Sometimes I don't think people realize how lonely it is to be a kid. Like... you don't matter.
Sweetheart, you can't buy the necessities of life with cookies.
It's called a sense of humor - you should get one - they're nice.
If you were happy every day of your life you wouldn't be a human being. You'd be a game-show host.
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.
You can't change who people are without destroying who they were.
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.
It's mercy, compassion and forgiveness I lack. Not rationality.
Well, it's a crazy, fucked up world! And we're all just barely floating along, waiting for somebody that can walk on water.
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!
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.
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.
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.)
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.
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.
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.
The first time Jamie and Claire held their daughter, they knew she would be their last. Not because the delivery was difficult, which it was, or because they opposed larger families, which they didn’t, but because they couldn’t imagine needing anything more than this seven-pound bundle of themselves. Who could contend with the spot on the top of her skull, the feeling of its putty-like softness beneath their fingertips? Or the sprout of lash, red-gold wings taking flight from the left side of her left eye? No. There was no room for a second child, or a third—barely enough to contain Brianna herself. (It was true, they soon realized, that it was possible to feel too much. That the physical ache of loving was not a lie fabricated by romance novelists.)
What shocked them more than their immediate certainty were these minute details, these things that were singularly, extraordinarily her. Despite their initial impressions, Brianna was not just a combination of Jamie and Claire’s genes (an uneven distribution; she favored her father), but was a tiny self with her own hungers and thirsts, which she expressed through Neanderthal grunts or spectacularly vibrant shits. It was a foreign language Jamie and Claire were forced to learn quickly, interpreting their successes and failures in the perceived tone of her gurgles, the way she would yank Claire’s curls in glee or in irritation. The correct translations were scribbled down for future reference, for posterity. (For the simple pleasure of recording something they knew to be finite.)
But Jamie and Claire’s awe has taken other forms in the 15 months since Bree was born. They’ve become the sort of people whose voices rise in the presence of the small, as if their love—so much grander than everything else—has filled them like two helium balloons. Toys of all shapes, sizes, and noises colonize the spaces left untouched by their adulthood chaos. A plush rabbit maintains a stony vigil over Jamie’s desk, where, after a year of writing more blurbs than books, he is finally working on his third novel. Fatherhood has come like a strike of lightning, an electricity that has set fire to his mind. Nowadays, he cannot put thought to paper fast enough. (Unlike its predecessors, A Rare Woman will receive middling praise, though a flaying review from Jack Randall, a Times critic, will cripple Jamie for weeks.)
Right now it is December, and Jamie’s family—Jenny, her husband, and their two children—is visiting for the holidays. They have offered to watch Bree for the evening, and so a Presidential Suite has been rented, Cinemax has been briefly considered, and Scotch has been spilt on Claire’s negligee. It is the first time they’ve been away from their daughter, and what had once seemed an occasion for exotic luxury—No baby! Hours of sleep!—has become a pity-party fueled by separation anxiety and booze. They have spoken of nothing, except Bree.
“Girl Guides,” Claire blurts suddenly, voice slurred and a passionate fist raised.
“I think it’s Girl Scouts here, Sassenach.”
“Girl Scouts, then. She should know how to build a fire! Make things with her hands, like—like building a stove from a Folgers tin!”
“Is that what they teach them?” Jamie asks. “To make household appliances from cheap coffee?”
“I think so. I mean, they should. What else is Folgers coffee good for?”
MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING: panic attacks/anxiety - PLEASE do not read if you think this may cause you to trigger from either of these. I am here to talk if anyone needs any comfort or support for them as well.
A/N: Anon requested Shawn having an attack on stage and Y/N being experienced with them and helping him out.
I begin to strum my guitar, feeling waves of musical vibrations running through my body. The atmosphere right now, in this stadium, is incredible - something I’ve never experienced before. If I’m being honest, it frightens me a little but I know that when everyone sings along, everything will be fine. Y/N smashed it with her opening act so the crowd has already been sending me amazing vibes ever since I stepped foot on this stage.
Strumming the chords to Ruin, my hands are shaking a little bit but I know that this song always gets to me physically. I always get lost in the song. When my voice comes out shaky, I cringe a little bit, hoping everyone didn’t think it was as bad as it sounded in my head. It’s when I completely stuff up the next line by stuttering that my lungs feel like they’re being squished together. “I-,” I take a huge breath before continuing, “I… I just have to go - I’ll b-be back.” I say before rushing off stage, my legs feeling awfully weak. I remove my guitar from my body with all of the strength I have left. Y/N rushes up to me, grabbing my shoulders and steadying me slightly. “Shawn! Shawn! Breathe, just breathe.” She says to me as the floor seems as if it will dissipate any second now.
Thanks for all the love on this fic guys! I love all my readers!
Several people asked to be tagged— cant tag you for some reason, not sure if we have to be mutual or what, but it you asked to be tagged and weren’t, that’s probably whats going on, check the list for your name!
Things were… a little awkward between Steve and Bucky the next few days.
Bucky was sure he’d never been so aware that Steve only slept a few yards away, and spent most of the night trying not to think of how easy it would be to just jump on the other bed and do something. But he didn’t think he wanted Steve like that, so maybe it was just the idea of Tony wanting both of them that suddenly drew him to his best friend?
Steve was positive he had never noticed how thick Bucky’s thighs were, but when the soldier crouched to pull a pan out of a cupboard Steve nearly spit his coffee out when a jolt of awareness went through him. Never in his life had he had a thought like that about his friend, and those thoughts certainly hadn’t been there a week ago so… so where were they coming from? It had to be because of Tony. Damn cat.
Everything was made worse, much much worse when Tony sashayed his perfect pert little ass into the kitchen the morning of day four and pinned both of them down with a stare.
“My honeybear is telling me that I need to shift more, to keep myself balanced. He is also telling me to make sure I don’t shift alone because my animal form is needy and suffers when it’s alone. Or some…” he waved his hands around. “–other spectacular bullshit. So here’s what we are going to do.” He cleared his throat.
“I will be in my lab, shifted, in about five minutes. I would like both of you to come down and sit on the couch with me. You don’t need to talk to me, just be there and available for some physical contact. That is all. Thank you for your time.” And he turned on his heel and swept back of the door.
“Honeybear?” Steve questioned and Bucky groaned.
“Remember Rhodes threatening us? How much do you want to bet Tony calls Rhodes eight foot tall partial shifted animal honeybear?”
“Of course he does. Of course Tony has a stupid nickname for an Alpha level shifter.” Steve stood to his feet uncertainly. “So– shall we?” He motioned towards the door and Bucky stood just as slowly.
“I guess. So this will be sharing–”
“Don’t.” Steve’s eyes snapped closed. “Do not finish that sentence. Do not. We will talk about that if the time comes.”
“Been thinking about it?” Bucky asked as they headed down the stairs.
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:
I am the faceless wanderer
- the battle born axe
notched in my back
Red is all I see.
what a beautiful color.
what a beautiful color –
so stark in the snow,
so brilliant on the greens,
of the forest floor
and I feel always
– it’s tongue dragged
And I am the faceless wanderer
– a mighty force
of ghosts whispering,
clawing at my feet.
I sing them a song
so they remember
and they forget.
Warnings: Mentions of trouble of conceiving and nightmares. Hinting at sex? Cussing?? (It’s Negan.. What do you expect? Haha)
Word Count: 1014
A/N: After much contemplation and procrastination, here’s my tee tiny contribution to Ash’s 2K Writing Challenge! This is kind of a modern day AU? No zombie apocalypse. Negan and the reader are living the “Apple Pie Life”, so to speak. And it’s Daddy!Negan as in he has a kid. Get you’re mind out of the gutter y’all.
(I know this gif isn’t Negan and has pretty much nothing to with this fic. But he looks sleepy and cute and?? I love him???)
I jolted awake from a terrible nightmare, where the world had gone to shit and most of the population had became “walkers”. My husband was the leader of some group called “The Saviors”?? I don’t know what it was or what caused it but I’m glad it’s over.
I turned over onto my back staring up at the ceiling, and my hand instinctively went to the straight to the other side of the bed. It was cold. Negan wasn’t in the bed. I starting to wonder where he went when I hear footsteps coming from the bedroom down the hall. Sitting up straight in bed, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. Yawning. Shuddering when my feet made contact with the cold floor. Standing still for a minute, hearing an all too familiar voice drifting down the hall.
Starting towards the door of our shared bedroom, reaching for the nob and slowing opening the door just enough to where I can slip through. Slowly treading down the hallway and stopping at the nursery door. There’s a soft glow coming from the lamp in the corner of the room. I reach for the door to open in further when I hear him begin to speak again.
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
SORRY THESE ARE LATE I JUST GOT HOME FROM GEORGIA! DOUBLE TIME ON UPDATES!
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.
AndPeggy: DID YOU TELL THEM YET
Rolling her eyes she responded, Elizaaa: No, Alex /just/ got home and he’s soaked so John’s taking him to get changed
AndPeggy: OKAY WELL WHEN THEY COME DOWN TELL THEM
AndPeggy: HOW ARE YOU TELLING THEM AGAIN
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.
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.
The style of wearing tight-laced corsets, which was de rigueur throughout the last half of the century, has to be ranked somewhere close to the old Chinese practice of footbinding for its crippling effects on the female body. A fashionable woman’s corsets exerted, on the average, twenty-one pounds of pressure on her internal organs, and extremes of up to eighty-eight pounds had been measured. (Add to this the fact that a well-dressed woman wore an average of thirty-seven pounds of street clothing in the winter months, of which nineteen pounds were suspended from her tortured waist.) Some of the short-term results of tight-lacing were shortness of breath, constipation, weakness, and a tendency to violent indigestion. Among the long-term effects were bent or fractured ribs, displacement of the liver, and uterine prolapse (in some cases, the uterus would be gradually forced, by the pressure of the corset, out through the vagina).
Barbara Ehrenreich & Deirdre English, For Her Own Good: Two Centuries of the Experts’ Advice to Women