#this has been a lauren post

[waberblobble]

have u ever had to do work even though you already did work for even HOURS and it absolutely ruins your day because i have

[thelaurenshippen]

sorry I can't today. I've gotta sit at my laptop and hit a button to make numbers on the boop-o-meter go up. yeah, it's gonna be all day

[wistfulwatcher]

[zoirohs]

I'm fine. I'm just being dramatic. It’s what I do.

Lauren Graham as Lorelai Gilmore in Gilmore Girls (2000 - 2007)

[john-laurens]

Something about Laurens and Kinloch being so similar yet so different, both being part of the southern elite, neither being the firstborn but both being the oldest son, both experiencing the death of a parent in their adolescence, but while Laurens lost his mother, Kinloch lost his father and was then placed under the guardianship of a man who was a staunch loyalist living away in England, both Kinloch and Laurens traveling to Europe for their education and being so close and so like-minded in many ways and both feeling conflict between their own wants in life and the will of their father/guardian, Laurens wanting to return to America to fight in the war but his father wanting him to pursue law, Kinloch at first taking strong loyalist stances in the same vein as his guardian and holding so fast to these beliefs that it severely harmed his relationship with Laurens, but then Kinloch later returned to the colonies and fought on the American side, meeting up with Laurens again in the process, and then victory came but Laurens was not ready to leave the war behind, but Kinloch (and Hamilton) had already gotten married and had a child and determined that he truly enjoyed a domestic life away from war and politics, meanwhile Laurens's wife had died and Laurens soon followed, leaving behind a child that never knew him, and an obituary was written for Laurens by some anonymous man living in Virginia with an intimate knowledge of his life story (*cough* Kinloch) and concludes "I am happy thus to perform my last duties to the memory of a friend"

[147days]

HELP

[blaithnne]

“I don’t know how to explain it…” she mumbled, “it’s dumb.”

“It is not dumb,” Johanna replied firmly, taking her daughter’s hands in hers’ and making an effort to look her in the eye, though the younger girl tried to avoid it. “You’re in a… transitional stage, not quite a child, not quite an adult, and that’s hard. It’s confusing enough on its own, without any of the extras you’ve had to deal with.” 

“I mean, Dad probably wouldn’t have been much help with this sort of thing.”

‘Dad wasn’t much help with anything’, was what Johanna wanted to say, but thought better of it. 

“My point is, I get that this is difficult, believe me. But it’ll work out in the end, and seem so small in retrospect.”

The teenager sighed heavily, Johanna put a gentle hand to her cheek.

“This has really been worrying you, hasn’t it?”

Lauren didn’t answer, staring at the space behind her mother, perhaps at some of the work pinned to her drawing desk.

“What is it that’s got you so worked up?” She asked tentatively, tilting her head to meet her daughter’s eyeline. Lauren returned the gesture, only in the opposite direction, squinting at something Johanna couldn’t see.

“What’s that?” She asked suspiciously, looking tense. 

Johanna gave her a stern look, “Hey, don’t change the subject. You don’t have to tell me everything, but—”

“No, Mum – I’m serious.” 

Lauren’s eyes were locked on something behind her Mum, as she slowly rose from the couch. She spoke in a hushed, conspiratorial tone, her expression hard, on the verge of righteous anger. 

Johanna felt anxiety trickle up and into her throat, and then everything happened all at once.

“Lauren—”

“What the hell is that—!” 

A preview for Chapter 8 of Plenism this weekend :)

[lady-lauren]

hehehehe getting to 666 on Friday the 13th feels like a nice little omen

[scarydamien]

Damien×Lauren

playlist

[my-deer-friend]

I have finally Made An Art again! Nature is healing etc.

[thelaurenshippen]

the way that silver said "I will stand here with you an hour, a day, a year" to flint and "I will wait a day, a month, a year, forever" to madi....I'm sick to my stomach. who is doing unhinged devotion like this man

[goldoradove]

Lauren:  This week was worse than last.  Maddison couldn’t even get out of bed most days.

Therapist:  And you can tell this is affecting you?

Lauren:  It kills me to watch someone I love be in pain, and she’s in agony.

Therapist:  I see.  Do you think your sorrow is equal to your sister’s, or do you think she feels deeper [more deeply?] than you do?

Lauren:  On the contrary.  Maddison lost her sister and best friend.  I also lost my mom, but I feel like I’m losing my sister, too.

Therapist:  Have you lost someone close to you before?

Lauren:  My dad died over a decade ago, but we weren’t ever close.

Therapist:  Would you say you fear death?

Lauren:  I watched Mom’s body break down over a few short weeks.  It was excruciating—for everyone.  I don’t think I fear death, but I fear dying like that.  And Maddison...  I’m watching her deteriorate right before my eyes.  That is terrifying.

[deadgirlsam]

sysmate wants me to redo my theme to anna because it's too attached to their own theme on their acc -_-

[northgazaupdates]

Help Farah and her family!!

Meet Farah

Farah received a severe head injury after her home was bombed by the occupation last year. It resulted in a fractured skull and brain bleeding, which left her disabled for several months.

To continue the treatment of her wound, she needs to evacuate outside of Gaza. However, this is very expensive, and her family is large. They cannot work due to the invasion, and have no way of raising the funds to pay evacuation costs, or to support themselves until evacuation is possible.

Farah's family started a GFM campaign, but progress was very slow. Then GoFundMe had locked Farah's campaign for reasons that have not been made clear. Thankfully, her account is now reopened! Even so, total donations up to now equal less than 1% of their goal, despite being open since April!

The temporary locking of her campaign means that there has been no progress on it for over a week. Farah and her family are in a very desperate situation, and badly need your support. They will not be able to evacuate, or to survive in the mean time, without your help.

She is still recovering from her severe head wound, and she and her family still struggling with malnutrition and living in a fabric tent in the mud. Please support her campaign, reblog this post, boost posts by Farah @farahyounis, and copy and paste the campaign link across social media.

Thank you❤️

Farah’s campaign has been shared by 90-ghost and vouched for by @mohammedalhabil2000

[mangocheesecakes]

I got my first salary in my new part-time job today and after paying my debts I had a small amount left so I donated £5 to @mohamedmoner1994 and Rewaa's gofundme. Please consider matching my donation.

I haven't been able to boost and push Mohamed's and @yousefmoner's fundraiser because I've been sick for a few days and took a break from tumblr. I'll try to send out messages again to look for people who can match even just my £5 donation.

Please don't be mad or annoyed if you receive my asks; my goal will be to look for people with the ability to donate a minimum of £5 because both Mohamed's and Yousef's fundraisers are still so far from their goal nearly 5 months since they started their gofundme.

Please be assured that this is a vetted fundraiser. Mohamed's is number #66, line 70 and Yousef's is #65, line 69 in the vetted Gaza fundraisers spreadsheet. I also have countless of posts with updates from their family on my blog, tagged with their tumblr urls. Mohamed, Yousef, and Rewaa are also on instagram - pls consider following them, interacting with their posts, and sharing and collabing with their reels because the family have been struggling to promote their content on the platform. They've been asking people to help them reach a wider audience and they can really use everyone's help:

Mohamed's insta: mohamed_moner1994

Yousef's: you2.ef_

Rewaa's: rewaaamohamed

Layla, their gfm organizer: only_one_lulu

Mohamed has also started an account on tiktok, please do follow him there as well: mohamedmoner79

Mohamed is still only at £11,275 / £45,000 with only 2 donations so far today:

Yousef is at £7,794 / £50,000 with only 1 donation 1 day ago:

They have another brother, Karam, with a different fundraiser for himself, his wife, and their newborn son. I haven't been posting about him a lot because I tried to focus on Mohamed and Yousef's fundraisers first, but they also badly need donations. Their fundraiser is very new and is still only at £1,461 / £25,000 with the last donation being 3 days ago:

The last update I read from Layla was that their sister Sahar and mother Nadia went and joined Mohamed and Rewaa in Deir al-Balah, along with Karam's wife, Maram and their son, leaving behind Yousef, Karam, and father Munir in Azdaa, where there were intensified clashes and shelling that reached their encampment. Yousef, Karam, and their dad had to flee from their tent several times and sleep on the streets. When they got back to their tent, most of their belongings had been stolen.

Please help match my donation to any one of these fundraisers. If you can donate to all three, please do so. I can only afford to give £5 because of the high exchange rate here in my country, but if you have the ability to give more, your donation would go a long way to help these people and their family.

[meazalykov]

soft place to land

catarina macario x chelsea!reader with features of platonic!sam kerr x reader

warnings: cancer, recovery, angst

you haven’t been to any major doctor’s appointments since the ankle injury a few months ago. nothing urgent, nothing scary. it was just routine physio after a tackle during that game against west ham. there was light rehab, and a return to full training before the season picked up again. 

everything healed the way it was supposed to. 

or at least, that’s what you told everyone.  

now it’s something else.  

it started slow. a tingle at the base of your neck, creeping up your throat, like a subtle warning that didn’t feel worth mentioning at first. your voice would crack during post-training banter, or disappear altogether when you tried to call for the ball. you blamed it on overuse, maybe dehydration. you figured it would go away but it didn’t.  

you live with it now.  

you train, you play, and you act like nothing’s wrong, but every day it gets harder to pretend.  

you do not want to cause worry, especially not for cat. she has enough on her plate… coming back after recovering from her own serious acl injury, easing back into match fitness, proving herself all over again. but she notices. she always notices.  

"you didn’t say anything all session," she murmurs as you collapse beside her on the pitch after training one day. the black and pink training shirt clings to your back with sweat. your lungs burn. your throat aches.  

you give her a tight smile and a shrug, but it feels forced.  

"just tired," you say, even though the words come out hoarse and strained.  

cat’s brows pull together, concern flickering in her expression. she reaches over, fingers brushing gently under your jaw. 

"it’s your throat again?"  

you nod.  

"you need to tell sonia," she says quietly.  

"i’m fine," you lie, and she hears it. she always does.  

catarina doesn’t push. she just sighs and leans into you, pressing a kiss to your shoulder like it’ll ground you, knowing her love will hold the pieces of you together. the next day, you feel it again…worse this time. the pressure sits like a stone lodged in your throat. you can barely speak. your hands shake. your vision swims mid-sprint. when lauren passes you the ball, you miss the trap completely.  

"y/n, you good?" millie calls from across the pitch, jogging toward you.  

you wave her off and bend over, hands on your knees, willing your body to behave. you hear hannah whistle, then sonia’s voice from the sideline, sharp and direct.  

you straighten and pretend you’re okay because that’s what you do. you’ve always kept things to yourself until they become impossible to ignore.  

after training, you sit in the locker room with your boots still on, half-zoned out as the chatter around you continues.  

"she didn’t say a word again," erin whispers to lucy, trying to be subtle but failing miserably.  

"it’s not just her throat," ashley adds, brushing a towel over her head. 

"she’s slower and her passes are off. that is not normal for a player like y/n."  

you feel their eyes on you, but you keep your head down.  

when you finally glance up, it’s catarina who’s kneeling in front of you. your girlfriend’s hands rest lightly on your knees, her eyes searching yours. she doesn’t say anything. she doesn’t need to.  

later that night, when you’re curled into her on the couch, her arms around your waist and your face tucked into her neck, you let yourself exhale.  

"i don’t know what’s happening to me," you whisper, voice thin and trembling. 

"i feel like my body’s shutting down."  

"then let’s find out what it is," she says. 

you feel her hand over your heart. steady. warm. you nod.  

however, the fear lingers because it’s not just the throat thing anymore. it’s everything and the rest of the team knows. you see it in how guro always walks beside you now, keeping pace even when you fall behind.  

how mayra offers to cover your runs without being asked.  

how millie wraps an arm around your shoulders before matches and leans in close, like she’s trying to carry some of your weight.  

no one says anything directly but it’s there, all of it, aka the silent dread none of you know how to voice.  

a week later, you are more than aware that the champions league match against real madrid was days away. everything was intense for this group stage match. training, tactics, focus. every player was locked in, especially with how competitive this season had been. 

the club enforced mandatory monthly clinicals, making sure everyone was in top condition before important matches. it was routine. you had done it plenty of times before.

you stepped into the medical room like it was just another checkbox to tick off. same nurse, same hallway, same small talk about the weather. you were calm. casual, even.

things were fine until you stepped on the weight scale.

you stood still, the machine humming quietly beneath your feet. the doctor glanced at the screen, then back down to the scale, brows pulling together in a confused frown. the doctor’s mouth opened slightly like she was going to say something, but didn’t. instead, she stepped forward and checked the scale again, typing something into her computer with more urgency than before.

“what’s wrong?” you asked, your voice scratchy and hoarse…same as it had been lately.

the doctor looked up at you, professional, but concerned.  

“have you noticed the weight loss?”  

you blinked, “huh?”  

she took a careful breath, “you’ve lost eighteen pounds in the last three months.”  

your chest tightened, “i haven’t changed anything,” you said quickly. 

“my diet’s the same and i sleep all nine to ten hours.”  

she nodded once but didn’t look reassured. 

“that’s what concerns me. unexplained weight loss like this, paired with other symptoms, it’s not something we can overlook.”  

you were in there longer than expected. one by one, you started listing what had been happening. you did not want to draw attention to yourself, but because it suddenly felt like all of it was connected.  

your throat…the discomfort, the inability to speak sometimes.  

your periods…completely off schedule, skipping whole months.  

your hair…thinner in the shower, on your pillow, in your brush.  

your sleep…ten hours felt like three.  

the doctor listened closely, then gently reached out, fingers pressing along the sides of your neck. you winced slightly. she nodded again, like something in your body confirmed what she had already started suspecting.

“i want to send you in for a full body scan,” she said, still using that calm, practiced voice that somehow made everything feel more real. 

“your symptoms and physical indicators suggest we may be dealing with something involving your thyroid. it’s best we know for sure.”  

you waited for hours after that and the scans felt surreal. the cold machines, dim lights, the hum of technology that had nothing to do with football.  

when it was over, you were told to wait in a small private room. you waited for about an hour before the door finally opened with a soft knock.  

the club’s main doctor returned, this time with sonia, your coach, by her side.

sonia offered a gentle smile and stepped forward, “are you alright?”  

you swallowed. your throat ached again, “i don’t know.”  

the doctor explained it carefully, like she had done it a thousand times before. her tone was level. informative. precise.  

“the scans revealed abnormalities in your thyroid. after consulting the images and your recent symptoms… i’m sorry… but we’ve confirmed you’re in the early stages of thyroid cancer.”

your heart didn’t drop. it froze since everything inside you went cold and quiet. you didn’t react right away. all you did was just stared ahead, blank. your vision blurred at the edges, the words thyroid cancer echoing in your mind like a far-off siren.

the doctor kept talking…mentioning how it was the easiest form of cancer to recover from, how it was caught early, how treatment options were promising…but the words barely registered.

you weren’t thinking about recovery.  

you were thinking about football or about training or about your place in the squad or about the champions league or about the call up to the national team.

all you thought about was how everything was about to stop, and you had no idea how long the recovery process will take.  

sonia rested her arm around your shoulders, a comforting gesture. you didn’t lean into it. you looked at her instead, tears building in your eyes.

“where’s catarina?” your voice cracked. 

“please… can you get her?”  

“of course,” she said softly, “anyone else?”  

“sam,” you whispered, “please get sam too if she is in the recovery area today.”  

sam, your closest friend on the team. it was not just because of football, but because of kristie. kristie and you had grown up through the national team system together. she had been your person, your steady support. sam is too thanks to her.  

minutes later, the door opened again. cat walked in first, her face immediately searching for yours. sam followed close behind, her smile gone the second she saw the drained look on your face.  

sonia closed the door quietly behind them, giving you space.  

the doctor repeated the explanation, this time for them. you didn’t look at either of them. you couldn’t. you just stared at the floor, shoulders slumped, hands trembling in your lap.

your chest hurt…not from the diagnosis, but from the heartbreak. you weren’t stupid. your career would stall. you wouldn’t be able to train or to play. you were scared, no…terrified, actually.  

sam knelt in front of you and took your hands, already teary. 

“you’re gonna be okay. we’ve got you, yeah?” she said softly. 

“you’re gonna fight through this, and we’ll all be right here.”  

it was cat who saw the fear in your eyes. it was not the surface-level sadness, but the deep, soul-crushing fear in your eyes. the ’what if?’ fear.  

she moved beside you quickly, arms wrapping around your body, anchoring you against her. your cheek pressed into her chest, your hands fisting the front of her hoodie.  

“i’m here,” she whispered into your hair, “i’ve got you, baby. i’m not going anywhere.”  

you started to cry…finally. heavy, silent tears. your throat felt too tight to sob, but she felt your body shake against hers.  

“you were there for me every single day of my acl recovery,” she said, her voice thick. 

“you never left me. you pushed me through it. and now i’m going to do the same for you. every step. every appointment. i’m not letting you face this alone.”  

you nodded against her, barely, because it was all you could do. your girlfriend’s arms were holding you, and your best friend was sitting beside you but you didn’t feel like a footballer. you didn’t feel like someone strong or unstoppable. you felt like a woman who was scared out of her mind.  

“how could i be so stupid?” you whisper, voice breaking as you cling to the sleeves of catarina’s hoodie, the sterile walls of the room closing in around you.

cat pulls back just enough to cup your face, her thumbs wiping at your tear-streaked cheeks, her brows pulling together with quiet urgency.

“no. don’t do that,” she says firmly, “don’t start blaming yourself for this. you didn’t know. there’s no way you could’ve known.”

you try to look away, but she gently guides your face back to hers.

“you’re not stupid. you’re sick. and now we’re going to deal with it. together.”

sam nods beside her, sitting on the edge of the chair near your hospital bed, eyes glassy, “cat’s right,” she adds, “you’re not a doctor and none of us on the team are either. don’t be so hard on yourself, y/n. you did what you always do…you kept pushing. that doesn’t make you stupid.” 

you don’t say anything for a while, just sit there with both of them, the weight of it all slowly sinking in. it doesn’t matter how early it is or how “treatable” the doctor says it is. the word cancer sticks to your ribs like cement. you feel your career pause. you feel time pause. everything shifts in your world with no warning, and now all you can do is hold on.

a few days after the announcement is made, chelsea posts an official update on the matter. you don’t check social media at first. you think it’ll make you feel worse. when you finally do, you see hundreds…no, thousands of comments. people from everywhere. your national teammates. old teammates from your time in france. fans who remember your debut. strangers who just want to wish you well.

your chelsea teammates post pictures with you. sam writes a long message calling you “one of the strongest people i’ve ever met.” erin tags you in a throwback clip of one of your goals that she assisted, writing, “we’ll be here waiting, don’t rush. we need you whole.”  

even with all the love, you feel… weak like nothing inside you matches the strength people are seeing.  

you need cat more than you’re willing to admit.  

she's there every chance she gets. when she’s not training, or playing, or traveling, she’s with you—helping you with picking up your prescriptions, driving you to hospital visits, cooking when you’re too exhausted to lift your head. 

she’s become your steady presence, even when you feel like dead weight.

you hate relying on her so much, afraid of pushing her away somehow.  

one night, you break down while brushing your hair…a lot of it falling out in your hands. you throw the brush down, tears streaming silently down your cheeks. you don’t even hear her come in until her arms are around you again.

“stop it! i don’t want to be a burden to you,” you say softly, “you have your own career. your own recovery. you don’t need to babysit me if you do not want to.”

she looks at you like you’ve just said the dumbest thing she’s ever heard.

“you’re not a burden, y/n,” she says seriously, “you’re dealing with cancer. of course you’re not in top condition. of course you’re going to need help. and i want to help. just like you helped me. remember those two years when i didn’t feel like myself? when you sat with me through every painful stretch and every lonely rehab session? you never left and i’m not going to either.”

you try to protest, but she just presses a kiss to your forehead.

“i’m not doing this out of obligation,” she whispers, “i’m doing this because i love you.”

after your thyroidectomy, the healing begins slowly, but noticeably.

your strength doesn’t return all at once. your voice feels hoarse some mornings, and the hormone fluctuations leave you with bouts of exhaustion, but you can tell things are improving. the doctors at the hospital chelsea partnered with are kind, attentive, and thorough. your hormone levels are being monitored carefully. you’re told you’ll need daily thyroid hormone replacement therapy, but the prognosis is good.

you mainly stay home resting, taking meds, watching cat’s games when she’s away. the couch becomes your new recovery base. the one place where cat can return after training and just hold you without a single word needing to be said.

when naomi, yes naomi girma your national teammate, signs for chelsea a couple weeks later. she surprises you at your flat with coffee and snacks, giving you the biggest hug. you cry in her arms for ten minutes without saying anything. she doesn’t let go once.

your world is smaller now, but the love in it feels infinite.

a month later…just one month, though it feels like a lifetime…you’re back in light recovery training with the other injured players. you jog lightly. you stretch. you do basic ball work. everything feels harder than it used to, but you’re doing it. you’re moving again.

catarina watches from a distance during her cooldowns, waving at you every time you look her way. sam throws an arm around your shoulders at the end of each session, joking that she missed your chaos on the pitch.

“you’re getting there with me,” sam says, “we need to go slow and steady like a little comeback queens.”

you grin at her, then glance at cat, who’s already walking toward you with a water bottle and a towel in hand.

“you’re not my physio, you know,” you tease as she reaches you.

she smirks, brushing your hair out of your eyes. 

“no,” she says, “but i am your girlfriend.”

you laugh quietly, “your love might actually be part of the recovery process.”

“then i’ll keep it coming,” she says, pressing a kiss to your cheek, “as much as you need. for as long as you need.”

honestly, right now, you need it more than anything. for the first time in weeks you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’re gonna be okay again.

masterlist

authors note: I took some inspiration off of this post. you should check it out as well, its amazing writing!