#keeping food on the line and keeping food from coming back up

[writingbuckets]

The Hot Take: Part 4

paige bueckers x podcaster!reader

wc: 2.9k

a/n: sorry i haven't posted in a while, been super busy with finals coming up and thanksgiving break <3

**********

The morning sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the bustling city streets. You adjusted your bag on your shoulder, your steps quick but unhurried as you made your way to the familiar café. It had become something of a ritual—a brief reprieve from the chaos of your growing platform. Since your last podcast episode, the buzz surrounding “Y/N and Paige” had reached a fever pitch. Fans dissected every word, tone, and pause between you and Paige during her guest appearance, spinning narratives from mere banter. Some took it lightly, treating it like an amusing rivalry, while others speculated wildly about an unspoken connection.

You tried to ignore the noise, but it was impossible to escape the notifications flooding your phone. Clips of the episode went viral, with captions ranging from “This is your sign to ship Y/N and Paige” to “When will Y/N admit she’s obsessed with her?” What started as harmless sports commentary had snowballed into something much bigger—and much messier.

The café door jingled as you stepped in, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. You inhaled deeply, savoring the moment of normalcy, before slipping into line. The barista gave you a knowing smile; you were a regular here, and they didn’t need to ask for your order anymore.

As you waited, scrolling absentmindedly through your phone, a familiar voice broke through the din.

“Well, well. If it isn’t my favorite podcaster.”

You turned, startled, and there she was—Paige Bueckers, standing just a few feet away, hands in the pockets of her hoodie. She looked impossibly casual, yet every movement radiated confidence. Her hair was pulled back, and the slightest smirk tugged at her lips, giving her an air of effortless charm.

“Bueckers,” you said, keeping your tone steady despite the flutter in your chest. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Aren’t you supposed to be practicing or something?”

“Recovery day,” she replied with a shrug. “Coach’s orders. But what about you? Hiding out from your adoring fanbase?”

You let out a dry laugh. “Something like that.”

There was a pause, one that felt weighted despite its brevity. Paige glanced toward the counter, then back at you, her expression softening. “Tell you what,” she said, leaning in slightly, her voice dropping just enough to make it feel like a private conversation. “This place is nice, but I know a spot around the corner that makes the best sandwiches in the city. Let me take you there. You look like you could use a break from all the chaos.”

You hesitated. Lunch with Paige? It wasn’t the first time you’d crossed paths, but there was something about this invitation that felt… different.

“Alright,” you said finally, unable to resist the hint of vulnerability in her tone. “Lead the way, Bueckers.”

As you stepped outside, walking side by side, you felt a strange sense of ease settling between you. It was surprising how natural it felt, how the tension that had been building for weeks seemed to melt away with each step.

The sandwich shop Paige led you to was small and tucked away, the kind of place you’d never notice unless someone pointed it out. Inside, it smelled like fresh bread and roasted vegetables, the warm, savory aroma instantly calming your nerves.

Paige held the door open for you, her hand briefly brushing against your shoulder as you stepped inside. You told yourself it was nothing, just a polite gesture, but your heart betrayed you, quickening its pace.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” you teased as you looked around. “This place is a hidden gem.”

“I’m full of surprises,” Paige replied, her grin widening. “Wait until you try the turkey pesto. Life-changing.”

The two of you ordered and found a small table near the window. The conversation started light—sports, favorite foods, the absurdity of social media trends—but quickly delved deeper. Paige was easy to talk to, her quick wit and relaxed demeanor making you forget, if only for a moment, the chaos waiting for you outside.

“So,” she said between bites, her tone casual but her gaze steady. “How’s life in the spotlight treating you?”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “It’s… a lot. I didn’t sign up for this whole ‘public figure’ thing. I just wanted to talk about sports, you know? But now, it’s like every little thing I say gets blown out of proportion.”

Paige nodded, her expression thoughtful. “Yeah, I get that. People love to read into things, make it bigger than it is. But you handle it well—you’re honest, and people respect that. It’s why your podcast works.”

“Honesty doesn’t stop them from turning me into a meme,” you muttered, though you couldn’t help but smile.

Paige chuckled, leaning back in her chair. “Memes aren’t so bad. Means you’ve made it.” She paused, her expression softening. “But seriously, if it ever gets to be too much… just say the word. I’ll set the record straight.”

Her words hung in the air, heavier than you expected. There was something about the way she said it—earnest, almost protective—that made your chest tighten.

“Thanks,” you said softly. “But I think I’ll survive. Par for the course, right?”

She smiled, a quiet understanding passing between you. For a moment, the world outside the café—the trending hashtags, the speculative headlines, the invasive questions—faded into the background. It was just the two of you, the clatter of plates and the hum of conversation from other diners filling the comfortable silence.

“So,” Paige said, leaning forward slightly, her elbows resting on the table. Her expression was playful, but her tone carried a softness that made your chest tighten. “What’s your go-to escape plan when the world feels a little too loud?”

You blinked at the sudden shift in conversation, caught off guard by the intimacy of the question. “Wow, we’re skipping small talk, huh?” you teased, though there was no bite to your tone.

She shrugged, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “Small talk feels… boring. And besides, I feel like you’re not exactly the type to waste time talking about the weather.”

You tilted your head, considering her for a moment. “Fair enough. My escape plan?” You glanced out the window, thinking. “I usually just… disappear for a while. Shut off my phone, pick a random spot where no one knows me, and let myself breathe.”

“Alone?” Paige asked, her gaze steady, as if she were trying to piece together something about you.

“Most of the time,” you admitted, fidgeting slightly with your fork. “It’s easier that way. No one to ask questions or expect you to explain why you need a break. It’s just… quiet.”

She nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful. “I get that. Quiet can be hard to find, though.”

“Especially for someone like you,” you countered, lifting an eyebrow. “How do you handle it? The constant attention, the noise?”

Paige leaned back in her chair, her fingers idly tracing the rim of her glass. “It’s a balancing act, honestly. Some days it feels like I’m thriving, and other days…” She trailed off, her eyes flickering with something you couldn’t quite place. “Other days, I just want to crawl under a rock.”

The honesty in her voice surprised you, and you found yourself leaning in, drawn to the vulnerability she was showing. “So, what’s your escape plan?” you asked softly.

Her lips twitched into a small smile. “When I was a kid, it was basketball. I could lose myself in it for hours. But now…” She shrugged, her smile turning wistful. “Now it’s not that simple. Sometimes it’s music, sometimes it’s a long drive with no destination. And sometimes,” she said, her gaze locking with yours, “it’s just finding someone who gets it and talking to them.”

You felt your breath hitch slightly, the weight of her words settling over you like a warm blanket. “Does that work?”

“Sometimes,” she said simply, her voice quieter now.

The air between you felt charged, but not in an uncomfortable way. It was as though you were both carefully peeling back layers, exposing just enough of yourselves to keep the conversation honest without feeling too vulnerable.

Paige broke the silence first, her grin returning, though it was softer now. “Okay, your turn. What’s your go-to for cheering yourself up when life gets ridiculous?”

You let out a small laugh, grateful for the shift in tone. “Honestly? Binge-watching terrible reality TV. The trashier, the better. There’s something oddly comforting about watching other people’s drama when yours feels overwhelming.”

Paige laughed, the sound light and genuine. “Let me guess—Love Island?”

“Close,” you said, smirking. “The Bachelor franchise. It’s my guilty pleasure.”

She leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Wait, are you serious? You’re out here roasting me on a podcast, and yet you willingly watch people argue over roses?”

“Hey!” you protested, pointing a finger at her. “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. It’s fascinating. And besides, it’s nice to watch other people’s lives spiral for a change.”

“Fair point,” Paige conceded, laughing again. “I’ll admit, I’ve seen a couple episodes. Pure chaos.”

“Exactly,” you said, grinning. “Pure, unfiltered chaos. It’s the best kind of escape.”

Paige’s gaze lingered on you a moment longer, her smile softening. “You’re full of surprises, you know that?”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t suppress the warmth creeping into your cheeks. “What, because I like bad TV?”

“No,” she said, her tone gentle but firm. “Because you’re not what I expected.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. You opened your mouth to respond but found yourself at a loss for words. For once, Paige had managed to throw you off balance, and the realization brought a small, knowing smile to her face.

“Ready to go?” she asked after a moment, her voice casual again as she reached for the check.

You nodded, still processing the shift in the conversation. As the two of you stood to leave, you couldn’t help but glance at her, wondering what, exactly, she had expected—and why you suddenly cared so much.

**********

By the time you returned home, you felt lighter than you had in days. Paige had a way of making things feel simple, even when they weren’t, and for the first time in weeks, you allowed yourself to relax.

That peace lasted all of two hours.

Your phone buzzed incessantly on the table, the screen lighting up with notifications. At first, you ignored it, too tired to deal with whatever fresh drama the internet had conjured. But when the buzzing didn’t stop, curiosity got the better of you.

Opening your social media app, you were greeted by a flood of posts—tweets, Instagram stories, TikTok videos—all revolving around the same thing: a photo of you and Paige at lunch, laughing like you didn’t have a care in the world.

The photo, clearly taken without your knowledge, was candid and undeniably intimate. The way Paige was leaning toward you, her eyes crinkled with laughter, and the way your hand rested on the edge of the table, as if caught mid-gesture—it looked like something straight out of a rom-com.

The captions ranged from playful to outright chaotic:

“Y/N and Paige Bueckers spotted on a secret date? The internet needs answers!”

“Y/N called Paige overrated, and now they’re laughing over sandwiches? We love a plot twist!”

“Enemies to lovers arc confirmed?”

Scrolling through the comments, you saw everything from flame emojis to users jokingly begging for an invite to the wedding. Some fans even made memes comparing the photo to stills from romantic comedies, complete with over-the-top taglines like “From Courtside Critique to Courtside Cuties.”

You tossed your phone onto the couch, groaning. The sheer intensity of the internet's reaction was overwhelming. What was supposed to be a casual lunch now felt like the centerpiece of a media frenzy. Your podcast was supposed to be about sports, not… this.

The doorbell rang, pulling you from your thoughts. You weren’t expecting anyone, and for a second, you wondered if it could somehow be Paige. But when you opened the door, it was your co-host, coffee in hand and an all-too-knowing grin on her face.

“Thought you might need a caffeine boost,” she said, holding out the cup before stepping inside. “Also, I wanted a front-row seat to your existential crisis.”

You groaned again, collapsing onto the couch. “It’s a circus out there.”

She plopped down beside you, pulling out her phone. “Oh, I know. You’re all over my feed. And, can I just say, that picture? Chef’s kiss. The lighting, the smiles—it’s perfect. Whoever took it deserves an award.”

“Not helping,” you muttered, burying your face in a pillow.

“I mean, come on,” she teased. “You have to admit, it’s kinda cute. The queen of hot takes and the queen of basketball, sharing a meal? It’s like the internet’s dream pairing.”

You peeked out from behind the pillow. “It’s not cute. It’s invasive. I didn’t sign up for this.”

She tilted her head, her tone softening. “No, but you kinda did when you started calling Paige out on the pod. You built this dynamic, whether you meant to or not. And now people are invested.”

You sighed, knowing she was right. “It’s just… my podcast was supposed to be my space, you know? I didn’t think it would spiral into this.”

Before your co-host could respond, your phone buzzed again. This time, it was a text—from Paige.

Paige: “So… about that photo. Sorry if it’s causing chaos.”Paige: “Also, we’re trending #2 right now. Just ahead of some celebrity breakup, so I guess congrats to us?”

You couldn’t help but laugh, despite yourself. Paige had a knack for disarming you with humor, even when you were spiraling.

You: “Yeah, congrats to us. We’re practically internet royalty now.”Paige: “Want me to make a statement? I can clear the air if this is too much.”

You stared at the screen, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. The offer was tempting. Paige’s popularity could easily shift the narrative if she addressed the rumors. But a part of you hesitated. Would that make things better or worse?

Your co-host, who had been reading over your shoulder, nudged you. “You should let her say something. It’ll take some heat off you.”

You shook your head. “No, I’ll handle it. Comes with the territory, right?”

Still, you typed back, trying to keep it light: You: “Nah, it’s fine. Let them talk. I’m used to it.”

Paige’s reply came almost immediately: Paige: “Alright, but if you change your mind, let me know. In the meantime… don’t let it stress you out too much. You’re good at this.”

You smiled faintly at the screen, her words oddly reassuring.

By the time evening rolled around, the noise online hadn’t died down, but you were determined to push through it. You set up your recording equipment, deciding to address the situation live for your next episode. If nothing else, it would give you a chance to reclaim some control over the narrative.

Your co-host leaned against the desk, watching you with a raised eyebrow. “So, what’s the plan? Are we diving headfirst into the Paige drama, or are you gonna keep it professional?”

You adjusted the mic, smirking. “Why not both?”

When the livestream started, you dove into your usual banter, easing your audience into the episode. But it didn’t take long before you hit the inevitable topic.

“So, let’s address the elephant in the room,” you said, leaning closer to the mic. “Yes, I had lunch with Paige Bueckers. Yes, someone took a picture. And yes, the internet is apparently losing its collective mind over it.”

Your co-host snorted. “Losing their minds is an understatement.”

You continued, your tone carefully measured. “Look, I get it. Paige and I have this… weird dynamic that people seem to find entertaining. But let’s not get carried away. It was just lunch.”

You paused, glancing at your co-host, who was giving you a look that said really?

“Okay, fine,” you added with a smirk. “It was good lunch. Paige has decent taste in food. I’ll give her that.”

The rest of the episode was a mix of humor and genuine reflection. You acknowledged the frenzy without feeding into it, carefully steering the conversation back to your comfort zone: sports.

When the episode ended, the reactions were immediate, and once again, your mentions lit up. But this time, amidst the chaos, there was a surprising amount of support. Fans praised you for addressing the situation head-on, while others couldn’t resist shipping you and Paige even harder.

And then, just as you were about to log off for the night, another message from Paige popped up:

Paige: “Just listened to the episode. Solid take. But next time, give me a heads-up before you roast my food recommendations on-air.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you typed back: You: “Noted. But no promises.”

Paige: “Fair. By the way, I’m free this weekend if you want to give me a chance to redeem myself. Lunch, round two?”

Your heart skipped a beat, but you played it cool: You: “We’ll see, Bueckers. Don’t get your hopes up.”

Her reply was instant: Paige: “I never do. But I’m annoyingly persistent, so good luck with that.”

You set your phone down, a small smile tugging at your lips. The noise might not die down anytime soon, but for now, it felt… manageable.

And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t mind the attention so much anymore.

[dailymanners]

If your job requires emailing at all, I've also picked up a few methods for responding to rude emails.

In my current job I strictly work B2B (business to business) and before this job had only worked retail and food service. I thought when I broke into office work that I was finally done with, well, the types of things you deal with in public facing customer service roles (the constant rudeness, dehumanization, unnecessary hostility, etc you know) but unfortunately after nearly two years sending and receiving emails in a B2B setting I regret to inform you that people are still rude dehumanizing jerks even when you are both professionals at work representing your own respective companies.

So, here's a few firm yet professional replies I've picked up.

If you are emailing with a supplier (as in a situation where *you* are the client) obviously you still need them to function at your job so you still need to be professional and remain on good terms with them, but unfortunately with the way things work when you are the client you do get a little more leeway in being firm and standing up for yourself. My go-to response when a supplier is being out of line rude / unprofessional / disrespectful is:

"Unfortunately I have to express disappointment at the lack of professional tone in your email."

Every time I've used this with a supplier I get an apology and a change of tone from thereon. You don't want to escalate the aggressive tone in a work related email, that never ends well, once they drag you down to their level there's no coming back from the fact that you just normalized the aggressive and unprofessional tone of your email communications with this supplier, so you want to keep the "high ground" so to speak. When you keep on the high ground instead you can shift the tone back to professional and courteous, which obviously makes your job easier.

However, you're still not letting them off the hook or just letting it slide with expressing your disappointment, and it's also good to be (professionally) putting your foot down and calling out the behavior so they don't get the idea that they can throw tantrums at you again in the future in a professional setting.

Handling rude and unprofessional emails from clients is obviously more tricky, because depending on what industry you're in the power dynamics are typically shifted more in their favor, so you have to watch your tone a little more.

I'm lucky enough that at my job I'm not only part of a union, but I have a boss who takes my side when clients are being unreasonable and unprofessional, so I can get away with a:

"Let's keep the tone of our communications professional, shall we?"

It still has a bit of a "customer service" tone to it, it still gives you the high ground (again, you don't want to sink down to their level and normalize rude / petty / hostile interactions with this client, it will make your job harder and more stressful if you do) but it does still address the behavior and let them know you're not just letting it slide.

Tips and ideas for how to respond when someone is being rude to you

For personal reasons I won't get into, I have a history of just freezing when some is rude / hostile / aggressive / condescending / patronizing / etc. It's obviously not something I'm happy about at all, most people who freeze or fawn aren't happy about it and would change it if they could.

One day I confided in my co-worker, a middle aged woman in her 50's, that this is something I struggle with. Considering how confident and assertive she always struck me as, I was shocked when she told me this is also something she's struggled with.

The advice she gave me is to just memorize and practice a few broad statements or reactions that you can pull out of your pocket so to speak when someone is being rude or disrespectful to you. It's not easy if you're someone who's been conditioned to freeze or fawn, but practice helps. Practice saying these things when you're alone. Put up a sticky note next to your bed or on your bathroom mirror with these phrases and practice them when you see them. Practice saying these with a partner or trusted friend, role-play scenarios where you might need to use these phrases.

Here's a few phrases that have worked for me. The nice thing about them is that they tend to shut down the situation rather than escalating, while still letting the aggressor know that you don't find their behavior acceptable.

"Are you okay?"

This works well in professional settings, because it's not like your work place's residential bully can run to HR about you asking if they're okay (but they might if you try to retaliate and give them a taste of their own medicine). However, it still effectively sends the message "I think there's something wrong with your behavior and don't accept it". It's also not likely the response they're expecting, so it'll likely throw them off and prevent further verbal aggression.

"Could you repeat that for me? I didn't catch what you said."

This one is most effective for people you believe to actually have a conscious and might regret what they said if they actually thought about it a little more. I find that often when I do this one, when people repeat the rude/snippy/patronizing/etc thing they either shamefully stumble over their words and show some remorse, or they change altogether what they say. In the off chance they don't regret what they said and end up repeating exactly what they said, this at least buys you some time to think of a better reaction since you're no longer caught off guard by a sudden rude and snippy remark.

"Can you explain what you mean by that?"

Similar logic to the last one. Often when people are being rude/snippy/patronizing/etc they're caught up in their own emotions in that moment and didn't think it through. This is a polite and civil way of putting their rude behavior in the spotlight and making them reconsider what they said. The other advantage to this one is that in case you did misread their intentions and they meant no harm by what they said or did, this gives them an opportunity to clarify that, instead of you just feeling bad over a statement or actions they actually had no ill intentions with.

If anyone has any further examples of reactions / responses / statements that have worked for them, I'd love to hear about them. I'm new to studying the art of how to civilly yet effectively shut down bad behavior from others, so I'm always open to hearing more suggestions.

[archangeldyke-all]

just finished act 3 and I need more Sevika to cope with my emotions about it :’)

can we get some mundane ways Sevika is obsessed with us? like I gotta believe the tiniest things the reader does make her sit there and gaze and think about how in love she is (as well as probably make her horny). I firmly believe this woman would watch you brush your teeth and be enamored and turned on at the same time 😮‍💨

(your writings been keeping me sane all throughout arcane btw 🫶)

hehehehe yes

men and minors dni

watching you struggle to clasp your bra in the early morning is one of the strangest things that sevika adores watching you do.

it's by no means attractive. you're still half asleep, contorting your body as you try to get the clasps to align properly and make sure there are no twists in the straps-- but sevika's fucking enamored. she loves the frustrated, sleepy look on your face, she loves the way that you never manage to line the clasps up properly.

she'll usually reach out to help you in your struggle, kissing your shoulders as you sigh and thank her.

"'y need the kind that clasp in the front, love." she chuckles.

"then you wouldn't get your little show every morning." you point out. sevika grins.

"good point."

sevika loves it when you make a mess while eating food.

she loves looking up across the table and finding you grinning, your cheeks puffed out with food, a bit of sauce on your chin or shirt.

she loves pulling you in with an exasperated little chuckle, licking her thumb and cleaning up your mess. "you missed your mouth." she teases. you smile up at her as her thumb's rubbing turns into gentle sweeps across your cheekbone. "you're a mess." she sighs dreamily.

you reach out and dip your finger in the sauce of your dinner, swiping it over your lips. "whoops!" you giggle. sevika grins. "better lick me clean, sev."

she leans in and does just that.

in the mornings, you'll apply sevika's lipstick for her, holding her chin gently between your fingers while you swipe her favorite color over her plush lips.

sevika's favorite part of this whole process isn't the gentle way you hold her, or the soft puffs of your breath on her face. it isn't even the smile and smooch you place on her lips when you're finished to blot them.

her favorite part of this little ritual is the subconscious way you pucker your lips as you trace hers, like you're copying her facial expression.

she thinks it's your way of non-verbally telling her to pucker her own lips, but you never put your lips back once she does, holding your kissy face the entire time you paint her lips, before smiling at your work and actually kissing her.

it drives her fucking crazy.

one night, sevika comes home to find you cooking dinner wearing a big pair of sunglasses. she frowns at you. "'re you hungover or something?" she asks.

"huh?" you ask from where you're stirring the veggies. sevika gently taps the glasses and you giggle, pulling them off your face. "oh, shit! i forgot i was wearing these, i can see so much better now!" you laugh.

sevika grins. "why were you wearing sunglasses inside?" she asks.

"i was chopping onions, i didn't wanna cry." you say with a shrug.

she doesn't know how or why, but your answer makes sevika impossibly horny for you. "oh, fuck, i love you so bad." she groans, pulling you in for a long, sloppy kiss.

you gasp against her lips, only to melt against her, letting her pin you to the counter top and kiss the breath out of you.

by the time sevika pulls away, your stirfry's burnt.

you don't mind, though.

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

@kissyslut @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

@sevikaspillowprincess @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai @my-taintedheart

@glass-apothecary @macaroni676 @artinvain @k3n-dyll @sevsdollette

@ellieslob @xayn-xd @keikuahh @maneskinwh0re @raphaellearp

@iamastar @sevikitty @mascdom @nhaaauyen @annesunshiner

@mirconreadzztuff22 @veoomvroom @lushh-s3vik4s @katyawooga @lesbodietcoke

@lavandasz @strawberrykidneystone @sevikasfan @fict1onallyobsessed

[louisferrignojr]

i keep saying i'm not going to pay this show any more attention and I keep coming back with more thoughts and i decided to inflict them on all of y'all so here goes

hot take: the brad/hotshots storyline isn't inherently bad. it was entertaining. it was fun and campy, classic 911. i love it when shows get a bit meta. we stay sillay.

however it all falls completely flat, and here's why:

they butchered the main storylines they had set up at the end of s7 — Hen and Karen vs Ortiz (and Gerrard), the 118 vs Gerrard vs Tommy (don't play, they wrote it out with big block letters), Bobby's suicidal ideation, abrupt resignation and relationship conflict with Athena, not to mention NDE. the only storyline they seem to have spent any time on is Eddie and Chris — thank fucking fuck, some good food for Eddie.

they have disregarded previously established side characters in favour of developing Brad Torrence. where the fuck is Ravi? where's Sue, where's Linda? why is Josh only there as a mouthpiece to deliver a cringeworthy self-congratulatory speech praising Ryan Murphy's previous — and still DEEPLY biphobic — work?

the hotshots storyline of 8x07 and 8x08 should have taken place WAY later in the season: only after spending time giving their existing characters and relationships the focus they so sorely need.

Hen and Karen and their struggles with Mara being with Chimney and Maddie — where was the conflict between Hen and Chimney? blink and you miss it in 8x01. why was everything wrapped up so fucking quickly in 8x04? the pacing of that episode was INSANE. they could have drawn it out until the mid-season finale, and ended it on a positive note of Mara coming home.

Maddie and Chimney have had almost nothing all of 8a — what looked like a conversation about family planning, addressing their past issues, deciding to stick together and make it work this time, it was building up to something so good — and it crumbled before my eyes with the accidental pregnancy reveal. because we're dealing with teenagers who don't know how birth control works, not two grown adults in their 40s with a history of PPD. be so for fucking real.

and then: why bring back a homophobic, racist, sexist character, have him act EXACTLY like his old self — including throwing a subtle slur at his old subordinate who's just come out of the closet — and then reduce him to a cartoonish villain — did they perhaps realise that bringing back Gerrard was a big mistake? that no one wants to see this type of villain anymore? that his return undercut the justice of him getting fired by the LAFD for his bigoted behaviour? much to ponder.

Athena and Bobby nearly died, they lost their house in a fire (hello? ptsd flashbacks? no? okay.), then Athena nearly died AGAIN, but we don't need to linger on any of this. back to work, you two. Bobby, you get your firehouse back. Athena, back to doing bad cop shit, i guess. (they had a nice relationship moment with the house hunting and deciding to build etc in 8x04, and that's about it).

Buck had a consistent storyline between 8x01 - 8x04: struggling being under Gerrard, getting to work with Bobby again, and finally getting his captain back on a permanent basis. then we got 8x05 with Tommy — an episode dedicated on the intimacy and depth of their relationship — which they then completely fucked it up in 8x06. yes, the "past connection" reveal was a terribly done messy retcon of the entirety of s1 if you ask me, and a disservice to all three characters: Buck, Tommy, and Abby. the backlash from the GA following the breakup speaks for itself. but they then went to make a big joke of Buck coping with the breakup in 8x07 and 8x08. because we can't be serious about anything, ever. and again — I get it. it's the weewoo show. but don't tell me they haven't previously done well thought-out, touching storytelling. anyway, this got a little derailed because i'm still so fucking salty — the bottom line is, however they butchered Buck's storyline, at least he's had something meaningful.

the only other main that has had a meaningful storyline in 8a is Eddie. they've shown him struggling with being away from Christopher in almost every episode. i can't say i'm a big fan of the way 8x06 went for him (literally. enough with the movie references. tim minear have a fucking original thought for once). but I'm loving where his storyline is headed. that was a good 'cliffhanger' if you will. go back to your roots baby! go reconcile with your son — own up to your mistakes! talk to him about his mother! go to father-son therapy together! -> so much wishful thinking, y'all. we'd be lucky to get 1/10th of this on the show, but whatever.

tldr: no one gives a flying fuck about hotshots or brad because while we love the silly weewoo show, we need something to chew on before you toss us a half-baked dessert. to quote lou ferrigno jr, i am not satisfied.

[spooky-goose1003]

Long Day

Pairing: Gn!reader x idol!woozi

Word count: 582

Content: fluff, more fluff, domestic Woozi, so so sweet and rahh

Notes: Woozi likes your hands, so down bad and in love

A/n: hi!! This is my first time posting a lil story on here! It’s also my first time writing anything in a while. I hope you enjoy!:) and happy birthday Woozi!! <33

.•*•.•*•.•*•. ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─── .•*•.•*•.

“Baby!” You call, as you walk inside the apartment. You hear no reply, which probably means your boyfriend, Woozi, isn’t home yet. You go to his studio room in your shared apartment, and it’s empty. “Ah,” you mumble to yourself. “He went into work today.”

You quickly shower and change into some comfier clothes and got take a spot on the couch, turning on some TV while you wait for Woozi to get back home. A while later, once you hear the door open, you crane your head to see your boyfriend, who looks a little more tired than normal. Seeing him give you a tired smile, you get up off the couch and walk to him. “Hello my love,” you say softly.

“Hi…” he murmurs, leaning forward to rest against you.

“Long day?” You ask. He nods in confirmation, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Let’s have a night in, okay?” You say softly. “We can get some takeout and come back and watch that new movie you’ve been telling me about.”

“Sounds good,” He murmurs against your neck, pressing a soft kiss there, before pulling away to kiss your hand.

“I’ll drive,” you smile. You grab his backpack and hang it up, before grabbing the keys and heading out the door with him.

As you get in and start driving, he absentmindedly grabs your hand, kissing your knuckles, joints, the pads of your fingers. In the years you’ve been dating, you’ve noticed he’s always seemed to love your hands, holding them, playing with them, kissing them whenever he can get the chance. It’s one of your favorite things, the way he always plays with them, it never fails to make your heart race.

When you arrive, even though you drove, he makes sure to get out first, taking your hand and kissing the back of it, a small smile on his face as he does so. You chuckle and kiss his cheek in thanks, as you lock the car and walk inside.

There’s another one of his habits, as you stand in line, his hand rests on the small of your back, eventually drifting to your butt. It’s nothing sexual, his hand just naturally rests there, eventually coming to wrap his arms around you from behind, his fingers intertwining with yours. When you try to pay, he swats your hand away and hands the cashier his card. You’re crazy if you think he’ll ever let you pay for anything in this relationship.

He drives back home once you get the food, once again resuming his habit of playing with your hand and fingers while he drives, gently squeezing your hand and tracing small shapes on your palm. Watching him play with your hand makes you smile, it gives you butterflies each time, that small habit of his. It’s a tender thing, really. Your touch tends to keep him grounded, a solid reminder that the love of his life is really here, and with him in that moment.

When you’re inside, you both take turns feeding each other, sneaking kisses between bites, and quips about the movie you’re watching. It’s the small moments of intimacy and love that keep your relationship healthy and strong.

Once the night ends and you head to bed, your head rests on his chest, your limbs entangled. He looks down at you as your breathing gets deeper, a small smile gracing his lips. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, while he rubs his thumb on the back of your hand, making sure you fall asleep first.

Once he sees you’re finally asleep, he closes his eyes, continuing to rub circles on your hand. “I love you, more than anything,” he murmurs, as he falls asleep. He holds you, feeling safe in knowing that he has nothing to worry about, while his heart and home is soundly asleep in his arms.

[hidefdoritos]

working in fast food will give you eating disorders you’ve never even heard of

[riacte]

so hey guys i finished dungeon meshi yesterday and i'm still thinking about it

[weaselle]

it was too much i had to make my own post

line cook here. ACCURATE

if you don't get the hate, here's what you don't understand.

it takes up to 2 hours to close down the kitchen.

The last 60-90 minutes before closing time you do almost no cooking because the restaurant doesn't have many people in it and you've already cooked most of their diners.

So if someone walks in during, like, the last hour, the cook is in the middle of an industrial deep clean of the kitchen.

(these numbers can vary quite a bit from place to place but i have worked several restaurants with these actual times and the concept remains the same)

Say the place closes at 10. If you wait til the restaurant is already closed to start all your cleaning duties, you'll be there until at least midnight.

More than that your boss knows that on an average night you can start your clean up as soon as the last rush ends and get out of there around 10:45, even 10:15 on a slow night if you get lucky. That means there are plenty of restaurants where if you do take until midnight the manager is going to come up to you at some point that week and ask you what went wrong that night, and you'd better have an answer.

So this example restaurant closes at 10 pm. The dinner rush ends around 8:30, and shortly after that the cook is going to start getting every single dish possible over to the dishwasher because the dishwasher always gets hit hard and late, and the machine runs for 2 full minutes and only holds so many dishes, so the way that works out is if you wait an extra 30 minutes to give the dishwasher all your stuff it can mean adding like 60 minutes to the end of his shift. And you're gonna KEEP finding shit to send to the dishpit right up until you leave probably.

all these little square and rectangle containers in this cold table have to be pulled out and changed over into new containers, replaced by new full ones, or in some cases filled from larger containers in the back, which can result in even more empty containers to send to the dishwasher.

while it's all pulled apart to do this, you have to clean up all the spilled food and sauce and juices and stuff from the joints and ledges and shelves and drip trays

Once you get your line changed over in this way, and fully stocked, anytime someone orders something that makes use of a bunch of that stuff, you have to restock and re-clean it some. It might already be covered in plastic. Some of it might already be stuck in the back to make room to take apart your cutting board counter to clean. To cook a dish isn't TOO much of a problem at this point, but you're really hoping for zero orders because you still have so much other cleaning to do.

Meanwhile the salad bar and appetizer section and server station and everybody are all doing the same thing. Even the bartenders are stocking olives and lemons and sending back whisks and stir spoons and shakers and empty 4quart storage containers that used to hold the back-up lemons and olives and things. Every section is dumping their must-be-cleaneds to the dishpit as fast as possible because early and fast is the only thing they can do to to help that dishpit not absolutely drown into overtime.

The poor dishwasher is always the last to clock out, soaking wet and exhausted.

Around this time you probably scrub the flat top, which has turned black from cooked on grease and is still about 500 degrees. Line cooks are divided in opinion on water-based or oil based cleaning methods for this, but they all involve scrubbing with (usually) a brick of pumice stone using every ounce of your strength while you try not to burn yourself

you scrub it from fully blackened to gleaming silver and now if somebody orders something that needs the flat top to cook, you can either fuck up your cleaning job or fake it in a couple frying pans and pass that tiny fuck you down to your dishwasher (who usually understands, especially if you help them take the garbage out or clean your own floor drain later)

If there's deep fried stuff on the menu then the fryers have to be cleaned out, which includes straining the oil out into enormous and super-heavy pots full of oil so hot that if you spill on yourself then it's probably a hospital visit and if you slip and fall face first into it it'll be the last thing you ever do.

Then you gotta scrub out the fryer. Like you gotta take the (hot) screen out and reach your arm down into the weird rounded pipes and curved areas (so hot, burn you if you brush against them hot) and scrub off whatever is down there

Depending on your kitchen you might have to do up to four of these. Then you'll have to pour the (dangerously hot) oil back in

oh, and if you didn't dry the pipes and get ALL the water out of the trap and tank?

water reacts with hot oil in a sort of mentos and coke way that can send a tidal wave of oil past the open flame of the pilot light ...HUGE dangerous mess and/or burn down the kitchen if the oil lights up.

Unless! If the oil has been used too hard and needs to be changed, it's time to carry those open topped super heavy pots full of will-kill-you-hot oil and dump them in the barrel outside by the dumpsters so you can put room temp fresh oil in the fryers. whew!

The clean up is not just some light wiping down that can be easily interrupted, is what i'm saying.

You might have to do some kind of walk-in duty (moving around 50lb cases of lettuce and 50lb bags of onions to get to the stacks of five gallon buckets full of salad dressings and sauces to move so you can reach the giant metal pots and bus tubs full of prep and get it all organized and make sure it's all labeled and i have to stop now i'm having flashbacks)

THE POINT IS

by 15 or however many minutes to close, the line cook is doing an intense deep clean and probably has the whole stove taken apart to detail.

For some industrial stoves this means lifting off large cast iron plates that weigh like 20 lbs each and are still quite hot. Whatever metal burners are on there, you gotta take off and clean, you can see here the lines that indicate the large thick cast iron rectangles that sit on top of the burners to allow heavy pots to rest on. Those five (each has one front burner hole and one back burner hole, see?) have to be lifted off and cleaned with soap and a wire brush usually, and then the underneath area also has to be cleaned because a lot of shit falls through the burner holes on a busy night.

if you didn't do it when you did the flat top you have to do the grease trap (which can be like a full five minutes and is always disgusting).. You gotta clean out all the little gas jets in each burner with a wire or something so the burners all flame evenly, and sometimes you have to remove some of the natural gas piping that connects the burners to access where you have to clean.

you gotta clean out the bottom of the oven and the wire racks, and, oh gods, you gotta take down the filter vents from the hood fans above the stove.

See all the lined parts along the top of the wall?

those are hood vents, and as they pull air up they also pull a lot of grease and they have to be taken down and cleaned, then you gotta climb up there and scrub where they go before you put them back...

And then there's the mopping and floor drains and...

Anyway, that's what the line cook is doing when you walk in fifteen minutes before closing and order something that needs to be cooked on that stove. They are doing an entire industrial cleaning of a professional kitchen.

In some restaurants maybe one or two of these jobs will be every other night or even only twice a week, but in many, possibly most kitchens, ALL of these things happen EVERY night. You don't want to leave any food mess that might attract insects or rodents for one thing, so a really good kitchen is as close to brand new as you can get it every night.

IF YOU ABSOLUTELY HAVE TO ORDER SOMETHING ANYWAY, HERE IS WHAT TO DO

open with an apology and ask the server to go ask what the cook would prefer you to order.

Any good server will already know what the cook is hoping for and what will make their line cook go into the walk in and scream. If it's significantly less than an hour to close and they say some variant of "oh anything is fine" they are either telling the lie their boss wants them to say, or they actually do not know what their line cook wants, and you can either use human connection and a conspiratorial just-between-us tone to get them to drop the customer-is-always-right act, or get them to actually go ask the cook.

It might be as specific as "the lasagna is easiest on the kitchen" or it might be a simple guideline like "nothing that requires the flat top" or "any of the sautés are easy" but a good line cook will probably have a system for if they have to make a couple of the most popular items after they start their close, so the answer is likely to include something most people like and you should be good to order that.

but for the love of all that's holy, please only do so at great need. Leave that last 30-60 minutes to the truly desperate and the crew's duties.

[waves-against-a-cliff]

Simon Riley who after coming back to his flat (courtesy of the government) from his first deployment as 'Ghost', finds a momma cat yowling and crying. She's hurt and has four kittens tucked into her side. Simon takes them to the vet only to be informed that only one kitten survived and the momma is dead.

So he raises the kitten. Bhe bottle feeds it every two hours, keeps it warm and safe inside a box with a heating pad and a hoodie of his. He's sure that it'll die but he keeps trying anyways with the heart wrenching hope that he's wrong.

The kitten pulls through.

Now six years later, he has a sassy sphynx cat who cries and meows whenever she isn't fed on time. When his usual pet sitter bails on him just days before his next deployment, he scrambles. He never knows how long he'll be gone and that's an issue with pet hotels. He has to find someone trust worthy and capable of caring for his darling pet.

Then he meets you by pure coincidence. Ruthie had slipped between his legs on his way out to grab some more of the wet cat food she liked then made a bee line right towards you. She meowed and meowed until you crouched down to pet her. Simon swears he had never heard her purr that loudly before.

You smile up at him and comment on how he has a sweet cat (he doesn't. Ruthie knocks everything over and has broken so many mugs, plates and cracked so many screens he owns plastic versions of everything plus keeps his phone on him at all times). Simon says something about trying to find a pet sitter to you and immediately realizes what he said when you smile. "I can keep an eye on her for you. She seems like a sweetie." You coo and gently scratch under her chin. Traitor, it took him weeks to get her to let him do that. But how can he say no when she's already taken a liking to you.

[monstersflashlight]

Commission for @lavender-constellation

A/N: Hi! Thank you so much for commissioning, means a whole lot <3 This is a part 2 of this post, and we have this other post as a continuation. This piece is a longer version of the second one with two sex-scenes. Hope y’all like it!

Request: I’d love a part two to the monster kissing booth story, upgrading to a sex booth (but like not officially if that makes sense? Like it’s still a kissing booth but in the middle of the market, fem!reader just can’t take it anymore and it becomes a sex booth) with maybe a little bit of emphasis on a tentacle monster and orc coming to the booth 👀 Just no vampires pls!

Naughty booth

Orc x fem!reader + Tentacle monster x fem!reader || tentacle sex, size difference, oral sex, cum play (lowkey), free use, double penetration, squirting

You are coming down from an orgasm when someone screams: “Dude, come on! There’s more of us waiting!” You giggle, the werewolf (who woks two booths down, at the art booth) between your legs sighs as he grabs some tissues to help clean you the best he can so the next monster can have his turn with your soft human flesh.

“Don’t be impatient, you’ll want your sweet time when you get there,” someone else retorts. The line is so long you can’t really see how many monsters are still waiting.

You are way too fucked out already. Your pussy feels stretched even though there’s only been like three monsters so far. You are in heaven, everything feels great. A succubus gave you some of her special magic, and made sure you were extra sensitive and you could fit every size of monster. You will have to find her later and thank her. Maybe even ask her on a date… But that’s something for later.

“Leave it, come on! I don’t care about your jizz, I’ll use it as lube,” a rough voice says behind you.

The werewolf leans down and pecks your lips, promising to come later with some food. You smile softly at him, and see him go as you wait on the table he set you onto. He fucked you so good you still can’t feel your legs. But the next patron doesn’t care about it.

A big orc with a grumpy face appears over you, his erection already out and making your mouth water. “Can you take an orc, little human?” He’s so big… You pray to the goddess that he’d fit inside of you, but the succubus said every size of monster would fit, and you believe her. You really should thank her later.

“Ye- yes. I can,” you tell him. You can’t move much, too tired to participate much, but eager to get fucked all over again.

You can still feel some of the werewolf cum dripping out of your pussy, but when the orc’s fingers tease your entrance, you groan all over again. He pushes some of the cum back inside, scissoring his fingers to make sure you are prepped enough for him. He sits down on a chair and grabs your body, manhandling you until you are on his lap, your body little in comparison to his big physique.

“Prove it,” he tells you holding your body with one hand and his dick with the other. You try to fit him inside, but you can’t get the correct angle. “Come here,” he says. He moves you until your pussy is right over his dick, and you start to descend. He doesn’t wait, though. He puts his big hands against your hips and lowers you completely, making you arch your back and cry out as you hear cheering behind you.

The fact that everyone is looking and enjoying themselves with the spectacle only adds a new layer of heat to your growing arousal. You can’t believe you are still horny after all the orgasms you had, but the movement of the orc inside of you is driving you to the sky once again. He fucks you like a fleshlight, moving your body up and down like a toy and making you groan and moan in a symphony of depravity.

“Come on, little human, your pussy is perfection, let me feel you flutter around my big dick.” His words should be cringy, but at that moment, you can just groan as he keeps using your body and you get closer and closer to the edge. With precision that shouldn’t be legal, he moves your hips until his dick is rubbing against your perfect spot, making you come apart instantly. “That’s it, good goddess, I love your pussy.”

He keeps going, fucking you restlessly as your body gives up and your skin gets tingly. He pinches your nipple as he comes, the combination of the amount of cum he’s shooting inside of you and the pain-pleasure sending you into another orgasm that has your eyesight blacking out for a few seconds.

You come back to a tongue between your legs and your thighs pressing the sides of the orc’s head. He’s kneeling between your legs, at some point he manhandled you into a sitting position in the chair. He hums happily against your clit. You think you can’t take anymore, but the thing the succubus gave you is potent, so a new wave of heat fills your insides as you sigh happily as the orc cleans you out with his tongue. He makes you come around his fingers and tongue one more time before the next in line starts complaining.

“Dude you made her come three times already, let some other people enjoy!” You chuckle, but it’s lost in a loud groan as the orc sucks on your clit, his tusks framing your pussy in the most amazing way.

“They can’t stop complaining, little human, I guess is time for me to go. I hope this is not a one time thing… I had fun with your pretty pussy.” He kisses said pussy one more time before saluting you with his hand and walking away, fastening his pants as he goes.

Anticipation fills your insides when the next patron appears. You see his tentacles before you see him. Fuck, you never had tentacle sex.

“Look at that, the sex-princess is all fucked out…” The tentacles around him are moving like crazy and you have to hold your breath as one slowly approaches your body. The first contact is cold and a bit slimy, but in a good way. It feels like cooling-lube over your body, and it’s so good you groan. “Yes, like that… You love a good tentacle, don’t you, sex-princess?” You want to answer him, but he waits no longer to latch two suckers to your nipples, making you scream as the next in line laughs.

“Don’t tease her too much, I want her to still be there when my turn comes around,” she says. You can’t see which kind of monster she is, but you silently agree with her. There’s still a lot of monsters that want to try your soft human flesh.

“Okay… Okay.” The tentacle monster’s voice is reluctant, but he moves his tentacles around your body, positioning you spread over the table again.

You lay there, looking at the ceiling as you feel more tentacles join the fun. The two on your nipples start sucking harder, enticing more groans out of your mouth. Another tentacle finds your pussy and goes in without preamble. You cry out again and the crowd cheers. You think he’s going to fuck you like everyone else did, but instead, he latches another sucker inside of you, right over your G-spot. You scream at the feeling. Too good, too much.

You feel tears rolling down your cheeks as he adds another sucker to your clit, making you see stars. The combination of sensations is so good you feel something inside of you building. Something unknown, like you are going to break if he keeps going like that. When you think you can’t take anymore, he adds another tentacle to your pussy, stretching you impossibly wide as he starts fucking you with the second one.

The combination of suckers and fucking is too much and you feel something explode inside of you, a gush of liquid leaving your body and making him gasp in surprise.

“Did she just squirt?” Some monster asks, amazement filling their voice.

“Yes, she did.” The tentacle monster looks so smug you feel a bit embarrassed, but too fucked to complain. He keeps going, making you come two more times around his tentacles. “Good job, sex-princess, you did great.” He tells you before disappearing.

The next monster is already waiting, strap on and a big smile on her face.

It’s going to be a long day… and you are going to enjoy every single second of it.

[chxrryhansen]

okay but rafe shamelessly peeking up your skirt is something so personal to me

omg omg wait s1 golf frat boy rafe x cutesy kinda bimbo reader??? COUNT ME IN. p.s- i have no idea how to play golf so i wrote my best interpretation😭

₊♡₊˚ 🎀・₊✧

you sat in rafes private golf caddy watching as he lined up his next shot, his backwards cap keeping his hair out of his eyes and his muscular legs spread wide as he takes the shot.

rafe had asked (told) you to come watch him play, he thought it would be a cute date idea for you both to get out of the house since it was way too hot to stay cooped up inside all day… when in reality he just wanted to show off his skills and impress his girl.

“rafeeeeey.” you whined in a high pitch tone.

he turns to look back at you with a sour expression, wiping the sweat from his brows with one arm, using the other to lean against his golf club. “quit distracting me. what dya’ want?” he pants in the summer heat.

“i’m boreddddd” you moan again, standing from your seat in the cabby and bouncing over to him.

his free hand reaches out to grip your face, smushing your cheeks together tight “what’ve i told you about the whining? daddy’s tryna’ play a game here, sweetcheeks.”

you look up at him with big puppy dog eyes “can you teach me? please rafey…i’m so bored just sittin’ here, daddy please.”

he lets out an irritated groan, knowing you were too ditzy to understand how golf works and way too uncoordinated to actually putt a ball. he looks back at you giving you a once over, a smirk appearing on his face.

“you know what? sure pretty girl, c’mere.”

you yelp with excitement, moving to stand infront of him, your short pink skirt barely reaching your thighs as you bounce over and your tits jiggling, practically spilling out of your tight shirt.

rafe stands behind you as he passes you the golf club, quickly showing you the correct way to hold it before he moves onto your position. kicking your feet apart and pressing down on your back with his thick fingers, forcing you to arch your back as he bites his lip, his cock already growing hard.

“that’s it baby, stay just like that. now, lift your arm up like this, and strike.” you beam at him while he instructs you before focusing on the ball.

you raise your arm holding the club tight before you strike it. not even noticing rafe bending down slightly, his legs still spread wide around your figure and his fingers lifting your short skirt, peeking at your cute, pink panties underneath, he lets out a low “fuckkk.” at the sight, not loud enough for you to notice seeming as you were concentrating.

“rafey! look! i hit it. look how far it went!” you gasp, raising one arm to block the sun as you search for the ball with your eyes.

“yeah babe, daddy’s super proud of you.” he mutters, not paying attention to a word you said, instead focusing on the slightly damp patch on your panties.

he brings his thumb to your pussy, rubbing over the soaked material. your panties beginning to stick to your cunt as he thumbs your sensitive slit.

you whimper in surprise, your head spinning to look at him in shock. “daddy! wh-what are you doing?!” you hush, eyes wide, looking around quickly to see if anybody had noticed what he was doing, which they hadn’t… yet.

rafe hushes you before pulling your skirt back down and giving your ass a harsh smack. lifting up from his bent knees and looking down at you with a large smirk.

“nice panties, baby. where’d you get em?” he asks rhetorically, a sly smile appearing on his face.

knowing for a fine fact he bought them, as he does everything else, your clothes, food, shoes. you name it, he bought it. because that’s what wealthy daddy’s like him do. and rafe is without question, wholeheartedly, your daddy.

[writersdrug]

Bartender Simon when a customer yells at reader for a mistake?

I love the way you guys think LOVE keep em comin!!

It starts when he's restocking his bar, carrying crates with fruit, bitters, coasters, and straws. He comes down from the pantry upstairs to a decently relaxed lunch crowd, when he hears the second half of the customer's tantrum.

"You expect me to eat this?! It's bloody raw!"

"I'm so sorry, I can take it back aga-"

"You already did that - went to the kitchen and stuck it under the warmer for a few seconds and thought I wouldn't notice, huh?"

"No sir, I gave it to the che-"

"I don't want to hear fucking excuses, just go fix my damn burger. I'm paying for this shit, aren't I? And you're working for my tip. So fucking work, cunt."

Humiliation isn't enough to describe what you feel - there isn't a strong enough word for it. Claiming you're a liar, saying you grovel for tips, yelling at you in front of your other tables, calling you a cunt - it makes your eyes sting with oncoming tears, staring at him and using every muscle in your jaw to keep from spitting insults back at him. You want to throw the food in his face, but instead, you grab his plate and storm off to the kitchen before he can see you cry.

The man scoffs, looking at his watch. "Fuckin' great..."

Simon's still standing at the bottom of the stairs, holding his crates and staring daggers at the man. He knows what it's like, being berated by customers. He says "that's customer service for ya" and moves on. But for this wanker to berate you - he sees red. He sees his next target.

He swiftly crosses the restaurant floor, boots thudding against the old wood as he drops his crate behind the bar. Soap's already yelling about the asshole when he pushes his way into the kitchen.

"Order it fuckin' rare and ye get fuckin' rare, bloody clipe- talkin' mince, bawface bastard-" he slams the burger back onto the grill with a tense arm, continuing to grumble as it sizzles. "Cookin' ye a nice strip o' shoe leather-"

You're sitting on an overturned crate, sobbing into your hands, pen and notepad on the ground beside you. Price is on one knee, one arm around your shoulder and the other on your leg - you'd never officially met the owner of the pub, but now was as good a time as any, you suppose.

"Wot happened?" Is all that Ghost could say without going off on a rampage. He's saving that for later.

"He fucking embarrassed me, that's what happened!!" You snap, looking up at Simon. Your eyes are red and puffy after only crying for a minute or two, cheeks wet from your tears. You hug your arms around your middle and choke on a sob. "Told me his fucking burger wasn't cooked, so I sent it back- then he tries to say I never even gave it to Soap?! Calls m-me a cunt in front of my tables?! Make me fucking work for his money - I don't want his goddamn money!!"

Price shushes you, worrying your anger might be leaking through the kitchen door - he doesn't want the same customer to hear you bad-mouthing him, although it's rightfully deserved. He rubs your back gently as you drop your head into your hands again, shoulders shaking as you cry.

Simon's seething - he's already moving before his brain can catch up, still stuck on the picture of your teary face. He marches behind the line and reaches across Soap, picking the burger right off the grill.

Soap makes a shocked sound. "Ye gone mad, LT?!"

"Table six?" Ghost asks, holding the sizzling burger patty in his hand, grease dripping onto his forearm.

You stare between his face and the patty - your crying stopped, your face now replaced with a stupefied expression. "Uh- yeah."

And like that, he's off; he shoves himself back out onto the floor and makes his way towards the customer who yelled at you. The burger burns his hand, but he doesn't even notice the pain. He drops it onto the table in front of the man, who yelps in disgust. "What the fuck-"

"Better?" Ghost says, hands clenching into fists at his sides as he looked down at the man, now stuttering and blubbering in shock. Specks of grease are freckling his white dress shirt.

"Are you- is this a fucking joke?"

"It's your fuckin' burger."

"I can't believe this-"

"Then get the fuck out my pub." Ghost growls; he grabs the man by his arm, ripping his blazer off the back of his chair, and drags him to the front door. The other customers look with wide eyes as he busts the door open with his shoulder and throws the man onto the sidewalk. He wheezes as he hits the ground, and Ghost throws his blazer at him next.

"If I ever see your face in 'ere after this, 'm throwin' you out again and keepin' your bullocks as a fuckin' souvenir."

The man stares at him, flabbergasted, as Ghost walks back inside. People are focused on their meals now, heads down and pretending they didn't see Simon body a man to the ground - the guy deserved it, after all.

Simon huffs, picking up the burger from the now-empty table. His hand stings a bit, but he has years of callouses built up to keep any real burns from settling in. He gently kicks the chair back into place and starts heading back to the kitchen, when he sees you.

You're staring at him with wide, wet eyes, standing in the entryway to the kitchen and mouth slightly ajar in awe. You've fully stopped crying, but there are still tears on your face from before. Eyeliner and mascara are smudged a bit, but it only makes Simon's fondness for you blossom.

He gently nudges your shoulder with his elbow as he pushes past you. "Take a fifteen. I'll watch your tables."

You stare after him as he throws the burger into the trash, grabbing a fresh towel and wrapping his hand. Wide back facing you as he looks at Soap, who stares at him with a frustrated sigh.

You're horny now. Horny for Simon - and you're definitely relaying this entire shebang to your friends tonight.

[foldingfittedsheets]

I grew up lucky for a queer person. My area wasn’t actively hostile to me. My parents accepted the news that I had a crush on my best friend with no major upset.

There was homophobic comments made in my household in line with the era, but without hatred behind the words. I got called “lesbian” by bullies but honestly it just rolled off of hurtful and hit funny.

That’s why I was so ill prepared for my move to Arizona. I was moving to live with my at-the-time girlfriend, Taylor. She was native to the state and I’d met her while living there for one miserable year in high school. I’d had a crush on her for ten years before we started dating.

In the process of moving my parents were helping by driving a uhaul with my stuff while Taylor and I drove down in my car. It was a two day drive and we rolled into my new city one warm desert evening. We stopped to get some water and wait for my parents to catch up in the uhaul.

We got out of the car, stretching our achy limbs and heading toward a little fast food place in the strip mall. Across the parking lot a group of men started hooting and whistling at us. Words like “beautiful,�� and “come here” drifting along the still evening air. We didn’t react and they grew louder until I casually flipped them off.

The tenor of their calls changed instantly. Now we heard “dykes” and “bitches” and “teach you a lesson”. For the first time, I felt afraid to be walking along in a lit parking lot. I looked at Taylor and to my horror she had started to turn in their direction.

I grabbed her arm and she shook me off. The men were moving away but I didn’t want to see a fight or worse break out if she caught up. But Taylor wasn’t heading to follow them. She was arrowing toward the truck they’d been lounging across.

“What are you doing?” I asked her anxiously.

For answer she reached for guys front tire and started letting the air out. A nervous giggle escaped me and I stood to keep lookout. She had the front two tires done before the trucks owner came storming across the parking lot.

“You should have just slashed them!” he snarled, “Woulda been faster.”

Taylor rose and coolly said, “That’s destruction of property, I was just checkin’ your tires, bro.”

Emotions flitted across his face from surprise to rage but after a moment he mastered his anger and said, “Okay. I get it. We were out of line before.”

He held out his hand as if to shake hers and I tensed. His eyes told a very different story than his mouth. Taylor casually flicked his air cap at him and it bounced off his chest. We turned and walked away without another word.

It was my first night in my new town. The scene would set the stage for later interactions. People who would ask me if I couldn’t empathize with parents who kicked their gay kids out for spreading sin. I’d go on to be followed and harassed on more than one occasion. That night showed me how privileged I’d been and how vulnerable I was at the time. But I at least had the satisfaction of thinking back to that man filling his tires back up with air.

[superhoeva]

bouncer!logan using his break to fuck you silly in the bar bathroom after you come a visit him at work. such a sweet thing, driving down here just to see him and bring him something other than bar food.

he couldn't care less that you're dressed in a t-shirt, sweatpants, and shoes that should've been chucked out ages ago. you're here for him. running around town and bringing food for him.

a hand settles over your mouth to muffle your loud moans and his chest presses hard against your back at he plunges inside you. you're leaking a mess, and logan finds it's a fucking sight whenever he pulls back enough to see how well his dick is splitting you open.

the man is certain he won't be able to hold it long, thinking of you. how good you are to him. the way you kissed his chin at the door. he's trying. really, he is. rutting and gnawing a sore into his bottom lip, groaning every time his hips snap against your ass.

huffs of hot air pants out against the shell of your ear, and logan is damn near drooling as he whispers rather loudly at how infuckingcredible you are for squeezing around him like you are.

"who told you you could feel this good, huh? and who told you to be so sweet to me, hm? " he grunts, smirking at the pitiful response you whimper out in return. tears are welling in your eyes as he shifts his hips, the new angle punching the head of his cock right into your spot. you both share a broken groan that echoes against the cool walls of the bathroom. "shit, there it is. right there. right there, yeah? s'at it?"

you jerk with heavy gasps into logan's palm. the world blurs, and a rush of heat floods over you at a suffocating rate. your peak only drags logan's along, the man smashing himself against you in a noisy, shaky hover.

logan doesn't want you to leave after. the soft hand and long kiss that rubs against your cheek after he pulls up your sweats tells you that much.

so instead of you driving back home with shaky legs and a hazy head, logan settles you in a booth near the very back of the bar. right in his eye line and content in the quieter space with however many drinks and snacks you want.

his attention is split for the rest of the shift–dutifully scanning his sharp gaze over the entire room while keeping himself where he can see and get to you quick if he needs. he ends up chuckling to himself when he's allowed to go home for the night, only to find you slumped next to an empty basket that used to hold the house fries he ordered you in a light sleep.

head tilted and eyes soft as you snore quietly, logan just watches you for a moment. grinning a little at how easy you are to tire out.

soon enough, he's coaxing you from the booth with soft coos and shushes whenever you whine about not wanting to move.

he cuddles you with strong arms into his side the entire way to his truck, promising to come back and get your car in the morning. it's the least he can do...

more bouncer!logan | send in bouncer!logan ideas

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

[robo-writing]

Mother reader with Logan as her new neighbor, looking at this sweet little lady run around with her hair in a messy bun and baby food staining her shirt, clearly tired and overrun and very much in need of a break. Sweet thing she is, waves to the neighbors each morning before walking her kid to school every morning, and Logan can’t help but watch from afar. Like waving a bone in front of a starving dog, he feels his chest tighten as you scurry about the town.

Enter Logan, who overhears you complain about a broken sink you can’t afford to fix so he leans up against your fence, waves you down and says that he “heard from a friend of a friend” that you’re having sink issues and would you guess it? He’s pretty handy with a toolbox. Plants his feet in the ground and won’t accept no for an answer, no matter how many times you try to decline.

When he comes over to fix it he’s appalled at the state of your home, toys everywhere, children running about. “Where’s dad?” He asks and come to find out you’re a single mother, poor thing like you. He fixes your sink and you offer him some food in return, an old apple pie you baked for a school fundraiser that you never went to.

“Sorry if it’s not exactly fresh,” you mumble, but Logan wouldn’t give a damn if you had fished it out of the trash. You let him into your personal space and offered him food? Clearly your parents never taught you—you should never feed strays, or they’ll keep coming back for more.

And boy, do you feed him. He offers help anytime you need it which ends up being quite often, it’s truly the strangest thing—reports of animals attacking water lines and such, but aren’t you lucky you’ve got Logan to help? Who else would offer you their shower? And don’t forget about the time your lawnmower was stolen, of course you can borrow his—hell, he’ll mow it for you free of charge.

Of course, you’re not totally blameless in this little cat and mouse game—walking around his house in only a towel, water clinging to your bare legs as you thank him, staring at his shirtless form from the window when you think he’s not watching.

You don’t realize how bad it’s gotten until your little one calls Logan “Daddy” one day, embarrassment hot against your face as you work to correct her. Little do you notice Logan standing behind you, a sharp-toothed smile against his rugged features.

“Daddy, huh? Got a nice ring to it.”

pt 2

[pathologicalreid]

burn notice | s.r.

in which your workplace is targeted by a group of extremists, and Spencer tries everything to keep you safe

margotober masterlist

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: fighting, threats, arson/explosion, politics, mass casualty event, sole survivor, greek mythology my beloved, public transit word count: 2.34k a/n: i genuinely think my laptop is going to start smoking if i leave it on for much longer.

You pull your knees to your chest, sitting on the floor next to Spencer’s desk while he speaks with Hotch about the case. JJ waves at you solemnly before she heads out of the bullpen, leaving you as the last person. Setting your chin on your knee, you close your eyes and wonder how things got so messed up so quickly.

Someone was threatening your work, the threats weren’t directed at you personally, but with the way Spencer was acting, it might as well have been. The BAU had been called in by D.C. Metro yesterday, and that was when Spencer started acting overprotective.

The letters were demanding all of the money from a political action campaign, something you couldn’t give away. The money wasn’t yours to give. “Are you alright?” Spencer asks, having made his way down to his desk.

Accepting his hand up, you sigh, resting your cheek against his chest when he pulls you in for a hug. “Just a long day,” you murmur, wrapping your arms around his waist and finally letting yourself relax.

He chuckles lightly at your colossal understatement of the day’s events, gently rubbing your back before he goes to pick his messenger bag up, slinging it over his shoulder before taking your hand, “What do you say we order something out for dinner?”

You hum in response, “I think it’s pretty obvious that neither of us is in the mood to cook.” You don’t even need to bring up the fact that it’s eight p.m., you could be heading home at five and you still wouldn’t have it in you to cook a meal. You slip your hand in his while you’re heading to the elevator, waving briefly at Hotch as he locks up his office.

Spencer lets you sit on the metro, standing until it’s time to switch lines and he finds a seat while you’re headed to Farragut North. You rest your head on his shoulder, wondering if the food you ordered on the phone was going to beat you to the apartment.

You’re half asleep by the time you get to Van Ness, and Spencer practically drags you behind him as you exit the station and walk back to the apartment. As you expect, your food is waiting for you on the welcome mat, complete with the handwritten note from your favorite delivery driver, “God, this smells good.” You say, holding the warm take-out containers in your arms while Spencer opens the front door.

Setting everything on the kitchen counter, you retreat briefly to the bedroom to change your clothes, pulling on an old t-shirt before returning to the kitchen, taking your container, and sitting on the couch. “Are you going to work tomorrow?”

With food in your mouth, you nod at Spencer, watching him sit down on the other end of the couch. Swallowing, you shrug, “It’s election season, Spence. This is one of my busiest times of the year.”

“But there’s a group of people threatening to blow up the building that you work in,” Spencer reminds you, mixing up his food with his fork.

This isn’t the first time you’ve had this conversation today. “At the end of the day, it’s up to my boss to decide whether or not we get to take the day off or if we have to go into the office, and he said that anyone who doesn’t come in tomorrow gets fired.”

Spencer’s gaze narrows, “I quite honestly don’t care. I’d rather we go to having a single income than have you die in a domestic terrorism incident” He points his fork at you, “And for what it’s worth, your boss is an asshole.”

You huff in recognition, now that was something you were well aware of. This job was supposed to be your way in. A stepping stone on your way to being a liaison in the White House, but the world had started to slow down from the moment you entered the world of politics. Every ounce of excitement that you had felt when you first moved to D.C. was fleeting.

Work sapped joy from your life, and everyone around you knew it.

Fiddling with your chopsticks, you dig around in your takeout container for a carrot, “Do you think we could talk about something other than work?”

“I can’t stop thinking about how tonight might be my last night with you,” Spencer says morbidly, aggressively stabbing at his container. It was Spencer’s greatest blessing and his eternal damnation, being able to think so quickly and operate in a way that left his peers miles behind.

He saw the solution so plainly in front of him, standing in his pool of water with a fruit tree creating a foreboding shadow above him, but every time he reached out with the answer, you retreated. “DHS didn’t think it was a credible threat,” you murmur, setting your food down on the coffee table so you can attempt to have a real conversation with him about this.

Spencer huffs in response, the hair blowing strands of his hair around his face, “DHS isn’t emotionally involved in this case.”

You tilt your head to the side, “Do you think maybe you’re too close to this? What did Hotch say?”

“Fuck off,” he snaps. It was an instinctive reaction to your pushing, but that didn’t make the sting any less painful.

Crossing your arms in front of your stomach, you shrink back into your side of the couch, “Is that what you told Hotch, too?” You watch his reaction, the way he presses his lips together in acute shame for what he said to you, but he won’t take it back, and he won’t apologize for it. Not right now, at least.

He’s just afraid, you try to remind yourself. Spencer’s terrified of something happening to you and he has some sort of deep-seated inability to process fear, so when he gets scared, he gets mean. Right now, he was taking his fear out on you, and if something was going to happen to you tomorrow, you didn’t want him to spend his time lashing out.

You turn on the TV, flipping to a program that the both of you like before going back to your dinner, manifesting that the tense silence between the two of you turns peaceful before it’s too late.

“Hey, what are you thinking about?” Nadine asks you, nudging your side gently with her elbow until you snap out of your fugue. “Are you heading home for dinner?”

Checking the time on your watch, you nod absentmindedly, “Probably,” your voice is rough from lack of use, spending so much of your day just staring at election models. You have the privilege of being the only employee who lives close enough to be able to go home for meals—you’d packed a lunch, but you have to stop at home for dinner.

In an unsurprising turn of events, your team was staying late at work tonight. You’d already texted Spencer to let him know, but you doubt that he even looked at your message. “Hey, at least no crazy person came and blew up the office,” she continues, noticing your melancholia.

You laugh without humor, a dry empty sound in response to your co-worker tempting fate. “Yeah, at least there’s that,” you respond, noting the strange air that remains in the suite, people are still thinking about the threat, even if they’re too scared to say it aloud.

Walking back to the office after making a sandwich at home, you pull your phone out of your purse and try to haphazardly type out an on my way text to Nadine, but when you send it, it doesn’t go through. Shaking it off, you drop your phone back in your purse and keep walking, sirens passing on the street as something goes on in the city. You think about texting Spencer again but decide against it—it’s better to give him his space.

A passing pedestrian knocks into you, getting you to lift your head to frown at him, but he just keeps running forward, not even bothering to throw a sorry over his shoulder.

“Is that building on fire?” Someone asks, and your heart sinks into your stomach at the question, picking up your own pace as tufts of smoke billow into the sky, suspiciously close to where your office is.

There’s a mob forming behind the police line, people who were in the middle of their commutes home when they found something to gawk at. Even people who choose to keep walking are rubbernecking, making double steps to look at the building for a split second longer. “Isn’t that the councilman’s office?”

“No,” you breathe, watching the flames as they only grow. The crowd clutches their pearls as people ask about people jumping from the building, your friends who would rather jump and possibly survive than burn to death. People run past you to get closer while you can’t do anything except watch in horror.

It’s not until one of the windows shatters that you move again, the location of the window right next to where you and Nadine had been standing earlier. You push through the crowd, trying to reach the police barricade as people ask Metro PD for answers.

You try to duck under the police tape before someone pushes you back, “No!” You cry, “No, no, no! Please let me through! I work here,” you try to explain through gasping breaths, “This is my job! These are my friends!” You shout over the ruckus, the smell of the fire filling your senses.

“Ma’am, ma’am,” one of the officers talks down to you, “We’re under strict orders from the FBI that no one is allowed to get through.” His voice doesn’t have an ounce of sympathy in it, and it pushes you closer to the ledge.

You point at him accusingly, “Fuck your orders! Let me talk to the FBI!” Desperation oozes from you in every direction as the crowd steps away from the crazy woman shouting about the FBI. “I know them all,” you plead, “just let me talk to them!”

The officer holds his hands out, “Ma’am, I don’t want to have to remove you from the scene.”

But you’ve already moved on from him, noticing a familiar cascade of dark hair on the other side of the barricade, “Oh my god, Emily!” Your voice is comparable to a shriek as you try to get her attention, “Emily, please!”

Relief floods your chest as her head snaps in the direction of your shouting, a confused look quickly morphing into shock as she recognizes you. “Let her through,” She calls to the officers, looking at you as if she’s seen a ghost. “What’s going on?”

You run to her first, adrenaline thrumming through every part of your body as you point to the two officers who made an enemy of you, “Those two won’t fucking listen to me!”

“We thought you were in the building,” Emily says, her tone is eerie, almost haunted.

Gasping for air, you wave your hand around at the building, babbling something about dinner and the walk while she continues to monitor your surroundings.

She places her hands on your shoulders to stop you from bouncing around, “Y/N, Spencer thinks you were inside the building.”

It’s like she’s knocked the hair out of your lungs, you shake your head, “I wasn’t. I was at home. I left for…” your voice trails off at the realization that at this very moment, Spencer thinks you’re dead. At the very least he thinks you’re trapped inside of that building when you very likely could’ve been at the apartment that you share while the fire was set.

“Reid!” Emily calls into her radio, rolling her eyes in frustration, “He took his earbud out.”

You tug at her arm, “Where is he?” Your voice broke, grief flooding your eyes as she communicated with the team.

She nods her head to the left, “He’s on the north side of the building.”

Not even waiting for her to finish her sentence, you took off in a full sprint, ignoring other people looking at you like you’re insane because the only thing you can think of is getting to Spencer. “Spencer!” You shout, your voice ragged from running, throat swelling with emotion as you scream for him.

JJ sees you first, “Reid!”

And you see him. It looks like Derek’s holding him back, stopping him from running into the building when you call out again, “Spence!”

He turns just in time to catch you, nearly toppling onto the ground as you launch yourself at him, wrapping your arms around him while he holds you so tightly that your feet lift off of the ground.

“Yeah, Emily,” Derek says into his radio, “We’ve got her.”

Your hands tremble with an assortment of emotions as you grip the straps of his Kevlar vest, depending on him to keep you standing, “I’m okay,” you babble, “I wasn’t in there.”

“I’m sorry,” Spencer responds, burying his face in your neck, you hold him impossibly tight as his tears hit your skin, eliciting a sob from the back of your throat.

You gasp, “I know. It’s okay. I’m okay,” you repeat like a mantra, a collection of words that needs to be tattooed on his brain. “We’re okay,” you tell him, smiling faintly as he walks backward to an ambulance, neither of you faltering in your grip of the other.

It seems like every cell that made up his body is shaking as he holds you, “I’m so sorry,” he apologizes again. This time it’s deeper. He’s apologizing for his behavior, sure, but he’s apologizing for this event.

A cry bubbles in your throat. Everything was gone. Your friends were gone. The last two years of your life burnt to ashes.

And when you lose your footing and you otherwise would’ve fallen to the ground, Spencer keeps you up, his grip holding you together—keeping you close.