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So profoundly wife. thank you

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Gina: exists 1Ders: hope this doesn’t awaken anything in me

A tiny subset of stan twitter starting to lose their coochies over the McKee… they are new initiates into the Noodle Luster Society

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A tiny subset of stan twitter starting to lose their coochies over the McKee... they are new initiates into the Noodle Luster Society

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Hot grandma

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He hoooooooooooooooooooooooonks!!!! (press play to listennnnn it’s important!)

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This, as the kids would say, unalived me

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Lanky. Ethereal. Comfy

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I’m absolutely positive the men in this are going to win awards in particular H**** S***** but look at grandma. She’s all that matters in life

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A Grand Romantic Gesture (2022, dir. Joan Carr-Wiggin)

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Commander Anne Sampson, Head of the Metropolitan Police’s Counter Terrorism Command [Bodyguard, BBC]

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madraya.

   There is a loud grunt of displeasure. “In an hour, then,” the Beast barks before turning on one heel and stalking off down the corridor, grumbling to themselves all the while. 

   When Jane finally appears in the dining room, the Beast is already seated at the head of the table, a claw-like hand drumming on the wood. Two plates of food are already laid out and the creature greets the woman with a scowl. “You’re late. The food is getting cold.”

        “Oh,” Jane says. She doesn’t apologize, though she does mutter a little as she seats herself, the feet of the high-backed chair scraping heavily on the floor as she drags it out. Once sitting, she stares at the plate. There’s three utensils on either side of it for a total of six, for one plate of food. She wonders if the Beast will use a fork or if she will eat with her claws or if she’ll eat at all. She wonders if the Beast’s mouth is large enough to swallow the food, maybe even the plate, whole. She wonders what day it is, and about saying Kiddush. She picks up the heavy goblet at her plateside and sees it’s full of deep red wine; she puts it back down.

        “Alright,” she says, to the Beast or to herself or to no one, and takes a fork--she chooses at random--and takes a bite of something. It doesn’t crunch, and it isn’t meat, so she takes another bite. She puts the fork down. Her face feels hot, knee bouncing under the table. “Why do you want to eat with me?”

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She is serving pure Miranda Priestly

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She is serving pure Miranda Priestly

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Crying

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Look what’s on its WAYYYYYYYYY

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citysheriff.

        That gruff efficiency – Grayson must admit that she enjoys it, values it for the amount of time and social convention it spares her. No simpering niceties, no complex protocols to follow. It gives her visits an almost recreational edge, despite their usually unpleasant nature. She sits back in her chair and lets herself be stripped by those expert hands without a sound of complaint, rummaging about her trouser pocket for her pipe and her tobacco pouch while she waits. Elaborate tactics are required to light the pipe around Doctor Andrews’ equally intricate fussing. Finally — there. Mmm. That’s the good Noxian stuff. Burns right through the lungs.

        Somehow, she musters enough decency to look chastened by the lecture. Even her best efforts, however, can’t hold back the short laugh that escapes her along with her first exhalation of smoke. “ I’m the Sheriff, ” Grayson reminds her disgruntled genius, decidedly refusing to flinch at the touches to her battered chest. “ I’d like to see anyone try to stop me from working. ” She risks a downward glance at the skin peeking through her open shirt front. The bruising isn’t what’s worrying her. Flesh, skin, and bone all heal with time. The little apparatus that’s pumping her blood, though, seems to grow more erratic with every beat. She sighs.

        “ It’s been a good heart so far. Stuck with me through the worst of times. I’d hate to lose it. D'you think you can salvage it, Doctor? ” Another deep drag from the pipe. Grayson lets her tired head fall against the back of the chair and blows the smoke towards the ceiling. Funny how that works. She’d never allow any other living person to see her so exposed and dependent, but with Jane it has become almost second nature. Years of being tinkered on will do that to you; tear down all your defences. Her eyes close. Goddamn exhaustion. She could fall asleep like this, if it weren’t for the Doctor poking away at her. “ Whatever you do, ” she murmurs, tongue cumbersome in her mouth, “ I can’t stay off work for long. I need to be back tomorrow. If you’re planning a bigger intervention, that’ll have to wait until the end of the year. ”

        Jane hates when Grayson smokes. She hates when Grayson is stupid. She doesn’t like getting angry, especially at a person she wants to keep alive. She blows a breath out through her nose, brow furrowed, frown tight on her face. “I told you not to smoke in here.”

        The scent will linger now. Jane will spend the next few days smelling it, even through the usual scents of her workshop--the oil, the grease, the resinous stink of solder--and she’ll think of Grayson; she’ll worry about her, about where she is, about what she’s doing, and think of the faulty clockwork rattling in her chest, the thing Jane could fix if Grayson would just let her, the breaths Grayson can barely take, the aches it would ease.

        She thinks of Maryam, like she does every time Grayson appears at her door. Jane wonders who else will grieve if Grayson dies like her wife.

       "You’re not breathing well,” she says. She can see it and hear it. “Do you feel pressure on your chest? Or pain? In your jaw, or arms?”