#the way lies lead to truth and the truth are lies

[mintmatcha]

I so understand this would be so far off, but I’m imagining reader’s son being 13 and a couple months old, he’s cordial with Shinsou, for his mum, but he’s trying to come to terms with why his mum didn’t stay with his dad. Until monoma doesn’t show up for something and maybe one of his friends is like ‘hey, I’m really sorry your dad is always doing that. It must really suck’

‘My dad always shows up usually, just later. He’s busy.’ And the look of pity from his friend and it just CLICKS

Has to call his mum to pick him up and shinsou picks him up because maybe it’s late at night, and shinsou has always respected that he shouldn’t talk shit about monoma in front of your son, but when your son starts asking about things, about the lies and twisted truths monoma has told, shinsou won’t lie to him. Just gives him yes and no answers.

Monoma doesn’t understand why all of a sudden his son isn’t responding to his messages or answering his phone calls, and there’s no way he’s calling you to reveal to you that he’s no longer the golden father figure in your son’s eyes

I LOVE THIS IDEA AAA

I think, leading up to that, the more your son is angry at monoma, the more he's disrespectful of you. it's displaced, but he just can't bring himself to think that his dad is the problem.

the only time shinso has ever REALLY yelled at him was after school one day. monoma was supposed to come for his weekend, but it's shinso standing at the curb waiting for him.

"Whoa, that's your dad?" a friend asks. oh, he had been bragging all day that his pro hero dad was coming to take him on vacation and now he's face to face with the realization that he's not going anywhere.

"He is not my dad." There's so much angst and anger building up in his gut. you must have done something to piss his real dad off- it's always your fault when he doesn't arrive- "he's just some guy my mom whores around with."

Shinso's jaw flexes so tightly that he can see it from all the way from across the street. He uses his whole name, biting out every syllable with a barely restrained anger. your son trudges across the street with his pack dragging on the ground.

"Say that again." It's been years since he's thought Shinso was scary, but the cold grind of his voice makes him freeze. "Say it right here, to my face."

They both know he can't. He doesn't have the guts. Shinso bends over just a bit, bringing himself face to face.

"You do not have to respect me. You don't even have to like me." Shinso's voice breaks with the sheer volume he's using. your son looks back at his friends, who look equally horrified. "But you will not talk about your mother that way."

The man jabs a finger towards the school bag.

"And pick up your fucking bag." He's never cursed at your son before. "Your mom worked extra shifts to pay for that."

He had begged for this bag, the full leather one. it was expensive. too expensive to ask you for. It came as a holiday present with no name, so he had always assumed his dad was the one who bought it. Monoma is the one with money-- you're just a waitress. The scuffed bottom suddenly feels embarrassing.

Shinso hasn't stopped his ranting. "All she has ever done is loved you. Your whole life! All she's ever done! And I will not let you treat her the way your father treats her, got it?"

Your son doesn't reply.

"I said- did you fucking get that?"

His real dad never yells. No, he just laughs when he says things like that. Your son sniffs and slugs his bag over his shoulder. "Yeah. Whatever."

"And if you ever say that to your mother's face-" he can't finish the sentence. "Get walking."

[nocifer]

Who are the romantic options in Shattered?

Hi, I've made a list of all the confirmed ROs so far, there might be just a tad of spoiler, so if anyone would prefer to keep the mystery intact, pass this by!

Loran, the Huntress (she/her): Peerless huntress and loyal companion, the first and certainly not least of our unfortunate pawns of causality. Thrown into strife no one could have prepared her for, she faces impossible odds by your side, fighting tooth and nail to survive. Beyond kinship, perhaps a brighter flame can light her heart. If you prove deserving of it.

Visamere, the Slayer (she/her): Beast on a yoke, warrior stripped of honor. Though the slayer chafes at her restraints, she will do what she must to earn her freedom and return to her people. Even should they spurn her. Though her fierce heart might find itself yearning for one she never imagined could move her.

The Paladin (he/him): Strange are the twists of fate one might follow for their beliefs, though he would not let such a paltry thing as doubt lead him astray from a burgeoning quest. A big guy with a big heart, who might find himself in more trouble than he bargained for. And perhaps someone worth dedicating another oath to.

The Assassin (he/him): An unwilling hunter is sent on one last pursuit to repay his debt. He may finds himself given an opportunity to claim everything he wishes for all at once. Glib and amused by this new maze fate has seen fit to weave for its favorite plaything, he only wonders whether enough time will remain for him to fulfill his promise. And perhaps roguish charms and morbid humor will earn him even more yet?

The Investigator (she/her): A mysterious seeker of truth and perhaps an unlikely ally. She carves her way through the circles of power, eager to find out what stands at the center of her questions. Through her honeyed lies and clever facades, will she gain more than answers on her path?

The Nightwarden (he/him): A dedicated and tireless pursuer, he has sworn his heart to putting down the target of his hatred. A vengeful warrior who wields glaive and sorcery with equal prowess. As one of the emotionless and deathly loyal nightwardens, who could alter his course now?

The Rival (any/any): A familiar foil catching the scent of an old foe they thought done for, they once again throw themselves after the rival they've always longed for. Avid to meet again, they'll pull off any and all audacious folly to get their way, hoping this time that things end differently.

The Veteran (he/him): The old warrior thought his days of fighting far behind him, but war has a way of plucking its survivors back to the pit. An act of kindness has set him on a collision course with what he always feared most, but perhaps there's something to be gleaned for an old and scarred heart on the way.

[olexiss-s]

A short attempt to follow up on Solas and Lavellan in the Fade after the events of DAV. Spoilers ahead.

"A reprise"

Miriel opens her eyes as Fade materializes before her. The air feels strange—heavy, gray, with a faint buzzing all around her. It takes her a few seconds to adjust. She’s been here physically before, trapped by the Nightmare. Yet this is no creation of any demon, she hears no voice but her own racing thoughts. Her eyes scan the surroundings, but she is searching for Solas.

He stands a few steps ahead of her, bent over, his hands clasped tightly around himself. She takes a cautious step toward him, placing her hand gently on his back.

"Solas…"

He straightens slowly, taking a moment before turning to meet her gaze. The pain in his expression tightens Miriel's throat. She exhales.

"... I still mean what I said to you in Skyhold," she murmurs. "Next time you have to mourn, you don’t have to do it alone."

His eyes darken with deeper sadness, but a faint smile tugs at the corner of his lips. 

"You don’t deserve to be trapped here with me, vhenan," he replies softly. "This is my grief to bear."

"Where is here, exactly?" She has no intention to explain herself further. 

"A prison," he says, his voice trembling, "fortified by regrets."

"Regrets of those trapped?"

"... Yes." His voice wavers, raw.

"We’ll find a way out," she reassures him. "But first, let me see your wounds."

She takes his hand and leads him to a large stone nearby. They sit, and she reaches for the satchel attached to her belt. Tilting his face gently toward her, she begins cleaning his injuries with a cloth and some alcohol. His eyes avoid hers, carrying the weight of countless unspoken truths.

"The people I failed... The Veil..." he whispers, his voice breaking.

"It is not enough to be right, my heart," she interrupts, her tone heavy with compassion. "The consequences..."

"Felaasan..." The name escapes his lips with reverence. He is on the verge of tears. She has never seen him like this before.

Her thoughts drift to a moment during their time in the Inquisition, after the first execution carried out in her name. She had come to him trembling searching for a familiar face, her shame and guilt pouring out as tears on his shoulder. That night, his calm voice had been her anchor, soothing her soul with stories of forgotten heros plagued with similar dilemmas.

Now, she takes his face in her hands, her fingers brushs softly against his cheek. She kisses him deeply. There is so much to say—questions flooding her mind, anger still lingering from years past. But they can wait. In this moment, the only thing that matters is them together at last.

She recalls those who mocked her for believing in his heart. She had felt it too, doubt gnawing at her so intensely as his words twisted her guts in knots. But her stubbornness was only outmatched by his own. His broken resolve now, however, is a sight to be seen.

She has never seen him as a god. Yet the legends—the ones spoken in hushed whispers around the clan’s campfire—uttered his name like a curse. When she returned broken and bruised from the war, painted as the prophet of a foreign god, her bare face—an insult to her blood. Her keeper, uneasy and bitter as she muttered the name "Fen’Harel" in her sleep. As if the betrayer of kin was her only guardian.

She should be angry. She should offer no understanding to the one who had shattered the world, unearthed her roots, and burned her faith. Who had emptied every temple, leaving only frescoes of lies. Yet as she looks at his face now, his immortal pain reverberates through her. It is what kept her searching, following each trail he purposely left for her.

For a few moments, they remain grounded through this touch, among the ghosts surrounding them. 

"Tell me about Mythal," she asks, her voice on the verge of care and sharpness. Perhaps she aims to understand. Perhaps to grab the hilt of the dagger at his side, uncertain whether to pull it out—or twist it.

"You said she was the best of them," she continues. "Yet she used you. Changed you from who you were. Your wisdom... aimed to kill, to claim what was never yours..."

"I followed her like a lost pup," he admits, his voice tinged with both bitterness and despair. "She made me who I am. But I carried out her plans of my own will."

"The Exalted Plains. Your spirit friend... Wisdom turned to Pride," she reminds him.

"Now I know," he whispers, his voice raw with emotion, "death was much kinder fate then what she would have become..." His voice breaks again. "...and for all those who would stand in her way." he adds.

Eyes heavy with regret almost fade to grey.

[fvzzyelf]

"it means," he neared her again but circled to her left and gently urged her to move further down the winding path that would lead to his towering home.

"i will respect your boundaries, and i will respect you. i will do what i must to protect you and that means making sure you are feeling well. katzchen, you look exhausted. can i get you settled in first and then explain?"

not that it would be the truth, fully, but he'd do his best. in this way he was protecting her. she didn't need to know who he really was, how could her little heart take such a thing?

(how could his?)

he would not utter another word about it until she marched herself up to his home and took the gate that led them inside the tree-house home. even then kurt remained mum on the topic until she was sitting down and eating something first.

he watched her eat, his own stomach in knots still though he did wonderfully well at pretending otherwise.

"i am... a seer," he lied. "i know a future, or at least some future that may come to pass, should we not do this. unfortunately my gift leaves much to be desired. my visions are not always clear and what is can be disturbing. all i know if i am meant to be the one who takes this on and if not me then you are in grave danger and so is the peace we have worked hard to maintain for all these years. i wish i could be more useful, could tell you why it's me, but right now i can't. and if you want to leave because you decide you simply can not trust that or these fellow mutants that are taking a risk in protecting you, that is on you... but i would beg you not to go. if not for your own safety then perhaps that of our children."

Saying that one was on an emotional roller coaster was cliche. A tired metaphor for quickly changing high and low emotions during a time of turbulence. Perhaps had she not been sleep deprived and on edge then Katherine Pryde could have described her mental state better.

Kitty was on an emotional roller coaster.

A fleeting consideration of swinging a fist at her new fiance came and went. Instead of approaching to try to explain himself, Kurt raised his hands and backed away as if the young woman was a dangerous thing. Perhaps she looked it with fire in her eyes surrounded by the shadows of insomnia. He also made a quick explanation in which he expressed that he nor anyone else would be forcing a physical relationship on her. Kitty arched an inquiring brow at the vague statement of 'another way' to make more mutants. What other way was there to make them? She, along with the rest of the public, believed mutants were born that way and that was it.

Before her questions could be given voice, Kurt's posture shifted from defensive to...playful. Was he honestly flirting with her in the same breath that he was saying sex was not expected? Kitty eyed him warily and tried to ignore the tempo that his bright grin caused her heart to beat.

She needed sleep. Desperately. That was the only explanation for why she was shifting from defensive to desire quick enough to give herself whiplash. She really needed sleep...maybe good sex would not be so bad either. She had a stressful few weeks and probably deserved it. Had the scenario been different, Kurt's flirting would have been better reciprocated. Kitty rubbed her palms down her face with a muffled groan. 'Get a grip Pryde.'

"What does a good husband even mean in this situation?"She asked, voice far less snappish than before. "I know the House of X and Mystique don't get along but why are you doing this?" And because her question was not clear enough, Kitty amended. "You specifically. Why are you the one burdened with a wife you don't want? I get safety from this marriage and you are not even getting laid. So what is the deal?"

This was happening ridiculously fast and Kitty just wanted to understand before going through with something so permanent and personal as a wedding. "And how do I know that I am not about to be traded away to Mystique because of some other political maneuver?" Being away from her parents meant she was a little more free to fall apart and express her real emotions instead of holding herself together for their sake. Here in this completely foreign place with a total stranger, Kitty was more real than she had been in weeks.

[putredolarva]

( source! )

[chirpsythismorning]

Concept: ST5 promo slowly revealing things over the next year that basically indicates they lied about a bunch of things.

First this new character announcement, despite saying there would be no new characters (the first lie). Next thing you know there’s gonna be some cryptic promo about a birthday, and everyone will be confused like WTF?? Then they’ll do an interview and laugh audibly over a question about the birthday debacle and be like ‘you guys actually believed we don’t rewatch our show??’… Then we’ll get something that indicates Mike was lying in his monologue, with even just the most subtle side joke about it…

Aka Friends don’t lie coming full circle with the creators @ their audience in real time 😭

[apollos-boyfriend]

one thing about me is that i’m ALWAYS thinking about chapter 4 kokichi ouma

[leos-soggy-wolf-nuts]

do i tell the truth...or lie...

[fellhellion]

Obsessed w the way Valmeia picks Astarion because she knows he’s a liar; she’s a liar! every scrap of power she ever accumulated was due to honey tongued lies. And there’s something safe about knowing Astarion being so very familiar in this respect.

[arrivingonthescene]

drama and phys instrument: let's not arrest klaasje she looks so scared. it would be horrible let's just leave and stop pushing her

then a volition check lets you basically slap "sense" into drama and it changes its mind immediately, that klaasje should be arrested. and going down all the dialogue chains shifts the mood of talking to klaasje- where she told you mixed lies, suddenly harry is pushing the point that the police call was fake, with drama goading you on despite the other voices chiming in with the fact the evidence does line up that she made the call...

they frame it as klaasje fucking with the int. side of harry's skills and volition says they (logic, rhetoric, especially drama) are not to be trusted, and when the seed of doubt is planted suddenly all your dialogue choices become "she lied about this specific thing that i corroborated with kim over being true, regardless i will keep threatening arrest over this". drama even pushes that she lied about mundane shit like the beauty pageant.

on the flip side, if you fail the volition check, drama stays adamant that you shouldn't pursue this. which, it isn't entirely wrong, she IS lying about things.

but what is arresting her even going to help, or demanding her fear of your badge. your skills can be straight up wrong or misinterpreting the situation, but harry thinking he's correct leads to, for me, one of his worst displays of abusing his status as a cop. here's a woman you've cornered and you're punishing her for lying to you. arrest her for getting in the way. and kim is jingling the handcuffs the entire time he wants it too. how fucked!

[the-acid-pear]

My problem w romantic attraction is that I'm not entirely devoided of it, there's rare sparks of it i get, but they are SO fucking rare it's a bit sad like WAH... like tv tropes entry what could've been level of sad sometimes.

[sonicthedestiel]

I RAN OUT OF ROOM IN THE TAGS FCKN HELL

[bemusedlybespectacled]

proposing what I'm going to call Gaylor's Razor, which is: never explain normal shit as being part of a secret message that can only be decoded by over-analysis.

"These Taylor Swift lyrics are actually coded messages saying that she's a lesbian and is forced to stay in the closet! Any lyrics that are clearly about being attracted to a man are just to throw us off the scent!" Sometimes people, like Taylor Swift, are straight and write about being straight, because they are straight.

"The fourth series of Sherlock was deliberately bad because it was actually a coded message to us fans that there is a secret fourth episode that will make Johnlock canon and will actually be good!" Sometimes writers (even experienced writers who are normally good at their jobs) will write something that's not good, because no one is perfect. They're not going to waste everyone's time and money and energy creating something terrible on purpose as part of a grand master plan.

"Tessa Virtue and Scott Moir, the Canadian Olympic ice dancers, are secretly married (with kids)! Their public relationships with people who are not each other and them repeatedly saying 'we dated as kids and now we're just friends' are just to hide the truth! Which they need to hide for some reason! Their relationship is obvious just from their physical chemistry when competing! JUST LOOK AT THIS TWO SECOND CLIP OF HIM BLINKING AT HER!" It seems counterproductive to put all that thought into hiding a relationship that doesn't need to be hidden but then also telegraph that same relationship in front of millions of people through planned choreography.

"But BB, what about times that people really are speaking in code or hiding something due to outside influences?"

If it requires huge leaps in logic, like adding all the letters in a sentence together and dividing by seventeen and that number matches the binary sequence for the color yellow so YELLOW MUST BE SIGNIFICANT, it's not a secret code.

If it requires focusing on teeny tiny details but discards huge ones, like analyzing someone's micro-expressions but handwaving away what the person is actually saying out loud with their mouth, or focusing on one specific line instead of the entire scene or song or whatever, it's not a secret code.

If both supporting and contradictory evidence are used to come to the same conclusion (ex: when Taylor says something that I interpret as gay, that means she's gay, and when she says something that I interpret as straight, that still means she's gay and just hiding it), it's not a secret code.

Trying to apply fandom meta analysis techniques to real life is a really good way of fall into conspiratorial thinking that can be easily exploited. You can totally try to predict what's going to happen in a story or choose to interpret a scene in a specific way; you can't do that in real life with real people. That way lies the kind of nonsense that leads to shit like "this image of pizza on a children's toy is actually subliminal messaging by The Cabal™ that proves that Pizzagate is real."

[plutonianeris]

𝖕𝖑𝖚𝖙𝖔 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖍𝖔𝖚𝖘𝖊𝖘 𝖛𝖎𝖇𝖊𝖘

🖤PLUTO IN THE 1ST HOUSE: Intense stare, powerful presence, dark hair or intense eye color, transformation through personal appearance, always reinventing yourself, piercing gaze, people are drawn to your energy or feel intimidated, a survivor mentality, fascination with the taboo or mysterious, deep inner strength, obsessive about self-improvement, intense aura, tattoos or body modifications, people sense you’ve been through a lot, constantly evolving, trauma leaves a mark on your personality, fiercely independent, powerful first impressions, doesn’t back down from a challenge, constantly seeking deeper meaning in life.

🖤PLUTO IN THE 2ND HOUSE: Intense focus on money and possessions, wealth obsession, resourceful, making money from transformative experiences, power struggles over finances, secretive about income, investing in taboo industries, a need for financial control, deep fear of losing security, obsessive saver or spender, finding security in unconventional ways, financial rebirths after losses, never gives up when it comes to earning or building wealth, magnetic attraction to luxury, fiercely protective of material possessions, deeply attached to values, transforming personal worth through challenges, accumulating wealth through intense effort.

🖤PLUTO IN THE 3RD HOUSE: Piercing words, intense communication style, probing questions, unafraid to speak uncomfortable truths, obsessed with learning deep or hidden knowledge, power through communication, fascination with conspiracy theories or mysteries, deep conversations, secretive about ideas, mind games, manipulative or transformative writing, able to persuade or influence others easily, a powerful voice, intellectual intensity, using knowledge as a tool for transformation, might have a secretive sibling relationship, constantly seeking deeper understanding of the world, fascinated by psychology and what lies beneath the surface.

🖤PLUTO IN THE 4TH HOUSE: Intense family dynamics, power struggles with parents, emotional transformation through home life, secrets in the family, controlling or obsessive about home environment, ancestral trauma, deep psychological roots, powerful emotional foundation, fiercely protective of family, drawn to living in dark or mysterious places, renovating or transforming homes, deep emotional transformations that start from childhood, hidden issues in the family that surface later in life, obsessed with privacy at home, intense need for security and emotional stability, emotions run deep within the family, feeling a need to uproot and start over.

🖤PLUTO IN THE 5TH HOUSE:Intense romance, obsession with creativity, passionate about self-expression, transforming through love affairs, dramatic romantic experiences, power struggles in romantic relationships, drawn to dangerous or taboo love interests, intense connection to children or the idea of having them, fiercely protective of creative projects, secret love affairs, obsessed with hobbies or creative outlets, taking risks that lead to transformation, emotionally powerful artistic expression, not afraid to explore the dark side of fun and pleasure, passionate about creating things that provoke thought or stir deep emotions in others.

🖤PLUTO IN THE 6TH HOUSE: Obsessed with health and fitness, power struggles in the workplace, control over routines, transformation through daily habits, workaholic tendencies, wanting to master every task, secretive or manipulative coworkers, healing through intense self-discipline, fear of illness leads to obsession with health, chronic health issues that bring about transformation, intensely focused on perfecting skills, transformative experience in everyday life, a powerful need for control over your body and your day-to-day, drawn to deep psychological work through service, healing others through intense care and commitment.

🖤PLUTO IN THE 7TH HOUSE: Intense and transformative relationships, power struggles with partners, magnetic attraction to powerful or mysterious people, obsessive relationships, drawn to partnerships that change you, deep soul connections, fear of betrayal or manipulation in love, possessive tendencies, relationships that challenge your sense of self, experiencing deep transformation through marriage or partnerships, fascination with partners who have a dark or taboo side, unafraid of emotional depth in relationships, partner may have Pluto-like qualities (powerful, intense, secretive), relationships that help you confront deep psychological issues.

🖤PLUTO IN THE 8TH HOUSE: Powerful connection to death and rebirth, fascination with the occult or taboo subjects, intense sexual energy, magnetic attraction, drawn to the mysterious or dangerous, emotional transformation through shared resources, secretive about finances or inheritances, power struggles over shared assets, exploring the depths of intimacy, sexual healing, fear of loss leads to obsession with control, a natural healer when it comes to emotional or sexual trauma, drawn to mysteries, constantly transforming through crises, incredibly intuitive, may experience life-changing financial shifts through inheritances or partnerships.

🖤PLUTO IN THE 9TH HOUSE: Obsessed with the pursuit of truth, drawn to deep or hidden knowledge in philosophy and spirituality, power struggles in beliefs, a need to transform your worldview, fascination with taboo cultural practices, intense traveler, finds profound transformation through foreign experiences, a desire to change the world through higher knowledge, unafraid to challenge traditional belief systems, transformative spiritual awakenings, secretive about your beliefs or personal philosophies, drawn to esoteric knowledge or occult studies, power through education and learning, constantly seeking deeper meaning in life and the universe.

🖤PLUTO IN THE 10TH HOUSE: Intense ambition, obsessive about success, power struggles in career, a magnetic presence in public life, willing to undergo personal transformation for professional goals, drawn to powerful people in authority, secretive about career moves, a need to be in control of your professional destiny, public persona may be intense or mysterious, transformations through career changes, power dynamics in your professional relationships, unafraid to confront difficult issues in public, may rise to prominence through crisis or transformation, obsessed with leaving a lasting legacy, constantly evolving your public identity.

🖤PLUTO IN THE 11TH HOUSE: Powerful connection to social groups, intense friendships, drawn to taboo or unusual communities, transforming the world through social causes, obsession with changing society, fascination with hidden power structures in group dynamics, secretive about personal goals or dreams, power struggles with friends, drawn to friends who challenge or transform you, deeply involved in underground or fringe movements, obsessed with social change, transformative experiences with social networks, a deep desire to revolutionize or transform humanity, fear of betrayal within groups, constantly redefining your social identity.

🖤PLUTO IN THE 12TH HOUSE: Deep connection to the subconscious, obsessed with understanding hidden motives, fascination with the spiritual or the unseen, profound spiritual transformation, power struggles with your own inner world, secretive about your fears and hidden desires, exploring the darker side of your psyche, healing through confronting your deepest fears, powerful intuition, drawn to the mystical or occult, may experience power struggles in isolation or through retreat, emotional transformation through solitude, a need to face your shadows, powerful dreams or psychic experiences, constantly seeking to understand the depths of the soul.

[marcyvamp1re-blog]

SILLY LITTLE BAT

pairings ⸺ Yandere! Platonic! Batfamily x Anti-Hero! Fem!reader.

sinopsis ⸺ In the shadowed halls of Wayne Manor, a girl lost among the darkness seeks the connection she never had. Her mother, a kleptomaniac with a broken heart, vanished, leaving only echoes of empty promises. Surrounded by a family that never sees her, her pain turns into a deafening silence. The void left by her past traps her in a limbo of solitude and sorrow.

One dark night, seeking her own way, she became what she once despised. Now, like the albino bat rejected by its own flock, she flies alone in the twilight. Her pale skin glows in the dark, but her heart still yearns for the warmth of a home she never came to know.

warnings ⸺ Dark Themes, Dead, murdering,Disturbing Content, Unhealthy Obsession, Discrimination, Violence, Blood, LGBT Content, Child Abuse, Kidnapping, Implicit Sexual Content, Mental Illness, Addiction, Suicide, Torture, Corruption, Isolation, Trauma, Phobias, Paranoia, Manipulation

Chapter Guide! Pt 2. Pt 3. Pt4

A/N — English is not my first language—Spanish is—so there might be some grammar or spelling mistakes here and there. This is the first part of a story I’m writing for a friend (Isabel, I love you, you brat), and also an experiment to see what it’s like to write on Tumblr. Please support me! :"((

Nobody is coming to save you

Get up.

Your mother was not a good woman, and that was an undeniable fact, heavy as the shadow that covers Gotham City at nightfall. She was a creature of the underworld, one among the specters that wandered under the yoke of crime, walking among dangerous names like Selina Kyle or Harleen Quinzel, yet always remaining in the background, never reaching their fame or infamy.

She was nothing more than a kleptomaniac and a mythomaniac, doomed to live by cunning and deceit. She took advantage of the men who crossed her path, from the lowest criminals, like The Penguin, to the most powerful man in the city: Bruce Wayne.

You never called him Dad. To you, he was always Bruce, and on the rare occasions you addressed him, you did so with distant formality, "Mr. Wayne." Richard, your adoptive brother, found in him a father figure, while to you, he was just another shadow in the mansion, that huge, cold house you arrived at after your mother’s death.

You remember how, time and again, you tried to warn your mother to stop stealing, to stop lying, that those dark paths would inevitably lead her to Arkham Asylum, surrounded by all the lunatics you feared so much, or even worse: to death. But she always responded with a playful smile, stroking your head with her delicate hands, adorned with stolen jewelry and crude tattoos. "Those are just fantasies of an eight-year-old girl," she would say sweetly, while her ring-laden fingers assured you that you needn’t worry, "I will always come back for you," she promised, "because you are the only thing more valuable than any diamond I’ve ever held."

But the cruel truth was that was the last time you saw her. That night she left, and she never returned. It was then that the last vestiges of innocence faded with her absence. From that moment on, you ceased to be a child.

And that was one of the few things you understood with absolute clarity. There were no more empty promises, no more caresses tinged with lies. All that remained was the silence of a life fading away, like a stolen jewel that never returns to its rightful owner.

The only thing you knew after calling the police when your mother didn’t show up after two days was that they found her corpse in a back alley far from Gotham, showing signs of having been beaten and bruised by some underground gang.

Commissioner Gordon searched the entire house for illicit substances and signs of debts to mobsters, but he only ended up finding documents, stolen jewelry, and letters from your mother that were never sent, and most importantly, DNA evidence implicating that the city’s millionaire was your biological father.

From then on, your life was stained with eternal gray, that muted shade that erased all traces of light or shadow. There was no more white or black, only a silent fog that, day by day, enveloped you and dragged you into a madness that seemed inevitable. Gotham itself seemed more alive than the place you called home, although "home" was never the right word.

You didn’t love any of the Wayne family members. Bruce, your biological father, never listened to you. To him, you were always just another shadow, a ghost in the vast mansion that he prioritized over his other children, his "true" heirs. There was always something more important, something more urgent, and your presence faded among the cold walls and the echo of his hurried footsteps. With each passing day, you became more invisible to him, as if your very existence were a mistake he preferred to ignore.

Richard, the perfect brother, was kind on some occasions. He spoke to you courteously, but when you needed him, when you asked him to attend one of your performances, there was always an excuse, something that kept him away, as if your passion and accomplishments were insignificant details in his heroic life.

Jason, on the other hand, despised you from the start. He saw you as an intruder, a child of gold—but not of that pure and valuable gold, but of a dirty and false one, which he always mocked with disdain. And although you never cared for him, when he died, silent tears rolled down your face. It wasn’t out of love, but out of respect for what he represented, for the brutal reality of his fall.

Tim, in contrast, was the most indifferent. To him, you were a nobody, so irrelevant that you weren’t even worth a glance. Spending time with his friends or being the Robin of the moment mattered more than you did. You lived on his periphery, in a limbo where neither your name nor your face seemed to exist.

Cassandra, Stephanie, Barbara… at least they treated you with politeness, but you knew they didn’t really remember who you were. They saw you, smiled at you out of obligation, but deep down you knew they had no idea of your name, your story, your struggle to be more than a shadow in that world.

The worst of all was Damian, your younger half-brother. When he arrived at the mansion, Alfred introduced him to you with that serene formality he always had, and you, driven by an almost desperate impulse, tried to reach out to him. You wanted to offer him the support and affection of an older sister, that warmth you would have longed for in his situation. But all you received in return was a cold response: a katana piercing your abdomen. I wish I could say it was just a metaphor, but no, that wound was as real as the blade that cut your skin.

You would have liked to think that the pain was symbolic, that Damian had only rejected your affection with harsh words or his usual arrogance. But no, it was much more than that. The only thing you received in exchange for your attempt at fraternal love was a stab, a scar you still carry not only on your body but also in your soul. Because in that brutal gesture, you understood that the blood that united you also separated you, sharper than any weapon. And that was how you tried to connect.

You strived to stand out, to learn, to shine in your own ambitions, wishing that your success would be enough to earn you a place, a bit of affection. But no matter how hard you tried, it was never enough. Your talent crashed against indifference, your achievements faded into the air, as if they had no weight in the lives of others.

The only light, the only beacon in that storm of gray, was Alfred. The only one who smiled at you with genuine tenderness, the only one you truly loved. To you, he was the real father, the one who was always there, expecting nothing in return, offering you a silent but firm love. You did call him father, and his presence was the only thing that kept your sanity, the only thing preventing the gray from consuming you completely.

But even that love, so genuine and deep, was not enough to fill the void that your own family left you. And in that void, you continue to float, trapped between the girl you were and the woman you are trying to be, searching for a place you can truly call home.

Y/n's small room, though modest, had always been her refuge. The walls were adorned with unfinished sketches, trophies from various activities, and some paintings she had completed with dedication, showcasing her passion for both manual and performing arts.

The dawn light filtered softly through the curtains, bathing the space in golden tones, giving it a warmth that contrasted with the coldness of the rest of Wayne Manor.

On the desk, a small cake rested on a plate, simple yet made with love. Beside it, Alfred, with his usual understated elegance, watched Y/n with a mixture of nostalgia and concern. He, the only one who seemed to remember her birthday, offered her a delicate professional drawing set, wrapped in smooth, elegant paper.

"Happy birthday, Miss," Alfred said with a gentle smile, although his eyes reflected a sadness that was hard to conceal. "I know how much you love art, so I thought this would be helpful for your new projects."

Y/n took the gift in her hands with a genuine smile. It had been so hard for her to find moments of joy lately, but Alfred's gesture filled her with a warmth in her chest that she hadn't experienced in a long time. She placed the gift into one of the many brown boxes she had prepared for her upcoming move.

"Thank you, Alfred. It's perfect," she said, examining the set carefully, as if each detail were a reminder of the affection he held for her. "It will help me a lot... although, well," she sighed, as if searching for the right words. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that." Alfred raised an eyebrow, attentive, as she continued, glancing at the small space that had been her home within the vast mansion.

"Today... today is not just my birthday. It's the day I leave here." Her voice was firm, yet there was a sense of liberation in it, as if this were a long-awaited step. "I am finally no longer a Wayne. I go back to being a L/n."

Silence filled the room for a moment, heavy and dense. Alfred clasped his hands, striving to maintain his composure.

"Miss, I can't help but feel a certain unease hearing this. Are you sure this is what you want? This house, though empty in many ways, has always been your home..."

"Home?" Y/n looked at him with a mix of sadness and determination. "This house has never been my home, Alfred. Not like it was for Dick, nor even for Bruce. I have always been a stranger here, the daughter of a woman who never fit into this world, the bastard child. My mother taught me to find my own path, to not cling to what doesn’t belong to me... and being here, being called Wayne, has never belonged to me." Alfred sighed softly, turning his gaze toward the window. He knew there was truth in her words, but that didn’t lessen the pain of her leaving. "I know it’s hard to understand," Y/n continued, "but for the first time in a long time, I feel happy, Alfred. I’ve graduated, college is just around the corner, and I want to start anew. I want to find what truly makes me, me... not what others expect of me."

The old butler remained silent for a few moments, nodding slowly. He knew he couldn't retain her, that it was not his place to interfere in the young woman's dreams. But still, he couldn’t help but feel a pang in his heart at the thought of the house being even emptier without her. "I just wish you find what you’re looking for, Miss. And if you ever need a place to return to... this door will always be open for you."

Y/n stepped closer to him, gently hugging him, something she had rarely done. "Thank you, Alfred," she whispered against his shoulder. "You will always be my family, but I need this. I need to discover who I am outside of this last name."

The old butler felt the lump in his throat as he tightened the embrace a little longer before letting her go. He knew that deep down, she was doing the right thing. But that didn’t make it hurt any less to see her leave.

"Alfred, can you call the movers? I’ll be leaving tonight," Y/n said as she closed the last box with trembling hands, her gaze lost in the empty corners of the room she once considered her refuge. The butler, ever serene, nodded with his unwavering calmness.

"Don't worry, Miss, I assure you they will be here on time." His voice was soft, almost an echo of the ancient walls of the mansion, as if he himself were part of that structure that had seen so many comings and goings, so many lives broken and healed in silence.

Alfred turned halfway to leave, but Y/n's voice stopped him, broken yet sweet, like a melody at sunset. "Alfred..."

The man turned slowly, his eyes filled with paternal warmth, though always contained behind a formal gesture. "Yes, Miss?" he replied, with that tranquility that had always brought Y/n peace in her worst moments.

She took a breath, feeling how the words she had kept for so long fought to come out, to break the shell she had built since childhood. "I’ve never told you, but... thank you. Thank you for being the father I never had, for being there when no one else was."

For a moment, the silence in the room was heavier than all the accumulated boxes, deeper than any word. Alfred, who had been a witness to so many confessions and secrets in that house, stood still, his eyes shining with an emotion he rarely showed. "Miss," he murmured, his voice slightly choked, "it was an honor and a privilege to take care of you. If I ever gave you anything close to what you deserved, then my life has had true purpose."

Y/n smiled sadly, nodding slowly. "You did, Alfred. You did. And for that, I will always carry you with me, even if I leave here."

The butler slightly bowed his head in respect, swallowing any emotion that might betray his composure. "Wherever you go, you will always have a home here, Miss."

"I know," she said, though in her heart, she knew she wouldn’t return.

And as Alfred left the room to make the call, Y/n let out a long sigh, as if with it, she were leaving behind a part of herself, a part she could no longer carry with her.

Life in Gotham is like constantly walking on the edge of a razor blade. The city never sleeps, always alert, always dangerous, and for someone with the Wayne surname, the risks multiply. It has been a year since you left the mansion, trying to erase any ties that bound you to that life, desperately wishing the name would fade into the echo of the dirty streets and crumbling buildings. But it's not that easy. The name Wayne remains an indelible mark that the media and the people of Gotham refuse to let fade. The forgotten child, the silent accident of billionaire Bruce Wayne. And although you try to live as if you don’t exist under that shadow, the weight of the legacy haunts you.

You left with little, barely enough money to rent a small apartment in one of the worst corners of the city. You share the space with a friend, a plant-loving girl who has filled every nook of the place with leaves and pots, as if trying to make green defy the constant darkness of Gotham. You get along well with her; her love for nature is almost an antithesis to the chaos of the city, and she has taught you that even in the hardest concrete, something can bloom. She always accompanied you on the coldest, loneliest nights, giving you a warmth that, although ethereal, was very welcome. But still, life is not easy. You barely survive, spending the little you have on cheap food and paying the rent. There are days when the cold seeps through the poorly sealed windows, and you wonder if it was really better to be in the mansion instead of this little trench. However, you prefer this rough freedom to the soulless luxury of Wayne Manor.

Freedom, however, comes at a price. It wasn't enough to distance yourself, to change your life, or even to always carry a knife for defense. Gotham does not forget. People recognize you in the shadows, whisper your name, and approach you, sometimes with curiosity and other times with disdain. You have been beaten more than once. Some just for being a Wayne, others because they think they can extort you, even though they have no idea you can barely get by. The scars on your body bear witness to those beatings, but you refuse to give up. You get up every morning, despite the pain, and continue on your way. You don’t need Batman. You don’t need Bruce. You learned long ago that he wouldn't come to save you.

That night, like so many others, you were heading to the subway for your night shift, with the hood of your coat covering your face, trying to go unnoticed. The sound of the tracks echoed in your ears, a constant reminder of the city's hustle. You had gotten used to walking fast, avoiding eye contact, as if each step was a small battle won against the city. But this time, something was different.

"So it was true, the little Wayne girl is roaming the city... how lovely." The raspy, mocking voice rang out beside you, cutting through the heavy air of the train station. The man speaking wore a suit that, at first glance, seemed elegant, but there was something about his extreme thinness, his skin clinging to his bones and his disheveled hair, that made him look more like a specter of Gotham than a distinguished figure. A ghost from the shadows that had stalked you since you set foot on the streets.

If it weren't for his gaunt appearance and unsettling aura, you might have mistaken him for one of your father's employees. "I'm not a Wayne anymore," you said disdainfully, your voice sharp like the edge of a dagger refusing to be touched. "If you want money, I don’t have any. And Mr. Wayne wouldn’t give a cent for me either."

Your gaze drifted to the station clock. 8 minutes until the train that would take you away from this corner of Gotham, far from the shadows and faces that always seemed to recognize you.

The man let out a dry, raspy laugh that sent chills down your spine. "I don’t want your money, pretty girl," he replied, moving closer, invading your space with the same familiarity that Gotham’s filth slipped into every corner. "You’re worth more than that." You felt his calloused, scarred hand rest on your hip, with a pressure that was neither violent nor friendly. The contact filled you with disgust.

7 minutes.

You clenched your fist, your jaw tight as you struggled to maintain your composure. "I don’t want sex either, idiot," you spat, your words loaded with contained fury. Your hand subtly slid toward your bag, where your knife lay, waiting to be used.

6 minutes.

The man didn’t flinch. In fact, he let out a low, mocking laugh. "And I don’t want that either, little girl," he murmured, his cold, deep blue eyes scrutinizing you as if they could read every dark corner of your soul. "I want something more from you."

5 minutes.

"What do you want then?" you asked, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady, even as the ice of fear began to creep down your spine. Your eyes scrutinized him, searching his gaze for any hint of his true intentions, but all you saw was darkness.

4 minutes.

He let out a long, chilling laugh, tightening his grip on your hip. "Do you know what I want, Y/n?"

3 minutes.

His voice dropped, as if his words were a cursed secret the wind refused to carry away. "I want you."

2 minutes.

The world seemed to stop. You knew there was no time to run. There was no time to pull out the knife or to scream. It was as if the clock itself had conspired against you, reducing those last minutes to mere seconds.

1 minute.

The blow was sharp, a flash of excruciating pain at the back of your head. The cold metal of the station, the hum of the city, everything faded abruptly. The last thought that crossed your mind, before the world vanished into darkness, was that this time, you didn’t expect Batman to save you. It wasn’t a mere thief or a street threat that was taking you.

Gotham, with all its cruelty, always had new ways to remind you that there is no escape.

That night, when the Gotham subway stopped at the station, there was no one to pick up.

The mansion felt emptier than ever, like a deserted and cold labyrinth, where each hallway seemed to stretch into an infinite tunnel, devouring the light.

The silence was overwhelming, an oppression that enveloped every corner, as if even the ancient walls had run out of words. It was so heavy that the few who remained in the mansion couldn’t help but move uncomfortably, trying to fill that void with something, anything.

Bruce Wayne walked through those same hallways with a strange feeling, as if something was missing, though he didn’t know what. An unease, a persistent discomfort that he couldn’t shake off.

He had been like this for months, with that absence haunting his mind, a gap he couldn't identify. And then, suddenly, like a gust of icy wind, the truth struck him.

You.

His daughter.

His little daughter.

How long had it been since he last saw you? When was the last time he heard your laughter, the one that always seemed too sarcastic, too filled with resentment? He stopped abruptly, frowning. Why couldn’t he remember you? He couldn’t bring to mind a clear image of your face, not even how you used to look at him... why? How could he have forgotten you like that?

Damn.

It was as if time had stopped. It had been a year, maybe more, since he had really thought about you. He felt a pang of guilt pierce his chest, a heavy, silent guilt that dragged him into the abyss of his own negligence. Not knowing what else to do, he began to check the rooms, one after another.

Each door he opened was another blow to his conscience. Where was your room? The more he searched, the more confused he felt. The mansion was enormous, but how could he have forgotten where you slept? How was it possible that he didn’t know where you lived in the house where both of you grew up? Had you been here all this time?

Each door he opened was identical to the last, as if all the rooms had fused into one.

None showed a trace of you.

None seemed to have a hint of your presence. Didn’t you decorate your room? He thought frantically, didn’t you even mark it as yours? Panic began to take hold of him. Anxiety wrapped around him like a fist tightening on his chest. Were you still living in the mansion? Or had you left without saying a word, like a shadow fading at dawn? But... no, you hadn’t mentioned anything. You hadn’t said you were leaving. Or had you? And if you had, why didn’t he remember? How could he have ignored you for so long that now he didn’t even know if you were still under the same roof?

“Ah!” he exclaimed in a whisper, unable to contain the dread he felt.

Frustration consumed him from within. He stopped in the middle of the hallway, breathing heavily, and the echo of his voice faded into the empty walls. He tried to remember something, anything about you, about the last time they spoke, about how you were... but everything was blurry, as if his mind was betraying him, hiding you behind an impenetrable fog.

How could he have forgotten so much?

He brought his hands to his head, trying to calm himself, but only felt more confusion, more desperation. The mansion, which had once been his home, now felt like a strange and foreign place.

Had you been the one who made it feel like home? The question echoed in his mind, but he had no answer. Just more questions. More uncertainties. Finally, he let his arms fall, exhausted. He had checked almost all the rooms and had found not a trace of you. Not a clue. Not a sign that you had been there. And at that moment, something dark and painful began to settle in his heart.

Had you ever really been there?

Then something caught his attention as he passed by the cleaning room. In a dusty corner, next to a forgotten bag, something was protruding. Something small, old, and faded. He bent down and pulled it from the dirty clothes. It was a stuffed animal, or what was left of one. The faded black of its suit left no doubt. It was a figure of Batman, but worn down by time, battered to the point of looking forgotten.

Bruce's eyes were fixed on the small piece of fabric hanging from the doll's neck. A tag.

Your name.

Your name, handwritten, in ink that was already fading.

Bruce felt a lump in his throat, a mix of guilt and rage. How could he have forgotten something so important?

He clutched the doll tightly, as if doing so would return a piece of you to him, but instead of comfort, he only felt more emptiness. Where were you? He ran to Alfred, who looked at him with a mix of concern and pity.

"Alfred..." Bruce said, his voice breaking. "Where is she? Where is my daughter?"

The butler, with his always serene face, seemed to age suddenly. A long silence settled between them, as if time was fading away. "Mr. Bruce, I didn’t mean to..." Alfred lowered his gaze. "I didn’t want to burden you with that truth, but... it’s time you know."

Bruce felt a chill run down his spine. Truth? What truth?

"She left almost a year ago. She didn’t say where. She just... she took all her belongings, though they weren’t many, and left. She said she didn’t want to be a burden. That you and the other family members had too many things to worry about."

Bruce took a step back, as if the words had physically struck him. Did she have enough age to leave? A burden? Never, not for a second, did he think that of you, of his little daughter who, even though she wasn’t wanted, he embraced under his wing just like Damian.

You were never a burden.

...or were you?

No, he refused to acknowledge it; he just... he hadn’t spent time with you because Gotham needed him!

But when you needed him, where was Batman?

Where was Bruce Wayne when his only biological daughter needed him?

"Alfred, do you know anything about Y/n?" the hero asked, worry clear on his face.

Alfred didn’t look at him; he only stared into nothingness. "...I haven’t heard anything about her for two months...

And honestly... I'm starting to think...

that she might be lost to us forever..."

A/N — This is definitely apart from being my first official Tumblr post, it is also my first DC post and especially the first from the Lord of the Night xD

Don't hesitate to ask me anything if you want.

Isabel, I dedicate this to you, my love. Eat more to be well, you fucking anorexic, don't suck.

take a bath!

inspiration: @acid-ixx with his Again & Again series, @gotham-daydreams' work, @i-cant-sing's work and @klemen-tine's work, be sure to check them out!

[starlightomatic]

Someone sent me an ask about how to avoid antisemitism when talking about what's happening in Palestine, but Tumblr ate it. This is a really important question, because we don't want to fight one oppression while enabling another; we don't want to accidentally foment the conditions that lead to antisemitic violence, and we also don't want to shy away from speaking about Gaza for fear that we're doing so.

Here are my thoughts.

There are a lot of unconscious antisemitic beliefs that people hold, that they may not be consciously aware of. They may have learned these from parents, peers, or society at large. Like any bigotry, a huge part of not being harmful in bigoted ways comes down to learning what unconscious bigotry looks like within you and learning how it is expressed.

Antisemitism is very old, and there are a lot of tropes and beliefs that have developed through the years. Many of these are alive and well, though they may be subtle enough that people don't realize they're carrying them. However, they show up in the way that people speak, especially about Israel and Palestine. Here are some:

1. Jews are overwhelmingly wealthy

2. Jews control the world

3. Jews control a given country (eg the US)

4. Jews are not oppressed

5. Jews are some of the most privileged people in society; more than non-Jewish white people. Jews are white people but even more so.

6. Jews are whiny and complain about their nonexistent oppression too much

7. Jews are sneaky, deceptive, and untrustworthy. They don't speak sincerely or plainly; they have an ulterior motive and are trying to get one over on you.

8. Jews are greedy

9. Jews are really powerful

10. Jews undermine and destabilize movements and countries. (This one connects to 3, 7, and 8).

11. Jews are inherently guilty; a good Jew needs to apologize for being Jewish

12. Jews are bloodthirsty and desire violence against non-Jews

13. A Jew is from somewhere else, and does not belong in the place that they are.

14. Jews sap resources from the country they are in and funnel them into their own communities/interests. They are a vampire-like parasite on the societies they live in.

How do these get expressed in the movement? Here are some examples (these are paraphrases and combinations of various things I've seen):

Example A:

"American Jews are complaining about oppression while living in their NYC apartments and taking Ubers. It's ridiculous, so much privilege and entitlement." This one's got 1, 4, 5, 6, and 7.

1: Assumes wealth. Plenty of us can't afford NYC apartments or Ubers!

4, 5, and 6: self-explanatory.

7: Belief that on some level, fear of antisemitism can't really be sincere; we must be talking about it for some other purpose, eg to distract from "real" issues.

Example B:

"The US is funding this genocide because of the influence of Israel and Israel's interests, and the Jewish lobbyists." Employs 3 and 9.

3: The US is doing this because of its own interests; if anything, the US wants to be able to use Israel as a pawn.

9: Imagines Jewish lobbyists as powerful enough to drive US policy. Also forgets how dramatically the US dwarfs Israel in size, money, and power; imagines it's the other way around.

Example C:

"These Israeli first responders are lying about finding mutilated and sexually abused bodies after October 7th. This Israeli girl who was held hostage is lying about having talked to fellow hostages who were sexually assaulted. This Israeli first responder is lying about children having been killed on October 7th."

This is 4, 6, and mainly 7.

7 because it assumes that these people are telling these lies for some nefarious purpose: to garner false sympathy, or worse, to manufacture support for genocide. It cannot be because they are actually telling the truth.

Example D:

"It's suspect if someone talks too much about antisemitism. Or if they correct my misinformation. They are probably a crypto-Zionist. In fact, all of these Jewish tumblr bloggers are crypto-Zionists."

(The first part of this I haven't heard said; but rather it's the unspoken attitude I'm frequently presented with.)

This one has 4, 5, 6, 7 and 10. Mostly 7 and 10.

Beliefs that our goal is to derail pro-Palestine organizing by sewing Zionist beliefs in the movement. That we would be capable of such (9). That it's impossible that we're sincere and we're concerned both about what's happening in Gaza and the everpresent, intangible potent threat of imminent antisemitic violence.

Example E:

"What everpresent threat of imminent antisemitic violence? You're either delusional, too privileged to understand how oppressed you aren't, or lying to some sinister purpose."

The first two (delusional and too privileged) often comes from other Jews, who, yes, can be antisemitic too.

This one has: 4, 5, 6, 7, and 9.

Example F:

"As a Jew I know I am responsible for what's happening in Gaza, and I need to call in my people who deny our privilege and who think they're unsafe."

1, 4, 5, 6, 11. Shades of 10.

Example G:

"Israel is invading Gaza for oil."

8. Also this isn't true.

Example H:

"No Israeli is a civilian. All settlers are guilty, and need to leave."

Technically, it is possible for someone to hold this belief consistently for all settlers worldwide due to stringent decolonial beliefs. However, it frequently is applied only to Israelis. In such an iteration, I think it contains 10, 11, 12, and 13.

Which leads to my next point: Double standards. If something doesn't invoke a particular trope, but views Jewish or Israeli actions more harshly than we'd view the equivalent in any other place or people, to me that's suspect.

For example, relating to the above, if we believe that Truth and Reconciliation is the answer in the US and Canada, but in Israel the answer would be forced displacement of the Jewish population, that would be antisemitic.

Also, if we're able to hold nuance around the idea of refugees to the US and Canada, and understand that they're simultaneously taking part in colonialism while also arriving under duress because they need a place to live, we can extend the same nuance to the idea of Jewish refugees (Holocaust survivors, SWANA Jews, Ethiopian Jews, etc) who have come to Israel.

And, going back to example A, is there any other marginalized group we would say is not actually oppressed because members of it live in NYC and take Ubers? No? Then, it's antisemitic when you say it about Jews.

I also think misinformation about Jewish history and identity is antisemitic. For example, lines of thought that deny our ancestral, historical, cultural, and liturgical connections to the land of Israel/Palestine. One false belief I see a lot is Khazar Theory, popularized by the quack Shlomo Sand. This states that Ashkenazi Jews do not have ancestral origins in what's now Israel/Palestine, but rather descend from a mass conversion of Turkic peoples in the Kingdom of Kazaria. It is not, in fact, true.

Something else along these lines is back-defining origins and land-connection through current events. For example, a white gentile ex-friend of mine shared a post stating that because the IDF, as well as settler extremists, destroy Palestinian olive trees (an egregious act, in my opinion, as well as against Jewish law), this means we are not native to the land. While I understand the term native is complex and this might have been an attempt to denote our positionality as colonizer in a colonizer-indigenous dynamic, the framing of the post led me to believe that, actually, the post was using these actions to prove that we do not actually originate from the land.

Destroying Palestinian olive trees is an act of great violence against the land, against the Palestinian people, and against our own history, culture, and religious traditions. However, it does not change the historical fact of our origins or ancestry, nor the fact the our religious traditions are deeply intertwined with the seasons, climate, and agriculture of Israel-Palestine, even when that puts them out of sync with the seasons and climate of wherever we live in Diaspora.

I hope this is helpful. This is a really hard time for so many of us, and I know it can feel like derailing to focus on antisemitism right now, and to focus on the potential of future violence when the people of Gaza are experiencing actual extreme levels of violence right now. But if we truly believe that none of us are free until all of us are free, then fighting antisemitism has to be part of our collective liberation. We cannot and should not fight genocide by engaging in oppression. Speaking up for Gaza and Palestine does not have to mean fomenting conditions that put Jews in danger of bigotry and violence. The world we're building is one where seeing your trees destroyed, or your family killed, or your home receding into the distance as you are forced to leave is but a distant memory. For Palestinians, and for Jews, and for everybody on this Earth.