can i request aaron x prosecutor!reader where there's a case or smth and he's worried about her being a victim so in the middle of her preparing for an upcoming court hearing he forces her into his office. he swears it's for her safety but she's irritated and they may or may not have a little argument in front of the team 🤷🏾♀️
bonus if the unsub contacts her directly 👀
Overruled | [A.H]
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Prosecutor Fem!reader | WC: 0.8k | CW: Threats mentioned, argument, mention of death, power dynamics.
The knock on your office door was curt and authoritative. You didn’t look up from your notes, flipping through the organized chaos of case law and precedents sprawled across your desk. The highlighter cap clenched between your teeth shifted as you marked a line in a recent appellate decision, your mind already structuring the argument you would present in court.
“If it’s not an evidentiary ruling or a direct confession, I don’t have time,” you called without missing a beat, barely sparing a second to acknowledge the interruption.
The door opened anyway.
“You’re coming with me.”
That unmistakable voice had your hands freezing mid-scribble. Aaron Hotchner.
Slowly, you lifted your gaze, arching a brow. He was standing in your doorway, tie slightly loosened, his usual rigid posture even stiffer than normal. His jaw was locked, and his eyes—dark, serious, resolute—they left no room for negotiation. There was an energy about him, one you recognized as equal parts command and concern. He wasn’t here to discuss, he was here to dictate.
You exhaled through your nose, placing your pen down deliberately. “I have a hearing in less than—”
“I don’t care.”
You narrowed your eyes, fingers tightening against the polished wood of your desk. “Excuse me?”
“You’re not safe.” His voice was a low, unwavering command. “Pack up your things.”
You scoffed, leaning back in your chair, arms crossing over your chest. “Oh, that’s rich. Is this about the threats? Because unless they’ve escalated to something actionable, you know as well as I do that speculation isn’t grounds for detainment. I deal with threats all the time, Aaron. Occupational hazard.”
“This isn’t a debate, counselor,” he shot back, stepping further into the room, the movement subtle but deliberate, reinforcing his presence. “We have credible intelligence that your involvement in the Martinez case has made you a target. That’s more than enough reason to remove you from your office.”
Your fingers curled around the stack of legal briefs on your desk, grip tightening. “Credible intelligence or speculation?”
“I’m not arguing with you about this.” His tone was clipped and controlled, but you could hear the underlying frustration laced beneath his professionalism.
“Well, you’re going to have to,” you countered, standing now, matching his intensity. “Because I don’t answer to the FBI, and I sure as hell don’t answer to you, Agent Hotchner.”
Something flickered in his gaze, a fleeting flash of something you couldn’t quite place. His jaw tensed, his hands flexing at his sides as if physically restraining himself from saying something he knew he shouldn’t.
“You’re being reckless,” he ground out.
“No, I’m doing my job,” you shot back, stepping around your desk to meet him head-on. “A job that requires me to be in that courtroom tomorrow, not hidden away in protective custody like some fragile witness.”
“A job that requires you to be alive to argue it.”
The air between you crackled, the tension no longer just about your safety, but about something deeper—an unspoken battle of wills, of concern masquerading as control, of autonomy clashing with protectiveness.
And then, of course, it had to get worse.
“Uh, should we—”
You turned your head sharply at the sound of a voice, only to find the rest of the BAU team gathered near your doorway, watching the unfolding showdown with varying degrees of concern, amusement, and outright alarm.
Prentiss cleared her throat, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “Should we leave you two alone, or…?”
Hotch’s jaw flexed, his already strained patience thinning. “Go back to work.”
Morgan chuckled under his breath but raised his hands in surrender, retreating with a murmured, “Man’s on a mission.”
You exhaled sharply, rubbing at your temple, frustration giving way to something more complicated.
“Aaron.”
He stiffened at the use of his first name. The team had disappeared, but the weight of the conversation remained, pressing down on both of you like an unseen force.
“I’m not asking you to like this,” he said, voice lower now, edged with something almost—pleading? “But I need you to trust me.”
Your throat tightened. You wanted to fight him on this, wanted to push back, but beneath the stubbornness was something undeniable—the quiet and insistent worry in his eyes.
“You’re going to miss my closing argument,” you muttered, trying to salvage the last shreds of control you had over this situation.
His lips pressed together, as though he were biting back the words he really wanted to say. Then, finally: “I’d rather miss it than have to give your eulogy.”
The fight drained out of you all at once. You swallowed hard. “Damn it, Aaron.”
“Pack your things.” Softer now, but no less firm.
You exhaled, shaking your head, but finally, you reached for your briefcase. The gravity of his words settled in your chest, heavier than you wanted to admit.
“Fine,” you muttered. “But if I miss my hearing, you owe me dinner.”
HELLOOOO i hope you're having a great day, i hope your inbox isn't too swamped😭😭 But is it ok if i can request Suo Hayato (You can add more if you want) x a very smart reader but literally acts dumb bc she doesn't like being stiff or boring like dat🥹 THANK YOU SM BTW IF YOU THIS, its my first time requesting in your blog😋
Such an adorable request, my dear! And feel free to send in more requests whenever your little heart longs for something else ♡♡ I hope you enjoy how this one turned out!
Hayato Suo x smart!Reader who hides how intelligent she is
♤ Warnings: no one ~
◇ Content: You trying to act ditzy and hide your intelligence, but Suo being just as clever and seeing right through your mask.
♧ Notes: I usually use (__) as a substitute for 'y/n' so you can insert whatever name you prefer!
》》 • MASTERLIST • 《《
→ You don’t fool Suo for very long — but he indirectly steps into your game to see how deep it goes, and to find out why you try to hide something that so many people use to show off and be praised for.
→ He will also tease you with great subtlety, leading little games that send chills down your spine because of how close they bring you to having your mask removed. To him, it becomes like a dance, a game, something shared only between the two of you. A shared secret that only he knows about you, and Suo feels strangely satisfied by that subtle, subjective intimacy.
→ But the “fun part” remains only at the beginning. Suo starts wondering why you hide yourself like that, and the more serious he becomes about the subject, the more cornered he leaves you.
→ Despite the smiles and easygoing appearance, deep down there is an uncomfortable disappointment in Suo — one he always tries to keep out of his interactions with you, but that is impossible to pretend is not there. The more he witnesses, the less he likes the performance he is watching.
→ He starts losing his smile whenever you deliberately get wrong an extremely difficult set of accounting calculations that Tachibana had been struggling with for weeks in the shop’s business.
Tachibana: “Wooowh, (___)! That was brilliant! I was almost about to hire an accountant; how did you...?”
You: “Hm? Ah, that? Those were the shop’s numbers? They looked like such cute little scribbles... I just put in some random values that seemed to match your handwriting, you know? Ha-ha...”
Or when Nirei was almost scammed by a street vendor, but you stopped him from buying:
“Oh, Nirei! You liked that? Then you have to come with me to a shop that— No! But I want to buy it there with you...”
Suo knows you must have read the shady seller’s body language, knows you must have calculated the interest rates and taxes. So why did you keep pretending that you “just thought that vendor’s shirt was really ugly”?
→ Deducing that you act like this in order to be more accepted does not satisfy him. After all, if they are truly your friends, shouldn’t they make you feel comfortable enough to be who you really are? If you need to pretend in order to feel comfortable, doesn’t that mean they have failed in their duties as friends?
→ As much as it bothers him, Suo will not approach you directly. Yes, he may imply that he knows your “secret,” he may corner you several times in conversation, but Suo would never step over the boundary of your choices.
Perhaps the most openly he will pressure you is by inviting himself one day to walk you home alone, and then:
Suo: “Mrs. Hayashi’s amaryllis are the most beautiful in the flower shop, aren’t they?”
You: “Absolutely! It’s a shame she keeps them so hidden in the back of the shop...”
Suo: “Yes... It is sad when someone hides something so beautiful they possess, something that could enchant so many people if only they decided to be honest about what they have, isn’t it?”
→ Suo’s next attempt will be to send you an amaryllis along with an unsigned note, though he knows you will quickly put the pieces together:
“What do you think of letting me admire a whole field of amaryllis today, (___)?”
“You two better brace yourselves,” Yamamoto said, arms crossed, eyes shining with smug energy. “I’m about to ruin your entire worldview.”
Tanaka glanced over with a frown. “What’s your damage this time?”
“Is this about Nekoma’s libero?” Nishinoya asked. “Because I’ve already accepted he’s cracked. That’s fine.”
“No, no. It’s not that.” Yamamoto turned, gesturing across the gym. “It’s her.”
You stood at the sidelines, clipboard in hand, scribbling notes with a steady grace that didn’t belong in a noisy, chaotic gym. The sleeves of your red Nekoma jacket were zipped open just enough to show the thin chain of your bracelet glinting under the lights. Your hair swayed gently as you moved, long and effortlessly styled, catching the light in a way that made you look like you’d stepped straight out of a drama.
Tanaka blinked. “Who’s… that?”
“She’s our new manager,” Yamamoto said proudly. “Third year. In Kuroo’s class. He helped get her on the team, but really, she didn’t need the help. She walked in and everyone just listened. No yelling. No chaos. Just…” He gestured vaguely. “Senpai energy.”
You turned at that moment, making eye contact with the three of them briefly. Your eyes were calm, intelligent, and sharp in a way that cut straight through any idiocy. You gave them a soft, polite smile. Not flirty. Not too warm. Just enough to kill them a little.
Tanaka audibly swallowed. “She smiled.”
“She smiled at me,” Nishinoya hissed. “I was slightly more in her line of sight.”
“Are you kidding? She was looking past you.”
“She clearly respects me as a fellow short king.”
“Shut up, Yuu. She doesn’t even know you.”
“She will when I ask her what kind of pen she’s using. It’s called a natural conversation.”
“That’s your plan?”
Yamamoto looked like he was watching a nature documentary about self-destruction. “I warned you.”
“She’s got that cool beauty thing going on,” Tanaka muttered. “Like, lips perfectly lined without trying. You know what I mean?”
“And her hair—” Nishinoya started, breathless.
“Like it floats,” Tanaka finished.
“Like it has better conditioning than my entire soul,” Nishinoya agreed.
You walked past them then, your stride even and composed. There was a soft cherry tint to your lips that made their brains short-circuit. You didn’t say anything, just gave a slight nod as you passed, the edge of your ponytail brushing your shoulder.
Tanaka turned in slow motion. “I think I’m in love.”
“You already are in love—with Kiyoko-san!” Nishinoya barked.
“I can’t help it if I’m emotionally complex!”
“You traitor.”
“She’s just a different kind of angel!”
You didn’t say much as you joined Kiyoko and Yachi by the benches. Kiyoko handed you a bottle of water without a word, her expression calm, unreadable as always. Yachi was nervously adjusting towels on the bench, cheeks pink, eyes flicking back and forth between you two like she couldn’t believe she was standing in the presence of two composed goddesses. (I stand for lesbian yachi)
The three of you stood together for just a second, saying nothing. No wild gestures. No competition. No attention-seeking. Just calm, collected managers radiating unshakable serenity. Three girls in red and black jackets that represent their team, hair neat, eyes focused, a wall of silent strength behind every reckless boy on the court.
And behind you—
Pure chaos.
Tanaka had dropped his water bottle. It bounced off his foot and rolled under a bench, but he didn’t notice. He was staring, slack-jawed.
Nishinoya had one hand over his chest like he’d been shot.
Yamamoto was gripping the railing beside him like he needed support just to keep standing.
The three of them stood frozen, wide-eyed, breathless, staring at you and Kiyoko and Yachi like they’d just seen the final evolution of beauty itself.
“They’re… all together,” Tanaka whispered.
“This is too much,” Nishinoya said, voice breaking.
“It’s like a crossover episode I didn’t know I needed,” Yamamoto whispered reverently.
“They look like they belong on the cover of a shoujo manga,” Tanaka added.
“They look like they’d ignore us in a hallway,” Nishinoya said.
“They already do ignore us,” Yamamoto replied.
Yachi leaned in nervously. “Um, they’re still staring.”
“They’ll stop,” you said quietly.
Kiyoko didn’t even glance back. “Ignore them.”
And you did.
Tanaka sighed.
“I’m never recovering from this.”
── .✦
Omg I really liked that :D I enjoyed writing it, ty for the idea! Keep them coming! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)
Hello again Moonie, I have come to request another from phighting.
So may I please request a...
Subspace x Reader who is in a higher position in Blackrock!
Oneshot please.
Plot: because of Subspace's rotting condition causing him to slack off and get tired during work, the higher ups decided to bring the reader to supervise and look after him despite his complains of not needing one.
the worse part was, the reader is around kind of younger than him prob around 26 or something since he is 30.
despite how embarrassing it is to him around public, he actually enjoys their company from time to time and talk.
that's just it, I am dead with these ideas since i feel restrained with my true creation for ideas.
Thx and Bye!
When You Are Close To Me I Shiver... Out of RAGE!!!
Internet Findings: The spacerrrrrr, you're like- younger than him but not by much btw if it helps [END SEARCH]
This was incredibly annoying, actually scratch that, it was infuriating.
Subspace shot a glare to you from the corner of his eye, a heavy breath releasing from the mere embarrassment of having to share the workload with someone so- so incompetent! Truly, the universe couldn't be this against someone as intelligent as he is, Subspace scoffed as your head started to turn towards the person you suspected was watching. Typical, you waved at him with the faintest of smiles on your lips, mocking in a way to his already fractured state.
How could someone be so damn nonchalant!? Subspace whipped his head around to his project with a curt "Slacking!? I expected better of you for your position!!" He practically spat the words, causing a laugh to bubble up from your lips. You didn't need to tell him the obvious, how it was rich coming from someone who had no authority like you did, oh the nerve of you and you didn't even say it. All he heard from behind him was a shift from your chair, before notes were scribbled down in a manner that just radiated superiority.
Was Subspace putting this whole situation out of proportion? Absolutely not in his case, what the Blackrockian higher ups demanded he cooperate with was just insulting at most. His rot has been getting... Drastic as of late, and while at first the Gamma Biograft he had constructed for this very scenario helped immensely, over time there's been a decrease in his performance. Very unbecoming of the same person who prided himself in not only his output, but also what he took on in regards to workload.
No matter what he said, Blackrock heads refused to move an inch for letting him be by himself, without needing someone to tether him to the ground and jam his already much behind pace. He was stationed with you, some fresh face that was a few years behind him but somehow had the team under your thumb. It was almost impressive, key word being almost. After the initial shock came the dread of having to interact with someone he'd rather see as someone lower along the ladder then higher up above him.
Even thinking about it pissed him off.
The grind of a chair against polished floors made Subspace tense, already knowing who it was for the aggravating sound without needing to look back for it. He already got fooled before, as well as multiple times even previously, he wasn't going to give you any satisfaction from the little games you roped him into as long as he was present for it... And didn't take the bait he conjured up from just a glance your way. Speaking of which, who knows if you messed with him as much as you did? It certainly felt like it, especially when one of his other coworkers came by and your act came all together once more.
A tease of a whisper, wishing him good luck for the night as you were set to retire. Meeting in the morning, you spoke close enough for him to hear each syllable from that mouth of yours, you didn't wanna be late unless you found yourself in a similar position as he is. A slight, he rolled his eye over your jab as you wished him good night. Nothing was heard from his end of course, but you didn't really expect much.
Time passed by certainly, Subspace could count on how his comfortable monotony was once again disrupted by your presence.
While the passage was longer than days, he didn't really know if it was under the guise of it being months now too. It doesn't matter, Blackrock management still issued out a more concrete work position for yourself near his side. He always guessed it would happen, but the slowly dying hope in his rotting chest prayed that they'd let you go and let him be by himself once more. A huff, your chair imperceptibly growing closer in distance to his own to the point where your "work station" (looked more like a hazard zone even Subspace would blush at) was on the same table as his, just more away from his mess.
A chirping of words, you asking him if he needed assistance in any of his plans. "Me? Assistance!? Nonsense! You'll be thrilled to hear that I've been making great advancements to the tech of Blackrock!" Aggravating as ever, but you could entertain his madness with only the faintest twitch of your lips. Alright then, if you were able to so humbly ask what he's doing, then what's up? What's the greatest scientist known to Inphernal kind been up to these days? Maybe Subspace heard you wrong, but he did sit up straighter from the praise, coughing a bit in the gas mask of his.
"Biograft upgrades... Seeing if there's room for more stealth modules to truly let them get the upper hand against failure itself!" He presented under your gaze, noticing how that's been happening more often lately as you've made your way to the lab. The others would never really see the full picture of it, but some parts of him are starting to not mind your presence. Granted, you did just inflate his ego a second ago, so that's probably why but hey, never say never right? He still didn't care for you under any circumstance, but if you wanted to get into more intellectual means...
Well, he hardly thought your simple mind could comprehend his schematics, even if you're higher up then him.
You leaned on the table a bit, eyes just begging him to go on and on and on... You get the picture, Subspace mulled it over internally before he couldn't help but take the bait. Clawed hands slid over papers of notes, sketches that detailed modules for color changes based off of environment, blending in with camouflage so no one can detect the rough metal from the bark of a tree unless you were keen eyed. Artificial gear that looked more contraption than what could be spawned in.
Honestly you had to hand it to him, there was some pretty good stuff in here that could be utilized. A bit of them were still lofty, but overall not bad. You told him that you may be able to run this up the chain and see if a higher payroll was in his future. This actually made Subspace look more shocked then anything else, before smoothing out his demeanor and chuckling as if it was obvious. It was already written that you'd have to say your praise to those you conversed with, obviously.
He heard you laugh a bit, before sliding the plans back over to him and give a smile. No one could prepare him for the shaky leap his heart took in response to your approving gaze, no one could have even told him how awkward it looked as he scrambled to get all of his ideas in order with a rough cough again, his crystal glowing a touch brighter than usual.
The turn of someone whose thoughts creeped more and more traitorous as he looked at you refocus your gaze. Subspace was sure this was only a bit of a mix up right? There wasn't any way... No, no he couldn't even entertain the idea of his heart growing fonder.
Ughh how I love your parent isaac night headcanons!!! PLEASE MORE
🕰️ Isaac Night Parenting (Part II) 🕰️
“The great DaVinci of Nevermore had built many things. But nothing fascinated him more than the children he made with you.”
Isaac as a Father:
For all of Isaac’s brilliance, his favourite experiment has always been life itself. Not in the grim, Frankenstein way that haunted his youth- but in the quiet, domestic kind. He’s still obsessed with creation, but now his greatest obsession is watching his children discover the world.
Sometimes, late at night, you catch him watching you with them- utterly still, utterly silent, like he’s memorising the way you move, the way you manage to stretch yourself between a thousand needs without faltering. He looks at you like you’re performing magic that he’ll never be able to quantify.
He’s proud of the things he’s built, the theories he’s proven, the inventions that bear his name… but the thing that keeps his clockwork heart ticking isn’t a blueprint- it’s the sight of his children curled against you, listening to a story, or dismantling one of his prototypes with a look of concentration that’s so very him.
Their DaVinci Gifts:
All of your children are prodigious DaVinci’s- telekinesis and super-intelligence woven through their very bones. Isaac insists it’s genetics. You insist it’s because he can’t resist turning even playtime into a science lesson.
Their drawings aren’t stick figures; they’re reminiscent of early renaissance. You’ve found plans for bridges, engines, and clockwork birds scribbled in the corners of colouring books.
Books that should be far beyond their comprehension are left open and annotated in crayon. Once, you walked in to find your daughter reading Paradise Lost upside down, muttering to herself about "the flawed engineering of angelic wings." Isaac beamed like a man who’d just been knighted.
Discipline:
You’re warm, gentle- the safe harbour. Isaac, on the other hand, is the storm that clears the air.
He never raises his voice; he doesn’t need to. One look- that low, level stare that could stop a classroom mid-sentence- is enough to silence even the wildest chaos.
The children adore him, but they also respect him in a way that borders on awe. They know when that jaw sets, and his brow furrows just slightly, it’s time to stop testing gravity with the furniture.
The remarkable thing? His discipline isn’t cruel or distant. It’s precise- surgical, even. He corrects with the same meticulous care he uses in his experiments. A lecture from Isaac Night isn’t scolding, it’s philosophical dissection.
“If you must antagonise your mother and I, my darling, at least do it efficiently. That contraption of yours had a thirty-percent chance of implosion.”
Public Reactions:
Francoise teases constantly about how unnervingly well-behaved your children are. “It’s unnatural,” she says, though even she looks a little proud when your eldest quotes poetry or explains the basic principles of transference.
People in Jericho and Nevermore are in awe of them. It’s not just their intelligence- it’s their poise. They carry themselves with that same eerie composure their father does, but softened by your warmth.
When they begin schooling, their teachers often find themselves double-checking homework submissions, convinced Isaac must’ve written them. He never does, he never would, though he has been caught leaving notes in the margins like a proud peer reviewer.
Life in the Night Household:
Dinnertime conversations sound like symposiums- one child debating mechanics, another philosophy, you trying to remind everyone that vegetables exist. Isaac just sits there, eyes bright, watching the chaos like it’s the most beautiful equation he’s ever seen.
When he takes a post at Nevermore, he inevitably ropes the children into his work. You find them sitting cross-legged on his study floor, grading his students’ tests.
“This one didn’t even label the brain correctly,” your eldest sighs.
“Daddy, did you teach them, anything?” the youngest adds, scandalised.
You try not to laugh, but Isaac absolutely doesn’t. He looks thoughtful. “Unfortunately, my little prodigies, those students aren't even half as bright, as my little stars.”
He loves that they challenge him, that they think critically, that they’re little mirrors of his mind, but tempered by you. Your warmth. Your grounding. You’re the axis his universe spins on, and your children are the proof that even a man with a clockwork heart can create something tender.
My father is a big history buff. He fancies himself a bit of an expert about the U.S. Civil War, U.S. Presidents, and World War II. In fact, he’s gifted me with the Useless Knowledge of which four U.S. Presidents were assassinated while in office (Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, and Kennedy – you’re welcome for that little addition to your own Library of Useless Knowledge).
But, more importantly, my dad has instilled in me the importance of a timeline. The idea that, if you’re collecting information, it’s vital to keep it in chronological order, that way you can look at it, (try to) understand it, and theorize about what happened before and after an event. If the facts are out of order, the conclusion you reach may be in error.
My father and I also like to solve True Crime together. When he visits, we spend hours on the porch studying some random, usually cold, true crime event. We timeline the shit out of it, connect the puzzle pieces together, and exclaim in the end, “We’ve solved it!” I suppose that is part of what keeps me interested in Lukola – not that there is anything criminal in Lukola, except perhaps the “Single White Female” that pops up behind Nicola from time to time – I just enjoy the game of trying to put the pieces together.
Lukola has become a rather intriguing puzzle, don’t you think? It’s definitely one to which I do not have all the pieces. I do, however, enjoy collecting the information and chronologizing it, and now I find it enjoyable to scribble my thoughts out on Tumblr.
So, how did I get here?
Well, it started with boredom and ended with a timeline.
YES, you guessed it! After blowing JVN off for at least three, maybe four, posts in a row, I’m finally getting around to dedicating an entire entry to Their Royal Highness.
JVN is such a fascinating creature. I mean, you get beautiful, witty, and intelligent wrapped into one human being. Oh, and they are kind of a catty bitch, too, and who doesn’t love one of those? That’s why they're the Heart of the Ocean on the USS Lukola; they just give off this very rare blue diamond vibe. Well, that, and because something they did marks the focal point – the heart – from which the rest of my timeline branches.
*I will cut in here to note that I am referring to JVN as they/their in this entry as their Instagram bio indicates they accept “they/he/she.”
Okay, back to July 20.
On that date, JVN posted to TikTok their version of the Charli xcx “Apple” dance. You know that annoying TikTok trend that took over our summer? Yeah, that’s the one – the same one Antonia tried doing – she just couldn’t pull off the JVN version of it. Dear girl couldn’t come close to matching JVN’s “enthusiasm,” and JVN’s version was only made more enjoyable in that they were seemingly mocking Antonia!
But, all’s fair in love and war, right?
JVN’s bestie, Nicola, had already spent the entire summer subtlety combating Antonia over social media. The vibe in the fandom was that Antonia was always trying to one-up Nicola, with Nicola always coming out the victor. I’m sorry, Antonia, you just can’t beat some perfectly timed BTS drops.
So, why did JVN’s TikTok post intrigue me? It wasn’t because it was that amusing. It was because they’d done something I hadn’t noticed before – they’d taunted Antonia on a public forum.
Curious, that.
Now, I’m not saying it was the first time JVN mocked Antonia, but July 20 was the first time I noticed it. That date is the heart of my timeline, but it does not have to be the heart of yours. We can all start at different times but still reach the same conclusions, so long as we keep the information in order.
You would think one wouldn’t mess with the “girl friend” of your best friend’s “best friend,” at least not publicly. But, here was JVN shamelessly mocking Antonia on TikTok. And, just so we’re clear, the public opinion of what JVN was doing with this TikTok is available to view in the comments of their TikTok post. It wasn’t just me that came to this conclusion – and JVN has left these comments up for four months at this point.
JVN’s “Apple” dance was only made more interesting the following day – July 21 – when they included it in their Sunday Dump post on Instagram.
And, Nicola liked it.
Hmm, things were becoming curiouser and curiouser.
Let’s not even pretend that Nicola isn’t street savvy and didn’t understand the context of that video. And, let’s definitely not underestimate the length of her claws.
To be honest, I hadn’t paid too much attention to Lukola since mid-June. It was an “it is what it is” thing for me. Even though I believed the relationship between Luke and Nicola was complicated (see my first blog for that story), Luke had also apparently disappeared into the summertime sun with his friend group, which included Antonia.
Something about JVN openly making fun of Antonia, and Nicola, at the very least acknowledging it with an Instagram like, made me realize something in Luke’s situation must be shifting.
What have I said about little changes? That deviations in modus operandi are what make people start giving the side-eye to a situation.
And, side-eye I did!
I started paying attention to JVN and, on July 25, they posted a series of photos on TikTok and Instagram showcasing “What I would wear if you invited me to your…” We will fast-forward through all the slides until we get to the last one, which read, “…just got dumped and going to take 8 shots dinner at Lupe’s in SoHo.” Was it possible that JVN was hinting at a dumpster fire at the Soho Farmhouse?
If you don’t know what the Soho Farmhouse is, it’s the place where Luke and his friend group, including Antonia, frequented, probably on Luke’s dime (*insert wicked laugh – oh, and a disclaimer that this is all speculation).
Funny that Nicola liked this post on Instagram, too, and it wasn’t even buried in a Sunday Dump.
At this point, JVN had really sparked my damn interest. Like, dear one, what are you hinting at?
On July 29, Deux Moi creeped out from under its rock and reminded the fandom to hate Luke by rehashing Papsmear. Thank you, we needed that. I mean, half of us almost forgot how much we hated him! That’s me being a sarcastic tart, by the way. If we were to fast-forward to today, I’d argue that Luke was the most darling thing to come out of Bridgerton.
Any ways, again, thank you, Deux Moi, for those suspiciously timed Papsmear pictures because they aligned perfectly with the pap pictures People dropped the following day – July 30.
Yep, I am talking about those strangely awkward pap pictures of Luke hanging out in the murky waters of Sorrento with Antonia. Oh, and let’s not forget the video footage of that encounter, which I am sure still upsets and confuses people to this day. In fact, I know it does because, as I was researching this, I had a couple of people get annoyed after I asked them to view it. Funny thing is, that shit never bothered me (I didn’t say that it didn’t later confuse me!). The first time I saw them, I was like, “Luke is not into that girl at all,” and my next thought was, “I wonder how old these pictures are because I would have sworn JVN was hinting at something.”
Now, this story wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t address the rumor portion of it.
First rumor? That Antonia set up the entire Italy pap photo-op because she seemingly knew where to find the cameraman. So, let’s discuss that video everyone seems to hate to acknowledge exists. In the video, you can see Antonia maybe looking in the direction of the cameraman. She then leans into Luke, either to whisper something to him or to reach for something behind him. In my opinion – and this is strictly my opinion – it looks like she’s pretending to reach for something over his shoulder. Still shots of this interaction are the photos People published, presumably because Luke and Antonia looked like they were cheek to cheek.
Okay, notice I said, “first rumor,” because, yeah, there’s a second rumor, too! But, it fits snuggly into that first rumor. Almost immediately – because that’s how fast the Lukola Sleuths get to work around here – rumors began to circulate that Antonia was following on Instagram the photographer that took the Italy pap pictures. In fact, several people I’ve spoken to swear that they witnessed during a TikTok Live a host prove that Antonia was following this photographer. That’s a bit suspicious, isn’t it? Yeah, it fucking is.
Let’s keep moving.
That same day, we had that video drop of Luke watching fireworks, at night, with sunglasses. Speaking of sunglasses, I guess Luke found those motherfuckers because he sure as shit didn’t have them while floating around in that dirty ass water. Any ways, at the end of the video, Rory appears behind Luke, looking in the direction of the camera and smiling like a condescending, sneaky little shit. Now, who was the cameraman? Well, a possible suspect would be Antonia since she was not seen in the video. Go figure.
Alright, so that day finally ended and on July 31, JVN posted to TikTok a cutesy video of themself at the market titled, “When you catch someone trying to sneak a pic but you were born for these moments.” They prance around the market and randomly look at the cameraman (Mark) with a smile and a pose. The caption reads, “I welcome sneaky pics but I can’t guarantee I won’t sneak some back or put on a show for you.”
WAIT A MINUTE!
Did JVN just inexplicably confirm Luke was getting papped by his own friends?
Yeah, I kind of think JVN did.
And, Nicola liked this one as well when JVN posted it to Instagram on August 8.
Didn’t I tell you JVN was a fascinating creature? And, to be honest, JVN only gets better as this Lukola ship continues on its voyage.
Oh, strangely enough, a few days after the Italy pap crap, Luke returned to London alone. The friend group became unsettlingly silent, and Nicola started to get really, really loud – Chaos Week was incoming! And, so were some more JVN crumbs (and nicely timed clap backs).
دور تک چھائے تھے بادل اور کہیں سایہ نہ تھا
दूर तक छाए थे बादल और कहीं साया न था
اس طرح برسات کا موسم کبھی آیا نہ تھا
इस तरह बरसात का मौसम कभी आया न था
Notes:
How do I put this... My mental state hasn't been great lately. Maybe it's because summer is arriving. Maybe it's stress, or my sleep schedule being completely wrecked. Whatever the reason, my ADHD has felt dramatically more visible these past few weeks. Awwww. I've almost lost the ability to arrange words and sentences in any orderly fashion. (Hey, André Breton, do you people accept illiterates?) I can't seem to control my thoughts, either. Originally, I had planned to write some smut about two people trapped together during a city flood. Instead, it somehow turned into this thing that's a little painful, a little ironic.....
Rehman died on a Sunday. Now, Sunday is once again the official day of rest. It had not always been so. Men of his generation, born in the 1970s, had grown up with a different rhythm: Friday, the day of Jumu'ah prayers, was the weekly holiday, and Sunday was a workday. The change back had happened years ago. It seemed that people involved in foreign trade had objected first. They argued that the arrangement was devastating Pakistan's economy: three days a week, Pakistan was effectively cut off from the global market. Then they dug through books written by Bhutto before his death, searching for ammunition to refute the policy of making Jumu'ah Day the weekly holiday.
Zulfikar had written: "...the Muslim country of Pakistan with its peculiar political, historical, geographical and economic factors should not be forced to undergo a big change such as the introduction of ‘Islamic’ law.."
Someone then asked: Wasn't it Bhutto himself who had abolished Sunday as the weekly holiday? So after Bhutto, they turned to Jinnah instead, saying: Was it not our Father of the Nation who first advocated Sunday as the day of rest?
Rehman had no particular desire to defend the Friday holiday. He wasn't school security guard or instructor living his life by a duty roster. As a young Balochi ganster, he had inherited his father's trade and dealt drugs alongside the Papu family's people. Strange thing, really. Back then, Rehman still walked arm in arm with Pashtun boys. Drug dealers, street thugs, gangsters... what did such people care about workdays and holidays? It was simply that he had grown accustomed, as a child and as a young man, to a life in which Sunday was a working day. And of all habits, those formed in childhood sink the deepest roots.
Many people who care little about politics remember only two kinds of leaders throughout their lives: the ones from their childhood, and the ones in power now.
Current leaders are like answers scribbled on a cheat sheet. When people talk politics and suddenly stumble over a name, unable to remember who announced what policy yesterday, the radio might casually report: "Benazir Bhutto stated that if civilian governments are to control the intelligence services, those agencies must be subject to oversight." And then people know. People say, "Well then, I suppose the army's finished."
The prime ministers and presidents of one's childhood are different. They are like the dust piled outside your front door, like the road that was never properly paved. From the day a child first goes out barefoot until the day he graduates middle school, he runs across that sandy road in slippers. Every time he passes, grit slips into his shoes and stains the soles of his feet brown-black. When he gets home and steps into a puddle, the water soon turns to mud. If he rubs at his ankles with his hands, thick layers of grime come off.
Meanwhile, the radio announces that another foreign minister has arrived in Pakistan on an official visit, and that the president or prime minister has received him. The adults are busy making a living. The news on the radio is often nothing more than white noise that makes labor feel less lonely. They do not care what happened today. The children—and children do not care either.... Ahmed isn't talking to me anymore. I'm going to throw his schoolbag into the drainage ditch. The Government of Pakistan strongly condemns the Soviet invasion and is actively supporting a United Nations General Assembly resolution demanding the complete and unconditional withdrawal of all foreign troops from Afghanistan.... Oh, Zainab, Zainab, don't tell my parents, I gave all of his bubble gum to you... If there were some kind of X-ray designed specifically to diagnose cognition, doctors used it to scan the minds of adults and children, we might discover that a child's mind contains countless cavities waiting to be filled.
An adult's mind, by contrast, resembles the lungs of a coal worker suffering from pneumoconiosis. The cavities have collapsed.The life already lived has often failed to produce those flowers of ordinary existence so frequently celebrated by non-working-class writers composing poems about workers. Instead, it has produced only scar tissue--overgrowths that clog the thousands upon thousands of empty spaces once waiting to be filled with possibilities.
The names of politicians enter a child's ears alongside the names shouted by vendors selling peanut brittle on the street. Both become imprinted. The politicians' names lose their political meaning and become part of childhood memory itself. They no longer represent policies. Instead, they become linked to a particular summer, to the private language of someone not yet grown up.
Even when that person reaches thirty, forty... eighty years old, and walks down the little road outside his house that municipal authorities have ignored forever--even if he now wears polished leather shoes--he will still think of those filthy little feet of his.
Rehman used a notebook to plan his journeys. He was not much of a reader. When he did read, it was usually sensational stories about the CIA or the KGB. Sometimes, over meals or during idle hours, he would share magazine he had been reading with his cousin-brother Uzair.
Uzair read even less than he did. The man believed that during his years at school he had already read every book he would ever need to read in this lifetime. From then on, only films and football matches were worth watching. Sometimes, after finishing a story, Rehman would add his own commentary. For example: "If they'd abandoned written communication and used a more secure method to pass information, the Soviets would never have discovered it." Uzair would usually nod in agreement. He thought Rehman Bhai possessed truly exceptional insight.
Rehman had two sons. His elder son, Naeem, died several years ago. The circumstances were almost absurd: the killer was Naeem's biological grandfather. Rehman's wife, Ulfat, had already begun arranging a marriage for her eldest son. Barring any surprises, he would have married the daughter of a factory owner.
But surprises do happen.
While alive, Naeem was an adult who had never quite shed his boyishness. In front of his younger brother Faizal, who was still in secondary school, he carried himself like an authoritative elder brother. Yet before his elders, he remained a mischievous child. When Rehman and Uzair were discussing how a KGB agent ought to have replaced his notebook, Naeem would interrupt: "Isn't that just a mobile phone? Movies have been doing that for ages."
Uncle Uzair taking advantage of his height, would immediately grab Naeem's cheeks and knead them until he could no longer speak.
Who could have known? Later, he truly would never speak again.
The water pipeline project Rehman had financed was nearing completion. The contractors and the minister asked when he might honor them by attending the ribbon-cutting ceremony.
Rehman opened his notebook.
Friday....Friday was impossible. On Fridays he liked to return home early. Ulfat would cook rice with a shoulder of lamb slaughtered that very morning. And Rehman would pray at a small mosque near his house. He had donated money toward the construction and renovation of many mosques throughout Lyari, yet none compared to the humble neighborhood mosque whose ceiling fans creaked and rattled overhead.
Ulfat prayed only at home. Afterwards she would cover her face, put on dark-colored shoes, and leave the smooth pavement before her house accompanied by a servant. She would pass through the old streets that smelled faintly of dog urine. Ahead lay a dairy yard. Karachi had many such places. A dozen cattle--perhaps fewer--stood idly inside hay-filled enclosures thick with the smell of livestock. Nearby residents came to buy fresh milk drawn on the spot. Some of the workers, when customers were not paying attention, would quickly pull out hormone injections used to stimulate milk production and jab the cows. Before Rehman became wealthy, Ulfat came here often.
Past the dairy yard stood several household-goods shops selling door handles, textiles, tables, and chairs. The owner of the furniture shop liked to place five or six tall blue stools outside his storefront. Children adored them. Every time Ulfat passed by, she would see several children perched on the stools, swinging their legs. Around the corner from the old street was the butcher's shop she had patronized ever since her marriage. The butcher's assistants fiercely drove away every stray dog drawn by the smell of meat. In time the dogs learned that this place was forbidden territory. Only cats came without fear of being chased off.
Ulfat liked cats. She often fed stray cats with leftover food. But the cats around the butcher's shop unsettled her. Sometimes they buried themselves in plastic bags full of scraps and leftovers, feasting greedily. Other times there was nothing to eat. While Ulfat waited for her order to be cut, she would glance to the side and notice two mottled cats. One sleek and glossy. The other gaunt, little more than skin and bone.
Above their heads hung half of a slaughtered sheep, already drained of blood. Only a few scattered stains remained on the ground, each no larger than a bottle cap. Cats lowered their heads and licked at the half-dried sheep's blood. The sight made Ulfat think of the blood that covered her husband.
Strangely, whenever Rehman returned home drenched in blood, she never felt afraid. She felt a certain excitement, as though she herself had taken part in some battle for dominion over Lyari. However these two cats felt demonic. They made her heart pound painfully.
Perhaps, she thought, it was because the Prophet did not want us to consume blood...
By the time Rehman returned from the khutbah, the smell of lamb shoulder would already have drifted all the way to the street corner....No, Friday was impossible.
Saturday would not work either. He wanted to spend it with his son. After Naeem's death, Rehman treasured the weekends even more, the days when his son did not have school. Not that weekends were free of homework. Faizal simply disliked doing it. He said he had already done enough from Monday through Thursday.
Rehman understood. He had hated homework when he was young as well.
So Sunday it would be. Conveniently enough, once the ceremony was finished on Sunday, the workers responsible for maintaining the pipeline could begin work on Monday.
That was how he settled on Sunday for the trip. He informed Uzair, telling him to write it down as well.
Jaskirat, the Indian operative hidden within their gang--or rather, the man they knew as the Baloch youth Hamza Ali Mazari--learned that Rehman would leave the Baloch-controlled neighborhood for the ribbon-cutting ceremony that day.
He chose Sunday as the day Rehman would die. After he and SP Aslam ambushed Rehman, they carried the dying Baloch man to a hospital. As they had hoped, Rehman survived less than a few minutes after arriving.
The doctors were preparing to wheel him into surgery.... there was nothing left to do but send him to the morgue.
Hamza sat on a bench in the hospital lobby. Rehman's death had attracted a flock of journalists outside, circling like vultures. They competed with one another to interview the tuktuk driver who had transported Hamza and Rehman to the hospital.
He stood perfectly straight, his hands clasped behind his back, as though he were wearing an embroidered sherwani instead of a driver's old clothes. Perhaps he really had been an excellent student before leaving school. With solemn dignity, he recounted the dangers of the journey and his regret that Rehman could not be saved.
The reporters thrust microphones toward him. His voice boomed across the hospital grounds like one of those trumpet players who wander the streets during Ramadan, singing verses while soliciting donations for a future Hajj.
Hamza covered his ears. He wanted not to hear. Yet couldn't. Perhaps some reporter outside would notice the silhouette of a man struggling with his grief, hands pressed over his ears. The next day, a newspaper might embellish the scene with literary flourishes, inventing emotional depths behind Hamza's gesture. They would pity him. Pity a man sitting there, waiting for the dead man's family, waiting to perform grief for public display. That pity only made Hamza suffer more.
Uzair arrived not long afterward. He said nothing. Hamza said nothing either. Looking at the tears running down Hamza's face, Uzair understood that he had lost yet another relative. Tears began streaming from his own eyes as well. Like losting his soul, he stumbled into Hamza's arms and clutched tightly at the shoulders of the man who had orchestrated Rehman's death.
His mouth opened as if in a wail. Yet no sound emerged. Only Hamza could hear it. From Uzair's wide-open mouth came a strange mixture of breathing and sobbing, something like the rattling respiration of a man afflicted with a throat disease.
For perhaps two minutes he breathed this way in silence. He suddenly realized that he had not yet seen Rehman's body. Maybe he was still alive... Maybe the doctors, the driver, Hamza.... everyone, had made a mistake. Maybe Rehman was still breathing.
He staggered backward, tore himself free from Hamza's embrace, hurried away without looking back. Hamza watched him leave. Only after another fifteen minutes did he himself enter the morgue.
The white sheet covering Rehman's face had been pulled down to his chest. He had been dead for some time, his complexion had already turned bluish. Uzair knelt beside the metal table on which the body lay. He gripped Rehman's dangling hand with desperate force.
His forehead rested against the edge of the table, leaving a red mark on his skin. Rehman's hand lay against his face. At times Uzair treated that hand as though it were a telephone line connecting him to the world beyond death, pouring out fragments of grief that never formed complete sentences. Or he was too choked with sobs to speak at all. Then he can only simply kiss the cold back of Rehman's hand again and again. Perhaps he wished to warm Rehman's hand with his own heat. Or perhaps he wished for himself to become as cold and silent as Rehman.
That day, Rehman was not the only one who died. SP's task force had exchanged fire with Rehman and Donga on the highway. At least a dozen policemen were killed. And Donga strap explosives to himself and die together with them.
Before the firefight began, Hamza had killed Babla inside the car. Siyahi hadn't been in the car, therefore survived a little longer. After Hamza fled, he somehow discovered that Hamza was the true culprit. Shouting "traitor," he pursued him. They fought for a long time.
In the end, the false Baloch strangled him with a vine and left him hanging from a tree.
The dead policemen were carried back to their station during SP Aslam's withdrawal. They became martyrs, medals, and compensation payments for their families. Donga, Babla, and Siyahi were treated differently. As if venting his anger, Aslam abandoned their bodies by the roadside.
All three were bachelors. Only Babla's parents were still alive. Donga and Siyahi were like the stray dogs they used to toss bones to. Their parents had long since died, in some forgotten summer. Uzair should have collected their bodies that very night. But he, and indeed the entire Baloch faction, was drowning in grief, lost the ability to act.
Not until noon the following day did Uzair return to the horrific scene. One of the killers accompanied him. Hamza parked the car several dozen meters from the site of the firefight.
He helped Uzair out. The previous night, both of them had coped through excess. Hamza had consumed food almost vindictively. An unprecedented hunger seemed to burn inside his stomach. After Yalina prepared dinner, he tried to eat. Yet every mouthful caught in his throat as sobs threatened to overwhelm him. Only when Yalina fed him directly could he swallow. Without awareness of what he was doing, Hamza finished an entire plate of rice. Then he stood up and staggered away to drink water.
The water diluted the acid in his stomach. Soon afterward he began vomiting. He vomited until every grain of rice he had just eaten came back up.
As for Uzair, he drank continuously until he lost consciousness. Alcohol always left him parched, and every time he drank he woke early from thirst. When he rose from bed to get water, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. The gaunt face staring back made him pause. For a moment he wanted to mock the man in the reflection. But with whom?
The answer struck him at once. Donga and the others still lay unburied. He was obviously incapable of driving. So he called Hamza.
The two men walked along the roadside. Ahead stood the vehicle Rehman had ridden in on the day he died. Half of the windshield was stained red by blood and fragments of flesh thrown there by the explosion. Donga's torso and arms remained largely intact. His right leg was gone. His left leg hung from the body by little more than flesh. Apparently the explosives had been concentrated around his waist and abdomen.
Hamza had expected the blast to rip open Donga's stomach and scatter his organs across the road. But it had not happened. Uzair quietly lowered himself into a cross-legged position beside the corpse. He turned over Donga's body, which had been lying face-down. The abdominal cavity had split open. Loops of intestines, stomach, and spleen bulged outward in a swollen mass. Part of the swelling came from the enormous meal Donga had eaten that afternoon at the Water Authority's expense. The rest came from the relentless work of bacteria after death, decomposing and fermenting within his body.
Nearly all of Donga's digestive organs protruded outside the abdominal cavity. Only their remaining attachments to the organs above and below prevented them from spilling completely onto the ground.
Uzair stared blankly at Donga's ashen face. He reached out and poked it with his index finger. A dent appeared in the flesh and lingered for several seconds before slowly fading. Donga had always seemed destined to land himself in one predicament after another. The gang teased him by calling him Donga, not only because his stomach seemed as vast as a cooking cauldron. The name itself suited him. Donga. Donga. It sounded like the name of a man incapable of delicate feelings or careful thought. And indeed, he had always acted on impulse, never looking ahead, never considering consequences.
"But where's Siyahi?" Uzair asked. Hamza guessed that the question came because Donga's face already bore obvious lividity. Of the two remaining bodies--Babla and Siyahi--Uzair's thoughts had first gone to the man whose face was marked by a birthmark like spilled black ink.
"I don't know," Hamza said, blinking. It wasn't that lying made him uncomfortable. The body had been lying here since yesterday afternoon. After a night of roughly twenty-three-degree weather, it had begun to emit a distinct odor of decay. The hydrogen sulfide and ammonia stung his eyes and forced tears from them, creating the illusion of grief.
Hamza wanted to feel sorrow for the ruined Baloch men lying here. But the desolation and pain that had followed Rehman's death had raised his threshold for suffering. If a man were forced, grieving and unwilling, to hack off his father's limbs with a cleaver while meeting the despairing gaze of a betrayed parent, then when he afterward killed the brother who burst through the door and witnessed everything, he would discover that no deeper sorrow remained. After that first death, everyone else became the same. Everyone, is nothing but walking flesh and bone.
Uzair gently patted the stiff chest of the corpse, the same way he might have soothed Faizal to sleep. If Donga had still been alive, Hamza thought, and he had told him, You will pat Donga's body gently, the way you soothe a child, both Donga and Uzair would have laughed themselves breathless. They would called it disgustingly sentimental. And asked what demon had deposited such an absurd idea into Hamza's head.
But Donga was dead. Hamza began to suspect that what he had set in motion was not the opening act of a power struggle among Lyari's gangs. Rather, it was the raising of the iron curtain on a madhouse. Uzair seemed genuinely unhinged. He no longer appeared capable of distinguishing between the friends who had smashed shop windows and traded curses alongside him, and those helpless infants. He acted entirely on instinct. And his instincts told him: This thing is silent, asleep....You must protect it. Otherwise someone will take it away, and you'll never find it again.
The stench of decomposition made tears stream down his face. Reluctantly, tenderly, Uzair pushed the protruding intestines back into the abdominal cavity. Then he and Hamza lifted Donga's body into the car.
They continued onward. Eventually they stopped beside a bloodstained road sign. Babla's headless body lay beneath it. The corpse didn't look as though he had been killed outside the vehicle. Which meant that Hamza, who had been inside the same car, ought to know how Babla had died.
Uzair turned toward him:"Who killed him?"
"We got forced cursh to a fire hydrant," Hamza replied. "He flew out through the window. Landed on the sign."
Uzair said nothing. He walked a dozen meters away toward the severed head that like a football. The previous night he had smashed nearly everything in his bedroom, as though each object were the bones of SP's men, the bones of the Pashtuns. He had sworn that he would cut off their heads and kick them like balls. Now scavenging insects had already begun to colonize this beautiful head.
Babla's skin had lost its healthy flush. The last time Rehman had been arrested by SP, their gang had needed someone to infiltrate the Lyari Task Force headquarters during a surprise attack. So they had dressed Babla in a burqa, passed him off as a woman. His build had been perfect for it--not overly muscular, merely slender enough that beneath the garment he resembled a somewhat tall young woman.
During the drive to the task force compound he had lifted the burqa occasionally to let air circulate underneath. Hamza had hardly dared look at him. Such as Jaskirat secretly feared the brightly dressed transgender women he occasionally encountered, the sight of a handsome young man concealed beneath a burqa and left his soft curls down, filled Hamza with a peculiar anxiety.
Babla's face had been full of color then, and live, and pretty. Now that beauty was gone. The color had drained from his face forever. Only his hair remained unchanged, catching the sunlight and gleaming like strands of copper wire.
Uzair picked up the severed head. It was as if he had completely lost his sense of smell, he stared into the closed eyes. Meanwhile Hamza's thoughts drifted elsewhere, to the corpse hanging in the forest, the place where they had fought...Surely no scraps of his clothing had been left snagged in the branches there?
**
Lately, Siyahi had often dreamed of dying a violent death.
In his dream, a black lion chased him and tried to tear him apart. He fought back desperately, but the scene suddenly shifted. A rope tightened around his neck. He found himself standing in a wilderness. Why would there be a gallows in the middle of nowhere? (Donga objected: "Why not? It's a dream. In your dreams, even Mahnoor Baloch shows up in the wilderness...") Siyahi clawed frantically at the noose around his throat. His legs kicked wildly beneath him. It was useless. He was eventually hanged. At the very moment of death, he woke up.
"Oh," Donga said, "so that's why you kicked me onto the floor." The Baloch man dusted himself off and said, "You're really something. Floodwaters couldn't move me, but you managed it."
He patted his backside and stood up. The clock on the wall read half past twelve. Normally the street outside would be bustling with noise and activity. Today there was only rain and silence
"Is it still raining that hard?" Siyahi asked as he pulled on the undershirt he had already worn for two days, got out of bed as well. The clothes he had worn on the first night were covered with vomit and urine. After waking up that morning, he had fought down his disgust, pinched the corner of the garments between two fingers, and dropped them into a plastic basin to soak. Half an hour later, when most of the food scraps and filth had settled to the bottom, he transferred the clothes into a washing machine that roared like road-construction equipment whenever it ran.
At the time, the storm had seemed to be easing. Looking out at the water that had accumulated overnight--water reaching almost to the calves of a grown man--Siyahi had thought: Once the rain stops, give it an afternoon and I'll be able to leave.
He had never met his mother. Perhaps his parents had disliked babies born with birthmarks. Or perhaps his father had been a womanizing customer of prostitutes, and his mother a prostitute herself. Only through hard lessons and the advice of kind people on his street had Siyahi acquired enough practical wisdom to survive. That wisdom had kept him alive on Karachi's streets, allowed him to join Rehman Baloch's gang, and eventually brought him a life where he no longer worried about food or clothing.
Karachi flooded frequently. Political factions fought so constantly that they could never agree on improvements to basic infrastructure. The drainage system in Lyari was almost exactly the same as it had been when Siyahi was a child. Back when he had been shorter than the sugar cane juice cart pushed through the streets, an old beggar once stopped him from running through a rainstorm to a shop where he intended to steal a little money amid the chaos.
The beggar said:"A utility pole's fallen over. There could be electricity in the water. Step into it and you'll die." Then he glanced at Siyahi's height. "And besides, the water's too deep for you. It'll come up to your chest." The old man grinned obscenely. "That water's soaked dead cats and dead dogs. If your little bird gets wet in that filth, you'll be running a fever within days. Blisters'll start growing around the hole you pee from and rot their way all the way down to your balls."
Shortly after noon, the rain intensified again. Dark clouds covered the sky. Had it not been for the Adhan to the Dhuhr prayer drifting across the neighborhood, Siyahi might have believed it was already 6pm.
Monsoon winds drove the rain sideways through the windows. He had been forced to hang his clothes from the curtain rod instead of the drying rack. The air inside the house was so damp that nothing dried. Instead, the clothes had begun to develop a faint smell of mildew, like moss. In this infuriating rainy season, he could only comfort himself with one thought: At least he had washed the clothes before the storm knocked out power across the entire neighborhood. Imagine if all that filth had started growing green fuzz indoors. That would have been unbearable.
Donga did not even bother looking out the window. He walked straight into the kitchen. The refrigerator contained almost no vegetables or meat. This bachelor never cooked. At the beginning of every month he simply delivered stacks of cash to several nearby restaurants. Afterward he treated them the way a sultan might treat a collection of concubines, demanding food from a lucky restaurant suited his mood that day and having it delivered. Sometimes he ate far more than he had prepaid. Sometimes nearly a whole month he barely ordered from certain restaurants at all. No one complained. Compared with the hoodlums who simply stole money from cash registers, Donga at least paid.
That said, everyone knew that preparing food for this Baloch man required exceptional care. At the time, commercially sold pilaf spice mixes often contained bay leaves. Donga hated it when restaurants failed to remove the bay leaves before serving the rice. Perhaps the gaps between his teeth were unusually large. Whether that had anything to do with his habit of chewing betel nut, nobody knew. In any case, one day a bay leaf became wedged between a tooth and his gum. When he pulled it out, it came away stained with blood.
The restaurant responsible closed and changed ownership within days. Maybe the owner returned to the countryside. Nobody knew. One neighbor later recalled seeing him board a minibus with his wife and children, luggage slung over his shoulder, bandages wrapped around his head. The neighbor called through the window: "Where are you moving to?"
The restaurant owner's eyes immediately filled with terror, like a bird hearing a gunshot. He turned his face away with nervous haste and refused to answer.
Donga's kitchen contained only a plate of samosas and some oil-preserved eggplant. There were still twenty or so cans of beer and soft drinks, however, along with potato chips, cookies, and coffee in the cupboards. Donga found this perfectly satisfactory. Siyahi was less pleased. Not because of the living conditions, he was simply worried that a diet consisting entirely of such food might make it impossible to take a proper shit.
The two men sat side by side on the sofa, mechanically stuffing food into their mouths as though fulfilling a biological obligation. The call to prayer spread across the neighborhood. Loudspeakers mounted atop the minarets still functioned on emergency batteries. They pretended the district still had electricity. In a sense, it did. There was electricity everywhere--in the water.
Holding a samosa, Siyahi wandered over to the window. The water was now deep enough to cover his thighs. A utility pole had snapped and fallen into the flood. Not far away floated two bloated dogs.
Suddenly one of them burst apart, then Siyahi realize that it had not actually been swollen. It was merely covered with flies. The insects had settled on every exposed surface, either feeding or resting after growing tired of flying above the water. Crumbs fell from his samosa with every bite.
The elderly muezzin called out that Allahu Akbar and that Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah. Siyahi said the call was probably prerecorded. Donga agreed:"Yeah. The man's over sixty now. It'd be cruel to make an old fellow go out in weather like this. Still, somebody has to be in the mosque to play the recording. What do you think--did he walk there, or paddle over in a kayak?"
When the time came for the Hayya ala Salah , however, today's adhan was different. The muezzin called: "Pray in your homes. Pray in your homes." Then he returned to the usual wording, after the adhan ended, the old man added in a low, hoarse voice, as though offering a commentary: "The Messenger of Allah said, why do you not pray in your homes? He did not wish hardship upon you, walking through mud and difficulty..."
Siyahi and Donga exchanged glances. These two men, who drifted through life without much purpose, suddenly felt a powerful stirring. All they could see was each other, staring wide-eyed like fools. Yet both were certain that their unambitious minds had been overtaken by the image of an old muezzin they had never seen--a man trudging toward the mosque in slippers heavy with rainwater, wrapped in a robe soaked through by the storm.
"You think he'd count as a martyr if he died on the way?" Donga asked, scratching his head.
"More than we would," Siyahi replied. "Look at why we're trapped in the same house. Maybe this is divine punishment."
"Well, what are we supposed to do about it? What's done is done." Donga snorted heavily through his nose, irritated by this sudden outbreak of moral anxiety. "Maybe I need scrub you inside with a wire brush."
"That's not fair..." Siyahi buried his face in his hands. He looked remarkably like one of those pathetic men who only discover a child isn't theirs after the kid is already old enough to run around the streets.... Perhaps that was a poor comparison. Given Rehman's family history, people in the Baloch faction generally avoided joking about men who raised someone else's child.
He groaned: "Why am I the one having nightmares all the time? How come you're completely fine?"
Donga considered this. "Because you're a terrible person."
"And you're some kind of saint?"
"I don't piss on other people's rooftops."
"Oh, fuck off." Siyahi sat upright. "Hamza didn't even care. How long are you going to keep bringing that up? Swear to me you've never pissed by the roadside."
Donga slowly leaned toward Siyahi's ear. A mysterious expression spread across his face--the same expression he wore whenever he invented increasingly absurd stories about SP's mother's love life.
"I don't reach my age and still piss my pants."
Siyahi immediately lunged at him. The two of them tumbled into a wrestling match. Only the Devil knew why the first time they had slept together had been so astonishingly enjoyable. Siyahi had been masturbating in the bathroom. Donga, annoyed that he had occupied the bathroom for so long, though it was, in fact, Siyahi's own house, had twisted the worn-out doorknob open. Then had Siyahi learned that the metallic click he heard every time he locked the door was little more than a courtesy sound effect.
He thought embarrassment had made his dick to be weak. Instead, Donga mocked him of being inconsiderate, standing there in front of his friend with an erection leaking pre-ejaculate. Even when Donga had hoisted up his legs and penetrated him while he sat on the toilet, Siyahi had still felt as though he were dreaming. First, he hadn't wanted to be penetrated. Second, he had found the experience far more pleasurable than expected. Third, he had never imagined it happening to him at all. Unlike the rival gangsters and policemen who liked to joke about Rehman exposing a pale backside during some detention-room humiliation in his early twenties, Siyahi's birthmark and his overly masculine square jaw had never allowed him to imagine himself as one of the boys who got fucked.
He could not tell whether he was being fucked by Donga's cock or by Donga's belly. Whenever the big man thrust forward, his stomach hit Siyahi's gut before anything else did. Siyahi yelped with excitement like a dog. Donga became equally frenzied. He slung Siyahi's legs over his shoulders, called him a spotted bitch-dog, and climaxed inside him.
For the sake of recreating that legendary night, they tried again and again. They never succeeded. Not until the night before the flood, when both were so drunk they could barely function. Neither of them could maintain an erection.
Donga had not even bothered fully undressing Siyahi. He rolled him onto his stomach, tugged down his trousers to expose half a buttock, and then produced his own limp member. One Baloch man weakly prodded at another Baloch man's tightly clenched entrance. The sphincter refused him every time. Donga felt insulted. Reduced to using his hands, he gave up on penetration.
Even then, Siyahi's alcohol-dulled brain barely understood what was happening. While those fingers fucked him shamelessly, he thrust his hips, fucked the pillow pinned beneath him. Later a beer bottle found its way into him. His memories dissolved into fragments, his stomach filled with beer again and again; beer spraying back out in exaggerated streams; him wetting his trousers; everything seeming wonderful.... Even Donga's soft, wormlike penis. When it was pressed near his mouth, he had eagerly kissed it, sucked at it, and nearly choked on his own saliva.
Perhaps the two of them could only feel sexual desire toward familiar men when accidents happened or when consciousness itself had begun to fade. Now Siyahi sat astride Donga, breathing heavily. The weather was stifling. After wrestling around for a while, sweat poured from his temples. He felt as though he were sitting atop a large mound of yielding flesh. Looking down, he saw only an entirely unglamorous middle-aged man. He rolled up Donga's undershirt, exposing an impressive belly and a chest only slightly less substantial. Sometimes they joked that certain young prostitutes had smaller breasts than Donga.
Ignoring Donga's curses, Siyahi leaned down and sucked briefly at one of them. People sweated easily in weather like this. Smacking his lips afterward, he thought of goat's milk. It really was a little saltier than cow's milk. "Next time I'm fucking you," Siyahi declared.
"Go to hell," Donga replied.
Obviously, no one was having sex today. After the power failed, the water supply became unreliable as well. Siyahi turned on the faucet, hoping to cool his head. But the water emerged was muddy yellow. The two men returned to the sofa.
Fortunately, they eventually discovered a Snakes and Ladders board tucked away in a drawer. While they played, one of them--neither could later remember who--brought up taweez.
Both agreed that a taweez sounded like a good way to get rid of nightmares. After the floodwaters receded, Siyahi contacted Jameel.
Jameel was rather like a wishing well: make a request, and somehow he'd always manage to grant part of it, though never quite the full amount.
"My boy, oh, my boy, this is exactly my field. When Yalina was born, my wife went there to meditate and got herself a taweez..."
Sufism spiritual master listened to Siyahi's description and nodded confidently. "I can immediately rid you of the jinn attached to you."
Siyahi outwardly behaved like an attentive student. But throughout the consultation he kept hearing Donga's voice in his head... A Pashtun woman... a jinn... frantic sex...
In the end he hung the taweez around his neck. The Sufi master recommended by Jameel truly seemed to possess some kind of gift. After that, Siyahi never dreamed about death again.
