seven pound

Signs as movie quotes
  • Aries: Sometimes I don't think people realize how lonely it is to be a kid. Like... you don't matter.
  • Taurus: Sweetheart, you can't buy the necessities of life with cookies.
  • Gemini: It's called a sense of humor - you should get one - they're nice.
  • Cancer: If you were happy every day of your life you wouldn't be a human being. You'd be a game-show host.
  • Leo: The night of the fight, you may feel a slight sting. That's pride fucking with you. Fuck pride. Pride only hurts. It never helps. You fight through that shit.
  • Virgo: You can't change who people are without destroying who they were.
  • Libra: If the sky were to suddenly open up... there would be no law... there would be no rule. There would only be you and your memories... the choices you've made and the people you've touched.
  • Scorpio: It's mercy, compassion and forgiveness I lack. Not rationality.
  • Sagittarius: Well, it's a crazy, fucked up world! And we're all just barely floating along, waiting for somebody that can walk on water.
  • Capricorn: You think you're free? I'm free! You don't know what freedom is! I'm free! I can breathe! And you - you're gonna go choke on your average fuckin' mediocre life!
  • Aquarius: One thousand years from now, there won't be any guys and there won't be any girls, just wankers. Sounds all right to me.
  • Pisces: The first time I ever saw a box jellyfish, I was twelve. Our father took us to the Monterey Bay Aquarium. I never forgot what he said... That it was the most deadly creature on earth. To me it was just the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

retr0spectre  asked:

Speaking of sexist fighting advice! There's this really great fiction writing advice blog I read years ago, written by a lady, shut down ages ago. But it claimed a few times that there was no way a woman could physically handle a zweihander or the like. I've always had a feeling that's nonsense, but confirmation from a good source such as yourself would be great.

Consider this: the zweihander weighs seven pounds. The display version is ten pounds. If you can lift a backpack crammed with textbooks, you can lift a zweihander. House cats weigh more than a sword.

The issue with the zweihander is length, not weight. It is not a heavy sword. No swords are actually all that heavy, because weight defeats the purpose of the weapon. The heavier it is, then the faster your arms wear out and grow tired. This is a terrible, terrible thing.

Combat is highly frenetic. An easy comparison is sprinting, and it’s not just a regular sprint but wind sprints. You gotta go, go, go. You need to be able to move. So, a heavy weapon is detrimental to the goal of being able to fight as long as possible. Especially when that weapon is designed to give you an edge in reach, and counter pole arms. You want to be able to swing the weapon around for long periods of time because if you wear out first, you’re dead.

Endurance, not strength, is the great necessity for any warrior. So, everything your PE teacher punished you with is what you’re looking for (except dialed to eleven). Once you understand fighting is about going for as long as possible between energetic bursts, combat starts to make more sense. This is also why most action movies feature the pressure cooker, the slow grind down of the protagonist by giving them little to no rest between fights as they accumulate more injuries.

So, when people say strength in regards to combat, they don’t usually mean physical strength in what you can lift. They mean how long you can go, what you can endure before finally keeling over. This gets misinterpreted, mixed in with the confusion by historians about parade swords (which were incredibly heavy and often the only surviving weapons) and we get the beefcake barbarian.

Like all swords, and even shields, the zweihander is awkward to use if you don’t know how to wield it or have never held one before. This has to do with its balance point. Swords feel heavier than they actually are when we hold them because the balance is midway up the blade and that strains the wrist, which strains the arm, and causes the whole thing to tilt forward. Sometimes, the sword even gets dropped. You’ve got to learn how to account for it.

When you’re looking at actual combat considerations on weight, that’s in the armor. Armor is comparatively heavy, the warrior has to get used to carrying around fifteen to twenty or so pounds, or more depending on what gear they’re lugging with them between battles. So, if you’ve got a character going into battle without plate then they’re not going to have those weight considerations. Even if they are, the point of training is to build your body up to be able to handle it.

At the end of the day, its important to remember that, historically, large scale combat has been about being able to get the most bodies on the field as possible. You ran the gamut between trained warriors and farmers yanked off their fields with a hastily cludged together pole arm thrust into their hands. There are plenty of people who went into battle with no freakin’ clue what they were doing. The concept of a military as we know it today is a mostly modern invention.

The mystique of the knight and others like them came with their training, which is… they had some. Whatever they’d have liked us to think, there was nothing different about them compared to the farmers except the money, the (sometime) power, the time, and the “luck” of their birth. In the end, it’s less about what humans can or can’t do but what society corrals them from learning. It’s easier to control your population when only the powerful have access to weapons, educations, and castles.

So, yeah, a woman can use a zweihander if she trains on the zweihander. It also won’t be her only weapon, mostly because one never knows when they’ll have to fight indoors. (That’s a joke, HEMA peeps. I know half-holds are a thing, and it’s not a katana so it can strike straight.)


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There’s no need to size up Mitch Marner

SAN JOSE—Paul Marner has been hearing it almost from the moment his son began dominating minor hockey games around the GTA.

“We’d stand there and listen to people constantly talk about Mitch’s size. ‘Oh my God, he’s way too small.’ ‘Oh my God, he’s going to get killed,’ ” Paul Marner was saying recently. “But as a parent, maybe you’re too close to it. At the time we never thought he was that small.”

Upon more recent review — looking back at video of Mitch’s rise through the ranks of the Greater Toronto Hockey League en route to starring for the Maple Leafs during a remarkable rookie year — a father has come to see things differently.

“I pulled out a game tape the other day from peewee and I thought to myself, ‘Oh my God, he looks like someone’s little brother on the ice.’ ”

Little Mitch, at the time, was playing peewee against boys a year older. At the time Michael Dal Colle, a longtime minor-hockey teammate of Marner’s who went on to be taken fifth overall by the New York Islanders in the 2014 NHL draft, was about 13 years old, standing five-foot-eight and 160 pounds, Paul Marner said. Mitch, at the same time, was four-foot-seven and about 85 pounds. Body-checking was permitted.

“Every coach we played against was sending guys out to kill him. So his whole life, Mitch has dealt with that,” Paul Marner said. “And right now, even though there’s some huge guys in the NHL, I think he’s at the least size disadvantage he’s probably ever had his whole life.”

“It was eating him up inside to be out of the lineup — it’s been hard on him,” said Matt Martin, the Leafs forward. “But for a guy like that, you just want to make sure he’s taking care of himself.”

Paul Marner said questions about Mitch’s long-term durability have always gone hand in hand with concerns about his skimpy frame. A couple of years back, when Marner was a draft-eligible 17-year-old racking up a nightly average of two points a game for the OHL’s London Knights, scouts flocked to see him play against the hard-hitting Oshawa Generals, then coached by Leafs assistant D.J. Smith. The fact that Marner suffered a fracture in his elbow that night — this on a hit from behind that earned Oshawa’s Will Petschenig an eight-game suspension — didn’t exactly end the conversation about his chances of weathering the professional grind.

“It’s almost a stigma that won’t go away,” Paul Marner said of concerns about the implications of Marner’s size. “But it doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

The hockey father, to that point, said he can count on one hand the instances in which his son has been hurt on a rink. There was a dirty slash that broke Mitch’s arm around age 10. There was a hip flexor issue that kept him out a few weeks when he was about 15. And then there was a case of whiplash suffered as a Knight in 2015, this after Erie’s Mason Marchment cuffed Marner with a stick to the jaw. Marchment was suspended 10 games.

Cheap shots happen, and anyone can get injured. But it’s worth noting the injury that kept Marner out of the lineup these past couple of weeks wasn’t a matter of a bigger player preying on the small-framed Maple Leaf. It was Marner who initiated the contact with Columbus’s Boone Jenner that ended with the Maple Leaf crashing awkwardly into the boards.

“Durability-wise, I’ve never been worried about it. He’s always got his head up,” Paul Marner said. “You look at the amount of time he’s played — how much he was on the ice in minor hockey and in the OHL, and how much he has the puck in the NHL — I think he’s pretty durable.”

It’s a compelling enough case. Mitch, for his part, has long been blase about concerns about his size.

“You can’t do anything about your body,” Marner said. “I’ve always been in this situation.”

The situation, mind you, is improving. While Mitch weighed in at about 160 pounds when the Leafs drafted him fourth overall in 2015, he has since put on weight. Exactly how much weight? Well, Mitch can be coy about this subject.

“It’s whatever it says on the sheet. 170? That’s what it says on the sheet,” he said.

Toronto’s No. 16, in contrast, is downright forceful about his height.

“I’m six feet,” he recently said in a declaration that drew guffaws around the dressing room. “Nobody believes that.”

Mitch, who doesn’t turn 20 until May, said he’s of the belief that he’s still growing. He said his older brother, Chris, had a late spurt around age 20 or 21 and now stands about six-foot-two. And there’s height on mother Bonnie’s side of the family. She’s five-foot-10. Paul Marner, who’s also about five-foot-10, said lately he finds himself looking up at his youngest son, whom he figures can easily add another 20 pounds of muscle to his frame before he’s fully formed.

Said Mitch: “It’s a thing in our family — stuff happens late.”

This is another claim that doesn’t go over well in the Maple Leafs room.

“He tells me he’s still growing all the time,” Martin said, rolling his eyes. “Good luck with that one. He thinks he’s going to be 6-3. I know he’s young. But he’s not that young.”

Mitch Marner shrugged and smiled: “If I grow or not, I’m happy how I am now.”

If how he is now is healthy and back in the lineup as Toronto’s push for the playoffs continues, there’s a fan base that likes him just fine, too.

04. two to play

Genre: Smut.

Content: Jeon Jungkook. It was but an innocent game that took a tumultuous turn

Request: Thigh riding w/ Jungkook

Word Count: 1,937

“The rules are simple,” he coaxed, “don’t get caught.”

It started off as something demure, thoughtful, an idea that Jungkook proposed to spice up your vanilla sex life, but along the way something went terribly wrong. This wasn’t to say that the two of you hadn’t had your fair share of erotic nights and kinks, but throughout the years, time became a crippling factor as job opportunities arose, and Jungkook moved into a small, prepaid studio apartment with the rest of Bangtan for easy access to BigHit. 

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The Last Thing I Want For You Is A Happy Ending

Title: The Last Thing I Want For You Is A Happy Ending

Summary: Tyler realizes he still has feelings for you after being broken up for almost a year, but is heartbroken when he discovers you are engaged.

Characters: Tyler Joseph x Reader

Warnings: Cursing

A/N: 600 followers! Thank you guys so much!

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Castaway {Epilogue}

Summary:  A modern-day University AU, from the A Court of Thorns and Roses universe. All characters belong to Sarah J. Maas. The idea for this fanfic hailed from prompts sent in by Anonymous, and @queen-archeron. You can read previous chapters here.

Author’s Note: It’s finally coming to an end! I want to thank you all for your patience, as I had some personal stuff intrude on my happiness, causing there to be a delay in posting this.

Anyway, I hope you all love it, and have enjoyed this story. My next ACOTAR story, Friday Night Lights, will start on January 1, 2018!

Okay. Here we go.

Originally posted by indiebitches

One Month Later

Azriel’s palms were sweaty.

He’d been nervous before. Hell, he had anxiety thrumming through his veins. And yet, nothing compared to the horror that had currently corrupted him.

It was good horror, though, if there were such a thing.

Elain had spent her day with Mor at The Fawn. Too long of a day, in fact. Azriel had expected her home half an hour before.

They had moved into her apartment, because her kitchen was bigger and the neighbors above her didn’t stomp on the floor in the middle of the night as they did above Azriel’s old apartment across the hall.

So, in Elain’s apartment that they had together made their first home, Azriel decorated……to the best of his ability.

He took the day off work. He bought a bag of rose petals and a series of candles that smelled like nothing in particular but were already placed in small, glass holders.

He had tossed them onto their hardwood floor in a way that looked slightly sloppy, slightly put together.

As the sun sank behind the horizon outside of their window, Azriel stood in the center of the rose petals and lit candles.

For thirty minutes.

And she had yet to walk through the door.

He caught himself glancing at the clock. Again. And sighed.

Shadow meowed from where she lied on the couch, causing Azriel to quirk his brows. “She’s coming. She probably just got held up at the store.”

When Shadow meowed again, Azriel scowled. “No one asked for your input.”

As if on que, the door was thrown open and Elain strolled in. “Az? Honey? I’m home!”

She tossed her keys in the bowl on top of the shelf that was next to the front door, and shimmied out of her boots before turning to meet his gaze.

He gave her a lopsided grin as her eyes widened, as her purse fell to the floor with a clutter.

“What….” She trailed off, and Azriel hoped it was a good sign that she was speechless.

Without another word, Azriel fell to the floor, on one knee.

If someone would have asked him ten years ago if this would be his life….he would have laughed in their face. And back then, it took a lot to make Azriel laugh. No – when he was fifteen he wouldn’t have believed that in ten years he would be down on one knee, asking the woman of his dreams, a woman that was far too good for him in every possible way, to marry him. He wouldn’t be living in an apartment with her, and a bitchy cat, with pink, floral blankets covering the bed that they shared. He wouldn’t be using vanilla and lavender body wash every morning, and he wouldn’t be making love every night to his sweetheart with his hands gloveless and his soul bare.

But this woman changed him.

This woman loved him, scars and all.

So, he cleared his throat as her eyes filled with tears and began. “Elain, there are a hundred things I could say to you, about how wonderful and beautiful you are, and they would all be true. You have always seen the best in me, even when I couldn’t see the best in myself. I don’t even remember the man I was before I met you. And I don’t want to remember him, because he’s nothing like what I’ve become. You’ve shown me how beautiful life can be, how free someone can feel. You’ve shown me love, and I will never be able to repay you for that. But I want to try. I want to try, Elain, because you deserve as much. I want to marry you. I’ve never wanted anything more.” Elain let out a muffled sob, of love, of joy, as Azriel pulled a small, velvet box out of his hoodie pocket and met her caramel eyes, once more. “Elain Archeron, you make me so damn happy. I love you, with everything that I am. Will you….marry me?”

She was on her knees in front of him before he could finish, her mouth pressed firmly against his – an answer in itself. “Of course. Of course, I will marry you.”

“I haven’t even shown you the ring yet,” he laughed, muffled against her lips.

“A ring wouldn’t change my answer,” she giggled, meeting his gaze, his face mere inches from her own. “I would marry you no matter what, even if you asked without a ring. Even if you never gave me a ring.”

Azriel blinked. Seriously? He’d spent the last month selling everything he could to get her the perfect ring…..and still came up short. He’d bought her what he could.

Although, even if he knew that she didn’t care about a piece of jewelry then, he still would have done everything he could to get her the perfect ring.

Even if he couldn’t.

Azriel opened the small, velvet box to reveal a petite diamond poking out of a rose gold band. Elain looked at the ring and smiled. “Az, it’s so beautiful.”

With shaky hands, he took it from its box and slid the ring onto her finger.

It was a little too big. She would have to get it resized.

But she didn’t seem to care as she placed her hands on Azriel’s cheeks and brought her forehead to his.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he whispered, and couldn’t believe that this was his life.

 Four Months Later

“Well,” Kallias sighed, looking into his empty bedroom. “I guess this is farewell.”

Rhysand chuckled from where he was leaning against the empty door frame. “You’re moving less than two minutes away. You may come visit your old room whenever you wish.”

“Until you move out.”

Rhysand grinned. He had thought a lot about his future lately, with all the changes that were coming about. Although he had healed nicely from his near-death experience, the entire scenario had opened his eyes. Tomorrow was not guaranteed. He had to live his life, and have no regrets in the end.

So did Kallias. Which is why he had asked Viviane to marry him the month before, and was now moving in with her in a new apartment on the Sidra.

Rhysand had two weddings to attend that Summer, and two best man speeches to write.

“At least for the next six months, until our lease is up, you may come visit.”

“Much better,” Kallias laughed, clasping his hand on Rhysand’s shoulder. Then, his smile turned wistful. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’m seeing you on Friday for dinner,” Rhysand chuckled, but his heart was not in it. He felt it, too.

They had lived with each other for four years. It was normal. It was comfortable. It was good. And now…..well, everything was changing.

“I’ll miss you too, Kal. Although, I won’t miss you barging in here drunk at three in the morning.”

Kallias cackled as the front door swung open and Feyre charged in. “Rhys?”

They met her in the living room, where she had two duffle bags thrown over her shoulders and a box in her hands.

“There,” she stated, tossing her box onto the coffee table. “I am officially moved in.”

“I hear your ruining my bedroom,” Kallias teased.

“I don’t think an art studio is ruining anything,” Feyre said, rolling her eyes. “Besides, I may even paint you and your lovely bride a gift in that room.”

“Speaking of lovely bride,” Viviane hollered from the foyer. “Said lovely bride has put her groom’s final box in the truck. We’re ready.”

Kallias gave Rhysand a hug, as he had plenty of times over the years before kissing Feyre on her cheek and joining his fiancé on the welcome mat. “Friday night, mate?”

Rhysand nodded. “Friday night.”

“Alright,” he agreed, before Kallias took Viviane’s hand and closed the door behind him.

Feyre strode to Rhys, casually, and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Need a minute?”

Rhysand shook his head. “No. It’s one of those bittersweet moments, you know? Sad to see him go…..But, excited that you’re here. I can’t wait to wake up to you every morning.”

Feyre chuckled. “You wake up to me every morning, already.”

“Yes,” Rhysand confirmed, “but now I’ll be waking up next to you and all your things. It’s much more personal.”

Feyre laughed as she rested her head against his chest. “I can’t wait, either.”

Six Months Later

The waiting room was empty, all except for the group of six that awaited in the silence.

Elain had been pacing for the last hour, as they all were wondering when it would happen, if it would happen that night.

It was already one in the morning, and they had all been there since six in the evening the previous day.

“I’m going on another coffee run,” Mor announced. “Who wants some?” When everyone raised their hands, she sighed. “Okay. Who’s coming with? I need more hands.”

Azriel opened his mouth, just as Amren did, but neither of them were able to get a word out as the double doors to the hospital rooms swung open in unison.

A sweaty, wide-eyed Cassian emerged from the hallway, wearing a sterile gown over his sweatpants and t-shirt.

They all stood at once as Elain froze – Rhysand, Feyre, Azriel, Mor, and Amren.

They watched Cassian, as their brother, their friend, smiled wide.

He looked as if he’d been crying, but there was nothing but joy in those deep, hazel eyes.

And his voice could hardly be heard as he announced, “She’s here.”

Before everyone could even think of loosening their held breaths, they were swarming the new father in a hug.

Then they were all crying, then they were all asking questions.

“Seven pounds, twelve ounces. Twenty-one inches tall. Blue eyes like her mother, dark hair like her father. You all can go in, two at a time.”

They all looked at each other, but it was Rhys who said, “Elain and Feyre should go first. Go see your sister. And your niece.”

Feyre and Elain didn’t argue as they took one another’s hands, and followed Cassian down the long, fluorescent hallway.

Feyre couldn’t believe that only six months before they were in that exact same hospital, on a different floor, wondering whether Rhysand would survive.

But a life did not end that day.

She loved that damned hospital. It had given her two lives now, two great loves.

And as her and Elain entered the hospital room, Feyre had never felt so in love.

Because there, swaddled in Nesta’s arms, was a blue-eyed, brown haired little girl, sound asleep.

Cassian sat on the edge of the bed as the two sisters approached the beaming mother.

“What’s her name?” Elain asked, in a whisper.

Nesta smiled, her tear-stained cheeks glowing. “Cecelia.”

As Feyre took her in her arms, scared shitless that she’d break the infant, she was certain of one thing.

Nothing bad would ever happen to that baby, not if she could help it.

 Nine Months Later

“You’re so beautiful, yes you are. Yes you are, little Lia. Uncle Rhys loves you soooooooo much, yes he does, yes he -”

“There was a time when this would have been the perfect moment to record so that I could later blackmail you with it, but this is pretty much my life now, so I can’t say a thing,” Cassian laughed, watching Rhysand hold his niece lovingly in his arms.

Rhysand grinned. “Whatever. Lia loves me.”

And she did, as she watched him with big, gray-blue eyes and small, pink lips shaped in a perfect O.

“You did good, Cass,” Rhysand said, in all seriousness. “You’re a great dad.”

“Thanks, man,” Cassian smiled, looking out over at Nesta, laughing with the girls.

It was the week before Elain and Azriel’s wedding, and they had all gathered together for one last shebang before they tied the knot.

They were in Adriata, by the pool of their hotel. Rhysand had been sitting under a shady umbrella with Cecilia, in her little polka-dotted swimsuit, for the last hour, talking about nothing and everything.

“Go,” Rhysand ordered Cassian. “Take a break. Have fun. Go for a walk with Nesta. Bring her upstairs, get some –“

Cassian cleared his throat. “Your holding my daughter, don’t scar her for life so young.”

“I was going to say dinner, but hey, while you’re at it, get some ass, too.”

Cassian laughed as he rose to his feet, kissed Cecelia’s forehead and whispered daddy loves you, sweetheart. He thanked Rhysand before finding Nesta in the pool, whispering something in her ear that made her cheeks turn scarlet, and walking with her hand in hand back toward the hotel entrance.

Rhysand found Feyre, lounging around with Mor and Amren, and gave her a wink before turning back to Lia.

“I think Aunt Feyre likes Uncle Rhys with you,” he said, kissing the baby’s nose. “I think it turns her on a bit. Maybe we should have a baby. Should Uncle Rhys and Auntie Feyre have a baby? A friend for you to play with? And grow up with?”

She cooed and Rhysand laughed before running the tip of his index finger over her eyebrows.

His phone chimed from the chair beside him, and he saw a text from Nesta that read: Call if she’s hungry, or if she needs a diaper change, or if she gets too fussy. I’m serious, Rhys, call me if she needs me. We’ll be gone ten minutes. Twenty tops.

Then, a text from Cassian that read: Thirty minutes. Unless she needs something.

Rhysand rolled his eyes. “Your parents worry too much. You’ve got a bottle of milk in the cooler, a bag full of diapers, and your Uncle Rhys. What more could you want?”

Cecelia gave him a big yawn before closing her eyes. Rhysand continued to rub her eyebrows as he smiled, “You sure have a big family who loves you, baby Lia.”

And he thought about the three orphan boys who were lost and wandering all those years ago. He thought about how he never imagined he would be here, living this life, feeling this joy.

But they had made it.

They had overcome.

It had gotten better.

And they were all going to be okay.

The End

I’m picking up my wedding dress todaaaaay! 👗👰🏻

I’m about seven pounds lighter than I was when they measured me and ordered it soooo I’m excited to see how it fits!

Can’t take the hog out of the boy... Featuring

           Dr. Patterson gave Stephen‘s belly a few pats.

           “You need to work on losing the weight. Do you know that being obese can cause serious health issues?”

           Blah blah, this isn’t anything I haven’t heard before, he thought to himself. Frankly, he was more focused on what he would eat for lunch. Well, that and the bulge in Dr. Patterson’s scrub pants.

           “Pay attention,” the deep voice demanded. “You have a family history of diabetes and heart disease. Plus, you have asthma and might be on the verge of having diabetes yourself. Is being lazy worth all the potential costs?”

           “No, sir,” he grumbled, lying convincingly to the doc.

           Patterson frowned. “Well, can’t say I didn’t warn you. Have a nice day.” With that, Dr. Patterson shook Stephen’s chubby hand and left the room.

           Got down off the bed and shed the paper gown. He looked down and jiggled his round belly.

           “Well, he is right. Maybe it is time for a changed,” he said quietly, with a frown. Feeling defeated, he slowly put on his clothes and headed home.

           Not everyone in Stephen’s family was big. They just had crappy genetics. And being him, he had the shitty end of the genepool. He sat on his couch, sinking into his blankets and tried to find something to take his mind off what he was about to do.

           That’s when the gym commercial came on, starring a tan hunk with black chest hair rising from his gym logo tank top.

           “Hello, I’m Thomas from Gold Man’s Gym. Do you have the desire to lose weight? Or do you simply want to build up lean muscle? Either way, Gold Man’s Gym is the best place to slim down or bulk up. Give us a call today!” The number flashed on the screen as another voice talked about available classes and training opportunities.

           Reluctantly, he picked up his cell phone and dialed the number.

           After a few rings, “Hello, and thank you for calling Gold Man’s Gym, where we can help you sculpt the body you want. How can I help you?”

           Before he could hang up, he heard himself say, while dying on the inside, “Hi. My doctor said I’m too fat and I need to lose weight. How much do you people charge?”

           The man on the other end started to laugh, and Stephen could hear him struggle to stop. “Sir, I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. I appreciate blunt humor. How about you come down and I’ll help you sign up. Ask for Reggie.”

           Stephen sat down on his bed the next day, wearing only a towel, dreading what he had to do today. Stephen wasn’t lazy by any means and actually enjoyed going out and being active. That is, when it wasn’t forced in him. He also didn’t hate being fat. He wasn’t a “gainer,” like some chubby chaser had either called him or coaxed him into being, but simply loved his body. Sure, he sometimes got happy only when he was stuffed to the brim, and occasionally would jerk off while eating dessert like a pig, but he wasn’t a gainer.

           He stood in front of his mirror, examining his body. He had a harsh crease where his flabby chest sat on his stomach. His belly, while it didn’t stick out far, was pretty big around. His torso was covered in stretchmarks, which clawed themselves on his chest, belly, and crowded around his sides leading up to his armpits. Though most people saw fat as a negative or disgusting thing, he saw beauty in everyone’s bodies.

           Sighing, Stephen put on his new gym clothes and headed for the gym.

           Loud music played and the air conditioner was on full blast as he walked in and headed straight for the registration counter, where the man from the commercial was standing, organizing jars of protein powder. Glancing down, Stephen saw the silver nametag placed above a perfectly formed pec: “Reggie.”

           “Hi. You’re Reggie,” Stephen said. Reggie looked up and smiled.

           “Hi! Are you the guy who called yesterday?”

           “Yeah, I’m the blunt one.”

           Reggie smiled and laughed, sticking his hand out to shake Stephen’s.

           “What’s your name?” Stephen asked as he walked around the counter.

           Stephen introduced himself.

           “Nice to meet you! Here, let me walk you to my office and we’ll get settled.

           The two men sat on opposite sides of Reggie’s desk while he gathered paper work for Stephen to fill out.

           Name: Stephen Jenkins

           Age: 24

           Weight: 320

           Goal (Check all that apply): Lose weight, Muscle Growth, Both, Maintain

           He circled lose weight.

           Once he was finished, Reggie took the paperwork and punched Stephen’s card information into the computer, then handed him a gym card.

           “Welcome to Gold Man’s Gym! I’m now your trainer.”

           The first day was the worst for Stephen. That day, Reggie got Stephen on a few weight machines to test his strength and had him walk and jog on the treadmill. All Stephen could feel was his fat jiggling beneath his gym shirt. For the first time, he felt embarrassed of his body. He felt like he was some fat thing on display in a room of muscle gods and perfect twinks.

           As he left, he didn’t intend on saying bye to Reggie. What he didn’t know is that Reggie followed him to his car.

           “It won’t be that bad tomorrow,” Reggie said, stopping Stephen in his tracks. Stephen turned around.

           “Yeah? What makes you say that?”

           “Well, everyone’s first day is rough. It gets better.”

           “Oh, what a relief,” Stephen replied sarcastically. “I mean I don’t want to do this shit in the first place, but I have to.” He lifted up his shirt to reveal his belly. “Do you see this, Reggie? I’m never embarrassed by this. I like it. It makes me, me. And today, in this place, I hated it. I hated being in there with those people and my body. For the first time, I feel disgusted.”

           Before Reggie could speak, Stephen drove off.

           The next day, Reggie was shocked to see Stephen in the gym.

           “You came back,” he asked as Stephen walked on the treadmill, sweat making his shirt cling to his body.

           “I have to. Doctor’s orders.”

           And with that, Stephen was on the road to weight loss. He ate better. Didn’t eat fast food. Worked out five times a week. Did small exercises at home. After a few weeks, he was down ten pounds. At the end of the month, another seven pounds. Two months in and he lost a total of eighteen pounds. While Stephen watched his body slowly shrink down, he was reluctant to think that maybe he would enjoy the fit life. If he liked his body fat, maybe he would like it skinny too. He could do this.

           Or so he thought.

           At his two-and-a-half-month mark at the gym, Reggie came up to Stephen while he was lifting weights.

           “I think you need a break. Let me take you out tonight.”

           “Excuse me?” Stephen asked as he finished his set.

           “Yeah. Look, you’ve made terrific progress and have lost almost twenty pounds since you started. You need a break. Let me take you out tonight. Just dinner.”

           “I don’t date,” Stephen said.

           “Okay. So, then we go as friends. I’ll pick you up at seven tonight.”

           “But you don’t have my address,” Stephen said, trying to dismiss the trainer’s offer.

           “Hey, you signed up at a gym. I work at a gym. I know how to pull up a client’s files.”

           With that, Stephen joined Reggie for dinner. At seven, Reggie pulled up in a vintage Corvette and the two drove to wherever Reggie had planned for dinner. Most of the way, they sat in silence. That was, when Reggie tried to get a conversation started. When it became apparent that Stephen wasn’t in the mood to talk, the radio got turned on and the two sat there listening to the top 40. Luckily for both, a few minutes later the Corvette pulled up in front of the restaurant and the pair walked in.

           Stephen’s jaw dropped. “YOU BROUGHT ME TO AN ALL YOU CAN EAT BUFFET?”

           Reggie looked over. “Umm…yeah? My family owns it so we can eat for free. Is that a problem?”

           “Fuck yes, it is. You know I’m trying to eat heathy. I haven’t had any shit food since I started this. And you want me to gain it all back in one night?”

           Reggie laughed. “I don’t know how much you know about calories and gaining fat, but that’s not how this works. Just use portion control and you’ll be fine.”

           Stephen shook as he carried his plate around the buffet tables. Before him were counters of meat, cheese, desserts, seafood, fried food, vegetables and fruits. You name the food, this place had it. He steered himself clear of any food that was bad for him, and stuck with vegetables and boiled chicken.

           The two sat far from the buffet, Stephen with his plate of health-conscious food and Reggie with his plate filled with a little bit of everything: French fries, bacon wrapped tater tots, chicken covered in cheese sauce, a slice of cheesecake, and some sushi. Stephen picked at his plate, starving for actual food, but refusing to budge.

           “You’re brave you know,” Reggie said.

           “How so?” Stephen asked.

           “You’re happy how you were. Loved yourself for who you were. Yet, you stuck with the program against what you wanted.

           “You call that bravery? I call it giving in.”

           “It’s brave to do what you don’t want to do when you have to do it. You’re brave.”

           Stephen felt himself smile. Reggie smiled to. The two men ate and made small chit-chat. When it came time for Reggie to get a second plate, he looked up at Stephen. “Want to come with?”

           “No thanks, I’m going to wait a bit.”

           Reggie left the table, leaving Stephen there to think about what Reggie had said. Brave? No. That’s not being brave. Well, it is? It was then that Stephen found himself eating something with a slight crunch, a subtle salty taste. He looked down and saw that he had eaten the last fry sitting on Reggie’s plate.

           When Reggie came back, Stephen stood up.

           “I’ll be right back. I want another plate.”

           Ten minutes later, he came back with a plate of celery and some strawberries.

           “Did you get lost,” Reggie said.

           “No,” Stephen said, a little quiet. “Just stopped at the bathroom.”

           Reggie smiled.

Two days later, Reggie found himself in his office after hours, dick out and him signing into the surveillance system at the buffet. He owned it, not his parents. He punched in the date of his dinner with Stephen and watched the cameras. He watched Stephen get up from the table and head towards the buffet. The next ten minutes, Reggie watched as Stephen would load his plate with fries, drumsticks, cookies, and other things. When the plate had enough, Stephen would go to a quiet corner near the maintenance closet or at the back of the restaurant, and he would eat everything on his plate. No, not eat. DEVOUR. He binged three more plates before he would put celery and strawberries on his plate and walked back to Reggie.

As Reggie came thick shots into his cum rag, he smiled heavily at the computer.

I broke him.


Weeks passed and Stephen was not seen at the gym. He never left his apartment. His first communication from the outside world was the knock at his apartment door. He woke with a daze on the couch, hearing the sounds of crinkling wrappers and Styrofoam containers on the floor as he slowly made his way to the door. He opened it and to his horror stood Reggie, holding a dozen Krispy Kreme donuts.

“Missed you at the gym,” he said with his devilish smile. “Care for some breakfast.”

Stephen lunged himself at the box and puled Reggie in by it. Reggie looked around with arousal. The apartment was littered with empty fast food bags, pizza boxes, cookie and brownie containers. Soda cans and bottles were tossed into a corner. He could smell mac and cheese in the air, along with the empty ice cream containers on the coffee table and kitchen counter.

Stephen, though, couldn’t tell that Reggie was surveying his pigsty of an apartment, since was too busy cramming his still full gut on donuts. The gym clothes he was wearing were tight on his swollen gut. His pants failed to conceal his fattening ass, the top of his meaty crack exposed. The twenty pounds he lost was found and then some. Almost fifty pounds had been gained in double the time it took him to lose the first twenty. And he didn’t even care. Maybe now he was a gainer. Or someone who simply enjoyed food and being fat, but didn’t need a label.

He sat down in his chair, tired, stuffed, and a bit horny. He felt his shirt being lifted over his head and Reggie got down on his knees in front of him.

“Man Stephen, you sure are fat.” His hands slid up Stephen’s tight belly, feeling every stretchmark. His hands slowly moved up to the thick roll of chest fat. Stephen couldn’t move and moaned slightly at the belly rub that he was receiving after months of endless food and stuffing. He didn’t even notice that Reggie had gotten his dick out from his tight gym pants.

“So glorious. So sexy how you thought you had this under control and that you could lose the weight. I knew I broke you when I came back and that fry was missing from my plate.” One hand groped at Stephen’s fat while the other slowly played with his cock. “I came so hard watching you pig out at the buffet, thinking I would never notice. But I always notice when my piggies go rogue. After all, my dad, Dr. Patterson always sends me the best ones.”

Stephen’s eyes shot open and met Reggie’s. As he connected the dots, he felt a kind of anger rise up within him. Before he could make an outburst, Reggie slammed Stephen’s cock in his mouth and worked it hard and fast. Try as he might, Stephen couldn’t break free of the euphoric feelings, having a warm mouth sucking his cock, while his hands and Reggie’s rubbed, squeezed, teased, slapped, and grabbed at his fat body.

He screamed with orgasm as Reggie let the fat man’s load drench his face and run down to his chest.

The two men caught their breath. Again, before Stephen could say anything, Reggie managed to distract him. This time, with a hamburger he snuck in, hidden in his sweater pocket. He crammed it in Stephen’s mouth.

“There, there fat boy. Just eat and don’t worry. You deserve this. This, and so much more.”


the feysand modern au with more cliches than should be allowed

Feyre Archeron is pretty sure there are lines that shouldn’t be crossed when it comes to conduct with the authors whose books she edits. But when you take what should have been a normal flight to Paris and add a tuna sandwich, a red pen, and a smirking stranger, lines can get a little blurry. 


the one where feyre accidentally trash talks a novel to its author and then they kinda fall in love

read it on ao3

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3

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Written for the Greatest Showman. An epilogue of sorts. Spoiler-heavy. Thanks for reading!

Barnum left, again.

He had the decency to set them up in the tent down by the docks, that allowed them to change their acts every show. But he left. Mid-show, to give the audience a thrill, no doubt. And to keep them all from getting to say goodbye. That man was all about the dramatic and grand and provocative and emotional, especially when it came to himself. He couldn’t do the right thing, the standard thing. He couldn’t dare show anyone they meant anything to him, either.

And so the freaks, the oddities, the coloreds and the dwarfs and the alcoholics gained the circus. P. T. Barnum got the life he wanted. The rest of them got the spotlight, and, for a while, it was enough.

They heard no more of Jenny Lind, and are glad of it. They heard no more of Mr. or Mrs. Barnum, and are less glad. The Barnum girls were darling, Charity lived up to her name in kindness, and Barnum… Barnum gave them a home.

He built it, burned it, ruined it, and rebuilt it, disappearing once he had what he wanted. The circus, under Phillip’s direction, kept his name and did good by his legacy.

Better than. Phillip Carlyle didn’t make all his plays successful based on connections and merit alone. He had a good head on his shoulders, even drowned in liquor, and he made good on his investments many times over. More than that, he gave Lettie, Anne, W.D., Charles, O’Malley, and the Biggest Man on Earth shares in the show. Not much—five for Lettie, three for the others—but enough to make them richer than they had ever imagined. There was good money in humbug, and show-business, and spectacle.

And dreams. A little money greased the palm of a county clerk, and within the year Anne W. D. Wheeler became Anne Wisteria Davis Carlyle. It helped that Lettie knew her way around a tin of paints, and Anne was almost fair-skinned enough to pass as a white working woman.

“I tried enough as a laundress,” Lettie chuckled, neatly highlighting the top of Anne’s nose, the elegance of her brow, and darkening the features that caused people to scowl when they saw her on the street. “I used to cake this stuff on, trying to hide the stubble. But there’s only so much you can do.”

Anne smiled, sympathetic. Anne had it hard, mulatto as she was, but Lettie, with her big voice and big chest and big beard and big, colored-woman’s nose, had it ten times worse. Anne had a handsome, privileged man in love with her. Lettie had herself.

The circus all had each other. They knew that from the beginning, from the time they all lined up to audition, met each others eyes, and realized no one else was flinching away. Friendship, for the first time. It was forbidden fruit, and suddenly, in a burst of spotlights and sawdust, they could eat their fill.

That was what kept them going. When the glitter faded, they saw the show for what it was: a way to profit off of the way others feared them. People didn’t stop gawking now they had a name to pin to the face.

“The Bearded Lady!”

“That’s Dog Boy!”

“The Irish Giant! I heard he can’t even sleep in a house; they put him in a barn!”

“Speaking of barn, take a look at that pig. Over seven hundred and fifty pounds, they say!”

When the lights went down. When the crowds filed out. When the admirers dissipated like flies off a horse’s rump. That’s when being the Oddities became a burden again. That’s when they remembered that the normal ones would always leave them behind.

“You know,” W. D. said one day, “I don’t know that anyone’s normal.”

The circus went quiet, or as quiet as it ever got. Two hours until the Tuesday night show. No one was in costume yet. It was cold enough that being in the tent, together, was better than waiting in their shanties or flats. They sat huddled around a few big fires, watching W. D. Usually so taciturn, his brow was furrowed in determination.

“What d’you mean?” Charlie asked, jerking a thumb towards the tent’s outside. “They’re normal, we’re not.”

“I don’t know about that,” W. D. replied. “Look at Carlyle.”

Never a fan of their ringmaster, W. D. Wheeler. Lettie looked out for Phillip, for Anne’s sake, but he was nowhere to be seen. Likely in his office, a little wooden shack he had set up to store tickets and bankrolls in.

“He’s a pretty boy from a rich family, but here he is, standing up with us. And he’s close to us.”

“How?” Someone called. “He’s not a freak.”

“Ever seen him without a bottle?” W. D. retorted.

That brought silence. In it, the elephants rustled the straw in their cages. Fire crackled and warmed the performers’ numb fingers.

“That’s not normal,” W. D. said quietly.

“What about Barnum?”

“What about him?” Charlie demanded. “If you think he’s normal, you don’t know-“

“He’s trying to be,” Anne said. W. D. turned around to smile at her, dressing-gown clad and standing apart from the rest. Once she married, she became a little different from the rest. Not as much as a freak. It was harder for her to be one with the rest of them, on the colder, harder nights. “Why else you think he left?”

“What about the rest of ‘em?” Dog-Boy piped up, rubbing his hands together. He looked more like an animal in the light of the fire. Maybe Phillip could work that into the show. “Those upper-class folks who can’t give us the time o’ day, what about them?”

W. D. shrugged. Anne came up to put a hand on his shoulder. Lettie saw the soft curve of her robe at the middle and turned away.

“Everyone’s got something mean in them,” Lettie declared. “But everyone’s got something good, too. Our good and bad is on the outside. For them, it’s buried deep down so nobody can see it. We don’t get to hide.”

Her eyes met a sea of downcast faces.

“And that’s good,” she said; pleaded. “We are good. We’re better than they’re ever going to be. Don’t the good Lord say ‘those who hide in the darkness will be cast into the light’?”

“We hide in the dark,” someone muttered.

“But we face the light,” she replied.

No one answered.

But they relied on each other. They always would, no matter who left or who came. They were the Barnum Circus, home of the Oddities. They were themselves, in the best, flashiest, most sensational way they could be. Together, they could almost be happy.

The Tiniest Grayson


IT’S ME. I blame @fuyunoakegata for this one :)

Gen, 800ish words, Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne, a Baby:

Bruce Wayne had been in Dick’s apartment for all of five minutes and already felt terribly out of his depth. He was not a stranger to psychological phenomenon and had conditioned himself to resist a lot of automatic reactions, or suppress them.

But standing in the living room watching Dick hold a baby– an impossibly tiny baby– he was overwhelmed by a flood of reactions he hadn’t braced himself to fight off. Despite not considering himself a sentimental person, he did actually have a moment where he remembered the first night he’d brought Dick home.

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Thank you, Frederick

It’s World Diabetes Day, the anniversary of Frederick Banting’s birth. Banting discovered insulin, and without his discovery, I’d have died at the age of twelve. In the wake of the election my diabetes and chronic illness advocacy has been neglected to the point where I am only addressing Diabetes Day now, at ten at night. A weird part of me – the part that has normalized an existence wherein I am always one tiny miscalculation, one computer error, one missed test, or forgotten alarm clock setting away from death – has felt like this wasn’t as important anymore. In the face of Trump’s election, I felt compelled to tackle every social injustice I could find. Suddenly it was as if all I’d done for education, science literacy, women’s rights, and diabetes awareness weren’t enough. Why had I not also been more involved in politics? In racial justice? In environmental protection? I felt ineffectual. Flaccid.

But I’m not a super woman, and I don’t know how to fight every injustice (at least not yet!), and I can’t give up fighting the battles I’ve been fighting so long. And after all, my diabetes advocacy does intersect: for with Trump and his team’s threats to the ACA and the heath care social safety net in general, people like me are at very real risk. 

Advocacy requires education, but don’t worry, if you don’t know the story of Banting’s discovery of insulin, it is anything but dull!

You must first imagine a time when diabetes wasn’t a punchline about fat, lazy Americans. Before it was a hashtag accompanying photos of greasy and sugar-filled treats. Before it was something anyone laughed about. It was 1920, and diabetes was a universally feared death sentence that almost always befell children. 

Type 1 diabetes, the type I have, is an autoimmune disease. There is no prevention and there is no cure. It is not caused by diet or “lifestyle”, and it does not discriminate; it can emerge in anyone, from infancy through adulthood, of any level of physical fitness. A full understanding of the disease has not yet been reached, but what is known is that it is at least in part genetic, and is likely triggered by environmental factors such as viral infection. A person develops type 1 when their immune system starts attacking their body’s own insulin-producing beta cells. Without insulin, energy from food consumed cannot enter cells. Before the discovery of insulin, this meant certain death.

In the early 20th century, large hospitals would have entire diabetes death wards, usually filled with children, all slowly succumbing to the disease while their grieving families sat by, waiting for them to die. I can imagine what it would have been like to be a child in such a ward. I can tell you exactly what it feels like to die from diabetes, because I almost did. Twice. 

The first time was when I was twelve. It started as malaise. I was a bit more tired than usual. I was somewhat nauseated a lot of the time. I started to become emotionally depressed. As the month preceding my diagnosis progressed, I became weaker. I did not know that my body was cannibalizing my fat and muscles for energy, that my blood was slowly turning acidic, and that my organs were beginning to fail. My weight dropped rapidly. I was winded walking up a flight of stairs. My vision got a bit blurry and my thinking muddled. And I was so, so, so thirsty. Like, unless you’ve spent three days in the Sahara with absolutely no water, you cannot imagine how thirsty.

Had I not been diagnosed I would have starved to death. The inability of my body to convert food into energy causing me to waste away, and eventually to die from heart attack, stroke, or systemic organ failure as a result of Diabetic Ketoacidocis (acidic blood), slipping mercifully into a coma first…maybe lingering for a few days. And so was the fate of every child before a young Canadian doctor, Frederick Banting, discovered insulin. 

Now picture this in your head: the year is 1922. In a diabetes death ward in a children’s hospital in Toronto, a couple hundred children lie in metal-framed hospital beds. Their bodies are emaciated, some are in comas, all suffered as I suffered. The air is sweet with the smell of their breath and urine, for a diabetic’s breath is like fruit and their urine like honey. Their Gibson Girl mothers weeping, their besuited fathers trying to uphold the emotionless masculinity of their age, their siblings in petticoats and newsboy caps kneeling at their sides. Then a dashing young doctor, Banting, and his partner, Best, enter the ward, insulin syringes in hand. One by one, they begin injecting the children, and by the time they get to the last child, the first have already begun reviving from their comas. 

Suddenly, diabetes is no longer a death sentence. It is a disease that could be managed. Children who were skeletal and comatose become plump and active once more. It is the epitome of the inspirational tale. But this is not a story of hope, because that is not where the story ends.

Managing type 1 is both difficult and expensive. Although insulin is nearly 100 years old, patent-loopholes allow drug companies to keep tight proprietary control over the most effective formulae. A lack of regulation of the pharmaceutical industry in the United States means that US patients often pay more than ten times the price for a bottle of insulin than our fellow diabetics in other countries. The insulin that keeps me alive, Apidra, costs between $280-$480 a vial depending on which US state you buy it in – and bear in mind, depending on the patient one month’s supply can be anywhere from 2 to 10 vials. In Canada, the country of insulin’s discovery, the same vial is about $30. Further, effective type1 management means testing one’s blood sugar 8-20 times daily (each of my test strips costs $2, so that’s up to $40 a day), delivering insulin via syringe or pump (a pump runs between three and seven thousand dollars), using a few other medical odds and ends like sterilization alcohol, medical adhesives, etc., and regular doctor visits. The total annual cost of my diabetes medication and supplies, without which I will die, is about $26,000 before insurance.

That cost is not prohibitive, it is impossible. And because of that, I almost died of diabetes a second time.

Before the ACA, I was uninsurable. My type 1 considered a pre-existing condition. After I was dropped from my dad’s insurance, I had to pay for everything out of pocket because of my uninsurable status. Even re-using single-use only insulin syringes to the point where each injection left a massive bruise on my abdomen, even reusing finger-prick lancets until they were literally too blunt to work anymore, even fasting every other day to take less insulin, I couldn’t afford the cost of my disease. In my mid-twenties I began insulin rationing. I would test my sugar only once a day and take the bare minimum of insulin to keep me alive, keep me working my three jobs.

Then one morning when I was 26, it caught up with me. I’d lost 20 pounds in a month – I woke up vomiting that morning: the Diabetic Ketoacidosis from not getting enough insulin was so extreme that I lost seven more pounds in one day. My roommate drove me to the emergency room where I had five IV lines put in, was put on oxygen, intravenous potassium, and spent three days in Intensive Care. 

President-elect Trump is already waffling on his stance on the ACA, but that doesn’t stave off the real fear of me, other diabetics, and others who have pre-existing conditions for our lives. Literally, we fear for our lives because we know that people like us were left to die before the ACA. We are hoarding our medications and supplies and taking every step we can to hedge against loss of insurance.

I said this was not a story of hope, but neither is it a story of despair. For, like I said, there is a part of me that has normalized fighting for my life. I have done it, in a very literal sense, every minute of every day since I was twelve and a half years old. And so too have other type 1s fought. And so too have type2s fought. And so too have all those with chronic illness and disability fought. We fight because our lives are worth fighting for. Because an enlightened society recognizes our intrinsic value as human beings, despite the flukes in our physiology. We fight because we know that, despite the misconceptions and stereotypes society has about us, we have something to offer humanity: something immense, something those who’ve never had to fight for there lives cannot understand.

Our bodies may be damaged and weak, but we are strong. And we will take our fight to the steps of the White House, to the feet of the men who want to strip us of our means of survival. Who want to strip us of our Right to Life. We will use our damaged, sick, and broken bodies as blockade. We will use our clever and quick thinking minds. For if anyone knows how to fight, it is us. 

Type 1 children, before and after insulin treatment: 

Dr. Frederick Banting, Nobel Laureate for the discovery of insulin: 

Banting and Best, with one of the diabetic dogs they successfully treated:

Thank you, Frederick. 

“He’s Beautiful” // G.D Mini Series Pt. V


A/N: FINALS ARE OFFICIALLY OVER FOR THE YEAR!! I’ll be able to write a bit more frequently which I am really happy about. 

Hope you like part 5! 

Previous Parts and Next Chapter: 

Pt. I , Pt. II , Pt. III , Pt. IV , Pt. VI

Five hours have passed by of you contracting and groaning in pain. Grayson was beside you rubbing your back as you gripped the bed handles groaning in pain as the pain wrapped around your entire back. Breathing became hard the stronger the contractions got. You kept denying the epidural because you wanted to go as long as you could without drugs. You also didn’t want for the process to get any slower.

“Ugh this hurts so fucking much,” you groan once the contraction ended. Grayson gave you a sympathetic smile as the doctor walked inside to check your cervix.

“Looks like you dilated a bit more. You are now 6 centimeters dilated. I think we might have a baby tonight, or tomorrow in the early morning.” She smiled as she took her gloves off and threw them in the waste basket.

“Would it be okay if I eat something? I haven’t eaten all day and I’m starting to get hungry,” you asked while resting a hand on your sweaty head.

“I’m sorry dear but you can’t eat anything right now. It’s a precaution that we take with expecting mothers. You can eat some ice chips but that’s about all we can offer you right now.” She explained as you let out a groan.

“Okay thanks,” you sighed when you felt the strong pain come over your body again.

“Fuck,” you groan out as you rest your hand on your bump and scrunch your face up in pain. You inhale as best you can trying your best to breath through them.

“Breath Y/N,” Grayson sweetly spoke but that only aggravated you even more.

“Ugh shut up Grayson! If knew how to keep your dick in your pants we wouldn’t be in this situation.” You angry spit out.

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Jupiter Transit 6th House

[a poignant journey of growth and self-discovery]

jupiter: *enters my 6th house*

me: ooh, this should be helpful and interesting, let’s look up what it means

astro website™: this transit will help infuse good fortune in matters of health and ur day-to-day routine, finding employment is favored at this time.

me: sounds about right

astro website™: but watch what u eat, u will be prone to weight gain, especially brought on by self-indulgence and cravings for rich, fatty foods

my fruit and vegetable-obsessed, junk food-hating ass: disrespectful and false. whatever astrology is not a science it can’t get everything right.

me: huh, it’s been a while since I went to taco bell

me: *eats 5 chalupas a day two days in a row*

me: kinda feel like eating a frozen pizza 

me: *eats an entire family-size frozen pizza every day for a week*

me: *scarfs down a king-size cadbury bar in less than a minute just because*

me: *gains seven pounds in two weeks*


jupiter: ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


jupiter:  ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

me: mother f-

blamebenny  asked:

for the one shot requests, maybe elams (eliza/Laurens/alex) and she tells them she's pregnant? maybe a modern au?? idk just a happy pregnancy announcement fluffy stuff c: ty in advance!!! <3


Also this prompt is so cute omfg


Eliza was a calm, and collective person. She was usually the one who kept her head in certain situations. Whenever Alex overworks himself and goes into his shell again she’s usually the one to comfort him back to reality. When John tries to show off for the two of them she’s the one who calms him when he breaks a limb.

Now, she was not in a calm situation. 

John was home - humming to himself in the kitchen, making dinner, and Alex was due home from work any minute. She was sit in the living room, fingers clenching around each other, the TV on, becoming more of a white noise for her.

The door opened, causing her to look up, seeing a soaked and shivering Alex enter, hair stringy, stuck to his face. Looking outside the window she noticed, now, it was storming heavily. Rain thundering down, wind blowing nearly a hundred miles an hour.

John came out of the kitchen, kissing Alex softly. “Hey baby,” He had the concerned look on his face, taking Alex’s jacket off of him, leading him upstairs - probably to get him changed.

She jumped as her phone buzzed against her thigh.


Rolling her eyes she responded, Elizaaa: No, Alex /just/ got home and he’s soaked so John’s taking him to get changed



Elizaaa: Bye Peggy, love you xx

Alex and John were coming down the stairs, Alex wearing sweats and one of John’s shirts, carrying a hair brush in his hands. He sat at Eliza’s feet as John went to finish dinner, and she began softly detangling his hair. 

Her mind was going lightspeed, thinking faster and more than Alex spoke. Which was saying something.

Or maybe she wasn’t thinking.

It was probably the later. In comes John, balancing three plates of chicken alfredo as Alex’s eyes are half shut, leaning heavily against her hands when she just blurted it out.

“I’m pregnant.”

Alex sat rigged, John’s eyes widening before he dropped the three bowls, the china smashing and food splatting around his feet. He paid no mind, Alex turning to look at her, eyes wide.

“Um…” She stopped moving, brush still in her hand, biting her bottom lip, wishing she had stuck to the plan Peggy had made for her.

“You’re…you’re pregnant?” John echoed, stepping over the broken china towards her and Alex.

“Yes.” She nodded slowly.

“Like…a baby?” Alex’s voice was small, eyes wider than she’d seen in a long time.

“Yes, with a baby.” She smiled faintly, placing a hand over his stomach softly.

Their eyes followed. “How long have you known?” John all but whispered, sitting on the couch next to her.

“Um, a month or so?”

“Eliza!” Alex sat up on his knees, “You should have told us!”

She smiled, running a hand through his hair. “I made a plan a month ago…”

“Who all knows?”

“Everyone except you two.” Alex’s eyes widened and John gasped lightly, “No.”

“I begged them not to tell you…”

“You should have told us.” John repeated what Alex had said.

She looked over at the broken plates and couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m not sorry.”

“Oh my God…” Alex’s face lit up, practically bouncing at this point, “We’re going to have a baby! A real baby!”

She laughed, kissing him softly. “A real baby, Alexander…”

“They’re going to be so cute! Oh I can see it!” She smiled as he rambled, “John’s freckles - maybe curly hair! With your looks if it’s a girl - oh man I’m going to have to fight everyone off…I - “

“How do you have any idea what they’ll look like? And why me?” John asked, though anyone could tell he was as excited as Alex.

Said boy sent John a blank face. “Well she’s pregnant, and since we all went to public school we were taught how babies were made. And I don’t need to go into detail but you have a part I don’t that makes a baby. So.”

John blushed, “Right right…” He began smiling, looking back to Eliza. “We’re having a baby!”

She grinned, kissing her two boys. “So what do - “

Alex yelped, jumping to his feet and running into the kitchen. He ran back out, broom, dust pan and wipes in his hand as he began to clean the mess John made.

John kissed Eliza before standing up, “I’ll make reservations at your favorite place.”

~     ~     ~

Seven and a half months later, John, Eliza and Alex were blessed.

Eleven thirty pm on December 24th, Eliza gave birth to Angelica Margarita Hamilton-Laurens, seven pounds, nine ounces.

Twelve o’one am December 25th, her twin, Phillip George Hamilton-Laurens was born, seven ounces, six ounces.

Angelica had her mom’s hair, but her dad’s beautiful eyes, no crying as she stared around at her parents. Phillip cried and wailed, having his father’s curls and freckles, but the bright, loving eyes of his mother.

Alex held the two babies as they slept, Eliza watching tiredly as John was getting her food. His eyes were filled with tears, as he stared down at his children.

“Angelica and Phillip…oh my two babies,” Eliza’s heart warmed at Alex’s voice, “You two outshine the morning sun…I promise I’ll always be around, my father never was, but I swear on everything I’ll be there for you two…”

~     ~     ~

Alex was rushing like a headless chicken, carrying a mountain of gifts into the living room, trying not to trip over the dolls and trucks on the floor.

Eliza was baking a cake, John was buying last minute decorations. As Alex got the gifts down, in came a blur of brown hair. Phillip chasing after his sister as she held a doll high over her head.

“Angel’ca give me back Penny!” Phillip cried out, stomping his foot as he pouted in the doorway.

“Angie, give your brother Penny back.” Alex gave his daughter a pointed look.

She pouted, sulking over and handing Penny back to her brother. He smiled, hugging Alex’s legs, “Thank you Papa!”

“What are we thanking Papa for?” John asked, holding balloons as the twins rushed over to him.

“Angie took my doll ‘n’ Papa made her give her back!” 

John picked the two up, placing them on his hips, kissing their heads. “Angie, can’t you be nice to your brother on your birthday?”

“S not even my birthday or his Daddy! My birthday is December 24th and Phillip’s is December 25th! It’s uh, December 19th!”

He laughed, “I know baby, but to make sure people can come and celebrate with us we do it before!”

She nodded. “I guess I can be nice Daddy…”

“Good.” He smiled, putting them down as they ran upstairs. 

John headed over, kissing Alex’s head, and Alex yelped, swatting John’s hands away from his bum. “Hi to you too.”

Eliza entered, batter in her hair as she kissed John hello. “When should everyone be getting here?”

“Well Laf and Herc will be here in about an hour, and your sisters should be here a bit after that.” John pulled her to his chest, kissing her cheeks repeatedly. 

She giggled, leaning into his embrace happily. “Cake should be done within an hour!”

Alex was sat on the table, legs swinging as he munched on one of the carrots from the veggie tray that was sat out.

A loud crash echoed from upstairs, Phillip crying out loudly. The three sighed.

“This will be a long day…”