#i do have some tangential thoughts. that i will touch on here: | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

aroaceleovaldez · 3 months

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i hope this doesn't sound like a silly or weird thing to send you, but i'm autistic and have long thought of nico and a handful of other riordanverse characters as autistic and i love your posts about why nico in particular seems intentionally autistic-coded. but i've been thinking, if rick did intend for any of his characters to be autistic, why wouldn't he say so outside of the text at least? i can't think of a good reason why not, when he goes out of his way to be explicit about so many other characters' various marginalized identities and has confirmed things like reyna being asexual outside of the original text. so it gives me this nagging sort of doubt that maybe rick just made nico come off as so extremely autistic coded by accident, somehow. if it wasn't an accident i do kind of wish he'd say so because there's next to zero explicitly stated autistic representation in, like, any media so it'd be nice to have here even if not strictly necessary. either way though, like i said, i love your posts and i agree with you 100% about autistic nico! some others i like to think are autistic are annabeth and leo.

(Most of this is gonna be kind of a tangential ramble to your point and i apologize in advance just bear with me)

This actually touches upon something I've been meaning to do a write-up on recently, which is: depending on the coding, that is our explicit statement. In most coding, actually, that's kind of the point. (Also something something Death of the Author.)

You may have noticed a recent trend across media of characters saying things directly rather than expressing them in a natural way, and often this includes incredibly stilted dialogue of characters explaining things in very politically correct, wikipedia-esque descriptions and terminology that make absolutely no sense for the characters' personalities or mannerisms. This is born out of the idea that if something is not stated in explicit terms, no amount of evidence below an outright direct exact statement will ever count - if two characters of the same gender have an explicit kiss and wedding on-screen, it doesn't matter because they never said the word "gay," etc etc.

In PJO, prior to more recent books, we get plenty of examples of characters explaining parts of their identities without direct statements. Percy never needs to say in outright terms that he has PTSD from Gabe - and it doesn't make sense that he would! He's 12! He's never been diagnosed for that. He probably doesn't even know what PTSD is really. But we, the audience, know without a doubt he has PTSD, because it is clearly expressed to us. That is coding. Tyson is coded as having down syndrome. Nico is coded as being autistic. It doesn't make sense for Nico to turn to the camera and explain that he's autistic and what that means, because he definitely never got diagnosed for it and probably doesn't know what that means cause the diagnosis literally did not exist when he was growing up - and heck, autism terminology was still kind of getting sorted out back in 2007 when TTC was published, so it's unlikely we could have feasibly gotten any exact terminology wink-wink-nudge-nudges short of something like how Percy outright mentions other students called Tyson the r-slur in Sea of Monsters. And in fact we see that same exact style of coding with Nico later on in the series. Nico never turns to the camera and says word-for-word "I am gay, I am mlm, here's me wearing my exact pride flags" (until TOA/TSATS, which... did the exact thing i mentioned about characters speaking like theyre trying to get a good grade in therapy, or giving a powerpoint presentation). But it is never unclear that HoO is telling us outright that Nico is gay. It's not just hinted at. It's there, in your face. But entirely because no one ever outright says "gay" specifically it's technically still only coding. We know he's gay, we know the characters have trauma/ptsd, etc etc. We don't need it spelled out - that's just kind of condescending. It's like if you said describing a character with "eyes like moss" means they were "green-eye coded."

Nico being autistic-coded isn't hidden. It's not a secret. It's very overt. If you know what autism looks like, well, yeah, there he is. Even if you only know very vague 2007 media presentation of autism, Nico in TTC is easily recognizable enough as autistic because that's the point. Tyson is easily recognizable as being coded as having down syndrome and it's very clearly very intentional! It's just never spoon-fed in exact terms to the reader because it's not necessary! You've already been told the information necessary to tell you what is up with this character, so just plainly going "oh they're [x] in exact terms" is very much telling-not-showing and feels redundant. And while there are places for that kind of thing, most of the time it's very unnecessary. Sometimes coding is subtle, sometimes it's obvious, and yeah there are times where writers code characters unintentionally, but the textual evidence is there, and that's the whole point.

And that's what Death of the Author is about - it doesn't matter what the author intended at the end of the day, because if it's in the text it's in the text. You can look at author intent to try and figure out what that text means, but the text is the text. A Separate Peace is a very classic example - author John Knowles denies there being homosexual subtext, and meanwhile one of the protagonists living in 1942 puts on a pink shirt while saying he doesn't mind of people think of him as gay. What the author says after the fact doesn't matter - if it's there, it's there. So Rick saying anything outside of the books is completely irrelevant. And Rick talks about this a lot - he actively tells people that his statements outside of the books are just his own thoughts, but what's in the books is what's in the books, and if the text supports it then that's all the evidence you need.

Nico specifically is a case where yeah, he's clearly autistic-coded. It's very obvious and very obviously intentional when he's younger, and as the books progress it remains a background trait of his but is still notable (except for when it gets forgotten in TOA/TSATS like everything else, including the adhd/dyslexia, but i digress). It's a clear pattern within the first few books that Rick is intentionally including. It doesn't make sense, especially for the year the book was published, for the reader to be directly told in explicit terminology that Nico is autistic, because the reader is already being told that Nico is autistic.

And yeah, Rick doesn't mention Nico being autistic-coded outside of the text, but he also doesn't mention Tyson being coded as having down syndrome. He also said one time that Percy doesn't have PTSD at all, which is very incorrect starting from book 1. Again, Death of the Author. Whatever Rick says outside of the books does not matter, because he already said it in the books. And there's plenty of other stuff in the books that Rick doesn't touch upon, particularly relating to character identity - did you know Leo is Native? Sammy mentions that the Valdez family is Native in Son of Neptune but we don't get any specifics and then it's like never brought up again anywhere. That happens all the time in the series - and outside of the series - Rick can't possibly address every single point to confirm/deny everything from the books. That's what analysis is for! And that's why my blog exists 👍

#pjo #riordanverse #nico di angelo #autistic nico #analysis #ask #Anonymous #long post //#tone indicator just to be sure cause i know i used a lot of italics: this is all non-agressive/not mad i prommy #im just very passionate about this topic (coding & fandom concepts surrounding ''canon'' + death of the author)#also controversial opinion cause i know some people have talked about wanting the use of the r-slur in SoM censored #but i think it should stay because. well. yeah no that was still very commonly used in 2006 #trust me i heard it a lot. i was there. in fact it was commonly used after that point. for awhile.#it wasnt until like a bit into the 2010s iirc that campaigns started to go ''hey maybe. dont use that word.''#like that was RECENT #and yeah! these books are not old! TLT is only just coming up on 20 years. thats not super old for a book!#and yeah! that term was considered a-okay terminology to be used in a middle grade book in 2006! which is startling to think now!#but that's also why it's important to not erase that #because otherwise you forget that up until very recently that word was considered Perfectly Acceptable #and in SoM it's even specifically acknowledged to be used in a hurtful way! Percy is actively condemning it!#like. dont put it in the show or whatever. obviously. replace it with a different indication/coding to explain Tyson's struggles #not that i think Disney would put the r-slur in their show. but like. dont erase it from the book??? from 2006??????#i am frightened to see how the show will handle tyson though. its not gonna go well i can feel it in my bones #anyways man i should post that excerpt from A Separate Peace though #just cause that scene has lived in my brain rent-free for years

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boyfridged · 20 days

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in your fic “paint it over” is that how you imagine jason making it out of the explosion at the end of utrh? not exactly the events that follow, but the preferable characterization of bruce digging jay out of the rubble and carrying him to help. and how do you think jason made it out canonically (without the help of bruce) also!!! what are your thoughts on the specifics of jason’s scar and how he’d behave toward it. i liked the part of your fic where jason was temporarily unable to speak due to the trauma his neck received. i think the scar is something that rests on the junction of his shoulder/neck, and that can be hidden with whatever clothes he wears -> no one knows he has it (or how he got it) either. i like to imagine while bruce knows his batarang made contact with jason’s throat it’s never fully registered to him that it scarred until he sees it for himself (and while i believe bruce would turn the moment in head over and over again until it’s engraved in his brain, his delayed realization—to me—is due to his repression of the occurrence)

oh i adore this whole ask. some of it i explained in my notes, but this fanfic is quite dear to me, so i will elaborate.

short answer to whether this is how i imagine jay making it out of the explosion: not exactly?

the premise that i wanted to explore with paint it over is almost the opposite of a fix-it, and definitely not what i believe it should be in canon.

what i wished to explore there is, however, the part of utrh that is perhaps the most shocking to many readers: that bruce leaves jason to die.

in-universe, i think the answer why it happens is surprisingly simple enough: bruce does not come because he is just... not there. my understanding is, that in a way, the events of under the red hood did not happen. there is nothing to follow. that purple mist in the finale of the utrh, that is often read as a force resurrecting jason (not technically wrong, either)- i believe that is the timeline already rewriting itself, making the whole story into something that was not.

and the reason for the above is the infinite crisis. if i'm not wrong, it's also the inifinite crisis miniseries where bruce meets dick right after the explosions in (or of) bludhaven-- that in batman clearly happens in the background of his confrontation with jay. however, in infinite crisis (#4, just checked it now), bruce tells dick: "i wanted to make sure...you're alright... i was in new york when it hit. got here as soon as i could." which could be a lie or a matter of the editorial not being synced enough- but i'm willing to give them a benefit of the doubt given how it ties with that sudden, stunted ending of utrh.

this makes sense for canon for several reasons. in the animated movie, since it spares us the infinite crisis tie-in, bruce says of the whole incident: this changes nothing. it changes nothing because although aditf isn't, utrh is a tragedy; it changes nothing because since his death, jason is necessarily always pushed at the peripheries of the narrative, no matter how much the fate itself tries to fix it, becoming a tragic footnote. the dead have one right and it's the right to remain silent. and that is ironically ensured on a cosmic level, with his violent attempt at being seen hidden in the folds of the timeline. you can also see it clearly in canon -- i believe it was not until the infinite frontier that the events of utrh got just tangentially mentioned (before that, even lobdell barely touched upon it). other than that, they have no consequences; they are barely ever spoken of; they seem to slip out even from jay's solo comics.

this move was necessary for batman, as a character and as a title: let's say bruce does hold red hood as he does in the alt cover of annual 25 (and the cover of the deluxe edition of utrh.) that would implore a reckoning with his failure and his (suddenly non-productive) grief that would either reconstruct the whole myth or lead to some terrifying implications. these terrifying implications are, essentially, what paint it over is about. it's about the worst happening and about there being no way back from it. and jason, in receiving what he wanted (his father's love and care) wants to deny that reality. they both want to. yet even jay cannot ignore it completely -- and i chose to use the batarang injury to emphasize it.

and about the scar: i mentioned it briefly before, but in the au jason aggravates the wounds on purpose, hence it will scar worse and cause long-term issues for his voice. it's a theme i also keep in some of my other stories (to come...) and i very much think this is what would happen in canon if he had to take care of that injury. yet as it healed, i believe he'd take to hiding it, mostly. still, as it stands, my primary take might be that in canon (if it was to follow the interference into the timeline from the crisis at least) jason would simply end up with no scar at all, and only memories for evidence of what happened, which is perhaps worse for him too (but of course better for bruce. and as it happens, this is bruce wayne's story and everyone else is just living in it- or dies in it- for better or worse. and if we're ignoring that metaphysical timeline bullshit, as you said, i believe bruce would repress it all anyway.)

#this is probably a mess but it's 3am and i should go to sleep so #sorry if it does not make sense/i did not properly reply to everything. i might follow up...#and i'm very curious if you have any more thoughts on jay's scar!!#+ most importantly <3 thank you for reading my work. this makes me so happy.#outbox #yutro writes #btw. i had another post in which i said that i consider what was said in annual 25 about jay's initial resurrection being an attempt ->#of “fate” to fix things to be central to my view on canon. i guess in that case the utrh becoming half erased is another attempt at it ->#when universe loves you so much it rids of the evidence of your trauma...#also i forgot to mention. i am very much for jay's storyline challenging the status quo of batman as a title #-> but that would make him literally the main character<3 and i don't think most people are ready for it or want it

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olderthannetfic · 9 months

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Subject: "hanfu" pet peeve

Since the discussion has spread out across multiple posts, I figure I'll summarize and add on my thoughts here. To reiterate, I don't like the usage when it's meta and breaks immersion. I dislike it for the inaccuracy and, more importantly, for the othering. If I didn't sufficiently hammer on that last bit, I'm doing it now. Do I blame fic writers for thinking they are very educated using the word? No. I gnash my teeth without comment when I see it happen, and I look elsewhere for escapist entertainment. Though I've since left the fandom, I do still check back from time to time.

There may be instances where the word fits very well. I tend not to read fic where that may be the case. I don't particularly care for fic about the actors getting into costume, for example. Potentially I could be interested in reincarnation fic, in which the modern-day protag gets flashbacks from touching an antique from their former life, but that's besides the point. I generally stick to the canon setting, where I also don't want to be told that all conversation is in Chinese. I already assume it is.

Telling the reader these things may not be redundant to some people, but it is to me. It ruins the flow. And besides, "hanfu" doesn't really specify which article of clothing. Not that there's anything wrong with being vague. It's perfectly fine to tell the reader that so-and-so has gotten dressed or disrobed without getting into the details. Often the way it's used could easily be replaced by "robe" (or "robes" plural) from what I've seen. If they're not referring to the full ensemble, they usually mean the outermost layers. If there are any instances in which "hanfu" is used to indicate trouser legs or underwear, I have yet to see it.

The point is, I'd prefer people use whatever least obtrusive term fits for what they're trying to say, unless they're prepared to be both accurate and precise with their terminology. I certainly don't expect the effort. It was just a suggestion based on what I've seen done elsewhere. Tangentially, everybody who hasn't yet ought to go watch Nirvana in Fire. (It's only, uh, what's the runtime again? And that's with a rushed epilogue, too.) But please! If you get the itch to write, leave out the mention of you know what -_-

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. Haha.

(This thought brought to you by my love of the "Yin-Yang Master" franchise.)

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cruxymox · 8 months

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Prompt: throwing rocks at the moon

Three angels were sitting on a lonely hill outside the city. It was a Tuesday night, the same night I started writing again - though that part is fairly insignificant as I have stopped and started and stopped and started many times before and since then. I do not know what month it was, nor year exactly, but maybe that does not matter. I have gone off the rails here with this tangential information, I am rambling. Let me start over.

Three angels. A lonely hill. This city, that mostly slept. It seems now that it was extra quiet, that night.

// read the rest below. it isn't terribly long, and has music if you'd like to hear one of the angels speak.

I do not remember their names, those angels. I apologize for that. I am sure they all ended with '-iel' or '-uel' or '-ael', as that was the standard for angel naming at that time. But I would only be guessing.

The first of the three was larger than the others, their robes fitting more tightly about them, so I will call them AUDRIEL.

The second angel spoke infrequently, and when they did it was only in whispers, and because of this, I will call them SUSUEL.

The third angel will be called TREIEL. It may turn out that TREIEL was the most important of the three angels, regardless of their name now. It may have been otherwise, I cannot be certain.

TREIEL spoke first, though they were the third, and when they did it sounded like a song. Flammenmeer, L’Ame Immortelle. Something like that. ~There are stones here on this hill that should not be. The small smooth ones, just there. I fear something important has changed, or will do so soon. It is a sign.~

~Shhhh,~ SUSUEL warned quietly, a finger to TREIEL's lips. ~Someone will hear.~ If TREIEL's words were of song, the few of SUSUEL's were of a quiet river in the evening, slow-flowing, ever meandering.

TREIEL wrapped their hand around SUSUEL's wrist, and gently pulled it away. Dim Atmosphere, Die Verbannten Kinder Evas, ~Perhaps, SUSUEL, perhaps. If so, it will be only one small soul, a poet of minor significance. AUDRIEL, what do you think of these strange stones?~

AUDRIEL bent down, and placed a hand over one of the stones, not quite touching it. They were silent for a moment. ~They are of the moon.~

~The moon!~ Fairy Dance, Ophelia's Dream. TREIEL feigned surprise.

~The moon.~ AUDRIEL affirmed. ~Let us leave them here, such that–~

SUSUEL pressed many fingers to several lips. ~Someone comes.~

—

I climbed the hill and sat myself down to look up at the night's myriad stars. They made me feel less alone and more so all at once, if that makes any sense at all.

The moon was partially obscured by a wispy cloud line that felt unnatural, that felt as if it came from the city's thousand chimneys. It was beautiful, but the thought upset me. "I hate this."

I saw some rocks on the ground by my feet, and moved to pick them up, to throw them at the clouds, at the moon, to throw them at everything. I just about reached them when I heard a song come from … everywhere.

— Seven Days Till Sunrise, Black Tape For A Blue Girl —

AUDRIEL shook their head. ~You should not have done that, TREIEL. What are we to do now?~

The three angels looked down at me.

TREIEL offered a solution, Le Secret, Leitmotiv. ~The poet sleeps now. We shall make it a dream.~

~And when he awakens? What then?~ SUSUEL whispered to the others, palms gentle upon my ears.

AUDRIEL touched my hand, then touched the moon stones. ~We need not do anything. The stones will play their part in his hands, they will - but for a moment - depict the helpless defiance against the epitome of romanticism, and then no more.~

SUSUEL nodded silently, and faded into the folds and threads of night.

AUDRIEL stood, and gazed towards TREIEL fondly. ~Continue the dream. It will end as they always do, in a half memory, in a haze, as the clouds were.~ AUDRIEL then walked down the hill, away to the city.

TREIEL pondered, and gave a path for the dreamer to wander down.

— Premier Pylone, Ozymandias —

As I bent over to pick up the rocks, I felt dizzy for a moment, suddenly very tired. I knew I should go back soon.

I looked up and saw the clouds were gone. I looked up at the moon and stars, in awe, as always. I threw the rocks anyway, as hard as I could, then brushed my hands off and walked away. I thought that at the very least I might try to write something about this, once I rest.

Once I rest.

—

TREIEL drifted to where the stones landed, near the bottom of the hill. Knowing they were the last of the angels here, and no one was to see - for now - they picked up one of the stones. In TREIEL’s hands, it turned into a brilliant white bird which flew into the night, to the moon, like a different sort of dream.

—

The Beginning

#prompted #throwing rocks at the moon #i don't know how this happened #prose poetry #definegodliness

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lovewithoutresin · 16 hours

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Hey Resin zero pressure or rush but when you have the time I’d love to hear your thoughts on the alchemy???

okay yes ive been thinking about this for a few days and it actually makes me want to cry (in a good way!) that you'd be interested enough to literally follow up. admittedly i don't know how much sense this would make to someone who isn't me (as in, how much of this is individualized) but i'll share my thoughts on a few specific lines nonetheless.

so the song as a whole seems pretty straightforward which is why, in contrast with some of the songs that seem more intellectually challenging, people may have a hard time feeling like there's much to connect to there. maybe if you yourself are in a very victorious space you can, but that's not everyone always! so here's how i think of it (huge rant under the cut)

first off, i LOVE the immediate use of "these chemicals hit me like white wine". people talk a lot about the contrast of so high school with various other parts of the album, but it's not as common for people to compare sections of the alchemy from what i've seen, and this line contrasts SO sharply with the thread of substance use (or abuse) in the rest of the album. now i am not an alcohol aficionado. but i do know in terms of how people think of substances, white wine is probably like. the tamest one you could possibly reference. not to mention the only two times when substances aren't referenced as dangerous, illicit, self-harming or sad in some way is in The Alchemy and So High School. to my understanding wine is also associated with relaxation, which is a really nice transitional opening line from the rest of the album's chaos and devastation. it's also i think why, despite the upbeat tone, it's also a very calming backing track.

which is basically what the song as a whole connects to in terms of the album's overall storyline! more than just a comedown from the intensity and a basking in happiness after a storm, the song to me mostly represents a return to the self. multiple times i've experienced the sensation of feeling detached from my sense of self, like i'm not me anymore and am not sure how to return to that person, much less feel in touch with my life as a whole. so for me, just the assertion of "what if i told you i'm back?" is... huge. like yes! i'm back! i'm me again! but there's a question in it also. if i told you i'm back, how would you react? can you look past the crazy shit i was pulling or going through before i returned? have you all moved on without me since i was 'gone'? there's a sort of commitment in the lyrics that follow. 'i circled you on a map. i'm coming back so strong'. even though there's a 'what if' attached, she's coming back anyway, one way or the other. this is more tangential but it's something i was thinking about while writing this.

the chorus reiterates this commitment. it's a complete 180 shift in lifestyle and choice-making. we're getting rid of the clowns that don't have a place on our team. we're not keeping anyone around that's harmful. we are focusing on getting the crown we want and that's going to be something to be proud of, rather than ashamed of (and it's clear that desire HAS been shamed in her in many ways, as if she shouldn't desire success or enjoy a sense of 'victory' lest she be a diva/full of herself/make a partner feel small).

i also personally just really love the line 'that child's play back in school is forgiven under my rule'. it's harder to explain this one but there's something about the idea of taking back charge of one's own life, possibly even realizing the insane amount of power you have, and using that to say we're good. we're not fighting like this anymore. (actually that concept is kind of giving veronica sawyer at the end of the heathers musical lmao). we're forgiving and moving on and i'm coming back to you whether you like it or not! and yes i take this to mostly be directed at the general public and her trying to live in the world again and better appreciate her fan relationships and her new romantic one. but i can't say i don't personally relate it to my own close friendships and how ready they always are to accept me in the wake of whatever i was feeling so strongly before. in that way, it's sort of like an anti-bolter! the bolter says that when there are leaks in the floorboards, you run. the alchemy says if the whole boat explodes and you have to ride a piece of fucking driftwood back to shore, you still come back and you let people love you again. and that pays off! you get life and career victories, you get close relationships! you can get people who commit to you that you can commit back to!

but if i'm honest, the main thing i love this song for is its title lyric. it says so much and raises so many questions with so little. she's spent her whole career toeing the line between fate and free will in her story - the things that are predestined according to some outside force vs the things she meticulously arranges and manipulates. where she falls on the spectrum is always grandiose in some way, but it's almost confusing (unless, yknow. you're the same way and get it sort of instinctively) that she can go to the extreme on these beliefs in both directions at difference times. i think that's well-condensed in this song, because she spends MOST of the album caught up in this idea that she's been swept along by some grander force. here though, she switches from fate over to alchemy, which is the very active process of making gold out of something lesser. and yeah, on its own that's an impressive switch. but it's made more intriguing by the phrasing of "who are we to fight the alchemy?" is she taking matters into her own hands via alchemy (as opposed to prophecy)? if so, why is it something they have to not fight? who is doing the alchemy? or is the fun and freedom of this metaphorical alchemy too much to resist, so it's like getting swept up in your own agency?

it raises a lot of questions and to be honest i haven't fully settled on the meaning of that line to me. what i DO know is as a certified fate/free will obsessor i gravitate towards it like catnip.

so yeah, that's the gist of my thoughts. not sure if you'll find anything that's helpful/enjoyable to you in this but! if the alchemy has zero fans i am not of this earth.

#ttpd minutes #the alchemy #answered asks #isitcasualnow #rambles

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annerbhp · 2 years

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A while ago, i was postponing some work i felt insecure about and went on a little the walking dead binge watch. I combined it with day dreaming about ginny harry post apocalypse, like that fic idea you had. It was excellent. Safe and fun thoughts to be in. After witch i did the work and i am now reaping the first rewards. Just sharing what a happy place your blog is for me, even the smallest posts. :)

Amazing how something so dark can be comforting and help reboot our energy and mindset. Glad to even tangentially be part of you taking excellent care of yourself. And great job going back and getting that work done!

In reward, have the first chapter of the hinny zombie apocafic that I'm not sure I'll ever finish. but sometimes taking a break from something before going back to it if we can is a great idea!

Wasteland

Harry wakes in a world that has completely changed. Forced to learn the rules of this new reality as fast as he can in order to survive, he comes across someone more than capable of teaching him. If she would just stop threatening to shoot him long enough to answer a damn question. (harry/ginny, zombie AU, post-apocalypse, magical!harry, muggle!ginny)

warnings: death, suicide, blood, gore, violence, viral pandemic, apocalypse, general end of the world unpleasantness and tragedies

Chapter 1

“It is just about time, I think,” Dumbledore says, voice calm and unhurried as he inspects a silver pocket watch hanging from a frankly ridiculously long fob.

Harry shifts his gaze from the gleaming metal to Dumbledore’s face. With his white beard and robes, he’s hard to pick out against the blindingly white background.

“Time for what?” Harry asks, feeling like maybe he’s forgotten something.

In answer, a train glides silently into the terminal. Dark silhouettes move behind the curtained windows, soft sounds like laughter and voices just far enough out of reach to be indecipherable.

People, waiting to greet him.

“Will you board?” Dumbledore asks, knees dancing up and down under his palms as he taps his toes rhythmically against the ground in what feels like childlike wonder.

A question with an obvious answer, because isn’t this train exactly what Harry’s been waiting for? It feels like it’s been a long time that they’ve been sitting here. Waiting for something. And here it is—warmth and welcome and calm. The kind of calm he’s rarely experienced in his life. At least not that he can remember.

A door on a compartment slides open, golden, warm light pouring out like a path across the empty space.

Before Harry can get to his feet, he registers a peculiar feeling in the pit of his stomach. Like a quiet tug, like something has snagged the back of his robes and won’t let go.

“You are free now,” Dumbledore says.

Yes, Harry knows this. He is free of something that has long held him down. But this is somehow different. Something of his own. He could shrug it off, he knows. He just kind of doesn’t want to.

“I think maybe I’m not quite ready,” Harry realizes.

“If that is your choice,” Dumbledore replies, and Harry can tell he’s pleased, though not without worry as the train door slides shut.

“What is it?” Harry asks.

Dumbledore’s head tilts to the side. “As you know, death is just the beginning. That is even more true in the world you return to than it was before.”

This seems overly cryptic, even for his old Headmaster. “What do you mean?”

Dumbledore smiles. “I’m sorry. Not all things could I foresee.” He gets to his feet, and Harry does as well. “Just remember, Harry. Remember that to live, you must remember what it is you live for. Let your heart guide you, as always, and I have no doubt you will find your path.”

He touches Harry’s cheeks, eyes warm and full of pride as he looks down at him.

“Now wake.”

* * *

Harry wakes with a gasp, the echo of the last question the mediwitch asked him before he closed his eyes still echoing in his ears.

“You don’t feel anything?” she asks, smile friendly from beneath her wimple as she pulls the now-empty flask away from his lips.

Sirius, the arsehole, is smirking over her shoulder at him.

Before Harry can get the word “no” past his lips, he’s out.

It was all hazy after that. Vague passing words and images, more likely dreams than rooted in reality. Was Dumbledore there? No. That makes no sense. His long-dead Headmaster probably had not kept him company while his soul repaired itself after an experimental procedure.

They’d promised it wouldn’t hurt, he remembers. Maybe it hadn’t, but now as he struggles to open his eyes, his head feels like it’s splitting in half. Not an unfamiliar feeling, to be honest, but this time not accompanied by the usual flare of emotion or vision of Voldemort doing something particularly nasty somewhere. It’s just a sharp endless ache.

And maybe that means something. Maybe it actually worked.

With a groan, he cracks his eyes open, his brain having a hard time making sense of the sight in front of him—dark and irregular patterns of what it takes him a moment to realize is the ceiling above him. It wavers unhelpfully, though he assumes that is just his vision and not the stone that is shifting.

His hand gropes blindly to the side, bumping against a flat rock with his glasses folded neatly on them. Slipping them on after a few aborted attempts, he notes that they haven’t helped his vision all that much.

He licks his lips. “Sirius?” he asks, the word coming out as little more than a croak.

There’s no response.

All he can hear is a trickle of water somewhere nearby and the moment he identifies the sound, it triggers a deep, ragged thirst in him. Harry rolls to his side, body heavier and weaker than he expects, knees and hands hitting the rocky ground as he falls to the floor. He crumples, limbs shaking. Reaching out with his forearms, he drags himself towards the sound of water, reaching the edge of a small pool. He scoops water to his mouth, heedless of the cold water slopping down his chin and neck and soaking his shirt. He drinks and drinks like he may never find the end of his thirst, his arms tiring before he does.

Flopping over onto his back, he lets his arms fall wide. The irregular rocks of the ceiling tell him he’s in a cave, not the monastery. The sacred grotto, he assumes. As he stares up at the ceiling, it isn’t clear if the moss is glowing, or the rocks themselves. He closes his eyes against the pulsing light.

See you on the other side, Harry. The last thing Sirius said to him.It isn’t exactly proving true. They hadn’t been sure, though. How long it might take for him to heal. If Harry would even survive the attempt.

Apparently, he has.

Reaching for the ledge of the platform he’d been lying on, Harry drags himself to his feet, one hand braced on the rough wall as he tries not to trip on the cloak twisted around his body. He looks for any sign of his wand or shoes, anything other than the thin bedclothes he’s wearing under a brown woolen cloak of sorts. There’s nothing though, the space empty of anything other than rocky walls and ceiling and the trickling pond.

His legs are shaky, his head still pounding, but as his vision clears, he can make out a square of white light in the distance. He stumbles towards it, very much hoping it’s the way out.

His legs start to feel more solid as he goes, like his body is beginning to adjust, muscles slowly remembering how they work. Approaching the square of light, he’s very relieved to see that it is the cave entrance.

There’s slight pressure across the front of his body as he passes through what he assumes is a ward of some kind. Hopefully one that will trigger a warning and send someone down to look for him.

He steps outside, the rush of sound and light and wind hitting him all at once. His head spins, hand tightening on the rough stone wall as he fights off a wave of nausea.

Slowly the world around him settles, eyes adjusting to the searing brightness. He’s on a narrow ledge, the rock dropping steeply away towards the sea. Waves pound against the rocks, a faint spray of mist and salt against his face helping to further clear the muddled mess in his head.

Harry retreats, hoping to duck back into the cave to get out of the wind and bright light, but the entrance has disappeared, more likely carefully obscured behind a ward again.

“Dammit,” he mutters.

He slides down against the rough wall, sitting on a rock. It’s freezing, though his cloak does seem to have been set with some sort of warming spell. In the light, he can see the flash of runes along the hemmed edge. That doesn’t keep cold from seeping up into his sock-clad feet.

Hopefully someone will come get him before he freezes to death. Huddling down as far into the cloak as he can, he settles in to wait.

He’s too miserable to sleep, and eventually boredom and curiosity set in, Harry looking around for anything of interest, or just anything to distract him from his discomfort.

There’s a shallow puddle on a large curved rock next to him, collected from a recently passing storm. Leaning over it, Harry sees the grey sky reflected on the surface. His own face slides into view as he shifts closer. It’s hard to make out, the planes of his face almost feeling foreign. Bracing one arm on the rock, he leans closer, brushing his hair back from his forehead. For a second the skin looks smooth, untouched.

Like maybe it’s actually gone.

Wind ripples across the puddle, Harry’s face fracturing and obscuring. He rubs his fingertips across his forehead, finding the familiar spot, and he feels it, just the faintest ridge, like a scar finally healed and beginning to fade.

He closes his eyes, reaching out for that hated, vile connection he spent so many years learning to block, to keep Voldemort from manipulating his mind or emotions.

There’s nothing there. Just the continual sweeping rush of the wind and the nearby roar of waves beating against the cliffs.

He is completely alone. Perhaps for the first time since he was a year old.

Leaning back against the jagged cliff, he feels the unexpected press of tears.

It worked. It actually fucking worked.

Just as Sirius promised. And, maybe, just maybe, this means he doesn’t have to die. That the sacrifice he’s been so carefully trained up to accept in the name of ending this war, stopping Voldemort, maybe it won’t be necessary after all.

Maybe he actually gets a future.

“This will work,” Sirius promises, hand firm on his shoulder. “We’ll get that bastard out of you and then we’ll finish it. I swear to you. All you have to do is survive. Do you hear me?”

Harry opens his eyes, the swelling sea stretching out in front of him. Had that happened? Has Sirius finished it? Or does Harry still need to play his part? Does he need to kill Voldemort himself? His heart thunders away in his chest, a solid reminder of the life ahead of him. But also the stakes of this war.

It’s time to find out what’s going on. There’s no more room for waiting. It’s time to end this.

Getting to his feet, he looks up the narrow set of stairs hugging the cliff face.

At least the climb will probably help keep him warm. Wrapping the cloak tighter around his body, he starts to climb, swearing each time he jams his toe or steps on a sharp pebble.

It seems to take an eternity, but he finally crests the ridge and gets his first glimpse of the monastery, very much hoping to see people already moving towards him. Maybe a nice warm bowl of stew, or a massive mug of tea with more sugar than will properly dissolve.

What he sees instead is the lonely stretch of rolling heath and a crumbling stone ruin tucked in between a few scraggly trees. Lancet windows empty of glass and complex vaulting fallen in on itself.

Harry blinks, wondering if his brain has been damaged in some way, his eyes not able to make sense of the sight in front of him, nothing like the memory he has of this place from what feels like only moments before.

The building looks to him what he imagines Muggles looking at it have seen for the last 300 years since the magical religious order was forced into hiding with the Statute—a crumbling series of medieval arches and cloisters.

Is that what this is? Did whatever they did to his brain when they removed the horcrux…is he somehow now a Muggle? Is he going to hit a Muggle Repelling ward and wander back off into the distance without even realizing it?

Only one way to find out.

He reaches one of the outlying buildings first—the groundskeeper’s cottage, if he recalls. It’s burned down to the foundations, a haphazard pile of singed beams and a partially collapsed chimney the only clue to what the space might have once been. Not a recent fire, either, Harry thinks, kneeling down to touch the hearthstones. Not just the lack of heat and smoke, but the green plants and moss starting to take over the ruin telling him months rather than days or weeks. Maybe years.

Years.

If this is somehow real, if he’s not imagining it. What the hell could this possibly mean?

What happened here?

Harry knows the monastery to be lively with a branch of magical brothers and sisters, the last of an order set in place to be caretakers of the very cave he woke in. An ancient magical site with healing properties. But now it is a true ruin, scorch marks on the stone, windows broken, beams fallen.

For all the violence of the scene, it is eerily peaceful.

Harry walks the perimeter, passively noting the pattern of fire damage through the pounding in his head. Though hard to see with the growth of green over the scars, it’s somehow too regular, too controlled. As if it were magical. Done on purpose. But why?

Around the back, the brother’s garden is overgrown, various plants gone to seed or brown and shriveled. A row of trees along a tumbled stone fence bears small apples, probably not quite ripe, but at the sight of them Harry is too hungry to care for such trivial worries.

He plucks a few apples from the tree, immediately eating them. They’re hard and tart and he forces himself to stop after two, knowing he will pay for that if he doesn’t, but picks a few extra, shoving them in the pockets of his cloak as he moves to finish his circle of the property.

It’s a harder task than it should be, Harry tripping and falling in his distraction.

“Fuck,” he says, wincing at the pain in his hip as it smacks solidly into some sort of a branch or bar. Clearly he’s even weaker than he realized.

Pushing back up off the ground, his hand closes around something that it takes him a moment to realize is a bone. In a pile of bones. A nearby skull gapes back at him.

A human skull.

With a hoarse cry, Harry scrambles back, wiping his hand on his leg.

The meager bites of apple roil unpleasantly in his stomach as he stares down at what is clearly the remains of a person, the tattered remnants of fabric and some dried hardened bits of flesh. Like they’d fallen on this spot and weren’t buried. Felled by the killing curse and left to be eaten by wildlife.

He scans the rest of the space, horrified to see at least another dozen similar piles.

Had the war come here? Had the Death Eaters tracked him down? Was this all to get to him? Did Voldemort win?

Harry’s entire body prickles with sudden awareness, adrenaline thundering through his veins. Forcing his squeamishness aside, he searches through he remains, needing a wand in his hand now. He finds nothing, reminding himself that the monks and nuns here did not wield wands, invested as they were in the old magicks.

“We have no such need for parlor tricks,” the head of the order had said with a serene smile full of faith.

Only now he, along with the rest of the order, is more than likely dead. An order that managed to hide and maintain themselves for 300 years. Wiped away completely.

And Sirius—

Harry squeezes his eyes shut, refusing to even entertain the idea that Sirius is somewhere in this pile of anonymous bodies.

Right now, he just needs to find a way to fucking survive. Because if the war with Voldemort isn’t done, he’ll finish it. The way he was always supposed to.

Forcing himself to his feet, he shifts through the rest of the remains, not finding a single wand. But he does find a fairly intact pair of shoes. He also loses the small amount of food he managed to eat, gagging and throwing up during the process. He keeps going though, making a complete circuit of the building, aware of the sun shifting lower and lower in the sky.

Back around at the garden, Harry is forced to realize that he isn’t going to find any answers here. He also doesn’t have the slightest form of protection. Can’t make fire, doesn’t have a way to light his way, or build shelters. He has no food and no water.

And no one is coming.

He digs up whatever he can from the overgrown garden, a few gnarly carrots and a handful of underripe apples. On impulse, he also grabs a moldering old rake with metal spikes on the end, using it more as a walking stick, but feeling mildly better having it, for all he knows it isn’t going to protect him from shit, let alone a Death Eater if one should come across his path.

He sets off in a southerly direction, vaguely knowing the location of the monastery, and hoping to come across a road or a Muggle village at the very least. He eventually finds a game path worn into the grasses, leading him over mostly treeless hills.

As the sun dips lower and lower, slipping below the horizon, Harry makes out what could be the silhouette of a fence far in the distance. He keeps on as long as he can before he starts tripping on things in the dark. He finds a tree among low shrubby bushes.

He spends a miserable night huddled at the base of the tree wrapped in his cloak, burrowed into the bushes in search of any sort of warmth. He dozes in and out, never truly falling deeply asleep.

Ignoring the lingering ache in his head and body, the constant gnawing thirst and hunger, Harry pushes on as the sky finally lightens.

By midday he’s at the fence line and follows it to a dirt track that slowly widens. It doesn’t look like it’s been driven on in a while, but it’s still a sign of civilization which will mean water and food and some way to make contact.

He ignores the fact that it will likely be Muggles. He can’t exactly be choosy right now. Or worry about how he will explain wandering in from a place the Muggles don’t even know exists.

He comes across a sheep carcass first.

It’s a lot like the bodies back at the monastery, scattered bones and lingering bits of flesh. Must have died and been eaten by some sort of scavenger.

Harry shudders at the thought and keeps moving.

Movement on a distant hilltop catches his eye. Another sheep, he imagines. One luckier than this one. But it’s hard to tell at this distance.

He finally spots a building a few hours later. He stands on a hill watching it, trying to catch any movement of people, but the chimneys are clear, no sounds covering the distance. The adjacent paddock is empty of animals.

As he gets closer, a low stone wall lines the gravel lane, enclosing a yard with a few sparse trees. The door to the whitewashed stone outbuilding creaks as it listlessly shifts in the wind. A car sits in the yard, a tire swing hanging from a tree, other toys strewn about the yard.

The main house is built of dark stone, white casing windows on the top floor. Neither of the chimneys on either end of the gabled roof are giving off any smoke.

Weeds have grown tall up across the doorway and windows on the ground floor.

“Hello?” Harry calls out, his voice feeling unnaturally loud in the silence.

There is no response.

Crossing the yard, Harry steps up to the front door. He knocks, the sound echoing loudly. He waits, but there is no answer. He glances back at the car, the empty paddock.

Reaching out, he grasps the doorknob, cautiously easing the door open. “Hello?” he calls again as he steps inside.

The interior of the house is musty and dark, sunlight barely penetrating the dirt-darkened windows. From the shaft of light falling through the open door, Harry can see that dust has settled across every surface. A collection of chairs and couches sit around a fireplace, black soot streaking up the whitewashed walls.

The whole place smells of rot and decay.

Harry crosses over to a phone hanging on the wall, lifting the receiver. He’s greeted with silence, tapping the cradle a few times, but there’s no dial tone. Not that he’d know who to call anyway.

There’s a tin of biscuits sitting out on the counter and Harry can’t resist pulling it open and shoving one in his mouth, his stomach rumbling painfully. He nearly gags at the taste. They’re horrible—irredeemably stale, more sawdust than anything—but he’s hungry enough to force it down.

A dragging sound from upstairs has Harry spinning on his heel, the tin lid hitting the ground with a deafening clang.

“Hello?” he calls again, not keen on having to explain trespassing and helping himself to food, no matter how old.

There’s no response, just another low scraping sound. Feeling an inexplicable need to maintain the pressing silence, he eases up the stairs, placing his feet carefully. The stairs still creak mournfully underfoot.

At the top is a long hallway, two doors leading to rooms along the front of the house, one of them with a trunk pushed across it. At the end of the hall is what appears to be a loo. But it’s the long white wall on the rear of the house that catches his attention. Someone has written on it with what looks like dark paint.

forgíe us the wrangs we hae wrocht

th’ de’il sunder us

Harry feels his heart thud away in his chest, wondering why someone would write that. Turning to the first room, Harry opens the door. It’s a bedroom, a double bed taking up most of the space with a wardrobe on one wall. In the corner near the front window is a chair. In the chair sits what was once a person, a shotgun still in what is left of their mouth, the spray of blood and brains on the wall behind dark with age.

Harry slaps his hand over his mouth, nearly doubling over as hot nausea burns at his throat. He stumbles back into the hall.

The scraping sound has only become louder, the second door listlessly pressing out against a chest that has been dragged across the doorway. The door hits the chest and then falls back. Again and again.

“Hello?” Harry asks, his voice shaking as he moves closer.

With the chest in place, he can’t really see inside the room.

“Is someone in there?”

There’s no answer, Harry leaning down to pull the chest away from the door enough to peer into the room.

A hand emerges through the widened crack, flying out at Harry with alarming speed. He stumbles back, tripping over his own feet and falling hard against the wall behind him.

He doesn’t think he’s hit his head, but there is also no way he is seeing what he thinks he is seeing. The arm is pale, grey skin stretched over bone, the tattered remains of cloth hanging from it, slimy and grasping.

Harry gropes for his wand, finding nothing but air.

The scraping escalates into an insistent thud as someone—some thing—pushes harder and harder against the door, something like a growl echoing out into the hall. The chest scrapes along the floor, a face emerging after the arm. Harry barely gets a glimpse of a desiccated, decaying face, mouth wide and gaping—one ratty ribbon hanging from what might have once been a pigtail—before he recovers, kicking out with his feet, slamming the chest back into place. Rolling back up to his feet, he puts both hands on the door, shoving it hard. He rams it against the grasping, insistent arm over and over before it finally pulls back into the room, the door shutting with a solid click.

“What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck,” Harry pants, shoving the chest firmly against the door before turning on his heel and thundering down the stairs.

He doesn’t stop running until he is back out in the yard. He spins around in a circle, having no idea where to go, what to do.

His eyes land on the car. He rips the door open, sliding into the driver’s seat. Groping around, he finds keys still dangling in the ignition. He grasps them, twisting them, but the engine is dead, the ignition just clicking and clicking, and Harry knows next to nothing about cars except that this is a very bad sign.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he says, banging the palms of his hands against the steering wheel.

He rests his head down against it, his breath thundering in his ears.

He must have imagined it. There is no way he just saw what he thinks he did.

Turning his head to the side, he sees newspapers spread across the front passenger seat. Pushing off a hand-addressed envelope from on top of a copy of The Scotsman, he peers down at the date.

March 23rd.

2004.

Harry curses. More than three years after he went under the procedure at the monastery. And this paper doesn’t seem recent either, to judge from the way the edge crumbles under his fingers, how it’s browned with age.

There’s a larger broadsheet underneath, this one a copy of The Herald.

STAY IN YOUR HOMES

The headline covers nearly the top half above the fold. Harry sits up, carefully unfolding it. Still no explanation of the strange hemorrhagic fever sweeping through London.

Harry skims the article, most of it speculation about the disease’s origins. It maybe came from France, perhaps originally from China or the Americas. Spread by blood and bodily fluids. Do not go to the hospitals, even if you suspect you have the disease. Isolate in your homes and wait for help.

Harry looks back up at the house, thinks about the body he saw, the decayed nature of it. They’ve been waiting a long while from the looks of it.

But not the thing. Not the other…person. That looked dead, but was still moving.

An Inferi? In a Muggle house?

Harry closes his eyes and he’s instantly back to the last time he saw an Inferi: in the watery cave with Dumbledore, the army of bodies rising up out of the lake to protect Voldemort’s locket-horcrux. The swirl of fire from Dumbledore’s wand driving them back despite his weakened state.

That was the night so many things became so crystal clear. Above all the understanding that Harry himself would have to die, just as Dumbledore did, body falling, falling, falling from the top of the tower. Snape standing and watching it happen, long before Harry would finally learn of his true loyalties, loyalties that would get the potions master killed less than a year later.

That was Harry’s last night at Hogwarts as a student before he went on the run with Sirius, his godfather endlessly focused on finding any other way to defeat Voldemort. They’d looked for years even as they destroyed every other one of Voldemort’s horcruxes they could get their hands on.

Each minor victory had only moved them one step closer to the inescapable fact that as long as Harry lived, Voldemort could never be defeated. Harry would have to die. Even Dumbledore hadn’t been able to see a way around that.

That didn’t stop Sirius from searching, even as the war grew around them, not a loud, concussive battle, but one played out in politics and laws and Muggles and Muggleborns disappearing with barely a ripple.

Maybe it’d been selfish, taking the alternative procedure Sirius found rather than just facing Voldemort like the prophecy always said he would need to. Maybe that shortcut is what lead to this, whatever this is. The wrongness of this world that has been here from the moment Harry woke, no matter how much he tries to ignore it.

He leans forward, resting his head against the steering wheel.

He’d much rather think he’s woken in a nightmare. That maybe he’s still under and this is all an elaborate hallucination? Or that he’s just cracked under the pressure of prying out that intrusive fragment of Voldemort’s soul entwined with his.

Is he imagining all of this? It’s the only thing he can think of, and yet everything in him is screaming that this is real. No matter how implausible, no matter how horrible. This is real.

He rubs at his forehead, an old habit. He feels cut off, almost wishing, for a second, that he could still reach out and steal glimpses from Voldemort, that he could know what the hell is happening. Where he was, what he was doing. Where the fight he spent too long running from is happening.

The lack of connection is haunting, mostly because he can’t know if that means he’s just no longer a horcrux or if Voldemort is gone too. If what’s happened in that house and is written on the cover of the newspapers, is this Voldemort? Has he finally achieved what he always wanted? The complete obliteration of Muggles? An endless army of Inferi to conquer the world?

And what could Harry do about it even if it were true? He has no wand. He doesn’t even have proper trousers for fuck’s sake.

He looks at the house.

Gathering the tattered remains of his bravery, Harry opens the car door, stepping out into the yard with its abandoned toys. He walks back to the front door, hesitating slightly before pushing it open and stepping inside. He listens carefully, and all he can hear is the slow rhythmic thumping of a body against a door.

Near the front door is a peg board hung with coats, scarves, and the like, most of them large but a few in the small scale of child. A dusty jumper is hung carelessly across the back of a chair in the kitchen.

Harry reminds himself that no one in this place is in need of any of this anymore. Beating the jumper free of as much dust as he can, Harry pulls it on over his head. He kicks off the worn, ill-fitting shoes he took from the abbey and tries the various pairs of boots by the door until he finds the ones that fit best.

What he’d really like are some trousers. Maybe a blanket. He looks up the stairs.

Thinking of that thing upstairs in the bedroom, he picks up an iron poker from the fireplace before easing back up the stairs.

Up in the room with the body, Harry finds a pair of corduroy trousers, some thick woolen socks, and after another moment of hesitation, pulls a blanket off the foot of the bed. He tries to ignore the soft, incessant thumping coming from the next room.

Stopping in front of the body, Harry considers taking the shotgun. But even if he could face trying to get it free, he has no idea how to fire a gun, has never even held one in his hands. He’s probably more likely to shoot himself. In the end, he decides to leave it where it is.

“I’m sorry,” he says to the body. “I’m sorry this happened to you.”

Whatever this is.

Passing back by the loo, he roots out some painkillers from the medicine cabinet before going back down into the kitchen. A quick search turns up a tin of beans and a jar of some sort of preserves. Harry takes a spoon and a can opener and heads out to the yard.

Getting back in the car, he pulls the door closed, locking it for good measure. He eats the tin of beans, flipping through the paper for any more clues, most of the pages disintegrating as he moves them. Partial, crumbled muggle faces look up at him.

Once he finishes with the food, he curls up in the backseat of the car, pulling the blanket over himself and closing his eyes.

He sleeps fitfully, and once the sky starts to lighten, he eats the jar of what turns out to be some kind of pickle, filling the empty jar with water from the yard pump.

Going once more into the house, he finds a rucksack, filling it with his meager haul of another two tins filched from the kitchen, a pot, a box of matches, and the blanket with the jar of water carefully wrapped in it. After a moment’s consideration, he picks up the iron poker.

Turning away from the house, he looks down the long winding road. He needs to press on. Needs to find another person. Needs to figure out what is going on.

He starts walking.

#wasteland #zombie apocalyse #hinny #annerb fic

86 notes · View notes

railingsofsorrow · 10 months

Text

Truth

[peter parker x reader]

summary: peter kept you like a secret but you kept him like an oath.

pairing(s): p.parker x f!reader; h.osborn x f!reader

w.c: 4.4K

warnings/content: the pain was supposed to be unbearable but I kind of had a change of heart last minute; canon is a joke here more or less; lots of crying lots of apologies lots of heartache; the Talk ™ happens; foul language; minor violence; tw!flashbacks; yelling (arguments); tw!no harry in this one :(; some fluff? just a bit.

A/N: third installment of broken promises. so, at first this was supposed to be the last chapter but my mind gave me ideas and I'm just going to follow it. next chapter will be an epilogue. enjoy!

navi

masterpost

series masterlist

[1] [1.2] [2] [3] [4]

❝ And there were are again when nobody had to know.

You kept me like a secret,

but I kept you like an oath. ❞

A zoom of red and black flashed through your tangential vision and you made a sound of exasperation from deep within your throat.

“Are you pissed that I saved you?” Spideman teased, swaying in one of his webs as he followed after you without much concern. You were doing a great job at ignoring him, until you noticed you had no idea where you were going anymore. You halted, surveying the area with raised eyebrows. You have never ever been to this side of the city. “Lost, aren't we?”

“Shut up, webs.”

The wind suddenly went still. The sky was preparing to release heavy streams of a thunderstorm, everything was gray as clouds swerved together, taunting you. You didn't have an umbrella, you didn't even put on anything other than a thin blouse as you left your dorm. That was just so fucking great. Is the universe playing you? You think it was.

“What did you say?”

You froze, remembering you weren't alone.

“I told you to shut up—”

Spiderman landed in front of you causing you to stumble back in surprise. “Yes but what did you call me?” the voice almost wrecked you all over again. And you knew you had to get out of there. Get away from him. “Where are you— Wait!” You yanked your arm away when he attempted to pull you back. The eyes of the mask widened slightly. He wasn't expecting that reaction.

“Don't touch me.”

“I'm sorry,” The hero tried, softly, “I didn't mean to upset you I just— You called me exactly how someone used to call me.”

Peter. How can you be so dense?

“What do you want from me?” You snapped, striding towards him as he backed away lightly. “Need me to kneel in honor of your saving grace? Thank you, oh great Spiderman. I would be nothing without you—”

“What's your problem?” He didn't know where that hostility came from. What had he done to make you this mad? That had been the first time he appeared as Spiderman to you. He can't remember doing anything bad to make you... hate him like this.

“My problem, webs,” You made sure to emphasize the old nickname you used to call him. “Is that I've been lied to for an entire year. And I don't appreciate being made a fool.”

So this is why you're crying. He thought. Someone hurt you.

He had caught onto your red-rimmed eyes the moment he pushed you to the sidewalk to stop the car from literally hitting you. Yes, alright. Peter made a vow to take some distance from you. But the partnered project wasn't his doing, neither was your clumsiness while crossing the street. He had to do something. Spiderman duty and all. No, he was not watching you beforehand. He didn't do that.

Not all the time.

Rain started pouring down in small drops. It was only a matter of minutes until it increased.

“You're lost.” He grimaced when you groaned because he was still following you. “Let me take you wherever you want to go. It's going to start raining heavily soon.”

“I'm not lost,” you replied, pathetically holding onto your scarf. The one you planned to burn not a few minutes ago but now it gave you a sense of security. “You can go save somebody else.”

“I'm not leaving you alone.”

You picked up your pace, turning your back to him again. “Why not? You've done it before.”

What.

What?

“I've never seen you before,” He succeeded in matching your fast strides, eyes studying your frame for any indication of the reason why you had said that. As far as you knew, Spiderman hadn't crossed paths with you. Peter had.

You stopped. He could see your shoulders tensing and your hands gripping tightly the objects on them. His eyes only now detected the scarf and a worn out cover book.

“If you've never seen me before, then how come you know my name?”

Peter felt his insides turning cold. “I don't.”

The expression you wore told him otherwise. As if you were one step ahead of him in a game of tag. Your head tilted as you stared him up and down. “You're not a very good liar.”

Something in what you said irked Peter. That single sentence, filled up with such certainty that had him tripping over his own head. What exactly did that mean?

“Goodbye, Spiderman.”

His eyes squinted as he could finally see what was in your hand other than the scarf. That wasn't a book. That was a photo album. Not just a photo album.

In a bold move, he wrapped an arm around your waist and swept you up with him. You didn't scream, but a choked up sound came out of your throat in surprise. He heard a curse on his ear as your arms gripped his shoulders tight.

“Fuck— What the fuck, Peter!” You pushed him. He didn't move an inch, it didn't even hurt. He was too immersed in what you said — what you called him to do anything else other than stare at you. “I told you I hated it when you did that without warning!” You pushed him again, both hands this time, and he stepped back, blinking. Your anger was in the palm of your hands and the way your face turned red.

None of you gave much thought about the rain.

“You absolutely fool!” You croaked out, hitting his shoulder in an attempt to inflict a chip of the pain he had inflicted on you. “You never listen. Never—”

Everything that his brain could think was she remembers she remembers she remembers. He took ahold of one of your hands, but you kept punching his chest with the other. The photo album and the scarf were forgotten on the rooftop, somewhere you didn't care nor did it matter.

He said your name. You pushed him one last time before a sob broke out of your lips. It seemed to have come from deep down your chest, so much pain. Peter’s throat closed up.

She remembers she remembers she remembers she remembers

How?

“Breathe.” He said softly, when he finally got the chance to approach you without you squirming away. “Please, breathe.” His hesitation in touching you was transparent, it was like he didn't know what to do anymore after years of knowing it with eyes closed. When you let yourself be held by him, face buried in his chest, it was like nothing had changed at all. Peter guided you through an old breathing exercise you had all of your life for anxious situations. Rubbing a hand against your back. “I'm sorry,” he whispered, lips pressed against your forehead. Jaw clenching so he could stop his own crying. He couldn't do that. Not now. He didn't have time. You would run away at any second. “I'm so sorry.”

“Get me out of here,” you ordered, running a hand through your face as you sniffled. You leaned away from him albeit reluctantly. Your body was so used to his touch. He was so warm. So safe.

He took off his mask, feeling weird that he kept using it until now. He didn't even realize. “Can we please talk?”

“So, you'll lie again?” You replied halfheartedly, grabbing your belongings that were safely tucked isolated from the rain. Not your doing.

Peter trailed closer to you, “I won't. I promise.”

You laugh without humor, turning to look at him, “You've promised before, Peter. You've made so many promises and not once have you kept a single one.”

He ran a hand through his already disheveled curls, exhaling with difficulty. “Please. Please, I—” You are right. I'm an idiot. I'm a liar. I'm a mess. But please, don't go. Please. “I can tell you everything. Let me explain.”

You shouldn't have agreed.

Now you were sitting in his apartment, at the edge of his bed, afraid of moving. Afraid of breathing. There were so many memories and none at all. That place didn't exactly mean anything to you. But it brought back the past — what happened, who was gone — you could barely blink without a flashback resurfacing.

That's another thing. Your memories weren't supposed to come back at all. Strange's spell should have made sure of that. He made everyone forget who Peter Parker was because of all of that mess he created. Yes, Stephen did create that whole mess about the multiverse. How would you explain letting four teenagers deal with an identity reveal and wrongful accusations by themselves?

You swore the Avengers only cared about themselves. Even before Thanos happened. The world is ending: well, Captain America isn't available at the moment. He must be taking a long shit.

They were always busy when Peter needed help.

You were overcompensating again. Blaming people who shouldn't be blamed. Or maybe they should, but not for the reason you were suffering. Not right now.

“Coffee?”

Peter had changed from his superhero uniform to jogger pants and a dark blue jumper. His messy hair pointed all around and he didn't help by moving his fingers through it at every five minutes. That's his tell for being nervous.

Or has that changed, too?

His question came back to you and you saw the way he hesitated.

Peter was fighting his mind on whether he should've offer you the cup or leave it on the dinner table so you could grab it yourself. He feared you might throw it on him. With the burning hot liquid.

He'd probably deserve it.

You took it from his hands, your fingers brushing slightly. You quickly drawled back to the bed, eyes shifting through the small apartment. That was nothing like his room back at May's place. God, it was so hard not to go back. May Parker. What must Peter feel without her?

He's on his own.

Alone.

In this gray apartment, lifeless surroundings. No pictures on the wall, nothing hanging from the keychain. His keys were thrown on a bowl by the door.

Pursing your lips, you could feel the extra sweetened taste of the coffee. Honey. He remembers how you took your coffee. Why has your taste not changed? It should have. It's been a year.

It's been a year and he still remembers how you take your coffee.

“You said you would explain.” You spoke after a large sip of the coffee. Your tongue was burning. Good, that's what you wanted. “So, explain.”

Peter took a deep breath and started talking. As he started detailing everything, the fog in your mind disappeared little by little, acquiring scenes and colors to each respective memory. It finally felt as if your mind was yours, not someone else's memories and stories that you had made up. The migraines made sense. It was your past knocking and knocking but you didn't have the key to open the door, now you did.

You didn’t know for how long he kept on talking, until he broke the silence.

“Say something.”

Your heavy stare to the dark liquid in the cup drifted to his eyes, he was staring this whole time, a desperate kind of gaze. Before you let out a response to everything he said, an object caught your attention.

“Ned gave you that.” You said, narrowing your eyes at the small lego figure. Your lips breaking into a grin. “We were at what, freshman year?”

Peter watched you take the toy quietly, something filling his chest with warmth at the way you were smiling. He saw it before. It was what he sought for after a bad day, having you smiling like that at him made him forget any problem from his double life.

“You know, that was like a good luck charm to him. He gave it to you because he knew you'd never lose it.” His gaze fell to his hands, one of his fingers was bandaged poorly. He'd tried to cook and, well, he was a mess. He's a mess in everything. “Peter.” He didn't look up. He couldn't.

His mind flashed with your first real argument. It felt like that same moment all over again. And it was his fault, always his fault.

“I just— Peter, I can't, I can't lose you again. If you go and don't come back I don't know what I'll do—”

He didn't really listen, did he? Those words should've been more important, But he was desperate then and he was desperate when Strange told him everyone would forget who he was. You needed to be safe. And all of the people he cared about needed to forget about him for that to happen.

“I will come back,” he said seriously, tilting his head to meet your eyes, “I promise you I'll come back, okay?”

“You promised before.”

How many promises had he broken?

“Peter,” you said, tone softer than the one you had used before. All of that might have been breaking you but you had no idea what Peter had gone through by himself. His intentions were the best ones possible, you knew that. That boy could never hurt you on purpose. But he made a mistake and he was already suffering for it, that was no point in you adding to it. Your heart clenched at the sobs he was giving out. You wrapped your arms around him slowly, ignoring the way your body reacted to him – as if it missed his touch and it was finally home. His face buried into the soft fabric of your shirt, tears staining it instantly as he hugged your waist.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” he let out in a broken voice, tightening his hold around you as if he feared you were going to take off at any second. You should. You really should. He didn't deserve you. He doesn't believe he ever did.

By the time he stopped crying, the two of you had settled on the floor, cross-legged in front of each other. Your phone was vibrating incessantly on your purse, but you didn't move to grab it.

“You can take it.” He sniffled, giving you a soft smile. “It's alright.”

“What are you going to do now?” You asked, ignoring what he said.

“I— I don't know.” He blinked at you. “I didn't expect you to...”

“That wasn't supposed to happen.” A crease formed between your browns. “You didn't plan on telling me, ever, did you?”

He stayed silent and you took that as an answer.

“Why do you keep doing this?” You croaked out. “I've loved you all my life but nobody has ever hurt me like you have, Peter.”

Letting out a shaky breath, he nodded, “I know. I know.” His eyes danced through your features, you had a kind of look he's seen before. Only this time was worse, because there was nothing that indicated you'd ever forgive him. If you choose to walk away, he wouldn't blame you. It's what he deserved. It's what he deserved back then, too. “I never meant to hurt you. But I lost everything, if I lost you—”

“You chose to lose me!” You exclaimed. “You chose to not make me remember— at the edge of the Statue of Liberty, when it had all crumbled down? Do you remember promising me? Was it all just a lie?” The last part was a broken whisper. You couldn't handle being angry at him anymore. That was exhausting.

“No.” He said quickly. “No, it wasn't just a lie. I loved you. I still—”

“Don't finish that sentence.”

“I do,” He reached for one of your hands but you drew it back, averting his gaze. He inhaled sharply as if physically pained him. “I still love you. I don't know what love is without you.” He huffed out a humorless laugh. “And you have every reason to not forgive me. You have every right to— to hate me. But I love you more than anything in my life. You have to trust me on this.”

The coffee had turned cold, you had let it settle on the coffee table and forgotten about it over the hour you've been talking. More than one hour — you noticed, taking a look at the ticking clock on the wall.

You missed when being around Peter made time go by fast that you didn't even realize because you were having the best moments of your life.

That's the feeling it was supposed to remain. Not heartache. Not regret.

I love you too, Peter. That never changed.

“Okay.” His neck snapped from how fast he turned to look up at you.

“What?”

“I said, it's okay, Peter.” Your tone was not harsh, farther from it, actually. But your throat was closing up and you really didn't want to start crying again. You knew this time you wouldn't be able to stop. You were also tired. Not knowing if you could trust the love of your life because of the choices he kept on making. Looking into his eyes and seeing that same person you fell for but his actions said otherwise. A sigh fell from your lips as your phone vibrated again. “I can't fight with you anymore.” You replied, letting it ring for the tenth time. Whoever it was would have to wait, you needed to let some things out of your chest first. “Not about this, not about anything else. I'm tired. And I'm—I'm hurt.” His knuckles turned white from how strong he was holding his own coffee cup. It wasn't anger but fear. Peter feared for what you were about to say. If it was what he was thinking... “I don't believe your promises.” You said, not cowering under his gaze.

That's it — Peter thought. — I'm losing you forever.

This is how your story ends: pages filled with tears and heartbreak that overcame years of soft love and good memories.

It's only fair. But at the same time, no. It isn't. All of that can't be destroyed.

Peter is so conflicted. He's a determined kid, you see. Ever since a child he was obsessed with starting things and finishing them. May always told him he got that from his father. That's how he knows, from the moment he first laid his eyes on your crinkled smile, that he'd never let you go. He'd never hurt you to drive you away, that's a vow he took silently, to himself.

He broke that, too. Peter didn't deserve it, that much he knew. But was he supposed to let you go exactly like he did in the past? Is he supposed to make the same mistake he did back then?

Is he supposed to keep breaking his promise?

“But I do forgive you.” His breath hitched. And all of the things he was planning to say to beg you to stay were thrown out of the window of his beaten up apartment. “I don't think I could ever—” you shook your head, the corner of your mouth tugging upwards in a sad smile. “I don't think I could ever hold a grudge over you. It's you, Peter.” When you faced him there was something in his eyes you recognized and you made the choice to let it linger there for a while longer.

“You don't have to.” Peter said. “To forgive me, I mean. I don't deserve it and it's okay if you don't.”

You hummed quietly, cracking under his stare and looking away. “You're special to me,” you paused, not understanding where this would lead. It was up to your heart now. A dangerous path. “And I can't say I don't forgive you when I do. Maybe not completely now...” the look you gave him made him convey the words you weren't able to say. “But I will. Someday.”

There was nothing that Peter desired more in the world than to hold you. But he lost that right.

Fuck, he lost everything, didn't he?

“You can get it.” He stared at your empty coffee cup. His ears picked up on the incessant vibration of your cell since the first time it started. “It's probably important.” He gave you a half smile. You exhaled frustratedly but stood up to get the phone call and talk to whoever needed you that fast.

Hi, Harry.

He chose to ignore the tug at his heart and focus on the hairs in his arms going up. Danger.

He watched from his window five police cars racing down the avenue.

“Hey, so,” he drifted his attention away from the scene in the streets to you, who was munching on your lower lip. That's your conflicted tell. “MIT kinda has a Spiderman worthy threat right now.”

“The police can take care of it.”

Your eyes narrowed.

“What have you done to Peter Parker? He'd never say something like that.” His lips curled in an amused grin. Was that an expression different from the forlorn one you usually saw in him? It's been so long that you've seen that glint in Peter's eyes. Life. Happiness. The world was just cruel like that. “Leave it to the police? Where is the friendly neighborhood with witty remarks? He saved my ass plenty of times and canceled dates to save others and you're telling me to leave it to the police?”

The room seemed lighter. Maybe the conversation cleared up some things, the tension was almost gone now.

Peter folded his arms across his chest to pretend his ears weren't ringing with the radio on his room. You didn't need superhuman hearing to hear it, it was loud enough.

“I have priorities right now,” he said, sitting down on his bed at your previous spot, his hand smoothing down the wrinkled mattress. You could see — you knew — he was craving to go out there. That was his instinct, his calling. When you released everything you needed to say, you didn't mean that he should stop being himself. That he should hold back a part of him. Because that wouldn't be fair.

“Yes, you do.” You sit down beside him and he watched as your hands almost touched. “Your priority is at MIT, probably destroying some buildings. If they touch an inch of my dorm room I will hunt you down, Parker.” His eyes raised to yours in a confused expression. Your chest heaved out in a long sigh before you laid your palm on the back of his hand. “I don't need you to choose a part of you because of me. I don't need you to choose between anything.”

Peter Parker, a biophysics undergraduate student whose favorite place is certainly the science laboratory, because that's where you always find him. He has the kindest eyes you've ever met and he has trouble focusing on class — on anything, sometimes — because of his ADHD. And well, part of that is also because of his crime fighting agenda.

Because, Peter Parker is also Spiderman. He dresses up in red and black and makes his webs out of scratch. He's got terrible jokes, he tries to disguise his voice around his friends — but he's awful at it — and he'd do everything in his power to protect the people he cares about.

They are one but they are two different people, it's not that hard to understand.

It's not your job to make him choose, it's not anyone's job to make him choose between Spiderman or Peter Parker, really. That's just something you've come to terms with even before all of that happened.

It doesn't become easier.

But you love both and you won't settle for less than whole. Peter shouldn't either.

“Just...” you trailed off, missing the words. The warmth of your bodies was closing in and you lost your train of thought. It was a foreign feeling and so familiar at the same time.

“Let's start over, how about that?” You couldn't reset time, that much was clear. And never in a million years would you want to erase having met Peter from your mind. No. He was a part of your heart you could never take back. And you didn't want to. It was his to bear. “I'm Y/N,” you then offered your hand to him to which he stared at it with a blank expression.

Start over.

He wouldn't be able to let go of everything that you lived together, but he didn't have to, right? Starting over at least didn't mean you'd pull away from him completely.

Start over.

That could be good. If that's the only chance he's getting, he won't miss it.

“Hello, Y/N. I'm Peter,” he said, holding your hand as electric currents ran through the spot. Your touch, he missed it like no other. Start over. “Aren't you my computation partner?” his attempt to joke didn't go unnoticed by you, it pulled a smirk at the corner of your mouth.

“I think so. You do look fairly alike to my partner so...”

Both of you let out snickers. You stepped away first, awkwardly clearing your throat. “You should go. People need you.”

Peter opened and closed his mouth three times before you asked him to spit it out.

“Can we do this again?” His eyes widened comically. “Not—not this. I mean, talk. Just, just talk. As... friends—we can be friends, can't we?”

You hummed, smiling softly. “Yeah, Peter. We can be friends.”

If that's all that I can get, that's what I'll take.

It's a start.

His heart was hers so he didn't mind which way she had it. If it was platonically, then that'd be it.

Project partners, lab buddies... He had a long way to go. But if there's one thing Peter Parker is known for is that he never gives up. And if there's one thing Spiderman is known for... is that he'll try his best to not hurt anyone he loves — again.

Now, both of their main tasks is to keep promises. Neither Peter nor Spiderman will fail this time. Not again.

#reader insert #peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #peter parker fic #spiderman x reader #spiderman x y/n #broken promises #mcu peter parker #peter parker fanfiction

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mdzs-owns-my-ass-i-guess · 1 year

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Identity crisis

PREV: Chapter One: Identity foreclosure

HERE: Chapter Two: Changing perspectives

NEXT: Chapter Three: Traceless

The moment Lan Wangji closes the door behind him, he rushes down the stairs of the apartment building with so much speed that he makes it down before the elevator does. His breathing is only slightly quicker, his strength and stamina nearly undisturbed with the considerable effort - but the bile still rises in his throat and he finds the nearest trashcan to empty the contents of his stomach in.

He knows that this has nothing to do with the strain of the intense physical effort - what he is sick with is the knowledge of what he has just done several hours ago, dizzy with alcohol and desire, ignoring his instincts for the first and definitely the very last time in his life.

Wei Ying has this friend, Mo Xuanyu. They've been friends since college, and have even shared a dorm room until Wei Ying moved out of student accommodation, with Lan Zhan, in their third year.

Whereas the two do look very much alike, features so similar it might make one believe they are brothers, even twins, Lan Wangji has always prided himself in the ability to tell them apart. After all, Lan Wangji could never confuse anyone for the man he has been in love with since high school, he could never have trouble telling apart his soulmate from some random person he only tangentially knows.

Or so he thought, at least.

Lan Wangji never drinks. His strict upbringing has instilled that principle within him so strongly that nobody has seen him have alcohol, not even at his own wedding reception. Nobody has seen him even sip a beer or some wine or anything with more than 0% volume - nobody but Wei Ying.

It's always been their little secret, the rare occasions when Lan Wangji does indulge in a glass of Wei Ying's favorite wine or enjoys champagne off his husband's body. To everybody else, Lan Wangji is entirely abstinent. But Lan Zhan trusts Wei Ying so much and loves him so endlessly and devotedly that he allows himself a drink, even if he's chronically lightweight about it - he knows how much Wei Ying likes to tease him when he's a bit out of it, a bit less restrained and a lot more demanding. Lan Zhan likes it too.

He's never going to drink anything again until the day he dies.

If he had been sober, he would have been rational and he would have trusted his instincts. If he had been sober, he would have immediately realized that the man wearing Wei Ying's clothes and jewelry and - oh, even his wedding band! - was not Wei Ying. He would have kicked this man out and rushed to find the real Wei Ying, his Wei Ying, in a heartbeat. He wouldn't have stopped looking until he found him, he would have turned the world upside down if he had to.

If he had been sober, he wouldn't have dismissed his suspicions as ridiculous and wouldn't have so enthusiastically begun kissing and touching the impostor as if he was the real thing. He wouldn't have taken him to bed, to his marital bed, and he wouldn't have ignored how different his body seems to be looking and reacting.

If he had been sober, he wouldn't have told him "I love you".

When he woke up that morning, clear-headed, and took a better look at the person pretending to be asleep in his arms, he was filled with so much revulsion it took all that he had not to scream. His suspicions hadn't been fueled by alcohol, they had been the truth. He had just slept with someone else, someone that had pretended to be his husband well enough for Lan Wangji's drunken, horny mind to accept.

Lan Wangji feels sick again, but his body is empty. A headache pounds at his skull with nearly as much fierceness as regret and self hatred do.

How could he have been so incredibly stupid?! How could he ever have proclaimed his love for his husband when he so easily mistook someone else as him?!

How could he ever face Wei Ying again knowing that he... that he...cheated on him?! What about their vows, their promises, their family?!

Wei Ying would never forgive him - Lan Zhan wouldn't ever forgive himself either. How could he be so fucking gullible?! If he ever does find Wei Ying, what is he going to tell him?! That he had been blind? Deaf? That he had been so light-headed, so drunk that he couldn't even tell who he was inside of?!

What about A-Yuan, then? When he comes home from his school trip, how will Lan Wangji tell him that baba is gone, that an impostor has taken his place, and that even if they do find the real Wei Ying, he'll probably never want to even see Lan Wangji ever again?

Lan Wangji only feels he's crying when two droplets fall on his trousers, leaving dark spots on his thigh. He discovers his hands are shaking as they clutch at his keys, and he becomes acutely aware of his rapid heartbeat and quick breathing.

It feels like the whole world is spinning with him and will soon come crashing down - he's lost the love of his life in the most literal sense, he has no idea where Wei Ying is and why Mo Xuanyu is impersonating him. He has also... betrayed Wei Ying in a moment of revolting, disgusting, terrible, unexplainable, unforgivable weakness...

And on top of all that, he has no idea how he will trust A-Yuan in the same house with this man that has so nonchalantly taken over Wei Ying's identity.

Why did he do that? What is he hiding? Did he hurt Wei Ying? Will he hurt A-Yuan as well? If Lan Wangji confronts him, would that set some kind of plan in motion and Wei Ying would be hurt or even killed? Is Mo Xuanyu testing him? Testing them both? Why? What for? Is he gaining anything out of this?

Lan Wangji knows of Mo Xuanyu's profession and is vaguely aware of the kinds of people frequenting his circles. The club he... works at, "Ghost City", had been under the management of the Jins' restaurant and hotel chain, "Sparks amidst snow", for quite some time before it was transferred off - and the transfer just so happened to have been made to some partner that had just narrowly escaped prison on charges of drug and human trafficking less than 6 months before.

However, despite having been close friends and partners for decades, Lan Xichen did not seem suspicious of this move and did not raise any issues with Jin Guangyao, the "Sparks amidst snow" current owner, so Lan Wangji did not intervene further at the time. Not to mention that, since the club had new management now, whatever it was used for was out of Jin Guangyao's hands anyway. At least on paper.

But now, all Lan Wangji can think about is that Mo Xuanyu has captured and sold Wei Ying off into a prostitution ring somewhere to erase some of his massive debt or simply to get on the club owner's good side - and if Lan Wangjiisn't careful investigating this, they might consider Wei Ying a liability and kill him to save their own skins.

A cold chill climbs up Lan Wangji's spine. He can't be the reason why the love of his life is murdered. He has to be smart about this, he has to make sure Mo Xuanyu thinks himself believable. He has to act as if he doesn't know that Mo Xuanyu is an impostor, and he must make sure he raises absolutely no suspicion.

The implications of that make his head swim with disgust.

And even if Wei Ying hates him for what he's going to have to do in the end, at least he will be alive and well to do it, which is more than enough for Lan Wangji.

He has to get Wei Ying back, no matter what it takes.

He finally makes his way to his car and opens the contact list on his phone. The home screen image of Wei Ying and A-Yuan cooking together for Lan Wangji's birthday last year makes his heart squeeze with guilt.

But he has a mission now. There will be plenty of time to grieve and hate himself later.

He presses on the name of a friend he hasn't spoken to in years. He can only hope she has kept the same phone number.

#mdzs #mo dao zu shi #wangxian #writing attempts

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cheerstotheelites-if · 1 year

Note

I asked the other blog because I thought it might be too tangential, heh. So here I am, back where I began.

And you've tried "sir" and "mx" so far; I'll give you one more guess. Ah, but that's a trifle compared to MAGIC RAMBLINGS.

(Consider this an open invitation to ramble about all the magic. I want to hear about all of it. I came for the necromancy but I certainly am not turning down anything else.)

Here I am playing Gender Roulette. 🤡

I think I've talked about my version of Necromancy before a few months back, but not in full proper detail. I just gave y'all the sparknotes version of it.

Since Necromancy is being asked, Imma just ramble about Necromancy. You can ask me more about the other magics from the poll in separate asks, since I don't wanna clog this one.

Okay so, Necromancy. It's originally a Blessed Magic from the Death Goddess Blair onto a family in Bellhollow and to a few more from the South Eastern countries of Gaia. It's now become a Learnt Magic in recent centuries, with all the grimoires and codexes about it that were written by said families that are easily accessible in The Chancery.

There are three subtypes of Necromancy: Summoning, Exorcism, and Prophecy. A magus of this magic can have two or all three if they're able to handle its toll.

Summoning

The subset that Necromancy is mostly known for

No, you're not gonna "do bones, motherfucker". You summon either spirits or fiends (demons, mostly) that you made a Pact Bind with

Magi under this subset are usually "cursed" for having so many fiends attached to their soul, though powerful depending on what kind of fiend

Spirits are everywhere, so it is easier to summon them

Can talk to and interact with said spirits once receiving Second Senses

Can evoke madness and dread onto a person by sending a Haunt towards them

Spirits and fiend don't always listen to the command of their summoner. Spirits continue to have a will of their own even when summoned, and fiend see their "summoner" as an equal due to both parties consenting to the Pact Bind.

You can bring back a dead someone to life, by doing this very complicated ritual, but why would you?

Exorcism

We already know what this is

Usually goes hand in hand with Summoner subset, incase their summoned spirit or fiend starts feeling a bit rebellious

Banish any unwanted spirit or entity from a certain area, object, or person with ease in almost an instant

Exorcists with Second Senses can interact with said spirits, though that also means that the spirit can harm them in return

When I mean "entity" I mean every single creature that isn't of Gaia (Angels, Demons, Fae etc,.)

Can work well with Runesmith magic, since this magic also involves some protection charms against spirits

Can you exorcise yourself from a Haunt casted by a different Necromancer? Yeah, you can

Can you banish the soul of a recently revived person back to Purgatory? Yes.

Prophecy

Oracle of Delphi, but it's just the future death of a random person or loved one

It's a dreadful gift, since there isn't anything that can be done about it

The person of this magic slowly grows blind overtime with each prophecy received

Get a badass spooky title of "Seer of Death" and the like

You only go to them if you want to know how much time you have left

Usually the disciples or holy people of the Death Goddess

Common Stuff between them

Visitant's Vision - OG eye color turn to gray eyes upon receiving and practicing; can only see spirits and hidden entities that aren't bound to you. They can see you, just not interact.

Second Senses - Five Senses Deluxe; only those who are Blessed receive this; can fully interact (see, hear, touch etc.,) with spirits and hidden entities, and that means they can do the same to you for better or worse

Gain one or all of these things from witnessing death and dealing with spirits and fiend's for too long: madness, paranoia, panic disorders, PTSD/C-PTSD, phobias towards: crowds, loud noises, people staring, the dark, and aversity to touch. This usually leads to the magus living in isolation far away from a city, or in the care of family.

Whether you like it or not, the Death Goddess is your patron now.

#Lore ask #raptorofwar

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iambic-stan · 1 year

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Portobello gills

Another Star Trek-themed heart story, featuring Voyager's Doctor and an Ensign/former member of the Maquis. These stories are all very silly but I hope someone enjoys them. :) And here's a sorta related gif of The Doctor and Kes.

This is the moment I built myself up to, but now I’m worried that I read it wrong. My assumption was incorrect—the EMH did not have stethoscopes entered into his database already. They must be such outdated medical tools that his programmers saw no need for him to be even tangentially aware of them. I’ve just spent the last twenty minutes explaining what mine is, what it’s for, and trying to eloquently describe what it all means to me. He has become so still that I’m almost afraid he’s malfunctioned somehow and deactivated without either of our commands. “Doctor,” I say a little loudly, reaching across the couch to touch his shoulder. I know he’s photonic energy, but I’ll be damned if he doesn’t feel like flesh. He stares into my eyes, but it's like he sees nothing. “Please state the nature of the medical—just kidding, Ensign,” he laughs. I shake my head and smile, glancing down at my shimmering pastel stethoscope sitting between us. My vision blurs slightly, my astigmatism causing the glint of the glitter to expand in an odd way. It takes me a second longer than it should to focus. Maybe I’ve had too much to drink, but at least I haven’t inadvertently activated some subroutine I wouldn’t understand how to deactivate. Somehow, in the last couple of hours of candor, something clicked for me. I’ve told him about my house on Earth, my partner, my cats, and my job as a freshman composition instructor, before I joined the Maquis. I’ve heard his stories about sickbay challenges, his growing fondness for Kes and revelations about her species, and his fantasies about taking command of Voyager and demanding the same respect and admiration Janeway enjoys. Now I’m asking him to listen to my heart, and this has somehow put a wrench in what was an enjoyable evening, a distraction from the dullness of waiting to get home. Is it a step too far? How do you know when you and a hologram are on the same page, emotionally?

“So you’re anxious about something? What are your symptoms?” he asks. “It’s nothing like that!” I say, laughing, wishing at this moment I’d tabled this until later, or maybe never. “I just think it’s really cool,” I say, immediately realizing my mistake. “Is it warm in here?" He asks sarcastically. "Maybe you had too much synthehol?” I have to look at him for a second to realize he’s joking again, and at my expense, really. “You realize I use a much more efficient instrument to scan multiple vital signs for multiple crew members all day? What about this is different, other than it being less comprehensive and less efficient? At the risk of sounding like a Vulcan, is this logical?” I take in a deep breath. I know he's well aware that I'm not asking him to be my doctor, at least not at this moment. I was obviously unprepared for this conversation, and I can feel my heart pounding away in my chest--a circumstance that, unfortunately, makes me yearn to be listened to even more.

“It’s more intimate,” I explain. “And I brought it up because I feel close to you. I want to share my heart with you. I mean…metaphorically. It’s been great…being one of the humanoids you connect with. I hope that we can still be friends after we’re back home. Keep in touch somehow, if you decide to stay aboard Voyager? So yeah…I’m fond of you, I love seeing you develop into someone more complex than the guy I first met. I don't know if you've thought about it this way, but that is very relatable to me, as a human who is also continually changed by my own experiences, as that's practically unavoidable. And I would just love it, if you listened to my heart." The last five words tumble out of my mouth almost as one jumbled mess, so difficult to say out loud. I have to get better at that, I think.

I grow silent while he considers what I've said. "I greatly enjoy your company," he begins. Then, with some hesitation: "I'm just not sure how that is connected to your request." He throws his arms up in the air, a little exasperated, or at least appearing to be. I know that the human doctor he was programmed to simulate, a Lewis Zimmerman from New Jersey, was notoriously ill-tempered, stubborn, and condescending, and our EMH did not stray from that programming easily when he was first activated full-time. It was only when Janeway agreed to expand his programming--both out of necessity and later at the Doctor's request--that he developed a personality all his own. My hope for him when we reach the Alpha Quadrant is that the Federation will grant him personhood on the basis of his sentience, because I'm finding the differences between us continually grow smaller. A precedent has already been set, if not for holograms, then sentient androids, I believe, with Data on The Enterprise. Whatever happens, I like to think I've helped him figure out his individuality, just as he's helped me feel much less lonely on Voyager.

“Am I bothering you with this? Was it a mistake to bring it up? I’m having a nice evening and I’m not trying to ruin anything,” I say. “You’re fine,” he assures me. “I’m simply curious. I want to understand and apparently, I just don’t. I have researched human bonding activities rather extensively. In the context of friendship, at least when it comes to Americans like yourself, evidently there’s little physical contact involved. Humans enjoy hunting for sport, drinking—like you’re doing, dining out together (except I don't consume food), and this game that involves throwing or kicking a sort of oval-shaped leather ball over a goal but is also rather violent...” I’m trying not to laugh at the poor man as he describes American football as no one from my hometown has ever heard it. “But this is not a romantic gesture of some kind? I’ve read about those, too, and—“ I have to stop him. “No, it’s ok—it’s not meant to be a romantic gesture. I still have hope that I’m going to get home to my partner, you know? But it's very emotional. I have strong feelings about it. If that's not obvious.” He sighs. “Well, despite all of my research into social skills and relationships, I’ve never found a reference to this outside of a medical setting. I don’t know what you expect me to do, if not behave as a trained physician. Perhaps I should be advised on how to act and what to say.”

It dawns on me that it is confusing to his mind to be asked to do something for which the only context he has is the wrong one. And there was no prior reason for him to deviate from the parameters that were programmed into him. “So the thing is,” I explain slowly because my heart is pounding in my ears and I’m beginning to feel so embarrassed that I want to hurl myself out of an airlock and into the Delta quadrant void. “I really like being on the other end of a stethoscope. Like, a lot. It makes me feel loved and safe. It's very sensual. I understand that hearts are organs that don’t have opinions, but I feel like my heart lives for being listened to. That’s my thing, admittedly—but I thought you might get something out of it, too. You know how to read a medical tricorder; you know everything that might cause a minor fluctuation in any given reading of the dozens or maybe hundreds that your device can keep track of. But have you ever actually just listened to someone's life force, in real time, with them sitting beside you? An unusual shared experience, right? Just permitted yourself to exist in that moment, outside of anything in your life that's causing you stress? And pondered that for all it represents? I can't tell you what to say or how to act. It just depends on what comes to mind for you, what you feel. Maybe you'll never want to do it again, or maybe you'll enjoy it and then you can just say whatever you want to say. Or keep that to yourself if you'd rather, you know? It would mean a lot to me, anyway, but it's up to you," I add sheepishly.

"No one has ever said that," he says, appearing dumbfounded and...impressed, is it? "Which part?" I ask nervously. "You said 'anything in your life that's causing you stress.' You acknowledged that I could experience stress. That I have a life. I haven't even been active for more than two and a half years." "Well, we all have to start somewhere? Why wouldn't I refer to that as your life?" I ask. He doesn't reply, but takes the stethoscope and affixes it in his ears, uncertainly. “Do I look like a 21st century doctor?” he asks, smiling almost haughtily. “I wouldn’t know firsthand, but yes?” I offer, shrugging. He moves closer to me on the couch and places the chestpiece in the middle of my chest. Immediately he blurts out an, "Oh!" and then "I didn't know it would be so loud. And so fast." "Yeah, I didn't realize you'd just like, go for it just then," I say, staring at the floor, giggling. "But I'm glad." Slowly, he starts to move the chestpiece around, listening everywhere: pulmonic, aortic, tricuspid, mitral. He does know anatomy. I find myself wondering if this is the first time anyone--human or otherwise--has enlisted an emergency medical hologram to have a friendly auscultation session with no medical purpose involved in any way. Is this novel to me, or is this altogether novel an occurrence? I look up and our eyes meet. "Still fast, I guess?" I ask, smiling. "Less so," he tells me. "It's a bit slower, and steady." "I like having you listening to it," I tell him softly, though I wonder if he understands me, in more ways than one. I wait a few breaths, then reach for his other hand to hold it for a moment. I look into his eyes, deeply brown like portobello gills--a pretty organic comparison my mind has conjured for someone computer-generated. They seem inquisitive, and I tell myself (or lie to myself?) that there's also a hint of emotion, of affection, he's associating with this act. I close my eyes while he listens a few seconds longer.

"Well, you are alive," he finally says, handing me the stethoscope, the grainy glitter on its tubing grazing my hand. "That much is certain. As far as standards for humans go, judging by the fact that you clearly have synaptic activity taking place. What I heard indicates that you have four functioning heart valves, as is expected," he continues. "Alright," I say kind of dismissively, holding up my hand that's still clutching the binaurals and grimacing. "You don't have to do that. I mean I guess if that's what you wanted to say. But I mean...this is a sweet moment. I mean, speaking for myself, anyhow. Thank you. You made my night." He cracks a smile and I reach over and put my arms around him, something I've never done before. He seems startled at first, then returns the embrace. He feels surprisingly warm and human himself. For one of the few times in the past two years, I don't mind that I'm stranded in an uncharted part of the galaxy if I get to be surrounded by amazing people.

#cardiophile #cardiophilia #stethoscopes #auscultation #cardiophile story #Star Trek #Star Trek Voyager #Star Trek: Voyager #heartbeats

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sailorgreywolf-german · 2 years

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"all of this to prove you're worthy of being considered worthy of Europe. Aren't you tired?" Ivan and someone

Prussia opened the closet and looked around. He was looking for a blanket that Russia had told him was supposed to be there. The dacha was comfortable, but the fire had begun to smolder and neither of them had any desire to go outside to get more firewood.

So Prussia had volunteered to get out of bed. The thick fur robe he was wearing was enough to keep him warm, at least if he did not dawdle.

But he paused as something caught his eyes. There were beautiful pieces of clothing folded up on the shelves. They were trimmed with the most sumptuous furs and Prussia put out his hand to touch one.

It felt like it had been wonderfully preserved if it was as old as he thought. He vaguely remembered Russia had once dressed quite differently, and this seemed to be a remnant of that time. He could imagine younger Russia, who was quite adorable in his imagination.

The reality of their sparse encounters at that age had been decidedly less cute. But Prussia knew he had been insufferably pious, which had poisoned many possible relationships.

He heard the sound of bare feet on the wood floor behind him. Russia said, sleepily, “What is taking you so long?”

He sounded only mildly irritated at having to get out of the warm bed. Prussia said, trying to explain himself, “I got distracted by these. What are they?”

Russia looked over his shoulder to what he was touching, and then chuckled. He said, “They’re caftans. I’ve kept them here for a very long time.” He put his hand on the one Prussia was touching and smiled warmly.

Prussia was eager to know more about the secrets his friend and lover kept, prodded him, “How long?”

He saw Russia smile, which told him that he was not prying where he shouldn’t. Russia answered with a smile, “When Peter came back from his tour of Europe, he insisted that no one wear them at court anymore. I followed his rule. But this is not court; it was my place to dress as I chose.”

Prussia could suddenly imagine the wonderful sight of Russia in one of his medieval furs. He was sure that he would look very noble. He asked, “Do you still wear them?”

Russia chuckled, seeming to understand what Prussia was imagining. He answered, “No, they don’t fit. I was a smaller country then.”

He yawned and pulled his robe closer around him. Prussia could also feel the cold creeping under his robe. Russia reached over his head and grabbed a thick blanket from an upper shelf. He stifled another yawn and said, “Can we talk about this in bed, rabbit?”

Prussia realized that he had been staring at Russia and thinking about a younger man hiding away his favorite clothing. He nodded and answered, “Yes, it’s cold standing here.”

Once they were comfortably under the blankets again, Prussia laid himself across Russia’s warm chest. He was thinking about the caftan and what it really represented.

He felt Russia absentmindedly stroking his hair as he quietly thought. Then Prussia said, voicing his thoughts, “I had forgotten how quickly you changed yourself. Was it difficult to adjust?”

Russia sighed as he remembered something that Prussia could only imagine. Then, after a long quiet moment, “Yes. I wish it had been as easy as changing my clothing and shaving my stubble. But no one considered me fit to sit at the table until I won against Sweden. Some didn't even take me seriously until Napoleon.”

Prussia remembered the moment clearly. He had been a part of the Great Northern War, though mostly tangentially. Russia’s victory had changed the discussion about him as an emerging empire. And no one could deny that Russia had been pivotal to defeating the little French dwarf.

Russia seemed to have something on his mind because he continued, “I doubt that will be the end of it either. I am beginning to hear whispers that we must build railroads to be seen as a modern country.”

He sounded tired, and Prussia felt that he understood it. He always felt like he was fighting to prove himself to be a Great Power, lest they begin to treat him like a little knight again.

He could only imagine how Russia felt when the rest of Europe treated him like an outsider. He knew from his own experience that it was exhausting to know what people said when they thought he could not hear. Respect was difficult to earn and easy to lose. He said, "all of this to prove you're worthy of being considered worthy of Europe. Aren't you tired?"

As though on cue, Russia yawned before saying, “Nearly every day. But Peter told me that it is about making a seat for myself at the table, then I must prove myself.”

But as Prussia looked up at him to comfort him, he smiled and added, “But I have you here with me. And I am very glad for that.” Prussia felt warmth in his chest. He replied, “I am glad that I’m here too.”

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dontcallmecarrie · 2 years

Text

tfw you only realize you hit ‘save as draft’ instead of post months after the fact, bc Shit Keeps Happening.

also...this AU was not supposed to have this much family drama, I swear, my brain’s just. Stuck atm. Schrödinger’s canon, I guess? With godawful parenting and implied mature themes relating to infidelity, because Justin’s father is a special sort of bastard and his mother, as it turns out, isn’t much better

Justin Hammer hung up the phone, and let out a slow breath.

“Isn’t it supposed to be that the older you get, the more you understand your parents?” They asked nobody in particular, even as they rubbed their temples. “How is that the opposite is going on here?”

Justin had already known their parents weren’t the greatest— but dearly beloved fuck, what the hell was wrong with these people?

Justin hadn’t ever touched a parenting book in his life, but he was still certain he was doing a better job of than either of his current genetic donors.

At the very least, he was on the same continent as Steph, which was more than could be said for their mother— and the worst part was that his little sister didn’t even see anything wrong with that.

Just. Accepted that their mom was enjoying all that the Caribbean had to offer, and thought that they were lucky if they got as much as a two-minute phone call in a month, and it infuriated Justin because if it’d been just him, he could handle it, but Steph was a kid.

A kid who’d grown up seeing nannies far more than her own parents, and Justin tried his best to be there but there was only so much he could do when their father kept throwing tutors at him like there was some sort of formula to getting his only son to be a child prodigy— which was a whole other mess, but not the point.

Justin was no expert in child development, or parenting, but...even the bare minimum would’ve been enough, and these people couldn’t even manage that.

Wait, no, that wasn’t quite right: more like these people couldn’t even bother to try.

[There were families out there, who worked themselves to the bone, who went to bed hungry because that’s what it took to make ends meet— who did their best to stay together, keep their children warm and safe in a cold and uncaring world. Why, why couldn’t Justin have been born to them again instead?]

Before, Justin’d had at least some tolerance for this sort of thing. Had been able to accept the fact that their parents’d had kids because that was the socially-expected thing to do, rather than out any particular desire to do so.

It hadn’t been a fun realization, but it was a fact of life he had to live with.

...so why did Justin’s temper get so much shorter with their parents? Sure, he had very high standards for himself, but that didn’t explain his newfound willingness to go head-to-head against the people responsible for his birth. Why the little things suddenly grated at him, when he’d shrugged them off for years; why, with every day that ticked by, it got harder to find even a modicum of respect for his parents.

Harder and harder, to remind himself to be the adult in the situation, even if nobody else was.

Okay, that was it.

Justin’s father was a misogynistic piece of shit who chased every skirt in a ten-mile radius, and they’d been tangentially aware of it before but this was getting ridiculous.

If they’d known the first thing they’d be seeing after coming back home for the holidays was this bullshit, they’d have just stayed at boarding school, image be damned.

“I didn’t know you were so close the yoga instructor, father,” Justin remarked not a minute after she’d left, and very pointedly didn’t say anything else.

It was a good thing Steph had wanted to call some of her friends before dealing with their parents; if she hadn’t, they both would’ve walked right into a very compromising situation and there was no way that would’ve ended well because this bastard was disgustingly shameless and Justin would never be able to look at that couch the same way again, ugh.

“Why are you and mother still together, again?” They continued, frigidly polite as always when dealing with the jackass responsible for half their genetic material, only to get a dismissive scoff.

Right.

Image was everything, and hell would freeze over before anyone found out the Hammers were anything other than a picture-perfect Christian family. Grandfather had even gone to the trouble of writing it into his will, because the Hammers were nothing if not petty and spiteful bastards to the grave.

Justin didn’t know when exactly they’d started compiling their list of blackmail material. When they started mentally chanting, ‘do it because it’ll be useful later’, rather than give into the urge to throw away every last speck of civility they’d ever had and start throwing hands.

...normally, though, it was because of their father’s latest stunt, rather than their mother’s actions.

“Is that what she told you?” They asked, again, and Steph crossed her arms with a glare and she looked the most shaken they’d ever seen her oh, hello, rage, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?

“Right, like she’s got any room for talk, we’re just here for summer but she—”

“Steph.” Something in their voice must’ve given them away, because their little sister stopped short. “Did she really—”

They couldn’t even say it.

“Take my sketchbook and say I need to watch my attitude, or else I’ll be going to finishing school instead? Yeah.” Steph managed to get out, before her breath hitched in a way that made Justin’s heart lurch for a moment because damn it, couldn’t one parent be half competent for once?

This was the sort of conversation kids were supposed to be having with a trusted adult. Someone who actually had their shit together, who knew that they were doing, not a teenager flying by the seat of their pants with nothing but a handful of echoes of another world going for them.

But here they were.

By all rights, Steph shouldn’t need to be looking to them for answers. Shouldn’t have ever developed that habit in the first place, but their goddamn parents—

Justin let out another slow breath, and wrapped up their younger sister in that side-hug they’d perfected in childhood, the one she could shrug off in a heartbeat but was nevertheless the wordless promise of “if nothing else, I’m here, I care, please, let me help” that was the only comfort they could offer and sure enough—

Steph buried her face in their shoulder, and Justin didn’t know how to feel about the fact that she’d learned how to cry silently sometime when they weren’t looking.

“I hate this fucking family.” She muttered, and Justin let out a slow breath.

“Don’t worry, Steph. I’ll take care of it.”

Another day, another fight, another round of having to play mediator for two grown adults instead of run off to ‘enjoy the beach’ [read: get the hell out of dodge] the way Steph and some of her friends had.

Goodness, Justin was so tired.

“—nk I didn’t notice the way you were looking at the concierge, have you no shame—”

“—posed to be a family vacation where we’re enjoying ourselves you harpy, and you don’t see me complaining about the way you—”

“You know,” Justin said, and felt absurdly proud of how level their voice sounded considering how hastily they’d had to lunge across the room to slam the hallway door shut to keep the rest of the floor from hearing, “I’m probably going to start charging, if you keep on getting yourselves into these messes.”

In retrospect, Justin’s parents truly had no one to blame but themselves for how things ended.

No one else to blame, when their sorely neglected daughter turned her back on them completely. No one else to blame, when their son, the child they’d pressured and manipulated and done their level best to force him to become someone else entirely.

Someone who didn’t hesitate to blackmail his own family when push came to shove; someone whose morals had started out grey and only went downhill from there, and by the age of twenty-five was already well on his way to amassing a following that rendered him nigh untouchable.

A criminal mastermind, with a craving for power and few compunctions about how he went about getting it.

#No Hero [Downward Descending]#No Hero [And Not Made Of Stone]#schrodinger's canon #My writing

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amazing-spiderling · 2 years

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I noticed in Issue #4, Volume #1 of Spider-Gwen, after Gwen looks at Aunt May’s scrapbook on Spider-Women, a close-up of what looks like Murderdock’s face shows up. While it’s likely a nod to the audience as to the importance of Murdock’s role in the story, I’ve been wondering what the in-universe reason, your thoughts?

Hello, friend! Thanks for the ask! It took me a hot minute to get to this one because I had to think on it for a bit (not to mention put the finishing touches on my DDE fics), because this takes us into the

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚EARTH-65 HEADCANONS˚୨୧⋆｡˚⋆

For everyone playing along at home that doesn't constantly have a stack of Spider-Gwen comics by your side, this is the page in question:

As you can see, there isn't a lot here that is useful information, or anything we don't already know about Gwen's history at this point. The main purpose of this page is to show how she is affected by being confronted not only by the evidence of what she considers her fault in Peter's death, but the fact that May is still holding on to all of these clippings, hinting at the unhealed pain from the loss of her nephew.

But none of what we see here points to what Matt Murdock is doing here. As of yet he has no known connection to Spider-Woman or Peter Parker, so his reason for being here is unknowable. But because you're the kind of person who chose to ask and I'm the kind of person who cares, let's make an educated guess!

May explains the aftermath of Peter's death, and the way Jameson pushed his own narrative about the chain of events. She also tells Gwen that this scrapbook is not something she started on her own, rather than one she continued after Peter's death, even without knowing the reason why. It was only after the fact that she started to put together a pattern revealing Spider-Woman's true intent and character.

I included these panels because I think it's important to know that May is not collecting these clippings out of a need for vengeance. She's not trying to use them to profile Spider-Woman in order to learn her identity so she can bring Peter's killer to justice. In fact, many of the clippings in the book seem to be in Spider-Woman's favor. But May does collect everything, no matter how minute. So if something is even tangentially related to Spider-Woman, she likely has it in her book.

Now, as for what Gwen actually saw when she opened the album? I'm going to take some clues from these panels, where Gwen is sitting down at the Parkers' table. We see a new copy of the Bugle with a headline about her altercation with the Vulture. Likely, it is just a summary of the fight itself, but since it's the Bugle, which is known for just as much fear mongering and gossip as actual news, I think it's safe to assume there's plenty of wild speculation and reaching for straws in here as well.

So, if the clipping with Matt's picture is indeed from this recent Bugle story, what reason would they have for making mention of him at all? This is where the real guesswork comes in, and I've come up with one logical and one slightly more fun explanation.

Right after Toomes and Spider-Woman have their fight, the police question Fisk about his possible involvement. They suspect that he might be bankrolling Spider-Woman or is somehow otherwise involved in his activities, but he shuts this down. In this same conversation, Matt gets on the phone and repeats for them that Fisk has been a model prisoner in solitary confinement and has nothing to do with Spider-Woman.

Later on, after Matt and Toomes have their rooftop crow-murdering chat, Toomes turns himself in, and Murdock signs on as his attorney. Since the Bugle article we saw on May's table was about the fight between Spider-Woman and the Vulture, it is most likely that somewhere the article mentioned this or, even that Matt made a statement to the press regarding Toomes' case. Or possibly, since Jameson is the type to try and grasp at straws for a story, this could be Matt making a statement to the press that Fisk had no involvement. Either way, I imagine it's in regards to this specific incident and he was speaking as an attorney on behalf of his client.

The more fun (if you IDK wanted ideas to play around with for a fic or art or something) but less likely version...

I don't think this is nearly as likely, but I wanted to see if I could some up with any other possible explanations. The first time we see Matt, he's talking to Alexsei, and he's talking about how he's trying to remove some of the obstacles from Spider-Woman's life, namely the police officer assigned to her case. At this point, they haven't met face to face and I don't think we have any indication that Matt knows her identity just yet. (He would of course know it immediately when they meet face to face at the concert later on.)

Depending on how much he wanted to show his hand (again, typically not at all) when the first stories about Spider-Woman came out, I could see him making a statement to the press about being willing to represent her in court. Maybe he thought she'd see that and then come running to him, and help kick-start his plans by putting her in his debt. Again, I don't think it's likely because Murdock likes to play the long game, but he does make a big deal of talking about how they should be friendly to each other when they first meet, so it's not beyond the realm of possibility.

#spider-gwen #earth-65 #murderdock #earth-65 meta #matt murdock #spider-gwen meta #murderdock meta #i said I wasn't gonna post this on a friday night but look at me now #writing alt text for comic book panels sure is a thing

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ridiasfangirlings · 2 years

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Since Mikoto and Fushimi are both from a rich family, what about a Mikosaru arranged marriage?

Imagine Mikoto has been aware of this for a while but Fushimi had no clue so he's freaking out while Mikoto's just like 'oh yeah that.' Like maybe Mikoto's parents worked with Kisa at some point and they had a strong business relationship, at the time Fushimi was just a small child. Kisa and Mikoto's parents decide that a great way to cement their business relationship would be to betroth their kids (pretend in K world it doesn't matter that they're both guys and no one bats an eye at it), though Mikoto's a few years older Kisa doesn't see it as a bad investment and she agrees. They sign some legal paperwork and the idea is once Fushimi turns twenty he will be officially betrothed to Suoh Mikoto. Mikoto is like tangentially aware of this whole thing, his grandfather mentioned it to him once but he never really thought too hard about it. When Fushimi and Yata join Homra Mikoto thinks that Fushimi's name sounds familiar but he can't recall where he heard it oh well if it's important he'll remember eventually.

So then Everybody Lives AU and when Fushimi turns twenty Kisa shows up to inform him he has a fiancee. Obviously Fushimi's first reaction is basically fuck that never talk to me again but Kisa is insistent, she's made this agreement in writing and Fushimi needs to follow through. Fushimi is convinced to at least meet his fiancee and if they can come to an agreement to terminate the marriage contract Kisa might be willing to consider it but she's still fairly set on the whole thing, even though Mikoto's parents are dead he still has a lot of inheritance that Kisa thinks could be useful for her ambitions. As it happens she never tells Fushimi the name of his fiance, just gives him an address to meet and waits outside for him. Fushimi ends up at this fancy restaurant where he's taken to an outdoor table...and there's Suoh Mikoto, half asleep on the opposite side of the table.

Initially Fushimi thinks Suoh somehow decided to crash the party, like what are you even doing here. Mikoto looks up at him all oh it's you, Fushimi doesn't get why Mikoto would even be here in the first place like shouldn't you be off bugging Captain somewhere right about now. Mikoto shrugs and says he figured he shouldn't leave his fiance waiting all alone. Fushimi starts to say something cold and then he's like wait fiance and Mikoto just grins up at him. Fushimi is in total shock like why the hell would I be engaged to a lazy bum like you and that's when he finds out that Mikoto is in fact loaded thanks to inheritance stuff he just never really touches the money because he isn't interested in it. Fushimi assumes that means he's not interested in the engagement either and Mikoto gives him a wry smile like 'didn't say that.'

Fushimi assumes that Mikoto refuses to cut off the engagement just to toy with him and he's kinda half right, like obviously Mikoto isn't going to make Fushimi marry him if Fushimi doesn't want to but he's always found the kid intriguing and maybe he thinks that spending some time together might get Fushimi to be less afraid of him. Fushimi absolutely doesn't want to be engaged to this guy but he's bound by the agreement for now, he probably makes Mikoto vow not to tell anyone about this. Except since Mikoto doesn't tell anyone now Homra's getting all nosy because Totsuka's noticed King sneaking off a lot lately and suddenly he's being tailed as he goes on what appear to be dates with Fushimi. Fushimi meanwhile is also being watched by S4, who are all curious where he keeps running off to and why he's been in an even worse mood lately, and now he's also spotted going on dates with Suoh Mikoto. Both clans are all on fire with rumors and that's when Totsuka overhears Mikoto talking to Fushimi about an engagement and everyone assumes the two of them have been dating for ages now and hiding it from them all. Meanwhile Fushimi is being forced to go out on dates by his mom, like the two of them have to be seen at various functions together, and he's not happy about it but imagine spending all this time with Mikoto is making Fushimi get closer to him too, like he's insisting he doesn't want to marry Mikoto but then at the same time he can't deny that the dates have not been... as horrible as he was expecting.

#Mikosaru #Talking K #SHIP MIKOSARU ALL YE HEATHENS #and Mikoto is just starting to enjoy all this #maybe he's being protective of Fushimi too in his own way #like if Fushimi wants to break the engagement Kisa might not ever leave him alone #but if they can find a way to work things out themselves he can get Fushimi away from his awful mom #also maybe he likes seeing Fushimi huff and complain too it's cute :3c

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eleanorfenyxwrites · 2 years

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Headcanon Time: The Sculptor

So I feel like I ended up having quite a few thoughts behind the choices I made for some of the elements of The Sculptor that I wasn't able to fit into the fic itself, and can't really make narrative extras out of either, so I'll put them here! For today's Thoughts(™) I want to talk about something I'm (mostly tangentially) passionate about - fashion!

I had a couple of people in the comments over on AO3 mention/chat with me a bit about Lan Wangji's jarringly anachronistic clothes, and it's something I absolutely 100% did on purpose and with a lot of thought. (I can't help it, I overthink everything.)

But anyway - It's the 70's, right? It's supposed to be leisure suits and bellbottoms and polyester everywhere! Why is Lan Wangji dressed the way he is? 3-piece wool or linen suits. Ties. A hat. I did this very much on purpose, and the reason is that I like to think that in modern AU's - no matter what the decade itself is - Lan Wangji always feels and looks a bit like a man out of time. He's old-fashioned partly because he was raised that way (Lan Qiren is the textbook definition of tradition no matter the setting), but also because I think he just genuinely likes it. I think he likes the sense of dignity and respect afforded to the past by the people in the present. I think he resonates a lot with people who are significantly older than him and more likely to be as serious of a person as he is, and I think that informs a lot of his choices. But more on that later.

With the fic being set in the 70's, and Wangxian being in their late 30's (which I can't remember if I directly mentioned or not in the fic itself but probably not), that means that they were born and raised during the 1940's-60's. They're already mature adults by the 70's, and while yes people that young were absolutely wearing the fashion of the day, I think Wangxian would have been a lot less likely to completely indulge in it, established in themselves and their lifestyles as they already are by the time they meet.

[headcanons about Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji, and Wen Qing - with photos! - under the cut because naturally this got out of hand]

First: Wei Wuxian

I'm only going to touch very briefly on Wei Wuxian because I have fewer thoughts on his clothes (and no example photos because I feel like it's too vague to search for anything specific). I think Wei Wuxian's clothing wouldn't feel out of place in any decade - because he's broke. When you're broke - and all your clothes end up covered in paint/clay/chalk/etc. anyway - you find pieces that don't show too much wear and tear, don't ever really go out of fashion, and you stick with them. (Source: I'm a broke ceramicist who still wears the Owl City graphic tees they bought in 2011 every single week because I give no shits). I think Wei Wuxian's wardrobe is a lot of sturdy jeans/trousers and a fairly even mixture of t-shirts and soft button-downs - flannel or cotton, soft and durable materials - that he can wear and work hard in without having to bother with too much fuss when it comes time to do laundry. Neutral dark colors, because they don't show stains as easily. Sturdy boots or shoes that he won't have to replace every winter because again - when your income isn't steady, you learn to pick up good pieces and do everything you can to hang onto them and repair them.

So - I think Wei Wuxian's wardrobe is very blue-collar, comfortable and work-hardy clothing that he's had for probably at least a decade if not longer by the time he meets Lan Wangji. Everything's in decent repair, but he's definitely not too worried about looking fashionable which actually ends up making him pretty timeless and fashionable in his own way no matter the decade.

Now: Lan Wangji

Lan Zhan, Lan Wangji, Hanguang-Jun, my beloved. I adore this man, y'all. I just needed to get that out there.

I spent a lot of time while writing this fic thinking about Lan Wangji's life and choices, more so than I did anyone else's. While the perspective bounces back and forth between him and Wei Wuxian, and I did actually start the fic intending for it to only be from Wei Wuxian's perspective, I realized really quickly that it's actually really Lan Wangji's story, since he's the one who really goes through a visible growth and change in the narrative - opening himself up to the vulnerability and unexpected joy of learning to ask for things he'd never expected to have. This kind of hesitation and repression in his character had to come from somewhere, and while yes a large part of it is a conservative society's views of homosexuality in general, you have to consider where those ideas came from first in the course of Lan Wangji's life. Which would be Lan Qiren.

Lan Qiren is uptight and tradition-bound, conservative in all areas, and extremely concerned with right and wrong. In a society that saw a significant uptick in liberal counter-culture during his nephews' teenage/young adult years, I think Lan Qiren would have overcorrected and been extremely strict in teaching young Lan Wangji and Lan Xichen what he thought was right - politically, economically, and socially. So you end up with this very very rigid and unforgiving academic upbringing that could have pushed either of the boys towards more radical lines of thinking (I very briefly mentioned Lan Xichen in the epilogue as living with two partners, and I think there's a lot I could explore there in terms of Lan Xichen responding to this strict childhood by becoming an avid supporter of the free love movement as well as becoming extremely active in the queer/kink community in a larger, more liberal city as an adult), but you also have to keep in mind just how much Lan Wangji respects his uncle and looks up to him as a parent. Lan Qiren was the first authority figure to show him (and Lan Xichen) any sort of emotional stability, any kind of image to look up to and attempt to emulate, and that's important to Lan Wangji's character in so many ways. Mannerisms, behavior, career choice, and - yes, the actual point of this post before I got sidetracked by Lan Qiren AGAIN - Lan Wangji's fashion.

A lot of people seemed to be thrown off by picturing Lan Wangji in a much more 1950's sort of look, but that's exactly what I wanted, confusion and all! Lan Wangji took so much inspiration from a man who was probably born around the late 1900's or maybe 1910, and who we can assume grew up in an equally strict and traditional household to have become the man he did, perpetuating his own upbringing when it comes time to raise his nephews. This means that in my mind Lan Qiren is the sort to dress in a way that's really more antiquated than just old-fashioned, sticking with some of the silhouettes that are more indicative of the turn of the century and when he changes anything about his personal style doing so very slowly - and not necessarily hitting the same beats that society does when they happen. By the time he's raising the Jades he's firmly established as an academic and has little reason or incentive to change much of anything about himself, which equally-stubborn little Lan Wangji admires. His uncle is always so beyond reproach, so stern and unwilling to bend to societal whims that seem useless and arbitrary when they don't pertain to anything he deems important - of course he starts emulating him. And Lan Qiren encourages both of the Jades to follow in his footsteps, which he sees as being the best (read: safest) path for their lives, so he encourages anything they do that ties into that. Which is why, in the 1970's, we end up with a Lan Wangji who wouldn't look at all out of place a few decades prior - why bother reinventing the wheel when what he wears is tied so closely into his perception of himself (and Lan Qiren by extension) as an upstanding and righteous man?

(I'm not saying Gregory Peck as the stern and unyielding but ultimately very loving father Atticus Finch was formative for me as a kid, but I'm not not saying it either. I mean just look at him.)

(As far as Lan Wangji's hats go, I like to think of him in either the top right or the bottom left, long hair gathered up inside it to keep it off his neck.)

All of this makes him stick out quite a bit in the setting of the 1970's, but unlike his homosexuality, his fashion is a way to stand out that he has actively chosen and fully embraced by the time he's an adult. Of his numerous peculiarities, this one is maybe the most acceptable to people in general because it fits so well with the reserved and haughty air that he has (or is assumed by others to have). It's comfortable for him, and so long as it stays respectable then he has very little reason to change.

Last but not least: Wen Qing

I didn't flesh Wen Qing out too much in the actual body of the fic to keep from clogging up the Wangxian storyline, but she's precisely what I think we would expect from 1970's Modern Woman Wen Qing. Were it not for her family's tradition and her own passion for medicine, she would have chosen to become a Women's Studies professor instead of working in the biological sciences, although there's also a lot to be said for her choosing to work in a male-dominated academic field like this. She had fully intended on becoming a doctor when she was younger, but with her family's financial situation and Wen Ning's fragile health she just wasn't able to make it work, and has instead committed herself to staying on the leading edge of scientific and medical breakthroughs and then sharing everything she can find with her students, many of whom will go on to become doctors/nurses/etc. themselves.

This woman Takes No Shit, and everyone who sees her knows this immediately. (Lan Wangji, Understatement King, about Wen Qing in chapter 3: “I have it on good authority that she is…intimidating.”) She absolutely does not buy into gendered respectability politics any more than she absolutely has to - in the context of the fic, she'll sit down for three (endless) hours with the neighbors whom she assumes are expecting her to play the perfect housewife to her old-fashioned husband and indulge their assumptions as much as she can stand, but she absolutely will not compromise on anything that truly matters to her. She and Lan Wangji are equal partners in their house and share the duties appropriately. She will not cave to external pressure and leave her career, which she loves, in order to be a homemaker, but nor will she truly condemn any woman who wants to be a homemaker. Her frustration with, say, Margaret from next door is that she's a convenient representation of how much of society thinks that everyone in her position would want to take the homemaker route - or worse, doesn't even have wants and needs of her own and should therefore cater her life to her husband's.

Wen Qing definitely doesn't play that game.

How does this relate to her fashion, you may ask?

PANTS.

PANTS PANTS PANTS.

Listen to me - there are no skirts and pearls in this household. Wen Qing wears trousers. Suits. Jumpsuits. They're practical and comfortable, but most importantly they help her feel that she's rebelling in a way that is very easy to brush off as part of her profession rather than a small representation of a much much deeper discontent with heteronormative society, as a queer woman. She's very upfront about this - she will not, under any circumstances, wear a dress. Important social function at work? She will show up in well-tailored trousers and an understated blouse, no matter what the dresscode is said to be. She never wants to be mistaken for someone who can't or won't think and decide for herself - she wants to make sure that everyone knows she's Lan Wangji's equal. If he can be outdated and peerless in his 50's-esque suits, then she will be roaringly progressive in her suits, and they'll just have to be matching oddities in their community.

(Helen Hulick in 1938 who was jailed for wearing trousers when appearing in court - look her up, she's fantastic.)

I think she's not always so stern about it, but Wen Qing definitely Does Not Give A Shit about anyone's opinions on her clothing, and there would be many opinions about her as a professional woman in a male-dominated field. That being said, I also imagine her maybe outside of the university/professional setting in something much more obviously 1970's:

There was a lot of Good Shit happening in women's fashion in the 70's (following in the footsteps of the more progressive fads of the 1960's), and without Wen Qing being so deeply tied to old-fashioned ideals like Lan Wangji is, she sees nothing wrong with adapting with the times and looking damn good while doing it. As much as she isn't afraid to wear more masculine clothes in the workplace - something still pretty controversial by the early 70's - she also doesn't mind a more feminine look in her free time. But always pants. Always always always pants.

#the untamed fanfic #headcanon time #The Sculptor #Wei Wuxian #Lan Wangji #Wen Qing #You would think that between how long my fics usually are and how many extras I write #there wouldn't be much left over #but no. no y'all there's still So Much going on in my brain when I'm writing #Like every choice is so deliberate and I just have to sit and listen to my own #internal monologue about all of it all the time lol #here's just a small piece of it #I'll probably start doing more of these just to get them out of my head and onto the page #'these' being headcanon times not necessarily more posts about fashion

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