#is no place for a fetus such as myself

[ariisheresstuff]

The Hormones

Pairings: Carmy x Pregnant!Reader

Summary: You decided to go with Carmy to work, Carmy hesitated with bringing you along with you. You been dealing with pregnancy hormones recently. With the hormones hitting you, Richie had enough and lashes out on you making you upset.

Genre: Angst to comfort

Warnings: Cursing, Crying, mentions of being pregnant, Richie being mean, Yelling.

MasterList

A/N: My requests are open! 💜

“Alright baby, I’m off to work.” Carmen announces as walks over to you in the kitchen. He places a hand on your bump rubbing it gently before kissing your forehead.

“Actually, Carmy?” You said making him go back to face you.

“What’s wrong baby?” He asked as he softly cupped your face worriedly. You smiled at him being so protective of you.

“Can I come with you today? I’m tired of being home by myself.” You said with pleading eyes.

Carmen sighed as he ran a hand through his hair. “Are you sure babe? I don’t want you getting tired of being bored at the place. Plus, you should be resting.” Carmen loves when you come along with him to work, but with your hormones being more stronger and you being more sensitive, he hesitated. You literally started to cry over tying your shoe because your stomach was in the way.

You pouted, “Please Carmy? I promise I won’t cause trouble I just wanna be with you, I get sad when I’m alone here.” Your eyes were already watering making Carmen panic.

“Okay, okay baby, don’t get upset. I hate when you get upset, it hurts me. Of course you can come, but if things to start to overwhelm you, you tell me okay?” You nodded making him smile and peck your lips. He grabbed your hand as the two you of walked out of the apartment.

“Look who finally showed up!” Richie announced as Carmen walked in with you, Carmen rolled his eyes.

“Shut the fuck Richie, get to work.” Carmen shook his head as he led you through the kitchen.

“What brings you here sweets?” Richie asked you as he gave you a hug, you smiled.

“Didn’t feel like staying home, I need to get out and enjoy life before the little one comes.” Richie nodded as he continued to work.

Tina smiled as she walked up to you giving you a hug and a kiss before rubbing your bump. “How are you doing mama? Baby doing good?”

You smiled at Tina’s comfort, “Healthy baby, but it’s killing me.” You whined making Tina frown.

“Aye, poor thing. You need anything?”

“Not right now, I’m okay thank you.” Carmen yelled something at the others, as you walked towards his office.

“Oh, hey Y/N!” You quickly turned to see Sydney waving, you quickly smiled at you and gave her a hug.

“Hey Syd! How you doing?”

“Good, good, and you?”

“Ugh, it’s hard dealing with a fetus in your stomach.” You joked as you rubbed your bump.

“Well hey, almost time y’know?”

You nodded with a smile, “I can’t wait.” You quickly said goodbye as Carmen led you to sit in his office chair.

“You hungry or anything?” He asked you as he ran a hand over your back, you shook your head.

“Not at the moment.” You shrugged

“Alright, let me know if anything.” He quickly gave you a kiss to your lips making you sigh.

“Love you.” You said with a smile making him smile back.

“Love you more.”

It’s been over two hours already and you starting to get cranky. You were whining as you had your head down. Your back was killing you and you felt a headache coming on from the heat from the kitchen. You whined as you slowly got up before wincing as your back started to hurt. You rubbed your bump as you opened the office door entering the kitchen.

“Guys, I fucking told you a million times! Get your shit together, I’m not fucking playing!” Carmen yelled as everyone yelled “Yes Chef!” In unison. Carmen sighed before he spotted you with a frown on your face.

“Hey baby, you okay? What’s wrong?” He cupped your face as he examined your features.

“I’m getting hungry carm, it’s hot I’m dying! And my back is hurting!” You said a little too loud, Carmen cursed in his mind knowing you were getting cranky.

“I’m sorry babe, you wanna sit by the booths? You might cool off better there. And you want something to eat?” He led you to the entrance of the diner, before you stopped him.

“No Carmen, nothing is helping me. I’m tired and hungry and it’s making me upset!” You could feel tears forming making Carmen cringe.

“Hey, hey, hey. Relax, I know baby. I’m sorry that you’re going through this. Just take a deep breath and I’ll make you something to eat, what do you feel like having, hm?” He said softly not wanting to make you more upset, he quickly rubbed your back making you whimper as small tears fell down your face.

“I-I I don’t know what I want to eat! Basically anything I eat makes me puke! I can’t take it anymore!” You were starting to get more loud making everyone in the kitchen look at you and Richie finally blew it.

“Jesus Christ! Why did you even come if you’re gonna act like a bitch?” Richie yelled from the other side, everyone turned to look at Richie who had a frown on his face.

“Richie!” Carmen yelled back at his cousin making Richie shake his head.

“Nah! Because why the fuck is she here if she’s gonna be bitchy about everything? Make that make sense to me!”

“Richie, you better shut the fuck up! She’s pregnant, I don’t care if she’s here or not! Don’t make me fucking hurt you cousin!”

“Let me see you try, jagoff.” Richie said with a sarcastic chuckle. Carmen’s eyes twitched.

“Don’t even start with me Richie! You’re the fucking jagoff, don’t start with that bullshit I-

Carmen stopped his yelling when he heard a sniffle and a whimper. Everyone turned to look at you, tears fell down your face as you hiccuped.

“I-I’m sorry.” You said through broken sobs, everyone just froze as they watched you cry.

“Baby.” Carmen said softly as he quickly walked over to you. “Hey, look at me.” You pushed his hands away as you shook your head. You then turned around and walked over to the back door, you opened the door as you went outside to the cool breeze.

Everyone just stood there in silence, then looked at Richie.

“What the fuck is wrong with you Richie! How dare you do such a thing to that poor girl! She’s pregnant for god sake!” Tina yelled at Richie as she slapped his arm with a frown.

“Not cool Richie, seriously.” Marcus said with a shook of his head as he followed Tina outside.

“Do better Richie, honestly.” Sydney said as she followed the rest outside to console you.

Richie just stood there frozen with his mouth slightly opened.

“What the fuck is your problem!?!” Carmen roared as he shoved Richie into a wall nearby, making Richie stumble.

“Chill Carmen!”

“No, you chill! How are you gonna say that to her huh?!?! Don’t you have a kid?!?! Didn’t you deal with this too?!? How dare you come at Y/N like that! She didn’t deserve that shit! She’s seven fucking months pregnant! Of course she’s gonna feel like shit!” All Carmen saw was red as his shoulders rose up and down from his yelling rant. His heart was pounding as his hand shook under Richie’s shirt he had a grip on.

“Chill the fuck out Carmen! I’m sorry, that just came over me! I mean it! I didn’t mean for that happen, I just let my inner thoughts get to me! I know she didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry alright?” Richie said in a calming voice to get Carmen to calm down.

Carmen gave him a glare as he let go his shirt, “You better fucking apologize to her, not me. Understand?” Richie nodded with hands in surrender, Carmen huffed as he first walked outside, Richie behind him.

You had your head buried in your hands as Tina comforted you, your head rested on her shoulder as she rubbed your back in comfort , your shoulders shook with each sob.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for-for that to-to happen.” You whimpered, making Tina shake her head.

“Nonsense mija, you are carrying a child. You have every right to feel this way. Richie is being an asshole, don’t let him get to you mama.”

You removed your hand away from your face before looking up to see Carmen and Richie. Tina moved away but not before giving your head a peck as she told everyone to go back inside, leaving you, Carmen, and Richie alone.

You looked down at your feet, not making eye contact with either of the men. Carmen didn’t say anything as he walked up to you and wrapped his arms around you.

You couldn’t help but feel more tears fall down as you softly cried into his chest. Carmen softly shushed you as he rubbed your back knowing it was hurting you. He whispered sweet nothing in your ear as he kissed your head and forehead repeatedly.

“I-I I’m sorry, I didn’t m-mean for this to happen.” You said through hiccups, Carmen shook his head.

“Hey, no, stop that. This wasn’t your fault baby. You’re pregnant, you have every right to be mad, upset, and sad. This is a hard time for you. But you should’ve stayed home baby. It’s always chaotic here, and I don’t want that to overwhelm you. I want you to be okay and feel comfortable. I know it’s hard for you, but I’m here always for you okay?”

He cupped your face making you look up at him, your lip trembled as tears fell down your cheeks. He quickly wiped them away, before kissing your lips a few times. He gave you a hug making you wrap your arms around his waist, enjoying his touch.

“I love you, y’know that?” He said softly in your ear making you nod in his chest. He swayed you back and forth before facing Richie, who had a frown on his face.

“I think Richie has something to say to you too.” Carmen said softly making you open your eyes to see Richie with a sad frown. He cleared his throat before speaking.

“I’m sorry for what I said to you Y/N, I really am. I admit I was being a jagoff and all that shit I said was wrong and that you don’t deserve that. But, I hope you can forgive me because you’re my family and I don’t want to hurt you like that again.”

You actually felt another set of tears coming at Richie’s apology, you loved Richie as family. You hated what he said to you, but how can you not forgive him.

“Oh Richie, of course I forgive you. I’m sorry that I triggered you to go off on me. I’m sorry, you’re a sweet man and I know you didn’t mean it.” You hiccuped as you walked over to Richie before wrapping your arms around his waist bringing him into a hug. Richie’s eyes went wide, not expecting you to forgive him so easily. He tensed up as you hugged him, but quickly relaxed and wrapped his arms around you.

“I’m sorry kid, really. I was an asshole for that.” He said softly as he rubbed your back in comfort making you look up at him with a smile. You stood on your tippy toes before pecking his cheek with a smile making him smile back at you. You turned to face Carmen who walked over to you and Richie.

“Don’t pull that shit again cousin or I swear I will beat your ass.” Richie rolled his eyes at him.

“Yeah, yeah cousin, I got it. Jesus.” He shook his head making you chuckle a bit at the two men.

“You still hungry baby?” Carmen asked you as the three of you walked back into the kitchen. You nodded your head at that.

“I’m having those cravings again actually.” You said as you held onto Carmen’s hand. He led you to the booths in the front, Carmy smiled.

“What’s the craving today?” Carmen said as the two of you sat down at a booth.

“Pickles and ice cream.” You said with a smile making Carmen give you a disgusting look. You smacked his arm before laughing.

“How the fuck do you enjoy that?” He said as he got up, you laughed.

“It’s not me, it’s the baby!” You put your hands up in surrender.

“Sure it is baby.” He said with a smile before leaning down to kiss you before entering the kitchen.

“Marcus! Get me a cup of the ice cream you made and Tina! Get me some pickles! Y/N is having her weird ass cravings again!”

“Carmen! Don’t announce it to everyone!

Tag-List: @otomefan @chunnies @slasherstories123 @avengersfan25 @th3h0nkz

#the bear #the bear series #carmen berzatto x y/n #carmy x Reader #jeremy allen white #jeremy allen white x reader #carmen berzatto fanfic #carmen berzatto fluff #carmen berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto masterlist #carmen berzatto angst #carmen berzatto x you #carmen berzatto the bear #carmen berzatto x fem!reader #carmy x y/n #carmy x fem!reader #carmy angst #carmy fluff #carmy comfort #carmy fanfic #the bear fanfic #the bear s1 #the bear hulu #the bear s2 #richie the bear #carmy berzatto

[mind-travel-er]

The Sun's Course [Part 1]

the empire's slumber

— Pairing: Brother Day (13th) x Female reader

— Synopsis: A story in which a Genetic Engineer is recruited by Brother Darkness, in secrecy. At the wake of his death and the rebirth of his Dynasty, Cleon The Painter dares to ask questions. However, Brother Day (12th) won’t tolerate to bring those matters into the light, and especially by the one person capable of understanding its ramifications. You. 

— Warning/Content: Hurt/Comfort, Cleon 13th, Touch-Starved Cleons, Character Study, inspired by S01E03.

— Word Count:  2.7 k

[read me on AO3] · [PART 2]

12,086 Era Imperial | 19 years after the fall of Star Bridge | Rule of Cleon the 12th; The Ruthless “It is treason,” you say. “I know,” answers Brother Darkness, gazing at the glass separating him from his younger self.  There, in a tint of sky blue that only Surfacers had seen, was floating a little cloud. The fetus of Cleon the 14th. “That’s precisely why you are here.

You look at the rumpled traits of the third brother, in his simple linen gown made of ocean. If his younger counterparts were wrapped in royal blues, it seemed that with age, the specter of the color was sinking deeper and deeper, like his melancholy. But it’s not only age that shrivels the face of Brother Darkness. There is a glint in his eyes that only comes with the dread of one’s end. The glint falls on you. “Will you do as I ask?” Your ears have to devote themselves to truly understand his words. “Of course, Empire,” you respond before your next heartbeat. One should not refuse Empire. No one dares. And you have to close the parting of your lips and compose yourself; rewinding his request in your head. As if he were asking permission. Hands clasping the strap of your medical kit crossing your chest, you turn yourself completely towards him, making sure your eyes don’t falter when looking into his own: “I will do as you ask.” A small smile brightens his face for a moment; like a meek, flickering flame. He turns himself towards you, putting his hands behind his back, and your memories echo Brother Day and Brother Dawn with the same mannerism. Countless times, you have seen his holograms do the same ritual during public speeches. You just hadn’t pictured seeing it one day in front of you. As if we had only collectively dreamed of the Empire’s presence, never experiencing it for ourselves.  “Call me Brother Darkness, Engineer. It is my place in the shadows that allows me such folly.” And it is. Terribly so. But you can’t say that, of course.  You swallow, but no saliva comes. You respond nothing, your lips cautiously sealed.  “Surely, you have questions. No one has come here for four thousand years, except for Demerzel and some of the Genetic Dynasty. I myself was not allowed.” He turns his head again, slowly, towards the glass. And one of his hands, gnarled and speckled, comes to rest on the barrier. If only for this obstacle, death and birth would be reunited at last. You dare to look at him, and it tames the slight freeze response gripping your body. He’s not as harsh as you imagined. There’s a softness about him that you could never hope to find in his other versions. At least, that’s your hypothesis.

Then you look around. Even for an artificial womb, with water coming up to the ground, it feels methodical and emotionless. The artificial tranquility of the sound of the fountain mixes with the harsh lines of the brutalist concrete. Even at the heart of the Dynasty, you find no warmth. You wonder if it’s perhaps one of the reasons that led to the destiny of Thespis and Anacreon. The day the only heat to be felt was fire raining down on two planets. You have to remind yourself that this Brother too has the potential to make those same decisions. No one likes doubts, and it could be argued that the foundation of all nations is stability. And stability requires certainty, not questions we do not dare ask. You think of your teachers and colleagues. Friends. Almost family for some. Streeling University suddenly seems like another planet altogether at this very moment. So, you hope this Brother can stomach uncertainty. And you ask:  “Why weren’t you allowed here?” “We had rules,” he responds, perhaps not to you specifically. “Apparently, witnessing one’s own origin can lead to madness.” His head bows, and his thin, white hair acts like a blinding shield.  “Perhaps…” He lifts himself again and scrutinizes the cords floating from the little body, attached to no mother and no belly. “Perhaps the same fate awaits me. Perhaps I’ve seen too much already.” You don’t comment on that last confession either. But you still have questions.  “What do you hope to find, once all the samples are collected?” The white shield goes away, and a mix of blues and greens observes you. Do his younger versions have the same nuances in their eyes? “Two things, Engineer,” he says now, truly focused on you. “First, if we are indeed all the same, just as Cleon the First dreamed. I fear time and experiences change us all, despite our … common bases.” He smiles, but there are no crinkles around his eyes.  “An egotistical search, no doubt. To answer if I’ll be remembered for my particularities… and if they even exist on a genetic level.”

Brother Darkness makes a few small steps towards you. Palms behind his rounded back now coming before him, opened.  “Second, I want to know. Will this one be different?” You can see how wide his eyes are and how the rim of white around his iris tends to take up more space than it should. The last time you saw such a display was from a sub-level worker at the weekly market. An orange in his stained hand, crossing eyes with the Imperial Guards. You look briefly at the fetus of Cleon the 14th, brows frowning.  “How so? I thought the replication was flawless. Aren’t such tests conducted again and again?” “No anymore,” he answers. “Do Luminists open the Script every time they apply their beliefs? The raw genetical code has remained untouched for centuries.” “You fear that corruption of the original material might be an issue?” You articulate. Again, his feet valiantly pace forward despite the smallness of their steps. His hands, slow and gentle, take yours. They can only feel the cold of the Aura separating the two of you. How could such a little thing prevent the most basic human interaction?  “Something’s wrong. I can feel it.”  “Brother Darkness?“ “Like the Sun behind the horizon just before it rises. I cannot see it. But, it’s here. Do you understand? You must conduct the tests.“ Maybe someone else wouldn’t notice the faint tremors of his fingers while he let them slip from yours. But you’re a researcher, and paying attention to details is the core of your practice. All speaks of Cleon the Painter and how he recorded history, producing the most exquisite murals ever made in Trantor. Masterful techniques that you had studied at school; moving patterns embedded in your digital manual. The cold is gone, but something much warmer stays with you. He rolls one of his navy sleeves with application, just as a child might have done during a medical exam. And suddenly, the knot in the pit of your stomach relaxes. The realization blooms in you as this version of Empire folds his linen tunic to offer the veins of his arm. Decades had reduced him to a frail figure that could barely walk without the help of a simple stick. If the man before you was responsible for an entire Galaxy, he was a man nonetheless.  You examine how his bent and rigid fingers fail to grasp the unyielding fabric. How the sides of his index and major, the same ones used to sign peace, are still covered with nano-pigments that swirl and curl on themselves. Your heart tightens. And memories flow from your grandfather, usually tucked away for rainy days. Perhaps you could join and help? But the Aura is there, hanging on his wrist, guarding him jealously. You don’t want to feel the cold again. Instead, you say:

“There’s no need for blood. A simple lock of hair will do.”  He stops. And his brows arch themselves. “Or… saliva, if you prefer. But I doubt that spitting in a tube would be dignified.”  You feel yourself lightly chuckling. He notices your hands; coiled and away. And he’s letting out a small scoff as his eyes wrinkle. The tips of his fingers come to press on the silver bracelet, and in response, a low hum raises the hair on your forearms as it does when a summer thunderstorm is ready to burst with lightning.  “You’re quite right. We can’t let that be my last contribution to this world, can we?” Empire has a sense of humor. It seems that not only color but the kindness of Brother Day would someday deepen as well. Or was it always there? Lingering just under the surface and waiting to take a breath? While searching for a more comfortable place to rest your equipment, only the sound of rippling water comes to you. The room is barren. There’s nothing to sit on. A far cry from the nursery of your little brothers, all in pale shades of apricot. Twins and twice as many teddy bears to fill the space. But here, nothing is soft or comforting. There are only three grey steps at the feet of the tanks. This will have to do. When the heat of Trantor was settling down, long walks at the end of the day were your favorite moments with your grandfather. Habits die hard and survive many, so without a second thought, your arm treads around the old man next to you, offering to slowly sit down. For a brief moment, he looks at you with something holds you in his green and blue eyes. Something you cannot quite pinpoint as you’re focused on opening your medical kit. There, amongst scalpels and test tubes, was hidden a reminder of your mother’s love. A wooden comb carved into the shape of a Ghillie raptor.  “Wood,” he comments with a whisper, now looking attentively at the relic between your hands. “I thought only the Palace had that privilege.”  All objects made of organic matter were indeed banned on Trantor. Those kinds of primary resources were too scarce to be transformed into commodities. The comb was a paradox: priceless because of its essence, and unsellable because no one was wealthy enough to buy it. It was just meant to exist.   “My mother was a horticulturist here. She was in charge of the wild woods before her retirement.”  “I know.”  A smile blooms on your lips. Of course he knows.  “Even wild woods on this planet are painstakingly crafted and engineered, aren’t they?” he says with a low tone. “Nature and Human-made don't have to be opposites. My mother guided life, and so am I. Tweak it and make it better. Not with trees and branches, but with threads of DNA.”  Holding the warm woods between your palms, your eyes are called by the creature deep asleep. Naked and unprotected by any womb. Devoid of touch. And as you follow the invisible link between the dormant unborn baby and Brother Darkness, you observe the carefully crafted bracelet. A protection that had continued the tradition born in this tank.  “Shall we?” At your question, Brother Darkness releases the gentle hold in his gaze and turns himself to offer his spine.   While the carved comb brushes his hair, strings of snow intertwine briefly with your fingers, weaving unintentional caresses. A sniffle is all you hear in response; the sound that someone makes when tears are at the brim, ready to tumble. If they do, you cannot see. But a life without true touch must be a lonely one. Some scars are invisible.  Time stretches itself. 

True, you could have gotten the scalpel out of your kit some time ago. Instead, you comb strings after strings until there’s nothing else to do but take the surgical blade into the palm of your hand. Your fingers select a lock of hair at the base of his neck, one where the disappearance is susceptible to going unnoticed. An unsettling thought grows in your mind, whispering that you could take advantage of the inactive Aura. Make the blue linen red. Nothing to stop your surgical tool, and, no doubt, countless people had dreamed of such an opportunity. Thespis, Anacreon… And how many worlds have been wounded in 400 years? How many mothers crying out after their sons and daughters? How many deaths at the hand of his three fingers signing peace?  However, in front of you, stooped and patient, there’s only an old painter. And he’s a dead man walking anyway, isn’t he? So you tuck away the intrusive thought. The blade glints, and the lock falls.  “You’ll soon ascend.” You speak softly, with a simple observation at the tip of your tongue that you don’t dare quite make.  Your hand clasps the genetic material into darkness. “Ah,” he rasps, “yes.” And he sighs shortly, like filling his lungs might be difficult. “Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful…  It's the transition that's troublesome, you see.” “Aren’t you afraid that the end of the week will come too soon?” “That is just the thing, Engineer. Despite your best efforts and those of your kind, it will always come too soon. Even for those like me.” You wanted to ask if he could promise that your own time, and the life span of your family and friends, wouldn’t be shortened. That he would make sure, even guarantee, their safety and well-being; only for you to focus on the research. Your underfunded Faculty could receive a substantial donation for the risks you were taking. All of this was possible… if unsanctioned studies on the Genetic Dynasty was not considered treason. More so, you fear that betrayal amongst Brothers will steepen the price of your involvement in it. You don’t dare speak because answers will give you neither assurance nor security.

Instead, you place the milky lock in one of your sterile containers. From tank to test tube. Who would have thought that the time in between those two moments would be so defining for the whole galaxy? “I’ll always leave. But I fear one day I might not return.” Science is supposed to be the heart of your work; devoid of political influences or subjectivity. There’s no loyalty toward Streeling University. But it would be foolish to assume you can afford a lack of allegiance towards Empire or its lesser versions. So, you respond: “That’s why I’m here, Brother Darkness. Rest your worries on me.” Saying there’s only the obligation to help him would even be a lie, you realize gradually as your eyes fall on the wooden comb back in your pouch. There’s something more: you want to.  “In the meantime, maybe you should hold on to this …” A faint blush warms the surface of your cheek. You hadn't planned on this. Yet, between your hands lies the little Ghillie raptor, waiting to be gifted. “I know it has no monetary value. Especially to the only person on Trantor that has access to timber.” He turns himself as far as his old bones might allow, wincing at the twist. You can immediately tell the waves are back in the ocean of his eyes as soon as he sees what you hold.  “That’s perhaps the most precious thing someone has ever offered.” “It’s worthless wood,” you comment with a slight smile to lighten the exchange.  His voice stifles, and it breaks.  “It’s priceless comfort, Engineer.”  Silence lingers for a few minutes as he grazes his thumb over the ridges of the wings. Then, it disappears into the abyss of his linen wear. The procedure is done, yet he doesn’t get back up. As if he was maybe waiting for the ghost of the comb to come back in his white hair. Instead, with shivering fingers still stained by swirling pigments, he touches the bracelet, and a warm light embraces him. How many times had he put this armor back on? Had he ever had the liberty to truly take it off? “I have one final question concerning your endeavor.” He only inclines his head slightly towards you, but you know he listens attentively. This is the one question you didn’t dare ask all along, until now.  “Brother Darkness… What will Empire do when he finds out?” 

#foundation #lee pace #cleon xiii #emperor cleon #brother day #brother day x reader #brother day x you #Cleon 13th #Cleon 13th x reader #Cleon 13th x you #ao3 #foundation apple tv

[phaticserpent]

I wonder if you have any headcanons or dribbles of Ultron with a pregnant reader?

👀 the way I'd be pregnant for this man (I'm terrified of pregnancy and childbirth)

Warning: mentions of pregnancy (?) Child labor

He is the absolute best at everything.....i mean,it's Ultron

He makes sure he does research in every single area for pregnancy; he needs to make sure he stays informed with everything

Handles you gently and carefully; he is at your side whenever you need him

Either will be understanding of your pregnancy cravings and bring them to you, OR makes a healthier alternative option for you. No in-between

"I want chocolate...."

"Chocolate isn't good for you or the baby"

"I want chocolate."

"Okay, I'll get you chocolate" He gets everything in chocolate; chocolate ice cream, chocolate milkshake, chocolate anything for the entire day until you want another craving

Makes sure all the sharp edges in the house/apartment are child proofed, he doesn't want you bumping into them and getting into an accident

Carries you around with no complaint or struggles; heck, you wouldn't even need to get out of bed with him around

Will be putting on Mozart or Beethoven for the fetus to listen to

"It's good for them, they'll be smart like you."

You don't have to worry about any chores: the house? Clean within a blink and no traces of dust. The garbage? Taken care of, you don't even need to ask

Makes sure you're okay and comfortable; whenever you express hints of pain, he'll definitely panic and get into doctor-mode

"I have some great names picked out, if you haven't thought of any yet."

"Babe, I'm only on my second term."

"Can't be too prepared."

Cute dates with him like movie nights but the couch is just as comfortable as a bed; he has soft blankets and pillow all around

When it comes to later in the pregnancy, he's super anxious; he makes double the portion size that he would usually make

Will accompany you to the bathroom in the middle of the night, it doesn't matter, he will start fussing if you don't wake him up

"I don't want to bother you...."

"Nonsense. Bother me, your safety is not a hindrance for me. My system shut down is more insignificant"

"Babe, please."

Obviously he won't go inside and respects your privacy, but he will stand outside the door just in case

If you have work and your boss is being an incompetent fool, I know for sure that Ultron would fight with him via email

Ultron would grumble, ".....pathetic, what kind of nincompoop wouldn't give maternity leave? I hope his business burns and he goes bankrupt....."

You'd snicker at his use of vocabulary

And then the time arrives,

"....Ultron....."

"Hm?"

"I think it's happening....."

Immediate panic; he obviously handles everything, he calls his sentries and all that is needed to start the procedure

He doesn't really trust human doctors, plus he wants to be there next to you for the moment. He would be the most attentive doctor/medical personnel - the procedure and labor would be a major success!

He would also treat you to whatever you wanted after. To him, the first priority is your well-being after something so energy inducing/exhausting, then the attention would go to the baby (of course, he would place the baby in your arms before giving you attention you need)

He would definitely take care of the child so you could get the rest you need and deserve

At first, he would be too terrified to handle the baby....even if he knows how and the proper care for it - he's terrified of the idea of rejection from the baby, he doesn't want it to be afraid of him

However, the baby did not care at all. It babbled incoherently and reached out for Ultron, placing its tiny hands on his cheek to feel the coolness of the metal

"......this baby, I would kill for it." Ultron smiled. I only had them for a day and a half, but if anything happened, I would kill everyone and then myself type

He's good with kids, to an extent

#ultron #ultron x reader #x reader #marvel #ultron/reader #marvel ultron #mcu ultron #mcu #headcanon #marvel headcanons #ultron headcanons #pregnancy trope #avengers age of ultron #ultron is hot

[wishcamper]

Gone Baby Gone: birth control and the ethics of risky sex

CW: abortion, sexual violence.

Creds: licensed counselor with expertise in addiction, trauma, and gay stuff. Experience with tx exclusively for pregnant people and young parents with addictions.

Okay class! Today we’ll be talking about abortion oh my god don’t run away I’ll make it worth your while I promise.

Firstly, a disclaimer: I’m not interested in debating whether abortion should be legal/allowed/is moral or immoral. The research bears out, unequivocally, that access to comprehensive reproductive and family planning options improves everyone’s lives (1). And again, not actively anti-SJM or any characters, just exploring themes and what they say about us.

It’s so funny to me that NO one liked the pregnancy plot line in ACOSF, whether they love or hate or are indifferent (me) to Rhysand. And I think that’s because we, the largely femme audience engaging with the material, recognize the strings of violence weaved into it, possibly not even consciously but on a deep, bodily, instinctual level.

The 2007 crime drama Gone Baby Gone centers on a conversation about motherhood, parenting fitness, and what society owes to children. Beneath that though, and I believe unintentionally, is another story about pregnancy-capable people’s autonomy and the cycle of oppression around reproductive rights.

I’m going to spoil the movie for you - I don’t want you to watch it because Casey Affleck is a creep, and it’s not that good anyway. There’s a whole mystery plot, but the basics are: drug addict Helene’s daughter Amanda is kidnapped, then later thought to be killed but they never find her body. Casey Affleck, Boy Detective uncovers a scheme by two rogue cops to fake Amanda’s death and kidnap her because they think Helene isn’t a good mom. And they’re kind of right; once Amanda comes home, Helene is an incredibly neglectful mother, and the movie wants you to go woahhh, maybe those murdering unethical cops were right after all!

Sure, Jan.

The movie ends with the lead character wondering if Helene, for whom he’s literally killed people to bring her child back, is even fit to raise Amanda in the first place, even interested. And here’s where I feel complicated, because on one hand - yes, this is your child, and she’s completely innocent in all this and doesn’t deserve abuse and neglect. AND what were this women’s other options? Does anyone ask? Living in deeply Catholic working class Boston, did she have access to birth control? Could she have gotten an abortion? Would her culture (and her internalization of it) even allow her to entertain that option? Could she perhaps be using substances because of the circumstances of her life over which she has no control? (See Nesta, Interrupted for more on that.)

So I ask myself: what does it mean in our culture, as a person who can become pregnant, to have sex with someone who can impregnate you? What happens when your body becomes the battlefield on which larger conflicts are played out?

I’ve been thinking on these question a lot recently because my IUD is about to expire and my doctor recommended a back up method while I wait to get a new one. This has prompted my husband and me go farther into the kids conversation and consider not just what it would mean for me to get pregnant on purpose or accidentally, but what it would mean for me to get pregnant here. Where we live, abortion is technically legal but functionally impossible to find. Even for a wanted pregnancy, if it became life-threatening I might have extremely limited options.

This makes any sex inherently risky for me. IUDs failure rates range from 0.3% to 2.3%, but that still means as few as 3 in 1000 and as many as 2-3 in 100 users still get pregnant. And IUDs significantly raise the likelihood of medically dangerous pregnancies if a fetus is conceived (2). The long odds are somewhat comforting, but if I were to have an ectopic or other life-threatening pregnancy complication, I can’t trust that my local doctors would be able to save my life, legally. 

And we have talked about how we both feel strongly: it’s my life first. My husband says he would rather have me, and he would rather any children of ours have me, too. And there’s this sort of sick sense of gratitude I feel, because that is, to me, the only answer, but it feels like such a kindness nonetheless.

So we get to ACOSF (you forgot this was about ACOTAR, right? Me too.). When they decided to start trying to get pregnant, Rhys had to know the risk was there. My boy, you are half Illyrian. Even without Feyre being Mystique, get out your punnet square and do the math. Your baby always had a 25% chance of having wings. Conception was always risky. I refuse to believe he didn’t know that, and it was irresponsible of him to not inform her, a person who only entered his world like two years ago.

Then they conceive a baby with wings that, as far as they know, she has no way of safely delivering. If that’s true, why couldn’t Feyre have an abortion? I’m serious. They found out very early the baby had wings. It’s not unlike an ectopic pregnancy, or even a very small person becoming pregnant. Adolescent mothers (age 10-19) (god it feels gross to type that) are at much higher risk for conditions like eclampsia, endometritis, and systemic infections, not to mention fetal complications (3). Regardless of the details, Feyre’s body is not equipped to handle this pregnancy, and yet they never seem to explore the option of terminating it.

Which begs the question: did Feyre even know abortion was an option? Is it an option in Prythian?

In my opinion, probably. If the fae have contraception (let’s not even get into STDs and the ’they have magical healing’ BS), they must have abortion. The first record of an induced abortion was on an Egyption Papyrus around 1600BC, though the practice likely well predates that. The Ancient Greeks drove a plant to extinction for its abortifacient properties (4). And even when banned, people find ways, because they have to. Reproductive health has long been of importance to pregnancy-capable people for reasons of safety, resources, and survival. 

At the end of the day, Feyre is allowed to carry a pregnancy to term that she knows will kill her. That’s her right to bodily autonomy being exercised freely, and I will never begrudge her that. But imagine if abortion were an open option for her, and she knew the birth would kill her, and then Rhys. Knowing that, what do you think she’d choose? To die, bringing her mate along with her, and leave her child parentless, if they even survive? I really struggle to see that. Feyre loves hard, and knows what it’s like to grow up with extreme neglect. I cannot imagine her condemning a child to the same circumstance she found so damaging. But Rhys doesn’t tell her, forbids anyone else to, and possibly robs her of the ability to terminate the pregnancy. And also Madja, I don’t forgive her either for glossing over it. Girl needs to retake her boards.

In the beginning of my career, I worked at an inpatient substance use treatment center that was specifically for pregnant people and mothers with young children. They were allowed to bring two kids under the age of 5. I could write a million words about the flaws in that place, but it was at least something. In working with these people, the same themes came up over and over:

They wanted to get jobs but couldn’t afford childcare. 

Caring for children kept them isolated from support networks and financially strapped.

The daily maintenance and self-focus of sobriety felt at odds with being responsible for children. Ironically, that neglect of self often created the perfect conditions for relapse.

Children kept them tethered, legally and/or personally to abusive partners.

They received extreme judgment, even while seeking help, for “doing this to their children”.

They did not have adequate access to reproductive autonomy, whether financially, from religious beliefs, or otherwise.

This evidence is purely anecdotal, but I do think it speaks to the larger cycle of covert violence and policing of women and pregnancy-capable people’s bodies. It is well-documented that lack of reproductive freedom has a direct negative effect on mental health and wellbeing of people of child -bearing age (5). There is also a much larger intersection to this conversation when it comes to race, class, and the systemic oppression of people of color via reproductive restriction, but Feyre is privileged in the ACOTAR world for the most part so this doesn’t touch her. She doesn’t have to wonder if she can afford a baby, or if her husband is going to be racially profiled and taken to jail or just straight up murdered by law enforcement. (and this is not to downplay the experiences Rhysand have, that Sarah doesn’t give us, being a mixed race man, more so that he is in an extreme position of power.)

I think it’s a shame we didn’t get to explore this in ACOSF with Cassian and Nesta. They jump in the sack even after learning Nesta’s body could not handle an Illyrian baby. No amount of ‘the monthly aid’ justifies not having an honest and thorough conversation about what having sex means before they sleep together. Cassian must feel real confident in the birth control options of Prythian to be spreading his soldiers around so willy nilly. And I just hope, for all their sakes, that he’s right.

Ibis Reproductive Health and Center for Reproductive Rights, “Evaluating Priorities: Measuring Women’s and Children’s Health and Well-being against Abortion Restrictions in the States,” (2017).

Kim SK, Romero R, Kusanovic JP, Erez O, Vaisbuch E, Mazaki-Tovi S, Gotsch F, Mittal P, Chaiworapongsa T, Pacora P, Oggé G, Gomez R, Yoon BH, Yeo L, Lamont RF, Hassan SS. The prognosis of pregnancy conceived despite the presence of an intrauterine device (IUD). J Perinat Med. 2010;38(1):45-53. doi: 10.1515/jpm.2009.133. PMID: 19650756; PMCID: PMC3418877.

World Health Organization: WHO. (2023, June 2). Adolescent pregnancy. https://www.who.int/news-room/fact-sheets/detail/adolescent-pregnancy#:~:text=Adolescent%20mothers%20(aged%2010%E2%80%9319,birth%20and%20severe%20neonatal%20condition.

Muvs - Abtreibung in der Antike. (n.d.). https://muvs.org/en/topics/termination-of-pregnancy/abortion-in-antiquity-en/

Liu SY, Benny C, Grinshteyn E, Ehntholt A, Cook D, Pabayo R. The association between reproductive rights and access to abortion services and mental health among US women. SSM Popul Health. 2023 May 12;23:101428. doi: 10.1016/j.ssmph.2023.101428. PMID: 37215399; PMCID: PMC10199416.

#prythian university #rhys critical #abortion #reproductive rights #sjm critical

[cr-pplepunx]

i, a 19 year old disabled trans man at 11 weeks of pregnancy, am scheduled for a surgical abortion tomorrow at 2pm.

i suppose i just wanted to speak on my experience.

i am scared

i am sad

i am grateful

and i am sure

**massive trigger warnings for mentions of addiction, substance abuse, the pro-life movement, and domestic abuse.**

personally, this feels somewhat as a loss. i am of the belief that a baby is always a blessing (meant non-religously, somewhat spiritually, but up to interpretation). and if i had the resources to bless this child back as a parent, i would with immense joy. i have never intended to have a child; however several of my siblings, as well as myself, were unplanned and i have seen the miracle of a child firsthand. to have the chance to welcome one into the world would be a beautiful and well-worth experience to me.

however, i am an addict. before and after discovering my pregnancy, i have smoked weed, used MDMA, and drank alcohol. i have left myself dehydrated, malnourished, and extremely stressed out due to a current abusive relationship. not to mention, i live with currently unmanaged chronic and mental illnesses and can barely take care of myself. i do not have a job, and have an extremely hard time getting hired due to my circumstances. i am off to residential rehab soon. i am not in a place to raise a child, and it would be entirely unfair to both them and to myself at this point in my life. i am making the best educated and kindest decision i possibly can for both myself and this life inside of me.

i am extremely sure of my decision. but this oppourtunity for love and life being lost does mean something to me. and i think it is strange and unfair the way that so much pro-abortion activism is done so aggressively and with no compassion or consideration to the people who's abortions bring on sad and complicated feelings. painting it as a procedure with absolutely no possibility of emotional/physical short or longterm effects. refering to the fetus as a "parasite" even, and with no consideration to it as a possibility for human life. i dont mean this in any pro-life sort of way, i firmly believe it is a personal choice whether or not you go through with the pregnancy. i just think it is unfair to pregnant people to paint this wonderful biological phenomenom as a scary harmful inhuman thing. even some of the support ive recieved from those close to me has referened this idea of a "parasitic" baby i need to "kill". i dont know if its just my pregnancy horomones, or perhaps my sense of humanity, but that verbage and imagery was just sickening to hear.

i have recieved an incredible amount of support, however, that many do not recieve. i am extremely grateful for both the family and friends who are supportive of my right to abortion, and to have been born and raised in a state with access to this right (before 15 weeks at least). my stepmother has had an abortion, shared her experience and support, and she is paying for mine. my father drove me to my initial consultation (as my state's law requires a ridiculously lengthy consultation 24 hours prior to the actual procedure), and even yelled at the protestors outside of the clinic. my partner, despite our relationship's hostility, is aware of this procedure and fully supportive. i am aware of my luck and privilege, and my heart truly does go out to anyone going through this on their own or with less support. as well as anyone living without access to this right.

the process of abortion is very trans-unfriendly in my experience, and ive opted to act as female and accept being misgendered. of course the pregnancy and this process has been dysphoria inducing, but sometimes it's just easier to do certain things like this. my trans homies know what i mean.

it is also very unfriendly overall, as my state's process attempts to coerce or scare you into changing your mind many times before the procedure takes place. not to mention the protestors standing at the sidewalk calling you a murderer and lecturing you about your sins. however, the clinic i went to had volunteers who very kindly escorted me from the car to the door and attempted to shield me from any harrassment. the staff inside was very kind and respectful, as were the patients going through this alongside me. it seemed everyone was attempting to counteract the heavy nature of the procedure and overall unfriendly and anti-feminist process. seeing the humanity and compassion from the people around me has been a pleasant silver-lining.

dont let anyone fool you, abortion is a pretty common thing. i couldnt find an open appointment at any clinic near me. my father drove me an hour and a half to a 5:30 appointment in a clinic (that exclusively did abortion), that was packed full of people in need of abortion services.

this experience has taught me things about myself, and the people around me, and the world. i do not regret my choice and dont think that will change. but even if it does that will be my own journey, which should never take away from anyone's basic human rights. it is appauling, disgusting, and terrifying to me that access to abortions is so limited. it is even at high risk in my state of becoming more limited, or even criminalized. i will always advocate and vote to the best of my ability for everyone's access to abortion. and i hope anyone reading this intends to do the same.

thank you, if you did read this.

#abortion #feminism #radfems dni #pro choice #tw drug mention #pro abortion #trans inclusive feminism #ok to rb

[elysia-nsimp]

MORE TWST as things me and my friends/family have said!!!

Tags: @thesunshineriptide @aetherphobia @end3rm1st @ladyzsgolla (since y’all requested more ^^)

Lmk if more are wanted, I can always make more 😈

Part 1 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 // Part 6

—

Leona: Unbelievable, we’re having Taco Bell in Spain…

—

Lilia: Your bloodline ends with you. Stop being a menace. If you touch the door again, I’m going to eat your toes.

—

Idia: haha this creeper is stuck

gloomurai was blown up by Creeper.

—

Floyd: anyways, enough talking about Azul’s balls--

—

Ruggie: Why is there nothing in here? Didn’t we just go to the grocery store—OH Babybel cheeses!!

—

Ruggie: THIS is why you shouldn’t go into the weed tent.

—

Ruggie: Money can’t buy you happiness. But money can buy you brownies. And brownies bring happiness. Sometimes. Then again when you buy brownies you buy happiness. So I just contradicted myself.

—

Idia: DIAMONDS

gloomurai fell from a high place.

—

Yuu: Grim… curse their family bloodline…

Grim: chirps

Yuu: aw good boy

—

Lilia: mentally ill behavior malleus

Lilia: i am the only exception

Malleus: I am mentally ill Lilia

Malleus: So are you

Lilia: SHUT UP

—

Floyd: monkey man LEVELS HEAVEN and he runs for his home on flower fruit mountain like a coward

—

Leona: “Sussy baka”??? You children are fucking insane!

—

Idia: game what do you mean there’s monsters nearby? There’s no mo- oh wait there’s a zombie

—

Lilia: on a scale of 1-10, how scared would you be if I said that I can and have (and enjoy) falling asleep to that one industrial catholic bugcore song

Silver: 12

Silver: but i also know you will and I’m 0% surprised

—

Riddle: Do NOT. Psychoanalyze me. At the TEA PARTY.

—

Cater: why was jesus crucified in a t-pose? Was he a default gmod character or what?

—

Jamil: omg i’d punt a fetus if it meant i get to put that one jasmine scented candle i bought in my room

—

Lilia: why are you like this

Malleus: The mental illness.

—

Idia: yOu May NoT ResT nOw ThErE Are MonStErS NeRB-- OH HOLY FUCK THAT’S A CREEPER OUTSIDE

#twst incorrect quotes #twisted wonderland incorrect quotes #twst shitpost #twst leona #leona kingscholar #twst ruggie #ruggie bucchi #twst lilia #lilia vanrouge #twst Idia #idia shroud #twst malleus #twst cater #twst riddle #twst jamil #twst floyd #twst Yuu #twst grim #twst silver

[garadinervi]

The Journey That Matters: What It Was Like, Directed and Produced by Arwen Curry, Featuring Ursula K. Le Guin [reading her essay 'What is Was Like' (2004), in Words Are My Matter. Writings About Life and Books, 2000-2016, Small Beer Press, 2016], 2023 [Literary Hub]

Cinematographer: Jeff Streich Editors: Maya Curry, Sarah Cannon Composer: Will Fritch Location Sound: Anna Rieke Motion Graphics: Alexandra Petrus, Kia Simon

Archival footage and stills: The Ursula K. Le Guin Foundation; Schlesinger Library, Harvard Radcliffe Institute

What It Was Like A talk given at a meeting of Oregon NARAL in January 2004 «My friends at NARAL asked me to tell you what it was like before Roe vs. Wade. They asked me to tell you what it was like to be twenty and pregnant in 1950 and when you tell your boyfriend you're pregnant, he tells you about a friend of his in the army whose girl told him she was pregnant, so he got all his buddies to come and say, "We all fucked her, so who knows who the father is?" And he laughs at the good joke. They asked me to tell you what it was like to be a pregnant girl—we weren't "women" then—a pregnant college girl who, if her college found out she was pregnant, would expel her, there and then, without plea or recourse. What it was like, if you were planning to go to graduate school and get a degree and earn a living so you could support yourself and do the work you loved—what it was like to be a senior at Radcliffe and pregnant and if you bore this child, this child which the law demanded you bear and would then call "unlawful," "illegitimate," this child whose father denied it, this child which would take from you your capacity to support yourself and do the work you knew it was your gift and your responsibility to do: What was it like? I can hardly imagine what it's like to live as a woman under Fundamentalist Islamic law. I can hardly remember now, fifty-four years later, what it was like to live under Fundamentalist Christian law. Thanks to Roe vs. Wade, none of us in America has lived in that place for half a lifetime. But I can tell you what it is like, for me, right now. It's like this: If I had dropped out of college, thrown away my education, depended on my parents through the pregnancy, birth, and infancy, till I could get some kind of work and gain some kind of independence for myself and the child, if I had done all that, which is what the anti-abortion people want me to have done, I would have borne a child for them, for the anti-abortion people, the authorities, the theorists, the fundamentalists; I would have borne a child for them, their child. But I would not have borne my own first child, or second child, or third child. My children. The life of that fetus would have prevented, would have aborted, three other fetuses, or children, or lives, or whatever you choose to call them: my children, the three I bore, the three wanted children, the three I had with my husband—whom, if I had not aborted the unwanted one, I would never have met and married, because he would have been a Fulbright student going to France on the Queen Mary in 1953 but I would not have been a Fulbright student going to France on the Queen Mary in 1953. I would have been an "unwed mother" of a three-year-old in California, without work, with half an education, living off her parents, not marriageable, contributing nothing to her community but another mouth to feed, another useless woman. But it is the children I have to come back to, my children Elisabeth, Caroline, Theodore, my joy, my pride, my loves. If I had not broken the law and aborted that life nobody wanted, they would have been aborted by a cruel, bigoted, and senseless law. They would never have been born. This thought I cannot bear. I beg you to see what it is that we must save, and not to let the bigots and misogynists take it away from us again. Save what we won: our children. You who are young, before it's too late, save your children.» – Ursula K. Le Guin, Words Are My Matter. Writings About Life and Books, 2000-2016, Small Beer Press, Easthampton, MA, 2016

#art #documentary #video #book #ursula k. le guin #arwen curry #jeff streich #maya curry #sarah cannon #will fritch #anna rieje #alexandra petrus #kia simon #naral #the ursula k. le guin foundation #schlesinger library #radcliffe institute #literary hub #2000s #2010s #2020s

[endlessthxxghts]

congrats on hitting 1.5k!!🥳

💭 may I ask what your everyday is like with your disability? (also if this is badly worded, could you please tell me how I could word myself better?)

again, congrats on your milestone, it is so well deserved!💞💞

Hi, friend!! Thank you!! 🥹 I wouldn’t be where I am without you, so I appreciate you very much.

Your question is perfectly worded! Thank you for double checking on that :) and also thank you for giving me a chance to talk about this/educate!!! Honestly, this question is beautiful. I guess I’ll start by describing what I’ve got going on physically!!

My disability is something that I was born with. It’s called Arthrogryposis (this is the short name lol), and the basic definition is a lack of muscle. But at a more technical sense, when I was in my mother’s womb, the womb didn’t have enough amniotic fluid to let my lil fetus self move around like your “typical” fetus would. So that lack of movement caused the muscles that should’ve formed in the womb to not form at all— which, because they never developed, they don’t have much room for improvement now that I’m out into the world.

Now, as far as functionality, I’m pretty limited. But in places that I’m limited, I fortunately have the privilege of having a certain strength in place of that. For instance, although I can’t use my hands/arms, I can write with my mouth. I do everything with my mouth. I’m answering this ask on my phone right now, and I’m typing it with my lips! Thus, my hands are the weakness, but I luckily have been able to figure out where in my body does have the ability for improvement. Another example would be that I can’t use my legs, but I’m able to use my core and trunk strength to be able to scoot my body over when I need to. This gives me the ability to be able to transfer myself in and out of my bed! I do need people to carry me for other things though (bless the buff motherfuckers in my life🙏). So, although I am 100% dependent on another person for self-care (eating, toileting, showering, etc.), there’s a good chunk of aspects in my life where I can have that independence.

I get around places in my power wheelchair, and I have a wheelchair accessible van that I drive into. I cannot drive it myself, but having this accessible van makes transportation one hundred times easier because all my companion needs to do is buckle my chair in— they don’t have to carry me or anything.

Additionally, this is hard to explain, but I have a stick that I put one end in my mouth, and it’s long enough to where I can hook my fingers to the other end of it and it allows me to use my laptop, hold books open, manipulate papers, etc. I use this stick in tandem with my hand, but again, my hand has zero control. If I’m “using” my hands or legs or anything, it’s purely through momentum (throwing my body in random directions) and me hoping for the best LMAO.

I hope this helps!! I love love love answering questions like this because it teaches people! It teaches different perspectives, different lifestyles, and understanding these things are so so important to our everyday lives as a diverse species (because that’s what we are.. diverse!!).

So much love for all of you. Please feel free to ask me more questions like this🩶

Come celebrate 1.5k followers with me! ->

#L’s 1.5k follower celebration #-> question

[kadavernagh]

Myself I must remake || Siobhan & Regan

TIMING: Current LOCATION: Ireland PARTIES: Regan & Siobhan SUMMARY: Regan and Siobhan arrive in Saol Eile. CONTENT: Domestic abuse allusions

The sooner proof of Regan’s presence was displayed to that toothless hag, the sooner they could part ways. Siobhan could spend her time trying to remember, and Regan could spend hers trying to forget.

Green on green on green on jade blurred through the windows as the Irish moors opened up in front of them. Many humans found them beautiful, enchanting – it was that combination of the low hanging mist and the limitless greenery that made it feel like another world, one that so many poets and artists had their glimpses into over the centuries. There was nothing so poetic about it when you looked beyond the surface. Regan’s stomach pitched up and sank back down with each hill and valley, and twice they needed to stop to let a parade of painted sheep cross the road. The windows were rolled down, of course, and the air was crisp and clean, tinged with the scent of earth and wildflowers. 

For two banshees, they were disgustingly quiet. She had barely said a word since she set foot on the plane and even less when off. Regan huffed. Siobhan told her to get over it. Regan huffed. Regan slung a barb about how Siobhan’s ancient spine must be sore from all that time cramped in Economy. Siobhan called her a microscopic fetus birthed by an ant. The hours blurred and did not matter beyond the amount of remaining gas in the tank. She didn’t know what time it was here, or back h– in Wicked’s Rest.

There was also a remarkable degree of emotion, for two banshees, though they both had the strength necessary to deny it. Siobhan’s grip on the wheel was as tight as a cadaveric spasm, like she’d died clutching it. Her face looked tighter, older. How long had it been since she had seen these hills? Forty one years? Or was it forty two now? Longer than Regan had been alive, though it was a speck in the grand scheme of their lifespan. She didn’t understand the desperation. Siobhan’s training had been a success. What did she have to gain by coming here? It was a question that had swirled around her thoughts for weeks now. When she had asked before, Siobhan supplied that it was home. It was that simple. But she did not look like a woman returning home.

They were close now, Regan could sense it; her skin was ready to fly from her body. Soon they’d pull over and one of them would belt out a scream, and Saol Eile would carve itself from the fog, swallowing both of them up. “Here?” Regan asked her. She wasn’t loud, but her voice sliced through the eerie stillness. “I recognize that cliffside, and those boulders. There are lilies in the valley over there, the lake just next to it, and I found a family of badgers over that way.” It was not nostalgia she was basking in. Her voice was completely flat.  

No need to stop and scream, apparently. Another banshee offered up her scream. Regan had grown used to her own scream, and even Siobhan’s lungs shaking the town. They were familiar. This scream, from some unknown banshee, was not. For all Regan knew, it could have been someone she’d heard a hundred times before, easily forgotten by her ears, but the very fact a third banshee came screaming into her world again, after her growing so used to there being only two, made her knees tremble (not even worthy of my patellae collection, her grandmother would have said of them). She shared a look of uncertainty with Siobhan. Did she feel the same? She had been in exile. Other banshees would have kept their distance from her for decades, no screams reaching her ears. 

And… there it was. Regan’s senses adjusted to the surreal place that shimmered into focus. Saol Eile was charming at first glance, with haphazardly-laid streets not meant for vehicles and dotted with modest white cottages. The longer Regan stared ahead, the longer she felt a million tiny bugs biting her skin – a gift from fae presence. A single sniff filled her lungs with decomposition – there was always something, or many somethings, being appreciated as they decayed around town. An occasional banshee marched proudly by, mostly minding her own business, wings stiff and eyes dark. She did not compare, could not even fake half their pride. Regan looked away in the shame that would need to be burned out of her. 

Her legs wobbled as she climbed out of the car. That thing was not going to be returned to the rental place, was it? The tank was practically empty. It would rot here; nature would take it. Soal Eile would take it, as it did everything. She felt pretty empty, too. And her stomach grumbled. Yes, that must have been it. But the thought of whatever soup her grandmother would inevitably prepare killed her appetite. The slam of the car door rang through her skull like a gunshot in a way that scream had not. Finality. Regan paced to the trunk, ready to pop it open, but the moment she turned around, a shadow moved overhead and snatched her attention away.

A magpie stretched its glossy blue-black and white wings in the air above, cawed, and then promptly plummeted headfirst into the ground by Siobhan’s feet. It bounced a little but still came to rest closer to the other banshee. Regan’s grandmother would have called that a sign of good tidings for Siobhan, saying that one was in Fate’s graces (which was, of course, entirely different from the manmade concept of luck). “I suppose that’s yours,” Regan said bitterly. She would respect where the bird fell, and being here was supposed to strike her covetous nature from her. A banshee should be proud, should stake a claim to what is theirs, but never be jealous. 

She was quiet for a long moment, and abandoned the trunk. Someone would help with that later. Regan wasn’t sure she had anything left to give, right now – no effort, no thoughts, no words. No emotion. She had already been reamed open and drained, she was exhausted from a full day of travel, grieving from being ripped away from Jade, and this place was so full of ghosts that her mind didn’t know how to process their onslaught. So it became cement instead. She became stone. And wasn’t that just what needed to happen?

Regan did manage one small flourish, first, before sealing up. “I hate you.” Again. Like a child. Like Siobhan had dragged her here after all. Like she was allowed to hate. Regan looked away, figuring it was one of the last times she might ever express such a sentiment. At least she got that one in. “So who determined the conditions of your exile? I suppose that’s where we’re headed first, yes?”

------

It’d been forty-two years, in addition to the hours, minutes and seconds. It was her greatest regret that she didn’t know the exact time that she’d been cast out as a bloody mess upon the moors. She remembered that the sky was bright, she remembered the birds above, and she would never forget the green ocean. The true water was far from them—crashing with desperation against the jagged stones of a cliff; Siobhan always thought the ocean was a hungry creature, eating the rocks away—but the green ocean was the moors. When the wind caught the bushes, the branches, the long soft blades of wild grass, it sounded like the lap of water against a shore. What she remembered of Ireland, of Saol Eile—her home—were these moors: the green, the mist, the sour note of salty oceans far away. 

There was poetry here. There was meter, verse, hymn, language that failed and succeeded, there were Siobhan’s own childish words scrawled in the margins of other authors that slipped through Saol Eile’s cracks: she wrote beside Jonathan Swift, in tandem with W.B Yeats, in understanding with Oscar Wilde. There was Iambic pentameter built by the beat of wind; consonance, couplet; pyrrhic flow; Spenserian stanza. There was metaphor and allegory. Here, in these lands, in their home, there was poetry—what sort of person would sit in denial of it? Siobhan closed her eyes, letting the green ocean wash over her, knowing she was in the place she understood better than anything else. Against the world’s motion, Fate breathed in Death—yes, every banshee knew this—but it lived in nature. In the moors. In Ireland.

She didn’t speak, the world spoke for her. She thought she might be eased by her home, but her body tightened like shriveled fruit. When Regan spoke, she responded in the ways that fell most naturally to her. Whatever she said, she didn’t remember. She was home. She was home. She was home. They, though she hated to see Regan as anything more than the annoyance she was, were home. It’d been forty-two years, in addition to the hours and minutes and seconds, and Siobhan had missed it for every moment that passed. Yet, the home hadn’t missed her. The scream that welcomed them back was one she didn’t recognize; it might have been a young banshee, grown in the years apart, it might have been one that aged her scream, it might have been one she didn’t know at all but in that spark of time, she felt herself to be an outsider. 

She stepped out of the car (which would undoubtedly not be returned) and a magpie plummeted to her feet, assuring her that she was no outsider at all—it was fate reminding her who she was. As a little girl, when she’d gone into Dublin with her mother, she was awed by the common magpies hopping about without a care for the humans that stomped around them. They were common creatures, adapted to the environments that had sprouted around them, but Siobhan wasn’t any less fond of them. Once, a stray cat had captured a young magpie, and for the entirety of the day she had listened to their calls of mourning—violent, screeching cawing. Some banshees might have claimed the crow was more like them, or the raven, or a vulture, the barn owl, the vicious shrike, or the Irish Chough, but to Siobhan it was always the magpie. “Only children would seek to lay claim to Death.” She scooped the dead bird in her hands; it looked so small, so much like it was merely asleep. She cradled it like it was.

She was Siobhan Dolan, of the Ó Dúbhláin’s that had been living in this area for years upon years. She had memorized their lineage, she could map the route of their ancestors; this was home. If anyone was an outsider it was the child. The— “Regan,” she said, “there is no one currently alive in these lands, or any other, who hates you more than me.” She was home. Then, she winced. “That would be my mother.” She wasn’t excited to see her, in forty-two years, it hadn’t felt like they were apart for a moment. In the mirror, it was her face more than her own she saw. In her head, it was her words more than her own she thought. No, her hair wasn’t straight enough for her mother. Her clothes weren’t proper enough. She wasn’t ready. “What about your grandmother? Wasn’t it on her request that we came here? Maybe..,” Siobhan’s eyes grew wide and she leaned across the space between them with the grin. “The judge! You mean the judge—yes, we can…” She swallowed, hoping she didn’t appear as happy as felt by her small, substantial loop-hole to Regan’s question. “We can see her. She’s over by the worm statue. If the worm statue is still here, that is.”

------

“Mutual, then.” Regan muttered, bitterness barely hidden. Could she appreciate, even the most miniscule amount, that Siobhan had lowered herself to expressing the same sentiment? So either it had not been childish, or Siobhan was no better. Selfishly, she liked the thought. But what would that mean for banshees who spent too long away from here? Were all of them destined to atrophy, to have their hardened skin crack open with the years as their soft innards poured out? Regan had been taught to be hollow instead, but she had failed at it. For the first time, Regan wondered how similar – if at all – Siobhan had been to her when she was new at this. Did she struggle to carve herself out from her body? Was there anyone there to begin with, or was all of what Regan was a byproduct of her wasted years? And if a banshee who never started with such a humanity inside of them still struggled while not here, what did that mean for her? It meant… she had made the right, the only, decision to come back.

Siobhan breathed in her home with each inhalation, the years that piled on during the ride here seemingly lifting away, and Regan didn’t dare interrupt. Siobhan was always so poised, so glamorous in the most paper thin of ways like a maggot-chewed epidermis, but this place had changed her. The look on Siobhan’s face, one of peace, was universal, and there was true beauty to be found here, she’d admit, even if it was not among the residents. She would allow Siobhan to have it, all of it. 

In fact, she would have liked to leave Siobhan to it as quickly as possible. “My grandmother after this,” Regan reminded her. So perhaps there was a reason not to rush, though she preferred to get the necessary over with. The bubble in her throat, swollen from thinking of her grandmother, was almost too large to swallow. “But you need me present for a few minutes longer. Remember that. You need me.” Regan turned her nose up. She could still relish that a little bit, and it wasn’t like Siobhan was free of all flaws (how many hid under her glamour?). 

Every step they took closer to the center of the Saol Eile brought a new wave of pinpricks all over Regan’s flesh. It had been a year since she had been around this many fae, and it practically burned. To Siobhan, it was probably the equivalent of an embrace after so long. Surely other things were new for her, too. What else had been made or unmade in her time away? Regan decided to just ask. “What looks or feels different to you? Can you tell, or has time made your memory fuzzy, cailleach?” She was truly curious. Nothing had appeared changed in the year Regan had left, but Siobhan was absent for decades, and as slow as the community was to adopt anything new, few things erected here would outlive a banshee. Buildings crumbled, fences were constructed and constantly shifted around to claim dead things on one’s property, a few newly awakened banshees flit about; there was change only the most familiar noticed. “I think the only significant thing that changed in my absence was me.” As easy as it would be to point fingers at the people she had opened her heart to, she knew it had been born only of her failure. “My grandmother would not have been moved by my leaving. She will be exactly the same. I can picture how she might have informed others I had left. ‘We need to put that band-aid dispenser back in the clinic, my granddaughter is an ungrateful fool’.” There was bite in the comment that she tried to swallow back, but she could feel it hover in the air, mingling with the decomposition, even making the stench temporarily unappealing. 

The house by the worm statue was no mystery, though, and Regan started off in that direction. The statue was as unchanging as Cliodhna, precisely how she’d left it. Regan had walked by it daily on the way to the clinic, and, unfortunately, she knew the resident well: Putrecia. “They would never take down the statue for Worm Remembrance Day. That should be coming up soon, if I’m recalling my months correctly.” It didn’t matter. The days always blurred here, each running into the next. 

The statue in question depicted the well-known worm, Talamh-Ithe, who single-non-handedly protected the honor of the whole community. Against what? That part was unclear to Regan. Siobhan probably knew. “But… I do know who lives there. She is an acquaintance of my grandmother. So was it Putrecia who decided your exile, then? What exactly were the terms? You did not tell me very much.” That put a couple of malformed puzzle pieces together though – how Regan had ended up on this list of tasks for Siobhan. An item to check off. An object to reclaim. Or maybe the other banshees just began growing concerned about her blabbing all of their secrets to the humans, the untrained cur she was. 

The doorbell sounded like the caw of a hooded crow, which had to be confusing. Regan hung back. She had learned in her interactions with grieving next of kin when it was best to stay silent and watch something play out, when she had no business interfering. She only needed it to play out quickly. The sooner proof of Regan’s presence was displayed to that toothless hag, the sooner they could part ways. Siobhan could spend her time trying to remember, and Regan could spend hers trying to forget.

------

On a good day, Regan was a bloated fly, slowly filling Siobhan’s ears with her heavy, annoying buzz she mistook for conversation. On a bad day, she was bile; a constant burning hole in her stomach—an ulcer. But in Saol Eile, there was nothing Regan could do or say that tarnished the coat of serenity that Siobhan now wore. She was home; the thought wrapped around her. She was home; the truth bundled her together. She was home; there was the uneven ground, the blue sky, and the twisting pathways emblematic of the fact that no banshee was ever formally trained in urban planning and everyone wanted a good view of Farraige na Buanachta—the world’s best tar pit. Despite Regan’s gift of annoyance, Siobhan moved with the poise of a returning lioness to her den. 

Regan’s voice rang out somewhere far beyond her, despite the other banshee being right at her side. She was small, insignificant. When she said she was needed, Siobhan smiled at her the way she might at a fledgling chirping from its nest. “Time breeds many differences; new signs of erosion, new blades of grass between the cobbles. You’re so young, you can’t understand what it means to exist above the quick cycles of life. Eventually, you learn to see beyond the minutia. It’s the heart of the place that remains the same and this place is the same.” She buzzed with the presence of the other banshees, who were absorbed in their own tasks for the time being, but every new corner turned it seemed one would stare. Siobhan nodded at them, straightening herself out. She’d opted for long sleeves, unsure if it was more embarrassing to glamour her scars away or less than walking around carrying her symbols of banishment. In the end, it was easier to have her clothing create a middle ground. It was all form-fitting, of course; there were some aspects of her beauty that remained undeniable. She welcomed the staring. Regan buzzed beside her again, something about her grandmother and something about the Bandaid dispenser. 

Their stalwart doctor—the dispenser—had been new when Siobhan was a child, replacing the old ‘doctor’ that was the pile of scrap fabrics. Medical care in Saol Eile had always been a lot of shrugging and faith that maybe there wouldn’t be an infection this time. The mothers took care of it, mostly, and one was lucky if their mother learned the right things from her own mother. “What does the dispenser have to do with you?” she asked, and by the time the last syllable slipped from her tongue, she regretted it. Siobhan stopped walking, having fallen behind Regan by several paces, watching her back. When another banshee turned to stare, it was obvious who she was really looking at. In forty-two years, who would really remember another dutiful banshee in their community of dutiful banshees? In one year, who could ever forget Regan? Siobhan continued walking, keeping her pace behind Regan, watching the banshees of Saol Eile turn and whisper and point—not at her; it had never been about her. “You were the doctor,” she mumbled, “you replaced the dispenser.” Which was less effective than the pile of fabric, if she was being honest. 

The Dolans were a family like many others in Saol Eile; proud, orthodox, and with an old lineage that mattered only to them. They kept farm animals, and lived on the outskirts of town to keep them out of the general range of screams that burst from the town proper. It was Dolan dairy that went into cream of bone soup, but anyone could make cream and dairy cows littered rural parts of the human world. How many banshees spent time in medical school? How many of the women staring at Regan now were actually useful to this community? Pieces drifted into Siobhan’s mind like the ash of a pyre: their desperation for Regan wasn’t fondness for a lost daughter. She could see every new crack now; every misplaced addition to someone’s home, every fresh face she didn’t recognize, every new fence, everything that had moved on without her. Even the worm statue was different—much skinnier than its once girthy glory. 

“Putrecia did in a sense, yes.” Siobhan spoke through gritted teeth, crushing the dead magpie into her chest. “My terms were simple: I was to regain honor. To do—” She swallowed as the door creaked open by the width of a dead squirrel. “To do what I was told,” she answered quickly before Putrecia’s cloudy eyes emerged from the dark. One thing, at least, had not changed: the old judge was as miserable as ever. She said nothing as she stuck a finger out of the door, gesturing at Siobhan’s dead magpie. Siobhan said nothing either as she handed it over. Putrecia’s wrinkled hand snatched the bird and snapped back to her tiny body. In the shadows, Putrecia’s toothless grin was a void of black. The door slammed shut again.

“Putrecia has never liked me,” she said, tapping her foot impatiently against the ground. It was fair to say that Putrecia had never really liked anyone. Siobhan believed the job of judge had fallen to her expressly for that reason: she hated every banshee with an almost admirable equality. “And nothing is ever worth her time unless it comes with a bribe,” Siobhan explained, wondering if her history with Putrecia created any kind of superiority in this situation. She certainly didn’t feel superior and now she was in loss of one dead magpie. The door swung open again on its rusted hinges, revealing the inside of Putrecia’s crowded hut. Siobhan stepped inside, ducking her head under the hanging skins of dried stoats; she gestured for Regan to follow behind her. 

Putrecia was hunched over a small table, slowly scratching an ink-stained feather across an old sheet of parchment. She stopped when Regan entered, meeting her gaze with her misty eyes. “Good, good,” Putrecia mumbled in Irish, licking her empty gums. She finished on one sheet of parchment, folding it up. Siobhan’s patience wore thin as she watched the old woman lift a wax crusted spoon above her candle. “This is Regan,” Siobhan said, stumbling as she adjusted into Irish. “I brought her back, like the letter said.” She hadn’t expected Putrecia to be excited to see her, but she had hoped for some manner of welcome. “This is Regan Kavanagh,” she repeated, hoping that would help.

Putrecia poured melted wax over the folded letter, stamping her seal into place. “This is Regan?” Siobhan tried again. “Regan? Like the letter said?” 

Putrecia paused, lifting her head up. She squinted at Siobhan. “I don’t remember sending you a letter, Sadhbh,” Putrecia said. 

Siobhan bristled. “No.” She stiffened. “I’m Siobhan.” This was one of Putrecia’s weird amusements; the story went that she lost all her teeth trying to bite a bone. She’d always been a little strange, everyone always said so. Putrecia hobbled towards them and Siobhan held out her hand, expecting a shake. Putrecia lifted hers and pressed it to Regan’s cheek. 

“Good girl,” she said to her, patting her face. “Go on now, go back home. Tell your grandmother she’s a lucky old crone to have such a darling granddaughter like you. Now we can throw the damn dispenser out again.” 

All Siobhan could do was stand there.

------

Putrecia’s abode held no surprises. Sheets of parchment and rows of quill ink pens, dead weasel skins, paintings of wings in a rainbow of colors and shapes on the walls, and the fetid stench of something stewing in the kitchen while the banshee was hard at work jotting something that seemed to her of grave importance. Regan peered down at what Putrecia had been scrawling as she carefully navigated the clutter and squeezed by the old writing desk. It was in Gaeilge, but her handwriting was poor and difficult to read (and people said doctors were bad). Something about cleaning. Hopefully it was a to-do list; this place was worse than most crime scenes. Putrecia strung the magpie up next to the weasels with a surprising amount of tenderness, and then turned her old eyes over to the two of them, the visitors. She hardly seemed concerned with Siobhan. Regan, though, she held her hazy eyes over, recognition spinning through them. 

Regan stood there through the introduction – the repeated introductions – feeling like a stilt-legged fawn, staring, tethered to a strange place, waiting for the hands to be laid on her flank and for the scream to come turn her to spray.

Regan knew she was not supposed to want. She had come here to fix that, to pull the want out of herself (let Jade have all that she possessed, let it stay in Maine). But right now, she was still a failure, and her foolish, childish stomach curdled at the hag’s gaze, and her useless muscles pinned her. If Putrecia saw her human stains, how deeply fixed they were within the fabric of her being, she made no show of it. If anything, it was Siobhan she was questioning. Siobhan said the old woman didn’t like her, but Regan wasn’t even sure she knew her.

“Siobhan is right.” Ick. Saying those words was more foul than the soppiest of feelings. “She, um, brought me here… with great difficulty, if that counts for anything. She flew Economy.” The Irish felt strange only because it was directed towards another banshee (rather than a pet name for someone who didn’t know Irish, and wouldn’t recognize it), but she was quick to slip back in. For Siobhan it had been much longer. “From the US… she was tasked to bring me, yes? Right? There was a list? I was on it. Please confirm that I was on it.” A well-trained banshee, which Siobhan was, could easily swallow a lie, conjure up a non-existent list for whatever motive suited her, but this was not a matter the other banshee would have lied about. There had to be a list and she had to be on it (because… no, not thinking about that). “Oh, uh, you may have told her my name was Regis?” No, that didn’t ring a bell. It might have made her more confused. Her mouth opened and Regan’s eyes traced the curve of her gums.

Putrecia’s throaty voice was like gravel against stone. Sadhbh? The Grim Reaper? Did the old bat not even remember writing to Siobhan? And… if that was the case, would this all have been for nothing? No, she couldn’t think like that. She was not here to usher Siobhan back in. She was here for herself, her duty (for the two should have been indistinguishable). 

Regan watched them closely, unsure what this meant for Siobhan. Putrecia had retired as the judge since before Regan had arrived here, but any challenges to her previous determinations remained in her cracked, ancient hands. Despite the hag being the picture of perfect stoicism, Regan always found it difficult to picture Putrecia as the judge known for doling out brutality to those who besmirched the community or powers they served. It would have been easier to mistake her for some gentle, senile old woman with eyes as cloudy as her judgement, but Regan had heard enough to know otherwise. What had Siobhan’s full sentence been? Surely not just exile. Not with Putrecia in charge. Whatever it was, it seemed to have continued even now: Regan could think of no worse thing, in Siobhan’s eyes, than being forgotten by the place she could never let go of.

Saol Eile had not yet found a new judge, for Putrecia’s last determination was what would occur after she no longer heard cases. The new arrangement was as chaotic as the most cutting of Putrecia’s rulings. Judges were often picked at random on a literal case-by-case basis, with humans sometimes being dragged into the court to make decisions they did not understand. Exile was funny, the banshees thought, when a human declared it without knowing what sentence they were handing down (or handing up, really, because a human judge was not above even the lowliest of banshees). Regan wasn’t sure if a trial awaited her for fleeing a year ago – it was unlikely. Leanbh were prone to poor decisions at times (really, thinking they could make decisions at all) and the others were apt to leave retribution to her grandmother first.

Regan had never seen a spine go limp so quickly, snapped in the mouth of a crocodile. All of Siobhan’s triumph and pride plummeted like the magpie. And she didn’t even have the bird anymore.

The cold, skeletal hand on her cheek was not unlike that of her grandmother’s, but her grandmother never looked at her the way Putrecia was – like she was something useful. Regan had figured the stares of the other banshees had been reserved for Siobhan, or because she had left here so suddenly and with such shame, but maybe it was more than that. Were they grateful to have their doctor back? Or did they detest her for leaving their wounds to grow putrid and their wings to tear off? Flattery without loathing was a rare thing here and Regan was a born skeptic.

She certainly would not tell her grandmother that. Every one of the old woman’s words made her chest gape open when it should have been sewn up, clamped shut. Speaking to her like a child. The dispenser. Regan turned away from the hand that made her skin slither, feeling fingers drift away from her cheek. Those were not the hands she wished to be there (when she closed her eyes, she could just barely imagine the right ones).

Regan hated herself for looking to Siobhan, asking permission with her eyes, searching to obey, even more than she hated Siobhan herself. But that was a promising start, was it not? Hatred was no more permitted than any other emotion, and Regan tangled with it, success out of reach for now. Her voice was chillier than she would have liked, clipped where it should have been indifferent. “I’m sure she’s busy. Her flowers, you know, the season is right. Or perhaps she’s working on her knees.” Not her own, which were fine, but the shelves upon shelves of patellas collected throughout the centuries. “However, I will leave you and Siobhan.” The name had the slightest edge to it as she spoke it, and she wondered if it might provoke Putrecia into remembering (more likely, she did remember, and merely did not find Siobhan of any importance, not worth straining to recall a name). You need me, Regan had said to the other banshee earlier. And it was truer than she had thought. She looked uneasily at Siobhan, drowning in uncertainty, checking one more time if there were any objections – silent or otherwise – to her leaving now. 

Regan’s breath hissed out from her teeth. There was nothing more for her to do here. “I know when I am being dismissed. You’re right. My grandmother… she knows that I have a lot of catching up to do.” None of it conversational. Regan turned to Putrecia, giving the old hag a nod – respect, acknowledgement, she was not sure – but kept her eyes glued to Siobhan as she backed out the door. It screamed shut on its rusty hinges, and Regan’s stomach sank as if it had been hurled into the tar pit. She realized what she had been looking for in Siobhan, on some level, however interred in her subconscious it was. That had been their last chance to leave together.

------

Siobhan winced at the wailing crash of the hut’s door, swallowing Regan’s body. How strange the new empty space beside her was. How terrible the silence without Regan’s buzzing. Siobhan swallowed; an uneasy boat rocked in her stomach. Banshees possessed no other abilities of foresight beyond Death—she couldn’t tell the weather and she was just as hopeless in predicting the nebulous future as any pathetic human—but she could tell with certainty that she was never going to see Regan again. The insipid doctor had done it: she was adored, she was needed. Wherever she went now, it would be someplace that wanted her. She turned to the door, knowing she was far too late to catch her last glimpse of Regan. She wanted to ask her how she’d done it, how she could have succeeded in so many places that Siobhan had failed—was still failing in. She wanted to say that she was sorry and that she was wrong and that she was grateful that Regan had tried—was trying. Siobhan had no ability to read the threads of Fate outside of Death but she knew that the two of them were not going to the same place. 

How terrible, she’d been hoping to see the clinic. 

“I’m not going back, am I?” Siobhan asked, her voice drowned out by Putrecia’s scratching quill and then tink-tink of her tapping it against the inkwell. How strange that suddenly she was full of objections and there was no one left to give them to. 

She imagined the ceremony that Regan would return to; she imagined her grandmother’s tight embrace and joy she would dare to express for the return of her talented granddaughter. They would call her good and worthy. They would usher her back to her place and easily, as if she’d never left at all, she would fall back into her role. There might have been screams of joy outside, Siobhan could imagine them, but inside Putrecia’s hut, there was only the sound of the quill and the dripping ink. 

#writing #c siobhan #domestic abuse tw

[takeyourcyanide]

I am aware that I just posted about my appreciation for schizospectrum and such yesterday, but it’s something I’ve never really gotten to speak about, and there’s still some more I’d like to say (whether anyone gives a shit or not lmao). Even as a small child, I remember finding solace in schizophrenic individuals. I remember, despite never having viewed myself as being human, the schizophrenic population being one of the few groups of people (including schizoids and aspd individuals) I found even mildly relatable. When around them in some way, I felt almost at home - something I’ve never actually felt. And while this did bring me a small sense of comfort, it also seemed to scare me greatly. Every time I watched some sort of video, read an article or paper, or watched a game pertaining to the schizophrenic experience, it tended to shake me to my core, because it felt like what I was trying to (or, really, a massive portion of what I was trying to) desperately to hide for my entire life was being shown, revealed to every single person on earth. It felt as though someone had seen a part of my soul for the first time. Which, I understand that some may view that as something I should be concerned about, but I spent too much time as a little kid wondering if my grandmother’s condition had been passed down to me. I’m starting to think I just stole or was placed into the body of some fetus in its mother’s womb (which is something I can only seem to genuinely tell, and not make any light of, to psychotics). And honestly, even posting this shit as I have before leaves me feeling a certain feeling I don’t want to label as being paranoia, but there’s no other way to describe it. This is probably the only place I’ll ever talk about it.

I have almost been on this planet for sixteen years now. Once I turn sixteen, that will mark a full decade since I first began really “seeing things,” “hearing things,” etc., that it seemed no one else saw, heard, smelled, felt, tasted, etc. Or (I’m stealing this from CannibalNightmares) “tripping sober.” Though I remember being untrusting of everyone for genuinely as long as I can remember. I didn’t even trust my own parents. But to be fair, I think I was being pretty reasonable in my so called “paranoia.” I had that shit right. But what kind of three year old thinks everyone is plotting against them LMAO Everything else was still there. The seemingly dead people and demons following me came later though. Perhaps it lied latently within me. I truly do not know how I’m still standing LMAO.

#i am rambling #i am so tired #schizophrenics #aspd people are also very relatable #and the schizoids #the extremely mentally ill people are my people #I feel rather at peace with them #personal rant #rant post

[they-are-a-prolife-autist]

im new to your blog, i understand your perspective and agree with a lot of things you've said regarding wanting an increase in sex education and safer contraception and support to victims of abuse and orphans, but id also like to present a perspective to you, that in the absence of betterment in everything listed above and in some other situations, abortion is valid, and id like to know your opinion on some of these. a survivor's choice of not wanting to carry their rapist's child to term, especially by risking complications caused by pregnancy like pulmonary embolism and the strain caused by pregnancy on the body along with the triggering of trauma should be respected, its a harrowing and cruel experience and not everyone can choose to continue. ectopic pregnancies and the like where the fetus is doomed require a medical termination of pregnancy, and if there's an option of choosing between the mother and the child then the mother should be prioritised, nothing breaks a family apart quite like the death of a mother and the mother also has a right to life. wanting sex education and availability of contraceptives to improve is a good sentiment but in the absence of such improvements, should the only other way be taken out? hoping to hear what you think soon

Hi Anon! Thanks for the ask and for your kind attitude! It's a breath of fresh air amid all the hateful anons I get on a daily basis! I really appreciate it.

You seem to be coming at this situation for a place of compassion and I can respect that. However in my heart of hearts I cannot believe there is compassion in the intentional taking of a vulnerable human life. A human who has no say, has done no wrong, and is full of potential. I think there are many ways to show compassion and love to victims of rape (like myself,) but I do not believe that enduring suffering gives one a free pass to hand the violence down to another. You say that "in the absence of betterment in everything listed above and in some other situations, abortion is valid," and I have to disagree. In the absence of a society that prioritizes human life we have to be the people who stand up and say "No. We deserve better." Not accept a culture of death and ongoing oppression of women and their children. We live in a world that does not give women the protection they need. Does not provide sufficiently for pregnant mothers, does not accommodate pregnancy, and has failed to protect victims of rape. Should our unborn children suffer death at our hands because of of societies failings? Do two wrongs make a right?

In the second half of your ask you are talking about medical priority and ectopic pregnancy, which is not the same procedure as an abortion and the major majority of prolifers will agree is a non-applicable situation. In fact you will find that ectopic pregnancy treatments are explicitly excluded from bills that ban abortions, or aren't mentioned at all; because again, it's a different medical procedure. When only one life can be saved, doctors choose the strongest, or most likely to live, which is always the adult in these cases. These instances are always tragic, as it is always tragic when a life cannot be saved. But this is not the same as a procedure that exists for the explicit purpose of violently and brutally ripping a human to pieces, or poisoning them to death. That choice is not a valid choice to make. Saving one life over another is not the same as intentionally killing someone. I definitely encourage you to research medical priority and what tends to happen when such a choice must be made. I believe family also gets a say, but I could be wrong on that front.

#tw #pro life #i am the prolife generation #prolife #politics #roe v wade #prolife feminism #prolife feminist #womens rights #feminism

[fredbydawn]

You think Jigsaw was pro life?

This is a very interesting question that I find myself thinking about very often. Putting under a read more, cuz this is gonna be a long ass ramble

Full disclosure, I am pro-choice and have had an abortion, so my takes are obviously going to be influenced by that

I think about this a lot cuz there’s the popular question of “would you survive a Saw trap?” and my smart ass response has usually been “I don’t have to worry about it cuz I haven’t done anything worth putting me in a trap” but then I remember that I did in fact have an abortion so I gotta be on my toes 👀 cuz that lil puppet could be anywhere

There is a line when John has Cecil in the knife chair where he says he’s doing this because Cecil accidentally injured Jill and caused her to miscarry. But he words this as Cecil “killing an innocent child” (or something to that effect, I don’t have the exact words in front of me) and I think he doesn’t even mention Jill. Seeing the life of an unborn child as more important the health and safety of his literal wife seems very pro-life to me. That being said, I’m not totally sure whether or not John would put someone in a trap for having an abortion, nor am I sure he would stop a trap if he found out the person in it was pregnant (and therefore place the life of the fetus on the same or greater level than the pregnant person).

Like John’s philosophy is so interesting to me particularly because of how hypocritical he can be sometimes. Cause like his whole thing is “value your life” not necessarily to value life itself, and to prove that you value your life his tests will sometimes require you to harm or even kill another person, who sometimes hasn’t even done anything particularly heinous (i.e. Lawrence being tasked with killing Adam (who I fully believe was not intended to survive), or Zepp being tasked to kill Allison and her young daughter Diana (who fully didn’t do anything). So in that way I could see John potentially seeing someone getting an abortion as a way for them to take control of their life, particularly if they were pregnant by sexual assault.

But then again, John seems to have very little sympathy for people doing “bad” things due to the circumstances they find themselves in. I think there’s a conversation between him and Amanda in X where’s she’s basically like “hey, man, maybe these people are doing these things that they know are wrong and feel bad about because they have no other way to make money and survive?” and John’s just like “nah, miss me with that gay shit” so idk 🤷🏻‍♂️

There’s also a whole thing about how some of the larger games almost operate on a Silent Hill kinda level, where you’re facing the guilt that you have surrounding an event (such as Jeff’s game from III) and you’re made to confront the ways you’ve been punishing yourself. So while it feels almost like going down a supernatural route where we believe that John somehow has a way to assess how much something weighs on your psyche, I feel like if someone didn’t feel guilty about getting an abortion (which, most people don’t obvs) then they wouldn’t be put in a trap.

In general, I feel like the politics of the Jigsaw killer(s) is a rich and complicated vein of character interpretation. In the beginning there’s definitely a conservative vibe, people being put into traps because they’re sex workers, drug addicts, mentally ill, etc. But when we get to VI it starts to get a bit more capital l Liberal with corrupt insurance company employees being put in traps. But even still, like I said, preserving your life is considered the sign of success and there are very few traps where sacrificing yourself for another person is even an explicit option, let alone considered the “right choice.” So there’s that to think about, I guess.

Long an short of it, in my opinion;

John: still on the fence on whether he’d put someone in a trap for having an abortion, but might stop the test if he found out they were pregnant, especially if they wanted to keep it

Amanda: she strikes me as pro-choice-ish around the beginning of her apprenticeship, but just generally anti-life towards the end, probably wouldn’t put someone in a trap for having an abortion, but would not stop the test if the person in it was pregnant, whether they wanted to keep it or not

Hoffman: as much as he is my thick waifu, he’s also an incredibly corrupt cop so he’s probably leaning conservative, he might put someone in a trap for having an abortion (although there’s a whole nother conversation to be had on how much Hoffman actually believes in John’s philosophy, so he just might not care enough idk), but he would not stop the test if a person in it was pregnant

Lawrence: he’s a doctor, he’s intelligent, so he wouldn’t put someone in a trap for having an abortion, but I feel like he would stop the trap if the person in it was pregnant but only if they wanted to keep it since family is probably a soft spot for him

Logan: thinking about the Jigsaw movie gives me such a fucking headache so I don’t wanna think about it too much, but he did participate in the US invasion of the Middle East and works with the police, so yeah probably conservative and pro-life

Schenk: tbh probably the most left leaning of the apprentices (although technically he’s not an official John Approved™ apprentice, but whatever) so he might be pro-choice, but honestly idk

But that’s just my 2 cents :)🏖

#sorry this is so long I have many thoughts #ask #saw franchise

[anamericangirl]

I personally don't identify myself as either pro-choice or pro-life. (My personal belief on the matter is that there are unfortunate times when a pregnancy needs to be terminated - and in those events, the termination should be as humane and painless as possible, for both the mother and the baby. And my hesitancy in identifying as either pro-choice or pro-life comes from the fact that the procedure to remove a dead fetus or a non-viable pregnancy are also billed as an abortion.)

But I wanted to extend thanks to you and @prolifeproliberty and several other pro-life bloggers on here for not resorting to the same bullshit that pro-choicers do.

And I would be lying if I said your arguments didn't shape my current view of the issue.

So thank you, for being willing to educate and having the strength to remain sane and approachable.

☄️

Thank you so much for sharing, anon! This is very encouraging to read and these testimonies are genuinely a blessing to see!

It is true that sometimes removing a dead fetus is billed as an abortion, but it’s not so much the term abortion that is the problem as it is the procedure. Most of the time the word abortion refers to an induced abortion, which is the deliberate act of killing a living baby, and it’s very possible to consider yourself pro-life while acknowledging the fact that sometimes the term abortion might be used in medical scenario (for example when a miscarriage is called a spontaneous abortion) when an abortion is not actually taking place.

Thanks again for sharing this message! As always, please feel free to reach out to me with any questions or comments at any time!

#anon #answered

[radsez]

As a girl who was raised gender neutral, here is what it actually looks like.

My parents didn’t find out my gender until birth because they wanted to be surprised. When I was born female, they were overjoyed. I had a Winnie the Pooh nursery, with tones of yellow white and green. They dressed me in lots of overalls and hand-me-down “boys” clothes from my older cousin. I wore dresses sometimes, but as I got older, my parents dressed me for utility and comfort, not decoration.

I was a “tomboy” growing up. I insisted on shopping in the boys section of clothing stores, which my parents allowed. Never once did I question whether not I was ACTUALLY a girl because of this. As a matter of fact, my mother was/is a nurse practitioner, and I knew from a young age what being female is and what that means for my body and my development. It meant I would grow breasts and menstruate and possibly gestate a fetus one day. But that’s it. Everything else was up to me, and NOT my biology.

I was raised to know that my sex Is immutable. I can’t change it. But it doesn’t predestine me for a life of looking pretty and being of service to men.

I was shown by my parents how to do tasks and chores that were traditionally done by “men,” such as mowing the lawn, doing plumbing work and pressure washing the back of the house. I was raised to know that I don’t need men around me to be self sufficient and complete.

This helped me to figure out that I was homosexual as a teenager. Because my parents had created a place where I could grow and become anything I wanted without societal restrictions, I was able to know myself and come out without feeling any shame or worry.

I’m now married to my wife of three years and when we have children, they will be raised to believe they can do and be anything they want. That their sex is immutable and unchangeable, but their lives and personalities are all their own.

My sister was raised the same way, and is now a well adjusted, gender conforming heterosexual adult. This is the only way to parent that truly allows your kids the space to grow into who THEY want to be, uninhibited by expectations and gender roles.

#radfems do touch #radfem friendly #radfem

[wannabepapa]

Christmas Eve

We are so far behind on decorating we've only got enough time to put the tree up. You've been working more now since I went on paternity leave and I can't tell you just how much I appreciate you. My body is cumbersome now, a gravid orb jutting from my middle to show just how good you bred me nine months ago. I can't do nearly as much as I did so I am constantly frustrated that all the burden has been put on your shoulders.

"You just keep this little one cooking alright? Let me take care of you." you reassure me several times a day. You kiss my cheeks and repeat yourself when I find myself shouting at something on the ground because I couldn't reach it. You scoop it up, patting my belly with a loving smile before going back to work on getting the tree up. I love you so very much.

The last ornament is placed on the tree ( all thanks to you, I got too tired to stand for long ) and we just need to plug the lights in. You get everything set up before helping me from the couch, bringing me over to the outlet so we can plug it in together. Beautiful colors light up the little corner and you woop in excitement. The baby jostled at the noise, making me wince at the tight discomfort of their little body attacking my insides. I lean into you while dragging your hand to my distorted middle for help calming down your child. As instantly as the fetus began they stopped, loving the touch from their other parent as much as I did. We stand there in awe at our lives of soon-to-be parents in the warm lights of the tree.

"Let's go get you and the baby fed before Santa comes to visit." you whisper in my ear. Kneeling down to kiss my belly you whisper something to the baby—whatever it was you said it made them go wild again and my belly tensed in retaliation of our unborn's movements. You chuckle, kissing the baby and me again then walk off to the kitchen. I rub around my heavy bump silently begging them to stay in until after the holiday. My body had begun aching early this morning then well into the afternoon I had to put a heating pad on my lower back to soothe the intense aches. I didn't tell you how low my belly set on me or that I had been feeling little false labor ains throughout the day. I didn't want to worry you like the last false alarm this past week. When it really was labor, I would tell you.

Just until Monday baby, don't come out just yet please.

#implied breeding #implied labor #;not the best but have this #;keep an eye out for the next part tomorrow ;)

[wearepaladin]

Why rage against the Supreme Court for taking down what never should have been law in the first place? Need I remind you there is literally 0 valid arguments for abortion weather in the Bible, which you claim to follow (I 100% don't believe you are in fact a Christian), nor in any of the founding documents of America (Constitution. Declaration of Independence, Bill of Rights)

Oh, and failure to respond to this, I will assume your admitting you know you're wrong and are just too afraid to engage in discourse.

Unlike you I've actually read all those documents and the holy text, so "whether" (correct usage and spelling, pay attention) I have to deign to justify myself to an ignorant lout like yourself is entirely under my purview. But since you're not very well read, and I am certain consideration of these documents beyond a surface reading threatens your idea of a Christian pedigree, I will inform you that "abortion" though of course not called such because that is a relatively modern term for a practice that is older than the first written line of Genesis. In that very next book of Exodus, a fetus damaged whether deliberately or by accident only merits financial compensation.

But if that is a little too much, Remember that Christ didn't advocate for the protection of the unborn, but the for women who would bear them and the children who live, not the unborn. All of whom will suffer unnecessarily because of this ruling.

Because don't delude yourself: abortion is a practice that will continue in every state in America. But now it will be done unsafely, and people will be injured, imprisoned, and even die as a result. A law was put in place because this very same issue played out already and we know the consequences.

Bait me again at your leisure, but please do me a favor and read a bit first. It'll be less embarrassing for you.