dress-size

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East of Nowhere - Year Three

Master Post Here

Sam x Female Reader

Summary: You and Sam are strangers trapped in a desolate mountain town where you live, isolated from the outside world, for five years.

Part four of a seven part series, each chapter detailing the events of one year.

Author’s Notes: Beta’d by the goddess divine: @elliewinchesterr

If you’d like to be added to the tags just drop me an ask.

Warnings: Language, angst, fluff and explicit sexual content.

Word Count: 6600+

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Two Years, Three Weeks

Sex changes things.

You’ve forgotten what it feels like to bask in the glow of a new relationship. The two of you find yourselves in the golden hour when everything is new and exciting, all the previous mundane events of the day seem suddenly thrilling. Now that Sam feels free to touch you, he does so without abandon and his hands seems more present than they did before, squeezing your shoulders at the table before taking a seat across from you, grinning as he nudges your bare feet with his own under the table. It’s glorious, the way one night changed everything about the way you interact. You feel a tingle when he walks into the room, blushing when he catches you looking at him.

For a while everything else is forgotten, research and books and plants are shoved to the back of your brain because you can’t think about anything but Sam and the feeling is mutual. You fuck anywhere and everywhere you can because why the hell not? It’s one of the few perks of being Shadow Hill’s only two residents. This world is yours and yours alone so Sam eats you out as you spread over the counter in the hardware store and you suck on his cock in the Beatrice Thurman Memorial Rose Garden.

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Friends With Benefits (Part 2)

(Part 1)

AU: Jughead never went to Riverdale High and never became friends with Betty and the gang the way they were supposed to. Archie, Jughead, and Betty were close in middle school, but once they parted ways and Jughead followed in his father’s footsteps of becoming a Serpent, their relationship was never the same.

Note: I have plans for a part 3 and possibly a part 4 if you guys want it, just let me know! 

Betty glanced up from the heavily pencil-marked notebook paper resting on the mahogany desk, the exasperated eye roll resting patiently behind her eyelids threatening to take over as she squinted at the scribbles and lines in front of her. 

“Jug,” Betty called to the leather jacket-less boy standing by the floor to ceiling window with a wooden pencil tucked behind his ear. “You have got to be kidding me.” 

“What?” He feigned innocence as he turned away from the view overlooking the courtyard and took a step closer to the golden-haired girl sitting hunched over one of the massive desks with a look of annoyance written all over her face. 

“I know you don’t expect me to read this chicken scratch,” Betty mumbled, shoving the paper in his direction and leaning back in the rolling chair with an irritated huff. 

“Bets, it’s been scientifically tested that brilliant people such as writers have significantly worse handwriting than most people in their age and gender demographic,” Jughead pointed out, placing the paper back in the center of the desk with a sense of pride overtaking his expression. “Don’t diss a literary genius for his hastily executed penmanship when he chooses to spend his time creating eloquently crafted stories instead of taking his time with his handwriting.”

“I’m pretty sure that test had numerous inconsistencies,” Betty teased, pushing herself out of the chair and taking a few steps closer to Jughead to place a delicate hand on his chest. “Besides, you’re just making excuses for how you can’t handle writing with plain old pen and paper instead of being in front of your laptop to get a story done.” 

“Oh really?” Jughead quirked an amused eyebrow down at her as she sidestepped his attempted embrace and hopped up to sit on the desk behind him in one swift motion. “If that’s the case, then maybe you should give me a handwriting lesson. Since you’re such a pro and all.” 

“You know, that’s not a bad idea,” Betty agreed, pushing him back with one hand as he attempted to close the gap between them. “And after that I’ll teach you how to reign in the egotistically asinine backtalk you’ve gotten so good at lately.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Jughead teased, reaching up to gently pry her hand from his chest and taking it in his grip. “Seems like you could learn a thing or two about that yourself.” 

“Is that right?” Betty raised a challenging eyebrow at him as he positioned himself between her legs dangling off the edge of the desk, leaning in so close that the tip of his nose brushed against hers as his hands slid down her arms to rest comfortably around her waist.

“Definitely,” he breathed, her arms snaking around his shoulders as their lips finally met for a soft, but passionate kiss. 

As Betty’s legs wrapped around Jughead’s hips and his hands slipped underneath her knitted pink sweater, the gentleness disappeared and the passion took over the way it always did when they were together. Just as they adjusted their body weight to lean back onto the table, a booming knock coming from the front of the room startled them into sitting upright, nearly kicking a stack of dictionaries onto the tiled floor from the unexpected movement.

“Knock, knock!” 

The couple pulled away from each other and Betty flung herself off the desk, reaching out to steady herself on Jughead’s shoulder as she struggled to regain her balance. 

“Cheryl!” Betty gasped, frantically pulling down on the hem of her crumpled sweater in her attempt to straighten it out as much as possible. “What are you doing in the Blue and Gold room?” 

“Fear not, my significantly less attractive and far less remarkable Lois Lane and Clark Kent,” Cheryl greeted them with a fake smile, her ruby red lips glowing an ugly shade of burnt orange in the harsh fluorescent lights of the classroom. “I haven’t come to take over your little craft corner of a newspaper room in the valiant effort to put it too far better, far more interesting use just yet.”

“Okay, then why are you-” Jughead started to ask, but was promptly cut off by Cheryl shoving a perfectly pointed fingernail up to his lips in her attempt to quiet him. 

“Wait a minute,” she smirked, tossing her long red hair behind one shoulder and taking a few more steps into the room. “That’s exactly why I’m here. The River Vixens need a better locale to prepare for football games, sans the repugnant odor the girl’s volleyball team leaves behind after their practices. Your sorry excuse for a newsroom will make for an adequately sized dressing area don’t you think?”

“Forget it, Cheryl,” Jughead shot back. “How could you possibly think that we would give up the Blue and Gold room so your cheerleading squad can primp and polish yourselves to scream at a bunch of football players from the sidelines?”

“Because you Southside garden snake,” Cheryl snapped, her eyes narrowing to glare in their direction as if they were scum on the bottom of her overpriced designer shoe. “I have dirt on the two of you that would break a certain ginger-haired stallion’s heart if anyone were to leak such information over to his side of football field.” 

“You don’t know anything,” Betty muttered, her fists curling up into two angry balls as she felt the overwhelming fit of rage bubbling up inside of her that was all too familiar. 

“Oh don’t I?” Cheryl fluttered a set of dark lashes at Betty as she reached into her leather handbag to pull out her phone. “Then showing Archie this picture of you two locking lips borderline NC-17 style would be acceptable?”

With one click of a button, the image of Betty wrapped up in Jughead’s arms blinked onto the screen, the intimate moment thought to have been shared only by the couple, showing much more than either of them would have liked anyone else to witness.   

“You were spying on us?” Jughead gaped at the redheaded deviant in complete and utter disgust. “Cheryl, that’s low even for you.” 

“No, what’s low is that wench of a friend of yours, Veronica Lodge, thinking she can take over my squad a get away with it,” Cheryl spat, tugging the phone away from their view and sliding it back into her purse for safe keeping. “Scoring the Vixens a new dressing room will win the girls back from her villainous talons once and for all. Then all will be right with the world yet again and we can all move on with our lives.”

“There’s no way Principal Weatherbee would go for this,” Betty reminded her. “The school has set aside a budget for the newspaper, not to mention that it counts as credit hours for-”

“Oh, he’s already signed off on it,” Cheryl informed them, a devious smirk creeping onto her lips as she took in their bewildered expressions with a sense of accomplished delight. “Mommy promised to fund the next three school-sanctioned events if he agreed. The only glitch is that he can’t forcibly remove you from the paper and ask you to give up your credit hours. That’s against school policy. But I assured him that all it would take was a little persuasion on my part and-”

“You mean blackmail,” Jughead corrected her, his voice so low that it nearly came out as a vehement growl. 

“Call it what you will,” Cheryl sighed, pulling at the sleeves of her dark red mini dress and smirking unapologetically. “But regardless, it seems as though you have a tough decision to make. Risk the friendship with your BFF of nine plus years by revealing the betrayal of epic proportions or relinquish your rights to the Blue and Gold for good.” 

“Forget it, Betty,” Jughead whispered, turning to her with concerned eyes and a deep-set frown. “You don’t need the room to run a newspaper, we can ask your mom if we can use the Register’s resources and-”

“Au contraire,” Cheryl crooned, taking a step closer to Betty to place a firm hand on the wooden surface of the desk in front of her. “No more Blue and Gold room, no more Blue and Gold. Mr. Weatherbee’s rule. It was a dying art form to begin with. He decided it was best to cut his losses in the long run, if you were to sign off on it of course.” 

Betty whirled around to face Jughead with pleading eyes, the hopelessness in her expression giving him the urge to reach out and comfort her, but knowing better not to. 

“You have 24 hours to make your decision,” Cheryl announced. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have fabric to buy for the velvet lounge chairs I’m planning to put in that corner over there. The decor in this place is seriously depressing, I can’t wait to work my magic. Later, losers.” 

With one last flick of her luscious locks behind her shoulder, Cheryl turned on her heel to make her grand exit out of the room, leaving Betty and Jughead to stare opened-mouth at one another as they tried to comprehend what just happened. 

“She can’t do this, Bets,” Jughead told her, reaching out to place a reassuring hand on her elbow. “We won’t let her.”

“She’s a Blossom, Jughead,” Betty reminded him. “They have all the power in this town and in this school. We don’t have a choice.” 

“Yes, we do,” Jughead assured her. “We tell Archie about us before Cheryl can.” 

“We already talked about this,” Betty mumbled, backing away from his touch and crossing the room to stare absentmindedly at the cluttered bulletin board displaying various school news and activities. “Telling Archie isn’t an option.” 

“Let me get this straight,” Jughead muttered, his brows furrowing together in confusion as he tried to wrap his head around what she was saying. “You would rather give up the one thing you’re most passionate about in order to keep our relationship quiet from the person who cut me out of his life as a result of something my father did, than end all the secrets and lies once and for all and just come clean? Is that about the gravity of the situation or did I miss something?”

“You don’t get it, Jug,” Betty whispered, the tears beginning to spring up in the corners of her eyes as she lifted her chin slightly to meet his gaze with an agonized whimper. “Archie was there for me when Polly left town and I was at my lowest point. I owe it to him to be there while he’s going through everything with his Dad. I’m telling you, it’s just not the right time.” 

“Are you sure it’s not something else?”

Betty knitted her brows together, shaking her head in confusion as she wracked her brain for any information that would hint at what he could have been referring to. “Like what?” 

“Like you’re ashamed of being with a pile of Southside trash like me,” Jughead spat, the words falling off his tongue as if it were physically painful to utter them. 

“Of course not, Jughead, you know I could never think that,” Betty assured him, taking a few steps closer to place her hands on the smooth skin of his cheeks. “I love who you are, every part of you.” 

“You’re just not in love with me,” Jughead concluded, wrapping his hands around her wrists and pushing her away. “Maybe that’s it. Maybe you can’t feel anything real for the boy from the wrong side of the tracks so you keep him close enough to get in his pants but push him far enough away to avoid feeling a real connection with him.” 

“That’s not true and you know it,” Betty breathed, the hot tears welling up in her eyes and beginning to fall onto her cheeks as she struggled to keep herself from screaming or collapsing into a heap on the titled floor or simply running away from everything altogether. 

“Well it doesn’t matter anymore either way,” Jughead muttered, his expression hard and stony as he held up his hands and backed away from Betty entirely. “I’m done. I’m done with the Blue and Gold. I’m done with this friends with benefits bullshit. And I’m done with you.”

“Juggie-”

“We could have had something special, you and me,” Jughead informed her. “We could have had the real deal. But you chose keeping your friendship with Archie over keeping anything with me. I hope you’re happy with that decision, Betty. Because now you have no boyfriend, no newspaper staff, and no newspaper. Congratulations.”

With one last disappointed glance in her direction, Jughead crossed the room in just a few bounding steps and left the Blue and Gold room for what could have been the last time, slamming the door shut behind him so hard that the plaques hanging on the wall by the chalkboard shook in protest. Sliding down the hard surface of the desk where she and Jughead had just shared an intimate moment together not ten minutes ago, Betty let the tears come hard in fast as she wondered how, and if, she would ever be able to fix this. 

Some other exciting news:

Yeah, I bought 5 items of clothes last week…. they were all size 14s!

At one point I picked up a size 16 dress, and when I tried it on it looked horrible and I had to get the SMALLER size for it to look right. 

When I started this diet, I was an 18/20, now I’m a bloody 14!!!!

Even odder… I can get away with size 12 shorts…. waaaah?!!?!

I wish people would realize that sizing differs between each era and that Marilyn was actually very tiny. Her measurements were 37-22-35. By her measurements and today’s sizes she’d be about a size 2.  This quote “to all those girls who think they’re fat for not being a size 0, its not you who’s ugly it is society” was actually never said by Marilyn. When Marilyn was alive, size zero hadn’t been invented yet. Size zero was invented in 1966 around the time Twiggy became popular. 

I’m posting this because I want to say I hate my body. I’m not going to lie, I have always wanted to be smaller and am currently in the process of trying to lose some weight.

Women generally go through life thinking that they are never the right size, that they should be skinnier, curvier, have bigger or smaller boobs etc. but I think that every body is beautiful.

I am a size 18/20 and I have always been on the plus size. This makes it tricky to find good clothes (personally) because of the size of my chest, or hips, or bum. There is NO perfect body size. Everyone is attracted to different sizes or feels comfortable at different sizes. If you feel comfortable being a size 6 or a size 26 then that should be YOUR choice.

I wish I could tell women that they’re all beautiful no matter their dress size. Some people are born with a larger or smaller size and it is physically impossible for them to gain or lose weight and yet they are still bullied or told they are “wrong.”

I just want to say a big FU to this and tell you all to stop looking in the mirror and wishing you could be something different. You are you and YOU are beautiful, okay?

I realise that this post is slightly hypocritical since I am losing weight myself, but the idea was to say that the size I am now is fine, I just feel the need to be maybe one dress size smaller. 

Love your bodies, ladies.

ABCs of Marilyn Monroe

→ D: Dress size

Marilyn’s dress size has been up for debate for years. Rumours that she was a size 16 (UK) were widely believe to be true. In April 2009, a journalist for The Times, who was a size 12 (UK) had the chance to try some of Marilyn’s clothes on. To her surprise, the clothing did not fit - and it wasn’t because they were too big! Quite the opposite actually, the clothes were too small. It is her opinion, which cannot be denied, is credible, due to her own experience, that Marilyn was a size 8 (UK) or at her “heavier” moments a size 10 in today’s sizes. Although Marilyn was a very curvy woman, she was a lot smaller than many people believe and in reality would never have fit size 16 clothing.

Do not ever...

… EVER think you are allowed to comment on a woman’s size without repercussions. you may not see them, but every time any guy tells a girl she is undesirable because of her size, that girl will feel undesirable to everyone, even if she has admirers. You may not see the outcome of what you say, but if you saw, if you felt what that girl was feeling, the guilt of it would make you sick. It’s okay if you don’t want to date her. We all have our own idea of “attractive” but don’t tell her it’s because of her SIZE! You have NO. FUCKING. CLUE. how often she is told that she is worthless because of her size. I know. I fucking lived it almost my whole life. 

I tell people I wanted to lose weight to be healthy. Yes, that may be true. But the bigger reason for losing weight was because I was constantly being rejected by so many people because all that mattered to them was my SIZE!


Nevermind the fact that I am a living, breathing human with hopes and dreams and stories of my own. Or the fact that I’ve spent six years teaching myself how to play beautiful melodies on the piano, or that I read books and I sometimes think I’m in the book, or that I have those moments when I lie awake at night listening to music and finally understand my own existence. Or that I love baking and saturday morning cartoons and road trip adventures. Or that I’ve slept on top of mountains and went skinny-dipping in the ocean or that I’m a good singer and an even better cuddler and I write secret stories anonymously online. NO! BECAUSE DRESS SIZES!

“I do not want to ride the moped.”
And with that sentence, you just lost the right to even talk to me. 

anonymous asked:

can i request a gaston x reader fic where he survives the fall but hit his head and the reader takes care of him but when he wakes up he thinks the reader is his wife? love your work 😘

guESS WHO ACCIDENTALLY ANSWERED THIS IN A DIFFERENT ASK AND LOST SAID ASK? THAT’S RIGHT. THIS DUMBASS. I AM SO SORRY TO WHOMEVER SENT THE ASK ABOUT THE ARRANGED BETROTHAL, BUT IF YOU COULD JUST SEND IT AGAIN, I PROMISE I’LL GET IT TO YA ASAP!!

Word Count: 2924 (dear god this is so long, i’m sorry)

Tagged:  @animeacetheheart @gawston@withouthannah@ciaprincess@the-fic-files @molethemollie@hobbithorse19@supernaturalimagines666 @hellonheels-x0-blog@blackxthexbeast@with-a-hint-of-pesto-aioli@amazingangelaaa@frozenhuntress67@totallyjoshlertrash @theoncergames @bucky-with-the-metal-arm @sherlocks-timetraveling-assbutt @lunarinne @ronijdubb@definitely-nota-fangirl @mochiiswan @epicfallenismine

10 years you’d been stuck as a useless bloodletting knife, 10 years you’d been unable to roam about the castle grounds exploring the many crooks and crannies, and finally, those 10 years were up, thanks so a rather beautiful young lady named Belle.

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Red Square - Chapter 2 (Olicity AU Bratva Fic)

Thank you equally for your patience and enthusiasm about this story. It’s getting a little bigger/longer than I had planned. I really hope you enjoy it. 

You can thank @tinaday3w for inspiring me to complete this chapter this week. She has been encouraging me so much and then she had a birthday yesterday, so I beavered through to complete it. Many thanks again to @mel-loves-all for the lovely artwork she made for this story. And hugs to @scu11y22 for awesomeness. 

In this chapter, we get some backstory. We get some Diggle. We get some nice things, actually. And there are some intriguing developments. 

You can read the first chapter here

Ao3 Chapter 1 / Chapter 2


The sound filled the main room of the apartment. It was the buzz of a tattoo machine, except the machine wasn’t actually there. It was in the bathroom, where Felicity was branding Oliver. The noise in the main room emanated from Felicity’s tablet - a clever ruse to distract listening devices while carrying on a secure conversation in private.

It had been Felicity’s idea to unblock the bug in Oliver’s sitting room. Disabling it for too long at a stretch might call attention and, perhaps, send someone to replace it. For now, occasional outages would be in keeping with the poor quality of Anatoly’s aging tech and easily dismissed. And all it would pick up was the noise of a mechanism doing its job.

Felicity preferred to work in the bathroom for a number of reasons. First, the lighting was better – and while the tattoo she was tasked to execute was not complicated, she always preferred to see where she was placing her needles. The bathroom also had the potential to be the most sanitary space in the apartment if properly cleaned first. She had brought disinfectant with her and carefully wiped down the area before beginning. Oliver looked grateful that germs would be kept to a minimum. Moscow was not a place where he wanted to be seriously ill with an infection. The third reason, the one Felicity would not speak aloud, was that the bathroom was quite easily the least dangerous room in the apartment. And by dangerous, she was referring (internally, of course) to the lack of soft horizontal surfaces. The thought of working on Oliver Queen, shirtless no less, on a couch or, god forbid, his bed, was more than she could handle right now.

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I’ve seen some discussion on here about FPs and photo posting. I have some feelings about this, as a mom who left the hospital without her baby. M wasn’t in foster care. M was with my mom. But still, the photo issue brings up a lot of shit for me. Not that it matters in the context of this issue, but I felt that M had been removed unfairly. From my hospital bed, I didn’t put up a fight whatsoever when a caseworker came on New Years Day to interview me. I answered every question and told her of course yes I agree M won’t be leaving with me. I hadn’t spoken to a lawyer and I thought being nice and easy to deal with would make them like me. I thought maybe if they liked me they’d change their mind. I was in a methadone program. We tested positive for opiates, when I got to the hospital and peed in the cup. By the grace of god she didn’t suffer any withdrawal. I was under arrest, for charges that were later dismissed when I pled guilty to a lesser charge. The neglect case against me was also ultimately dismissed. Though I a thousand percent believe that had everything not happened, had I not been forced into treatment, she would have been in danger of a lifetime of neglect.

She left the hospital with my mother. I left the hospital and went to an arraignment then inpatient treatment for a month in the hospital where I’d given birth. I had to sign every consent form for caseworkers and law guardians and district attorneys to get updates on my compliance. I felt like I couldn’t speak in any group about how I was really feeling and that I just had to be above all else “compliant.” I decided to do whatever was asked of me and tell people whatever they wanted to hear, and I’d get “real” therapy later. There wasn’t much deep discussion in the groups anyway, because most of the people were in acute crisis; my roommate had bitten her tongue off while drunk, the guy down the hall thought he was a vampire and threw ice chips at everyone, etc.

I’d wait on line for the pay phone to call my mom. Our relationship is fraught but she desperately wanted me to have custody and was telling anyone who would listen what a good mother I was. Still, subconsciously, I felt like she was trying to steal my baby, like she wanted to be her mom, that she was getting to be her mom and I wasn’t. I’d interrogate her through the phone about what kind of bottles was she using and please put her in a crib she’ll suffocate in your bed and please please put her on the phone I want to hear her breathing.

Almost daily, my dad dropped off photos for me with the security guard. My mom would text him pictures and he’d print them from his office. I kept them under my pillow but I couldn’t look at them. It made me sick, seeing my mom’s arms holding M at her pediatrician appointment, seeing her hands feeding her instead of my own, seeing this life she was having with the baby who was mine and that more than anything in the world I wished I was in too. Seeing my mom smile while holding her made me feel like she was taking pleasure in the worst moment of my life. I was grateful that M was being cared for by someone who loves her, and who loves me, but no amount of gratitude erased my quiet rage that it should be me taking care of her, not someone else. I was scared M would bond with her and never bond with me, that no matter how long I did whatever was asked of me for, I would always be like a big sister to her instead of her mom and she’d always love my mother more, because that’s who was there with her in the beginning.

My mom brought her to visit me twice a week. A caseworker came to the first visit and I wanted to show her how normal and sane and reasonable I was, I wore a pink sweater set and a bun like I was going on a job interview, but the whole time I argued with my mom about everything she was doing wrong. My mom brought M in a taxi without a car seat, because that’s not illegal in NY. One of her friends had given her a Bjorn and I told her if she ever dared to wear my baby again I’d never speak to her for the rest of my life. She had my newborn dressed in size 6-12m fancy pink clothes, instead of the white 0-3 onesies I’d wanted her to wear. She wasn’t using the swing I told her to buy. Instead of having the organized diaper bag I would’ve packed, she had giant tote bags overflowing with tons of shit, shit I wouldn’t have bought. Nothing she did seemed right to me. It felt to me like no matter what she did wrong– and it was all wrong to me, because she wasn’t me– the system thought she was perfect and I was horrible, like everyone would rather have anyone else in the world taking care of my baby except for me.

I haven’t made M a baby book. I’ve bought packages online then never used them. I have piles and piles of photos of her, photos of her up all over our house, but I can’t bring myself to make the baby book because it’s too painful to remember the moments of her babyhood that someone else got to experience when it should have been me. I still get mad when my mom posts photos of M on her Facebook. Why get mad, I post tons of pictures of her. I don’t get mad when anyone else in the family posts pictures, but it drives me nuts when my mom does– she writes “my girl,” and I panic that she, and everyone, still thinks or ever thought my child was hers. She posts a TBT of M as a baby, and I feel horrified that she’s laying claim to her, yet again, when in reality her taking care of M at that time was the only best possible solution in a terrible situation. If, while I was in rehab, I’d had access to a computer and knew that she was posting moments of the life she was living with my child without me, no matter how rationally wrong it might be for me to feel this way, it would have made me berserk. I’m not saying FPs shouldn’t post pictures– just putting out a birth mom’s perspective on how it feels for someone else to mother your child when you’ve been told you can’t.