#but I am choosing to interpret this as all language can be traced to the earliest forms of communication

[bliamapriori]

A smart person would not be backwards engineering their way to a *proto form of language root by way of sound changes for a fanlang they intend to use for the specific purpose I am making it for, but I am neither smart nor someone with the best impulse control so the prospect of elvish > old elvish > classical elvish > ancestral elfish > elfish fey is just something I do so I have something to do with my hands, blissfully ignoring the mountain of designated compound words in the actual version of the lang I mean to use. And yet. Here I am. Daydreaming about the concept of a greater fey language family again.

[the-muppet-joker]

I must admit, though shamefully, that I didn't believe you at first. What an ignorant heretic I was. How silly, I thought, that the second first man born unto God would choose such a humble place to spread his sermons. I've been so jaded in this awful life that I've rejected the one true light twinkling out past the darkness. This all-consuming black hole inside me...((Like a muppet hole)) No, no, no, no not like -((Are you so dissimilar to a toy? A muppet with a hollow inside where his creator's hand fits? I'm puppeting you right now and I'm telling you dude - there is a whole lot of empty in here.)) Why do I feel so ashamed? These thoughts are horrible.

((You know what's happening. You're just in denial.))

I remember the first time I saw the Muppets like I remember the first time my father hugged me (9). It shocked me to my core and I had this indescribable feeling- a feeling I can now put words to; This show was going to change the course of my life. I watched in awe as the be-felted people sung and danced. The songs felt like gospel in my young mind. I even tolerated the female Muppets because they were funny. All except one it turns out. Kermit was performing on stage and my life was reaching a peek. My soul was ablaze and my hole was being filled. And then this PIG walks on stage. Ms. Piggy was the definition of a 10/10 femoid in the looks department. Then this bimbo pig walks right up to Kermie and starts flirting with him. I think I must have blacked out the second she open her shrill mouth because the next thing I remember I'm staring down at my bloodied hands. The TV laid in a parking heap on the living room floor. I thought I could hear something coming from the TV, a whisper beneath the sparking and the now growing fire...muppet hole. The TV was undeniably glitching out and repeating the words muppet hole. No, it wasn't just the TV, it was a particular voice. Kermit.

((You saved Kermit from Ms. piggy)) No I didn't. I broke down, caused property damage, and had to skip summer camp for therapy. ((You were chosen)) For what? Almost burning down my house. Half of my hometown thinks I'm an arsonist. ((It is your role to burn every trace of pig flesh. Like a hog on a spit, rotating before the eyes of hungry horrors that lay just outside the fire's haze. She will know what it means to sacrifice your flesh to a smiling God)) Ok I understand.

Last night, laying in a puddle of congealing orange Faygo (huge bender), this memory came rushing back to me. I asked myself if my hole was filled. I checked and couldn't tell. After cleaning up I tried asking God if my hole was filled. He told me the answers I seek lay within my own mind. As a Maid of Mind I can dive really deep into my own mind. I used my ascended god tier powers to travel to the farthest recesses of my subconscious and find the answer for myself.

The further I descended the darker everything became.I panicked and tried to escape but hit a wall. Oh God, is this how I die? Trapped within my own mind, forced to suffer my sick, evil thoughts until my physical body perished? ((Keep moving)) I suddenly felt completely calm. I turned and kept walking. I soon realized that I was in a hallway. I could see a figure emerge in a sudden flash of light and I ran towards it for what felt like millennia. This invader of the mind had a dominant stance, with arms straight out to the sides as if to say ((come at me bro)).

Suddenly I was face to face with. Oh. ((Now do you understand?)) I do. Before me stood God, ie Dirk Strider. (If you're a monotheist Homestuck kin I'm sorry for the exclusionary language as Homestuck *can be read as a monotheistic work. I am just trying to express my religious views so my interpretation of the scripture is limited to my own experience. Sorry (⁠๑⁠•⁠﹏⁠•). God fist bumped me like a real bro and popped open a fresh bottle of orange Faygo to wash my feet with.

I can't write out the feet washing scene because I have a foot fetish. Let's just say it was very enjoyable for both of us although I don't think it was sexual for him. Was hard to tell through God's trademark dark sunglasses.

((You are my son, my child, my blood. Skin and bone but just as precious as the hand-sewn Smuppets. I have built from the clay just as my maker has built me from mud. We are Earth, we are space, we are transcending the roots. Together we will seed the universe and live out our Godhood.)).

How will we seed the universe?

((We must destroy Ms.Piggy so she can't hold Kermit down with her dumb feminine ways. Every snort from her is like a vast oink that pulls the threads of the universe apart farther, and farther. She is a force of chaos and having her so close to Kermit is limiting his potential to ascend. Kermit is one of my splinter selves and if he can't ascend I might lose narrative relevance altogether))

WELL THEN HOW DO I HELP YOU! PLEASE LET ME HELP YOU REACH YOUR TRUE POTENTIAL BY BRINGING DOWN THIS HOG. But I have one concern? How do I do it? My abilities aren't primarily combat based. How can I bring down nigh infinite incarnations of this foul swine?

((Muppet hole))

I woke up(?) in a puddle of sweat building over the now fully congealed Faygo puddle. I felt a purpose in my limbs as they moved easily like the wooden arms of a marionette. I felt full, fulfilled. I have found my purpose and my master. I HAVE FOUND SALVATION.

I've spent the past week going to every store on the bus route, 1 by 1, and defacing any evidence of Ms.Piggy. I cross out her name in big black sharpie and write religious seals on the pages of the magazines. I steal the dolls, replace the heads with different heads, and put them back. I even go to the grocery stores and cross out all the ham/pork labels on the meats. I've been replacing them with labeled that say things like "smile at your true god" and simply "flesh".

I do this all in the service of a god that is now crystalizing in my mind. And the sharper the image gets the closer it looks like Kermit's crusty hole. Amen.

Finally someone fucking understands

[sophieinwonderland]

Honestly I'm wondering how much of the transID discourse around "want to be" vs "is" is just... well, in transgender terms, how someone IS their gender but WANTS* to transition to better match that. Like for my transx identities, I want to have my bodymind match the identities that I am more closely, and "want to be" is the best I can do in this imprecise language. As in, wanting to be it on a physical or neuropsychological level, not just on the level of internal identity. It's the same for my transgender identity - I am pangenderfluid (as well as altersex), amd want to transition to more closely resemble my physical ideal (at least, in a non-shapeshifting form lol).

(After all, the dysphoria for me comes from NOT being, on some level OTHER than innate identity, the identity that I am. I'm not dysphoric because I am, say, transmexican and am mexican on every level including physical and cultural, or because I am trans-MADD and have and experience all symptoms of MADD. Those identities mean there are things I feel I SHOULD experience, but DON'T.)

*Many trans people NEED to transition, but I have absolutely met trans people who WANT to, whether that's alongside needing or simply nondysphoric trans people wanting to who are like "I'm happy now but could be happier". Although, I've also even met a trans person who feels they DID choose their gender, and I think saying that the existence of people like that alienates the transgender community is just catering to assimilationists. It doesn't matter if it's a choice or not because bodily autonomy should not be denied regardless.

Either way though, I think the divide could be solved by just... coining labels with both meanings. Like modern discourse is so against labels having multiple meanings, but that's just??? how words work??? Any identity can be both "is" and "wants to be" and "is" and "wants to be" can even mean different things to different people!

This is an interesting point I hadn't considered.

I just think the "wants to be" terms creates a false perception. There's a disconnected where, when people hear that someone "wants" to be something else, they might interpret that the same way they might if I said "I want to be a billionaire" or "I want to fly."

I don't actually identify as being rich or being able to fly. They're just things I think would be cool, and I personally don't think that most transID people are "wanting" to be something else in the same way I want to be rich or have superpowers.

But it's not me that needs convincing. Here's an example of a anti-trace post that was recently made in the transID tags...

This is who you need to convince. People who see those who are born POC identifying as white, and automatically jumps to assuming they must be doing so because they want the privileges associated with whiteness.

And the problem is that it's not an unreasonable perception if what you're hearing from the transID community is usually "we want to be X."

I think the transID community needs to do a better job communicating that these are internal experiences first, and that when they say they "want" to be something else, what they're usually saying is, as you say, that they want their minds and bodies to match with their internal experiences and self-perceptions.

Understanding has to be built on a foundation of solid communication.

[shapingandreshaping]

It turns out groundedness requires actual ground. "(...) only in regular contact with the tangible ground and sky can we learn how to orient and to navigate in the multiple dimensions that now claim us."(Becoming Animal: An Earthly Cosmology, David Abram) Your eyes reading this text, your hands, your breath, the time of day, the place where you are reading this - these things are real. I'm real too. (...) I'm an animal, I hurt sometimes, and I'm different one day to the next. I hear, see, and smell things in a world where others also hear, see and smell me. And it takes a break to remember that: a break to do nothing, to just listen, to remember in the deepest sense what, when, and where we are. (p.22 How to Do Nothing, Jenny Odell)

This tangibility is something I search for in my work. The moments where I remember and realise I am made of flesh and that before me there were many others and that after me there will be many more, I encounter my place in the world as a collective. The family albums, stories told from mouth to mouth, the traces of older communities and connections remind me of this collective existence too, they inspire me to live in my time knowing I'm the continuity of a communal existence, I'm not alone I'm not just an individual.

Understanding how collective and personal cultural identities are formed can also redirect one's place in the world, challenging forms of identity, either by identifying to certain ways of being or by completely rejecting them. Human beings are subjective beings and as Jenny mentions, our encounters happen in the poetics of this subjectivity, it's where the magic of being human sparks.

We grow up with certain ideas being taught to us or by our own selves absorbing certain ideas around us, and as we grow older we slowly start to understand that nothing is still or absolute. (All About Love by Bell Hooks)

Language is a living example of this constant transformation in human beings.

I always felt strange because my language fluctuates as I learn more ways of communicating and more ways of being. I observe others and my language translates these observations. I felt strange for showcasing so much change in my language, becoming unable to being identified as one thing or another. My nationality is in my language but all the places I've visited, all the people I've encountered and all the ideas I get in contact with are also there. My multitudes of being are immediately exposed in my language.

My project is an investigation of cultural identities but not in the form of rules, or fixed historical facts or even for the purpose of preservation. My project aims to reach the humanity in these past stories from people I am related to. Choosing an intimate and subjective lens where through an investigation of their daily objects, writings, pictures, I reconstruct a history from my own perspective.

My family's histories and travels from my own perspective and interpretation is an exploration and demonstration of how we are influenced by factors outside of us that we absorb because we are not simply individuals, we are a collection of people, events, places and circumstances, that in our time we have the power to analyse and act upon.

The doors of the hidden pasts, journeys, taboos are being opened but we are not always paying attention.

[wiypt-writes]

Murder, He Wrote

Part 7

Summary: Ransom makes good on his promise and your parents arrive for dinner. But then, you discover something that brings your entire world shattering down around you once more…

Warnings: Bad language words. MATURE (NSFW 18+) NON-CON situation, kidnap and violence. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THOSE TRIGGER… READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N:  So here it is, the last chapter to this series! I can’t believe all this spun from @jtargaryen18​‘s Halloween challenge last year, and here we are 6 months later! Of course, I’d love to thank my writing partner from the earlier chapters, but sadly she’s no longer on Tumblr. Without her none of this would have been possible. I love you SG wherever you are. Thank you to everyone who has read and engaged so far and I hope you’ve enjoyed it as much as I’ve enjoyed writing. The Epilogue will follow next week and trust me, you do NOT want to miss that!!

In this, the reader has a sister, however feel free to interpret the Y/S/N element as sibling instead, if that appeals to you.

Word Count: 8.5k (I’m sorry I don’t do short fics, really I am!!)

READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK Series… don’t @ me if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18…get off my blog.

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and by writing it does NOT mean I agree with or condone the acts contained within. This fiction is classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar reader and any other OCs that may or may not be mentioned. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Murder, He Wrote Masterlist // Main Masterlist.

Part 6

 “Will you relax?” Ransom drawled from where he sat, sprawled back on the sofa in the main lounge of the house, his denim clad legs crossed at the ankles, his black cashmere sweater torso melting against the cushions. “It’s just your parents, what’s the big deal?” You weighed your reply but instead smiled, he couldn't possibly understand. He wouldn't. "Let me just have this moment, please." He looked at you, his eyebrow arched before he scoffed, “whatever, Sweetheart. But if you’re gonna keep pacing up and down, can you do it in the hallway? The wood flooring is a lot more hardwearing.” With a roll of your eyes you left the lounge, wringing your hands together. This was the first time in months you'd be seeing your parents and it wasn't lost on you the charade you'd have to keep up despite wanting to somehow plea for a rescue. It was also worrying how they were going to react. Especially following the call you’d made a week or so ago, just before New Year’s Eve.

When you’d dialled the number you knew off by heart, your mother had answered. And upon hearing your voice she had shrieked and then the line had gone quiet until your father had spoken your name with a trembling voice. You’d been unable to answer straight away, your own voice catching, before a sob had burst from your throat and the tears had poured down your face. You’d managed a few, choked words of apologies until Ransom had pushed himself up from the seat he had been perched in, silently observing. He curled his arm over your shoulder, giving you a squeeze as you composed yourself. Eventually, you’d managed to calm yourself down and thankfully your dad hadn’t asked too many questions but had accepted your invite to dinner.

And now, here you were, nervously awaiting their arrival.

It wasn’t lost on you that, in their eyes, the fact you had cut them off was your decision, not forced on you by the man you were now sharing a bed with. And that was your other worry, you had no idea how he was going to behave. If Ransom showed your family the same contempt he displayed to his own, your dad wasn’t the type of man who would stand for it. And then what? But you had zero time to think on it as the doorbell rang. Your heart leapt to your throat and your stomach turned acidic. Ransom poked his head out of the lounge and looked at you expectantly, like you were to answer. Adjusting your sweater dress for the millionth time, you walked to the front door and reached for the knob with a shaky hand. You steeled your nerves and blinked hard to dissipate the tears, and opened the door. For the first time in months you looked back into the familiar eyes of your parents. Your mom’s face was pinched, as if she was chewing the inside of her cheeks and as you glanced to your dad you already noticed the daggers he was shooting at the man behind you. To anyone else it would be enough to make them quake in their shoes, but not Ransom. “Mom, Dad.” Your voice sounded alien as you spoke quietly, your fingers grabbing at the bottom of your sleeves as one of Ransom’s hands curled over your shoulder. "Y/N," your dad replied, and the awkwardness officially set in.

"Aren't you going to invite them in, Sweetheart?" Ransom's voice made you jump a bit.

"Yes, please, come in," you stepped aside for them to enter. "Welcome to, erm, our home."

Calling it that felt all sorts of wrong, but you didn’t have time to dwell on it. Besides, it wasn’t like you could call it what it was, your prison. Your father stepped inside followed by your mother, the foyer now feeling a little crowded. Your mother was quick to pull you in for a hug. But it was brief and not the way she used to hug you, no, this hug felt like it came from a stranger. Your dad’s embrace, however, was everything you remembered. Safety, strength and love and you felt yourself melt into his arms, choking back a sob as you pressed your face into his chest. "We appreciate you coming to dinner," Ransom spoke, breaking the embrace you shared with your father. "It's nice to finally meet you both. I'm Ransom." Your dad looked at you as you nodded, wiping the tears from your eyes as he looked to Ransom. “We know who you are. With the news, the papers and Y/N's article, we've probably become more acquainted than you're aware.” He spoke calmly but cooly, gripping Ransom’s outstretched hand with a less than friendly shake, one that would make a lesser man wince. Instead, you saw what you thought was a flicker of amusement on Ransom's face before your dad released his hand and you introduced your mother. She didn’t offer her hand. Instead she gave a sniff and took a deep breath, getting straight to the point as she always did. “Well, this is all very nice and everything but what the hell do you think you’re playing at, Y/N? You disappeared with no trace, we thought you were dead, and then we find out you're not. Instead you’re, with him, choosing not to contact us or speak to us? Forgive me for the brash and abrupt approach, but before we sit down for dinner, we deserve some answers.” Her voice gathered pace and volume as she continued to rail at you, telling you how worried and sick the entire family had been, how thanksgiving and Christmas without you had been awful and whatever else she had on her mind as she spewed her words at you, her face an eyes blazing with anger. You felt sick, never had you meant for any of this to happen, clearly. And you'd secretly hoped Ransom would have seen the devastation he'd caused by his actions, however you knew that was an ill-fated hope just as well. You struggled to speak, the words jumbling around in your head and your mouth bone dry. "I'm so sorry," Ransom sighed. "Why don't we come into the lounge and have a drink or two and we can talk all about it? I know that Y/N was looking forward to your visit and clearing the air."

He looked at you as he ushered towards the lounge, a hidden smugness to his face that only you could detect. He thought he'd just played the hero, the prince saving his distressed princess. “Good idea,” your dad nodded, his hand gently on the base of your mother’s spine, “come on, Honey.” “Straight down, second on your right.” Ransom informed as your parents headed off a little ahead of you.

“Now, remember, what you tell them has to match what you said to Blanc.” Ransom took your hand in his and spoke quietly as you both began to follow your parents. “I. Know.” You grit though your teeth and jerked your hand free of his. He stopped dead and turned to face you, and for the first time ever you saw something akin to fear on his face, you were resisting that much anger. “Y/N...” he started but you shook your head. “You have no idea how much you’ve hurt them or me do you? That or you simply still don’t care.” You hissed before you took a deep breath and drew yourself up tall. “But, we’ll just go in there, spin a load of more lies and that’s it, all done isn’t it?” He blinked before his jaw set and he shook his head. “I’m warning you...” “What else is new?” You sighed. “Don’t worry, I won’t say anything and I’ll still be here when they leave.” You stepped a pace or two in front of him and entered the lounge. Your parents were sitting on the couch you'd become very familiar with while Ransom moved straight for the drink cart. "Mr. Y/L/N, can I interest you in a top shelf scotch?" "Mom," you said softly as the conversation between your dad and Ransom faded out, "Ransom and I have a great white wine if you'd like or..." "Scotch is fine," she interrupted you, a stone cold look to her disappointed face. Ransom served the drinks, handing you your preferred wine with a kiss to your head. You watched how your parents interacted with him, the way your father watched every calculated step, the way your mother shot daggers in the two of you as you sat opposite them on the love seat. You leaned forward so as to move a bit away from Ransom, however, he was quick to put his arm over the back of the love seat, his hand able to still touch you. “So, erm, how’s....” “Your sister? Nanna? Granddad? Who would you like to start with?” Your mom took a sip of her drink and you dropped your eyes, your gaze focussed on your hands as they rubbed together. 

"I'm sorry, okay?” You stuttered, shaking your head. “I know you’re angry and upset and you have every right to be but... I didn’t do any of this on purpose.” “That detective man, Blanc, and the police... they said you didn’t want us to know where you were...” “I didn’t.” You choked on the lie a little. “My head was a mess and...” you sniffed as you felt Ransom’s fingers graze the skin on the back of your neck as you looked at your mom. “Mom, please, please don't make tonight continue with vicious jabs and vile glares. I'm sorry, to you, to everyone. I was...." you stopped and centred yourself. "I was lost and I didn't know what to do." "Why don't we just get this out of the way then maybe we can move on with our evening?" Ransom suggested and your father nodded in shocking agreement. "Let's let her explain, Dear. She said she made a mistake and there were good reasons she couldn't come to us, I'm sure. Let's just hear her out." Your father was always the more sensible one. You mother took a shaky breath and looked at you and you swallowed before you started to talk, the lie you had rehearsed in your head slipping from your lips. “I erm, I was having a bit of trouble at work and everything just got too much and... well, I don’t know what happened, a breakdown or whatever,” you took a deep breath, “I just needed to get away, from everything.” “Including us?” Your mom asked and you shook your head. “I wasn’t thinking straight, I just...” "You know, it doesn’t matter what you say to explain because frankly, I won't understand but I do hope that you never have to experience what we went through. Ever." She deadpanned. "I do believe that is my fault, Mrs. Y/L/N. I encouraged her approach and didn't discourage the fact that she wasn't contacting you or anyone she was close with." Ransom sighed, feigning concern for your parents.

You knew what he was doing, the Master Manipulator was coming out in him and you knew there was no going back, no. It was as if Ransom said 'challenge accepted' in winning your parents over. Just, so you assumed, the night would end and you'd be happy in his arms and they'd never think twice about your brief disappearance again. “We hadn’t been seeing each other that long, and my reputation isn’t the greatest. But I should have put my own concerns aside and seen that the way we were going about things was wrong and I should have insisted she reached out. You see, me and my family aren’t close and I sometimes forget that we’re the ones that aren’t normal.” "We hadn't known she was seeing anyone," your mum stated. She was out with her claws, not going to let Ransom nor you off so easily.

"Well, I'm not like Y/S/N, Mom. I don't just bring home whomever I'm taking to bed that month." You'd said it before you could stop it. Never had you said something like that before about your sister, nor spoken to your mother like that. And you didn't miss the twitch of a smirk to the corner of Ransom's lips, telling you he was a bit proud. Surely, you didn't want him to be rubbing off on you in that way. "I'm sorry, that wasn't how I meant it. I just knew I had to be more careful in sharing everything. Like he said, he's not got the best rap, but, after my interview on him, well I guess I just found him intriguing and-“ “Ah, yes," your father now spoke up, cutting you off, “the smear and redact. Believe me, Ransom, we're very familiar with your reputation and our daughter's initial thoughts on you. Which is why you can see how we were a little surprised, once the initial shock of her supposed death wore off, that the two of you were... together." “I understand.” Ransom nodded. “And I would feel the same in your shoes. But, well, I guess after the interview things just kind of spiralled from there. I don’t really know how it happened myself, to be honest, I’m just glad it did.” As if he was sealing the deal, he leaned toward you and pressed his lips to your temple. You sighed and gave him a smile. This bastard was smug enough to start shifting the tone in the room with a metaphorical snap of his fucking fingers and you watched it work on your parents. The ice slowly melting away, the glacial peak softening around your mother. And then the metaphorical snap became a real one as he moved his arm from round you, clicked the fingers of both hands and then slapped his left palm with the underside of his right fist with a flourish as he flashed a smile round the room. “Okay, so....who’s hungry?”

Your parents both raised their eyebrows and as your mom looked at your dad, you saw him shake his head ever so slightly and she took a deep breath, before she turned back to Ransom and you, a small smile on her face. “Dinner sounds great.” "Sweetheart, after you," Ransom politely shifted to the side so you could rise and lead the way. He turned back to your parents, "we wanted to make sure we were able to spend as much time together without the chore of preparing and cleaning up after so we had dinner brought in. Y/N had it all set just before you arrived." You shot him a glare as you moved by him, your mother and father behind you, Ransom pulling up the rear. Sure enough, still warm and catered were four place settings at the table in the large dining room across and down a bit from the lounge. Your parents sat down across the table from where you and Ransom stood, silver dome lids obscuring your eyeline as you sat. Oddly, you'd never eaten in the dining room before. It was your room in the basement, the kitchen table or the coffee table in the lounge. Red wine and cutlery were already set along with water. Your parents and Ransom set their scotch glasses near the wine. Your dad arched an eyebrow at the ostentatious nature of it all and you caught his gaze as he gave you a kneeling smirk. With a laugh, you realized that someone should at least remove the lids, and since you were the host, you rose from your chair and bent over the table a little, reaching for the knobs of their domes. You stacked them together and sat back down, pulling yours and Ransom's as you went.

As you settled down to eat, your parents both complimented the food before a little silence fell as you all ate, the occasional clanking of cutlery against the porcelain plates ringing out across the large room. Ransom made a few comments here and there about the food from the company you’d ordered from being good, as usual, your parents agreeing before a light conversation struck up about the holidays and various other mundane topics, all as if you were close and the conversation prior hadn't happened. Like it was a regular Sunday family dinner. All the time, you spotted your parents growing more and more comfortable with the situation, and you felt yourself relax a little, hoping and praying that things would keep amicable.

And then, after another spell of silence you heard your mother clear her throat. "So, Ransom, what is you do? I never gathered that from…well, from…” she trailed off and Ransom took a dep breath. “To be honest with you, Mrs. Y/L/N, not a great deal until recently. Just another way Y/N managed to help me change my life around." He looked at you with appreciation. "She made me see that living my life riding off people’s coat tails wasn’t really anything to be proud of.” He paused to take a sip of his scotch before he cut another piece of his steak. “Now I’m writing. I have a couple of things on the go and a few from my grandfather that he never finished so, hopefully, they’ll take off.” This bastard! You could not believe the bullshit that so easily sprang from his mouth. It was fascinating and yet absolutely disgusting at once. You found yourself convinced, and not for the first time, that he actually believed the shit he talked. "What's your book about, if you don’t mind me asking?" You father queried, after swallowing down his steak with his wine, saving his scotch for after. “Not at all,” Ransom swallowed his food. “Another area I’ve taken inspiration from, it’s based on a private detective.” He gave a chuckle. “I’ll be handing out a lot of royalties and dedications at this rate.” "Just a private detective?" You pressed, having wondered yourself as he'd told you once before you were an inspiration. He looked at you, smirking a little. “I’ve told you, Princess, I’ll let you read it when the first draft is done.”

Your father eyed you as Ransom spoke of pet names and inspirations. Your eyes flitted away from his gaze, entertaining Ransom's portion of the conversation but you found them quickly fluttering back to those kind eyes that matched yours. At that point, your dad shot you a sweet father-like wink before clearing his throat and speaking.  "So, let's not beat around the obvious, this is awkward." He paused to emphasize his point. "I'll just come right out with it. What could your future intentions be with my daughter?"

"Jesus Christ, Dad!" You surely hadn't seen that coming.  Ransom blinked a little before he cleared his throat. “I’ll keep her as long as I can, Sir.”

At that, his hand curled over your knee, giving a gentle squeeze and you took a deep breath, drawing your back up straight as his hand gently started to trail further up towards your thigh, fingers still hot on your skin through the layer of your thick tights. You cleared your throat, and moved a little, and Ransom removed his hand, a smirk blatantly evident on his face.

“Good to know.” Your dad reached for his wine again, a teasing smile on his face. “I mean the lease has gone on her apartment now and we turned her room into a gym the moment she moved out.”

“Oh purlease!” Your mom scoffed, “a gym. By that he means he has a rowing machine and a bunch of weights that serve as nothing more than expensive door stops.”

At that Ransom gave a full belly laugh, his head tipping back with just the right amount of humour. Not too much to appear fake, but enough to seem like the exchange had genuinely amused him. He almost had you fooled too.

Bastard.

The rest of the dinner past with fairly amicable chat, the ice well and truly broken. Ransom and your father struck up a pleasant conversation about football and then baseball, Ransom confessing that he hadn’t been following either sport much recently but also nodding when your dad suggested that perhaps they could catch a game sometime soon, in a bar. At that you had smirked into your glass, as you knew the thought of going to a place surrounded by a load of loud, drunken members of the public would be Ransom’s idea of hell. The idea that he might just have to follow through on your promise amused you, a lot.

Eventually, your parents both announced that they should be going, and the warmth and happiness that had descended on you began to slowly seep away as you hugged them both good bye. As they headed down to their car, you stifled down a sob as you waved them away, realising you had no idea when you’d be seeing them again. That was on Ransom, for him to decide when and if you deserved it.

But, you’d played his game. You’d behaved. He said he wanted you to trust him, to be content with him. Surely, he would realise that this was the happiest you’d been since he snatched you, and if you continued to behave then he would have no reason to keep you from seeing them for so long again.

With a sigh you turn away from the door and step back inside, Ransom just behind you. You stopped and waited for him to close the door and lock it. He gave you a little twitch of a smile. 

“Well, that wasn’t as painful as I expected.”

You rolled your eyes.

"You were great, Sweetheart."

"Yeah, well, you won them over. I doubt they suspected anything by the time they left." Your words didn't cut him, they cut you. You cleared your throat and shook your head, "anyway, I'm going to go clean up. I'll meet you upstairs."

"What, no 'thank you'?" He piqued.

You turned back to him, "Thank you, Ransom. For allowing my parents to come over."

“That wouldn’t be sarcasm, now would it?” He arched a brow, his arms folding across his chest.

"Oh, no, not at all," you overly pouted, stepping up to him, running your hands over his chest to seal your own sarcastic ploy.

His hands were quick to grab your wrists and oddly there was an air of excitement to your eyes.

“What on earth is there to possibly be sarcastic about?” You continued and he scoffed.

“It’s a good thing I kinda like your sass.”

You simply quirk your eyebrows and give a small shrug before attempting to turn away. However, Ransom still had a hold of your wrists and he kept you rooted near by.

“Ransom, what...”

“Leave the dishes, the maid comes tomorrow. I pay her enough, she can deal with it.”

You scoffed, “you’re such an asshole.”

"Come to bed with me," he asked more than suggested.

Since your little tryst in his precious car a week ago, he'd been far more touchy-feely, needy even. And in your eyes, Ransom Drysdale didn't do needy. However, this neediness served a purpose. You were able to keep him soft in all but one place, manipulating his needs for your own.

“You want me to come to bed with you?” You playfully quipped, cocking your head to one side.

“You want me to beg or something, Y/N?” His voice lowered as he narrowed his eyes. “Because I can make it a demand not a request.”

“Not beg, no.” You ignored his threat. “But a please wouldn’t go amiss.”

His controlling hands moved your arms around his neck before they fell away to your waist. His forehead bent into yours and his nose brushed against the tip of your own. "Please, come to bed with me, baby," he whispered against you.

You were smirking inside as his lips met yours in a deep kiss, his tongue gently flicking through your lips and sliding against yours. 

“Since you asked so nicely.”

It was a quick swoop, one that completely caught you off guard as he pulled you off your feet, his arm around your back while the other was hooked under your legs. His lips were on yours as he carried you to the staircase, not ever missing a beat or step, his tongue gliding over yours as he walked.

You didn't know how the two of you had made it up to your bedroom, and without incident but, the next thing you knew, you were led flat over your bed, his body caging you in.

“You said I did well.” You looked at him and he blinked, his brow furrowing a little. “How well?”

Silently as you waited, hoping he would take the bait.

And he did.

“Very well.” his eyes searched yours and you bit your lip.

“Well enough for me to see them again?”

"If you want, maybe lunch with your mother," he answered, kissing over your jaw and down your neck between each phrase.

You stilled, shock hitting your system and just how easily he had offered that up, you hadn’t even had to try. Noticing your change in body language Ransom paused and looked at you. “What? Don’t you want to?”

“No, I mean yes, of course I do. I just wasn’t expecting you to say that. I mean...” you stopped yourself short of saying what you had been about to, that you were his damned prisoner and until a week or so ago hadn’t left the grounds at all in months. You swallowed as Ransom sighed.

"Trust, remember, baby," he leaned back on his knees between your legs. "Call her in a couple of days, set up lunch."

“And you trust me to do that?” You swallowed. “No stupid tricks or mind games?”

"I won't be far behind." There it was, the stipulation. That silent warning heeding a tone left unsaid. “That said, I’m kinda hoping we’re past the point of me having to remind you about certain things to make you come back.”

"I understand."

Ransom shook his head, licking his lips. “No, I don’t think you do.” 

There was a tone of sadness almost to his voice and you watched him, his eyes locked onto yours and then you understood.

This went right back to the core of all this. He wanted you to want to come back. Not to simply do it because you have to. It was the ever present chink in his armour, the one thing you’d been able to exploit.

And, if you were being totally honest, could more than likely learn to live with the situation if you could have some kind of grasp and control, because that’s what this was about. That ever present power struggle and desperation he has within him to be more than people simply assumed him to be.

In a twisted way, you were almost proud to see the difference in his behaviour over the last few months was insurmountable. Whether that was directly down to you or not, you couldn’t be sure, but something had made him tap into that part of himself that could show reasonableness, rationality and, dare you suggest it, compassion.

Whilst you knew you’d never forget how he had taken you, against your will, or the pain and violence he had inflicted upon your body, maybe, in time, you could forgive. 

Because he simply hadn’t known any better.

"I'm not going anywhere," you spoke softly, sitting up to caress his cheek. His evening stubble scratched at your palm.

His eyes squinted shut, holding back an emotional response to her promise. There was so much he wanted to say but he couldn't. He physically could not bring the words out from his throat. So he did what he had always done, or thought he could, and that was to show her. Show her what he wanted to say. His lips pressed into the palm of her hand and as her fingers rubbed along his ear and behind his head, his lips travelled the length of the soft skin of her forearm until he pressed a delicate kiss to the crook of her elbow.

Turning his head, he caught her lips in a soft kiss which grew deeper as he pressed his body into hers, grinding his hardness against her groin. He felt the exhale from her nose against his cheek as his tongue muted the groan from her throat. His free hand skated up her thigh, to the hem of her sweater dress, bunching it in his fist. At that point, her hand gently wrapped around his wrist and he stopped, pulling away to look at her, his brow creased in puzzlement.

“Let me.” She whispered.

He swallowed hard and gave a short nod. She sat up and he leant back as she did, her hand against his chest, guiding him how she wanted him. As her hands fiddled with his flies, his eyes never left hers. When she tugged on the waistband of his jeans, he raised his hips slightly to allow her to pull them down, taking his boxers with them and he gave a slight sigh at the relief his rock hard dick was now free from it’s constraints.

“Feel good?” She smirked at the sound he made.

He nodded, “yes”, his voice gruff and gravelly.

No sooner had she said it, she’d taken him in her mouth. Instinctively, he bucked upwards, his hands settling in her hair, head falling back against the pillow as he hissed.

When his hips rutted upwards a second time, she moved back, releasing him with a pop and he glanced down at her, his face full of frustration but she simply smirked at him.

“Stop moving." 

The control of the situation wasn't his, it was hers and he was fully aware of it as she changed her pace, quick-quick-slow and if he squirmed she stopped.

A roll of his balls between her hand made him shudder. “Jesus Christ,” he groaned, “fuck, Y/N!”

She responded by taking him to the back of her throat, and the noise that came from his was halfway between a growl and a whimper as it stumbled from his mouth.

On and on this went, and every time she brought him to the edge and he couldn’t control his movements she stopped. It was a delicious torture, but one he was fast reaching his limit with.

“Fuck, baby, I…” his hands raked through her hair as she bobbed up and down on his shaft, her tongue pressing against the thick vein on the underside of his cock. He moaned loudly, “I gotta…”

"No," she purred, kitten licking the slit in his head, the precum dripping onto her tongue. Her lips enclosed over him again, short bobs until she was making long strides at deep throating him. 

She squealed as his hands tightened around her hair, squeezing at the strands to pull her back but she kept her pace, his hips giving way to a violent thrust to the back of her throat as he came hard, his spend shooting deep, coating her inside. His chest heaved as he came down from his high, not letting up on his grip until he was done trembling in euphoria. 

Then in a beat he flipped her to her back and hand his hands over the waistband of her tights, "that wasn't smart, Sweetheart," he growled. 

His eyes flashed in challenge as she giggled and whispered, "I thought it was." 

The force of him tearing her tights as he pulled them away from her legs bothered neither of them, her thin panties soaked and leaving a wet trail down her leg as he removed them, had him salivating. 

"You think it's funny? I'm gonna see how you like it," he challenged. 

Ransom wasted no time in taking a fast swipe at her leaking cunt with his tongue and Y/N cried out as he flicked the tip of his tongue over her swollen and throbbing clit. Her hands went straight to his hair, her knees practically boxing his ears as she curled her body towards his ample assault. 

His long arm slid up her body, over her tummy between her beasts as his splayed his fingers open across her skin, trying to press her back into the mattress. As she complied, she gave a gripping tug to his longer locks and Ransom emitted an elicit growl against her pussy. 

"Jesus Christ," she cried out, the sound sweet in his ears. 

"You taste so fucking good, baby," he spoke against just above her mounded flesh, whilst his fingers sought a wet refuge. He wasted no time in sliding two in, middle and ring fingers, slipping in a first, then second knuckle deep then scissoring inside her until they were all the way in. 

His lips curled around her clit as hers had done to his head, humming over the bud of pleasure, a pressure she nearly exploded over. 

"Oh, no, you don't get to do that yet," he stated firmly. The command made her twitch under him, her breath audibly hitching in her chest. "You're gonna cum on my cock as I fill that pussy up."

"Fuck, Ransom, please," she begged. 

"It's not funny now is it?" He slipped away from her body, sitting back on his heels and removed his own sweater. "Get naked, Princess."

He watched as she struggled to strip of the heavy sweater dress she wore, a stark difference to the fearful prize he had to himself months ago. Now she was his and he loved every single moment of it. From her sassy, smart mouth to the way she took his dick on demand. Ransom slipped his pants away, the two of them both naked and awaiting what was next. He wanted to flip her onto her tummy, rail her from behind while she took it on her hands and knees, keening at him as he thrust into her. 

But instead, he spread her legs wide and slotted his thick cock between her legs, her ankles locking around his narrow hips as he thrust in and gave a naughty twist of his hips. Slow, deep, nasty ruts into her core bounced her tits just a little and he found the wanton cries of her need to be enticing enough to lap at her nipples and breasts, licking and nipping at her skin. Grinding into her as he licked and kissed his way up her neck to that spot that made her cave in at the base of her jaw, jointed just below her ear. 

Her hands wound their way into his hair again and she gripped the strands, giving a pull back, restraining his neck a bit before she let up, allowing his head to drop a pinch. 

Chills covered his sweat sheened skin as she whispered, "harder" into his ear. His body quivered and his stomach fluttered. 

"Fuck, yes." He pulled out and flipped her to her tummy, like he'd wanted to do before. "On your knees, baby. Let me see that pussy."

She positioned like he demanded, a little sway of her hips telling him she was ready. A swift spank to her rounded ass and she cried out as he slammed home. 

"Oh, baby," she mewled as he filled her from behind, bruising fingertips pressing into her hips. 

Her lips praising him, using his nickname for her on him ignited a fire in his belly, his hips snapping harshly against her, his balls slapping against her clit. But it wasn't his pace and the pressure building in his body that was causing him to bury deep inside her, his head rubbing that g-spot that was making her moan filthy words. No, it was the look she gave as she turned her head to just peer over her should the same minute he was throbbing to cum inside her. 

"I'm...fuck, fucking cum, baby girl," he whimpered, desperately holding back so she could cream over his cock. 

And cum she did, her pulsating walls gripping him in a tight squeeze as she pulled him in with a force, literally crying out his name as she came. Her body practically convulsing in pleasure as he filled her up with his seed. The two of them collapsing against the expensive sheets, his body led over hers, still sheathed inside her as they both sagged and panted. 

As if high on the throws of their ecstasy, Ransom kissed along her back with heavy lips and hooded eyes. He could taste the saltiness of her skin, the dampness of sweet sweat a leaving a wet coating over his lips. And when he could feel the blood return to his extremities, he ever so gently pulled out of her, his body sore and tired. She whined at the feeling of his weight escaping her body, but he was quick to fill that void, replacing it with the heat of his frame as he pulled her close, allowing her head to rest against his bare and sculpted chest. He pressed his lips onto the crown of her head. 

"Sleep, baby," he whispered. "Just relax and sleep."

***** For weeks things were good, maybe even really good. Ransom was giving you more freedom, not yet unattended, but you weren't locked away. He'd made do on his promise. 

You had a great lunch with your mother, at the Country Club, in which he'd set up. He'd driven you there, waited in the bar but could easily keep an eye on you. Whilst he might have had ulterior motives that were slightly more sinister than merely being there to keep an eye on you in case you had a panic attack (the excuse you gave to your mother), all in all you didn’t mind. You, too, didn't doubt he paid the waiter a hefty tip to stay nearby as he'd checked on your table more often than most or necessary, again, you didn't mind. 

But despite his hovering, a point you'd made when you'd returned, he promised he trusted you so to save the pains of an argument, you let it go. You'd kept your own promise, never to drop a hint to your mother or anyone else that you weren't less than a free woman.

As the days neared Valentine's Day, Ransom seemed to be more touchy than usual and more than once you'd caught him softly staring at you. His eyes conveying more emotion than they did. Not unlike the first few nights when things had drastically changed between you in November. And when the day arrived, you both exchanged gifts after an early morning wakeup call that you most certainly did not mind. Ransom seemed genuinely pleased with the new silk scarf you’d ordered, having thought it would be a nice replacement for the one he had left at the mansion and point blank refused to return to collect.

For your gift, he handed you a small white envelope. Giving him a puzzled look, you opened it and pulled out a small card.

‘In our favourite room you'll find, your gift my beautiful Valentine.’

Instantly you felt an uncomfortable cold feeling in the pit of your stomach and you swallowed a little. It was a clue, exactly like the ones he had set for you all that time ago on Halloween the previous year. But, as you blinked and looked at him, you saw the expectation on his face and had to remind yourself that this was different.

This was not the same man.

"Is it at least wrapped in a bow, so I know it's mine?" You asked and he smirked a little, leaning back against the headboard of the bed.

 "Trust me, you'll know when you see it."

With a final look at him, you climbed out of bed and pulled on your silk slip before you headed down the stairs. As soon as you’d read the clue, you knew he meant the study. But, when you opened the door, you started to wonder if you’d made a mistake as there was nothing there jumping out at you, at all.

You started rummaging through the stack of things on the desk, looking for anything that resembled��a gift. In your haste, you accidentally knocked small stack of notebooks over the edge of the desk. You rushed to get them and straighten them up, hoping not to mess up the order of things he'd had piled together. The moment the leather-bound journal like book touched your fingers, a jolt of curiosity ran through you. 

You opened the cover and ran your fingertips over the dried ink that sat engraved on the pages, a bold and all capitalized print to the handwriting. Not a surprise from a man who's harsh overture played constantly on the surface. Your eyes scanned and scanned the scroll, a frown creased your brow as you registered the meaning of all his notes.

These weren't just any sort of notes, these were his footnotes for his book. And that now disorganized stack of papers that moments ago littered the floor, you looked at them again and realized there among the typed and printed pieces of paper, was his manuscript. 

Hesitating, you picked it up. The front page was plain bar the words. ‘Murder, He Wrote’ and you scoffed at the fact that was the title of the article that had gotten you into this situation in the first place. Mind you, he had said you were a muse of sorts so maybe that was his way of tribute.

You flipped through, skimming the pages, finding yourself strangely proud if you will, that he’d actually finished it, well what appeared to be the first draft anyway. It was indeed about a private detective, by the name of Arnie Bronze, who was hot on the tale of a missing woman called Lucy Roberts who had vanished in mysterious circumstances.

You skipped on a few pages, the narrative shifted to that of focussing on the so called killer, a man named Riley, and you realised that Lucy wasn’t dead as anticipated, she was being held captive. 

In Riley’s basement.

You felt your stomach clench as you focussed in on a small snippet of dialogue, one that was extremely familiar.

 ‘I like this,’ Riley toyed with the straps to the bra Lucy was wearing, his middle finger tracing the outline of the strap against her skin before his lips followed the same path.

‘You should, you chose it,’ her voice was quiet, but still there it was, that unmistakable undercurrent of disdain she carried for him visibly present, as always.

Riley merely chuckled, ‘like I chose you, huh.’ At that, she blinked and looked at him, and he flashed her a smile. Oh, if only she understood exactly why…

What. The. Fuck?

Was he writing about you? Or had he already written this and was merely acting out his sick fucking fantasy. The answer to that became apparent when you tossed the manuscript down and reached for his book of notes.

It was littered with note after note, graphic accounts of the things he’d done to you, along with little questions and observations, how he could turn that into passages for his book. Your breath began to quicken and you turned the pages faster and faster, not needing to read his notes in the slightest as you could remember every sordid little detail for yourself.

Eventually you found the last page. This one contained two simple lines, the first from the night of Harlan’s memorial when he’d arrived home completely soaked.

Memorial was a shit show, as anything is when the fucking Thrombey’s are involved. Y/N made hot chocolate. Held a conversation I actually enjoyed.

This contained no side note as to how this could be used within his book, almost as if it was simply a journal entry, but you didn’t really have time to dwell on that, as your eyes flicked to the line underneath which carried no date.

Original plan changed, no longer going to get rid of when purpose served. Storyline of book will diverge at this point.

'When purpose served'. Well, it didn’t take a genius to work that out.

You threw the book down onto the desk, the room swimming around you as both your hands covered your mouth in shock and horror. You were sick to your stomach, the bile acid in your stomach turning acrid, and you wanted to wretch. 

He’d meant to kill you.

“So, do you like my gift?”

The voice made you scream and you jumped, turning to face the doorway where Ransom was stood, his sweats hung low on his hips, arms folded over his bare chest as he leaned against the frame.

“What?” you blinked, swallowing, the word nothing more than a trembling whisper. “You mean you wanted me to find this?”

“You asked me about being my muse.” He shrugged. “As you can see, you were much more than that. Happy Valentine’s Day, Sweetheart.”

You couldn't hold back the gag in your throat and you quickly turned into the waste bin by the desk, spewing your empty stomach into it. The bile burned your throat as it came up. With a shaky back of your hand, you wiped away the remnants of your episode and leaned forward on the desk, your free hand palm flat against the mahogany.

You were disgusted, that much was painfully true, but you were now terribly afraid for your life. A feeling that hadn't come over you in four months. You felt just as you had that very night, terrified, alone, and fighting a sense of chill that crept through your body and deep into your bones. Your eyes, big and brimming with tears looked up at him and your mind went numb in processing the situation. No quicker than you had just vomited, you felt a pang of hurt, your heart ripping from your chest as everything settled within you. You had accepted this, this fate that had been laid out for you. You were accepting him and the life you were being forced to live. You accepted the beast that had begun to care. But he was merely a wolf in sheep's clothing, the true monster you'd always known to lie in wait just under the surface. 

Your brows creased and your heart raced. You felt the bubbling of a scream start deep in your churning belly, your own monster vying to climb its up your chest and out of your throat. You were angrily screaming on the inside long before your voice sounded to the outside, piercing the room in a shattering, blood-curdling banshee cry of anger. 

“This…” you picked up the notebook in your right hand, throwing it at him violently, “this is the reason you took me?”

“Yes.” He didn't even dodge the thickly bound object as it hit him square in the chest before falling to the ground. 

“You...fucking asshole.” You spat, angrily swiping your arm across the desk. The neatly stacked piles of papers scattered like leaves falling from a tree as they fluttered to the floor. “And to think, I actually started to believe myself that there was more to you than everyone said, that underneath all of that bravado and narcissistic, downright nasty bastard exterior there was something or someone that maybe, just maybe was worthy of caring for! ” Your voice was loud, echoing off the wall of his study as you screamed at him. “But you kidnapped and raped and hurt me in ways I never thought possible for what? So you could write a goddamned book?”

Hot tears coursed down your face as you trembled, staring back at the utter monster who stood before you, his face stony as you wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand. “And then you planned to kill me once I no longer served a purpose? Well, tell me, how long have I got?”

“It’s not like that anymore.” Ransom took a deep breath as he stepped forward. He was calm, too calm and instantly you took a step back. “That was my initial plan, yeah, but what I wasn’t banking on was how being around you would make me feel.” He swallowed as he licked his lips. “I couldn’t get rid of you like I originally planned once you served your purpose. Because I love you.” Your mouth dropped open at his confession, utter horror coursing through your veins as you realised what he was saying. The chances of you getting out of this were depleting by the second. He really was completely fucked in the head. “No, no you don’t!” You shook your head, “this...is not love, Ransom, this is obsession, it’s...” He cut you off as he surged forward, his lips pressing to yours. You placed your hands on his chest, shoving hard as you turned your face away, screaming loudly at him to leave you alone. In an easy movement he spun you round, his arms clamping around yours pulling them behind you as he held you in place, your back pressed to his chest as he pressed his lips to your neck. “I know deep down you love me too...” his breath was hot on your neck, voice still eerily calm as his hips pushed forward and you could feel his erection digging into the curve of your spine. “Fuck, this is what you’ve done to me, feel that, Sweetheart? You wrecked me, and now I need you. It’s that simple.” At that he pushed you forward, harshly bending you over his desk, one large hand securing both of yours being your back, your body twisted in a warped recreation of that time he’d used your sweater to restrain you all those months ago. You struggled but he simply twisted your arm further, causing you to cry out in pain and desperation as his other hand roughly hoisted up your night-dress. “You’ll say it eventually.” He stated calmly as you heard that tell-tale rustle of fabric as he pushed down his sweats. “It might take another spell in the basement to make you realise, but you’ll come round.” “It doesn’t work like that.” You sobbed, your voice cracking as his hand let go of your arms and slid up to your neck, reaching round your throat. His fingers curled round your neck as he pulled your head back, his mouth nipping at your neck before he pulled back, his face inches from yours as his icy blues stared locked onto your eyes. They were cold, dangerous and you shook your head, tears pouring down your face.  Your lip trembled as you closer your eyes, taking a deep breath before you opened them again, resigning yourself to the fact that this next line might just seal your fate and wind up with you losing your life. But right now, that would be a blessed way out.  “I can’t love you simply because that’s what you want.” “Oh Sweetheart,” he chuckled, his lips ghosting over yours, “I know that. I know I can’t force you to feel something you don’t, but the only person you’re fooling is yourself. I just want you to admit it.”

“I won’t.” You stuttered, “never, Ransom.”

“Oh, Y/N. Haven’t you learned by now? I always get what I want, including this, you’ll see.” With a harsh thrust forward he pushed inside you, making you scream at the burn thanks to the fact you weren’t ready for him, at all. He gave a groan as he grabbed at your hips, your pelvis jolting painfully into the edge of the hard wooden desk you were bent over. “As my granddad used to quote,” he pulled back before delivering another deep thrust harshly into you, his fingers digging into your flesh as you closed your eyes, scrunching them shut as your cheek rest against the desk, tears leaking from your eyes, “we all become stories in the end.” 

He gave another deep rut forward as he ground into you, his breathing deep.

“Now it’s time to rewrite ours, Princess.”

*****

Epilogue

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Serenade (Daniela Dimitrescu/Reader) Pt. 6

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T for language, brief violence, and a line that hints at past physical abuse (depending on how you choose to interpret it) Warnings: Mild TW for implied/referenced abuse Notes: Okay so this was supposed to be somewhat therapeutic? But it ended up taking longer to get to that part than I intended, so... Don't worry though, next chapter will be fluffy and also involve more, like, actual Daniela scenes. Previous Chapters: Pt. 1: Nocturne, Pt. 2 Overture, Pt. 3: Accelerando, Pt. 4: Toccata, Pt. 5: Poco a Poco

Chapter 6: Elegy

(Elegy: A piece of music in the form of a lament)

When you dream, you do not dream of being locked in a tower, awaiting a kindly knight to come save you. When you dream… you dream of your old home, infested with monsters, nearly unrecognizable. Of being forced to flee, leaving everything you loved behind. Of escaping to a remote, quaint little village, only to end up trapped once again, as friendly faces morph into gaping maws and fangs dripping red. When you dream, it is less a nightmare, more memories retouched, covered in a fresh coat of paint.

Waking up is but a brief source of comfort. One hand goes to your head, rubbing gently, as if you could wipe away all traces of your past. A quick glance around your shared room leaves you confused, but serves as a welcome distraction. Though there are six beds in the room, yours is the only occupied one, the others having all been vacated and made presentable. The only explanation that fit with what you knew was that everyone had gotten up, and gotten to work, without waking you. Panic filled you as you connected the dots, knowing that missing work was a death sentence.

Rushing, you rise to your feet, throwing your dresser open to search for fresh clothes. While the castle’s staff was almost entirely female, the Dimitrescu family didn’t enforce traditional gender presentation, allowing maidens to choose whether to wear a dress or a button-up and trousers. Remembering the wound on your neck, you pause, glancing in the dorm’s singular mirror to inspect your injury. Most of the blood had rubbed off in your sleep (and would likely be a nightmare to clean from the sheets). There were, however, a few spots where dried blood mingled with the protective scab. Considering how late you already were, you didn’t believe you would have time to clean up.

As much as you hated the thought, the best you could do was go for a button-up, hoping the collar would hide the worst of your disastrous appearance. Your hair was another matter entirely, far messier than it normally was, and you struggled to brush/comb it enough to be mildly presentable. Good thing Daniela won’t see me today, you think, remembering her insistence on skipping today’s lesson.

Then you remember the rest of your conversation with her; the yelling, being dragged to your feet, and the pain in her eyes. For a moment you feel woozy, pausing in the middle of buttoning your shirt. Your eyes focus on a spot on the now-closed dresser… and suddenly you wish you had paid more attention when you first woke up. There’s a note stuck to the furniture, clearly addressed to you.

Heard you had some trouble yesterday. We’re just glad you’re alive! A certain someone has been a lot nicer since you started playing the piano, and we’re grateful. To show that, we decided to split your morning duties among ourselves, so you can sleep in. If you’re reading this, then it’s still before 4 AM. Feel free to just relax for a while, or even get some more sleep! We’ll be by to make sure you’re up eventually.

Sincerely,

Daphne, Rosalia, Ygritte, Alexandra, Juniper, and Riley

“I… have… freetime?” You mumbled, still a little drowsy, but now also shocked. This was a complete first for you. Maybe even a first among the servants! Sure, you had been given breaks before, but having a couple hours to do whatever you wanted? No one had ever pulled strings like this for you before. It made your chest feel warm, and you just about forgot the whole mess with Daniela. “I’ll have to find a way to pay them back, even if they think they’re paying me back.” With that said you relaxed a little, no longer rushing getting dressed, though still leaving your neck the way it was. You figured you’d stop by one of the maidens’ restrooms before you officially started your shift.

In the meantime, you knew exactly what you’d be using this time for: finding those damn piano books you had been promised!

-----------------------------------------

“Let’s see… dust, more dust, a dead spider, even more dust, and- oh shit, the spider is not dead,” you said, barely holding in a yelp as the arachnid scurries away from you. If you had known the attic would be so unclean, you might not have bothered to come up here. So far your targets had alluded you without giving so much as a hint towards their location. The library had seemed a likely location, but you had heard Daniela’s voice within, and anxiety had sent you dashing away. Up here, in an area clearly used for storage above all else, was the next best guess, as far as you were concerned. Still, you hadn’t seen anything worth your time yet.

Just insects, really. Not even terribly interesting ones. Well, there had been a shiny beetle of some sort, but it had crawled into a crack in the wall mere seconds after you saw it. Other than that, though, nothing but creepy crawlies. Creepy flyers?... Both, for sure. One fly in particular kept buzzing around you, weirdly interested in what you were doing.

Somehow you didn’t understand what that meant until a firm hand had wrapped itself around your neck. The grip was tight, putting more than enough pressure to make your vision blur. Thankfully, or perhaps unfortunately, the culprit didn’t intend to just choke you out. Instead they lift you and toss you aside- casually, at that. You hit the wall with a terrible crashing sound, certain to leave bruises, and narrowly avoid toppling into a stack of heavy crates. So much for enjoying some free time, you think. Stunned for several seconds, you find yourself left helpless as your attacker approaches.

“You’re not allowed to be up here,” a voice snarled, familiar enough to leave you terrified. Of course you had to run into the most violent of the Dimitrescu sisters. “Looking for a way out, hmm? Or are you stupid enough to think we’d leave a weapon where a wretched thing like you could find it?” Cassandra asked, pausing only to send a swift kick your way. A grunt escapes you, leaves you coughing, but it doesn’t hurt as bad as hitting the wall. Despite wanting to curl up and give in, you tried to drag yourself to your feet. Surprisingly, Cassandra makes no move to stop you, perhaps enjoying the sight of you struggling.

“Lady… Daniela… gave me permission,” you said between painful breaths. By the time you’re back on your feet, the vampire before you is watching you with narrowed, albeit curious, eyes. Normally it would take a lot of courage to face her. But you’re exhausted, in pain, and you’ve taken nearly as much hurt from someone who called themselves your lover. It’s not brave to stare down Cassandra, it’s foolhardy. It’s idiotic, really, and yet you find yourself unable to care. “I’m just looking for a couple piano books I’ve been told about, so I can use them to help teach Lady Daniela.”

“Oh? You’re her instructor?” Cassandra asked, a strange smile overtaking her expression. Something in the atmosphere has shifted, dangerously, but you can’t figure out why. Clueless to your self-betrayal, you nod in response. Instantly Cassandra’s smile turns into an open-lipped snarl, and she reaches out to grab you by the shirt, this time slamming you into the wall with her own hands. “Then you’re the reason she kept me up yesterday, crying non stop! I’m going to rip you apart, you vermin.”

The look in her eyes is, most definitely, the scariest thing you had ever seen. It’s feral, inhuman, and unstoppably determined. But when tears fall from your eyes, it’s not because you know you’re about to die. No, it’s because the last thing you think you’ll ever hear is the news that your partner had been sobbing for hours… and that you were the reason why. Your heart aches, both physically and emotionally, as you brace yourself for the bloody end.

Instead, the grip on your clothes loosens. You don’t dare open your eyes to see why.

“What the fuck do you want, sis?” Cassandra asked, sounding like she had turned her head away from you. Before you know it you’ve been let go, and you slide to the ground, too surprised to hold yourself steady. When you look up, you see an irritated Bela pulling Cassandra away from you, whispering something you can’t quite hear. They argue for a minute, under their breath, keen on keeping you out of the loop. Eventually the younger of the two storms away, but not before making a dent in the wall with her fist.

“What a child,” Bela said, rolling her eyes at the display. Then she’s walking back towards you, extending a hand in an offer of assistance (one you gladly accept). “That girl has the foresight of a magic eight ball, I swear. If she had actually killed you… ugh, I can hardly stand to imagine how inconsolable Daniela would become. Then I’d have two insufferable sisters. Regardless, do tell me why you thought it would be a good idea to come up here unaccompanied? It is normally off limits for servants, after all.”

“I-I, well… I mean, firstly thank you for saving me, I had no idea-” Bela holds a finger up in a ‘shut up’ motion, then puts it away as soon as you pause- “right, you don’t care. Look, I was just trying to find the piano books that Lady Dimitrescu mentioned, but I’ve looked all over and I can’t find them, so I should really just go,” you explain, eager to get out of the attic. To your surprise, Bela gives you an odd look before turning away. Then she takes no more than five steps, shifts to the side, and opens an old cabinet. Inside you can see a dozen books of sheet music, notably from several different decades, all worn but still in decent condition. “How did-?... I thought I checked there.”

“Well, you must have been distracted. Nonetheless, you know where they are now, and you owe me twice over. With that in mind… come with me. We have things to discuss,” Bela commanded, walking away before you could protest. All you can do is grab the sheet music, tuck it under one arm, and follow her to who-knows-where.

-----------------------------------------

“I’ll have to have you make my tea more often,” Bela mused, letting the mug keep her hands warm. The two of you were sitting in some sort of study, a room that you had never been inside before. From what you could tell it belonged solely to the eldest Dimitrescu daughter. Inside were several shelves, each filled with well bookmarked collections, a desk next to a massive window, a couple simple chairs, and a few instrument cases. All in all it was an aesthetically pleasing room, organized but not exactly neat. You could certainly imagine Bela spending entire days in this chamber. “Now, why do you think I brought you here?” Her voice brings your focus back into the present moment, as well as sends a spike of anxiety through you.

“Based on what nearly got me killed earlier… Does it have to do with Daniela crying?” You asked, doing your best to indicate just how bad you felt about the subject. No matter how cruel she could be, you did honestly care about Daniela, and even wanted a real, healthy relationship with her. Desire, or willingness, wasn’t the root of the problem by any means. Something told you that Bela understood this, maybe even respected you for it.

“Guess there’s more in that pretty head of yours than air and symphonies, hmm?” Bela replied, laughing a little as she did. It was a far nicer sound than Cassandra’s maniacal giggling, for sure. “Now, I don’t know all the details about what happened- just that there was an argument, clearly a bad one, and Daniela barely made it through dinner before locking herself in her room. Luckily for you, our mother doesn’t seem to know about your little ‘fight’. She’s not sure what upset Dani, and I doubt my sister would tell her, so your secret is safe. Assuming that I blackmailed Cassandra well enough, that is. Anyway, I can’t help you, and by extension my sister, if I don’t know the full story. In case it wasn’t clear, that’s your cue to start talking.”

You’re surprised, admittedly, by a number of things. But Bela seems impatient, so you go over the details of the previous night with her, occasionally pausing to let her ask questions. The whole time her focus is on you, unwavering. There’s also a noticeable lack of judgement in her expression, even when you voice your regret about how you handled the situation, and what is there seems directed more towards Daniela than yourself. Once you finish, Bela releases a deep sigh. One of her hands goes to rub her forehead as if warding off a migraine.

“Well, I can’t say I’m terribly surprised, as much as I wish I could. Daniela’s always had her head in the clouds, and it’s left her tripping over her own feet more than once. Still, this is certainly one of her bigger messes…” Bela said, shaking her head in disbelief. “I’m going to have to talk to her about this, aren’t I? There’s no way she’s going to process this correctly on her own.” This time she seemed to be talking to herself, gaze locked on her tea as if it might suddenly offer to speak to Daniela in her place. When the tea stayed silent, understandably, she returned her focus to you. “You seemed upset, earlier, about this ridiculous situation. I am going to assume, from that, you are genuinely interested in my dear sister. Normally, this would be the part where I drain you of all blood, and possibly keep your skull as a memento... mori. Yours would look lovely on a window sill, I think.”

She pauses, head tilting a little to the side, clearly evaluating your artistic value.

“However, Daniela appears to care about you, far more than her usual fleeting infatuations. So, for now, I have decided not to eviscerate you, you’re welcome,” Bela cooed, teasingly, enjoying the way you shifted uncomfortably in your seat. Still, you were glad that you would apparently be surviving the day. “So I’m going to give you some advice, which you will take, and you won’t even owe me anything extra for this. Daniela is in love with the mere concept of love- and she has been for as long as I can remember. Romance novels are practically the only books she reads. It’s… embarrassing, truly. More than that, I get the impression that she couldn’t even begin to describe what love actually feels like. She’s digested so much of that written drivel that it warped her senses. Of course, the, ahem, situation we find ourselves in, here at the castle, has undoubtedly added to this effect.

“To get to the point, Daniela’s terribly, hopelessly clueless when it comes to things like what she wants from you. And so I take it upon myself, as her older sibling, to ensure that you understand. Moreso, that you are not dissuaded. If this is an actual chance for her to experience real romance, then it could make her happier than I’ve ever seen her,” Bela explained. The look in her eyes was incredibly soft, to the point where it made you realize just how much this odd little family cared for each other. “Don’t give up, don’t let her occasional infuriating antics push you away. Given enough time… I think the two of you could, I suppose, compliment each other quite nicely. But if you break her heart? I will pull yours from your chest and eat it raw. Understood?” Gulping, you nodded quickly, ignoring the feeling of heat rushing to your cheeks. It was one thing for Bela to want her sister to be happy, but another thing entirely for her to acknowledge your “suitability” for the position. “Good. Now return to whatever it is you maidens normally do. I have a sister to talk sense into.”

-----------------------------------------

Hours later, you stand alone in a display room, dusting various relics from bygone times. A trophy here, a bizarre art piece there, strange, unlabeled tools you can’t quite imagine are for wine-making. It’s a fascinating collection, really. But your mind is focused on other, far softer things. All you can think about is what Bela had told you, about how Daniela really is interested in you, and how she thought the two of you could make it work. After the chaos earlier in the day, this was exactly what you needed. Just some time to yourself, working quietly, thoughts all to yourself. Even your bruises bother you less, the pain fading out into the background. Considering where you are, though, it is not at all surprising that your peace cannot last. As soon as you finish your task you move towards the exit.

The door swings open, outwards, at your touch, only to reveal a familiar figure reaching for the doorknob. Both of you gasp, taken by surprise, before your gazes meet. Of course it’s Daniela. Who else would you bump into right now?

“I thought about what you said,” she blurts, suddenly, eyes wide and hands shaking. “We need to talk, yeah?”

[benevolentbirdgal]

“Thirteen” Tips on Writing Jewish Characters / Some  Jewish Identity Stuff Explained

So you want to write a Jewish character, but don’t want to write a caricature? Or are worried they won’t register as Jewish to readers, or something will be off or wrong? Well I, friendly (virtual) neighborhood Jewish professional, am here to help! 

Note: The Jewish community is made up of roughly 14 million people worldwide with all sorts of backgrounds, practices, life circumstances, and beliefs. I’m just one American Jew, but I’ve had exposure to Jewishness in many forms after living in 3.5 states (at several different population densities/layouts), attending Jewish day school and youth groups, doing Jewish college stuff, and landing a job at a Jewish non-profit. I’m speaking specifically in an American or Americanish context, though some of this will apply elsewhere as well. 

Let’s start with the word “Jew.” It’s not inherently a slur, but can absolutely be used as one. I am a Jew. You can call me a Jew, just not a Jew. Like most minority groups, there are slurs against us, but Jew is the proper demonym. It can be used disrespectfully as a noun, but isn’t inherently disrespectful. Think “Chava is a Jew” versus “You’re being such a Jew.” 1a. Any use of Jew as a verb by gentiles (non-Jews) is not okay. Your Jewish characters should be horrified by someone telling them they “Jewed down the price.” 1b. Any use of Jewess by gentiles is not okay and your Jewish character should not be cool with it.  1c. Many Jews would actively prefer to be called such because that’s what we are and “Jewish person” is stepping away from our Jewishness. But I get that not everybody is going to be comfortable calling us Jews. That’s okay, and “Jewish person/people” or “X is Jewish” is TOTALLY ACCEPTABLE.  1d. With that said, Jewish people refers to ourselves as Jews. If Sarah is Jewish but is squicked about referring to herself as a Jew, your Jewish readers will immediately know she’s written by a gentile.  1e. Actual slurs against Jews is a post for another time (did you know K*ke literally means circle?). 

Your Jewish-American character likely does not speak Hebrew, Yiddish, Ladino, or any other Judeo-Language (languages that are a mix of Hebrew and at least one other language, typically written in the Hebrew abjad). Three notes on this, however: 2a. If your character is an immigrant or the child of an immigrant, they might speak the Judeo-language of the old country. The most common will be Israeli-Americans speaking Hebrew, but families still speaking Yiddish, Ladino, Judeo-Arabic, and other families do still exist. The children of Jewish immigrants might also speak another language that isn’t a Jewish one, like Russian or Spanish.  2b. If they are in a VERY religious Ashkenazi community, they might speak Yiddish at home and in the community.  2c. Odds are decent, however, that your American Jew can read but not understand Hebrew. If your character went to Jewish Day School or Yeshiva, they definitely read Hebrew, and will have some understanding of it (but likely not fluency). 

Despite what I just said above, your Jewish-American character likely drops a lot of Yiddish words and phrases into their day-to-day speech. Which words/phrases in probably a list for another time, but the most common will be foods, family names (i.e. “Zayde” instead of Grandpa), and sassy expressions. They may incorporate some Hebrew to a lesser extent. 

There’s not just one version of kosher. There’s kosher, kosher-style, Halav Yisrael, glatt kosher, etc. Depending on your character’s level of kosher, they’ve need a hecksher (kosher mark) on any given item or only eat at kosher restaurants, although not all Jews keep kosher and many keep “kosher-style” (i.e. only eat theoretically kosher things).

Your Jewish character should be a whole character, both in general and in relation to their Jewishness. This means, among other things, that they aren’t obsessed with Israel and I/P discourse one way or the other and that while writing you remember that not all Israelis are Jews and not all Jews are Israelis. Your Jewish character is not constantly agonizing over the I/P situation, has a life outside of their Jewishness, and shouldn’t be a cardboard stand-in for your desire to discuss the middle east. 

The Jewish experience varies dramatically with geography. Jews living in Omaha, Richmond, Philly, Kansas City, Boca Raton, and New York City are all American Jews. They will have drastically different Jewish experiences. I strongly recommend doing research on the Jews in the specific place your story takes places, but generally:  6a. The closer you are to the northeast coast and NYC (except south Florida) the better and more varied your Jewish resources.  6b. NYC has the highest Jewish population of any city on the planet. Big cities like Boston, Chicago, and L.A., as well as just outside of NYC in NJ and NYS, and suburban/exburb south Florida will have lots of Jewish resources: day schools (Jewish + secular education mix), maybe Yeshivas (Jewish focus), multiple synagogues, a Jewish Community Center, Jewish dating services, social stuff, Jewish charities, and youth activities. Your character will have other Jewish friends and their gentile friends will likely know other Jews. Antisemitism is still a problem and usually takes the form of excluding Jews from activism, thinly-veiled stereotyping or excusing antisemitism from people from other oppressed groups, but it’s usually not as overt as elsewhere. Almost always safe to disclose Jewishness.  6c. Small and mid-size cities Denver, Virginia Beach, Charleston, and Harrisburg will have a JCC or Jewish federation, multiple synagogues, and maybe a Jewish day school. Your character is not the only Jew their gentile peers have met, but the bagels are meh. They will have other Jews to bond and commiserate with. Antisemitism here is mostly like that in big cities with occasional burst of overt incidents and attacks. It is generally physically safe for them to disclose Jewishness.  6d. Big towns and small cities in the south or mid-west will have maybe one synagogue - probably reform or Chabad. Your character will have to seek out Jewish spaces, but they will be easy to find. They will not be everybody’s First Jew, but it will be unusual. Antisemitism here is mostly overt - most of the antisemites your character deals with will be very obvious and many will be violent. Jews in such situations will not hide their Jewishness per se, but will be more selective in choosing to disclose it.  6e. Rural areas and small-small towns will not have a synagogue. Your character and their family may be the only Jews or there might be a small group that meets on occasion or carpools to the nearest synagogue. They will have to actively seek out the others Jews and they will be difficult to find. Disclosing their Jewishness is a serious consideration and not always safe. Odds are they are many people’s First Jew, which gets really weird real fast. Beyond the harmless ignorant-but-trying-to-learn-from-their-first-Jew types your character will interact with, there’s also violent and overt antisemitism here.  6f. If your character is in college, they will likely have a Chabad and/or a Hillel on campus if they are at a large school or a school with a significant Jewish population. 

Related: when Jews meet each other for the first time, a game of “Jewish geography” ensues as they try and trace people they know in the other person’s state/city/community. 

Jews come in all shapes, colors, sizes, genders, sexualities, politics, and religious beliefs. There are all sorts of Jewish people with tons of different intersecting identities. Don’t box yourself in to writing one kind of Jew. Just research a ton on the particular subsection of the Jewish community your character is a part of - a Mizrachi-Jewish Persian-American bisexual woman is going to have a different experience than a straight Ethiopian-American Jewish man who is going to have different experience from a queer Ashkenazi-Jewish-American girl with non-Jewish family.  8a. Jews with Ashkenazi (eastern/northern European) ancestry and customs are the biggest group in the U.S., but by no means the only group or representative of every Jew. Sephardi (Spanish/southern European/north Africa), and Mizrachi (north Africa and the middle east) are the next biggest groups. It would not be unusual for your character to have Polish-Jewish, Iraqi-Jewish, Moroccan-Jewish, or Russian Jewish ancestry or a mix.  8b. Each of these groups have their own customs, Judeo-languages, local holidays, and local historic tragedies. Generally, historic Sephardi communities were linked between themselves, historic Ashkenazi communities were linked between themselves, and historic Mizarchi communities were linked between themselves. The three had some, but limited contact. Additionally, all three major groups have subdivisions within them.  8c. There are also smaller groups that don’t fall within the three traditional categories, like the Ethiopian Jews, the Cochin Jews (India), Chinese Jews, Gruzim (Georgian), and more. Most of these smaller groups were not in contact with the wider Jewish world.  8d. All Jewish groups start from the same base texts (the written Torah), and the majority include the oral Torah as well. Local interpretations and traditions develop, these are referred to as minhag(im) (customs). For example, the biblical commandment is to not boil a baby goat in its mother’s milk. Some communities extend this to mean no chicken and milk, others reason that chickens don’t produce milk so the mixture is acceptable. Both are equally valid interpretations rooted in tradition, but they are different.  8e. Marrying between Jewish subgroups in the U.S. is super common and outside of extreme or really intense groups is not frowned upon. Traditionally, the father’s minhagim are followed, i.e. a Syrian-Jewish father and a Spanish-Jewish mother would follow the Syrian-Jewish minhagim with their children. Many modern couples choose the mother’s traditions or mix them up, but that’s the traditional route. 

Unless they are VERY religious, your character’s family is unlikely to be particularly wound up about them being LGBTQ the way a comparably Christian family might, at least not because they’re Jewish. Samuel’s Jewish mother is likely unconcerned he likes boys and is much more empathetic than he must marry a Jewish boy and raise any kids Jewish. 

There are so many Jewish holidays, and they are not all celebrated the same or with the same intensity. Probably enough material for its own post, but the ones most likely celebrated by your character: 10a. Shabbat and/or Havdalah. Shabbat starts Friday nights with candles, wine/grape juice and challah bread, Havdalah ends Shabbat with a braided candle, wine, and aromatic spices. Shabbat dinner is usually a meat meal and it is common to invite guests or eat with friends and family (in normal times).  10b. The “High Holidays” - Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur. Jewish students often skip school for these. Yom Kippur is a 25 hour fast with services all day, Rosh HaShanah has services in the evening and morning.  10c. Passover - arguably the most important holiday. Celebrated with two sometimes agonizingly long Seders (ritual meals), family gatherings, and abstaining from leavened bread for 7/8 days.  10d. Hanukkah - Not actually that spiritually important, but culturally important for American Jews. Typically celebrated with candle lighting, presents, visits to family members, and greasy food. 

There’s a lot of wine involved in Jewish ritual, so it’s unlikely your character’s Jewish family are teetotalers. 

Jewish families tend to be very intense, loud, opinioned, caring, and involved, compared to many other assimilated American families. Shabbat dinner is not quiet. Dissent is a Jewish value - differing opinions are allowed (and expected in many circles), as is the ability to argue/defend competently. 

Jewishness can mean ethnic identity, cultural identity, and/or religion. There are several major denominations religiously, although that needs to be its own post in detail. The noteworthy movements at this point are Orthodox (further subdivided into Ultraorthodox and Modern Orthodox), Conservative (middle of the road, no relation to conservative politics), Reform, and Reconstructionist (both very “choose your own/your community’s adventure).

Probably will write more parts in the future, but this is heinously long already! Hope this is helpful!

[onceupona-chaos]

Shackles and bridges: SJM and the mating bond

I know there are a lot of posts about this, but I wanted to do one myself, so here we go.

DISCLAIMER: This is my interpretation as someone who is a very new member of this fandom and has more contact with “common readers”, since I was one myself until a couple of months ago. Everything here is based on textual evidence and my experience as an avid reader, so take a step back from any ship. But I will talk about the probability of a rejected mating bond, so if that's not your cup of tea, be warned. English is not my first language, so forgive me for any mistakes.

Be kind!

Also, minor spoiler for CC.

The mating bond is the most important element in SJM’s books and it's present in most of the main endgame couples. Aelin and Rowan, Feyre and Rhys, Nesta and Cassian, for example.

It’s described as this precious, sacred bridge between souls - or is it?

SJM is a very formulaic writer. We can draw several parallels with her writing, due to the way she structures her scenes and chooses her words.

We saw this explicitly with Nesta and Cassian in the Solstice scene, which is very similar to the one between Feyre and Rhysand: an emotional discussion, kissing tears away, lovemaking with “say it” and “you’re mine”, mating bond glowing between them, on and on.

Different characters, but same scenario, same process, same wording, almost the same scene.

However, considering that every mated couple until now ends up together HEA, I have the feeling that SJM is starting to explore the mating bond in different ways, otherwise every one of her books would be too… similar? In a way that the reader wouldn’t be surprised anymore, it would be the same story over and over.

To the ones who are faithful to those characters and to her books (her fans), this isn’t exactly a problem, but we have to consider the other readers as well, the bigger audience (SJM sold millions of copies, so not everyone who reads her books is engaged online).

For that exact reason, to approach a narrative element in a different way is very common among writers.

I’ll give you an example with Cassandra Clare and the parabatai bond (SPOILERS from TDA): the parabatai bond is an oath between friends who swear to protect each other. In TMI and TID, we have this bond between friends (Jace and Alec/ Will and Jem) that are almost brothers. However, in TDA, we have two parabatai (Julian and Emma) falling in love with each other, which is extremely forbidden.

The different ways a writer can approach the same elements are important to keep the readers engaged - not the reader who is a fan, but especially the occasional reader. Otherwise, it would be the “if you’ve read one, you’ve read them all” kind of thing, which is no bueno.

With that in mind, I really think SJM is starting to explore/ approach different sides of the mating bond.

Mate—not husband. The Fae had mates: an unbreakable bond, deeper than marriage, that lasted beyond death. (Heir of Fire/ ToG)

“But if they’re blessed, they’ll find their mate—their equal, their match in every way. High Fae wed without the mating bond, but if you find your mate, the bond is so deep that marriage is … insignificant in comparison.”

Another proof that SJM is formulaic: in both ToG and ACOTAR, the bond is presented for the first time in comparison to marriage, as something deeper and sacred.

However, Bryce, main character of CC (SJM book published before ACOSF), looks at it very differently:

“And at least he’s not some psychotic alphahole who will demand a three- day sex marathon and then call me his mate, lock me in his house, and never let me out again.” Which was why Reid—human, okay-at-sex Reid—was perfect.

This is such a contrast. To Bryce, the mating bond would take her freedom away (keep that in mind).

I’m not saying Bryce won’t have a mate or anything like that, but we don’t start reading CC with the same vision about the mating bond presented in the other books: a sacred bond, deeper than marriage. Bryce couldn’t care less about that, not once she wondered if Hunt is her mate.

Therefore, I don’t think SJM finally writing a different story about the mating bond so unthinkable. On the contrary, we see writers doing that all the time.

Also, I’m not saying Elain will reject it, but SJM is not only approaching the mating bond in different ways now, but she already structured a very solid base for a mating bond rejection to happen if she wants to:

ACOWAR

“You said your mother and father were wrong for each other; Tamlin said his own parents were wrong for each other.” I peeled off my dressing robe. “So it can’t be a perfect system of matching. What if”—I jerked my chin toward the window, to my sister and the shadowsinger in the garden—“that is what she needs? Is there no free will? What if Lucien wishes the union but she doesn’t?”

“A mating bond can be rejected”.

SJM already wrote a whole scene to explain the mating bond and how, for some people, is not this sacred thing and it can be rejected. Not only that, she directly approached that Elain could reject it if she wanted to, and that scene involved Lucien and Azriel.

“You are his mate. Do you even know what that means?”

“It means nothing,” Elain said, her voice breaking. “It means nothing. I don’t care who decided it or why they did—”

“You belong to him.”

“I belong to no one. But my heart belongs to you.“

Also in ACOWAR, Elain makes herself very clear: she would have ignored/ rejected the mating bond right there if Graysen still wanted a future with her, because she loved him. She would have chosen to follow her heart without hesitation.

The funny thing is that Azriel - Elain's current love interest - never saw that scene, never saw how Elain vigorously rejected Lucien for someone she loved or the way Graysen rejected her (I’ll leave this information to you).

ACOFAS

Those doe-brown eyes turned toward me. Sharper than I’d ever seen them.

“And that entitles him to my time, my affections?”

“No.” I blinked.

Her mouth tightened, the only sign of anger in her graceful countenance. “I don’t want a mate. I don’t want a male.”

Months go by and Elain is still uncomfortable with the bond.

ACOSF

“I am not always in this city to see my mate.” The last two words dripped with discomfort.

Her brown eyes were wary. Usually, that look was reserved for Lucien.

Elain only shrank further into herself, no trace of that newfound boldness to be seen.

At this point, it’s clear: the question "what if the Cauldron was wrong?" didn’t come out of nowhere, not only for Azriel, but in the narrative as well.

SJM had been slowly hinted at for three books now. I know she can change her mind, but if she wants to write about it, she made sure to write the perfect opportunity:

SJM already wrote a scene about the possibility of Elain rejecting the bond, that involved Elain, Lucien and Azriel, so it’s not coming from nowhere;

Lucien compared how different Elain is from the female who he had really loved;

They are both uncomfortable around each other;

Elain is romantically interested in someone else, who was part of that scene back in ACOWAR when we were presented to the possibility;

This someone else (Azriel) is interested in her;

SJM made sure to tie the romantic plot (Elain’s mating bond) with a political plot (Blood Duel);

The political plot is connected to the overarching plot (Autumn Court, Beron and Eris/ Koschei);

Mostly important: Elain is showing for three books that she doesn't want the bond;

"I don't want a mate. I don't want a male."

She literally said that with all the letters.

We can see this dichotomy between shackles (no freedom) x bridge (a connection) regarding Lucien as well.

"(Jesminda) She had chosen him. Elain had been … thrown at him."

He said that Elain had been thrown at him and also that they were shackled.

“Give her time to accept it.”

“To accept a life shackled to me?” (ACOFAS)

And then right in the next book (ACOSF) we have this:

“Well, I didn’t have a choice in being shackled to you, either.”

The declaration slammed into her. Shackled.(…)

Shackled.

Words beckoned, sharp as knives, begging for her to grab one and plunge it into his chest. Make him hurt as much as that one word hurt her.

SJM emphasized what that one word meant by repeating it and using italics. It’s another side of a mating bond: not a bridge of connection, but shackles with no freedom, no choice.

If Nesta was that hurt when Cassian (someone she loves) said that he didn’t get a choice in being "shackled” to her, can you imagine how is it for Elain and to actually have this bond with someone she don't love? And to Lucien as well?

The thing is in terms of storytelling, and by that I mean the plot, it’s undeniable that we already have everything that’s necessary to approach the matter of the mating bond in a way the reader has never seen before.

It’s a huge possibility, one that would make the regular readers interested (we have to remember that, not everyone who reads those books is engaged. They read them when it’s appealing).

If you want to look deeper, we can see little clues that point to that narrative path, too:

Elain shall wed for love and beauty.

The bond Elain had chosen.

Elain cut in sharply, “I am not a child to be fought over.”

Now, why hasn't Elain rejected the bond?

Because a writer doesn’t waist a good plot like that. Simple as that.

Let me tell you: SJM won’t waist that plot because a part of the fandom doesn’t like Elain, because 1) the online fandom itself is just a part of the readers; 2) inside the online fandom there are people who dislike Elain, who are neutral about her and people who like her; 3) SJM already know some people hate Elain, otherwise she wouldn’t have wrote this:

You think Elain is boring?

I think she’s kind, I’ll take kindness over nastiness any day. But I also think we haven’t seen all she has to offer yet.

SJM already told us she likes to write about disliked characters. She will write the story she wants to write and ACOSF is the major proof of that. If it’s a rejection or not, only she knows, everything could happen.

But SJM has been writing about mating bonds for years, do you really think the first time we get to see a rejection it would be for someone else’s POV? Or in a minor plot as if it isn’t a big deal? Especially when this rejection is directly related to a political plot and to the overarching plot?

No, not when SJM has enough material to write 700 pages and more, not when she has the opportunity to make a whole book out of this, one that is something entirely new for the reader, not when SJM built the perfect opportunity herself.

[wolf-and-bard]

Proper Procedures for Wooing Witches

for @littoraly-art because you are amazing and I already said this, but I hope you have an awesome birthday <3

Pairing: Yennefer/Jaskier

Word Count: ~2.2k

Rating: T, some explicit language

„My darling Yennefer,“ Jaskier calls out as he swoops into his Oxenfurt apartment with a flat carton wedged under his arm. It already nicked the lavender mesh overlay of his newest doublet, but for once, he absolutely cannot be bothered by that. It’s too nice of a day. “Hello?” He kicks off his shoes.

High noon’s just gone by and Jaskier doesn’t expect Yen to be up yet – which means she will hex his ass if he wakes her. His giddiness outweighs his fears though, heart warming, as he takes in the cluttered entryway. Several pairs of shoes are strewn about, his and hers mixing on the ground. Yen’s all look like they could double as a lethal weapon and are some variation of black and white (though one pair is tinged brown from blood that crusts the bottom, he doesn’t want to know). It’s awfully domestic, a product of the temporary living situation they are in.

When Yen requested to use his rooms for a week or so, she explicitly asked for Jaskier not to be there, but, well, he is weak, he wants her, he couldn’t have stayed away if he tried. Yen’s been snippy from the moment he welcomed her with open arms and the prospect of sharing a bedroom, snippy to the point of grumpiness. That’s fair, Jaskier supposes. It’s also fair that she slips out at the most random times of day, coming back only when Jaskier’s gone to the academy for lectures or the pub for drinks with his colleagues. All fair and good. He catches her about once a day which is more than he can say for most of the year. Fair, yes. Nice, even though Yen is rarely, if at all, impressed with his affection for her. A bard can dream.

“Yenny,” he shouts again and whistles to himself as he slides through to the main room. To his surprise, she lounges at his dinner table by the window, one hand curled around a steaming mug, the other holding up one of his most beloved poetry collections (not only because he wrote several of the entries). Her hair falls in rich raven curls that cover her chest, barely concealed by the sheer black dressing gown she wears. It’s the only thing she wears, Jaskier notices, gulping heavily. Yen doesn’t look up from her reading, her lips are pursed and her tone clipped as she replies.

“For every time you call me that, bard, your balls will grow the tiniest fraction until, one day, they will explode, never to grow back.”

Jaskier considers it. Directs his attention downward. They do feel a bit strange, don’t they? But that’s only because he’s thinking about them. Right.

“I shall not be fooled,” Jaskier says, grinning. “But if you so insist, ‘beloved’ will do just as well. I brought you a gift.” Brushing past his dusty bookshelves and cluttered desk, he struts towards the table and drops the carton on it. It lands with a thud and swirls up more dust – how is it this dusty already, Jaskier could swear he cleaned the place, like, last month?

Yen licks her finger to turn the page which makes Jaskier laugh out loud. He rounds the table to glance over her shoulder, but immediately has to retch. There, catching Yen’s precise attention, is Valdo’s vomit-inducing sonnet about his first time taking a tumble with what Jaskier assumes was a professional. It has to be, no self-respecting person would bed the man free of his coin. Jaskier makes a mental note to spread another rumour about Valdo and various sexual diseases, then plucks the book from her hands and lets it drop to the table. She sighs softly under her breath and allows him to put a hand on her shoulder. Is that… does she lean into him? The tiniest bit? Oh, dear.

“That better not be a dress,” Yen says, reaching out. Her fingertips trace the edge of the carton as if she’s in deep debate on whether to pop it open. This is a game they’ve been playing excessively, him bringing her gifts, her making a show of whether to accept them or not. On the few occasions that Yen invites him for a drink or gives the acoustic properties of his lute a small magical boost, Jaskier fails to reciprocate her cool attitude. He’s too in love to feign indifference and it’s not like she would believe him either.

“If we’re using dress in terms of the precise cut it implies then no, no dress,” he replies, thumb rubbing her skin through the slippery material of the gown mostly to work through the tightness in his throat. It hurts sometimes because this farce makes him think she doesn’t want him. Hell, most things Yen does are aimed at making him think she doesn’t want him. But then there are fractions of admittance like this, like when her gravity shifts towards him or he finds her in his rooms, barely dressed, that make him think there might be more there. Jaskier simply has to practice patience.

“Julian, do I seem like a woman easily impressed with shallow gifts of clothes? In case you hadn’t noticed, I have a very particular style.”

“Oh, I noticed. Trust me, Yenny, you are very much one of a kind,” he replies, mesmerized by her fingers dancing on the cardboard. She loses no time in jabbing back.

“And yet you revert to common courting techniques? That’s pathetic and you know it.”

“Bold of you to assume I am courting you.”

“Bold of you to claim you are not. If I remember correctly, the last time Geralt was with us you got drunk off your ass and asked him for his permission to woo me. Which was sweet but not at all his place to allow. Then you continued to exert yourself into my life on every possible occasion with flowers and picnics and awful love songs. How else am I going to interpret all this?” Yen asks, craning her neck to look up at him from under dark lashes. Gods, she is gorgeous.

“Touché. But do not think I would waste the efforts of my best tailor on just anyone. This is advanced courting, dear.”

“I fail to see its distinguishing qualities.”

“The difference is that these clothes are hardly a gift and more a means to an end.” Jaskier winks which has her eyes narrow, fall back to the carton.

“You want to take me somewhere” Yen asks and, of course, she untangles his intentions immediately.

“Not just somewhere. My cousin’s forwarded me an invitation to a ball put on by some countryside nobleman or other. His work keeps him in Kerack so I’m to go in his stead. That is to say, I’d hoped you would go dancing with me.”

Yen looks up once more and Jaskier starts a little. He will never get used to the vibrance of her violet eyes, how they see through him. Once, she said it took no effort at all to pick at his thoughts, that she always feels as though he’s screaming them right at her. So, he does.

Please, he thinks, mouth twitching into a soft smile. Please, just this once. It would mean the world to me.

Yen huffs a small laugh and shakes her head, then draws the box towards her. Inside, she finds a slim-cut blouse made from the finest black cotton in the city, complete with white lace trim down the front and flaring out at the cuffs and collar. With it, Jaskier had the tailor make a white corset belt and a pair of deep black pants that have applications of the same lace. It would look precarious, almost edgy, on anyone else, but on Yen… the thought alone makes Jaskier’s chest tighten with adoration.

“Jules, this is beautiful,” Yen murmurs as her fingers trace the line of the seams on the blouse. Jaskier puts his other hand to her shoulder and holds on for dear life as his ear twitches. Was that? Did she just? Oh, how he itches to make a quip about the nickname. Because it’s funny, yes, but it also gives him palpitations. He feels like a lovesick puppy trying to befriend a wild cat. Which also means that any violation of trust can ruin what they have. It’s just so fucking precious, this whole affair, and if he were on the outside of it, he would squeal in delight and write a whole novel about it. He still might.

“I’m glad you like it. And it will look absolutely stunning on you. You will look stunning in it. Ah, not implying that you don’t usually look stunning. What I am saying is, the other attendees will be stunned.”

“You’re ridiculous… and stupid too. Are you certain you want to take me to the ball? I’m not exactly popular with the local nobility.”

“Quite the tragedy,” Jaskier says and because he feels daring, he bends down and kisses the top of her head. Then, he saunters over to the stove, pours himself a mug of tea and takes the seat next to her. “And yes, I am certain. In fact, there is nothing I’d love more. Let the people talk.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Yen says on another sigh. “Not about what they say or think or do.”

“Which is part of what makes you so damn sexy.”

Yen rolls her eyes and folds the clothes back into the carton.

“These are lovely, but I will not wear them to the dance,” Yen says. Which means she will go with him at least. It’s not enough, Jaskier is dying to see her wear what he picked out, dying to show the world that such a brilliant woman would choose to spend the evening with him. Most of all, he wants to make her happy. “Trust me on this. You have a reputation to worry about and bringing me along already risks that. Bringing me along in that can and will mess with your career.”

“Trust me, when I say that it won’t matter. I’m already famous and folk love to gossip about famous people. Probably more than they love my songs. I could imagine worse truths to be spread about me. Besides, didn’t you just say you don’t care what people think about you? Why then would you worry about what people think about me?”

"Well I never," she says, but her lips soften into a smile and her hand rises to fiddle with her pendant. Jaskier gently pries it off and brings her knuckles to his lips.

"I don't care either," he whispers. "I just want to go dancing with you."

"I'll portal to my rooms in Kaedwen and get one of my old dresses.” Her face is all smiles, but an edge has stolen into her voice which makes her sound forlorn, sad even, and her eyes flicker over to the folded clothes in the box. Jaskier’s throat tightens.

"Why are you so stubborn? It’s obvious you want to wear them. You don’t need to start giving a fuck now.”

"I'm trying to do something for you here, Julian. I don't usually go out of my way to attend stuck-up parties with peacocks such as yourself."

“Please,” Jaskier says. He still holds her hands in both of his and because he has no shame, and because this really does mean the world to him, he sinks off his chair and onto his knees before her legs. Yen’s eyes widen a fraction. “For me.”

-----

They dance. Oh, how they dance. Jaskier always considered himself a great dancer, he has music in his veins and has flirted and whirled his way through every ball room and banquet hall on the Continent, and it’s clear that Yen is no stranger to this art either. They are exuberant, relentless, they laugh and pirouette and demand their ground, much to the detriment of those with lesser skills. The lack of a dress doesn’t subtract from their flair, if anything, it allows for a broader range of motion

"The only way we could draw more eyes is if we'd brought Geralt along,” Yen giggles. Fuck. She’s so carefree it brings tears to Jaskier’s eyes.

"Gods no," he laughs. "He would ruin all the fun with his growling and brooding. If you're looking for more attention however..."

"Jules-"

Jaskier twirls her and, in that motion, catches her around the waist and dips her low, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips which are parted on a yelp. Before he can tug her up again, her hands come forward to cup his face and she presses into him, grins into the kiss.

“You’re absolutely ridiculous,” she whispers.

“Admit it,” Jaskier drawls as he brings her back upright and they fall into an easy basic waltz, closer to each other than the dance strictly necessitates. “You love me.”

“That is awfully presumptuous of you.” But she laughs, and kisses his cheek, and Jaskier thinks that maybe one day, she will. “Don’t bet on it, bard.”  

[heraldofzaun]

what are your thoughts on viktor and being neurodivergent? though like, obligatory disclaimer that if riot ever did come out and say that "hey! viktor is canonically [something]" that would be catastrophic but i think it is a little bit of fun for consideration

Oh! Well I like to think he's autistic, which is partially because I am too. (Of course in canon it would be catastrophic because haha, oh man, look at how they've treated Blitzcrank's biographies ever since they gave him an updated one. There's some coding in there, alright, and I am... not a fan...)

I’ve posted a lot of long posts recently (this is no exception) and this is also on a kind of tricky subject, so I’m readmore’ing it.

So anyways, while I have to admit that some of the reason why (my) Viktor is autistic is because I am - I think that you can make a general semi-convincing argument. Or I'm so wrapped up in my own interpretations that I can, at the least. Anyways, from here on out when I say Viktor I mean my personal take. Your mileage may vary on applying this to other interpretations.

(Also, thoughts on new lore Jayce's being kind of coded to be like, a stereotypical autistic dude? (If you have any I mean.) I don't like that Riot is doing it, of course, but I've seen a few good rehabilitative takes on it in fandom. @hamartio's Jayce springs to mind, because their Jayce has been developed over the years and also written by someone who like. Cares. Anyways, I have my own personal Jayce ideas that rely on his old lore so he's not really an asshole there, at least in those regards, so I don't really have many thoughts on new Jayce. I think new Viktor is... pretty coded as well, but it’s also insanely stereotypical. The whole “always working, always wants certainty, gets into automation not because he (primarily) wants to help those injured by catastrophes in Zaun but because the catastrophes interrupt his work” thing makes me uncomfortable. Maybe I’ll write sometime on why the rewrite of his lore fails, in my opinion, to hit upon the same themes of his first - would that be of interest to folks? Anyways, this parenthetical is too long.)

I think that autistic Viktor is cool and makes sense, somewhat because of the fact that the ways he goes about solving his problems are, er, unorthodox. (Of course I am not saying that the GE is because he’s autistic, because that’s stupid. This is why I’m kind of squirrely about talking so openly about what I think Viktor’s got going on, and why I don’t really trust if a non-autistic person headcanons him as autistic. There’s a lot of room for that headcanon to just reinforce the “autistic people are supergeniuses with no emotions that work based off of Facts and Logic” trope, and I hate that.) Since a lot of autism is about feeling adrift from/at odds with neurotypical society, I think that Viktor’s general solutions and also his idealistic leanings in the face of everything Zaun is tracks for that. Roboticization makes sense as a way to stop suffering and death, because it’s more achievable than individual feats of immortality through magic or whatever. Viktor doesn’t really get why people would be so opposed to it - he’s made it clear that while he dislikes his own emotions and wants them gone, he doesn’t expect others to cast off theirs. (Maybe he expected that when he was in the thick of his emotional pain, mostly because he couldn’t imagine others choosing differently than he at the time, but not in the current day.)

Of course, externally, when the scary cyborg man who admits to cutting off his own limbs says “no, being a robot is cool, you can keep your emotions even”, any Zaunite (or any person) is going to interpret that as “he is definitely lying”. Viktor doesn’t quite make that leap. (I have thoughts on the whole Theory of Mind concept and I don’t mean to say that Viktor can’t empathize - he does, and does too much - with others, but I think that in this instance he just can’t quite understand sometimes why people don’t believe him.) He also doesn’t quite get why people would be so attached to the bodies that they’re currently in, especially if he can make a mechanical replica. Or why people might want to die and pass into non-existence after a life well lived. (To him, personally, there’s always more to do. Also he’s terrified of death but that’s another topic.)

I also think that Viktor’s empathy is of the hyper- rather than hypo- kind, partially because I feel like outside of self-advocacy groups the mere concept of autistic hyperempathy is seen as like... impossible? It’s also because he generally seems to be kind of an emotional guy in canon before Stanwick, what with the lore saying that “almost no trace of the original man remained” in reference to Viktor reemerging as someone without emotions. That, combined with the fact that he was described as having a “hope to better society” before everything went down, kind of makes me believe that he was a naive idealist type. (Again, not that autism makes you naive, but...) But yes, hyperempathy. Hence "no pain, no wars, no suffering, no death” being part of his ideology for the Glorious Evolution. He gets pretty ripped up about people being hurt, and it’s really only gotten worse over the years as he’s grasped the full scope of pain in the world.

Personally, I write pre-Stanwick-incident Viktor as someone who is still somewhat awkward with expressing emotion, but it’s not due to him not having them. It’s due to the fact that the ways in which he naturally expressed them and in which he interacted with the world were just... seen as odd/different/etc. (I don’t think Runeterra has an autism diagnosis or particularly excellent psychology, even in Piltover and Zaun, so he just gets the “you’re a weird dude” treatment for his entire life.) Stimming or smiling a certain way or talking a lot about his interests or, you know, the general autistic existence is weird to most people around him, as it unfortunately is in real life. So he’s more reserved until you actually know him, because he’s just masking all the time. (Fun fact about my Viktor: he’s pretty expressive under that actual mask of his. It helps to not have to micromanage expressions all the time when he isn’t experiencing a bout of flat affect due to [gestures vaguely at everything else going on with his mental state], although he sometimes feels poorly about not being able to manage himself. But that’s his issues, and I think it’s good for him to show emotion.)

Side note - Stanwick was able to do such a number on Viktor due to: a) Stanwick being very charismatic and manipulative, on top of being an actually smart man and scientist - he’s really a great example of a “good Zaunite”, in the sense of being good at being what the culture rewards, b) Viktor actively dealing with the death of his parents and Stanwick being an older adult who’d treated him kindly and had never seemed put-off by Viktor’s oddities, and c) Viktor not realizing that he’d get backstabbed, because yes he knows that that happens in academia but Stanwick’s nice. Whether or not the outcomes would have been the same if Viktor were more competent at being “a good Zaunite”... well, probably not. Viktor ended up where he did because of who he is.

(Secondary side note: Viktor has a very strong and very black-and-white sense of what’s right and wrong, as well as general black-and-white thinking. You can see how that would have... not helped in the situations he was put through.)

This is getting kind of rambling, but I guess the point of this is that Viktor’s wanting to remove his emotions may be cloaked in the language of them being “inefficient” or “unhelpful”, which would feed into autistic stereotypes, but it’s really more of a matter of them being too painful and raw for him to process. He feels too much and hurts too much, and no amount of positive emotions in the world will (in his mind) make up for the pain he’s felt and will feel. So it’s better to not feel anything at all, isn’t it? At least then you aren’t overwhelmed by it all.

Viktor just hasn’t fit in with Zaun for all his life, really. Not as an odd child who can tell you all about science-fiction and techmaturgy, not as an odd and reserved teenager/young adult, not as a bright young doctoral student still dealing with grief but trying to make the best of it, and... not as the Machine Herald. But now he’s given up on trying to fit in, for better or for worse.

(Other miscellaneous and less serious autistic thoughts on him: generally a pretty fixed diet, partially due to being autistic but also due to what’s easily available in Zaun + what agrees with his stomach. A fan of weight and pressure - I like to think that the reason his outfit is like that is that he finds it comforting, and also that he has a weighted blanket or two around. Special interests of general techmaturgy, robotics, and science-fiction. He can talk for hours about any of those, and has. Both his parents were mildly spectrum-y, his mother a little bit moreso, so they just kinda assumed that him being him was out-of-the-ordinary and a bit strange but not something “horribly wrong”. Oh! And his third arm, which is under a little less conscious control than the rest of him, still stims sometimes when he’s working or otherwise not paying attention to it.)

This was very long and jumped around a lot, because I find it hard to give a convincing paragraph-by-paragraph argument about exactly why I think that Viktor is autistic, or rather why I headcanon him as such. But hopefully it was interesting! I just have a lot of thoughts on him, as well as the general state of autistic-coded or perceived-as-autistic-by-individuals (both allistic and autistic) characters in media and so it’s very hard to do anything concise without branching out into discussing other topics.

[purpletutor]

Python and its learning advantages.

Guido Van Rossum the Inventor of the computer language, “Python” ,when began implementing Python as a programming language back in the late 1980s at Centrum Wiskunde & Informatica (CWI) in the Netherlands came up with an interesting tale .

This had to do with why was the programming language named after a reptile, Guido back in those days always read the published scripts from “Monty Python’s Flying Circus”, a BBC comedy series from the 1970s.

Van Rossum thought he needed a name that was short, unique, and slightly mysterious, so, he decided to call the language, Python.

That is how a name of a reptile was given to a computer language. Unlike the name the language is not dangerous rather it is one of the easiest programming language and can be made further easy by learning basic coding.

Surprisingly today when young minds of 6 -7 years old kids can get a hold of it I am sure that even you, and I can, but let’s first know a bit about Python before we set forth to this enriching learning experience.

• Python is an interpreted, object-oriented, high-level programming language with dynamic semantics.

• Its high-level built in data structures, combined with dynamic typing and dynamic binding, make it very attractive for Rapid Application Development, as well as for use as a scripting, or glue language to connect existing components together.

• Python’s simple, easy to learn syntax emphasizes readability and therefore reduces the cost of program maintenance.

• Python supports modules and packages, which encourages program modularity and code reuse.

• The Python interpreter and the extensive standard library are available in source or binary form without charge for all major platforms, and can be freely distributed.

Often, programmers fall in love with Python because of the increased productivity it provides. Since there is no compilation step, the edit-test-debug cycle is incredibly fast.

Debugging Python programs is easy, a bug or bad input will never cause a segmentation fault. Instead, when the interpreter discovers an error, it raises an exception. When the program doesn’t catch the exception, the interpreter prints a stack trace.

A source level debugger allows inspection of local and global variables, evaluation of arbitrary expressions, setting breakpoints, stepping through the code a line at a time, and so on.

The debugger is written in Python itself, testifying to Python’s introspective power. On the other hand, often the quickest way to debug a program is to add few print statements to the source and the fast edit-test-debug cycle makes this simple approach very effective.

Keeping Python fun to use is an important goal of Python’s developers. It reflects in the language’s name, a tribute to the British comedy group Monty Python.

On occasions, they are playful approaches to tutorials and reference materials, such as referring to spam and eggs instead of the standard foo and bar.

Python is used by hundreds of thousands of programmers and is used in many places. Sometimes only Python code is used for a program, but most of the time it is used to do simple jobs while another programming language is used to do more complicated tasks.

Although has anyone ever wondered how small children can code and run commands on python. The answer to this lies in the amount of sources we have .If one wishes to learn and there are multiple ways that the young generation has been offered with.

Among the many sources to choose from, PurpleTutor an Ed-tech company can help the child fulfil his /her dreams .Becoming a programmer in the future will not seem only a dream . What we as a team promise is interesting and interactive live online coding classes with the child facilitated by certified computer science teachers.

We teach coding to the young budding generation(Age 6-16). If you wish to witness yourself how this experience can be fruitful for your child in being future ready and for you to be a responsible parent. Book a slot for your child with our https://study.purpletutor.com/signup?source=TW and get to know more about us from our website https://purpletutor.com/about/

[petitommo]

re: (not so) small rant about Theo, Liam and season six of Teen Wolf

(original post by @livingbythewords, you can find it linked here. i originally wanted to reply to the post, but replies are turned off. i’d reblog it, but it’s pretty long, so i wanted people to get to choose whether or not they wanted to read it...)

i saw this post in the liam tag when i woke up yesterday, and i kept sporadically thinking about it and discussing it with people (and in my own head), and i definitely have some thoughts about it, not gonna lie... still, as i said, absolutely feel free to ignore this if this ain’t your cup of tea at all, but if you wanna hear my thoughts about 1. livingforthewords’ post and 2. theo, liam and season six of teen wolf, feel free to look under the line break :)

(i’ll be posting some of the lines from the original post for context to what i’m saying, but if you do wanna read my answer, i recommend reading the original post as well! let me also preface this by saying this is in no way meant as hate towards the creator, sceo as a ship, or scott mccall as a character. i found some parts of this post had traces of what i’d consider to be a harmful way of thinking about fandom and shipping, and i wanted to adress it.)

the post mentions early one that liam brings theo back to use him, and that as soon as he finds out theo no longer has josh and tracy’s abilites, he wants to send him back. that the only reason he doesn’t is because theo remembers stiles. with this, you say that you see thiam shippers claim that liam does it from the goodness of his heart.

personally, i’ve never seen claims that that was the reason liam did it. i have, however, seen (and personally think this myself) that theo coming back from the hell he’s been put in by the hands of liam, might make theo quick to develop a bond or feeling of gratitude towards liam. there’s no doubt in my mind that theo understands why liam did it — but even then, it still got him out of there. in canon, no other pack member but liam even entertained the idea of getting theo back — i think theo is very aware of this, as well — which in itself automatically makes liam the safest pack member for theo to latch onto, from the get go.

Liam distrusts and despises Theo – and it never changes throughout the course of the show.

again, with the basis of liam and theo’s developing aquaintance in season six (heavily conveyed through non verbal communication - both in the form of touches/glances/body language and the things written between the lines; the things not specifically worded, but definitely said through their dialogue), there’s a lot that can be up for interpretation.

when i watched the show, i saw two characters who, yes, clearly had a shared hatred towards each other, learn how to work together and develop a tentative trust (that only grew throughout the season). i saw two characters that shouldn’t work together, work together insanely well, to the point where no verbal communication was strictly necessary.

my point is, thiam as a ship is heavily influenced by interpretation of what you see in their dynamic, and i find it troublesome that you look at other people’s interpretation and publicly say;

However, shipping someone and having fun with it is not the same as twisting into knots to try to prove that canon supports something, when it doesn’t.

especially when you follow this up by saying;

Yes, there is a person who acknowledges that Theo has changed. Who trusts and supports him even when they have no reason to. Who is always there for him and tries to treat him fairly even after being incredibly hurt and betrayed.

But that person isn’t Liam.

because you and i watched the same show, and we clearly have majorly different interpretations of season six; of theo’s relationship with people post-hell; of liam dunbar as a character.

however, i am not gonna claim that you’re wrong, and i’m right. your interpretation is entirely different from mine — and yes, based on what i saw, i do personally think you’re wrong, but here’s the thing; i understand that interpretation of this is just that; interpretation. theo isn’t canonically linked with anyone, therefore i cannot say that thiam is right and sceo is wrong — even as that’s my personal view of it.

back to the theo and liam and thiam shippers adressed in this post;

i want to preface my response to this with the fact that i myself have been/are in healthy BDSM dynamics. i have also jokingly said that theo ‘probably enjoyed it’. i have online friends who have joked about theo enjoying it. and here’s the thing; none of the people i know seriously think theo, in that exact setting, enjoyed it.

a great thing about fandom and shipping is the exploration and discovery of one’s own sexuality. we often talk about it openly; we discuss it with people, we’re ‘horny on main’, we learn from fellow shippers, we read fanfiction. we joke around with stuff.

there’s no doubt in my mind that people do not think theo raeken got pulled back from hell, chained up and forced to follow liam and hayden around, and actually enjoyed it at that moment. however, can i personally see theo as a character that would enjoy being chained up in other situations? yes. a lot of us do. and so we joke about it.

joking about certain aspects of a BDSM relationship when you’re looking at/reblogging things from canon does not undermine how important a proper and healthy BDSM dynamic is.

the post also touches on theo being a traumatized kid with unhealthy coping mechanisms. this is, without a doubt, the core of theo as a character. however, by putting it in the context of why it’s wrong to joke about him being a sub/rope bunny, feels so misplaced to me. a lot of kinks develop from the trauma we have (talking from experience). a lot of kinks develop at — seemingly — random (talking from experience). being traumatized doesn’t automatically mean we develop kinks, sure, but it also doesn’t mean we do not develop kinks.

without a doubt - chaining him up and dragging him behind them was not a kind thing to do; i don’t think anyone disagrees with that. but at the end of the day, these are characters. theo is a character we’ve barely gotten to know, especially post-hell theo, so he develops in our mind, we have headcanons, we think of personality traits that weren’t shown in canon. some of those pertain to his sexuality, and that’s okay.

this also pertains to your gripe with people looking at canonical depictions of thiam and seeing it as love. again, even in the thiam shipping part of fandom, we have majorly different interpretations of certain scenes, and that’s okay. i’ve touched upon the importance of acknowledging that thiam as a canonically hinted at couple is all up for personal interpretation of their canonical depiction; this also means that people will see things very differently.

the original post was mainly aimed at theo and liam as a ship, so i won’t get into the comments about liam as a character that much, but i will say this;

even you yourself mention that liam absolutely has reason to resent theo. but, you go on to claim that liam doesn’t have as much reason for resentment as other characters.

liam might not have been personally wronged by theo in season five as much as other characters, i will agree with that. but, he did watch theo’s actions and influence in the things done to mason, to hayden, to scott. all people he loved. this, in itself, is reason enough to build resentment towards a person.

it’s also important to remember that theo lessened liam in his mind to the beta with anger issues, stripped away every complex part of liam and simplified him into this one trait that liam himself has struggled with and tried to distance himself away from.

liam struggling with being depicted as a monster — pre supernatural; because of IED, supernatural; as a werewolf — has been canonically shown so many times. it’s gotten us the line of «you’re not a monster. you’re a werewolf, like me.». we’ve been showed, time and time again, that liam has a complexity within him that is constantly undermined — by brett, by stiles, and yes; by season 5 theo.

sadly, i also see liam simplified and put into the box of beta with anger issues by the fandom. this also, from what i’ve read on your blog and from statements about liam in this post, includes you.

how does that change in season six? let’s get back to the claim at the start of this post; of thism shippers claiming liam is the only one who trusts and supports theo, and look at it this way; theo — previous homicidal maniac out to ruin the pack (put simply; we’re both theo apologists, we know there’s more to him than that) — is one of the first people to look at liam’s anger and not let it be his only character trait.

the post mentions glances in the truck scene; this is what the truck scene (in my mind) is really about. theo acknowledges — even if not explicitly stated — that the anuk-ite’s ability to raise fear in people, raises anger in liam. he sees that liam’s anger is a direct consequence of the anuk-ite; he sees that the fear instilled in liam translates into anger; because of IED. this lets liam be a character that has IED, instead of just liam - the angry character.

this, again, is my interpretation of this scene. you might not have seen it that way. once again proving that this is a ship based on interpretation.

claiming that interpreting scenes is twisting canon until it fits your idea of it, is such a harmful way of looking at shipping. i have never interpreted anything romantic between scott and theo in canon, and could, in turn, claim that you twist canon until it fits what you want. but i’m not going to, because your interpretation of things doesn’t have to fit mine.

you can’t write a rant about thiam as a ship, state that you don’t want to tell anyone who to ship and that certain ships are wrong, and then undermine every interpretation anyone has had about liam and theo as a ship.

we’ve all seen the same season of teen wolf, we’ve all seen the exact same scenes (there are no version of the show you watched); but we’re all very different people. we interpret things very differently.

AND THAT IS OKAY.

do not undermine people’s ship. if you hate thiam, just stay away from it. don’t expose yourself to it. ignore it for all it’s worth.

it’s that easy.

[twdmusicboxmystery]

Left and Right Back Pockets, Red and Green, Black and White

Most of the credit for these observations goes to @wdway, but I have some @frangipanilove in here, too. We’ve had detailed discussions about these things.  😉 And I think you all will find some interest here. It’s a great example of how these symbols all intertwine.

@wdway:

I'm going to share a rabbit hole I went down almost two weeks ago. I've been spending a little time each day looking at a few episodes and this may be hard to believe but what I thought would be straightforward and fairly quick turned out to have several side tunnels. Who would have guessed? 

Daryl a year from when we first saw him at his river camp. He just passed the two iron steaks in the tree and is taking drinks from his green water bottle when Dog runs up to him. My eyes went to the red rag in his back pocket. I got to thinking about the fact that we have not seen the rag in a long time. Or at least, I didn't think we had, but here, in Daryl's memory of the past, he has this red rag which to me screams RED FLAG. 

That rag was part of his costume from the beginning of the series. It was always hanging out of his right back pocket. I believe tptb decided to feature it in s4 and to use it as a half of a symbol representing Daryl & Beth. Daryl's red rag & Beth's green journal.

(Ignore the bit about Aaron. This is from a different theory and I was too lazy to take another one.  😉 )

The shots of Daryl on the path in FM reminded me of another similar shot from Alone. I'm going to do a comparison of the two shots 1) will be from FM. 2) will be from Alone.

1) Daryl carrying a Green backpack. 

2) Daryl carrying Beth Greene. 

1) Daryl with a Green water bottle. 

2) Beth Greene = water. 

1) Red rag in Daryl's right back pocket. 

2) Red rag in Daryl's right back pocket. 

1) Daryl's left back pocket holds a map (paper) of his journey for the last year(s). 

2) Beth's left back pocket that above Daryl's holds her journal (paper) of her last year(s). 

1) Dog=Beth. 

2) Beth.

I asked myself, how long has it been since we've seen Daryl with the red rag in his back pocket? I did an episode search to find out. We last saw it in what I think of as a two-episode storyline that ended season 6, Last Day On Earth and began season 7, The Day Will Come When You Won’t Be.

The first shot is from s6e16. We barely see the red rag in Daryl's pocket as he's taking a swing at Negan which leads to Glenn's death. The second shot is from s7e1. 

Again, we barely see the red rag in his pocket as Dwight is loading Daryl into the van to go to the Sanctuary. We never see the red rag in Daryl's pocket again. Until the flashbacks in FM.

We have seen Daryl with something in his right back pocket starting in s6 through the present: a black and white bandana. 

The funny thing is, that too, or one just like it, was featured in S4. We saw Daryl wear it as a mask when he was digging graves. 

We then saw him give it to Beth in Inmates. She put grapes in it and wore it tied to the left side of her belt. Which ties both the red rag and the black and white bandana to both Beth and Daryl.

Thinking of the red rag as a half symbol representing Daryl & Beth, there was another symbol of Beth that Daryl wore on his left side that we first saw in s4, Beth's knife. She wore it on her right side in Still and then in Alone, they found a gun for her and she switched it to her left side. In s5e10, Them, Daryl started wearing her knife on his left side, his knife on his right. The last time we saw him wear the knife was in s6e11, Knots Untie, just a few episodes before the red rag disappeared from his costume.

Like I mentioned before, I've been searching through episodes. I did not search every episode from S4 through the present, but I searched quite a few and I didn’t see the red rag again. At least, not Daryl wearing it, and that really bothered me because it seemed like I had seen it recently.

The other day, I watched s10e10, Stalker. This was an episode that we had high hopes for because of the 10/10 paper clock in Beth's room at Grady. There was hope of seeing Beth, or at least having some major clues about her, and yet there didn't seem to be anything major. We saw symbolism of her, of course. Especially in the garage scene, there is a white T-Bird with an open trunk, red fire extinguishers, an open roof. Then, when I watched the episode the other day, it clicked and things just fell into place. Things I had seen so many times in my re-watches suddenly had new meaning and new symbolism.

Daryl hiding behind a tool chest. On the other side is the open trunk car. Look what's hanging from the cabinet door next to him, or more importantly, to the right side of him. It's a RED RAG, just like what he wore in his right back pocket until a few episodes after Beth's knife disappeared. 

Speaking of back pockets as in seen from the back. If you had any doubts of tptb's meaning this one was the major hints we were looking for but just didn't see.

Ever so convenient that there happened to have been a piece of the cabinet cut out and we can see Daryl eyes peeking over from the back with the RED RAG on his right side. Also in this shot is a yellow mop bucket, similar to the ones that we saw both with Beth at Grady and with Daryl at the Sanctuary.

It's pretty obvious that tptb wanted us to see the damn knife in Daryl's left leg along with the red rag just behind his right side. I know I'm preaching to the choir here, but I'm going to point it out, anyway. It was Beth's left leg that was hurt in Alone and she switched her knife from her right side to her left, which is also the side on which Daryl wore her knife.

Another thing I want to point out is that starting in s9, Daryl wore 2 knives, one on each side. We saw him after the time jump in e7, Stradivarius wearing the 2 knives along with the black & white bandana in his back right-side pocket. If you go to s9e14, Scars in both the present time and the flashback set 9 months after Rick's body went missing, Daryl is wearing 2 knives and the black & white bandana.

In FM, Daryl is only wearing one knife on his right side, no knife on his left. A red rag in his right back pocket that he hadn't worn since s7e1, in his left back pocket a paper Journal I meant map haha. One more note, he's holding his Greene water bottle in his right hand. What does all of this mean?

My theory is that the red rag represents Daryl and the time when he was part of a couple with Beth. He was the red to her green. Even more importantly than that, I believe the writers are using the red rag as a red flag that what Daryl remembers is not correct. What we're seeing in his telling of his story to Carol is intensely colored both figuratively and literally by his PTSD, his self-inflicted loneliness and desire to belong to someone. His wounded plea for someone to find him. I'm not crying, you're crying. Who am I kidding? We're all crying for Daryl.

This is from e1 of this season, Lines We Cross. It is the scene where Carol has just got off the boat and is talking to Ezekiel and in the background, we see Daryl and Connie talking. The camera focuses on Daryl and Connie, so it's obvious that tptb wanted us to focused and on his back pockets. (I certainly do not have a problem with them focusing on his sweet behind haha.)

The writers’ goal would be for the general audience to realize that Daryl has a book on sign language in his back pocket. This makes a very sweet statement about Daryl taking the extra step to find a book so he could communicate with Connie.

For me, this is showing a lot of other things. First, it is drawing attention to his back pockets which will be a theme through this season, especially at the end of e21 when tptb somewhat more subtly focuses on Daryl's back pockets, where he has the black and white bandana that I believe represents Beth. That part I've already talked about before, so let me just make a couple of statements about this scene, this particular shot.

Yes, there is a sign language book in the left back pocket, the back pocket that Beth carried her diary and where she put the Washington DC spoon. This is a very significant, symbolic, purposeful decision the writers made. Anything that Daryl carries in his left back pocket symbolically ties to Beth.

The way I interpret what I am seeing is that the book is obviously a representation of Connie. It means that there is a tie or will be a tie between her (remember this is the first episode) and Beth in the season. In hindsight, Connie was in the cave and possibly dead. Then she was just gone/missing, and there has been a search for her. 

The other thing I want to point out is you can see a little bit of the black and white bandana in Daryl's right pocket in this shot. He originally carried his red rag, and now he has carried this black and white bandana. The most important thing that comes away from this is that the writers made the decision at the beginning of the season about his bandana and which pockets were used to tie Daryl to a particular character.

@frangipanilove:

I want to thank you for tracing the red rag, because that was something I wanted to do, but never got around to. I share your opinion on how it stood out when it appeared again in his flashback. And I do agree that it’s a red flag.

There are other red flags as well. I think they all point to resurrection. I believe the red plastic bag hanging from an antenna of a car in Coda is a RED FLAG. I feel like red flag = red flag, like the ones you get when you get signals that something not quite right.

So, you say it’s showing that Daryl’s not remembering right, I’d probably choose different words to explain it but essentially, I interpret it in a similar way. Backpack and back pocket = “come back”, return, resurrection, Sirius symbolism.

Map is synonymous with Beth’s DC spoon, which she put in her back pocket and later in her backpack. We also see a representation of this symbolism when Daryl shows up in 10x1 with an ASL book in his back pocket. It’s a reference to Beth’s green notebook she kept in her back pocket but also a reference to Daryl’s “the signs are all there, you just gotta know how to read them.”

The backpack symbolism is something we saw when Daryl carried Beth piggyback style across the cemetery, a parallel to Carol throwing the backpack across the river in FM. The wings on Daryl’s BACK are also a part of this symbolism. We saw how the vest was laying in the ground on the episode where Denise died. He also drank the Danville bridge whiskey, which is a reference to the bridge symbolism about crossing over the river/crossing over to the dead side.

About the red rag in 10x10, we did discuss it, and it stood out, but to me I didn’t know where to place it in the greater scope of the symbolism back then, and honestly I’d kind of forgotten it since, so thanks for bringing it back around again. Again, I believe it stands for resurrection, and we saw it in relation to the t-bird(BIRD) with open trunk. Bird = helicopter, trunk = resurrection. Helicopter + resurrection is a reference to how Rick survived (remember, he fell of the BRIDGE between the realms of the living and the dead, he was washed up on the bank of the river, rejected by the death realm)

@twdmusicboxmystery:

The only thing I want to add to this has to do with an edit I made quite a long time ago. As @frangi already said, this left/right theme extends to Daryl’s wings. So it was significant and purposeful that when Beth hugged him in still, she laid her cheek against his left wing. That’s the one that represents her, so it’s only fitting.

In thinking about this, I got to thinking about how Daryl lost one of the wings on his vest. We’ve always assumed that represented Beth because, clearly, he lost her. But I’m rethinking that a bit, now. Especially given that at the beginning of FM, when he sits by the river, his wing is still present on his vest.

Judith made him a new wing in Morningstar and sort of “gave him back” his lost wing, right?

And I’m not saying this ISN’T a foreshadow of Beth. It very well may be. But we also find, again and again, that these symbols have multiple meanings. Based on this left/right evidence, I simply want to put another interpretation forth.

Based on what’s been pointed out above, which I think is 100% accurate, Daryl’s right wing is more likely to represent…Daryl. His left wing represents Beth and he never lost that.

So I’m wondering if the message is that he never lost Beth, even if he doesn’t know it (“I’m not gonna leave you.”). But in his grief and PTSD, he lost himself. That’s why the wing is still present at the beginning of FM, but has disappeared by the end, and we don’t see how.

It was taking care of Judith, after the time jump, that really brought Daryl back to himself, his family, and civilization at large. Her making him a new wing represents her helping him find himself. And only after he finds himself again will he find Beth.

Thoughts?

[etirabys]

Grab bag of NVC advice that I liked

Sorted in order of decreasing importance, as perceived by me. The first two are their own posts.

1. People deal better with facts about you than facts about themselves

2. When you notice self-blame, ask what the blaming self is trying to get out of the blaming, and what the blamed self was trying to get when they took the action you now regret

3. Separate observations from the feelings they make you have

Obvious but very good advice and most people are not good at consistently following it, including me when I’m stressed. Instead of “You neglected me by being disrespecting our date time”, say “You were an hour late for our date yesterday, and this makes me feel neglected”. Several good reasons for doing this, in descending order of perceived importance:

1) My partner can show up to dates on time more easily than they can keep me from feeling neglected.

2) I’m identifying two steps for my unhappiness – my partner’s action, and then my interpretation / the particular way I happened to react to it, which I think is more truthful.*

3) ‘You neglected me’ is my framing, it’s probably not theirs, and once I inject it into the conversation, there’s an unnecessary disagreement-layer.

4) People find it easier to engage with you when they don’t feel criticized.

* Rosenberg says “[The first speaker] attributes responsibility for his disappointment solely to another person’s action. [The second speaker] traces his feeling of disappointment to his own unfulfilled desire.” I reject Rosenberg’s general philosophy that you should take complete responsibility for all your feelings, but I do think responsibility should be split, and agree that “You caused me to feel X” statements are unproductive and misleading.

4. Many things I do because I ‘should’, I am choosing to do, and I will deal with them better if I recognize that

Another time, when I was consulting for a school district, a teacher remarked, “I hate giving grades. I don’t think they are helpful and they create a lot of anxiety on the part of students. But I have to give grades: it’s the district policy.” We had just been practicing how to introduce language in the classroom that heightens consciousness of responsibility for one’s actions. I suggested that the teacher translate the statement “I have to give grades because it’s district policy” to “I choose to give grades because I want … ”

She answered without hesitation, “I choose to give grades because I want to keep my job,” while hastening to add, “But I don’t like saying it that way. It makes me feel so responsible for what I’m doing.”

"That's why I want you to do it that way," I replied.

The obvious application for me is also my job, which I approach with a sense of duty and fear-of-punishment. I know why I choose to keep having this job – because I want to learn from my very bright coworkers, because I value building up runway for a period of unemployment/recovery, because I want data on whether I can succeed at a megacorp at all, and most of all because having a demanding job gives me a sense of purpose and self-sufficiency. It’s scary to not be able to provide for myself because then I have to rely on other people to do some of it for me, which means my livelihood is dependent on my ability to maintain relationships with other people (or navigate government paperwork). I choose to go to work and do my job because that protects me from that reality. I can’t always hold onto this mindset, but whenever I do, the sense of being shackled falls away.

5. If someone isn’t giving you something you asked for, get a clear understanding of why they’re not giving it to you before asking again

Choosing to request rather than demand does not mean we give up when someone says no to our request. It does mean that we don’t engage in persuasion until we have empathized with what’s preventing the other person from saying yes.

I have issues with Rosenberg’s descriptions of requests vs demands, and his assumption that you can get through life never making demands, but I think there are many situations where you could request instead, and be better off by doing so.

[somedrunkpirate]

in the dark we travel (Geraskier Sci-fi au ficlet)

Rating: T | Wordcount: 3,4 | No major warnings | pre-slash, first meeting @geraskierfunday prompt: space

//let me know if you want of this because I have too much lore for a oneshot//

Read on ao3 or continue reading below 

The stench of the holding bay almost makes Geralt turn on his heel.

It burns through his nose, coming in waves so overwhelming they should’ve been visible in the air. His senses are a dubious gift as he does not only smell it long before anyone else, but can distinguish individual notes within the cacophony of abomination. The acidic sharpness of cheap hovercraft fuel; the rot of biological waste; and then that sickly sweetness of pink oil, a byproduct from the favourite spirit boosters of all the rich kids and trip tourists partying up above. It’s the most prominent smell by far and it makes Geralt want to gag.

Intergalactic travel on this side of the Tenements is always a gamble.

Jackpot would be a merchant ship, where at least the conditions have to be sufficient for whatever cargo is on board. The fact that this usually results in better living environments for the stragglers sleeping between the boxes is entirely incidental. All in all, a good deal for everyone involved— except for Geralt, sometimes. Most merchants have no desire to have him on their ship. Luckily most are scared enough to let him anyway.

A draw— earning back your bet — would be a scavenger ship. Though sleeping among scavenged ship parts and stolen goods is less comfortable than proper cargo, the experience at least comes with a sense of adventure. Playing cards with pirates; fist fights between mercenaries; drinks with old timers. For many the opportunity would be once in a lifetime. 

The drawback, of course, is becoming accessory to whatever crime the scavengers end up committing during your stay. And Enforcers don’t give one shit whether you sat in the cargo hold or shot the blast cannons yourself. Geralt has enough problems to keep track of to enjoy being blamed for other people’s crimes. Scavengers are insufferable, as a whole, but the most annoying are the ones that get caught.

So, in a sense, it is only fair Geralt loses the gamble. He’d been complaining about a win or a draw anyway, and the universe does so like to remind him there is no one smiling upon him. He ran out of luck years ago.

The smell only worsens when the great metal doors open to the loading dock, and the familiar bright orange of a Garbagecraft is revealed.

Various levels of frustration, despair and anger are voiced in groans and clicks. The crowd stops as a whole, yet unwilling to accept their collective fate. Roach’s ears flicker at the unrest, her two right front hooves scrape at the metal flooring in agitation.

Geralt pats her neck, careful not to get sliced by her sharp mane, and shushes her. “It’s alright. Shh. Good Girl.”

Some of the would-be travellers— two Pervuvians, a Human and a Sketh — push their way through the crowd and gang up around the dock boy who had led them here. They begin to chow him out in various languages, but Geralt catches enough to get the gist. Give me back my money or you will feel my wrath, insert threat specificities here.

As they become more and more creative, Geralt sighs and gives a quiet command to Roach to stay at the edge of the crowd. She makes a noise that Geralt chooses to interpret as agreement, rather than the frustration regarding her current situation that it probably was.

Geralt edges around the crowd to get a better look of the situation, his hand hovering above the hilt of his energy blade. The Pervuvians are part of a larger crew, seven total, standing off to the side with their limbs crossed. The Sketh is carrying a T-1 Blaster openly, which means she’s likely got something even more illegal under that travel robe of hers. The Human is an older man; his eyes almost folded away into his wrinkles. Not a threat at face value— which isn’t a whole lot, in Geralt’s experience. He’s proven right when he activates his perm-mod, focusing his vision, and the blue and white overlay lights up around the presence of an illusion.

He only has to strain his eyes a little before the glimmer dissipates and Geralt can see the true form of the being looming beside the dock boy. A Dizan, neon glyph tattoos and all.

Geralt suppresses a groan, and grabs the handle of his silver sword instead.

Even if he’d wanted to consider suffering teleportation in favour of two weeks sleeping among trash, the choice has now been made for him. The duration of the travel should be enough to see if this one dabbles with the ways of the Ancients, and how far they go if they do.

Though, if they’re willing to kill a kid out of frustration, Geralt has his answer too.

The shouting gets progressively louder and begins to attract more people. The whole of the Pervuvian crew has joined by the time Geralt manages to reach them.

It’s not that the crowd tries to block his path — the moment the flash of his eyes reaches theirs, most have the common sense to cover and step aside — there is just nowhere they can go. The whole platform has started to fill up as more travellers climb out of the drainage pipes. And the other half of the dock is claimed by the large containers, being loaded on one by one.

And yet, the immature show of aggression has managed to claim a small open clearing in the middle of the platform, as people press into each other trying to get outside of the blasting zone. Quite literally, as the moment Geralt breaches this unspoken border, the Sketh puts her hand on the trigger.

The boy goes pale. “Please! I do not have it. You must go to Kestra, the dock master, if you have a complaint.”

Geralt flickers a quick look to the Dizan — still frustrated, but passively so, eyes sparking with interest between the Sketh and the boy — and assesses his options. He grabs his energy blade and activates it.

It doesn’t make a sound, but the purple glow should be obvious enough to the Sketh once he—

“Friends! Please calm yourselves.”

A young man slides in front of the boy— in front of the blaster — hands held open in a placating gesture.

Geralt swears internally and deactivates his blade. The Sketh has her hand on the trigger, but hadn’t aimed the blaster. Even if she’d pulled while Geralt subdued her, it would’ve gone wide, cascading over his head.

But the man, standing taller and a step closer to her, has it pressed right against his heart.

He doesn’t seem to be aware of this fact, smiling brightly at the Sketh and then at the crowd at large. It seems so out of place— so confident, that even the Sketh is taken off guard and takes a step back reflexively. The barrel is no longer touching him, but the shot would be equally deadly.

The man is handsome, though garishly colourful compared to everyone in the vicinity. He looks like he’d gotten lost on his way to Erilisis Boulevard and somehow ended up in a sewage-cum-space station, of all places.

Despite his appearance, he carries himself with ease, even familiarity. There is no sign of an illusion to explain his reckless confidence— Geralt checked. If this is all an act, the only thing the man is playing is himself.

“I understand that the recent actions of our honourable Tin Men have us all on edge, as it is their overbearing application of the law that has many of us seeking out new sights in the first place!”

A few murmurs of agreement rumble over the crowd.

“I assume that most are not here out of free will, but rather out of necessity,” the man continues with sympathy. “We are leaving behind friends, family, business— life. No one should expect any of us to be happy, never mind calm.”

Nodding. Someone whistles, others hum. They’re listening.

The man’s face changes, his passionate expression becoming wry. “And look, I also am not eager to sleep among the left over drab of Zevos’ finest.” He pauses and then continues with a sly smile, “Never mind with all of you stinking up the place.”

Some smile, some even chuckle.

Geralt has to work to maintain an expression of neutrality.

The Sketh still has her hand on her blaster, but her finger has slackened, as if she’d forgotten that she was about to pull the trigger. The tension of the crowd at large is easing; the sharp border around the clearing is melting away. The man, with a few words, has them enthralled.

The man seems to be aware of this, because his attention slides off the crowd in a split second. His posture changes. From the wide and tall stance of a stage performer, he slackens slightly-- pulls in and leans forward, almost intimate. He’s looking at the Sketh, his voice low and almost gentle, but there is an order hidden under the kindness.

“Come, scivan. I know the stench is worse for you, but this might very well be the last ship of the day cycle. And with the Enforcers dogging the Magistrate’s tail, the whole operation could be shut down any moment. We cannot afford a delay, none of us can.”

And that is when Geralt realises the man does have a perm-mod after all. Not an illusion patch like the Dizan, but a rarer and much more volatile augmentation: a speech-mod.

Where temporary speech mods might translate your words for a day, or make your singing slightly more passable for single performance, a permanent speech mot does not add anything to the user. It just enhances what is already there.

If you’re good— if you are truly a master of tone, words and whatever fucking else comes with skilled communication, the Ancient Ways are nothing in comparison. Violence is obvious. Ancient crafting leaves traces of some sort behind, even if it is just merely the use of something else. But talking— speech, it takes nothing, it leaves nothing. It is as fleeting as a memory, an experience. Done well, you don’t even remember it, because you don’t know you’re being convinced in a manner more potent than normal interactions.

At least, the ones Geralt has come across prefer an art of subtlety. This man, quite clearly, is more like the ones who wear their speech mod openly, shimmering on the back of their necks, some curving down to their throat in graceful lines. Entertainers, singers, writers; all whose persuasion and manipulation is seen as harmless— made safe in the illusion of fiction.

And yet, despite the apparent taming of danger, they have been given the same title of a specialized class that once lived on the planet called Earth. Those who were able to leverage their seemingly frivolous talents to gain access into the highest courts; become confidants of Kings while serenading them to sleep.

Bards.

Geralt has always found it ironic. To expect these people to only use their powers for entertainment and laughter, named for a group that ostensibly did the same more than a millennium ago, while conveniently forgetting an important fact.

Most Bards were spies.

Gerat carefully sets his thoughts aside when the Bard moves. His focus returns fully to the situation at hand.

The Bard is reaching out to the Sketh, slowly, carefully-- recklessly, idiotically, completely careless of the danger, of setting her off.

She flinches when the Bard’s hand touches her fur covered arm— the one holding the gun.

Geralt takes a careful step closer. His hand hovering over the activation pad of his blade.

He’s quiet, but the Bard clocks him— a glance, eyes unwavering, before he focuses on the Sketh again and says, low, “Let this go.”

There is a breath. Geralt waits.

“Fine,” she spits out. “But I claim best bunk.”

She isn’t looking at the Bard’s face— doesn’t catch the relief before it's drowned out by a companionable smile and a hint of satisfaction. Geralt does. Geralt sees all of it.

The man’s expressions are as garish as his clothing. He is too animated-- too bright-- to belong in a place like this. Amongst people like this. These are people who lie through suppression, not misdirection. Even if it's all false, it is out of place. But it isn’t-- false. Parts of it are genuine, and Geralt doesn’t think it's a mistake. The Bard doesn’t mind people seeing him. It’s disconcerting.

The Bard claps his hands together and turns back to the crowd. “You heard her, the show is on the road!”

As if on cue, the platform shifts and rumbles. Walkways start to extend from the edges toward the sides of the ship. Doors shift open with heavy sighs of pressurised air. The dock boy takes the distraction to get the fuck out of dodge, though he throws a grateful gaze to the Bard as he slips away. The Bard’s smile goes incrementally brighter.

“Now,” he says, raising his voice, “Those with smell sensitivities should have priorities to the upper decks. Let’s show those fuckers we aren’t as inconsiderate as they make us out to be, eh? Behave and you might be treated with an entirely free performance of Craven Roses!”

At that, the Bard bows to a scattering of applause. The promise of potential entertainment brings a measure of good cheer among the passengers— any travel without warp-speed is an exercise in boredom regardless, but the trip between Zevos and the outer ring of Xadan is especially notorious for it. After the purple glow of the Zevos System is left behind, the following week of utter darkness is enough to drive anyone cabin-crazy. The appearance of Xadan eventually brings light. It isn’t pretty, but it's at least something. A measure of progress, watching Meteor Border come closer and closer.

The worst is never the dark, it's feeling like nothing is happening. That you’re moving, but will never arrive.

Geralt shakes his head to himself. He can deal with that. He’s used to it— whether he is in a spacecraft or walking on solid ground. But most people aren’t. Geralt would prefer not to suffer through thinly veiled innuendos posing as a passion play, but the alternative might be even more tedious. He has a sense that this won’t be the last time the Sketh will become a problem.

At least, for now, she isn’t his concern. He clicks his energy blade back on his utility belt and is about go back for Roach when a voice calls out—

“Witcher!”

The Bard.

Geralt stops. He doesn’t turn around. “Few know to call me that.”

The Bard circles him and grins. “Ancienthunter is a bit of a mouthful, if you ask me. Witcher is more of a statement— a strange word for a strange profession; as old as the beasts you’re hunting.”

Geralt snorts. “Funny you say that, Bard.”

“Jaskier, and thank you,” the Bard-- Jaskier says grandly, seemingly unaware of how very much Geralt did not intend it as a compliment. Or maybe he did and doesn’t care. “What a twist of fate, is it not? Two men out of time, on the edge of the universe.”

Geralt snorts and begins to walk.

Jaskier rushes after him, slipping deftly between people to keep up. “Wait!”

“I’m not here for your tales,” Geralt says. “Find another audience.”

Jaskier huffs and makes an affronted sound, but persists. When Geralt eventually breaches the edge of the crowd, he’s caught up, a little out of breath.

“Come on, Witcher. Let me just— I’ve heard of the adventure of people like you and I was wondering—“

His voice cuts out and his eyes go wide, when Roach comes out of the shadows. Mouth agape, he stares.

Geralt reaches out for her lead and turns his back on Jaskier. He’s not interested in seeing the inevitable terror— or, if Jaskier is as reckless as he seemed to be in front of a blaster, anger. Geralt puts a hand on Roach’s neck, knowing that one sign from him and Jaskier wouldn’t have a chance for either. Not that it would help his case.

It’s quiet for so long that Geralt almost thinks Jaskier managed to retreat in complete silence, but when he turns, he’s still standing there, mouth agape.

“I thought—“ he says, and there is no terror. “I thought they were extinct. I thought you— Witchers had hunted them all.”

He isn’t afraid. He is awed.

Geralt thinks of the busy stalls in Kae’r Mor, the gentle huffing, soft rumbling and kind eyes that follow you as you pass through the halls. Dozens of lives saved through secrecy, protecting a species deemed undeserving of existence, merely because some had used them in horrific ways.

He thinks of Vesemir, furious, as Geralt took Roach from her stall.

—selfish. Your actions put all of them in danger, and you know it.

But one survivor shouldn’t — can’t — be able to ruin it. He’s careful, he avoids the corners of the galaxies where they’re most known. Where they’re more than just a story. He can lay the blame all on himself: it shouldn’t be hard to understand one monstrous creature having bonded with another.

He just hadn’t been able to leave her behind. Not if he wasn’t certain he’d ever be back.

“Amaureen,” Jaskier says, quietly, startling Geralt out of his thoughts. To hear that word spoken in such a way— with wonder, is disorientating.

“Does she have a name?”

“Roach.”

There is a stunned silence, and then Jaskier laughs. “Not what I expected for a creature straight out of legend.”

Geralt shrugs. “She likes it.”

Jaskier smiles and then looks at Roach again, hesitating. “Can I—“

“You can try,” Geralt says, gruffly. But he centers himself, trying to project calm— not trust, he can’t lie in this, but he shows her what he saw. Jaskier talking down a crowd, levity cutting through a knife through the tension. Light in a moment of darkness.

Roach huffs and holds still as Jaskier’s fingers brush her snout. His eyes go impossibly bright, and his breath catches when Roach, unprompted, presses against his hand.

“She likes me,” Jaskier says, too surprised to be smug about it.

Geralt doesn’t respond— doesn’t disagree. He feels unbalanced, put off. None of this— none of this is going like it is supposed to go.

Roach responds to his distress, stepping back with a huff.

Jaskier takes his hand back, doesn’t press for more, and says, “Thank you.”

As if that is something people say after touching an Amaureen. Geralt feels a headache brewing.

“Hmm,” he says, and tugs on Roach’s lead. They begin their walk to the farthest end of the ship.

Jaskier doesn’t take the hint.

“How did you find her? Have you had her long?”

“None of your business, Bard.”

“Jaskier, or Dandel, on stage,” he says blithely, “and okay, fine, but you have to understand. This is momentous. I’ve always known there was something off about all those tales. How could a bond-species suddenly turn against their riders? Why all at the same time?”

Geralt makes a noise of warning. Roach’s mane bristles.

“Okay, have it your way. Something else then.” There is barely a pause before he asks, continues, rapid-fire and passionate: “Have you ever encountered a hag? I’ve been hearing about one running a spirit bar in the Dekolijn but that could be a myth. Do they have the intelligence to do such a thing or are they more beast-like?”

Geralt’s jaw tenses, glancing sideways to glare and growl— something, he doesn’t know what, because the moment he turns, he sees something else.

The Dizan, watching them with interest.

For a moment Geralt’s stomach drops— Vesemir was right. He should never have taken Roach with him.

But then he realises that the Dizan isn’t looking at Roach.

They’re looking at Jaskier with a considering look in their eye.

Resignation falls like a heavy cloak around Geralt’s shoulders. He forces his expression in a blank slate and allows Jaskier to follow him, giving occasional one word answers like breadcrumbs, that lead him into the ship— away from that pale white gaze.

As they walk through the bowels of the ship, bile in the back of Geralt’s throat, his nose burning, and a headache in full bloom, one thought circles around in the forefront of his mind, over and over:

He should’ve gone with teleportation after all.

[spamzineglasgow]

PART ONE: Glitching the Collective Mind (Dan Power)

Figures 0.1, 0.2, 0.3, 0.4

“I am not a nihilist, but a mood of grim, jolly absurdism comes over me often, as it seems to come over many of my young peers. To visit millennial comedy… is to spend time in a dream world where ideas twist and suddenly vanish; where loops of self-referential quips warp and distort with each iteration, tweaked by another user embellishing on someone else’s joke, until nothing coherent is left…”

> This quote comes from ‘Why is millennial humor so weird?’, in which journalist Elizabeth Bruenig (2017) taps into the vein of gleeful absurdity which is emerging in online creative spaces. This insight seems to have struck a chord with creators and consumers of online content, as in response, the article itself has become widely memed. Above there are four examples of this, with each taking a meme that existed independently and reframing it with the ‘millennial humor’ headline. There is a degree of self-awareness to this reframing, as if the content creators have taken the label ‘weird’ as a challenge to rise to. The absurdity of the source material is heightened by recontextualising it as formal journalism. By prefacing this image with a frame that draws attention to the image’s weirdness, these anonymous content creators are wilfully resisting interpretation, revealing their intent to baffle, bemuse, or maybe even unnerve internet users.

> Bruenig observes a tendency in some memes to celebrate meaninglessness with comic sincerity. By responding to the article in the way they did, these content creators have proved Bruenig’s point. The theory is put into practice: a meme has entered circulation where the intention is to be deliberately and playful obscure, and where the individual memes are linked only by their deployment of the same frame. Importantly, for all the incoherence of the memes themselves, there is a coherence to the methods producing them.

> What sparks these acts of coordinated communal nonsense – are the motivations personal, political, or is it a celebration of weirdness for its own sake? By exploring the dark absurdism creeping into post-internet artwork, particularly in video content, this series seeks to examine the latent ideology underpinning the dark surrealism of internet humour, and how its rising popularity changes the ways we think about ourselves and our realities.

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“...that which was intended to enlighten the world in practice darkens it. The abundance of information and the plurality of worldviews now accessible to us through the internet are not producing a coherent consensus reality... It is on this contradiction that the idea of a new dark age turns: an age in which the value we have placed on knowledge is destroyed by the abundance of that valuable commodity, and in which we look about ourselves in search of new ways to understand the world.”

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In New Dark Age (2018), his examination of the internet’s infiltration of our daily lives, James Bridle only just stops short of declaring that the internet will be the death of humanity. As well as the environmental cost of constant streaming and downloading, Bridle argues that the internet poses an existential threat in a more epistemological sense, by attempting the impossible task of collating and networking humanity’s collective knowledge, history, and culture.

> This cataloguing is conducted through the use of databases, which media theorist Lev Manovich argues are becoming (if they aren’t already) the new dominant media (2010, p.70). The database is distinguished from a physical collection of items and information by its flexibility, and the user’s ability to manipulate the structure of the content by searching for key words. Here there is a paradox: because it is so meticulously structured, the experience of using a database is one apparently devoid of structure. Manovich notes that the database is “distinct from reading a narrative or watching a film or navigating an architectural site” since these experiences are all linear, and so are experienced by readers or viewers in the same way, with point b always following point a, and so on (p.65). In a database users navigate the information however they choose, in effect creating their own narratives, with no guarantee that any two users’ experience of a database may be the same.

> This same notion is put forward by Henry Jenkins in Convergence Culture (2006), where he says “each of us constructs our own personal mythology from bits and fragments of information extracted from the media flow and transformed into resources through which we make sense of our everyday lives”. The narratives we forge through our online experiences become part of our understanding of the world – and they seem to be creating more confusion than clarity. These narratives are arbitrarily structured, and may contain false information or information devoid of meaning. Also, thanks to the volume and speed of online messaging, language is evolving faster than it ever has before (Press Association, 2015). Information may be conveyed to us in unfamiliar terms, and so be open to misinterpretation.

> Internet users are bombarded with information, little of which has any meaningful or memorable content. Exposing people to a transparent mapped network of humanity’s knowledge, history, and culture has irrevocably warped our perception of ourselves, and our relationship to the world. As Bridle later notes, “the more obsessively we attempt to compute the world, the more unknowably complex it appears”. At best the database makes the sum of all the world’s content feel overwhelming, and at worst having it all laid out makes it feel mundane. Either way, the damage done is to expose internet users to too much information, and this can lead to an existential crisis.

> Spending too long online (or rather, too long outside of the real world) must saturate the mind. This oversaturation of meaning gives way to feelings of melancholic or manic absurdity, or as Bruenig puts it, a “creeping suspicion that the world just doesn’t make sense”. From this suspicion arises a new wave of disillusioned artists, who we will refer to as the post-internet surrealists. Unlike other meme creators (whose work arguably is surrealist in its Dada-like remixing of disparate elements), the post-internet surrealists are surrealists with intent, who respond to one another’s work, and whose videos consistently evoke alienation and absurd bemusement within digitally-rendered worlds. Videos such as BagelBoy’s pront (2017) engage with infinity as a source of existential confusion, and others like surreal entertainment’s What Kanye really showed Trump in the white house (2018) abstract real-life events to the point of absurdity (or make their inherent absurdity more apparent) by transporting them to a digital non-setting.

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Manovich argues that the database is a distinct cultural form, like a novel or film or building, in that it presents its own distinct model of how the world should be experienced. Unlike narrative, the database is non-linear. Unlike architectural structure, the database is non-spatial. It appears to us as information without structure and without context – in short, information divorced from the reality in which it takes meaning.

> This creates a tension, which grows stronger the more we rely on the online world to conduct business in the real one. It is resolved, or at least eased, by the digital world bleeding into the physical. The world becomes what Bridle calls ‘code/space’, which he defines as “the interweaving of computation with the built environment”. This term isn’t internet-specific, and covers anything which requires users to think computationally in order to interact, such as self-service checkouts, or traffic light buttons. However, its impact is most significantly felt in the prevalence of internet-connected devices such as the mobile phone, which turn the whole world into potential code/space.

> The internet is omnipresent. It is so vast in size that popular indicators of space and size fail to adequately describe it. It’s a hyper-object, to borrow a term from philosopher Timothy Morton, so large and far-reaching that it surpasses the boundaries of location, so and complex that it cannot be entirely comprehended at once.

> Morton is an ecologist, and develops his idea in relation to climate change. In the blog Ecology Without Nature, he describes the hyper-object global warming as being so “massively distributed in time and space” that we can consider it “nonlocal”, not existing wholly in any one place. He writes that when you experience rain you are “in some sense” experiencing climate, but “you are never directly experiencing global warming” (2010). Global warming is too big an object to meaningfully encounter, but to dismiss its existence on these grounds would be ridiculous. We may be unable to comprehend its existence entirely, but still we know it exists through the traces it leaves across the globe.

> Like global warming, the internet is a hyper-object, and the data we glean from it is just a fragment of the whole. When we consider the internet as one hyper-object, rather than a collection of individual data objects, then all internet-connected devices become components in a single global network, one global code/space.

> To meaningfully discuss the surrealism emerging online we will consider the internet not as a collection of individual texts, images and videos, but as one networked whole. Matthew Smith argues that, since digital media work by translating data into “universally exchangeable” bits, “all digital media are therefore identical in structure; like Campbell’s soup cans” (2007). The content of two memes may be worlds apart, but fundamentally they are both the same thing. Furthermore, if they both exist online, they are equally tiny composite parts of a larger total structure. This is not the same as, for example, claiming that all paintings in a gallery are part of the same work because they share a building. With physical objects, there is always the possibility of them leaving the gallery or entering a new one. This does not work digitally; you can’t have objects within the internet because the internet itself is an object of which digital artworks form a part.

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Briefly, we’ll consider a post-internet artwork which isn’t a meme. Crispin Best’s ‘pleaseliveforever’ is an eight-line poem which regenerates every few seconds under a new, randomly generated title (2017). By making the content arbitrary and fleeting, the poem draws attention to its medium, and flaunts its ability to do things pre-internet poetry never could. Musing on this, SPAM’s own Denise Bonetti asks “what is the poem, then? The structure? The algorithm?” (2019), and indeed, if the content of the poem is continually being remixed then the only constant by which we can define it is its invisible network of underlying code. Because it exists digitally, the poem’s structure and algorithm are indistinguishable – the algorithm is the structure. And it’s not a structure in its own right, but one small part embedded within the hypertext of the internet as a networked whole.

> The internet is a database of databases, one giant non-spatial structure too large to pigeonhole, but within which we can observe trends. It will be useful to conceptualise the internet as one giant work of art, a hyper-artwork with an uncountable number of authors and viewers. This artwork is mutable, and continually evolving. Since the internet is a network of information relating to the real world, it might be considered a reconstruction of reality. The internet then is a constantly changing map of the world, and if we consume its content on a daily basis, and if we never distance ourselves from its code/space, it throws our understanding of the world into a constant state of flux.

> This uncertainty, and the anxiety or absurdity arising from it, is key to understanding the work of the post-internet surrealists. BagelBoy’s icced (2017) might be set in the real world, but there’s no way to be certain. The plot is simply that a man goes to a store, buys a cola, then goes home to drink it, but through means of information saturation and a post-internet aesthetic these events are abstracted beyond relatability and almost beyond recognition. The film’s world is constructed out of PNG images, stock photos and text boxes – spoken words appear as text, characters glide across the screen at will, and at the end the film’s entire diegesis is hijacked by an advert. Either the video is deconstructing real-world events by moving them to a digital setting, or it’s physically depicting a virtual interaction (typing replaces speech online, people navigate between internet sites without physically moving, and adverts can materialise from anywhere at any moment with no prior warning). Like the explicitly surreal memes we’ll encounter in future instalments, icced presents an absurd but coherent depiction of code/space, a version of reality infused with internet logic.

> But before we examine these surreal memes in detail we’ll go briefly to the very beginnings of cinema, a period of experimentation and genre consolidation similar to that occurring in online spaces today. By examining the developments of early cinema and viral video in tandem, we’ll see that giving consumers the power to create and share their own work makes profit a less important factor in filmmaking, and that this fundamentally changes the kind of video content which gets produced and distributed.

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The prototype digital cinema emerging today may seem worlds apart from the first few years of cinema itself, but in fact the two share many common features. One scholar notes how “Both films of early cinema and online video clips are short films, mostly staying well under ten minutes in length” (Broeren, 2009). These short films were exhibited collectively in cinema’s early days (Gunning, 1990), keeping audiences supplied with a steady stream of novel content. Today they are exhibited side-by-side on databases like YouTube, where viewers can view as many as they desire in a single sitting, and sustain their own engagement by varying the content they consume at whim.

> In the early days of cinema, exhibitionists would often “re-edit” the films they purchased, and personalise their own exhibitions with offscreen supplements. This, too, occurs in online film. The media theorist Limor Shifman (2013) notes how “user-driven imitation and remix” as a mode of content production is integral to internet culture, and with video meme creators often accompanying their edits of other videos with captions, active comment sections, and links to other media, the off-screen supplements of old are today integrated into the on-screen experience.

> These similarities are not just superficial – they arise from the same factors. The birth of cinema saw large masses of people consuming and participating in the products of newly available commercial technologies, and the emergence of a distinct online cinema is, essentially, an accelerated replay of this process. Sharing in the same global code/space makes internet users a bigger potential audience than has ever previously existed, and the quantity and style of content produced by and for internet users is determined by the activity of this networked mass.

> Early cinema was concerned with newly-formed masses of people resulting from twentieth century modernity, not just for audiences but also as subject matter. According to Gunning (2004), the ‘local films’ of Mitchell and Kenyon would document crowds of people moving through public spaces, and when doing so they were tuned in to the growing public discourse around newly-visible congregations of people in developing urban areas. One particular style of film they produced, which we will take as out main focus, is the ‘factory gate’ film. These would document workers streaming out of a factory at the end of the day, almost universally consisting of single (occasionally sped up or spliced short) static long shots (LS) or extreme long shots (XLS). While the single take, duration and static camera are the result of practical limitations, the choice to employ LS or XLS is an artistic one. Greater distance allowed the frame to fill with a greater number of subjects, creating a visual cacophony and increasing the spectacle. The framing was often loose, meaning there were no focal points to direct attention. Viewer’s eyes would rapidly scan over the moving crowd, heightening any sense of the crowd being overwhelmingly large.

> As well as directly engaging with large masses of people, the demands of large audiences to see films made specifically for their local area meant Mitchell and Kenyon had to develop a way of turning out new films efficiently and affordably. In order to exploit the collective spending power of the masses, the form and content of these local pictures are wrapped around the desires of the masses to recognise themselves and their towns on-screen. The masses were not only the subject of the films, but also determined their mode of production, and by extension their formal properties.

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The factory gate picture is a genre, and films in this genre are produced by following the Mitchell and Kenyon template: set up a camera by a factory gate at closing time, framing the exit in LS to capture as many moving people as possible. Templatability allows for films to effectively be cloned, so it’s necessary in commercial filmmaking, allowing things to be produced and reproduced at more profitable rates. By following templates to easily reproduce a standardised kind of content, the early genre films of Mitchell and Kenyon reproduce similarly to online memes. Sean Rintel (2013) argues that “templatability lies at the heart of online memes”, and explains that “memetic process is a product of the human capability to separate ideas into two levels – content and structure – and then contextually manipulate that relationship”. A meme, fundamentally, is the deployment of a familiar template to reframe and alter our perception of otherwise familiar or unfamiliar content. It is almost mathematical in its generation of novel content, since there are as many potential remixes of movies and songs as there are unique combinations.

Figures 2.1 and 2.2

> Take these memes as an example. Their origin is the YouTube video Gordon Ramsay cannot locate the lamb sauce (2016), a remixed clip of gameshow Hell’s Kitchen (2005-) in which Gordon shouts at contestants who have not made lamb sauce in time. The video cuts out anything other than Gordon’s shouting, and accentuates the moment’s absurdity by elongating and pitch-shifting the word ‘sauce’.Figures 2.1 and 2.2 combine elements of the remix with existing meme formats (figures 2.3 and 2.4) by adding a picture of Gordon and key words ‘lamb sauce’ and ‘located’, either in reference to the video, or to other memes derived from it. These memes were created by reshaping the source material to fit another meme template.

> The prominence of the remix in post-internet art produces huge amounts content which can only be fully understood in relation to other content. Memes function like in-jokes, and in this way they are participatory. The collaboration and participation between an unknowable number of anonymous contributors is part of the enjoyment not just of post-internet surrealism, but of all memes. It’s like shouting into the abyss and waiting to see what echoes back. The communication is rapid and blind, and sublime.

> In commercial cinema templates are used to maximize profits, so it might seem contradictory that they have been embraced by meme makers. But, in online spaces, the use and misuse of templates is what makes the art form participatory. Just as the viewers of local films would attend screenings to see themselves projected, thus participating in the production of the product they consume, so internet users riff off each other’s jokes and meme formats as a way of contributing to the continual evolution of a meme they enjoy.

> It has been argued by film historian Charles Musser (1990) that “modern” cinema begins with the birth of the nickelodeon, the implication of this being that modern cinema is necessarily commercial, whereas pre-cinema films were not. This distinction might be crude, since films were being produced for profit before the nickelodeon came into fashion, but it’s a helpful distinction to make. What makes the form, content, and distribution of pre-cinema and post-internet film resemble each other so closely is the same thing that makes them dissimilar to industrial filmmaking: they’re not driven by profit, but by novelty for its own sake; they are not produced by companies of people, but by small teams or individual auteurs; they experiment with newly-accessible technologies to see what effects can be created; and importantly, since they do not rely upon the systems of capitalism to support their growth and distribution, these films can afford to scrutinise these systems rather than reinforce their ideology.

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> Today’s advances in affordable camera technology, internet access, and free video editing software have shifted the power of content creation away from industry and into the hands of consumers. Anyone with a smartphone can be an auteur, and anyone with a wifi password can become a distributor. Creating and sharing content is easier than it’s ever been before, and developments within the medium now occur at a rate too fast to thoroughly document. The continual crossing of templates and content items produces countless proliferations and variations of existing memes each day. These memes are characterised by hyper-intertextuality, each new remix a thread that further thickens the intertextual tapestry.

> In his seminal essay The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction, Walter Benjamin (1982) observes that as reproduction of artworks becomes more common, artworks are increasingly “designed for reproducibility”. With the emergence of templatability and ease of creating and sharing content in online spaces, this process is now more efficient than ever.

> Any image or video online can be downloaded in seconds, and a number of user-friendly picture and video editing programmes come pre-installed on most commercial computers. Mechanical reproduction allowed for films to be copied with ease and re-shaped at will, spawning a number of variants which today is unknowable, since many will not have been preserved. Online however everything is preserved, and this coupled with more efficient and accessible methods of reproducing and adapting works means that videos can be adapted, and their adaptations adapted, at such great volume and speed that they can quickly bear no resemblance to their origins. Cataloguing all the varieties of meme is an unfeasibly large task, but by examining trends within meme-making we can observe how the nature of an artwork changes, becoming more amorphous and apparently meaningless, in an age of digital reproduction.

~

Tune in later this week when we’ll be looking at ~ v a p o r w a v e ~, and navigating the maze of digital non-places and non-times which is rapidly becoming less distinguishable from the world we live in today.

Full list of works cited plus bonus discography are available here. 

This is part one of a three part series. Part two is available here and part three available here. 

~

Text: Dan Power

Published 5/10/19