#west of everything

[stil-lindigo]

ARTISTS FOR PALESTINE 🇵🇸 - On the 6th and 9th of March, I'll be doing art requests on stream with other notable artists to raise money for Operation Olive Branch and the PCRF.

I'm incredibly lucky to be counting quite a few big names in the roster, including known Jesus and Odysseus enthusiast @wolfythewitch, the extraordinary fanartist @denimcatfish, and the incredibly talented @troubledminnesotan, as well as Lilypichu from OfflineTV.

You'll be able to watch the streams on the day of the event either on my twitch channel here, or via the links provided by the artists below.

Lilypichu

Cuptoast

Akairosu_

Sevvanto

Wolfythewitch

[gingernutsenthusiast]

right person, wrong time (variations on heartbreak)

@leemartenspoetry on tumblr

vita sackville-west & fegan’s 1924 café in dublin

everything everywhere all at once (2022)

@heavensghost on tumblr

i had to get out by indigo de souza

‘calling a wolf a wolf' by kaveh akbar

river by joni mitchell

‘english song’ in a little larger than the entire universe: selected poems by fernando pessoa

slumber by ron hicks

fish in exile by vi khi nao

penitent magdalene by antonio ciseri

@ojibwa on tumblr

this is what the drugs are for by gracie abrams & the awakening by angelo morbelli

as good as it gets by fizz

lonely this christmas by mud & picture of the christmas tree at trinity college dublin, taken by me in december of 2022

this is what the drugs are for by gracie abrams & picture by andrew collins via globalnews.ca

@inanotherunivrs on tumblr & a polaroid of me taken by my ex-boyfriend

‘in a dream you saw a way to survive’ by clementine von radics & a picture of my ex-boyfriend's window, taken by me

bluets by maggie nelson & the poolbeg generating station, dublin

‘unrequited’ by sasha m george & inheritance by matthew w. cornell

[unknown]

@ faraway on instagram & lavender sprigs farm cut by linda jacobus

the museum of heartbreak by meg leder

[unknown]

‘seaside improvisation’ by richard siken

@ dracarysgang on twitter

@-love-letters-i-never-sent

@fromdarzaitoleeza on tumblr

explosions by ellie goulding

‘i had a dream about you’ by richard siken

the beatrice letters by lemony snicket

la la land (2016)

‘catalog of unabashed gratitude’ by ross gay

@stuckinapril on tumblr

@deathlywounded on tumblr

some are always hungry by jihyun yun

‘speaking practice’ by franny choi

 a self-portrait in letters by anna sexton & a picture of my ex-boyfriend in a lake in Orfű, Hungary

@sunsbleeding on tumblr

‘there is no absolution for the fallen, only the dying’ by p.d

[jouno-s]

yes seeing the palestine tags not trending for days in a row is disheartening — but that doesn’t mean we’re not talking about it. we are still talking and sharing and reading and we will continue to do so until palestine and every other group of people struggling for freedom are liberated, and beyond.

we have known since this intense new wave of ‘israeli’ aggression started that all social media platforms have been suppressing all forms of palestinian content. so do not become disheartened or demotivated by the lack of tags trending—

*because that does not mean we have stopped talking.*

as people who are not currently in palestine, and especially as non-palestinians, we do not have the right to become demotivated by anything in this situation. we do not have the right to complain that it seems like nothing is changing. we do not have the right to lose hope when palestinians have been passionately fighting the occupation since it began.

and, do not forget about the other struggles for liberation in the world right now. keep talking about palestine, keep talking about congo, keep talking about sudan, about the uyghurs, about the rohingya, about *humanity.*

from the river to the sea 🇵🇸

[male--wife]

retober… FINALE

[pintsofguinnesmakeyoustrong]

today I met an autistic transmasc dude who had a special interest in evil mad scientists, and he had NEVER seen reanimator. he hadn't even heard of it. couldn't believe my ears. like brother this film was made specifically for you i think

[fabiansteinhauer]

Neuste Medien

West of everything is post-law. It comes after the book, outside of the court, as an angelological norm, a byte, a pixel, a tweet, an emoji, a gif attaching and separating, assembling and freeing in the novel networks of the social media and their collectivities made possible through exponential modes of connectivity.

Neue Medien sind neuste Medien. Nicht erste heute gibt es neue Medien. Neue Medien sind gegenwärtig Medien von heute Morgen. Man erkennt sie daran, dass sie das vorletzte Medium, das eben oder gestern Abend noch neue war, alt aussehen lassen. Eben oder gestern soll das Bild oder die Kamera, der Film oder die Videotechnik die Gerichtsöffentlichkeit fundamental geändert haben. Kaum ist aber das Smartphone erfunden, sehen diese neuen Medien alt aus und werden durch das neuste Medium ersetzt. So merken die Kommentatoren an:

The camera, the first new technology to intrude into the courtroom, initially functioned to bring the world into the space of trial in the form of photographs and visual evidence. The image impacted upon proceedings but did not fundamentally challenge or disrupt the ordered character of the process or the dignity of the ritual as a secluded and sanctified liturgical enactment separate from the quotidian socius, protected still by architectural columns, courthouse steps, costumes, ushers, officials and closed doors.

2.

So wie Theodor Mommsen das pomerium, die gründliche römische Linie, vorgeschoben nennt, so muss man die neusten Medien Vorgeschobenes nennen.

Sie schieben jeweils die große Trennung vor, aber nur für diejenigen, die dem Dogma der großen Trennung folgen. Mit jedem neusten Medium sind diese Follower dann plötzlich von der Vergangenheit getrennt. Als Gegenleistung verschmilzt und versöhnt ihnen das neuste Medium, das Medium von heute Morgen, das Medium von gestern Abend mit einer großen und langen Vergangenheit.

Eben noch erschüttert das Bild das Recht, jetzt aber ist das Bild ein Teil der rechtlichen Tradition. Dafür vibriert nun das Handy und das Gericht bebt mit. Das ist strange, seltsam, isn't it?

Kann die Architektur nur vor jener Kamera schützen, die kein smartphone ist? Versagt der Schutz nur vor jener Kamera, die ein smartphone auch dann noch ist, wenn es nur black box ist und seine Technik nicht unbedingt genutzt wird, um Fotos zu machen, sondern um Emojis, GIFS oder Texte die Sperre zwischen Innen und Außen überspringen zu lassen?

Die Frage mag kompliziert formuliert sein, aber kompliziert ist die Frage, welche Medien und welche Techniken in Apparate involviert sind und wo genau jeweils die Grenze zwischen alt und neu verläuft. Das ist schon immer kompliziert, nicht erst, seit dem die Fotografie in der Moderne mit dem eitlen Anspruch auftrat, Bilder auf eine Art und Weise herzustellen, wie es vorher nicht möglich gewesen wäre. Mein Argument ist nicht, dass sich nichts ändert und das Medien, Bilder oder Recht keine Geschichte hätten, nicht auch diskontinuierlich sich aufschichten würden. Nicht unbedingt das Gegenteil, etwas anderes ist der Fall. Mein Argument ist, dass das Dogma großer Trennung die Historiographie ausdünnt und damit den Sinn für Ambiguität und, im warburschen Sinne, für eine Polarität, die auch durch die Zeit läuft.

3.

Goodrich/ Delage und Man greifen die Rhetorik der Fragmentierung und auf, aktualisieren sie mit dem neuen Begriff der disruption. Sie greifen gleichzeitig Ideen auf, die sich in Nähe zu einem Schlagwort von Aby Warurg bewegen, der das Telegramm und den Telegraphen in einer seiner Notizen zum Kreuzlinger Vortrag als Fernraumzerstörer bezeichnet hat, eine Wendung, die nicht technikfeindlich verstanden werden darf, vor allem müssenWarburg Launen zwar in Rechnung gestellt werden, aber um Leidenschaften zu privatisieren, sondern um mit Warburg einen Sinn für Polarität zu entwickeln. Den Formulierungen von Warburg ist möglichst viel Zweideutigkeit herauszukitzeln und das auch noch in allem mulitpolare Richtungen. Fernraumzerstörer können Fernräume sein, die nicht unbedingt Fernräume zerstören oder aber etwas anderes als Fernräume sein, durch dass unbedingt Fernräume zerstört werden. Das knappe Komposition, dass Warburg verwendet, ohne es zu entfalten, ist eine Wendung, eine wendige Formulierung. Die Zerstörer können einen Fernraum, sie können den Fernraum zerstören, können Platz für neue Fernräume machen oder aber die Bildung neuer Fernräume verhindern. Die Zerstörung kann dem Raum tun, was der Tod dem Leben tut, sie kann für den Fernraum tödlich sein, ihn nicht leben lassen, dann aber diesen Fernraum nachleben lassen. Sie kann nicht schöpferisch sein, sie kann schöpferisch sein.

Das Smartphone, also das device, mit dem man auch innerhalb des Gerichts 'außerhalb des Gerichts' recherchieren, posten, kommunizieren und agieren kann, ändere etwas fundamental am Gerichtsraum, der zur Architektur des Distanzschaffens gehört, der also auch eine symbolische, bildliche Funktion hat. Diese These von Goodrich/ Delage und Wan erinnert an Warburg, sie ist auch dann ernst zu nehmen, wenn der Hinweis auf das Fundamentale nach vierzig Jahren New Media fatal an die Texte von Ethan Kath erinnert, der in seinen frühen Texten so 'erschüttert' vom fundamentalen technischen Wandel erschien, dass er vergaß zu schreiben, was genau sich eigentlich ändere. Probleme sind nicht dafür da, weggeredet zu werden, sie sind auch nicht unbedingt da, um gelöst zu werden. Zuerst sind sie da, um geteilt zu werden und um sie herum Wahrnehmbarkeiten zu entwickeln. Das gelingt dem erwähnten Band fantastisch, auch mit dieser Passage aus der Einleitung.

3.

We will see, we will hear from it, we will taste it, it will touch us. Die oben zitierten Passagen stammen aus einer Einleitung und Einleitungen leiten nur ein. Der Sprung von Theorie zur Geschichte oder von Geschichte zur Theorie ist nicht einfach zu handhaben, zuviel Skrupel darf man auch nicht haben, wenn man Beobachtungen für symptomatisch, repräsentativ oder sogar für gründlich halten will, sonst kommt man ja überhaupt nicht mehr dazu, irgendeine Einleitung zu schreiben. Das haben Goodrich, Delage und Wan gut gemacht, vor allem haben sie fantastische Aufsätze gesammelt, die zeigen, wie lebendig die Diskussion um neue Medien und Recht in der internationalen Rechtswissenschaft ist.

Exkurs: Es ist nicht schade, es ist eine Katastrophe, wie das Staatsexamen in Deutschland und das Personal (sog. Professorinnen und Professoren/ Assitentinen und Assistenten/ Mitarbeiterinnen und Mitarbeiter) an den Fakultäten und Fachbereichen die Kanäle zu diesen Diskussionen für die Studentinnen und Studenten verstopfen. Es ist ein Glück, dass es aber immer noch neben den verstopften Lehranstalten Orte gibt, für die das Studium des Rechts nicht bedeutet, Fähigkeiten zu erwerben, um das Staatsexamen zu bestehen. Aber (Vorsatz seit Januar 2018, erste Übungen darin seit Ende 2019 und erste Erfolge seit heute morgen um 6.30 Uhr): Bevor ich mich aufrege ist es mir lieber egal. A propos: Wer will als Gast/ Stipendiatin oder Doktorantin zum Max-Planck-Institut kommen?

4.

Lesenswert sind alle Artikel in dem Band. Emanuele Coccia macht noch einmal das Argument stark, dass die monotheistischen Rechtsordnungen und ihre Wissenschaften ohne Bild nicht zu denken sind, dass montheistische Rechtswissenschaften also auch Bildwissenschaften sind. Das freut mich natürlich, vor allem deswegen, weil er, anders als viele andere Autoren, auf die doch etwas hohlen Argumente der wundersamen Bildvermehrung und der Bildmacht verzichtet, sondern schlicht mit Texten, kanonischen Quellen argumentiert.

[violottie]

Read it again. Read it again. Read. It. Again.

Understand the gravity of this. This is genocide.

from Al Jazeera English, 13/Mar/2024:

“This war is a war on children. It is a war on their childhood and their future,” the head of the #UN’s Palestinian refugee agency #UNRWA Philppe Lazzarini wrote.⁠

"Over 12,300 children were killed in Gaza between October 2023 and February 2024, the data shows, compared to 12,193 children killed in global conflict from 2019 to 202, Lazzarini has shared this data on X." ⁠

[cubbihue]

I remember a time where Timmy asked for an older brother named Tommy, now he is the older brother he wished he had. Has Timmy ever protected Peri from a bully?

Timmy HAS!! Sometimes older fairies thinks they can mess around with Peri because he's younger than them. But they quickly learn to regret it for many reasons.

Between Peri's magical outbreaks when he's upset, and Timmy's feral drive to fight without magic, the Fairywinkle-Cosmas haven't had to deal with bullies except on social media.

But even then, you're never safe.

Bitties Series: [Start] > [Previous] > [Next]

[i-lavabean]

Smol. Tiny, even

[lavaflowe]

“Great Sage Equal to Heaven gets his ass beat by beloved Howling Celestial Dog”

[blackbatcass]

wally west is a guy of all time for me. funny haha jokester kid who had to take on a huge amount of responsibility he was definitely not ready for, developed the worst imposter syndrome known to man and instead of coping made it everyone else’s problem. will be sooo petty and selfish about small things but also sacrifices his life with 0 thought like it’s a regular tuesday. had an abusive dad and absolutely refused to acknowledge that shit or think about it ever again. completely unrelated to this he immediately cuts off his entire family the minute he reaches twenty-one. incapable of hiding his emotions and will unfairly be a bitch to you if he’s struggling with something. said himself that no one loved him until his aunt iris. would actually not hesitate to burn the world down for his wife. claims to be a laid back go with the flow guy but also will spiral at the slightest provocation. is allergic to nuance when people he loves make mistakes and will be in their corner no matter how wrong they are.

[reanimatoryaoi]

REBLOG = 1 “AMEN” TO SAVE DANIEL CAIN 🙏

+ref picture under the cut

[number-one-shadisper-shipper]

I've seen a lot of takes on what would happen if Sonic and Tails returned to West Side Island and confronted the people who were so abusive to Tails, and I had an idea for a somewhat new spin on it.

What if, now that Tails is a world famous hero, the Islanders try to try to basically gaslight him into thinking none of the abuse ever happened? They find out he's coming and they throw a big "Welcome Home" party and give him a medal and stuff, and when confronted about their treatment of him just completely deny or twist it. Like "oh yes I'm so sorry there were a couple kids who were bullies but that happens to everyone you weren't being targeted, and we tried to get them to stop it" or "we didn't know you were alone and homeless, if we knew we would have taken you in" and all sorts of garbage like that

And Tails, who's maybe a tween-young teen now, and no longer has distinct memories from that early in his life, starts to question if maybe he really was blowing things out of proportion. Maybe he really was just bullied by one or two kids, and they weren't really that bad. Maybe people didn't really chase him away and refuse to even let him go through their garbage for food. He knows he has anxiety. Maybe he was just imagining how much everyone hated him. And he almost wants to believe it, to believe that he was never truly hated.

But Sonic remembers. Sonic remembers the gang of older kids beating and violently attacking toddler aged Tails, and only stopping when he physically intervened with his own fists. He remembers questioning the townsfolk about the two-tailed fox he'd seen and being meet with sneers and complete disdain. He remembers how skinny Tails was, how his ribs were visible even through his fur and how he wolfed down the food Sonic offered him so quickly that he nearly threw it up later. He remembers how Tails flinched from any quick movement or attempt at touch. He remembers the long process of gaining the fox's trust, a process that tested his nine-year-old patience as he spent literal weeks urging Tails to come closer, keeping his hands slow and his face friendly, finally getting the fox to join him at the campfire, to walk beside him without dashing away when moved his arm too fast, and then, eventually, to let him touch him. He remembers the first few times Tails let him try to brush out his matted, dirty fur, each knot a testament to neglect, and finding scars and wounds on the skin beneath that spoke of so much abuse. He remembers realizing for the first time that normal, everyday Mobians could be just as cruel as Eggman.

Tails doesn't trust his own memory. But Sonic remembers. And Sonic is not quick to forgive.

[deadsetobsessions]

Pt. 3

Again, the timing is icky but pretty much everything about it is icky.

——

Bruce wondered when Talia al Ghul would stop upheaving his life.

He loves Damian, but one surprise child was a lot, considering the cult deprogramming they’d had to do.

A second, older, surprise child? That was a bit overkill.

At least this time, the conception was consensual.

Bruce cradled his head in his hands, still-gloved fingers gripping onto sweat-soaked hair. The glow of the bat computer shone on his lone figure, sat huddled before endless screens of investigations and the unraveling threads of Bruce’s sanity.

How was he to cope with the knowledge that a child- his child, like Dick and Damian and Tim and Jason and- suffered so at the man he thought he had beaten so soundly?

It was his fault, Bruce thought, that Ra’s al Ghul tortured his… Bruce’s… daughter so brutally. It was no doubt, a way to assuage his anger at Bruce’s denial of being his heir.

His mistakes always came back to haunt him, but it never laid its furious eyes and hands on his own person. No, when Bruce made mistakes, his loved ones paid for it.

He tried his best, pushed harder as Batman, in penance. But this… his unknown daughter, trapped in the shadows of the league where it is cold and cruel and brutally painful…

How could he repent for the sin of letting his daughter suffer and chained at the hands of Ra’s al Ghul? How could he show her that the shadows could be kind? That he would rather break his own spine and get lost in the time stream again before he could even fathom hurting her? He found himself stuck in the same loop of thoughts that plagued him when Damian first came into his orbit.

The screens turned black, and Oracle’s call sign flashed onto the dark pixels.

“Oracle. I hadn’t finished looking at the cases.”

“Go to sleep, Bruce.”

“No, there is still work to be-” his voice, dipping into the growl, died a quick death when Barbara cut him off.

“Your daughter is coming tomorrow. So, unless you want to look like a disheveled grease racoon when you meet her, go shower and get some actual sleep.”

Bruce paused, feeling oddly offended. His eye bags weren’t that bad.

Bruce caught sight of his reflection in one of the blacked out monitors.

…Nevermind.

He sighed. “…Thank you, Barbara.”

“Anytime, Bruce. I’m always here to kick your ass into gear.”

Bruce huffed, but obligingly got up to change and shower. Alfred silently appeared at the elevators, polished shoes tapping against the stone floor as he raised an imperious eyebrow at Bruce.

“I see Miss Barbara has managed to persuade you to retire at an hour common to regular man, Master Bruce.”

“Ah, yes, she… did.” Bruce felt the urge to apologize, because if Alfred’s up because of him, it’ll wear down harsher on the older man’s health. If there was one thing he took seriously, it would be the health of his loved ones. “Sorry, Alfred. I’ll head up to bed soon.”

“See to it that you do, Master Bruce. I will warm dinner that you had missed by many hours and bring it to your room.”

Bruce lingered as the butler turned around and began making his way back to the main house.

Alfred paused and turned around once more. “If I may offer you some advice?”

“Please. Always.”

Alfred sniffed delicately, most definitely thinking of the times Bruce decided not to take his very well reasoned and seasoned advice. “You have done well with Young Master Damian.”

“Most of that was Dick,” Bruce interrupted, man enough to admit that he wasn’t a present or a particularly good father figure before his jaunt through time and space. Alfred shot him a chiding look, reprimanding him for interrupting. Bruce rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Perhaps, but you have put in effort towards all of your children in a way that I have yet to see since Master Jason had… gone.”

“I’ll never make that period of time up to Tim.” Bruce whispered. Another thing he was guilty of. Tim still avoided some spaces in the manor, even when Bruce had-

“That is because you sit here, wallowing in your guilt,” Alfred returned. He added a belated “Master Bruce,” and it sounded like ‘you utter buffoon.’

“But…”

“You must take the first step, Master Bruce.”

“What if she hates me? What if I’m not ready- what if I can’t help her?”

“You will try. She deserves that, at the very least. You must try. Even if you are not ready for the day, Master Bruce, it can not always be night.”

“… You’re right.” Bruce straightened his shoulders. Time doesn’t wait. He, of all people, knew that.

“You will find that I am hardly ever wrong.” Alfred primly rested his hands atop each other.

“Thank you, Alfred.”

“Of course. It was also meant literally, Master Bruce, for the sun shall try its best to peek out of Gotham’s smog in approximately three hours and fourteen minutes.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Bruce grouched.

——

Her mother gave her a slow, cautious hug, akin to approaching a wild animal.

She huffed, and pulled her mother into a crushing hug. She allowed herself, for the first time in a long time, to linger and cling onto her mother’s shirt. Another tendency that Ra’s had thought he’d beaten out of her.

“Be careful,” the reincarnation whispered.

“You as well, my beloved daughter.”

‘You do not have to remind me that I am beloved, mother. I know.’

Talia al Ghul tucked a strand of the reincarnation’s curled hair behind her ear. “No, I do not believe that you do. But that is… my own fault. I will tell you and remind you that you are beloved to me as long as I can. I have two decades of it to make up to you, habibti.”

The flight attendant- a League operative- returned from placing her bags onto the private plane.

——

A sleek car made its way up Wayne Manor’s winding driveway. She’d declined the offer to pick her up from the airport. She had wanted a vehicle of her own, and some time before she met every one else. No doubt, knowing what she knew of her brother and Bruce Wayne, not to mention the little photographer, they were most likely tracing her path to Wayne manor obsessively.

She tapped her nails on the wheel as she drove towards her brother. Brothers. And… Bruce Wayne. On one hand, she’s kept them safe. On the other, she’d sacrificed years of getting to know them. It was odd, to feel this intensely awkward and nervous after years of intense hatred or apathy sprinkled by the the occasional love and fondness for Damian and her mother.

“Hmmm.” She hummed, slight smile spreading a bit more as the sound came out without pain. Two weeks, and the novelty of freedom had not worn off. She thinks that it would never wear off. She cherished it.

The gate had opened without needing a code, so they most definitely knew she was here. It’s a good thing she had prepared gifts in advance. Dodging Gothamites as they drove and jaywalked had been a rather unforeseen ordeal that she was not looking forward to repeating.

She rolled to a smooth stop at the front doors, giving the intricately carved oak doors a passing glance. She huffed a laugh as she saw Damian, flanked by Bruce Wayne and Alfred Pennyworth, staring proudly outside at the front door. They’re anticipatory of her arrival. Warmth spread through her heart, and for the first time in a long while, it wasn’t the heat of rage.

She opened the doors with a quiet click and hiss, stepping out onto the heated paved driveway, and closed the door. At the steps, the two older men had frozen but Damian had come walking quickly towards her.

“Damian,” she whispered as he came near her, suffusing as much fondness as she could into his name. Her little brother all but sprinted towards her, screeching to a stop in front of her with excited eyes.

“Welcome to Wayne Manor, ukhti.” He said formally. Her eyes softened and she pulled him into a hug.

(yā waṭawāṭī alṣṣḡīr is the phonetic spelling.) ("وطواطي الصغير" is the actual spelling. I think.)

“I have missed you, ya wat-wat alssgirr,” she whispered. The familiar endearment, “my little bat,” rung warmly like a warm crease ruffling his hair. The silks of her clothes and the ever present warm sand and candle scent wrapped around him like a hug… like the hug she was currently giving him.

(Her clothes were in blues and silvers. It suited her, she who had been forced in green and golds and cuts of black.)

“I still can not believe you all but told me who father was and I still could not figure it out until mother told me.”

She pulled back. ‘Damian, you were five.’

“I have little doubt you were smarter at my age, ukhti, so do not lie to me.” Damian grumbled. Nevertheless, he stepped back.

‘No, you were smarter.’

And to her, he was. It’s not like Damian had the edge she did, and he wasn’t the one trapped for twenty something years. She had foolishly thought that Ra’s wouldn’t dare to harm her too much, seeing as she was his blood, but Damian knew from day 1. She made sure he did. If she was half as smart as Damian, she would have bent her knee and obeyed, no matter how she felt about killing. She would have taken warning Ra’s issued and soaked in the poisonous praise to bide her time to escape. She could not- she did not- do what Damian found effortless, and paid the price for it.

“Unlikely,” Damian said, turning around fully, but she could see the tips of her brother’s ears burning. Ah, perhaps she had been to stingy with compliments if he was shy hearing a mild one, sincere as it might have been. “This is Alfred Pennyworth. He is the butler, and an integral part of the family.”

Damian glanced at her, taking in her suddenly impassive face, and nods. Good. His attitude towards Pennyworth when he first arrived was… mildly shameful. His ukhti was smart enough to know that and therefore he won the argument.

On her part, the reincarnation followed along like she hadn’t mildly stalked this family for decades. It was nice to see excitement rearing on her brother’s face. It was rare in the league and Gotham’s gloom had ironically cheered him up far more than the suns of desserts ever did. She nodded at Alfred Pennyworth, who had admirably recovered from his earlier shock.

“And this is… Bruce Wayne. Our father.”

She tucked a strand of curled hair back, impassive blue eyes meeting her… father’s.

She offered him a short nod.

——

“My word,” Alfred Pennyworth muttered as his charge’s (his son’s) daughter step out of the car. Her steps were silent, graceful, and lighter than a gazelle.

The way she moved, even as she hugged young master Damian, whispered of leashed lethality and treacherous waters. She moved like if grace had a form and Alfred was willing to bet his entire career that not an iota of air got close to her without her knowledge of it, and it reminded the aging man of the young Miss Cassandra. He knew then, that she could have pretended to be unassuming and that he would have had a hard time equating her with danger. That she showed them her potential for death was a sign of trust.

But it was not the way she claimed death as her own name that caught the former spy’s attention.

No.

It was her blue eyes and the way they ever so slightly crinkled fondly as she laid eyes upon her younger brother. It was the way her hair, curled in a nostalgic style, that curtained her face as she spoke to the young Wayne heir, though he could not hear her voice. It was the way that she tucked Damian against her side, protective but encouraging.

It was the way that she, despite Talia al Ghul’s features, resembled his dearest friend, Martha Wayne, in her every movement.

Alfred Pennyworth felt like he was decades younger, standing before Martha as she fondly tucked Bruce against her side and successfully needled Thomas into going to see Bruce’s favorite movie.

It felt like he had his best friend once more, just a little.

From the way Master Bruce stared, it seemed as though he thought the same.

Alfred straightened when young master Damian introduced him. He was the Wayne Family Butler. And she was definitely a Wayne.

Master Bruce stood there like a lout as his daughter greeted him. Alfred shot him a scathing look- he had taught Master Bruce much better manners than to gape, the nerve!- before smoothly directing the attention away. His hands moved as he spoke.

“Welcome to Wayne Manor, Miss-”

She made a sharp motion to cut him off and signed something. Alfred might be a tad rusty in Arabic sign language (like he and the rest of the family hadn’t spent the last two weeks frantically memorizing and brushing up on their sign language) but he knew a name sign when he saw one.

“al Ghul.” Damian recognized. He did not use regular Arabic Sign Language with her often, vastly preferring their own established sign, but that did not mean he slacked. “You may call her al-Ghul.”

‘Or nothing at all,’ Damian’s sister signed. She looked at him like she was waiting. A test, Alfred realized.

Alfred pushed the slight twinge of disheartening disappointment away. He had wanted to call her Miss Wayne, to perhaps indulge in a bit of nostalgia for a while longer. But he shan’t do it at the expense of his charge.

“Miss al Ghul,” he continued, not missing a beat, imitating the name sign with pin point accuracy. She lifted her chin. Alfred sighed in relief. He passed. And now, perhaps he should revive Ra’s al Ghul and have a nice, entirely civil conversation about Miss al Ghul’s expectation that her wishes would go ignored.

Alfred will bring his shotguns and most likely would abandon pretenses as soon as that old goat got into his crosshairs. Old as he might be, he was still a very good shot, and civility was reserved for those with honor.

“Please head inside. I am sure young master Damian would love to guide you on a tour,” Alfred continued like he didn’t think of violent second deaths for Ra’s al Ghul. “Perhaps Master Bruce will join you, if you are amendable, once he has managed to stop imitating the rather life like form of a smooth brained sloth.”

Alfred congratulated himself on the small crinkle of humor that graced Miss al Ghul’s otherwise expressionless face. Well, expressionless to those that did not know where to look. Fortunately, Alfred and the rest of the family were used to stoic caveman micro expressions, courtesy of Bruce, and therefore it would not be much of a problem.

“I will bring your bags up to your room.”

She scrutinized him and then dipped her head.

‘Be careful. There are dangerous things in there.’

“I assure you the utmost privacy in regards to your belongings,” Alfred said.

“Pennyworth will not peruse your belongings, ukhti. He has more honor and respect than that.”

Alfred would like to interrogate Talia al Ghul to see who he must introduce some lead to, that clearly disrespected Miss al Ghul’s privacy like so. But for now, he will bask in the warmth of young master Damian’s implicit trust.

Miss al Ghul nodded. She opened the trunk of the car- the interior of which Alfred could now perceive to be entirely customized and of extremely quality material. She handed the keys and gave him access to her luggage. Then, placing her hand at young master Damian’s shoulder, followed the young master into the halls where she ought to have been raised. Or, at the very least, ought to have taken a step in at least once before today.

Master Bruce lingered at the doorway, torn between following the siblings and helping Alfred with the luggage (read: running away.)

“The daylight is wasting, Master Bruce.”

Master Bruce skittered in behind them like a newborn colt, wobbling and anxious.

Well, it’s time for Alfred to do his job. There was only a single duffle bag.

Hm. He’ll have to tell Master Bruce to take her out for necessities. He hardly doubted that a single bag could last her very long. And Alfred Pennyworth was hellbent on convincing his granddaughter to stay, may the gods have mercy on whichever poor soul that tried to convince her otherwise for he won’t.

——

She followed Damian as he led her deeper within the walls of a home she knew by heart from afar. She was like the little photographer in that way. Bruce Wayne trailed behind them like a particularly awkward ghoul, and she found it amusing to equate this turtle necked man was the illustrious Dark Knight. How dangerous.

“This is the first parlor. It is for guests of the… regular persuasion.”

Ah, for the civilians. She nodded.

“Ah, the silverware was selected by Alfred.” Bruce interjected, gesturing to the display silverware by the door. Their cabinets were intricate without taking away from the paintings upon the delicate ceramic.

She looked at him, wondering why he was following before giving up and nodding. It was his house.

(Bruce, for his part, felt like his daughter had laid judgement upon him… and found him lacking.)

‘It is… adequate.’ She sighed to Damian. Damian tutted.

“It’s fine to say quaint, sister. It could hardly compare to the palace.”

Bruce jolted, plans for converting the manor into a palace already in the making.

No, he couldn’t. Alfred would murder him with his favorite dish.

‘I like it, even if it is smaller.’

“….you do?”

‘You are happy here. It is warm to you. I like it.’ She repeated.

Damian latched onto her sleeve. “I- I shall show you my art. And then introduce you to the rest of the bumbling fools we have for brothers-”

She tilted her head. Bruce paused as well when Damian’s words cut off.

“If… you want them as brothers. It would be… helpful, to integrate.”

She waited.

“But… I am the first. Your blood. And-”

‘I will make room in my heart for them, if you wish it. I already know some of them.’ She allowed a small smile to show. ‘But that does not mean you will ever lose your place, little bat.’

Damian felt extremely thankful that father had not managed to pick up their version of sign language yet.

“Well… as long as you’re aware.” He marched further into the manor. She followed, once more, a look of fond indulgence gleaming in her eyes.

——

She stood in front of a painting her younger brother had done.

‘I made it two weeks ago,’ he’d told her, fingers curled into her palm.

It was green. She hated green. And gold. And ominous. Rage. Harsh, bold strokes and spots where the texture of the canvas were either globbed over or painfully showing through.

Her hands traced the single stroke of blue amidst the turbulence of green.

She tucked Damian against her side and realized that perhaps he understood after all, what it felt like. Perhaps not all of it, but enough.

——

“Here is your room, ukhti.” Damian stood watch as his sister scanned the room. She quickly removed three listening devices as Damian sighed.

‘You’ve gotten better.’ She crossed the room and plucked the listening bug from its place on the door frame.

“Clearly not good enough.” Damian huffed. “But I have beaten your knife game record. What do you think of the room?”

His sister rolled her eyes and handed him a blade she pulled from somewhere on her person.

An implicit challenge.

“No cutting your fingers off, please.” Father interceded.

“Begone, father. We are doing sibling bonding, something I remember you insisting that I participate in.”

Damian shut the door on his stupefied face, matching his sister’s sharp smirk as he splayed his hand on the dresser and raised the blade.

——

Alfred walked in with a covered plate and paused at the sight of the dresser.

Then, he looked on as Damian sat at the desk, rapidly signing to his sister in their own version of the language as said sister pulled out an entire wardrobe and a half to fill in the walk-in closet.

Alfred made a note to study some more magic.

“Miss al-Ghul. I bring you a snack that young master Damian made and to inform you that the others will be arrive en masse, within an hour.” Alfred paused. “Might I interest you in a mat before the two of you decide to… take a gander at furniture redecoration in the future?”

“Of course, Pennyworth. Apologies.”

“I’ll try to make sure they won’t overwhelm you. They can be a lot, at once.” Bruce said from the doorway. Miss al Ghul glanced at him and dipped her head in thanks. Her eyes wandered right back to the dessert.

Alfred made another note.

‘You made this for me?’ She asked, switching to standard.

Damian grumbled. “Do not eat it. I could not get the spice quite right, no matter how many variations…”

‘I am sure it will be good.’ She took the plate from Alfred’s hand and uncovered it.

They all had the fortune of witnessing a true, genuine wide eyed smile from a stoic face.

Alfred inhaled sharply. He had thought Master Bruce and young master Damian had inherited Thomas’ dimples. But she had inherited his entire smile.

‘Bstilla!’ She turned to Damian. ‘My favorite! You made this?’

“I know that. I am not incompetent as to not notice when you snuck three of them from the palace kitchens. You must give me the recipe from the cooks. I could not get it to taste like the spices they used. I even imported spices!”

Miss al-Ghul, like she had forgotten he and Master Bruce were there, stabbed a fork into the pie and put it into her mouth.

“Ukhti! Don’t- do not eat that! Spit it out! The pastry is too thick and-”

She held up her hand. ‘It’s good. I know what it is missing.’

She strode to her magic bag and pulled out a bottle.

She sprinkled flakes on top and offered a forkful of b’stilla to the young master who, shockingly, did not insist on his own utensil.

His expression lightened. “This is it. What is it? You know of the chefs’ methods?”

She sprinkled the mysterious spice on the food. ‘You’ve never eaten anything the chefs have made. I made your food by hand to prevent assassinations and inoculate you against toxins. Also, this is poison.’

Alfred stiffened.

“It’s what?!” Bruce spoke up, rushing into the room, finally to try and look Damian over.

‘It is fine. He has been immune since he was three.’

Miss al Ghul placed a piece of poisoned b’stilla in her mouth and ate. Young master Damian batted his father off, saying that poison inoculation was hardly a surprise. What was a surprise, though, was something else.

“That is- you- you’re the one who made my meals?” Young Master Damian demanded, looking guilty. “But- I- why did you not tell me? I made all of those demands in the middle of the night- what about the time I sent back the knafe fifteen times?”

She nodded.

“Why would you- why did you not tell me?”

‘You knew what grandfather thought of women. And besides, it was the only time I was allowed sweets. He did not want me to ruin my figure as it would lower my marketability.’

Alfred itched for his gun.

“You are not a commodity,” Master Bruce stated, intense as he tended to be. Miss al Ghul blinked at him.

‘… I am aware. But… thank you.’

“Ah. Yes. Of course.” And there went the emotionally intelligent Master Bruce. May he rest in peace until the next time he decides to make an appearance.

“I believe today is a chocolate chip cookie day, do you not, young master Damian?”

“Yes, Pennyworth, I believe it is.”

‘I have never tried it before.’

“You will love it. Pennyworth’s cookies are the best in the world, as is expected.”

Alfred watched as young master Damian tugged his sister out and marveled. The sides of his grandson they rarely get to see was so easily pulled out by his older sister.

——

Y’all I wanted to write her meeting the siblings but Alfred came out of no where and went haha nope feel the angst of a man who lost his best friend and had to raise her vigilante child.

Alfred, seeing Bruce put on the bat cowl for the first time: martha, why have you forsaken me

——

Me: what would baby assassins play as a binding game?

Me, remembering my past as a kid: I Spy, but with trackers and bugs. oh wait… THE KNIFE GOES CHOP CHOP CHOP

——

Also, I think B’stilla was food meant only for royalty and was probably rooted in slavery, so I thought it would be a meaningful nod to her position of privilege and how she are like a king but was treated as a… bed warmer and a slave. Yeah. If anyone knowledgeable on food history wants to school me on b’stilla, feel free to do so. I did like, a cursory research at best.

[anyahita]

Middle Eastern kids deserve to wake up to the sounds of birds chirping, not bombs and airstrikes

Middle Eastern kids should be carrying books and flowers, not the dead bodies of their loved ones

Middle Eastern kids deserve to run the streets in joy and laughter, not run away from bombs

[the-witchhunter]

I just want everyone to take a moment to think about how funny Damian Wayne would be if he ended up with Adam West campy 60’s Batman but was 100% the same