#missing money india

[sharesamadhan23]

Avoiding Pitfalls: Tips for a Smooth Mutual Fund Claim

Ensuring a hassle-free claim process for your mutual fund is crucial to be aware of potential pitfalls that may arise. By understanding these potential challenges, you can take proactive steps to streamline your claim and avoid unnecessary delays or complications. This section will provide valuable tips and best practices for navigating the mutual fund claim process more efficiently.

First and foremost, it is important to stay updated with the terms and conditions of your mutual fund. Familiarize yourself with the specific requirements and procedures for making a claim. This includes understanding the documentation that needs to be submitted, the timeframe within which the claim needs to be filed, and any additional supporting information that may be required. By being well-informed, you can ensure that you are fully prepared to initiate the claim process.

Accurate documentation is another crucial aspect of a hassle-free claim process. Make sure to keep all relevant documents in order and up to date. This may include account statements, transaction records, purchase confirmations, and any other supporting evidence. Maintaining organized and accurate documentation will not only facilitate a smooth claim process but also help in providing the necessary evidence to support your claim.

In addition to accurate documentation, it is advisable to maintain open lines of communication with your mutual fund provider. Regularly check in with them to stay informed about any updates or changes that may impact your claim. This can help you stay ahead of any potential issues and address them promptly.

Furthermore, it is essential to promptly report any losses, damages, or other incidents that may give rise to a claim. Delaying the reporting of such incidents can lead to complications and may result in a denial of your claim. As soon as you become aware of an incident, notify your mutual fund provider and initiate the claim process as per their instructions.Lastly, it is always a good practice to seek professional advice when navigating the mutual fund claim process. Consulting with a financial advisor or legal expert can provide valuable insights and guidance, ensuring that you are taking the right steps to maximize your chances of a successful claim.

[imsofreakingtired]

Sevika Jain: contemporary au headcanons

contemp!sevika who grew up in a cramped apartment in jackson heights, queens, who remembers the hindi songs playing on the radio, the worn leather seats of her father’s old car, the corners with small restaurants that served the best indian food, the hip-hop blasting from around the block, the jingle of the icee man's cart in the public park, the air conditioned library that was too quiet and was her favorite place in the world for that reason, her relatives flocking in the kitchen talking over each other as the smell of dal makhani wafts through the rooms

contemp!sevika who remembers the close knit community of little india, following her mother around the markets on 74th street for a new lehenga to wear to her cousin’s wedding, biting back the urge to ask her mother if she couldn’t wear a sherwani instead, because she can feel her mother’s stress at trying to find something affordable and respectable already 

contemp!sevika who grew up speaking seven indian dialects but lost her mother tongue gradually as public school taught her to be ashamed of her accent, but feels the lost language like a missing part of her soul as she grows older and tries to relearn it 

contemp!sevika who knew her parents would always adore her younger brother more than her, whom she adored and protected fiercely as well, but would feel the unequal love like a wound that never closed

contemp!sevika who used to pray every night that god would turn her into a boy, because she felt that if she were born a boy maybe her parents would love her more, maybe she would be able to be more helpful and get a real job, maybe the world would forgive her for the way she was built

contemp!sevika who remembers the pressure of money problems that hung over the household like a cloud and deepened the wrinkles in her parents’ faces, who felt constantly guilty for her existence as a result 

contemp!sevika who grew up too quickly and was always the silent tall girl in her class, the girl with an accent and an awkward walk, the girl who got into fights and didn’t listen to the teachers, the girl who always seemed to fall behind no matter how hard she tried to please 

contemp!sevika who remembers the sting of her father’s palm after he discovered she was going around with a girl in her high school, his rapid fire words telling her that he and her mother did not bring her into this country for her to mix with the social outcasts

contemp!sevika who continued to date girls, who dropped out of high school and left home at seventeen to work for her uncle’s car repair shop, who never showed it but mourned the estrangement from her little brother (who excelled in school and was the son she always wished she could be)

contemp!sevika who returned home and enrolled in community college and tried again to bend herself into the mold her parents had made for her, who felt in the back of her mind that she had failed them, but gradually had to accept that she would never live up to their standards

contemp!sevika who never heard her father say the words “i love you”, or her mother saying the words “i’m proud of you”, but remembers the way her father would stand in the doorway watching over her when she was sick, the way her mother would always leave a plate of panipuri for her when she got back from school 

contemp!sevika who found solace in the circles of friends in college, who graduated and went on to engineering school, who would always think of her father with equal parts love and rage, who would always feel off, like she didn’t quite belong anywhere

contemp!sevika who will soon grow into herself, who will stay in her beloved city and never forget where she came from, who she used to be—the oldest daughter of indian immigrants, the student who never felt like she was enough, the woman who raged against the system, the tall angry quiet girl from queens.

[flwrkid14]

Training the Bat Way (aka Bruce’s Terrible Parenting 101)

Bruce Wayne, aka the Dark Knight, aka the absolute worst, has this little training exercise that the entire family unanimously despises. He calls it “building resilience” or “preparing for the unexpected.” The rest of the family calls it Bruce’s stupid sleep-deprivation kidnapping game.

Here’s how it works: Bruce waits until you’re at your absolute lowest—after a grueling week of non-stop patrols, minimal sleep, and a near-catastrophic Gotham meltdown. Once you’ve finally collapsed into a dead sleep (and sometimes, after he’s sneakily slipped you a sedative to make sure you stay asleep), he picks you up, sticks you on a plane, and drops you off in the middle of nowhere. Sometimes it’s a remote village in the mountains; sometimes it’s the bustling heart of a city on the other side of the planet. The challenge? Find your way home.

Occasionally, Bruce will leave you with some supplies: a wallet, maybe a burner phone, a little equipment if he’s feeling generous. But more often than not, you’ll wake up with absolutely nothing. No money, no ID, no tools—just the clothes on your back and a pounding headache from whatever the hell Bruce drugged you with.

Some highlights of Bruce’s 'training' include:

• Dick waking up in the middle of Germany with nothing but his expired driver’s license and missing socks (He'd hidden cash in them, so he can only guess Bruce found it).

• Steph regaining consciousness in Iceland with a crumpled €5 euro and zero idea how to exchange it for local currency.

• Damian waking up in the middle of the Sahara Desert. No gear. No money. Nothing but sand and the distant memory of Bruce’s smug face.

• Tim once took over a month to get home from a tiny town in Thailand. By the time he made it back to Gotham, he’d created an entire fake identity, complete with forged documents, an elaborate backstory, and several new international contacts. Bruce called it “impressive.” Tim called it traumatizing.

• Cass, of course, took this completely in stride. Woke up in India, dismantled a shady criminal organization she stumbled across, and then casually returned to Gotham two days later like nothing had happened. When asked how she managed it, she just shrugged.

• Duke waking up in the Grand Canyon with his phone at 1% and a granola bar in his pocket. He got home in less than a day, having hitched a ride, bartered his way onto a train, and charmed a group of tourists into helping him. He also got himself a pet chameleon on the way, somehow.

• Jason refuses to talk about his turn, but based on the suspicious amount of diplomatic immunity he now has in several Eastern European countries, it’s safe to say he didn’t play by Bruce’s rules.

If they’re lucky, Bruce leaves them somewhere within the U.S., in which case the Wayne name might help speed up the process. But outside of the States? Forget it. Flashing a “Wayne” credit card can cause more problems than it solves (That's if they're even lucky enough to have a credit card to flash in the first place).

To the rest of the family, this whole thing is less of a “training exercise” and more of a weird, sadistic game Bruce plays when he thinks they’re getting too soft. And no matter how many times they complain, Bruce insists it’s “for their own good.” Because of course he does.

The thing is, they all do get home. Eventually. And yeah, maybe they come back stronger or sharper or whatever excuse Bruce uses to justify it. But at what cost? (Mostly their sanity and a burning hatred of international airline fees.)

Still, the Bats have learned to adapt. They’ve formed their own set of unspoken rules:

1. Always keep some emergency cash hidden somewhere on your person (And hope Bruce doesn't find it, because he will take it).

2. Never, ever fully trust that glass of water Bruce hands you after patrol.

3. And if you wake up in the middle of nowhere, the first step is simple: curse Bruce Wayne’s name as loudly and creatively as possible. Then get to work.

Because at the end of the day, they will get home. And they’ll probably sucker-punch Bruce the second they do.

[aliesbienish]

Benedict Bridgerton with wife reader. With "Oh god, it’s been such a hard day. I missed you so much.” He says as he kisses the living heck out of her and drags her to their bed and surprises her. Just do however you want. Thanks!! :))

Recharge

Not to be dramatic but you were counting the minutes until Benedict got home. He was off playing pretend Viscount, thanks to Anthony and Kate being overseas in India. You knew how much he despised it but, and he likely would never admit to anyone but you, it had given him a lot of new found appreciation for his older brother. You also despised his fill in role as family business seriously cut into the time you got to spend with your husband. It wasn't just like being away from your love, but it was also being separated from your best friend.

Today you knew would be particularly taxing for Benedict. He had to deal with some particularly slimy lords who thought they could be cunning and coax him to invest Bridgerton money in their schemes while Anthony was away. Ben had been dreading it for days.

It was well past dark out before you finally heard his carriage roll in. Mere moments after it halted he was walking through the sitting room door, a tired smile gracing his face as he saw you.

"Oh god my love, it has been such a hard day. I missed you so much," He greeted before gently bring your face towards his. Soft lips meet you own as you kissed like you hadn't seen each other in months, bodies pressed together. "I never want to be apart again," He declared when you both finally surfaced for a breath.

He took your hand in his and gently tugged you off the sofa, leading you up the stairs towards the chamber your shared.

"Ben, don't you want something for tea after such a long day?"

"Not at all my darling wife, right now I just need to be with you to recharge my energy."

Once in your rooms you both peeled off your respective clothes, and you let down your pinned hair. Joining each other in bed, Ben rested against the headboard wrapping you in his arms against his bare chest.

Once comfortable you just talked about your respective days. You happily giving opinions on the business deals or lack there of, Ben discussing exactly what you will be doing on your next free day together. It was warm and easy, and you were both so happy to be together.

✩���˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

As a massive introvert I think the sweetest thing is someone saying that being around you recharges their battery. So basically Anon I'm sorry if you were leaning to something more smutty, I am apparently feeling very soft today. xx

[chibsandchill]

Oliver Quick indeed

Fandom: Saltburn

Pairing: Oliver Quick x AFAB!Catton!Reader��

Summary: Oliver never suspected he'd get caught, and he's not exactly against his punishment.

Warnings: NSFW content, a slight amount of dub-con, swearing, Oliver Quick, bathwater drinking, grammatical and spelling errors, Oliver is perhaps a smidge jealous of a bathtub, inappropriate use of a hairbrush

If you know me in real life and you found this… No you didn’t. 

Masterlist

Minors do not interact (seriously, don’t)

Next part

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

NSFW content under the cut

The bathroom is eerily silent – too silent – after Felix’s door slams shut. 

Well, 

not entirely silent. 

Was it possible to be jealous of a bathtub? Four legs, a scooped out body to rest in, and water. It held him you, and warmed you. It took care of the mess and when it was done you abandoned it, but it always welcomed you back. 

Did it long for your return? 

Like him? 

Was he jealous? 

Over a bath? He couldn’t be. 

But Felix would be warmer in his arms, and Oliver would make sure that not even a speck of dirt would muddy him. 

Oliver rinsed his mouth and leant his forehead against the cold mirror. He stared at himself. Blue eyes. Very blue eyes. Elspeth praised his eyes, fawned over them even when they first met. Told him about Venetia and how she’d just die. 

Did Felix like his eyes? Were they blue enough? Too blue? India didn’t have blue eyes, or Annabelle.

 Felix fucked them. 

Has he ever seen Felix with someone with blue eyes? No. 

Suddenly the praise sat wrong inside of him. Were they making fun of him? Did they know? Oliver knocked his forehead against the mirror once, twice, thrice before grinding his teeth together with a glare directed at his image. 

He forced a smile, but not too happy. Then he frowned, but not too unhappy. They liked a broken thing, Felix’s family. But not too broken. Just broken enough for them to be able to ignore it, like a barbie doll missing a few fingers, or a book with a cracked spine. 

Oliver’s father died, his mother an addict. No siblings, no money. Poor, poor Oliver Quick. 

Felix liked feeling needed, appreciated, 

adored. 

Poor Oliver with a dead dad. So, so incredibly sad. No one else in this wide world other than Felix Catton. No friends, no siblings. Just…Felix. 

The bathtub caught his eye. A posh thing, really. Like something out of a painting or a museum. His feet brought him to it before he’d even realized he moved. Oliver stroked the edges, pressed his nails against the porcelain until shivers ran down his spine. There was still some water in it. Warm, hot, taunting him. Felix had been there. A piece of him still lingering around the edges of the drain. 

They had hugged once. Felix was a generous person, free with his affection to everyone around him. He had kissed Oliver’s helmet when they first met. Told him he loved him. 

Did he? 

Leaning over the tub and watching the water slowly circle around the drain filled him with an unfamiliar sense of thrill. Like he was watching something forbidden. A piece of him; of Felix offered on a silver platter. 

Oliver didn’t hesitate as he got in the tub and got down on all fours. Pearly white globs swirling around below him. This was a gift. 

Did Felix leave it to him? 

He must have. 

The door hadn’t been properly closed, and he moaned like a wanton whore. It was on purpose. Did he mean to tease Oliver? He did. He didn’t. Oliver was no one. Felix was everything, 

Oliver’s everything. 

Yes, it was a gift, and Oliver would take anything Felix gave. 

It was still warm when he pressed his face against it. It coated his lips, his nose, his cheeks, his eyes. When he breathed, it followed, and he hated how it left when he exhaled. It clung to his hair. 

Felix. Felix. Felix. 

He wanted it on him. On. On. On. On, 

in. 

The tip of his tongue wetting his lips, a taste of heaven. 

Oliver pressed himself closer, and closer as if to fuse himself together with the porcelain, but even then, 

it would not be close enough. 

He needed to be closer. 

What was wrong with him?

Felix was so far away still, even as Oliver had a mouth full of his cum. He dared not swallow for he would not be separated from even a single piece of him. 

“You’re a fucking freak, y’know that, Oliver?” 

Oliver jolts up, almost banging his head on the faucet. 

“W-what? Oh. Oh! No! I- I wasn’t- I mean- It’s-” 

He felt sticky. Cold. His blood froze. Would you send him away? Tell Felix? Anger blossoms under his skin. Felix wouldn’t understand. How could he? How could perfection look at ugliness and understand? Even the light could not see in the dark. How could he understand the longing? The envy? The chest crushing feeling of being so close to the sun, being burned alive and yet always left craving more and more. Loving every second of losing yourself to another. 

“You weren’t what?” You narrow your eyes. 

“I was just…making sure the tap was closed properly. It’s been dripping all day and night.” 

You scoff. 

“It has!” Oliver tried to defend himself, wiping at his mouth with his wet sleeve. 

“You’re pathetic, Oliver. I saw you… licking. We’ve all seen you stare at him. I mean, I’d say you were his shadow if you didn’t moon over that one as well! But Felix doesn’t see it. He doesn’t believe us when we tell him what a little freak Oliver Quick is.”

Oliver can’t help but feel smug at that. Felix believing him over everyone else? It made him hard. 

It must’ve shown on his face for next thing Oliver knew your fingers burrowed into his hair and you forced him down into the water again. He coughs and splutters but you don’t let him up. 

“ Stop it!” He protests. The water’s gone up his nose, he’s choking on it. 

“What’s wrong, Ollie?” You coo. “I thought you liked drinking bathwater. I’m simply… giving you what you want.”

In his mind he begged for Felix to come save him, like he had at the pub, at uni. Felix would hate him for it. Would cast him away, away from him, away from Saltburn. He’d rather drown in the tub than have Felix come save him. He’d become part of Saltburn then. 

“Please don’t tell Felix,” he managed to get out. 

You hummed but offered no response. 

Cruel. You were all cruel. 

The drain cuts into his face, but you don’t let up. 

Your breath fans over his ear. Oliver shivers. “We’ll see.”

You smell like Felix. You even sound a bit like him too. If Oliver closed his eyes he could almost pretend it was Felix who was taking his shirt off in the bath, who urged him to clean all his spill away. 

It’s filthy.

“Do you want this, Oliver?” 

You placed your hand flat over his bulge, cupping the hard outline of his cock. Could you feel him pulse? 

He shakes his head no. He doesn’t. 

Does he? 

His head’s all muddled. All he can see, all he can feel, 

taste, 

is Felix. 

One thought circles around in his head; more. 

You squeeze, and Oliver moans. 

“Thought so.” You whisper. 

And then you’re gone. 

“Keep your head down.” You order him, though Oliver hadn’t moved a muscle. 

Despite how humiliating it was, he still wanted more. All he felt was longing, envy and pure want. Felix could stand in front of him, his spend in Oliver’s mouth and he’d still want more. When would Oliver be satisfied? How close could he get to Felix? Not close enough. 

Oliver jumps when he feels your hands back on him. You tug at his boxers and his face grows red when you touch him. 

“Well, well, well,” you said to him. “Prepared, are we?”

He shakes his head again. 

“Liar.” You say as you bring your hand down on his ass. Oliver groaned and closed his eyes. 

When had you grown so confident, he wondered? He had barely seen you at the estate, always hiding away in the library with Duncan standing guard by the door. Oliver mistook you for Felix once, but you had only laughed and walked away. Didn’t even turn to look at him. 

And now your finger was in his ass and he was resisting the urge to grind back. You don’t even need to push his head down anymore, he wouldn’t raise it even if you ripped all his hair out. 

You smoothed down some of his hair. “There we go, you poor thing.”

He doesn’t feel poor. Certainly not when your free hand is gripping his cock and stroking it so slowly it feels like torture. Even then the coil in his stomach starts to tighten, a delicious burn in his spine from bending over as he was; face down, ass up. 

Then you’re pulling out your finger. He feels empty. Hungry. He hears the water splash as you run your hand through it, and then you’re touching him again. Spreading the wetness around his hole, in him, everywhere. 

You slip a finger back in. Oliver groaned at the feeling. 

“Can you take another?” You asked. 

His forehead smacked against the porcelain from how hard he nodded. He thinks he might die if you don’t, stuck in this limbo of barely-there pleasure and coldness. 

Oliver shut his eyes when you started pushing in the second one. He’s never had anyone there before. It was uncomfortable and it even hurt a little, but that ember of pleasure in his stomach when you crooked your fingers and touched that spot inside him made him want to beg for you to never go. 

But then, you leave him again. Almost as if you heard his thoughts. 

He sobs against the tub, but then his eyes flashed open in cold surprise as he felt something prodding at his entrance. Something smoother and colder than your fingers. “W-what’s that?” 

“It’s a surprise.” You told him. 

He almost thought you kind when you made him spit in your palm so you could wet his cock with it. He hadn’t thought it could get better, but when you spread it around him, gradually building up to pace again, he wants to thank you. It almost made him forget about the mystery object you were pushing into him. Almost. It was still cold, but felt better than he thought it would. He shuts his eyes again, losing himself to the pleasure. 

It wasn’t long until you had him moaning and whining and grinding against the tub, against you, against whatever it was you were using against him. There wasn’t enough left of Oliver to think it embarrassing how he acted like a wanton whore. All he could think of was the tidal wave of pleasure that was building. It grew. Grew. Grew. 

You push into him harder and harder. Your hand smacked against his skin until he was sure Felix could hear it. If not, then his moans would still tell the story. 

“If only Felix could see you now.” You whisper in his ear, cruel and cold against the warmth of his pleasure. 

Oliver whined. He almost wanted Felix to see. Almost. 

“Freak.” 

Oliver came harder than he ever had in his life. Rope after rope of cum landing on his stomach, in the water, on the sides of the tub. It seemed endless. He shook and cried as the wave fell over him. He was drowning. Drowning in you. In pleasure. In Felix. But you kept your hand on him, tugging and tugging even as he moaned from the overstimulation. 

“Oliver Quick indeed.” You mock him. “I’ve barely even touched you.” 

You tugged out the thing from his ass and threw it next to him, but Oliver didn’t have enough strength to even open his eyes. Not with how you forced him into a second orgasm, one almost more painful than pleasurable. 

“Do you want me to stop?” 

No. Yes. Never. 

He never wanted it to stop. Even as it grew painful and he cried from it, he wanted more. He wasn’t satisfied. Not even close. He wanted more. More. More. More. More, until there was nothing left to give. Until he had taken all you had, and he alone was left. Even then would he want more. 

You scoff at his lack of answer and tear your hand from him, wiping it off on his hair. 

“Go on, Dog, lick it up.” You spat at him. 

And he did, 

addlebrained as he was, so fucked out from the pleasure he couldn’t even tell you his own name. 

He licked and licked, until there was no more left, water nor cum. No more of him, no more of Felix. He had swallowed it all. All gone.

Oliver looked at you from under hooded eyes. Pleading. “Please don’t tell Felix.”

“You’re pathetic.” 

You stormed out of the room, and then his eyes fell on the object you had thrown on him. The surprise, 

it was Felix’s brush. 

Next part

[tea-stained-notes]

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader – One Last Summer

Y/N is many things: Daphne's best friend, gifted artist, new money, honorary Bridgerton – and hopelessly in love with Benedict. But when she finds herself suddenly engaged to a brutish army captain stationed in India, she is faced with the loss of everything she has grown to adore. With time running out, one last visit to Aubrey Hall will decide her fate.

Months ago I had a random phase of obsessing over Benedict Bridgerton (don't we all at some point) and dove head-first into this – then somehow took an eternity to finish it. It's angsty af, but don’t worry, there’s also plenty of Bridgerton shenanigans and tooth-rotting fluff because Benny is too adorable for this world

Warnings: angst and anxiety

Word Count: ~8400

A warm summer breeze caresses my heated skin as I finally emerge from the carriage and lay eyes on Aubrey Hall. Lush flowers and greenery adorn the inviting front and I am still taking in the sight when I notice Eloise and Penelope rounding the corner, the Bridgerton sister gesticulating in what must be one of her political rants. Behind them, Gregory and Hyacinth emerge, chasing each other and screaming in delight. My stomach swoops at the sight – how I have missed them all. “Good morning!” I call over to them, waving with an excitement I would scarcely allow myself to display anywhere else. But here, everything is different. Has always been different.

“Y/N!” They all rush over to me, enveloping me in hugs and chattering over each other. “Finally! It’s been ages!” “Daphne has been insufferable without you around!” “Come play with us!” I laugh, begging them for a moment to breathe after the journey. Daphne appears in the entryway, closely followed by Violet. I walk quickly towards my best friend, arms wide open. “Daph!” “Oh thank Goodness you have made it!” She hugs me tightly, her familiar perfume mingling with the smell of grass and sun-warmed skin. “Have you been playing croquet without me?” “Oh, has Anthony already come moaning to you about his well-deserved loss?” “I can smell it on you, along with your smugness” I say with a grin. “And your brother has grown quite even-tempered since the wedding.” “Well, unfortunately he is still the sorest loser I know.” “Which is a feat in itself amongst this competitive bunch,” Violet says with a twinkle in her eyes before taking my hands in hers and looking me up and down. “Welcome back, darling. You look thin, please do not tell me that you’re trying to fit into one of those outrageous wedding gowns that seem to be made for dolls.” I wince at the mention of my upcoming nuptials but hastily cover it up with a chuckle. “Quite the opposite, at the last fitting my seamstress was rather disgruntled that she would have to take in the waist even further. It is just a bit of a nervous stomach, with all the impending change.” “But as a young bride you should be more happy than nervous, no?” “Mama,” Daphne scolds softly, while Eloise openly rolls her eyes. “I suppose I should.” “Why not at least wait until dinner with such questions?” comes a voice from my right, “Your forwardness single-handedly erodes our renowned British reserve.” I grin at Colin before pulling him into a hug and ruffling his coiffed hair. Being a year older, I have always indulged in playing big sister with him. He sighs in feigned annoyance. “I was going to say that it’s good to see you but I am already regretting that sentiment.” “Liar,” I snicker. Violet’s glance dances between us. I believe she once suspected a blossoming romance between Colin and me, but while I love him dearly as a surrogate brother, he has never made my heart flutter. Not that I could have ever betrayed poor Penelope anyway, whose bright eyes are locked on him as always. And not that I would ever actually marry a Bridgerton. I may have dared to dream of it ten years ago, when I first met Daphne and immediately became fast friends with her despite our age difference. When her family welcomed me into their home with such fervour and warmth that I could hardly believe my luck. With my mother having died from influenza when I was little and no other siblings to grow up with, the Bridgertons became the family I could have never imagined for myself. And the idea of marrying into it one day, of making my bond with them all official, that was the greatest aspiration I could envisage. But the one brother who has always fascinated me is nowhere in sight and I try to be glad for it. “Come, let’s get you settled before the rest of the battalion descends upon you.” Daphne pulls me inside while I give a grateful smile to the servants hurrying after us with my luggage. “So where is your charming husband?” I ask as we ascend the staircase. “And little Amelia? I have been dying to see her again.” “Simon was held up by business, he will arrive in a few days. And the little one is in the gardens with her nanny. I will call for some lemonade and once you have freshened up, we shall go out to see her and catch up. You have so much to tell me.” “I last saw you two months ago and we write constantly,” I laugh. “But all the things that have happened in those two months! Your engagement first and foremost. I simply must know everything, I certainly require more detail than the few lines from your letters.” My insides squirm at her eagerness but I manage a somewhat enthusiastic nod. She comes to a stop in front of a door. “Your usual guest room is having some work done, so I had my old room prepared for you – I hope you don’t mind.” “Not at all, it will be nice, I haven’t been in there since your wedding.” “And Mama has kept it exactly the same, you know how sentimental she gets.” Daphne sounds teasing yet her smile is nothing but fond. She gives me another hug. “I am so glad you are here. I’ve missed you. We all have.” “And I have missed you.”

Once my bags and I are safely inside, I inhale deeply and take in the stillness for a moment. Arriving at any Bridgerton residence always feels like being caught in a whirlwind and as much as I love them all, it can be overwhelming at times, especially after the often stifling silence of my own home. I wander over to the window, letting my eyes trail over the gardens, alive with an abundance of colours that makes my heart sing. Until it stops abruptly. There he is. Deeply lost in his brush strokes as he recreates the wonders around him. His vest is unbuttoned, his shirt carelessly gaping open at the top, his sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms. Even from afar, Benedict Bridgerton ignites a well-known fire inside of me. Whenever I am away from him, I can almost convince myself that this age-old infatuation is nothing but a figment, a silly flight of fancy. Sometimes I can almost forget about him entirely, distract myself with my artistic pursuits, with other friends or travel. But then I notice a piece of melody flowing from my fingers that somehow reminds me of him or look down at a drawing in surprise, having unconsciously once again traced his familiar features. Still I repress it, abandon the fantasy of someone so far above my station. Someone who sees me as a family friend and nothing more. And now that I am engaged to be married I should purge my mind of him entirely, yet especially in these last few weeks I have scarcely thought of anything else, convinced that my longing could not possibly grow stronger. But the mere tangibility of him unravels me completely. I long to rush downstairs to see him and at the same time it is the one thing I fear the most. After a long moment I tear my gaze away and turn to the washing bowl. To my dismay, the cool water does little to calm my racing pulse and thoughts. Clean and unpacked I head towards the door, but halt half-way. Because as always, when I am in Daphne's room, my eyes fall on the painting of us. It is wonderfully serene, the two of us sitting on a picnic blanket in the gardens. She is engrossed in a book, but I am looking over my shoulder, smiling softly at the artist. It was Benedict of course. I remember vividly how I turned around to find him crouching with a sketchbook in his hand, capturing the scene in quick strokes. His face lit up and he winked at me before deftly outlining my expression. Later he transferred the motif onto a proper canvas, so I never got to see the original sketch. I have always wondered whether I had really looked at him like that. So openly enamoured.

I wander down the halls towards the open French doors leading into the garden when a voice pulls me from my reverie so suddenly I almost trip over my feet. “There you are.” I look up only to be met with a dazzling smile, gleaming eyes and a hint of spicy aftershave in the air. My stomach drops. “Mr. Bridgerton.” His smile falters briefly. He always insists on me calling him by his first name, yet I have never been able to. When we met he was already eighteen, a grown man at first sight. It had felt only right to address him with the same courtesy as his older brother. And even as we grew closer, as I learned of his boyish temperament, often bordering on immaturity, I never found the courage to simply call him Benedict. If only to keep up the semblance of a wall between us, a desperate attempt at shielding my heart. Not that I have ever succeeded in that endeavour. “Everyone’s been speaking of your arrival. How wonderful you have found time to join us.” “The pleasure is all mine, as always,” I reply, ignoring the pull in my chest. “Have you finished your painting?” I gesture at the art supplies in his arms. “Not quite, but I’m afraid duty calls. Some business I need to talk over with Anthony.” “Ah, I too have an enormously urgent appointment with your sister.” We share a light chuckle. “I am sure she has scheduled three hours at the least to learn all about your… plans.” The word comes out strangely forced but he catches himself quickly. “Will I see you at dinner?” “How could I ever miss one of Mrs. Brodie’s delicacies? I have had actual dreams of her rosemary chicken.” “You are not a true Bridgerton until you’ve had one of those dreams,” he says with a grin but it wavers slightly as the words sink in. He knows as well as I do that no number of dreams will ever make me a true Bridgerton. I swallow thickly before putting on a smile. “If you will excuse me, I am quite parched after the journey and Daphne has promised lemonade.” “Oh, of course, yes. Don’t let me keep you.” “Goodbye, sir.” “Until tonight, Y/N.” Something in his tone, in the way his lips curve around my name, sends shivers down my spine. With a swift curtsey I turn and practically run out into the open air.

I manage to ward off Daphne’s inquisition well enough. Yes, Captain Parker will be able to provide for me. Yes, he is handsome. Yes, my father approves of him. Luckily, we are regularly interrupted by the various Bridgerton siblings and distracted by little Amelia who is perfectly content as the centre of attention. “I am quite certain one day she will be the diamond of the season,” I declare, ruffling her hair. “Do you really think so?” Daphne is all too happy to swoon about her firstborn and I gladly steer the conversation away from my upcoming wedding. Eventually, I propose another game of croquet, having missed the previous one, and before long the dinner bell is rung. Everyone settles into the dining room and I sink into a comfortable chair, Daphne and Eloise on either side, Benedict across from me. I only notice now that we have always been seated like this during my visits and wonder if it was I who once sought out this particular arrangement. He quickly engages me in a conversation about art and music, the topics that have always connected us, and minute by minute I grow more comfortable in his presence. We fall into passionate discussions and light-hearted banter, only occasionally intercepted by the others around us. And I cannot help pondering if he has ever felt it, too. The sparkling potential between us. The mere idea of what we could have been. No matter how unrealistic, as long we were both unwed, a tiny part of my heart remained reserved for that hope. And every time I arrived at the manor to find him seemingly carefree about the future and with no bride in sight, I was flooded with relief, simultaneously blessed and cursed to hope for a little longer. Until a few weeks ago when those dreams were finally shattered. “So, are you looking forward to India?” Colin suddenly asks. “I would love to visit you there sometime, it must be incredible.” “Surely it would not be proper to interrupt their honeymoon,” Benedict says, somewhat strained. “Oh, it’s not for our honeymoon,” I reply. “My… Captain Parker will be permanently stationed there.” Benedict’s fork clatters onto the plate and we all flinch, the chatter around the table coming to a halt. “You will move to India?” He has gone frighteningly pale. “Yes. Has Daphne not told you?” “I must have,” she sputters, “when I was last in Lon–“ “No, you haven’t.” His words come out unusually harsh and my stomach twists. Everyone is staring at either him or me and Daphne’s eyes flicker between us before she forces a casual smile. “Brother, don’t be silly, I am certain I have. And either way, I shall be the one to miss her the most, no?” She puts an arm around me while giving a pointed look at Kate who quickly collects herself and pulls Anthony and Violet into a chat about their plans for the nursery. Slowly, the usual bustle recommences and I turn back to Colin. “Once we are settled in, you are more than welcome to visit. You all are, of course.” Benedict’s lips are pressed tightly together, his food forgotten.

I find little sleep that night, the image of Benedict imprinted on my mind. He seemed so genuinely upset. I expected him to miss me, of course, but the hint of melancholy I had detected in his features even before the revelation of my upcoming departure to India now haunts me. Losing him was always going to be torture but realising how it might affect him as well has doubled the pain and I start to regret this indulgence of coming to Aubrey Hall for one last summer. When the first sun rays filter through the half-opened curtains I inhale deeply, trying to infuse a little hope and joy into the beginning of this new day. And when Daphne surprises me with the idea of a relaxed breakfast in bed I almost believe it has worked. A while later we find ourselves in the parlour, Eloise engrossed in a book after Penelope’s earlier departure, Daphne rocking a fussy Amelia to sleep in her arms, and I sketching absently. I startle when Benedict walks in, slightly more dishevelled than usual. “Daph, Y/N. Just the pair I’ve been looking for.” “Good morning to you as well, dear brother,” Eloise says with a smirk. He bows excessively in her direction and I cannot help but smile at their antics. “Good morning, my darling sister.” They share a grin before he turns back to us. “I wanted to apologise for my little outburst at dinner. I was tired and the news took me by surprise.” He clears his throat. “I do hope you forgive me.” “Of course, sir,” I hasten to reply. “One could have almost suspected you of being jealous of a certain Captain Parker.” “Eloise!” Daphne chides but she too eyes her brother and me curiously. Before I can try to decipher either my feelings or his expression, Violet walks in, rubbing her hands enthusiastically. “Good morning, children! Who of you will kindly join us for a walk?” Daphne rises as Amelia starts crying once more and Violet immediately offers to take her. While they deliberate on the benefits of a walk for the baby, Benedict settles beside me, merely a few feet between us. I try to ignore the goosebumps forming on my skin at his soft smile. “May I?” He points at my sketchbook. I press it shut with hurried force. “No.” “Oh.” His face falls a little. “Forgive me, I did not mean to pry.” There is dejection in his eyes, but also confusion. I have always shared my sketches with him, just as my compositions, needlework and poetry. We have always valued each other’s opinions and advice. So naturally he is taken aback by my sudden reservedness. But how can I explain the shift from peaceful, colourful motifs to the utter gloom that has been dominating my sketches lately? The impending thunderstorms, the dark forests. And possibly worse, the countless drawings of him. Sometimes just his fingers, delicately holding a paintbrush, sometimes his entire silhouette, but mostly his boyishly handsome face that my eyes unerringly find the second I enter a room. If it scares me how much of my waking thought he is taking up – how much would it scare him? “I– I’m sorry, sir. I have not been feeling very… confident about my work lately.” “I can hardly believe that to be justified in any way. You have always possessed a raw talent I can scarcely dream of.” “That is not true.” “Well then, I challenge you.” Mischief sparkles in his eyes and an inadvertent giggle escapes me. “You mean it? We have not done that in ages.” “All the more reason to do it now.” “Y/N, are you coming?” Daphne calls across the room. “She is otherwise engaged,” Benedict grins before I can reply. “Is that so?” “Your brother has thrown down the gauntlet and I’m afraid I shall have to pick it up.” Daphne rolls her eyes, amusement playing on her lips. “Are you having one of your silly art competitions again? What is it this time?” “Portraits,” I say hastily. “We will paint each other. Fifteen minutes, as usual.” I wonder what possessed me to choose Benedict’s face as the subject, of all things. Most likely pure masochism. I do not dare gauge his reaction although I can feel his eyes on me. “Well, Amelia needs her walk now.” Daphne glances at the crying baby in Violet’s arms. “I suppose we shall see you both later. I’ll be happy to choose a winner then.” “You’re hardly impartial,” Benedict grumbles. “Neither are you when it comes to Y/N,” she retorts. Before I can begin to untangle her accusation she has breezed out the door.

Eloise is as bad a chaperone as ever, engrossed in her book a few yards away in the shade, while Benedict sets up his canvas beside me. Mine is leaning up against my chair. Despite my excessive practice I was not quite able to capture his essence. Perhaps because it felt so strikingly different from the other times he sat for me. I had asked him not to speak, as to not strain my jittery nerves even further, and he had obliged, albeit reluctantly. But with every passing second the silence between us grew heavier, along with his expression. It weighed down my piece of charcoal, making it impossible to find my usual ease in sketching. Just when I feared it might crumble between my tense fingers, Benedict murmured, “Time’s up” with a glance at his pocket watch. Before he could peek at the result I hurriedly asked for a lunch break which we spent with an unusually talkative Anthony. Now we have returned to our previous spot and he sets up his own work. “May I ask,” he says after the first few strokes, “why the quick engagement? Did you know immediately that he was the right man for you?” His jaw clenches while he firmly stares at the canvas. My hands grow clammy, clutching his watch tightly. “I could hardly afford such luxuries anymore. At four-and-twenty my chances of finding the ‘right’ man have been dwindling about as fast as my father’s faith in me receiving a proposal at all.” “You make yourself sound like an old spinster.” “Well, in the eyes of the ton I am. I should consider myself lucky to be engaged at last.” “But you don’t?” His eyes search mine intently until I drop my gaze, scared of what he might find in it. “Of course. Very lucky indeed.” Once more a long silence hangs between us. I suddenly feel impossibly tired. And as much as I want to blame the summer heat and sleepless nights, I know this weariness runs much deeper. The exhaustion of holding up the pretence that I am even remotely content with my lot. “Look at me, please,” Benedict murmurs and I follow his request without hesitation, taken aback by the deep concern in his features. He thanks me softly before resuming his quiet work. “Will you not be terribly lonely in India?” he finally asks. I bite my lip. “Not for long, I hope.” What I cannot say is that I am almost glad to go. To miss them all from so far away they will hardly feel real. To not see them fall in love and lead lives I will barely be a part of. To not sit and watch Benedict await his bride at the altar, breaking inside because it should be me walking down that aisle towards him. To not look at the children who have his wild hair and lopsided grin and not find a single trace of me in their faces. I blink away tears, desperate to change the subject before he manages to poke even more holes into my façade. “And what of your plans for the future, sir? Anything exciting on the horizon?” He pauses for a moment, seemingly debating whether to indulge me. “You will think me foolish, but lately I've been thinking about opening my own academy one day. One where your wealth and sex do not matter, where you are accepted on merit and passion alone. And perhaps when you are a personal friend of the owner.” He winks at me and I stare at him in feigned indignation. “Are you saying my merit and passion would not suffice?” “Not at all. If anything, you possess too much of both, so I would have to keep you in a private class as to not discourage the other students.” I glance down at my lap, hiding both my smile and the blush forming on my cheeks. “Well, I think, it sounds anything but foolish. You could grant opportunities to so many people who will never find them anywhere else. Promise you will write to me when that dream becomes a reality.” I look back up at him, surprised at the soft wonder in his eyes, then let mine travel down to his lips as they curve into a half-smirk. “When, not if? You flatter me.” “I believe in you. I always have. And I dearly hope that one of us will be allowed to live his dream.” Benedict swallows, all traces of mirth erased from his features. “Y/N, you–” “Time’s up,” I say, without a single glance at the watch. He bites his tongue while an entire palette of emotions flits across his face. “Here you are!” We both startle when Daphne appears beside me, placing her hands on my shoulders with a wide grin. “Brother, stop capitalising on my dear friend's time. She is my guest after all.” “And here I thought she liked to spend time with all of us,” Eloise comments and I suddenly wonder how much of our previous conversation she has eavesdropped on while appearing lost in her reading. The other Bridgertons trail behind Daphne, evidently tired from their stroll in the sun. Colin immediately snorts as he peeks at the canvas. “You cannot be painting Y/N again. Do you not have an entire portrait gallery of her already?” “Well, none of you little gremlins ever hold still for even a minute.” “I've sat for you plenty of times,” Daphne protests. “Yes, and you look like you'd rather hang every single time.” “Benedict!” Violet scolds gently. “Well, let’s see them then. You do need a few judges after all.” Despite my weak protests, both sketches are propped up beside each other a few moments later. The Bridgertons remain unusually quiet. “They are both fine works,” Violet says eventually. “But you two seem so…” “Gloomy,” Kate finishes. Everyone nods. “Did Eloise bore you with an excerpt from her book while you were drawing?” Colin quips and ducks as said book comes flying at his head. Within seconds the family is caught in familiar chaos and I let myself be dragged off to another lunch despite feeling so queasy I might never eat again. When I glance back at Benedict he only manages the barest of smiles.

The week and a half of my stay at Aubrey Hall passes in a turmoil of emotions. As much as I love spending time with the Bridgertons and try to fully revel in their company, it unnerves me. Feeling their observant eyes on me, the underlying tension in the air, I have been growing more short-tempered and nervous, increasingly avoiding the presence of the people I love the most to escape their questions, both voiced and unspoken. The portrait of Benedict lies buried in his studio. I could not bear having his charcoal eyes stare at me with the same apprehension as his soft green ones. Being around him has lost all the ease we used to share despite my infatuation. I am glad when Simon joins us, creating a distraction for Daphne and thus some room for myself. But no amount of wandering the familiar halls and gardens, hiding away in the library or furiously filling page after page of my sketchbook can calm my racing mind. Anxiety has nestled deep inside my chest, constricting my lungs and churning in my stomach. And then it arrives: My last day at the manor. They surprise me with a picnic under clear blue skies and despite my incessant sorrow it turns out rather lovely. Before long, the little ones are running around and I find myself pulled in all directions, playing and frolicking in the sun. The adults disperse as well, picking up games or strolling through the gardens in deep conversation. Eventually, I sink down onto a blanket next to Daphne and Amelia, out of breath and surprisingly cheerful. My friend looks over at me, a wistful expression on her face. “I hope you’ve been enjoying your time with us,” she says softly. “Of course,” I reply automatically. “I always do.” I let my eyes wander over the scenes around us and the despite the joy in the air, panic and despair once more rise in my throat. Cotton fills my ears, then my entire skin starts to tingle. And suddenly it comes crashing down on me. The intense finality of these last few days with the Bridgertons. The very real possibility that I might never return to Aubrey Hall, never again chatter with Daphne, joke with Colin, debate with Eloise. Never chase the younger siblings across the rolling greens or laugh at a seething Anthony after an eventful croquet match. Never have a single moment alone with Benedict. I have been a fool for believing that distance would make me miss them all any less. Because at this moment I am certain that I will be longing for these days for the rest of my life. Still, the sob that rips from my mouth takes me by surprise. “Y/N?” Daphne turns to me, little Amelia on her lap eyeing me warily. I want to reassure her but instead tears start flowing uncontrollably. “Oh my dear!” Daphne sets her daughter down on the blanket, then throws her arms around me. “Y/N, whatever is the matter?” I cannot find my voice for several minutes, overwhelmed by the most intense sorrow I have felt since my mother's passing. When I finally speak, the words come out raspy and broken. “I am going to miss you all so much.” “Well, how awful would it be if you didn't?” Daphne says, a half-smile on her lips but it fades as she inspects my face. “Is it more than that? Are you truly not looking forward to marriage at all? I know it can be daunting, Simon and I have had a rocky path as well, but now I cannot imagine a life without him.” “Because you love him!” The words come out rougher than intended and Amelia winces, her mouth curling into a frown. I quickly cradle her in my arms before she can start crying as well. Nuzzling her soft hair I avoid Daphne’s eyes. “You've always loved him, Daph. Even when you could not yet admit it to yourself, even when you did not know that he returned your feelings.” A tense pause stretches between us. “Do you truly believe you will never love Captain Parker?” she finally whispers. I bite my lip, unable to answer. “Y/N, why on earth did you accept his proposal if you cannot see a happy life with him?” I want to scream at her, want to rage at her naiveté, her inability to grasp the gravity of my situation. But I cannot. Not at my best friend who does not know and can never know how this engagement came about. “If you do not want this, I can help you,” she says softly now. “We will find a perfect match for you next season. Who knows, maybe even somewhere along the way until then?” Daphne attempts another soft smile and my tears start flowing again. If only it were this simple. She reaches for my hand while I am pressing Amelia closer with the other, relishing in her warmth and quiet babbling. “It pains me to see you like this. There must be something I can do. I realise that Anthony and I have been very lucky to have found our partners, but if it is not love that persuades you to marry, it should at least be mutual respect and fondness. I am certain we can find such a man for you, if only–” “No,” I say determinedly. “I am grateful to you, Daph, but it is too late.” “Too late because you're afraid to break off the engagement or because your heart is already taken?” I gasp. “Daphne–” “Is it someone I know?” “No, it's no one. There is no one.” I press a kiss to Amelia's head, then place her in her mother's arms. Wiping my face, I rise to my feet. “I am sorry for my outburst. Do forgive me. I just need a moment to myself.” “Y/N–” “Thank you for the picnic.” Brushing away fresh tears I flee the picture-perfect scene that now only breaks my heart.

Hours later everyone is bustling about in the parlour, impatiently awaiting dinner. I have claimed the piano in the corner and let my fingers wander over the keys, following a soft, melancholy tune. My gaze loses focus in the middle distance as I calculate the number of hours I have left here. There is no clock in the room and yet I can hear an unrelenting ticking. “Is that your latest composition?” I flinch before my eyes find Benedict's, his lacking their usual sparkle. “I– I am not certain...” I clear my throat and Daphne briefly glances over at me, worry in her features. “I'm still working on it.” “It's beautiful.” “You do not sound quite convinced,” I say with a weak attempt at a smile. “No, I mean it. Every piece you compose is beautiful. It's just... It sounds so deeply sad.” I suddenly sense how the atmosphere in the room has changed. Even the little ones have gone quiet, with everyone stealing looks of concern at me. “I am so sorry, I did not mean to ruin the mood. Please carry on.” I chuckle nervously and the Bridgertons are kind enough to return to their antics, albeit slightly forced. “Y/N, are you alright?” Benedict's voice is low but strained. I turn back to the keys, once more biting back tears. “Of course, sir. I am perfectly fine.” “You do not seem like yourself,” he murmurs. “You are usually.... softer. But also stronger. With such a zest for life. I've never seen you like this, so burdened, so sombre.” I raise my chin, attempting to look challenging rather than heartbroken at his astute observation. “And what about you, Mr. Bridgerton? These past few days you have hardly been the carefree man I've come to know.“ “Then you must know that you are the cause.” We both still. Blood is rushing in my ears as I try to steel myself for something I fear and crave in equal measure. But after a long moment he shakes his head, swallowing heavily. “I worry about you, Y/N. We all do. I know things have not always been easy for you but until now I believed our family could provide you with comfort. And if that is somehow no longer the case, surely the prospect of starting your own family should excite you.” I hopelessly rifle through my mind for an answer that might assuage him once and for all. “Dinner is ready, my lady.” I breathe a sigh of relief. “Wonderful!” Violet smiles at the servant who has appeared in the doorway, then claps her hands. Her offspring rises from floor and sofas, muttering about being starved while jostling towards the dining room. I stand up so quickly the piano stool topples over and I reach for it at the same time as Benedict. Our hands briefly touch in mid-air, sending a spark through mine before I can pull away. He stares at me, the ticking even louder than before. “Y/N, you must know that you can confide in me.” “There is nothing to confide, sir.” “Benedict.” My face runs hot at both the insistence on his first name and the multitude of my confessions boiling so close to the surface. His features soften as he subconsciously draws closer and I scramble to my feet, heart pounding wildly. “We should go, everyone is waiting.” Before he can reply I rush out of the parlour, pressing clammy hands to my cheeks to soothe the fire in them.

Dinner is strangely quiet and whenever I glance over at Benedict I find him already looking at me. For the millionth time this week I wonder if I should not have discredited his motives so quickly, should not have dismissed his attempts at forming a tighter bond between us for the fear of falling too far. Is it possible I might have misread him all these years? Too blind in my self-deprecation, too caught up in worries about money and class when he never seemed to care much for these things, when perhaps he could have easily seen beyond them? Should I have rather flown too close to the sun than never have flown at all? When the children have gone to bed I linger with the others, barely engaging in the conversation over drinks but unwilling to embark on the hours of anxious brooding in the dark ahead of me. Eventually, the yawns become more frequent and one by one the Bridgertons retire until at last Daphne and I make our way upstairs as well. I halt as we pass the library. “I’m not quite tired enough for bed. I am going to peruse the books for a while.” Daphne turns to me, deeply mournful. “Y/N, I so wish you would tell me what is going on.” I feel my bottom lip begin to quiver and shake my head vehemently. “I can’t.” “Why ever not? Are we not confidants? I have always told you everything.” “And I am so grateful for your trust and friendship.” I envelop her in a tight hug. “I will be alright. Do not worry about me.” “How can I not worry when my best friend is so clearly unhappy?” She draws back to examine me once more. “I have had my happiness. With you, with your family. That shall be enough. Not everyone finds a happy ending.” “But you so deserve it,” she says, grasping my hand. “Both you and–“ She stops herself abruptly. “Who?” “Never mind.” I want to ask again but nod instead. She seizes a candleholder from a side table and lights it with the flame of her own. “Take this. And don’t stay up too late. We will speak again in the morning.” “Goodnight, Daph.” I slip into the dark library and carefully close the door behind me. After a few deep breaths I walk around the room, lighting more candles, until I am startled by a soft knock. With a sigh I move to open the door. “Daphne, please, can we–“ The words die in my throat. Benedict stands before me, carrying a grave expression. “I need to speak with you.” “Sir, you have to leave,” I splutter. “What if someone sees us? Daphne might still be nearby.” “She was the one to tell me where to find you.” “What, why?” “Because she knows.” “Knows what?” A long pause. Then he carefully pushes past me and presses the door shut. I can do nothing but stare at him in disbelief. “Sir, you–“ “Are you fond of your...”, he clears his throat, “your fiancé?” “Excuse me?” “It's a simple question.” My chest tightens as panic once again seeps into my veins. “I am hoping I can learn to be.” His eyes burn into mine, brimming with concern. “Y/N, are you scared of him?” “Sir–“ “Benedict, please. Please.” “No. I– I'm sorry, I...” I am so tired of crying, so I bury my nails painfully into my palms to hold back the tears. Still, I am shaking before him. He slightly raises his arms, as if wanting to pull me into a hug, and I wish more than anything I could let him without risking to fall apart entirely. “You must break off the engagement.” “I can't.” “Y/N, you're terrified. That is not a life you're entering, it is torture. And it’s killing us to know that you are hurting, that you might not be safe – it’s killing me. Is he choleric? I swear, if he ever laid a hand on you, I–“ “He already has.” “What?” “At the midsummer ball. He seized me in the gardens and touched me... Kissed me. Lady Clementine saw us and reported to my father. Father claimed that we were engaged and thus we were.” Benedict has turned to the nearest bookshelf, lips in a tight line, knuckles white from grasping the wooden board like a vice. He is trembling and my stomach sinks even further. “Did you explain the situation to your father?” he presses through gritted teeth, eyes boring into the volumes before him. “Of course. But he is deathly afraid of scandal. Our standing in the ton is on such thin ice as is.” “That's not true.” “Yes, it is.” Frustration starts boiling within me, one that I have been harbouring since I first set foot into their manor on Grosvenor Square ten years ago. All this splendour, so nonchalantly taken for granted by the entire family. All those visitors so obviously enchanted by the grand Bridgertons, never questioning their rightful place in this world. “You have no idea what it's like. Your father wasn't just barely rich enough to gain some footing in the ton but not to provide you with an appealing dowry. You have never been an only child, never had to be scared that your family's legacy might crumble if you ever step out of line for even a second, even when it's not your fault!” I am vibrating with restrained anger but quickly run out of steam when his face falls along with his shoulders. “You're right,” he whispers. “Please forgive me.” “I have to apologise as well. You have been born with an array of privileges from your sex to your wealth but I know that you do not flaunt them. However, my options aren't as wonderfully unlimited.” I swallow thickly. “So you see, I cannot end this engagement. My already slim chances would be ruined, who else would make me an offer after this?” “I would.” His reply is immediate, certain, and it crashes into me without warning. My mouth is dry, every nerve in my body alight. “That is incredibly kind, but I could never accept.” My voice nearly fails me. “You deserve a grand life, Benedict.” His eyes widen at the name finally spilling from my lips where I have kept it hidden for so long. “You will be a renowned artist, a gift for society in so many ways. And you deserve a woman you adore by your side, one who will never leave a stain on your good name.” “I have already found her.” His words hit me unexpectedly at first, an instant stab of jealousy in my chest. Then a lump forms in my throat as realisation sets in. A realisation I have never allowed and am not ready for still. “But I cannot seem to make her see that she has held my heart for an entire decade. That her smile and wit and artistic endeavours captivate me more and more with every passing year. That I could have lived with her romantic disinterest in me, had she found someone whose soul matches the beauty of hers.” “Benedict...” “That my name from her lips is the sweetest sound in the world.” “Please stop.” He pauses briefly. “Are you scared of me as well?” “Yes,” I blurt out, “I have been scared of you since the moment we met because you make me forget myself. You make me forget that you are entirely out of reach, that no matter how much I love you, I–“ My hand flies to my mouth, heart slamming into my ribcage. I stumble backwards while muttering senseless apologies. Benedict is stunned into silence. It feels like years pass between us. When he finally speaks, his words are hoarse and quavering. “You... You love me? All these years every advance of mine seemed futile because you thought–“ “Please forget everything I have said. Promise me you will.” “Forget? Forget the most wonderful words I have heard in my life?” “Benedict, I’m begging you…” I give into the tears at last. Whether they are born of desperation, frustration or simple pain, I can no longer tell. He walks towards me, a barely-contained storm on his face. “I refuse to live in a world where I do not hear you say my name every single day. Where I see you but once a year, your light slowly dimming in a loveless marriage. Carrying the children of that... bastard.” Now he is crying, too. “Please do not do that to yourself. Do not submit yourself to such misery. Whether you choose me or not, I will support you. I will do whatever I can to give you a good life. The life of an artist if you want it. That I can promise you. You will always have me.” He sinks down on both knees, his fingers carefully closing around mine. “And if you do choose me... I will do the same and more. I will give you everything I've held in for so long. My love for you will never falter.” I am frantically searching for reasons to deny him because none of this could ever be real, his skin on mine, his unbelievable offer in the air. My mind is reeling, trying and failing to catch up with everything that has transpired these past few moments. Years of dreams and longing, so briskly swept aside to reveal a glimpse at a reality that must be impossible because it always has been. “What would your family say?” I say shakily. “What would everyone say?” His hold on me tightens. “You know my family adores you and would accept you with open arms, no matter the circumstances. And I could not care less about anyone else. The gossip would die, it always does. Lady Whistledown would surely distract them with something else within a week.” A rivulet of hope trickles across my heart. “Could this... could this truly be?” “Tomorrow you will meet him in the city. All you have to do is talk to him one last time. I will be there if you want me to. Heavens, the entire Bridgerton clan will be there if you want us to.” We both chuckle through the tears. “You are not alone in this, Y/N.” I let his words sink in for a long moment. “And what if I choose you?” “Then we can go into town right after to pick out a ring and speak to the vicar.” His thumbs caress my knuckles reverently. “Will you? Will you do me the incredible honour of accepting my hand?” My knees buckle and I lower myself onto the floor before him. The blazing anxiety I have grown almost accustomed to has faded into glowing embers. After having wandered through hell for weeks, I find peace in his hopeful gaze, comfort in the soft contours I am so intimately acquainted with. A kaleidoscope of memories flashes before my eyes, all tinted in new colours. It has always been there, right in front of me: He loves me. And all I have ever had to do was say yes. “The honour would be all mine, Benedict Bridgerton.” A strangled noise escapes him before his eyes frantically scan my face as if they might find a single trace of doubt there. They could never. Not anymore. His hands come up, hovering beside my cheeks. “God, I really want to– Is it alright if I–“ “Yes!” He grins, breathless and blushing. “I haven't even–“ I lunge forward and press my lips to his. It is clumsy and overwhelming but also everything I have ever wanted. He almost tumbles over in surprise, but seconds later we are completely entangled, seeking each other's mouth over and over. Heart pounding, skin aflame, I am certain this is the happiest I have ever been. Because while my body nearly gives out with the strange exhilaration of it all, I also feel perfectly safe. As if this is exactly where I belong, where everything finally makes sense. In between kisses he whispers my name like a confession of love. It is from his lips. When we finally part for air we stare at each other with endless wonder, then start smiling deliriously. I reach out to cradle his face in my palm and he leans into it with a sigh. “Ben,” I murmur, the name unfamiliar but sweet in my mouth. He beams at me. “Come here, darling.” Without hesitation I let him pull me into his lap, just as desperate to be close. I no longer care if anyone finds us like this, am no longer terrified of scandal. Not when I know for certain that I will marry the love of my life, unfazed by gossip and propriety. I nestle into the crook of his neck, deeply inhaling his scent, revelling in the warmth and solidness of his chest. His arms encircle me as I feel his heartbeat slow. Knowing it was I who made it race in the first place fills me with a fervent glow. “Do you have the slightest idea how incredible you are?” I say quietly as I lean back a little to look at him. “I cannot believe you would have provided for me if my father had turned me away.” “Without hesitation. You're everything to me, Y/N.” “What would your future wife have said?” “I cannot imagine there ever would have been a wife.” My eyes widen. “Oh Benedict…” “Never mind that.” He gives me a half-smile. “I would have had my family. And hopefully you in some way still.” My heart aches for the unhappy people we would have almost become and I pull him in for another kiss, assuring him and myself that will never be us. Then I am hit with one more realisation. “Wait, when you said that Daphne ‘knows’, did you mean...?“ “About my utter adoration for you? Sweetheart, they all know. Always have. You were the only one who never seemed to see.” “But no one ever–“ “I made sure they wouldn’t bring it up. Although you can imagine how excruciating it was for them.” “But why? Maybe one of them could have pulled me out of my head for once.” He gently caresses my face. “I wanted you to find your own way. Whether it would lead to me or not.” My heart swells with love as I lean my forehead against his. “Thank you,” I whisper. “For waiting. For saving me from myself. For everything.” “You have always been worth it.” We once again lose ourselves in a long kiss and I wonder how I would have made it through life without even a fraction of this bliss. Eventually, Benedict draws back, pure warmth in his eyes. “As much as I would like to stay here forever, I’m afraid we have to leave. Daphne may or may not still be standing guard outside.” I raise a hand to my mouth, trying in vain to suppress the giggle spilling out. He grins widely, then releases me and lets me pull him to his feet. “She is truly the best friend one could ask for.” “Oh, make no mistake, she will use this against us for the rest of our lives.” I smile up at him. “And I will cherish every second of it.”

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

MASTERLIST

[gothhabiba]

What people miss with regards to the Jordan Neely/Daniel Penny story is that Penny didn’t choke him out because he’s a bad person. He did it because of socioeconomic factors which made him desperate. The alternative to him being found not guilty would be him going to prison, and that wouldn’t have been justice. Penny needs to be treated with grace and care in this undoubtably troubling time for him

I think my scambaiting post must be going around because I'm getting some asks about it. I'm mostly just deleting them if they're not interesting or instructive, but I think this one actually might be.

My OP made a gesture at a materialist analysis which should be performed. This material analysis would have to do with the flow of money, labour, and resources as it actually exists in the world: the extraction, extortion, and theft of raw materials; the purposeful, violent destabilisation of entire regions by the military arms of the USA, Canada, Europe &c. to force people to work for pennies, so that labour will be incredibly cheap compared to what it would cost if performed by most citizens in the imperial 'core'; and other measures that are taken to ensure that value flows from colonised nations to colonising nations. (These measures also include the devaluing of institutions in the 'periphery' such that advanced degrees from certain countries are simply worth less than others; and the restricted ability of those in the 'periphery' to travel or migrate across borders with the freedom afforded to those with imperial citizenship.)

So certain people are in a situation where structures and enforcers of power have made them poor and desperate on purpose so that they can be 'superexploited' at a level beyond that experienced by most people in the imperial 'core'. This is the purpose of imperialism, and it's the purpose of the concept of 'race.' People work in factories for very little money, because the imperial periphery is supposedly only good for the production of raw materials (fabric; t-shirt blanks; assembly of parts of electronics &c.); the design, the artisanship, the packaging, the 'refining,' the making of the chocolate bar from the cocoa, everything that confers 'value' to the item, is done in the imperial core, and that increased 'value' / sale price is added to the GDP of the country in which the product is completed.

In fact this 'raw material' is not 'raw' at all, and it also invovles design and artisanship—but the people of the 'third world' cannot 'design' anything and they cannot be 'artisans'—nothing they make can be labelled as 'handmade' or 'hand-sewn' even if it is literally made with their hands—because they are not considered as people in that way.

But that's the product realm. In terms of the internet (even setting aside the physical materials, space, energy, water &c. required to maintain the internet):

Things (such as Amazon's failed "Just Walk Out" thing) are advertised as "artificial intelligence" despite the fact that thousands of people in India are forced to do work that is tedious, time-consuming, and often horrific and traumatising (consider content moderation!!) in order to make them work. Their material conditions—which are created and maintained, in the most violent manner imaginable, on purpose in order to force them to do this work—render many people desperate enough to take these jobs.

If there are people, who are reachable online, who at a baseline are making a hundred times what you are making, whose currency has incredible purchasing power where you live, and you can get some of that money—if you can work for yourself this way, obviously you're going to do that. This happens because there's money to be made in it. If people can set up an operation and train hundreds of people in how to do this, and take most of the profits and still provide a salary that's attractive to people because of how high the margins are, then obviously that's going to happen. This is just, the concept of capitalism. If there is a way to make money doing something, someone is going to be doing that thing.

Material analysis is looking at the world as it actually exists, in order to figure out how materials, labour, and value are 'flowing' on local and global scales, as a means of determining why things happen the way they do. Like, on a base level, that's what it means to analyse something—to try to figure out why it happens the way it does.

This anon, in sending this ask, didn't understand what any of this meant, or didn't want to consider it, or something. They were unable or unwilling to consider a different lens than that of personal desert, personal merit, and innate personal badness / criminality. The concept of trying to understand where money is, how it moves and why, as a base level of knowledge necessary to understand why there is money to be made in doing certain things, doesn't compute to them—so they have to move things back into the realm of personal desert, and act like I'm saying that people who commit acts of interpersonal violence "deserve" to be allowed to commit that violence as long as they're going through something, whether or not the thing they're going through created the necessary circumstances for, or has any other direct relation with, the act of violence being committed (basically "some people commit violence to cope").

All of that is kind of typical—it's very normal for people to act like asking them to consider people in the 'third world' as actual human beings with human things like "circumstances" and "motivations" and "thoughts" that influence their actions is tantamount to spitting in their grandmother's face.

But what's most interesting to me about this ask is how, in order to dismiss the idea of material analysis as necessary to understand why things happen and to reassert an interpretive framework of individual criminality, anon uses the idea of interpersonal racial violence as something that we can all agree is caused by innate criminality and not by material factors. As if by comparing scamming to this act of violence, it emphasises the innate criminal personality at the root of both acts. As if, obviously, we can all agree that people who commit this kind of violence are just evil demons who "deserve" to be locked up—so saying "the material fact of present-day colonialism creates the conditions for this kind of scamming" is tantamount to saying "we shouldn't lock criminals up in prison." If the latter statement is unthinkable, then so, by comparison, is the former.

Except that this concept of "the criminal" as being a specific "type" of person who uniquely does and deserves evil, and who needs to be locked up in a cage for the good of the rest of society, is exactly what I am, in fact, intending to question. I think the anon would be surprised to learn about the vast body of work (I mean texts, but also direct activism) conducted under the heading of "prison abolition."

[ashsimpsalot]

Sushi in Tokyo (Kid X Sita X Reader)

Yes this is a poly fic, the tittle is based on

MY poly anthem

You entered the cracked up flat to find Kid watching the TV by himself, so deep in the Movie he didn't even realise you were home, a smile formed on your lips, fuck, even though you're hosting two fugitives in your home, the sight is too domestic to not melt your heart.

"I'm home," you announced, closing the door behind you. You turned around to see Kid with a big smile on his lips, standing and walking towards you, as excited as a puppy.

"jaanu, I missed you," he breathed before attaching hid lips to yours, hands wrapping around your waist. You hummed in the kiss.

Once you pulled back you stared into his eyes with a smile before looking at his hair, touching them.

"your curls feels fluffier than usual," you made a comment which earned a chuckle from Kid. He hummed and have your lips a final peck. "Sita put henna on my hair, she said she got bored being stuck in this house." he explained.

The mental image of your girl just running her hands into your man's curls makes you smile.

"where is she?" he lead you to sit you on the couch with him. "she's asleep," he whispered into your hair. The man's already clingy as it is, having you work much more than usual makes Kid crave having you in his arms even more.

You being the only face that is not all over the news for the murder of Rana, Queenie and Baba Shakti, you had decided, it's safer for the them to stay at home until it all die down, then all three of you could make a run to a different region of India, maybe even crossing borders. Anywhere people can't recognise them.

But until then you have to work to supply enough money, for three people, and it's not easy. It takes way much more time than you usually work.

You glance at the blanket that is on the sofa and frowned. "you're sleeping on the couch? Did you two fought?" you asked looking at Kid.

Kid barely loses his cool, Sita, being herself, is always clear on what she wants, what she likes and dislikes. For them to fight is very very rare.

"God, no. She kicked me out of the room because it was too hot, she said I'm a human heater," he said and lightly pouted. You let out a small laugh.

"she's right, you are a heater, and the heat of Mumbai isn't to play with. Plus your habit of hugging while you sleep isn't really helping your case." you teased, kissing his pout off. His eyebrows furrowed. "I can't even cuddle my girls without being rejected," he joked. You love it when Kid is comfortable. When it just the three of you, you get to see this side of him.

"baby?" a sleepy voice interrupted you two you turned around to see Sita with sleepy eyes standing in front of the room.

"hey, pretty girl, come here," you smiled at your girl, fuck even when she just woke up she's so incredibly beautiful. Sita sits herself between Kid and you, playfully pushing Kid away from you earning a small whine from Kid. He positione her so that she's sitting on his lap. On of her hand thrown over his shoulder she lazily kissed him

You smiled and softly placed your thumb on her chin, caressing before leading her in. She smiled and kissed you next.

"how was your nap?" Sita had thrown both her legs into your lap, you chuckled and brought her hand to kiss her palm.

"was good, without the heater bothering me." she joked, Kid tickled her side earning a yelp form her.

"Did I wake you up, sweetheart?" you asked softly, she just shook her head. Taking your hand in hers and begun her favourite pass time. Drawing random shapes on your palm.

"it's raining outside, it got cold," she replied, her fingers tracing letters in your palm. 'I <3 u` again and again and you smiled.

"is that why you came out? To be with the heater?" Kid asked, his arm thrown over your shoulder to pull you closer, you end up with your head on his chest while Sita's head on his neck.

Just what you need after a long day.

Sita didn't answer just let out a small laugh and yelp once again when he tickled her side. "Kidd!" she whined, now switching form drawing letters in your palm to kissing your fingers, almost even suckling on them.

Kid on the other hand has had his nose buried in your hair. Obviously sniffing the hell out of them.

"you two are awfully clingy today," you laughed into Kid's chest, eyes pinned on how pretty Sita's lips are kissing your fingers like that. You're glad that she's comfortable enough to let her oral fixation out and about. She used to say she's insecure about it and try not to do it in public.

"we missed you," Sita said softly before taking her head off of Kid's neck, tilting your chin and kissed your lips. You hummed into the kiss.

"hopefully this thing die down a little soon, I've got my contact for fake IDs already, even all the papers we need, just need this to die down and we can move on," Kid said and sighed. Sita though looked particularly interested. "what?" Kid asked confused. You just laughed because you know your girl all too well.

"you talking about all these matter makes her hot and bothered," you joked which made Sita blush. "hey!" she tried to defend herself before burying her face into Kid's neck, hiding from both of you.Kid chuckled and raised his hand to run it through her hair.

"hot and bothered hm?" he looked over to you with a smirk. You chucked. "such a tease," you laughed at him and kissed his lips, Sita turned her head again, pulling your hand towards her lips and kissed them again.

"i could fall asleep like this," you admitted, earning a him from Kid. A yawn escaped your lips. You looked over to Sita and chuckled when she's settled into placed your index finger into her mouth.

"I might fall asleep," you said again eyes now closed. Kid's hand that was resting on your arm softly move to pat you "sleep, I'll lift you later," you answer with a hum. You felt a kiss on your head and before you know it you're snoring like a baby.

[robertreich]

We Need to Make Government Bigger (It’s Not What You Think) 

We need to make the House of Representatives bigger!

Now I know what some might be thinking: “Make the government bigger?” Well, technically yes. But that's missing the point. We need to expand the House to make the government work better, and be more responsive to our needs.

Put simply: The House of Representatives does not have enough members to adequately represent all 334 million of us.

Now, the House hasn’t always had 435 members and it was never intended to stay the same size forever. For the first 140 years of America’s existence, a growing House of Reps was actually the norm.

It wasn’t until 1929 that Congress arbitrarily decided to cap the size of the House at 435 members. Back then, each House member represented roughly 200,000 people.

But since then, the population of the United States has more than tripled, bringing the average number of constituents up to roughly 760,000.

Compared to other democracies, we are one of the worst in terms of how many constituents a single legislator is supposed to represent. Only in India does the average representative have more constituents.

And as America continues to grow it's only going to get worse.

Think your representative doesn’t listen to you now? Just wait.

Not surprisingly, research shows that representatives from more populous House districts tend to be less accessible to their constituents, and less popular.

Thankfully, the solution is simple: allow the House to grow.

Increasing the number of representatives should be a no brainer for at least four reasons:

First, logically, more representatives would mean fewer people in each congressional district — improving the quality of representation.

Second, a larger House would be more diverse. Despite recent progress, today’s House is still overwhelmingly male, white, and middle-aged. More representatives means more opportunities for young people, people of color, and women to run for office — and win.

Third, this reduces the power of Big Money. Running an election in a smaller district would be less expensive, increasing the likelihood that people elect representatives that respond to their interests rather than big corporations and the wealthy.

Fourth, this would help reduce the Electoral College’s bias toward small states in presidential elections. As more heavily populated states gain more representatives in Congress — they also gain more electoral votes.

Now, some might say that a larger House of Representatives would be unwieldy and unmanageable.

Well, Japan, Germany, France, and the UK — countries with smaller populations than us — all have larger legislatures — and they manage just fine.

Others might say that it would be too difficult — or expensive — to accommodate more representatives in the Capitol. “Are there even enough chairs???”

Seriously?

Look, we’ve done it before. The current Capitol has been expanded to accommodate more members several times — and it can be again. A building should not be an obstacle to a more representative democracy.

Increasing the size of the House is an achievable goal.

We don’t even need a constitutional amendment. Congress only needs to pass a law to expand the number of representatives, which it’s done numerous times.

And as it happens, there is a bill — two in fact!

Each would add more than 130 seats to the House and lower the number of constituents a typical representative serves from 761,000 to a little over 570,000. Plus, there is a mechanism for adding new members down the line.

These bills are our best chance to restore the tradition of a House that grows in representation as America grows.

It’s time for us to think big — and make the People’s House live up to its name.

[millylotus]

Duke's cousin Jay

His full name is Jayden Jackson, he's Doug's older sister Patricia & her husband Heaven's son.

Jay's always been a competent guy, physically inclined like his maternal grandpa and just as smart as the rest of his family. But the Thomas have never been particularly well off, so Jay never really got the chance to properly expand on alot of his talents and stuck to what would get him far quick enough & cheap enough.

One of those things was the Army.

After the loss of his parents in the bombing of Bludhaven he had nowhere to go. He wasn't going to bother his Uncle & Aunt, who where raising his baby cousin and caring for Granny Luci. He needed somewhere quick and cheap. He had nowhere else to go.

Nowhere to go but the Army.

At first they where going to use him like every other boy who'd lost people to attacks like the one on Bludhaven. Trauma riddled and gunning for revenge on anyone they where directed at, but Jay just didn't want to be a bother, and being useless was being a bother.

They saw just how good Jay was and in no way where they gonna lose such a useful asset. He learned quick & adapted to everything they put him through. And all those things they put him through where important, so important that Jay was put on teams that required code names and red tape for everything.

When Doug & Elaine went missing & Duke was put in the system Jay wasn't even aware until two years later, and even then he couldn't leave because he was still "fighting the good fight".

Eventually he gets a break, a couple months and with a payout on the bounds he'd stay quite and no one would get hurt. He ran to Gotham, got an apartment and found Duke living with the Waynes.

For a second he thought maybe Duke wouldn't want to live with him, the extravagance, the comfort, it was all Jay had ever dreamed of for his family. But his little cousin jumped right into his arms and suddenly Jay has split custody with Bruce Wayne of all people.

He adjusts to civilian life about as well as he adjusts to that of a soldier, but not quite. Just enough that it doesn't register to him that Duke met him in the middle somewhere between soldier and everyday life.

He'll be back with the special ops eventually, but he has a couple months left with all the family he's got. And by god is Jayden gonna milk every second of that.

---

I generally think of Jay as an easy going if not a paranoid and really awkward guy

I've decided he has anxiety that he just isn't acknowledging right now

He's between Dick & Jason in age leaning more towards Jason

But ya know that's just how it is sometimes

He's not a very high emotions type of guy, most of the people in his family aren't

The most you'll drag out of him is an overprotective streak when it comes to Duke

He fidgets with his dog tags often

He knows how to kill a man in at least 50 different ways

He was the rookie for a solid 6 years before ending up as basically the middle child of his team

He's not sure how he feels about the Waynes but he's willing to take as much child support from them instead of indebting Duke to the army by using their money to care for him

When he finds out Duke is a meta-human he takes that shit to the grave, no-one is using his cousin

Same thing when he finds out Duke is a vigilante

He routinely cries to 16 Carriages by Beyonce

His favorite artists are Beyonce, Adele, & India Arie

He frequently goes to art exhibits and has tried his fair share at painting but is to embarrassed to really share it with anyone

Chronic resting bitch face he gets from his dad

The army aged him and people sometimes think he's Duke's dad

Knows things he shouldn't

Not tired all the time, but definitely more mellow compared to when Duke last saw him years ago, he smiled bigger back then

He's dated one person seriously in his life and that was a girl in high school

A fling there, a tent mate over here, maybe even on old friend who might come back, he doesn't really know

Once tried to eat his dad's belt as a kid

Got Duke hooked on sweets as a kid, much to Elaine's chagrin and now they're both sweettooths together

His favorite subject was art history

He reads plays a lot because they where just in abundance everywhere he went for some reason, and also because he likes dialogue a little more than heavy prose

Only has his GED, never really intended to go to college, now the army gets in the way of that

Figured out the We Are Robin thing quick, the Signal stuff not so much

Lets the WAR kids crash at his place even when he's dispatched

Doesn't like loud noises or the sound of guns

This ruined a lot of his fav trap songs for him

His fave color is yellow

He's jealous of Duke relationship with the Waynes and Robins sometimes, especially Jason, but by virtue of Duke just being a loving guy those feelings never really stick for long

One time he was babysitting Duke and the little man got him hooked on TMNT

He still has his Mikey mask, and Duke still has his Raph one

He's kind of just a guy sometimes

He's my one of my favs now

Jay Jack is just that guy, no excuses

[perpetualexistence]

if noah was actually written as the schemer, how do you think it would have gone exactly? love your writings btw

Thank you so much! And oh, anon. Anon you've unlocked character analysis mode. I hope you're ready for a bunch of paragraphs, because that's what you're getting.

First of all, as much as I love writing a Noah who can scheme on par with Alejandro or Heather, he's a different kind of schemer than them. Noah’s a lazy character at heart, particularly season 1 Noah. This is true whether or not you believe the theory that he sabotaged himself to get out of the game early. He’s a child who was born naturally smart. He hacked his way into moderating a forum at age 5 because he truly believed he could do a better job at it. He's going to believe in working smarter rather than harder.

Thus, his scheming reflects this. If Heather is a snake, and Alejandro is an eel, then Noah is a vulture. (Specifically a white-rumped vulture since its habitat as India. This isn't actually important to the narrative. But it's important to me to have animals that share the same roots as the characters they represent.) The bird has a reputation for being evil, but isn’t really. Noah’s more opportunistic than anything. He’s the type to let other people do all the hard work before swooping in for the kill.

His plan going into Island is to latch onto the strongest competitor and ride their coat tails. He'll stay in the middle of the pack for as long as possible. Once that's no longer an option, he'll commit to winning challenges to gain immunity.

Cue Heather. He can immediately recognize that she's one to take charge and sabotage. Which is perfect for him. He presents himself as an option for being her spy for the boys once he realizes she's looking for alliances (because I do rather like this direction that canon could have taken if they had committed to him being the schemer). He lets Heather take the lead, though does offer valuable suggestions based on his observations on the other contestants.

He also commits to getting close with Lindsay. He needs her to be more loyal to him than she is to Heather. He does this by indulging in her attempts to have them all be best alliance buddies. Babes, as she calls them. Noah tries arguing that there shouldn't be an 'e' in there, and also he's not a 'babe'. Heather and her, sure. But definitely not him. Lindsay refuses to listen to this logic because he's a part of the alliance, so he's a babe, and they can just give him a makeover if he's hung up on it!

Noah and Lindsay do end up becoming legitimate friends. The potential friendship of bimbo with a heart of gold and cold little cynic is just too much for me not to have them be friends. Schemer Noah still has a heart. And if he can have a friend and a shot at the prize money, then he'll take both. Besides, it's not like he's doing her any harm in trying to keep her completely from Heather's clutches.

All the while, he's making plans for eventually betraying Heather. He establishes early on that he has a 'journal' that's clearly a diary. It doesn't have anything in it, but no one else knows that. After a few episodes, he'll complain about it going missing. Not too long after, he'll be completely quiet about the matter.

See, Noah's patient. Once he's ready to drop Heather, he'll absolutely reveal the alliance. And he'll reveal that the only reason he was a part of it was because Heather stole his journal and threatened to read it to everyone just like she'd done to Gwen. It would immediately gain him sympathy points and paint a huge target on Heather's back that he'd coast by stress-free. And who are they going to believe? The girl who's been tormenting everyone from the beginning? Or the guy who hasn't been doing much?

Part of me wants to say he'd reveal this grand plan during/after Lindsay's elimination when it is suddenly very clear the alliance is over. Either way, his plan has worked, and now he can just coast on his sympathy until he's in the final three.

He still doesn't win the season. This is due to a combination of factors, centered around one thing: his overconfidence in his intelligence. He can make a plan, and he can execute it flawlessly. But he doesn't do so well at improvising, or thinking of what comes after.

He assumed that tossing Heather aside would see her focus her effort on winning and trying not to get eliminated. He underestimated how vindictive she would be, to the point of risking her own elimination to make sure Noah doesn't win, either. He also neglected to play the social game thanks to spending most of his time spying. Sure, he has their sympathy for being used by Heather. But most of them barely know him, and they'd rather protects their own friends than go out of their way to not eliminate Noah.

I don't know when exactly he'd be eliminated. It could be either before or after Heather, though I don't see him making it to the final three. I think final three is the farthest I'd be willing to put him, because there's no way he's not quitting on the dares before Owen or Gwen.

At the playa de losers, he has a bit of an existential crisis because this is the first time his intelligence hasn't just given something to him. Lindsay helps him through it in her own Lindsay way by serving as a reminder that she isn't smart, but she's still kicking! Plus, she was still able to tell Heather off, to which he would admit he was fairly impressed with the insults she threw down. He had no idea she had it in her.

He still manages to make friends with Izzy and Eva. This mainly happens during the special when all of a sudden there's a million on the line. He throws his lot in with two of the physically strongest competitors (who don't currently hate his guts), and accidentally makes more friends along the way. (I can never abandon Team E-scope).

When World Tour hits, he knows he has to force himself to be a more active participant. He knows he can't win the physical game, so he'll just have to, ugh, put effort into the social game. He still needs someone else to latch onto to help him with that, so he settles for Owen. He tells Owen that he's trying to be more 'friendly', and Owen's more than happy to take him under his wing! He's never really done that before! It'll be fun for both of them, he promises! (Nowen to some extent is also a constant in any of my ideas).

Meanwhile he also has to keep tabs on Alejandro. He sees the guy going after Team Victory one by one, but doesn't say anything because it's not his problem. ...Until he remembers that Lindsay is in Team Victory. So now he's got to scheme a way to get Alejandro to steer his attention away from Lindsay while also making sure Alejandro doesn't figure out who he's trying to protect.

It'll probably eventually lead to him and Heather teaming up against Alejandro as an 'enemy of my enemy' pact. Except Alejandro sees this and begins to tempt Noah to join his side as well. Everyone in the trio knows that the others are trying to take advantage of them. It's very much a Mexican standoff.

Aaaaand that's all I've got! I know Season 3 wasn't as detailed as Season 1 was, but I'm getting tired as I'm writing this reply due to the time I'm writing it. Also, the ideas have straight up run out for now, so time will tell what happens.

I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it, anon!

[dailyanarchistposts]

When Elon Musk took over Twitter and the platform began to tank, the stock value plummeted, and people were leaving in droves, many of us thought he was just an arrogant doofus, a parasitic man-child who became a billionaire by throwing around free money, more recently billions in government subsidies but originally, as a kid, his massive inheritance from South African diamond mines. And he is all those things, but there is also something more going on here.

The Twitter takeover, in fact, possesses an opaque but important similarity with—of all things—the Chinese government’s COVID policy. If we assume that Musk’s many fumbles with one of the world’s largest social media platforms is nothing but a blunder, nothing but stupidity, then we miss out on an illuminating question. Which, it turns out, is the same question we miss when we assume the Chinese government’s zero tolerance COVID policy is a mere example of totalitarian inclinations or a different public health culture (both of which are explanations infused with racist stereotypes).

So what on Earth connects Elon Musk to China’s COVID policy? For one thing, one of Musk’s other companies, Tesla, became the first foreign company to wholly own a car factory in China when they opened an assembly plant in Shanghai in 2019. The Shanghai Gigafactory is one of Tesla’s largest, though it ran into problems when the government temporarily closed it down in 2020, and again in March 2022, to enforce a COVID quarantine. As the threat of new quarantines pops up, Musk might consider sending new investments to countries with weaker regulations like India. Apple, for example, is increasingly relying on India over China for iPhone production, meaning China’s COVID policy is costing them foreign direct investment.

There’s the similarity. A government policy causing a loss in revenue. A new corporate policy causing a plummet in stock value. Are we to judge both of these policies failures, or at the least, ineffective, because they lost money?

And that gets us to our central question: do companies and governments in this capitalist world system exist to make money? Is money, capital accumulation, the fundamental driving force of our world?

If it is, then both the turbulence Elon Musk has caused at Twitter and the stagnation the Chinese government has inflicted on its own economy due to its zero tolerance COVID policies have to be viewed as blunders, as they have unarguably caused a loss of economic value. However, in both cases, we might at least entertain the possibility that such an argument is reductionist if it hides other factors and outcomes that cannot be so easily quantified.

And quantification is an angle we need to explore to be able to answer this question. Even though the vagaries of international finance make it an obscure field, economic loss is easy to measure relative to qualitative forms of evaluation. Did Twitter lose value? Did the growth rate of the Chinese economy contract? Since both of these questions can be reduced to a number and real numbers are arranged along a single dimension, meaning we can always say whether one number is more or less than another number, then yes, Twitter lost value, and yes, the Chinese economy began to grow at a slower rate. So if it’s all about money, both of these policies were mistakes.

Before considering the case closed, should we be thinking about any kinds of qualitative as opposed to quantitative analysis that might illuminate the topic? After all, the knowledge systems of all the dominant institutions of our society are heavily biased in favor of quantitative and objective frameworks of thought; in fact this epistemology is central to the rationalism of the modern state and of capitalism itself, given that they allow for reproducibility and thus industrialism as both an economic and a political or war-making mode, and they allow ethical and spiritual frameworks to be subsumed into the construction of society itself, therefore making them invisible and immune to being questioned. If you want me to explain this idea more, let me know and I’ll devote some time to it in the future, but for now, let’s get back to Twitter.

What did Musk accomplish at Twitter, aside from losing unimaginably vast sums of money and showing the entire world that he’s not as intelligent as he thinks he is? He has taken a huge step to create a more right-wing media environment in what might become the biggest change to the landscape since the emergence of Fox News. True, Twitter’s algorithms always favored the specific content and also the controversy-seeking, baiting tactics of the Right. It is also true that conversation on Twitter was more often than not superficial and demeaning. However, we should not deny that anarchists and other anticapitalists saw Twitter as an important space for organizing and outreach. I had never been on social media my entire life, until finally around the end of 2019, when other anarchists convinced me that it did not make sense for me to spend so much time writing if I was going to avoid the platforms where writing and political analysis were actually being distributed in the current day.

And there are other corners of Twitter where emotional supportiveness, care, and mutual aid are actually the norm, spaces important in many people’s lives for building safety and opportunities for healing and connection, in rejection of the ableist, trans- and homophobic, racist culture that predominates in public space.

So yes, Twitter is a hellsite, but if we so quickly forget about some of the things that brought us there, we risk missing the relevance of this moment. Musk’s takeover of Twitter has enabled a fierce campaign of censorship against anarchist and other anticapitalist accounts, frequently executed by Musk himself, to such an extent that we should seriously consider that this was one of his primary motivations, more than making money. We already know that restoring Trump’s account was a motivator for him.

Meanwhile, the centrist media has given massive coverage to the Right’s “free speech” anti-censorship alibi. They continue to portray Musk as an anti-censorship figure, restoring far-Right accounts that had been banned, and they refuse to mention the accounts that Musk has been banning.

What about the Chinese government’s zero-tolerance COVID policy? Obviously, shutting everything down in a neighborhood, a city, or an entire region as soon as a rise in COVID cases is detected is going to be disruptive to the economy, as when when authorities closed down Tesla’s Shanghai Gigafactory and so many other thousands of factories. For a while now, Chinese planners and economists internationally have figures detailing how the zero-tolerance and other regulatory policies are slowing the economy and causing unemployment to skyrocket.

It’s important to mention that GDP growth is not just a metric imposed by Western observers. The Chinese Communist Party under Xi Jinping has made GDP growth targets a central part of their ruling strategy and their conceptualization of development. And yet, midway through the year, when it became clear they would not even meet their already reduced target of 5.5% growth, they chose to prioritize their restrictive no COVID policies.

Most countries in the world chose to allow a massive number of deaths in exchange for better economic growth. In the US, that’s over 1 million deaths, a figure we don’t see the media mention very often. However, the Chinese government cannot accurately be accused of humanitarianism, given that their solutions have included locking workers into their factories. In fact, their zero-tolerance COVID policy bears a striking similarity to Mao’s Four Pests Campaign, which sought to drive animals like flies and sparrows to extinction as a part of the government’s ambitious agricultural program. The purpose is less to save lives and more to eliminate external, natural forces capable of disrupting a rational, quantitative planning process.

A couple notes here, for accuracy. Mao is frequently lambasted for trying to eliminate sparrows, and the disastrous ecological consequences that policy had. At the same time (late ‘50s) and for significantly longer, the US government was trying to exterminate the wolves. Also, Western hacks and mainstream media frequently refer to socialist states as “planned economies” and NATO states as “free market economies.” Though there are significant differences in the strategies of state intervention in the economy, these labels are bogus since all modern states exist on the same continuum. The US government, from the beginning but even more so since FDR, engages in substantive economic planning, deciding which sectors will get the most capital, deciding interest rates, setting targets for inflation; and the Chinese government allows and encourages a massive private sector that is more responsive to market forces.

The reason all states engage in planning, and a more accurate framework for understanding the nature of that planning, is social control.

What is social control? The Marxist I like the most told me it is a fetishistic, meaningless category. Actually, it’s a necessary concept for explaining some glaring holes in Marxism itself and in any framework that sees capital accumulation as the be-all and end-all for understanding our society.

Musk’s actions make sense, even though they lost him $9 billion dollars, because like any capitalist he is worried about fundamental questions of social control that allow him to be a capitalist in the first place. The Chinese government’s actions make sense because developing techniques that allow a state to neutralize and surpass epidemics would greatly increase that state’s planning powers, and even if they fail they are testing and amplifying their arsenal of social control techniques, and social control is the fundamental concern of any state and thus the fundamental concern of capitalism, being an economic system entirely dependent on state power.

In this context it is worth noting that the Chinese government decided to relax their COVID policy not in early July, when they were forced to choose that policy over their economic growth targets, but at the end of November, when mass protests bordering on insurrection against the policy broke out. The policy got in the way of economic accumulation: they stuck to it. The policy got in the way of social control: they abandoned it.

Academically trained Marxists are going to be biased in favor of a quantitative analysis, like seeing capital accumulation as the fundamental force in our society, for the same reasons that all our dominant institutions are biased in favor of quantitative analysis. A qualitative analysis is not reproducible, and the modern state needs access to reproducible sciences.

This seems like a contradiction to claim that the state is fundamentally motivated by a qualitative science, like social control, and yet constantly in need of a quantitative science like capital accumulation. In fact, this contradiction traces a tense balance, a relation, that has come to shape the entire planet in these last centuries. The fundamental truth of the State is social control, an existential war waged by centralized power against all life. And the most effective motor the State has ever developed to fuel its war is not a winning religion, it’s not a more streamlined process for the transfer of power, it’s economic accumulation. Before capitalism, states were exponentially weaker, frequently overthrown by the societies they tried to dominate, even when state and society shared the hierarchical culture produced by patriarchy and organized religion.

Capitalism, which requires the enclosure of the commons and the alienation of all life, cannot exist without the planning and war-making powers of the State. And once capitalism emerged, created in a continuum by the Italian city-states, the Castillian-Aragonese state, and finally in its modern form by the Dutch state, it bestowed the states that adopted it with such power that henceforth it became the duty of every government on the planet to embrace capitalism, lest they be overwhelmed by those that already had. This sheds light on one of the reasons that colonialism spread in such a rapid wave, especially where there were already states that could be instrumentalized in the conquered territories. And it helps explain why socialism, by not rejecting the state, was fully absorbed by capitalism in the early 20th century, and why all Marxist-inspired states are fully capitalist, fully colonial, and every bit as imperialist as their geopolitical circumstances allow them to be.

Capital accumulation is a necessary motor for the state; it is also a favored metric for a quantitative science of power. Given that accumulation is a result of oppressive, exploitative processes and it cannot happen without the domination of society and nature, high rates of accumulation are generally a good indicator that state power is firmly ensconced, that the State is winning its war against life. Still, the fundamental question is that of social control. Many capitalists, as specialists, will lose sight of this as they become obsessed with their numbers game, but in the end it’s just a game, a highly useful game, and when push comes to shove, questions of social war will always be more important for the institutions of power. The trick for them is to make sure that seeking capital accumulation and seeking social control always go hand in hand, rather than entering into contradiction.

As for anticapitalist movements, we lose sight of the social war at our own risk. The reasons for this are multiple. Marxism’s predictive power regarding the development of the revolution is nil, displaying a profound lack of understanding of what revolution actually means. Attempts to combine materialist with geopolitical analysis, as with Giovanni Arrighi’s development of world systems theory (on the whole an illuminating theoretical framework) also demonstrate their inaccuracy and disconnection from living history wherever they focus too heavily on quantitative questions of capital accumulation, a weakness explored in Alex Gorrion’s “Anarchy in World Systems.” These are not just obscure questions relating to debates from past centuries, given how academic, materialist-oriented journals and discussion groups continue to falsify the history of revolutionary struggle as we live it, claiming, for example, that the major uprisings of the past two decades have occurred as a result of the crisis of accumulation, when in fact the uprisings preceded the manifestation of that crisis and have occurred in countries experiencing polar opposite moments in the kinds of crises capitalism constantly produces.

(I shouldn’t have to provide this rebuttal, but alas, experience tells me I do: it is intellectually dishonest and a waste of everyone’s time to start off by claiming that rebellion is “produced” by a specific quantitative crisis in accumulation, to then be shown that in fact rebellions are occurring in completely different economic circumstances—the crises associated with growth, the crises associated with recession, the crises associated with inflation—and then to double back around and claim that one’s original argument was that crisis produces rebellion. Given that capitalism is a constant string of crises, this is a meaningless statement with nothing predictive or scientific about it, and it sets up the dishonest strawman that non-materialists believe that rebellions come out of thin air, in no way a response to their surroundings.)

Time and again, the first sign of crisis that materialists notice is the rebellion itself, meaning they are rarely on the front lines. Those who are more present tend to be those who decide to fight back even if objective conditions are supposedly unfavorable.

For our survival, we need to understand the ways the State is designing a constant war against us, and always has been, and always will be. For our liberation, we need to understand unquantifiable life, abundance without capital, and we need to develop an intelligence for a kind of struggle that also subverts the logic of warfare. A collective sight that can perceive the battlefield but destroy the opposing army by moving sideways, by burrowing, by climbing into the trees, by turning the battlefield back into a field, a forest, a community.

[itsblasttothepast]

Checo's time at mclaren was similar to what's happening now, no?

No, not really, for starters, the circumstances were wildy different:

When Checo was in McLaren:

He was a rookie, barely out the nest from Sauber, being teammates with the nicest guy ever (Kamui, how I miss you).

His new teammate was already a world champion (Jenson Button, 2009), and he was clearly the inexperienced for the press.

He was substituting Lewis Hamilton, another already world champion, and fan favorite. Most of the hate Checo received back then was because Hamilton moved on to Mercedes.

McLaren was in the middle of restructuring his cars, and the team was kind of a mess back then. The phrase 'that's why we hired him' was heard so many times in so many interviews...

Finally, Checo never felt part of the team entirely and they fired him like nothing. Checo's dad said that it was the ultimate betrayal for Checo, since he gave everything to be in McLaren and now he was without a seat.

And yes, he was quite hated in his time in McLaren, but mostly because Lewis left and Jenson kept complaining about Checo's driving style. Something that's the same though, when everything went wrong, everyone blamed Checo (still happening with RBR).

However, with RBR (Red Bull Racing), things were like this:

He was more experienced and had more knowledge of developing the cars, Force India and Racing Point always tried to adjust the car to Checo's needs.

Checo was part of one of Horner's teams back in GP2, so Horner knew him and followed his career in F1 (Horner's words).

RBR had problems mantaining a second driver, since the team focused on Max.

Nobody in RBR wanted Checo, except for Horner. They wanted someone from their academy, so Horner had to twist everyone's arm so they could at least consider Checo. This shows that the team didn't exactly received him with open arms.

He knew his job: Secure Max's first championship. That was the goal, he had to be the second driver that helped Max achieve the glory. One time when they interviewed Checo, they asked him about blocking Lewis and Checo said that he knew Lewis would understand because he was doing it for HIS team. He already felt part of the family, even when most didn't want him there.

He was (is) older than Max, more relaxed and also, can take the heat and pressure.

What's the difference? Yes, he was hated in McLaren, but in RBR he's the focus, even more than Max. Almost every news, rumour, post... it's about Checo, or something someone said about him. And the focus is 80% negativity because RBR is a mess team. Always followed by drama.

Oh, and a big, BIG difference, in McLaren, Checo was single and had no kids. In RBR he's married with children, and people has no boundaries by messing with them; imagine being Checo's wife and reading that the press say your husband has 'drug money' or 'mafia money' or other many racists comments.

So no, it's not the same, the hate he gets now is awfully worse. And people don't seem to understand WHY is wrong acting this way.

I still have hope for Checo moving to another team, I know he wants to retire in RBR, but if he goes to Audi (with NICOOOO), or even if I'm right and Otmar brings another team, I think the press will finally let him go and let him race in peace (one can only dream).

[wachinyeya]

The Nepalese army says it has removed eleven tonnes of rubbish, four corpses and one skeleton from Mount Everest and two other Himalayan peaks this year.

It took troops 55 days to recover the rubbish and bodies from Everest, Nuptse and Lhotse mountains.

It is estimated that more than fifty tonnes of waste and more than 200 bodies cover Everest.

The army began conducting an annual clean-up of the mountain, which is often described as the world’s highest garbage dump, in 2019 during concerns about overcrowding and climbers queueing in dangerous conditions to reach the summit.

The five clean-ups have collected 119 tonnes of rubbish, 14 human corpses and some skeletons, the army says.

This year, authorities aimed to reduce rubbish and improve rescues by making climbers wear tracking devices and bring back their own poo.

In the future, the government plans to create a mountain rangers team to monitor rubbish and put more money toward its collection, Nepal's Department of Tourism director of mountaineering Rakesh Gurung told the BBC.

For the spring climbing season that ended in May, the government issued permits to 421 climbers, down from a record-breaking 478 last year. Those numbers do not include Nepalese guides. In total, an estimated 600 people climbed the mountain this year.

This year, eight climbers died or went missing, compared to 19 last year.

A Brit, Daniel Paterson, and his Nepalese guide, Pastenji Sherpa, are among those missing after being hit by falling ice on 21 May.

Mr Paterson’s family started a fundraiser to hire a search team to find them, but said in an update on 4 June that recovery “is not possible at this time” because of the location and danger of the operation.

Mr Gurung said the number of permits was lower this year because of the global economic situation, China also issuing permits and the national election in India which reduced the number of climbers from that country.

The number of permits will likely drop more after Nepal’s Supreme Court ordered the government in May to limit permits. The preliminary order didn't set a maximum number.

Mr Gurung says he welcomes the order and the government is thinking about reforms such as staggering climbers to reduce traffic jams at the summit.

[sunpaintedsea]

[ … ] ❀ you’re not from around here , are you? i figured because you totally just missed { DIHAAN 'DORIAN' VAKIL } walking by. don’t tell me you don’t know who { HE } is ? they kind of look like { DEV PATEL } and i could be wrong but i think that they might be { THIRTY } years old right now. they’ve been living in palmview for the last { TWO YEARS }. and i don’t know if anyone has ever told them this before but they kind of remind me of { MR. DARCY } from { PRIDE AND PREJUDICE }. if you stick around the town long enough you might catch them in action working as an { AUTHOR }. you see this town isn’t really that big of a place, some folks like to call them the { TORTURED ARTIST } of palmview! they took a liking to the name too after a while, go figure. oh crap, they must have heard me yapping. they’re coming this way. i got to warn you though, rumor has it they can pretty { SKITTISH } at times. i wouldn’t take it too seriously though, from the times i’ve spoken to them they seemed pretty { COMPASSIONATE } to me. we see each other all the time since they live in that { 1 BEDROOM } apartment beside me over in { OCEAN'S EDGE }. i better leave you to it. it was nice meeting you!

tw: mental illness, abuse

Basic Information

Full Name: dihaan vakil

Nickname(s): dorian, doe, dee

Age: thirty

Date of Birth: october 8

Hometown: sankod, india

Current Location: palmview grove, florida

Gender: cismale

Pronouns: he/him

Orientation: biromantic, bisexual (closeted)

Relationship Status: single

Occupation: author

Favourites

Weather: snow

Colour:  baby blue

Sport:  football (british)

Beverage: red wine

Food: shrimp scampi

Animal:  horse

Family

Sibling(s): none

Pet(s): none

Biography

{tw: mental illness, abuse} to say that things haven't been very easy for dihaan would be an understatement. his father struggled with severe schizophrenic and bipolar behaviours, believing that dihaan was the reincarnation of the devil. as such, he kept the young boy locked away in the attic. occasionally, his mother would slip him books or newspapers to read, things he could easily hide if his father came looking for him. at first, he was only allowed to leave the home to attend temple, but soon, the townspeople started to get suspicious of this young boy, who didn't attend public schooling, and began asking questions. spooked, his father's delusions deepened, and leaving the house became an impossible task. he became the primary victim of his father's mood swings, enduring treatment he would never dare speak of again.

while his father had intended to keep him locked up forever, dihaan's mother knew that she needed to get him out as soon as possible. on dihaan's eighteenth birthday, his mother packed him a small suitcase of whatever they could spare and put him on a bus to the nearest big city. there, he got a job washing dishes and used the cash he made to rent a room. the dishwashing job turned into a line cook job which earned him enough money to get his affairs in order and disappear to america. new york, specifically, where his favourite novel had taken place. a land of new beginnings.

{tw: abuse} new york was where he met maria. maria was a vibrant woman, who consumed his life almost immediately. she helped him reinvent himself. at first, she supported his dreams of becoming a writer and publishing his first novel. he'd gotten another restaurant job in the big apple, but she encouraged him to quit it and work on his writing. she would support him. that turned out to be the biggest mistake he ever made in life. the ensuing emotional, physical, and financial abuse crushed the already-weakened dorian, who really only dreamed of somewhere to belong.

however, dorian had made a friend (future WC). this friend helped him escape, giving him a place to live while he got his feet back under him. even introduced him to a publisher, who after reading a snippet of his writing, offered dorian a deal. he would act as a ghost writer, writing everything from celebrity biographies to finishing the work of authors who'd passed on. it was unfulfilling, but it paid the bills. and then, he got a promotion. to romance novels. under a pseudonym, dorian wrote sappy, steamy, romantic harlequin novels. they weren't best sellers, and none of them would ever win literary awards, but he realized he had found his niche. these novels gave him an escape from the real world, where he was unloveable and broken. when his friend moved back to their hometown of palmview, dorian decided to come with, figuring this was as nice a town as any to settle down in.

[srbachchan]

DAY 5619

Jalsa, Mumbai                  July 6/7,  2023                Thu/Fri  1:15 AM

Apologies for missing the Calendar updates 😔 .. but making up .. 🙏🏻

..

🪔 .. July 04 .. was no birthday ..

🪔 .. July 05 .. birthday of Ef Shashikant Pedwal from Pune .. and Rajat Watel from Jammu ..

🪔 .. July 06 .. birthday of Ef Pronobesh Roy Choudhury from West Bengal - Kolkata ..

🪔 .. July 07 .. birthday of Ef Saurabh Bhakri from New Delhi ..

Greetings to all and the joys of the World .. ❤️ from your Ef Family .. 🙏🏻🚩

So .. a few days off .. and the days spent in reflection , rejuvenation .. not of the age kind but to gain the knowledge of what goes on inside the World of reflection .. smart yes .. 

Yes .. 

It is , or rather are the reflection days .. a wonder why certain ‘givens’ were given , why certain doings were being done .. why a name an act an act .. and so many other ‘whys’ .. 

The curiosity widens .. and it is not the curiosity , it is the will of the mind to delve into regions which were in a sense reserved to ask or know .. 

Now with age the ridicule has lessened .. now with time they that are asked or are brought into the picture by me , are convinced that the man is 81 , old decrepit and mental , bear him .. it shan’t be for long .. and the responses go on with a sense of  .. ‘poor guy , so uninformed , let him be .. etc etc etc .. “ 

Also the temerity to seek and voice matters that may never have been done earlier have reached the stage of a fearless disposition .. 

So to start with ..

Wimbledon is on .. and the Women players get Women ex champions in the commentary box to speak and inform and comment .. most of the time .. the Men players get ex men champions in the box .. 

BUT ..

Typically .. give a microphone to any individual and they shall never stop talking .. and this I notice often .. 

In the game of tennis or any such moment , when the entire concentration is in the players and how their mind is working etc., the commentators keep talking .. hey ! I want silence at that time .. I want to get into the mind of the player and the ladies keep commenting on past games and opinions , and moments as to why he or she played so and so and such and such ..

NOOO ..

I do not want to be disturbed by your chatter .. give me all that you have to say in the break .. when the players wipe face drink energy, eat energy chocolate, complain to the Ref , ask questions facially to their team on the stands above , lament that the crowd is not with them .. and so on ..  

then talk as much as you like .. !! hahah .. its limited there isn’t it , because the Ads., start .. hahaha .. the ad., money is so needed for the commerce of the Tournament .. many of you would not know that there never used to be a break in tennis before .. the players just changed sides and carried on .. the break was deliberately introduced to give time to the Ads., to run and for their Commerce to thrive ..

AND THANK THE LORD FOR THAT .. !! I get a job too .. the Ad.s and the endorsements  .. hahah !! 

yes their experience and stories of past moments .. or guidance of how the game goes on and what the strategy should be - unless its an English Brit playing ..  then it’s all about them even when they are losing .. it’s always the ‘sun’ coming in the eyes , the wind is blowing against them when they serve or take a smash shot .. the shadow keeps changing on the court , the linesmen are making mistakes .. ufff .. the list is endless .. even when the opponent has given a amazing shot, the comment if its a Brit will be .. ‘he was there, foot slipped, would have returned it .. ‘  

the exuberant adjectives used when there is a Brit commentator for Cricket and their team players hits 4 or a 6 ..  !!  listen to them .. they just go on and on in praise and compliments .. !!

And for us ..  it’s just a terse inform .. hehehe .. 

WE  THE PEOPLE OF INDIA, NOTICE ALL THIS  .. 

But we are a tolerant people .. just that ..  ‘गले ते  हथ ना लाई  !’  as we would say in Punjabi ‘don’t put your threatening hand on my neck’ .. because we will thoko ..  ठोको,  ..  .. गळ्यात हात ठेवला तर, ठोक देणार !!!

AAAh .. a favorite subject of mine  .. and I love noticing and commenting in private , but today .. गळ्यात हात ठेवला तर ठोक देणार !!

“ to ask the hard question is simple ‘ .. किसी मुश्किल प्रश्न को पूछना बड़ा आसान होता है  

So have asked .. and the answers shall be in the known medium  !!!

Love respect .. affection and more ❤️

Amitabh Bachchan