#perhaps as a series of web-weaves. if you will.

[chuckwon]

[taps mic]

is there still an interest level in spnwin meta anywhere

just curious

[moondirti]

animalic (3)

← chapter two // series masterlist

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader rating: mature word count: 2.2k summary: he's got a plan that neither of you like warnings: enemies to lovers, predator/prey dynamics, biting, bondage, temporary paralysis, concussions, miguel is not nice, no use of y/n notes: this was supposed to be longer but the cut off at the original point was super awkward. this chapter is super exciting for all you fang lovers out there

You really can’t catch a break. 

The city bustles with a verve rivalling your own, a kaleidoscope of luminescence dancing upon the glass facades of its skyscrapers. Their spires pierce the ink-dark cloak of night, and if you weren’t so busy running for your life, you’d stop to admire the way their aviation obstruction lights mimic the stars back home. 

(Everything has a trade off, you suppose. You remember what it was like as light pollution gave away to reveal the cosmos above, the beauty of it lost upon your own grief.)

Now, it’s fear – clinging like a shadowy spectre to your heels. The pavement is unforgiving beneath you, each step sending a jolt of energy through your bones. Despite it, you can’t go any faster. Sidewalks crowd with the humdrum of everyday life – people filtering out from work and bodegas, dressed in a slightly odd fashion, their clothes a reminder of your unfamiliar landscape. Car horns blend into one another, providing an unsteady tempo to the race of your heart. 

It’s disorienting, all of it. Times like these, you wish you’d been given the opportunity to hone your abilities. Stamina, flexibility. Web shooters in particular would have proved handy in avoiding the bustle of the ground. 

Of course, he has that advantage on you too. 

You can’t see Miguel, but you sense his proximity. It prods you, nipping at your flesh in a constant assault, intensifying goosebumps and raising hairs. Your spider sense usually doesn’t last this long, solely serving as a warning for immediate danger. Yet that’s just what he is, immediate. Dangerous. Predatory eyes track your every move, sourced from all directions. He’s everywhere; atop buildings, within alleys. Neon signs morph into twisted apparitions; serrated talons, red skulls. 

How did he track you down so fast? 

The day pass? 

You wonder if he’d brought back-up – whether there are other spider-heroes here who trust in his noble cause. Your anxiety triples, and passerby’s begin to warp too. Their hurried footsteps now strike discordant notes, amplifying your isolation. You think you see some tense their wrists, or unbutton their coats, ready to reveal their tailored suits and ensure the capture you’ve managed to evade thus far. 

It’s luck. It’s only ever been luck, and that fact changes depending on who you ask. You’ve never outsmarted him, never disabled him. You just so happen to have the power of being a pain in his ass. 

Something itches at you, though. A nagging sense of foreboding. His presence in the past has spurred chagrin, annoyance, and – admittedly – arousal. But the genuine terror that lights your nerves now is new. Perhaps because you understand him, are far more familiar with his pride than most. The logical part of you can predict that he won’t let you off so easily, not after your stunt with the kiss. You won’t – can’t – get away this time, even if it damn well nearly kills him. 

Any hope you had of a bargain dissipates, rolling back from shore and into the depths of an elusive sea. You jerk the rubber band off your wrist, throwing it into some undisclosed corner.

In a then desperate bid to throw him off, your path loses cohesion. Like a leaf seized by a tempest, you turn based on split-second instinct, weaving through the labyrinth of New York’s grid. Your body sways in frenzy, bolstered by pure adrenaline, which works to dim everything else. Your ribs haven’t fully healed yet – they’d taken a pretty bad beating upon your last fight with Miguel – but you can barely feel the ache as you focus purely on the task at hand. 

Your determination surges, recklessness taking hold of your rationale. Veering abruptly, you just about collide with the racing line of cars that flow at a green light. In fact, you think you do. Your skin prickles, and a taxi runs straight through you, blearing a loud honk all the while. Some vehicles break off, drifting around your form at the last minute. In your peripheral, you can see the glowing red of your pursuers web, stretched across the gap between two apartment complexes. 

Chest tightening, your breathing loses depth at the sight, shallowing to leave room for the distress that torrents up your system. You clamber up on the hoods of parked cars, using a mast arm pole to propel yourself forward. It’s a fruitless effort. You know it’s too late – have known it since he walked into that convenience, prowling in search of one thing. 

(A lion only catches its prey a quarter of the time. But that twenty-five percent?)

Your ankle is the first victim to his hardwearing web, wrapped in the silk and pulled out from underneath you. The back of your head smacks into the concrete below, a high pitched ring reverberating through your skull upon impact. The collision sends a shock wave of pain throughout your being, and in that harrowing moment, everything stutters to a crawl. Spots speckle behind your clenched eyelids, metallic warmth flooding your mouth.

Well, fuck. 

To add insult to injury, your atoms rip apart and splice into one another, a consequence of your abandoned day pass. The glitch aggravates the headache that begins to pound at you. You’d allowed yourself to forget how bad it could be. 

The willpower that had just played a forefront in your mind steadily starts to trickle out, absorbed by your humiliation and the ground below. 

“You really gonna give up that easily?” 

Yes. 

You make a point to never lie to yourself. In truth, you won’t ever get enough of Miguel’s cadence. Deep and resonant – it smoulders with a charred ruggedness. Commanding attention, rumbling like distant thunder, an unmistakable authority woven into each word. Yet, even amidst the rough contours, there lingers a softness, a subtle grace that soothes the edges of his threats. 

(Sharp claws, sharp teeth, sharp cheekbones. Soft voice.)

More webs bind you, erupting from an unclear point to circle your legs, chest, and secure your arms behind your back. You’re diminished to little more than an aggravated caterpillar, ensnared in a spider’s web. And, just as his little game of bondage draws to a close, said spider stalks within view, splitting through the crowd that quickly forms around the commotion. 

With his mask on, he stands as completely impenetrable. You, on the other hand, try to reduce your quivering the best you can, afraid of relaying how truly pathetic you feel. 

“Maybe I’m biding my time.” You bite back, calling on a complete bluff. “I’m sure you know how good I am at that?” It’s a low blow. Even if you could control when and where to phase out, you wouldn’t get very far before he catches up to you again. 

But Miguel doesn’t waver in his closing in – not until he towers over you, looking down at your incapacitated state. Space buckles under the gravity of his existence; you, too, can feel yourself sinking, drawn in closer by the credence that bubbles off him in flares. You wish you had a cover – your pair of makeshift goggles, a face mask, anything that could elevate you to a degree relative to his. But you’re bare, figuratively naked, and you’ve never hated him more. 

He lingers, assessing you, weighing his options. The moment he turns to survey the mass of people who look on inquisitively, you wiggle upward into a sitting position, then throw your head forwards, aiming for his crotch. His wrist gets in the way, though, blocking your pitiful attack on his only defenceless area. Your forehead cracks against his dimensional travel watch, shattering its screen. 

“Tu puta madre!” Miguel hisses, snapping back to survey the gadget while you begin to slink away. He seems to have an eye on you, however, because you’re tugged back just as soon as you make the effort.

Like a naughty cat. You shift uncomfortably at the thought. 

“Are you gonna spend all night deciding what to do with me, then? I have plans, even if you don’t.” 

“Plans. I have plans alright.” The low timbre of his threat slices you where it hurts.

With a calculated flex of his shoulders, he crouches down, gathering the webs around your arms. They serve as leverage when he hauls you upward, exercising his muscles – of which you’d suspected had been padding up to this point – with one swift motion. The world upends on itself, nausea enveloping your senses with its oppressive weight. It allows space for little else; not the uncertainty, not the trepidation. You divert all your efforts on keeping your scarce lunch down, accepting the possibility of a concussion by product of his less-than-refined manhandling. 

The journey to wherever he takes you is not at all long enough for you to recover. Before you know it, he’s busting through the creaky door of an empty storelot, carelessly tossing you to the floor. Your vision doubles. 

Yeah. Definitely a concussion. 

Like you could afford one right now. 

“You’ll stay, and you’ll listen.” He points an accusatory finger. 

“Sure. Until I’ve had enough, that is.” 

“And where would you go, exactly?” 

“Nice try, O’hara. Like I’d tell you,” Snickering, you let your head roll to face the ceiling. The action sends you back to earlier, to the robbery you’ve been seeking to suppress. How careless you’d been, letting your fortune to date trick you into thinking that any collateral was safe too. You’d killed that woman. You. “Maybe I’ll fall right through the floor. That way, you’ll never have to worry about seeing me again.” 

The notion makes him pause mid-pace, hands on his hips, tilting his head to look at you with what you imagine is the most earnest glare. The air bobs, suspended in static tension, a crackling constant that only unravels once he seems to make up his mind. 

Marching forward, he drags you along with him to a nearby wall, upon which he then pushes you upward until you have to look down to meet his eyeline. Your bound legs kick forward, but the struggle hardly affects him. 

“I didn’t want to resort to this.” 

You assume he means treating you like a toddler does its shiny new toy, hurling you across this playpen of a city. “You really didn’t have to, then.” 

He stays quiet, fists clenching tighter around you. 

“I suppose we’re past the courtesy of letting the other recover from the last fight before starting a new one? My forearm is still fucked, thanks to you. Maybe if you’d given it some time, I would’ve proved more of a challenge today.” Your words, whilst never your most steadfast allies, betray you in lieu of this restlessness, tumbling forth with unruly incoherence.

Miguel's mask pulls back, the nanotech collapsing to just above his adams apple. Your mouth moves faster. 

“Okay, I get it. The fate of the multiverse and all that. I’ll listen, whatever you want, but at least try and make the lecture original.” 

His hand cups your jaw, tightening around your chin to firmly guide it upwards. Your throat stretches taut at the motion, its smooth expanse spread across the wall – an evening repast for a party of one. The imagery breaks down an all too sobering realisation into fragments small enough for you to register. His talons rest against your cheek, bordering perilously close to your waterline. 

Traces of that patchouli aftershave hit you. His skin looks especially bronzed in the dark, highlighted at the edges from the phosphorescence outside. His curls droop where they’re plastered to a sweat slicked hairline. 

You can’t help it. Your gaze flickers down to those plush lips.

Fuck. Fuck. It’d felt so good to kiss them. 

Please let this just be a kiss. 

“O-Or go with the… the usual, y’know. I don’t–” 

Miguel lunges, sinking his fangs into the fleshy sinew of your neck.

Christ.

Your jaw hangs open, but no breaths filter in. Shock wedges itself at the site of his bite, implacable, steadfast as a barrier between logic and uninhibited emotion. Your reasoning plays no part in this, provides absolutely no valuable contribution to the series of reactions you undergo. 

It’s physical, first. The cold slither of paralytic venom distends through your nerves, neurotoxins striking their functions, rendering them useless beyond the point of sensation. Which, you’d say, is the cruellest part. Miguel’s poison doesn’t stop you from feeling anything; not the puncture, nor the burn. You can truly feel it, trekking its graceful path to all muscles in your body, taking hold of the tissue, suppressing their vitality. Your back arches, your body doing its very best to fight what it cannot prevent. It cracks up your bone, down your spine. Your toes unfurl, fingers loosening to hang lamely at your side. 

And, when you lose all executive authority over yourself, you’re pulled in to centre on his mouth again. His canines slowly retract, tongue taking their place. It’s warm – so fucking warm – and dextrous, covertly lathering the blood that beads down your nape. 

Your last proper breath is wasted on a whine; a loud, keening, absolutely wanton whine. After it, you can do nothing but hold your flat inhales to cycle in as much oxygen as possible – diaphragm weak, your resolve weaker.

Miguel draws away, letting you slump to the floor, heavy and just as useless as a sack of flour. He wipes the excess carmine from his chin, kneeling to regard your glassy eyed stare. 

“Fall through now, and you’re as good as dead.” 

(You might as well already be.)

chapter four →

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[yannawayne]

iii. what's up danger?

SYNOPSIS: "Alright, let's do this one last time. My name is Y/N Kyle. I was bitten by a radioactive spider, And I've been the one and only Spidey in Gotham. I’m pretty sure you know the rest." PAIRING: Older! Damian Wayne/Fem! Reader TAGS: Established relationship, Gunshot wounds, Violence, Surgical procedures AO3: yenwayne SERIES LINK: gotham's only spidey

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“Repeat that,” he said, his voice tight.

A wave of stunned stares passed around the table. Tim quickly typed something on his laptop, his fingers moving with practiced speed. He then turned the screen around for everyone to see. The headline on the screen read:

“Wayne-Stark Feud Escalates: Damian Wayne’s Girlfriend Takes Top Honors in Stark Industries’ Prestigious Young Innovators Program”

Dick’s eyes widened in surprise, and Jason whistled again, this time in genuine admiration. 

“Well, damn. She really knocked it out of the park.”

Bruce’s expression shifted to a frown.

 ༻⊰───⋅

GOTHAM WAS BEAUTIFUL. The city's lights stretched out below you like a glittering sea, each pinprick of light a mesmerizing dance of color and shadow. The towering, sleek skyscrapers stood tall and proud, their glass facades reflecting a mosaic of neon hues and starlight. Between them, narrow alleys wove like dark veins through the city's heart, their secrets hidden from view. The flicker of billboards and the intermittent flash of police sirens were the rapid, erratic beats, sudden bursts that pierced the otherwise steady thrum of urban life.

Even from above, the city's heartbeat was loud, a living, breathing entity that pulsed with a desperate rhythm. No matter how one might describe it or what reasons one might offer, you found Gotham to be beautiful. Even now, despite the terror you felt in the moment.

From the shadows, Selina's gaze was sharp, her helmet reflecting the fragmented light of the city. She leaned casually against the metal railing, watching you carefully.

You took a deep breath, the cool, crisp air stinging your lungs and sharpening your senses. Every muscle in your body tensed as you focused on the edge of the building. The drop was dizzying, a thousand feet of dark emptiness that seemed to call out to you with both a thrilling invitation and a stark warning.

"All it takes is a leap of fate," Selina’s voice cut through the wind. 

Once you jumped, there was no turning back. It was a point of no return, a decision that would define the trajectory of your night and perhaps your life. 

"That's all it takes."

Her words echoed in your mind, mingling with the roar of the wind and the hum of the city. Slowly, you moved, your foot pressing forward until you were on the side of the building. The glass beneath you felt like a lifeline, each shift of your weight sending a jolt of adrenaline through your veins.

A leap of fate.

With one final, steadying breath, you adjusted your stance, your legs bending in preparation.

And then, with the night sky as your backdrop and Gotham as your stage, you leaped. The glass shattered beneath your feet, a shower of fragments raining down as you soared into the void. The world below rushed up to meet you, the sensation of falling merging with the thrill of flight.

For a fleeting moment, you were suspended between sky and earth.

Then you reached out with a steady hand, launching your web into the night.

THWIP.

The web shot upward, a silken thread connecting you to the distant skyscraper. In an instant, you were soaring through the air, the rush of wind against your face and Gotham a blur of lights below.

You were flying. 

Swinging through the city, you rushed past streets and towering buildings. People looked up in awe, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of streetlights as they followed your form.

You shot up and soared past the metro tracks, the rhythmic clatter of trains below blending with the distant hum of the city. Each swing carried you further, higher, and faster, weaving through the urban landscape with the freedom of flight. 

Gotham unfolded before you, a sprawling playground, and for a brief, exhilarating moment, you were unstoppable.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Friday, 2:32PM - Chemistry Lab, Gotham Academy.

A Few Months Later.

Over the past few months, you had quickly settled into your role as Spidey. The initial buzz of your debut had faded, leaving you working in Gotham's shadows. You were recognized by locals and criminals but had yet to make a significant impact on the city's larger stage. The occasional mention in articles was nice, but it mostly felt like a footnote compared to Gotham's big-name heroes.

Headlines were dominated by the likes of Batman, Nightwing, Red Hood, and Robin. They were the ones who made the news, while you were still working your way up from the minor leagues.

In the beginning, Damian—Robin—seemed to have made it his personal mission to keep tabs on you. You’d spotted him a few times, lurking in the shadows with those white lenses glaring at you like he was waiting for you to mess up. It was almost amusing, if not a bit intimidating. It felt like he was waiting for you to do something spectacularly dumb, just so he could swoop in.

But as time went on, it became clear you weren’t exactly shaking up Gotham’s chaos. Your focus was on street-level crimes, dealing with the petty crooks and local thugs who didn’t warrant much more than a scowl from the bigger players. Damian, realizing you were more of a nuisance than a game-changer, gradually eased off. It was like you’d been demoted from “potential problem” to “minor annoyance,” and with that realization, he redirected his attention to Gotham’s bigger, more pressing issues.

And well, it was fine. You played the part of the neighborhood’s friendly Spidey with ease, dishing out smiles and saving the day. On the surface, everything seemed under control. But beneath the mask, a different story brewed. Restlessness gnawed at you, a persistent itch you couldn’t quite scratch.

The city’s shadows felt darker these days, more oppressive. You’d heard the whispers and seen the signs—Black Mask was back, and he was even more violent than before. 

It was like he was putting on a show just for you, as if he was daring you to do something more, to be more. 

Welcome to the Hotel California Such a lovely place (such a lovely place) Such a lovely face Plenty of room at the Hotel California Any time of year (any time of year) You can find it here—

Your music is abruptly cut off when your earbuds are yanked from your ears. You groan and turn, only to find Morgan smirking at you, casually swinging your earbuds between her fingers.

Over the past few months, you and Morgan had grown incredibly close—best friends, if you would call it that. Morgan’s hair was now cropped into a short pixie cut, and her wardrobe seemed to be mirroring yours more and more. Whether this influence was good or not was still up for debate in your mind.

“Asshat, give those back!” you snarl, reaching for the earbuds.

Morgan just smirks and leans out of your reach. “Oh, come on. What’s got you so pissy today?”

You groan and slump into your seat, burying your face in your jacket. “Just a lot on my mind. Ugh. I want to go home.”

“You’ve been in a funk for days. What’s up? You’re acting like the world’s about to implode.”

You roll your eyes, not bothering to look up. “It might as well. Things are getting insane out there.”

“It’s Gotham,” Morgan shrugs, tossing your earbuds back. You catch them with one hand and stuff them into your pocket. “Thought you’d be used to this crap by now.”

“I am used to it, but what’s that supposed to do, Starky?” You roll your eyes again, and Morgan grimaces at the nickname. “Am I just supposed to dance it away? Pretend everything’s okay when it’s clearly not?”

Morgan’s eyes narrow, and she gives you a hard stare. “Look, I get it. Shit’s messed up. But moping around isn’t gonna fix anything.”

You sigh and lean over your finished worksheet, erasing some of the leftover pencil scribbles. “It’s easy for you to say. You live in a penthouse with a view of the city. For you, it’s like Gotham’s just a playground.”

Morgan raises an eyebrow, a sly grin creeping onto her face. “Well, if you’re so stressed, maybe you need a little pampering. I could always offer to be your sugar mommy.”

You snort, shaking your head with a small chuckle. “You'd go broke trying to pay for my therapy. Gotham’s therapists charge extra for dealing with our kind of crazy. Hell. One of them literally became a villain herself.”

“Oh, come on," Morgan’s grin widens as she leans closer. "You’ve already got a sugar daddy anyway, don’t you? Damian’s practically a walking trust fund.”

“Had to secure my future,” you grin back, leaning over her side of the table. You point to one problem on her worksheet, circling a mistake with your pencil. “By the way, you got that wrong.”

Morgan looks down, eyes widening in surprise. “Damn. I thought I had that down. You’re really good at this.”

“Weeks of practice and 3AM cramming sessions,” you say with a shrug, leaning back in your seat. “It’s nothing.”

Morgan seems to think for a moment before glancing back at you. “Speaking of securing your future, have you ever thought about applying for an internship? I know a spot at Stark Industries that’s opening up soon.”

You raise an eyebrow, a hint of skepticism in your tone. “Stark Industries? Your dad's company? Why would I want to go there? Isn’t that where all the corporate rivalries come into play?”

“Not all of them," Morgan laughs, shaking her head. "I get it, though. There’s definitely some bad blood between the Waynes and the Starks. But this internship could be a game-changer for you. You’d get real experience, and it’d look impressive on your CV.”

You hum, your fingers drumming on the table. “I don’t know. Damian might maul me.”

Morgan rolled her eyes and nudged you playfully. "Come on, just think about it. It's a great opportunity, and I'd be there to make sure you don't get lost in the corporate jungle. If you're going to be Damian's trophy wife, you need to get used to dealing with this stuff. Who knows, you might actually enjoy it."

You sigh, considering her offer. “Alright, I’ll think about it. But no promises. Things are a bit... chaotic right now.”

Morgan nods, clearly understanding. “Fair enough. Just keep it in mind. It could be a real game-changer for you.”

“Yeah, I’ll keep it on the list,” you say, managing a small smile.

Class ends and you both gather your things, making your way into the hallway. The corridor is a chaotic swirl of students, their chatter and footsteps echoing off the lockers and tiled floors. Damian is leaning against your locker, his usual stony expression slightly marred by an air of impatience as he waits for you.

Morgan, walking beside you, suddenly reaches out and gives your ass a playful slap. You yelp in surprise, causing Damian to straighten up and cast a sharp, puzzled look at Morgan, who just grins mischievously.

“What the fuck,” you laugh, shoving Morgan lightly.

“Call me if you need anything, alright? And don’t keep me waiting too long,” Morgan smirks. Her gaze lingers on you for a moment, then shifts to Damian, who’s watching her with a fiery, barely disguised jealousy. She turns and strolls away, Damian glaring daggers into the back of her head like he’s trying to burn a hole through it.

“Later!” she calls over her shoulder with a wave, her grin as smug as a cat who’s just pissed in your shoe. 

You walk up towards Damian, moving a hand to squeeze at his bicep. “Dames, are you okay?”

“She’s quite forward, isn’t she?” he murmurs, placing a hand over yours.

“She’s my best friend. Just loves to mess with me,” you snort. Standing on your tiptoes, you lean in and press a quick, affectionate kiss against his cheek. “And don’t worry, I’m all yours—no matter how much she tries to steal me away.”

Damian’s scowl softens slightly, though a trace of irritation still lingers in his eyes. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous today."

He pushes himself off your locker with a subtle sigh. His gaze flickers with a hint of hesitation before he clears his throat and turns his full attention to you.

“Would you care to join my family for dinner tonight?” he asks, shifting on his feet. “I’m planning to take the night off from patrol. It’s been far too long since we’ve had some time together. You could stay the weekend if you’d like.”

You hesitate, your mind occupied with your own plans. “Thanks for the offer, Damian, but I’ve got a lot to catch up on at home. I’m really looking forward to a quiet night there.”

Home being the safehouse. Quiet being patrol. You wanted to kick some ass tonight.

Damian’s face visibly falls, his nose scrunching up in disappointment.

“Oh,” he says, his voice dropping slightly. “I see. I guess I should have expected that,” he adds, his attempt at indifference coming off as strained.

He shifts his stance, straightening as if to regain his composure, but a subtle downturn of his lips betrays his frustration. “Are you sure you can’t spare a moment? I thought we might enjoy some uninterrupted time together.”

You shake your head gently and smile as you smooth your hand through his hair, fixing the few stray strands that have gone askew. “I really have to go. There’s too much on my plate right now, and Mom wants me back early.”

Damian turns his head to the side, gently batting your hand away before reaching up to fix his own hair, running his fingers through it. His shoulders slump, and he clenches his jaw, clearly struggling to hide his disappointment. “Fine. If you have to put other things ahead of spending time with me, I guess there’s nothing more to be said.”

You notice the strain in his posture and chuckle, reaching out to squeeze his arms. “I’ll see you soon. Promise.”

Damian’s eyes soften a little as you lean in and press a gentle, lingering kiss to his lips. His eyes close momentarily, long lashes brushing against his cheeks.

When you pull back, Damian’s gaze meets yours, a touch warmer than before.

“Very well,” he says, his voice dropping to a softer, more tender tone. “I’ll be waiting for your call tonight.”

You offer a reassuring smile, then turn and head off, feeling his gaze on you until you blend into the crowd. Damian watches you go, the tension in his posture easing as he takes a deep breath. With a frustrated huff, he reaches for his car keys and makes his way to the parking lot, grumbling to himself.

He'll make sure to lift extra hard tonight.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Friday, 8:32PM - Personal Gym, Wayne Manor.

The gym at Wayne Manor is bathed in a subdued, moody light that stretches long shadows across the polished floors and sleek, high-tech equipment. The air is thick with the lingering scent of sweat, mingling with the low hum of an overworked air conditioner trying—and failing—to keep up with the rising heat. 

Damian stands in front of the deadlift bar, wrapping straps around his wrists with a practiced grip. His rough hands pull the straps tight, the material digging into his skin as he secures them. He flexes his fingers, feeling the familiar tension in his muscles.

Please could you stop the noise? I'm tryna get some rest From all the unborn chicken Voices in my head What's that? (I may be paranoid, but not an android) What's that? (I may be paranoid, but not an android)

Music thunders through his headphones, creating a personal soundscape that drowns out the rest of the world. He's dressed in black sweats and a black hoodie, both soaked through with sweat. 

Bending down, he grips the bar, his knuckles turning white. With a powerful grunt, he starts the lift. The barbell, loaded with an impressive weight, rises steadily. Damian’s face contorts with the effort as he concentrates on keeping his breathing steady and controlled. 

Sweat beads on his forehead, and damp strands of hair fall over his molten eyes, clinging to his skin. Normally, Damian keeps his hair cut short, maintained to match his routine. But lately, his schedule has been packed, and his bangs have grown longer than usual. He grits his teeth, pushing through the lift, doing his best to ignore the annoying feel of hair brushing against his sweat-slicked face.

CLANG!

After a few seconds, Damian drops the bar with a resounding crash that echoes through the gym, the metal slamming against the floor and ringing off the walls. His headphones slip off his ears, falling onto the floor. With a sharp, frustrated snap, he flings his weight belt aside; the leather slaps the ground with a solid thud. Letting out an irritated scoff, he breathes heavily, his anger evident in each exhale.

In another corner of the gym, Tim is deep into his calisthenics routine, his body moving fluidly as he pulls himself up on the bar. His back muscles ripple with each movement, sweat glistening on his skin. He casts a curious glance toward Damian, his eyebrow arching at the loud crash.

“Not joining Bruce for patrol tonight?” Tim calls out.

Damian, clearly irked, casts a sidelong glance at Tim. “Grayson and Todd are out, as is Batwoman. They are more than capable of handling themselves. Unlike certain individuals I could name.”

Tim, ignoring the jab, looks at him with wide-eyed disbelief. “Seriously?”

“I have a life outside of Robin,” Damian retorts. “Unlike you, who seems to think that withering in front of the Batcomputer is the epitome of existence.”

Tim, rolling his eyes, sneers, “You’re just being a jackass because you’re stuck here sulking. It’s like I don’t even recognize you anymore.”

Damian’s scowl deepens. “It’s about clearing my head. Sometimes pushing myself physically helps with... other stuff.”

For most of them, working out is just a way to blow off steam or handle their emotions. Damian’s go-to routines are cardio and weights—anything that lets him channel his inner rage and frustration into something productive. Tonight, though, he’s taking it to another level.

Tim heads over to the water dispenser, his footsteps light as he moves. As he passes Damian, he delivers a playful but firm punch to Damian’s arm—not hard enough to cause real pain, but definitely with some intent. Damian scowls, rubbing his arm and shooting Tim a sharp look.

“Whatever works, I guess,” Tim shrugs, taking a chug from his water bottle. His Adam's apple bobs with the effort as he swallows.

“Patrols have been a washout the past few days,” Damian murmurs, wrapping his knuckles as he prepares for a boxing session. “I doubt anything of importance is going to happen.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

Saturday, 1:04 AM - Queens District, Gotham City.

"WOO!"

The night breeze rushes past you, a cool whisper against your face as you spin through the Gotham skyline. Below, the city sprawls in a chaotic mosaic of flickering lights and deep shadows. You glide through the air, the fabric of your suit rustling softly in the wind. Beneath you, the streets are a patchwork of cobblestones and cracked asphalt, each corner a reminder of where you’ve fought, protected, and survived.

Tonight is unusually slow. A surprise considering the area you patrol is a district near Crime Alley.

The vicinity around Queens in rundown Gotham, urbanized but not as bustling as the busier business districts, usually teems with activity. The area, close to the docks, is a maze of clustered buildings and the occasional factory, their smokestacks cutting dark silhouettes against the night sky.

The distant hum of machinery from the factories blends with the occasional sound of waves lapping against the docked ships. From your vantage point, you can see the bridge stretching out in the distance, its lights twinkling against the darkness.

Just as you start to think the night might pass without incident, you hear a distant commotion—a series of hollers and shouts echoing through the narrow streets. Your eyes narrow as you scan the area, searching for the source of the disturbance.

Then you spot her: a woman sprinting frantically down the street, her cries of terror slicing through the night air. Her short-cut hair whips around her face, and her wide eyes reflect sheer panic. Hot on her heels, a group of men give chase, their grotesque laughter bubbling up from their throats like a pack of pigs rooting through garbage.

Your heart skips a beat as recognition slams into you. 

It’s Morgan.

Wait—what the hell is she doing here?

Morgan, who has no business being anywhere near this part of town—especially not at this hour—stands out like a sore thumb. She lives miles away in the heart of the city, far removed from this grim neighborhood near Crime Alley. Queens Street feels like a different world compared to her usual haunts.

Without hesitation, you dive down from the rooftop, landing with a thud that cuts through the night’s tension like a knife. The sudden appearance of your figure causes an immediate hush.

"Hey, kid! Stay behind me," you call out, changing your voice to sound deeper. "I’ve got this covered."

Morgan, clearly relieved but still visibly shaken, nods and takes a step back, her trust in you evident despite the fear in her eyes. 

Cracking your knuckles, you address the would-be assailants.

"Gentlemen," you say, “Shall we resolve this quickly, or do you wanna continue your charade?"

One of them sneers, “Look who decided to crash the party. Here to play hero?”

You tilt your head, scratching at your neck. “Wow, I must be slacking if I’m getting an invite to parties like this. But hey, if you’re offering free entertainment, who am I to refuse?”

THWIP.

With a swift flick of your wrist, you shoot a web at one of the thugs, lifting him off his feet and sending him flying up to dangle from a nearby street lamp. He struggles and curses as he hangs there, the webbing holding him securely.

Another thug charges in, swinging a crude metal pipe. You leap over him effortlessly, grabbing the pipe mid-air and twirling it like a baton. “Wow, talk about a swing and a miss. I’d say better luck next time, but I’m not really into giving second chances.”

"Whoop!" You deliver a swift kick to his side, sending him sprawling into a nearby alley. He crashes into a heap of garbage with a muffled thud. 

The remaining thugs, now visibly annoyed, glance at each other, clearly weighing their options. One of them, the largest and most boisterous of the group, musters up some bravado. He cracks his knuckles and sneers, “You think you’re funny, huh? I’ll show you funny!”

You raise an eyebrow and sigh dramatically. “Oh, come on. Don’t you want to have a nice chat?” You flick your wrist and a web shoots out, sticking over his mouth. “There you go! Now we can all enjoy some quiet time.”

He charges at you with a muffled, bull-like roar, but you easily sidestep, letting him stumble past. As he tries to regain his balance, you shoot a web at his feet, yanking him back and sending him crashing into a stack of wooden pallets. The crates topple over with a loud clatter, and he ends up sprawled on the ground, groaning in pain.

!!!

Your senses tingles just in time. Another thug lunges at you with a wild swing, and you catch his fist mid-air, twisting his arm with a practiced flick. Using his own momentum, you deliver a sharp uppercut that sends him reeling backward. He crashes against a nearby wall, dazed and disoriented. Quickly, you shoot a web at him, pinning him against the wall.

The last thug, now clearly outmatched, takes a step back, his form shaking. “You’re not worth it,” he mutters, raising his hands in surrender.

You laugh and walk over to him with a thumbs up. “That’s the best decision you’ve made all night.”

You shoot a web at his feet, pinning him in place. “Why don’t you just sit tight and enjoy the show? I’m sure the boys in blue will be along shortly.”

With the thugs now subdued and securely webbed up, you turn to Morgan, who’s watching with wide eyes. She lets out a shaky breath, clearly relieved.

“You know,” you say slowly, deepening your voice, “I didn’t expect to see Tony Stark’s daughter in a place like this. What’s the story?”

“Oh. Oh, you… know who I am,” Morgan says, catching her breath and chuckling weakly. “Well, I was just out for a... walk, and I made a wrong turn. Next thing I know, I’m being chased by a bunch of guys.”

"Uh-huh," you say, shaking your head with a hint of disbelief, the slits of your mask narrowing as you scrutinize her. "You’ve got a real knack for picking your strolls. Queens is kind of a crime magnet, you know. And you, being as famous as you are, might as well have a bullseye on your back. Just saying."

Morgan’s expression shifts to embarrassment, red flushing her cheeks. “Yeah, I know. I actually came here to meet someone about some tech. You know, to see if I could get my hands on something... a bit more... advanced.”

You raise an eyebrow, perplexed. “Advanced tech? You’re like... Tony Stark’s daughter. You have more tech at your disposal than most governments. Are you sure it's not drugs?”

"I am not a crackhead!" Morgan scowls and sends you a glare. “Sometimes, it’s not just about having access. It’s about finding unique pieces or... getting a better deal. Plus, sneaking out to do something on my own—well, it’s a bit of an adventure.”

You chuckle, shaking your head in disbelief.

"Teenage angst? Really?"

"Where’s the fun in having everything handed to you on a silver platter?" Morgan smirks. "A little thrill never hurt anyone.”

You just wave a hand at her, shaking your head again. “Fair point. Just please try not to make it a habit of going out at night alone. You uh... got a ride home?"

Morgan licks her lips, her expression thoughtful. "Guess... Guess I could call my dad."

You nod, giving her a thumbs up. "Good idea. And remember, if you ever find yourself in a pinch again, don’t hesitate to call for help. I patrol Queens. Just... don't make this a habit."

Morgan lets out a chuckle, her nerves easing. “I’ll do my best. Thanks for the rescue.”

With that, you turn and leap into the night, your form quickly vanishing into the darkness as you swing away. A sudden tingle on the back of your neck makes you glance back, but you see Morgan still standing there, her gaze fixed on where you disappeared. 

You brush off the feeling—must have been a false alarm.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Saturday, 3:18 AM - Queens District, Gotham City.

After a few hours, you decide it’s time to call it a night. Returning to your warehouse, you strip off your suit and slip into civilian clothes. Stepping out into the dimly lit streets, you keep your head low and your pace casual, blending seamlessly into the nocturnal cityscape. Gotham's alleys and shadows are no place for the spotlight, and drawing attention could be dangerous. Here, the key to staying safe is blending in—letting the city's dark corners swallow you up.

You pull out your phone and dial Damian’s number. Sure, you can handle yourself, but right now, you're out in your civilian identity. Better to play it safe.

Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na…Batman!

The Batman ringtone echoes softly in the alley, its familiar chime cutting through the muted sounds of the city. You can’t help but smile at the stupid thing—the Batman brand (made without Batman's permission) has become so popular that it’s practically a commercial empire. Bruce, of course, loathes it. He's filed at least twenty lawsuits trying to shut it down, but the brand keeps growing.

There’s even Robin merch, which you’ve collected obsessively over the years, much to Damian’s embarrassment. He’s never quite gotten used to his persona being reduced to a collectible item, but your enthusiasm for it is well-known.

After a few rings, Damian picks up, his voice steady and unmistakable. “Habibti?”

“Hey, Dames,” you reply, keeping your tone light. “Just checking in. How’s everything on your end?”

There’s a brief pause, and you can almost hear the faint rustle of paper or fabric in the background before he responds. “Everything’s fine. Just buried in homework. Why are you calling so late?”

You detect the edge of concern in his voice, and it makes you smile. “Oh, just heading home. Got a bit wrapped up with some errands. Didn’t realize how late it had gotten.”

Damian’s tone sharpens, his concern clearly growing. “Errands? At this hour? Gotham isn’t exactly a walk in the park after dark. Why are you out alone? Do you have any idea how dangerous it is?”

“I’m fine, Damian," you reply, sidestepping a wet puddle on the street. "Just a few things I needed to take care of. I’m heading home now, so no worries.”

“You shouldn’t be out so late, especially not alone,” he insists, his voice taking on that familiar stern tone. “Do you realize how many things can go wrong? You could be in grave danger..”

“I promise, I’m being careful," you assure him. "I’ll be home soon. Just wanted to check in and let you know I’m okay.”

Damian doesn’t relent. “Fine. But stay on the line until you’re home. I need to know you’re safe.”

“You’re so dramatic,” you tease lightly. “But okay, I’ll stay on the line.”

There’s a soft huff from him, as though he’s trying to suppress a smile. “Good. And, for the record, I’m not being dramatic. I’m being cautious.”

“Whatever you say,” you reply, your tone light. “By the way, are you free tomorrow? There’s this new comic shop I wanted to check out.”

Damian perks up at that. 

Finally.

It’s been weeks since you’ve had the chance to enjoy a proper date. The usual routines—dinner out, a movie, or just hanging out—have been squeezed out by the demands of Gotham. Damian felt the lack more than he’d like to admit. He’s missed them—missed you. 

“Yes, I’m available," he says, almost too quickly. He doesn't want to seem overly eager, but the anticipation is hard to hide. "I’ll make time and pick you up. What time, beloved?"

“How about noon?” you suggest, swinging your keys lightly as you approach your apartment building. “That should give us plenty of time to explore the shop and maybe grab lunch afterward.”

You reach your apartment building and slip inside, the familiar creak of the door signaling your return. Glancing around to make sure no one's watching, you crouch and bound up the flight of stairs in quick, powerful jumps, reaching your floor in mere seconds.

Heading down the hallway, you adjust your phone and catch the end of Damian’s statement just in time.

“—I’ll be there at noon,” Damian confirms, the warmth in his voice unmistakable.

“Great,” you smile as you fumble with the lock. The sound of the key turning in the door echoes softly in the quiet hallway. You let out a sigh of relief as you finally open the door, stepping into the comforting familiarity of your home.

"I'm looking forward to it,” you continue, kicking off your shoes and setting them neatly by the door. “I’m home now, by the way! I’ll see you tomorrow.”

On the other end, Damian’s voice comes through the phone, warm and laced with the faintest hint of affection. “I shall see you then,” he replies, his care evident even through the small, digital speaker. “Goodnight, beloved.”

There’s a moment of silence as his words linger.

“Goodnight,” you reply softly, letting the warmth of his voice settle before you slowly lower the phone from your ear.

You slip your phone into your pocket and step into your living room, where the soft glow of the television fills the room. A Filipino drama plays on the screen, its melodramatic dialogue and heartfelt scenes subtitled in English. The rest of the room is shrouded in dimness, with only the flickering light of the TV breaking through the darkness.

As you make your way towards the kitchen, you notice Selina perched on a bar stool at the counter. She’s cradling a steaming cup of coffee, its rich aroma wafting through the air. Her gaze lifts to meet yours as you enter, curiosity etched across her features.

“You’re home a lot later than usual, honey,” she comments.

You pour yourself a glass of water, the quiet clink of the glass against the faucet a small comfort. You sit down across from her, the chair creaking slightly under your weight. “Yeah, it’s been one of those nights. I wrapped up patrol and ended up dealing with some trouble. Nothing major, though. But I did run into someone.”

Selina takes a slow sip of her coffee. “Who?”

“Morgan,” you say with a grim look. “She was out in Queens on some sort of tech hunt. Had to give her a little lecture about roaming Gotham alone.”

 “The redhead? That’s definitely unusual. What was she after?”

“She was hunting for some tech—apparently, even with the best gadgets at her disposal, she thought Gotham had something special,” you explain.

Selina chuckles, shaking her head. “Typical Stark. Always chasing the next shiny thing. Did you know her dad’s been trying to worm his way with the Bats lately?”

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “Really?”

Selina takes a sip of her coffee, her expression bemused. “He’s been throwing money at them, trying to fund their operations. He’s got this obsessive need to upgrade superhero tech. Batman’s been turning him down flat. I guess his ego took a hit.”

You laugh, taking a swig of your water. “Can you imagine Tony Stark trying to ‘help’ Batman?”

“If those two could ever check their egos long enough to actually collaborate, it’d be a miracle,” she scoffed. 

“Speaking of which,” you say, dumping your cup back into the sink, “on a scale of one to ten, how much do you think Damian or Bruce would freak out if I accepted Morgan’s invitation for a Stark internship?”

Selina’s grin widens. “Oh, honey, that’s a show I’d pay to see. Damian would hit a 100 on the scale of overreaction. Bruce might be a bit more restrained, but he’d definitely hit an 11.”

You roll your eyes with a laugh. “Lovely. Just what I need.”

Selina chuckles, shaking her head. “Remember when Bruce tried to offer you an internship? The look on his face when you turned him down was priceless.”

A twinge of awkwardness settles over you, and you rub the back of your neck. “Yeah, that was... something. It’s like he had this whole script for how he wanted the conversation to go, and when it didn’t, he kind of just... froze.”

Selina’s gaze softens a bit. “He thinks of you like family. And with you and Damian getting serious, he’s probably bracing himself for the long haul.”

You groan as you push yourself off the sink and head toward your room. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“Because it’s true!”

 ༻⊰───⋅

Saturday, 12:03 PM - Empire Comics, Gotham City.

RING.

The bell above the door jingles as you and Damian step into the bustling comic shop. The aroma of ink, paper, and coffee fills the air, blending with the hum of excited conversations and the occasional laugh.

You’re sporting a casual look: a red cap with a Robin symbol on it, jeans, a white Batman shirt, and Damian’s soccer jacket draped over your shoulders. Damian is clad in his usual fit—a dark turtleneck, crisp cream pants, and black boots. He looks every bit the model for a high-fashion magazine, even in a comic shop.

The walls are lined with shelves packed full of colorful comic books and graphic novels. Display cases highlight rare editions and collector’s items, their glass gleaming under the shop’s lights. You’re in your element, eyes wide as you scan the rows, your fingers brushing the spines of the comics. 

Grabbing one off the shelf, you flip it over with a grin, admiring the glossy cover. It’s an edition you’ve been eyeing for a while—a real gem.

“Do you want that?” Damian asks, his eyes flickering from the comic in your hands to your face. There’s a sharpness in his gaze, as if he's trying to dissect you with his eyes.

You nod, barely containing your excitement. “Definitely. It’s one of the limited editions I’ve been after.” You flip the comic over, eyes lingering on the price as you clutch it a little tighter.

Without a beat, Damian reaches for his wallet. “Let me handle it.”

A protest rises in your throat, but Damian cuts you off with a look that could freeze lava. His scowl deepens. “No arguments. It’s a treat for today.”

You open your mouth to argue, but Damian swiftly pulls the hood of your jacket over your eyes. “If you keep insisting on paying, I’ll just take back my jacket.”

“What?!” you hiss, instinctively clutching the jacket closer around you. “No way! You don’t even wear this.”

“Precisely. Which means I can reclaim it as a bargaining chip.” Damian’s lips curl into a smirk, smug satisfaction dripping from his voice. “Now, if you don’t let me handle this, the jacket’s going back to my closet. I suggest you reconsider.”

It takes a few more minutes of his gentle but insistent threats, before you finally give up. As he heads to the counter, you glance around the shop, taking in the array of comics and collectibles.

A newspaper rack catches your attention. The headline boldly reads:

“Spidey Foils Attack on Morgan Stark: Hero Swings in to Save the Day”

Damian returns shortly after, handing you the paper bag with a triumphant smirk. You beam at him, leaning in to press a kiss on his cheek. Damian hums at your affection, wrapping an arm around you to keep you close. 

Emerald eyes flick to the newspaper on the rack, his expression shifting slightly. 

“Stark was in an altercation?” he asks, his voice carrying a note of disbelief. He leans closer, the scent of freshly printed ink mixing with the rich, smoky aroma of his cologne.

You glance at the newspaper, the pages rustling softly as you turn them to face him. “Looks like it. It’s been a while since I saw a headline like this. Spidey doesn’t get as much press as you guys do.”

“Speaking of Morgan,” you say slowly, deciding it’s time to rip off the bandage. You lean against his chest, feeling the warmth of his body through the fabric of your jacket. “I was actually thinking about applying for an internship at Stark Industries. It could be a great opportunity, you know? She’s offered me a spot.”

The moment the words leave your lips, Damian’s expression shifts from casual interest to a full-blown scowl. His lips curl back, revealing a flash of teeth, and the muscle of his jaw rolls beneath bronze skin.

“Wayne Industries is far superior.”

Rolling your eyes, you allow a hint of amusement to creep into your voice. “Oh. I know. But Morgan’s offering me a spot. And honestly, it could be a huge opportunity.”

Damian’s eyes narrow, frustration evident in his voice. “I’ve offered you spots and programs at Wayne Industries before. Why accept hers but not mine?”

You deadpan. “I’m your girlfriend. They’d just see me as a nepotism hire.”

Damian grumbles in response, his expression darkening as he reaches for the newspaper. His fingers brush against the glossy paper with a soft rustle, and his gaze locks onto the photo of your vigilante form, captured mid-swing through the city. The image is dynamic, full of motion and energy, but Damian’s eyes narrow as he scrutinizes it.

You shift on your feet, the squeak of your Converse against the floor drawing his attention. Trying to break the tension, you clear your throat. “So,” you begin, your tone light but with a hint of curiosity, “have you ever encountered Spidey on the job?”

Damian’s expression hardens at the mention. His lips thin into a line, and a look of disapproval settles over his features. 

“The Spider?” he scoffs “From what I’ve seen, they’re nothing more than an amateur.”

You feel a pang of offense at his harsh words but manage to keep your expression carefully neutral. “Really? I’ve heard they’ve done some impressive things.”

Damian’s emerald eyes lock onto yours, the frustration behind them clear as day. “Impressive?” he retorts, a hint of disbelief in his voice. “If you consider reckless behavior and a complete lack of tact impressive, then sure. But to me, it’s far from professional.”

Ouch. That was expected, but it still stung.

“Everyone has their own style,” you say, your eyes fixed on the floor as you run your tongue over your lips. “What might seem clumsy to one person could be strategic for someone else.”

“Strategic?” Damian spits out in a laugh. The newspaper crumples under his grip. “Their approach is more about spectacle than substance. They swing around like a circus act, with no real strategy. It’s a wonder they manage to accomplish anything at all.”

Frowning, you look back at Damian, who stands rigid, his shoulders tensed. “Maybe their methods look a bit rough, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t making a difference. They’ve managed to help a lot of people.”

“Helping people isn’t just about flashy moves and headlines,” he says, his voice rising slightly. He shoves the paper back onto its shelf, the paper crumpling from the force.

You cross your arms tightly over your chest, struggling to control the anger rising within you. As much as you loved Damian, his insufferable egotism could be unbearable at times. Your eyes focus on the comic book display, the vibrant covers searing into your retinas.

“You’re one to talk,” you can’t help but snap. “Robin and Batman are practically on the front pages almost every week. And what, you’re saying their efforts are worthless just because they don’t meet your standards? That’s pretty unfair. Just because they deal with lesser threats doesn’t mean they’re any less of a hero than you guys are.”

“What exactly are you trying to say?” Damian hisses, his tone sharper than intended. The sting of your criticism and his bruised ego fuel his words.

Damian craves validation more than he likes to admit. His entire life has been a constant battle to prove himself—whether it’s measuring up to his father’s expectations, competing with his peers, or affirming his place within the shadow of his legacy. He’s used to being the one in control, the one whose actions are seen as perfect. When that perception is challenged, it’s not just his skills or methods that are questioned; it’s his very worth.

The irony, of course, is that your approval matters more to him than anyone else’s. Your opinion matters to him, and your criticism hits harder than any public scrutiny ever could.

“I’m saying that they’re trying to help!” you snap, your voice rising to match his. From behind the counter, the cashier gives you a wary glance. “They’re doing things that you guys can’t always do.”

Damian’s expression hardens, his eyes narrowing. “What can’t we do?”

“Helping the little guys!” you snap, your frustration boiling over. You gesture toward the crumpled paper, your movements sharp and erratic. “Spidey—they stand for exactly what you stand for—the belief that everyone deserves protection and justice.”

Damian’s jaw tightens, his pride visibly wounded. “Maybe you should reconsider what you’re so willing to defend. It’s important to recognize when someone’s approach is flawed, even if it’s someone you admire.”

You shake your head, refusing to back down. “I’m not saying Spidey is perfect, but they’re out there trying. That counts for something.”

With a sigh of resignation, you tug his jacket off and shove it into his arms. Damian’s face scrunches up in hurt, the gesture cutting deeper than he lets on.

“I’m going home,” you say quietly, turning on your heel and heading for the exit.

Damian watches as you slip out of the shop, a bitter taste lingering in his mouth from the argument. But as he catches a glimpse of the hurt in your eyes, his anger begins to dissolve into regret.

Without hesitation, he follows you, his footsteps quickening until he catches up. Gently, he grips your shoulder to stop you.

“Beloved,” he calls out softly, his tone now tender. His earnest gaze meets yours, regret pooling in his eyes. “I apologize.”

You stop and turn to face him. “Apologize for what, Damian?”

Damian hesitates, searching for the right words. The silence stretches between you, heavy with unspoken feelings. 

You try to move past him, your steps feeling heavy. “I just need some space right now."

Damian doesn’t let go. “At least let me drive you home.”

“No. I need to walk and blow off some steam.”

With a final, apologetic look, Damian steps back, giving you the space you need. You turn and start to walk away, the heat of the sun only intensifying your already heated emotions. The city, bustling with life, seems to close in around you as you move deeper into its more crowded parts. The shops grow closer together, the crowds thicker, the noise louder, and the streets narrower with every step.

Lost in thought and simmering with frustration, you’re suddenly jolted back to reality by an alarming noise—a commotion coming from a nearby alleyway. The muffled voices and scuffling footsteps cut through the city’s din, pulling your attention.

A group of masked individuals are cornering someone in the alley. The victim, pinned against the wall, is desperately trying to fend off the assailants. The attackers are demanding valuables, their threats laced with violence. Despite the bustling city around them, no one seems willing to intervene. The crowd keeps a safe distance, choosing to look away rather than get involved.

You glance down at your civilian attire—a shirt and jeans, not exactly ideal for a fight.

But someone has to help, and if you’re the only one who will, then so be it.

Taking a deep breath, you step into the alley.

“Hey!” you call out, trying to draw their attention away from the victim. “Pick on someone your own size!”

The muggers turn their attention toward you, and suddenly, their target comes into sharp focus. Tousled red hair spills out from beneath a white beanie, and thick black frames are crookedly perched on her nose.

Your eyes lock with hers, and you freeze—Morgan.

What is it with this girl and finding trouble?

Her eyes widen in sheer disbelief at the sight of you, practically screaming, Are you out of your damn mind? You can almost hear her thoughts. You flash a reassuring smile, throwing in a thumbs up that you hope translates to, “Relax, I’ve got this,” even though you’re pretty sure you’re both in deep shit right now.

Shaking your head, you refocus on the muggers. There are ten of them in total. Your goal is to keep their attention away from Morgan and buy time until help arrives—or if help arrives.

“Ten on one, huh? Not exactly fair, but hey, I’m feeling generous today,” you say, your voice steady despite the overwhelming odds. “Let’s make this interesting. If you take me on and win, I’ll buy you all a round of whatever you’re drinking. And if you lose”—you flash a cheeky grin—“well, let’s just say you’ll be spending the night in a cozy little cell, courtesy of the GCPD.”

The muggers burst into laughter, clearly entertained by the sight of an unathletic-looking eighteen-year-old in a Batman shirt stepping up to them with such bravado. You just grin, letting their amusement roll off you.

“Yeah, I get it,” you say with a shrug, rolling up your sleeves to your shoulders. “I might not look like much, but I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve. So, who wants to take the first swing?”

The laughter fades as the muggers size you up. One of them, a lanky guy with a scruffy beard, steps forward, cracking his knuckles and sneering.

“Alright, girly,” he taunts, “unless you want to back out now, you’re about to get a taste of what we’re all about.”

Before he can react, you pull your arm back, focusing on the momentum. With a swift, forceful punch, you drive your knuckles straight into his jaw. The impact lands with a solid thud, sending him crashing into the alley wall, his head snapping to the side.

One.

The other muggers freeze. They exchange glances, their earlier laughter choked off. Morgan’s mouth falls open in shock.

“What the fuck,” she mouths at you. 

A grin stretches across your face as you size up the remaining muggers.

“So,” you whistle, “who’s next?”

One of them steps forward, but you’re ready. A brutal left hook catches him square on the cheekbone, and he staggers back, blood erupting from his nose. He collapses to the ground, clutching his face in agony.

Two.

A woman with a wild, frizzy mop of hair barrels toward you, snarling menacingly. You sidestep her clumsy swing and deliver a powerful uppercut. Her head snaps back with a satisfying crack, and she crashes into the alley wall with a loud clang, blood streaming from her split lip and chin.

Three.

Before you can catch your breath, a wiry man with a rat-like face tries to dart around you, aiming for Morgan. But you’re quicker. You grab him by the collar, yank him close, and drive a vicious knee into his gut. He doubles over, gasping for breath, and you follow up with a hard right hook that sends him sprawling into a puddle of muck.

Four.

Adrenaline surges through your veins, and the earlier argument with Damian feels like a distant storm driving your fists. Each punch lands with a mix of frustration and resolve, the anger you’re trying to process fueling your strikes.

Two more muggers, a lanky guy with a snake tattoo and a burly man with a scarred face, charge at you simultaneously. You sidestep the lanky guy’s wild swing, then deliver a brutal, bone-crushing kick to his ribs. He crumples with a pained gasp, collapsing to the ground with a wheezing groan.

Five. 

You pivot to face the burly man, deflecting his punch with a forceful block. With a grunt, you slam an elbow into his gut, making him double over, gasping for air. Before he can recover, you drive a fierce knee into his face. He crashes into the alley wall, blood and sweat mingling as he slides to the ground, clutching his face in agony.

Six.

That’s around half of them. You turn to face the rest.

“Last chance,” you blow a stray strand of hair away from your face. “Either you leave now or join your buddies in the hospital.”

The remaining muggers scramble, retreating as fast as they can down the alley. The noise of their hurried escape fades into the distance, leaving you and Morgan.

Breathing heavily, you survey the scene. The alley is littered with fallen muggers—some groaning in pain, others unconscious. Blood stains your hands and the ground, and your knuckles are bruised and swollen.

Morgan slowly rises from her crouched position, her eyes wide with a mix of shock and awe. Her gaze flickers over the scene—the battered muggers, the bloodstained ground, and you standing amidst the chaos, breathing heavily.

“That was…” she starts, shaking her head as if to clear the shock. “You’re something else. What the hell?! I didn’t know you could fight like that!”

You give a wry, tired smile. “Well, there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

Morgan steps closer, her expression softening from disbelief to something akin to admiration. “Seriously, though, that was insane. I thought we were done for, but you—”

DANGER.

Your instincts kick in with a jolt of alarm, making your hair stand on end. Everything slows to a crawl.

You see it: one of the muggers, still on the ground but moving, starts to stir. His fingers slip into his jacket, reaching for something concealed. Each movement seems to stretch out in excruciating detail, from the twitch of his fingers to the barely perceptible shift of his body. Morgan, still caught up in her surprise and relief, is too busy chatting to notice.

The mugger’s hand emerges from his jacket, revealing a glinting gun. You quickly fire a web, aiming to disarm him. The webbing sticks to the gun, but the mugger has already squeezed the trigger.

Without a second thought, you react instinctively. 

“Get down!” you shout, pushing her aside.

BANG!

The sharp crack of the gunshot reverberates through the alley, and you feel a searing pain in your ribs. A hot, burning sensation spreads through your side, intensifying with every heartbeat. Morgan’s scream pierces the air, her horror evident as she watches you stagger.

You stagger back, clutching your side. 

Well... shit.

“Motherfudger—” you grit your teeth, the pain in your side intensifying. You turn your focus to the mugger scrambling to flee, his gun now ensnared in your webbing. 

With a swift flick of your wrist, you shoot another web, pulling him toward you. As he comes within reach, you slam his head against the wall, the impact knocking him out cold.

Morgan rushes back to your side, her face pale. “Are you okay? Holy shit! Holy shit! You're shot.”

Her gaze then turns to the webs scattered across the alley, her eyes widening in realization.

“You’re—”

You hush her, slamming a hand over her mouth. “Quiet!”

She mumbles into your palm, eyes darting nervously. “Y-you’re Spidey!”

“Listen,” you say softly but firmly, removing your hand once you're sure she won’t start screaming, “we need to keep our voices down. I’m hurt, and we need to get out of here before more trouble shows up.”

Morgan bites her lip, running a hand through her frazzled hair, white beanie long discarded on the ground. “But you’re hurt, and the police—” She trails off, glancing around at the mess and the moaning muggers scattered on the ground.

“I’ll be fine,” you cut her off. “We don’t need the police right now. Just help me get out of here.”

Morgan’s face twists but she nods. “I know where to go.”

Both of you soon find yourselves swinging through the alleys. You grit your teeth, pushing through the burning pain in your ribs and focusing on the task at hand. Ignoring the searing ache, you accelerate, swinging through the city with Morgan clinging to your side. You take the longer route, weaving through the shadows to avoid detection.

Finally, you drop down into an alley beside her penthouse building. Morgan’s eyes widen as she takes in the sight of the blood seeping through the fabric of your shirt, a stark contrast against the white. She steps back, shock and concern etched across her face.

“Damn,” she curses. “You’re really hurt.”

“‘Tis but a flesh wound,” you grunt, pressing a hand against the wound to staunch the bleeding. “Now, let’s get inside before I bleed out or pass out—whichever decides to happen first.”

Morgan doesn’t waste a second. She grabs your arm and pulls you toward the back door of her building. The heavy steel door creaks open, and she nearly shatters the elevator buttons with the force of her pressing.

You lean heavily against her as she steps into the elevator with you. The harsh fluorescent lights inside the elevator are glaringly bright, intensifying the pain in your ribs with their sterile, clinical glare. As the metal doors close with a soft, echoing thud, the outside world fades away. For a fleeting moment, you find some relief as the lift begins its ascent, the gentle hum of the machinery offering a small distraction from the throbbing ache in your side.

Morgan keeps glancing at you, nervously biting her lip. “Just hang in there. We’ll get you patched up in no time.”

You manage a shrug, despite the discomfort. The pain isn’t as overwhelming as it might be for most, thanks to your spider abilities, but the real kicker is the identity reveal. 

"Did I at least look badass?"

"Oh my god. I literally hate you."

When the elevator finally dings open, Morgan practically drags you out, guiding you swiftly down the hall to her penthouse. The door swings open, and she ushers you inside.

You collapse onto the plush couch, wincing as you sink into its cushions. The pain in your ribs throbs with each breath, and as the adrenaline fades, you feel every ache more acutely.

Without wasting a second, Morgan strides across the room and shouts into the air, her voice echoing off the sleek, modern walls.

“PEPPER, I need you!”

You’re caught off guard as a series of robotic arms extend from sleek panels in the walls, their metallic surfaces catching the ambient light. The arms are intricate, equipped with various tools and sensors, whizzing towards you.

One of the arms reaches out, its end featuring a gentle, flexible grip. It carefully tugs at your shirt, and you reluctantly slip it off, exposing the wound on your side. The arm’s sensors begin to glow softly as it scans your injury.

The room fills with a soft, synthesized voice. “Scanning gunshot wound. Location: left lower rib, depth: 4 cm. Severe damage, high infection risk. Blood loss: 150 ml. No internal bleeding. Administering anesthesia. Cleaning and debridement soon.”

Tiny robotic tools emerge from compartments within the arm—sterilizing swabs, a precision scalpel, and a fine, retractable syringe. The anesthetic solution is applied gently, its cooling sensation numbing the pain.

“Uh, what the actual fuck is going on?” you blurt out.

Morgan watches with a stony expression, her focus fixed on a tablet in her hands as she monitors your vitals closely.

“Oh, that’s PEPPER. She’s a Stark Industries AI I’ve had integrated into the penthouse. She’s pretty good at this kind of thing. Coded her myself."

The robotic arm emits a soft beep before starting the process of removing the bullet. You feel a series of sharp, targeted tugs as the bullet is gradually extracted, each pull sending a brief jolt of pain through your side. The bullet clinks as it drops onto a metal tray.

“Isn’t... isn’t PEPPER your mom’s name? Damn, you actually coded this?” you ask, your voice a mix of awe and disbelief.

Morgan gives a small, proud smile, her eyes meeting yours.

“I’m the next in line for Stark Industries, after all,” she says. “So yeah, I figured out how to make this kind of tech. And yep, Pepper’s named after my mom. She used to patch up my dad whenever he got into trouble.”

A fleeting, wistful look crosses her face, but she shakes it off quickly. “PEPPER stands for ‘Personal Emergency Protocol and Protective Emergency Response.’ It’s a tribute, and it’s supposed to handle everyday stuff and emergencies like this.”

The robotic arms continue their work, the AI’s voice providing updates. “Bullet extraction complete. Administering wound care and infection prevention. Proceeding with final checks.”

“Just hang tight,” Morgan says. “We’re almost done here.”

"This is—this is insane! It’s insane," you hiss at her, leaning back as the machine starts bandaging you. "Is this what rich people do? Build robots that can do fucking surgery?!"

Morgan chuckles softly, her eyes still focused on the tablet as she adjusts the settings. “When you have the resources, why not make the best use of them?”

The robotic arms complete the bandaging, applying a final layer of antiseptic and securing the bandages with a gentle press. The AI’s voice announces the end of the procedure with a soft chime. “Wound care complete. Vital signs stable. Patient recovery in progress.”

You let out a deep sigh of relief as the robotic arm finally withdraws. You stretch out your shoulders and take a moment to appreciate the absence of pain. “Well, thanks for the help. I guess I owe you one... or maybe a lot.”

Morgan’s smile is faint but warm, her eyes softening as she looks at you. “Well… you did save me today. And… on that night. I’d say we’re kinda even now.”

Suddenly, a new chime interrupts the moment. Morgan’s brows furrow as she glances at the tablet, her confusion giving way to awe.

“Whoa,” she breathes, eyes widening. “You’re healing at an insane rate... Your tissues are already regenerating. This is... freaky. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

You wince slightly as the last of the bandages is applied. The robotic arms retract with a soft whir, leaving behind a faint, antiseptic scent. You manage a tired smile, though your face is still flushed from the pain and the adrenaline crash.

“It’s the spider stuff,” you explain. “Enhanced abilities. Healing and pain tolerance are part of the package.”

Morgan’s expression shifts from shock to a wry grin, her eyes sparkling with a mix of disbelief and admiration. “No shit. You treated that gunshot like it was just a scratch.”

The redhead places her tablet on a nearby table and takes a seat directly in front of you. Her demeanor is a blend of fascination and a newfound respect.  “So, you’re Spidey? I mean, I knew you were something special, but this...” She gestures to you with a grin. “This is next-level. 

You raise an eyebrow, a teasing grin spreading across your face. “You think I’m special?”

Morgan’s cheeks flush slightly as she stumbles over her words, clearly flustered.

“Uh, well, yeah. I mean, I think you’re really smart and capable—like, a genius. I mean, your skills with chemistry and science are incredible. The way you analyze problems and come up with solutions, it’s like you’ve got a grasp of things that usually takes years to master. And then there’s the tech you’ve built—it's insane. Seeing you in action like that? It’s next-level. I didn’t expect you to be, like, superhero-level special.”

You blink in surprise, caught off guard by her enthusiastic praise. “Well… thanks,” you say, a wry grin spreading across your face.

Morgan, still flustered, clears her throat and tries to change the topic. “So, how long have you been doing this?”

You shrug, rubbing your eyes as the weight of the day settles in. “A while. It’s... been a lot. Sometimes it feels like the more I do, the bigger the threats get.”

“Huh,” Morgan leans forward, her eyes locking with yours. “I guess I’m in it now, too.”

“Woah,” you laugh, raising a hand. “No, no. I see where this is going. I’ve read too many comics. I know what you’re about to say.”

Morgan’s gaze narrows. “Oh, really? And what’s that?”

You lean back with a groan, your head tilting back against the sofa. The action causes your chest to rise and fall more rapidly, sweat clinging to your skin. Your throat bobs with each breath, and the effort makes your neck arch slightly. 

Morgan’s eyes wander, taking in the sheen of sweat on your chest and the way your skin glistens. Her face flushes deeper as she stares.

You waggle a finger at her with a grin. “I know where this is headed,” you say, voice dripping with mock seriousness. “I’ve seen the trope before. The whole ‘I’m in this now too’ speech. And trust me, it’s usually followed by—”

“By what?” Morgan blinks, snapping out of her daze. 

You give her a knowing look.

“Okay, fine, you got me,” she huffs, crossing her arms. “And before you say anything, I’m not just looking to tag along for the excitement. I genuinely want to contribute. I’ve got resources, skills, and—”

She gestures to the high-tech surroundings of her penthouse, where one of the robot arms gives a casual wave. “—I can do more than just sit on the sidelines.”

Pursing your lips, you nervously bite on your fingernails, glancing away. “See, this is where I’m supposed to give you the ‘I can’t put you in danger’ speech. The whole ‘this is too dangerous’ line. Normally, in a story like this, you’d be the love interest.”

Morgan slumps. “I appreciate that, really. But I’m not just some bystander here.”

“Morga—”

The door creaks open, and a soft, synthesized voice echoes through the apartment, cutting you off.

“Welcome home, Tony.”

Both of you freeze.

The front door swings fully open, revealing Tony FUCKING Stark himself. 

His face is stony as he takes in the scene. His eyes dart from you—shirtless and in nothing but a bra, with bandages wrapped haphazardly around your torso—to Morgan, who looks flustered and disheveled.

You and Morgan stare right back, just as wide-eyed. There’s a beat of awkward silence as Tony’s brain catches up with the situation. He glances at you, then at Morgan, and back at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Uh, hey, Dad,” Morgan says, her voice hitting a pitch that could break glass. She scrambles to smooth her hair and adjust her clothes, her face a portrait of embarrassment.

Tony’s eyes narrow, clearly trying to piece together what he’s walked into. “Well, this is... unexpected. I didn’t realize I was interrupting... whatever this is.”

You, still sprawled on the couch, cross your arms over your chest, your face blazing red. “Um. Hello, Mr. Stark. This... looks exactly like it’s not what it seems.”

Tony’s gaze sharpens as he scrutinizes you. His eyes narrow, and he points a finger at you with a blend of suspicion and recognition. “Wait a second. Aren’t you that Wayne kid’s girlfriend? The youngest one. Darryl, right?”

“Damian,” you correct, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

“Yeah, him.” Tony squints. “So, what’s the deal? Am I looking at a tabloid scandal in the making here?”

Morgan’s face flushes a deeper shade of red, clearly mortified. “Dad!”

Tony’s expression shifts to one of mock seriousness as he holds up a hand, covering his eyes with exaggerated drama. “It’s okay! I’ll be in my workshop, pretending I didn’t see a thing. Just... try not to make any more headlines while I’m gone.”

“Sh—she’s not—!” you start to protest, but Morgan cuts you off with a rapid, high-pitched explanation.

“She’s the Stark intern I told you about!” Morgan lies straight through her teeth, sending you a look that screams, 'Go along with it!' “I was just showing her how some of the bots work!”

Tony squints at Morgan, then at you, and back at Morgan with a grimace. “For the love of tech, Morgan, next time you give your intern a hands-on demonstration, maybe keep it... less hands-on?”

Morgan sputters and gapes, but Tony is already turning on his heel and strutting out of the room. Over his shoulder, he adds with a shout, “Be who you are!”

The door swings shut behind Tony with a soft, final thud, leaving you and Morgan in an awkward silence. 

“Does this mean I actually have to become an intern for your dad's company now?”

“Yes.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Couldn’t you have come up with a better excuse? Like, say, that I’m just a really good friend or something?”

Morgan rolls her eyes and flicks your ear. “Dude, chill. I can get you cool tech. I mean, who wouldn’t want access to Stark Industries’ gadgets? I can be the guy in the chair and all that cool Oracle stuff. Think of it as a tech upgrade for your superhero gig.”

“You want to be the guy in the chair? Seriously? I am not letting you be the guy in the chair.”

Morgan gasps in disbelief. “Why not?! I’m perfectly capable of providing a little tech support. And! I just showed you how I can help with your injuries.”

“I’m not sure if I want to gamble my safety on your ‘tech support.’”

“Come on, it’ll be fine!”

“I’m not letting you be the guy in the chair.”

“You’re just repeating yourself.”

“You keep pushing the ‘guy in the chair’ thing.”

“Well, you keep rejecting me.”

“Because you’re a civilian!"

"Am I?! Are you seriously doubting my tech skills?”

“More like your impulse control.”

Morgan huffs dramatically, her cheeks flushing slightly. “Ha, very funny. You’re one to talk! May I remind you who exactly got shot between us?”

“Fine!” you snap, throwing up your hands in defeat. “You win! You can be the guy in the chair!”

Morgan’s face lights up with a smirk as she pushes her glasses up with a satisfied flick of her fingers. “Perfect. But just so you know… I’m not planning on getting into any alleyway brawls.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “Not like you could do anything with your spaghetti arms."

"Ass!"

“Also," you add. "You say that now, but I’ve seen how people get when they’re itching to help. You’re not allowed to step a foot into any of my alleys. You stay where it’s safe, understood?”

Morgan raises her hands in mock surrender. “Got it."

 ༻⊰───⋅

Saturday, 8:12 PM - Crime Alley, Gotham City.

The moon casts long, eerie shadows across the grimy streets of Crime Alley, its pale light barely penetrating the oppressive darkness. The night air is cool and sharp as you swing effortlessly between buildings.

Morgan clings tightly to your back, her grip firm. Her breath comes in quick, exhilarated bursts as the wind howls around you, whipping through her hair and making her voice rise with the rush of the night.

“This is incredible!” she shouts, her words lost momentarily in the roar of the wind. “I had no idea you were so… so agile! I’m practically flying!”

You chuckle, tightening your grip on her. “Glad you’re enjoying it. Just remember to keep this between us, okay? I already texted my mom, told her I was working late on an internship. She’d totally lose it if she knew the whole story. I wasn’t supposed to let anyone know.”

Morgan nods enthusiastically, her laughter mingling with the wind. “Secret’s safe with me! Besides, this is way cooler than any boring internship!”

As you approach the warehouse, you swing gracefully from the rooftops, landing lightly on the building’s edge. You gently set Morgan down, her eyes wide with curiosity. You lead her to an open window, and together you step into the warehouse, emerging into the loft area that overlooks the cluttered first floor.

Tables cluttered with tools, spare parts, and old electronics fill one side of the warehouse. Shelves stacked with various gadgets, blueprints, and half-finished projects line the walls. A makeshift bed, complete with a thin mattress and a worn blanket, sits in a corner, flanked by a few of your personal touches like a small stack of comic books and a faded poster of a vintage comic.

“It’s a bit scrappy, but it gets the job done,” you explain, glancing around the space. “I’ve done a lot of work here over the past few months.”

Morgan sets her gear down on one of the tables, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. She starts pulling out a few gadgets, laying them out with a smile. You watch her with interest as she reveals the basics for now: a comm device, a sleek laptop, and a set of earpieces.

“Alright, so here’s the rundown,” Morgan says, holding up the comm device. “This little beauty will keep us in touch no matter where we are. It’s got encryption and a few extra features that’ll come in handy for tracking and coordinating.”

She places it on the table and picks up the laptop, opening it to reveal a high-resolution screen. “This is my command center. Well... laptop. It’s loaded with security protocols and a few surprises. I’ll be able to monitor everything from here, plus it has advanced analytics.”

Finally, she holds up the earpieces with a grin. “And these are for communication and hearing everything clearly, even in the middle of a mess. They’re noise-canceling and have a range that can reach the entire country.”

You stare at her blankly.

"You are... oddly prepared for this."

Morgan shifts her weight and shrugs nonchalantly. “I’m really into heroes, okay?! Stark Industries has some pretty cool special projects.” She coughs lightly as she sets the equipment down, arranging it on one of the tables. “Just wait until you see what else I’ve got in store."

You shake your head with a smile, letting her dive into the setup. As she busies herself with the tech, you move to the corner of the warehouse where you’ve set up a small training area. You pull out a yoga mat, your muscles aching from the day’s activities and the previous night’s adrenaline rush.

Spreading the mat out on the floor, you begin a series of stretches and exercises to ease the tension in your body. The quiet hum of the warehouse is soothing until suddenly, your ringtone starts blaring through the speakers.

Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na… Batman!

You perk up, eyes wide, as the theme song fills the room. Morgan’s snort echoes through the space as she looks over at you, clicking something on her laptop.

“Nice fucking ringtone,” she laughs. “Damian’s calling.”

You squint at her, then glance at your phone, which is sitting a few inches away on the table. “Did you just hack my phone?”

“Hacked,” she corrects with a smirk. “You’d be surprised at what I can do with Bluetooth and a laptop.”

You roll your eyes and settle back down to squat on the floor. “You know, I thought I was supposed to be the tech expert here.”

Morgan shrugs nonchalantly. “Consider it a skill I picked up. Besides, if you’re going to have me as your tech support, you need to get used to this kind of thing.”

The ringtone continues to ring, and Morgan raises an eyebrow at you. 

“Are you going to answer that, or do you want me to handle it for you too?”

You wince. “We had an argument.”

“Trouble in paradise,” she squints before pointing to the door of the warehouse. “Maybe you want some privacy?”

You glance at the screen, where Damian’s name is flashing. With a resigned sigh, you reach for the phone and press the end button. Morgan whistles and grimaces.

“Yikes.”

“Whatever,” you roll your eyes, trying to brush off the discomfort. “I’ll talk to him when I feel like it. Let me do my yoga in peace.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

"I'm sorry, this caller cannot be reached—"

With a sharp, irritated breath, Damian swipes the call away, the screen of his bike’s console dimming to black.

You didn’t want to answer? Fine. He had more pressing matters to attend to.

The bike’s engine roars to life with a deep, throaty growl, cutting through the night air like a predator on the hunt. Damian deftly navigates Gotham’s tangled mess of traffic, weaving between honking cars and startled pedestrians. The bike’s tires bite into the wet asphalt, the city lights reflecting off its sleek frame as he darts past another red light. 

Tonight’s patrol is anything but routine. High-profile cases, gang activity, and urgent calls stack up like a never-ending to-do list, and Damian can already feel the weight of the week ahead pressing down on him. Gotham’s underbelly churns with unease, as if the city itself is bracing for something darker on the horizon.

BUZZ!

Just as he begins to settle into the rhythm of the ride, the steady hum of the bike’s engine is interrupted by the sharp buzz of his comm link. He glances down at the small screen embedded in the bike’s console, his eyes narrowing.

“Robin? You there? I’ve got something I need you to check out. It’s near your location.”

The familiar voice of Oracle crackles through the earpiece, cool and composed, but with a hint of urgency that sparks Damian’s interest. A digital map flickers to life on the dashboard, zooming in on a narrow, dimly lit alleyway nestled deep within one of Gotham’s most rundown districts. 

“I’m picking up unusual activity,” she explains. “There’s a gang meet-up happening in that alleyway near Queens. From the chatter, it sounds like they’re discussing something big—possibly a new drug shipment or an upcoming operation. Get some eyes on them.”

“Understood. I’ll check it out,” he replies curtly. Damian’s grip tightens on the handlebars as he adjusts his course, the bike’s engine growling in response as he veers sharply toward the indicated location.

It only takes a few minutes before Damian pulls up to the alleyway. He slows the bike to a stop, the tires skidding slightly on the wet pavement before he parks it in a shadowed corner, blending in with the darkness. The engine’s deep rumble fades to a low, menacing purr before it finally falls silent.

Damian pulls off his helmet, his hair tousled from the ride. He shakes his head slightly, letting the cool night air ruffle through his dark locks. The city’s muted sounds reach his ears—the distant wail of sirens, the occasional shouts, the drip of water from a nearby pipe.

The alleyway ahead is cloaked in darkness, illuminated only by the occasional flicker of a faulty streetlamp. Shadows stretch and twist along the grimy walls, creating an unsettling landscape.

He dismounts and approaches the entrance to the alley with silent steps. As he ventures deeper, the muffled sounds of voices become clearer. The air grows heavier, thick with the smell of smoke mingling with an acrid tang of something burning and the less pleasant odors of old beer and rotting food. 

Damian reaches into his earpiece and taps the control for his embedded mic. The small device activates with a soft, almost imperceptible beep and he begins recording.

“Did you hear about latest shipment?” One voice says, his accent thick and unmistakable, the words rolling off his tongue with a heavy Russian lilt. “It’s stolen Stark Tech. Black Mask, he’s making big moves, yes? Big tech deals coming soon.”

Another voice, sharper and edged with a typical Gothamite drawl, chimes in. “Yeah, I heard. Looks like he’s tryin’ to offload some high-end stuff. Somethin’ to do with the Octavius project.”

A third voice, younger and nasally, adds, “Octavius? Isn’t he locked up in Blackgate? Why would he be involved in any of this?”

"Money," the Russian explains, "Black Mask, he uses connections, push deals forward. Octavius, he is in prison, yes, but influence, it is not gone. We get in on this... payout could be very big."

Damian’s eyes narrow as he tries to move closer, but something tugs at him from behind. He glances over his shoulder and freezes when he sees a thin, webbed strand clinging to the edge of his cape. It’s almost invisible in the dim light of the alley but stands out starkly against the dark fabric of his cape.

Spidersilk.

Scowling, Damian tugs at his cape, attempting to peel away the stubborn webbing. It clings tenaciously, resisting his efforts with an almost defiant grip. Frustration flares as he yanks harder, the strained fabric slapping against the nearby wall with a loud snap.

The voices in the alley fall silent, replaced by the shuffle of feet and urgent whispers. Damian curses under his breath

Damian curses under his breath. He quickly snaps off the cape, leaving it behind in the shadows, and just as he does, a gang member swings a crude metal pipe toward him. Damian reacts instinctively, raising his forearm to block the attack, the clang of metal echoing through the alley.

Snarling, Damian wrenches the pipe from the thug’s grip and drives it into the man’s ribs with brutal force. There’s a sickening crack as bone gives way, and the thug emits a sharp, agonized wail before crumpling to the ground, clutching his side in pain.

Standing tall, Damian slowly steps out of the shadows, the darkness sweeping across his face like a shroud. The white of his mask catches what little light there is, giving it an eerie, spectral glow. 

With a deliberate, almost ritualistic slowness, he draws his katana from its sheath. The blade catches and distorts the scant light, gleaming with a sinister, predatory sheen. As he spins the weapon with precise, practiced ease, the razor-sharp edge slices through the darkness, emitting a soft, chilling hiss.

“Here’s a piece of advice,” Damian sneers, his voice distorted into a menacing growl by his modulator. “You’re all out of your league. I suggest you leave now, before you make this any worse for yourselves.”

One of the gang members, either too reckless or too foolish to retreat, lunges at Damian with a rusty knife. The blade catches the scant light, its edge glinting menacingly as it arcs toward Damian’s side.

With a fluid, practiced motion, Damian sidesteps the attack, his hand shooting out to grasp the thug’s wrist and wrench it sharply. The knife clatters to the grimy ground as the thug lets out a pained cry. In a seamless follow-up, Damian flicks his katana, slicing across the thug’s torso with a precise cut that wounds but doesn’t kill.

Damian follows up with a brutal strike to the thug’s face, slamming him against the alley wall. Blood spatters onto the cracked pavement as Damian’s punch leaves the thug’s face a bruised, bloody mess.

“Had enough?” Damian growls, his voice a chilling rasp. The thug, dazed and barely able to stand, makes a feeble attempt to swing at Damian. 

Damian easily deflects the pitiful attack, then brings the hilt of his katana down with a sharp crack against the thug’s temple. The thug crumples to the ground, unconscious before he even hits the pavement.

“Let this be a lesson, Damian calls out to the other men. He twists his wrist, adjusting his grip on the katana, letting blood drip from the blade in a slow, deliberate descent. As he advances towards the remaining gang members, the metal scrapes against the ground with a harsh, grating sound.

“That next time, you won’t be so lucky,” he continues, his carved jade eyes darkened with flecks of shadow, swirling like wisps of smoke.

The thugs, now visibly terrified, back away slowly, their bravado gone. The oldest of them, a burly man with a scar that cuts through his rugged face, steps forward.

“Alright, alright, we’re done here,” he growls, his voice betraying a tremor of fear. “We’ll leave. Just... just don’t kill us.”

Damian flicks his sword back. “Smart choice. Now get out of here, before I change my mind.”

The men scramble to their feet, their panicked retreat echoing off the narrow walls as they disappear into the shadows. The sound of their hurried footsteps gradually fades, leaving Damian alone in the quiet aftermath.

He sheaths his katana, the blade slipping into its scabbard with a soft, final click. His breathing is steady, but the adrenaline still buzzes beneath his skin. He scans the alley, taking in the mess left behind—smears of blood painting the pavement

His comm link crackles to life again, Oracle’s voice cutting through the silence. “Robin, report. What’s the status?”

“I recorded the conversation for you,” Damian replies, his voice steady as he turns. His boots crunch on the asphalt, the sound piercing the quiet as he kneels down to retrieve his discarded cape. He scowls at the stubborn webbing still clinging to his cape.

“That, and I’m starting a personal case,” he adds. He moves closer to examine the webbing, his gloved fingers deftly tearing away part of the fabric. The strands of webbing glint faintly in the dim light.

“A personal case?”

“Yes,” Damian confirms. He tugs his torn cape back into place, the frayed edges fluttering slightly as he smooths the fabric over his shoulders. He takes a moment to scan the alley one last time, the glinting remnants of webbing still catching his eye. 

“I'm going on a hunt."

 ༻⊰───⋅

Rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, you trudge up the creaky, worn stairs of your apartment building, your footsteps pounding against the wood. Your muscles protest with every step, body aching from the lack of sleep. 

Both you and Morgan were up all night setting up communication devices and sketching out possible upgrades for weapons and gadgets. Your mind is a foggy mess of blueprints and circuitry, making it hard to focus on anything but the thought of finally collapsing into your beloved bed.

Reaching your door, you fumble with the keys, and push the door open. The familiar scent of home—a mix of Selina's favorite lavender incense and the lingering aroma of last night's takeout—hits you, momentarily soothing your tired mind.

Inside, the windows are drawn open, and sunlight illuminates the living room, casting warm, golden beams across the worn-out furniture. Selina is sitting on the couch, engaged in an animated conversation with someone. You blink in confusion, your brain still foggy from sleep. Since when did you guys have guests?

You squint, then do a double-take.

Tony Stark. The Tony Stark is lounging on your couch, looking like he belonged there.

Maybe you were hallucinating.

You blink again, but he’s still there, looking impossibly real with his feet propped up and an easy smile on his face. It’s not a hallucination. This is real.

“Uh, Mom?” you manage to stammer out.

Selina turns and gives you a warm smile. “Look who finally decided to join us. Honey, you didn’t tell me you topped the rankings for their program!”

You… did?

“Uh, I did?” you ask, bewildered. You have no recollection of even applying for anything. The only time Tony knew about your existence was yesterday when you were literally shirtless at his apartment.

Tony chuckles, standing up and extending his hand. “You sure did, kid. Impressive work. I’ve been keeping an eye on the top candidates, and your projects really stood out. Thought I’d come by personally to congratulate you and talk about the next steps.”

You shake his hand, still in shock. His grip is firm, and his presence is undeniably magnetic. “Thank you, Mr. Stark. I’m… honored?”

“Honored, impressed—whatever you want to call it,” Tony says with a smirk, nodding at Selina before clapping a hand on your back. “Just know I’ve got big plans for you.”

Something feels off. 

Your spider senses are buzzing like a live wire, setting your nerves on edge. 

You force a smile, trying to mask the unease gnawing at you. The room feels too small, the air too thick. The sunlight streaming in from the window seems blindingly bright, almost as if it's glaring through a veil of distorted reality, making everything feel unreal.

As everything whirls into tunnel vision, the only thing you can focus on is Tony Stark, who seems too calm, too composed.

“Mom, would it be alright if I talked to Mr. Stark outside? We’ll be back,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel.

Without waiting for a response, you yank Tony toward the door. The latch clicks shut behind you with an ominous echo, and you steer him down the narrow, dimly lit hallway of the apartment building. The corridor feels tight and constricted, with the flickering lightbulbs casting uneven shadows that dance along the peeling wallpaper.

Once you reach the corner and are out of earshot, you turn to Tony. “Okay, what’s really going on?” you ask.

Tony raises an eyebrow, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Straight to the point, huh? I like that. I needed to talk to you about something important, and this seemed like the best way to get your attention without causing a scene.”

You furrow your brow, struggling to piece together what’s happening. “I don’t even remember applying for any program. Morgan just mentioned it to me. Are you sure you have the right person, Mr. Stark?”

Tony’s expression turns serious as he pulls out his phone. With a few swipes, he activates a holographic screen. A video begins to play, and your heart sinks as you recognize the scene. 

The video shows you from months ago, in your Spidey suit, captured by a bystander's shaky phone camera. The camera focuses on the moment when a car, careening out of control, crashes through the guardrail of a bridge. A web is shot, the thread catching the car just before it plunged into the river below. There's a grunt from you as you strain to pull the car back onto the bridge, the muscles in your arms and shoulders visibly taut under the suit. Onlookers gasp and cheer when you succeed, landing lightly on the bridge beside the car. 

Tony’s eyes bore into yours. "That's you, isn't it?"

Your heart skips a beat. The hallway seems to close in around you, the walls pressing in. You feel a bead of sweat trickle down your back as you stammer, "What? I—I don't... No?"

Tony's gaze remains fixed on you, his expression unreadable. "Come on, kid. Don't try to play me. I know it's you. Holy shit. What a catch! 4,100 pounds?"

"I really don't know what you're talking about," you lie and swallow hard. "That's probably fake you know right? It's probably some edit on Youtube."

"Oh, sure," Tony purses his lips and pulls up another screen. Your eyes scan it and you wince. "Guess this is fake too, huh?"

The screen displays medical records of your injury from yesterday—a gunshot wound that healed unusually fast. The data outlines the severity of the wound and highlights the rapid recovery process. Tony’s finger traces the timeline, pointing out the abnormal speed of your healing.

"Wowie," Tony gasps in mock-surprise. "Not exactly a normal recovery rate for a regular teenager, wouldn't you say? What the hell does your mom feed you, kid? Magic beans? And this—"

He pulls up another screen. It's a scan of your DNA. The image is a dense matrix of colorful strands and data points.

“Would you look at that,” Tony continues, crossing his arms. "You got some Spider DNA on you, kid. This is some next-level genetic crossover."

You exhale deeply, pressing your fingertips to your temples in an attempt to quell the rising tide of anxiety. “Did Morgan tell you about this?”

Tony shakes his head, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “Nope. I have access to the records and all data from the bot. Guess she forgot to clear it.” He slides his phone back into his pocket. “And before you ask, I don’t just dig through people’s private stuff for fun.”

He points a finger at you, a self-assured smile growing on his face. "So. I’m right? You’re the... Spiderling. Crime-fighting Spider?"

"Spidey," you correct, leaning against the wall and crossing your arms. "Look. Mr. Stark. What do you want?"

Tony adjusts his glasses, peering down at you with a look of genuine appreciation. "Well, first, I want to thank you for saving my girl. I owe you one for that."

You nod, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly.

"Second," Tony continues, his tone shifting to business, "I’m here with a proposition. I’ve seen what you can do, and let’s just say I’ve got some big plans that could use a spider-shaped wrench in the works. Plus, I’ve got some nifty gadgets to keep you happy.”

You wince and shake your head. “Mr. Stark, I’m not looking to upgrade.”

"Well, you’re in dire need of an upgrade," Tony says, pulling up a picture of you in your suit and making a gagging face. He adjusts his glasses with a look of disdain. "Systemic. Top to bottom."

You roll your eyes.

"But before we get into that," Tony adds, his tone shifting to something more thoughtful, "I’ve got to ask: why do this? Why play the hero? Is it guilt? A sense of responsibility? Or just a really bad habit? What's your emo backstory, kid?"

You shift uncomfortably against the wall, the cool, rough surface pressing against your back. 

"It’s... complicated," you finally say, your voice low. "When you can do the things that I can, but you don't, and then the bad things happen, they happen because of you. I can’t just stand by and act helpless."

"So, you’re playing the hero for the little guys, huh? Who else knows about this gig of yours?" Tony mutters

You exhale a heavy sigh, rolling your neck to ease the tension. "Morgan knows, and... Selina. And now, you."

Tony nods slowly, his fingers idly peeling back a section of wallpaper. "How’d would you like to spend a month at Stark Industries, kid?"

You sputter, "I can't just... What? Start living with you?"

"Well, yeah. I'm not exactly down to make the three-hour commute to your place."

"Okay, who said I was agreeing to this?"

"I did," Tony whistles and starts to move toward your apartment door. "Unless you want me to tell your ridiculously hot aunt that her kid got shot—"

THWIP.

Tony freezes, his foot now stuck as the sharp sound of the web echoes through the corridor. He looks down, eyes widening slightly as the web wraps around his ankle. 

You stand with your hand outstretched. “Don’t tell Mom.”

Tony raises an eyebrow in mock surprise. “So, what’s it going to be? Make a decision now, or do I need to start spilling secrets to get your attention?”

You groan, your head thudding against the wall as you wrestle with the decision. After a moment, you exhale sharply, pushing the doubt aside. “Alright, Mr. Stark. I’ll take you up on your offer. But if we’re doing this, I need to be in the loop on everything. No surprises.”

Tony’s smirk widens as he extends his hand. 

“Deal. Welcome to Stark Industries. You’re going to fit right in.”

"..."

"Now. Can you... get me out of this?"

 ༻⊰───⋅

The dining room at Wayne Manor was unusually lively this morning, a rare and welcome shift from the usual quiet. Bruce, seated at the head of the long, polished mahogany table, was partially hidden behind the day’s newspaper, only the top of his head visible as he read. The rustle of paper was the only sound he made as Alfred moved around his chair, silently refilling his coffee cup with a fresh, steaming brew.

To Bruce’s right, Dick and Jason were engaged in conversation. Every so often, their banter would erupt into laughter, the sound warm and familiar. Tim sat across from them, his laptop balanced precariously beside his plate, its glow reflecting off the food he barely touched. His eyes darted between the screen and the table, more absorbed in whatever was on his laptop than the breakfast laid out in front of him. At the far end, Cass cradled her latte in both hands, taking slow, thoughtful sips as her gaze wandered out to the gardens, lost in some distant thought.

Amidst the calm, Damian was anything but. His face was locked in a deep scowl as he hacked away at his breakfast, the knife in his hand scraping harshly against the plate, leaving deep, jagged scratches. Each slice seemed to require more effort than the last, the grating sound of metal against porcelain cutting through the room like nails on a chalkboard.

"Are you trying to eat your plate?"

"Die."

Bruce peered over the top of his newspaper, his brow furrowed in concern. The rustle of the paper paused as he glanced at his son, his gaze shifting from the newspaper to Damian. "Is something wrong, son?"

Damian’s grip tightened around his knife, his knuckles white. His jaw was clenched so tightly that it looked like it might crack. "The burger is insufficiently cut."

Tim, fingers flying across his laptop keyboard, barely looked up from the screen. He let out an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes. "He’s mad because his girlfriend hasn’t been replying to his messages."

Damian’s eyes shot a sharp glare at Tim, but the anger in his gaze softened just enough to betray the truth in his brother’s words. His jaw twitched as he tried to maintain his scowl. Bruce raised an eyebrow, his concern now tinged with curiosity.

"Damn," Jason said, pausing mid-bite of his eggs. He leaned back in his chair, waving his fork around with a smirk. "What did you do? Did she finally get tired of you?"

"Don’t start, Todd," Damian snapped, his eyes narrowing as he glared at Jason. "My relationship status is none of your concern."

Dick leaned back in his chair with a chuckle. "Busy, or just avoiding you? There’s a difference."

"She might just be busy," Tim chimed in, taking a leisurely sip from his coffee cup. He set it down with a deliberate clink and met Dick's gaze with a knowing look. "Did you know she topped the Stark Industries Young Innovators Program?"

The table fell silent for a moment, the hum of conversation abruptly cut off.

The newspaper, now forgotten, slipped from Bruce's fingers and landed on the table with a soft thud. His jaw twitched, and his lips pressed into a thin line, fighting to control the storm of emotions churning beneath his otherwise stoic facade. He looked as though he were struggling to choose between bursting into laughter, breaking down in tears, or punching a hole in the wall.

“Repeat that,” he said, his voice tight.

A wave of stunned stares passed around the table. Tim quickly typed something on his laptop, his fingers moving with practiced speed. He then turned the screen around for everyone to see. The headline on the screen read:

“Wayne-Stark Feud Escalates: Damian Wayne’s Girlfriend Takes Top Honors in Stark Industries’ Prestigious Young Innovators Program”

Dick’s eyes widened in surprise, and Jason whistled again, this time in genuine admiration. 

“Well, damn. She really knocked it out of the park.”

Bruce’s expression shifted to a frown. 

“Of course, I had already known she was impressive,” Bruce said slowly, his voice dripping with a hint of petty resentment. “It’s just… wonderful to see someone finally acknowledging it. Stark finally catching up.”

“Looks like he’s stealing your kid,” Jason snorted, shaking his head. "Who do you guys think is going to win the custody battle?"

“Tony,” Tim said with a laugh.

Bruce’s head snapped up, betrayed. “Tim—”

“Tony,” Tim repeated, scrolling through the article. “She accepted. She’ll be spending a month in Stark Tower’s living quarters. All expenses covered.”

“What.”

“Yep,” Tim said, not looking up from his screen. “All the perks of the job. Stark’s rolling out the red carpet.”

Damian’s scowl deepened, his frustration now entirely focused on his offending meal. He resumed his aggressive cutting, the knife scraping furiously against the porcelain, each slice resonating with his irritation.

Bruce slammed his coffee cup down on the table with a sharp clink.

“Stark,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and edged with bitter resignation. “Of course, Stark.”

Stares and knowing grins were exchanged around the table. 

“Can’t believe I’m being outmaneuvered by that billionaire showboat,” Bruce grumbled. “Not a drop of responsibility in that man. How on earth is he going to handle being a… mentor to her? Stark’s idea of responsibility is throwing money at a problem and hoping it magically solves itself. He’ll probably just have her parading around his tech labs, showing off to his high-profile friends while she’s supposed to be learning. It’s all a game to him. He’s just going to pat her on the back and call her a genius while he takes all the credit.”

“Oh my god,” Dick grimaced, trying to stifle a laugh. “The adoption senses are tingling.”

Bruce shot him a withering glance but was interrupted by Alfred’s calm, yet pointed voice. “You’re taking this a bit personally,” Alfred said. “If I were you, I’d be congratulating the young miss for her accomplishment. It’s a remarkable achievement, and it reflects well on her character.”

Bruce’s scowl didn’t fade, but his expression softened slightly. “I’m not questioning her achievement,” he muttered, his tone begrudging.

“She’ll be fine. If she can handle you, she can handle Stark,” Alfred snapped.

Bruce gasped in offense.

Alfred continued to move around the table, placing a pitcher of water in the center. As he wiped his hands with a cloth, he hummed thoughtfully. “Young Miss Kyle is more than equipped to manage whatever Sir Stark throws at her. Let’s all take a moment to appreciate her success and perhaps focus less on the competition.”

He glanced at Bruce with a hint of a smile. “We can invite them for a celebratory dinner, Master Bruce. It would be a fitting way to honor her achievement and show our support.”

CLANG!

A sudden, explosive smash shattered the calm of the room, followed by a harsh metallic scrape. Damian’s knife came down with such violent force that the plate beneath it cracked audibly, sending shards skittering across the table.

Alfred’s weary sigh broke the tension, and he glided over to collect the shattered remnants of the plate, his practiced hands carefully avoiding the jagged edges.

“I hope you enjoy cereal, Master Damian."

༻⊰───⋅

<- PREVIOUS | NEXT ->

im a hoe for comments/reblogs/asks/kudos

it fuels me <3 pls send more

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Jamil Viper: A Web, Tangled

Aaand here we go with the Relaxing in Room line of birthday cards :v d ehebkwjw It’s so funny that they chuck pillows to attack??? (By the way, congrats to this Jamil card overloading and crashing the JP server 😂)

For this series of birthday ficlets, I’ll focus on writing each birthday boy preparing to walk to school with the reader (since the duo partner barely appears in the vignettes). Can be read platonically or romantically, whatever you prefer~

Rise and Shine!

You lingered by the doorway, your eyes glued on Jamil.

He was preoccupied with glimpsing himself in a mirror set on a table. Before him were various accessories from a jeweled box. (Judging from the gaudiness of the massive rubies on it, it must have been a gift from Kalim.)

Loose tresses the color of dark chocolate tumbled down his back. When Jamil ran a brush through them, the sun caught and his hair tempered, turning lustrous.

You’d seen him massage his scalp with oil-slicked hands before—and again, he diid it, followed by some sort of a cream. The routine left his head moisturized smelling faintly of jasmine. Jamil never compromised when it came to hair care.

You often had to remind yourself that he was not a princess, entrancing as he was. The sway of his hair, the snap of his steps. Each movement, close to a part in a mysterious dance.

Jamil produced his magical pen. The magestone laid in it was as clear as a cloudless day, and the color of blood that had been left out for a little too long.

Now came the spectacle, the very highlight of your entire morning.

Jamil raised the pen as if he was a conductor waving his baton. A hush fell over an imaginary audience, a collective of breaths held in anticipation. This is it, this is it.

He flicked his wrist, and the magic flowed.

A trail of scarlet light emanated whenever Jamil drew his wand. The accessories laid out on his desk floated up, compelled, in a neat line. A band with a feather dangling from it, narrow golden bangles, flat beads that clinked like coins.

His dark locks lifted, dividing themselves into even sections, then into even smaller ones. They carefully twisted over and under each other, weaving into tight braids. Accessories slid on, effortlessly fitting themselves at his direction.

His intricate hairstyle assembled quickly, as if arranging the pieces of a familiar puzzle.

The red sparkles faded into a fine shimmer and then into nothing at all. As the last traces of magic settled, you bursted into applause.

“Bravo, bravo! Great show as always,” you said appreciatively.

“… That wasn’t a performance,” Jamil corrected as he set his magical pen down.

“It might as well be! It takes some serious skill to pull that off every morning.” You gestured to him. “And so fast!“

“Anyone could accomplish it with enough time and practice.” His words choice was humble, but there was a hint of a smirk in his tone.

A rare moment of triumph for him.

“Not just anyone. I think you’ve got a natural talent for this kind of thing,” you grinned broadly, “like a spider!”

Jamil’s neutral expression splintered, leaving jagged edges exposed. His left eyes twitched, pupils pinpricks.

“Excuse me? In what way do I remind you of a vile bug?”

“Hey, don’t knock spiders! You guys have similar skills. The braids, the webs. You make’m well, all nice and strong. No strands out of place.”

“That doesn’t reassure me,” he groused, a hand on his hip. “I’d prefer if you didn’t compare me to them. It feels wrong.”

Jamil shivered. Not from the cold, but with repulsion.

You gave a laugh—soft against the rising morning sun. “Really? But you’re so alike in other ways too.”

His eyes narrowed into suspicious slivers. Mildly offended, perhaps.

“Elaborate,” he commanded.

“They’re hard working and important but under-appreciated,” you pointed out. “Without spiders, there would actually be a lot more bugs around. We should be more grateful to have spiders’ webs.”

There was a pause, deliberate. Then a gentle prompt.

“… Remind you of anyone?”

Jamil scoffed. It was as loud as a thunderclap in his suddenly cavernous bedroom.

“Maybe.”

Two syllables, clipped. An acknowledgment.

“Jamil-senpai…?”

He hurriedly looked away, staring at the wall for likely longer than what was deemed appropriate. Any more, whether in length or in intensity, and he might have burned a hole in it. His face, hotter than the Scalding Sands.

Your brows shot up. “… Ah. Could it be that you’re feeling embarrassed?”

“What? No, don’t be ridiculous. Something like this couldn’t possibly ruffle me.”

You craned your body, attempting to meet his gaze. But he wrenched away, denying that to you. “Then why aren’t you looking at me when you say that?”

“I need to get ready for class,” he replied dismissively. “So close the door and wait outside while I change out of my pajamas.”

“Now you’re just changing the subject!”

“Well, we’ll both be running late if we continue to dawdle,” Jamil warned—a tactful evasive maneuver.

His hands found their way onto your arms, steering you into the hallway. You turned back, mouth opening to protest, but Jamil had already sealed himself off.

Banging and calling out to him was no good. Kicking resulted in you gripping onto your poor foot and whimpering. You were left in a sorry state, back to the door as you rested on the floor.

On the other side, Jamil was surely having a little laugh. Cheeks still burning from the praise showered upon him, basking in the afterglow of it.

You sighed.

A spider makes its web to deceive flies into getting stuck in it. Jamil-senpai can be just as tricky.

[ficnation]

Chapter 7: Jos Metodai

Series: “Eat Your Heart Out” Pairing: Hannibal Lecter x Female! Reader x Will Graham Word count: 4,4k+ Warnings: canon-typical warnings A/n: I didn't even read it over ;-; sorry (unedited)

Main Masterlist || Hannibal Masterlist

PREVIOUS CHAPTER || NEXT CHAPTER

You awaken with a scream tearing from your throat, the echoes of the vivid images still lingering in your mind like tendrils of smoke. Your heart pounds against your ribcage, the echo of your scream reverberating in the stillness of the night as you gasp for air.

Will’s eyes snap open, his body tensing instinctively at the sound of your screams piercing the silence of the night. Confusion clouds his features for a moment, before recognition dawns and he bolts upright, his gaze scanning the dimly lit room in search of the source of your distress.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice laced with concern as he reaches out a hand to steady you, his touch a reassuring anchor amidst the tumult of emotions swirling within you.

Breathless and trembling, you struggle to find the words to articulate the remnants of the nightmare that still cling to your mind like cobwebs, weaving a tangled web of fear and uncertainty. Yet, even as you attempt to convey the depths of your distress, a part of you hesitates, reluctant to burden him with the weight of your troubled thoughts.

With a soft sigh, Will pulls you close, enfolding you in a comforting embrace that soothes the frayed edges of your nerves and calms the storm raging within. In his arms, you find solace, a sanctuary amidst the chaos of the night, as you cling to the fragile thread of connection that binds you together in this moment of vulnerability.

“Will,” you mumble his name like a lifeline, summoning the courage to articulate what you’ve just witnessed. “I saw...something. It felt so real, but also…unreal.”

“It was just a nightmare, darling,” he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to your sweaty forehead, soothing your fears with his gentle words.

You nod, but you don’t believe his words wholeheartedly. You’re not sure it was just a dream.

Gradually, the lingering tendrils of fear begin to loosen their grip on your mind, replaced by the warmth of Will’s presence and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest. In that moment, you allow yourself to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, the nightmare was nothing more than a figment of your imagination, a fleeting shadow in the night soon to be banished by the light of dawn.

“How did we get home?”

“We left shortly after the chess match,” Will explains, his voice calm and reassuring. “You fell asleep on the way back. You’ve been restless since we got home.”

You voice your concern, the worry evident in your tone. “Why is everything so fuzzy?”

Will pauses for a moment, his facial expression darkening with concern as he stares at you in silence, deliberating on how best to respond. “You should rest. You’re exhausted,” he says softly, brushing the back of his hand gently across your forehead, a comforting gesture that also serves as a discreet check for your temperature.

“No, no, no... Something’s wrong,” you mumble, tears gathering in your eyes. 

“Shhh,” Will whispers tenderly, his hands tightening around you, his body enclosing you completely. “It’s just a nightmare. I’m here, and nothing can harm you,” he adds, his voice tender and soothing as he attempts to calm down your nervous system and ease the flood of emotions that threaten to overcome you.

You lie in bed for what seems like an eternity, your throat burning and your heart aching as you try to digest the overwhelming feeling of dread you felt in the dream. You can’t stop trembling, even the touch of the sheets makes you feel uneasy.

Will moves next to you, his presence providing some comfort as he wraps his arm around you even tighter. You lean into him, desperate to feel his warmth and seek shelter from the outside world. His touch makes you feel safe, and you begin to relax a little, taking a deep breath as the intensity of your emotions eases.

The faint glow of the moon highlights the contours of his face, accentuating the intensity in his eyes as he watches over you with a silent vigilance. Despite the ethereal quality of his presence, his touch is grounding, a tangible reassurance amidst the nebulousness of the night.

It takes hours before you fall asleep again, and even then, your slumber remains shallow. Each movement from the man beside you jolts you awake with a start.

Will envelops you in a tight embrace each time, his body forming a protective shield against the outside world. His warmth steals your breath away, and you yearn to draw him closer, as if by melding with him, you could become one and leave your fears behind. But the memory of the encounter with the enigmatic figure, the haunting visage of Hannibal, lingers like a stain upon your psyche, refusing to be dismissed with the dawn of a new day.

This was undeniably the worst night of your life. Never before had you experienced nightmares of such intensity. Not even after your father’s death, when you were forced to leave Will and travel far away, had you endured such torment in your sleep.

You’ve slept poorly and you feel exhausted and sore from the nightmare. Will is up before you, busy in the kitchen preparing breakfast.

He notices the fatigue etched on your face and promptly brings the cooked food to your side of the bed, offering a tender smile as he sets down a steaming mug of coffee on the nightstand next to you. Then, he settles beside you, placing a reassuring hand on your arm, leaning in close so that his warmth and calming presence envelop you.

“Not feeling any better, are we?” 

“Not really, no. I’m tired, and my head hurts,” you mumble, clutching the blanket tightly. Your fingers keep tracing through the fibers, seeking some form of comfort as exhaustion creeps over you. Will offers you a reassuring smile and plants a gentle kiss on your forehead.

“I’ve never seen you have a nightmare like that before. Not even on the most difficult days.”

“Well, that is new,” you mumble, leaning back against him. You’re too exhausted to resist the overwhelming urge to surrender to the fatigue.

“I can’t stop thinking about it. It felt so real,” you add, turning to him and attempting to describe it despite the exhaustion and the headache that’s growing at an alarming speed.

Will pauses for a moment, absorbing your words and trying to comprehend the depth of your distress. He draws you closer, wrapping you in a tight embrace, as if to shield you from the haunting echoes of the nightmare. Tenderly, he presses a kiss to the top of your head and squeezes you gently, his silent gesture conveying his earnest desire to protect.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” he whispers into your hair.

“I can’t stop seeing it...” you murmur, your voice shaky and fearful as you attempt to articulate the haunting imagery that continues to replay in your mind, the vividness of the dream lingering despite your lack of sleep. “It felt so real, as if it actually happened,” you continue, your breathing uneven causing your voice to crack as you struggle to convey the entirety of the experience. Uncertainty gnaws at your gut as you grapple with the unsettling feeling that refuses to dissipate.

Will remains silent, recognizing the rawness of your emotions, knowing that no words could easily soothe your distress. Yet, he persists in holding you tightly, refusing to let you confront your fears alone. Pressing his face against your neck, he seeks to offer solace through his touch, silently conveying his unwavering support even when words fail him.

“Will... “ You mumble, your voice barely audible. “Could it happen? This...this thing that I saw… I had no control over it,” you add, your breaths growing shallower as the images threaten to overwhelm you once more. You can’t bear to keep your eyes open any longer—the headache has made you sensitive to the light, and the haunting images continue to replay in your mind, tormenting you anew.

Will’s silence speaks volumes, his eyes locked firmly on you, watching, waiting. Your breaths grow shallow and frantic, and the pain in your head intensifies, driving you into a spiral of despair. 

“I don’t know anymore,” your voice emerges quietly, the lingering images refusing to dissolve. Those pitch-black eyes and antlers continue to haunt you, flashing before your eyes every time you close them, so you try to keep them open. 

“Shhh,” Will gently presses his lips to your forehead, caressing the skin with a gentle touch. His hand traces a pattern across your body, leaving a trail of gentle warmth in its wake as he draws your attention back to the present. “It’s just a nightmare, darling. Nothing more.”

“It’s not,” you mumble, barely able to fight off sleep. “It’s not just a nightmare.”

Will’s eyes narrow as he observes you slipping back into restfulness, knowing that despite his efforts, your mind still clings to the vivid imagery of that nightmare. Nevertheless, he remains steadfast, cradling you in his arms and offering his warmth and reassuring touch, determined to bring your body to a state of complete relaxation to ensure that your sleep remains undisturbed this time.

You eventually succumb to exhaustion, your head resting against his chest as your body melts into a state of serene calmness. Will continues to caress you gently, keeping you safe from the outside world. The untouched food on the bedside table serves as a testament to the intensity of your troubled night.

Your second encounter with Hannibal Lecter is a shock—both physically and mentally. You never thought that this moment would come so soon, and you aren’t prepared for it in the slightest. Not after the week you just spent slouched on the carpet in Jack Crawford’s office over piles of open folders and files. You’re exhausted, famished, and dehydrated. You don’t even have a clue what day it is. 

There’s a knock on the door, and before you have the chance to yell back “Crawford’s not here!” the man enters the office without even waiting for an invitation. Your heart skips a beat as you recognize the distinct figure of Hannibal.

His sudden appearance only adds to the disarray of your thoughts and emotions, leaving you feeling utterly unprepared for whatever twist of fate has brought him back into your life. Quickly regaining your composure, you rise to your feet, bracing yourself for whatever conversation or scheme he has in store.

Hannibal Lecter is a tall, elegant man—all sharp angular features, perfectly parted hair, and eyes that seem devoid of color. He wears a suit that looks as if it was made specially for him, immaculately tailored and pressed. He exudes a sense of style and sophistication that belies his true nature, his demeanor a stark contrast to the unsettling aura that surrounds him.

His gaze sends a shiver down your spine, and your skin erupts in goosebumps as you feel him scrutinize you from head to toe.

“Good morning, Agent Avant,” Hannibal Lecter greets you with a tone that seems to pierce through all your barriers, causing your heartbeat to accelerate like a car on the highway with no speed limit. Despite the unsettling effect he has on you, he remains composed and polite, exuding an air of kindness and understanding that belies the darker nature lurking beneath the surface.

You sense him taking in your appearance—the tousled hair on your head, the loose sweater that probably belongs to Will, the gray sweatpants, and the scattered open folders strewn across the carpet and glass coffee table. You feel like a stark contrast to his impeccably groomed appearance.

“It’s not a good time, Doctor Lecter,” you murmur, crossing your arms over your chest, feeling a pang of embarrassment at your disheveled state.

Hannibal’s face softens instantly—whether out of guilt, surprise, curiosity, or something entirely different, it’s impossible to discern. He takes a step towards you, and you feel as though you’re under his spell. The way his eyes scan over your body is hypnotic, and when he speaks, his tone is the most friendly it could possibly be.

“Forgive the intrusion, Agent Avant,” Hannibal says, his voice smooth as silk, each word carrying a subtle charm. “I merely wished to extend my greetings and offer any assistance you might require. I understand that you’ve been through quite a challenging time recently.”

You find yourself momentarily captivated by his demeanor, his words soothing some of the tension that had been building within you. However, a lingering sense of unease tugs at the edges of your consciousness, a reminder of the dangers that lurk beneath his polished facade. Despite this, you can’t help but feel a strange allure to his presence, a magnetism that both draws you in and fills you with apprehension.

Your eyebrows scrunch in confusion as you try to decipher the meaning behind his words and gaze. Despite causing quite a commotion with your sudden reappearance at the BAU, you consider yourself to be no one special.

After a few beats of silence that seem to stretch into eternity, Hannibal shifts his attention, casting his gaze around the office. His tone takes on a professional demeanor.

“Can you take a seat, please?” he asks, gesturing towards a chair positioned in front of Crawford’s desk.

You’re accustomed to occupying that seat, whether it’s to present your latest theories to your boss or to feign attention during his lectures, so you comply without questioning it. As soon as you’re seated, your hands instinctively grip the armrests for support, and you feel your heart rate begin to accelerate as the terrifying creature from your nightmares flashes behind his person. Here he is—the monster who took your sister’s life and nearly destroyed Will’s.

Hannibal reclines in Crawford’s chair, his gaze fixed intently on you, making you feel like a bug under a microscope. You attempt to acclimate to his unwavering attention, but it proves to be no easy feat. His gaze feels like a pair of hands delicately exploring every inch of you, and as your heart rate increases, you sense him delving deeper, searching for something within you.

After a prolonged moment, he finally speaks, his words leaving you breathless. “I’ve heard a lot about you recently.”

“From Will?” you inquire, your voice tinged with curiosity.

“No, not from Will,” Hannibal responds, the corner of his mouth raising almost imperceptibly.

The man watches you patiently, his words and tone exerting a magnetic pull that freezes you in place. Your mind goes blank—you’re at a loss for what to say in response, uncertain how to decipher his intentions. While you’re accustomed to Will’s penetrating stares and silence, Hannibal exudes a different kind of power—a captivating yet intimidating presence that both intrigues and unnerves you. It’s a dynamic that commands both fear and respect simultaneously.

“I must admit, I’ve heard about you too, Doctor Lecter,” you manage to say, forcing your body to relax, your shoulders dropping as you exhale the breath trapped in your lungs.

Hannibal nods slowly, his gaze unwavering as he processes your words. “Jack has spoken a lot about you and your special methods…” he acknowledges, his tone carrying a hint of intrigue.

His eyes continue to shift over you, as if he is calculating something, and you find yourself unable to look away, meeting his gaze head-on. The subtle curve of your lips seems to particularly pique his interest.

“Special and unconventional,” he goes on, his voice measured and deliberate, causing you to shift slightly in your chair under his scrutiny. “A bit reckless at times…” Hannibal adds, as if he were attempting to gauge your reaction or perhaps provoke a response from you.

You don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. You were aware that your methods might have appeared reckless to observers, but they had never failed you, not even once. You possessed a knack for working your charm on anyone, and if that didn’t suffice, getting a rise out of somebody was even easier. Crawford relished allowing you to do your thing, reveling in the satisfaction of achieving the desired results.

“And successful,” you assert confidently, emphasizing the undeniable effectiveness of your approach. “Very successful.”

“I know you work outside the box, barely on the edge between what’s moral and what’s not,” Hannibal says, as if this were some kind of revelation. “And I’m curious to find out more.” He leans back in his chair, his body relaxed enough for his suit to fold around him, exuding an air of intrigue and anticipation.

“Then tell me, what unconventional methods of mine have you heard about?” You cross one leg over the other and raise your eyebrow, a subtle challenge in your demeanor. You need to ascertain whether he’s genuinely aware of your methods or simply baiting you to reveal them yourself.

Hannibal stares for a long minute at your leg, then at your arms, your face. The way his eyes keep circling and circling you makes you hold your breath—his gaze is sharp and penetrating, with a touch of curiosity that you almost feel like covering up in some way. His scrutiny feels almost invasive, as if he’s peeling back layers of your facade to uncover the truth beneath.

“I’ve heard that you’re not afraid to provoke the suspect into revealing their motives,” he says slowly, each word carefully measured. “That you use empathy to understand their thoughts and fears, and that you can even convince them to help you.” He pauses, as if assessing each new word before he says it, while you listen intently, fingers tapping on the cushioned armrest.

“You believe that the human mind is like... a puzzle,” Hannibal continues, his tone thoughtful. “And once you find the right pieces to put together, the answers are within your reach.”

You notice that he doesn’t mention your other technique—either he has no idea about it or he’s choosing to omit it from his speech. Fascinating.

“What brings you here, then?” you inquire, shifting the focus back onto him, curious about his intentions for seeking you out.

Hannibal smiles as a knock sounds on the door. Crawford sticks his head inside, appearing almost like a visitor in his own office. His timing is unnervingly perfect—in a bad kind of way.

“Agent Avant,” the chief says, his voice soft as he takes in your appearance. You look even worse than two hours ago, a fact he didn’t think was possible. “I don’t want to interrupt, but we have to go.”

“It’s my day off,” you respond, a hint of frustration creeping into your voice at the interruption. So close. Crawford only quirks an eyebrow not saying anything more. “Not in this industry,” you concede with a resigned sigh, acknowledging the relentless demands of your profession.

“It’s urgent,” Crawford insists, his tone leaving no room for argument as he emphasizes the gravity of the situation.

It’s all you have to hear to shut everything else off. You jump to your feet and frantically search the room for your coat, your exhausted mind struggling to locate it even though your gaze skips over it twice.

“Give me two minutes,” you sigh, rubbing your temples in an attempt to coax your brain into action.

“I can drive you,” Hannibal offers suddenly, his eagerness to see you in action apparent. Without hesitation, he rises from his seat just as quickly as you did, crossing the room to retrieve your coat from the rack. It’s almost as if he knew which one was yours from the start. Before you can even say a word, he throws it over your shoulders.

“Thank you, Hannibal, but we already have someone waiting for us,” Jack declines, saving you from having to make that choice.

You put your arms through the sleeves of your coat and extend your hand toward Doctor Lecter. “It’s been a pleasure. I’m sure we will meet again in no time.” The way your tone of voice mimics his politeness makes his eyes glint with something indescribable.

“Surely, Mrs. Graham,” Hannibal responds, shaking your hand. “We’ll talk again very soon.”

You can almost feel him analyzing you again, reading the expression on your face from the curve of your lips to the slight movement of your nose. His gaze remains as sharp as ever, but the look on his face is almost affectionate when he looks down at you.

And then you realize he’s not looking at you—he’s looking past you.

You turn to find Will leaning against the doorway, his eyes fixed on you and Hannibal. He barely moves as he stands there, the light of the room falling on his face and illuminating him like a golden statue.

Will’s expression remains blank, as if he’s trying to process the entire situation from an outsider’s perspective. His eyes don’t leave you for a second, yet you get the sense that they aren’t even focused on you. He watches as you shake Hannibal’s hand, his gaze unwavering as your fingers brush Hannibal’s forearm. He seems so absorbed in observing the two of you that he appears oblivious to his surroundings, almost like someone whose mind is trapped in a memory.

Hannibal’s gaze shifts slowly from you to Will’s face. Sensing the tension, you discreetly pull your hand away. Meanwhile, you notice that Crawford has stepped out into the hallway, clearly unwilling to find himself caught in the brewing storm.

“Will,” you acknowledge him with a smile, attempting to quietly reassure him that everything’s alright.

Will snaps out of his trance as he hears your voice. His face softens, and he stares at you for a second before he moves towards you, intertwining his fingers with yours. You notice, again, that his expression is empty, but there’s a hint of relief in his eyes.

“Let’s go,” he says, gently pulling you with him, and you can’t help but notice how carefully he holds your hand. It’s almost as if he’s afraid of hurting you, the way he keeps his movements so gentle.

You’re in the back seat of the car when you notice the silence. You turn to look at Will’s profile, his face turned away from you, his eyes focused on the road as you head toward the crime scene.

He’s been unusually quiet lately—no comments, no observations, no idle chatter. It’s as if he’s trying to protect you from any unnecessary stress or fatigue. You wonder if he’s feeling frustrated because you refused to discuss what happens in your nightmares that repeat day after day.

Will’s silence fills you with unease, making you wonder whether his mind is filled with questions you should already have answered.

You try to distract yourself by studying the passing scenery, but your eyes keep gravitating back to his profile. Every time you look at him, his gaze is trained on the road ahead, almost as if he’s avoiding your eyes. You can’t help but sense that he’s keeping something to himself, like he’s holding back some valuable insight or observation that he thinks you’d prefer not to hear.

Jack, who is occupying the passenger’s seat, must have noticed your darting gaze. “What’s wrong with you two lately?” he asks, his voice carrying a hint of concern.

You freeze, feeling as if you’ve been caught in the act of doing something wrong. Will seems to tense up, his brows creasing in mild irritation. You open your mouth to offer some explanation or excuse, but Jack has already started talking again before you can even get a word in.

“Avant, you spend your whole days in my office; I’m starting to consider you a permanent resident,” Jack remarks, injecting a touch of humor into the situation to alleviate the tension.

Will glances at you out of the corner of his eye, his features appearing neutral despite the tense situation between you two. You can’t help but notice how his gaze lingers on your face for a few beats longer than necessary, as if he’s waiting for you to reply to Jack’s comments.

Feeling the weight of his gaze, you muster a faint smile and respond, “Well, Jack, your office does have a certain charm to it.”

“You don’t want your own?” Jack asks, his tone light but with a hint of genuine curiosity.

“I hate being alone,” you admit, your voice carrying a note of vulnerability.

Jack glances between the two of you, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processes your response. “Can’t stand being alone with your own thoughts, eh?” he asks, his tone suggesting a hint of understanding mixed with a touch of skepticism.

“Yeah, you could say so,” you reply, keeping your response brief but acknowledging Jack’s observation.

“I didn’t take you for the type who needed company all the time.”

“Oh come on, Jack. You’ve known me long enough to know that,” you respond, injecting a touch of humor into your reply.

Jack’s lips curl into an amused smirk before he lets out a chuckle, his features returning to a more neutral expression. “That’s true,” he says agreeably, his attention shifting back to the road ahead.

Your attention is drawn back to Will’s profile. His gaze remains fixed on the road, his expression stoic and unreadable. You get the distinct impression that he’s listening in on your conversation with Jack, although he seems unbothered by it.

“We will talk about it,” you mumble to yourself, hoping that somehow Will hears your words, even in the midst of the steady hum of the engine.

Just as you finish your sentence, Will breaks your pondering, his gaze briefly returning to you and catching yours for a split second. You can tell from his expression that he heard your murmur, although you’re not sure if he caught the words.

There’s a subtle shift in his demeanor, a flicker of understanding passing between you, before he returns his focus to the road ahead, leaving you to ponder the unspoken communication exchanged in that fleeting moment.

You hold onto that moment, a glimmer of hope that perhaps Will is open to discussing whatever has been weighing on your mind. Despite the lingering tension between you, there’s a sense of reassurance in the silent understanding that passes between you.

As the car continues down the road, you find yourself lost in your thoughts, contemplating the complexities of your relationship with Will and the challenges you both face. You silently vow to find a way to bridge the gap that has formed between you, determined to address the issues that have been left unspoken for too long.

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[slitheringghost]

"And Cain Repented Not Of What He Had Done": Harry Potter as Retelling of Cain and Abel, Part 1

Then Cain, the hard-hearted and cruel murderer, took a large stone and smote his brother with it upon the head, until his brains oozed out, and he weltered in his blood, before him. And Cain repented not of what he had done. “I regret it,” said Voldemort coldly. He turned away; there was no sadness in him, no remorse. Thereupon Allah sent forth a raven who began to scratch the earth to show him how he might cover the corpse of his brother. So seeing he cried: Woe unto me! Was I unable even to be like this raven and find a way to cover the corpse of my brother? Then he became full of remorse at his doing. // And he became of the regretful. “But before you try to kill me, I’d advise you to think about what you’ve done... Think, and try for some remorse, Riddle…”

Section 1.0: Introduction

The Harry Potter series is, at its heart, a retelling and performance of Cain and Abel, the biblical story of the first murder, of Cain telling his brother Abel ‘let us go out into the field’ and killing him. In this retelling, the characters of HP put on different masks, perform different parts, play several characters at once.

Like most stories, Cain and Abel has many different interpretations, and JKR has weaved every single one of those interpretations into HP in a gigantic intricate web that's one of the most fascinating and formative parts of the series, yet one that goes unnoticed by most of fandom.

JKR essentially wrote HP like one long Cain and Abel web weaving post, and in this meta I’ll be quoting all the various interpretations in Jewish, Christian, and Islamic tradition with the corresponding passages in the HP books alluding to them.

Despite the original Cain and Abel story, it's not just about brothers - because HP as a retelling is about brothers and sisters killing their brothers and sisters. And at the center of it all is:

1) the events between and attempted murders of Voldemort, Harry, and Lily by each other

2) the murders of “sisters” Ariana Dumbledore, Merope Gaunt, and Lily Evans by their "brothers" (brothers loosely referring to any familial or symbolic familial dynamic) - Ariana murdered by Albus, Aberforth, and Grindelwald; Merope’s murder by Marvolo, Morfin, and Tom Riddle Sr., and then the six men leading to Lily’s death - Sirius, Snape, Wormtail, Harry, James, and Voldemort.

Some of these characters are Cain in the traditional sense, cruel intentional murderers - such as Voldemort as the main Cain of the story, Merope's family, Wormtail, perhaps Bellatrix depending on how you interpret her. Others are Cain much more symbolically and allude to their unintentionally bringing about the deaths of their loved ones and the subsequent guilt - such as Sirius's guilt over bringing about the deaths of his "brother and sister" James and Lily, Harry's guilt over Lily dying for him, etc.

Notice how there’s a heavy emphasis on twins and sibling dynamics in HP, and it’s because all of that links to the story as a Cain and Abel retelling:

“Fred and George, who were identical to the last freckle.” Fred and George turned to each other and said together, “Wow — we’re identical!” “Parvati Patil’s twin’s in Ravenclaw, and they’re identical. You’d think they’d be together, wouldn’t you?” "Or was it Potter’s identical twin in the Hog’s Head that day?" Albus and Aberforth wore matching lacy collared jackets and had identical, shoulder-length hairstyles. Albus looked several years older, but otherwise the two boys looked very alike, for this was before Albus’s nose had been broken and before he started wearing glasses. “You will suggest to the Order of the Phoenix,” Snape murmured, “that they use decoys. Polyjuice Potion. Identical Potters.”

Harry and Voldemort are framed as "twin brothers" (brother wands, the twin cores, etc), as Cain and Abel are brothers and in some interpretations twins too, and the lightning scar on Harry's forehead is the mark of Cain.

Voldemort as Cain is driving the story - he murders or nearly murders almost every familial relationship he has, from all his living relatives to Ginny as a "sister", to Snape and Bellatrix, to of course, his "brother" Harry. Voldemort also turns his followers/“true family” into Cain as they become more and more like him - i.e. Barty Crouch Jr. murders his father, Snape is made to murder his father figure Dumbledore, Bellatrix ordered to kill Tonks, etc.

And, Voldemort marking Harry as his equal, turning him into someone like himself, has multiple meanings - because just like he did with his followers, Voldemort who is Cain himself marked Harry as Cain too, Harry marked to one day kill his "brother" Voldemort, as well as marked to inadvertently lead to the deaths of his loved ones, to become a killer of his "family" the way Voldemort is, due to Voldemort's choice regarding the prophecy.

Additionally, in some interpretations, Cain and Abel have twin sisters, which is also weaved into this text in integral ways - one being that Lily is framed is Voldemort's symbolic sister the way Harry and Voldemort are "brothers", which you can read about in my meta Unweaving Canon Lily: Parallels to Voldemort.

Also note that most of these characters play the role of Cain, as well as playing multiple other roles - there isn't just one Cain and one Abel and one the Lord and one Cain's twin sister, etc. Indeed that’s the point, because they’re “twins”, they’re not just Cain and Abel, but often Cain and Cain.

In Parts 1 and 2 I'll explore all the different interpretations of the original passage, and then in Part 3 I'll expand on the passage itself in Genesis 4:1-18. Read Part 2 here. Read on Ao3 here.

Some disclaimers and notes: 1) This meta is meant to unravel a lot of the symbolism and allusions JKR weaved into the story, and isn’t necessarily a literal interpretation of these characters.

2) Some of these may seem strange to emphasize, because obviously they're words or phrases that appear often and may not be intentional references to this narrative thread, but some specific details and JKR's writing style makes me think they are - i.e. see how JKR weaved in Dracula passages in this post; there's also Tom Riddle’s “burnished gold shield” borrowing from a passage in the Aeneid in this post, etc. So an extremely close reading of the text and paying attention to the exact wording (sometimes even just a single word) does matter a lot here to catch the allusions.

On that note, I’ve done my best to elaborate on the quotes, but since this is sort of like web weaving, many times the quotes are the meta, so make sure to pay close attention to them.

3) There’s a lot to unpack and it’s really hard to fit everything in one meta series - so bear with me on some of loose threads, I plan to elaborate on them in future metas.

4) Admittedly I got lazy with citations - my main sources are the article Why Did Cain Kill Abel? and this article on the Quran, and you can find elaboration on these interpretations and the sources for them there.

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

Section 2.0

2.1 Now the brothers rejoiced in different pursuits. Abel, the younger, had regard for righteousness and, believing that God was present in all the things that were done by him, looked after virtue; and his life was that of a shepherd. On the other hand, Cain was both most wicked in other respects and, looking only to gain, was the first to think of ploughing the earth; and he killed his brother for the following reason.

It seeming best to them to sacrifice to God, Cain offered fruits from the cultivation of the soil and plants, while Abel offered milk and the first-born of the grazing animals. God took greater pleasure in this latter sacrifice, being honored by things that grow automatically and in accordance with nature but not by those things that grow by the force of grasping man with craftiness. Consequently, Cain, provoked that Abel had been valued more highly by God, killed his brother and rendering his corpse unseen, supposed that he would escape notice.

The following quotes may have weaved in the first passage, as Cain is often referred to as "the wicked one" - in HBP, “Of the Horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction” and “This time, as you will have seen, he killed not for revenge, but for gain.”

As for the second passage, Lily’s sacrifice isn’t just referring to Lily as a Christ figure - it’s also the sacrifice Cain and Abel offer to God. There are several ways it could fit - one being that Voldemort and Harry as Cain and Abel respectively, offered the same sacrifice which is Lily's death.

Voldemort doing so was looked upon with disfavor by God, because he was murdering his symbolic "sister", which lead to his partial death, while God favored Harry’s sacrifice because he got his mother willingly sacrificing herself for him, which led to Harry surviving the Killing Curse.

The jealousy aspect then, which is the most common interpretation of why Cain killed Abel, refers to Voldemort's jealousy over Harry's immortality:

“Well,” said Riddle, smiling pleasantly, “how is it that you - a skinny boy with no extraordinary magical talent - managed to defeat the greatest wizard of all time? How did you escape with nothing but a scar, while Lord Voldemort’s powers were destroyed?” (CoS)

Harry’s immortality is one way in which Voldemort and Harry are twins, and in a way is tied Voldemort’s name (meaning “flight from death” in French) - because Harry is Voldemort’s “twin brother” Flight From Death #2 (and Lily is Voldemort’s “twin sister”, Flight From Death #3 - more in this in future metas).

Another interpretation is that Voldemort and Harry are both Cain, and like the twins they are, both again offering the same sacrifice, and here both offering Lily as a sacrifice alludes to the guilt Harry feels at (inadvertently) being Cain and bringing about Lily's death for his immortality. Both offerings were looked upon with disfavor and rejected by God, and both Voldemort and Harry as Cain were exiled elsewhere, made to restlessly wander ("You will be a restless wanderer on the earth" from Genesis 4:12) - Voldemort in Albania, Harry with the Dursleys.

The last line of this passage - Cain, provoked that Abel had been valued more highly by God, killed his brother and rendering his corpse unseen, supposed that he would escape notice - is extremely important to analyzing Lily, but that’s for another meta.

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

2.2 She gave birth to an infant and his color was that of the stars. He fell into the hands of the midwife and (at once) he began to pluck up the grass, for in his mother’s hut grass was planted. The midwife replied to him and told him, “God is just that he did not at all leave you in my hands. For, you are Cain, the perverse one, killer of the good, for you are the one who plucks up the fruit-bearing tree, and not he who plants it. You are the bearer of bitterness and not of sweetness.”

Interestingly, Sirius and Snape as narrative mirrors were inspired by the same passage - both of them are Cain, Sirius for causing his "brother" James and "sister" Lily's deaths through the Secret Keeper switch, and Snape for causing his "sister" Lily's death by conveying the prophecy.

"Color of the stars" refers to the Black family's star naming pattern, while "grass planted in his mother's hut" refers to Snape's connection to Eileen Prince and Potions, and Snape is shown "plucking up the grass and fruit bearing tree" in this scene in The Prince's Tale:

“Oh yes, they’re arguing,” said Snape. He picked up a fistful of leaves and began tearing them apart, apparently unaware of what he was doing. “But it won’t be that long and I’ll be gone.” “Dementors are for people who do really bad stuff. They guard the wizard prison, Azkaban. You’re not going to end up in Azkaban, you’re too —” He turned red again and shredded more leaves. Then a small rustling noise behind Harry made him turn: Petunia, hiding behind a tree, had lost her footing. (DH)

That refers to Snape plucking up the forbidden fruit of knowledge offered by Voldemort as the snake (see this meta by @ashesandhackles). The line about being the bearer of bitterness may refer to how Petunia and Snape, as Lily’s “sister and brother”, both have similarly negative names - Petunia flowers symbolize bitterness, anger, resentment; Severus means serious, grave, stern.

Fandom has pointed out that Snape is often associated with feminine figures i.e. Lady of the Lake; it's possible that Snape wearing women clothes (i.e. wearing his mother's clothes while sitting on the ground facing Lily - facing her as her reflection/"twin") is an allusion to Snape as Cain's twin sister (Cain in this case could be Lily, Voldemort, Harry, or Sirius).

Snape is also all but explicitly called Harry’s identical twin in OoTP - the joke here is that while Fudge was referring to the DA meeting in the Hog's Head, it was once upon a time Harry's “identical twin” - a.k.a Snape - in the Hog's Head:

“Yes, do let’s hear the latest cock-and-bull story designed to pull Potter out of trouble! Go on, then, Dumbledore, go on — Willy Widdershins was lying, was he? Or was it Potter’s identical twin in the Hog’s Head that day? Or is there the usual simple explanation involving a reversal of time, a dead man coming back to life, and a couple of invisible dementors?” (OoTP) “The Hog’s Head Inn, which Sybill chose for its cheapness, has long attracted, shall we say, a more interesting clientele than the Three Broomsticks [...] Of course, I had not dreamed, when I set out to meet Sybill Trelawney, that I would hear anything worth overhearing. My — our — one stroke of good fortune was that the eavesdropper was detected only a short way into the prophecy and thrown from the building.” (OoTP)

The "infant the color of the stars" additionally refers to Bellatrix, who also is Cain, killer of her “brother” Sirius, and later of Tonks; she also plays the “twin sister” of Cain (in this case Sirius).

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

2.3 And the time arrived when Cain and Abel had gone up toward their fields. Two demons resembling Cain and Abel came. Now, one demon reproached the other demon. He became angry with him and took a stone sword, which was of a transparent stone. He cut his throat and killed him. And when Cain saw the blood, he went quickly and took the stone in his hand(s).

This passage corresponds to the scene of Ron destroying Slytherin’s locket - the stone sword is Gryffindor’s sword, Riddle-Harry and Riddle-Hermione are the demon resembling Cain and Ron as the other demon, Riddle-Harry and Riddle-Hermione “reproach” Ron aka torment and taunt him, Ron becomes angry and kills Riddle in the locket with the “stone sword”.

The imagery of "cutting his throat" may also refer to how the locket strangles Harry:

All he could do was raise a shaking hand to his throat and feel the place where the locket had cut tightly into his flesh. It was gone: Someone had cut him free. (DH)

All of them in that scene resemble Cain (in this case Voldemort), because the Riddle-Harry and Riddle-Hermione, distorted versions of the real people, verbally abuse and humiliate Ron using his insecurities exactly like Voldemort does to others.

Ron here also resembles Cain - when Harry sees Ron's red eyes, he fears that Ron too has become Cain, that he's become like Tom Riddle and will kill him, his "brother".

“Ron, stab it, STAB IT!” Harry yelled, but Ron did not move: His eyes were wide, and the Riddle-Harry and the Riddle-Hermione were reflected in them, their hair swirling like flames, their eyes shining red, their voices lifted in an evil duet. Ron looked toward him, and Harry thought he saw a trace of scarlet in his eyes. “Ron — ?” The sword flashed, plunged: Harry threw himself out of the way, there was a clang of metal and a long, drawn-out scream. Harry whirled around, slipping in the snow, wand held ready to defend himself: but there was nothing to fight. (DH)

The Cain and Abel passage then continues, and now this part corresponds to the scene of Voldemort killing Snape, with LV as Cain and Snape as Abel.

2.4 But when Abel saw him coming, he begged him, “Do not make me die, O my brother Cain!” He, however, did not accept his prayer and he spilled Abel’s blood in front of him.

And now Snape looked at Voldemort, and Snape’s face was like a death mask. It was marble white and so still that when he spoke, it was a shock to see that anyone lived behind the blank eyes. “My Lord — let me go to the boy —” […] “You have been a good and faithful servant, and I regret what must happen.” “My Lord —” “[…] While you live, Severus, the Elder Wand cannot be truly mine.” “My Lord!” Snape protested, raising his wand. “It cannot be any other way,” said Voldemort. “I must master the wand, Severus. Master the wand, and I master Potter at last.” [...] He pointed it at the starry cage holding the snake, which drifted upward, off Snape, who fell sideways onto the floor, blood gushing from the wounds in his neck. [...] He did not know why he was doing it, why he was approaching the dying man: He did not know what he felt as he saw Snape’s white face, and the fingers trying to staunch the bloody wound at his neck. (DH)

Interestingly, once Snape realizes Voldemort's about to kill him, he protests and begs Voldemort not to kill him three times, echoing Lily begging Voldemort and how she offers her own life in exchange for Harry's three times.

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2.5 It was said: Cain killed Abel by throwing a rock at his head while he was asleep. It was also said: Cain choked Abel violently and bit him to death as beasts do.

Not sure what throwing a rock at his head refers to, but the latter sentence ties to the scene where Voldemort tries to kill Harry and Snape via Nagini, and then Merope’s locket horcrux choking Harry, with Voldemort as Cain, and Harry and Snape as Abel.

The snake struck as he raised his wand: The force of the bite to his forearm sent the wand spinning up toward the ceiling; [...] He could not get enough breath into his lungs to call back: Then a heavy smooth mass smashed him to the floor and he felt it slide over him, powerful, muscular — “No!” he gasped, pinned to the floor. “Yes,” whispered the voice. “Yesss... hold you... hold you...” “Accio... Accio Wand...” But nothing happened and he needed his hands to try to force the snake from him as it coiled itself around his torso, squeezing the air from him, pressing the Horcrux hard into his chest (DH) “[…] The snake bit you too, but I’ve cleaned the wound and put some dittany on it...” He pulled the sweaty T-shirt he was wearing away from himself and looked down. There was a scarlet oval over his heart where the locket had burned him. He could also see the half-healed puncture marks to his forearm. (DH) Then something closed tight around his neck. He thought of water weeds, though nothing had brushed him as he dived, and raised his empty hand to free himself. It was not weed: The chain of the Horcrux had tightened and was slowly constricting his windpipe [...] Thrashing, suffocating, he scrabbled at the strangling chain, his frozen fingers unable to loosen it (DH)

And Voldemort swiped the air with the Elder Wand. It did nothing to Snape, who for a split second seemed to think he had been reprieved: But then Voldemort’s intention became clear. The snake’s cage was rolling through the air, and before Snape could do anything more than yell, it had encased him, head and shoulders, and Voldemort spoke in Parseltongue. “Kill.” There was a terrible scream. Harry saw Snape’s face losing the little color it had left; it whitened as his black eyes widened, as the snake’s fangs pierced his neck, as he failed to push the enchanted cage off himself, as his knees gave way and he fell to the floor. (DH)

In general there are quite a few similar scenes involving choking and strangulation - i.e. Marvolo attempting to kill Merope by choking her, Vernon strangling Harry in OoTP, etc. It also evokes a dementor’s/Death’s hands wrapping around someone.

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2.6 And so they went on, until they came to a lonely place, where there were no sheep; then Abel said to Cain, “Behold, my brother, we are weary of walking, for we see none of the trees, nor of the fruits, nor of the verdure, nor of the sheep, nor any one of the things of which you told me. Where are those sheep of yours that you told me to bless?” Then Cain said to him, “Come on, and presently you will see many beautiful things, but go before me, until I come up to you.” And Abel was walking in his innocence, without guile, not believing his brother would kill him. Then Cain, when he came up to him, comforted him with his talk, walking a little behind him. Then he hastened and smote him with the staff, blow upon blow, until he was stunned.

This refers to the scene of Voldemort's vanquishment, with Lily as Cain and Voldemort as Abel. Because the text reveals Lily, far from being solely the Virgin Mary, is also Cain in several ways, and reveals that Lily killed Voldemort intentionally (more on this in future metas).

This is Voldemort walking in his innocence, without guile, not believing Lily would kill him:

He could hear her screaming from the upper floor, trapped, but as long as she was sensible, she, at least, had nothing to fear... He climbed the steps, listening with faint amusement to her attempts to barricade herself in... She had no wand upon her either... How stupid they were, and how trusting, thinking that their safety lay in friends, that weapons could be discarded even for moments (DH)

Then Lily comforted Voldemort with her talk when she pretended to plead and begged him for mercy and to take her life instead. Then Lily smote him blow upon blow, until he was stunned:

“I miscalculated, my friends, I admit it. My curse was deflected by the woman’s foolish sacrifice, and it rebounded upon myself. Aaah… pain beyond pain, my friends; nothing could have prepared me for it.” (GOF)

The phrase “blow upon blow” is alluded to in the wording used for Ariana’s murder by Dumbledore:

“Though Ariana had been in poor health for a long time, the blow, coming so soon after the loss of their mother, had a profound effect on both of her brothers.” “You see, I never knew which of us, in that last, horrific fight, had actually cast the curse that killed my sister. You may call me cowardly: You would be right. Harry, I dreaded beyond all things the knowledge that it had been I who brought about her death, not merely through my arrogance and stupidity, but that I actually struck the blow that snuffed out her life.” (DH)

And now note that in the next quote, Dumbledore doesn't say that Lily "died to save" Harry - he instead uses active phrasing, and very similar to the phrasing he uses for Ariana’s death, again establishing both Lily and Dumbledore as Cain - Lily striking the death blow on her “brother” Voldemort, as Dumbledore fears he did with Ariana:

“Tell him that on the night Lord Voldemort tried to kill him, when Lily cast her own life between them as a shield, the Killing Curse rebounded upon Lord Voldemort, and a fragment of Voldemort’s soul was blasted apart from the whole, and latched itself onto the only living soul left in that collapsing building.” (DH)

I'll further expand on the significance of “walking a little behind him" in a future meta, but to explain some here, the phrase is weaved in PS with the Mirror of Erised, setting up Lily as the true killer of her "brother" Voldemort and Dumbledore as killer of his "sister" Ariana:

He looked in the mirror again. A woman standing right behind his reflection was smiling at him and waving. He reached out a hand and felt the air behind him [...] (PS) He looked behind him. Sitting on one of the desks by the wall was none other than Albus Dumbledore. Harry must have walked straight past him, so desperate to get to the mirror he hadn’t noticed him. (PS)

The reason Lily is right behind Harry, presenting Lily as Cain to Harry, is referring to Lily’s guilt at that fact, similar to Harry's guilt at getting Sirius killed, etc - because it was Lily’s choice that deflected the Killing Curse, Lily who fulfilled the prophecy and landed Harry in these circumstances. More on this in section 2.10.

Lily's arms are emphasized because they're Death's arms closing around Voldemort from behind - hence "walking a little behind him":

he felt arms enclose him from behind, thin, fleshless arms cold as death, and his feet left the ground as they lifted him and began to carry him, slowly and surely, back to the water, and he knew there would be no release, that he would be drowned (HBP) now little lights were popping inside his head, and he was going to drown, there was nothing left, nothing he could do, and the arms that closed around his chest were surely Death’s... (DH) [...] and there she stood, the child in her arms. At the sight of him, she dropped her son into the crib behind her and threw her arms wide, as if this would help, as if in shielding him from sight she hoped to be chosen instead... (DH) His job was to walk calmly into Death’s welcoming arms. [...] the end would be clean, and the job that ought to have been done in Godric’s Hollow would be finished: Neither would live, neither could survive. (DH)

The phrases “Come on”, “until I come up to you”, “when he came up to him” may be alluded to in the repetition here, and also that the Killing Curse’s deflection happens on the upper floor of the house.

“I have been waiting for you to appear since we arrived here. I knew you’d come. I have many questions for you, Harry Potter.” (COS) "Time’s nearly up. Potter’s had his hour. He’s not coming.” “And he was sure he’d come! He won’t be happy.” (DH) “I thought he would come,” said Voldemort in his high, clear voice, his eyes on the leaping flames. “I expected him to come.” (DH) “The Dark Lord will rise again, Crouch! Throw us into Azkaban; we will wait! He will rise again and will come for us, he will reward us beyond any of his other supporters!" (GOF) “Now it was just Father and I, alone in the house. And then... [...] My master came for me.” (GOF) “Your mother’s coming…” he said quietly. “She wants to see you… it will be all right… hold on…” And she came… first her head, then her body… a young woman with long hair, the smoky, shadowy form of Lily Potter blossomed from the end of Voldemort’s wand (GOF)

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2.7 At that time Eve told Adam, “My lord, Adam, in my sleep I saw that the blood of my son Abel was pouring into the mouth of Cain his brother, and he drank it without mercy. And Abel beseeched him to leave him (a little) of his blood, and he did not agree to hearken to him but he drank it completely … and it could not at all be removed from his body.”

This corresponds to Voldemort taking Harry’s blood inside him - however it also refers to Lily, Voldemort taking a bit of Harry and Lily inside him, both not able to be removed from his body:

“I wanted Harry Potter’s blood. I wanted the blood of the one who had stripped me of power thirteen years ago... for the lingering protection his mother once gave him would then reside in my veins too...” (GOF) “He took my blood,” said Harry. “Precisely!” said Dumbledore. “He took your blood and rebuilt his living body with it! Your blood in his veins, Harry, Lily’s protection inside both of you! He tethered you to life while he lives!” [...] “He took your blood believing it would strengthen him. He took into his body a tiny part of the enchantment your mother laid upon you when she died for you. His body keeps her sacrifice alive, and while that enchantment survives, so do you and so does Voldemort’s one last hope for himself.” (DH)

This could also refer to the horcrux inside Harry, a piece of Voldemort that can't be removed from his body, and also the description of Ginny here, and how that ties into the way Voldemort's parasitic to his followers/"family":

"Voldemort put a bit of himself in me?" Harry said, thunderstruck. (COS) "So Ginny poured out her soul to me, and her soul happened to be exactly what I wanted... I grew stronger and stronger on a diet of her deepest fears, her darkest secrets. I grew powerful, more powerful than little Miss Weasley. Powerful enough to start feeding Miss Weasley a few of my secrets, to start pouring a little of my soul into her..." (CoS)

Note the repetition of the word "pouring" ("the blood of Abel was pouring into the mouth of Cain", "poured out her soul", "pouring a little of my soul into her"), and how words like "diet" and "feeding" evoke the idea that Voldemort’s drinking Ginny's soul like drinking blood, and likewise she’s made to drink his - tying into the Dracula parallel mentioned in this post.

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2.8 Cain was brought punishment very soon afterwards. On the same day he killed his brother, Abel, his foot was tied up to his thighbone and his face was forcibly directed up to the sun disk. His face used to go where the sun goes as a way of punishment and penalty in return for what he had done to his own brother.

On the same day when Voldemort killed Harry in the Final Battle and Harry was once more resurrected, Voldemort's "foot being tied up to this thighbone" likely means that Voldemort finally dies, his feet are no longer leaving the ground and landing lightly, he's no longer flying from death. And as he dies, his face is "forcibly directed up to the sun":

A red-gold glow burst suddenly across the enchanted sky above them as an edge of dazzling sun appeared over the sill of the nearest window. The light hit both of their faces at the same time, so that Voldemort’s was suddenly a flaming blur. Harry heard the high voice shriek as he too yelled his best hope to the heavens, pointing Draco’s wand: “Avada Kedavra!” “Expelliarmus!” [...] Harry saw Voldemort’s green jet meet his own spell, saw the Elder Wand fly high, dark against the sunrise, spinning across the enchanted ceiling [...] The fierce new sun dazzled the windows as they thundered toward him, and the first to reach him were Ron and Hermione, and it was their arms that were wrapped around him, their incomprehensible shouts that deafened him (DH)

This is also an allusion to Voldemort as a vampire (the Dracula influence is obvious), melting in the sun.

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2.9 However, Abel's saying when Cain threatened to kill him: {If you do stretch your hand against me to kill me, I shall never stretch my hand against you to kill you

This corresponds to Voldemort using Avada Kedavra while Harry only uses Expelliarmus and also Harry walking to his death, never stretching his hand against Voldemort to kill him.

It also ties to Lily not directly fighting back while Voldemort kills her with his wand, and the fight between Aberforth and Dumbledore:

Aberforth shouted that it was all Albus’s fault that Ariana was dead and then punched him in the face. According to Bathilda, Albus did not even defend himself, and that’s odd enough in itself, Albus could have destroyed Aberforth in a duel with both hands tied behind his back. (DH) when at last he flung himself across Voldemort’s path, and did not raise a wand to defend himself, the end would be clean (DH)

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2.10 What were they arguing about? They said, “Let’s divide up the world. One took the land and the other [took] the movable goods. This one said, “The land you are standing upon is mine.” This one said, “What you are wearing is mine.” This one said “Strip” [so you are not wearing my clothes]! and this one said “Fly” [so you are not on my land]! As a consequence, “Cain rose up against Abel…”

They both took lands and they both took movable goods. What were they arguing about? One said “the Temple will be built in my territory” and this one said “in my territory…”

“You know,” said Sirius loudly [...] “I think I’d prefer it if you didn’t give orders here, Snape. It’s my house, you see.” (OOTP) “This is my house, Bella, you don’t give orders in my —” (DH) “Stand aside, you silly girl... stand aside, now.” (DH)

Voldemort is giving Lily orders in her house, on her land, in her territory - and she doesn't obey (And, well, since James died first, Lily inherited all his stuff, so I guess it was truly her land).

Both the Godric’s Hollow house and the blood wards on Privet Drive are also Lily saying to Voldemort, this land you’re trying to stand upon is mine, Voldemort can’t enter without her express permission:

And his scream was Harry’s scream, his pain was Harry’s pain… that it could happen here, where it had happened before… here, within sight of that house where he had come so close to knowing what it was to die... to die… The pain was so terrible… ripped from his body And then he broke: He was nothing, nothing but pain and terror, and he must hide himself, not here in the rubble of the ruined house, where the child was trapped and screaming, but far away (DH)

The same applies to the graveyard scene in GoF, where Priori Incantatem first makes both Harry and Voldemort fly away from where they’re standing after Voldemort points to his father’s grave and mentions Lily, alluding to Lily’s grave (which comes full circle in the graveyard scene in DH):

“You stand, Harry Potter, upon the remains of my late father,” he hissed softly. “A Muggle and a fool... very like your dear mother. But they both had their uses, did they not? Your mother died to defend you as a child... and I killed my father, and see how useful he has proved himself, in death...” And then — nothing could have prepared Harry for this — he felt his feet lift from the ground. He and Voldemort were both being raised into the air, their wands still connected by that thread of shimmering golden light. They glided away from the tombstone of Voldemort’s father and then came to rest on a patch of ground that was clear and free of graves (GOF)

That’s Lily telling her "brother" Voldemort, you mentioned my death, therefore this land you’re standing upon is mine, and Fly [so you’re not on my land!].

You could say the territory Voldemort as “brother and sister” are fighting over is Harry - Voldemort says "Mine!", and immediately Lily's magic comes to save Harry and says no, he's mine:

Barely gripping the plummeting bike with his knees, Harry heard Voldemort scream, “Mine!” It was over: He could not see or hear where Voldemort was; he glimpsed another Death Eater swooping out of the way and heard, “Avada —” As the pain from Harry’s scar forced his eyes shut, his wand acted of its own accord. He felt it drag his hand around like some great magnet, saw a spurt of golden fire through his half-closed eyelids, heard a crack and a scream of fury. The remaining Death Eater yelled; Voldemort screamed, “No!” (DH)

While Voldemort tries to claim Harry as his, Lily is claiming Harry as hers; while Voldemort marked Harry as his equal, Lily marked Harry as her equal:

"Love as powerful as your mother’s for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign [...] It was agony to touch a person marked by something so good" (PS)

But there’s another meaning to this - that Lily also inadvertently marked Harry as Cain, because it was Lily’s choice that forged the connection between Harry and Voldemort, and therefore Lily’s choice that resulted in all the pain Harry’s going through, Lily’s sacrifice being what is truly responsible for that scar on Harry’s forehead, and Lily's subsequent guilt the way Dumbledore feels guilt about Ariana etc.

"What you are wearing is mine" and "So you are not wearing my clothes" refers to Death's Invisibility Cloak - which represents the aegis and Lily and Harry framed as the two “true owners” (see my meta “When Lily Cast Her Life As A Shield": Analysis of the Shield Charm for elaboration). Those lines are weaved into this highly significant passage:

“One: He’s sitting on my chair. Two: He’s wearing my clothes. Three: His name’s Remus Lupin...” (OoTP)

This joke actually has an important hidden meaning relating to Lily, but more on that in future metas.

"This one said 'Fly'" also refers to Lily, Voldemort, and Snape's ability to fly unsupported, as well as Harry's Quidditch skill and him being Voldemort's "twin brother" Flight From Death #2.

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Read Part 2 of this meta

See also: this post

[asouefanworkevent]

another fall is upon us! another woevember is coming!!

what is it?

woevember is an asoue fanwork event week, that will take place from november 12th through november 18th, 2023. last year there was a different group of characters each day, and this year, each day of the week is dedicated to a different location for a series of unfortunate events or all the wrong questions.

what do i do?

the prompts will be revealed now, so everyone has time to make something. between now and the week of november 12th, you’ll create fanworks about the prompts, and then post it on the corresponding day during november 12th - 18th!

don’t forget to tag this tumblr (asouefanworkevent) in the post so i can find it and reblog it, and tag the post with #woevember !

what do you mean by fanwork?

everything! fanfic and fanart are of course allowed, but woevember has always been meant to be an event that is as big or as little effort as you want! fanwork also means edits, gifs, analysis posts, headcanons!! your cosplay!! your photography!! your photosets!! your web weaving!! your super short fics!! your sketchiest drawings!! your most ramble-y half-fic idea posts!! your wip scenes!! you merely saying 'lemony snicket, though. am i right?????' (and you are. you're so right.) whatever you are moved to make from the prompts! i want people to be encouraged to and be able to create even something small that didn’t exist before for the snicketverse, and share it with other people!

are there any rules?

to keep the event open and comfortable for everyone, no explicit content. also, as always, sibling romance and age gaps will not be tolerated.

do i have to make something for every day?

only if you want to! feel free to just make something for one day if you want :) the point of having a different theme for each day is so some part of canon that you like comes up eventually, and you can at least make something for one of the days. or you get struck by an idea you might not have considered before! i want to get people thinking about all the intriguing people and places in asoue and atwq and the exciting different ways we can interpret and create from the same idea.

what are the prompts?

the description under each prompt is just some ideas to get your brain going -- feel free to take them in another direction too!

november 12th - olaf's mansion

to celebrate the 24th anniversary of the bad beginning! what becomes of the house post-canon? was it olaf's family home? what sort of nefarious, or, perhaps, completely innocent shenanigans have occurred here, pre-canon? does this house also have a secret passage somewhere?

november 13th - the baudelaire mansion

did beatrice and bertrand build the mansion? what sweet pre-canon moments have we missed with the baudelaire children and their parents? what visitors came there? do people still think the mansion remains are haunted post-canon? what sort of new home do the baudelaires make for themselves when they return to the city?

november 14th - the clusterous forest

the wild and lawless place. what was it before the water was removed? what sort of beach or shore was there? where did the water go? does it ever come back? what does lemony, or anyone else, find in there? does another train ever come through after the thistle of the valley? do the stain'd-by-the-sea crew ever go in to investigate it? what sort of rumors might be created about a place like the clusterous forest?

november 15th - the hotel denouement

the last safe place! is it vfd-owned, or denouement-owned? what happens down in the archives? are the archives ever found? what sort of firefighter or firestarter meetings have taken place here? what relationship might they have with the preludio hotel? what were the denouements up to at the hotel? what hotel, or what sort of home in general, might frank and ernest create for themselves post-canon, with dewey's absence?

november 16th - the masked ball

the duchess of winnipeg's masked balls have so much potential! what happened at that last one, where lemony tried to contact beatrice? when was that? what happened at past balls? what is the duchess's relationship with the parties? (whether the duchess is jacquelyn or r or jacquelyn is r's daughter is up to you, dear reader!) what costumes do they all pick! or is there even a different masked ball you might have in mind?

november 17th - the reptile room

to also celebrate the 24th anniversary of the reptile room! what becomes of this house post-canon? how did monty come to own the reptile room, where does his herpetology career fit into vfd? why was the quagmire mansion connected to it? how did jacques get there and find quigley? what other moments with the baudelaire children in the reptile room might we have missed -- or pre-canon moments with the baudelaire parents? do not forget about our beloved, the incredibly deadly viper!

november 18th - free space!

there's tons of other locations, too! prufrock prep, heimlich hospital, 667 dark avenue, paltryville, caligari carnival, the city, the punctilio, veblen hall, the orion observatory, the opera, the sewers, the hemlock tearoom and stationery shop, the museum of items, the museum of bad breakfast, the snicket mansion, the quagmire mansion, the island, the mortmain mountains, lucky smells lumbermill, wade academy, killdeer fields, anwhistle aquatics, the queequeg? or do you care not for locations! use the free space to write about the character or relationship or thought of your choosing!

if you have any questions about anything, feel free to drop me an ask or a message!

happy creating, and i hope to see lots of you november 12th-18th!! ✨

[nayeonline]

Idolizing Imperfection: The Ancient Allusions of 'Midas Touch' - KISS OF LIFE (an essay)

I have missed writing kpop essays so much and after watching the new Kiss of Life MV, I couldn't resist doing a scene by scene (with some lyrics) breakdown of the allusions to ancient mythology - (there are lots of other modern references, especially to Britney Spears, but the ancient ones are what I will be focusing on here, believe me there is more than enough to talk about.) I don't have any official qualifications surrounding this field (yet), but I am studying classical civilization and roman literature for a qualification, and I have a long time obsession with Greek mythology especially. Obviously all of these are my interpretations, this is not a definite guide to what exactly the creative direction team at S2 Ent. were thinking about for this comeback, and if you think I missed something or have a different interpretation of one of the scenes, please let me know in the reblogs/comments.

Let’s begin with the title of the track, ‘Midas Touch’. It references the Greek myth of King Midas, who (according to Ovid’s ‘Metamorphoses’) after winning the favour of the god Dionysus, was granted any wish he desired. Midas chose the ability to make everything he touched turn into gold, a wish driven by greed. Midas revelled in his new found powers, but the problems arose when he realised that all food he touched would be turned to gold too - he had condemned himself to starve to death. The myth is essentially a cautionary tale about the effects of greed; Midas is a tragic hero that brought about his own suffering due to his hamartia (tragic flaw) - his blessing becomes his curse. Today, having a ‘midas touch’ means that everything you are involved with is successful, but the main association of Midas with greed still remains. In the context of the song, KOL are saying that a relationship with them, although destined to end in tragedy, would be worth it for the ‘gold’ they can bring - “위험할수록 재밌잖아” (“The more dangerous it is, the more fun it is”).  Midas may have died a tragic death, but his time alive was quite literally golden. Still, it feels slightly odd that KOL are associating themselves with someone so flawed - an idol should be the image of perfection, and in this way, the meaning of the song becomes quite subversive on a meta level. Keep this interpretation in the back of your mind, we will return to it later.

Within the music video itself, each of the four members are given solo scenes that I believe allude to different women of Greek mythology. Julie is first, depicted lying on a blush pink velvet heart with gold embellishments, shell and heart shaped boxes littered around her. The composition of the framing, as well as the beach imagery seems to allude to Boticelli’s ‘The Birth of Venus’, linking Julie with Aphrodite/Venus, the goddess of love. In Greek mythology, Aphrodite is seen as beautiful beyond compare, but is also often characterised as highly vain and self absorbed. After hearing that some Greeks had begun to worship the ludicrously beautiful mortal woman Psyche instead of her, (and also out of protection of her son Eros to whom Psyche was married), she sent Psyche on a series of impossible trials designed to kill her, so she could remain the most beautiful. Once again, KOL compare themselves to people in the ancient world who were famously flawed.

Natty is seen next, intertwined with glittering spider webs. This is perhaps a reference to the tale of Arachne, a mortal woman who was highly skilled at weaving. She boasted that her skills were greater than Athena herself, the goddess of handicraft (and many other things), and Athena transformed her into a spider as punishment for her hubris (excessive pride). Like the tale of King Midas, Arachne’s story also centres around a fatal flaw bringing your own downfall, and like Midas and Aphrodite, Arachne is not typically remembered fondly within Greek Mythology canon.

Perched on a half dress, half throne that resembles a peacock, Belle is seen next. Originally I wasn’t certain who was being referenced here, but after some research I believe it may be Hera, although if you have another interpretation here I would love to hear it. Hera, the goddess of marriage and fertility, queen of the gods, and wife to Zeus, is affiliated with peacocks as they are one of her sacred animals, and are said to pull her chariot like horses. Hera is also, like Aphrodite, a goddess often portrayed in a negative light in mythology, repeatedly characterised as jealous and spiteful. A famous example of this is when Hera sent two snakes to strangle Heracles/Hercules, the illegitimate son of her husband Zeus, out of spite and jealousy for the boy’s mortal mother. Whether Hera had a right to be annoyed at her husband’s repeated adultery is another discussion, but generally speaking, when Hera is in a myth, she is often the villain.

Finally, we see Haneul, perched upon a corinthian style column (we love a greek column) surrounded by severed heads on spikes, a clearly war ridden scene. This is the allusion I am the least confident about, but I think perhaps she is supposed to be Helen of Troy? Helen is famous for being the catalyst for the Trojan War (perhaps this is the war scene she sits within?), she is the ‘face that launched a thousand ships’. Depending on the source, Helen is either a victim, kidnapped by the Trojan prince Paris, or she was seduced and went willingly, abandoning her Greek husband King Menelaus. The second seems to be the accepted narrative among many Roman authors, with writers such as Martial (in Epigrams 1.62) portraying her as the polar opposite of Penelope, who was seen as the image of loyalty. As a result, Helen is commonly portrayed as disloyal and unfaithful, the opposite of what an ideal woman in the ancient world was supposed to act like.

In their group scenes, there is also SO MUCH Medusa imagery - with snakes crawling all over their faces and hissing at the camera, and half broken stone statues littered here and there. As I am sure you are probably aware, Medusa is very much a villain in the myths she is depicted in, and despite modern reevaluations of her story (that I agree with) portraying her as a victim, in the primary sources, she is essentially an evil monster for Perseus to destroy - her death marks Perseus’s ascension to hero status.

So why oh why are KOL comparing themselves to figures so flawed? In their previous releases, especially their first comeback with ‘Bad News’, the girls are depicted trying to fix injustices in society - they expose corruption in corporations, they combat casual misogyny and sexual harassment, and they call out bullying and abuse. In ‘Midas Touch’ I believe they continue their addressing of injustices and double standards, this time with a focus on the idol industry, their own stomping ground. In the kpop industry, idols are expected to be perfect in every way - beautiful, highly skilled, never controversial, and loyal to their fans. Should an idol fail to uphold these impossible standards, they are relentlessly punished, especially if the idol is a woman. Last month, Karina’s earnest apology to ‘fans’  for falling in love exposed how ludicrous the standards are to the world, and other idols like Sakura, Wonyoung, and Jennie, continue to get bullied on a daily basis for not meeting all of the bars the industry sets them. A kpop idol should be talented, but never show off, they should be beautiful and care about their looks but never be vain, confident but never egotistical, and driven by passion, not the desire for fame and money. It’s all fucking impossible, especially when what constitutes being called the second traits is utterly arbitrary and depends on how many people woke up on stan twitter and decided they didn’t like you that day. In ‘Midas Touch’ KOL calls this out by openly depicting themselves with the traits that kpop stans hate - Julie is Aphrodite, beautiful but vain, Natty is Arachne, talented but boastful, Belle is Hera, confident but jealous, Haneul is Helen, influential but disloyal, and they all are Midas, spurred on by greed instead of passion. They recognise that these accusations are unavoidable, and by reclaiming the imagery of these symbols of undesirable traits, they call out and reject the standards the idol industry places upon them. Like Medusa, they may be seen by many fans as a villain, a hurdle for their favourite groups that have more promotion and budget to overcome on their way to the top, but in actuality, they are victims of an industry desperate to mould them into products to be bought and sold. I’ve seen lots of discussion online about what KISS OF LIFE’s concept is, as it seems to vary every comeback, but after ‘Midas Touch’ I am led to believe that their concept is rebellion, against society, idol culture, and the things they deem as wrong in the world. Other groups have  done concepts similar in the past, such as LOONA in ‘Butterfly’ (you really thought I wasn’t going to bring them up at some point?? Are you new here??) but KOL is doing it explicitly, and consistently, and to me, that's very exciting. The kpop industry is ever changing, and with the foundations of the new 5th generation being established as we speak, perhaps KOL could cause it to change for the better. In summary, I am SO excited to see what they do next.

That honestly took a turn I wasn’t fully expecting at the end, but I hope you enjoyed regardless - I didn’t really talk about the actual song here, but I fucking loved it, and my full review will be part of my April monthly roundup - see previous installments on my masterlist. I encourage all of you to listen to ‘Midas Touch’ if you haven’t already, congratulations KISS OF LIFE for graduating nugudom, stream Birth by ARTMS, stan loona, and prepare for the loossemble comeback - lmk if you have any thoughts on my analysis or any other interpretations, or any topics you want me to write an essay on. cya next time ~ ari

[fumifooms]

oh, sorry for so many asks, i also wanted to say too though i really agree so much with your chilchuck thoughts so far, even down to your personal headcanons about how things might go post-series. and you're absolutely right, i'll defend that little guy any day myself. you understand him so well and it's kind of relaxing to have someone else dish out this kind of analysis and already agree with all of it cus it's just so real, so thank you again for the Meal <- perhaps the perfect thing to say about dungeon meshi analysis when i think about it

i know you have playlists and stuff so i wanted to share a song i've been listening to that that reminds me of him: divine loser by clem turner

No worries, they’ve been a lot of fun! I do plan on getting back to each one btw, just gotta get through some other things first hopefully. Aaaah that’s really nice to hear 🥺 I do know the feeling haha, it’s always fun to have posts that Get It that you just nod along with 🤝 I’ve thought sooo much about Chilchuck I rotate him in my brain like rotisserie chicken more often than not, glad it all ended up being productive haha. Y’know recently my friends have been calling me a Chilchuck superfan/scholar jokingly and it actually made me have a realization moment of…

Bc I’ve always said Laios was my fave and like, he does mean everything to me idk if I’ve ever felt so seen as with Laios, I relate to him sooo much, but then. Okay alright that can be a different thing than a character being your favorite fine FINE I admit it Chilchuck’s my top blorbo. He’s so.🧍‍♂️I can’t even describe. He’s so….. He’s a clown but he’s also perfection in its best imperfect form I will not be taking further questions today. My friend called him my silly rabbit like that one meme and it makes me laugh sm

Thank you for the music rec!! I listened to it and yes agreed, sent straight to my Chil playlist. Songs are my bread and butter when I have character brainrot bc like with web weavings I feel like there are so many emotions and thoughts you can communicate about something so simply through one… (Which for anyone interested here’s my web weaving tag, got 2 about Chil). Gonna link all my dunmeshi playlists while I’m here: Dungeon Meshi, Chilchuck & his wife, marchil, Mithrun.

Ok everyone saw this coming but this ask ran away from me and I ramble about some song lyrics I associate with Chil & different facets of his life below the cut. Some people find my, ehem, heated rambles about Chil entertaining, this is your cue to get out the popcorn.

When thinking about songs for Chil I have 3 angles I take: About Chilchuck, about him and his wife, or about him & Marcille. Marchil is so engraved into me with their arcs together, that they’re like the concept of closure and letting go and letting yourself live again to me, sorry for all the non-enjoyers…

I think currently my top song for him is Jackrabbit by San Fermin, because it combines all three it makes me go wild. It’s about trepidation… Throwing yourself into it even despite the fear (working with traps, survival in poverty where you have to rush & hustle), or just staying there paralyzed(not reaching out to his wife). Flight or freeze!! Saying goodbyes and saying hellos!! Not dying alone!! The life cycle of a wild rabbit living and dying, the baton pass race of life from generation to generation!! Chil and his daughters even!!! Going through life at a frenzied pace!! It is so Chilchuck and so marchil, and the music does give that hurried and scared energy to me too, and sigh the Marcille side to it with fear of death too…

Extra fun context but the other day on the discord server we were talking about what animal each character’s fursona would be as we do and I thought of a rabbit for Chilchuck: Quick footed, ‘cowardly’, small and frail and seen as weak 🙃, athletic and slender, pulls stunts, stressed out, has very fine hearing and has good instincts, etc. And ofc that fits really well with Marcille since she’s kinda associated with dungeon rabbits hehe~ But I think while Marcille’s 100% the cute round rabbit Chil’s more like a brown hare, more wild and like, more like a jackalope if we’re still doing monsters... I do lowkey find it more fun than his associated monster being mimics because he’s crabby, because they’re clever (with where they place themselves) and because of how he has a soft shell but soft insides, lol.

OKAY so that’s my song pick with the main 3 facets sure, now I’ll share some lyrics for each 3 sides separatedly 😈 Kinda summarizing my web weavings for him thus far. If we start with Chilchuck by himself we have… Enter One by Shelby Merry and Drunk by The Living Tombstone

With his wife, we have the bad end, and the good end for if they get back together with Lost Kitten by Metric and North by Sleeping At Last… Okay okay plus Love Like Ghosts and My Heart is Buried in Venice… Little Soldier by The Crane Wives for them also RUIN me

And Marchil… Marchil oh my beloved. Another buddy also made a full analysis on discord about Soap by The Oh Hellos for them lol, but these are Not I by I Fight Dragons and My Heart is Buried in Venice again~

Okay okay two more. Boats & Birds by Gregory and The Hawk, and Tummy by Tamino.

Finishing it up with quotes from, in order, A Softer World by Joey Comeau, Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky, Acknowledgements by Danez Smith, The Letter by Richard Paul Evans, and last but not least posts from dead tumblr account flintcoded. I keep looking around and finding MORE fitting quotes. Someone stop me- In loving me you hold a knife at my throat, in loving you I tell you exactly where to cut. Forgive me, memory is a rope around my neck. I need you to be happy, I need one of us to be happy.

Hand in unlovable hand…

In conclusion;

[greetingfromthedead]

3. Shadows

Series: Mermaid!AU Depth of Despair

Pairing: Vash x GN!Reader

Word count: 2.1k

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I hope I'll see you again. I have so many questions for you. There's another bay down the shore; it is surrounded by difficult cliffs and filled with sharp reefs. Nobody goes there, as it's too dangerous compared to all the other places. I will wait for you there. I will leave the red coat at the top so you can see from afar if I am there. Please be safe; only come if you aren't putting yourself in danger. I understand, no matter what you choose.

Your head swims with his voice echoing in your mind. He spoke the words softly as he carried you back to the water. You spent a lot longer hiding in the meadow than you needed to. You let his voice wipe away your fear, leaving just curiosity and satisfaction. You think back to all the cautionary tales you have been told. It has been hammered into your head that letting a human capture you means death or a fate even worse than that. Your purpose in life should be to hunt his kind and never allow yourself to be caught—mutual enemies only there to advance themselves, but the man called Vash was nothing but kind and protective towards you. Perhaps you are just naive, but you can't bring yourself to think ill of him. It doesn't mean you trust him; you avoid showing your cards, letting him believe you are weak and mute when in reality you would have a fighting chance if push came to shove. You know how to play the game, even if you despise it.

Letting the waters push and pull, you find yourself deep, far out in the sea. You lay in a bed of sea grass, nestled between rocks that shelter you from the current. You look up like you did before, but instead of a light blue sky and fluffy white clouds, it's the rippling of water above you. The rays of light get filtered by the murk of the ocean until they're just a shimmer that can't warm your skin. You miss it already. The strong contrast of heat against your cool skin, both from the sun and Vash's embrace. A whole other world is out there, filled with experiences that are not meant for you. But you can't help but yearn for it, despite not fully understanding it. Your heart aches with a longing for something more. A purpose other than what you were born for.

Your daydream is cut short as a giant shadow passes over you. The sea serpent tail glides through the water, blocking off the sun. You don't see his scales glisten in the sunlight, but you know too well the dark onyx color of them. You pray he hasn't noticed you as you pull yourself behind a large rock, your hair swaying together with the fluffy algae covering it. A moment later, you realize the crown on your head, and you pull it off, pushing it under a smaller rock, crushing the delicate flowers Vash weaved together for you. A pang of guilt flashes through you as you destroy the precious gift, but you can't have anyone see it. It's better this way.

You keep your eyes on the figure moving away from you. He looks magnificent and monstrous, with long, sharp spikes running along his spine with ripped webbing in between. He scares you; he is a true soldier, leaning into who you are supposed to be. Powerful and dangerous. You wonder what he is doing this far from the den. Is he looking for you? Perhaps you have been away too long.

Going back is the last thing you want to do. You want to be free and live life on your own terms. You don't want to be pushed into becoming a deep-sea monster like so many of them. Your birthright is constantly held above your head, but giving in to that will only lead to a life of misery for you. Your world is cruel and strange. It's a looming shadow that follows you everywhere you go. The longer you spend away from that cannibalistic nest of your kin, the less you want to return to that life. The day you spent today only made you more determined to never go back. You should leave entirely. Let the stars and the currents guide you to waters unknown where others can never find you. It's a tempting thought, yet a lonely life. You could find a new shore to watch people live their little lives, but it is hard to turn your back on the beaches you have visited for years now, especially now that you know the man you saved is truly alive.

As the shadow of the monster disappears into the darkness of the water, you relax again, turning to lean your back against the slippery surface of the rock. One of your clawed hands keeps you from drifting away, grabbing hold of the algae. You lift the other one to your face. The fingers are long and webbed. From the fingertips grow lengthy and sturdy nails, sharp enough to rip flesh from bone. Your true nature is revealed under the surface of the water. You are not human after all. You are a mermaid, and that comes with its own truths. You are mostly covered by scales from your neck down, shimmering in the light like precious jewels. Even your tail is longer than on the surface, nearly triple the length of your torso. Fins, both sturdy and thin, grow out of your body, from your back all the way down to your tail. Some of them are ripped from before, when you got stuck in the fishnet. You're lucky you aren't bleeding, as otherwise you would have been discovered just now.

You're lost and hopeless. You don't know what to do or where to go from here. You don't want to follow the path traversed by everyone, but you know you are too weak to forge a new one on your own. Or rather, you're too weak to not be forced back onto the same well-worn path of your ancestors. Leave it all behind. You think again, but you already find yourself swimming back towards the shore.

You linger in the cave system you came across a while back. The entrance is hidden in deep waters, protected by the jagged reef that stretches out from the shore. The water is crystal clear, allowing you to see the fish darting in and out between the algae, they don't seem to be disturbed by you. The cave leads down before coming up again; a pocket of air separates one tunnel from the next. It's hard to stay still and get your thoughts in order; instead, you keep surfacing to look towards a narrow bay. It is surrounded on three sides by high cliffs, with some tall trees growing at the top. A red cloth appears tied to a branch each morning and only disappears before nightfall. It's the same crimson Vash wrapped you in, and you know he is waiting for you. The waves crash against the rocks, beckoning you to come closer, but the conflict in your chest acts as an anchor.

This continues until a gray morning, when rain pours from the sky. It's gloomy and dark. You need to swim closer to confirm that the red coat is not hanging from the tree, and suddenly you feel sad. Vash didn't come this time. He isn't waiting for you on the beach. It makes you feel alone, and that realization only makes you feel stranger. You return to your hideout, away from the stormy surface.

The water feels colder than usual; it makes your muscles rigid and your heart heavy. You spend the day in deep thought, considering your options, but somehow you always end up on the image of the red coat hanging from the branch and the loneliness you feel in your chest. You curse yourself for not having the heart to turn your back on everything you've known and start anew. Once again, you slink out of the cave and turn your eyes up towards the surface. It is no longer shrouded in darkness and seems calm. You notice something else. A tiny shadow drifts on top of the water, barely visible. It almost looks like a piece of sea grass, but you decide to go look anyway. As you get closer, you realize this isn't from the ocean at all. You pull it under water to examine it. It's a flower. You recognize it as one Vash used to weave the flower crown. It has a long stalk with a few small leaves attached to it, and the top bloom has a brilliant yellow center with skinny white petals radiating outwards from it. It's somewhat large, and from the stem, a few more offshoots carry flowers that are still closed.

You hold the plant close to your chest as you surface and look around. You have to strain your eyes to notice a few other foreign things floating towards the open sea. As you swim closer, you pick up a few more flowers. The next one you find reminds you a lot of the first, but the skinny petals are a light purple shade, and the whole thing is smaller. There are multiple blossoms on one stalk, and it has many skinny leaves. You hold on to it as you come across the next one. It has a short stem, and it has leaves that grow from a stalk in groups of three. The blossom itself is like a small white ball; the petals are tiny and look green as they get to the top. You decide to add it to your collection as well. You find a few more of the first flower and the second and third before you come across a fourth kind. It is tall, tiny blue blooms appearing along the stalk in an orderly fashion. It reminds you a bit of the tails of cats and dogs. Below there are quite wide, dark green leaves. You admire the flowers all together. Only then do you realize just how far into the bay you have strayed.

The water has gotten somewhat shallow; the bottom is covered by sharp rocks that reach for the sky and occasionally break the surface. You even notice a few rotting boats that have wrecked themselves on the reef. You slowly surface again, hidden from view. You immediately look upward to see the red coat flapping in the wind. Vash is here. He must have dropped these flowers in the water, but why? Curiosity takes hold of you, and you swim closer to investigate. Climbing onto a rock gives you the vantage point needed to see the familiar man standing a few steps from the water's edge. His boots lay on the dry sand, and his pants are turned up to his knees. The water reaches about halfway up his calf, and the wind plays with the ruffles of his pillowy white shirt. You see more flowers on the surface of the water close to him and a few more in his hand that he carefully places on the surface as the waves retreat to carry the blooms out to the open water. As if sensing your presence, he straightens up again to look out, and his eyes meet yours. His face lights up with a wide smile, and he raises his arm to give you a big wave of greeting. You can't help it as you feel your lips curl upward into a grin before you jump back into the water.

With the help of the powerful tail, you glide through the shallow water. You keep the flowers you picked close, covering them with your hand to keep them from getting too bruised. The momentum helps you pull yourself onto a slanted rock near Vash, and you're glad for the seaweed in your hair as it hides your face just long enough for it to take on a more human form. You hear his approach, and you turn to smile at him, uncovering the flowers tucked against your chest.

"My poor memory can never do justice to your beauty," he says, smiling widely. "I see you got my flowers. I hoped they would bring you some joy; I didn't expect them to bring you here."

You see the same flowers in one of his hands—just a few remaining that haven't been sent off to sea. You look around the beach area, but you don't see any of these flowers growing here.

"I brought them from my garden." Vash answers your wordless question. "I grew them myself."

He told you he lived in the forest; it was quite a way away from here. So to think he brought these flowers from so far, and he had no way of knowing you would ever come across them at all. Your gaze moves back to him, and his expression is soft as he hands you the remaining flowers. You take them and put them with the ones you picked up along the way. Yours look battered and sad—nothing like the perky, fresh ones he gave you.

"This is a daisy." Vash says as he gently touches the delicate petals of the white flower with a golden center. "And that's clover." He continues, brushing his fingers over the other white flower. "This one is salvia." He says this, indicating the blue flower that reminded you of a bushy tail. "And the last one is an aster."

You look at each of the flowers in your hand, gently tracing their petals with your fingertips, feeling the delicate softness now that you have some dry specimens. His fingers still linger by the daisy, as if he forgot them there. He only pulls away once your fingers brush against his. Vash gives you a smile, his blue eyes narrowing with happiness as he gazes at you.

"The blue and purple reminded me a bit of your pretty scales shimmering in the sunlight." Vash says with a slight blush reddening his cheeks.

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[mwolf0epsilon]

The Umbaran Pathogen - Day 18: Warm Soup

Summary: Obi-wan really has to stop ending up in these most compromising positions. It's becoming a terrible habit, and people might get the wrong impression. But, at least he does manage to get a few words out of their most gracious host... Although they're not exactly words of comfort...

Warning: Regurgitation grossness and force-feeding (as is to be expected since bugs don't exactly conform to table-side manners)

Here’s what Tup currently looks like (and Dogma's design should give a vague idea of what Cody looks like since they belong to the same cast)

Prev / Next

[In which the events on Umbara are worsened by an unknown pathogen taking hold of both the 501st and 212th. These series of drabbles will follow a non-linear timeline based on the AI-less Whumptober prompt list for 2023.]

THIS STORY IS ALSO ON AO3

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This, Obi-wan mused, was not an ideal situation...

Not that he wasn't used to this kind of arrangement by now. If he had a credit for every time he ended up bound (and sometimes gagged, if his captors weren't overly fond of his charming personality) in some way shape or form, he'd have far too many credits for it to be sensible or even tasteful for someone of his prestigious position.

Perhaps it was just bad luck on his part that he somehow got himself into this sort of position. Or maybe the Force was just trying to tell him something, in all it's cryptic but somewhat wild and tricksy wisdom.

Whatever the case, he was currently suspended 5 feet in the air while tied up by some very viscous and impressively strong spider-like silk.

Trooper Tup, upon realizing what had been holding him back, had made quick work of all their efforts to restrain and impede the infected. Turning his full attention onto him, and lunging forward before he could change what direction he was pulling him in. The collision had sent Obi-wan flying, the air knocked out of his lungs, and then the monstrously mutated clone had descended upon him in a flurry of vile regurgitation, pulling and weaving.

On the plus side, he seemed to be in no mood for adding him to the roster of infected. On the downside, the few healthy troopers that remained were also trapped in the thick webbing, and the more recently infected were being cocooned while they watched helplessly.

While it certainly proved a good enough distraction to provide the 501st's medical team with some much needed time to escape, it was still not the most ideal of scenarios. Especially considering they were being forced to watch as Tup pulled each of the newly-infected 212th troopers close, considering them carefully, before opening up his jaws as wide as possible. A gesture which each of Obi-wan's men mirrored, accepting the following steaming hot torrent of pinkish liquid that spilled directly into their gullets, as if it were manna from heaven.

The display had not gone down well with the rest of the healthy, who gagged and retched in disgust as they watched their fellow clones be mouth-fed in such a disturbing manner. The horrid stench of the goo reaching their nostrils and eyes, making them sting and drip in irritation.

And the worst part was the wickedly smug grin the altered soldier sent their way, seeming pleased with their discomfort as he bundled up each of the men he'd finished "feeding". The pincer-like mandibles jutting out of his jaw clicking in a taunting manner.

The thing that had taken over the once-sweet young man had certainly twisted him into a rather cruel and sadistic individual. One that most definitely liked to toy with its prey.

"Not exactly weather for warm soup, don't you think?" No matter, Obi-wan was also very fond of toying with those who'd crossed him and the 212th. While Tup was not at fault for this, the thing controlling him was. And if it understood taunting and smugness, then it would certainly fall for the bait and lose even more time trying to argue back in some way.

Pausing for a second, Cody cradled in those terrifyingly sharp pincers of his, the mutated clone seemed to be caught slightly aback. Perhaps assuming no one would think him smart enough to engage in conversation. Or perhaps just curious to see where he was going with this. Regardless of what it might be, it stared at him with a distrustful glare.

"Truly, the men were in very good health before you decided to... Share this sickness of yours with them..." The Jedi carried on. Trying not to flinch in revulsion as Cody accepted the same disgusting liquid almost greedily. Lapping it up with this uncharacteristically doe-eyed look that did not belong on his face. "They were also full from mid-meal when we left our camp..."

"A̸s̴c̷e̸n̴s̷i̷o̵n̵ ̶t̷a̵k̷e̴s̴ ̶e̸n̴e̶r̶g̷y̶ ̸a̷n̵d̵ ̴n̶u̴t̸r̶i̶t̴i̸o̴n̴.̴" Tup hissed, his garbled voice having become much deeper than what it had once been. Rendered even more of a baritone than even the late Krell's naturally deep voice. "N̴o̴n̷e̵ ̶o̸f̸ ̴w̵h̸i̴c̵h̸ ̵t̴h̵e̴s̵e̵ ̸s̵t̵a̵r̴v̶i̷n̸g̷ ̸P̵u̵p̵a̸ ̶h̴a̸v̸e̴ ̶t̵o̴ ̶s̶p̸a̴r̴e̵.̴.̸.̸"

The anger and clear disgust aimed at Obi-wan were more than noted. He had a feeling Tup's opinion of him was less than stellar at the moment. Possibly from him stopping the trooper from attacking the medics but... Well, it seemed a little odd that this alone would make him sound so venomous towards him in particular...

He was missing something.

"I wouldn't call what is happening to these men a form of 'ascension', as you put it..." He argued, trying to keep Tup distracted for as long as he could. Frowning as the other finished wrapping up Cody in a cocoon so his second in command could undergo metamorphosis. "But I do agree our food stores for this mission have indeed been depleted to dangerous levels..."

"Y̷o̴u̴r̷ ̵f̴o̷o̷d̶ ̸i̸s̸ ̴w̷o̵r̵t̶h̶ ̶l̴i̶t̸t̸l̶e̶!̵" Tup snapped as he gently settled the cocooned Commander down next to the other resting bundles. Approaching Obi-wan and the rest of the trapped troopers, he jabbed him on the chest with a clawed pincer. "N̴e̴v̴e̸r̷ ̷f̵i̵l̸l̴i̶n̴g̶.̵ ̴N̸e̶v̴e̵r̴ ̸e̴n̵o̶u̵g̸h̵ ̷t̸o̴ ̴m̶a̶i̴n̴t̴a̷i̶n̴ ̵a̴n̶y̴ ̸p̶r̴e̷c̵i̸o̵u̶s̷ ̸f̴a̶t̴ ̶r̸e̸s̷e̷r̷v̸e̴s̷.̷ ̵U̸s̶e̴l̷e̷s̶s̸ ̶s̸t̷a̵l̵e̴ ̶s̵l̸o̶p̸!̴"

Tail lashing with irritation, the mutated trooper began to pace impatiently. Giving them all a proper and good view of his horrifically misshapen body. The grueling transformation he'd undergone.

In some ways, he almost resembled a Chironian now. His upper torso mostly that of a man (barring the extra eyes, blue and black scales, the jagged fang-like plates and pincers attached to his jaw, all the spikes and the two gigantic mantis-like pincers), while is back end had extended into a four legged almost equine-like insectoid body, with very long and incredibly powerful limbs and tail to match.

The black shield like plating on his back gave Obi-wan the impression that he was also in possession of a strong set of wings, that could fully carry him in flight. Although Tup had yet to reveal those. Opting to intimidate them all with just the sound of his heavy footfalls and brutish strength.

"W̸e̶ ̴w̷e̸r̷e̵ ̷t̷o̴l̴d̷ ̸t̴h̸e̶ ̴J̵e̵d̸i̵ ̸w̸o̴u̴l̶d̴ ̴c̸a̷r̴e̸ ̵f̸o̴r̵ ̵u̶s̴.̴ ̶T̷h̵a̷t̶ ̷w̶e̷ ̶w̴e̴r̷e̴ ̴f̸o̵r̴ ̵t̴h̵e̵m̴,̶ ̶s̵o̶ ̸t̷h̸e̴y̸ ̸w̸o̵u̶l̷d̶ ̸p̸r̷o̵t̸e̷c̶t̴ ̴a̷n̴d̸ ̴s̶t̷a̷n̶d̷ ̴b̴y̸ ̸u̴s̷.̶" The insectoid man growled, glaring at Obi-wan with all 7 of his eyes. "B̵u̶t̴ ̵t̸h̵a̵t̵ ̸w̶a̶s̶ ̶c̶l̴e̷a̶r̴l̴y̴ ̶a̸ ̷l̷i̷e̸.̴.̶.̵ ̵S̷k̵y̶w̴a̸l̵k̶e̶r̵ ̷l̸e̵f̷t̴ ̶u̵s̸ ̴h̶e̷r̵e̸.̸.̸.̷ ̵K̷r̴e̶l̵l̴ ̵s̵e̷n̸t̶ ̴u̸s̵ ̴t̸o̷ ̵o̸u̶r̴ ̸d̸e̶a̶t̸h̶s̷.̸.̸.̸ ̵S̵o̷ ̷m̴a̵n̸y̶ ̸v̴o̸d̴e̸ ̸l̶o̶s̷t̴.̸ ̵P̸o̸w̷e̸r̷l̶e̸s̶s̶.̷ ̵D̵i̵s̴r̴e̴g̷a̴r̸d̴e̵d̴!̶"

He frowned at that.

Yes, Anakin had left, but not of his own volition... If anything, his old Padawan had been reluctant to leave the 501st behind, upon being called away back to Coruscant. Only resting at ease when someone from the temple came to substitute him. He was, after all, protective of his men.

It seemed like things had not gone well with Krell. Come to think of it, the Besalisk Jedi Master had been rather distant as of late. Quieter. Less willing to engage anyone in conversation. Obi-wan wondered if that had anything to do with his death. If perhaps things had taken an unexpected turn due to Master Krell's recent bout of anti-social behavior.

If that were the case, then Tup's aggression towards him might be easier to explain.

"B̷u̷t̶ ̷t̸h̷e̵n̸.̶.̶.̷ ̶I̵ ̷b̷e̷c̵a̴m̵e̴ ̶t̶h̷i̷s̶.̷ ̵I̵ ̸b̸e̷c̷a̶m̸e̸ ̸g̷r̴e̴a̴t̶e̸r̴!̴" And at that, Tup smiled, seeming almost euphoric in how he motioned at himself. Proudly showing himself off to them. "S̸t̷r̸o̴n̴g̴e̷r̵,̴ ̵r̵e̴s̶i̸l̷i̸e̴n̷t̶,̷ ̸a̵t̵ ̸t̶h̸e̴ ̷v̵e̵r̵y̵ ̵t̸o̸p̶ ̶o̵f̸ ̶t̴h̶e̸ ̸f̴o̷o̷d̵ ̴c̷h̶a̸i̶n̴.̷ ̵A̷n̶d̷ ̷b̶e̷t̶t̶e̴r̴ ̵y̶e̷t̵,̸ ̷I̸ ̴c̷o̸u̵l̴d̵ ̸s̴h̴a̸r̵e̶ ̸t̴h̴i̸s̷ ̶g̸i̷f̵t̶ ̵w̴i̴t̴h̴ ̸e̶v̴e̴r̵y̸o̷n̸e̸ ̸e̴l̴s̵e̵!̷ ̷W̸i̸t̵h̶ ̴t̴h̸i̷s̶ ̶t̴r̴a̶n̶s̴f̵o̸r̸m̶a̸t̶i̸o̸n̶,̷ ̷t̷h̷i̴s̷ ̴e̸v̷o̴l̴u̷t̴i̵o̴n̷,̸ ̶w̶e̶ ̵c̶o̷u̶l̷d̸ ̴a̶l̵l̸ ̵l̴i̸v̵e̴!̸ ̵W̴e̷ ̶c̴o̴u̸l̵d̸ ̴a̷l̶l̸ ̷b̷e̵ ̷s̷a̶f̵e̴!̶"

"I see... You're doing this to protect your brothers." The Jedi would stroke his beard in thought if he could. He could see the logic, could see the lies this parasite had fed to a young man desperate to protect his kin, and it honestly repulsed him how something could so easily use such an emotional vulnerability against someone like Tup. No creature should be that naturally cruel.

"Y̶e̶s̴.̷.̴.̵ ̴I̷'̷m̵ ̶m̴a̸k̷i̴n̸g̵ ̵t̵h̶e̸m̴ ̵b̴e̴t̴t̷e̵r̶!̴ ̵I̵'̵m̵ ̴s̶a̶v̴i̴n̷g̸ ̴t̶h̴e̷m̶!̸" The mutated trooper eagerly nodded, twitching with excitement at the idea of being understood. Of his actions being justifiable. "U̷n̴d̵e̸r̴ ̸m̵y̶ ̴r̷u̵l̴e̶,̶ ̸o̸u̵r̴ ̷H̴i̸v̴e̶ ̵w̸i̸l̵l̶ ̴p̴r̶o̴s̸p̸e̶r̸!̵ ̴I̵'̶v̶e̴ ̵d̶o̴n̸e̸ ̴a̸ ̸w̸o̵n̵d̷e̴r̸f̸u̷l̵ ̵t̸h̷i̸n̵g̵!̷"

"No, I'm afraid you really haven't..."

And perhaps that was the wrong thing to say, as the excitement fell of Tup's face. Replaced by a sudden look of confusion and hurt, and then with one of absolute rage at being questioned.

Surging forward with a roar, the mutated insectoid got up close and personal, screaming directly in Obi-wan's face.

"Y̶O̶U̸ ̷D̶O̴N̶'̶T̷ ̶K̸N̶O̵W̴ ̴A̶N̶Y̷T̷H̵I̶N̶G̵!̶" The anger and despair smelled like rotting fruit with hints of decaying meat. Or maybe that was just Tup's rancid breath as he sprayed him with speckles of warm and sticky saliva. "I̵'̶M̷ ̴S̴A̵V̷I̵N̶G̷ ̴M̶Y̶ ̶F̴A̸M̷I̶L̴Y̸!̸ ̵Y̴O̸U̴ ̸J̶U̸S̶T̸ ̶D̸O̵N̶'̷T̴ ̷U̵N̷D̷E̶R̵S̸T̵A̶N̷D̴ ̸T̵H̷A̸T̵ ̵B̶E̴C̴A̵U̸S̴E̷ ̸Y̷O̷U̸'̴R̴E̶ ̶A̴ ̴J̷E̶D̵I̶ ̴A̴N̶D̶ ̶D̵O̶N̴'̶T̴ ̴H̸A̷V̴E̸ ̴O̷N̶E̷ ̵O̸F̴ ̷Y̵O̴U̷R̵ ̶O̸W̴N̸!̵!̴!̸"

Turning away quickly, Tup checked on the cocoons and gently nudged them. Calming down as he felt the troopers within respond to his touch. Antennae and tail twitching in delight as some of them began to break out of the tightly woven shells.

"Y̴o̸u̸'̷l̷l̷ ̴s̷e̵e̵.̵.̴.̸ ̷W̷e̷'̵l̷l̵ ̵a̶l̷l̶ ̴b̶e̸ ̸s̴a̸f̸e̶ ̴w̸i̶t̴h̵i̷n̶ ̴t̶h̷e̸ ̶H̴i̵v̷e̴.̷.̸.̷ ̷S̸a̸f̷e̶ ̷a̸n̴d̸ ̵l̸o̸v̴e̸d̴ ̵a̸n̸d̵ ̸a̸w̸a̵y̵ ̵f̴r̴o̴m̶ ̵y̴o̴u̸r̸ ̵w̴r̸e̷t̶c̷h̸e̷d̶ ̸w̵a̸r̵.̸.̸.̵" Tup purred, as he watched Cody emerge from his cocoon, a fully formed Drone at his beck and call just like Dogma. "B̴u̴t̵ ̷f̶i̴r̵s̶t̴.̶.̷.̵ ̷I̸ ̴n̵e̵e̴d̴ ̸t̵o̵ ̸d̸e̶a̴l̵ ̵w̸i̵t̶h̶ ̴s̷o̵m̴e̶ ̴l̶o̴o̶s̷e̴ ̴e̴n̵d̶s̵.̸"

He motioned for Cody to help the others break out of their own cocoons before moving towards the exit, looking back at the healthy troopers and Jedi with delight.

"I̸t̴'̶s̴ ̷a̴ ̷s̷h̴a̵m̸e̶ ̶t̴o̵ ̶k̴i̷l̶l̵ ̷t̴h̴e̷m̷,̵ ̶b̸u̶t̵ ̵t̷h̴e̵ ̸m̵e̸d̶i̷c̷s̸'̴s̴ ̷m̶e̶a̷t̶ ̴w̸o̸n̴'̷t̸ ̵g̷o̴ ̴t̵o̷ ̸w̴a̸s̶t̷e̴.̴" He smirked wickedly, back plates opening up to reveal two massive sets of glowing wings that were preparing to take off. "A̶n̷d̷ ̸h̵o̸n̶e̷s̵t̵l̷y̵,̵ ̷n̴o̴u̵r̴i̵s̵h̶i̶n̸g̸ ̵t̵h̸e̶ ̸v̸o̸d̷e̷ ̷i̶s̵ ̴w̶h̵a̸t̶ ̷t̴h̸e̵y̸ ̵w̴o̸u̵l̴d̴ ̶h̷a̴v̸e̸ ̴w̶a̴n̵t̸e̶d̴ ̸a̸n̴y̷w̷a̵y̴.̷.̸.̶ ̵W̴e̷r̷e̸ ̶t̶h̶e̶y̸ ̶n̵o̸t̷ ̶t̵o̴o̴ ̴b̵l̸i̵n̸d̶ ̵t̴o̶ ̵s̸e̴e̸ ̴h̸o̴w̷ ̶w̸o̶n̸d̶e̷r̴f̷u̴l̵ ̶a̴ ̸g̵i̶f̴t̴ ̶t̵h̷i̵s̷ ̵i̸s̵.̷.̵.̸"

With that said, the mutant took flight and left the medbay. Either to hunt down the medics, or perhaps to free Dogma so the other could help him on his personal hunt.

Obi-wan could only hope that he'd bought them all enough time...

[fr0gg13b413]

Baie | she/they | unlabled | 18

– currently listening to: 'david melrose theme' by hauschka, smokey eyes by lincoln, along with elias hix, hozier, noah kahan, gang of youths – currently reading: all the light we cannot see by anthony doerr and phosphorecence by julia baird

welcome

hello :> it's general chaos around here. possibly some web weaving of my own floating about. but there's not much else to it

about me: australian!! 2006. lover of love and life. infj 4w5. very in love ᰔᩚ chaotic good! rediscovering and building my faith :) lqbtqia+

academia: graduated '23!! starting my double degree in ‘24! slowly self-teaching japanese ᰔᩚ. chaotic academia by blood

the goal: bachelor criminology and criminal justice + psychological science (and maybe cybercrime in the future?)

master list

(links are broken atm, but the tags are correct)

#poems and quotes

#ineptias loqour (my posts)

#study log

#media

#artwork

#music

#musings (a fav of mine)

#meme

#not a meme but that same category of posts

#on christianity

#letters to myself

#that one type of green

#web weaving

#anderson don’t talk out loud. you lower the iqueue of the whole street. (queue tag)

added this section with the tags i use most often so i can find posts later, everything else is just #on *thing* and frankly i can't be bothered with that.

will possibly add links to fandoms and reads... not sure yet. it would be good to have an active list of all the books i read and enjoyed enough to keep a list of…. here’s a short list of fandomesque things tho: sherlock, rwby, bts/kpop, d20, sk8 the infinity, good omens, epic the musical, lore olympus webtoon, loki series, fnaf,

books would include: archives of despair by caleb finn, hamlet, good omens, throne of glass series, embassy row series, the song of achilles by madeline miller, they both die at the end duology, the inheritance games series, shadow and bone+six of crows, everything by alice oseman

music as well perhaps? hozier, bts, ericdoa, noah kahan, glaive, cage the elephant, lizzy mcalpine, cave town, mccafferty, chase atlantic, brakence, eden, the front bottoms, (it’s all over the place… just not much country music tbh)

here’s the old intro post, haven't decided what to do with it yet

⊹˚₊ ૮꒰•༝ •。꒱ა

ik this is a new account, but i’ve been here since july 2020 &lt;3

for what i have done and failed to do i am sorry.

[josephines-library]

A Poem About Fungi 🍄

word count: 293

warnings: mentions of bugs and spiders, drugs (psychedelic mushrooms), and themes of death and destruction. at the end there is a photo of zombie stage makeup.

lmk if you would like to know about the references i make in each stanza! or take a guess! enjoy :)

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Look at me.  I am time, I am death,  and I must one day  destroy your world  as I have always done.  I have drained the pines of their honey,  suckled at their roots,  tied my strings around their shoes.  I settled in the Blue Mountains before  you learned to settle at all.  I can be a companion of the trees, too.  I wrap my arms around their roots,  weaving a web, plugging myself in  to the intricate network  in the earth below the earth.  Even algae can be my ally.  We cling to the rocks,  and to each other.  The perfect soul mates  growing in green harmony.  In the darkest night,  my eerie glow  shines brighter than the stars.  Insects flock to me, the only solace  in a lightless life.  Long ago, you believed I was a flower  or a fruit. How could you  forget? We are family, after all:  we share the same taste  for death.  I hold hands with my siblings in the grass.  Together, we create a stage,  or a portal, perhaps, to a place  where faeries dance  in soft moonlight.  You believe that I am magic,  that I can fly you far away  from the troubled world  you created. I twist your mind  in bright and hazy spirals.  I twist your mind, and  I create a troubled world,  one that is full of fire and death  and brimstone and wrath.  I am above you; I control you.  I control others too.  I deceive the termites:  they care for me, carry me,  as if I am their own  child.  And their sisters— the spiders, the ants, the beetles—  are puppets when I whisper in their ears.  When I am finished with my feast,  I burst out of their heads.

Image Source: stage makeup by Barrie Gower depicting a fictional cordyceps species for the HBO series The Last of Us.

[apocalypticavolition]

Let's (re)Read The Eye of the World! Chapter 43: Decisions and Apparitions

This picture shows the fate of all those who attempt to view WoT spoilers before they're ready! You don't want to end up with a forehead like that, do you (I know you Tumblr sickos would totally go for the eyes and mouth - I would too!)? If you don't want spoilers, this post covers everything for the whole Wheel of Time series and you'd prefer to be elsewhere.

For everyone else, this chapter has the Dragon's Fang icon. We're moving into Rand actually being ready to have these dream battles, so their nature and purpose is being hinted at here.

“During the Time of Madness, while the world was still being broken, the earth was in upheaval, and humankind was being scattered like dust on the wind. We Ogier were scattered, too, driven from the stedding,into the Exile and the Long Wandering, when the Longing was graven on our hearts.”

Presumably the Ogier will finally be cured of the Longing when they use the Book of Translation and go home again, as the circumstances that lead to it will no longer be present. But we don't know that for certain, and it is interesting to consider other possibilities - perhaps the Seanchan Ogier, who never developed the condition, might cure it before all the Ogier go home.

“Some in Tar Valon,” Moiraine said quietly, “claim that Ogier sanctuary prolonged the Breaking and made it worse. Others say that if all of those men had been allowed to go mad at once, there would have been nothing left of the world. I am of the Blue Ajah, Loial; unlike the Red Ajah, we hold to the second view. Sanctuary helped to save what could be saved. Continue, please.”

We're all predisposed to take Moiraine's side in this debate because we like her and hate the Reds, but since I invite you all to consider for a moment that we don't know. The Reds might be absolutely correct here that the prolonging of the Breaking led to further damage; the fact that it seems to have lasted for three hundred years means most non-channelers would have lost what institutional knowledge was left over. The creation of the Ways was still necessary from the Pattern's perspective, so the Ogier's kindness wasn't wasted, but it may not have immediately saved the world.

“How did they make them?” Egwene asked. Her puzzled look took in Moiraine and Loial both.

Points to Egwene. She isn't the political natural like Rand is, but she's very clever in working out the One Power.

“One thing we can do. We can try. What seems like chance is often the Pattern. Three threads have come together here, each giving a warning: the Eye. It cannot be chance; it is the Pattern. You three did not choose; you were chosen by the Pattern. And you are here, where the danger is known. You can step aside, and perhaps doom the world. Running, hiding, will not save you from the weaving of the Pattern. Or you can try. You can go to the Eye of the World, three ta’veren, three centerpoints of the Web, placed where the danger lies. Let the Pattern be woven around you there, and you may save the world from the Shadow. The choice is yours. I cannot make you go.”

While technically speaking of course Winternight was the Call to Adventure of the Hero's Journey archetype, Moiraine here is giving them a second Call that's an actual choice. With the aftermath of a personal attack, they had no reason not to try and reach Tar Valon, but now the trio is given an actual choice to step up and be heroes. Egwene and Nyaneve, who technically did make have free choice, are still given a chance to reaffirm that choice now that the stakes are absolutely clear. Thus all five are now worthy of the destiny being thrust upon them.

Rand wished he could be as matter-of-fact as the Wisdom. He could not stop pacing up and down, as if he had energy to burn or burst from it.

It's a common fandom meme that the boys are always wishing they could be as good with girls as the other boys, and it's circulating on Tumblr these days that the girls are always wishing that they could be as brave as the other girls. Here we see Rand breaking the script altogether.

He waited for her to tell him she had as much right to go where she wanted as he did, that he had no right to tell her what to do. To his surprise, she smiled and touched his cheek.

Egwene is much more forgiving about this attempt to make her turn back because Rand has grown up. He's no longer just bitching that she's there and resenting her for it but is only saying this out of genuine concern for her well-being. He also says "you could" instead of "you should", which shows that he's not being controlling.

Her eyes seemed to catch fire. “If you can’t be serious for more than a minute, Rand al’Thor, I do not want to talk to you.”

Sadly, I feel like Egwene's regressed at this point. It's really frustrating that we don't get into her head to see where this jealousy is coming from and how she might try to explain it in light of her own (totally fine except in the context of this current behavior!) flirtations. I'm glad that once the next book comes around they're both very over their fledgling romance because an Egwene that kept this up would not be anywhere near as cool an Egwene as the one we get.

The golden-sheathed tip of the dagger from Shadar Logoth peeked from under the edge of Mat’s neatly folded coat. Lan glanced at it from time to time, too. Rand wondered if it was really as safe to have around as Moiraine claimed.

Not exactly, but in fairness to Moiraine, she had absolutely no reason to think that Padan Fain existed. In unfairness to Rand, it's entirely his own fault.

Beside one stood a wolf, its clear detail emphasized by the crudeness of the man-shape, and another clutched a tiny dagger, a point of red on the hilt glittering in the light. The last held a sword. The hair stirring on the back of his neck, he moved close enough to see the heron in exquisite detail on that small blade.

Once the heron, to set his path...

“I deny you,” Rand said hoarsely. “I deny that you hold any power over me. I deny that you are.”

Sadly, Ba'alzamon doesn't respect the classics and refuses to follow in Bowie's footsteps.

“You always do. In the beginning. This contest between us has taken place countless times before. Each time your face is different, and your name, but each time it is you.”

It's important to remember as we encounter Ishamael's silly philosophy: he doesn't actually know this. He can infer from the cyclical nature of time that Lews and Rand or people like them are born again and again and that they face the Dark One but he can't actually be sure it's the Rand spirit every time. Jordan's even confirmed that there are times around when there's a woman in LTT and Rand's role instead, so Ishamael is definitively wrong. So can we be sure Ishamael is there every time, even when Rand is?

“Is that what they told you? Two thousand years ago I took my Trollocs across the world, and even among Aes Sedai I found those who knew despair, who knew the world could not stand before Shai’tan. For two thousand years the Black Ajah has dwelt among the others, unseen in the shadows. Perhaps even those who claim to help you.”

It's really unfortunate that the people who swear not to lie are so untrustworthy while the guy who pretends to be the Father of Lies is actually quite truthful. It doesn't leave Rand with much to work with from his supposed allies.

“I did, and he laughed. He kept talking about some eternal war, and saying we’d met like that a thousand times before, and. . . . Light, Rand, the Dark One knows me.” “He said the same thing to me. I don’t think he does,” he added slowly. “I don’t think he knows which of us. . . .” Which of us what?

Rand's denial about the Dragon Reborn is one thing, but it's a shame that they don't clue into the how strange it is that the Dark One can't easily tell them apart. Jordan absolutely places hints for even a first time reader to be suspicious about (though of course a first time reader can't be expected to get the right answer), but they fly right over the farm boys' heads.

The Aes Sedai stepped forward and grasped his upheld hand, her thumb across his palm covering the wound. Cold pierced him to the bone, so chill that his fingers cramped and he had to fight to keep them open. When she took her fingers away, the chill went, too.

Here again we see the double-edged sword of Moiraine's approach: she is unquestionably helpful and trying to keep the boys in as good a condition as the situation allows. But she doesn't tell Rand she's going to heal him nor to expect the chill of healing, so it doesn't seem good-spirited. The boys are so exhausted and paranoid at this point that their refusal to trust her is quite predictable.

But there's no more time for that. Next chapter, we'll be diving into the Backro- the Ways! But since tomorrow's my birthday (well, my tomorrow, your today), I'll be taking the time to myself and I won't be getting to this until the day after.

[dmsden]

Monster of the Month - Oni

Hullo, Gentle Readers. Once again, the wonderful month of October is upon us, and I thought I would stir up a cauldron's worth of suitably spooky monster for the season. This time, we look at a creature with its roots in Japanese mythology - the Oni. As always, a big thanks to Scott Fabianek for the delightfully dreadful original artwork of our creepy critter.

Oni have, under the name of "Ogre Mage", been in D&D since the beginning. Even in the art for the 1st edition Monster Manual, is was clear that the monster was supposed to have a Japanese flavoring about it, and it strongly resembled traditional art of Japanese Oni. It was presented as a variation on the ogre, more intelligent, with better weapons and the ability to use magic. As the editions have moved on, the Oni has really moved into its own niche as a stealthy, terrifying creature.

The 5e Oni is a powerful combatant for its challenge rating, with decent hit points and a good damage output. Its weapon attacks are magical, which bypasses things like the barbarian's damage resistance and the stoneskin spell. It has a potent regeneration, as well, although, unlike trolls (for example), it doesn't keep getting up from being reduced to 0 hit points. It also has a fly speed and a potent array of spells, including the ability to cast invisibility and darkness at will. The combination of invisibility and flying with cone of cold would be a particularly damaging way for it to begin a fight, especially if the PCs don't realize what they're dealing with yet...and this brings me to the best way to use oni in your game.

Yes, you can have a fun fight with an oni, but it might be best to use one as a low-level boss and manipulator in your game. With their change shape ability, their very high Deception, their Invisibility, and their ability to cast Charm Person, Oni can weave webs of deceit that could entangle entire villages. They could create multiple identities within the same community, shifting from one to another, even "revealing" that they were Carvess, the Baker, and letting themselves be rooted out of town, when in reality they just murdered Carvess and dumped her down the well a few minutes ago, and their real long-term identity in the community is kindly Brother Argos at the temple.

Oni are constantly hungry, love human flesh, and particularly love the taste of human babies. This should lead to some really terrifying and awful scenarios, as an Oni attempts to get access to its favorite prey. A town with an orphanage is sure to get an Oni's attention, and kindly Brother Argos might volunteer to protect the Orphanage while the adventurers go into the creepy caves to deal with the Oni...

When the Oni is finally discovered, it's unlikely to give the PCs a fair fight. It has invisibility, darkness, and gaseous form to allow it to flee if it doubts its ability to battle the PCs toe to toe. As previously mentioned, the ability to toss a cone of cold into battle, particularly if it can catch the PCs unawares (perhaps while camped for the night), is going to even its odds considerably, possibly putting a previously confident party more on the defensive. The Oni is well-served by a series of hit and run attacks, as its Regeneration can make it essentially fresh to the fight after a minute at most.

With an average 14 Intelligence and 12 Wisdom, Oni can be smart and clever. If they realize the PCs can see them despite their Invisiblity, they will likely begin relying on Darkness instead. If only one can see their Invisible form, they are likely to try and single that one out to remove them from the situation. If desperate, they could try to charm an innocent, putting that innocent in harm's way to force the PCs to make a hard choice in classic supervillain style.

Like normal ogres, oni are fairly likely to work with others in order to further their own goals. They may be the masterminds of a network that's meant to bring them power and access to those they long to devour, such as the innocent. They may provide riches to those in a community willing to serve them, or they may simply employ normal ogres, goblinoids, or orcs like a blunt force weapon to demand what they need. They might even use these others to make it seem like a community is being attacked, then come in as a hero to "drive" the monsters away, gaining them access to the village and the peoples' trust.

On the flip side, Oni are willing to serve suitably powerful masters who can provide them with what they want. I love the idea of the PCs dealing with the machinations of an Oni at low levels, only to defeat the Oni and discover that, all along, the Oni was just the servant of a vile coven of powerful hags...who will be the major villains of the next leg of the campaign.

I hope this article has you in a Halloween mood and ready to put an Oni in your game to horrific effect. And if you thought this month was scary, join us next month when we'll look at a monster from Greek mythology that just might petrify you! Until then, may your neighbors be who they say they are...

[ravenna222]

♡ Welcome to my blog ♡

For now I only write for knb and bllk for now and perhaps some characters of my liking from other animes or series (in the future I'll widen my horizons). Send in requests and I'll do my best!

I love to write, specifically poetry in prose and, just for now, short stories, so if you'd like I am more than happy to share my personal writing with all of you.

Rules...

I write both sfw and nsfw

I won't write any form of incest, a/b/o and pedophilia

When writing your request, I suggest you specify the gender of reader otherwise I'll write for f!reader

(P.S. I'm most comfortable writing for f!reader, it just seems more natural because it is what I am; nonetheless I try my best writing for all genders)

Masterlist

Blue lock:

- Shidou childhood headcanons

→ [egoist bible for references]

- An unexpected beginning [Itoshi Sae x reader]

- An analysis of 'Pink Spider' by Hide and its resonation to Shidou

- Date Headcanons [feat. Shidou Ryusei]

- Knb x Bllk Crossover: Which basketball teams would the Blue Lock boys be a part of?

Kuroko no basket:

- Weaving the web [Hanamiya Makoto x reader]

- Knb x Bllk Crossover: Which basketball teams would the Blue Lock boys be a part of?