#tw reproductive abuse

[hhhhleb]

connected to this concept of birth giving and this comics ⚠️heavy topics below beware⚠️

so this idea sat in my head for a while what if sans not really a brother for papyrus..? well not biologically(or magically…) at least so i thought how could he get in this position and came up with some ideas for starters all this 'low fertility and forced injections of lust' reminds me so much of The Handmaid's Tale(i've watched only like 10 episodes but i got the main idea of reproductive abuse it portrays) so this and the concept of Gaster experementing on his children(on "child" in this case) just fused into this concept -> what if gaster tested his lust injections on sans 'cause em.. no body's gonna know?like maybe he didn't gave birth to him, he just found sans below some magic object and raised him in his closed laboratory to get more knowledge about fertility and lifegiving topic. gaster might forced this soulling artificially and that's how sans got paps and may be gaster tried to End this Experiment 'cause sans's little soul was at risk but sans rebelled and ran away or something idk all these things are very ethemeral in my head

or it was just another monster, some stranger or someone close and "trustworthy". may be sans wanted it. may be not. every option has it's own interesting themes to exlore really.

one thing i'm sure about is that paps doesn't know and after gaster dissolved in the Core sans might not know neither.. they're happy to be brothers and that's all they need actually

[lifeafterpsychiatry]

Oh, I didn't know about the force abortion, that's horrible. It gives a new perspective to that music box/lullaby melody. She really went all out with this song and no one even knew.

Yeah literally nobody knew about it before she released her memoir "The Woman In Me" in 2023. And that isn't the only reproductive trauma she has been through, unfortunately. There was the threat of losing access to her existing two children that made her stop fighting the abusive conservatorship in the first place, and then during that 13 year conservatorship, she was forced to be on birth control despite wanting more children because she didn't have the right to make that decision herself. And then after she finally escaped, she actually got pregnant but then had a miscarriage

[pascalepalaces]

"Baby Fever" in The Writing Disorder, Summer 2018:

“We need an ambulance! My friend’s been stabbed and she’s pregnant! Uh … uh … four months!” someone’s cry pierced through my dizzy fog. That’s when I noticed everyone in the kitchen and that they were staring at me. Overwhelmed, I looked down, still clutching my burning belly. My hands were red. Oh.

#

TWO MONTHS EARLIER

“How far along are you?” asked Trish, looking up again from across the table. Her gaze pushed into me like a bulldozer. I leaned back into my chair, insecure about my answer.

“Eight weeks,” I said.

The three women attacked their notepads with their pencils.

Their names were Olive, and Kate (I think), and, in the middle, leading the interview, sat Trish Barton. That woman was all I’d heard her to be. She was blonde, with great skin, and so petite; you could have never guessed that she’d had two children. Nor that they’d been home births. Her kids (a boy and a girl) would probably grow up to be as small as her, too, since she was raising them vegetarian. Basically, she was everything that every Elk Creek mother wanted to be. Already she intimidated me, and she was five years my junior.

“And you’re married?” she asked, with a smile as perfectly tight as the rest of her face. I’d been expecting to be asked a lot about my living situation.

“Yes,” I answered. “As of recently, uh, his name is James.”

“Oh, congrats. How did you meet?”

“Four years ago,” I said. “He… was at a bar where we were having a company party. I didn’t- uh, I don’t usually go out, and he could tell. He stole me away”. I thought of it, of that image of James in his striped button-up. He’d pulled his sleeves up as he’d approached me, as if telling me he was determined to seduce me–though he’d probably just wanted to show off his arms. I still couldn’t believe I’d fallen for that overgrown frat boy. I chuckled to myself, thinking about it. When I looked back at Trish, though, her face hadn’t moved.

“What do you do?” she asked.

“Uh, I was an accountant for a car company,” I said. “I’m looking for a replacement.”

“And your husband?”

“Yes. He got a job at a hospital in the city, um-”

“Oh. Nice.”

“He’s a doctor.”

Her mouth opened the tiniest bit before she went back to her notepad. I tried to peek.

“And where are you living now?” she smiled up at me.

“It’s a house on Collingwood Street,” I said.

“Oh, so you’re the new owner,” Her high-pitched voice flapped its wings excitedly. Her face had opened up now. A little weird. “Well, lovely, lovely. Will you have transportation?”

“Yes, we have a car.”

“Okay. And how are you liking Elk Creek?”

“We love it,” I said. “We wanted to go somewhere family-oriented. And this was worth leaving, like, everything behind in Michigan.”

“So you understand the purpose of Elk Creek Mothers’ Association?”

I nodded. “Keep the community safe and organize events for moms and kids,” I said.

“And what will you contribute, if you’re chosen?”

I paused, massaging my hands together. Secretly, I hated questions like this; the job hunt was going to be a pain.

“Well, I love children more than-” I started. I was about to say anyone, then I realized that that might not be the best idea, considering who was interviewing me, “-anything. More than anything, I’ve always known I’ve wanted to be a mom, and…” I realized that I probably shouldn’t focus on myself, but on the benefits for the kids.

Trish and her vice-presidents wrote as I spoke. I couldn’t, despite trying, read their notes or their faces.

I told James all about it over dinner. We sat across the width of the dining room table, as the other way might have required us to cup our mouths and yell. I didn’t know why he’d gotten us such a big table, but I supposed that the room allowed for it.

“I’m not gonna get it,” I said, twirling my spaghetti on my fork, then sticking a load into my mouth.

“Of course you are,” he said. “It’s a volunteer position.” He stabbed into a meatball.

“One that everyone wants,” I mumbled, covering my chewing with my hand. “Why do you think I had to do an interview?”

“Is it really this elite thing?” he asked, chuckling and looking up at me. James had blue/green eyes; their color shifted like the tides. In this light, now, they looked a pale, consuming green. He was still so handsome to me with his short, curly brown hair; his thick eyelashes; the quirky asymmetrical-ness of his rectangle face. “But it’s called Ec-ma. Ec-ma,” he continued. “They couldn’t have a prettier name? Makes me think of eczema.”

I laughed until my phone started vibrating on the kitchen counter. I jumped upward, gulped down my noodles and jogged to it.

“Pregnant,” James reminded me.

I ignored him. “Hello?” I answered, in a semi-strangled voice.

“Hi. Lillian? This is Trish, from ECMA,” she said. “I’m calling to offer you membership to our group.”

“No way! Oh, my gosh. Thank you so much!” I exclaimed, looking back at James. He did a double thumbs-up.

“You’re welcome,” she said. “Do you accept?”

“Yes, for sure.”

“Great. Are you available this Thursday at 7:30 PM for our monthly public safety meeting?”

James would be back from work by then. I’d have the car in time.

“Yes, that’s fine,” I told her.

“It’s at the police station. Do you know where that is?”

“Yes,” I lied. I’d figure it out.

“Perfect. See you then,” she said. “Bring a notebook.” And she hung up.

“Told you you’d get it,” James said as I put the phone down. “They loved you.”

I strode back toward him, grinning.

“I admit, I got you something to celebrate,” he said, opening the glass door to the liquor cabinet. I squinted at him as he took out a bottle. “Non-alcoholic cider.” He pointed at the label.

I came closer and kissed him. He kissed me back, grabbing at my arm. He tasted like tomato sauce, and his stubble scratched at my face, but the moment was still nice.

We each had a glass and then we had sex.

When I got up the next morning for the bathroom, I found some blood in my underwear, which James had said was normal for pregnant women after sex. I filled the sink to soak them and then also drew myself a bath. I was nervous for my meeting that evening and I wanted to relax (also, the big tub, with jets, was one of my favourite features of the new house). I sat for a while in the hot, bubbling water and thought of baby name ideas. I’d been thinking of suggesting Madeline if it was a girl, which I was sort of hoping would be the case. Madeline sounded like a girl who’d laugh fervently, who’d love hugs and who would have her father’s eyes.

The meeting went fine, though I was exhausted by the time it ended. I wasn’t surprised; wanting to impress the group was probably piling onto my recent moving stress and crushing me. I went to bed before James that night, but still woke up late the next morning. When I went to the bathroom, I found more blood. Bleeding was normal at this stage, I assured myself. So was the pain in my abdomen. It had happened before.

Unfortunately, both symptoms continued sporadically for the next week, and pretty much non-stop the week after that. The exhaustion was the same.

“Would you be able to get me an ultrasound? For, like, as soon as possible?” I called James on his break the day I decided this was a problem. We hadn’t yet managed to procure a new family doctor, so he would have to play that role for now. I was grateful to have him.

“Of course. How you feeling today?” he asked. I could hear him close a door.

“The same,” I said. I hadn’t left the bed. “I officially think I’m gonna miscarry.” I was going to cry. Neither of us had yet said that word.

“Please don’t worry yet,” he told me in his most caressing voice. “It’s probably stress.”

“It hasn’t been that bad,” I argued, turning onto my side and sliding further under the covers.

“Yeah, but this started as soon as you joined the group,” he said. “That can’t be a coincidence. And…”

“…Yes?”

“I don’t know. Something about that group just kinda weirds me out,” he admitted.

“What do you mean?”

“Like… come on. Everyone here just worships those women. Plus, they’re making you do their bidding, for free, just for the honour of it?” I tried to intervene, but he continued, “You sure you haven’t accidentally joined some sort of cult?”

“In small-town Wisconsin?” I scoffed. Fuck, it hurt to do that. I rolled onto my back, holding myself. “Everything’s normal. Come on. It’s for the community.”

“The way you describe them, they just sound creepy. Are they not?”

“It’s not that bad,” I repeated.

“Really? You sure you’re not hurting and bleeding ‘cause they turned our baby into a demon baby or something? Rosemary’s Babied you up-”

“Stop,” I held back my laugher by the belly. Laughing wasn’t a good idea, either.

“Okay, but admit it. You’re taken by the elitism,” he said, his voice now dipping a little, like a frown. “And that’s what’s weird to me, ‘cause you’ve never seemed to care about that kind of thing.”

“I’m just trying to make new friends here, James. Mom friends. I’m bored and I’m lonely.”

“I get it. But you can do that without this Trish woman, can’t you? How old is she, again?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Right,” he said. I realized that she was a full decade under him.

“I guess I want my kid to have a good social standing,” I finally admitted. “You know I was bullied.”

James took in a harsh breath. “I understand,” he said. “And I think that’s great that you’re trying to give that to our children, but I think maybe you’re putting too much pressure on yourself. On top of looking for a job-”

My insides fell. “Are you asking me to quit the group?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he said, quickly. “Actually… eh, I was wondering…”

They hit the ground. “If I shouldn’t get a job?”

“You’ll be on mat leave soon enough, anyway,” he finally said. “And you know I can support us both.”

I didn’t answer. I only swivelled my jaw.

“Then, maybe later, we can reconsider if you wanna work or not,” he said. “I don’t know. Think about it?”

“Fine,” I said. “But, please, get me that ultrasound.”

James was able to schedule me one for five days later–a Saturday. Unfortunately, I felt exponentially worse by the day. By Friday morning, it was like I had a hole tearing through me. The demon baby theory didn’t seem so implausible anymore.

I wept on the bed, leaving phone messages for James. I took my usual (maximum) dose of Tylenol, and then upped it a bit, but still, not much changed. When I finally struggled my way out of bed, I noticed that I’d left a bloodstain. I went to the bathroom and took off my clothes. I felt so weak and vulnerable, even nauseous, so it took a while. I ripped the pad off of my underwear–which, along with my pajama pants, had been stained, nonetheless–and threw it out. At least none of the blood seemed clotted.

I managed to make myself a hot bath, with jets. Once I got in, it helped the pain, a bit, but it worsened the nausea and the exhaustion. When I got out and checked my phone, it was still only nine o’clock. I had no idea if James would get my messages before his break.

I went back to the bed, in my bathrobe, to sit and try to think of what to do. If we’d been back home, I would have called a cab to the hospital, but there were none in this puny town. I could call an ambulance, as it’d come faster than a cab would from the city, but that seemed excessive. I would just have to make it a few hours. There was no way I was contacting ECMA, either; they couldn’t know that this was happening. I had just been accepted. I’d already forced a smile and gone to the last two meetings.

I changed into new underwear with a new pad, and new pajamas, then lay back down. Just a few hours.

It was easier thought than done, though. I held myself on the bed and cried for about thirty minutes until I gave in and lugged myself to the dining room.

“Forgive me,” I rasped, pulling out a bottle of scotch and a glass from the liquor cabinet. But she was probably already dead. I poured myself a glass then the contents down my throat. The burning it caused distracted from the burning in my abdomen. I poured another.

I was disoriented when I heard James yell, “What the fuck is this?!”

I lugged my head up from my arms, wiping my mouth. I looked at my hand. My saliva was brown. I looked to my right. James was standing next to me. I was still sitting at the dining table. I’d fallen asleep. I’d never fallen asleep at a table like this.

“Is this why this is happening? Is this what you’ve been doing during the day?!” he continued. I looked up at him. He was sneering, his eyes burning hell into me. I’d thought that I’d already seen him at his angriest, but apparently I hadn’t even seen him close. “What kind of mother are you?!”

“No,” I groaned. “Have… you found me like this before?”

“Well, I don’t know,” he said, leaning down further into me. “You’ve been really emotional-”

“Because I’m in fucking pain and I’m fucking losing my baby,” I said. I strained myself up straighter, but my head was spinning. “I need the hospital.”

He stared into me for a few seconds. His eyes had gone paler, colder. “No,” he said.

My heart jump-started. “What the f-” I tried.

“You’re not going anywhere. They can’t see you like this. Even if you’re not a drunk, they’ll think you are.”

“It’s… not… optional.”

“Sure it is,” he said. “Didn’t you want a home birth so bad? Like what’s-her-face? Have a home miscarriage.”

Then, he passed me for the kitchen. I put my head back on the table and cried again.

The pain woke me up before James the next morning. I heaved myself over to the bathroom–a ritual now–and the usual blood was there. I started to undress when I was taken by nausea.

I sensed James walk in behind me puking.

“Hungover?” he snarked.

“Please,” I whimpered.

I got changed, and he drove me, in silence, to the hospital. It was in the car seat that I started to really feel the bleeding. Feel it get thicker.

After the painfully long drive, I was given away to a Dr. Schuster, a middle-aged black woman with black ponytailed braids. She helped me put on a hospital gown, and she set me down on the plastic bed. I was shivering. I covered my eyes as she checked me. I felt her clean me. It was cold. But there was no colder feeling than the one in my belly–and, though I knew that it was just fear, it also felt an awful lot like a dead baby.

“I’m so sorry. You did have a miscarriage,” she said, standing over me, dropping each word down gentler than the last.

But it doesn’t matter how gently you drop a child’s corpse onto her mother’s face.

She might as well have dropped a boulder on me, I thought. And, in that moment, I wondered what my daughter looked like. She’d probably resembled red, thick lava when she’d been ejected from the center of my core–but now I was a volcano with no purpose left, and now both of us were cold.

“I’m gonna give you an ultrasound to make sure there are no further complications and that you’re safe,” Dr. Schuster said, and I grimaced. I was grateful, at least, to have her instead of James.

“It still hurts,” I grumbled, lips dry.

She had me open the front of my gown. She put the ultrasound gel on my belly then felt across it with the stick.

“Is it all out?” I muttered.

“Actually…” she said, her voice shaking now, “I’m going to have to put you into surgery.”

“Why?” I rasped, sitting up quickly and wincing.

“You’ve had an ectopic pregnancy.”

I hadn’t heard of that before, which wasn’t a good sign.

“Your egg failed to travel through your fallopian tube,” she explained. “Your foetus has been growing in there, and now it’s burst it. You’re bleeding internally and… your other tube might have been damaged, too. I’m going to have to go in to try to save it.”

Everything, then, felt like it was spinning and shifting. Probably because everything was. I erupted, again, this time with tears.

When I woke up in a hospital bed, I tried to shoot up straight. My abdomen cried out in pain, and so did I. I remembered that I’d had surgery. A nurse called for Dr. Schuster, who entered shortly after.

“Can I have kids?” I mumbled.

“I’m so sorry, Lillian,” she said, her face struggling to stay adrift. “It’s not likely you’ll be able to conceive. Your tube was badly ruptured, and your other one was…”

I tuned her out, then. I retreated all the way under the covers and closed my eyes.

When I was more awake, she gave me and James the instructions for my care.

“No working for eight weeks,” she said. “And absolutely no sex.” Her expression had finally given up and died now. So had mine. It had gone down with my baby.

My baby had died and taken the rest of my insides with her.

James took my hand in his. It was stiff. I looked up at him. He was pale and frozen over. Definitely also dead.

“Again, I’m so sorry for your loss,” Dr. Schuster said to us. “Take your time to grieve, but remember that-”

“Thank you,” James snapped, which made me cringe a little.

And the drive home felt like the one there.

“I called Trish,” he said, breaking the silence, keeping his eyes on the dark road ahead. “Begged her to keep you in the group.”

“Of course she’s not gonna keep me in the group,” I grimaced, picking at a cuticle. “It’s a mothers’ association, and I’m no longer a mother.”

“Well, she said they’d discuss it.”

“I could have done it myself,” I argued, pausing to clamp my teeth together. “It could’ve waited.”

“I thought you might be embarrassed.”

Something about that rubbed me the wrong way. It even struck me.

“Why would I be embarrassed?” I asked, then, in a weakened voice. “…Because it’s my fault?”

He didn’t answer.

“For drinking?” I pushed. “Or for putting too much stress on myself? Daring to look for a job?”

James let out a dense exhale. “I didn’t say that, Lil,” he muttered.

It wasn’t a denial that he believed it, though.

“I can’t believe you think that.” My voice was shaking. “You did this to me, not me.”

At that, he pulled the car over and turned to look into my eyes. But he kept his grip on the wheel. “Excuse me?” he growled.

“You’re a doctor. You know what an ectopic pregnancy is, James. You know it was failed from the beginning. When your sperm entered me and ripped me up slowly from the inside.”

I watched the anger bubble up inside him, then. “You don’t mean that,” it finally escaped as a chuckle. “You still have those hormones going.”

“Hormones?! I just lost my purpose in life.”

“So did I!”

“But you’re not the one who had to just go through that,” I screamed, the hairs on my arms rising with my voice. “Have some humanity! I just want my husband to comfort me right now, not fucking attack me!”

But all he did was turn back toward the wheel. He stared again at the black nothingness ahead, and it reflected in his eyes. We sat there, listening to our own hard breaths, until he finally spoke again.

“Humanity is defined by the ability to reproduce, isn’t it?” he said, and he turned the car back into the road.

I was too stunned to even respond. Had he just implied what I thought? Had my husband just diagnosed me with not being human anymore?

I was taken by rage. He had done this to me.

The continuing, torturous silence was shaken, thankfully, when my phone vibrated at my feet. I struggled, aching in every sense of the word, to pick up my purse and retrieve it.

“Hello?” I groaned.

“Lillian? This is Trish,” came Trish’s glossy voice from the other side. But she also sounded a bit more genuine, more normal now. “I wanted to say that I’m so, so sorry to hear about what happened. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

I know you can’t, I thought.

“Thank you, Trish,” I said. “I appreciate it.”

“Do you need some time to yourself or do you have it in you-”

“Just lay it on me.”

“Okay. Well… we talked about it for a long time. It was difficult. Because we could really feel how passionate you are about the association, and we’ve appreciated having you so far. So… we actually came up with a possible compromise, if you’ll accept it.”

I felt the littlest fragment of life return to me.

“What kind?” I asked, leaning against the window.

“So, we have an official Facebook page, you might know. I like to keep it active, to attract attention. Like, post some content a couple times a day. But I wouldn’t mind that job being taken off me, if you want it,” she said. “It seems perfect for your… situation. You’re homebound, correct?”

“Right.”

“Well, since it’s online,” she said, “You won’t have to leave home to do it. And… since you’ll be behind a computer, and no one can tell who’s posting, anyway, no one will tell that you’re…”

“Not pregnant,” I said. It was such a pity offer, but I still appreciated it. I couldn’t believe that Head Mom Trish Barton was being more forgiving than my husband. “So… I just have to post as if I were pregnant? Or a mom?”

“Uh, exactly.”

“Well, okay,” I said, and then took in a cold breath. “Thank you… so much.”

“No problem. I’ll e-mail you more details in the morning, and you can let me know when you’re ready to start. For now, get some rest and feel better.”

“Thanks.”

The next morning, I went to the office computer and indeed found an email from her.

Hi Lillian, it said,

If you go to Facebook you’ll see I made you an admin for our page. That means you’ll be able to post to it under our name. Take a look at the past content, if you haven’t already, to get an idea of what kind of stuff is good. Articles about parenting are great, as long as it’s not ‘disciplining’ tips or anything too aggressive like that. Also please look for funny ‘memes’ about motherhood. Basically just fun, light-hearted stuff. Oh, and add appropriate captions, please.

Posts should go up once every morning and once every afternoon. You can start whenever you feel ready. Just let me know when that is and I’ll leave it to you 🙂

Take care,

TB

I can start today, I wrote her, or I may die of boredom.

I went on Google and looked up ‘parenting article’. I clicked on a page titled What to Expect When Your Child Starts Kindergarten.

It opened with an image of a mother and daughter smiling together.

Oh … god.

You’ll want to keep track of all of the school activities and meetings and help out when you can, it said.

Making friends with other parents will be a huge stress-saver.

Your child may cry because they’re scared or because they miss you, but that doesn’t always mean that they don’t want to be at school.

Your child will be a lot more tired than before. They may start to fall asleep in weird places. It will be cute.

As I read, the pain where my baby used to be flared up like a phantom limb. I couldn’t do this. I hadn’t realized how difficult this would be.

ECMA definitely didn’t realize it, either, though. They had been so kind to find this job for me. If I didn’t do it, I had nothing left.

I decided to just try a different route. I exited the article and Googled, ‘Mom memes’.

The first image was a simple illustration of a woman, accompanied by the text, That moment when you’re checking on your sleeping baby and their eyes open so you run before you make direct eye contact.

My eyes swelled and my hands contorted. Just hurry up and post it, I told myself, then you can go wallow under your covers again. I saved the image and put it up on the Facebook with the caption, Haha, I hate when this happens!

Pressing every key was like stabbing myself over and over.

I was still under the covers that afternoon when I heard James unlock the door. Thankfully, he fussed around cooking in the kitchen for a while before approaching the room.

“Lil?” he mumbled. “I made dinner.”

My brain foggy, I forced myself to get up and follow him to the dining room. He helped me sit down at the table. He’d set out steak and potatoes for us. Plus, a bottle of wine, with wine glasses. He offered me one.

“Thank you, the food looks amazing,” I said, “But not right now.”

“Why not?” he asked, uncorking the bottle. “You can drink it now.”

I stared into my lap and ran my tongue between my teeth. “What is this?” I finally asked, my voice sharp.

He sighed. “I wanted to make it up to you, after last night,” he admitted. “You were right. I shouldn’t have been fighting with you.”

I sighed, too, nodding. I was still hurt by what he’d said, but I didn’t want to bring it up. Clearly, he didn’t either. So we made dull conversation about his day as we ate. I avoided talking about mine.

When we finished, he took away the dishes and I went to the living room couch.

“What are you up to tonight?” he asked, entering from the kitchen behind me. “Want to see what’s on TV?”

“Could you get me my book?” I countered. “In the bedroom?”

“Sure,” he said. Then, “Why don’t you read in there? You’ll be warmer.”

“I guess, but I’ve been lying there all day.”

“I could help entertain you,” he said. He came up behind me and rubbed my shoulder.

I turned, looking up at him with a grimace. “You know I can’t have sex, James.”

He chuckled. “I mean, it’s actually not that big of a deal-”

“Except I’m really not up for it. In any capacity.”

He paused. “Okay, okay, just trying to be close with you,” he grumbled, before walking away.

Of course, I was going by what Dr. Schuster had told me–and James, as her peer, should have known better–but, in truth, I was most resistant for my own reasons. I just could not get that image of James’s invasive, destructive sperm out of my mind. I did not want his semen anywhere near me anymore, after what it had done to me. I was disgusted by it, by the very idea of sex with him.

Unfortunately, throughout the next few weeks, James continued to try to initiate it with me. And, as I continued to say no, he continued to get grumpier. Funnily enough, I couldn’t remember him ever being this horny before. It was interesting that he wanted to fuck me the most now that he didn’t consider me human.

Eventually, he got the message and he stopped pushing. In one sense of the word, that is. Instead, he began to push himself, sometimes, onto my healing abdomen while we were cuddling… to even, some nights, knee it in his sleep. But I suspected that he wasn’t asleep.

When I would go to the computer to post for ECMA, in the morning, I also started to find paused porn videos left open on the computer. I understood that James needed to get his urges out, somehow, but, like the kneeing, it happened just a little too often to seem truly accidental. This was another expression of frustration at me, then. James was rubbing in my face that I wasn’t satisfying him. He was showing me exactly who all of the younger, hotter women were that were getting him off.

I only really started to become afraid when the porn started to get violent. I would go to the computer to find images of women–though that wasn’t what they were being called, in these video titles–being stepped on, hit with things, choked. Their faces always showed distress or discomfort, and when they didn’t, it was because they were being shoved into a bag, trashcan, or toilet. At that point, I shouldn’t have been surprised that this was the kind of thing that James was into. But I felt that this porn might have become more than just a taunting… had it also become a threat?

I cried a lot during those weeks. Fearing for myself, what he might do to me in my sleep, I locked myself in the bathroom at night and slept in the tub. Weirdly, he never challenged me for it. He acted like everything was normal. He’d ask me how I was feeling. I would tell him everything was great, and he’d smile.

When I went in for my first check-up with Dr. Schuster (Aileen, she said to call her), she told me that I was behind in my healing. It was most definitely the kneeing, I knew. But I realized what I had to say.

“We had sex,” I told her. “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. I felt a heavy shame for disappointing her, even though it had been a lie.

“I understand you want to try again,” she said, sitting down at her chair across from me. “It’s common for couples in this situation to have trouble dealing with it, at first.”

I wrung my fingers.

“I hope this isn’t intrusive for me to say, but… your husband has seemed depressed lately,” she continued, her wide face dipping a little. “He’d mentioned how many kids you two wanted… so I wanted to ask you how you’re doing, mentally.”

I looked back into her eyes. James and I had never actually talked numbers. Both of us adored kids, of course, but it had made sense to me to just take it one at a time.

I almost said nothing. “How many kids did we want?” I decided to ask. It came out grumbly.

“Pardon me?” asked Aileen.

“How many did he say we wanted?”

“Well… he’d said at least eight.”

I felt so heavily confused and disturbed, in that moment, like I could fall over–like she’d reached out and slapped me. Eight kids? Eight? Where the heck had he gotten that idea? My personal limit would probably have been half that number; why did he go around saying something so outrageous, when we’d never even discussed it?

I had an itch of a thought, and so when I got home, I did my own personal Googling. One of the results included a page in a women’s health blog, What is Reproductive Coercion?. I dismissed it at first, but the title kept chipping at me until I went back and clicked on it.

Have you ever heard of men obsessed with getting and keeping their partners pregnant?, the author wrote. Chances are that you haven’t. However, new studies have found that this form of domestic abuse is almost as common as are bruises and broken bones. Whether subtle or forceful, it is just another form of power and control that a man can exert over a woman’s body and life. He may be performing reproductive coercion if he:

Sabotages your birth control. Maybe he’s lied about having had a vasectomy, or he ��accidentally’ keeps ripping the condom, or he tells you that your birth control is making you fat. He might even escalate to doing something like rip out your contraceptive ring.

Isolates you–limits your access to money and transportation. It may also be a strategy to prevent you from acquiring birth control. Or maybe he wants you to quit your job so that you can focus on being a mother (and be totally dependant on him). Isolating you can also prevent you from getting refuge from your family or friends.

Verbally, psychologically and/or emotionally pressures you into having sex and/or getting pregnant.

Uses violence or threats of violence to pressure into having sex and/or getting pregnant.

Wants you continuously pregnant. He may attempt to make another baby either directly after you give birth (or miscarry), or as soon as your previous child begins kindergarten (and your schedule opens up).

A stinging, tingly feeling surfaced in my limbs as I read. It gradually got stronger, then moved to my core.

I sat, paralyzed, thinking back to the beginnings of my relationship with James. He’d been upfront about his traditional leanings, his need to get married and to have kids. I’d found it endearing, romantic—as I had his eventual suggestion that we run away together. Men with a passion for children are attractive to many women, including myself. And, because I’d shared his passion, I suppose that I had never had to face his wrath. Until now.

As Aileen had suggested, he was probably refusing to accept that I was now infertile. His obsession with sex was probably a desperate, delusional attempt to get me pregnant again. Either that, or he was panicking and trying to control me in other ways.

I almost scoffed at the predictability when I came to the computer, one morning, and found ‘pregnant woman porn’. Of course James had this fetish. And of course he was going to go down this road; this was the ultimate taunt, the ultimate display of what I could never be for him.

I should have grimaced and closed the tab as quickly as possible, of course. That was what I usually did. This time, though, something different happened. I stared at the image. Really stared at it.

The woman was leaning on all fours, her eyes jammed shut and her mouth agape, her inflated belly dangling pathetically. Her hair, a mess, fell partially in her face and was pulled partially back by the man fucking her from behind. I hit play on the video. The words suffer, you pregnant bitch clotted together in my mind.

When I finally did close the tab to get to my Facebook responsibilities, my bitterness lived on. It always did, when I did this work. This time, though, it was even more intense. It filled the room, now. Plus, now that it knew what revenge felt like, it wanted more of it.

I had a few notifications from comments on my latest pregnancy meme–one that had especially made me feel like killing myself. They were idiotic, tart messages like ‘sooo truuueee’ and laughing faces; god, I pitied these women’s children. Rage spiralled in my stomach, flashed underneath my skin as I stared down their profile photos in the same way I had the woman in the video. Their big bellies and smiling husbands made me wish upon them the same fate. I wanted, so horribly, for them to feel that humiliation for being pregnant. That trauma.

I realized that maybe I could get them close.

I logged out of Facebook and created a new account under the pseudonym Joe Coen. I then went back to the ECMA page and to the profiles of frequent commenters. I composed a message, which I sent to all of them:

Here’s where I’d like to see you soon 🙂

And I attached the porn link.

A few hours later, I received a call from Trish. When she said we needed to talk, my inner sanctum–the satisfaction I’d made for myself–imploded on itself. She knew that it had been me. Somehow. How? It made no sense how she would. Yes, I controlled the Facebook page, but it was also accessible to everyone. And the world was not short of misogynistic men who sent messages like that.

It was probably a coincidence, then. This was about something else. Still, the worry would keep me up all night if I didn’t talk to her today. I asked her to come over, preferably before my husband came home.

The low look on her face, when I opened the door, made my worry flare up worse. I invited her over to the kitchen. Her steps were careful. I was definitely in trouble. My mind ran in zig-zags, debating what to do.

I offered her a seat at the counter, and, when she denied a drink, sat across from her. I forced a smile. I decided that unless I was offered undeniable proof that she’d tracked me down, I would do just that–deny.

“So,” she said. She was still avoiding eye contact. She rested her French-tipped hand on the counter and cleared her throat. “I don’t know if you heard, but a lot of women from our Facebook received a really nasty message this morning.”

I widened my eyes and gasped. “Oh no,” I said. “Did you want me to do something?”

“That’s not why I came, no,” she said, and she finally looked back at me. “I’m here to ask you to tell me, completely honestly, if it was you.”

Her eyes pressed into me like a drill, making me shake.

“W-why would you think it was me?” I responded. Acting had never been a thing of mine.

“Because I had a miscarriage once,” she said.

My shock, then, was real.

“Surprise,” she chuckled, baring teeth. “Yes. I was pregnant once before Noah, and no one knows except my husband.”

“I’m sorry-”

“Don’t. I’m just trying to make a point,” she said, resting both arms on the counter now. She was shaking, too. “I had become such a mess, y’know. I hid it well, but I was super depressed for about six months, and… angry. Like, I hated pregnant women… moms in general. I had thoughts that… and, my therapist–yup, I have one of those, too–told me that that can happen when you miscarry.”

I swallowed, gripping my shirt.

“And so I can’t imagine how much worse it might be, for you, because…” she continued, pursing her lips and speeding up her blinking. “I thought about it today, and maybe having you do the Facebook may not have been the best idea. Right?”

I put my head down and nodded.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked. “If it was too much-”

“Because… I need… “ I struggled, putting my face into my hands.

“Do you have a support system?” she asked, quieter now. “Your husb-”

“Is that a line from your therapist?” I retorted.

“Maybe,” she said. Do you want his number?”

I looked back up at her. Chuckled. “Maybe,” I said, crossing my arms. “Now that I’m out of the mommy group. Now that everyone’s gonna hate me.”

She shifted in her seat.

“How about this?” she said. “I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine.”

I found myself leaning back toward her. The heavy look in her blue eyes was filling me with some hope.

“And… I understand that you need friends right now. So, even though I’m gonna have to kick you out of the group…” she continued, “You can still come to our social events.”

“…Do I have to pretend to still be pregnant?”

She paused. “No,” she said. “That would be cruel. And… weird. And people would figure it out. Besides, they’ll understand. I’ll just warn them about your situation, if that’s okay, so that they don’t say anything… uncomfortable. But we’re capable of socializing with people other than mothers. We could even use it.”

I thought about it. “I don’t know if I’d be able to handle it, honestly,” I said.

“Well, you can leave if you really need to. But I really think that if you get to know them, you’ll hate them less.”

“Is that what worked for you?”

She nodded. “We’re having bake sale Sunday afternoon,” she said, then. “I could use some extra hands. Would you be able to help, or are you still out of commission?”

“I should be, but I really need to get out of the house.”

“Great.” She actually smiled. “Most of the women you sent those messages to will be there. I hope that you can make friends.”

That hot, sunny Sunday afternoon, I drove up to Trish’s place early. It was tall, multi-sectioned, with lots of big windows and a fancy BMW parked out front. As soon as I saw it, I sped up and drove down a couple of blocks to park. Then I remembered that I was also driving a BMW. I took several deep breaths.

Once parked (closer, now), I reached, with some pain, for the pan of date tarts in the passenger seat. I strained my way with it to her door. I had been expecting to see a table or two on her lawn for the bake sale, but there were already several rows of tables propped up, ready to be used. This might as well have been a baked goods convention.

The door was partially open, but I knocked anyway, and soon heard the approaching clacking of what sounded like wedges.

“Lillian! You came,” she exclaimed, with her IKEA-white smile. She was wearing a purply sundress and had done herself up all nicely. “You’re the first one here. Come in!”

I handed her the pan and she thanked me and led me to her kitchen. “I’m about to start putting things out,” she told me. I walked behind her through her large, wood-and-stone living room; her little boy and girl were playing quietly in front of the fireplace. Seeing them gave me a flash of cold.

The kitchen was more modest and cozy. The floor was yellow tile. To my left was a wooden table cluttered with baking supplies. Trish went around it to the counter against the wall. A multi-colored curtain hung on the window next to her.

“Oh, good, Rick put in the muffins,” she said, peering into the oven. My body tensed.

I got worse as more mothers arrived. Trish figured that I should be sitting down, because of my healing, so she set me up at one of the tables to sell things. That meant that I was approached by all of the moms wanting to offer something and those wanting to buy.

I tried to make conversation, and get to know them, like Trish had suggested–I really did. Unfortunately, my anger rattled so loud in my brain that I could barely hear anything that they said. When I tried to talk about myself, my jaw remained so tense that it barely even worked. It was pathetic, trying to speak. The woman across from me would always end up walking away in silence. That made me more irritated, though. Trish had told them what I was going through.

So, like the nauseating smell of the melting icing, every new addition to the party further constricted my throat. Every new belly, every new child on that lawn took more air out of me. The sights became too much. The conversations–about the school, about bedtime routines, breastfeeding–circled around me like hyenas. The laughter–fuck, especially when it came from a child–sounded like the ugliest cackling.

I found myself wishing agony on the pregnant women, especially. Stretch marks, saggy breasts, vaginal stretching–things that could lead their husbands to cheat on them. That cheating would mess up their children so bad that they’d become drug addicts and criminals. Yes. That would make me feel better.

The baby in my belly had, at this point, been officially replaced by a solid mass of pure fury. And, unlike my baby, this fury had a heartbeat, which I felt pulsing hard through my body. Unlike my baby, it was twisting, crying, and kicking.

“Are you doing okay?” Trish’s voice came floating above me. Suddenly I was back in the world. Self-conscious again.

“Yeah,” I managed, looking up at her.

“You don’t look it. No offense.”

That’s when I realized how sweaty I was. And also that I was shivering. Like a sick woman.

“This may have been too much too fast. I’m sorry,” she said. She waved me up and then led me back into the house. “Eliza, can you take over for Lillian?” she yelled. Once we were out of the sunlight, and away from all of the bodies and voices, I found myself gasping for breath.

“Do you need to lie down?” she asked me.

“No. Let me do something else,” I pleaded, heaving. I was still holding onto a stupid slice of hope that I could make it back into the group, one day. I needed to prove that I was still mother material–not just another child to be taken care of.

“Okay… well. I just made another cake. Maybe you can help me decorate it.”

I nodded, but cringed a little when we found Kate in the kitchen. I knew her from the group and from Facebook. She was young, Italian looking. Thick eyebrows, small belly.

“Hey! Glad you could make it,” Trish said to her.

Kate nodded. “I was just looking for you,” she said. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Right. How dare you have an ultrasound?” Trish giggled. Her smile then left and she got quiet.

Keep cool, Lillian, I thought. Please.

Kate looked at me. “Is everything okay?” she asked. “You two kinda rushed in here.”

“Uh-huh,” said Trish. “Lillian was just overheating.” In a sense, not a lie.

Kate and I smiled at one another, but as her eyes dug into me, my embarrassment deepened. She was definitely wondering if this had something to do with my miscarriage. There was nothing I could do to stop her from wondering it. I looked away and focused hard on the wall above the stove.

Trish walked to the oven, then, to take out the cake. She moved it from its pan onto an embroidered plate and then placed it on the table.

“It’s strawberry shortcake,” she said. “Just needs some whipped cream and strawberries.”

“Do you need any more help with anything?” asked Kate.

“Don’t worry,” said Trish. “Unless you want to help me clean up.”

Kate did. The women cleaned, chatting, as I sat silently decorating and trying to recover. Now that I felt like I had some breath back in me, my inner fire had, thankfully, blown out. The foundation to it was still there–a gaslight that could easily ignite another flame–but, for now, I was sane enough to question all of those horrible thoughts I’d been having. I held back tears.

“Lillian?” Trish ended up saying. Fuck, she’d noticed. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” I tried to say.

“Do you want to call your husband?”

“No,” I demanded. Too quickly. A tear finally escaped. Child. I was a child. “He’s busy,” I said, in a diluted voice.

“Is that why you didn’t invite him today?” she asked, taking the seat next to me.

“Yes,” I managed, standing up. The cake looked good enough now, but I needed something else to give me an excuse not to look her in the face. I grabbed a knife from the other side of the table and started to cut it up.

“Lillian,” Trish protested, placing a hand on my arm. “If something was going on at home, you could tell me. That’s something we do for women here. We help. You know that.”

I stopped moving but the knife shook hard in my hand. Hers felt like soft tissue. I found myself turning towards her.

“Is it okay if Kate stays?” she asked me, slowly.

I nodded, swallowing some tears and snot. I had to accept it. I was still that sad little girl who just needed some friends.

Kate approached me with softened eyes.

“Sit back down, love,” she told me, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Tell us what’s wrong.”

I nodded again. Sniffing, shaking, I started to sit, and I reached to put down the knife.

“Have a piece of cake,” Trish told me.

“Yeah!” said Kate. “Or- I brought madeleines.”

[hauntedbythenarrative]

.

[dark-konohagakure2]

INDRA YOU SAY?!?!??!

indra with an arranged marriage, and he is nice at the start, not wanting to scare his pretty darling but then she does smth that pisses him of and then it goes all down hill from there, he turns into a pretty abusive husband, forced breeding, noncon, coercion, ALL OF THAT

SENDING YOU MY LOVE 🫂

tw: noncon, marital noncon, arranged marriage, abuse, breeding, coercion, manipulation, misogyny, power imbalance, jealousy, rough sex

All characters depicted are 18+

Indra isn't very interested in women or dating, much less a commitment like marriage, but the Otsutsuki clan needs two heirs around the same age, and Ashura has recently gotten married himself, so pressure falls onto Indra to find a suitable mate, but unlike Ashura, Indra is yet to find anyone he's interested in, so instead he has a bride chosen for him.

While not in his nature, Indra will at least try to be kind to the woman selected for him, he can't go scaring her away before he even gets a baby or two out of her, so he'll speak to her in soft tones, keeping his distance from her both physically and emotionally, even partaking in small niceties such as pulling her chair out and walking beside her instead of in front of her like he does with most people who are beneath him.

This honeymoon phase doesn't last very long however. Indra isn't incredibly quick to anger, that is unless it involves his idiotic younger brother. So Indra won't take very kindly to his wife talking to his brother so politely, even if its just her trying to be nice to her brother in law. Indra has to restrain himself from dragging her away right then and there, but he can't lash out just yet. He's going to wait until he gets her alone.

The very moment the two of them are alone, he'll drag her back to their shared bedroom, his Sharingan active out of anger. His sudden change in demeanor will come as a shock to his new bride, who is used to her husband being distant, yet stoic and calm, never raising his voice or laying hands on her, but now he's dragging her away while angrily letting her know exactly what she did to evoke his anger.

"You forget yourself, woman! Fraternizing so shamelessly with my own brother?! Don't forget you're only here for one purpose, and fulfill that purpose you shall..."

He's not gentle with her anymore, she's lost that privilege, he'll throw her down onto the bed hard enough to disorient her before getting on top or her, hissing angry words into her ear as he begins to pull down her bottoms, making it clear that he's finally going to force her to make herself useful to both him and the clan.

Indra is not only rough with his words, but with his movements too, thrusting into her unprepared cunt with ruthless abandon. He's disappointed really, he wanted the consummation of their marriage to be special and romantic even, but she just had to go and ruin it. She angered him into this state, she should have known the consequences, she brought this upon herself, or at least that's what Indra will tell her as he's bullying her womb with his cock.

Indra is going to cum inside of her, that fact is obvious given how he's made it clear that this marriage is mainly for reproductive purposes, and as such he's not going to stop after just one orgasm, he's going to cum inside of her as much as possible. Indra isn't one hundred percent human, so he has better stamina than most men, which means he can be fucking her for hours straight and hardly break a sweat, much less grow tired, even as her walls are overflowing and leaking with his cum whilst she begs him to show some mercy to her poor overused pussy.

But alas, all good things must come to an end at some point, but that will only be when Indra it's completely certain that he's impregnated his wifey with at least one child, leaving her cunt leaking and stomach slightly distended from all the seed pumped into her. This session of theirs had two purposes; to get her thoroughly bred, and to assert who's really in charge in this marriage.

"There... You've finally atoned for that bratty behavior of yours, hopefully our children don't inherent your disobedience, because I utterly loathe obstinate children..."

Indra hopes that this lesson was sufficient, because there will be much more just like it in the future. He's not going to coddle or spoil his wife anymore, she lost that privilege the very moment she decided to speak to a man that wasn't him, and now she'll never get to speak to anyone else ever again, at least not until they've had their beautiful children that is.

[viktoriaashleyyx]

Tw: abuse discussion. This got darker than I planned.

The only reasoning I have found to justify the hatred of Tamlin in this fandom is that it has to be like a Nickelback situation. It's *Fun* to hate the same character. It's a bonding experience to share in the hatred of one entity.

Because objectively speaking, Tamlins abuse of Feyre was fairly mild compared to RhySAnds twisting of her broken arm, offering Claire up to be tortured (no one seems to mention the absolute mental toll this took on Feyre, to see Claire hanging and know it shouldve been her), drugging and humiliating her every night and making her vomit all the food *he sent her.* The weavers cottage, lying to her, reproductive abuse, abusing and meddling in her relationship with her sisters, isolating her to the point where she has no friends outside of his circle, the list goes on.

"Tamlin hit her." No, Tamlin exploded. Rowan closed fist, punched Aelin in the mouth. And yall still stan him.

I'm also brought back to the conversation from years ago: Why do more people hate Umbridge over Voldemort? Because Umbrige (Tamlin) is personal. Most people have an Umbridge in their life, most people have or know of a Tamlin in their life (a man that burries his emotions until they explode), Voldemort (RhySAnd) is a scary bedtime story. Far less people have dealt directly with a genocidal maniac, (more so nowadays with Netanyahu and Isnotreal) or been publicly sexually assaulted while emaciated and imprisoned.

Tamlins abuse is personal while RhySAnds is cartoonish. But what yall fail to realize is that some of us did have a RhySAnd in our lives. Some of us had to stand in front of a court and testify while a picture of our broken bleeding face hung on the screen. Some of us can't forget Book 1 because we don't want others to ignore ours. And some of us never got the chance.

That's why I have more respect for the Haunting Adeline fans, every one of them (that I know of, it can be different based on your experience) will tell you that this shit is dark. It is marketed as dark romance. I will never read it but because of the honesty I have the choice. ACOTAR fans don't have this level of awareness. The fans and the narrative JUSTIFY RhySAnds abuse. They market ACOTAR as a YA feminist book about overcoming adversary. That couldn't be farther from the truth.

That's why I feel some type of way when I get the anons wishing abuse on me for my content. Because I've been there, babygirl, your wish has already been fulfilled, and he had far more in common with RhySAnd than he did with Tamlin.

Don't settle for a RhySAnd, keep looking until you find your Gomez ❤️

[exhaustioninducedapathy]

Very very interesting take! Love the emphasis that no one ever told Shadow that he was going to undergo ~the change~ until it was already happening. Thank you Gerald, for nothing, as usual (half-joking). Frankly, you should do that essay about Black Doom frothing at the mouth to take over Shadow's body as a metaphor for reproductive abuse and coercion as a tool of white supremacy.

There's also something to be said for how painful Shadow's Doom Powers are to acquire and use as a metaphor for chronic conditions, particularly those that develop at puberty. Gerald doesn't seem too concerned about the pain, and Black Doom revels in it. Rouge and Omega don't know what to say. Maria seems to be the only person Shadow talks to that understands how deeply Shadow is suffering, and through her experiences, she's the only one who can reach Shadow where he is. Extending the period metaphor, Shadow is being medically neglected for something like endometriosis, even as it causes him excruciating pain and permanent damage.

I have spent way too long on this thing that I'm doing literally for no reason, it doesn't have to be perfect!!! and i don't think its gonna get any better than this, so...

You can read it here! "The game where Shadow the Hedgehog got his period and the body horror of menstruation"

[transfemme-shelterdog]

i dont like to reveal this info on the internet because its kind of a "damned if you do, damned if you dont" situation but i am a cis woman using my platform to speak up against transandrophobia. ive only displayed my pronouns online – ive never clarified if im cis, trans, intersex, nb...yeah. i think there's more like us anyway its just that anytime radfems or TRFs even just suspect that we're cis they think it dissolves all our arguments somehow. and then the hate mail that comes with it? isnt that what thicced witch has been doing? they literally call us psyops (sounds like projection to me) when like. i just love intersectional feminism lol. i want to be kind to everyone 💀

Yeah I honestly don't get it. You don't need to be a trans man to speak up against transandrophobia, hell, I'm a trans woman and I'm extremely vocal about it. I just want everyone to have the same rights and to not be harassed or assaulted for being themselves.

If anything, cis women should have more of a voice than people think because a lot of the oppression trans men face, cis women can as well (reproductive rights denial, corrective rape if the woman is a lesbian, etc). But I guess these TRF think that only trans men can speak up against their (imagined) oppression.

But yeah, TW has done all that and more. Hell, she has even accused me personally of being brainwashed and abused, meanwhile my husband (a trans man) is the sweetest man I've ever met. He couldn't be abusive if he wanted to.

Anyways, appreciate you speaking out against transandrophobia, your efforts don't go unnoticed.

[dhddmods]

Everyone has the right to know their own body's biology.

(Tw: intersexism, altersexism, miscarriage mention, non-detailed discussions of SA)

We are AFAB. We have a typical external vulva. Between the ages of 9-11, we were sexually, physically, and emotionally abused by a group of teenage-adult cis men, on the basis of being queer.

We fell pregnant and miscarried before we’d even reached our teen years. That, combined with physical abuse, left us physically disabled for life.

Our puberty was strange. Our menstrual cycle was irregular and strange between the ages of 13-15. Our breasts produced unusual discharge. Our body hair grew thick. Our insides felt weird all the time. 

We developed a special interest for queer topics at age 15. It continues to this day. 

We developed a special interest for reproductive topics at age 15. It continues to this day.

This combined led to our special interest in intersex variations.

The spiraling began as we read about experiences different people with certain variations had. Symptoms of people with reproductive variations, hormone variations, chromosome variations. “That sounds like us. But what if it came from the miscarriage? What if it is just our physical disabilities?”

Spiraling. Spiraling. Spiraling.

We become adults. We go to a queer clinic. We, as a system, have decided that our shared body will be altersex, in order to make every headmate equally comfortable with their various gender and sex identities.

The doctor requires bloodwork before prescribing. They want to check our hormone levels. This is a relief. They can tell us if we hypogonadism or hypergonadism. That would check off those potentials.

We ask the doctor if the lab will be able to do a chromosome check as well. The doctor says it would be 400 dollars. We can’t afford that. Our parents won’t pay for that, either, because it’s not a necessary medical expense, and we have other bills to pay.

We express to the doctor that we want to know our sex. He responds “if you have a vagina, you most likely have XX chromosomes.”

This is factually correct - it is most likely the case - but it wasn’t reassuring, like he intended it to be. 

“Most likely” isn’t an answer. It leaves us questioning our chromosomes on a daily basis. “Are we intersex, or is it just the miscarriage?”

The doctor tells us the test results. Typical estrogen levels of a female. This gets hypogonadism and hypergonadism off the list, but leaves us wondering if maybe our estrogen receptors are atypical. But we don’t ask for that to be checked, because it would cost money.

Every day, we wonder about our estrogen receptors. Our chromosomes. What our reproductive organs look like internally. “Are we intersex, or is it just the miscarriage?”

We are microdosing on testosterone. Our body has changed into a more androgynous one, and is continuing to change. We still have a few surgeries we desire, but there’s no rush for it. This is progress.

We are made fun of for our androgynous sex. No matter which headmate is fronting, they are always misgendered. No bathroom welcomes us without discomfort from those who do not know us. 

“Are we intersex, or is it just the miscarriage?” plagues us every time we introduce ourselves in queer spaces. It plagues us every time we look at intersex experiences and relate to them. 

What right do we have to push ourselves into the intersex community, when we have no evidence we belong there?

We were not born on the agenital spectrum. We were not born with ambiguous genitalia. We were not born with urethral variations. We don’t have hypogonadism. We don’t have hypergonadism.

We have no external evidence of any intersex variation.

“Do we have the right to push ourselves into the intersex community, when we have no evidence we belong there?”

This question haunts us more and more, as we are accused by endosex allies of invading intersex spaces. “Stop making intersex terms and flags” we are told, while simultaneously being asked by intersex people to create more. “Stop acting like you can speak for the intersex community” we are told, when sharing information we learned and compiled from intersex people and resources.

We try to ignore the endosex people who make demands of us. But we are left wondering if they are right…until another intersex person reaches out to request more.

Until another person reaches out to tell us they have discovered they are intersex through our posts. That they had no idea their traits were atypical, or had no idea that they could call themself intersex. (This has happened over 20 times now, on Tumblr & Reddit combined.)

Are we intersex?

Who knows.

That's not the point of this post.

Our experience is just another example of how difficult it is for people - especially intersex people - to learn about their own biology.

Hormone tests, chromosome tests, organ scans…these things should be standard practice in children and teenagers. Nobody should be left uninformed of their own body.

You shouldn't have to jump through diagnostic and financial hoops to know what is happening to you.

The government (in any country) needs to normalize proper sexual and reproductive healthcare. Standardize it. Make it so typical that it becomes expected and planned for. Make it where the word "intersex" is understood by anyone who can comprehend language.

You should have the right to your own body.

[queer-goldcrest-of-the-void]

Reblog to save a life.

If you are in this situation, get help and leave.

[nerdyenby]

I get most of my news either online or from a newsletter I subscribe to, but I’m feeling pretty good right now about our democratic candidates so I sat down to watch Walz’s debut at the Philadelphia rally and here are the highlights (imo, of course)

“Before I was elected vice president or elected a United States senator, I was an elected attorney general, and, before that, an elected district attorney and, before that, I was a courtroom prosecutor. So in those roles, I took on perpetrators of all kinds: predators who abused women, fraudsters who scammed consumers, cheaters who broke the rules for their own gain. So hear me when I say: I know Donald Trump’s type.” -KH

KH talking about fighting for a future where every American can afford to own a home hit me so hard. Why is that such a fantasy? Why have I never even considered it possible?

I am obsessed with the confidence, this is the energy I need. We have plenty of reasons to be afraid but goddamn did I need someone to stand up and calmly declare that we will be okay, and I am so fucking glad it’s a Black woman.

A history teacher as our next VP <3

Their motif of fighting for the future is so much more potent coming from a woman of color and a man who has dedicated so much of his life to youth and to supporting them and their futures. Like damn, maybe the kids really will be okay. Fighting poverty, securing free school lunches for kids, protecting bodily autonomy, and founding his schools first GSA as a straight white man? I don’t know much about Walz but what I’ve learned so far has earned him a lot of respect in my book.

Fuck, Harris talking about Walz’s background and reputation in his school has me tearing up.

“We will win.” Okay, yeah, I’m crying now. These two make me feel so safe, it’s not fair I’ve never felt this way before.

Friendly reminder that one of our main political candidates does not value disabled lives and will openly say as much. Trump wants us dead, don’t let him win.

“Tim and I have a message for Trump and others who want to turn back the clock on our fundamental freedoms: we’re not going back.” -KH

“After Roe was overturned [TW] was the first governor in the country to sign a new law that enshrined reproductive freedom as a fundamental right.” -KH

“Ultimately in this election, we each face a question: what kind of country do we want to live in? A county of freedom, compassion, and rule of law or a country of chaos, fear, and hate?” -KH

“We love our country, and I believe it is the highest form of patriotism to fight for the ideals of our country.” -KH

“Don’t ever underestimate teachers.” -TW (preach)

“It was my students, they encouraged me to run for office. They saw in me what I was hoping to instill in them: a commitment of common good, a belief that one person can make a difference.” -TW

“Now, Donald Trump sees the world a little differently than us. First of all, he doesn’t know the first thing about service. He doesn’t have time for it because he’s too busy serving himself. Again and again and again, Trump weakens our economy to strengthen his own hand. He mocks our laws, he sows chaos and division, and that’s to say nothing of his record as president.” -TW

“Some of us in here are old enough to remember — I see you down there, I see those old white guys — some of us are old enough to remember when it was republicans who were talking about freedom. It turns out now what they meant was the government should be free to invade your doctors office. In Minnesota, we respect our neighbors and their personal choices that they make. Even if we wouldn’t make the same choice for ourselves, there’s a golden rule: mind your own damn business. ” -TW

“When Vice President and I talk about freedom, we mean the freedom to make your own healthcare decisions and for our children to be free to go to school without worrying they’ll be shot dead in their classrooms.” -TW

“Vice President Harris’s idea: freedom is a ticket, for education to be that ticket to the middle class. Not crippling debt, air that’s clean, water that’s pure, communities that are safe.” -TW

TW: “Donald Trump isn’t fighting for you or your family-” random audience member: “You are!” Walz: *allows himself a breath of a laugh before continuing on just as strong as before*

“I gotta tell you, pointing out just an observation of mine that I made, I just have to say it. You know it, you feel it [the republican candidates] are creepy and, yes, just weird as hell.” -TW

“So we got 91 days. My god, that’s easy. Well sleep when we’re dead! Over those next 91 days and every day in the White House, I’ll have Vice President Harris’s back, every single day, and we’ll have yours.” -TW

This is the broadcast I watched

[badgalsasuke]

Fujoshis fetishize gay men?

So this is more of an opinion essay/think piece on the never ending discourse regarding whether fujoshis fetishize gay men or not.

TW: discussions of rape and other forms of sexual assault. Crude language too.

First things first, let's define what is a fujoshi. The word fujoshi, which literally means ‘rotten’ and connotes the presumed, perversions of women who fantasize about male-male eroticism (Pagliassotti, 2013) are also widely considered to be heterosexual women who seek erotic content of homosexual men to fulfill their own sexual fantasies through a different lense, one that by removing the female character found in heterosexual romances, allows women to indulge in "perverted" writing without feeling the urge to condemn the text that'd otherwise happen if it was a fictional woman going through these scenarios.

Think of the amount of BL works depicting rape, kidnapping, sexual acts with dubious consent, physical assault such as choking or slapping and other forms of violence. In BL works these acts tend to be presented as desirable. The bottom, who is usually the one subjected to this violence, will say no to these acts but the top will ignore the pleads because he knows deep down the bottom desires what is happening to him. There lies the fantasy.

Under patriarchy women have a deeply complicated relationship with sex. As a woman you can exist as either the whore or the madonna. Women who enjoy sex proudly and loudly are quickly labelled as whores and thus degraded by both men and other women, becoming outcasts of society; for women sexuality is shameful and must be hidden at all costs but this of course, doesn't stop women from having sexual desires and urges. This creates a very interesting phenomenon; you want to mantain your respectability as a woman because you're not like one of those sluts that actively seek to be degraded through sex and penetration (all sex is degrading when you're penetrated, that is the patriarchal view of sex), but you still desire to be touched and feel physical pleasure so women end up developing "taboo" sexual fantasies, acts that normally you would be disgusted at, except in the privacy of your mind.

Naturally, the erotic content aimed at women consists for the the most part of a woman forced or coerced into sexual acts that she deep downs know she enjoys and actually wants. You cannot be a slut this way, you did not open your legs for a man he did it! her forced you! you didn't want to do the things he made you do because you're so pure you could have not thought about them in the first place! but he still made you reach an orgasm, didn't he? Women become passive agents during sex to avoid the stigmatization of slutshaming.

This of course is a reproduction of rape culture in media and is the reason why so many women became detractors of heterosexual erotica. That's where BL comes into question; take the female character out of the equation and instead insert a male character with a preference for penetration and have him go through the same stuff, bonus points if he's very feminine looking. The character is still being assaulted and violated but by making him a man instead of a woman you distance him from the female audience thus minimazing the guilt and shame women'd get from reading such stories.

It's no surprise that these stories have become so popular among women, they have the erotic taboo elements so many fantasize about while making sure women don't see themselves directly in the abuse.

This is the issue that gay men in real life have with fujoshis and BL as a whole. And I get it.

It's understandable why gay men find unappealing the idea of being used as self-inserts put through grueling scenarios to fulfill somebody else's sexual fantasies and that somebody else being someone that will never have to go through the struggles of a gay person will, similar to lesbians not liking being objectified in porn by straight men for the pleasure of other straight men.

There's other cases of marginalized communities being used as some type of doll for sexual scenarios, for example black men who are often fetishized over their penises by white people to the point there's a whole porn category for it: "my wife tries a BBC in front of me", "Twink destroyed by a BBC", "Sucking a BBC for the first time", and many more titles likes that in every porn site you can find. Asian women are also fetishized by westerners, they're attributed naivety and innocence traits and are portrayed as naturally submissive to fulfill a borderline pedophilic fantasy. Latinos deal with fetishization too, as a Mexican myself I can attest that latinas and latinos have been painted as oversexual beings that always want to have sex and are always down to have sex with anyone available.

All this fetishization leads to dehumanization of the group you're protraying in your erotic works or media so of course it will have its detractors.

So yes, I can acknowledge the feelings of gay men regarding certain BL stories. Those certain stories definitely dominate the BL market but here's where I have to say those are not the only type of stories you can find in BL and that's not fully what the term fujoshi encompasses.

I mentioned at the beginning of this post that fujoshis are considered to be mostly straight women. I think that is an unfair generalization to make, there's also queer women and trans people, both men and women, that proclaim themselves as fujoshis who have found a safe space in BL fan communities to explore sexuality hand in hand with GL content and communities. After all BL is still queer content that can be and is enjoyed by queer people.

Aditionally, I don't think there's anything inherently wrong with straight women enjoying queer content. In the same way queer people can enjoy media depicting heterosexual romance I believe straight people can also enjoy queer media. There's a difference between a someone who's fetishizing a group of people and someone who's engaging with gay media like they would for any other type of media. I do find it to be a dangerous path to act like it's wrong for heterosexual people to enjoy queer media and push them away from it, queer media should be consumed as much as straight media.

This aversion to straight women who enjoy mlm stories has led to shippers of mlm pairings from media that's not sold as BL (Naruto, JJK, etc.) to frantically trying to prove they're not a straight girl. Again, it defitnitely needs to be told that not everyone who ships mlm is a straight girl, these are still queer spaces occupied by queer people, however there's still nothing wrong if you're a straight girl that ships mlm because anyone can (or should be able to) notice queer subtext, which leads to my next point.

When it comes to online discourse surrounding fujoshis it's always presumed that mlm ships from non-bl works came to be because a silly horny straight girl saw two boys breathe next to each other and decided they would look hot together regardless of how they're actually written in their respective canon works, I'm sure there's definitely some mlm ships out there that abide by these standards but not all of them do. I've noticed that when it comes to mlm ships that aren't endgame but have actual homoromantic writing in their canon work homophobes tend to weaponize the term fujoshi against its shippers, hence the frantic need in so many mlm shippers to prove that they're not the stereotypical fujoshi.

I believe that is the harmful fujoshi stereotype here, not that straight girls like to ship boys with other boys but that the shipping is shallow. There is this assumption that no one takes homoromantic and homoerotic writing seriously and everybody is just here for the shits and giggles, which I find quite frankly offensive. It's anti-intellectualism to pretend there's no place for interpretations through queer lenses of any type of media.

As a SNS shipper I can guarantee everybody that's not in the Naruto fandom that shippers in this community take queer analyses and readings of the manga seriously here. Sure, some people joined because they thought both Naruto and Sasuke looked cute together or because they accidentally kissed and presumed that moment to be fujoshi fanservice but once they're in they start seeing all the queer writing in the actual manga. SNS isn't the only ship where this occurs.

SNS shippers care about the writing of the manga and its characters perhaps more than any other subfandom in the fandom, to the point several shippers were able to predict what was gonna happen in the manga years before it actually happened.

On top of all that we have endless metas, masterposts, essays and manifestos that show SNS shippers having such deep understading of Kishimoto's writing and the characters he's created. SNS fanworks have dialogues that are exactly what the characters would actually say, in the case of By My Side even the panels are the same, you can read the full doujinshi here. For more examples of other doujinshi predicting manga chapters click here.

Fetishizers can't predict the writing of a piece of work because they wouldn't care about the writing in the first place, they're just here to see two guys suck each other off.

So when the term fujoshi is weaponized by het!shippers towards mlm shippers (not just SNS shippers) I find what they're actually trying to do is shut down any and every queer reading of media and to paint all shippers as shallow & mindlessly horny morons in an attempt to delegitimize us and our arguments. You know how it goes "why does everything have to be gay? why can't they just be friends? y'all always turn everything gay". In some cases they take it a step further and start accusing mlm shippers of supporting incest to the point they've even created the term "pseudo-incest" that supposedly represents two men with no blood relation but have such a close relationship they could be brothers (so basically, not incest). What is funny is that this term is exclusively reserved for mlm ships, you'll never hear anyone use it for a f/m ship where both characters have refered to each other as siblings even if they don't have blood relation. Textbook homophobia.

Queer and straight people can spot queer subtext (that sometimes isn't subtext but actual text), this does not make them fetishizers, to imply such to silence their analyses is homophobic.

So, if you're a straight girl who noticed the queer subtext of any media then don't be ashamed or scared of it because you liked it, don't let the homophobes corner you, *you* are the one who understood the text. And if you're a queer person then defend your stance even more proudly, don't be one of those pick-me gays that go "well, I'm gay/bi and I don't see it as gay" just because they want acceptance from the homophobes. Inquire, question the status quo, look deeper into the meaning of things, I promise you once you spot the first sign of gayness you will find more layers to it.

Finally, regarding the explicit sexual content in gay media:

Y'all have very weird opinions on bottoming. I already posted about it here. But basically y'all need to stop seeing the bottom as the girl of the relationship and need to stop seeing being penetrated as an act of humilliation. I know some people like when the traditional top/bottom dynamic is subverted (I do too!) y'know when they make the top shorter than the bottom, or the top is the feminine one or stuff like that but you gotta keep in mind that no matter how they look, they're still both men so it's still a gay ship, the bottom being a feminine man doesn't make him a girl, that's still a man.

Likewise, there's nothing wrong with explicit sexual content. Over the past couple years people have taken this weird almost puritanical stance on sex scenes not just of gay media but all media where they just want them to not be included at all and it's just bizarre, there's nothing wrong with sex (and no, you're not being oppressed or traumatized by a movie because it has sex scenes my god).

Personally, I will always defend sex scenes in gay media. Give me more The Handmaiden idgaf. Gay sex has been taboo, criminalized and hidden for decades, it should now be CELEBRATED and SHOWCASED as the act of love it is as much as straight sex. Furthermore, you don't have to choose one or the other when it comes to gay media that's sexual and the one that keeps its rating PG-13. You can have both, you should fight and demand to have both, you can have your Heartstopper and your Interview With The Vampire. I really don't like when some people go "finally a show where the gays aren't always f*cking" I sense sinister vibes...

This might be perhaps a hot take but I also don't think we should shy away from queer stories that depict sexual abuse either. I understand that they can be triggering for some people but this should not lead to censorship which can be quite arbitrary and cause the persecution of creatives that wish to explore sexulity beyond the confines of what's "proper" or "adequate".

Oh also, maybe we shouldn’t generalize the entire BL industry as an industry that only produces “problematic” stories, there’s a lot of variety out there and it’s actually really easy to find. But the problematic stories should still exist, again I'm not calling for censorship but rather a different aproach to our engagement with these stories.

In conclusion, some fujoshis definitely have weird behaviours towards actual gay men and the way they choose to depict them in their works but also the term fujoshi has been weaponized to silence queer readings of media and art by homophobes, the two can co-exist.

Reference:

Pagliassotti Dru., Boys’ Love manga special section, Journal of Graphic Novels and Comics (2013)

[ariel-seagull-wings]

@themousefromfantasyland

–Pictorial Romances #18

Notable for being a story from the 1950′s about a teenage mother who is, for all intents and purposes, single when the story picks up, the rest of this gorgeously drawn and unusually long romance is behind the jump along with some lengthy commentary.

Continuar lendo

[chocobochaserstories]

Turk Omegaverse Headcanons Part Two

Characters: Veld, Tseng, Rufus Or the three that got this ball rolling. A little more of a story than an actual headcannons post. TW/CW: Teen pregnancy, mentions of termination, implied physical abuse, Shinra Senior being a POS, swearing bc why not, mentions of birth control

Veld

Of all the things he expected out of Tseng, the one that the alpha did NOT expect was the younger alpha telling him he’d gotten an omega pregnant at sixteen.

After debating whether or not to strangle Tseng, he decided that the young alpha could use a little less scolding and a little more guidance.

His first item of business was figuring out who the poor omega was, and if they were at least close to Tseng in age.

Upon figuring out who it was… Tseng’s sudden request to be transferred to Junon made a lot more sense.

Tseng

Tseng used protection. Let’s start off there. 

Tseng was super careful and this was by no means his first time helping Rufus out with his heat cycles. 

They were both being careful, given that Rufus was fifteen, Tseng was sixteen. Being fifteen, Rufus was too young to legally be on hormonal birth control so condoms and spermicidal lube it is.

That… obviously didn’t work.

Tseng’s first reaction is to try and get Veld to transfer him from Midgar to Junon, given that around the same time, President Shinra exiled Rufus to Junon.

Tseng was at first pretty shocked, I mean, he’s a sixteen year old alpha, but he thought he had been incredibly safe every time.

Rufus

To start with, Rufus was already getting his ass exiled to Junon. That wasn’t even related to the pregnancy at first. It was simply his dad found out about him funding Elfe and Avalanche to screw him over. The unexpected pregnancy was just the icing on the cake and nail in the coffin.

Plan A was demanding Rufus terminate. Sure, abortions are more than a little illegal to omegas without the consent of their alpha, but Rufus was fifteen and it wouldn’t be anywhere close to the shadiest shit Shinra had pulled. 

Rufus of course, refused to terminate the pregnancy and that got him kicked in the abdomen and left on the floor of the office curled up in the fetal position. In that moment, he wasn’t the cocky vice president who was pretending to be an alpha in the public eye; he was a terrified omega acting on instinct to protect the unborn pup.

He ended up having a little girl in Junon, just happy that his mate could be there for the pup’s birth.

He and Tseng decided (maybe a little stupidly) to have a second pup two-ish years later, and having two pups in less than three years was incredibly stressful on Rufus’ reproductive system since he wasn’t actually old enough to be having pups safely.

He was a little cocky since he got away from the first pup unscathed. The second was a tiny preemie born six weeks early and caused a myriad of reproductive concerns that left it pretty difficult for Rufus to have anymore pups after his two daughters.

And you can bet your buttons that Shinra Senior was an ass about it, being pissed that Rufus had two granddaughters and not one single heir. He didnt’t care if one of these female pups came up to be an alpha, Shinra needed to be passed on to a male alpha in his eyes, which Rufus called bullshit on.

Rufus was just a happy mama of two sweet little girls, and as was Tseng. In that moment, the tough Turk and bratty Vice President were the proud parents of Emma and Elena.

[joestarkisser]

tw// fatphobia, abuse, pregnancy mention

This fat pride day, I want to give a shoutout to fat selfshippers who..

Are getting pressured to diet, fast, or restrict food from friends, family, or even society.

Are trying to gain weight, but only find weight loss recipes when searching for tips.

Are unable to find any clothes they like in their size.

Are being stared at and treated as lesser as they go about their day today.

Are having weight loss surgeries pushed on them. Again.

Are being pushed around and bullied for their size.

Are being denied gender affirming surgeries due to their size.

Are too afraid to stand up to abuse because they want to be a 'good example', lest they cause people to hate fat folk more.

Are being fed fear-mongering stories about fat pregnancy, fertility, and virility in their reproductive journies.

Are being told they won't be good parents because they're fat.

Are losing their jobs and careers because of their size.

Are having their disabilities blamed on fatness.

Are being ignored and pushed aside by doctors, with their symptoms being chalked up to 'fat'.

Are having trouble loving their bodies because of their size.

Are struggling to think their F/Os would love them in their fat bodies.

And so much more.

Your F/Os love you. They see you. They understand your pain, your struggles, the injustices you're facing in a fatphobic society. They adore you, adore your body, and will care for and protect you. They'll give anything to keep you safe from this oppression, and they'll be doing their damndest to make this fat pride day special for you. ❤🎀

[satanic-faggotry]

Oh my fucking fuck I hate reddit so much. Very horrible posts under the cut

TW: Serious ableism, eugenics, abuse, denial of reproductive rights, forced sterilization

"Oh, we yelled at her all the time for being disabled and pressured get into an abortion and ignored her when she stood up for herself. I have no idea why they lost guardianship, lol"

And almost everyone in the comments is just. Fully on board with the forced sterilization.

"Primal sexual urges", like she's some wild rapebeast who can't be stopped without literal eugenics.

Or this genius: "I know it's wrong and an abuse of her rights and no same doctor will ever do it, BUT YOU NEED TO TRY HARDER"

"For lack of a better term, horny."

Because as we all know, everyone disabled is a perfect sexless child, they can't really want to have sex, they're too stupid to know what that even is, right?

Anyone who dates to object is downvoted to oblivion too.