#Testing of Nutritional values

[glarcresearch]

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[farmerstrend]

Is this the Largest Sweet Potato in Kenya? The Inspiring Story of Manoah Kilach's 11-Kilogram Sweet Potato

In the verdant Ngata area of Nakuru County, Manoah Kilach has transformed agricultural practice through meticulous organic farming and technological innovation. A retired educator turned agricultural entrepreneur, Kilach stands as a testament to the potential of modern, sustainable farming techniques. On a sun-drenched Friday morning, Kilach proudly displayed an extraordinary achievement: an…

[yandere-daydreams]

exhibit #2 - shark week

an installment of the freak shit march gallery showcase.

pairing: yandere!cullens x reader (twilight).

length: 1.4k.

warnings: non/con, afab!reader, dehumanization, mentions of kidnapping, mentions of medical malpractice, blood, slight initialization, and generalized twilight.

After moving in with the Cullens, your monthly cycles start to follow a similar routine.

‘Moving in’ meaning, of course, accidentally signing your rights to autonomy away to your doctor while you were so loaded up on sedatives the he hand to cup your hand in his just to make you hold the pen, and ‘period’ referring to, of course, the week or so you spent bleeding out in a house full of half-starved vampires. Carlisle claimed that it was dead blood and held little to no nutritional value for their kind, citing his children’s ability to attend the local community college without gutting an eighth of the students every month as evidence that your menstrual cycle wouldn’t cause an unwanted stir. When you reminded him that humans craved plenty of things that weren’t good for them, like chocolate and liquor and dubiously ethical affairs with their unnaturally cold general practitioners, he only hummed and asked what kind of products you preferred.

Esme usually noticed first. Sometimes, she’d catch it before you did, show up to your bedroom door with a warm compress and a tray of comfort food with only a kind smile by way of explanation, and you’d notice the pin-pricks of red dotting your sheets later on. Carlisle would usually be at work by then, so she’d spend her morning fussing over you, holding her hand to your forehead and forcing home-remedies past your lips until you manage to make her believe that one of her bitter teas had cured you wholesale. There’s a thin line between how she treats you when you’re sick and how she treats you on your period. One was a monthly ordeal, the other a hyper-rare occurrence in their meticulously sterile home, but both rendered you faint and encumbered, more receptive to her mothering. She liked it when you needed her. You guessed the reason why didn’t really matter.

(You used to assume that, if you were ever unfortunate enough to meet her, Esme would hate you. She’d see you as a homewrecker, as competition, or failing that, as a nuisance disrupting her otherwise idyllic domestic bliss. But, she’d never been that hostile, treating you more similarly to one of her adoptive children than her husband’s kidnapped mistress. It probably helped that her relationship with Carlisle was built more on a mutual affinity for make-believe than anything as fragile as love or passion. He was playing doctor, and she was playing dolls. He’d taken an interest in you for the former pastime, before gifting you to his wife for the latter.)

Eventually, you’d insist that you’d gotten enough bedrest and needed fresh air. That was when Alice would find you – waiting just outside of your bedroom door, her smile wide and your outfit for that day slung over her arm. As a rule, you did your best to avoid Mr. and Mrs. Wrong Side of the Mason Dixon Line, but she was one of the more forceful Cullens, prone to stepping on your heels and holding your preferred hideaways hostage until you relented to whatever form of dress-up she planned out for you. Normally, she’d be satisfied with doing your hair, testing out make-up swatches on someone with a skin tone darker than ivory, making you try on outfits that never seemed to repeat. On your period, though, she was a little clingier.

“Edward wrote from Belgium,” she’d say, absentmindedly curling her fingers inside of you. Most rooms in the Cullen house didn’t have a bed, so she would settle for the floor – letting you lean against an antique loveseat, skirt pooled around your waist and three crimson-stained digits buried in your cunt. “He’s so old-fashioned. Bella just calls, but no, he doesn’t want Nessie around too many screens. As if the poor thing won’t be fourteen this fall. Oh, and Jasper’s coming home tomorrow. He's already sick of Portland.”

Jasper wasn’t allowed within two hundred miles of Forks when you were on your period. Not after the tampon incident.

If you were loud enough, and you almost always were loud enough, Rosalie would come to your rescue. That was why she was your favorite.

Your time with her was largely spent outside, where it was a little more difficult to be tempted by the blood coursing through your veins. You’d sit on a riverbed with a book in your lap while she kept a measured distance, breaking the silence only to remind you to eat or drink or stretch your legs – little human inconveniences the others liked to forget about. Emmett, meanwhile, would take a more active approach to babysitting, pestering you to skip rocks or trying to make you laugh. Occasionally, he wouldn’t make it to your little picnics, and inevitably, you’d find a pair of your panties missing from your dresser the next day. Eventually, they’d turn up mixed in Rosalie’s collection – always nearly torn to shreds. You tried not to hold it against him. At least he had the decency to disregard your personhood behind your back.

You liked Emmett, but you liked Rosalie more. She was the only one who’d raised her voice to Carlisle the night he brought you home, the only one to continually acknowledge the issue of expecting a lamb to live among its butchers. It was nice – having someone willing to advocate for you. Or, to be able to believe that someone might, at least.

Once, you’d even asked her if she’d be willing to let you escape. Not even help, really, just leave a set of car keys where you could find them, or tell you where Carlisle’s security cameras were hidden, or refuse to cooperate while the rest of her family hunted you for sport. She’d taken minutes to answer. Time seemed to be an overabundant resource to eternal creatures. They were prone to letting it slip by in quantities that often made you, a being with fewer days to spare, feel sick.

“If I thought your life was in danger.”

Your life, of course, referring to your humanity. You doubted she’d have so much sympathy for you once you’d been reduced to yet another walking statue.

“It might not be something they plan.” And then, pulling your knees into your chest, “I’m really scared, Ro.”

She hadn’t said anything. When your attention turned back to your book, she asked you to read aloud.

Later on, Carlisle would come home. He’d spare a quick greeting for the rest of his coven, find whatever pantry or cupboard you’d attempted to hide yourself away in, and guide you back to your bedroom.

Intimacy wasn’t uncommon with him, but penetration was saved solely for your period. He was always slow, always gentle, but when you were bleeding, it was nearly agonizing – his hips grinding lazily into yours, his hands curled around your oak headboard, his unblinking eyes never breaking away from yours. No mind was paid to the unmarred white of Esme’s sheets. He’d watch lovingly as pink-tinged arousal dripped down your thighs, murmur sweet nothings as you cried and whined and whimpered for him to stop, that it hurt, that it wasn’t safe. If he felt like talking, he might list off the medical benefits of period sex – pain relief, stress reduction, heightened libido – or promise to be more careful next time, to have more patience in the future. Most nights, though, it was just your desperation, his adoration, and the dull sound of marble against flesh.

He didn’t need to sleep, but you weren’t so resilient. No matter how many times you came, he’d only let you go when your eyes grew too heavy to hold open, when your sobbed protests died down into little, sniffling complaints, when you finally went limp underneath his rigid form. He would sigh as he pulled out, not sparing any words of comfort before taking you into his arms. There’d be a bath, always so impossibly lukewarm, and then some humiliatingly frilly nightgown – more fitting for a toddler from his era than and adult from yours. If you were lucky, you’d still have the energy to insist on wearing a pad to sleep. If you didn’t, then Carlisle would get his way, and you’d be drenched in your own blood by the next morning.

Without fail, Esme would be perched on the edge of your bed by the time Carlisle finished. They’d both tuck you in – a pair of children putting their toy away after playtime – and you would fall asleep to the vile sounds of Esme lapping your blood off her husband’s cock.

[azsazz]

Over Ice

Hockey!Rhysand x Reader

Summary: Anon Req: I think we could really have fun with the different courts and Illyrian values on a thematic basis but ALSO if the reader is in something very artsy and hasn’t really been into sports and then she’s walking around Campus and BOOM right smack dab into Broody McBrooder!! She THEN finds out he’s the tutor for one of her hardest courses (personally Psych would be a good one) and they become super duper close with him and the team!!! She decides to wear Cass’ jersey to make him mad and when he finally gets a hold of her after the game: *cue innocent shrug* he asked me to!

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 3032

Notes: While I work on a plot for an azzy hockey x figure skater au, please enjoy a rhys hockey au 🤪

This was originally an Az idea but I thought it fit better for Rhys bby so here we are. I feel like I've forgotten how to write and this is shit (dont judge me im going thru smthin rn)

_________________________________________

A giant FU stares up at you.

Well, actually, it’s only an F, but it may as well be the former with the way it’s circled in thick, red ink.

Three. Fucking. Times.

Tears sting the back of your eyes but you refuse to let them fall. It never feels good, failing, and even if you’d gotten a C+ like you hoped, you would’ve still beaten yourself up over the grade because plain and simple: that’s who you are.

Two months ago, at the beginning of the semester, psychology had seemed like a breeze. The lectures were easy to listen to and intriguing, and you had no trouble following along with the professors’ slideshows as you took detailed notes of everything on the screen. Your assigned readings were completed in a similar state, though they weren’t graded but included important information you’d find on the tests.

Somewhere along the line, your grade slipped, and you don’t remember if it had been between studying for Biology or reveling in your newfound freedom away from your parents, partying and enjoying a true college experience with your roommates.

Whatever happened, the repercussions are hitting you right in the face, the taunting letter you have never seen before on any of your assignments throughout all your years of learning.

If your parents saw this, they would bring the entire house down with their scolding.

It’s not like you didn’t try. You studied, even if the word is a loose term for what material you used. Things started piling up this month, with it being a new semester and all. You didn’t schedule out the time to focus on psychology when the classes you were really interested in—Introduction to Nutrition and Kinesiology—took first and second place for your attention. Plus, with the number of social events your best friends—who are also conveniently your roommates—invited you too, it was almost impossible to say no. Friends are a vital part of the college experience and you were in desperate need of some fun after having spent the summer lounging at home with your parents.

You found a psych support group that met at the library once a week to study together. It wasn’t anything like you thought it would be, a bunch of clueless students with grades similar to yours. All they seemed to want to do with your precious time was bitch and moan about the professor instead of actually trying to conquer the areas of study for the upcoming test.

And now the consequences of your actions have made themselves known.

Grumbling, you shove the test into your binder before shutting it with a snap that does nothing to ease your frustration. A few students still trail from the room, though most bolted right after being released. Some linger at the bottom of the lecture hall where the professor sits, answering their questions.

You have about a million-and-one of your own but you’re too worked up about your grade to go down there and hash it out with Mr. Hybern. His peppery colored hair is perfectly coiffed on this terrible day, his beard trimmed close to his jowls. His gleaming, golden skin makes you think that maybe he’d spent his weekend grading tests out in the sun, and you have half a mind to stomp your way down the stairs and demand a second review of your test.

It wouldn’t solve your irritation, and it would certainly be embarrassing if in fact your F is correct.

Placing your binder, notebook, and pens back into your bag, you zip it, sling it over your shoulder, and make your way to the exit, holding your chin high because if there’s one thing you’re not going to do, is cry over your terrible, awful grade in public.

The waterworks will just have to wait until you’re locked in your private bedroom in your shared dorm.

There is good news. It’s Friday, which means you can snag the pint of your favorite ice cream that your roommates won’t dare touch because ‘no ice cream that’s worth it should have fruit in it, that’s like asking for a steak on your spaghetti.’ You have no idea what Mor—one of your roommates—was on about when she brought up the awful comparison, and in reply all you’d done is scooped out a chunk of cherries embedded into the creamy, pink goodness and stuffed it into your mouth.

With it being the weekend, you can also wallow well into the night without having to worry about hiding your puffy eyes in the morning. You’ll have all day tomorrow to figure out a plan of action, once you allow yourself the time to properly grieve and process…and maybe have a drink or two.

You shoulder through the heavy lecture hall door with your head down, hiding the red stain to your cheeks. So, maybe you’re not going to hold you head high as you trail back to your dorm, but you will not cry.

The door swings open and you barely catch the noise of surprise before you’re barreling into something that’s akin to a brick wall. Your breath leaves your body in a whoosh and your balance slips out from under you, arms flailing as you fall.

You squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for impact, but it never comes.

Slowly, mortified because you know exactly what’s cushioned your fall, you peek your eyes open, carefully meeting a sapphire gaze that surely would take your breath away should you have any left.

This close, you can see the perfection of his angular features: a long, straight nose, high cheekbones under the dusting of pink that caresses his own face. His lashes are dark as charcoal, the same color of his hair that looks as soft as silk.

Whatever it is that has you entranced by his beauty, the sentiment seems to be mutual. Those bright eyes trace across your features, carefully drinking you in. You don’t know if you’re thankful that your face is already as red as the marker on your test or if you want him to see the way your cheeks go molten.

There’s a warmth against your hips that you don’t notice until he speaks, his hands that have a solid grip around you, keeping you steady to his chest. His whispered breath brushes across your lips. “By all means,” he teases softly, “Take your time.”

“Oh, my Gods, I am so sorry,” you squeak, rolling off his chest. You can hear his chuckling as you scramble to climb to your feet, but your knees are so weak at the sight—and touch—of the most handsome man you’ve ever seen lifting gracefully to his feet, holding a hand down to help you up.

You try not to notice just how big his hand is in yours, and for the second time today, you fail.

“Don’t worry about it, darling,” he says, displaying an easy grin that makes your heart stutter in your chest. The door opens with a loud click and the both of you startle. His hand comes down warmly on your spine, ushering you out of the way of the student that’s beaming grin falters into apology at the idea of almost running you down, already on the phone with someone and gushing over their test result.

It’s hard to reign in your glare.

The student’s conversation seems to jolt the man out of his stupor. He blinks, shaking his head as if to rid him of a spell you might have cast on him, or maybe he’s testing to see if he has a concussion from the fall.

When he returns his attention to you, it takes everything in your power not to melt into a puddle beneath that gaze.

“Is Mr. H still passing out tests?” he asks, and you swallow the sourness that accompanies the name of your professor. You and he are not on good terms right now, not that this boy knows that.

“Yeah,” you answer, remembering you saw him sitting on his throne (desk chair) with his loyal citizens (students) kissing his feet (talking through their tests). “I think so.” Then, because you’re pretty sure you would remember a face like his if he were in your lecture, you ask, “Are you in this class?”

“No,” he answers with a scoff that tells you he breezed by this class. “I took Psych 101 freshman year, but I have Professor Hybern again for Cognitive Psychology and I need to turn in my paper early.”

Turning in a paper early? What is he, some kind of genius?

“Oh,” you answer lamely, “Cool.”

His answering grin cracks open the casing of the butterflies you didn’t know were living in your stomach, taking off in a flurry of emotion.

He shrugs like he couldn’t really care less about any of it, but to you, the fact that he’s managed to pass Psych 101 at all is an impressive feat, though you don’t know why he’d sign up for even more torture. “Sure. Look, I’ve got to run, but are you sure you’re okay?”

It’s nice of him to ask if you’re okay when he’s the one who had his back painted to the floor only moments ago. “Yeah, I’m fine, but I should be the one asking you that. Are you okay?”

His laughter is rich and warm, and you want to melt into it. Before you have the chance to make even more a fool of yourself in front of this handsome stranger, he answers. “I’ve been checked harder, darling. You have a nice day now.”

“Thanks, you too,” your words trail off as he catches the door on its next outswing, ducking inside without waiting for your response.

Jeeze, he must really be in a rush, then.

It’s when you exit the doors to the psychology building that you curse yourself. You should’ve gotten his number, his name at least. You could’ve invited him over for something more distracting and yummier than the ice cream you’d planned on demolishing.

At least you have something better to think about tonight than your test.

With a heavy sigh, you allow your backpack to fall off your shoulder. Now that you’ve arrived back to your dorm, you’re suddenly feeling more exhausted than ever.

The walk home from class had been nice, your time spent thinking about the boy you’d run into. The broadness of his shoulders you didn’t seem to notice until he turned away, stretching wide beneath his tight t-shirt. The bulge of his biceps beneath said t-shirt, flexing as he pulled the door open for himself. The shape of his ass in those snug jeans.

The sight of that is what had your eyes nearly popping from your head. What’s he doing that gives him such a bubblicious ass? Squats? Lunges? You can do those. You choose not to, but if there’s a guarantee that you’d have an ass like that, you’d start right this second.

Tucking your lip into your mouth in concentration, you plant your hands on your hips, making your way to the refrigerator that your ice cream is housed in, lunging your way there.

It’s not that far, the communal space in your shared dorm is small, but your heartrate is elevated by the time you’re two lunges away from your prize: your ice cream.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Mother!” You shout as the voice of your roommate breaks your concentration. Your knees wobble and your thighs shake, unable to hold you up from the burst of exertion you used. You clearly need to get into the gym more, another thing to add to your already busy schedule. “You scared me!”

Mor rolls her chocolate-brown eyes, sliding into one of the stools at your counter. It’s not built for it, the laminate countertop doesn’t hang over the island far enough for your legs to fit, but you and your roommates thought they were cute, nonetheless. You can suffer having to hunch over your knees to reach your cereal bowls in the mornings in favor of having more space for company to sit.

When you haul yourself off the ground, you take in your roommate. She’s wearing some kind of jersey, one you’ve never even seen in her wardrobe before, and you probably spend more time in there than her because she has every item of clothing you could ever imagine. The top she’s wearing now totally clashes with everything that screams Mor: silk scarves, tight bodice tops, leather pants, and what she has on now isn’t even red, a color that’s a staple in her closet.

“Well, if you were paying attention,” she scolds playfully, flipping open the compact in her hand, checking her makeup in the tiny mirror. She makes a few faces that would make you chuckle if you didn’t notice how she looks like she’s ready to go out, and that means she’s going to try to drag you with. “You would’ve heard me walk into the room. I am wearing heels, you know.”

Of course you know. Mor doesn’t do sneakers, only when it’s five in the morning and the sun is still sleeping, the perfect time for working out where nobody will catch her. Maybe I should join her, you think, mind wandering back to that boy’s butt.

“Why are your cheeks all red?” She asks, planting her palms on the counter and leaning towards you, eyes narrowed in inquisition.

“Nothing,” you wave her off, reaching for the door to the freezer. It’s the last thing between you and the cherry chunk ice cream calling your name.

Before you can open it more than an inch, it slams closed, Mor’s sharp, bright red fingernails splayed out to stop you.

Damnit, how does she move so silently?

“What do you think you’re doing?” You question each other at the same time, biting back your smiles at the mistake.

She answers first. “Why do you look like you’re about to get the ice cream, put your pajamas on, and wallow in bed all night?”

“Because that’s exactly what I’m going to do,” you cross your arms over your chest defiantly. “So, if you’ll excuse me…” You trail off, hoping she’ll step away and leave you to your peace.

She doesn’t. That’s not Mor.

“I had a rough day!”

“You say that every day,” she whines, stomping her heel-clad foot. “Don’t you even want to know what I’m inviting you to tonight?”

“From the look of your clothes, no, I don’t want to know what you’re doing tonight, Mor, and no, I don’t want to join you, either.”

Your roommate scrunches her nose, tipping it towards the ceiling. “I’ll have you know that this outfit is cute.”

“Yeah, if the definition of cute changed to ‘not pleasing or appealing to look at.’”

“You take that back,” Mor shouts, full naming you.

As your lips part in apology, because that was rude of you, your other roommate pads out of her room. Her reading glasses are perched up on her nose, blue eyes round and wide, and it always looks like she’s looking around the room in wonder. She has a blanket thrown over her shoulders and looks every bit of cozy you wish you were.

“Gwyn,” you sigh in relief at the sight of her. “Please, help.”

“I already said no,” she offers you a sympathetic wince. “I don’t think there’s any getting you out of the hockey game, sorry babe.”

Now it’s your jaw that falls to the floor. No, it falls through the floor and about five more floors down, hitting the lobby with a crack that echoes through the building.

You whirl on Mor. “Hockey game? Since when have you been interested in hockey?”

“Since my cousin got named team captain this year,” she says smugly, and you don’t know why she’s acting vain, it just means that he’s captain of the douchebags now, even you know that. Mor turns, showing off the back of her jersey. The number one stands out like a beacon, and you brush her blonde hair over her shoulder to read the smaller patches spelling out what is in fact, her family name.

Cunningham.

“Think of all the parties we’ll get into,” she says over her shoulder, and she does have a point there. The athletes at your college are a group of students that you don’t ever interact with, nor do you care. Mor is all about connections though, and if she wants to go to the hockey game, then it looks like you’re going with her.

You wonder what excuse Gwyn used to get out of it. She looks mighty comfy right now, slinking over the plop down on the couch and turn on a movie.

“Why do we have to go to the game? Can’t we just go to the parties?” You ask, grasping for anything to get out of this. You don’t want to go sit in the cold arena and watch a bunch of guys wearing full-body padding slide up and down the ice. Why couldn’t her cousin have been on the baseball team? They have nice, tight uniforms.

“Because,” Mor emphasizes with a glare, spinning to face you once more to give you the full effect of her irritation. “I’m a good cousin, and if we don’t attend the games, we’re going to be blacklisted from the parties,” she grumbles, the fight leaving her a little bit. “I’ve already argued about it with Rhys, I don’t want to have to argue with you too.”

It’s with your sigh that Mor brightens. “Fine. I’ll come with you, but I’m not going to be happy about it. And don’t expect me to cheer.”

Her squeal pierces the sound barrier. What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?

Mor grabs your hand, dragging you towards the empty single room that’s left in your dorm. She uses it as an extension of her closet until someone else gets placed with you. So far, you’ve been lucky, living here since freshman year, just the three of you. “Great! I got you a shirt!”

_________________________________________

Over Ice Taglist:

[daydreamkissesxo]

Father Charlie x reader | Sinner pt 4; Is this how it ends?

Warnings; manipulation, coercive behaviour, mentions of pregnancy and active labour, angst, mentions of abortion (no smut this time😢)

A/N; I really struggled for this part and I’m not entirely happy with it but it’ll do😂 part 5 is cominggg

Your sudden disappearance was the talk of the church each Sunday, every family theorising what could have possibly happened.

Your mother was distraught, inconsolable as she had no explanation as to where you were or whether you were even alive.

Father Charlie often comforted her after mass, cruelly lifting her spirits by claiming that you would one day return, though he knew otherwise.

Your family's persistent searching often left him anxious, that they'd somehow trace your disappearance back to him.

He'd thought of several different ways to resolve the issue, all exposing your pregnancy one way or another with the knowledge that your parents would disown you for it.

He'd thought of carefully planting a pregnancy test in one of your coat pockets after conveniently visiting your family home to console your mother, hoping she'd find it as she rummaged for clues as to your whereabouts.

He'd even considered paying one of the local homeless men to falsely inform your mother that he'd seen you leaving town with a blossoming baby bump, but that seemed to be one of the riskier options, he knew he'd be setting himself up for blackmail.

You were completely oblivious to the state your family were in, confined to the four walls of Father Charlie's home as he claimed it would be impossible for you to leave it without being noticed now that half of the town knew you were missing.

His intentions were far from pure, he disguised his reasons for keeping you a prisoner in his home as concern for the abandonment you'd inevitably receive from your family if they discovered the truth.

He'd carefully manipulated you into believing that he had done nothing wrong, that he acted on the lust you inflicted upon him and that any consequences were only yours to suffer.

You were disconnected from the outside world as he'd even taken away your phone, claiming that you were easy to trace as long as you were in possession of it.

Each day that passed was another that he'd paralysed your mind, ridding you of your independence unconsciously so that you were solely reliant on him for even the most basic human care.

He had a strong desire to control every aspect of your life, carefully planting small seeds of doubt in your mind that you were incapable of making your own decisions and taking proper care of yourself.

He provided you with a home, the clothes that you wore, the food that you ate and the comfort most people long for, it made him feel so unbelievably powerful.

He'd carefully prepared every meal you'd eat, insisting that he knew best where nutritional value was concerned due to his previous work as a personal trainer, yet his intention was to ensure you never ate unless he provided it, much like a dependant child.

The only time he'd leave your side was to fulfil his duties at the church and even then he wondered if that were too long, he couldn't risk leaving your mind unoccupied.

Despite his extreme measures you'd never once thought of yourself as a prisoner, he appeared so attentive and caring that you believed it was just in his nature, not part of his carefully crafted plot to manipulate the woman he'd purposely impregnated so she could never exist without him.

You couldn't help but feel like a house pet, always perched on the sofa or beside him in bed with no real purpose other than incubating his unborn child.

Father Charlie had managed to convince you not to see anyone of the medical profession during your pregnancy, claiming that once you'd stepped foot over the threshold of a hospital that they'd inform your family immediately.

Being so fearful of their disappointment, you agreed that a doctor he had known previous to becoming a priest could regularly check you over.

Violent nausea woke you from your slumber each morning, you'd spend the majority of your day hunched over the toilet bowl and for that father Charlie was pleased, while you were in that state you were incapable of even attempting to leave which bought him more time to work his manipulative ways.

While he was sympathetic to your sickness, he strongly felt it was the perfect punishment for trying to end your pregnancy, though he never told you that.

He hadn't totally forgiven you for your actions but he wasn't a complete monster, he knelt beside you to hold your hair back when he could.

In an ideal world, the two of you would have been married and equally excited for the arrival of your child, but the conception date made it difficult for him to find a way to leave his position at the church without exposing his sexual relationship with you during his time there.

It was at dinner one night that he'd noticed how withdrawn you'd become, assuming it was due to the toll early pregnancy was having on your body but the sound of stifled sobs caused him to stiffen.

He'd immediately placed the dinner plates onto the table, rushing to your side to kneel beside the chair where you sat.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" He asked softly, lifting one of his hands to gently cup your cheek and wipe away your tears, caressing your soft skin with his thumb.

"I..miss my family.." you whispered quietly, your gaze thankfully adverted as Father Charlie clenched his jaw in growing frustration for the reason of your sudden sadness.

"I know you do. But think about it..your family think you've run away. You can't just suddenly show up pregnant, with no husband in sight." He attempted to sound reasonable and sympathetic, as if his sole purpose of keeping you within the four walls of his home was for your own good and not his.

"You're not the reincarnation of Mary, somebody put that baby inside of you and they'll want to know who."

You flinched at his words, perhaps he didn't mean to be so crass but the thought of you exposing him as the father of your child made him anxious.

Hurt by his words, you attempted to turn your head away but his hand nudged at your cheek to force your head back towards him.

"This goes beyond you, sweetheart. What about me? How can I support you if I lose my position? We'll lose this house, I'll lose the support of the community."

He intended to scare you into thinking the two of you could never survive if he were to lose his priesthood, that the luxury that came with the role was the only acceptable choice for your new family.

He knew you'd feel guilty enough at the thought of him losing everything he'd ever worked for to not raise the issue again, but it didn't stop you from feeling disappointed.

He placed one of his palms against your barely noticeable bump, a prideful smile replacing the scowl he wore a moment before.

"This is what happens, sweet girl. You move on, and you start your own family..you leave those you love behind to make space in your heart for new." He said in a soft yet condescending tone, attempting to sever the ties between you and your family completely.

You lowered your gaze as you allowed his words to soak in, unknowingly ingesting the poison that would slowly rid you of your clarity.

His infectious smile caused you to smile back, and for the first time during your pregnancy, you felt hopeful for the future the two of you would share.

Your second trimester brought its own challenges, your breasts were notably larger and constantly sore, and you were almost always in discomfort as the skin of your abdomen stretched to accommodate your growing bundle of joy.

Most days were spent perched in the same spot on the living room couch, no longer able to read nor watch the television as the outside world was all that seemed to occupy your mind.

Each time father Charlie left for mass you'd spend your hour of isolated silence staring out of the window into the front garden, watching as spring finally swept away the darkness of winter.

Once naked tree branches were now beautifully decorated with blossoming flower buds, sparsely planted flowers blooming from the ground while nature began to emerge from its hibernation.

Butterflies were a rare sighting so you were always pleased when one did appear, you thought you'd struck gold as two suddenly appeared to drift past and settle on the window ledge.

You leant closer to the window in fascination, A beautiful white butterfly trapped beneath a black and red patterned one.

It was oddly symbolic, the darkness holding the pure and innocent captive, much like how Father Charlie held you.

The sudden sound of a closing door forced you to jump, your hand falling to your rounded belly to clutch it as you glanced over your shoulder, your gaze meeting Father Charlie's.

He stood frozen in the doorway as he took a moment to admire the sight before him, how beautiful you looked as you sit and wait for him to return, the natural light reflecting against your skin to create a radiant glow.

"There's my girl." He murmured as he walked over to take a seat beside you, excitedly placing a hand on either side of your pregnant belly.

"Not much longer and I can finally come home to two beautiful girls." He chuckled, lowering his head to press a soft peck to the top of your baby bump.

"We don't know if we're having a girl." You replied, quietly giggling as you found his assumption of the gender amusing seeing as he was so adamant.

"Oh she's definitely a girl." He argued, lifting his head to look up at you before leaning in to place a delicate kiss to your lips, silencing you from correcting him once more.

He'd pulled away before you even had chance to reciprocate, your lips left parted as your eyes met once more.

"How have you been feeling? I thought perhaps we could take a walk around the church grounds later, get some fresh air?" He offered, a reward for your compliance now that he was confident you'd never run.

Later, meaning after it had gotten dark as he certainly couldn't allow anyone to see you now you were very visibly pregnant.

He watched as your eyes lit up with excitement at such a small offering of freedom and it left him nervous, mentally questioning how you'd act if he ever accidentally left the door unlocked.

"Great. But first, I've got some ideas about the nursery I'd like to run by you." He added, his hand falling from your bump to his pocket to retrieve his phone.

He lifted it slightly as he swiped through his apps in search of the photo one, clicking on it to then scroll upwards in search of the screenshots he'd taken from various shopping sites for inspiration.

"I was thinking neutral? Seeing as you're not going to let me paint it pink." He teased, smiling as he held the phone up just enough for you to see the inspiration photos he had.

It was later that evening that he'd taken you to the church grounds as promised, aware that gentle exercise is essential for expectant mothers and would aid the correct positioning of the baby as your due date drew closer.

He kept a slow pace as he walked beside you, acknowledging that due to the pressure bearing down on your pelvis it was uncomfortable to walk any faster.

Despite the discomfort, the walk was more than pleasing as you'd finally got to feel the fresh spring breeze brush past your skin while taking in a view far more pleasant than the same four walls of his home.

The church held many memories for you, most fond while some were unpleasant, such as your scuffle with Father Charlie.

You'd often dreamed of marrying at such a beautiful place, though now the thought of marriage was no longer as your relationship with Father Charlie would be frowned upon by most.

He'd often wondered whether you missed the church, the beautiful hymns you knew every word of and the scriptures you'd followed so closely until his corruption of you.

"Do you miss being here?" He asked sincerely after noticing the longing in your eyes as you take in the view, for once not taking the opportunity to taunt you.

You nodded simply in response, reminiscent of the Sundays you'd spent sat amongst your family as you looked for guidance from the Lord, when your feelings for Father Charlie were nothing more than your best kept secret.

"I do. I wish I'd have had some self restraint, things may have been different.."

Father Charlie grew stiff at your confession, your words of regret made him feel both uncomfortable and somewhat sad.

"But I'm not regretful. What good is regret? Everyone's path in life is different, and if it's God's will..I will gladly accept the path chosen for me." You softly add, turning your attention towards him as you smile warmly.

Somehow he'd felt even more sad, God's will never played a part in your fate, it was his decisions that led you down the path you now walked.

The warmth of your smile filled him with nothing more than shame, more shame than he'd inflicted upon you for attempting to better your future by aborting the living evidence of your sexual relationship, he understood in that very moment why you'd considered it.

You gently took hold of his hand, intertwining your fingers with his as a way of showing that the two of you would walk your ill fated path together.

"God will forgive us for our sins, and I hope you will forgive me for the selfish decision I almost made.." You timidly said, his reaction to the abortion you almost endured still ingrained on your mind.

Father Charlie could only respond with a smile, truly stunned by your sudden remorse and compliance, it was deeply unnerving.

Father Charlie never truly recovered from that day, he'd become even more nervy and on edge, waiting for you to one day take your revenge instead of now appreciating the compliance he'd always sought from you.

It was several weeks until your supposed due date and you could barely tell the difference between every day pain and possible contractions.

The pain prevented you from sleeping at night, every time you'd settle another sharp pain in your lower abdomen would disturb you, leaving you exhausted and desperate for your pregnancy to be over with.

Father Charlie felt your accidental nudges throughout the night as you stirred, always waking from his own slumber to ask whether you were okay.

He was reluctant to leave for mass one morning but you insisted he should, convinced that the pain was nothing more than those practise contractions you'd read so much about, but you couldn't have been more wrong.

The pain became drastically worse and had you still been in possession of your phone, you'd have called the first contact you could to come and help.

The intense pain lasted for just a few seconds every couple of minutes, it was a pain you could only describe as a tightening squeeze across your lower abdomen.

Father Charlie had returned from mass to find you slumped against the wall in the hallway with your knees slightly bent up towards your chest, your hand desperately shaking as you clutched at your belly while your body writhed in pain.

His eyes widening in panic as dropped his briefcase in desperate hurry, rushing to your side faster than his mind could even comprehend before falling to his knees beside you.

Your skin was visibly clammy while your face was scrunched in clear discomfort, your purposeful drawn out breathes interrupted as loud pain filled sobs erupt from your lips when another contraction reached its peak.

Father Charlie was visibly panicked, untrained and certainly not educated enough to deliver a baby but there was hardly any time to wait for his doctor friend.

"Baby? Baby, tell me how far apart the contractions are?" He asked, attempting to sound confident while completely overcome with nerves, raising a hand to softly stroke your hair in an attempt to comfort you.

"I, I don't know!" You choke out, arching your back from against the wall as the pain rippled through your abdomen uncomfortably.

Unbeknownst to father Charlie, your mother had followed him home in hope of seeking the comfort he'd often provided her in regard to your disappearance.

Though he could hardly hear a thing over your agonised sobbing, a loud knock at the door followed by a familiar voice caused him to freeze in absolute panic.

"Father Charlie, are you there?" She called out, and the sound of your mother's comforting voice was everything you'd wished to hear as your body fought to bring new life into the world.

Father Charlie glanced over his shoulder at the door, his breath audibly trembling as he believed the two of you would inevitably be caught.

He felt your body tense beside him, confident that a contraction was impending, and as you began to let out a violent sob his hand came to harshly cover your mouth to muffle it.

It felt sickeningly cruel to touch you this way knowing the intense pain that rushed throughout your body, but he just needed to let your mother leave before attending to your greatly immense suffering and the delivery of his beautiful baby.

Taglist; @targaryenswhxre @dckweed @psychocitylights @yoongling 💖💖

[thebibliosphere]

Hello, I apologize if this is something you've already talked about or you've answered this question before or don't want to speak more on it but I saw that ask you responded to the other day that your 'mast cells burnt down your gi track' and I wanted to ask what the name of that condition is called? Several years ago I randomly lost 45 pounds and couldn't explain it. And while I already had gi issues before, after it happened I started developing new ones that got worse with time to the point that now I am physically unable to work. There are a lot of other factors with my situation that could be to blame but I've gotten an absurd amount of various tests with no answers to show for it. And now I'm wondering if maybe whatever happened to you has happened to me.

Oh, bestie, you're all good; all I do is bitch on this app about having mast cell dysfunction.

There are a handful of different mast cell disorders, but my condition is known as Mast Cell Activation Syndrome, or MCAS for short. If you want to know what a mast cell is and how it operates in the immune system, I'd recommend checking out The Mast Cell Disease Society:

They're currently redoing their content, but there's still a wealth of information on there.

You can also search my blog for #MCAS and find a handful of posts where I break it down in detail, along with the current flaws in testing for mast cell patients.

The reason I lost a lot of weight was because my mast cells made my GI tract so inflamed that I couldn't digest anything I was eating. It was going in through my mouth, causing excruciating pain and giving me no nutritional value whatsoever.

Histamine type 2 blockers, such as famotidine/pepcid used to treat acid reflux, can help with GI inflammation from mast cell dysfunction (the GI tract is lined with histamine receptors), but I needed extra support, which I finally got late last year when my GI doctor realized after a biopsy that I was being undermedicated and needed more help managing my MCAS.

If you want to ask more specific questions, I'm happy to try to answer them, but I'd suggest reading through the above link first to see if any of it resonates with you.

[orchidsangel]

jason would be the loveliest loveliest boyfriend. i think he'd care for you so so so so so so much because you know, it's been so long since he's had someone who's truly been there for him unconditionally. and you are, and that means so much to him.

i think you would become family to him in a way that no one else had been, not biological or an attempt at redemption in the form of saviorhood. far removed from the vigilante life, and the moral gray zone that comes with what he does. just family. family he can share mundane moments with and not have to worry about you turning on him when the going gets tough. family he can go home to.

and i think that he's so thankful for the domesticity you give him, that what he does is give it to you right back. you want to go on a date to a pottery shop and paint bowls and cups until the smell of glaze is nauseating? yes. you want to browse the aisles of trader joes, picking up any and all seasonal items so you can film a taste test no one's ever gonna see? in a heartbeat. you want to sleep in, wake up for a breakfast with little to no nutritional value, and then go back to sleep together? he can't think of anything better.

and maybe this is just me projecting because thats what i want from somebody in life, but i think he would pay attention to the little things because the little things matter so much and he knows that because no one has really ever paid attention to the little things about him.

but you do, and that's why he loves you.

[gamefuna-official]

is leshy vegan or does he like eat his cards sometimes for protein

You've brought up a very interesting debate over whether or not the cards would count as vegan or not. Technically they are made of just paper. However you could definitely make the argument that the process of inscrybing said cards is not very vegan at all.

I also regret to inform you that paper does not have very much protein in it (and by that i mean none at all), unless you're suggesting that the cards retain the nutritional value of the animals from which they were inscrybed. This is a fascinating conjecture and has not yet been tested.

But either way no he does not eat them because he needs all eight of his fucking bears to beat you to hell with

[glarcresearch]

Testing of Nutritional Values for Accurate Labeling Testing of Nutritional Values is crucial for providing consumers with accurate information about the nutritional content of food and beverages. This testing includes measuring levels of proteins, carbohydrates, fats, vitamins, and minerals to ensure that the product's labeling is correct. Accurate nutritional value testing also helps manufacturers comply with food labeling regulations and aids consumers in making informed dietary choices. With proper testing, food producers can ensure the health claims made on their products are truthful and scientifically supported.

[metalichotchoco]

Since we know the performers are humans that entered the circus it’s interesting to theorize who they used to be before that. Of course we have very very little information but I still wanted to work with what we do have because it’s deceptively a lot. At least for 2 characters, but I’m not gonna talk about pomni. She has alot of religious imagery tied to her but there’s nothing really holding that together. Anyways imma talk about Kinger.

We are told 2 things outright about kinger, he’s been there the longest and he’s “crazy”

My theory is that Kinger was the lead developer/ someone high up that worked on the circus. Out of everyone he’s the one with the most logic when it comes to the world and how it works which is weird and insane to anyone looking in. A lot of this can be chalked up to pure experience but things like the nutritional value of food or timing when someone will abstract is a little outside things he should be aware of. He’s a white king chess piece.

White moves first in a game. He probably is the first to arrive, trying to test the game before the company sells it to the public. He’s also a weak but extremely important figure in the game. If anything gets too close to him, he’s in check essentially. The tent’s floors are also a chessboard theme which probably doesn’t mean anything but I wanted to mention it. He refers to himself as “royalty” and the lead developer of a game would probably be considered such. Everything is screaming that he’s important.

Under the cut I’ll talk about his other design elements

Out of the 4 characters that wear gloves only 2 both have white gloves, Kinger and Caine. White gloves also seem to be our “cursor” of sorts but that’s not the only thing these two have in common. They also have the same style of eyes, more bloodshot in kinger’s case, they are asymmetrical humanoid eyes that both share blue as one of their colors. It’s a bit strange that they share these traits when they could’ve totally gone fully unique. It feels almost deliberate.

They are both as crazy as each other but one is introverted and one is extroverted. Obviously they’ve known each other the longest so I wonder how their relationship is onscreen. Though something I’m realizing is that Kinger and Caine’s teasers were also connected! They were telling two sides of the same story. Bubble tries to chomp Kinger but Caine reels bubble back in.

I wonder if Kinger’s actual name is Abel.. that’s going too far I think lol. I need to see a fully green eyed character now

There’s definitely something here but I don’t expect my theory to actually be what canon will become lol.

[sophiesticationcode]

How to be "That Girl" Step 1

It's 2025, and all the girls want to be 'That Girl' but have no idea where to start. No need to fear ladies, I'm here to help you. Read and save this post to look back and make sure you're hitting all your marks. (Then hit the like and follow button) ;)

First of all, who is 'That Girl'? She is the girl that all the boys want and all the girls want to be but even still, she is blissfully unaware and too busy doing her own thing to care. She is the girl who's always doing the most, the girl with a million hobbies and countless interests ranging from basic to ultimately niche. She is mysteriously intelligent and one of the most clever people you'll meet. She has an elusive yet strong and lasting presence, and she'll impact your life forever just by being her most authentic self. Now lets go over how to achieve this:

Step 1. Your body is a temple, act like it. This rule is important because it counts for multiple things. Not only does it stand for the boys you find yourself entertaining, ew. But also the food you're consuming along with the knowledge and media you are consuming as well. In this blog post, I will go over this rule and how it relates to all the things you are consuming; but, as far as boys go, that will be another topic for another day-so stay tuned. :) Anywho, let's begin. We've all heard the term "you are what you eat" and it's been taken quite a few different ways. I like to change the last word from "eat" to "consume", this helps me because it doesn't shine food and eating in a negative and toxic light. One thing about 'That Girl' is that she has a healthy relationship with food and her eating habits. She will eat when she is hungry and she will not eat if she is not hungry. That girl can recognize her hunger cues with ease and she nourishes her body with natural and clean foods. She likes to have balanced meals so she can keep her hormones in check, because that girl doesn't get crazy mood swings; overall she's pretty mellow. Now as much as she loves eating clean, she will indulge in treats and sweets from time to time. Slumber party with the girls? Order some greasy pizza and make ice cream sundaes with all of the fixings. Night out? She'll ditch the usual VWL for a fancy espresso martini. Just a cozy day in? She'll cook herself her childhood favorite Kraft Mac 'N' Cheese. That girl will honor her cravings because she doesn't let food and its nutritional value control her life, but she will also be consistent with eating clean most days so her cravings for the junk food are just naturally rare. Moving on from the topic of food, let's dive into the other things we regularly consume. Something about That Girl is that she is very aware of the knowledge she searches for and takes in. I'm not really talking about school when I say this, but what she takes in on her own. I've mentioned earlier that a characteristic of being 'That Girl' is having countless hobbies and interests. For example, one of these hobbies could be reading. Whether she's the type to read literary novels or non fiction, she is very particular with what information she will ingest. What does she need to learn? What does she need to hear? What is she looking for? An escape or a reality check? Another way that girl is particular with what it is she consumes is with the media. We live in the digital age where there's a billion worlds and perceptions that we have access to with our fingertips. The world (the internet) is literally in our hands. In order to become that girl, you have to have high standards for the media you spend your time on. Be aware of these three things: How does this content make you feel? How does this content inspire you? What kind of person is the creator of this content? If the content has passed the test with positive answers, you may proceed indulging in your screen time; if not, you're just wasting time rotting your brain and if you find yourself okay with that then you might as well give up with your 'It Girl' journey now because these are just the fundamentals. Your inner world is the ultimate reflection of your outer world. If your mind, body, and spirit don't get the proper nourishment, your reality won't receive the desired flourishment. There is so much more to this rule that I will happily go more into depth with this coming Tuesday with my weekly episode. Thank you for reading this post, and goodbye for now my gorgeous people! <3

[radioactive-yuri]

i just feel like there's no way orochimaru's eating habits weren't a bit fucked up as a kid. like, on the same level as naruto's, since they were essentially in the same situation (orphan child living on their own), and unlike with naruto, we don't even know if they were being given any money. and we're explicitly shown that naruto's eating habits are fucked because, y'know, he's a literal child having to fend for himself with what i can only assume is the bare minimum amount of money needed for basic survival. his diet consists primarily of ramen, he eats spoiled food, he's almost always a bit hungry. he's probably not getting the nutrients he needs at all.

so why would we assume that orochimaru did, when they were in his position? in the very best case scenario, hiruzen was also giving them money, which means they were probably surviving off of whatever they could afford with that (again, cheap food with low nutritional value), or. well. this is a bit dark, but what if hiruzen wasn't giving them any money. what if they literally survived off of whatever they could find as a child. rats, birds, raw eggs. their house probably had kitchen appliances, but did they know how to use those at that age, or did they burn and cut their fingers just trying to make something to eat? how many times did they accidentally eat poisonous berries, get sick from drinking river water, go an entire day without eating anything at all? do you think they got into the habit of just stealing whatever they could? do you think the bell test was easy for them because they were used to the idea of having to 'earn' their meals by fighting? how malnourished were they by the time they started earning their own money?

their mind and body are constantly in survival mode because that's what they're used to. fighting for their right to continue to exist slowly warps into killing for their right to continue to exist, into their obsession with immortality, into their resentment of human fragility.

[damnmmmmmmmmmm]

But I doubt she will be able to even get pregnant- she is not really healthy and I am pretty sure she must have been on birth control of most of her life… So the chances of a baby is zero 😂/ and not to shit on her age but she is over 40 years old, she never had kids, when you are 40 your chances to have a baby are droping 40% and i heard that they can drop even lower like 2% every month when you are not pregnant and she is months away from her 41 bday. So adding to it her unhealthh diet, alcohol and she smoke before its not healthy at all. //

Not to defend AW she's rich enough and unemployed enough that if she wanted kids, she'd have had kids because there was nothing to prevent her from doing so, let's be real), but there is a lot of misinformation about fertility in this conversation that is really harmful and needs to be countered.

The data that was used to determine what constitutes an "older" pregnancy was originally taken from population studies of women in 1800s France. There are a lot of reasons why those women might have seen declines in their fertility that may or may not still be broadly applicable to women today. Nobody has repeated those studies using data from the post-WWII era, let alone the post-birth control era, so a whole lot of factors like better nutrition at all stages of the lifespan, better medical care (ie, vaccinations to prevent the contraction of illnesses, antibiotics to treat bacterial infections, etc.), and the introduction of various forms of hormonal birth control (let alone various forms of fertility treatments) have not been accurately measured. Also, we have no way of quantifying how much individual behavior impacted those original women's fertility: Did their husbands lose interest in them and turn their attention to younger women or prostitutes? Did the household run out of money to afford more children, so the couple switched their activities to ones that wouldn't risk pregnancy? Did the women just pull a Lysistrata at a certain point and refuse to cooperate with their husbands' advances unless they changed some behavior the wives didn't like? We don't know. And there are too many unknown factors to draw sound conclusions.

) Starting and ending values in statistics are really important, and a lot of fertility statistics get tossed around without any reference to those essential starting points, usually because the people citing the statistics either have an agenda (to threaten younger women and shame older women who don't already have children) or because they just didn't understand them in the first place and so accepted what the person with the agenda was telling them. You say the chances of getting pregnant at 40 have dropped 40% - from what reference value? 2% each month - from what reference value? Baseline fertility at age 18-20 (or worse, at onset of menstruation) is a different marker than baseline fertility at 25 or 30 or 35 or 40. And is the drop per month, per year, or per instance of intercourse? Those are all totally different numbers. This is the same thing that happens with statistics about birth defects and pregnancy complications being "higher" in older women. We get scaremongered at that things are so much riskier - when really the odds of a complication go from a *fraction* of a percent to a low-single-digit (like 1-4) depending on the thing in question.

Statistics are guidelines for population-level analysis, not individual outcomes. I have someone in my family with a (literally) one-in-a-million genetic mutation. It took multiple years of medical testing to find out why they were having certain really weird health issues. The chance of having it is in the .0003% range - statistically impossible until you're the lucky idiot it happens to. Same with pregnancy. Your chances may be dropping by some unspecified amount each year and even each month, but there is no saying that "chances of getting pregnant are basically 0" until menopause has finished, and even then, there are now apparently some treatments that can bring some level of fertility back (enough for egg retrieval, and you don't need to be actively cycling for your uterus to carry a pregnancy to term). It might be unthinkably expensive, but if someone wants a kid badly enough, there are still options, and new ones are still being developed.

What often gets left out of the conversation about all of this is that part of the struggle for older women in getting pregnant is that, generally, their partners are older men. Women are born with all the egg cells they'll ever have; they undergo a maturation process later on during our monthly cycles, but the genetic information in them isn't degrading. Men, however, are making new cells every day, and those copies do degrade, just like every other replicating cell in the body. The older they get, the riskier pregnancy for their partners becomes, and the harder it becomes for them to even get pregnant. But even that's a generalization because a reasonably healthy older man who has taken care of himself for his whole life might still be able to father children better than a younger man who doesn't take care of himself at all.

Tl;dr: "she's too old to get pregnant" and similar bullshit is damaging to all women. We all hate AW and the shippers here, and it would be nice to tell them all to go take a hike because this particular fantasy of theirs is impossible, but that is not a good enough reason to repeat harmful rhetoric that hurts all women. Don't feed the trolls who want to limit us to our reproductive capacity (and then claim that we're all practically shriveled up and infertile by 35).

The statistics on fertility are totally cooked and mostly ideologically biased in ways we really don't want to be reinforcing.

[ranticore]

I've been wondering, do Harpies that were raised by humans simply not turn into kings? If it happens, what would trigger it? What would they do? How would they feel?

The trigger is usually the lack of a king already in a flock combined with persistent fear spikes as a result of crawling beast attacks. Kind of a "oh fuck we need more protection" stress signal from the body. But sometimes it can seem random, sometimes it can happen from someone just wishing really hard they could fuck a tiercel (that's how cuinn did it).

Among humans the harpies frequently encounter crawling beasts but they are not as stressed about it - because it's a job to them to fly out every night and kill those fuckers. Then the flock flies home to the mews where they get guaranteed food and their nests and babies are never in any real danger. This puts a pretty severe damper on most king transformations because after all, growing a bigger body which consumes way more energy and can't hunt as effectively is kind of silly if there's truly no need for it.

If it DID happen, the trigger would likely be one of the other random reasons. Most commonly (it's rare still) it would be a harpy who starts to view their own human keepers as somewhat like tiercels - which is why it's discouraged for falconers to wear bright flashy styles of clothing btw. The falconer-harpy working relationship relies on the harpy taking a subordinate role and accepting human authority. If they start to test boundaries it's a warning sign of a potential inversion of those subordinate/authoritative roles on the horizon. How the harpy feels depends on the individual but the king transformation can be confusing to them if they don't even know wtf is happening which can lead to becoming aggressive (especially food aggressive), withdrawn, moody, etc basically it's rarely a fun time for them.

At the early stages the transformation can be stopped by reducing the harpy's rations and feeding washed meat (meat that has soaked in water for a period of time to remove nutritional value). nobody can suddenly almost double in size over the course of a few months without proper nutrition. If caught early enough it'll stop the transformation entirely but if it's too late, you're just going to fuck them up. Those ones are isolated from the flock and later passed off to travelling/beginner falconers for cheap, which is a disaster waiting to happen

[bonefall]

do game birds (namely ducks) have more nutritional content than songbirds? my modeled region has so, so many ducks

They have a caloric value comparable to chicken! 5.9 kcal specifically, which I round to 6 to make a good middle-estimate for avian prey. Quails are fantastic prey, clocking at 6.8, balanced out by the fact they are smaller and lighter than you think they are.

(A wild common quail is only 70 to 120g. Birds are light because of their hollow bones.)

When I find good data for the value of a bat I can truly test my hypothesis, but my working theory is that flight is so energy intensive that it means the meat has to have a higher value. But again that's just my guess.

[sluggybunny]

New character named Susie. Test tube baby

The lore

- was a test tube baby for a project trying to eugenics a perfect magic baby

- succeeded, she’s abnormally powerful with magic

- only allowed to listen to classical music and pink noise as a baby and toddler. Was playing chess by age 4

- only fed food that was designed with maximum nutritional value possible, combined into neat food squares

- heavily medicated and monitored her whole life, even when she was moved to a more conventional housing environment

- they eventually let her get socialized by going to school, only the most prestigious schools of course.

- never allowed to have thoughts or make decisions for herself, she doesn’t even know it’s an option until she goes to college because they intentionally let her off the leash a little

- gets a taste of freedom and decides to run away, be free! She’s very smart u see. Unfortunately that’s what the project leader wanted her to think. They’re still monitoring her…

- she develops a love for holographic and iridescent colors, fashion, and underground art. She’s always dressed in something holographic or iridescent or otherwise shiny. Starts coloring her hair different colors, wants to get better at make up. She still has very proper posture and mannerisms.

- many people hate her vibes. She didn’t have a typical rich girl childhood but her vibes rub ppl the wrong way. Is very socially unaware.

- can speak 5 languages, play a few instruments, and of course is well verse in magical theory. Very very intelligent and well read and she can get along with other upper class folk and knows how to navigate those spaces

- if you fed her 1 Cheeto it might kill her