#THIS IS THE BIGGEST CHALLENGE OF MY LIFE

[roosterbruiser]

have two tabs open so I can give live commentary as I read this chapter :-)

Sitting in Mav’s office, blowing his mind with every idea you have. Yeah, everyone has noticed that Rooster’s been a little bit tense this week.

this has me fucking hollering!!!! Mav is so dumb!!!! so is Rooster!!!! I LOVE IT!!!!! WHAT AN ELITE DUO!!!!! one time my middle school art teacher told me I was a genius because I taught her how to copy and paste on her desktop and that gives Maverick vibes 1000000%

Your laughter fades and Natasha groans as she turns and leans on the ropes, raising her eyebrows expectantly at him. It’s unclear as to whether Rooster’s upset that his spot as her best friend has been taken by someone else, or if he’s just in the mood to be an asshole today. It’s a little bit of both.

“You feel like doing what we pay you to do today, or do you wanna keep fucking around up there?”

Bradley stop being a little bitch boy challenge: IMPOSSIBLE

Even the work that you’ve done so far has picked up business a little.

this is what Bambi's pinterest looks like I just know it

Your brows scrunch slightly as you glance back down at them. “Yeah… It’s Mav, back in his glory days. I think he’d like it.”

and all I'm saying is that I WOULD sign up for this gym if this was the profile picture. so, Jake, you can leave!!!

“I don’t need you looking out for me,” You reply calmly, finally giving in to your desire to touch him. You skim your fingers gently along the ridges of his abdomen, watching your fingertips move rather than looking him in the eye. “I’m not even sure I like you.”

KATIE THIS SLAYS SO FUCKING HARD I LOVE BAMBI SO MUCH SJSJSJSJ

One of his hands leaves your waist, trailing up along your side, over your clavicle, until he can tip your chin back. He leans closer and presses his mouth to yours. It’s slow, it’s relief, it’s him melting into you all at once. He pulls back and kisses the corner of your lips tenderly. “You’re gonna get your ass kicked if you do that fight.”

you have a genuine actual talent for writing really relieving/sweet/tender/intimate scenes that are tinged with a sort of brashness. they all have a little bit of bite to them. I fucking LOVE IT!!!!! it's such a pleasure to read. itches my brain real good.

You’ve been in more trouble with a weaker man for much less.

me, pretending to be a hotel concierge and talking to Jett: good evening, sir! your room is ready <3

Blow by Blow | 0.7 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader au

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Synopsis: Bradley’s washed up before his career has even really begun. He doesn’t want to fill his father’s shoes and he doesn’t want someone else to either. Stuck in limbo, living the same way he always has, the opportunity to step up wanders through the door of his gym in a mini dress and heels that are a size too big. Boxing au.

Warnings: unspecified age gap, violence, probs boxing inaccuracies somewhere along the line, blood and injuries throughout the fic but will be specified in the warnings of the chapter. Smut and other 18+ content, minors dni

…

“If you don’t think that I’m good enough to do it, Bradley, then just say—“

“I don’t think you’re good enough to do it.” He answers back, deadpan. Your face falls instantly. He sits forwards and leans his elbows on his knees, “I’m not even sure you know how a real boxing match works, Bambi.”

Maybe it was a little harsh, but he’s right. He’s not going to pretend that you’re ready for a fight and watch you get your ass kicked. It’s nice that everyone around here is so nice to you, but as far as he’s concerned, someone should probably be a little realistic too.

It’s been a week since that argument in your apartment. You’ve been avoiding him since then. You’ve also been training like you’re Rocky Balboa — Nat’s stayed late at the gym every night this week to help you. Everyone’s on your side about this, telling you that you’ve got it and that you’re going to do great.

Rooster had been annoyed about it at first — you thinking that you know better than him. Walking around here in your cute gym sets, grinning with Javy and Mickey as they work through speed bag relays with you. Sitting in Mav’s office, blowing his mind with every idea you have. Yeah, everyone has noticed that Rooster’s been a little bit tense this week.

Bob winces, closing his eyes and pursing his lips. At his side, Rooster rants about the women’s locker room not being cleaned again. Another complaint, another canceled subscription.

“I cleaned it last night like the rota said, it’s not my fault it got dirty during the day! — Almost all of our staff are guys.” Bob complains, adjusting the cap on his head and then pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. The women’s locker room is usually just cleaned after hours, since the guys can’t go in there during the day.

The duty falls on Nat if there’s something during the day.

Rooster pushes away from the counter and rounds the corner into the gym. Natasha’s in the middle of the ring, gloves on her hands, her head thrown back in laughter. You’re leaning into her, doubled over, laughing your ass off. Your inside jokes are only growing, and Natasha’s coming out for drinks with you and your friends tonight — the pair of you are just getting closer and closer.

“Hey, Nat!” Rooster barks, face stern and thick arms folded over his chest.

Your laughter fades and Natasha groans as she turns and leans on the ropes, raising her eyebrows expectantly at him. It’s unclear as to whether Rooster’s upset that his spot as her best friend has been taken by someone else, or if he’s just in the mood to be an asshole today. It’s a little bit of both.

“You feel like doing what we pay you to do today, or do you wanna keep fucking around up there?”

You follow Natasha down from the ring, biting the Velcro around the gloves and pulling them off of your hands. Acutely aware that this is all your fault. Taking time away from the work she should be doing. You have work that you should probably do too.

Natasha squints as she walks over to her lifelong best friend, standing before him and looking up, deadly serious. “I’m going to let that go because I know you’re freaking out about this fight with Nico, but if you talk to me like that again, I’m going to treat your balls like a heavy bag.”

A quick glance over the top of his friend’s head and Rooster finds you staring at the two of them, lips quirked, having just heard everything.

“Sorry.” He mumbles dejectedly. Nat nods, patting his shoulder as she walks past him. As she walks further away, it’s just the two of you. You, staring at him, him staring back at you. Each of you waiting for the other to speak first. Neither of you do.

You look down sheepishly and grab your bag from beside the ring, turning and heading for Mav’s office. Mav lets you do your work in there on the days he isn’t in. He seems proud of your plans for this place. There’s a charity fight this weekend that Payback, Phoenix and Hangman are going to participate in — you’ve organized for a couple of small time journalists from local papers to come and interview them. Getting their names out there will help get people in the door.

Even the work that you’ve done so far has picked up business a little. You’re getting a lot of engagement, Bob said there has been tonnes of enquiries, but only a couple of sign-ups so far. Progress is progress.

You finish off your afternoon in the office, Tank and Bob join you for a little while, Fanboy after that while he’s on his fifteen minute break. After five, Jake kicks you out of the seat behind the desk so that he can sort through the expenses for the week, so you sit opposite the desk and finish up your edits to the website.

“Which profile picture do you think would be best? — For the instagram and twitter accounts.” You spin your laptop around on your lap and flick through three icons. Vaguely similar but still noticeably different.

He frowns, “Kid, none of those are of me.”

Your brows scrunch slightly as you glance back down at them. “Yeah… It’s Mav, back in his glory days. I think he’d like it.”

“I think that we’d do better if I was the face of Bradshaw’s.” He winks at you across the desk, but you know that he’s only half joking. You’ve noticed the way his eyes linger on the mirror when he’s with a client, silently checking himself out. It’s amusing and almost inspiring, in an odd way, the confidence he has built for himself.

“Shouldn’t it be Rooster?” You ask, also half-playfully.

Jake scoffs at the idea. “Then they come in looking for the guy in the picture and there’s a fifty percent chance he decides to be a dick, and we lost a customer. I vote myself for the profile picture. I can send you some options.”

And he does. You roll your eyes amusedly as your phone pings with pictures whilst you’re making yourself dinner that evening. Finishing up with instead promoting the charity fight a little, figuring out the placement of some flyers that you’re going to make the guys help you hand out, you abandon work late that night. But it doesn’t feel much like a job anyway.

TV, a bath, and then you’re curled up in bed with your laptop in front of you.

You wince as the grown man spins, his eyes roll back and he falls to the canvas. Video after video, clips that Javy has sent you, the best of the best, getting clocked in the jaw and tumbling down, one by one. If this was supposed to be encouraging, it’s not — all that it proves is that you can be as great at the sport as these guys are, and still get your face broken.

Tank stirs, stretching out along the bottom of the bed, nuzzling his head against where your feet rest under the duvet. Instinctively, you lower the sound. Your room, lit up by the LED illumination of the laptop screen and the new, soft lights tangled around the metal frame of this rickety, old bed.

It’s never quiet around here, but you’re growing used to the backfiring cars, screeching tires and the drunken arguments that happen in the alley behind the gym. It’s quiet enough on this evening. Quiet enough that you hear the shoes on the steps outside before there’s a key fumbling in the lock to your apartment, heavy boots on the metal framed stairs, stumbling and uneaven sounding.

“Stay here, baby.” You murmur softly, smoothing your fingers over Tank’s ears. He lifts his head at the noise, blinking tiredly as he considers getting up to investigate. You kiss his nose and tell him to wait.

Rooster stretches his sore neck from side to side as he shuts the door and locks it behind him, flicking on the kitchen light, kicking his boots off. He does it all so naturally, like he lives here. It’s hard to fall out of the habit, this has been his second home since he got a key when he was fourteen. This place is within walking distance of the downtown bars, whereas his actual apartment is further, through sketchier neighborhoods that Rooster is not welcome in.

“What are you doing?”

It’s all unintentional to a certain degree, sometimes it really does slip his mind that you’ve moved in up here. When he turns, finding new soft furnishings, throw pillows and pictures on the walls, new curtains hung on the windows, it’s all there in the front of his mind again. But, then his gaze, as blurry as it might be, lands on you. Standing before him in an old t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts, he remembers that maybe coming here wasn’t an accident at all.

“Mm, sorry, Bambi,” His ‘s’ sounds slur as he plants his palm on the counter, feet lagging, making him stumble. He blinks slowly and turns his head towards you, lips toying at a soft smile, “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Your brows scrunch disapprovingly, watching the way his eyes trail, the way that his head tilts slightly to the left as he looks you over and then squints to steady his vision. You can practically see the cogs in his head turning, he might as well be thinking out loud.

“You didn’t,” You answer. There’s a slight bite to your tone, annoyance and disapproval all in one. Even as drunk as he is, he gets the picture, he just has no intention of apologising. “But what’s going on? — What are you doing here?”

Like you don’t already know. Still, Rooster plays along, dancing around the question just like you are. His hand finds his belt, brown leather tucked through blue denim loops, eyes on you as he slowly but certainly unbuckles it. “Too drunk to drive. Just gonna sleep it off.”

He’s not asking your permission, staring you right in the eye, waiting for you to finally snap and just say what you’ve been thinking all week. He can’t stand more of these irritated glares, he wants to clear the air before it poisons his upcoming week. You stand firm, folding your arms over your chest.

“I’ll order you an Uber.”

Rooster abandons his now unbuckled belt, shrugging the unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt back off of his thick shoulders, letting it fall to the floor right there in the entryway. “I’ll be fine here.”

“I think it would be best if you didn’t.” You say softly. He remains unfazed, almost tripping over his boots as he takes a step towards you. Into the centre of the apartment, away from the safe purchase of the counter that he has been leaning on.

“Why?” You didn’t defend yourself to him last week. You just let him tell you that you weren’t good enough and you’ve been sulking about it ever since. He presses forwards unsteadily.

“Because.” You answer sternly. Rooster grabs the hem of his t-shirt, shrugging his shoulders as he peels it up and over his head, dropping it to the ground. His clothes aren’t even in a pile, they’re just scattered across the floor, a mess in his wake. He takes a step away from them and towards you.

“That’s not an answer.” He replies, going for his belt again.

“Stop taking your clothes off!” You demand, furrowing your eyebrows at him as your grip tightens around your door handle like you’re about to retreat. The option of fleeing into your room doesn’t sound so bad, shutting him out and leaving him and his stupid muscles and bad ideas out here alone. He’s close enough now that he could touch you if he wanted, and it wouldn’t be too difficult for you to lean forwards and touch him too.

Rooster stops, his hands on the waistband of his jeans, button popped open and zipper tugged all the way down. He frowns at you, swaying slightly from the amount of alcohol in his system. “I’m not gonna sleep in my jeans.”

There’s a pause. For a second, you think that he must be sober and just fucking with you. Then, he hooks his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans and starts to push them down.

“You’re not going to sleep here at all, you weirdo!” You step forwards, planting both hands firmly on the solid warmth of his chest, shoving him. Rooster stumbles and catches his jeans so that they don’t fall around his ankles and trip him. With his free hand, he catches one of your wrists and frowns at you.

With his grip on your wrist, he tugs you forwards, away from the safety of your room and out into the open with him. You bump into his chest and sigh, starting to pull back.

“You’re avoiding me.” He points out, releasing your wrist, instead trailing his touch downwards and weaving his fingers through yours. You roll your eyes. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that out. “You’re mad at me for what I said.”

It’s unclear whether that’s a question or not. It might be, but he doesn’t wait for you to answer. Instead he steps back and leans a fraction of his weight into you. “I didn’t say it to be an asshole, Bambi.”

You lift your head and look him in the eye finally. He softens, hands finding your hips, pressing you back into the doorframe as he steps closer to you. Drunk or not, you’ve got a feeling that he’s here for more than just a place to crash.

“I don’t need you looking out for me,” You reply calmly, finally giving in to your desire to touch him. You skim your fingers gently along the ridges of his abdomen, watching your fingertips move rather than looking him in the eye. “I’m not even sure I like you.”

Rooster’s fingers curl into the fabric of his old baseball t-shirt over your hips, nodding his head. He can’t blame you for being torn. Still, he bumps his hips forwards, his stomach brushing yours before he straightens up, still swaying from the alcohol. “You kissed me, though.”

He doesn’t need to remind you of what else you did for him, he’s certain that you’d remember that.

“I’ve kissed worse guys than you.” You remind him.

One of his hands leaves your waist, trailing up along your side, over your clavicle, until he can tip your chin back. He leans closer and presses his mouth to yours. It’s slow, it’s relief, it’s him melting into you all at once. He pulls back and kisses the corner of your lips tenderly. “You’re gonna get your ass kicked if you do that fight.”

You push your hips forwards into his, chasing his lips and kissing him again, this time catching hold of the nape of his neck to keep him with you. Rooster’s fingers tighten in the material of the shirt as he tugs you even closer to him.

“So, help me train.” You groan softly. You feel him smile amusedly against your skin, his nose nudging your jaw back further as his mouth seeks out that sweet spot just under your ear. You hum as he finds it, sucking tenderly at the sensitive skin.

“No.” He murmurs, fingers curling tighter in the fabric of your shirt as he leans his weight into you, mouth working expert patterns of open-mouthed kisses along your throat. Fuck, he’s good at that.

You frown and push at his hips until he gives in and pulls back to look at you. “Why not?”

“I think it’s a dumb idea and you’re gonna get yourself hurt,” He replies calmly, brushing a strand of loose hair back from your forehead. It’s tender, almost too gentle of an interaction, almost too intimate. He kisses your temple, your cheek, then your jaw. You lean your head back for him to access your neck again. “It’s not the same as playing around with Nix.”

“I’m gonna do it whether you want me to or not,” You answer back, heartbeat simultaneously thudding in your chest and also between your legs as his moustache tickles your throat. You swallow, “So, you might as well help me, right?”

Rooster shakes his head, balling the hem of the shirt under his fist and glancing down. Even in the dim light of the apartment, the shitty warm yellow glow of that fading light bulb over your heads, he can see the cute little butterflies on your panties.

“If I thought it might help, maybe.” You can’t fault his honesty, even if it makes you want to smack him in his stupid, pretty head. Rooster strokes his thumb over the purple and blue butterfly pattern that covers your hip, then turns his attention back towards you. When he does, you’re already looking at his face. He’s such an asshole.

He closes the gap between the two of you and kisses you softly, fingers curling around the nape of your neck to keep you with him. Your fingers skim along his sides, ridges of warm skin under your touch.

His tongue grazes over the seam of your lips. Delighted by how obediently you part them for him, he presses a fraction of his weight into you, sending you stumbling backwards. No thoughts of danger cross your mind. He finds leverage on the wall behind you immediately, bracing his hand against it, keeping you against him.

His free hand slips south from your hip, moving towards the apex of your thighs. Immediately, your legs press together, bracketing his denim covered thigh. His fingers settle back around your hips, pulling you flush against him, slotting one of his thighs between yours.

Groaning softly into your mouth as he rocks himself against your hip, his denim clad thigh rocking back and forth against your core through the thin barrier of your sleep shorts.

Maybe it’s the tequila on his tongue, maybe it’s the fact that he’s so ridiculously honest with you, or perhaps the fact that he’s got a worsening habit of stripping for you, but there’s something so intoxicating about him. Kissing him, touching him, being in his arms.

Pacing along the side of that road after leaving Jett, thinking of the pain and the torment, the bad sex and that intoxicating feeling in the beginning, you’d sworn to be more careful with yourself. Going down on Rooster was probably a bad decision, but not one that you regret. However, letting him touch you is a line that, once crossed, can only make things worse.

Brought back to reality by his hands skimming up your sides, wandering, roaming towards your chest, you pull back so quickly that you bump into the doorframe behind you. He doesn’t miss a beat in going back to what he was saying.

“I don’t get why you want to get your ass kicked so badly, anyway.” He murmurs, shaking his head at you as he twirls a strand of your hair around his finger loosely.

Dead serious and scowling at him through those pretty lashes. He smiles softly. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, then you sigh, realising that he isn’t going to give in.

Your palm rests open against his abdomen as you push him back enough for you to slip under his arm and finally put some distance between the two of you. Rooster watches you pace away from him, his eyes on the curve of your ass under those sleep shorts.

“Did I do something to upset you?” Finally far enough away that you won’t be tempted to lean into that muscled frame and let him kiss you all over, you fold your arms over your chest and frown. Rooster’s brows scrunch.

“Huh?” He was just kissing you, he doesn’t understand now where this came from. The thought crosses his mind that he may have just heard you wrong.

“You‘re the one who wanted me to try boxing, and then everytime I’ve brought it up to you since, you’ve been mean to me.”

“Because it was just for fun! — Wouldn’t it be worse of me to let you get your nose broken in some amateur fight that doesn’t mean shit anyway?” Rooster argues back. A minute ago he had your chest pressed up against his, his mouth on yours — and now you’re arguing with him. Nothing is straightforward with you.

“It’s not your decision whether I do or don’t, so the least you could do is stop being so negative about it.”

“What do you want me to do? — Pretend that I think you’re going to win?”

“I want you to shut up.” You rush out. It’s quick and stern, and he can tell that you really mean it. A coldness in those soft eyes, a bite in your usually gentle tone. Forgetting that you’re supposed to be polite once again. He notices your reaction to your words first.

You take a cautious step back. Your throat constricts, mouth drying out as you swallow. His lack of reaction has your heartbeat in your ears and your hair standing on edge. You’ve been in more trouble with a weaker man for much less.

“Alright.” Rooster nods his head calmly. He lifts his hand, makes a zipping motion across his lips and pretends to throw away the key. You soften before him, the sound of his voice breaking through the thudding beat in your ears.

“Fine. What do I know, anyway? — Not like I’ve been doing this my whole life,” He shrugs playfully, lips quirking at the edges as he raises his palms in mock defence. He holds his hand out for you to come back to him, “I think you’re going to lose, and we’ll leave it at that.”

You stare at him, inhaling slowly and then squinting your eyes. “Fine. We’ll leave it at that.”

Rooster nods and steps towards you. You step quickly around him, brushing your shoulder against his, heading for your room. Willing yourself not to look back, fingers curling around the cold door handle, you shrug calmly, “There are blankets in the basket by the couch.”

As quickly as it opens, your door swings shut behind you. Rooster stares at the wood, humming softly and running a hand over his bare stomach. He flicks the light off and pushes at his jeans, shaking his head softly. Flopping onto the couch, grabbing a blanket, he tucks an arm behind his head and stares at the ceiling.

He’s glad that you’ve found friends here. He just lays awake for a while and wonders how great your new friends can really be if they’re going to let you get your ass kicked for a max payout of three hundred. If it was up to him, you’d listen and stick to running speed bag drills with Fanboy downstairs. If it was up to him, you’d wear those cute pyjama shorts more often too.

…

[vechter]

dick grayson & roy harper

outsiders (2003) #25 // the worm king's lullaby, richard siken // outsiders (2003) annual #1 // white ferrari, frank ocean (x) // action comics (1938) #613 // outsiders (2003) #16 // on loneliness, dante émile (x) // nightwing (1996) #114 // wishbone, richard siken // action comics (1938) #627 // new titans (1988) #56 // look back in anger, vechter // nightwing (1996) #124 // wishbone, richard siken // action comics (1938) #613 // action comics (1938) #617 // look back in anger, vechter // teen titans/outsiders: secret files (2003) // you're allowed to be held by @lena-oleanderson (x) // dc one million (1998) #1 // wishbone, richard siken // outsiders (2003) #6 // wishbone, richard siken // outsiders (2003) #11 // there's a hole where your heart lies, fromstarstuff // outsiders (2003) #11 // wishbone, richard siken // outsiders (2003) #16 // you're allowed to be held by @lena-oleanderson (x) // robin & batman (2021) #2 // ivy, frank ocean // teen titans (1966) #19 // editor's pages: the long and short of it, richard siken

[amid-fandoms]

dan and phil are simultaneously the reason i'm in a reading slump and also a big motivator for me to pick up my books again especially dan mentioning camus in the last vid. just looking at my 10 shelves of classics makes me want to devour them but instead i just open dapg and rewatch things that have been engraved in my brain for ages

[gardenerian]

does ian gallagher know i love him

[nirinart]

A weird, but certainly elegant lady ✨

[laviejaguardia]

hiiii trying out some new clown shoes things

SydCarmy. Post-Canon until s3 comes out. Slow Build. WIP.

The fridge guy’s name was Terry. They got the lock replaced a few weeks ago. There are no more torn tapes on the containers. The pans are on the right side. They hired a new line cook that doesn’t do meth. Nat’s belly is getting bigger by the second. Carmy hasn’t mentioned Claire since friends and family. Syd and Carmy haven’t really talked to each other in weeks.

[jorvikpov]

The night after it happened, the five of you stay at her house in Valedale.

She did not have time to tidy up before she departed for Guardians’ Dale. The kettle is only half empty, two tea-stained mugs and a plate full of cookie crumbs have been left in the sink, and, in the room none of you dares do more with than close the door, the bed is still unmade. Next to the kitchen sink is a full rack of clean, dry dishes, and it will occur to all of you tomorrow morning as you pull yourselves together and begin chipping away at the effort of putting them away that none of you know the inner workings of this kitchen. At times, you find yourself almost calling for her help, as if nothing had changed at all—as if there’s somebody to ask where the muffin tin goes, or where you can put the big frying pan, or where the clean kitchen towels are—but everything has, of course, changed, and there is nobody who can answer.

Anne rode double with you the whole way from the Eastern Slopes: a day’s ride at a pace you were able to keep. She spoke occasionally in some of the rare moments she was awake, too tired to manage concealing the tinge of bitterness in her voice as efficiently as she clearly attempted to, and you cannot fault her for her anger. If you had taken half the time you did to get to her, it still would’ve been too long. The scars cover half of her body by now, trailing from her fingertips up the now-too-short sleeves of the dressage shirt that must’ve fit her perfectly on that fateful night far too long ago, past her unbuttoned, too small collar, and all the way over her face and scalp.

She sleeps in the corner of the room now, bundled under several blankets and equipped with earplugs and a sleeping mask. The world was too much, she said, after so many months hearing nothing other than her own heartbeat and occasional muffled voices coming from outside her prison. The rest of you are sleepless on the living room rug by the fireplace. The knots in this ceiling, you find, do not stare at you as the ones in your own room do, and you almost find yourself missing their company. In the absence of your own home’s distractions, all your mind can do is wander, and tonight it keeps wandering to the same place.

Anne shifts under her blankets again and draws in a sharp, shaking breath, and something twists in your chest. You think back to her first sharp, shaking breaths back on Jorvik, and the look in her eyes like she couldn’t quite believe it was real. You think back to Elizabeth’s hurry to rush after the missing Alex, and how she, in her hurry, did not find time for a quiet moment with Anne—how that could wait until after the chaos had been resolved.

She was so sure that she would return.

The fireplace crackles and a log falls against its metal side with a quiet clunk. You close your eyes, waiting for a vision in the form of a dream, but nothing comes to you. Not even the powers of Aideen herself, it seems, can tell what is next for you now.

[vaguely-concerned]

I am so mad about how desperately into pan I am. he was specifically made to fuck me up. they dangled him in front of me like 'hey would you like to see a sad clown trickster with emotional intimacy issues and a heart of, if not gold, then some mysterious alloy with qualities not at all unlike those of gold at the end of the day?' and I went 'boy would I!' and now I'm lost. I'm on my knees he's like if reyes vidal was actually redeemable instead of just a 'release my man he did do all of that but I don't care' situation

[samanthaswishes]

Sighing in disappointment as I'm listening to a new (for me at least) Agents of Shield podcast where the podcasters agree with Fitz when he throws the whole "Do you want me to tell you how many times you've betrayed us?" in season 5.

Sighing in MAJOR disappointment.

I've agreed with a lot of what they have said about the show thus far, so I was hopeful that they would defend Daisy, but there is little to no defense on Daisy's side. Not giving me faith for the remainder of season 5 in regard to this subject.

Here's your daily reminder that Fitz did potentially paralyzing, nonconsensual surgery on Daisy while she was still awake, without any pain killers, traumatizing her, and never felt any remorse for what he had done to her while also victim blaming her, saying she deserved it after """betraying""" the team """so many times""".

[k-ai01]

damn.

[skrunksthatwunk]

stole this chart from @asubakaa and spent wayyy too much time making my own so. yeah. also i did 6 instead of 5 bc i know no restraint

[all-year-autumn]

I don't believe in astrology. Probably because, as a Scorpio, I'm naturally skeptical.

[hingabee]

making that poll was a mistake now i have ppl being mean to my autistic baby girl worf in my tags 😢🐄

[knightelf]

feeling complicated things this wednesday at 2pm

[autobahnmp3]

works sucks today too but at least i got some more sleep and my curtain rod finally got delivered!

[revelisms]

Trying desperately to organize my wip drawer but then I'll get steamrolled with ideas at 2AM and hskdjk

I want to write Silco and Vander at the crux of their revolution. Silco—a spiteful young man, hopeful, zealous, a ralier of the people; Vander—a violent young man, cynical, indecisive, pit between a blood-pact with the Enforcers and the small, loud thing under his wing: a partner stirring up too noise, drawing too much attention, all under the flag of Vander's own cause: his own slaughter.

I want to write Silco and Sevika racing in from an attack, blood-spackled, rain-drenched, shaken; sheltering in Silco's old, eclectic home beneath the Pilt and bandaging each others' wounds; letting their guards fall, if for a moment.

I want to write a local festivity being hosted at the Siren—one of Silco's fronts, a traditional blue-walled pub; low-lit, crowded, Lock striking up a fiddle and a local bundle of musicians whipping out a bodhran and tin whistle, leading the room into a lively jig. I want to write the crew jovial, business going well, Silco smiling his just-there crooks of teeth and indulging in card games and stirring the crowds into folk-chants, Jinx sweeping him in a grumbling heap out of his chair for a dance.

I want to write so much Melvika. Sevika accompanying Silco on Topside errands, once he and Mel have settled squarely in each others' pockets, made mirror-deals to fund Piltie trade and Zaunite enterprises both. Sevika catching Mel's eye, more than once; and Mel catching Sevika's, on her visits downtown. The two of them as polar opposite as they come—but with the same wicked humor, the same snarking quips, an easy hearth of sensuality, a groundedness.

I want to write Vi and Jinx and Ekko all unpacking the crux of changes that have bled out from s1. Ekko setting wires to the helm of a city without a ruler, leading their people to power. Jinx carrying on with Silco's industrial masterminds, swindling under-table deals to keep chem-barons under Sevika's thumb. Vi torn between which side to choose, which love to align her heart towards: Caitlyn and Piltover; Ekko and Vander's dream for Zaun; Powder and the Undercity, their home.

I want to write Silco and Jinx staging a counterattack together, ripping down a rival's schemes, the stakes twisted to a chilling interrogating. A true crime dad & daughter escapade on display: Silco leading the charge, slumped in his seat, smearing blood from his lip, snarling off to the gang leader; Jinx jittering with nerves, throwing old jazz on the turnstile, playing with Vander's knife, an image of impish menace.

(the drawer is overfilling basically I'm agh...but I want to write them all yanno???)