#꩜ ┊ I KNOW I'M BETTER THAN THIS. — ✧₊⁺ (musings.)

[luvnanako]

Helping Jinx ✮⋆˙

Jinx x F! Reader (wlw, fluff)

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"Okay, toots, now… gimme that little thingy with the blue stripes on the bottom." Jinx's voice rings out with her usual playful energy as she points vaguely toward a cluttered pile of tools and parts. It’s that time of the week again—helping your girlfriend build her chaotic little gadgets. And by "helping," she mostly means handing her whatever she needs while she dives headfirst into her creative frenzy.

From crafting monkey bombs, guns, and grenades to making ridiculously impractical things like tiny glowing lights, weird belts, and other odd tripnkets, her workshop is always buzzing with activity. Of course, in typical Jinx fashion, she always manages to find time to whip up something just for you, too.

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You carefully pick up the item she asked for and place it on her crafting table with a soft thud. "Yeaah, that one!" she exclaims, tossing off her oversized goggles to give you a wide, mischievous grin. "Keep this up, and you might just earn some more kisses later," she adds, her tone dripping with her usual teasing charm.

You cross your arms, leaning casually against the table as you smirk at her. "What can I say? I'm a crafty one. At this rate, you might as well call me your most loyal servant," you reply, letting out a soft laugh and playfully winking at her.

Jinx picks up a pink marker from the side of her table, glancing at you with a mock serious expression. "Oh my god, what did you eat today? I think you might be sick, toots," she teases, sticking her tongue out as she starts doodling a little face on one of her monkey bombs.

"Yeah, well, I guess you’re just a bad influence on me," you quip back, laughing softly as you bump her shoulder.

Jinx gasps dramatically, placing a hand on her chest. "Who, me? Nuh-uh, I don’t know who you take me for, but I have nothing but an *amazing* influence on you." She finishes her drawing with a flourish, spinning the bomb around to show you. "What do you think? Pretty sweet, right?"

You lean in closer, pretending to examine her work critically. "Looks good, but maybe add a little heart on it," you suggest with a grin.

Without hesitation, Jinx grabs a blue marker and draws a small heart on the bomb, then scribbles both your initials inside it. "Voilà! Perfect now!" she declares, beaming with pride.

You can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm as you step behind her, wrapping your arms around her waist and resting your chin on her shoulder. "I wouldn’t actually mind getting bombed by this one," you say, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek and giggling.

Jinx chuckles, tilting her head back to look at you. "Be careful what you wish for," she says with a smirk, puckering her lips dramatically.

You roll your eyes but lean down to give her a quick peck. "Awhh, come on, toots, you can do better than that," she pouts, her lips curling into a playful little frown as she looks up at you with wide, cat-like eyes.

You let out a laugh, shaking your head. "You’re such a brat, you know that?"

"And you *love* it," she shoots back, grinning as she spins her chair around to face you, grabbing your hand to pull you closer.

Jinx pulls you closer until your knees bump into hers, her wild grin softening into something almost tender. "Admit it," she whispers, her voice dropping to a teasing murmur, "you'd be bored out of your mind without me."

You arch an eyebrow, smirking as you look down at her. "Oh, absolutely. My life would be so dull without the constant threat of explosions and chaos."

Jinx lets out a loud laugh, leaning back in her chair as she spins in a slow circle, arms out dramatically. "Exactly! I'm your spark, toots. Your chaos. Your muse!"

You shake your head, trying not to laugh as she grabs your hand mid-spin to stop herself. The motion pulls you closer until you’re standing between her legs. For a moment, the energy in the room shifts, the buzz of her gadgets and tools fading into the background.

Jinx looks up at you with a crooked smile, her fingers still loosely wrapped around yours. "You know," she says softly, "I don’t let just anyone into my workshop. You're kinda special."

Your chest tightens at her sudden sincerity, but you don’t let her get away with it too easily. "Special enough for you to put our initials on a bomb?" you tease, gesturing to the monkey bomb she decorated.

"Exactly," she replies with a wink. "That’s how you know it’s true love."

You laugh, shaking your head as you lean down to press your forehead against hers. "You’re impossible," you murmur, smiling.

"And you’re stuck with me," she counters, her voice light but filled with meaning.

"Yeah," you whisper, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "And I wouldn’t have it any other way."

Jinx's smirk grows, and before you can say anything else, she grabs the monkey bomb from the table, holding it up proudly. "Now let’s go see if this baby works!"

You groan, stepping back as she hops to her feet, her excitement practically vibrating off her. "I’m starting to rethink this whole 'helping you' thing," you say, but your smile betrays you.

"Too late, toots!" she calls over her shoulder, already bounding toward the door. "You’re in this with me now!"

And just like that, you find yourself chasing after her, laughing as she drags you into another whirlwind of chaos and invention—because that’s what life with Jinx is all about.

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A/N heyyyy I'm currently making Caitlyn vampire au 2nd part so I made this one as a little filler! I hope you enjoyed reading this and I'm so so sooo grateful for all the feedback!

[startrekfangirl2233-writes]

Law and Order - A Once In A Blue Moon Story

Part I

Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Reader

Description: When a blind date leads to disaster, you're almost ready to give up on men. Until he sits down on the bar stool in front of you. This man is different - sensual, gorgeous, confident. He makes you want to live a little on the wild side. What do you do when a night you don't want to forget turns into a forbidden relationship by light of day? How do you cope, especially when he doesn't seem to want a thing to do with you?

Warnings: Rough sex, illicit relationship, dom/sub overtones, toxic relationship, inbalance of power in the work place

Word Count: 5766

Author's Note: Hiya lovelies! It's been a while since I've posted a story on here. I kind of lost my muse and had to find her, and my love for writing all over again.

Thanks to @horseshoegirl @sarahsmi13s and @desert-fern for chatting with me about this story and making sure I'm handling all of the things which happen in the best way I can!

This is going to be a multi-part story. Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged!

AO3: Cross-posted here!

My Masterlist

Series Masterlist | Next Part

Part I

The noise washes over you in waves, inane chatter and shrieking from the velvet booths lining the walls, combined with the genteel clacking of cutlery against china in a migraine-inducing din. The bar you’re in is popular, with tables occupied from wall to wall. Normally, you’d consider yourself fortunate to be seated at one of them. There’s one reason why you’re not. Blind dates have never gone well for you. Either your dates are drab and dull, or you’ve been partnered with the worst men on the planet. Rude, boorish, vulgar, you name it, you’ve been on a date with a man bearing the unsavory trait. Tonight’s date isn’t shaping up to be any better.

You’re sitting at the tiny bar-style table playing with the wine in your glass, watching the carnelian liquid slosh as the liquid warms by the second. Your attention is completely on the droplets of wine sliding down the sides of the glass. Your date could care less. He doesn’t seem to notice your boredom or frustration. In fact, you’re not sure he’s even looked at you all night. He’s chattering about something involving stocks and bonds, the details so boring your eyes nearly roll back into your head while peering over the rim of his pint glass at every cocktail-dress-clad girl in sight. Drinks at this swanky bar were supposed to turn into dinner. You’re not sure this date is going to go that far.

Moreover, you’re not sure you want it to. You’re on this date as a favor for a friend. She’d sworn up and down that this guy was a real gem when she was setting you up with him. She’d spent days talking him up, pointing out how kind and hot he was. Sure, he hasn’t been the worst date you’ve been on. He is easy on the eyes, and nice at first impression. But he isn’t anything special. Maybe you have loftier expectations for your relationships than most. Or maybe you just want to go on a date where you can have a conversation, not be talked at in a mockery of one. In any case, you don’t find yourself too disappointed. You’re starting a new job in the morning and you should be fresh for your 8 AM orientation time - an early night would have been your preference. But your watch says it is already past 7 PM and getting later by the minute. This man can’t seriously think he’s so suave, can he? He’s been sending you alluring gazes and smug grins all night long, uncaring of your silence.

“So, whattaya say to skipping dinner and heading back to my place for the rest of the night?”

You’re not sure you heard him right. Mind churning, you sip on the wine, barely tasting the liquid. You’re not sure what he expects. Did he expect you to jump him the minute he offered? You’re resettling your mental estimation of his intellect downwards by the minute.

“I’m awfully hungry,” you demur. “Dinner sounds pretty good to me.”

“I’ve got something that’ll fill you up back at my place.”

His voice is greasy enough that you feel a little disgusted just hearing it. 

“Yeah?” You make your voice breathy like you’re a little turned on by his display. You lean forward, knowing the deep vee of your dress is showing off the slightest hint of the lace edging your bra. He smirks pompously, chest-puffing outward, eyes tipping to your exposed cleavage like iron ore to a magnet. He has the audacity to lick his lips, and while before you would have let him down gently, now you want to hit him where it hurts - his ego.

“Well, I hope you enjoy it all by yourself.” Your grin is sharp. “Like you probably have been every night for the last few years of your life.”

He looks a little like he’s been slapped, this finance bro, with his lips gawping unflatteringly.

“Do you have any idea who I am in this town?” He’s turning red under the collar, eyes bugging out.

“Nope.” You say the words flippantly, sipping on the last inch of the red wine at the bottom of your glass. You may not like the man, but he has good taste in wine.  “Nor do I care to.”

You lean in then, your off-putting grin widening across your cherry lips.

“I have no interest in getting to know a pompous, over-blown man-child who loves to flaunt their success in other people’s faces. So no. I won’t be coming home with you for a night in. I think I’d throw up if I saw the ‘something that fills me up’ you’ve got over there.”

He’s so angry, his face screws up at your words, the flush creeping up to his face.

“Bye-bye, now!”

He nearly knocks over a waitress and two fellow patrons on his way out of the door, sputtering impotently the entire way.

You’re still chuckling to yourself ten minutes later when a fresh glass of wine is set in front of you. 

“That was artfully done.” You startle a little at the words, your head whipping up so fast that your neck hurts at the sudden motion. The new man settling into the barstool before you is a cut above the gentleman you spoke to. Your face must show some confusion because he continues, “I saw you chase that guy away.”

He’s gorgeous, broad shoulders clad in a perfectly fitted suit. Every inch of his appearance screams luxury and class, from his auburn hair to his well-groomed mustache. He’s got long-fingered hands, one holding a cut crystal glass holding amber liquid, the other bearing a signet ring on the index finger as it rests on the table between you. There are eyes on him from all over the bar, and yet he doesn’t seem to notice. His whiskey eyes settle only on you like you're all he wants to see.

“Thank you.” You grin, sipping on the wine, the rich red liquid delicious on your tongue. “But it was necessary, I’m afraid.”

You nearly gag just thinking about the last words that idiot said to you before he left. At least you had the good sense to cut him off before he tried to strong-arm you into getting in bed with him.

“I kind of overheard what he said.” This stranger is smirking, confidence exuding from every pore. You’re drawn by his easy demeanor, as much as you are by his opening words. Hopefully, they’ll lead to an actual conversation. “It’s obvious he has no idea how to get to know a beautiful woman like yourself.”

“Is that so?” You lean forward again, wondering if a flash of your cleavage will take him in. But he doesn’t take the bait you’re presenting so alluringly. All he does is take off the suit jacket he's wearing, revealing the tanned vee of his neck in a white button-up shirt. You have to hide your hungry glances behind the rim of your wineglass when he rolls the sleeves up to the crook of his elbow.

“Yeah, sweetheart. I’d much rather get to know you instead.” He leans forward too, and as he does, you see gold glinting from between his pecs.

“I promise I’m nothing like that idiot you chased away with your cherry-lipped smile and acid words.”

You shrug, running a finger over the rim of the glass. “I don’t know anything yet.”

He shrugs then, sipping on his drink nonchalantly. You drag your eyes up and down his person. He lets you check him out with good grace, a smirk tipping his lips up and eyes hot as they return the languid glances. “But maybe, just maybe, I’d like to.”

As he’d introduced himself to you, Bradley is a breath of fresh air. You find yourself on the edge of your seat, hanging on his every word. He’s flirty, kind, yet down-to-earth. He's a professional working in the city, loves his family and friends, and reads actual, genuine books. If only your friend had set you up with Bradley instead. Under his knowing gaze, you find yourself spilling things you’ve never told another soul. 

The crowd surges around you as the night deepens. But still, you stay, sitting on the stool, downing glass after glass of plush, rich reds and fruity, dry whites while wishing Bradley was drinking his whiskey off your lips. With each word shared, each story, the spark of attraction smoulders between the two of you. Between one trip to the bar and the next, he settles on the stool next to yours. 

If you thought he was breathtaking across the table, he's heart-stopping sitting next to you. His effect on you is worse because when he's close, you just have to look down to see the mile-long expanse of his legs, muscular thighs practically straining against the expensive wool blend of his trousers.

“Tell me if I’m reading this wrong, beautiful.” His eyes are searingly hot a few inches away from you. He’s got an arm wrapped around your waist, a big hand splayed just under your breasts. “But I’d very much like to take you home tonight.”

You gasp at the feeling of his breath across your lips. One inch closer, and you’d be kissing him.

“I shouldn’t.” Your voice is quiet, a little hoarse from the alcohol, nonstop chatter and laughter. “I don’t usually go home with strange men at the bar, no matter how attractive they are.”

He smiles, tipping his head to the side. His voice is a rumble as he whispers into your ear, tone wheedling, his other hand trailing down the neckline of your dress, fingers hot over the delicate skin of your chest.

“I promise if you want me to stop at any time, I will. I’ll call you a cab and send you home with my number saved in your phone as soon as you say the word.”

You’re losing your words, your arguments at his voice. All the reasons why you shouldn’t go home with a near stranger dissipate with every minute you stare into his eyes. 

“Take me home,” You gasp, sucking in greedy breaths as he plays with your necklace. You knew he was tall when he walked away to get your new drink, but when he helps you off the stool and drapes his suit jacket across your shoulders, he dwarfs you easily. You have a sneaking suspicion you may be in trouble. 

He leads you out of the bar with a steady, warm hand at the small of your back. Despite the crowded streets, a taxi shows up the minute he raises his hand, power and confidence an aura emanating from him. The taxi ride to his apartment downtown is an alcohol-fueled swirl of sensation. Your focus is split between the broad palm splayed over your bare thigh and the filthy litany spilling out of his bitten lips. He keeps the words just barely audible, a placid grin on his face every time the cab driver looks back, and you’re fighting the urge to drag him into filthy kisses the entire way. 

Would you be able to taste the whiskey on his tongue? Or would he taste like the mints, sharp and peppery with an underlying hint of sweetness he’d popped as you left? You can’t know for sure, not until you’ve finally got him behind closed doors.

And what doors they end up being. When Bradley unlocks the doors and ushers you in, your jaw drops to the floor. His living room is a gorgeous, high-ceilinged room, with walls half distressed brick and half grey-toned wood panelling. The floors are soft, sandy wood. While you very much would like to see the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining two of the four walls, complete with a rolling ladder like you’ve only ever seen on television, your eyes are drawn to the massive windows showing off the beautiful San Francisco skyline, lit up in the night.

“Your apartment is beautiful.” 

“It’s not the only thing that is.” 

You whirl around at the words, fighting the heat threatening to overtake your face. If Bradley looked practically edible languidly sprawled over the barstool, long legs brushing against yours, he looks divine standing in his living room with his bright white shirt unbuttoned to his navel.

“I-I don't usually do things like this.”

You curl an arm around your waist, hugging yourself. Standing here in the center of his cookie-cutter-perfect living room, you feel like an outsider, like the speck of lint or dust spoiling the facade. You don’t belong here. You don’t deserve to stand opposite a man this beautiful, be propositioned or devoured by him. Yet when you glance upward, his face shows you nothing but heat and hunger.

“Shh, sweetheart.” The pet-name makes you shiver, gooseflesh forming on your bare arms and pimpling over your collar bones. “I know you don’t. But we have all night to figure out what you like. We'll go as slow as you need.”

You’re not sure what you’re looking for in his face. Reassurance? Compassion? Want? Hunger? You see all those things and more. He lets you stand there in silence, eyes drinking you in, comfortable just watching and being watched. The more you see, the more you can feel your mind change. With the haze of alcohol thrumming through your veins fading a little, your brain is making more decisions. It was lust, pure and simple which got you here. Now your brain has to decide what you want to do here. More and more, the decision seems to be following him, letting yourself fall. You’ve never been impetuous, not where matters of the heart are concerned. Maybe you should be for once. The words end up tripping off the edge of your tongue of their own volition.

“What if I don’t want to go slow at all?” 

You know what it means when a man smiles at you like that, eyes molten, tongue sliding out to wet his lips. He prowls forward then, feline grace rippling the muscles of his torso. His arms feel like silk over steel as they crush you to his chest. Your heart stutters, breath catching as he leans forward. But he doesn’t kiss you. He seems content to breathe you in, foreheads pressed together. His mustache traces ticklish and light over your upper lip with every breath. You want nothing more than to smash your lips to his.

“I bet you don't, beautiful.” His eyes sparkle in the darkness as he traces one calloused fingers over your lacquered lips. “But I get the feeling you don't know what you want. You've spent all night so far telling me you don't let people take you home on the first night. But here you are, practically gasping for every touch of my skin to yours. So what’s going on in that pretty little head?”

The words make you squirm a little, thighs rubbing together futilely.

“I wonder,” His tone goes soft and contemplative yet light as he slides his hand up the expanse of your soft thighs, tenderly squeezing the muscular flesh. “Were you searching for a man to take you in hand? Someone who would smack that pretty little ass when you're being a brat? Is that why you chased that guy away so easily? Did you know instinctively he wouldn’t be able to do that for you?”

When you moan, it feels like you've lost the game he started playing. But you're not disappointed, not when his lips quirked upwards in a proud grin. And not when you feel his finger sweep over the damp gusset of your panties, teasing and light.

“Fuck, I knew you'd be gorgeous like this.” 

You shiver against him, muscles trembling, fighting against the urge to move his hands where you want them most. But even the slightest motion has those big hands clamping down over your wrists or swatting at the meat of your thigh, just harsh enough that you jolt. Your head is spinning already. 

“You're so quiet, so compliant and obedient, my good girl.” You have to swallow your whimpers at the term of endearment. “I can’t wait to see how good you can be.”

You nod, maybe too eagerly, if the smirk taking over his face is proof. 

“See?” The phrase is almost mocking as he purrs, “So damned pretty and soft and sweet.”

Your voice shakes as you try to collect your composure, breaking despite all the force of your will.

“I'm not that sweet. I can be rude and domineering and brash.”

He chuckles, pointing to a dark hallway, branching off the living room.

“Go to my bedroom, sweetheart. Take that sinful little dress off and sit on the bed.”

You're so gone for this man already. You don’t know his last name, what he does for work, or anything important. But you don’t care. As you trot into his bedroom, all you can think about is how his lips looked as they said, “good girl,” and how desperately you want to be good for him. Your hands are rough as you tug at the suddenly constricting fabric of your dress. You want it off; need the suddenly scratchy fabric away from your skin. When the dress lands on the ground in front of the bed in a bundle of dark fabric, you feel like you can finally breathe.

“Such a pretty girl.” 

You startle at the whisper. You hadn't turned the lights on when you walked in, navigating in the half-light of the streetlights below. A switch clicks in the silence, and you're surrounded by a halo of light. Bradley's in the shadows still, and you can’t see even a glint of his eyes.

“Turn around, baby.” 

You feel exposed all of a sudden, wearing only your lacy bra, barely there panties, and heels. His voice seems to echo around you, muddled and sibilant as they murmur words - orders - your way.

“Hands on the bed frame, beautiful.”

You stumble over your own feet as you rush to follow his instructions. With your eyes next-to-useless in the cool darkness of the room, it feels like your other senses are in overdrive.

“You look hotter than sin standing there like that, gorgeous.” 

You can feel the puffs of his breath over your sensitized skin, the fine hairs covering your arms standing on end at his presence ghosting over you.

“Fuck, you’re so sweet, so compliant and obedient for me. Keep those legs apart for me, now.” 

He chuckles darkly, the sound deep and velvety soft. You have to fight your whine as your knees nearly buckle at the way he sounds.

“You like that?”

You whine when his big hand smooths over the expanse of your back. 

“I knew you’d like having someone tell you what to do. I knew you’d look delicious like this, spread out for me like that. Pretty girl, my pretty, pretty baby.”

Your brain fritzes out at those words, all higher-level thoughts blanking out at the possessive curl to his voice. Your prior dalliances - you'd never call them relationships because they were too short to be labeled as such - were never bold enough to become so possessive with you. You never thought you would like it. But hearing Bradley call you his, even when you know this is only for tonight, makes your toes curl and your panties uncomfortably wet.

“What happened to that fire, huh? What happened to the feisty little thing who sent a man away for asking you to hop into his bed on the first meeting?”

His words are a little mocking as those big hands smooth over your waist, plucking at the waistband of your panties.

“Bet his eyes would fall out of his head if he could see you standing here, just like this. With your pert little ass on display and your pussy all wet for me.”

You moan at the words, gasping at the feeling of his hands as they tug the lacy fabric down, flinching at the snap of the clasp of your bra as he pulls that away, too. Your skin flushes with heat at the feeling of the soft kiss he presses to the small of your back. But the tender teasing touches disappear shortly after. He leaves you standing there, wearing only your red-bottomed heels, aching for his touch, shivering as the cool air wafts over your heated skin. You have a feeling he’s still there, your ears picking up each infinitesimal rustle of fabric and soft brush of footsteps on the floor. He’s just left you standing splayed out for his own amusement. 

How is it possible for you to feel both turned-on and uncomfortably exposed at the same time? Your fingers ache from holding onto the smooth wooden surface of the bed frame. As your patience wanes, your fidgeting increases.

“Bradley?”

You’ve never heard yourself sound like this, plaintive and strung out, aching for someone else's touch. It feels like you’re breaking down walls you’ve never known you had put up. All you can do is hold onto the bedframe and pray you aren’t vulnerable with someone dangerous.

“Nuh, uh, uh, pretty.” The hushed admonishment comes with the press of lips against your shoulder blade.

“If you want me, then you have to tell me exactly what you want.”

You tremble at the words, grip tightening on the burnished wood until all you can feel is the tug of stressed muscles. You let your head fall until your hair is obscuring everything from sight. You’re not sure you can say these words, not without feeling horribly, uncomfortably exposed. 

“Touch me, please.” 

It’s the barest whisper, but you know he hears you. His hands are hot against your skin as they draw you up. You surrender to the sensations of his calloused fingers trailing over your stomach. They’re teasing and light as they shape your breasts, palms hot as they hold you close.

“Oh, baby, you feel better than I even thought possible.”

Pleasure sinks molten and sweet through your veins at the gorgeously rough purr in his voice. You sag against him, barely trusting in your limbs to hold you. You can feel his smile as he presses hot kisses down the side of your throat. The scratch of his stubble makes you gasp. With every press, the ache between your thighs intensifies even further. But Bradley doesn’t move his hands, no matter how you wriggle or try to push his hands down to where you so desperately need them.

“Please, Bradley.”

It feels like you’ve been begging for his touch forever when he finally moves. His hands twirl you around, and you find yourself crushed to his chest. His eyes are molten, prismatic as he tugs you close. It feels like you’re drowning in him. You curl your arms around his muscular neck, staring deep into his eyes as he peers at you.

“Please, what, baby?”

There’s a mocking tilt to the smug grin on his face as he looks you over.

“I told you what I need from you tonight.” 

You whimper at the words, trying to surge up, aching for some more contact from him.

“Kiss me.” 

“Good girl.” You’re not sure you’re ever going to get tired of hearing him call you a ‘good girl”. But then his lips cover yours, and you’re not thinking about anything but him. These kisses, just like all of the others tonight, are hot and claiming. You twine your fingers into the curls at the base of his skull, gasping at the press of his tongue.

“You’re such a good girl, sweetheart.” His lips slip down the side of your neck, teeth scraping over your pulse in a knee-weakening manner. “Mmmm, darling, do you want this to go any further?”

You nod, not trusting your voice to respond in anything other than a breathless, needy moan.

“Well, you know what you have to do, beautiful.”

You’re growling when you wrench his mouth back down to yours. “I just want you to make me cum.” You say the words between needy kisses, pushing the shirt up until you can finally wrest it off. The heat of his skin feels so good against your own. When you look up, the smile taking over his face is breathtakingly gorgeous, eyes blown wide as he lays you down on the pristine, cool sheets of his bed.

“You’re too beautiful to be real.” 

You shiver as he places a kiss against your sternum, open-mouthed and wet. The shiver turns into a moan when he wraps his lips around one taut nipple and sucks. Each rough pass of his tongue has pleasure coiling in the pit of your stomach. It feels like you’re searching for oxygen like you’ve never breathed it before when he finally pulls away. You’re half expecting him to tease you again, when he laves his tongue over the other, nipping and biting. Your moans spiral through the air. You know what he’s doing when he traces those kisses down your torso, but you don’t have the patience for any more teasing.

You tug him into a messy kiss. Your teeth clash against his somewhat painfully, but when he crawls over you, you can’t find it in you to mind.

“Baby, you have to let me make sure you’re ready.”  

“I don’t care.” You’re aware you sound like a complete brat, but Bradley seems endeared by it. He lets you manhandle him onto the bed, eyes shuttering as you settle on his lap, core settled over the sizable bulge in his trousers.

“I want you,” you’re practically sobbing as you grind down in his lap. “I’ve wanted you since you sat down on that bar stool.”

“Please.” It’s a desperate plea. “Stop teasing me. I’m ready.”

“Shh, beautiful. I’ve got you.” He smoothes a hand over the plane of your stomach, uncaring of all the places you hate about yourself. 

You can’t believe your eyes when he finally pulls the remainder of his clothes off. He’s golden and gorgeous, tan glowing as the moonlight loving highlights every muscle. You’re still not sure why a man like him wanted to take you home, not when he looks like he does. His hands smooth over you, parting your legs as he kisses you. Each press of his lips to yours are deep and tender. You search for his lips every time he pulls away and gasp when he nips at the pout on your lips in retaliation. You can feel the blunt head of his cock against your folds as he grinds into you, the rough slide of skin against skin easing as you grow wetter, needier beneath him.

When he presses into you, you nearly come at the first thrust. He’s big and thick, stretching you in a way you’ve never been stretched before. He settles into a languid pace. You feel claimed with each slow thrust, all friction and heat, pressure collecting at the pit of your stomach.

“Please,” you babble, pleading for him to continue, “Don’t stop, please.”

It feels like there’s lightning in your veins. Lightning which crackles and sparks until it feels like you’re one exposed livewire lying on the bed. He gathers you up then, settles you down on his lap, hands clamped on the corded muscle of his shoulders as you go ragdoll-limp in his arms.

“There” It’s a soft, sub-audible moan as he hits that sweet spot inside you that makes you see stars. He fucks you slow and sweet, right there, until you can barely feel your face and your eyes roll back in your head. You jolt when he brushes the pads of his fingers against your clit, massaging the hardened nub until you’re practically screaming his name. That’s how you cum, with soft kisses, shaking in his lap. His hands are big as they cradle your ass. You shiver as he thrusts half-a-dozen more times before finishing, his head resting on your sternum, breath hot against the sweat-drenched skin.

You slump to your side, boneless and exhausted, relishing in the cool press of the sheets. He slumps with you, still buried in you, closer than you’ve ever been to another person. You could drown in the molten sweetness in his eyes, the deep caramel depths drawing you in until it’s all you can see. He kisses you until your lips feel puffy and bruised. When he slips out of you, you ignore the mess, beginning your slow progress as you slide to the edge of the bed. He doesn’t stop you, long limbs sprawled over the sheets of his bed like a Greek god in repose.

He lifts his head, eyes blinking blearily, sleepily as you collect your clothes, pulling on each piece methodically. 

“What are you doing?” 

You flush in embarrassment. “I’m heading home.” 

You can hear the rustle of the sheets as you pull the wrinkled fabric of your dress on. His hands are hot as he turns you around. You’re unbalanced, only one heel on as you look into his eyes.

“You could stay, you know?”

You shiver, tugging him into one final, soft kiss.

“I could. But I won’t.” You step into the final heel before turning around again. His hands are gentle as they tug the zipper on your dress up.

“I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

Bradley nods, curls bouncing, throat working as he looks you over. You’re trying to look at anything but him, not wanting the temptation of his lean, muscular body.

“Be safe.”

Your Uber home is quiet, tense. Half your heart, it seems, is left in that posh bedroom, wrapped in cool Egyptian cotton, drowning in whiskey eyes. Your sleep is just as disturbed. 

You wake in the morning sweetly sore and groggy. But you can’t focus on a mind-blowing fuck, not this morning. Warring with exhaustion this morning as you take a tram downtown are your nerves. You’re nervous. This is the job you’ve been working towards your whole life. Call it fascination from a lifetime of watching legal dramas combined with a love for arguing and here you are. Three years of law school at Stanford and near perfect exam scores and here you are. Standing in a richly appointed conference room with five other rookie law school graduates waiting for orientation to start on your first day.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Law Firm of Kazansky, Mitchell, and Bradshaw.”

Your head seems to fly up at the words, and at first, you’re not sure whether you’re still asleep or drunk out of your mind. Because your eyes have to be deceiving you. There is no way Bradley is standing in the conference room with you. He’s flanked by a tall flaxen-haired man with a cocky grin and a buxom brunette in the snazziest pantsuit you think you’ve ever seen.

“I’m Bradley Bradshaw, senior counsel at the firm. My specialty is contract law. With me are my colleagues and fellow senior counsel, Jake Seresin, with a speciality of criminal law, and Natasha Trace, with a speciality in corporate law. We’re going to be your mentors at the firm. Let’s get one thing clear. We ask you all to jump, you ask us how high. Work hard, and we’ll have you taking cases of your own in no time.”

You feel like your skin is crawling with each word and each elapsed minute. Your palms are sweaty and your heart is racing as you distractedly count each minute until you’re left in a barren corner of the office in front of two empty cubicles with your training partner, a sweet-hearted brunette with a labrador retriever’s friendly personality named, Miguel “call me Mickey” Garcia. He’s already digging deep into the files Bradley handed over while you take a short walk to Bradley’s corner office. It’s just your luck you’d ended up having the man whose bed you were in last night as your mentor. And it’s just your luck that the first file you’d picked up had a post-it note on it asking for you to come by when you could.

Almost all the shades are drawn when you knock.

“Come in.”

He holds one of those long fingers up as he finishes up the conversation he’s having on the phone. You feel like you’re seconds away from being fired with every insolent look he sends your way.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Bradshaw?”

He smirks then.

“Yeah, I did.” He shapes your full name with his pouty, kiss-bitten lips, lips you bit last night, as he looks over you.

“Obviously you know nobody can know what happened between us last night.”

“Yeah, obviously.” You wrap your arms around yourself, pretending not to notice how your body aches at the sight of him, for want of him. “So what do we do?”

“Nothing,” He leans forward with a grin. “I'm not sure what last night was like for you, but for me, it was just like any other. I met a passably pretty girl at a bar and took her home. She left in the early hours of the morning after a mediocre fuck. That's it.”

You can feel rage rising, cold and sharp enough that it occludes the edges of the bleeding wound he’s caused with a few callous words.

“Now, I'm your mentor and boss. Professionalism is everything to me. My mom is the best lawyer I know, and one of the partners. She can’t know I fucked up so prodigiously with one of our rookies. And I will do anything to make sure she never does.”

It’s obvious last night meant little to him, much less than it meant to you. You wanted to track him down tonight, wanted to see if he would want to go out with you again. Obviously that isn’t an option anymore.

“Enjoy the files. Let me know if you or Garcia see something I didn't see in them. That will be all.”

Your head is reeling when you walk away, and you're quiet, withdrawn. Garcia doesn’t notice how your skin crawls with every footstep walking past the door of your small office or how you flinch at every laugh and loud conversation. Last night you were a nervous professional, worried about the job but hopeful for your date to go well. Now you’re the rookie who slept with her boss. You're his dirty little secret and he's yours. Your career, your life, and everything you've ever worked for hangs in the balance.

Taglist:

@sarahsmi13s @horseshoegirl @desert-fern @dakotakazansky

@teacupsandtopgun @cherrycola27 @chaoticassidy @kmc1989

@eloquentdreamer @redhope446

I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN ON AO3, ON WATTPAD, OR ON TUMBLR BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN AO3, ON WATTPAD, OR TUMBLR, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.

[micahsawyer]

rising from my tomb for a sec to let y'all know that i'm working on a heavy revamp of the multi because i'm trying something new and i'll be moving micah there to better focus on him!! i was going to give one of my older muses a solo blog bc i'm hyperfixated and have the urge to pick him up again, but we all know i can't handle more than one blog and i refuse to abandon ur favorite slimy guitarist. ♥ he was only supposed to be a seasonal muse tbh but uh... that's not happening. he's not going anywhere. there will be a slight rule change too just for my comfort, so i'll make a post when i'm done and y'all can decide whether or not to follow over there! i'll be moving over threads, too, of course!! also ... i have been avoiding disco like the plague (i'm so sorry y'all, i'm not even logged in rn) because it's been making my anxiety flare and i desperately need a cleanout before i start up messages again. thank y'all for being patient, i love y'all sm!! xoxo

[petalsprompts]

𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐌 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒; 𝙽𝙾𝚅𝙴𝙻 𝚀𝚄𝙾𝚃𝙴𝚂 𝙱𝚈 𝙶𝙴𝙾𝚁𝙶𝙴 𝚁.𝚁. 𝙼𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙸𝙽.

change  pronouns,  tenses  and  other  details  as  deemed  necessary. &  please  specify  muse  when  sending  to  a  mumu. slightly edited wording for roleplaying purposes.

My  skin  has  turned  to  porcelain,  to  ivory,  to  steel.

Any  act  can  be  a  prayer,  if  done  as  well  as  we  are  able.

A  man  who  hates  music  can’t  be  trusted,  I  always  say.

Has  my  tale  turned  you  speechless?  Come,  curse  me  or  kiss  me  or  call  me  a  liar.  Something.

A  bag  of  gold  buys  a  man's  silence  for  a  while,  but  a  well-placed  arrow  buys  it  forever.

If  I  am  a  monster,  perhaps  you  should  speak  more  softly  to  me,  then.  Monsters  are  dangerous  beasts,  and  just  now  kings  seem  to  be  dying  like  flies.

Every  man  must  die,  [NAME].  But  first  he  must  live.

You're  mine.  Mine,  as  I'm  yours.

[NAME]  fought  valiantly,  [NAME]  fought  nobly,  [NAME]  fought  honorably.  And  [NAME] died.

Old  stories  are  like  old  friends  You  have  to  visit  them  from  time  to  time.

You  were  made  to  be  kissed,  often  and  well.

Half-truths  are  worth  more  than  outright  lies.

Some  battles  are  won  with  swords  and  spears,  others  with  quills  and  ravens.

Soon  comes  the  cold,  and  the  night  that  never  ends.

Always  keep  your  foes  confused.  If  they  are  never  certain  who  you  are  or  what  you  want,  they  cannot  know  what  you  are  like  to  do  next.

They’ve  never  seen  a  battle,  they’ve  never  seen  a  man  die,  they  know  nothing. 

Madness  and  greatness  are  two  sides  of  the  same  coin. 

Only  lies  offend  me,  never  honest  counsel.

Woman?  Is  that  meant  to  insult  me?  I  would  return  the  slap,  if  I  took  you  for  a  man.

We  look  up  at  the  same  stars  and  see  such  different  things.

I  crossed  a  thousand  leagues  to  come  to  you,  and  lost  the  best  part  of  me  along  the  way.  Don't  tell  me  to  leave.

I've  lost  a  hand,  a  father,  a  son,  a  sister,  and  a  lover,  and  soon  enough  I  will  lose  a  brother.  And  yet  they  keep  telling  me  my  family  won  this  war.

All  these  kings  would  do  a  deal  better  if  they  would  put  down  their  swords  and  listen  to  their  mothers.

I  must  be  strong.  I  must  have  fire  in  my  eyes  when  I  face  them,  not  tears.

Why  ask  for  truth  if  you  close  your  ears  to  it?

There  is  a  savage  beast  in  every  man,  and  when  you  hand  that  man  a  sword  or  spear  and  send  him  forth  to  war,  the  beast  stirs.

Always  keep  your  foes  confused.  If  they  are  never  certain  who  you  are  or  what  you  want,  they  cannot  know  what  you  are  like  to  do  next.

If  you  love  me  all  so  much,  why  are  you  still  dressed?

There's  been  no  one.  Only  you.

Why  do  the  Gods  make  kings  and  queens  if  not  to  protect  the  ones  who  can't  protect  themselves?

Explain  to  me  why  it  is  more  noble  to  kill  ten  thousand  men  in  battle  than  a  dozen  at  dinner.

We're  all  just  songs  in  the  end.  If  we  are  lucky.

All  men  are  fools,  if  truth  be  told,  but  the  ones  in  motley  are  more  amusing  than  ones  with  crowns.

[holocene-sims]

next // previous

september 25, 2021 6:50 p.m. myshuno restaurant

why are you surprised?

grant fixates his gaze far away from his father’s fiancee, suddenly shrinking into himself when he realizes what her appearance means. she intends to talk. she’d walked him right over to the nearest bench–why else would she do that? and grant wishes he hadn’t agreed. he wishes he weren’t so brave now. he wishes he’d left faster, pretended he was in a rush, something of the sort.

you should have avoided this. all of this. this was a terrible–

the gentlest of prods at his shoulder stirs him from his racing thoughts.

“sorry. i'm still space-casing it.” grant shudders; she must have already asked him something.

if she’s bothered by his inattention, varpu doesn’t show it. instead, she smiles. not joyfully, though–it’s a thin-lipped smile that he can only describe as one of abject pity.

“i wanted to know if you were okay,” she repeats, “and no, i think i owe you an apology instead.”

“oh, i'm fine. and really, you don't.”

you are not fine.

fine doesn’t match the nagging ache in the core of his chest.

why are you upset anyway? why the fuck are you surprised? you knew all of this was coming. you knew he’d always–you didn’t. no, you bought it. you believed it somehow, in some way when he preached about being a better father.

“you are not a very good liar,” comes varpu’s retort. the pitying smile is still plastered on her face, though it slips more and more by the second, slowly replaced by an unreadable albeit piercing expression.

“it’s genetic.”

and you knew he was never going to stay. you even gave him your express permission.

and yet…

somewhere in the back of grant’s mind, a much younger version of himself–the child who experienced the worst abandonment life has to offer–is crawling out of the woodwork and screaming for attention, screaming so loud that he can think of nothing but that child’s agony. bad memory after bad memory floods grant’s remaining bandwidth. he’d barely shut them out at the table, only for them to resurface in a tidal wave the very moment he let his guard down.

“yeah, actually, you know, i don’t think i'd probably use the word fine right now, no.”

varpu knew that, of course. not an ounce of bewilderment dwells in her response. “i'm not sure i understood what happened in there, but nonetheless, i do owe you an apology. i'm sorry. it was my idea to invite you, and that doesn’t seem to have been good for you.”

“it’s not your fault.”

“i fear that it is,” she replies, and at last, it’s her turn to avert her gaze–she turns to face the alleyway on their right “it was also at my insistence that he reached out to you last year. i don’t think that was good for you either.”

“maybe, maybe not. i wouldn’t hold my dad being my dad against you, though. i appreciate that you’ve tried to do the right thing. you’ve been much kinder to the estranged son of your college sweetheart than i'd really have ever expected, and it doesn’t go unnoticed.”

varpu, underdressed for the weather without her coat, shivers as a cold autumn breeze whips by them. she turns back towards him, wrapping her arms close to her chest, and just shakes her head. “why wouldn’t you expect that i'd be kind to you? i'm a mother. it’s my responsibility to treat you like i treated my own children.”

“you can probably guess why i don’t expect that.”

“i didn’t want you to feel left out,” varpu muses, now nervously picking at her dress sleeves, “that’s why i invited you tonight. you have a complicated relationship with your father, and him remarrying and having another family must be uncomfortable for you, but i wanted you to know you would be a part of our lives, that you do have a place with us.”

“no, i very much get that from you. i can tell you care about including me.” grant winces. “my dad, your kids...not so much.”

“i only found out he hadn’t invited you to help with wedding plans or told you about the move this morning–he said he had, and i believed him, which was, as i see now, very silly of me. and my children,” varpu says, letting out a deep sigh, “i should have made you aware that they’re apprehensive about you. it’s not you, it’s…”

“no, it’s definitely me.”

varpu shuts him down. “it isn’t you. they have a good relationship with your father, and they’re very attached to him. they spent most of their lives without a father in their lives, my first husband passed away a long time ago, and having someone to be in that role now is…”

“a big deal. of course. if i were in their shoes, i might feel the same way about him. also, my condolences. i didn’t know that about, um, you know, you, but yeah, i'm sorry you had to go through that. that's terrible. and that makes sense. i mean, as in why your kids would probably not trust me. they don’t, right? you can be honest. it has to be a little bit about me. they don’t trust someone who doesn’t like my dad the way they do.”

“yes. i should have told you that, and i think i should have been much clearer about your relationship with your father to them. it was also very silly for me to think they'd change their minds before you noticed there was any distrust.”

“how much do you know about our relationship?”

she shrugs. “that it's complicated, that he let your mother abuse you. he didn’t lie to me about that. no, in fact, he was very forthcoming about his life since we last spoke years ago. at least i thought he was. i'm a little skeptical now, looking back and having realized he wasn’t being honest with you. if he lies to you, he very well may lie to me.”

“it makes me a little mad to know he’s just, like, chill with someone else’s kids.” the ache in grant’s chest flares with the heat of a billion suns. anger–the ache is anger, the purest he’s felt in years. “sorry. dick thing for me to say. and think. it’s horrible that a part of me wants him to be a piece of shit like he was to me with everyone else, right? no, i don’t really want that. you and your kids don’t deserve that, it’s just–”

“it stings.”

he almost laughs. “it’s so fucked. he can move on, have a new family, like a family he cares about, a family he does stuff with, a family he talks to about important topics, a family he’ll move for, a family he’ll fight for, a family he respects, and–” and again, too, the anger flares. “and he can just abandon me with no qualms. i was always nothing to him. jesus christ, none of my siblings were either. one’s dead, one’s still estranged, and he doesn’t even think about them.”

“the unfortunate thing is i think he doesn’t want to abandon you.”

“now that i have to argue with you on. he's done it before, so he's very likely doing it right now, too.”

the pitying smile returns to varpu’s face. “as far i know, as of this morning, he doesn’t believe you’ll ever forgive him or trust him. he feels rejected by you, and he's reacting to that feeling. i think. i can no longer prove he was telling me the truth about this, but..."

“oh, he feels rejected? fantastic, maybe he finally gets how i feel then. rejection fucking blows, doesn't it? also, that’s just ridiculous. i don't know how he can claim that. i came to meet him last year, i met him earlier this year, i let him meet my ex-fiancee, i took his phone calls, and i showed up tonight. he’s even admitted before i'm putting effort in. where the fuck is this rejection claim coming from? is it because i'm not falling over myself to kiss the ground he walks on?"

“i've truly disrupted your life by encouraging him to talk to you. i'm sorry.”

grant shrugs. “it’s okay. you were very positive in assuming things were salvageable, but he’s always going to be the same piece of shit to me at the end of the day, and i'm always going to be bitter and refuse to forgive him. i think we’d only be on the same page if i just rolled over like i used to."

“why did you try to reconnect, though? why agree?”

“fuck, i have no idea. it’s ultimately my fault for saying yes.”

why did you?

nothing comes to mind. nothing in particular. only the vaguest list of shitty excuses, the same ones he’s thrown at family members time and time again trying to justify his perennial need to prove the people who hurt him love him, actually.

he no longer wants to roll over like a coward, but–

“simple enough, i guess i want to hope he loves me.”

“what does that look like to you?”

his first response, once more, is to shrug helplessly. “i don’t know. i can’t say he didn’t try at all. he tried to apologize, tried to talk things out, tried to include me. even if he was lying about it or faking to win me over...well, i still bought that he was trying, but it never pleased me. it never felt like enough. god, this all, like, sounds insane, doesn’t it? i'm having this whole meltdown over one night.”

“but it’s not about one night, is it?”

grant’s breach catches in his throat. it’s not, not at all. the unruly child screaming in his head is showing him a pile of evidence, thirty years worth.

“no.”

“and it’s not salvageable, is it?” varpu asks next.

if his father ran outside right now and proclaimed with his soul his love, would it satisfy him? would it cure the ache in his chest, soothe the raging child in his head, turn his bitterness into saccharine peace?

he dwells on it for only a moment before an earth-rending realization dawns on him, and for once in his life, the answer is clear as day.

“no. there’s…” grant stops himself, peering up at the sky. “there is nothing he could do to fix this. i don’t think i want him to love me. i want for what happened to me to have never happened, but time traveling to the past inherently violates the second law of thermodynamics, so that’s unfortunately impossible.”

“i suspect you don’t need my advice, but you shouldn’t be afraid to act on that. your father is a grown man. he can continue to live with the consequences of his actions. you live with them, so can he.”

“that’s very true. uh, and yeah, i think i have to. again, that is. i have to tell him to fuck off again. i'll give it a few days, but yeah.”

varpu stays quiet, acknowledging him with an encouraging nod.

“so, i'll be completely honest with you..." grant trails off.

"please do."

"i doubt i will ever see you again after tonight, but it’s not personal. i just want to make that clear, in case it matters. i do mean it when i say your kindness is appreciated. i care that you care, and you’ve been nicer than my own parents did somehow. thank you."

"you're welcome seems a terribly inadequate response, but..."

"you're welcome is fine. best of luck with the wedding and the house search. regardless of how i feel about my father or the fact he has a new family, i don’t wish any harm your way. if you want to build a life with him, have at it. i know what i said earlier is not in line with what i'm saying now, but i hope the future is good to you specifically, and i hope it’s not disappointing i don’t want to be a part of it.”

[black-queen-rising]

Me desperately trying to find this so-called "bias" it often feels like a solid two thirds of this fandom claim that the HotD producers/writers have towards Rhaenyra when literally every single change to other characters has fundamentally come from minimizing/obfuscating/or otherwise reducing her narrative and overall characterization and character.

Yes, I'm sure this woman who they have invented continual bad decisions, internalized misogyny, blatant disregard for the people closest to her, ineptitude, blindspots, and blatant, borderline unbelievable public disdain for in their adaptation of her character; who's background as a victim of child abuse, of continual misogynistic psychological and eventual physical violence, who's love of both other women and her own womanhood, infamy in her charm and popularity and continual attempts (and yes, often failures) to rise above the positions she was forced into they have also ERASED...is actually someone they're going out of their way to portray sympathetically?

Oh, but they favor her because...idk they haven't shown her being violently raped or repeatedly physically abused? Because you believe they actually think that making her seem like an idiot who never knows or thinks about what she's doing is somehow favorable?? Because it seems like ANY of these changes have actually endeared her to the fandom much less the show's general audience??? I literally cannot explain it most of the time, it baffles me.

I know I shouldn't be because why should any of us ever be shocked by misogyny in media anymore? By the portrayal of a woman for a mass-media (and heavily desired male) audience that's reductive and hollow?? But it's simply unreal to see how so many people somehow believe that this was done out of some sort of benevolence or favoritism. That so many people believe any of the changes made in the opposite direction of, and often active opposition to Rhaenyra's portrayal in Fire and Blood, were made out of some sort of desire to make her a tangibly more sympathetic or broadly understandable character, is something I'm not sure I'll ever be able to fully understand.

Except, of course, in the view that I really hope not everyone who says this sort of thing actually believes; that a self-confident woman who exercises her own agency is such an affront that even an unsympathetic, inconsistent, reductive, and idiotic cardboard cutout of a character is still a more respectable alternative.

[racke7]

It kind of occurred to me today that this:

is kind of... awkward.

See, as anyone with chronic-pain will tell you, your "daily activities" will warp around your pain.

Where instead of doing things "the normal way" you've figured out some kind of mostly-painless workaround, and so you don't even have to worry about it.

And then it's also difficult to say what amounts to "most" or "many" or "some". Is there a set list of things you need to be able to do? In today's world, plenty of people go from bed to computer to bed, never even needing to leave their apartment. How does that translate?

Not to mention what "all the time" really means. Does it only care about the worst days if you have something that flares up? Does it only care if it hurts even when you stop an activity?

And how come "talking / listening" is so high up? What if your brain decides to go non-verbal from just paper-cuts? What would be the appropriate "loss of function"-comparison in that case?

Basically? There's a lot of empty holes and abstractness muddling everything, even in this seemingly incredibly useful example.

I remember someone saying "your worst day - with no meds/tools", but what if that worst day only happens a few times a year?

It's complicated, is what I'm saying. And whilst this description is definitely useful, I wouldn't take it as gospel.

In fact, you might be better off ignoring your doctor when they start asking about "numbers" and just explain how the pain effects you.

"On a scale of 1-10" "I'll wake up in the middle of the night, nearly unable to move from the pain, and then desperately claw my way out of my bed. I'll then spend around two hours sitting up and letting my body recover, before being so tired that it outweighs the pain, and I can crawl back into bed for another few hours of sleep. At which point I'll wake up in pain again. During the day, I struggle to turn around or bend over."

They might not like this, and they might interpret the "number" in their own ways (which might screw you over), but at that point it's more about them being shit than you failing to describe things.

Obviously though, I'm not a medical professional and shouldn't be giving medical-advice. I'm just saying that 1-10 is so fucking arbitrary that I don't feel like you can give the "correct" answer, no matter how much thought you put into it.

[tinystepsforward]

algerian trans women arent able to compete in women sports at all, but yeah its makes no sense to call khelif tme. youre so fucking smart.

(this is a response to this post) i see you don't believe that i'm quoting one of the trans women in my life about that, which is your prerogative. it's also your right to miss my point entirely both about the ways this alienates intersex people and about the rigidity of a binary that comes down to the same shrinking circles terfs draw when they try to quantify what a woman is (speak up for women, the most organised nz group, have now submitted on the human rights act suggesting that all babies be karyotyped at birth and the results be public, bc they can't establish any other definition they agree on. absolutely fucking nobody, not even their christian or conspiracist allies, agrees with them on this one.)

but you don't have to take my word for it! when i was at that consultation with the nz law commission, i was in a room with many other intersex and trans people, including trans athletes and trans women like lexie matheson who consult on trans inclusion in sports at a high national level. i don't think there's a single person in that room who did not name what was happening to khelif as we spoke as transmisogyny, who did not speak of her as part of a group with whom we all shared something.

at the end of the day, prison abolition informs all of my politics. i believe that we must look clearly and carefully at harm and distinguish it from discomfort or disagreement, and identify its structural sources and true perpetrators. i believe that to build a better future we must be capable of imagining one. i believe that we can build a world where suffering is not the metric by which we determine value or punishment or righteousness. i believe that we can build a world where we centre and uplift those who are most hurt, in every arena — black and brown trans women, here; in some of my other work, it's incarcerated intellectually disabled people, or asian migrant sex workers affected by section 19, the list goes on — without then pitting them against other people who share some of the same story and will benefit from the same deconstruction of the systems that hold them down. i believe we can build a world in which asab doesn't affect so much of your life by beginning that work now.

there's a politics of scarcity — you have it better than me, so we have nothing in common. i saw it all the time in brothels, the idea that the new girl is taking money out of your kids' mouths. the viciousness with which people who are struggling are so ready to abandon solidarity. is it so hard to demand better for everyone? to think less about the ways we're alone and more about the ways we're together?

maybe it is. i know that well enough as a prison abolitionist. people get scared. they swing at shadows, they swing at anyone who seems to be suffering less, they — we, i should say, i am certainly not immune — get blindingly jealous of people who seem to have it easier. that's grief! that's grief for the easier life that we deserve. and we get to mourn, and take that time to feel it, and then we can choose if we want to keep working hand in hand with each other toward a world where that grief is dwarfed by the promise of the future.

[umberpath]

creatively inclined friends, please embrace what you make. even if you worry other people won't like it. especially if you worry people won't like it. it won't be for everyone, but if you're having fun, the ones who care can tell, and it's contagious. (and why would you want to be palatable to everyone anyway?) I hate to be blunt but if you constantly put yourself and your work down, you're no longer being humble, you are being miserable.

[gcbriells]

você ficou sabendo ? - aos VINTE E CINCO anos , nosso próprio GABRIEL FAIRCHILD se tornou um STREAMER , na plataforma TWITCH . suponho que A FACULDADE DE ECONOMIA , e sua paixão pelo violino terão de ficar para depois. acha que ele conseguiu por ser LEAL ou foi seu PÉSSIMO TEMPERAMENTO ? se tudo der errado, ele ainda pode ser sósia de KIM HYUN JIN. hum, uma música para o definir, você disse ? com certeza seria LETTER TO GOD ( 1974 ) da halsey ! além de ouvir sua música tema ele também gosta de JOGOS, STREAMING e ENERGÉTICOS , mas odeia WIFI LENTA, AS LENDAS DA CIDADE e ÁLCOOL , obviamente . esperamos o melhor para seu futuro !

LORE.

ele sempre foi o menino milagre.

achado perto das minas quase sem vida, gabriel recebeu esse nome pois para os pais religiosos , a ideia terem um filho depois de tentar sem sucesso por tanto tempo, pareceu como uma resposta a suas preces e portanto aquele menino era seu próprio anjo. ninguém podia acreditar que alguém teria abandonado a criança ao seu destino, e assim começaram os sussurros em torno de sua existência - que aparentemente - tinha um toque de mágica. uma sereia que se apaixonou por um humano, um minerador que enlouqueceu, e simplesmente a força da terra ; diziam de tudo sobre como ele teria vindo a ser. gabriel acredita que foi apenas fruto de um acidente - alguém jovem demais para criar um bebê , alguém que se tornou cruel ao se deparar com o destino ainda pior. não os ressente, sequer sabe quem são .

aos doze, sua sorte em ter uma família perfeita que o criava com amor começou a parecer um ingresso com expiração . batalhou a leucemia por anos , e de alguma forma - fosse sua vontade de viver, ou os pedidos desesperados dos pais - , conseguiu vencer a doença. o que apenas alimentou sua fama como o anjo da cidade. o menino nunca causou muitos problemas, e mesmo que tivesse - não seria nada, pois todos estavam felizes que ele sobreviveu. sua vida foi monótona, e ele ficava feliz por isso . ter estado tão doente era mais do que qualquer um devia aguentar, ainda mais com tão pouca experiência em realmente estar vivo. começou a faculdade porque sentiu que devia, mas sua real paixão é programação e streaming, o que ele faz com felicidade, apesar de usar o que ganha para ajudar pequenos negócios na cidade. afinal, apesar de odiar, ele é o menino milagre.

wanted.

[suniside-crossing]

.

[aparticularbandit]

How do your faith + trans support interlock with each other?

(This isn't me looking for a fight, I genuinely want to know.)

I don't want people to die.

I cannot share the love of Christ with someone if they are dead.

[marathedemonoverlord]

So I decide to check the app and my husband messages us this:

And first off I'm just obsessed with that terrarium it's so frigging cool!

But like you look at the options and like:

And like MC why are you such a Bitch?

Like dude. You'll suck up the shit the Brothers/Diavolo/Barbatos/Demons in general do to you with a straw but Solomon gets you something as awesome as that and gives you a cool ass opportunity to explore it and you're going to give a bitchy response to it?

God Nightbringer really makes me dislike MC it's so weird how the more I pull away the more I realize MC ain't shit LOL.

And yes this is just me being salty and pissy we can't be nice to Solomon/Say what we want because I'm obsessed with that terrarium!

[likeswallowstosea]

how does it feel to be loved by you tagged by: @gccdwitch (thank you, ily) tagging: @cardigaen, @peachfvzz, @testdrves (and per usual if anyone on the dash wants to do this, do it and feel free to tag me because I love tag games)

Ches: it feels like home

you're the kind of person that makes people feel safe. you probably couldn't be intimidating if you tried, but that doesn't matter. what matters is your kindness and compassion, your innate way of making people feel happy. you're so good at taking care of everybody else, but don't forget to take care of yourself, too! you deserve the same love you give so freely

Willow: it feels like burning

everything about you is captivating. you're very intense, and passionate, and some people can't handle that. but no one loves as powerfully as you do, and some people will love that about you. you're easily excited, and tend to feel things very deeply. your emotions are unpredictable. but you are so so beautiful. more so than you know

Grace:  it feels like an adventure

your laughter is like music, your eyes like city lights. you're so lighthearted and easygoing that you make everyone around you have so much fun, even in the simplest moments. your heart is a place of amusement parks and fireworks and three a.m. giggles. people feel energized every time they see you, but as much as you love people, it can get pretty draining. remember to take breaks when you need them. you're more than just the comic relief, and you deserve to be just as happy as you make everyone else.

Rhys: it feels like a rom-com

okay, you're pretty cheesy. you love big romantic gestures, and dramatic confessions of love. but you also love the little moments, like going grocery shopping together. to put it simply, you love love. you have such a big heart, and it overflows with affection - not just romance, either. you make everyone you talk to feel loved. you're quite the optimist, and believing in true love and soulmates and forever. you're probably a little insecure, but i promise you are beautiful, inside and out, as cliche as that sounds. i hope you know that.

[mad-hunts]

alright, i have come here to discuss something tonight and that topic is: barton still killing every single police officer that bothers him at the docks (except for jim, but i swear that's just for plot purposes. okay... nah 🫠 it's not lmao BUT moving on) and hating law enforcement in general + vigilantes, BUT with the new added context that he has a partner who he found out is a vigilante? well... i'm just here to say that it makes me think that doing mental gymnastics is just a daily practice for barton at this point LOL

but that's okay, because his vigilante partner is genuinely slay in his eyes + worth it. and thus, anyone who dares try to call him a hypocrite for being with her will be smacked halfway to tuesday so ❤️ (the heart essentially means don't do it JSJSJ ☠️ not to say that i would expect that anyone here would do it OFC though y'all know what i mean (,,: and oh, the mun who portrays the vigilante character that i'm talking about knows who they are tehe MUAH ilyyy)

[heatupwithkylie]

TAGS

[this is for role play purpose only do not repost this anywhere, do not interact with this unless you are part of hollywoodheathq group]