240 pounds

The ghost deer is supposedly a cryptid, that lives in the canyons of Mount Eddy in northern California.

According to legend, when shot at, bullets will fly right through the deer, or miss it. The “animal” also seems to appear and disappear with no traces of it. Attempts have been made to track its prints, only to find that they simply “end” at one point.

The ghost deer, according to legend, is a buck that looks something like a large elk with large antlers ending in 10-12 points, in contrast to the relatively small, normal Californian deer. Most hunters believe it weighs 240 to 250 pounds, though others believe it is actually a ghost.

anonymous asked:

you know how steve always sleeps on the side of the bed facing the door "bECAUSE YOU ARE PRECIOUS TONY HUSH" okay but one if one night while they were asleep baddies did break in to try and snatch tony but were met with 240 pounds of kickass

If there was one good thing that would come out of this, it was that Steve now held the right to be able to gloat about being correct.


Although, when you woke up to the sound of foreign footsteps creeping through your bedroom as you held your very un-enhanced, very asleep and very vulnerable lover in your arms- that sort of thing tended to be pushed to the back of your mind.

(Read more, mobile users!)

Keep reading

the problem with MCU Tony Stark characterisation in fanfic

okay so I love smol, soft, vulnerable Tony Stark as much as the next person, but sometimes I think we forget some super important things when writing him:

  • literally within an hour of IM1 we see Tony hammering metal with basic tools in a cave which is very physically taxing for someone not used to it
  • we see Tony Stark miniaturise the arc reactor, something his own dad never figured out, in the space of three months whilst probably battling chest infections, the threat of death and low cognitive function (the fluctuating temperate, irregular meals, sleep cycle and high risk of infection from open heart surgery drastically affects your thought process, genius or not) - with fuck all available
  • there is the suggestion that Tony + Running isn’t so much of a novel idea in IM1′s ‘Dogfight’ as Rhodey doesn’t bite back and say ‘you don’t jog’ in response to Tony’s flighty responses - that would be the first thing a best friend would point out to their fellow bullshitter
  • he and Happy practise MMA against one another (IM2) and Happy isn’t someone to go gentle - Tony isn’t one to want Happy to pull his punches so Tony is proficient in some form of close combat when fully cognisant - we see Happy’s skills when he finally (!) punches one trained fighter as Tash knocks off everyone else. if Happy can do that, Tony certainly can - and even better now he’s a full Avenger (we ignore Civil War, okay)
  • he literally takes a sledgehammer to his own home and re-discovers and element once again previously hidden to his own dad - a man heralded and lauded as The Genius - so he’s very proactive and willing to move shit around to figure something out
  • we also see the strength needed in the synthesising of this element - his arms are literally b u l g i n g  with muscle mass, so this gives us the nod that Tony does work out to keep himself fit
  • in IM3 he literally has nothing? he makes his OWN weapons again from store-avaliable items and takes down literally a whole compound under his own steam (reminiscent of IM1 building of the suit with a box of scraps) so he isn’t exactly ‘useless’ when given the correct tools
  • despite that bullshit scene where he suddenly ‘forgets’ that magazines aren’t universal for all, we know Tony handles guns - he does it when he’s escaped the bed in the basement, when facing the Mandarin etc and he’s confident enough to use them correctly (deliberately missing Trevor but close enough to make him shit himself) so this crap about him suddenly being unable to shoot a light from that distance is again, bullshit
  • he literally drags the iron man suit through the snow - whilst it’s (MK42) is about 240 pounds on, it’s gonna be a lot heavier with all the hydraulics and electrics powered down. it takes core strength to make it and drag it, guys, so he’s pretty well built for a civvie
  • in avengers he spends just as much time moving - you need insane core strength to maintain a flying position, metal suit or not, and you need to be physically fit to fly it too if you think of how often it would have glitched and malfunctioned with hits before it rebooted. just because he’s in a metal suit it doesn’t mean it’s effortless and JARVIS does it for him - it’s like riding a horse. the movements are subtle but you’re using so many fucking muscles and so much energy
  • in AOU he literally fucking JUMPS FROM THE BALCONY ONTO A BOT floating in mid air like, that’s super gutsy for a civvie who has no official ‘spy’/army training or no backup Green Machine but by this point nothing surprises us about this fuckwit tbh (it gets me every time when I see him do that)
  • he gets thrown into walls so often with enough force to knock out a normal person like, i’m surprised he, Rhodey and Bruce don’t have constant concussion tbh - in IM3 with a missile blast/ in AOU against the wall after Ultron and down to the floor from a great height
  • he’s super fucking gutsy and takes massive risks for someone with no healing factor or special skills - in IM3 when he faces off against the Mandarin with nothing/jumps off a balcony on the rig and slides down the bending metal before jumping into fucking mid-air relying only on his suits to save him/facing off against Loki and then being thrown out of a window despite not knowing what would happen at all and knowing that his suit wasn’t quite ready/relying only on his mobile gauntlet to save his whole fucking face when Bucky (poor soul) tries to shoot him (unintentionally it isn’t Bucky okay) in the middle of his freak-out (and these are all without the whole suit, only bits and pieces, so don't say he’s a little wallflower he has as many balls as the rest of them in combat)
  • have you seen him in a three piece suit??? his figure is fine af from all this shit 
  • he literally survived a blast to the fucking chest with a bomb, survived palladium poisoning, thought his way out of countless shit, is a certified genius, a massive polyglot, has several doctorates and isn’t the soft, smol, vulnerable little chicken so much fanfiction makes him out to be

I love reading those smol, cutesy fics from time to time too - because lbr MCU!Tony IS small in stature because Robert is, bless his platform shoes - but please remember Tony is actually meant to be a badass physically fit (wiry or lithe, depending on comics or movieverse) superhero - he may not be great at hand-to-hand combat like Cap or twenty feet tall like Thor but he can certainly hold his own fgs.  

Max Stuffing

An original weight gain story by kyaada

It had been a couple of months since I’d seen Max in the flesh, and I always looked forward to his visits to town with the neverending hope that I’d see more of him than the time before.  Each time we’d meet, I’d concentrate on bolstering his waning self-confidence attributed to his ongoing weight gain, assuring the 26 year old Swedish meat ball that he still had more than his share of good looks.  Of course, I’d also fill his head with restaurant ideas and tempting recipes, never letting him forget that it was important to keep that belly of his full of many pleasingly delicious things.

It was fairly busy day at the warehouse club with a steady stream of shoppers pushing their as-yet unfilled carts past Max’s roadshow table.  Very few stopped to show interest in the product, making it a perfect time to hang out and chat.

“Yeah, I tried to go on this diet that my father recommended, and I had bought all of this stuff– $400 worth–” Max said, scratching the top of his belly, “but it lasted two weeks. Then I gorged my way through Thanksgiving, then the whole month of December, well, hell, I’m still eatin’ like a pig.  My pants are so fucking tight, and well, this is my biggest shirt and it’s completely filled.”

“Max-filled, by the looks of it,” I said, reaching over and giving his rounded belly a gentle pat, bringing out a bit of laughter.  “Don’t beat yourself up about it, Max, I mean, come on– you’re still a really handsome guy.”

“Well yeah, but I was so hot when I was in college.  I need to get back into shape.”  He stood there letting his belly stick out as far as it wanted after his substantial lunch at Applebee’s.  Giving his stomach a friendly massage with one hand, Max worked out a steady stream of mini-belches.  “Fuck, I ate too much for lunch.”

“Aw c’mon, Max.  You enjoyed it, right?”  

“No doubt, man.”  Max put both hands on his midsection, spread his fingers, and gave his food barrel a squeeze.  “I enjoy everything too much– the main reason why I weigh 240 pounds now.  I’m the biggest I’ve ever been!  My roommate calls me his “big boy” now.  Damn him anyway for being such a good cook.”

“Oh, does he cook for you, Max?”

“Yeah, with me being out of town for a week at a time, it’s hard for me to keep groceries in the house.  He usually just cooks for me when I’m home, and with what he learned in those cooking classes last year, he’s become quite the budding chef.”

“That’s more than handy, huh?” I asked, watching Max reach down and shift some stiffness in his pants zipper region.

“You could say that.  The other week, he made this awesome tender steak with these loaded baked potatoes and this vegetable dish and this amazing garlic parmesan bread and my favorite salad and even some homemade pasta.”  Max kept his hand on top of his belly as he described the lengthy meal, rubbing back and forth as his eyes nearly rolled back in his head.  

“What? No dessert? The bastard!”

Max’s belly shook as he laughed.  “It’s all good– I don’t really care all that much for sweets.  Besides, I probably wouldn’t have been able to fit it in.  As it was, I could barely move.  I just sat there on my fat butt like a big vulnerable pregnant Buddha.”

At the mention of his divine after-dinner state, I found myself getting harder.  “That must have been quite the sight, Max.  Did your roomie rub the Buddha belly for luck?”

“Come to think of it, he did, and he snapped a couple photos with his phone.  He told me that I was too big to get away and that I’d have to eat the rest of the sausage cannelloni because he didn’t want any leftovers.”

“Wow! It sounds like you were definitely vulnerable to a serious overfeeding at that point.”

“I was beyond swollen when I finished that last bite of saucy pasta goodness. Good thing I was close to the couch and he only had to help me waddle a short distance.  The Buddha was ready to burst!”

“You know, you really do need to come to my house on a night when you don’t have any appointments.  I’ll make you some dinner, and you can relax yourself with a good feed.”

5’ 10” Max smiled at me, showing off his irresistible dimples, “that sounds like fun.  We could have drinks and I bet you’re a pretty good cook.”  

“Oh absolutely.  Guys that come to my house for dinner should wear pants with a little give in ‘em and a shirt that will stretch some.  I’ve had a couple complaints where my dinner guests had eaten too much.”

“Are you gonna impregnate the Buddha?”

“Maybe a little bit, Max.  Overstuffing you and putting you into a vulnerable state is pretty appealing to me, I’ll have to admit.  I might even have to you weigh in and out.”  My eyes shifted down to his belly region again after thoroughly inventorying his dimples, much fuller cheeks, and beginning double chin.  “By the way, what time do you go to lunch today?”

“We could go now, actually, it’s not that busy.” Max began gathering his various phones and electronic devices.  “Besides, all this talk about food has made me hungry.”
As we walked across the parking lot to his favorite standby Applebee’s, I noticed how much his round belly bounced with each eager step.  

“Where are the good places around here to run?” Max asked me as one of his heavier steps dislodged a small belch.

At first, my mind refused to connect the vision of his perfectly fat bouncing ball of belly and his desire to go through such ridiculously pointless physical effort; nonetheless, the memory of his diet and exercise talk spurred my response.  “Run? That’s too hard on your knees, Max.  You don’t want to be running.”  The short walk across the parking lot was topped by the sight of his wide rear going into the restaurant ahead of me.  He really did have an amazingly shaped bubblebutt and gloriously stacked love handles.

When we got to the booth, I noticed that the table was pushed over to one side, and he automatically chose the widest seating area. Max said that he was going to be good and just have a salad.  I told him that I knew he was trying to stick to his diet and “get back into shape”, so I first interested him in the French Onion soup that he’d never tried before, then ordered the 4-Cheese Mac and Cheese with Honey Pepper Chicken Tenders along with a steak quesadilla appetizer for us to share.  He gave it some thought and added some crispy chicken to top his humble Caesar.  

Max received his soup first, and was completely thrilled with the new flavor and stacks of gooey cheese.  He helped himself to pieces of the steak quesadilla at my urging, and was well through that pile of nibbles by the time our entrees came.  The server flew about like a crazed bee between tables because it was so packed, but she still managed to keep Max up to his nipples in Coke, which he sucked down at a near-panicked rate.  Next, Max conquered his heaped salad easily, and didn’t flinch when I pushed my mac and cheese towards him with a heartfelt request for assistance.  

Max’s belly swelled with obvious confidence.  The gap between his expanding stomach and the table edge narrowed as he widened in front of my eyes.  The fleece pullover, already tight all over, was getting a stretching in the midsection.  Suddenly realizing how full he was getting, Max leaned back momentarily and emitted a stout belch.  The bearchub of a manager chugged his way up to the table and asked how everything was tasting, recognizing Max from his many previous lunch trips.  “How’s my best customer?” the bearchub asked, “from here, it looks like you’ve got a little space left between you and that table, so we should fill it with a nice big dessert. What do you say?”

Powerless to avoid being desserted, Max watched as the bearchub sat an overscooped Blue Ribbon Brownie in front of him with two spoons.  The brownies were stuffed with chunks of dark chocolate and nuts, covered in hot fudge.  Two large scoops of chocolatey decorated vanilla ice cream sat on each side of the brownie pile in a similarly irresistible manner like Max’s fattened pecs adorned the top of his rising belly.  Despite his previously mentioned aversion to sweets, Max gorged himself to capacity on the quickly melting heap of decadence.  
“There! That was a great diet lunch, Max.” I complimented the completely rounded stud seated in front of me.  His overfull belly pushed against the table hard enough to cause a mini-roll of fatness just above the table ledge.  If I would have shoved the table over just one inch toward him, it was likely that I’d be wearing his enormous dessert.

Max smiled at me as he rested his head back against the top of the booth, absentmindedly running his hand across the top of his big bloated belly.  “I’m so fucking full that I hurt.”

“Poor guy! Applebee’s apple barrel boy.”

Max looked at his phone.  “Oh shit– I better get back to work!” His sudden realization spurred him into movement, but his next revelation was that he was a bit too overloaded to move quickly.  “Oh my Goddddd, get the forklift!  You might have to help roll out the barrel boy…”  Belching and grunting his way out of the tight fit of the booth, Max was finally able to stand up and begin his journey to the front door.  Even the most casual of observers in the restaurant could make out Max’s protuberant bulge and how it led the way while he shifted his pasta butt into gear to motor towards the entrance.  

“Take your time, Max, remember, you’re built for comfort, not speed.” I told him, looking ahead to see the bearchub manager waiting patiently at the front with a to-go bag.  

“You got that right– besides, I don’t think I could move faster than this if I tried.”

Max slowly glided into position by the bearchub manager like a heavy-laden truck pulling into a highway weigh station.  The manager smiled and thanked him profusely for coming in again, handing him the to-go bag.  Addressing Max’s confused look, he offered, “you forgot your leftovers at your table, sir.”

“But I didn’t…” Max sputtered, relaxing his belly for a moment to let it become as round as possible.  The hefty young manager peeled off a “Blue Ribbon” sticker and smoothed it onto Max’s extra-taut fleece right above his left nipple.  Finding the humor in the situation, we all chuckled at how Max really did resemble fattened free range livestock.  The bearchub reached over and patted Max’s very full belly and thanked him for being a valued customer, “I know that you’re pretty stuffed at the moment, but here’s a little snack to tide you over before dinner.”

The walk back to the warehouse was a much lazier affair due to Max’s heavy lunch.  His gut was so packed so tightly that it essentially refused to bounce with each plodding step. 

“Still thinking about taking up running again there, Max?”

“Smart ass.” Max smirked at me.  “Exercise of any kind is pretty much out in my present condition,” he confirmed as he rubbed his impressive sphere in languid circles.  “Buddha Boy here overdid it again…”

~.~

The next day, Max sent me pics during his visit to Famous Dave’s.  “Diet food” was the title of the first one, showing a mega-pile of food for his “Feast for One”, and this was after he’d guzzled beer at the bar during happy hour.  He’d told me before that he usually avoided drinking beer because it made him bloat so outrageously, but the cute young bartender had convinced him to try a local brew he ended up really enjoying. Max devoured his single feast after tanking up with beer, and sent a photo looking down to show how round he’d become.  His new gal pal behind the bar went on to work out a deal on a giant bowl of bread pudding with sauce and ice cream, enticing Max to stuff it in.  He must have handed her the phone to take the picture, so I received a very revealing shot of his tight shirt and swollen belly accompanied by a text that said he was going to “have to be rolled out.”  I texted back and told him that I loved his new diet plan.  
The following night, Max ate Mexican food before going out to two appointments.  Then, he went out for pizza and beer.  Following that, he used the 2-for-1 Whopper meal coupon I’d given him and had to go to his hotel room for a rest.  He sent me several photos of his attempts to get comfortable on the bed, blaming me for his overgorged state because I’d shoved that coupon on him.  After accusing me of being a bad influence, he told me that he had the next evening free, so I jumped on the chance to invite him over for dinner.  Then he called me.

I answered the phone and heard this protracted belch rumble through my earpiece.  

“Wow, Max, you okay?”

“Oh my GOD I’m so full.  Just stick me with a pin and pop me already.”  Max said, breathing loudly enough for me to hear him over the phone.

“Poor guy. At least you’ve had two nights of stretching your stomach before you come to dinner at my house.”

“I’m definitely stretched out. I had to unbutton my pants.” Max belched again.  “I look so fat right now.”

“You looked like a big ol’ sausage in the pics you sent me.  A big, stuffed sausage…”

“Sauté me in beer until I split.” Max quipped.  

“So, are you in the mood for beer tomorrow night, Max?”

“Whatever you got.  I’m just gonna sit there with my mouth open like a little baby bird and let you feed me whatever you want.”

“Okay then.” I felt my face get hot as my blood started to rush around my body.

~.~

I certainly didn’t mind spending hours preparing for Max’s Big Meal the next day.  Cooking and baking non-stop, I gave my collection of cookbooks a thorough workout.  Feeling a touch exhausted, I poured myself a gin and tonic and looked over the assortment with undeniable satisfaction as the doorbell rang.  Time had really gotten away from me during all of that preparation.

I opened the front door and guided Max in.  “Hello there,” I said.  “Hey,” Max replied with a smile.

“You know, I’ve never been invited to a guy’s house for dinner before,” Max said as he shed his coat and showed off his ensemble.  To my amazement, he’d chosen his black knit pullover shirt he’d outgrown several months prior, stretched it over what appeared to be a tank top underneath, and then struggled to button his tan dress pants from work.  The zipper had no hope of traveling up to the top of the track, and there was a “v”-shaped gap underneath the tortured pants button.  

“No worries, dude.  You just sit back and get a bellyful of food and drink like normal.”

“All right, I can do that!”  Max confirmed, running his right hand over his rounded middle.    He sucked in the delicious aromas that filled the air.  “Wow, what smells so good?”

“I’m so glad you asked.  Would you like a drink?”

“That sounds perfect.” Max said, “I could use a stiff one.”  

“Kitchen’s that-a-way,” I pointed out, letting him walk in front of me.  His fat butt wobbled from side to side in front of me, and I tried to calculate how many pots of pasta it took to get the seat of his tight pants to fill out that much.  “How about a martini?”

“Sure!”  Max looked around at the smorgasbord of food around the kitchen and was genuinely surprised.  “Oh. My. God. You really outdid yourself!”

Max made short work of the frozen glassful of gin I’d poured him and held the empty out for me to fill again.  “No way, you left the scale out for me?”  Seeing the scale over by the back door, Max sauntered over and stepped on it.  “Not sure if I should do this or not…”

I took another long drink of my gin and tonic as I walked over to see what the scale had to say.  “Huh.  251 pounds, Max,” I told him as he tried to suck in his belly and lean forward to look down at the readout.  

“251, really?” Max sipped his martini confidently.  “Damn. I just keep putting on weight,” he said as he started scooping up seven layer dip with tortilla chips, “ Well, I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised with how much chow I’ve been pushing down my gullet these past few days.”  The effects of the quick infusion of cold gin became obvious; Max was getting “softer”.

Like a switch had been flipped, Max concentrated on conquering the chips and dip while alternating nibbles of crostini slathered with roasted garlic cream cheese, roasted peppers, and balsamic vinegar.  I opened him a beer and he guzzled to wash down the uninterrupted stream of appetizers.  Finding true love with the barbecue sauce-drenched bacon-wrapped Italian meatballs, he popped them in his mouth, one after the other, like Pac Man on a hurried trip through the maze.  Max’s black shirt stretched as his stomach swelled, and his facial expression was that of pure bliss.  “What’s for dinner?” he asked.

“Come this way,” I said, guiding him into the dining room where I’d set a very attractive table.  “Make yourself comfortable.”

“One minute,” Max delayed, as he doubled back to fill a large plate full of his favorite hors d’ oeuvres.  

“You’ve sure got a good appetite there, Max.” I complemented him, giving his middle a lustful stare.

“You’re an amazing cook, too.  I think I’m in trouble,” Max told me, setting his big plate of nibbles on the table and rubbing his rounder belly in wide circles.  

Max’s prediction of trouble became more real over the next hour of uninterrupted binging.  After he’d finished the entire pan of steak enchiladas, the outline of his wide belly button was unmistakeable through his divinely taut shirt.  The slipperiness of the black knit material caused the hem of that outer shirt to slide up a bit on his swelling belly, creating a white strip of the cotton undershirt below.  Max finally took a break from shoving food into his mouth.  He scooted his ample butt forward and leaned back in his dining chair, arching his back slightly.  The movement caused him to emit a very satisfied belch; startled at the volume of the burp, Max excused himself and rested a hand on top of his much taller belly.

I leaned toward him, unable to hide my pleasure in his condition, and pushed my hand against his firm stomach.  Max let out a grunt and looked over at me.  “How are ya feelin’ there, big guy?” I asked, giving his bulging belly a couple enthusiastic thumps.  “Yer gettin’ big!”

“The food is too good. I gotta use your restroom for a minute.”

Max struggled to get up, grunting and groaning all the way, pausing to stand before me while he stretched his arms up to the ceiling.  His combination of shirts rode up his belly, baring a nice portion for me to view, and his pants button appeared to be in imminent danger of launching.  Max grabbed his latest beer bottle off of the table and chugged down what was left.  “Ahhh, good stuff,” he said, belching loudly.  Allowing his belly to relax a little, the increased size was enough to pop his pants button off into my lap.  

“Well, it was only a matter of time.  That button’s days were limited,” I comforted him.

“40s here I come,” Max said before turning to wobble to the bathroom.  I watched his concerted effort to walk after eating as much as he did, and continued marveling at how fat his ass had gotten over the previous few months. His gait seemed unnecessarily hindered until he let out a fart as he exited the room.  “Excuse me!” he called behind him as he continued his journey to apparently release even more accumulated pressure.

I checked on the outrageously topped pizza in the oven and pulled it out ahead of it becoming too browned.  Opening another beer for Max, I waited for him to return.  As I was cutting slices, I heard Max puffing his way down the hallway.  Emerging in the kitchen, he lacked his overtight black pullover shirt and was clad only in his completely filled white tank top.  His nipples were obviously hard and he’d made no effort to raise his pants zipper whatsoever.  Max’s basket was plump as he opened his mouth.  “Pizza?  Oh no.  My weakness.  You know my weakness.”

“Yup.  You told me one time and I’ve never forgotten.”

Max stood there in the kitchen admiring the incredibly tasty mound of toppings smothering a semi-thick crust, sucking back drool and swallowing hard to keep it from escaping the corner of his mouth.  “It looks so good.”

“Do ya think it will fit in your belly?”

“It’s definitely gonna be a tight fit.  I’m gonna have to stretch top-to-bottom and side-to-side.”

“Attaboy, Max! That’s the spirit!”

I picked up a heavy slice and guided it towards his mouth.  His lips instinctively parted as he opened his mouth wide for a giant bite.  I pushed the ample portion in as far as I could and he responded by taking an enormous chunk.  That first piece disappeared quickly, and his hunger was reignited by the irresistible combination of flavors.  He stood there in front of the cooktop gorging himself on pizza as I opened another beer for him.  Max spread his feet apart to lower his center of gravity toward the food supply, and relaxed his abdominal muscles as possible to facilitate continuous swelling.

I must have created the perfect storm of toppings because Max could not and would not stop eating.  His midsection blew up like a balloon as he used both hands to push in slice after slice.  He looked over at me with a couple pieces remaining, blinked several times, belched forcefully, and said, “I’m getting s-t-u-f-f-e-d!!”

“No doubt, Max.  Your gut looks like you’ve swallowed a beach ball.”

Max chuckled as he requested another beer. “I can’t believe what a bad influence you are.  I’m supposed to be on a diet!”

“Hey, I’m sorry, Max.”  I walked over and placed my hand on top of his protruding belly.  I pushed in to fully appreciate the fullness, watching his nipples harden again.  His softened pecs sat on top of his overfed belly as plump reminders of his long-forgotten days in the gym.  I put my other hand on the small of his back, brushing his thick lovehandle on the way over.  Pushing him forward with one hand as I rubbed back and forth on his solid belly with the other, I noticed him chew his mouthfuls faster.  “Your diet is as blown as this fat belly.”

Max looked down and the surprise on his face was evident.  “Holy fuck…my belly has never been this big!”

“Feels good, doesn’t it, Max?”

“Fuck yeah. Keep rubbing!  Maybe get behind me and use both hands…”

He didn’t have to ask twice, and I pushed my hot crotch into his fat bubble butt as I reached around his front.  Max gobbled down the last of the pizza and guzzled his near-full beer.  I squeezed a big long belch out of him and then shook his enormously swollen belly from side to side.

“You’ve impregnated me with food!” Max babbled in a daze, leaning his head back against my shoulder.  “Not that I’m complaining at all, but fuck, I’m so fat!”

“Yeah, you are. Your belly feels like it’s gonna bust!”

“No lie. You ought to pop me and put me out of my misery!”

“Maybe after dessert.”

“Dessert?”

I started smacking Max’s tight gut with alternating hands.  “Damn, this tank makes some fine sounds.  I could play this drum for a long time!”  Max put his weight back against me as I harvested a new round of burps from his ripe watermelon of a belly.

Max pulled away from me and waddled over to where the scale sat on the floor.  He was so full that his arms swayed out away from his body.  Stepping on the scale, he became frustrated almost immediately.  “Shit.  I can’t see the display– my belly is too big.  You fed me too much!”  

I walked over to his side, looked down, and reported the 261 that showed on the display.  Smacking him right in the full gut, I told him “hey, it takes two to make a 10 pound food baby.”

“Fuck, man.  I gotta go on a diet.  I’ll never find a girlfriend at this rate.”

“Max, I’ve told you before…you’re a damn handsome guy!  So what if you’re thirty, forty, uh, sixty or so pounds overweight for your height.”

“More like 80 pounds overweight,” Max smirked, putting a hand on each side of his bloated sphere of chow.  “Okay, 90.”

“Trust me, Max.  You can find a girlfriend.  There’s plenty of women out there that will find you a plenty good catch.  You’ve got a steady income, you’re reliable, and you come with nice big bubble in the middle, which means you’re on the level.”  

“I’m just not looking because I don’t like how I look right now…” Max said, stepping off of the scale.

“But hell, you’re so hunky and chunky.  You just need to find a girl that will bring you beers while you sit on the couch waiting for her to finish making you an extensively filling dinner.  You’d be much happier letting your belt out another notch than going and sweating it up at some gym.”

I could sense Max traveling to this magic land of perpetual weight gain in his mind as he   wobbled back into the main kitchen area sniffing around for more food. “I do hate cardio, that’s for sure.”  He parked his fat butt against the counter and let his gut relax out to full bulge.  

“See?” I eased my way over in front of him and gently punched around on his enormous ball of belly.  His tank top’s hem lifted up to expose his belly button, inviting my finger in for a visit.  “You’re destined to be an overfed chubby hubby.”  As I pushed my finger in and out of his belly hole, he horned up instantly.  “Now, how about some dessert?”

“Jeeeeeez. Are you just going to keep pushing food in me until I explode?”

“Is that a bad thing?” I inquired.

“Nah. You’re an amazing cook.  My belly is telling me to stop, but my taste buds are longing for more.  Why did you make everything so delicious?”

“It was all part of the plan to make sure you really enjoyed yourself, Max.  I’ve loved watching you grow fatter over the last few months.”

“Hmmm.  Well, you do talk about restaurants and recipes a lot.  You’re always making me hungry….even after I’ve eaten!”

“Oops… Sorry about that.”  I pulled out a plate of brownies and wafted the aroma under Max’s nose.  He started salivating again, and his dimples made a lengthy reappearance.  “Brownie cups with Reese’s peanut butter cup centers…”

“No way…”  

I took one and shoved it halfway into his mouth.  Pouring him a big glass of chocolate milk, I had him take a big gullet-clearing swig after he swallowed the generous bite of brownie treat.  “C’mon.”

Soon, I had him laying across my lap on the couch as I fed him stuffed brownies and poured chocolate milk down his throat.  After I’d shove another morsel in his eager mouth, I’d give his ever-swelling belly an intense rubbing.  Max’s stomach pushed up higher and higher into the air, becoming tighter as it rose.  Finally, Max was struggling to swallow down each subsequent bite, and I knew he was reaching capacity. 

“Ohhhh, my belly…” Max moaned.  

I put both hands on his mound and finger-massaged my way around it.  “It’s like a big round rock!”

“I know…it’s all your fault.” Max got out between labored breaths.  “I’m overgorged.”

“Poor guy.  Hard-bloated from rib to cock….” I thumped his enormous gut like a ripe melon.  “Now, aren’t you glad you finally made it over for dinner, Max?”

“Buddha is on the verge of going boom!”

Max wriggled off of my lap and capsized onto all fours on the floor.  For a moment, all he could do was adjust to the amount of gravity pulling his tumescent abdomen close to the rug.  “Blue ribbon Buddha…” I observed, remembering the sticker he’d gotten the other day from the hot bearchub manager at Applebee’s.  Thumping the side of his full tank, I produced a series of most pleasing “bomp” sounds.  “So ample and plump, this Buddha Boy,” I told him, scooting forward to sit on the edge of the couch so that I could reach all of the way under his solid gut.  “Like a big tom turkey being fattened for a sublime Thanksgiving meal.”

“Tell me about it.  I keep wanting to get back my hot college bod to get the ladies, but all I have are guys stuffing me until I’m ready to pop like a tick!”

“You should resist those insane temptations and do some push ups – right now!”  

Max grunted incredulously.  Pushing his legs back one after the other, he soon found himself laying on his beach ball of a gut in a pregnant plank position.  I pushed him over onto his back and watched his mountainous bellyful wobble into upward prominence. I mercilessly fingered his shallower belly button and shook his tank from side to side.

“Heh.  I thought so.  Now, try to do a sit up.”

“Please.” Max breathed, working out a long, satisfied belch.  I knelt down beside him and put both hands on top of his tall girthy gut, applying pressure in various degrees all over the broad expanse.  I watched his cock lengthen inside his taut underwear, knowing that he was thoroughly enjoying the attention. Grabbing the hem of his tank top, I worked the skin tight affair up to his fattened pecs crowned with hard nipples.  I slapped the bare skin of his bloated stomach, careful not to work his packed digestive tract too much.  

“Max can’t run, he can’t do a push up or a sit up,” I stated, lifting my leg up and over to straddle his big round mountain.  “He can’t even escape a sure and certain forcefeeding coming up to finish him off.”  I gently bounced on his giant gut, quite mindful of the fact that it could prove disastrous to put much weight on it.

Max sputtered out an oh-my-god, then “sit on my cock instead. My pregnant belly can’t take any pressure at all.  I’ll split down the middle!”

“Attaboy, Max,” I affirmed, giving his taut balloon a good massage, “now to push another fattening pile of food into Buddha…”

Since I’ve yet to see a single post about it, here goes off what I know; A man named Steve Stephens is currently on the run in Cleveland after live streaming himself shooting and killing an elderly man in Cleveland (East 93rd Street, just south of I90) The video has since been removed and the Facebook deactivated. He claims to have killed 12-13 other people; Those are unverified and no additional victims have been found. This horrible person is apparently killing in the name of a “Joy Lane.” He is ON THE LOOSE so PLEASE if you live anywhere near the area STAY INSIDE. Stephens is 6 foot 1, weights about 240 pounds and has a full beard. At the time of the live shooting, he was wearing a dark striped polo shirt. Police say he is driving a white or cream colored SUV, reports have said it was a Ford. DO NOT APPROACH HIM, HE IS CONSIDERED ARMED AND DANGEROUS. IF YOU SEE HIM, REPORT IT IMMEDIATELY. PEOPLE HAVE REPORTED SEEING HIM IN AND AROUND CLEVELAND. AGAIN, STAY INSIDE AND DO NOT APPROACH HIM IF YOU SEE HIM, PLEASE. I’ll try and keep this updated as more things come in. UPDATE: HIS VEHICLE IS A WHITE FORD FUSION, TEMP TAGS! E363630! STAY SAFE EVERYONE!

Cheaters sometimes Prosper

“I’m really sorry,” Leonard apologized. “It’s just you put in so many big words I couldn’t read the note cards. I know you worked really hard on it but Coach could see right through me. It was like he knew before I even got up there.”

Nate stared up at his dorm neighbor, “Its ok. I should have made sure you were ok with the project before you started. It’s always hard to do a cold reading of anyone else’s work. Don’t feel too bad about it.” Leonard kept his head down. He still felt like he was the one to blame. “And pull your head up. I won’t let you have bad posture when I’m around.” In an instant he fixed his posture. He wasn’t about to have Nate mad at him too.

It surprised Leonard that Nate didn’t blame him at all for what Coach was making them do. He was far more angry at Coach Larson than he was at Leonard. It almost filled Leonard with pride that someone was standing up for him. Even when Leonard told him what happened, Nate scolded Coach instead.

“So this is his office?” Nate asked. There was almost a threatening tone to his voice. Leonard nodded. The small guy knocked on the door. Dread filled Leonard as he thought about what Coach could say.

“Come in.”

Nate and Leonard walked into the coach’s office. “I was told you wanted to see me.” Nate sounded indignant when he spoke. “Something about cheating.”

Coach Larson smiled. “So you’re the one who made a project for a class he wasn’t in. A project to be used by another student so they could pass a class. Do you know how much trouble you could be in?”

“Yes,” Nate glared. This was one of the main rules of any college; no cheating. “I’m well aware of what could happen to me and Leonard. However I don’t like the way you conduct your class.”

“Oh?” Coach raised an eyebrow. Most people didn’t dare talk back to Coach. He almost always had control of the situation but Nate wasn’t about to let him off the hook.

“Oh?!” Nate mimicked in a louder voice. “You think you…”

“Leonard you can wait outside.” Coach interrupted Nate. Despite Nate’s anger somehow he couldn’t speak over Coach Larson. Leonard instantly obeyed. “Sorry about that. It’s just I don’t want him to get any ideas of how I run my students. I take it you’re upset with me not allowing that moron to pass my class without doing any work?”

“Moron!?” Nate’s voice instantly rose again. “Leonard’s not a moron! Just because he can’t do public speaking or strings together a large amount of unnecessarily elongated words doesn’t mean he’s a moron! You’re a teacher! Don’t treat you’re students like that. Yeah. Sure. I messed up. Whatever. I shouldn’t have done the project for him but I’m not going to stand here and listen to you call your student a moron!”

“Then have a seat,” Coach motioned toward a chair. Despite Nate’s size he still had one of the nastiest glares Coach Larson had ever seen. He adjusted his glasses and proceeded to sit across from Coach. “I’m sorry that I called him a moron.” Nate rolled his eyes but Coach continued. “I just wanted to see why you were here. It would have been just as easy for you to make another project for him to turn in. So why didn’t you do that?”

It took Nate a moment to think. “I don’t like the way people treat guys like him. It’s like all he is considered is some meathead incapable of thinking for himself. It’s frustrating. He’s not dumb.” Nate crossed his arms but sat more relaxed in the chair.

“Ahh…” Coach Larson chuckled. “So you do like him. I wasn’t sure why you’d be defending him so strongly.” Nate was about to interrupt but Coach continued. “Do you think it’ll last?”

Nate adjusted his glasses again, “I don’t know if that’s any of your business Mr. Larson.”

Coach laughed again, “Please call me Coach.” Nate continued looking skeptical. “Besides being interested in his body what else could you possibly have in common?”

“Well, Coach,” Nate replied snidely. However, he didn’t have a anything to comeback with. Really all it was right now was physical. That, and everything Nate had built up for wanting to defend what he now considered was his man. Now thinking about it they hadn’t even made anything official. “Uhh… I’m not sure…” It was the first time he felt hesitation. It was like something had changed.

“Exactly,” Coach’s tone had softened even more. “You have to have something to connect you right. Something more than just magic.” Nate shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Coach was making a lot of sense. “What if you could be as big as him?”

“Bro? Really? Dude works out like 7 days a week. I ain’t got time for that,” Nate laughed. Had he really just called someone bro? He shook his head, “He works way too hard. I don’t want to be like that. It’s nice to look at but too hard to maintain.”

Coach Larson knew exactly what he was talking about. “So you just like being the little spoon?”

“AHAHHAH!” Nate laughed harder than he meant to. “Just cause I’m smaller doesn’t mean I’m the little spoon. Dude loves being loved. I don’t mind. He never really got it growin up so I do what I can.” Nate rubbed his hand through his facial hair. Had he really forgotten to shave? Nah this was at least three days worth of facial hair. He just needed to trim it up a bit. It was starting to itch.

“Oh so what you’re like 180 pounds guy and then take care of some 240 pound oaf?”

“Nah man,” Nate laughed again. “It’s just that he sometimes he wants somebody to tell him he’s as great as he thinks he is. But I like being on top. I don’t have his power and size.” He slapped his bicep. “But I’ve got some power and size.” Nate repositioned his legs wider open. “Leonard’s a great guy. Don’t be too hard on him Coach.”

Coach smiled broadly, “Alright Nate. I’ll be a little less harsh on him. By the way, that project you did was great. That’s why I wanted to see you. Have you considered a work study with the gym? I’m sure I could get you one.”

“Really? That’d be great. Then I’d be able to spend more time with Leonard too.” He subconsciously rubbed his chest. It felt so much rounded than when he entered the office; hairier too. He shook his head thinking about all the good times he’d be able to spend with Leonard in the gym.

anonymous asked:

819?

I think one of the things I like about shipping Ovi and Nicky is that they rock the opposites thing but they also have a ton of similarities. Like, let’s not mince words, they have both gone through some utterly tragic hair phases. And they both have the ability to turn their facial expressions on a dime from looking like a stone cold sociopath to the softest and goofiest of expressions. And I love how both of them are completely willing to knock over another player, but they’re MOST eager to do it when someone else has gone after the other. Like, you try to hit Nick Backstrom? You can set your watch to the fact that 240 pounds of Russian fury is running you over on the next shift, if not the same one. Taking a whack at Alex Ovechkin? Oh God, you’re not even going to see the utterly coldblooded Swedish retaliation until it’s too late.

 Okay, my favorite memory to tag this response with is the fact that Nicky and Ovi were road roomies for a while in Nicky’s rookie season, when Alex Semin was out with an injury, and that kickstarted their friendship. And these two quotes from an article about that always make me chuckle:

Ovechkin and Backstrom’s friendship flourished in October and November when Backstrom temporarily replaced Alexander Semin as Ovechkin’s roommate on the road. Semin missed 17 games because of an ankle injury.

Although Ovechkin and Semin are once again sharing a hotel room, the bond forged during the season’s early months has strengthened.

When the two checked into their hotel Friday afternoon, they constantly teased one another, exchanging putdowns and shoves as they stepped onto the elevator.

Ten minutes later – they had been apart for a matter of moments – Ovechkin’s cellphone rang.

“What’s up, Backie,” Ovechkin said. He listened to Backstrom’s inquiry before responding, “Yes, you must wear a suit.”

And,

The two always seem to be in one another’s company, whether it’s dinner at a trendy restaurant, catching a movie at the theater, shopping or playing video games at Ovechkin’s home.

When they’re together, the topic ranges from cars and clothes to music and women. But the conversation almost always comes back to hockey.

“We love going out together,” Ovechkin said. Asked to name a few of their favorite haunts, he grinned and said, “It’s a seeeecret.”

Shortly after the dog died, all of the birds died too.  All thirty of them just dropped dead on the same day within a 3-hour span.  Looking back, we probably should have checked the yard for chemicals, but this might’ve been before chemicals.

“We should consolidate if we can,” said Dad, his reasoning being that he had just laid down sod and preferred not to dig thirty-one holes in the yard.

“Plus we need the shoe boxes for Christmas presents,” he added. “Not bird coffins.”

“Fine,” said Mom, still dabbing at tears.  "I just don’t see why we have to do this now.“

"I still have the box from the basement TV,” said Dad.  "It’s the perfect coffin!“

But it wasn’t the perfect coffin; at least not at first.  

Dad spent the rest of that afternoon in the backyard, trying and failing to stuff every deceased animal into the one cardboard box.  It was too horrifying for the younger children to see, but just fascinating enough for the rest of us to gather around the kitchen window, watching.  

He started by putting the dog in first and then using the dead birds to fill in the empty spaces kind of like packing peanuts, but the box filled up fast and Dad was left with a pile of about five birds.  He sat and stared at the pile for about a minute before glancing back at the window and when he saw us watching him, our father seemed genuinely surprised.  He smiled weakly, but in that one moment of uncomfortable eye contact, it was clear that Dad had come to grips with one very important truth:  We would count the birds and so by god, they had better all be in there. He threw us a guilty wave and then tipped the box over to try again.

As the afternoon wore on, we held our places, observing as Dad grew increasingly frustrated at the futility of his efforts.  He cursed, he punched the box and then he kicked it.  At one point he even karate chopped the dog and I had to tell my crying siblings that the angle had played a trick on us; that dad had karate chopped the patch of grass next to the dog, but I could tell they didn’t believe me and I felt like a coward.

But it wasn’t until Dad began trying to physically manipulate the shape of the dog’s body, that I decided enough was enough.  

"Let’s go,” I said. “He’ll figure it out, but we should go.”

And that’s how we left it: Dad lying sideways in the yard, spooning the dead dog, and using his 240-pound frame to force the corpse into the fetal position.

“Finished!” said Dad proudly when he came in for dinner.

“Don’t bring that box in here!” Mom screamed.

“I’m just showing them!”

“Take it outside!”

“I will, but look!”

And we did, but what we saw made no sense.

“Where are the birds?” I asked, but as soon as I did so, my eyes took note of the bulging veins in my father’s forearms and it all made sense.

“Oh no…”

He explained that the birds had actually fit quite naturally into the dog’s mouth, making the act of stuffing the body full of dead birds surprisingly graceful.

“It was like nature, I think.”

“Get out,” said Mom.

She grabbed his arm to yank him towards the door, which caused him to drop the box and when it hit the ground, the dog jolted.  We froze.  And then the dog jolted again.

“He’s alive,” my sister screamed!  "He’s not dead!“

But he was dead.  The birds, however, were not.

After the crying and hysteria had cooled down a bit, Dad pulled me aside to discuss his next move.

"I guess I could hit him with a shovel.  You know, until they’re all dead.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Yeah, I was just kidding,” Dad lied.

And just like that, he decided that the best thing he could do as a father was to give his family one more day with their dog.  Sure, it wouldn’t be the version of our pet who had been able to respond to various vocal commands, but was it so insane to think that maybe, just maybe the birds couldn’t provide the illusion that the dog was still alive?  The answer was yes.

As the birds tried to free themselves, they sent the dog careening around the yard like a pinball.  He ran into fences and even steamrolled a few of the saplings we’d planted for Arbor Day.

“Bad dog!” Dad scolded.

A few weeks later, we found out that Dad had been dead for over twenty years and was existing in the form of a soulless entity.

“NOTE FOR YOUNG PEOPLE AND AMERICANS: One shilling = Five Pee. It helps to understand the antique finances of the Witchfinder Army if you know the original British monetary system: Two farthings = One Ha'penny. Two ha'pennies = One Penny. Three pennies = A Thrupenny Bit. Two Thrupences = A Sixpence. Two Sixpences = One Shilling, or Bob. Two Bob = A Florin. One Florin and One Sixpence = Half a Crown. Four Half Crowns = Ten Bob Note. Two Ten Bob Notes = One Pound (or 240 pennies). One Pound and One Shilling = One Guinea.

The British resisted decimalized currency for a long time because they thought it was too complicated.”

—  Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett
Weigh-In #4

Last week: 102.8kg

This week: 102.1kg

I’m so happy right now! I’ve lost 5.1kg in exactly 28 days! Now I’m down to around 225 pounds!!! Haven’t seen that number in ages because for 2-4 years I’ve been around 230-240+ pounds in weight! I’m feeling really motivated now. Glad I didn’t give into my cravings yesterday!

My goal now is to get down to 100kg by the end of the month. I’m hoping I’m able to get it done 👊🏾💪🏾.

The Price of Bread in Dungeons and Dragons, Part 1

There’s a multitude of issues with the way the economy in D&D works; namely, it doesn’t. This is a worldbuilding exercise by me to try and make some sense out of seemingly random numbers. I’m probably going to fail. This week, we’re looking at bread, milk, cheese, beef, pork, and chicken. The necessities in life.

For ease of understanding, the seasons are renamed in my campaign. The calendar is 360 days and begins in the spring month, Pollengrass, which is then followed by Sunpeak, Harvestfall, and finally Deadwood. I use the terms fairly interchangeably with their actual counterparts here.

So, what is the price of bread? Well, first we have to discover how much it costs to plant wheat.

BREAD

Planting 100 pounds of grain seed (wheat, rye, barley) will yield 1500 pounds of grain on average. One acre of land can handle this amount normally. Planting takes up most of Pollengrass (spring) and ends in Harvestfall (fall).
Not many people just want wheat itself, so the wheat has to, in most cases, be milled first.
100 pounds of grain will result in 70 pounds of flour. An average-skilled miller takes 10%, and about 20% is lost in the milling process.
Bread, of course, requires flour AND water to make. For most, the cost of water is negligible, but we’ll say 1 gallon of fresh water costs 2 copper pieces and can be used to make 4 loaves of bread. A loaf is a pound, and has about 4 servings in it.
That pound loaf costs an average of 8 copper. This means making a loaf of bread actually requires 1.1 pounds of grain to be recovered from the miller, who then takes his 10%, and including what is lost in milling, it requires 1.3 pounds.
The average person needs about a pound of food per day. Half, one quarter, or even one eighth of this could be bread.
Let’s say this super-average farmer plants 10 acres of grain, getting back 15,000 pounds at harvest. The government taxes 1500 pounds.
The farmer is left with 13,500 pounds of raw wheat, which he takes to the super-average miller. Due to average loss and the miller’s cut of 30% total, the farmer comes away with 9450 pounds of flour.

I’m saying all this to say that a pound of wheat bread costs 8 copper. A pound of white bread costs 15 copper.

The farmer comes away with 60 pounds of flour for every 100 pounds of wheat he planted. Average price of regular brown flour is 5cp per pound, while the more expensive white flour is about 10cp per pound. This means the farmer that plants 50 acres (5000 pounds) of brown wheat seed gets 75,000 pounds of wheat at harvest, and 45,000 pounds of flour after tax and milling. At average market price, that returns 225,000cp, or 22,500sp, or 2250gp, or 225pp.

A 1-acre plot of brown wheat yields 1500 pounds, and yields 900 pounds of brown flour after milling and tax. At average market price, this returns 4500cp, or 450sp, or 45gp.
If this is a field of white wheat, it yields 9000cp, or 900sp, or 90gp.

Forgetting everything else, one human will need 365 pounds of bread per year to stay fed. This is not at all a nutritious meal. Assuming the farmer has a spouse and 8 farm hands, these 10 people need 3650 pounds, roughly, of bread per year.

I think this is all I can say about bread, but you can read about milk, beef, chicken, and pigs under the cut.

Keep reading

Doctor

So I went to my general practioner today. Well he made me actually because I haven’t been there in two years. Without a visit he wouldn’t write prescriptions for my asthma drugs. He goes through all the basics and then gets to my weight. He pauses and says well you were 240 pounds in 2014, 311 pounds in 2015 and now you are 280 pounds seems like you’re going the right way but…..you really need to work harder. I ask him to put me on a drug for weight loss I’ve been researching called Contrave. Back in 2013 my prior doctor had me on part of the two part drug (Wellbutrin) and it worked like a champ. I lost weight and I wasn’t so depressed all the time. The only reason I even got off of it was I started running more and seemingly had it all under control.

Back to the doctor. When I mentioned the drug he says “I don’t like weight loss drugs. You just need to cut”……at which point I stopped him pulled out myfitnesspal / weight watchers app and scrolled through three years of data. I then said I obviously understand how weight loss works look at that yo yo of a weight loss chart. I’m asking for help. His response was that he would have to research it. I’m fine with that. I just think he should have said that from the start. I’m not asking for a lapband or anything so permanent just some help with control.

So now I’m bingeing Oreos. FML

anonymous asked:

I understand the height difference but you've said smacks very muscular so I gotta know... could he pick up pent (even just a little) or is that too much?

I’m not sure if Smak could deadlift over 240 pounds. I’m not saying he can’t I’m just. Really unsure

🎉I've reached my second goal🎉

At the end of 2015 I weighed 240 pounds. My highest weight ever. At the beginning of 2016, in February, I started working out and restricting calories. In the past, I have starved myself to loose weight and I figured that was what I should do. I did good, I had a few hiccups but I was down to 211 by the end of summer. I hadn’t seen that number on the scale in awhile. But a diet based solely on starvation isn’t a lifelong fix and I was setting myself up for failure.

Last fall and winter were hard for me. I fell into a depression that set me back. I ended up gaining almost all of my weight back. At the beginning of this year, 2017, I was back up to 230. I was devastated. Instead of wallowing though I pulled myself up by my boot straps. I did some research on veganism and watched a few high carb Hannah videos, amongst others, and made the switch.

Today is April 13th 2017, I have been vegan for 3 months, I work out almost everyday, and I am extremely busy. I realized I couldn’t make excuses. If I want time to do these things, I have to make time. I’ve gotten down a couple of times in the last few months and sometimes I was strong, other times I slipped up and didn’t workout or ate junk food but that’s okay. I was hard on myself, forgave myself, and kept working the next day.

Losing weight isn’t easy. Sometimes, being vegan isn’t easy but today I am happy to say that after just 3 months, I’ve hit my 2nd milestone goal of 210!! 🎉🎉🎉

that moment when your grandmaster stops class to help a black belt candidate learn how to do a brick break and then turns it into a life lesson 😅

I grabbed my phone to capture a video for when she breaks it, and I’m glad I got this motivating speech. The clip is just over a minute.

Caption: Grandmaster standing in front of a thick concrete block upon two others, with a student who is going to attempt breaking it, in front of a class: “think through, think through. This is, you know, guys, breaking is a metaphor for breaking through stuff. You know the challenges that you have - I’ve seen 240lb linebackers, football tough guys [tough guy noise] they can’t break one. It’s in here [points to head]. During testing, they got their black belts, they’ve been kicking everybody and they’re really strong, they’re like this, right? [poses like bodybuilder].

They come and they go ahhhhhh eeek [winds up to break but pauses short]. Stops. The reason is, the brain is really powerful and so what happens is, it tells you, ‘That’s a brick. That’s a brick. I cannot break that!’ And as soon as your brain says that, subconsciously when you say that, your hand just stops because your brain stops everything in motion. And so the biggest guys can’t break through this. Until they learn how to do that. And then after, after 2 years, 2 years, 240-50 pound guy, big guy [flexs again] he broke eleven after 2 years of training.

But he had to train himself to do that: 'I can do it, I can do it.’ So, this is, you can do this. But you have to tell yourself you can do it. You know what I tell my little dragons (toddler class)? Yes I can? Or I say 'can you do it?’ and they say 'YES I CAN!’ It’s the same deal, you have to look at that and say 'I can go right through that.’ And then you have to convince yourself, (student’s name), you have to believe it, and the belief has to become real, and then you make that happen.

And so, that happens with anything you can do. Any endeavor that you come across. Okay? Right? You wanna be the next Bill Gates? If you tell yourself, 'Ah, man, that’s already been done’ then you’ve already lost. That’s exactly the same thing! You have to start thinking about that. That - [points at brick] - you have to break through that barrier.”

Upstaged

You should do a story where the reader is kidnapped by an unsub and she knows Hotch so she calls him when the unsub isn’t paying attention and for like two days she’s just giving Hotch and the team information they need to nail the guy. Right when the team is about to barge in, reader gets all badass, beats the unsub up, and chills for the two minutes it takes for them to get in. Impressed they ask her to join the team. She also is fighting the internal fear of the situation and they don’t know.

Woo!  You guys like your specific stories.  Alright, I can try to stay with this to the best of my ability.  Here is your one-shot, comin’ ‘atcha!

(Part 2)


On the third dial, he picked up.

Hotch finally picked up his phone.

“Hello?” he asks, his voice muffled by your bra as you try to stay as inconspicuous as you can.

Hotch hadn’t realized that you had been taken by their unsub.

And you hadn’t realized that it was the same Hotch was looking for.

“Aaron.  It’s me,” you breathe, your eyes darting around in the dark, “get Reid.”

“Y/N?  What number are you-?”

“Damn it, Hotchner, come on!  Speaker.  Reid.  Now.”

As Hotch scrambles on the other end of the line, you hear a click before Reid’s voice pops up in the background.

“Her name’s Y/N,” Hotch murmurs.

“Y/N?  This is Special Agen-”

“I know, I know.  Shut up and listen,” you whisper harshly.

“Oh-…kaaaay?” he asks as he furrows his brow.

“It’s a man.  Six four.  About 240 pounds.  Massive biceps.  No tri’s.  He can carry me over his shoulder but not in his arms.”

As Spencer listens to you intently, recording your every word into his brain, Morgan starts to flail around a stack of papers as he finally grasps the picture he was looking for.

Handing the sketch to Hotch, he puts everything together as his face pales.

His neighbor has been taken by their untrackable unsub.

“Y/N?” Reid interrupts, “Do you have any idea where you are?”

“Gotta go,” you whisper, clicking the phone off before scurrying into the corner, curling up like you were when he last left you.

You knew you had a good reason for having two cell phones.


“Who was that, Hotch?” J.J. asks as Hotch runs his hand through his hair.

“J.J.  Prentiss.  Go to my house and question the neighbors.  Ask if they’ve seen anything suspicious.  Cars.  Random people walking up and down the block.  A-a-and make sure Jack is alright at school.”

“Hotch?  What’s going on?” Emily asks as she crosses her hands across her chest, her brow furrowing with worry.

“That woman is my neighbor…and she’s been taken by our unsub.”


As Aaron drums his fingers on his desk, the sweat dripping down his neck gathering on the collar of his shirt, he sees the number he doesn’t recognize pop up again and he calls for the team, opening up the call and immediately putting on you speakerphone.

“I’m set to record,” Garcia says.

“Y/N?” Hotch asks.

But all he heard was your heavy breathing.

And it panicked Hotch thinking that the man had found your phone.

“Small hands,” you croak as Hotch swallows thickly.

“What else?” Reid beckons as he watches Aaron warily from the corner of his eye.

“In a dark room.  When he shuts the door there’s nothing.  Not even the hand in front of my face.  Grabbed some of his hair.  He uses-”

The team hears you sniff deeply before coughing fiercely.

“Lots of moisture.  And also, apple.  His scent is apple.  Ironically small hands for a man his height.  Jet black hair.  Steely green eyes.  Scar on his-”

But when the team heard your door slam open, the call cut off again.

“Add it to the profile,” Hotch murmur.

“Hotch, we don’t even know-”

“It is,” Hotch bites to Rossi as his friend dances his eyes across his face.

“It’s the same guy.  No other people have been reported missing with the same MO, and I guarantee you when the women get back from their investigation they will say-”

“Hotch!  You were right,” Prentiss interrupts as the men turn towards them, “rope on her pillow, all of her left shoes have been taken, and nothing else has been touched.”

“But he made a mistake,” J.J. grins as Hotch throws David an “I told you so” look.

“What?” Morgan asks.

“Y/N must be a fighter.  She probably made him stumble, causing his hand to reach out and press up against the window beside her front door.”

“I’m still skeptical, though,” Prentiss murmurs, “I mean, the hand print is really small.”

And it was Reid who took to writing down the rest of the things you had said over the phone that evening.


The team was finally closing in.  They had it narrowed down to a 25 mile radius, but even with the entire police force scouring the woods, it would take weeks to find you.

Hotch had to hear from you.

He had to know what you knew.

They had no shot otherwise.

And then, as if the heavens were praying in his favor…

Ring ring riiiiiiiing.

Fumbling with his phone as he picks it up, Garcia begins recording immediately as he hears you puking on the other end of the line.

“Y/N?” he asks, worry constricting his throat.

“Fast food,” is all you choke out in between vomits, “all he brings me is fast food.  I’m sick of this damn grease.”

And little did you know it was the connecting dot Hotch needed.

The radius soon went from 25 miles to 5, and everyone was hopping into their squad cars and SUV’s, heading to the addresses that housed tunnels and basements.

Hotch wanted to keep you on the line as long as possible, until you heard the sirens echoing outside as well as over the phone line.

The wait seemed like an eternal damnation.

Until finally…

“I hear you!” you whisper desperately as you finally work the rope from around your wrists, your hands now darting to your legs as you curl your nose at the stench of your own filth.

“You’re getting closer.  You’re close.  You’re-”

But your door slammed open, and you cut the call…like all of the times you’d done before.

Except this time, Hotch was yelling your name well after the call had been dropped.

“Damn it!” he roars, throwing his phone against the dash before turning his head towards Rossi.

“She said we were getting closer,” he breathes.

“Then it can only be one place,” Rossi says as he diverts off of the road, catapulting along a divoted dirt road before a rickety shack comes into view.

And Hotch’s eyes flew to the cellar door.


Panting in the corner as you sit on top of the bloodied man’s unconscious body, you hear footsteps running down the corridor as someone finally flicks on the first shades of light you had seen in days.

It was about damn time he showed up.

As the man begins to groan, you jab the butt of your elbow into his side, causing him to start gasping for air as your head whips up towards the door.

“FBI!  PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE-”

But the sight stopped Aaron in his tracks.

“FBI!  PUT YOUR-”

And then, it stopped Morgan.

“Guys!?” you hear Reid yell, his footsteps rushing down the hallway as he peeks over Aaron’s shoulder, taking in your tired form, your pajamas tattered and your face dirty.  You were sitting on top of the unsub who was moaning and groaning in pain underneath you, his shoulder dislocated, his eye black and blue, and his nose broken.

“Took you long enough,” you lull before standing to your feet as the man begins gasping for air yet again.

“Fat bitch,” he murmurs lowly.

“Better be glad I wasn’t sitting on your face,” you muse behind you, your eyes slowly grazing over the cool, dark floor before raising up to meet Aaron’s shocked stare.

But as you held Hotch’s gaze, he was well aware of your shaking hands as he slowly takes a step towards you.

“Are you alright?” he asks as he slowly reaches out for your arm.

“Uh huh,” you breathe, tears rolling down your face as you try to put on a strong facade.

“Did he hurt you?” he asks as he grasps your hand, your lip beginning to quiver as your breath begins to shorten.

It was then that Morgan and Reid slip behind you to handcuff the man on the floor and drag him out of the cellar.

“Oh, no.  No no, I-I…uh…I’m fine,” you choke out, trying your best to stomach the fear and surprise hitting your system all at once.

“Come here,” Hotch coos as he offers his body to you, your form sinking deeply into his as you wrap your arms tightly around his back.

“Ho, my god,” you whisper into his chest, your entire body trembling as he slowly begins to walk you out of the room.

As he murmurs lowly in your ear, slowly escorting you from the cellar all the way out to the blinking cars, a thin, blonde woman hands you a bottle of water as you take it from her thankfully, smiling weakly at her as you twist the cap off and bring the bottle to your lips.

“Morgan said that she took him down?” Prentiss asks Hotch lightly as he watches you get checked out by medical personnel.

“She was sitting on his unconscious body when we got down there,” Hotch chuckles lightly.

“Aaaaand…what does she do for a living?” Prentiss asks him in shock.

“She’s a librarian,” Hotch muses as he raises his eyebrows, slowly panning his gaze over to Emily as the two of them read each other’s minds.

“Yeah.  I’m sure you’ll find her a place on the team just fine,” Prentiss muses, patting Hotch on the shoulder before turning and making her way for the SUV in the background.

It was time for Hotch to take your statement.

And then it was time for him to take you home.

So I woke up this morning super pumped and proud of myself! On the left and right I was over 240 pounds, today (center) I weighed in at 170. All with a healthy diet change and exercise. I decided to change my life in June and I never been happier! Posting this to show myself that there has been change and that I’ve come this far and to help myself keep on swimming!