#Neonatal death

[steele-soulmate]

Tattooed Wings, CHAPTER 592, Peter Steele & OFC, Soulmate AU

SUMMARY: Mary Claire Bradley meets her soulmate- literally- the famous Peter Steele of metal group Type O Negative. But will obstacles including trauma, stalkers, and toxic family members get in the way of their life?

WARNING: mentions of child rape (nothing graphic) PTSD, milk kink, soft smut, grinding, assault, fingering, hand jobs, blow jobs, 69, P in V sex, blood, noncon rape, violence, death, vandalism, graffiti, attempted kidnapping, break-ins, wild animal attacks, terrorist attack (sabotage) consensual impregnation, bareback, impregnation kink, creampies, terrorist attacks (shootings) hit and run pedestrian accident, precipitous labor, neonatal death, abandoned baby, child intoxication, death of a minor character

WORDS: 1104

“Papa Pete! Mama Wen Wen!”

I chuckled as I dropped to my knees to gift little girl with a late birthday hug.

The little missy’s fifth birthday party was at the local Chuck E Cheeses, and her own, personal table was a happy mess of nineteen little boys and girls from her kindergarten class.

Elizabeth and Elle, Katie and Jing, Baby Tommy, Baby Eve and Baby Noah came in behind Peter and I, my beefcake of a husband wearing the Ratajczyk triplets bundled in on my burly chest.

“Liddle girl!” crowed Baby Tommy, leading the charge to hug his older sister, the four babies colliding into each other and ending up on the ground in a cackling mess.

Peter was laughing as the girls came up to hug the birthday girl next, the both of them sandwiching the tiny five year old between the both of them and their American Girl dollies.

I was well aware of the other moms and some dads whispering amongst themselves, and I knew that they were only lusting after my handsome husband as he was showing little girl’s classmates the tiny little triplets in his arms, his deep, rumbly voice soft and gentle as he interacted with them.

“Your husband is good with kids!”

“He has a bunch of nieces and great nieces, so he already had good practice by the time I met him!” I told the mom with a chuckle.

“I would imagine so- how many kids do you have, anyway?”

“Well…” I huffed out another giggle. “Elizabeth is Peter’s daughter from a previous relationship. Katie is a friend of Elizabeth’s from school, and Peter and I adopted her a few years back. Elle and Jing are the girls’ American Girl mini me dollies. Vanessa Rose, or little girl, as we all call her, is my daughter, who I carried as a surrogate for her daddies, and Peter is her godfather and favorite person in the whole wide world. Baby Tommy is our son, Baby Eve is our adopted daughter and Baby Noah is our nephew. The triplets- Baby Mattie, Baby Teddy and Baby Jojo- are the last of the Ratajczyk kids.”

“Oh? Has that been determined for certain?”

“Peter had a vasectomy last year, so yes,” I frowned at her. “It has been written, and so the fates have been decided. And so it had been written.”

“Oh.”

Little girl was now introducing her younger siblings to her peermeates, with Baby Tommy very clearly becoming overwhelmed. He tucked his head into his arms, folding himself into his older sister’s back, creating an absolutely adorable sight, which I snapped with my cell phone to post onto my social media at a later date.

“Hihi James! Hihi Aaron!” I greeted my daughter’s daddies with affectionate hugs.

“Hihi, Mary Claire!” James greeted me, sporting a Triceratops like appearance with three hot pink party hats strapped to his head. “How are things?”

“Doing good!” I answered him, watching as my husband commanded the attention of the kiddos and their parents with an easy smile on his handsomely bearded face. “I regained all of my hearing back, by the way!”

“Yay yay!” cheered James, chuckling as the last round of little girl’s little school friends came up to the table, a surly little man, who threw a wrapped present onto the table, hanging back as his mother tried to gently force him to interact with the others. “Oh, Chrisopher is here- can you ask Peter to keep an eye on him? He’s a wild kid- he’s already been in trouble for pushing four different kids on the school playground. I only invited him because I didn’t want him to feel left out.”

“James, it’s not a crime to lay down a boundary,” I sighed, keeping an eye on the pouting little man. “You are allowed to say to the parents, I don’t feel comfortable about hosting Cristopher at little girl’s birthday party. And if his parent doesn’t respect your boundary, you just walk away.”

“Noted,” he grinned at me, stooping to place his chin on my shoulder. “I wish I had your backbone.”

“I only developed my backbone after meeting Peter,” I shrugged, watching as Christopher pushed himself out of his mom’s arms and sulked to sit at an empty seat, staring down at his neatly folded hands. “I kind of had to, especially after all the traumatizing shit that the both of us had been through!”

The both of us shared a chuckle, turning back to Aaron as he tucked his cell phone away in his back pocket.

“Sorry, my work never ends,” he chuckled, joining us and turning to look out at the kids.

Just then, a person in a fluffy gray costume came out through a door.

“CHUCK E CHEESES!” screeched someone, causing for the kids to race over and knock the giant mouse down onto the ground in their joy at seeing the costumed mascot.

Christoper went over and kicked at the back paw of the fallen mouse, being rewarded by his mother’s sharp voice calling out his name.

“He sure does seems to be a handful,” I hummed in a soft voice as little girl leaned in and pressed a sweet kiss to the mouse’s nose. “Good job being gentle, little girl!”

TAGLISTS ARE OPEN/ ASK BOX IS OPEN/ REQUESTS ARE OPEN/ PLOT BUNNIES ARE WELCOMED

If you liked this, then please consider buying me a coffee HERE It only costs $3!!!

PETER STEELE TAGLIST

@rock-a-noodle

@ch3rry-c01a

[dbaydenny]

Simultaneous

life, death, accomplishments scant,

a few fruitless breaths,

a sorrowful purpose stamped

on the souls of the parents.

.

D W Eldred

[dr-anadeep-chandi]

Poor Personal Hygiene And Biological Non-Diversity Can Decline Fertility

[mexicanistnet]

Fetal and neonatal deaths in Mexico reveal inequalities in care. These silent tragedies, often preventable, demand attention. Preconception care, quality prenatal support, and awareness are key to a future where every mother and child thrives.

[govic17]

Covid-19 -- How Bad Can It Get?

This Medscape report carries a cautionary note that it is only for medical professionals. Why? Because something “rare” and terrible has happened and the medical community doesn’t understand how widespread the risk is. What happened? Two pregnant women in Florida became infected with the SARS-CoV-2 virus (Delta version) in the second or third trimester of pregnancy. One mother had severe…

[xollii]

Why would the "terrorists" leave firearms in the MRI lab I've seen cops plant better evidence

[prvtocol]

do they own any sentimental objects? why are they sentimental?

THE REAL IMPORTANT CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT QUESTIONS

The last tangible items of her son, which she lost 14 days after giving birth. The hand and footprints, a lock of hair, a hospital swaddling cloth, the birth and death certificates, a small lamb plush she bought (and the only item from the nursery she kept), a commemoration card with a photograph tucked inside of her holding him for the last time. His ashes are in London in the family plot, but these are stored away in a white lacquer memory box in a wall closet in her office. Inside are a few other sentimental items from a time when her life looked different; she was married, she was planning to start a family, work was not her life.

People will ask if she is a mother and someone once told her to say she was rather than say no, but somehow it is easier to not say anything. To keep these memories locked away from others as she does in that box since it feels like a different life now. But his name was Hunter William after her grandfather, Willian Hunter Landry. The doctors said they could fix him; the birth defects to his heart and lungs caused by an unlisted and rare side effect of a Biotechnica hormone blocker she was taking when she got pregnant. But his little body wasn’t strong enough to sustain the surgeries and treatments. Holding onto hope throughout the pregnancy and the weeks after as she did, changed how she holds onto hope currently. She learned to not do so readily. But these objects are cherished even if they still hurt spending time with.

*In our triple V. plot, I hc that she requests Vince or Viv to retrieve some personal items from her repossessed estate post-dismissal from Arasaka and this box is the most relevant item on her list. 

[munson-blurbs]

Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

Summary: Eddie's past in Chicago is revealed after he reaches his breaking point, but he's not the only one facing a crisis.

Warnings: mentions of drug use/addiction, neonatal medical trauma, panic attack, mentions of learning disability, brief allusion to Kurt Cobain's death, Reader's grandma has dementia.

WC: 7.2k

Chapter 7/20

Scruffy!Eddie edit credit to @vexed-n-hexed Divider credit to @saradika

Eddie was no stranger to bad report cards, failing grades, and dissatisfied teachers. You don’t fail twelfth grade twice without dealing with all three of those. He’d learned to shrug it off and move along with his day, mostly unfazed.

Those same things directed towards his son was a different story.

Ms. Marion’s words rattle around in his brain, wrapping around his lungs and choking him from the inside out.

Constantly interrupting 

His heartbeat pulses in his ears, drowning out the background noise of other parents chatting as they wait their turn to meet with the teachers.

Incapable of paying attention and following directions

A bead of sweat trickles down the back of his neck to his spine, then another, until he feels his t-shirt sticking to his skin. Despite the stifling heat building up in his body, his teeth chatter together noisily as a deep shiver rips through him.

Socially and academically behind his peers

He knew this day might come; he should’ve been prepared for it to happen. Has he only been fooling himself, pretending like everything was going to be fine?

At this rate, he won’t be ready for kindergarten

Eddie swears he’s walking to the parking lot, one foot in front of the other, keys clenched in his right hand until he feels their serrated edges digging into the calloused skin of his palm. Yet he finds himself at your classroom door jamb, leaning up against it with a soft thud.

You’re struggling to stay awake after the long day you’ve had. You roll your shoulders, wincing as you hear the small pop. You’ve just finished the last conference with Frankie’s mom, Carol, and she was a bitch and a half. She’d insisted that her son was gifted and demanded that you recommend he start kindergarten early.

A noise draws your attention to the door, and you’re suddenly wide awake when you see who’s there.

“What’re you doing–hey, what’s going on?” Your curiosity morphs into concern when you clock Eddie’s ragged breathing and tear-streaked face. He’s repeating something, but his voice is so low that the words resemble a hum, and you can’t catch them until you get closer to him. 

“Harris–falling behind–all my fault.” Eddie speaks as though he’s in a trance. His brown eyes are saucers, and more tears fall with each blink of his eyelids. “Falling behind–all my fault.”

You haven’t the slightest idea what he’s referring to, but you do know that you need to get him inside the classroom before anyone else sees him breaking down. You reach for his wrist, and he instinctively flinches and pulls away before seemingly snapping back to reality and resting his hand in yours. One calloused palm trembles in your smooth one as you lead him to the table where you’d just been speaking with Carol Perkins, only letting go to steady himself into the chair.

“Falling behind–all my fault.”

You take both of his hands this time, and he doesn’t draw back when you do. “Eyes on me, okay? We’re gonna breathe together.” It’s the same technique that you’d used with Harris on Halloween. In for three, out for three. Eddie watches you a few times before joining in, breath hitching slightly before evening out. “There ya go…here, let me get you something to eat.” You offer him a small, kind smile that he doesn’t reciprocate before rummaging through the bottom drawer of your desk and pulling out a little bag of mini pretzels and a half-pint of water. “These good?”

He manages a nod, eyes locked onto you even as he twists open the snack and absentmindedly pops one in his mouth. He’s still in a daze, but no longer at risk of hyperventilating. “Can you tell me what’s going on?” you cautiously ask, not wanting to trigger another panic attack.

A solid ten seconds passes before he answers. When he finally does, the hoarseness in his voice startles you. “Could you, um, close the door?” 

“Of course.” The wheels of your swivel chair skid against the tile floor, but Eddie’s too engrossed in his own thoughts to notice. When you return to your seat, he doesn’t even register your presence until you say, “whenever you’re ready.”

“I, um,” he clears his throat. “I just had the parent-teacher conference thing with Ms. Marion. And, apparently, Harris is destined for failure, just like his old man.”

He relays everything the old woman told him; the racing thoughts all spill out like bees fleeing their hive. 

“She starts off by saying that he’s already behind the other kids, which may not seem like a big deal now, but, apparently, it means he’ll fall farther behind as he grows up.” He gnaws on his lower lip and continues. “And then she said that him interrupting and not paying attention is because he ‘lacks structure at home,’” he adds with a grimace. 

“But y’know what really fuckin’ got me?” he asks, rubbing his hands over his jean-clad knees until his palms are tinged red. “She said to me, ‘Some kids aren’t cut out for school, and if Harris is struggling with preschool, it’ll be a long road ahead of him.” Eddie’s eyes are shiny with the prospect of a fresh batch of tears. “What the hell am I supposed to say to that?”

You try to quell your temper for the sake of professionalism, but your boiling blood makes it almost impossible. “None of that is true. Harris having trouble doesn’t make him impossible to teach. And it doesn’t make you a bad parent.”

Eddie can’t manage eye contact when he says, “But what if I’m the reason why he’s having trouble?” His voice is so small that you can barely hear it.

“I’ve taught a lot of kids with a lot of different needs, and none of them–”

“You’re not listening!” Eddie slams his fist on the desk, rattling your jar of pencils, and you reach out to steady it. His eyes blaze with fury, but this time, it’s not towards you. “It is my fault, because I am a bad parent! I let this happen!”

You crease your brows. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” What, exactly, is his fault? What could he possibly have done?

Eddie shakes his head despondently. “I-I didn’t know…Harris’s mom, she…Christ, it’s a long story.” But you can practically see the words on the tip of his tongue, just waiting for permission to be spoken.

So you give it to him.

“You can talk to me,” you murmur, resisting the urge to grab his hand and lace your fingers through his. Just to comfort him, you tell yourself. “You can trust me.”

Eddie lets out a slow, low breath and looks up at the ceiling. There’s a long silence; for a moment, you worry that you’ve said something wrong. Overstepped your bounds. Harris technically isn’t your student anymore, and God only knows where you and Eddie stand. 

Finally, Eddie begins to speak. “I met her out in Chicago when I was twenty-four? Twenty-five? She was a groupie, I guess. We never said we were seeing each other exclusively, but after a while, I realized that she was the only person I was sleeping with, so…” He shrugs. “A couple nights before my band and I left for tour, she told me she was pregnant. Too far along to, um, do anything about it. She apparently didn’t even think to test until she complained about gaining some weight and her friend brought it up.” His gaze shifts to the window over his right shoulder, and all you hear is the sound of his sneakered feet nervously tapping a fast rhythm against the tiled floor. “Look, I’m not proud of this, but I used to party. A lot. And at these parties, there were, um…”

“Drugs?” you supply before you can bite back the comment, clenching your fists at your side where he can’t see you chastising yourself.

Eddie just laughs, a throaty chuckle that escapes despite the seriousness of the conversation. “A shit-ton of ‘em. I was partial to coke; helped me stay awake when I wanted to crash. But I swear, I only used when I was partying. And when I found out I had a kid on the way, I stopped using completely. Cleanest tour of my life.” His lips turn up in a semblance of a smile that doesn’t come close to reaching his eyes. “Figured she’d do the same…she said she would, but…”

Your heart sinks; you know exactly where this is going, but you don’t dare interrupt him this time.

“I was at some dive bar in Cincinnati when I got the call that she was in labor; ran right off the stage and caught the first flight back home. I got there in time to watch him be born; and it was the best goddamn moment of my stupid life, until…” His voice breaks on the last word, and he can’t stop the tears from leaking out of his eyes. Or maybe he doesn’t want to. “He was six weeks early. Fuck, I shoulda known, but I was just so excited to be a dad. He was shaking so hard that his tiny little body was practically blurry, and, like a total moron, I’m going, ‘Is he cold? Does he need a blanket?’ No one would answer me; they just fuckin’ whisked him away before I could even hold him. And when they brought him back, they told me that he tested positive for cocaine and had something called Neonatal Abstinence Syndrome because of it. Said it can affect his learning, his attention span, everything. Kid wasn’t even two hours old and I’d already fucked him up.”

Your response seems meek; far too pathetic for the intensity of what he’s just admitted. “But it was his mom…”

He tucks his lips into his mouth, pressing them together until the outer edges turn white. 

“Yeah, she was the one using,” he relents, but his tone is so thick with self-loathing that you couldn’t claw through it if you tried. “But where the fuck was I? On the road, thinking I could be a rockstar and take care of a family. If I had stayed back, I could’ve stopped her. I would’ve seen that she wasn’t just doing it at parties or shows; she was an addict. I could’ve gotten her help; I could’ve saved my son from being born a goddamn coke addict!”

“You can’t make someone stop doing drugs,” you say feebly, though you’re certain he already knows this.

“But I could’ve done something! Fucking anything! And it would’ve been better than not being there.”

You have to choose your next words wisely, mulling them on your tongue before talking. “Is she still involved in Harris’s life?” 

He shakes his head forlornly. “I invited her to his first birthday party, and she came, surprisingly. All the way from Chicago. I thought maybe she was getting her life together. Then, right before we were gonna cut the cake, she came out of the bathroom with white residue under her nose. I told her to leave and not to come back until she got clean.” He barks out a gruff laugh, as though he still can’t believe it. “Haven’t heard from her since.”

You don’t know how to respond to this. It’s going to be okay seems too patronizing, because nothing about this is okay. I’m sorry? What are you sorry for? Harris’s mom is an atrocious excuse for a human being, and so is Ms. Marion? Kind of tips the balance towards the unprofessionalism you’re striving to avoid.

Eddie continues, not noticing your failure to respond. “The doctors would tell me that he was developing slower than he should be–walking and talking and stuff–but he always got there eventually. But hearing his teacher say that he wouldn’t…fuck, if that’s true, I’ll never forgive myself.” He puffs out his cheeks as he exhales; tendrils of hair flow upwards and flutter back down with the exaggerated breath, and you realize that he’s trying to ward off another crying spell.

You can’t remove the guilt that eats him alive, but maybe he’s not asking you to. “I’ve never met a more determined little kid than Harris Munson,” you say truthfully. “Name one time that boy gave up.”

“For better or for worse, I can’t think of any.” His eyes still don’t meet yours, but you see a flicker of happiness at the mention of Harris’s perseverance before his expression darkens again. “Call me stupid; that’s fine. But my son is gonna be better than I ever was.”

Your heart pangs with sympathy when he puts himself down. “You’re not stupid.” He bristles at your reassurance, puzzling you even more. “What?”

Eddie runs his tongue over his teeth. “That’s not what you said before.” The comment isn’t accusatory, just a simple fact, as though he’s talking about the weather. “On the first day of school, you told me to leave before I said anything else ‘ridiculously stupid.’”

“I just–”

“Look, I’m not saying the Cat-and-Mouse is the nicest thing to do,” he interrupts, cheeks aflame at the mere mention of it, “but I guess it really fucked with me for someone I…someone I just met…to call me stupid.” The phrasing is clunky and awkward, and he sinks his teeth into the tip of his tongue in a paltry attempt to stop the word flow.

You take in his shameful expression, mulling over a response. Knowing what you know now–that his little game was a poorly-designed coping mechanism after being put through the wringer–your comment was harsher than he deserved. “I was hurt, and I…I should’ve just said so. I don’t think you’re stupid.”

“Just an asshole?” He tilts his head, finally looking at you. The corners of his mouth turn up to form his first smile of the evening.

“Just an asshole,” you confirm playfully. Another silence fills the room, only interrupted by Eddie crunching on the pretzels you gave him. He’s nibbling on them from the outside, as though savoring each bite. “Mr. Munson?”

“Eddie,” he says, crinkling the empty pretzel bag in his fist and tossing it into the nearby waste bin. “Please, just call me Eddie.” Mr. Munson awakens memories of his father; specifically, the way the cops addressed him each time he got arrested for various offenses.

“Eddie.” Though you’d called him that on the night that you two had fooled around, the name feels foreign in your mouth. Too casual for what you’re about to propose. “Eddie, um, back to the stuff with Harris…” You swallow your nerves and push through, knowing that you need to do what’s best for Harris, even if you have to face his dad’s wrath. “If I suggest something, promise you won’t get mad.”

Eddie flinches, but not for the reason you think. No, it’s because he hates that you’re fearful of his reaction. He hates that he’s made you afraid of him. “Fuck. I mean, yeah. I promise.”

“What…what if we talked to the school psychologist about getting him evaluated for a learning disability?” The words tumble out, and you worry that whatever semblance of acquaintanceship will shatter, leaving you unable to pick up all of the pieces. And even if you can, even the best adhesive can leave visible fractures.  

His jaw clenches; his shoulders draw up and biceps flex with a twitch, fight or flight instinct kicking in. This was a horrible idea; he’s already emotional from the conference with Ms. Marion, and now you’ve crossed a line. You’re so caught up in deciphering his body language that you don’t catch his softening eyes as he silently reminds himself that you’re on his side. On Harris’s side, at the very least.

“What does that involve?” he asks. It’s inquisitive, not judgmental, and you permit yourself a small sigh of relief at the narrowly-averted crisis.

You explain the process as Eddie intently listens, nodding to acknowledge that he’s following along. “Nothing invasive; just asking him questions and giving him some tests, and then if he does have a learning disability, we’d figure out what modifications we can make so he can learn alongside the other kids.”

Eddie bites the inside of his cheek, considering your recommendation. “Will they know? The other kids, I mean. Will they know that he needs, like, extra help to learn?” 

“Nope.” You shake your head. “I don’t know how Ms. Marion runs her classroom, but I always emphasize that everyone learns differently anyway.”

He nods, drumming his fingertips on the desk in a rhythm you can’t decipher. “Do you think…if we do the evaluation, would he go to kindergarten on time?”

“Well, as a teacher, I’m not supposed to say. But as a friend,” you shrug, “I think it’s worth a shot.”

As a friend. A friend. Friend. The word reverberates around Eddie’s brain, replaying like a melody he can’t pause. But he doesn’t want to stop it. He wants you to call him your friend over and over again, enveloping him in your kindness, never letting him go. He wants to wrap his arms around you in a hug and bury his face in the crook of your neck, while he laughs or sobs or a combination of both.

Do friends do that? Or is that something more complex than he can allow himself to imagine?

Your voice brings his perseverations to a grinding halt. “And you can be there while they evaluate him. So he won’t have to be alone.”

Another nod, another pregnant pause. He twists his curls around his pointer finger, brushing them over his lips. “Could you come, too?” he murmurs, quickly clarifying, “for Harris?”

“Of course.” You agree without a second thought, watching as his body unstiffens when he leans back in the chair with a sigh. “And if you want, I could tutor him after school once a week. Catch him up and stuff.”

Eddie’s eyes go wide. “You’d do that?”

“Mhm,” you beam. It’s like cracking a complex code after aimlessly spinning the dial, hoping to land on the right combination of numbers. “Just…it would have to be at my place, so I can stay home with Grandma. Medicare only pays for her aide to be there for a certain number of hours. I’m actually paying out of pocket so I could be here tonight.” While you’d initially been annoyed at having to spend your hard-earned money just to talk to ungrateful parents, this time with Eddie has made it worth every penny. 

“Yeah, no problem,” he easily agrees, starting to stand and brushing some rogue pretzel crumbs from his jeans. “Oh, um, how much do you charge? For the tutoring?”

At this, you giggle. “Eddie, you’re not paying me to work with my,” you lower your voice mid-protest, even though the door is closed and no one else is around, “favorite student.”

Eddie crosses his arms over his chest defiantly, denim jacket creasing at the elbows. “Well, I’m not gonna let you work for free, so name your price.”

“Fine,” you huff, feigning annoyance. “It’ll cost one…pizza.”

“Seriously?” Eddie asks, cocking an eyebrow. 

“Seriously,” you confirm, walking to the supply closet and grabbing your coat. The inside of the sleeves are chilly, having not been exposed to the heat churning through the classroom, and the temperature shift makes you shiver. “Saves me from having to worry about making dinner. And Grandma loves pizza, so it’s one less thing for her to argue about.” 

The arguments in question were still happening frequently, though her verbiage was decreasing with each subsequent spat. Last night, you’d told her that she had to turn her TV down so you could sleep. Grandma had repeatedly yelled “no” and “hate you” until you gave up and smushed one half of your pillow over your exposed ear in a pathetic attempt to muffle the sounds of the infomercials blasting from her room. 

“I can do that,” he agrees, following you towards the door and stepping out of the way so you can flick off the light, plunging the classroom into total darkness. “Any toppings?”

You think for a moment, tapping your forefinger to your chin as your other hand rotates the key in the door until you hear the soft click of the lock. You twist the knob just to make sure, only turning from the door once you’ve confirmed that it doesn’t open. “Ooh, we both love olives. Get those.”

Eddie scrunches his nose in disgust. “I’ll do half olives, half plain, so Harris and I won’t have to suffer.”

You stop in your tracks. Eddie’s chest bumps against your back. “Oh, I…” 

“Shit, that wasn’t an invitation, was it?” He’s blushing, cheeks turning a deep crimson at his gaffe. “Sorry, totally misread–”

“No, no, I’d like the company.” You’ve come to appreciate how much easier it is to navigate Grandma’s moods when there are other people around, but you can’t ask someone to endure that just for your comfort. “‘S just that my grandma…well, you saw her at the hospital that night. She says things that are mean, or inappropriate, or don’t make sense…I don’t want Harris to hear that.”

Eddie just laughs, waving off your concern of Harris. “He grew up around me and Wayne. He’ll probably be teaching her some bad words.” 

“Oh, God,” you shudder at the thought of Harris and Grandma swapping swear words. “Then, yeah, I’d love to have you over for dinner. Are Wednesdays at four okay? We can start tomorrow, if that works.”

“Perfect!” Eddie chirps, tossing his car keys upwards and dramatically snatching them mid-air. “I teach guitar lessons, so Wayne’ll drop him off. I’ll swing by around five with the olive pizza.” His pronunciation of the topping is obnoxiously whiny and snide, and you roll your eyes, pushing open the main doors to the school while he trails behind you. 

You’re normally not at work this late, and it feels almost unnatural to walk out to a night sky. Clouds obscure the stars, and the dim streetlights do little to pave a discernible path. Eddie seems to be walking in the same direction, and there’s a sense of comfort knowing that you don’t have to navigate the parking lot alone. 

The volume of Eddie’s voice lowers considerably as he says, “You’re…you’re kinda the best, y’know that?”

“About time you realized.” You smile as the two of you approach your car. You slide into the driver’s seat, tugging the seatbelt over your shoulder. “Where did you park?”

“Um…” Eddie squints, pointing to a spot clear across the lot. “Right there.”

Your jaw drops. “Eddie!”

“What?”

“Why’d you walk all this way, then?” Your keys sit in the ignition, waiting to be turned over.

“And leave you to trek across this vast terrain all by your lonesome?” He presses his hand to his heart, staggering backwards until he bumps into another parked car. “Ow, shit. So, uh, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yup.” And as he closes your car door with a small wave, it occurs to you that you’re actually looking forward to seeing Eddie Munson.

Elise wasn’t exaggerating when she’d warned you that Grandma was in a mood today. In addition to the usual song and dance to the tune of “those pills aren’t mine,” she’s insisted on changing her clothes no less than four times in the hour since you’ve been home, grumbling that every outfit doesn’t look right. As you wipe down the kitchen counter, sweeping crumbs from your after-work snack into the garbage bin, you hear banging against the living room wall. Never a good sign.

“Grandma?” you call out as you abandon your chore and start towards her. She’s struggling to hold onto the large painting of a sailboat that should be mounted on the wall. You get to her side just before she can topple over, grabbing the artwork from her grasp. “What are you doing? Why did you take this down?”

She looks at it–and you–with utter disgust. “S’ugly,” she mumbles.

There’s no sense in telling her that it was her favorite or that she picked it out herself years ago. Instead, you heave a frustrated sigh. “Okay, well, we’ll just leave it here,” you say, carefully leaning the cherry-lacquered frame against the wall.

“No!” She shakes her head, tousled gray hair brushing against the wrinkles etched into her cheeks. “No, no!” Anger creeps into her voice, and tears appear along her lash line. Truth be told, your tears are not too far behind.

“Look, I’ll just…turn it around. See?” You swivel the painting so it faces the wall; all that’s visible now is the sad beige frame backing. It’s hard to believe that she finds this view more appealing than the soft watercolor brushstrokes of blues and greens, but you leave it as is, until she inevitably demands to know why it’s no longer hanging up.

The harsh buzz of the intercom brings your quasi-argument to an abrupt end. You can hear some shuffling, and then an older man’s raspy voice instructs, “say who you are so she knows you’re here.”

“HARRIS!” The little boy exclaims loudly. “Oh, and my Grampa Wayne!”

The sound of his voice alone is enough to bring a smile to your face. You press the button that lets them into the building, quickly ushering Grandma into her room and putting on the Animal Planet. A rerun of Wildlife SOS blares through the TV, and you can only hope that Harris won’t be too distracted by the noise. It certainly beats being the recipient of one of her incoherent rants.

The frantic knock on the door ushers away your anxious thoughts. “Ms. Sweetheart, I’m here!”

“Relax, buddy,” the older man–Wayne–gently reminds him. 

You open the door, grinning as Harris barrels into the apartment. His little arms wrap around your waist as he envelops you in a tight hug. “Ms. Sweetheart! I’m at your house!”

“You are,” you agree with a laugh, patting his back with your palm before offering your hand to his grandfather. “And you must be Grampa Wayne.” 

The older man chuckles as he shakes your hand in his own calloused one. The whiskers above his lips and on his chin are white, flecks of gray stubble peppered along his jawline. “‘S nice to put a face to the name. All I hear about lately is how wonderful Ms. Sweetheart is.” He bashfully scratches at the wisps of hair that lay flat along the crown of his head.

Taking compliments is not your strongest suit, but you manage. “Trust me, I’ve heard some great things about Grampa Wayne, too. I’m just glad Harris loves being my student as much as I love teaching him.” 

“Huh?” Wayne’s forehead crinkles in confusion before he catches himself. “Oh, yeah, Harris. Right.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, Ed’ll be here at five.”

“He’s bringing PIZZA!” Harris shouts, unable to contain his excitement as he pumps a tiny fist in the air.

Wayne shakes his head, as if to say, this kid. “C’mere, Har. Give me a hug goodbye.” Harris all but leaps into his grandpa’s arms, spider-monkeying his legs around his waist. Emotion wells within you as the gesture reminds you of the easy way love used to flow between you and Grandma. No questions or doubts about who you were or how she would perceive you in that moment. 

As soon as Wayne leaves, Harris tugs on the hem of your shirt, peering up at you with a gigantic grin. “Daddy telled me that you’re gonna teach me again! But not at school.”

“Mhm!” you say, guiding him over to the kitchen table. You’ve cleared a spot for the two of you to work. There’s a stack of flashcards in front of your chair, and Harris eyes them curiously. “Those are gonna help you learn letter names and sounds. You’ll be reading like a pro in no time.”

He eagerly nods, flinging one little leg onto the chair and climbing onto it haphazardly. He’s facing the back of the chair with his knees tucked underneath him, and he shifts until he’s sitting on his bottom, eye-level with the tabletop. “I can’t see anything!” he harrumphs grumpily.

“Here, you can face me,” you tell him, holding the chair steady as he swivels around again. “There ya go. This works out better anyway.” You tap the deck of cards on the table, watching as Harris kicks his feet in anticipation. “We’re gonna play a game with these,” you say, keeping your tone full of excitement. “I’ll hold up a letter, and you tell me what the letter’s name is and the sound it makes. And if it’s a little tricky, there’s a picture on the back that might help you out. Sounds good?”

Harris considers this, tongue poking out between his lips, and you can’t help but notice the way he mimics Eddie’s actions. “Can I see the picture even if it isn’t tricky?” he asks.

“Absolutely.” You shuffle the deck, making a dramatic show of closing your eyes and folding the cards into a bridge. “Let me give you an example.” You grab the card off of the top, the letter R printed in bold, black lettering. “This is the letter R. It makes the rrrr sound.” 

“What’s the picture?” Harris squeals, clapping his hands together, the sound muffled by the cast on his wrist. When you flip the card around to reveal a cartoon robot, he cackles like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen. “He has triangles for eyes! That is so silly!”

“That is silly,” you agree with a laugh, putting the card at the back of the deck and holding up the next one for him. “Okay, now it’s your turn. Remember, just do your best. This is just so I can see what we need to work on.”

He nods, sitting up straight as he reads the letter F. 

“Nice job, Har! And what sound does F make?” This is more difficult for him, and he squints as though it will help him remember.

“Umm, eh?” He knows it’s not correct, and you watch as his shoulders begin to slump dejectedly. “I…I don’t know.” His lower lip juts out, quivering as he admits it.

You keep your tone light and breezy. “No worries! We can always look at the picture, and if it’s still tricky, we can figure it out together.” You show him the french fries on the back of the card.

“French fries!” Harris exclaims giddily.

“And what sound does french fries start with?” You enunciate the start of the words, but he still can’t seem to get the pronunciation. His breath hitches with frustration, chubby fingers digging into his tousled curls to pull at them. “You can ask me for help if you need to. That’s what I’m here for!”

His tiny “need help” is almost inaudible, head drooping towards his chest in defeat. “Everyone needs help sometimes,” you say kindly, pointing to the flashcard to draw his attention back to it. “F makes the ffff sound. Go ahead, try it.”

Harris emulates you, bits of spittle flying as he makes the noise over and over again. “This is fun!” he cheers, eyes widening when he comes to a realization. “Hey, fun starts with the fffff sound, too!”

“Sure does!” You raise your hand for a high-five, shaking it in mock-agony when he slaps it. “Wow, Har, you’re super strong! Okay, let’s try the next one.”

With a few breaks to release some energy, Harris continues stumbling through the rest of the alphabet unceremoniously. He’s definitely behind, you realize, but not so badly that he’s unable to catch up with some extra help.

“Only a couple more to go,” you assure him, presenting the card with the letter P.

“P!” he yells, a grin spreading from ear to ear across his sweet face. “An’ it makes the puh sound!” He reaches out and plucks the flashcard from between your fingers, turning it to see the picture on the back. “It’s a princess.” His eyes flit between you and the pink poofy dress-clad cartoon. “Me an’ Daddy think you’re pretty like a princess.”

There’s no time to ask for further clarification before a loud bang erupts from Grandma’s bedroom. You swear silently, somehow still aware of the four-year-old beside you as you dash to her door. Instinctually, you grab the knob and twist, only to be met with resistance. 

“Grandma!” you call out, pounding your fist as loudly as you can. “Grandma, open the door!” You hear the soft, slow pad of her footsteps, watching as the door knob turns slightly before it stops. 

“‘S broke,” Grandma says from her side, and relief temporarily floods your senses with the knowledge that she’s unscathed enough to get to the door. 

“No, it’s just locked. I need you to unlock it.” Another brief twitch, then nothing. “You…you have to turn the little dial on it. See how it’s horizontal—um, left to right? It needs to go up and down. Can you switch it?” Jiggle jiggle, silence. No attempt to toggle the dial. 

“Ms. Sweetheart? ‘S everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine, honey,” you lie through your teeth. “Why don’t you go look at the pictures on the—”

BZZZT!

“Pizza delivery!” Eddie croons through the intercom. “One half plain, half gross—sorry, half olive—”

“Eddie!” you press your finger to the button, cutting him off more sharply than you mean to. “Eddie, my grandma locked herself in her room, and she can’t remember how to open it.” Your voice catches in your throat, and you swallow the lump in a determined attempt not to break down in front of your guests. 

There’s a pause before his voice floats through the box again. “Gimme a sec.” That’s all he says before he’s gone as quickly as he arrived, and you turn to face the inquisitive little boy who remains glued to your side. 

“Har, why don’t you go sit at the table until Daddy comes.” Thankfully, he doesn’t put up a fight, and you’re able to turn your attention back to the crisis. “Grandma, can you please turn the dial?” But when you’re met with another disheartening turn of the doorknob, you have to accept defeat.

BZZZT!

“It’s me; let me up,” Eddie’s words are straightforward but not brusque or curt, and you buzz him in without wasting any time. He’s at your door in a hurry, and you open it before he can knock twice. He’s got the pizza box balancing in his right hand and a small rectangular container tucked under his arm. “Is she hurt?” he asks, handing you the box as you lead him towards Grandma’s room.

You shake your head. “I don’t think so. She’s been twisting the doorknob, but she doesn’t understand what I mean when I asked her to unlock it.”

He nods, examining the knob for a second before unfastening the box’s latch and pulling out a tool that resembles a miniature hook. Splitting his stance, he squints and pokes his tongue from his mouth, just as his son had done earlier. Within seconds, you hear the telltale click of the door unlocking, and you exhale audibly. Relief floods your body as your shoulders untense; you hadn’t even realized you’d pinched them together. Behind Grandma, the TV has toppled to the floor, screen now resting on top of the beige carpet, but that’s the least of your concerns.

“Are you all right?” you ask her, checking for scrapes and scratches, but she luckily appears to have escaped unscathed. “How did this even fall?” You pick up the TV, wincing as you get a glimpse of the spider web of cracked glass right in the center.

“Dunno,” Grandma shrugs, moving past you to get to the piping hot pizza that you’ve placed on the kitchen table. She slides into the chair you’d just been sitting on, pushing the pile of flashcards away clumsily. “‘M hungry.”

You look at Eddie and Harris and muster up a smile. “Guess it’s dinner time! Oh, Grandma, wait for a plate.” You grab four of the plastic pale blue plates from the cabinet to set the table, giving one to Grandma first. You place one at the spot Harris had just occupied, and one in front of the third and final chair–

“Shit,” you whisper under your breath before addressing the boys again. “Um, we only have three chairs. ‘S normally just me and Grandma, and sometimes her aide–”

“No worries,” Eddie waves off your concern, scooping Harris up and resting him against his hip. “Harris can sit on my lap.”

“Or I can sit on Ms. Sweetheart’s lap!” Harris squeals, wriggling out of his dad’s grasp. “Or Ms. Sweetheart can sit on your lap!”

You cough as Eddie turns bright red, cheeks the same shade as the marinara sauce buried under a thick layer of cheese. He sweeps Harris on top of his thighs and snags a slice of pizza for each of them. “Uh, yeah, no,” he mumbles, taking a gigantic cheesy bite in an attempt to end the conversation.

Dinner goes as well as it possibly can. Harris asks to try an olive, promptly spitting it onto his plate as soon as the taste hits his tongue. Grandma tells Eddie no less than five times that she likes his shirt, thoroughly embarrassing you, but he just politely says “thank you,” each time as though it’s the first. At one point, Harris gives him a bewildered glance, but before he can say anything, Eddie whispers, “I’ll explain later, bud.”

The rest of the meal is filled with conversations about work and school. Eddie tells a story about how a customer came into the store completely frazzled after listening to a Nirvana album. “She thought it was about Buddhism, and was very distraught when she got Kurt Cobain instead. Guess she missed the whole…” He mimics holding a gun to his head, and you laugh at the crude gesture, slapping his hand out of the way before Harris can see. Luckily, the boy is too engrossed in dissecting his slice to notice.

Grandma retreats to her room as soon as she finishes her dinner, and Harris gets bored soon after, squirming to the floor and dashing to the living room TV set–now the only working one in the house. That leaves you and Eddie at the table alone.

“I can take your plate if you’re done,” you say as you lean over, scoffing when Eddie starts to get up and bring his empty dish to the sink. “Hey, let me clean up. You brought the pizza.”

“Yeah, because you tutored Harris,” he reminds you, swooping in to grab your plate as well. “So we’re even.”

“Even?” you ask incredulously. “After you rescued my grandma and kept us company during dinner? Do you know how long it’s been since I had an actual conversation during a meal?” 

Eddie chuckles at this. “I think ‘rescued’ is a bit dramatic. All I did was unlock a door; not exactly superhero stuff.” He shakes his hair back behind his shoulders.

“She could’ve been hurt,” you point out earnestly, following him to shoo him away from the pile of dirty dishes, “and without you, my only option was to take a battering ram to the door. I don’t even know where I would buy one of those.”

“Have you tried Melvald’s? They sell everything there. ‘S actually where I got Harris.” Eddie teases, hand inching towards the faucet.

“Eddie, sit down and relax. Don’t you dare turn on the water.” Your eyes widen as he locks his gaze with yours, flicking on the spout indignantly and grabbing the sponge without breaking eye contact. “Eddie, I mean it–”

He smacks the sponge against a plate and harshly brushes it up and down, still staring at you. “Oops,” he deadpans, rinsing it and haphazardly placing it in the dishrack before picking up another one. “Oops again.”

“Give me that!” you charge over to him, yanking it away before he realizes what you’re doing. You squeeze the bottle of soap over the already-saturated sponge just to emphasize your point. “Go watch TV with your son and let me clean up.”

He’s quiet for a moment, leaning back next to you. The hem of his shirt makes contact with some water that sprayed out of the sink, but he doesn’t notice; if he does, then he doesn’t care. “I don’t usually have anyone to talk to at night, either. And with Harris–I mean, I love him to fuckin’ death, but a guy can only hear so much about the latest episode of Mighty Morphin Power Rangers.” He clears his throat, but the words come out even softer somehow. “I like talking to you.”

The water runs uninterrupted by any movement as you look into his warm eyes. Flecks of gold punctuate the deep chocolate orbs that are drinking you in. They're the same eyes that you looked into on the night that he’d brought you back to his place. The eyes that shot daggers at you while he spewed venom at you in the music store. The eyes that could barely look at you when he’d somberly confessed his past, more motivated by anxiety than trust. The eyes that could flip your world upside down if you let them.

He lets his thumb graze yours as he grabs the newly clean plate from your hand, wiping it with a towel until it’s impossibly dry. You can’t look away from his lips, the way they practically scream kiss me. And you want to. Fuck, you want to so badly.

But you’re not stupid. Possibly naive, hooking up with him nearly three months ago and thinking it would have no emotional impact on you, but not stupid. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…

“Same time next week?” you blurt out, taking you both by surprise. It’s too abrupt to be natural, but you don’t care. You need to stop this before it starts. Again.

Eddie recovers quickly, though his nod is a bit delayed. “It’s a date. Uh, a tutoring date. For Harris.”

“For Harris.”

Harris is at your classroom door the next morning, knocking excitedly. “Ms. Sweetheart, I got something for you!” Digging into his backpack, he produces a plastic bag tied in a knot. Bradley’s Big Buy is stamped on the side, but the contents aren’t anything you’d find in the supermarket.

It’s a lockout kit; the same kind that he’d used last night to unlock Grandma’s door. There’s a note Scotch-taped to it, and you read it silently:

I hope it doesn’t happen again, but I wanted you to be prepared in case it does. 

-Eddie

P.S. Don’t try to pay me back. It was much cheaper than a battering ram.

--

taglist:

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[fandomsandfeminism]

We found that maternal death rates were 62 percent higher in 2020 in abortion-restriction states than in abortion-access states (28.8 vs. 17.8 per 100,000 births). Notably, across the three years presented in Exhibit 4, the maternal mortality rate was increasing nearly twice as fast in states with abortion restrictions.

Perinatal outcomes are also worse in states with abortion bans or restrictions: in 2019, perinatal deaths (fetal deaths or infant deaths in the first week of life) occurred at a 15 percent higher rate, on average, than in states with abortion access (Exhibit 7).9 States with abortion bans or restrictions also had higher neonatal death rates in the first 27 days of life (4.05 deaths vs. 3.23 deaths per 1,000 births), as well as higher postneonatal mortality rates between 28 and 365 days after birth (2.16 deaths vs. 1.54 deaths per 1,000 births; data not shown).

Not that you needed the reminder than anti-abortion laws kill people.

But here we go.

[intersexfairy]

making premature gazan babies suffocate on their own bodies is unbelievably cruel. i can't help but think of my own birth - 25 weeks, 1lb 14 oz, with underdeveloped lungs. i am alive solely by the grace of medical treatment, so for anyone without much knowledge on prematurity:

it isn't even nearly as simple as these babies needing oxygen. they need incubators. and feeding tubes. and weight checks. and vitals checks. and hats. and blankets. and their (potentially dead) parents touch/presence (literally can help keep them alive). they need 24/7 supervision. they need to be in the neonate ICU, able to immediately go for surgery or imaging. they need this and more for MONTHS; i spent the first few months of my life in an incubator, on oxygen. i was not even able to be held by my parents.

without this intensive, even long term medical care, these babies WILL die. they just will. iirc, the complications of lung issues in premature babies is the leading cause of our death, and these babies are suffocating, some undoubtedly getting brain damage from low oxygen. there is no good reason that in another 22 years (my age), these babies should not be living life, surrounded by their loved ones. they should be able to live as long, happy, healthy lives as they would get with the best medical care on the planet.

if you believe in any measure that they somehow deserve this or are "collateral damage," you have lost what it means to be human. you are genocidal, without a shadow of a doubt. palestine must be free. from the river to the sea.

[contentment-of-cats]

Head canon for little Chiss

1: Chiss babies comparative to an adult sized (average 6'4") are very small, and labor is very short. A six-hour labor is considered long, four hours is about average.

2: A Chiss neonate can't regulate their body temperature and needs to put on thermogenic fat. They will nurse almost constantly for their first six months, usually in a sling that holds them close to their mother. Milk-packs are often employed when Mom needs a break.

3: Chiss babies are fat and almost round if they are healthy. The thermogenic fat is packed on during their first year of life. They look like a blueberry. They become more independent between the ages of two and three.

4: At about the age of three, Chiss toddlers develop 'meat teeth.' This makes regular teething look like a tea party. Teething toys and gum rubs are common. Teething centers are popular with parents who are at the end of their tethers.

5:The first premolars and cuspids are replaced by the meat teeth. The adult central and lateral incisors are also extremely sharp and the central incisors will have an almost chisel-like appearance.

6: Adult Chiss have scent glands on their neck and chest, not obvious to the eye. Chiss to about age five will snuffle these spots to be calmed and comforted.

7: About the age of five, little Chiss start learning to use the halves of their brain independently. It's considered a major milestone in child development. This is also the age at which Sky-walkers are taken from their families.

8: Chiss will never refuse to feed a child or a parent with children or an elder. It is considered dishonorable.

9: The Chiss birthrate is low, but they have stipends for each child, extensive parental leave, nutrition vouchers, and free childcare whether the child is from a Common, Lesser, Great, or Ruling family. A woman who has three children gets a stipend for life. A woman from the Lesser and Common families who has five children often is adopted into a higher ranked family as a ranking distant along with her family unit. Any more children and she gets medals and honor chains.

10: Though modern deaths in childbirth are low, a woman who dies as the result of childbirth is given the same funeral as someone of the highest rank. She will have a place of honor in the ossuary, an honor chain and medal, while her surviving family is given a pension.

[steele-soulmate]

Tattooed Wings, CHAPTER 595, Peter Steele & OFC, Soulmate AU

SUMMARY: Mary Claire Bradley meets her soulmate- literally- the famous Peter Steele of metal group Type O Negative. But will obstacles including trauma, stalkers, and toxic family members get in the way of their life?

WARNING: mentions of child rape (nothing graphic) PTSD, milk kink, soft smut, grinding, assault, fingering, hand jobs, blow jobs, 69, P in V sex, blood, noncon rape, violence, death, vandalism, graffiti, attempted kidnapping, break-ins, wild animal attacks, terrorist attack (sabotage) consensual impregnation, bareback, impregnation kink, creampies, terrorist attacks (shootings) hit and run pedestrian accident, precipitous labor, neonatal death, abandoned baby, child intoxication, death of a minor character, injured baby, kidnapped child

WORDS: 1198

Almost four days later, the police tracked down Baby Noah at his father’s home in rural Pennsylvania, where the seedy little man had enrolled the poor little tyke into the local Little League and had been dragging him to the boxing gym to try and “man him up some”. Now that the governor had been taken into custody and was awaiting trial, having been charged with first degree kidnapping, bringing a kidnapped minor over state lines, aggravated assault on a law enforcement officer, and a hefty counterfeit charge after his wife gave the police a bundle of damning evidence, including a (badly) falsified birth certificate. And to also slap the humiliated little man all the more, his wife announced that she was divorcing him and taking their three daughters with her and would leave him with only his name and the clothes on his back.

The family reunion was full of tears, hugs and kisses, with Baby Noah refusing to let go of me and Peter blubbering unashamedly. A judge who was at the police station for an unrelated incident was sweet enough to issue the paperwork for a restraining order against one Paul Thomas Grantsville, his family and associates written up and filed away.

For dinner that night, the girls made up the clingy little man’s favorite food- spaghetti, marinara sauce and garlic bread. Baby Noah didn’t want to leave my lap, insisting that I hold him on my lap as he ate, a demand that I was more than happy to comply to.

Isabelle was wonderful, asking the girls if they still wanted to go to their respective day camps at the lake- Elizabeth was enrolled in the veterinarian boot camp and Katie was enrolled in a field sports day camp. The girls would be on opposite ends of the lake, and the people in charge of both had been quick to reassure my motherly anxiety that the kids would be completely safe, with heavily enforced sign ins and sign outs with the adult’s identification cards checked before handing over the child for pick up.

Both girls elected to attend their respective day camps, and then we all went up to the master bedroom for a nighttime snuggle.

“I was so worried,” I confessed as Baby Noah snored lightly on my chest.

“I know you were worried,” Peter soothed me, the baby triplets splayed over his beefy torso, sound asleep holding onto each others’ hands. “I know you were worried, and that broke me.”

“I’m sorry, my love,” I murmured, reaching over the slumbering kids to press a sleepy kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I’m going to go to sleep now.”

“Alright sweetheart,” he hummed. “Goodnight.”

“Sleep tight.” I shut my eyes and began to drift off to sleep once more. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

~xoXox~

After hugging and kissing the girls goodbye and having the babies wave goodbye to them from the huge window in the sunroom, Peter and I began to work on our daily projects- with me cleaning out and wiping down the refrigerator and Peter working out in the backyard, getting the side gate situated and pruning some of the heavily overgrown trees. Isabelle would be meeting up with some of her fellow classmates for a study date and promised Peter and I that she would pick up Elizabeth and Katie before bringing them back home again.

Mittens was keeping a protective eye on the babies as they frolicked about in the backyard- throwing fistfuls of leaves at each other, pattering their little bare feet in the soft grass and giggling up a storm as they bopped about adorably. I would stop what I was doing and pad over to the door that led to the backyard, peer out and break out into a calm smile at the sight of the happy babies and my husband, sweat glistening upon his bare chest as he made a door that led from the backyard to the driveway to make it easier to let out entrapped wildlife.

I cleaned out the refrigerator and freezer, reorganized the pantry, made an idea of what all we should eat over the next few days, swept and mopped the floors, bleached the sink and reorganized the cutlery drawer.

I was repositioning the kids’ artwork back onto the clean refrigerator when I felt the vibrations of the garage door opening underneath my feet, and I knew at once that it was Isabelle returning with the older girls.

THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD

A bright smile over took my face as Elizabeth and Katie, both girl clutching at their American Girl mini mes spilled into the kitchen and rushed up to me to offer up hugs and kisses.

“Hihi mommy!” Katie bubbled excitedly. “Where’s daddy and the babies?”

“Right here!” Peter came in just then, Mittens wrangling the babies inside after him. “I’m going to go up and take a quick shower, alright?”

“Alright, my love!” I told him, breaking out into giggles as Baby Teddy let out a giant sneeze just then, promptly falling backwards onto his little baby rear.

He scrunched his face up, patting his nose before sneezing once more, this time blood spurting out and getting onto the floorboards.

“Go up and take a shower now!” I urged him as the girls set down their dollies and swooped in to the rescue- Elizabeth zipping into the kitchen to get a couple of wet rags and Katie scooping up the bleeding little man.

“Uh oh,” sang out Baby Tommy, watching as his mommy came over with a wrapped ice bag, which was pressed to the little man’s forehead as Katie plugged his nose with her fingers. 

“Baby Teddy, Baby Teddy, little brave cutie pie,” I sang in a worried tone of voice. “Baby Teddy, Baby Teddy, you’re a brave little man.”

TAGLISTS ARE OPEN/ ASK BOX IS OPEN/ REQUESTS ARE OPEN/ PLOT BUNNIES ARE WELCOMED

If you liked this, then please consider buying me a coffee HERE It only costs $3!!!

PETER STEELE TAGLIST

@rock-a-noodle

@ch3rry-c01a

[good-old-gossip]

Pregnant women in Gaza face hunger, Israeli bombardment and displacement, leading to premature labour and an increasing number of newborn deaths. Even before the war, Gaza had a high neonatal mortality rate, with 68% of global newborn deaths occurring in the besieged enclave.

[opencommunion]

urgent action to stop hospital massacres

@ ibnalmajdal and @ walaavoila on ig posted the below statement and call to action: "Join us in holding complicit international institutions accountable, send this appeal and apply pressure to any relevant parties involved in these crimes. We call on you to email, send letters, call them out on social media, and support legal actions that hold them accountable."

Stop the Hospital Massacres: Hospitals Are Not Military Targets

12 November 2023

In the last 48 hours, dozens of distress calls have been sent by medical teams, and by displaced civilians who are sheltering in hospitals and schools which are being subjected to the Israeli occupation aerial and artillery bombardment and gunfire. Residents of Gaza, along with medical aid and relief teams, could not have fathomed the day when they would plead not to be killed, and patients in hospitals are targeted without any response. Yet this is what has happened, as the International Committee of the Red Cross and other international organizations have chosen to ignore pleas for relief and evacuation, despite their legal responsibility to protect and aid the victims of war and conflict. 

These organizations turned a blind eye to Israeli tanks besieging hospitals and relentless airstrikes raining fire on innocent civilians seeking refuge in those buildings. Their statements did not dare to name the Israeli occupation army as the source of the attacks, attributing the brutal attacks to unknown sources and using passive language. This scene encapsulates the complicity, if not partnership, of international organizations with Israel in its daily war crimes in Gaza. 

In a deliberate and announced war crime, Israeli airstrikes targeted hospitals and their surroundings, specifically the Al-Shifa Medical Complex (the largest hospital in the region), which the Palestinian Ministry of Health confirmed has been completely inoperable. In Al-Shifa Hospital, two infants died after power was cut off from the neonatal and intensive care units. Medical teams are now fighting, using primitive methods, to sustain the lives of over 650 wounded and patients, including 39 infants, at risk of death due to the continuous shortages of power and fuel needed to operate backup generators. 

Simultaneously, the Red Crescent announced that only seven of eighteen ambulances are operational in Gaza City and the north, but they are at risk of ceasing operation in the coming hours due to fuel shortages. The Red Crescent has also announced that Al-Quds Hospital in Gaza is out of service due to fuel depletion and power cuts. 

In another crime, the Rantisi Hospital and the Nasser Children’s Hospital in Gaza were forcibly evacuated under Israeli orders, putting the lives of sick children at risk of death after being forcibly transferred, through unknown arrangements by Red Cross employees in collaboration with the Israeli occupation army, to a place where proper medical care is unavailable. We emphasize that evacuating hospitals is not an option to save those inside but a new crime against patients and Gaza residents. 

On several occasions, the Red Cross’s false assurances of safe evacuation operations exposed displaced Palestinians to Israeli shelling and gunfire, resulting in numerous injuries and killings. The Red Cross remained silent about the deadly impact of their false assurances, and continued to encourage displaced Palestinians to evacuate despite their knowledge that it was not safe to do so. 

In clear complicity with Israel’s war crimes, international organizations working in Gaza responded to pleas for help from tens of thousands of Palestinian civilians by stating that they cannot operate in areas deemed “military operational zones.” This forced many residents of the western part of Gaza to leave without protection, making them vulnerable to Israeli targeting. Those who remained in their homes were subjected to horrifying attacks by Israeli occupation soldiers, resulting in casualties and injuries still in need of urgent medical attention.

Immediate and necessary action is needed to save thousands of hospital patients, wounded individuals, newborns, and other trapped civilians that emergency medical and rescue teams cannot reach. In this regard, we demand: 1. Lift the siege on hospitals by Israeli forces immediately and unconditionally. Concerned international organizations must apply pressure threatening to expel the Israeli regime and its representatives from any effective international health bodies. 

2. Supply fuel to besieged hospitals, a legal responsibility falling on the International Committee of the Red Cross and other UN bodies, and they cannot absolve themselves of this responsibility.

3. Immediate accountability from Red Cross officials in their offices within “Israel” for their silence, negligence, and cover-up of the occupation’s crimes for 36 days, especially in their complicity in covering up the crimes against children in the Rantisi and Nasser children’s hospitals. 

4. The Red Cross should announce its intention to evacuate the trapped individuals in the middle and west of Gaza City from 8:00 AM to 2:00 PM on Monday 13 November. Since it ignored its duties to provide essential materials for hospital operation, this implies leaving patients and wounded to die until tomorrow. 

5. We firmly demand accountability from the Red Cross for its false assurances of safe evacuations and its role in concealing the crimes of the occupation. We demand that international institutions affiliated with the United Nations and other impartial medical organizations directly oversee evacuation operations. 

6. We demand that international institutions cease their cooperation with Israeli occupation plans to destroy hospitals, to halt their operations, and to leave the wounded without treatment.

We demand these institutions fulfill their duty to guarantee the freedom and protection of hospitals, medical staff and patients, ambulance crews, rescue workers and the arrival of supplies so that hospitals in Gaza City can continue their work in saving the wounded.

7. We warn that international organizations that have not yet issued a joint statement regarding the systematic targeting of hospitals will be officially and directly considered complicit in the war crimes committed in Gaza by Israeli occupation forces. We call for pursuing legal action against them in all possible legal frameworks. 

8. We urge medical teams worldwide, especially Palestinian and Arab teams, to immediately initiate solidarity protest actions with their colleagues in the Gaza Strip and with patients and the wounded against these crimes that constitute a historic threat to the concept of medical work and its necessary immunity under any circumstances. 

[khlur]

We are a group of individuals and collectives in revolutionary solidarity with the people of  Palestine. As a response to the feminist call to strike for Gaza on the 8th of March (International Women’s Day), we feel the need to put out this statement to recognise the occupational, genocidal deprivations perpetrated by the terrorist settler-colonial Zionist state of Israel that has led to a death toll of over 30000 Palestinians with countless trapped under rubble, decomposed, and millions displaced. We bear witness to the carceral violence, torture, humiliation and murder of Palestinians, especially those held captive in besieged Gaza and hostages taken by the Israeli Occupation Forces (IOF). This includes a wide range of carceral forms of torture including the use of  Palestinian men as human shields, widely circulated dehumanising images of public sexual violation of Palestinian men, sexual assault of Palestinian women in Zionist prisons, enforced disappearance of children, and other acts of violence and debilitation. These largely go unreported, under-reported or misreported because of the Zionist hold over mainstream media.

Humanitarian aid is being withheld by Israel to intentionally starve Gazans as an instrument of ethnic cleansing and genocide. When the few aid trucks are allowed by Israel to finally cross into Gaza, or aid is airdropped by other countries attempting to break Israel’s siege, the Zionist army bomb, shoot, kill, and run over Palestinians rushing to food trucks as seen in multiple incidents including the recent flour massacre. Children continue to die from starvation and severe climate conditions; and those not dead yet are severely malnourished. Since October 7, Israel has incessantly bombed Gaza from F16s using 2,000-pound US-supplied bombs that blow up whole neighborhoods, internationally banned white phosphorus, and smaller lethal bombs dropped from the constantly circling drones. Israel has destroyed the 70% of the housing stock in Gaza, rendered all hospitals unable to provide care, and has further destroyed medical facilities, desalination plants that supplies clean water, schools and universities, public archives, cultural and historical landmarks, mosques  and churches, bakeries, roads and highways, and all civilian resources and infrastructure crucial for survival rendering Gaza unlivable. The sustained targeted attack on medical facilities have necessitated medical procedures like amputations and C-sections without anesthetics while the  neonatals and infants are dying on hospital beds and ICUs for lack of oxygen. Palestinian medics are not only overworked and severely under-resourced but under direct attack. Mass graves continue to pile up and Israel strips Palestinians of dignity even in death. Palestinian families are not allowed to recover bodies. Instead, the occupying forces attack and bomb graveyards and steal dead bodies for organs and skin to be used in Israeli forensic institutes. We have also seen the insidious images of Israeli soldiers posing with looted Palestinian women’s lingerie, mannequins, stealing children’s toys and making videos cooking inside houses Gazans have been forcibly displaced from. The entire population of Gaza has been subjected to collective punishment directed towards the acts of resistance forces, which is, in fact, the right of a colonized people for self-determination and autonomy. Israel has carried out  targeted attacks on journalists, medics, artists, academics and anyone who can help save lives and ensure the survival of Palestinian culture. The Zionist regime has killed over a 100 journalists to suppress news coming out of Gaza. Murdering journalists has been a tool to silence Palestinian voices throughout the 75 years of occupation. We recall the targeted killing of journalists like Shireen Abu Akleh in 2022 in occupied West Bank. We honour and learn from resilient voices like Wael Al-Dahdouh who survived an Israeli attack and whose entire family was murdered by Israel.

The Zionist entity also has a long history of pinkwashing, touting itself as a queer haven, and using that as a justification for genocide. We see IDF soldiers proudly upholding rainbow flags on rubble or others proposing to their partners amidst the horrors they inflict on the Palestinians. We see from various archives of queerness that Palestinian queers have always resisted this. Queer people all over the world reject Israel’s pinkwashing with the slogans, ‘Not in our name’, ‘Not Gay as in Happy but Queer as in Free Palestine’ and ‘No Pride in Apartheid’, and lately, ‘No Pride in Genocide’. We call for all queer comrades to include the liberation of Palestine in their imagination of queer liberation. Amidst the excruciating, incomprehensible ongoing physical and emotional trauma genocidal occupation inflicts, we call on our mad, queer, crip comrades to unflinchingly demand a free Palestine because disability and queer justice is intimately tied to Palestinian liberation.

On January 26 2024, in the case against Israel brought by South Africa to the International Court of Justice (ICJ) found that through the actions of Israel, Gaza is experiencing a plausible genocide. The ICJ ordered six Provisional Measures that under law, Israel must fulfill. The ICJ ordered Israel to take measures within its power to prevent genocidal acts, including preventing and punishing incitement to genocide, ensuring aid and services reach the Palestinian population in Gaza, and preserving evidence of crimes committed in Gaza. As we can see, Israel has completely ignored and defied all Provisional Measures.This also shows the impunity Israel enjoys because it is backed by imperial regimes. It reveals how colonial imperialism undergirds international law that has historically failed the colonised by protecting the interests of colonial imperialist regimes. Yet, the colonised have stood strong in their struggle for freedom and liberation, which has historically led to the downfall of colonial empires.

We understand that our liberation as oppressed people is deeply intertwined with struggles of the oppressed worldwide. We recognise India’s complicity in enabling the genocide and occupation of Palestine. A recent report by Pew Research Center, shows that India leads in support for autocracy and military rule among surveyed nations. Indian right-wing accounts are among leading amplifiers of anti-Palestinian fake news and have used it to fan and escalate anti-Muslim violence in India. As Azad Essa traces in his book Hostile Homelands, despite its official stance supporting the 1975 UN resolution that concluded Zionism as racism, India continued maintaining relations with Israel through security and defense engagements. For example, India adopted Israeli security systems in response to the November 2008 terrorist attacks on Mumbai. Thereafter India bought its mass surveillance systems infrastructure – the Central Monitoring System – from Israel, which can operate without court orders and access any individual’s communication data. The BJP-led Hindutva regime (under whose fascist vision of ‘Hindu Rashtra (state)’ crimes against Muslims, Christians, Dalits, Adivasis is at an all time high) upgraded this relation to a ‘strategic partnership’ following Modi’s 2017 Israel visit where the two parties signed a defense deal worth 2 billion USD. This deal included the Israeli spyware Pegasus, that the government used to arrest journalists, government critics, students, especially Dalit and Muslim organisers and throttle political opposition. India is now the top arms buyer from Israel, and our taxes fund Hermes 900 drones manufactured by the Adani Elbit UAV Complex (the first facility in India and outside Israel to manufacture this drone) which Israel uses to massacre Palestinians. Israeli drones ‘field-tested’ on Palestinians are imported to be used on Kashmiris, thwart Adivasi movements in Bastar, and are being used against the ongoing Farmers’ protest.

Much like Israel, the Indian state is a settler-colonial state occupying Kashmir. The abrogation of article 370 in Kashmir in 2019 that catapulted the facilitation of Indian citizens settling in Kashmir is starkly similar to Israeli settler-colonial policies. Kashmir has thus had a long history of what Ather Zia calls ‘affective solidarity’ with Palestine embodied through various ways of resisting whereby the Palestinian struggle is ‘inspirational, cathartic’ to Kashmiris. Following the article 370 abrogation, Palestine-Kashmir solidarity strengthened with the BDS movement’s call for solidarity for Kashmir. Pro-Palestine protests in Kashmir continue to be repressed, a history that goes back to 2014 where amidst chants of ‘Save Gaza’ and ‘Go India, Go Back’, the Indian Armed Forces shot at young boys who were stone pelting, killing a 14 year-old.

We also stand with the workers of India who have made their solidarity to the Palestinian cause clear – the water transport workers who have refused to aid the shipment of arms to Israel on 14/02/2024 as well as the major Indian trade unions who, on 09/11/2023, rejected the Indian government’s move to replace Palestinian workers with Indian workers in Israel. We extend our revolutionary solidarity to the workers of the world resisting the ongoing genocide. We stand with the students who have organised for Palestine and whose protests have been met with repression by several Indian universities. Indian academia continues to receive funding from and collaborates with Israel. We call for an immediate cessation of this act of enabling occupation. We call for a total academic boycott of the Zionist entity – no more enabling of the coloniser’s knowledge production, which is a tool for genocide. The Zionist regime continues to murder academics and destroy schools, universities and libraries. We recall and honour the memory of professor, writer and poet Refaat Alareer. We urge Indian academics to see how Zionism is directly connected to the Hindutva machinery that continues to imprison Indian scholars like Hany Babu, GN Saibaba among others and student organisers like Sharjeel Imam, Umar Khalid, Gulfisha Fatima, among others, arrested for being dissenting voices. Our universities have long been bastions of resistance and we should strengthen our solidarities in knowledge production with the people worldwide facing violence. We learn from and honour Palestinian resistance in every form and remember Rafeef Ziadeh’s words, ‘We Teach Life, Sir! 

Following the call for strike on 8th March we put out this statement and will be participating with various actions in individual and collective capacities in solidarity with the people of Palestine. We learn from and honour Palestinian resistance in every form and remember Rafeef Ziadeh’s words, ‘We Teach Life, Sir! Actions can range from actively engaging in the Boycott Divest and Sanction (BDS) movement, raising awareness in-person and on media platforms, sending emails to government representatives to send aid to Gaza and push for permanent ceasefire, amplifying fundraisers, donating e-sims, and more. From Palestine to Sudan, Congo, Western Sahara, Kurdistan, Balochistan, Kashmir all the way to Haiti and Tigray—no one is free until everyone is free. We call for economic, academic, cultural and social boycott. We call upon organisers to honour the call for the strike by addressing and embracing the call for a free Palestine in their 8 March programs and events. We call for the end of patriarchal, capitalist, colonial regimes that oppress us. We demand immediate permanent ceasefire, end of the siege on Gaza, end to settler-colonial occupation and the dismantling of the Zionist state of Israel. We demand a free Palestine from the river to the sea.

Do make your support for the statement heard by posting on social media and handing out the handouts we have made here .

Do comment your organization’s name below to be added to the list of signatories.

Signed

Trans Queer Feminists in Solidarity with Palestine Feminists in Resistance, Kolkata  LGBT Academics collective, India COLLECTIVE, Delhi

[babubunny]

South Park/Kyle fans!!! I come bearing some headcanons I would like to present to the council.

What if Kyle was a rainbow baby.

Here’s the definition of a rainbow baby for those that don’t know: ‘A rainbow baby is a baby born after miscarriage, ectopic pregnancy, molar pregnancy, termination for medical reasons, stillbirth or neonatal death.’

I’ve always wondered why Sheila and Gerald decided to adopt Ike after having Kyle, especially adopting a kid that would be clear that they adopted them. They clearly just got Ike from an adoption agency or something and just adopted him when he was still a young baby.

But then I thought, what if Kyle was a Rainbow Baby. If it was a miracle that Kyle was able to be carried to full term and be born then that could explain why Sheila and Gerald decided to just adopt after Kyle instead of possibly having to go through heartbreak of losing another baby especially when they actually have a kid to look out for now. This could also be another reason why they were so adamant about moving away from Jersey, there was just too much heartbreak there and they wanted to start fresh.

I’ve also just wondered why Sheila seems to be just that much more protective over her kids (especially Kyle) and again, Kyle being a rainbow baby would help explain why.

Anyways that’s just my silly little headcanon and I thought it was honestly quite cute and thought I’d share.