#which is the most stewy thing i’ve ever fucking read so yes stewy is a self made immigrant billionaire

[stewykablooey]

do you think stewy is old money rich?

yes i doooooo i think stewy’s family (and im sure this is the assumption we’re supposed to make) comes from a long line of very wealthy generational wealth. still not at the level of the roys considering the roys are supposed to be one of the richest families in the world, but very wealthy. im sure they lost a chunk of it in the revolution and after they immigrated, but again, remained very wealthy. i do however think that stewy now is the richest he’s ever been

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

The Right Foot

Part Three of Long Shot

Jackpot | Masterlist | Pros and Cons

Pairing: Stewy Hosseini x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ Only. I will block minors interacting with this work.

Length: 4.8K

Notes: Fuck it, third part of the Stewy Hosseini fic

Warnings: Cursing, angst, explicit sexual content—oral sex (female receiving), vagina sex

Not beta-read.

Summary: You don’t want to think about Stewy when he’s not around, but you can’t help yourself.

Working with Stewy has never been fun, but since Vegas—since you cleared the air after Colbert, then mucked it up, and then cleared it again—things have been…Amiable.

It makes you nervous.

Stewy and Sandy’s requests have, for the most part, been reasonable. Of course, that makes you feel like Stewy is trying to lull you into a false sense of security before he drops a request to speak with the President of the United States, lest he terminate your contract. He’d do it, too—you’re certain of it. 

But these days, Stewy seems…Better. He’s on a far more even keel. His decisions seem less erratic; the proxy battle is raging on, but strategy is firming up, and you’ve hit on consistent messaging that’s beginning to resonate with the shareholders, and with the public (namely, that Logan Roy is a dinosaur and has no knowledge of running a modern media company—which the public agrees with, but few people seem willing to say). 

The teasing edge that had trailed through the first couple of days in Vegas has flooded back into your interactions. You’re less afraid to trade barbs with him, which is good. There are of course, still times when you want to wring his fucking neck, and you’re certain that there are times when he’d like to wring yours. You know that you’re not always the easiest person to work with, particularly when you’re annoyed—and Stewy still annoys the fuck out of you on a weekly basis. 

You don’t want to think about Stewy when he’s not around, but you can’t help yourself. When you’re working with another client, you can imagine him wise-cracking about their PR plans, questioning their methods. When you’re working on an email to him and Sandy, you imagine him swanning through some café in SoHo, or lounging on an armchair with a drink in hand, his legs crossed as he bobs a slutty bare ankle, gazing at some dealer or model or rap artist with a carefully measured boredom. When you’re in your apartment, you imagine him in his—whatever his is like, wherever it is. Is he hosting a party? Is he snorting a line off of his coffee table? Is he fucking Grant?

Well, he’s not fucking Grant, you would’ve heard about it by now if he was. 

Is he fucking anyone? 

Probably.

-- 

“So, we’re on for tonight, right?”

The question knocks you for a loop, only adding to the mercurial impression that you have of Stewy these days. But when Michael mutters, “Oh—Shit,” And Stewy looks between the two of you quizzically, brows raising sharply.

“I forgot to ask her,” Michael says guiltily, glancing between the two of you. 

“Ask me what?”

“Well, shit’s been hitting the fan so much lately that I thought we’d uh…Shut the fan off for a bit and chill out,” Stewy tucks his hands into his pockets, “Sandy agrees, so—I’ve arranged something.” 

“Oh?”

“Yeah. You busy tonight?” 

The answer you’d like to give is yes, but the client-conscious answer is no—so you shake your head a little.

“What’s the plan?” 

“You ever heard of Rhomboid?”

“...No,” You answer after racking your brain.

“Really?”

“Seriously.”

Michael scoffs, laughing; the sound sends a flair of irritation through you. “How’s that possible?”

“I don’t do…Things,” You answer lamely.

“Respectfully, that’s bullshit,” Stewy bats back, a little smirk tipping up his stupidly nice lips.

“It is not bullshit,” You insist.

“You’re apparently a regular at one of the most exclusive bars in Manhattan, you travel. That’s doing things.” 

“I’ve been once or twice to a certain bar and I happened to remember which drink there that I liked. I went to Vegas once. You’re making it out to be more than it is.”

“Well, then let’s shake up your fucking routine. Let’s do some things,” Stewy insists, tipping his head toward you conspiratorially. 

“What is Rhomboid?” You ask.

“It’s a fuckin’...Floating party,” Stewy takes his time describing it, directing his eyes thoughtfully at the ceiling as he does so. “My ex manages them, she’s, like, on the ground floor of the operations.” 

“Okay. Where are we meeting?”

“I’ll handle that,” Stewy waves you off, “There’ll be a car outside your place at, like, nine.” 

Christ, this is going to be a late night.

“How do you know where I live?” You ask, but a glance at the still-guilty-mugged Michael answers it. Stewy rounds the table, giving Michael another one of their handshakes before he walks around him, pointing at you on his way out.

“Nine!” He insists. 

--

The precursory social media search that you do of Rhomboid turns up one promotional video that makes you nothing but wary about the situation. You, Michael, Stewy and Sandy at…That? God knows where?

Maybe you should write your will instead of doing your makeup. 

-- 

“You having fun?” 

You think the question may be asked with all sincerity, but you can never fucking tell with Stewy. Regardless, you’ve been at this abandoned warehouse for nearly two hours, and you have yet to have any fun. You will admit that the space is decorated incredibly nicely, and the music is…Fine, but you’re not exactly enjoying yourself. From arriving and giving up your fucking phone to having a number of people ask you if you’re interested in fucking when you’re technically on a work excursion—well, front to back, it’s actually been kind of excruciating. 

You swirl your drink around in your glass, glancing around before finally turning your head to look at Stewy. Even in a casual situation, he looks insanely put together. Jesus, are his jeans tailored? You take in the others—the crush of partiers—all of the things that could get you in trouble, even if you were in a situation that didn’t involve your biggest client. When Stewy tips his head to the side, you realize that he’s waiting for you to answer.

“Oodles.” You turn, leaning against the bar and resting your elbows against it. You take in a deep breath before adopting Bill Hader’s Stefan voice:

“New York’s hottest club is Rhomboid,” You shift your head back and forth, “This place has everything—Molly, sex swings…your coworker asking you for a handy.” 

“No he fucking didn’t,” Stewy turns to you, awed. But Michael had. It had been a painfully awkward affair. Michael had been drunk and giggling, leering at you in the low light. When you’d turned him down, he’d blessedly let it go, and wandered off in search of someone interested.

You nod. “I’m going to chalk it up to the drugs and alcohol and do my best to forget it by Monday.” 

“Shit,” Stewy laughs, shaking his head, “I didn’t think he’d do that.” 

“Makes two of us.” 

“Seriously, though, are you having fun?” 

“Not really.” 

“Why not?” Stewy shifts a little closer, and you force yourself to ignore the warmth of him so close, and the scent of his cologne. It seems stronger than usual. You can’t tell if it’s the heady atmosphere, or if he’s just given himself an additional spritz before leaving his apartment (which you have started to imagine is large, douchey, and decorated with the eclectic touch of an overly ambitious Upper East Side decorator). 

“This isn’t my kinda thing,” You answer, “Is it yours?” 

“What do you think?”

“I think I don’t know you well enough to speak to that facet of your preferences.” 

“Thought you said that you knew men like me.”

“Clearly I do not.” 

“Could ask.”

“I did ask,” You point out, turning to look at him. You find him stunningly close. His eyes seem bottomless in the bar’s dim light; his cheeks are shadowed by his smirk; his eyelashes are so lovely, and his hair looks…Soft.

There’s no real silence between the two of you; there can’t be with the thudding music, and the bustling of the other party-goers (orgy-goers? Is this technically an orgy—?) 

“So?” You press, unable to help it. Stewy’s eyes wander your face before he shakes his head a little, loosening a questioning, “Hm?” As his eyes slide from your lips to your eyes.

“Is this your kinda thing?” You ask.

“Sometimes.” 

“And other times?”

“...Depends on the time.”

You roll your eyes a little, turning your head away from Stewy and looking around. 

“You really don’t like this,” He says.

“Clearly.” 

“Do you like anything?”

“Silence is nice.” You tip your head, giving Stewy a precocious smile. But he smiles, too.

“Is that the sort of thing that would’ve put another white streak in my hair?” He chuckles. 

“Maybe not a full streak, just a strand or two.”

Stewy pushes off of the bar, shifting from foot to foot before he leans against it again, his body turned fully toward you. 

"Look,” He says with careful slowness, “I think we got off on the wrong foot."

“Oh, do you?” “I do—” 

"I think it's pretty precious to assume there's a right foot."

"Well, I would like to start over again with a question, if that's cool with you."

"Depends on the question."

"Do you wanna go fuck?"

It’s as blunt as a blow about the head, spoken with the plainness of his suggestions when you’re on a conference call, or recounting talking points before some show appearance or another. He just looks at you, and blinks, and waits—for you to back down, or for you to tell him to go fuck himself. 

"...Are you serious?” You manage after a moment. Stewy smiles, using his position against the bar to lean just a little closer to you. He glances around, as if ensuring neither Michael nor Sandy are nearby before his head dips toward you.

"I know somewhere quiet where we won't be bothered, you know—in case your coworker comes back angling for a handjob again. So?” 

Your eyes wander his face as you consider. He truly doesn’t seem to be teasing you. You think, maybe, that this is a long game—that there’s an incoming sike. But when one doesn’t arise (maybe he’s waiting for you to agree or decline?), you turn to look out over the bar, gnawing at your lower lip. He might be…Good at it, or he might think that he’s good at it. If he’s awful, you’ll regret it—if he’s great, doubly so. You feel Stewy watching you, and you don’t have to look to know if there’s a stupid little smirk on his face. There always is. 

"Stop it," You grumble. 

"Stop what?"

"Smirking."

"Hey, the longer you're quiet, more of a chance you'll say yes, right?"

"You think so?"

"Quiet means you're thinking about it."

You wish he was wrong. You’d very badly like him to be wrong. But you are thinking about it—the idea of him taking you to dark corner is more appealing than you’d care to admit. You take in a deep breath, and give a single nod.

"...Okay."

"Seriously?" Stewy asks as you turn, plucking up your glass and draining the contents.

“Sure. Why the hell not,” You shrug a shoulder before you clap your hands and rub them together as if to warm them. “Where are we doing this?”  

Stewy rests a hand on your lower back, steering you through the throng. You feel like you should be marking the path from the bar—this warehouse is labyrinthian, full of low light, with a constant flow of people streaming in and out of rooms. You mark moans and slapping sounds coming from one room to the next as you pass them. Stewy doesn’t seem to mind a bit. He doesn’t hurry you along with that hand on your lower back; he doesn’t drive you down the hall. He just leads in a way that’s almost comforting. His touch is steady and sure, and careful. He doesn’t grip or tug. It feels all too…Soothing. 

As soon as Stewy leads you into a room, shutting the door behind himself, you resolve yourself to push away every warm, benevolent feeling that you have had toward Stewy Hosseini in the last five minutes. 

“Isn’t there a lock? What if someone comes in?” You ask, frowning.

“Nah,” Stewy shakes his head, “A shut door here means fuck off.”

When he comes closer, in slow, careful steps, you just reach out, taking hold of his belt and fumbling to undo it (it’s been a while, and these aren’t exactly the circumstances that you figured would be around your next dalliance). Stewy goes still, looking down at your hands, and watching them with stunned amusement.

"What...Are you doing,” He manages after a moment.

"We came in here to fuck, right?"

"And you think I'm gonna just whip it out and stick it in?"

"Yeah,” You shrug, hands going still on Stewy’s belt, “I think you're gonna two-pump-chump it."

"Oh-hoho okay,” Stewy laughs, and the sound of it raises as much ire now as it did at the bar with Michael. “Is that why you said yes? To see if your pussy is so magical that it makes me cum on the spot?"

“Oh, I don’t need proof of that,” You shake your head, looking up from his belt to meet his eyes. 

“No?”

“Nn-nn. I know just how magical my pussy is.”

“Bold claim.”

“I mean, I’m not gonna say that it’s aided in the fall of civilizations—”

“Is this the cunt that launched a thousand ships—”

“Exactly, but I’m still young, you know. There’s time. I’m not dead yet.” 

“Plenty of time,” Stewy agrees, crowding closer. You find yourself backing away a touch, but as your hands are still hooked to his belt, you’re effectively tugging him with you.

“Got your sights set high?” Stewy asks.

“Must not be that high if I’m starting with you.”

“You could do a lot worse than me, you know.”

“Oh, I know. I could be giving my coworker a handjob right now.” 

“Or Sandy.”

“I wouldn’t wanna give Sandy a handy.” 

“No?”

“Nn—That’s just one dick I don’t think I want a look at.” 

“But you wanna look at mine?” 

“Oh, so now you just want me to look at it? Am I gonna paint your dick like it’s one of my French girls?” 

Stewy closes the space between the two of you, resting his hands on your hips.

“Actually, if it’s alright with you, I wanna take things just a little more differently.”

“How so?”

“Do you mind if I—?” 

“Of course.” Your answer comes out more boldly than you feel. You expect Stewy to…Pull your shirt off, or push at the waistband of your pants, or paw at one of your boobs—something. 

But he crowds up close, cupping your cheeks as he leans in for a kiss. You don’t even hesitate to give it to him—you’re too stunned to hesitate. The first press of lips is careful, and gentle—it’s almost chaste. Stewy draws away just a little, eyes wandering your face. You wonder what he’s looking for; you wonder if he can feel the way your face heats with surprise, your heart ticking up in your chest. 

And then you lean into him, letting your eyes slip shut as you almost blindly chase his lips. Stewy hums softly against your lips, the tenderest I told you so. He doesn’t have far to go to press you back into the wall, and you go willingly. You raise your hands from his belt to curl in the fabric of his shirt. Stewy slips a hand around to curl around the nape of your neck, tipping your head as he likes. You let him—you let him move and turn you as he likes. 

You didn’t think it would be like this. You thought the two of you would be quick about the whole thing; you thought Stewy would get in, get out, and go on to his next conquest for the evening. But Stewy is taking his damn time—and you’d be lying if you said that his slow kisses, his almost methodical sweetness, isn't doing it for you. You slip your hands up to skim your fingers through his beard (what the hell, it’s so soft—there must be some sort of oil or something that he uses). Stewy draws away just a little, nudging his nose along yours. Your eyes open, watching him as he murmurs, “Is this too different for you?” 

You swallow thickly, shaking your head a little bit. 

“Nn—nn-nn.” 

“No?”

“No, this is, uh…” You clear your throat, “This is fine.” 

“Just fine? I can go find someone that might do it better,” Stewy offers, his lips brushing yours.

“A generous offer, but no.” 

“You sure?” 

“I think we’re finding a good rhythm.”

“So I shouldn’t go get Sandy to sub in?”

“That is not even funny. I am so dry right now—” 

“Shit,” Stewy groans sarcastically, leaning away, “I am so sorry—” 

“You’re just going to have to make it up to me.” 

“How do you suggest I do that?” Stewy asks, bracketing you in with his arms. 

“Up to you,” You answer as nonchalantly as you can, despite the fact that your entire body feels as if it’s buzzing.

“Putting a lot of faith in me,” Stewy teases, gently pushing at the hem of your shirt. 

“You’ve shown, time and time again, that you get some pretty decent ideas.” 

“Decent.”

“Mhm.”

“My ears are burning.” 

“So, show me what you got, hotshot.” 

“We’re rhyming now?”

“I’m a poet and I don’t even know it.” 

Stewy chuckles, dipping his head and mouthing a gentle kiss to the side of your neck. You squirm just a little, your grip tightening in his shirt. His beard tickles—but it’s not a sharp or unpleasant sensation. 

“Wet yet?” He mumbles against your skin. You smile a touch before answering, “It’s a start.” 

“A start—So, like…Damp?” Stewy presses. You can’t help but laugh, raising a hand and slapping it over your mouth to stifle the sound.

“Okay,” Stewy murmurs. “Okay, I see how it is.”

“Oh?”

“Mm, and this situation…” His hands deftly unbutton your jeans before gently pushing them and your underwear down your thighs, “Clearly calls for direct action.” 

“Is my pussy a situation? I’m not sure how I feel about that.” 

Stewy chuckles, sliding his hand up under your shirt as he lowers himself to his knees. Your breath catches in your throat as you watch him go—as he settles down easily, like he belongs there, and soothes his hands over your thighs, he peers up at you from under his long, dark lashes. You sweep your tongue across your lips, stunned, your stomach churning with surprise and anticipation. 

“How do you feel about it now?” Stewy murmurs. 

“Dunno, you haven’t done anything yet.” Then, against your better judgement—“You know, I never imagined you on your knees for, like…Anyone.”

Stewy hums thoughtfully, his hand smoothing up your inner thigh.

“So you’ve imagined me other ways?”

“...I didn’t say that.”

“Implied it.” 

“You just don’t seem the type.”

“The type to what?”

“You know.”

“You thought I was some Ben-Shapiro-DJ-Khaled shithead?”

“Crossed my mind.”

“So you tried to picture me on my knees and couldn’t.”

“No, I just—I mean you get certain vibes from a person.”

“Uh-huh—”

“And your vibes were, like…cock-focused—”

“Jack-hammering—”

“Dumbass—yeah, well, kinda—”

“Do you want me to eat you out?”

The question is jarring in a way that it shouldn’t be—your pants are tugged down and he’s on his knees for christssake. 

“...Sure,” You answer lamely.

“Because the talking makes it seem like you’re not in the mood.” 

“Then shut me up, Hosseini.” 

Stewy grins, ducking his head sucking a kiss against your pussy lips. The slick warmth and the brush of his beard makes your stomach clench. You expect him to lean back and issue a tease, but he just nuzzles closer before sliding his tongue along your lips. Stewy nudges your legs a touch wider, and you oblige as much as you can with your legs hobbled by your jeans. Stewy hums as he laps hotly over your clit. You press your hands against the wall behind you, sucking in a stunned breath as Stewy flicks the tip of his tongue over your clit, moving from side to side before flicking upward quickly. The sensation is almost maddening; his tongue slides unerringly as his beard brushes your pussy, nudging against your inner thighs. 

You glance down, confused, when you feel him yanking at your foot.

“Off,” He mutters, leaning back to look down at your shoe.

“Zipper—On the side,” You manage, your mind racing as you watch him undo one shoe and tug it away, then the other. You think he might grasp your ankle and tug your foot down to grind against—and you’re fine with that—but instead, he pulls both shoes off before he reaches up, yanking your jeans and underwear down the rest of the way. You obligingly lift one foot, then the other. Stewy tosses them away before he tucks his hand around your knee, tugging your leg up and over his shoulder. You feel far more exposed this way, but it doesn’t last long—Stewy is diving right in, sweeping his tongue across your spread pussy, steadying you with a hand resting against your stomach.

“Fuck,” You breathe, letting your eyes fall closed. Stewy just hums against you, making your hips twist desperately against his mouth. Stewy smooths his hand up your thigh again before he teases his fingertips along your slick opening. He lets out a curious sound, drawing back to peer at your glistening, flushed lips in the low light. 

“Look at that,” He mutters. 

“What?”

“I’d say that’s more than damp.” 

You loose an ugly laugh, tipping your head back against the wall as you squeeze your eyes shut.

“Shut up!” You screech, reaching down and blindly batting at his forehead, “God you’re the wo-orst!” Your voice hitches as he leans back in, sucking your clit between his lips as he eases a finger into you. You shiver, pressing down against it. Stewy laves his tongue over your lips, carefully thrusting the finger in and out before pressing in another. You squirm, sliding your hands up under your shirt and squeezing your breasts through your bra. It feels good, but it’s not enough. Your body grows hotter and hotter with each passing thrust and curl of Stewy’s fingers, every swipe of his tongue, and each hum, and sigh. You finally reach down, tugging the hem of your top up and over your head, tossing it in the direction of your jeans before you reach back to undo your bra. No sooner than your bra is shrugged off does Stewy reach up, palming one of your breasts. He groans against your cunt as his thumb sweeps across your hardening nipple.

“Shit, Stewy,” You sigh, covering his hand with one of your own and squeezing your breast with his hand. His fingers pick up pace as you gasp, your hips rolling more harshly against him.

“Goddamn,” He mumbles against your pussy, “Fuck, you’re so wet.” He sounds stunned by it. Looking down, you find Stewy watching you grind against him, lips parted, then closing to bite at his lower lip. He peers up at you from under his lashes again, his lips and beard shining with you. He leans in, sticking his tongue out for you to fuck against. You find that you can’t take your eyes off of him as you grind more fervently, face going hot with his attention.

“Stewy,” You mumble in warning, jaw quivering as you feel your orgasm building. He nods, lapping swiftly over your pussy as he curls his fingers. Your legs tense as you hinge forward just a touch, gasping as your orgasm shoots through you. You grind sharply against his lips, as your pussy pulses around his still-probing fingers. Stewy gives your pussy lips one last suck before he rocks back onto his heels, peering up at you, his lips, chin and beard slick.  

“You think Ben Shapiro could do that?”

--

“What happened to being so chatty?”

“Shut up.”

“I thought you enjoyed a bit of conversation,” Stewy grins as he curls over you, bracing his hands on the floor on either side of your head. You stubbornly fight the urge to close your eyes, to hone in on and savor the stretch of your pussy around his cock. 

“You were certainly talking plenty before.”

“You told me that the talking made you feel like I wasn’t in the mood. I can take a note when it’s given.” 

“Well, that was different.” 

“Oh, so you want me to talk now?” It’s a wonder to you that you can snip at this man now, even as he bottoms out, his condom-sheathed cock twitching as your pussy tightens around him. ”You want me to tell you how big your dick is?” 

Stewy swallows thickly, his adam’s apple bobbing as he gives a small nod.

“Could start there, sure.”

“Want me to do that before or after your two pumps?” 

Stewy’s lips split into a wolfish grin before he rears back, palming your hip.

“You know what—”

“Just tell me, before or after—”

“Because you’re so good at taking a note?” 

“Oh, I’m the bes—” You can’t finish your taunting. Your jaw drops open as Stewy’s hips snap against yours once. You suck in a breath, pressing up against him. You hadn’t been shocked by how in-shape he was; the cut of his clothing had always made it pretty clear. But even now, as you allow your eyes to wander his chest and arms, you can’t help but admire his physique. 

“Th-That’s one,” You tease, curling your fingers around his shoulders. 

“You’re gonna eat those fuckin’ words,” Stewy swears, his thrusts slowing to a shallow pulse.

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

Stewy presses you more tightly to the floor as his hips hammer yours. You arch your back, brushing your chest against Stewy’s, whimpering at the sensation. Stewy dips his head, sucking a kiss to your jaw. You slide your hand up to curl around the nape of his neck, and rest it there for a moment before you finally give into the urge to reach up and slide your hand into his hair (which is, unsurprisingly, just as soft as his beard).

“If you give me a fucking hickey, Hosseini—”

Stewy gives a harsh suck to your jaw, and you pull in a gasp, tugging his hair in retaliation.

“I’m s-erious,” You whimper, though the way your cunt pulses around his cock probably makes it clear that you’re lying. Stewy slows his pace to a lazy roll as he tips his head up.

“I thought you were just starting to relax.”

“Stewy—” 

“And now you’re being serious?”

“You like the sound of your voice too much,” You groan, letting your head fall back and rest on the floor.

“You don’t like it? Baby, you’re gonna hurt my feelings.” 

You can’t see Stewy’s smile, but you can hear it. It makes you push yourself up against him and curl your legs around his. Stewy lowers his head, nuzzling his beard across your neck. 

“Why can’t I mark you up?” Stewy murmurs, “Worried Michael will see?” 

“Please don’t talk about Michael right now—” 

“Worried Sandy’ll—”

“No coworkers!”

Stewy chuckles, bracing his hands against the floor and beginning to snap his thrust sharply against yours. You groan, sliding your hands up to cup his neck. You don’t bother quieting your moans or whimpers; no one else at this party does. As Stewy picks up pace, you grow louder and louder, your moans growing to cries and wails as your orgasm swells.

“Stewy—Fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop—”

Stewy curses against the juncture of your neck, his mouth widening and pushing out harsh, slick pants against your neck as his hips rabbit and twitch against yours. You can feel his cock pulsing and twitching. You hiss softly, sagging back and untensing as you begin to come down from your orgasm. You uncurl your fingers from where they’re cupping Stewy’s neck before you slide them tenderly over his shoulders. Stewy brushes a kiss along your jaw before he carefully rolls off of you.

“...If you give me ten minutes,” He says. You laugh softly, shaking your head.

“A charming offer, but I’ll be too busy washing my mouth out with Everclear.” 

You feel Stewy watching you as you push yourself up off of the floor, beginning to gather your things and put on your clothes.

“...You at least have fun?”

You glance down in time to see Stewy tying off the condom and tossing it into a nearby bin.

“I lost count of the number of pumps, so. You know, fine, I guess.” 

“You guess?”

“Uh-huh.” 

“So how about in fifteen minutes, five minutes after you finish gargling with Everclear—” 

“I’m leaving now.” 

“Okay.” 

As you leave the room, you see something that makes you stop dead. You can’t drag your eyes from it, your mouth working wordlessly before you finally manage:

“...Hosseini.” 

“Seconds already? I’m gonna need another seven minutes at least.”

You turn back to where he’s still lying on the floor, relaxed and sated. You snap twice, drawing his full attention before you point. 

“There was a bed here the whole time?”

“Oh…Whoops.” 

Tag list: @buckybarneshairpullingkink​​ ; @mad-girl-without-a-box​​ ; @revolution-starter​​

[sherri0318]

Better mom

 After a conversation I had with a friend recently I was asked a question I couldn’t really answer.

The question was, If you could be interviewed by someone or interview someone who would it be? What would you want to talk about or learn from?

I was a bit stumped by this and it took me about 5/10 mins to come up with an answer.

My answer was, I would want to learn… Learn to be a better mom

Why do you ask? Well it’s like this. We all think we are good parents for the most part and I do think I am an overall good mom, but I could be better. Couldn’t I?

I have a 7-year-old boy and a 9-year-old girl. I do my best everyday to make sure they are well clothed, well fed, well cared for. They don’t go without things or “stuff” as we call it… They certainly are not spoiled. They just maybe have more than I did as a small child.

Which is one thing I set out as being a mom, was to teach them that they can’t have everything all the time just because. They must earn it or work for it. Now you may think that is odd being they are so young. Earn or work at this point for them is more behavioral… But I am hoping that by not just giving in all the time it’s a start to lessons down the road.

I am not going to sugar coat any of this, because damn it. It’s hard being a good mom! It’s not easy, sometimes it flat out sucks. Mommy can I have, mommy can I do… As stewie from the family guy said as well do all children “mom mom mom mummy mummy mummy momma momma momma ma ma ma ma ...” WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT!

There’s the breaking point! SNAP. CRACKLE. POP. Ya it’s fuckin hard! Some moms are single (like me), some have children whom are ill, some have no money, hell some even have no home or job… whatever it is, we all know the struggle it is to be a mom. “Let alone a good one!”

What does it take to be a better mom? Is it more love? Is it less? Is it more attention or do you give too much? I have always had the laid back, easy approach. I know I certainly am not the on top of things soccer/scrapbooking mom… But there are some things I want them to learn from me.

Things they need to learn

Love: Learn to love with all your heart not half of it. Love yourself! Just learn to Love and Love hard!

Be respectful, especially to your elders in which case to them is everybody!

Say please and thank you. Say Pardon, it’s never fucking huh or what!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Say I’m sorry! Not sorry, with your eyes rolling at the same time (there is a difference!)

Try Hard: If that doesn’t work, then TRY HARDER!!!

You are not going to pass that test if you don’t study. You are not going to make that team if you don’t put the work in, and you are not gonna just fall into that job or get that promotion. You’ve got to try and work hard!

Learn to be loyal and not be a bully! Make good friends and keep them!

Get dirty: I don’t care if you roll around in that mud puddle, I just told you NOT to. Who am I kidding I would hate that! Don’t ever do that… You may however eat that candy that you just dropped on the arena floor!

Listen:  to people when they talk to you! Hear them out. They might be teaching you something, or they may be full of shit? Listen to them anyway. Maybe they don’t have anyone else to talk to.

Laugh: for shit sakes there is nothing better than to hear a child laugh! It can make even the sourest person smile! It’s infectious. And even better when they are laughing at you! Because you did that mom! You made them laugh uncontrollably… Ok enough. Stop it. It’s not funny anymore. Quit it. Cut it out. Seriously it’s not funny anymore! ENOUGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Don’t be: Mean, hurtful, disrespectful, obnoxious, narcissistic, a liar. Just don’t be an asshole, nobody likes an asshole!

Funny when I write all this stuff down, If I can pull anyone of these lessons off. I might just receive “Best fucking mother of the year” award!

There is such a thing, right?

I am a good mom! Could I be better? Hell yes! But guess what. I am still learning too…

 No really, when I sit here and read this. I am a good mom.. So far I think I’ve done a great job being a mom… Everything in this blog, my children have learnt and if not they are still learning and that’s ok too… As long as they keep this stuff dear to their heart. My kids are gonna be just fine!

      #bettermom