that bawdy

Sorry for posting headcanons and not writing anything full but:

Magnus is the type of guy to not always be comfortable with dirty pictures and bawdy stories, but love a good cheesy over the top romance novel with erotic scenes.  But the relationship has to be good and he has to like the plot.

Taako is the type to drink wine in a bath and skim through a romance novel looking for smut.  And accidentally drop the book in the water.

50 ways to practice self care when your mental health is crap

1. Snuggle an animal.

2. Pet others animals in public… with permission.

3. Say yes to a meal with a friend you love dearly.

4. Take a sick day from work. Don’t feel bad about it.

5. Dust a book off your shelf and read it. Or, at least read a few pages.

6. Go to work, do your best, and tell someone you’re struggling.

7. Take frequent breaks at work, even if they’re just to take a deep breath in the bathroom.

8. Read body positive blogs like the Fuck It Diet, Love, Food, and Bawdy Love.

9. Make yourself a cup of your favorite flavor of warm tea.

10. Make yourself tea, then add a bunch of ice cubes to the cup. Feel the sensations of the temperature.

11. Sit outside and stare at the sky. Lay in the grass if you can.

12. When your attention spans lasts 5 minutes, be okay with coming back inside.

13. Say no to someone asking you to do something you don’t want to do.

14. Avoid toxic people while you’re hypersensitive. Sometimes this means family.

15. Say no to events that will trigger you.

16. Be ok with many nights feeling like you’re acting selfishly by saying no.

17. Ask a friend if you can come crash on their couch and have a slumber party.

18. Bring popcorn and fuzzy socks to said slumber party.

19. Cook a simple meal from scratch with one of your favorite ingredients. (I made cardamom baked pears recently- YUM and super easy)

20. Do some therapeutic writing. Prompts can be found through a quick google search.

21. Donate books you don’t read anymore.

22. Workout for 15 minutes.

23. Don’t work out.

24. Don’t beat yourself up about not working out.

25. Mindfully eat a meal.

26. Totally un-mindfully scarf down a bunch of sweets. (I’ve been really into vegan ice cream lately).

27. Stop reading a book that you started and feel obliged to finish.

28. Pick up a new book that you’re excited about.

29. Only do exercise that makes your body feel good. (For me, simple stretching is all sometimes.)

30. Avoid exercises you think you “should” be doing. (Cycling hurts my knees. I hate cycling. I don’t do it).

31. Take “should” out of your vocabulary entirely. Quit “shoulding” on yourself.

32. Tell your partner how they can best support you.

33. Tell your roommate how they can best support you.

34. Donate clothes that taunt you or that you no longer wear.

35. Go to Goodwill and find a lovely outfit that fits great.

36. Take a nap. Don’t set an alarm.

37. Lower your expectations of yourself. Be ok with being mediocre right now.

38. Go to a 12 step meeting or a support group.

39. Call or text an old friend to meet up over a cup of coffee.

40. Buy a coloring book and some crayons. Color away.

41. Practice a 3 minute guided meditation.

42. Do a Pinterest DIY project with an old shirt that no longer fits.

43. Laugh if said Pinterest project ends up disastrous (mine usually do).

44. Binge watch Netflix. Watch a show that’s silly and not too emotional.

45. Throw your to-do list in the trash for a day.

46. Go for a gentle stroll.

47. Blast music that matches your mood (for me, this is often Slipknot or Katy Perry interchangeably).

48. Make a gratitude list about things you’re grateful for in your life.

49. Make a gratitude list about body parts of yours you’re grateful for and why.

50. Put on some nice scented lotion.

Feel Good Comedy starring Amy Schumer and Jennifer Lawrence, where two relatable but opposing women who are so totally not your average girls™ decide to take on a role typically associated with men. During their bawdy misadventures, they manage to construct a friendship based on their thick thighs and white feminism, many racist, ableist, homophobic, transphobic subplots play out as the white female audience laughs uncontrollably,
You will laugh, you will cry, you will chuckle at every unfeminine thing that this rowdy duo dare to attempt, you will mostly c r y

I have this eternal headcanon that when Jesse and Hanzo are married, completely unbeknownst to Hanzo, Jesse decides to wear full traditional Japanese garb to match Hanzo’s. They’re having the ceremony as near to Hanamura as they can manage without putting lives in danger, and Jesse knows those traditions are important to both the Shimadas since they’re so far from home so much of the time. And American wedding traditions are mostly a) bawdy and stupid, b) created by the wedding industry to make you spend money and c) almost all based around the bride, of which there ain’t one, at present.

And Hanzo had almost steeled himself enough not to cry during the ceremony until he lays eyes on him and nearly melts right there in front of everyone they know.

2

Who is this? Are you the same person? Come off anoooonnnnnn :) 

These have been sitting in my inbox for a while (sorry) I combining them bc I’ve given up on the whole, ‘5 sentences’ thing and also I don’t have it in me just yet to write two! (sorry again) This was supposed to be funny and got out of hand. My bad.  

Mane

The grains have been scooped and the filter set.  Coffee gurgles and sputters to life but only out of habit, for this morning she is in no need of caffeine. She just needs something to do. She is already ball of foot tapping, lip-chewing, nervous energy, startling when she thinks she hears her bedroom door creak…..nothing. Her terry cloth robe is wrapped tightly around her middle to ward off the chill, unaccustomed to mornings on her kitchen tile barelegged and bare-footed. She really should’ve put on her pajama pants, but something has fundamentally shifted this morning, and she’s feeling bawdy. All at once a particularly visceral memory from the night before surfaces, and her hands are covering her face, suppressing a giggle and a look of sheepish disbelief crosses her features before a smile and a shake of the head. 

 "Good morning.” 

read more here

Fall TV Winners & Losers (2016)

WINNER: LUCIFER

Its numbers are down in Season 2, yet that 1.1 demo rating ties companion series Gotham for (a distant) second behind Fox’s Empire — while averaging more viewers than its lead-in. Just as reliably, the supernatural-themed procedural — which was written off by some last winter as a midseason non-entity — is delivering one of broadcast TV’s most quippy and occasionally bawdy hours.

Debbie went to be with Carrie. She always worried about her. Carrie left too soon and now they are together again. My heart is literally broken. For 8 years she was my mom. She was pure energy & light when she came on stage. She was loving, and bawdy, and playful- a consummate pro- old school and yet had the work ethic and investment in her craft of a new fiery up and comer. She was always running off to Vegas or somewhere else “on the road” to be a hoofer, to sing and dance and make people laugh. She performed 340 days out of the year. An inspiration on every level. A Legend of course, the epitome of clean cut American optimism, dancing with Gene Kelly as an equal, a warrior woman who never stopped working. A devoted mother and grandmother, and aunt and great aunt, and friend. I lost my mom a few years ago. She loved that Debbie was my TV mom. I hope they find each other and hug and kiss and my mom says, “I got you, Debbie. Carrie’s waiting for you.” RIP Bobbie Adler. ❤

6

“I wanted to create my own Martha who had nothing to do with anybody else’s Martha. I think she is a desperate woman who has the softness of the underbelly of a baby turtle. She covers it with the toughness shell, which she pants red. Her veneer is bawdy; it’s sloppy, it’s slouchy, it’s snarly. But there are moments when the facade cracks and you see the vulnerability, the infinite pain of this woman inside whom, years ago, life almost died but is still flickering.” -Elizabeth Taylor

I didn’t mind the rough jests and crude remarks at our expense. For once, I was pleased to be modestly self-effacing, scrunching back into the corner and leaving Jamie to deal with the rough teasing and bawdy speculations about what we had been doing all day.
“Sleeping,” said Jamie, in answer to one question of this sort. “Didna catch a wink last night.” The roars of laughter that greeted this were topped by louder ones as he added in confidential tones, “She snores, ye ken.”
I obligingly cuffed his ear, and he gathered me to him and kissed me soundly, to general applause.
— 

Outlander


(I love those light passages of the story) 

Well, then, let’s get down to it! It always amazes me how these contests form! One bawdy conversation and I end up holding a beauty pageant. Ah me, but let’s make it great, shall we?

The criteria are as follows: No nudity or lewd garments (and by that I mean underwear. You may indulge in an exposed corset or suchlike, but please people, this is a tasteful contest)! Cos-play is acceptable within reason- I want to see you through the medium of a costume, not you wearing someone else’s face. This is meant to be in the vein of the classic pinup posters, but with a saucy twist. I’d much rather see your personality than your decolatage! So if you are not the sort to wear a short skirt or open-fronted shirt, wonderful! Wear whatever you like, so long as there is an element of the costume about it!

Rules:

* The picture must be taken by yourself or another amateur photographer on a device like a cell phone or other camera that is not sophisticated and professional. It must be a picture created FOR THIS CONTEST (This is to filter out all of you who would reuse your professionally obtained school photos or dance portraits)

* The photo may be retouched or altered as you like, provided no significant alterations have been done to the person in question. The goal is to see you being saucy, not to see you splattered in fake sauce.

* All selfies should be submitted to me privately. I will then blog them with the tag “Saucy Tarts” for your viewing/voting pleasure

* ANYONE MAY PARTICIPATE! Whether male or female, gay or straight, or somewhere in between, or hell, not even on the list. You don’t have to follow me or even know who I am’! Simply send me your picture to enter and wait to see if you win! (I am not the judge! Tumblr will be upvoting your sauciness!)

* ONLY “LIKES” WILL BE COUNTED so do feel free to reblog as much as you like! Just be sure to do so with a message for your followers to like the saucy tart in question!

* You may enter two photos only. They may be of the same outfit to be posted as a pair, or they may be of two different outfits.

* DEADLINE: The end of February! So that you have time to choose that perfect outfit or pose! Hell, make it a Valentine’s Day shoot if you happen to be getting dolled or tatted up for that night out.

* This contest is for the sheer enjoyment of seeing all my lovely readers, and not to promote anything. Therefore I will give the winner a small but, possibly quite nice bag of beauty self-care treats!

Shall we commence, my gentle friends?

Is this really turtle soup?

I’ve never had it before. It’s marvelous.” 

Jamie was unmoved by contemplation of Fergus’s tender state. 

“Aye, well, he’ll be wed a long time,” he said callously. “Do him no harm to keep his breeches on for one night. And they do say that abstinence makes the heart grow firmer, no?” 

“Absence,” I said, dodging the spoon for a moment. “And fonder. If anything’s growing firmer from abstinence, it wouldn’t be his heart.” 

“That’s verra bawdy talk for a respectable marrit woman,” Jamie said reprovingly, sticking the spoon in my mouth. “And inconsiderate, forbye.”

 I swallowed. “Inconsiderate?” 

“I’m a wee bit firm myself at the moment,” he replied evenly, dipping and spooning. “What wi’ you sitting there wi’ your hair loose and your nipples starin’ me in the eye, the size of cherries.” 

I glanced down involuntarily, and the next spoonful bumped my nose. Jamie clicked his tongue, and picking up a cloth, briskly blotted my bosom with it. It was quite true that my shift was made of thin cotton, and even when dry, reasonably easy to see through. 

“It’s not as though you haven’t seen them before,” I said, amused. 

He laid down the cloth and raised his brows. 

“I have drunk water every day since I was weaned,” he pointed out. “It doesna mean I canna be thirsty, still.” He picked up the spoon. “You’ll have a wee bit more?” 

“No, thanks,” I said, dodging the oncoming spoon. “I want to hear more about this firmness of yours.” 

“No, ye don’t; you’re ill.” 

“I feel much better,” I assured him. “Shall I have a look at it?” He was wearing the loose petticoat breeches the sailors wore, in which he could easily have concealed three or four dead mullet, let alone a fugitive firmness. 

“You shall not,” he said, looking slightly shocked. “Someone might come in. And I canna think your looking at it would help a bit.” 

“Well, you can’t tell that until I have looked at it, can you?” I said. “Besides, you can bolt the door.” 

“Bolt the door? What d’ye think I’m going to do? Do I look the sort of man would take advantage of a woman who’s not only wounded and boiling wi’ fever, but drunk as well?” he demanded. He stood up, nonetheless. 

“I am not drunk,” I said indignantly. “You can’t get drunk on turtle soup!” Nonetheless, I was conscious that the glowing warmth in my stomach seemed to have migrated somewhat lower, taking up residence between my thighs, and there was undeniably a slight lightness of head not strictly attributable to fever. 

“You can if ye’ve been drinking turtle soup as made by Aloysius O’Shaughnessy Murphy,” he said. “By the smell of it, he’s put at least a full bottle o’ the sherry in it. A verra intemperate race, the Irish.” 

“Well, I’m still not drunk.” I straightened up against the pillows as best I could. “You told me once that if you could still stand up, you weren’t drunk.” 

“You aren’t standing up,” he pointed out. 

“You are. And I could if I wanted to. Stop trying to change the subject. We were talking about your firmness.” 

“Well, ye can just stop talking about it, because—” He broke off with a small yelp, as I made a fortunate grab with my left hand. 

“Clumsy, am I?” I said, with considerable satisfaction. “Oh, my. Heavens, you do have a problem, don’t you?” 

“Will ye leave go of me?” he hissed, looking frantically over his shoulder at the door. “Someone could come in any moment!”

“I told you you should have bolted the door,” I said, not letting go. Far from being a dead mullet, the object in my hand was exhibiting considerable liveliness. 

He eyed me narrowly, breathing through his nose. 

“I wouldna use force on a sick woman,” he said through his teeth, “but you’ve a damn healthy grip for someone with a fever, Sassenach. If you—” 

“I told you I felt better,” I interrupted, “but I’ll make you a bargain; you bolt the door and I’ll prove I’m not drunk.” I rather regretfully let go, to indicate good faith. He stood staring at me for a moment, absentmindedly rubbing the site of my recent assault on his virtue. Then he lifted one ruddy eyebrow, turned, and went to bolt the door. 

By the time he turned back, I had made it out of the berth and was standing—a trifle shakily, but still upright—against the frame. He eyed me critically. 

“It’s no going to work, Sassenach,” he said, shaking his head. He looked rather regretful, himself. “We’ll never stay upright, wi’ a swell like there is underfoot tonight, and ye know I’ll not fit in that berth by myself, let alone wi’ you.” 

There was a considerable swell; the lantern on its swivel-bracket hung steady and level, but the shelf above it tilted visibly back and forth as the Artemis rode the waves. I could feel the faint shudder of the boards under my bare feet, and knew Jamie was right. At least he was too absorbed in the discussion to be seasick. 

“There’s always the floor,” I suggested hopefully. He glanced down at the limited floor space and frowned. “Aye, well. There is, but we’d have to do it like snakes, Sassenach, all twined round each other amongst the table legs.” 

“I don’t mind.” 

“No,” he said, shaking his head, “it would hurt your arm.” He rubbed a knuckle across his lower lip, thinking. His eyes passed absently across my body at about hip level, returned, fixed, and lost their focus. I thought the bloody shift must be more transparent than I realized. 

Deciding to take matters into my own hands, I let go my hold on the frame of the berth and lurched the two paces necessary to reach him. The roll of the ship threw me into his arms, and he barely managed to keep his own balance, clutching me tightly round the waist. 

“Jesus!” he said, staggered, and then, as much from reflex as from desire, bent his head and kissed me. 

It was startling. I was accustomed to be surrounded by the warmth of his embrace; now it was I who was hot to the touch and he who was cool. From his reaction, he was enjoying the novelty as much as I was. 

Light-headed, and reckless with it, I nipped the side of his neck with my teeth, feeling the waves of heat from my face pulsate against the column of his throat. He felt it, too. 

“God, you’re like holding a hot coal!” His hands dropped lower and pressed me hard against him. 

“Firm is it? Ha,” I said, getting my mouth free for a moment. “Take those baggy things off.” I slid down his length and onto my knees in front of him, fumbling mazily at his flies. He freed the laces with a quick jerk, and the petticoat breeches ballooned to the floor with a whiff of wind. 

I didn’t wait for him to remove his shirt; just lifted it and took him. He made a strangled sound and his hands came down on my head as though he wanted to restrain me, but hadn’t the strength. 

“Oh, Lord!” he said. His hands tightened in my hair, but he wasn’t trying to push me away. “This must be what it’s like to make love in Hell,” he whispered. “With a burning she-devil.” 

I laughed, which was extremely difficult under the circumstances. I choked, and pulled back a moment, breathless. 

“Is this what a succubus does, do you think?” 

“I wouldna doubt it for a moment,” he assured me. His hands were still in my hair, urging me back. 

A knock sounded on the door, and he froze. Confident that the door was indeed bolted, I didn’t. 

“Aye? What is it?” he said, with a calmness rather remarkable for a man in his position. 

“Fraser?” Lawrence Stern’s voice came through the door. “The Frenchman says the black is asleep, and may he have leave to go to bed now?” 

“No,” said Jamie shortly. “Tell him to stay where he is; I’ll come along and relieve him in a bit.” 

“Oh.” Stern’s voice sounded a little hesitant. “Surely. His … um, his wife seems … eager for him to come now.” 

Jamie inhaled sharply. 

“Tell her,” he said, a small note of strain becoming evident in his voice, “that he’ll be there … presently.” 

“I will say so.” Stern sounded dubious about Marsali’s reception of this news, but then his voice brightened. “Ah … is Mrs. Fraser feeling somewhat improved?” 

“Verra much,” said Jamie, with feeling. 

“She enjoyed the turtle soup?” 

“Greatly. I thank ye.” His hands on my head were trembling. 

“Did you tell her that I’ve put aside the shell for her? It was a fine hawksbill turtle; a most elegant beast.” 

“Aye. Aye, I did.” With an audible gasp, Jamie pulled away and reaching down, lifted me to my feet. 

“Good night, Mr. Stern!” he called. He pulled me toward the berth; we struggled four-legged to keep from crashing into tables and chairs as the floor rose and fell beneath us. 

“Oh.” Lawrence sounded faintly disappointed. “I suppose Mrs. Fraser is asleep, then?” 

“Laugh, and I’ll throttle ye,” Jamie whispered fiercely in my ear. “She is, Mr. Stern,” he called through the door. “I shall give her your respects in the morning, aye?” 

“I trust she will rest well. There seems to be a certain roughness to the sea this evening.” 

“I … have noticed, Mr. Stern.” Pushing me to my knees in front of the berth, he knelt behind me, groping for the hem of my shift. A cool breeze from the open stern window blew over my naked buttocks, and a shiver ran down the backs of my thighs. 

“Should you or Mrs. Fraser find yourselves discommoded by the motion, I have a most capital remedy to hand—a compound of mugwort, bat dung, and the fruit of the mangrove. You have only to ask, you know.” 

Jamie didn’t answer for a moment. 

“Oh, Christ!” he whispered. I took a sizable bite of the bedclothes. 

“Mr. Fraser?” 

“I said, ‘Thank you’!” Jamie replied, raising his voice. 

“Well, I shall bid you a good evening, then.” 

Jamie let out his breath in a long shudder that was not quite a moan. 

“Mr. Fraser?” 

“Good evening, Mr. Stern!” Jamie bellowed. 

“Oh! Er … good evening.” 

Stern’s footsteps receded down the companionway, lost in the sound of the waves that were now crashing loudly against the hull. I spit out the mouthful of quilt. 

“Oh … my … God!” 

His hands were large and hard and cool on my heated flesh. 

“You’ve the roundest arse I’ve ever seen!” 

A lurch by the Artemis here aiding his efforts to an untoward degree, I uttered a loud shriek. 

“Shh!” He clasped a hand over my mouth, bending over me so that he lay over my back, the billowing linen of his shirt falling around me and the weight of him pressing me to the bed. My skin, crazed with fever, was sensitive to the slightest touch, and I shook in his arms, the heat inside me rushing outward as he moved within me.

His hands were under me then, clutching my breasts, the only anchor as I lost my boundaries and dissolved, conscious thought a displaced element in the chaos of sensations—the warm damp of tangled quilts beneath me, the cold sea wind and misty spray that wafted over us from the rough sea outside, the gasp and brush of Jamie’s warm breath on the back of my neck, and the sudden prickle and flood of cold and heat, as my fever broke in a dew of satisfied desire. 

Jamie’s weight rested on my back, his thighs behind mine. It was warm, and comforting. After a long time, his breathing eased, and he rose off me. The thin cotton of my shift was damp, and the wind plucked it away from my skin, making me shiver. 

Jamie closed the window with a snap, then bent and picked me up like a rag doll. He lowered me into the berth, and pulled the quilt up over me. 

“How is your arm?” he said. 

“What arm?” I murmured drowsily. I felt as though I had been melted and poured into a mold to set. 

“Good,” he said, a smile in his voice. “Can ye stand up?” 

“Not for all the tea in China.” 

“I’ll tell Murphy ye liked the soup.” His hand rested for a moment on my cool forehead, passed down the curve of my cheek in a light caress, and then was gone. I didn’t hear him leave.