#probably not going to get it until i get my tax return

[the-kipsabian]

i dont wanna be awake but at least the alan wake 2 collectors edition looks so fucking good

[meiyokbf]

under your spell | megan x g!p!reader | part one

synopsis: you thought friday night meant staying in, but manon dragged you to a strip club miles from home. the usual clichés don’t prepare you for one dancer who hits the stage like she owns it. no lingerie, no fake smiles, just calculated moves and eyes locked on yours. by the time you’re handed a room key, you’re not sure who’s watching who anymore.

author’s note: not proofread, bare with me lol. and also!! you guys!! i wasn’t even going to post this today but since our meiyokie came out i had to! so so so happy for her and so happy everyone’s being supportive :)) she deserves all the love in the world! happy pride month <3

warnings: mdni. stripper!megan x g!p!reader, slightly manon x lara, mentions of alcohol, drinking, smut (blowjob, reader recieving). reader is kind of a loser lol, probably will make a part 2.

word count: 3.6k

🏷️: katseye, megan x reader, megan skiendiel x reader, katseye x reader, katseye smut, megan smut.

part 2.

you didn’t even want to go. it was a friday night, you had a shit ton of uni work to do tomorrow, and you had already worked your ass off at the gym earlier. you made manon promise she wouldn’t try to drag you out of the apartment for the weekend. she annoyed the shit out of you every time she wanted to go out, and you always caved; went with her to whatever shithole club she found on some shady instagram post, stayed there for fifteen minutes tops, and ended the night leaving her and daniela grinding on strangers while you rewatched modern family for the sixth time this year.

and now here you are, standing in front of a club whose name you couldn’t even pronounce, watching your friend dig through her purse like her life depended on it.

— why did you choose this place? of all the clubs we could go to, this one’s like a full uber ride away from our place…

— because this club is absolutely legendary, and you’ll see why in a couple of seconds, my dearest friend. — you stared at her, blankly, until a group of half-naked girls with tramp stamps and singles falling out of their purses walked out of the club.

— dude. did you bring me to a fucking brothel?

— oh my god, no??? what kind of friend do you think i am? you wound me. — she said dramatically, pulling her id from her purse and signaling for you to do the same. manon handed hers to the absolute butchiest stud you’ve ever seen guarding the door, and you followed suit; only to receive two condoms in return, making you shoot her a wide-eyed look.

— well technically, it’s just a normal strip club. with some fun little rooms built inside…

— i’m staying for twenty minutes and then i’m bouncing. got it? — manon rolled her eyes but nodded, knowing damn well that was the best deal she was gonna get out of you. — and you’re getting me a beer.

you had just opened your bottle when the “performances” started. hanging near the bar was good enough for you; while manon was already separating her money like a bratz doll doing her taxes. the lights went down, some sensual music started playing, and you immediately rolled your eyes. could this be any more cliché?

the first girl came on stage; she looked indian, wearing a two-piece green lingerie set, and started dancing with this slow, confident rhythm while staring down the crowd in front of her. she was good, no denying that. you looked over at manon and saw her happily slipping singles into the girl’s thong like a five-year-old feeding a vending machine. it made you laugh a little, even.

you took a sip of your beer, checked your phone, wondering how much longer this self-inflicted torture would last before you could return to the sweet embrace of your bed and whatever episode cam and mitchell were losing their minds in.

you turned your phone off and looked back at the stage. the indian girl had just left, and now the lights were changing again. the music was less tacky this time; some pop song you didn’t recognize, and then she walked in.

and she wasn’t like the others.

she wasn’t wearing lingerie or anything super revealing. instead, she had on a tight black tank top, tiny black shorts and silver accessories. somehow, she looked way hotter than all the other girls whose uteruses were practically waving hello at you. she moved slowly, deliberately. like every step had purpose. and yeah, it probably did; this was her job. but still, there was something different about the way she did it.

she didn’t look at anyone. she didn’t perform for anyone. she was dancing like she was the only one in the room. like she didn’t need anyone’s gaze. but she still owned it. and then, her eyes met yours.

just for a second. and that was enough.

she didn’t look away.

and you were right. she was dancing for herself. but now? now she was dancing for you too. her eyes stayed locked on yours, and there was the faintest smirk on her lips. like she knew exactly what she was doing. like she was having fun with the way you were reacting.

your mouth went dry. your legs tensed. and between them, yeah. your dick was doing things. you felt like the worst kind of straight man alive.

and just when you thought it couldn’t get worse; she took off her shirt.

you almost broke the damn beer bottle in your hand.

who the fuck was this girl?

the show ended. she scooped the cash up with one smooth motion, and; just before walking off stage, she looked at you one last time. and disappeared.

you stood there like an idiot. that girl had just made you feel fire burning through your veins and then vanished into the night like a cat that knows exactly when to disappear before you can pet it.

manon came over, and her smile was so wide it looked like her face might split in two.

— see? not that bad, right? better than that nerd ass star fight convention you go to every year.

— first of all, it’s star wars, not star fights. if you’re gonna roast me, at least get the name right. second of all… do you know who that last girl was? — you finished your beer in one go, making manon raise her eyebrows.

— you mean jade? yeah, she’s something, huh? — the ghanaian girl grinned, clearly already a fan. — last time i came here, she did a split on stage while twerking. we stuffed her panties with ten-dollar bills like it was a charity drive.

— so interesting that i lent you 150 bucks and you’re out here donating it to hookers every weekend.”

manon looked offended.

— for the millionth time, they are not hookers, dumbass. — she smacked your arm, and you laughed. — if you respected me, i’d be a good friend and hook you up with miss jade over there. but now i want you to die alone.

— stop being so dramatic, for once. you are a good friend, and you will, in fact, hook me up with her.

— please. what are you even gonna do? shove that lego lightsaber you keep between your legs into her?

before you could respond with an appropriate level of rage, the first performer walked toward you two; and you could almost feel manon’s jaw dropping from where you were standing.

she had that kind of smile that made her look almost unreal — mysterious eyes, lingerie clinging to her perfect curves, and a presence that made your spine straighten on instinct.

— well, if it isn’t my favorite fan?

— biggest admirer, and yours truly, manon. — she said, kissing the back of the stripper’s hand like a total simp. you rolled your eyes. there was nothing gentlemanly about a girl who had an entire empty lays packaging collection next to her bed.

— very, very nice to finally meet you, manon. but i’m actually here to give your friend something. — she turned to you, and you blinked in confusion. she handed you a key. it had the number “21” and a cherry drawing on it.

— end of the hall. someone’s waiting for you.

you hesitated, glancing at manon; even if she was annoying as hell, you didn’t love the idea of leaving her alone in this place. — don’t worry, i’ll take very good care of miss manon over here while you’re gone.

— see, dude? now get the fuck out. bye-bye! — manon pushed you like a kid pushing their mom once she dropped them off at summer camp, and you rolled your eyes as you finally turned and left.

you walked all the way down the hallway, passing by numbered doors, muffled giggles, and, most bizarre of all, completely different soundtracks leaking out of each room. it felt like each door was its own little parallel universe. some had sensual r&b, others were blasting k-pop (?), and at one point you swear you heard the harry potter theme.

don’t ask. don’t look back. just keep walking.

when you finally reached door 21, the one with the little cherry sticker on the key, you stood there for a second. just… stood there. you weren’t nervous; or maybe you were. it wasn’t clear. you’ve had your fair share of messy nights, but this? this was absurdly out of your comfort zone. you were a “read the wikipedia page and the sources” kind of person, not a “walk into a mysterious club room where a literal goddess might be waiting” kinda person.

and yet here you were.

you unlocked the door.

and she was already there. jade. sitting casually on a velvet couch like it was her throne, legs crossed, wearing the same outfit from the performance, with her bare chest looking at you; out and proud. she didn’t say anything at first. just looked at you like she knew exactly how fast your heart was racing.

you opened your mouth to say something, probably something stupid, but she got up before any sound came out and walked toward you slowly, deliberately.

— you’re cuter up close.

her voice was smooth and warm, like honey stirred into tea. but there was a glint in her eye; mischief, maybe. hunger.

you let out a nervous laugh. — yeah, well. you’re… insane.

she tilted her head. — good insane or bad insane?

— the kind that makes someone watch one dance and consider faking their own death just to move into your basement.

that made her laugh. genuinely. and that eased something in your chest. just a little. you were relieved that she wasn’t weirded out by your own weirdness.

she stepped closer and, without asking, took the empty bottle of beer from your hand and set it on the dresser beside the couch. then her fingers; cold at first, brushed your jaw.

— let’s play a little game, baby. i’m gonna ask you three questions. for every one you answer honestly, you get a reward. lie, and you go back to your little beer at the bar. deal?

you blinked. — do i even have a choice?

— not really.

she took a step back, like she needed space to see you properly. her arms crossed over her bare chest, but not in a closed-off way. more like she was sizing you up. like this was part of the game, and she was already winning.

— first question… — she said, cocking her head slightly. — …what exactly did you think about when i took my shirt off?

you didn’t answer right away. your mouth opened, then closed. then you licked your lips and gave the most nonchalant shrug you could pull out of your ass.

— that i was going to hell.

jade grinned. — good answer. very catholic of you.

she walked over and pressed a kiss to your jawline; featherlight, like a secret.

— that’s your first reward.

you tried not to react too much and failed spectacularly. she took her time with the next question. she paced a little, running her fingers along the edge of the couch, like she was deciding how mean to be.

— second question. what do you want me to do to you?

this one hit a little lower. literally. you shifted your weight, suddenly too aware of how warm the room was. your brain short-circuited for a second. then you cleared your throat and gave her a look that tried; and mostly failed, to be confident.

— i want…

she raised an eyebrow. — careful now. you only get one sentence.

you exhaled. — i want you to make me forget my own name.

her eyes lit up. not in surprise; in satisfaction. like she’d known you’d say something like that, and she was so ready to deliver.

she pushed you down gently, and you landed on the couch behind you. jade straddled your lap without warning, her hands resting on your shoulders.

— that was a very, very good answer.

her mouth found yours before you could reply, slow and purposeful at first, then deeper, with this soft little noise from her throat that made your whole body shiver. her fingers slipped under the hem of your shirt, dragging it up slowly like she wanted to memorize the feel of your skin.

you’d had kisses before. you’d had hookups before. but this felt different. not rushed, not transactional. like she meant it.

she pulled back, just enough to talk against your lips.

— third question... when you woke up this morning… — she trailed a finger down your chest. — did you have any idea tonight would end like this?

you laughed breathlessly. — absolutely not.

— wrong.

you blinked. — what?

she leaned in, whispering against your ear:

— the moment you put that tight-ass shirt on, showing off these muscles, you knew you were having someone on their knees tonight.

and before you could argue back, her teeth grazed your neck. she kissed your skin hungrily, as if it was the last thing she would ever do in her life. your hands went straight to her waist, in an attempt to bring her closer to you. and this time, it was rougher. a little messier. there was no more teasing. she tasted like cherry gum, whiskey and something distinctly hers; sharp and addictive, like biting into something you weren’t supposed to want, but did anyway.

your fingers curled against her waist, digging in just enough to make her shift above you, slow and deliberate. her mouth trailed down from your lips to your throat, then lower still, every kiss a promise wrapped in silk and teeth.

— you’re so warm, baby… — she murmured, like it was a secret she hadn’t meant to say out loud. — i could stay right here forever.

you would’ve let her. fuck, you would’ve begged.

her hands explored like they had all the time in the world. slow circles at your hips, a thumb brushing under the waistband of your jeans just to feel you twitch. at this point, your dick was already rock hard under your pants, trying its best to be released from the fabric. you were trying to play it cool, trying not to give her the satisfaction; but she saw through it. of course she did.

— trying to be good, baby? — she whispered, tongue flicking out to taste the answer before you could speak. — or are you just waiting for me to make you bad?

your breath caught. she smiled.

she shifted again, grinding down on your cock just enough to draw a sound out of you that you didn’t even recognize as your own. like a prayer torn from a throat that never learned how to kneel.

— mmm… there it is. — her voice was velvet and smoke. — that’s what i wanted to hear.

and when she finally dragged her hands lower; no hurry, just cruel patience, it was like being unravelled by a storm you’d walked into on purpose. feeling her hands grabbing your cock made you go to heaven and back in just one second. she unzipped your pants with just one hand, with a mastery that made you think she was even hotter. your member hit your stomach once your zipper was completely open, leaking enough pre-cum to stain your boxers; which made her laugh a little. — fuck, i can’t wait to taste you…

she started to stroke you slowly, as if she wanted to torture you on purpose. your hips bucked involuntarily, wanting to feel her hand as much as you could. everything else faded: the music from the hallway, the fact that you didn’t even know what time it was, your name, your rules, the little voice in your head that usually kept you safe.

gone.

just heat, pressure, her.

you clung to her like you were falling. maybe you were. but god, what a way to go.

her mouth was everywhere now; neck, collarbone, that soft spot just below your ear that made your stomach knot and your fingers tighten around her. every touch was purposeful, like she was writing something on your skin in a language only your nerves could understand.

you didn’t speak. couldn’t.

your brain had gone quiet in the best way; no spirals, no second guesses. just sensation. just her.

her hand stopped for a second just to slid beneath your shirt again, this time tugging it upward with slow, unbothered confidence, like she was unwrapping a gift she already knew she wanted.

— arms up, baby.

it wasn’t a question.

you obeyed without thinking, shirt discarded somewhere behind the couch like it never mattered. her eyes roamed over you then—hungry, appreciative, almost reverent.

— fuck… — she said it like a blessing, soft and full of heat. — look at you.

she climbed back into your lap, knees pressing into the cushions on either side of your hips. your bare chest met hers; warmth against warmth, and it sent another shiver rippling through you. her hands slid up your back, nails trailing lightly as her hips began to roll again, slow and devastating.

you couldn’t help it; you bucked up, chasing more friction, more of her.

she laughed, low and breathy, and kissed you again, deeper this time.

messier. wetter.

you were falling apart in her hands, and she knew.

she loved it.

her mouth dropped lower, tongue tracing down your chest, your ribs, your stomach; every inch of you claimed by heat and lips and the scratch of her teeth when she decided you could handle a little more.

you gasped, one hand slipping into her hair.

not pulling her away. never that.

you were just grounding yourself. trying to remember how to breathe.

she looked up at you from where she’d paused, mouth hovering just above the edge of your waistband, fingers hooked there lazily.

— still doing okay? — she asked it sweetly, but her eyes told a different story; dark, wicked, knowing.

you nodded, because words had long since failed you.

— good. — she grinned, slow and smug. — then i’m not stopping ’til you forget what breathing feels like.

and just like that, jade wrapped her lips around your throbbing cock, and you stopped caring about anything but the way her name tasted in your mouth when you moaned it. — oh, fuck…

her name slipped out of you like it had always been there; half prayer, half curse, drawn out from somewhere deeper than language. she smiled against your skin when she heard it, the kind of smile you could feel; lips curved, warm breath ghosting over you, a hum of satisfaction in her throat like she’d just tuned the frequency of your body and found the perfect pitch.

— you’re so tense, baby… — she murmured, knuckles brushing dangerously low. — let me fix that.

and god, you let her.

you fell back against the couch cushions, jaw slack, pulse loud in your ears. your hands made a makeshift ponytail on her hair, trying to hold onto something solid while she stripped you down like she owned you, like this was her personal ritual and you were the altar.

then her mouth was blowing you again, her cheeks hollowed out as she tried to get more suction.

she was slow about it at first. torturously slow. tongue dragging, lips parting, hands keeping your hips pinned just enough to remind you who was in control here. and you wanted her to have it. every inch of it. every ragged sound you made, every trembling muscle, every helpless roll of your hips.

you were unraveling, and she was watching you come apart like it was art. like your wreckage was her masterpiece.

— that’s it, baby… — she whispered when your fingers threaded tighter into her hair. — don’t hold back now. i want to hear you.

and you gave her everything.

no filters. no pride. just need, bleeding out of you in sounds you couldn’t stop if you tried.

when she picked up the pace, it was like something inside you cracked wide open; pure sensation rushing in, blinding, aching, perfect. your spine arched, your thighs tensed, and the pressure built so fast it almost scared you.

you tried to warn her. tried to say her name again, to tell her you were close, but she didn’t stop. didn’t want you to speak.

she just looked up at you with those dark, wicked eyes and moaned around you; low, deliberate, like she knew what it would do to you. like she wanted to be the last thought in your head before you shattered. — cum for me, love… let me taste you, please…

and then you came.

not gently. not quietly.

you broke.

and she held you through it, every wave, every breathless tremor, every raw piece of you laid bare in her hands. — that’s it, love… give it all to me.

by the time you could open your eyes again, she was back on your lap, straddling you like nothing had changed; but everything had.

she was smiling, a little smug, a little proud.

she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and kissed your cheek sweetly, almost innocently.

— so… — she whispered against your ear — ready for round two?

your laugh came out half-wrecked, half-dazed. — i don’t think i ever stood a chance with you, jade.

she pulled back just enough to look at you again.

— megan. — she said, cupping your face with both hands like you were fragile now, something precious she’d broken and would spend the rest of the night putting back together. — my name is megan.

[ms-demeanor]

Due to some stuff brought up in recent posts I believe it is time to once again extol the virtues of Ms-Demeanor's Patented Where Did I Put That Fucking Paper Organizational Binder.

Hello! I am a disorganized adult! This is the system by which I manage my important shit like pink slips for my car and medical records and tax information.

You're going to need:

A 3-Ring Binder

Transparent Sheet Protectors

Notebook dividers (optional but VERY useful)

A backpack (optional)

So the way this system works is you put the sheet protectors into the binder. You can either use the dividers to divide the binder into sections or you can label some of the sheet protectors to make different sections but what you are generally going to do is make sections of the binder labeled things like "taxes" or "vet" or "doctor" and put a few sheet protectors in each section.

Then all of your papers with important information get crammed in that folder. You don't organize them, you don't sort them by date, you don't alphabetize. You put things vaguely relating to taxes into the sheet protectors in the taxes section. You put things relating to cars in the cars section. You don't even attempt to make this readable - you're not using sheet protectors so that you can read each page and keep it legible, you're using sheet protectors because it's a cheap plastic bag that will sit nicely in a binder.

You CAN put stuff into the individual sheet protectors when you get it, but let's be realistic you probably WON'T do that, so just tuck individual papers into the front of the binder until you get to a critical mass of paperwork then take an hour to sit down and sort into categories and put it in the binder once every six months to three years (depending on how frequently you get paperwork). Sometimes these sections will outgrow their original allotted space - since my spouse had a transplant surgery the medical section has had to become its own folder - and that's okay. If you end up with multiple folders just keep them together (this is why the backpack is an option, and one I strongly recommend).

Because yeah, if my organization system relies on opening up a drawer and putting something where it belongs as soon as I get the paper, I will simply not be organized. It's not going to happen. But I can handle a messy stack of paper that sits in one place and grows until it is time to shove it into a binder. I can't organize things for thirty seconds a day every day but I can organize things for an hour once every year or so (maybe two hours every five years when I sort out stuff I don't need like copies of warranties for parts on a car I don't own anymore).

When my mom died she had about fifty pounds of paper files in her office that were neatly organized in a system that didn't make any sense to my dad, my sister, and I. I ended up sorting through those files for twenty hours, tossing out copies of paid invoices from ten years ago and student handbooks from my junior high school. I reduced one filing cabinet, two desk file drawers, and a foot-high stack to a six inch binder that I gave to my dad. My mom died five years ago; two months ago my dad asked me about a medical document and I was able to tell him to go look for it in the medical section of the binder. It was there, because ALL IMPORTANT SHIT GOES IN THE BINDER.

Where is my birth certificate? In the binder. Where is my tax return from 2017? In the binder. Where is the record of my dog's last rabies shot? In the binder. Where are the records for my life insurance? In the binder.

A lot of what people consider "being organized" breaks down to whether or not you can find the specific things that you're looking for. Does my binder look nice? Is it aesthetic? Does it have color-coded tabs and papers all laid out neatly? Absolutely fucking not. But if you ask me where to find a paper I know that I can do so within about five minutes of shuffling through the pile of letter-folded sheets that I pulled out of the appropriate section of the binder.

I've discussed the Where Did I Put that Fucking Paper Binder before, but now it is time to expand that concept to the Backpack of Important Shit.

You likely have Important Shit that does not fit in a binder. Some of my Important Shit that does not fit in a binder is stuff like jewelry and the spare key for my car. Other stuff - the reason I decided to bring this up at all - includes my backup hard drive and packaging (including product key codes) for pretty much all of the software that I own. This is also where I store printed out copies of the recovery codes for most of the online accounts that I have.

There's a lot of weird fiddly shit that we have to have that we might not access all that often. This is the kind of stuff that might end up in junk drawers or under sinks or in disused laptop bags or kicking around under a bunch of papers in a desk drawer.

It doesn't matter so much when that weird fiddly shit is a set of hex keys or a utility knife or a protractor or a copy of a student handbook but it DOES matter when it's something that you might need to put your hands on in a hurry. If your computer crashes, you're not going to want to track down the software in the back of a filing cabinet and the backup drive from somewhere in the bowels of your desk. If you lock your keys in your car you are not going to want to figure out if your spare is in a junk drawer or the old purse where you keep semi-important stuff or the tin on your desk that has buttons and pins and headphone covers. Just put it in the Backpack of Important Shit and when you need it you know where to look.

So anyway, if you are a person who is a minor disaster who has trouble finding important things when you need them please don't think that you have to get your life together and have a nice organized filing cabinet or clear plastic bins full of documents or a neatly divided storage closet where everything from board games to backup drives has its own neatly labeled place. Just assign ONE LOCATION for important shit and start putting the important shit there. It doesn't matter if you have a filing cabinet where you keep old copies of homework and printouts of online orders and family history records - you do not need to keep everything that is file-able in one place and depending on what level of catastrophe you are it might be detrimental to you if you try to do that. It doesn't matter if you have a jewelry box where you keep your collection of gauges and wrist cuffs; if you are going to stress out about where grandma's ring is when you're digging through your collection of cheap earrings and silver pendants then *do not keep grandma's ring or any other Important, Vital, Cannot Be Lost jewelry in with your day-to-day wear*.

I live someplace that has fires. My binder got upgraded to my Backpack of Important Shit when the fires were getting uncomfortably close to the house I was living in and I wanted to have one bag to grab if we had to get out fast. Once I did that, I never took the binder out of the backpack and the backpack has now made three moves with me and has meant that I've had my birth certificate handy when I needed it in the middle of a move between two states, I was able to provide a history of my cholesterol panel going back six years to a visiting nurse, and I was able to give the exact names and contact info of my spouse's previous surgeon to the hospital when I had unexpectedly moved to a new state with three bags and my work computer at the beginning of the pandemic.

Get yourself a backpack of important shit and a folder of where the fuck did i put that paper. It is so much easier to search a backpack for important shit than to go through an entire house and it is so much easier to flip through a binder than it is to dig through a filing cabinet.

Anyway good luck and happy adulting.

[callofdoobie420]

In honor of the end of tax season…please enjoy my thoughts on the 141 and how they would deal with taxes…

JOHN

Being the most senior officer, he was used to this — but that didn’t mean he liked going in to the local tax office to get his done.

That was until he met you.

Sat at the front desk, all chipper and bright as you greet him. You smile and direct him back to one of the accountants offices, asking if he’d like anything to drink. He politely declines, but his mind is now solely focused on you.

When he leaves, you bid him a good day and let him know you can’t wait to see him next year. A small, shy smile on your lips. He pauses, stopping at the desk and leaning against it.

“I’m actually hopin’ to see you sooner than that darlin’,” he says his voice, smooth and low. “Dinner?”

“I actually have to work late,” you say, a disappointed sigh escaping your pillowy lips. “We pull late nights during season…”

“Well it’s a good thing I’m more of a night owl sweetheart,” he grins at you, all cool confidence. “So eight?”

You blush but nod, and quickly scribble something on the notepad in front of you. Drawing a small heart with your cute, pink pen.

“Here,” you say holding the sticky note out to him, “I’ll see you at eight.”

With one last smile, he turns to leave and looks down at the note. Your phone number on it, along with a short message.

For my favorite client 🩷

SIMON

You groan as you look down at the documents you were just handed.

“Mr. Riley, we’ve discussed this…” you sigh, and look up at the hulking man. Dressed in his usual dark attire and black mask, he probably tries to come off intimidating. It doesn’t phase you though.

You flip through the papers, shaking your head, before passing them back to him, “You can’t redact all of this information. It’s a tax return!” You huff, “we kind of need to know your income, if you’ve moved, what your stock accounts made…you’ve blacked it all out!”

Simon scowls down at you, but takes his documents back. He won’t admit it, but he kind of enjoys when you get frustrated with him. It’s why he always makes two copies of his documents. It’s why he always redacts the first copy, just so you reprimand him.

No one talks to him like that except his team. And now you. And it thrills him.

It’s also why he will bring back an unredacted copy in two days — just so he can see you again before next year.

“Sorry princess,” he grumbles, “I’ll remember next year,” he says, so casually. Turning and leaving before you can respond.

Though he can feel you fuming, because you know. He won’t remember next year.

JOHNNY

“I’m sorry lass!” Johnny whines, as he buries his face into your shoulder. “I’m trying to pay attention I promise.”

You rolled your eyes, and shook your head because he absolutely had not been paying attention.

“Johnny, you promised you’d behave if I helped you out with your taxes, but if you aren’t going to then I can go,” you say, and start to stand.

Johnny reacts quickly pulling you back down on the couch next to him. His hand going back to the track pad on the laptop.

“No no, I’m paying attention see,” he says, furiously scrolling on the page, “where were we? Charitable contributions?”

You chuckle softly, and lean your head against his shoulder, “Yes love, charitable contributions. We are so close to being done!”

At that revelation, Johnny smiles and starts to type quickly. He moves through the rest of his tax return much quicker. A new goal in his mind. He clicks the submit button, and shuts the laptop.

He turns to you with a shit-eating grin, batting his eyelashes, “So now I get a reward right? For being so good!”

KYLE

Kyle looks at his phone curiously as it buzzes on the table in the rec room.

“Hello?” He answers, his voice laced with caution and confusion.

“Hello! Is this Mr. Garrick?” A voice answers, so saccharine sweet he almost chokes in surprise.

“Oh um- yes,” he says, clearing his throat, “this is him. Who is this? And how did you get my number?” He asks, his voice taking on a more authoritative tone.

He hears a soft giggle, “Mr. Garrick, it’s the tax office, I’m just calling because we finished your return. We just need you to come in to sign, so we can send it for filing.”

He feels a slight blush heat his cheeks. Oh, duh. Of course it was you, he had dropped his documents off two weeks ago. You had said it would be two weeks, and here you were. Calling him. Right on time.

He liked that. Punctuality. It was important.

“Oh, yes of course, I’m sorry,” he scrambles a bit, trying to recover from his embarrassment. “Could I come in an hour?”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Garrick,” you respond, almost a chirp with how chipper you should. “I will see you then!”

An hour later, on the dot, Kyle shows up to the office. Looking as handsome as you remembered from two weeks ago. Immediately, you are all smiles for him.

“Hello Mr. Garrick!” You say, holding a pen out for him. Already prepared. So on top of things. Kyle was smitten.

“Please, call me Kyle darlin’” he smiles back at you, going to look over the tax return and sign. When he hands it back to you, he also hands you piece of paper torn from a small note pad.

His number.

“I’d prefer not to wait until next year to hear your sweet voice, love,” he smiles, something more sultry about it this time. “I’d like to take you out…”

[hyacinthandmoss]

My Everything

Summary: You're Bruce Wayne's wife and a plus-size model. Tonight, you are attending a Wayne Charity Gala that you tenaciously put together! Bruce can't seem to take his eyes off you, and it's apparent that other affluent guests are equally captivated by you.

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Plus Size Female Reader.

Warnings: Minors DNI! Fluff, and smut towards the end.

Word Count: 3,627

A/N: This is my first attempt at writing smut, and it's probably going to be my last. I much prefer writing fluff. Nonetheless, enjoy! x

Life as a plus-size model and being Bruce Wayne's wife often presented unique challenges. This year, you dedicated yourself to your modeling commitments for the Winter Season while actively participating in the meticulous planning and arrangements for the prestigious end-of-the-year Wayne Charity Gala. Balancing these roles was undeniably taxing, but the anticipation of quality time with your husband, free from his responsibilities as Batman, made it all worthwhile. 

After flawlessly applying your makeup, your stylist carefully guided you in putting on the stunning dress while you were blindfolded. You eagerly anticipated the first glimpse of the dress, specifically chosen and tailored just for you.

"Okay, love," Salah exclaimed excitedly, "you can open your eyes now." 

You gazed at your reflection in the mirror, and your mouth fell open in astonishment. The stunning silk dress draped in a luxurious emerald green hue was sleeveless, allowing the delicate stretch marks on your shoulders to peek through, a part of your beauty that you cherished and never concealed with makeup. The dress elegantly cinched at your waist, enhancing your figure and accentuating your bosom. With a playful and confident air, you kicked your leg forward through the intricate slit of the dress. 

"Salah, you have outdone yourself once again," you said with genuine admiration. "Your talent is truly unparalleled." 

You turned around to inspect the dress from behind.

"I don't recall seeing this exquisite piece on the runway this season. Am I the lucky one to be adorned in your remarkable prototype?"

"That's because it wasn't on the runway," Salah added. "And not a prototype." 

You turned to look at him with an eyebrow raised in confusion. 

"Who designed it, then?" You inquired. 

"Your husband did." 

"What?"

"A few months ago, he requested a custom-designed dress exclusively for you. I brought his vision to life."

A warm and tender sensation filled your heart.

"And," Salah began, " that's not the only thing he chose." His tone was mischievous.

"What do you mean?" you asked. 

"He chose that sexy lace set you're wearing underneath." he grinned. "He's so going to unwrap you after the gala."

You coughed softly and forced a smile, hoping to conceal the hint of a blush creeping up your cheeks.

—

Bruce had just finished getting ready at his office after several lengthy meetings at Wayne Enterprises and made his way to the manor to pick you up. He couldn't help but think about the elegant dress he had carefully selected for you. Knowing it was from your favorite designer and good friend made him hope you would love it as much as he did.

He dispatched final instructions to Dick, Jason, and Damian. They had been tasked with patrolling the city until his return from the charity event.

Just take the entire night off, old man, Dick replied. 

As he was getting ready to reply, he heard the door upstairs close. He instinctively slid his phone into his pocket and made his way to the base of the staircase, where the ornate wooden railing wound up to the upper floor.

Bruce found himself in rapt fascination as he watched you come down. Your gown was a work of art, embracing every curve of your figure with an effortless grace that demanded attention. A surge of longing coursed through him as he took in the sight of you.

Extending his hand, he met you at the final step, his touch both supportive and filled with quiet intensity as he assisted you.

Bruce's breath caught in his throat as he beheld you. 

"Wow, you are breathtaking," he stammered, his voice betraying his unsteady awe at the sight of you.

You smiled mysteriously as you gracefully walked away from him, and then, with a slow and deliberate twirl, you revealed every inch of yourself, captivating his attention.

"I hope this dress meets your approval, Mr. Wayne." Your voice was sultry and seductive, causing a surge of arousal in Bruce. 

"It more than meets my approval. You look positively stunning," he said earnestly, unable to take his eyes off you. 

He gently drew you close, pulling you towards him with a soft yet firm touch. His hands found their place on your waist as you responded by tenderly wrapping your arms around his shoulders, feeling the reassuring strength in his embrace.

As he leaned in closer, his warm and tender lips made contact with your bare, delicately exposed shoulder, leaving a trail of gentle, affectionate kisses.

He whispered in your ear, "What you're wearing underneath is for my eyes only," his breath ghosting across your skin, "a treasure that belongs solely to me."

Your heart fluttered in your chest as you experienced a momentary pause. Bruce's possessive nature emanated from a profound depth of affection, conveying a wholesome desire to protect and adore you.

He stepped back, gazing into your eyes with a tender intensity. 

"But I'm not entirely selfish," he murmured, his voice tinged with a hint of vulnerability. "I want the entire world to be captivated by the extraordinary beauty you possess," he confessed, his words lingering in the air. "But always remember, you belong to me, now and for all eternity." With a gentle yet firm grip on your waist, he drew you closer, his touch conveying both possession and adoration. Leaning in, he pressed his lips against yours. It was a kiss filled with passion and longing that conveyed all the emotions that Bruce had felt since he first laid eyes on you at the Art Gallery. And as you both pulled away, your eyes sparkled with adoration, your love for him evident in every gesture.

But your love for each other was not without its challenges. Your marriage was unconventional, but it didn't matter to either of you. Bruce had to balance his responsibilities as Batman and as your husband constantly. He tried to keep you at arm's length, afraid of putting you in danger, but you refused to back down. You were determined to stand by his side, no matter what, even if it meant sharing him with life as the Caped Crusader. 

But you couldn't deny that the dual life made things complicated. Whenever Gotham was threatened and needed Batman's attention, he had to leave abruptly, leaving you worried and alone. You also spent countless nights alone, only seeing him in the mornings. But you never complained. You understood the importance of Bruce's mission and always remained supportive.

Each time Bruce laid eyes on you, the world seemed to fade away, leaving behind a singular focus on you. In those rare, cherished moments, he had the opportunity to give you his undivided attention, and it was as if he was experiencing the exhilaration of falling in love with you all over again.

"Something on your mind?" You asked him because you noticed that he was lost in thought. 

Bruce shook away from his reveries. 

"You," Bruce replied. "And how badly I want to explore every inch of your body and show you how much you mean to me," he said in a low and husky voice. 

You blushed and smiled shyly at him. 

"I'll be patient, Mrs. Wayne." He looked at you and smirked as if reveling in your obvious flushed face. 

Bruce couldn't help but wrap his arm around your waist, pulling you closer as you both made your way to the car. 

—

When you arrived, a relentless barrage of camera flashes greeted you. Bruce appeared at the door, extending a supportive hand to help you up and guiding you towards him. His touch was gentle yet protective as his hand settled on your waist. He made it his mission to shield you from any potential dangers, including the relentless intrusion of the paparazzi.

"Can we get photos of you both individually?" One of the photographers yelled. 

Bruce got out of the way to let your photo get taken. 

You struck a pose, your hand on your hip and your head held high, exuding elegance and grace. The photographer snapped away, capturing every angle. Your smile was radiant, and it was evident that you were genuinely enjoying yourself. As you gazed out into the crowd, you could see the positive reactions from those around you. People were clapping and cheering, admiring your beauty and confidence.

The photographer asked for a few more poses, and you happily obliged. 

You shifted your gaze to Bruce and found him looking at you with an affectionate expression, a loving gleam in his eyes, and a gentle smile gracing his face. He had a tad look of mischief, likely undressing you in his mind. You returned the smile. 

"Now you, Bruce!" One photographer yelled, interrupting the moment you were both sharing.

"Not tonight," Bruce answered and walked away with you. 

Bruce kissed your forehead and wished you luck before leaving you to do your own thing while he mingled with the partners of Wayne Enterprises. 

The night progressed with a series of speeches by prominent artists. When it was time for you to speak, your words echoed through the hushed hall, reminding everyone present why they were there: to give foster children a chance at a better life. The funds would go to build an independent living facility for children, particularly teenagers who could not find placements. You shared your experience as a former foster child who aged out of the system, and you vowed to change that reality for other foster kids.

The crowd responded with a chorus of applause. Bruce cheered you on and felt immense pride for all the hard work you had done. 

The sophisticated guests wandered through the carefully curated art gallery, sipping fine champagne and other exquisite, high-priced liquors. As you contemplated a potential art addition to your office, your attention was drawn to a group of impeccably dressed women whispering and giggling, their envious eyes fixed on you. Feeling a pang of annoyance, you rolled your eyes and massaged your temples as their conversation reached your ears. It seemed like these events always managed to attract the same types of people: the typical wealthy individuals who generously spent money for a good cause to make themselves feel good, the ones who came with the mission to find any gossip, and those who murmured opinions on how you were an unlikely match for Bruce.

"Excuse me," you said in a warm tone and gave them a friendly smile, trying not to disrupt the moment. I couldn't help but notice that all of you have been staring at me." You uttered these words cautiously, in case someone discreetly captured the moment with their camera.

The women looked at each other, caught off guard by your courage to confront them.

"Oh, we couldn't help but notice your gorgeous dress. May I ask where you found it?" one of the women inquired, attempting to divert from their earlier discussion.

You let out a light chuckle, a knowing smile spreading across your face as you realize they are being untruthful. "Thank you for your kind words," you respond, unable to resist mentioning, "but I overheard your conversation."

The women's eyes darted anxiously, repeatedly adjusting their position to avoid meeting your gaze and showing unease.

"I couldn't help but overhear you discussing my husband, Bruce Wayne, and speculating about why he chose to be with someone like me," you said in a composed and collected tone, your voice steady despite the emotions swirling inside you.

The women were visibly shocked by your unexpected confrontation. Their eyes widened, and their expressions turned to disbelief. They stood there, motionless, struggling to find the right words.

"I'm flattered…" you began.

The women gazed at each other, their brows furrowed in confusion as they exchanged perplexed looks, trying to make sense of the situation.

"You purchased a $15,000 ticket to this charity event, but instead of supporting the cause, you made my appearance the topic of conversation," you said calmly.

One of the women cleared her throat. As they sipped their drinks, a flush of crimson spread across their faces, betraying their unease.

Bruce's strong, comforting arm encircled your waist, and as he leaned down, you felt the warmth of his lips as he placed a tender and affectionate kiss on your cheek.

"Ladies," he remarked with a warm smile. "You all look lovely."

"Thank you", the women said shyly. 

"What were you all talking about, if I may?" Bruce asked.

"Love," you began. "The ladies were curious to know why you married me." 

Bruce's eyes met yours with a deep, enamored gaze.

"Yes, she is undeniably beautiful, and she's currently the most sought-after model," he said, pausing to gather his thoughts. "But my wife, she's not just outwardly stunning. Her compassionate nature, selflessness, and genuine care for others demonstrate that she possesses a heart that is truly pure and kind. She's an extraordinary mother to our children. I feel truly understood and seen for who I am in her presence."

You gazed at Bruce for a long moment, your expression tender. 

"I'm the luckiest man in the world." He leaned to press his lips against yours. 

"Mr. Wayne," someone from afar called him. 

"Excuse me, ladies." He turned to look at them. "Please enjoy the rest of your night."

Once Bruce reached a far distance, they turned to look at you. 

One of the women cleared her throat nervously before speaking with a shaky voice to apologize to you.

"Me too." The second woman said.

"So am I," the other one said. 

"If your apology is sincere, I will accept it as cash, credit, or check." You smiled and kept your tone neutral. 

Ordinarily, you wouldn't have directly addressed the situation. With age and experience, you worked diligently to develop self-love and gratitude for your body, so the pressures of society and critical gazes lost their significance eons ago. But you felt playful tonight, so you decided to leverage fatphobia to benefit the charity. 

—

The elegant gala was winding down, with most guests having departed. Bruce found himself at the bustling bar, conversing with a group of enthusiastic investors who had pledged generous donations to the charity.

Bruce excused himself from the gathering and found a quiet, secluded area. He reached for his phone and found a message from Dick: 

We're all fine. Goons being goons. Take the damn night, old man. Seriously.

Just as he was about to send a message, the murmur of the investors nearby caught his attention. Their conversation revealed their admiring remarks about your enchanting allure, casting a shadow of unease over Bruce's thoughts.

"How long do you give it until they split?" One said. 

"Trust fund kid turned CEO with a model?" one man quipped. "I give it two years at most."

"I can already imagine the tabloid headlines."

They laughed. 

"I call dibs."

Bruce's ears twitched. A flicker of anger crossed his face before he schooled his expression into one of haughty indifference. 

"Hey darling," you uttered sweetly and sat next to him. 

Bruce maintained his silence, offering no words in response.

"Bruce," you asked, your voice tinged with worry. "Are our sons okay? Did something happen to them?"

Bruce's unease dissipated as he gazed into your widened eyes, which had been filled with concern. He was filled with an overwhelming sense of guilt for causing you distress.

"No, the boys are fine."

He carefully observed the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest, exhaling a sigh of relief.

"Then what's wrong?" You asked again. 

"I'm..." he hesitated. "I'm jealous." 

"What of?" you asked. 

"You see those men over there at the bar?" 

You nodded. 

"Your presence tonight set their tongues wagging." 

You chuckled. Your laughter was a sweet melody to Bruce's ears. 

"I belong to you, my love." You said. "And I always will."

He gently took your hand and led you away from the crowd and into a private space, away from prying eyes and ears. 

"You're intoxicating," his eyes smoldering with desire and a hint of possessiveness. "I can't bear the thought of you belonging to anyone but me." 

You smiled, your gaze locking with his. You caressed his face, savoring the fiery moment. 

"I'm terrified of losing you," he confessed, his voice trembling with raw emotion. "I constantly feel guilt and fear that I'm holding you back from a life of normalcy, perhaps with another man."

You were fully attentive while Bruce shared his thoughts, never interrupting him. It had taken him a long time to be vulnerable with you. Your unwavering resolve since the beginning gradually chipped away at his defenses. The once stoic, reserved man of few words, shrouded in an aura of melancholy and enigma, let his facade crumble until you saw the man behind the mask. You had become a balm to his wounds. 

"Bruce," the soft hum of his name escaped your lips as you gently reached out to hold his hand. "We are anything but ordinary, and that's what I adore about us. I don't crave a conventional relationship. I want you."

Enveloping him in your embrace, your love acted as a guiding light, casting out the lingering shadows that plagued his soul.

He leaned in to place a gentle kiss on your forehead. 

"Let's go home," he said. 

_______                           

You and Bruce retreated to the privacy of the opulent Wayne Manor. As you gracefully slipped out of the designer gown, revealing your ample body, Bruce's gaze lingered on you with unabashed desire.

You made your way to him, sat on his lap, and helped remove his tie. 

"you're stunning," Bruce breathed.

His hands explored every dip and curve with a reverence that made you feel worshiped.

He marveled at the feeling of your softness against his firm touch, the contrast between you igniting a fire within him.

"As much as I love this lingerie on you, I think it would look even better on the floor," Bruce whispered in your ear. 

With a flick of his fingers, he undid the clasp of your bra, letting it fall open and reveal your breasts. He ran his hands over them, feeling the softness of your flesh, and then leaned down to take one of your nipples into his mouth. You let out a soft moan as he teased your nipple with his tongue. 

You reached down and started to undo his pants, freeing his hard, throbbing cock. You stroked it gently, feeling it twitch in your hand as he moaned with pleasure.

You kissed Bruce, his lips soft and gentle against yours. He could feel your body responding to his touch as your breath became increasingly ragged. He felt the heat between you two building, and he broke the kiss to look into your eyes.

"You're so beautiful," he reminds you again.

Then he lays you back gently, and you look up at him with desire. You help him unbutton his shirt and take it off, revealing his toned chest, and you can't help but run your hands over it, sending shivers down his spine. 

He moved down your body, his lips and tongue leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He reached to your belly, leaving trails of kisses.

'I love your body,' he murmured. 

He continued down, teasing you through the fabric of your panties. You gasped, your hips bucking as he finally slipped a finger under the fabric and into your wet heat.

He slowly fingered you, his thumb rubbing circles on your clit as you moaned and writhed beneath him. You were so wet, so ready for him. He couldn't wait any longer. He hooked his fingers under the waistband of your panties and pulled them down, throwing them aside.

He climbed back up your body, his hardness pressing against your wetness. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him closer, urging him on. With one swift thrust, he was inside you. You cried out, your nails digging into his back as he began to fuck you with long, hard strokes.

Your bodies moved together in a rhythm, your moans and gasps of pleasure filling the room. Bruce could feel an orgasm building inside him, tightening as he slammed into you again and again.

You pushed him off of you before he climaxed and climbed on top of him, straddling his hips and grinding your pelvis against his hard cock. Bruce could feel the heat radiating from your wet pussy, and he ached to be inside you.

'I love how you feel on top of me,' he murmured, his breath hot. "I love your softness, your curves, your warmth."

You reached down and guided Bruce's cock inside your wet slit. He groaned with pleasure as you sank down onto him, taking him all the way in. You began to ride him, your hips moving in slow, deliberate circles. Your hands braced on Bruce's chest. You began to ride him harder, your hips slamming down onto his cock with force. Bruce could feel himself getting close to the edge, feeling himself tighten with pleasure.

With a final, powerful thrust, Bruce came hard inside you, his cock twitching as he filled you. You collapsed onto him, your own orgasm washing over you in waves.

"I love you,' he gasped, his breath hot against your neck. 'You are my everything."

In that intimate embrace, he held you with a fervent tenderness, a sensation he never wanted to fade from memory. His heart overflowed with a desire to immortalize this profound moment: the gentle weight of your presence in his arms, the vulnerability shining in your eyes as you yielded to the depth of his affection, and the unspoken declaration of love reflected on your radiant face.

"I love you," you whispered back, your voice choked with emotion. "I love you so much."

[fuck-customers]

I'm pretty sure the stress from this shithole job is giving me stomach ulcers. I cannot wait until I'm finally fucking done. Especially after this bullshit today.

My job is permanently closing. Which means final sale. Aka: no returns. Aka: pay the fuck attention to the total when I tell you and thoroughly look at the screen that tells you the prices of everything before blindly sticking your card in the reader.

A woman brought up 4 of these cheap plastic cups to buy, but none of them had a tag, so I found one with a tag in the go-backs and scanned that ONCE. She paid and left.

Then she comes back, SCREAMING at the top of her lungs because I overcharged her. So I try to calm her the fuck down, and I'm like "oh I see the problem. The cups you grabbed didn't have tags on them, so I grabbed one that I had behind the register, but I didn't realize the tag was for a 5-pack, which rang up at $2.99. That was my bad. BUT there's 5 of these same cups back here, you can have them all for no extra charge, including the ones you already got, and you'll get 5 cups for free, but I'm sorry, we cannot do any returns at all."

She starts SCREAMING again at the top of her lungs, to the point where I don't even have to call a a manager, 2 of them run to the front because they heard her from the STOCKROOM just to see wtf was going on.

And the manager ran a return just to shut this Karen Cunt up and the dumb bitch ended up paying more for the 4 cups than she would have for 9 of them, because my manager was able to take the time to look up the exact cups on the website and they were ringing up at $1.50 each x 4 cups = $6, which is double what I charged her, for less than half of the cups. Truly the stupid tax.

Again. For plastic cups. Like, the cheapest plastic cups you can imagine. Solid color, no lids, probably like 8 oz. capacity. Plastic cups.

Posted by admin Rodney

[drdtfuitgumies]

special event coming up next month!

for the entirety of April 2025, not only are daily posts returning, all of them will also feature the cast of tetro danganronpa pink! and of course, you can send requests for what situations you'd like to put them in! more details under cut

for this year's april fools, i was just going to do a little joke for the continuity. possible candidates were "artstyle change specifically for whit", "swapping certain characters' heights", "arei and whit disguising themselves as each other", and my personal favorite: "everyone dressing up as xander". but none of these called to me. i was just going to do that last idea until Me, Stupid Idiot, Booboo The Fool, near-exactly a month after my DRDT anniversary, decided to finally watch Tetro Danganronpa Pink and "find out what that fox-masked girl's deal was"

I love her more even after That, for the record.

anyways. april situations are about to be weird. here are some rules that will apply for april 2025: -) some of our current continuity bits will be disregarded. this means whit will miraculously recover from his wound (singular), while ace and nico will no longer be trapped in a get-along sweater! design changes however will stay, and that especially goes for our resident invasive species (arei). i have accepted that i'll keep mistakenly giving her david's hairclips even outside the fuit gumy blog -) i'm calling the tetro pink cast by their last names. i tried using first names and it felt Wrong. they will probably be referred to with first names in-universe though -) i am fully caught up on tetro pink, but i will try my absolute fucking best to limit spoilers, particularly those of character deaths. as little tetro pink spoilers here as possible! ...with the exception of You-Know-Who's "theatrics", so to say, which i'll tag properly. (hint: this tetro pink character would be veronika's best friend) -) all thirty posts will feature at least one character from BOTH despair time and tetro pink's casts. i'm leaning onto the "crossover event" aspect -) this includes birthdays! those with good memory will also recall that both j and yanagi share the exact same birthdate (20/04), so That's gonna be fun -) right now, i plan to have seventeen situations with only two characters; one from each series. the rest of the month is reserved for Group Shenanigans. the entire month is going to be So Crowded and it's going to be Very Fun -) i would like YOUR help. i IMPLORE you. please pleasepleaseplease send me requests ESPECIALLY for the "pair situations". give me ANY combos. do you want charles and kamimura to infodump battle in the chemistry lab? do you want watari to induct arei to staff shenanigans? do you want combos that don't make sense but you have a situation in mind for them, no matter how oddly specific or fantastical? go CRAZY go WILD with it SEND PIPEBOMBS TO MY INBOX FOR ALL I CARE. I WILL HEAR YOU OUT!!!! I APPRECIATE EVERYTHING I RECEIVE IN THE INBOX BE IT SITUATIONS OR MESSAGES EVEN IF THEY MIGHT NEVER SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY -) for the record i could try to make my own prompts for the entire month i just want to hear the Voices of the People . -) i want to have fun, and i hope everyone has fun too! daily posts can be quite taxing because i'm Picky about characterization and dialogue but. out of the fire into the deep fryer or however that goes

[daddysfangirls-marvel]

Polyamorous: Baby Tax

Steve rogers x female! reader x Bucky Barnes/ Stucky x female!Reader

Warning: fluff, baby talk

Ian West Rogers- Barnes, formally known as Ian West, was 15 months old and had been in the Roger-Barnes home for seven months since being released from the hospital. After being told his younger mother's story, they also received her ashes as well. They now sat in the living room along with a picture of her. She would not be forgotten or replaced. 

The Rogers-Barnes family had come together to welcome Ian into the home. Ash took three months off of work to get to know her new little brother and take care of her parents, yes, parents. As she had read somewhere that new parents often struggled the first few months and didn't take care of themselves. And they weren't letting a lot of people around or help due to Ian's health issues. So she stuck around to make sure they had help, took care of themselves, and that they adjusted well to the new arrangement. Going for that Daughter of the Year award.

Steve and Rogers also took three whole months off and then returned to part-time routines. Part-time routines, as in they returned to work as part-timers, but they route which of them would go to work and who would stay home and work and switch every two weeks. Unless something important or urgent happened, one of them would always be home. And this arrangement would last for the next six months. 

(Y/n) however, was and would always be home as she was a licensed and veteran nurse, and Ian had health issues. She took the first four months off completely to focus on baby Ian and only returned to work from home. She also allows herself to be put on call, but only for emergencies. She would not return to the compound until Ian's health issues were resolved or were no longer a serious threat. Everyone understood and did their best to never need her. 

Seven months into this arrangement, everyone they should be was back to work, to some extent. And the parents had rightfully given up.

NOT give up on Baby Ian but given up on all the parenting books and mommy and daddy blogs, realizing that they weren't helping any and, if anything, were causing more frustration and creating unattainable standards. They simply did the best they could and as they pleased as long as baby came out healthy and happy. 

This is probably why Pepper was looking at (Y/n) so bewildered. 

Pepper was seven months pregnant and came over to ask for some parenting advice to help prepare. Now she was currently sitting at the kitchen counter and watching (Y/n) with Ian on her hip make a drink and watching Ian stick his little fingers in every ingredient she pulled out. 

"Um... is that sanitary?"Pepper asked as she held her glass of water closer. 

" His hands are clean, and it's only a little milk and whipped cream. The consequences will be in his diaper, and I'll pass that on to Steve." (Y/n) joked. 

"Does he always do this?" 

"If I'm holding him and making something, yes. He likes to taste mommy's food. I don't hold him while I use the stove and such."  (Y/n) gave him a pacifier so she could have her frappuccino in peace. 

"You said you wanted advice? Don't be afraid of germs or messes. This baby is very messy and touchy. I can assure you your baby's fingers will be in everything. Their mouth, your mouth, your hair, your food, everything." 

(Y/n) moved to the living room, and Pepper followed. She put Ian on the floor mat with some toys before joining her on the couch.

" I don't think I have a lot of advice, and the advice I do have, I don't want to"

Pepper looked at her, confused. 

"My baby has sleep apnea and underdeveloped lungs. I'm not going to give you advice on that, Pepper, because I pray your baby won't end up like that." It was then Pepper truly looked at her and realized how exhausted (Y/n) looked, not in the way of not sleeping but in the way of someone who worried and pulled out their hair. Someone who had experienced and felt so much that they just couldn't anymore. She could still feel, but she could no longer find it in herself to react to her feelings. 

" If you ever want-"

"Absolutely not."

"I didn't -"

"You were going to say, 'If you ever want to talk about it, I'm here'. No, Pepper, you worry about your own baby, but I'm not going to dump any of mine on you. I won't do that. Not right now, at least. Maybe once he's healthier and started biting my ankles. But not when he is like this... I'm sorry." 

"You're sorry?"

"You came for advice. I don't have much to give." 

 " But you have." Pepper pat her on the back " You have shown me little of what I am to prepare for. Tiredness, fingers in all my food."

"Bucky calls it the Baby Tax—payment for always having baby close. Don't be discouraged by the sanitary implication or the mess, Pepper. It's a very good price." 

"She's right," Steve said as he came around the corner. It was his time to be home. He kissed (Y/n) forehead and squeezed Pepper's shoulder before joining Ian on the floor. "I, too, thought it disgusting and unhealthy at first, but over time...it's just adorable now. In the realm of Baby taxing, keep your baby clean and watch what you eat or make. Everything should be fine."

"The way you talk, you'd think this was your 3rd baby," Pepper chuckled. 

"I think we just got into too many parent blogs and books. Dove head first into those too many expectations and high standards. I think those Blogs forget each situation, and each baby is different." Steve said as he pulled Ian onto his chest. " Hey, that's some good advice. Your baby is different from all the other babies in the world. Remember that, and You'll figure out the rest on your own."  

"While we can't give you advice on birthing or raising your pretty baby, I can advise you on cleaning messes and where to buy certain products such as toys, clothes, and food."

-

"How is prep going?" Bucky asked Tony. 

Tony was aware Pepper was at his house and caught a ride with him after work so he could bring his wife back without taking another car. 

"Prep?"

"Prep for the baby. You got less than 10 weeks left."

"Yeah, the nursery is done. Diapers, wipes, and toys—we got all the goods." Despite talking it out over the years and getting past the obvious, Tony found it awkward having this conversation with Bucky. The two weren't friends, more like a friend of my friend type of situation. Besides the initial short talk about his parents, the two had never had a conversation with just each other, nor were they ever left alone ( unless for work/a mission).

"That's good. If you need anything, Steve and I are here for dad stuff." That was definitely not what he was expecting. He didn't really know how to react to that.  They sat in silence for a few minutes with just that. 

"How is the dad stuff?"

"It's ah going pretty good. A few hick-ups, but that's to be expected.....It's actually ... I'm not having the problems I thought I would."

"Like what?" Tony asked cautiously.

"My arm," Bucky whispered, looking down at the medal appendage. Bucky had two different prosthetics. One for work - heavy vibranium metal, bulletproof, explosive proof, with super strength ( a quarter stronger than his actual strength), with a heating and cooling system. And one for home- lightweight, light Vibranium metal, bulletproof, with an attached nerve system, so he could feel everything like a normal hand. "Thank you, by the way."

"She knew you'd worry about it," Tony said. (Y/n) had approached him about Bucky's arm before they adopted the boy. She knew his fear and asked Tony to make something infant-friendly. Truly, all he did was make it more lightweight, take away the strength, and make sure he could feel his child with both hands. " I was happy to help."

"My dreams,"  while his trip to Wakanda cleared his mind, he still had nightmares from time to time and woke up violently. Fortunately, Steve and (Y/n) were always there to bring him back. "Work, enemies. We've got a lot."

"yeah, we do," Tony said. " Good thing we got Stark and super soldier security. No one is getting through our front door unless we want them to." 

"And if they do, we'll kill them."

"So violent." Tony walked back to his workbench.

" Don't dive into parenting books and blogs. That is my dadvice to you."

"Dadvice"

"Oh, diaper duty is your duty, at least for the first month." Tony made a stink face and shivered. Bucky Chuckled " Should have worn a condom then."

Inspired by Tiktok

[on-a-lucky-tide]

"You need your ACL reconstructed."

Price stared at the doctor as she leafed through the scans of his stupid bloody knee, blinking rapidly as he tried to process just exactly how fucked he was. He was running the calculations and the answer was coming up: significantly.

After it had given out on a recent yomp with Bravo Company, he has given in and skulked into medical like a whipped hound. There was only so much ibuprofen a man could neck with his coffee before it became farcical. His stomach was beginning a small revolt. Eventually, his mind unable to accept what it had just heard, he cleared his throat. "Come again?"

She sighed, running a hand through her neat crop of grey hair. After dealing with his bullshit for nearly twelve years, she had no patience left for it. "You're having surgery John, and I'm signing you off for four weeks after. From there, it'll be six months before you return to the field."

"Not happening." Price pushed off the gurney and did a rather shite job of hiding the wince as his knee gave another unwelcome spasm when his foot hit the floor. He remembered the landing that had finally done it; a routine jaunt through Belgrade. Nothing too taxing. Uneven ground, some loose gravel and a distraction because of static through Comms, and he'd gone arse over tit. Gaz had been amused until he realised Price had been struggling to get back up again.

Fucking embarrassing.

"You can huff and puff as much as you want, captain. My decision's final," she said, emphasising his rank to put his impending tantrum in perspective, and then, for good measure, "also, your cortisol levels are high, which is probably why you're getting a bit soft in the midsection. The time off is needed."

"Olright, Janie, bloody hell, no need to go for the throat." He placed a hand on his belly, prodding the layer of give with a sad sigh. "What the fuck am I meant to do for four weeks?"

"Read, go fishing, binge Netflix, catch up with family. You know, what normal people do for R&R..." She glanced up at him and rolled her eyes at the deep frown on his face. "Stop thinking of ways to bribe and blackmail me. I'm booking the surgery for a week's time."

"A week isn't long enough."

"Tough shit. Lost your appetite recently? Belching like a retired general at a Number 10 dinner?"

Price squinted. "Yeah."

"Congratulations, you gave yourself a stomach ulcer by slamming the ibuprofen like Polos," Janie murmured, turning over her notes to annotate her recommendations. "Four weeks--

"--fockin' hell, come in with a limp and leave in a fockin' body bag--"

"--so that's five weeks enforced leave."

Price opened his mouth to argue the toss but it clicked shut when she raised an eyebrow at him. He knew better than to push his luck. "Yes, ma'am."

"Don't call me marm, John. It makes me feel old." She tapped her biro against the clipboard and then gripped it against her stomach, her head tilted, as she considered his miserable sulk. "You need to consider that promotion in the next few years."

"It'll take me outta the field," Price grumbled.

"If you snap something else at the wrong moment, then a bullet's going to take you out of the field. Think it over."

Nikprice Hurt/Comfort?

Yeah, it's Nikprice Hurt/Comfort.

[breedable-heath]

Half-Elf Pregnant with Magic

(part 1)

I like thinking about this world where elves require magic in order to breed but humans don’t. And half-elves exist but are very uncommon because humans have no connection to magic.

Elves can store magic in a womb-like organ. Grapefruit size belly is like a year of 1 elf storing all their magic everyday in that organ. After that, they only have to have sex to conceive. But elves can store more than just that amount of magic. They could waddle around looking pregnant carrying massive amounts of magic… that would be enough to level a city with a single fire ball, or enchant a legendary item.

I’m Heath, a ftm half elf in this world. Having a magics-womb I have the potential to carry magic in me, but being human I have no ability to sense magic, let alone use it. Well the elf-king recruits me out of the human realm for work. The elf world being by far more interesting and less plague-ridden than the dirty human world I currently live in, I accept.

The king needs me to act as a magic vault for his best wizard Glen, a sexy non-binary librarian elf with big naturals. They can only insert the magic in me with their wand, but luckily they have a cock-shaped wand to help ease the transition of magic.

During our travels, they fill me up at the end of the day with all their leftover magic by fucking me with their wand. Sometimes we find magical sources which they store inside me.

Progress was slow, until we started visiting the elf villages, which offer jewels with magic stored in them as a tax to their king.

After visiting the first village I really noticed my belly beginning to poke out. Glen gives it a pat and says, “if an elf came inside you, you’d probably have an elf-baby. You should avoid that or the King will kill you and your baby.”

“Noted,” I say.

After visiting the second village, I look pregnant. Looking male, most people assume I’ve had more beer and mead than I should. I can feel the magic roil within me, feeling it bump against my other organs like a baby would. I have to pee more frequently.

By the time we were halfway done collecting the magic tax on all the elves, I feel like I’m going to burst. My belly is massive and round. It starts at my sternum and ends at my bottom growth. Everywhere Glen and I go, I waddle from side to side. Moving had become exhausting, and slow, and I am never comfortable. Glen writes to His Majesty the King and requests we return early and make a second trip.

The king writes back no.

Glen does what they can to ease my burden; they buy a carriage and make the interior as comfortable as possible for me. They adjust my tunics and limit my interaction with the public as much as possible.

After a kidnap attempt to apprehend the astronomical amount of magic I carry, Glen hires mercenaries to help escort me. They refused to hire any cock-bearing elves in fear that I might get pregnant.

Glen slowly starts to obsess over me and my belly. I think at first it’s because they want the magic I carry, and all the power stored within me. But there’s something in their eyes when they’re pounding me with their dildo-shaped wand that tells me they enjoy filling me up with magic. After all, I usually do cum, and whimper while I hold my growing swollen belly. When I can, I hold my legs up for them.

After sun down every night I grow impossibly horny, and this routine where Glen fucks me becomes a necessity. They gladly service me below my massive belly where I cannot see. They suck on my little dick / big clit until I feel like I will burst. Then they pull out their wand. Sometimes, Glen puts a thick stopper in my asshole ��to prevent slipping in the wrong hole.”

It makes the magic cock in me feel enormous. It reaches deep into me, pushing on that inner section hardly explored, and while stretching that side I feel a rush of power and liquid and force. I grip tightly around the cock, my body rolling back. Glen says, “good boy” after I come.

[sirfrogsworth]

Froggie's (Almost) Very Productive Day 2: Electric Boogaloo

So, the plan was to have my one productive day and then rest for however long the consequences of post exertional malaise decide they want to take.

But I needed to bring the working key fob back to the tire place so they could calibrate the tire pressure sensors. So, the day after my day, I napped until about 4pm and summoned the last bit of energy I had to finish this task.

After they fixed the sensors, I looked out over a beautiful sunset in the Discount Tire parking lot.

It's weird the places you find beauty sometimes.

I was about a mile away from my family's favorite pizza place. We've been going there since I was a tadpole. So I decided to grab a pizza as my Thanksgiving meal.

I didn't realize that the day before Thanksgiving would be just about the busiest night of the year. And they have the world's worst parking lot, half of which is a steep hill, and they didn't have enough spaces.

Google Maps has flattened the appearance of the hill. That thing is nearly a 40 degree angle. If anyone with a sports car wants a pizza, they are going to scrape their paint trying to get it.

So, I tried to park around back. Unfortunately someone was exiting the back parking lot and there is only one lane.

So... I backed up... into a pole.

I was going extremely slow and I barely tapped it. But I still felt pretty stupid. Thankfully no scratches or dents.

I finally find parking and head inside.

The Italian kitsch is always a "welcome" sight.

Every time I look it takes me like 10 seconds to figure out the configuration of his face. I find it is best to look at the mustache first, and then orient yourself from there.

I head to the counter and she asks for my name, assuming I am picking up a phone order. I explained I was just "dropping in" and then she gave me an "oof" face. The wait was nearly two hours. I told her I could get a few things from the grocery store and return for my pizza. She charges my card and I hop back in my car. Just as I was about to exit the parking lot of doom, a customer from Angelo's starts yelling at me.

"You forgot your card!"

Clearly my brain fog is starting to get to me. I left my damn bank card on the counter. So I have to exit the parking lot, drive into another parking lot, turn around, and then park again. I retrieved my card and headed to Nice Schnucks.

The GPS took me on a wild journey to the NS. I've lived in this area for 40 years and I had no idea some of these roads existed. I'm sure it was 3 minutes faster or whatever, but I think I would have preferred a route with streetlights. Unlit streets give me a bit of anxiety. Especially if I don't know them.

I get to NS and realize I was about to have the same problem I did at the pizza place. It was the night before Thanksgiving and the entire neighborhood was scrambling to get food for the next day.

I filled up on soups, frozen pizzas, and I got a few more bottles of my beloved soda. There is a Shirley Temple flavor I have yet to try. (Update: A rare Fitz's fail. Tasted like cough medicine.) And then I headed to the madness of the self-checkout.

I managed to kill about an hour, but my legs were getting wobbly. I really shouldn't have gone back out this soon. And I probably should have just headed home after the car was fixed. But I feared if I didn't do *something* special for Thanksgiving I would probably have a difficult time being all alone.

I head back to Angelo's. This time I was able to park in front and avoid hitting any poles.

The pizza was cooking and needed another 15 minutes. So I sat at a table and worked on finishing writing my to-do list for my trip to Florida. I was trying to tell Amazon that, yes, I do want a tiny bottle of shampoo to comply with the TSA security theater. But, no, I do not want 8 tiny shampoos.

Oh, did you know they charge you a "9/11 tax" when you buy a plane ticket?

Spirit Airlines has a pretty funny alternative name for it...

"After 9/11, the U.S. implemented the “9/11 Security Tax”, which was a fee of $2.50 each way of a trip on top of the price of a plane ticket. In 2014, the 9/11 Security Tax was increased to $5.60 each way. So, for a round trip this fee would cost $11.20"

We are literally still paying for 9/11. And there is no evidence the enhanced security does much of anything.

So we pay this tax so they can force us to buy tiny shampoo and go through scanners that have to detect and blur our genitals so the TSA agent can't see.

Anyway... I finally get my pizza and head home. When I pulled into my driveway I noticed a bright moon in the sky. It looked so massive compared to other nights, so I tried to capture a moon selfie.

As a photographer, I should have realized that a wide angle lens is not going to capture how big the moon looked in the sky that night. Wide lenses exaggerate distance. So things close to the lens look huge and things far away look tiny. That's why we look like aliens if we hold our smartphones too close to our face. To the lens on your camera, the distance from the tip of your nose to your ears is quite vast. Which meens a celestial body that is 240,000 miles away looks like a tiny dot in the picture.

I still kept trying.

That could be a moon I guess.

Umm, Froggie... you got some moon in your hair.

Later I did try to capture the moon with my DSLR and an 80mm lens, but I guess the moon is just really far away or something.

ENHANCE!

A.I. upscaling reveals it is, in fact, the moon.

I ate my pizza and did a quick tire test and photoshoot.

And then I spent way too long Photoshopping this X-wing flying into my deep-as-heck tire tread.

And that was my day after the day.

Today, which is currently Thanksgiving, I slept.

I slept all night.

I slept most of the day.

I still want to sleep.

Weirdly, I am too tired to feel lonely. Though now that I wrote that, I am thinking about my parents being gone, so I just screwed that up.

But hey... at least my pizza was tasty.

[numberonetacostan]

Taco…but she wins s1.

Taco gets the million, makes her own little apartment complex for everyone. And she thinks that finally, she can drop the dumb mask…but people start doing work for her because they think she’s too dumb to figure them out (taxes). They’re nice to her. Help her run the apartment, let her be as silly as she wants to be.

They’ve known her for years as this persona. So she has to keep up her disguise; it’s gotten her so far. To abandon it all and do a personality shift would probably kill everyone’s trust in her (and also then she’d have to do her own taxes). So for years she continues to keep playing the character she thought she’d be able to abandon once the game has ended.

And then one day she breaks and comes out as British LOL

Hi!!!! Thank you for sending in a headcanon!!!!^^ I LOVE THE IDEA OF TACO WINNING SO MUCH. SHE WAS BUILT TO WIIIIIIIIIIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I love her staying silly because they're all nice to her!!!!!! Taco suddenly has to grapple with the feeling of guilt that she was NOT supposed to feel. Her plan was to take the money and go, not to get ATTACHED. But she did!!! Oopsies. Them doing stuff for her would also be quite the bonus!!!!! Taco would commit tax fraud if they weren't doing it for her.

I like to think that Taco would build herself a mansion!!!! A big one!!!!!! And she'd even have a room specifically for Pickle to live in after all he did to help her win. And then. Everyone else would move in too. She did not want that. But she can't break character to tell them to leave. So she has a bunch of freeloaders in her mansion.

But she keeps up the act for so very long!!!! Until she comes down one morning and it's a complete disaster. The furniture is broken, there's food everywhere, windows are shattered, and most of the contestants are asleep on the floor. She'd snap and break character to start yelling at them!!! "Get up, you filthy freeloaders! I feed you, let you use my amenities, let you into my home, and this is how you treat it!?! It is a complete disaster in here!! How did you even manage to turn the sofa inside-out?! Why!? *sigh* You know what. You know what? I don't want to know. Listen up, all of you. I will come back down in one hour exactly. We will pretend that I did not see this mess. So, when I return, everything better be just as I left it last night. Or else every single one of you will be banned from my manor, permanently. Except you, of course, Pickle. Are we clear?" "..." "Are. We. Clear?" *murmurs of agreement.* "Thank you."

Anyways uh yeah after this they all think that if Taco gets angry or stressed enough she turns British. They don't really get it but hey it's Taco anything can happen.

[em-harlsnow]

Something I’ve had in my mind for a while, so I did a little speed-write:

When he gets back from his therapist, Mickey’s on the couch with his laptop open in front of him.

He doesn’t make a big deal of anything, just looks up, smiles and asks how it went. Today it wasn’t too taxing, just one of the fortnightly appointments that they can afford now. Ian smiles back.

“It was okay.”

“Just okay?” Mickey looks up from the laptop, paying full attention.

He blows out a breath. “Yeah. It was fine, really. Nothing huge.” He says, because nothing huge was revealed, nothing huge was said. Therapy just takes a lot out of him energy-wise.

“Okay.” Mickey replies, placing a hand on his knee, squeezing, and then returns to the screen.

“What are you looking at?” Ian asks, trying to peak.

“That stupid shit you like. Pin Interest or whatever the fuck.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “You like it, Mick. And I know you know it’s called Pinterest.”

Mickey shrugs.

“So, what are you looking at on Pin Interest?” He smirks and Mickey snorts.

“Tattoo ideas. I was thinkin’ of getting another one.” Mickey’s gaze is laser focused as he scans through images, saving some and scowling at others as if they personally offend him.

Ian’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “Where do you want it?” He tries to picture his husband with more tattoos and very much likes the image. He likes his current ones too much to not want him to get more.

“I dunno, man. Some sleeves are cool. But they take ages to build up. Maybe just one on my shoulder to start.”

“That sounds good.” Ian tries to get closer, but he still can’t really see what Mickey’s looking at. “Can I see?” He asks, pointing at the device.

Mickey sighs like he’s the most annoying fucker on the planet, but he tilts the screen towards him anyway.

He can see now that Mickey’s searched up ‘black tattoo shoulder men’ and there are just piles on piles of buff men with shoulder tats.

“I like the snake one.” Mickey tells him, pointing at the picture he means. It’s a serpent winding around the top of the guy’s arm, tangling together and going down to the bottom of his bicep.

“Yeah, that one’s cool.” Ian agrees. “What about that one?” He points at one with a fine lined dragon reaching onto the guy’s peck.

“I guess, but I don’t want it too thin, you know? When they do it too intricate, the lines all blur together.” Ian hums in assent.

“Show me what you already have saved.”

Mickey clicks through the website, and Ian catches a glimpse of his pre-existing boards before he goes to the tattoo one. There’s one called ‘wedding’ and one called ‘apartment’ and one called ‘dope shit’. The cover photo of ‘dope shit’ is an aesthetic image of two beers and two cigarettes clasped in two hands. Ian’s not really surprised that this is what Mickey considers to be ‘dope shit’.

In the folder is a lot of similar things. Snakes, dragons, one cat with bat wings. One looks like a weird cross between a gun and a dagger. They’re all pretty hot, and Ian tells him about his favourites.

“I was thinkin’ of drawing it myself. I don’t wanna just copy what someone else has.”

“What did you do for this one?” Ian asks, grasping Mickey’s forearm.

“Drew it.” He explains simply, eyes not leaving the screen.

“Yeah? It’s good. You should draw the next one, too then.”

Mickey hums in agreement but continues to browse the website, probably looking for ideas.

Ian clicks on the TV, starting up an episode of New Girl while Mickey’s distracted.

They sit in peaceful silence for a while, until Mickey speaks again.

“There’s a tattoo place up the street. The reviews seem good. Don’t wanna go somewhere if they’ll just fuck it up.”

“That’s true.” Ian pauses. “If you’re getting one, I might get one too.”

Mickey raises his eyes brows in that expressive way of his. “You want a new tat? Fuckin’ copy cat.” He grumbles, but with the way he looks Ian up and down he can tell he’s not opposed.

“Yeah, been thinkin about it for a bit.”

“Oh yeah? What you thinkin, tough guy, I’ll look up some ideas.” Mickey suggests, already looking back at ‘Pin Interest’.

“Don’t worry, I already know what I want.”

When he doesn’t say more, Mickey huffs impatiently. “Gonna keep me waiting all night or what?”

Ian smirks and leans forward. “I was thinkin’ of an ‘MM’ tattoo, right here.” He tells him, pointing at a spot on the inside of his wrist.

Mickey looks surprised, and fond, and happy all at once. Even so, he tuts at him. “Tshc, you don’t have to do that just because I got your name.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “I fuckin’ know that, dork. I like the idea of having a more permanent thing than the rings.”

“Yeah, coz you keep fuckin’ losing your rings.”

“Well I’m sorry I don’t want it to fall down a drain or something, Mick.” He laughs, exasperated. “But a tattoo won’t fall down the drain.”

Mickey looks at him, and he’s so happy that Ian can’t help but wind their fingers together.

“You don’t want it to look like Mandy Milkovich, though. Gotta get my middle initial, too.”

“Wouldn’t her initials be ‘AM’? For Amanda?” Ian raises his eyebrows. Mickey scrunches his.

“Oh yeah.”

“You hate your middle name, anyway. And ‘MAM’ looks like I got something for my mum, I want this for you.”

“Yeah, you already got those titties for Monica.” Mickey jokes lightly and Ian pushes his side.

<3333

i might write a next part, where they actually go get them!

[ahedderick]

Snow flurries

Roll out of bed, dogs out for potty break, cats (starving! unloved!) fed, woodstove stoked. I got the idea to make hot mash for the hens out of their regular feed, so I tried chucking chicken pellets and water and some cooking oil and some leftover squash in a pot to heat up. I miscalculated and ended up scorching the bottom of the pot a bit, but they seemed pretty darned enthusiastic about getting a warm meal.

I got myself tidied up for an early doctor's appointment. Just a checkup, but I thought I'd ask {again} if there's anything that can be done for my wonky shoulder. Off I went into the icy morning. That's when things started going off the rails.

First, my 'check oil' light came on in the car. The oil was changed less than 1000 miles ago . . so it shouldn't be running low yet. When I got to the Dr's office and tried to check in, the receptionist told me that my appointment . . is actually next Tuesday. I goofed when putting it on my calendar last year. I trudged back out to my car to drive home. That's when my warning light for gas came on. I had forgotten to check it when my son and I came back from our little trip Tuesday. I wasn't too far from a station, and filled up. But I was starting to feel a little on edge!

I had other errands I was supposed to run in the afternoon, but that will have to wait until I can take it to get the oil issue checked. I decided to sit down with my tax paperwork and last year's taxes, to see if I could figure out a question I had about last year's retirement contribution. It was a nice round number, so I figured I could skim the [lengthy] 2023 IRS return and find it easily.

Mmmm. Nope. So I started skimming to try to find line item for IRA contributions. Found that - but it didn't have a value. I'm more than reasonably sure I made a contribution. I wanted to avoid calling the accountant with questions, but I ended up having to do that. Talked to his assistant, who was nice, but didn't know that answer to my question. This could have been . . such a simple chore. Alas.

In despair, I started undecorating the Christmas tree. I managed that with only one ornament broken (sheesh) and dragged the 9-foot-tall tree outside and down the steps. Way-to-go, me! Then I got to send half an hour setting the living room to rights, including extra vacuuming and many, many little cedar prickles.

The beasts will probably miss it, but it is nice to have more room in the living room again.

I walked the dogs (and cats) up in the woods while snowflakes fell softly all around us. It was pretty, and Rosalie enjoyed many dramatic zoomies. I need to cheer myself up a bit. Hmm.

[starstruckunknown-princess]

Honeysuckle - Roy Kent x Reader

Honeysuckle (Lonicera) - Meaning: Devotion, affection

Summary: Reader is sick, Roy takes care of them.

Pairing: Roy Kent x Reader

Word Count: 646

Warnings: Language, Reader has a nasty cold, workaholicism, Roy tough loves the reader, Roy being adorably attentive and protective.

Here's a quicky for Day 13! I may have written this cuz I've been fighting a sinus infection and want this hairy foul-mouthed bastard to take care of me cuz I know he'd be amazing at it.

In Bloom Masterlist

Likes, Comments, Reblogs are always appreciated! ❤️

“No fuckin’ way, love,” Roy declared, snatching your work phone from your hand despite your protest. You’d managed to sneak it up to your bedroom without him noticing. Or, at least, you thought you had. 

“Roy, come on, I need to—” you said before another wave of hacking coughs overtook your airway, making it impossible to continue. 

“No, you’re not fuckin’ workin’ when you’re fuckin’ sick. Taxes your immune system too much, so no I won’t be giving your fuckin’ phone back,” he explained, tucking your work phone in his back pocket and well out of your reach. “But I will give you your iPad, which I disconnected from your work shit.” 

“You do know my work shit directly affects you, right?” you asked through a smile. You ran the Richmond AFC account for KBPR, which was a pretty hands-on assignment. 

“And Keely told you they would handle it while you’re out,” Roy reminded. You were loath to take a sick day, let alone two in a row, but Keely had insisted over FaceTime that everything would be handled while you got better. She and Roy had practically bullied you back into bed this morning. 

You groaned, leaning back into your pillows. “Fine. I won’t work today. I’ll just sit around and watch daytime telly like a lazy, boring lump and have no purpose.” 

“Oi!” Roy’s sharp tone almost made you startle. Bewildered, you looked at him and saw his brows were drawn down, the firm line of his mouth and tightness in his jaw all suggested his frustration. “That’s enough outta you. You are not only the hardest working person I know, you’re also fine as all hell and fuckin’ deserve to have a few days off, especially when you’ve basically become a mucus factory and can’t even breathe through your fuckin’ nose, alright?” 

This was the tone he used when players were being too hard on themselves. The tone he used whenever he was trying to boost someone’s confidence. His tough love tone. Yeah, it was tough, but it was fueled by his love for you so you took his words to heart. 

“Okay, okay,” you cajoled and he nodded sharply, disappearing from the room only to return moments later with a tray — where did he get a tray? You were sure you didn’t own one — full of things. He put it on the empty spot on your bed where he usually slept. 

“Alright, ya got your iPad, tv zapper, tissues, meds, that cinnamon tea you like, a little pot of honey, some cough drops, some chocolates, that trashy romance novel you’ve been reading, and I put your mug warmer on your nightstand in case the tea gets cold. I gotta go run training, but I’ll be back in a few hours to check on ya. If you need anything in the meantime, text me, yeah?” 

“Yeah, Roy, I will,” you promised. 

“I mean anything, more tea, whatever. Don’t lift a fuckin’ finger, I’ll send Will over to — ya know what, I’ll just have him come over now in case—” He looked down at his phone, starting to text, but you put your hand on his forearm to stop him. Your heart swelled with love for this man, and you couldn’t help but beam at him. 

“Roy, you don’t need to send Will to babysit. I’ll be okay until you get back.” 

“You sure, love?” he asked, looking at you like he wanted to secure you in bubble wrap. 

You coughed, then stretched a little. “Yeah, I’ll probably just go back to sleep.” 

Roy nodded, “Good. Get your rest.” His phone chimed. “I gotta go, Beard wants to meet early about Man City’s defensive line.”

“Right, you go, I’ll stay here and nap.” 

Roy bent over and placed a tender kiss on your forehead. “Love you.” 

You beamed up at him, “Love you more.” 

[maxisanangrywell]

Simon has scars, Simon has trauma-- Okay so imagine this.

Trauma often causes your body to break down not just mentally, but physically. Often, in the most extreme cases of trauma, your brain gets rewired to think/act/and distribute electro signals a certain way. Childhood trauma has been studied so intensively, that doctors have determined it can also suppress vital bodily functions, like digestion or even your immune system, possibly causing autoimmune disorders.

Me, I'm 21, with a couple of different disabilities from my trauma, so I'm drawing from experience.

What if, and hear me out, Simon starts, gradually over the next couple of years, getting some weird joint pains. Just, like it feels achey, and not quite right. Like he was down with a cold. It comes and goes, and he's not entirely sure when it started. He's always sort of had joint pains, I mean, look at his job? It's not only incredibly intense, and taxing physically AND emotionally, but he constantly is over working his joints. So, he thinks nothing of it.

Except, over the next few months it doesn't go away like he thinks. Oh well, right? He goes to the med bay, they check his symptoms, they check everything, and just simply find nothing. They have no reason to do blood work, or x-rays. He's not injured, and it doesn't sound like he's pulled anything or snapped any tendon. They tell him if it persists, to come back in. They give him Ibuprofen, Acetaminophen, and a N-SAID to trade off between the three, and help with any swelling or discomfort. All Simon's symptom points to, is the over work of the joints. I mean, hell, he's been in the SAS for years now, with about a decade or two of more service on top of that. He's considered old by the SAS, almost at the stage where they'd pull him off the field if he even sprains an ankle. So, he doesn't think anything of it, and refuses to go to med bay.

Without failure, the symptoms just sort of pile up gradually over the next four years. The joint pain is accompanied by stiffness and swelling. The joints, primarily in all his finger joints, wrists, and knees hurt, are red, and hot to the touch. His left hip is starting to get painful enough that he has to stretch and stay in his room for the first hour-and a half when he wakes. Otherwise, he'd be seen hobbling down the hall and that isn't good. He'd surely be sent to med bay.

So, Simon deals with it. Until one night, he's on a mission, and his joint stiffness catches up to him. Johnny has to help move him when they get under fire, and his hands and fingers hurt so bad he can't properly grab the gun and fire it. It takes him a few minutes, but he eventually returns fire. Johnny having seen the struggle, reports it to Price, who almost immediately sends him to med bay to get almost every fucking test done under the book.

"Obviously it's not just joint pain and stiffness of age anymore, Simon. I need you to be 100% out on the field. If not for you, then for Johnny. For the team."

Simon thinks it was pretty shitty of Price to use Johnny and the team against him, but it does the trick. He gets there, and spills almost everything to the doctor he saw last time. The doctor is shocked and appalled Simon never told him anything, and Simon tells him the medicine worked at first, as did the braces that he recommended for the joint support, but it just kept getting worse.

They do X-Rays, and blood work, and they find out Simon has a fairly common autoimmune disorder. Although, it's not the kind he wants to hear because it will result in a medical discharge.

"Rheumatoid Arthritis? You're bloody joking. My hand isn't all fucked up and weird looking doc. I can move my hand just fine."

"You can right now, but if you don't get the proper treatment, along with a transfusion for your knee... it will progress. Probably to the point you're bed bound."

The doctor calls in the team on behalf of Simon's request, and well, they try to find a way around it. At least, Gaz and Soap do. But before they exhaust all their options, Price offers to talk to the higher ups to see what the stance would be on moving Simon from an operator, to more of a coordinator like Kate. Where he would be able to do missions every one in a while, but not over exert himself to the point a flare-up is triggered and he is left in a dangerous position once again. The higher-ups agree, not wanting to lose the infamous Ghost.

So, there we go. :) That's my little tid-bit, take it as you want. And like always, if you enjoy the idea, please like/reblog, and if you want to build off the idea for your own AU or things, just tag me if you use specifics!! ((If you have any questions about RA, please drop them in my box and I will try to answer when I have the time!!))