#fuck and limoncello for the same reason

[menlove]

i cant even fully relate to that bc i DO like beer but thats genuinely me whenever i have to suffer anything with gin in it

[flownintothesun]

 ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ───    [ 𝐝𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐥 ]: 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟-𝐝𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦. (𝐑𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐞 @ 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐨)

                          ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭 𝐌𝐞𝐦𝐞: 𝐅𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬  ( @batteredoptimist )

       𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐍𝐎 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐊𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐍 since he was a very young lad. It’s familiar and comforting to him — even though the majority of the memories he’s made here are fraught with their own troubles. Their home has been in the family for generations — and it’s rumored that it was built by one of his ancestors. Family homes are important for the memories they hold, for the history and for the symbolism. He loves the blue ringed tiles on the kitchen, and the paint that might once have been white but is now yellow and peeling. Everyone keeps meaning to ‘get to it’ — but so far, renovations have been on the back-burner. They’re wealthy enough they could hire a contractor — but that’s not how things are done when there’s already so much heart in it. If Mariano could count the times that his Nonna had complained that ‘if the men in this family could just get along’. But that's neither here nor there.

       The lass’s small, bird-like shoulders tremble as she stands over the sink — and Mariano thinks about how soft Rosie’s hands are compared to those of his Nonna, even in her old age. This is all new to her — overwhelming, certainly and despite Mariano’s hopes of having a pretty wife who loves his family as much as he does — he’s aware that the night has had some snags and roadblocks. All right — several. The language barrier is a mountain in and of itself. His siblings speak English — though his sisters had pretended not to, Cosimo had deigned not to. Only Santino had really tried along with him to keep Rosie apprised of the happenings around the dinner table — which are always chaotic. They’re a fairly large Italian family — dinners can get rambunctious if not downright vicious. His Nonna used to catch the corner of his eye when he was a lad and down a glass of limoncello if things got too rowdy. It had made him laugh, before he’d forgotten how.

      Slowly, he approaches, placing a hand gently against the small of Rosie's back before wrapping his arms around her. “I see you find escape room,” he offers sagely, looking down at Rosie’s hands shaking, submerged in the foamy water. “I make use of it too, when I was young.” And, fuck, it had been downright rude of his family to all but ignore her. Even with Mariano trying to ease everything together, and Santino and Nonna helping as best they can — his family can be too cruel. They have no reason to be happy about this union. About their son marrying a foreigner who does nothing for their position in the Mafia. He can’t explain to Rosie that they see it as a dishonor — because he doesn’t want her to think of herself as such.

       “Italian families — they — loud at dinner. Too much wine,” he tries — but fuck, when she looks up at the window, he can see her reflection and those big blue eyes are glassy and she looks like she’s about to cry even though she’s smiling patiently as ever. He’s been defending his family his whole life — but maybe now they all need to realize that she is about to become his family, too. His wife. “They will...get used to the idea, fragolina. It’s okay,” he says, breaking away from her to dig through a drawer and toss a dish towel over his shoulder, “You no have to have everything figured out. We do it together.”

      Here, families often share their homes — it’s not uncommon for elders and parents and adult children and young children to all live under the same roof. This house is his Nonna’s, whether or not his Papa treats it as his own, and currently his sisters and younger brother still reside under this roof until the boss decides on an appropriate match for them. He still has his own room for the ‘weekends’ — one that used to be shared with his elder brother Santino — but that will change once he and Rosie marry. Probably for the best that his own Mama doesn’t need looking after yet. “Would make you feel better if Nonna show you old photos? She show you the time I was maybe three years old,” he continues, taking dishes and beginning to dry, “And thought it would be a good idea to eat an entire bowl of Parmagiano.”

[cibeewastaken]

So like your ficlets destroy me EVERY time they cross my dash. DESTROY. In the best way. They're gorgeous. So here I am, asking for more destruction, apparently?? For the way you said "I love you" game--nr 18, from very far away? ❤️

WOWOWOW Thank you!!! I’m so glad you like them!!! They’re really fun to do and I like trying new things with them, so really bless yall for sending prompts

18. From very far away 

Draco had been away from England for three weeks, and Rome for two weeks when he stepped foot on Capri Island. He knew he should contact Pansy first, but he hadn’t found a payphone yet, and the magical office at Rome told Draco that none of the Capri residences were magic; uses of magic should be limited or preferably not at all. Draco privately thanked this little miracle, no owls, Floos, Apparition or Patronus was allowed! That way Pansy couldn’t be able to tell where he was from his magic, and she won’t be able to show up at his doorstep like in Rome. Draco was just relieved that she didn’t go as far as telling his location to Harry, or any of his cronies.

After Pansy showed, Draco had found a new flat the next day, leaving the old one and a note for Pansy, and didn’t leave his room until he was sure Pansy had given up and left Italy. Then Draco spent his days sitting in numerous cafés, ordering coffee after coffee, basking in the sunlight, staring at the crowd and not bothering to see anything.

And his plan at Capri was similar, except sunlight was practically nonexistent this time of year, and it was drizzling when he stepped off the ferry. When Draco looked out to the ocean, he could only just make out the outline of Italy. Faint enough to pretend it wasn’ t there, and that England wasn’t somewhere beyond that, too. 

By the time he arrived at the lodging, the sky had turned purple, and his feet ached from traveling without magic. Draco didn’t want to talk to anyone, not even a cabbie. His place was more of a villa than a flat, with ivy-wrapped pillars on the balcony, overlooking the foggy ocean and lights of houses. Draco dropped his satchel, shot a hazy spell at his feet, then fell asleep on the couch.

---

Little shops and narrow alleyway painted pale yellow comprised the region Draco was staying. It seemed lemons were a symbol here. There were lemon trees everywhere. Shops sold lemon themed everything: tea towels with a map of Italy and it’s various kinds of lemons (they all looked the same to Draco), plates, espresso cups, lemon tree seeds, lemon candies. Delizia al Limone and liqueur limoncello was on every menu. Draco wandered into a small shop to smell the place more than anything, but he left with a bag of candies. Instead of sitting down in a café, he found a bench by the port and allowed the fog to permeate him as he chewed on sticky, sour treats. Before going home when the sky went dark and remembered he hadn’t called Pansy. There was a payphone some distance away from the villa, Draco pushed in coins until it beeped, and he called the rarely used number.

It took a while for her to pick up, Draco suspected it was because she didn’t remember where the phone was. 

“Hello?” Pansy said through statics. 

“Hi,” Draco said, tapping up the glass walls of the phone booth. 

Pansy didn’t say anything for a beat, then, “Potter came this morning, again.”

“Did he.”

“He’s been driving me mad, just send him an owl so he’ll get off my arse, will you?”

Draco humphed, not responding to the jab. “I’m just calling to tell you I’m okay.”

“If you were okay, you wouldn’t be Morgana knows where right now!” Pansy said. “You could have just stayed with me! I could have warded my house so hard that Potter’s balls would shrivel into raisins if he even thought about coming near.”

“Your house wasn’t far enough,” Draco murmured. 

Pansy sighed. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but we all know Potter didn’t mean any harm. He’s truly incapable of it.”

“I know that, Pansy,” Draco said. “But what does it matter if he meant it or not, when he ends up hurting me anyway?”

“He’s fucking dense, that’s why!” Sounds of clacking: Pansy drumming her nails. “He didn’t realize he’d been taking you for granted.”

“I know he didn’t!” Draco snapped, really pushing down the urge to blow up this payphone so Pansy’s eardrums would burst before the line cut off. “I know I’m being stupid, and selfish, but he was back to England for a week and he didn’t tell me! I went home after work, every day, waiting for his owl, not even his person, just his stupid, fucking owl, to let me know he was safe and home, and not bleeding out in St Mungo’s or worse!”

“Draco — ”

“And I wouldn’t even know if Granger hadn’t had the decency to tell me, so — so — ”

And so what? Draco didn’t know, so he slammed the handset back and buried his face in his hand, tears welling up, telling himself it was because Pansy was being annoying, that’s the reason. Draco fell to a crouch, ceremonially refusing to admit he was crying over stupid Potter like eleven-year-old Draco had done.

---

Capri’s weather didn’t let up in the following week. Draco had gotten used to walking out in a drizzle to the port and finding something to sit. Cats around the neighborhood had taken to following him because Draco put on warming charms before leaving the house. He sat by the port and chew on lemon candies until his stomach hurt. He walked back and listened to the portable radio he brought so he wouldn’t be completely lost when he decided to go back. Then he slept on the couch, the huge bed untouched still.

---

Draco was opening a bottle of cheap red he got from the market when the radio’s regularly scheduled program was interrupted by a special interview. Draco rolled his eyes and took a sip, sighing in content. Even cheap reds here was better than most things sold in England. The host prattled on excitedly before a throaty laugh interrupted her, and Draco stopped in his movement.

“Mr. Potter, I cannot say enough how honored we are to have you,” the host said.

Harry laughed again, an uncomfortable one, but it didn’t seem like the host could tell. Draco dropped down to the couch, sinking into the blankets and pillow, red spilling. 

“What changed? Why do you suddenly want to take up this offer?”

“I admit it’s for a selfish reason,” Harry’s voice said. Draco’s heart pounded. His limbs felt weak and tortured. There was a steadily spreading stain on his shirt. 

“And what’s the ‘selfish’ reason?” the host asked, as though they didn’t believe Harry was capable of that emotion. 

“I’m looking for someone, and I know he listens to the radio every day … ” Harry’s voice trailed off and broke near the end. There was a stretch of deep breaths. 

“Mr. Potter?” 

“Yes, sorry,” Harry said, though his voice was still hoarse. 

“Who is this person that made you take such a measure to look for? We all know how much you value your privacy.”

“He’s — was, is? My boyfriend,” Harry said. Draco wished he could see Harry’s face.

“Oh,” the host said, clearly taken off guard yet pleased they got the scoop. “So you’ve been in a relationship.”

“Yes. For a while now.” Harry went quiet. “Look, I don’t want to be rude, but I’m really not here for an interview. I just need him to know — I miss him, so much, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for being so stupid and scared and just, not realizing how much you thought of me. That’s … I didn’t think someone would care about me so much. I’m sorry — ”

The host sounded scandalized. “Mr. Potter — ”

“ — for not realizing,” Harry sniffed. Draco closed his eyes. He’d never seen Harry cry before. Draco had always been the one to tear up first and Harry would always stop whatever they were doing to hold him. Harry continued, “ —  I had been using separation to run away from separation,” Harry said. “For not seeing how much ache I was causing you. For thinking that I didn’t love you so outrageously that nothing should have been big enough to scare me,” Harry sucked in a shuddering breath. “Yes, I love you. Please, I love you. Where are you?”

Draco slumped into the couch. His face dropped backward like his neck had decided to stop working. He squeezed his eyes shut at the ceiling even though there were no one here to see him cry. Across the ocean, in England, Harry was sniffling for the whole world to hear. And that did Draco in. He didn’t want Harry to cry.

Draco stumbled out of the door into the rain. Cats were hiding under his belvedere. Draco paused to cast a warming charm until they all stopped shivering. Then he went on, felt his way around the streets until he saw the tiny light in the distance.

The glass was slippery when Draco pushed it open, and he shivered, fingers gripping the phone as he pushed in coins and coins. The Wizarding Telephone Centre did not appreciate Draco’s shivering speech, but passed him along to the Wizarding Wireless Network. The employee there was even more grouchy.

“Mr. Potter is in an interview right now!” the woman said.

“Please,” Draco said. “Just ask, please? If he refuses, then hang up.”

She grumbled and muttered. Whooshing sounds signaled the memos being sent out, and Draco dropped his forehead to the glass, focusing on the rain hitting it instead of the clattering of office noise. He was in the only bright thing within miles. Capri was asleep in the dark, except for a tiny phone booth with a tiny lightbulb amidst tiny raindrops.

Then, “Uh,” she said. “Mr. Potter is here to take — ” Then sounds of the phone being wrenched away, and Harry’s frantic “sorry, sorry!”

“Harry?” Draco said, quiet. 

Then Draco could hear Harry’s shivering breaths. Surely it wasn’t cold and raining at the Wireless office. Surely Harry wasn’t coming down from bearing his heart out to everyone for the slight chance that one person would hear it. Surely Harry wasn’t holding back tears at hearing Draco’s voice, that would just be unthinkable.

“Draco,” Harry said. “Draco, it’s you. It’s you?”

“Yes,” Draco said. Then, disconcerted, “You’re not still on air, are you?”

Harry laughed. A nasally sound. “No. I don’t — I don’t know what they’re doing now.”

“Okay,” Draco said, unsure now what the next thing to say was. He hadn’t spoken a word to anyone in such a long time.

“Draco, Draco.” Harry was saying, as if he was making up for lost times. “Draco, I’m sorry.”

“I know you are, Harry,” Draco said. “I know you are, but — that doesn’t change — ”

“I know,” Harry said. “I’m really awful at this, Draco.” Miserably. “You’ve just always been there, and I really thought you’d always will, but that’s not how this works, is it? I didn’t realize I’d been doing that. I didn’t know you’ve been waiting. I was so scared of you thinking I was a burden, someone you had to make an effort to take care of. I’m terrified one day there’d just be too much you think that comes with me and decides I’m just not worth the effort.”

“There seems to be an abundance of you thinking what I thought and nothing about you actually asking me what I thought,” Draco said.

“Hermione said that too,” Harry said. “She was really angry when she found out I hadn’t told you I was back. She said not wanting you to see me recovering isn’t an excuse.”

“It’s not,” Draco blinked slowly, tiredly.  

“I was afraid you’d ask me to give up the Aurors.”

“And you know this how?” Draco said, pressing his aching eyes to the cold, gently vibrating glass. “You asked me, did you? Wrote me a little note, hm? Asked me when I was asleep and wonder if my snores are actually Morse code for ‘Quit your job and be my trophy husband’?”

Harry sounded oddly pleased when he said, “Husba — ” before Draco cut him off, 

“It’s so stupid,” Draco said, now really getting into it. He’d not said a word for the last three weeks and Harry always was the best person at getting Draco to break. “It’s one of those things I hated because everyone liked it, and as far as I could tell, this thing made people miserable than happy more often than not and then I hated it until I tried to think, maybe this thing is actually nice and there’s a reason people like this — this stupid, wretched thing. So when I got over being mean and childish about it I had allowed myself to finally fall in love, and after I did I wondered, oh god, god, why weren’t more people doing this?”

“Draco — ” Harry breathed. And Draco cut him off once again, 

“No, no. I understand. I’ve never said it to you as well. But can’t you understand that it’s difficult for me, more so because it’s you? Did it make any difference that it was you? Perhaps if I had fallen in love with anyone else, it would have been just love. But to me, when it was you, it scalds me. Of course it made a difference when it’s you. And it never really occurred to me what happens if I had been falling in love alone. And for someone who has been doing most things alone for most of my life, I should have really thought about it before letting myself think it was safe to do so.”

“Draco,” there Harry went again, saying his name like he was using it to cast a Patronus. “You weren’t doing it alone.”

“I know that now,” Draco said petulantly. “Found out on the radio!”

Harry laughed, and Draco knew what he was going to say, but he didn’t think his heart could take it the second time if Harry wasn’t there for Draco to fall into. And he was dangerously close from saying the words himself, like a little monster had crawled from his chest and was trying to pry his lips open. So Draco stared at the glass of the phone booth very hard, enough he’d only see the night outside, and said, wetly, “I would have never asked you to quit.”

“Draco. Draco, are you crying?”

“No,” Draco said, crying. “It’s just raining here.”

“Where’s ‘here’?”

“Not saying. I won’t have you Gryffindoring here like some … some … ”

Harry sounded like he was smiling. “Like some Gryffindor?”

“Yes, that,” Draco said lamely.

Harry started to laugh. “God, I miss you. I keep … I keep wanting to talk to you. The other day Ron wore a bright purple robe with neon pink and orange patterns — ” 

“Oh god,” Draco choked, delighted at the image. “Oh my!”

“Yes, yes!” Harry sounded so happy. “I knew you’d like it, and I just wanted to go home and tell you about it, but — ”

Draco’s laughter died down. He chewed on his bottom lip.

When Harry spoke again, his voice was soft. “I wrote it down, in a notebook. Other stuff, too. Things I saw that reminded me of you, or things I wanted to tell you. Things I knew you would get a laugh out of. I just … ”

“Harry,” Draco said. 

“I miss you,” Harry said again. “I know I messed up, can I  …  can we  … ”

Harry sniffed. Draco felt very sad, and very cold. He could only fix one, so he cast a warming charm.

“I’ll be at home,” Harry said. His voice was getting statics.

Draco banged his knee against the glass, cursing himself for forgetting he was using a completely muggle phone. “Harry, wait — ” Draco didn’t think it was wise to use magic to fix it. He fumbled for his wallet, but his fingers were stiff from the cold and gripping the phone too hard; coins scattered across the floor. “Wait — ” 

“I’ll be,” Harry’s voice came through weakly in pieces. “Draco? I — ” 

Draco dropped the phone and crouched to snatch up a coin blindly. Even one penny would be plenty more time. When he pressed his ear back to the phone, he caught onto the last of Harry’s words, “ — home.”

The rhythmic beeps of disconnect tone continued until the payphone finally gave away. 

“Harry?” Draco said into the phone, pressing the switchhook and got nothing but silence. “Harry? Harry. Harry — ”

---

Draco put out some food by the door and renewed the warming charm. “I hope you all won’t get attached,” Draco said to the cats; none of them were paying him any attention. “But I shan’t be here any longer to help you. Go find someone else tomorrow. Stay dry, stay fat, and maybe I’ll see you again one day.”

He wired the rest of the rent over to the owner and left the key under the flowerpot, then he made his way back down to the port alone for the last time. Draco bought a ticket for the next ferry and sat down to wait. Then he felt a little odd sitting there with nothing but his luggage. Draco squinted up at the bright sun, and took one last look at the pale yellow walls and narrow roads before jumping up and dashing into one of the little shops. 

“Silly me, almost forgot,” Draco said to the shopkeeper as he placed a bag of lemon candies on the counter. “Souvenir.”

The shopkeeper rang up his purchase. “So you do talk.”

“Just in a good mood.” Draco grinned at her. “I’m going home.”

(The way you said “I love you.”

Other “I love you”s)

[bitterlimoncello]

@hopingforjustice​ said: 3 & 4!

father’s day asks // accepting.

3 - What was your father like in general?

     "Well, he was a lotta different things to a lotta different people. That was kinda his whole bag, and he was good at it--learned and practiced and honed it ‘till it was a work of fuckin’ art. Hard work--not honest, mind you, but hard. More'n you can say of most of the people who he pulled one over on, that's for fuckin' sure."

     She rolls her eyes, leans forward almost conspiratorially, as if she's about to let you in on some big secret. "Rich people have a lot of unearned confidence. They think their fancy uptown life is a sign of their own hard work--and the only reason the rest of us aren't living the same luxury is just 'cause we just didn't work hard enough like they did--’cause we’re stupid, y’know? Fuckin’ pricks. It's like those shitheads who see cult coverage on the news and say to themselves, 'Well, I'd never fall for that'--giving somebody a neat little divot under that white-picket fence to weasel their way in through." Limoncello cracks a smile--sharp and mean and proud. She tips her head, balances a freckled cheek in her palm, her other hand working a gleaming coin between each dip of her finger. "And Segretis are real good at crawling when we need to be. But I digress."

     "Charismatic, I s'pose you'd call him. Real good at figurin' out what somebody wanted and becoming that. He was smart in all the ways 'polite society' don’t think qualifies, and he knew better'n to try to change their minds, which is where a lot of other folks get caught." Limoncello purses her lips, pauses, then adds, a little quieter: "He never took from somebody who'd really be impacted by it--or who didn't fuck with him first, at least. If you were in trouble and he could spare it, he'd try to help you. Wouldn't stick his neck out for someone he thought wouldn't cross the street to piss on us if we were on fire, mind you, but he'd help if he thought you were alright." She cocks her head, crosses her arms, and sneers. "Lotta nice, rich people who wouldn't do the same. Trust me."

[language-of-love]

a welcome change...

Summary: There’s still a dead guy in room 4 and David can’t stay at Patrick’s, but that doesn’t mean they can’t go on a second date. And kiss in David’s car. Part 5 of my missing kisses series...that’s now out of order episodically, but this just had to be written. (AO3)

“You know,” David finds himself admitting aloud, “this is actually only the second real date I’ve ever been on.”

It’s an odd thing to realize considering the number of people he’s dated in the past.

Obviously thinking the same thing, Patrick looks over at him from the passenger side of David’s car with a questioning look.

“Uh, does that mean that last night was your first one?”

Clenching the steering wheel a bit harder than necessary, David nods, trying to find the least offensive way of explaining that his previous life was full of a lot of emotionless sex and ridiculous pining for relationships that never really existed.

“Let’s just say that I tended to do things a bit out of order. So, this is a welcome change.” He can feel the blush blooming high on his cheeks at that admission, but there’s something about Patrick that has him wanting to be just a bit more vulnerable than he’d normally allow.

In what feels like a reward for his honesty, Patrick’s hand reaches across the car with his palm facing up and David spares a quick glance his way. He’s pretty sure he knows what Patrick is silently asking for, but it’s been a long time since he’s done this and he kinda needs the reassurance, which he gets immediately when he sees the warmth of Patrick’s smile. So, he drops his right hand from the steering wheel into Patrick’s, feeling warmth spread from his toes to the tips of his ears as Patrick weaves their fingers together and lets their joined hands fall to his thigh.

“Well, it’s been a fun night,” Patrick says, parroting the same sentiment David had said the night before. God, this man is cheesy, and so different from everything David has ever been drawn to in the past. But maybe, just maybe...he’s making better choices now. And he’s right. It was a fun night. Really fun actually.

They’d driven into Elmdale and found a little pizza place that had tables outside. Patrick hadn’t complained that it took a half hour to get their pie thanks to David’s very particular requests, instead using the time to play with the rings on David’s hand as they chatted about everything and nothing. They’d shared a scoop of limoncello gelato after, with David protesting that it was too sour before eating almost all of it, including the sticky syrup still left on Patrick’s lips as they leaned against David’s car in the darkened parking lot. Eventually though, they’d both reluctantly admitted it was probably time to head home.

Giving Patrick’s fingers a light squeeze, he feels a tinge of annoyance creep in as Ray’s place comes in to view. He isn’t ready for this night to end yet. But, he promised Patrick they’d take things slow, so inviting himself in just isn’t an option. Even if that means sleeping on a cot in his parents’ room tonight, he’s not going to do anything to mess this thing, whatever it is, up, at least not on purpose.

Pulling up in front of Ray’s, David realizes he’s going to need his hand back to put the car in park, which has him hesitating with his foot on the brake. He doesn’t want to let go. There’s a chuckle beside him and before he has a moment to question Patrick as to what’s so amusing, Patrick is reaching over with his right hand to pull the gear shift into park. Is this guy a mind reader or something?

David doesn’t have any time to really wonder about that though. Patrick, who is still leaned in, makes a move so suave that David feels a tiny part of him fall in love right on the spot. The hand that had been on the gear shift is now on David’s jaw, turning his face to meet Patrick’s soft, but not at all tentative kiss. Since when does kissing feel this good?

Dropping his left hand from the steering wheel, he lets his fingers curl around Patrick’s forearm, thankful that Patrick had rolled up his sleeves during dinner leaving his warm skin free to be touched. Obviously emboldened by David’s response, Patrick gets bolder with his kiss, his lips coaxing David’s open to welcome a languid sweep of his tongue.

Fireworks. There’s goddamn fireworks going off behind David’s eyelids and popping in his ears.

And it’s too much, but not enough, so he finds himself wrenching his hand free of Patrick’s so he can grab at his neck to make sure he doesn’t stop. Because this is the single best kiss of his life. Sliding his tongue along Patrick’s, he groans softly into his mouth, sinking into the wet heat and humidity of their shared, shallow breaths. When Patrick’s teeth pull slightly on David’s lower lip he can’t stop himself from swearing, “fuck…” as his hand drags Patrick even closer, wishing desperately there was room for him to crawl over into his lap, but knowing somewhere in the back of his brain that there isn’t...and they are supposed to be taking things slow.

Patrick is pulling back now, but not far, his hand bracing himself on the window as he takes a few ragged breaths through a rather blinding smile. “Wow,” he declares on a soft gasp, his eyes dropping down to David’s mouth as if he’s counting down the seconds until he can get another taste. It’s the single sexiest thing David has ever seen.

Reaching up, he swipes his thumb across the sweat that has gathered above Patrick’s top lip, not sure at all of why he’s just done that. It triggers something in Patrick though, something that has his breath hitching and his hand on the window sliding down the glass. When his head turns to catch David’s thumb between his lips, David knows he’s in serious trouble. It’s probably because his mind has begun to conjure things far from the “taking things slow” realm that has David not protesting in the slightest as Patrick drags their mouths together again in a wet and dirty kiss. This time, it’s David being dragged across the car with Patrick’s hands framing his face, the seatbelt stopping his forward momentum and ripping their lips apart.

David grunts and Patrick mumbles in confusion, his eyelids taking a long moment to flutter open and see what has happened. The man is completely lust drunk and David has never felt more proud. And annoyed. Because as much as it is going to pain him to do so, he’s going to have to be the one to bring this night to an end. Patrick wants to take things slow. He’s just forgotten that temporarily, in spectacular fashion. And as much as David wants to rip off this seatbelt and show Patrick all of the things he’s been missing while lost in that very blue closet, tonight just isn’t the night.

Instead, he leans back, making sure to smile warmly at Patrick as he unclips the seatbelt and climbs out of the car. Patrick hasn’t moved, so David crosses over to his side to open the door, reaching in with his hand to coax Patrick out.

“Is something wrong?” Patrick questions as he unhooks his seatbelt, gingerly taking David’s outstretched hand that David uses to help him out of the car. As soon as he’s on his feet, David crowds him against the door-frame, kissing him soundly in hopes of erasing any lingering doubts of his thoughts on the evening’s events. Patrick chases his lips with still closed eyes when David pulls back and he’s just not strong enough to resist, so he lets Patrick catch him, stifling a moan when he feels Patrick’s erection straining against his jeans where he’s now leaning into David’s thigh. It would be so easy to drag him inside, let wants overtake needs, but he won’t. But god does he want to.

Stepping out of the circle of Patrick’s arms, he reaches down for his hand and laughs as he has to drag an uncooperative Patrick away from his car.

“You wanted to take things slow, remember?” he teases, bumping Patrick’s hip with his own as they walk together towards Ray’s porch.

“Since when do you listen to what I say?” Patrick grumbles, but he’s smiling and he’s gazing over at David with such warmth that David feels his knees wobble a bit. This man is going to take him apart, he just knows it.

“I’m turning over a new leaf. But don’t get too excited, this only applies to our relationship, not anything else…” He’s rambling, but Patrick’s used to that by now.

When they reach the front door, Patrick steps in close, the tip of his nose nudging David’s so sweetly he has to grab Patrick’s elbows to keep himself standing.

“Goodnight, David,” he whispers, kissing David so softly you’d never know they were minutes away from ripping each other’s clothes off back in the car.

It’s in that perfect moment that the porch light over their heads suddenly beams to life and the front door swings open wide.

“Gentlemen, nice to see you!” an overly friendly Ray exclaims in greeting, his already wide eyes bugging out for a brief moment as he registers the embrace David and Patrick haven’t pulled away from. There’s no judgment there, only surprise, his expression turning quickly back to his usual welcoming smile. “I’d worried that perhaps there was an issue with David’s car, but now I see that you two were just having a private moment. That’s very sweet.”

And now David is mortified.

“I’ve just put a kettle of tea on, do come in...come, come…” Ray’s now ushering them both through the door, David nearly tripping over Patrick as they find themselves standing somewhat awkwardly inside with hands still clasped.

And that’s how their date comes to a close, sharing a cup of herbal chai tea with Ray, feet hooked around the ankles as Patrick fills Ray in on the happenings at the store. It feels a little full circle for David, sitting here in the place where they first met, realizing that maybe the reason he was all off kilter that day was he’d finally met the person who, in time, would set everything in his life right.

[diplomaticspoonie]

Commitments

This is going to be pretty free-form.  I might clean it up later.

To quote the opening to a childhood TV show: “Our world is in peril.”  But it’s not just the pollution (and sadly, definitely not just radioactive cartoon villains). Nazis are marching, dictators and wannabe dictators are taking over everywhere, and people seem to be voting based on how to piss others off.  

I always assumed all people want to make the world better and just couldn’t agree how to do that; apparently, some people really do want to watch the world burn.

I’m not giving up. I picked my profession specifically to make the world better, and right now I’m still doing that. (I work in the Bureau of Democracy, Rights, and Labor, which really helps.) As long as I feel I’m doing good, I will continue.  

However, I know it’s easy to get caught up in work and careerism and to lose focus on what’s actually important.  Moreover, in this world, we need to start staking out what we commit to. So, that said:    

1) I support immigrants.

When I work as a visa officer, it is often my job to deny someone a visa under the law.  Often there are good reasons; more often, it’s bullshit, but it’s the law and my hands are mostly tied. (That said, after doing consular work, this man is even more of a hero to me than he was before.)

The above being said--I fully support those who get here, however they get here, and support any changes to the law to make it easier for people to come to the U.S. 

My family came to the U.S. prior to there being any restrictions. Supposedly, one of my ancestors was fleeing a murder charge (something that would now prevent him from getting a visa!)  They were all, to my understanding, poor farmers with no assets, no education, nothing to their names.  

What right do I have to stop someone else from doing the same?

Nearly every religion emphasizes the importance of hospitality, of aiding the alien and the traveler.  You find it in Greek myths, Norse Eddas, and of course the Bible is FULL of commandments to treat well those not of your country living within it.  I may have lost my faith ages ago, but I still believe in this as a cardinal virtue.  

3)  I support victims of discrimination and abuse.

I recognize that being a white cishet dude gives me advantages. Having a sweet government job with tenure on top of that makes it that much better. (Though my government job does limit my ability to engage in some kinds of advocacy.)  

It is incumbent on me to search for ways to help others.  I can’t expect people to spoon-feed me opportunities or pat me on the head and lead me by the hand through it.  (Nor, of course, should I do this to expect rewards or praise. I do this because it’s the decent thing to do and needed to move our world to where it needs to go.) I already have a few ideas on doing this.

This past year has made clear that sexual harassment/assault/rape is an ongoing issue in every. single. industry in America, and foreign affairs/national security is sure as hell not exempt.  My eyes are opened to this now, and I am keeping them open so that I can help stand up against it and be a shield for those who suffer from it. Unfortunately, I’ve also learned that our own EEO system at the State Department is widely seen as useless, so I’m hoping to work with people on how to fix this. 

On social media, I will amplify and repost things written by members of less privileged groups, rather than my own thoughts or those of other white dudes.

I will financially support organizations (like BLM) working towards dismantling the institutional discrimination.  

3) I keep my priorities straight, at work and at home.

This might seem obvious, but when neck deep in my work for the U.S. government, it can get lost.  

My old pastor (at one of the many churches I attended) talked about a prospective employer who told him that his priority should be work first, family second, God third.  He refused the job, because for him, that was exactly backwards. There are many, many things I disagreed with that pastor on, but this is something that has stuck with me.

My highest allegiance is to humanity as a whole. (I said above, I don’t believe in God, but I do believe in working to help people.)

This is followed by my allegiance to the Constitution of the United States, to which I swore an oath when I started this job. 

After that comes my family and my own needs. 

Lastly comes career concerns and my work, to the extent it’s separate from the first two. 

(And most importantly--illegal and immoral orders are to be refused as such. This hasn’t been a problem to date, but it’s something I will keep an eye out for forever.)

4) I’m no good to anyone dead, burned out, or in a hospital.

This is to remind myself that my chronic health problems are not just an excuse to keep from fighting the fight--they can (and, one day, likely will) completely remove me from being productive, and so I have to do what I can to keep them at bay.  I may always feel like I should do more for the above points (and am always open to suggestions!), but it’s imperative I take care of myself as well.  

(Of course, I also can’t let them be an excuse that keeps me from doing anything either.) 

5) I create, not just consume.

One way to push back on the psychiatric problems might be to engage in actual creation.  I’ve been working on liqueurs, and I quite enjoy that (though it can be a smidge pricey).  So, here is my one resolution--find time every week to work on creating something, whether it is writing, making liqueurs, or acting as a bartender to friends during a party.  (Cooking an involved dinner will count too; instant noodles will not.)  

I made limoncello awhile back, and shared it with friends.  The happiness from it was amazing and filled me with warmth.  (I recommend trying it!)

I’m not making these commitments to try to say “look at me, look how good I am!” It’s instead a self-conscious way to make myself try to live by them.  (In the jargon of my field--I’m tying my hands by making public commitments, imposing reputational costs on myself if I fail.) Please let me know if I fail. 

And, a reminder to anyone else:

0) Racists, sexists, xenophobes, homophobes, transphobes, anti-Semites, Islamophobes, dominionists, white supremacists, MRAs, MTGOWs, gamergaters, alt-righters, and any others that want to maintain current inequitable hierarchies can fuck right off.  

[notconsolation]

The Russians

Or Part 2 As Requested By Avia @slampoety

'The Russians' is what I call them when I talk about them, but their real names (? actually now that I think about it those could easily be aliases they adopted when they fled the country) are Oless and Katya. 

Again, getting ahead of myself because when I walk in, he is the only one there. He ushers me in and I think we're both a bit confused. I'm not really sure what this place was and he doesn't know how I found them. He says so and I say I'd followed the sign and that I'd been caught in a storm up the mountain. 'Ah yes' he says, like it's the beginning of a sentence, but doesn't continue. I take off my shoes and he shows me into a small room with a bed and a cupboard squeezed into it. I ask him how much it is for the night and he does that thing where you roll your lips into your mouth and hold up a finger as if something has just occurred to you, and grabs a leaflet that's lying on the table. 'She usually takes care of... this stuffs. Ah yes, here,' and he shows me the part where it says: €16 per night.

'Oh, right,' I nod and do my being as nice and polite as possible because you're a stranger and you have the power here smile. I mean €16 is also better than I'd hoped for, so I am actually happy, but exhausted and aware that this setup is vaguely sketchy. Still dripping.

'So,' he says, gesturing around a bit, and I drop my stuff and we leave the room. 'Toilet is here' as he leads me next door, 'shower is here' as he leads me one further down, 'and kitchen is here' as we turn in the narrow hall to enter the kitchen, which also contains a large round table covered in a laminated plastic tablecloth patterned with fruits in a red-through-green colour palette.

'Sit down, sit down! Are you hungry?'

'Oh,' I smile, still dripping. I've sat down now but I know there'll be a wet mark when i stand up. 'Thank you but I'm good.' I realise as I say this that it's a really weird thing to say? To a non-native english speaker it must seem odd: 'I'm good' yeah okay cool I'm glad but what does that mean in terms of whether you would like some food or not.

But he gets that I'm saying no and does the something just occurred to me finger thing 'I know, I know,' he mutters as he turns and reaches for the fridge door. 'Ah yes' the Russian accent is strong and I'm really trying not to smile at it. He pulls out a bottle of dark liquid. Alas, my Slovenian is, uh.. how u say? terrible? non-existent?? but even so I can tell that whatever is on the label is not in the bottle. Cool. This is fine. Cool.

'This I have ancient Slovenian herbal, ah... medicinal,' he gets two shot-glasses out, 'very good, very healthy. It is very old and traditional mountain drink.' I'm smiling and making interested noises like the fucking white girl I am. 'Very healthy.'

He also gets out a bottle of vodka. A Big Bottle, mostly empty. Russians. 'We have to make a toast' he tells me. 'It is forbidden to drink without making a toast to something'

He pours me a large shot of the Very Healthy Unlabelled Dark Slovenian Mountain Liquid. Cool. This is fine.

'Okay. what should we toast?'

He looks out the window. 'Let us toast the weather and hope it gets better soon'

He puts the bottle down and pours himself a shot of vodka.

A snapshot of my brain at this moment in time: WHAT THE FUCK YOU FUCKING WHITE GIRL, GOOD LUCK NOT GETTING DRUGGED AND SOLD HUMAN TRAFFICKING HAPPENS I SAW IT IN TAKEN, OR MAYBE TURNS OUT THIS IS THE BEGINNING OF SPLIT 2 YAY MOTHERFUCKER IT'S YOUR OWN FAULT HAVE FUN IM OUT.  

Hyperbole, maybe, but I'm tired, okay. And you have to admit that was a sketchy move on his part, not drinking the same mystery thing he gave me. So like a fucking champ/idiot white character in a movie, i take the shot. It tastes like anise, basically like a good version of jägermeister.

'Is like jägermeister, yes? but good'

'yeah,' I reply. 'It is. So, um.. Where are you from?'

'Ah, yes!' He tells me. I'm inclined to agree. He's pouring another shot and I'm not dead yet so why not. He sighs a bit. 'Long story, I'll tell you. What do we toast? Ah! We toast to your health'

We do, and drink.

'Okay,' he says. 'Okay,' he says, and starts telling me about how he got here. He's from Russia, as is Katya, who isn't there right now. I'm still not clear now on their relationship. They aren't married but I don't know how they ended up living together. It didn't feel right to ask. They came from Russia when Putin came to power, more or less. They don't agree with his opinions and they don't like the way he does things, and they knew that wasn't a point of view to be lived with comfortably in Russia, so they moved. I suspect he simplifies the story a little for me. We don't know each other and I don't have a right to any secrets he might want to keep. I ask him a little about whether Slovenian is similar to Russian, and how long they've been in this house, doing this Airbnb business. This is a stab in the dark, I have no idea whether it's an Airbnb or just a friendly guest house. I'm right, though, and he says they'd been there 3 years, that Slovenian was very difficult, and that the people are quite traditional and closed off. He tells me stories about getting to know his neighbours and being invited to birthday parties and plying people with alcohol. He seems nice. I say I asked about the language because I'll be learning Russian at uni next year. He is delighted and pours us another shot. The conversation turns to me and why I'm there.

He clearly thinks I'm mad for going up in the storm and from here on out he refers to me as a hero. Of course, this means we have to drink again, toasting heroes. We talk about the difference between travellers and tourists and about democratic socialism. We drink again to cats when they cat wanders in. I ask whether it's a boy or a girl and he shrugs and makes an 'eh' sound. 'It was a he and then it was a she and now... Nobody is sure.' I like that and I say so, so we drink to non binary cats.

At one point I sneeze and say I should probably go take a shower and get into dry clothes. He agrees and so I do. It feels heavenly. I fall onto my bed and think about the day for a bit. Then I hear voices in the kitchen, so I tiptoe back out. Katya is in there, now. She sees me and goes: 'ah!' and starts cutting up some watermelon to offer me. Oless, as I find out he is called, is making tea in an elaborately patterned tea set. It's tessellated in white and shades of blue and orange, with red and green accents. The cups don't have handles, and are basically just tiny bowls. Those are my favourite kind.

He turns. 'Would you like?'

I'm still hovering near the door, but Katya pulls me in and gives me watermelon. 'Yes please,' I say as I sit down. There's something on the stove, too. We drink tea and he tells me more stories. We was in the soviet army, at one point, and he got the tea set from an old friend in Uzbekistan. He tells me about the difficulty of buying bread during the occupation, first because people would not take their money, would just heap free food on them, then, later, because doors would shut and even friends would smile sadly and say they couldn't sell them anything.

The cat is aggressive. He likes me at first, but seems very prone to turning and biting for no reason. The only explanation Oless offers me is that it's a Russian cat. I still think about that cat a lot. It has seen shit, I'm sure of it.

Two other girls arrive in the kitchen. They're both American, travelling together. We exchange niceties etc etc etc tbh there's not much to say. We got along really well and a lot of alcohol was involved

He's still calling me a hero and now (thanks vodka) I feel like one. We've mowed through the vodka and have moved on to limoncello by the time the Australians come home around 23:30. Apparently they had some car trouble. Honestly I don't remember exactly how the night ended, only that we had some kind of Russian galette stuffed with mushrooms and sour cream, and that he brought out a box of fish pickled in brine with juniper berries and we all spent a good deal of time pulling out their intestines so we could eat them whole. It was a good night.

[ob-fans]

Restaurant Fails

@fuck-customers 

Things you’re doing wrong in a restaurant that your server secretly hates you for.

Seating:  When you walk into a restaurant, unless you’ve been there before and you know for certain that this is acceptable – DO NOT SEAT YOURSELF DOWN. It is not fucking McDonald’s. This is incredibly annoying to servers for several reasons – firstly, their manager may be watching and it will appear they have kept you waiting so long that you were forced to seat yourselves, and secondly even if it is quiet when you arrive, they may well have a seating plan and tables intended for booked guests later on. Thirdly, it’s just plain impatient and rude.

Generally if the restaurant is quiet and there is 4 or less of you we give people some choice about where to sit as this makes the customer feel valued. However, do not turn up as a party of 6 or more, for whom restaurants often have a limited number of suitable tables, ignore our table suggestions and insist on us making some sort of table jigsaw in the middle of the restaurant floor, just to accommodate you. You're there for a couple of hours, not the rest of your life – chill the fuck out.

Further to this, yes we know it’s cold outside, but if you give yourself a minute to warm up you will realise once you’re INSIDE you will no longer be cold. Please don’t expect we can seat EVERY single person that comes in “as far away from the door as possible” as we would have a half empty restaurant and in our case, have most of our customers out of sight from the bar/reception area. Be patient, at least see if you’re warm enough where you are before asking to move.

Also, do not demand to sit away from children as soon as you arrive. You’ve chosen a child friendly Italian restaurant that serves pizza and fries. What do you expect? If you don’t like kids, go somewhere else. Which leads me on to…

Kids:  DO NOT ALLOW YOUR KIDS TO RUN OR SKATE AROUND THE RESTAURANT. This is not just annoying to staff and fellow customers alike, but is also incredibly dangerous – staff serve hot drinks and food, many dishes coming straight from the oven, and if your kid runs into us on their skates it’s very possible they could end up with food all over them or worse in the hospital with second degree burns.  

It is not acceptable to allow your kids to throw food everywhere and leave the table looking as though a bomb hit it, with more food on the floor than was on the plate. If your kid can’t handle eating in a restaurant without making THAT MUCH of a mess, they are not old enough to be eating out. Either that, or please, take wet wipes (not baby wipes, I mean antiseptic wipes) and at least clear up the mess before you leave. If you wouldn’t leave a friend’s house that way, don’t leave a restaurant that way - it’s just bad manners.

Please do not leave your young children alone in the restaurant. ALWAYS nominate at least one adult to supervise. We are not a crèche and are not there to look after your children because you want a glass of wine and a sit down for an hour or two. Children forget their orders, take ages to make up their minds, change their minds, and generally get confused about the whole process, and we cannot discuss the orders or negotiate the bill with a child if something needs fixing. The last time this happened, a kid ended up getting a Bolognese when they were vegetarian, because they had forgotten what they wanted and didn’t know what it was. This shit is not our fault if you can’t be bothered to look after your kids.  It’s fine to let them “be adults” and sit by themselves, JUST STAY IN THE DAM RESTAURANT SO THAT IF YOUR KID BREAKS THEIR LEG WE DON’T HAVE TO CALL AN AMBULANCE AND WAIT FOR YOU TO COME BACK TO TELL YOU YOUR KID IS IN THE HOSPITAL. Seriously, this is just un-fucking acceptable. Don’t do it. Ever.

Just because you are a young person and are eating out with your friends with your pocket money or a voucher your parents have given you, this does not mean that the standards are different for you. We don’t necessarily expect a large tip (hell, usually we don’t expect ANY tip) but at least have the courtesy and sense to split the bill, or take change with you so that you can pay for your amount exactly. The last time this happened, all 4 of them had kids set menus, the only difference was some had coke and some had juice, which was ridiculous. We do not have the time, nor we should we expected to work out the change for 6 or more people’s individual orders, and give you each exact change when you have only given us a £20 note each. We are not a bank and often waiters have their own floats, meaning that especially near the start of a shift they will not have a large amount of loose change on them. Basically, if you’re old enough to eat out like adults, you’re old enough to pay like adults too.

Headphones / phones / games – I personally don’t give a crap if your kid wants to play a game etc or listen to music while in the restaurant, as long as it does not disrupt other customers. However, please have the fucking courtesy to make sure your kid is making eye contact and actually treating us like fucking human beings when we are taking their order. I cannot tell you how dismissive and disrespectful it is to be for all intents and purposes ignored and treated like furniture. We are serving your food, we are not slaves.

Stacking Plates

Please, if you are sitting somewhere the waiter cannot easily reach you, take the plate from us when you receive your food, and hand it back to us when we come to clear your plates. We do not have extendable arms for hard to reach tables, please us common sense in this scenario – if you would struggle, then likely we are too.

It’s very much appreciated if you stack your plates, but please do this sensibly. Do not create a giant plate mountain destined to topple over at the minutest movement – this is counter-productive and it just means we have to unpile your plates before we can re stack them and take them back to the kitchen – completely nullifying the point. If you are incapable of determining what is a sensible plate stack and what is a plate catastrophe in the making, please leave your plates the fuck alone, and wait for us to collect them.  

Discounts  and Receipts

If you have a discount code or voucher, please make sure the server is aware of this BEFORE you ask for the bill. Please do not ask for the bill, wait for the server to print the bill and leave it with you before you decide to let them know. This is annoying to the server, a waste of everyone’s time and in some cases servers do not have the ability to do bill reprints themselves, so they must then chase down a manager, causing even more of a delay and frustration both to you and to them. When you’re trying to wait tables in a busy restaurant this is incredibly annoying. WHAT IS THE POINT of someone giving you a bill showing what you WOULD have paid, before you offer them a voucher to render this null and void anyway. I honestly cannot understand this.

Assuming you have followed the above etiquette, please do not approach the bar or register to harass the wait staff the second you have checked the bill. It is customary, unless you ask to pay straight away, to allow you time to check the bill is correct, before we return for payment. During this time we will do other tasks and serve other customers. You are no more important than anyone else, even if you do have a meeting to get to.

Following the above, please do not walk into a restaurant and open with “Can you serve us in 20 minutes, we’ve got a film to get to”. It’s rude, self-important and regardless of how “quick” you think your order may be, there are still potentially many other people’s orders ahead of yours, and you don’t get to skip the queue just because you’ve not left enough time. Go out for dinner earlier, god dammit.

Shots/Samples on arrival:  Some places give customers free samples on arrival. Occasionally parents get a panicked look on their faces as we pour them, as if “lord help us, what are they giving our CHILDREN?!?!?” *Sigh* No, the shots I’m giving your children are NOT alcoholic. I value my job and my life as a free person and wouldn’t be endangering that to give your 5 year old fucking limoncello. For crying out loud have some common sense. If I had a penny for every time I heard that one, I wouldn’t need tips, hell, I wouldn’t need to work, except for then I suppose I wouldn’t hear it in the first place. Dilemma.

Tipping: It is customary in the UK and many other countries to tip your waiter/server. In the UK the standard amount is 10%, which is one of the lowest percentages in the western world. The USA and Canada, for example, both EXPECT 15-20 or even 25% percent. In some cases they will even consider it a part of the bill. So please guys, unless you have had a truly terrible experience in the restaurant and this is specifically at least partially down to your waiter, tip the dam wait staff. 10% is fine and the staff always appreciate it. Waiters in most restaurants get paid hourly and usually minimum wage, the job can be stressful and very physical and we don’t get paid extra when it’s busy and demanding, so EVERYTHING counts. Please, don’t be a dick.

Furthermore, if you are a tourist visiting the UK, it is even more imperative and appreciated that you follow this custom. Likely, you have come from a country where the tip percentage is higher (see USA, Canada etc) and thus 10% is nothing. We have it drilled into us, here in the UK, that we should follow customs when abroad and tip as they do. We would hope for, and certainly appreciate, the same courtesy. There is also the argument that since you’re used to a higher percentage, and that in the UK tax is included in the price, making for easier bill understanding, that you should tip either 10% or the tip rate in your country, whatever is higher. Basically, do the polite thing and don’t do anything you wouldn’t do in your home country.  

Takeaway Coffee: In fairness, this is specific to each restaurant due to what else there is in the locality, but speaking for mine specifically.. No, we do not do take away coffee. We are situated in a busy town centre with no less than 10 cafes. Go to a fucking coffee shop if you want take away coffee, not a restaurant. Seriously, WHY?

When Orders Go Wrong: Sometimes mistakes are made, someone mishears an order, or misses off an item, which can easily happen if the server is distracted or the restaurant is very busy. That is our error and we apologise for that, but we will do our best to fix it as quickly as possible, accommodate other requests you have, and probably remove items from the bill, or give you some sort of discount. Please, please, please do not make the waiter feel like their entire existence is worthless because they missed off your fucking garlic bread. The world will continue to spin on its axis and the sun will still rise tomorrow. You will have forgotten all about it, but the waiter won’t have and will possibly get reprimanded by their manager – please consider this before making a huge fuss about a small mistake.

Fake Complaints: It is fairly common for waiters to check back on their tables to make sure that everything is ok with the food, and to see if the customers need anything else. This also serves as an opportunity for us to head off any complaints – if we ask you if the food is ok and you say yes, then we can leave you alone to enjoy your meal for a while. We are not mind readers, we rely on you letting us know if there is an issue. We check back on you for a reason – please do not say everything is ok and then complain later – this helps no one and appears occasionally as somewhat opportunistic, as usually the manager will then offer a discount. If the food was of a good standard and there was nothing wrong with it, pay the full price. If the restaurant is too expensive for you, find a voucher or just don’t bluddy go there. We know what you’re doing and it’s not cool.

Please apply the above restaurant etiquette and I guaran-fucking-tee you will instantly get better service, and if the waiter really likes you, maybe even free shit. Simple. :-)