#hidden number call

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Happy Valentine's Day! (and this blog's first post anniversary!)

[front-facing-pokemon]

[akkivee]

jiro got a zero on one of his tests and i think it’s crazy to have the middle school dropout be a part of this event LOL

[famewolf]

finished act 3 of kentucky route zero!

the music continues to be indescribably beautiful and the vibes are utterly eerie but in a strangely comforting way.

i find myself both unnerved but at home within the dialogue and the audio is perfect.

idk what it is about this game, but i'm totally drawn in. just spent 20 minutes on an in-game phone call learning about the strange ecosystem of a river (and also how to talk to a snake).

[typinggently]

I can’t lie, my head is spinning. Maybe I SHOULD put my ficlets and stuff on AO3 because frankly, there is some good stuff I should reread more often.

[ottisbuns]

I utterly DESPISE the reliance our government online systems have gotten on fucking Smartphones

What do you mean I can't access the Government Healthcare Website to do my shitty fucking little Online Appointment because literally the only option you offer is logging in with fucking Mobile Identification, which currently doesn't fucking work for me, with no backup options, you god damn whores?

I'm all for the convenience of Just Use Phone but for fucks sake have you heard of REDUNDANCIES??? OPTIONS???

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

There’s a real paranormal attraction near me open at night!!! :D

…but everything is done in such a tourist-attracting way that the whole business appears to hinge upon sensationalized exploitation of the mentally ill >:(

[moth-mart]

Outlaw status reachieveeed 🎉🎉🎉

[lecliss]

I've still been fucked up ever since I found out that(according to an actually plausible timeline), Konoha has only existed for like 90-something or whatever years??? It's not like. Fucking 200 years old or whatever. And that Madara died when he was 74 but he had himself hooked up to, fuckin what was it??? The Gedo statue?? A tree?? Whatever. In order to keep himself alive and you look at him all old and crusty and think he's like. Over a hundred at least. But no, that man's 74. He's just an average fucking grandpa!!! And Hashirama had been dead for a LONG while, so he actually died pretty young all things considered. And that also means Mito died like. Fuckin. I'm guesstimating here but in her 60s I guess???? But it's a significant thing that the Uzumakis have longer than average lifespans so like. What the fuck is the average life expectancy in Naruto for this bullshit to make sense???

[helielune]

i really miss old internet when logout buttons weren't like. hidden underneath three menus and two sidebars. idk.

[dear-ao3]

so. as you may know it’s christmas eve. as you probably don’t know i am eastern european. and probably the only real tradition anyone holds onto is christmas eve. normally my great aunt does all the food and very begrudgingly sometimes lets everyone help make like. one thing.

well.

this year. the year of our lord two thousand and twenty four. she decided she was done cooking and it was up to everyone else.

so i got a phone call from my mom a few weeks ago being like hey so. you’re making the cake. got it? good.

the cake in question is a walnut cake. i was entrusted with my great aunts recipe about seven years ago. i’ve made it twice. the first time i fucked up the frosting quantity. the second time i fucked up the eggs. both times were passable at best and notably! my great aunt did not taste either of them.

and i have to make this cake. on christmas eve. it is dessert. for everyone. my extended family will all be eating the cake. the walnut cake. on christmas eve. even my great aunt.

so yesterday, december 23 if you are counting, i went on the annual Last Minute Christmas Food Shopping Trip with my father, watched him climb into the case to get his half and half like he does every year, and stressed about my cake as i made sure i had all of the ingredients.

then. we went to my great aunts house. where i was met with Trial Number 1: The Cognac

this cake has cognac in the frosting. not a big deal really. except for the fact that my mom hates that there is cognac in the frosting. (my mom is hell bent on making christmas eve dinner vaguely healthier. no one else agrees.) and i was to be making the cake in my moms house.

also important to note: we (as in my parents) do not own cognac. mostly because none of us drink.

so my great aunt is like oh i have to give you the cognac. cause she knows. i am baking the cake. the walnut cake. (my dad told her. he is a traitor). and i say okay. sure. this won’t be a problem at all.

so she gives me. a shot of cognac. and when i say a shot. i mean an Entirely Full Shot Glass of Three Hundred Dollar Cognac. in a jar. for the cake. the walnut cake. that i have to make.

upon bringing the cognac home my mom says no we’re not putting that in. the cognac sits on the counter in its jar. no one touches it.

then i was met with Trial Number 2: The Frosting.

this recipe requires a pound of chopped walnuts. first. i couldn’t even find the walnuts. my sister and i searched high and low and in every cabinet we could find but no nuts. i called my mom. and said mom where are the walnuts? and she said. “they’re in the nut bag behind the basement door.”

oh of course. how could i have missed the nut bag? a holiday bag full of bags of nuts that was half hidden by wrapping paper and also behind a door?

in any case. could i have used a food processor? absolutely. did i? no. half because i forgot and half because i didn’t want to accidentally grind the walnuts into a paste. so i enlisted the help of my younger sister to chop the walnuts By Hand while i embarked on the real devil: the frosting.

which remember. is supposed to have cognac.

so i cream my butter. i add my sugar. i’m careful not to over sugar. i taste it a million times. i add my coffee and my vanilla extract (instead of cognac. which is still sitting on the counter) and it was all going so well until. the butter rebelled.

now remember. one time when i made this. seven years ago. i made too little frosting. so i made more this time. and i thought i had all my conversions right but evidently i did not because suddenly there was too much liquid in my frosting and it split.

the frosting for the walnut cake that everyone was going to eat. on christmas eve. the very next day.

i felt like a contestant on great british bake-off getting smited by the tent.

so i did the logical thing and shoved the whole mess into the fridge hoping that it would sort itself out overnight.

then it was time to face Trial Number Three: The Cake Itself.

as i have said this cake is a walnut cake. the christmas eve walnut cake that has been at christmas eve longer than i have been alive. and it requires no less than ten egg whites. which i whipped and i added to my walnuts and shoved the whole thing into the oven in my two baking dishes.

only to discover no less than 40 minutes later that the batter in the pans was Not Even (despite my best efforts). so i cooked one longer than the other and hoped that i hadn’t monumentally fucked up the walnut cake. like i had the frosting. which was in the fridge. and i was ignoring.

which leads to Trial Number Four: The Egg Yolk Cake

see i had ten egg yolks. i didn’t know what to do with them. my mom said flush them. my dad said make a custard. i proposed making egg nog. my mom said she didn’t want it in the house cause it was too fattening (a blatantly incorrect statement. please, if you are reading this, go drink a glass of eggnog. or some other fun festive drink. food is for the soul.) so i produced a recipe for an egg yolk pound cake. i made it. i still don’t know if it came out good cause i haven’t tasted it. i hope it did. but that was not the point. the point is the walnut cake. the christmas eve walnut cake.

and the following morning i was met with Trial Number Five: The Frosting Part 2

first i threw my failed frosting back in the mixer and it immediately secreted a brackish combination of vanilla extract and coffee so i did the only thing i could. facetimed my dad and said “father there are problems abound.” and he gave me the fatherly advice of “make it again.”

and so i did.

with more correct measurements. still scared it would split at any second.

though it didn’t.

and i didn’t add the cognac.

maybe no one will be able to tell???

my mom said that if anyone asks the first batch of frosting failed and i had to toss it. this is technically true.

but i had frosting. i had two uneven cakes. and it was time for Trial Number Six: Decorating

decorating cakes is easily in my top ten least favorite activities. decorating the christmas eve walnut cake is easily in my top three least favorite activities. because i am terrible at decorating cakes. and also because it has a filling.

the filling is jam. and i once again made the wrong choice because i put the jam on first before the frosting. which to be fair is what the directions say. but as everyone knows, the directions in recipes you get from your eastern european great aunt are not the real directions. so now i had to smear butter cream. on top of jam. for the filling of the walnut cake. for christmas eve. that we would be eating in a few hours.

and we didn’t have a cake plate. we had a large dish.

i had to use my fingers. i had to use three spatulas. i got jam everywhere. but i did it. and as soon as i set the top cake on top of the filling i realized my monumental mistake: i was supposed to trim down the cakes.

so now they were uneven. and lopsided. and there was nothing i, a mere mortal tasked with the impossible task of making christmas eve walnut cake, could do about it.

so i continued to spread my frosting. which i had enough of. and tried and failed to not get jam everywhere.

in the end it was almost presentable. not great. slightly lopsided. and definitely not as nice as any of my great aunts cakes.

which left me with Trial Number 7: Chilling It

our fridge was being taken up by other important christmas eve things (though not as important as my cake. the walnut cake) so i had to put it in the car. which was fine because there is snow on the ground.

i covered my cake. the walnut cake. in tin foil and hoped i wouldn’t accidentally squish it. and then i went outside. i tried to steal my moms shoes to walk outside. she was not impressed.

“you know, saph,” she said. “some of the time you’re pretty great. the other half of the time you’re really weird.”

i could not agree more.

i put my cake on the trunk. prayed to the cake gods and went inside.

on the one hand if the cake is good, i will be stuck making walnut cake for christmas eve for the rest of my life. on the other hand, if it sucks i will never have to make another one.

Trial Number Eight: The Tasting still waits.

[astralcurses]

i wonder if i called her if she'd answer

[th3r3dj3st3r]

THE NUMBER IS REAL!!!

*uses my hypnosis powers on you*

you should totally call it

Just in case you haven't seen <3

make sure to like the short as well but god i love this!!

[ineveryfandom]

“so what’s your favorite batfam trope?”

“bruce calling his kids sweetheart/sweetie/baby/any petname”

“what—“

-

Dick, accidentally scraping his knee: ow

Bruce, worried: you okay, dear?

Dick, a 30 year old man:

Dick, tearing up: no…

Cass: 😐

Cass: *period cramp*

Cass: 😐

Bruce, knocking on her door: cass?

Cass, suddenly on the floor curled up and sniffling: dad, period hurts 😢

Bruce, slamming the door open, picking his daughter up then tucking her back in her bed: i’m sorry baby. i’m here now, what do you need?

Red Robin, cranky and stressed, having been awake for 120 hours: ugh! why can’t you people do anything right!?

Wonder Girl, also sleep deprived: you arrogant piece of—

Red Robin, suddenly walking away, grabbing his civilian phone: *angrily dials a number*

Bruce, in a WE meeting, answering: hello? tim?

Red Robin, voice breaking: dad?

Bruce:

Batman, requesting access to Mount Justice:

Superboy, eye bags darker than black: what’s batman doing here

Red Robin, packing up, speed walking out the door:

Batman, out of sight: oh, don’t cry sweetie, let’s go home hm?

Bruce, washing the dishes:

Damian, entering the room: baba?

Bruce, smiling: yes?

Damian, shuffling towards him, holding something behind his back:

Bruce: what do you have there?

Damian, embarrassed but determined, holds up a drawing of him and Bruce:

Bruce:

Bruce, tears streaming down his face: it’s beautiful habibi

Bruce: *sleeping*

Jason:

Jason: b

Bruce: ?!

Bruce: j-jay?

Bruce: what are you- oh.

Jason, laying next to him, face hidden in his chest: fuck you.

Bruce:

Jason:

Jason, quietly: i take it back. love you…dad.

Bruce, crying again: i love you too, sweetheart

-

now with a part 2!

bonus: captain marvel

[mina-org]

part one - part two (youre here) - part three - part four - part five- six

warning for smut, 141 are panty sniffers! and more yanderery than the last! I have another part written but I just felt like was already dragged a lil so lmk if you want the next part! also not edited bc im lazy

“The birds just not fuckin’ into ya johnny. She never took this long to respond to me.” Simon smirks, truthfully he didn’t really remember but he was fucked off with this entire thing, not only was Johnny after his bird but texting you became a group sport, even the double text.

Simon seethes, usually you would've crawled back to him by now, you'd get drunk and call him sobbing from whatever pub you were at and you'd owe him, rinse and repeat.

At least if you were into Johnny he'd know what you were doing but now your absence started to eat at him, he just wondered your were like a deer fresh out the womb, learning to walk, how would you survive when Simon wasn't there to pick up your the pieces when you inevitably fell apart again.

simon couldnt take them fawning over you anymore so he returned to his bedroom, he had a little secret that he had to keep from those closest to him, your underwear. A collection really.

to start with, they were just tucked in his bag for when he was deployed, he’d push a pair around his cock, satin felt nice but the cream pair with little berries on? they were too cute and so you. He’d pump his cock until they were stick with his cum.

then when he was home more often and you were fucked too dumb to bounce on his cock, neglecting him after hes giving you so many? he'll remember that for next time. and really left him no choice but to scout out your discarded panties, maybe a fresh pair if you packed them, and he'd finish himself off before tugging them up your legs, his cum from earlier still leaking out your pretty pussy. something about you walking home in shame, carrying him with you, a sense of ownership simon loved.

now these panties were all he had, and he wasn't gonna share them. maybe with Johnny, if he was good.

after a week it just wasnt doing it for him anymore, he needed to see his girl but all his texts weren't sending:( and he hadn't seen you at the gym or the pilates class you spent so much money on. almost like your little temper tantrum was serious this time.

okay so it took simon a week or two to turn up begging, well demanding your forgiveness.

or he would've, if you answered the fucking door? after coming over and almost fighting your door guy a few times, he gets the hint, stealth is wealth and all that.

now here he is, staring at you through binoculars, on the rooftop opposite your building, like he's gathering intel or some shit. originally he was gonna keep this to himself, threes a crowd after all but it was chilly on the rooftop and simon is all about efficiency and your safety of course!

thing is, that pesky door man knows who simon is, and its doubtful a stick on moustache and boiler suit is gonna convince him that simon is also the buildings engineer!

through this process they've found out your building has a lot of security issues, nobody even thought about cyber security so when gaz sends out an email with a list of apartment numbers and a time, stating some maintenance was needed, no one bats an eye.

and of course you dont want any awkward conversations, like offering them tea or coffee 50 times while they try to focus but they'd think you rude if you dont and you can't ignore them, thats rude too. so you have to go out and stay out.

so you go shopping, you've been needing more underwear anyway!

soon enough John and gaz are in your apartment, putting up hidden cameras, slipping trackers into the linings of your most worn clothes, rifling through your belongings and testing out your perfume, trying to figure out which one you use daily from the memories of your scent lingering on simon and around the flat.

however gold is struck when they come across your laundry basket! feral is the best fitting word, Johnny will froth at the mouth once they tell him and of course share the bounty of their conquest.

taglist: @skeletonsucker @supernova2205 @wh0re4-alexademi @grr457

[peachesofteal]

Raspberry Girl Previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: 18+ explicit sexual content, daddy kink, caretaking.

He expected to find you distracted. 

You didn’t text or call after breakfast, or your usual lunch time, but he was too bogged down with work to get off base to physically check in, lay eyes on you, make sure you’re alright. If you’re distracted enough you forgot to text, he’s worried it means you’ve lost track of the day completely, forgotten to eat or drink something other than coffee. Your little blue icon on the map tells him you’re definitely at work, but that’s all he has until he’s able to get away. 

When he does, and he slips through the back door of the bakery into the kitchen, he finds a scene he did not expect- 

and immediately knows the rules you broke today won’t result in a punishment. 

At least, not tonight. 

You’re standing at your work table, the rectangular butcher’s block that nearly stretches the span of the room, hands covering your face, hyperventilating. You’re covered in flour and there’s dried batter on your elbows, your neck, your clothes, a chaotic mess strewn across the tabletop.  

He calls your name softly and you turn with wide, wet eyes, a trembling lower lip. 

“What-” you nearly trip over yourself to get to him, falling into his arms, your tear stained face pressing against his chest, your own heaving. “Shhh, you’re okay, you're okay.” The front door swings open and Mara is there, pointing at the table, you, before making a motion with her hand like she’s cutting air in front of neck with a grim expression. Whatever it was, or is, it’s derailed the day completely, left you in tatters. He wishes you would have just called him, followed your rules so he could have helped, been here for you, with you, supported you. He nods at her, and cups your face, tries to tilt it up into his as you sob. "Okay, shhh, I've got you, I'm here. Let me look at you baby, let me see your eyes." They're laden with tears, broken with stress and anxiety, everything in you shaking and sparking like a live wire.

“I b-b-broke the ov-oven this morning,” you cry, clinging to his shirt, “I tried to- t-tried to fix it but... and I broke m-my rules..” His heart chips a little bit at the raw distress in your voice, the way your chest heaves like you’ve just run a marathon. He has to fix it, soothe it, bring you back and take care of you, of everything, properly.

“Okay sweetheart, you're alright,” Your face turns, ear pressing over where his heart thumps in his chest, and he automatically covers the other one with his palm, blocking out the world around you but continuing to murmur softly so you can feel the vibration of his words as he rubs your back. “You’re alright baby, everything’s gonna be okay. I’ve got you.” 

“I’m sorry, I'm sorry, m-my rules-"  

“We’re not going to worry about the rules or what happened with them right now. We're going to get you home and taken care of, and we’ll talk about the rules when you’re feeling better. Do you understand?” You shake your head, still struggling to take a deep breath. “What is your number one rule baby, tell me.” 

“Listen to daddy.” 

“Good girl. I will tell you when it’s time to think about what happened today with your rules. Do you understand me?” You sniffle, but nod. 

“Yes daddy.” 

“Left arm.” One of the reasons he bought this house over the other ones is the tub. It’s massive, jacuzzi style with jets, perfect for a soak, or a scrub, which is what’s happening now. He turns your fingers up, runs the washcloth across them until the flour beneath is gone, soaping you all the way up to your shoulders, your collarbone that’s half hidden by bubbles. 

“Thank you.” He kisses your forehead. 

“Thank you for letting me take care of you, sleepy girl.” Once he got you out of your dirty clothes and into the bath you calmed considerably, exhaustion quickly setting in once you hit the hot water. 

“You’re welcome daddy.” A small mischievous smile tugs at the corner of your lips, and he chuckles. Sass.

He trails the washcloth across your chest and you arch your back a little bit, turning into the fabric as it brushes your nipples. 

“Alright?” This is not the moment to push you. Emotionally off balance and vulnerable, it would do more harm than good to test your limits. 

“Yeah,” your teeth find your bottom lip, and he moves downward, across your belly to your mons. You moan, hips flexing, looking for more between your legs and he rubs your cheek. 

“Do you want daddy to make you feel good sweet girl?” 

“Yes please.” He lets the washcloth sink to the bottom of the tub. 

“Open your knees f’me, like that, good girl.” He takes it slow. He’d ask you to get out if he thought you’d be comfortable, but he doesn’t want to move you, disturb how relaxed you are. When he slides down your pussy to your hole, he’s relieved to find you’re very wet, and there will be enough to last until the water in the tub starts to dissolve it, though he’ll have to be quick. You whine, wiggling as he thumbs your clit, middle finger of the same hand carefully pressing inside you to the first knuckle, the surprised gasp on your lips swallowed by his own. You’re already clenching down around him, trying to bring his finger deeper. So bloody tight.

“Ah-” He works up to his second knuckle, watching your expression, the crease of your eyebrows, the flutter of your lashes. Your grip tightens to the side of the tub, walls squeezing him as he slides all the way, circling your clit and angling upward inside you, dragging along your walls like he’s motioning for you to come here, all of his touch flexing in tandem. Your face is twisting, almost like you’re trying to resist, mentally digging your heels in. You’re getting in your own head, trying to shove your orgasm away, running from it. Punishing yourself.

He knows what you need.

“You had such a hard day didn’t you baby,” you whimper, "you worked so hard today, and daddy’s girl deserves to feel good after having such a bad day.” He passes over your clit in a faster rhythm, again and again as he strokes in and out of your pussy, bringing you to the edge. 

 “I-” 

“It’s okay sweetheart, you can come. Show daddy how good you are and come on my hand.” A lever is pulled, a dam released.

“Oh- oh, fuck,” your feet kick, water sloshes, and your face is like heaven, expressive and euphoric, just for him. “I’m coming, I’m…” your muscles tense and he stays with you, wringing every drop of your pleasure free until you go limp, chest heaving. 

After a while, he finds the washcloth. He methodically picks up where he left off, starting between your thighs, and then soaping the rest of you, making sure he gets all the remnants of the day cleaned off.  You smile, a little loopy, eyelids heavy. Time to get out. “No sleeping in the tub, c’mon.” 

“But-” 

“No buts. Up.” You pout. It’s adorable, and he’s a sucker, but the risk of you falling asleep is too great. “I’ll let you stay in until you’re all wrinkled next time, but you can barely hold your head up right now. Come on.”

He gets you dried off and into some clothes, pajama bottoms and one of his t-shirts before settling you in bed with a cup of tea, bare feet sticking out from the blankets so he can rub them, trying to knead away some of the tension in your arches. 

“You need better shoes.” 

“Mmmh, I know.” You had turned your switch on, but it sits abandoned now as you drain your chamomile just before snuggling down into the pillows, slowly losing your battle to sleep. “Daddy...” 

“”I’m here baby.” You sigh and reach blindly, looking for him with closed eyes. 

“Can you hold me?” It’s not even a question, you own him.

“Of course.” He slides in behind you and you turn, nestling your nose against his neck. A whole world, right here. An entire life, his, curled up in his arms, the safest place you'll ever be.

“Night.” Half yawn, half sigh, completely exhausted. He brushes his lips across your forehead. 

“Goodnight sweet girl.”