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amhrosina · 1 year

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Afterglow (Matt Murdock x Reader)

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a/n: another taylor swift song fic lmfao i just cannot help myself, this one is so angsty i almost felt bad for Matt just writing it (someone pls give that man a hug, he NEEDS one) also i feel so bad about not posting that i didnt even send this one to my beta reader i just posted it and hoped for the best lmfao

Summary: Matt and Reader have an argument that feels like it might be relationship-ending after Matt's hectic lifestyle as Daredevil catches up with him.

warnings: ANGST BRO SO MUCH ANGST, matty really just deserves the world, angry matt at the beginning, soft matt and foggy convo, matt doesn't know how to accept love, super soft matt at the end, some religious imagery i guess, happy ending

I blew things out of proportion, now you're blue

Put you in jail for something you didn’t do

I pinned your hands behind your back, oh

Thought I had reason to attack, but no

Fighting with a true love is boxing with no gloves

Chemistry 'til it blows up, 'til there’s no us

Why'd I have to break what I love so much?

It's on your face, and I'm to blame, I need to say

The door slammed behind Matt in a fitful rage, and he was so pissed off, so intense in his anger that he wanted to turn around and slam it again, just to lash out a second time. It was so unlike him to be this way, so unlike him to allow the festering wound that was his soul show itself so plainly, but it had been a long night, long year, long life and he was fucking tired.

And you. You. You. You. You’d been caught in the crossfire.

“Fuck.” Matt breathed, already regretting the argument that he’d started simply because he hadn’t been able to reel the Devil back in after a long night. The tight leash he held on the part of him that he hated, the part of him that you’d never seen because he’d hidden it so deep inside himself every night, was a ghost in his hands. The line between Matthew the person and Daredevil the vigilante had been blurring for months, but tonight was the first time he’d let it slip through the careful facade he’d been constructing around himself. He was a shattered window, ready to break at the slightest bit of pressure.

The cold sliced into Matt’s skin as he stepped through the doorway at the front of his building, a sobering chill of wind that triggered the memory of your eyes welling with tears. He’d been relentless in his anger, and what for? Because he had a bad night? Because he couldn’t save everyone, and somehow that was your fault?

Asshole is the word you’re looking for, Matthew.

Matt groaned and pulled his phone out of his pocket, dialing Foggy’s number before he could talk himself out of it.

“It’s three in the morning, Matt.” Foggy said by way of greeting, voice still heavy with sleep. “You’re not somewhere dying are you?”

“Only metaphorically.” Matt replied, shuffling his feet. He lowered himself to sit on the stairs beneath him, huffing as his body settled against the concrete. The metal of the railing dug into his temple as he rested his head against it, an uncomfortable reminder that the only person to blame for this was himself.

“You okay?” Foggy’s tone had shifted from a sleepy annoyance to somewhat concerned.

Matt closed his eyes. He didn’t deserve the love he received from his friends.

“I’m-” He started, but cut himself off when he realized he had no idea what he was going to say. Was he okay? No, he didn’t think so.

“You’re kinda freaking me out here, man.”

“I fucked up, Foggy.” He deflated as he admitted it.

“With her?” Foggy pressed.

“With her. With everything.” Matt shrugged, blinking away the tears burning the back of his eyes. Your sudden return to his thoughts felt like whiplash, and he couldn’t catch his breath. “She deserves better than me.”

“Matt,” Foggy chided, and Matt could tell he was shaking his head, “Don’t say that. She loves you.”

“Maybe not anymore.” Matt knew how ridiculous and juvenile he sounded, but the Matthew-Murdock-party-of-one pity party was in full effect, and he was leaning into the sad corner of his being so aggressively he couldn’t stop himself from saying it.

“She loves you.” Foggy repeated. “I don’t think anything could change that. What happened?”

“I had a bad night and yelled at her. It was stupid and I feel like an ass-”

“An asshole.” Foggy finished, and Matt couldn’t stop the chuckle that followed this observation. “Listen, did you tell her any of this?”

“Not yet.” The longer Matt sat, the more he hated himself for leaving. The words he had shouted echoed in his mind. “She should just leave. I’m never going to be able to give her what she deserves.”

“What about what you deserve, Matt?” Foggy asked, heated in the defense of his very best friend, “You deserve to be loved, too.”

Matt sat with Foggy’s statement for a second, letting the love wash over him for the briefest moment. Is this what it’s like for the kind of people who can easily accept the love of others? His body felt warm and fuzzy, an unfamiliar but comforting sensation that had him rubbing the heel of his hand across his chest.

“I should go apologize and hope to God she’ll take me back.” Matt sighed.

“She will, Matt.” Foggy assured him. “She will.”

Matt returned the phone to his pocket and turned, heading back into the place that held his entire aching heart.

It's so excruciating to see you low

Just wanna lift you up and not let you go

This ultraviolet morning light below

Tells me this love is worth the fight, oh

I lived like an island, punished you with silence

Went off like sirens, just crying

Why'd I have to break what I love so much?

It’s on your face, don't walk away, I need to say

Hey, it's all me, in my head

I'm the one who burned us down

But it's not what I meant

Sorry that I hurt you

When Matt reentered the apartment, it had only been twenty minutes since he’d stormed out, but it had felt like hours. You were in the same place that he’d left you - curled up in a sitting position on the sofa - except now your cheeks were coated with salty tears that permeated the air around you. Matt tasted them on his tongue the second he opened the door, a twinge of pain shooting through his chest as he realized just how bad the situation was. You were so deep in thought, cycling through the words Matt had spat at you, that you hadn’t noticed his arrival.

“Petal?” Matt called softly, alerting you to his presence in the room. You startled, turning to look in his direction. The silence before you responded was deafening and anxiety inducing, something Matt had never handled well. He wrung his hands together and took a step closer to you. Finally, you spoke.

“You came back.”

Not a question, but not really a statement either. A simple observation that left Matt stumbling over his words.

“I uh…never really left. I was just downstairs.” He scratched the back of his neck. “On the steps out front. I didn’t go far.”

“I thought you weren’t coming back.”

Matt’s lip wobbled as he inhaled sharply and asked, “Do you want me to go?”

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer to that question. He listened to your answer anyway. He would listen to any words you had to offer, even if they were words that might kill him.

“You said some terrible things, Matt.” You sniffled, sighing heavily as another wave of tears coated your cheeks. “You said ‘If you can’t handle this, I don’t think we should be together anymore.’ And the funny thing is, I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be handling.”

“Petal, I-” Matt began, shaking his head.

“No, Matt.” Your voice had suddenly become very firm and very loud, all at once. Matt flinched. “I’m not finished.” You adjusted your body, leaning your head back against the sofa before continuing. “I don’t know who you are anymore. My Matty would never keep things from me or disappear for days at a time or yell at me. The man I fell in love with is missing, and I don’t know what to do to get him back.”

The hold Matt had on his tears was obliterated as you admitted your feelings to him. Warm tears fell down his face, every droplet an admission of guilt. You were right, of course. Matt hadn’t felt like himself in months, and instead of trying to get a grip on himself, he had been leaning into the suit every night, forcing his mind to focus on other things. He always took on the brunt of the pain in any situation - he’d been doing this his entire life - but he had not realized how much of that pain was being transferred to you every time he forgot himself.

“Baby, I’m- I can’t even say how sorry I am.” Matt sank to his knees in front of you, pleading. “You’re right about everything, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I can’t be good enough for you or come home to you after work like a normal boyfriend would and I’m sorry for the things I said. I never wanted to hurt you the way I did. I will never, ever, deserve your love.” He swallowed a sob as he admitted what he thought was the truest thing he’d ever said out loud. “Foggy told me I deserve love but I’ve thought and thought about it and I can’t imagine a world where your love will ever feel like anything but a gift to me.”

You sighed again, sniffling as you lifted your hand to cradle Matt’s wet cheek.

“I know I’m fucking it up. I’m sorry I can’t be more. This is all I have to offer, and I know it’s selfish to ask you to keep loving me but I can’t be without you. You’re all I have.”

“I don’t understand, Matty.” You shook your head, furrowing your brows.

“You’re the only thing that brings me home. And I don’t mean physically. You’re the only reason I can find my way back to myself. You remind me of the love the world is capable of. Not even Foggy can do that for me the way that you do. Can’t you see that you’re it for me? Without you, I am just a man walking hand in hand with the Devil. There is no point without you.”

“Matty.” You sighed, caressing his cheekbones as tears cascaded down his face.

Matt wasn’t sure what he wanted you to say. That he did deserve love, or maybe that you weren’t going to leave him after tonight was over, or maybe anything besides ‘I don’t love you anymore’.

“Don’t leave me.” He begged, barely above a whisper, so tired of the war raging in his mind. If there was anything he was capable of doing tonight, it was pleading with you for this. Beyond that, he was useless. “Don’t leave.”

“Will you lay with me?” You asked, and Matt nearly collapsed into your hold. It was not what he was expecting, but he would take it. The inevitable self-hatred and doubt about this moment echoed in the back of his mind, but he was ignoring it for once. All he wanted to do was lay with you, so that’s exactly what he did.

Tell me that you're still mine

Tell me that we'll be just fine

Even when I lose my mind

I need to say

Tell me that it's not my fault

Tell me that I'm all you want

Even when I break your heart

I need to say

I don't wanna do, I don't wanna do this to you (Ooh)

I don't wanna lose, I don't wanna lose this with you (Ooh)

I need to say, hey, it's all me, just don't go

Meet me in the afterglow

Matt was on the verge of tears again, lying next to you in the bed that you had shared with each other for so many nights. He was so afraid of losing this, losing you. He wasn’t entirely sure he would survive if you asked him to leave after this. He wasn’t entirely sure that mindset was healthy, either, but that didn’t stop him from contemplating it. He was here, and you were here, and if he was destined to live in this doubt forever, then at least he would die next to you.

Your tears had long dried up, but the ache deep inside you was palpable and overwhelming and he didn’t know what to do. The hand you had led him here with, the one that you still held, the only thing connecting your body to his was his safety blanket. This was what people called a safe space, he thought. For the first time in a long time, Matt began to silently pray.

He prayed for you, and he prayed for himself, and mostly, he prayed for love. He prayed that the night would last forever, so that he could lay next to you for the remainder of his life. He prayed for forgiveness, and begged for yours. He prayed for the strength it would take if you didn’t grant it to him. Because if you asked him to leave, he would. It would hurt and possibly - no, definitely - kill him, but he’d do it, because you deserved that, at least. The possibilities of the night were endless, and that was the scariest thing to Matt. Anything could happen.

“What are you thinking about?” You asked, lightly squeezing his hand.

“I’m praying.” He murmured, squeezing your hand back.

“About what?”

“About you.”

“Oh, Matty.”

The smile on your face, the steady thump of your elevated heart rate, felt like a win. Comfortable silence overtook the room, and you were so still for so long that anyone else might’ve thought you had fallen asleep, but Matt knew better. You were thinking, contemplating every word that had been shouted, pleaded, and begged tonight. All the while, Matt prepared himself for the worst.

“The sun’s coming up.” You murmured.

“Yeah?” It was all he could muster. Everything hurt, and he never wanted this moment to end.

“Yeah.” You swept your fingertips over his cheeks, following the path of the sun as it draped itself across both of your bodies.

Matt swallowed, opened his mouth to ask the dreaded question, and then closed it and swallowed again. The gentle caress of your fingers felt like a brand in his skin. Finally, in a thick voice he asked for the second time in a matter of hours, “Do you want me to go?”

“Oh, Matty.” You whispered, tears welling in your eyes, and Matt’s heart sank into the ground below him. He thought he could do this, but he couldn’t. He was just supposed to leave what you had built with him? After everything, he was just supposed to count his losses and move on? No fucking way. His breathing had picked up, and he was so focused on his pounding heart that he almost missed the rest of your sentence. “I never wanted you to go. I just wanted you to understand how lonely I’ve been without you. I’m upset with you, but I’ll always love you, and I’ll never be the one asking you to leave.”

Matt stopped breathing for a moment, soaking in the warm relief as it crashed through him. He didn’t have to go, and you loved him. You loved him. You loved him.

“Are you sure?” He forced himself to ask, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do.

You let out a small giggle and pressed your lips to his forehead before responding. “Of course I’m sure, Matty. But it has to change, okay? We can’t do this to each other again.”

Matt could hardly believe the words coming out of your mouth. He would do anything to keep you here, holding him, keeping him safe, loving him. Anything.

“I promise.” He murmured, grabbing at your face to pull it closer to his. “I love you.”

He pressed a million kisses into your face until you let out the melodic laugh that he felt he could get drunk on. He would do anything to hear that sound again, to be the one causing that sound. Anything.

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crystalandbow · 14 days

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PICK A PILE🤍

CALL OUT EDITION

Pile 1 is beach, pile 2 is garden, pile 3 is swans. Take the reading with a grain of salt and only take what resonates 🤍

If you liked the reading, lmk! & Follow for more

Hello pile 1👋🏻

Or should I say hello my mama bears

lol anyways let's begin!!!

The cards that you got: 2 of swords, ace of coins, the emperor and the ace of cups.

Okie so The 2 of swords really sums it up for y'all, the others cards just confirm it more. like you guys are torn between 2 options/paths/things/ whatever. Making a decision is important because It seems like this has been on your mind for some time and is bugging you ? Taking up all your mental energy/stamina. *like a vampire/jk* most of y'all already know which path you want to choose but for some reason you haven't locked in your answers is what I am feeling. And now it's time to make a decision! It might be that you are afraid for some reason, you have this fear of what if things go wrong or something like that or it might be that you are unable to make a decision because both options seem equally tempting.

I think you can choose any path because they will have decent results. The advice or call-out message is that whatever you chose to do for your situation, stick with it. Its not about the options it's about you! The reason why I called you guys mama bear is because that is how you should deal with your current situation. Chose whichever path you want, fight or flight. But stick with it! Know that what you did was absolutely okay!! You have to embody the emperor's energy (of being bold and authoritative, because it is your life, do not fall for anything that doesn't feel right )

The ace of cups tells me that you guys should make a decision using your heart ( feelings & intuition) because afterall you know what's best for you! follow your intuition/gut feeling, don't be afraid of anything YOU ARE THE EMPEROR & YOU'VE GOT IT !

Keywords: stability, bravery & action. Facing fears/oppositions, gut feeling

Ig thats it, lmk how I did and only take what resonates 🤍 have a good day/evening/night

Hello pile 2 👋🏻

Cards you got: 3 of cups, death, 2 of cups & 9 of cups

I'm getting the word "love potion" for guys, I mean we do have alot of cups *the 2,3 and nine of cups* woah! That's alot of emotions. I'm also getting the word "self acceptance" all the cards are so positive but it doesn't feel that good? Something feels heavy? And a Lil stressful yk? I think the message for you guys is opening up yourself.

Y'all might have the habit of guarding yourself, but many times sometimes you just end up over doing it, leaving you feeling sad? Y'all feel that you are different from others in a sad way and that you have to put up this "fake" self to fit in. You try to be like others / everybody around you in public and this needs to change, atleast your mindset that people won't accept you for who you are. Change is needed! Stop blaming it on other exteranl reasons. Do you even know who you actually are? Do you accept yourself? Do you love/care about yourself? Do you prioritise your needs first? Its not always others, sometimes it's our fault that we let people treat us like that! The two of cups imagery is giving me mirror energy, it looks like there's a mirror between the two peeps and they are actually the same person but also different at the same time like it's just their "other side" yk? How you view yourself, and how you let yourself be you truly. Love your inner child. Death talks about how you need to embrace all your different sides and be yourself, be unique & don't try very hard just to "fit in"

The nine of cups is here for advice and it talks about prioritising your needs first & putting yourself on the pedestal! Whether it be in romantic relationships or platonic or any relationship

Call-out message: DONT BE AFRAID TO BE YOURSELF let yourself be! Accept love, prioritise your emotional needs first!!!

Ig thats it, lmk how I did and only take what resonates 🤍 have a good day/evening/night

Hello pile 3 👋🏻

Cards you got: the strength, justice, devil & the star.

Surprisingly all major arcanas😭I really wanna know what's going on with y'all. Like what MAJOR shit is going on lmao

Anyways here's my interpretation for you guys: you guys are working hard towards some goals of yours. I'm getting the vibes that the world told you what you think or thought once upon time is unrealistic and unachieveable but to you it feels like "inner- calling". you have started working towards it and might have achieved/ overcome certain milestones and mini achievements that you should be proud about and if not then you should know that they hard work that you have put in WILL workout and you will gain the fruits for you dedication. One thing you should possibly avoid is arrogance and / or greed attachments will be different for everybody, basically avoid the temptations of the devil. Don't believe you're at the top of the world and for some it's not getting overly obsessed with results,etc. Everything will workout at the right time. The justice card over here is likely talking about getting your results. Call-out message for y'all could be to choose the path of hard work & patience instead of shortcuts and unfair means. The star card is asking you to stay optimistic regarding your work to know that it will all be worth it, you will get your answers and result just keep working hard and have pure intentions

So yeah basically, just on the right track, keeping working hard, don't fall for temptations like shortcuts, procrastination, unfair means,etc be patient and you will be good to go

Ig thats it, lmk how I did and only take what resonates 🤍 have a good day/evening/night

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onigiriico · 11 months

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Mahiru audio drama (t2) - English TL

[ links: Spotify / Youtube ]

Another voice drama, another translation! 🎉 As always, if you’ve got any questions, find a mistranslated line, etc etc, feel free to head to my ask box (recommended) or my Twitter and I’ll do my best to get back to you! (Also definitely do listen to the drama if you get around to it because the VAs do an incredibly good job)

⬇️ translation under the cut ⬇️

(door opens)

E: …!

M: It’s been a while, Es-kun.

E: Mahiru…

M: I missed you…

E: …Are you okay?

M: Ah… yeah. I’m able to move around on my own as long as I have this wheelchair, so…

E: Shidou told me about your condition.

M: Ah… mh. Is that so…

E: I didn’t think you’d be in a state for me to interrogate you.

M: It’s all thanks to Shidou-san. Ah… I think I should thank Milgram as well. For supplying us with the medical tools and the wheelchair and all that. I wonder if you’re the right person to say this to?

E: …

M: Why do you look so sad…?

E: Because… you suffered such major injuries…

M: … Ah, but this is… I think Kotoko-chan is the one who did it, so… you know? It’s not like it’s your fault. Um, so…! I’m not holding a grudge towards Kotoko-chan either. I’m sure she just thought it couldn’t be helped…

E: That’s…

M: Ah, no, um… I do wish we could put an end to this though… ahaha… ack–

E: Mahiru–?

M: Sorry… for making you worry. I’m fine! It doesn’t hurt at all.

E: It’s a horrible injury. There’s no way it doesn’t hurt.

M: It doesn’t!

E: Don’t lie to me! Let’s call Shidou right now–

M: I mean it. It doesn’t hurt. Compared to the way I felt when you didn’t forgive me… Not at all.

E: …!

M: Not at all… Nothing. None of it hurts. It’s not… as big of a deal. Ever since, I’ve always been hearing… voices saying I couldn’t be forgiven. Yours? Whose? I don’t know… I don’t know, but… I heard them the whole time.

E: Mahiru, calm down…

M: Was what I did such a bad thing? I just… had a normal relationship like everyone else…! That’s all I did! Why can that not be forgiven? Hey, why? Why? Why?

E: Mahiru!

M: Stop it!

E: …!

M: … Ah– I– I—I’m sorry…! If– If you touch me so suddenly, it makes me remember… how it hurt… and I get scared…

E: It’s fine. If you don’t talk, that’s fine too. Let’s just take it slow.

M: …Yeah… S-sorry… It’s– it’s not that I hate you or anything, you know?

E: Take a deep breath. It’s okay.

M: Uh… (deep breaths) I’m fine already...

E: Mahiru…

M: Hey, Es-kun? I was wondering why you didn’t forgive me… I’d like to hear the reason… straight from you.

E: From me…?

M: Yeah. I already said this before, but all I did was love someone. I don’t know what kind of footage Milgram presented to you, but… did it not look like that to you? What did you see? What… did you feel?

E: What I saw was… just you having fun. I’m sure you were in love. Your feelings of bliss were conveyed to me as well.

M: Right? It was really fun. Did it make you want to fall in love?

E: No clue about that.

M: You’re so cold. – So, how… does that connect to me not being forgiven…?

E: It’s true that the footage looked happy. But by selecting [you], Milgram is telling me that you’re a murderer. I can’t just take things at face value. What Milgram shows to me is each person’s mental imagery. It’s not like it supplies me with certainty or objective facts.

M: Umm…

E: What’s wrong?

M: I’m not that smart, so could you put it in a way that’s easier to understand…?

E: (deep breath) There’s the possibility that you’re just framing the truth in a way that’s convenient for yourself. Meaning that it was only a happy relationship… in your own mind.

M: …!

E: …So, that’s what I deduced. So…

M: That’s… Aha. That’s a shock… This means that… you think of me as a liar, doesn’t it…? Did I do anything that made you think that?

E: …I’m the Warden. I get that this is painful for you, but I’m telling you my own thoughts.

M: Yeah… let me hear them.

E: I said that your love has killed someone, right?

M: That’s true.

E: Actions taken out of one-sided love, such as stalking… Someone dying as a result of something like that is a possibility, too.

M: …! Haha… That’s horrible…

E: Yeah. It is.

M: It’s not like you saw what I actually did, right?

E: Yeah. Not straight-forward, anyway.

M: Right…

E: Anyway, Milgram follows a three-trial system. This isn’t the final result. It’s only what I’ve seen up until now.

M: Yeah. – Him and I… we loved each other. Properly as boyfriend and girlfriend. We met in college… It was the first time for me, so I don’t know if it was good or not, but… I think we were just normally going out together. I thought it was fate. He said it was, too.

E: Is that so…

M: I’m not… a stalker or anything like that. Although from your point of view, it might seem that way.

E: Yeah.

M: But I’ve made up my mind. I’ll properly convey my feelings too. He’s dead. It… it might have been because of my love.

E: Mahiru…

M: But… I just normally loved someone. I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong. And besides, I… can’t live without love.

E: Why would you go that far…?

M: Because I know how precious it is to be in love. The moment you love someone, you realize the beauty of the world as it changes. To not forgive me means to take the act of loving away from me. That’s the same as not being alive. It’s the same as not being able to drink water or breathe. So… if this love isn’t allowed, then I don’t mind dying. Kotoko-chan’s acts aren’t a problem, either. I think she’s fighting for her own cause as well. So I don’t blame her. Because I also think that I… that my love isn’t wrong. I don’t want to be shamed for my love.

E: …

M: No matter what you think, it won’t change things for me. That’s what I’ve decided.

E: …I’m stunned.

M: Eh?

E: You’re impressive, you know. Without any flattery. I think you’re impressive.

M: Are you praising me?

E: I might be. To not resent anyone in this kind of situation, staying strong and even emphasizing with others… How can you do something like that?

M: Hehe… This is the power of… lo… ve…

E: Mahiru?!

M: I… I might’ve… gotten ahead of myself…

E: Your feelings have reached me, loud and clear. I’ll judge you in the second trial as well.

M: That’s… good… (pained noises)

E: …I’m sorry. I’m responsible for the fact that you’ve ended up like this.

M: (coughing, heavy breathing)

E: It was my decision not to forgive you. I don’t intend to deny that. But… the fact that I couldn’t predict Kotoko’s actions was a failure on my end.

M: (heavy breathing)

E: If I had known that it would turn out like this…

M: If you had known that it would turn out like this, you wouldn’t have forgiven Kotoko-chan?

(machinery whirrs, bell rings)

E: …Huh?

M: If you had known that Kotoko-chan would attack bad people, and you looked at her crime – would your willingness to forgive and your judgment have been changed?

E: …

M: This is the result of you doing what you believed in, isn’t it? The result of you working hard at your job?

E: Yeah.

M: Do you remember? Back in the first trial, I said I liked people who work hard.

E: Yeah… You did say that.

M: Because I told you that I like people who work hard… I’ll accept this pain, too.

E: …Ma–!

M: That’s why… no matter what the people around you might say, I think you should do what you want.

E: You’re– You’re the one… telling me that?

M: Yeah. Es-kun, you’re working so hard… You’re doing great.

E: …!

M: …Oh my… are you crying? Es-kun…

E: I’m not!

M: You’re putting up a tough front.

E: No way. – The talking ends here. Show me the continuation, Mahiru. In order for me to respond to your feelings, too.

M: Okay. It may be a bit late to say this, but… I’ll be in your care.

E: Prisoner no.6, Mahiru – sing your sins.

#milgram #milgram music videos #milgram es #milgram mahiru #mahiru shiina #translation #fan translation #audio drama #mappi's going through it & so are my feelings jfc man

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spider-stark · 8 months

Text

A DARK AGE pt.2

previous part -

series summary - it's been nine months since you watched your best friend, Gwen Stacy, plummet to her death; an event that ultimately caused new york's hero to abandon the city entirely. now that he's finally returned you find yourself being forced to confront the ugly truth you've been running from.

chapter summary - desperate to get Harry Osborn out of your head, you find yourself following a lead that sends you straight to Peter Parker.

series warnings - 18+, minors DNI, series will contain depictions of violence, sexual content, dark themes, and more. please read at your own risk.

word count - 12.8k

// a dark tasm!fan fiction // masterlist // send me your thoughts // newspaper headline //

YOU HAD been worried that the ice-cold stare of Harry Osborn would remain stuck in your brain for the entire cab ride back to New York City.

Fortunately, by the time you’d made it to Yonkers, about thirty minutes out from Ravencroft’s facility, the distressing imagery in your head faded as your ears were suddenly blasted with a series of rushed ding-s from your cell phone.

You welcomed the noisy distraction, even if it only further agitated the throbbing headache you felt coming on.

All the messages were from Betty Brant and likely could’ve been summed up in one long message rather than a dozen short ones. And, for the most part, all the texts did were confirm your fears: her search for Peter’s whereabouts had been a fruitless effort.

Well, almost fruitless.

You couldn’t quite give Brant credit for the one lead she’d received given the fact that it had essentially just fallen in her lap, but you still typed back a simple—good job, nonetheless.

While you were off pointlessly torturing yourself behind Ravencroft’s iron gates, a woman had called the Bugle and had the misfortune of being answered by Jameson himself.

According to Brant, the lady asked for you by name, and when Jameson told her you were busy and she’d need to call back later, she turned frantic. He said she sounded as if she were on the verge of tears, begging him to get a message to you ASAP.

Please tell her to stop by my house! Tomorrow afternoon! She knows the address already, I promise! Tell her it’s May Parker, okay? M-A-Y P-A-R-K-E-R!

Of course Jameson knew who the crackpot (his words) was once she said her last name, having spoken to her once or twice during Peter’s limited time at the Bugle.

What he hadn’t told Brant was that it took everything in him to bite his tongue, to not tell the woman every horrible opinion he held in regard to her nephew. Jameson knew that it would do no good. He also knew that it wasn’t her fault that Peter hadn’t shown up to the hospital that night.

Still, he couldn’t help but find himself seething with rage, speaking through gritted teeth until he could finally hang up the phone. He had absolutely no interest in finding Peter Parker, even if he was the only one to ever get a clear shot of Spider-Man.

Good riddance had become his motto when it came to both Peter and Harry. You were one of the few things in this world that mattered more to Jameson than a good lead, which was exactly the reason why he had no interest in Peter’s whereabouts when he first went awol and left the Bugle without notice—he didn’t care. Even if Peter had come back to work, he would’ve just been fired anyway. Jameson had no interest in keeping him around, regardless of the quality of his work.

But despite his hatred for the boy, he knew you were looking for him. While Jameson was unaware of Peter’s secret identity, he knew for certain that Peter had connections to Spider-Man, given that it was the whole reason he had employed him in the first place. You figured there was likely no one in this world that Jameson wanted to keep you from more than Spider-Man. But in what was surely not an easy choice to make, he begrudgingly passed the message from May along to Brant, messily scrawled onto a Doughnuttery napkin that had been stained with chocolate frosting.

He refused to withhold a lead from you.

Of course, when first deciding to track Peter down, you had considered going to his aunt, but she was always meant to be a last-ditch choice. After all, rumor had it that Peter had abandoned her too, moving out shortly after Gwen’s death. You didn’t see a need to add to her grief unless it felt necessary, yet it seemed she wanted you to.

A part of you hoped that the mystery surrounding why May was so adamant about speaking to you would serve as a distraction for the night. You didn’t want to think any more about Ravencroft, and certainly not about the boy they kept locked behind those iron gates.

Deep down, though, you knew that wasn’t possible. Try as you might, there was nothing in this world capable of distracting you from the thoughts of Harry Osborn.

He was a plague, one that you had been fighting off ever since that night; and seeing him in person seemed to have only granted him the opportunity to further sink his claws into you.

You often found yourself reliving the moment you first saw him—the Green Goblin. A monster composed of distended veins and spindly bones, appearing so completely and utterly inhuman—so unlike the boy you knew that you didn’t even recognize him at first. At first, there had just been fear, a sense of pure unbridled terror.

But then, once he spoke, you knew. You knew what he had done, recognized him in spite of the monster the serum had transformed him into. Bile instantly stung at your throat, threatening to spill past your lips and onto the asphalt beneath your feet. You couldn’t stop thinking of how much it had burned, swallowing it down over and over again, as many times as it took before your body finally stopped trying.

You fought so hard against that visceral reaction, the sensible part of you that had seen this new form he’d taken on and screamed at you to run. You wouldn’t let yourself do that. You couldn’t bear the thought of turning your back on your friend, even after seeing what he’d turned himself into.

But then he grabbed Gwen and once she was in his arms you realized that he wasn’t the same anymore. Then once he’d finally let her go, once you’d watched her take her very last breath, you swore you’d always hate him. Harry Osborn was not your friend; it was a simple fact that you still stood behind.

But trauma was a peculiar thing.

Usually when Harry haunted your thoughts, the Green Goblin was always the focal point. Flashes of Gwen’s lifeless body dangling from Spider-Man's web, the sounds of squelching flesh and cracking bones. You would remember the metallic taste that filled your mouth as you looked over at him that last time, just before everything went black.

Tonight, though, you’d found yourself thinking not of the Goblin, but of your friend. The friend that had once been good as dead to you. Memories that had once been shoved aside in favor of sinking into the tragedy you’d experienced, only to be brought back to light after seeing his face today.

You tossed and turned in your bed, your head pounding as thoughts of posh charity events, late-night talks, and inside jokes fought to keep you awake. It wasn’t until the next day when you’d finally arrived at Aunt May’s house that you received a much-needed break from him.

The thick plastic covering on the couch crinkled loudly beneath your weight as you sat down. You used every ounce of effort in your body to try and appear calm as she moved past the coffee table, sitting across from you in a sage green armchair.

It was new.

“I’m so glad you came, y/n.” May offered you her sweetest smile, the gesture accentuating the thin lines around her eyes. She looked older somehow, even though it hadn’t even been a year since you last saw her. “I was worried that bitter man at the newspaper wouldn’t tell you I called.”

You barely stifled your laughter, then immediately wondered if she could tell that even that sliver of emotion was fake. It was second nature to put on an act, especially when it came to work matters. To appear excessively friendly, using it as a tool to quickly build some sort of rapport with someone, hoping it would get them to spill whatever information they might have.

It didn't seem necessary to put up an act around May, but you found it difficult to turn it off.

“Jameson can be a little… testy, at times.”

She immediately snorted at your words, believing them to be a drastic understatement.

“But I’ve gotta say,” you continued, trying to steer the conversation, “I was a bit surprised when he said you called.”

Guilt settled over her soft features, dusty pink lips settling into a thin line as she stared down at her lap, watching the steam rise from her cup. “I know. I meant to call sooner, more often, but I just...” she sucked in a breath, lifting the cup to the edge of her lips, “I didn’t want to make a big fuss of things.”

She was drinking chamomile tea. You knew this because you were offered some as soon as she opened the front door, cheerfully telling you that she’d just boiled a fresh pot of water. While you didn’t consider yourself an expert on May Parker, you couldn’t help but make note of the fact that you’d never seen her enjoy herbal drinks before.

You leaned forward a touch, your elbows resting just above your knees as you did so. “What would you make a fuss over?”

This meeting was different than Ravencroft.

At Ravencroft you were a sheep grazing among lions. Showing weakness would gain you nothing, save for failure and potential death. But in a place like Aunt May’s home, the roles immediately reversed.

Here, you were the lion. And, to gain the trust of sheep, you needed to come off as if you were entirely transparent. Wear your heart on your sleeve, bare every emotion you had, and express as much concern as possible, fooling them into believing that you were truly on their side.

But this time was different, you tried to remind yourself, working diligently to ensure your emotions didn’t come off as fake or exaggerated. You could be genuine. You really were on her side, right?

“Peter’s been...” She hesitated as her wedding ring clinked against the porcelain cup in her hands as she nervously tapped her fingers. She never took it off, even after Ben died. “different.”

Your chest tightened, elbows digging further into your thighs. “What do you mean?”

“He changed after what happened to Gwendolyne.” she began to explain, though she remained hesitant. “It started off small. Quitting the newspaper, refusing to finish his college applications. And maybe that’s when I should’ve stepped in, tried to snap him out of it or something. But after what he’d gone through... what he had lost...”

There was a knowing look in her eyes, a sense of understanding. It was then that it fully clicked for you, realizing that May had been through something similar to what Peter went through. She knew what it was like to have your entire world change in the blink of an eye. “I just hoped that with time it would pass.”

“And it didn’t, did it?” You guessed, painfully aware of the answer.

If it had changed, if he had gotten better, then you wouldn’t be sitting here right now.

May shook her head. “No.” She uttered, her hooded gaze still avoiding yours, remaining fixed on her cup. “It got worse.”

There was something in the way she spoke, the solemn tone you’d never heard her take before, that sent chills running down your spine.

“How so?”

"Little ways, at first.” Her voice broke, clearing her throat before taking another sip of tea. “He started acting out. Getting mean. Rageful.”

Your heart ached for the woman, fighting the urge to reach out and hug her as you watched her hazel eyes turn glossy.

“He was almost never home anymore, and then one day he just... didn’t come back.”

She wiped away the unshed tears, lightly shaking her head and muttering an apology.

“Where is he?” You asked her, instinctively looking towards the old staircase that led to his bedroom.

Years had been wasted in there, sitting cross-legged on his worn-out rug and exchanging complaints about Flash Thompson or Miss. Ritter. On good days, the two of you would build Lego sets and eat your fill of junk food. On bad days you’d both tuck yourselves away in his bed, hidden underneath a stack of blankets as old movies played from his laptop.

It had been a while since you’d let yourself think of those memories, and you hadn’t quite expected it to hurt as much as it did to acknowledge that those days were gone.

“Columbia.” She spoke.

Your eyes widened as your head cocked to the side. “University?”

Warmth spread across your cheeks as embarrassment settled in, feeling a bit silly for speaking the thought aloud. Of course she had meant Columbia University. Still, it shocked you a little when she nodded, confirming your thoughts. Given the way she spoke of Peter’s decline, you hadn’t expected him to be attending college.

“So, you still talk to him?” You quickly followed up with another question, this one less painstakingly dumb than the last.

May scoffed, the loose hair framing her face swaying about as she shook her head. “I don’t know if I’d call it talking. But he checks in on occasion, just often enough to keep me from having a heart attack.”

You glanced down at her cup of tea, willing to reason that maybe Peter had been the reason for her sudden interest in herbal drinks. After all, they were known to reduce stress, and Peter seemed to be causing a great deal of it.

There was another sound of disapproval, a click of her tongue as her voice went low again. “You raise a boy for over ten years,” she started, the smallest spark of anger burning within her, “only to end up getting a postcard in the mail every month.”

“A postcard?” You wondered aloud, likely looking as puzzled as you felt. “You don’t have his phone number?”

She snorted. “I don’t know if he even has a phone anymore.”

For a moment neither of you spoke, and you found yourself studying her features, looking for any sign that she might be lying. You knew that there was no point in it, that May had no reason to lie to you. There would be nothing for her to gain, plus she had reached out to you for help. Still, it was second nature for you to remain apprehensive.

It was hard to believe that Peter had all but completely cut ties with his aunt. May had raised him, practically given her entire life just to ensure that he had everything he could ever need, only to up and abandon her out of the blue—just as he had done to you.

Nothing about it made any sense to you, and the thought alone was enough to fill you with not only rage, but also fear. Was Peter that far gone?

You didn’t want to think about that right now, instead focusing on the sharp pain sneaking up your left side from sitting hunched over for so long. Forcibly relaxing your muscles, you leaned back against the couch cushions, listening to the way the plastic squelched as you shifted.

“Is that why you called?” You finally asked, pressing a hand to your ribs and rubbing over the sore area. “To see if I could help Peter?”

May took another long and thoughtful sip of her tea. Then, once she was finished, she leaned forwards and placed it on the coffee table that stood between you both. “No.” She stated firmly, only for her eyes to narrow and then go back on the declaration, “Not entirely, at least.”

You frowned at her, confused.

“I wanted to call because I realized that you needed someone, too.” You froze instantly, suddenly feeling as if the air had been knocked from your lungs. “I’ve been so caught up with Peter and trying to find a way to help him that I nearly forgot he wasn’t the only one who lost someone.”

May glanced up for perhaps the first time in this whole conversation. You couldn’t help but feel as if the roles had changed, sinking further into the cushion behind you. She took note of everything, your stiff posture, the subtle bouncing of your leg, the timid look in your eye. You had become the sheep, being carefully discerned by the lion.

“I never got a chance to tell you how sorry I was—still am, for your loss, y/n. You didn’t just lose Gwen that night, you lost all three of them.”

Her heedful words landed the final blow, feeling like a piercing knife against your throat.

Suck it up, you kept repeating to yourself, change the subject.

Scrambling to compose yourself, nearly choking on your own tongue, you tried to ignore the look of concern she gave you. You didn’t need sympathy. “I’m managing.” You told her roughly, only able to conjure a barely believable smile. “It could be worse.”

“Sure,” May tentatively agreed, “but it could also be better.”

You decided it was best to not acknowledge her words.

“You said not entirely.” You reminded her, working hard to ensure that your voice didn’t shake. You weren’t sure why it was shaking in the first place, torn between naming anxiety or anger as the culprit. “When I asked if you wanted me to help Peter, that’s what you said. What makes you think I can help him?”

May’s face screwed up, staring at you as if it were obvious. “Because no one else can. The three of you—you, Harry, and Gwen—were the only ones that could ever get through to him.” She paused, considering her next words. “And you’re the only one left.”

There was a weight that settled on your shoulders, shoving you further into the couch. You didn’t like the way that it sounded, for more reasons than one. There was too much responsibility that came with it.

“Columbia’s campus is big.” You told her, void of any emotion. “Do you know where he’s staying? Anything that might help me find him?”

This time it was May’s turn to sink back into her seat, shoulders slouching forward as she turned apologetic. “I know he’s living on campus, but I don’t know which building. Whenever he writes he always keeps the details to a minimum.”

As much as you appreciated any information she offered, it wouldn’t help you much. You had been right in your earlier statement; Columbia was a big school with at least two dozen residence halls. Finding Peter amongst those students was comparable to finding a needle in a haystack.

You knew that you could enlist Betty Brant’s help, but even then, it could take days before one of you happened to find him.

Finally, a bit exasperated, you dared to ask. “Anything else?”

May smiled, weary and filled with regret. “Just be careful, y/n. I’m not sure what Peter had gotten himself into, but I’ve seen the news.” Her hands trembled as she spoke. “I know what they think he did. What Spider-Man might have done.”

She spoke the vigilante’s name like a forbidden word, as if it were one she had sworn she’d never speak aloud, and your eyes grew wide as you just barely breathed out, “You know?”

May’s smile remained despite the somber gleam in her eyes as she told you simply, “No one washes the flag.”

You found the students at Columbia University nauseating.

Most of them were pretentious assholes that stunk of cigarette smoke, not because they actually smoked them, but instead because letting them lazily hang from their fingers matched their desired aesthetic.

They were all desperate to give off the same vibe as a fifteen-year-olds dark academia Pinterest board, leaning against a wall with a copy of Allan Ginsberg’s Howl tucked beneath their arm. You wondered if any of them had ever read it, snorting to yourself when you thought of how they’d likely dogeared a few pages to make the book look worn.

“This place is huge.” Betty Brant marveled from beside you, spinning in a circle as she took in its vastness. When she was done making herself dizzy, she looked at you. “This is gonna be impossible.”

You smiled at her inept observation, challenging her. “Why?”

Her brows snapped together, a single hand incredulously waving around the two of you. “Have you looked around?” She quipped. “There are literally thousands of people here! If we find him today, then it’ll just be dumb luck.”

You didn’t judge her for her innate pessimism. After all, you felt just as overwhelmed as Betty Brant did currently when sitting on Aunt May’s couch, listening as she told you that she had essentially nothing to offer in terms of helping to find Peter. It was easy to assume the worst in a field where you’re so often dealt the shittiest of hands—but Jameson and the other seasoned reporters at the Bugle had taught you well. There was always a way to turn things around.

“Know your target, Brant.” You lightly chastised, a teasing smile that Brant felt looked out of place on you. While she still didn’t know you well, she’d seen you around the office a lot, and she struggled to remember a time when you didn’t have a permanent grimace etched on your face.

Your fingers delved into your bag and reached for a few papers that you’d printed off at the Bugle, just moments before you’d snagged Brant up by her arm without warning and forced her to come with you to Columbia University. You held one of the papers out to her, which she swiftly took and began reading.

"There are only two programs offered at Columbia that Peter would care about: photography or biochemistry.” You explained to her. “I went on their website and got an idea of a mock schedule for both and copied down the names of the buildings they’re in. It’s still not a sure shot-”

“But it gives us somewhere to start.” Brant finished your sentence, her big eyes flickering back up to yours as she lowered the page you’d given her.

You grinned. “Exactly.”

“So, we’re splitting up?”

She was nervous about that idea, clear by the way she started to tug at the edge of her royal blue cardigan. If it were someone other than Brant you might be concerned, but Brant always came off a little antsy, making it easy to brush it off; although it did leave you wondering why the girl stayed so high strung. One day you’d ask her about it, you thought, but not right now.

"It’s better that way. We'll cover more ground.” You told her, your pitiless statement doing little to quell her nerves as she gave another sharp tug to her garment, anxiously looking around at the swarm of students passing around you both.

You did your best to look sympathetic, “Just call me if you need me, alright?” Brant stared back at you, resembling a small child whose mother was dropping them off on their first day of school. It was pitiful, and you nearly groaned as you forced yourself to say, “If you call, I’ll answer. Promise.”

Brant hesitated for a second before nodding, still uneasy but far more willing now to leave your side. As you turned away from her you reminded yourself to never have children, desperately hoping and praying to any God who might listen that Brant would not call you.

As you started to meld into the crowd, falling into step with a group of girls around your age, the thoughts of Brant and her child-like anxiety were replaced with something far more juvenile. You had just barely glanced at the girls walking next to you, at first only giving them a quick glance. Soon, though, as you continued towards your destination, you found yourself fixating on them.

They smelled like cloves and bergamot, probably the scent of some over-priced perfume you’d never even dream of taking off the shelf and their clothes were nicer than anything hanging up in your closet. One had a Tiffany’s necklace dangling around her throat like a collar and another had pin straight platinum hair. In short, they looked expensive. But, at the same time, they looked incredibly beautiful.

It made you hyper aware of yourself, of how different you looked in comparison. You weren’t wearing any nice jewelry, and your hair was messily tied back, making you feel as if you were the opposite of both the girls that had caught your attention. Realizing this, you looked around at the other girls surrounding you, noticing that all of them looked that way. Posh, put-together, and completely and utterly gorgeous.

A strange feeling crept up your spine, one you hadn’t felt since you were in high school. Self-loathing.

There was a time when you prioritized your appearance, or at least more than you do now. You could still remember what it was like to stroll into an Oscorp charity event, dozens of eyes glued to you. Men would watch with bated breath as you passed them, silently dreaming of a day where you’d actually notice them.

That would never happen, of course.

You always went to those events with either Harry or Peter, and they often left you with little reason to acknowledge anyone else in attendance. Even so, you remembered the power you held. Remembered what it was like to feel desired by someone, even if it wasn’t by who you wanted.

After the accident, though, you’d stopped caring about how you looked. It felt so trivial to put any more effort than necessary into your looks, often throwing on the same outfit several days in a row to save time in the mornings. But in this moment, you found yourself feeling differently, insecurity slipping into your mind. Had you let yourself go? Surely not...

It didn’t matter! You suddenly shouted at yourself, fists balling up at your sides as you tried to silence the thoughts that were fueled by foolish insecurity. Despite believing every word of the statement, it didn’t help to make you feel any less self-conscious.

Passing by the mirrored windows of the mess hall, you found yourself slowing down, falling behind the group of girls as you hesitantly turned to catch a glimpse of yourself. You cursed yourself for looking, hating that you even cared about this sort of thing right now. But once you looked into the reflection you froze, realizing that it wasn’t yourself that you saw in the reflection. It was Gwen.

“It’s not that bad!” She would lie to you, her voice jumping several octaves as she did. A hand would reach out, sage green fingernails combing through the frizzy mess that framed your face, trying to flatten it. “It just needs a little...” her head cocked to the side, teeth exposed as she sucked in a breath, “work.”

Gwen was always a terrible liar. She wasn’t like you; she never had been. She was completely incapable of hiding her hand, always living with her cards exposed for the world to see—for them to take advantage of. It was what you’d always admired most about her, her willingness to trust in everyone, to see the good in anyone. It was also what you despised the most about her, and you tried not to dwell on the complexity of that.

“You know what? It doesn’t even matter!” Gwen’s shoulders lifted exponentially, a mess of blonde curls violently swaying as she shook her head about. “You still look hotter than half the girls here, alright?” She grinned at you, the same sweet smile that you missed more than anything. “I promise!”

And she meant it every word of it, but rather than offering you any comfort, the words just filled you with envy. You envied Gwen far more than you liked to admit. You wanted to be like her, even now, to be able to see the good in every situation, to be even half as lovely as she was.

You tried to swallow your guilt, though it only made your stomach hurt. You had promised yourself that you were done envying Gwen.

But you weren’t done missing her.

Still entranced by her doe eyed stare, you felt your phone begin to buzz in your pocket, distracting you enough that you turned your gaze to your bag, instinctively going to dig for the device. By the time you thought to look back up, the vision of her was gone and you were looking at only a reflection of yourself.

You wasted no time in looking away.

When you sobered up enough to read the caller ID, you groaned loud enough to turn a few heads of students passing by. Now, in an interesting turn of events, you wished that Brant was the one calling you, staring down at Director Samson’s name flashing across the screen. You silenced it.

Not today. You started walking again, effectively trading your thoughts of Gwen for ones of Ravencroft and Harry Osborn. Or ever again.

Dodge Hall was the first stop on your list.

You were willing to bet that of the two programs you listed to Brant that Peter likely picked photography, which was precisely why you had delegated the biochemistry labs to Brant.

There was a chance that you were wrong and that he’d decided to major in biochemistry, maybe in some desperate attempt to be like the father he swore he hated, but you held out hope anyway. You wanted to believe that even in whatever odd stage of life Peter was in he was working to forge his own path, rather than following the one he’d once considered his birthright.

Stopping in front of the building that housed most of the University’s photography classes, you grimaced. It significantly lacked character, offering nothing more than a bunch of lifeless bricks with boring cement pillars on either side. You had yet to see anything about this school that made it seem worth the astronomical tuition students paid to attend.

“I know that look-” a high-pitched voice filled the air, the grating sound intensifying your already sour expression, “Dodge might not have the most intricate architecture on campus, but for what it lacks in appearance it makes up for in its rich and extraordinary history!”

You didn't want to turn around, fully recognizing the chirpy she-devil by diction alone. Still, you forced yourself to do it anyway, realizing that there was no possible escape route. “Mary Jane!” The vile taste of her name in your mouth left you feeling queasy, “what’re you doing here?”

No, seriously, what the fuck was she doing here?

A perfectly manicured hand flew to her overly plump lips, packed full of filler and overlined with a red lip pencil. An exaggerated gasp somehow managed to slip past them. “Oh my gosh!” The copper-haired beauty squealed, sounding as if she had inhaled at least a few liters of helium. You forgot how much you hated her voice. “y/n! I didn’t even recognize you!”

“Yeah, it’s been a while.” You droned, likely appearing just as displeased as you sounded. It was difficult for you to sound pleasant around Mary Jane.

Mary Jane had always been a thorn in your side. For the most part she was entirely harmless, but her ever-so-perky attitude always left a bad taste in both your mouth and Gwen’s. On top of that, she lacked morals, made clear by the last time you’d seen her.

It was immediately after Gwen’s funeral, and you’d just happened to find Mary Jane and a few other reporters from the Daily Globe swarming the Stacy family, pining for an interview. It was disgusting, and if you’d been in better shape, you swore that you would’ve knocked her square in the face that day.

Mary Jane reached out and touched your forearm, giving it a firm squeeze. “You look so good!”

You didn’t even bother thanking her, instead deciding to brace yourself for what might be coming next. You had known her long enough to know that all her compliments were a double-edged sword, an insult waiting just around the corner.

“After Genna’s funeral you looked so thin and sickly,” her button nose scrunched up as she looked you up and down, “it’s so nice to see you look far more...” a slight tilt of her head, accompanied by a sickeningly sweet smile as she squeezed your arm again, “plump!”

The smile you gave in return was far less pleasurable than hers, bearing a closer resemblance to a snarl. “Gwen.” You pointedly corrected, choosing to ignore her weak attempt at insulting you. “Her name is Gwen.”

She only waved her hand, dismissing your correction. The simple act made your blood boil, teeth grinding together as you fought to stay silent. You didn’t have time to start a fight with her.

“Ugh, silly me! I’m so bad with names!” She pretended to laugh it off, playing it as an innocent slip of the tongue. You could see the malice behind it, though, her emerald eyes glistening with spite. Mary Jane was a journalist, which meant that remembering facts was quite literally her job. Pretending to forget Gwen’s name was just another idle attempt at getting under your skin.

It worked.

“Did you check out the Globe yesterday?” She started right back up, trapping you in another conversation and preventing you from finding an excuse to slip into Dodge Hall and start your search for Peter. “Who am I kidding! Of course you did!” Mary Jane twirled a strand of red hair around her finger, her egotism on full display as she beamed. “Dozens of newsstands sold out within the hour! Amazing, right? To sell out physical copies in this digital age!”

You only hummed in response, aware that she only wanted to hear herself talk. But God, you hated the way she spoke. Her constant need to enunciate every other word, her squeaky voice filled with false sincerity, always searching for validation in every conversation.

”Bushkin agreed that we only sold out because of my story on the front page! He said my talent for writing could be enough to revive print entirely!” Her chest swelled with pride; hands clasped over her heart as nonsense continued to spew from her.

Barney Bushkin was the publisher for the Globe, which made him Mary Jane’s boss. He also had a reputation for being a sick old pervert with an affinity for girls that were far too young for him. His opinion meant nothing to you since you knew that he would say absolutely anything if he thought it would increase his odds of getting a quick look up one of Mary Jane’s too-short skirts.

”I’m not surprised you sold so many copies,” you egged her on, taking immense pleasure in the way her smug smile grew at what she mistook for praise, “fear mongering has always been a useful tactic for sales.”

For a moment you could’ve sworn you saw her eyes turn as red as her hair, fiery rage coursing through her veins at your comment. But it was gone nearly as soon as it had appeared.

”Well,” she cleared her throat, smoothing the wrinkles out of her white blouse, “I’d hardly call my article fear mongering. I just presented the facts.”

You couldn’t deny that Mary Jane was a pro at composing herself, remaining collected even when you knew she wanted to explode. Image was important to her, meaning she couldn’t ever afford to let her nice girl act falter.

”You called Spider-Man a murderer.”

You didn’t always share her skillset, willing to let yourself come off as brash and plain-spoken.

”And last I checked there’s an active warrant for his arrest.” Mary Jane retorted sharply, the only sign she was willing to give that you were annoying her. “So, like I said, I presented the facts.”

You sucked in a breath, holding back your argument. You wanted to tell her that her facts were skewed, that she was reporting with only one source and effectively trying to demonize a man who had saved the city countless times. But you didn’t. Fighting with her would be a waste of time, and you had better things to do.

"Yeah, well, I should really get going.” You gave a curt smile, nodding in the direction of Dodge Hall. “Always good to see you, MJ.” You took care to place extra emphasis on the nickname, fully aware of just how much she hated it.

Still, she barely let it get to her, hiding her own scowl as you started to edge towards the building. You noticed the way her left eye twitched, though, showing that she was nearing a breaking point. If you had more time, you’d likely try and push her over the edge.

“Why are you here?” Mary Jane suddenly mimicked the question you had first asked her, the one she had never actually gave an answer to.

You paused, only having made it less than a few feet away from her. “Visiting a friend.”

If all went to plan, that wouldn’t technically be a lie.

“Peter?” She blurted his name out in a way that left you feeling strange. There was a hesitant look on her face, almost as if she were afraid that you’d say yes. You didn’t like it.

“Yeah, actually.” You frowned, watching her face drop at the confirmation. “Why?”

She refused to meet your stare, staring past your shoulder at the entrance of the Hall. “He’s not in there.”

In all the years you’d known Mary Jane, you’d never heard her sound so uncharacteristically dispirited. Her perky persona seemed to vanish in thin air, leaving behind someone that was entirely unfamiliar to you.

It was incredibly uncomfortable.

“Wait, do you know where he is?” You asked.

“Of course I do.” She quickly answered, cutting her eyes at you. “But if you’re the one meeting him then shouldn’t you know where he is?”

Jealousy settled in. Why did she know where Peter was? Mary Jane and Peter had never been particularly close, likely due to the lifelong rivalry that you and Gwen had held with her. The idea of him even interacting with Mary Jane left you feeling unsettled.

“Well, we were supposed to meet here.” You lied, turning a tad defensive as you shrugged a shoulder in the direction of the building. “But it’s been a busy morning. He might’ve forgot.”

You paused, debating whether you wanted to continue. There was a good chance that you didn’t want to hear the answer to the question resting on the tip of your tongue, and yet you made yourself ask it anyway. “Were you just with him?”

Please say no-

“Yes.” Her answer came quickly. “We had plans to get dinner but-um,” she suddenly became extremely focused on her own feet, awkwardly kicking at the sidewalk, “he had to... cancel. Said he was gonna be too busy developing photos all night.”

Her too-perfect face screwed up in an unsightly sort of way. You almost thought that you should feel guilty for accidentally making it seem as if Peter had ditched her for you. But you didn’t. Instead, you felt sickly satisfied, taking pleasure in her sorrow. You reveled in it, finding it easier to focus on that than the idea of why she and Peter were going to get dinner together in the first place.

”Mm, that sucks.” You let out a disinterested hum, taking a page from her book as you continued without waiting for a reply, “Is that what he’s doing now? Developing photos?”

Mary Jane gave a stiff nod.

”Great.”

Despite how painful it had been to sit through what felt like a never-ending conversation with her, Mary Jane had ended up being of vital importance. If Peter was developing images today, then that meant he had to be in the darkrooms. And, thanks to your Google research, you knew exactly where they were—Watson Hall, just a brief walk from where you were now.

You wasted no time with stepping around Mary Jane, having no intention of even wasting a goodbye on her as you started towards your destination. But, as you moved around her body, she reached for you, her thin fingers once again wrapping around your forearm. She squeezed harder than last time, your head snapping in her direction, eyes narrowing in a threatening stare as she held you there.

Surprisingly, she gave you a threatening look of her own.

“Before you go,” you found it eerie the way her voice remained syrupy sweet, a sharp contrast to the menacing expression she wore, “I just wanted to tell you how much I adored that little sympathy piece you wrote for your friend in the looney bin.”

You pulled your arm from her grip, your body going tense at the mention of the article you’d written to try and sway the public during Harry’s trial. Jameson hadn’t allowed it to go to print, reminding you that your judgment was still clouded by grief. He didn’t understand why you were so desperate to keep Harry out of Ryker’s Island, but he had hoped that by letting you at least post the article on the Bugle’s website that it would offer you some sort of closure.

It hadn’t. It was shortly after publishing the piece that you had went straight to Harry’s lawyers, giving them all the information they would need to plead insanity.

Mary Jane stepped closer, ignoring your effort to create distance from her. She was close enough that you could nearly feel the heat radiating off her body. You didn’t like it, but you refused to let yourself back away from her.

“I can’t say that Peter agreed.” Her lips curled into a cynical smirk. “I mean, honestly, after the reaction he had to it I’m shocked that he can even stand to be in the same room as you!” The sound of her laughter infuriated you. “I suppose it’s true what they say about time, yeah? That it heals all wounds—even a knife in the back.”

You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t blink, couldn’t think.

All you could do was stare at the devilish woman in front of you, seething with a type of hatred that you were certain could eat you alive. Your nails sunk into the heel of your palm, an effort to refrain yourself from using them to claw that nasty complacent look right off her face.

Mary Jane noticed this and decided to take your silence as a sign of her victory.

“It really was great seeing you, y/n.” She gushed, the false tender statement only fueling your anger. As she turned to walk away, she glanced over her shoulder, winking at you. “Don’t be a stranger.”

One day, you swore to yourself with a particularly loud huff, spinning on your heel and stomping in the direction of the darkrooms, you would kick Mary Jane’s ass.

When you posted the article—the one you hoped would sway the public’s opinion of Harry—you knew Peter would see it. More than that, you knew that he would be adamantly against it.

Unlike you, Harry hadn’t given Peter a reason to care whether he lived or died.

If anything, he had done nothing but give Peter motive to kill Harry himself. You hated that thought. While you didn’t believe that Peter had murdered Sytsevich, you worried that if given the chance he would have killed Harry that night. You wanted to believe that he wouldn’t have been capable of following through with it, though. Just as you weren’t capable of sitting idly by as Harry was sentenced to Ryker’s Island, knowing that he would be as good as dead in there.

Maybe you’d been stupid not to consider that the article was one of the reasons why Peter had never bothered to reach out to you, even once things had settled down. Maybe it was your own fault that he’d abandoned you, that the article had been the final nail in the coffin of your friendship.

Your stomach ached, your mind still reeling as you shoved open the large doors of Watson Hall. A rush of frigid air washed over you, goosebumps erupting against your skin.

Was it possible that Peter hated you as much as he hated Harry?

No. It couldn’t be. What Harry had done was beyond abominable, something that could never be forgiven. You hadn’t done anything nearly as bad as him.

Yet, on the other hand… is the one who comes to a monster's defense just as bad as the monster? You weren’t sure of the answer to that question, though you started to rationalize it to yourself anyway—you weren’t defending him, you just didn’t want to watch him die if there was something you could do to stop it!

But why not? Gwen wasn’t a monster, yet you still watched her die, standing on the sidelines and doing nothing to try and stop it.

There was nothing I could’ve done! Your mind screamed in defense of itself as you approached the staircase leading to the second floor, roughly gripping the rail as you started climbing up.

Why had Peter talked to Mary Jane about the article in the first place? That question was easier to think about than the others, infuriating but still less emotionally taxing, so you let yourself fixate on it. As far as you knew, Peter hadn’t liked Mary Jane any more than you and Gwen did, always keeping his distance from the she-devil.

When did that change?

At the top of the stairs, nestled in a corner of the left, there was a single door with a large black sign hanging off of it. The words DARKROOM IN USE were written in bold letters. You stared at it for a moment, your mind finally going blank as you did.

Peter was behind that door—your best friend, Peter.

Your palms started to sweat as memories started flooding back. Instantly, you bit your cheek, trying to ignore them. Now wasn’t the time for a trip down memory lane, especially not when you could still recall the bloody way that road ends.

A knock echoed through the somewhat barren Hall as your first collided with the door, your nerves growing with every passing millisecond. All you could do was focus on the different feelings fighting to consume you, the thudding of your heart, the slickness of your hands, the churning of your stomach.

“Peter?”

Saying his name felt wrong, but you said it anyway as you knocked again, a bit harder this time. “It’s y/n,” you told him, as if it were even possible for him to forget the sound of your voice, “can I come in?”

Once again you were met with silence.

You considered turning around. Maybe Jameson had been right in thinking that you shouldn’t chase this story. After all, it wasn’t your job to prove Spider-Man's innocence, and if Peter wanted your help, then he knew how to find you. You could call Brant right now and tell her that today was a bust, or even lie and say that Peter didn’t want to help with the story. You could walk away.

But you didn’t let yourself do that, once again feeling that weight of responsibility that May had unintentionally placed on your shoulders. There was no one left in Peter’s corner, no one that would be willing to dig him out of whatever dark hole he’d landed himself in.

You had fought to save Harry’s life, and so it only felt right that you tried to do the same for Peter.

Without bothering to knock again, you reached for the knob and twisted, hastily slipping inside the room, trying to limit the amount of light the leaked in behind you. You didn’t know a lot about developing photos, but you’d never forgotten the way Peter would groan whenever you’d come in unannounced, accidentally letting the light ruin his work.

The door clicked shut behind you as you looked around. It wasn’t a big room, just large enough for two or three people to comfortably fit inside. Any more than that, though, and they’d likely be bumping elbows the entire time. There was a table in the center of it, lined with tubs holding various chemicals that you’d never learned the names of. A clothesline hung around the perimeter of the room, a few newly developed photos lazily dangling from it. On the far wall there were two desks, various images and tools scattered across them.

Everything in the room looked sinister, courtesy of the red tinted light that hung overhead.

”Fucking creepy.” You muttered to yourself, crossing your arms over your chest as a chill inched down your back. This room felt significantly colder than the rest of Watson Hall, only adding to its unsettling vibe.

The darkroom was empty, despite the sign on the door saying it was in use. The realization nearly made you breathe a sigh of relief, a part of you finding comfort in the thought that you wouldn’t actually have to confront Peter right now. But as you stepped further into the room and towards the twin desks, all your newfound relief dissipated.

Resting against the leg of the desk was a fluorescent yellow bookbag, decorated with a variety of cheap pins ranging from local bands to images of outdated memes. You remembered the first time you ever saw that bag, lying on the floor of Peter’s bedroom just a week or so before the start of Junior year. He threw a fit when Aunt May had come in, tossing the ugly bag on his bed and raving about how she had gotten it on sale just in time for back-to-school.

You made fun of him for months, always making note of the way its vibrancy clashed with his darker style. Secretly you had loved that bag, silently appreciative for how easy it made it to find Peter in the crowded halls of Midtown High. He would always beg Aunt May to get a different bag, but she refused, saying that they shouldn’t buy another until he had worn the yellow one out.

Looking at it now, it seemed that he had finally achieved that goal. The yellow fabric was a touch duller now, though not by much, and there was a noticeable tear in the seam of the front pocket. Kneeling beside it, you traced your finger over a trail of blue thread, having been carefully used to stitch the fabric back together.

You wondered why he had decided to fix it instead of just replacing it like he had always wanted.

Straightening back up, you scanned over the rest of the desk. There was a black reusable water bottle perched on the edge, a set of keys attached to a Deftones lanyard lying beside it. A bit of sweat trickled down the edge of the bottle, collecting on the surface of the desk. You reached for it, shifting it just enough to hear ice knocking against the metal walls. It had barely melted, meaning that it hadn’t been long since Peter had gotten here. Still, you had no clue where he was now.

Closer to the center of the desk was a neat stack of already developed photos. A girl graced the top of the stack—pale skin with bleach blonde hair, neatly pushed back by a black headband. You reached for it without hesitation, a single digit tracing along her grinning face.

Peter took pictures of a lot of people, you included, but it was undeniable that Gwen had always been his favorite subject. Looking at this photo, you couldn’t help but understand why. She was effortlessly beautiful, capable of taking your breath away without even trying.

You could never blame Peter for always trying to capture that beauty, fully aware that if you were him, she would’ve been your favorite too.

Without much thought you decided to slip the image into your bag. Peter had dozens of pictures of Gwen, while you only had a measly few. He could spare one.

The other images were far more recent than the first, with only one or two others featuring Gwen. There were snapshots of random Columbia students, a few cityscapes, and even one of the devil herself—Mary Jane, posed in front of the same mess hall that had ensnared you earlier. In the reflection you could see Peter, smiling from behind his camera.

You gritted your teeth and rolled your eyes at the image. Were they really friends? The picture seemed to serve as enough of an answer, but you still couldn’t help but hope that you were wrong. Had Peter truly traded you in for Mary-fucking-Jane?

You roughly shoved that photo to the back of the stack, doing your best not to think about it as you continued to snoop through the rest of them. None were particularly interesting, save for the last two. Their dark composition offered a stark difference from the rest, while simultaneously making it difficult to tell what Peter was even photographing.

Taking one in each hand, your eyes darted back and forth between them, squinting as you tried to make out the subject, a task that was made all the more difficult by the rooms dim red lighting. You brought one closer to your face, making out a few trivial details. At the far edge, there seemed to be a street sign's corner, and in the middle a few streaks of dim light reflecting off a rain puddle.

Moving it away from yourself, you shifted your focus to the other one, thinking it appeared to be just a close-up of the first image. Then, slowly, you realized your mistake. It hadn’t been just a zoomed-in shot, as the reflection in the puddle made it something else entirely—a self-portrait.

But it wasn’t the warmth of Peter’s familiar brown eyes being reflected in the hazy liquid. Rather there was an outline of the two lifeless white lenses that belonged to his other self, the version of him you sometimes wished to forget.

The sight made you feel sick, sweat starting to form along your neck as you hastily flipped the photo over, desperate to avoid his sickening stare. However, what you saw on the back of the image was almost as bad as being forced to stare at Spider-Man's reflection. Scrawled in Peter’s barely legible handwriting was the date APRIL 2ND.

A new panic quickly trickled into your veins, fully replacing the one that had been born from the lifeless gaze of his mask. You read yesterday’s date over and over again, as if it would suddenly change. It never did, and a sizable knot formed in your throat as you slowly began to look up, shifting your focus to the forgotten photos pinned to the clothesline.

Your jaw fell slack, the photos in your hands following suit and landing on the desk below them. When you first entered the darkroom, you hadn’t paid much mind to the photographs hanging up, assuming they weren’t of much importance. Now, though, you recognized them for what they truly were—the sister images of the ones you’d been holding. Flashes of 102nd Avenue, Aleksei Sytsevich lying lifeless on the ground, milky white shards of bone peeking through his flesh. And there were photos of his mask, and those goddamn white lenses, spattered with Aleksei’s blood.

Peter hadn’t just been at the crime scene; he had documented it.

Your palm pressed roughly to your mouth, fingers digging into your cheek as you made yourself swallow the vomit fighting its way up your throat. Your own trauma fought desperately to rear its head as you analyzed the gory images, but you refused to let it take hold, scrambling to keep control as you forced yourself to snap into action.

After grabbing your phone, you wasted no time snapping pictures of the photographs hanging from the line, of the ones sprawled on the desk, of everything you could find. You didn’t know yet what you would do with them, but you refused to leave this room without collecting every bit of evidence you could find.

Once you were certain you had gotten it all, you worked to straighten the stack of pictures you’d gone through, adjusting them so they appeared as if they’d never been touched in the first place. Then, with your heart hammering inside your chest, you darted for the door without a second thought, paying absolutely no mind to the strange looks given to you by passing students as you rushed for the stairs.

You couldn’t stop moving, only slowing your frantic pace once you’d nearly made it to the exit doors. You rounded the corner as you tried to pull up Brant’s contact with shaky hands, wanting nothing more than to call her and get the fuck away from this campus. But, as soon as you went to press her name, your phone went flying from your hand and slid across the linoleum, your body pressing smack against another.

Sugary notes of vanilla flooded your senses, making your thoughts turn hazy. Your palms were flush against the soft cotton of someone’s shirt, and you could feel their fingers wrapping firmly around your shoulders, trying to steady you enough that you wouldn’t stumble back from the impact.

”Oh-shit!, sorry! I didn’t even see you-”

Their voice wasn’t the first thing you recognized, instead you found yourself caught up in the material beneath your hands. They were wearing a black Ramones t-shirt, a barely noticeable tear on the edge of the collar. But you noticed the tear instantly because you were the one who had bought the shirt. You got it at the record store on 6th Avenue—Rough Trade, was the name of it—and the man behind the counter gave it to you for half off all because of that tear.

You only ever got to wear it once before Peter nabbed it off your bedroom floor, never to return it.

”y/n?”

Your body betrayed you, immediately melting as the familiar sound of your name falling from his lips rang through your ears. Your heart had still been pounding in your chest this entire time, yet as your eyes met his for the first time in months, it fell still.

Peter didn’t fully share in your reaction. Instead of appearing as if he were lost in the same nostalgic haze you were caught in, he looked as if he had seen a ghost. His skin blanched, eyes growing unnaturally wide. For a moment you thought he was going to say something else, his lips parting, yet nothing came out.

In your lifetime, you had only known of a few things that could render Peter Parker speechless. You had now become one of them.

”Hi.” You squeaked out, a single hand lifting from his chest and offering an awkward wave that filled you with humility.

This wasn’t easy.

You weren’t sure how to act around him, how to behave. For nine months you had envisioned this moment, conjuring up countless things to say to him, all the insults you wanted to hurl his way. But now that it was happening, you found yourself torn between wanting to hug and choke him.

It seemed best to do neither.

”Um, hi?” Peter’s grip on your shoulders tightened, just for a second, as if he were trying to prove to himself that you were really standing in front of him. Once he seemed satisfied with your physicality, he stepped back and released his grip on you entirely, subsequently making your other hand fall from his chest.

”You’re not-I mean-you don’t go here.” He rasped, laughing awkwardly as he ran a hand through his hair, trying to ground himself.

”You’re right, I don’t go here!” You pointlessly confirmed, voice raising several octaves as anxiety took over. “Very observant.”

You cringed at the statement. Very observant?-you thought to yourself, biting down on the edge of your tongue as you watched Peter’s brows knit together-could've said anything, and that’s what you picked?

He didn’t even acknowledge the useless comment, only letting it hang in the air between you as he continued to wait for a true answer.

“I came to see you.” You choked out an honest answer, starting to shrink beneath his heavy gaze. You tried to step back, instinctively wanting to create distance between the two of you, but all you achieved was pressing yourself against the wall.

There was no escaping him.

He was quick to respond, making it clear just how high-strung he was. ”How did you find me?”

”I’m a reporter.” You reminded him, offering it up as a vague answer to his question. He’d likely expected the response, given the way his eyes narrowed in frustration. “Finding people is part of my job description.”

Peter always said that getting an answer out of you was like playing a game of charades, one that others very rarely won. You were a pro at dancing around the facts, only ever revealing them when they served to benefit you.

It was one of the many reasons you were so good at your job.

“Is that why you’re here?” His question carried a sharp edge, his irritation growing stronger now as his jaw tightened. “For the Bugle?”

Your body became tense, your shoulders squaring off as anxiety once again tried to shove to the surface. As you thought of the images you’d seen, the ones that were hanging just upstairs, your blood ran cold. You did your best not to let it show, instead trying to hide your fear behind a look of confusion. “Why would I be here for the Bugle?”

At first, he only stared at you, his brows raising in an incredulous manner. You forced yourself to stare back despite the discomfort it brought you. Then, finally, he answered. “You wanna talk about Spider-Man, right?”

Your heart sank into your stomach, lips turning dry as they parted. There was nothing good about the way the vigilante’s name rolled off his tongue, and you didn’t like it one bit. The semi-hushed tone he’d spoken in, laced with an essence of bitterness that one wouldn’t expect from the person that donned the mask.

Hesitantly running your tongue along your now chapped lips, you responded in a shaky voice. “Why would I wanna talk about Spider-Man?”

Harry’s advice rang through your mind—the same advice that had been mirrored by Aunt May, to remain wary of Peter—and you suddenly felt lightheaded. There was no way he could know that you found out about his identity that night, right?

No, of course not. It was impossible.

Peter appeared far more relaxed than you, his shoulders lazily lifting into a shrug. He didn’t seem to notice the sweat forming along your brow, making you think that you were doing an alright job at hiding your emotions. “Jameson wants new pictures of him, doesn’t he?” He threw out a guess.

Your shoulders instantly sagged with relief, your lungs aching as you lightly blew out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Given what you’d seen upstairs, you decided it would be best to stick to Harry and May’s advice. Peter didn’t need to know that you were aware of who wore Spider-Man's mask. Not right now, at least.

“I'm right, aren’t I?” Peter insisted impatiently, interrupting your racing thoughts and snapping you back into reality.

“Do you have new pictures of him?” You hastily snapped back.

“No. I don’t.” He lied straight through his teeth, once again running a hand through his already messy hair as he squeezed his eyes shut. It was obvious that he wasn’t planning to share any details of Spidey’s newly developed photoshoot hanging in the darkroom, and it would be against your best interest to press further, so you stayed quiet. When he opened his eyes again, he stared directly into yours. “And I don’t plan on taking any, so if that’s why you’re here then you’re wasting your time.”

You couldn’t recall ever hearing Peter sound so exhausted before. His recent lack of sleep was made painfully evident by the varying shades of purple painting the skin around his eyes. How long had he looked this way? Has it been since Gwen? In some sick way you hoped that you were right, knowing that grief being the cause was better than the alternative—the idea that his lack of sleep related to his involvement with Aleksei.

A part of you still refused to consider the images you’d seen as damning evidence that Peter had been the one to kill Aleksei Sytsevich. You couldn’t let yourself think that, refusing to believe that Peter Parker was anything even close to a murderer. It wasn’t possible.

But, as much as you hated to admit it, they proved that he was in some way involved. An accessory, at least. For some reason, hopefully a good one, he hadn’t stopped Aleksei’s murder from happening.

That came with its own dangerous implications.

You clicked your tongue against the roof of your mouth, trying to decide what direction you wanted to steer the conversation in, which angle would serve you best. With a deep breath, you made your choice. “Well, it’s good that that’s not why I’m here then.”

He looked surprised. “Wait,” he laughed awkwardly, “you’re not writing a piece on him?”

There was a thin line creasing the space between his brows, a strange expression on his face. His reaction wasn’t entirely unexpected, especially because you were known for your articles on Spider-Man. But this wasn’t a look that showed he was shocked to hear you were passing up on a story, it was a look of pure offense.

You fought the urge to ask him why he cared so much, curious to find out if he had been expecting you to rush to Spider-Man's defense in the media. The only reason you held yourself back was the fear that maybe you were wrong, that maybe he hadn’t wanted you to defend him at all; perhaps he just wanted more press for his potential crimes.

”Seems like the Globe has it covered.” You told him, trying to sound disinterested. You hoped that he would buy your act. “No need to waste anymore ink on a story that’s already been told, right?”

Peter knew you well enough to know that there was more to it than that. Fortunately, he was willing to reason that your potential avoidance of Spider-Man related to that night, the last night all of you were together, and the events that neither of you wanted to talk about. Besides, even if he did want to mention it, he couldn’t do so without exposing his identity to you, an identity he wasn’t aware you already knew about.

So, as much as he didn’t want to let it go, he had no other choice.

”O-kay.” He stretched the word out, shaking his head lightly as he worked to regain his bearings in the conversation. As he did so, a few strands of hair fell against his forehead. He was quick to push them back. “Well, if that’s not it, then why are you here?”

There was only a second of hesitation, air hissing between your teeth as you sucked in a breath, crossing your fingers behind your back. You hoped Gwen would forgive you for the lie you were about to tell.

”Helen Stacy.”

The first emotion to wash over Peter was pain. It was obvious, showing in the way his shoulders slumped forwards and his bottom lip trembled, wincing as the surname of his dead lover echoed through his ears. It was the second emotion that was harder to detect, having been more cleverly concealed than the first. Anger.

You could see it in his eyes, his pupils dilating as he started to see red. Your own gaze flickered to his sides, stopping on his clenched fists, knuckles turning a pale shade of white. It made you feel uncomfortable, especially since you were the one on the receiving end of that look. You nervously cleared your throat, starting to fiddle with the strap of your bag.

“She called the other day and asked about running a memorial piece for Gwen’s anniversary. Obviously, she thought it would be best if Gwen’s friends put it together—you know, do it how we used to for the school paper. I’ll do the writing; you take care of the pictures.”

It was hard to sound confident as you elaborated upon the fabricated situation, too busy trying to focus on anything other than his heavy gaze. You focused on the floor, mostly, staring over at where your phone still laid on the ground. Still, even without looking at him, you could feel the weight of his attention. The air around you began to grow thin, every breath turning into a battle. You felt like you were being slowly suffocated by his fury, your lungs burning within your chest.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea-”

“You can’t say no, Pete.” You cut him off, forcibly lowering the walls surrounding your own trauma, using it to manipulate him. You didn’t feel bad about it, either. “We both lost our best friend that night, and that sucked. But Helen lost her kid. This is the least we can do for her.”

As the last word fell from your mouth, you forcefully pried your gaze off the ground and begrudgingly met his once again. Terror slid into your veins as you did, your body already preparing itself for that seething look of his—but it vanished. There was no trace of anger on his face. All that remained was the slightest glimmer of remorse.

His fists unclenched, mindlessly cracking his knuckles. Then he sighed, followed by a reluctant nod. “You’re right. She’s been through a lot, and if this will help bring her some sort of... I don’t know-” he waved his hands slightly, looking troubled by his own choice of words, “closure, then I’ll do what I can to help.”

Your mouth curved into a smile.

It seemed like a good sign, you figured, that he was willing to help. It reignited whatever hope you had left that despite whatever mess he had gotten into as Spider-Man, that he was still the same selfless Peter Parker you’d always known. He could still be saved. And, fortunately, you had now crafted the excuse you needed to get closer to him and figure out how to save him.

”Great!” You spoke a little too loud, your excitement coming off a touch too strong. You tried to lessen it, though the uncharacteristic reaction certainly hadn’t gone unnoticed by Peter. “Meet me at Sylvia’s tomorrow at six, okay? We can start going over everything and make a rough outline for the memorial!”

Peter immediately went still when he heard the name of the restaurant the four of you used to frequent. He hadn’t set foot in Sylvia’s since Gwen’s death, too afraid to face the memories hiding within its walls. He tried to speak, tried to tell you no, but he didn’t have the chance as you interrupted him again.

“Here,” You pulled a business card from your bag, thrusting it towards him with a pointed look, “in case you forgot my number.”

You didn’t hide the animosity behind the statement, using it as another tool to play on whatever guilt he might harbor for what he’d done to you. It seemed to work, given the fact that he promptly shut his mouth and chose not to argue. Instead, he cautiously reached out, plucking the cards from your fingers.

“Try not to ghost me for another nine months.” You playfully added on, the words joined by a smile that resembled something of a threat as you reminded him, “After all, I know where to find you now.”

Peter just returned the smile, tight lipped and far less ferocious than the one you’d given him. He knew that eventually you’d want an answer as to why he’d been avoiding you, but not right now. Now wasn’t the time for it.

So, he stuffed the card in his pocket as you skillfully skirted around him, going to grab your phone off the floor. Once you had it in your hand, you started towards the exit, already starting to dial Brant’s number. “I’ll see you tomorrow, y/n.” Peter called after you, watching as you pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold.

There was an eerie sense of familiarity accompanying his goodbye, one that left your heart swelling as the words sought to soothe any of the still-bleeding wounds that remained from that night. The comforting feeling was almost enough to make you forget about the images you’d seen in the darkroom, the ones that now also lived within the camera roll on your phone.

Almost—but not quite.

Brant answered on the first ring, seemingly overjoyed as another lie easily fell from your lips, confirming with her that Peter agreed to help take photos of Spider-Man so you could try and plead his case to the public—the reason she thought the two of you were searching for Peter. She was just as eager as you were to leave Columbia’s posh campus, swiftly agreeing when you asked her to meet you outside of the mess hall so the two of you could head back to the Bugle.

Now, waiting alone in front of the mirrored windows, you stared silently at the reflection in front of you. A girl with platinum hair, neatly tucked back by a black headband, stared back at you with her familiar bright green eyes. They were filled with enough dismay to make your chest ache, ridding you of any comfort that Peter’s familiarity had given you.

”You’re gonna have to see him again.” The somber tone she used was unbefitting of someone that you could only think to describe as sunshine personified; everything you ever wished you could be. “You’ll need his help.” Gwen told you. “You know that don’t you?”

You knew she wasn’t talking about Peter.

When you didn’t reply, she decided she needed to convince you further, tailoring her approach so it had the best chance of swaying you. She reached a handout, and you knew that if you had closed your eyes, you would be able to feel her fingertips brush against your palm as she squeezed your hand.

God, you missed that feeling. You missed her.

And it was because you missed her that you refused to close your eyes. Refused to let your brain mimic something that was no longer real.

Gwen’s doe eyes turned glossy, her rosy lips puckering into a pout that could make even the most unyielding man fold. ”He’s gonna need your help, too, y/n.”

You bit your cheek, thinking of the bottle of pills laying in the bottom of your bag, the ones you hadn’t had to take in so long now. You were getting better.

"You can’t save one without saving the other.” Gwen tried to tell you, although it only served to make you angry at her, unable to figure out why she would feel that way. She shouldn’t want you to save Harry, not when he was the reason she wasn’t here right now!

If she were here, really here, then maybe you would tell her that. Remind her of how well her altruistic lifestyle had ended.

But she wasn’t. So, you didn’t.

Instead, you turned on your heel, forcing yourself to turn away from the reflection. You immediately saw a flash of royal blue in the sea of students as Brant forced her way through the crowd. Fine—you thought to yourself, offering Gwen a silent answer as you started to make your way towards Brant.

”This place is a goddamn maze!” You heard Brant huff noisily once you were in earshot of each other, her bobbed hair swaying manically. She clearly hadn’t had a good time, but you weren’t really interested in hearing about it, either. Instead, you found yourself distracted by her appearance. Her neatly styled hairstyle, sharp winged liner, and stylish outfit. It made you think of the girls from earlier, the ones who had made you so self-conscious, and it gave you an idea.

If you were going to do this—follow Gwen’s advice and save both of your boys—then you needed to try and save yourself, too. And, luckily, you and Brant seemed to be about the same size.

“Do you wanna go shopping?” You asked bluntly, watching as Brant doubled-back, clearly not expecting your question.

She blinked, thinking it over before hesitantly replying, “Um, sure?”

Ravencroft could wait until tomorrow morning.

tag list - @pompeygirl89 @pockyandme

a/n - hi anyone who's bothering to read this! i'm super excited about this chapter for a variety of reasons and i hope that you enjoyed it! feel free to leave any comments or tips, i always appreciate them and can't wait to write more harry & dark!peter content in the next part <3

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angelthefandomobsessed · 1 year

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Danganronpa Project Eden's Garden: Animal Symbolism

Okay, so I just finished the prologue (adored it, the writing is impeccable), and noticed that each character features an animal on their clothing. I'm sure tons of people have pointed it out already, but I thought it'd be fun to go through the symbolism of each, alongside any other observations I had.

Damon Maitsu:

Damon's signature animal is one of the more obvious ones - it's the big snake on his tie. Biblically, snakes are kind of a big deal... Just one snake, really, which gave all of the others a bad name. In 'Garden of Eden' arc of the Bible (which is relevant for obvious reasons), a snake tempts Eve to eat the forbidden fruit. The snake basically says "Hey queen, the apple won't kill you, it'll show you the truth, God's a liar." Adam and Eve eat the fruit, condemning humanity to eternal suffering.

Painting Damon as the snake tells us a lot about his role in the narrative and his characterisation. The main theme for Eden's Garden seems to be 'head vs heart', or 'logic vs emotion'. While some characters lean towards emotion, Damon leans towards logic... But based on the Pathos system, he doesn't fully condemn emotion - it can be a good tool when it comes to winning arguments, after all.

At the end of the prologue, Damon disagrees with seeing the good in everyone. He argues that the ultimates are more likely to stab each other in the back than to help each other unconditionally... In other words, he argues that ultimates are ambitious, to the point of throwing away their morals - because he himself is ambitious to a fault.

While a lot of people see snakes as creatures of evil (particularly when it comes to THE snake in the Bible), it could be argued that the snake is an agent of the greater good. Yes, the snake was the catalyst for the fall of humanity, but you could argue it was also the catalyst for the first critical thought. Adam and Eve questioned the word of their creator and chose to go against him. That didn't end very well for them, but you could argue it liberated them.

Would you rather be a sheep, at the mercy of your shepherd, or a snake that sees the world for what it truly is?

Wolfgang Akire:

Speaking of sheep... Wolfgang has a pretty neat (very symbolic) sheep pin. The idea of him picking out a sheep pin in like... a Claire's Accessories is very funny to me.

Much like snakes, sheep are also very Biblically relevant. In the Bible, God's people are usually cloaked in sheep imagery. God is the shepherd (fun fact: 'shepherd' derives from 'sheep' 'herd'), and the sheep are at his mercy. In that light, a sheep is a truly powerless thing.

Perhaps Wolfgang's sheep pin denotes him as a follower rather than a leader. Not to a specific person, but rather to an ideology - to his own morals, which he seems very attached to. Sheep are often seen as weak, existing only to be devoured by stronger, more predatory animals.

But this symbolism might exist here to be subverted. One of the most popular sheep-based phrases is (drum roll please): "Wolf in sheep's clothing".

Lawyer man is, quite literally, a wolf in sheep's clothing. His name has the word 'wolf' in it. He has a sheep on his clothing.

Does Wolfgang obsess over justice due to a guilty conscious? Is it a cover to mask his deepest, most despicable thoughts? Only time will tell, but I'm onto you, lawyer man... If that's even your real name.

Eva Tsunaka:

Okay, so I'm not 100% sure if Eva's animal is a raven or a crow, but I don't think it matters too much, people tend to perceive 'ominous medium-sized black bird' in a similar way, regardless of the specifics. Eva has a black feather in her hair and a badge with a bird's head on it. The badge looks a little bit emu-ish (which would be really funny), but the general vibe is more in line with a crow/raven.

For simplicity's sake, I'll mostly talk about ravens, because I think (don't quote me on this, I have not read the actual Bible) crows are never actually mentioned... but ravens are, so we'll go with that.

SO, ravens, black birds. Apparently, the first bird to be mentioned by name in the Bible is the raven, which... lines up with Eva being the first named bird character we meet (there are a lot of bird people, we'll get to it). During the whole Noah's Arc debacle, Noah sent out a raven to scout for dry land - it didn't come back (I think? It gets mentioned, 'tos and fros' and then doesn't get mentioned again, so I think it dipped which honestly, girlboss move).

Other than that, a raven was used as a divine messenger at one point, but I think the much more interesting (and relevant) aspects of the raven is the general symbolism.

Ravens are usually seen as bad news - much like the snake, they get a bad rep. While they are often seen as bad omens, they can also be seen as beings of spiritual wisdom. They see more than others can, much like Eva. When the others start to do the whole 'We'll never kill each other!' it's Eva who disagrees, seeing the reality of the situation.

Based on the word 'Danganronpa' being associated with the game, we can assume she's correct, and that the bodies will start hitting the floor very soon.

Eva is wise and holds a lot of knowledge, but she is distrusted for reasons outwith her control. She didn't ask to be the ultimate liar - some random organisation sent her a letter one day putting that label on her.

Interestingly, ravens are the natural enemies of farmers... and Wolfgang has a distinct agricultural reference on his lapel.

To summarise: people don't like ravens, but they're very smart birds who can (in certain mythologies/cultures, at least), see beyond the surface level).

Toshiko Kayura:

Toshiko's assigned animal is a little harder to spot. Two flamingos are on her skirt as a decal, making them less obvious (especially during waist-up shots).

Okay, so I'm no expert on this, but I'm pretty sure there aren't any flamingos in the Bible. Flamingos played a part in Egyptian beliefs, being associated with Ra, and they might actually be the original inspiration for phoenixes which... is kind of hilarious? The Aztecs saw them as sacred, and in Hindu culture they symbolise hamsa, a divine vehicle, which symbolises the realise from samsara, aka the cycle of suffering.

So... that could be a thing relating to Toshiko. She could be destined to act as a turning point in the narrative (either through death or through character development, same difference).

Or, we could go with the really obvious interpretation of 'flamingo = romance'. Which is very on-brand. Additionally, flamingos represent balance and elegance - mainly because of their 'standing on one leg' trick. Toshiko most likely strives to embody the qualities of a flamingo in these regards.

The use of flamingos in Toshiko's design might point to her being 'the heart' of the group. She's shown to be quite emotional (becoming flustered when challenged, avoiding the investigation, getting into an argument over gremlin-hood with Grace), despite trying to emulate a mature aura. She speaks in frivolous, convoluted imagery, which is peak fourteen-year-old behaviour, and if anything bad happens to her I will cry :D

Ulysses Wilhelm:

Rather than having a picture of an animal, Ulysses wears an owl pendant. Owls represent wisdom, and are particularly fitting for Ulysses due to him being more of a night owl.

Biblically, owls are seen as unclean birds, alongside ravens. They aren't overly relevant, but are (allegedly, according to some random Bible forum) used to symbolise loneliness, desolation, guilt and mourning. In a broader sense, owls are seen as wise, critical-thinking creatures, and independent.

Because of this, I think Ulysses will fall into the Damon/Eva camp of thinking, due to his historical knowledge. Because if history's taught us anything, it's that people can't be trusted, they will self-sabotage, and murder is inevitable.

I don't have much else to say - Ulysses feels like an early victim/blackened candidate, unfortunately, so I don't think he'll be playing a major role narratively.

Desmond Hall:

This one's a little hard to spot immediately (and when I did spot it, I wasn't sure which animal it belonged to), but according to the concept art Desmond has a shark tooth earring.

There are no sharks in the Bible. Sharks, apparently, symbolise protection and guidance, so I think Desmond will probably pair up with another character... which will lead to an untimely death, with a very sad flashback scene at the end of a trial. Or he'll survive, who says Biblical relevancy matters? Sharks are pretty cool and so is Desmond.

I think he'll be an optimist in the situation, but I... don't have much to say regarding his animal motif.

Grace Madison:

This one is pretty up there for the 'easiest to spot award'. Grace's animal is a rabbit, which can be seen by her (adorable) rabbit-eared visor.

Biblically rabbits are pretty irrelevant, but symbolically they're very prominent. Rabbits are probably most famous for their easter connotations (you'd think they'd be Biblical, but no, it just says not to eat them). Rabbits are also known as lucky animals - 'rabbit feet' are seen as lucky talismans...

If Grace ends up with a severed foot, I'm going to lose my mind.

Anyway, since Grace is the resident 'reckless and crude' character, I would theorise her link to rabbits would be 'rebirth'. Rabbits are associated with spring, which is associated with rebirth. I think Grace (who is described as someone who burns every bridge she makes) will undergo the Fuyuhiko treatment and see a lot of character development.

Not much else for me to say here, but rabbits are generally seen as active animals (energiser bunny, the Scorbunny line), so... yay sports..?

Diana Venicia:

I do not trust this girl as far as I can throw her. I saw her across the room and thought, "No, you're evil", and the chameleon bracelet did not help her case.

Like... not only does it suggest she's hiding something, or that she's a social chameleon, but it looks like a handcuff, that cannot be comfortable. And oddly enough, chameleons do feature in the Bible... and it's very odd, and very interesting.

Basically, chameleons conform to their surroundings through their unique abilities. God likes that for them, but not for humans - apparently, they should challenge things rather than just conforming to them. Which like, okay, someone changed their tune from "Don't do this one thing, no I will not elaborate". In actuality, what this means is "you should not be different on Monday to how you were on Sunday", aka, be #authentic.

Also, chameleons are seen as 'not standing up for what's right', so I guess that's where Diana falls on the morality spectrum, maybe possibly?

Diana is hiding something, she's on my mastermind radar but it feels a little too obvious? If she's not a mastermind, she hiding something and is a killer, nothing can redeem her from being shady in my eyes. I'm onto you, make-up girl...

(My guess is the beauty industry/Hollywood requires a degree of fakery, and she hates it, but she wanted to be successful so she gave into the fakery, and lost her true self in the process. And hey, maybe at some point she decided that she had to see the true twistedness of humanity via a killing game, who knows? Plus, make-up, that's very Junko-ish of her, just saying-)

Jean DeLamer:

Okay, so some people got 'owl' or 'flamingo', but this man got a whole dragon. And he cannot be more deserving of it, fly high king.

I really didn't think there were dragons in the Bible, but apparently they get a mention (in all fairness, it's a real big book). Fun fact: Biblically, they are usually mentioned to reference sea monsters. On brand for our sea captain. Bad news though, dragons are pretty exclusively evil (sometimes straight-up Satan), and are vanquished by God. So... Not great for Jean, honestly, that's concerning.

Could he have a connection to the killing game? He could be a traitor of some sort, or he could try to rise up against the KG and get struck down.

Basically: Jean has no power here, he will lose every time, if the Bible-dragons are anything to go by.

Anyways, dragons are pretty relevant in... most cultures, so this is probably the most interesting thing I can dig up.

Jett Dawson:

In my original post, I mislabelled Jett's animal as a wolf. Somebody in the comments corrected me, pointing out that it's a coyote. Coyotes are closely related to wolves, so there's some symbolic overlap, but I'll rewrite the section anyways, because the original didn't shed much light on anything.

Biblically, coyotes are in a bit of an odd spot. They're seen as cunning and dangerous for the most part, but in Isaiah's passage (disclaimer: I haven't read it, I'm doing the deeply unacademic thing of trusting 'straightforwardguidance'.com) he complains that coyotes and lizards are more grateful to him than humans. This is used to demean the coyote; a wild animal is better than people in Isaiah's eyes, placing them at the low end of societal importance (not literally, ofc).

Apparently, the bible also describes these animals as being wise, due to their hunting tactics. Coyotes will hunt rabbits as a team, with one tiring a rabbit out and another finishing it off. This little tidbit does not bode well for Grace, our rabbit. But, to be fair, the presence of a coyote wouldn't go well for most small animals.

I don't have too much to say about coyotes, beyond their obvious similarity to wolves. Wolves tend to hunt sheep (which gave them a bit of a negative biblical rep), but let's be real, a sheep isn't winning many battles out in the wild.

Jett strikes me as a 'tragic killer', like our usual chapter 2/4 killers. There's wildcard energy to him, though - I could see him killing, surviving or dying, but whatever happens, there'll be a plot point surrounding his face, it seems too interesting to not be a thing.

Kai Monteago:

Butterfly, on chest, let's go.

Most obvious interpretation: social butterfly, he's an influencer.

Biblically, they're pretty irrelevant, but symbolically they're all about transformation. This could indicate character development, a change in tune, etc. Not much to say here, it could represent vulnerability (butterflies are fragile), but it's most likely a reference to the phrase social butterfly.

Mark 'Mayhem' Berskii:

His hat is, indeed, an alligator. At first I thought it was a dragon, then a crocodile, but the concept art confirms it to be an alligator.

Google couldn't tell me much about Bible alligators, which was expected. What it can tell me is the symbolism behind them, though.

Alligators are cunning and wise. Which adds up here, Mark seems way smarter than he lets on. He makes a comment at the end of a non-stop debate (something about setting the trash fire) which suggests he's a critical thinker, seeing the misguided logic in the room.

They are also apex predators with a lot of strength which... is concerning, in terms of potential murderers. Since they've been around since the prehistoric age, alligators are seen as having an ancient, primal aura about them.

I feel there's more than meets the eye with Mark - he'll carry a key discovery or two, just you wait.

Wenona:

Wenona is the girlboss we need, as well as the girlboss we deserve, no further questions. Her animal decal is a little less obvious than others', being bear pawprints at the bottom of her coat.

My favourite Bible story ever (because it's hilarious out of context) is the one about Elisha and the bears, where two bears maul forty-two children because they made fun of a guy. So, maybe don't get on her bad side via mockery.

Interestingly, bears are used to symbolise cruelty and self-servedness which... adds up here, I guess.

Symbolically, bears are a little more cuddly than the Bible makes them out to be. They're known for hibernation, making them quite patient and cautious animals. Bears are grounded animals and represent strength, being fearsome predators.

Wenona is very set in her views, and appears to be unwavering, much like a bear.

Eloise Taulner:

Eloise wears a swan pin in her hair, making that her signature animal. Swans are graceful and vicious; a fascinating combination for a character like Eloise.

In the Bible, swans are everything you'd assume a white bird to be. It's all very 'this bird is the serene love of god, do not eat it, but for different reasons'.

Symbolically, swans are loyal birds, being of the 'mates for life' variety. Something interesting to mention is the concept of a swan song - a song that laments death, said to be the most beautiful song ever sung by a swan, despite the birds being far from natural singers. In Greek mythology, swans were sacred to both Aphrodite and Apollo, with Apollo being the god of music.

Which presents the possibility of a friendship between Mark and Elodie, with him being 'music' and her being a swan.

Swans are very powerful birds, so Eloise's character arc will probably involve her becoming stronger in terms of willpower and confidence.

Ingrid Grimwall:

This one's a little harder to spot, but Ingrid's animal symbol is on her bag, in the form of a lion.

Lions are generally seen as brave, proud animals. The main Biblical story that comes to mind is the story of Daniel, who was thrown into a den of lions. A lion's roar is intended to paralyse its foes with fear, but can its bite match its bark? I suspect Ingrid will be a big talker, but less keen to take actual initiative. Male lions are known for being less active than their pride members, with the female lions doing the hunting.

Although, you could argue that a lion is a natural leader. These qualities don't need to be exclusive though - why not be a leader and a layabout?

Besides that, there's pride and family and strength, but the less prominent placement of Ingrid's emblem tells me she'll be less fearsome than her classmates.

Cassidy Amber:

Cassidy's a little bit different from the others. Her animal motif doesn't have a specific portrayal of the animal (much like Wenona's and Ulysses'), and hers is repeated as a pattern - Cassidy wears tights with a spiderweb pattern.

Now, spiders are pretty well known for trapping things. It's kind of their whole deal. This gives Cassidy some serious mastermind vibes to me, especially when coupled with the fact that she's married to the content grind, loves games, and has a lot of money to throw around.

But anyway, the Bible just kind of complains about their webs being fragile, which could be interpreted as 'her fanbase isn't a true connection to others, they'll abandon her the second someone new catches their attention'. In reality, the Bible doesn't hold up for most of these, but like... it's interesting, right?

Spiders could be described as patient killers. They weave intricate webs for their victims and wait for the opportune moment to strike. Spiders are often feared, with arachnophobia being one of the most popular phobias. Cassidy herself is capable of projecting an unsettling aura and might be described as unnerving.

Fun fact: Red spiders specifically symbolise wealth, passion and excitement, which lines up pretty well with our pro-gamer.

In Conclusion:

I spent way too long making this.

Also, the Bible was pretty useless for most of these BUT the Bible reflects a lot of general perceptions (because it set quite a few of them), so it was sometimes interesting, I think, I'm tired, send help, goodnight!

(If you've made it this far, say hi or something, this took three hours and for what?)

#danganronpa #project eden's garden #analysis #theory #damon maitsu #eva tsunaka #toshiko kayura #wolfgang akire #other people I guess #just all the characters #project: eden's garden

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plan-3-tmars · 6 months

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"You're Just Sitting On The Train" - Double MV Analysis

There's a conversation between the two main character's in a podcast I love called Red Valley which reminds me of the imagery in Double.

"You know when you're on a train, and it's held up, and you're just stuck in the middle of a field while they get the leaves off the line or whatever, and you're going to be hopelessly late, there might be awful consequences to get stressed about but... there's literally nothing you can do about it. It's not your fault. Hopefully you've got a book or something. You're just sitting on the train."

The conversation in context with the scene is about being able to put your problems and stresses, like being late for work, on someone else's shoulders. Let them take responsibility for what's going on so you can feel some relief. It got me thinking about Mikoto and Orekoto (who I'm just going to call John thanks to Neoplasm) and I want to talk about what I think the meaning of it is!!

Trains have many, many different meanings - like almost a ridiculous amount of different interpretations can be made - but I think the meanings that are the most important while talking about Mikoto are trains representing the passage of time, destiny and loneliness.

Loneliness:

While on a train, or waiting for one, you are surrounded by people. However as shown here, most keep their head down and don't speak unless spoken too. It gives a sense of loneliness, you are surrounded by people yet completely alone.

I think this could apply to Mikoto's situation and was possibly a stress factor for him. It is implied from his T1 interrogation questions that Mikoto was popular enough, knowing a lot of people either now or back in high school, but he doesn't seem to open up to any of them. He's alone in the big city with nobody to talk to. He lies to his mother that everything's okay in their phone call and bottles up his stress. Because of this he is dependant on John to function : "But if you persist, I guess it's my job to keep things on an even keel."

The Passage of Time:

This shot showcases how long the train actually is, it flies through each carriage insanely fast, blurring slightly from the speed alone.

It's been extremely clear since T1 that Mikoto suffers heavily from dissociative amnesia, something that is a very common symptom of DID, and I think the fact this shot blurs could be representing that.

Trains representing time and how humans view the passage of time is probably one of the most popular ways they appear, we tend to think of time as one thing that moves forward constantly in a straight line, similar to an uninterrupted train on a train track, but for Mikoto (and John) time is blurry, hazy. It may seem like things move too fast to keep track of (pun not intended) or individuals with DID can sometimes describe it as feeling like you're missing hours, fronting in a place or room you know you weren't in before and being unaware of the events that led up to you getting to this point.

This feeling of missing hours is relevant to this specific scene as after the camera moves through the train the first person we see is Mikoto - not John, who was in the doorway.

Destiny:

Trains are always headed to a specific location so they can also be associated with life's journey, or in other words, fate and destiny.

Both Mikoto and John are shown as the passengers on their train, not the conductor. They are not in control over life's events, just sitting on the train and this is extremely stressing - especially for Mikoto. John says things like : "another day with that hardly barely there of a smile // You're going to break // You're overdoing it, you're already broken". Mikoto seems to find it hard to deal with life's events, aka the train ride, and perhaps feels like the end destination is unattainable at times of stress.

This point is stressed further imo by the fact that we can't see outside. The windows of the train are either white or black for the majority of the MV, sometimes light or 1 image makes itself known but never a full image of what's actually outside.

Bonus: The Train's Maps!

The map's of the train are shown glitched out, also possibly hinting to the feeling of the train's final destination being unattainable, or could also be referencing hazy memories, but I think this specific detail is about John.

We see the maps glitching out when John sings the lyric : "I don't even know the reason why I'm here." [Future Mars I now know this was Mikoto singing but um.. my overall point still stands.] I think the maps glitching could represent the feeling of the loss of purpose.

John was 'born' in order to protect Mikoto, to help carry the burden of whatever is stressing him so much, yet instead of helping Mikoto he ended up being scared of him ("hey, now I saved you right? So why in the hell are you crying?") and it was John's actions that landed them in Milgram - an environment that Mikoto finds extremely stressing, to the point of there being a chance he goes dormant in T3.

Trains are created to arrive at a certain destination, so a train with no idea where it's going (glitchy maps) has lost its purpose.

Despite being an alter 'born' to protect, John has accidently caused Mikoto more harm when he tries, so he questions his role in the system.

Edit: Journey into the Subconscious

After staring at the MV a couple more times I think there's one more train theme I forgot to mention that fits here too, which is that trains can sometimes represent a journey into the mind.

I think there's a chance that the train could represent the system as a whole, or more specifically headspace. The only people on the train are John and Mikoto and the fact we never see what's outside gives a sort of surreal, dream like atmosphere, almost as if this was happening in an environment with no psychical appearance.

The lyrics sung in Double seem to be more directed at Mikoto than the actual audience, and from the last line "I'm so sorry" we can deduce that this song is something of an apology and explanation of John's actions that he wants Mikoto to hear.

#im not rlly 100% certain on any of these points but i wanted to throw them out here to see what others think #also just wanted to write atleast 1 thing on Double because god damn it was SO COOL #also i am in no way an expert on DID - any info here is based on my own research so if there are any inaccuracies pls lmk!!#also yes thats another podcast referance in my milgram analysis. i like sprinkling them in when i find the excuse to talk about them #also sorry for calling orekoto john but im sticking with it cuz that reminds me of john doe from the malevolent podcast #and he is my blorbo #milgram #mikoto kayano #red valley pod

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harethere-is-art · 2 years

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So a few days ago I had posted my “I’m Gonna Win” spamton drawing illustrating my hc for the Transformation Theory. Since then I talked about the pros and cons in the Acid Theory in depth with mutuals and in discord servers. So when it came time to post it on instagram I created a clarification slide to add a detail I’ld typically leave in tags. Only to write an entire essay in the description anyways pffft.

But anyways here you go

So after chapter 2 came out I was enamored by the idea of Spamton going through a slow and progressive transformation at the hands of Gaster/the Knight to emphasize Spamton figuratively AND literally giving himself for "freedom" But when the Acid Theory gained traction I foolishly assumed it was somehow canon and I scrapped my original idea (which is my own fault I don't blame anyone that would be silly pffft). While there was a lot of cool imagery and concepts that came out of it I felt it was too quickly accepted and wide spread which inadvertently discouraged other interpretations. (I've talked to others about this and they had similar experiences) Alongside that another issue is that the Acid Theory characterized characters such as Queen to seem much more vindictive(?) than necessary. Sure she's a bit reckless with lives and what she did to Berdly and the Plugboys is not okay. But saying that she's okay with torturing and burning someone alive? That's a whole other level of cruel. (Which might tie in to fandom’s tendency to villainize female characters more than male characters which is a whole other but relevant can of worms.) The biggest problem being the misconception of Acid Theory being actual canon which leaked it's ways into debates about certain characters. What I personally enjoy about the Transformation Theory is Delatrune is already a more fantasy and metaphor heavy game and the idea of The Knight transforming his victims into more mechanical and easier to control vessels is much more connected to the themes of the game. (A jack-in-a-box having a crank that you have to rotate to make a clown jump out and a puppet which you manipulate to act out different scenarios) This theory as well keeps the concept of Spamton being shorter than the other Addisons pre-puppetification within the theory which helps to solidify the themes his goal of being a "big shot" and "bigger. Anyways this isn't my way of discouraging others from using the Spamton Acid Theory or judging others who DO utilize the Acid Theory. I'm just pointing out the flaws and inviting more diverse interpretations of how Spamton got to look the way he did ^ ^

Also this post by @unikhroma essentially debunks this whole theory in one line soooooo- uuuh- Rip lol

#spamton #jevil #deltarune #deltarune theory #acid theory

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altocat · 5 months

Note

i saw that you also said you love to talk about other characters, not just sephiroth, so i thought i'd ask: what are your favorite things/traits/moments etc of all of the playable characters we've had across the compilation of 7? i feel like i can talk about all the characters forever :)

Ooh yeah! This will be fun. Okay!

Cloud: Cloud is the most relatable character to me, and probably my favorite if we're being honest. I relate strongly to his identity issues, and I love when he tries to act tough while concealing a softer nature. My personal favorite scene with him is the flashback where he realizes that he was stronger than Sephiroth this whole time, throwing Sephiroth down the pit. It's a powerful moment, probably Cloud's single greatest moment in the entire series.

Tifa: Tifa is literal perfection. She looks like a tough tomboy and yet she's also one of the kindest people ever. She's maternal, loyal, supportive, and devoted to a fault. The team would be lost without her. She's the glue that holds everyone together. An absolute queen. My favorite moment with her is Under the Highwind, regardless of her relationship with Cloud being romantic or platonic.

Barret: Barret's got a heart of gold. He's always part of my main party when playing the OG. A great comrade and an even GREATER father. His relationship with Marlene is beautiful and so warm and wholesome. Barret also spits some iconic quotes over the course of the game, as well as some hard truths. My favorite scene with him, naturally, is his encounter with Dyne. The line "my hands are too stained to carry her anymore" gets me to cry no matter how many times I play.

Aerith: Aerith is the biggest hero of FFVII next to Cloud. She's the one who ultimately saves the day, and all through her sacrifice. I'm not even gonna talk about my favorite moment with her because...you guys already know the scene. It's the single most famous scene in gaming history. Aerith has a playful, occasionally chaotic edge to her personality that she hides behind a sweet smile. I absolutely adore that about her. She's so full of love and so full of selflessness, but she also loves to tease people. Also an absolute queen.

Red XIII: Nanaki is a cat btw. I have always seen him as a cat. That's my controversial opinion on him lmao. Also him howling for Seto makes me ugly cry every single time without fail. I appreciate that Nanaki seems occasionally stoic and serious, but then has kind of a childlike or immature fear or insecurity about something. There's that duality to him that ties to the other characters in a sense. Anyway, I love him. He is a very good boy.

Cid: Cid took a while to grow on me initially. He's pretty rough around the edges. But my favorite moment with him happens in the last third where he sorta becomes the de facto leader of the group with Cloud gone. And I like that he seems to have reconciled with Shera as well. Honestly, he's just kind of a badass and really cool at what he does. Also he gets to go to space. Good for him tbh.

Cait Sith: This one is hard because there's always a debate as to how much of a character Cait Sith actually IS. It's Reed puppeting a machine/doll basically. How much of Cait Sith has a mind of his own? Regardless, Cait Sith isn't my fave. He's a spy, after all. But he makes up for it in the end, even if he kinda fades into the background. Reed is honestly more of an interesting character overall. I can't name any specific favorite moments with Cait Sith specifically. But also he's a small Scottish cat. And that's rad.

Vincent: This edgy boi. Also not one of my faves, but he's grown a lot more on me over time. He wins for always having the coolest voice in the entire group. And I really like the scene where he reunites with Lucrecia. Vincent is kind of gruff and understated at times compared to the rest of the cast. But he has a gentle side as well, and one hell of a cool backstory. Also I love monsters and gothic imagery in general.

Yuffie: Yuffie is...my least favorite main character. I don't hate her. I've just never been a fan of the "spunky loudmouth child" trope. With that said, I'm sure the Remake trilogy will breathe new life into her and add some extra appeal for me. I like what I've seen so far. And Yuffie's bluntness and playfulness can be cute from time to time.

Zack: Counting him because of Crisis Core. He's probably my third favorite character. His death is the saddest scene in the entire compilation imo. He's a character who is wholly encompassed by love, who deals with a LOT of pain, and who proves to be better and worthier than most people put together. Like Aerith, he sacrifices everything. And also like Aerith, his legacy will live on forever.

#asks #ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #crisis core #cloud strife #tifa lockhart #barret wallace #aerith gainsborough #red xiii #yuffie kisaragi #zack fair #vincent valentine #cait sith #cid highwind

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brayneworms · 9 months

Text

fearful, wonderful | scaramouche

general tags. kabukimono!scaramouche, trans!scaramouche, yokai!reader, gender-neutral reader, slowburn, yokai lore/imagery, very slowburn, food consumption/eating, tatarasuna.

content warnings. gender dysphoria, allusions to war and death.

word count. 4.9k

notes. this is an 18+ blog. minors and ageless accounts do not interact, you will be blocked.

synopsis. agreeing to house the puppet has taken its toll. you take him to niwa, and he comes to several realisations about himself.

masterlist | prev | next | ao3

II. MOUTH OPEN, SILENT AND BLUE.

There are spirits in your eyes, and a ghost in your home.

‘Ghost’ is the most apt thing you can conjure to describe the puppet that has taken up residence there. He wanders from one room to the next with childlike curiosity, seeming to take interest in the most mundane of things. An object that remains of seemingly perpetual fascination to him, much to your dismay, is your collection of seto teaware.

Most times, when the house goes quiet for too long, you’ll wander out into the parlour and find him sitting cross-legged in front of your dresser. He doesn’t touch—not since that first night, when you snapped at him and snatched the cup from his hand. He just looks, those glimmering ice-blue eyes tracing every pattern and crack. You think it’s the gold paint sealing it all together that fascinates him. Possibly he’s unused to the concept of someone wanting to repair something broken.

Possibly he’s unused to the concept someone could love something enough for that.

After that first night, you’d woken up with the dawn, sat up—only to find the puppet already awake. He was sitting straight up, sort of just… staring at you. It had unsettled you so badly that you’d flinched backwards, slamming your head into the wall.

“What are you doing?” you spluttered, rubbing at the inflamed crown of your head. You were sure a bruise was flowering as you spoke; by breakfast, the skin beneath your hand would probably feel like a rotten vegetable.

The puppet blinked. “I was waiting for you to move.”

“I was asleep.”

He seemed to consider this. “I don’t think I need to do that, then. Is it normal to be asleep for so long?”

You glared at him, despite the needling knowledge at the back of your head that it wasn’t really his fault. Considering how tired you are, you doubted you’d slept for more than five hours. “It’s usually longer,” you snapped, and then your grouchiness began to ebb, and you sighed. “So you don’t sleep. You don’t seem to breathe, or feel cold. Do you need to eat?”

The puppet shook his head. “I watched other things eat in the Pavilion. I supposed they must have been doing it… for some reason, but I knew I’d never experienced it.”

“Most things need to eat to live.”

The puppet’s expression had become shuttered, then. “What does that make me?”

You didn’t reply. You got up and made breakfast instead. Eggs into a pan and rolled with vegetables and slivers of cured meat. It spat and sizzled over the fire. The puppet crept out of your bedroom to watch like a sulking child, like a dog whose tail you’d just stepped on by accident. He watches you eat like he’d watched you sleep—like you were a curiosity, something fascinating.

The rain had stopped in the night, the last rolls of water making their way slowly out of the valleys. When you crack the window open the stifling petrichor slides over your nose, warm and thick and damp. The earth studded with lavenders beside your house is looking very dark and swollen, but it’s not totally aflood as you’d feared. You have a tendency for underestimating things more resilient than yourself.

The puppet stares at your food as you eat. You hold out a mouthful on two chopsticks. “Do you want to try?”

He bites the inside of his cheek. “O-okay.” His lips close over the morsel. You watch his jaw move unnaturally, too stiffly for standard chewing. It’s like he has to remind himself how his teeth work. His pale throat flexes when he swallows.

“It tastes good,” he says, surprised.

“Well. Thank you.” You stir your food around your plate, embarrassed. “I make it every morning.”

“Some hilichurls had a campfire once in the Pavilion,” the puppet says thoughtfully. “They were roasting some fruit. After I defeated them I tried a little of it, but I hated the taste. My body rejected it. I thought that meant I couldn’t eat human food.”

“What sort of fruit was it?”

“Um… small. Purple.”

“Sounds like a lavender melon. Like on the tree outside. I don’t like them either, they’re very sweet. It might be you just don’t like sweet things.”

“You don’t like sweet things either?” The puppet presses closer to you, a new eagerness gleaming to life in his eyes. You fight the urge to edge backwards. “That makes us similar, doesn’t it?”

You glower at your plate. “Only superficially. Not in any way that matters.” And you’re too cruel, maybe, to feel guilty as you watch the hope falter from the puppet’s face, as you watch his shoulders droop and he shrinks back under his curtain of hair. Still, your appetite abruptly vanishes. You push your plate towards him and stand up. “Finish that off, if you want it, then get dressed. I left some clothes out for you on your bed.”

The puppet glances from the plate to you, his rosebud mouth a little ‘O’ of surprise. “Why do I need to get dressed?”

“We’re going to see Niwa. He’s a friend of Katsuragi’s,” you say crisply. “He’ll be able to teach you to read and write.”

“Niwa.” He repeats the name slowly, with an expression of concentration. “Niwa. Katsuragi. Your name is Y/n.”

You nod, feeling stuck all of a sudden. The puppet’s lips work themselves into a frown.

“Why can’t I have a name?”

Your mouth works soundlessly for a few moments before you press your lips together hard and appraise him. He looks up at you with that frustrating, wide-eyed earnest, the same look that communicates that there is no way he is trying to push your buttons on purpose.

“It’s not that you can’t. Most people are given them when they’re born.” Your eyes linger on the sleeves of his jinbei, the swathes of bone-white cotton that hide the strange markings on his joints, the ones you hadn’t wanted to look too closely at. The mark of something inhuman, like a branding. Puppets were made, not born—and you supposed their facilities for being named depended much more on the sort of person who had created them. You think of that slim golden feather, tucked into his belt. You’d stashed it away in one of your cupboards, but you knew what it was. The mark of nobility—and here in Inazuma, that could only mean one person. The Shogun. He looked like a younger, shorter, more androgynous version of her, from the flawless pale skin to the big moonstone eyes and curtain of purple-black hair.

You change tactics as his expression starts to tremble. Do puppets cry?, you wonder, then abruptly realise you don’t want to find out. “You can always give yourself a name.”

He cocks his head. “What sort of name?”

“Anything you like.”

A shy dart of his eyes. “I like your name.”

Your skin prickles. “Well, you can’t have that one. Pick something else. Or… just stick around this village for long enough. People will undoubtedly give you one, whether you ask for it or not.”

“Everyone has a name,” the puppet says sulkily. You’re beginning to pick up on that—that childish, bitter streak that seems to be slashed right through him. “Every human. My mother didn’t even give me one before casting me out. I didn’t realise things had names, not really, until a group of adventurers wandered into the Pavilion one day. I heard them talking, laughing with each other.”

“Your mother…” You were echoing his sentiment before you could even help it. Wasn’t it strange, to think of your creator as your parent? But then, how would you know? You supposed he was entitled to think of her in any way he chose. The gold feather burned guiltily from behind the wood of your cupboard.

You’re jerked sharply back to reality when you realise the puppet has sidled closer. He has an intense sort of look on his face. “Can’t you give me a name?”

I’m not the one to raise him, Katsuragi.

You wouldn’t be a parent. You’d be a friend.

“No.” You lean away. “It’s not my responsibility. Get dressed, okay?”

The puppet slinks off to the bedroom, dejected. There is a pang of pain in your stomach that you quickly ignore, like the hard swallowing of bitter medicine.

Your whole life you have been swallowing bitter medicine. You’re hoping it will take effect, someday soon.

Niwa always smells of the furnace.

Hot metal and oil and smoke. It clings to him even after a bath, like if you sliced him open at the skin, showers of sparks and the smell of burning steel would leak out of him. It’s not a smell you find particularly pleasant—you find that it reminds you of the smell of your armour, minus the blood that tended to cloak it—but that’s not to say you find Niwa unpleasant.

Quite the opposite, actually.

Niwa is soft-spoken and affable, coasting through the village like a warm spring breeze. You find him and his small family tolerable—they’re a quiet but kind presence, keeping mostly to themselves until someone shows up to bother them for assistance. It’s comprised of Niwa’s older sister, Honoka, her two children, and Niwa’s grandfather, a frail and elderly man who rarely steps outside their house to see the sunlight. You think briefly that they will be good company for the puppet, then wonder why you care.

He trails behind you on the walk, kicking up wet earth from the wobbly paths; his eyes rove helplessly over the whole village with awe, taking in every shack and cabin, the modest redwood temple and shrines, the trees spilling sakura petals over the sidewalks. He pauses at a field of golden corn, running his fingers down the thick stalks, the slumping ears of the vegetables nestled in their leafy cocoons. In winter the cut stalks freeze over near the path—they can be just as deadly as a blade if you fall into them. Most parents don’t let their children take this path for that very reason—the lake is structurally unsound and prone to flooding, and this path often soaks itself. On winter nights it ices over; one slip and those cut stalks will scrape up your skin to ribbons.

You don’t relay any of this to the puppet. For one, it’s not winter. For another, he has no skin.

Niwa’s family lives someway up the hill. Their house is modest, as the ones in Tatarasuna go, but it has to be for five people living there—a traditional noka house with enough rooms for all of them. The only thing distinguishing it from the others nestling in the crook of the mountain below is the miniature blacksmith forge attached to the left side. Scraps of jewel steel pile up against the anvil, ready to be softened and reformed into blades. Bags of soft-pine charcoal and ironsand slump against the clay tatara, ready for that long process of turning iron to metal; the coal fire sputters on endlessly, spurting out plumes of thin black smoke. The puppet watches, fascinated.

“What is that?” he breathes, tucking himself closer to you.

“It’s a forge. Niwa is a bladesmith.” You catch his look of confusion. “He makes steel into swords and weaponry.”

A soft gasp rings out over the hillside. “Tsukumo! Tsukumogami!”

Your head snaps up; two children gape down at you, wide-eyed and flush-cheeked. Honoka’s kids, a boy and a girl, both with flat shiny black hair adorned with those characteristic scarlet streaks. The boy, the taller of the two, races down the path to you.

“When you didn’t come for ages Rie thought I made you up!” he gabbed, panting hard from exertion. “But you’re real! See?” He yells the last part up spitefully to his sister—Rie—who looks away and picks at her shirt moodily. The blossom blush on her cheeks darkens steadily.

Honoka hurries around the side of the house, lugging a basket of white linens. It’s half-full; she must have been in the middle of hanging out her laundry when she heard the exclamations. Honoka is older than Niwa, pushing thirty you think, with the exact same messy auburn hair as her brother. She peers down at you, surprised.

“Y/n,” she says tremulously, using your real name rather than the moniker her son addressed you with. “Shinsuke, come back up here, now!”

The little boy sighs, full of the sort of petulance only young human children can carry, and makes his way back up the hill. Sweat shines on the back of his neck as he goes. You begin to follow him up, gesturing for the puppet to keep up with you. It’s only as you get to the top, where the real path to the Hisehide house begins that you realise he’s taken hold of the fabric of your shirt. It’s so baggy you barely notice, but it still makes you stiffen.

Honoka regards you with a cautious mistrust that you cannot begrudge her for. Her son, Shinsuke, said it best—you are tsukumogami. More fool her to trust you completely.

“Are you here to see Niwa?” she asks, swapping arms for her laundry basket. “Katsuragi said we should—” She cuts herself off, scratching at her arm. “He said we should expect a visitor. Is everything alright?”

Her greyish eyes slide unsubtly to the puppet behind you. You can feel him shrink in on himself, hunching up into his newly-washed karaginu.

“I need to talk to Niwa,” you answer carefully. “It’s, um… sort of hard to explain.”

Honoka nods. She is cautious, but not prejudiced. Fair, in a way you’ve learned a lot of humans are not. “I’ll go get him for you. He’s just in the garden.” She taps her children on the shoulder once. “Shinsuke, Rie, go play around the back.”

Rie and Shinsuke spare you one lingering curious look before shuffling off to their back garden. Honoka trails after them, and you feel the lack of invitation into their home like a sting. Again—this is not something you begrudge the Hisehides for.

Maybe they can smell the blood on you. Maybe they can sense the inhumanity, both of you and your companion.

“Why did they call you that?” the puppet wonders as if on cue. He’s still holding your shirt. “I thought your name was Y/n.”

“It is.” You take shallow breaths, wishing your lungs were bigger. “Tsukumogami… is what I am.”

The puppet’s eyes are huge and pale. “Y-you mean… you’re not human either?”

“No.” Your brow furrows, just slightly. “I’m yōkai. I thought Katsuragi would have told you.”

The puppet’s eyes are huge and luminous. He opens his mouth to answer, but—

“Y/n, as I live and breathe. What can I do for you?”

Niwa’s voice rings out cheerily. He strolls around the house, pulling off thick gardening gloves; soil streaks his billowing trousers. His tawny hair is pulled back into a ponytail, curling around his boyish face.

“Niwa,” you greet with about as much respect that any human can pull from you. “I’ve come at a bad time, I see.”

“Not at all,” Niwa says mildly. “Just tending to the trees. I like to help out when Honoka’s busy—it makes her think twice when she next threatens to kick me out.”

His voice prods for a laugh that neither you nor the puppet provides. He remains undeterred.

“Who’s your friend?”

“This is…” You fight back a wince as your conversation about his name returns to you. You can practically feel his reproachful eyes boring into your back. “Katsuragi found him wandering the beach last night. I’ve taken him in.”

“Is that so?” Niwa’s eyes gleam with interest. He cocks his head at the puppet. “Hi there. I’m Niwa Hisehide.”

“Hello,” the puppet returns quietly. “I don’t have a name.”

That embittered streak is back and stinging. You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Niwa’s gingery lashes flicker in surprise.

“Really, now?” he says, still neutrally. “Well, don’t sweat it. You can give yourself any name you like. In the meantime, was there something I can do for you?”

“He needs to learn to read and write,” you say; your tone is still businesslike but you allow an edge of beseeching to soften the edges. You’re aware you’re asking for a large favour, even if it had been Katsuragi’s idea. “Katsuragi mentioned that you tutored his niece. He thought…”

“I see.” His hazel eyes linger on you for a minute, asking the question his mouth wouldn’t dare to—why can’t you do it, again? “Well… as it happens, I am teaching Honoka’s youngest at the moment. Her name is Rie.”

You incline your head. “I just met her.”

“You’d be very welcome to join,” Niwa says, speaking directly to the puppet. His body stiffens at the attention. It occurs to you that you and Katsuragi did a lot of talking around him rather than to his face. Niwa puts your meagre efforts to shame simply by existing and being decent.

You really shouldn’t be taking care of this puppet.

“Thank you,” is all you say. “I appreciate it.”

Niwa gives you a crooked smile. “Really, it’s nothing. Could I ask you for a little something in return?”

“…Sure.”

“Come by the house every once in a while. My nephew adores you. Honoka likes you too, you know.”

“She doesn’t trust me.”

“Not the same thing. Just… come by and get your friend after his lessons are done, that’s all.”

… It is fair. Niwa is fair, too, just like his sister. It must run in the Hisehide blood, same as those red streaks of hair. “Fine.”

“Thank you,” Niwa says like you’re doing him some big favour. The part that makes you feel cold and sick is that maybe you really are. “You’re always welcome here, you know.”

On the walk back—quiet, as the watery sun makes a slow arc overhead—the puppet speaks again. “Niwa had short hair.”

Your eyes snap automatically to his dark waterfall of hair. “Well. Yes.”

“So did Katsuragi. And that little boy.”

“Shinsuke.”

“Shinsuke, right. Do all men have short hair?”

“No, not all of them.” This is the most neutral conversation you’ve had with the puppet so far. “In fact, many warriors keep their hair long. In some cultures, they add a braid to their hair for every battle won, and when they are defeated they cut it all off in shame.”

The puppet fiddles idly with a lock of hair that swings by his soft cheekbone. “I was created with this hair. As long as it is now. It never grew.”

“You were created in the image of your mother,” you say, though you’re only guessing this to be the case. “It’s not surprising you inherited some of her features.”

“My mother—the Shogun,” he says, voice growing quieter with each word. “She’s a woman.”

“Yes, she is.”

“If I am created in her image… am I a woman?”

Your lashes flutter in surprise, and you pause. You’re outside the cornfield, the one he stopped to admire earlier with such intensity, but now he doesn’t even glance at the crops. He looks straight at you with a burning need for his question to be answered.

Except you’re not totally sure how to answer it. You lick your lips. “Do you… feel as though you’re a woman?”

The puppet considers this. Finally he says, “I feel as though… I was intended to be one. But not… that I am.”

You consider this. “All humans are crafted in their parents’ image. That doesn’t mean they are a replica of them. I think the same can be assumed for you.” And your voice dips lower, gentler. “You should be whatever you feel. It doesn’t matter how you were made. All that matters is what’s inside.”

“You mean my heart?” the puppet scoffs. “I have been informed I don’t have one.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t feel,” you say. Your eyes trace over him—his clothes are that of a noblewoman, from the delicate veil to the karaginu, cut to accommodate a high chest and flaring hips. His face, sharp as carved marble, with his round lips and big sparkly eyes and long curling lashes. The fountain-arch of hair spilling from his scalp, running straight down his back to his waist. Intended to be one, indeed. But it doesn’t mean he is.

The puppet looks more confused than ever—there’s something small and helpless in his expression, something that makes you take pity.

“You don’t have to decide today,” you chide. “Think about it. Alright?”

The puppet nods, slowly. “Alright.” There’s a pause as you keep walking, and then the puppet says, quieter, “Thank you.”

Your jaw clenches briefly. “In the winter,” you find yourself saying, “be careful on this path. It ices over, and the cut corn stalks are dangerous. Okay?”

The puppet blinks. “Okay.”

“Good.” A sharp nod. “Let’s get back.”

The puppet comes to you a few days later. He’s had one session of tutoring with Niwa.

“It went well,” the swordsmith had confided in you when you went to retrieve the puppet in the afternoon. “He has a very natural grasp of it. It’s… not like teaching a child to learn from scratch. It’s as though the mechanisms of how it all works are already present in his head, it just has to be explained to him. Like someone who once knew how to read but forgot.”

“Another thing he inherited from his creator, no doubt,” you say. Your eyes linger on the Hisehide’s front door whilst you speak. There’s a wreath nailed into the wood there, a cluster of red camellias. They make your whole body prickle with electricity the longer you keep them in your line of sight.

In any case—two days after this, the puppet approaches you. You’re sitting outside, staring over the lavender field, thinking about your dead friends. You’d think after thousands of years you’d begin to forget it, but if that is the case you’re still waiting for it to happen. As it is, they’re all you think of. All you dream of.

“Y/n?” you hear, timidly. The puppet looks at you with caution as he lingers at the door threshold.

“What is it?”

“I’d… I’ve been thinking about what you said,” he says. “And… I’d like to cut my hair.”

You blink in surprise. “Oh. Well, alright.”

Shocking you further is when the puppet flushes. You hadn’t known he could do that—and he fidgets with his clothes in an awkward tic. “Could… would you… help me? Please?”

You think it’s the please that catches you, like the nick of an arrow, like a fishhook behind your heart. You stand up, feeling your pulse move slow and sickly through your body. “Take this chair,” you dredge up. “I’ll be right back.”

The way the puppet’s face lights up makes you feel sicker than ever. I’m no jellyfish, you think nonsensically. I have a brain, all right. Why can’t I use it?

Maybe because you also had another thing jellyfish didn’t. A heart.

For all the fucking good it does you.

The puppet scrambles past you to sit, tucking his knees up under his chin, as you brush past him into the house. You head for the spare room, open up one of the closets. Your shorter knives and blades are slung up in soft leather holsters, dull and lusterless from not being tended to as they used to. You select one, a tanto knife on the thinner, longer side, spanning just about the length of your forearm.

You haven’t held a real knife since…

Just to experiment, you give it a twirl. Muscle memory kicks in at the speed of light, and it flies through your fingers as though caught on a breeze. You stop it short, disgusted with yourself.

The puppet is craning his neck to look for you when you wander back outside. “I thought you may have changed your mind,” he says softly.

You hold up the blade. “Just had to sharpen the steel. I couldn’t find my whetstone. Are you sure about this?”

The puppet nods sagely. “I’m sure.”

“You said your hair doesn’t grow. If you cut it now, you’ll never be able to get it long again. Do you understand that?”

An expression of petulance steals over his face. “I told you I thought about it, didn’t I? I thought about all of this.” He looks down at his lap. “It’s what I want. Please.”

You weaken again, helplessly, foolishly, like butter left out in the sun. “Alright. Alright.”

You stand behind the chair and draw his hair back over the wooden back. You comb your fingers through it to search for tangles, and the puppet shudders. Your hands fly back as though burned.

Cool sweat lacquers your palms no matter how many times you wipe them against your shirt. Holding your knife is starting to make you feel feverish, and you almost let out a screamy laugh to the sky. This puppet trusts you with a blade near his neck. Doesn’t he realise…?

No, you suppose dully. He doesn’t.

You gather his hair into a band. It’s so soft, pin-straight and silky, running through your fingers like warm water. You can’t help but ask again. “You’re certain?”

“I am. I’m certain.” The puppet mirrors your language. You’ve noticed that, too. His appetite for learning seems to yawn, gape, and it frightens you a little. There is nothing good to be learned from you.

“How… how short?”

“Like Niwa’s. Or Shinsuke’s. Around here.” He gestures vaguely to his jaw and chin.

“Alright. Alright. Ready?”

His chin juts up defiantly. “Ready.”

Your hand tightens over the clump of air. The other, the one with the knife, worms its way beneath. It brushes over the nape of his neck, and the puppet shudders again. Your knife, so close to such a vital part of the body. If you cut him, would he bleed? Would he die?

Your blade slices upwards, towards your own head, cutting through the makeshift ponytail like butter.

A good twenty inches of hair droops to the ground like a fluttering of raven feathers, making a melancholy wreath at your feet. The puppet gasps, hands flying to the newly naked back of his neck, his shoulders, feeling the blunt edges of his new hair. He flings his head around to look at you, and for a moment you can’t decipher his expression. His eyes are wide as coins, lips parted, neat brows knitted up.

A sudden sick, cold terror seizes you. Is that sorrow? Regret? I’ve ruined it, you think blindly. I’ve ruined him—

“Thank you.”

It’s whispered fervently, with the sort of reverence one might reserve for worshipping a deity. The puppet looks up at you like you’d hung the stars in the sky. “It’s so much better. I—I love it. Thank you.”

Your expression cracks. The fear falls away as quickly as it came. “You—it’s nothing. I mean,” you catch yourself. It’s not nothing. “You’re… welcome.”

And tears glimmer in his eyes, making them brighter and more luminous than ever. For a moment it’s like looking into the moon. And then his smile slips. “You… you’re bleeding!”

You look down at your hands, surprised; the pain only springs up now that the puppet had called attention to it, but he’s right. The tips of two of your fingers, the ones holding the hair whilst the other cut, are stinging horribly. The uppermost part of your nails are hacked clean away, the skin at the precipice of the digit cut up.

The puppet takes your hand in both of his, cupping it like it’s a dying animal, a bird with a broken wing. Something gets stuck in your throat; the urge to yank away hits you like a ton of bricks, but in the wake of his cool skin against yours you feel rooted to the spot.

He strokes the pad of his thumb over what remains of the nail on your index fingers. It pools on his own skin, and he looks at it with the same fascination he would a new species of flower or a fruit he had never tried before. Considers it, almost.

“Are you alright?” he asks almost frantically. “You’re hurt! I—did I hurt you? I’m sorry!”

Finally, your throat unsticks. All of you does, and you take your hand back, folding your fingers into fists. “No. What? No, you didn’t do anything. I wasn’t paying attention.” The look of panic on his face unsettles you. “I’m fine.”

He springs up. “I’ll go get a bandage,” he blurts out, and turns on his heel towards the house. You turn to watch him go, and you feel your heart jump at what you see. The back of his neck, before cloaked with that thick fall of hair, stares straight back at you, startlingly pale and stamped. The Electro mark. You’d recognise it anywhere. That jagged three-legged spiral, another tattoo of his creator. A brand, or a goodbye kiss?

Your answer depends on what you are—yōkai or jellyfish. Brain or no brain.

As much as it embitters you, you’re leaning towards yourself. This puppet was made with love. The golden feather is enough proof of that. She wanted him to have a good life. But then why is he here with you, and not with her?

You rub at your eyes, suddenly exhausted.

You really should give the puppet a name.

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