#the poet's procedure

[punk-ish-pastels]

Holding you here in my arms

My left slowly going numb and hunger beginning to make it self known

I won’t move

I’ll let you sleep off the anesthesia

I remain vigilant

Not that you need it

I need to feel your lungs fill with air and hear the soft snoring continue

I realize your mortality now, as we lay here

And suddenly it’s my breath that turns laborious

Tomorrow you turn nine, old boy

With your winter coat shedding, I wonder if this time I should keep it

If I can’t always keep you

[chosetherose]

The Fortnight video foreshadows the convergence of Taylor Swift and her brand

In her videos, Taylor has continually played with the idea of herself as a person versus as a brand. These portrayals have almost been adversarial in nature. Think about the relationship between the two life sized Anti-Hero Taylors. The hooded robot Taylor who got to exist in the world while her bare counterpart was trapped in glass. Etc.

The Fortnight video introduces similar characters but flips the script because there isn’t a me versus her dynamic anymore. Instead, there is a story about coming together.

A scene by scene breakdown:

Taylor Swift™️ is chained to a bed in a white gown with a spicy slit and garter. A faceless nurse enters walking upside down on the ceiling (a continued theme suggestive of PR games). The nurse presents “Forget Him” pills, arguably reminiscent of a dark time where the world thought they could “cure” homosexuality. After Taylor Swift™️ begrudgingly takes her dose, the nurse unchains her.

We then see Taylor Swift™️ approach a two way mirror and wipe the mask off her face, revealing face tattoos we know to be Post Malone’s in real life. This reveal is setting the scene that within this video Post Malone represents Taylor’s inner self, her true soul behind the veil of celebrity. I’ll call him True Taylor.

Next, the mask is back and we see Taylor Swift™️ walk out of the observation room and into the workspace. She goes from wearing a leggy white gown with garter to a fully covered black poet-esque dress. She isn’t dressed for voyeuristic eyes anymore, she’s dressed to work on her art. I love this light to dark transition because black can be seen as the absence of light. Fitting for a tortured poet who can’t live her truth in public with her sunny muse by her side.

Note that we don’t get to see black dress Taylor Swift™️ through the two way mirror. She exists behind the bright lights of fame, making art in a room hidden from our view. Maybe the pills numb her enough to twist the art for an audience who likes to her to be chained to a bed while they watch her suffer.

But wait Taylor Swift™️ and True Taylor are collaborating. They start work separately but their art eventually drifts out of their typewriters, combining into a white light that bursts into a rainbow. Remember how I said black light is the absence of light? Well white light is comprised of all hues on the visible light spectrum.

We know there are layers to Taylor’s music: the surface layers chock full with to red herrings for the grocery line Swifties and the deeper layers of Taylor’s truth. They both exist in the art, swirled together.

But here is where things start to feel different. We cut to True Taylor and Taylor Swift™️ away from all those faceless people - they are alone in the middle of a road. That in itself is ridiculously symbolic of being on the way to somewhere (maybe brighter days). But there’s more because they are dressed identically, laying inside Taylor’s head that is made up of their art. This scene is like bonking us on the head that these two people are one and the same.

Note: The silhouette here is from the Style video which also portrays Taylor’s inner self as a man.

Taylor Swift™️ runs to True Taylor and they embrace in the middle of the road as pages of their art float around them. In the chaos, Taylor Swift™️ reaches out to True Taylor.

Maybe this scene is suggesting the public version of Taylor is ready to embrace her real self.

Then we see Taylor Swift™️ strapped to a table, wild hair from dropping the hairpins we saw in the opening scene. The drugs aren’t working, it must be time to escalate to shock therapy. The men around her gather and there is literally a sign in the background that says “Master Control”.

But one of the men in the room making decisions for the brand is actually True Taylor, who has been there all this time.

Enough is enough when True Taylor can’t take the pain and pulls the plug on the procedure, freeing public persona Taylor from torture.

Next we see True Taylor, familiarly encased behind glass, on a phone call. Perhaps making plans while safe from the rain. Taylor Swift™️ is elevated on a pedestal, out in the storm, in her best dress FEARLESS! Credit to @rep-princess-witch who put the fearless connection together in another post.

I’ll say it again, that is the huge difference in this video compared to others. Here, Taylor Swift™️ is not an antagonist, she is ready to brave the storm.

So what does she do? She’s back in the workspace burning all the files. It’s not without emotion but it’s necessary. We then see a stoic Taylor Swift™️ with no regrets.

After burning the files she’s back in the observation room. It’s time to fight back against the voyeurs and she does so by smashing the glass between her and them. She regains her agency by squashing their ability to hide. Shes deserting her past life.

Note: We don’t see True Taylor back inside. This fight is specifically for Taylor’s public persona.

In the closing seen, we see True Taylor leave shelter, step outside into the storm, and reach for Taylor Swift™️. The person and the public persona are weathering the storm hand in hand.

*Please check out @heyitsmoog on TikTok - he shared thoughts there that inspired me to make this post.*

[jo-harrington]

Leave of Absence (Eddie Munson x Store Manager!Reader)

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Eddie has royally fucked everything up and he needs to fix it. But after an unexpected emergency back home, he steps up to be there for Reader, just like she's always there for him.

Previous Part: Standard Operating Procedures 1.05

Warnings/Themes: AU where the Upside Down doesn't terrorize Hawkins. Reader works at the Claire's at StarCourt. Eddie works at TapeWorld. Slow burn, mutual pining, angsty, emotional, fluffy, family problems, death in the family, loss, grief, pain and comfort, road trip, avoidance of feelings, Minor religious themes, mention of Catholic Church/Reader's family is Catholic but no overarching catholicism (that's what my other story is for)

Note: Woof ok this was an uphill battle FOR A YEAR. I'm gonna say the reason that Store Manager Verse exists in its present form is because of THIS CHAPTER RIGHT HERE. Before I could bring my two silly babies here to this moment, they needed to have some serious foundations laid down. Is it the best chapter? Probably not. But I'm incredibly happy that it's here and it's done.

You can find my masterlist here for more featuring our resident Store Manager and all of my other Eddie stories.

Please do not interact if you are not 18+.

Enjoy!

---

He was nervous.

"Stacey."

Of course he was nervous.

"Freak."

And what did he do when he was nervous? He talked.

"Hey now, I'm wounded," Eddie laid a hand across his chest, trying to keep the cool guy exterior. "Calling me a freak? Did I or did I not just help you with that flat tire last week?"

He was surprised when Stacey paused, a barb surely caught on the end of her tongue. She even looked a little embarrassed for a moment before her own frosty expression returned and she had the decency to look down her nose at him.

Sticking to the status quo.

"I know you're trying to put my boss under a love spell or hypnosis or something," she rolled her eyes. "So don't act like you would have helped any other time if she hadn't asked. Gotta keep her buttered up so you can get in her pants. Gag."

The typical stab of insult was welcome; the rest of it...wasn't. Not when it came to you. Not after what happened on Sunday. Not when he was nervous.

Sunday...

What started out as a normal night for the two of you had quickly become a nightmare. For him at least.

Well...it had been a dream at first. Hanging out. Food, laughter, music; it was nothing out of the norm for a Sunday night together. But then he had to go and suggest a little weed, where you had some kind of...bad reaction. To try and get your mind off the panic that had quickly taken over your body...he'd done the first thing that came to mind.

The only thing that came to mind lately when you were around.

He kissed you.

And he kept kissing you because you hadn't pushed him away. In fact, you’d kissed him harder.

For minutes or hours, he couldn't quite tell, he was overjoyed and he basked in being surrounded by you, in finding pleasure with you.

Finding pleasure. God, there was that poet's heart Mrs. Mills always told him he had. Almost fucking. Grinding one out on his couch. But yeah...finding pleasure worked too. Because it wasn't just a meaningless romp; he was kind of crazy about you, so of course it was gonna be special. Poetic.

How long had he been on the edge about confessing his feelings and ruining your friendship? He was the only one to blame when it came to keeping his mouth shut; Kyle had been telling him to just ask you out and plant one on you forever. And then Eddie did and it was perfect.

Until it wasn't. Until Wayne came home and Eddie had seen the panic and the fear and the...realization in your eyes, and he knew how badly he'd fucked up. Let alone the fact that you immediately ran away.

You’d been avoiding him for a few days. “Avoiding him,” as though school and work hadn't been putting you on opposite schedules. Still, there were no phone calls. No waiting to take your breaks with him. Only awkward glances as he passed your store on the way to start his shift, or a strained smile as you passed each other in the parking lot as he was coming and you were going.

And now Stacey was…being Stacey.

Had you told her? Complained about him? Made it known to your employees that the two of you had made a huge mistake.

No you would never…

Still, his nerves got the better of him and although he didn’t want to seem desperate, especially around Stacey of all people, he was.

"...did she say that or..." He paused and shook his head. "Where is your boss anyway? She’s supposed to close tonight right?”

Stacey looked a little unsure again and this time it made his stomach turn.

People were usually nervous around Eddie, but he had grown plenty used to that reaction from a wide array of classmates and neighbors.

Once again, when it came to you, especially given the circumstances, things were different. Maybe that's what was happening here? Maybe Stacey knew something he didn't, and you'd told her not to say anything so you could let him down easily.

Eddie was generally a level-headed guy but sometimes...sometimes...it didn't matter if he had a level head because the entire world was tipping on its side.

Who had you told? Stacey for sure...maybe Chrissy? Chrissy always avoided him at school thanks to his resident freak status, Starcourt Mall be damned. What about Mindy? Mindy was your only other confidante outside of him; what did she know? Had she convinced you to...to what? Dump him as a friend? Take the time you needed to avoid him? Somewhere between Sunday and today, had you finally come to the realization that he had been dreading all along. That he wasn't worth your time?

"Um, yeah,” Stacey finally replied and Eddie blinked himself back to reality. She picked at her cuticles and avoided his eyes. Never a good sign. “Well she was supposed to but Mindy was here when I clocked in. She's sick or something, I don't know. Mindy wouldn't say exactly...but she never calls out so..."

“Well where’s Mindy now?” he asked, almost desperately.

“She’s finishing up her break in the back,” she explained with a nod. “I can go see if she’s done.”

She disappeared into the stockroom, leaving him alone in the store.

He was unsure how to feel. Relief coursed through him; you weren’t avoiding him, you were simply not here. But on the other hand, what if you weren't here because you were avoiding him?

What if Stacey didn't know anything but Mindy did. Because no, you never called off. Ever. A fact that you had told him when he suggested playing hooky one busy Saturday when you were overwhelmed by a never-ending mid shift.

“I never leave early. I never take a sick day.”

“Well, shit, did you have perfect attendance in school too?”

“Uhm,” you hesitated, biting your lip naughtily. “I’m not at will to say.”

“Oh, you bad girl.”

"If it isn't our resident Van Halen impersonator," Mindy greeted as she walked out of the stockroom. Her usual sing-songs mom voice replaced by a gentler one as she smiled at him solemnly. "She's taking a few sick days. Should be back in time for your night out on Sunday, I hope."

"She's sick?" Eddie asked skeptically. "Wasn’t she here yesterday, she looked fi--"

"Why don't you give her a call," she insisted. She glanced over to the stock room door and as Eddie tracked her gaze, he saw Stacey eavesdropping. "Actually I was gonna stop by after work. Why don't you go? That way it's not a game of telephone.

"I'm sure she could really use a friend right now."

---

Eddie had never been inside of your apartment before.

He knew where you lived, sure; he'd dropped you off or picked you up a few times, especially once the two of you started planning dates outings outside of the usual Sundays. He'd never even rang the bell, if he was being honest. You usually watched out the window eagerly when you were expecting him to arrive.

The realization hit him as he stood there at the little residential door between the bakery and the furniture store, staring at your name on a little Dymo punch label next to the buzzer that he'd just jammed his finger into, and it filled him with doubt.

You'd been to the trailer a few times. Seen all of his favorite places, tried all of his favorite foods. Listened patiently to his insecurities and issues. Still, you seemed to keep him at arms length, if he didn't even know what your apartment looked like; did you have posters on the walls or pictures of your family? What color was your couch? Or the towels in your bathroom?

He knew so much about you but did he really know you, and did you even want him to?

The door buzzed open and Eddie took the stairs up to your landing two at a time, all the while worrying and overthinking: You weren't expecting him and he was beginning to doubt that you even wanted him here in the first place. Sure, Mindy told him to go over...but was this taking it a step too far?

He started preparing an apology as he closed the final few distance to your door and it swung open--

"I'm sorry I fucked up, I didn't mean to break your trust. I'll do anything...anything...if you'll just forgive me. If you just give me another chance."

--and he saw the sorry state you were in.

Hair and clothes mussed, eyes bloodshot and puffy, a bundle of black fabric clenched tightly in your hands; the shine of tears and snot was accentuated by the incandescent lights in the hallway.

"Eddie," you whispered in a strained, broken voice, then you dropped the fabric to cross the threshold of your apartment and bury your face into his shirt. He panicked for a moment, arms held uselessly at his sides as your tears penetrated the worn fabric at his shoulder, but he quickly engulfed you in a hug.

"I'm sorry," you both spoke over one another, then you pulled back and stared him straight in the eye. "You're sorry? I'm sorry."

"No," you shook your head. "I'm sorry. I...I should have done better, I shouldn't have--"

"I crossed a line and I ruined our friendship and--"

You both continued talking over one another, each half-listening to what the other had to say as you got your own apologies out, until you both synced back up again.

"I fucked up and I'm sorry."

Your shoulders and chests heaved from the cacophony of emotion and a tense laugh was shared between the two of you. Then Eddie came to a realization.

"If you're sorry..." he frowned and let his eyes rake over you again. "If you thought that you hurt or scared me--which you didn't, by the way. It was...it was me, my mistake--why are you crying?"

You worried your lip for a second and a lone tear escaped your eye and trailed down your cheek; his hand immediately came up so he could thumb it away.

"Mindy told me you were sick," he muttered, taking advantage of the proximity to be a little gentler, a little smaller than he was used to being, so you could put your trust in him again. "What happened?"

"Uhm..." you croaked. "I'm not sick. I'm just taking a few sick days. Bereavement days...actually. Little leave of absence. Just through the end of the weekend."

The word was distantly familiar to him; the memories, though, would stay with him forever. Rick picking him up from school, a phone call from Wayne to his boss. An appointment for all three of them to get suits rented...and then some flowers ordered. Shiny shoes that he could see his teary-eyed reflection in.

He swallowed painfully and watched you do the same as you prepared your confession.

"My...uh...my grandpa died last night."

And before he knew it, it was 12 hours later. 12 hours that he spent relatively quietly.

He let you fill the silence; let you talk and cry, only opening his mouth to comfort you when the realization hit again and it got to be too much.

He helped you pack your bag for the trip back home. That was when your grief finally turned into anger.

Towards your family. Towards yourself.

"I feel like it's my fault," you sighed as you showed him how to find a pair of tights that didn’t have runs in them, whatever that meant. "I was the only one who took care of him. Doctor's appointments, took him on walks, made sure he didn't have the food he wasn't supposed to. The works. And I left. It's my fault he's gone. At least, that's the way Michael made it sound on the phone."

Eddie almost didn't catch the last part, said under your breath as you stuffed a shiny pair of shoes into your duffel bag, but he did. He wasn't going to let you do this to yourself; how many times over the years had he questioned how he might have been able to keep his mom from dying? On those days where he needed her most. He knew he couldn't stop you from those thoughts, at least not now but he could do his best to fight them away until you could do it yourself.

"Michael," he spoke up, startling you with the realization that he heard. "That's your brother right?"

"Older brother," you nodded slowly.

"Sounds like a shithead."

"Yeah," you let out the briefest laugh and then fiddled with the zipper tab. "He kind of is."

You complained about perfect Michael and his perfect life until your stomach rumbled and Eddie offered to order dinner for the two of you. When you mentioned that you hadn't eaten all day, he made sure you had more than your fill of beef lo mein and garlic string beans as Monty Hall played on the television.

At a certain point, your takeout carton made it to the coffee table and you started to doze off as your head rested on his shoulder. It was a relief, but only for a second, because you startled back awake and dumped all the clothes out of your bag again.

"I didn't pack the right dress," you muttered. "Aunt Amelia's gonna say something about it. I just know."

So Eddie stayed up with you all night as you packed and unpacked and packed again, uncaring that he had school in the morning or Hellfire that night. Fuck it all. It didn’t matter. None of the doubts and self-hatred and worry that had plagued him all week since Sunday night even crossed his mind. All that he worried about was making sure you weren't alone.

When dawn came, and you tiredly tried to wave him out of your apartment so that he could get ready for class and you could hit the road, he pulled you into his arms and just...held you.

He closed his eyes and rocked you back and forth as you hummed softly and gripped the back of his t-shirt tightly beneath his jacket.

He thought of all the things that he could say in that moment...

Drive safe, call me tonight so I know you got there, I'm sorry, take it easy on yourself, it's not your fault.

...but none of them were able to fall from his lips.

"Welp," you sighed. "This is it."

But neither of you moved.

"Thank you for coming over Eddie. I really really appreciate it."

Still nothing. No forward momentum, no motivation to move on to the rest of the day without one another, no reassuring words from him to give you the strength you needed to go forth alone, and no will for him to leave you.

You'd both be ready when you were ready, it seemed.

But as you finally pulled away from him, and he thought about you getting in your car and driving for what might be one of the toughest weekends of your life, all he managed to say...

"Why don't I come with you? I know it's not a road trip or fun or anything. I know I have school and work but...fuck it. We can stop at the trailer, I'll leave a note for Wayne and grab the nicest clothes I own, and...I'll come with you. I just...I don't want you doing this all alone."

...resulted in him sitting in the passenger's seat of your car for 5 hours as you zoomed down the highway away from his whole life in Indiana to the great unknown of Chicago.

---

You talked for a majority of the drive.

Eddie already knew some things about your family—strict parents, pesky brothers, too many cousins than he could keep track of—but you seemed to want to prepare him because he would effectively meet all of them.

"Big Catholic family and a funeral," you glanced at him from the corner of your eye and shot a tense smile. “It's a lot. You sure you still want to come?”

You’d done that throughout the drive too, asked him if he was sure he wanted to come with you. He’d joked several times already that you’d have to leave him on the side of the road, which you wouldn’t, or turn back altogether if he chickened out.

Besides, he already called Jeff when you stopped at his place to let him grab some clothes, and canceled Hellfire; he wouldn’t chicken out for anything. He needed to be here for you.

If he was being honest, yes he was nervous. He hadn’t met any girlfriends' families before or anything, and this whole situation wasn’t exactly the way he’d ever imagined meeting yours. As you crossed the state border into Illinois, though, your breath got shallow and your hands gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, and Eddie wondered if you were looking for a way out because you never wanted the two parts of your life—family and friends—to clash.

“I don’t, uh,” he scratched the back of his neck nervously. “I know I’m not someone that…families approve of or anything, if that's why you keep asking if I want to be here.”

"It's not that--" you tried to interject.

"And I know we're not dating or anything but..." he trailed off awkwardly and then cleared his throat.

Well that was one way of sticking his foot in his mouth.

Your head was half turned towards him, jaw dropped, eyes darting back and forth from the road to him.

The thought of opening the car door and bailing as you zoomed down the highway briefly crossed his mind because he fucked up. Why would he say something like that? It was because he was a big dingus, actually, the biggest.

"Uh, Eddie listen--"

"No," he interrupted you again. "Sweetheart I'm sorry, that's...that wasn't fair of me. I didn't mean...I just..."

"No it's ok, we should ta--"

"I just thought that...I know I pretty much intruded on this trip, but I wanted to be here for you. But if me being here is gonna cause more problems for you...I mean damn, I don't mind taking a Greyhound back to Hawkins even. But more than anything, I want to make sure you're alright."

He nervously picked at the loose threads on the holes at his knees and was surprised when you took a hand off the steering wheel and grabbed his.

"Do you know," you whispered, voice barely audible. "I think I would have turned back by now if I tried to come alone. Michael on the phone...god I don't know how my dad's gonna be...or my aunt. I don't want to have to deal with all of that. But I know I need to be there...it's for my Papa, I have to be there.

"It's hard to go home when you've moved someplace else. When you've started to find home somewhere else. And I wasn't gonna say anything. I wasn't gonna ask you--it's too much to ask--but I secretly kind of hoped that you would ask to come along. And I'll never be able to really thank you, Eddie, for wanting to be here. For me.

"But thank you," you shot him a smile and squeezed his hand tightly.

He swallowed thickly and squeezed right back.

"I'll be here for as long as you need me to be, sweetheart. As long as you want me to be."

---

The weekend was a whirlwind, and honestly, Eddie knew he wasn't going to be able to make heads or tails of it until the two of you got home on Sunday night.

The first surprise, shortly after your heartfelt moment in the car, was the fact that you didn't actually live in Chicago. You'd been approaching the city on I-90, you even pointed out the Sears Tower to him. Then you got on an exit and drove for another 20 minutes down North Avenue.

"I feel like I've been lied to," he sniffed petulantly.

"I told you I'm from the suburbs before," you chuckled at his antics. "And it might as well be Chicago, it's all Cook County."

"We're not even driving North, how is this North Avenue?"

"We don't have time for a history lesson, we'll be there soon."

Still, it was exciting. Not exactly what he pictured in his head from watching shows on TV or seeing news reels about the city, but nonetheless different from what he was used to in Hawkins and that was the part he liked.

At a certain point, you reached a stretch of road that featured certain destinations that would live in Eddie's imagination until he could ask you about them--KiddieLand Amusement Park, Riviera Lanes, and Winston Plaza--and Eddie noticed your hands started to shake.

"You ok? There's plenty of places to pull over," he suggested. "I can drive the rest of the way."

"No it's ok," you said and swung a left-hand turn onto a residential street with houses that sort-of all looked the same, sort-of all looked different. "We're here."

You parked on the street in front of a house that you noted belonged to your aunt, and then led him down a narrow sidewalk to the backyard of the neighboring house, where a kid gangly enough to rival Mike Wheeler sat in a plastic lawn chair with headphones on, arms crossed over his chest, and his eyes closed.

"Jimmy," you called to him and then kicked his foot. "Jimmy. James Joseph, wake up."

"I'm awake," he startled, knocked the headphones down so they sat around his neck, and stood up. Even with one hand rubbing his eye, your brother's resemblance to you was obvious, and a sense of dread washed over Eddie.

And so it began...meeting your family.

Jimmy was probably the best introduction of them all--there was an ease between the two of you, even with the snide jabs and banter back and forth--and that extended to Eddie. Especially when Jimmy realized that he and Eddie were wearing the same shirt.

"Don't let him fool you, he's a dweeb," you announced when Jimmy got excited over a shared love for Judas Priest, and Eddie hoped you meant your brother, but he couldn't be too sure you weren't referring to him.

There was a brief respite as you both rested for a minute, changed clothes, and ate a plate of some sort of casserole from the packed shelves of the avocado fridge in your grandpa's kitchen. Then it was an onslaught, a domino effect of faces and names that gradually got more important as you got back into the car to head towards the funeral home.

A sea of strange faces that smiled and hugged you and then looked over at Eddie in question, but not in an unwelcome way, and he was glad he'd pilfered a black scrunchie from your bag to tie his hair back respectfully.

You introduced him to this old coworker of your Papa and that great-aunt from Minneapolis and this cousin. He even got to meet your old store manager--a stern, short, blonde woman with victory rolls and shimmering black eyeshadow--who'd come to pay her respects after she saw your Papa's obituary in the newspaper; she honestly scared Eddie a little, but she made him laugh, which meant she was good in his book.

It was all reminiscent of meeting people after his mom died once upon a time, the only other funeral he'd ever been to. When people called and came out of the woodwork in an overwhelming number to offer their condolences. He had been young and sad then, but he was older, wiser, and tougher now. He shook hands and said "nice to meet you" and when people questioned whether he was a boyfriend, Eddie insisted he was just a friend who wanted to be here for you.

It wasn't a lie; still he got a skeptical gaze from at least two elderly women who tutted once they were out of earshot.

Eventually, you got to the front of the room, to the row of chairs that held your immediate family, and after a few tearful hugs, Eddie finally met your parents, your aunt and uncle, and your older brother.

He was surprised to hear "I've heard a lot about you" come from your mother's mouth, but was not surprised to hear the "no funny business under my roof" from your father after a clap on the shoulder. Your uncle said nothing after a short “hello”, just let your aunt do all the talking, and all she could talk about was your appearance.

"What are you doing, honey? What is this you're wearing? For Papa's wake? I hope you plan to wear something a little more modest for my father's funeral tomorrow. And your friend? A leather jacket? A little casual don't you think? What's that dear? Yes, nice to meet you too Edward. Thank you for coming."

Your brother Michael, though...Michael was a douchebag to put it in polite terms, and Eddie could tell that, unlike with Jimmy, the relationship between you was tense.

"You're late" he sniffed judgmentally instead of a greeting.

"We hit traffic and needed to change," you snarked right back.

"So you stopped off at home? Where's Jim? Why couldn't you get him here?"

"You know how he is at these things, he'll show up before they close up for the night. You remember how he was when Nana died. And now he's Mr. Tough Guy. He doesn't like to cry."

Back and forth the two of you went, Michael's accusations and your tense responses. Eddie could feel himself get more and more irritated the harsher it got, the angrier he felt you become. If it was anything other than a funeral--a wake, what was the difference--he would have started in on your brother several minutes ago to protect you.

And he was still tempted to.

But it was like a switch was flipped as someone else approached, and he watched as you changed right before his very eyes. As all the irritation and vulnerabilities left you, and in their place...was the Store Manager version of you he knew and sort of despised. Cold and stiff and everything he knew you weren't by the grace of becoming your friend.

Regardless, it was startling to see.

At the end of the night as Eddie settled into the second twin bed in what used to be Michael and Jimmy's shared room, Eddie realized that your customer service persona had been present for most of the evening, and had only slipped in the presence of those few family members that could see right past it.

Could they see past it? Or was it that you simply couldn't hide behind it with them?

For the whole time he'd known you, Eddie had often wondered what had driven you to Indiana. The job, sure, but...you'd left everything you'd known behind. And hell, for all the times that he wanted to get the hell out of Hawkins, he knew he couldn't leave Wayne or Rick for very long. In his heart he knew the day he finally left, he'd need to be back quite often to see them.

Now, though...when it came to you, he started to understand.

---

The next day, the day of the funeral, you couldn't stop shaking.

Eddie had been nervously second guessing the black jeans--the only non-ripped pair he owned--and Wayne's borrowed dress shirt when he saw you digging through your bag, trembling. It seemed like you were trying to hide it, kept your body moving and grabbing for something, but he noticed immediately,

He snatched the car keys out of your hands before you could get a solid grasp on them when it was time to go.

"It's alright," he reassured you. "Just tell me where I'm going and I'll get us there."

He thought it would be back to the funeral home, but instead you gave him directions to the church. A big old building with stained glass windows and a large statue of the Virgin Mary out in the front.

He could hear the organ music of the hymns emanating from within, and on the hour, the bells from the tower beside the chapel became deafening. For all the Catholic school girl jokes he made at your expense, he didn't realize you were Catholic Catholic.

"You sure I'm not gonna burst into flames if I set foot inside?" he joked to try and ease your nerves and his, but you just shook your head. He watched and suddenly felt helpless, as you began to shake more and worry your bottom lip with your teeth; he was supposed to be here to support you, to reassure you, and instead you looked ready to keel over. "Hey, it'll be ok."

"Yeah," you nodded tensely. "Yeah, let's just go inside."

You didn't make a move though, just rocked onto the toes of your shiny Mary Janes and looked on as tons of people filtered into the church.

Tons of people that, once again, reminded him of the people that had come to pay their respects for his mom. Eddie remembered being there, shaking in his shoes, trying to keep a straight-face, to be strong. To not be a baby because he was 10 years old.

It was just like you said about Jimmy the previous night; big tough guy, didn't want to cr--

Oh.

Realization hit Eddie. The culmination of all the other realizations that had been mounting over the past what? 48 hours? Maybe the past week? The two of you were more alike than he realized. Eddie had just noticed how you'd put up this strong front since you'd been home; the comfortable, safe Store Manager facade was starting to crack. Hadn't he just told you the story about his mom's funeral? How he'd fallen in love with metal because Rick had realized that he needed to process his grief? That he needed to lash out? To cry?

Here he was, trying to get you to laugh, when instead he should have been doing the opposite. But how was he gonna get you to cry? You didn't even cry much at the wake when you'd placed your hand on top of the shiny casket that held your Papa within.

Maybe it just hadn't hit you yet?

Alright, change of plans.

"Your Papa knew a lot of people," Eddie noted, gesturing towards the funeral-goers.

"He did," you agreed, and he watched as your shoulders lost the slightest bit of tension. "He was...I mean you met my cousin last night. The one who wants to run for Mayor."

"Yeah, he's got that yuppie thing about him."

"Well, my Papa could have been Mayor if he wanted," you said with the most conviction he'd ever heard in your voice. "He just didn't want to. Which means he deserved it even more. He was the nicest neighbor, the best friend. He went and played competitive Bocce at the civic center and fundraised for charity and canned his own peaches to give to people."

On and on, you talked about Papa's recipe for this and his idea for that and...

"And the way he fucking chain smoked god damn it Eddie," you hit his arm as he pulled his cigarettes from the back pocket of his jeans.

Eddie thought that, at the very least, an emotional story would be the thing that would set you over the edge. Instead it was the pack of Marlboro Reds that he'd picked up when you had stopped for gas about halfway through the drive.

You hit his arm a few times, as you often did when you tried to playfully admonish him for this or that, then your face crumpled. Your shaking ceased as you collapsed against him and buried your face against his shoulder once again, just like you had when he first arrived at your apartment on Thursday night.

He dropped the cigarettes and folded his arms around you, pulled you into the safety of your friendship when it seemed like there wasn't anything safe out there for you right now; when you'd just lost one of the safe places you had in the world.

He whispered sweet words--comforts and reassurances--and he made you laugh once by threatening to punch your brother if he tried to make a scene.

"I'll do it," he goaded you. "I don't care if he's in mourning too. He's insufferable. Hate that guy. Never coming back to Chicago ever if he's still in town. You hear that? I might have to leave right now."

"No," you tugged him closer to you, and he reveled in the feeling. "You're staying right here. You promised."

"I did," he agreed.

The tense hold you had on him got looser and you hiccuped the last few tears you had.

A few yards away, a hearse pulled up to the curb in front of the church, and your brothers and several of your cousins went to start hauling the casket inside.

"You ready to go in?" Eddie asked. "You don't have to...but..."

"No," you shook your head and pulled back from him. "I'm ok. I'm ready."

"Good."

He waited for you to make the first move once again, but before you did, you took his hand in yours and squeezed.

"He would have been...so happy to have met you, Eddie," you looked at him earnestly. "I told him all about you. I think it hurts a little more...knowing that he didn't get the chance."

He squeezed your hand right back and smiled.

"I'm sad I didn't get the chance either. Guess I'm gonna have to work extra hard not to go to Hell so I can shake his hand in Heaven."

You snorted and pushed him away with a soft jackass then pulled him into the church with you saying he would have made the same joke.

---

The next morning, you and Eddie made a stealthy getaway.

Your father had tried to get you both to go to church with them again and you politely declined.

"We need to get on the road so we don't get back too late. I have to open tomorrow," you made the excuse.

Honestly Eddie was grateful; all the sitting and standing and kneeling...he hadn't gotten that much exercise since gym class Freshman year.

But as you soared back down North Avenue, you made a detour.

"I know this wasn't supposed to be a fun trip," you explained. "If you're up for it, we can make the drive back whenever...maybe during spring break or something? The least I can do before we head back to Hawkins, to thank you for coming, is give you a taste of good Chicago food. Especially after casseroles and funeral home sandwiches all weekend.

"It is Sunday, after all."

And that's how Eddie found himself having his first authentic Chicago style hot dog. Sitting on a picnic bench outside, under a red and yellow striped umbrella, the ambient sounds of cars zooming and your banter back and forth the perfect backdrop.

"No ketchup, are you kidding me right now Eddie?" you swatted his hand.

"Why do they have ketchup if they don't want it on the hot dog," he argued.

"It's for the fries and the fries only. You need to have the whole experience. A hot dog with everything, and ketchup on the fries only."

He watched as you unwrapped your hotdog and began picking through the toppings. Hypocrite.

"Wait, I thought you said you needed to have the whole experience, why are you taking the peppers off."

"I don't like the peppers."

"Are you kidding me right now?" Eddie scoffed. "Gonna have to take your Chicago Card away. Oh wait, I'm sorry. Suburb card."

"Oh my god, just eat. Before I leave you here."

He took his first bite and his tastebuds sang, as you munched on a French fry with a cheeky smile.

And Eddie was happy. Happy to be here with you. Sundays were his favorite days, hands down, and he would do everything in his power to keep them that way.

It might not have been the happiest weekend, there might still be some unanswered questions between the two of you. But you were here with him and you were still friends, and after everything that had happened, that's all Eddie could ask for.

Next Part: Closing Time

[rwrbficrecs]

We’ll Invite Something In by @smc-27 (book-verse)

@dot524: This is a fandom favorite and for good reason. In this canon divergence AU, Alex is President, Henry is out, and they never got together in their 20s. Instead, they encounter each other in their late 30s and a very different type of relationship ensues. They still hide it at first, but there’s a lot of living that they both have done and need to work through. I really enjoyed the character dynamics here and how the premise changed both Alex and Henry, making them bolder and more mature. Definitely read this one!

Eyes Blue, Like the Atlantic by bleedingballroomfloor (book-verse)

@dot524: A Titanic AU! Adapted by an excellent writer, this one has suspense, action, romance, and intrigue. There is a MCD (Main Character Death) in here and some other tags to be aware of, but also vibrant scenes with dancing, chasing, art, and formal wear. I really enjoyed it!

Clean Slate by @smc-27 (book-verse)

@heysweetheart-writes: This was just so excellent. I devoured it in no time, couldn't put it down. I love the way Alex just slips into Henry's life like a silk glove even though Henry has his hesitations. There's abslutely no angst at all other than "you're too young for me" "no, next question" I love it. I love Henry finally feeling young for the first time. I think that is something that Henry generally feels after meeting Alex, like he's never been able to, no matter at what point in life he is. ANYWAY I'm talking about Henry way too much again for a rec. Read this.

Most People Exist by @sprigsofviolets (book-verse)

@na-dineee: Henry, 30, is a nurse on a cancer ward. From the very first moment he feels an intense connection and attraction to his newest patient, the one who has a brain tumor and is named Alexander Claremont-Diaz. - The tags say it all: "Falling in love, Slow Burn, Angst with a happy ending, Hurt/Comfort". After reading this story I am a whole new person. I laughed and cried, had butterflies in my stomach, I felt it all. Hands down one of the best fics I've ever read!

after hours by @dumbpeachjuice (book-verse)

@na-dineee: How much can happen in a few hours? stutteringpeach: Hold my beer. 😅🤝 Reading this was truly a roller coaster ride, my stomach was doing somersaults non-stop: On his last evening in New York, poet Henry meets bartender Alex and the two spend the night together - in true "Before Sunrise" style. To sum it all up: enchanting, sweet, phenomenal, iconic!

No. 1 (Royal Red and Blue) Oil on Canvas by @captainjunglegym (book-verse)

@zwiazdziarka: This fic is so twisted and surprising in the best way! The summary did not prepare me for all the action that comes after the initial relationship drama and I'd really like to fawn over it some more but I don't want to spoil the fun of figuring out what really is going on and what are characters' motivations. Just give it a try.

Meet the Parents (series) by @14carrotghoul (book-verse)

@dot524: I really enjoyed these thoughtful character studies of Ellen and Oscar. The two short stories are a series of canon vignettes from Oscar and Ellen’s POV. These glimpses of the Claremont-Diaz parents add heart and depth to the RWRB canon, giving insight about how Ellen and Oscar think about parenthood, power, family, and each other.

Leave The World Better Than You Found It: A BONES AU by @treluna4 (book/movie-verse)

@myheartalivewrites: I really enjoyed this FirstPrince meets procedural TV show fic! With Alex as Booth and Henry as Brennan, they learn to work together, solve crimes--and fall in love, of course. Plus take down a very satisfying book villain.

No Laughing Matter by @inexplicablymine (book-verse)

@suseagull04: This fic is absolutely hysterical- a must read if you need something to cheer you up! It's also very relatable for anyone who, like me, has said things they've regretted in all the best ways!

in summer air by @acdsbff (book-verse)

@na-dineee: I need a vacation and vitamin D - maybe that's why this series (both POVs are covered 🥰) captivated me so much?! It is set on a Greek island, where Alex, just cheated on by his boyfriend, meets hotel owner Henry. What follows is a whirlwind speedrun romance against a beautiful backdrop. Really therapeutic for the heart on dreary days!!

here is a map (with your name as a capital) by @alasse9 (book-verse)

@dot524: What an incredible surprise to have this entire 50k story drop at once. In this canon divergent story, Alex and Henry start getting to know each other in Rio, when Alex helps him recover from a panic attack. Their friendship, and later their relationship, is a delightful slow burn with funny moments, heartbreak, and steady support of each other. I thoroughly enjoyed this start to finish — the characterization of both Alex and Henry is on point and I really enjoyed how the writer changed some of the scenes from the book while keeping key callbacks. A delight.

Claremont 2008 by @happiness-of-the-pursuit (book-verse)

@suseagull04: This friends to lovers AU is done so well! Having Henry and Alex meet as kids means we get years of their friendship before they even start dating, and it gives every aspect of their relationship so much depth through this entire fic. It also gives some events only referenced in the novel a completely different perspective, which makes them even better!

keep me in the moment (don't it feel so real?) by @anincompletelist (book-verse)

@heysweetheart-writes: I absolutely love everything that comes out of Sarah's magic little fingers and this was no exception. Alex and Henry are best friends and pinning over eache other unknowingly and an accidental lil discovery turns their relationship upside-down (for the better) absolutely recommended. I honestly loved it so much.

you know i can't be found with you by @dumbpeachjuice (book-verse)

@heysweetheart-writes: This was SO much fun. Alex was RELENTLESS and I absolutely love an older Henry. It was also very fucking funny. 10/10

the great duck fiasco by @alexclaremont-diaz (book-verse)

@suseagull04: A spy AU, dating apps, and Alex's Texas roots combine in the funniest way possible- definitely read this if you want a good laugh!

[coral-skeleton]

Help me afford top surgery

Hi y'all, for those who don't know me, I'm a disbled, neurodivergent, trans man living in Cape Town, South Africa. I'm also a gradstudent in Astronomy currently finishing up my MSc, an artist and a poet.

In South Africa we don't really have many options to pursue transition, our private medical aids and insurance don't cover any of it, not even hospital costs as they classify gender affirming care as a cosmetic process instead of the life saving medical care we all know it is. Going through the public health sector is also not really an option as the waitlist is over 26 years long due to our national government again sees gender affirming care as purely cosmetic and only gives one spot for any gender affirming surgery per year.

In South Africa there's also still alot of stigma around being trans and trans people face violence and discrimination on a daily basis, so in addition to the usual benefits of getting top surgery, it will also greatly improve my safety

This is however very expensive, being a student I am on a very tight budget, living paycheck to paycheck already, trying to save up for a procedure that vosts nearly my entire yearly income is next to impossible, I also can't turn to my family in this instance as they are extremely transphobic

So the only option I have left is to try and crowdfund it. As I am South African I unfortunately can't use go fund me, so I'm using the south african croudfunding service, backabuddy, it does accept paypall and I-Pay

Any and all help will be greatly appreciated

So far I have raised:

R11 111.00/R120 000.00

$590.13/$6 374.00

(usd for convenience, conversion rate on 6 march 2024, $1 = R18.83)

[tsukimefuku]

The broken idealist: Higuruma Hiromi

SatoSugu is canon and I can prove it

.˳·˖ HIGURUMA SENSEI +18! (fluff, romance, comedy, smut) mlist | higuruma hiromi, a brilliant professor who teaches Criminal Law and Criminal Procedure Law, is known among students and other faculty members for being a little... peculiar. Since you dream of becoming a criminal lawyer, you'll definitely have to endure his antics for a while - but, considering the odd charm he has, maybe it won't be as hard as you expected.

.˳·˖ JUJUTSU PARTNERS CANON DIVERGENCE AU +18! (multi-genre) mlist | collection of stories. canon divergent alternate universe where reader is a jujutsu sorcerer that ends up working for jujutsu high alongside nanami kento and higuruma hiromi.

.˳·˖ THE WORLD IS A WINDMILL (angst) mlist | a series of short drabbles (semi character studies) of jjk characters (yuuji, nobara, nanami and higuruma) based off of the song “o mundo é um moinho” from the brazilian musician and poet, cartola. 🇧🇷

.˳·˖ SAND AND SNOW (murder/mystery, action, canon typical violence) mlist | in the past few weeks, there have been multiple deaths in Odate city. Nanami Kento, a first-grade sorcerer, is dispatched to investigate the snowy city, unaware that this would be his final mission as a Jujutsu High’s student.

.˳·˖ NANAMI KENTO

4:00 A.M. (angst): nanami is your ex and calls you just before dawn to hear your voice.

Voice kink +18! (smut): suggestive drabble thanks to kenjiro tsuda’s voice and the chokehold it has on me.

Voice kink the reckoning +18! (smut): sequel to voice kink, in which nanami keeps teasing you even in the throes of it.

Blunt trauma (villain!nanami) +18! (angst, canon typical violence, smut): your mission is to execute a curse user. the issue? said curse user is nanami kento, your former high school classmate and the man who you still secretly love.

Be good for me and… +18! (smut): smutty office drabble, prompt based.

3rd of July (fluff, comedy, suggestive): you surprise Nanami on his birthday after some undeserved teasing. collab work.

Scarred Nanami head canons (fluff, comfort, smut): Nanami has you on his side to deal with the aftermath of Shibuya.

◇─◇──◇─◇

.˳·˖ HIGURUMA HIROMI

Whimperer +18! (fluff, suggestive): you wondered why hiromi always seemed to not be enjoying himself fully in bed, and the answer is definitely not something you expected.

de-stressing the lawyer +18! (smut) - your husband hiromi is pretty stressed, so you decide to help him out by giving him head under his desk.

In another life (angst) - what if reader met higuruma briefly before the culling games.

drowsy proposal (fluff) - silly fluffy drabble with sleepy higu.

◇─◇──◇─◇

.˳·˖ HIGUNANA X READER

jujutsu sorcery, and how the legacy stays alive +18! (fluff, suggestive) - a take on what would happen if the throuple's daughter wanted to become a jujutsu sorcerer.

Daddies (fluff) - hiromi is trying to feed his infant daughter, but failed to realize no one can really reason their way out with babies.

Stop teasing +18! (smut) - You and Nanami decide to edge Hiromi to the verge of tears. Prompt based.

◇─◇──◇─◇

.˳·˖ KUSAKABE ATSUYA

lollipop kiss (fluff, comedy) - your workplace crush, kusakabe, is pretty dense when it comes to romance, so you try to ease things out with a bag of lollipops.

oh, you like that? +18! (smut) - smutty prompt drabble with hair pulling and soft dom kusa.

.˳·˖ NANAMI KENTO

Love language (fluff)

Kitchen fluff (fluff)

Scarred Nanami head canons (fluff, comfort, smut)

Babysitting (fluff)

◇─◇──◇─◇

.˳·˖ HIGURUMA HIROMI

don't cry, my love (fluff)

all by tsukimefuku ㋡ comments and reblogs are appreciated. do not copy, translate or repost.

[batmanlovesnirvana]

Chapter two | Under Gotham’s Shadow.

masterlist

pairing : battinson!bruce wayne x fem!oc.

words : +7k.

author’s note : The second chapter is here! Just a reminder that English isn't my first language, so if there are any mistakes, I apologize in advance. We're meeting a lot of new characters in this chapter, so I hope everything makes sense. If anything is unclear, feel free to ask questions!

cw : bruce being a dick as usual, 18+, thriller, medical procedures, angst, mental health issues, noire, canon-typical violence, POV alternating, gritty, horror, illness, slow burn, action, fluff, mutual pining, forced proximity, crime families, comedy, crime, fighting ect… read at your own risk !

   AFTER LEAVING the mayor's house, Maryam reluctantly approached her car. 

Sliding into the driver's seat, she finally allowed herself a moment to breathe. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the steering wheel, shutting out the chaotic world outside. The muffled sounds of journalists shouting questions and the wail of police sirens barely registered as she tried to process the night's events.

Her mind replayed the grim scenes in a loop— the mayor’s lifeless body, the blood, the devastation in young George’s eyes. It was a deliberate murder, no doubt about it, and something deep inside told her this wouldn't be the last. A shiver ran down her spine as she pondered the motives behind the killing. Why target the mayor? She didn't know him personally and, to be honest, barely cared about the man. His face was familiar, but only in the way that all politicians’ faces are—seen, not truly known. Despite keeping up with politics, she could hardly recall anything of substance that he'd done for Gotham.

Sure, he’d put Salvatore Maroni behind bars, but Maryam suspected he was just another cog in the Falcone family's machine. Who in Gotham wasn’t at this point? The city was still in shambles, with criminals running rampant, homelessness skyrocketing, and the gap between the rich and poor only growing wider. Every promise the mayor made during his campaign had turned out to be empty words, nothing but lies wrapped in false hope.

Everything was a mess.

Yet, despite her cynicism, she found herself more worried about George than the murdered politician. The boy was innocent, a child who had nothing to do with the murky underworld of Gotham. Her aunt had been babysitting him for three years now, and Maryam had often found herself at her aunt’s house, playing with the boy, listening to his innocent laughter. She couldn't help but feel a pang of protectiveness for him.

But what really freaked her out was the vigilante. She had quite literally stumbled upon him, and the memory sent a shiver down her spine. He was taller than she imagined, his form imposing in a way that felt almost otherworldly. But it was his eyes that haunted her the most—those piercing blue eyes, the bluest she had ever seen. They weren’t just blue; they were the kind of blue that poets of the Renaissance would have wept over, likening them to the tragic skies painted by God himself, sorrowful and burdened with the weight of the world.

His eyes were like a sea under a storm, blue but ringed with red, the color of exhaustion, the remnants of battles fought, and the silent scream of hopelessness written in every shadow. They were the kind of eyes that held the world’s tragedies within them, where hope was a distant, dying light, struggling against the overwhelming tide of despair.

And the way he gripped her—firmly but not forcibly—sent a jolt through her, like a live wire connecting them. It was as if he was afraid of breaking her, as if she were a delicate flower and he was the brutal wind, dangerous and unpredictable, but somehow hesitant to cause harm. It was electrifying. No, it was more than that. It was mortifying. Yes, that was the right word. The sensation of being held so carefully by something so dangerous—it terrified her.

Another sigh escaped her lips. She had to stop daydreaming, a habit that both gnawed at her and offered comfort in equal measure. But no matter how hard she tried, those blue eyes, full of a sadness she couldn’t comprehend, kept pulling her back into the memory.

Raising her head, Maryam stretched her neck and glanced at the clock in her car. The night had dragged on longer than she realized. She fished her phone from her back pocket, the screen lighting up to reveal a picture of her younger self with her parents and siblings, a bittersweet memory frozen in time. She quickly typed in her password, intending to call her aunt Meysa, but the screen flooded with notifications—several missed calls from her aunt and her siblings. By now, the news must have spread, and they would be worried.

She pressed the call button for her aunt and placed the phone on the dashboard, putting it on speaker. The ringing echoed through the car, the foggy windows a testament to the cold outside. She undid her updo, letting her hair fall, and massaged her scalp as she waited for her aunt to pick up. Finally, the call connected.

“Allo? Maryam, I have been calling you for two hours! You don’t respond to me or your sisters!” Meysa’s voice was thick with worry, not giving Maryam a chance to speak.

“No, I’m fine, Aunt Meysa. I was working—” Maryam started to explain but was cut off again.

“Like always,” Meysa said in Arabic, a tone of gentle reprimand in her voice.

Maryam sighed. “Look, I wanted to call you to ask if you’ve seen the news?”

“Not to ask how your old aunt has been doing?” Meysa teased.

“I literally saw you this morning!” Maryam replied in Arabic, exasperated.

“I know, I know... But yes, I’ve seen the news, although I received it before.”

Maryam furrowed her brows at this. “What do you mean?”

“Rebecca, the Mayor’s wife, called me in tears! I was getting ready for bed when my phone rang,” Meysa explained, then quickly added with a tsk, “She told me her husband was dead! Killed! Can you believe that, yah Maryam?”

Maryam listened, nibbling on her nails and massaging her scalp with her other hand. “Not really, it’s Gotham, have you forgotten?”

“I can’t believe they did that. Killing the Mayor. I never liked him anyway, but the boy? Miskeen, Wallah. I told her to bring him to me so I could take care of him, but she refused. She’s right; it’s better he stays with his mother and family. He must be traumatized.” Meysa continued, brushing off Maryam’s comment.

“I saw him and talked to him—” Maryam began, only to be interrupted again.

“You were there?” Meysa asked, surprised.

“Yep,” Maryam confirmed. “It was a horrible sight. And like I was saying, the boy was really traumatized. I tried to comfort him, but...” She grimaced, shaking her head. “Seeing that kind of thing really messes with your head.”

A heavy silence hung between them.

“You’re right,” Meysa agreed quietly. “I’ll talk to his mother when I can. I don’t want to bother her—God knows how things must be for her right now.”

Maryam only hummed in response, her gaze drifting to the chaos of journalists outside her car.

“What else did you see there?” Meysa asked, hopeful for more information.

“You know I can’t tell you, teta. It’s confidential,” Maryam replied, taking her phone in her hand.

Meysa huffed. “Fine, fine. I suppose I’ll see it in the papers tomorrow.” Then, as if remembering something, she added, “By the way, I made dinner—couscous.”

“Noted. I’m coming to sleep at your apartment then. I’m not working tomorrow morning anyway. I’ll see you later.”

“Okay. Salam, and be careful—or you might run into that satanic devil.” Meysa warned, her tone half-joking.

Maryam laughed, her thoughts flickering briefly to the vigilante. Oh, if only you knew. “Yeah, okay. Bye.”

She ended the call and started the car engine, the rumble breaking the quiet of the early morning. Without another thought, she sped through the empty streets, heading towards her aunt’s apartment.

────୨ৎ────

           Bruce removed his helmet with a quiet exhale, the motion slow and deliberate. 

The cool air of the cave brushed against his sweat-dampened skin, a stark contrast to the warmth trapped beneath the black armor. As he pulled the helmet free, the shadows lifted from his face, revealing a man who carried the weight of a city’s sins in his eyes. His blackened gaze swept the cavernous space around him, the dim light catching the maining streaks of dark camo that clung to the edges of his eyelids, a haunting reminder of the night he’d just endured.

He reached up, his fingers deftly removing the contact lenses, the tiny sensor bands embedded within reflecting the harsh glow of the monitors around him. The lenses were more than just a tool—they were a gateway to his world, a lens through which he witnessed the darkness that engulfed Gotham. He placed them on the workbench, their curved surfaces still warm from his eyes, before shifting his attention to the grainy video footage playing on the screen.

Nirvana playing on the background; the scene replayed in stark black and white, the distorted image of a gang member convulsing as he was tased in the neck. Bruce’s eyes lingered on the man’s face, reading the fear etched in every twitch of his muscles. He knew that fear well; it was the same fear that had once gripped him as a child, staring into the eyes of the man who had taken everything from him.

He stood, his eyes scanning the vast space of the cave, the eerie silence of early morning settling around him. The remnants of a bygone era surrounded him—an unfinished black muscle car sat hulking in one corner. Monitors lined the walls, their screens flickering with the latest news. The headline that caught his eye made his stomach tighten: 

"MAYOR MITCHELL MURDERED."

The newscaster’s voice droned on, filling the cave with words that felt like distant echoes: "...this certainly isn't the first time Gotham has been rocked by the murder of a political figure. In fact, in an eerie coincidence, it was twenty years ago this month that celebrated billionaire philanthropist, Dr. Thomas Wayne, and his wife Martha were slain during Wayne's own mayoral campaign in a shocking crime that remains unsolved to this day..."

Bruce’s gaze hardened, his jaw tightening as the familiar pang of loss surged through him. The past had a cruel way of resurfacing, no matter how deep he buried it.

He sat back, his eyes scanning the footage on the monitor. He paused as the camera caught a glimpse of her—Dr. Maryam Halimi. 

Even in the grainy, night-vision footage, she stood out, her presence both captivating and unsettling. Her expressive hazel eyes had been wide with shock when she stumbled upon him, her hair meticulously styled in a French twist updo, a stark contrast to the chaos around her. 

There was something about the way she held herself, a blend of poise and vulnerability, that gnawed at him.

Her presence was an unexpected calm amidst the storm of violence and despair. 

Bruce leaned in, his gaze sharpening as he studied her features. She had looked at him with those eyes—greenish-yellow, filled with tragedy, hauntingly beautiful, and framed by the weariness of someone who had witnessed far too much yet clung to a fragile hope. A sudden comparison flashed through his mind, almost disorienting: her eyes were like the sky at dusk, desperately holding on to the last traces of daylight before succumbing to the darkness. They were eyes that bore the weight of the world.

He shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought, but it clung to him stubbornly. For a brief moment, he had seen his own torment reflected in her gaze. The deep blue of his eyes, like a painting etched in sorrow, had found a mirror in hers. It was a gaze that spoke of shared suffering, even if she was unaware of it.

Bruce replayed the scene, his heart rate subtly rising as he relived the moment she had stumbled upon him. He hadn’t expected her to be there, and the way she had frozen, her eyes widening in shock, had left an indelible mark on him.

He captured her image on one of his computer screens, letting it linger there before switching to another monitor to continue reviewing the footage.

A metallic clank echoed through the cave, pulling Bruce’s attention away from the screen. He looked up to see Alfred stepping out of the freight elevator, his figure cast in the half-light. The older man’s face, etched with years of wear and scars of a different kind, was a picture of quiet concern. 

Bruce turned back to his work, avoiding Alfred’s gaze, but the tension between them lingered in the air like a ghost.

“I assume you heard about this...?” Alfred’s voice was low, tinged with the weary resignation of a man who had seen too much.

“Yeah,” Bruce replied, his tone clipped, eyes fixed on the footage he was fast-forwarding through—frame by frame, dissecting every moment of the crime scene.

Alfred moved closer, his steps echoing softly on the stone floor. He glanced at the screen, his eyes widening at the sight of Mayor Mitchell’s body. “Oh. I see...” His voice faltered as he took in the gruesome scene. “...dear God...”

As the image of the cipher filled the screen, Bruce froze the frame, his hand reaching to print the image. The lines of the eerie symbols etched into the Halloween card were now stark on the paper. Alfred’s breath hitched as he took in the sight, the chill of the moment settling deep into his bones.

“The killer left this for Batman?” Alfred’s voice trembled slightly, betraying the fear he kept carefully masked.

“Apparently.” Bruce’s reply was curt, as if discussing a minor inconvenience rather than a message from a murderer.

Alfred’s eyes narrowed with concern. “You’re becoming quite a celebrity... why is he writing to you?”

“I don’t know yet.” Bruce’s voice was flat, betraying nothing of the storm brewing inside him.

"And her?" Alfred gestured toward the computer screen where Maryam’s face was paused, captured in the moment their eyes had locked. Bruce hesitated, his gaze briefly shifting to the screen as Alfred studied the image.

"Does she have any link to what happened—"

"No," Bruce cut him off sharply, his tone leaving no room for further questioning.

"She’s pretty," Alfred murmured, his voice softening as a small smile tugged at his lips. "Quite a striking woman, if I may add. Or was it the way you scared her?"

Bruce's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. "She seemed familiar."

Alfred glanced at him, curiosity piqued. "Do you know her?"

Bruce shook his head, his voice distant, as though reaching back into a memory just out of grasp. "I asked Gordon about her. He said she's a pathologist. Medical examiner. Her name is Dr. Maryam Halimi." His gaze lingered on her face for a moment before he returned to the other screen, burying himself in the work that never seemed to end.

A heavy silence settled between them, the only sound the hum of machinery in the background. Alfred sighed, running a hand through his hair, trying to weigh the gravity of the situation against Bruce's relentless pursuit of justice.

"Have a shower," Alfred finally said, his voice carrying a hint of weariness. "The accounting boys from Wayne Enterprises are coming for breakfast."

"Here—why?" Bruce asked, irritation flickering in his eyes, a reminder of the ever-present tension between his two worlds.

"Because I couldn’t get you to go there!" Alfred retorted, frustration seeping into his voice as he met Bruce's gaze, the unspoken concern between them thickening the air.

“I don’t have time for this,” Bruce muttered, his own patience wearing thin.

Alfred’s voice softened, a plea underlying his words. “It’s getting serious, Bruce. If this continues, it won’t be long before you’ve nothing left—”

“I don’t care about that. Any of that.” Bruce’s words were sharp, final, cutting through the space between them like a knife.

Alfred’s eyes flickered with a pain that he quickly masked. “You don’t care about your family’s legacy?”

“What I’m doing is my family’s legacy,” Bruce countered, his voice low, edged with a conviction that left no room for doubt. “And if I can’t change things here, if I can’t have an effect, then I don’t care what happens to me.”

Alfred swallowed hard, his throat tight with unshed emotions. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Bruce's eyes darkened, his voice dropping to a warning. “Alfred, stop.” The words hung in the air, sharp and final. Then, without missing a beat, he added, “You’re not my father.”

The statement was cold, a barrier thrown up between them, meant to shut down the conversation. The silence that followed was heavy, charged with the weight of everything unsaid. Alfred’s expression faltered, the faintest trace of hurt flashing across his face before he masked it with a resigned nod.

But the words lingered, echoing in the cavernous space of the Batcave, a reminder of the chasm that sometimes seemed too wide to bridge between them.

A thin, pained smile touched Alfred’s lips, barely masking the hurt behind his eyes. “I’m... well aware,” he replied quietly, his voice tinged with a sadness that Bruce chose to ignore.

Alfred’s eyes lingered on Bruce for a moment longer, searching for something—some sign of acknowledgment, a crack in the armor. But Bruce remained impassive, his gaze already drifting back to the screens, to the work that consumed him.

Bruce rose from his seat, the movement deliberate and final, signaling the end of the conversation. Alfred watched him go, a deep pain etched in his expression, the kind that comes from years of unspoken worries and unresolved conflicts. 

The distance between them felt wider than ever, a gulf that no words could bridge.

As Bruce disappeared into the elevator, Alfred turned back to the computer, his gaze lingering on the screens Bruce had been working on. His eyes scanned the thumbnails from the lens footage, pausing on one that showed the boy in the ninja costume with Maryam crouched in front of him, trying to comfort the little boy. His heart clenched at the sight; the tenderness in her gesture stood out sharply against the brutality surrounding them, a small but significant act of humanity in a city drowning in darkness.

His gaze then drifted to the printed cipher lying on the desk, the eerie symbols from the Halloween card glaring up at him. Above them, in Bruce's sharp handwriting, were the words: "HE LIES STILL."

Alfred frowned, the weight of those words pressing down on him like a heavy shroud. He knew the dangers Bruce was courting, the dark path he was walking. But seeing those words, seeing the connection between the message and Bruce’s relentless pursuit of justice, filled him with a deep sense of dread. It was as if the very essence of Bruce's mission was encapsulated in that ominous phrase—a mission that seemed to be consuming him more each day.

Alfred let out a weary sigh and closed his eyes, the heaviness of the situation settling over him. The fear of what it might do to Bruce weighed heavily on his heart.

────୨ৎ────

      Maryam stirred awake, the faint sound of voices and the clattering of dishes drawing her from sleep. The room she found herself in was familiar, though now it bore the quiet solitude of the morning. This was the room she once shared with her younger sister Nora during their teenage years—a space that had seen countless late-night conversations, whispered secrets and shared dreams. It wasn’t vast, just big enough to comfortably house two people. 

The furniture was modest, with a couple of beds positioned against the walls, each adorned with mismatched bedsheets that reflected the distinct personalities of the two sisters. A shared wooden dresser stood between them, and a small desk, once a place for late-night study sessions or scribbled notes passed between them, sat against the wall, bearing the marks of years gone by.

The room had a comforting, lived-in feel, with soft, warm colors that reflected the coziness of their aunt's home. The sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting gentle rays that danced on the patterned rug. A few framed pictures adorned the walls—memories of family gatherings and happier times.

Maryam rubbed her eyes, still groggy, and reached for her phone on the nightstand. The screen flashed to life, showing the time: 10:36 a.m. She sighed, stretching her arms above her head, and then rolled out of bed. Her face was slightly puffy from sleep, and her hair, which had been washed the night before, had settled into bouncy curls that framed her bare face.

Yawning, she reached for her red robe, slipping it on and tying it snugly at the waist. The soft fabric provided a small comfort against the coolness of the morning. Shielding her eyes from the sunlight that streamed through the window, she made her way to the door.

As she entered the hallway, the sounds of life became more pronounced—familiar voices mingled with the clinking of dishes, the occasional clatter of cutlery, and the unmistakable melody of Umm Kulthum filling the apartment.

The closer she got to the kitchen, the stronger the scent of coffee became, warm and inviting. It was a smell that always made her feel at home, no matter what else was happening in the world outside.

In the kitchen, her Aunt Meysa was on the phone, a foulard wrapped like a turban on her head and her usual apron draped over her jelaba. She was speaking loudly, gesturing with such vigor that it was as if the person on the other end could actually see her. The mix of broken English and Arabic in her voice was unmistakable. "No, no, we take no more kids tonight! Already full!" She rolled her eyes with dramatic flair, as if the person she was speaking to was as thick-headed as the fog that sometimes rolled in from Gotham Bay.

At the small table, Aunt Amina sat, the embodiment of calm despite the tumultuous life she’d endured. A cigarette was nestled between her fingers, a cup of coffee steaming in front of her. Her red hair was tied back, and her sharp yet warm brown eyes were fixated on the newspaper spread out before her.

Maryam paused, blinking in surprise. Amina never read the paper. The last time she’d seen her aunt with a newspaper, it had been crumpled up to light the fireplace.

Strange, she thought.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” teased Ali, her cousin, a few years younger and always up to something. 

He was Aunt Meysa and Uncle Amir’s only son, a boxer who owned a gym in Gotham, both training and fighting in the ring. Maryam, unfazed by his usual teasing, just rolled her eyes and ignored him.

Rania, the fourth Halimi sister, was hunched over her laptop at the table. Her dirty blonde curls were pulled into a messy bun, held together by a pencil, and an earpiece was tucked into one ear. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, completely immersed in work for Bella Reál’s mayoral campaign. Yesterday's fiasco had thrown her into overdrive, and she barely noticed the world around her.

At the far end of the table sat Warda, the second-born daughter. An engineer at Wayne Enterprises currently on maternity leave, had one hand resting gently on her rounded belly. She was the only married sister out of the five, wed to a man named Ryan, a dentist. Despite the exhaustion that often accompanied pregnancy, Warda looked as radiant as ever. Her dark hair, straightened and perfectly styled, brushed her shoulders as she leaned in to spread marmalade on her toast. When Ali made his remark, she glanced up, a warm smile spreading across her lips. “Sbah al khir, sbah al noor yah Milou,” she greeted, using one of Maryam’s many nicknames.

Maryam, stretching again to shake off the morning sluggishness, walked over and planted a small kiss on Warda’s head. Warda returned the affection with a tender smile before taking a bite of her tartine. Maryam moved to the counter, tugging her robe tighter around her waist as she poured herself a cup of coffee—milk and three sugars, her usual. Meanwhile, Ali, ever the joker, threw a few playful jabs in her direction as she poured the coffee. Maryam, long accustomed to his antics, didn’t even flinch.

Noticing the empty chair at the table, Maryam smirked to herself. The youngest sister, Alma—affectionately known as Lulu—was still in bed. 

Typical, she thought. Lulu, the baby of the family, was probably the only one who could sleep through the chaos.

Maryam turned her attention to Aunt Amina, who hadn’t lifted her eyes from the newspaper. “Since when do you read the news, hmm?” she asked, raising one of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows as she sipped from her mug.

Amina took a slow drag from her cigarette, her gaze still fixed on the paper. “Why wouldn’t I? The mayor’s dead. That’s big news.”

Maryam chuckled, turning back to the counter. She put her mug down and opened a drawer, rummaging through it for her favorite biscuits. “I’ve never seen you read the paper,” she said, her tone light. Finally finding the biscuits, she tore the pack open with her teeth and turned back towards the table. “Actually, I’ve only ever seen you light fires with it.” She shot a sideways glance at Rania, who grinned without looking up from her laptop.

Amina sighed, finally folding the newspaper and meeting Maryam’s gaze. “Well, times change, and so do people, ya binti,” she said, the hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. “Even I need to keep up with what’s happening in this madhouse of a city.”

Warda, still chewing her tartine, chimed in with a soft, teasing voice. “Oh, Maryam knows. She was at the crime scene last night.”

Ali’s eyes widened as he snatched the newspaper from Amina’s hands, dodging her half-hearted attempt to pinch him. “You were?” he exclaimed, scanning the headlines.

Maryam rolled her eyes playfully, leaning back against the counter. “Thanks for the reminder, Warda. Like I needed it,” she quipped, though the corners of her mouth twitched into a small smile.

Ali, still clutching the newspaper, leaned forward with curiosity. “So, what did you see? Give me the juicy details.”

Maryam shot him a look, already feeling her patience thin. “Ali, how many times do I have to say it? I can’t tell you. It’s against the rules.” Her eyes widened to emphasize her words. “Besides, I woke up to Nadia hounding me for more info for her papers, and I still refused.”

Ali threw the newspaper at Maryam, but she dodged it with practiced ease. Meysa, still on the phone, caught the exchange and snapped at her son, “Ali, stop bothering your cousin! Go find something else to do.”

Ali grimaced and backed off. “Fine, fine. Just trying to get some interesting gossip.”

Maryam stuck her tongue out at him in mock defiance, earning a bemused look from Ali.

“So, what does everyone want for dinner?” Meysa asked, finally hanging up the phone. “I’m thinking Mloukhiah.”

Ali chimed in, “I don’t know, Dad’s off to work at the bay until tonight, even though I told him not to go. The weather’s awful.”

Meysa scoffed. “Your father is as stubborn as a mule. Out there, getting drenched while Gotham spirals into chaos. What’s next? A gang of criminals taking over Wayne Enterprises?”

Maryam chuckled, her mind still partially occupied with the crime scene. “It’s Gotham, Meysa. Anything’s possible.”

Rania, finally looking up from her laptop, wore a serious expression. “The conspiracy theories are spiraling out of control. This is going to be a nightmare for Bella’s campaign. Every scandal just adds more fuel to the fire.”

Maryam leaned back against the counter with a smirk. “Welcome to my world, Rania. Looks like you’re becoming Maryam 2.0.”

Rania narrowed her eyes at her sister but couldn’t hide a smile. “Oh, please. I’m still young. Don’t age me prematurely.”

“Too late,” Maryam shot back with a laugh. “You’re already showing signs of stress. Look at those bags under your eyes.”

Rania leaned in closer with a smirk. “Ha! You’re one to talk. Your workaholic tendencies could turn anyone into an early retiree.”

“Maybe,” Maryam conceded with a grin, “but at least I’m not glued to a laptop 24/7.”

“Not glued, just constantly engaged,” Rania retorted with a cheeky smile.

Warda, ever the peacemaker, chimed in with a gentle smile. “Let’s not turn this into a competition over who’s the bigger workaholic. We all have our issues.” She glanced down at her round belly and stroked it lovingly. “Some of us just have different priorities.”

Meysa, always the doting aunt, leaned over and added, “Eat, Warda. You’re not eating enough for a pregnant woman. I don’t want my grandchild to be hungry.”

Warda quipped back, “I’m fine, Aunt Meysa. Don’t worry, my husband is feeding me enough.”

At that moment, Alma, the youngest Halimi sister nicknamed Lulu, stumbled into the kitchen. Her auburn, almost red hair was a mess of curls, and her eyes were half-closed as if she’d just been dragged from a deep sleep. “What’s going on? Why’s everyone so loud?”

Warda greeted Lulu with a warm smile. “Welcome to the land of the living, Lulu.”

Lulu took the coffee cup gratefully and sat down at the table. “I’m still half-asleep. What’s everyone talking about?”

“The mayor’s dead,” Amina said matter-of-factly, lighting another cigarette.

Lulu’s eyes widened in shock, nearly spilling her coffee. “Wait, what? When did that happen?”

“Last night,” Maryam replied, watching her sister’s reaction with a concerned look. “It’s all over the news.”

Rania snorted and returned to her laptop. “Trust me, you’re not missing much. Just more chaos.”

Amina exhaled a stream of smoke, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Chaos or not, this city’s going to hell. We’ve got to be careful. All of us.”

Warda nodded, her hand resting on her belly as she considered Amina’s words. “Yeah, we do. But we’ve survived worse, right?”

The room fell into a contemplative silence. They had indeed survived worse.

Breaking the silence, Maryam asked Lulu, “Where were you, anyway?”

Lulu groaned, leaning back in her chair. “Revising my bar exam.” She avoided eye contact with Maryam, her unease palpable.

“Really?” Maryam asked suspiciously, crossing her arms and frowning.

“Yep.” At this point, everyone stopped what they were doing and focused on Lulu, sensing the tension in the air.

With all eyes on her, Lulu finally exploded. “Okay, fine! I did go to revise, but then I went on a date with a guy!”

Amina, crushing her cigarette in the ashtray, said, “See? Wasn’t that hard.”

“What guy?” Ali asked, his tone protective.

“Yeah, well, I’m not going to tell you his name. I’m not even sure if it’s serious,” Lulu said, trying to deflect.

“Well, is he hot at least?” Rania asked with a mischievous grin.

“What do you mean ‘hot’?” asked Aunt Meysa, looking puzzled. “Is he sick or something?”

“No, Meysa,” Aunt Amina clarified, “she’s asking if the boy is handsome.”

Maryam said nothing, but her gaze fixed on her sister, already forming suspicions about who the new guy might be. She hoped to god it wasn’t who she had in mind.

“Yaani, oh my god, it’s my life. I’m 24! Leave me alone!” Alma snapped suddenly, throwing her spoon onto the table and storming off to the bathroom.

Ali raised his arms in mock surrender. “I have to go open the ring anyway. Salam!” He left the kitchen, grabbing his energy drink on the way.

Seizing the opportunity to escape, Rania pushed back her chair, shutting her laptop with a decisive click. “Yeah, me too. I’m heading to the office. The team needs me.” She grabbed her bag and called after Ali, “Can you please drive me?”

“Be careful,” Warda called out, but the only response was the door slamming shut.

Maryam emptied her coffee into the sink, quickly washed her cup, and left the kitchen. Aunt Amina called after her, “Don’t make her even more mad!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Maryam responded with a wave, already heading out the door.

────୨ৎ────

       Maryam leaned against the bathroom doorframe, crossing her arms and giving her sister a stern look as Lulu brushed her teeth. “Please tell me it’s not who I think it is.”

Lulu leaned over to spit out the toothpaste, avoiding Maryam’s gaze. “Oh god, it is,” Maryam muttered, beginning to pace anxiously. Her fingers pressed against her temples. “Vittorio Falcone. Of all people—”

Alma quickly placed her hand over Maryam’s mouth, her eyes wide with alarm. “Keep your voice down!”

Maryam lowered her hands, her frustration palpable. “Can you blame me, Alma?” she said, using her full name to emphasize her annoyance. “You promised me you wouldn’t talk to him—”

“He kept insisting, Maryam!” Lulu cut in, placing her hands on the counter. “Sending me flowers, gifts, waiting outside uni and work—”

“And I warned you!” Maryam’s voice rose. “I said you’d be tempted by him and his charms! Ever since that night at the restaurant, and the way he looked at you while you worked! He knows what he’s doing; he’s playing you—”

“Maryam, he’s not that bad when you get to know him—”

“He’s part of the fucking mafia, be for real right now!” Maryam exclaimed, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “And not just any member—he’s the oldest son of Carmine Falcone!” She lowered her voice further. “The literal heir to the Roman throne.”

Alma shook her head, dismissing Maryam’s concerns. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Lulu,” Maryam said, taking her sister’s shoulders, “please don’t be fooled by them. I know them, I’ve worked near them. They’re dangerous.”

“I talked with him,” Alma said, though Maryam continued to shake her head. “We’re just friends. He says he’s going to make everything legitimate when he takes the reins, which he already has and has started doing some changes!” she explained, her tone pleading.

“Doesn’t matter,” Maryam said firmly. “He’s still dangerous. And you’re not even Italian. Why would he want to go out with you? It’s just so strange.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Alma said suddenly, her tone serious. “I know who he is, but all I ask is for you to trust me on this.” She absentmindedly played with a strand of her red hair. “We’re not together; if anything, I just went on that date with him so he’d stop pestering me. It’s nothing serious, really.”

“Look, I know he’s handsome and charming or whatever, but it’s not like in the movies. Please—” Maryam started, but Alma cut her off.

“I know what I’m doing, Mar. I’m not a baby anymore, and you know that.” Alma began to gently push Maryam out of the bathroom. “Don’t worry about me. Really.” With that, she pushed the door shut and locked it, leaving Maryam outside, bewildered and even more worried.

She leaned against the wall, her shoulders slumped as she tried to steady her breathing. Maryam felt a pang of helplessness—she had always been the protector, the one who stepped in when things went wrong. But here, with Alma’s stubborn defiance, she was powerless. The thought of Vittorio Falcone, the heir to one of Gotham’s most feared crime families, being involved with her sister was unsettling.

Her pulse quickened as she imagined the worst-case scenarios: Alma being used, manipulated, or worse. The danger was all too real, and Maryam’s protective instincts flared up with a fierce intensity. She remembered her own experiences with the criminal underworld, the threats and violence she had witnessed, that she had endured. 

It was a world that left scars—both physical and emotional—and she couldn’t bear the thought of her sister being dragged into it.

Maryam’s fingers gripped the edge of the door poignet, her knuckles white with tension. She fought to push down the rising wave of anger and fear that threatened to overwhelm her. She understood Alma’s need for independence and the desire to make her own choices, but the stakes were too high. Maryam had always been the voice of caution, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that this time, she had failed.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Alma’s footsteps retreating on the other side of the door. Maryam took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. The cacophony of the house—the clinking of dishes, the distant chatter—seemed to amplify her sense of isolation. Her family was moving on with their day, while she remained stuck in this moment of worry and frustration.

Maryam’s heart ached with the weight of her responsibility. She knew she had to find a way to protect Alma without pushing her further away. But for now, she felt powerless, her attempts to safeguard her sister thwarted by the very person she was trying to protect.

With a sigh, Maryam pushed away from the wall and decided to leave the bathroom door. 

She needed to refocus, to address the rest of her day, and maybe—just maybe—find another way to keep her sister safe without losing her.

Maryam trudged back into the kitchen, her mood heavy with the weight of the earlier confrontation. 

Warda was slowly rising from her chair, preparing to leave. “I have to go back to the house. I promised Ryan we’d go shopping for the baby. He took the day off just for me,” she said, leaning in to kiss her aunts goodbye. She then turned to Maryam with a knowing look. “Don’t be too hard on her,” she advised softly before grabbing her coat and leaving, her floral perfume lingering in the air.

Aunt Amina, still sifting through the pile of envelopes, glanced up. “Looks like the Mayor’s wife invited us to the funeral,” she said, holding up a sleek black envelope.

“Oh yes!” Meysa exclaimed, recalling the phone call. “She phoned me this morning and said she wanted us to come.”

Maryam nodded, tying her hair up with a practiced motion, her mind still churning from the argument with Alma. “I’ll be here,” she said, her tone clipped. “But I’ve got work. I’m heading back to my apartment, and then I’m off to meet Gordon for lunch.”

Aunt Amina gave her a once-over, her keen eyes noticing the tension in Maryam’s posture. “Don’t work yourself up too much,” she advised, her voice carrying a mix of concern and firmness.

“Don’t worry,” Maryam replied, trying to sound reassuring. But her mind was elsewhere, already dwelling on the tasks ahead. With that, she turned and made her way to the room where she had slept, intending to change into something more suitable for the day’s events.

────୨ৎ────

After arriving at her apartment just outside the Narrows, Maryam quickly changed out of the clothes she had worn the previous day, opting for something more suitable. She selected a sharp outfit, something that matched her professional demeanor and the gravity of her work.

Heading to the bathroom, she swiftly straightened her hair with an iron, though she didn’t leave it down. Instead, she went for her usual French chignon updo, securing it neatly at the nape of her neck. With practiced ease, she reached for her makeup bag and began her routine: a touch of concealer to brighten her eyes, bronzer to accentuate her tan skin, a quick brush over her eyebrows, a flick of mascara on her lashes, a hint of blush, and finally, her signature red lipstick, which added a bold pop of color to her plump lips.

A spritz of her usual oud perfume added the final touch as she glanced at the time on her phone. Satisfied with her appearance, she slipped on her black high-heeled boots, her long black coat that she secured with the ceinture around her waist, grabbed the dossier she had prepared—complete with the photos and notes from the crime scene—along with her black bag. After ensuring her keys, phone, and wallet were inside, she opened the door of her apartment and stepped out of her apartment.

As Maryam stepped out into the hallway, the familiar sounds of her building greeted her. The muffled cry of a baby echoed from one of the nearby apartments, and somewhere down the corridor, a couple's argument punctuated the otherwise quiet morning. She sighed, tightening her grip on her bag. This was Gotham, after all—a city where peace was always fleeting.

With a quick glance back to ensure her door was securely locked, he began her walk towards the stairwell. The weight of the dossier in her hand was a reminder of the seriousness of her work, pulling her thoughts back to the task at hand. The voices behind her faded as she descended the stairs, the familiar creaks and groans of the old building, along with the click of her high heels, accompanied her steps. 

Despite the less-than-ideal living conditions and the constant noise, this place had become a part of her, just like Gotham itself. She thought about her aunts’ constant urging to leave the city, to find a better life somewhere like Metropolis or Central City. They couldn’t understand why she chose to stay, why she remained in a city that seemed to chew people up and spit them out.

But Maryam knew. Gotham was in her blood. It was a city that had shaped her, toughened her, and no matter how dark it got, she couldn’t bring herself to leave. She often joked that if she worked anywhere else, she'd probably die of boredom. Here, every day was a new challenge, a new puzzle to solve, and as much as the chaos drained her, it also fueled her.

Her salary might not reflect the work she put in—the long hours, the emotional toll—but money wasn’t what drove her. It was the people, the ones who needed her, and the small victories that kept her going. Each time she uncovered the truth behind a death or brought a criminal one step closer to justice, she felt a sense of purpose that was worth more than any paycheck.

As she reached the ground floor and pushed open the heavy door leading outside, the cold air hit her face, sharp and bracing. She squared her shoulders, letting the door swing shut behind her as she made her way to the subway.

────୨ৎ────

     The diner was a relic from a bygone era, its faded charm unmistakable despite the wear and tear. The once-vibrant red booths had lost their luster, now marred by cracks and scuffs. The linoleum floor, a worn pattern of black and white squares, squeaked with every step. Old-fashioned pendant lights cast a soft, yellowish glow over the space, creating an ambiance that was both cozy and antiquated. The walls were adorned with vintage photographs and a few outdated advertisements, giving the place an air of nostalgia. A jukebox in the corner remained dormant, its music silenced by the passing years.

Inside, a handful of patrons sat scattered across the booths and tables—some reading newspapers, others engaged in quiet conversations. The air was filled with the aroma of coffee and the faint scent of cleaning products, a mix that added to the diner’s homey but slightly worn-out atmosphere.

Maryam spotted Gordon seated in a booth near the window, absently stirring a coffee. He looked up as she approached, a warm smile spreading across his face. “Maryam, right on time,” he greeted, standing up to shake her cheek. “I’ve already ordered your usual—Diabolo mint.”

Maryam returned his smile and slid into the booth across from him, her black high-heeled boots clicking on the floor as she settled in. “Thanks, Jim. My aunt sent over some cakes for Barbara,” she said, handing him a small box. “She thought Barbara might enjoy them.”

Gordon’s smile widened as he accepted the box. “I’m sure she will. She’s always been a fan of your aunt’s baking.”

Maryam nodded, pulling out the dossier from her bag and placing it on the table, her expression serious. “I’ve compiled everything from the crime scene—photos, notes, and the autopsy details,” she said. “There’s a lot to go through, but I’ve highlighted the key points.”

She leaned in slightly, her voice steady. “The pattern suggests a personal motive. I’m leaning towards someone with a clear objective, possibly targeting specific individuals.”

Gordon listened intently, his brow furrowed in thought. “And you think this might be just the beginning?”

Maryam’s gaze was unwavering. “Yes, I’m afraid so. The killer seems to have a goal in mind, and if my analysis is correct, this could be part of a larger plan.”

Gordon nodded thoughtfully. “Now that you're suggesting it, I’ve been hearing some unsettling whispers about potential future targets.” He took a sip of his coffee, the weight of the situation evident in his tone. “Anything else?”

Maryam sighed, leaning back in her seat. “Yes, my aunts and I were invited to the mayor’s funeral. I think it’s important to be there, considering everything.”

As she spoke, the TV mounted on the diner’s wall flashed news coverage of the murder, catching both their attention for a brief moment.

Gordon glanced at the screen, then back at Maryam. “It seems the night of the murder is still making headlines.”

Maryam huffed, a hint of frustration in her voice. “Well, the Mayor’s dead—it’s kind of a big thing.” She took a sip of her Diabolo mint before adding, “It’s all over social media. My sister Rania, you know her—dark blonde hair,” she gestured to her own hair, “she works comms and public affairs for Bella Real’s campaign.”

Gordon hummed in acknowledgment. “Yeah, I remember.”

“Well, it’s been hell since yesterday night,” Maryam said, her tone weary.

Gordon nodded, taking another sip of his coffee. “Man, tell me about it. The whole city’s on edge.”

They shared a moment of silence, the gravity of the situation settling in. The TV continued its coverage, but their focus remained on the task ahead.

“Anyways, anything new from the Bat about the case?” Maryam asked, a note of hope in her voice as she tried to pry any information from Gordon.

Gordon chuckled softly, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Well, you certainly made quite an impression on him, that’s for sure—”

Maryam cut him off, blushing slightly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Gordon shrugged, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he adjusted his glasses. “But seriously, no, I haven’t heard anything from him since last night.”

Maryam mumbled under her breath, “Probably rotting in his cave.”

Before Gordon could respond, his phone rang, the screen displaying an unknown number. He answered it with a hint of skepticism, holding the phone to his ear as he listened intently.

Maryam took a sip of her Diabolo mint, waiting patiently for the call to end.

After a few minutes, Gordon hung up and looked at Maryam, a hint of intrigue in his expression. “That was him.”

Maryam’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. “Oh, really?”

Gordon nodded. “Yeah. I’ve gotta go, but I’ll make sure to keep you informed.”

“Of course, don’t hesitate to call,” Maryam replied, watching as he stood up and placed some money on the table.

Gordon offered her a nod. “Take care, Maryam. I’ll see you around.”

She watched him leave the diner, heading toward his car, the weight of the situation lingering in the air as she finished her drink.

Halimi Family

Parents :

Idris Halimi (the father, deceased)

Zorana Ipatieva (the mother, deceased)

The sisters :

Maryam Halimi (the oldest) — 30, doctor, medical examiner.

Warda Halimi (second born) — 28, Engineer at Wayne Enterprises.

Nadia Halimi (third born) — 26, Journalist

Rania Halimi (fourth) — 25, Comms and public affairs for Bella Real Campaign.

Alma Halimi (youngest) — 24, Law student

Paternal aunts :

Meysa (Halimi) Saeed, babysitting

Amina Halimi, nurse

Paternal Uncle :

Amir Saeed (husband of Meysa), fisherman

Paternal Cousin :

Ali Saeed (son of Amir and Meysa), owner of a Boxing Ring in Gotham.

[sivavakkiyar]

Cultural domination is doubtless a major aspect of imperialist domination as such, and 'culture' is always, therefore, a major site for resistance, but cultural contradictions within the imperialized formations tend to be so very numerous - sometimes along class lines but also in cross-class configurations, as in the case of patriarchal cultural forms or the religious modes of social authorization - that the totality of indigenous culture can hardly be posited as a unified, transparent site of anti-imperialist resistance.

The difficulties of analytic procedure which arise from such complexities of the object of analysis itself are further compounded by the verv modes of thought which are currently dominant in literary debates and which address questions of colony and empire from outside the familiar Marxist positions, often with great hostility towards and polemical caricature of those positions. First, the term 'culture is often deployed as a very amorphous category - sometimes in the Arnoldian sense of 'high' culture; sometimes in the more contemporary and very different sense of 'popular culture; in more recent inflations that latter term, taken over from Anglo-American sociologies of culture, has been greatly complicated by the equally amorphous category of 'Subaltern consciousness which arose initially in a certain avant-gardist tendency in Indian historiography but then gained currency in metropolitan theorizations as well. Meanwhile, the prior use of the term 'cultural nationalism', and of other cognate terms of this kind, in Black American literary ideologies since the mid 1960s - not to speak of the Negritude poets of Caribbean and African origins, the Celtic and nativist elements in Irish cultural nationalism, or the Harlem Renaissance in the United States - then endows the term, as it is used in American literary debates, with another very wide range of densities. Used in relation to the equally problematic category of 'Third World', 'cultural nationalism' resonates equally frequently with tradition', simply inverting the tradition/modernity binary of the modernization theorists in an indigenist direction, so that 'tradition' is said to be, for the 'Third World', always better than 'modernity', which then opens up a space for defence of the most obscurantist positions in the name of cultural nationalism. There appears to be, at the very least, a widespread implication in the ideology of cultural nationalism, as it surfaces in literary theory, that each 'nation' of the Third World' has a 'culture and a 'tradition', and that to speak from within that culture and that tradition is itself an act of anti-imperialist resistance. By contrast, the principal trajectories of Marxism as they have evolved in the imperialized formations have sought to struggle - with varying degrees of clarity or success, of course - against both the nation/ culture equation, whereby all that is indigenous becomes homogenized into a singular cultural formation which is then presumed to be necessarily superior to the capitalist culture which is identified discretely with the 'West', and the tradition/modernity binary, whereby each can be constructed in a discrete space and one or the other is adopted or discarded.

Aijaz Ahmad, In Theory

[fadefromthisscarletmaroon]

I have SO many ideas.

1. Her removing the makeup to reveal tattoos as if she’s changing her identity.

2. Taking the temp pill to get over a love.

3. Meeting someone and feeling connected to them in every way (Postie). Him experimenting on her.

4. Getting a lobotomy/brain procedure while the black dog is in the room(there are still remnants of the past relationship).

5. Having two actors from the Dead Poets Society in the video.

6. Being stuck in the highest place on a pedestal in the rain for everyone to see, feeling like she’s drowning.

7. Him holding her hand from below as if he’s going to save her.

UGH Taylor.

[iphigeniacomplex]

লিখি লোৱা, মই এজন মিঞা ("Write Down 'I am a Miyah'", 2016) by Hafiz Ahmed, translated from Assamese to English by Shalim M. Hussain, began a movement of resistance poetry among Assamese Muslims of Bengali descent, referred to as Miya Poetry after a slur used to describe this community. From Abdul Kalam Azad, for Indian Express ("Write...I am a Miya", 2019):

This poem went viral and other young poets started responding to him through poems. The young poets also started reclaiming “Miya”, a slur used against us, as our identity with pride. This chain of Facebook posts continued for days, reiterating the violence, suffering and humiliation expressed by our community. As time passed, more poets wrote in various languages and dialects, including many Miya dialects. The nomenclature ‘Miya Poetry’ got generated organically but the poets and their associates have been inspired by the Negritude and Black Arts movements, and queer, feminist and Dalit literary movements, where the oppressed have reclaimed the identity which was used to dehumanise them. The trend transcended our community. Poets from the mainstream Assamese community also wrote several poems in solidarity with the Miya poets while some regretted not being poets. Gradually, this became a full-fledged poetry movement and got recognised by other poets, critics and commentators. The quality and soul of these poems are so universal that they started finding prominence on reputed platforms. For the first time in the history of our community, we had started telling our own stories and reclaiming the Miya identity to fight against our harassers who were dehumanising us with the same word. They accused us of portraying the whole Assamese society as xenophobic. The fact is we have just analysed our conditions. Forget generalising the Assamese society as ‘xenophobic’, no Miya poet has ever used the term ‘xenophobic’ nor any of its variants. The guilt complex of our accusers is so profound that they don’t have the patience to examine why we wrote the poems.

Amrita Singh, writing for The Caravan ("Assam Against Itself", 2019), detailed the political backlash against Miya Poetry, in particular the above poem.

On 10 July this year, Pranabjit Doloi, an Assam-based journalist, filed a complaint at Guwahati’s Panbazar police station accusing ten people of indulging in criminal activities “to defame the Assamese people as Xenophobic in the world.” Doloi claimed that the ten people were trying to hinder the ongoing updation of the National Register of Citizens, a list of Assam’s Indian citizens that is due to be published on 31 August. The premise of Doloi’s complaint was a widely-circulated poem called, “Write down I am Miya,” by Hafiz Ahmed, a school teacher and social activist. “Write. Write down I am a Miya/ A citizen of democratic secular republic without any rights,” Ahmed wrote. The police registered a first information report against Doloi’s complaint, booking all ten persons for promoting enmity between groups, among other offences. [...] At the press conference, Mander emphasised that people in Assam are in distress because of the NRC’s arbitrary and rigid procedures. “One spelling mistake when you are writing a Bengali name in English … that is enough for you to be in a detention center, declared a foreigner,” Mander said. “If you are not allowing this lament to come out in the form of poetry, then where is this republic of India going?”

Ahmed's poem is influenced in structure by "Identity Card", a 1964 poem by by Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish which uses the symbolic figure of the Palestinian working man to confront Israeli occupiers. Darwish's identity card, a symbol of Israeli subjugation transformed into a cry of Palestinian national identity, is reshaped by Ahmed into the National Register of Citizens for Assam and the accompanying fear of statelessness and disenfranchisement for the Miya people.

This solidarity between writers from oppressed groups is, of course, not one that ends with Darwish and Ahmed, nor with the Black, queer, feminist, and Dalit influences of Miya Poetry. As long as there is oppression, there will be companionship and recognition reflected in art and activism. On December 13, 2023, Black Agenda Report reprinted Refaat Alareer's "If I Must Die", acknowledging the connection between Alareer's poem and "If We Must Die" by Claude McKay, written in 1919 in response to the Red Summer white supremacist riots. In 2000, Haitian community activist Dahoud Andre translated "If We Must Die" into Kreyòl, and the Black Agenda Report editorial honors Alareer in a similar way, reprinting "If I Must Die" with an accompanying Kreyòl translation. (POEM: If I Must Die, Refaat Alareer, 2023.)

Transcripts under the cut.

[Hafiz Ahmed Transcripts (Assamese and English):

লিখি লোৱা, মই এজন মিঞা

লিখা, লিখি লোৱা মই এজন মিঞা এন. আৰ. চিৰ ক্রমিক নং ২০০৫৪৩ দুজন সন্তানৰ বাপেক মই, অহাবাৰ গ্ৰীষ্মত জন্ম ল’ব আৰু এজনে তাকো তুমি ঘিণ কৰিবা নেকি যিদৰে ঘিণ কৰা মোক?

লিখি লোৱা, মই এজন মিঞা পতিত ভূমি, পিতনিক মই ৰূপান্তৰিত কৰিছোঁ শস্য-শ্যামলা সেউজী পথাৰলৈ তোমাক খুৱাবলৈ মই ইটা কঢ়িয়াইছোঁ তোমাৰ অট্টালিকা সাজিবলৈ, তোমাৰ গাড়ী চলাইছোঁ তোমাক আৰাম দিবলৈ, তোমাৰ নৰ্দমা ছাফা কৰিছোঁ তোমাক নিৰোগী কৰি ৰাখিবলৈ, তোমাৰে সেৱাতে মগন মই অনবৰত তাৰ পিছতো কিয় তুমি খৰ্গহস্ত? লিখা, লিখি লোৱা মই এজন মিঞা গণতান্ত্ৰিক, গণৰাজ্য এখনৰ নাগৰিক এজন যাৰ কোনো অধিকাৰ নাইকিয়া মাতৃক মোৰ সজোৱা হৈছে সন্দেহযুক্ত ভোটাৰ যদিও পিতৃ-মাতৃ তাইৰ নিঃসন্দেহে ভাৰতীয়

ইচ্ছা কৰিলেই তুমি মোক হত্যা কৰিব পাৰা, জ্বলাই দিব পৰা মোৰ খেৰৰ পঁজা, খেদি দিব পাৰা মোক মোৰেই গাঁৱৰ পৰা, কাঢ়ি নিব পাৰা মোৰ সেউজী পথাৰ মোৰ বুকুৰ ওপৰেৰে চলাব পাৰা তোমাৰ বুলড্‌জাৰ তোমাৰ বুলেটে বুকুখন মোৰ কৰিব পাৰে থকাসৰকা (তোমাৰ এই কাৰ্যৰ বাবে তুমি কোনো স্তিও নোপোৱা) যুগ-যুগান্তৰ তোমাৰ অত্যাচাৰ সহ্য কৰি ব্ৰহ্মপুত্ৰৰ চৰত বাস কৰা মই এজন মিঞা মোৰ দেহা হৈ পৰিছে নিগ্ৰো কলা মোৰ চকুযুৰি অঙঠাৰ দৰে ৰঙা সাৱধান! মোৰ দুচকুত জমা হৈ আছে যুগ যুগান্তৰৰ বঞ্চনাৰ বাৰুদ আঁতৰি যোৱা, নতুবা অচিৰেই পৰিণত হ’বা মূল্যহীন ছাইত!

Write Down ‘I am a Miyah’ Hafiz Ahmed, 2016 trans. Shalim M. Hussain

Write Write Down I am a Miya My serial number in the NRC is 200543 I have two children Another is coming Next summer. Will you hate him As you hate me?

write I am a Miya I turn waste, marshy lands To green paddy fields To feed you. I carry bricks To build your buildings Drive your car For your comfort Clean your drain To keep you healthy. I have always been In your service And yet you are dissatisfied! Write down I am a Miya, A citizen of a democratic, secular, Republic Without any rights My mother a D voter, Though her parents are Indian.

If you wish kill me, drive me from my village, Snatch my green fields hire bulldozers To roll over me. Your bullets Can shatter my breast for no crime.

Write I am a Miya Of the Brahamaputra Your torture Has burnt my body black Reddened my eyes with fire. Beware! I have nothing but anger in stock. Keep away! Or Turn to Ashes.

]

[Mahmoud Darwish Transcripts (Arabic and English):

سجِّل أنا عربي ورقمُ بطاقتي خمسونَ ألفْ وأطفالي ثمانيةٌ وتاسعهُم.. سيأتي بعدَ صيفْ! فهلْ تغضبْ؟ سجِّلْ أنا عربي وأعملُ مع رفاقِ الكدحِ في محجرْ وأطفالي ثمانيةٌ أسلُّ لهمْ رغيفَ الخبزِ، والأثوابَ والدفترْ من الصخرِ ولا أتوسَّلُ الصدقاتِ من بابِكْ ولا أصغرْ أمامَ بلاطِ أعتابكْ فهل تغضب؟ سجل أنا عربي أنا اسم بلا لقبِ صَبورٌ في بلادٍ كلُّ ما فيها يعيشُ بفَوْرةِ الغضبِ جذوري قبلَ ميلادِ الزمانِ رستْ وقبلَ تفتّحِ الحقبِ وقبلَ السّروِ والزيتونِ .. وقبلَ ترعرعِ العشبِ أبي.. من أسرةِ المحراثِ لا من سادةٍ نُجُبِ وجدّي كانَ فلاحاً بلا حسبٍ.. ولا نسبِ! يُعَلّمني شموخَ الشمسِ قبلَ قراءةِ الكتبِ وبيتي’ كوخُ ناطورٍ منَ الأعوادِ والقصبِ فهل تُرضيكَ منزلتي؟ أنا اسم بلا لقبِ! سجلْ أنا عربي ولونُ الشعرِ.. فحميٌّ ولونُ العينِ.. بنيٌّ وميزاتي: على رأسي عقالٌ فوقَ كوفيّه وكفّي صلبةٌ كالصخرِ... تخمشُ من يلامسَها وعنواني: أنا من قريةٍ عزلاءَ منسيّهْ شوارعُها بلا أسماء وكلُّ رجالها في الحقلِ والمحجرْ فهل تغضبْ؟ سجِّل! أنا عربي سلبتُ كرومَ أجدادي وأرضاً كنتُ أفلحُها أنا وجميعُ أولادي ولم تتركْ لنا.. ولكلِّ أحفادي سوى هذي الصخورِ... فهل ستأخذُها حكومتكمْ.. كما قيلا!؟ إذنْ سجِّل.. برأسِ الصفحةِ الأولى أنا لا أكرهُ الناسَ ولا أسطو على أحدٍ ولكنّي.. إذا ما جعتُ آكلُ لحمَ مغتصبي حذارِ.. حذارِ.. من جوعي ومن غضبي!!

Identity Card Mahmoud Darwish, 1964 trans. Denys Johnson-Davies

Put it on record. I am an Arab

And the number of my card is fifty thousand I have eight children And the ninth is due after summer. What's there to be angry about?

Put it on record. I am an Arab

Working with comrades of toil in a quarry. I have eight children For them I wrest the loaf of bread, The clothes and exercise books From the rocks And beg for no alms at your door, Lower not myself at your doorstep. What's there to be angry about?

Put it on record. I am an Arab.

I am a name without a title, Patient in a country where everything Lives in a whirlpool of anger. My roots Took hold before the birth of time Before the burgeoning of the ages, Before cypress and olive trees, Before the proliferation of weeds.

My father is from the family of the plough Not from highborn nobles.

And my grandfather was a peasant Without line or genealogy.

My house is a watchman's hut Made of sticks and reeds.

Does my status satisfy you? I am a name without a surname.

Put it on record. I am an Arab.

Color of hair: jet black. Color of eyes: brown. My distinguishing features: On my head the `iqal cords over a keffiyeh Scratching him who touches it.

My address: I'm from a village, remote, forgotten, Its streets without name And all its men in the fields and quarry. What's there to be angry about?

Put it on record. I am an Arab.

You stole my forefathers' vineyards And land I used to till, I and all my children, And you left us and all my grandchildren Nothing but these rocks. Will your government be taking them too As is being said?

So! Put it on record at the top of page one: I don't hate people, I trespass on no one's property.

And yet, if I were to become hungry I shall eat the flesh of my usurper. Beware, beware of my hunger And of my anger!

]

[tenjiiku]

get down on it / 18+

“I read a poem today.”

You laugh through a mouthful of warm noodles. The sound is pretty.

It is why Rin said what he said — he wanted to hear it. He wanted to hear you happy and content, even at his own expense. He hates how he’s been feeling this way, but he can’t stop.

He is on his fifth or fourth beer (give or take), and is a bit lightheaded (you will probably have to carry him home, he hopes he recollects none of it, sober-him would probably die of embarrassment). Nothing matters, though, because you look quite lovely under the calm yellow lighting of the quaint ramen shop, especially when you are smiling. The season is over so he has been somewhat over-indulging in all of the things prohibited to him before and has been going a little crazy at this newfound freedom.

Luckily, he now has you to keep him somewhat in check. Rin is more and more finding himself wanting to keep you impressed. He’s never wanted to really prove himself to anyone before his brother. Of course, you had to come in and ruin everything he has ever known.

But you make it so easy — he doesn’t even need to try. He’s never felt this way about anyone.

So he wants to keep it, and he wants to keep you.

“Did you?”

“Yes,” he burps, “by Mitsune.”

You giggle again, and his cheeks — already warm from the alcohol in his system — catch on fire tenfold. His eyes focus on your hands, the way they hold your chopsticks and mix your broth around. They’re smaller than his. He blushes, wondering how they’d look with a ring on.

Rin wonders if you’d let him put one on you.

“Which one?” You ask through a hearty mouthful of pork and noodles.

“Something about Spring and ageing.”

“Did you like it?”

“Not really. Made me feel something.”

“Aren’t all poems inherently created to make the reader feel something?”

You’re smart — intelligent, in a refined way. You carry this cerebral aura around you and Rin was rather intimidated by you when he was first reunited with you at the age of twenty-five, two years ago. And you were younger than him, which only made him more weary around you. You were nothing like the snot-nosed kid you were back in middle school when he was in Blue Lock. You were beautiful, mature — everything he wanted. Though it took him a while to admit this.

Sometimes it takes him a while to understand you. But you took so many procedures to appreciate him. He always felt the need to return the favour, even if that came in the form of reading a haiku he did not really fathom, by your favourite poet.

He’s trying. It feels gross. But the rewards are so sweet.

“I guess…”

You laugh. He bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling. It doesn’t work.

“How is your thesis going?”

He changes the topic.

“Hmm…, it is going well, I suppose,” you grab for his beer while he picks at a piece of your pork cutlet, “Tenma-san was quite impressed with my research on artificial intelligence usage for pharmaceutical research.”

He regrets that he has changed the topic.

“Mhm.”

He chews on your pork cutlet as you sip on his beer. You catch onto his deflated mood so quickly. You cannot be from this Earth.

“What?”

He tries to save his ass, spewing a nonchalant, regular, “Nothing. I’m glad you are getting the recognition,” but you notice his disdain all too quickly.

A hand is placed on his cheek, “Rin.”

He instantly places his own over yours, pressing the cold palm further into his warm skin, “Yes, my darling?”

Rin is drunk — that’s why he called you that, he reasons. He furrows your eyebrows at the face you make at him. He hates how his stomach twists. You look at him as one would to a stray dog. He can’t even hate you.

“You’re sulking.”

“No I’m not,” he says, frowning.

You pull the skin of his forehead up with your other free hand. He squints his eyes as you expose it to the cool air.

“You’re going to get wrinkles before you turn forty.”

His head grows hot. His hand resting on yours on his cheek, changed to hold it against his face. Rin holds it tightly, holds you tightly.

“And? So?” His tone is colder than he wanted to let off. It sounds condemnatory, “Will you not want me anymore?”

You only smile at his scowl and captious behaviour. Rin’s eyes soften.

“Mmm no,” you brush hair that’s fallen over his eyes behind his ear, “but you will complain to me about them.”

“And you won’t listen? I won’t do it for you anymore? You’ll elope with Tenma?”

He’s being mean and nonsensical, Rin knows this. He is also intoxicated and tired and helplessly in love with you — but he’ll only ever mention the former than the latter in his defence; which is inadvertently the cause of all of his security issues.

Rin knows you won’t do anything he’s mentioned. He trusts you. Though, sometimes he likes the reassurance. And he really likes it when you know he is being childish and naive.

“Rin,” you whisper. He loves it when you say his name. He can hear the smile in your voice.

“Yeah, baby?” He calls you this because he wants to. He is finished pretending after his fifth beer.

“Tenma-san is sixty years old and is living a very healthy life with his lovely wife.”

Your voice is so sweet. You’re smiling to the point your cheeks are glowing. You smell of warm soup and home. You’re so pretty. You’re only ever this pretty for him, Rin decides.

He takes your hand off from his face to kiss each of your fingers, pulling your stool closer to his with his long and agile legs. You yelp at the sudden actions but you keep your eyes on him, just how Rin likes.

“Tell me I’m your only one,” he rasps against your hand, bending his head. His hair falls over his forehead. Rin knows you like it when he is like this.

You laugh nervously, stuttering. Rin smirks.

“Rin, this is silly…” you murmur, watching intensely as he kisses your skin. He gives you back your hand, only to place it around his neck. You let him.

He wants to kiss you, Rin resolves.

“Tell me,” he demands.

Then he sees it. Rin really sees you. You don’t look at him like he’s a stray dog — a gaze full of pity — you never have. You only ever look at him like you’d rather die than take his eyes off him. Typically such intensity would make him uncomfortable, Rin does not think he deserves such attention. Yet, if he thinks too much about you looking at Tenma-san or anybody else for that matter — the same way you stare at him — his head starts feeling hot. His hands begin to feel clammy and he starts to itch.

Rin sees his reflection in your eyes when you come in closer. He realises he’s looking at you exactly how you look at him. You wrap your other arm to meet your hand already resting around his neck. Your legs find solace between his, and you look at him with an emotion he can’t describe — maybe this is what Mitsune was trying to convey.

Rin didn’t care much about Spring. People told him to worry when he turned twenty-seven. But he doesn’t care about any of that.

“You’re my only one.”

Rin buries himself in your shoulder, growing warm at the sound of your laughter and admittance.

He is only concerned about how to make this feeling last; you, in his arms — him, in yours.

.

.

The alcohol in Rin’s system has more so settled, but the heat in his body has only gotten more fervent.

Both of you are still wet from the rain that started right as you stepped out of the bar. You had to carry Rin to the taxi. He remembers you had to apologise to the driver when he had put a hand on the small of your back, trying to help you put this six foot four football player in the backseat. Rin remembers making a deranged comment of some sort — he does not recall what exactly he said, but he does recall the slap he received on his head from you for spewing such an insult at the innocent taxi driver.

He was restless, beside you. A large warm hand drawing circles up and down your thigh. You, holding his wrist to prevent him from going up any further. You, whispering for him to get himself together. Him, pressing insistent kisses at your collar and neck.

Rin feels insatiable when you finally arrive home.

You’re taking too long to unlock the door. He drapes his frame onto you, taking your scarf off from around your neck and pushing your hair to the side to kiss at the sin.

“Rin— door,” you say, breathlessly trying to slot the key into the lock.

Rin doesn’t stop. He circles his arms around your waist, biting your earlobe. His stomach twists when you yelp. “Hurry, baby.”

You laugh when his hair tickles at your neck. His grip around you tightens at the noise. You giggle even more as you fidget with the keys and Rin’s inconsolable mood.

“I’m— I’m trying.” You gasp out.

When Rin hears the telltale sound of a click, he practically shoves you inside. You squeal at the sight of his rapacious smile as he quickly closes the door and pushes you against it, locking it quickly.

“Rin!”

He likes it when you say his name. His pupils dilate. You let him take your coat, scarf and shoes off. They’re discarded somewhere on the floor of the genkan. Rin’s hands are all over you, they’re apologetic, almost — sorry that they had to be off of you for that second between getting inside the apartment. You wrap your arms around his neck.

“Sorry. Pretty,” is all Rin says before locking your lips with his. He sighs into your mouth. This is what he was missing.

When your fingers scratch at his scalp and softly tug at his dark tresses, he groans. His hand grips your ass through your skirt and plays with the hem of your top. You gasp and giggle at this, and he grins into the kiss at the sound.

He taps your arm. You lift them up and your shirt comes off. You tug at his trench coat and sweater, they’re thrown to the side.

“Up,” he rasps against your lips.

You wrap your legs around him, his large hands digging into your ass to lift you up. Your skirt falls to your waist, exposing the top of your white thigh highs. Rin grunts at the sight, carrying you to the bedroom.

He lays you down gently onto your bed, holding himself up by one elbow. He kisses you softly, swallowing your small moans. Rin kisses your neck, between the valley of your breasts, taking your bra off with one hand. He continues to kiss downwards; the mole under your rib cage until he reaches your skirt. Hooking his fingers under it and your underwear, he tugs them off your legs, standing over your awaiting frame with one knee digging into the mattress.

Rin gazes down at you, laid in the sheets he bought. You’re shy, crossing your legs and raising both your hands to your mouth, unintentionally accentuating your cleavage as your elbows push them together.

Rin feels hot — he feels the urge to do very bad things to you.

You call for him, regardless, your voice raw and unkempt — a total juxtaposition to your typical orderly conduct. “Rin— Rin.”

Rin pants. You’ll only ever look like this to him. He’ll never let anyone else have you. He starts to unbuckle his jeans, relishing in the way you look up at him.

With his pants discarded and boxers on, he comes back down to you, tense and inpatient. You willingly welcome him, bending your neck and arching your back to meet his mouth for a hot kiss. His large left hand finds solace between your legs.

You whine into his mouth when he runs a finger up your wet slit. He breaks the kiss, a string of saliva connecting you both. Rin looks out of place as he stares down at where he touches. Your pussy drenches his slender fingers, he rests himself on his right elbow, letting you burrow your face into his chest as he makes a mess of your clit. You mewl into his skin, and Rin’s pupils dilate at the way you clench around nothing.

“Pretty, you’re wet,” he sounds in pain, touching you languidly; alternating between collecting your juices at your hole to rubbing your sensitive clit. Your thigh highs are drenched at your entrance.

“Rin— feels— feels good,” you whimper, arching your back as he reaches places of you that you never could. You wrap your shaky hands around his bicep, moaning into his arm, “Don’t— Don’t stop.”

Rin feels lightheaded. You clench around his fingers like a second skin. His thumb continues to draw circles in your clit, and he groans at the way you gush around his digits. He presses a kiss on your forehead.

“Yeah? Give it to me, baby. S’mine.”

Your thighs close around his insistent hand, but Rin doesn’t stop — because he listens to you; he’ll listen to you whine, he’ll listen to you cry, he’ll listen to you mewl his name.

You come for him with his name on your tongue. Rin has won many things in his life but this reward is the sweetest, “Rin, Rin.”

Your thighs twitch against his thigh. He draws slow circles into your slit, keeping your high going. Rin whispers a quiet ‘Good Girl’ into your scalp, turning your chin with his other hand to bring you into a lazy, messy kiss.

Bringing his fingers from your pussy up to this mouth, he breaks the kiss to only lick at them. He looks at you, as he does so — and appreciates the nervous tears that fill your eyes at the sight. You’re panting — shaking, almost. It is a pitiful yet beautiful sight to see, and a dark part of Rin wants to see you like this more.

He brings his fingers to your lips, resting them. He stares at you ardently, waiting for you to do something. You open your mouth, and he pushes his digits into your mouth. Sucking them clean with your tongue, Rin takes them out then gives one final kiss to your lips.

Crawling above you, he is on his knees between your legs. Taking a spare pillow, he places it under your back. You whimper as his hard on presses against your thigh and notice how Rin’s underwear is wet at the centre.

Rin pulls his boxers down, pulling his cock out and prodding it at your slit. You sniffle at the contact his hot cockhead makes with your sensitive clit. He groans, his precum pooling together with your slick at your wanton entrance. 

“Gonna give it to me?” He grunts, wiping sweat from his forehead — clenching his stomach when your pussy quivers against his cock.

You whimper, and answer him by taking your shaky hands and opening your pussy lips, exposing your quivering hole. Rin almost passes out by your action. 

“Fuck,” He groans, sinking into your lewd hole, “Shit.”

The bed frame creaks as he buries himself inside you. You gasp and whine, arching your back as his large cock enters you with a purpose. You cry out his name when he finally bottoms out. “Rin— Rin!”

He looms over your frame, pressing his body on top of you, like a weighted blanket. You mewl when he presses kisses to your neck, moaning into the junction between your neck and shoulder when your fingernails scratch at his back. “Fuck, baby…”

“Rin,” you plead to him, whining into his ear as he falls and wraps his arms around you, only grinding deeper into you. Your legs tremble around his.

Large hands smooth out the skin in your back, hot fingers surely bruising your skin. You whimper as he lifts his head to look up at you, his chain vainly dangling at your chest. Your tits press against his chest and the proximity makes you cry his name — his name being the only thing you know. You’re pretty, you’re so pretty and you’re all his, is all Rin senses.

Rin groans, deep from his stomach as his balls hit your ass from the insistent thrusting. The bed frame creaks lewdly beneath you both, and he swallows your moans with a kiss. He breaks the kiss too soon, tenderly brushing your cheeks covered with tears as you mewl for him.

“Tell— fuck — Tell me I’m yours,” Rin begs you. He kisses you sensually once more, breaks it and asks you again, “Baby, tell me you’ll never leave.”

“Rin, Rin, Rin,” your head grows hot at the request.

You arch your back as he pounds into your abused cunt mercilessly, and you see stars when he licks two fingers that go down to tease at your clit.

“You — You’re mine,” you lament, your legs shaking, overflowing with some otherworldly pleasure, “I— I’ll never leave.”

Rin keens at your admission, grinding into you as your pussy squeezes around his insatiably hard cock. When he thrusts it just at the right spot, you lose your senses.

“Rin, Rin — I’m — love you— I love you—” you babble incoherently, “Ri—Right there!”

Rin’s eyebrows furrow at your debauched face. You’re so cute. He feels kinda bad that he broke you this soon, but when your cunt clamps around him like the most sinful vice — he doesn’t feel that bad anymore. He’ll be whatever you want him to be — but he really wants you to be like this for him right now.

“Yeah, baby? Gonna — shit — gonna come for me?” His sweat drips down onto you, and his voice sounds ruined — nothing like his usual self. You nod feverishly, wrapping your arms around his shoulders for dear life.

“I— I’m close, too.” Rin pants.

When he starts to increase the speed of his movements, you wail. You come around him with his name on your tongue for the second time, twitching from overstimulation. He comes inside you with a small curse and a bite at your neck. His cum is warm inside you, familiar. You yelp as it continues to pump his seed inside you. Rin gently brings you back down, brushing your hair and cheekbones with a calloused hand. You groan into his mouth when he kisses you.

Rin stays inside you, because he wants to. You let him, because you want to be close to him. He turns to lay on his back with a grunt, pulling you on top of him. You nuzzle yourself into his bare chest, fingers playing with the silver chain he has of your initials.

After a while, you smile up at him. He looks down at you, still in a haze.

“The driver was watching you,” you whisper shyly to him, recalling how you had made eye contact with the driver in the rear view mirror while Rin was gnawing at your neck like an insane person, “felt so embarrassing, Rin.”

He caresses your cheek with his thumb, playing with the head of your hair with his other.

“You love me,” He states, a fact.

You slap his chest gently. He only glowers at you.

You look up at him with a beautiful smile. His chest contracts. You kiss his chest. “I do,” you murmur, drawing little hearts into his skin. “I love you so much.”

Rin stares at you. He might die. Instead he gets hard. You feel him, and glare. He only laughs, and flips you back around. You yelp, and giggle into another messy kiss.

Rin doesn’t need to tell you he loves you. You just know. You know from each kiss, each bite, and each caress. It is why Rin loves you, because you know, and you love him regardless.

[tetraharmonic]

Finally jumping on the oc train 👁 👁

I present, the inspector Kira and her other harem!

Aria Bell, second year (kinda self insert imho)

- cannot stand her last name, ready to smack Amano senseless if he doesn't stop singing the Bells of Notre Dame anytime he sees her.

- American Exchange Student, gifted student burnout. Was on track to go Ivy League but her pact got in the way big time, and she spiraled. If it didn't come easy to her, she hated it, and gave up, because she never learned how to work for things until late into highschool.

-Made her pact to protect her younger sister from a hit and run. The demon paused time to give her the one chance, and she took it without even thinking of the consequences.

-Her stigma, Augere, allows her to amplify her own abilities based on her own self confidence and belief she can accomplish it. She used it to enhance her speed and push her sister safely out of the way. It caused an uproar about super humans and all that, which resulted in being transfered to Darkwick. Now, she just uses it to absorb herself completely into her studies and enhance her memory like crazy.

-She can fight, but she doesn't want to. She'd rather dodge, avoid, and outsmart an opponent before it even starts.

-Absolutely thriving in Hotarubi, enjoying her time there as a poet.

-Her artifact is a cloak of invisibility.

- picks at her nails, Kira smacks her when she does, only for Irina to smack Kira for smacking Aria.

Irina/Hisako

-Was known as Hisako while she was alive, but she couldn't remember her name, so she picked one from a TV show she saw as a ghost while haunting a hospital. She goes by that name now, Irina.

-She regained consciousness in a hospital, and kept herself entertained by observing the processes and procedures, as well as enjoying the conversations of both the people there and on the televisions.

-Was believed to be a vengeful spirit, and so, Darkwick sent the Mortkraken ghouls to retrieve her. She turned out to be a Yurei, or a Zashiki-Warashi, as the patients in the hospital had an unnaturally high success rate: she was blessing them all when she could. She came back to Mortkraken willingly, after the promise that she would be helpful to them.

-She discovered ghouls pretty early on, and, as she watched them all, she felt the strong urge to be like them, or at least, able to reach out and touch them. So, despite being only a soul, she sold it all to a demon, naively believing she could defeat it even in this state. Whether she will or not is unknown, but, in making the deal, she's become tangible and can feel things again.

-She can't taste or smell anything, except two things: blood, and apples.

-If the academy finds out what she is, she'll be sent to Obscuary. It'd break her heart though, as she would do anything to be a doctor like her current housemates, and give them a chance to rest since she's unable to sleep even if she wished to.

-Detatchable prosthetic arms. She doesn't have an artifact, so she detaches one and uses it as a flail instead.

-Amano doesn't trust her.

-Has an unusual twitch in her right middle and pointer fingers, and a habit for breaking and entering.

Amano Watanabe

- Squirel shifter anomaly, but don't let that fool you, Irina says he probably has rabies.

-Formerly an apprentice at a temple for a kitsune, with other shifters running the temple (a fox and an elk). Realized he wasn't fit for it and pestered Darkwick to let him in. Quickly also realized once in, he couldn't get out.

-Highly sensitive to spirits, but not nearly as strong as Haku is. Insists Irina is not to be trusted, and isn't an innocent ghost as she claims to be. And it's not because of her pact, either.

-He would wear an "I eat cement" shirt unironically.

-His artifact is a Taiko drum.

-Loves to pester Aria, because he finds it ironic that anyone in Hotarubi would have such a music heavy name. Bells and Arias? Seriously?

-Chilling in Jabberwock, but often doesn't hang out with the others due to the heavy work load.

Kira, Aka Inspector Gadget

-honor student, but with no honor

-consider your shoe rights revoked

-I haven't developed her yet but all I know is that one more order from Jin and she's going to start doing crimes.

-uses metal bottlecaps as currency for favors, as well as other shiny objects.

There is not a single braincell between them, and I am very normal about them.

[deprivedreality]

𝗕𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗕𝗟𝗨𝗘 ; 𝗡𝗘𝗪 𝗧𝗢 𝗪𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗥. chapter two

𝗥𝗢𝗡𝗔𝗟 looked at the girl in front of her, watching her every move as she stirs the herb with precise movement and sheer focus. Vri'tri, who was an orphaned child from a murdered lovers that her husband has taught everything a warrior could ever be, was sitting in front of her after a conversation that grew longer because of her never-ending questions.

She asked about Toruk Makto. Ikrans. The Omaticaya clan, where the Sullys have come from. And even go as far as asking about how different being raised in the forest is compared to one born in the reef.

She was like any other Metkayina girl. However, she wasn't as average as she seems. Vri'tri had many questions about life, she was an adventurer and a poet. Her horizon expands larger than an average na'vi. Ronal knew that she was rather curious about everything ever since she developed her own personality, and grew more closer to Eywa.

A charming charismatic and curious sweet girl, Vri'tri was.

"I appreciate every second of our conversation, Ronal." The young girl utters, a goofy little grin on her face as she continued grinding the herbs she was given with. She plans to make a cream for the Metkayina babies to protect their supple smooth skin.

"Of course," Ronal replied, sitting down on the pod as she caressed her swelling stomach. Yet, even if she touched her baby bump, all her focus was on Vri'tri.

Almost as if it was only now, Ronal found it interesting about the girl who despite being trained as a warrior half of her life, she had the physique of a natural-born woman. Being gifted the stamina of a male, she somehow could still act out a gentle procedure only certain soft-loined women- a tsahik can do.

"You sure do know your ways of making everything perfect, Vri'tri." Ronal admits, causing the girl to lift her head to look at the tsahik- her mother figure. "Perhaps you can be my student as well if Tonowari would allow you to shift from being a warrior to a herbalist. You can be a great service to the people."

Vri'tri sweatdropped from such a suggestion, but she laughed lightly. "If it pleases the tsahik, then I can be trained for both." Says she. But honestly, she really couldn't decide for herself if she wanted it.

"You are too soft, child. You deny nothing, and that makes me worry for you." Like a mother to her child, Ronal touched the girl's heart deeply with her concern. She smiled at the elder woman, knowing that if only she were born to a living mother even by just a few years, perhaps Vri'tri would actually be able to familiarize herself with the feeling.

But, she never did. Her gaze furrowed, simply giving up.

"I will deny nothing if it were requests from my Olo'eyktan and Tsahik. I think to myself that all their recommendations are truest by heart." Vri'tri claims, and Ronal spoke no more about it.

If the tsahik was honest, she regretted even sharing her thought with the girl, since she knew that for someone like Vri'tri who is raised to be an accessory, the girl had marked in her head that whatever Tonowari and her say is like the law to the young girl's ear.

And that principle that was wrongly put upon her was too late to be changed.

Such a sweet girl, even if I call her my own... why must her early years have to be filled with pressure. Ronal thinks to herself. Nonetheless, the girl seemed to be completely unbothered as she continued what she was doing up until Tsireya entered the pod.

"Mother, may you please excuse Vri? We are supposed to be teaching the forest children!" Tsireya hops enthusiastically, almost as if she had found something more profound than life.

Ronal groaned from her daughter's growing interest in the Sullys, but she had no choice. It is decided that Vri and the rest of her children were tasked to help Toruk's kids, much to the tsahik's dismay.

However, one look at her daughters' faces, she sighed. "Fine, go on. Continue what you are doing later, child. Go with Tsireya."

Tsireya immediately pulled Vri'tri away from her seat and thanked her mother with a cheeky smile, her dimples showing which truly showed how pleased she was. "See you later, Mother."

Neteyam waited longingly for her to arrive, and finally seeing her made him bolt up like lightning. "Guys, she's─ they are here! Come on Lo'ak, quit slacking." He quickly ushered the rest of his siblings after pulling a strand of his younger brother's hair.

But Lo'ak was also quick to fix his stance the moment his eyes caught Tsireya's. He gulped and stood next to his brother, awkwardly crossing his arms while Neteyam was waiting patiently for Vri'tri to arrive. Tuktirey hold onto her brother's arms while Kiri stood by the side, looking rather haggard.

"Hello everyone! Are you guys ready?" Tsireya waved, looking very jolly.

Behind her were Vri'tri, Rotxo, and Aonung walking side by side. Respectively, one looked pleasant, the other looked oddly keen, and the other had the expression of an Akula waiting to attack.

"Aonung, can you at least put on a show and smile?" Vri'tri asks of Aonung politely but got snarked at. She looked over at Rotxo who seemed just as eager to kick his buttocks but they both laughed it off.

"Vri'tri, hey─!" Neteyam stood by the girl's side as soon as he had a chance. As Tsireya led the way, that was when Vri'tri decided to talk to him.

"Hello to you too." Vri'tri hummed as she patted the boy's back. "Did you have a pleasant sleep? Is the pod to your liking?"

"It's the first time in weeks that I actually had sleep." Neteyam shared, and the girl could see it to be true just by looking at the bags under his eye. "The hut was bouncy, but we all managed."

She pitied their situation, but that only made her feel the need to make the Sullys feel at home.

"That's great." At this point, Vri'tri was holding herself to ask a question about something she didn't know but to no avail, she ended up asking anyway. "So, like, if you don't mind me asking... How large is the difference between the forest and the reef, hm? What does your tribe look like? Are your sacred tree in the air or inside a cave? Do you use your ikrans for battle, or does your clan just use them for transportation? Why are you blah blah blah─"

Neteyam laughed at the many questions but he smiled, still. Even if it hurts deeply to talk about the home that he and his family fled from, the girl's curiosity made the best of him.

"I can't answer you all at once, But I have a hunch that you'd love it in the forest."

Pretty soon, Tsireya had successfully led the Sullys to the nearest pod where the ocean was deep enough to explore. She counted every one to make sure no one was lost and proceeded to do the thing she liked most.

"Today, I will teach you how to properly swim." She grinned, clasping her hands together as she stood near to falling into the water. Aonung almost let out a loud laugh from hearing what his sister said, causing everyone to look at him.

Tsireya, Rotxo, and Aonung first dived into the water. Lo'ak, Kiri, and Tuk followed, which then left the eldest with Vri'tri. She wondered why he hadn't followed them when he clearly was supposed to be with his siblings now.

"Have you ever swam before?" Vri'tri bluntly asked Neteyam who stood just as confused as her. Now that she thinks of it, she was rather curious about how deep can these forest children even swim. She looked at the boy, head to toe.

"What do you mean?" He looked almost like he's been offended, his freckles glowing just by seeing how she checked him out. "I know how to─ Of course I have, the forest isn't completely made of trees."

"Oh." Vri'tri hummed, before looking away from him and shifting her gaze at Lo'ak. Neteyam broke into sweats as she ignored him, thinking that she didn't believe his words. Even he didn't believe what he said, he grew nervous.

Until she suddenly looked at him with a smirk. Neteyam felt his arm getting yanked all of a sudden, cold hands locking with his and when he looked at Vri'tri, she had the most cheeky mischievous smile he's ever seen in his life.

"Let's see how deep you can go."

The boy felt like a clump of coal was shoved into his throat, he widened his eyes and felt his heart beating faster than usual. Not even a second later, his face met with the water, the cold sensation burning his butt cheeks. Swearing that he felt like he was drowning, he turned to look at his side and saw that Vri'tri was gone.

"Vri─ Vri'tri!" Like a child thrown in the water, he cried.

Then he felt another hand yank his arm, but this time, when he looked, he only saw Lo'ak looking at him like he's gone crazy. He was pointing his hand downward where he saw Vri'tri waving at him with a smile. His face relaxed, but he was met again with confusion when she moved her hands as if she was communicating with him.

You must dive deeper. Swim with us. She signed, but was met with no reply. Then Vri'tri remembered that they technically couldn't understand anything she was saying due to the fact that are like babies.

Fully submerged in the water, Neteyam could feel himself lose his breath. Not because he couldn't breathe underwater, but because of how one look from the girl weakened his lungs.

She's smiling again. Is she actually just bullying me? He gulped, swimming further down with the four. He kept a close eye on his siblings, but he was losing air and focus that he physically couldn't swim along or even catch up to Vri'tri.

Pretty soon, Neteyam and his siblings arose from the water for the second time since being in the water. Vri'tri looked at Tsireya, They are bad at swimming, she signed in discovery. It seems she expected too much of them, much so from the eldest of the forest children.

Aonung looked at her and signed. What's wrong with them? It hasn't even been two minutes? Are they seriously drowning already?

That's a pain. They are bad divers, I agree. Rotxo signed to Vri'tri.

But Tsireya was quick to hush the three. You expect too highly of them. They are learning. You must not talk about them like that. She signed before tugging on Vri'tri arm. Come on, let's check on them.

The three of them quickly went up, with Aonung not sharing the same concern. Arising from the water, Vri'tri was quick to check up on the youngest and held her hand as she wiped the water from her face. "Are you okay? Tuktirey?"

"You're too fast, wait for us!" The young one yelped, hugging her arm.

"I see the problem." Vri'tri mumbled as she held Tuk, then she looked at Tsireya. "They don't know how to properly prepare themselves when swimming underwater."

"Yeah, and we don't speak this finger thing too," Lo'ak spoke as he struggled to keep himself afloat, Neteyam agreeing with him.

"We will teach you." Tsireya tells them, almost reassuring them all. "It is not a short process, so patience is needed. Vri'tri is the best teacher, so I assure you all that you will learn it in time."

Neteyam looked at Vri'tri upon hearing her name, he wondered if she had taught multiple people from her clan the things that are needed in surviving in the reef. The thought itself made him feel the need to learn it as soon as possible.

"For now, we can just introduce you all to the Ilu's." Vri'tri smiles, patting Lo'ak back to assure him. "They will help you in the long run of learning how to swim properly."

Everyone agreed with her and so did Neteyam. Vri'tri caught the boy looking at her once again and she just laughed, remembering the prank she set on him earlier.

"Where's Kiri?" Rotxo suddenly calls out, causing everyone to look around.

ᓚᘏᗢ @deprivedreality 2023 | do not copy my works!

[patriapplepie]

Fall Films & TV Shows 🍂

Fall is coming soon, and I expect you to be so excited about it; so here goes a list of a few films and tv shows to get cozy this autumn.

Films:

"Dead Poets Society" (1989) - Set in a New England boarding school during autumn, this film explores themes of inspiration, poetry, and seizing the day.

"You've Got Mail" (1998) - A heartwarming romantic comedy set in a cozy bookstore in New York City during the fall season.

"Autumn in New York" (2000) - A bittersweet romance starring Richard Gere and Winona Ryder, with New York City's autumn beauty as a backdrop.

"Hocus Pocus" (1993) - A beloved Halloween classic filled with magic, humor, and the spooky spirit of fall.

"Fantastic Mr. Fox" (2009) - Wes Anderson's stop-motion animation masterpiece set in a whimsical, autumnal world.

"The Nightmare Before Christmas" (1993) - Tim Burton's delightful blend of Halloween and Christmas, perfect for the fall and holiday season.

"Good Will Hunting" (1997) - A moving drama set against the backdrop of fall in Boston, exploring themes of self-discovery and growth.

TV Shows:

"Gilmore Girls" - Follow the Gilmore mother-daughter duo in the charming town of Stars Hollow as they navigate life's ups and downs, all while enjoying the fall season.

"Stranger Things" - An '80s-inspired supernatural mystery series set in the small town of Hawkins, Indiana, featuring eerie happenings and close-knit friendships.

"The Crown" - Dive into the world of British royalty with this historical drama series that captures significant moments in history, including the changing seasons.

"Brooklyn Nine-Nine" - A lighthearted police procedural comedy set in Brooklyn, perfect for those looking for laughs during the fall season.

"The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel" - Immerse yourself in the vibrant world of 1950s New York City as you follow Miriam "Midge" Maisel's journey into the world of stand-up comedy.

"The Haunting of Hill House" - A spine-tingling horror series that takes place in a creepy, old mansion, perfect for getting into the Halloween spirit.

"Parks and Recreation" - Join the quirky residents of Pawnee, Indiana, as they navigate small-town politics and eccentric community events during the fall season.

Fall Watchlist Essentials:

Snuggly Blanket: The cozier, the better!

A Cup of Chai Tea: A warm, aromatic brew to sip on.

Scented Candles: Cinnamon, apple, or pumpkin spice for the ambiance.

Playlist of Acoustic Tunes: Mellow music to set the mood.

Favorite Fall Snacks: Popcorn, caramel apples, or roasted chestnuts – take your pick!

So, grab your coziest blanket, brew your favorite tea, and embark on a cinematic journey through the beauty and nostalgia of fall. These films and TV shows are the perfect companions to make your autumn evenings warm and delightful. 🍁📺🍂

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

Hello! I just saw your reply to an ask and noticed this passage:

At the end of a century which had profaned love, Robespierre distinguished himself by the purity of his morals and by the delicacy of his procedures towards a sex, which the literature of the time regarded as born almost solely for pleasure. Above all, he respected the marital bed.

Do you know more about Robespierre and his views and relationships with marriage/women (I don't mean in the political sense)?

I've heard that he was meant to marry once but the lady ended up marrying someone else. And that he wrote a poem to a lady once, and that he enjoyed talking/singing/dancing with the ladies at the poets club he used to frequent (I can't remember the name of it atm). Overall, I get the idea that he loved/respected/admired women a lot and wanted to marry in the future. And also that he had conservative views on marriage and women. Am I correct? Are there any other examples I missed?

Thank you!

Yes, Robespierre overall seemed to have respected and gotten along well with women. He gets described in friendly terms by both his sister, Élisabeth Lebas and Rosalie Jullien, who all met him in private. The woman he sent poetry to was Charlotte Buissart, whose entire family was close to both him and his siblings (they would however fall out with each other during ”the terror”). In the 1780’s Robespierre also sent works of his to one mademoiselle Duhay (1, 2, 3) who in her turn gave him canaries and puppies, as well as to ”une dame”, to whom he wrote that ”the sweetest, the most glorious of all, is to be able to communicate these feelings to a kind and illustrious lady whose noble soul is made to share them.” The historian Ernest Hamel reportedly tracked down an old woman in Arras who told him her mother used to dance with Robespierre and found him a pleasant partner, and once Robespierre got into politics the amounts of female fans he had was noted by contemporaries. There evidently exists so much material regarding his relationship with women that the historian Hector Fleischmann in 1913 could release a whole book with the title Robespierre and the women he loved (original title Robespierre et les femmes).

For the moment I can only really remember one instance where Robespierre is reported to have acted in an inappropriate way towards a woman, and it was reported in Souvernirs d’un déporté (1802) by Paul Villiers, who claimed to have served as Robespierre’s secretary for a few months 1790-1791:

As for [Robespierre’s] continence, I only knew of a woman of about twenty-six years, whom he treated rather badly, and who idolized him. Very often he refused her at his door; he gave her a quarter of his fees; tre rest of it was split between me and a sister he had in Arras whom he loved very much.

Villiers’ work was declared apocryphal by the historian René Garmy in 1967. When Hervé Leuwers 47 years later wrote he still thought it authentic, he added that some parts of it still seemed like ”probable fabrication” and listed the mistress claim as an example, though without elaborating why he thought that was.

There are three women Robespierre is alleged to have been engaged to — mademoiselle Deshorties, Adélaïde Duplessis and Éléonore Duplay — though none of these allegations were ever confirmed by Robespierre or the women themselves. The lady you’re thinking of is the first of those listed — mademoiselle Deshorties (it’s often said her firstname was Anaïs, but I don’t know what the source for that is). She was Robespierre’s step-cousin and had, according to Charlotte Robespierre’s memoirs, been courting him for two to three years at the start of the revolution. Charlotte claims that it’s very likely the two would have married had things remained the way they were, however, with Maximilien away in Paris, mademoiselle Deshorties soon enough got engaged to someone else, and the two got married in 1792. When Robespierre found out about this after returning to Arras for a short stay, he was ”very grievously affected” according to Charlotte.

If Robespierre would have married had he lived if of course something we can’t know for sure. There does exist an anecdote where he, upon his friend’s Pétion’s insistence that they must find him a wife to lighten up his stiff behaviour, firmly responds: ”I will never marry!” If it is to be treated seriously or not is of course another story (and, if it happened, who knows if he changed his mind between this moment and his death).

As for if Robespierre held conservative views on marriage and women, for the first of these topics, I can only really find one place where he’s recorded to have mentioned it at all, and it’s when he on May 31 1790 argues for granting priests the right to marry, stating among other things that ”to unite priests with society, we must give them wives.” However, this of course has more to do with men’s relation to marriage and not women’s.

For his view on these, his perhaps most feminist moment takes place in 1787, when the Arras Academy of which he since one year back was the director, accepted two well-read women as honorary members — Marie Le Masson Le Golft and Louise de Kéralio. Robespierre was not present when the two were elevated to membership, but he was the author behind the response to the discours de la réception written by de Kéralio (who ironically, would go on to voice much more sexist opinions compared to Robespierre). In the text, he regretted that there were so few women in the academies and advocated for letting more in, arguing that ”habit and perhaps the force of prejudice” had intimidated women from presenting themselves as candidates for open academy positions, but that ”their sex does not make them lose the rights that their merit has earned them. […] If we grant that women have intelligence and reason, can we refuse them the right of cultivating them?” This is however not to say he viewed men and women as being the same in essence, but rather that they had received different sets of talents from nature that complemented each other. Men and women, he argued, were not meant to study the same subjects, the former being more suited for ”the initricacies of the abstract sciences,” while the latter should not be forbidden to contribute to those fields that ”demand only sensibility and imagination,” such as litterature, history and morality. Another argument put forward is that women will be able to make the sessions more interesting for the men:

The mere presence of a lovable woman is enough to enjoy these cold pleasures. They give interest to nothing, they spread a secret charm over this insipid circle of monotonous amusements which usage brings back every day. Women make a conversation where nothing is said, an assembly where nothing is done, more than bearable. They share laughter and merriment around a game table. Beauty, when it is mute, even when it does not think, still interests; it animates everything around. It is Armide who changes the dreadful deserts into laughing groves, into delicious gardens. From this, let us form the idea of a society where we would see the most amiable and witty women conversing with enlightened men about the most pleasant and interesting objects that could occupy beings made to think and to feel. Ah! If those who have no other merit than the amiability of their sex can respond so gently about the business of life, what will it be like for those who, freed from the false shame of appearing educated, without blushing to be more amiable and more enlightened would boldly deploy in an interesting conversation the playfulness of a delicate mind and the graces of a laughing imagination and all the charms of a cultivated reason!

A year earlier, the lawyer Robespierre had also been given as client the Englishwoman Mary Sommerville, widow of Colonel George Mercer, Governor of South Carolina, who had been imprisoned for debt. In his defence of her, Robespierre first and foremost underlined the fact that the Ordonnance de Saint-Germain-en-Laye from 1667 expressly stated that women and girls couldn’t be kept imprisoned. But he also voiced his personal support of this differential treatment between the sexes:

When the legislators introduced this terrible right to throw a man into prison for the non-performance of a civil commitment, I observed that they made it their duty to soften its rigor by a large number of restrictions. One of the main ones was to exclude women; reason and humanity indicated this exception to them; its motives can be discovered by every man made to think and feel. The ease, the inexperience of this sex which would have led it to contract too lightly commitments fatal to its freedom; its weakness, its sensitivity which makes it more overwhelming for the shame and rigor of captivity; the terrible impressions that the apparatus of such constraint must have made on its timid nature; the fatal consequences that it can cause, especially during pregnancy; what will I at last say? The delicate honor of women, which the glare of a public and legal affront irreversibly degrades in the eyes of men, whose tenderness vanishes with the respect they inspire in them; the sacred interest of modesty injured by the violence which accompanies this rigorous path, and the facilities which it can provide to outrage it...

Once we get to the revolution, I have yet to find a place where Robespierre talks about women much at all. Searching for the term ”femmes” in the volumes of Oeuvres complètes de Robespierre covering this period, the most common phrase it shows up in is probably ”women and children,” as in, something good and precious that needs protection against counter-revolutionaries. The two instances I’ve found where he speaks a bit more on women as such are the following:

Women! this name recalls dear and sacred ideas. Wives! this name recalls very sweet feelings for all the friends of the society. But aren't the wives republican? And doesn’t this title impose duties? Should Republican women renounce their status as citoyennes to remember that they are wives? Robespierre at the Convention, December 20 1793, showing his hesitation towards a commission of women that has arrived to plead for mercy for their husbands.

You will be there, young citoyennes, to whom victory must soon bring back brothers and lovers worthy of you. You will be there, mothers of families, whose husbands and sons raise trophies for the Republic with the debris of the thrones. O French women, cherish the liberty purchased at the price of their blood; use your empire to extend that of republican virtue! O French women, you are worthy of the love and respect of the earth! What do you have to envy of the women of Sparta? Like them, you have given birth to heroes; like them, you devoted them, with sublime abandonment, to the Fatherland. Robespierre’s report on religious and moral ideas and republican principles, held on May 7 1794

Robespierre is not confirmed to have ever openly advocated for women being granted more political rights in general, like Condorcet and Guffroy in 1790 or Guyomar in 1793, or that married ones deserved to share the right to administration of property with their husbands, like Desmoulins, Danton, Lacroix and Couthon in 1793. However, this is not to say he ever openly spoke against these ideas either. In the third number of his journal Le défenseur de la constitution (1792) Robespierre does however warn about a girondin plot that includes a ”female triumvirate,” seemingly implying he thinks the concept of women in power needs to be side-eyed:

When following the thread of this plot, we arrive at a female triumvirate, at M. Narbonne who, then struck by an apparent disgrace, nonetheless named the ministers; at Mr. La Fayette, who arrived at this time from the army in Paris, and who attended secret meetings with the deputies of Gironde, what vast conjectures can we not indulge in?

The three women Robespierre is alluding to here have been identified as Manon Roland, Sophie Condorcet and Louise de Kéralio-Robert, the latter of which ironically being the same de Kéralio he had welcomed as an honorary member to the Arras academy five years earlier.

Finally, in a notebook he kept in the fall of 1793 regarding measures to be taken, Robespierre has written ”Dissolution of F.R.R” as in the society Femmes Républicaines Révolutionnaires, which would indeed be shut down by the Committee of General Security on October 30, alongside all other women’s clubs. This has however been accepted as part of a bigger pattern of the deputies cracking down on anything that may pose opposition to the government and not a move against women in particular, even if Jean Pierre André Amar, when announcing the dissolution to the Convention, did motivate it in sexist terms.

It’s however hard for me to say if all these factors added together makes Robespierre have an overall conservative or an overall radical view on women. This due to the fact I still haven’t fully discovered what the standard perspective on the topic was for the time for an educated, middle class man. Instead, the concept of women and what they are and are not capable of comes off as deeply controversial, look for example at the aforementioned debate on women’s right to the administration of property, where men with overall similar backgrounds and educations come to fully different conclusions, some arguing women are biologically incapable of handling such things and some that women are born with as much capacity as men and that not letting them enjoy this right would be akin to slavery. Someone could ask for women to more or less be granted the same rights as men only for someone else to suggest women shouldn’t even be taught to read a few years later. The article Robespierre: old regime feminist? (2010), while underlining Robespierre’s suggestion to let women into the academies was met with a lot of backlash (nine out of eleven correspondents disagreeing with his views), also makes sure to state he was nevertheless far from alone in pushing for this integration, and that those who were against it argued less for the notion that women were incapable of learning (the actual amount of well-read ones making it come off as weak) and more that ”they could but they shouldn’t” since they needed to take care of the home and children. All of this makes it hard to say exactly how normal/radical/conservative Robespierre’s views were for the time. I would conclude by saying he deserves a ribbon for neither ”Revolution’s number one feminist” nor ”World’s most raging misogynist.” In his private life, he does however appear to have gotten along well with women, at least we don’t really possess any serious testimony hinting at anything else.

[aita-blorbos]

AITA for gouging out my new friend's eye?

Okay. I know that's a lot. Bear with me here.

I (42 M) am not a doctor, but I read a lot of medical textbooks. I'm actually a poet by trade, truthfully, but I have a decent understanding of medicine and anatomy. So, when my good friend E (29? M) came to me about a medical emergency he's having, I of course offered my advice.

After examining him, I determined that he required emergency surgery on his right eye. He has a deadly infection in his brain, localized behind this eye. Unfortunately, we're not exactly in a position to get him to a hospital, and if left untreated, he would almost surely die within days. I could see him beginning to despair, but he thanked me and told me would just have to bear it.

My heart ached to see my friend accept his own impending demise so freely, so I told him I would perform the surgery. E seemed doubtful, but I told him it was the least I could do! He's done a lot for me, and I think it's fair that I help him in return. Eventually, he agreed to let me hell him.

So, we set up for the surgery. I didn't have any anesthesia on me, but I got him drunk enough that he would be, hopefully, numb. Then I got to work.

Here's where things went wrong.

I will spare you the more grisly details, but the surgery went rather poorly. I was unable to remove the source of the infection, but I did remove his eye. And though he was drunk, he evidently felt the entire procedure, and he was understandably quite upset. His lover W was also rather upset with me and demanded to know why I hurt him.

I tried to explain that I was just trying to help, but neither of them was interested in hearing me out. W demanded that I leave at once, and so I did. Before I left, I apologized to E, but he didn't seem to hear me, as he was still crying and holding his eye. I also left him an old marble to use as a prosthetic, should he so choose.

I haven't heard from either E or W since, but I cannot help but wonder... AITA?? Was I wrong to help?