#mechanical scoop

[parveens-kitchen]

Other Uses of Ice cream scoop Make Bonda

Scoopful of Surprises: My Ice Cream Scoop’s Bonda MakeoverLet me share a kitchen tale that unfolded with an unexpected star – my trusty mechanical ice cream scoop. What started as a routine tool for frozen delights turned into a culinary revelation, transforming the way I approached making bondas. Join me in discovering how a simple scoop, instant mix, and a sprinkle of veggies turned my…

[chloesimaginationthings]

How come game Michael has all those bandages? I’m curious!

I got asked this a few times! Honestly it’s just a character design choice

To me, it makes sense Michael would have small bandages here and there on his skin, just from all his working with animatronics and snooping around. So the bandages are there to reflect that

[the-official-account]

"some soldiers will tell you that warfare is just a new title for hell/ I wonder if devil's get nightmares of all of their victims as well" is a lyric that can be so looping in my brain

[metalic-sky-sprite]

Off string Tune design + his two kids + their other father who is very confused

+ on string Tune refusing to let his mechanics open his chassis

[lifeintheworldtocome]

ok go on tell me about the au

ok it has just now started to form in my head so im not very far in BUT!!! basically its set in a universe where vampires Exist And Are Semi Normal. not in the 'oh yeah vampires are chill' way more in the 'vampires are Evil and Must Be Exterminated' way you know. people know about them but they dont like them

anyways im still sorting through all the Lore Stuff especially the ramifications of michael afton existing in the same universe as mime schmidt but the idea is basically 'mike schmidt gets job as vampire hunter, michael afton is a vampire, theyre faggots'

[patchworkspringlocks]

Scooped!Michael Facts:

His body’s natural decomposition process “froze” the day his ghost began haunting it, meaning that he at least wouldn’t skeletonized by the time fnaf 3 rolls around, but he’s still careful with too much movement or strenuous activity anyways to prevent tearing himself apart

On a related note, he has no real functional “pain receptors” anymore, just the memory of having his insides removed, although he does have some basic sense of touch

Pretty much all of his senses are dulled or nonexistent beyond what he can do as a ghost as nearly all would-be synapses and receptors to receive information have long since been removed or decayed

His ability to move at all comes from him being a ghost inhabiting a hollowed out meat suit in the shape of himself, which is understandably disorienting at times and can cause him severe bouts of dissociation

Has nerves of steel when it comes to sudden loud noises but bright flashes of light still stun him for whatever reason

Technically as a ghost he doesn’t need to move his mouth to talk, and he sometimes opts out of doing so when wearing a mask, but that also comes with the fact that his voice sounds much more “ghostly” than if he makes himself move whatever remains of his jaw around to mimic talking

Hates humidity and rain with a passion, and anything that could force his body to wither away further, really

He doesn’t sleep and considers it dangerous as a ghost to fall unconscious (as ghosts are defined by living consciousnesses existing beyond the point of death) so he would have to make do by lying still for hours at a time, if he wasn’t technically always on the run by virtue of legally not existing

Prefers to avoid human interaction if at all possible and considers things such as “socializing” trite and meaningless now, only forcing himself to pretend whenever it suits his own interests such as getting a job to follow his father and murderer’s tracks

Any other Fazbear employees that’s ever interacted with him would say they’re glad he has the night security position

[d20-ritz-stimzz]

" Ruby rules !!! "

⚔ ⚔ ⚔ × ⚔ ⚔ ⚔ × ⚔ ⚔ ⚔

Jet Rocks !

[sw5w]

Of Course You Will

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 00:54:45

[bravevolunteer]

i am once again thinking about night 4 of sister location

[cominginhotoffthepresses]

When the Kaiju came, Indiana was safe. It was one of those cosmic jokes played on the coasts; make fun of the flyover states long enough and suddenly they're the only place people can go about their lives without fearing any day might be ruined by fuckoff big monsters that really want to kill you and the only slightly less fuckoff big Jaegers that might kill you in the cross fire anyway.

Indiana was safe, but the world being flipped on its head flips housing costs too, and before Eddie could say, "You can't do this to us," the lot rent in Forest Hills went sky high and machining moved to the coasts, and he and Wayne went with it.

(Pacific Rim au thoughts)

[opalopium]

Little Miss- Simon Riley

And when you come home, you're gonna watch her sleeping Hold her close and stroke her face In the morning, you're gonna stare at her And wonder why you feel the way you do, now But she will hold you, and reach out to touch you And never ever hurt your heart - Bôa 

Simon was as silent as snowfall as he entered his apartment, he could tell you were there without necessarily seeing proof of your presence. He can feel it, smell it, even if it's not acknowledged that he can. His feeling is confirmed as he finds the familiar outline of your figure in his bed. Simon hated it- he should hate it. He hated people in his space and yet he doesn't feel anger, why doesn't he feel anger? He drops his things on the bedside and you don't stir, not a hair. He hated obliviousness; pitied helplessness, but he doesn't hate this either.

He eases himself onto the bed, unlacing his boots with jerky, mechanical tugs, placing them neatly at the foot of the bed before stripping down; now you choose to wake and stare at his bulk as he undresses. Simon hates when people stare, and yet the weight of your eyes on him isn't suffocating or scrutinizing. You look at him like a woman would the stars; with reverence and adoration that he had not earned. Simon did hate that.

"Hi," you say groggily,

"Sorry I'm 'ome late, doll. Didn't see yer' message." He says, turning to discard his clothes. "Makin' good use of that key, huh?" His voice is mocking, but his expression kind as he climbs in next to you.

"Yeah, sorry.... I had the worst day." You mumble, inching closer to him. He scooped a thick arm around your waist, dragging you over the sheets into his side firmly.

"Don't you apologise, woman. Gave it to ya' for a reason dinnae?" Simon couldn't hate you, for some reason beyond him. He took your face into his rough hand, one arm wrapped around your shoulder, resting on your chest, inching between your top as his palm found your heartbeat, the subtle sensation was a visceral comfort that eased his own body. He saw the exhaustion etched into your features yet you strained your neck for a kiss, for which he indulged.

"You're mine aren't ya?" his voice was warm with a fondness he reserved for the dim dark moments he shared with you. You were asleep moments ago, and you would return to sleep in minutes, perhaps his affection would be hazy and you could accredit this to your dreams so when you woke you would know not to expect it.

"Yeah, yours." You say softly, voice slurred by sleep and the pressure on your cheeks as he stroked your face with a gentle thumb, memorising the curve of your nose, the bow of your lips, the smoothness of your cheeks.

"Pretty thing you are," he appreciates absently, thumb resting on your bottom lip. "Come round' any time ya' like... I can't promise you I'll be in a mood to entertain ya though." He admits.

"Yeah?" you murmur softly, blinking up at him slowly.

"Ya don't ever mind do ya? Quite an easy girl, you." his head dips, pressing his lips to your temple. "Don't change a thing, ya' ere?" He murmurs against the skin there, staring off in thought.

"Love you" You murmur, drifting off back to sleep, none the wiser to the storm in his mind.

"There's my girl."

[pucksandpower]

Crazy Cravings

Max Verstappen x wife!Reader

Summary: pregnancy cravings can make you (and your husband) do crazy things … neither of you particularly minds

Warnings: 18+ content and pregnancy

You sit in the Red Bull Racing garage, feeling the warm Spanish sun on your face through the open door. The roar of engines and whirring of power tools surrounds you as the mechanics prepare for the race.

Your eyes are drawn to the iconic blue and silver cans scattered around the garage. Those tantalizing cans of Red Bull that everyone else seems to be drinking so casually.

Everyone except you and Max, that is.

You rub your rounded belly, feeling your precious cargo kick and squirm inside you. At six months pregnant, your cravings have been … intense, to say the least. But none more powerful than your longing for the crisp, fizzy taste of Red Bull.

The caffeine is off limits, of course. You would never dream of jeopardizing your baby’s health. But oh, how you crave that sweet, energizing flavor that used to be such a routine part of your life.

Max emerges from the back room, his bright grey eyes instantly finding you. He strides over, that effortless confidence and raw athleticism making your heart flutter, even after all these years. His gaze drifts to the Red Bull can in a mechanic’s hand and a grimace crosses his face.

“Liefje, are you alright?” He murmurs, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “I know how much those are torturing you lately.”

You force a smile, not wanting him to worry. “I’m fine, Maxie. Just … ignoring the siren call of carbonated temptation.”

His thumb strokes your cheek as he studies you, clearly not convinced. Max has been so incredibly supportive during this pregnancy, abstaining from Red Bull himself in solidarity. Cutting out his biggest vice, just so you don’t have to be tormented by the sight and scent of it everywhere.

“We should get you out of here,” he says, looping an arm around your waist to help leverage your bulk out of the chair. “The smells can’t be helping those crazy cravings.”

You open your mouth to protest, not wanting to pull him away from his work, but a fresh wave of dizzying desire hits you as a mechanic cracks open another can. The fizzing hiss and unmistakable scent make your mouth water uncontrollably.

“Max ...” you whisper, feeling your throat tighten with barely restrained craving and hormonal tears prickling your eyes.

He follows your yearning gaze to the Red Bull can and understanding dawns. “Oh, liefje ...” Scooping you into his arms, he strides from the garage, shooting an apologetic look at his crew.

Once outside in the fresh air, you bury your face against Max’s shoulder, inhaling his familiar, comforting cologne as he carries you to the motorhome. He eases you onto the couch, brushing kisses along your forehead and temple.

“I’m so sorry, schatje,” he murmurs, anguish lining his handsome features. “I hate seeing you suffer like this. If there was any way I could make the cravings stop ...”

You catch his hand, lacing your fingers through his calloused ones. “Max, you know I would never actually ask you to give up Red Bull, right?”

He shakes his head fiercely. “Not being able to have it for nine months is nothing compared to your sacrifice, carrying our baby. I don’t deserve you.”

Pulling him down beside you, you cup the chiseled line of his jaw, making him meet your gaze. “I happen to think you deserve the very best, Mr. Verstappen. And right now, the very best for both of us would be ...” Your voice cracks with fresh longing. “A damn Red Bull.”

Max’s eyes blaze with sudden determination, that iron willpower that has made him a champion coming to life. “Then that’s what I’ll get you. If those tossers at Red Bull Company won’t make a safe, caffeine-free version for pregnant women, I’ll personally make them regret it.”

You laugh shakily. “Max, you can’t just bully a corporation into creating a new product line for one person’s weird craving!”

“You’re not just one person,” he growls, tangling his fingers in your hair and bringing his forehead to rest against yours. “You’re my everything. And our baby deserves for its mother to be happy and have her cravings satisfied.”

Pressing a fierce kiss to your lips, he adds, “I’m calling them right now. And then straight to the CEO, if I have to. I’ll get you that Red Bull if it’s the last thing I do.”

True to his word, the indomitable Max Verstappen spends the next several days working every possible connection and calling in every favor. You catch bits of conversations, his clipped tones making it clear just how serious he is about this bizarre quest.

“No, I don’t care if it’s not ‘cost-effective’. This is for my very pregnant wife ...”

“She’s risking her health to grow an entire person! The least your company can do is make a freaking caffeine-free energy drink ...”

The crew quickly learns not to open any Red Bull around you, lest they face the wrath of an overprotective Max. Which is slightly embarrassing … but also incredibly sweet.

Your hormones most definitely approve.

Finally, there’s a break in the stalemate. Helmut Marko himself shows up at the motor home, those bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows furrowed.

“Max, this is ridiculous. They will not reconfigure an entire product line just because Y/N is having a little … craving.”

You brace yourself for the explosion, but Max just levels Helmut with that intense stare. “If you could experience these cravings yourself, you would be singing a different tune. Y/N is sacrificing everything to have our baby. The least Red Bull can do is give her a safe option to have the flavor she misses so much.”

Helmut’s expression softens slightly at the obvious devotion in Max’s voice. “You know that corporate will never go for it. Not for just one person ...”

“Then make it for all the other pregnant women dealing with the same issues,” Max returns, unruffled. “Or is a company that plasters ‘Gives You Wings’ on every can really too cowardly to follow through on empowering people?”

You suck in a shocked breath at his daring play. But the flicker of anger and resigned capitulation in Helmut’s eyes shows that it worked.

“Fine, you little shit,” the older man growls. “I’ll talk to product development. But I’m not making any promises!”

Except somehow … Max’s sheer bullheaded tenacity eventually batters through all the corporate resistance and red tape. Three weeks later, an unmistakable bright blue can appears on the counter, the iconic Red Bull logo stamped across it.

“What’s this?” You ask in confusion.

Max slides an arm around your waist, beaming proudly. “Open it and see.”

You crack the seal, sniffing cautiously … and almost melt at the nostalgic, beloved scent of Red Bull. But just as you start to panic about caffeine, you notice the slightly different flavor.

“Max, is this ...”

He nods, grinning. “Zero caffeine but all the taste you’ve been craving. No more tears over those damn energy drink cans, okay?”

Throwing your arms around him, you yank his head down to capture his mouth in a grateful kiss. “Have I mentioned lately how incredible you are?”

“Once or twice,” he jokes, then sobers, cupping your belly. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to make you and our baby happy.”

“You’re giving me everything I ever wanted and more.” You take a long pull of the perfectly flavored liquid, sighing in blissful satisfaction. “We hit the jackpot with you, Max Verstappen.”

He kisses you again, reveling in your obvious enjoyment. “The only jackpot I need is right here.”

***

Your baby bump has popped out to truly impressive proportions now at eight months along. What started as an innocent craving for Red Bull has escalated into an all-out physiological war.

Nothing seems to satisfy you for long — you’re a walking bundle of hormones and insatiable desires.

From the plush solitude of the Red Bull hospitality suite, you try not to gaze wistfully toward the Ferrari encampment. But you can’t resist fixating on the tantalizing cones of rich gelato constantly streaming from their hospitality tent.

Watching a couple of Ferrari mechanics stroll by, licking at scoops of pistachio and stracciatella, is enough to kickstart a powerful new yearning. Your mouth waters shamelessly as they pass, the creamy dessert leaving you weak in the knees. Before you can overthink it, you’re shuffling toward the entrance, one hand cradling your belly.

“Scusi,” you call out hesitantly as you peek inside. “Mi dispiace … is it possible to get some gelato?”

You half expect to be waved away — it’s well known that the Ferrari team is notoriously insular and protective of their spoils. But the cheerful greeting you receive is instantaneous and overwhelming.

“Madonna mia! Look at this beautiful piccina!”

Suddenly you’re engulfed by a whirlwind of chattering Italian voices, greeted by smiling faces from the team of elderly signoras who comprise the Ferrari hospitality staff. Weathered hands pat your belly and cheeks, clucking sympathetically at your swollen state.

“You poor bambina, absolutely enorme! Of course we’ll get you some gelato to refresh you. And biscotti too! You need to keep up your energy, si?”

You’re ushered toward a plush sofa, various grandmotherly types fussing over you like you’re the most delicate, precious thing. It’s … surprisingly wonderful. They clearly adore babies and pregnant women. You get the sense that indulging a mother-to-be is hardwired into their very beings.

A tray of gelato cups appears, the rainbow of flavors almost dazzling in their variety — chocolate, pistachio, prickly pear, lemon, stracciatella. Before you can reach for one, it’s plucked from your grasp.

“No no no! Leave it to Nonna Maria.” A stout signora with a green paisley dress and frosted silver curls shakes her head sternly. “I’ll start you with the lemon to whet your appetite. Then a nice creamy stracciatella as a proper treat for the bambino.”

The tangy flavor of the lemon gelato hits your craving exquisitely. As soon as you’ve polished off that cup, Nonna Maria presents another brimming with the creamy chocolate chip perfection of stracciatella. You moan in appreciation, unbothered by the chorus of approving noises from your doting new entourage.

Before you know it, you’ve been plied with cups of hazelnut, strawberry, and caramel flavors as well. These hospitable Italian ladies simply won’t be deterred from pampering a future mamma. As you scrape the last smears of gelato from a ramekin, a new grandmother settles on the sofa beside you.

“Now ... tell Nonna Gina what this little maschietto or bambina has been craving, eh?” She pats your belly affectionately. “We have chefs who can whip up anything your heart desires!”

Is it a pregnancy thing, this sudden wave of tears that blurs your vision? Or just being so insanely touched by the kindness and maternal care of these lovely strangers? You blink rapidly, swallowing hard.

“Honestly … gelato has been my biggest craving these past couple days. I don’t know if I can eat another bite.”

A chorus of disapproving gasps and tuts rises from the assembled grandmothers. “Bah! This pregnancy has ruined your appetite, piccina,” one crows, waving a hand dismissively. “We’ll soon get it back to rights, don’t you worry.”

For the next hour, you’re lavished with attention, fussed over and coddled like the most precious jewel. Cold drinks and chilled towels appear to keep you comfortable as the nonnas take turns sitting with you, petting your belly and swapping outrageous birth stories.

Their colorful Italian voices swell and ebb as they bicker over whose recipe for pasta al ragu is most authentic, who has the most grandchildren, and whose first-born grandson is most handsome.

It’s chaos and noise and overwhelming affection … and you’ve never felt so utterly content.

As the afternoon light slants golden through the awning, a familiar figure appears in the entrance, haloed by the fiery rays.

“Liefje? I’ve been looking everywhere ...” Max’s disbelieving gaze sweeps over the scene in front of him — you, surrounded by a veritable coven of grandmotherly Italians who seem entirely absorbed with you. “What in the world ...”

A chubby signora with a bright orange shawl wrapped around her ample form hops up, beaming widely. “Ahh! We have been absolutely spoiling your beautiful wife, of course. Did you know she had a craving for gelato? Well, no problem for us — we have taken her like one of our own bambinas!”

The others cluck and murmur in outraged agreement at his shocked expression.

“We absolutely will not let a piccina in such a state go hungry or uncomfortable! Now you sit down so we can get you a plate of some proper food too!”

Max gapes at you, utterly nonplussed as you grin back at him with unabashed glee, utterly stuffed with Italian desserts and reveling in the indulgent babying. You pat the space beside you invitingly.

“You’ve got to try Nonna Gina’s tiramisu, Maxie. It’ll knock your socks off.”

He settles beside you, slinging an arm around your shoulders and still looking rather dazed. But the instant the first warm smile and pat lands on his arm or knee, Max’s expression melts. This team of fussing Italian grandmothers has clearly adopted you both as their own.

Nonna Maria reappears, shoving a plate stacked with crispy arancini, indulgent risotto alla Milanese, and a creamy slice of tiramisu into your husband’s hands. “Eat up! You need to keep your strength up too, caring for this sweet cosa bella.” She plants bristly kisses on both your cheeks before scurrying off again.

Max watches her go, then turns to you with a bemused chuckle, squeezing you close. “Well, schatje. I have to hand it to you — at least your pregnancy cravings bring you to some … interesting places.”

You hum in agreement, perfectly content as you snuggle against his side. “Can you really think of a better place for me to nest?” You grin as another nonna appears to pat his cheek, welcoming him into the chaotic fold. “I think I may have just found my second family.”

He tilts your chin up, eyes sparkling with warmth. “Anything that makes you happy and keeps our baby healthy.”

As he kisses you tenderly, surrounded by clucking encouragement and rapturous croons of “bello, bellisimo” from your new Italian grandmothers, you know you’ve never felt so blissfully cherished.

You and Max make your way slowly back to the Red Bull motorhome, stuffed to the gills with gelato and trailed by a gaggle of besotted well-wishers calling out farewells and advice.

“I still can’t believe you managed to befriend the entirety of Ferrari hospitality,” Max laughs, helping ease you onto the couch in his driver’s room. He nudges your belly playfully. “This little one is shaping up to be quite the international charmer!”

“Says the man who single-handedly compelled Red Bull to create an entirely new product line,” you point out, patting your swollen middle contentedly. “I have a feeling this baby is going to be the most spoiled child on earth.”

Max settled beside you, gathering you close with a tender smile. “Can you blame all our people for wanting to give the world to you two?” His thumb traced your jawline reverently. “You’re carrying a little miracle, liefje.”

Your breath catches, as it so often did when he looks at you like that. Like you’re his entire universe. With so much pure adoration and love shining in those grey eyes.

“Our miracle,” you correct softly, cradling his calloused hand over your belly. “I couldn’t have done it without you. Not just supporting me … but giving me everything I could ever dream of.”

He opens his mouth like he wanted to protest, but you press on, needing him to understand how treasured he makes you feel.

“You don’t stop until I’m happy. Even when I get these raging, random cravings that probably seem crazy, you move heaven and earth to give me whatever I need. Most people would never ...”

“Neither of us is most people,” Max interrupts fiercely. He presses a searing kiss to your lips, then the swell of your abdomen. “You and our little one are my entire world. I’ll spend every day showing you how much I love you both, how grateful I am to have you in my life.”

Hormones raging, you pull his mouth back to yours, savoring the taste and feel of him surrounding you. When you finally part, you rest your forehead against his.

“In that case, you better rest up for tonight,” you tease. “I have a feeling that someone’s going to get a craving for sardines and waffles right around midnight.”

***

At nine months pregnant, you feel like a blissfully beached whale.

Your belly protrudes so massively that you can barely see your feet anymore. Simple tasks like tying your shoes or rolling over in bed have become awkward geometric obstacles. Max has to help you up from every chair or couch, his strong arms levering your frame into a vertical position.

Lingering in the paddock is no longer an option either. You’ve been gently but firmly ordered back home to Monaco to prepare for the baby’s arrival.

Thank goodness your nesting instincts are going full tilt — otherwise you might go stir crazy waiting for this little one to make their grand debut. You’ve rearranged and re-organized the nursery a dozen times, washed and rewashed all the tiny onesies and miniature accessories, and baked enough lactation cookies to feed an army of nursing mothers.

Really, there’s only one craving occupying your mind now …

The thump of shoes in the hall makes you look up eagerly. Max appears in the doorway of the sunlit nursery, loose waves of brown hair framing his face. The plain white tee stretches enticingly across his chest and shoulders, making your mouth water for an entirely different reason than food.

“Hey schatje,” he greets, eyes crinkling at the corners as he takes in your flushed cheeks. A knowing smirk tugs at one side of his mouth. “Were you just ... thinking about me?”

You shake your head adamantly, wincing as the motion makes your whole body ache in protest. “Maybe just a little. This particular craving is getting out of control.”

Crossing to you in two strides, Max cups your jaw and brings your lips crashing together in a searing kiss. His tongue sweeps demanding and possessive into your mouth, making you whimper faintly. That intoxicating masculine scent of fresh sweat, motor oil, and sandalwood surrounds you in an alluring cloud.

After all these years, just the taste and smell of your husband is enough to drench you in molten wanting. Baby or no baby, Max Verstappen is still the sexiest goddamn thing on two legs.

“Mmm, I know exactly what you need,” he rumbles against your neck, nipping a tingling path along your sensitive skin. “Luckily for you, I’ve got a free schedule all afternoon to help take care of this craving ...”

He scoops you into his arms effortlessly, cradling your heavy weight against his chest to carry you to the bedroom. You twine your arms shamelessly around his neck, luxuriating in the hard strength of his body against yours.

“Aren’t you worried about ... squashing the baby?”

“Not at all,” he deposits you carefully on the bed. Those bright grey eyes darken with blazing lust. “I’m going to take such good care of you and our little one.”

His hands and mouth seem to be everywhere at once — caressing, nibbling, and stroking every sensitive inch he can lavish adoring attention on. You keen softly when he dips his tongue into your navel, rubbing reverent circles over the tight swell of your belly.

“You’re so gorgeous like this,” Max murmurs, lips brushing the crease where your torso and bump meet. “So ripe and round and radiant with our child. My beautiful, strong girl ...”

All you can do is lie there gasping, overwhelmed in the best possible way. He strips you methodically, leaving a trail of scorching, openmouthed kisses over every newly exposed inch.

“My sexy little pregnant wife,” he husks, tongue dragging up the slick crease at the apex of your thighs. “Can’t resist this craving can you, liefje?”

His fingers plunge inside you, curling expertly as his mouth closes over your throbbing bud. You throw your head back shamelessly, mindless with pleasure as Max devours you.

So good, so unbearably good …

He ravishes you thoroughly, sending gushing waves of release crashing through your body over and over again until you’re gasping and quivering. Atoms of blissful satisfaction hum in your bloodstream as you float back into sweet oblivion.

An insistent nudge against your belly slowly rouses you. Max looms over you, hair deliciously rumpled and eyes glittering wickedly. “Did I satisfy that craving sufficiently? Or should I keep going?”

Your mouth curves in a greedy smile, hands gliding over his flexing shoulders and chest. “Again, please ...”

It had long since become a running gag around the paddock and team — before you were advised to stop flying. When you couldn’t be located, someone would joke that you must be off ravaging your utterly besotten husband yet again.

Max took the ribbing with surprising grace, grinning unrepentantly whenever his shirt collar revealed another blossom of lovebites discoloring the skin of his throat.

You really didn’t care about the teasing. You’re indulging an entirely healthy and normal craving — just a wife thoroughly appreciating her man.

“Can you believe people used to call this a punishment?” You giggle breathlessly one afternoon.

Max nips a stinging path along the soft skin of your inner thighs, tracing tantalizingly close to your heated center. He laves his tongue soothingly over the reddened marks, leering up at you from between your parted legs.

“Let them call it whatever they want. I’m just taking advantage of your hormones making you insatiable for me.”

“Mmm, well I can’t seem to resist your obscenely perfect body either,” you admit with a lazy stretch. “Maybe we really are being punished.”

One dark brow wings up eloquently as Max drags his eyes over you in a deliberately insolent perusal. Taking your leg in hand, he licks an achingly slow, filthy stripe up the crease where thigh meets hip.

You choke on a whimper, whole body jolting as he sucks a blossom of wet kisses into the satiny expanse of your inner thigh. Those bright grey eyes hold yours in wicked challenge as his clever tongue massages and swirls over your sensitized flesh.

“This certainly doesn’t seem like punishment to me,” he husks darkly. “Does it feel like punishment when I do this ...” His mouth moves higher. “Or this ...”

By the time he finishes torturing you into a quivering, needy wreck, you’re more than ready to beg.

“Please, Max!” You sob, bucking helplessly against the maddening sensations. “I need you, oh god I need you so bad ...”

He settles heavily over you, nuzzling your hair aside to trail searing kisses along your damp throat. “Then you shall have me. My needy wife can have whatever she craves ...”

It’s midway through one such shattering round of lovemaking that Max’s phone begins to ring shrilly. You try to disentangle, burning embarrassment tinting your cheeks, but he simply growls and clutches you tighter.

“Leave it!” He bites out, surging forward to recapture your mouth in a bruising clash of teeth and tongue between thrusts. “I’m busy ... satisfying … my wife ...”

After, as you lie tangled in a sweaty heap of satiation, you can’t resist asking with a wry smile, “Was that another craving I just demanded you satisfy?”

Max props himself up on one elbow, thumb stroking idly along your abdomen as his piercing gaze roams over your flushed, disheveled form.

“Whatever my wife needs,” he responds huskily. Those burning eyes promise infinite carnal delights to come as they caress your body. “I’ll always crave giving her everything she desires.”

He stretches beside you, a blissful smile curving his lips as you snuggle up against his side to exchange lazy kisses.

You’ve got a sneaking suspicion this is one craving that might outlast the pregnancy ...

[dilfsfordinner]

summary- toji fails to prevent a completely preventable messy incident from occurring, involving his son

pairing- husband toji x fem!reader

—————————————————————————

“You wanna do it?” Toji grinned, eyebrows raised as he watched little Megumi tug the ratchet from his grasp, waddling towards the raised car, brave enough to face the thing he’d thought a transformer just months prior.

Your car was in dire need of an oil change and being the caring husband that he was, Toji took up his place as mechanic for the day, his worry about typical shop workers taking advantage of women evident in his pleas for you to just stay home and let him do it.

Megumi also took up his place as the incredibly curious and stubborn one year old, his job apparently to make Toji’s work as hard as humanly possible, every babble or questionable crash tearing Toji’s attention away from the task at hand, which is why he stopped trying, and just let his son indulge in his childlike curiosity.

Of course, you would lose your mind if you knew that your baby was around such a large machine, but Toji knew himself and his capabilities, his reflexes practically inhuman, so he didn’t really mind a little thing running around his feet, as long as he kept an eye out.

“Alright, Megs, give it back,” Toji said gently, hand curling open to reveal a waiting palm, Toji realizing that the young boy did not intend to help him underneath the car. Rather, he’d started a game of tag, little feet scurrying to the other side of the garage, awaiting his father’s move.

Refusing to let a one year old bruise his competitive spirit, Toji used his skills to be across the room in a split second, large hands grabbing Megumi before he could run away, a loud slew of giggles leaving the young boy’s lips, Toji smiling as he held him up with only two hands, walking towards the car like he was holding a feral cat.

Setting the babbling child down, Toji got down on his level, kneeling to tell Megumi to stay back and watch for a second. Pulling himself under the car, Toji then began to use Megumi like a little assistant, asking for tools as needed. “Wrench please” and similar phrases continued for a while before Toji was ready to actually do the task at hand.

Humming in approval at his handiwork, Toji made one final request to the boy sitting beside his feet. “Can you get the jug of oil for me, please?” he asked gently, hands busy holding the port above him closed, his ears catching an excited “yes” and the patter of running feet retreating farther into the garage.

Too preoccupied to notice the unusual length of time it was taking for his son to grab the requested bottle, Toji continued his tinkering before an odd smack sounded, glugging sounds following soon after.

Pausing his movements, Toji craned his neck to try and see his son but before he could even question what had happened, a familiar sniffle sounded at his feet, loud cries flowing from his baby’s mouth.

Sighing, Toji quickly screwed the oil duct tight, and pulled himself from under the car. The sight he emerged to was certainly a surprising one. There, right next to all of his discarded tools, was an oil-covered Megumi, his whole body completely drenched with the thick, black substance.

Letting out a sympathetic laugh and sweet “It’s okay”s, Toji scooped up his crying child, tutting as the dripping kid hid his face in his dad’s chest, trying to hide or remove the liquid, Toji couldn’t tell.

Completely clueless to the situation outside, you were busy in the kitchen, making a snack for your husband as a thank you. For the first time in an hour, familiar footsteps sounded behind you as you chopped up some vegetables, smiling to yourself as you expected two arms to come wrap around you. What you didn’t expect was to hear the wails of your baby boy, and you especially couldn’t have prepared yourself to see him in the flesh.

“What happened,” you gasped as Toji held the young boy to his chest, a black trail of droplets gathering around his feet as you rushed up to the two of them. Cradling little Megumi’s face, oil coated your hands, anger bubbling inside of you, the only funnel being a slap to your husband’s shoulder, narrowed eyes turning up to meet his own.

“I told you to leave him in here,” you huffed, your angry tone fizzling into sympathetic coos as your attention turned back to your son. “It was an accident,” Toji’s voice had that humorous lilt to it, one that was really good at making your very motherly nature less worrisome. “It happens to workers all the time, he’ll be okay.”

And he was right, because after what seemed to be hours of scrubbing and a whole bottle of dawn dish soap later, the previously oily Megumi was squeaky clean, and incredibly happy as he munched away on his dinner. Toji couldn’t help but retell the story a million times, ignoring your reprimanding words as he fell into a fit of laughter, which eventually had your lips starting to pull into a smile, Megumi none the wiser, his memory about the incident already wiped away.

—————————————————————————

[incorrectbatfam]

How about Bruce pranking/embarrassing/making fun of (not in a bad way) the kids as payback for their pranks/jokes?

Dick: I'm going to Wally's.

Bruce: *grunts*

Dick: *leaves*

Bruce: *makes a phone call*

Bruce: Barry, I need you and Wally to come over here for a minute.

———————

Bruce: *pats Tim's back and sticks a barcode*

Tim: What was that for?

Bruce: Just letting you know you're doing a great job, son.

[30 minutes later]

Tim: *wearing headphones*

Bruce: *walks by and scans it*

[1 hour later]

Tim: *asleep at his desk*

Bruce: *walks by and scans it*

[2 hours later]

Bruce: *walks by and scans it*

Tim: What was that beeping?

Bruce: Just my phone.

———————

Bruce: Barbara, can you help me analyze this Kryptonite sample?

Barbara: Hm... the color and texture line up with mechanically-cut Kryptonite, but something about it seems off. Where did you find it?

Bruce: The docks.

Barbara: I'm gonna need to run some tests.

Bruce: *wonders when he should tell her it's green glass*

———————

[at dinner]

Duke: *turns and talks to someone*

Bruce: *adds a scoop of mashed potatoes to Duke's plate*

Duke: *goes back to his plate*

Duke: *leaves to get a drink*

Bruce: *adds another scoop*

Duke: *comes back and keeps eating*

Duke: *drops his fork and bends down to get it*

Bruce: *adds another scoop*

Duke: Anyway, what was I saying before?

Bruce, pointing: What's that?

Duke: *looks behind him*

Bruce: *adds another scoop*

———————

Steph: Bruce, have you seen my sweater? The purple one with white flowers.

Bruce: No, sorry.

Steph: Oh, okay. No biggie.

Steph: *leaves*

Bruce: *takes the sweater to the post office*

[a couple days later]

Alfred: Miss Stephanie, there is a package for you.

Steph: Weird, I didn't order anything.

Steph: *opens it*

Steph:

———————

Cass: *lurking in the corner*

Bruce: *secretly takes a picture from above with a drone*

Bruce: *AirDrops it to her*

———————

Bruce: What do you want for the holidays?

Damian: Well, I would like another cat.

Bruce: I'll see what I can do.

[weeks later]

Damian: A bulldozer?

Bruce: Not just any bulldozer. A Cat.

———————

Jason: *parks and goes inside*

Bruce: *steals Jason's bike tires*

[luvjunie]

miles “i got it” morales earth 42 miles 591 words

Between the both of you, Miles is always the first to stand up when the bell rings at the end of class. With all the textbooks you bring to school, he knows your backpack is just one mechanical pencil away from hitting a ton and for that reason he never lets you carry it yourself. In fact, he makes it his mission to pick it up before you do. With his own backpack on one shoulder, he’ll watch for the exact moment you’re done tucking your supplies away just to interrupt you as you’re mid-reach so he can scoop it up into his free hand by the top handle.

“I got it.”

Miles always pays for you guys’ dates. You knew this wasn’t abnormal when it came to relationships, seeing as he’s the guy, you’re the girl, and that’s just the ‘societal norm’ or whatever. It’s how your dad told you a male should treat the girl he’s with, and based off how Miles acts, you assumed his own father had given him the same speech as well before he passed. But even when you two take a stroll to the corner store to pick up some cheap snacks for a study session—the total coming out to as little as $4.37 for some sunchips and sour gummy worms—he still won’t let you pay.

He’s already getting his wallet out before the cashier can read the total off. And when you try and protest, he’s all—

“I got it.”

When your laces have come undone and you hadn’t noticed.

“Ma, your shoe’s untied.”

You’ll stop in your tracks and look down at your loosened laces, prepared to hand your phone off to him so you can bend down to tie them, and like always—

“I got it.”

When the pizza you ordered an hour ago finally shows up at the door and you get the ‘arrived’ notification on your phone—which he’s already seen because he’s always looking over your shoulder as you scroll your time away on tiktok, watching them with you as an excuse to be all up on you—you can bet your life on what his response will be.

“I got it.”

You knew he only wanted to be a gentleman, but at this point, you were convinced ‘I got it’ was his middle name instead of Gonzalo.

For a while now, Miles has felt like he has to take responsibility and do everything even when something isn’t asked of him, and you wanted him to know that same sentiment didn’t have to apply to the two of you. So you started trying to beat him at his own game.

Brushing past him and rushing down the concrete steps of his apartment building to make it to the passenger side door and open it for yourself before he can.

Keeping your backpack on the opposite side of your desk so you can have the chance to pick it up before him, even if it earns you a subtle glare each time. And while some days it really is too heavy for you to carry—heavy enough to make you question exactly what point you’re trying to prove here—you remain determined.

Having cash ready and smacking it down on the peeling countertop of the bodega before your snacks have even been rung up, and regardless of how insane you look and how the clerk squeezes his face at you to confirm that, the triumphant grin you give Miles (who’s struggling to contain a smile of his own) doesn’t falter.

“I got it.”

[hitomisuzuya]

Gamer! Scaramouche x fem!reader. Smut. Blowjob. Scara receiving. Something cute at the end.

Aventurine smut on deck next. If this sounds choppy, it's cause my period is killing me 😭

Scaramouche was getting frustrated. Really, really frustrated. He hates being put in his place, and losing because of a game mechanic he couldn't quite figure out. And to make things worse, he was losing in front of you.

He couldn't have that. Losing in front of viewers was one thing, but losing in front of you was something else entirely. Thankfully for him, he wasn't streaming today.

You knew it was time to intervene when Scaramouche tossed his controller across the room. You flinched as it connected with the wall. Let's just say, you had a particular method that you used for moments just like this.

It worked every time.

You gently spin his chair around, earning you a startled glare. "Do you need something, woman?" Scaramouche huffed at you. Don't misunderstand him. He wasn't pissed at you. He was pissed at himself for losing in front of you.

"Mhm," You said, reaching your index finger out to circle his nipple outside his shirt. "I need to calm you down," You teased and traced the shape of his nipple, "to give you something to work your frustrations out on." You skimmed your thumb across his nipple once it hardened.

Scaramouche has sensitive nipples. Even stimulating them a little would make his cock hard. "I.. squished my stress ball," He replied, his words slightly shaking as his cock pulsed in his jeans. Poor little stress ball was foam smithereens in the trash can.

"Oh, I know," You gently pinched his nipple. Scaramouche squirmed a little in his chair, swallowing back a soft moan as he shuddered in pleasure. His eyes followed you as you got on your knees, a blush creeping into his cheeks. "I have something better. Something softer," You looked up at him, leaning down to prod your tongue at the wet patch beginning to dampen on his jeans.

You licked along the rough fabric, letting your drool soak into the precum his straining cock was leaking. "And much more pliable," Scaramouche squirmed again as your fingers teased at unbuttoning his jeans.

"It better be your fucking throat," His hand hovered over the back of your head, poised and waiting for the moment where he could bring your mouth closer to his bare cock.

You nodded, unbuttoning his jeans and freeing his cock. "Use my throat," You encouraged, following up your words with kitten licks on the head of his cock. You prodded the tip of your tongue in the sensitive slit. "To your heart's content. I insist," You scooped the head into your mouth to suck on.

That was all the invitation Scaramouche needed. He always melted like candle wax when you sucked him off. Your mouth is so warm, wet, and attentive. Your tongue lapping and worshipping. His fingers rubbed appreciatively on your scalp before grabbing a handful of your hair.

Warm arousal flooded your body as he pulled on it to get a grip on your silky locks. He slowly forced your mouth down onto his cock, letting out a husky groan as you started sucking in response. You flattened your tongue on his cock as it pulsed, vibrating a moan on it that made him shiver.

"That fucking game is such bullshit," Scaramouche growled, rutting into your mouth and pushing his cock into your throat. He held your mouth down on his cock as you coughed, his eyes nearly rolling into the back of his head. Your throat felt intoxicating. Spasming, and convulsing around his cock. "I'll win next time, I fucking promise."

He bobbed your mouth up and down on his cock, taking all his frustrations out. "You are so fucking good to me," He moaned, rubbing his fingers appreciatively into your scalp again.

His precious, perfect girl.

You couldn't help it. You muffled a moan hearing Scaramouche's praise. That's all you ever wanted to do was take care of him. He was using your mouth like a flesh light. Never once did you miss a beat sucking him off.

To further spoil him, you willingly gagged on his cock occasionally. The wet sounds of your mouth mingled with his moans as he lost himself in the sensation of your throat. You are utter vision on your knees, taking his cock so well, drool pooling from your mouth.

Scaramouche let out a quiet whimper, his hips jerking into your mouth as his cock emptied itself into your mouth. Sighing in relief, he let go of your hair to revel in you tenderly sucking him through his orgasm.

"Is there anything I can do for you, kitten?" He asked gently, looking down at you with a hazy, fucked out expression. You sucked for a few more moments before taking your mouth off his cock.

"Well, there is something," You replied, licking some left over cum off the head of his cock.

"Name it," He stroked a hand through your hair before you stood up and wiped your mouth.

Oh yeah, there was something all right. Giggling excitedly, you went and got your cat ear headphones. Scaramouche bought the head set for you, saying cat ears suited you, and so you could play games with him on streams.

"You can wear these for me next time you stream," You said happily, putting your headphones on his head.

Scaramouche knew he couldn't refuse. Especially not after you'd taken such good care of him.