#petrol chips

[beastbitten]

Btw, I'm using Troy Baker's Texan accent in his portrayal of Joel Miller in the Last of Us games and how he talks as a primary baseline for how Ethan speaks. I'll also be trying my best to remember Americanisms rather than British terms as best I can, I may forget at times, but like I said, I'll try my best. 😂

[drillmanindia]

Revolutionize Your Construction Projects with Petrol Jackhammers and Chipping Hammers

Unleashing Power with Petrol Jackhammers

In the realm of demolition and construction, petrol jackhammers stand out as powerhouse tools designed for breaking through concrete, asphalt, and other hard materials. These robust tools offer the versatility and power needed for intensive demolition tasks without the constraint of electrical cords. With their high impact force, petrol jackhammer ensure efficient and quick breakdown of tough materials, making them ideal for road work, building demolitions, and major renovation projects.

Key Benefits of Petrol Jackhammers

Mobility: Operate without electrical power sources, allowing use in remote locations.

High Efficiency: Deliver powerful blows quickly to break down even the toughest materials.

Durability: Built to withstand rugged use in harsh construction environments.

Precision Work with Chipping Hammers

Chipping hammer, often used for detailed and finer work, are essential in any toolkit for renovation and masonry work. These smaller, versatile tools are perfect for chiseling away material, shaping structures, or removing excess concrete with precision. Ideal for tasks that require a delicate touch, chipping hammers are commonly employed in sculpting, finishing joints, and other precise masonry adjustments.

Applications and Advantages of Chipping Hammers

Versatility: Suitable for a variety of materials, including concrete, stone, and metal.

Control: Offers greater control for precision tasks without damaging surrounding structures.

Ergonomic Design: Typically lighter than larger hammers, reducing user fatigue during extended use.

Choosing the Right Tool for Your Needs

Selecting between a petrol jackhammer and a chipping hammer depends on the project requirements:

Petrol Jackhammers are best for large-scale demolition and breaking through hard surfaces.

Chipping Hammers excel in fine detailing, sculpting, or where precision is paramount.

Conclusion

Both petrol jackhammers and chipping hammers are indispensable tools in construction and demolition. Choosing the correct hammer based on the job at hand will not only increase productivity but also enhance work quality. As technology advances, these tools have become more efficient and user-friendly, making them must-haves for professionals looking to bolster their tool arsenal.

[soupis4ever]

absolutely scrubbed the inside of my (my!!!) car today. that poor machine belonged to my brother before i got ahold of her and she's filthy. actually disturbing how bad it still is. fabulosa is not enough i think i need a priest

[petrosoftsoftware]

Challenges Facing In Petrol Pump Operation | Petrosoft

As Petrosoft Look into the Complicate World of Petrol Pump Operations, it becomes evident that numerous challenges confront this sector. Petrosoft acknowledges the diverse challenges encountered in the daily operations of petrol pumps, spanning regulatory compliance to technological advancements.

Regulatory Compliance: Pumps of petrol must undergo stringent safety, quality and environmental compliance inspections and this requires constant monitoring, staff training and expensive infrastructure revisions.

Price Volatility: Petrol pump owners are having the challenges of fluctuating crude oil prices and currency exchange rates, which economic the fuel costs, the profit margins, and the competing prices for which they sell.

Inventory Management: Petrol pumps must manage inventory carefully to prevent shortages or excess. This involves ordering the right amount of fuel, minimizing losses, and coordinating effectively.

Operational Efficiency: Efficiency is key for petrol pump profitability. Downtime, inefficient processes, and staffing affect throughput and customer satisfaction. Streamlined processes and technology investments enhance efficiency.

Customer Service: Customer service is crucial for loyalty. Long waits, poor facilities, and service harm reputation. Training staff and improving amenities enhance the customer experience.

Competition: Petrol pumps compete with nearby stations, hypermarkets, and online services. To stand out, they offer great service, competitive prices, loyalty programs, and additional services.

Economic Factors: Economic shifts affect fuel demand and profits. Petrol pump operators adapt through cost-saving, revenue diversification, and marketing adjustments to withstand economic changes.

Technological Advancements: Technological advancements like EVs and autonomous vehicles challenge petrol pumps. Embracing innovation, investing in EV infrastructure, and exploring new business models ensure relevance.

Conclusion:

Summing up, Petrosoft brings to the attention the Challenges Facing Petrol Pump Operations that affect the petrol industry, encompassing from governmental regulations to technical improvements. With an anticipative approach to these issues Petrosoft will increase efficiency levels, ensure an approved compliance plan and adapt to the changing environment of the fuel sector.

[writers-potion]

Making Fight Scenes Sound Nicer

Euphonics is all about how the words "feel". By incorporating certain sounds, you can influence the mood of the passage.

Mood: Foreboding

use words with 'ow', 'oh', 'ou', 'oo' sonds. These are good for building tension before the fight.

moor, growl, slow, wound, soon, show, show, grow, tow, loom, howl, cower, mound.

Mood: Spooky

use words with 's' sounds, combined with an 'i' sound.

hiss, sizzle, crisp, sister, whisper, sinister, glisten, stick.

Mood: Acute Fear

use word with 'ee/ea' sounds, with a few 's' sounds.

squeal, scream, squeeze, creak, steal, fear, clear, sheer, stream

Mood: Fighting Action

use short words iwth 't', 'p' and 'k' sounds.

cut, block, top, shoot, tackle, trick, kick, grip, grab, grope, punch, drop, pound, poke, cop, chop.

Mood: Speed

use short words with 'r' sounds

run, race, riot, rage, red, roll, rip, hurry, thrust, scurry, ring, crack

Mood: Trouble

use words with 'tr' sounds to signal trouble

trouble, trap, trip, trough, treat, trick, treasure, atroscious, attract, petrol, trance, try, traitor

Mood: Macho Power

If you wan to emphasize the fighters' masculinity, use 'p' sounds.

pole, power, police, cop, pry, pile, post, prong, push, pass, punch, crop, crap, trap, pack, point, part

Mood: Punishment

If your fight involves an element of punishment use 'str' sounds

strict, astride, strike, stripe, stray, strident, stroke, strip, instruct, castrate strive

Mood: Defeat

use 'd' sonds

despari, depressed, dump, dig, dank, damp, darkness, drag, ditch, drop, dead, deep, dark, dull

Mood: Victory

use 'j' and 'ch' sounds

joy, cheer, jubilant, jeer, chuck, chariot, choose, chip, jest, jamboree, jig, jazz, jive, rejoice, rejoin

In print, the effectiveness of such euphonics will be very subtle, and it can only serve as an embellishment to what you already have.

Don't use or replace words for the sake of achieving euphonic effects, but this can be something to keep in mind when you are editing your draft!

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* . ───

💎If you like my blog, buy me a coffee☕ and find me on instagram! 

💎Before you ask, check out my masterpost part 1 and part 2 

💎For early access to my content,  become a Writing Wizard 

[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 ☺️

[catfern]

outback.

in support of palestine ∙ the reality of tlou ∙ resources

pairing: trucker!abby x afab!reader

music: her - unloved

word count: 1.7k

summary: the night shift at a remote petrol station sounded like easy double pay. but nights get lonely. you've gotta find something to keep yourself entertained.

warnings: porn with a smidgen of plot, fingering, some perverted staring, tiny tiny implied age gap, australia. this is rlly just porn

fern says ⎯ THIS ONE IS FOR ALL THE AUSSIES IN THE AUDIENCE MAKE SOME NOISE!!!!!! this truly is self indulgent cause i miss flirting with hot women who call me darl.

you brought this on yourself, really.

the pale blue of the bug zapper fought a contrast with the dying fluorescents, painting half the aisles in an eery, twilight movie shade. the heat of a high december night was creeping, clinging to your shitty polyester uniform as you camp out in front of the only standing fan.

you had begged for a job, pleaded for it really, in the wickedness of this economic climate. you had run, tail between your legs, from your local chain grocery at the sight of the price of an avocado, and thrown yourself at the feet of the next passing employer. like a squire to the knights of old.

you just hadn’t expected it would be this job.

the gatekeeper of one of the last vestiges of civilisation. the night shift at a deserted highway petrol station.

the flickering floodlights by the pumps fighting an uphill battle to keep the creeping night at bay, you can do nothing but stare, eyes adjusting, ‘unadjusting’, readjusting to the dark over and over again. you’d had a total of two customers since you took over from the day shift crew. one just threw a gatorade your way in exchange for the bathroom key.

the high beam headlights of an oncoming truck shake you from your fading thoughts, baking you into the linoleum tile as you squint, blind. asshole.

you’d been warned about truckers, briefly. handsy rednecks, your manager had called them in passing while giving you a tour of the storage room. desperate old fucks who crawl like dogs to anything with a hole.

you watch with an almost bated breath as the peeling yellow cabin of the long-haul truck pulls into park, your eyes following its jaunty movement through the glass of the front windows. you’re starting to think maybe you should have brought an illegal switchblade to work. if you had one.

you avert your gaze quick, grabbing at something from the magazine rack in desperate hopes to appear disinterested, unapproachable. 15 Ways to Homeschool Your Kids. sure, that works.

the bell above the door chimes, you spy the scuffed leather boots crossing the plastic tiling with heavy footfall. 

“y’got a lounge?”

standing at the counter, you have to admit, she’s not what you pictured when you saw the truck. not that what you see is at all worth of complaint.

a thin sheen of sweat clings to her, echoes of the heat of the road. her skin is flushed, the contour of her muscle sitting, almost man-made, in a thin, cotton singlet. her hair is tied tight, her features, sharp, discerning, eyeing you down. you try not to stare, too obviously, at the soft outline of her nipple piercings beneath her shirt.

“hm?” you’re distracted.

“a lounge, darl. trucker lounge?” she repeats slowly with a bite of a smirk, looking at you like you were only a little bit stupid. your stomach drops with the honey of the nickname.

your eyes dart around the small space of the shop. you barely had space for the 3 aisles and the dingy bathroom. you clear your throat, trying to shake the feeling of fascination, “oh — uh, nah.”

she scoffs, a wicked, small laugh, before retreating to browse the snack section.

you watch her, when you think she isn’t looking. small, caught glimpses in your feigned disinterest. she’s been on the road long, a tension in the broadness of her shoulders obvious as she readjusts her posture, eyeing the chips. you try bury whatever rears its head in your stomach when you hear her groan as she squats to better see the canned fruit. a roughness in her voice, lead with age and smoke.

you drop your reading material and smile, tight lipped, polite, as she approaches the counter. a cold meat pie and a ginger beer.

"and uh — pack'a rothmans, thanks, love.”

you nod, turning to wrestle with the rusting cigarette cage behind the counter, when you hear her chuckle, breathy and deep as she talks,

“y’look a little young to have kids.”

spinning back so quick you make yourself dizzy, you swipe the shitty magazine off the counter, discarded and unimportant, “nah, i… i was just bored.”

she rakes her eyes over you, slow, and you can’t help but feel the pull, magnetic, a knot in your stomach as she studies you. you feel caught in a trap, under her gaze. looking up at her, her looming presence is becoming all too real.

you slide the pack of cigarettes over the counter, trapped meeting her eye. a smile, something sly, plays on her lips as she thanks you, moving to catch a breeze of the fan.

an uncomfortable beat of silence passes between you. well, it’s uncomfortable for you. no longer able to hide behind disinterest behind glossy paper, you instead wrestle with yourself to seem at least neutrally interested, not utterly obsessed. you wring your hands behind the shelter of the till.

the woman shakes a cigarette free from the pack, holding it between the skin of her lips. “you smoke?” she’s looking at you, through the corner of her eye.

no, never.

“uh, yeah.”

you follow her out the shop, tied to her artificial shadow in the fluorescents. something is crawling in the night, when you step outside. a cicada silence echoes across the gathering dirt and dust.

she offers you the cig she had been holding, you take it gingerly, holding it in your mouth as she holds her lighter up. she brings her hand to cup the flame, to keep the absent breeze from destroying it. you feel, just slightly, the brush of her calloused palms against the low of your cheek, and you pray that the navy hue of the bug zapper is enough to hide the heat on your skin.

smoke fills your lungs, foreign and quick, an itch inside you that feels impossible. you cough and splutter to the chorus of her raspy laughter.

“you haven’t smoked a day in your life.” she says with a lopsided smile, plucking the cigarette from your hand and bringing it to her lips, taking a long, constrastly confident draw.

you shake your head in between wheezes, “is that what everyone is always going on about?”

“you’ll get used to it, here,” 

she hands it back to you, you feel obliged to take it. to try again, as she so quietly commands. your second go is met with an only slightly irritating tickle in your throat.

“that’s it, good girl,” something that seems so unsure rolls off her like syrup, something you had never known you were so desperate for. her hand finds the small of your back, her fingers dancing circles in something akin to comfort, to praise.

you look up to find her eyes already on you, tracing the contours of your neck in icy blue form.

the smell of artificial pine and day-old dust clings to her, swallows you whole as you fall victim to her touch, light-headed and weak at the knees as her breath fills your lungs.

she’s nothing if not vocal, desperation falling from her lips in tortured moans as she presses herself into the crook below your jaw, drawing your soft skin beneath her teeth, softly licking the littered aftermath, a trail down your chest.

she’s quick to undress you, pulling impatiently at the scratchy fabric of your worn company polo shirt. she’s not phased by any forgotten need for privacy, for decency. she’s only here in passing, after all.

“oh, sweetheart,”

the lace of your bra is a temptation not lost on her, a delight she so happily indulges in after days on the road. in some perverted part of her mind, you wore it for her. maybe, in some cosmic, fated way, you did.

her hands snake down your body, helping themselves to the lux of your curves as her lips press, all-consuming, against yours. her fingers lightly spreading your legs, a mean chuckle souring the kiss.

she’s not at all easy, or kind, the way she pulls you open, watches you fall apart in the brutality of her control. she touches you like she aims to destroy you, her fingers working relentlessly to the pull of your walls, unheard to your pleas to — please, slow down.

“that’s it, darling. come on,” it’s sharp, delirious and oh so pleased to hear you, a whisper tickling the dip of your chest, watching you through the blonde of her eyelashes as you throw your head back, your body rocking to the rhythm she sets.

“p-please, fuck, jesus, fuck!” if she was any meaner, she would have laughed. but god, she’s distracted. driven mad by her own dripping need.

“you wanna come, baby? yeah, yeah?” she’s slowing down, and you chase her question with a desperate, shakey nod. “yeah, you do. come here.”

she takes your hand in hers, delicate, kind, a wicked contrast. under the guidance of her touch, you grip the stiff denim of her jeans, tender, unsure, until she leads you to the heat between her legs and you nearly melt. her hand goes to fiddle with her belt, her eyes finding yours, bleary, in the haze.

“think you can help me out, sweetheart?” she nods along with you, and you’re unsure if she’s copying you, or you are her.

“yeah — i can, please, please,” you whine, your hips still rutting a lazy pace against the now stagnant force inside you. your hand pulls, impatiently, at the waistband of her cotton boxers, pulling them down to sit unceremoniously at her hips.

“fuck, good girl,” she seethes at the languid circles you draw on her clit, gentle and paced, as you chase your own euphoria on her fingers, “come on,” a whisper, hot on your neck, “i’ll go faster if you do, darlin’.”

you pick up in a daze, so compliant to the whim of her demand, so desperate to feel her calloused fingers trace the tide against your centre. rushing that feeling, wretched to have her tear you apart.

her fingers rock against you without care, wrenching every ragged moan from the cut of your throat as her speed picks up, “that’s it, fuck, you feel so good, sweetness. keep — keep going.” hoarse whispers against your chest as she presses sloppy, undone kisses to the ghosts of your ribcage.

you watch, above the broadness of her shoulder, as a peak of the sun paints the horizon a muddy pink, your moans a soundtrack to the emptiness of the desert as you practically bounce on the stranger’s fingers, loud for your own release.

yeah, you lost your job.

⎯ kofi

taglist; @whore4abby @endureher @beemillss @afraidofheightss @sentimentalyellow

[scealaiscoite]

‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓐐 food prompts 𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅

¹⁾ tart, fresh cherries

²⁾ milky tea

³⁾ a can of redbull

⁴⁾ cold pepperoni pizza

⁵⁾ orange segments

⁶⁾ chamomile tea

⁷⁾ burnt toast

⁸⁾ steaming masala chai

⁹⁾ bitter dark chocolate

¹⁰⁾ water-heavy pears

¹¹⁾ salty cinema popcorn

¹²⁾ smooth whiskey

¹³⁾ fluffy cinnamon rolls

¹⁴⁾ rich cuban coffee

¹⁵⁾ streetside pani puri

¹⁶⁾ fresh-baked cookies

¹⁷⁾ pomegranate seeds

¹⁸⁾ sour jellies

¹⁹⁾ homemade soup dumplings

²⁰⁾ hotel room service french fries

²¹⁾ sugared donuts

²²⁾ mexican coca-cola

²³⁾ strawberry milkshake

²⁴⁾ fudgey brownies

²⁵⁾ spearmint gum

²⁶⁾ happy hour cocktails

²⁷⁾ fairground candyfloss

²⁸⁾ salmon sashimi

²⁹⁾ airplane peanuts

³⁰⁾ takeout fried rice

³¹⁾ pistachio gelato

³²⁾ a packed lunch

³³⁾ bruised bananas

³⁴⁾ cheap instant ramen

³⁶⁾ agua de jamaica

³⁷⁾ petrol station chocolate bars

³⁸⁾ soft mangos

³⁹⁾ chicken noodle soup

⁴⁰⁾ convenience store onigiri

⁴¹⁾ lemonade from a neighbourhood kids’ stand

⁴²⁾ chilaquiles

⁴³⁾ a steaming bowl of breakfast congee

⁴⁴⁾ too-sweet instant coffee

⁴⁵⁾ a sunday roast with all the trimmings

⁴⁶⁾ high-end restaurant steak frites

⁴⁷⁾ mango sticky rice

⁴⁸⁾ salsa verde and tortilla chips

⁴⁹⁾ stale bottled water

⁵⁰⁾ rotten strawberries

⁵¹⁾ old-fashioned caramels

⁵²⁾ honey and lemon lozenges

⁵³⁾ garlic bread

⁵⁴⁾ mango loco monster

⁵⁵⁾ clumsily-made spaghetti

⁵⁶⁾ rotisserie chicken

⁵⁷⁾ madras curry

⁵⁸⁾ abuela’s caldo de res

⁵⁹⁾ dirty martini

⁶⁰⁾ tinned sardines

⁶¹⁾ arayes

⁶²⁾ the last slice of birthday cake

⁶³⁾ ripe nectarines

⁶⁴⁾ caviar bump

⁶⁵⁾ iced latte

⁶⁶⁾ sugar cookies

⁶⁷⁾ mulled wine

⁶⁸⁾ baklava

⁶⁹⁾ chocolate poptarts

⁷⁰⁾ warm champangne

⁷¹⁾ sticky toffee pudding

⁷²⁾ blueberry pancakes

⁷³⁾ birria tacos

⁷⁴⁾ hospital pudding cups

⁷⁵⁾ lobster rolls

⁷⁶⁾ fresh honeycomb

⁷⁷⁾ campfire coffee

⁷⁸⁾ sweet tea

⁷⁹⁾ hot honey

⁸⁰⁾ vanilla protein powder

⁸¹⁾ bulgogi beef

⁸²⁾ warm focaccia

⁸³⁾ chilli con carne

⁸⁴⁾ peach cobbler

⁸⁵⁾ cold watermelon slices

⁸⁶⁾ sweet stewed apple

⁸⁷⁾ coloured marshmallows

⁸⁸⁾ vendor stand hotdogs

⁸⁹⁾ dragonfruit redbull

⁹⁰⁾ blood oranges

⁹¹⁾ vanilla coke

⁹²⁾ blue raspberry slushie

⁹³⁾ nicotine gum

⁹⁴⁾ raspberry jam

⁹⁵⁾ pear cider

⁹⁶⁾ pineapple rings

⁹⁷⁾ chicken wings

⁹⁸⁾ salted butter

⁹⁹⁾ coconut meat

¹⁰⁰⁾ wild blackberries

[materialsscienceandengineering]

A new way to produce fuels made from leftover fat can create biofuel as effective as diesel and 1000-times more efficiently than current methods a new study has suggested. Published in Green Chemistry, researchers from King's College London and the Brazilian Biorenewables National Laboratory used enzymes to break down fatty acids in cooking oil into alkenes, the building block of fuels like petrol and diesel. The scientists hope that the new renewable fuel, which can be made using leftover food waste, can cut fossil fuel usage. Biofuels are a wide variety of energy sources made from renewable organic material that comes from plants or animals, like vegetable oil. Those that can directly replace petrol or diesel in conventional combustion engines have been touted as a sustainable alternative to fossil fuels, with fuels derived from food waste cutting greenhouse gases by up to 94%.

Read more.

[brahmsthirdracket]

another little fic from bits of ancient and unfinished google docs - baby lando and max f

2008 

“Hey bug,” Jon doesn’t need to look up from where he’s holding Oli’s kart steady to sense Lando’s presence, “You okay?”

Lando’s quiet for long enough that Jon does look up then, takes in his small, damp figure, the way he’s fiddling with the zip on his jacket.

Jon straightens up.

“You didn’t wanna hang out with those kids?” He can see them through the driving rain on the other side of the car park, roughhousing under one of the other marquees. 

Lando shakes his head, leans his whole body against Jon’s in an unspoken request for comfort. Jon pulls him in for a cuddle.

“Well you can help me then, yeah? Teach me how to be a mechanic?”

He doesn’t let go until he feels a nod against his chest, and Lando blinks up at him with a weak smile.

For all that Lando follows Jon around like a lost puppy in the garage, once he’s pulled his helmet on, it’s all business. Jon’s not sure he’ll ever get used to how fucking good the kid is. 

On the ferry back to Portsmouth Lando trots after Jon out onto the wet, windy deck instead of whacking the buttons on the fruit machines in the lounge with the other kids. 

The deck is practically deserted this time of year, the other passengers taking refuge in cheap pints and chips laced in salt and vinegar. 

They huddle into their raincoats and lean against the railing. Lando’s got the little green frog sporting a striped Breton shirt and beret that had Jon fished out of the bargain bin in the onboard duty free and shoved over the counter with a Snickers and pack of smokes. Lando’s whole face had scrunched up in surprised joy when Jon handed it to him with a Nice work this weekend.

He watches now as Lando gives it a little kiss and tucks it carefully down the front of his raincoat with its froggy face sticking up over the zip. It’s strange, Jon supposes, an adored child of a multimillionaire, in raptures over a cheap toy.

They lean against the railing in companionable silence, content to let the thrum of the ship’s engine and the fine mist of drizzle wash over them.

“Jon?”

“Hmm?”

“Will you be with me forever?”

Jon looks down at him, at his sweet, earnest face, half-hidden by his hood and the frog. His eyes are the same colour as the churning sea and sky.

Jon, shrugs, doesn’t say Until I get a better job than performance coaching nine-year olds. 

“S’long as you need me, bug.”  

“Cool,” says Lando. He turns his face up into the rain and closes his eyes. “We’re gonna win a World Championship then.”

2009 

True to his word, Jon drives down to Glastonbury for the first weekend of the offseason. He sets off while it’s still dark; stops for fuel and bitter, petrol-station coffee that he downs in two, burning gulps somewhere near Dudley, and turns off the M5 just as the sun is coming up over the rolling Somerset hills. 

It’s only been a month or so since he last saw Lando, but it still feels like something’s shifted since Jon started uni. He wonders, again, if he’s out of mind for agreeing to this, agreeing to miss out on Friday nights at the SU and lazy, hungover mornings with bacon sandwiches and embarrassing pictures. The friendships he’s made still feel new, tentative and he knows that none of them understand why he’s missing parties and intramural football to babysit some kid at karting races. 

He doesn’t say that he could work at Spoons and JD and do the night shift at fucking Asda and he still wouldn’t make the money Adam’s offering him to do this. 

He also doesn’t say that it’s not some kid, it’s Lando and he’s going to win a World Championship someday. 

The last few miles through the patchwork green Somerset countryside, the dew still glistening in the patchwork fields and the spires of sleepy villages, somehow feel like coming home. 

The gravel crunches under his wheels as he turns down the wide, poplar-lined driveway. His mum’s Kia feels small and grubby parked next to a Range Rover with brand-new ‘09 plates. He’s half-in, half-out, hastily shovelling the accumulated debris of protein shake bottles, t-shirts and overdue library books onto the backseat, when something small careers into him from behind. 

“Jon!” Lando squeals, vibrating with anticipation and probably sugary cereal. “I missed you!” He’s run out into the driveway barefoot in what must be his little sister’s dressing gown.

“Me too, bug,” Jon says, scooping him up easily. Lando winds his arms around Jon’s neck and keeps up a constant stream of chatter in his ear. 

The kitchen is as warm and noisy as Jon remembers. He sets Lando down onto a countertop, so he can shake hands with his parents. He gives his sisters high-fives and Oli a fist bump; drops down to scratch the elderly retriever behind the ears.

Over tea, toast and scrambled eggs from the family chickens, Adam spreads out a meticulous printed calendar across the table. 

Lando wedges himself in between them, puts his elbow in the butter dish and beams at Jon. 

“You’re gonna be here like, every weekend. How cool is that?”

They talk logistics for most of the morning: new season regulations, upgrades, race calendars and training schedules. Jon’s not sure if he feels sorry for Lando and Oli or envious. It’s not much of a childhood, but perhaps if he’d spent more time doing interval training as a 12 year old, and less time watching Top Gear reruns and eating Monster Munch, he’d be doing something better with his life.

They don’t seem any the worse for it. They show Jon the new Scalextric set up in their playroom and Oli roundly thrashes him at Guitar Hero. 

Lando for his part, provides a running stream of helpful commentary from the arm of the sofa: “You’re like, okay, Jon, well actually you’re kind of slow but you’re trying so hard!”, until Jon decides that Adam is probably paying him for more than Wii golf and drags them both up onto the hills for a bike ride. 

2010

RFM brings a gruelling European schedule, a truly obscene technical and logistical setup and the stocky, baby-faced son of two stockbrokers who’d apparently dominated the Asian circuits. Max is the same age as Lando, curly-haired and just as weird.  

Max is also very good. 

Jon watches them make shy eyes at each other from across the garage for the best part of a morning before he loses patience. 

“Go and play with him,” he tells Lando, who’s making a nuisance of himself under Jon’s feet, and sends him off in Max’s direction with a gentle shove and a football he has no idea what to do with. 

Max turns out to be steady and gentle foil to Lando’s jittery hyperactivity, and by the time they arrive at Genk for the first race of the season, they’ve sporting Lando Norris friendship stickers on their helmets and Jon has to make actual conversation with adults. 

Inseparable as they are, it’s easier than not for Jon to take Max under his wing as well: to get them racing up and down the tiny hotel pools and endless corridors, to wrangle them under a single big umbrella during rain delays, to tuck them into bed together with Wallace and Gromit on Max’s portable DVD player.

“Night, half pints,” Jon murmurs when he comes in to turn off the light. They’re already fast asleep, little hands entwined on top of the covers.

[nieded]

what are Ezira and AJ like on a long road trip? Which car from their garage would they take? What snacks do they bring? Which one gets pulled over for going eighty in a thirty?

aj and ezira did go on a road trip across california when they were first starting out as a couple! though of course, it would have taken a lot of work to import a car to the states, and so they had a rental. if they could have taken one of their cars, they would have settled on the la ferrari, which could handle the switchbacks of the serria nevada.

maybe someday they will take the road trip that newt and ligur talked about from montpellier to cologne.

the actual reality is that they would take the gti, if they had a choice from their own garage. hypercars are notoriously unreliable. they are not meant for road trips. they aren't really meant to be driven, honestly. replacing brakes on a la ferrari (which is a common maintenance item!!!) costs 40k. the SO works next door to an italian repair shop that exclusively does ferraris, lambos, alfas, and fiats. they have had a lamborghini aventador sitting in the shop for months because it requires a new set of special tires, which they only release every couple of years. so it's just waiting for a random shipment that may or may not come in the next year. the lifespan on hypercars for maintenance items like oil changes and brakes are much much shorter than the average car.

also, where would their luggage go? they will definitely need boot space. crowley's a pain to fly with because he always has extra luggage for stuff: skincare, haircare, nail polish, nail polish remover, extra hats that he will not wear, extra shoes that he will also not wear, but he has them just in case they do the beach or a hike. (and still, he wears his boots.) chargers for his electronics and back up batteries just in case. and weed. road trips are excellent when transporting the goods.

but crowley has no opinion on snacks. thankfully, ezira has all the opinions on snacks. healthy choices such as snacking peppers and carrots and seaweed chips to just cake. lots of biscuits. he has a kettle in the back so they can make periodic petrol stops to boil hot water. and should they stop and pick up more ice for the cooler? just in case? and in the end, they only eat half of it because every four hours, he's on google maps researching local restaurants and cafes for nibbles.

and realistically, neither of them will get pulled over for speeding, but if one of them had to, it'd be crowley. ezira hates driving around civilians. it's much safer to be going 190 on a race track. but average joes are unpredictable. get off your phone! use the indicator (to the beemer, i'm looking at you). oops you missed your exit and are now crossing six lanes of interstate... everybody's out here being lance stroll. ezira absolutely hates it, and if you spend 15 minutes on r/idiotsincars, you will too. there's very little ezira sticks his nose up at, but civilians. *shudders*

but they wouldn't drive over the speed limit, not too much. that's for work. crowley will take it slow through the alps so ezira can take pictures of the clear blue lakes and snow-capped mountains. they'll take turns with the bluetooth, donna summer and pink floyd for crowley, abba and death cab for ezira, and they'll talk about the race season and the spots they want to revisit in america and italy and japan. they'll wonder what ceres has destroyed at marnie and lili's and what the nibling is up to. if she's crawling yet because that means she's almost walking and if she's running they can stick her in a go kart.

but the silence would be good too at night, windows down, one of crowley's feet out the window when it's ezira's turn to drive (less people, more deer, but he will take his chances). and they'll stop on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere between two cities and look up and up and up at the sky, stars twinkling above. and crowley will think about how he's crossed finish lines filled with fireworks, stood on the platform in monza once upon a time when the tifosi flooded the track, sat in the cockpits of wheeled rocketships, unbelievable feats of engineering from mankind, and think nothing could compare to the darkest night in the quiet with his beloved.

it's not about going fast. it's about drawing it out, sitting in the cabin with each other and no one else, as if they could sneak one more minute, one more hour together before they're pulled across the globe in opposite directions. they love it. they love the racing and the adrenaline and the fireworks (but not the jet lag and missed calls and wondering if the other is sleeping ok). they love that feeling of peeling their racing gloves off after hours of sweating and swearing, the long drink of water after a long drive. but. but they love each other more.

[saucyjothoughts]

This one has been on my mind for a couple of days now, so here we go: festival sex with Jan.

Girl meets boy, reader x Jan, at a metal festival. They don't know each other but meet at the festival and end up making out during the headliner show. Where are they going to take it to the next level? Back at the crowded festival camping in a tent that is a bit too small for 2? Or do they try to find a dark and secluded spot in the nearby forest?

Anonyboo, I am in love with you for this concept.

Edit: part two here

(nsfw under the cut)

The crowd has been amazing and you've spent all of the first day spotting band shirts and battle jackets, admiring all the obscure tattoos and brazen piercings on show, seemingly not a single person there with normal coloured hair. You've been making friends with tipsy strangers, exchanging compliments and feeling good in an outfit you don't normally get the chance to wear, co-ordinating between your small group which stages to flit between to catch your favourite artists. The air is full of the smell of mud and grass, your belly is full of overpriced beer and salted meat, your skin a little sunburnt, your body a little achey. But he's just the same, pushing through the sweat and dehydration to enjoy the music and the atmosphere.

You saw him at one of the smallstages; an obscure indie band that none of your friends liked so you went alone. Long black hair, a nose ring and chipped nail varnish. Effortlessly vicious style and kind eyes. Cute. Slightly drunk. Jan, he said his name was. He preferred their older stuff and thought your hair was cool. Were you here for the whole weekend? You're sharing a tent with some friends with shit taste? Him, too.

You thought that would be all, just some harmless flirting with one of the hundreds of hot alternative guys here (so many to choose from and it's only the first day of the festival). But then he's stood near you for the headline act. He's with some friends but you catch each other's eye and before you know it, you're screaming the words at each other as loud as you can, your voices buried in the crowd. Between songs, he's stood behind you and it's easy to back up into him just a little, close enough that he knows it's on purpose and places a hand on your waist and warm breath on your ear. What are your plans after this last show? Do you want to go somewhere?

You do. His dark hair is a little sweaty from exertion under the show lights and the summer night is darkening. Yes, you really do.

"Somewhere" ends up being through a gap in a fence and behind a row of closed food stalls. It's dark back here and smells of petrol from the generators, but there is an illusion of privacy that makes you brave. It's you who makes the first move, shutting up his rambling with your lips, but he soon takes the hint.

Mostly clothed but his hands are everywhere, his breath this close full of sweat and smoke and beer, slim frame deceptively muscular. You're stroking his erection through his pants, hungry for each other, and he's moaning into your kiss and squeezing at your hips, wanting to take you, pushing you back so your butt presses against the top edge of a locked storage trailer. You don't realise how wet you already are until his hand snakes down inside your underwear and he explores you, spreading slick from your pussy all over your lips, all over your clit. His fingers feel good but you both need more. He unzips, letting his fat erection free, and it throbs in your hand, your pussy feeling emptier than ever, needing him urgently. He fumbles with a condom for a moment, taking just long enough to let you shift your clothes to give him access and then he's lifting you to sit on the trailer and pushing your knees apart to stand between your legs. You've known him for a matter of hours, you don't know where he's from and you're not even sure if he remembers your name. You're a young pair of misfits, meeting by chance and crashing together and he uses his hand to position the tip of his cock against your pussy and pushes. The festival ground is still noisy with crowds but it all seems distant, irrelevant, while your fucking is secret, just out of sight. He has his lips on your neck and his fist in your hair while he's fucking you deep and hard, right there in the open air.

He's slurring compliments at you as he comes, hips thrusting erratically where you can feel him deep in you, his skin slapping against yours. You're not there yet. His teeth are on your shoulder, his arms around you, while you both catch your breath. You figure it's over (maybe you can get yourself off in the tent later after your friends have fallen asleep) but after he's dealt with the condom and you've hopped down from the trailer onto your feet, he doesn't let you fix your clothes. He's not done. He sweeps his long hair out of his face and drops to his knees, hitching one of your legs over his shoulder to push his face hungrily against your dripping cunt.

He's good at it.

Afterwards, you need to find your way back to your respective tents. He's pretty sure he can kick his tent-buddy out tomorrow night, if you were maybe free to hang out again? Maybe you will be. You put your number in his phone. Your real number.

[seraph5]

Ignacio “Nacho” Salamanca

When Nacho chooses Lalo he slips back more into his season 1 persona. Back to being more cold-blooded, back to being more sarcastic. He figures in for a penny in for a pound, he's lost his soul already, he might as well burn down everything he was.

There is a part of him when he stares in the mirror that sees his father's son and when Lalo asks him to marry him Nacho wants to cut out that part and bury it in the earth. Bury the part that whispers that Lalo is a different kind of monster from him. True evil while he himself is just a ghost. That's when he decides to embrace everything Salamanca.

His first tattoo is the blue flower on his neck, a reminder that he nearly died for his betrayal of the Salamancas. Then two rattlesnakes biting the flower from either side, he and Lalo eating what might have been the end but instead became a new beginning. A lucky poker chip on his neck. A pill to remind him that drugs built the world in which he lived. Fire running up one arm so that every time he fired a shot it was set alight. Petrol tattooed up the other. Lalo thinks the petrol is fuel for the flames and Nacho does not disabuse him of this idea. In actuality, it is to remind him he will never be clean in this life - never able to expunge his acts. The owl across his ribcage is an agent of Santa Muerte, Lalo's patron saint. He got it the day after Lalo gave him his necklace "for protection" Lalo had whispered against his skin.

Lalo traces the lines of the tattoos, kisses the colours and does not worry about the part Nacho has buried beneath.

Image Description: Nacho Salamanca is sitting on a wooden stool against a wall in Lalo's Hacienda. He's leaning back letting his legs hang wide his right arm casually hanging between them and holding a gun. He is shirtless and shoeless wearing only an expensive pair of navy pinstriped pants. His upper body is covered in the tattoos described above. His face is serious, slightly threatening. Perhaps Lalo is entertaining a cartel don with breakfast while Nacho sits and watches silently, though protectively, off to the side.

[toomuchracket]

Ok but which au is sending one of the boys out in the middle of the night to pick up her pregnancy cravings

oh god all of them. also the comedic potential of this is so fucking funny like imagine seeing matty healy in a big hoodie with bags under his eyes and hair like a birds nest and untied shoelaces (he was in a haste!) in the 24hr tesco at 4 o'clock in the morning with a basket full of grapes and ready salted mini chips and roquito peppers. or ross macdonald with his hair down in shorts and a big jacket buying the entire stock of after eights from the shop at the petrol station. or george looking actually quite normal (baggy clothes sunglasses no hair to look messy) buying four large sprites at the drive thru and not one of them being for him lmfao. they would all do it! and they would not complain (much) - they love their darlings <3