aunt janice

Crashing Part (1/?)

Title: Crashing Part (1/?)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Characters: Bucky Barnes(mentioned), George Barnes(father,mentioned), Winifred Barnes(mother,mentioned), Rebecca Barnes(sister,mentioned), Natasha Romanoff(mentioned), Janice Barnes(Aunt,mentioned)

Summary: Bucky Barnes is your boss and best friend. What happens when he needs you to pretend to be his fiance?

A/n: God I hope you guys love this, and please do let me know how it is.

Warnings:Smut;)

Crashing Masterlist

Originally posted by justall-myfeelings

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Flashback, 15th September 2016

“Doll, I need a favor” I sighed as Bucky’s voice echoed from my phone. My heels clicked as I walked down the street, the company I worked for just a dozen steps away. I glanced at the guard, flashed the young man a smile as he opened the door, the cold temperature of the air conditioning cooling me down almost instantly.

“Yes James, I’m on the way up with your black coffee” I said, my voice laced with sarcasm as I pressed the lift button, nearly cursing when the two lifts in operation was at the top floor. God who in the right mind goes to the roof at one in the afternoon.

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A Normal, Family Holiday

Rating: General
Word Count: 16,846
Co-written by: skimmingmilk and syl-writes-stuff
Summary: After dealing with Bill and his idea of fun, the Mystery Best Friends need a relaxing and fun holiday to spend being thankful and together.

Set between parts four and five of “Mystery Best Friends.”

[AO3]

“So as soon as the parade is over I want you in your room getting dressed, Gregory.” Amy addressed the group of three teens, one child, and one frog gathered in front of the television, though the focus of the conversation was more on the child in particular. “I already set your clothes on your bed for you.”

“Do they match Wirt’s?” Greg asked without tearing his gaze away from the TV.

“That depends on what Wirt decides to wear,” she replied, heading for the garage.

Wirt glanced at his younger brother, nudging him with his foot for his attention, then winked at him, much to Greg’s delight. “Just show me what Mom picked out for you and I’ll see what I’ve got.”

With that settled, Greg snuggled up to Mabel and resumed watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. The four of them plus frog were sprawled on the floor, the couch having been moved the night before to accommodate the larger table that had taken over the dining room and encroached on the living room, too. They didn’t mind though. Mabel and Greg were both lying on their stomachs closest to the TV, with Wirt leaning against the armchair while Dipper laid his head in his lap, the former idly petting the latter’s hair with his good hand, the pine tree cap elsewhere for the time being. The calm and easy enjoyment of casual commentaries on floats and dance numbers - oftentimes getting shushed by Greg or Mabel or both - was a relief and more than appreciated by both boys.

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This is so funny. You know Ginger’s sexy aunt Janice from our beach outings. She hates going in the water, so usually spends her afternoons in a lounge chair with a glass of wine. The wet patch surrounding the crotch and ass of her bikini is because she wets herself. Her beautiful ass and gorgeous breasts spilling from her top rarely go unnoticed by all the other guys at the beach.

Anyway we were shopping and just finishing lunch. The truck was in the parking garage when Janice stops, slightly spreads her legs and starts peeing. Ginger asked her aunt why she’s wetting herself and all she says in return, half jokingly, “I thought I was wearing my Tena”. It was a warm afternoon and when we arrived home she didn’t even bother changing out of her slacks or panties. Having a wet ass is simply no big deal to her.

So we are at the Jimmy Buffet concert with Ginger’s sexy aunt Janice and are visiting the Ladies to do our makeup. Janice doesn’t bother to pee, just doing her lipstick in front of the mirror. As we’re leaving we ask why she didn’t just go especially since she’d been complaining. This is what she does. I guess she’d already gone in her protective pantie. What a bitch, she does that you know.

Later we sat in a tavern after smoking some more pot and while rocking her grossed legs she tells us about the convenience of wearing a ladies diaper. Just saying how it saves her from the embarrassment from walking around in obviously wet pants.

Sure I still wet my pants. Even though I’m going to be a college senior I like to have fun when I party, but then you wouldn’t have asked unless you noticed my wet ass last weekend. You see when you are really cute and sexy, you shouldn’t need to bother standing in line at the ladies every time you have to pee. These short shorts and heels make my legs look sexy and a little wetness around my puss mostly goes unnoticed.

Some of my friends also go in their pants. I kind of picked up the habit from my neighbor at home. Ginger and her hot aunt Janice both wet themselves on occasion especially if they were at the pool. We weren’t supposed to pee in the pool, so it wasn’t unusual to see pee dripping from under Janice’s lounge chair. A couple of cocktails and she’d be wetting the crotch of her swimsuit.

If any of you are still in doubt about aunt Janice, check out this photo of her butt. She really likes to act out the part of a complete slut, understanding full well what it can do to a certain guys anatomy. Getting licked while high is her favorite thing.

She was sure she would get a reaction if she went out in public in her Attends and booty shorts. Worked to. We were at the store collecting a few things for the evening. You should of seen the expressions on peoples faces. However, Janice carried it off so well. Shows what a super sexy, forty year old women can get away with.

She later confided that the attention she was getting got her super horny, causing her to spritz her diaper as she bent over the ice cream case. You know what happens when she pees herself, so there was little doubt she had an orgasm later as we drove home. Didn’t change her panty, till she went to bed, even after peeing it again out on the pool deck.

Ginger’s sexy aunt Janice was out shopping with us collecting groceries for the party we are planning for this weekend. We made her sit in the back seat of the 4X4 with a couple of the guys. Of course they were carrying on with all sorts of stories from spring break. We were telling Janice about a cute couple they caught in the back bedroom. Janice seemed pretty excited when she heard the details, jiggling her legs and all.

I guess she must have been really “jiggling”, because while we were shopping it became obvious that she’d wet her panties and now the back of her dress was wet. She realizes how sexy she is and that peeing in her panties, for her at least, is just no big deal. People always notice Janice whenever she walks into a room, let alone the grocery store, and when she bends over to show off her wet ass, well……

The Odds

My dad’s sister has survived the odds: a gunshot wound inflicted by her husband, pelvic cancer, seizures, diabetic comas, and more recently, kidney failure. With every setback, she’s a little worse for the wear, but Aunt Janice somehow always beats the house.

When I was a kid, conversing with her wasn’t easy. The bullet had caused deafness and neither of us knew sign language, so sharing tales of my latest spelling bee or letter to the editor of TV Guide required loud enunciation. Word. By. Word. Several. Times. I secretly wanted to ask about her hippie youth and former rock-and-roll days in Hollywood, but the idea of loudly repeating those questions during Christmas at my grandparents’ house? Out of the question.

It wasn’t until I moved to Idaho at 18 that we stopped shouting our questions and started exchanging letters. She herself was adopted—and a single mother—so her handwritten words to me were the supportive kind. After I returned to California, our holiday conversations had more common ground and less awkwardness—plus she’d discovered her version of sign language: a portable whiteboard with dry-erase pens. We continued corresponding when I went off to college, though my TTY calls to her became less frequent.

Over Mexican food a few months after Alberto’s death, she’d squeezed my hand and said something loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear. But she could get away with it: not because she was deaf—because she was widowed. (The gun that wounded her had killed her husband one self-inflicted second later.) When we parted, I promised to resume the habit of sending her postcards on my travels.

Her health continued declining and the postcards that I sent to her assisted-living apartment were now taped to a wall in her nursing home. Most recently, the wall was decorated with pictures of her grandchildren in colorful snowgear, crayon drawings and a photo capturing my recent reunion with the daughter I gave up for adoption in Idaho.

A week ago, Janice’s condition took a turn into unconsciousness. Her daughter has been texting me daily updates and this morning, we find time between time zones for a call. There are tears, laughter, and a few interruptions: she sends her four kids and husband off to the park and I sign for a five-foot-tall mystery box.

We’re discussing the sad but pragmatic details of her mother’s last wishes—no heroics, cremation, have my brother decide on when/where/what type of funeral—when the call comes in.

A few seconds later, my cousin’s words are obscured by her sobs.

She just—oh God—she just passed!

Just now?

Just now, Tré—

Oh cousin, I’m hugging you through this phone so hard.

I gotta—

I know. Do what you need to do. Should I—call my Dad for you?

Yes, please—

I take a breath, say a prayer and make the call.

Once again, I am waking my parents in California with awful news.

When it’s over, I exhale.

Set down the phone.

Notice the giant box in the living room.

In my stunned state, I do not look at the return address: I robotically open the drawer with the box cutter and begin slicing seams.

The box contains another box—printed with the word Fender.

I unwrap a classical acoustic guitar.

And stare at the instrument as though it’s a color invented just for me: a thing waiting for a name, an identity.

My hands shake as I open the accompanying card.

It’s not from Portugal—the ex who taught me my first chords. It’s from a former-friend-turned-nemesis with whom I buried the hatchet several months ago over coffee.

“Seeing you again was music to my eyes…and since you felt good making music, make some more.”

This guitar is her gesture of peace. 

And the gesture—symbolizing music, creative potential, peace—arrives at this moment?

The day my rock’n’roller aunt dies?

What are the odds?

I consider the odds, and decide to name the guitar Janice.

Shortcut Keys

I’m spending Memorial Weekend planning a memorial.

Aunt Janice’s.

Knew the project wouldn’t be a wheelbarrow of sunshine, but I didn’t expect to encounter Alberto at every turn:

As I arrange the reception music and discover that my rock-n-roller aunt loved Streisand and showtunes as dearly as Alberto did.

Or when I launch Adobe Illustrator—an application I’ve never used—to design the program, and my first thought is he should so be doing this for me.

Next thought?

Trade the whine in your head for wine in your hand and start googling advanced things like, um, how do you size a document in Illustrator? create a text box? a photo border?

I ain’t saying how long it took me, but I will say Alberto could do this blindfolded.

Using shortcut keys.

Channel him as I may through Liza, Babs and Adobe tutorials on YouTube, I am not Alberto.

And there are no shortcuts.

Guest Books

A week in the ecosystem that is the Mojave Desert and its trafficky tributaries:

Nostalgic trips through family albums and last-minute arrangements for guest books or iPod docks.

The pilgrimage to Rose Hills, largest cemetery in America, to reunite with cousins and lay an aunt to rest.

Goodbyes rendered and stories shared over a slideshow spanning the nine lives—and hairstyles—of Aunt Janice.

This West Coast trip was all about endings.

The next one?

In late July?

Is the next chapter in beginnings.

I’ll be introducing my parents and grandparents to the reason for my perma-grin this past year: my biological daughter, Laurie.

And if their remarks—finally! a granddaughter! and full-grown!—are the barometer, July can’t come soon enough.

Who You’re Not

Supernatural One Shot

Dean X Reader

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2,432

A/N: Just a short little one shot that I put together. I don’t know.

Tagging: @the-mrs-deanwinchester, @imakittehkatt, @stupid-idjits, @hellooo-tricksters, @mishasmuffin

After disappearing from the face of the Earth in the eyes of your family, them not knowing of your whereabouts or even if you’re alive, one of your cousins recognize you and Dean out and public and when she tells you that your uncle had died, she wants you to come to the dinner that your family is having in mourning of your late uncle. And the only problem is, she believes that you and Dean are dating when in reality you aren’t.

In times of great turmoil, the only way to get over it is through family fights, right? Naturally. And when you great-uncle dies, leaving behind a fortune waiting to be distributed among the very greedy family, the meals became less about remembering the fallen and more about who deserves more money.

But what was a meal without all the family fights?

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