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thevoidstaredback · 2 months ago

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Tales of Conquest, Warnings of Fools: Letters Between Brothers

Still no letter from Damian. He’d been checking the mailbox every day for a year, but he understood why. Kind of. He gets that Damian and his family were under a lot of stress after Mr. Wayne was kidnapped, and they're probably celebrating now that he’s back, but that still didn’t stop the tiny bit of hurt Danny felt whenever he noticed the lack of responses from his brother.

A bigger part of him was wondering why it was taking so long for Damian to respond. Sure, his father had gone missing, and that was a lot of stress, but now he was back and it’d been nearly four months, but there was still no letter.

Maybe Damian really did hate him. Or maybe he’d forgotten about him? He hoped neither was the case, but he knew both were possibilities.

“Tot nicio scrisoare, nu?” Jazz asked. She was fluent in Romanian now, having taken to the language like a fish to water. Part of that was probably because Danny refused to teach her Arabic unless she learned three other languages, all of which had to be derived from different alphabets.

“Nu.” his shoulders slumped after he closed the mailbox, letters for his parents in his hand.

Jazz nudged his shoulder with hers. “Curaj! Măcar știi că e bine? El și familia sa au postat în mod regulat pe rețelele lor de socializare.”

Danny huffed. “ابتهج، كما تقول. لو كان الأمر بهذه السهولة، لكنت أسعد شخص في العالم.”

“Ce a fost asta?” she glared playfully at him from the corner of her eye.

“Nimic!” he stated. “De unde știi că postează în mod regulat? Îi urmărești pe Waynes?”

“Bineînțeles că îi urmăresc pe Waynes! La început a fost pentru că toată lumea îi urmărește, dar apoi mi-ai spus că Damian Wayne este fratele tău? Nu puteam să nu-i urmăresc.”

“Eu nu... Cum ai aflat că Damian e fratele meu? Nu ți-am spus niciodată asta.”

“Pentru că sunt chiar atât de grozav!” She flipped her hair over her shoulder as she said this, the wind making it go all over. “Nu a fost așa de greu, Danny. Voi doi arătați aproape la fel.”

He sighed. “I mean, I guess we look sorta alike.”

“‘Sorta’?” she scoffed, “Have you seen a picture of him recently? If people see you two side-by-side, they’re gonna find out your twins. I’m surprised no one’s mistaken you for him yet.”

“I’m not in a high enough circle to be mistaken for him. Sure, maybe Sam’s parents would make the mistake if they didn’t hate me enough to recognise me on vibes alone.” He opened the front door. “Seriously, how do they do that? If I hadn’t already made sure, I’d think they were tracking me.”

“You checked for trackers?”

“You would not believe the kind of shit that my Mother taught me about. And if you thought that was bad, father is so much more paranoid.”

“Really?” she raised an eyebrow, closing the door behind her. “Brucie Wayne, the man who once went viral for getting so drunk that he kissed a reporter because he thought he looked like Superman?”

“Yep.”

“We are talking about the same man, yeah?”

Danny just shrugged. “Paranoia’s hereditary.”

“It’s really not.” Jazz said.

Danny led the way up the stairs, leaving the door to his room open after he walked in, changing the conversation as Jazz did the same. “Your Romanian is sounding pretty good!”

“‘Pretty good’?” she called back, “I’m fluent!”

“Yeah, but you still have an accent.”

“So do you!”

“Yes, but mine is purposeful.”

“Why?”

“Do make you look better.”

Because their rooms are diagonal from each other, the ball that Jazz threw landed in Danny’s room, bouncing off the wall and hitting his arm. “Jerk!”

He laughed, rubbing his arm. “You love me.”

“A moral obligation.”

He feigned hurt. “Is that all I am to you? A moral obligation?”

“Yes!”

“Ouch, Jazzy, that hurts. Truly.”

“I’m sure.” She leaned against the doorframe to his room, her arms crossed. “Will you teach me Arabic now? I learned A Latin-derived language like you told me to.”

He shook his head. “Three languages, remember? Three languages and then I would teach you Arabic.”

She groaned, rolling her head back and then to the left to glare at him. “Fine! Which one are you gonna teach me now?”

Danny thought for a moment, mentally rifling through the languages he knew. “Russian,” he decided, “it’s based off of Old East Salvic.”

“But that’s gonna take forever!” Jazz whined.

“No it’s not,” Danny shot back, “It only took me a few months to learn.”

“Yeah, but that’s because you’re like, a super-genius.”

“What does that make you? You’re smarter than me.”

“Evidently not,” she huffed. “Where do I start?”

He grabbed a book off his shelf, one he’d bought two years into his stay with the Fentons. “The Cyrillic Alphabet. It’s what Russian uses.”

Jazz flipped through the Russian dictionary. “These are just straighter versions of the English Alphabet.”

“Not quite,” Danny said, “But, yeah.”

Jazz sighed, closing the book. “Great. Another year of studying before you make me learn another language before Arabic. What’s it gonna be that time, huh? Korean?”

“I was actually thinking Japanese.”

She groaned again, walking away to her room. “That was a joke, D!”

“No it wasn’t!” Her door closed in response. Danny huffed a laugh before closing his own door and settling at his desk.

He sighed, looking at the homework page. It was all stuff he already knew, stuff he’d been taught when he was a kid. When were they going to get to stuff he didn’t know?

It probably didn’t help that he got so bored doing his homework that he took college courses instead. At least those had material he’d not gotten the chance to learn in Nanda Parbat! If he got his Bachelor's early, would Jack and Maddie let him drop out, or would they make him get a GED? He already had one, but that wasn’t the point. Maybe, if he got his Masters? Though, that would mean he’d have to actually choose something to major in, and Danny wasn’t sure he was ready for that kind of commitment.

A lie. He was stuck between majoring in linguistics and astronomy. A problem for later Danny, he decided.

In the past year, he’d taken very quickly to astrology. It was fun, learning new things and beliefs about the stars and planets. He’d tried to get Sam and Tucker interested, but neither took to it very much. They’d tried, like good friends, but it didn’t click with them. However, Sam did start looking into magic and stuff, which then got him into magic and stuff. Tucker wasn’t into it, but they’d managed to combine all of their interests into one.

The computer code Tucker and Danny had started was coming along well, for them being barely in eighth grade. It was designed to look like a star chart, but the code itself had runes mixed in. None of them were really sure if the runes would do anything, but they thought they looked cool, so the runes were left in.

They were nowhere near a final product, but they were making good progress. Probably due to the fact that they were spending as much time as they could on it. It was hard to keep it a secret from everyone, though. They’d originally wanted to tell Jazz, but she hadn’t shown any interest in any of their hobbies, so they didn’t. Maybe in the future?

That’s what Danny opted to work on instead of his homework. He had designed the star chart based off of what he’d had access to at the time, but now more stars were being discovered and more planets were being introduced. It wasn’t going to be officially part of their coding project, but he figured it’d be nice to have anyway.

The problem with making a new star chart was that he had nowhere to hang it. His walls all had posters on them, and furniture blocked what space there was. The door was too small, either. Sure, he could move stuff around, but that was a lot of work he really didn’t want to do. However, he looked up, his ceiling was looking mighty plain.

However, after staring at it for nearly twenty minutes, he found it hard to focus on the star chart, too. His thoughts kept wandering back to his brother. Was Damian alright? Why hadn’t he replied? Even a small, one-sentence scrap of paper would’ve been a nice reprieve from his anxiety!

He toyed with the idea of sending another letter, despite that he’d told his brother he’d wait, but he didn’t. He very nearly did several times, but he managed to pull himself away from doing so. He didn’t think it’d be appreciated at all.

He groaned in frustration and harshly shoved his chair away from his desk, standing up and shoving it back into place. Then, he left his room. He needed a distraction that wouldn’t make him focus.

He grabbed his phone and opened the chat he had with Sam and Tucker and told them his problem. They both agreed to come over to hang out. Danny didn’t think he’d ever get tired of being around his friends, no matter what. He hoped they felt the same way, too.

Impatiently, he waited by the front door for his friends to arrive. When they did, they found themselves haphazardly sprawled over the couch and chairs on the main floor. They weren’t really doing anything other than sitting together, the TV turned on with a low volume for white noise.

Eventually, though, Sam asked, “So, what’re your parents working on in the basement?”

Danny shrugged as best he could from how he was laying, his legs over the back of the chair and his head hanging upside down. “The same thing as always; the Ghost Portal.” He was heavy on the sarcasm of the title. It was completely inane and unoriginal.

Sam perked up. “They’ve actually been working on a portal?”

“Yeah,” he answered, “Since they were in college, I think.”

“Really?” Tucker asked, his interest peaked.

A nod. “Yep.”

“Can we go see it?” the other boy asked again.

Danny hesitated. “Um, I’m not sure. My parents aren’t home right now, I don’t know if the lab’s messy…or safe.”

“It can’t be that bad!” Sam jumped up from her own chair, “C’mon! Just a quick look!”

Tucker, too, stood, “Yeah, man. We won’t touch anything. Scout’s Honor!”

“You’re not a scout,” Danny said, though he stood with them.

“Please?” Sam said, “You know we’ll just go down there anyway, with or without you.”

Tucker was the one to hesitate this time. “I don’t know about that. I mean, it’s a science lab. I don’t think I’d wanna go down there without someone who knows it well.”

“And you think that’s me?” Danny asked. Another look at his friends’ faces had him caving. “Alright, fine, but none of us are touching anything. Got it?”

“Loud and clear, man!” The two agreed.

He took the lead, stopping just before the entrance to the basement, the caution sign on the door not doing anything to dissuade either of his friends.”For the record: I don’t like this at all.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam waved him off, “Tell it to the judge.”

With another heavy sigh, Danny opened the basement door and started down the steps, the other two following closely behind him, not closing the door behind them. The carpet on the stairs had been torn up and badly replaced with uneven linoleum tiles. The walls were also covered in the same sheet metal as the lab itself, cut and applied much more neatly than the stairs. The wall at the bottom of the stairs had been carved into shelves for cleaning supplies, a small vertical pocket having been cut out for a broom and a mop. To the right was another door, this one reinforced metal, that led into the lab. The doorframe was covered over in caution tape as a final warning.

Trudging on, Danny opened the vertically sliding door and walked into his parent’s lab. As he expected, it was messy. Papers were scattered around, half built somethings ended up where there wasn’t paper, blueprints were taped haphazardly to the walls, and there were tools scattered all over the floor. Garage shelves lined one wall, holding completed inventions. Whatever tools weren’t on the floor, and empty jars of all sizes.

The architect’s desk was against the wall with the door, filing cabinets stood on the other side of the desk, all the drawers open. The wall next to the door - not the same wall because of the corner turning in - was where the garage shelves were pushed, four of them taking up the entire wall. Directly across from the door and dest was the newest addition to the lab. A sliding door of reinforced glass led into the “weapons room” where the completed weaponry and safety equipment was all stored. Directly across from the garage shelves, set into the furthermost wall of the lab, was the pièce de résistance: The Ghost Portal.

The trio carefully stepped their way into the room, Danny picking up some tools from the floor so they had a spot to stand. As promised, they didn’t touch anything except for the tools which they piled in a corner.

“Whoa.” Tucker admired, “That’s so cool!”

“Not really,” Danny scrunched his nose up. It had been completed, but his parents hadn’t turned it on yet, saying that they were making sure they had everything ready before they did. Personally, he thought that they’d tried and failed to open it. The inside of it was still messy, but not nearly as bad as the lab floor was. He still didn’t like going near it; it gave him a bad feeling, and he’d been taught to trust his gut when logic was useless. Logic, when dealing with anything having to do with his parents, was use;ess, so he listened to his gut. His gut said to stay away, so he always did his best.

“You should go in it.” Sam suggested.

It took Danny a second to clock that she’d been talking to him. “What?”

“Go stand in it,” she elaborated, pulling her phone out of the pocket of her skirt, “I want a picture.”

“Then you go stand in it and I’ll take the picture!”

“You told us not to touch anything! Standing inside whatever that thing is is considered as touching it.”

Tucker shrugged when Danny looked to him for help. “Don’t look at me, man, she’s right. Besides, I think it’d make a pretty cool picture.”

“Not helpful.” he glared. A few seconds later, he groaned. “Alright, you guys win.” While they cheered, he marched himself over to the Armory, as his parents called it, and put on his HAZMAT suit. He hated the feel of the thing, but any form of safety was appreciated at the moment.

He subconsciously noted that the suit no longer felt completely like rubber, as though it had been remade with some kind of cloth that had rubber mixed in with it. Still, changed into it behind the curtain in the Armory. He would’ve much preferred to keep his clothes on under it, but it was too tight for that to be an option. Pulling the black gloves on, he rejoined his friends in the lab proper.

Sam cat-whistled at him. “You look miserable.”

“Like a wet cat.” Tucker agreed.

Danny scowled at them. “Yeah? Why don’t you put this thing on and stand in the portal?”

They both shook their heads. “Your own rules, D,” Sam reminded with a smirk. She held up her flip-phone, ready to take her picture. “Now, hurry up. I want to get outta here before your parents or Jazz comes down.”

Like Jazz would be caught dead coming down here willingly. “Why’d you ask to come down here if you didn’t wanna be caught down here?” Regardless, Danny relented, picking his way across the floor and to the empty mass of the portal lodged into the wall.

It was still as foreboding as the first - and only other - time it’d gone near it. It looked bright from this side, the combination of the bright lab lights and the LEDs lining the space behind it gave the illusion of brightness. Danny knew, however, that it was much darker on the inside.

He stepped over the threshold of the octagonal archway and into the dark, ten-foot void behind it. Again, as he’d observed the first time stepping into the thing, the glowing blue circuitry that was embedded into the metal sheeting on the walls seemed to make the hallway dimmer, the white LED work lights lining the floor doing nothing to brighten it. He knew there were cables on the floor, but he could no longer see them; his parents had covered them in black that matched the floor.

Not bringing a flashlight was probably a mistake.

The sound in the lab seemed nearly gone, too, taken over by the humming of electricity running through the ten-foot hallway he now stood in. He could hear faint murmurs of Tucker and Sam talking, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. He had a really, really bad feeling about this.

Just before he turned around, he heard the distinct sound of a phone’s camera shutter. It cut through the electrical hum surrounding him like a hot knife through butter. It startled him, and he jumped. His foot caught on a cable, tripping him up. He flailed for a second,disappointing his Mother’s training, before catching himself on the wall. There was a soft click as his hand sunk into the wall. Behind him, there were two screams.

Danny’s final thought before the pain of the situation registered in his head was, “Now I’ll never get to touch the stars.”

Some think that when you die, it’s peaceful. Brain activity doesn’t stop for another five minutes after the body dies, so most people think that those five minutes is your life replaying for you as one final dream, lulling you into either your afterlife or into your next life or into non-existence.

The body dies, so sensation must stop, too, right? The brain stops sending signals to the body because it stops responding.

Danny would like to say that, in his humble opinion, as well as basing it off his own experience, those people are full of shit.

He died, but he didn’t stop feeling. Even when he’d been sure he’d gone numb from dying and reviving and dying and reviving over and over again, he still felt every signal that had been sent through his body.

Five minutes after the body dies, the brain dies. Danny’s didn’t, not even after ten minutes. It kept sending signals to his pain receptors, telling them that he was being ripped apart and pieced back together so fast that the actions were near simultaneous!

He wasn’t sure if it was just a rift into another dimension/world that had opened up on top and through him, or if another dimension/world had been dragged to and through him. He wasn’t sure he ever wanted to know. He just knew that it was painful and that he wanted it to stop.

Overall, it wasn’t an experience he’d wish upon even his worst enemy.

“Danny!” He heard the sob over the ringing in his ears, though it was quiet and far away.

“Wha’?” he groaned, his hand moving to his head. “Wha’ t’e ‘ell?”

Two pairs of arms wrapped around him, sending a jolt of pain through his sensitive nerves. “Danny!”

He weakly pushed at them, trying to get them off because contact hurts! “‘et offa me!”

The two pulled back, fussing over him without touching him.

“Danny!” Tucker sobbed, “Are you okay? Obviously not; that was a stupid question. Can you see? Can you hear? Can you feel anything?”

Danny nodded. “I can feel that everything hurts,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. He opened his eyes, closing them right after, then he tried again slowly. He blinked slowly a few more times before blinking normally. “My sight’s good…mostly.”

“‘Mostly’?” Sam demanded, “What do you mean ‘mostly’?”

He closed his left eye, opened it, then closed his right eye. “That’s not good.”

“What?” Tucker asked, “What’s not good? You can’t just say that-!”

“My left eye. I can’t see.”

“What?!”

He ignored them, focusing on his hearing. He covered his left ear, uncovered it, and covered his right. “Do me a favor and say something?” He recovered his left ear.

“Like- like what?” Tuck asked nervously. Both he and Sam were watching Danny’s hands.

Dany nodded, covering his right ear and uncovering his left. “Again?”

Sam spoke this time, “What do you want us to say?”

Danny froze for a second, scrambling to stand up. The two followed after, steadying him when he almost fell back down. His eyes widened and he forced Tucker onto his left side, keeping Sam on his right. “Say something, both of you.”

The two shared a look over his head before Sam said, “You’re scaring us, jerk, what’s wrong?” and Tucker said, “What’s going on, man?”

He stumbled again, his full weight dropping onto his friends as they caught him, sending all three of them to the floor in a heap. “...I can’t hear.”

It was quiet. “...what?”

“My-my left ear-! I- It’s ringing and I can’t hear-!”This would mess everything up! It couldn’t be permanent, right? It was just the aftershocks of whatever the hell just appended to him! He’d be fine in a few hours, a few day’s tops. He’d be able to hear again and see again. It’d be fine.

He forced his breathing to slow, focusing back on what Sam and Tuck were saying to him.

“Are-are you back with us, D?” He hated that her voice sounded so small. It didn’t suit her in the slightest.

He nodded. “Y-yeah. Let’s…let’s get outta here, yeah?”

The two nodded, each grabbing an arm to help him up. When he was standing again, an arm over either of his friends’ shoulders, he finally saw the portal.

It was toxic green, the colour of radiation in cartoons. The room seemed to be darker, near pitch closest to the portal, but it staved it off with its green glow. Was it absorbing the light? The overhead lights were all working perfectly fine. The green was moving, swirling with darker green lines mixed in with it. It was beautiful. It was terrifying.

They left the lab.

Sam’s parents paid for Danny’s hospital trip a week later. For as much as they hated him, they weren’t about to let him pay for a hospital trip with his own allowance because his parents were neglectful and didn’t even know he’d been hurt.

And Sam promised to wear pink at the next party she’d attend.

So, Danny sat on the hospital bed, waiting for the doctor or nurse or someone to come tell him that his hearing and sight were going to come back. They asked a lot of questions that he didn’t like, but he answered them anyway.

“How did this happen?”

“There was an accident in my parents’ lab.”

“Where were your parents?”

“Gone. They left the lab unlocked and I wanted to see what they were working on.”

This was his fault. Under no circumstances were Tucker or Sam to take any of the blame. He got hurt because of his own stupidity.

The doctor had told him and Sam’s father - because he wasn’t allowed to go alone - that they’d have to call Jack and Maddie and explain the situation. He begged them not to; they had enough on their plates! Besides, it’s not like they’d care. He didn’t let them call Jazz, either. She had enough to worry about. He can take care of himself. He did, however, compromise with them. Until he turned eighteen, his legal guardian changed, or he became emancipated, Jeremy Manson was to be alerted wherever he had to go to the hospital. Jeremy was slightly upset by this, but he allowed it. He didn’t like Dany, but he hated the Fenton parents even more. Besides, it would look good socially if it was found out by the public.

“Thank you for being here, Mr. Manson.” Danny said. They were still waiting for the doctor to come back.

Mr. Manson gave a tight smile. “It’s okay. I don’t like you, but I don’t want to see you hurt.” He sighed in frustration. “It’s no secret that me and Pamala don’t like your parents, but this only puts them in an even worse light. What are they thinking? Leaving their lab unlocked-! No, even having a lab in the first place!”

“Mr. Manson!” Danny called, “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not, Daniel. You got seriously hurt. Your friend Tuker or my darling Samantha could’ve been seriously hurt! That’s not anywhere near okay!”

“‘Danyal’.” he corrected lightly, “My name is pronounced ‘Danyal’. And it’s okay because it was my fault.”

Mr. Manson shook his head again, locking eyes with Danny. “Listen to me, Danyal-” Danny smiled slightly at the pronunciation correction. “-This is not your fault. Your parents allowed access to their lab by leaving the door unlocked. Anything that happened in that lab was their fault, okay?”

Danny shook his head. “But-”

“No,” the man cut off. He took a breath and sat down. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

He hesitated for a moment, weighing his options in his head. On one hand, he could totally handle keeping it a secret. On the other hand, what did he have to keep secret? It would probably be good for an adult to know what happened, especially on the off chance that he doesn’t actually fully heal from it.

Danny took a deep breath. “Promise you won’t be mad at anyone?”

Confused, Mr. Manson nodded, “No more than I already am.”

“Okay,” he nodded to himself, “Okay. So, We were at my place, watching TV. I mentioned what my parents were working on, and Sam said she wanted to see it. I told them it was a bad idea, but Tucker wanted to, too, and I wasn’t about to let them go down there on their own and potentially get hurt!” He breathed deep again. “Sam said she wanted a picture of the portal - that’s what my parents have been working on - and she told me to go stand in it. I told her to go stand in it because I’ve been in it before - last year about - and I didn’t like it because it gave off a weird vibe. Anyway, she and Tuck ganged up on me because I told them not to touch anything in the lab and they made me go stand in the portal. I changed, and stepped into the thing.” Another deep breath. “But, it’s really weird in there because it’s so dark, no matter how much light there was in the tunnel or in the lab itself - and it was really quiet, too. I didn’t know that Sam was gonna take the picture, so when she did, the sound startled me- It just sounded so loud…” He slowed down a bit with a smaller inhale. “I tripped and caught myself on the wall, but I guess my parents put the ‘on’ switch on the inside…I hit it when I tripped.” He felt tears running down his cheeks. His voice got quieter. He was aware that there was another person in the room now, probably the doctor. “It hurt. It hurt so bad!It felt like I was being ripped apart and put back together again over and over and- I think I died…” He felt himself paling. “I died Mr. Manson! I-!” Sobs cut him off, heavy and body shaking. He felt himself get pulled into a hug.

Mr. Manson had his arms around Danny, holding him to his chest. Why? Mr. Manson didn’t like Danny, so why..? He leaned into the embrace, tears soaking the man’s shirt.

“And now I can’t see and hear and my arm and hand keep spasming-!”

He continued to cry for nearly an hour. When he was calm enough, he pulled away and wiped his face with his hand. Look at him. Being a civilian for so long has made him soft. He’s crying over such a trivial thing.

The doctor’s voice was soft as she spoke, telling him what was wrong. There was no way to fix what was done, not until he was an adult, at least, because he refused to tell his parents. She recommended hearing aids and glasses because his hearing and sight weren’t gone, but they may as well have been. She also explained, after he’d told them about hitting the button, that because the point of contact had been his hand, he was going to have issues with touch and muscle spasms. She said it was nerve damage and that compression cuffs would help him. The chronic pain, however, would follow him for the rest of his life. She had also noted the lichtenberg scars trailing from his hand, up his arm, down his chest and back, up his neck, and up to his eye, over his ear. They were faint enough to not be seen at first, but they were noticeable upon further inspection.

At the end of the visit, Mr. Manson paid and drove him home. Before he could get out of the car, Mr. Manson said, “Thank you for telling me. And, thank you for keeping Samantha safe.”

Danny smiled smally at him. “It’s alright, Mr. Manson. I don’t ever plan on letting her or Tucker get hurt if I can help it. Besides, I didn’t do much of anything.”

“That’s not true,” Mr. Manson shook his head. “And, please, call me Jeremy.”

“But you don’t like me, Mr. Manson,” he tilted his head slightly.

Mr. Manson laughed. “Call it an olive branch, okay?”

Danny chuckled. “Okay, Mr. Jeremy.”

The man shook his head. “I’m glad you told me. I’ll talk to Pamala; You’re welcome in our home if you ever need to leave this place, okay?”

“Okay, Mr. Jeremy.” He nodded and got out of the car. “Thank you, again.”

“Anytime.”

He closed the door and watched as Mr. Jeremy drove off. Then, he checked the mailbox. Still no letter. With a sigh, he adjusted the strap of the bag he was holding - supplies the hospital had given him to help that Mr. Jeremy paid for - and went into his house.

Jack and Maddie weren’t home again, likely getting more supplies and stuff to stock the lab. After he’d opened the portal, he’d sent Sam and Tucker home; he didn’t want them there when his parents saw the activated portal. They’d celebrated when they saw it, taking him and Jazz to dinner. Then, they’d locked themselves down in the lab with the portal, studying it and making stuff to use on whatever came through. If anything ever came through. During the day, they’d spend a few hours out of the house, gathering things to study whatever they caught coming through. Honestly, Danny didn’t know when they had time to sleep or eat.

He hoped that nothing ever came through. He hoped that the portal would destabilize and shut down. He hoped a lot of things.

Sitting at the desk in his room, the door closed, Danny picked up a pencil. He was ambidextrous, though he mostly used his left hand. Until recently, that is. The handwriting was horrible compared to writing with his left, but he had to let Damian know what had happened.

***

Damian Wayne, Sept. 8th, 2013

I don’t know if you got my last letters, nor do I know if you want to hear from me, but there’s something I have to tell you. I don’t want to keep secrets from you anymore.

I was in an accident a few days ago. My foster parents have been working on a portal into another dimension since they were in college. Recently, they got the final product done and built in our basement. Sam and Tucker wanted a picture of me in it, so I went in and I tripped-

***

The pencil fell through his fingers and clattered on the desk, rolling off before falling to the floor, stopping a few inches away. Danny stared at his hand. He didn’t finish the letter.

Translation 1 - Romanian: Stoll no letter, huh? Translation 2 - Romanian: Nope Translation 3 - Romanian: Cheer up! At least you know he's alright? He and his family have been posting on their socials regularly. Translation 4 - Arabic: Cheer up, she says. If it were that easy, I'd be the happiest person in the world. Translation 5 - Romanian: What was that? Translation 6 - Romanian: Nothing! … How do you know that they're posting regularly? Do you follow the Waynes? Translation 7 - Romanian: Of course I follow the Waynes! At first it was because everyone followed them, but then you told me that Damian Wyane is your brother? I couldn’t not check in on them. Translation 8 - Romanian: I didn't- How did you find out Damian's my brother? I never told you that. Translation 9 - Romanian: Because I’m just that awesome! … It wasn’t that hard, Danny. You two look almost exactly alike.

Part 6 Part 8

#Tales of Conquest. Warnings of Fools #Letters Between Brothers #part 7 #word count: 5.5k #my writing #ao3 #ao3 writer #fanfic #dc x dp #ghouls and gang writing event 2024 #dpxdcbang2024 #g&g24

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fadyelj · 26 days ago

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All Summers End In Beirut

That summer in Beirut was never meant to be a journey inward; it was a time to shed the tension that had been building for years, a silent rage caged behind words, waiting for release. If I hadn’t confined it to words alone, that rage might have carved valleys out of stone. Instead, Beirut had to become the channel, blurring into nights spent chain-smoking in dimly lit pubs, romances that ended at dawn, and goodbyes that lived only on social media — Adieu, my dearest Beirut, though Beirut would know better.

I didn’t come here to romanticize the city or to make sense of my past. Beirut was simply the stage for a deliberate escape, a place to lose myself, not to find myself. Depth? I didn’t want it. Self-discovery? Even less.

You go to Paris to find yourself, not Beirut.

They say romantics run from reality, but I think the opposite can be true. Sometimes, it’s the realists who are drawn to it, clinging to the poetry of a place like Beirut, knowing full well the inevitable heartbreak. Still, they chase it, how can they live knowing that the greatest art has always been born from the agony of others.

Most who know me now might think I loved Lebanon from the very start, that my attachment was unshakeable, rooted in my childhood. And yes, I loved it — loved the version my father painted in late-night stories, those poetic tales he’d spin after slipping me a few bills for my Arabic lessons. My American-born Lebanese mother would look on, quiet but approving, as if to remind me that the language, the culture, was theirs, and that I was the inheritor of this beautiful burden. I memorized Ana esme Fady, w ana mn el Lebnan before anything else, words embedded as deeply in my identity as my own name.

My childhood was grown around Lebanon , a world away, yet vivid, woven from stories passed down like folklore. For years, my father’s tales could hold a magic of their own, sketching a distant land in colors bright and cinematic . But as soon as I began to think critically, that magic wore thin. I dug deeper, searching for something beyond his poetic recollections — and, yes, I found it. I just didn’t like what I saw. The stories, once so full of promise, started to feel threadbare, unable to hold up to the truth I’d uncovered. Resentment crept in. I felt the weight of belonging to a place I’d barely touched, a version of Lebanon that felt faded, passed down like an old newspaper, each retelling dulling its colors.

My father never wanted us to inherit his hate for the ugly parts of Lebanon. But the more I learned, the more I felt its grip on me. My God, as I fell down the rabbit hole of history and politics, the anger took root. I hated it. I hated my people. How could they turn heaven into hell? What gave them the right? I was only a child, but even as an adult, I still can’t find the answers. The unfairness of it all punctured me — the idea of a “home” drilled into my mind, yet always out of reach. Baba’s explanations never quite satisfied me. How could they do what they did? This new idea of Lebanon felt like a burden I hadn’t asked for, a heritage as heavy as it was distant. My anger grew as fierce as my love once was, aimed at my parents for planting this identity inside me, one that felt both too far away to reach and yet too close to escape.

When you’re a child born to the diaspora, there’s a harsh awakening. The stories you once loved take on shadows, and you begin to see yourself as part of a fractured history. A life in the diaspora is unforgiving, forcing you to carry a culture defined by survival and loss, a homeland that calls to you just as it keeps you at arm’s length. And yet, you’re expected to honor it, to love it. But where the hell was it for me all these years?

In those years of resentment, I lost myself in what you might call the most “American” ways possible — masking everything behind a polished exterior, where emotions were kept in check, and vulnerability was a distant concept. I crafted a composed, respectful façade, presenting a calm demeanor to the world while slipping in and out of identities like costumes, each one leaving its mark until the reflection in the mirror became unrecognizable. Certain truths I’ve kept buried, tucked away, left unspoken for the sake of the moshtamaa and a culture that expects us to live in quiet service to its ideals. Those years were a season of cold, each step pulling me further from warmth, further from a true self I could barely reach. Even today, I find myself still living in service to the moshtamaa. If I weren’t, wouldn’t I be writing freely?

But the moshtamaa wins, as it always does, leaving two choices: pretend and save face, or die by its sword. So, I’ve learned to play the game we all know too well, the one practiced behind closed doors. I walk the line between what’s true and what’s accepted, balancing carefully, learning to give just enough to satisfy but not enough to betray what lies beneath.

Today, though, I’m grateful to have found warmth again, in places I least expected, maybe even in Beirut itself. If this story is about anything, it’s about laying the bricks for a return that would come later — a return built on facing myself under a different sun, through eyes altered by time and distance, in a city that doesn’t promise forgiveness but offers, perhaps, the faint hope of reconciliation.

I’ve always considered myself a pessimist — or at least I was. Now, I’m less certain. Do you believe in naseeb? In the idea that everything is maktoub? Most days, I do. When the world throws me down, leaving me to stare at the pieces of something I thought I’d built, it’s almost comforting to believe this was fate, set out by some higher power. It’s a rational way to face my failures, a way to soften the edges of my shortcomings — and my friends, there have been many.

But then, there are other days, those rare days when my focus sharpens or when I’m medicated enough to believe fully in my own power. On those days, I don’t believe in naseeb. In those moments, it’s up to me to seize the world, to mold it, to make it my own. I’ve tasted the highest highs and endured the lowest lows, and somewhere between them, naseeb lingers in the background, watching, almost amused. Funny thing, this naseeb — it’s there when you’re at your worst, a crutch to lean on. But at your best, you realize it’s only ever been a story you’ve told yourself to make sense of things.

That’s why, sometimes, I hated this culture — or is it society pretending to be culture? I haven’t spent hours dissecting the difference. But I still wonder why this culture sometimes feels like a weight. Kindness can be a strength, yet sometimes it feels like a burden, a weakness we carry with pride. We’re so polite, even in revolution, so restrained, so respectful. We humanize everything. As Lebanese, we’re raised to be hospitable, welcoming, open-handed, even to those who come to tear us down.

It’s birthed into our history, in the very fabric of who we are. We’ve been the greatest lovers, poets, philosophers, building legacies out of words, hospitality, and resilience — but at what cost? We’ve shown grace to invaders, generosity to those who left scars, keeping that welcoming face, even as our eyes are gouged out . This hospitality, is it a survival instinct or our own self-inflicted wound?

We offer kindness to those who have broken us, a habit we can’t seem to shake. And that, more than anything, reminds me I’m Lebanese. Not through resilience, but in this weakness, this tendency to submit to fate and rationalize everything through comforts like naseeb. We’ll rationalize until it destroys us, convincing ourselves it’s out of our hands, that we’re powerless in the grand scheme. Maybe that’s the true Lebanese trait: cloaking our wounds in politeness, surrendering to the story we’ve been told is maktoub.

That summer in Lebanon was meant to last just two weeks — enough time to keep my mother from losing her wits and for me to avoid getting too attached. Lebanon was on the brink of a full-blown economic collapse, but somehow it was still the kind of crisis you could strangely enjoy. We Lebanese have a talent for squeezing joy out of hell itself. But the food poisoning was relentless; I swear I had more bouts of it than actual meals. Gas was scarce, leaving me stranded in the Chouf for two weeks alone. The electricity cuts, ones I’d later learn to base my schedule around, were already routine.

In 2021, Lebanon was cheap if you had U.S. dollars. “You could live like a king,” they’d say. A king, perhaps, but in a crumbling kingdom, a decomposing throne on shifting ground. That short, two-week escape stretched into five long months, a summer that took on a life of its own.

What do you do for five months in Lebanon? You put Baba’s folklore to the test. He’d told me he’d lived ahla eyam — the best days of his life — there, so I set out to see if his glory days held up, with my own modern twist, of course. The summer had to commence with the usual formalities: endless relatives streaming in daily (we were foolish to think two weeks would ever be enough), a parade of faces remarking on how much I’d grown, offering life advice I’d never follow, cursing the country I was born in, and reminding me, insistently, that I was Lebanese. Looking back, I wish I could’ve handed them that reminder with the same smug tone they’d given me. They needed to hear it, not me — after all, they weren’t the ones constantly reminded of where they came from. And it showed.

Then, finally, the real summer began: the clubbing, the drinking until I felt out of body, the strange sensuality of Beirut’s nights washing over me. Chain-smoking until my lungs felt scorched, wild kisses with strangers whose names I’d forget, tasting the city on every tongue. By dawn, I’d come home smelling like a chimney, my mother half-wrinkling her nose, half-smiling.My mother, first experienced Lebanon in the aftermath of the civil war, under Syrian occupation. Her homecoming was to a Lebanon in ruins, where she endured nasty, sexual remarks from Syrian soldiers on the streets — a Lebanon that had barely survived yet clung to the hope of reconstruction. For her, the country had weathered war, and through its scars, she could still see its beauty.

I am as doe-eyed as she was, hopeful for Lebanon’s rebirth. Yet, it saddens me to think of her early hopes — built on resilience but weighed down by reality. My mother loved the Lebanon I experienced that summer, perhaps even envied it. Watching me live it seemed to offer her a glimpse of the dream she’d never fully held. But her Lebanon never stood a chance, whether from the war or the expectations placed on her as a Lebanese woman raised in the diaspora.

It’s impossible to put into words how much my mother sacrificed to raise her children as Lebanese. She learned Arabic alongside us, prepared the traditional foods that connected us to our roots, and carried the weight of social expectations with grace, kindness, and love. If my father gave us Lebanon, my mother, in countless ways, taught us what it meant to be Lebanese, especially within the diaspora. For this, she’s rarely received the credit she deserves.

The summer grew lonely fast, and with time on my hands that I barely knew how to use, where better to spend it — or rather, who better to spend it on — than the faces on dating apps? I downloaded them all, swiping through profiles like browsing a gallery. I skipped anyone listing philosophy or psychology as interests — the very subjects I read into alone but had no desire to mix with summer flings. A philosopher would kill my buzz, and a psych enthusiast? Probably too eager to “read” me and fail.

I’ve never bought into zodiac signs, thinking we mold ourselves into those traits if we let them define us. As a Cancer, I’d rather avoid that “complicated” stereotype. And yet, you, my Beiruti lover, slipped through the cracks. There were plenty before you, and to be clear, I am no sex symbol — quite the opposite, really. But I have a certain charm, a mask I wear well, though, it unravels fast when the right string is pulled. I have a bad habit of being too deep for those who don’t care, and maybe too blunt for those who do.

This wasn’t supposed to be a journey of depth, I remind you, but I made an exception. After all, I was the ajnabi, the foreigner with broken Arabic, overly polite, saying please and thank you into every sentence, careful not to get too personal. The one who always leaves.

In a world where everything is instantly accessible, connections too often die before they’ve had the chance to truly live. A few minutes on an app, both revolutionary and tragic, now seem enough to define intimacy. But then again, everyone before you faded into irrelevance; after you, they simply ceased to matter.

You appeared unexpectedly in my swipes. Looking back, it almost disappoints me that it began there, as if it’s an insult to everything that came after. Whatever this was, it broke every boundary of digital connection, beyond anything an algorithm could contain. You shattered every rule, challenged each line I’d carefully drawn to keep people out. I may never write like the legends, but I would later love you with the urgency of those who inspired them.

Have I sold you the groundwork for a coming-of-age love story? God, I hope not. Those stories aren’t written for people like us, and they’re certainly not meant for places like Beirut. I won’t say if we broke that rule, but if we did, it was a story lived in the soul, never meant to be captured for the eyes- certainly not yours.

The dating app was our first encounter, our first in-person meeting the second — both unfolding in a single, impulsive night. It was the only time I allowed myself to be that spontaneous, that open. For once, I let go of who I thought I should be; I just let myself be.

I wish I could reach back, shake that past self, urge them to stay present, to see things as they truly were. Over the past two years, I’ve rewritten this story more times than I’d like to admit, asking myself: What was it about you that’s so hard to release? What keeps me searching for traces of you in others, only to come up emptier than you left me? The answer should enrage me, but instead, it humbles me. I could have cast you as the villain, and in many ways, you were. You shaped so much of who I would become: how I’d love, the person I’d grow into. And yet, here I am, sparing you, as if you were a debt I owed for sins from a forgotten life.

You were never the villain; we were just kids, and all summers start and end in Beirut.

That night replays in my mind like a vinyl on loop, the needle pressing down, cutting through the haze of a post-pandemic fog. I wasn’t nervous, and neither were you. In Beirut, no one knew me yet. Does that sound pretentious? Maybe so, but that probably means you don’t know Beirut. I didn’t — not then, not until a year after that summer. But I learned quickly: in Beirut, everyone knows everyone. It’s a city stitched together by connections, faces you know by name, names you know by rumor. That’s what makes it beautiful and, just as often, unforgiving.

Did we have dinner? I can’t remember. But I remember the abandoned home we tried to climb — somewhere in Gemmayze, or Mar Mikhael, maybe Sodeco. I was hesitant, still too green to embrace the thrill of Lebanese lawlessness. But you, with that maddening confidence, climbed as if you belonged there, as if the city, its people, and even its emptiness were yours to claim. You wore that boldness well, like armor, until, like all armor, it eventually cracked.

We ended up on a bench in Mar Mikhael, talking into the night. I let years of pent-up anger spill out, pouring words over you like gasoline, almost hoping you’d catch fire. Was I that fragile, that quick to unload it all? You, though, you kept your calm, saying so much with so few words, holding back just enough to keep yourself safe. I’d learn to play that game eventually, but never as well as you.

That night, we seemed to live a hundred lives in a few hours, time expanding until it felt like it might never end. But, of course, it did. Something shifted in me as it drew to a close, like a new wire connecting deep in my mind, a change I’ve carried ever since. It ended with a kiss, messy and unapologetic, pressed against the walls of Mar Mikhael under a blue streetlight, your confidence outbidding mine, as if we were two revolutionaries daring the world. A soldier watched us, but we didn’t care.

Beirut was a different time then. The soldier couldn’t even feed his kids, let alone care if two strangers kissed in the street. Beirut today, the soldier beats you just so he can feed his kids — and somehow, you understand.

I’ve written about this too many times, penned it as if it were my will and the country its witness.

I‘ve only given you the beginning, and though the story doesn’t end here, for you, it must. Perhaps I haven’t left you fulfilled; Beirut has that way about it — a love in extremes, a city defined by the unfinished, and inhabited by those merely passing through. That summer felt endless, with stories I’ll never put to paper. I’ve come up with countless reasons why all summers must end in Beirut, but in the end, they’re only theories. You’ve seen my contradictions laid bare. Whitman was allowed his contradictions, so why not me? Am I Whitman? No, not in this life, and not in the next. But I’ll contradict, freely.

In the end, there will always be three sides to this story — yours, mine, and the truth.

What I know to be true is this: you shook me in ways I never expected, and here I am, writing about a time that perhaps should have been left unwritten, simply lived. Maybe it was my American politeness, or my Lebanese hospitality, that softened each retelling, but no matter who you are now, you will always be my Beirut.

The summer of 2021 has never returned, yet it left me with more than I bargained for — lessons about life, about myself, about the person I longed to be and what I must never become.

You offered me revolution but gave me meghli ice cream, and I forgive you.

A year later, I moved to Lebanon, learning to love Beirut as you once taught me to , holding it like a secret, forgiving its sins, and embracing it as if I were your sacrifice to the city. If that’s what I was, then I’ll honor it. Beirut always knows better.

I promised myself not to search for you when I returned, not to wish for you in the eyes of strangers. But when I broke that promise, every face fell short — not because of them, but because of us…

My dear, this city without you is like nurturing a lone flower in one hand while severing its roots with the other.

#arab #lebanon #beirut #coming of age

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egheitisafi · 5 months ago

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Hi! My name is Judit, but I usually go by Safi or Anemone online. I’m 29 y.o. and I was diagnosed with audhd last year.

One of my special interests has always been learning foreign languages, so this is the main reason I made this side-blog. My native languages are Catalan and Spanish, and I can speak English and French fluently and Japanese (intermediate).

I’m currently studying Arabic (2nd year), Icelandic (2nd year) and Japanese at different language schools.

I studied a Translation and Interpretation degree at uni and passed JLPT N3 7 years ago, so during this past year I’ve been trying to refresh kanji and grammar to be able to prepare for N2 at some point.

Here’s what you will find in this side-blog:

Me trying to journal in Icelandic during this summer

Vocabulary and grammar notes (Icelandic, Arabic, Japanese)

My language learning journey

Stuff to motivate myself to keep learning and studying

I’d love to connect with other people who are learning the same languages or just fellow language learning lovers! I’d also be up to help anyone who’s learning Catalan or Spanish and needs a native friend.

Besides languages I also like:

cosplay

videogames (honkai star rail, genshin impact, project sekai, sims 2…)

reading

penguins

perfumes

manga

makeup

fashion

monster high

vocaloid

#langblr #studyblr #polyglot #language blog #icelandic #islenska #japanese #arabic #self intro

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stuckinapril · 11 months ago

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don’t know if you’ve already shared (or if you wouldn’t like to) but i’d love to hear about your resolutions and goals for this year!

Hi so sorry for how late this is!! I have quite a few!

Ins —

Being more decisive. Trusting myself w calling the shots. Just making a decision and sticking w it.

Financial literacy

More reading. Just more.

Attacking things I’m uncomfortable with instead of shying away from them.

More silence. I don’t need to have my earphones in all the time

More time w family!!! I need to put in as much effort to connect w them as I do w my friends

Green tea every night

More pictures. I have a serious problem of just not being incentivized to take any

More scientific literature for fun!!

Piggybacking off that point—making it instinctive to apply things I study to real life situations. This is a niche one but it just helps me process stuff faster and I just think it’s a super dope learning technique

Pushing myself harder. It’s just not my preference to be mediocre.

Nourishing myself w my own affirmations. Cutting out my need for other people’s validation

Educational documentaries

Making more of an effort to connect w my Arab heritage

Being my natural self. It’s okay if I’m not bubbly all the time. Sometimes I just want to chill

Whole foods

Less phone time (I say this every year but like I want 2024 to be the year I’m truly disconnected/using my phone in a healthy way)

Body oils!

More tennis dates w friends!

10k steps a day

Sticking religiously to my hour by hour schedule

Keeping promises to myself as ardently as I keep promises to others

Being more bold w fashion!!

Hitting the gym 5 days a week

Reading more literature in Arabic and French

Learning how to cook. I cannot live off Siggi’s for the rest of my life lol

Exploring more music genres

Learning the piano!!

No longer feeling guilty for withholding information. Privacy is not a bad thing.

Getting more and more independent!!

Becoming the friend I want to be. Other people need to show up as well, but I can’t hold people up to standards I myself can’t reach.

Outs —

Centralizing luxury brands. Thinking that price equates to quality. The fact of the matter is quality equates to quality. Price is irrelevant.

Relying on snap judgment responses to situations. I need to learn to wait at least 15 minutes. I can be impulsive asf

Jumpiness. Nervous energy. I just want to be more calm and controlled in how I carry myself. I want to exude self-assuredness

Checking my phone first thing in the morning!!

Drinking less than 3 liters of water a day

Being available all the fucking time. If someone has an issue w me for being busy, maybe they’re not someone I want in my life in the first place.

Being too forgiving. Not immediately allowing someone back into my life doesn’t make me a bitch. Immediately running to fix things w someone doesn’t make me selfless. Being the bigger person in situations where I was nowhere near in the wrong doesn’t make me mature. It’s just symptomatic of a lack of boundaries.

Consuming dumb shit in the name of “keeping up w pop culture.” I don’t care about celebrity controversy #7282727. I don’t care about celebrity selfie #827226. It doesn’t elevate my life in any way. I legit just don’t care. And this goes for real life gossip w friends too

Taking too long to text back!! A day is fine, but sometimes I take longer and I think that’s a shitty trait to have. I can absolutely afford to respond to people faster.

Too much chocolate!! I’m a sweet tooth but I must preserve my skin/overall health

Motivation over discipline. I need to be attuned to discipline always.

Control freak antics. I can’t control people. It’s not my responsibility. They’ll act how they act. All I can do is control my reaction to it

Rumination/unhealthy venting. When I’m done w something, I’m done w something.

Overcompensating for other people’s shortcomings. It’s not my responsibility to coddle others. It’s okay if something is too much for me.

Having no boundaries w others. People aren’t entitled to private information. It doesn’t make me deceptive to withhold things—it just makes me selective. People need to earn private details about me.

Curating things I like. I simply like what I like. It’s not that deep.

#ask #2024

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futurequibblerjournalist · 2 months ago

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The Ancient and Most Noble House of Black names explained:

I’ve gotten a few asks about my thoughts on the Black family and specifically their names and the middle names I’ve assigned them so I figured I’d make a post and explain them all, along with how I see the meanings of their names translating to their personalities! I was originally going to do the Black sisters and brothers in this one too but it just got too long so you guys are getting Riddle era Black family until I return with the second installment vjnbjgnbj

tw: brief mention of rape in Lucretia's section

Walburga Irma Black:

Unlike most of her family members, Walburga is not named after a star. Her first name is an alternative spelling of Walpurga which comes from Saint Walpurga, a nun born in 710. Saint Walpurga was also given an annual feast day called Saint Walpurgis Night or Saint Walpurgis Eve. Ironically one of the things she was hailed for was battling witchcraft. She was said to repel witches and was known as a healer of illnesses and one of her only talents not fully related to her religion is noted to be very detailed embroidery. I like to pull things from things like this, especially when it comes to characters we know very little about, so what this tells me about Walburga is that she likely did not have a lot of (female) friends which fits with the fact that I generally think the Black family kept to themselves. She was a skilled healer, which is very interesting considering how she’s usually portrayed as a woman who ruins so much. Is she aware of this aspect of her personality and that’s why she decided to learn so much about healing? And at last, she’s talented at embroidery. This yet again fits with another headcanon of mine that the finer families in pureblood society showed their status through things such as embroidery or homemade lace, to show that the women in the family were so well taken care of that they could focus on nothing but raising a family and making said family look good. I would imagine Walburga was taught by her mother.

Speaking of her mother, Walburga gets her middle name from her mother, Irma Black (born Crabbe) which means she is once again not given a name with a connection to the stars. Irma means complete; entire and is derived from the Old High German word ‘irmin’ meaning ‘world’. One could argue that while Walburga does not have a star specific name she is named in a way that could be interpreted as someone’s whole world.

Alphard Pollux Black:

Alphard is named after the star of the same name, the brightest star in the constellation Hydra. Alphard comes from the Arabic al-fard which, if Wikipedia is to trust lol, means “the individual”. The star is also known both as “the backbone of the Serpent” and “the heart of the Serpent”. From this I like to pull a bit of personality. Alphard has a clear connection to his family, one with a noticeable connection to serpent imagery through the Black family’s consistent history of being sorted into Slytherin. He’s an individual, he’s got the backbone to stand out yet still in a way more acceptable to the family and he’s got the heart to still show love and kindness towards Sirius. I think, and I don’t know if this is an unpopular opinion, that Alphard values his family a whole lot. Which is ironic, because in part that’s what gets him blasted off of the family tapestry. Another name for this star is Soheil Solitarius, which translates to the bright solitary one. I interpret this to think he’s got some sort of loneliness to him, even within a family with so many people. That is what being too much of an individual in the Black family gets you. You can only push it too much before you become an outsider and I think Alphard is living right on the cusp.

Just like Alphard, Pollux is yet another star that is the brightest in its constellation, this time it’s the Gemini constellation. Just like how Walburga got her middle name from her mother, Alphard got his from his father. The name Pollux, albeit also the name of a star comes from the twins Castor and Pollux in both Greek and Roman mythology.

As a fun little extra thing, I think Alphard’s fun older guy that he seduces whenever he feels like it (Arvid Thicket) calls him Hydrae and occasionally he calls him Hydra’s Heart because he’s a sap lol.

Cygnus Phineas Black:

Cygnus was the third Cygnus in the family, being named after his paternal grandfather. It's suspected that Cygnus I was likely Cygnus's great-great-grandfather which would be the father of the second man he's named after, former Hogwarts headmaster Phineas Nigellus Black. Cygnus, the constellation derives its name from the Greek word for swan. Looking at the most common symbolism associated with swans, we can assume Cygnus has a certain amount of wisdom to him, which also works perfectly with the fact that he was named after a former headmaster at a respected institution.

Speaking of said former headmaster, Cygnus got his middle name from Phineas Nigellus Black, the most disliked headmaster of Hogwarts, at least believing the statement from Cygnus nephew, Sirius Black. The name Phineas does not come from a star but instead it is a name of Hebrew origin meaning “the mouth of a snake”/“serpent’s mouth”. From this we can pull that Cygnus not only shares the typical views of his family, but looking at a similar saying “having a serpent’s tongue” which means having a tendency to speak maliciously, we can assume that Cygnus might have been either particularly opinionated, a tendency to come off as harsh or negative or both. I would also like to note that Cygnus is specifically named after Phineas Nigellus and not Phineas Nigellus’s son of the same name (as he was disowned for supporting muggle rights).

Lucretia Elladora Black:

Upon first glance, one might think Lucretia is another Black not named after a star. That would technically be correct, though she is named after an asteroid known as 281 Lucretia, an asteroid belonging to the Flora family in the Main Belt. Lucretia also shares her first name with a noblewoman from Ancient Rome. Lucretia was raped by Sextus Tarquinius and subsequently committed suicide after confessing about the rape to her father and husband. It's said that this act was the/one of the first stepping stones in the rebellion that made the Roman government transition from a kingdom to a republic. While I won't go into details interpreting the fact that her namesake was raped, we can look into the fact that Lucretia was noted to be exceptionally devoted to her husband. I think this is especially interesting given how the Prewett family is connected to the Weasleys. They likely weren't at the time Lucretia married Ignatius but even if they were she probably walked the line of marrying someone too different from the Black family and yet she was so devoted to Ignatius that to her it hardly mattered.

Lucretia's middle name Elladora comes from Elladora Black, the sister of Phineas Nigellus. Elladora was actually alive when Lucretia was born (she died six years later in 1931) so it wouldn't be far off to assume that the two possibly had some sort of relationship. Elladora is another name not derived from a star or anything similar, though it is speculated on Elladora Black's wiki page that the name comes from Elladora's mother possibly being named Ella and Callidora Black (the character known as Callidora Black is born after Elladora of course, being the daughter of one of Elladora's nephews, but knowing how the Black family liked to name their children after previous relatives it does not seem completely unbelievable that there was a Callidora Black born before Elladora that she could have gotten the second half of her name from). There are two takes on "Ella", that it comes from the Norman form of the Germanic "Alia" which means "other" or "Aella", a Greek name meaning "whirlwind". Either way, looking at Lucretia one could argue that they fit in regard to her marriage to someone who is from a family that is not necessarily the most respected and in later years is very much considered an "other" to the Black family. The second half, "Dora" is derived from the Greek word "doron" and means "gift". It kinda follows a similar pattern to Walburga's middle name. Just like Walburga is "someone's whole world" Lucretia is "gift/a gift". Considering the usual take on the Black family I think this is kind of sweet.

On the opposite end, to talk a bit more about Elladora. She is noted as the Black that introduces decapitating house elves and hanging their heads on plaques when they're no longer useful. I think Lucretia would share a similar sentiment to her namesake and a more aggressive/demanding way of handling the elves does not seem far off.

Orion Regulus Black:

Orion is a constellation known for featuring a number of bright stars. It is also known for being a good star to navigate from. Looking at this I think it fits with Orion being the head of his family but also the head of Black family in general based off of the fact that he and his family were the ones to live and grow up in 12 Grimmauld Place, the ancestral home of the Black family. I’ve always found this very interesting with him being the youngest as well. In ancient Egypt the stars of Orion were regarded as a god and to me this tells me that this man holds himself in high regard, likely above others even his fellow Blacks. Ironically the bible mentions Orion three times, naming it “Kesil” which literally means fool. I think this perhaps speaks more to others perception of him rather than his own. I would suspect that perhaps due to his age there would be circumstances where he wouldn’t be taken as seriously, something that would surely infuriate a man who considers himself godlike. In Greek mythology he is described as unnaturally strong which one could pull from for a physical description though I don’t personally. What I find interesting is that he stood up to Gaia saying he could kill every animal on earth and was thus punished for it by Gaia sending a scorpion (the constellations of Scorpius) after him. He was later revived by Ophiuchus, the serpent bearer. He’s described as a hunter and a skilled one and while the best way I can think this translates to what we know of him in canon, it could be the way he protects his ancestral home with quite skilful magic. The fact that Orion is made up of so many stars, especially bright ones could also symbolise the Black family in general and how many not only came before him but also how tight knit the family is that he is literally made up of them. This could also be a nod to their incest tendencies, especially given how Orion is the only Black we actually know of (other than his wife of course) to marry another relative.

I am personally a big fan of Orion’s middle name being Regulus, no matter if it’s from a cis or trans Regulus standpoint. Either Orion named both his sons after himself which seems entirely on point with a man that likes himself so much, or Regulus looked enough up to his father and valued family naming traditions enough to name himself after the man. Obviously sharing a name with his son there's going to be some overlap when it comes to personality traits that you can pull from it. Regulus means "prince" and/or "little king" in Latin and this is another time where you see Orion with a name that means something of great importance/something that is generally speaking better than someone else. It is also known as "the king", "the great", "the mighty" and "the centre" as well as one of the royal stars in the Persian monarchy. Even if the whole "heart of the lion" does not fit with Orion in the same sense that some might think it fits Regulus, I'd argue that Orion values/possesses/wishes to possess a good amount of the things that a lion traditionally symbolise, such as courage, nobility, royalty, strength, stateliness and valour.

This ended up so much longer than originally planned which is why I'm saving Bellatrix, Andromeda, Narcissa, Sirius and Regulus for another post lol. Hopefully someone enjoys this ramble vjnfjbngjb I've already made multiple people listen to it as it was being made.

This was inspired by an ask I got from @starchildlazaro so I figured I'd tag you since it turned into a post instead of just a normal answer,,,

#walburga irma black #walburga black #alphard pollux black #alphard black #cygnus phineas black #cygnus black #lucretia elladora black #lucretia black #lucretia prewett #orion regulus black #orion black #riddle era #knights of walpurgis #the knights of walpurgis #marauders #marauders era #dead gay wizards from the 70s #the black family #the noble and most ancient house of black

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armandauntie · 3 months ago

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I am so intrigued to hear all your thoughts on Armand as a lapsed Muslim hello 👀 as, like, a semi-lapsed Muslim myself I have so many thoughts on what Islam looks like for Armand and I’d love to hear your version if you’re willing to share!

(disclaimer, I am in no way an authority on Islam, especially how Islam is practiced outside my specific Shaami/Egyptian community. this is just my interpretation based on my personal experience. i can also not emphasize enough how lapsed I am, I have forgotten 90% of the sunnahs)

aaaaaaggh thank you I am so grateful for your ask!! I will have to dig around and find the source but I love the take I saw either her or on twitter that Armand has been alienated from his own culture because his culture no longer exists (both because of the fall and semi-erasure of the civilization in which he was raised and because his trauma and unwillingness to acknowledge any part of himself that existed before Marius), as well as Assad's (I think it was Assad, could have also been Rolin Jones) insights that Armand code-switches like crazy both in culture and in attitude for the sake of his survival. It resonated with me as an experience that so many immigrants and Muslims have had and really grounded his character in reality, despite the fact that he's a five-century old vampire which might be hard to relate to.

Taking that along with his specifically non-Arabic recitation of the Asr prayer (him saying 'asr namozi' instead of salat al-asr, although wikipedia is telling me that namozi is specific to uzbekistan which could be intentional or just a script error) meant to me that his observation of Islam was a personal choice that he has kept up over the course of his long, long life rather than just a front intended to sell his performance as Rashid. Now, this could be untrue, because I have no idea how much intention the show-writers put into that single moment (or when he has Malik try to reach the mosque before sundown, which although very warped, is also pretty Muslim) buuuut I would like to believe that it's true and that Islam, in whatever form he learned and internalized it over his life, is something he genuinely practices.

OKAY NOW ACTUALLY GETTING TO HOW I VIEW HIS BELIEFS OR AT LEAST WANT TO VIEW THEM, I see Armand's practice of Islam both as a cultural ritual that gives him normalcy and comfort, which he mentions as something very important to him during his days leading the Paris coven, as well as a very personal and maybe not fully realized version of reckoning with his own existence. When he's discussing the idea of evil with Louis in Paris (in episode 2.3 I believe), he counters Louis very Catholic view of killing as a single, unforgivable sin that catapults one into hell, with a view of evil as a gradient (interestingly, this is a direct quote from the book, which posits Armand more as a very Cristian-influenced atheist), but the idea of gradiation in evil is something that reminds me so much of the concept of haram in Islam and how many Muslims in my community believe of it (the halal-haram ratio, if you will). Doing good deeds, showing your devotion to Allah/God through recitation, donation, etc., are all important and worthwhile even if you also also commit acts that are haram, whether that's drinking alcohol, blaspheming, committing aldultery, and in Armand's case, a ton of murder. I see this echoed in how my famiily practices, how myself and my gay friends practice, and even how Muslim characters are portrayed in literature like the Palace Walk series by Naguib Mahfouz. It also especially echoed how I and other gay Muslim people feel as an irrifutable part of ourselves is viewed as inherantly haram, and specifically how we reconsile that with ourselves and our faith. I personally don't see my homosexuality as a sin, but that took a long time for me to come to terms with, and a lot of gay Muslims still view their own sexuality as haram, and process that alongside their faith.

I also think that debate and introspection is a central tennant in Islam, which you can see through masjids becoming the worlds' first universities, as well as through how masjids make time for discussion and questioning during Jummah. The fact that Armand and Louis bond over debates of faith felt extremely Muslim to me.

Although it's very likely not Quranic in nature, the balance of belief and ritual with acts of 'sin' is extremely Muslim to me, and that is exactly what Armand does. The way I interpret it, it's the only way he can live with himself, with his horrific trauma and guilt. Catholicism (a religion I was also raised with), is very all-or-nothing, and that's a source of Louis' trauma. Some versions of Islam are also like that, but so many are not.

Part of the reason I have this account is because I love to highlight the beauty and the thoughtfulness of Islam, because it is so rare for any Western media to show. It's demoralizing and infuriating to only see Muslim people as either terrorists or victims, and it's a big part of the reason I latched on so much to Armand in the show.

Okay that turned into a massive essay, so apologies for that, and I'm also sure there are a million points I'm forgetting. If you (or others) have any points that you also want to bring up, please feel free! This topic brings me so much joy.

#iwtv #the vampire armand #asks

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athenawasamerf · 1 year ago

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What's life in Egypt like?

This is a very vague question so I’m not sure how to answer, really. It’s kind of tense these days, anyway.

Ig the day to day is pretty typical. I’m not exactly the average citizen, most of my time is taken up with med school so I don’t explore or go out as much as I should. I live in Alexandria, and I love it here. Coastal, the old section of the city is beautiful, lots of greenery. It’s pouring down rain all through winter, driving is near impossible because everyone is fucking insane (which is typical for Egyptian cities lol), it’s pretty densely populated, the food is phenomenal. We have a ton of museums and historical sites, and the library of Alexandria is pretty rad. The economy is shit and getting shittier, we’re under a military dictatorship (again but worse than last time), inflation is insane and the country is in a ton of debt to the point that the central bank of Egypt has stopped all foreign currency transactions on debit cards, and credit cards have a foreign currency limit of the equivalent of $250/month.

From a feminist perspective, it’s not the best place to be. Alexandria is better than most of the country, but I still get harassed regularly. Egyptian men are paternalistic and have a weirdly entitled attitude towards all women, we have in-jokes in feminist circles about the fruit vendor from down the street being mad at you for coming home late. Tbf I’m fairly open about my feminist opinions and that hasn’t caused me any trouble, and basically all my friends and acquaintances know that I wear a hijab in front of my family and take it off at school/when I’m out with friends, and 4 of my cousins know about the hijab thing as well. Dating culture is fairly normalised in Alexandria, so everyone in my circles including two of my cousins know about my love life (but not my sexuality). In some places of Egypt, I’d be honour killed for any one of these things, so I’m grateful to be where I am. There’s still a line of chauvinism running in the country, though that’s the least of our worries as feminists. I have a post about marriage and divorce in Egypt under my Egyptian feminism tag if you’re interested in learning more about that aspect.

From an LGB perspective, unfortunately the little progress we’d made in the late 00’s and early 10’s has been receding quickly. We’d gotten to a point of live and let live in some areas, but the introduction of trans ideology in the west caused a massive recoil in perception of LGB people here, and there’s been a crackdown on LGB-sympathetic ideas. Every time it’s brought up, you get a look of disgust and ‘they’re teaching kids to change their sex’. It’s going to take massive amounts of time and effort to repair this damage.

And finally, from a religious perspective, well. Not much has improved re acceptance of atheism or non-abrahamic religious beliefs. Egyptian law technically protects your right to freedom of belief, but, crucially, not your right to freedom of expression of religious belief. National ID cards must have your religion listed on them, and the only options are Muslim/Christian/Jew. Contempt of religion and ‘violating Egyptian family values’ laws are pretty strict and are used to prosecute everything from girls dancing on TikTok to blasphemy. I don’t see this improving any time soon, though foreigners (non-Arabs) are given some leeway.

I hope I’ve covered the most important points, but please feel free to reach out if you have more specific questions!

#ask #egyptian feminism #radical feminism #radfem #radical feminist #radfeminist

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unmotivatedwrit3r · 2 years ago

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Cheese of the Stringable Variety

damian wayne x reader

(A/N): I’ve been wanting to write something like this for a while now and it is by far the most niche thing I have ever written. I intended this to be around 1k, looked at the word count before I’d even gotten to the section I wanted to write this for, and then checked again at the end and viola 3k. I am of Arab-American heritage myself and slowly learning Arabic and connecting to my culture, but this type of string cheese has always been a part of my life and my role in my extended family. I also hope that those who don’t share these experiences can still enjoy this fic, if only for the amount of storybuilding that wormed it's way in. (Also worth mentioning that the having separate bedrooms has no cultural relevance whatsoever; I just like the concept.)

Note: reader is implied heavily to be of Middle Eastern heritage, though there are no features described. The region is also unspecified but the Arabic dialect is Levantine because that’s where my family is from.

warnings: a lot of food mentions; a mild curse word in Arabic; use of a knife for food related things; discussions of extended family

wc: ~ 3100

On your way out the door in the morning, you took the braided cheese out of the fridge and left it on the counter, a post-it note on top of it. Leave out of the fridge! was scribbled hastily in your handwriting as you rushed to work. In the apartment behind you, you could hear the sink running. After a long night of patrol, Damian was fortunate his meeting started at eleven am and not eight am.

Every time your phone screen lit up as you headed home in the evening, it taunted you with the time. You didn’t mean to be back so late; it would take hours to string the four braids of cheese you’d picked up from your جد, your grandfather, the day before. At this point in the evening, you’d probably have to get up earlier in the morning and finish it then. At least an early tomorrow would mean “no sleeping in” rather than “running on five hours of sleep” before a family function. You’d done it before. It sucked.

You pulled your laptop and a couple other items from your bag before heading to take a shower and change into comfortable clothes. A sweatshirt of Damian’s caught your eye after you’d gotten changed, tossed haphazardly over the edge of your bed. You hung your damp towel in the bathroom before heading back into the kitchen. Halfway there, you turned and grabbed the sweatshirt, pulling it over your clothes.

“مرحبا حبيبي,” you greeted Damian as he shut the front door behind him. Hello, my love. “How'd the meeting go?"

“مرحبا أملي,” he replied, dropping a quick kiss on your cheek as he passed through the kitchen on his way to the bedroom.

Damian’s Arabic was better than yours. Every time he said something to you that you understood, a satisfied trill shot through your chest. Ameli, he called you this time. My hope. Damian had a handful of various pet names for you that he cycled through, many of them in Arabic.

“The shelter proposal’s been fully approved,” he informed you, “so I’m expecting the distribution of funds to begin in the next few weeks.”

“Oh that’s great!” Setting up properly funded, city-wide animal care facilities was one of the first things Damian ever brought up to the WE board. “You've been working at that for years.” The microwave beeped and you silenced it quickly, pulling out the container of leftovers you’d been heating up. You opened the second container and covered it with the same paper towel before placing it in the microwave. The timer was set once more for 90 seconds. Before the food was done heating up, Damian returned to the kitchen, work clothes traded for a compression shirt and shorts. He owned half a dozen of the exact same black compression shirts. They functioned most often as his first underlayer on patrol.

“Here, Dames.” You held the first container out to him, a vegan pasta dish he made earlier in the week. It was still steaming.

“Thank you, beloved.” Damian took the container and sat down at the table, eyes scanning something on his laptop. If you had to guess, it was probably the drugs case the entire family had been working on recently. The two of you had hosted Dick the other day, up from Blüdhaven following the same case. He’d stayed in Damian’s room while the two of you crashed in yours. Dick was at the manor now, but he’d promised to stop by before he went back home. Some part of you figured it was at least partially motivated by the fact that you were inevitably going to be taking home leftovers tomorrow. Dick had tried some before and loved it. He probably wanted some. You didn’t blame him; you already planned to be hoarding your favorites for yourself. (And Damian. But mostly for you. Your family wasn’t vegetarian.)

The microwave beeped again. You pulled the second container out before grabbing forks and making your way over to the table. Your dinner was mostly the same as Damian’s, but with chicken added into the dish. The two of you didn’t always store leftovers that way, but sometimes it was easier to create two separate servings if you expected to be eating at different times. Damian scribbled a note down on the pad of paper next to him and closed the laptop.

“We’re finally raiding the first warehouse tonight,” he offered, accepting the fork you held out to him. The paper and pen were pushed to the side before Damian started eating.

“Oh yeah?” You asked around a bite of food. “So that stakeout paid off then?”

“It did. But Dick and Timothy are following other leads tonight so this won’t be the end. But it should be a good start.”

“Good,” you agreed. “I’ll be glad when the operation’s dismantled. You wake me up if you need me when you get home, okay?”

Damian nodded.

You weren’t sure you actually believed he would wake you, but you knew Babs would even if he tried to convince her not to. Sometimes you thought being friends with Oracle was the only way you stayed somewhat sane while dating a bat. She sent you injury reports. Alfred’s injury reports, not the lame ones Damian, his father, and his siblings wrote in an effort to not get yelled at by their friends or S/Os.

Dinner didn’t take long. You loaded the dishes into the dishwasher as Damian collected his duffel bag for patrol.

“Love you.” Damian pressed a quick kiss to your lips and another to your temple before ducking out the window.

“I love you too. See you tomorrow.”

There wasn’t secret bunker in your apartment. There was a significant amount of both weaponry and uniform equipment and outside direct access to transportation to one. You watched Damian’s bike disappear behind a false wall before turning back inside. It may not be Gotham-saving, but you, too, had stuff to do.

The microwave clock declared it just after ten pm by the time you’d completed the handful of household chores you wanted done—the ones you expected to have time for until you got home late. You deliberated for a moment before grabbing two braids of cheese and a bowl that your dad had given you for that express purpose. You’d leave the other two out and string them in the morning. Leaving the cheese out all day had done its job. When cold, it would snap too easily when you tried to string it, and take much longer to do.

The speaker that lived in the kitchen turned on with a swooshing noise and an acknowledgement that it was connected to your phone via bluetooth. It was a little late for anything too upbeat, but you found a good playlist after only a minute or so of looking through them. You tied back any loose hair, washed your hands, and grabbed a small paring knife from a drawer before sitting down at the table. The knife, sharp as it was, cut through the plastic packaging with ease.

You moved the empty plastic off to the side and unraveled a twist, cutting each end so that you had two thick pieces a little under a foot long. The second braid was left whole for now. Once you got started, it would be harder to find pieces yet to be strung under the stringy parts already finished. So you’d break apart the larger pieces as you finished the ones before.

Your music kept you company over the next hour and a half. The huge pieces were pulled apart into larger pieces then into medium pieces then into smaller pieces before finally being teased apart into the stringy texture that gave the cheese its colloquial name. It was just before midnight when you graded your efforts adequate. You poked one final time through the two braids worth of cheese and pulled apart any of the pieces you thought were just a little too big before calling it a day.

The bowl was full, and you covered it in plastic wrap before putting it in the fridge. In the morning, when you did the remaining two, you’d have to start a new bowl. There was no sense in leaving already strung cheese out on the counter. You washed the knife and tossed the plastic wrappers in the trash before sending a goodnight text off to Damian.

Goodnight, حبيبي, it read. Then, Be safe. There was no response. You didn’t expect there to be; he’d see it when he could, and you’d see him in the morning.

Your bed was occupied by just you when you woke up which meant one of three things. Either Damian had gotten back too late that he would have woken you up by joining you, he’d gotten injured and knew he’d fail to hide it, or he needed a little bit of solitude. There was no injury report from Barbara when you checked your phone, but the little marker under your text to Damian from last night said that he hadn’t seen it until after three am, which meant it was probably four at the earliest by the time Damian had gotten to bed. You missed the warmth of waking up to him with you even as you appreciated his decision. It was only eight am now. You would have no doubt woken him up with your alarm. He desperately needed sleep, even if only a couple hours more.

The remaining braids of cheese were in the same spot you left them on the counter last night. You moved them and a second bowl to the table, then grabbed yourself a bagel for breakfast. Your friends from New York disagreed, but you’d tried both and New Jersey bagels were far superior.

It was half past nine by the time you finished scraping the hummus from your blender into various containers. One larger container would go with you and Damian to your grandfather’s house. The other one was staying in your fridge. Between the two of you, it wouldn’t last very long. You didn’t make hummus very often despite the fact that you both enjoyed it. What you could boast, though, is that you’d converted Damian to your family’s way of making it. Critiquing supermarket-available hummus became a shared habit.

The completed bowl of string cheese fit perfectly in the fridge on top of the larger container of hummus. Most of the blender parts went in the dishwasher, and you set the cycle to rinse so that the hummus wouldn’t dry and congeal onto the plastic. The blender blade stayed on the side of the sink, already rinsed off. You’d wash it later. First, you had to finish the cheese. You opened your playlist from last night and hit play, bluetooth off this time. If it was loud, it would wake Damian.

Damian’s bedroom door opened near silently when you were nearly done with the third braid. You took a momentary break to nudge the tea kettle on by pressing the button with your elbow before returning to your seat at the kitchen table. The bathroom door shut then opened again a few minutes later. His footsteps, quiet even in his home, meant that you didn’t notice him heading into the kitchen until he was already there. After months of living together and months before that where you might as well have been, your partner appearing silently beside you didn’t startle you anymore.

You never got tired of seeing Damian without his guard up. It was an image only you and his family got to see: a Damian squinting in the morning light, hair a mess of waves that dried pressed against a pillow. The sight of him dressed in nightwing pajama pants and an old college t-shirt was yours, now.

“Morning, my dear,” you greeted him. Small strands of stiff cheese stuck to your fingers. You picked them off and dropped them in the bowl before getting up to give your partner a hug, wrists bent awkwardly so that you wouldn’t touch his shirt with your hands.

“صباح النور” Damian murmured, his arms heavy around your shoulders. Good morning. “What are you doing?” He asked as you let go.

“Remember how I had to pick up cheese from my grandfather’s house the other day?” Damian nodded. “I’m stringing that. I wanted to get it done last night but I got home a little late. So I’m finishing it now.”

You retreated back to your spot at the table, finishing the last of the third braid. Black caraway seeds were scattered around the table and you brushed them into your hand before returning them to the bowl. “The kettle should be done pretty soon. And your mug is on the counter.”

Damian didn’t say anything until he sat down beside you, cup of tea in hand.

“You’re stringing the cheese?”

“Yeah, it’s the thing I’ve been assigned to bring to the family events. I’ve been doing the stringing part since I was a kid but since I started living on my own I’d string it at home and bring it with me. And this year I’ve been upgraded to making hummus, too. I made a double batch so there’s a separate container for just us in the fridge.”

“You went to a family birthday party months ago and didn’t bring it then,” Damian pointed out.

“Yeah, if my aunts and uncles host the event,” you explained, “their family is technically supposed to string it. I mean, a lot of the time I’ll get there and they’ll ask me to do it anyway, but it’s not officially my job. And I don’t have to pick it up if it’s not my job. This is the first full family event that we’ve lived together for, I think.” You thought for a moment. “Wait, no, there was thanksgiving. But you were at the manor then.”

Damian watched as you opened the fourth braid. The plastic wrapping joined the one from earlier.

“I’ve just got this one left.” You cut both ends and pulled one of them apart. “Do you want to help? You’ve just got to wash your hands first.”

Damian detoured to the sink before sitting in the chair beside yours.

“How does it work?”

“You just kinda pull it apart and then keep stringing until it gets to be really thin.” You demonstrated quickly, stringing a small section of the larger piece you were holding until it resembled a pile of embroidery floss.

“Like this, just for the whole thing. But it will snap if you try to brute force pull it instead of string it.” You handed him one of the larger pieces. “Here, you try this one.”

Damian’s face of concentration sent a burst of warmth through your chest. He was following your instructions to perfection, entirely focused. It took effort not to burst into a full grin. You watched him for a moment before continuing on. Two songs went by on your playlist before Damian said anything.

“This takes ages.”

You laughed.

“Yeah, it does. Which is why I spent nearly two hours at it last night and we’re still doing it now. I’ve gotten so much faster at it, though. I can do two braids in less than an hour and a half. It used to take me an hour each. But it’s faster only if it’s warm. If I have to string it right out of the fridge, it’s harder to do.” You smirked. “And it tastes worse.”

Damian quirked a disbelieving eyebrow.

“I doubt that.”

“It’s true. Ask my family members when you meet them later.”

“I will not.”

A laugh burst out involuntarily.

“Yeah, maybe having a debate with my family about food isn’t a great idea. They’d scare you off.”

“No they wouldn’t,” Damian argued, eyes lowered. “I have fought the League and the worst of Gotham—“

“And it’s still okay to be nervous meeting my family. But you know I don’t actually care what they think right?”

“Tt.” Damian stopped stringing to look at you. “They’re your family.”

“Yeah, and so are you.” Your shoulder nudged his, hands still hovering over the half-finished bowl of cheese. “And I know for a fact that you know me better than most of them.” Damian scoffed a laugh.

“I know more about you than your estranged cousins? What a great achievement,” he deadpanned. You rolled your eyes at him, returning to the piece you’d neglected.

“You’re the first significant other in a long time,” you revealed after a moment. “My family is big, in a different way than yours, and they scare people off. So if a cousin brings someone to a holiday celebration, it means we’re serious about the person we’re bringing. All of my cousins-in-law are the people my cousins brought to gatherings like this.” In your peripheral vision, Damian stiffened. You kept stringing, anxiety twisting in your chest.

“I should have told you that earlier, I’m sorry, I don’t even know if you’re fine with that implica-”

Damian’s hand reached out to still yours.

“حياتي,” he said, head dipping down to meet your eyes. “That’s okay with me.”

“High-ah-tee,” you sounded out, repeating it back to him. “What’s that one?”

Damian pressed a kiss to your lips. On instinct, your hands moved to cup his chin. Drying strands of the string cheese in between your fingers had you pulling back.

“العمى,” now I have to wash my hands again. And you should wash your face, Dames.”

“Be right back,” he said, moving quickly to the bathroom. You watched him go before turning to wash your hands. Damian hadn’t returned by the time you’d finished, so you moved back to the table, resuming working on the strand you’d left behind.

“You didn’t tell me what it means,” you reminded him as he sat back down next to you. “Hayati, that is.”

“حياتي,” he said slowly, “means ‘my life.’”

A smile split your face. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Hey,” you began. Damian turned to you, mid stringing his own piece of cheese. “I love you.”

Your partner’s lips quirked up into a grin. He pressed his forehead to yours for just a moment before turning back to the cheese. “I love you too.”

“Now,” you mock-admonished, “if we don’t get this done in the next 45 minutes, we will be leaving late. And my grandfather hates it when the cheese is late.”

Damian huffed a laugh, following your lead as you returned the majority of your attention to the bowl in front of you.

“Maybe we’ll beat your father there.”

You barked out a laugh.

“Oh, my grandfather would find that hilarious.”

Damian’s smirk was visible even as you reached for another piece of string cheese.

“A first impression that will be remembered, then.”

“If we’re on time with the cheese and hummus? And your stringing skills are already pretty good? I think my grandfather will just never let you go.”

“Lucky for him,” Damian said, grabbing the other half of the piece you’d just begun, “I don’t plan on that being a problem.”

#the intimacy of sharing something important to you with someone important to you #damian wayne x reader #damian wayne imagines #damian wayne x gender neutral reader #damian wayne fanfiction #damian al ghul #damian wayne #arab reader #arab-american reader #middle eastern reader #string cheese

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joeymerenset · 6 months ago

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Void’s Romance Club blog Introduction

You can call me Joey, online I use the nickname Void, I use any pronouns but tend to prefer she/they (I’m still figuring that out,) I’m pan and polyamorous

I’m from Palestine and that is not up for your personal interpretation. It is a fact, and if you do not support Palestine, block me.

I’m obsessed with Romance club, my other interests include writing, analyzing literature and media, learning theology and culture, and making art, mostly by drawing but I do other things as well.

I speak Arabic, English and despite having learned French in school all my life, I only know the basics. Trying to learn it on my own time now.

Romance club facts:

I play Romance Club on three accounts because I cannot decide on love interests to save my life. ��

My first story on RC was The Flower from Tiamat’s Fire. My favorites are PSI and Song of the Crimson Nile.

I’d love to make friends/ find Romance Club mutuals, you can ask for my discord.

What Romance Club stories I’ve played, in order of my first to latest:

The Flower From Tiamat’s Fire

Status: on my 6th playthrough

Love Interest: Kingu

Path: Fire

Kali: Call of Darkness

Status: on my 4th playthrough

Love Interest: Ratan

Path: Loyalty, Kindness of the Goddess. Now playing on Independence path

Heaven’s Secret

Status: Completed

Love Interest: Malbonte

Path: Harmony Bearer, Path of Malbonte

Heaven’s Secret 2

Status: Completed

Love Interest: Malbonte (plan to play on other account for Hunger)

Path: Composure

Rage of the Titans

Status: Completed

Love Interest: Murphy

Path: Divinity

The Desert Rose

Status: Season 3, Ep 6 (DNFed for now)

Love Interest: Adil

Path: Rebellion, The Desert Flower

Song of the Crimson Nile

First account:

Status: Season 2, Ep 9

Love Interest: Set, waiting for Anubis

Path: Honesty, Necromancy

Second account:

Status: Season 2, Ep 5

Love Interest: Undecided

Path: Cunning, Oneiromancy

Kali: Flame of Samsara

First account:

Status: Season 2, Ep 2

Love Interest: Ram

Path: Pride, Legacy

Second account:

Status: Season 1, Ep 5

Love Interest: Saraswati

Path: Passion, Freedom

PSI

First account:

Status: Completed, I lost count how many playthroughs I've done

Love Interest: Ivo

Path: Control, Form

Second account:

Status: Completed

Love Interest: Kay

Path: Impulse, Form

Third account:

Status: Completed

Love Interest: Jonas

Path: Control, Form

Arcanum

Status: Previously reached the end of season 2 before making a second account, panicked when I couldn’t choose a love interest, and replayed the whole thing. Currently on Season 1, Ep 7

Love Interest: Liam (will play on other accounts for Bert and Rob)

Path: Emperor

Astrea’s Broken Heart

Status: Season 1, Episode 5 (I had initially played this story on my second account, now I am catching up on my first account before I continue.)

Love Interest: Undecided (will probably play on multiple accounts for Mikael, Raphael and Felonia)

Path: Faith

W: Time Catcher

Status: Season 1, Ep 7

Love Interest: Shen? (I'm falling hard for Onyx and Tallis)

Path: Moon Heiress

Legend of the Willow

Status: Was previously about to end season 2, forgot too many plot points. Now just began replaying

Love Interest: Kazu (Will probably play on other accounts for other love interests)

Path: Coldness, The Pearl Fox

Soulless

Status: Just started, Season 1 Ep 2

Love Interest: Threxia

Path: Pride

Heaven's Secret: Reuiem

Status: Season 1, Ep 3

Love Interest: Undecided, most likely Cain

Path: Whisper of the Devil

And The Haze will take Us

Status: Season 1, Ep 5 (I had initially played this story on my second account, now I am catching up on my first account before I continue.)

Love Interest: Undecided between Ozar, Volot and Sirin

Path: Determination, Haze

The Thunderstorms Saga

Status: Season 1, Ep 5 (almost fully caught up)

Love Interest: Tai, will do another slot for Sa'arnez

Path: Undecided magic path (leaning toward Summoning), Falcon.

I will continue to update this list as I keep going.

#introduction #romance club

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babyyarlert · 4 months ago

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Nadir Yazdan

Full name: Nadir Yazdan (he/him)

Iranian Arab, British

• Cis man, gay

• Age: 26 (May 28)

• Signs: Gemini𖤓, Cancer☾, Pisces↑

• Personality: charming, kinda cheeky in that British style kinda way lol, mr. congeniality, why’s he so good at everything??, his voice is really smooth, has a calm aura about him, he’s intelligent and has a dry sense of humour, he’s really sweet

• Height: 5’10 or 178cm

• Eyes: brown

• Hair: black

Occupation

• Guitarist, pianist and lead vocals in alt rock bad ‘your mom’s old sedan’

• Hair stylist

Family/Background

• His family immigrated from Iran to the city of Britechester when he was only 4 years old, seeking a fresh start and better opportunities for him and his older brother, who was 6 at the time.

• Growing up in a Muslim household while coming to terms with his homosexuality as a teenager was not only overwhelming but terrifying.

• Although he lived in a more accepting society, his family and their Islamic faith still heavily frowned upon homosexuality. In their motherland, it was considered a grave sin, punishable by severe measures.

• Out of fear, he kept his identity closeted, resenting himself and Allah for making him this way.

• He suffered from anxiety, depression, and panic disorders throughout his teenage years, struggles that persisted into adulthood.

• At age 26, he still hasn't come out to any of his family. He has come to accept that he most likely never will, and he’s okay with it. In recent years, he has learned to love himself more and be proud of every aspect of his life that makes him who he is.

• Despite the ongoing internal and external challenges, he has found comfort in a supportive group of friends who accept him unconditionally. He has also become involved in local LGBTQ+ advocacy, working to help others who face similar struggles.

Relationship

• ‘Single’ but seeing someone on and off

Hobbies

• Playing his guitar

• He’s always singing. You know that one friend that always wants to burst out into a song at every chance, yeah that’s him

• Reading

• Relaxing self care like wearing a face mask while having a hot bath and listening to an audio book

Random facts

• He’s super flexible and double jointed

• Night owl and hates mornings

• His ideal date: “A romantic boat ride followed by an extravagant dinner at the guys place with candles and wine, we could probably dance a little to some slow music before retreating to his bedroom so we could… y’know. But the mood has to be right or I’d probably just make up a reason to go home. What can I say, I’m a huge romantic” -he says in a cheeky British accent

• Terrified of spiders, cockroaches, ants, and basically anything of that nature that crawls

#muse character profile #nadir profile #sims 4 simblr #nadir yazdan

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redbullcateringfiction · 1 year ago

Text

Chapter 6 -

Cantata

Arabella is the executive assistant for Mercedes Team Principal Toto Wolff. 10 years into her career, it looks like the tide is changing, and she's beginning to question her relationship with him. Is it something more, or nothing but an idea lingering in her head?

F/M, Fluff, Boss/Employee Relationship, Romance, Pining, Love, Slow Burn

Sixth chapter below the cut or click here for AO3

Click here for the previous chapter on Tumblr, and click here for a list of all chapters

(Total: 26637 words thus far)

Apologies for the long wait. Life happens, as I'm sure people know.

~redbullcateringfiction

I looked at myself in the mirror. The flight sleeping had taken its toll on me and I certainly looked more tired than I felt. I quickly threw on a light concealer. Just enough to make myself look less tired, but not enough to be wearing an obvious amount of makeup. I pulled my hair up, and then pulled it down, evaluating the two options, when suddenly there was a knock on the door. I opened it just a crack, and there stood Toto.

“Toto, cell phones exist,” I sighed, swinging the door open fully.

“I’m old school. If I can walk a short distance and get an in person conversation, I will,” Toto answered.

“Meh. Fine, what is it?”

“Where did you want to go for dinner so I can set up a reservation?” Toto asked.

“Oh…well there’s some amazing Arabic restaurants here. It’s rarely a food I can enjoy, so I would love it today,” I smiled.

“Excellent. I think there’s one on the pool deck.”

“On the pool deck. In this weather?” I asked.

“How do you mean? It looks a bit dim out, but nothing more than that.”

“Dust storm is coming,” I explained. “Here, come on in.”

“Oh, alright,” He nodded as I opened the door.

“Take a look out the window,” I explained, walking towards the window with him. The floor to ceiling windows provided a perfect opportunity for me to explain.

“There’s no wall of dust on the horizon. Not yet. But those aren’t normal thunder clouds. The sky isn’t dim because the cloud is blocking the sky, and that cloud isn’t brown because the sun is setting. That particular cloud is filled with dust,” I explained. Out on the horizon, you could see the towering, mountainous thundercloud. It was filled with desert sand, and I could only imagine the havoc it was leaving behind it. Here though, it was normal. For Arabs, the desert conditions are the only way life functions.

“Interesting. Will it clear out by tomorrow?” Toto asked.

“No chance. It won’t clear out until at least tomorrow night,” I explained.

“Bad for the track. Bad for the cars. Worse for testing,” Toto sighed learning back.

“Don’t worry. I scheduled a meeting with Aero for tonight.”

“Then we better get dinner now and not later,” Toto said, smiling and turning around. I chuckled.

“I guess that’s the only thing we can do until the meeting.”

“Well, then, there’s another Arabic restaurant on the 5th floor,” I answered.

“Indoors?” Toto asked, walking towards the door. He chuckled at his own joke.

“No, no. It's completely outdoors. In fact, it's actually in the dust storm,” I smiled back.

“So sarcastic,” He mocked, holding the door for me as we walked towards the elevator.

“A celebrity, Arabella?” My aunt asked, as my sister, Farah, took a bite of her hummus. She dipped a cucumber in it with a smirk on her face. She knew very well where this was going.

“I’m not really a celebrity. I mean, don’t get me wrong, we’re better off than most bands but we’re not Def Leppard or anything,” Cathal explained, smiling. I shot him a look. His huge blue eyes looked at me and got giant. I could tell he was desperately searching his brain for what he had done wrong.

“Well if our cousins knew who you were without me even having to say ‘music,’ I’d say you’re a celebrity,” My aunt smiled. The room was quiet. Practically silent, in fact. I watched as my Farah’s husband, Mehdi, brought in another bowl of hummus. My sister had practically devoured the first bowl of hummus. It had been her number one pregnancy craving. At least, that’s what I found out half an hour ago.

“Auntie…he’s just humble I guess,” I smiled.

“I wouldn’t go that far. I’ve definitely got some cockiness,” Cathal chuckled. I shot him another glance. I knew something dumb was about to come out of his mouth. This time the eyes were small and just as searching. He brushed his blonde hair out of his face. It desperately needed to be cut, but he swore it looked good.

“Vanity is a sin,” My aunt answered. “That’s why you should be Muslim.” I watched as Farah nearly spit out her food with laughter. I watched as the reasoning slapped Cathal in the face. He grinned through gritted teeth as my aunt left the room, making her excellent impression.

“I’m…I’m gonna run to the bathroom,” Cathal told me, quickly running off. My sister looked at me, and then at her husband before they both burst out in laughter.

“You’ve got some nerve bringing a little white boy who makes music about so many things a strict Muslim aunt hates to Marrakech,” Mehdi snarked.

“Oh, be nice. White boys have always been her type. Since France, at least,” Farah laughed.

“Alright, alright. I get it,” I sighed, putting my head in my hands.

Nour took a seat next to me. My brother.

“You know, the whole boarding school thing isn’t very funny,” Nour said, dipping his carrot into the hummus. “Just because you were the only one to not get shipped off, Farah, doesn’t mean you’re better than us. You’re just the golden child.”

“For a reason,” Farah shrugged. There are 4 of us. Nour is the oldest, 12 years older than me. Then, he’s followed by my brother Chadi, who’s 7 years older than me. Then finally, my sister Farah, only 3 years older than me. And then, there’s me. The youngest. I had barely had a chance to know Chadi and Nour. Nour was already at boarding school by the time I was born. Chadi wouldn’t go till I was 5, but had disappeared all the same one day. Honestly, none of us even really knew where Chadi was or what he was doing. All we knew was that he wasn't dead because Nour would sometimes send pictures of Chadi he had found online or through their mutual friends. The only reason we knew where Nour was, is because he makes a point to show up at holidays completely randomly, with no rhyme or reason. Every time though, he made a point to defend me against Farah and her antics. Too bad there was no tie between us. We hadn’t even met till I was 18. He had apparently been coming home already for 2 years at that point after he graduated from University. But I hadn’t been there.

Farah stood up and left the room, taking her husband and the hummus with her.

“That one’s a raging bitch,” Nour sighed. I watched as he cracked a beer under the table and poured it into an opaque cup. “Do you want one?”

“God, fuck, yes,” I said handing him the cup under the table.

“I’ll do you one better,” He said. I watched as he took out a bottle of vodka and poured a good amount into the cup.

“That’s way more than a shot,” I whispered.

“It’s what you need,” Nour answered. He handed it back to me and I took it right back. He took the cup back and poured the beer into it. As soon as he managed to put the bottles back into his bag, Auntie walked by again.

“That better not be alcohol, Nour. It’s haram,” She ordered him.

“It's not, Auntie. It’s Barbican,” he smiled.

“Good, good,” She nodded as she left the room.

“Cathal seems nice, Bella,” Nour smiled. I cringed at the shortening of my name. However, he barely knew me despite being my brother. I had to forgive him.

“He is. He’s honestly a sweetheart,” I smiled.

“I didn’t say all that. He’s nice,” Nour warned. I narrowed my eyes.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“I personally really like storms, Bella. I like the thunder rolling in. I like the rain pouring down. I like the way the sky grows gray and watching the cars quickly turn on their fastest wipers. I really like storms. I find them nice. Nevertheless, I know that they’re chaotic. I get the sense you also find chaos nice,” Nour explained, taking a sip out of his cup.

“I don’t,” I answered. “I like structure.”

“Really? Or do you like managing chaos?” He asked. Cathal quickly rounded the corner.

“Hi, did I miss anything?” He asked, pulling out his chair.

“Nothing serious,” Nour smiled at him.

I looked at Toto, watching as his eyes scanned the menu. “I don’t eat Arabic food frequently,” He struggled. I couldn’t help but chuckle slightly.

“I’d recommend the chicken machboos. It’s the national dish of Bahrain,” I smiled.

He looked up at me, his eyes finally parting from the menu for the first time since he had gotten it. “Is that what you’re eating?” He asked. I nodded. He took a deep breath and set the menu down. “Then sure, sure.”

We sat there awkwardly for just a moment. While yes, we had developed a friendship over our years of working together, it could never quite outweigh our working relationship. It made it slightly difficult to actually communicate at times like this. That is to say, moments where our working relationship was the reason why we were together, but the event itself was much more casual than one might assume.

“How was the flight for you?” Toto asked.

“Sleepy,” I answered. He smiled.

“I know. You fell asleep so soon after take off. You always get cold so soon before me that I figured if I knew it was cold, you would be shivering when you woke up,” He explained. Quite a few car rides with Toto had featured me pulling on my sweater as he reached to roll down the window. He would always apologize profusely, but seeing him sitting there with sweat pouring down his brow, I would always tell him it was fine to roll the window down. He would hesitate, but I would tell him I was perfectly warm with my sweater.

“So, that’s why you got me a blanket?” I asked.

“I was surprised Bono hadn’t already,” He shrugged.

“I thought it had been him when I woke up,” I answered. While Toto and I generally had very different interpretations of temperature, Bono and I were one in the same. “Was he not cold?”

“No, not really. He hadn’t noticed it,” Toto answered. “But he had on many more layers than you.”

“The same as you?”

“Yes…Is this an interrogation about a decision to get a blanket for my assistant?” Toto asked, raising his eyebrow.

“It’s conversation,” I answered, mocking his earlier shrug.

“No, no. You’re questioning me. You can’t sass your way out of this one, Arabella,” He leaned in.

“I absolutely can, and I will,” I laughed. “I was just curious. Bono is usually cold, and you’re usually warm. It just struck me as strange that Bono didn’t think it was cold. I’m not saying you can’t get me a blanket as I’m knocked out. I’m just saying it’s weird Bono didn’t think it was cold easily an hour before you.”

“Well he was right next to the window. Maybe the sun was keeping him warm,” Toto shrugged.

“Were you not?” I answered.

“Arabella…” He warned. “People can be cold and warm at different times.”

“Alright, alright. Dropping the curiosity.”

He leaned back as I, myself, backed off. I could see the smirk on his face.

“No, no. Now you think you won,” I argued.

“It’s not an argument, Arabella. No winners, no losers,” He laughed.

“Then why the smirk?” I responded.

“Nothing. I smirk.”

“For no reason?”

“Sometimes.”

“Liar.”

He was saved by the bill as the waiter wandered over, bringing with him a tray of vegetables and hummus. We ordered our same dishes and he walked away. I kept my head down, looking at the vegetables I was trying to pick. Just barely within my sight, I could see Toto looking at me still smirking. I could pick my head up and catch him in the act or I could drop it. I’m quite pushy…but I dropped it.

“Besides bullying me, what are you planning to do during testing tomorrow?” Toto asked.

“I’m going to be in the garage with you. Too many people running around, and too much business to handle to be anywhere else,” I answered.

“Ah right. You have your phone off mute so the engineers can harass you into passing around the messages they could easily speak over the headset?” He asked.

“Absolutely not. They’re all on notice. During race weekends, they can only text me if for some reason they can’t find someone, but only if they’ve checked absolutely everywhere. If they haven’t, call them over the headset and see if they respond. Otherwise, fine, I’ll take a look. They’ve probably got themselves on the wrong radio channel.”

“Good, good. I’m surprised they haven’t gotten around to asking you to help with the pit yet, all they ask for,” Toto answered. He brushed his hair around with his hand, trying to get an idea of what it looked like with just his hand. I went into my purse and took out a makeup mirror, and passed it to him.

“There wouldn’t be any time even if they wanted me to. Half the time I’m running around replacing headsets, alerting people of strategy changes that they have yet to notice, and delivering small things I usually carry for myself and you to random people. I’ve lost so many hair ties over the years,” I sighed. “That won’t change. The only thing that will change is the other half of what I usually do. Find people because they don’t want to clog up the headset. But that’s why there’s other radio channels.”

“Perhaps this is my fault,” Toto began, messing with his fingers. “Maybe we shouldn’t be talking about work?”

“Honestly, it’s the only thing going on in my life,” I shrugged. “Not much else for me.”

“Certainly I’m devoted to work, but I also keep a healthy personal life,” Toto stared at me. His eyebrow raised, implying that no actual question was needed.

“I have no children and my family is irritating. I keep to myself. Don’t worry. I enjoy life,” I explained.

“You don’t need children or family to have a personal life. Friendships exist, and they’re quite fulfilling.”

“I know. I just don’t make friends very easily.”

I wish I had just been lying to end the conversation faster, but it was true. I have Bono. I apparently have a lawyer who I didn’t have a very good date with. But I don’t have much else outside of that. Even if I wanted to be generous and call Toto a friend, I would still only have 3. And none of them are women. Don’t get wrong, men and women can be friends. Any other perspective on that is silly. Nonetheless, there is something special about friendship with women. Over the years, I had tastes of it. Just brief fleeting exchanges with drunk girls in bathrooms, or coworkers like Marie who I shared some details with. Never anything longer term or more than amicable. Friendship between women, I had noticed, was so intimate.

I could easily recall my mother’s friends showing up in the evenings on the weekends. Sipping wine while discussing things about their relationships. I learned things about my parents’ relationship that I never would’ve known by pretending to sleep on the floor. My mother would go on, and on, and on about every little thing from the books she read to the bills she paid. Her friends would listen attentively, taking a genuine interest, and then go on about their own similar stories. I would lay there on the floor, and at some point, genuinely fall asleep to their stories.

I had yet to maintain a friendship like that. My relationships with women have often been shallow, and frequently, that was my fault. Most of my friendships have been shallow, actually. I will ignore the request to hang out, or them asking me to lunch. I would rather read a book and never discuss it, keeping the details to myself.

“I doubt that. You’re friendly.”

“Am I?” I raised an eyebrow.

“When you want to be,” He smiled. I laughed at the comment.

“No, no. You’re right though. It’s more the keeping of friends that I struggle with,” I explained. He nodded.

“It's not easy,” He shrugged. I looked at his hands as he again fixed his hair, like a nervous tick. Again, I found myself lingering for too long on his appearance. His dark hair, his darker eyes, his angled smile, and…everything. I felt myself getting hot and quickly looked down at my own hands. How have I gotten here? In this situation? I couldn’t help it, but I also couldn’t ignore it. It’s one thing to know someone’s attractive, and it’s another thing to be attracted. I am attracted to my boss, but thank God I’m smart enough to not act on it. There’s some lines that can’t be crossed, and this is one of them.

“Hot in here?” Toto asked.

“Huh?” I nearly fainted. I wiped my forehead.

“You’re quite red. Here.” He poured a glass of water out of the pitcher for me and I quickly emptied it. I wasn’t red from attraction, I was red from embarrassment. I wasn’t hot from the crush, but from the anxiety of being found out.

“Yes, it’s a little hot,” I groaned.

“And I’m cold. People can be cold and warm at different times. Strange, isn’t it?” He smirked.

“Oh my God,” I sighed, pouring another glass of water for myself. “Did you really just do that?”

“I did, yes. You can’t win every time, Arabella.”

It didn’t happen frequently, but sometimes, Toto would win our minor arguments or discussions. They were always silly conversations, but nevertheless, I didn’t like to lose even the silliest of conversations. So, whenever he managed to just barely one up me enough to collect his own win, it always felt like I had just gone all in and Toto played a royal flush.

“You’re funny,” Toto smirked while staring into my eyes. “I can see those gears turning.”

“No gears. Empty,” I said, tapping my head.

“Empty? Never,” He shook his head. He wasn’t wrong, unfortunately. It is a bit like a hamster on a wheel here.

“If only it were sometimes,” I complained.

“Anxious?” Toto stared at me.

“Always,” I tried to giggle it away. He didn’t seem to receive it well. Damn Austrians and Germans. They joke when they want to and look at you like you’re crazy when you do. I had a desire to explain but I simply shut my mouth and waited for the awkwardness to fizzle out. It didn’t though.

“No, no. Explain,” He waited. “Well, actually, you don’t have to. Just, if there’s anything I can do, explain what it is.”

There is nothing he can do. Nonetheless, I get the sensation that if I say that he won’t believe me. And then if I explain, he’ll feel like he forced it out of me. I don’t mind explaining right now. It feels like finally the somewhat appropriate moment to do so. But nevertheless, I don’t want to. I fiddled with my hands for a moment before opening my mouth.

“I have agoraphobia. I cope with it pretty well, mainly by having this job so I am rarely in a place for too long. If I’m in a place for too long, it starts to feel too similar to home and I have to get out,” I explained. “I just deal with it. No big deal.”

“That seems like a big deal. It literally affects every aspect of your life,” He raised his eyebrow.

“No, it really isn’t. It’s a background thought. The anxiety is too. It’s not something that is destroying my life. I just find it a bit difficult to settle down once I get going.”

“Ah,” He replied. “Does it bother you?”

“No, not really. Like I said, I’ve learned to cope. I’ve learned my methods, and I’m happy with them.”

“Then that’s all that matters,” He affirmed. “You’re happy, then I’m happy for you.”

I watched as the food got brought. It smelled of saffron and immediately gave me a comforting wash of emotions.

“Wait a moment,” Toto interrupted my moment. “Surprise parties. Do you hate those?”

I raised my eyebrow until I realized he was concerned about the agoraphobia and surprise parties.

“No, I quite like them actually. A well planned party is enjoyable no matter how it’s presented. So long as the room isn’t filled to the brim with people, that is,” I laughed. It quickly turned into a chortle. I couldn’t help but find his concern…cute? Adorable? Funny. It was funny. “Wait a moment-”

“No further questions.”

“A surprise party?”

“No further questions, Arabella,” He demanded. “Eat your food. Smells good. Eat it.”

“The audacity of you to think I’ll do as I’m told,” I smirked. Too far, Arabella. Too far. Was that flirty? I was trying to be snarky, but the line is thin. I watched as Toto raised his eyebrows, and then as they settled back down on his face. I felt my heart beat out of my chest as he opened his mouth to speak.

“Trust me, I do not think that,” He answered, leaning in towards me. I watched as he poured more water into my glass. “I know it, in fact.”

“Know what…exactly?”

“Up to you to figure out,” He taunted, taking the first bite of his food. The tension implored me to take the first bite of mine as well. The first bite was delicious but tainted by the sensation of confusion and worry taking me over. All these years of being an adult had just gone out the window. Suddenly, like a middle schooler, I sat trying to analyze his tone and his words. As if I had never learned English and was translating from a dictionary. No, stop. You’re thinking too much, Arabella. I could practically hear Jeffrey in my head laughing at the way I could no longer tell the difference between tension and tension.

“It’s good,” I coughed, pointing at the food, and trying to cut the tension.

“Mmhmm,” He mumbled, pulling the metaphorical rope tighter. I stared back down at my food, and continued to pick at it as I waited for him to jump in. It was his prerogative. He didn’t, like he was relishing the feeling.

“Alright, Toto,” I began. He shot his head up, and made eye contact with me. He might be enjoying the tension, but I am not. I will do what I know how to do best. “The meeting with Aero, it better be at 8pm considering that at 6pm you have a meeting with Lewis’s team and at 7pm you have a meeting with Bottas’s team. These are just about scheduling so they may run short, but I’ll be there to ensure you don’t commit anything silly. Regardless, I hope you didn’t double book yourself. Lewis’s team can be flexible but no later than 7. Then we would have to reschedule with Bottas’s team. And you know they can be much less flexible.”

He stared at me for a second, almost in disbelief. ‘Yes, Toto. Your refusal to end the tension means that you must now discuss work. Yes I have just done that to you,’ I thought.

“I scheduled it for 8:30 since Aero is running around till then. No worries,” He answered.

“Great, I’ll add it to the book. Do you think we can squeeze a strategy meeting between 8 and 8:30? Some of the other engineers can stay through the Aero meeting in case there’s lingering concerns,” I explained.

“Do we need another strategy meeting?” Toto questioned.

“Always,” I answered.

“Fine.”

“Good, let me send out an email,” I smiled, taking out my phone. I quickly typed up to the email, after doing a quick check to make sure that time was free for every team.

“Now that my schedule’s handled-” He began.

“No, oh no. Never is, is it? A few more things,” I blurted, as I began to go over everything for the upcoming weekend.

“Oh, a Mercedes team member?” The man behind me spoke. I turned around. He looked vaguely familiar.

“Yeah, yeah,” I answered, grabbing the coffee as it came ready. It was my own, as I’m certainly no coffee runner. I went to add cream, but paused deciding if I needed, or even wanted it. I had gotten into the habit of drinking it black, but sometimes I desperately wanted something sweet and would find myself adding spoonful after spoonful of sugar. Cream certainly meant I would be adding sugar.

“Engineer?” He asked, waiting for his own coffee to finish brewing. This little room behind the paddock was actually a space for the media, but with a coffee maker and pastries floating around, of course we had all wandered our way into here. It wasn’t particularly nice, but the desire for coffee typically overwhelmed any interest in design.

“Oh. Uh. No,” I shook my head. I closed the lid deciding against the cream.

“Then what?”

“Background things,” I shrugged. “Sorry, nothing really interesting about it.”

“Doubt it. You work for my favorite team,” He laughed.

“Sorry, no really. I don’t do anything interesting,” I smiled. “But uh…if you hang around here a little longer, you’re sure to run into someone interesting.”

“No, no! I think I have. Background things? Like what?” He asked. I sighed, before finally looking him up and down. No pass, no uniform. Did he even work here? How did he get past the gate to this area?

“Sorry to ask. Are you a fan? You shouldn’t be back here,” I explained. I felt a hand come across my shoulder. I turned and saw one of our engineers, Percy.

“Celebrity,” He whispered, before going to pick out a pastry. So, regardless I had to entertain him or risk him calling me or the entire team out in the media for being ‘rude’? Great.

“No, no. I don’t work here. They let me through, though,” The vaguely-familiar-celebrity answered.

“Oh…alright. Well, there goes an engineer. If you want to chat with them,” I gestured towards Percy.

“I can read all about that later. I’m curious about the background stuff now. Sorry, let me introduce myself,” He said, stepping towards me. He reached out his hand. “Cathal. Uh…Lynch.”

“Oh, nice to meet you, Cathal,” I shook his hand. Off the top of my head, his name wasn’t familiar. Matching the name to the face didn’t help at all. I genuinely had no clue who this man was. As many celebrities as I run into back here, I usually recognize them. Him, though? No clue.

“I can see the gears turning in your head. I’m uh…a singer. For a band. Not a big one though. I’m here with the band we’ve been opening for.”

“Oh? What band is that?”

“Blur. They’re performing after the race tonight. Congrats on the win by the way. Lewis’s 3rd right?” He asked.

“Yes, yes. We’re thrilled. It’s uh…it’s nice to have someone on the records.”

“Sitting pretty next to Senna is not something many can claim,” Cathal nodded.

“Precisely.”

“Well, do tell me more about this background work you do. I’m very curious,” He said, finally grabbing his coffee.

“I’m a personal assistant. Really. Just background work, I swear,” I nodded. Maybe he would drop it?

“For a driver? That’s awesome!” He cheered. “Flying around with Lewis Hamilton and Nico Rosberg then?” I suppose I’m not getting out of this then.

“Well yes, but I’m not the driver’s personal assistant. I’m Toto Wolff’s,” I explained.

“That’s even cooler. So you’re really right on the front lines then. You tell the driver’s what to do and keep them in line, huh?” Cathal asked. “No, wait, you must tell Toto what to do then.”

“No, no. No telling anybody what to do. I’m just an assistant. I help to manage the absurdity. Nothing more really.”

“You should get on that then. I bet it’d be awfully fun to tell that German bastard what to do,” Cathal laughed. “Oh, sorry. That’s your boss. I’m sure he’s a real nice bastard.”

“He is,” I laughed back. He’s quite funny isn’t he? And a little cute, I’m tempted to say. The blonde hair, the absolutely gorgeous and huge blue eyes, and a bit boyish in his face. Maybe I don’t really mind him having stopped me. At least he’s attractive. Afterall, I’m 24 and single. Perhaps…no…no way. He’s a celebrity and I’m really nobody.

But as the conversation continued I started ot get the sensation that maybe he wasn’t just interested in my job. Maybe he was interested in me. The way he smiled. The way he leaned in. Eventually, as he watched as I brushed my hair behind my ears and commented on how pretty it was, I felt settled in my feelings. As he put his number in my phone, I felt a little cheerier than I could rationalize. He’s probably just looking for a one night stand for tonight after his show. Nothing more.

Tag list: @daddyslittlevillain, @littleheaven

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