#clarify an incredibly important note

[jewish-microwave-laser]

very important correction: "male medical staff are prohibited from treating women unless accompanied by a male relative" [1]

i also want to note that "In September 2021, a month after they returned to power, the Taliban stopped schooling for girls after grade six. They banned women from university in December 2022. Medical education, like nursing and midwifery, was one of the few ways they could continue their learning in classrooms." [2]

"Afghanistan already suffers from one of the highest maternal mortality rates in the world and there are deep concerns that that the ban would further erode women’s precarious access to healthcare." [1] the effects are expected to be most severely felt in rural areas [2]

"men cannot become midwives in Afghanistan" [3]

"People often say that under the Taliban women are just left to reproduce. Well, now with this new ban, women are left to reproduce and then die on that same table because there will be nobody to help them. That's what it has come to," said "Pashtana Durrani, founder of Learn Afghanistan, an organization operating secret schools in Afghanistan as well as a maternal health clinic that has trained midwives." [3]

1 - https://news.un.org/en/story/2024/12/1157866

2 - https://abcnews.go.com/amp/International/wireStory/eu-condemns-reported-taliban-move-suspend-medical-education-116442492

3 - https://www.npr.org/sections/goats-and-soda/2024/12/04/g-s1-36765/afghanistan-taliban-women-nurses-midwives

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transcription:

Afghan women in medical school are heard sobbing as a man announces a new Taliban edict that bans them from medical training.

The Taliban have also banned women from being treated by male medical professionals.

These two decrees, coupled together, effectively prohibit women from receiving any type of medical care since there will be no female health workers to treat them.

[cinnamonest]

I'm not looking to start shit so I'm not linking it or anything, but you may have seen a recent anti-dark-content post circulating with a lot of notes making rounds in the x reader sphere and while I have nothing against people posting their feelings in their own private spaces, every time I see these kinds of posts there's a lot of misinformation that gets regurgitated in the reblogs/replies and I saw what looked like a battlezone in the replies, so.

I know posts like that can be very jarring and affects people like my readers, so to combat misinformation/shaming for anyone who saw it, I'm going to share some of my information on combatting fandom puritanism/misogyny/kinkshaming in its most common forms.

The most important fact, if you read nothing else, is this:

Most women have rape fantasies.

62% to be exact. I think the most pervasive myth on this content is that consumers are "weird" for it, when the numbers don't indicate that. You're in the majority!

The vast majority of people who have rape fantasies do not put them into practice in real life. A variety of factors can determine whether or not they do, particularly specific psychiatric disorders. (X)

To specifically address common harmful and pervasive myths:

the "go to therapy!" line

Generally any academic or professional resource will immediately tell you that consuming and engaging in "dark" fantasies is accepted and encouraged by mainstream psychiatry and part of the professional education for psychiatrists. (This also used to be pretty well-known until like the last 5 years or so, not sure why that changed.)

Here are some particularly insightful resources:

1) This article by Dr. David Wahl, in my opinion, hands-down does the best job of simply and thoroughly explaining why these fantasies occur and why couples practice CNC, as well as the fact that they are both harmless, psychologically beneficial to those with them, and not at all correlated to real-life rape.

2) Dr. Claudia Six has some of the best and most thorough material out there on the subject, specifically explaining why this is taught in mainstream academia psychology and how it is incredibly helpful to rape victims (X).

3) Lisa Diamond is a professional who focuses on this subject a lot, and was featured in the documentary "The Dilemma of Desire," in which she specifically focuses on how these fantasies are not correlated to real-life desires. (X)

4) Dr. Casey Lyle has specifically talked a lot on his socials about how fantasies, even in men/the perspective of the offender, do not correlate to actual risk of offending.

5) This article is not by a professional, but from the perspective of a survivor discussing how it is beneficial to survivors.

the "why would you want that?" line

The idea that fictional tastes = what you want to happen to you in real life is actually of misogynistic origin. I don't want to seek out or add links on this one, but if you're really curious, you can research about how the idea that "women read rape fiction, that means they secretly want rape!" was originally a classic "red pill"/MGTOW/4chan talking point that made its way into mainstream dialogue and thus the public mind in the last 15 years or so due to the incel epidemic popularizing those communities.

the "it's only valid for survivors then!" line

On one hand, yes it's very important to acknowledge that trauma victims use it to cope, however I feel that over-emphasizing that gives the impression that non-victims should be excluded from consumption of dark content, so to clarify, it's a very valid means for all women. Many women who have not personally experienced rape still fantasize about it, and that's fine.

The full explanation as to why this is true for many of them would be lengthy (and addressed in the aforementioned Dilemma of Desire documentary), but in the simplest terms, nonconsensual sex is the only context in which patriarchal society permits women to have sex at all without feeling guilt. For many women, particularly those in more heavily misogynistic or religious cultures, these fantasies are appealing because the idea of consensual sex may give them feelings of shame, guilt, "sin," etc. These fantasies allow them to experience the feeling of being desired without guilt of participation.

No society on earth is free of the psychological grip that cultural misogyny has on women, and shaming women for adapting to the conditions they are forced to exist under is as harmful as the misogyny that causes it itself.

ALL women experience a form of psychological trauma inherent to female childhood and female adolescence in a patriarchal world, and that is just as valid as coping with individual traumatic events.

Good resources on the subject of why women have these fantasies and how they are helpful in general:

(X) (X)

The "what you consume will make you do it in real life!" myth

Although the resources above already address this, it's important to establish why this myth is so prevalent and what its origins are.

The idea that consuming media with dark themes leads to or indicates desires to replicate those acts is a residual element of two major events:

1) Puritan revival culture, popularized in the US and UK in the 90s and 2000s (also known as "Satanic Panic"). A major facet of this movement was TV megachurch preachers making money off of exploiting well-meaning but paranoid parents into believing that your child playing Dungeons and Dragons or Pokemon would make them future serial killers and lure them into satanic cults. (X)

2) at the tail end of this, it was cemented in the public mind as a cultural ripple aftershock of the Columbine shooting, where this sentiment became popularized as the general public blamed violent video games like Doom and "dark" music like Marilyn Manson (whose life was temporarily completely upended by the events and took him years to recover/be safe from) for the 1999 shooting. This event had MASSIVE permanent and global effects in all sorts of ways that the public often underestimates the sheer scope of, notably that it solidified, prolonged, and, in the minds of many, "proved" the paranoias of the preexisting Satanic Panic. (X) This established a precedent, leading to virtually any major horrible event being blamed on the perpetrator's media consumption, including murder and sex crimes.

What this myth ignores in the cases it references (the slenderman stabbings, columbine, sasebo slashing, batman shooting, etc) is two crucial facts: that hundreds of millions of people consume the same media with no negative effects (helpful effects even), and that in every single case cited as "evidence" to the claim, the perpetrator had a preexisting psychiatric condition correlated to acts of violence (which usually went ignored, downplayed and even accelerated/worsened by those around them rather than the help they needed).

Sorry for the wall of text, but I feel an ethical obligation to combat this kind of misinformation, and I hope these resources are helpful for those who may be negatively affected by common misunderstandings.

You are not abnormal or wrong for the fictional content you consume or the fantasies you have!

[fanfics-for-you]

what's in a name? || Patrick Verona (TTIHAY) x gn!reader (Modern!College!AU)

AVAILABLE ON AO3 (SOON)

Inspiration: ✨️Patrick Verona✨️

Summary: Patrick Verona is apparently the most intimidating guy on campus. You just want to get by, pass your classes, and get to your actual dreams. When you casually approach him one day and decidedly are not scared of him, Patrick has some questions.

TWs: light language, use of Y/N (only like twice), second person POV (you, yours).

[[A/N: This is basically under the concept that you approach Patrick first, and aren't really as afraid of him as anybody else. He's intrigued. Also this is a college AU, because I am in college and I think it's weird to write about high school lmao. ALSO,,, I know this is incredibly niche and a dead tag, but... I watched the movie recently and was violently possessed to write this. The parasites in me what to continue this universe, but idk. Anyway. Enjoy :)]]

You were exhausted. Totally and completely exhausted.

You'd stayed up all night for your chem quiz, and still, didn't think you did great on it. Which made your day ever so worse. So, when you went to the library, and someone was sitting in the spot you always sat in, you halfway wanted to cry and halfway wanted to rip your hair out. Normally, such a thing wouldn't be a big deal, but today it was. So, with a certainty that rivaled a lawyer in court, you stomped over to the chair.

For a moment, the guy didn't even look at you. He kept staring at his friend, a surprisingly 'metal' dressing guy who was talking avidly about something.

You cleared your throat.

That's when they both looked at you.

You were entirely focused on the one in your seat. A taller guy with built shoulders, curly hair and a sharp jaw. In normal circumstances, you'd probably think he was hot. Today was not normal circumstances.

The man raised an eyebrow.

Okay, so maybe it was a little normal circumstances, but that wasn't relevant.

"What are you doing?"

The man answered, simply -maybe a little confused, "Sitting?"

"That's my spot," you clarified, pointedly.

"Oh, I'm sorry-" the man pretended to start getting up before pausing -speaking sarcastically, "-Oh wait, I've just remembered, this is public property."

Mindlessly noting that he had an accent that you couldn't quite place, you rolled your eyes, "I sit there everyday. Just give me the spot."

"You weren't sitting here all day," he pointed out, "-or else I wouldn't be here."

You pressed your lips together into a thin line, "I was busy failing a chem test, now get up."

His eyes skimmed over your face, thoughtfully, "Do you know who I am?"

"Why-" you sighed out, frustrated, "-would I know who you are?"

Even despite the comment, he did seem familiar somehow but you weren't going to tell him that.

He furrowed his eyebrows for a moment, and didn't say anything. You felt like you were going to explode in fiery flames.

You groaned, "Oh my god. There are thousands of seats on campus, just go sit somewhere else."

"Exactly," the man countered, "-why don't you sit somewhere else?"

"Because-" you huffed out a breath, "-that's my spot."

"And why is this spot so important to you?" He shuffled slightly, moving his hands along the cracks of the seat, "-You got something good stashed in 'ere?"

"Dear god," you huffed out a breath in defeat, "-Whatever. Enjoy your seat, asshole."

And with that, you spun on your heel and pulled yourself deeper into the library. Taking a breath in, you pulled yourself into a seat not too far from the original, but you were around the corner so you wouldn't have to look at his stupid face. You soured just at the thought.

You pulled open your chem book, and read through it -trying to figure out which ones you definitely missed, that way you could get the ballpark for what your grade might be. You really needed to know, to make sure your GPA stayed in the range for your dream university.

But, in the middle of it, you heard someone plop into the chair in front of you (it was a group of chairs, like for a group of people if necessary).

Before looking up, you spoke -sharply, "Do you mind?"

"Not at all."

Your eyes shot up at that familiar accent, and you frowned.

"You got the seat," you pointed out, bitterly, "-What the hell do you want now?"

"Your name," he answered simply.

You blinked, (what?) before settling back into your seat and flipping to the next page, "Yeah, no."

The man seemed to move forward, and unwillingly your eyes flickered to him (his curls moving with the motion), "Why not?"

"I don't give my name out to strangers," you retorted -flicking your eyes down to your book, "-especially not assholes."

"Don't know if I can change who I am," he smirked, "-but, I can work on the stranger part."

You frowned, eyeing him particularly, "Seriously, what do you want?"

"I already told you," he replied, fidgeting with something in his hands (you weren't paying attention), "-I'm Patrick, by the way."

"Well," you exhaled, sharply, and ignored his name, "-you're not getting it."

"Well," he repeated with the same sort of grin, "-I'll just have to work on that too, then."

You looked up at him again and squinted at him -trying to read him somehow. All he did was grin at you, a charming kind, of course, that made crinkles on his cheeks. You ignored the flutter in your chest that it gave you and darted your eyes back down to your book.

The next day, you were in better spirits. After studying for an entirely different class, you were pretty sure you aced that test. So, you weren't as pissed, thankfully. Until you went into the library to sit between classes like you always did.

You paused in your step and frowned.

The guy (Patrick, your mind treacherously noted) was sitting by your chair, mindlessly tapping his fingers along the arm of the chair. He wasn't in your chair, thankfully, but still, he was in the one beside it. Pointedly close.

You huffed out a breath, and moved toward the chairs, "What are you doing?"

"Sitting," he repeated.

You raised an eyebrow.

He seemed to take that as a repeat of the question -before saying, confidently (too confidently), "I'm studying for a test."

"You don't seem like the studying type," you retorted, throwing yourself into the chair and pulling out your laptop -realizing it was no use to try and get him to leave.

Patrick pointed out, "You don't even know me."

"And I don't intend to," you replied with ease, flicking your eyes to meet his, "-your point?"

He grinned the same bright one from before, amused maybe. Your heart skipped a beat, so you dropped your eyes back down to your laptop. He, on the other hand, didn't seem to look away.

"What's your major?" He asked, thoughtfully.

"I won't tell you my name," you leveled, scrolling through your online schedule for homework, "-but you think I'll tell you my major?"

"Well," he reasoned, "-a name is much more identifiable, but your major," he shrugged, "-not so much."

You eyed him again for a second, before saying, "What if you just want to look up my classes and hunt me down?"

Patrick smiled again, before asking, "What is your next class?"

"Why?" You ask, pointedly, "-So you can force me into talking to you again?"

"Preferably," he replied, grinning cheekily.

You raised an eyebrow, and bit your lip to pull down a smile that begged to quirk up, "I'm not telling you that either."

"What if I just follow you when you leave?" He questioned, curiously, "-Figure it out myself?"

"And what if I-" you smiled at him -patronizingly, "-call the campus police?"

He raised both eyebrows as if to say 'touché' without saying it out loud. You bit down another smile and moved back to your computer -pulling out your planner and jotting down dates.

"Your pissiness," he suddenly spoke, "-Are you often filled with boiling hatred?"

"No," you sigh out, before shooting him another patronizing smile, "-that's special just for you."

He laughed then, and something warm zinged down to your toes (you ignored it), "Do you seriously not know me?"

"Do you know how many Patricks exist in the world?" you point out, "-No, I don't know you."

"So you do remember my name," he smirked, patting along his lap with a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

You rolled your eyes but didn't say a word.

It ended up like that for the rest of the time, Patrick shooting questions now and then, and you shutting them down. His stupid smirk and low, rumbly, accented voice, you hated that he actually seemed kinda nice -all things considered.

But, as you stood up to leave, you decided on something.

"Literature," you said simply, gathering up everything into your bag.

He paused, shooting up his eyebrows, "What?"

"My next class," you answered, nonchalantly pulling your bag onto your shoulder, "-Intro to Literature."

Patrick grinned, bright and shiny, "Gen Ed?"

"Yeah," you answered, moving to put the last few things in your bag.

"Can I walk you?"

Your eyes snapped to him then, curiously -detailing the rather honest look, before answering solidly, "No."

He burst into laughter then, throwing his head back against the chair -you mindlessly watched his curls fall back with the motion and then snapped your eyes away.

"Same time tomorrow then?" He asked, still laughing a little bit (something in you twinkled).

"Nope," you exhale a breath, ignoring the disappointment that swirled into your chest, "-I'm not on campus tomorrow."

He seemed to falter for a second, "Do you live on campus?"

You raised a solid eyebrow, you really think I'd tell you that?

"Right, yeah, okay," Patrick conceded, holding up his hands in faux surrender, "-What days are you on campus?"

You paused, pressing your lips together, but something in you did it, "Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays."

He grinned a little brighter, "Are you here around the same time on Mondays?"

Something in your chest flipped, but even still, you answered, "That's what you have to figure out. Not me."

And then, you spun on your heel and walked out of the library. His laughter trailed out behind you, and if you had a small little smile on your face at the noise, that was only for you to know.

Monday came, and you woke up early and made your way to campus -the first class of the day was at the crack of dawn. You physically despised it, but so is the schedule of a college student. Plus, you still worked, so the earlier the better for your schedule -didn't mean it didn't suck though.

Sipping on your drink, you wandered back toward the cafeteria -crossing the main connecting area, where everything led to. There was a baseball game going on, not an official one by the looks of it, in the grass. Your eyes hinged on the game for a few seconds, the echoes of laughter shooting toward your ears. It looked fun, but you weren't too invested in being outside for that long. Before you could look away though, your eyes caught on a familiar frame.

Patrick.

His hair was tied back, and he was wearing a pretty bland tank top (just grey), with some typical jeans. With his hair pulled back, you could see his jaw more distinctively -the sharp lines clear from even this far away. (Not that you were looking.) The sun bore down on them but all of the players seemed to be happily distracted. And you kinda were too.

You pursed your lips, for a moment, and looked forward again after a breath, heading toward the cafeteria again confidently.

Before you could get very far, though, you heard a familiar accent.

"Hey!" He yelled, a little distant -footsteps following his voice, "-Hey!"

At first, you weren't sure if he was talking to you, so you kept moving.

"Shit, I don't know what to call you," he called out, breathless and much, much closer.

You spun on your heels with furrowed brows, and met his eyes over a few people's heads. The grin that swallowed his face whole should've been criminal, bright and twinkly and... charming.

Before you could say anything, he was by your side with heavy breaths -assumedly from playing baseball and getting over to you. Leaning over slightly, he leveled out heavy breaths. You were almost concerned enough to offer him water, but he seemed to settle himself before you could.

"Hi," he echoed, "-'Ve been looking for you all morning, what time did you get here?"

You blinked, all morning?

"I get here early, 7, and immediately go to class," you answered, a little blankly (looking for you, looking for you, looking for you).

"Oh," he paused, "-I got here at 8. There's classes at 7?"

"Obviously," you respond, because you did in fact just say it.

"Did you-" Patrick started, before pursing his lips together, "-Are you going to the library now?"

You furrowed your eyebrows, "No, I'm going to the cafeteria to eat between classes. Why?"

"I'm actually quite hungry myself," he avoided the question, "-Do you mind if I tag along?"

"What about your game?" You furrowed your eyebrows even further -eyeing him curiously.

"'S just to fill time," he explained, "-It's nothing serious. They're sure to find someone to fill in for me."

You flicker your eyes along his face, trying to read him. What's your prerogative?

After a moment, you come up with nothing and instead, just turn on your heel -leading the way to the cafeteria.

"I'm taking that as a yes, then?" Patrick called out from behind you, catching up and matching your stride with ease (despite you making no move to slow down).

You decidedly don't answer him, and say something focused elsewhere -eyeing him as you walk forward, "Do you always stalk people this much?"

Patrick laughed, catching your eye with his warm brown ones (they were almost sparkly under the sun of the day), "Only the ones that blindly hate me."

You pressed your lips together in a flat line (trying not to give anything away), "I didn't say that I hated you."

His face lit up at the words (and you couldn't decide if you regretted it or not), "Well, you could've convinced me."

You roll your eyes, and keep walking forward, "Not telling you my personal information isn't... hating you."

"I'm not sure not introducing yourself is exactly anything but hatred," he argued back, fluidly.

"I just told you that I don't hate you," you point out, "-so it isn't."

"Does that mean you'll eventually tell me your name?" Patrick asked, curiously.

You turned to him, flicked your eyes over him, and then looked forward again, "Maybe on good behavior."

He burst into laughter, brown eyes set on your face, "You're quite an enigma, you know that?"

"And you're not half the mystery you portray," you fire back, naturally, with the flow of the conversation.

He grinned at that, eyes shining with something you couldn't quite label, "You know, I don't think I've met a person like you. You're fearless in like a-" he motioned with his hands, "-casual way."

"I'm not fearless," you argue, approaching the door to the cafeteria, "-I'm just confident."

"Do they not go hand-in-hand?" Patrick offers, getting to the door before you and promptly holding it open for you -unflinchingly.

Something warm stirs in your stomach at the gesture (and his woodsy scent that brushes your nose as you walk past him), but you ignore it, "You can be certain and still be afraid."

"But knowing you're right doesn't necessarily mean-" Patrick followed you in, matching your stride again, as if it's natural, "-that you're confident."

You furrow your eyebrows, genuinely intrigued, "What do you mean?"

He paused, maybe a little shocked by your attentiveness, "Plenty of people know they're right and still concede to someone else because they don't want to fight it. You-" he pointed at you, "-will fight it."

"Well," you purse your lips, avoiding his eye contact, "-maybe I'm only like this with you."

"You," Patrick paused, "-You're not this fiery ball of rage with anyone else?"

You eye him for a second, before saying flatly, "Maybe."

"All of this seething hatred and impressive indifference just for me?" He grins, the big teeth-showing kind, "-I'm touched really. Because I am special to you in some weird kinda twisted way-"

Before you can stop yourself, you let out a laugh at his words -just a quick one. Barely there.

But you could still see the delight smooth along his face, and just knew he caught it.

"How much of that have you been holding back?" He tilted his head curiously, before continuing to push it, smirking, "-Oh I bet you think I'm hilarious."

Your heart skipped a beat at the smirk, and you simply pressed your lips together and turned on your heel to the food counter. There wasn't even a second before you heard footsteps following you.

"You're not denying it, you know," he called after you, close on your tail.

You peer over the selection of food, eyeing the different items thoughtfully, "But I didn't confirm it either."

"Still not denying it," Patrick hummed, sing-songy.

"You know," you turn to him (mindlessly noting that he is very close), sharply, "-someone can have one good joke and still be unfunny."

He leaned forward slightly, eyes set on yours -challenging, "Then tell me why it came out like you were holding it back?"

You blinked at him, once and then twice, the sudden closeness sent a shock through your brain and the challenging tone of his voice nearly gave you full-body shivers. You can't find words to say, and you can nearly see it processing on Patrick's face (the way that he had made your mind melt for a moment), so you turn to the counter and point at something random for them to pick out for you.

The woman eyes the two of you suspiciously, but still diligently pulls out a to-go plate and piles the... mashed potatoes onto it.

"Oh my god," he finally says after a moment (you ignore it).

You go through a few other items, and the woman gathers them onto the plate. You pay, grab your plate-

"You like me," Patrick retorts, and you're not even looking at him but you can tell he's got a shit-eating grin.

Your brain malfunctions for a moment, but you step toward the tables and fire back (on autopilot), "I won't even tell you my name."

He's hot on your trail, following you diligently, "You're avoiding the question."

You spin to him, and reply -sharply, "You didn't ask a question."

His eyes flicker along your face, taking you in (you want to squirm but you steel yourself in place -your eyes now challenging), and then he grins so bright that you'd need sunglasses in any other scenario.

"Oh, you're really into me," he continues, low, gravelly, accented voice rumbling through your ears.

You screw up your face into something defiant, roll your eyes, and turn back to slide into a table. Patrick follows you like a lost puppy. Well, an incredibly arrogant lost puppy.

"You're still not denying it," he slides into the chair beside you and you hate the way your brain swims at the woodsy smell that brushes your nose.

"'Thought you were hungry," you say, simply (avoiding the question and decidedly not denying).

"It was very obviously a ploy," Patrick chimed back, with natural ease -tilting his head slightly and looking at you with twinkling eyes, "-They had pizza out there for all the players. I've already eaten."

Your fork froze for a millisecond (even still, you were sure he caught it), and after a moment, you pulled it to your lips. Maybe conquering both of your lack of response and the way your mind lit up at the idea of 'he just wanted to see me'.

His smile and eyes seemed to soften slightly, as he leaned his head down to catch your eye and guide it back up to your natural gaze (your heart skipped a beat). His brown eyes were soft and if you were honest, maybe a little affectionate.

"What's your name?" He finally said after a soft few moments.

And just like that, for you, the moment snapped, and you rolled your eyes -turning back to your food.

"Oh, come on," Patrick tried to catch your gaze again, "-Look, I'll tell you. Patrick Verona. That's my name-"

You bit down a smile, as he motioned to you with his hands.

"-Now, your turn, tell me yours."

You raised an eyebrow.

Patrick let out a half-laugh, before leaning forward slightly on the table -not quite a breath away, but certainly closer.

"You're so stubborn," he laughed, "-I'll beg. You want me to beg?"

You can't help but let the smile slip onto your lips then, "Why would you beg for my name?"

"Because I want it," he pointed out, still grinning "-Because I want to know you, and personally, I think it should start with a name."

Your heart fluttered in your chest, and you let your fork hang there on the path to your face. You took a moment, scampered your eyes along his face (dark brown eyes so incredibly soft, curls coming down from where he put them up in individual tendrils). Your resolve was weakening, it was really and truly broken under Patrick Verona's hand.

Stupid pretty boys-

"Y/N," you said finally (quieter than intended), immediately pulling a bite to your mouth.

Patrick blinked, "What?"

"'S my name," you explain -shortly, moving a hand in front of your mouth as you chew, "-Y/N."

His eyes lit up at the words, that stupid charming grin smoothing onto his face as he repeated, softer than expected, "Y/N."

You shove down the fluster that begs to climb up your cheeks at his accented voice saying your name. It's something you'd never really thought about but now that it's said, you probably should've thought about it.

Patrick leaned back in his chair, eyes still set on you. He was still grinning, as he said simply, "Suits you."

You furrow your eyebrows, "What's that supposed to mean?"

He raises his hands in faux surrender, laughing to himself, "Jesus, you're a true ball of rage, you know 'at?"

"I'm not-" you huff out, and take a deep breath in, "-I'm not mad."

"Defensive then," he mends, "-You act as though I'm about to strike any minute."

You pursed your lips, "Whose to say you aren't?"

"Me," Patrick laughs, "-This entire conversation. The way I've acted around you since the beginning-"

"Oh, shut up," you roll your eyes, unable to stop the smile creeping onto your lips, "-you were an asshole once."

He groaned, but something like amusement was twinkling in his eyes, "You are the most stubborn human being on this earth-"

"You took my spot," you interrupt, sturdy.

"-It's public property," Patrick argued back, "-and how was I supposed to know it was yours before I sat in it?"

You paused, for a moment, before saying, "You couldn't. But, you could have given it to me when I asked."

"And then we wouldn't be here," he explained, now fully grinning, "-and wouldn't that just be such a bore."

Your eyes swam over his face a moment, Patrick Verona. And his dumb persistence. And his stupid handsome face-

God.

You let out a long sigh, picking around at your food. Eyes watching the swirl of your fork, you debate a few different things to say. Finally, after a few spare seconds, you made up your mind.

"Yeah," you hum, flickering your eyes up to his, "-it would."

Patrick grinned, big and bright and twinkly (you felt your heart skip a beat in your chest). His eyes, the deep brown that if you weren't careful you could stare at for way too long, were soft but still sort of happy, eager. Definitely eager.

And maybe, just maybe, you could get used to-

"I told you I could work on the 'stranger' thing," he suddenly said, smirking, "-You never should've doubted me."

"What?" You raised an eyebrow, confused.

"You said-" Patrick explained, "-you don't give your name out to strangers. And I said I could work on that part-"

You level a look at him.

"-And look, I did," he continued, before adding with a smirk, "-I have successfully escaped the cavernous barrier, deeper than the ocean I'd say, that walls you off from any poor soul who wishes to know you-"

"You're really pushing it, Verona," you chime back, fiery (but not quite all the way).

"What?" He raised his eyebrows, like he said nothing at all to warrant the reaction, "-You can't tell me that it's not like pulling teeth getting to know you. Or trying to anyway-"

You press your lips onto a flat line, "Wow, you must be a sort of masochist, then?

He faltered for a second, before laughing a little, "Oh absolutely, I chase the high of you ignoring me for 2 hours straight every day."

You rolled your eyes, biting down a smile, "I despise you."

"Better that than indifferent," he responded with ease, "-I prefer you feeling something rather than nothing at all."

"Oh my god-"

It continued like that, a back and forth, as you finish eating your mediocre cafeteria lunch. The silence is sparse but not uncomfortable when Patrick isn't running his mouth, that is. It was nice. Insanely nice. You'd probably never had as much fun on this campus as you did with him, just in general, but...

"Same time Wednesday?" He poses with a cheeky grin, leaning onto one hand against the table -closer to you than before.

You felt something warm swirl into your stomach, as your eyes flickered over his face. He was still smiling, like he wasn't able to stop when he was here with you. And something in you never wanted to see it go away anyway.

So, with a slight head tilt and a brighter grin than what you'd let slip past all day, you repeated.

"Same time Wednesday."

[auren-zagarra]

Your psychological analyses are so cool to read! Normally I'd skip something like that but it caught my eye since you're in the profession and I'm more receptive to that (It doesn't help that I have the same opinion as your conclusions and while people can think what they want....it's satisfying to feel like you're right and have proof lol).

Would you consider doing an analysis on Jamil sometime? He's my fave and I'd like to understand his mind a bit better. And maybe you could make an educated guess on what he'll do in the future (like will he continue staying a servant, will he break free from it, will he keep contact with Kalim? I'd love to see him break away from servitude but still work for Kalim in a good position, like how Jafar was for the Sultan)?

Jamil Viper: A Psychological Analysis

Disclaimer: Although this post is written by a professional psychologist, it is not intended to serve as a formal diagnosis. Rather, it is a character analysis of Jamil Viper, created out of personal interest and passion for world-building. In psychological practice, accurate assessment should never be based solely on external observation.

Author Notes (edited): Hello! First of all, thank you so much for being so sweet - you're all incredibly kind, and I really appreciate the support. I just want to clarify a few things: Jamil’s analysis was especially challenging because his canon material differs between the Japanese version and the official English translation. So, I decided to stick with the fan-made translation of the original game. That said, his character is quite difficult to diagnose, it was a pain to write that </3. I just want to also clarify something: Jamil’s situation wasn’t one of ownership or slavery. There’s an important distinction between being a slave and being a servant, and I believe his case falls into the latter. That said, it's still a form of systemic abuse. Also, it’s important to recognize that his parents played a significant role in shaping who he is. Their influence likely contributed just as much to his personality and emotional responses as his role within the Asim household.

Jamil Viper is introduced as a dutiful student of the Scarabia dormitory and vice housewarden under Kalim Al-Asim. Jamil is the son of the Viper family, which has served the Al-Asim household for generations. From childhood he was raised explicitly as Kalim’s attendant, trained never to outshine or disobey his master. In practice this means Jamil maintains an outwardly modest and compliant persona: he avoids drawing attention to himself and consistently downplays his own abilities (as he notes in flashbacks, he “could never surpass Kalim” and would “pretend to be incompetent” whenever they played together). Narratively, Jamil initially appears as a loyal, if somewhat reserved, companion to Kalim, however, in the story’s fourth book (Schemer of the Scalding Sands) his long-suppressed resentment bursts forth: he concedes he plotted for years to unseat Kalim and publicly betrays him. In summary, canon portrays Jamil as a complex character shaped by his birthright - ostensibly a humble guard and confidant, but one whose hidden ambition and bitterness drive a dramatic reversal in Book 4.

Personality and Coping Mechanisms

Psychologically, Jamil exemplifies a blend of traits that reflect his upbringing. On the Big Five dimensions, he appears highly conscientious (dutiful, disciplined, tradition-bound) and relatively neurotic (internally anxious and resentful). For example, he meticulously plans his schemes and strictly adheres to social protocol, yet he harbors deep anger and frustration beneath the surface. He is neither overly extroverted nor warmly amicable; rather, he is soft-spoken and measured in public, which can be interpreted as moderate agreeableness mixed with a hidden competitiveness. Openly he defers to Kalim and maintains cordiality, but privately he covets recognition for himself. This duality may reflect Freudian dynamics: Jamil’s superego (internalized duty and family honor) conflicts sharply with his id impulses (rage and ambition).

Psychodynamically, Jamil’s behavior fits with classic defense mechanisms: repression of anger and frustration, and reaction formation. By unconsciously blocking (repressing) unacceptable impulses, he avoids direct confrontation. His loyalty and conscientiousness can be seen as a covert expression of anger, where he over-compensates with dutiful service (a form of reaction formation). Anna Freud’s definition notes that such defenses are “unconscious resources” the ego uses to reduce internal conflict. For example, Jamil may sublimate his anger into work and organization; by exerting rigid control over his duties he gains a sense of agency in an otherwise powerless role. Cognitively, he likely maintains schemas (core beliefs) of inferiority and duty, which shape his interpretation of events. When Kalim’s behavior upsets him, Jamil might use rationalization or justification to cope (e.g. reminding himself it’s his duty). In short, psychological theory suggests Jamil copes by erecting internal barriers and strictly controlling his outer world, keeping his true feelings buried beneath a calm facade.

A Life of Servitude: Trauma and Its Effects

Jamil’s upbringing meets the definition of chronic childhood trauma. Generations of Vipers have effectively lived under a hereditary servitude contract to the Asim family, and Jamil himself has known no other life. In clinical terms, prolonged exposure to such inescapable stress in childhood (akin to slavery or trafficking) predisposes a person to complex PTSD (CPTSD). According to ICD-11, CPTSD arises from prolonged or repetitive trauma from which escape is impossible - explicitly, authoritative sources list slavery and childhood abuse as triggers for CPTSD. Symptoms of CPTSD include persistent negative self-concept, emotional dysregulation, and difficulties in relationships. Jamil’s behavior aligns with these: he often feels worthless or trapped by fate (a negative self-view), shows intense anger when pushed but must hold it in (emotion dysregulation), and struggles to form normal peer relationships outside duty.

Learned helplessness also describes Jamil’s condition. Psychologist Martin Seligman showed that when subjects endure repeated, uncontrollable aversive events, they eventually stop trying to change their situation. Jamil has been “subjected to Kalim’s carefree whims” for years with no real power to refuse; he may have learned that resistance is futile. Thus he often simply complies, suppressing his own needs (which is consistent with learned helplessness and with repression). Over time, this could internalize into chronic stress and depression. In sum, Jamil’s servitude is a form of developmental trauma: it likely imposed persistent stress hormones in youth, disrupted normal family roles, and taught him to expect lack of control. Psychological research shows such trauma can cause long-term changes in self-esteem and mood; for example, people with CPTSD often harbor deep shame and guilt over “failing” or “not doing enough”. In essence, his life resembles a cycle of trauma: he was never free to refuse tasks, learned helplessness made him passive, and the chronic abuse of status lowered his self-concept - all factors that theory links to complex trauma outcomes.

Manipulation

In the events of Book 4, Jamil’s darker side emerges as he actively manipulates others to achieve his goals. Canonically, he hypnotizes the protagonist and even classmates to remain in Scarabia and remove obstacles to his plans. Psychologically, these actions exemplify Machiavellianism. Machiavellianism is defined as a personality trait marked by cynicism, self-interest, and strategic manipulation of others. High Machs “lack empathy” and see others as means to an end. Jamil’s calculated use of magic to control peers aligns with this: he calmly bends others’ will without overt remorse, and he prioritizes his objectives above their autonomy. His demeanor during manipulation is unemotional and goal-oriented, much like the textbook “ruthless and self-centered willingness to exploit others” seen in high Machiavellians.

Possible Diagnosis

His chronic childhood trauma and internalization of servitude suggest complex PTSD (ICD-11). CPTSD is characterized by the core PTSD symptoms (re-experiencing, avoidance, hypervigilance) plus enduring disturbances in self-organization. In Jamil’s case, the prolonged nature of his servile life (listed as an example trauma in ICD-11) likely led to chronic negative self-concept and interpersonal difficulties. Thus an ICD-11 diagnosis of CPTSD (code 6B41) is plausible: he shows affect dysregulation (repressed anger that flares), shame and guilt, and persistent relational issues. Under DSM-5, these symptoms might partly map to PTSD or an unspecified trauma and stressor-related disorder, but CPTSD is a closer fit due to its long-term scope.

Personality-wise, Jamil exhibits subclinical dark traits. He demonstrates entitlement and exploitation (mirroring Cluster B narcissism), yet lacks grandiose flamboyance. He also shows hyper-conscientiousness about duty and order - features that could hint at Obsessive-Compulsive Personality tendencies - though his motivations are rooted more in fear and shame than mere rigidity. We can say Jamil’s profile aligns most closely with trauma-related disorder criteria and some personality disorder traits (notably narcissistic/dark traits).

In summary: Complex PTSD is the most fitting diagnostic framework, supplemented by subclinical narcissistic and Machiavellian traits, all rooted in long-term emotional trauma, identity suppression, and chronic stress from a life of servitude.

[grunckle]

Watcher lore already

“A lonely, lost slugcat scrambles through the ravages of a warped world.

When the dirt beneath your feet cracks and crumbles, will you hold on to all you once knew...or dive into the unknown?”

I was conflicted when I first saw the modded content, particularly for the lore aspect. But it’s been confirmed not only James is helping with all the lore, (which apparently is taking on the more esoteric sides of Rain World) but the whole Videocult team is getting together!

Heres Cappin, one of the downpour devs, talking about writing the lore for The Watcher.

And Andrew talking about Videocult’s involvement.

But anyway I’ll talk about some things I noticed.

This area looks like some sort of Memory Crypt. You have the large ornate boxes that heavily resemble cabinet beasts.

And, in the sky you can see an Underhang-like structure.

Now as for the ripple effect around The Watcher, I have a few theories. There’s certainly echo-relation, (the golden flakes around them basically confirms that) but I don’t think The Watcher is an echo in a typical sense. Instead they peer into a higher reality, maybe the one echos reside in.

Inside the ripples are gold tendrils, or strings, heavily implying the void relation. Though I’m not sure what they are exactly.

But I think Watcher will experience a, “pulling back of the curtain” in some way. In the warped world, we see glimpses of the true nature of reality. Maybe it’s all just a fleeting ripple across the Void, some big revelation like that.

As for why it’s in a Memory Crypt, I already wrote an extensive post on the importance of memory, more specifically qualia, in Rain World so if you want to check that out here’s the link.

As a side note, if this is the underside of an Iterator, I doubt they’re still alive. We see no other iterators still standing above the clouds in a Steam page screenshot.

Anyway this is really exciting! One of the more disappointing aspects of Downpour for me was that they mostly retread on the same story events and themes without adding too much. So it’s a breath of fresh air to explore different, more esoteric aspects of Rain World lore. And having the whole Videocult team return to Rain World is incredibly exciting. I’ll be tentatively awaiting more news.

[superkirbylover]

important psa

hey all. i don't normally make these kinds of posts, but it's been brought to my attention how severe this issue is. it's affected at least 25 people, and there's absolutely more that i don't know of. first, i'd like to mention to NOT contact anyone about the contents of this post. not the user i'm talking about, not the people who were victim to them, nada. i especially don't want anyone harassed over this.

second, i want to note that this story starts off mild, but slowly snowballs into something worse. please stay with me as i explain my story.

for the past two years, there's been a user in the pizza tower community named gin. i'm not naming her specific blog for privacy reasons, but if you know, you know. something very important to note is that she's autistic, much like myself. a huge part of autism is missing social cues, not understanding social rules, and various other situations.

about a year ago, gin joined the pizza tower wiki discord server. at first, she was just another member of the server, someone i interacted positively with and held minor conversations with. things took a sharp turn. suddenly, she'd be venting in the offtopic channels, and venting to me in dms. the server and gin often clashed in our interpretations of her comfort character, peppino, where we often liked his more hostile and jerky side, while she prioritized his kinder side. one discussion led to a meltdown, where she went into the server AND my dm's to vent about how she shouldn't have hope, and how she doesn't want to like somebody heartless. i was genuinely concerned, because this behavior reminded me of how i acted when i was 14 regarding sans undertale. i wasn't aware of her age yet. it was only later, if my memory serves correctly, that after me begging to know her age, she told me she was 30. i'm 22.

i suddenly became very worried. not only for her, but for myself, and other server members.

i tried setting a boundary: i don't know you, don't treat me like a friend, and please don't vent to me. she apologized, clarified she was trying to be friendly, and that was that. until like, a month later, where she did the same thing. again. at some point, i gave up enforcing my boundaries, and dropped them entirely. i figured this was just something that came with running the pizza tower wiki discord. someone being incredibly parasocial with me when i've expressed i don't know them… eventually, i realized their venting in the wiki server's offtopic channel was making other users uncomfortable. i felt trapped, not knowing how to handle it. i knew she meant well, but i hated how she was using the server like a friend server. recently, i've started enforcing a soft rule of "please, don't vent in this server." i didn't want to make it a harsh rule, because sometimes topics led to discussion of past events that weren't exactly positive and i don't like restricting conversation topics. however, she often used the server as emotional support. the server has a lot of minors in it, some of which are active. a few of the active members are 16.

i want to stress, she is NOT predatory, pedophilic, what have you. she IS parasocial, clingy, and generally disrespectful of boundaries. two months ago, a friend of mine came into my dms to vent about a stranger being really clingy. i asked if this was gin, and as expected, it was her. my friend was busy when gin was messaging them, asking for feedback on a fic. however, when a response wasn't immediately given, she started freaking out. another friend of mine was recently commissioned by gin, and recognizing this, i asked them privately if gin was harassing them too. unfortunately, this was all but confirmed. the same thing that happened to my first friend happened beat-for-beat with them, too. the first friend asked if there was a way to hide their activity on tumblr, to which i obliged.

about a month ago, another artist, i'll call A, joined the wiki server. we had a discussion about our interpretations of the characters, including peppino, and i finally got the balls to outwardly say i felt like she often sanded down peppino's harsher qualities in favor of making him to be a sweetheart. i don't want to police how people interpret characters, but i want to be able to voice how i feel about it in a discussion surrounding it. this led to a meltdown in the server and my dms, the latter of which i never responded to. she deleted her message eventually. A stepped in within the server and said that the discussion was nothing personal, that it was just a disagreement. i went into A's dms to thank them, as i had felt so uncomfortable considering this wasn't the first time. that's when i learned that this isn't A's first experience with them, and over time, i learned much, much more.

she's done this to half of my friends in the pizza tower community. not only that, but she's done this to even MORE mutuals. even worse, she's done this in a previous pizza tower focused server, venting to people OVER A DECADE YOUNGER in dms, vagueposting in servers about situations, you name it. the wiki server has members who are active that are as young as 16, and i know she's treating them like this, too.

no matter how many times one would set the boundary, "please don't vent to me, please don't be overly friendly with me," it was violated. time and time again. if you set a boundary, she would say it's fine, but melt down in someone else's messages and violate theirs. not only that, but she'd SHARE messages of people enforcing this boundary. i've seen messages of people cutting her off, sharing VERY personal information, and it felt so violating to see. this isn't just my experience, but multiple others, too. i know at LEAST 12 people she's done this to. i know there's more because of the previously mentioned pizza tower focused server she got kicked out of for doing the same exact thing in.

it's common that if you're neurodivergent, you'll often disregard your own boundaries in favor of being kind to others. but let me tell you, from experience: taking care of yourself isn't being cruel or unkind. it's kind, to yourself. it's not selfish to want space. it's not selfish to not want to talk to someone. it's human. i've let my own boundaries be trampled too long.

please, take care of yourselves. do what you need to do.

[gorbo-longstocking]

Do Not Blame the Sea | Chapter One

Pairing: Emperor Geta/Reader, Emperor Caracalla/Reader

Summary: Everyday, you woke up and performed the steps necessary to complete your routine. It was monotonous, like clockwork, as you traveled down the tracks laid out for you since birth. With a mind uncontested, you found yourself graduating college before you were legally an adult, and at the behest of your controlling parents, you continued on to medical school, then further on into a surgical residency at a nearby hospital. You had always wanted to help people and this was the best way to do it.

So, why, with everything you had ever wanted at your fingertips, were you so unhappy?

Maybe that was why when you awoke in the past, surrounded by farmland instead of your blankets that you decided to ‘just roll with it’ rather than scream. That was your motto now as you were unceremoniously dropped from your assigned path onto untrodden ground with no hope of going back. So, even when you saved the life of a soldier and were carted off into the heart of the corrupt Roman Empire to be the twin emperor’s new physician, you barely batted an eye.

After all, you would do anything to save your patients.

Tags: Time travel, transmasc reader, no use of y/n, eventual polyamory, no incest, period-typical attitudes, Caracalla doesn’t have syphilis but he has PTSD, mentions of slavery, both historical accuracy and historical inaccuracy, obsessive behavior, eventual smut in later parts, medical inaccuracies,

Read on AO3

Playlist

Part Two

Authors Note: Hiiiiiii, I’m back at it again, starting another fic. Those freaky gingers have bewitched me, let me tell you. Anyway, some important things to note about this little fanfiction that I feel the need to clarify before we get into the real meat and potatoes.

First and foremost, Geta and Caracalla won’t show up until chapter two. Maybe even chapter three, it depends on how much more set up I write, so if you want to wait ‘till then to read this, you’re welcome to :3

Two, and very important, unlike my other fics where the reader is trans, but referred to with they/them pronouns or neutral language, this main character will be referred to with he/him pronouns and masculine language in the text because, as a plot point, they are assumed to be a cis man. Along with this, they have three descriptions in the text. They have dyed green hair — original hair color shan’t be mentioned — they have top surgery scars, and they have a vagina. I miiiiight make an accidental reference to heights (ex. ‘ooked up at him/looked down at him) but I will try my hardest to not.

While their real name will never be mentioned in text for self-insertion purposes, Geta and Caracalla come up with the nickname ‘Alga’ for them due to their green hair. It means ‘seaweed’ in Latin. It also means ‘something of little worth.’ :) So, that is how they’ll be referred to. Generally. It’s either that or ‘medicus’ or ‘physician’ or ‘you there.’

Third and finally, I am a huge nerd and fan when it comes to the Roman Empire. As a society, they have a bunch of hangups, taboos, and beliefs, mostly around sex, that I find incredibly funny and will pepper in here and there. I will try to make this fic as historically accurate as I possibly can using all the resources I have at my disposal (google, a few academic texts, and my best friend whose studying classical history) but there’s no guarantee I get all of it right. Half the reason I’m using a modern character as the main POV is so they have an excuse not to know things 😭 Also when it comes to conjugation of Latin words, please, PLEASE give me leeway, I haven’t taken a Latin class since high school.

All that said, I hope whoever reads this fic enjoys it, because that is my main goal. Writing is seriously a passion of mine and my favorite part about it is sharing it with people. That means YOU person reading this, I think you’re awesome.

Okay I’m done talking, on with the show!!

Chapter One ///

This dream sucked — because that was what this was, a very bad dream — and, if you had to guess, it was the worst dream you had ever had in your life. Which was saying something. As a surgical resident who did most of their studying in a hospital, you were chronically sleep deprived and had a lot of stressful material to work with. Whatever aid you used to help you get some semblance of rest had a tendency to give you weird dreams. Very, very weird dreams. You had a few recurring ones, like being chased by a sentient pool noodle — whatever that meant — and several where the ghosts of your patients blamed you for their deaths — far more self explanatory than the pool noodle — but none quite like this one.

Out of everything you had ever experienced in your bleak and desolate mindscape, this dream was long and boring. That was its only crime. Along with being terrifyingly vivid, of course, which you didn’t particularly enjoy thinking about. If you were any less logical, you’d almost be convinced this was reality. That you had woken up in a small farming village, close enough to the capital of one of the most infamous ancient empires that you could see it on the horizon. Sometimes, when the sun set, you would stare at the shadow of Rome dancing upon the skyline. It was beautiful, albeit impossible. Sure, the people who surrounded you only spoke Latin, and they didn’t trust you as far as they could throw you, but it wasn’t as if that mattered. Soon, you would awake in your bed, one day closer to your exam and the beginning of the rest of your life.

Why did the thought only fill you with a sinking sense of dread? Being a doctor was everything you had ever worked for. Helping people, saving people, it was your purpose, the very reason you were born with your exceptional mind. It was your destiny, so why did it feel like you were marching to the gallows?

You shook your head to rid yourself of these thoughts. Focus on the present, focus on the dream, it was far easier than the constant ever present march of time. It was why you were so certain that the predicament was a figment of your imagination. Time hated you, constantly pulling on your leash, dragging your forward even as you dug your heels into the muck. It would never, never move backwards. Not for you.

Never for you.

A low groan of despair rumbled in your throat as you tried your best to wash your filthy scrubs in a nearby river. The water wasn’t murky, but it wasn’t clear either. Unsurprising, considering the nearby village used this water for practically everything. They were close enough to the city to have access to aqueducts, carrying waste hopefully further downstream. You were determined not to think about it. Any other denizen of this small settlement would wash their clothes themselves. The village was too small for a fullonica, and you were pretty sure they were mostly meant for the wealthy. That said, you also knew that Romans used urine to wash clothes — thank you to the ancient civilization classes you took for fun — and you’d be damned before you let a random person’s piss touch your scrubs.

Outside of work, at least.

With your pants rolled up to your knees as you waded deeper into the water, you continued to do what you could to clean the few clothes you had on you. Considering you only had a little bottle of soap you stole from a hotel a few months ago, it was easier said than done. You wanted to ration what you had in case this dream went on for much longer. Just because this was a fictional scenario conjured by your stress addled mind didn’t mean you weren't going to go about things logically. You had already been asleep for three days now, who knew how much longer this neverending dream would last? Perhaps forever. The thought of avoiding reality as you waste away in your bed was far more comforting than it should have been.

A loud shout echoed to your right and you fought the urge to shoot a nasty glare at the <i>obviously</i> young soldiers goofing off several yards away. Well, young was a strong word, they were the same age as you. Probably. You couldn’t really tell considering how staunch you were in your decision to not make eye contact. Out of the handful of men playing in the water, they were all naked. It wasn’t that nudity bothered you, you were studying healthcare for Christ’s sake, it was the unfortunate fact that soaking wet, muscular hunks were a particular weakness of yours. You weren’t sure the soldiers would appreciate your ogling, the villagers already avoided you like the plague. Judging by the dirty looks you received from some of the, unfortunately armed and notoriously xenophobic men, they’d heard enough about you to be wary.

You let out another sigh, your scrubbing becoming a tad more vigorous. Soapy bubbles rose to the surface of the water and your face was screwed up in concentration.

This particular Roman century had arrived at the village only a half-day after you did. From what you could pick up from eavesdropping, instead of being sent to North Africa to get a little conquering done, their legion was shipped to Gaul to put an end to some dissent. Once that was over, the officer in charge received orders to head back to Rome so they could be sent to North Africa with the rest of the troops. They had only stopped at the village for a last bit of rest before their next assignment. Or something. You had been noticed, and you had scurried off the second you realized you were caught.

Letting out a small huff, you examined your scrubs and decided that they were as clean as they would get. Once you were back at shore, you wrung out the fabric the best you could before laying them flat on a rock beside the only other outfit you had, aside from the one you were wearing, to dry in the sun. Another bark of laughter drew your eye to the soldiers playing like schoolboys in the river. Weren’t these men hardened warriors of one of the most regimented militaries to exist? Surely, they should be more disciplined. Still, you couldn’t help the small smile that caused your lips to twitch upwards. Even thousands of years in the past, and in your dreams, humans were the same as they had always been.

The sun was warm, hanging overhead like an unripe cherry tomato. You closed your eyes to bask in it a bit more than necessary. Your skin prickled, indicating that there were eyes on you, though you didn’t particularly care. No footsteps approached you and the sound of laughter didn’t stop, so you figured you were safe enough to show your belly. You didn’t realize you had laid down until you felt grass tickle the back of your neck. Perhaps a little nap wouldn’t hurt. A dream within a dream would be rather funny, you thought as you fell into a light doze, lulled by the sound of soldiers playing.

You didn’t know how long you slept for. It was the sound of panic that woke you, sending you upright so fast, your head spun. The first thing you noticed was the merriment had stopped and had given way to an oppressive sense of desperation. You looked in the direction you had been avoiding all day to see a gaggle of soldiers, some clothed, some naked, dragging an unconscious body onto shore. One man was running with his tunic halfway over his head in the direction of the village, yelling for the centurion in charge. You were moving before you could stop yourself.

“Make way! Make way!” Your Latin was shaky, but not the worst in the world. While you were sure your accent was strange, you knew you were at least understandable as some of the men turned to block you from getting any closer. They didn’t look particularly pleased at your arrival, eyeing both your hair and your odd attire with an air of skepticism. You didn’t have time for this. “I am a doctor. A physician. I can help him, we must act fast.”

One of the soldiers raised a singular thick eyebrow. “A physician, you say? You look like no medicus I have ever seen.”

“Does that really matter?!” You shouted, your voice a harsh bark. The longer this went on, the less of a chance you had to save this man. While you were nervous to plow through the wall of stout muscle that blocked you from your prospective patient, you realized you might have to.

The soldier looked like he wanted to say something more, when an authoritative voice broke through the ranks. “Let the man through! We have lost too many as is without losing another to a few hours of games.”

Every head snapped in the direction of whoever spoke. All except yours. The second you saw a gap in the crowd, you slid through and fell to your knees beside the drowned man, the one you determined to save.

First thing you did was check for responsiveness. It was out of habit mostly. A tap on the shoulder, a shout, another tap. He didn’t respond, that was unsurprising.

When you checked for a pulse, you found none, so you began chest compressions. Placing your hands together on his chest, arms straight, you began to push. The rhythm came to you naturally — you had made sure to pay attention in class, and this wasn’t the first time you had done this. Despite the fact that you knew no support was coming, that if you couldn’t get this man back by yourself, he would die, your head remained clear.

Do not lose sight of your goal, do not lose hope, go until you can’t anymore.

After thirty compressions, you took a deep breath, pinched his nose shut, and tilted his head back, placing your mouth over his. You heard a few gasps, and even a cry of disgust as you pulled back to push another breath into his lungs. Determined to pay the growing crowd no mind, you placed your hands on his chest and began to pump his heart again.

This went on for… like with your nap, you didn’t know. All you knew was that you were drenched in sweat, your arms were sore, and your breath coming out in harsh pants. Thirty more compressions, you inhaled a ragged breath and pushed oxygen into his lungs once more. If this didn’t work, you’d have to call it.

There was a hand on your chest, shoving you away, a watery cough filling your mouth with spittle before the drowned man flailed back to life. You didn’t take offense to the harsh treatment. He had woken up to a kiss. That would startle anyone. You rolled him over on his side and rubbed his back as he hacked up a lungful of murky water and whatever he had eaten for breakfast.

“You’re back,” You muttered softly, as comforting as you could. “Breathe. Slow and steady. It feels good to be back, doesn’t it?”

The man met your eyes, his own a startling shade of honey, a confused, but grateful, smile on his lips. “I thought I was gone.”

“Yeah, we all thought that!” A soldier with a shaved head nudged him roughly with his toe. “Medicus here worked a miracle with his lips.”

A hand reached down to clasp your shoulder, shaking you firmly, if not playfully. You looked up to see a man with floppy blond curls grinning down at the man you just saved, his lips pursed. “The kiss of life!”

You let a small, uncomfortable laugh titter from your mouth. Being surrounded by so many people was awkward, and their banter was even more so. You felt entirely out of place. Rather than focus on that, you fixed your attention back on the man you saved.

“What’s your name?”

“Sextus Aelius,” He answered, voice hoarse.

With a small smile, you gestured to another soldier to hand you a nearby tunic. Sextus — you wouldn’t laugh about his name, you wouldn’t — had begun to shiver, even in the hot sun, and you wanted to keep him warm. Not to mention he was still naked. You tried not to study him too much, focusing on the sharpness of his jaw and the gentle slope of his nose rather than his nudity.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Sextus, I am—” You were cut off by a cacophony of noise, a few whistles interspersed within. A bit of heat rose to your face when you saw Sextus’ bewildered expression. “I fear I have made a blunder.”

To your relief, he merely laughed. “Aelius. Call me Aelius.”

“Right. I apologize, Aelius. How do you feel?”

Once you had given him the tunic, he slipped it on over his head, covering his modesty — not that anyone but you seemed to care all that much about it. When he stood, two men came to his side to steady him. Despite this, he still offered you his hand. It would be rude to deny him, though you didn’t feel comfortable accepting help from a man who had been, by many’s standards, dead a few minutes before. You gave him a small smile and pushed yourself to stand on your own.

“I could be better.” His grin was lopsided, the boyish kind that showed off his teeth. It was endearing enough for you to be proud of saving a good man, rather than a mere man. When he spoke next, there was no small amount of awe in his voice. “You saved my life, I am not sure if that is something I can repay.”

A snort pulled from your throat as you waved him off. “No repayment necessary, I only did what needed to be done.”

Aelius looked about to argue when he paled, his gaze flickering behind you. There was a creeping sensation of unease crawling up your spine, similar to when you had earned your parents displeasure. Standing behind you was a presence, one with enough authority to cause the men around you to stand at attention.

Thankfully, it didn’t seem directed at you. For now.

“What is the meaning of this, boy? I allow a bit of slacking off and you go and die on me?” It was the voice from before, the one who commanded his men to let you through. Taking a guess, you’d say this man was the centurion leading this particular century back to Rome. You didn’t dare look behind you, you didn’t dare move. Anything to keep his frustration off of you. It didn’t last long. A large hand clasped you on the shoulder, grip firm, but not harsh. “And to be saved by a foreigner! You should be on your knees thanking him for whatever trick on the gods he played at your behest.”

“That is unnecessary,” You tried to argue, only for the centurion to give you another shake.

“A humble medicus at that! Lucky boy! Very, very lucky!” He let go of you and gestured for Aelius to be taken elsewhere. “To the tents with you while I think of a suitable punishment. No man has died and lived to tell the tale on my watch, so I must be creative.”

Aelius, at least, looked ashamed, though the man with the floppy blond hair leaned down to whisper in his ear, a smirk dancing on his lips. Whatever was said earned him an elbow to the ribs. Men never change.

Before they could get too far, you found your voice. “Monitor him through the night! Fetch me if he stops breathing again!”

It was only once you heard the affirmative did you relax. Which lasted a moment before the centurion turned you around so you were facing him. His gaze was hard and his arms were crossed over his chest. Unlike the men before, the centurion was wearing his full armor, save for his helmet, another thing you were thankful for. You were not easily intimidated, but this man? He could crack you like a peanut.

After a moment of sizing you up, his eyes trailing from your clothes, so different from his own, with trousers instead of a tunic and a graphic t-shirt in an alphabet he knew, but words he couldn’t understand, to your green dyed hair. He didn’t seem impressed. In fact, he seemed suspicious.

“Lucius Marianus.” Unfurling one of his hands, he held it for you to shake.

With an awkward smile, you took his hand and introduced yourself. His grip grew a bit tighter at the sound of your obviously foreign name. You fought the urge to run away.

“A pleasure, Marianus.” This time, you called him by his second name, determined not to make the same mistake as earlier with a less forgiving man.

“Where are you from?” Quick and to the point, you could respect that. Logically, you knew that this wasn’t real, that ultimately, this was your dream and you held all the power, but there was a little voice in the back of your head telling you to be careful. “Are you a citizen, a slave, or a free-man?”

Licking your dry lips, you let your hand fall to your side, shoving it in your pocket before Marianus could see that you had begun to shake. “I am from a country far away. Across the western sea, farther than any have ever gone. I am a citizen of my country, but not of Rome, and I am no slave, so I suppose that makes me a free-man.”

“You suppose?” He pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow. “Well, I ‘suppose’ I won’t assume you’re a liar and a runaway. If I hadn’t just witnessed that…” Marianus paused, searching for the right word, and you hoped it would be one you recognized. “Technique of yours, I would figure just that. Tell me, medicus, what exactly did you do to one of my men?”

“I, uh…” Your tongue felt too big for your mouth. Whatever answer you gave this man, it better be satisfactory. All you could hope for was that the truth would be enough. “His heart was no longer beating, so I pressed upon his chest as hard as I could in the same rhythm that his heart would take.”

Marianus nodded, his expression contemplative. “And the kiss?”

“It was not a kiss!” The words burst forth before you could stop them, your face flaring even hotter. This entire conversation was reminiscent of one you would have with your father, and Marianus’ disapproval was getting to you more than it should. “I was breathing air into his lungs. I inhale, pinch his nose shut so the air doesn’t escape through his sinuses, and then blow into his mouth. If his chest rises, I am doing the procedure correctly.”

“Still, an intimate gesture to bestow upon a stranger.” His lips twitched upwards ever so slightly. You got the feeling he was teasing you now. “From what I can gather, this technique of yours mimics the functions of life in order to coaxe the spirit back into its vessel.”

You blinked, opening your mouth to argue with scientific facts. A beat passed before you snapped your jaw shut with an audible click. Better to not look a gift horse in the mouth. “I, uh, yes. It does. That is exactly it. You are a very intelligent man, Marianus, perhaps a career in medicine is calling your name.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, medicus.”

An awkward grimace pulled at your lips. “Right.”

Marianus was both unmoved and undeterred by your lame response. You expected him to leave you be. After all, despite the fact that you saved one of his men from drowning, you were still an outsider to both the village, the army, and Rome. In your head, he owed you nothing, all you did was your duty and you expected nothing in return. Marianus seemed to think otherwise.

“Where have you been sleeping, medicus?” With a sharp nod of his head, he gestured to your duffel bag and drying clothes. “I assume outside in the heat considering how poorly you are spoken of in town. Looking and speaking as you do, it’s no wonder anyone is hesitant to even allow you to sleep in their barn.” Again, the edges of his mouth curled upwards. “You are far more useful than previously anticipated. For once, I am happy to have my assumptions proven false.”

“Um, thanks?”

“Fetch your belongings, there are more men waiting to be your patients back at camp.”

You blinked, dumbfounded, before a sharp raise of Marianus’ black eyebrows broke you from your spell. If there were more people to be treated, you didn’t have to be told twice. With a bit of pep in your step, excited to have something to do rather than waste away in tedium, you stuffed your, now dry, clothes into your bag and slung it over your shoulder. Marianus eyed it with no small amount of reservation.

“Do you carry any weapons?”

You thought about your taser and pepper spray tactically placed in an easy to reach pocket on the side. “No. As a doctor, I consider myself a pacifist.”

Marianus snorted. “A good way to die.”

“Better to die giving life than taking it,” You replied easily. This wasn’t a lie. While you didn’t fault other’s for violence — how could you fault human nature? — you would rather heal before harm. A part of you hoped to balance the scales, do enough good to make the bad seem worth it. It was a lofty goal, one you tried not to dwell on. So long as you managed to help even a single person in your life, you would be happy, though you’d never confine yourself to such a meager goal. “If you don’t mind me asking, do your men not already have a doctor to treat them? Why take on a stranger’s help?”

“We did. He is no longer with us.”

You frowned. “A shame. Lose one soldier, and you only lose one man. Lose a doctor and your losses double. I never met him, but I’ll remember him fondly.”

“You’re soft. It’s a shame.” His words made you raise your eyebrows, and, when you looked at him, there was pity in his dark eyes, though it was only there for a second.

Marianus clamped his hand on the back of your neck and began to steer you in the direction of the camp. With few trees in sight, only lush farms and tall grass, the countryside was a sight to behold. You glanced over your shoulder to see the river and the village disappearing in the distance. While the road the two of you walked on was dirt, it was well trodden, no stones or holes to trip over. This truly was the Roman Empire. How your mind managed to conjure an image so beautiful and so unmistakably alien was beyond you.

“Has there been anyone caring for the injured?” You asked.

“Our veterinarius has been doing what he can, though I don’t like it. These are men, not animals.” To punctuate his displeasure, Marianus spit on the ground.

You nodded placatingly as you approached the first cluster of tents. Some of the soldiers recognized you, though you didn’t recognize them in return. Word traveled fast when you save someone’s life, you supposed. “I’m sure he’s doing his best.”

“His best is not enough,” Marianus grumbled.

Before you could respond, the stench of infection and sick filled your senses. If you hadn’t done clinicals or worked in healthcare while you completed your studies, it would have caught you off guard. Instead of blanching, you took your last deep breath of clean air, and braced yourself as much as you could. Marianus almost seemed impressed by the determination on your face as you pulled back the flap of the tent, joining a frazzled looking man — the veterinarius, you assumed — in his rounds.

All you could do was your best, and you intended for that to be enough.

Even as a student, you had steeled your heart to the worst suffering had to offer. Growing up as you did, with parents more interested in results than feelings, it became all too easy to turn off your bleeding heart and do what was necessary. By now, it was as simple as breathing.

Your bedside manner was gentle as you helped a few men, too injured to move, drink water from a ladle. If you were any less busy, you would have insisted it be boiled. Marianus would likely scold you, it was unrealistic for an entire century to boil water for every sick man, let alone every soldier, no matter how sound your advice was. Posca would do for now, as it always had.

For hours, you worked tirelessly, cleaning wounds and calming fevers. You were lucky modern medicine wasn’t all that you studied. In order to help as many people as you could, you focused on ancient and holistic practices as well, though you had an easy preference for the tried and true methods. There was no denying that you were a medical prodigy, a genius for all intents and purposes. It wasn’t that you had an ego — well, maybe you did — it was the fact that it was the truth. You had graduated college before you had turned eighteen and gone through medical school soon after. Right now, you were the youngest student going through their surgical residency in your state, perhaps even the country if you dared to let your pride swell. All of this, your parents would call their doing, that you would be nothing without their guidance.

You grimaced in the middle of setting a skinny man’s broken arm. Better not think about them now, it would only serve to stress you out even further. For all your skill, you caught yourself floundering inside the medical tent, Marianus watching from the entrance as you flitted from patient to patient, and the veterinarius sitting back to take a much needed break. While you had some supplies on you — a stethoscope, a sphygmomanometer, a Taylor hammer, none of which you’d utilized yet, a bottle of antiseptic, some ibuprofen, and three clean syringes — it wasn’t enough for you to feel comfortable. Which was ridiculous, this was your dream, you could do whatever you wanted.

Then again, if that was true, then why were you fumbling through even simple procedures? You didn’t feel comfortable using more invasive methods, not unless you had no other choice. The likelihood of survival was low, even with your steady hands. Perhaps this was a nightmare, a look into what life will be like once you were done with your schooling. Your slumbering mind was preparing you to be the failure you were always meant to be.

Shaking your head, you focused your attention back on your patient. No one seemed to notice your lapse, not even you. You were quite good at multitasking, mixing self-deprecation with stringent work ethic like a talented seamster. The skinny man was lucky it was a clean break, and even luckier, it wasn’t his humerus, which would have been more complicated given your lack of equipment. A bit of sweat trickled down your forehead as you stood, surveying the men around you. You had done well given the circumstances, but you still couldn’t help but feel as though it wasn’t enough.

Nothing was ever enough.

Even dreaming, you felt tired.

Three men had infected wounds. One was oozing pus, which apparently was a good thing according to the veterinarius and Marianus, though you still took care to clean the wound thoroughly. Another man had a fever due to the infection, and, after washing your hands, you took care to clean it as the other. After much reassurance that it wasn’t poison to Marianus — consisting of taking one yourself — you also gave him an ibuprofen for his fever, though you decided you were going to ration them unless it was an emergency. The third man was a bit harder, enough necrotic tissue forming around the infection that you considered surgery. For now, you introduced maggots to the area, a treatment Marianus seemed to approve of, if not with some disgust. In the morning, you would check the wound, and then surgically remove the decayed flesh if the maggots didn’t do enough.

Four men had broken bones, one, his arm, another, his finger, and two, their leg. That was simple enough, if not time consuming getting all the bone fragments to set properly. While you would have much preferred a cast to a splint, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

That wasn’t even to mention the handful of other men with various ailments that filled the tent. Apparently there was someone quarantined elsewhere, suffering from dysentery. According to the veterinarius, the treatment for that particular disease was rest, fasting, and dehydration, which you were in the middle of giving him strict instructions to keep the man as hydrated as possible, it didn’t matter how quickly he discharged it, he needed to be drinking as much water as he could. You didn’t hold out much hope he’d make it, though you’d be damned before you gave up on someone who needed you.

It wasn’t until Marianus clamped his hand on the back of your neck and began to steer you towards the tent’s exit did you realize how exhausted you were. Your eyes burned and your head throbbed. If you were any less of a man, you would have taken one of your ibuprofen to ease the dull ache in your temples. Ultimately, you decided against it. If there came a time when they were necessary and you had run out because of your own weakness, you would never forgive yourself.

“You did well, medicus. Better than I expected, you are very skilled at what you do,” Marianus said as he led you deeper into camp. By now, it was dark, well into the night too judging from the full moon directly overhead.

How long had you been working?

“Thank you. I am usually better than that. I fear my nerves of being in such an unfamiliar country are getting to me.” With the heel of your palm, you scrubbed at your face.

Marianus frowned down at you. “Keep your foreignness to yourself, medicus and you will go far. Though, that will be hard to do with hair like yours.” He looked you up and down, hesitant curiosity creeping into his features. “That strange color… it is not natural, is it?”

A laugh bubbled from your throat. “No, I dyed it. Green is a color I am rather fond of.”

“I am fond of red, but you do not see me painting my hair that color,” He grumbled under his breath, and it reminded you so much of the comments some of your superiors made, that you giggled.

Before you could respond, he gestured to a tent with an outstretched arm. A lantern was on inside, casting the shadow of the single occupant, who was busy sitting cross-legged and writing what seemed to be a letter. While you had reservations of interrupting, Marianus did not.

“Out here, now, boy!” The shadow visibly jumped before pulling back the flap to reveal Aelius. He looked as tired as you did, and truthfully, he stank to high heaven. You struggled not to wrinkle your nose so as not to offend him. Aelius seemed like a nice man.

“Sir?” Was all he managed before Marianus continued to bark his next set of orders.

“Since the two of you were acquainted earlier, and the fact that you were supposed to be monitored, you’ll be bunking together. In the morning, we set a course for Rome.”

You blinked. Did that include you? While you wouldn’t mind getting out of the village and seeing more of what this dream had to offer, you couldn’t help but feel a bit of uncertainty. There was no telling how long this dream would go on, nor how vast it was. You couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if you strolled ‘out of bounds,’ so to speak. Would you be trapped in an infinite void until you awoke? The thought was enough to send a chill down your spine.

“And I will remain here,” You finally said.

Marianus barked out a laugh. “No. You will join us. I still have a use for you.”

As much as you didn’t want to abandon your current patients, you would rather not push your luck any further than you already had. Crossing your arms, you met Marianus’ furrowed brows with your own. “And that use would be?”

To your right, Aelius made a little noise. Your gaze flickered over to him, catching his motion for you to cease, before you ignored it and fixated back on Marianus. He was looking at you like you’d lost your mind. At least enough to question him. A bit of discomfort made your skin itch, you always hated earning the negative attention of a superior.

For a moment, you feared that Marianus would yell at you until the sun rose. He puffed up, shoulders squaring and his lower jaw jutting out before he deflated with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his angular nose. “You are too soft for the army, medicus, and you are too foreign to hope to set up your own clinic, especially without citizenship. There is very little hope for you in the Empire.”

You looked away, feeling cold even as a summer’s breeze blew against your skin. An argument began to boil in the back of your throat, an insistence that this was a dream, so none of that mattered, but you managed to swallow that poison before it could spew out of you.

Marianus paused, waiting for you to respond. When all he received was a defeated look, he continued, “There is, however, hope for both me and you. The emperors require a new physician and I believe they would be taken by your skill and your…” He looked at your hair again. “Novelty. In return for discovering you, if they choose to take you on, me and my men will be rewarded.”

“I see,” You muttered. Perhaps this was the route your dream wanted you to take. At the end of it all, there was sure to be a lesson or even a vision of sorts that could help you in reality. All you had to do to get it was allow the plot to pull you forward. “And Rome is not far?”

Marianus’ features softened, bordering on fondness, guilt, and pity. “Barely a day’s march, medicus.”

“I will go, then. To Rome with me, I suppose.” Though you smiled, when you turned to Aelius, he stared at you as if you’d been sentenced to death.

—————————————-

Tag list: @snazzynacho

[firewall000]

About the whole tiredsn0w situation…

I have recently been made aware of this whole situation in which tiredsn0ws essentially getting harassed. As a close friends of hers, I feel obligated to say something, however  I won't reveal my identity for my own sanity.

Most of the matter I will be commenting on stems from @sneakysnekbetch ‘s blog.

CW for mentions/discussions of bullying, fetishisation, sexualisation, racism, pedophilia etc.

I didn’t scroll as far on the blog, so the screenshot order will be what is newest.

First of all, sn0w has acknowledged that the drawing may come off as sexual but is not drawn to be. I can see how it’s uncomfortable but at the end of the day, the artist didn’t intend for it to be weird. You can find it weird, but wouldn’t you say the person who made the work knows more about it than you? Rhetorical. 

Second of all, to address the third and fourth image added in the first screenshot: it is so incredibly important to note that SCP-049 has BPD in this canon. He is heavily inspired by someone with BPD who Snow knows herself. The fixation/dependency/obsession that comes with having an FP is not weird just because it is platonic or familial-adjacent. Same for the last image. One of the tags was quite literally, ‘don’t tag as ship’, meaning it isn’t romantic:

Saying you ‘need someone’ is not an inherently sexual thing.

(Referring to third image, as its been cut off)

The problem with all your claims is that you leave out a shit ton of context and exaggerate what you do present.

What is depicted in the screenshot is not a tantrum, but a personal opinion that was phrased in a rather long way. Someone being non-sharing or not wanting to interact with ships is perfectly fine. I myself block SCP-049 x OC/SCP-035 shippers because it makes me uncomfortable. Likewise, this is just someone stating a boundary. Oh no! This person doesn’t like to see ships! Because of personal discomfort! 

Not to mention that Sn0ws discomfort with SCP-049 x SCP-035 stems from the fact it creates personal distress with her and, in canon, is considered abusive (See: That’s not love, Isabel.)

This isn’t bullying. Unless you provide contextually relevant details, it won’t be bullying.

Obviously, even if it isn’t bullying, it is still perfectly valid to feel upset from getting comments that aren’t 100% supportive of something you create. I’ve been there myself, but to call it bullying is wrong.  

Instead, that entire response just seems constructive.

Again, this doesn’t seem butthurt, rather just clarifying? You just love to blow things out of proportion, Snek.

Also, it is SO ironic how you talk about ‘’Multiple canons’, yet you’re the person who complains about SCP-049 acting a certain way in one canon?

We also see SCP-049 being extremely paranoid and obsessive with his ideals in the article. you  know what else? We also only see a bit of his character in the article. There are many ways to flesh out SCP-049s character and lore. Not everything has to be article-accurate. Especially because the entire deal with the SCP: Foundation is that there is no true canon. Go figure.

Overall, I agree with anon.

I agree that the first and latter image are odd, but those are incredibly old and also have been deleted for a good reason. The BBC one… yeah, extremely uncomfortable and weird. Again, deleted for a good fucking reason. Do I think an apology would have done better? Yeah. But still, deleted for good reason.

The second drawing, however… is just not sexual at all? Seriously, so many of your arguments boil down to, “I THINK IT IS SEXUAL EVEN THOUGH IT ISN’T!” and it is so embarrassing. So much of SCP-6118s character revolves around mental illness (that the author also has), so why are you so upset that mental illness is depicted realistically and, by proxy, uncomfortably? Get over it.

I will reiterate my point— the artist knows their own work better than yourself. But you don’t seem to understand that concept, as shown here:

(full art for context)

Again, that art is not sexual at all. It is someone in restraints. A soldier, no less. Restraints are so commonly used in non-sexual ways in literally so much media. You’d know if you stepped outside of spaces that portray such things as sexual.. Same with objectification. It is almost like soldiers are seen as living weapons rather than humans. You know, almost like they are being objectified. 

It is almost like Sn0ws writing is literal psychological horror and focuses on the consequences of abuse, mental illness and the like. 

Seriously, this one in particular is a you problem. It is no one’s fault but your own if the first thing you think of is sexual stuff. Actually embarrassing. 

You can so absolutely find a song choice weird, but again, Sn0w said she explained her intent with the drawing SEVERAL times. Not to mention that it is so incredibly common to interpret songs that are romantic or sexual in a completely different/platonic way. Trying to explain to someone what THEY meant when THEY made THEIR work is so cringe. 

For context, this is the drawing:

Stressing on the phrasing of ‘lyric(s)’. A lyric. Some lines. Not the entire song.

’Most of the work form her friends is just smut’, yeah, here is tiredsn0ws opinion on said work:

It is almost like a ton changes in a whole year and that there is a reason Sn0w distances herself from her old work and chose to rewrite it. Not to mention that sn0w has said the opposite about infantilisation of SCP-6118: 

She has expressed cringe and discomfort for most of her old works.

Key word: teenage. One makes and does things that are incredibly weird and uncomfortable and regrets them later on during teenhood. Sn0w has drastically changed since her old works. Here is a full overview of her thoughts regarding her old works:

Also, pointer: SCP-6118 is asexual and aromantic, not gay. Tiredsn0ws version of SCP-049 is asexual and aromantic. Tiredsn0w herself is asexual and aromantic. Aromanticism is very present in her new work. To add onto my point about SCP-6118 being SCP-049s FP (taken from rev. 10 from the scp sandbox) and their relationship being not-romantic:

Actually, none of her characters dynamics are written to be romantic:

I just had to save this one for last. Do you know how absolutely fucked up it is to compare someone to a literal fucking pedophile? A groomer? Snek, you literally forced Sn0w to reveal extremely personal and traumatic details just for her to prove she isn’t, but you don’t care about that and instead keep persisting, and for what? I will not share screenshots out of respect for sn0w, but you know very well. You should be ashamed of yourself.

In conclusion, most of this boils down to people not understanding aromanticism and personality disorders in writing and making up their own interpretations of what someone meant with their work while also invading their privacy.  There is a severe lack in understanding of actual story and thought process. Her work is not intended for a general audience and instead for  people with mental illness and those willing to sympathize with the grimmer aspects of it.  

And also, to Snek:  your arguments are not constructive, they are contextually spotty and so chronically online it makes my head hurt. Your weird usage of condescending titles (i.e. babygirl, bro, etc) aren’t cool or a good ‘got-cha’, it is incredibly uncomfortable and cringe to see. Do some internal insight on why you perceive so many things as fetishistic or sexual, because at this point, it is literally just a you problem.  Do better.

Also, a note about something tiredsn0w (and I, minimally) have noticed:

Micro aggressions are not okay, Snek. And neither are ignorance and performative actions. 

And lastly— leave tiredsn0w alone. I block people who I think are weird also. The block button is right there, it’s free and it is available for a reason. If I can do it, so can you. 

As per my personal opinion, I think that if someone has expressed distaste for their old work and wishes to disconnect themselves from it, then that is okay and should not be held over their head. The artist knows their work better than others. Even when intent is explained, it goes in on one ear and out on the other. 

[evenmoreofadisaster]

Okay. Hi. I love you guys and the things you do so so much. EMD is now a regular part of my life that gives me an incredible feeling of joy every time I see an update. I am sorry if what I will say now is offensive but I think the fic has a slight glorifying on Two's side. I am not saying it is bad, perhaps Donatello is your favourite so you want to focus on him though it really hurts me whenever One is humiliated or rejected by Two. I mean they both did horrible things to each other but-I may be wrong, it is only my perspective- I think Two's actions are more justified.

Anyway, I just wanted to share my thoughts on this masterpiece of a fanfiction. Have an excellent day and goodbye.

Hi! So happy you're enjoying our silly fic it means a lot to see how much people are still invested in what's going on with the boys and I'm glad you pointed this out.

I've noticed that some of you guys have felt that Two is being too hard on One or that his actions seem to be getting justified. It's true that Two is being super hard on One right now and it seems like we're, in a sense, glorifying Two by shedding light on One's mistakes and how he screwed up, but I'd like to clarify that our intention is to shed light on both sides of the conflict!

In season 1, we see how Two's betrayal affects One. The story was focused on One and his reactions, his anger. This season, it's Two's turn to be angry and to react to the events of season 1 and the way he grew up as a whole. Season 2 allows Two to work through his anger about being mistrusted, disrespected, silenced and overall stuck in One's shadow, so that's why he's being really harsh with One now.

At this point, One feels really guilty about what happened in season 1 and he's evolving a LOT more than Two (who is actually backsliding) because he's had the time to think about what happened and feel bad about how he reacted to it. He never wanted to hurt his brother, but he lost sight of that after Two chose Draxum over him. One is still angry, he's just not taking it out on Two anymore. That's part of his character development :D He will also get a chance to be angry about his upbringing and the fight in S1 like Two does, we just haven't gotten to that part yet.

Basically, we're not trying to say that Two is completely innocent or that one twin is more to blame than the other. They were both wrong. Essentially, we’re just giving them each a turn to be angry with each other. Teaa compares the chapter povs to a microphone that's being passed between One and Two that lets them scream their case lol. So if it seems like we're giving Two too much sympathy in comparison to One it's because we're focusing on his POV more Teaa's Note: I would also like to note that we have a specific plan for the pacing of the characters' development and setting up certain plot points for later that we need to establish in each chapter, so your reaction to the recent chapters is kind of according to our bigger plan! I agree it IS painful when Two keeps shutting One out and taking his anger out on him. We get to see One's guilt eating him up enough that his family has to tell him to let it go and move on, even if it's without Two. He is learning to forgive himself, even if Two isn't ready for that yet. Meanwhile, Two has to get his anger out now that he's no longer being silenced at every turn so that (when he's ready) he can start healing too. I hope this clears things up a little bit! Thank you for the ask. Gives us an idea of the way people might be interpreting the fic, which will help us make sure we don't miss any important points we need to bring up in future chapters lol

[myeyesarebiggerthanmybladder]

Introducing myself to the many people of Tumblr!

Hello! Depending on the time zone of whoever is reading this, it could be morning, afternoon, evening or night, so I thought a simple greeting would suffice -- otherwise I would of course have said "good evening". I should also note to myself that not everybody will read this at the same time, so even if time zones were not a problem it could still cause issues to mention a particular time in my introduction. I will try to keep this as concise as possible so as to account for the fact that blocks of text are difficult to read on a screen as well as the unfortunate fact that people's attention spans are decreasing almost by the day. I myself struggle to pay attention to something for a long period of time unless that thing is of particular interest to me, so I understand how necessary it is to keep my words to a minimum. I suppose I should tell you my name here, which as you can see from the title of my blog is Akechi Touma. I won't tell you my age or the name of my school -- disclosing my full name is already a risky decision and revealing anything more would be incredibly careless thing to do! While lurking here I've noticed that many of my real-life acquaintances have chosen to share their location as part of their introduction and I must say that I shake my head whenever I see it. Internet safety is no joke, and revealing too much of your personal information online could have serious consequences! Fortunately I am someone who likes to keep things close to my chest, so I am fairly confident that I will be safe from stalkers or predators or anyone else who may wish to do me harm. Speaking of predators, if you do plan on saying anything lewd or "Not Safe For Work" in my inbox then I must ask that you refrain from interacting. I won't hesitate to block those who break this rule as it is one I take very seriously and I simply do not wish to deal with people like that. I sometimes wonder why these people don't have anything better to do, and how sad their life must be if their primary source of entertainment is making strangers uncomfortable over the internet. It's important to remember that those behind a screen are still real people, and your perverted or unkind words can affect them a great deal. That brings me to my second rule, which is that I kindly ask you to refrain from rude or bullying messages in my inbox. That sort of thing is incredibly unkind and can really bring a person's mood down -- although I do try not to let strangers' words affect me too much and have had plenty of experience with rather unpleasant people which has led me to develop a relatively thick skin. This, like the first rule, will result in an instant block if broken -- though I will devise a personal point system for how rude a message must be before I block the person sending it. Sometimes a person can be rude without intending to -- unfortunately people have told me that I tend to fall into this habit myself -- so I will endeavour to be as tolerant as possible. I don't think there are any more rules I need to mention, though if I think of any more I will be sure to add them!

TL;DR: no nsfw and no bullying! Otherwise, ask whatever you like.

OOC:

Hi it's @billiuspendragon again, this time with the Blorbo himself <3<3<3

To clarify on the rules -- I won't allow anything NSFW beyond the kinds of jokes that are in the canon of Saiki K. Akechi sometimes rambles about inappropriate things himself but I'll use my own common sense to figure out whether asks cross the line or not -- I'm not a minor but many people in this RP community are and I don't want to make them feel unsafe or uncomfortable.

I have quite a lot of RP blogs now so we'll see if I can keep this up lmao. I just really wanted to try roleplaying as my guy!

[izanacore]

“casual” | manjiro sano x reader

chapter three 𓂃⋆.˚

synopsis: a no-strings-attached arrangement between a party girl and a frat boy turns messy when mikey falls first. but when (y/n) runs from love, she loses him for good—until fate brings them back together, years too late.

characters: manjiro “mikey” sano, fem!reader, draken “ken” ryuguji, keisuke baji, takashi mitsuya

warnings: angst, heartbreak, fwb dynamics, explicit content, crack, fluff, jealousy, insecurities, themes of regret, alcohol use, violence, bullying, depression

notes: mikey is insufferable. that’s it.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

chapter three

the afternoon sun bathed the university gates in a warm glow as she adjusted the strap of her bag, exhaling softly. all she wanted was to get home, maybe eat, maybe ignore her assignments—maybe both.

but just as she stepped outside, a familiar voice called out.

“oi.”

she turned her head, only to find mikey standing near his motorcycle, flanked by draken, baji, and mitsuya. they looked like they were in the middle of a conversation, but mikey had already stopped paying attention. his dark eyes were on her now, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips.

he jerked his chin toward her. “come here.”

she frowned but walked over anyway, already regretting it.

as soon as she reached them, mikey, without any preamble, slung an arm around her and gestured toward her. “this is my GIRL friend, y/n.”

the way he emphasized GIRL had her blinking.

draken raised an eyebrow. “your what?”

“my GIRL friend,” mikey repeated, nodding like he was clarifying something incredibly important. “as in a girl who is my friend. a platonic girl friend. not a girlfriend—just to be clear.”

baji snorted. mitsuya smirked. draken just sighed.

she narrowed her eyes at mikey. “…why are you saying it like that?”

“what? i’m just making sure there’s no confusion.” he shoved his hands into his pockets, looking way too pleased with himself. “don’t want people getting the wrong idea.” his gaze was flirtatious as he looked at her.

“oh, yeah, you really cleared that up,” baji muttered, shaking his head.

mikey leaned back against his bike, nodding toward the guys beside him. “by the way, these idiots are draken, baji, and mitsuya,” he said lazily.

“you must be really special, huh?” mitsuya remarked, leaning back with an amused look. “this is the first time mikey’s ever introduced a ‘girl’ friend to us,” lifting his hands to make air quote

she raised a brow. “is that supposed to be a good thing?”

the group erupted into laughter—well, everyone except mikey. he gave her a deadpan look before crossing his arms.

“uhm, yes??? you should be honored i consider you my friend,” he said, exaggerating the last word like it was some grand title.

she rolled her eyes, already done with whatever this was. “okay, friend, i’ll be going now,” she said to mikey before shifting her attention to the others. “it was nice meeting you guys.

mikey barely reacted. “yeah, same. i gotta go too.”

she turned and started walking, but she didn’t get far before she heard hurried footsteps behind her.

“mikey?”

he had jogged after her like it was urgent, only to slow down the second she turned to look at him. he blinked at her, stuffing his hands back into his pockets like he hadn’t just run after her. “where are you going?”

she gave him a look. “home???”

he nodded toward the parking area. “then why are you walking? my motorcycle’s over there.”

she blinked. “and?”

“and i’m taking you home.”

she flashed a sarcastic smile. “no, thank you.”

mikey didn’t even pretend to care. he just grabbed her wrist and led her to the parking lot. when they reached his bike, he got on and looked at her expectantly. “get on.”

she let out a long, exhausted sigh but got on anyway. who was she to refuse a free ride?

the ride home was quiet, except for the occasional hum of the engine and the warmth of his body in front of her.

when they reached her apartment, they both got off. mikey took off her helmet, his fingers brushing away a few stray strands of hair.

“thanks,” she muttered, already turning toward the door. mikey fell into step beside her, walking her the rest of the way.

but as soon as she pushed it open, she felt mikey brush past her—and head straight inside.

she froze. “what the—?”

mikey, completely unfazed, kicked off his shoes, walked past her desk, and then— flopped onto her bed like he lived there.

she gawked at him. “what are you doing?”

he propped his head up on one hand, looking at her lazily. “what?”

she gestured wildly. “why are you on my bed? why are you even inside???”

mikey blinked, completely unbothered. “you think the ride was for free?”

she threw her hands up. “i didn’t even ask for a ride!”

“well, i gave you one,” he said simply. “so you have to pay.”

“oh my god,” she groaned. “mikey, get out—”

he tilted his head. “you kicking me out?”

“yes?!”

he clicked his tongue, then casually patted the space next to him. “that’s not how you treat someone who just gave you a ride, y’know.”

she stared at him, trying to figure out if he was actually serious or just messing with her. but then he smirked—that smirk, the one that made her stomach flip in ways she didn’t want to admit.

she was still processing what was happening when he suddenly grabbed her wrist and pulled her down beside him.

the next thing she knew, she was on her bed, trapped under his gaze, with the heat of his body too close, too overwhelming.

she swallowed. “mikey—”

his smirk deepened. “no backing out now.”

and then his lips were on hers.

chapter two | chapter four





[schizononagesimus]

Dare I ask, what's omegaverse?

oh my god i feel like my kid just came home from school and asked me what sex was.

i ain't a "give you a book and figure it out yourself" kinda mom, so we're doin this. here we go.

omegaverse is a kind of slash fic that imagines a hierarchy similar to what wolves have in which you have the dominant alphas, the neutral betas, and the submissive omegas. the universe imagines that these are biological genders in addition to male and female--known as secondary gender--and thus create a different set of social norms/hierarchy. these additional genders are referred to as "maturation," and become evident ("presentation") around the age of thirteen after having already presented as their primary gender (male or female).

omegaverse is formerly known as a/b/o, which we stopped using because it's too similar to a slur for aboriginal australians, but i thought it was important to note 'cause you'll see it around sometimes.

let me clarify before i continue that they're not werewolves. however, historically, the omegaverse originates from a Supernatural fic in which werewolf dynamics were combined with mpreg. however (and confusing that a bit), in the omegaverse there are packs as family (though this depends on the fic). and on the mpreg note, most omegaverse fic is m/m.

let's get into it with more definitions!

alphas - usually larger physically, aggressive demeanor. dominant. have ruts, in which they are periodically affected by the urge to breed--sometimes this can happen as a response to omegas having being in heat (aka estrus)--more on that later. ruts last (in my experience) 3-7 days, and the alpha cannot control or ignore their rut; the rut additionally makes them even more aggressive than usual. alphas can furthermore command and basically everyone follows the command--though nonverbal commands can sometimes be resisted (more on how they might non-verbally command later). we also uhh... gotta talk about alpha dicks later (see: knotting).

betas - literally just normal fucking people. this is also most people.

omegas - smaller physically, gentle demeanor. submissive and breedable. have heats, in which there is a crazy high chance of pregnancy, and all they want is to be bred and they act kinda stupid (literally like they can't cook or clean or NOTHING). the decisions an omega in heat makes are entirely out of desperation and not to be acted on. at the beginning of a heat, the vaginal walls ache and their body temperature goes up. but first? pre-heat! also about a week long, an omega prepares a nest where they'll feel safe; usually blankets, things that smell like loved ones, clothes, food and water. during pre-heat, omegas are totally cognizant, and may invite an alpha or beta to share their nest for their heat. after a heat, an omega is usually pretty wiped and will eat a lot--this shit expends mad energy.

gamma - pretty rare, but im explaining it anyway because they have neo pronouns??? and it sometimes isn't explained that someone is a gamma it's just assumed from the fact that the author is using ze/zer/zim. but this is a third primary gender in which someone will either mature into a female alpha or a male omega, so since the gender is unknown, they are referred to with ze/zim pronouns before their maturation. they're born with both sets of genitalia and a uterus; so they're infertile if they later present as an alpha, and fertile if they present as an omega.

there are also enigmas (literally once every generation; demeanor and physicality just alphas on steroids). deltas are literally just alphas who can't command. i haven't often encountered gammas, enigmas, or deltas in fics personally.

two of the defining features of the omegaverse are scent glands and knotting.

scent glands - residing in the base of the neck and wrists, the scent glands... well, they smell. omegas smell good, alphas are usually described as having an oppressive smell, betas also smell but it's incredibly subdued. the smell of an alpha is always more evident than others. the smell can attract a mate; closer to an omega's heat, their scent becomes gradually more potent. an alpha's smell can tell others that they're in a rut. alphas can issue a non-verbal command that can be ignored (by some people) via their scent glands.

knotting - alpha dicks have this thing very astutely called the "bulbus glandis" (creative, right), referred to as the knot. it's uhh, it's a knot on the base of their dick. basically, it inflates during sex and locks into the vaginal walls and traps the cum inside for max chance of pregnancy. this by itself is fine, but the best part is that the alpha and whoever get stuck together for a period of time. the period of time varies from fic to fic, but i've seen everywhere from 15 minutes to three hours. tbh it's fucking great, it can be really funny and unhelpful or horrible i hate you get out of me or really sweet depending on the ship dynamic. the knot "deflating" is often referred to as "the knot going down."

here's a purposely shitty example to give you an idea of what this looks like:

"i'm the omega and i'm in heat ahh i'm so horny!" "i'm the alpha and i'm in an uncontrollable rut and this omega smells so good! i'm gonna get this omega pregnant! graaaah! [aggro alpha noises]" [probably pretty kinky sex, 'cause there's d/s dynamics here, but varies from fic to fic] "the alpha came inside me and we have to wait for the knot to go down, aww nuts!" [PREGNANT]

aaaand scene.

[thequietkid-moonie]

Would it be alright if you did a Violet Evergarden prompt with her finding her readers suicide letter that they wrote before they met her and forgot about?

Finding S/O's old suicide note

[ SCENARIO ] [ Violet Evergarden ]

I like a lot this prompt! It is incredibly comforting for me! It has being a while since last time i seriously thought about all this stuff but it is still comforting

Violet is really caring, she has problems dealing with her own feelings and expressing them but one thing is for sure, she want to spend her life with you!

Violet isn't really someone who likes to pry in your privacy, she decided to put her trust on you and want to believe that you will tell her the important things even if it takes you time, so for her to actually find the letter it has to be because she has a good motive to look throught your belongings and has your explicit permision otherwise she wouldn't even think on doing such thing

She didn't think much of it when she first saw the letter, even if the paper was folded she would hesitant for a moment before undoing it to see the content, besides if the paper was hide between some of your belongings she may asume thats is something private and she would almost simply let it where she found it or even directly ask you if it is anything important

The only reason why she end up reading it was because with a quick glance she noticed that it was a letter, by being a automemory doll she can understand the importance a letter can hold and she felt some sense of responsability, maybe it was a letter you didn't finished or you forgot to send and if that is the case she would like to help you finish the job, thats the only reason why she end up reading it

Violet end up reading the whole note at least twice because she simply cant understand it, she quickly get what the message means but she doesn't fully process the real meaning of it, or at least she doesn't want to fully understand it, it is clear that the note express despair and even a goodbye but still Violet has a hard time trying to understand, it is that someone else send it to you? Where you trying to say a farewell to someone? Why did you even wrote something like this?

Violet is so confused and even scare of what the note could truly mean that it would be stuck in her mind for a while, she isn't foreign to death but she is to the wish of a self inflicted dead, still her mind refuse to connect the dots for being so scare of losing you. This situation feels like it is eating her alive, she doesn't know how to react wich lead her to don't even know how to aproach the topic to you, but as time pass it would be more obvious how there is something bothering her

It is probably that she won't be able to express her worries until you decide to ask her about it because she doesn't even know how to ask about it, but once you do it becomes easier, still she will start by apologizing for reading a letter you wrote

As Violet start to express what have being troubling her it become more obvious how scare and confused she is, Violet is unable to fully understand the wish to die and is even asking you to please explain it to her because now she is scare of losing you

She tries her best to understand the feeling but that doesn't make her feel any more better, even when you clarify that that letter is something you wrote long ago and you have even forget about it she will not be able to calm down yet, she is way too scare of losing you to calm down, she wants to ask for more information to not only fully comprehend but also help you but at the same time is scare of triggering you by accident while asking

It will take Violet a while to finally accept the idea that those feelings are now just part of the past, even if you destroy the note she will need some reasurance and time, and even after that she will try to make sure you don't have those feelings again, she doesn't want you to wish to be dead, she loves you too much to see you suffer like that and she doesn't know what will happen to her if she lose you too

[fredwardart]

The Key To Lando's Heart - Lando Norris/Franco Colapinto

@watercolor-hearts has an absolutely wonderful Cardiophile Lando universe. It centres around Lando's love for his heart.

Introduction to the universe is here, check it out!

A big part of it is the relationship between Jon and Lando, and since finding out that Franco and Lando share Jon as a trainer, it's the perfect opportunity to add (with her permission) some heart and workout focused Norapinto into this universe.

When Franco starts working with Jon, they get on really well. Franco really likes how Jon meets him where he is and supports him to push himself and it's a bonus that Jon's really knowledgeable and tells Franco the benefits of each exercise. Franco knows most of these because he's interested in how his body works. but he listens intently because Jon's voice is easy to focus on while working out and it's a really big reminder of why he does what he loves.

Jon asks him how he feels after doing a workout. He tells him to focus on what his body is telling him. Jon knows that Franco enjoys showing off what his body can do and tell everyone about his workouts, so it's a good way to get Franco engaged.

Jon tells Franco to keep an eye out on his breathing and his heart rate. As a training exercise he asks Franco to note the changes he feels in his heart rate and once he's told Jon about what he felt, exactly when he felt his heart rate rise, they compare it to the actual data captured on Franco's watch, just like he does with Lando. Jon uses it as an exercise on how Franco can trust what his body is telling him and that he's doing a good job at reading it. Franco feels a warm feeling inside at knowing he can trust himself.

Jon asks Franco if he can have access to the data on Franco's watch. Franco agrees but he asks why it matters a lot. Was there something wrong with the data he'd seen already? Jon clarifies it's because he wants to keep an eye on his vital signs as he works out but he assures him there's nothing wrong, so Franco questions why Jon doesn't just take his pulse.

Jon says that it's so he gets a more continuous reading but Franco can tell that he hesitated only slightly as he spoke. He can tell something's up but he doesn't pry. He shrugs and moves on.

One day the curiosity gets the better of him (it doesn't take long for him to ask because he's not embarrassed to ask) and he wonders why everything is so heart focused. Jon says that it's a habit because lots of people work harder when they appreciate how their body works and the heart/heartbeats are really obvious to spot. He says this is why a lot of people focus on their breathing to get into the zone.

Franco lightheartedly wonders who would be so fixated on their heart, but he thinks that Jon's worked with many sportspeople and it's not exactly odd to focus on it. The heart is important after all.

So it's not surprising when he walks into the gym early and sees Jon talking with Lando after his session, gesturing to his watch.

But that isn't what Franco focuses on, it was probably the same thing he does with Jon. Lando looks different - but not in a bad way. He's sweaty and red with exertion but he has this glow in his skin, a post workout glow, which shows on his smile that is somehow even more radiant than usual.

He smiles at Lando as he walks past, slinging his gym bag over his shoulder. The smile he gets in return releases a swarm of butterflies in his stomach that took him off guard. Sure, Lando was pretty but that smile... He'd do anything to get that smile again.

So he needs an excuse. The most fitting thing would be to suggest a group workout to Jon. It'd not like Jon would suspect anything. And he could take some sneaky looks at Lando, too. Jon hesitates. He isn't sure Lando would want it, and when he mentions it to Lando after a session, he himself isn't sure. He doesn't want to be super open about it and it could be incredibly risky. Especially with somebody that catches his eye so much. It could mess everything up before it's even begun, but it seems innocent enough. So he says yes.

Lando finds himself enjoying the workout. The stretches are pretty low intensity so his heart isn't showing off just yet. And Jon's equal attention to both of them is helping him keep it at bay.

Though, Franco's glances in his direction are quite tempting.

It is going remarkably well. Until the treadmill. He's focused on Jon's words of encouragement to them both until Franco comments on his breathing. It's fine, Franco is known for liking to publicise his workouts so it's probably nothing. But then he starts talking about how fast his heart is beating. Lando misses his step on the treadmill and almost goes flying off the end. Jon catches his arm and asks him if he's okay, mercifully steering the conversation away from hearts. It's not the same as talking about his heart but it feels like Franco knows something and reading the possibile subtext, he could be being cocky about it. It could be innocent, but it keeps swirling around Lando's head for the rest of the workout. The rest of it goes by in a haze, and as enjoyable as it would be usually to show off in front of someone, he's glad it's over. He barely takes notice of Jon going over heart data with Franco as he's walking out the door, until Franco pulls up his phone and calls out to him:

"Wow, my pulse is racing! What about yours? You were working hard."

Lando stops. He looks like a rabbit in the headlights as he tries to process what Franco said. Before he works out what to say he takes off. The passing touch of Franco's fingers on his wrist as he pushed past certainly didn't help how worked up he'd got over the acknowledgement of his heart. No amount of breathing exercises could fix this one. He really really wishes it could be any other way. Franco probably can guess what's happened now (or at least thinks he's weird) because the situation in his shorts wasn't exactly hidden.

He couldn't face seeing Franco for a while after that. Not after where his mind wanders to when he's coming down. How the hell was he supposed to explain what happened?

He loved working out with Franco but he can't do it again. He can't risk it. And hopefully Jon had made up some kind of excuse for what happened.

And that's what Lando assumes, as Franco goes about life like that whole thing didn't happen, despite Lando trying his best to avoid talking to him.

The next time Franco shows up early to the gym, Lando doesn't meet his eye. But that doesn't stop him from pointedly brushing past and asking for another workout session. When Lando says no the awkwardness in his voice and expression is unconcealable. Franco knows better than to ask but as he spins on his heel d something makes him turn back to face him.

"Did I do something wrong?"

"No." Lando cringed at how quickly the words flew out of his mouth and wished he could force it back in.

"Well something's wrong. Can we talk about it?" Franco's sincerity was surprising to Lando but it didn't make it unbelievable.

Yet the words weren't coming. He didn't trust Franco like he trusted Jon. That took time and he'd only known Franco a few short months.

"You like this... Don't you?" Franco said softly as he lightly touched his fingers to Lando's chest.

"Franco..." Lando's voice was barely above a whisper over the thundering of his heart in his ears.

Franco removed his fingers in an instant, his voice cautious. "Too soon?"

Yes. No. Yes. Lando thought.

It was too much but his rationale was being overridden by something that was telling him he didn't want anything more.

"I want it." Hearing his voice so husky s urprised him but it was overshadowed by the sudden feeling of Franco's palm on his chest. Lando let out a shaky exhale and the sight of Lando was enough to make Franco cocky.

"Wow. That makes your heart go even faster." Franco remarked as he placed his free hand on Lando's wrist.

The small smile on Franco's lips that appeared as Lando moaned soon disappeared. Lando grabbing him by the wrist was a surprise, but a welcome one. He couldn't wait to see where Lando was taking him.

[anotherkindofmindpod]

Hey lovely AKOM folks! Belated Happy Easter — and thank you for all the recent content! 🙌

Forgive me if this is off-topic, but I wanted to get something off my chest...

Re: why some of us aren’t exactly enamoured with Ian Leslie — I find the guy problematic. Not so much because of his views on John and Paul (though I do think it’s fair to ask questions about an established journalist — a straight, white, cishet man – with a publishing contract, drawing so heavily on the unpaid work of others).

But what properly bothers me if I’m honest is his politics.

For instance, I still remember his past, casually mocking reference to Jeremy Corbyn and Imagine with the line: “Corbynism, one interminable John Lennon song.”  

Or the way he criticised mild-mannered sports pundit Gary Lineker (no radical he) for speaking out against the previous government’s “immeasurably cruel” asylum policies on social media.

Leslie’s response? “I don’t understand why Lineker can’t just accept the restriction. Why is it of vital importance that the world hear his political views?” Which kind of misses the point, imho.

As a Brit, I guess I’m especially sensitive to this kind of aggro-centrist energy. These voices dominate our politics right now, and they often seem to take real pleasure in punching down — on the left, on young people, on trans rights, on pro-Palestine activists, and so on.

So when I see Leslie’s stances, it honestly makes me question his ability to empathise with John Lennon — or even with the Paul McCartney who wrote Give Ireland Back to the Irish. (“Sir Paul” is another matter.)

And then it’s jarring because Leslie’s everywhere at the moment! Even in the sacred spaces. Even in the Beatles podcasts I turn to as a bit of refuge from the world. ☹️

And I am trying to be thoughtful about this (honest!). I get that one of the beautiful (and yes, sometimes frustrating) things about Beatles fandom is how broad that church is. There’s space for the outsiders and the insiders, the psychedelic dreamers, the rock purists, the avant-garde heads — and for us peace-and-love crew too.

I’ve listened to your previous interview with Leslie, and I’ll admit — he makes some good points. I’ll probably buy his book too. Who am I kidding. Sigh. Of course I will.

And I do know The Beatles were complicated — deeply problematic in their own ways. But still, it’s hard when people claim to love them, yet seem unmoved by the deep empathy that runs through so much of their work. The “peace and love” stuff really matters to some of us. A lot. ❤️✌️

That’s one reason why I value AKOM so much. I feel my kind of Beatles spirit here — that messy, meaningful mix of art, politics, and empathy.

Anyway. Rant over.

Thanks for reading. And thanks for never shying away from difficult topics. I really and truly admire you for it. And I’m grateful.

Hello Listener,

Thank you so much for this lovely message! Your words of appreciation and encouragement mean so much to us!!!

First off, just to clarify: Ian Leslie has never been a guest on AKOM.  [anon, I saw your second ask correcting yourself on this note! :) just wanted to clarify for readers]

Secondly, we are also deeply troubled by his anti-trans rhetoric. Obviously everyone has the right to their own opinion and the right to speak their mind on topics of the day. But we are a podcast comprised of queer women, all ardent supporters/defenders of our trans friends and family. We find anti-trans rhetoric to be not just actively, demonstrably harmful to real human beings, but also just incredibly stupid on its face.

Since we’re not interested in having a 'trans debate' on AKOM, and would be incapable of pretending we are unaware of Mr Leslie’s views, we therefore have no intention of inviting him on AKOM.

That said, we have bought his book and plan to (eventually) read it. We absolutely respect the decision of fans to buy or boycott it as they see fit, and don’t wish to convince anyone either way.

All of our interactions with Mr. Leslie have been friendly and mutually respectful, and as I (Phoebe) said in an earlier episode of AKOM, I personally have enjoyed his previous writing on John and Paul. I’m pleased that the book is doing well because it is spreading the story of John and Paul to a larger audience (although of course we don't agree with all his opinions on the subject). Although we certainly don’t wish him any ill will, we DO wish that he would reconsider his anti-trans views and reconsider the effects of his (many, many) words on the subject.

All of this to say: we don’t think AKOM is the best platform for him to promote his book. Fortunately he can be heard on numerous other podcasts!

We will continue doing what we do here at AKOM (deep research and thorough discussion in attempt to uncover new angles) for as long as we can find the time and energy.

Thanks so much for your support!! P.S. we've received multiple similar asks about Leslie's new book and if we intend to have him on the show. Hopefully this response can serve as a general response to those asks as well.

[shiningamongdarkness]

A Girl and Her Doll - Chapter 01. Aunt Gemma

(Art By 5amDraws)

Gemma, a lonely and independent designer of innovative toys, suddenly finds herself taking care of her niece Esther, the daughter of her sister Tricia, who recently died in a terrible fire along with her husband and son. Esther has been through a lot; she was kidnapped in a foreign country for four years, and just when she was beginning to recover, she lost her entire family in an instant. Now, Gemma is the only one she has left, and if she doesn't agree to keep her, Esther will end up in an orphanage waiting for a family to adopt her.

                The problem is that Gemma knows nothing about taking care of children and almost nothing about Esther, not to mention the very complicated relationship she always had with her older sister. So, to help them both, Gemma creates M3GAN, the prototype of an advanced smart doll with incredible abilities, which could catapult her career and help her niece quickly overcome all her grief.

                However, Gemma doesn't know that the person who claims to be her long-lost niece is actually hiding a very dark secret. In Esther's hands, M3GAN will become a dangerous weapon; together, both will cut through anyone to get what they want.

— — — — —

Previous Notes:

In this alternate version, Tricia (Orphan: First Kill (2022)) would be Gemma's (M3GAN (2023)) older sister, in a way taking the role that Gemma's sister had in the original film. In turn, Esther/Leena (Orphan (2009) and Orphan: First Kill (2022)) would be Gemma's "niece," taking the role of Cady from the original film. This will bring significant changes to the already known story, including some adjustments to Gemma's background that will be explored as the story progresses.

                The plot begins and is set in the world and time of M3GAN (2023), assuming the events of Orphan: First Kill (2022) take place shortly before the beginning of this one. The events in Orphan: First Kill (2022)will be based on those in the original film, except for some minor adjustments that will be described as the chapters progress.

                I will add any additional notes that I feel are important to clarify at the end of their respective chapter.

                Without further ado, enjoy this interesting and hopefully fun crossover…

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A Girl and Her Doll

By WingzemonX

Chapter 01. Aunt Gemma

Gemma hated Connecticut; she'd never say it outright, but she hated it with every fiber of her being. It's no wonder she literally moved to the other side of the country as soon as the right job opportunity came along. And there is no day in which she wasn't convinced it had been the right decision.

                Although perhaps she was a little harsh with the poor Constitution State. It wasn't the culprit for all her personal and family problems that brought her close to an anxiety attack every time she had to go there. Fortunately, that didn't happen so often since her mother's death, and that made her feel happier than she could have imagined; another thing she wouldn't dare say out loud.

                But when her niece Esther, her sister's youngest daughter, returned after four years of disappearance, Gemma knew she couldn't put off for much longer a trip to visit the only family she had left... if family was the right way to describe it. Because Tricia, Allen, Gunnar, and Esther the four of them were a family. Gemma was someone alien and separate from them, who didn't fit in at all with that small, perfect circle.

                Again, maybe Gemma was being unfair. Allen had always been kind to her, after all, or at least he tried. And she hadn't gotten to know Esther well enough to learn whether she liked her or not.

                The circumstances of her niece's disappearance always seemed strange to Gemma. Esther was barely six years old then; she must be ten now. There was no ransom call or note, no demand for money, no traces of blood or signs of violence, and, of course, no body was ever found.

                Gemma was well aware that Allen was devastated back then. But Tricia, despite everything, always remained calm and collected enough to keep her family together and lead the search for her daughter herself. Gemma didn't judge her, nor was she surprised by her actions. She knew perfectly well that Tricia was the kind of person who would never allow people to see her down, tired, or out of control; anything less than perfect in her eyes. But she was also the type of person who cried in private when she thought no one was looking. In that, perhaps, the two were similar, but little else.

                When Esther disappeared, Gemma tried to be there for them, even despite her dislike of Connecticut or the cold hostility that existed between Tricia and her. But it didn't take long for her to realize that Tricia not only didn't need her, but she didn't want her there with her at all. So, with a mixture of conflicting emotions, she packed her suitcase and returned to Seattle as quickly as the airlines would allow.

                And that had been her last time in Connecticut. And in the blink of an eye, four years had passed…

                Now Esther had appeared under equally strange circumstances. The facts were unclear to Gemma, but it seemed someone had kidnapped her and taken her to a foreign country; Russia, Romania, Estonia… she wasn't sure. The news quickly went viral, and everyone was talking about it. And, of course, half of her acquaintances knew about her connection to the case, and the other half soon found out as well. So, the questions were quickly raised:

                "Have you talked to your sister yet?"

                "Is your niece okay?"

                "Do you know how they found her?"

                "Is she recovering?"

                "Have you been to see her yet?"

                "When are you going there?"

                Gemma tried her best to avoid all of these issues, especially the somewhat humiliating fact that she had to find out what had happened on the news like everyone else since Tricia hadn't bothered to tell her.

                Additionally, although she knew that she would have to go and offer her congratulations and joy to her sister and her family due to social pressure, she also knew in advance that Tricia wouldn't need or want her there again. She had raised the possibility in a couple of texts, which Tricia rarely bothered to read, much less reply to. And those responses always ended up oscillating between "no need" and "we're fine." Ultimately, the most positive message she received regarding the idea of going to see them was: "do whatever you want."

                Gemma would have been more than happy to take her at her word if it weren't for the fact that "what she wanted" was to stay in Seattle, focus on her work, and not set foot in Connecticut. She had been able to use the work excuse among her acquaintances and on herself until David Lin, her company's CEO and boss, directly questioned her about why she hadn't gone to see her sister yet.

                "You said the new PurrPetual Petz prototype is very, very important, remember?" Gemma pointed out through gritted teeth at that moment.

                "Oh yeah, so you can tell the press later that your heartless boss didn't even give you a day to go see your niece, who's been missing for four years, right?" David exclaimed ironically.

                "I wasn't going to say that at all."

                "Anyway, the case draws much attention to your family. Consequently, it's drawing attention to you. Consequently, it's drawing attention to the company. And that attention can quickly turn into bad publicity on social media. Do you understand what I'm getting at?"

                "I guess so. But I don't think it's really that way."

                "Well, before that happens, put some effort into teamwork and do your part, will you? Take two days off, fly to Connecticut, hug your niece on behalf of everyone at Funki, and give her one of our newest PurrPetual Petz models from us, and preferably have a couple of pictures taken of you doing it. And then bring your damn ass back and finally hand me that prototype you should have delivered three weeks ago, and if you had, we wouldn't even have to have this conversation. So, are we in agreement?"

                As if I had a choice to say no, Gemma thought ironically, but what came out of her mouth was:

                "Of course, boss. I'm going to put my damn ass on that plane tomorrow without fail…"

                And, unfortunately for her, she wasn't joking.

                Her plane landed the next afternoon at Westchester County Airport in New York, and from there, she had to hire a private car to take her to Darien. The trip wasn't exactly the most comfortable, but it wasn't long enough for her liking either. Not wanting to be, she quickly stood in front of the imposing Albright mansion on the outskirts of Darien, Connecticut. Ostentatious, secluded, and over-the-top; just the way Tricia liked it.

                As soon as her vehicle approached the property, she was a little surprised to see several vehicles parked in front of the house; about five, or maybe a couple more. This made her even more nervous than she already was.

                "Looks like you're just in time for the party," her driver joked as he parked the vehicle at the front door. Gemma simply smiled in response.

                A few minutes later, she was standing in front of the door, holding the handle of her rolling suitcase in her right hand, and tucked under her left arm was her gift wrapped in bright pink and white paper and a matching bow; the nicest thing they had at that airport gift shop, which luckily had just opened when she arrived.

                From her position, she could hear the murmurs of the many people inside, accompanied by music. It really seemed to be a party, one to which she wasn't directly invited.

                She took a deep breath and summoned the courage to ring the doorbell, hoping for a moment that amidst all the noise of the party or gathering, no one would hear her, and no one would open, giving her an excuse to just leave the gift at the door and leave. But, of course, that didn't happen. And not only did someone answer her call, but it was the person she least wanted to do so.

                Tricia opened the door with a radiant, friendly smile, which quickly faded as soon as her eyes fell on her and she realized who it really was.

                "Gemma," her sister muttered with a mixture of confusion and coldness. "What are you doing here?"

                Well, we're off to a good start, Gemma thought ironically.

                "I told you I'd be here today," Gemma explained, trying her best to keep her voice steady. "I texted you yesterday."

                "I didn't think you were serious," her sister said tersely, not shying away from scanning her outfit: faded jeans, sneakers, and a loose-fitting denim jacket, and a slightly worn MIT T-shirt— comfortable clothes for a long trip.

                Of course, Tricia was wearing the complete opposite. Her sister wore a light pink cocktail dress, high heels, pearl studs, and subtle makeup. In her hand, she held a tall glass of champagne or some other similarly tinged alcohol.

                So it wasn't just a party, but one with a certain etiquette in its dress.

                "I didn't know you were having guests," Gemma apologized, embarrassed.

                "Why would you know?"

                "That's true…"

                "What exactly did you come for?"

                "Well… I told you in my messages, remember? I wanted to check on you, make sure everyone was okay, and… give Esther a little gift."

                She lifted the pink box he was carrying under her arm as best she could for her to see.

                "You flew six hours from Seattle just to give Esther a little gift?" Tricia muttered skeptically.

                "It was like five and a half hours, actually. Wind in our favor," was Gemma's witty reply, or at least she thought it was.

                Her sister's stony expression didn't budge an inch. She stared silently at her for several seconds, and Gemma thought she was considering what excuse she could come up with to slam the door in her face without making herself look like the rude girl in the story. Gemma didn't know what her train of thought was in the end, but perhaps she hadn't come up with any good excuse. Instead, Tricia sighed with marked resignation and slowly stepped aside.

                "I guess you can come in," she whispered reluctantly, clearing the way for her to move forward.

                "Thanks," Gemma replied, practically forced to do so, and then entered the house dragging her suitcase behind her.

                The epicenter of that gathering was clearly in the living room to the right of the foyer, if she remembered correctly. The strongest indicator was the beautiful piano music, which drew her in like a siren's song. However, for Gemma, piano music always brought different sensations, depending on the occasion. In this case, what she felt was a little tricky to describe in words.

                As Tricia led her into the living room, Gemma wondered who was playing so splendidly. It had to be Gunnar, though she vaguely remembered he'd left piano years ago to dedicate himself more to fencing.

                There were about seven or eight people in the room, all standing around the elegant black piano, all as well-dressed as Tricia and also holding their respective glasses. But the one who immediately caught the newcomer's attention was the person sitting at the piano. It wasn't Gunnar, but a small, slender girl wearing a pretty pink party dress, with her black hair tied in two braids behind her head. She moved her fingers gracefully over the piano keys, perfectly executing the piece before her audience's astonished and jubilant eyes.

                "Esther?" Gemma thought, bewildered.

                She stood in the living room doorway, Tricia standing at her side, silently joining the rest of the audience. She didn't recognize anyone else except Allen standing by the piano with a broad, proud smile, and Gunnar sitting in one of the armchairs with a bored expression that looked ready to fall to the floor.

                Just as the piece ended and the little girl's fingers stopped playing, Allen immediately began clapping enthusiastically, and everyone else joined in, including Tricia. The little girl turned to them on the bench, acknowledging their applause with a shy little smile and a slight nod. Gemma could see her face at that moment, and...

                Her immediate thought was that she'd been mistaken, and it wasn't Esther, but another little girl, perhaps the daughter of another guest. This deduction was mainly due to the fact that, at first glance, she couldn't see anything familiar about that child's face. But when she saw Allen approaching the girl, congratulated her by saying, "Well done, my dear," and then hugged and kissed her... well, that made it even clearer.

                "When did she learn to play like that?" Gemma asked curiously.

                Tricia glanced at her sideways, a hint of disapproval radiating from her features.

                "It's in her blood, after all."

                "Gemma!" they heard Allen say with genuine enthusiasm as soon as he noticed her. He quickly approached her and gave her a gentle hug and a kiss on the cheek; his beard tickled her skin. "Tricia didn't tell me you were coming," he said.

                "Didn't I?" Tricia muttered with a false uncertainty that only Gemma could detect.

                "It was a bit sudden," Gemma apologized, trying to muster her most genuine smile.

                "Do you want a drink? Some snacks?" Allen offered immediately.

                "No, thanks. I honestly didn't know you were having guests today. If I had known, I would have worn something nicer…"

                "Nonsense, it's just a casual get-together," Tricia said, casually waving a hand in the air, which she then used to grab her arm and tug Gemma a bit roughly into the people before she could do anything to stop her. "Girls, remember my sister Gemma? She decided to join us from Seattle this afternoon to celebrate the return of our little girl."

                Gemma stood frozen in place as all those elegant and sophisticated people fixed their gazes on her, flashing their rehearsed friendly smiles and raising their glasses of expensive alcohol in greeting. Meanwhile, she was disheveled, unkempt, sweaty, tired from a long journey, and without a single ounce of makeup or perfume to hide any of those things. Tricia knew it well; she did it on purpose to humiliate her. The worst part was that neither Allen nor anyone else noticed. They only appreciated her gaze and gentle smile, listened to her pained yet sweet voice, and melted before her. That's how it had always been.

                "Esther, come here for a moment," Allen called, waving a hand. Gemma turned over her shoulder, just in time to see the little girl in the pink dress cautiously approaching them. "Do you remember your Aunt Gemma?"

                The little girl stood in front of them. She looked at her father for a moment, then turned her attention to Gemma, who was immediately overcome by a strange feeling. Amidst that childlike, innocent face, those pairs of gray eyes bulged out peculiarly, as if they didn't match the rest. Whatever that was, it softened a little when the little girl smiled broadly at her in the sweetest, most adorable way Gemma had ever seen on a child, which wasn't really saying much.

                "Hi, Aunt Gemma!" the little girl enthusiastically greeted her. "Do you remember me?"

                "Sure," she replied hesitantly, and she was partly lying.

                She hoped the feeling of strangeness she'd felt earlier would dissipate upon closer inspection, but it didn't. She still felt like she wasn't talking to the Esther she remembered, but to any other girl she'd passed on the street.

                Although it wasn't as if he'd actually spent much time with little Esther before her disappearance. The girl was born just four years before Gemma and Tricia's mother died when their relationship was already frayed. And it had been four years since the last time she saw her, too; children change a lot in four years... or don't they?

                Some believed that someone in her profession should know more about children, but that was certainly not the case.

                "You're so big," Gemma exclaimed in a festive voice, trying to recover. "I hardly recognize you."

                "Thank you," the little girl mumbled, blushing a little. She rocked her body sideways, twirling the skirt of her dress.

                "I'm so glad you're back... and that you're okay... and..."

                Gemma tried to think of something else to say, but nothing good came to mind. What were people really supposed to say in those situations?

                "Thank you, Aunt Gemma," Esther mumbled softly. "I missed my family so much. It's… lovely to be back."

                Tricia let out a small, tender moan, and placed a loving hand on her daughter's back.

                "And it's wonderful for us to have you, darling," Tricia whispered, her voice almost like she was on the verge of tears.

                Only then did Gemma realize Esther's thick accent she used when she spoke. It reminded her a bit of the foreign shareholders from Eastern Europe who sometimes came to the office. Had she spent so much time in… wherever she had been that the accent had become so attached to her?

                It was best not to overthink it. Who was she to judge that? A linguistics expert? Better to stick to what she knew was her expertise.

                "I brought you a gift," Gemma said at that moment, bending down on her knees in front of her so they were eye-to-eye, and handed her the pink box. The girl's face lit up massively when she laid eyes on it.

                "For me?"

                "What do you say?" Allen commented, leaning down a little toward his daughter's ear.

                "Thank you, Aunt Gemma," Esther muttered mechanically, as children often did when repeating something their parents taught them.

                Esther took the box and began to remove the bow and wrapping paper, with quite a bit of patience… Ten-year-old Gemma would have ripped and shredded the paper without so much consideration.

                Of course, hidden in that pretty pink wrapper was the box of one of her PurrPetuals Petz—the newest model, just as David had said, although he'd be sorry to know no one was taking pictures of it. On the front of the box was a picture of the pet, with a pink-furred and upright hairstyle, huge eyes, a tiny mouth, and tiny arms and feet.

                Esther held the box in front of her, staring at the image on the box with an expression Gemma couldn't quite decipher. She tilted her head slightly, as did the box as if trying to understand the image's shape.

                Most people thought the design was adorable, especially the kids, but Gemma always thought they were a little... ugly. Of course, that wasn't her initial design, but the one ultimately approved by marketing and manufacturing stripped down to the most basic of basics. And yet they still expected her to come up with an even more affordable and simple design than that...

                "What is it?" Esther asked curiously, looking up at her aunt.

                "It's a PurrPetual Petz," she explained. "Haven't you seen the ads? It's the hot toy these days."

                Esther frowned and looked at her, seemingly a little lost.

                "Your Aunt Gemma makes toys, remember?" Allen told his daughter, placing a hand on her shoulder.

                I design the engineering behind the toys, Gemma thought to herself, reluctant to say it out loud.

                A not-so-discreet snort of disdain from Tricia was not long in coming.

                "Gemma and her toys," she muttered before taking a small sip from her cup. "Did you know my parents spent a fortune paying for her multiple degrees in robotics at MIT?" she added, addressing her guests. "And all so she could end up building things like this."

                "Tris, please," Allen muttered.

                "Oh, I'm just kidding. It's…" Tricia looked at the box, finding it hard to hide her distaste. "Adorable…"

                Gemma clenched her fists and jaw, again resisting the urge to say or do something she didn't want to. Although, who was she kidding? Even if she didn't resist, it was unlikely she'd be able to say anything to her sister. She never managed to do that…

                "How does it work?" Esther's small voice suddenly asked, bringing her back to the present.

                "It's very simple," Gemma said, immediately taking the box and turning it over to show her the instructions on the back. "First, download the free app on your smartphone or tablet by scanning this QR code..."

                "I don't have a phone or a tablet," Esther said quickly.

                Gemma froze a little at that response. She turned to Tricia for confirmation. She shrugged and took another sip from her drink.

                "She's just a ten-year-old girl, Gemma."

                "What are you saying?" she exclaimed back, laughing a little. "Children are practically born with a device attached to them..."

                She knew her comment had been ill-advised when Tricia fixed her with a murderous, razor-sharp glare that sent a chill down her spine. Luckily, there were other people present, including Allen. That made her just smile in a friendly way instead of what she really wanted to do.

                "Of course... But we also want to be careful with what our little one is exposed to right now," she explained, placing a protective hand on Esther's back again. "Her recovery and adjustment to home will be a slow process."

                "Yeah, I get it," Gemma whispered, still a little hesitant. "Well, this is a new model," she explained to Esther. "We haven't released it yet. When the other kids at school see it, you'll be the envy of everyone."

                "I'm not going to school yet," Esther explained.

                "Are you planning on enrolling her next semester, Tricia? Or what's the plan?" asked one of the guests, a woman with long blond hair.

                "Yes, Mommy," Esther mumbled, looking at her mother, who was still holding her. "What are my plans?"

                Tricia looked down at her, looking a little lost at first, but she quickly recovered and smiled again with the same confidence as before.

                "I haven't thought about that yet," she explained eloquently. "As I said, her adjustment will be slow. For now, I don't want to be away from her for even a moment."

                She concluded her words by hugging the little girl even tighter, pressing her almost entirely against her body, perhaps more than necessary.

                Gemma watched the interaction, somewhat puzzled, especially by the glances and smiles Tricia gave Esther from time to time.

                Again, no one else noticed, but Gemma was quite experienced at reading her older sister's fake attitudes. She was lying; Gemma didn't know exactly what, but she was.

                She then noticed Esther, who was clinging to her mother, smiling at everyone else—a smile that was too similar to Tricia's, actually…