#Mount View Care Center

[merakiui]

11:11 — sugar dew sewn anew.

yandere!rook hunt x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, obsession, violence, murder/death of reader, description of blood/injuries, rook is rather morbid and creepy in this fic note - this fic is the result of a character fic poll, in which rook was the winner.

“You wear a very forlorn face when you paint, mon cher.”

You swivel on the stool, legs unfolding at the ankles, to properly peer past the easel at the man who sits in a gold-and-white satin chair, backdropped by various animal heads. They’re mounted with such care, each one organized according to where it lies on the food chain. They almost form a pyramid when you look at them from where you’re seated. From a dusky brown house mouse to a pitch-black crow, the heads range in species and size, all arranged on a vermillion wall. 

The biggest one, sitting in the very center of the display, right above your client’s head, is a chestnut-colored buck with a pair of magnificent antlers curling from its scalp. From where Rook sits, it almost looks like those horns are sprouting from his head. Contemplating the discrepancies between man and buck, you swirl your brush through a muddy cup of water and survey the rest of the aureate placards until you reach the top.

There’s a mount lacking a head. 

It was the first thing you took notice of after stepping through the halls of this quaint cabin to reach the sitting room. Although, after spending hours enclosed in cedarwood walls, it feels more like a trophy room—a place meant to showcase the spoils of every hunt rather than welcome people with disarming decorations. 

Rook crosses one leg over the other and, resting his elbows upon his knee, steeples his hands. You peer at the antlers, noting the valiant curvature, before meeting his verdant stare. A grin slowly sprawls on his lips once he realizes you’ve caught his gaze. 

“I concentrate on my source,” you explain with a shrug, still twirling the brush through the water. “Steady focus makes a steady hand…or something along those lines.”

“And yet you never smile, even when working so diligently to bring your masterpiece to completion.”

“If I viewed it as such, then I would have reason to smile.” Your contemptuous scowl slides to the canvas, where you’ve painted two dull green eyes set into a freckle-speckled face. The beginnings of a smile trace the portrait’s plush lips, withholding secrets no one will ever know. “I’ve yet to create a masterpiece. Therefore I can’t smile.”

“Oh, you’re much too critical of your art!” Unclasping his hands, Rook places one upon his chest, as if he must calm his heart after hearing your response. “I’ve studied your work, both through a screen and in person, and as your devout follower I can wholeheartedly say it is beautiful in every way, even down to the miniscule flaws other critics often spot with sharp, perceptive eyes!”

“You speak as if I lead a cult,” you admit with a sheepish chuckle. “I’m just painting the things I find interesting.”

“For a reason, I assume?”

“Usually it’s to find inspiration for what I hope will be my first masterpiece. I’d like to finally feel proud of my work.” The brush peruses the colorful selection on your palette, settling into the green you’ve mixed from yellow and blue. “It’s not that I’m unhappy. I just can’t find it in me to love what I produce.”

“But you enjoy creating, yes?”

“Of course. It’s what I’ve been doing for years. Painting allows me to understand the world and its inhabitants through my own lens.” You put brush to canvas in a series of small, significant strokes. “So when I’m painting… Well, I guess I just want to try to love the things I put on my canvases, even if it’s impossible.”

“Is that so? Then I’m beyond flattered you would ever consider using me as your most beloved muse!” He tilts his head, suddenly more animated than when he first sat down to pose for you, and adds, “I love you, too. Very much, my little artiste.”

“Are you just saying that so I’ll paint you handsomely?”

“Why, I would never say anything that would influence or persuade your process! Just as I love sweetly and solemnly, I also love monstrously and mercilessly. The primal facets of humankind are not exempt from my loving eyes. Even the most dirty and deceitful corners of this world—I love those just as fiercely. So should you choose to depict me as a fiend, I will adore your representation regardless of its harsh implications. After all, there’s beauty in tragedy.”

“And would that make life the greatest tragedy?” You hum as you add a sadistic glimmer to the eyes on the canvas. They pierce you with their unblinking stare, hollowing your soul until they reach unfathomable depths. “Or maybe it’s the ability to love with such a big heart?”

“Are you suggesting love is a tragedy? I suppose, in some sad sense, it is. Unrequited feelings, shattered hearts, lovers separated by way of death or divorce, and even the type of love that curdles like spoiled milk—oh, the misfortune! Each is a tragic tale spun from a mixture of melancholy or the intensity of hatred and all-consuming loneliness. But even so, no matter how horrendous it may seem, I hold each in my heart. They’re beautiful because they have the unique ability to shape a person into someone new—for better or for worse.” 

You lower your arm, hesitating while the excuses rise to the surface, before turning to look at him. “I’ve never known real love, Mr. Hunt, which is why I’m trying to capture it while I paint. I suspect I’ll be able to smile at my work because it will be something I’ve fallen in love with. Only then can I consider it a true masterpiece.”

“Your way of thinking is simply très bien!” He drums his fingers along his knee, humming his contemplation. “I’d love to unscrew your skull and poke through your brain. I wonder what memories have shriveled your ability to love…”

“It’s not that it’s shriveled. It’s just…” You shrug, losing your previous statement. “The words ‘I love you’ are just that—words. I have no use for meaningless sentiments. If I force myself to love, it feels wrong. I can like people and things, but loving them is too much. I can’t cross that line. If I did, I’d be a liar.” 

“Ah, so it’s like that…” Rook chuckles, but none of what you said was remotely humorous. His voice lowers to a whisper, ghostly and haunting, as if wrapping around your head and settling into the very folds of your brain. “I find it charming that you’re unable to love and I love too much. We possess many differences, and yet at the very center of it all we’re merely human beings composed of flesh and blood. It’s a beauty more stunning than the most radiant sunset!”

You pretend to have not heard him, resigning yourself to your work as you spend an absurd amount of time trying to illustrate the peculiar glaze in his eyes. They’re always so bright, but here you’ve painted them as soulless, viridescent sockets—a dark, dense forest having lost its vivid greenery with winter’s frost. But then there is not an ounce of ice within Rook’s eyes. They are always smoldering with many things: enthusiasm, intellect, new opinions just waiting to be shared regardless of whether or not you wish to hear them. It’s a genuine warmth, but something feels strange. Out of place. Much like the headless mount poised right above Rook to form the tip of the pyramid. 

Why is that mount lacking a head?

Without realizing it, you’ve abandoned your task with fixing his eyes to start on the antlers poking from a head of canary-hued hair. 

“You live up to your surname, sir.”

“Please, you’re much too formal with your fan. You need only call me Rook, should it suit your fancy.” He giggles when you pin him with a dubious glare. “Is it so wrong to label myself as such? I go to great lengths out of admiration and support of your work. Wouldn’t that, by definition, make me your fan?”

“I’m not very famous.”

“In my eyes, you are the famed sun and I am merely the moon who hopelessly pursues.” 

“Really? Well, I wasn’t aware I had an eloquent hunter for a fan.”

“Do you find my hobby eccentric?”

“No. It’s normal to enjoy all sorts of pastimes. Hunting is as much of a hobby as it is a sustainable sport. In older times, most people would hunt for the sake of survival.”

Rook nods, his gaze flicking towards the heads on the wall. You dip your brush in brown paint to add more color to the antlers. “It takes immaculate patience to be a hunter. Most hunts are not always successful.”

“Is there a reason you hunt?”

“It’s in a human’s nature to obtain the unobtainable, and I seek beauty in its most visceral forms.”

“I see…”

“Do you?” Rook crosses his legs again, but this time his posture is stiffly statuesque. “Is obsession not the most flattering form of dedication?”

“It’s not exactly how I’d go about defining dedication… But then I suppose everyone has their reasons.” You steal a peek at the headless mount. “Do these heads mean anything to you?”

“Why, of course! They are the beautiful animals I have pierced with my arrow, whether or not I intended to. Often, when you trek through the territory of beasts, you might need to release a mortally wounded animal from its suffering.”

“So a mercy kill.” Your eyes return to the painting, where you set to work adding tiny blossoms along the curved antlers. “Doesn’t that upset you?”

“So goes the cycle of life, I’m afraid. I would be a daring fool to interfere with the balance of the world.”

“Have you ever lost any of your hunts?”

Rook hums, tapping out a rhythm against the top of his hand. The pads of his fingers fall in rapid succession: tick, tick, tick, tick. “As a matter of fact, I have! Just last week, after your departure, I lost the mouse I’ve been trying to catch for years now.”

“Years? Shouldn’t you give up?”

“Not until I feel that mouse’s heart beat within my enclosed fist.” He smiles wide, flashing flawless rows of pearly whites. Under the dim lighting, they appear sharp and predatory. “I suspect I’ll get lucky tonight.”

“How can you be sure? Mice are difficult to catch with bare hands. You’ll need a trap.”

“Mon cher, you wound me! I would never make such an amateur error.” He chuckles to himself, relishing in the cruelty of a joke that doesn’t quite land. “When I set my sights on something, it’s a guarantee I will catch it, even if I must play a dreadful waiting game.”

“My apologies. I was only passing on a helpful tip.”

You pull away from the canvas to inspect the strands of white dahlias curled around the man’s antlers. Frowning, you raise your arm, intending to slash through the portrait with a streak of black paint, when it occurs to you that you need only add red. 

But before carmine, you return to nature reflected in wide greens.

“Has my dear artiste ever hunted before?”

“No, not really. I seek inspiration all the time, but I wouldn’t call that a hunt.”

“Oh? Please elaborate.”

“There are stakes in a hunt. Life and death. Danger. A battle of wits between predator and prey. Looking for inspiration is just a matter of searching and exploring. It might lead some down scary paths, but for me it’s a matter of reading more books or taking a stroll through the town. I don’t like dangerous things, so I tend to avoid them.”

“It pays to be cautious, no?”

“Right. Shouldn’t you be the same, Rook? As a hunter, don’t you worry about what might happen if you aren’t careful?”

“Of course there are worries! That comes with every profession and hobby.” He gestures to the plastic tarps plastered to the floor and walls. “You worried you’d sully my floors, and to ease such a fear I put these protective plastics up. My worries for hunting may be different, but they are worries all the same.”

“I guess that’s true… Well, what do you worry about?”

“Whether I’ll be fast enough to catch my prey when they’re unarmed and unaware.”

“O-Oh… That’s a little…”

Rook laughs a guttural laugh—a sound that comes right from the depths of his chest. “Imagine something you’ve always wanted. Picture it slipping through your fingers, just out of your reach, and now you’ve lost the chance to seize it. Is that not worth a worry or two?”

“I can’t say. I’ve never tried to chase after things I knew I wouldn’t be able to have.”

“Mon cher, you must learn to take risks. How else will you live?”

“I live perfectly fine without the need to step out of my comfort zone.”

Rook hums. “I think you’d change your tune if you found yourself in a risky situation.”

“Define risky.”

“Life and death.”

You pause, your brush poised at the pupil in his eye. “Everyone wants to survive. It’s in our nature as animals. A very basic instinct.” 

“And despite our most dedicated efforts to stall the inevitable, death catches us all—some sooner than most.”

“This is getting kinda…morbid.” 

“Haven’t you wondered,” he asks, and you don’t hear the wood creak under approaching feet, “what someone might do if they found your corpse?” 

He’s behind you. Five steps away in this cubic space. The man with antlers has crawled out of the canvas that once confined him, and he’s behind you. 

The mount on the wall lacks a head. 

The man in the chair lacks antlers. 

The creature in the portrait lacks humanity.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice a voice recorder tucked away beneath the chair. 

You swallow thickly, your heart in your throat. “I… I’m not sure. I’d hope they’d give me a proper, respectful burial if I died of natural causes.” 

And if it wasn’t natural causes? 

You don’t hear him verbalize the question, but somehow you catch it amidst the smothering silence.

“If it wasn’t natural causes…” You force a laugh, but it’s flat and misplaced just like the headless mount. “That would be murder, right?”

His shadow looms behind you, cast ominously dark over the earthly colored canvas. Slowly, so slowly, your free hand lowers to the pocket in your artist’s apron, where a dozen palette knives rest. Trembling fingers peruse the selection, locating the one with the sharpest point, and it’s the heaviest burden you’ve ever secured in your fist. You remain sitting horribly still on the stool, listening only to the frantic, slick sound of blood rushing in your ears. 

Steeling your frayed nerves, you whirl just as he descends. 

There’s a pause, a stumbled heartbeat, and then raw fear coagulates into confusion when you find him sitting primly in his chair, his verdant stare striking through you as if it’s an arrow he’s just loosed. It hits its mark, for it leaves you pinned in perplexity. 

He was behind me.

“And… And what about you?” you ask, your tongue heavy and thick in your mouth. “If someone… If I found your corpse, what would you want me to do with it?”

He was behind me. I’m sure of it.

“That wouldn’t happen.” His lips curl into a cat-like smile, and he angles his head curiously. “Normally it’s the other way around.”

You see it, then. The silver glint of a sharpened meat cleaver. It lies in his lap, where his fingers curl around the wooden handle, and all while holding eye contact he continues to smile. His teeth are refined cutlery in the light: artfully honed, yet not quite serrated, they’re tough enough to bite and tear and chew. Like a deer trapped in the hauntingly hypnotic glow of oncoming headlights, you don’t dare move. Perspiration wets your brow, slides down your back between your shoulder blades. You lick your lips. Anticipation claws through your intestines, nestling in the very pit of your stomach. Bile creeps its way up your throat like acidic fingers.

What’s happening?

“Come now, ma souris, don’t give me such a sullen face! I’ve shown you my hand. Isn’t that a miracle more beautiful than life itself?”

Your hold on the little palette knife tightens. “One person’s going to leave this room,” you say, your eyes sliding to the recording device, “and it’s not going to be me. Isn’t that right, Rook?”

“I can’t possibly say,” he affirms, dulcet and smooth like rivers of blood running ruby-red from a broken nose. His finger drums a rhythm against the flat side of the cleaver. “But I can certainly guess.”

Carefully, you rise from the stool. His eyes track you, so full of the vitality of the color green. More than that, they’re bright with bloodlust and you’ve been caught in the crosshairs of his cutting gaze. He peers at your unfinished painting and chuckles.

“Even your interpretation of me is beautiful! It’s an honor to be your fan, ma souris. Truly, I’m quite happy.”

You brandish the palette knife as if that will do anything to protect you from him. He stands from his seat, a monster adorned in gloomy garb. Like a stain against the red wall of heads, he no longer fits into the picture you once thought he did. Rather, he is blight in human form, a sinister omen housed within a skeleton encased in friendly skin. 

And he’s walking right towards you, putting one foot in front of the other, in no hurry to rush. The cleaver taps against his hip as he approaches, each bump mirroring every one of your heartbeats with startling accuracy. 

“Are… Are you unhappy with my portrayal?” you ask, not particularly interested in his reply, but desperate to keep him talking at arm’s length. 

For every step he takes, you take two backwards. 

“Not at all! In fact, I’m flattered.” Rook narrows his eyes at you, sickly entertained. “You’ve made prey out of a predator. Not many are capable of such a generous feat.” 

Your back connects with the door. Swallowing thickly, you search for the door knob. “Do you really see yourself as one? You don’t have to be one. Y-You can be neither. You’re only human.”

“Ah, but humans are the worst kind of predator.”

“What makes you say that?” Your fingers wrap around the metal door knob.

“Humans are afforded choices. We think through decisions. We make merry with our enemies and then hurt them after they’ve properly settled. We are complex in a way that differs from other animals. Predators are bound by survival, always trapped in high-stakes life or death, unable to truly make a decision that ventures beyond whether they wish to live another day or become sustenance for those who sit a rung above on the food chain. You see, we are not simple predators.” He raises the cleaver and points it at you. “As for humans, we can decide if we want to feel something when we hurt and kill. We can communicate in languages simple predators can’t use. Oh, the beauty of words!” He chuckles, elated. “To pluck a phrase from my vast lexicon: I’m going to take your life for myself, ma souris. Stow it within the depths of my very soul so that I may be the only one to treasure your rarity.”

The confession guts you quicker than his knife ever could. 

Wrenching the door open, you turn on your heel and step through, ready to break into a sprint, when heavy footfalls make their way towards you from behind. He covers the meager distance in seconds, wrapping a muscled arm around your torso and yanking you back into the room. You scream, words and sounds mixing into something incoherent, and elbow him in the ribs with as much force as you can muster. He releases you and you, fueled with panic and adrenaline, drop to your knees just as he swings, your hand closing around the palette knife you had previously lost. 

Somehow you manage to get back on your feet when he descends again, this time intentionally missing your shoulder when he brings the cleaver down. It cuts through the sliver of space between empty air and your own body, narrowly missing you by a hair. You throw yourself against the wall, entangled in a plastic tarp that comes loose from its hooks. They fall around you in noisy pitter-patters, something akin to metallic rainfall, and you hit the floor with a harsh thump.

And all the while, the mounts continue to peer at you with glass eyes.

“There’s no need to fall over yourself in a frantic haste. You’ll waste all of your energy, and even then adrenaline won’t be enough to fuel you. I’ll catch you if you aren’t careful…” He smiles at you from where he stands, green eyes cold with calculation. “Let’s take a moment to chat, shall we? I’d like to regale you with the five stages of the delightful thing known as prey drive. You’ve heard of it, haven’t you?”

“No, of course not,” you spit, vitriol lacing every syllable. Your pupils flit about the room, tracing the cleaver in his hand and then flickering towards the chair. The recording device sits in shadow, just within your reach. If you can stand up, take two steps forward, and drop down when he moves to intercept, you might be able to retrieve it. “Enlighten me since you seem so eager to run your mouth.”

Rook chuckles and enunciates his every step with a whistle. He reaches the chair in three steps and kicks the recording device out from under it. You watch it skid across the floor towards you, settling mere inches from your feet. You glance at it; it’s still recording, seconds stapled into it with every tick of your heart.

“A dog searches.” His back is turned to you, and he gazes at the mounts on the wall. You lower just enough to swipe the device from the ground. It’s not heavy in your palm; rather, it’s palm-sized and it slips into your pocket like a silent knife through butter. “And when it finds, it stalks. Have you caught the pattern yet?”

His neck is right there. All you need to do is rush up to him, grab him from behind, and drive the palette knife so far into the side of his neck that it’ll surely cause some sort of distress. Or you could turn and run. You have evidence. You have his address. You have your car. You can escape. You can drive far away from this horrifying cabin in the woods and never return. You can live. 

You can run.

“And from there…” 

So you do.

He whirls just as you dart through the door, over the threshold into the hall, and you miss the crazed twinkle reflected in wild, untamed green eyes. Rook’s laughter follows you, airy and light like a comforting breeze. He’s alive with murderous delight, and you’re nearly dead with fright. 

“Ensues the chase!” he calls out, so close in the cramped confines of the hall that his voice nearly grazes you. 

You swallow your sobs, pressing onwards with hardened resolve, and follow the length of the hall until it spits you out into another room. It’s undeniably a kitchen, what with the refrigerator and microwave pushed into a corner, but it’s furnished more like a lab. Nearly every appliance is metallic and the floors are tiled, constructed with surfaces that are perfect for washing away pesky fluids. A drain is built into the very center of the floor, sticking out like the nastiest bruise. You spy meat hooks hanging in place of where spatulas and whisks ought to be—both of which are innocent culinary tools meant to assist in food preparation rather than something killer. 

Spinning on your feet, you locate the door opposite of where you stand in the small kitchen-lab and take a momentous step towards it, hoping it leads you closer to an exit and further from your hunter, when a cold hand seizes your wrist, spidery digits curling into your skin. A shrill scream rips from the depths of your throat, surely shredding your vocal chords into bloody ribbons. You struggle, yanking your arm in vain, for his hold is impossibly strong. He tugs you towards him, his feet moving in time with the shuffling of yours. It’s a stiff stalemate of a waltz. You pull away and he pursues, his hand creeping up your arm in an attempt to pin it to the nearest surface. With another helpless shriek, you tear yourself free, staggering backwards against the metal table, which rolls further away on well-oiled wheels. Your horrified reflection blinks back at you in the shine, and with a sunken heart you realize it’s a dissection table. 

“Mon cher, I must say, you wear disarray so naturally. It’s far too forbidden for my simple eyes to behold.” 

“Why… Why are you doing this?” Your voice is thick with terror, sore from screaming, and you wipe furiously at your glossy eyes. “Please stop… You’ve had your fun. Now… Now let me go. I… I promise I won’t come back here again. Y-You can keep all of the supplies and the canvas. Just let me go…”

A secretive smile stretches slowly across his lips. “Oh, how Fortuna graces me with the benevolent opportunity to admire these special sides of yours. To be able to witness the rawness of pure horror after cornering the most dangerous animal of all…” He pricks his finger on the tip of the blade and adds in a breathy whisper, “Beauté.”

A disgusted shiver claws its way up your spine. You glare at him. “So it’s the thrill you enjoy, yeah? It doesn’t faze you that you’re going to kill an innocent person?!” 

He tilts his head. “Rather than snuffing your light, I intend to give new life to your excellence. In many ways, aren’t I also an artist?” 

“Like hell! You’re crazy!” You take a step back when he advances, moving towards you like a graceful panther stalking its prey. Your grip on the palette knife tightens. “What did I ever do to you to deserve this?” 

“Nothing, mon amour.”

“N-Nothing?”

“Absolutely nothing!” he reaffirms, rather conversationally, and the frustration-riddled tension in your body deflates all at once. 

“But… But I thought—” You shake your head, hopelessly searching for a means of convincing him otherwise in his pursuit, and say, “I thought you… You said you loved me! Can you really hurt someone you love?”

Rook hesitates, his feet shuffling to a halt, and he peers blankly at you, all emotions veiled in a stoic mask. “While it’s true that I will always cherish you in life, I must also come to love you in death. If I’m unable to accept even the rotting and decaying sides of everlasting love that most shy away from, then I’m simply undeserving of my title as a hunter. If I seek the wonders of life, it’s only fair I seek the wonders of death all the same. You understand, don’t you?”

“No! In what world would I ever understand that logic?!” You point the palette knife at him. “You don’t have to kill me. You really don’t have to…”

“I suppose, if I’m to apologize for anything, I should ask that you forgive my greedy behavior. I’m hopelessly infatuated with your work, so allow me to thank you for all that you have shown me tonight. I promise to repay your tenderness tenfold.”

He smiles, stepping aside to allow you passage through the door, and foolishly you take the bait. It’s a run through tar—something you’d only ever experience in a dream, in which outrunning a villain is an impossible task. You make it through the door and out into the hall, and from there your only goal is to mindlessly flee towards safety. Tears obscure your vision, clinging to your lashes like fragile sugar dew. 

You think you see the outline of a faraway door, but perhaps it’s just the illusion brought on by mournful tears. 

You think you’ll make it to freedom, but perhaps it’s just the animalistic desire to survive that ignites your nerves. 

You think you can escape the horrors of encroaching affection, but it slips into your hand, tight and reassuring. 

Tugged into the kitchen-lab, your back collides with Rook’s chest. His grip is bone-crushing, and you don’t hear anything he’s saying—is he humming or waxing poetry?—but you feel the warmth of spreading blood as it soaks through your shirt and stains your artist’s apron. The palette knife slips from your grasp, landing on the floor with a noisy clatter. You peer down at your abdomen, where the cleaver is snugly nestled in your stomach. 

The cleaver. 

It’s in your stomach. 

He’s stabbed you. 

The cleaver. 

It’s in your stomach. 

It doesn’t hurt. Not at first. The shock snuffs the agony. He twists it gingerly, once or twice, before he yanks it out. Sticky strings of torn flesh and blood cling to the blade, connecting it to the injury he’s inflicted. Then you feel the rush of torturous, agonizing pain, and it stings more than anything you've ever experienced before. Red-hot, thick trails of blood trickle through your fingers when you shakily place your hand upon the wound, hoping to stop the flow. Rook clicks his tongue and guides you towards the dissection table, your feet dragging bonelessly upon the floor as you’re led along. You try to fight him, but everything’s so painful, and so all you can manage is a slight shake of the shoulders. Your world spins, and your mind reels as it struggles to process the dangerous gash. 

“After the chase,” he says, lowering you onto the table despite your blubbery protests, “the dog grabs its prey in a sharp-toothed bite and then it kills.” 

“S-Stop… You…” Your fingers curl into shredded skin, and you press down with as much strength as your shuddering body can muster. Blood continues to seep through the cracks between your fingers. “You… You’ll kill me…”

“Well, that’s the point, no?” Rook pets your cheek, fondness glittering in his green eyes. 

You peer up at him through bleary eyes, reaching for his face with a trembling hand. “Please… I’m begging you… It h-hurts… Please…” A helpless sob wracks through your frail form. “Please, Rook…”

For a while—whether an eternity or merely a few seconds, it’s hard to discern—he watches you fade in and out of consciousness, your groans a haunting melody in the discomforting quiet. Eventually, his hand finds yours on the table, limp and twitching, and envelops it in a firm hold.

Blissfully ignorant to your wheezing gasps, he begins to murmur: “‘Out—out are the lights—out all. And, over each quivering form, the curtain, a funeral pall, comes down with the rush of a storm. While the angels, all pallid and wan, uprising, unveiling, affirm that the play is the tragedy, ‘Man.’” He looms over you like a ghastly shadow, lips arranged in a gleeful grin. “‘And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.’”

The time is 11:11 at night when you finally fall into Death’s frigid embrace, never to wake again. 

11:11 - the mystical time at which the universe tugs celestial cotton from its ears and listens to wishes and woes alike. it is not a promise that all wishes will be granted and all woes will be soothed at this hour.

The time is 11:11 in the morning, and sweet, twittering birdsong flutters into the trophy room through a window left ajar. 

The sun has long since risen, casting radiant beams through the thinning slices between the trees. Rook Hunt hums as he works, deft fingers perusing various cosmetics arranged on a metal tray. Eyeshadow is applied to delicate, paper-thin eyelids, each one pinned open in the permanence of preservation. Glass marbles are set into hollow sockets, colored in memory of the eyes that were once attached to a brain via optic nerves. He matches foundation to the skin tone, which works well to hide meticulous stitching and mottled flesh. He’s humming in tune with the birds, the nearby rushing stream, and the swaying foliage caught up in a wind gust, relishing in nature’s symphony. 

“You claimed you’d finally smile after you’ve learned to love,” Rook observes, petting the top of the head, feeling human hair beneath his rough, calloused palm. “And now you beam brighter than the sun outside! Perhaps it’s because of me? You’ve always been so honest with your heart. It’s a facet I most adore.”

His gaze slides towards the unfinished painting propped against the wall, where an antlered man smiles at his viewer, his green eyes filled with a mysterious forest. 

“Have you always thought me to be prey?” Rook pauses, awaiting an answer, and snatches a lipstick from the selection. “Or maybe this is an artist’s ideal vision… Perhaps it’s a fantasy you’ve wished to see or a place you’ve always wanted to visit. Escapism is most magnificent when it’s comforting.” He opens the lipstick and surveys the color with his observant greens. He inhales deeply and catches notes of the cedarwood cabin walls and the floral perfume he spritzed on his dear artiste. “Though it may not be your masterpiece, it’s one that will forever fascinate.”

Red blooms on dry lips that can no longer scream or protest. He cups a cheek stuffed with the finest wood wool, palming an area that was once bruised and broken. The grisly mark has been painted over, and now it is out of sight and, as far as the hunter is concerned, out of mind. As the saying goes, before one can broach beauty, one must suffer some degree of destruction. 

Rook steps down from the ladder and sets the tray of cosmetics on the gold-and-white satin chair. He lifts his hands, fingers forming the borders of a rectangle to frame you in his own portrait. At long last, the headless mount has its head and the pyramid of trophies is complete. There’s a crooked smile sewn into features expertly stitched to finalize beguiling taxidermy. 

With a covert grin, Rook peers through his fingers at your head situated at the very tip of a tragic triangle.

“After all, prey are the prettiest when they’re dyed scarlet.”

[joelswritingmistress]

You Scare Me, Professor: Chapter 13

Summary: The reader is taking graduate classes at a local university in the wooded upstate New York. She is drawn to her professor, Dr. Joel Miller, though she is also inherently aware that he has something dark about him that she can't quite put her finger on. As the reader's attraction grows deeper, she has to decide whether to endure the danger or run away as fast as possible.

Pairing: Professor Joel Miller x f!reader

I was exhausted and exhilarated and it wasn’t even noon. A part of me was still wondering if I would wake up and this would all be a dream.

“I know you probably did your own exploring while I was gone,” he said with playful accusation, raising his eyebrows with a smirk once we were back to the main level and fully clothed. “But if you’d like a tour, I can show you around.”

My stomach sank just a bit. I shook my head. “I wasn’t snooping.”

“It’s okay,” Dr. Miller chuckled lightly, “I told you to make yourself at home.” He looked me directly in my eyes, “How far did you get?”

“Oh, uh..” There was no way I was about to lie to him. He would have known. I could tell he was in that human lie detector mode again, feeling me out, seeing if he could actually trust me. “I saw the pool table from the kitchen so I went in there and I couldn’t help but check out your library. I actually picked up a book and I hope I placed it back in the right spot.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He cleared his throat and led me by the hand again. “There’s another pool out back.” Dr. Miller walked us toward a set of French doors that opened up from the kitchen out back, where a light snow had begun to fall, covering a dark green pool cover.

I glanced around the area, eying what appeared to be an outdoor kitchen and bar and a little pool house to the right and left, respectfully. A black fence surrounded the area and beyond a grassy backyard behind the pool area were a collection of bare trees. In the distance I could tell there was a drop off, lined with oversized boulders and rocks.

We crossed into another living room space that appeared more casual than the one where I had made out with Dr. Miller on the couch the night before. This room had an oversized sectional couch that oozed with comfort. In the center was a giant, square coffee table with a rustic, wooden top and above it hung what appeared to be a chandelier made from deer antlers. The peaked ceiling was a pale wood, giving it a cabinesque feel with dark, wooden beams that crossed from wall to wall beneath. On either side of the triangular peak were two rectangle sky lights giving view to the overcast, snowy morning. A third, stone fireplace sat at the far end with what appeared to be a buffalo’s head mounted on the wall.

Dr. Miller placed his hands on my shoulders from behind and I swallowed hard. We both stared out a pair of windows to the left and right of the fireplace that gave a view of the snowfall. I shuddered when I felt his fingers dig into the muscles of my neck and he began to massage the area.

“This is beautiful,” I spoke, taking in the brightly lit surroundings that were offset by the first snow fall of the winter.

Dr. Miller’s phone made a subtle beeping noise, three consecutive beeps to be exact, and he suddenly froze and reached into the pocket of his pants.

I could tell from the look on his face that something was up. His fingers danced along the screen for a few seconds and then he looked back up to me.

“What’s wrong?” I could see that his expression had changed.

He reached for the remote that sat on an end table beside the short end of the sectional. “Get comfortable.” Dr. Miller reached for a cozy, plaid blanket on the back of the couch and walked me around to sit down.

I raised my eyebrows , “Okay. Are you going somewhere?” I sensed that would be his next revelation and already felt disappointed. I didn’t want to be away from him. I knew that was selfish, childish even; but I didn’t care. My face might as well have gone into a full pout.

“Just for a few minutes,” Dr. Miller explained.

“Okay.” I cleared my throat and couldn’t help but pry. “What was the notification? A text?”

He shook his head. “No.”

There wasn’t another woman, right? I immediately felt jealous and it was as if he could read my mind.

“It wasn't a message from anyone,” Dr. Miller explained. He sighed and squatted before me where I sat on the couch, placing a hand on my ankle. “I have to go take care of something.”

His phone jingled again and he kept it planted face down against his thigh. My curiosity piqued even more. I felt like word vomit was about to come out of my mouth and it would leave all of my inner insecurities completely transparent.

“Does it have to do with another.. umm.. someone else? Another woman?” I stuttered the words out but I had to know. I hated myself for asking.

Dr. Miller smiled and then walked his hands up the couch cushions and planted a steamy kiss on my lips. He then pecked them chastely and remained close as he spoke.

“There are no other women.”

I swallowed hard and let out a sigh against his lips.

“And I'm going to have to demand there are no other men in your life as long as you're with me.”

My eyes snapped open and I stared back at him. He held a little smirk but his voice hardened just a bite as he spoke the words. I smiled back.

“There are no other men.”

“Good,” Dr. Miller spoke against my lips now. “As of right now, you're all mine until further notice.”

I smiled again and closed my eyes as he kissed me again, resting a hand on his bearded cheek.

“But I do have to go take care of something. It won't take long.”

“Okay,” I said. I still wanted to dig deeper into whatever business he had to tend to but I didn't. For now, I could live with whatever was going on as long as it didn't involve someone else.

Dr. Miller pushed the power button on the remote and handed it to me. “Don't go anywhere.” He winked and wandered away, making me grin.

I listened for a moment as I heard the jingle of keys and then the opening and closing of the front door. A second later I heard a robotic voice sound off stating: House alarm on.

Being alone in the oversized living room felt odd because of the unfamiliarity of it all, but I couldn't deny that I was perfectly content beneath the warm blanket as I sunk into the cushions a little deeper, laying my head back.

I can get used to this, I thought.

I began to scroll through the stations, landing on the local news and weather to get in touch with how much snow was to be expected. I knew I should have been more in tune with that sort of thing.

The five day forecast was plastered across the screen as a voice narrated from behind the camera.

“We're anticipating two to three inches of snowfall, though by rush hour the precipitation is expected to stop. If you don't have to be on the roads before five o'clock, stay home. If you are out and about, drive slow.”

I glanced out the window at the big, chunky flakes that left the ground almost completely covered. I didn't know where Dr. Miller was off to but I hoped he wasn't going far.

“And onto our next story, two local women have been found dead on the campus of Woodbridge University. One of them was a student there, and no suspects are currently in police custody. Police are urging residents to travel in groups whenever possible, and while no town-wide curfew has been set, it is crucial for students on campus to abide by the curfew set by the Woodbridge University Police.” A woman spoke directly into the camera with one of the main stone buildings on campus in the background.

“It's really scary,” a young woman spoke into a microphone. She sported a winter hat with a blue W in the center. “You just can't be too careful. We have to look out for each other.”

“I can't believe this is happening here,” another student commented.

I shook my head and shuddered, suddenly worried for Tori. It had only been one night but she was at the house alone and the news triggered a reason to reach out to her.

My eyes searched the immediate area but I quickly realized my phone was still on a charger in the bedroom. For the first time in my adult life, I hadn't even thought about my phone for hours on end.

I tossed the blanket to the side and crossed back through the house and up the windy staircase. I had the urge to open the two closed doors as I passed by but I didn't dare.

The phone sat where I had left it on the nightstand, plugged in and fully charged. I began thumbing the screen, finding our last messages from earlier in the morning.

Hey, I wrote, Just checking in because of everything that's happening with the girls in town. Please be safe! I won't be home for a few days.

I slipped the phone into the pocket of my lounge pants and smiled to myself as I glanced upon the tossed about sheets on the oversized bed. I still hadn't had time to process everything.

With a sigh I left the room and peaked in through the open office door. I could picture Dr. Miller sitting there with his glasses and a stack of papers, licking his fingers as he flipped from paper to paper.

In the back corner of the room there were a collection of small screens, each with a black and white image.

Cameras. I knew it.

I looked over my shoulder before wandering across the carpeted floor. All of the images were broadcasting the exterior of the home from every angle possible. The two interior cameras gave a few of the collection of cars inside the garage.

At least they aren't inside. Still, I didn't rule out that he might have one or two hiding out somewhere.

The view of the main gates showed what appeared to be an idling black SUV. I couldn't tell if it was him at first but Dr. Miller stood beside it, speaking with whoever was in the driver’s seat.

Who could that be? I wondered. An arm extended out the window and extended a white package of some sort to Dr. Miller, who accepted it and tucked it into the back of his pants.

An envelope. That's what it was.

I shuddered and hurried back downstairs, not at all knowing what to make of the exchange.

Secrets. I knew Dr. Miller had secrets but what were his? Fear definitely made its way into the depths of my heart and soul, but all of my other emotions teamed up and continued to push the fear down so deep that I barely felt it.

I was captivated. Enthralled. Infatuated. I was oversexed with desire and blinded by all of my feelings for him. Fear, currently, didn't hold any weight. Recognizing that in itself was scary - but I wasn't in the mood for logic, not when this amazing dark fairytale was explicitly in my lap.

With my adrenaline spiked and my longing for Dr. Miller’s return in full effect, I tiptoed my way back downstairs, tucked myself neatly beneath the blanket and waited for him patiently. Like a good girl would do.

CLICK HERE FOR NEXT CHAPTER

@untamedheart81 @suttonspuds@cesspitoflove @michilandcof @grogusmum @morallyinept @akah565 @brittmb115 @magpiepills @poodlebae @gobaaby-blog-blog @mermaidgirl30 @mandijo17

[ranchracoon]

The Perfect Plan Pt.3

Miranda is absolutely smitten for you and Eva. She waited on you night and day; bringing you water and safe food, helping you breast feed and getting up at night every time Eva cries. When she isn't dotting on her two favorite girls, she's constantly worrying. Every few seconds she checks to make sure Eva is breathing while sleeping. Every time Eva so much as sniffles Miranda immediately does testing to make sure she's not sick. However, you can't be mad, especially when you lay there and watch Miranda interact with your child.

Miranda's eyes gleam with pride and happiness, when she held Eva for the first time she didn't stop crying for hours. She has waited so long for this moment. Every time she holds Eva she treats it as if it's the last time. She holds her a little tighter, a little closer, and showers her in love. She spoils you relentlessly as an apology for her constant worrying and protectiveness. You find it equally adorable and attractive. Watching Miranda be motherly once again, being the provider and protector, gives you a warm, fuzzy feeling. For the first time in your life, you feel truly loved and safe. 

Eva grows like a weed and before long she's ready to venture into the village; it takes copious amounts of 'convincing' on your part but Miranda finally agrees. You talk with her, clutching her arm tightly as Eva waddles in front to the village, when you come within view you gasp from the shock. The homes, once falling to pieces with the rooves caved in from snow, now look sturdy and habitable. The center of the village with the maiden statue is pristine and clean, has there always been a brick road? The cemetery is well taken care of, and once the ceremonial center now holds a newly built schoolhouse. The villagers bow with respect to Miranda, but also approach her without fear, that is, until she sends warning glares in their direction. She has her daughter and her mate with her now, and no one is going to be within any amount of distance of them. Still an improvement. 

Since Heisenberg left, Miranda tasked Dimitrescu with culling his herds of failed mutants and the factory was stripped for any usable materials. The village is full of life, and happy, and Eva spends her time playing with other children while Miranda stands guard with a constant watch. Eva barely makes it home and ends up having to be carried by Miranda and laid to bed, to which she gives her a kiss and tucks her in. 

"I want another."

It's debatable who said it first, but Miranda wastes no time scooping you into her arms and carting you away to the bedroom. She barely gives you enough time to undress before she's mounted on top of you and making you unable to walk. She then ensures you do not go to bed without being properly filled. Because of this you are swollen with baby number two and three in no time. Twins. A boy named Fajr and a girl named Genevieve, both have your hair color but otherwise are spitting images of Miranda. This time Miranda allows some women from the village to assist in the birth. She's learning. 

*          *          * "I hate you!" Eva screams as she slams the door.

Miranda clutched her fists, her body trembles and threatens to mutate. She should break down this door and punish her! How dare she speak to her mother that way. Just as her hand begins to grow and waver into talons she's stopped by none other than you. Miranda growls violently, her instinct wanting to throw you aside for interfering. Yet you so gently place your hand on hers and lower it, Miranda doesn't bother and instead pushes herself away. Storming away and slamming the door to the bedroom, leaving you alone in the hallway. You look over your shoulder to see Fajr and Genevieve staring at you with wide scared eyes, but you smile lovingly and wave for them to go on. You'll speak with them later. When they scamper off, you gently knock on Eva's door. 

"Go away mama I know it's you." Eva bites on the other side.

"Eva. Please let me in." You ask quietly. 

There's a moment of silence before the door unlocks followed by the sound of a slump onto the bed. You push the door open gently and walk over to Eva who is face down on her bed sobbing violently. You sit on the edge and rub her back soothingly, eventually she calms enough to turn her face and suck in gasping breaths. 

"Do you want to tell me what this fight was about?" You ask calmly. 

"No one wants me." She chokes out. 

"Now that's not true honey-"

"It is! No one wants a female alpha, especially not the daughter of 'Mother Miranda.'" she says the title sarcastically, "I asked mom to....to turn me into an omega..and she refused! She said I should be proud of being her daughter, and an alpha. That I should just, take a mate and not wallow in self-pity."

"Oh."

Turning an alpha into an omega is far more experimental than turning a beta into an omega, it requires a consenting alpha or extremely painful chemicals. There's been no reported successes of either option fully working without horrific side effects. You also are going to have to talk to Miranda as well, she still has a lot to learn about handling sensitive matters. You coax Eva up into a sitting position and cradle her in your lap like you used to do when she was small, she instantly bundled up and hid her face into your neck. 

"You know your mother loves you unconditionally. She's a little...old school. Give it some time, go at your own pace, and no matter what path you choose, I will always be here for you."

Once temperatures lowered, Miranda came back out and also knocked on Eva's door to apologize. Eva opened the door and hugged her mother tightly, Miranda was taken aback by it at first but then wrapped her up tightly and held her closely.

*          *          *

Farj presented as alpha and found himself a wonderful mate, they moved to where the factory used to stand. Genevieve presented as omega, and it took every bit of strength to keep Miranda from slaughtering any Alpha that came to the door. Eventually she allowed a young man to pass through, and although she still threatens him every chance she gets, he treats Genevieve well. he's provided a home, steady income, and stability. Eva also found a mate, an outsider who wandered into the village accidentally. As for you and Miranda....

Now you two are empty nesters with an entire house to yourselves again. But that quickly goes away when the first pair of grandbabies arrive. 

[hxney-lemcn]

More Than Friends — Rhys (AFK Journey) x gn! reader

summary: what it's like to grow up as childhood friends with Rhys.

tw: mentions of pillagers, village being attacked, mentions of injury.

a/n: I pulled him and immediately fell for the himbo. also, tumblr is killing the image quality 😭

wc: 0.9k

Master List

❥You didn’t really have a choice in being friends with Rhys. He followed you around like a lost puppy much to your parents dismay. He was bad news, trouble always seeming to follow him. You didn’t really mind. Rhys would always show you his bird friends, trying to recite their names he gave them (he would tend to repeat the same name for multiple birds). 

❥You were the first person Rhys showed when he got his gun. He was too little to pick it up, but he dragged it over. At first you were apprehensive. I mean you had only been taught to fight with spears. Such machinery was a bit intimidating. But Rhys quickly reassured you that he’d protect you with his cool new toy…he almost shot a chicken coop getting the two of you in trouble.

❥When you both grew older, your bond grew as well. Rhys never failed to entertain you, and he’d always find himself laughing with you even if it was at his own expense. Even though he joined the Quicksand Claws, he always made time for you. Telling you tales of what glory he’d done earlier that day (when in reality someone else did it while he fed the bird mounts). 

❥Rhys wasn’t the brightest, so he never questioned why his heart speed up in your presence, why he wanted to be in your presence 24/7, why he felt bitter when others held your attention for a little too long. You were really his only friend, the other villagers steered clear of him. He couldn’t compare his relationship with you to anyone else since no one else compared. He loved it when you would compliment him, fuss over him, hell, even when you scolded him.

❥You found yourself endeared to Rhys. You weren’t sure when your care for the red haired man turned from friendly to more, but you found yourself caring for him regardless. He was sweet, albeit a bit brash, but you wouldn’t have him any other way. You found it cute when he’d come back with a gift (typically something he deemed cool enough for you), or a new tale of adventure. You found your mood lifting when his smile came into view. 

❥Everything changed the second your village was attacked. Spear in hand, you fought bravely against your adversaries, but they seemed to greatly outnumber your small village. Although maulers found themselves fighting until the bitter end, your village leader deemed it necessary for a retreat. As you tried to escape, you had found yourself in the center of the fight, unable to stop less your life would be taken.

❥You feared it would be the end of you, and although you didn’t want to die, you were glad you were able to help the children escape with the elders. Your stamina was waning, getting scathed more and more. You were at your wits end when Rhys swooped in, shooting in a circle around the two of you. He laughed maniacally as a few of the enemies dropped. Quickly, Rhys scooped you up onto his mount, continuing to shoot his gun at anyone who dared get in your way. And as you stared up at the man you grew up with, you found yourself admiring the way his scared lips lifted up as his chuckles died down. 

❥When you both met with the rest of the survivors, Rhys had made it his mission to take care of you. Cuts, bruises, and blood littered your body, exhaustion weighing down on your limbs. His carefree smile seemed a bit more strained, but he didn’t want you to feel worse than you already did. He tried to make the atmosphere more light hearted, not wanting his own dark thoughts to consume him. It scared him seeing you in such a state, seeing you fighting with your life on the line. He was grateful he managed to get to you in time, and he just had to keep reminding himself that you were okay. Still alive, still with him. 

❥Your relationship shifted after that day. You had grown closer, more affectionate. Rhys found his eyes always searching for you. Your village had been rebuilt, anything left in the rubble of your old village taken (though much wasn’t left from the pillagers). Rhys had stuck by your side, offering to carry you, or have you ride his mount around. It was quite endearing really. He fretted over every little thing, even as your bruises faded and the cuts healed. 

❥Your parents hadn’t been found yet, and the village was unsure of their status, so they had Rhys stay with you due to your wounds. You didn’t mind, you weren’t sure if you were ready to live on your own anyways. Rhys helped make the empty home feel just a bit warmer, even if you longed to see your parents once more.

❥It all led to one night as the two of you conversed over dinner. Your gaze warm as you fondly watched Rhys gestured erratically to emphasize a story of this bird he followed. The little giggles that slipped past his lips warmed your heart as he spoke so fondly of a bird he saw once. All the warmth and affection you gained throughout your years, and you couldn’t hold yourself back. Leaning over, you gently placed a quick kiss, causing Rhys to freeze, his gaze stuck on you.

❥Rhys’ grin widened, his cheeks tinted a light pink. Nothing needed to be said, you both had been the others for as long as you could remember. You were delighted as Rhys giggled, leaning over and reciprocating your previous action tenfold.

[kastlequill]

knock, knock

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader word count: 1.4k summary: when an unstoppable force meets a movable object tags: whumptober, first meetings, bank robbery, rescue, hurt/comfort, fluff if you squint, civilian!reader, miguel is a dork, no y/n warnings: none ao3: read here

Work was awful; always was, always would be. But today differed in its awfulness.

Usually, work sucked because of power-tripping bosses, incompetent coworkers, and asshole customers. As a banker, you had grown accustomed to dealing with not-so-nice folks who were eager to withdraw funds or deposit a fat check. Today, however, went to shit for an entirely new set of reasons.

A blaster dug deeper into the small of your back. “Do you know where the vault is or not, lady?”

Robbing a bank. How original.

“Yes, I—” God, what could you even say? It wasn’t as if the nutjob would see reason. “I have the code. If you ease up a bit on the gun, I can open it for you. No one has to get hurt here.”

The few silent moments of deliberation filled you with unease. There was no telling how triggerhappy this guy was, nor how impulsive.

“Don’t even think about playing any games. I’ll vaporize you faster than you can scream for help,” he snarled directly into your ear, the fabric of his ski mask brushing against skin. The press of the blaster disappeared, and you exhaled in relief. “Lead the way.”

And so you did.

You were in no position to play hero, not when he could pull the trigger in a split second, and certainly not when your pay was barely above the minimum wage. Dying for a job that didn’t even care to provide you with a livable salary would fucking suck.

Luckily, you wouldn’t have to.

As you started to direct the intruder to the back of the building, adrenaline mounting and mind racing, a blur of red and blue suddenly cut across the room. With its speed came a gust of wind that ruffled your hair and drew your full attention toward the flurry of motion. At the center of the chaos stood a man who you’d only ever seen on the news, whether as a still photo printed in the papers or as a shaky video on TV filmed by some random passerby.

Spider-Man. Easily beating the absolute shit out of the guy who had threatened you mere moments ago.

While they were both distracted, you tiptoed back to the front counter, crawled into the space between your chair and the desk setup, then pushed the emergency button that dispatched law enforcement. But you knew help wouldn’t arrive for at least another fifteen minutes.

The joys of living in Nueva York.

From where you hid, it was possible to glean a fragmented view of the fight, criminal versus vigilante. The latter threw the former around as if he were merely a ragdoll, and the sheer ease with which the hero did so reminded you of a cat pawing at a helpless mouse, wanting to have a little fun before the ultimate kill. They exchanged words as well as punches, but your hearing didn’t extend so far as to hear the specifics of their no doubt hostile, undiplomatic conversation.

Commotion raged on; pained groans accompanied by the subsequent splintering wood as the robber’s body crashed into another desk, followed by resonant thuds as unnaturally-powerful fists rained down on him. Spider-Man held little back and had no qualms delivering a violent retribution.

Not that you had any, either.

Finally, after what seemed to be an endless brawl—if such a one-sided beating could even qualify as a brawl—there was silence at last. Complete and utter silence. No heavy breathing from exertion, no agonized howls, no groveling for mercy.

Just quiet. The type of quiet that settled over a desolate city post-natural disaster, that permeated the air in a bloodied warzone post-surrender.

Until a throat cleared from somewhere above. “You in there?”

When you glanced up, the face that greeted you wasn’t by definition a face, but rather a mask. Red lines framed where eyes laid hidden, and the expression into which the markings configured told of slight concern. The outline of his hulking figure was illuminated by the flickering of a broken light, occasionally revealing to you a skeletonized spider emblem on his torso.

You found yourself wanting to absorb every little detail, every pattern and design, because you didn’t think it statistically probable that you would see him again. If the universe was feeling benevolent, then these kinds of events would happen only once in a lifetime. Prior to today, you’d not had the pleasure of crossing paths with Death, nor had you the good fortune of being in the vicinity of one of the most wanted men in the city.

A great deal had changed since this morning, however. And, to be quite frank, you were ready for the world to return to normal, eager for tomorrow to begin and end without misery or mayhem—

His knuckles rapped the counter overhead. “Knock, knock.”

What the hell. Was this guy for real? He didn’t give you the impression of being the funny type, but neither did he seem the kind of guy to participate in idle chatter.

“Who’s there?” you replied, curious yet cautious.

“A little old lady.”

“A little old lady who?”

“Bank telling and yodeling? Talk about being talented,” he remarked with a low whistle of admiration.

At the cheesy punchline, you crawled out from your hiding spot, stood, and stretched a bit to assuage the ache that had settled in your muscles as a result of crouching for too long. You dusted off your knees once much of the tension had dissipated then fixed him with an unwavering stare, raising an unimpressed brow.

“I’ve got one more for you.” Spider-Man put his hands on his waist and lifted his chin. While true that his features were obscured, you’d bet his eyes had become narrowed and intent, determined to evoke your laughter. “Knock, knock.”

Fine, I’ll bite. “Who’s there?”

“Police.”

“Police who?”

“Police hurry up, I need to take my lunch break.”

Lunch break.

You hadn’t had the chance to go on yours, too preoccupied trying to survive being held at gunpoint. Mortifyingly, this realization caused a salty wet trail to travel the length of your cheek, then another, and then a choked sob bubbled forth against your will.

The hero cursed something you couldn’t quite catch under his breath and sheepishly rubbed a hand down his masked face. Clearly, comforting crying civilians didn’t come naturally to him the way combat did. Although, in his defense, few had the energy to navigate a hysterical woman’s emotions after just starting (and finishing) a fight.

“I didn’t mean. . . The jokes are stupid, I know—”

“—no, it’s not that.” You waved off the unwarranted apology and attempted to put a lid on the accumulated stress that had decided to manifest in the form of frustrated tears. “I just realized I didn’t even get to eat lunch, is all. I always clock out at 12:30, but that asshole threw everything off with his shitty robbery attempt, so now it’s 1:07, and we’re only allowed thirty minutes, and I still haven’t had any food today besides a soggy bagel this morning, and I’m so fucking tired, and he pulled a blaster on me—”

The rant quickly devolved into hurried gasps for air, your chest heaving, your lungs not fully functional. How embarrassing to be rendered to a state of hyperventilation, especially since an infamous vigilante was around to witness your crumbling composure.

“Deep breaths,” Spider-Man murmured, pulling you by the shoulders toward him, your nose connecting with his sternum. To you, such was an act of humanity free from ulterior motives; this hug was the simple conclusion to everything that had transpired. A solace. “That’s it, just breathe when I breathe.”

Easier said than done, but you could appreciate the sentiment all the same. Some minutes later, your lungs had begun to expand and contract at a regulated pace, heeding his own rhythm.

“You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Safe. Was it safety, then, that caused this warm fuzziness to bloom in your chest?

You couldn’t recall when you’d last felt this comforted by another’s presence, when you’d last been this at peace in a world overrun with strife and conflict. There was no telling how long you stayed wrapped up in his steady embrace, your respirations synced. The very passage of time seemed to halt, the two of you frozen in this singular moment.

Only when the wailing of sirens began to draw nearer did he remove himself from you and vacate the premises, swinging from one building to the next, further and further away.

Only when he left your line of sight did you finally shut your eyes, preparing yourself to be questioned by the approaching news anchors and police officers.

fin.

[queen-scribbles]

smooth sailing

25. Smooth (pre-WotR; Trinne backstory)

This part of the house was empty now, had been for a few months. Made it a good place to come and think, or just enjoy the quiet. Trinne needed that today. Her thoughts were still a tangle over recent familial developments and if she had to hide in her sister's old rooms to process them, so be it.

She meandered through the practice room, past the sheet-shrouded harp, her fingers trailing the smooth marble-top table by the balcony doors. A breeze ruffled her hair as she opened the doors and stepped out, leaning against the railing. She'd always envied the view Simone had from here, maybe once the weirdness of her being gone had worn off, she could--

"Already plotting to steal my room?"

Trinne flinched, barking her knuckles on the rail as she spun around. "Simone?!"

Her older sister grinned, arms crossed as she leaned against the doorframe, glint of gold and amethyst on her finger. "Miss me, sprout?"

Trinne rolled her eyes. "Told you not to call me that. An' you've barely been gone two months, that's not enough time to miss you."

(Yes, it was.)

"Ow." Simone was still grinning, despite the complaint. "Maybe you missed me a little?"

"Maybe a little," Trinne said, faux-grudging and shaking out her sore knuckles as she crossed to hug her sister. "Did you have a good honeymoon? See anything cool? Most important" --she smiled winningly, arms around Simone's waist-- "did you bring me anything?"

Simone rolled her eyes and laughed. "Funny, that was Vera's chief interest, too. But she's six. Little more understandable than when you're fourteen," she teased, mussing Trinne's hair.

Trinne yelped and ducked back. "Hey, I had other questions, too! It's not the only thing I care about."

"Well, then, in order: yes, I had a good honeymoon, and I don't think you want me to elaborate further, we did see several cool things, but I'd rather tell everyone at the same time. And..." she held out a small velvet pouch that had been curled in her hand until now, "we did get you something."

"Ooo!" Trinne just managed to not snatch the pouch in her excitement, loosening the drawstring to empty the contents, a necklace, into her palm. "It's so pretty!"

The pendent was a dark bluish-grey pebble, flat and polished glass-smooth, almost twice the size of her thumbnail. A delicate silver setting had been carefully mounted on one end to connect it to the chain.

"One of the islands we visited has tidal pools around most of the coast. The ocean coming in and out but being somewhat calmed by the pools wears all the rocks extremely smooth," Simone explained. "And because of the pools, the smaller ones don't always gets washed back out. The locals make them into jewelry. I thought you'd like that, since you enjoy traveling as much as I do."

"I love it, thank you!" Trinne effused, slipping on the necklace. She rubbed the pendent between her fingers, marveling at the silky smoothness, the thready white line that crawled through the center.

"You're welcome. It's supposedly lucky, too," Simone winked. "Safe travels and smooth sailing. Guess you'll have to convince Da to take you on one of his trips to test it out."

She grinned back. "Guess I will. So, how long're you visiting?"

"Rest of the day while our ship resupplies," Simone said, teasing glint in her eyes. "Might spend the night if my little sister doesn't have designs on my bedroom."

"Hey, you can watch the Wittens' peacocks from your balcony," Trinne defended, her neck warming. You caught me.

"You can also hear them from here," Simone deadpanned. "You want to deal with that racket in the barely-tolerable hours of the morning, you can tell Mum and Da to switch our rooms. You have my blessing, sprout."

Trinne bit down the instinctive protest of the nickname and hugged her sister again. "You're the best, Sim. Now," she let go and grabbed Simone's hand to start dragging her out of the room. "I wanna hear about where you went and what you saw, let's get everyone together!"

Once the family was gather, Trinne sat and listened with rapt attention to the recounting of everywhere Simone and her husband had gotten to see, fingers rubbing her new necklace as she hoped she'd get to do the same someday.

[mordenheim]

“It’s been a long time”

Onion sighed as she looked around her mostly empty room. Moving in had been a real pain in the tail and the brown-furred bunny yawned and stretched as she set the box she had been carrying on a small, low table. She flopped back on the old beige couch that her mom had given her. “Just until you can get something better,” she had said.

Onion chuckled a little and sighed as she popped open the tape sealing the box, expecting it to be her dishes. Instead, she was greeted with a box of random junk that had been stored in the top of her bedroom closet. A few of her old track and field trophies some weird little keepsakes, her memory box, a hideous baseball cap that her dad had bought for her when they had driven Route 66 when she was a teen, and a black case.

She tilted her head at the case, looking at it curiously. She didn't remember having anything like that. She set it on the table, carefully popping the four buckle style fasteners that held it closed. She lifted the lid, wrinkling her little pink nose at the musty odor only to be greeted by an old Polaroid instant camera. She stared at it a moment, shaking her head. If this thing actually worked, it might be worth a little money.

Pulling her phone out of her pocket, she immediately texted her mother, fuzzy fingers flying over the touch screen. She asked her mom about the camera and she said she didn't know anything about it, it must have been either her father's or one of her brother's, but since they didn't seem to care about it, she was welcome to do what she wanted.

“Nice! Score!”

She poked around in the case a bit more, turning up three unopened packages of film and a flash bar. She looked at them thoughtfully for a moment. All of it was worth money, but she had to know if the camera actually worked or not. Wincing at the thought of losing some of the money, she ripped open a pack of the film and popped open the front of the camera.

As soon as the loading door closed, the camera whirred loudly to life, spitting out the protective sheer that covered the first unexposed photo. She giggled a little and murmured to herself. “Progress goes vrrrrrrr...”

She picked up the camera and looked through the viewfinder. I was really nothing more than a tiny telescope with lenses in it marked with the outline of a photo and a little cross hair in the center. She looked through her room and snapped a picture of the empty wall across from her, the dark doorway off to one side.

The camera whirred again, spitting out the now exposed photo. It was almost pure white, but slowly darkened to show the photo itself. She nibbled at her bottom lip with her largish buck teeth as she saw what came into view, though.

Instead of a blank wall, she saw a low bookshelf against the wall and several of what seemed to be family photos mounted on the wall. A family of mice to be specific. She shook the photo a little, trying to speed up its development as her ears wilted a little at this weird moment.

She looked down at the camera again. Tossing the photo on the table in front of her, she took another picture of the far wall. This time her hands were sweating as she waited impatiently for the photo to develop. It nearly shot out of her grasp as she was shaking it so hard, trying to speed up the process.

This time the bookcase was knocked to the floor. Several of the pictures were missing and the few that were there were crooked. Black and yellow police tape were angled across the darkened doorway and something deep red, almost a maroon color was splattered over the white paint.

Her hands started to tremble as she looked down at the camera again. What in the world was going on here, she thought to herself. She reached towards the camera again, lifting it to take another photo. Another loud click and whirr and the photo dangled from the front of the camera again.

After it developed, this time the wall and room were bare and clean. It just looked like a normal photo of the far side of the room except. Claws. Long, slender clawed fingers were curled around one side of the darkened door frame and into the light.

The camera slipped through her fingers and clattered to the floor. She tossed the photo aside as if it might bite her and got up to go to the restroom. She splashed some cool water on her face from the sink, looking at herself in the mirror. This had to either be a dream or some kind of prank. Yeah, likely a prank from one of her brothers, that was all.

Marching back into the living room, she flopped on the couch again, picking up the camera from the floor. It hadn't even cracked from the fall.

“They sure don't make stuff like this anymore...”

Looking through the viewfinder again, she lined up the shot squarely at the doorway this time, pressing the bright red button on the front and listening to the familiar loud whir. She jumped, startled for a second as she thought she had seen something move in the doorway.

As the photo developed, she saw it. Some kind of huge, gangling wolf was crawling in from the darkened doorway. It's long, bony limbs could have easily reached halfway across the room as it clawed its way out of the darkness.

Her breath was coming fast now. She stared down at the camera in her hands. She really wanted to get rid of it now, just throw it away and forget she had ever found the damned thing, but she almost couldn't stop herself. She slowly lifted the camera in front of her face again, peering through the viewfinder.

The huge creature stared back at her, halfway out of the doorway. It lunged for her as she pushed the button and the camera clattered to the floor again.

The room was empty, and once the camera ejected this final photo it was silent. All that could be seen was the blur of some dark, bony hand latched tight around the wrist of a brown-furred arm.

[flowerwiththemachinegun]

Misconduct Chapter 2

2.6k For now this chapter is just needed information. The meeting between Tseng and Genesis. Over the next week I'll be adding a couple of other chapters.

“You’re late.”

It appears as though Genesis is already grating at Tseng’s nerves. The expression crossing Tseng’s features made it known he was far less than pleased by Genesis’ punctuality. Well lack thereof. The way Genesis sauntered in the room as though he had not a concern in the world. Sipping on a bottle of Banora White juice, truly not a care in the world. His eyes scanned across the room before meeting Tseng’s gaze. “At the very least, Tseng, you could have pulled a seat up for me.”

“I expect everyone who works under me to be punctual. There are no exceptions. Especially those I’m doing a favor for.” Tseng’s voice calm, and emphasized the ‘favor’ portion of his statement. He didn’t expect working with Genesis to be easy. Tseng knows, fully, how difficult working with Genesis could be. There wasn’t much of a choice after Rufus stated outright, he only wanted Tseng indirectly working on this assignment from here on out. It was impossible to take him away from this mission with the amount of information he’s gathered over the years. Rufus merely thought Tseng’s skills could be used in a more efficient manner, or so he claimed.

Wheeling one of the chairs from the desk in the center of the office, setting it in front of Tseng’s desk. As Genesis took his seat, setting his drink on the desk now before him, crossing his legs and leaning back in his seat as he regarded Tseng. “It was five minutes. Is there no grace period around here?”

Tseng genuinely struggled to prevent himself from rolling his eyes. Having his own rather rowdy crew to deal with, now the addition of Genesis. They had no choice but to rely on someone else, the other Turks failing to cover nearly the amount of ground in which Tseng was able to. Not even coming close, something Tseng couldn’t quite comprehend. In parallel it was completely reasonable, it took a special kind of skill to get close to their target. “There’s no such thing as a grace period in our line of work. If you’re not early, you are late. Even a few seconds can determine if you will succeed or fail.” A small smirk gracing Tseng’s face, “I don’t think I need to go into too much detail. You’ll hear all of this during your safety training.”

The smugness in Genesis’ features faltered for a moment, the jab at, what he felt like, was his pride immediately sparking irritation within him. “What role do you want me to play in your childish schemes? It looks like a desperate move to have an outsider do your work.” Genesis’ mind was filled with questions regarding why he had to pair up with the Turks. They’ve reached out to SOLDIER before for assistance on plenty of missions, but nothing long term.

Pulling out a rather large binder, setting it down before Genesis. “There’s a lot, so try to follow along the best you can.” Standing up, Tseng walks over to the wall mounted monitor behind his desk. Powering it on, the screen illuminates with a blue hue before transitioning to a powerpoint like screen, various charts appear spread about, “This is a quick overview of the sudden spike in crime through sectors one through three. Mostly violence and drug related crimes. Both seem to be going hand and hand as most of the perpetrators that have been brought in display similar symptoms that are causing them to lash out. After questioning many of them we found out they appear to be coming from a similar source, though we are positive there is a far larger source.” Using the remote to bring a new slide into view, a series of buildings. By the appearance of the storefront it was a small franchise, specializing in herbal remedies. A map, in the bottom left corner of the monitor, pinpointing the locations of each store. Noting that they franchise started with a store in sector three nearly five years ago. With two more locations opening up earlier in the year.

Putting two and two together, Genesis pieces together the correlation of the conversation at hand and the images of the businesses “Not to criticize your, oh so wonderfully structured government, but a ‘herbal supply’ does sound a bit obvious. So is it that surprising?” Genesis couldn’t resist his urge to comment, the very concept throwing red flags. Images of the inside of the store showed a very clean and organized environment, products placed neatly in glass cases on the side of each wall with a few shelves in the middle of the floor. Not a very large place at all, each store having a similar layout to another. “The decorations kind of scream ‘drugs’ may I add.”

Tseng could do without the interruptions but he couldn’t deny that Genesis was right. For the past half year they’ve taken to regularly sending in health inspectors which require testing of the product being sold. Unless the inspectors were in on whatever plans this franchise had, Tseng would assume they were innocent. However, that couldn’t be the case. “It is just a front, a way for them to do business discreetly. So far we don’t have any physical proof that these stores are truly attached to the spike in crime, they do a good job at keeping it all under wraps. We do, however, have a crack in their foundation. Not a very large one, but if you can get through to them, you might have a solid lead.”

As the slide transitioned Genesis couldn’t help the coy smile playing on his lips as he examined the image of you on the screen. A cheeky mugshot, smiling proudly as if you just won the jackpot. “This must be our little criminal. That is certainly a shame,” his eyes following along the screen, taking note of your preexisting criminal record. Scanning over the portion highlighting your record. “Violent little thing.” Noting the numerous assault related offenses. Another charge for distributing illegal substances along with weapon violations. “Certainly not an upstanding citizen of Midgar. You didn’t think to lock them away by now?”

“(y/n) (l/n). They have a way with Shinra’s legal system. Though, we keep rather close tabs on them due to her past affiliations in the slums, namely, Don Corneo.” Tseng, motioning to the binder that was set in front of Genesis. “Everything you need to know about their past is heavily documented. You need to be well informed with who you will be dealing with, so I suggest you do a bit of studying. They have a tendency to be incredibly elusive and have a persuasive way of talking or guiding people that are investigating them to redirect their attention elsewhere. Their mannerisms are also documented, you need to know exactly what to look for when you two speak. More than likely will resort to being deceitful within seconds, very guarded.”

“You know Tseng, if you’re already so knowledgeable on this case,” Genesis states matter of factly, pausing a moment before saying what’s on his mind. He’s certain none of the other Turks would be efficient enough to document so much detail about anyone or anything, “Why aren’t you covering it if you’re already so deeply acquainted?”

A question that makes Tseng visibly bristle, his body tensing at the intrusive question, otherwise giving away no indication that he was bothered. “I’m needed for more important tasks, I will still be working on this case. Albeit it’s from a distance, I’ll be your assistance. This task cannot be done by you alone. It will take a team effort. Though we could have tried resorting to our other Turks, they’re familiar with them and won’t cooperate. Someone else needs to get as close to them as I did. While not a perfect fit, you should do.”

While a little outdated, the information displayed had your last known address and pictures of the outside of the residence. Every entrance and window was detailed, down to how they opened. Images of your daily driver and the numerous license plates you were caught using appearing under the photo of your car. A mild look of surprise crossing Genesis’ features, his voice mirroring his disbelief. “I see this car every other morning. If they don’t live near me, they certainly frequent the area a lot.”

“Are you certain it’s the same car?”

“Drives like a total asshole? Unbearably loud motor, smells like it gives off more pollution than the reactors? Will nearly kill anyone just to be stuck at the red light with us?”

“Sounds about right.” Tseng can’t help the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. You were always a rowdy one, it didn’t matter what you were doing. Your fiery personality displays in every action you perform. “Next time you see this car, I want you to trail it. Keep a healthy distance, you have to remain undetectable. They will catch on pretty fast, if your presence is detected. If they opt to evade, you let it happen. You’ll be a new face to them, and that should instill a level of paranoia within their mind. That’s not what we want, not yet anyways.” Tseng knows all too well how you operate, this is why he makes this request. “They don’t frequent the same location regularly, always on a randomized schedule. Just a tactic used to throw anyone off. They have a typical day to day routine, each activity will swap times each day. I want you to find out if they’ve added anything new to their routine.”

Genesis can’t help the frown taking place on his face. Following you wouldn’t be a problem. Using his personal vehicle for work was a problem, especially putting one of his prized possessions at risk. Being a man of finer taste Genesis went out of his way to make sure his car was one of a kind. “Do I get a company car for this?”

Tseng truly didn’t want to entertain this question, yet he had to make it clear to Genesis that any order was to be fulfilled. No matter the circumstance, “You could be riding a bicycle and I fully expect you to pursue them. I will supply you with anything I see fit.” In short, it wasn’t a no. There wasn’t a need to change vehicles just yet. “Even seeing a new vehicle in their usual commute has caused them to change routes in the past. If you tip them off, we’ll discuss it.”

As Genesis flips through the binder of information, it seems like all of the information on you has been very well documented. The data goes as deep as your childhood. All of your previous addresses logged into a list, the numerous places they could find you in the slums, all of your associates and family members. The pages highlighting your time in Wall Market were the lengthiest. Starting out your path of self destruction with that area at fifteen. It was almost odd to Genesis how Shinra felt the need to monitor you so closely rather than arresting you and charging you properly for everything you’ve done. Maybe an inside source, thinking back to Tseng’s comment on how you ‘have a way with Shinra’s legal system.’

Allowing Genesis time to skim over your file. Tseng watches his face go through a small flurry of emotions. Mostly Genesis raising an eyebrow here and there, nodding his head and giving a disapproving grunt as he continued reading more about you.

It made sense to Genesis now, dealing with you truly was the punishment. While in his eyes he immediately saw a criminal that probably didn’t have a thought in their head, you were almost an expert when it came to organized crime. For the last two years it seems you haven’t been up to any trouble, nothing more than boring day to day data taken down. Your current employment at “Gaia's Elixir” herbal supply being one of the first jobs listed since your teenage years, starting around the same date the location in sector two opened. It makes sense to assume you were tied into these strange occurrences with the occupants of Midgar and the timing of your presence at your, for lack of better words, job. Your past heavily inclining you would continue your previous actions. Finally asking the question Genesis dreaded the most, uttering out in a resigned tone as he leaned back into his seat. “What do you need me to do?”

Tseng, reclaiming his seat across from Genesis, using one of the arm rests to prop his chin in his hand while giving a thoughtful look before straightening his posture. “I think it would be best to befriend them first. They’re more willing to do so if the person they would be acquainted with can do something for them. Your high rank within Shinra for example, something that could be taken advantage of. In theory you could help them get away with plenty of unlawful acts. I suggest meeting them in as casual of a way as possible. Outlined in the pages regarding their general affairs, you’ll find bars, restaurants, parks etcetera that I’ve known them to frequent. Time yourself accordingly and it can go in your favor. That’s your main objective for now. Next we’ll focus on pinning whatever charges we can gather on them so we can bring them in for questioning. Any other questions?”

He nearly wanted to mention the Turks usual interrogation tactics. Fully aware of how underhanded they could be about most of the cases they handle. Perhaps if the circumstances were different they would have brought you in and forced any information out of you. ‘Can’t take the same approach every time,’ Genesis thought to himself, unable to conjure up any questions to ask. Considering anything he would want to know seems to be right before him. “And when do I start?”

“Right now.” Pulling a PHS from his pocket, handing it over to Genesis as Tseng provides the final details, “This is to stay with you at all times. I’ll be tracking your location and will get notified whenever you begin moving. This is also your only way to contact me, the number is already saved. You’re also required to answer at all times. What you’re doing doesn’t matter. You are free to go now. Remember, the moment you see their car-”

“Follow them, I got it.” Genesis didn’t like hearing that in the slightest, his tone making it clear. To constantly be watched by Tseng couldn’t possibly be a good thing. His micromanaging ways would quickly wear down on Genesis nerves, almost positive Tseng would pay him random visits while working alongside him. The when and where Tseng would pop up was on Genesis’ mind. Pocketing the PHS as he got up from his seat, picking up the binder while making a mental note to keep it somewhere secure. To Tseng’s displeasure leaving the seat Genesis moved from its usual home left out of place.

Before Genesis could reach the door, Tseng’s voice rang out, “By the way, I’ll send over a copy of your safety training schedule. Luckily for you, it’s three days out of the week.” Watching as Genesis walked out of the door without a word. Tseng couldn’t help but sigh, envisioning how this mission would be carried out. His hopes weren’t high, but he knew as long as he worked with Genesis it had the potential to be completed.

******

sidenote:Adding Tseng in last minute caused this story to change drastically, but I think it was for the better. Wanted to give more of an update but I'll be adding a couple of more chapters throughout the week. Also mid way through (I don't know why) started typing this out as though reader was female. If i missed any pronouns I didn't make gn please let me know. Though I called myself combing through it numerous times.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Christina Buttons

Published: Apr 7, 2023

Why do progressives and gender activists fervently believe that “transgender” women are literally women? Why do they believe in the existence of “transgender children” that must be medically transitioned to avoid going through the “wrong puberty”? Why is “gender identity” taking precedence over biological sex in legislation like Title IX? How can they confidently assert that “the science” is on their side?

The answer to all of these questions is due to the belief that being transgender is an innate biological property of human beings. The notion that “gender identity” is brain-based and innate has captured the political left. This is due to a collection of brain studies that purport to show that people who identify as transgender have brain structures that are more similar to the sex with which they “identify” than to their actual sex. Widespread media coverage of these studies lauds them as “proof” that transgender people “are who they say they are.”

Progressive media outlets have glommed onto this narrative and published dozens of articles asserting that “transgender people are born that way” and that “science proves trans people aren’t making it up.” Mainstream media like CNN, the New York Times, Newsweek, the Telegraph and scientific sources like Nature, National Geographic, the Cleveland Clinic and Scientific American have also repeated this misinformation.

To make matters worse, the “brain sex” conjecture is baked into clinical guidelines for medical transition and legislation for employment, healthcare, and education. 

The transgender “brain sex” argument is a load-bearing pillar supporting the belief that people are born transgender and should therefore medically transition as early as possible. Several female detransitioners who were medically transitioned as minors have even discussed how their doctors wrongly informed them that they possessed "a male brain in a female body." This claim is so absurd you’d wonder how the average person, let alone a medical doctor, would believe it.

One major player responsible for perpetuating this myth is Dr. Joshua Safer, an endocrinologist and the executive director of the Mount Sinai Center for Transgender Medicine and Surgery in New York City. Safer is a leading advocate of  "gender affirming care" and believes that "gender identity" is biologically determined. A review article he published on the topic relies heavily on brain studies and disorders of sexual development (which are often used to argue that the sex binary should be represented as a spectrum).

 A 2016 interview with WBUR gives insights into how the “brain sex” theory shifted Safer’s perspective of the transgender experience from a mental health issue to a medical one.

"Up until a decade or so ago, the view among many providers was that this was probably a mental disorder and the fear was that doing hormone therapy or doing surgery might be abetting a mental disorder and the correct intervention would be to counsel people," Safer said. 

But Safer's research traces the increasing evidence that gender identity is rooted in biology, "which makes it so logical that an option for people in 2016 is to change the external appearance to meet that gender identity," he said. 

Why does it matter? Because Dr. Safer is currently the co-chair of the World Professional Association for Transgender Health (WPATH) and has been involved with the organization for many years, including serving as the first president of USPATH, the United States affiliate of WPATH. Most importantly, he co-authored two sets of clinical guidelines for the medical care of transgender patients: the WPATH's Standards of Care and the Endocrine Society guidelines. These guidelines are considered the gold standard in gender medicine and are used by gender clinics worldwide.

Dr. Safer has testified in numerous legal cases related to "transgender rights," providing expert testimony on the purportedly scientific aspects of “gender identity,” particularly as it relates to "brain sex." He appeared on a panel with comedian Jon Stewart last year and has discussed the concept of "brain sex" in various media outlets, including the New York Times and a PBS documentary.

The assumption that being transgender is an innate property that can be detected by brain scans is central to all of the problems we see today surrounding transgender issues. It is therefore crucial to be aware of and challenge the transgender “brain sex” argument whenever it arises.

The “brain sex” argument

The “brain sex” argument claims that transgender people have regions in the brain that structurally resemble that of the opposite sex. This assertion is based on a number of studies conducted in recent years on people who identify as transgender to gain insight into the potential biological basis of their condition. Some studies have even purported to show that the brain structure of transgender individuals more closely resembles the sex they “identify” as than their natal sex.

The "brain sex" argument is based on the idea that there are differences in brain structure and function between males and females that are influenced by hormones and genetic factors. Advocates of this argument argue that these differences can also be seen in the brains of transgender individuals and that these differences may contribute to the development of a “gender identity” that is different from their natal sex. They believe that a biological male who identifies as a woman has brain structures that more closely resemble that of typical females, and vice versa.

Here’s why it's wrong 

The majority of the studies on the “transgender brain” have a fatal flaw: they didn’t control for confounding variables like cross-sex hormone use and, most importantly, sexual orientation. When a study doesn't control for confounding variables, it means that the researchers did not take into account other factors that could have affected the results of the study, which make it difficult or impossible to determine whether the relationship between the two variables being studied is truly causal or a byproduct of other unrelated factors.

Cross-sex hormone use can have effects on the brain, including changes in brain structure and function. But more importantly, many trans-identifying individuals are same-sex attracted, so the research on the “transgender brain” claiming to find structural regions that resemble the opposite sex are essentially rediscovering findings on the “gay brain” and reinterpreting the results to fit their preferred conclusion. 

In the early nineties, neuroscientist and author Simon LeVay made the breakthrough discovery that the brains of homosexuals had structural differences that resembled that of straight members of the opposite sex. So it seems that while undertaking the hunt for the “transgender brain,” researchers have forgotten all about the discoveries made about the brains of same-sex attracted people. 

The first “brain sex” study that did take into account the participants' sexual orientation found that the brains of transgender individuals were similar to those of people of the same birth sex rather than the opposite sex.

When researchers scan the brains of heterosexual people who identify as transgender, they also find they are typical for their natal sex. Samuel Stagg, a U.K.-based Ph.D. student of neuroimmunology, explains: “The homosexual sub-group show brains skewed along the male-female dimension. However, this is predominantly due to their co-occurring homosexuality. When we scan the brains of the heterosexual type, we find they are more typical for their natal sex.” 

“Gender identity” not gender dysphoria

Gender dysphoria, like other psychiatric conditions, may have some biological underpinnings. There are traits like neuroticism that can predispose people to psychiatric conditions and research suggests that neuroticism has a strong biological basis with both genetic and environmental factors contributing to its development. 

But gender activists are not concerned with gender dysphoria, rather they aim to establish a biological basis for being transgender that ceases to categorize it as a mental illness. Activists have pushed for a more “inclusive” definition of what it means to be transgender that seeks to reduce stigma and perceived barriers to medical transition services.

After the legalization of same-sex marriage in 2015, civil rights and gay rights organizations that may have otherwise had to shutter their doors pivoted to championing “trans rights.” The success of the "born this way" campaign in promoting the idea that sexual orientation is an innate, immutable aspect of identity has prompted activists to also present being transgender as innate and immutable.

Manhattan Institute fellow Leor Sapir wrote his Ph.D. dissertation on the rapid proliferation of the “transgender rights movement” and its efforts to obtain civil rights jurisprudence for “gender identity.” To this end, they have attempted to prove that “gender identity” is an innate, immutable trait called “neurological sex” or “brain sex,” which they say should override natal sex.

“In the American civil rights tradition, if you can convince a judge that being transgender is like being black, then you can tap into this entire body of judicial precedent and civil rights laws that immediately applies and gives you all the policies you want,” Sapir told me. Leor Sapir has written a number of important articles on this topic for City Journal, be sure to read them for further understanding.

More context: the trans community is divided

Interestingly, on the surface the transgender community presents as a unified front, but in reality it is divided into opposing philosophical factions: those propelled by civil rights organizations who seek to prove that being transgender is an “innate, immutable trait” for political and legal reasons, and the queer theorists who question the basis of scientific authority. 

Last December, a transgender rights organization announced they were publishing a “groundbreaking article” that claims “being trans is a biological condition.” But after hundreds of critical comments from transgender people claiming that the search to find a biological basis for being transgender could be exploited, citing “eugenics” as a top concern, the organization spiked the article and issued an apology.

A self-described queer theorist named Eirnin who had early access to the article said it was not peer-reviewed nor written by an expert in the field but was merely a short letter that combined several theories of “brain sex” based on “debunked science.”

Another key point 

If “gender identity” were solely biologically ingrained, it would conflict with the fact that gender dysphoria has been observed to resolve spontaneously or through psychotherapy at various ages. As we know from the growing population of detransitioners and a large body of research on desistance in children, transgender identities are not necessarily fixed. Currently, there is no brain, blood, or other objective test that distinguishes a trans-identified from a non-trans identified person.

Group project

This article is intentionally simplified to convey the main points effectively. It is my hope that it will assist individuals in countering the transgender "brain sex" argument when they encounter it. However, I am collaborating with neuroscientist Sammy Stagg on a group project to publish a paper that highlights the methodological flaws present in current "brain sex" research in a more comprehensive way.

==

But wait, we were told that "gender is a social construct," and that "gender is fluid" and "separate from biology." God is real but undetectable, good but mysterious, all-loving but tortures for eternity.

If even they can't make up their minds, how is anyone else supposed to accept their claims?

"People should be able to be trans just because they want to be, regardless of whether they 'biologically' are."

It should come as no surprise that well known anti-gay hate preacher, homophobe and child mutilation enthusiast Colin "Katy" Montgomerie is opposed to anything that would constrain the assertions and demands of the fantasists to objective reality.

Reminder again, the activists removed gender dysphoria from the definition so they could use the term for queer theory activism.

https://www.hrc.org/resources/glossary-of-terms

Transgender | An umbrella term for people whose gender identity and/or expression is different from cultural expectations based on the sex they were assigned at birth.

https://www.stonewall.org.uk/list-lgbtq-terms

Trans | An umbrella term to describe people whose gender is not the same as, or does not sit comfortably with, the sex they were assigned at birth.

I don't know what else I can do to demonstrate this is ideological and political, aimed at reordering society around the principles of Queer Theory, and not about helping people whose quality of life is impacted by a disorder. Especially since they've already been erased.

[modernmisadventures]

Chapter 12: Do You Wanna Build a PC?

The apartment building stretched intimidatingly into the sky before Jess, as she stared at its glass-paneled walls in awe. Even idling in the upper parts of town felt… well, wrong, given her status as a lowly bartender, dressed in a simple tank top and jeans as she was. 

Figuring she’d hesitated long enough, she pushed through the revolving doors, eyes widening at what greeted her inside. A massive, open lobby, a fountain decorating the center with what felt like entirely too many guards standing around - primarily Au Ra men, dressed in suits with dark sunglasses blocking their eyes. Had she entered an apartment building, or a bank? 

“Excuse me?” A call echoed through the otherwise-empty room; a Midlander man stared expectantly at the out-of-place woman from his seat behind a desk. “Do you have business at Takechi Towers?”

“I, um- Yes!” Jess fought the urge to turn tail and run, quickly fishing her tomephone out of her pocket against her better judgment and pulling up her messages. “I’m here to see a Varrus Varlineau, Apartment 12A?” 

The receptionist seemed satisfied with that answer, giving a nod to one of the guards beside the elevator, before motioning the Highlander over. 

“Have a good day, miss.”

With that, she was ushered onto the elevator, where yet another Au Ra awaited, wordlessly pressing the button for floor 12. 

The ride was… well, unbelievably awkward, to say the least, Jess doing her best not to stare at the man as he looked unflinchingly straight ahead. Part of her wondered if she was about to step off the elevator into a kidnapping plot… And, for as little as she knew of Cirdan… It didn’t seem implausible. 

Which did little to explain why a goofy, seemingly-kind-hearted man like Varrus would associate with him. 

They arrived after what felt like an eternity, the elevator operator uttering not a single word, leaving the woman to step off on her own. There were only two doors on the floor: one labeled 12A and another ‘roof access.’ Her steps echoed unsettlingly as she strode down the short, tiled hallway to the solid metal door, noting the several deadbolts visible from her side. 

Deadbolts? Were they so necessary, with all the security even preventing her from getting up to the top floor in the first place? Just what kind of apartment complex was this?

Glancing back over her shoulder, she found the elevator gone, and her chances of escape along with. And so, fighting her nervousness, she reached up and tapped the knocker against the steel, a ting ting ting breaking the silence of the building. She didn’t even hear the footsteps from inside; had she not heard the deadbolts sliding, she’d have thought that perhaps she got the wrong day, or time, that no one was home… 

Instead, the door swung open, revealing the smiling face of a familiar Elezen, instantly calming her nerves - until she remembered he was still a complete stranger to her. One whose super-secured apartment she was about to enter.

“Glad you made it,” he greeted, opening the door wide, his invitation clear. And what she saw as she stepped inside sent her jaw dropping to the floor. A wall of windows lined one side of the open living area, affording a view over all of Carteneau and the flats beyond illuminating the kitchen - a kitchen she could only ever dream of, with professional, state-of-the-art cooking equipment, a full gas stove, two built-in ovens and a fridge larger than her bed. And the living room in between boasted the largest TV she’d ever seen, mounted into the wall, with two plush leather couches and… not much else.

Decorating was, as far as Jess could tell, not the men’s strong suit. 

A spiral staircase sat off to one side, leading to a balcony above, and a host of doors she assumed must have been some manner of bedroom, with a second set of doors on the base floor below. The floor itself was a grey hardwood throughout, the walls pristine white. Clean… Almost too clean. 

Not that she cared, in that moment; she unabashedly hurried past Varrus, leaning on the windowsill and practically pressing her face up against the glass. 

“Varrus!” she gasped, her wondrous expression reflecting in the crystal-clear windows. “This is amazing!” 

“Not bad, huh?” he chuckled; she heard him setting the handful of locks before striding towards her. 

“Not bad?!” She shot him a glance over her shoulder. “Varrus, I live in a basement. This is heaven!” 

She turned to see him smiling at her, nervously fidgeting with his hands. “Yeah, I, um… It’s Cir’s place, not mine. I just moved in a month or two ago…” 

“Ah, that explains the lack of… furnishings.” 

“You got me there.” He nervously chuckled. “Well, I’ve got the PC stuff ready in my bedroom, if you’d like to give that a go.”

“Your bedroom?” Her brows furrowed, her worry creeping back in - she’d trusted him thus far, trusted him enough to wander into what felt like a government vault, let him lock her inside on the top floor of the building with no other escapes… Her eyes quickly looked him up and down - he was a good fulm taller than her, and she could see a hint of muscle beneath his buttoned-up shirt and rolled-up sleeves, but, given her training, she felt fairly confident she could take him, if she had need. Now, getting out in a hurry, on the other hand…

“Oh, I- I just-” He must have caught her concern, his own brows furrowing as he bit his lip. “I didn’t mean it like that; my computer desk is in my bedroom, is all, but I could grab everything and move it out here if that’s better for you. To make you more comfortable. I didn’t mean to imply-”

She couldn’t help but cock her head, his words slowly trailing off as a smile grew upon her face - no, his nervous fidgeting and stuttering told her all she’d needed to know. 

“You’re fine,” she assured. “I’m sorry for thinking poorly of you.”

“No, I should have-”

“Varrus.” She gently placed a hand upon his arm, silencing him once more. “You’re fine. Now, are you going to take me to your bedroom or not?”

She felt an evil glee rising inside of her as she watched him blush, the very tips of his ears turning a light pink as he cleared his throat. 

“Right, it’s… this way.”

She let her hand fall from his arm as he turned, leading her back to one of the doors on the main floor - only for her eyebrows to shoot straight into her hairline. The bedroom was nearly as impressive as the rest of the apartment, a solid wall of floor-to-ceiling window framing the massive bed, a PC with multiple monitors nestled into a corner, a messy, walk-in closet in another, but most importantly was-

“Is that a balcony?!”

Jess didn’t wait for an answer, hurrying past the Elezen and yanking open the sliding glass door. Sure enough, a wide balcony greeted her, a table with two seats situated beside the fanciful railing; she stopped ilms before reaching the edge, hesitantly peeking over before yelping and jumping back, practically colliding with the man behind her. 

“Careful,” Varrus snorted. “Would hate to see you fall.”

“You and I both.” Cautiously, she gripped the railing, peering over just as far as she dared before stepping back once more. “I can’t believe you live in a place like this!”

“Most days, neither can I.”

Yet there was one place she hadn’t inspected… perhaps the most important of them all. Manners be damned, she gently brushed past the Elezen, heading towards the door she’d spotted along the wall - and opening it revealed exactly what she thought it would. The bathroom was larger than most bedrooms she’d seen, hosting the same floor-to-ceiling window along the outer wall with a large, open stone shower, a double vanity across from it, beside-

“Is that a jacuzzi?!” Jess couldn’t help but gasp, eyeing the large tub situated into the floor. “Do you mind if I just… live in here? You won’t even notice me, I promise.”

At that, Varrus gave a laugh that echoed off the tiled floor. “It’s… a bit much, yeah. Cir gets a lot more use out of his jacuzzi than I do - and I don’t think I need to explain why.”

“Oh.” The word fell from her lips probably harsher than she’d intended; it seemed Cip was right about his… activities, without her. Though, judging by the photo she’d regrettably seen the previous night… perhaps Cip herself would be getting quite cozy with the Au Ra’s tub in the near future. “Well, I mean, you must get some fun out of it, right?”

“Not… in that way,” Varrus muttered; Jess glanced over her shoulder to find him rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Well, that’s a waste,” she snorted. “A place like this and you could convince just about anyone you wanted to spend some quality time with you.” Not that she imagined he needed to work hard to convince anyone, not with his tall, lean build, his thick, wavy hair and warm, golden eyes. No, she was certain he could get damn near anyone he wanted, and probably did, if he lived with the likes of Cirdan. 

“Maybe… But I’ve never found anyone I wanted to invite here - aside from you, that is.” And as she met his eye with a small smirk, he quickly held his palms up, stammering, “I- I mean, not like that, I just- I was trying to make a joke. I- I’m not very good at this, sorry.”

“What, flirting with women in your private bathroom?”

“What? No! Joking! I- I mean, I’m not good at that either- Not that I’d know, mind you, but-”

Shaking her head, she took mercy on the poor, adorable man, striding back towards him and giving him a pat on the shoulder. 

“The, uh… You’re welcome to hang out in my bathroom if you really want, but the PC stuff is in here.”

“Oh. Right.” So enthralled had she been in her surroundings and her company that she’d already forgotten why she was there - and it wasn’t for the jacuzzi, much to her dismay. With a blush of her own, she followed the man back into his bedchambers, where he stopped before his desk, all manner of strange devices strewn about. 

“Ok,” she placed her hands on her hips, “this all looks downright Allagan to me. Where do I start.”

“Grab the motherboard first.”

At her blank stare, he granted her mercy, reaching forward and handing her easily the most confusing item on the desk. “This one. Here, lay it on top of this box. Everything we have will plug into this.”

She nodded, staring at the foreign item in confusion.

“Now, the easiest thing to do next is to install the CPU - the little square one…”

And so Jess did her best to follow along with his instructions; though, all things told, Varrus really did the most of the work; she was simply content to listen to his smooth, deep voice gently walking her through the steps, his hand occasionally closing over hers, guiding her movements, until, somehow, she tightened the final screw, securing the myriad of parts into its case. 

“And there you go.” Varrus grinned. “See, I told you you could do it.”

“It can’t be that easy,” Jess huffed, staring at the newly-built PC before her in awe. “Where’s the catch?” 

“Well, we have to turn it on - and pray it works. Then I have to test and install some things - nothing fun, I assure you.” 

“Well, then we’ll make it fun.”

He laughed. “I like the way you think.” And so he pulled over his chair, motioning to the bed behind him, where Jess sat herself down - only to gasp in surprise at the plushness that rose up to encompass her. She couldn’t help but laugh, flopping backwards into the mess of blankets. 

“Having fun?”

She glanced over the plume of down comforter to catch the Elezen bemusedly grinning at her. 

“I don’t know how you ever leave this bed.” 

“Some days, neither do I.”

“So,” she propped herself up on her elbows, “you said you moved in only a few months ago? How did you meet Cirdan?”

“At work, believe it or not. I took a job for his father’s company; he was sent to oversee my work, and through that we got to talking and he explained he was looking for a roommate. This whole place is owned by his father, too. Only way we can afford to live here.”

She let out a hum. “Explains a lot. So what is it Cirdan, or his father, do?”

“I… don’t know.”

She raised an eyebrow at the Elezen in surprise. “Do you not have the same job?”

“Oh, no,” Varrus snorted. “I’m just a lowly tech maintenance guy. Cir does… Well, he handles a lot of his father’s… business. What exactly that business is, I haven’t asked - and I’m willing to bet you can guess why.”

Hesitantly, she nodded - there was something decidedly unsettling about the whole place, though, there in that bedroom, she felt surprisingly at ease - especially for being around a stranger. A completely adorable stranger, but a stranger nonetheless.

“Well, where did you live before this?”

“With my mother, actually,” came his answer, a hint of nervousness in his voice. “And my sister. I know, I know, pretty old to live with my parents at 24 and already out of college, but-”

“Hey, I’m not judging - like I said, I live in a basement.”

Varrus gave a relieved grin. “Well, shall we see if this baby posts?”

“Posts?”

“Turns on.”

“How do you turn it on?”

“Well,” he smirked, “usually I like to stroke it gently and whisper sweet nothings into its ports-”

“Varrus!” 

He laughed. “There’s a power button - you plugged it into the motherboard, but I don’t blame you for not remembering. Here.” With a click, the machine whirred to life, a myriad of rainbow lights emitting from inside as its fans spun up and a logo flashed across one of the Elezen’s screens. 

“There. Easy peasy.”

“Hm, I guess you are good at turning things on.”

“Computers, anyway.” 

She watched him glance away with another blush, and decided that shade of pink definitely suited his bronzed skin.

“So, uh, you mentioned a mother and sister? Anyone else in your life?” A question that had a hidden meaning, one she wasn’t brave enough to ask outright. 

“My cousin,” came his answer. “And that’s it. My father died in a fire when I was young - we moved here from Ishgard shortly after.”

“Wait-” she interjected, “you’re Ishgardian?”

Varrus gave a nod. “Sorry I don’t have the sexy accent - I was young when we left.”

“That’s amazing!” she gasped, sitting up fully and leaning forward against her knees. “I’ve always wanted to visit, the land of knights and dragons, the beautiful winters, the castles, the grand balls…”

“Well, maybe several ages ago. Now it’s just religion and politics - the scenery’s nice, though.”

“Oh, I can only imagine.” She could just picture it in her head, the rolling, green forests of pine, the snow-capped mountains all around, where man and dragon worked hand-in…claw? 

“Well, maybe I ought to show you around sometime.” 

She raised an eyebrow to match his, and the thought of visiting somewhere exotic with a tall, handsome native…? It sounded like the perfect vacation to her. 

“Maybe you should.”

Once again, the two caught each others’ gazes - she felt she could simply lose herself in his honey-colored eyes, the carrying the warmth of his smile, contrasting against his deep, purple hair whose long strands fell messily into his face. With a start, she thought back to her conversation with Cip the other day, about her ideal man - someone tall, with long hair and warm eyes… Well, only time would tell, but maybe, just maybe…

“I, um… Still have a few things to test here.”

Oh. Right. The computer. 

“You can help yourself to whatever’s in the kitchen, if you’d like.”

“Sounds great.” Jess stood with a stretch, catching him staring at her as she opened her eyes once more - only for him to quickly glance away as soon as he realized he was being watched. She was used to be stared at, in her line of work, of course, but, somehow… it felt different, coming from him. More… sincere, in a way. Almost heartwarming. 

Not that she was so cheesy to believe anything like that. 

All the same, she hadn’t eaten in a while… and an excuse to snoop through their gorgeous kitchen was one she simply couldn’t pass. She strode out of the room, making straight for the kitchen - yet every cabinet she opened came up empty, save for a lone salt-shaker and a pitiful lemon pepper seasoning, alongside a handful of dishes. Puzzled, she opened the fridge - and the reason soon became clear. Piled nearly to the top was takeout container upon takeout container; she couldn’t help but shudder, quickly closing the fridge and marching back into the Elezen’s room.

“Why, exactly, do you have nothing but takeout in your fridge?!”

“There’s not just takeout,” Varrus insisted, his tone almost pained as he swiveled in his chair to face her. “I’m almost certain there’s a tube of salami in one of the drawers.”

“Do you seriously invite people over and expect them to be satisfied with just your salami?”

The man shrugged. “I… don’t really have people over. Cir does, often - people he intends to sleep with. They just show up, do the deed and leave. Guests are a new thing to both of us; I suppose I never thought about it. If you’d like, I can order-”

She cut him off with a shake of her head. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll make something when I get back to the bar. But surely you know how to cook?”

The Elezen’s furrowed brows answered that. 

“Are you telling me… You have that entire gorgeous kitchen… And neither of you cook?!”

Now that was nearly enough to make her faint - or scream. 

“Look, you said you’re 24, yeah? I think it’s about time you learn.”

“I’ve just… never had a reason to.”

“Well, what if I taught you? At least the basics, as repayment for teaching me how to build a computer.”

“What? No, I couldn’t ask you to do that, don’t feel like you have to do something in return-”

“I don’t have to.” She grinned. “I want to.”

“In that case,” he matched her smile, “I don’t think I can rightly say no.”

“I’d do it tonight, here and now, if I didn’t have to leave for work.”

Varrus’ smile slowly faded, a sigh escaping his lips as he glanced up to the clock on his wall. “Right. You probably need to go. Well, here.” He stood, quickly flicking the computer off and unplugging it before holding it out to her, much to her confusion. “For you.”

“For me?” She gently accepted the PC, finding it surprisingly light in her arms. She’d agreed to learn how to build a computer; never in his invitation had he mentioned giving her one. “Varrus, I can’t accept this! I don’t even have-”

“Oh, right!” He turned, bending over and rummaging beneath his desk, before returning with a mouse and keyboard. “You’ll need these, too.” 

“But, I can’t…” She trailed off at the sadness that flickered through his eyes, concern plain upon his face… a look she simply couldn’t refuse. So, instead, she buried her pride and her shame, planting a wide grin upon her face. “Thank you, Varrus. You’re too sweet.”

“So you’ve said,” he laughed. “I look forward to hearing your Mast Effect adventures while you’re beating my ass with a whisk. Um, in the kitchen. Learning to cook. That is.” 

“Of course,” she nodded, though she knew she wouldn’t exactly be playing anytime soon - the last thing she wanted to admit was that she didn’t exactly have a screen… or a chair… or a place to put it… But it would make a nice memento to her first day with a new friend. 

A new friend she felt she was very much beginning to like.

Platonically, of course. 

“When do you want to come by again? For cooking, I mean.”

“Um…” She peeked over the PC in her arms, barely able to see. “How about… Saturday?”

“Saturday it is.” His grin was wide, filling her own chest with a joy unlike any she’d felt before. 

“Saturday.” She nodded once more. It was only the chiming of the clock that gave her cause to stir, breaking her from his spell as he glanced at the clock once more, then the door behind her. 

“Here, let me help you with the doors.” 

She nodded gratefully, following as he guided her back towards the front and unlocked the myriad of bolts and chains. 

“Saturday, unless I see you sooner.”

“Don’t be a stranger,” came her farewell, as she stepped into the hallway, meeting his gaze one last time before he slowly closed the door. And, gods, she hoped he wouldn’t be. 

[tomorrowusa]

The weakest Speaker of the US House of Representatives since the Great Depression has become the ex-Speaker.

The unfitness to govern by the Republican Party was once again on full display as millions of viewers saw the inept Kevin McCarthy get the boot.

The House GOP is being compared to a failed state, and it didn't just start to get that way under Kevin McCarthy.

The House GOP Is a Failed State

For nine months, McCarthy had the title and the gavel and a Capitol suite with a nice view. But he never really held the office of speaker in anything like the historic meaning of that job. He never inspired fear. He sought favor from GOP colleagues — 210 of whom actually stayed with him until the end — but he had scant influence to bestow favors in return. He wasn’t associated with any particular governing idea. At the start, his speakership was effectively an optical illusion. At the end, it was an exercise in self-abasement. The main consolation is that he has plenty of company. For a quarter-century, every Republican to ascend to the speakership has descended from it with his standing diminished. It’s a line that travels from Newt Gingrich to Dennis Hastert to John Boehner to Paul Ryan to McCarthy. A lot about the times in general, and the GOP in particular, has changed in the decades since Gingrich and his self-proclaimed “revolutionaries” roared into power in the 1994 elections. He was shooed from the speakership four years later by GOP colleagues who had grown tired of his rap and mounting evidence that voters felt the same way. But a pattern was set that has endured long past Gingrich.

While Trump worship is ultimately at the center of the current fiasco, the GOP dysfunction pre-dates his 2015 escalator ride.

Most of all, McCarthy showed his malleable core on the paramount question of Republican politics, or for that matter all American politics: Where do you stand on Trump? “I’ve had it with this guy,” McCarthy sputtered to colleagues after the Jan. 6, 2021, riot at the Capitol, saying he would push Trump to resign immediately. McCarthy denied news reports that he had ever said this, until my colleagues Alexander Burns and Jonathan Martin revealed in their book, This Will Not Pass, that they had the moment unambiguously on tape. No matter, McCarthy soon enough was reliably back in the Trump fold, and Trump was unreliably and indifferently in the McCarthy fold. If so, however, Trump didn’t put much passion into it. Many people believe the former president has the instincts of an authoritarian. Authoritarians, however, generally prefer order and discipline. Trump has shown no sign that he cares much about the ostentatious disorder and indiscipline of the House. Certainly he didn’t try to marshal support for the man he calls, in cuddly moods, “my Kevin.” The House GOP now resembles a failed state. The party elects leaders with no capacity to lead members who have no interest in being led. McCarthy is like one of the succession of short-lived Soviet leaders who followed the long reign of Leonid Brezhnev, before the radical disruption of Mikhail Gorbachev at the end of the Cold War.

The House GOP resembles the old Soviet Union – a lumbering failed state immobilized by ideological rigor mortis.

Carl Hulse at the New York Times doesn't think that the Republicans will change much as a result of this.

[I]n today’s Republican Party, doing the right thing is considered a transgression, not a virtue – a sign of unforgivable allegiance to the political establishment. That was the central problem for Mr. McCarthy, and for his eventual successor. House Republicans, beholden to a base that reveres former President Donald J. Trump and detests compromise, have become ungovernable. And it is doubtful that his precipitous downfall will break the fever.

The only way Republicans might change is with Trump's departure from the scene. Even then there may be divisions between self-designated Trump successors and more traditional conservatives. The prognosis is not good for the GOP.

EXTRA! A look back at the Republican House Speakers of this century. It so happens that the most successful one was also a child molester.

[mountphoenixrp]

We have a returning citizen in Mount Phoenix:

           Eloise Dupont, a 25 year old daughter of Bastet.            She is a shelter volunteer at Stop&Paws.

FC NAME/GROUP:  Cheng Xiao  CHARACTER NAME: Eloise Dupont AGE/DATE OF BIRTH: July 15, 1998 ; 25 PLACE OF BIRTH:  Paris, France OCCUPATION: Shelter Volunteer at Stop&Paws HEIGHT: 166 cm (5’6″) WEIGHT: 51.2 kg (112 lbs) DEFINING FEATURES: Eloise's feline features are the most striking. She models the features of ragdoll cats with fluffy fur on the ears on top of her head and her long tail. While her fur and hair are naturally colored white and grey, she dyes the fur of match her often changing hair color. Eloise has sharpened nails that mirror claws, but she keeps them manicured and painted. 

PERSONALITY: Spoiled by her rich madame, Eloise never struggled a day in her life. Used to all of the finest clothes and fashion, she does not understand budgeting or the life of those less unfortunately. She spends whatever she wants, and she has been privilege to never be told 'no.' Purely naive to the struggles of the world, Eloise's high taste and pricey lifestyle does not go unnoticed, and with the large inheritance gained from Madame Dupont's death, Eloise has the world at her fingertips. Despite this, the feline finds herself too often bored, whether it is in conversation with strangers or after sitting so idly around her home. Too often, in hopes to feel that boring void, the demigoddess allows her curiosity to get the best of her, making her a bit unpredictable and reckless. 

Eloise is used to being the center of attention, having grown with a madame and tutors who though of her as the world. While she expects attention, she determines unapologetically who she is willing to give her.. First impressions matter to her, and it can make or break a relationship. She softens and becomes affectionate for those she does like. However, Eloise is unforgiving to those she does not like, and her attitude and sass can can get her into trouble. 

HISTORY: Eloise was left as a baby to her father, much to his dismay. Her feline features stood out too much to hide, and unable to cope with tending to her, he sold his daughter off to a trader as a toddler, knowing her could fetch a good rate. The human kitten found herself on auction, too young to understand her situation. She would be one the trader’s most expensive sales as many different patrons came around the world for the chance to view the ware.

Madame Dupont found herself in love immediately with the child, and she easily outbid the others in the audience. Despite the circumstances of their union, Madame Dupont would immediately spring into a motherly role with Eloise. From the best clothes to foods, Eloise grew up as the daughter of a lonely, wealthy woman. The feline was spoiled with all of her mother’s riches. She received tutoring from wise private instructors. However, despite having everything, she had to maintain adhere to one rule: to never leave their home without permission. 

Eloise functioned to her responsibilities, behaving well in order to receive all her affection and gifts. She loved Madame Dupont as her mother, but as she reached her late teens, the old woman met the end of her life, naturally and purely due to that old age. With that passing, the sad feline found herself lost and without a clue on how to survive on her own, only left with the riches of the Madame. Her family servants took care of Eloise enough to where she could function through both her mourning and with skills she never learned.

Without a clue of where to go, the demigoddess would stumble upon the reality of her past and the talks of a place named Mount Phoenix. She hoped the island would give her a chance to understand this new information she found.

PANTHEON: Egyptian CHILD OF: Bastet POWERS: Eloise is very agile with the dexterity and speed to match her feline counterparts. She has an enhanced sense of smell, hearing and sight. Often, this causes her to be delicate to certain smells and at times sensitive to certain lights. Due to her heritage, she has feline features, such as: cat ears, sharpened nails, and a tail. Eloise cannot hide her feline features, nor does she care to.  STRENGTHS: Strong fashion sense, Intelligent, Confident WEAKNESSES: Self-absorbed, Easily Bored, High Maintenance

[haggishlyhagging]

“It was hard to reconcile the self-denying "essence" of woman's nature with the cultural atmosphere created by a consumption-centered economy. Here was a society which claimed to value individualism above all and which exhorted everyone to devote themselves to the search for personal gratification. Yet one half the population seemed to be committed, by their very anatomy, to a life of renunciation and self-denial. The obvious objective sorts of explanations—that most women were economically dependent on their husbands, that abortions and day care were virtually unavailable—had no place in the psychoanalytic worldview. The only logical way to reconcile woman's commitment to suffering with the overall cultural commitment to pleasure was to assert that, for women, suffering was pleasurable. The psychoanalytic construction of the female personality found mounting cultural acceptance from the thirties on, and by the forties and fifties—the height of the permissive era—the Freudian faith in female masochism stood almost undisputed.

For women, even sex was to be an exercise in happy self-denial. Female sexual pleasure had become respectable enough, by this time, for therapists to prescribe it in cases of overprotection or other forms of maternal maladjustment. But a woman's journey to mature female sexuality, like the way to "true motherliness," was a mournful pilgrimage. First—as she outgrew her girlhood—a woman had to renounce the pleasures of the clitoris and attempt to transfer all sexual feeling to the vagina. In Freudian theory the clitoris was a tiny—and laughably inadequate—version of the penis. To cling to the clitoris was only to invite humiliation by comparison to the large and masterful male organ. When a woman accomplished the task of abandoning the clitoris, she symbolically set aside all masculine strivings (penis envy) and accepted a life of passivity. The "rich reward" for all this was supposed to be the pleasure of heterosexual vaginal sex, which the penis-envying, clitoris-identified woman could never achieve. (Lundberg and Farnham said of the penis-envying bed partner, "The woman's unconscious wish to herself to possess the organ upon which she must depend militates greatly against her ability to accept its vast power to satisfy her when proffered to her in love.") But in psychoanalytic theory vaginal sexuality actually provided a fresh experience of powerlessness and debasement; Helene Deutsch described it as an experience of "being masochistically subjugated by the penis." Psychoanalyst Marie Bonaparte took the theory a step further, commenting that woman's masochism, "combining with her passivity in coitus, impels her to welcome and to value some measure of brutality on the man's part." Bonaparte seems to chuckle reassuringly as she adds, “actually, normal vaginal coitus does not hurt a woman; quite the contrary.”

Needless to say, masochistic sex was intimately linked to masochistic maternity.

The wish for maternity . . . is a factor so favorable to vaginalization [the transfer of sexual feelings to the vagina] that . . . highly domestic women are often best adapted to their erotic function . . . Psychical inacceptance of the maternal function and defective maternal instinct [are] . . . frequently related to the normal failure in women to establish the erotic function.

Carrying the theory of female masochism to an extreme, Helene Deutsch argued that the relationship between orgasm and labor was so great that the two experiences were really "one process," and one might speak of orgasm as a "missed labor."

The idea that women were masochistic seemed to solve everything. Woman's lot, from a masculinist point of view, consted of menial labor and sexual humiliation. But as a masochist, these were precisely the things that she liked and needed. (The explanation of "masochism" is so convenient and totalistic that we can only wonder why the psychomedical experts didn't think to extend it to other groups, like the poor and racial minorities.) But at the same time, the idea of female masochism signaled the mounting bankruptcy of sexual romanticism theory. Once, women had been lured into domesticity with promises of intellectual challenge, activity, and power over the household and children. No one had argued, in the early-twentieth-century mothers' movement or domestic science movement, that women had to resign themselves to motherhood, that they had to give up anything. Energy, intelligence, and ambition were precisely the character traits the scientific mother needed to run her household and raise her children. To say now, at mid-century, that it was not energy, but passivity, that held a woman to her home, not ambition, but resignation, not enjoyment, but pain—was to say that from a masculinist point of view the female role was unthinkable, and that those who fit into it were in some sense insane. The theory of female masochism stood as an admission from the psychomedical experts that the feminine ideal they had helped construct was not only difficult to achieve, but probably impossible.”

-Barbara Ehrenreich and Deirdre English, For Her Own Good: 150 Years of the Experts’ Advice to Women

[mdzs-owns-my-ass-i-guess]

Encore

Content Warnings: blood, violence, death and suicidal thoughts. Also this is very sad.

It had been a narrow escape but Sizhui and Jingyi somehow managed to suppress all the vengeful spirits in their corner of the forest, mounting their swords to find their seniors. As difficult as that night hunt had been, at least they had the powerful Yiling Laozu and the mighty Hanguang-Jun by their sides, always there in case things went haywire.

They spotted the two in a clearing and landed close by, excited to meet up and call the night hunt off for the day... but the moment Sizhui sheathed his sword, a sense of immense dread filled him, like poison seeping in his bloodstream. And it wasn't the resentment around or any ghostly presence.

His heart picked up and he ran in the direction of his seniors, Jingyi unable to keep up despite his prowess.

The night was cold but clear, moonlight bright. Senior Wei sat leaning against a tree, holding Hanguang-Jun's body, who seemed to be asleep in his arms.

Asleep...?

Sizhui's eyes caught onto a large, bloody spot right at the center of Hanguang-Jun's chest, which senior Wei was covering with his hand as if to shield it from view. His fingers dripped red.

Sizhui felt his whole body begin to shake.

He wanted to take a step forward, but couldn't. Casting his eyes down, the green grass of the forest was covered in blood and corpses. All mauled as if by a giant, wrathful beast, thrown haphazardly around, resentment floating over them like a smoke cloud.

It was only then that Sizhui spotted uncle Wen Ning motionlessly hiding behind a tree, his arms covered in blood. The moon caught onto Bichen's blade, the sword only a little a-ways from his feet.

Sizhui strained his eyes to see Hanguang-Jun breathe, strained to see even the slightest movement of his ribcage.

But he couldn't see anything. Hanguang-Jun was motionless, pale, nearly translucent in senior Wei's arms.

Dead.

"No..." Sizhui found himself telling nobody in particular, heavily stepping towards where his beloved seniors stood, one dead and the other living but not at all alive. "No, no, this can't be... no..."

Wei Wuxian, who had been blankly staring at the man (no, corpse) in his arms, seemed to only then pick on the sound and instinctively made a sharp, angry gesture as a wave of resentful energy hit Sizhui. "Go away!"

His eyes, red, burned with tears and resentment, but the moment he recognized who he had attempted to hurt, his expression broke and a loud sob escaped him, the hold on Hanguang-Jun's body only tightening.

Lan Sizhui was a seasoned cultivator by this point, though, and he dodged the attack, as much as it rattled him. His voice came out shaky and low, fragmented.

"Is... is my father...?"

Wei Wuxian let out a sound as if he was dying himself. Lan Sizhui's eyes filled with tears instantly, his whole body shaking.

"No, no, he's not, he can't be! He's- there's no way, you're wrong!"

But the moment Lan Sizhui reached for Hanguang-Jun's hand, his touch met cold and lifeless where warm and loving should have been, recognizing early livor mortis. He screamed out in pain, in understanding, in horror, gripping the hand of the man who raised and guided him, loved him, protected him... and left him

"No, no, no! No! How?! How could this happen?! No!"

Wei Wuxian's eyes fluttered closed, unable to watch any more, overwhelmed by his son's tears as well as his own. The ghost of Lan Zhan's final kiss on his lips hurt as if it had been burned into his flesh. Just the same way Lan Zhan branded himself in Wei Ying's memory. In the same place where the enemy's sword pierced through him when he had jumped in front of Wei Ying to save him.

"I killed him, A-Yuan..." Wei Wuxian croaked out at last, painful and guilty, "He died because of me..."

Lan Sizhui said nothing, still gripping on his father's hand, crying.

"I killed him..." Wei Wuxian repeated, a fresh wave of tears sliding down his cheeks. "It should have been me, I wasn't careful and... it should have been me... I should be dead and he should be alive instead..."

"Shut up... shut up..." Lan Sizhui mumbled, his voice low, angry, hurting, shaking with every syllable and growing in volume until he screamed. "Just shut up!"

Wei Wuxian turned his head away, closing his eyes, ashamed, hurting. His son hated him for sure now. And he would be entirely in the right for it. Wei Wuxian hated himself too, would have killed himself already had Lan Sizhui not shown up so soon. He didn't deserve to live anymore, and didn't want to either. Another person dying for him... would that ever end?

"Dad always loved you..." Lan Sizhui continued, his voice unsteady between his sobs. "...he would have given anything for you to live, so... so don't ever say that it should have been you. He didn't die for you to say that!"

"A-Yuan!"

"No! I won't hear it! If..." his fingers reached for Bichen and clammored around the blade. "If Hanguang-Jun sacrified his life for you... if he believed... if he loved you so much..." the blade bit into the boy's palm. "Don't disrespect him like this!"

Wei Wuxian wanted to scream, the sound ripping itself from his chest. Resentment around responded and howled, a familiar sight that Wei Wuxian had seen before when his shijie died for him too.

"Come here, A-Yuan..." he barely whispered as grieving exhaustion overtook him, the boy scrambling to his side. "Come, say goodbye to your father."

The sky had been clear, full moon shining at its zenith.

Out of nowhere, the rain started.

It was easier when the sky cried too.

[maddyaddy]

3036

Thule, Free Rasalhague Republic

Kavallerist Lang’s Wolfhound thumped through the remnants of the agricultural settlement, its ruins still burning. Twenty meters from his ‘Mech was Löjtnant Erikson, in her Centurion. They were sweeping the remains, looking for survivors, or spoor as to who did this. “Looks like they scarcely had time to get to shelter,” Erikson noted flatly. She was as unflappable as ever. Icewoman, her. “I think we can safely write off this little community. Damage is recent, though. We could track them down; we can make them pay.” 

“Grim.” 

That was Nilsdottir, overlooking the village from a ridge in her Panther. The machine’s PPC provided the Lance with a much-needed long-range punch. “I can be a little detached,” The Löjtnant replied. “You’ve been with me for a tour or two, Nilsa. Don’t act surprised.” 

Lang let them banter, a bit longer, carefully scanning the area. Something stood out, in between a lean-to shed and one of the farmhouses to his left. He zoomed in the ‘Mech’s cameras, taking a closer look, and saw a series of large depressions in the snow. “I’ve got tracks.” 

Löjtnant Erikson’s Centurion tramped over to Lang’s side. “Hmm, those look like ‘Mech tracks, Lang. I’ll call in support from the battalion, then we’ll set out...” 

“Periphery bandits?” Nilsdottir speculated as she came down the ridge into the village. “Or state actors?”

“Who knows; who cares?” Their fourth member went over in his Hatchetman. Svensson was a bit gruff, Lang thought, but he was reliable. “We do our job.”

— — — 

It was rough going up the forested mountain trail, following the tracks. Svensson took the lead of the column, as his Hatchetman was uniquely suited to the complex terrain ahead. As for Lang, he took up the rear, to preclude any ‘pop-up’ or flanking attacks from light ‘Mechs. His Wolfhound had been designed for that sort of work, as a Jenner-killer. Behind Svensson was the Löjtnant, and behind her, Nilsdottir.

“Nothing on scope yet.” Svensson reported as they came to a clearing. “Wait - “ He cursed as laser beams streaked out of the surrounding woods, striking his ‘Mech. “Contact, contact! Damn, they got my AC…” His Hatchetman lurched into motion, as his assailant came into view. 

Immediately, Lang’s targeting computer sprang to life. JR7-D, it reported. A Jenner. Acting on instinct, the Kavallerist gunned his engine, firing first the Wolfhound’s medium laser in the center torso. The beam swept over the arena they found themselves in, searing into the Jenner, while Nilsdottir unloaded her SRMs in support. 

Meanwhile, Svensson fell back, firing his arm-mounted lasers. The Löjtnant covered for him, throwing the body of her ‘Mech between the foe and Svensson. The Jenner pilot, no doubt recognizing the odds were stacked against him, jumped the machine in hopes of fouling their accuracy. Lang kept on it, tracking the red-plated devil. He couldn’t beat them in a battle of speed, but the trees on the edge limited mobility. 

As soon as the Jenner landed, Kavallerist Lang charged in under autocannon cover from the Löjtnant. He took great strides, his Wolfhound’s fist swinging to contact his foe. Armor gave way, crumpling under the force of his manipulator. Backing up slowly, Lang exhaled loudly. “Rasalhague terrorists, kisama.” the Jenner MechWarrior said in growling tones. “My death will not end this. The Dragon’s jaws will close shut around your rebellion.”

“A Ronin holdout.” Löjtnant Erikson declared. Her Centurion leveled its Autocannon at the Jenner. She calmly spoke to the Drac. “Listen. Your own nation has turned its back on you, aibō. No Dropship is coming to pick you up. What you did here - it had no purpose. Give up, and come with us peacefully.”

“Yā!” The Jenner wheeled about, its pilot struggling to keep the machine standing. He was gearing up for a last, desperate charge. Damned Drac fanaticism. “They will come and kill you all!” Lang kept backing up, trying to make some distance. “You lie! I will not die futilely!”

The comms feed was consumed by the sound of an almost inhuman scream as the Jenner charged straight ahead. Erikson sighed. “All units, weapons free.” A blistering hail of lasers, autocannon shells, and missiles opened up. They tore the onrushing Jenner apart, torso from legs, its cockpit burning white-hot from the lasers. Hell of a way to die, Lang thought. 

“What a waste,” Nilsdottir said of the smoking, twisted corpse of the Jenner. “Damned idiot.” She choked her words out. “Just GIVE UP!” Lang’s stomach turned as they swept the area for any other Ronin ‘Mechs. There was no jubilation in the defeat of such an enemy; he just felt a resigned sadness. 

[health-views-updates]

Healthcare Interoperability Solutions Market 2024 Size, Share, Global Analysis and Future Trends by 2032

The healthcare interoperability solutions market is experiencing significant growth, driven by rising demand for seamless data exchange and integration across healthcare systems worldwide. As digital health technologies continue to evolve, the emphasis on enabling interoperability across various healthcare platforms and devices has increased, making data accessibility and patient-centered care more achievable than ever. According to a recent report by SNS Insider, the global healthcare interoperability solutions market is projected to see steady revenue growth, influenced by advancements in digital health technology, supportive regulatory policies, and the widespread adoption of electronic health records (EHRs). Healthcare Interoperability Solutions Market Revenue.

The market’s growth trajectory is attributed to several factors, including increased digital transformation in healthcare, advancements in information technology, and an intensified focus on patient safety and quality care. In recent years, healthcare providers and organizations have recognized the importance of interoperability in improving operational efficiency and enhancing patient outcomes. Furthermore, government initiatives worldwide are promoting interoperability as a foundational component for integrated healthcare, driving the adoption of innovative solutions that support data exchange and ensure compliance with industry standards.

With the rise of chronic diseases and an aging global population, healthcare systems are facing mounting pressure to deliver efficient, high-quality care. Interoperable healthcare solutions play a critical role in addressing these challenges by allowing providers to access comprehensive patient information, reduce medical errors, and improve overall patient satisfaction. As demand continues to grow, companies operating in the healthcare interoperability solutions market are focusing on expanding their product offerings and enhancing data security, which is paramount to maintaining patient trust and compliance with regulations.

Get Free Sample Report @ https://www.snsinsider.com/sample-request/1768

Key Market Trends and Opportunities

Rising Demand for Data Integration Across Healthcare Systems As healthcare organizations strive to streamline operations, there is a growing need for integrated systems that support real-time data exchange across multiple platforms. This integration not only enhances operational efficiency but also facilitates improved patient outcomes by enabling healthcare providers to make data-informed decisions quickly and effectively.

Growing Emphasis on Patient-Centric Care The shift towards value-based care and personalized medicine has led to an increased focus on patient-centered approaches. Interoperable solutions are central to this shift, as they allow providers to access a comprehensive view of a patient’s health history, empowering them to offer personalized treatment and care. This trend is expected to further drive the adoption of healthcare interoperability solutions over the coming years.

Regulatory Policies Supporting Interoperability Governments and regulatory bodies around the world are taking measures to facilitate seamless data exchange across healthcare organizations, promoting interoperability as an industry standard. The Health Information Technology for Economic and Clinical Health (HITECH) Act in the United States and similar initiatives globally are encouraging healthcare providers to adopt interoperable solutions that improve data accessibility, transparency, and patient safety.

Regional Insights and Market Growth

The healthcare interoperability solutions market exhibits substantial growth opportunities across North America, Europe, Asia-Pacific, and other regions. North America currently holds the largest market share, driven by well-established healthcare infrastructure, supportive regulatory frameworks, and high adoption rates of advanced healthcare technologies. Europe follows closely, with increased investments in digital health and an emphasis on improving patient care. In Asia-Pacific, rapid economic growth, a large patient population, and government initiatives focused on healthcare modernization present significant opportunities for market expansion.

Competitive Landscape

Leading players in the healthcare interoperability solutions market are focusing on strategic collaborations, mergers and acquisitions, and product innovation to expand their market presence. Key companies are investing in R&D to develop advanced solutions that cater to the evolving needs of healthcare providers and patients. Additionally, the competitive landscape is being shaped by emerging players introducing novel solutions that cater to the unique demands of healthcare facilities in different regions. The market is expected to see continued innovation as companies leverage AI, machine learning, and blockchain technologies to enhance interoperability solutions, ultimately improving healthcare delivery and operational efficiency.

Future Outlook

The future of the healthcare interoperability solutions market looks promising, with technology and data playing a pivotal role in healthcare modernization. As interoperability becomes more widespread, the healthcare industry is expected to see improvements in patient care, reduced operational costs, and enhanced data-driven decision-making capabilities. Companies that focus on developing secure, user-friendly solutions that align with industry standards and regulatory requirements are likely to thrive in this dynamic market. The adoption of cloud-based solutions, increased focus on cybersecurity, and integration of AI-powered analytics are expected to further drive market growth in the coming years.

About Us:

SNS Insider is one of the leading market research and consulting agencies that dominates the market research industry globally. Our company's aim is to give clients the knowledge they require in order to function in changing circumstances. In order to give you current, accurate market data, consumer insights, and opinions so that you can make decisions with confidence, we employ a variety of techniques, including surveys, video talks, and focus groups around the world.

Contact Us: Akash Anand – Head of Business Development & Strategy info@snsinsider.com Phone: +1-415-230-0044 (US) | +91-7798602273 (IND)