#cw loss of autonomy

[sleepyfan-blog]

Meeting Interrupted

Author's note: This is the next part of Rotten Fate. Masterlist here. AO3

tagged: @ms--lobotomy @egrets-not-regrets @the-pure-angel @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @bleedingichorhearts

warnings: body horror, loss of autonomy, manipulation, unhealthy relationship, please ask me to tag something if I've missed it/something bothers you

Summary: You decide to interrupt Typhus' Meeting with the thousand sons. What's he going to do? Make your life worse? Hah.

Once your lust dies down to the point after you can think clearly again, you mull over your current options. Your shitty “husband” calls you little Isha from time to time. Referring to the fact that you are his captive spouse that he is unable to permanently kill, nor blight with the horrific plagues and poisons of his Patron, Nurgle. What he seems to be entirely unaware of (and, good for her) is the fact that part of the reason why Isha does not attempt to escape Nurgle - other than being relatively safe from the predation of Slaanesh… Is that Isha works against Nurgle’s plots and plans by whispering the antidotes and cures that are always effective against his plagues and poisons.

While you can’t do that - Typhus doesn’t seem to make new poisons and plagues as Host of the destroyer hive - what you can do is attempt to fuck up his plans, whatever those may be. You have no idea what his plans are at the moment, but he did ask you to stay put while he parlayed with his cousin. And you can waddle your way into causing Problems for him on purpose by interrupting the meeting.

You’re also hungry as fuck, and there is no food anywhere within Typhus’ rooms. His evil bees buzz menacingly as you approach the door that leads out of his rooms, but you glare at them “Fuck off, you ugly shits. I’m hungry as hell and he didn’t leave me anything to eat. And I’m eating for at least two with-” You pat your distended belly. You can sense the little mind growing within you. The little one does not feel tainted by Chaos… At least not yet. Part of you hopes that you’ll find a way to get the child to safety, somehow.

Between Typhus’ potent psychic abilities and you being a perpetual there is no chance that the child you’re carrying won’t be a psyker of potent ability, once you give birth to them. Whether or not they are going to be a Perpetual is ambiguous to you. Neoth sired more than a few bastards before deciding to rule Humanity as a whole - or attempt to do so. Some of them were psykers. Some were Perpetual. Most, however, were neither… Though that was long before psykery became more commonplace amongst Humanity as a whole. 

The bees buzzed ominously, but apart from a full cloud of the ominous little fuckers flying around and behind you, they didn’t actually sting you this time. Which was nice, as you used a bit of psychic energy to flick the internal mechanism of the door open, through which you moved through…

The view of the hallway you were walking in was just as rank and dismal as the first time you’d seen it, having been picked up and thrown over one of Typhus’ shoulders unceremoniously… Weeks? Months? Years? Ago. You weren’t sure how long you’ve spent in Typhus’ captivity. You deliberately tried not to track the days, as the answer would only upset and distress you. You silently hoped that your crew was still alive and thriving. 

You pass mumbling cultists and tiny daemons, none of whom take notice of your passage, as you are using a little bit of Psykery to go unnoticed by the beings around you as you waddle your way over to where your captor and his Very Important Guest are either talking, posturing at one another or fighting.

Or possibly a combination of all three of them.

You can tell that you’re getting close to where Typhus is, by the way that his Evil Bees have landed on the simple white dress that you’re wearing. It’s the only piece of clothing he’s given you - you haven’t been allowed even any under things or even sandals. Which made traveling through the unpleasantly biological horror of a ship that Typhus had been gifted by his Patron a wildly unpleasant experience. 

You reached the door behind which was Ahriman and Typhus, along with at least a dozen of their brothers each. You drop the glamor, startling the four guards standing in front of it. You stare at the two Death Guard, ignoring the shifting and growling Thousand Sons. “I am going into that room, to talk to my husband. You can either step aside or open the door for me.”

“Who the fuck are you, and why are you dressed like that? How are you dressed like that and not -” One of the Thousand sons began to growl, reaching out to grab you.

You lean away from his touch “I would very strongly suggest you don’t try that again. My…  Husband’s little helpers don’t like it when strangers try to grab me. I am a Perpetual, and unable to be affected by the…” You gesture to the filth, stagnation and decay all around you “All of this unless I explicitly allow myself to be, which I don’t. Dying like this seems like a misery.”

“What do you mean by -AAahhhh! NO no no no no! Get it off, get it off, get it off of me!” The grabby Thousand Son wailed as one of Typhus’ destroyer bees landed on his out-stretched gauntleted hand, stinger poised to plunged through the armored plate. 

You snort and scoop up the angry bee, booping it on it’s snout “No. Bad bee! He didn’t do anything to try to hurt me, and stopped trying to grab me when I told him to. No stinging guests!”

The Destroyer bee buzzed unhappily in your hands, but did not sting you. You roll your eyes and settle it back on one of your shoulders. You go back to looking at the Death Guard at the door “Let me in to see my husband right now. Or I will escalate things. The Emperor of Mankind didn’t want me to stay on Terra after I left the Astartes project for a number of reasons. Do you want to find out what those are personally?” 

“... No. It’s just… Oldest Brother is in the middle of delicate negotiations and -” One of the Death Guard tried to explain.

Adorable. You kind of want to pat his helmeted head. Bless his gross, bloated hearts he’s trying. You reach up and pat one of his gauntleted arms gently “Don’t worry. I will handle my husband. I”ve done quite a few negotiations, you know. During my time as a Rogue Trader and before that. I remember what it was like during the Dark Age of Technology, though those memories are dim and distant now.” You sigh, shaking your head a little. It was a shame how things had gone to such heights, before crashing and burning so spectacularly because of the Eldari being too bored and horny so they decided to try and make a new powerful warp entity. 

“... As you say, Lady of Mercy.” Both of the Death Guard murmur, opening the door for you.

You blink a couple of times as you enter the main conference room of the massive spaceship. Lady of Mercy, hmm? That’s a new one. Did Typhus give it to you? Or did some of the others, now that you were here to distract him from some of his crueler pursuits at times? “Good boys.” You murmur distantly, patting them on the armored arm once again as you pass by.

Typhus and Ahriman are standing on opposite sides of the table, pointing and yelling at one another at considerable volume. There are a lot of very tense mutated astartes on both sides watching their eldest brothers having a go at each other, in regards to centuries if not millennia old slights and petty squabbling. 

Ah, family. Such a messy thing it often is. 

You teleport onto the table in a flash of cyan warp light, making sure to make enough sound and light to catch the attention of everyone in the room.

The yelling blessedly stops as you appear on top of the table, heavily pregnant and half-covered in Typhus’ bees. The unadorned white silk dress that fell just above your knees, the hem plunging down just far enough to give a peek at your cleavage and sleeveless, the thin straps starting to fall off of your shoulders. The pregnancy bulge of your belly quite prominent as the soft silk clings to your body,

For several seconds, there is a profound silence as the assembled Astartes process your sudden and unexpected arrival.

You allow yourself to giggle, smiling up at both Ahriman and Typhus, before demurely hiding your smile behind a hand. Your other hand coming up to cup your swollen belly, knowing that the motion would catch the attention of many in the room. “Greetings, First captain Ahriman of the Thousand Sons. I do apologize for Ty’s behavior. We were a little… Mm… Busy, when you stopped by for a visit.” You allow a demure blush to spread across your cheeks as your voice dips into a coquettish purr, your eyes going half-lidded for a moment.

The destroyer bees that were resting upon your body begin to stir and buzz, likely in response to the shifting and heightening emotions of their Host. They are the only sound being made in the room, to your unending amusement. Your incongruous presence and statements seemed to have stalled their allegedly enhanced minds. Then again Chaos rots even the best of beings. 

Before things can escalate in ways that you don’t want them to, you walk over to where Typhus is standing, needing to go up on your tiptoes to kiss his corroded helm. You stage-whisper, knowing that the enhanced hearing of all of the Astartes present will allow them to hear you, if they aren’t deaf or otherwise hard of hearing, leaning into Typhus “Hubby, dearest, the baby and I are hungry… And you never told me where you keep the safe food.” You give him what you hope is a flirty pout “So I had to come find you. Your little friends were only a bit naughty.” You murmur, gently plucking up one of the ominously buzzing bees and pressing a faux-affectionate kiss to it’s unpleasantly furry and matted body before letting it go.

It buzzed back over to Typhus, swaying and flying as if it was drunk. Your amusement only increases. 

No one else has yet to do or say a single thing. It’s as if they’ve all turned into very strange statues. You know they haven’t as you can sense their rapidly shifting minds and emotions plainly, but none of them have yet to actually react. 

It’s very funny. It’s quite possible that none of them have seen a woman in thousands of years, and even longer since they’ve seen a pregnant one. The poor dears are dreadfully caught off guard and deeply, deeply confused. At least the Thousand Sons are. The Death Guard are mostly worried.

You tilt your head up and reach for Typhus’ helm, giving him a look of mock-concern. “Darling? Husband? Sweetheart? Why aren’t you responding?” You pout more as your nimble fingers find the catches on his helmet, pressing them in before twisting and removing his helmet, revealing his face. You set it down on the table before you close your eyes, going up on your tiptoes once again and press a kiss to his flesh-cheek. You lean against his armor -which is eternally cool to the touch and wrap your arms around his neck, batting your lashes up at him, peering through them as you ask “Husband? Typhus? Ty-darling?”

Typhus continues to stare at you with glowing, rotted eyes, seemingly transfixed to the spot. He hasn’t breathed in minutes -though you’re not sure that he needs to, given his long-ago transformation into the Herald of Nurgle. 

“Who are you?” Ahriman demanded, his voice strangled and deeply confused.

“Hmm? Oh me? I’ve gone by many names, and held hundreds of titles over the course of my very, very long life. I’ve died a few times as well, but it doesn’t stick, as I am a Perpetual… After the Unification of Terra, I found myself working directly with Him for a time. As soon as the Sol system was fully conquered and He started the Rogue Trader program, I was off to the distant stars, with my first retinue in tow. I did that for several thousand years… Until honey-sweet Typhus here decided to capture me in his clever web of death and sickness. Since then I’ve been his wife, per his decision.” You sigh. 

“You… A perpetual… One who has worked alongside the Carrion Emperor? How much… How much knowledge of Psykery do you possess? What could you teach those of us interested in the Arcane arts? Surely you would rather be around more psykers, rather than the fetid stink of Nurgle’s chosen Bastards?” Ahriman breathed, avarice in his voice “I would be more than willing to play the role of -”

“Don’t. You. Dare finish that sentence, you two-faced deceiver!” Typhus growled thunderously, two of his tentacles swiftly slid out from wherever he usually keeps them and wrapped securely around your body, carefully supporting the weight of the baby in your belly. He pulls you tightly to his chest, making sure not to squash your belly against his armor. “I have listened to your endless whining and plots about finding some ridiculous library that may not even exist for too long! Begone from this ship, you will have no aid from the Death Guard. If you refuse to leave, I will have you removed by force.”

Ahriman’s glare intensified “I was not speaking to you, Typhus, but the Psyker you are holding captive. Gods above only know why she seems to actually be sweet on you, though I suppose that honey of yours can addle even the greatest of minds.” His gaze shifts to you “Should you wish to leave this fetid, stinking bastard and his army of undead thralls, call for me and I shall whisk you away from all of this pungent suffering and treat you in the way that a psyker of your age and experience should be.”

With that, the first captain of the Thousand Sons sent out a psychic pulse. A moment later he and all of his brothers vanished from Typhus’ ship. 

“... Awfully dramatic fellow, isn’t he?” You murmur, an amused grin appearing on your face as you look up at Typhus, trying to get a read on his emotional state. It’s difficult, with the walls that he’s put up. 

“... You wouldn’t leave me for him would you?” Typhus asked, his voice surprisingly small and unsure. 

You blink, throw your head back and laugh “Go with him? Please. The endless machinations of his Patron and underlings would have me in a murder-loop within the week. Would I rather be able to wander freely throughout realspace on my ship, the one you took me from? Yes. But him? Hahahaha. No. His patron is far too capricious for my tastes.” You give him a little kiss on the cheek, for emphasis. 

“... I see. You mentioned being hungry, my flower?” Typhus rumbled, sounding calmer.

“Yes! Also, hand please. Unarmored.” You instruct, grabbing at one of his hands, which he gives you. It takes you a moment to take the gauntlet off, and you carefully grab the fleshy fingers of his hand, pressing them against your belly.

The little one in your belly gently kicks against the press, and Typhus gasps.

“Oh! Hello, little one. I am your papa… I am so excited to meet you, when you’re ready to enter the world.” Typhus murmured, his glowing eyes widening with awe and delight. He clicks his fingers and points at one of his brothers “Pestilan, get my wife food. The rest of you, clear this room and check to make sure those treacherous sorcerers didn’t leave any nasty surprises left for us to find for denying them their wants.”

“Yes sir!” The other Death Guards murmur at the same time, swiftly leaving the room.

[lanterns-and-lightmares]

Okay I have a question

I know final fusion is something some plurals do strive for, but how can I accurately write the horror of being forced to final fuse?

Like, I’m thinking it’ll be a lot of grief, absence of “the other”, feeling as if your autonomy has been violated

but how can I write it?

How would you feel if it happened to you?

I know this is a touchy subject, though, so please please please for the love of all that is good do not feel obligated to answer if you aren’t comfortable

[the-sun-and-the-craftsman]

The Sun and the Craftsman - Chapter 2

Content warnings for this chapter are at the bottom and tagged!

For more info, read the pinned post here.

It’s too much for Darius to ignore. The sight of Ashur brings a natural sort of panic to him, and seeing him grasp at Lafayette like that—it brings him back to that night. 

Darius had been living on the Isle of Ascent for a few months by then, having grown accustomed to his simple life there. One moment, he’d been on Earth, working in his smithy as usual, and there had been a mild altercation that had sent him running—and the next moment, he was transported to the Isle. Ashur’s magic didn’t interest him; it had merely gotten him out of his old life, and there had been nothing for him in his old life anymore. But that’s beside the point. 

This world—Ana, as Ashur called it—had been teeming with life and opportunity. Darius watched the way that life sprang back after it was cut down, chilled, burned, whatever. Ashur had helped him cut down some trees and split some logs to make his house, and upon learning that Darius had been a blacksmith, Ashur eagerly set up a rudimentary smithy for him, coaxing the plants to split the ground open under his feet, tearing up some ore, and letting Darius pound out nails to his heart’s content. Ashur had been kind; so childlike in appearance, but with such knowledge behind his too-bright eyes. 

He looks the same now—albeit, a bit reserved. He’s pretty short, not even coming up to Darius’ chest—maybe about the size of a child just entering his teenage years. His skin is tanned heavily, rich and saturated in color, but his eyes are pale and bright, almost white. He wears elaborate clothes, almost toga-ish, wrapped around himself and decorated with gold-embroidered thread and shining stones, pinned in place by gleaming brooches. But he wears no shoes—and Darius has never seen him wear shoes. He claims they’re uncomfortable, though Darius would argue that it’s more uncomfortable to step on one of the thousands of thorned plants littered around the forest outside. 

But Ashur can heal himself. 

Darius hadn’t really paid attention to it until he had shot him that night. 

Lafayette—grinning like an idiot, squeezing Ashur’s lithe hands in her own worn ones—looks vastly different. That night, her already-pale skin had been drained of all color, all that color spilling out as a dark pool on the wooden floor. Her hair had been wet and matted, much in the same way that Ashur’s is now, albeit with a much darker hue. And her eyes were lifeless. 

But Ashur had brought her back to life after cannibalizing her. After Darius had whipped out his colt navy and shot him—after Ashur’s neck had exploded in a spray of unnatural gold—after Ashur had chased Darius down, canines bared like a dog, his flesh growing both as he healed himself and as he lengthened his arms and fingers to reach for Darius, a sickening, tumorous display of flesh growing over flesh growing over flesh, he had healed Lafayette. And nothing had been the same since. 

The flash of a fanged grin as Darius’ body crumpled in on itself, every muscle forced to flex in a way it shouldn’t, crushing any hollow space within himself. The realization that the meat that Ashur had provided Darius had been sliced from one of his friends, and the soul somehow kept inside to feel the pain of each severed nerve. The sweeping thunderclouds that would blot out the sky in seconds and throw down sharp, piercing, ice-cold raindrops that killed every living thing below it and washed away everything else—just for Ashur to pin down any soul he wanted to keep and hastily reconstruct their bodies once more. 

Watching the way that Ashur and Lafayette interact makes Darius’ stomach turn. He lets out a shaky sigh as Marco steps past him, wanting nothing but to turn around and go straight back to his house, his chair, and his box—the box that keeps his mind and body away from any feeling at all. 

Lafayette nods, and Ashur grins, and Lafayette lets go of Ashur’s hands to step inside the magic circle. Ashur picks up a jar, fingers fishing inside of it, then works like an artist around her, each swift motion sweeping his loose clothes as he spreads down a course, gray, metallic powder from that jar. He first outlines the magic circle around her, then fills it in with all sorts of arcane symbols. Despite the glaring injury on his head—which, Darius can now see, takes the form of a deep gash, crusted around the edges by his golden blood—he moves with the grace of a dancer. 

But he pauses, glancing at Darius, falling still. “Oh,” he says, his voice light. “Darius.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Right? Oh, there’s so many people here to remember...” 

“Yes, this is Darius,” Marco says to Ashur, just a trace of nerves left over in his voice. He turns to Darius, pointing at Ashur. “He really did lose his memory, huh?” 

Ashur’s cheeks darken, uncannily yellowish. Darius glances past Ashur, toward where Lafayette stands in the circle. 

“And how do you remember your magic, but not us?” he asks, glancing down at Ashur. 

Ashur’s eyes widen. “Well—it’s—I didn’t lose everything,” he says. “My magic is ancient—I'd know how to do these spells in my sleep!” 

He looks back at Lafayette. 

“She wanted to go home, too,” he says. “Did you want to say anything to her before she left? I was told that you two had a special bond...” 

Darius wouldn’t put it like that—she just happened to be from a marginally similar world. But he’ll be damned if he doesn’t get a say in any of this. He pushes past Ashur and carefully steps over the powdery lines to get to her. 

Lafayette looks at Darius, a certain optimism in her eyes. 

“I didn’t think you’d actually come,” she says. 

“I wanted to see if it was really true,” Darius responds. “You should’ve been the one to come get me. I would’ve believed you over Marco.” 

“Well, you’re here now, aren’t you?” she says. “And you wanted to ask something. You wouldn’t have talked to me, otherwise.” 

Darius nods. 

“Do you really think he’s sending you back home?” 

Lafayette smiles. 

“I do,” she says. “Sara volunteered to try, and after Ashur sent her away, he brought her back to tell us what she saw. She said she’d been sent back home—to the very place and time she vanished from. She felt the air change, she saw the house she used to live in down the road, she heard people’s voices...” 

“How did Ashur know where to send her?” Darius asks. “With his memory gone to the point where he doesn’t remember us?” 

“He just needs something from your own world to do the spell,” Lafayette says. She gestures behind Darius, toward a section of the magic circle, where a single silver button from her shirt sits nestled in a small pile of powder. “Apparently, something about it is linked to the exact place and time where you left. Glad we fought so hard to keep some of our belongings, huh?” 

Something from his own world—Darius looks down at himself. There are a few loose threads on the coat he’s been wearing since he was brought here... 

“Alright,” he says. “You’ll be safe in your own world, then?” 

Lafayette nods. 

“Then I’ll leave you to it.” 

Darius turns and steps out from the circle, glancing around the room to find Ashur, who had moved away to make the final preparations. Heading back to Marco’s side, Darius watches as Ashur snaps his fingers, producing a flame on the tip of his thumb. 

Ashur stoops down. He touches the edge of the circle and flame rushes around the whole thing, surging forward, flaring up, and vanishing as quickly as it came, leaving only the scent of smoke and a few dark stains on the floor. 

Ashur sighs. “Getting hard to do so many of these,” he says. “But only two left. Who’s up next?” 

As Marco steps forward, Darius folds his arms and thinks. He had seen how easily Ashur had healed from a wound that would be fatal to anybody else. There was barely even any time to bleed after the bullet had pierced through him. Now, looking at the wound on Ashur’s head, Darius struggles to reconcile the two sights. 

Ashur has every reason to trick everyone. He’s a cruel being. He had been nice in the beginning, sure, but he had flipped to cruelty in the span of that one day. The day before Ashur had eaten Lafayette, Darius had heard that he had been helping Ofor with making repairs to his house. And the day after, Ashur had stormed into Darius’ house, called Darius a few names, and put a hand on his chest, forcing Darius’ muscles to painfully squeeze and force the air out of him. He had played with Darius’ body like a doll—no, with more mastery than that, considering Ashur’s control over every biological process within the people around him. With a twist of his hands, Ashur could mangle organs with absolutely no outside indication. 

Once he feels himself receding back into his box, Darius shakes his head and forces himself to stop thinking about that. He has to think about something else—so for a moment, he assumes that Ashur’s being completely genuine with this. Even if Darius could go back home, he isn’t sure if he would want to. 

It’s nice that everyone else can go back with no qualms. But when Darius had first been pulled to Ana, it had come with relief. As a wanted man on the verge of getting caught, it had been a literal lifesaver. 

And if he’s heading back to the exact same place and time...he has to have a plan.

CW: mentions of crushing, asphyxiation, severe storms, flooding, dissociation, torture, loss of autonomy, and encounters with police descriptions of blood, gun violence, head injury, cannibalism, body horror, amnesia, and fire. 

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[enbycrip]

CW: discussion of pregnancy loss

Honestly this is one of the most powerful pieces of art I’ve ever seen.

(This is a personal interpretation; I don’t know if this was the artist’s intent)

There’s so little art out there about pregnancy loss. It’s a type of grief that makes people intensely uncomfortable. It gets equated with lack of support for abortion - which is upsetting, tbh, given it’s *incredibly* possible to support the essential right for bodily autonomy and yet still be utterly personally devastated by the loss, often repeated loss, of a potential life you desperately wanted.

In my work as an early modern historian, I’m bizarrely comforted as well as gut-punched by the statistics and personal experiences of child and pregnancy loss I encounter, which were so horrifically common before modern medicine, particularly vaccines and antibiotics. Because one of the effects of pregnancy loss is how isolating it is. We are so conditioned to silence about it. It is actually *helpful* to me when the grief strikes me to realise how huge a part of the human experience child and pregnancy loss is and has been.

Our biology, despite all our technology, is not simple and foolproof. Pregnancy and having children is surrounded in a commodified and cutesified bubble of celebration. The wolf is the fact that biology, like chance in general, is harsh and fallible. We cannot wish our way into the outcomes that we desperately want.

"In Bocca al Lupo" by sculptor Beth Cavener. Stoneware, Mixed Media. Installation: H 90 x L 276 x W 48 in. 2012.

[quins-whump-stuff]

Idea: whumpees used for more "realistic" storytelling.*at least partially created as a result of a weird dream I recently had*

CW: death, forced to kill, guilt, loss of autonomy, drugging, generally creepy whumper stuff

Instead of having animatronics on an amusement park ride, weak, half-starved people are strapped to motorized metal skeletons, forced to act through the same actions over and over and over again, all day, every day.

Maybe they have been chemically paralyzed/drugged, maybe they are just too weak, or maybe the metal is just too strong for them to resist.

Instead of being around a ride, maybe they are forcibly cast in a play, where any staged deaths are real, a new victim brought in for every performance. They couldn't run from the death facing them, and their killer, despite logically being blameless (after all, Whumper is the real killer here) starts to be eaten by the guilt of having to kill person after person with no choice, no ability to even close their eyes.

Whumper believes that they do this to make their stories more realistic, but whether that's the truth...

Maybe I've been reading too much "people turned into dolls" whump recently, but I had to share this idea.

[colorisbyshe]

You know how some people learn a proper moral boundary but don't learn the theory behind WHY it's a boundary, so they end up policing the wrong things? I think the funniest example is people knowing shipping incest is wrong, so they try to yell at people who ship two characters who have said shit like "He's like a brother to me."

Like, no, two characters being brothers in arms or whatever together is not comparable to actual incest. People using familial terms to try to describe their feelings for each other is not reflective of the inherent abusive context of actual incest.

I think this lack of understanding is also why people don't get why adopted/step siblings is rife for abuse and thus shouldn't be shipped (outside of rare contexts like... idk... your parents married each other when you both were adults and weren't raised together).

Mindlessly accepting "this thing is moral/this thing is not" isn't okay, even when technically you are in the right. People need to do critical thinking on just why something is criticized because sometimes you are only hurting your own argument and it's embarrassing.

This is such a dumb thing in context, like I'm not actually mad about this specific instance, but it's indicative of such a larger problem of like... people just accepting moral codes with ZEEERO actual insight. Don't do that for real.

[wellnoe]

lets make a list of times jean gets mind controlled or fucked with telepathically so that she can get sexually assaulted. warlock, mesmero, mastermind. those 2 guys in fallen angels don't actually get to mind control her but they sure want to!

[seraphim-soulmate]

It's not that I wish I could stop the process of aging or make people live forever it's just that I wish it didn't have to suck so bad. It sucks that we're a product of our time, forced to live under the circumstances we're born under despite how important a life feels. A lifetime can genuinely just be pain and misery due to circumstances and it's so evil that not everyone gets a fair shot at the only chance they have. It hurts to see a loved one getting older and losing abilities and not knowing what you can do and also just hoping that you are doing the best you can to make their life manageable.

[dabunnybuns]

I’ve been workshopping this horror idea of like a monster that makes you forget right

But like not The Silence or False Hydra

Like it makes you forget

Like imagine the horror or realizing something is really wrong, running to your car, and realizing you no longer remember how to drive

For some reason your walks seem so much shorter

If you even remember how to walk

Or talk

[7nuh]

MR. SILVAIR YANDERE DRABBLE !

CW 𓂃 gn!reader, yandere!Mr. Silvair, loss of limbs, canon-typical violence, captivity

Mr. Silvair is very interesting to me because he rejects you, but I can definitely see him eventually adoring you like a cute little unruly pet that doesn't know any better.

What made you so interesting to him in the first place is your desperate struggle to hold on to your humanity. Out of all of the unfortunate idiots who made their way here, you survived the longest with your sanity in tact. It's so impressive that Mr. Silvair actually thinks you have a chance of making it back with your mind in one piece.

A part of him wished you had stayed in his lab for longer so he could pick you apart in closer detail, but he knew that would lead him nowhere. What Mr. Silvair needed was progress— for your sanity to deteriorate.

And the change is drastic. You were once a trembling good-for-nothing that would have likely died in two days without Mr. Crawling's help, but now you bite. Now you can twist limbs and tear torsos apart with your bare hands. Now you roam these hallways as the predator searching for prey, and, soon, you'll become another one of the many bloodthirsty residents here.

Not that Mr. Silvair would allow it to get to that point, though, as he proceeds to restrain and detain you in one of his many cells. Why would he allow the perfect test subject to slip away from his fingers so easily? As a token of your short-lived friendship, he even went out of his way and gave you a clean cell! He also arranged occasional visits from Mr. Chopped (but never Mr. Crawling) whenever you stayed docile long enough on the operating table. Nevermind your many escape attempts and increasing hostility, you'll understand soon enough.

In there, you're safe and that's all that matters. It's your temporary abode away while you 'rehabilitate', a safe space where you can't hurt anyone or yourself. You used to be so bothered by the lack of limbs, but you've stopped resisting. He thinks you're starting to learn how inconvenient it is to be in this helpless state— how futile resistance is. You're starting to behave.

Mr. Silvair observes that you now like getting headpats these days. Maybe a few kisses here and there to remind you of your long lost affection for him. Mr. Silvair can't accurately assess whether you hate it or not, though. What happened to the good old days when you used to run to his door for safety whenever you got chased down by something much larger than you? Now you hate this place when it used to be your only space of rest and respite.

As a special treat, he brings you interesting knick knacks that should remind you of your human life. But really, it's a special treat for him because he enjoys watching you pretend it's not making you miserable to be reminded of your past life. Either way, you'll take any positive attention you get from him, no matter how condescending, over the long hours on that wretched table. You can bark and hiss all you want but it doesn't change the fact that you crave any sense of normalcy, even if it comes in the form of his twisted affection for you.

It's cute, almost. Mr. Silvair enjoys being relied upon by something that was once so terrifying. He enjoys reducing you and chipping away at your autonomy, from the physical to the mental. He's at least self-aware enough to acknowledge that it's no longer a research project to him, but a perverse achievement to have you like this.

As interesting as it was to watch your descent into madness, Mr. Silvair wants to break you apart and be the one who puts you back together. It really doesn't matter how many times he has to break your limbs until you've learnt your lesson.

[diejager]

if you don't mind can i ask for your take on civilian s/o and yandere makarov? i wonder how he behave around an s/o who's like the opposite of him (like they're kind, gentle and has not known violence ever). hcs or short scenario or anything depends on you i don't mind (there's a drought of makarov content tbh 😮‍💨).

thanks for considering this and please take your time. have a good day 😚.

”Love” Cw: manipulation, obsessive behaviour, delusions of love, humain training, forceful taking, verbal abuse, tell me if I missed any.

Makarov doesn’t love. He knew how to, but he never truly did. He couldn’t with the heart and mind he grew up cultivating, to build his empire and strength, dwindling his heart’s empathy. Ironically, such ignorance towards love only increased his obsession, the amount of it that would only climb higher and higher, because in a sense, the loss of such emotions lead to a loss of a limit, driving him to insane lengths to achieve what he had his mind on.

He only knew death and bloodshed, the destruction of the mundane and corruption of the innocent, being the source of the rot and decay in the cells of a flower, to make it wilt and dust. Perhaps that’s where his interest in the normal stemmed, that curiosity that would someday bloom into obsession. He searched for an object of obsession, something - someone - to put all this attention on, something tangible, solid under his hands and malleable to his intentions. Despite his lack of time to dawdle, to spend on meaningless affairs, he found the perfect subject, someone so starkly different from him and his world.

There was a dichotomy in Makarov’s world, the harshness of war, battle and conquering of countries, and the deceptive softness in his eyes, the gentle touch of his scarred and calloused hands, and the coo with his sly tongue. You were the only softness in his life, a civilian he -one day - decided to pick up from the streets, bright-eyed and innocent to the horror he saw and spear-headed. Your tired eyes untouched by his mind and your scarless body free of any conflict that he could start with a simple wave of his hand.

There’s a need in his mind to see this innocence wilt away, to pry your mind of any autonomy and freedom you’ve lived with. Makarov wanted a doll, something soft and precious he could corrupt with words and ruin with his hands, deceptively gentle and loving, a poem spilling from a cruel smirk and eyes gleaming darkly. He has his ways to turn you into a thing of his imagination, to make you into his willing Russian doll, layer over layer of maliciousness and subservience.

He’s a man of culture, letting the people under him do all the dirty work. Despite all the viciousness and madness in his being, he doesn’t hit, he doesn’t abuse the object of his obsession, that was reserved for men lower than him, poor and mindless men. Rather, he preferred manipulation, well-thought words used in right situation to have you crawling back to him for safety, protection and comfort. He wanted you to come to him on your own, to make your pliant and uncaring of the wider view. He, after all, took you for himself, to endure himself in a second source of power.

Makarov has a silver tongue, whispering words into your ears that take root, your doubts and fears growing in the depth of your heart, bringing you closer to the man who promised to protect you. His fingers wiping away your tearful cheeks, pearly gems rolling down your cheek as he teases you about being worried. You shouldn’t be so fearful with him beside you, he’s your warden, your all-powerful and dependable lover.

He won’t let a shred of suspicion towards him fester, it’ll be dealt with swiftly with the call of your name, breaking down your vulnerable mind and building it back up in his image, his opinions were yours, his thoughts were yours, his goals were yours. So much so that you were his, knowing fundamentally that whatever he said goes.

”мой маленький цветок,” he mumbled, pressing his lips against yours, hands soft but wandering, laying down chains over your waist, around your dainty wrists and tightening the collar around your neck, keeping the hold on your mind, “You did so well, I’m proud of you.”

Positive reinforcement. He often used positive reinforcement to deepen his hold, to sink his teeth into your clean soul. Sweetened words with a voice he taught you to crave and possessive touches of bloody hands with intentions that he blinded you of, finding a way to make you want them.

“What do you say?” His hand traveled up your jaw, featherlight fingers cradling your ear and cheek until it stopped under your chin, tilting your head to look at his narrowed eyes, proud and dark.

“Thank you, Vladimir.”

He smiled, a thin-lipped grin.

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @dont-mind-me-just-existing-sadly @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @kaelysia

[writingwithcolor]

What Makes an Ethnic Villain "Ethnic" or "Villainous?" How Do You Offset it?

anonymous asked:

Hello WWC! I have a question about the antagonist of my story. She is (currently) Japanese, and I want to make sure I’m writing her in a way that doesn’t associates [sic] her being Asian with being villainous.  The story is set in modern day USA, this character is effectively immortal. She was a samurai who lost loved ones due to failure in combat, and this becomes her character[sic] motivation (portrayed sympathetically to the audience). This story explores many different time periods and how women have shown valor throughout history. The age of the samurai (and the real and legendary female warriors from it) have interested me the most, which is why I want her to be from this period.  The outfit she wears while fighting is based on samurai armor, and she wears modern and traditional Japanese fashion depending on the occasion. She acts pretty similar to modern day people, though more cynical and obsessed with her loss. She’s been able to adapt with the times but still highly values and cherishes her past.  She is the only Asian main character, but I plan to make a supportive Japanese side character. She’s a history teacher who knows about the villain and gives the protagonists information to help them, but isn’t involved in the main plot otherwise.  Are the way I’m writing this villain and the inclusion of a non-antagonist Japanese character enough to prevent a harmful reading of the story, or is there more I should do?

Why Does Your Villain Exist?

This makes me feel old because David Anders plays a villain with this kind of backstory in the series Heroes starring Masi Oka. 

I think you want to think about what you mean when you say: 

Villainous (In what way? To whom? To what end?)

Harmful (What tropes, narratives and implications are present?)

I’m relatively infamous in the mod circle for not caring too much about dimensions of “harm”. The concept is relative and varies widely between people and cultures. I don’t see much value in framing motivations around “What is less harmful?” I think for me, what matters more is: 

“What is more true?” 

“Are characteristics viewed as intrinsic to background, or the product of experiences and personal autonomy?”

“Will your portrayal resonate with a large audience?”

“What will resonate with the members of the audience who share the backgrounds your characters have?” 

This post offers additional questions you could ask yourself instead of “is this okay/not okay/harmful.” 

You could write a story where your antagonist is sly, sadistic, violent and cold-blooded. It may not be an interpretation that will make many Japanese from combat backgrounds feel seen or heard, but it’s not without precedent. These tropes have been weaponized against people of Japanese descent (Like Nikkei Japanese interned during World War II), but Japan also brutalized a good chunk of Asia during World War II. See Herge’s Tintin and The Blue Lotus for an example of a comic that accurately showcases the brutality of Japan’s colonization of Manchuria, but also is racist in terms of how Japanese characters are portrayed (CW: genocide, war, imperialism, racism).

You could also write a story where your character’s grief gives way to despair, and fuels their combat such that they are seen as calculating, frigid and deeply driven by revenge/ violence. This might make sense. It’s also been done to death for Japanese female warriors, though (See “Lady Snowblood” by Kazuo Koike and Kazuo Kamimura here, CW: sexual assault, violence, murder and a host of other dark things you’d expect in a revenge story). 

You could further write a story where your antagonist is not necessarily villainous, but the perceived harm comes from fetishizing/ exoticizing elements in how her appearance is presented or how she is sexualized, which is a common problem for Japanese female characters. 

My vote always goes to the most interesting story or character. I don’t see any benefit to writing from a defensive position. This is where I'll point out that, culturally, I can't picture a Japanese character viewing immortality as anything other than a curse. Many cultures in Japan are largely defined by transience and the understanding that many things naturally decay, die, and change form.

There are a lot of ways you could conceivably cause harm, but I’d rather hear about what the point of this character is given the dilemma of their position. 

What is her purpose for the plot? 

How is she designed to make the reader feel? 

What literary devices are relevant to her portrayal?

(Arbitrarily, you can always add more than 1 extra Japanese character. I think you might put less pressure on yourself with this character’s portrayal if you have more Japanese characters to practice with in general.) 

- Marika. 

When Off-Setting: Aim for Average

Seconding the above with regards to this villainess’s story and your motivations for this character, but regardless of her story I think it’s also important to look specifically at how the Japanese teacher character provides contrast. 

I agree with the choice to make her a regular person and not a superhero. Otherwise, your one Asian character is aggressively Asian-themed in a stereotypical Cool Japan way (particularly if her villain suit is samurai-themed & she wears wafu clothing every so often). Adding a chill person who happens to be Japanese and doesn’t have some kind of ninja or kitsune motif will be a breath of fresh air (well, more like a sigh of relief) for Japanese readers. 

A note on characterization—while our standard advice for “offset” characters is to give your offset character the opposite of the personality trait you’re trying to balance, in this case you might want to avoid opposites. You have a villainess who is a cold, tough “don’t need no man” type. Making the teacher mild-mannered, helpful, and accomodating would balance out the villainess’s traits, but you’ll end up swinging to the other side of the pendulum towards the Submissive Asian stereotype depending on execution. If avoiding stereotypes is a concern, I suggest picking something outside of that spectrum of gentleness to violence and making her really boring or really weird or really nerdy or a jock gym teacher or…something. You’re the author.

Similarly, while the villainess is very traditionally Japanese in her motifs and backstory, don’t make the teacher go aggressively in either direction—give her a nice balance of modern vs. traditional, Japanese vs. Western sensibilities as far as her looks, dress, interests, values, etc. Because at the end of the day, that’s most modern Japanese people. 

Sometimes, the most difficult representation of a character of color is making a character who is really average, typical, modern, and boring. 

- Rina

[sonic-au-collision]

SONIC AU COLLISION: ROUND 1

click to see full image

Shadow Barbie AU belongs to @curetapwater [link to fic series]

Content Warnings: kidnapping, unethical experimentation, and mind control/loss of bodily autonomy

Descendants AU belongs to @a-dream-journalist

Creator Note: CW along all three acts include child abuse, fantasy racism, drugging [sorta], attempted murder, and suicidal ideation.

Explore each world below the cut!

Shadow Barbie AU:

Shadow the Hedgehog is the prince of a kingdom filled with magic, wonder, and danger. Born from the cauldron of genius sorcerer King Gerald to heal Princess Maria, he is dedicated to defending his kingdom from the many challenges it faces. He discovers hope, love, and the power that dwells within him.

An in-progress, four-part saga told via increasingly loose adaptations of 2000s Barbie movies. The first installment is Shadow and the Magic of Pegasus, and upcoming is the sequel, Shadow and the Diamond Castle.

Descendants AU:

Mobius has lived peacefully for nearly 20 years, but soon-to-be king Sonic is ready to shake the culture. His first proclamation: invite the children of the Isle of the Lost, erected 20 years prior to punish scoundrels and almost-innocents alike, to the mainland for a better life. Even the progeny of the most malignant Black Doom is invited, and the chance simply cannot be passed up. With thirst for vengeance and a spellbook in hand, Team Dark sets their sights on the Emerald Scepter that formed their island prison and whispers of release for the villains.

Yet this world whispers something else as they adjust to their new life. Omega isn't as quick to bare their cannons, Rouge quite enjoys her work being appreciated, and Shadow is taking way too nicely to this pestering blue hedgehog in the way of his plans. Perhaps the poison apple falls further from the tree than they thought.

Magical hijinks, familial trauma, fae politics, prissy pink princesses, and love spell cookies are a must.

[snakesartblog]

I spent a day or two digging through BKMN for analysis, and I’ve got some interesting stuff to share! 

CWs: referenced sexual assault, murder, pregnancy

I'm writing this so that anyone could read it and have some understanding of it, even if they haven't read BKMN. This isn’t a formal essay and there isn’t one specific point that I’m getting at, but I’d argue that the central theme of the story is desire vs coercion.

WEGG

Wegg is the protagonist of BKMN and the symbolism around his storyline isn’t particularly subtle. It’s about finding acceptance as a man, especially following loss of bodily autonomy in sexual assault (unfortunately tends to be viewed as feminine). Following debatably consensual sex with the Swans, Wegg is cursed to die every month, a pretty clear parallel to menstruation, and then he “gives birth” to Calum. The connections from the assault to these things, very dysphoria-inducing for many transmascs, and his need to find meaning and masculinity of his own, I think exemplify the central theme of the book.

His desire for  masculinity and acceptance are very present through the entire book. Even his mannerisms and speech seem very intentionally masculinized, especially in contrast with mild-mannered Neighbor. I’d be surprised if this wasn’t purposeful on his part! In a symbolic sense, he finds acceptance and recognition with Neighbor, another trans person, when he explains his need to die each month and Neighbor takes it in stride. Despite the loss of autonomy he experienced and how it continues to affect him, he finds a place for himself among other trans people. Moreover, he’s homeless - lacking acceptance and community - until he moves in with Neighbor, and when he says that he doesn’t typically eat enough, from then on we see Neighbor cook or buy him food constantly. The symbolism here is pretty strong I think! Wegg feels that he is only accepted or loved when performing a femininity that he hates (as victim/messiah for the Swans and also demonstrated in the flashbacks to his past) until he finds others like him. 

NEIGHBOR

Neighbor is a super interesting way to write a trans character and weave transness into their storyline, in my opinion. It’s established from the first few pages of the book that he kills people, but specifically people who he perceives as harmful to others. Despite filling a classic “violent cis man” niche, a serial killer, he’s aware of his situation and power differentials around him and directs his necessary killing towards at least a less harmful route. Even the very first person we see Neighbor kill, in the opening of the book, is heavily implied to be the target because he committed sexual assault against his partner. He also doesn’t kill out of a desire to do so, and the moment Wegg offers his own blood, giving Neighbor a way out from the murders, Neighbor jumps at the opportunity. Compare this with Rarold, who I’d argue is a foil to Neighbor. They’re both relative outsiders in the community, they both butt heads with Tillman in one way or another, and they both kill people - but Rarold kills only because he wants to, he has no need to do so like Neighbor, and he is exclusively seen targeting young women. Rarold represents the sexist violence typically found in the stories of real-life serial killers, and in doing so makes it clear that Neighbor is not that kind of person.

Neighbor’s position in the town is also interesting, especially in comparison to Wegg’s. Neighbor is a member of the Baths community, arguably due to the services he provides for its members, but he’s still an outsider; no one knows him that well, he has no friends until he meets Wegg, and Tillman gets a bad vibe from him. In the context of this narrative about transmasculinity, there’s a lot there - Neighbor passes as a man thanks to his deal with Trudy, and he pays dearly for it with the murders he enacts. He asks Tillman not to disclose his first name, a name he never uses, to anyone following their trip to the Trudy temple “for safety purposes,” a mirror to the way any stealth trans person might talk about a legal name they never changed. Neighbor is accepted as a man in this pillar of the community, traditionally masculine provider role that he’s built for himself, but he’s still an outsider, and knows that he would risk losing the support of those around him were he open about his transness. To maintain his personal safety he trades openness regarding his identity, close relationships with those around him, and his conception of his own morality (he says multiple times that he doesn’t consider himself a good person due to the murders he has to commit). Even so, despite his lack of close ties to the cisgender people in the community and his idea of himself as a bad person, he tries to direct his killing to reduce the harm he’s doing, he helps Tillman find Trudy, houses Wegg, and does chores for, like, half the town of Baths. Despite his position, he clearly cares about the people around him and wants to be a positive influence.

As a note, there’s a bit of Biblical symbolism connected to Neighbor, but it’s not consistent. I couldn’t find a properly reliable source for it, but the internet says that the name Adie was originally a diminutive of Adam. He built his own body, making him his own God, and was cast out from Eden (became an outsider in the community) in the process. His original body was also burned on a cross following his deal with Trudy!

THE GODS

I think the conflict of the story is most concisely exemplified in the conflict between Trudy and Calum. Trudy represents desire itself, as the book very explicitly tells us. She’s the snake in Eden of Neighbor’s symbolism, and her devotees follow her very willingly. Trudy’s religion is decidedly voluntary, she grants her followers’ desires and only takes what they’re willing to give. She requires Neighbor kill people because it’s within his capacity, but Tillman isn’t required to harm others at all - dealing with Trudy is morally neutral and never seems to be forced. Calum, on the other hand, was forced onto Wegg, and represents a loss of autonomy for the power of others. The followers of the two gods are juxtaposed, especially in the ways Wegg and Tillman are treated as new followers of Calum and Trudy respectively. The fight scene between the two gods in the climax of the book is symbolic of the central themes of desire and consent.

[curetapwater]

Barbie AU: Sonic the Hedgehog

(the layer his back quills and tail are on is hidden, oops)

Sonic is a commoner that attacks Shadow in the woods.

...

Lemme elaborate.

(spoilers for Shadow and the Magic of Pegasus, and CW for kidnapping, unethical experimentation, and mind control/loss of bodily autonomy)

Sonic the Hedgehog is about the same age as Prince Shadow. He doesn't talk much about what his life was like before Eggman, but we know he's been an orphan for as long as he can remember, and grew up a drifter who took care of himself. He'd travel from village to village, living off what he could and enjoying life despite it all.

All that changed on an ill-informed venture into the Forbidden Forest when he was 15. What had started as a daring little excursion became a nightmare when it turned out an up-and-coming evil sorcerer was using the place for his underground lair.

The human, who Sonic would jeeringly call Eggman, took note of Sonic quickly. The strength, the speed... same species, same general build... yes. A fine test subject for perfecting the spell Lord Ivo planned to cast on that lab rat who thought himself a prince.

Sonic was snatched up and became the first victim of a curse that coats the victim in metal and gives Eggman control of their body.

Sonic fought back, of course. His will was so strong, the curse could only last for 20 minutes at most before Sonic broke free and tried to escape. Unfortunately, this cycle only meant that Eggman was given plenty opportunity to fine-tune and perfect the spell.

Then came the prince's birthday ball. Sonic tried. He honestly, truly, tried to break out of the spell this time. He got so close, but in the end, he still stole the magical Chaos Gem from the king's lab. He still handed it to Eggman. And Eggman still used his newfound power to remove Princess Maria from the line of succession.

The chaos caused by the princess going up in a burst of cyan meant the last portion of Eggman’s scheme could not be executed as intended. Ah well. If he could not steal the prized palace pet, he still had quite the consolation prize. And with a Chaos Gem, now he could make the metallization permanent.

Banishment did not deter Eggman. He merely set up shop in a newly constructed castle of ice, and set his warrior upon the kingdom. Over the course of 50 years (he hardly aged in his metal casing), Sonic took a backseat in his own mind and watched himself rip the Robotnik kingdom to shreds, and erect the wasteland of the Eggman Empire in its place. Eggman cursed anyone who disobeyed him, and further maintained order by magically creating an army of metal constructs.

Sonic’s will boiled deep within him for those decades, until finally, FINALLY he was able to overcome the curse by sheer force of will. Eggman left him for dead in the Forbidden Forest and immediately set about constructing a fully metal replacement that would heed his every command until he could finally get his hands on his first target.

Sonic, meanwhile, was found by a young fox who went by the nickname Tails. He took him back to his home, the base of an underground (literally) resistance movement called the Freedom Fighters. Warming up was incredibly slow, and it stung every time he saw people understandably flinch away from him.

But he was able to find his own crew. Tails, who was different in his own way and empathized with Sonic’s sense of alienation. Amy, an orphaned tweenage hedgehog he saved from the metal copy Eggman had replaced him with. And Knuckles, who had left his home in Angel Mountain to stop the man who had destroyed it from doing the same to another nation.

In the year he spent with the Freedom Fighters, Sonic gathered a few skills such as blacksmithing (thank you, Tails) and swordfighting (a welcome change in combat style after decades of destruction with his bare hands). He met others outside of the Freedom Fighters who had managed to carve out a life for themselves, such as a certain hawk he found he loved to race against.

Things were starting to look up... until they weren't. Numbers began to dwindle more and more. Including Knuckles.

Morale dampened significantly, and Sonic couldn't help feeling eyes on him once more... He was test subject zero. He served the kingdom to Eggman on a silver platter... Now, what if his presence was bringing destruction once more.

Then Eggman got Tails.

It was the final straw. Sonic packed a sack of essentials (including Tails' old blacksmithing tools), his sword, and snuck off in the dead of night before he got Amy hurt, too.

He's been in the Forbidden Forest for the past six months, trying to destroy the constructs constantly spewing from Eggman’s oldest layer. If he's gonna bring destruction wherever he goes, may as well go where some good might come of it.

It's here where he sees a strange figure. Black fur, pink stripes... but what would that sheltered palace boy be doing all the way out here? It must be a new construct. Time to run it through!

How was he supposed to know the prince had just woken up to the mess his kingdom had become, and had struck out to save it?

@sonic-au-collision

[stanfordpreppedarch]

"No. No you don't. You don't get to quit. We don't get to quit in this family. This family is all we've ever had." #StanfordPrepped - An independent HBO reboot of Sam Winchester from the CW's Supernatural. A study in: Co-dependency, Loss of autonomy, regaining autonomy, overcoming guilt and self hatred, self love, finding your path, working through trauma, self sacrifice and more.

Loved by: Jared/Sammy