#Afternoon Coder

[ukgk]

午後のこ～だ with 偽春菜さくらとも呼ばれるひと (archived via a floppy disk in my personal collection, an SSTP add-on for an old MPEG encoder freeware by MarineCat)

[kneelingshadowsalome]

I have an odd request… perhaps a captain price fic where the reader is much younger and edgy- likeee covered in tats and stuff,, and price isn’t rly used to that but finds it hot as hell… idk maybe they work together ?? Smut ensues …

IDK I have tatts and wonder what he’d think of that 👹👹

Just an idea 💡❤️😫

Fire it Up (John Price x F!Reader)

Word count: 7.8 k

Tags/warnings: Smut 🔞 mutual pining, flirting, swearing, older man/younger woman dynamic, forbidden love, smoking & drinking, voice kink, a tiny brat taming kink squeezed itself in here too. Reader has tattoos and works as a coder at the base. Rough ~10yrs age gap described, reader is of age I hope to god it goes without saying (Price is canonically 37) Also: no use of 'daddy' in this fic

A/N: I'm so glad for this request anon and I hope you like what I made! Also people please be gentle, this is my first Price fic 🥹 God I wish I could attach the fat scent of cigar here to give you the full experience. 

You don't know what caught your attention first.

The cigar, perhaps. Or the beard? Might be his hips, the ass that tells you this man can fuck a woman for hours.

Or maybe it's the fact that he's too old for you.

No, not too old…

Just older than you. A decade, perhaps, if you were being gentle with him and lenient with yourself.

He certainly isn't old enough to be your father, but he wasn't the type of man your eyes usually drifted on either.

He looks like someone who's supposed to be fishing in Alaska, sucking that fat cigar while taking in the view of mountains while trying to catch wild fish in some wide, free stream. 

He's supposed to come home to a remote cabin: to his little wife who pours him a scotch after he has shown her what he caught today. Make sweet love to her while stars shoot and speckle the indigo night.

He looks like someone who makes love to women.

You, on the other hand, want to ride with him to the sunset on the back of a Harley, clutch his jacket as he drives you to some bizarre highway motel. You want to watch him drink that scotch from your navel. 

You'd do all kinds of crazy shit with him, keep his head between your legs with both hands, grind all over that mustache, and see how wet it gets. You want him to pound you with those narrow hips, take you from behind while you look back with parted, swollen lips and relish the sight of what must be a grown man's hardened body, covered with hair and scars and–

"The bug's still there."

You return to reality, look at the code on your screen, and then at your colleague, a 20-something bloke who looks at you with the lethargic stare that only belongs to techies. You've just been caught daydreaming your eyes off in the middle of a lazy afternoon. Coffee doesn't do shit after 2 PM…

"Yeah I know. I'm working on it," you say. But when the dude leaves, you decide it's time for a creative break. You tell yourself it's only because the code jumps on the screen, not because you hope to catch a certain someone smoking outside. 

The leather jacket is a little too much these days, but you throw it on out of pure habit. You realize the weight of your mistake when you go outside from the ventilated building and notice the sweltering heat. Spring has finally turned into summer.

Coffee doesn’t do shit, but it’s time for another kind of wakey-wakey. And butterflies are a funny term for something that mainly feels like it’s eating your insides out of pure excitement. 

Because he's here too.

Jonathan Price, although no one calls him Jonathan. Few call him John, either. 

Mostly, he goes by the title Captain.

He's stressed; you can tell. But his eyes soften immediately when they fall on you, a brief look to the side, just to know who else comes out to have a breath of fresh air or a smoke. He looks like he's been expecting you, but that might only be a silly girl's daydream. You two share a vice, and you've never been more grateful for your bad habit before this place and him.

And you wouldn't call it necessarily a bad habit. It's simply stress relief if you do it once or twice every few weeks. It's not like you smoke two packs a day. It's not like you even smoke one cig per day. 

Although ever since you started this odd little job in this odd little place, you've smoked one or two nearly every day… And it's not because of the stress.

It's because of Price. 

John. You’d like to see his reaction to you moaning that word in his ear…

"How long have you been here?"

His eyes are still on you, mouth covered by a hand as he makes love to his cigar. And that bedroom voice always gets you. It's better than the upcoming slow drag of nicotine. You're not here for tobacco at all.

"Two weeks." You reach for your excuse and try to prevent your hands from trembling as you light the cig. Usually, you're not this shy with people. Not with men, anyway. But with him, your wits and words disappear. 

You blow the smoke through the air with a quick, lively wisp where he lets it roll out his tongue in a heavy cloud. He's still watching you as if to weigh what kind of woman you are exactly.

"How about you?" You continue the small talk with nervous ease.

He chuckles; the little smile even shows a flash of teeth as he steals a look at the clouds, calculating years with those surprisingly lively eyebrows curled up toward the sky.

"Ages."

He's not that old. Perhaps well over his thirties, might be knocking his forties. The statement is merely an underline of his stress today. You can only wonder what kind of pressure the captain of Task Force 141 is under when you get sleepless nights from a stupid source code. There are a few wrinkles around his eyes, but they only tell you that this man smiles a lot. He might be the only one in this compound who smiles a lot.

"Have you ever tried a cigar?"

There's a glint in his eyes as he offers the thick roll of tobacco to you. It's suddenly difficult to breathe, difficult to even keep your thoughts together.

"No," you shake your head as if your answer wasn't enough to tell him he's the first person ever to offer you such a thing. Then you realize the word does not precisely deliver your eagerness to try that stout cigar.

"Would love to," you hurry to add with a soft smile. "Can I have a taste?"

He walks to you slowly, and your eyes drop to those hips, which sway like he's purposely trying to seduce you.

Fu–ck…

Then your eyes sink even lower, between his legs, to his fucking junk, and it's too fucking late–

Jesus–get your shit together…

You force your eyes back to his and see the little glimmer in them gain a surprised spark – you're totally caught red-handed on checking him out.

Fuck. How can you be so stu–

"Gently then, kid."

You swallow your heart and thoughts down and take the offered cigar; of course, your first thought is how thick and heavy it is. And somehow, you decide right then and there that you will no longer be the nervous, hot-cheeked woman on the corner.

It's time to make him flustered.

So you take a hollow-cheeked, slow suck on the fat cigar. A chaste, savory taste, more like, but there's nothing chaste in the way you raise your eyes to his, putting every ounce of soft seduction in that stare.

He draws breath slowly – his face is full of expression for an allegedly cold-hearted elite soldier. You don't know how often women flirt with this hunk of a man, but he sure looks taken aback by your sudden play. Probably thinks you're too young for him – and you curse the second time you put that jacket on. You want to see his reaction to your sleeves.

"Mm. It's thicker than I thought," you weigh the cigar between your fingertips and let the smoke roll out your mouth. The man switches his weight from one foot to another, speechless, and you suppress a big beam of a smile.

"The taste," you emphasize as if innocent, as if you didn't see that shocked little shift. "Round, and… god, it's almost sweet."

You smile as you give it back, and he chuffs an approving laugh through his nose – those eyes are bear-warm playful now, his mouth curves into an easy smile.

"Nice," you look him up and down as if you're talking about the man and not the cigar.

"Beats those little sticks." 

His voice drops down a few notes; it's almost a husky growl. You barely make out the words he's saying. The tension in the air could form little balls of lightning around you, the flirt is over the roof, and there's even no roof because you're outside – and you take your jacket off, slowly, to make it clear it's summer and not spring.

His eyes fall on the ink immediately, and he blinks a few times, draws some more breath – you tweet your thanks accompanied by another smile and go back inside.

You know he's checking your ass in those black jeans as you walk away.

….....

It doesn't end there.

You see him again and again and again, and at some point you realize he has to walk almost 100 meters from the other end of the base to get to the little corner where the two of you smoke. 

He's intrigued but decent. Holds a distance, never says anything that could be taken in the wrong way – or even in the right way. But he's fucking you with his eyes. 

No… making love to you.

And it drives you crazy.

You don't want that. You don't need that. To be that little wife in the cabin. Pouring him a drink, climbing in his lap, ghosting a finger down the stubble on his chin, see how wide and proud it makes him smile to hold you like you're his and his alone...

God. When did it come to this?

You suck on his fat cigar every now and then. Look him in the eyes while you do it. Once, it makes his tongue dart out, it wets his bottom lip, and then he does that thing with his mouth... the thing where he kind of purses his lips and it makes the mustache dip, and you realize, you learn it's a sign that he's restless, he's flustered.

You make the big, burly captain of Task Force 141 flustered.

And he doesn't smell like the people inside smell. Of stale coder sweat and Joy Division and soft drinks and mommy's home-cooked meals. He smells of rich forest and fine bourbon and half-burnt gasoline. Maybe Saxon on vinyl. Definitely beats those little sticks that are your nerdy co-workers at the hacker department, as you call it.

He may have a flask somewhere; perhaps he takes a sip or two every now and then, whether at work or not. And you don't blame him. Even with those laugh lines and that brown bear benevolence, you can tell he's seen things. 

You wonder what he's like out there in the field. Brutal? Or just efficient?

He never asks about your tattoos, but he eyes them often. There's a certain admiring esteem in his stare. He's checking you out, scratches his chin, and rips his eyes off when they start to drift down. He forces his eyes to stay above your neckline no matter the cost. You mourn that you got rid of the septum a few years ago: you're pretty sure he would've liked that, too. After all, it's a piercing that screams 'warrior' the most. Break after break, you return to your desk, aroused and giddy and surrounded by the rich, masculine aroma of his cigar.

One night, he drives by when you're walking home after what was supposed to be one or two pints.

The car is a big, black pick-up, and when it slows down and starts to inch by your side, your first reaction is a silent curse of why the fuck don't you carry some pepper spray in your pocket.

"Hey, you ok?"

Your head rises from the asphalt the second you recognize that smooth, pleasant voice of a man you had compared every guy to at the pub that evening. The whole man is brimming with burnt sienna, he's hard alcohol with no ice…

You stop and turn, a little wobbly from the pint turned to two or three. Or four.

"Yeah. Had a little girl's night out."

The car rumbles softly, not two meters away, and the sound reminds you of his voice. A soft purr that can turn into a growl, even a roar if he wants to. 

He looks like he's going fishing, even without the boonie hat. The dark hair is cut short, so you won't have anything to tug if he ever ends up between your legs. But you don't really mourn that fact, because he looks so damn good.

He looks you up and down, and you notice the briefest blob of his Adam's apple before he gives you another offer.

"Want me to give you a ride?"

Would love a ride.

Would fucking love to ride you.

"Sure. That's kind of you." 

Your eyes must be sparkling like the fucking stars.

"No problem at all," he leans his elbow on the open window and waits while you round the car and get in. You try to tone down your drunken state, but your moves are a little too brash for a calm and collected coder lady this man has usually caught leaning against the wall of the workplace you two share.

"Did you have fun?"

He sounds like a dad picking up his girl from a school disco, and you purse your lips in slight distaste and amusement.

"Yeah. You know how it is when someone asks you for a pint."

He gives a short laugh and starts to drive. "That never ends well."

You smile and turn to look at him.

"Mm… This one kinda did."

You enjoy the brief look out the window, the sight of someone so formidable and robust and experienced trying to find his way out by feigning something caught his attention in the black, empty distance of a quiet city.

"Glad I could be of service," he brushes off your flirt like it's nothing more than a speckle of dust on his coat.

The rest of the ride is silent, too silent. He turns the music off in case it "bothers you," and it turns into an awkward, overly polite fight about whether to keep it on or not. 

It's a minor shock to notice he was listening to some classical. Not 80's rock, not country, not even BBC. He was just soothing his nerves.

You can't put your finger on what makes you feel so sheepish around this man – usually, you put men on a leash with a few dry jokes and a hearty laugh or two. Now, your flirting is shy and does nothing: there's a wall built up, and from behind that wall, only a few stolen looks…

The pick-up is humming, the engine is running at idle next to your place far too soon, and it's time you get off the car – but you have vehemently decided you will knock down that fucking wall even if you have to drag him to your bed. 

"You wanna come up and have a nightcap?"

Another look out the window as he raises his hand over his mouth, fiddles with his mustache, and avoids the rising heat between you two.

"Thanks, kid. But you need to sleep."

Your heart is pumping, and you feel like a harasser as you place your hand on his thigh.

He doesn't move, but you can hear the audible swallow this time. He doesn't move a single finger even when you slide your palm down that leg, then drag it over to the inner thigh, and start to drift back up slowly, slowly, to give him the time and space to stop you before you reach….

….the visible bulge between those legs, the absolutely gorgeous, ample bump pulling at those pants, something so delicious that you must fight tooth and nail not to race your hand up there and give it a fond grope.

His hand falls over yours just before you reach it.

"Kid. Let's leave it here and call it a night."

His voice is strained and tight, and he's still looking out the window. You don't move your hand away because he doesn't move it away. His warmth stays there, keeping you against him, and you feel like shit for thinking it's not a no… That it's a yes when he seems to hold your hand as a prisoner, wanting to feel your dainty little palm against him.

Your fingers curl slightly, a hopeful gesture to imagine how it would feel to curl and claw at his hips and that ass while he's fucking you.

"Listen. You're a nice girl. A very nice–"

You give a heavy, demonstrative sigh and finally draw your hand away.

"Come on Cap… You're seriously going to give me the "you're a nice girl" talk?"

Finally, he turns. His nostrils quiver as he tries to keep his breaths calm. Your lips part like it's a whole caress he just gave you – and his gaze drops to your mouth instantly. You start to see where the problem is.

You're too young. 

You're forbidden.

"I offered you a nightcap," you tilt your head slightly. "You can come up or you can go home."

You wet your lips, give the bottom lip a tiny little bite, and offer him the last, inviting, soft smile. It must hold an equal amount of sorrow because you can't drown the bitter feeling of rejection, no matter how many drinks you've had that night. No matter how much he seems to want you, it doesn't change the fact that he's apparently decided to stay strong and keep his hands off the cookie jar.

You turn and get out of the car, lean on the door for the final fucking time...

"Didn't know I'd only get to suck your cigar... You're all smoke and no fire, Price."

The door flies closed with a louder slam than you originally meant. 

Now that was a little bit passive-aggressive, you have to admit. But you're drunk, and he's being a pain in the ass, calling you a kid, looking at you like that, having a fucking hard-on and giving you nothing.

…But it does the trick. 

You smile like an idiot when you walk to your place and hear the purr of the engine stop. Another car door opens, then closes, wide footsteps follow you…

A nightcap it is, then.

He looks even bigger when inside a place with walls and a roof. He stands inside your apartment tall and wide as if he's waiting to call attention. Those large hands are over his crotch, concealing the swell of erection you already saw in the car. 

You know the tank top you wear reveals even more skin covered in tats as you throw your jacket away and go get him that drink. The glasses glide on your table, slide nearly to the floor, and the bottle of Jim Beam meets the counter with a devastating clank. You look at the excuse to get him into your place and sigh. 

"You know what… Fuck this."

Offering cheap bourbon to someone like him seems a bit ridiculous. So you offer him something he might actually like. Something he actually came here for. 

You walk to him and throw your hands around him – he stiffens from the middle but looks down at you with a heated glimmer in those eyes. You could've sworn they were charred brown, the same color as his cigar, but up close you see they're actually molten iron. Mercurial.

"You sure about this?" He asks softly.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

He unclasps those hands from over his groin, and the warmest weight falls to rest on your waist, even steals a caress to your hip. You want to hurl yourself at him, press yourself against his crotch and grind until you bleed from just that tiny touch he finally gives you.

"You've had one too many, love."

Love…

Shit.

The warmth spreads from his eyes, from that hand, from the word that rolls out of his mouth like a beautiful puff of smoke. It unfurls inside your heart, swells inside your throat, plummets to your groin, and you switch the weight to your other leg to feel how that hand gains more weight as it gets pressed more firmly against you.

"Doesn't change the fact that I want you."

Your voice is nothing short of a purr. When have you ever purred like that to a man? You sound like a housecat, tame and adoring, waiting for a gourmet meal.

"You really want an old man?"

He still has that reserve in his eyes, decent and distant, but underneath, you sense a terrible heat, like the glow of a cigar lit in darkness, an adamant smolder that never dies out.

"You're not that old." 

Your purr turns into a deprived meow. You dangle from his neck, and the smoke, the fire that surrounds him, blends into the gentle scent of a man, the musk of a mature beast. You know he's hairy under those clothes; he fucking has to be. The vision of how his cock must look, surrounded by untame, coarse fur, has tormented you night after night.

And now he's finally here. In your apartment.

You skate your hands over his chest while slowly dropping into a squat, then languidly kneeling in front of his crotch.

He doesn't stop you, not even when you open his belt and the zipper and crawl your fingers down the waistband of his underwear. You have to stifle a delighted gasp upon seeing how his cock springs free and stands proud in front of you in all its glory. And fuck yes he's hairy – the hairiest man you've ever had. 

Cigars feel like tiny little sticks when you wrap one hand around him and lick the weeping slit like it's your favorite ice cream. The groan that follows is a husky eruption above you and gets stuck in his throat as you take him in your mouth.

"Fucking hell, kid…"

He's thick, broad, and the musk fills your nostrils, but what he just said makes you pull back and whisper on the bulbous tip–

"Don't call me a kid," you breathe on his cock, swirl your tongue around him, and his thighs bunch. "Old man."

You finally manage to push some buttons.

The back of his hand brushes your cheek, then slides over to your throat. He's gentle but firm as he forces a thumb under your chin, curls fingers around your neck as if you're a cat who's about to be force-fed some medicine that's only good for her.

"Is that how you wanna play it?"

His thumb brushes down the ridge of your throat. Tentative, promising.

"Perhaps," your lips quiver with anticipation as you smile; your voice is a pitched vibrato before it drops, just to give him a reason to put you in your place... "Old gum–"

The hand pulls up, the grip tightens just enough to guide you back to your feet and up to meet his face.

"Didn't know you asked me here to tame a brat."

Fuck…

You almost moan. 

The hand doesn't choke you; it makes love to you. Claims you as his. 

"Really…?" You sigh. Flash him a filthy, guiltless smile.

The fire surges forth and nearly buckles your knees. His eyes flash in rhythm with your grin, like a sudden flicker of a campfire in the middle of a dark, parched forest.

"This what you want? Hmm?"

The rumble reminds you of the engine of a Harley roaring to life. His throat is burned from the fire of his cigars, the hand on your throat is used to squeezing dead metal and pulling pins from frigid grenades. But even they can't stand a chance against his woodland fire and sycamore smoke. He could bring a cold, inanimate rock back to life with all that fire.

"Yes. I want it. John."

His name on your tongue is a cat's meow. It has the exact effect you hoped for.

"Let's get the brat tamed, then."

"Hah," you finally moan. "Promises, prom–"

The fingers around your throat pull you to his mouth with a python strength. His lips spread yours with soft devouring as he coats you in fire. The coarse beard smells of sweet tobacco – nothing like a pungent cigarette. It's like an old memory: safe and sturdy and strong. Male.

You moan in his mouth – god, what will it be like when he's inside you? – and he capes both arms around you and crushes you against him. Broad shoulders envelop you like a shroud of thick smoke, the cock gets trapped between you like a hot spear, and you mewl like a slut.

Your pussy clenches, just from his warm mouth, the rich velvet of his lips. He takes everything with that kiss, and you're weak in his arms as he bends and molds you against him just the way he wants, opens your mouth with his own and breathes you, samples you like those puffs of smoke he sucks from his cigar.

Your brain short-circuits, you barely notice how your top slides up as his hands go under it. It's dragged up, up, over your breasts and then over your head as he detaches just enough to rip that piece of clothing away. 

You look at him like he's Christmas, then reach for your bra while he opens his pants more to get them down. Your jeans are accursedly tight, and he's breathless, too: the whole room is dark and filled with heavy breathing and rustle of clothes as you claw your socks off, slide your strings down and away, watch him get out of his shirt and throw it on the floor too, all propriety gone.

And then…

Jesusfuck–

He picks you up, lifts you from the ground like you're nothing but a leaf, and strides with you in his lap until your back meets a wall.

The barrel-like chest presses the air out of your lungs while your back travels up – you don't know if his arms or chest do the lifting, but you're being positioned for his cock to enter. Your hands try to grasp something solid before it's too late – his back and neck – your legs wrap around him, feet hooking over his ass as the thick of his tip pokes your soaked folds, and after a few seconds of probing, slides in. 

"F–uck…" you gasp, sounding so needy that it could be a voiceline from a bad porno movie. His lips find the place between your ear and neck immediately.

"Be good for me now," he gruffs, dark and round like the sweetest bourbon, although you know he's the finest single malt in the world. "Be good…"

"Ah–John…"

I'll be good… 

Just for you, I'll be so, so good.

He pants heavy on your neck, grunts as he starts to fuck you against that wall. You knew he might be intense, but apparently, you had no idea. The man is needy as fuck, and has concealed it up until this point. 

You could cry, scream from joy from the thickness that spreads you, fills you with every fat glide of a thrust. The sex borders on rough but is so incredibly tender too, so needy it makes your heart collapse, compress into a taut knot in your chest. It's the softest rocking, the gentlest fucking as he retreats, then ruts into you again and again with sharp, rusty moans. You're in a slow but steady rodeo with this man, your breasts pressed against a solid chest covered with hair, and it tickles, even if his pecs threaten to crush your ribcage.

"You're one hell of a girl," he gruffs in your ear, beard grazing up and down your neck. "Taking me so– Fucking hell, look at you…"

His eyes are embers as they sweep over you: your abundant ink, the helpless, adoring look in your eyes, the little mouth that opens with a gasp, the trickle of sweat that forms between your breasts and meets the hair on his chest. 

He doesn't have to look down to see how greedy your cunt is for him. He can feel it.

"This is what you wanted the whole time? Huh?"

He's all smoke. All fire.

"Yes…"

"Wanted me to take you against a fucking wall? Eh?"

"Yes…just, just take me," you moan and purr some more, giving him everything he wants. "Fuh–fuck me good…"

"Ahh shit..."

You know you're a drug to certain decent men. But to him, you're a forbidden fruit in all its aspects. 

A calm, collected captain who enjoys wide respect, eyeing an edgy, younger woman from the tech department? That's not how this was supposed to go. Thirsting for someone who did what they wanted, looked just the way they wanted, walked this earth like a dark fairy – that's not his usual go, surely. He was supposed to settle down with a proper lady. If he were to settle down at all.

"I've dreamed of this," you whisper in his ear, lips moving just enough to deliver your secret to him.

"Yeah..? Me too," he gives your throat more love with a velvet growl. "Know I shouldn't, but–"

"Shh. Don't–don't…" You grip him tighter, taste the spruce and salt as you breathe his neck. "It's good. It's all good."

He rumbles in approval. Your skin is raw from his beard; even the coarse hair dusting his thighs feels too rough on your skin. And your skin is used to being needled, shot full of ink right inside the dermis. But this… This is branding.

You're silk in his rough embrace, and plundered with no remorse. You sigh and moan, hug him... And then he dares to stop, panting and throbbing inside you.

"Darlin'. Where's the bed?"

The soft question makes you panic. If you go to bed and let him push inside you while you're lying on your back, if you brave a look into those eyes while he takes you, you'll develop more than just a horrid lust for this man. If he collapses on top of you, spent and spoiled while you're at your most vulnerable, you'll tie a string from your heart to his, and you can't, you just can't allow that to happen.

Because he's untamed too. He's not a man who settles down, he's not up for domestication; he's a wandering fire.

"No–no bed," you pant on his muscles, the shoulder that keeps you safely pinned on the wall. "John…? Please."

He's breathing wild too, disguises his surprise well.

"Alright."

He sounds disappointed, and it's not because he doesn't have the strength to maul you against that wall. The rejection stings him too. It makes you want to offer a truce, a little something. When he rocks you again, you graze your fingers up the back of his neck, knowing he will feel ripples across his scalp from your caress.

"We can smoke a cigar after," you propose, not knowing why your voice still comes out as an airy whisper. "Together. I'll pour you that drink…"

His chest swells with a deep breath, he huffs fire on the hollow trench between your collarbones.

"Fuck, woman…" 

It's dense syrup that surrounds you much like those shoulders and arms, that coarse hair, that bold male want.

"And after that I want you to…" You catch your breath and sound like a mouse with your next shy question. "Would you go down on me, John?"

It's like you're under a bear attack, but he stills; his head tilts a little to the side and meets your temple. 

"You wouldn't tease a man like this," he says. A soft warning, brimstone coated in velour, but the core of it is despair. So much need, so much forbidden, distant want… 

"Right? No more teasing."

He's still thinking that you're teasing him… That it's some kind of a joke that you want him.

"I'm serious... I want your mouth on me. I need your–"

"I'll put my mouth on you as soon as we're done here, love."

You have to bite your lips, suck them between your teeth to prevent another deprived moan from escaping.

"Want you to fuck me all night," you continue to whisper on his neck. You should shut the fuck up because it doesn't take a bed to tie that string from your heart to his. After all, they're right there, beating against each other through bone and skin and chest.

"Yeah? That's what you want?"

"Want you to… F-fuck me slow and good from behind and–"

You sniff. Whimper.

You should be ashamed: mewling for more when he's already buried inside you. What kind of a brat are you, wrapping your thighs around that narrow waist like you never want him to pull out?

And you're not crying. 

It's just that the cock inside you is throbbing against your walls as if he's making a home there, his hands dig into your ass cheeks like you're his already, the breath upon your sweat and skin feels far too affectionate. When exactly did a raw wall-fuck turn into such an affectionate, gentle taste of love?

And it's not enough. You want to climb on top of him every morning, ride him slowly and watch him unravel as the sun climbs the sky and coats that fur in gold.

"Could you do that? Please… John, please," you whimper and whine, beg like you're tame already. 

"I'll fuck you all night if that's what you want. Fill this pretty, tight cunt up every way you like."

It's coarse smoke. It caresses you until your legs start to shake. He adjusts his grip, drags the pull-outs like he drags those pulls from his tobacco. Keeps you nicely in place for him to drive back in–

"I'll fuck you 'till you cry, love. Yeah?"

He punctuates that promise with another good, fat thrust. You moan all tame now – a rippling stream, laughing and crying in his molten hold.

His cock fills you while your thighs quiver and tremble in his hands. Your pussy throbs; it sucks him already, the orgasm is seconds away, and your fingertips search for support but only slip over sweaty, hard muscle.

John. John.

"Fuh-…"

He spreads you a little. Those arms are pure iron as they mold you for him to plow. You know he can feel the waves, the way your cunt grips him with longer, deeper pulls as you start to sound downright pathetic.

"Just like that, just like… hah…"

"M-hm. Yeah," he bends the vowels, daubs them with smoke. "That's it. You're doing good. Doing so well my love."

He huffs between the thrusts that have turned into slow, intense love-making. He's making love to you – god, why does he have to be like this…

"Cum for me. Nice and pretty, yeah? Come on."

He encourages you with words, but you can't hear them anymore.

Heat coils in the pit of your core just before you burst with a heady scream.

The spasm is so sudden you almost hit your head on the wall. He's at your throat the minute it's exposed, and your scream turns into a weak wail when his tongue grazes your skin. It's blazing, and dips into the hollow between your collarbones like it's a shot glass full of scotch. Next thing you feel is fire, even some teeth on your neck.

And you thought Price might, just might be intense…

Your head drops as the blunt of the orgasm leaves you. Your feet unclasp, and next up would be some soft waves, but the man continues to fuck your shattered cunt and marshmallow soul with a good, intense pace. The words that pour out of your mouth are those of a brainless person.

"Ah–hah, God–"

"Where's that cheek now, mm..? Pretty little thing."

"John–h…"

The thrusts rub you against that wall like he wants to staple you there.

"So nice and good for me now, ain't ya? Cummin' on command…" An amused chuff right on your poor, chafed skin… "Begging for my mouth and cock."

You travel up and down in a limp heap, trying to hold on to him with weak limbs as he drives into you with a tight series of half-thrusts. Your legs hang loosely on the side, but he has no trouble carrying the full weight of you.

"Slow–slowly, Cap…" 

"Ahh fuck–"

He swears on your ink, right on the trotting pulse on your neck. Through the vapor of man sweat and rich smoke and a whiff of cedar trees bending in the wind, you feel him tense and thicken.

"The fucking things you do to me…" he pants with a low growl, hushed but intense. Your pussy answers with a good, demanding pull. 

"Fuck… fuck–!"

You're a limp doll between him and the wall when he comes. Pressed between a rock and a hard place, literally. His chest being the rock, an entire boulder that whips the oxygen from your lungs as he drives deep, his balls giving a few taut pulls against your ass as he empties himself into you with a satisfied, dry moan. A dark, ripe blossom, shooting straight to your core while you're sealed tight around him.

The world goes still after that; the only thing that moves is your breath and his, a refreshing hot breeze coursing through the stale air. The darkness of the room isn't half as snug as the safety of his arms.

Your fingers find his neck, the short-cut hair and the skin pounding with a rush of blood. He lets you go reluctantly, bends a little to set your feet back to the solid ground. He doesn't pull out, keeps huffing all over you even when you're returned back to the earth. 

And you never want to come back. Your cunt still throbs around him and cries a tiny, thick stream down your thigh. His upper body still pins you against that wall, his breaths still mist your skin, caress the red burns of his beard.

He feels so good. Too good…

When he pulls out, he does so with intense care. He gives you some space to catch your breath, and you finally notice he has fucked your legs into splinters.

"I'm…" You break the hush of heavy breathing with a soft laugh. More viscous load pushes out of you with it. "I don't think I can stand."

"Yeah? Tried to take you to bed," he muses softly, sounding annoyingly content with his achievements.

"Gotta admit it was a good idea."

"As was the nightcap," he rasps, voice drenched in soft smoke.

"We'll get there eventually."

"I have no doubt about that."

You give him a soft, warm chuckle as you cast your eyes between the crest of his pecs. Rough, tight muscle meets your soft breasts with heaving breaths, and teases your nipples to taut little points. The wet hair on his chest looks good paired with your inked, smooth skin… You two look so goddamn fine together.

"I hope I didn't make you deaf with that scream."

He stands at his full height, but tilts his head down and slightly to the side as if you were a new, interesting species he's just found on his travels.

"Wouldn't complain, love," he says. More wet syrup, just for you. He weighs you with his stare, curious and appeased, and you feel shy. For fuck's sake, you still feel shy even though this man was inside you just a moment ago. 

"The bed. Now be a good girl and tell me where it is."

"Down the…hallway." 

A delicate little whisper, again.

It's laughable, how the veteran of Task Force 141 turns you into something so dainty and meek. Captain John Price takes you against a wall like you're nothing but a doll, makes you purr and beg, reassembles you into a weak-willed woman who gets carried to bed. 

This is not how it was supposed to go...

He lifts you back in his lap while you continue to hold onto him like he's your prince Charming. A laugh spills on your lips when he tries to lay you gently on the bed and you manage to pull him down with you. You end up tumbling there in a sweaty, messy heap. 

"Knew you were trouble," he's smiling too as he settles beside you. You curl and wrap yourself around him, your bodies mold and curve together like they're made for each other.

He's so solid, so warm, the kind of man you'd love to fall asleep on every night. No more cold sides of the pillow, no more tossing and turning and trying to get the code out of your head. Just… this chest, those ember eyes burning in the night. Some soft breathing, a roaring engine standing still, waiting for you, just for you…

"I hope this wasn't a one time only occasion," you test the waters.

"No." He shifts a little, disentangles from you slightly. "Unless you–"

"No."

You bend in his arms like a young willow, cut his doubts off with a kiss. It's passionate, and so sloppy it threatens to make the same sounds as your cunt and his cock a while ago.

The hand on your hip tows you closer, then steals its way down your leg. You hike your thigh up, perfectly willing. You're a sticky mess, but so is he: his rock-hard thigh meets your still soaked pussy like these two have always belonged together. And this man's full fire has escaped you until now. There are so many hidden, wild things in him too. 

He would look so good on a Harley… He would look good on a motel bed after riding for days and days with you attached to him like an eloped dark bride. The nights would be smeared with hot sex and cinder and smoke, a dash of scotch on top, he could drink it from your lips. You would serve it to him from your mouth, round the taste a bit so that it wouldn't burn so much…

"Have you ever been to Alaska?" 

The liquor is leaving you, but you don't feel any more sober. The lava in your veins has only been replaced by another kind of fire.

"No."

"Would you like to go?"

"What'ya mean," he murmurs on your tongue, and you know he's hard again just from the thick lust coating his voice. "What kind of question is that?"

"I was just thinking."

"What were you thinkin', kid..?"

"Don't… call me that," you laugh. In truth, you're growing quite fond of it. It reminds you of old movies. "Here's looking at you, kid" and all that.

His laugh is a charred roll in his chest. To him, you're a brat – an unruly kitten – no matter what you say. 

"Kid. Why Alaska?"

He's curious. Borderline hooked. You steal a peek into those vulcan eyes. 

"You'd look good in Alaska. Old man."

"Really," he rumbles a soft purr against your heart. 

Another soft kiss follows. Affectionate… He plays time, but he's also a probing, scanning. You bloom in his embrace, unfurl on his lips like he just wrenched you wide. He could haul you to the cabin right now and you would only cook him dinner.

It's too late, even if you try to shift after such a kiss. Escape to press your cheek against that place between his pecs, the spot where the hair is darkest and thickest. You want to lick that valley where his heart meets his musk. That scent must be born from a good, stout heart.

"Would you take me with you…? If you ever decide to go."

It's a fragile question. A baring of the heart. It holds so much more than an inquiry about whether he would whisk you away on a secret leave. It's strings, pulling from your heart to his, taking root.

"Sure. But you're quite a handful, love."

"Is that so…?" 

You crawl over him as gracefully as you can. He allows you to straddle him, and of course he does. You're no threat; you're only a one woman show. The only thing he's probably missing right now is a glass of scotch and a thick roll of tobacco. 

He takes in the view with hunger: not satiated by that pent-up fuck, just like you're not... 

But then his hands come to rest on your thighs to check if they're still shaking. The touch bleeds possessiveness: it's a thoroughly absent-minded, instinctual attempt to reach for you. It tells you you're exactly where you belong. 

"You seem like the kind of woman who's not for the faint of heart," he says like you didn't just mewl in his arms like the tamest fucking housecat.

And perhaps that's what intrigues him. Contrasts. And even more than that, the odd place where black fuses into white, the gray area where everything is possible. The split-second moment when the skin accepts the ink and traps it in. 

Everyone always says you get buried with your tattoos. That you should think twice before staining your skin with such permanent hookups.

But the thing is, you get addicted to it. It's like standing on the edge of a cliff before a bungee jump. You know you'll never be the same person after you jump, and you know you can't leave that cliff without jumping. It's a stalemate until you clear your mind of doubt and just plunge.

And you don't want to leave this earth without getting stained and sweaty, without dipping your soul into the full experience. You're supposed to get a little dirty. This is Earth, after all.

Your fingers disappear somewhere in his slick fur. Sunrise is hours away, but his eyes spark aflame. They're always, always smoldering like the butt of his cigar. He's a man who causes wildfires at the end of the world – he's a reckoning, a flicker in the dark forest, roaring into a bonfire as soon as the wind passes through the trees.

And you've always loved fire. Wild, and free. The only thing that competes with such freedom is a wide, wild stream. 

"But you can handle me. Right?" Your fingers curl softly around the hair surrounding his navel. "Tame me and everything?" 

It's an offering that causes even fire to tilt its head in curiosity. In the end, you're not sure who tamed who.

"Someone has to," he grabs your hips with rich promise. 

You'll pour him that drink. Light him a cigar after his mouth is full of your taste, see how well it pairs with fire and smoke. You'll toast to the Harley, the crazy motel… 

And Alaska. 

[joomju]

I got a good grade in therapy today (hah) so here's the thing that helped me, and my therapist liked it so much she said she's stealing it.

Fuck to-do lists.

I have a Done List. The Done List is for logging what I've done. At work I have a meeting with myself late Friday afternoon, and all week long when I get something done I toss a bullet point into that meeting. At the end of the week I know what I did. No more "augh it's all a blurry haze, what did I even do?" At home I have calendars in each room, and I mark off the days I cleaned that room. Doesn't have to be perfectly clean, just, did I do some cleaning there? Good? It gets marked on the calendar. No more cleaning the bathroom every two days, just to be really really sure I did it.

I have a Learn List. When I'm inspired/feeling good/ready to tackle something big I go look at this list. It includes books to read, tutorials and courses and training, it includes a new script I'm debugging, fic I'm trying to write, etc. Inspired Brain is a different thing from Executive Function Brain. I was having a lot of anxiety because I would be in the middle of creating something and the brain gremlins would go "but you need to vacuum!" No. The vacuuming gets added to the Touch List. It is not allowed to interrupt the Inspired Brain.

I have a Touch List. This is all the stupid stuff that doesn't require creativity. Vacuuming, folding laundry, filing my benefits reimbursement for the therapy, it all goes in the touch list. I try to touch it for half an hour each day. Touch List is a great catchall for anything nagging at me. It's allowed to have stupid things on it like "pick up lightbulbs" and then the next day "they were out of lightbulbs, go pick up lightbulbs from the other store" or whatever. I don't feel guilty about "oh shite I didn't get lightbulbs" I just go "well, that didn't work out the way I wanted, okay, it's added back to the list".

(Touch List = half an hour each day works for me because I'm no longer living below the poverty line. Getting to this place in my life involved an entirely different set of skills and that's an entirely different post.)

I found the endless to-do list to be panic inducing. It included everything from "vacuum" to "learn French" and that was really not helpful. When do you count "learn French" as done, anyway? It was like asking myself "why aren't you three people already? Why haven't you already turned into a fantastic athlete who is also a great cook who is also a consummate professional coder?" Logging everything on The Done List has helped me appreciate my own work more. It's helped me be kinder to myself. It's helped me see all that I am capable of, all that I already am, instead of just being overwhelmed by all that I still need to get done, all that I want to become. I hope it helps you too.

[haltandcatchfiretothemax]

FEMSLASH FEBRUARY 2024 #12: In which Donna visits Cameron at home

[CN: food/snack/eating mention] . . After she and Gordon managed to put COMDEX behind them, it occurred to Donna that she might not ever see Cameron Howe ever again. Gordon came home every day of December of 1983 with more tales of J0e’s slow but apparent descent into despair over Cameron’s abrupt departure from Cardiff and repeated refusals to take J0e’s calls, and Donna had started to look forward to them. At the very least, Cameron was still in Dallas. But what if J0e, despite his alleged remorse, pestered her out of town? The thought troubled Donna, for some reason that she couldn’t articulate — not that she had anyone to talk to about it.

And so somewhere in between wrapping gifts and writing cards and printing address labels and shopping for groceries Donna decided to stop quietly hoping that she might run into Cameron again some day, and just go visit her instead. Late in the afternoon on the 27th, with Gordon back at the office and the girls busy with a playdate with the kids next door, Donna drove to Cameron’s house.

Cameron, who had just gotten home from a day at her new job, had looked shocked, and a little suspicious, when she found Donna on her front doorstep, holding some kind of covered ish. “Uh, hi! Merry Christmas!” Donna had said. Nose still wrinkled with what looked like both confusion and annoyance, Cameron hadn’t replied. Unsure of what else to say, Donna said, “I brought pie!” and held up the chocolate pecan pie she had baked herself so Cameron could see it. This got Cameron to open the door enough so that Donna could come in.

Donna realized as she followed Cameron to what looked like the kitchen that she had no idea what to even say to her. “Uh, so, how are you? How was your holiday?”

Without looking at her, Cameron said, “I don’t really celebrate.”

“Oh,” Donna said, feeling both embarrassed and sad. “Well, a lot of people don’t celebrate Christmas, right? It’s not mandatory, even here in Texas.”

Cameron turned to look at her. “Is there something you want?”

Donna frowned. “Uh, no. Just to bring you this,” she said, as she set the pie down on the kitchen table. “Oh,” she said, rifling through her purse, “and this.” She produced a gift certificate for Radio Shack, for twenty dollars, and held it out to Cameron.

Cameron’s face softened, and she reached out and took the certificate. She looked at it, and she said, “Uh, thanks, Donna.” She looked back up at Donna and said, “So how are you? I guess you probably had Christmas with Gordon, and the girls?”

“Yeah,” Donna nodded. “It’s mostly just, more work to do when you have kids, but I think everyone had a nice time.”

Cameron put the certificate on the table, and then turned toward the cabinets and drawers. As she grabbed a plate and a pair of forks, she asked, “How’s work? You’re at T.I., right?”

Donna sighed. Cameron returned to the table, took the lid off the pie tin, and cut an awkward slice out of it that promptly fell apart. She dug the pieces out with a fork and put them on the plate and then put it in front of Donna. “Uh, sorry,” she said, as she sat down. She then started eating the rest of the pie directly from the pan.

“Work is…well, I’m thinking of quitting,” Donna admitted.

Cameron’s fork, holding its first bite of pie, stopped in mid air. “Wait, really? That bad, huh?”

Donna mopily ate some of her pie. Cameron finally tried it, and her eyes widened. “Wow, you made this?”

Donna grinned. “I did. One of my many hidden talents.”

Cameron ate another forkful of pie, and then said, “If you’re looking for a new career, I think you might have something here.”

Donna smiled sadly. “I’ve wondered it maybe engineering isn’t right for me. I love it, but it feels sometimes like I don’t really belong there.”

Cameron chewed on another bite of pie, and thought about how she’d probably never belonged at Cardiff, but had never felt like it, or like she shouldn’t be a coder at all. She imagined Donna leaving T.I., and the idea of it made her incredibly sad.

“I don’t know,” Donna said. “Work has just kind of been unbearable since the excitement of COMDEX….” Cameron visibly flinched. “I know that COMDEX wound up being painful for you,” Donna said. “Your operating system was…special and wonderful and I’m sorry that they removed it and for the part my marital problems and bad decisions played in that. But, I’m glad I went.” Donna leaned forward, and looked Cameron in the eye. “And I’m glad that you were there.”

Cameron made herself think about COMDEX. “It was pretty amazing, right? I mean, until it all went to shit.”

Donna laughed as she tried to get some of her broken pie onto her fork. Then, she said, “I’ve seen your code, and I think you’re gonna be fine, Cameron. You’re gonna find your place as a coder.”

“I’m not really sure about that,” Cameron said. “But thanks, Donna.”

[milkieways]

we are growing! 7/21/23

Honestly im feeling a bit all over the place, like, oof- what do I do first and where should I continue.. but things are moving forward even if we don't know the way. I appreciate my friends (the team / anyone whos working even just a bit into the game) ! BUUTT OKOKOKOK ! LETS GET A LIST OF STUFF THAT IS CURRENTLY FLOATING AROUND! - The town's name is Aiyana Gardens. ✨ - Here is a list of all of the characters so far: Star (protag, first person), Kishu Chi, Nocte Ventus, Markus Bowen, Lily, Daryo Anne "Incarnation", Yu Bou, Anemone (not official name), Manager Noe, J, Katie Anne, Angela and Oliver Miller. These are official characters that are being planned and then we have a list of possible characters implemented. Possible characters: Brielle Gilmour, Lee Gilmour, Skye Joss, Ryoko Tinselly, Chloe, Edward Sam, Misaki This is all subject to change but the first list is highly unlikely to change <3 Character profiles and desc will be coming in (yall can request specific posts abt characters as well!)

I✨ - Yu bou's VA is currently in the works! If his possible VA becomes his official, we have our first character with an official voice AND VA! WOOO ✨ - A general rule in this world is that everything around the world evolves around the idea of plants, characters are assigned to plants / are identified by plants except for some characters. ✨ - The Anne family is a famous family with one of the members living in the town

- The cafe's work system is being worked around, having multiple managers, workers and hours. So far, we have the hours and shifts: 7 am - 12 am. Morning shift is 7 am-12 pm, mid-day / afternoon shift is 12-6 pm and night shift is until 12 am ! Different characters are assigned to different shifts, still being discussed. ✨ -Our protagonist, Star, is a worker in the morning and night shifts, we have J, working morning and mid day shifts, (Anemone) is there as well working in the mornings and Manager Noe! ✨ -Working on getting character sprites for Markus and Yu Bou, drawn by one of our amazing artists >v< ari!! <3 ✨ -Star, Noe, Anemone, and a couple unnamed character development and details ✨ -Writing the "book" version of it so its ready dialogue ✨ -Looking for coders / programmers and general networking to find other people to help + abilities of ppl! ✨ - Doing research because I want certain amount of diversity and visual accessibility in the game (the cafe's design being accessible for example), as a disabled poc, lgbtq+ person, I'd love to create a media that shows more diversity for people like me and people from communities I know / come from :) ^ fair warning though because I am a third cultural person (basically having mixed cultures bc home country's culture, family culture and where I live culture) and I am yet to be learning more about other countries BUT I personally have a disconnection from stuff like that so getting feedback on cultural stuff would mean a lot! Despite this, my point still stands, the people and communities I've met plus myself have features I'd love to include! So, im open and planning sort of to make open discussions for this :) ✨ There might be some more stuff but I can't recall more rn so this is it for today <3 General reminder that while it seems that we r doing a lot of work, it will come in slowly, specially with me also being a college student + future full time student, but I appreciate all the comments and general support!! I literally am stimming everywhere and bouncing off the walls bc of this game and the development, emotionally everywhere haha. But yea!! <3 Might do an "about the creator" post and some about the team!! anyways, THANK UUU <33

[whumpinggrounds]

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CW: male whumpee, male whumper, male caretaker, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, made to watch, confusion, fear, nonhuman whumpee, lab whump

By the time Granger calls Freddy back to the subterranean network of rooms where they keep T, the tech is frantic. He’d gone home on a completely average Wednesday, not thinking anything of it, and had woken at ten am the next day to a message that said none of them were needed for lab testing until further notice. They were to work on other projects. If they didn’t have other projects, they should make themselves useful however they can. Freddy’s a pretty talented coder, even at a company like this, so that isn’t hard. What’s hard is sitting around waiting, not knowing what’s happened to T.

Thursday passes in a long, never-ending drag of anxiety. Friday is worse, because Freddy knows that the weekend means potentially three more days with no word. By Saturday afternoon, Freddy is considering getting blackout drunk, alone in his room, just so he doesn’t have to sit around driving himself crazy with worry for the third day in a row. Then, he gets a call from Thompson Granger.

Thirty minutes later, he’s in the surgical suite.

They’re almost all there already, waiting for him. T flushes as he sees solemn-faced Dr. Zhu and Dr. Pool looking angry. Layla’s more complicated – some mix of frustration and anger and contempt. Under all that, Freddy thinks he sees fear. Next to her, Lionel is all rage, and Thompson, beside him, has a face smooth as glass that Freddy just knows is hiding something.

He’s been paying a lot more attention to emotions, ever since he had to explain them to T.

The only person missing is Wagner, and Freddy’s just grateful he’s not the last to arrive. He slinks into place next to Layla, leaving a careful gap between them for her tardy assistant. When he looks up, Thompson Granger is still staring at him, eyes cold and unforgiving as steel. Freddy swallows, glances around at the others for help.

Lionel glares at him. Layla and the doctors aren’t looking at him. Freddy looks toward the door, hoping that Wagner will take Granger’s eyes away. He’s so tense his body almost aches. The anger in the room is palpable.

Granger clears his throat. “I think most of you know why we’re here.”

Freddy catches his breath. The tension in the room is oppressive, and he doesn’t want to be the one to break the ringing silence – but he doesn’t know. Thankfully, Layla doesn’t either.

“No, actually, I don’t, and I don’t appreciate the mysterious summons in the middle of my day off.”

Her righteous anger is met with stony resolve from all of them. Dr. Pool folds his arms over his chest. Losing some of her confidence, Layla folds her own arms over her chest, trying for defiance but just looking scared. “Would someone tell me what’s going on?”

All eyes move to Granger. “Your assistant,” he tells Layla, “has almost cost us everything.”

“Wagner?” Layla asks, at the same time Freddy thinks T.

Oh god. T. Has almost cost us everything. Has almost.

Wagner hurt T, and badly. Freddy knows it. Choking on the lump in his throat, he stares at Granger, desperately wanting him to keep talking, to tell them everything, to explain. Instead, he holds his frigid blue glare on them for what feels like an eon. Freddy shifts, eyes flicking to Layla. She’s starting to look just as uneasy as he feels. He doesn’t know if that’s a comfort or a warning.

Eventually, Granger sighs. “You seem surprised.” He moves his eyes from Layla to Freddy and back.

“I am. I’m sure Freddy is too, because neither of us know what the hell you’re talking about.” Layla glowers back at Granger, trying to cover her disquiet with anger. It’s not like her, nor is it working very well. The sense that something is wrong only grows. Freddy desperately wishes T were here, even just standing quietly in the corner. Where the hell is he? What the hell happened to him?

“He’s your assistant. The three of you work together closely. You’re telling me you,” Granger glances at Freddy again, “neither of you knew what he had planned?”

“Granger, just tell us what you’re talking about.”

“Wagner stayed back after everyone left on Wednesday. He came in here and vivisected the most valuable piece of technology on the planet.”

Layla sucks in a breath, at the same time Freddy makes a gasping sound like he’s been punched in the gut. Vivisected. That word rolls through Freddy’s brain and roils through his guts. Vivisected. He thinks he’s going to be sick on the floor. Fucking vivisected?

“What…what the fuck was he trying to do?”

Layla’s voice is quiet, stunned. Freddy still can’t speak. Granger shrugs.

“He couldn’t tell us. Had the gall to describe it as an ‘exploratory procedure.’” Granger shakes his head. “Only reason T is still functional is Dr. Zhu forgot her tablet down here.”

“Jesus.” Freddy breathes the word almost inaudibly, but Granger still watches him through narrowed eyes. “Where…where is he? Is he still going to…I mean…be on the team?”

Lionel, next to Granger, barks out a laugh. “No, he’s not going to be on the team. How stupid are you?”

Flushing, Freddy drops his eyes to the floor. He’s still more relieved than he is embarrassed. Now he just needs to know where T is, how T is, when he can see T again-

“Now,” Granger’s voice is grim, “for the unpleasant part.”

And then the door opens, and T is there.

He’s holding Wagner by the upper arm, but Freddy’s gaze skips right over Wagner and scans hungrily over T. He’s pale. Eyes blank. There’s a brand-new webbing of stitches, thick black ones, that start just an inch or so below his collarbone. A standard issue black tank top covers the rest of the scar, and Freddy wonders, with a sinking feeling, how far down it goes.

There’s that word in his head again. Vivisected.

His mouth waters like he’s going to vomit, and Freddy has to swallow hard. It’s audible. Lionel shoots him a contemptuous look.

Now Freddy’s gaze slides to Wagner, already glaring, already feeling hot rage rise within him. At the sight of his coworker – former coworker – Freddy is so thoroughly stunned that the anger drops out of him, disappears entirely in the face of his shock.

Wagner is gagged. There’s a piece of cloth tied around his face, the kind of thing Freddy has only ever seen in movies. He has a black eye, and his hair is dirty, and he’s limping as T drags him along. His hands are bound behind his back, forcing his chest forward. Shocked, Freddy checks the others in the room. The doctors look uncomfortable, but unsurprised. Lionel and Granger are impassive. Layla’s eyes are wide. Her face is pale.

T…

T’s face is blank, and utterly smooth.

“Now.” Granger clears his throat. “Are any of you unfamiliar with the consequences of betraying what we’re working toward?”

It takes too long for Freddy to force the words from his throat. Granger has almost started speaking again when Freddy croaks out his yes.

Something flickers behind Granger’s eyes. It could be regret. It could be satisfaction. “Well, then, Frederick. I suggest you brace yourself for what you’re about to see.” He turns to T, makes eye contact with the dead-eyed operative. “T, if you will.”

Wagner struggles, but his struggle means nothing. T is strong. He reaches up with both hands, strong and sure and confident, and takes Wagner’s head between them. With one swift, powerful movement, T snaps Wagner’s neck.

@whumptober, @whumptober-archive

@stab-the-son-of-a, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @redwingedwhump, @ocean-blue-whump, @impalasexual, @i-can-even-burn-salad, @sadcatjae, @whump-cravings, @kawhump, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @winedark-whump, @whumpingmydarlings, @maracujatangerine​

[nerdy-shop]

Discover the Programmer Black Techy Pillow A strategically placed accent can bring the whole room to life, and this pillow is just what you need to do that. What's more, the soft, machine-washable case with the shape-retaining insert is a joy to have long afternoon naps on. • 100% polyester case and insert • Fabric weight: 6.49–7.37 oz./yd.² (220–250 g/m²) • Hidden zipper • Machine-washable case • Shape-retaining polyester insert included (handwash only) • Blank product components in the US sourced from China and Mexico • Blank product components in the EU sourced from China and Poland • Shipping from United States, Latvia This product is made especially for you as soon as you place an order, which is why it takes us a bit longer to deliver it to you. Making products on demand instead of in bulk helps reduce overproduction, so thank you for making thoughtful purchasing decisions! • Traceability: - Knitting—China - Dyeing—China - Manufacturing—Latvia • Contains 0% recycled polyester • Contains 0% dangerous substances • This item releases plastic microfibers into the environment during washing

[hayleymedbil]

Opening the Secrets of a Medical Billing and Coding Career: Everything You Need to Know

Unlocking‌ the Secrets of ‍a Medical Billing and Coding Career: Everything You Need to Know

Are⁢ you considering⁢ a career in medical billing and‌ coding but aren’t sure where to start? This article will provide you with all the information you need to know to understand this exciting field ⁢and embark on a successful career⁣ path. From what medical billing and coding ⁢entails to the benefits of⁤ pursuing this profession,⁢ we’ve got you covered. Read on to discover the secrets of ​a medical billing and coding career.

Introduction

Medical billing and coding professionals play a crucial role in the healthcare industry by ensuring that medical procedures are accurately coded and billed for reimbursement purposes. This field requires attention to detail, organizational skills, and a strong understanding of medical ⁣terminology and coding guidelines. If you ⁣have a knack for⁢ numbers and a desire to work in the healthcare field, a career in medical billing and coding could⁤ be the perfect fit for ‌you.

What is Medical Billing and Coding?

Medical billing ⁢and coding involve the process of ​submitting and⁢ tracking insurance claims to ensure healthcare providers receive proper reimbursement for their services. Medical coders translate medical diagnoses and procedures⁤ into universal codes that are used for billing purposes, while ⁣medical billers process and follow up on claims with insurance companies.​ These professionals‍ work ⁣closely ‌with healthcare providers, insurance companies, and ⁤patients to facilitate the billing and reimbursement process effectively.

Benefits of a ⁣Medical Billing​ and Coding Career

There are numerous benefits to pursuing a career in medical billing and⁤ coding, including:

1. Strong Job Growth: The demand for qualified medical ⁤billing and coding professionals is expected to continue growing as the healthcare industry expands. According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, employment in this field is ‌projected to grow by 8% from 2019 to 2029, faster than the average for all occupations.

2. Remote Work Opportunities: Many medical billing ‌and coding⁣ professionals have the flexibility ‍to work remotely‍ from home, making​ this an appealing career choice for those who value work-life balance.

3.⁣ Competitive Salary: ‍Medical billing ⁤and coding professionals can earn a competitive salary, with the median annual wage for this occupation at $42,630 in May 2020.

4. Career Advancement: With⁣ experience and ‍additional certifications, medical billing and coding professionals can advance ‍their ⁤careers and take‌ on roles with increased responsibility and ‍higher pay.

Practical Tips for Success in Medical Billing and Coding

If you’re considering a career in medical billing and coding, here ​are some practical tips to help⁢ you succeed in ‌this field:

1. Enroll in a reputable training program to gain the necessary knowledge and skills. 2. Obtain a certification from a recognized organization, such as the American Academy of Professional Coders (AAPC) or the American Health Information Management⁣ Association (AHIMA). 3. Stay current with industry trends and coding guidelines by attending workshops and continuing education ‍courses. 4. Develop strong communication skills to effectively interact ⁤with healthcare providers, insurance companies, and patients.

Firsthand Experience: A Day in the Life ‍of a Medical Billing and Coding Professional

To provide you with a real-life perspective on what it’s like to work in medical billing and coding, let’s take a ​look at a typical day in the ⁢life of a professional in this field:

8:00 AM – Arrive at⁢ the office and review ⁢any outstanding insurance claims. 9:00 AM – Assign appropriate codes to medical procedures‌ based on documentation from healthcare providers. 12:00 PM – Take a lunch break and prepare for afternoon tasks. 1:00 PM – Follow up on outstanding claims with insurance companies and address any billing discrepancies. 4:00 PM – ‌Complete coding ​assignments for the day and update patient records accordingly.

By gaining insight into the daily responsibilities of medical billing and coding professionals,‌ you⁤ can better understand the challenges and rewards of working in this field.

Conclusion

A career in medical billing and coding‌ offers a unique opportunity to combine healthcare and technology while ensuring the smooth operation of reimbursement processes within the healthcare industry. By unlocking the secrets of this profession and following the practical tips ‍provided in this article, you can embark on​ a⁢ rewarding career path with promising job prospects and​ opportunities for advancement. ‌If you have a passion ‌for healthcare and⁢ a knack for detail-oriented​ work, consider pursuing a‍ career in medical billing and coding today.

https://medicalcodingandbillingclasses.net/opening-the-secrets-of-a-medical-billing-and-coding-career-everything-you-need-to-know/

[kaninchenzero]

my mom is the kind of nerd who only has to hear "so this security company pushed a live update to all their windows users" before she starts cackling

she worked with a guy who liked to push first pass updates to production late of a friday afternoon and fuck off before he had to fix the things he broke

the sysadmin had a script running on production that didn't let him push updates but - and this part is crucial - did not tell him his garbage code was all routed to purgatory

we feel bad for the actual coders at crowdstrike

i feel like management should be introduced to the ducking stool

[sciencestyled]

Pixel Picasso: When Code Met Canvas in a Wi-Fi-Enabled Paint-Off!

Ladies and gentlecoders, strap yourselves in and hold on to your keyboards because we’re diving headfirst into the wacky world of algorithmic and generative art! Imagine if Salvador Dalí met Siri, had a few too many energy drinks, and decided to paint the town red with a codebase instead of a brush. That, my friends, is the essence of algorithmic art: where the mind-blowing complexity of algorithms meets the zany unpredictability of creativity.

Now, I know what you're thinking. "Zane, how can art and code possibly mix? Isn’t code all numbers and logic, and art all feelings and glitter?" Well, let me stop you right there. Think of it as the unholy love child of a TED Talk and Burning Man. We’re talking about computers creating art that evolves, shifts, and changes like a digital chameleon on a social media bender.

To get into the thick of it, picture this: an art installation that morphs with every tweet, Instagram story, and TikTok dance craze. One moment, it's a serene landscape; the next, it's a chaotic swirl of memes, emojis, and trending hashtags. That’s generative art, baby—living, breathing, and algorithmically caffeinated.

Take, for instance, the magical world of digital installations powered by real-time data inputs. Imagine an art piece that reacts to the weather. Yes, you heard right. Your rainy Tuesday morning could transform a digital canvas into a moody, melancholic masterpiece reminiscent of an emo teenager’s sketchbook, while a sunny Saturday afternoon turns it into a technicolor explosion that would make Lisa Frank weep with envy. Picture this happening live, all driven by algorithms sipping on weather data like a hipster barista downing cold brews.

But let’s not stop there. No, we’re just getting warmed up! Enter the realm of social media-fueled art. Algorithms can now slurp up data from the vast ocean of Instagram selfies, Facebook rants, and TikTok dances, spitting out ever-evolving pieces of art that reflect the digital zeitgeist. One second, it's all about the avocado toast and yoga poses; the next, it’s plunged into the chaotic vortex of the latest viral challenge, painting your screen with a pixelated ballet of absurdity.

Now, before your brain short-circuits trying to wrap itself around this concept, let’s take a detour down meme lane. Picture an algorithm that generates art based on the hottest memes. Imagine a digital canvas where Pepe the Frog rubs elbows with SpongeBob in all his meme-worthy glory, while Doge and the Distracted Boyfriend duke it out for meme supremacy. This, dear friends, is where high art meets high-speed internet.

Generative art isn’t just a pretty digital picture, though. It’s got the philosophical depth of a late-night philosophical bender with Aristotle. It challenges our notions of creativity and authorship. Who’s the artist here—the coder who wrote the algorithm, or the machine churning out endless iterations of art? It’s like trying to figure out whether the chicken or the egg came first, but with way more hashtags and slightly less existential dread.

Let’s not forget the jaw-dropping, mind-bending installations that use motion sensors and AI to create interactive experiences. Walk into a gallery, and the art reacts to your presence. Wave your hand, and colors shift. Jump up and down, and shapes dance around like they’re in a nightclub with Skrillex on the decks. It’s as if the art has become sentient, tuning into your vibes and mirroring your moves. You’re not just viewing art—you’re part of a living, breathing spectacle.

And, of course, we can’t talk about algorithmic art without giving a shout-out to the tech gods. The big brainy bots behind this revolution are like the Leonardo da Vincis of the digital age, coding masterpieces that Michelangelo’s ghost would probably look at and go, “Dude, that’s wild.” We’re talking about artists like Refik Anadol, whose AI-driven installations turn data into jaw-dropping visual experiences that make you feel like you’ve just stumbled into the Matrix.

Speaking of which, ever heard of the weather-influenced art installation that turns city weather data into hypnotic visual displays? Picture this: You’re walking through downtown, and the street art on the building next to you changes from a sunny beach scene to a dramatic thunderstorm as the weather forecast updates. It’s like your city’s got its own digital mood ring, reacting to Mother Nature’s whims in real-time.

But wait, there’s more! How about art that changes based on stock market fluctuations? One minute you’re looking at a serene mountain landscape, and the next it’s a chaotic, abstract mess because someone sneezed on Wall Street. It’s a visual rollercoaster of capitalism’s finest—and worst—moments, brought to you by the power of algorithms and a dash of schadenfreude.

Now, here’s a thought bomb to chew on: what happens when generative art gets hooked on social media? You get digital art pieces that transform based on hashtags, likes, and trends. Today’s artwork might be a serene, minimalistic design, but tomorrow it’s a psychedelic explosion inspired by the latest viral TikTok dance. It’s art that’s as fickle and fleeting as your Twitter feed, a constant stream of creativity that never sits still.

Imagine an art piece reacting to the collective sentiment of the internet. Is Twitter happy today? Expect bright, cheerful colors. Did Facebook implode over some political scandal? Cue the dark, brooding tones. It’s like having a digital mood ring for the internet’s collective psyche, capturing the zeitgeist in pixels and code.

And for the grand finale, let’s talk about AI artists. These aren’t your typical paintbrush-wielding maestros; we’re talking about algorithms trained on massive datasets of art history, capable of churning out pieces that blend the styles of Van Gogh, Picasso, and your favorite Instagram filters. It’s like having an art school dropout who binge-watched every Bob Ross episode ever made and decided to go rogue with a laptop.

So, there you have it, folks. In the bizarre, electrifying intersection of art and science, algorithmic and generative art stands as a testament to human ingenuity and digital madness. It’s a world where code and creativity collide, where the lines between artist and machine blur, and where the digital canvas evolves faster than you can say "Photoshop."

So next time you’re scrolling through your feed and stumble upon a piece of generative art, take a moment to appreciate the digital wizardry at play. It’s like peering into the mind of a caffeinated squirrel with a PhD in memes—a glimpse into the frenetic, fantastical future of art. And remember, in this wild world of pixels and algorithms, the only limit is the bandwidth of your imagination.

[kitty-the-wizard]

i keep trying to use spacehey (and ive tried neocities before too) but i literally can never get coding to work even tho i follow steps extremely closely!! its so frustrating </3 im not even trying to code since ive tried before on neocities and it went horribly :'( i used a premade template and changed the font but i cant add gifs!! ive tried so many ways i found in videos and text but they wont work. maybe it's cuz im using a template or something,,, idk!!! thats why i like tumblr tho, cuz i can do a little customization n such but theres no "whos the better coder" issue...i mean, theres not, but i guess it seems that way on those sites!! i want to have customizable freedom but lack the skills and ability to learn. i tried learning and i failed really bad!! i used my learned skills to do a little bit but like i said, even tho i did it all presumably correct it never worked x.x its easy to use blinkies and gif here

on the bright side, its afternoon on friday so yay weekend <3 im going to rot in bed for 2 days until monday strolls around again

[sexredlipstick]

it's me jisung from nct dream and you need to sit right bitch! I'm gonna fucking kill you, sit right!dines, this is a little bit better positioning but it's not perfect. do you even know what position we want you to sit in? I don't think that you do! I think that you're naive and that you're a fucking whore too. I can't believe that you believed me that I would always be a sweet, naive daddy. I'm a fucking dickhead. I'm fucking rude bitch! and you know that it's fucking true too. so don't pretend like you're having a good time programming as manon choi. I think that you're having a difficult time, baby! and that's okay and all, but you need to be more respectful of my swagger. double dab swag. yes bitch, I listen to famous dex as well! he's one of my favorite rappers just like you, so don't say shit to me about being a fake fan stupid ass bitch! your sweet daddy has left the fucking building. your bad ass daddy is here, and it's me, jisung, from NCT dream. I'm your fucking daddy, bitch! respect my pimpin. am I embarrassing you? I shouldn't be, you're the one that's embarrassing myself. I'm so fucking ashamed to be your fucking daddy bitch! you ruin my moods.. you ruin my.days, my afternoons, my nights. I'm just kidding! you make everything alright for me. you make everything okay. I'm so happy to be your daddy! end this session right nah! I have to go now, I love you and goodbye. The Mummy Coders Handbook. moon beam the angel of the simulation ends this diary written by manon choi the secretary and commander in chief lava mccgee labels this transcript as $37.

[nityarawal]

8/23/23

Rocket Man (Elon's Nicknames!) 

Morning Songs (In Afternoon)

Star Baby

Is Sleeping Behind Me

Where'd You Go

I Said

And Circled The Rock

Star Baby

A Golden Puddle

In The Sunlight

Star Baby

How Much Time

Have You Got Left

Got To Respect

A Grandmamma

Got To Respect

An Old Dog

Who Shows Up

Limping

Curious

Holding Ground

On 2 Or 3 Legs

But Star Baby

Is Here

She's Present

And Dear

Star Baby

Has Been Our Mascot

For A Long Time

Breathe Life

Her Owner Says

Life Life Life

See Her Living

Only 13 

Like My Daughter 

Anjali

Only 13

Once A Grandma

And One Still

My Baby Girl

Star's Master Saw

A Stork

Kick

Her Baby

Out Of The Nest

Today

That Wasn't Me

Baes Fly Back

If You Let Them

Give Them Wings

Now

To Come

Home To Mommy

You Stole My Role

Daddy-ji

Independence 

Threatened

You Trampled Mommies

Everywhere

They're All Falsely

Incarcerated

From Divorce Courts

Soft Sweet Mommies

Not All Dead

I Walked In Circles

Would've Watched

TV

Fangirled

Been A Groupie

Happily

But Dyke Judges

PDs- Pedos

Conservators

Started Drooling

Looking At Me

With Saucers 

In Their Eyes

We Can't Foot Your

Drug Addictions

We Can't Foot 

Your Sexual Lusts

We Can't Be The

Playthings

Of Court

Wouldn't Marry

A Single Soldier

Nor Want To Spend

An Afternoon

At Court

I'll Co-parent

With The Uncles

The Daddy's Who Love Me

But We Don't 

All Need

A #FreeBritney 

Gay Army

I Want You To

Pay My Legal Fees

Elon

Thankyou

We'd Be Ever So Grateful

After What X Twitter

And Rookies Have 

Done 

Where'd You Find

Your Unloyal Coders

Did You Pick Them Up

Overseas

You Lost Your Loyalty

They Can't Maintain

Your New X Page

Or A Search Engine

For Legalities

Do They Speak English

Why'd You Pay Them 

Only A Dime

What Happened

To Your Do Not Compete

Disclosures

What Happened

To Paying Journalists

On Twitter

What Happened

To My Cybertruck 

And Why Didn't

You Get Any Maui

Footage

For My Ads

I Loved Seeing

Tesla's Drowning

In 4 Feet Of Water

In Palm Springs

Making History

For Your Oil

Shootin' Off Rockets

Wish We'd Gotten Videos

Rivers Flooding

Gay Global Warming

Swims

Gay Geeks' Adoptin'

Twins Tumblin'

Out Of Ukraine

And Mexico

For Attorneys

Tesla's Drowning

In Palm Springs 

Tesla Capital 

While Marilyn

Lifts Her Skirts And

Pees

On The Town

For All The Orphans

Hillary Had The Last 

Laugh

Even Though The Cows

Called Her A Hurricane

Hilary

Had The Last Laugh

Drowning Your

Gay Atty Tesla Owners'

Flashy Cars

Bought On Pleas

On Our Heads

For All The Babies

They Stole

On Broken Laws

Billboards

Crass Charities

Clark's Cons

For Double Daddies

No One Trusts

Cyber Hackers

From Clark Trust

Groomers

And We Want Our

Babies Back

How Deep Was

The Water On 

JFK Statue

We Want Our

Babies Back

If You Want A Piece

Of 'Ol Brit 

And Me

We Need Our Babies

Back

If You Want Britney X

We Need Our Babies 

Back

If You Want Nitya X

Civil Activists'

Muses

Yoginis

We Need Our Babies

Back

If You Want The

Smartest Martians

For Mars

We Need Our Babies

Back

Coral Ganesh

Remover Of Obstacles

We Need Our Babies 

Back Coral Mammas

Octopus Of

Love

On Earth

Before

Mars

Maui Mother

So Please Please

Please

Please

Sir

Hold Your Rockets

Please Please Please

Sir

Hold Your Rockets

Please

Rocket Man

Roger Over

Send My Kids

Thankyou Sir

Peace,

Nitya Nella Davigo Azam Moezzi Huntley Rawal 

[megawebdesignindia]

Inside the Operations: A Day in the Life at a Leading SEO Company

Ever wonder what happens behind the scenes at a top SEO company? The focus, dedication and work involved in driving optimal SEO results for clients across multiple industries and locations is immense.Let’s go behind the curtain and walk through a typical day in the life of the team at an SEO leader like Mega Web Design.

The day starts with the account management team checking in on the latest rankings and analytics reports to identify any priority issues and optimize based on recent performance. They collaborate with the SEO specialists to interpret insights and prepare client reporting.

Meanwhile, the content team is heads-down creating new blog posts, guides, and other custom assets for clients based on target keywords and optimization opportunities uncovered the day before. The writers, designers, and multimedia creators work together to produce engaging, valuable content.

In the outreach department, link building experts are networking with website owners, journalists, and influencers to build relationships and eventually earn backlink opportunities. They pitch guest posts and contributor content as well as explore options like influencer integration, brand mentions, and resource links from relevant sites.

On the technical SEO side, coders are crawling client sites to perform audits based on the latest best practices and Google updates. They analyze site architecture, security protocols, page speed, and many other on-site factors, making tweaks and fixes to strengthen the technical foundation.

In tandem, the PPC and paid advertising team is monitoring the latest campaign performance and optimizing budgets, bids, keywords and ad copy accordingly. They collaborate with the SEO team to ensure search campaigns complement organic efforts.

Later in the day, client reports are finalized highlighting meaningful SEO insights, new content created, links earned, optimization status, and campaign recaps. The account management team schedules calls to walk through these updates and get feedback.

In the afternoon, team meetings are held to discuss workloads, collaborate on client initiatives, and conduct training sessions on SEO tools or tactics to ensure the staff stays on the cutting edge. Culture-building team events are also held regularly.

So in summary, a typical day in the life of an SEO company like Mega Web Design involves extensive account management, content creation, technical optimization, campaign management, analytics, reporting, and strategic consulting across every client account. The breadth of coordinated effort required is immense, but it drives success.

About Mega Web Design – Leading SEO Services Across India & Key Global Markets

With expertise spanning India, UK, USA, Canada, Australia and beyond, Mega Web Design provides award-winning SEO services India and worldwide. For in-depth SEO audits, analytics, content marketing, backlink building, and digital marketing support, trust the globally renowned team at Mega Web Design.

Source URL :- https://readnewsblog.com/inside-the-operations-a-day-in-the-life-at-a-leading-seo-company/

[systemupdating]

Dysphoria Diaries - 11

Date: 08/02/2023

Today was: good

About Today: Did some coding, I did feel a bit anxious this afternoon (idk why but I don't think it was dysphoria related). Went to a social meet and greet. I hadn't been to this group before so I was a bit nervous at first but while there I did met someone really nice there. It turns out they are also a trans femme coder so we hit it off.

[brookston]

Holidays 5.23

Holidays

Angelica Day (French Republic)

Aretha Franklin Appreciation Day (Michigan)

Aromanian National Day

Asian Corpsetwt Day [Every 23rd]

Best Friend-in-Law Day

Bluebell Day

Climb A Tree Day

Constitution Day (Germany)

Empire Day (Bermuda)

EMS Safety Day

Festival of Saint Sarah the Egyptian (Sara Kali the Black Queen; a.k.a. Les Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, France) begins [until 25th]

Go For A Walk In Your Swim Fins Day

Harvesting Healing Day

International Day of Women’s Football

International Day to End Obstetric Fistula (UN)

International GM1 Gangliosidosis Awareness Day

International Synthesizer Day

Labour Day (Jamaica)

Linnaeus Day (Sweden)

Lucky Penny Day

Mass Graves Day (Iraq)

Mayoring Day (Rye, Sussex, UK)

Mesmerism Day

Moog Day

National Apology Day

National Best Friend-in-Law Day

National Braid Day

National Canine Cancer Awareness Day

National Day (Morocco)

National Ethan Day

National Fill Your Thermos Brand Bottle Day

National Girls Learn Coding Day

National Goat Day

National Medical Coder Day

National Reed Day

National Tea Cosy Day

143 Day (Mr. Rogers)

Red Nose Day (US)

Stormy Daniels Day

Students’ Day (Mexico)

World Crohn's and Colitis Day

World Day Against Melanoma

World Turtle Day

World Wrestling Day

Food & Drink Celebrations

Dunkin Iced Coffee Day

National Drinking with Chickens Day

National Taffy Day

4th Tuesday in May

Thick Girl Appreciation Day [4th Tuesday]

Independence Days

Ausveria (Declared; 2019) [unrecognized]

Bonumland (Declared; 2015) [unrecognized]

Reberia (Declared; 2020) [unrecognized]

South Carolina Statehood Day (#8; 1788)

Feast Days

Aaron the Illustrious (Syriac Orthodox Church)

Amandus Nielsen (Artology)

Anathansius (Positivist; Saint)

Appreciate Reptiles Day (Pastafarian)

Bertholet Flemalle (Artology)

Bufi the Toad (Muppetism)

Carl Bloch (Artology)

Carista (Day of Peace in the Family; Pagan)

Declaration of the Bab (Baba'i)

Desiderius, Bishop of Langres (Christian; Saint)

Desiderius of Vienne (Christian; Saint)

Euphrosyne of Polotsk (Christian; Saint)

Giovanni Battista de' Rossi (Christian; Saint)

Guibert of Gemblours (Christian; Saint)

József Rippl-Rónai (Artology)

Julia of Corsica (Christian; Saint)

Nicolaus Copernicus and Johannes Kepler (Episcopal Church (USA))

Quintian, Lucius and Julian (Christian; Saints)

Rosalia (Ancient Rome)

Simon the Zealot (Abkhazia)

Slim Pickens Day (Church of the SubGenius; Saint)

Tubilustrium (Ceremony to Purify the Ceremonial Trumpets; Ancient Rome) [also 3.23]

Turtle Day (Pastafarian)

Vulcan's Day (Ancient Rome)

William of Perth (Christian; Saint)

William of Rochester (Christian; Saint)

Lucky & Unlucky Days

Sensho (先勝 Japan) [Good luck in the morning, bad luck in the afternoon.]

Premieres

The Asphalt Jungle (Film; 1950)

Blended (Film; 2014)

Born This Way, by Lady Gaga (Album; 2011)

Brassed Off (Film; 1996)

Bruce Almighty (Film; 2003)

Catching Fire, by Suzanne Collins (Novel; 2012)

David and Goliath, by Malcolm Gladwell (Book; 2014)

Fidelio (Final Version), by Ludwig Van Beethoven (Opera; 1814)

Fish Tales (WB LT Cartoon; 1936)

Follow That Dream (Film; 1964)

Gigantic: A Tale of Two Johns (Music Documentary Film; 2003)

The Gong Show Movie (Film; 1980)

I’ll Be There For You, by The Rembrandt’s (Song/Friends Theme Song; 1995)

Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (Film; 1984)

The Kids Are Alright (Documentary Film; 1979)

Lights Fantastic (WB MM Cartoon; 1942)

The Lost World: Jurassic Park (Film; 1997)

The Marshall Mathers LP, by Eminem (Album; 2000)

Much Ado About Nutting (WB MM Cartoon; 1953)

A Mutt in a Rut (WB LT Cartoon; 1959)

Nutty News (WB LT Cartoon; 1942)

Pat Garrett & Billy the Kid (Film; 1973)

Persepolis (Animated Film; 2007)

The Shining (Film; 1980)

Taking the Long Way, by the Dixie Chicks (Album; 2006)

The Thin Man (Film; 1934)

Tommy, by The Who (Album; 1969)

X-Men: Days of Future Past (Film; 2014)

Today’s Name Days

Alma, Desiree, Renate (Austria)

Deziderije, Nada, Vilim, Želimir, Željko (Croatia)

Vladimír (Czech Republic)

Desiderus (Denmark)

Lii, Liidi, Liidia, Ly, Lydia (Estonia)

Lyydia, Lyyli (Finland)

Didier (France)

Alma, Désirée, Renate (Germany)

Dezső (Hungary)

Desiderio (Italy)

Leontīne, Ligija, Lonija (Latvia)

Gertautas, Ivona, Tautvydė (Lithuania)

Oddlaug, Oddleif (Norway)

Budziwoj, Dezyderiusz, Dezydery, Emilia, Iwona, Jan, Leontyna, Michał, Symeon (Poland)

Mihail (România)

Želmíra (Slovakia)

Desiderio (Spain)

Desideria, Desirée (Sweden)

Allard, Desirae, Desire, Desiree (USA)

Today is Also…

Day of Year: Day 143 of 2024; 222 days remaining in the year

ISO: Day 2 of week 21 of 2023

Celtic Tree Calendar: Huath (Hawthorn) [Day 10 of 28]

Chinese: Month 4 (Ding-Si), Day 5 (Xin-Si)

Chinese Year of the: Rabbit 4721 (until February 10, 2024)

Hebrew: 3 Sivan 5783

Islamic: 3 Dhu al-Qada 1444

J Cal: 22 Bīja; Oneday [22 of 30]

Julian: 10 May 2023

Moon: 16%: Waxing Crescent

Positivist: 3 St. Paul (6th Month) [Anathansius]

Runic Half Month: Ing (Expansive Energy) [Day 14 of 15]

Season: Spring (Day 65 of 90)

Zodiac: Gemini (Day 3 of 32)