An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
So this is something I wrote for a friend on tumblr to help her get through a hard time. I hope this helps you and that I did justice to you prompt <3
The title is just a reference to the song Arcade by Duncan Laurence. It's a song that I think captures some of the emotions of loss and grief evoked in this fic so I decided to quote it and name the fic after it. The song is beautiful and sad and worth a listen if you've no heard it.
TW MISCARRIAGE - please err on the side of caution if this triggers or upsets you. Much love <3
Can you write an angsty fic or one shot on Sansa miscarrying the first child they have together? This can be way wayyyyyyyy after Dany’s death. Thank you!
So this little number took on a mind of its own. I’ll be posting this on AO3 as well and adding a second part eventually. Trigger warning: Blood and Miscarriage
Sansa had woken, naked, turning over and pressing her small, round belly into Jon’s naked side. The sun was out for the first time in days, and light poured through their bedroom window. She felt so content her heart skipped, running her small hand over her growing belly and letting out a happy sigh.Jon had been many things to Sansa over the years. Half brother. Cousin. Snow. Stark. Targaryen but, looking at Jon now, snoring loudly, she knew him only as husband. As Jon. How they made something so perfect, within all the destruction they survived apart and together amazed Sansa. Together they made something so beautiful. My child. Our child. Ours.Jon finally lifted heavy eyes, cracking a small smile as he rolled over, kissing her forehead. “Good morning, my Lady” His large hand mindlessly caressing her stomach.Suddenly, a wetness she did not expect left her rigid, then came a pain she could compare nothing to took over her. It was worse than all torture, emotional and physical she experienced, this pain was immeasurable.“Jon, something is wrong.” Our child.Jon was wide awake now, ripping off their blankets, looking down at her legs and then back at Sansa, panic taking over his face. Sansa couldn’t look. Wouldn’t look. Everything was becoming a blur as the pain took over.Chest filling with anxiety her first instinct was to stand, but as she rose, hands gripping her belly, the room turned on it’s side and she felt herself falling. Jon was by her side in a second, helping her sit. She tried to slow her breath and relax herself, taking Jon’s hand and squeezing tightly, but it seemed her mind and body we no longer attached. All she felt was pain. She could hear Jon’s muffled speech but before she could respond he was gone.She sat there, her body screaming in pain, hand still absently searching for him. Our child. She couldn’t stop a sob from escaping her lips as Jon entered the room with Winterfell’s Maester Cormic.Her eyes searched Jon’s but his panic mirrored her own. He was talking to her, comforting her, taking her face in his hands and kissing her cheeks softly, but she couldn’t make out anything he was saying. Her hands were now squeezing his arm so tightly she was sure it would leave bruises, the pain becoming so horrific that she was sure she would faint at any moment.Jon and the Maester Cormic laid Sansa down softly on the bed, realizing the screaming she was hearing was her own. Our child. She could also hear screaming that wasn’t her own. It was between the Maester and Jon but the cramps were too intense to focus on their voices. Cormic must have won the argument because Jon was standing in the corner of their room, looking to be in as much pain as she felt, as the Maester went to work. Next she felt hands on her. Not Jon’s warm and comforting hands. These were cold and determined, moving all over her, around her, and in her, but her eyes never left Jon. Ours.Sansa had rarely seen him cry, but there he was, red faced and sobbing. Another scream escaped her lips when a spoon plunged into her mouth, the disgusting taste of bitter liquid running down her throat. Her lids became heavy, her limbs became numb, and her crying ceased. It was Milk of the Poppy she was tasting. Sansa reached out her hand for him, but her body didn’t respond. Jon.Sansa felt herself falling into deep blackness. My child. Our child. Ours.
Also this is such a not cool way to deliver the news of a possible/probable miscarriage?? Like people kill themselves over miscarriages, you can’t make a joke of that it’s cruel.
honestly at first i thought this was about the petergriffinloss.jpg image.. considering that’s the original comic’s topic too? but uhh yea no peter griffin somehow takes that sensitive topic and makes an even WORSE joke than loss did.
peter griffin is like the embodiment of people who are offensive on purpose for the sake of being edgy, and the fact he has some sort of following within commonplace society is a Really Bad Sign.
Congrats Taylor! Could I request #4 with Sam x reader. And you can angst the fuck out of it!
I hope you’re thinking of me when you fuck her.
Their teeth clinked together as his mouth enveloped hers, her moans falling short as he swallowed them. As the two of them tangled themselves up in one another, they missed the rumble of the Impala pulling up to the motel room you’d confined Sam to for this hunt. There was no way Dean was letting him back into it so soon, not after finding out about the demon blood.
“Sam! I have someth- are you fucking kidding me?” You dropped your bag by the door and lifted your gun.
“Y/N!” Sam shoved Ruby off of him and scrambled to get his pants buttoned. “You - you and Dean - you were supposed to be gone until tomorrow!” He stammered.
“Wrapped up the hunt early. Was easier than we expected. This is what I come home to?” You waved the barrel of your gun in Ruby’s direction.
“Whoa, whoa, why’s your gun - shit.” Dean walked up behind you, already on the defensive, but understanding when he saw the demon in the room. “Take it easy, sweetheart.” He reached for your arm and tried to push it down, but you were holding steady.
“She’s fucking dead, Dean.” You hissed.
“Okay, yeah, I get that, but you know a bullet won’t kill her. Won’t even hurt her. C’mon, holster it.” He talked you down, and you unloaded the chamber and tucked the gun back into your belt.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Seething, you made your way across the room to the black-eyed bitch in the corner.
“Sam called me.” She snarked, victorious.
“He - he called you.” You chuckled, shaking your head. “He called you.” You repeated. “You know, that’s... that’s okay. That’s fine. He can have you. He can have you and all the other sluts he wants. I’m out of here. Dean, you have my number, and I’ll call you if I’m ever in any real trouble.” Lifting your bag once again, slinging it over your shoulder, you held everything you owned. You slipped Sam’s necklace off over your head and threw it onto the floor, then turned on your heel and started for the road. “Enjoy your latest addiction, Sam. Wonder how long this one will last.” You scoffed. “I hope you’re thinking of me when you fuck her. She’ll never be half the woman I was.” Kicking the door behind you, it slammed and you thanked every single cell in your body for willing back the tears until you were out of sight.
As your feet hit the pavement, your stomach churned, just as it had that morning when you rolled out of bed. Doubling over, you spilled its contents into the nearest brush pile. Dean knew, you’d told him on the ride home today. He made you swear off hunting, made you promise you’d tell Sam as soon as you got back to him, made you realize what was actually happening and how serious it was. Then you walked in on them.
Dean knew you were pregnant with his brother’s baby. Dean would come after you for sure, but you prayed to Chuck he wouldn’t tell Sam. You could never tell Sam, not as long as he had Ruby’s blood coursing through his veins. Your phone rang, pulling your out of your head.
“What...” You groaned into the receiver.
“Get your ass back here. Sam’s knocked out. We gotta talk.” Dean grunted, not really giving you a choice.
“Dean...” You whimpered as you looked down at your pants, a deep crimson stain spreading across your thighs. “Dean!” Shrieking, you heard his phone clatter to the floor and a door slam as he made his way toward you.
I suffered a miscarriage in January. My sister who has two children is newly pregnant although, she does take care of the kids she has now. Has no job, doesn't go to school, lives at home, is a pig, and an all around piece of garbage. It breaks my heart to know she's pregnant with a baby that she doesn't deserve. It just seems unfair and Maybe I'm bitter and immature about it but she doesn't deserve these blessings. I want to let it go but it's hard.
Im so very sorry about your loss, i cant even begin to imagine that pain. *hug* i know you want to be upset and you can be for a little bit but dont let it consume your life either. What you can control is your life and the life that you will bring to this world in the future. I know it hurts now and might hurt for awhile but this will make you stronger as a woman and is all apart of being a human. I hope this helped a little
I don’t think fundies blame women for miscarriages. In fact, they seem to be the most accepting and loving toward women who lose their children. I think they’re fully aware that it can happen to anyone, and it’s happened to their families quite a few times so I can’t imagine them actually blaming each other.
You’re my first ask message! Very cool!
I get what you’re saying, but IBLP is incredibly toxic and the Duggars and Bates are masters at making their lives seem perfect
In the case of IBLP, however, some of the tenets seem downright bizarre: Cabbage Patch Kids are idolatrous, syncopated music is “the antithesis of what God desires in the life of a Christian,” blue jeans are ungodly, circumcised men are morally purer than uncircumcised men. One IBLP article suggests that failing to “render to the Lord” can lead to miscarriage.
From https://www.chicagomag.com/Chicago-Magazine/July-2016/Institute-in-Basic-Life-Principles-Hinsdale/
And this comes straight from the IBLP website:
How does this truth relate to the suffering we experience? Does it mean we are to be thankful when a young mother dies of cancer? Does it mean you should give thanks when you lose your job? Does it mean we should rejoice when a couple suffers the anguish of multiple miscarriages?
Is answered with the following (I quoted some parts):
Thanking God in all things does not mean that we thank God for evil. Rather, we are to thank God in the midst of all things. With their decision to sin, Adam and Eve rejected God’s plan for a life without pain and sorrow, and the curse they received fell on all who have been born since then.
Therefore, as an act of redemption, God is able to take any circumstance that Satan or others intended for evil and redeem it for God’s glory and our good.
God gave Satan permission to afflict Job—within certain limits. In a single day, Job lost 7,000 sheep, 3,000 camels, 500 yoke of oxen, and 500 donkeys. On the same day, Job’s seven sons and three daughters were killed when the house in which they were gathered collapsed. When Job was informed of these tragedies, he could have said, “The Lord gave, and Satan has taken away!” Instead, Job declared, “The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord” (Job 1:21). [...] Job realized that God was sovereign—in control of all things at all times. He knew that God could have prevented this suffering, and Job chose to trust God in the face of this unprecedented onslaught at the hand of Satan.
When Satan tormented the Apostle Paul with a physical infirmity, Paul petitioned God three times, asking God to deliver him from it. However, God chose not to remove Paul’s infirmity, [...] In God’s eyes, the benefits of Paul’s suffering outweighed the cost of it.
As we yield—by faith—to God’s goal of conforming us to the image and the character of His Son Jesus, each circumstance in a believer’s life functions as a tool that can shape him or her into the “exact likeness” of Christ. Even Jesus learned obedience as He yielded to His Father’s will, through suffering: “Though he were a Son, yet learned he obedience by the things which he suffered” (Hebrews 5:8).
From https://iblp.org/questions/can-we-thank-god-all-things
I mean, I get what you’re saying. I really do. But even IBLP’s website likes it to sinners, God giving permission to Satan because the person is not ‘christ-like’ enough. You’re not obedient enough, thus I make you suffer so that you will be. The bible can teach a lot about love and forgiveness, but IBLP has chosen to read it in a context that they see fit and allows them to train obedient children. Many years ago, Michelle lost a child she was carrying and she was treated as a ‘sinner’ for using birth control. It went nearly exactly as IBLP describes it, she was “punished” by God for using birth control, something that should be in the hands of God. She lost her child to get her to be obedient to His word.
Maybe the Duggars have come a long way by now. It does seem like Lauren, Joy-Anna and Jinger have been treated normally (as they should be) but the truth is that we don’t know for sure but what we do know is that it at least seems like IBLP looks down on women who miscarry.
griselda remembered her child, her poor mangled child, that she never got to meet.
she had heard the storm raging outside and felt ghostly fingers threading through her hair and pressed against her throat, suddenly the urge to be sick surged through her hot and fast. stomach roiling and burning and her mouth was gaping out of her control when the smoke poured out. up and up it rolled, agitated and angry. oh god, she thought, i’m dying i’m dying i’m on fire and i’m dying. a golden fire rose and swept up through her hair, she could see the brilliant streams casting strange shadows on the walls and the inky blue of the dark being cast away.
how she had saw the strings of yellow and strands of neverending bloody pearls the terrified midwife had near dragged from her. that was when she had knew. knew what had been done. she felt filled with blackened blood and surrounded by ghosts.
oh how she had raged and felt a war within herself. her sorrow and grief seemed too big for her small body, their small cottage, her concerned and overwhelmed husband. the sea was her solace then despite the one who had afflicted her. she wanted to shine like lightening, roar like the thunder, cry like the rain. anything to drown out his name. it snatched her sadness from her and left her raw and scoured but free. free from the weary torment.
