#and I mean this kindly not in an internet condescending way

[squidkidnerd]

While I do agree with the general principles of the Anti-Brainwashed Callie Movement (her s2 arc is more complicated than “she was kidnapped by the octarians,” she was struggling mentally and sought the octarians as an escape), I really don’t like how it forces One True interpretation of canon that isn’t 100% fully backed by in game evidence. Like, they often use real world hypnosis as an explanation for how the hypnoshades work (aka they just make Callie more obedient to suggestions) when like, there’s no evidence in the game to suggest they work like that. And ultimately, I think it’s possible to have a more nuanced Callie arc with brainwashing involved because it’s about the execution of the trope, not the trope itself. I think a lot of people who adhere strictly to this interpretation don’t understand that and thus balk at the mere implication that Callie is brainwashed without even considering there may be more nuance to it.

[persephone-is-here-omg]

Being Venezuelan on social media is a frustrating experience, to describe it one way.

A lot of espaces in social media are meant for English speakers, which means you have to speak English to interact with others. That's fine, I am of the believe knowing more than one language is good for you. Unless you're Venezuelan, talking about Venezuela... In that case you're a CIA plant or can only be White & Rich™️.

As a Venezuelan on the internet you're supposed to care about every single problem in the world, and you have to post about, and then you have to prove that you care, and you have to be gracious and meet people in the middle to help them understand our situation even if they are condescending and, really, have no interest listening from venezuelans in Venezuela or out.

Y'all will play the label Olympics, but when it comes to Venezuela y'all won't care about the most important label to talk about it being Venezuelan. Y'all willfully and unironically will believe the wakiest shit about this country, like that time you made it your mission to spread the lie that LGBTQ venezuelans have ALL THE RIGHTS when venezuelans in Venezuela have been telling you for years that is not true.

Venezuelans on social media have to prove to you that we deserve basic shit, like running water, electricity, and the freedom to criticize the government. And then when venezuelans do not take kindly to being talked down to and accused of not knowing what is happening in their own country, or what they're living... Y'all want to play victim. As if you haven't been treating the lives and experiences of Venezuelans as a way to prove how much of a leftie you are and how "anti-imperialist" you are. As if Russia, China and Iran aren't interfering in Venezuela. But I guess that's fine, 'cause as I was told by someone on this very site... Is okay as long as it isn't the USA.

[chairofchaos]

You Deserve Better, and Other Points for Reflection

Hey friends, listen up. Real talk for a second, because nobody deserves this. And, in case anybody cares, I want you to know I come with 12 years of learning on this exact debate we have been having, because I had some very excellent fandom mentors in my communities and in the form of my uncles, who to this day support me writing and reading whatever hell I please, even in the face of protest from my immediate family. There was a lot of learning I had to do to be here with you now, and I am thankful for those people who were willing to tell me so.

If you want to post memes and think pieces and jokes and poems about a fandom debate, go ahead! You create the experience you want to see on your dash, and you will find your people.

If you want to discuss a fandom debate (a little or a lot), go ahead! I’m all for thinking through how we live and act and exist as a fan community.

If you feel that you need to take those things and turn them into vitriol to pour into the DMs and Anons of people who are running a fan week, that is not okay. Not in the slightest.

There is a big difference between debate, discussion, creative protest, and joking around, and intentionally using your words to create harm in someone’s life.

“But, Chaos, this [thing not directly sent to you/not specifically intended for you] hurt my feelings!”

Okay. Get burned once? Great! You learned something: don’t touch the hot iron again. (To translate: block the tag, block the person, whatever you need, and move on. If it isn’t for you that’s ok.) Hurt feelings are to tell you what you can and/or are willing to handle. If you don’t want to see it, block. (I love blocking tags it’s one of my little joys in life lol)

“Chaos, somebody said something really rude to me to my (virtual) face! What do I do?”

Well, you can either respond or you can block. Either way, it will probably help you to move on.

If you are responding, I beg you to keep one thing in mind. I want you to picture 7 year old you at the other end of that message. Or 13 year old you. What kind of words did they deserve to hear in a moment when maybe they weren’t getting something? Use those. Use them kindly, not in a condescending way, but in a “I want to explain this as gently as I would to my younger self” kind of way. If somebody keeps being mean, it isn’t worth it. Please use the block feature and move on. They are not worth your time.

Additionally, I would encourage you to do this: the “touch grass” mentality is something I only direct at myself. (I literally told myself to go touch grass yesterday, and there is at least one person who can corroborate that.) I stand by that decision every single day. It’s kept me out of a lot of trouble. Directing it at others does not end well, but directing it at yourself can be a good way to reflect and to consider sensible actions in the face of overwhelming situations or emotions (of which I experience many).

“Chaos, people are coming into anon and being hateful. Or just rude. Or they’re dumping triggering material into my anons.”

That is on them. That is not on you. They should not do that. And I am so sorry you are dealing with that. I’m going to be honest, I don’t know if you can block from anons (I’ve never even needed to look and so help you all if this is the post that makes me) but if you can, do. I will do what I can to help, if you need it. Regardless of where you stand on any of these issues, because I will not stand for hatred.

“I’m mad about [redacted] and I am going to be rude/mean/intentionally putting triggering material in people’s inboxes and activity feeds!”

You do that and you will be in a world of hurt, my friend. A world of hurt from yourself.

Because we create the experience we think we deserve. If you create an internet experience where it is acceptable to be hateful, vengeful, and downright cruel to other people, that is the experience you will receive in return. You deserve better than that. And if you believe that you deserve better than that but the people you’re directing cruelty towards don’t, then I want you to hear me: you will quickly find that you are not welcome anywhere. There will always be someone to disagree with. There will always be (at least) minute discrepancies in the way two or more people think, even people who are deeply similar.

Hurt the hand that reaches to help you- one day it will be raised against you in hurt as well.

As for me? Well, for that, I leave you with thoughts from George Washington’s Farewell address as paraphrased in Hamilton’s ‘One Last Time’:

“Though, in reviewing the incidents of my administration, I am unconscious of intentional error, I am nevertheless too sensible of my defects not to think it probable that I may have committed many errors.”

I am not a president (and thank god for that because who wants Chaos in charge of a country?). I am simply a fandom member. A writer. A little chaos gremlin lurking behind trees in the forest.

But like Mr. Washington, I am aware that I often fail to live up to my standards and principles. And I hope, truly, though it is wildly uncomfortable for me, that you would call me out for ways I have failed to uphold them, either in the past or in the future. (It would be super great if you like… called me out in DMs and didn’t put me on blast but oh well.)

I am in at least four other major (international, GIANT) fandoms. I am not hopeful enough to think that the ACOTAR fandom will learn from the fandoms of yore. We will have to weather these storms on our own, even with the knowledge and experiences already there. I think that’s okay. Disappointing, perhaps, but okay.

Since this post was much longer than it was intended to be, I will summarize:

If you are intentionally putting hateful materials in the inboxes, DMs, and activity feeds of people you disagree with, you will hurt yourself.

You create the experience you think you deserve, and in doing so, create that experience for others. Good or bad.

Block tags, block blogs, block what you need to enjoy the space. You will find your people.

Being intentionally cruel to other human persons is how you end up finding that nobody is “your people” because you created an environment where no one wants to be. You will be lonely and sad. Don’t make yourself lonely and sad.

I am certain I fail to uphold these principles at times. Feel free to call me out if you see me failing at these. DM appreciated, but I’m the one who invited you to do so so I’m not going to say “don’t blast me on main.” My funeral, I know.

[humanitys-strongest-bamf]

listen i'm really sorry that you are being targeted for your weight. you are right! bmi is bm-bullshit. in the friendliest way, though, your last post is giving racist. "very chinese"? i'm not sure what you mean, or if you are actually chinese and feel you have the right to say that. if that's the case, i can sort of understand.

just wanted to kindly let you know that the way it appeared to me... it didn't read great. i doubt you intended it to sound that way, which is why i thought i should let you know how it came across.

Oh nooo I’m so sorry, I should have clarified!!! Yes I am Chinese lol, I’ll prob delete just so others don’t get the same vibe because I’m too autistic to tell what communities I should and should not make these comments to lakdkskfkskfj

tldr; I am Chinese with parents and in-laws from mainland China that I challenge on these topics, considering ethnocentricity and how social justice can be intricate in that context, husband and I follow content creators (x and x) that embrace our stereotypes through comedy, I’m a dumbass and didn’t realize that it wouldn’t translate well onto a text-only blog where my face and background is not apparent, this is actually a very micro aggressive ask and triggered me a lot so i ranted at the end and you can read at your own risk

To explain, this is a personal gripe that my husband and I have a lot with traditional Asian cultures in that sizeism isn’t really recognized and we challenge both my parents and his parents on those worldviews to limited degrees of success. Both his parents and my parents are from mainland China and while my parents have been in the US for a while, his haven’t (he’s an international student), although they are much more willing to listen to me when I challenge them

On the other hand there’s the whole thing about not forcing Western views onto non-Western cultures, which is why this is a delicate balance to walk and I rarely bring it up to them directly because I don’t wanna seem like I’m shitting on them too much, but I’ve been trying to push it a bit more recently because he’s struggling with a lot of body dysphoria and I’m trying to nip it in the bud

Anyway, I’ll prob delete the post and I’m so sorry it came off that way!!! My husband and I and our lil Chinese community joke a lot about our own stereotypes a lot (see Steven He and Uncle Roger for more well-known examples), and I completely forgot that it won’t seem that way to people outside of the community or on the internet where race/ethnicity isn’t as apparent. 🥹

EDIT: okay y’know what, I’m gonna be a bitch for a second and just lyk that approaching it in this way is incredibly rude and condescending and I can kinda get it because you didn’t know I was Chinese, but I am incredibly triggered right now so I’m gonna rant and ramble in that this message, even if it’s “nice”, is incredibly self-righteous and all of this could have been avoided had you just DM’d me or even said “yo that post might not sit well with people jlyk”

and I get it. Not everyone knows about how those type of callouts can be harmful, but to say that I’m not allowed to talk about my own community in a way that IS used as a valid form of coping just pisses me the fuck off and is triggering all the invalidation issues. I'd like to clarify that this ask itself is not what is racist and triggering but your comment as an outsider about how i "might" think i have the right to say that is very much gaslighting-type behavior because y'know what, I DO have a right and i can't really get myself to care about you understanding why i have that right. google exists. chatgpt exists. do your research.

Just like how cishet folks will never know what it’s like to be queer, or how people that aren’t BIPOC will never know what it’s like to be BIPOC, *my* experience as a obviously Chinese person in a very white society that is literally trying to exile us due to a virus that isn’t even our fault is not something that any outsider can ever truly understand. So yes, taking my voice away is furthering that oppression and I encourage you to educate yourself.

[lowtaxsa]

How to Be as Annoying as Humanly Possible

Welcome, dear internet denizens, to the online world - a magical place where sarcasm and mean-spiritedness are as essential as air and water are to our feeble human bodies! I, Lowtax, the Czar of Snark, will guide you on this journey to being the most irritating internet troll the world has ever seen. Buckle up, buttercup, because it's going to be a bumpy, passive-aggressive ride.

Overuse Emojis and Acronyms Like Your Life Depends on It 😂😂😂

Nothing screams "I'm a bumbling Internet Neanderthal" quite like using emojis and acronyms ad nauseam. Hey, who needs the rich tapestry of the English language when you can just use "LOL," "OMG," and "WTF" to express every emotion? Toss in a few emojis to truly drive home your emotional incontinence. 🥳🥳🥳

Adopt a Condescending Tone and ALWAYS Assume You're the Smartest Person in the Room

You know that expression, "When you assume, you make an ass out of you and me"? Well, screw that. In the world of online communication, you're a goddamn genius, and you should make sure everyone else knows it. Be sure to correct people on their grammar, question their intelligence, and generally make it crystal clear that you're doing them a favor by even deigning to speak to them.

Get Real Personal, Real Fast

Nothing unnerves your online adversaries quite like taking a deep dive into their personal lives. Go ahead, stalk their social media profiles, find their embarrassing posts from 2009, and kindly remind them of their awful haircut. Tanya, my delightful partner in crime, has a pro-tip for you: use Google Earth to find their house and then comment on their landscaping choices. "Nice azaleas, but your lawn could use some work" should do the trick.

All Caps, All the Time

Who needs nuance when you can just YELL EVERYTHING AT PEOPLE ALL THE TIME? Using all caps is a fantastic way to convey that you are both incredibly passionate and incredibly obnoxious. It's the digital equivalent of shouting through a megaphone in a library.

Use Memes to Make Your Point (Because Why Not?)

Why express your own thoughts when you can rely on a stale meme to do it for you? The beauty of memes is that they can be as condescending, annoying, or downright offensive as you want them to be. Plus, you'll look super cool and hip, which is obviously your primary concern as a dedicated internet troll. 😎

Never, Ever Admit You're Wrong

Admitting fault is for chumps. In the cutthroat world of online communication, you're never wrong. Even if the other person brings out indisputable evidence proving you incorrect, just double down and shift the goalposts. Remember, you're here to be as irritating as possible, not to learn or grow as a person.

Flood Their Inbox

A classic trolling technique: overwhelm your target with messages until they submit to your superior intellect (or just get fed up and block you). Send them walls of text, one-liners, or a relentless barrage of emojis. If you've got the stamina, you can even engage in some good ol' fashioned copy-pasting. The key is to be as obnoxiously persistent as a telemarketer on speed.

Play Dumb

Oh, this one is a gem, courtesy of my beloved sidekick, Tanya. Feign ignorance like it's your job. Pretend you don't understand basic concepts, ask inane questions, and make your opponent explain everything to you like you're a child. The more exasperated they get, the more satisfaction you'll derive from their misery. It's a win-win situation.

Be as Offensive as Possible (But Don't Forget to Hide Behind "Humor")

Ah, the pièce de résistance of any aspiring troll's arsenal: offensiveness. Be as tasteless, crude, and politically incorrect as you can muster. But remember, always cloak your vile comments in a thin veil of "humor" so you can feign innocence when people get upset. "It's just a joke, man! Can't you take a joke?" is the perfect response to any criticism of your tactless, garbage behavior.

Burn Bridges Like a Pro

So, you've annoyed the living daylights out of everyone you've encountered online? Congratulations! Now, it's time to burn those bridges like a professional arsonist. Sever ties with everyone you've tormented, because who needs friends when you have an ego the size of a cargo airship? Make your dramatic exit by posting a scathing manifesto, and then sit back and revel in your glorious solitude.

And that, my fellow keyboard warriors, is how you become the most obnoxious, infuriating internet troll the digital realm has ever seen. Remember to follow these simple steps, and soon you'll be the bane of every online community you grace with your presence. Happy trolling, my sardonic pupils, and may the snark be with you.

[darthplagueis13]

Personal rule of thumb when dealing with toxic people online

Don't be too obviously rude or condescending, but instead stick to the tone of a kindly grandma answering a silly question from her sweet little granddaughter.

I mean, if you aren't calling the alt-right conspiracy theorist "sweety" or "my dear" in your responses, what are you even doing with your life? Wanna know why I don't do drugs? I don't have to because if I want to get a high, I just need to imagine the reaction of some edgy 14 year-old who believes that PragerU and Ben Shapiro have trained him to become a paragon of truth and morals on the internet to being belittled in such a seemingly kind way.

[honeysidesarchived]

WHERE THERE IS NO TEMPTATION, THERE IS NO GLORY.

⊱ a santino d'antonio / oc short-fic

pt. iii: tra i due litigante terzo gode ( read on ao3 ) ( masterlist )

words: 3.6k

warnings: mentions of animal death (canon-typical), clown on clown violence.

rating: m/t

notes: putting this little project of mine up on the internet for strangers to see was incredibly nerve-wracking, but i have been so lucky to be received so kindly by folks! thank you to everyone who reads, it really means the absolute most to me.

i don't know if i mentioned this before, but you can find translations for the (google-translated) italian at the bottom of each chapter on my ao3. i know it's a hassle, i'm sorry!! just can't find an easy place to put them here without spoiling what's going on in the chap ʕ •ᴥ•ʔ

thank you as always to my lovely beta @starcrier, my lover my life my shawty my wife; this could not be done at all without you. ♡ and to @belorage, who loves euphie enough to send me the cutest message that managed to kick my ass into gear to get this chapter edited!!

Two days after the engagement party, when Santino has finally made up for his delay and lateness, is when he ruins it all again.

Later, Euphemia will think that he can’t help it—he is destined to be a wrecker, a ruiner, even if it’s for himself. It’s not his fault, not really, she’ll say. Ignoring that he is a perfectly autonomous adult means that she can excuse his thoughtlessness and not call it selfishness.

One of Santi’s men tries to tell her that he’s busy as she strides through the museum, heels clipping the floor with a strict, stark cadence. The smell of the doctor’s office is still stuck in her palette. She feels a wad of anxiety, anticipation, coiling deep in the pit of her stomach, a black stone dropped there to torture her with its heaviness. Santino will be happy, she thinks absently, chewing the inside of her cheek as she moves. He’s always wanted this.

The man is keeping pace with her well enough, despite her long legs and the purpose with which she walks to one of the back rooms of the museum.

“Bella,” he says, reaching to stop her, “per favore, he is in a meeting.”

The words put a sour taste in her mouth. Busy, the man is trying to say, too busy for you, for this, right now.

“Trust me, Gianni,” she replies dryly, “he’ll want to make time for this.”

She takes two steps into the room past the other guards, who don’t bother trying to stop her. The room is marked primarily by a high ceiling, which allows all of the paintings to be hung in it in their varying degrees of size. Euphemia recognizes Santino sitting on the bench first, and then another man that he’s talking to. The man looks like he’s just come off of the streets, his hair dark and the scruff that she can see on the side of his face manicured enough to look like he just hasn’t bothered recently.

It takes Euphemia’s brain a few seconds to register the facial features of the man who turns to look at her over his shoulder. He would be nothing, mean nothing, to her if she didn’t see the way his expression flattened, his gaze sweeping over her—calculating. Measuring. Identifying.

He looks dirty, unshowered, covered in soot, and she thinks back to two nights ago when Santino showed up to their engagement party smelling like fire and gunpowder.

Santino stands abruptly. He might be angry, or perhaps worried; it’s hard to tell the difference with him. But she can’t look at him, anyway, her gaze fixed on the stranger who is not much of a stranger at all, who she knows because of the scary stories. The rest of the world may as well be melting down around her, some sick Van Gogh painting, and she can’t look away.

John Wick has dark eyes. Shark’s eyes, she thinks. Black, soulless. Like the glass eyes on a teddy bear. She feels her stomach lurch as fear washes over her in a slick, wet wave, reminding her that she’s already received one bout of stressful news this afternoon.

He watches her. She’s sure he’s sizing her up—that is what John Wick is made to do—but after a second, he glances to Santino, gauging his reaction. If he thinks she's any kind of a threat, he's not letting it show.

“I told you not to let anyone in,” Santi says angrily to Gianni, helpless behind her—because Gianni would have never dared to grab her arm to stop her, would have never thought it acceptable to handle her like street rabble.

“Santi,” Euphie says, feeling very small and very far away and somewhere that her body isn't, “who is that?”

She knows, but she wants to hear him say it.

He steps around the bench, excusing himself from his conversation with Wick and crossing the space between them to guide her out of the room with his hands on her arms. She lets him, not because she isn’t burning with rage but because if Santino doesn’t show her where to go, Euphemia will just stand there, fear driving icy-hot spears through her chest.

He takes her as far as around the corner of the room, maybe to put as much space between her and John Wick as he can afford, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. She starts to shrug his hands off of her, and oh, there it is—the shrieking, panging fear, and fury, boiling inside of her. Venomous, indignant. Her mind is a mess of color and noise and she’s vaguely aware that maybe she should be working hard to keep her voice down, but it no longer matters.

A lot of things shouldn’t have happened that did. What’s one more?

“You brought him here?” She can feel her voice bordering on hysteria. “Are you a fucking idiot, Santi? What part of I don’t want John Wick near my life—”

“Euphie, Euphie, Euphie,” Santi says, trying his sweet-talk; condescending, like he’s speaking to a child. “Lower your voice, tesora, and we’ll talk about it.”

Her hand moves of its own accord, a knee-jerk reaction to Santi sweetly telling her to shut up, and she slaps him. Hard. As hard as she can manage. The second her palm connects with the side of his face, and the needles start stinging in her palm, she thinks that she regrets it: but all she can really think about is the pure fear and rage coursing through her body, pummeling adrenaline through her bloodstream until she feels like she’s going to be sick.

And, a little, too, a warmth blooming in her chest: satisfaction.

Santino's head doesn't turn back to her right away. There is a heartbeat of a moment where only silence reigns, where his fingers reach and touch the place her palm had made contact with, like he can't believe she did it. Maybe he can't, but then he'd be a bigger idiot than Euphemia thought.

He turns to face her again and holds up a hand—perhaps to call for a moment of inaction, or to be prepared for a second blow, she’s not sure and she doesn’t care. Santi begins, his voice a low threat, “Do not do anything else you're going to regret, Euphemia.”

Anything else you’re going to regret, he says, as though she will regret having done this.

“Fuck you,” she snaps, her voice rising in volume further yet. The poison reverberates on the high, smooth glass ceiling, bouncing off of the marble walls until it’s all echoing around them. “He knows what I look like, what—what I sound like, he knows my name, Santi, you—”

She's pushing him, hitting his chest; an impatient and weak battering. She wants both to get him away from her as much as possible and keep him close. Santi catches her wrists with bruising force, trapping her and making her look at him.

“Euphemia, basta—if you had waited,” he bites out, “then—”

“I’m pregnant!” The words leave her in a visceral, furious shout, her heart thundering in her chest, her flight or fight demanding one or the other. She rips her wrists from his grip. It feels like her entire body is vibrating. “You fucking idiot—I was late, I just got back from the doctor, and—and you’re not supposed to have him here anyway! You promised me, Santino D’Antonio, you promised me!”

There is a heartbeat of time, of space, where her fiance stares at her like he doesn’t quite think that she’s real. Red blooms on his cheek where her hand made contact and the dark of his pupils has all but swallowed up the beautiful green of his irises. Finally, something seems to kick the gears back into motion, and he plunges on, catching his footing.

“Euphie,” Santi says, reaching for her again, “Euphie, listen to me. John came to me, I didn’t—”

“I don’t need a fucking history lesson, Santino!” Euphemia spits, brushing his hand away from her arm. Blood is rushing through her head, louder and louder, demanding she raise her own volume to be heard over it. “I told you to leave him alone. You insisted, and I thought that was the end of it—you came late to the party that night because of him, isn’t that right? So why is he here, Santi? Why is John Wick near me and my baby?”

Santino stares at her. She can see the flex of his jaw when his teeth clench, trying to maintain what shred of control he has. He swallows, lifting a finger, to indicate one minute, and it takes all of her self-control not to scream at him that he doesn’t get any more minutes. But there is some pleasure in seeing him a little ruffled; to see the way his eyes dart over her face, trying to keep everything collected neatly in his mind, filed away for premium use. She wants to shake him until he is really rattled.

“It may have taken more persuasion than I anticipated,” Santi says finally, at last.

Euphemia makes a sound something like wrecking, like grief, because she knew this was going to happen and he told her it wouldn’t but here they are anyway. It’s a death knell, ringing in her ribcage, in the cavity of her chest. Dead, dead, dead, we’re all fucking dead now, don’t you see it? You, and me, and now our baby, dead like stones.

He continues quickly, over the sound of her agony, “But that doesn’t matter—cara mia, listen to me, it doesn’t matter because now John will do what I ask him to, and we don’t have to worry about anything else. Euphie, Euphie—come here, we'll talk about this.”

She’s going to be sick. The doctor’s words are still rolling around in her head; avoid stress, make sure you sleep and eat well. Can’t be worrying that baby, can we, Miss Volpe? Make sure your fiance does all the work, hm?

“It does matter. It matters the most, Santi, I—I told you to leave him be, I told you, and you said that you would only ask and that would be it—”

She’s grieving, now, lamenting the loss of her happiness, the hysteria taking a melancholic edge in her voice as the sorrow sweeps over her. Santi keeps reaching for her, to try and ground her back to him, and for the first time since she met him she just can’t stand to feel him touching her, saying her name, trying to sweet-talk her. His hands sweep her shoulders, coming up for his thumb to brush the nape of her neck; instinctively, her shoulders scrunch up to disembark them, arms shoving his off of her.

He says, “Tesora, we can talk about this—”

“You did exactly what I asked you not to,” she manages out, taking a step back from him. “I ask you for two things, Santi. Helping my mother, and not putting yourself at war with John Wick. I do not—you should not have asked him at all!”

“Euphie—”

By the time Santino reaches for her again, she’s turning and walking away, her steps unsteady. She’s sure that she’s sweating, or crying, or maybe both or neither and her body is just kicking into overdrive with gut-wrenching sweeps of grief rocking through her body now that she’s got Baba Yaga fifteen feet from her. From her and her baby.

“Euphie!” Santino’s voice echoes down the main hall of the museum, lighter now. Almost like they never argued at all. “We’ll talk when I get home, si? Mi amore?”

Euphemia is certain she’s never heard a sentence more infuriating in her entire life. It sparks something violent in her. It had been dormant, had stepped aside for her mourning, but it catches fire the second Santino says, we’ll talk when I get home.

Incensed, she turns and slides the engagement ring off of her finger, throwing it as hard as she can at him. Gianni had been trailing her, certainly at Santino's behest, and he tries to stop her—but it's too late, the fury inside of her forcing her to move more quickly than Gianni anticipates.

He catches her around the waist and she considers, briefly, the logistics of wrenching Gianni's arm off of her to go and slap Santino again; instead, she watches the expensive engagement ring bounce off of the front of Santino's jacket and clatter on the floor.

The way he tilts his head, as though expecting her to lob it at his face, and the irritated expression that comes over him is almost as good as actually having hit her original target of that pretty face of his.

Then, it’s pure, sheer, furious indignation that crosses Santi’s face, but she has no time to think about what that means for her.

“Fuck you, Santi,” she bites out venomously. “Fuck. You. Don’t fucking bother coming home.”

“Bella,” Gianni says, “we should get you back.”

Euphemia debates slapping Gianni, too, but it would be unfair; in his defense, he did try to keep her out of the room. She turns and marches her way out, the doors slamming shut behind her and the cold air of New York in the fall washing over her. As Gianni speaks on the phone and calls the driver around, she glances up at the sky; gray and soft as wedding silk, it stretches, endless, cut in pieces by the skyscrapers parsing it out.

A fool, she thinks. Santino has always made a fool out of me, and this is no one’s fault but my own.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

Two hours later, Euphemia hears him enter the loft. He lets the door click shut softly behind him, not slamming it, not storming through. She expected no less; Santi so rarely lets the anger really take hold of him, so rarely lets himself scream or yell or throw something. I’m marrying a fucking sociopath, she thinks, but there’s no heat to the thought; only exhaustion, only a tiredness that goes bone-deep

Even now, she still thinks of it as present tense: she’s marrying a sociopath, as though she didn’t try to hit him in the face with the engagement ring he picked out for her just hours ago, as though in the end, she will still be his. She will.

“Are you calmed down?” Santino asks, in the way that only he could manage—condescending, and soft. Euphemia can’t withhold the vicious scoff that rolls out of her the second he talks.

“I told you not to come home,” she replies tartly, “but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You are apparently as deaf as you are stupid.”

“So no, then.”

“What do you want me to say, Santi?” Euphemia demands, looking at him now. She’s got a suitcase out but there’s nothing in it; she can’t bring herself to pack, to think about going back home to Tuscany where her mother is waiting, barely sober because she can only stay sober for about a month at a time before she falls back to her old habits. “Why don’t you invite our friend John Wick up for dinner, hm? I’m sure he’d like that, after you did whatever you did to make him show up here. Perhaps you took a page out of that idiot Iosef’s book and killed his new dog?”

“He owes me,” Santino insists, glossing over her needling, “and I will get what I am owed.”

She has to resist the urge to roll her eyes. “Do you know how fucking stupid you sound?” she asks, incredulous. “If I die before telling you how incredibly, disgustingly stupid you sound when you say that, then I will—”

Santino kisses her. He does it because he knows that she’s not expecting it, and it has its desired effect; she stills, all of the furious energy like bottled lightning capped again. He kisses her softly, with no rage, but she can feel it woven into the sinew of his posture.

She thinks about slapping him again. But he probably knows that, because he grabs her hands, gripping them in his; the pressure is more relaxing than it is infuriating, which almost drives her mad, but it does what Santino always does. It pulls her apart until all that’s left is the hurt, the fear, welling up inside of her like a tidal wave crashing into the shore.

“He’s doing what I asked,” he murmurs. “And then we’ll be done with John Wick. Mia piccola volpe, look at me.”

“No,” she says, trying to sound angry but it comes out an agonized sound; she’s crying before she can stop herself, tears burning the edges of her eyes and a big, wet gasping breath necessary for her to keep going. “No, I don’t want to look at you anymore, Santi—”

“He’s doing what I ask, and then I promise, you and I will be done with John Wick forever.” His voice is urgent and insistent. “The three of us, tesora. Isn’t that right? You weren’t just saying that to get back at me?”

She nods, numbly. They had been careful, because she’d said she wasn’t ready—but mistakes happened. Pills got forgotten. She wishes that she could have lied about it and kept it secret. Maybe he’d be acting differently now if she wasn’t carrying his child; maybe his face would be something else.

“Euphie,” he whispers, taking her face in his hands. “My perfect, gorgeous Euphie—my greatest piece of art.” He kisses her cheeks, her nose, her forehead. “And the one with the most bite, too, even when you are so ungrateful for the things that I do. My face still hurts.”

“Good,” Euphemia manages out, her voice wobbling. “You deserve it. Idiota.”

“Maybe,” Santi replies. He tucks her against his chest and kisses her hair. “I never thought I would piss you off enough to get you to hit me—and you did cause quite a scene in front of Wick.”

“Stop.” Just the sound of that monster’s name makes her stomach churn. “Stress is bad for the baby.”

He laughs, the first real laugh in what feels like days since he’s decided on this path with John Wick. “Fine, I will not mention him again. But know that after this, it will be done. Permanently. Forever. Si? Tell me you understand, Euphie.”

She’s so tired. She’s so tired down into her core, the kind of tired that doesn’t go away with a nap or a cup of coffee. “Si,” she replies, closing her eyes. “Capisco, Santi.”

Somehow, Santi’s words that things will be done “permanently” with John Wick only manage to make her more uneasy.

She can’t remember what exactly carries her through the rest of the evening. She remembers calling her mother to check on her, to ask if she’s keeping up with her meetings. She can’t bring herself to come clean about the surprise pregnancy; it’s early, anyway, and her mother would only stress her out more.

“Sei la mia stella più preziosa,” her mother says. “Ti amo, Effie.”

“Yes, mama,” Euphie sighs, unable to say the words back. “Buona notte.”

She hits the red end call button on the phone screen, setting it face-down on the countertop and leaning her palms against the marble. God, she knows that she’d fucking kill a man for a drag of a cigarette—but she could never. Not now. Not when she has—

The sound of paper on the countertop stirs her from her half-bent position. Santino slides it across to her, setting a pen down next to her hand. It’s their marriage certificate. He’s already signed it, and while she stares at it numbly, he takes her left hand and puts the engagement ring back on her finger, but this time with the diamond wedding band he’d picked out as well.

“Santi,” she starts, but he tsks his tongue, quieting her. She’s too tired to be offended.

“Sign the certificate, amore,” he says. “Do not fuss. You’re going to stop throwing this ring at me, yes?”

There are a million reasons not to sign it: but the words that came out of her mouth are, “We don’t have the witnesses or the officiant.”

“Do we need a witness or officiant greater than God himself?” Santino replies. He leans against the counter from the other side, watching her. He is polished, pristine. Any remains of her earlier transgression against him are now completely gone, at least the physical marks. She’s sure that he won’t forget very soon that she raised a hand against him. “Sign it, Euphie, and be my wife.”

She stares at the paper. She feels like she’s melting; her life can’t be real anymore, not when John Wick was, just hours ago, feet away from her, and she’s pregnant, and now Santino is asking her to sign their marriage certificate right now.

The implications fill her with dread. What’s the rush? If nothing’s wrong, if they’ll be done with John Wick, what’s the rush?

“You said that you had nothing before me,” Santino says, breaking her out of her eerie, absent-minded disconnect. He brushes the hair from her face. “You will never have nothing again.”

Euphemia signs the certificate in a haze. It doesn’t feel any different after; she doesn’t feel different and neither does Santino in relation to her, and the realization that they had felt married for a few years now sinks down on her.

Santino rounds the counter to her, taking her face and kissing her; her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, the corner of her mouth and eventually just kissing her. His hand smooths over her stomach, admiring, and he brushes their noses together.

“Perfetto e tutto mio,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible. “Isn’t that right, Euphemia?”

She replies, without thinking, “Si, sono tuo.”

Always, she thinks, always yours, whether I like it or not.

[aquillis-main]

To be honest with you, I am still a bit salty after the whole ‘Shadow poo edit’ that Tracey Yardley did a couple of months back. I had found Mike Pollock having retweeted someone getting mad that he wouldn’t do the whole ‘Snapcube piss on the moon’ speech when they requested it, which he explained calmly and kindly why he wouldn’t do it for them... Then they proceeded to do exactly what they planned in a more condescending way. Thinking he wouldn’t mind me airing out my grievances about Yardley (since the original retweet was 2019, old by internet standards), I decided to retweet it!

And then he liked and retweeted back! I’m very much amazed about that!

I mean, I understand the contract thing Mike Pollock has with SEGA to ‘not say what the people upstairs won’t allow’, but still. It aggravates me that people like Yardley are allowed to tarnish SEGA’s name all because he doesn’t have a contract with them.

[icewindandboringhorror]

Okay, here’s a final answer, just for clarification - 

- 

Firstly, please understand that I’m not angry, and I’m not upset. I just tend to speak very matter of factly, I guess? If I seem cold or something when typing this response, it's not a personal attack towards you or some display of aggression, that's just how I word things sometimes, I don't mean for them to be misinterpreted or want you to think I’m like getting mad with you or etc. Me disagreeing does not inherently equal me being mad about something, it merely means that I disagree, which is an emotion neutral action. If someone said 2+2 = 6, I would disagree, and openly so, but that doesn’t mean I’d also be like, crying about it or upset with them or something lol. 

 I actually even stated so at the end of my tags last time - 

 So, I apologize if you interpreted my tone as being mean, but I was simply trying to be firm and direct in how I said things so you understand that it's a very serious matter, and I didn't want to be light about it. 

There was a bit of jokiness/sarcasm/exaggeration as well I suppose, but again, that’s not an inherent indicator of upset, just the way I speak - especially when your question can be seen as rude to begin with (which usually leads people to care less about faking positive emotions or seeming polite to others. If a person is not polite to you, you’re not likely to watch how you communicate as much or attempt to display high politeness back). My default state is a neutral flatness as I have a very shallow emotional range (shout out to schizophrenia spectrum negative symptoms and other various issues lol), any excessive positivity or “perkiness” or something that I display is just an attempt to be polite and communicate with others in a simple and kindly manner (in real life I’m often seen as too stoic, blunt, detached, cold, etc. lmao, so in general communication with strangers I tend to overcompensate to being excessively polite instead) - but that also means I can accidentally drop that sometimes if I’m being “real” or whatever. 

-

Anyway, now that concerns over my tone have hopefully been explained, I’ll address this issue about your previous ask in a numbered list. Please read ALL of this, if you are actually taking this seriously. If you don’t actually read, in detail (no skimming), this entire response, then this is not even a discussion since you’re not willing to genuinely engage in the first place. -  

-

Firstly, here is the original ask, for reference  ----

 As for how your question can be rude: 

(1.) In my initial response (in the tags of your answer), I asserted various things, mostly that the question was rude, and that it’s not appropriate to ask people, for a variety of reasons. I’ll explain those in more length here. 

My main point is that even asking the question in the first place is rude. It doesn’t matter how specifically you word it, it’s not appropriate. Just like any personal issue. At least in my culture, it’s typically thought of as inconsiderate and inappropriate to ask random strangers personal questions. for example, it would be rude to approach a random stranger on the bus that you’ve never even seen before and ask them why the have the haircut they do, who their sexual partners are, if they’ve just had a death in the family, how well their marriage is going, what their gender is, etc. etc. 

-

-

(2.) On top of this personal boundary issue, another concern would be that the nature of the question itself is baseless -- 

Would you ask a cis woman why they're a woman? Or a cis man why he chose to be a man? Would you ask a straight person why they chose to be straight?

Would you find it acceptable and polite if a random stranger approached you on the street and asked you for an explanation as to why you're the gender you are? Imagine that exact scenario happening to you, and if you would find it odd or overstepping boundaries at all.  

I doubt you ask this same gender identity question to everyone in your life, to your parents, friends, the cashier at your grocery store.  Why is it only certain groups that need to explain or justify their identities to you? Only certain groups that you feel the inherent need to question? It's a double standard which further serves to prove the question itself is unnecessary. 

-

-

(3.) Additionally, in case you're genuinely unsure of tone (maybe you have difficulty reading social cues or something, that’s understandable) I will explain - the way in which the question was asked has certain implications. 

The statement “Why are you nonbinary? You seem like a pretty girl to me”, implies that - due to your beliefs about me/how you see me, you find it confusing that I could have a certain identity that you see as not matching your perception of me, or that you see as an invalid label, and are asking for me to justify or explain myself/my identity to you because of that. 

Even if this implied meaning was not intentional, it is what most people will interpret upon reading the question, and would be a commonly held understanding. There are other ways you could have asked the question which would be less condescending, yes, but again, the other points still stand (like that the question in itself is impolite to ask to strangers, etc.)

Again, revisit the imaginary scenario of a stranger approaching you on the street and asking you why you’re the gender you are - would there not be some of this implication present? For example, say you’re a man - would it not feel as if someone were questioning your manhood, or implying you weren’t truly a man, or must not be a man ‘correctly’, or that ‘man’ is not a valid label for how they see you? Why else would they approach you and ask you in confusion for you to justify your identity to them? The implication is that they don’t see you as a valid man, or at least not how they see a man, and thus are having a hard time accepting that someone like YOU could ever be a real man - that it’s hard for them to believe you are what you say you are, because they see you differently.

 -

(3.a)  As an additional sidenote (one which I addressed in the tags replying to you initially), your ask (as well as this more recent one) also made certain assumptions. There are plenty of people who ''look like girls'' or 'look like boys' but aren't as they “seem”, even if you're someone who only believes in a “binary biological sex model” (I’ll include some links at the end about this). It's strange to assume someone's body parts or identity just based off of pictures you see on the internet (which often have specific lighting, angles, or in the case of many people are even edited and etc. I don't do this but it's really common nowadays with phone editing apps and stuff). Just because I appear a certain way to you, in no way implies that I have the physical form and traits you assume I have Consider how you may feel invalidated or uncomfortable if people sent you messages assuming personal things about you that are incorrect or that they have no way to possibly know.

 Your standards and perception are also not universal, various cultures and groups have different ideas about what outward traits would make someone considered a “man” or a “woman”, so making your judgement of someone else’s identity based only on your own (extremely shallow, since it’s only from online pictures) perception of them, is also inherently a bit flawed. 

-

(3.b-ish side tangent) In extension to this, your ideas and how you view me are likely incorrect. Just as it is similarly true that, from afar, any assumptions I make about you would likely be inaccurate as well. We are strangers.

For example, if you really knew me, you would know that I don’t pride myself in costumes and makeup - It’s a fun creative activity for me definitely, but I feel no pride over it, I don’t do it to look good or seem a certain way, and actually I resent it in a way, because often it feels like people mostly only pay attention to blurry pictures of me looking silly in cheap wigs, but don’t give that same level of engagement to the other more important things I do that I personally care about 100x more, like my worldbuilding and other projects lol. Absolutely nothing against the people who like my costumes, I appreciate them of course!!, and I still love doing costumes - BUT, to imply that it’s a primary source of pride in my life or a characteristic that defines me over other things, would be a mischaracterization. 

Anyone who knows me in real life would certainly list a million other stand-out traits to define me, rather than ‘pretty make up woman’ (most people I know in real life would also not describe me as ‘pretty’ or as a ‘woman’, just for reference lol). 

Your one sided perception of me (which I’ll address in the next section) may allow you to have a shallow idea of me as some sweet pretty costume girl or something, but just know that the reality is more like: I haven’t had much time lately to do costumes because I’m working on a game and other art which I see as much more important, I haven’t bathed or brushed my hair in weeks because of mental illness/functioning issues, 99% of the time I’m not ‘’dressed up’’ - I wear the same pajamas and cardigan that I’ve worn for the past 3 years and barely wash to the point that it’s disintegrating and leaves fabric scraps around the house lol, I have a little moustache right now and a unibrow and other “””non-womanly”””” traits (at least by common media western standards, which is what I assume you go by), I’m excessively analytical, detached, and in real life you would probably see me as blunt and cold and cynical (also commonly missing social cues) - as well as being hugely asocial/ a hermit and mostly lacking the ability to form attachments to others (So definitely not  ~pretty and cute and approachable~ ghgg), I have obsessive compulsive disorder and am regularly so anxious that I’m throwing up and have various other issues - I’m also not Fun or Cool or Spontaneous because I’m too busy being rigid and high strung lol (even before the pandemic, I don’t like to leave the house or interact much at all with others, I’d rather be in my little controlled environment where I don’t have overwhelming sensory information and distractions raising my anxiety constantly),, and my favorite activities are literally all just stuff like pacing around my home alone talking to myself in different voices creating gods and fake religions for my fantasy worldbuilding while I eat boiled cabbage and light little pieces of paper on fire over a candle to help me think - not doing makeup and other Pretty Woman Things. 

Which I don’t want to be too harsh or focus on this tangent too much, since obviously as you don’t know me in real life, these are all things you couldn’t possibly be aware of, and it simply comes with the territory of posting publicly online - so I absolutely don’t blame you for perceiving me incorrectly. If “pretty” pictures are all you see, then that may very well be the only impression that you have. I just personally dislike this certain interpretation some people have seemed to have of me (you’re not the first person to think of me as a Pretty Makeup Girl or whatever lol), since it’s so completely opposite from the truth of who I am, I feel the need to explain it like this sometimes. Just accepting the false perception some people have of me without any argument feels disingenuous and like supporting a version of myself that doesn’t exist. 

 So anyway, no issue with you personally, but just trying to set the perception of me straight a little more accurately lol.. now, back on topic -- 

-

-

(4.) Lastly, and here’s the main thing I’d like to stress, there's the issue of personal boundaries. Again, you're a complete stranger to me, I don't know who you are, and you have no idea who I am. Even if you've followed me online for years and read every post I've ever made, you still have no idea who I truly deeply am, only a vague scattering of snapshots over time.  

-

Here are some definitions for Parasocial Relationships: 

“Parasocial relationships are one-sided relationships, where one person extends emotional energy, interest and time, and the other party, the persona, is completely unaware of the other's existence. Parasocial relationships are most common with celebrities, organizations (such as sports teams) or television stars.”

“Parasocial interaction (PSI) refers to a kind of psychological relationship experienced by an audience in their mediated encounters with performers in the mass media, particularly on television.[1] PSI is described as an illusionary experience, such that media audiences interact with personas (e.g., talk show host, celebrities, fictional characters, social media influencers) as if they are engaged in a reciprocal relationship with them. The term was coined by Donald Horton and Richard Wohl in 1956. “

-

This is all anyone can ever have with people they follow online. You can perceive them, but you cannot know them or truly understand them. I think this is very important to remain cognizant of in such a massive social media age, as often times people are fostering one sided concepts that are inaccurate or unhealthy (no so much with just you sending me a simple ask, but in a broader sense, how people act towards celebrities, other bloggers, etc. etc. seems to have little boundaries, and often results in a similar manner with people forgetting to maintain acceptable boundaries with those they follow or know about from afar). 

-

-- This next part is very important, I think it’s a super valuable way of thinking about this sort of stuff, so if you take away nothing else from this, at least remember this next portion -- 

A very good way to think about online boundaries that I heard someone mention in a post once (though I can no longer find the post), is to take whatever you're going to say to someone online, and imagine saying it in person, in real life, to a barista. Before you send an ask or make a comment, think about if it’s something you would really genuinely say face to face to a stranger. 

Would you walk into a random Starbucks and ask the dude at the counter a bunch questions about their gender identity? Or about his personal life in general? You probably recognize that that would be strange and socially inappropriate. It's similarly inappropriate in a case like this. 

Even though you may feel a sense of familiarity with someone online from reading their social media posts, or even speaking to them once or twice through asks and etc. etc., at the end of the day you don’t really know each other much more than you’d know a random stranger. 

Unless someone is inviting personal questions (like by reblogging those ‘ask me anything’ posts or etc.), or has the sort of blog where they are commonly asking people about/discussing their own intimate personal experiences or etc. (mine is not this way), then questions like this are very out of the blue and similar to asking a random person working at a store things like that. It can be seen as rude and inappropriate in general to give those sorts of questions to people who are complete strangers, and typically comes off as crossing personal boundaries. Again, think about a random stranger asking you these questions, and how you may perceive it. 

-

-

In summary: 

1. The question itself is borne from an double standard and isn't very good to ask in the first place. 2. The way you asked the question was worded  with certain implications. 3.  Your ask is also assuming certain things that you don't know are true, which can be uncomfortable for some people. 4. Even were it not for the three other things, it's commonly considered rude in many cultures to ask serious questions about the personal details of complete strangers, even if it's online. It could prove useful to utilize the ‘barista test’ to better determine this in the future. 

-

-

Final Thoughts: 

Anyway, I wasn't mad and I have no beef with you or whatever lol. Hopefully you can understand what I mean. I've also explained myself as well as I think I can though, so I don't feel like discussing it any more and won't respond to further asks about this. I have a lot of things going on in my life right now (as I'm sure everyone does given the pandemic and everything, you probably do too, so hopefully you can empathize with that), so I’d like to limit my time spent online, especially discussing topics I already don’t like to discuss or am not open to accepting questions about (I just want to talk about cats and elves and stuff lol). 

 If you still can't at least kind of get where I'm coming from then it's perfectly fine to just agree to disagree. If aspects of myself upset you or cause you discomfort, then there's no harm in just unfollowing me or something! Or if you don't even follow me, I would encourage you to block me so my posts no longer come across your dash (or block/unfollow me on whatever other social media you may be seeing my posts on ,etc)., etc. That way you don't have to see content or hear from someone who makes you uncomfortable that way, and there also won't be any need for this to come up in the future. Part of using the internet in a healthy and productive manner is to know when to disengage with certain content and just cut it off/unfollow/block people/etc. if it’s causing you unnecessary conflict or distress, or makes you uncomfortable or etc. to look at. Thank you for the question! Hopefully this response explained things a little better. 

-

-

Links and Further Info: 

On the off chance that you were genuinely curious, here are some resources where you can learn more about people of different gender identities and also hear them explain their experiences, etc.  Since these people are actually openly discussing their experiences/making educational content and are obviously actually open to talking about it,  that would be a better place to field any further questions or learn about things. :3

Here’s some reading - 

Understanding Nonbinary People (link)

Gender Variance Around the World (link)

12 Questions About Nonbinary Gender Answered (link)

About the Sex Binary (link)

Ask LGBT subreddit (link)

one ‘ask a nonbinary person’ blog i found (I don’t know if they’re still active, it’s one of the first ones that came up for me lol, but I guess could be helpful) (link)

-

And here’s some videos with people talking about their experience, or being educational - 

(NOTE: I just did a quick google search and did not deeply research these people and their entire histories and etc., so I can’t say I stand by literally everything they say or know what type of people they are, but it’s just a general place to start~!)

A video examining the idea of gender in general and how it even exists and nonbinary people (definitely interesting to watch) (link)

video about nonbinary gender/explanations (probably at least watch this one too) (link)

What is a nonbinary gender? (shorter general info) (link)

answering all your nonbinary questions q&a (link)

Video about binary sex/gender/etc. (link)

5 nonbinary people explain what nonbinary means to them (link)

another video about similar stuff (link)

-

[purplebenjy]

Forest For The Trees | Part 2

“Okay-keep your eyes closed.”

It was a few months later and Benjy was surprisingly happy being “the other woman”. When Forest was with him, he showered him with attention, and when he wasn’t, Benjy had time to put his effort into projects that mattered to him.

One of which had been looking up Dr. Forest Everly on Yahoo People Search. His wife was named Alison, and she had pretty red hair. They had two kids, according to the internet. Benjy didn’t know their names—their father had yet to mention them.

During the day, or the nights when Forest was able to “work late” and stay over, Benjy was able to convince himself that he didn’t care. That Alison and her red hair and her nameless children didn’t matter. That if anything, it was her fault for falling for someone clearly interested in men. It was her fault for having children with him. Was it was her fault that Benjy, try as he might, couldn’t control himself around her husband? What kind of person did this make him? Not only was he the cause for an affair, but if he was being honestly with himself, Benjy also thought the sneaking around and hiding it was hot.

So maybe he was a terrible person. Benjy could live with that. He hopes.

As for now, he’s got his hands over Forest’s eyes, leading him into the basement studio space in the art building that he gets to rent out as part of his scholarship. It’s Saturday, Forest’s key got them in—if they were seen together, they were just going to tell people Forest was mentoring him for his end of the year review. And in a way, it wasn’t a lie.

“Okay and....”

Benjy presses a kiss to the side of Forest’s neck, breathing him in for a moment, the butterflies in his stomach twisting up into his throat. Benjy takes a breath.

“Open.”

It’s a quasi self-portrait. It’s obviously his face but it’s distorted and open closer inspection, is actually made out of different triangles and squares. The left side of his face is wearing a melancholy expression, a triangle tear gracing his cheek. The left side of his face is completely in greyscale but as you move to the right side of his face, it becomes more colorful, vibrant, his eye closed, his hair blowing away from the peaceful right side. The shapes become rounder, with his right jawline looking almost hyper realistic save for the neon green it’s painted in. The rest of the painting devolves into bright splotches and splashed of color, getting bolder and brighter until a violet stripe bleeds off of the edge of the canvas.

Forest is quiet and Benjy plays with the ring on his thumb, nervously coming around between his boyfriend and the canvas.

“I uh, it’s called ‘After You.’Obviously I wanted to name it after you, but I couldn’t so....”

“It’s nice, Benj.”

Benjy has to stop himself from physically deflating. He knows what that tone means.

“Don’t lie to me Forest. You hate it.”

He feels stupid. For painting this. For showing him. For being proud of it. For wanting to cry—all of it.

“I don’t!”

“You do! You just—I can hear it in your voice, okay? You’re using your condescending teacher tone. And just-“

Benjy sets his jaw and looks up at the ceiling, purposefully not looking at him.

“Tell me what you’d say about it if you weren’t fucking me.”

“Benjy-“ Forest moves to touch his shoulder and Benjy shrugs him off, turning so he’s not facing Forest or his stupid painting. The silence is killing him and after almost a solid minute of it, Benjy wheels around, letting out a noise of anger, hating the tears that are threatening to form in his eyes.

“Say it!”

Forest sighs, looking from Benjy to his painted face.

“It’s just...derivative, Benjy. Like this doesn’t tell me anything I dont already know. It’s not showing me something I haven’t already seen. It’s just....”

He sighs again, giving Benjy a sad smile that makes him feel worse.

“It doesn’t say anything, you know?”

Benjy doesn’t say anything either, biting down hard on his bottom lip and getting very close to tears. Forest looks over and takes his hand, gentle and condescending as he speaks.

“It’s okay, honey. You’re still learning. You’ve got so much time to improve. It’s okay. Come here.”

Forest hugs him, pressing a kiss to the side of his jaw, and forcing Benjy to look at his derivative painting that doesn’t say anything. He pulls away slightly and takes his face in his hands, smiling at him as his thumbs swipe under Benjy’s eyes.

“You’re brilliant, you know that? So much promise. That’s why I’m tough on you. I know you’re better than this.”

Benjy doesn’t have the energy to tell Forest about the late nights he’d spent painting this, about how he’d blasted songs that reminded Benjy of them. He doesn’t tell him about Yahoo People Search or how he’d spent two hours mixing the purple so it looked exactly like what it felt like when Forest kissed down his spine. He doesn’t say anything other than “okay” and smiles when Forest brings their lips together. Predictably, the kiss deepens and Forest’s hands move down his back and cup his ass.

“Let’s get out of here, yeah? You’re driving me crazy in those jeans, honey. I need to get you out of them.”

Benjy laughs softly as he lets himself get kissed again.

“The pottery studio down the hall should be open. Give me a second? I’ll uh, clean up.”

As soon as Forest leaves, Benjy turns around quickly, almost feverishly, and stares at the painting for a second longer. Steady, eerily calm, he walks up to it and puts his foot right in the center of it, ripping his face almost perfectly in half, the portrait reflecting how he feels on the inside.

~

“Whats on your neck?”

They’d met up at a hotel, Forest paying for it, of course. Benjy knew he still felt bad for what he’d said about his painting, but he’d saved him the embarrassment of presenting that at his year end review. He’d gotten pretty good feedback, encouragement to push himself further, and Forest kindly had told him after the fact that the faculty all collectively viewed him as the best in his year. That wouldn’t have happened if Benjy had left To You in there, Forest all but said it. He was helping him, showing him how things were done properly. That’s what Benjy had tried to tell himself, but he was still hurt. And bitter. And those emotions had mixed with alcohol to create a perfect mistake.

When he’d met Forest at the room, he hadn’t noticed. Benjy’d covered up the evidence as best he could, and Benjy had decided to start off with a distraction, sinking to his knees on the plush white carpet as soon as the door latched shut. Forest had chuckled.

“Need something, Benjy?”

“Please.” He adds extra whine to his voice, hoping he can be submissive enough to get out of this.

“Please what?” Forest’s eyes dance as he comes to stand over him. He liked watching Benjy beg. He’d learned that early on.

“Please, sir, let me taste your cock-I need you. I need you to fuck my throat, I need you to leave me raw, I need you-“ Benjy lets out a sound somewhere between a moan and a sob as Forest grabs the back of his head and starts fucking his face. Benjy loses himself in it for a minute, relaxing and letting himself be pliable, moaning and meaning it as he tastes Forest, forgetting himself until the hand in his hair tightens aggressively and pulls him off.

“What’s on your neck?” Forest repeats, his voice harsher, tugging Benjy up until he pulls away and sighs, looking away. He hears the sound of Forest pulling his pants up.

“Benjy.”

“What?”

He turns to him, exasperated and done. He stares at the man he tries to convince himself he knows, even though it’s the furthest thing from the truth.

Quickly, viciously, Forest grabs Benjy’s hair again and yanks him over to him, bending him so he can look at the three blooming hickeys that definitely aren’t from Forest.

“What the fuck?! You’re hurting me!”

“I asked you a question, fucking answer.”

Forest pushes his head away, the bottles of wine they’d shared making his speech slur. For the first time, Benjy realizes he’s a little afraid of him.

Still, that doesn’t mean he’s not going to fight back.

“They’re what the fucking look like, Forest. Jesus Christ.”

Benjy suspects nothing he would’ve said was gonna be right, but he’s pretty sure that was the absolute worst thing he could say.

Forest’s voice is impossibly soft, but it’s not tender.

“You let someone else fuck you?”

Benjy scoffs, staring him down despite the blood pounding in his ears.

“What, you’re the only one allowed to sleep with other people?”

WHAM!

The punch comes out of no where and sends Benjy stumbling sideways, a noise of shock leaving him as he collides with the hotel room wall.

“You don’t fucking talk to me like that!”

“That’s what your wife’s for, right?!” Benjy’s ready for the punch this time, blocking him from hitting his face a second time and taking the hit on his shoulder. When he glances back up, Forest is winding up another perfect shot at his face, backing Benjy fully into the corner he’s in. There’s nothing left to do-other than beg.

“Forest! Please!”

The fear in his voice surprises them both, and as if coming out of a daze, Forest blinks a bunch of times, letting out a small gasp of disbelief as he looks at Benjy’s face. Benjy is still breathing hard, his right eye stinging like crazy from where he’d gotten hit, and the metallic taste in his mouth tells him his lip is split.

“Benjy...oh my god, Benjy.”

Forest reaches for him and Benjy backs up against the wall as much as he can.

“Don’t!”

“You’re right. You’re right. Oh god, honey. What did we do??”

There’s no “we” in the smarting in his face.

“Honey. Honey I’m so, so, so sorry. I’m just crazy about you. I hate the thought of losing you, I just go....crazy. I love you, Benjy. I love you so much.”

Benjy just stares at him, holding his hand to his face, trying to wrap his brain around everything that’s just happened.

“You’ve never said that to me before.”

Forest falls on his knees and all but crawls over to him. Benjy lets him grab one of his hands, and he stares down at him as he kisses his fingers.

“I mean it. I love you. So much. I can’t lose you, Benjy. Forgive me. Please.”

Benjy gets it now. Why Forest likes him to beg. Even after just getting hit, Benjy feels like all the power is his again.

He sinks to the floor, taking Forest’s face in his hands, meaning what he says even though the truth in it truly makes Benjy hate himself.

“Of course I forgive you. I think I love you too.”

~

“I have a surprise for you.”

They’re at Forest’s house. Allison had taken off for the weekend to visit her mother, and taken the kids that Benjy wasn’t supposed to know about with her. He had to admit it was nice playing house, though Benjy wasn’t sure how genuine the feeling was. Forest had gotten pretty drunk and kicked the shit out of him a few days before, and even though he swore it was the last time, Benjy had stopped believing that four last times ago. He knew now that he didn’t love Forest, but he was afraid. Afraid of what he would do if Benjy tried to leave, afraid of his future at Berkley if they ended, afraid of Forest’s connections, and how easily he supposedly could ruin his career.

Still, even with fear being the driving factor on his side, there were still good days. Great days, even. Like yesterday, when they’d spent the night naked under the stars in Forest’s heated pool. He was always so sweet on Benjy in the aftermath, always so sorry. Almost convincing.

Fall semester of his sophomore year was over, Christmas was next week, and when Forest slides a tiny little gift wrapped box across the breakfast table, Benjy can’t help but smile at the snowflake paper.

“Baby...you shouldn’t have.”

Forest just smiles at him and comes around from behind, putting his head on Benjy’s shoulder and kissing his cheek.

“Open it.”

Benjy does, expecting to see some sort of watch or jewelry, and feeling absolutely sick when he sees what’s in the box.

It’s a key.

No. He thinks. No, no, no.

“It’s for an apartment. This side of campus. It’s all paid for. And it’s yours, Benj.”

Forest kisses his cheek several times in rapid succession before laughing and pulling away to look at Benjy again.

“Once we get dressed I thought I’d take you over there, and we can get furniture from Ikea sometime tomorrow....do you like it?”

Forest’s voice edges into scary territory as he asks if Benjy likes it. Though his heart is in his stomach and Benjy wants to throw up, he stands, backing away from the table slowly. His heartbeat in his ears, Benjy looks at Forest. And for the first time in months, seeing anger in his boyfriend doesn’t strike fear into him-it pisses him off.

Forest could fuck him and leave him on the counter, he could mock his art, he could lie to him, he could even smack him around. But this? Buying Benjy an apartment he doesn’t need, moving him closer to him, fucking IKEA? It’s too much. It’s too far.

In that moment, Benjy knows, no matter what happens today, that they’re done.

“So what exactly is the plan with this?”

Adrenaline surges through him now and he feels himself stand a little straighter, ready for a fight. Not that Forest would hit him now, when they’re both sober and Benjy has a chance to fight back.

Forest laughs condescendingly. “You move in? And you’ll even have space to paint if that’s something you still want to do. You won’t have to be in that sketchy basement any more. I can come over whenever I want and we don’t have to worry about room mates or...”

“Wives?”

Forest glares at him. “You’re being really ungrateful, Benjy.”

“No, no, I’m just trying to get a full understanding of what’s going on. So, I get this apartment, and you get to fuck me at your leisure? For as long as you want, right? I’ve got a few good years left on me before I don’t look 18 any longer. Or maybe...” Benjy laughs without humor. “Maybe you do actually love me, and you’ll just fucking keep me there in that apartment, and lie to Alison about renting it out to people out of the goodness of your heart, and she’ll believe you, cause I’m guessing she’s a lot like me, and we have to believe you, Forest, otherwise we’re just fucking morons who’ve fallen for your bullshit. And then when your daughter turns 18, maybe you and Alison will finally have the fight where you tell her about me. And it won’t be because you feel bad for cheating on her for years and years, or for fucking a student, or even for fucking hitting me. No, you’ll only tell her about me if you know it could hurt her. Cause that’s what you fucking do you just...weaponize people. And turn us into-“ he cuts himself off cause his voice breaks. Benjy just shakes his head, tearing his gaze away from Forest and out the window. The

“How do you know about my daughter?”

It’s the scary cold. Benjy laughs again without humor and throws his hands out to his side as he looks back at him. “I’m not a fucking moron, Forest. You’ve got two of them, right? And you never told me, because you’re a coward. You’re a coward who can’t stop lying to himself for two god damn minutes, so you pile your lies on everyone else and then when it becomes too much? You lash out.”

The look on his face is only ugliness.

“You’re never fucking hitting me again. And I never loved you. I realize that now.”

Clad only in a loose pair of sleep shorts and a kimono, Benjy starts for the door, grabbing his wallet and keys off of the counter on his way out.

“You’re talentless.”

There’s no emotion in Forest’s voice as he speaks, his mouth twisted into a mean smirk as he follows Benjy out towards the front door.

“You’ll never amount to fucking anything, Benjy. Everything you’ve done and everything you do has already been done. You’re not original. You’re not going to ever be anything without me behind you. I’m the one who picked you for your scholarship, do you know that? I’m the one who told the faculty to renew you, give you another shot this year. What’s going to happen to you now, Benjy? Without me going to bat for you?”

It’s a threat, obviously, but it’s got enough clout behind it that Benjy’s hand pauses on the door handle. He looks at Forest, who sneers back.

“You’re nothing, Benjy. You’re a nobody, with nothing to say.”

He thinks back, to his painting, to the person he thought Forest had been. To the hope he hadn’t felt in months. To how Forest had taken something from him, and how, by kicking the painting, Benjy had let him-and that same anger boils to fullness, but this time, it’s directed at the right person.

“I’ve got nothing to say?!” He flings the door open and marches out onto the front porch.

“Let’s see if the dean of motherfucking students thinks I’ve got nothing to say! I’m going to ruin you, Forest. I’m every thing you’re never going to be, and I’m going to fucking destroy you.”

Fear crosses Forest’s face and Benjy grins, manic.

“Wait—Benjy, come on. Let’s talk about this, baby. Please? Or at least wait inside while I call you a cab?”

Benjy shakes his head once. He says something he should’ve said months ago, after that night at the club when he’d run into the pathetic excuse for a man groveling in front of him.

“I’ll call it my fucking self.”

[nerdylittoyvoid]

“Fall Risk” Pt. II

A/N: Hello again friends, I am back with another part for @writinginstability‘s writing challenge! I had way too much fun with this part so I hope you all like it, lemme know if my obscene sense of humor is making this work or not :)

Warnings: Swearing (Gavin’s always making this fun for everyone)

Y/N woke up to bright lights taking over her vision. She heard the steady beating of a machine beside her and the IV machine administering fluids. Looking down, she saw long IV tubes coming from her left hand, and a bandage cast on her right. How she landed up here was beyond her, the last thing she remembered was getting out of the car, grabbing Connor by the arm and running.

Looking to her left, she saw Connor sitting at her bedside. His eyes were closed, though you knew enough about androids to know that he was probably making repairs or updates on his software. His brown curls were disheveled and his tie undone – something that has never happened. The guy took every chance he got to make sure his appearance was up to par, seeing him in this state only alarmed her further.

“Connor?” Y/N asked timidly. Her mind was running wild at what could have possibly happened. She remembered nothing. Connor stirred, she supposed he simply was not interested enough to respond. He certainly was starting to develop selective hearing.

Taking in a breath, she tried again.  “Connor!” Connor’s eyes snapped open, moving to look her in the face. “Why am I here?”

For the first time, Y/N heard Connor chuckle. It was truly music to her ears and somehow was incredibly comforting. At least someone (even if it was an android) found humor in this situation.  

Connor opened his eyes and took a look at Y/N. She had scratches down the right side of her face, and was a bit bruised all down her right shoulder. “Well, Y/N, let’s just say that you aren’t allowed around trees or benches anymore.” 

Shaking his head, Connor gave Y/N a smirk.

“What?” Y/N demanded, clearly shocked. “I know I’m clumsy but how the hell did mess myself up like this? Did I break a bench?” Y/N’s eyes widened at her next thought. “Is the bench okay?”

Connor rested his index finger and thumb on the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. Something about the way she was acting, showing more concern over an inanimate object than her well being was… endearing? Yes, that might be the word for it. “Well, you grabbed my arm and started running towards a nearby park. You wanted to show me what it is to be ‘alive’ and subsequently tripped over a tree root and hit your head on the bench beside the tree.”

“Oh my god- “

“I appreciate your effort on showing me what deviancy has to offer. But, even though I am not as fragile as humans, I’ll pass.”

“No, no Connor. I just fell that wasn’t a demonstration of anything- “

“I called Gavin and Hank and explained what happened. I assumed it would be best to have those who know you well to be there during your recovery. I also contacted Captain Fowler to notify him that you will be taking time off of work to recover.”

“Connor, you shouldn’t have done that.”

Right before you could begin scolding him in walked Gavin. Wearing his typical leather jacket and jeans, he stopped in his tracks to look at Y/N, only to burst into condescending laughter.

“Well, well, well.” Gavin tutted while crossing his arms. “If it isn’t our favourite tree kicker.”

“Gavin, kindly shut the fuck up.” Y/N retorted. She groaned as a headache came upon her. Gavin, after all, did have that effect on people.

Hank walked in after Y/N and Gavin’s little exchange with a look of amusement adorning his face. “never a dull moment eh, Pinky” You groaned at the use of your adolescent nickname. All because you dyed your hair pink when you were sixteen, and now you’d never live it down.

“I hate all of you.” Y/N crossed her arms. She had a roaring headache, was most likely concussed and now she had another story that was going to be told at her wedding.

“I’m sure that both that tree and that bench could say the same about you.” Connor sassed back. This little quip of his made the entire room go silent, he was usually so literal. Connor joking was almost unheard of.

Gavin was the first the break the silence. “So, the plastic prick now knows how to joke.” He scoffed.

The visit continued as follows: Everybody made fun of you. That was it. It was about an hour into the visit that your arm started killing you, so the nurse topped you up on morphine. Gavin wasted no time in gaining footage of you high on painkillers for “blackmail purposes”.

After another hour, you were asleep. Gavin had returned to the DPD, which only left Hank and Connor.

Hank turned to Connor, seeing his LED blinking yellow once again and a frown etched onto his features. The damned LED always seemed to be yellow these days.

“What’re you thinking about, Connor?”

“Y/N got hurt trying to convince me that being deviant would result in a better quality of life. That I am alive. Why would she do something so foolish?” Connor’s gaze moved to her face. Scratches adorned it. He wondered if they would lead to scarring.

“She’s always been cartoon-ishly optimistic, sometimes naïve. I wouldn’t beat yourself up about it, Connor. If I know her well enough, she isn’t anything close to upset with you.”

Connor nodded. What was this heaviness he felt in his chest? Sadness, Guilt? Was it both? Was it even possible to feel more than one emotion in one sitting? “It’s not that I’m concerned about her being upset,” Connor lied, “it’s merely that she is such a great asset to our investigation, it’d hinder it by having her off work recovering.”

“Whatever lets you sleep at night, Connor.”

“I don’t sleep, lieutenant.”

Hank rolled his eyes and chuckled. “Whatever. When you can, look up what sarcasm means.”

**************************************

Y/N returned home a couple nights later. She was instructed by doctors to periodically take her pain medication to aid with her concussion and arm, as well as to stay away from lights and digital screens. Connor insisted on staying home with her for the first day that she was released, insisting that “The best detective at the DPD needed to come back fully recovered”.

Y/N blushed, poking fun at his attempt of flattery. “Connor, you, a machine that cannot feel made a personal compliment?” Y/N walked into her kitchen with Connor following suit.

Connor responded in a hushed tone, aware that loud sounds could cause her to experience pain due to her concussion. “It wasn’t a display of romantic or platonic feelings. It was merely a fact.” Connor stated. Somehow, he felt flustered, as if he was trying to convince himself more than Y/N of the former.

“Whatever- “

Connor cut Y/N off, “-helps you sleep at night? Hank noted that phrase as sarcasm while you were sleeping in the hospital last night. He told me to look it up.”

Y/N laughed at this, then winced at the loud sound as it had caused her head to throb.

Connor continued, “I took the liberty in looking up and beginning to master all figures of speech. I hope that it will help me better integrate with humans.”

Y/N turned around and flashed him a grin. With a joking tone Y/N retorted, “Stupid nerd.”

“An insult and an oxymoron all in one. Most impressive.” Connor said as he put a hand on his hip, using his other hand to lean on the kitchen counter.

“You’ve done too much research on sarcasm and sass. I don’t need another version of Hank at the DPD. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to play a video game from my childhood.” Y/N grabbed a Pepsi the fridge and walked to the living room.

“The doctor instructed not to be in front of any screens for the next 24 hours- “

“The doctor can kiss my ass, I spent 48 asleep in the hospital room. I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, head injuries are just a result of the brain smacking against the inside of the skull.”

Y/N chuckled at what she thought was Connor’s attempt at a euphemism. She thought he was becoming more and more deviant by each day.

She grabbed the controller for her old PS4, now considered a classic. She remembered her parents telling her about how they used to play this all the time before she was born, passing the hobby onto her when she was old enough. Oh, where had the time gone.

Connor scanned the controller, searching the internet to see what console it could belong to. “That console is 25 years old!” Connor had exclaimed for the first time, fascinated by the old technology.

“It is! My favourite game on it is Skyrim. Its in medieval sort of time setting on a planet with magic.”

Connor’s eyes widened. “Fascinating.” He muttered.

“You want to watch me play it? I can start a new character so you can watch the storyline from the beginning?” Y/N offered.

“I think I’d,” Connor paused. He’d never been in a situation where he’d like to do something. “enjoy that, very much so.”

Y/N looked shocked at his choice of words. He was developing likes and dislikes, seemingly growing out of his aloof and uninterested behavior. “Well,” Y/N began with a growing smile on her face, “Let’s get started!”

Connor and Y/N played for hours; Connor fascinated by how such old technology seemed to impressive and new to him, and Y/N fascinated by the look of pure wonder on his face. For once since Connor became activated, he was not focused on a mission, for his only task seemed to “just be” with Y/N.

A ‘system instability’ alert came up in Connor’s vision. He quickly ignored it. He felt that since his purpose for being here was serious enough (solving deviant cases and all), he might as well enjoy himself every now and then.

The conversation started to die down. Connor felt this was awkward as he thoroughly enjoyed talking with Y/N. He tried thinking of conversation starters but was stumped, he’d never been in this type of predicament before.

Connor resorted to searching the internet (since he had it built in to his program).

“Conversation starters”: 15 000 000 000 results.

Connor chose the first link he saw: “Good questions to get to know someone”

Reading through the list, he finally decided on a couple questions he felt would be best. With that, he cleared up his throat and began speaking.

“Y/N?” Connor asked.

“What’s up?” Y/N responded while taking a sip of her Pepsi.

Connor turned to Y/N, meeting her eyes. “Are there any recent or interesting events pertaining to your love life?” Connor inquired, tilting his head.

Y/N choked on her drink in response to the randomly personal question.

“Where the heck did that come from?”

“I searched the internet through my system on questions to start conversation, this seemed like the one that would produce the most reaction.”

“You got that right, why would you ask about my love life?”

Connor shrugged. “It seems like the subject humans are most passionate about. Talking, commenting on, or joking about their love life is very common in social culture.”

Y/N sighed, contemplating asking this question. If she kept the person- no, android she had her eyes on very vague, he wouldn’t find out, right?

She took another sip from her Pepsi, paused the game and turned to Connor. She positioned herself to be sitting cross-legged with her back against the arm rest of the couch. “What the hell, I’ll tell you. I do have my eye on this one person, though he’s very... unattainable.”

Connor nodded slowly. “Would you consider- “ Connor stopped, thinking of the term commonly used for mutually partaking in romantic activities.

“Asking him out?” Y/N asked, trying to finish Connor’s thought.

“Yes, that.”

“Well… No, I don’t think so. The risks are too high. Others would strongly disapprove and the relationship itself would be very complicated.”

Connor processed her answer and continued to pry, now very curious on who this mystery person was. The bubbling in his chest and stomach seemed overwhelming. Imagining someone else spending time with Y/N like he was, causing him to be with her less made this sensation worse. Maybe this is what jealousy felt like. “Are those the reasons, or is it really because you’re scared of being turned down?”

Y/N stopped, surprised by his next question. “You’re getting really good at this ‘asking questions’ thing, aren’t you?”

Connor shrugged.

“Yes. Mainly I am scared of being turned down.” Y/N admitted. “But the repercussions outside of that are very risky.”

“Y/N Y/L/N, the girl who has been playing video games for 4 hours after getting discharged from the hospital is afraid of risk.” Connor said sarcastically. He smirked at her when she rolled her eyes, amused at her reaction.

“I guess I’m more scared of rejection than brain injury.” Y/N joked. Hearing Connor slowly trying to get her to pursue a relationship with… well, him, was starting to make her uncomfortable. The smile she has put on her face slowly disappeared, leaving a frustrated and confused look on her face.

“I don’t know what to do, Connor.” Y/N sighed, defeated.

Connor felt the need to do something – no, anything to help Y/N. Feeling the need to ask for consent, he asked Y/N if she needed comfort.

“I know that humans enjoy physical interaction when faced with hard situations, I thought it may help.”

“That would be really nice, Connor.” Y/N gave him a warm grin, moving towards him.

Connor opened his arms, Y/N graciously taking the offer. She ended up with her head on his chest, listening to the sound of his thirium pump. The beating seemed to accelerate when she wrapped her arms around him.

“Strange,” Y/N thought to herself, “I thought androids didn’t experience physiological symptoms.” Y/N made a note to herself to ask Connor later, not wanting to ruin the moment.  

Y/N looked up to Connor, taking in his warm, brown orbs. She sighed contently. “Thank you, Connor. Truly.”

Connor didn’t say anything, going for a calm smile in return. They stayed there for a moment, looking into each other’s eyes. They didn’t say anything, for the silence surrounding them was calm.

It was as if everything was acting organically. Sensing the heat of the moment, Y/N was the first to lean in the slightest bit, Connor doing the same.

Connor’s pump accelerated considerably, a ‘signal instability’ alert popping up in his vision. He couldn’t help but think to himself; “Is this the right thing to do?”

Taglist: 

@layinglonely

[onewomancitadel]

I like how there is always someone trying to tell the author how to write the author's story. I just find it kind of funny. It's like they underestimate the author or they just want to ghost write their own story without actually writing it.

In the interest of psychoanalysis, I think that - especially for a WIP - there is a sense of ownership a reader can take over a story, for a multitude of reasons.

I don't find this inherently bad at all, because I think ownership in some way predicates involvement, and being involved in a story is good. I mean, it's been said to me people haven't wanted to rec my fic because they want to keep it for themselves - and that's adorable. It's like your favourite artist getting too famous (not that I am an artist nor famous) - or in my case, dating an infamous, controversial, and very political figure, having a baby with him, naming said baby an alien-name, and then breaking up with said infamous public figure, and now every time I MENTION such an artist I'm suddenly a fucking capitalist apologist---

where was I going with that

Anyway, my point is that even if I get upset when someone else tells me how to play with my dollies, there's explanation for that perspective. I don't get it, in the sense that, it's not something I make a habit of doing, but I think it also - additionally - comes from a place of The Right Way a Story is Told.

I had this bloke on FFN who messaged me relentlessly for months last year, lecturing me on why Jaune needed a gun, and I was really failing to tell my story properly. I thought he was quite unique - I figured this was his interest and he really enjoyed sharing what he was interested in. It tested my patience because I think that Jaune needing a gun is so far at the bottom of my list of priorities that it was just... not worthwhile, and also broke that connection he has with Cinder where neither of them use guns. Anyhow. This went on for a while.

My patience snapped because he said he hated seeing fics with potential 'break' when it came to technical details and he had to correct that. I think that understanding this psychology is useful. But the funny thing is that a) his understanding of the show's storytelling was clearly poor, particularly when he compared Jaune to John Wick and b) he only messaged me to correct my fic, not leave a comment, not even speak to me as one fan to another.

But the note of correction is the really interesting part. Because he didn't appreciate the thematic thrust of my own fic - he just felt that my fic existed to address issues in canon, and the biggest issue was Jaune not being outfitted with the correct equipment.

I feel that this concern with the correct masculine rendering of Jaune is particularly gendered. I mean to make no assumptions: but the worry and fear that Jaune isn't combative enough, or doesn't have a cool enough gun, or isn't enough like another male fantasy character is anxiety-inducing.

So it's both a worry about correction, ownership, and I think a gender fear. For me, I think Jaune's interesting because he's gentle, a healer, and also very strong, and sometimes very angry. He's not a classic masculine stereotype but he's not totally boxed into a feminine role either.

At the end of the day, we're all people here and we're all trying. I am a real person on the Internet, and when someone is condescending to me I don't take kindly to it. As I mentioned, I wouldn't have had an issue if it were just a friendly conversation!

Anyway, I do appreciate the support, I do feel bad making a mountain out of a molehill, but this is my fun space lol.

[rosemaryflannery-blog]

Switzerland Formally The Happiest Country On Earth.

Text is available under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike Permit; added terms may apply. Actually research reveals the opposite is true: joy doesn't just feel great, it actually leads to a wide variety of advantages for our efficiency, health and wellness, relationships and more. If Locke had quit below, he would be unique amongst the thinkers in asserting that there is no prescription for achieving happiness, offered the diversity of views regarding just what causes happiness. Thinking that the joy of mankind is finest promoted by the beneficial pursuits of peace, that on these alone a stable success can be established, that the wickedness of war are excellent in their endurance, and have a lengthy reckoning for ages to come, I have utilized my ideal undertakings to keep our nation uncommitted in the troubles which afflict Europe, and also which assail us on every side. The typical age of an African leader is 70, meaning many were born at the end of the colonial period, while 70% of African residents are under 30. According to the report, Africans' reduced levels of wellbeing and joy could mirror rushed expectations of freedom, while growing populaces are placing additional pressure on poor facilities. One of the most incredible point concerning the access is not just how useful or thorough it is, however, but exactly how it came to be. This Wikipedia interpretation is the outcome of virtually 6,000 edits by over 3,000 customers (including some crawlers) to the web page. What author seems to be inform both conditional joy (materialistic happiness) and unconditional joy (tranquility) are previous yet important is unstable and momentary. The trick to one's happiness is buried inside the procedure of distinguishing and acknowledging from these forces. It takes individuals from the city to the country, from Yoga-studios to diet regimens as well as right into an industry which assures to offer happiness. Then, in 2005, Lord Richard Layard of the London School of Economics published Happiness: Lessons from a New Science, and also ushered in a new era of state-backed psychological inquiry. One test for both happiness as well as sadness is the Favorable Affectivity as well as Negative Affectivity Schedule examination. I admit that I found the option rather influenced when Netanyahu turned to Oren to be Israel's UNITED STATE Ambassador. Simply puts, having way too much of one kind of joy might undermine our capability to have enough of the others-- so it's impossible for us to at the same time have all kinds of joy in muches. But in the context of business working as a consultant and individual coaching, joy looks completely different. If you beloved this report and you would like to obtain much more information about pulsomedico.info kindly go to our internet site. Happiness is not a coincidence, it is not given to you by life, it's totally our obligation. And also yearly, with John Helliwell and also Jeffrey Sachs, he creates the World Joy Record. With its mania for metrics, the research of wellness develops its proof from a because" instead of regardless of" ideal of happiness. If there remained in the world today any type of multitude of individuals that wanted their very own happiness more than they wanted the misery of others, we can have a paradise in a couple of years. But something uncommon taken place in the 18th century: The method individuals talked about happiness started to shift. Our all-natural state-- prior to we dropped intoxicated of other individuals's point of views, illogical anxieties, as well as approximate social guidelines-- is lightness, curiosity, discovery, admiration, and, yes, happiness. The sis are all rather fractured of mind - as an example Lara Flyn Boyle's personality plays a writer suffering authors block bemoaning the fact that she wasn't abused as a kid that can lend her work some authenticity - so she's thrilled when she gets an obscene phone from an among the several fat unsightly sex stressed dysfunctioning American neurotics that appear to be this seasons slim sexy film celebrity successes. With a couple of exceptions, the factor for every selection is right away evident, bolstered by distinctions in the procedure of the lines and also the proliferation of information. In his 2004 book The Paradox of Option, Schwartz wonders why is it that societies of fantastic abundance '" where individuals are used much more freedom and choice are currently experiencing a near-epidemic of anxiety. Google engineer Chade-Meng Tan (worker no. 107), for instance, has composed a publication about locating happiness, the lessons of which are the basis for a workshop he now educates at Google called Search Inside Yourself." Among his central takeaways is for employees to log minutes of delight," which intends to increase happy sensations when you look back and also assess the day. However there is much more to happiness compared to the smiley-face feeling of feeling satisfied. In fact, my problem is additionally geared towards what happiness ought to really be in fact. If so, the pie chart overstates the one-of-a-kind duty of willful activity in the development of happiness. Completion of the motion picture discovers the 3 siblings sitting at supper with the parents, every person condescending to Joy.

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I’m sick and can’t sleep, so, here’s my rant on the parable of the four children.

First, a recitation of the parable. This version is floating around a lot on the internet, and matches my memory from the haggadah I grew up with. There are minor variations, but those differences are potentially important because word choice matters. Anyway, here it is, gender-neutralified:

The Torah refers to four children, one wise, one wicked, one simple and one who does not know to ask. The wise child, what do they say: “ What are the testimonies, the statutes and the laws which the Lord, our God, has commanded you?” And you shall tell them of the laws of Pesach [here there is often a recitation of some of the laws] The wicked child, what do they say: “What is this service of yours?” Of yours and not theirs. And because they separated themself from the community they reject that which is essential. And you will blunt their teeth and say to them “Because of this, G-d acted for me in my leaving Egypt.” For you and not for them; had they been there, they would not have been redeemed. The simple child, what do they say? “What is this?” And you shall say to them “With a strong hand did G-d take us out of Egypt from the house of bondage.”   And for the child who knows not to ask, you shall open for them, as it is said: "And you shall tell your child on that day, saying, ‘Because of this G-d acted for me in taking me out of Egypt.’"

This has always been the part of the haggadah that I really hate. Sure, I have some snark for “Dayenu” (no it would not have been sufficient if God had led us to the sea but not parted it for us as the Pharaoh’s army approached), and the stuff about God’s fingers and hands and counting plagues based on where you put “and”s is tedious unless you’re at the kind of seder where you’re allowed to laugh at it. But the parable of the four children--that gets to me.

I have always had this certainty that I must inevitably have, at some point as a small child, asked in the manner of the wicked child by mistake, without realizing the significance of my wording. And although I don't remember it--although it may never have happened--surely, then, all the adults realized that I was secretly the wicked child, and surely they've remembered that ever since. It's a ridiculous paranoid fantasy, and its power diminishes as I get older, but, still, it hits me every single year.

What really bothers me--the source of this paranoia--is the comparison between the wise and the wicked children. The wise child asks, "What are the testimonies, the statutes and the laws which the Lord, our God, has commanded you?" You and not them! What makes the wise child different from the wicked child? The wicked child is defined by selfishness and the wise child by curiosity, but with these wordings, or a recitation in a sarcastic tone of voice, it could just as easily be switched. It quickly becomes not just a matter of the questioning child’s intent but also of the interlocutor’s interpretation and response. Which means the interlocutor has a choice.

Here’s the thing. Being treated as the wicked child, being spoken to as the wicked child, is what makes a child the wicked child in the first place. Maybe not for everyone, but for someone like me, who teetered on the edge between wise and wicked, that's how always worked. I always wanted to be the wise child, the first one, the praiseworthy one. But I really think I became--probably still become, to an extent--whichever one I was taken for in a given context.

Fight back against me like you’re supposed to against the wicked child, use snark rather than careful rationalization, and I'd dig in and become stubborn. I'd see myself as the wicked child, I'd see the interaction as antagonistic, and in seeing things that way, I'd act that way. Which is to say, I’d act out. Attempting to "blunt my teeth" was an invitation to be bitten, not an effective illustration of my own error; it would have been actively pushing me off whatever path I was supposed to be trying to find. But, treat me instead like the wise child and I'd see myself that way. I'd be calm, inquisitive, pliable, pleasant, the model child. 

And benefit of the doubt is so important. I was always treated as the wise child by the adults in my life. Given the benefit of the doubt. Corrected rather than condemned when I slipped and said "you" instead of "us." Expected to do well, to behave well, to succeed--and generally I did breeze through childhood and through school.

I’ve been on the other side, though, denied the benefit of the doubt. I went through a bad phase in my late teens (probably mostly due to PTSD), and there are people who met me then who are still in my life occasionally, who are never going to give me any benefit of the doubt. Who still tease that I’m “evil” and “scary” and a “sociopath” whenever I see them (ok, I think after enough objections from me the term “sociopath” eventually got dropped).  And when I’m around them? I start to slip back into who I was at that age, just a little bit--sarcastic, condescending, aloof, and a tad vicious--even though that’s not who I am anymore. Even though I worked hard to make myself not be that person anymore. When I’m expected to be bad, treated like every slip-up--every thoughtless word choice--is an intentional slight or attack, even with all that work I put into improving myself I can only fight the current so much before I just find myself giving in and being who everyone expects me to be.

But since moving away from those people who expected the worst of me--reducing my exposure to once a year plus online interactions--nearly everyone I’ve met has given me a fairly large measure of benefit of the doubt. If I say something mean, they assume I misspoke or misphrased or was just being a little thoughtless, not that I was intentionally trying to put someone down; there is an underlying presumption that I’m a nice person. And between that and my own effort, most of my current friends can’t even imagine me being the person I was taken to be at age 17. The viciousness is gone to the point where I have trouble summoning it even when it would be helpful, the condescension is toned way down and usually accidental, even the snark and sarcasm are toned down--and, importantly, directed at situations rather than at the people I’m talking to.

But if I’d stayed among my old friends, where I was presumed to be the “wicked child” rather than the “wise child,” I think no matter how much I’d wanted to I wouldn’t have been able to figure out how to even begin to make those changes to myself in a way that would stick.

It’s easiest to talk about my own experiences, but I’ve seen this sort of thing play out with other kids as well. I mean, taken another way it’s more or less the standard “bored smart kid acting out” story. The adults who are kind and gentle and try to help them learn will usually find that they have a great kid on their hands--studious and helpful. The adults who assume they have a troublemaker get a troublemaker.

So I think the parable of the four children in the haggadah is not only overly harsh, but also counter-productive. The wise child and the wicked child are so close together, it only takes a slight push of either of them in the other direction--a little bit of encouragement or a little bit of condemnation--to knock them onto a different path. And then, because the wicked child is pushed there, they’re not going to be redeemed? They have to stay a slave in Egypt, they're not allowed to participate the community? Push the kid too hard and you leave no room for them to ever come back. Or, encourage them, treat them gently and kindly, explain in good faith, and, well, you get back what you put in. You make them into the person you expect them to be.

Notes: There’s an alternate interpretation of the parable that these are all the same child at different stages of development (in backwards order). Although honestly, I can’t remember if that’s something I heard from someone authoritative, or something one of my friends made up during a discussion at a seder, or even something that I made up but then, over the years, came to attribute to an outside source. It certainly makes a lot of sense--I, personally, went through a development that followed that basic pattern. But I think my argument still stands, that if you treat the wicked child like the wicked child, they’ll dig in to that role and might never become the wise child.

Also, some versions change out the word “you” in the wise child’s question to try to avoid this line of thought.