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vhstown · 3 months ago

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ain't no love; pt. 5

"that's why i said ain't no love" (finale)

— miles g morales x gn!reader series

SERIES SUMMARY: Miles G Morales is just a kid without a father; the Prowler is just a "rotten" vigilante. Both of them start coming into your life — one in the middle of the semester, and the other by total accident.

SERIES MASTERLIST 📼 ← PART 4 / PART 5 / EPILOG. →

chapter summary: [MULTI-POV] Miles has been a ghost, so you decide to do your own digging. Your answer might have just found you first.

content/warnings: graphic depictions of violence and injury grieving, death

word count: 8.7k (WHAT)

a/n: hey 😁 there's gonna be a teeny tiny epilogue after this one but this is the official end to aint no love! thanks to @/qiuweyballs forever for proofreading this series wouldn't exist without him 🙏

"I need that edit by 3pm, Watson!"

"Got it."

Even if the office was filled with the constant clack of keyboards, or desk phones ringing, or even Jameson himself barking right by her ear — as he was right now — MJ still had to keep up her persona. Agreeable, non-confrontational, all part of company protocol. There was no time for personal opinions or rebuttals, other than Jameson's; she was sure everyone would start coming in tin hats if it meant keeping their jobs.

"You're falling behind, you know," he continued as she quickly clicked off of the email she was working on. "Going to that school fair of yours set you at least a week behind!"

"It was one afternoon, sir. And I'm all caught up, the edit's not due until—"

"The edit is due when I say it's due. You out of all people should understand how things work around here by now. Get it done!"

The man sauntered off without much opportunity for her to reply, a cup of coffee crumpling between his fingers that he probably had yet to take a sip of. The poor intern that had made it would be the next to get an earful when he did try it, she was sure. Too much sugar! Not enough milk! Did you make this with your eyes closed? she recalled. MJ had heard it all by now.

Jameson didn't really have the gall to fire her — she knew that at the very least. The article could wait, however. Visions was yet to release a statement about their fired teacher, and the article would just look like all their other ones — speculatory and clickbait-y with not very much actual information. The Sinister Six ones certainly did well though, always on their broadcasts and the front of their website. Even NNC didn't have as much notoriety as the Bugle did with its less-than skeptical audiences.

The Visions student, right. With a few pasted links and a couple attachments, along with a lackluster "Good luck!" tacked on the end, she hit send. Good to know kids still have dumb email addresses.

She didn't take being abandoned a second time at the fair personally, really — everyone was fifteen once — but she couldn't help but wonder what had happened. It was almost imperceptible, but she knew when a smile looked off. There was something noticeably different about you when you had come back.

"MJ, uh, can I get your business card by any chance?"

"You know what a business card is?" she had joked, but it hadn't done much to ease the discomfort. "Yeah, sure. Contact me if you need anything."

"Yeah, thanks."

You'd asked for articles. Specifically on the Chameleon, and on the recent Prowler activity. You hadn't told her much, just that you needed help compiling some information for school. Some... presentation. MJ wasn't sure whether it was a lie or not, but it was all publicly available information anyhow.

You'd also wanted any information on Visions "teacher", Garrett East. His arrest had been for identity theft, and nothing more. Not many had reported on it as of yet, given he was detained so recently, but you were an insider. He had apparently been your calculus teacher, and the man that he had stolen the identity of had supposedly gone missing a few months before Garrett returned in his place. At least, that's all she had of her article. Maybe it wasn't the best idea to send it to a random high school student before her own boss, but it also wasn't like the man had any real idea what went on in his company. It was a wonder they managed to get through the quarter.

It was just a favour for someone nice she'd met. Maybe it'd repay her in some way in the future, most likely not. Regardless, she couldn't help but smile a little when she noticed her phone light up, a "thank you" text under your name. If only she actually had a work phone number, and it wasn't just her regular one. Visions students making connections already, it seemed.

The time on the screen was 2:41pm. She was met face to face with her wallpaper once again — a low-lit picture of her and a brown-haired man with glasses, the two of them smiling, red faced and dressed like their college selves. Peter Parker, her fiancé. They were holding those terrible beers he'd sworn by. He was a photographer, but this was one of the only pictures he'd taken of them together. It was shot on a bite-sized digital camera they'd bought for college, but never ended up using much. Now, it was all she really had.

Maybe the Chameleon really had come back when Peter had gone missing. Maybe it had something to do with you, with Visions

You probably already had a lot on your plate. And so did she. If she had anybody to chase, it was Otto Octavius. He'd offered Peter an internship in Manhattan. She'd never seen the man herself, only heard from him how good of a person he was, how this was going to get him a job and that it'd be good for them. That he'd finally get some use out of his degree and get to pursue science instead of taking "crummy" pictures for the Bugle. That they could save up for their wedding, and...

That was in Manhattan. The disappearances now were in Brooklyn. And even then, it was coming close to a year since he had disappeared.

She was always running in circles, at the command of an old man with a head too big for his body.

2:43pm. MJ turned off her phone, sliding it into her pocket.

Better get this edit finished.

2:43pm. Wednesday.

Ideally, with a couple days off of school, you would probably be at home, or maybe even out doing something fulfilling with your life. Maybe you could've even gone somewhere with Miles, if he hadn't up-and-disappeared along with every trace of him.

Your unread messages to him faded to black, leaving you to stare at your own face. Maybe you could've used those extra days to sleep, if it hadn't been for the chilling glow of purple eyes or the melting disfigured face that threatened to materialise everytime you closed your eyes.

What did he even like? Comics that he'd mentioned to you once? Of course he'd want to go to a comic book store with you after you'd made fun of him for seeming to want to deal with criminals himself. If only he'd come save you from Brooklyn Public Library right now. You were certain it couldn't get any more swampy in here with all the Visions students scrambling to do their off-day work right now.

Reading through the reply to a ballsy request you'd given to the Bugle's head journalist, you had a few questions in mind other than the ones concerning your disappearing, sort-of friend. Was all this research really practical? Maybe not. Would it help you sleep to know that the guy that had been teaching you calculus since the start of sophomore year was actually posing as a man that had gone missing months ago?

Another very normal thing that only seemed to happen to you.

Maybe you just attracted bad luck. That girl in your history class had joked about it last year, after you'd bumped into your teacher and every single paper he'd been holding had fallen to the ground in one scattered disaster. She wouldn't let it go, and it appeared that your brain wouldn't either.

Or like that time you went to Oscorp on a visit day and happened to be the only one there, trapped with a shapeshifting monster and the Prowler on the 90 millionth floor of that god-damned tower.

Maybe it was bad luck, or maybe you were cursed — or maybe you just walked into these situations on purpose. Like right now, sifting through years of articles on real criminals, with nothing but a hunch or fifteen.

The Chameleon had been arrested, like Miles had said, eight years ago on accounts of identity theft, much like your "teacher" but also very little like your teacher. According to what you were reading, Dmitri Smerdyakov been dubbed "the Chameleon" for a string of carefully orchestrated take-overs of big companies after impersonating their CEOs. His defence had argued that the big names in these companies were gone because they "wanted to be free of the burden of running their own companies".

You didn't have to be a journalist to make a face at that.

There was no mention of shapeshifting, as you'd seen with Wellston and Stromm. Just a couple lousy identity theft charges that didn't add up to their total amount anyway. This guy had more luck than you'd ever had.

The only other person that had seen any "shapeshifting" happen was Miles, and although he'd seemed surprised, something about his reaction was strange. You couldn't place it, but there was some sort of analytical twinge in his eyes, as if he was solving a math problem and not looking at someone shapeshift for the first time. You didn't know anything, really. Miles seemed like he did, though. If only you could bump into him and wring it out of him. And maybe go buy overpriced comic books with him and forget about the fact that your teacher had been arrested and midterms were coming up and maybe even become actual friends.

If only you were that lucky.

If only it was that easy to move past, as well. The fact that someone that had been involved in disappearances 8 years ago might be mixed up with this, along with the recent uptick in missing people made you feel uneasy. Surely any detective would have put two and two together by now, but remembering the fact that the shapeshifter had turned into a literal police officer dissolved any reassurance that thought might've brought. You were in a public library surrounded by unoptimistic college students, parents with their kids and even some of your own classmates, but the feeling was completely your own, tucked away behind a computer screen and a booked monitor session.

You couldn't be scared, though. You'd already seen probably the scariest thing in your life, kind-of almost died, and been wound up in so much craziness you knew so little about. If only high school had prepared you for researching literal criminals.

"Your 30 minute session is over. You will be logged out shortly."

God damn it.

If only Brooklyn Public Library's computer sessions weren't 30 minutes. You didn't want to log back in anyway, not if someone had booked after you. You could go back home, the library had just been an excuse to get out, really. Not that you'd made a whole new email and signed in as a guest on the computer. Not that you were paranoid.

Picking up your bag and checking your messages one last time you made a beeline for the exit. Well, less of a line and more of a strange obstacle course through the swarm of people. And of course you had to knock into someone. Just your luck.

"Hey, sorry," you mumbled, hands raising just a little in apology. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah..." The person dusted themself off a little with a frown, before looking up to meet your eyes.

Rafael?

"Hey, it's you," he realised, eyes widening as if he'd just gotten lucky.

Out of all places...

"I... gotta go."

"No, no, wait. I need you to do something."

Of course you do.

"I really don't have the time," you whispered back, as he caught up to your advance towards the doors.

"Uh, hey, listen... You talk to Miles, right? Like, he's your friend?"

"Yeah...?" No...? You weren't even sure at this point.

"Uh, look, I need you to tell him something..."

"What, you're in love with him?" you spat, finally looking at him again. "Cause it seems like it. You're always talking about him. Always talking to me about him."

"What?! No the f*ck I'm no—"

A much louder "shhhhhh!" got your attention. The librarian didn't look too pleased. Neither did any one of the people who turned to look at you.

"I'm not gay, man!"

So, the two of you were now out on the street as Rafael defended his sexuality with nothing but exasperated hand gestures.

"I didn't say that."

"Okay, well I'm not. Damn, why are you acting weird for?"

"Your face is red."

"I'm black!"

"That melanin isn't doing anything for you."

"Shut the f*ck up!"

You rolled your eyes, hiding the way the corners of your mouth were starting to lift with a deep exhale. The poor guy was not very discreetly checking his face right now with the back of his hand.

"What, then? What did you wanna say to him so bad?" you asked, instantly making him retract his hand from his cheek.

"Forget it."

"No, tell me. You got us all the way out here for no reason?"

He gave you a look, before promptly looking away, mumbling something under his breath.

"Didn't hear that." That made him groan loudly. It was akin to a petulant child, if not a few octaves deeper.

"I'm... sorry."

Huh?

"You're... sorry?" you repeated, making him let out a huff.

"Look, I..." Rafael met your eyes again, his narrowing uncomfortably. There was something strange in his expression. "My mom's missing. I dunno who to tell. I know I messed up and I... I get it now. I get it. The thing with his dad."

Oh sh*t.

Remorse. That was what you were seeing in his eyes. Or maybe regret. Neither you thought you'd ever see from him.

"Tell him I'm sorry. Or don't. Whatever," Rafael muttered, kicking a bottle cap on the ground until it skittered to a halt by a dog, who found interest in it as its owner tried to tug it along the pavement.

"You can't tell him yourself?" you replied, brows furrowing. As bad as you felt, this was a personal matter. You weren't about to be a parrot for the guy that hadn't grown out of his bullying phase.

"You think he'd listen?"

"It's understandable if he doesn't."

"And what if he doesn't come back?"

"Why..." What? "Why wouldn't he come back?"

"I... dunno. Why can't you just tell him?"

Huh. "Why wouldn't he come back, huh?"

Rafael gives you a sort of reserved look, as if he's contemplating whether or not to lie to your face.

"I heard something about him while I was in that office. He's like... withdrawing from the school."

"He's... what?" Withdrawing from the school? Could he even withdraw that fast? "Why?"

"I dunno, damn! Just... forget it. I don't know why I even asked you man."

Rafael turned to leave, a scowl forming on his face.

"Hey," you called out, looking away before he could meet your eyes. He didn't turn around, though.

"What?"

"...I'm sorry about your mom," you managed, before he could go far enough. "I hope they find her."

"Yeah," he muttered, before throwing his hood over his head.

And now your friend, not-friend, study buddy was gone. The only person you kind of got along with at all outside of just one class. Another person missing. Rafael's mom. Maybe you needed to get out of Brooklyn for college. You certainly wouldn't miss the subway all too much, you thought, crammed in-between people.

"Stand clear of the closing doors, please."

As soon as you got out of the station and into the street, you were met with a familiar face among the people passing by. Instead of the Visions uniform, he was in a jacket too big for him, crinkled sweatpants and purple Jordans.

Miles. Calc-wiz. Mr. Disappearing Act. Withdrawn from the school, now in front of you and definitely already getting on your nerves.

He was looking at you, a hint of surprise in his otherwise smoothed-over features.

"Miles?"

"Yeah. Can we... talk?" His cheek dimpled with the awkward half-smile you'd only seen a couple times, but you were so strangely familiar with. You didn't know whether to freak out at him in front of a crowd of people or head home and hope that he didn't follow you.

"...Sure," is what comes out of your mouth.

Just your luck.

"~Ain't no love—" Skip.

"~Ha, sicker than your average—"

"Poppa twist cabbage off instinct..." Skip.

Miles was getting sicker than average of his uncle's playlist. Maybe working in silence was better.

He took out his earbuds, setting them on his mess of a desk and picking up the screwdriver again. Uncle Aaron was busy, "out of town", as his voicemail said. Probably doing something Miles wasn't supposed to be involved in. He'd be back in a day or two, as always. Never in one place too long.

Even for someone so experienced, he knew this was his uncle's first real "vigilante" gig. Uncle Aaron wasn't getting paid, nor was he working under someone trying to solve a cold case Jeff had been involved in with his colleagues. His dad was no detective, but always seemed to want to help out, and the police were getting desperate with all the recent missing person's cases. There was no real pattern, and sometimes people would be returned just fine. That's what the police were hoping for.

Dr. Stromm had disappeared for about 2 weeks, and returned to his normal work at Oscorp. That could be excused for a vacation off of work, for all anyone knew. Wellston, however, was still missing. Probably dead. Just a couple had turned up dead. It was so unpredictable that they all seemed unrelated, but the kinds of people going missing were all of use — scientists, lawyers, bank tellers. Wellston had been getting his PhD while teaching before he went missing. All people of use to the Chameleon.

Whoever his uncle was working for at the same time as all of this likely had no idea. He was probably working for that person right now, even when they had this case to deal with.

Miles had only been up to this after his dad had passed, and he knew he wasn't as polished as Aaron — not after what happened at Oscorp. Those gauntlets couldn't focus their energy, even if they were more powerful and he could charge shockwaves through the air almost instantaneously, and he had bragged about it a little too much when they'd tested it in the garage.

Now, he had faint lines on his skin from the excess heat, and had been taking them apart and rebuilding them for weeks in his room. His visor needed work too. It was way better in depth, but the resolution sucked. Even then, he was sure he could make something better than what his uncle had. Rigorous training wasn't enough to do this sort of work. He had to do his own thing, even if he was taking up the same schtick. Eventually his uncle's beard would gray and he'd have to be the real Prowler.

He was a good guy, after all. Like his uncle, like his dad.

By deduction, the Prowler was a good guy too. But he wasn't the Prowler today. He was Miles. The Miles that had been shouted at for trying to quit school again. The Miles that was fifteen and spent his days off building crappy gear.

Maybe on a day like this he could spend time with other people like he did in middle school. Go to a fast food place, or go to Micah's house to play video games, or hang around in some parking lot and run when he and his friends accidentally set off a car alarm. The sun was setting outside his window now. It felt like those evenings where he was reluctant to be taken home by his dad, after he was at Micah's playing GTA on Micah's older brother's console, laughing and screaming, Micah's sister shouting at them to shut up from the hallway.

Miles puts the visor down, walking up to his window and pushing it open. The air didn't get any warmer around this time of year, a cold wind brushing past his face as he stuck his head out to look at the city below.

Above him was the half-finished mural. A colourful backdrop of red and blue, and purple. His dad's face without the glasses, hat without the logo, the text outline without the actual text.

"Captain Jeff Morales. Husband, Hero, Father," read the ghost of the text.

His dad wasn't missing. There was no hope of him turning up one day, and that he could leave the mural unfinished and paint it over with something else. There was no hope that he'd wake up one night and instead of finding himself grasping at air it would be his mom shaking him awake to tell him his dad had come home.

His dad was dead. His dad was facing him right now and smiling like he did every morning before he left the house. His dad was painted on a brick wall, missing his glasses.

Miles knew he wasn't smiling for him. He was smiling for the city. He was the face of PDNY, captain for half a day alive and for the rest of eternity until Brooklyn forgot him, deceased. The mural had made him feel better when he hadn't been able to leave his own bedroom and decided to get up and start it with his uncle, but now he felt all sorts of emotions swirling through him. Regret, anger, grief, all of it at the same time — only to stop right at his tear ducts, tightening his throat.

He hadn't cried back then; his mom shared the pain of the both of them, even now. Even when they went to his tombstone, she was the only one that had cried as he'd kept a reassuring hand on her back.

Selfish, were the tears that blurred his vision, not heavy enough to roll down his face.

He sat, staring, eyes stinging yet soothed by the moisture. The sun cast a halo around the building, the mural in shadow and the city behind flooded in red-orange light.

"Husband, Hero, Father."

Was he a hero before he was his father? He had painted that himself. He knew his dad was a good guy. Was he a good guy before he was a good dad?

His thoughts were interrupted with the buzz of his phone in his pocket. There was a message on the notification bar, overtaking the text he'd been yet to reply to from his mom.

Are you the miles talking to me right now 1m ago

It was you.

Cause you're acting weird

And you just read my message without taking out your phone

What the...?

no wtf are u talking abt Read 4:51PM

where ru Read 4:51PM

His fingers hovered above the keys, glancing briefly at the gauntlet at his desk.

With a guy that looks exactly like u

You're the real miles right

He wracked his brain for something, anything as he ran back towards his desk.

6 liters per hour Read 4:53PM

What???

Okay calc genius help me out please?????

He let out a breath between his teeth, shoving his gauntlets in his backpack and throwing on his gear haphazardly.

The Chameleon. Becoming him.

I'm at Marge's on moore st

ok just stay there go into the bathroom Read 4:55PM

don't leave til i text u Read 4:55PM

What are u gonna do??? the restaurant is empty

He's gonna look for me

He was acting so weird if that's not u then it's probably chameleon right

So you did believe him about the Chameleon. Or maybe you were the Chameleon and just being incredibly smart. He couldn't be 100% sure. Not like he ever was. Swooping out of his window, he threw his hoodie down to hang off the fire escape stairs before starting to run up the side of his building, shoes vacuuming him to stand horizontally.

probably Read 4:55PM

ur gonna take him outside in a couple min Read 4:55PM

Why???

just trust me Read 4:55PM

ill be there in 3m Read 4:56PM

The sky was now a shade of blue-purple, the reds and oranges dissolving behind the skyline. It was getting dark, and fast.

Okay

Manoeuvering through the maze of buildings with his shoes keeping him a thousand feet from being heard or seen, Miles headed for Moore Street with the little map in his peripheral vision. When he got there, all that welcomed him was a lone street lamp that had yet to turn on, a couple of closed local grocer's and a dimly-lit diner named "Marge", a discoloured space next to it the shape of an "s". Close enough.

Sifting through the modes on his visor, he settled when he saw the outline of two people. One strangely shaped like him and one strangely shaped like you.

He climbed down a little, dimming the lights on his gear completely as he receded into a small alley. The guy definitely looked like him physically. Tall, handsome, standing outside the bathroom, shifting on his toes...? Creasing my Jordans? Seriously?

Oh, yeah he had you to deal with. And himself, apparently.

leave now Read 4:58PM

Miles had about zero idea how to, but he needed to figure it out in about 30 seconds from now.

You made your way out of the bathroom, and he moved to the side of the diner you were closest to from outside to get a better view.

"...Gotta go home..."

"...Lemme walk you..."

As you left the store into the empty street, he could make out the slight twinge of nervousness on your face as you looked around ― probably looking for him and finding nobody.

"Hold on, I gotta text my parents..." You took out your phone, turning yourself a little to obscure the screen.

"Yeah, that's cool." Sounded almost exactly like him. Creepy.

go into that alley on your right and run home Read 5:00PM

Ur kidding

you gotta trust me Read 5:00PM

At that moment, you took one last look at your phone before turning into the alleyway. You were just a couple quick steps into the alley when his doppelganger grabbed yourshoulder.

"What the hell are you doing, Miles?!" you shouted suddenly, trying to pull yourself free, only to be thrown against the wall of the alleyway.

"I'm doing you a favour. You're not going to school anymore," he responded, his tone suddenly flat and nothing like it was a moment ago.

"What are you talking about? I'm just trying to go home."

His doppelganger was now featureless, his face melting away into the blankness Miles still couldn't describe. The panic on your face is visible from yards away. Miles just has to catch him off-guard. Without hurting you. He could do that.

"So you are the Chameleon," you muttered, still trying to pry his hands away as his grip wrinkled your clothes further.

"Ah, so you did figure it out. Excellent." That definitely didn't sound like him anymore. "You were always the most interesting in that class of yours."

"You... You were the one who was at those after-school classes, huh? And at Oscorp. And that... fair." That you were right about. "What the hell is your problem?"

"My problem is that I need a little something from your school, and you seem like the easiest solution."

"Couldn't you do that while you were a teacher? You got that other guy to be arrested in your place. Aren't you done?"

"It looks like you have me all figured out. Except for one small thing."

"What?"

Something glistened by your neck. Sharp. Metal. He had a knife pressed to your throat, the blade just managing to dent your skin.

"You're going to die."

Missing. Sometimes they turned up. Other times they were probably dead. If he didn't figure this out, you were dead already.

"I'm... I kind of figured that too, you know."

"Oh, really? Aren't you something?" There was something like a grin on his face, but it was too misshapen to really tell. "So unaffected. So controlled."

"How do you even... turn into these people? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Take a guess. An educated guess is always better than nothing." His voice pitched up into Wellston's awkward sing-song, repeating what he used to say in class. Near-perfectly.

"Why are you so sure you won't get caught?"

"That's not an answer, and I can't exactly reveal such things, you know."

"Not even when you're about to kill me?"

"Oh, unfortunately not."

"Go f*ck yourself." That made the man laugh. If he wasn't in this situation right now, Miles might have managed a smile at that.

"Yeah, go f*ck yourself," he muttered, voice being caught half-way into his modulator in a grainy, deep sound.

In an instant, Miles soared above the two of you, foot smashing itself right in the centre of the Chameleon's face, his knife clattering to the floor. As he stumbled back, you got up, taking the opportunity to run, footsteps hard against the pavement.

Suddenly, the Chameleon was stuck between the wall and Miles' knee, steadying himself with his hands against the brick. Miles could make out some kind of morphed look of glee on his face as his clawed hand clamped him to the wall by both sides of his neck. The lips and teeth were starting to form through the flesh, and Miles let the energy build up in the converter as the smile fell into place, cell by cell.

"You don't want to kill me," he stated, simply.

"Pretty sure I do." Miles' claws just scraped at the skin starting to form at his neck. The quiet whirr of his gauntlet starts to become audible.

"You can't kill me. I am everywhere."

If everywhere is right in front of me, I mean...

"I know what you're doing, Dmitri. It ends here."

"I know what you're doing, Prowler."

He finally sees it, what's forming on the man's face. It's him.

"One of my best students, I never would have guessed," he started, grinning wildly, with some sort of overwhemled excitement.

Miles felt his mouth go dry, his face under the mask paralysed as the one staring at him continued to smile.

"The DNA that I retrieved from you is that of... Miles Gonzalo Morales."

It was as if the shockwave forming in his gauntlet slowed with time itself as he came to stare. He was looking at himself. Smiling. Grinning. Crazed. Miles Gonzalo Morales.

"Kill me. I have my assets, and subordinates. They will end you. Your mother, Rio. The hospital she works at. Your uncle, Aaron."

The quiet whirr in his gauntlet faded into silence. He felt his hand retreat, leaving the Chameleon, still posing as Miles, grinning, unblinking, and flat against the wall.

"Oh, you've made a very good choi―"

SLAM!

Metal met with bone, an audible crack following as Miles' clawed fist met the wall, the Chameleon's face smashed between the two.

"You mother... f*cker..." he breathed out, voice choked through the sudden rush of blood, smearing against the wall as he lifted his face from it.

Miles pointed his gauntlet at him again, the whirring renewing itself to a high-pitched scream, light purple expanding between them and tearing through the alleyway like fire.

"Muerto el pollo." (Job done.)

The man's reforming grin was overtaken by the brightness of the blast, energy snapping into one focused point before hurtling through the air, right at the Chameleon.

Miles felt his ears start to ring. His body was lightweight. Airborne.

His back hit something hard, and suddenly the lightness was replaced with an erratic clawing spreading up his arm. The light flickered into sparks that led fire under his sleeve, eating away at his skin. Burning. The blindness faded away, eyes managing to focus. All he could see past the smoke was a figure approaching him, and a hysteric laugh that grew louder and instantaneously changed pitch.

"So confident," is what he could make out through the ringing in his ears that had bled through his head into a sharp, disorienting pain. "I almost thought you had me."

Ripping the burning gauntlet off of himself, he noticed something jammed in the converter as he shook the heat from his arm. Some sort of sabotaging device. He'd had just a few seconds before the burning would've made it past his skin. The Chameleon had planned this.

Looking to his other gauntlet, he noticed the same device, ripping it out before crushing it under his foot. Never twice.

Swallowing back the cough building up in the back of his throat, Miles made a move for the Chameleon, before catching his figure turn left ― running.

Coño. (F*ck.)

Launching himself up, Miles locked onto the man, hurtling through a series of alleyways, fluidly dodging every obstacle in his way as if to waste no time. He could not let him get into a crowd and disappear. This had to end here, even if he had no god damn plan and his uncle was sure to scold him when he got back. He wasn't going to let you or anyone else get killed by this crazy f*ck.

Miles threw himself down into the next alleyway, hearing heavy, fast footsteps, someone approaching in his vision.

Just a little closer.

SLAM!

He threw the Chameleon down onto the ground, noticing he'd already changed appearance.

That face. No, this wasn't the Chameleon.

It was... you. And you were looking right at him. Terrified.

"Please, please let me go," you mumbled, gasping for air in-between words... "I... You're the... Prowler, I― Please― The... That guy's after me and..."

Your head fell against the concrete, an exhausted look in your eyes as you caught your breath.

"Please. I didn't... I didn't do anything. I can keep quiet about you, I haven't told the police anything. About Oscorp. Nothing."

"I know it's you, Chameleon." You would've ran far away by now, he was sure.

"I―I swear I'm not. I'm not him, I don't know how to prove it to you, but... I called my friend for help and... he never came. Please. Please let me go. I don't know where the Chameleon is right now."

Another set of footsteps came towards the both of you.

"I'm right here, Prowler," emerged another voice from the alley.

It was... you?

"Come on. Weren't you looking for me?" the other you continued, half-hidden in shadow. "Come get me."

So the you on the floor... was actually you. And this...

"Please, that's... that's him, you've gotta let me go," the you that was on the ground muttered, exasperated. There was a waver in your voice. In the way your eyes widened looking at him. Almost like confusion.

The Chameleon was right there. Admitting that he was in fact the Chameleon. While he was trying to run away.

"Please," he heard below him, a quiet, desperate whisper in the silence.

You both looked identical. Even though he'd injured the Chameleon, the both of you were unscratched. You both sounded the same too, from what he could decipher. No real way to tell you apart. And his only answer right now felt like a trick.

He kept eyes on the you standing before him, barely making out a face. Something was there, in the way that you looked, the way you stood. Something strange, something he couldn't figure out fast enough to make any decision.

And then, he felt a little pinch. One that suddenly exploded and tore through his flesh, wrangling with every one of his nerves as his body seized. You had lost your scared, desperate expression, your face now distorting along with his vision into that of a smile.

"I understand," a voice started, ringing through his head as if it was everywhere. "You want to help me."

The pain was clawing its way through his body from a point in his leg. He turned his head, noticing the discarded needle beside him. He'd managed to ease his hand just close enough to administer it. You ― no, the Chameleon, lifted himself from the ground, before Miles felt his head spin hard with a kick.

"I admire you, your wit," he called out, letting out a laugh as he started to walk towards you. "Turning against your own savior. Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful."

No, no... There was... there was no way you were working with him. There was no way you...

"You have proven yourself. You'll be better than... than that Garrett fool. I've changed my mind."

Miles rummaged in his utility belt for something, anything. He had no idea what he'd been given, but it was already running through his blood, reaching his brain and poisoning every part of it.

"Your friend over there is going to be unconscious in about half a minute. Why don't you take care of him? I'll be a fool to kill you once you do."

Get up, Miles.

His head throbbed with the sound of your footsteps, each one getting louder and louder. His limbs were weakening. He could barely lift his head.

Get up!

"Dad... Dad? No no no... Get up, get up!"

The gauntlet was slowly slid off of him, now in your hands as his arm fell uselessly onto the ground in front of him.

The gauntlet clipped onto your arm, fingers moving as yours did. He felt the metal claws just scrape his helmet, a faint clink echoing through his skull.

Miles didn't want to look at your face, but he couldn't find it in him to look anywhere else. There was that something from before in your expression that he couldn't quite place, and he still didn't have an answer. It bothered him, for some damn reason. Not the fact that he had his own weapon pointed to his brain as he was losing consciousness. Not the fact that he couldn't move. Not the fact that his last thoughts were about the look on your face and not his mom, or his dad.

Whirrr...

That brightness that the Chameleon had been staring at before was now staring right at him. Overwhelming, blinding, all-encompassing. He felt the faint heat on his skin, as his eyelids grew heavy. Something like warmth in contrast to the cold metal, if just for a second. Something like knowing in your eyes. Something hopeful, saving, loving. Even if just for a second. Even if his brain had made it up to let him succumb.

He wished he could smile, and not be terrified. He wished he could be like his dad, who had smiled.

"Take care of your mom for me, Miles. I ain't gonna be around forever."

And he reached for his helmet. To show you his face, to hope you'd stop once you saw him. He reached, before his arm fell limp beside him once more.

Sorry. I'm so sorry.

"Hey, hello?"

"Hey!"

"Prowler? ...Are you dead?"

God, what did you have to do if he didn't respond...? Breathing, pulse...

"What the..." you heard, before he exploded into a painful-sounding coughing fit, tinged by some kind of voice changer. The Prowler lifted his head, and you could make out az kind of shadow where his eyes were behind the dull, unlit screen. "Huh...?"

"Hey, uh. The... Chameleon..."

Gesturing to the pile on the floor, the Prowler seemed to tense a little at the sight. It was the Chameleon, or... what was left of him. His face charred and caved in by the likes of a certain purple energetic blast. Right, you, had to explain that, the de-powered weapon in your hands.

"Sorry for... I didn't know what I was doing, that was―"

"You killed him?" came out a quiet, modulated voice.

That was...

You killed him. With the Prowler's weapon.

You were defending yourself. You were defending him. That man was a...

Thunk!

The metallic arm hit the ground as it rolled out of your arms, looking into the hollow shadows of the Prowler's eyes.

You didn't know anything about any of these people, and you were deep into their world. It was one that you had never thought you'd see, and now you had nothing to dig yourself out of it. You decided to trick him and when Miles was too late to figure it out you had...

You had killed someone. Turned the blast on him within a split second, watching it sear through his skull in a merciless flurry, stab after stab of burning hot energy wracking more and more screams. Right until the weapon had run out of energy. Until your finger grew numb from the trigger inside the device and the alleyway had gone silent. The man that had haunted your mind for months was unmoving before you, ripped of all features, all life.

Murder. Manslaughter. This man had connections. They'd come after you. After everyone you knew and loved. After Miles.

You should've stayed home.

The ache of adrenaline surged through your heart, your muscles, begging. Begging you to move. To run. To get up.

Get up. Run. Run away. Scream for help. Do something.

You felt the scratch of brick, arms enveloping the rest of you as you backed into the wall.

Hide.

All the breath in your lungs seemed to leave at once as you desperately tried to breathe it back in, hearing the air rush in and out of your mouth over and over. It was loud. So loud. The blast had been so loud. He had screamed so loud―

"Hey."

The hand on your shoulder was warm, free of any metal.

"It's... alright," you heard him say.

How could he say that?

"How can you say that?" Your voice was muffled. Wavering. Pathetic.

Would they believe you? With that stupid, pathetic, voice, whoever it was that found you ― would they believe you?

"How can you say that...?" you repeated, pressing your face further into your knees. The touch on your tensed shoulder felt offensive. Mocking.

"You're gonna be okay."

"How am I gonna be okay?"

"You didn't do anything wrong."

"How do you know that?"

You were looking at him now, breath hitched, eyes wide. You tried to sound frustrated, angry, but all that came out of your throat was a sound that told the Prowler "I am scared" in every language.

The Prowler hadn't killed you. He was comforting you. In any other circumstance, you could've laughed at the thought. To your knowledge, this Prowler hadn't killed anyone, or put everyone he loved in severe danger. Maybe you were worse than him.

"Why won't you answer any of my questions...?" you mumbled hopelessly, burying your face in your hands. You could smell concrete, dust, and ash ― invisible, yet incriminating.

Hiss... Click!

You felt hands wrap around your wrists, carefully pulling yours away from your own face. Just as you looked up, you could see the mask dismantling itself, disappearing behind his head.

What was left was a face. The Prowler's face.

No, this is...

Brown, maybe green-ish eyes. They were a smooth coppery colour under the dim light, bright among the shadows underneath his eyes. A black-red was drying on his skin, under his nose and creeping past his cracked lips. Two braids, coming unfurled at the ends, coming all the way back up to the top of his head. A soft face with harshness painted all over it. An exhausted, pained and worried expression.

"Hey, pana."

The face you had so prayed to see blurred into a watery mess as you threw your arms around him, squeezing your eyes shut against his jacket. His arms followed, settling over yours, one palm circling your back and the other settled between your shoulders.

You didn't think you'd held anyone tighter. You didn't know someone could hold to the point that their arms were shaking around you.

"Miles..."

You felt his head rest beside yours, the contours of his face melding against your shoulder. Warmth was running down your face ― blooming in your chest.

"I've got you."

"Mij— Oh... Oh my!"

You'd scrubbed your eyes hard as you could, and Miles had fixed himself up into a giant hoodie and jeans, but you were almost certain that the woman in front of you was utterly convinced that the both of you had been run over by a subway train. Miles' mom, standing with a vacuum cleaner that contributed nothing to the silence. Her jaw was inching closer to the floor the longer the silence stretched out.

"Uh... hola, mami. This is my friend," Miles offered, not sounding any less like he'd been met face first with the headlights of New York public transportation.

"Hi, Mrs... Morales."

The woman propped the vacuum cleaner against the wall, letting out a quiet sigh. She had beautiful curly hair, and was now wearing the sharp-softness of her son's face in a polite, and concerned smile. You didn't want to turn to check if Miles still had blood on his face.

"Is this a bad time...?" you started. "I can—"

"Oh, no, no, I just... I haven't even made dinner yet, I didn't expect—" The woman lets out another breath, shaking her head. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be so rude. What are you two... What have you been up to?"

"We just... you know," Miles gestured with his hands, charading less than nothing in the air.

"You know...?" she replied, eyes squinting.

"I uh, already ate. Don't worry about it, Mrs. Morales," you continued, giving her what you hoped looked like a smile on your face. "Miles just wanted to show me something. It'll be quick."

"Uh, yeah. That."

"You're not staying for dinner?" she called out, as Miles dragged you into his room. "I was gonna make pastelón—"

"I'll come help you in a sec, mami."

Miles closed the door to his room, and the two of you shared a look as you heard the long, muffled sigh from outside. With the sound of the vacuum cleaner whirring in the hallway and disappearing into another room, the two of you sat on the edge of the twin-size bed, the frame creaking uncomfortably.

The room wasn't particularly big, crowded with posters and various newspaper clippings — many about the Prowler. There were crates tucked away beside his closet, faces of toy figurines and comic books peeking out of them. A lone screwdriver sat on his desk, a stack of notebooks beside it. The backpack you'd seen him take to school was hanging on the back of his chair, a study guide for "Invisible Man" peeking out of it. All that was on his bedside table other than papers was a frame. A young boy, missing a tooth, on the shoulders of an older man, the two of them beaming through the picture.

"You hurt or anything?" he asked quietly, making you remember that he was next to you. "Like, injured?"

"No, I'm... fine." You took half of a breath before your lungs started to ache, swallowing back the dryness of your throat. Mostly fine. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. My mom's a nurse, so... I kinda..."

"Oh... Yeah, yeah." Huh.

Mrs. Morales certainly didn't seem to know about her son's... part-time job.

You noticed a set of blueprints on the wall, resembling the clawed arms he had stashed away without you or his mom seeing.

"You made those...? The claw-glove things?"

"They're gauntlets."

It was somewhat like the tone of voice he used when he was explaining a calculus question — not condescending, but somewhat tired and fed-up.

"Right..." Gauntlets. Sure.

The vacuuming stopped, and a few moments later the clinking of cookware could be heard.

"You staying for dinner?"

"Huh...? Um, I don't wanna bother your mom."

"Please...? I'm gonna get it if you go home without eating." Something about that made you laugh, even if it was a half-hearted sound that fizzled out before it could really sound like one.

"She seems nice," you mused.

"She is. She tries."

Something of a smile tugged at his lips as a quick snort of air left him, his eyes now on yours.

"I got a lot of explaining to do, huh?" His smile faded a little as the words left his mouth.

"You do. Maybe... Maybe not now, though."

"Yeah. Not now."

In your peripheral, you could make out his arm inching closer to yours. The tips of his fingers just brushed your knuckles, leaving just a spark of feeling against your skin. His throat bobbed a little as he swallowed, and—

"Miles, ¡ven a cortame estas cebollas! (Come and cut these onions for me!)"

"Oh! Um— Okay!"

The bed squeaked again as he stood up, and you could tell he was biting the inside of his cheek. You closed your hand as the lingering feeling of his touch disappeared.

"...You sure I can stay for dinner?"

"You sure you just asked me that?"

"Alright, alright."

You gave him a little more of a smile, and you could see him fighting to not return it as he looked back at you.

"i'm gonna... go and—"

"Yeah, you do that, Miles."

He handed you his phone, or, a phone.

"You can... play some music, if you want. It's connected to that speaker. Just not too loud, yeah?"

You noticed there was no SIM card in it. He pointed to the little speaker sitting by the window sill, peeking out behind a hung up jacket and a school blazer.

"...Thanks."

The door to his room shut, and the murmured voices of Miles and his mom faded as you selected a song. You recognised some of them, ones you'd heard people sing along to on the street or in the cafeteria of your school. This one stood out, though.

It started slow, and the man's voice was rich, full of life and emotion. It was strangely melancholic against the uplifting instrumentals.

"~Ain't no love, in the heart of the city..."

You stood up, walking to the window to get a better listen of it. Lifting up the blinds, your eyes caught something in the darkness. A giant painting of Jefferson Morales. Miles' dad. It was half-finished, but his smile was there.

You couldn't help but think how he looked so much like Miles.

"~Ain't no love, cause you ain't around..."

An almost inaudible rustle caught your attention as you tuned to look at the jacket you had touched. Something had fallen out of its pocket while you were trying to move the speaker. It was a piece of paper, something written on it.

Reaching down, you moved to put it back in the pocket, before noticing what was peeking out of it.

Unfolding just the edge of it, you recognised the title of a Spanish lesson you had a while ago, back when Rafael had been bothering you endlessly. Opening it up entirely, you found what he'd been making fun of Miles for.

There were a series of drawings around scrawled Spanish vocabulary and messy grammar rules. One was of your teacher, Mrs. Hernández, turned away, writing on the board. The other was of the picture of the landmark in the article you had been given, "Arco de"-something. The colour of the building was done in yellow highlighter, but looked rather technical and accurate nonetheless.

The one on the back made you almost drop the paper.

It was you, with such a likeness. Some lines had been erased and re-drawn around your mouth, as if he'd been trying to decide on an expression. Within the creases of the paper you were holding right now, though, you found yourself smiling — just slightly, like if you'd been laughing at something with the rest of your class. Your head was tilted slightly downwards. The drawing version of you was just a little cuter than you were sure you looked like, Miles' stylisation making your eyes shine a little and your lips curve just the right way.

By the time your stomach had stopped fluttering, the song was coming to a close. You quickly re-crumpled the paper and carefully put it back into the jacket, walking over to sit on his bed again.

"~Ain't no love, in the heart of this town..."

"...You never come back this late, mijo..."

"...We just bumped into each other and started talking. You know, like how at the store..."

"...Your tías are different, Miles..."

He really does have a lot to explain, you thought to yourself, unable to stop the corners of your mouth from lifting up, just slightly.

Your questions would just have to wait until after dinner.

my lovely jubly taglist: @noetophat @sakura-onesan @bakugouswaif @phoenixinthefiles @daydreaming-en-pointe @sp1derw1re @kvvrc @spookyscaryskeletrans @proudgojofucker @spam-1 @playboifenty @hobiebrownismygod @kissingkzuha @nyumeii @uwukiity @itzmeme @shittingonyourgrave @theyluvbix @kezibear @theseustimes

thank you for reading! epilogue hopefully coming soon 👍 reblogs + replies are appreciated 💗 find the rest of my writing in my atsv masterlist here!

#42!miles x reader #42!miles morales x reader #atsv fanfiction #earth 42 miles x reader #prowler miles x reader #miles g morales #miles g #42!miles #miles gonzalo morales #prowler miles #atsv x you #atsv #across the spiderverse #atsv x reader #vhstown

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piratecaptainscaptainpirates · 1 year ago

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To the person who sent me an ask worrying about this article from Consequence TV maybe being the start of OFMD being cancelled, I accidentally deleted it so I'm responding here!

Tl;dr: absent any other information, I'm not worried about it. When I first saw it, it was paired with a headline that said somehting along the the lines of "Taika Waititi hints he won't be returning for OFMD season 3," which seems to have changed and just isn't actually said anywhere in the article itself.

The first part of the article is immediately a bit scary:

When Consequence asks writer/director/actor Taika Waititi if he’s feeling optimistic about a third season of Our Flag Means Death, his initial response is this: “Have you seen the end?”

While this looks scary, I encourage you to stop, breathe for a moment, read that again: crucially, that's not really an answer to the fucking question, and it's presented without context or even any indication that was TW's full answer. It's such a vague opener and without any follow-up it's practically meaningless.

The next parts of the article that a lot of people are concerned about are these paragraphs:

Max has yet to announce plans for a third season but Our Flag Means Death has become a fan favorite for its loving portrayal of its core relationship between Ed and Stede. For Waititi, though, the Season 2 finale “feels like a natural end to their story. Just because I feel like, you know, they’ve been through so much and then wind up in that nice place at a happy ending.” Waititi calls Our Flag Means Death “a really special show,” adding that “I love the show so much and maybe it can survive without Rhys and I. Maybe, I don’t know. I do I think the character of Blackbeard is something I’m really proud of.” Waititi says, though, that “I don’t want it to feel like Rambo III suddenly, you know, when you’re like, ‘Oh man, they have to leave their idyllic life again.'”

When I first read that headline, I was obviously like what the fuck, but when I clicked the link I immediately dismissed this whole article. I'm a person naturally given to anxiety and over-thinking - I'm not saying that to dismiss anyone who is worried about that, I'm saying that to emphasize just how contextless and clickbait-y this article is.

It's important to remember two things: OFMD is a mainstream property that is still generating a lot of traffic due to speculation on whether it's going to be renewed, and Taika Waititi, as a person, attracts a lot of divisive media attention that is often very clickbait-y in nature. He's also the biggest name attached to OFMD.

If we look at this article, all of TW's lines are presented to us out of context. We are not given the questions he was asked or told anything about when this interview took place (other than after the finale, obviously).

A breakdown of what TW says with possible, more likely context:

"The s2 finale felt like a natural, happy ending for Stede and Ed." This is true, and we also know this was intentional in case the show doesn't get renewed. This is not new information.

"Maybe the show can survive without Rhys and I." This is what people are (understandably) worried about, but this is both not a firm statement of "I don't want to come back for s3" and completely devoid of context. A possible explanation is that DJenks has mentioned possible spin-offs; TW could be here referring to spin-offs that don't involve him or Rhys Darby. As an executive producer, there is literally no way TW doesn't know at lesat the broad outline of DJenks' plan for s3.

"I don't want it to feel like they're leaving their idyllic life again." TW doesn't want Ed and Stede's story to be beaten to death, he wants it to have a satisfying, happy ending. Again, this should not be surprising information, it's just presented in a way that makes it seem like he definitely thinks s2 should be the end of Ed and Stede when that is not what he says.

This article is completely devoid of context, and because of that I consider all TW's statements in here to be essentially meaningless because we don't know any of the questions he was asked. I believe the most logical context for these quotations were him talking about the finale and how it was satisfying in case they didn't get s3, speculating about possible spin-offs, and then talking about how he doesn't want the story to be one of those TV shows that go on too long.

A bit of additional context: Consequence is, primarily, a music review and news site. They have a TV segment, where this article is housed, but music is their main focus and they are not a website where you expect to find actual breaking TV news, let alone from big names like TW. Larger film and TV publications we've seen covering the recent release of Next Goal Wins, in comparison, universely refer to the OFMD s2 as "successful" and refer to a "likely" third season - for publications actually focused on TV, the predominant view seems to be that OFMD is successful and a 3rd season seems very likely.

This article is very clickbait-y and tells us absolutely nothing. It absolutely does not say that TW is uninterested in returning for s3 (in fact, it says the opposite, he repeats again how much he loves the show) or that OFMD will be cancelled.

We're okay. Even if we do get news that OFMD hasn't been greenlit for s3, I promise it's not going to break on Consequence TV of all places.

#ofmd #our flag means death

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dearweirdme · 8 months ago

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I'm probably one of the few who thinks both Taennie and Taekook are possible at the same time. I think Tae wanted a fresh start with Jennie but couldn't forget JK. I remember Tae's To Find You live very well…he sang along to this song and seemed a bit sad : "She'd take the world off my shoulders If it was ever hard to move She'd turn the rain to a rainbow When I was living in the blue Why then, if she is so perfect Do I still wish that it was you? Perfect don't mean that it's working So what can I do?"

Hi anon!

There’s probably more that think like you. I know there’s people who think Jk and Tae had something loose, or who also believe they broke up at one point.. so that does leave the possibility of them with other people. Personally I don’t think they broke up. I think that would have been noticeable in the way they interact. In my opinion we’ve seen them be pretty stable these last years. Ofcourse some exes stay friends and have no problem working together. But I do feel this situation for Tae and Jk in particular would have been cause for some real tension. It’s one thing to stay friends with your ex, but it’s a whole other thing when part of the world also has their eyes on you…. and you have to be together as much as they had to.

To me Tae playing To Find You in his live was meaningful. Especially since not only did he mention Jk sings it for him, but even more because he specifically wanted to listen to Jk’s version. The meaning of the song to me also comes so close to what I feel goes on between them, but that’s less of a fact than Tae finding this a special song. I rarely link the songs they play or mention to it having a personal meaning though. Because where do we start? They play sooo many songs and I’m pretty sure we’ll get a confusing mix of meanings when we think all of them mean something. It’s a guessing game from fandom and you place in fandom probably decides which songs you think mean something to them. I think the clear Jk mention makes it more likely that this song does actually mean something to them. To Find You speaks of a promise, and I think it very well suits all they had to go through together.

I don’t believe in Taennie because I have seen nothing that didn’t include fakeness. The Gurumi leaks contained edited pics which came from an unidentified source, that spread them with a thought out plan. The word that would describe Gurumi is ‘untrustworthy’. And i don’t think there is anyone who can actually argue that, because we were dealing with an anonymous source from the internet who tried to play a game.

The Paris walk (which for many is the one thing that took it from ‘fake’ to ‘real’ ) was clearly planned. It’s also rooted in weirdness. The pap claimed to have permission to photograph them, yet a year later he was made to adjust or remove Tae’s name. All we got was far away and blurry footage. Tae and Jennie were walking around very recognizable, with their whole team, but they left separately. Conveniently, it was just a few days before Jennie’s series (which was already critiziced) debuted at Cannes.. and every article about the series mentioned Tae and her (hello clickbait). There is nothing that screams pr more than this. And sure, there are plenty of couples who use their relationship for pr.. but that is not what Tae and Jennie do and it goes against everything else they have done.

When Tae spotted Jennie at Harry Styles’s show he had a reaction of discomfort. Not one of being happy to see his partner even though they have to stay a secret. Tae did not do anything or say anything against the extreme hate Jennie was getting. And I know members don’t react to stuff like that.. and this is very much my judgement of Tae.. but I think he would have made a snarky remark (albeit vague) at one point.

I basically predicted the bua at one point. Because, it’s so clearly pr that you could just see it coming.

So I don’t believe in Taennie not because of Tae and Jk, but just because there is nothing that made me believe it. When I came into fandom Taennie was already a thing.. and I gave it no attention whatsoever because it was so clearly driven by fandom. The lack of realness is strong in this case I think.

Now ofcourse I look at this differently because I believe that Tae and Jk are together. I wouldn’t have questioned Taennie the way I do had I not believed that Tae and Jk are together. That’s pretty much what pr strategies count on though. They assume that people don’t question what they get shoved in their faces. People tend to believe media (especially gossip media) and they love the tension and excitement it brings. They played this right.. it got fandom attention for months! Engagement was high!

#taennope #taekook

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hebuiltfive · 1 year ago

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Tabloid Trash!

The Forgotten Fifth: Who is John Glenn Tracy?

In another attempt to use the Tracy name as clickbait, a celebrity editor at the Daily Celebs! tabloid magazine speaks to an old friend of John's about who the often forgotten fifth brother truly is. John isn't impressed, but he's more concerned about how the tabloid found out about another, smaller detail.

AO3 link here (I coded this so it should look like a news article. Hopefully it works and isn't glitchy!)

Previous TT works: Aliens!

---------------------

by Madeleine Buchanan, Celebrity Editor

Like the Kardashians of old, the Tracys are the world’s most intriguing family. Whether we’re wondering what they’re wearing to their latest red carpet appearance, or whether we’re glued to our screens as we watch them head off on their next daring rescue with their philanthropic organisation, International Rescue, the Tracy family are firmly in our minds almost twenty-four seven.

The family (and their extended close circle) are never not working. This year alone has seen Virgil Tracy attend almost fifteen art gallery openings, Gordon Tracy visiting almost seven marine conservation centres, Scott Tracy organising no less than ten charity functions on behalf of the family’s two organisations and Alan Tracy beginning his college degree adventure. Add in all the work the family does under International Rescue and there doesn’t seem to be a lot of room left in the schedules for down-time.

Yet they somehow manage it.

Oft-forgotten brother, John Tracy, made the news this week with the publication of his new book, Times Trails Tells. It is his fifth book in as many years (find our review of the scientific breakthrough here).

Die-hard Tracy fans might recognise the name, but normies are probably wondering who John Tracy is and why his name isn’t as known as the rest of his brothers.

In fact, Daily Celebs! recently conducted a poll on the general public’s knowledge of the Tracy family as a whole. From hobbies to skills, names to numbers, our reporters asked one hundred people on Hollywood Boulevard what they knew about the elusively in-demand family. You can see a more detailed report on that here, but staggeringly, it showed that almost sixty per cent of those interviewed got one of the more simpler of questions completely wrong.

How many sons did Jeff Tracy have?

The answer, of course, is five (bonus points for those readers who can name them in order), but sixty people interviews claimed it was four.

So, why is this the case? Who is the elusive fifth brother that everyone seems to forget?

If we start at the beginning, we can paint a better picture of who this man is. Born John Glenn Tracy, he is the third son of Jefferson Tracy and his late with Lucille. Like his brothers both before and after him, John was born in Kansas and spent most, if not all, of his childhood in the state. He excelled at school and, for a while at least, was surprisingly popular with his peers. Rumours of troubles with bullies begin in the years after his eldest brother left to attend a separate High School in the area, though these reports could not be confirmed at the time of writing.

John graduated from Harvard University and has since gone on to receive multiple degrees in various subjects including, but not limited to, Advanced Telecommunications and Astronomy. Most of his published works are continuations of his previous research studies.

When it comes to International Rescue, John is one of the team’s most valuable members. Known to the world as The Guy In The Sky, John is the Tracy who filters, listens and responds to all the incoming emergency calls. If you’ve asked International Rescue for help, you were most likely talking to John Tracy.

Yet he’s the brother who is most often forgotten about. Is is because he spends so much time up in space? A former peer from John’s college days suggests that it might be.

“John was always such a party-pooper at college. He was never interested in doing anything fun. He always had his nose stuck in a book. No matter how hard we tried, the guy was never interested in any of the parties or any of the girls. Total waste of space, if you ask me. What is college if not an excuse to get absolutely wrecked? Basically, what I’m trying to say is, it’s no surprise to me that John’s the guy who’s based in space. Honestly? Best place for the loser.”

Clarence Hickory, a computer programmer for the Hickory Foundation, agreed to speak with Daily Celebs! about his former friendship with John Tracy. (At the time of writing, Tracy Industries have yet to respond to a request for a comment.)

“We met on orientation day. It was a chilly fall day. I remember it well. John stuck out like a sore thumb. You could tell he hated it. Everyone crowded round him when they saw his dad and his brother at his side. Everyone wanted a piece of him.”

Was Clarence one of these people?

“God, no! I knew to let the guy have some space. If I’m being honest, my father saw John’s as a kind of rival at the time. Both the Hickory Foundation and Tracy Industries were thinking of branching out into the same sector. Neither did in the end. My father ended up becoming good friends with Jeff Tracy.”

And you became friends with John?

“Wouldn’t exactly call us friends. We were more… colleagues. We shared a dorm along with a couple of other guys, but we didn’t get along. John didn’t fit the vibe of ‘typical college student’. He wasn’t popular with many students.”

He didn’t have friends?

“He did, just not many and our friendship circles certainly didn’t cross.”

But you studied in the same classes?

“Yeah. For Advanced Telecommunications. Bullshit lectures, let me tell you that, but it did give me a job, so I can’t complain.”

Your father gave you a position in his company, you mean?

“I like to think of my appointment as a reward for all my hard-work, rather than it being complete nepotism, Maddy.”

So, back to John. Have you seen much of him since leaving Harvard?

“I see him occasionally at conventions and conferences. He’s never interested in the talking or the mingling. I think I’ve spoken more with his brothers than John himself. I don’t think he’s changed all that much since college. In these situations, though, I can hardly blame him. I remember how terrified he looked on that orientation day, when the crowds swarmed him just because of his family name. I can’t imagine those events are much different. No wonder he doesn’t do them often.”

Our readers are going to want to know your opinion on why you think John Tracy isn’t often seen around, why he could be considered the forgotten fifth Tracy brother, but I think you’ve practically answered that.

“John is a recluse. I don’t know if he does it on purpose or whether it truly is just him, you know? But he’s definitely not an outgoing person. Never has been. Probably never will be.”

Were you surprised by the revelation of his involvement with International Rescue?

“One thing to know about the Tracys is they are probably some of the most sickeningly do-gooders the world has ever seen. Do you know how much is costs to be in their shadow as a business? A lot, okay? Did it surprise me? A little, maybe. We all had our suspicions around who IR were. Everyone did. All of us thought it was the Tracys. It doesn’t surprise me that John was involved in that, no. Not even as the comms guy.”

You described him as a recluse.

“John is a recluse, yes. He’s also a bloody enigma. There’s a reason no-one knows a lot about him, Maddy. He likes it that way. Hell, I bet half the people in his life don’t have the full story, with the exception of his brothers probably. Maybe. Who knows!”

But why would a recluse, as you put it, be the one who answers the calls?

“I think the better question isn’t why put the recluse on the calls, but rather about the work that they do. International Rescue are, annoyingly, a phenomenal organisation who do incredibly heroic and important work. Listen, I can sit here and talk to you about John all day. I’ve probably got plenty of anecdotes that could earn me a fortune, but I’m not going to share them. John and I… we didn’t get on but he’s a good man. If he doesn’t want the world to know more about him, I say respect that, Maddy, and leave him be.”

John attended three bookstores and his old university on a short tour for the launching of his new book. So far this year, that has been the entirety of his public engagements. Suspicious or, as Clarence suggested, private?

The Enigmatic Tracy will be in attendance at this year’s annual Tracy Christmas Ball, hosted by Tracy Industries LTD. Find out more here and check out previous year’s red carpet appearances here.

————————————————

John reclined back in his seat and switched the projector off. The glasses he’d been using to deflect some of the harshness of the screen were yanked off his face, and fingers pressed into the bridge of his nose as he repressed a sigh.

Time and time and time again did glossy magazine reporters (if they could even be called such a title) tried to ‘unpick’ him. Like this, most of the time it was nonsense news, though John was surprised they’d managed to track down someone who would actually speak to them about him. Normally it was all words and suspicions with no credible source to back it up. In fact, John would have been impressed if he wasn’t so exhausted by it all.

An enigma. The Enigmatic Tracy. Was that to be his new title? He’d lost count of all the others he’d been given over the years, not to mention the ones his brothers had been assigned.

He hadn’t meant to read the article. Most of the time, John actually prided himself on being able to skim past tabloid news stories about him or his family. Nothing good ever came from taking a read. In his opinion, one article like this was usually the equivalent to searching one’s name and then doom-scrolling through the feeds for hours on end, but he was in need of a break from all those numbers, and the words seemed unusually inviting to him.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been down here since breakfast, Johnny.”

Scott’s voice echoed from the glass doorway behind him. His usually immaculately styled hair was floppy and damp, suggesting he’d just come from a quick dip in the pool. John’s eyes skimmed the patio to find Gordon and Virgil still in the water, evidence enough to conclude his assumption had been correct.

He took out his ear-pods, still blasting his choice of music for concentration, and laid them on the table beside his empty mug. The sorry sight of the ceramic had him craving more coffee.

Whether it was brotherly intuition or the gleam in John’s eye, Scott took a few strides forward to confiscate the mug before the idea of a refill properly went through his mind.

“Absolutely not! You’re going to crash hard if you have any more of this.” His eldest brother chastised, breathing in once and then grimacing. “Jesus, John, how many cups have you had? You smell worse than Virgil’s studio after a long night of ‘creative pursuits’.”

Very much not impressed by the comparison — excuse him, he was not as bad as Virgil, thank you very much — John swatted Scott’s arm before trying, and failing, to reach for the mug.

“Scott…”

“No more coffee. It’s—”

“Unimportant.” John finished for him, disallowing his brother to finish that train of thought.

“I wouldn’t call twenty mugs of coffee—”

“It wasn’t twenty—”

“— unimportant, Johnny.”

“The tabloids know I’ll be at the Annual Tracy Christmas Ball this year.”

John’s bombshell had Scott take a pause.

“They… shouldn’t know. The guest list hasn’t been released yet. It’s only… what? October?” His blue eyes cast an unweary glance toward the holo-projector and then toward John. “How do you know the tabloids know?”

There was another brief pause before both brothers were scrambling for the holo-projector. The sight would have been amusing if Virgil or Gordon were paying attention to the riot that was happening indoors. Thankfully for the two battling it out for temporary custodianship of the projector, neither seemed to notice.

Scott won with ease and flicked the screen back on to reveal the article John had foolishly not completely disregarded before switching the projector off.

“John…”

“It wasn’t a bad one, Scott, I swear.”

“What have we said about reading these things? Besides, aren’t you supposed to be running the numbers for whatever it was Brains wanted you to check for him? Not exactly a productive use of your time, Johnny.”

“One, stop with the Johnny, Scooter. Two, I needed a break. Yes, even geniuses like us need breaks. And three… Are we going to pretend EOS didn’t catch you reading up on some article concerning your alleged morning Get Ready routine?”

Scott lifted a finger. “Hey, that was important! They got the hair preparation steps all wrong! I don’t want the world to think I use some crappy conditioner!”

John tried to stifle his laugh. “Yes, because correcting them was the most productive use of your time.”

His eldest brother ignored him. He sighed, scanning the article quickly and then shook his head. “I’ll check with Saf tomorrow morning, see if they know who leaked something. Of course, the journo could just be… postulating.”

He couldn’t help the raised brow. “Postulating?”

Scott nodded. “Mm-hm. Postulating.”

“That’s a big word for you, Scooter.”

The comment earned John a gentle whack of his arm, but it was worth it.

“If I can’t call you Johnny, you can’t call me Scooter.”

“I thought you liked Scooter.”

Again, Scott ignored him. “Are you going to come out and join us for a while?” He asked as he returned the projector to the table. When John reached for the mug, he held it out of reach. “No. More. Coffee.”

“If I come out and risk burning to a crisp in this stifling hot sun, will you let me have another cup?”

“It’s late October, John. It’s not stifling hot anymore.”

“Will you?”

“Absolutely not.” Scott began to trail off outside, with the cup still in his grasp, calling back to his brother as he left. “There is this thing called sunscreen, Johnny. If you’re so worried, use it.”

#fic: tabloid trash #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fanfiction #five fics #john tracy #scott tracy

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teachingmycattoread · 4 months ago

Text

Things We've Yelled About This Episode #4.0

The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, Robert Louis Stevenson (ed. Roger Luckhurst, Oxford 2008)

You can check out friend of the pod Charlotte's previous episode on Anno Dracula here

Frankenstein, Mary Shelley (our episode here)

"If he is Mr Hyde, I shall be Mr Seek." Ch.2 p.14, Jekyll and Hyde

Treasure Island, Robert Louis Stevenson

Kidnapped!, Robert Louis Stevenson

"In this character, it was frequently his fortune to be the last reputable acquaintance and the last good influence in the lives of down-going men." Ch.1 p. 5, Jekyll and Hyde

Dracula, Bram Stoker (our episodes here and here)

Charlotte's video work can be found at CharlotteWithAD on youtube

Queer Street - the editor has "there have been some energetic interpretations of Jekyll and Hyde by 'Queer Theorists', who pick up on instances like this and suggest that the modern understanding of 'queer' as a slang term for homosexuality was already in use in the late nineteenth century. Being 'in Queer Street' was in fact a standard phrase for being in financial difficulties, and is a corruption of Carey Street, where the bankruptcy courts were located."

Politics of disgust - here referring to the (flawed) idea that disgust is a reliable indicator of moral value.

The illegality of pushing a moose out of a moving plane in Alaska (source) . This fun fact turns up in a lot of clickbait listicles but I haven't been able to find anything that actually quotes chapter and verse of the relevant law code, so take this with a grain of salt!

Doctor Who (wiki)

Jules Verne (writer)

The Time Machine, H. G. Wells

Isaac Asimov (writer)

This meme from Buzzfeed Unsolved:

Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea, Jules Verne

Around the World in Eighty Days, Jules Verne

Jack the Ripper (wiki)

The unfortunate coincidence of the stage production of Jekyll and Hyde and the Ripper murders (wiki)

Gestalt therapy (wiki)

"Henry James's praise for Stevenson was that 'His books are for the most part without women, and it is not women who most fall in love with them.'..." p. xxvi, Jekyll and Hyde

Dr Jekyll (2023)

Suzie Izzard (imdb)

The Labouchere Amendment (wiki)

Oscar Wilde (writer)

The trials of Oscar Wilde (wiki)

Charlotte is quoting from this article on Crime Reads from 2023

Dictionary Corner; Countdown (1982-ongoing)

"Stevenson also had a friend in John Addington Symonds who was an ardent campaigner for the legal recognition of homosexuality", p. xxvi, Jekyll and Hyde

"In 1887, Stevenson's sense of sheer disappointment that Hyde had already come to be regarded as a 'mere voluptuary' is palpable: 'There is no harm in a voluptuary,' he wrote, 'no harm whatever - in what prurient fools call "immorality."' Hyde, he claimed, was 'no more sexual than another,' and dismissed as impoverished 'this poor wish to have a woman, that they make such a cry about'." p. xxviii, Jekyll and Hyde

Peep Show (2003-2015)

Kill James Bond! (podcast)

The specific episode Charlotte is referencing here is S3E22.5 "Cruising". Preview here and patreon link to full episode here

ACAB (wiki)

“Everyone was guilty of something. Vimes knew that. Every copper knew it. That was how you maintained your authority—everyone, talking to a copper, was secretly afraid you could see their guilty secret written on their forehead. You couldn’t, of course. But neither were you supposed to drag someone off the street and smash their fingers with a hammer until they told you what it was.” Night Watch, Terry Pratchett

Sins of the City series, K. J. Charles

Brandon Sanderson (writer)

November Kelly on returning to the mothership - this is also from Kill James Bond!, but we haven't managed to track down the specific episode - if you know it, give us a shout!

Blindsight, Peter Watts

Echopraxia, Peter Watts

Countess Boochie Flagrante (meme)

Hogwarts Legacy controversy (source)

Stonewall (website)

Well well well, if it isn't the consequences of my actions (meme)

Muppets Treasure Island (1996)

Hercule Poirot; Agatha Christie

Midsomer Murders (1997-ongoing)

Miss Marple; Agatha Christie

Le Chevalier C. Auguste Dupin; The Murders at the Rue Morgue, Edgar Allan Poe

We! Do Not! Talk About! The Orangutan! story from this tumblr post

The Librarian; the Discworld series, Terry Pratchett

The Mystery of Marie Rogêt, The Purloined Letter, Edgar Allan Poe

House MD (2004-2012)

Beowulf (our episode here)

His Majesty's Dragon, Naomi Novik (our episodes here, here and here)

Back To The Future (1985)

The Bodysnatchers, Robert Louis Stevenson

Cat Rating

7/10

What Else Are We Reading?

The Hollow Places, T. Kingfisher

Ghazghkull Thraka: Prophet of the Waaagh!, Nate Crowley

Harrow the Ninth, Tamsyn Muir

The Discworld series, Terry Pratchett

Remarkably Bright Creatures, Shelby Van Pelt

The Southern Reach trilogy, Jeff VanderMeer

#teaching my cat to read #tmctr #tmctr ref

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gaypirateslife4me · 10 months ago

Note

Gonna send this as a regular message. Little too big just for the comments. 😅 Let me ask a question that I do hope will ease that 5% of your mind.

Who is more likely to blame in such a situation? Is it the big Hollywood studio run by filthy rich white guys of the type known for making life hell for anyone who goes against them, especially women, queer people, and POC? Or is it the brown guy worth barely anything* in comparison whose sets are fun and happy, who many people are eager to work with repeatedly (which is one of the best metrics in the industry to see if someone's really a good egg), and who is most well known for getting more POC and now queer rep into the industry?

I really wanna put that same question to all those sites using Taika's name for yet more clickbait drama, but I doubt they'd care. It's more fun to blame the brown guy they've all decided to hate than the powerful studio executives...who just might own their website, now I think of it...👀 Well, there's a good reason articles from outside the US entertainment industry, like the New Zealand article I linked, aren't doing that. I'm amazed I only just now remembered that the studios own most of the magazines and websites who print that stuff. Suddenly many things make a lot more sense...

There's six named executive producers and six different production companies for this thing, not counting AppleTV. No idea how many directors, but Taika only did a couple episodes. Multiple writers too, including Jemaine who is also a co-creator. So why is it only being called "Taika Waititi's Time Bandits" or his set in most of these articles? Talk about sus...

Sorry, I got off track there. 😆 Anyway. What I'm trying to say is a bit of skepticism is always healthy. That should go without saying and go both directions too, not to deny the actor their experiences. But if something looks, walks, and quacks like an ignore-and-shush-the-queer-POC duck, then it's more likely to be the big Hollywood studio with $8.7billion to throw around and a history of doing just that than any of the smaller companies involved. It's far more likely than the one POC indie producer/writer/director attached to the project, who has a great reputation in the industry that stretches back years and who also just so happened to be neck deep in filming a whole other project at the time.

*I had no idea Taika's net worth was only $13million until just now. That man is downright poor in Hollywood terms! He's worth the same as Jensen Ackles! Chris Hemsworth is worth ten times that! I can now laugh heartily at anyone who claims the $30million-to-her-name (which is just about middle class in Hollywood) Rita married him just for his money!

Sorry to ramble like that in your inbox! 😅

Please NEVER apologize for making me laugh so hard over the image of Rita's portion of their prenupt being written on a cocktail napkin in crayon and saying "don't be a dumbass, I economically own three of you".

#ask and answer #taika waititi #rita ora #fuck big media

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celticcrossanon · 11 months ago

Note

I am no fan of Harry but he’ll never lose any titles. He and his children (I believe they do exist) are equal to Andrew and his daughters. even if he had committed an act of treason it’ll be buried by the palace (David colluding with hitler to get the throne back)

I also believe that the palace had asked him to relinquish his princely title but he said no because he’s an entitled brat because he does believe it’s his birthright.

Not even William who everyone is hoping when his day comes to be king will pull any titles from his brother.

As times goes by the will become less and less relevant (i.e Andrew) and will be written about less and less unless a scandal breaks involving him or his children. The children with age will find the princely titles are worthless unless they stand next to the king (i.e Bea and Eugene) and all signs now are there is no reconciliation whatsoever between Harry and William.

Harry will never apologize because he believes he did no wrong. And William will protect what is his families heritage. As did Bertie and Elizabeth with David.

Unfortunately the world is neither fair nor just.

Hi Nonny,

I agree that this world is neither just nor fair. All we can do is make sure we are as just and as fair as possible, and call out injustice and unfairness when we see it if we can do so safely.

I also think, like you, that Harry and his family will become less and less relevant over time. He and his wife are pretty irrelevant now, as they are not working royals, and they will only become more so as time goes on.

I would hope that the palace would not bury any acts of treason, as that will come back and bite them when they least expect it. I am willing to wait for a bit longer and see what happens with that one.

I have no idea what is happening with the titles. I don't even know what I want about them anymore.

My big concern at the moment is the children. If they were born by surrogate than that is breaking the law and should be exposed and punished. I am not in favour of covering up acts like that.

I saw that there was a recent article about surrogacy that was linked to the royals, as per the post below. It may be the first drip-drip of a lead up to an exposure, or it may be the lead up to Harry being excused for his actions., or it may just be clickbait. I am hoping for the first option, but who knows?

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ausetkmt · 5 months ago

Text

When reading this piece, you will see placeholders for photos - these are because we are using a paywall buster to see this article. WIRED has blocked this article from regular view even though they emailed us a link to it - hoping we'd subscribe.

THIS IS WHY WE DIDN'T AND WON'T

If you think we should read the article why restrict it to those who subscribe if you sent it to us as regular readers of your site WIRED?

we give you this article so that you can decide for yourself, if wired and others like it are misusing links to their articles, as a basic clickbait approach.

WIRED, will not be on our visit list forward because we don't agree with these types of clickbait schemes to dis-enfranchise readers. If you agree with us, boycott those sites who demand you subscribe to read an article which should be clearly open viewing.

ENOUGH PAYWALLS AND ENOUGH CLICKBAIT

----------------------------------------------------------------------

If you step into the headquarters of the Internet Archive on a Friday after lunch, when it offers public tours, chances are you’ll be greeted by its founder and merriest cheerleader, Brewster Kahle.

You cannot miss the building; it looks like it was designed for some sort of Grecian-themed Las Vegas attraction and plopped down at random in San Francisco’s foggy, mellow Richmond district. Once you pass the entrance’s white Corinthian columns, Kahle will show you the vintage Prince of Persia arcade game and a gramophone that can play century-old phonograph cylinders on display in the foyer. He’ll lead you into the great room, filled with rows of wooden pews sloping toward a pulpit. Baroque ceiling moldings frame a grand stained glass dome. Before it was the Archive’s headquarters, the building housed a Christian Science church.

I made this pilgrimage on a breezy afternoon last May. Along with around a dozen other visitors, I followed Kahle, 63, clad in a rumpled orange button-down and round wire-rimmed glasses, as he showed us his life’s work. When the afternoon light hits the great hall’s dome, it gives everyone a halo. Especially Kahle, whose silver curls catch the sun and who preaches his gospel with an amiable evangelism, speaking with his hands and laughing easily. “I think people are feeling run over by technology these days,” Kahle says. “We need to rehumanize it.”

In the great room, where the tour ends, hundreds of colorful, handmade clay statues line the walls. They represent the Internet Archive’s employees, Kahle’s quirky way of immortalizing his circle. They are beautiful and weird, but they’re not the grand finale. Against the back wall, where one might find confessionals in a different kind of church, there’s a tower of humming black servers. These servers hold around 10 percent of the Internet Archive’s vast digital holdings, which includes 835 billion web pages, 44 million books and texts, and 15 million audio recordings, among other artifacts. Tiny lights on each server blink on and off each time someone opens an old webpage or checks out a book or otherwise uses the Archive’s services. The constant, arrhythmic flickers make for a hypnotic light show. Nobody looks more delighted about this display than Kahle.

Brewster Kahle, the Internet Archive's founder and biggest cheerleader. Photograph: Gabriela Hasbun

It is no exaggeration to say that digital archiving as we know it would not exist without the Internet Archive—and that, as the world’s knowledge repositories increasingly go online, archiving as we know it would not be as functional. Its most famous project, the Wayback Machine, is a repository of web pages that functions as an unparalleled record of the internet. Zoomed out, the Internet Archive is one of the most important historical-preservation organizations in the world. The Wayback Machine has assumed a default position as a safety valve against digital oblivion. The rhapsodic regard the Internet Archive inspires is earned—without it, the world would lose its best public resource on internet history.

Its employees are some of its most devoted congregants. “It is the best of the old internet, and it's the best of old San Francisco, and neither one of those things really exist in large measures anymore,” says the Internet Archive’s director of library services, Chris Freeland, another longtime staffer, who loves cycling and favors black nail polish. “It's a window into the late-’90s web ethos and late-’90s San Francisco culture—the crunchy side, before it got all tech bro. It's utopian, it's idealistic.”

The Internet Archive headquarters houses clay sculptures by artist Nuala Creed. Each sculpture depicts an employee or collaborator; getting one is a rite of passage. Photograph: Gabriela Hasbun

But the Internet Archive also has its foes. Since 2020, it’s been mired in legal battles. In Hachette v. Internet Archive, book publishers complained that the nonprofit infringed on copyright by loaning out digitized versions of physical books. In UMG Recordings v. Internet Archive, music labels have alleged that the Internet Archive infringed on copyright by digitizing recordings.

In both cases, the Internet Archive has mounted “fair use” defenses, arguing that it is permitted to use copyrighted materials as a noncommercial entity creating archival materials. In both cases, the plaintiffs characterized it as a hub for piracy. In 2023, it lost Hachette. This month, it lost an appeal in the case. The Archive could appeal once more, to the Supreme Court of the United States, but has no immediate plans to do so. (“We have not decided,” Kahle told me the day after the decision.)

A judge rebuffed an attempt to dismiss the music labels’ case earlier this year. Kahle says he’s thinking about settling, if that’s even an option.

The combined weight of these legal cases threatens to crush the Internet Archive. The UMG case could prove existential, with potential fines running into the hundreds of millions. The internet has entrusted its collective memory to this one idiosyncratic institution. It now faces the prospect of losing it all.

Kahle has been obsessed with creating a digital library since he was young, a calling that spurred him to study artificial intelligence at MIT. “I wanted to build the library of everything, and we needed computers that were big enough to be able to deal with it,” he says.

After graduating in 1982, he worked at the supercomputing startup Thinking Machines Corporation. While there, he developed a program called Wide Area Information Server (WAIS), a way to search for data on remote computers. He left to cocreate a startup of the same name, which he sold to AOL in 1995. The next year, he launched a two-headed project from his attic: “AI and IA.”

That “AI” was a for-profit company called Alexa Internet—“Alexa” a nod to the Library of Alexandria—alongside the nonprofit Internet Archive. The two projects were interlinked; Alexa Internet crawled the web, then donated what it collected to the Internet Archive. Kahle couldn’t quite make the business model work. When Amazon made an offer in 1999, it seemed prudent to accept. The Everything Store paid a reported $250 million in stock for Alexa, severing the AI from IA and leaving Kahle a wealthy man.

Kahle stayed on with Alexa for a few years but left in 2002 to focus on the Internet Archive. It has been his vocation ever since. “His entire being is committed to the Archive,” says copyright scholar Pam Samuelson, who has known Kahle since the ’90s. “He lives and breathes it.”

If Silicon Valley has a Mr. Fezziwig, it’s Kahle. He’s not an ascetic; he owns a handsome black sailboat anchored in a slip at a tony yacht club. But his day-to-day life is modest. He ebikes to work and dresses like a guy who doesn’t care about clothes, and while he used to love Burning Man—he and his wife, Mary Austin, got married there in 1992—now he thinks it’s gotten too big. (Their current bougie-hippie pastime is the seasteading gathering Ephemerisle, where boaters hitch themselves together and create temporary islands in the Sacramento River Delta every July.)

What he really loves, above all, is his job.

“The story of Brewster Kahle is that of a guy who wins the lottery,” says longtime archivist Jason Scott. “And he and his wife, Mary, turned around and said, awesome, we get to be librarians now.”

The Internet Archive’s headquarters, a former church. The graffiti van was commissioned by Amir Esfahani, who runs the Archive’s artist-in-residence program. Photograph: Gabriela Hasbun

Kahle is now the merry custodian to a uniquely comprehensive catalog, spanning all manner of digital and physical media, from classic video games to live recordings of concerts to magazines and newspapers to books from around the world. It recently backed up the island of Aruba’s cultural institutions. It’s an essential tool for everything from legal research—particularly around patent law—to accountability journalism. “There are other online archiving tools,” says ProPublica reporter Craig Silverman, “but none of them touch the Internet Archive.” It is, in short, a proof machine.

What makes the Internet Archive unique is its willingness to push boundaries in ways that traditional libraries do not. The Library of Congress also archives the web—but only after it has notified, and often asked permission from, the websites it scrapes.

“The Internet Archive has always been a little risky,” says University of Waterloo historian Ian Milligan, who has a forthcoming book on web archiving. Its distinctive utility is entwined with its long-standing outré approach to copyright. In fact, Kahle and the Internet Archive sued the government more than two decades ago, challenging the way the Copyright Renewal Act of 1992 and the Copyright Term Extension Act of 1998 had expanded copyright law. He lost that case—but, certainly, not his desire to keep pushing.

One of those pushes came in 2005. At the time, beloved hacker Aaron Swartz was often working on Internet Archive projects, and he cocreated and led the development of a new initiative called the Open Library program along with Kahle. The goal was to create one webpage for every book in the world. Kahle saw it as an alternative to Google Books, one that wasn’t driven by commercial interests but loftier and decidedly kumbaya information-wants-to-be-free ambitions.

In addition to its attempt to catalog every book ever, the project sought to make copies available to readers. To that end, it scans physical books, then allows people to check out the digitized versions. For over a decade, it has operated using a framework called controlled digital lending (CDL), where digitized books are treated as old-fashioned physical books rather than ebooks. The books it lends out were either purchased by the Internet Archive or donated by other libraries, organizations, or individuals; according to CDL principles, libraries that own a physical copy of a book should be able to lend it digitally.

An archive employee at work. Photograph: Gabriela Hasbun

The project primarily appeals to researchers for whom specific books are hard to attain elsewhere, rather than casual readers. “Try checking out one of our books and then reading it—it’s tough going,” Kahle says. He’s not lying. A blurry scan of a physical book on a desktop screen compared to a regular ebook on a Kindle is like music from a tinny iPhone speaker versus a Bose surround sound system. Most borrowers read what they check out for less than five minutes.

Like other digital media, ebooks are typically licensed rather than sold outright, at a much higher rate than the cover price. Libraries who license ebooks get a limited number of loans; if they stop paying, the book vanishes. CDL is an attempt to give libraries more control over their inventory, and to expand access to books in a library’s collection that exist only as physical copies.

For years, publishers ignored the Internet Archive’s book-scanning spree. Finally, during the pandemic, after the Internet Archive took one liberty too many with its approach to CDL, they snapped.

In March 2020, as schools and libraries abruptly shut down, they faced a dilemma. Demand for ebooks far outstripped their ability to loan them out under restrictive licensing deals, and they had no way of lending out books that existed only in physical form. In response, the Internet Archive made a bold decision: It allowed multiple people to check out digital versions of the same book simultaneously. It called this program the National Emergency Library. “We acted at the request of librarians and educators and writers,” says Chris Freeland.

Kahle remembers feeling a vocational tug in that moment for the Internet Archive to do whatever it could to expand access. He thought they had broad support, too. “We got over 100 libraries to sign on and say ‘help us,’” Kahle says. “They stood behind the National Emergency Library and said ‘do this under our names.’”

Dave Hansen, now executive director of the nonprofit Authors Alliance, was a librarian at Duke University at the time. “We had tremendous challenges getting books for our students,” he says. “What they did was a good-faith effort.”

The Internet Archive's collection includes a sprawling array of old newspapers and periodicals from around the world. Photograph: Gabriela Hasbun

Not everyone agreed. Prominent writers vehemently criticized the project, as did the Authors Guild and the National Writers Union. “They are not a library. Libraries buy books and respect copyright. They are fraudsters posing as saints,” author James Gleick wrote on Twitter. (Today, Gleick maintains that the Internet Archive is not a library, though he says “fraudsters was a little harsh.”)

“They seem to work by fiat,” says Bhamati Viswanathan, a copyright lawyer who signed an amicus brief on behalf of the publishers in the Hachette case. Viswanathan thinks it was arrogant to circumvent the licensing system. “Very much like what the tech companies seem to be doing, which is, ‘we're going to ask forgiveness, not permission.’”

The Internet Archive was in its first full-blown PR crisis. The coalition of publishing houses filed its lawsuit in June 2020, alleging that both the National Emergency Library and the Internet Archive’s broader Open Library program violated copyright. A few weeks later, the Internet Archive scuttled the National Emergency Library and reverted to its traditional, capped loan system, but it made no difference to the publishers.

The publishing houses and their supporters maintain that the Archive’s behavior harmed authors. “Internet Archive is arguing that it is OK to make and publicly distribute unauthorized copies of an author’s work to the global public,” Terrance Hart, the general counsel for the Association of American Publishers, tells WIRED. “Imagine if everyone started doing the same. The only existential threat here is the one posed by Internet Archive to the livelihoods of authors and to the copyright system itself in the digital age.”

After the lawsuit was filed, over a thousand writers signed a letter in support of libraries and the Internet Archive to be able to loan digital books, including Naomi Klein and Daniel Ellsberg. One supportive author, Chuck Wendig, had very publicly changed his mind after initially tweeting criticism. Even some writers who currently belong to and support the Authors Guild, like Joanne McNeil, were staunch supporters of the Archive. She sometimes reads out-of-print books using the lending service and still sees it as a vital tool. “I hope my books are in the Open Library project,” she says, telling me that she’s already aware that her critically acclaimed but modestly popular books aren’t widely available. “At least I’ll know that way there’s someplace someone can find them.”

The shows of support didn’t matter. The publishers didn’t back down. In March 2023, the Internet Archive lost the case. This September, it lost its appeal. The court refuted the fair use arguments, insisting that the organization had not proved that it wasn’t financially harming publishers. In the meantime, legal bills continue to pile up for the Internet Archive’s next challenge.

After the initial ruling in Hachette v. Internet Archive, the parties agreed upon settlement terms; although those terms are confidential, Kahle has confirmed that the Internet Archive can financially survive it thanks to the help of donors. If the Internet Archive decides not to file a second appeal, it will have to fulfill those settlement terms. A blow, but not a death knell.

The other lawsuit may be far harder to survive. In 2023, several major record labels, including Universal Music Group, Sony, and Capitol, sued the Internet Archive over its Great 78 Project, a digital archive of a niche collection of recordings of albums in the obsolete record format known as 78s, which was used from the 1890s to the late 1950s. The complaint alleges that the project “undermines the value of music.” It lists 2,749 recordings as infringed, which means damages could potentially be over $400 million.

“One thing that you can say about the recording industry,” Pam Samuelson says, “is that there are no statutory damages that are too large for them to claim.”

The Internet Archive's basement, the site of many animated discussions about encryption and internet freedom. Photograph: Gabriela Hasbun

As with the book publishing case, the Internet Archive’s defense hinges on fair use. It argues that preserving obsolete versions of these records, complete with the crackles and pops from the old shellac resin, makes history accessible. Copyright law is notoriously unpredictable, and some find the Internet Archive’s case shaky. “It doesn’t strike me, necessarily, as a winning fair use argument,” says Zvi Rosen, a law professor at Southern Illinois University who focuses on copyright.

James Grimmelmann, a professor of digital and information law at Cornell University, thinks the labels are “vastly exaggerating the commercial harm” from the project. (If there was a sizable audience for extremely low-quality versions of songs, he reasons, why wouldn’t the labels be putting out 78-style releases?) On average, each recording is accessed only once a month. Still, Grimmelmann isn’t convinced that will matter. “They are directly reproducing these works,” he says. “That’s a very hard lift for a judge.”

It may be years before the case is resolved, which means the uncertainty about the Internet Archive’s future is likely to linger, and potentially spread. And if it is resolved through either a settlement or a win for the recording industry, other copyright holders could be inspired to sue. “I'm worried about the blast radius from the music lawsuit,” Grimmelmann says.

In Kahle’s view, the Internet Archive’s legal challenges are part of a larger story about beleaguered libraries in the United States. He likes to frame his plight as a battle against a cadre of nefarious publishers, one piece of a larger struggle to wrest back the right to own books in the digital age. (Get him started on the topic, and he’ll likely point out that both ebook distributor OverDrive and publishing company Simon & Schuster are owned by the global investment firm Kohlberg Kravis Roberts & Co.) He’s keenly aware that everything he has built is in danger. “It’s the time of Orwell but with corporations,” Kahle says. “It’s scary.”

Losing the Archive is, indeed, a frightening prospect. “There is a misperception that things on the web are forever—but they really, really aren't,” says Craig Silverman, who thinks the nonprofit’s demise would make certain types of scholarship and reporting “way more difficult, if not impossible,” in addition to representing a disappearance of a bastion of collective memory.

Just this September, Google and the Internet Archive announced a partnership to allow people to see previous versions of websites surfaced through Google Search by linking to the Wayback Machine. Google previously offered its own cached historical websites; now it leans on a small nonprofit.

The Internet Archive also has challenges beyond its legal woes. For starters, it’s getting harder to archive things. As Mark Graham, director of the Wayback Machine, told me, the rise of apps with functions like livestreaming, especially when they’re limited to certain operating systems, presents a technical challenge. On top of that, paywalls are an obstacle, as is the sheer and ever-increasing amount of content. “There’s just so much material,” he says. “How does one know what to prioritize?”

Then there’s AI, once again. Thus far, the Internet Archive has sidestepped or been exempt from the new scrutiny on web crawling as it relates to AI training data. This June, for example, when Reddit announced that it was updating its scraping policy, it specifically noted that it was still allowing “good faith actors” like the Internet Archive to crawl it. But as opposition to rampant AI data scraping grows, the Internet Archive may yet face a new obstacle: If regulators and lawmakers are clumsy in attempts to curb permissionless AI web scraping, it could kneecap services like the Wayback Machine, which functions precisely because it can trawl and reproduce vast amounts of data.

The rise of AI has already soured some creative types on the Internet Archive’s approach to copyright. While Kahle views his creation as a library on the side of the little guy, opponents strenuously dispute this view. They paint Kahle as a tech-wolf disguised in librarian-sheep clothing, stuck in a mentality better suited for the Napster era. “The Internet Archive is really fighting the battles of 20 years ago, when it was as simple as ‘publishers bad, anything that hurts publishers good,’” says Neil Turkewitz, a former Recording Industry Association of America executive who has criticized the Archive’s copyright stances. “But that’s not the world we live in.”

A portion of the servers holding the Archive's vast data collection. Each time someone accesses a book, website, movie, song, or other file, a light flashes. Photograph: Gabriela Hasbun

When I talk to Kahle over Zoom this September, shortly after he’d learned that the Internet Archive had lost the appeal, he’s agitated—an internet prophet literally wandering around in the wilderness. He’s perched in front of jagged cliffs while hiking outside of Arles, France, a blue baseball cap pulled over his hair, cheeks extra-ruddy in the sun, his default affability tempered by a sense of despondency. He hadn’t known about the timing of the ruling in advance, so he interrupted a weeklong vacation with Mary to jump back into work crisis mode. “It’s just so depressing,” he says.

As he sits on a rock with his phone in his hand, Kahle says the US legal system is broken. He says he doesn’t think this is the end of the lawsuits. “I think the copyright cartel is on a roll,” he says. He frets that copycat cases could be on the way. He’s the most bummed-out guy I’ve ever seen on vacation in the south of France. But he’s also defiant. There’s no inkling of regret, only a renewed sense that what he’s doing is righteous. “We have such an opportunity here. It’s the dream of the internet,” he says. “It’s ours to lose.” It sounds less like a statement and more like a prayer.

#paywall buster #fuck wired #paywalls #Free The News #Internet Archive #Wayback Machine #Words Matter #the news does not belong to anyone - it's everyones

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summercourtship · 2 years ago

Text

stay to burn (only to drown instead): chapter four: thirteen floors [part II]

masterpost | ao3 link

jonathan crane x reader; bruce wayne x reader; edward nashton x reader | warnings: canon typical violence, sexual content | word count: 5443 words

DISCLAIMER: these chapters are not meant to be read alone. not every chapter has content for one of the three pairings listed. this is an ongoing fanfiction that I am cross-posting here on tumblr, not a series of one-shots.

chapter one | previous part

Psychology of Fear, two days later with no acknowledgement from Dr. Crane. Another rainy Wednesday in Gotham, snow still cluttering up the city’s curbs and draining into the gutter, dripping off of buildings in wet chunks. You were waiting for students to start arriving to class, scrolling on your phone when you came across a video in your recommended feed. A think piece video essay, it seemed, but it wasn’t the genre that made you stop scrolling, fingers shaking as you lingered over the video.

It was the thumbnail, the Riddler against a sharp contrasting background with the word HERO? scrawled across the image. The title of the video was, a bit obnoxiously, GOTHAM’S RECKONING: A RIDDLER RETROSPECTIVE.

And you knew, being a media literate college student, that this was just clickbait designed to rile you up, to get an emotional response of some kind. That the video itself was probably just an overview of his crimes, brief background on his life (not that much had been released to the public and he had been very good at scrubbing his internet presence prior to his crime spree), and maybe a few comments on what his crimes meant in the greater scheme of Gotham, what is meant for Gotham’s future. Lukewarm takes, most likely. Nothing you hadn’t heard before.

But still your stomach churned at the callousness of it. People died. Not even just corrupt public officials but people who hadn’t gotten out of the way in time that day in City Hall, or people who weren’t lucky enough to be saved by Batman’s intervention in Gotham Square Garden.

You clicked on the channel that posted the video, scrolling to their about section. And there, next to the location was Great Britain. Scoffing, you went back to their videos. They weren’t even from the city that the Riddler’s crimes affected, let alone the same country. It was easy to say that he did something good when you were an ocean away and not in the same room as his lackeys.

You were sorely tempted to click on the video and write a comment about how you really felt. But instead you simply hit the ‘Please Don’t Show Me This’ button. Someone else will comment what you had wanted to say anyway (and plenty of others will comment that “he had a point” or “he was doing good work” or something silly like that, and you really didn’t need to see that).

Changing apps entirely, you opened your news app. You didn’t much care for world news at the moment, only staying updated with Gotham news was hard enough on your mental health. At least it directly affected you, even if you did check it constantly to self sabotage.

Who or What is the Scarecrow?

Not necessarily news, you think to yourself, but you’re intrigued and click on the article anyway. You’d put off learning about the newest criminal on Gotham’s streets since you’d heard about him on the news.

But the article said little more than what you’d heard on the news, the implication being that unlike the Riddler, the Scarecrow wasn’t a public facing criminal. His crimes were not to be broadcast, the news only even knew about him from CCTV footage and word-of-mouth (you assumed that those reports were from the thugs who hired themselves out to the bigger criminals.)

The door slammed shut, forcing you to look up from your phone. The freshman girl who was always first in class had arrived, her dark red hair tucked under a beanie, her face in a grimace at the unexpectedly large sound her entrance had made.

“Sorry.” She muttered, tucking her hair behind her ear only for it to fall in her face again two seconds later. You watched her, unable to stop the sudden and inexplicable fear of her becoming your replacement. You could see it clearly. In a year, Dr. Crane would ask her to be his TA and she’d obviously agree with no hesitation. She’d be the best TA ever and he would never mention you again, not even in passing. He’d take her to the same sponsorship gala and they’d have amazing sex in the bathroom and then they’d get married-

You took a deep breath, correctly telling yourself that you were overreacting and working yourself up about nothing. He has shown no interest in the girl, not like he’s shown you. He’s just in a weird spot now.

Once again, when Dr. Crane entered the classroom, he didn’t look at you.

Once again, he left immediately after he finished his lecture, leaving you to answer student’s questions (thankfully not as many as last time, which had really been a fluke because most students never stayed after to ask questions. Typically, they emailed you before approaching Dr. Crane).

When you’d answered the final question, this one about the next writing assignment (due the day before spring break in two weeks, which seemed too soon), you grabbed your bag

“Hey, are you okay?”

It was the freshman girl. Your fictional replacement.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Why?” You tried to make your voice sound reassuring but it wasn’t, instead coming out like you were perturbed that she even approached you.

“You just seem distracted! I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s okay…” You tried to remember her name but it was escaping you so you just trailed off, staring into an empty space over her shoulder. “I’m good.”

“Alright… take it easy!” Even though she initiated the conversation, she now seemed perfectly content to leave it.

You watched after her as she left, only moving to leave yourself once she’d been out of the classroom for a few minutes.

Weird.

The next morning, you vomited up your breakfast cereal, your stomach in knots as your phone continued in its stubborn silence.

You were walking to leave the building you were currently in to head to Dr. Crane’s office hours- because that was a part of your job that you had agreed upon and you would still do your job to the best of your abilities even if he was ignoring you- when your phone chimed in your hand, a text appeared on your phone. From Dr. Crane himself, the man who had been avoiding you all week.

You blinked, unsure you were seeing his name correctly. But no, it was him.

No need to come to office hours this week.

And before you even finished reading the text, you were pissed.

First he was going to feel you up in the hallway of a formal, black-tie event and then he was going to ignore you for the week after? And the first time he reaches out to you, in any capacity, for the first time in days is to tell you not to see him?

Yeah, no. Ain’t gonna happen.

You were done with feeling lost and confused by him ignoring you.

With renewed purpose, you shoved your phone in your bag and made a beeline across campus to the building his office was in.

You stormed into the building, almost running in your haste to get to his office. You wondered if he could feel you coming, if your anger was so palpable that he could sense it from two floors away.

If he didn’t feel you coming, he sure knew you were here when you entered his office like a storm, not even knocking as you threw Dr. Crane’s door open. It banged against the opposite wall and he slowly looked up at you. Not surprised at all but like he had been expecting you to do this, which just pissed you off even more. How dare he act like he knew you.

“Are you angry with me?” The door had barely shut behind you when you spit the words out, crossing the small office in four steps to stand in front of him, only separated by his desk.

“No.”

“Then why the cold shoulder all week?” You put your hands on the edge of his desk, leaning towards him. “And telling me there’s no need for me to come to office hours today?”

He didn’t respond, leaning back in his chair watching you with narrowed eyes.

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” He started. “I’ve been busy.”

“Are you kidding me?! Too busy to respond to a text letting me know that you’re alive? Too busy to say, hey, glad to hear you’re okay after that awful thing happened to you at the event I dragged you to!” You interrupted, leaning over the desk to make up for the space he just gave you, too fired up to be brought back down by his soft intonation or hypnotizing eyes. “Besides that, I’m here to help you when you’re busy, to assist you. It’s my job! I can’t do that if you push me away like a stubborn teenager!”

He cocked his head to the side, rapidly blinking for a second, a miniscule movement in his jaw clueing you in on his actual emotional state. Were you annoying him? Frustrating him? Angering him?

Good.

“Fucking hell, Jonathan.” You pushed yourself backwards away from the desk, running a hand through your hair, a small laugh escaping you at the sheer insanity of the moment, of the amount of unrecognized emotions in your body. You don’t know if you’ve ever been this angry with one person before and you barely registered that you had called him by his first name- that in some way, he was no longer just Dr. Crane to you. Your relationship, whether he liked it or not, had advanced past that point. “I can’t do this. I… I quit- I don’t actually know if I can quit, but I am. I’m sorry that the gala was kind of a nightmare-” He moved from around the desk, coming towards you but you were on a roll and couldn’t be stopped, no matter what he was about to say to try and bring you back down, you were going to make him listen to you, “-but that’s not my fault. I can’t control when people try to rob places and I can’t control if I happen to be the unlucky lady to be taken hostage. If you are angry because I didn’t let you fuck me in a hallway, then you need to grow up and realize that-”

And then.

Well.

And then, he was kissing you.

Which was, in that moment, probably the most effective way to shut you up. ,

You tensed up against him, placing your hands on his chest to push him away, not ready to be finished with being angry at him. But he just grabbed your wrists from his chest, prying them off of him with ease and holding them above your head with one hand. With his other hand, he held the back of your neck, bringing you further into him.

And you, finally, melted into him. Let him push you backwards until your back hit the wall, returning the kiss with equal ferocity. He let go of your wrists and instead of keeping them above your head they immediately tangled themselves in his dark hair, threading strands through your fingers like it was a new texture you’d never felt before.

“I don’t want to forgive you yet.” You whispered into the space between you, examining his face- flushed, lips wet, eyes dilated- as you tried to catch your breath.

“Then don’t.” He growled, nipping at your bottom lip before connecting you again, devouring you like a man starved.

His knee parted your legs, shifting your body to further accommodate his. But he didn’t press it upwards or push you onto him, simply adjusting how you were standing so he could press closer like he was trying to meld your bodies together.

Time was in a stasis, like the world had stopped to watch you crash into one another after circling closer but not daring to touch for months.

The two of you parted once again, breathing heavily against one another’s mouth. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and gravelly. If he had asked you to do anything at that moment, you were certain you would have agreed.

His thumb swiped under your jaw, stroking your skin as you continued to pant like you’d run across campus.

“Why don’t you come over to my place later, I can make dinner. It can be a… Valentine’s Day thing.”

Oh right. It was almost Valentine’s Day, wasn’t it? It had completely slipped your mind in between the mixed signals from Dr. Crane, being saved by Batman (again), and your normal college schedule underneath all of that mess. You hadn't really had time for mundane holidays you couldn’t even celebrate as a single person.

“Okay. Yeah, that sounds good.” You breathed against him, not wanting to leave this proximity with him. Not even when you fully register that he had essentially asked you over to his place for a date, something that would usually send you into heart palpitations with antsy feet. “What’re you thinking… like spaghetti or….” You blinked at him, forgetting all other foods that existed, “...Chicken…”

“Stop talking.”

Then kiss me again, you bit your lip, slowly moving your eyes down his face to his own lips. He followed the movement of your gaze with his own, licking his lips once you returned to his eyes.

But he didn’t kiss you again, only remaining with you for a few more moments before he stepped away from you.

“I have work to do, but you’re free to stay.”

So you stayed.

Just how much effort, you thought to yourself as you stared at the entirety of your closet strewn about your bedroom, were you supposed to put into an occasion like this?

It was not explicitly a date, but it was also brought up after a heated first kiss, and it’s also dinner for Valentine’s Day. Which he was making in his apartment.

Should you wear jeans and a nice shirt? A dress?

Oh god. Should you put on lingerie, just in case? You’re not sure if you even have anything that could be considered close to lingerie.

Eventually, you settled on a casual dress with a floral pattern. It’s nice but there is no implication that you expect something special from the night. Just a nice dress that you would wear on any excursion outside of your apartment. You think you remembered wearing it to the Gotham Botanical Gardens two years ago with your friends for a picnic.

You’d told Dr. Crane that you could find your own way to his apartment, wanting to give yourself as much time away from him before you were surrounded by his personal belongings and literally in his private space. His address was burning a hole in your pocket, hidden on your phone in your conversation with him.

You’d ordered a taxi- feeling brave tonight, are you?, a voice had whispered in your head but you shook it off. Plenty of people used taxis in the city and survived. You’d be fine.

You smoothed the dress over your body, examining your reflection before sighing and deciding it was good enough. Dr. Crane saw what you looked like on one of your worst days ever and still asked you to be his TA, you didn’t need to trick him into liking you. With a final spritz of perfume behind your ear, you grabbed your purse and slipped on your shoes.

Your phone pinged with an alert informing you that the taxi was waiting outside your building.

You didn’t speak to the taxi driver, instead keeping your gaze fixed outside of the window and your finger hovering over the call button on Dr. Crane’s contact information. Just in case.

When you had decided that you would call Dr. Crane before calling the police in an emergency, you weren’t sure.

But you didn’t need it, because the driver wordlessly pulled up to the building Dr. Crane had sent and let you out of his car, no words exchanged between you but a brief greeting and thanks. You weren’t sure how you were going to get back home (part of your mind figured that if the night went well, you wouldn’t have to think about it until at least tomorrow morning. Wouldn’t that be nice? But you weren’t sure if you were ready to go that far with Dr. Crane yet. Sure, you’d thought about it a lot but when faced with the actual reality of it happening you were reluctant to let it just... happen.)

Turning around to face his building, you found yourself craning your head backwards to look up at it, a newer apartment building with windows covering every inch of its surface, reflecting the setting sun back at itself.

Oh boy.

This was much different than what you’d been expecting. You’d even looked it up when he’d first sent the address but apparently that did nothing to prepare you for how nice his building looked, for how insecure you were when picturing him seeing the building you lived in for the first time. The floors probably don’t creak, the elevator probably works (seeing how tall it was, you hoped it did), and the residents probably wouldn't steal each other’s mail if it was left out for more than two hours.

The hallways probably don’t even smell like old cheese either.

Hand shaking, you pressed the call box for his apartment. You told yourself that it was shaking because of the cold, not nerves. But who were you kidding?

“Hey, it’s me. I’m here.” A bit obvious, but what else were you supposed to say? Your apartment building didn’t even have a key to get into the building and half the time the door was propped wide open. You weren’t used to the luxury of call-boxes.

“Come up.”

Sure enough, when the door buzzed open and you stepped through them, you were in a decidedly nice lobby. Not overly fancy like some luxury hotel but it was clear that some money had been spent on maintaining the building’s common areas.

Hitting the button for the 13th floor- not without briefly hesitating when you remembered that many buildings don’t have 13th floors, at least not labeled as such, something about bad luck- your stomach swooped again when the elevator began to ascend at a decent speed.

You only knocked once on the door before Dr. Crane opened it, leaning against the doorway as you stood, fidgeting and trying not to play with the hem of your dress.

“Welcome.”

He stepped back, allowing you to pass by him into the apartment.

Into the belly of the beast, as it were.

“Make yourself comfortable, I’m almost done.”

Dr. Crane’s apartment was… nice. Much nicer than anything you’d even looked at in your search for an apartment.

You moved through the main room, examining the living area which separated from the kitchen area with a half wall. Large windows overlooked the city, lights shimmering against buildings, giving it that metallic glow. The moon was covered by a thick layer of dark clouds, rain dripping out like they were wrung out washcloths. It was easy, when you looked at Gotham from so far above, to forget that on the ground was a cesspool of crime and corruption. Up here, it looked like any other city, with high rises and a river glittering in the distance.

You didn’t need to think about the people who wanted to flood the streets with said glittering river. You could just… enjoy being in Dr. Crane’s personal world, basking in the warm scent that you could only define as his.

You turned away from the window, pulling the cardigan you’d thrown on tighter around yourself. Dr. Crane (or had you decided to start thinking of him as Jonathan now?) stood with his back to you in his kitchen, the open floor plan of his apartment allowing you to watch him from a distance. Watching as his back muscles flexed under his shirt, the fabric shifting with every movement as he chopped something up and slid it into the pot bubbling on the stove. Watching his arms- his sleeves rolled to the sleeve and you had to wonder if he knew what he looked like when he did that, what it did to you- as he gripped the knife, wiping it on a dish towel.

He turned around, catching you staring. But you didn’t look away, content for him to know that you were watching him. Your conversation so far had been light, with his need to tend to the food cooking keeping you from really talking.

He smiled before turning back to the food.

It looked like he was almost done with cooking. It’s just pasta, it can’t be that complicated. A few more minutes passed before he turned back to you.

“Dinner-” He smiled, tense like he was well aware he was being stereotypical and couldn’t decide if he enjoyed or loathed it, “is served.”

You crossed to the table, where he was placing two plates with a generous serving of pasta and full wine glasses, the red so deep it almost looked black.

He gestured for you to sit down, waiting until you did to sit down himself.

If you were bolder, you would get up and circle around the table, place your hand on his shoulder, situate yourself in his lap and slowly lean forward- You cleared your throat, taking a generous sip of the wine he had poured. It was almost bitter on your tongue, the taste unfamiliar to the wines you’d had before in your life.

“That’s your only drink tonight.” He said, watching your hand fiddling with the stem of the wine glass.

“Fine by me.” Though secondary to the other pains in your body after the gala, your hangover from the amount of alcohol you’d consumed that night hadn’t been an experience you would like to relive anytime soon. His insistence that you only drink one glass of wine was reassurance that he wasn’t the kind of man to try something with you when you weren’t in control of your senses.

Maybe he hadn’t realized just how drunk you were at the gala, maybe he thought you were just slightly tipsy and bubbly rather than truly inebriated. (Maybe you were just kidding yourself.)

You looked down from your wine to the plate of pasta, debating asking him if he was going to explain why he’d ignored you for a week.

But you didn’t, instead choosing to ask him if he’d read any good books lately. And the conversation continued with lame small talk being set as the topic, one of which you both seemed bored of as soon as it had begun. He asked you how you enjoyed the pasta- good, it’s good- and how your classes were going.

Neither of you brought up the gala or his behavior for the past week.

You almost wanted to believe that you’d made the entire thing up.

Finally, after a brief silence where you both seemed content to just eat, you broke your silence.

“Can I ask you what was going on this past week?”

He put his fork down and it took everything in you not to flinch. It wasn’t a threatening move at all, but you were on edge.

“Would you believe me if I said I was embarrassed?”

“Why?”

“I invited you to the damn thing and then you were taken hostage.” He shrugged. “I put the blame on myself.”

You nodded in understanding, but a part of you didn’t believe him. Embarrassed? You couldn’t imagine the man in front of you embarrassed. You didn’t think he had that emotion in his body. If something humiliating happened to him, you imagined he’d just laugh or become angry. Not wallow in self pity.

But you had no way to express this.

“It’s not your fault.”

It was the only thing you could say. Because it wasn’t his fault, that was a fact, even if in your anger you had said as much. Just because he had invited you to the event didn’t mean he was responsible for every little thing that happened at it. It wasn’t like he hired the men to rob the place and take you hostage.

You made a move to reach across the table, but at the last minute decided against it. Let him make the first move, let him do it so you don’t embarrass yourself by misreading signs.

After that, the small talk returned. You, eating your pretty decent pasta, did your best to ask questions that would elicit some response from him so you could get to know him better.

And then, towards the end of your meal, he threw you a curveball.

“Would you ever be interested in visiting Arkham?”

You paused in the middle of bringing your fork to your mouth, noodles sliding off the cutlery and plopping back onto the pile with a pathetic plick.

Oh no, he’s planning on admitting me.

“...The asylum?” As if there was any other Arkham.

“Technically it’s a mental hospital.”

“And you want me to visit it?”

“I’d like to show you around.”

“Around the asylum?”

He sighed, exasperation flitting across his face. Immediately you were ridden with guilt for how obtuse you were being but the suggestion had come straight out of left field. He just wants to show you his other work, that makes sense, right?

You don’t think you’ve ever questioned yourself this much since you’ve started hanging around him.

“I just… don’t know about it, that’s all.” You took another sip of your wine, wincing when you saw how little was left in your glass. “Are you even allowed to bring visitors? It’s a hospital. With criminals.”

“As long as you know the right person, have the right clearances… Yes, you can visit.” The unspoken implication being, of course, that Jonathan was the right person to know, the person to obtain the right clearances for you. “You would be completely safe with me.”

“I guess…” You allowed yourself to picture being one of the few non-staff who wasn’t a patient allowed inside the hospital’s walls. The history the building held in its walls, the secrets it would be able to tell if it could, the piles upon piles of records probably gathering dust… “I guess it would be a cool opportunity, right?”

Everything he offered you seemed to be a good opportunity. A unique opportunity. A cool one.

“I could take you down tomorrow-”

“We live on opposite sides of the city. I don’t want you to have to drive me back to my place only to pick me up again and then take me all the way to Arkham Island.” You rolled your eyes, finally popping your fork in your mouth. You waited until you finished chewing to speak again. “Another day would be best.”

Also, you had classes tomorrow but that wasn’t really important, not in the grand scheme of the universe (which, right now, entirely revolved around Dr. Jonathan Crane. Everything else was secondary, an afterthought.)

For a moment, he looked like he wanted to fight you on this point but then decided against it, nodding towards you.

“Alright. I’ll take you down another day.”

“Alright.” You repeated, smiling. “I look forward to it.”

It was partially a lie, but you also didn’t want to give up any opportunity to spend more time with him.

With a deep swig, you finished your glass of wine, grimacing as the last remnants of the surprisingly bitter liquid slipped down your throat.

“Is it okay?”

“Yeah, I’m probably just not used to this kind of wine.” You laughed. “I don’t know if you know this, but college kids have really bad taste in alcohol.”

“I was a college student once, you know.”

You laughed at the mental image of him as an undergrad, before you remembered something from a few days ago, from right before the gala.

“Wait. I thought you said you didn’t drink.”

“No, I said that I don’t need to drink to have fun.” With that, he took a slow sip from his- still mostly full- drink. You hummed, taking a final bite of pasta.

As Jonathan- there was still a novel giddiness in calling him that, even if it was just in your mind- cleaned up after dinner (which you had offered to help with but he was resolute in doing it on his own and you wouldn’t fight him on it), you moved back into his living space.

Now what? You’d done what you’d come here to do- eat food- and now that it’s done, what was the plan? You wrapped yourself with your cardigan again, situating yourself on the couch in the middle of the room. Or maybe more like awkwardly perching yourself on the edge, like a bird about to take off into flight.

Jonathan paused in the archway separating the living space and kitchen, observing you as you sat on his couch.

“Do you mind if I come to sit with you?”

“Of course not.”

You watched as he came closer and instead of sitting on one of the armchairs sat next to you on the couch. On the opposite site, but what did the distance of a few inches matter? You spared a glance his way out of the corner of your eye, catching him watching you.

God. It was awkward, right? How awkward does something have to be for it to completely turn the other person off of you forever?

“Um.”

Your heart was pounding in your ears, loud enough that you’re sure he could hear it.

“Look at me.”

He was so close to you.

“Are you afraid, right now?” His voice was quiet but you were so honed in that it was deafening in the silence of his apartment.

“Of you?”

“Of me.”

Yes.

"A little bit.” How could you admit to the force of nature in front of you that you were afraid of him?

And maybe it was your imagination but for a moment, you were convinced he smiled and said good.

You’re not sure when the two of you moved from staring into each other’s eyes into making out. It felt like you’d been laying on the couch with him perched above you for hours, drinking the other in like you’d been abandoned at sea for months. At some point he’d pulled your cardigan off of your body, throwing it over the armchair across the room, running his cold hands over your now bare arms.

His finger brushed your stiffened nipple but instead of the jolt of pleasure one would have expected to feel at such a movement, you were suddenly and inexplicably gripped by a wave of anxiety, butterflies swarming in your stomach. But as quickly as it had washed over you, it was gone, though a certain uneasiness lingered in your veins.

You pulled away from him, furrowing your eyebrows.

“I’m sorry, I’m feeling…” Mentally, you scanned your body for the feeling, trying to locate exactly where it was originating but it was like a thrumming energy, moving around while somehow staying in the same places, lingering in your veins, something that was just… “off.”

You waited for his expression to fall, for disappointment or even anger to morph his face but it didn’t. He simply nodded, sliding off of you and allowing you to sit up fully. You adjusted your dress, covering yourself again as he watched. He handed you your water, which you took eagerly.

“Anxious?” His hand hadn’t left your thigh, rubbing calming circles on your skin, grounding you to the current moment.

“A little bit, yeah.” Always getting to the crux of the issue, he was.

“If you don’t want to do anything, I’m perfectly okay with that.”

“Really?” You shouldn’t be surprised that he wasn’t going to make you do anything you didn’t want to do.

“Of course.” He smiled. “What do you need?”

“I think I just want to go to sleep.” You paused, before looking at him again, afraid that you were being too vague and leading him on. “At my apartment. I don’t think I’m r-”

“Don’t worry about it. Let me take you back to your place.” He flashed you another smile and maybe it was your anxiety or the low lighting of his room but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

But instead of worrying about it, you leaned towards him and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips.

“Thank you.”

chapter five

#stbotdi #jonathan crane x reader #jonathan crane #batman x reader #batman fanfiction #bruce wayne x reader #my writing #my fic

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