Hello tumblr basketball people and WNBA enthusiasts. I love data and I want to know more about everyone here. So here's a quick poll. Reblog to increase sample size
Preaching is nice and spiritual testimony is nice but all of that only moves the needle 1%. It has a 1% impact on the spiritual journey of the people listening. Words are just words. There's not much difference between a sermon and a wolf's howl and a buzzing bee.
Real spiritual growth either happens or doesn't happen. But whether or not you grow spiritually has no correlation with how many times you talk about god each day.
I've got more lovely asks in my inbox!!! I love that people are asking about my favorite topic which is Sue/Diana/Penny/Lauren!!! Wow love it. I'll answer some asks tonight
Do you have any fic recs involving any combination of LJ/DT/SB/PT that you've read? I'm trying to find things but get very few results since most of it's on livejournal and a lot of pages have been purged.
I have more Lauren in my notes app!
My Lauren/reader fic is actually just a Lauren/Diana fic with the reader in Diana's shoes. I know the player/reader format is more popular than player/player. So that's why I wrote it that way.
I haven't found anyone else that writes LJ/DT, DT/PT, DT/SB, or any other combination. But I do LOVE to think about every single combination of those four!
Writing is hard and I write slowly. I haven't figured out an ending for the Lauren Jackson meet cute story. But here's what I have in my notes app right now! Unedited and unfinished with no conclusion. I haven't touched this in weeks! I barely remember what I wrote here. But I'm sharing it with you because I love you for sending me asks!!!
You pick up your pace and hoof it back to campus. It's dangerously cold but you know you can make it to the gym before the cold defeats you. You've done it hundreds of times before.
...there's only one place in the world where you belong. The gym...
You take a shortcut through the woods. It's an old stoner trail that leads to the service road behind the gym. Cold slimy branches tug at your clothes and skin and hair. But all your attention is laser focused on the gnarled roots on the path ahead of you. If you sprain your ankle in the woods right before the conference tournament, Coach Auriemma will kill you.
The woods thin out and you can see the gym through the gaps between the trees. There's light pouring out from the gym windows. The janitor must still be closing up.
A branch gives your hair one last tug as you step out of the woods and onto the service road. You can't wait to get inside that gym. The thought of the ball going through the net makes your pulse quicken. You're like a junkie desperate for a fix. You pull your gym key out and unlock the back door with your shaking quivering hands. As you step into the building, the familiar sights and smells of the hallway make you feel human again. And then the sound hits you. Dribble dribble swish. There's someone in the gym already. You hurry down the hallway and peer through the glass windows on the gym doors.
Lauren Jackson is alone in your gym drilling threes. Swish, swish, swish. You stand there in awe watching her. You've never seen a post player hit threes in your life. In that moment, you realize she's the greatest player in the world.
You push open the gym doors. Lauren turns to face you. She's grinning from ear to ear.
"I thought you might need a rebounder" you say as she walks towards you.
"I do need a rebounder" she's standing in front of you now. You're tall enough to be a D1 basketball star. But Lauren absolutely towers over you. She's simply massive. And she seems a lot bigger in this gym where height matters.
She steps close to you and moves her hand towards your face. In that moment, you feel absolutely out of control. God, family, team, media, society, none of it matters to you right now. You'd throw it all away just to feel Lauren's hand on your face.
Her hand moves past your face and pulls a huge twig out of your tangled hair. She then finds a second and third twig in there and frees them from the mess on your head.
"Do you need a hair tie?" She asks. You say yes even though you have several hair ties in your jacket pocket.
She pulls a green hair tye out of her chaotic pony bun and hands it to you. The pony bun changes shape but it doesn't lose its structural integrity. She must have about 10 other hair ties in there. You tie your hair back with her green hair tie and look down at her shoes. She's wearing the same Jordans she had on at the house party but they're absolutely spotless. They look like they're fresh out of the box. And you're wearing a pair of nasty old hiking shoes.
"Let me get my shoes" you say. You dash over to the locker room, retrieve your gym shoes, and return to the court. As you're lacing up, you remember there's supposed to be some semblance of security around here. "So Lauren, how'd you get in here?" you ask.
"I stole Sue's key." That's probably a security breach of some kind.
"You know, I think you two might be the most dysfunctional teammates I've ever seen."
"Really?" Lauren laughs. "I've seen worse."
"Sue told me I'm supposed to help fix your problems."
"Well, good luck with that." She passes you the ball.
You dribble casually out on the perimeter. "So tell me. Why do you hate UConn?"
"I don't hate UConn." Lauren says, shifting her feet to keep her body between you and the basket. "I'm doing charity work for you, aren't I? I'm teaching the humble people of Connecticut about basketball."
"I think we already know a few things about basketball." You fake a pull up, drawing Lauren out to the perimeter. Then you take a huge first step and drive hard to the rim. But Lauren stays with you. Your feet are just barely ahead of hers. Her torso pushes down on your shoulder. No problem. You can finish through contact. But every step feels 100x heavier than the last. She's trying to grind you down into the court. You plant your final step and launch towards the finish. Lauren blocks your shit so hard it feels like she's ripping your shoulder clean off. She twists her hips and hits you with her body while you're still airborne. You go flying into the back wall. The tattered old padding on the wall barely softens the blow.
"You know a few things" she smirks as she stands over your crumpled body.
"I know that's a foul"
"Not in the WNBA. Not in FIBA. Not in Australia." She reaches down and pulls you up off the floor.
Well, two can play at that game. You get in a defensive stance in front of Lauren and prepare yourself to do some damage. As she steps into the paint, you launch your entire body into her. You grab her and hold her and try to pin her arms down. You foul her in every way. She still manages to get a shot up but the shot rattles off the rim.
"That's not basketball, that's rugby!" Lauren says as she pushes you off of her. She says it with a laugh but you can see a mean fire flash in her eyes.
You take the ball out to the perimeter and turn to face Lauren once again. You start your drive with another huge step. And Lauren is on you like glue, running with you. But this time you stop on a dime, step back, and hit a fadeaway midrange jumper. You make eye contact with her as the ball swishes cleanly through the net. She looks at you like she wants to kill you. It's intoxicating.
You and Lauren play a few more rounds of one-on-one but you can't get another clean shot off on her. The gap between you is more than just height. Right now, she's simply better than you. You're around the same age. But she's been playing pro since she was 16 and you've never touched a pro basketball. You start to think maybe she does have something to teach Connecticut.
You pause the one-on-one game to catch your breath. Lauren's face is slightly flushed. You can feel her eyes on you, challenging you, daring you to get beaten again. "Do you still need a rebounder?" You ask.
"Always," she replies. And just like that, the killer inside her eases back into her subconscious. The tension drops.
There's something so soothing and meditative about shooting practice. The rhythm of the ball, the focus of the shooter, the encouragement of the rebounder. Time slips away from you as you and Lauren take turns shooting.
The setting sun spotlights a ship hand climbing rigging in Buenos Aires. This scene has been repeated for nearly half a millennium, since the port was founded in 1536. Photo: Bruce Dale
so i got a few messages earlier today saying that there was a fic written by someone with writing that seemed very similar to mine. i looked into it, discovered some things were copied word for word and the only difference was who it was written about.
this honestly is so fucking discouraging as writer. especially after contacting the person who wrote the other fic and having them deny it when the proof is right there
for the sake of being peaceful im not gonna say who it is, but going forward if there's a similar situation to this, im not gonna hold back with what i say. writers work their assess of to put things out, and when people come and take their words and claim them as their own, it puts a dent in the enjoyment of writing.
that being said, writing should be something that comes from you so that you enjoy it, and copying other peoples work just doesn't seem enjoyable.
i may take a small break from writing, i may not. but its actually so fucking disrespectful and discouraging to sit behind your screen and blatantly take other peoples works to show as your own
Natasha was deeply engrossed in her video game, the intensity of the match reflecting in her focused expression. You watched from the side, amused by her concentration. On an impulse, you grabbed a box of colorful Crayola markers nearby and settled yourself onto her lap. Natasha glanced up briefly, a smirk playing on her lips as she continued playing.
Without a word, you began tracing the intricate patterns of ink that adorned her skin. Natasha's muscles relaxed under your touch, her attention divided between the game and your gentle strokes. The room was filled with the soft hum of the game console and the occasional sound of your markers gliding over her skin.
"You're really into this, huh?" Natasha finally spoke, her voice low and teasing.
"I am," you replied, your tone playful.
Natasha chuckled softly, a rare moment of relaxation amidst her busy schedule. She adjusted herself slightly, allowing you better access to her arms and shoulders. The markers danced across her skin, adding vibrant hues to the black lines etched permanently into her flesh.
Time seemed to slip away as you worked, the afternoon sun casting a warm glow into the room. Natasha occasionally sneaked a glance at you, the game forgotten momentarily as she savored the intimacy of your shared activity.
Hours passed, the game long finished and forgotten. By the time you put the markers down, Natasha's tattoos were a riot of colors, a temporary masterpiece born of spontaneity and affection.
"They’re beautiful baby," Natasha murmured, her arms wrapped around you now, "thank you"
You laughed softly, pressing a kiss to her lips. "You’re very welcome"
