holiday Inn or Travelodge. We also have Britannia Hotels and several others. If the fic is based in a specific place, local hotels or famous ones may be better options. For example, in Liverpool, we have The Shankly or Adelphi.

Cab = taxi or black hac for a specific type of taxi.

Side-note: These are what you see in BBC Sherlock, for example, and are a UK staple. They're less popular or common-place nowadays but there are dedicated taxi companies that use them. There's on in my town that operates until 4pm each day. They are also usually more expensive than a car taxi but they have oodles of space and you can have a pram/buggy kept upright rather than folded-down in them which is brilliant.

Cop = police officer

Side note: more informal, colloquial terms include "copper", "the fuzz", "tit-head" (because of the nipple hat okay, just look up the hat, it's hilarious), "bobby", "rozzer" (pronounced r-o-z-er not Row-zer), and "the bill" (there's an actual show called this btw. It can be a good reference for anyone writing crime fic in UK). There's more but those are the most common. Older terms do include "peelers" and "old bill".

Second side-note: the police have a whole host of terms, colloquial and slang that can be a great thing to include in fic, which I'll link a glossary of here. It's not all UK centric but cross-country policing is a thing so that may just be a boon imho. Also the short-hand acroynmns used are useful so here's a link to the Metropolitan Police glossary of those too!

Patrolman = constable or police constable

Antenna = aerial or TV aerial

Fall (season) = autumn

Bill = banknote or specifically "tenner", "fiver", "twenny" (not "twenty"). We don't have single banknotes like a dollar bill. We have pound coins

Dimes, nickels, etc = pound coin, two-pound coin, fifty-pence, penny, two-pence, five-pence, ten-pence, twenty-pence (link here about the coin currency)

Drug store = chemist or pharmacy

Optometrist = optician

Primary care physician = GP (general practitioner) here's a link about UK medical terms for doctors etc

Side-note: here's a link about medical terminologies etc between American and UK

Social security number = national insurance number

Liquor store = off-license or, specifically, Bargain Booze™

Liquor = spirits (usually)

Store = shop

Target, Walmart, etc = honestly, it's probably gonna be Tesco, ASDA, Morrisons, ALDI or Lidl

Superstore = supermarket

Shopping cart = shopping trolley or just "trolley"

Yard-sale = car-boot/car-bootie/car-boot sale

Attorney = barrister or solicitor (solicitors you go to for legal help, barristers tend to be involved in actual court matters, like a the Crown Prosecution Service), here's a link that explains it better

Janitor = caretaker

French-fries = chips (although McDonald's French-fries are just that, French-fries)

Intersection = crossroad

Highway/freeway = motorway

Interstate = usually an A-road or a motorway, we don't really have interstates here)

Overpass = flyover

Turnpike = toll motorway

Windshield = windscreen

Trunk of a car = boot or car boot

Hood of a car = bonnet or car bonnet

Truck = lorry

Sedan = saloon car

Blowout = puncture or flat tyre

Pavement = road

Sidewalk = path

Subway = underground (like the London Underground)

Drapes = curtains (though we do use "drapes" we tend to say "curtains" more)

Pacifier = dummy or "dodo" or "dodi"

Diaper = nappie or a pull-up (if its like underwear for toddlers)

Baby crib = baby cot (though we do use "crib", we tend to say "cot" more)

Baby carriage/pushchair/stroller = pram or buggy (more specific type tho, here's a link about the differences)

Trash/garbage can = bin, dustbin, rubbish bin

Garbage/trash collector = binman/binmen

Mail = post

Mailman = postman

Mailbox = postbox

The movies = cinema or pictures

Movie = film (less common nowadays with influence of Americanisms but I still use "film" and a lot of people my age and older do too (25+)

First floor = ground floor okay, it's the ground floor because it's on ground level

Sneakers = unless they're Converse, it's probably just "trainers"

Baggage = luggage

Purse (as in the bag) = handbag, or "purse" but that tends to be the thing you put your money and cards in then put in your handbag

Vacuum cleaner = hoover or a specific brand like Henry Hoover™, which you'll find we tend to just call Henry (though I have a John Lewis hoover I got from George, ASDA that I've named 'George' and yes, I do say "I need to use George in a bit to hoover" regularly)

Sweater = jumper or, if it buttons up it's a cardigan or cardi

Closet = wardrobe

Elevator = lift

Call collect = reverse charges

Schools = we have primary/infants (11yrs)and secondary/high school (11-16yo) with some high schools have sixth-form college (16-18yo) or actual independent colleges for the same ages

College = university

Semester = term

Vacation = holiday

Kindergarten = nursey/reception

Flashlight = torch

Wrench = spanner

Backyard = garden

Cookie = biscuits

Chips = crisps (like Walkers™ or Lays™ in the States)

Pants = trousers

Cottoncandy = candyfloss

Dude = bloke/fella/mate

John Doe = John Smith

Exhausted (tired) = knackered

Cell phone = mobile

Cell data = mobile data/4G/5G

Bathroom/restroom = loo/toilet (informal term "bog")

Thanks = cheers

Soccer = football

Y'all = "you lot"

Fuck off/hit the road/go away = bugger off

Some slang phrases too

Bits and bobs = stuff, usually random

Take the mick/mickey = making fun of someone or over-exaggerating

Bob's your uncle = there you go, basically

Bog standard = typical, run of the mill kind of deal

Gutted = feel upset, disappointed

Dull as dishwater = basically really, really fuckin boring

Chinwag = basically "shooting the breeze" or just having a talk/chat

.

If you have any others that you think of or want added, reblog and add em! Tags too if you'd prefer but reblogs would be easier ☺️

[the-cosmic-cauldron]

Astrology Observations 08/14/2024

 

 

Your Moon Sign and Favorite Food

 

Aries Moon: fast food, snacks, children’s food, steak.

Taurus Moon: Old-fashioned home-cooked meal, hole-in-the-wall restaurant, baked goods

Gemini Moon: snacks, frozen food, pizza, ethnic cuisine

Cancer Moon: baked goods, soul food, curries, pasta, breakfast food.

Leo Moon: Chain restaurants, pizza, fruit, quality meat meals

Virgo Moon: Tea, coffee, seafood, mothers infamous dish, savory foods, chicken

Libra Moon: steak, high-rated restaurant food, fruits, soups, sandwiches, ethnic dishes

Scorpio Moon: Fried food, meaty dishes, fast food, spaghetti, orange juice, seafood

Sagittarius Moon: ethnic cuisine, hole-in-the-wall restaurant, savory, chips and salsa/guacamole, burgers, soda

Capricorn Moon: coffee drinks, pasta, spicy foods, BBQ, pizza,

Aquarius Moon: Candy, fast food, ethnic cuisine, fried food, cereal

Pisces Moon: Chocolate, baked goods, meats and cheese, your family cooking, spaghetti

 

Your Venus Sign and Toxic Trait

 

Aries Venus: Liking someone because you haven’t interacted with them yet.

Taurus Venus: Catfishing in the beginning and then looking homeless throughout the relationship

Gemini Venus: Talking to people because of boredom

Cancer Venus: Acting unbothered by your interests even when you feel so deeply

Leo Venus: Punishing your person when they don’t give you enough attention

Virgo Venus: Being petty when your person can’t read your mind (all the time)

Libra Venus: Falling in love with two people at one time

Scorpio Venus: Convincing people they’re crazy when you actually are

Sagittarius Venus: Wanting to cheat or fuck around when boredom sets in

Capricorn Venus: Making up for your mistakes with gifts

Aquarius Venus: Trying to convince other people to not have any boundaries

Pisces Venus: Saying love is unconditional and then putting conditions on your love

 

 

Why Your Friendships Ended By Your Mars Sign

 

Aries Mars: They tried to outdo you.

Taurus Mars: They tried to get you out of your comfort zone.

Gemini Mars: They were too clingy.

Cancer Mars: They tried to use you as their punching bag.

Leo Mars: They tried to outshine you.

Virgo Mars: They tried to make you do everything.

Libra Mars: They were causing you too much internal conflict.

Scorpio Mars: They couldn’t connect with you after awhile.

Sagittarius Mars: They were too boring.

Capricorn Mars: They were a user.

Aquarius Mars: They wanted you all to themselves.

Pisces Mars: They made no effort to be your friend.

[golden-cherry]

deal - cl16 (35/?)

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Series Summary: Your whole life has gone to shit. Your boyfriend broke up with you, you just lost your job and the Monegasque, who suddenly stands in your doorway, claims that it’s his apartment.

Chapter Summary: Lets get drunk - with Nightmare Coladas.

Warnings: fluff, alcohol consumption

Word Count: 3.2k

series masterlist

previous part

A/N: love you. feedback is appreciated!

You are sitting on the sun bed when Charles rejoins you. He is holding a tray in his hands and as he places it on the floor next to you, you see that it is filled with sliced fruit. In addition to a plate of watermelon, there is a bowl of grapes, strawberries and raspberries.

“A good foundation is essential if you want to get drunk,” he grins and lies down next to you on the sun bed, a healthy distance between you. 

You raise an eyebrow. "Wouldn't it be better to eat something greasy then? Like fries or pizza?” you ask, helping yourself to a strawberry. 

“That's just the beginning,” he defends himself and nibbles on a piece of watermelon. “There are fries, mozzarella sticks and chicken nuggets in the oven.”

You have to grin. “Sounds like lunch for a five-year-old.”

Charles shrugs and pops a raspberry in his mouth. “You'll be able to drink like a grown-up in no time.”

“Touché.” 

The two of you lie next to each other in silence, enjoying the last rays of sunshine while you eat the fruit and wait for the timer on Charles' cell phone to beep. The water splashes against the sides of the boat, the smell of the sea hits your nose and if you didn't know that tomorrow is Christmas, you'd think it was a beautiful summer evening. 

“What would you like to drink?” Charles asks. 

You turn your head in his direction. “Do you have any sweet white wine?”

He nods. “I had Thomas bring your cheap wine,” he grins. "He didn't find it at first. Apparently you can only get it in the supermarket and not in a wine store."

You purse your lips. “Hey. The wine tastes good,” you say with mock offence, trying to suppress the thought that Charles sent Thomas out to get your favorite wine. Very thoughtful. “What are you about to drink?”

"There are quite a few drinks. Maybe I'll make myself a cocktail,” he considers, popping a strawberry into his mouth. "Maybe a piña colada? Or a sex on the beach?"

The way the word 'sex' rolls off his tongue makes the blood in your veins run hot. You bite into a piece of watermelon. “When are the fries ready?”

Just as you've said it, Charles' phone rings. He gets up and leaves the sun bed. “I'll be right back.”

You turn to him. “Do you want me to help you?” You're almost on your feet when Charles waves you off. 

“ It's all right.” 

While he disappears into the interior of his yacht, you also leave the sun bed to grab your camera and laptop, but instead of lying back on the sun bed at the back of the boat, you move the party around the bow, where there is another sun bed. From here, you have a wonderful view of Monaco - even if it is still some distance away from you. 

You start to edit a photo of Charles when he rejoins you - fries, mozzarella sticks and chicken nuggets on a tray. 

“Here you are,” he smiles, setting the food down. “I thought you'd jumped in the water and swum home.”

"Are you crazy? I'm sure the sea is freezing cold,” you reply and put your laptop to one side so you can grab a nugget. “I've already started editing a picture of you, by the way.”

Your friend plops down on the sun bed next to you. "And?” he asks. “Do I look good?”

You roll your eyes. “You always do,” you reply jokingly, hoping that he can't hear the truth in your words. 

“I know,” he grins and pops a chip in his mouth. "But seriously. Do you think the pictures are any good? For my Instagram profile, I mean."

Charles is a natural model. With his big eyes, deep dimples and beaming smile, he could even advertise haemorrhoid cream and look great doing it.

“Absolutely,” you smile and push your camera over to him. “See for yourself.”

While Charles looks at the many pictures on the small display, you continue to edit some pictures on your laptop. They are all good - thanks to his looks - but somehow none of them reflect Charles as you see him. They look posed, which isn't a bad thing in itself, but you had hoped to capture him with your lens in such a way that you could almost feel the closeness to him and his warmth. 

But you don't tell him that, after all he has to decide for himself which pictures he would like to put on the internet. 

“What do you think of this?” he asks and shows you the display. In the photo, he is standing at the wheel, his sunglasses are perched on his nose and he is smiling broadly over his shoulder, as if someone has said something funny. It's a good picture - objectively speaking.

“It's good,” you reply and bite into a mozzarella stick. The cheese almost burns the roof of your mouth, but you try not to let it show. 

Charles raises his eyebrow. “Just ��good’?” he asks, looking at the picture again. “Okay, I'll find another one then.”

You shake your head vehemently. "No, Charles. It's a good photo, really,” you assure him. 

He's not buying it. “But?”

You purse your lips and shrug your shoulders. “It - it looks so posed,” you answer honestly. "But maybe it only looks like that to me because I know it's fake, you know? Maybe I just can't see it."

He looks back from you to the display. “I know what you mean.” He presses his tongue into his cheek. "I'll take another one then. They're your photos. And I want you to feel comfortable with them too." 

You smile at him. You didn't know he cared so much about your opinion. "That's nice. Thank you."

Charles pops a French fry into his mouth. "Keep eating. Your wine is cold and just waiting for you to drink it."

You continue to eat in silence - Charles continues to rummage through your camera while you edit some pictures. The silence between you is comfortable and every now and then you smile at each other to reassure each other that everything is fine. 

When the last of the fries has been eaten, Charles stands up. "Very nice. Now it's time to start drinking,” he winks at you as he leaves the sun bed. “You want your wine, I guess?”

You nod. “Thomas shouldn't have made the trip to the supermarket for nothing,” you grin and cross your arms behind your head. You look at him. "But I think one glass is enough for now. Maybe I'd like to try one of your cocktails afterwards."

“Of course, Madame,” Charles replies and bows to you playfully like a servant to his queen. "Can I bring anything else? A pillow, perhaps?" 

You nod, beaming. “That would be great. Then the bed here will be even more comfortable."

Without another word, he disappears, the bowls and plates in his hands, while you close the laptop and put it to the side. You consider whether you should put the camera away too, but decide against it. Perhaps there would be another opportunity to take photos of Charles later.

A few minutes later, Charles reappears. He puts your wine glass down next to you and throws you two cushions. "Make yourself comfortable. I'm sure you'll want to stay here longer."

You look at him in confusion. “Why?”

With a nod of his head, he points to the shore. "When it gets dark - and I mean dark - Monaco lights up beautifully. And I don't want to deny you the sight,” he smiles. "I'm going to make myself a cocktail. Do you want me to bring you your sweater right away?"

“Yes, thank you,” you answer him. “And you really don't need any help?” you ask uncertainly. It's nice of him to go to all this trouble to make you feel comfortable, but you feel a bit like you're taking advantage of him. 

But Charles disagrees. "Stay put. You're my guest on this boat. I'll take care of everything while you lie there and look pretty." 

Before you can react to his words, he has disappeared again. 

Look pretty? Charles thinks you're pretty? 

You try to ignore his words, but they keep bubbling up. When he said he was afraid of losing you, he hit you hard. You would never let anything separate you again. You need him too much for that - and it seems he needs you too. Even if it's not the same way. But that's okay, you tell yourself. You'd rather have a piece of him than nothing at all. 

When he rejoins you, you seem to have almost forgotten his compliment. Or at least pushed it aside. 

“Here,” he says, handing you your sweater before setting some things down behind your head. There are several bottles, an ice bucket and a couple of shakers in the large basket. Then he carefully sits down next to you with his cocktail in hand. As he tastes it, he makes a brief grimace. 

You have to grin. “Too strong?” you ask him. 

“No,” he replies, but from the way he raises his eyebrows and turns his head away briefly, it's clear he's lying. 

“What did you mix?”

“Piña Colada.” He furrows his eyebrows. “But it tastes more like nightmare colada than pineapple.” He stretches out his arm and holds the glass out to you. “Have a taste.”

Without hesitation, you reach for the cocktail - still careful not to let your fingers touch - and sip the drink once. You look at him in amazement. “I don't know what your problem is,” you reply and take a big sip. “It tastes fantastic!”

Charles looks at you doubtfully. “Are you serious?”

“Definitely,” you confirm. “I'd offer you my wine, but you don't like sweet wine.”

“Give it to me,” he says unceremoniously and grabs the wine glass as you hold it out to him. Without hesitation, he puts the glass to his lips and drinks every last drop of the wine. "Sorry. I had to get rid of the horrible taste of that cocktail."

You look from the empty glass in his hand to his face in amazement. "Wow. So you think the piña colada is that bad. If you keep going like this, you'll be drunk in no time."

Charles reaches behind your head into the basket and pulls out a bottle of wine. “That was the plan, wasn't it?” Slowly and intently, he pours some of his dry wine into your glass, careful not to waste a single drop. “Don't tell me I did all of this  for nothing.” He points to the many shakers with a nod of his head. 

You curl your lips into a thin line. “Are you even allowed to drive the boat tomorrow if you still have alcohol in your blood?” you ask and take a sip of his - now your - cocktail, which, contrary to Charles' opinion, actually tastes phenomenal. 

“I don't know,” he replies and sips his wine. “But if need be, you and I can stay here another night.”

“Tomorrow is Christmas,” you remind him. "Your mom would be furious with us if we didn't show up for dinner. And then she'd kill us."

Your roommate shakes his head. "My mom loves you. She'd kill me without hesitation, but definitely not you." He leans back a little and rests his head in the pillow so that he's comfortable but still sitting upright enough to drink easily. 

“I think I'd stand up for you,” you say before taking another sip. 

The Monegasque looks at you, dumbfounded. “You think?”

The way he opens his eyes and looks at you, you can't help but burst out laughing. "Yeah. After all, I don't want to incur your mother's wrath. I like her far too much for that,” you say into your glass and look at him over the rim. 

Charles rolls his eyes. "You're being mean. I'll take you on my boat -"

“Yacht,” you correct him. 

"All right then. I take you on my yacht, where you can even spend the night, make you delicious food and offer you all the alcohol you can imagine - and you think you'd stand up for me?" Playfully hurt, he puts his hand on his chest. “Wow. I thought you'd care more about me.”

You do, you say in your mind. More than you'll ever know.

“Oh, come on.” You snuggle into your pillow too. "How many women have you taken here already, huh? Surely I'm not the only one you've spent a night with here." Realizing your choice of words, you clear your throat. “In a friendly or romantic way, I mean.” Even though you don't want to know the answer to how many women he's had here on the boat, curiosity wins out. 

Your roommate shrugs. “You're the only one,” he replies quietly before taking a sip of his wine. He avoids your gaze. 

Your head jerks in his direction. “Not even Annika?”

“Not even Annika,” he confirms to you. “I - I don't know - I took Annika out for a nice day at sea once, but we  went home at night. This is the first time I've been on a boat with someone other than my family and stayed the night."

His answer relieves you a little. Apparently you're not the next in a line of women Charles is spending the night with on his boat. And the fact that you're the only one, according to him, makes you feel a little happy. 

“If it makes you feel any better,” you start your sentence, “you're also the first person I spend the night with on a boat.” You smile at him. 

“It's not that difficult if you've never been on a boat before,” he replies with a grin. “And I thought it was a yacht?”

You roll your eyes. “Don't make me regret being on a boat on the open sea.”

As the wind sweeps around you and the sun disappears behind the horizon, you pull on your sweater. You feel Charles's gaze on you. “What?”

He shakes his head. "I thought the alcohol would warm you up a bit. But apparently you need to drink more."

You look into your cocktail glass. “I've almost finished your Nightmare Colada,” you defend yourself. 

"But only almost. Drink up, then I can pour you another one."

You raise your glass to your lips. “Are you trying to get me drunk, Mr. Leclerc?”

“Maybe,” he grins and pulls a shaker out of the basket. "There's a little Nightmare Colada left, if you like. Otherwise there's still your wine, or Sex on the Beach, or schnapps."

You take the last sip of your cocktail and put the glass down for him to refill. Heat shoots into your face, which is almost certainly due to the alcohol - and definitely not the way he says the word 'sex'. "Your offer sounds tempting. I think I'll stick to the nightmare colada for now. We can always have the schnapps later."

Charles shakes the shaker briefly before carefully pouring the rest of the cocktail into your glass. “I haven't had a schnapps in ages.”

"Why? Is your nutritionist against it?” you ask him with a grin. 

“Yes, actually,” he replies and hands you your glass. "But I'm on vacation at the moment, so I don't really care. That's why I had the chicken nuggets."

You raise your eyebrow. “I thought the chicken nuggets were there so we wouldn't get drunk straight away?”

Your friend shakes his head. "Actually, you had chicken nuggets because, culinarily speaking, you stayed somewhere between canned soup and Big Mac. That's what Lando said anyway." 

The fact that he remembered that warms your heart. A little something you didn't think he would remember. 

"There's also dessert, by the way, if you're still a little hungry. Chocolate muffins,” he smiles. "But maybe we'll save them for later, when we're drunk. They'll taste even better then."

“Muffins?” you ask in surprise. When Charles nods, blood rushes to your cheeks. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” His voice is soft and warm. He briefly puts his glass to one side and pulls on his white sweater. 

“Are you cold?” you joke, sipping your cocktail. 

“Haha.” He rolls his eyes and adjusts the bandana that is still tied around his head. “Even if the alcohol warms me on the inside, I can be cold on the outside.”

“But make me look stupid for it,” you retort playfully. 

"Sure. It's just pretty easy to drive you up the wall."

“What do you mean -” you start your question, but he jumps up from the sun bed as if stung by a tarantula. 

“There!” He goes to the railing in front of you and holds on tight. “I told you.”

You carefully put your glass to one side and stand up too. When you see what he means, your breath catches in your throat. 

Monaco shines in front of you in the dark and the water reflects the light beautifully. Charles hasn't promised too much. 

You stand next to him with your mouth open, your eyes fixed on the beautiful Monaco. “It is - breathtaking.”

“It is,” Charles replies quietly. You don't notice him looking at you. “Breathtaking.” He‘s almost ashamed at how beautiful you look to him. He has to look away.

The Monaco in front of you glistens and sparkles, captivating you so much that an idea occurs to you. With quick - and slightly swaying - steps, you walk back and grab your camera before standing on the sun bed. The cocktail has done a good job, because the cushion under your feet feels like jelly, so you need a moment to find your footing.

Charles is apparently just as fascinated by the view as you are, because he doesn't seem to notice that you've moved away from him. He continues to look ahead, towards his home, while you take a photo of him. A single photo - and when you look at it on your camera, you could cry. 

“That's it,” you smile. 

“Huh?” Charles turns to you questioningly. “What's what?”

You proudly hand him your camera. “This is the picture.” 

He looks at it briefly before glancing at you. A smile spreads across his face. “I knew it was a good idea to bring you here.” He looks like he wants to say something else, but he closes his mouth again before handing the camera back to you.

“Maybe you should hire me,” you joke, sending the picture to your phone and then sending it to him. 

“Maybe I should.” His smile is warm and electrifying and luminous. He's beaming - like the Monaco behind him. 

God, he's the most beautiful man in the world. 

“But first -” he walks around you, staggers across the sun bed and leans forward to fish a bottle out of the basket. “But first - comes the schnapps.”

[adrienneleclerc]

Meet and Greet

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Hispanic/Latina Single Mom! Reader

Summary: Y/N takes her 4 year old daughter to the Canadian Grand Prix to meet her favorite driver, Charles Leclerc

Warning: spelling and grammatical errors, inaccuracies involving F1

A/N: i Don’t know if there are properly organized meet and greets but I’ve seen some videos on TikTok where drivers are at a table and they are autographing things so

Y/N and her daughter Vidia were online to meet Charles Leclerc.

“Mami, how much longer?” Vidia whined

“Bebé, te quiero, but It’s a long line to meet him, okay. Just be patient.” Y/N said and Vidia groaned. “Do you want chips? I brought you chips.” Y/N said looking in her bag and pulling out a mini bag of lays, opening it for her.

“Yay!” Vidia said and grabbed the bag and started eating. Half an hour later, they are finally in front of Charles Leclerc. Vidia is shaking her mom’s hand in excitement.

“Well hello, little one, what is your name?” Charles asked the girl.

“Hi, my name is Vidia.” Vidia spoke softly. Charles smiled.

“It’s nice to meet you Vidia.” Charles said, signing his photo and he looked up to see Y/N. “And what is your name?”

“Oh I’m Y/N.” Y/N replied.

“She’s my Mami!” Vidia said.

“Really? And where are you guys from?” Charles asked.

“New York. We’re here on vacation with my parents.” Y/N said.

“That sounds like fun.” Charles said.

“Mami, can i take a picture with him?” Vidia asked, looking back at Y/N.

“You have to ask him, princesa.” Y/N said and Vidia looked back at Charles with wide eyes.

“Yes, we can take a picture.” Charles said. “Is it okay if I carry her?”

“By all means go ahead, it will make her day.” Y/N said and Charles carried Vidia and Y/N snaps the picture. “Thank you so much, Charles.” Y/N said as Charles puts Vidia down and Vidia went to hold Y/N’s hand. “Good luck in practice.” Y/N was about to walk away when Charles stopped her.

“How about you guy stay at the Ferrari hospitality, I could give you passes.” Charles said.

“Yes! Di que sí mami, porfis.” Vidia begged Y/N.

“Ay vidia, espera. Charles, you Don’t have to do that.” Y/N said.

“But I want to. Anything for the cutest Ferrari fan.” Charles said squatting down to Vidia’s level. “What do you say, Vidia? Think you can convince your mom to go to the hospitality?”

“Mami, please, please, please, please, please, please.” Vidia begged.

“Okay, okay, we’ll go to the Ferrari hospitality.” Y/N said.

“Yes!” Vidia exclaimed. Charles went to Fred and he gave Charles 2 passes. Charles put the pass on Vidia and on Y/N

“There you go, I’ll meet you guys there.” Charles said. “Fred, can you show them to the hospitality?”

“Sure thing, follow me.” Fred said and he led the Y/N and Vidia to the hospitality where there is a couch, TV, and a little kitchen with food.

Carlos stared at Charles while he was signing things.

“What mate?” Charles asked.

“You like her.” Carlos teased.

“Do not.” Charles said.

“Cabrón, you’re a nice guy, but you are not that nice to give two people passes and say they can hang at the hospitality. You’re trying to get some Milf action.” Carlos said laughing.

“You are so vulgar.” Charles said.

“But you didn’t deny it. The mom is gorgeous thiugh, you should go for it, you haven’t dated anyone since Charlotte.” Carlos said.

“I don’t want her to think I’m being nice just to get in her pants.” Charles said.

“Aren’t you?” Carlos said.

“No! They came all the way from New York, I might as well give Vidia a good time at the Grand Prix.” Charles said.

“Okay then.” Carlos dropped the subject

Vidia was enjoying the hospitality, eating chicken fingers and French fries with her mom as Y/N called her dad.

“Hola papi. Sí, estoy con la niña en el hospitality de Ferrari, muy lindo por cierto. No sé cuánto nos vamos a demorar. Según esto, la segunda práctica termina a las 6 de la noche, pero luego hay las entrevistas con los pilotos y como Charles Leclerc nos dio los pases, no sé cuándo regresamos al hotel. Sí papi, estamos bien. Te marco luego, bye.” Y/N hung up on her dad. When she hung up, she saw Charles entering the hospitality.

“Charles!” Vidia said, getting off the chair to hug Charles. Charles hugged her back.

“Hello Vidia, how are you liking the hospitality?” Charles asked squatting down.

“The food is good.” Vidia said and Charles laughed.

“Yeah I bet it is, you were in line for a long time, you must have been hungry.” Charles said.

“Yeah, but mami carries chips in her bag.” Vidia said.

“Does she now?” Charles asked and Y/N got up to talk to them.

“Vidia hates waiting in line so I always carry snacks for her.” Y/N said and Vidia nodded.

“I hate waiting in line too, I get so bored.” Charles said and Vidia laughed. Charles stood up. “So why couldn’t your husband be with you today?” ‘Subtle, Charles’ he scolded himself in his mind.

“Ah, Vidia’s father is not in the picture.” Y/N said.

“How come?” Charles asked. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“Nah it’s fine. He relinquished his parental rights, he said he wasn’t fit to be a father and he’s right.” Y/N said.

“Well practice doesn’t start for another hour, so you want to see the car?” Charles asked Vidia and she was jumping in excitement.

“Are you sure that’s allowed?” Y/N asked.

“I’ve done it before.” Charles said and they walked to the garage where the car was and Vidia was ecstatic, bouncing off the walls in excitement.

“Mami, mami, Can i please get in the car?” Vidia asked with wide eyes.

“Ask Charles, princesa, It’s his after all.” Y/N said and now Vidia gave charles puppy dog eyes.

“Sure thing, princess.” Charles said, lifting Vidia to place her in the car and he started showing her all the buttons on the wheel and what they do. “So Vidia, how did a little princess like you get into formula 1?”

“Mi abuelo! He’s a big fan of Fernando Alonso. Verdad que sí, mami?” Vidia asked.

“Yeah, my dad got me into racing when I was about Vidia’s age, watching Fernando Alonso race with Jenson Button. Obviously we are cheering for Checo too, but..” Y/N trailed off.

“You’re our favorite!” Vidia exclaimed.

“Really?” Charles asked.

“Yeah, really. I showed her your 2019 Monza race.” Y/N admitted.

“He won in Spa! He wins in Monza!” Vidia shouted in her best announcer voice and Charles just smiled and laughed, it was absolutely adorable having such a young fan.

“That’s was very good, Vidia, maybe you could be a commentator for Sky Sports.” Charles said.

“Maybe.” Vidia said. Charles helped Vidia out of the car and she ran to the couch to sit and look around.

“Thank you for this, Charles, she will probably talk about this when we see my dad.” Y/N said.

“How about I take you two somewhere after free practice.” Charles offered.

“Why would you do that for people you don’t even know?” Y/N asked.

“Is it so wrong to get to know a fan and her beautiful mom?” Charles asked flirtatiously.

“I guess not if you are really interested and not just looking to get your dick wet.” Y/N said and Charles put his hand on his chest.

“I would never, I don’t believe in one night stands, I’m a relationship guy.” Charles said.

“This isn’t PR?” Y/N asked.

“Just a guy really interested in a girl and wants to get to know her.” Charles said.

“I guess we have a date after free practice, with Vidia of course.” Y/N said.

“Even better!” Charles said looking back at Vidia who is snacking on Y/N’s purse chips.

The End

Hope y’all liked it! I’ve seen fanfics where Y/N is a mom but it’s always to a son, never a daughter, so I gave y’all a daughter.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Head in the Clouds III

Barcelona Femení x Teen!Reader

Summary: Your Champions League final

"And, as the players come out, it's only right to talk about the controversy surrounding Barcelona's starting elven. Coach Giráldez has made the choice to field the team's sixteen-year-old star y/n l/n from the start. Bit of an odd choice as she has no previous Champion's League Final experience but Giráldez has said he's confident in her abilities to rise to the task."

Lyon is a tough opponent, you'd been warned about that. You'd been warned that they were physical and technical and had some of the best players in the world.

You knew that.

It still didn't stop you from being absolutely clattered to the ground on several occasions by Renard the moment you got the ball.

It was a bit frustrating actually.

Lyon were tough and, as Irene helps you to your feet, you know she's feeling it too.

The moments of the first half tick down until you leak into injury time. It's frustrating and clearly Renard is working overtime covering you and Aitana which is probably how it all kicked off.

Renard is covering Aitana, blocking her amazingly well while you lurk in the space she's left behind, between Gilles and Carpenter.

You haven't had much space this game so it's nice to be able to breathe with Renard so focused on not letting Aitana take the shot she's clearly winding up to.

The most she manages to get is a chip over the Lyon player, the ball about to land at your feet.

You act on instinct though, not letting it get there.

Your foot stretches out to keep it in the air.

Carpenter and Gilles start moving towards you but it's already too late.

You've twisted to face goal, foot connecting with the ball mid-air and sending it rocketing past Endler.

She didn't even move, your shot taken and executed too quickly for her to realise.

It buries itself in the top right corner and your eyes bug out of your head.

To be honest, you hadn't really realised what you'd done either. It was pure instinct, in the dying seconds of the first half and you'd scored.

Aitana gets to you first, jumping on your back and sending you both tumbling to the floor. Salma and Keira come next, also joining the pile and you tilt your head up to see Caro beaming down on you.

People say Caro doesn't smile a lot and you don't understand why they lie. Caro always smiles at you.

Irene's the one that gets everyone off, pulling you to your feet before kneeling to retie your laces.

"Good girl," She says to you, cupping your cheeks as the Basque flows into your ears," Keep it up, okay?"

Your cheeks bright red, you nod.

The backline just passes the ball between them in the last few seconds of the first half, unwilling to take the risk of Lyon somehow getting the equaliser.

You come off to raucous applause from the fans and immediately try to divert further into the stadium to queue up to get food.

"No," Lucy laughs," The staff already got your fries. No mingling today for you."

You pout a little because sometimes fans in the queue tell funny stories but Lucy's grip on you is firm as she guides you back into the locker room.

Jona is giving a speech but you're aimlessly poking at your bruises and munching on your fries so you don't pay too much attention. If it's important then someone will remind you.

Alexia's the one that walks you back out. She's saying something but you're a bit distracted by how grimy your shorts are from all the times you've been forced to the ground so you only really tune in when she hugs you.

"Okay?"

"Huh? What?"

Alexia laughs, shaking her head fondly. "Nothing. Just go out there and keep showing Lyon who's boss."

You frown. "But Jona's our boss. They know that."

"One goal separates the two sides. A beautiful volley from l/n, assisted by Aitana. There were serious doubts about her ability to play well in a final like this but her technique and drive have been unmatched this entire game. Lyon's defence really need to kick it up a gear because I have a feeling that once she starts, it's hard for her to stop."

Lyon throws more bodies at you in this second half. It's gotten more intense, harder to take your own shots but you create a few big chances for others that Endler manages to brush away.

Renard hovers over you, clearly thinking you're more of a threat than Aitana. That's a little weird because Aitana is the best player in the world and it's strange of Renard to not treat her as the threat she is.

Silly of her because you receive the ball from Patri, skirt around and over Renard's outstretched leg, nutmegging her in the process before sending it off to Aitana to drive into the box and score.

She laughs breathlessly as she celebrates, pointing at you with a smile as the team mobs her. She gets head pats and hugs and you do too.

You don't get that. All you did was pass the ball to her so she could score. You do it all the time in training.

"Two nil up against Lyon with a goal from the best player in the world and an assist by the best youngster in the world. Lyon really needs to step it up. Renard can't mark two of the world's best on her own."

A few minutes before Ona is set to be subbed on, you go down hard.

Bacha slides in on you just before you can send a pass to where Caro is waiting. You topple over, landing on the ground with a thump. She lands on you and you groan, your ribs flaring up like they did against Chelsea.

Lucy pushes Bacha off you and says a few words in French that you don't really understand before she helps you to your feet, checking you over.

"Go take the free kick," She orders," And if someone does that again you have my permission to push them back."

You frown. "Alexia said not to do anything you've given me permission to do."

Lucy rolls her eyes. "Go and take your free kick."

That's when you're back to what you're usually doing.

Scoring goals that weren't meant to be goals.

You're at the halfway line but you've got a strong free kick so your team lines up on the edge of the box to wait for it.

At training, Jona always told you to aim for the taller players.

Irene is currently busy in a little skirmish against Diani so you try to aim for Ingrid.

Only Ingrid gets pushed over in her own skirmish and there's no head to guide the ball in.

Not that you needed it because it rockets into the goal, no matter how far away you are. It's high and bounces off the underside of the top crossbar and over the goal line.

Endler just watches it go, clearly expecting there to be a person you've picked out ready to head it home. It's clear she's planning to block the shot that was never going to come.

The stadium erupts again and this time, Salma gets to you first. She thumps you on the back and you manage your own little laugh.

"I didn't mean to do that," You say and she shakes her head.

"Doesn't matter!" She laughs," Ballon D'or here you come!"

You frown at that. During this entire season, everyone has been talking about you getting a Ballon D'or but nobody's really explained what it is.

You gather it must be a good thing though because Aitana has one and Alexia has two.

At this point, you're a little worried to confess that you don't know what it is so you just smile and nod.

"Her face makes it clear that it wasn't meant to be a shot but no one can fault her during this match! L/n is really unravelling Lyon today. With about half an hour left of this match, it's going to take a miracle to get Lyon back in this game!"

Ada Hegerberg is one of your idols. She's amazing. She's one of the greatest football players you've ever seen. In your eyes, she's up there with Pernille Harder and Vivianne Miedema and Caro.

Last year, when you got offered contracts, you almost went straight to Lyon just because they had her. If there had been two Adas at Lyon then you probably would have chosen them over Barcelona and their offering of Caro.

But there is only one Ada Hegerberg and Barcelona had Alexia and Aitana on top of Caro so that's where you went.

But, still, Ada Hegerberg is one of the greats and you're a little bit star struck as she runs past you onto the pitch.

"No," Irene says to you," We're still playing a match. You can get her autograph later."

You bite you lip. "But-"

"And no going easy on her, okay?" Irene looks sternly at you, one brow raised. It's the same look she gives her son when he's being a little silly. "We've still got a game to play."

You sigh, scuffing the dirt with your boot. "Fine."

When you first saw Ada run on, you didn't expect your first interaction to go like this.

You execute a perfect slide tackle that would make Mapi proud, steal the ball and immediately start sprinting up the other side of the pitch.

You hope she doesn't hold that against you later on because you really want to talk to her and maybe get her shirt or at least a picture with her.

But still, like Irene said, you have a match to play so you dribble around Horan and pass the ball to Patri as you make a run into the box.

That's another thing about you, you think, that Lyon wasn't prepared for. You're fast.

Very fast and Alexia says you have this uncanny ability to find space where you really shouldn't be able to.

You can find space and you can outpace your markers but you're never quite ready for a Patri cross.

She has this habit of crossing much higher than you actually are.

You only have space for so much longer so you try to guide the ball down with your head only it bounces straight onto your skull and you kind of do an odd little jump to beat Renard to it.

It's enough of a bounce to go over Endler, who has come out of her goal to stop you and roll into the goal behind her.

You hear Renard sigh behind you but you're swept away by Patri shaking you firmly by the shoulders as the rest of the team come in to congratulate you.

"It's Patri's goal really," You try to explain," She just used my head to get it in. She deserves all the credit."

As per usual, no one listens to you.

"And a fantastic header from Barcelona's youngster! You have to wonder, if this is how she fares against Lyon, is there any way to truly stop her?"

Alexia gets subbed on in the last few minutes, getting the armband and immediately starts organising everyone the way that she wants.

You've got the ball at your feet but Carpenter is closing in fast and you're running out of room on the pitch.

You cut it back to where you know Alexia is waiting, tracking back as soon as its left your foot.

You don't see the ball go in but you hear the stadium erupt.

Alexia's shirt is off and she's bowing to the crowd as you jog over.

Her arm is over your shoulder and she's jostling you with a laugh.

A kiss lands on the top of your head and you smile up at her.

"You cannot write this! Putellas coming on and within minutes scoring a goal! It's been a long road back from injury for Alexia Putellas and she was set up perfectly by Barcelona's young talent!"

The final whistle comes all too soon and you're left staring at the score in shock, eyes wide as the team celebrates around you.

A smile appears on your face after several minutes of confusion.

You've won.

You've won the Champion's League and completed a hattrick and a brace of assists.

Caro hoists you up onto her back, bouncing you up and down while you shriek and squeal with laughter.

You're passed off to the rest of the team too as the celebrations begin.

Alexia keeps you close though, holding your hand all the way up to the medal ceremony where she pushes you in front of her second last in the line.

Irene grabs you after that, wedging you onto the step below her so she could make sure you didn't fall.

You're not quite sure how to explain how you feel watching Alexia lift the trophy. In fact, you're not quite sure how to explain how you're feeling about any of this.

It's difficult to explain.

Usually, after a game, you're just hungry but all hunger has left you.

Adrenaline still pumps in your system as celebrations rage around you. You're not quite sure what's going on but one of the staff drags you away to get a weird extra trophy that they say is yours and yours alone.

You don't know what to do with it but the staff member says they'll take it back to the locker room for you so you just let them.

That's when Caro appears again. She's still smiling as she takes your shoulders and guides you over to where the Lyon girls are shuffling back inside.

"Ada!" She calls and her national teammate turns around.

"Caro?"

Caro pushes you forward with a little laugh. "You have quite the fan."

Suddenly, shyness floods your body and you look down. "Hi, Mrs Hegerberg."

"You can call me Ada, you know."

"My Mama says you should always greet women professionally when you first meet them," You say, still not looking at her. You're still at a loss for what to say, just like you were when you first met Caro.

"She's a big fan." Thankfully, that same teammate comes to your rescue. "She was very excited to be playing against you."

You nod in confirmation before finally gaining the courage to look up. "If I find a pen, can I have your autograph please?"

"An autograph?" Ada repeats, almost in disbelief.

"I brought my autograph book with me!" You explain," It's in the locker room!"

She laughs and you suddenly feel awful.

You've just beat her. Of course she doesn't want to sign your autograph book.

"Tell you what," Ada says and you brace yourself to be rejected," I'll sign your book if we can swap shirts."

You look at Caro for permission. There's a rule that you aren't allowed to give away your shirt without adult permission. Alexia doesn't like it because sometimes you forget to put the other person's shirt on and wander around the pitch shirtless.

With Caro's permission, you sprint off to get your book and a pen.

Ada signs it and then swaps shirts with you, where Caro reminds you that you have to put on Ada's shirt before joining in on the celebrations again.

That's when Irene takes custody of you. You're still clutching your autograph book, completely star struck by the fact that you have Ada Hegerberg's signature and her shirt.

"Give me that," Irene says, gently taking your book from you," I'll look after it for you."

You nod.

That's probably the best thing. You almost lost it once so it's better Irene has it.

You end up ping-ponging around the rest of the team for the rest of the celebrations until Alexia lets you know you can bring your family down.

Everyone came for you. Your Mama and Papa and your Nana and Grandpappy and Abuela and Abuelo.

Abuelo brings you food still steaming in a container and you scoff it down as soon as you can.

"Can I take some of this home with me?" You ask him," Did you bring more?"

"I did bring more," He replies," I will pack them up before you get on the plane tomorrow."

You grin. "Thank you, Abuelo."

You get a picture with your whole family and the trophy because Ingrid tells you that's something people do when they win and you trust Ingrid.

It's a great photo and you're smiling so wide wearing Ada Hergerbeg's Lyon shirt and a Barcelona flag doubling as a cape.

Your family leaves soon after that but Nana gives you a big hug and reminds you to take a nap before dinner so you agree because Nana is smart and she used to take care of you a lot when you were younger.

Mama and Papa coo over you, saying embarrassing things like 'look at you' and 'we'll put that photo up in the restaurant'.

Then you get put back in Alexia's custody.

She grins at you.

You take a step back.

You're not the most perceptive. People do and say things that seemingly come out of nowhere but you recognise this look as what it is.

Trouble.

You try to dart away but Alexia's got a tight grip and in one smooth movement, you're up on one of her shoulders.

"Ale!" You squeal," Let me down!"

She's laughing though and she's not letting you down at all.

"Take it all in!" She yells up at you," It's all thanks to you!"

[ghostsslutss]

welcome to my bar. whatcha ya feeling tonight? vodka? wine? or just apple juice. look at the menu and place ur order in the inbox.

credits to @bunnys-kisses x

𝐖𝐇𝐎𝐒 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐘𝐎𝐔?

lando norris

max verstappen

fernando alonso

charles leclerc

carlos sainz

alex albon

franco colapinto

lewis hamilton

george rusell

ollie bearmen

arthur leclerc

joost klein

ski aggu

reece welsh

jordan riki

simon ghost riley

john mctavish

phillip graves

alejandro ganarcho

jude belligham

neymar jr

matt murdock

jason todd pop

nightwing

moon knight

vladimir makarov

toto wolf

homelander

billy butcher

the deep

a train

konig

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐄

vodka soda - “your boyfriend wont fuck you like this”

rum and coke - “hm what was that again? speak up little one

gin and tonic - “such a good girl. aren’t you. my pretty little puppy.”

whiskey sour - “{dirty talk in their language}”

margarita - “remember, I am in complete control. your pleasure and pain are mine to give.”

mojito - “please ive been a good boy..”

long island iced tea - “fuck your going to get us caught one day aren’t you.”

tequila sunrise - “let me take care of you, let me lead, and you'll enjoy the ride.”

martini - “whos daddy’s little slut?”

cosmopolitan - “beautiful , beautiful thing aren’t you.”

daiquiri - “shut it- shut up.”

piña colada - “be quiet they will hear us.”

old fashioned - “wonder what your father think about this.”

negroni - “I'll do anything to please you, master. Just tell me what you want.”

aperol spritz - “you will address me as 'Sir' or 'Master'. is that clear?”

moscow mule - “you'll wear this collar as a symbol of your submission to me.”

paloma - “tell me your safe word, pet. I need to know your limits.”

mai tai - “thank you for the punishment. I needed it.”

amaretto sour - “please.. just let me cum.”

caipirinha - “oh fuck , your driving me crazy.”

𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐁?

fabric (loss of virginity)

berghain (pregancy)

space (sugar daddy au)

hï ibiza (semi to public sex)

ministry of sound (enemies to lovers)

pacha (cheating)

privilege (dom x sub)

dc10 (intoxicated sex)

amnesia (university au)

printworks (alternative au)

output (age gap)

watergate (unprotected sex)

zouk (omegaverse)

exchange la (recording)

the warehouse project (phone sex)

studio 338 (pet play)

kitkatclub (cnc)

marquee (vanilla)

cavo paradiso (car sex)

liv (dirty talk)

avant gardner (gentle sex)

warung beach club (rough sex)

drai’s (mean!drink)

tunnel (aftercare)

rex club (size kink)

cielo (doggy style)

sub club (breeding kink)

egg london (cock warming)

sound nightclub (mafia au)

tresor (dumbfication)

𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐒?

fries (character x character x you)

onion rings (creator picks kinks: may be dead dove)

mozzarella sticks (creator chooses drink and club)

chips and salsa (extra spicy smut)

guacamole (more comforting smut)

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

Am I the asshole for calling my boyfriend out after a party after he very Frenchly insulted our cooking?

I (25M) am dating J (27M), and we live together. For the most part he's wonderful, super sweet, and perhaps the most French man living today. He's a walking stereotype, right down to the sexiness. He's Parisian (we live in the states) and has a huge obsession with wine and cheese, and I'll be honest, he can be pretty snobby. He was raised by some well to do old money family that disowned him when they found out he was gay and it shows. He has a few antiquated ideas of what America is like, especially when it comes to food. Anything that has roots he doesn't recognize gets criticized. It's a classism problem, we recognize that, and he is trying to work on it. He slips up sometimes.

We went to a housewarming party two nights ago. It was a potluck deal and I brought a beef chili I had been working on for like two days, it was my pride and joy, and J didn't even have anything bad to say to me about it.

Anyway, an hour or so into the party we went to get food. He had a few glasses of wine, so he wasn't quite thinking straight. It turns out somebody brought homemade Frito pie (and pretty fancy frito pie too, with jalapeños and sour cream and pico de gallo, it was amazing and delicious and I am still dreaming about it), I'm southwestern and it was a staple for me growing up so I tripped over myself trying to get at it. He noticed how eager I was and scoffed at me. I asked what was so funny, and he said it was baffling that I'd go for that first since it was "comically American, down to the fried chips riddled in it." I rolled my eyes and ignored him.

Turns out the friend who made it was standing a few feet away and overheard him. She told us that she worked super hard on making the chili and cooking the pie, and if he didn't like it, he didn't have to have any. I was so fucking mortified I felt like dying. I apologized on his behalf and we stayed for a bit longer, but I was so embarrassed and angry that we left about an hour after that. I couldn't make myself have a good time. As a bit of an apology I left our friend a container of the chili I made and said if she wanted to make a pie out of it I'd be honored, and she happily accepted.

This is where I may be TA. As soon as we got in the car I blew up at him. I told him that he disrespected my culture, my cooking, my taste, and worst of all, embarrassed me in front of a friend and insulted something that brought her joy. I said "if you see Americans as so lazy, stupid, fat, and disgusting, then why are you even living here? Why the fuck do you even wanna be with me? Am I just the only good one to you?" I was laying into him for about 5 minutes. It was the worst fight we'd ever been in, not that we get in many.

He got really quiet after that and just muttered out an "I'm sorry." We were silent the ride home and we went straight to bed when we got there. I even heard him sniffling when we were trying to fall asleep, which was heartbreaking and started to make me feel like I'd fucked up, too. He's been distant for the last few days and I feel like I need to apologize.

Do I? Was I TA? I just got so upset that I couldn't take it anymore. I really love him and I just keep worrying that any second he's gonna say he wants to break up, and I never want that to happen. Any advice is appreciated.

[koshkamartell]

This is my submission for the Dead Dove December 2024 event held by my dear friend @romana-after-dark. I hope you guys like it!

summary: oneshot set in AU, no outbreak. You are a down on your luck waitress who impulsively steals from a man at a casino one night. Unfortunately for you, he doesn't give up easily.

warnings: noncon anal penetration, degradation, coarse language, noncon digital penetration, gambling, theft, slut shaming, mention of sex work, unspecified hefty age gap, reader is feminine but not described in detail.

word count: 4,500

You knew he might try find you, but you didn't think he would go any further than the front doors of the casino. You thought he would stalk around the black jack tables a few times, search throughout the scores the slot machines, maybe even check the high rollers lounge and the rooftop balcony. You knew he would be angry when he realised what you did but you didn't expect him to bother chasing you too far.

You had high tailed it out of there pretty quickly once you stole the chips and cashed out, anyway. Out onto the strip you strutted, abuzz with smug triumph, holding tightly to your purse stuffed with cash. You checked into a hotel a few blocks away, deciding to treat yourself to a deluxe room with a queen sized bed and room service.

Sure, you had done the wrong thing. You knew you had. It wasn't that you were a bad person, though - you were just desparate. Living in a shitty trailer and working your ass off waitressing had driven you to the edge of hopelessness. You were sick of slaving away to earn enough money to survive through the week. You were sick of the disgusting men who oogled you and treated you like a piece of meat while you served them burgers and fries and endless cups of coffee. You had been beaten down by the hardships of life for years now and there never seemed to be any hope for a better future for you. You were never granted a reprieve from the drudgery of your dull existence, not even for a day.

Until the night you met Joel and got greedy.

Joel Miller rarely gambled. He enjoyed the occasional game of poker or darts with his work buddies but he was never a hustler. He had seen his little brother Tommy lose way too much money betting on football games and amateur poker tournaments to want to take a risk himself. He was definitely the more sensible of the two.

He wasn't a party animal, either. It wasn't in his nature to be wild and carefree; becoming a single dad at a young age and raising a daughter while earning a living as a contractor had moulded him into a pragmatic, no-nonsense kind of man. His workaholic dedication to his profession and his responsibilities as a parent had left little room for pleasure in his personal life, anyway.

And even though Joel's daughter is an adult now, living her own life in another state, he still leads a quiet existence outside work. Tommy teases him for being a boring old bastard, but the truth is Joel has always craved a simple life, so he's content with how things are. He downs a whiskey every night and more often than not falls asleep on the couch while watching a movie.

But tonight is different. One of the guys in his work crew is having a bachelor party, so Tommy finally had a good reason to drag Joel out of the house to enjoy a night out. Even though he grumbled and groused about being too old for this shit, Joel acquiesced and joined the group of men for a night of bar hopping (and even a visit to a strip club). At Tommy's insistence they ended up stopping at one of the casinos to try their luck at some poker and blackjack.

It took some convincing from the guys and a few shots of whiskey to get Joel to loosen up enough to get into the spirit of things. He won some money and lost some money but actually managed to have some fun along the way. He was going to call it a night but decided to lay a last minute bet at the roulette table, just for the hell of it. To his surprise he ended up winning.

"You lucky son of a bitch," Tommy laughed in shock, clapping Joel on the shoulder. "Who woulda thought?"

Joel grinned smugly and accepted the stack of chips offered to him by the table dealer. Emboldened by the win and the guys encouragement, Joel placed another bet on the roulette table but promised himself it was his last for the night. He braced himself for disappointment when the spinning wheel slowed down, reminding himself that everybody's luck ran out at some stage. The little round ball bobbled along the slots until it came to a halt on red 23, the slot that Joel had placed his chips on.

The men all whooped and cheered when they saw the result and Joel couldn't help the smile that broke out on his face. The dealer pushed a large stack of chips towards Joel with an uttered congratulations, sir.

"Keep goin', man," Tommy whispered in his ear. "You're fuckin' killin' it, got a lucky streak, Joel, you gotta ride it."

Joel shook his head and collected the stacks of chips in his hands. "Tom, I just won ten grand. Odds are I'm gonna lose it all if I keep goin'."

Satisfied with his takings and ready to go home, Joel bid his brother and friends goodnight and went on his way to the cashier cage to cash out his winnings. He was standing in line waiting to be served when something bumped his elbow. He turned to look at what had knocked him, and there his eyes fell upon you.

You. Young, pretty, well made up. Dress short enough to show off your legs but just long enough to cover your ass. His eyes flickered down the length of your body and back up again, trailing over your cleavage before meeting your eyes. You were gorgeous.

"Oh, sorry about that!" You smiled brightly. "Didn't mean to run into you, mister."

Joel gave you a polite smile in return. "No problem, ma'am."

You fluttered your eyelids and sashayed away from him, glancing over your shoulder with a flirty little smirk. Joel felt his cheeks blush as he watched you leave, his gaze glued to the way your ass swayed with each step of your heels. Goddamn. He felt the blood rush to his cock. Were you actually flirting with him? No, surely not. You were way too young, way too attractive to want an old man like him. Shit, maybe you were a working girl, looking for a john for the night.

Joel shook his head and turned back to face the cashier's cage. He would have to resign himself to the fantasies in his head tonight.

It wasn't until he finally arrived at the cashier's desk and had his chips counted that Joel realised you had stolen $5,000 from him.

It has been about half an hour since your escape.

Your dress, underwear and heels lay discarded in a heap on the floor of your hotel room. Your unzipped purse sits on the nightstand by the bed, a thick wad of cash poking out from its pocket. You slip into a fluffy white bathrobe and stretch out on the bed to flick through the TV channels. Soon you'll take a bubble bath in the luxurious looking tub, then when your room service order arrives you'll stuff yourself with nachoes and a deluxe chocolate milkshake.

Fuck. You can't remember the last time you had experienced the granduer of being so pampered. You close your eyes for and sigh, savouring the moment of serenity for a minute. Right now you're in heaven, your own personal bubble of indulgence, and it feels fucking amazing.

A knock at the door startles you from your dreamy reverie. That must be room service, you guess. It has arrived earlier than expected, before you had a chance to hop in the bath, but a change in plans doesn't bother you too much. You've got all night, after all. You smile to yourself as you scramble off the bed and pad over to the door.

You twist the handle and open the door, expecting to be greeted by a smiling hotel employee carrying a fancy silver tray. Instead, you are met with the scowling face of the man you conned at the casino, his tall figure crowding the doorway. The sight of him right before you is like a nightemarish hallucination, and you gasp in fright, your heart leaping into your throat.

Despite being so caught off guard by his appearance your survival instincts quickly kick in. You hurry to try and slam the door shut but he's too swift; he wedges his work boot over the threshold to prevent it from closing before shouldering his way inside the room. You squeal and stumble backwards toward the bed, terrified by the intrusion.

How did he find you?

Joel calmly closes the door behind him and turns the lock. The soft sound of the latchbolt clicking into place prompts an ominous twist of dread to coil within your stomach.

Is he going to kill you?

"I'm sor--" you begin to say.

"No one ever teach you right from wrong?" Joel barks angrily, cutting you off. He glares at you with his dark eyes full of ire, his mouth set in a snarl of disgust. His large hands fidget by his sides and you worry that he's trying to repress the urge to beat the shit out of you.

Your heart hammers in your chest as your brain buzzes with anxiety and trepidation. You don't know what to do or say now that he's in such close proximity to you, his intimidating presence crushing all sense of security and confidence from you, leaving not even a modicum of courage in its wake.

Even though your mouth is dry and your throat feels like sandpaper, you speak impulsively before even thinking. "I didn't--"

"Think ya can just do whatever the hell you want?" He snaps, taking a step in your direction. "Steal from hard workin' folk and mess up their lives?"

"No!" You shake your head vehemently and shuffle blindly around the bedframe, not daring to take your eyes off of him. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean--"

Joel snorts derisively and takes another step closer; his footfall is slow and heavy, like he's unhurried to close the gap between you. "Didn't mean to rob me? Didn't meant to steal my money and fuck off?"

"I'll pay you back!" You blurt out in panic.

"Damn right you will," he snipes back. "Every fuckin' cent of it."

You swallow thickly and nod. "O-okay, so, I already spent some to get this room - but only for one night, I swear!" The explanation tumbles from your mouth. "But I can give you the rest now, and I promise I will pay you back!"

Joel's eyes narrow and you see his jaw tick once. "When?" He asks flatly. You stare at him and chew your bottom lip for a moment in deliberation. You already spent your weeks wage on rent and bills, leaving you with about ten dollars to your name until next week.

Shit.

"I, uhm, I get paid next Friday," you mumble sheepishly. "I can get you the money then."

He sighs, a heavy exhalation of frustration from his nose. He shakes his head and puts his hands on his hips. "'S too late."

"Please, please give me this one chance," you beseech, clasping your hands in front of you, your eyes wide and pleading. "Just give me until then."

"How much? How much did you use for this room?" Joel demands. You pause, trying to remember the nightly rate the concierge charged as well as mentally calculate the added room service.

"Uhm, I-I think it's a-a-bout $350," you stutter nervously. He huffs an exasperated sigh and runs his hand over the bottom half of his face. Seeing the man you swindled look so frustrated makes you feel embarrassed and childlike. "I'm sorry..." you mumble, ashamed of your greed.

"Here's what's gonna happen," Joel tells you sternly. "I'm gonna take back what you stole from me now, and you're gonna pay me that $350 back come Friday. No more excuses, you hear?"

"Yes, ofcourse," you agree earnestly, "I'll pay back every cent, like you said."

You glance over to the purse on the nightstand Joel stares at you in comtemplative silence, his jaw ticking as he assesses the situation.

"You do this often?" Joel asks after a few beats, his voice considerably more softer than before. It seems like he's gradually calming down. "That little slick act, battin' your eyes while you're stealin' from a man."

"No," you reply meekly, dropping your eyes to the floor. "I don't. I'm sorry. I'm just...I'm struggling with money right now...I was desperate."

A tense silence falls upon the room after your shameful admission. You hope he's taking pity upon you, that he can see just how apologetic you really are. But when your gaze shifts from the ground back up to Joel, you can immediately ascertain that sympathy for your circumstances is the last thing on his mind.

Joel remains where he stands, as still as a statue, but there's an unsettling intensity swirling within his chocolate brown orbs as he stares you down. The wrath which had consumed him is no longer reflected in his gaze; it has been replaced by something more sinister - something hungry, predatory. It sends a shiver up your spine.

Suddenly you feel incredibly self conscious; although you are covered by the plush terrytowel robe you feel naked and on display infront of him. You clutch the collar of your robe closed and clear your throat.

"Maybe you can show me just how desperate you are for that money," Joel muses darkly.

Your blood runs cold at the insinuation.

You've got to get out of here as fast as you can.

When he takes another step in your direction, you don't hesitate to launch yourself toward the bathroom to escape. He's swift to follow you, though; he sprints after you and crashes his shoulder against the bathroom door, flinging it wide open, leaving you trapped and with no where to run from him.

Joel might be really fucking angry at your audacity to steal from him, but there is something else bubbling within the scorching heat of his wrath that is far more wicked. It hit him the second you opened the door and gawped at him with wide, scared eyes and a trembling bottom lip. It intensified the longer he watched you flounder and apologise, so helpless and desperate for his understanding, and he found he could not ignore it for long. You look even more pretty than he recalled, especially when you are just wearing that hotel bathrobe.

What had started as a simmering in Joel's loins has escalated into a depraved and maddening state of arousal that has his cock now rock hard in his jeans. Seeing you plead and admit to your recklessness particularly excited him, perhaps because he saw it as an acquiescence to punishment. And Joel was more than happy to dole out punishment - whether you consented to it or not.

He cannot describe the victorious surge of power that overcomes him when he successfully captures you in his grasp. He grips a hunk of hair at the top of your head to keep you still, and you grimace as your scalp stings with the tight pull. His mouth sets into a grim line of determination while his other hand clumsily rips the bathrobe from your body. You shriek and bat at him with curled fists, putting up as much of a fight as you possibly can, but it makes no impact upon him at all - you are so small and weak in comparison to his tall, burly frame.

"Fuck sake," Joel snaps irritably. "Quit fightin' me." He throws the robe to the ground, leaving your naked body trembling with fear before him. He doesn't stop to touch you or even look at you - he just manhandles you over to the sink and shoves your body around to face the mirror. "Hold still."

He pins your hips against the edge of the sink with his own, the action causing your bones to press painfully into the cool marble surface. His iron grip on your hair forces your neck upright so that your face is directly infront of the mirror. You can feel the rough denim of his jeans on the backs of your thighs and the metal of his belt buckle on your ass.

"How about you show me some more of your little tricks," grunts, his low voice gravelly and slightly breathless. "How's that sound?"

"P-p-please don't," you sob, your vision blurring with warm tears. He ignores you, using the side of his boot to kick at your foot and spread your legs apart. You feel his hand jostle behind you as he hurries to unbuckle his belt.

"You want cash so bad?" Joel taunts in your ear, hastily unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans. "You can earn it. "

He yanks his jeans and underwear down his meaty thighs, freeing his heavy balls and erect cock out of the confines of his underwear, the head already wet with precum. He uses his grip on your hair to roughly push the front of your upper body flat to the bathroom vanity. Your face smushes uncomfortably against the mirror.

"Arch your ass out, bitch." Joel jabs his elbow into the middle of your spine, forcing your hips to involuntarily tilt. "Let me see that fuckin' ass."

His other hand grabs your asscheek and he digs his blunt fingernails into the meat of your flesh, earning a pathetic whine from you. He pulls your cheek to the side to expose your asshole to his perverted gaze before letting out a hungry groan. "Pretty little hole you got there, honey."

He was planning on just fucking your pussy, but holy shit, seeing you spread like this is so tantalising, like your ass is just waiting to be split wide open.

He can't resist.

Joel spits a warm wad of saliva onto your asscrack and watches it slide down to your asshole. Your body jolts at the weird sensation, your limbs vibrating with fear, but Joel's steel grip of your hair keeps you restrained against the vanity.

He uses the fat pads of his two fingers to smear the glob of spit over your hole. He's decided to be generous tonight, giving you a little preparation so you won't pass out on his dick. Yeah, he wants to punish you, but he also doesn't want the goddamn concierge busting down the door because you're screaming in pain.

His fingertips prod at your ring with the clear intention of opening you up, and that's when you start to cry harder, warbling pleas for him to stop and to not to go any further. Joel smirks to himself and pays no heed to your words; he sinks his two fingers into your hole, all the way to his middle knuckles, and you wail at the sharp discomfort.

"Shut up," Joel orders, beginning to scissor his fingers in and out of you. He stares down at his minstrations while you weep pitifully. He's mesmerised by the way your hole clenches and unclenches around his digits, imaginging how perfect you would feel around his cock, squeezing him just right. He keeps fingering you for a little longer until his desire becomes too ravenous to put off any longer.

Joel withdraws his fingers from you, briefly admiring the way you clench around nothing. He takes hold of the head of his cock and jams it against the puckered ring of your asshole, ready to push inside.  You start to screech and bash your legs against the vanity in distressed protest, but Joel is quick to subdue you. He crushes his knees into the backs of your thighs, his burly frame easily constraining your lower half.

"Better for both of us if you stop strugglin'," he growls. "Gonna hurt a hell of'a alot more if you don't."

He doesn't waste any longer. He drives his hips forward and forcefully jabs the tip of his fat dick through the first tight ring of your asshole. Your cries suddenly cease as the burning pain engulfs you, your eyes squeezing shut and your mouth falling open in a silent scream. The room fills with the sound of Joel's heavy breathing and the jangle of his belt buckle. He ruts into you, gradually feeding his thick length further inside your ass with shallow, stuttering bursts.

"That's it," Joel croons, voice slurring with lust. "Take it, baby, just take it."

Satisfied that you're now in a state of paralysed submission, he releases his hand from your hair and siezes the cheeks of your ass in both his meaty palms. He spreads them wide and tilts his chin down to watch your defilement, hypnotised by the sight of his cock slowly spearing your tight hole.

Joel eventually slides all the way inside you, his pubic bone flush with the globes of your ass and his heavy balls pressed against the lips of your neglected pussy. He moans brokenly as he revels in the snug warmth enveloping the entirety of his dick.

"Goddamn," he mumbles to himself. "So tight."

Joel retracts his hips until he's pulled almost all the way out of your asshole, then he plunges back inside in one smooth stroke. You expel a guttural howl and grip the edge of the sink so tight your fingertips turn white, your whole body quivering below him.

"Actin' like you ain't never been assfucked before," Joel groans out. He withdraws once more, but this time he slams back into your body with a mighty thrust that forces you to rise up to your tiptoes. He takes pleasure in the ragged scream that rips from your throat and the way your hole contracts around his dick.

"N-n-no," you manage to choke out, your throat thick with unshed tears and mucus. Joel slides his large calloused hands around the curve of your hips to hold you in place before repeating the action again. You bawl again and reach a shaky arm behind you to push against his belly, a futile attempt to get him to stop.

"Don't tell me a slut like you ain't had a dick up her ass," he spits down at you. "Bet that's exactly how you earn your money. When you ain't stealin' it.'

It is impossible for you to muster a response when Joel begins to cant his hips in long strokes, gradually busting you open. The momentum of his broad body keeps your face shoved close against the mirror, the glass fogging with every loud, agonised sob you emit. His balls smack lewdly against your skin with each thrust.

Your body goes slack against the vanity counter as Joel continues to violate you over and over. He's lost in the animalistic pursuit of his pleasure and your punishment, his hefty cock barrelling in and out of your tight asshole with a merciless rhythm. His fingers squeeze your hips in a bruising hold. You feel so good wrapped around him, too fragile to fight back.

"Thought about fuckin' ya," Joel admits inbetween heavy pants. "At the casino. Wanted to fuck you so bad when I first saw ya."

You weep pathetically, lungs aching with every battered breath you inhale, your body going more slack and weak the longer Joel indulges in your suffering. He is so big, bigger than any other man you've ever been with, and there is no way you could adjust to his girth so suddenly, especially in your ass.

"Maybe I shoulda just slipped you a twenty. Bet that woulda had you droppin' your panties right then and there."

Saliva pools in your mouth and drips out the corners of your lips as your mind starts to detach from your physical body.

"Wreckin' ya good, ain't that right, baby?" Joel moans. "Fillin' you up so good, ain't gonna be able to walk for days."

He continues fucking you with a possessed, primal rapacity. He can't remember the last time he fucked with such reckless abandon - maybe never - and he knows he won't last long. He's too drunk on the domination he holds over you to delay his orgasm any longer.

"Gonna ruin this slutty asshole. Have you leakin' everywhere."

Joel pistons into you harder and faster as he chases his orgasm. His heart beat pounds in his ears and he can no longer hear your cries when his escasty soon reaches a fever pitch. It hits him with a blinding intensity that he wasn't prepared for; his head back falls back and his eyes squeeze shut as he explodes inside your ass.

"Fuck," he grunts and huffs like a beast. "Fuck, take it, ya little whore, take it all."

You whimper as he slows down his movements to a rocking motion, sawing back and forth to let your asshole milk the cum from his cock. When he's finished, Joel slips his softening cock out of you, coaxing a vulgar squelching sound from your hole.

He staggers backward, his gait slightly off balance as he comes down from the high of his orgasm. His chest heaves as he stares at your naked ravaged body sprawled infront of him. Your legs tremble for a moment before you collapse onto the bathroom floor, unable to remain standing without Joel's strength pinning you. You hug your arms around your shaking body and curl up on the ground, tears and snot spilling down your face.

Joel watches you wordlessly. He wipes his hand down his sweaty face and sighs. He doesn't feel remorse - why should he? You ripped him off. You stole money he needs for his business, for his house, for his daughter. You deserved this.

You don't dare look at him while he hitches up his underwear and jeans. All you want is for this nightmare of a man to finally leave you alone to lick your wounds. He tucks himself back in and belts up while you dig your fingernails into your arms, deep enough to draw blood.

You hear the heavy footfalls of his boots as he swaggers out of the bathroom. He crosses to the nightstand and retrieves the wad of cash from your purse. He stops to study your ID card, noting your age and your name. Fuck, you're younger than he thought. He scans over your address. And you live in a shitty part of town. Maybe you really were desperate. He flicks through the bills of money and counts, making sure the $4,650 is still there, then stuffs it in his pocket.

Joel walks back to the bathroom but doesn't enter, instead lingering outside, not bothering to give you another look. "Forget the three fifty," he calls from the doorway, his voice gruff. "You earned it."

It goes quiet for a few moments, then you hear the front door unlock and open. It shuts with a resounding thud and your wish to be alone is granted.

tags - @romana-after-dark @romanarose

[samuelsdean]

Take A Bite

pairing: dean winchester x reader

summary: the hunt loomed, a constant shadow. but for now, in the warmth of the diner, you had this – a shared meal, a stolen bite, a silent promise spoken in the language only the two of you understood. maybe that was enough, for now.

genre: fluff

word count: 0.6k

author's notes: my first ever dean winchester fic! and of course, it's fluff. this one's extra fluffy and tooth-rotting because he deserves all the love and pie in the world. have fun reading this one!

GREASY SPOON DINERS WERE PRACTICALLY A SECOND HOME TO YOU AND DEAN. After weeks on the road, chasing whatever monster plagued this random unsuspecting town, a decent burger and stale black coffee felt like a five-star feast. You slid into the red vinyl booth across from Dean, the air thick with the aroma of frying onions and something vaguely resembling a pie. Dean's favorite

"Double cheeseburger, fries extra crispy, milkshake," Dean said to the waitress, a practiced routine etched into the lines on his face. "And your apple pie, make that two slices."

You chuckled at Dean's predictability. One thing about the hunter is that he'll never miss out on ordering pie if it is ever on the menu. You mirrored his order, minus the pie and milkshake, opting for a Coke instead, as a comfortable silence settled between you.

"You know, Dean, it'll never hurt you to cut back on the sugar and fat," you poked at the man's elbow. "You're what? 30 years old? You could die from all the cholesterol you ingest."

Dean shoved another greasy fry into his mouth, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Woman," he mumbled around the food, "first of all, I'm twenty-five, almost twenty-six now. Second, cholesterol never killed any Winchester. Besides, haven't you seen Buffy the Vampire Slayer? The girl practically lives on coffee and Pop-Tarts, and she still kicks major demon butt. The point is, you gotta live a little. Besides, pie's calling my name." He jerked his head and smirked towards the display case where a monstrous slice of apple pie sat, practically begging to be devoured.

It wasn't always like this, these quiet moments punctuated by the clinking of silverware. There were times, hunts gone sideways, when the air crackled with tension, unspoken words hanging heavy. But there was also a language you'd developed, a shorthand built on shared experiences and unspoken affection.

The waitress slid your plates across the chipped Formica counter. As you reached for your burger, Dean's hand shot out, snagging a fry. He popped it into his mouth with a wink.

"Always gotta have the first bite," he said around a mouthful of crispy oily goodness—as how Dean would describe the meal.

You rolled your eyes, a familiar warmth blooming in your chest. It was a small thing, this ritual of offering the first or last bite. It started years ago, on a particularly brutal hunt that left you both famished and frayed. Dean had insisted you take the last sliver of pie, a silent promise that he'd take care of you, even in the smallest ways.

You speared a fry and held it out to him. "Only because you saved me from the mystery meat surprise last week."

He chuckled, taking the fry and returning the favor by breaking off a piece of his pie before taking a bite. The practice continued throughout the meal, a silent banter intertwined with the rhythm of chewing and swallowing. It's like second nature between you two.

"So," Dean said, finally wiping his grease-stained fingers on a napkin, "what kind of son of a bitch are we whacking this time?"

You launched into the details the local college professor had shared, a tremor of interest lacing your voice. As you spoke, Dean listened intently, smiling now and then with how nerdy you sounded. He liked it when you go off on your tangents about whatever monster it was you were about to hunt. While doing so, Dean occasionally reached across the table to steal a fry or offer a piece of his pie. It wasn't a grand gesture, this sharing of food, but in the quiet hum of the diner, it felt like everything.

The hunt loomed, a constant shadow. But for now, in the warmth of the diner, you had this – a shared meal, a stolen bite, a silent promise spoken in the language only the two of you understood. Maybe that was enough, for now.

[love-bugsy]

good ol' gotham | jason todd

the worst thing about love

you’re just trying to get through your surgical residency, but this masked vigilante keeps showing up half-dead on your fire escape and reminding you of your dead best friend. oh well, at least he's cute.

two | three | four | series masterlist

content warnings: no editing, allusions to character death, (haphazard) depictions of grief, smoking + mentions of alcohol, swearing, completely ooc Jason bc he’s just my lil guy, medical terminology learned from greys anatomy lol

only jerks steal other people’s writing and mine isn’t even that good so no reposts

You and Jason sit across from each other in a diner booth, his restless leg bouncing under the table and your workaholic fingers tapping rhythms on the lacquer. The tired waitress who begged for your shift today brings over a plate of fries for you both, waving you off when you try to tip her. She gives your head an affectionate ruffle like she used to when you were 6, and you flush. As she goes to wait the next table, Jason laughs and says something about nepotism. You reach over and smack him.

He scoops up a heaping handful of fries, holding out his cigarette in his free hand so he can choke it down. He wipes his hands on his pants, taking another drag. You frown as your eyes dart between him and the ‘no smoking’ sign, glaring pointedly at the cigarette hanging half out of his mouth. He huffs, hiding a smile as he crushes the lit end on the underside of the table and flicks it into a nearby bin. You kiss your teeth, rolling your eyes but it’s entirely too fond to have any lasting effect. This damn boy’s got you wrapped around his battered fingers.

“Those’ll kill you, you know,” you huff, shoving a couple of fries in your mouth and basking in greasy diner heaven. Jason tilts his head, examining you, and snorts when you chuck a fry at his face. 

“So you tell me every time, and yet, miraculously, I’m still here.” He plucks the fallen fry out of his lap, not even brushing it off before he scarfs it down and reaches for another handful. You eye his hand, meant to shovel chips into his mouth but instead is littered with callouses and cigarette burns. It’s a stretching silence as you find your words.

“S’killing you slowly.”

“Lucky me.” He shoots you a toothy grin, leaning back into the booth, one hand laid out face-down on the table. The bruises on his knuckles are a motley of yellow and purple; your hand aches just looking at the scabs that litter the top of his hand. You’re sure he doesn’t feel it, though - he’s always healing, gaining new wounds before the old ones are finished scarring over. A veritable human ship of Theseus. 

His hand clenches into a fist under your gaze and you suddenly become very interested in the plate of fries between you. ‘M’not gonna stop,” he says, tone unyielding. You don’t know whether he’s talking about his smoking or the elephant-sized robin in the room. Probably both.

“But maybe you should.” You blurt out, and the way his face twists in anger makes you want to cover your mouth and hide. You hate how he clings to things - smoking, grudges, Robin - you think it’ll be the death of him one day. But you’re a hypocrite, because you love how he clings to you. Jason’s jaw feathers.

“Just fucking back off, okay?”, he snaps at you, and you go silent - you don’t want to have the same argument for the thousandth time. You study the way his eyes close and he sinks back into the chair - guilt washing away the enraged crease between his brows.

You forget - all the time - how angry he is, all of it built up under his rib cage. You think he gets scared to show it to you, like it’ll scare you away. For all his intelligence, Jason has yet to grasp the fact that you have Gotham in you too - spent your whole life atoning for the sin of your existence here. You’re angry too, of fucking course you are.

There’s no shortage of anger and fear and desperation in Gotham - they flood the gutters and hang dormant in the smog. Not many people choose to be kind here, it’s just too hard to. You think maybe your bleeding heart is at fault for how he tiptoes around you, but you wish he would just be honest. This diner, your friendship - it’s so far removed from the rest of his life… you wish he would stop treating you like a precious secret. 

“I-” You shake your head when he starts to apologise, waving your hand as if to clear the air between you.

“It’s forgotten,” you say, even though it never is. The tilt of his head reads you like an old book. Getting up, he rounds the table, shoving you further into the booth and looping an arm around your shoulders. Neither of you say anything - Jason reaching awkwardly for another chip - but the warm press of his side against yours is words enough. You shuffle - somehow - closer to him and take the hand that's over your shoulder, moving it delicately into your lap. You run careful circles around the bruises on his knuckles, trying to commit the warmth of him to memory. Trying to remember him while he’s still here. 

When you glance back at him, he’s looking at you with something wide and soft and world-ending in his eyes. The hand in your lap shifts around to thread your fingers together and he squeezes your hand almost uncomfortably. This boy, this fucking boy, who loves too much, too rough, too pure. “You can’t be real,” he whispers, and the diner melts away and all that’s left is his (blue blue blue) eyes and the way his hand holds yours like a lifeline. You hope you love him enough that it shows - that it spills out of the gaping seams of your stitched up heart. Clammy palms grip tighter to each other.

“I’m real, blue. This is real.”

“No. No,” he says, using your name in that careful, hard-edged tone he does when he’s serious, “It’s not.”

You wake gasping, shooting up in your bed as you try to catch your breath. Your hand crushes against your chest, trying to still your pounding heart. Fumbling in your sheets for your phone, you squint at the time. 4:02. You shuffle around, bare feet meeting hardwood floors and start to follow an unconscious morning routine - brain still foggy with sleep. It’s not until you’re wiping the steam off your bathroom mirror that you remember what day it is. The anniversary.

Reminders of Jason always hit you like a truck - blue mugs, cigarettes, hero complexes - but visiting his grave is another beast. You’re not one to let things get to you, moving too fast for anything to stick; but today is always cruel. In the entryway, you go back and forth between jackets, eventually yanking Jason’s old one from where it's hidden underneath all your others. Burying your face in the collar, you grab your keys and step into the biting Gotham wind. 

You take the metro up to the park by the Wayne Estate, stopping on the way to buy overpriced flowers and a travel sized bottle of whiskey. You stop outside the imposing gates - always closed but never locked - to take a shuddering breath. It’s never easier. 

Pushing open the rusted gate, you make the short trek up to the Wayne cemetery. Jason’s grave is a ways away from the others, hidden by an ancient sycamore tree. Autumn has come early this year, yellowing the sycamore’s leaves and burning your nose with the fresh scent of death. 

You really fucking hate this day.

It’s not the real anniversary of his death. You shudder to think about seeing Bruce Wayne here, and you doubt he’d even recognise you. Probably for the best. You’d tear him to pieces for existing when Jason is gone. No, today is the last time he left the diner - that’s the day Jason Todd died to you.

You remember staying up to watch the press conference Bruce Wayne gave after Jason’s death was reported. Sitting in a cold, empty diner, listening to his cold, empty responses, and grinding your teeth to bits. 

Wayne looks tired - beaten down, “No comment,” he says, when the questions steer to Jason. You’re furious that he could even bear to stay silent when you are tearing at the seams with things to say. Because Jason was kind, he was sharp as a whip and just as witty. And he was brash, and loud, and impulsive and full of a wild energy that hummed under the surface of his skin. And he was good. He was so good.

Somewhere between Wayne’s practised speech about the orphanage he’s opening in Jason’s name and his final statement, you mute the television and go back to washing dishes. It’s a herculean effort not to look up; waiting for Jason to start rambling about a book he’d read or someone he’d saved. You tuck your head down, avoiding the reminder that he was never going to keep you company again.

In the background, Bruce Wayne talks silently to a rapt audience.

And how they lauded him as Jason’s saviour - the homeless criminal turned social messiah by Wayne Enterprises. You want to scream; he was good already, he was good to the bone. But Gothamites - as much as they like to deny it - are obsessed with the idea of heroes. In a city of the uber wealthy and the poorest of the poor - everybody wants someone to save them. Big Brucie Wayne swooping in to reform a Gotham bottom-feeder? That’s a story everyone was taken by.

The crunch of a leaf underfoot pulls you out of your head and you realise you’re standing in front of Jason’s grave. Sitting yourself down, cross-legged, you face the grave; whiskey in one hand and flowers in the other. 

You’ve never liked his headstone. No pretentious quotes, no sardonic digs from beyond the grave. Just a dry, impersonal epitaph, etched permanently in his name: ‘In memory of Jason Peter Todd, loving son’.

You think he would’ve hated being reduced to someone’s son. You don’t think he was anyone’s anything. He was Gotham’s. He was yours. He was Batman’s. And then he was dead.

He was never any of those things at the same time. And he was certainly no one’s son. 

He was loving, though. You’ll give ‘em that.

“Well,” you say, unscrewing the bottle and downing half of it with a grimace, “Cheers, blue.” Nearly a decade and you still hate the taste of whiskey. You’d both made a pact that it would be your first legal drink - both with romantic ideas about what it would taste like. To you, it really just tastes like soap; but tradition is tradition. You reach out, brushing the thin layer of dirt that’s gathered over his headstone, eyes catching on the crude little bird carving in the top right corner. 

You’d carved it into his headstone the first year after he died; spent the whole year silently aching - haunted by empty space, reaching for him only to find air. That night was just the breaking point. It hadn’t helped that you were drunk off your ass either. 

You remember being miserably sick the next morning and - as you rested your head on the cool porcelain of your toilet - feeling selfishly satisfied that you were hurting at all. Visiting him early is selfish for you too. You want them to know you loved him first. You want them to know that somewhere, there is someone who mourns him into ruin. 

Or at least, into vandalism.

Now you drop the flowers on his grave - chrysanthemums and white lilies - and sweep away a stray fallen leaf. Crouched in front of his grave, you press your fingers to your lips, then to the bird. You feel the throb of a lump in your throat, and stand up fully, zipping up your jacket. The train home is loud and sweaty, but you feel more alone than ever.

You need a smoke.

~

Your apartment door is barely locked before you’re sliding up your window and ducking out onto the fire escape. Digging around in the pockets of Jason’s jacket, you fumble for your lighter, and the pack of cigarettes you’d bought on the way home. 

You lean over your fire escape railing, lighting up and taking a long drag. It’s a rare clear night in Gotham, and you close your eyes as you breathe out, listening to the faint, familiar whine of sirens. This. This is why you’ll never leave Gotham—these rare serene moments where you’re brought back down to earth by the familiar smell of rain and pavement; an early-Autumn breeze ruffling your hair.

Your moment of peace is interrupted when Red Hood swings down onto your fire escape, and you startle, dropping your - still-lit - cigarette over the railing. 

“Fuck!” You lean over the railing as if you’ll be able to catch it, letting your head fall against the cool metal in defeat. “Please tell me you don’t need stitches tonight,” you grumble, head still hung over the railing. A hand grasps the back of your shirt, pulling you - a little roughly - away from the edge. Your eyes flash up to his mask, only to find him looking away.

“No stitches.” He shifts uncomfortably. “I… I’m not- injured.” Your brow creases.

“Then… why are you here?” He pauses. If you hadn’t been slowly learning him over the past few months, you’d mistake his silence for stoicism, but his shoulders are drawn up slightly and his gaze is focused on a spot just above your head. He seems… sheepish? No. Caught. He clears his throat—hand in the cookie jar.

“I just…,” long pause, “Drop by sometimes. To check you’re… you know.” You do not know. You raise a brow and he nods over at the pack of cigarettes balancing on the railing.

“I’ve never seen you smoke before.” Not exactly a seamless subject change, but you know better than to pry when the other person has guns strapped to their thighs. Your eyes drift to the cigarettes, and back to Red.

“Only when I’m stressed.” He does that head tilt-y thing—trying to read you. 

“Something more stressful than surgery on a stranger in your apartment?” You just hum, turning away and reaching for another cigarette. Lighting it, you hold the pack out to Red as you take another drag and exhale. He shakes his head, “Quit a long time ago, doc.” Your surprise must paint itself all over your face because he laughs lowly, rasping out his response.

“Had a friend who hated it.”

Brows creasing, you tilt your head, appraising him in a quiet once-over. “You don’t seem like the type to change for anyone, Red.” Somehow he stiffens and relaxes at the same time; you get the sense that the answer to your observation is just as paradoxical, equal parts right and wrong.

“Yeah well, she was…” He trails off, gaze drifting from you and shoulders sinking. He looks… lost. Watching him feels like you’re intruding on a private moment, so you turn away, leaning heavily on the railing. You take another long drag of your cigarette and exhale the smoke into the wind.

“Was that you? The sirens?”     

He huffs, railing creaking as he settles next to you. “Yeah. Some asshole trying to rob a mom-and-pop store.” You kiss your teeth in mirrored disappointment, nose wrinkling.

“Good ol’ Gotham.” You feel his gaze boring into you and make a point to glare defiantly out at the skyline - avoiding him. The hand that isn’t keeping a loose grip on your cigarette begins to scratch anxiously at the rust on the railing. 

Red points vaguely at your cigarette, “What’s your stressor?” Without really noticing it, you clench your jaw and your hand moves halfway up to your mouth before you stop it. Old habits quelled by memories of bleeding nails bitten to the quick. You realise you’ve waited too long to spout a believable lie.

“Visited my friend’s grave.” You don’t even bother to school your voice, letting it claw its way across shards of glass to be heard.

“‘M sorry.” Red’s head inclines slightly, gloved hand inching towards yours. You just shrug.

“It’s been nearly ten years.” 

“Doesn’t make it easier.” He tells you and you know it isn’t false platitudes. Death is an old friend of the both of you. 

You pause, letting the city rush over you. “No,” you say finally, “It doesn’t.” Reaching again for your cigarette, you feel the weight of the day prickling at the backs of your eyes. The railing creaks as he leans heavier against it.

“Tell me about them.” 

“What?” 

“Your friend.”

You take a deep breath, brows knit, “He was…,” you roll your lips together, trying not to choke up, “Reckless.” Red snorts, hanging his head in surprised amusement. You smile for the first time all day. “I swear danger followed him around or something, I was always having to patch him up, even before—“ You cut yourself off, white-knuckling the railing. 

“He’s the reason I’m a doctor.” There’s a thick silence, which Red breaks with a staticky whistle. 

“You’re something else, doc.” Your brows knit, fingers drumming on the railing. The cold seeps into your bones, fire escape creaking with every gust of wind. Looking out over the city, you shake your head at nobody.

“I’m…” you swallow, dislodging the breath stuck in your throat, “I’m tired.” You fumble for the right words and Red waits, turning his back on the skyline, mask angled down.

Shaky hand brings your cigarette to your lips, breathing out a cloud of smoke. “So much of me is him… I don’t know—“ your voice cracks, “No one can help me carry the love he left me with. I don’t know where it goes.”

More silence—you’re starting to get comfortable with it. He lifts his head, and you think he might talk, instead, he carefully pulls off a glove, shoving it in his pocket so he can run a warm, calloused palm over your upper arm. You choke up at the gesture, gritting your teeth against the lump in your throat when your eyes catch on his bruised knuckles. Haven’t we been here before?

“Think ya just get bigger around it, doc.” Blinking at him, you dissolve into tears—a dam held in since this morning. Embarrassed, you close your eyes, tears running, unbidden, down your cheeks. 

Red’s mask pulls back slightly in shock, “Fuck, sorry, m’not good at this, don’t—” He flounders a little, hand gripping your arm with a ferocity you know is unconscious. The physicality of the action steadies you.

“I’m not—” you huff out a wet laugh, “It’s not you, I just… you lose someone and everything you used to share becomes a sign. My life is marked by a ghost.”

“Fingerprints.”

“… yeah.” You crush your half-smoked cigarette against the railing, flicking it over the edge. You stand, awkwardly, next to each other; neither of you wanting to leave but both empty of words. Your hands tap nervously on the railing and you shove them in your pockets - if only to have something to do with them. Pulling out your lighter, you flick it on and off absently, watching the flame flicker under your control.

The lighter distracts you for a little, but soon you realise that Red has gone rigid beside you; the silence between you just slightly too thick. You shoot him an inquisitive glance, trying to gauge what he’s thinking.

“Nice lighter.” he says, gaze locked on the bird etched into it. Your brows furrow.

“It’s not really mine.” The truth, if obfuscated a little.

“Is it… a robin?” You shake your head, a little laugh escaping you at how bad your etching job must’ve been.

“A bluejay.” The second the words leave your mouth, he goes still - so still you’re unsure if he’s still breathing. “Red?”

“Blue?” You wave a hand in front of his face, shaking him out of a thousand yard stare into his coffee mug. “Earth to Jason Todd.” He shoots you a flat look and watches as your face breaks into a world-ending laugh. Leaning forward, he raps bruised knuckles against the counter. You shake your head to hide the split second of worry in your eyes at the sight of his hands. Jason notices.

“So why do you call me blue?” He says, trying to innocuously tuck his hands back under the table. You huff, clumsy hands dropping the dish you’re washing in the sink with a clatter. You lean on the edge of the sink, collecting yourself before you answer.

“Why do you call me birdie?” 

“‘Cause you’re small. ‘Nd you got a pretty voice.” He must imagine the bashful way you tuck your head into your shoulder. Like you liked that.

Picking up the plate you dropped, you rinse and dry it, letting him stew in your lack of answer for a little. “It's a play on words.” Jason’s brows knit, trying to think of the connection you’d conjured. “Blue. Like blue jay.”

“Ha ha.” 

“I’m serious.”

His brows crease. “Why a bird?” (Why not a robin?)

You give him a funny look, eyes squinted like you’re reading his mind. You always seem to know what he’s thinking. Jason shifts in the barstool; feathers ruffled. 

“It’s just a nickname, Jay.” Jason knows you; he knows the word ‘just’ doesn’t have a place in your vocabulary. But he spots the tiny crease in your brow, your red raw hands, the single knot on your apron in place of a double knot—reads your language. He takes a swig of coffee from his baby blue mug, grinning toothily before he changes the subject. 

~

Bruce’s office door is closed when Jason returns to Wayne Manor, so Jason finds himself roaming the halls aimlessly. His feet carry him to the library—he still has to stand in awe every time he wanders between the statuesque shelves, spilling over with books. 

Slipping further into the maze of shelves, Jason doesn’t quite know what he’s looking for until he spots it. His fingers graze an untouched ornithology book, sliding it into his lap. Cross-legged on the floor, Jason flips it open to the chapter on blue jays.

... so i'm not dead, lol, and I am still writing - albeit very slowly and sporadically. the past few months have been very hectic, but I'm going to have a lot more writing time now that my first term of uni (!!) is nearly over. anyway, sorry to keep you guys waiting and I hope you enjoy reading my silly story :)

with love, bugsy

[secular-jew]

Fish and Chips’ Surprising Jewish History. Jamie Oliver confirmed it!

You may be surprised to learn that fish and chips, though wildly popular in England for what seems like eternity, was actually a specialty of the Portuguese Sephardic Jews who fled the Inquisition in the 16th century and found refuge in the British Isles. Celebrity Chef Jamie Oliver referred to this recently in an article in the New York Times, adding that, “Dishes evolve, impacted by trade, war, famine and a hundred other forces.”

Among those “other forces” are dishes born of religious ritual. For observant Jews, fish is pareve, a neutral food in kosher terms, thus an easy way to avoid treyf (non-kosher food) and possibly include dairy in the same meal. It was especially important for Marranos, the so-called crypto-Jews, who pretended to be Christian during the Inquisition. They ate fish on Fridays, when meat was forbidden by the Church, and also saved some to eat cold the next day at lunch, to avoid cooking on Shabbat.

Frying was natural for Jewish home cooks — think of latkes and sufganyiot — and as the Jewish community began to flourish in England, it spurred a taste for its beloved fried, battered fish throughout the country. According to Claudia Roden’s The Book of Jewish Food, Thomas Jefferson tried some on a trip to London and noted that he ate “fish in the Jewish fashion” during his visit. Alexis Soyer, a French cook who became a celebrated chef in Victorian England included a recipe for “Fried Fish, Jewish Fashion” in the first edition of his cookbook A Shilling Cookery for the People (1845). Soyer’s recipe notes that the “Jewish manner” includes using oil rather than meat fat (presumably lard), which made the dish taste better, though also made it more expensive.

There’s some dispute about the where and when of “chips” (what we Americans call French fries and the French call pommes frites). Many historians say that deep-fried, cut-up potatoes were invented in Belgium and, in fact, substituted for the fish during hard times. The first time the word “chips” was used was in Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities in 1859: “husky chips of potato, fried with some reluctant drops of oil.”

The official pairing of fish and chips didn’t happen until a few years later, though. Although there are some who dispute it, most authorities say that it is thanks to a Jewish cook, this time a young Ashkenazi immigrant named Joseph Malin, who opened the first British chippy, AKA fish and chip shop, in London in 1863. The shop was so successful it remained in business until the 1970s.

Who could foresee that fearful Jewish immigrants hiding their true religion and practicing in secret would be responsible for creating one of the most iconic dishes in the U.K.? The down-home dish that Winston Churchill claimed help the British defeat the Nazis, the comfort food that George Orwell said helped keep the masses happy and “averted revolution.” The dish, by the way, that was among the only foods never rationed during wartime because the British government believed that preserving access to it was a way of keeping up morale. A dish that continues to be a mainstay of the British diet.

Think about that the next time you find yourself feasting on this centuries-old — Jewish? British? — recipe.

These days, some restaurants are putting a new spin on fish and chips. Almond crusted. Baked instead of fried. Quinoa coated. Sweet potato fries instead of regular. And those are all fine; as Oliver says, “Dishes evolve.” But plain old fish and chips endures and probably always will. Good recipes usually do.

H/T : @scartale-an-undertale-au

Naveed Anjum

[midnight-mourning]

Stave off the Cold

❄️❄️Midnight's DCA December Day 24❄️❄️

guhhh i went a LIL angsty for part of this, but you'll like it dw, it'll be worth it in the end ;) hope you enjoy!

Prompt: Perhaps post ruin, since its snowing so hard the power goes out. Yn and ruin snuggling to stave off the cold and are sappy together or something along those lines. ^-^

Word Count: 1313

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

You're in the middle of the most delicate of work when it happens. The lights cut, and you curse, almost dropping the new CPU chip in the dark. Carefully, with another slew of curse—that probably wouldn't have been approved if they'd hear—you step back and search for your workbench, setting down the chip and pulling out your phone. 

Flashing it to the window, you can see the snowstorm blowing outside. That must've done it. Great. Just great. 

You glance over to the bot lying motionless on the table, heart twisting at the sight. You've been working for months to fix them, you knew there had to be way, knew that somewhere they still had to be in there. The fact that you'd been able to charge their body and get their limbs to move independently proved that. 

You rub your face and check the time, you could still work in this, as long as there was still some heat in here. The power had to come back on eventually, right?

You search for your lantern, finding it and lighting, hanging it from the ceiling above. Once everything's settled, towels stuff under the old door to help keep heat from leaking out, you get back to work. 

When you'd found them, having decided to take a look through the long abandoned Plex, you'd been horrified at their condition. Tattered clothes and broken parts, that's what remained of your beloved attendant. You remember cradle their cracked faceplate in your hand, tears welling up at the thought that'd they shut down alone, afraid, not knowing where they'd wake up again. 

That had been back in the fall, it was the dead of winter now and progress had been progressing best you could. You weren't well versed in this type of thing, you were relying on videos and online forums to guide your progress. And you were just hoping and praying you were doing all this correctly. 

You'd started with the surface level damaged and worked your way in, scrounging the Plex for spare parts and replacements. Anything you couldn't find you'd snatch up in eBay auctions or the likes. 

With tender love and care, you rebuilt your attendant back into the bot you loved. You just finished repairing Sun's rays the other day, but you kept Moon's hat on him, something about the look going along with their mismatched pants. 

Now all that was left was the hard stuff, the internal components. 

So much of their inner workings had been fried, smashed, or damaged in some other capacity. You'd feared for the worst, truthfully. Having to accept that they may actually be gone for good. It was something that haunted you for weeks before you finally bit the bullet and opened up their head. 

You had teared up a bit when you found their hard drive was in perfect condition, letting out a cheer loud enough to probably disturb your neighbors. 

Your hands are shaking now, you realize. Shivering, your shivering. You check the time again, it's already been two hours. But, you argue, it's not that cold yet. You can keep going, keeping working, keep fixing. Keep saving. 

You have to. You have to do it for them. 

You take short breaks every now and then, warming your hands on their casing. They may not be awake, but at least they're alive. 

Your breath is showing up in front of you now, your fingers feel stiff, but still, you keep going. You just have one final thing to do, give them a reset. 

Your legs hurt as you stand, walking up to where their head rests. You pull out the Faz wrench you'd found on your last trip to the Plex. A find that had you dancing around the abandoned building like an idiot. 

With a shaky grip, you insert it and turn, waiting with bated breath. 

Nothing happens. 

You step back, waiting a solid two minutes for the attendant to sit up, either AI greeting you like how you've been waiting six months for them to do. 

But they don't. 

You feel too tired and too cold to cry. Just a feeling of utter defeat overtaking you. Your head feels heavy, so do your eyelids. Maybe you just need to take a nap, and you can figure this out afterwards. 

You climb back up onto the table, laying down on the warm but empty shell of your attendant. Curling up, you pull your coat tighter around yourself and close your eyes. 

As you start to drift off, you swear you feel a shift underneath you, something laying on top of your body. 

You have a strange dream. 

In it, you're being carried through the snow by something. It has two bright eyes, one red, one white, with spikes coming off its head, and a blue hat. It speaks to you, murmuring sweet nothings that you can't recall. 

When you wake up on your couch, you realize it wasn't a dream. You go to get up, but a firm grip around your waist prevents you from doing so. Looking down, you realize your laying on top of Sun, or, Moon? You don't know, you don't care, because it clicks to you that his eyes are open and he's looking at you and he's awake—

"Hello, Starlight. We missed you."

Your voice is just a whisper. "You're awake... You're okay."

Before he can say anything, you wrap your arms around him, kissing his faceplate over and over. 

"I, I thought you guys were gone. That, that it wouldn't work, that I had to live without you." You're crying now. "I, I can't believe you're actually here."

"Silly Star. We never left." A shift in tone. "We were right there with you, Sunbeam!"

You realize what they mean. "Oh god. That means you heard all of that."

"You mean all your lovely conversations with us? Your laughter, your beautiful singing?" They take your hand, pressing it to their faceplate. "Because if so, the answer is yes."

You feel your face heat up and not knowing what else to do bury it against their neck as they laugh. 

"How awful." You mumble. 

They pet your hair for a few moments, fingers staying laced in it as you sit back up to look at them. 

You trace your hand down the side of their face, taking it all in. "I can't believe it, after all this time. Picked a terrible time to wake up. Can't even give you a proper tour of the place with the power out."

You start to get up, wanting to go grab a lamp, but they immediately pull you back down, arms firmly around you. 

"No leaving. Too cold. Stay here, we'll keep you warm."

You give in rather easily, especially when their hands start to explore just under your shirt, snickering at how you tense up. 

You scowl at them, taking their faceplate in both hands and leaning down so your foreheads are touching. "How did you two manage to get worse?"

Just another chuckle in response, their eyes nothing but thin, devious crescents. 

You kiss them then, soft, sweet. And then you do it again, and again. 

As you kiss, you feel the blanket you'd shoved off in your excitement be placed back over you both, adding to the warmth and coziness between you. 

You have to break away for a moment, panting ever so slightly. 

They tilt their head, watching you keenly. A thumb comes up to swipe against your lip. 

You smirk. "Thanks."

They nod. 

"I really missed you, you know?" You lay your head against their chest, listening to how with every tick and click and whirl, it's a sign that they're really there with you. They're actually home. 

Their hand comes up to stroke your hair, other arm snug against your hip. 

"We missed you too."

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

Thank you @rosescarletful for the request! I had a bit of fun with it as you can see, very much enjoyed the concept your prompt allowed me to think up :)

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[daytaker]

Chat Log: A Human Child Arrives in the Devildom

Beelzebub: I don’t remember. Beelzebub: I don't remember that either. Mammon: Oi, Beel, what the hell are you saying? Satan: That isn’t Beel. It’s “the new human exchange student”. Mammon: Why are ya sayin’ that in quotes? Satan: You’ll see. Mammon: The hell does that mean?! Beelzebub: I fell. Beelzebub: I fell out a tree and then I was here. Lucifer: Satan, Asmo, Beel. I thought I said to look after the human child. Why is it sending nonsense in the chat? Asmo: It can’t talk, so we’re asking it questions out loud and having it answer like this! Lucifer: Why did you not create a new chat where you could interrogate it without annoying the rest of us? Satan: Convenience. This chat already existed. Mammon: Whoa whoa whoa, did you say human CHILD? Why the hell did you guys recruit a child? Lucifer: We didn’t. Something appears to have gone wrong in the summoning process. Barbatos is attempting to resolve the issue as we speak. Mammon: Is the kid still in the chat? Asmodeus: Yes, Beel loaned it his phone. Mammon: Hey kid, ya like ice cream? Beelzebub: Yes. Mammon: Well, I got a massive chocolate cone for any human kid who’s willing to come hang out around the central plaza for a few hours. Demons’ll pay good money to get a look at a genuine human child.  Mammon: Hey, Asmo, is it cute? Beelzebub: They want me to tell you I'm not going anywhere with you. Asmodeus: Yeah, leave the poor thing alone! It probably misses its parents! Asmodeus: And yes, it’s adorable! ♡ Mammon: Good, folks’ll pay more for that. Leviathan: Whaaaaaat? Sorry, just backread, but wow! You guys isekai’d a BABY to RAD? LOLOLOLOL Beelzebub: I’m not a baby. Lucifer: I apologize for the delay in sending this message. I was occupied with Diavolo and Barbatos. Lucifer: Mammon, if you take that child out in public and it gets eaten, I will flay you alive. Beelzebub: Do demons eat kids? Mammon: Yep. Mammon: They’re pretty freakin’ delicious too. Way better than old people. Mammon: ‘Cause they’re softer. Lucifer: Shut up and listen. Lucifer: Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem as if this issue is going to be resolved as quickly as I had hoped. Lucifer: Mammon, if I leave you in charge of the human until tomorrow, do you think you can keep it alive? Mammon: What? Why me? Ain’t Asmo and Satan there already? Lucifer: I hesitate to entrust a child to either Asmo or Satan for any extended period of time due to certain personality defects each of them possess. Asmodeus: Rude!!! Mammon: What about Beel? Lucifer: Beel would certainly eat it. Mammon: …Yeah, I guess that’s fair. Lucifer: Satan, Asmo, Beel. Please take the human to the school gates and wait for Mammon to retrieve it. In the meantime, Diavolo has graciously offered to lend it the D.D.D. he had prepared for the original transfer student, so stop by the dean’s office to pick it up. Asmodeus: Fine, we're going. Mammon: I really gotta do this, huh? Lucifer: Yes. Mammon: :( Leviathan: LOLOLOLOL!!! This is hilarious! Lucifer: Don't think I've forgotten about you, Levi. I'd like you to prepare a few dishes Barbatos says are in vogue with human children. Leviathan: Wait, are you making me its personal chef? Mammon: Ha! Serves ya right! Leviathan: Shut up, Mammon. Lucifer: Macaroni and cheese. Lucifer: Chicken tenders/nuggets (in the shape of dinosaurs, if possible) Leviathan: Dinosaurs? Lucifer: Apple juice. Lucifer: Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Lucifer: French fries. Lucifer: Cheese pizza. Leviathan: Do I have to make all of this right now? Lucifer: Chocolate chip cookies. Lucifer: Human-world grapes. Leviathan: Am I being trolled right now? Lucifer: Absolutely not. Prepare one dish immediately using whatever ingredients we already own. Lucifer: Human, if you are still here, I would like to extend my deepest apologies on behalf of the Royal Academy of Diavolo for this unfortunate mistake. Lucifer: I hope we are able to resolve this in a timely manner.