#titled document

[rhoy-angel]

titled document

i win

[laundrybiscuits]

(Continued from this snippet! Content notes: police interrogation, homophobia)

“You don’t look gay.” The detective gives Steve a very obvious once-over. Steve tries to look gayer as subtly as he can. 

“Sorry,” he says. “Guess I’ll have to let my boyfriend know you don’t think I look gay enough to fuck him.”

The detective’s face twists slightly, like he’s smelled something bad. “No need to be like that. I’m just saying, I bet a good-looking guy like you could get a girlfriend pretty easy.”

“You’re not my type,” says Steve. He smiles with his teeth, even though his heart is going fast and he can feel his palms starting to sweat. 

The detective’s hands tense, and Steve wonders if he’s about to get hit, but they relax again and the detective sits back.

“Just doing my job,” says the detective. “Because, funny enough, we asked around with all your little friends, and it seems like you used to be a bit of a ladies’ man.”

“Things change,” says Steve. 

“In fact…seems like none of your friends ever even saw you talk to Munson before. Moved in different circles and everything. I remember what high school was like.”

The detective leans close. 

“So why would the captain of the swim team, a nice normal boy from a good family with a string of pretty girlfriends, ever—ever—stick his neck out like this for some murdering scum like Munson? That’s what I’m trying to figure out, here.”

“Don’t fucking talk about him like that,” says Steve. His mouth is dry. His pulse is thundering in his ears. “He didn’t kill anyone. He was with me the whole time. He’s—he didn’t kill anyone.”

“Hm,” says the detective. 

It takes a while for them to stop interrogating him. They keep asking him the same questions over and over, trying to trip him up. He asks for water and doesn’t get it. In the back of his mind, a hysterical little voice is shrieking Scoops Ahoy! I work for Scoops Ahoy!, but he manages to keep it locked down. Doesn’t let himself get baited, just keeps repeating that Eddie was with him the whole time and neither of them know anything. 

It takes a while, but it’s over eventually.

When he leaves the station, Eddie’s standing outside with Hopper and Joyce Byers, wearing a shirt and jeans that definitely belonged to Jonathan at some point. Eddie’s got his hands tucked into his armpits, looking antsy and tense, but he’s free and standing on his own two feet. It’s a pretty big upgrade from when Steve last saw him about a week or two ago. 

It’s almost too easy to go straight over to him, wrapping him up in a tight hug like they’ve had their arms around each other a million times. 

“Oof. Easy there, tiger,” laughs Eddie. “I’m, uh, still a little fragile.”

“Sorry,” says Steve, and loosens his hold. He doesn’t let go all the way.

“Come on, boys,” says Joyce. “I’m taking you two home. Steve, Eddie’s been staying with us, but we’re a little short on spare beds and it’s not great for his recovery. We’re moving him to your place until we can figure out something better, okay?” 

———

Joyce drops them off and helps carry in a few garbage bags full of Eddie’s stuff. There’s not that much.

And then the door closes behind her, and Steve’s alone with Eddie for the first time since—actually, maybe ever. 

“So,” says Eddie. “What…the fuck, Harrington.”

“Is that an actual question?” Steve says. He rolls his shoulders, trying to get some of the stiffness out. “I mean, didn’t Hopper and Mrs. Byers explain everything to you?”

“Kind of? I mean, I still think this is probably the worst idea of all time, but they told me—anyway, what I meant just now was a much more personalized and individual what the fuck. As in, why the fuck would you agree to any of this? You know you’re never gonna get another girl in this town to look at you now.”

“Dumping me already? Ice cold, man.”

Eddie groans and actually throws his hands in the air in frustration. Steve hadn’t known people did that in real life. 

“Jesus christ.” Eddie wheels around and grabs two of the garbage bags. “I can’t do this right now, I need to take a fucking nap. We will be discussing this later.”

“Still don’t know what there is to discuss,” says Steve, but he picks up the last garbage bag and leads the way to the spare room. 

Eddie pitches forwards onto the bed, arms outstretched and face mashed into the pillow. “Fuck yes, I am going to marry this goddamn mattress. Hit the lights when you leave,” he says, slightly muffled. 

For a second, Steve finds himself stepping forward with a hand outstretched to—do something. He’s not sure what. Touch Eddie’s hair, or something dumb like that. His face warms. He’s really glad Eddie isn’t looking at him and doesn’t see how he’s kind of just standing there with a hand out for no reason. 

He turns around, flicking the light switch on his way out, and doesn’t look back.

[eggsistential-breakdown]

Reincarnation Bluesverse + Will Wood lyrics

1.1 & 1.2 (couldn't decide which I liked better so have two of them) & 2

Fic: @reblogincarnation-blues's The Mirrored Heart chapter 1

Song: ... well, better than the alternative

3

Fic: @marypsue's What Friends Are For

Song: BlackBoxWarrior - OKULTRA

4 & 5

Fic: @marypsue's Something Borrowed, Something Blues chapter 17

Song: Mr. Capgras Encounters a Secondhand Vanity: Tulpamancer's Prosopagnosia/Pareidolia (As Direct Result of Trauma to the Fusiform Gyrus)

Kept these very fast and loose to try to break out of a creative slump. Based more off of vibes than silly trivial things like canon and facts and anatomy. None of these should be taken literally or metaphorically or physiologically or radiologically. Twice divorced gray eyesed Ian still lives rent free in my head sorry

[lookingupatthesamemoon]

do any other selfshippers have certain foods that they associate with their f/os? foods you think they’d like (or that they like canonically)? foods you would make for them/make together? what their restaurant orders would look like?

[daddyplasmius]

Danny Fenton isn’t dead. And Maddie is grateful for that, as his mother. But, as a scientist, she knows, realistically, he should be dead. Yet here he is, walking around with enough ectoplasmic contamination in his system to kill a grown man ten times, acting like nothing is wrong. What the honest fuck.

Maddie’s first theory is ectocontamination. A severe case. The problem with this theory is that there’s no proof of contamination besides the absurd amount of ectoplasm in Danny’s system. No adverse health effects as far as they can tell. Which is oddーwhen she compares it to her other theories.

Her second theoryーJack’s firstーis possibly low level possession. But, again, Danny shows no signs or symptoms besides his ectoplasmic levels. He can even pass through the Fenton Ghost Shield.

Third? Maybe he isn’t affected as much by ectoplasm and so it just sticks to him without any adverse effects. She did handle samples while pregnant, which wasn’t very good. But, again, the problem here is that the same could be said of Jazz, and she has a perfectly normal level of ectocontamination. And when she had gotten severely contaminated, Jazz fell illーalong with dozens of other students from Casper High.

It is quite literally just Danny.

Danny Fenton is an enigma. Maddie finds herself stuck in this thought loop often. Her son doesn’t even seem to notice the absolutely massive amount of ectoenergy he gives off. Normally, that much would be coming from the deceased victim of contamination or a ghost, not a healthy, living teenager.

And Danny is healthy. Nothing is wrong with him besides that. Which is weird. Well, it’s good that he isn’t dying, but… scientifically impossible. Never before witnessed. An anomaly in the field of paranormal science. A human giving off so much ectoplasmic energy a day, it could fuel a blob ghost, without recharging, for ten years.

Another mystery. How did Danny discover blob ghosts before she or Jack did? Why didn’t he tell them before one wandered out of his room? And why on Earth would he give them such a ridiculous, albeit accurate, name?

Maddie feels like her head is going to explode. She wishes she could justーask. But her son thoroughly avoids any mention of ghosts. Add it to the list. Because that’s what this is becoming. Just a list of odd things about her son that she can’t solve. Her son that should be dead, but against all odds isn’t.

[love-domme]

Had a pretty boy call me a bunch of titles while I touched myself to see which one made me throb the most. Being called Daddy won by a landslide the way it made me absolutely feral. Had him fuck himself on a dildo while he called me that afterwards. It was cute how desperate he got at the idea of taking Daddy’s cum. We did the reverse too. Seeing which pet name made his dick twitch the most, just as fun.

[simonsapelsin]

Reasons why "Red Light" is actually by Simon Eriksson and not Omar Rudberg:

"didn't mean to fall in love"

"but you were everything I'm not"

"you were everything I wanted"

"we only had a couple days"

"but I saw heaven in your face"

Okay just all the lyrics can be so Wilmon-coded okay

It ends with "we keep dancing, you and me" and then "you and me" over and over = wilmon endgame

Red lights are a Thing in Young Royals

Omar debuted the song during YR promo season

It's been reported that Edvin, who was in attendance, sang along. Maybe he knows all the words because Simon sang it to Wilhelm.

Can't you picture Simon composing this song on his keyboard in his bedroom when he's feeling all kinds of conflicting feelings about his relationship with Wille?

I just need it to be, ok?

[wanderingblindly]

i love the way you put A Man in A Situation

i KNOW a Man and a Situation hate to see me comin —

Speaking of, anyone want a snippet of drunk lando having a breakdown at the concept of telling Oscar he wants to wear stockings?

As a spin off of the no homo/full homo guidebooks?

Lando's sat there completely exposed, and Oscar's not saying anything.

And it's killing him.

His blood runs cold, lungs turning to ice. He can't breathe; his eyes are trained on Oscar's frozen face and he can't breathe, fighting for frantic little gasps like they’ll do anything. "It's – I'm – I'm sorry," Lando tries to get out, body running entirely haywire.

Lando cracks his skull on the headboard as he tries to scramble backwards, head too heavy to control.

The noise snaps Oscar out of it, wide eyes whipping back to Lando. He's back on the bed in a blink, still-packaged stockings in hand.

"Don't be sorry, I’m sorry," He rushes out, trying to cradle Lando's head, trying to sooth his rabbit-fast breathing. "It's ok, it's really ok," Oscar's shushing him, fingers finding their way into Lando's hair, gently massaging his smarting skin.

"It's not –" Lando wails. "I’m sorry,"

Oscar presses a kiss to his cheek, catching a falling tear. "We can do whatever you want, Lando, you know that."

"An'you?" Lando’s words run together in a frantic blur. "You don'wan'it. It's –" Another gasp, head restrained by Oscar's hand. "Awful."

Oscar looks at him for a second, and Lando doesn't understand. His face is pink, doe eyes fixated on Lando the way that he gets when he's – when Lando's...

"What?" Lando asks, but he isn't even sure what he's asking.

"I want it, I – let me put them on you." Oscar rambles on an exhale, the same way he sounded when he realized Lando wanted to swallow. "They'd look so... fuck," He lets go of Lando's hair, shifting to be eye level with Lando's legs – finally tucked up, trying to hide.

Oscar presses a kiss to his knee, gazing at Lando the entire time.

[paingoes]

Destroyer - The End

(Masterlist)

well there’s no easy way to say this but this is the end. thank you all for coming along for the ride!

(Content: living weapon whumpee, broken bones, dehumanization, past abuse, fear, conditioning, suicide mention, implied child abuse, physical violence, verbal abuse, choking, drowning, death)

===================

“I cannot work here anymore,” Simon said.

Dr.Martino glared at him with contempt. It was not the first time he had threatened to quit. It was the first time he had done so in front of other people. It was alright, though; Delta didn’t seem to be listening in the first place.

“It’s only for tonight.” Dr.Martino argued, “If you’re going to have a tantrum, you’re not going to do it in my office.”

Dr.Martino extended Delta’s arm. He rotated it to get a better angle at the cast. 

“Are you going to help or not?” He asked.

“No, I’m not helping. Didn’t you have to take an oath before y-“

“You can get out then. Thanks.” Dr.Martino shooed him away. 

Simon left. He slammed the door behind him.

“Crybaby,” Dr.Martino rolled his eyes, “Hold still, Delta.”

“Yes, sir,” Delta answered blankly. 

The saw spun to life. Dr.Martino placed the edge of it to Delta’s cast, pushing through the layers of fiberglass. He ran over it evenly until a straight line had been carved from top to bottom. The saw ran into the cotton below and abruptly stops. The shell popped off. Dr.Martino unwinded the bandages from around his arm.

The wrist had returned to its normal shade, but it was obviously not healed. It still jutted out at an odd angle. 

“Try not to move it.” The doctor shrugged. Delta couldn’t have if he wanted to.

=============

“Your nose!” Sierra gasped as soon as she saw him. The splint had been removed — just for the night. She touched the spot gingerly. Delta visibly winced.

“Oh no,” she whined softly. Delta didn’t think it was that bad, truly. Sierra had an eye for subtle changes in appearance; it was her life’s work. Still, her cooing over him as if he’d been disfigured embarrassed him. 

She went to work anyway. Her primary objective was just to cover up the signs of violence. At this point, that was an endeavor in and of itself. She sponged foundation onto his face, igniting the tender spot where the bone was still healing. It couldn’t be worked around; it was right in the center of his face. He bit his tongue to keep from making noise. 

She hummed, still a little dissatisfied with the end result. Delta could tell from her expression when she was frustrated. Nevertheless, she moved onto wardrobe.

It was all silver. Sierra tended to go for cool colors. They complimented his complexion very nicely. The material looked synthetic, but it reflected the light in a subtle, gentle way. They almost looked like they were made of water. The material was both firm and smooth. It tripped him out the longer he looked at it. Sierra put a simple undershirt beneath, then draped him in the fabric, tying it up around his waist to create a silhouette. It hung loosely off his shoulders.

“Look,” Sierra held up the boots, “I just got these commissioned.”

They were shiny and reflective, with lifts and sharp angles. Delta stepped into them. She laced them up for him.

“I know it’s kinda high fashion. I usually like traditional, but that’s what everyone’s going to be wearing for the Centennial. I thought it’d be fun to try something anachronistic. Fuck with the old guard some.”

She smiled as she looked him over. Almost in apology for her earlier fussing, she presses her nails to her face, “You know you’re my favorite to work with? I swear you can pull off anything.”

Sierra chained his wrists. They were the same shade of silver and too long to be practical as restraints. He couldn’t spread both his arms out, but they didn’t hinder his movement otherwise. They went directly over where the cast had been. He wondered if she even knew. 

There was a light jingling sound as Paris entered. Delta dropped to his knees with a haste that even shocked him. It’d been automatic.

Sierra rushed forward as if he’d been hurt, but quickly stopped herself when she realized what had happened. 

“Your Highness?” she chirped. 

“Hit this,” He held out the wax pen to her. She scurried over, taking it from him. Delta heard her cough a little. Paris laughed.

She mumbled something about vitamin C. Delta couldn’t hear the rest of their conversation, just the outlines of their voices. Sierra’s was excited, if a little weary. Paris spoke casually, if a little stoned. Delta supposed the fact that he was speaking at all was a good sign. 

It took several minutes before either of them even acknowledged him.

“Uh, you can get up,” Paris called. It had been an afterthought. 

Delta slowly rose to his feet. He stole a furtive glance at the prince. He looked…normal. Whatever rage had come over him before seemed to have subsided. All that remained were the bandages up his arm in the place where Delta’s nails had cut into him.

Paris had not spoken to him since that night. There’d been a full week without contact. Delta knew he was avoiding him; he did not know exactly why. 

Sierra needed the space cleared up for her to work with Paris. She skipped past Delta, back into the closet. Paris put a hand on Delta’s shoulder. He flinched instinctively, but the touch wasn’t harsh. Paris guided him to sit down on the steps that partitioned the room. He did so. To his surprise, Paris smoothed his hair back affectionately. Delta glanced up in confusion.

He just barely glimpsed his expression. It had been quick and it had been subtle, but the look Paris had given him was unmistakable. 

It was shame.

Paris withdrew his hand quickly as Sierra emerged from the closet. They resumed their conversation as if nothing had happened. Sierra stripped the shirt from his back to redress him. Delta saw the star-shaped scar right over his heart.

=================

He didn’t like the plan anymore. He’d thought it was shaky in the first place, but as the Centennial drew nearer, the more sick with worry he became.

The ball was hosted on an airship. Everyone needed to board right on the shore before the the craft took off. It would float above the expanse of the Ars Adriatic, mimicking the same flight the forefathers had made to reclaim the disappearing ground. A century later, the land had all been swallowed up by sea anyway. 

The silence dragged on. Paris wasn’t speaking. Delta obviously wasn’t speaking. He hoped his anxiety wasn’t visible — or if it was visible, that its source was masked. After all, Delta was terrified of Paris. He felt it every time he breathed, each time the pain in his lungs ignited. It was just not his most pressing concern at the moment.

He tried to reassure himself. If the plan failed, he’d kill himself midway through. That was the only moral alternative to remaining in Empire’s hands. One way or another, it was ending tonight.

Once inside, Paris chained his collar to the throne, but he himself seemed hesitant to actually sit in it. The Centurion Ball was a tradition older than Paris had been alive. He hadn’t arranged this one more than he had any of the others. The only role he’d played in it was agreeing to show up. Delta caught the look in his eyes — hungry, itching. Paris disappeared for a long time.

===========

He blinked. There was a bat hanging from the ceiling. Delta stared at it, trying to figure out if his eyes were playing tricks on him. He couldn’t have been that tired. Everytime he looked back, it was still hanging there. Nobody else seemed to notice.

Delta watched as its left wing extended. A pale claw emerged against the black fur. It scratched into the support beam, carving out a concave arc. It extended a straight line down, followed by another little circle.

“?”

Delta cupped his left hand into a C-shape. His right hand he could not move much at all, but he returned the symbol as best he could. He watched as the claw retreated. The bat flew out of his sight. Delta’s heart was beating out of his chest.

============

He did not know how much time had passed in between the signal and the execution. He only felt the body drop down behind him and the chill that it carried. It leaned in close to his ear. 

Go.

There was a sharp sound as the axe swung down, severing the chain that connected him to the throne. The dark shape moved in front of him, facing the crowd of partygoers. He bolted. 

The entire ship began to rock at the first impact. Delta stumbled. There was so much noise. He made his way down the corridor, down the same way they had entered the ship. The door to the open air hung wide open. He heard the sound of the ocean below.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” The voice rang out. Delta stopped dead in his tracks. It inspired such an ancient terror in him.

Dr.Martino paced down the hallway. Delta flinched back, shaking. He felt like a child again. Martino snatched up the chains of his wrist, dragging him closer. 

“Trying to run out?” Martino slapped him across the face at full force. Delta gasped for air, pulling away from the grasp. Martino’s grip stayed firm.

“I’ve known what you were from the first day I met you,” He hissed, “Snake. Destroyer. We should’ve knifed you in the cradle.”

The whole room shook as another volley was launched at the ship. Delta took the opportunity, letting the bright arcs of lightning come off from his hands, electrocuting the doctor. He freed the chains from his grasp, scrambling towards the exit. Martino chased after him, less careful now. He got a better grip on Delta. Delta threw himself to the floor in response, dragging the doctor down with him. It was a shower of sparks. The open door was so close — there was nothing outside of it. Open air and open water. 

The ship rocked violently. The two of them fell out into the void of night.

==============

The cold cut through him. Immediately, it was the death throes, panic building on panic building on terror. His clothes and his chains tangled up in his limbs. Somehow Martino was still holding out, hurting him. Delta needed air. He was too far beneath the surface. 

The gills on his sides flared out, taking in the icy sea water. It was an entirely new situation, but he felt a primal calm as his oxygen balanced out in the sea water. Martino still writhed, not as fortunate. He clawed out at Delta’s face and arms, shedding his blood into the water. Delta wrapped the chains that bound his wrists around Martino’s neck. The pressure on his broken wrist ached. He was so weak. He was so fucking tired. But all he had to do was hold still. The water would do the rest. After a few minutes, Martino stopped struggling. Delta untangled the chain and let his lifeless body drift down into the abyss. 

Delta looked up. The ship was burning above him. The fire was visible even from several meters underwater.

At the surface, the air smelled like gunpowder. Delta treaded, popping in and out of the sea. The airship was crashing down soon. It was the only ship he saw. Had they already left?

The bat flew a few feet above his head. In the distance, the headlights clicked on. The jet skimmed the surface of the water. It turned around and lowered its ramp into the water. The light inside was bright orange and warm. 

“Find him?” A voice called from inside. Its owner stepped out onto the ramp, soaking his ankles in the sea water. He called out again.

Delta swam forward. The boy inside the ship extended a hand out to him. With his good arm, Delta took it. 

[demigod-of-the-agni]

Spider-Man India, but... where from India?

A SUPER long post featuring talks of: cultural identity, characterisation, the caste system, and what makes Spider-Man Spider-Man.

I’m prefacing this by saying that I am a second-generation immigrant. I was born in Australia, but my cultural background is from South India. My experiences with what it means to be “Indian” is going to be very different from the experiences of those who are born and brought up in India.

If you, reader, want to add anything, please reblog and add your thoughts. This is meant to be a post open for discussion — the more interaction we get, the better we become aware of these nuances.

So I made this poll asking folks to pick a region of India where I would draw Pavitr Prabhakar in their cultural wear. This idea had been on my mind for a long while now, as I had been inspired by Annie Hazarika’s Northeastern Spidey artwork in the wake of ATSV’s release, but never got the time to actually do it until now. I wanted to get a little interactive and made the poll so I could have people choose which of the different regions — North, Northeast, Central, East, West, South — to do first.

The outcome was not what I expected. As you can see, out of 83 votes:

THE RESULTS

South India takes up almost half of all votes (44.6%), followed by Northeast and Central (both 14.5%) and then East (13.3%). In all my life growing up, support towards or even just the awareness of South India was pretty low. Despite this being a very contained poll, why would nearly half of all voters pick South India in favour of other popular choices like Central or North India?

Then I thought about the layout of the poll: Title, Options, Context.

Title: "Tell us who you want to see…"

Options: North, Northeast, Central, East, West, South

Context: I want to make art of the boy again

At first I thought: ah geez. this is my fault. I didn't make the poll clear enough. do they think I want them to figure out where Pavitr came from? That's not what I wanted, maybe I should have added the context before the options.

Then I thought: ah geez. is it my fault for people not reading the entire damn thing before clicking a button? That's pretty stupid.

But regardless, the thought did prompt a line of thinking I know many of us desi folk have been considering since Spider-Man India was first conceived — or, at least, since the announcement that he was going to appear in ATSV. Hell, even I thought of it:

Where did Spider-Man India come from?

FROM A CULTURALLY DIVERSE INDIA

As we know, India is so culturally diverse, and no doubt ATSV creators had to take that into account. Because the ORIGINAL Spider-Man India came from Mumbai — most likely because Mumbai and Manhattan both started with the same letter.

But going beyond that, it’s also because Mumbai is one of the most recognisable cities in India - it’s also known as Bombay. It’s where Bollywood films are shot. It’s where superstar Hindi actors and actresses show up. Mumbai is synonymous with India in that regard, because the easiest way Western countries can interact with Indian culture is through BOLLYWOOD, through HINDI FILMS, through MUMBAI. Suddenly, India is Mumbai, India is a Hindi-only country, India is just this isolated thing we see through an infinitely narrow lens.

We’ve gotten a little better in recent years, but boy I will tell you how uncomfortable I’ve gotten when people (yes, even desi people) come up to me and tell me, Oh, you’re Indian right? Can you speak Hindi? Why don’t you speak Hindi? You’re not Indian if you don’t speak Hindi, that’s India’s national language!

I have been — still am — so afraid of telling people that I don’t speak Hindi, that I’m Tamil, that I don’t care that Hindi is India’s “national” language (it’s an administrative language, Kavin, get your fucking facts right). It’s weird, it’s isolating, and it has made me feel like I wasn’t “Indian” enough to be accepted into the group of “Indian” people.

So I am thankful that ATSV went out of their way to integrate as much variety of Indian culture into the Mumbattan sequence. Maybe that way, the younger generation of desi folk won’t feel so isolated, and that younger Western people will be more open to learning about all these cultural differences within such a vast country.

BUT WHAT DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH SPIDER-MAN INDIA?

Everything, actually. There’s a thing called supremacy. You might have heard of it. We all engaged with it at some point, and if you are Indian, no matter where you live, it is inescapable.

It happens the moment you are born — who your family is, where you are born, the language you speak, the colour of your skin; these will be bound to you for life, and it is nigh impossible to break down the stereotypes associated with them.

Certain ethnic groups will be more favourable than others (Centrals, and thus their cultures, will always be favoured over than Souths, as an example) and the same can be said for social groups (Brahmins are more likely to secure influential roles in politics or other areas like priesthood, while the lowers castes, especially Dalits, aren’t even given the decency of respect). Don’t even get me started on colourism, where obviously those of fairer skin will win the lottery while those of darker skin aren’t given the time of day. It’s even worse when morality ties into it — “lighter skinned Indians, like Brahmins, embody good qualities like justice and wisdom”, “dark skinned Indians are cunning and poor, they are untrustworthy”. It’s fucking nuts.

This means, of course, you have a billion people trying to make themselves heard in a system that tries to crush everyone who is not privileged. It only makes sense that people want to elevate themselves and break free from a society that refuses to acknowledge them. These frustrations manifest outwardly, like in protests, but other times — most times — it goes unheard, quietly shaping your way of life, your way of thinking. It becomes a fundamental part of you, and it can go unacknowledged for generations.

So when you have a character like Pavitr Prabhakar enter the scene, people immediately latch onto him and start asking questions many Western audiences don’t even consider. Who is he? What food does he eat? What does he do on Fridays? What’s his family like, his community? All these questions pop up, because, amidst all this turmoil going on in the background, you want a mainstream popular character to be like you, who knows your way of life so intimately, that he may as well be a part of your community.

BUT THAT'S THE THING — HE'S FICTIONAL

I am guilty of this. In fact, I’ve flaunted in numerous posts how I think he’s the perfect Tamil boy, how he dances bharatanatyam, how he does all these Tamil things that no one will understand except myself. All these niche things that only I, and maybe a few others, will understand.

I’ve seen other people do it, too. I’ve seen people geek out over his dark brown skin, his kalari dhoti, how he fights so effortlessly in the kalaripayattu martial arts style. I’ve seen people write him as Malayali, as Hindi, as every kind of Indian person imaginable.

I’ve also seen him be written where he’s subjected to typical Indian and broader Asian stereotypes. You know the ones I’m so fond of calling out. The thing is, I’ve seen so much of Pavitr being presented in so many different ways, and I worry how the rest of the desi folk will take it. 

You finally have a character who could be you, but now he’s someone else’s plaything. Your entire life is shaped by what you can and can’t do simply because you were born to an Indian family, and here’s the one person who could represent you now at the mercy of someone else’s whims. He’s off living a life that is so distant from yours, you can hardly recognise him.

It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, yeah? But, again, you’re looking at it from that infinitely narrow lens Westerners use to look at India from Bollywood.

AND PAVITR PRABHAKAR DOESN'T LIVE IN INDIA

He lives in Mumbattan. He lives in a made-up, fictional world that doesn’t follow the way of life of our world. He lives in a city where Mumbai and Manhattan got fucking squashed together. There are so many memes about colonialism right there. Mumbattan isn’t real! Spider-Man India isn’t real!! He’s just a dude!! The logic of our world doesn’t apply to him!!!

“But his surname originates from ______” okay but does that matter?

“But he’s wearing a kalari dhoti so surely he’s ______” okay but does that matter?

“But his skin colour is darker so he must be ______” okay but does that matter?

“But he lives in Mumbai so he must be ______” okay but does that matter?

I sound insensitive and brash and annoying and it looks like I’m yapping just for the sake of riling you up, so direct that little burst of anger you got there at me, and keep reading.

Listen. I’m going to ask you a question that I’ve asked myself a million times over. I want you to answer honestly. I want you to ask this question to yourself and answer honestly:

Are you trying to convince me on who Pavitr Prabhakar should be?

... but why shouldn't i?

I’ll tell you this again — I did the same thing. You’re not at fault for this, but I want you to just...have a little think over. Just a little moment of self-reflection, to think about why you are so intent on boxing this guy.

It took me a while to reorganise my thinking and how to best approach a character like Pavitr, so I will give you all the time you need as well as a little springboard to focus your thoughts on.

SPIDER-MAN (INDIA) IS JUST A MASK

“What I like about the costume is that anybody reading Spider-Man in any part of the world can imagine that they themselves are under the costume. And that’s a good thing.”

Stan Lee said that. Remember how he was so intent on making sure that everybody got the idea that Spider-Man as an entity is fundamentally broken without Peter Parker there to put on the suit and save the day? That ultimately it was the person beneath the mask, no matter who they were, that mattered most?

Spider-Man India is no less different. You can argue with me that Peter Parker!Spidey is supposed to represent working class struggles in the face of leering corporate entities who endanger the regular folk like us, and so Pavitr Prabhakar should also function the same way. Pavitr should also be a working class guy of this specific social standing fighting people of this other social standing.

But that takes away the authenticity of Spider-Man India. Looking at him through the Peter Parker lens forces you to look at him through the Western lens, and it significantly lessens what you can do with the character — suddenly, it’s a fight to be heard, to be seen, to be recognised. It’s yelling over each other that Pavitr Prabhakar is this ethnicity, is that caste, this or that, this or that, this or that.

There’s a reason why he’s called Spider-Man India, infuriatingly vague as it is. And that’s the point — the vagueness of his identity fulfils Lee’s purpose for a character that could theoretically be embodied by anyone. If he had been called “Spider-Man Mumbai”, you cut out a majority of the population (and in capitalist terms, you cut out a good chunk of the market).

And in the case of Spider-Man India? Whew — you’ve got about a billion people imagining a billion different versions of him.

Whoever you are, whatever you see in Pavitr, that is what is personal to you, and there is nothing wrong with that, and I will not fault you for it. I will not fault you for saying Pavitr is from Central due to the origins of his last name. I also will not fault you for saying Pavitr is from South due to him practising kalaripayattu. I also will not fault you for saying he is not Hindu. I also will not fault you for saying he is a particular ethnicity without any proof.

What I will fault you for is trying to convince me and the others around you that Pavitr Prabhakar should be this particular ethnicity/have this cultural background because of some specific reason. I literally don’t care and it is fundamentally going against his character, going against the “anyone can wear the mask” sentiment of Spider-Man. By doing this, you are strengthening the walls that first divided us. You’re feeding the stratification and segmentation of our cultures — something that is actually not present in the fictional world of Mumbattan.

Like I said before: Mumbattan isn’t real, so the divides between ethnicities and cultural backgrounds are practically nonexistent. The best thing is that it is visually there for all to see. My favourite piece of evidence is this:

It’s a marquee for a cinema in the Mumbattan sequence, in the “Quick tour: this is where the traffic is” section. It has four titles; the first two are written in Hindi. The third title is written in Bengali*, and the fourth title is written in Tamil. You go to Mumbai and you won’t see a single shred of Bengali nor Tamil there, much less any other language that's not common in Maharashtra (Western India). Seeing this for the first time, you know what went through my head?

Wow, the numerous cultures of India are so intermingled here in Mumbattan! Everyone and everything is welcome!

I was happy, not just because of Tamil representation, but because of the fact that the plethora of Indian cultures are showcased coexisting in such a short sequence. This is India embracing all the little parts that make up its grander identity. This scene literally opened my eyes seeing such beauty in all the diverse cultures thriving together. In a place where language and cultural backgrounds blend so easily, each one complementing one another.

It is so easy to believe that, from this colourful palette of a setting, Pavitr Prabhakar truly is Spider-Man India, no matter where he comes from.

It’s easy to believe that Pavitr can come from any part of India, and I won’t call you out if the origin you have for him is different from the origin I have. You don’t need to stake out territory and stand your ground — you’re entitled to that opinion, and I respect it. In fact, I encourage it!!!

Because there’s only so much you can show in a ten minute segment of a film about a country that has such a vast history and even greater number of cultures. I want to see all of it — I want him to be a Malayali boy, a Hindi boy, a Bengali boy, a Telugu boy, an Urdu boy, whatever!! I want you to write him or draw him immersed in your culture, so that I can see the beauty of your background, the wonderful little things that make your culture unique and different from mine!

And, as many friends have said, it’s so common for Indian folks to be migrating around within our own country. A person with a Maharashtrian surname might end up living in Punjab, and no one really minds that. I’m actually from Karnataka, my family speaks Kannada, but somewhere down the line my ancestors moved to Tamil Nadu and settled down and lived very fulfilling lives. So I don’t actually have the “pure Tamil” upbringing, contrary to popular belief; I’ve gotten a mix of both Kannada and Tamil lifestyles, and it’s made my life that much richer. 

So it’s common for people to “not” look like their surname, if that’s what you’re really afraid about. In fact, it just adds to that layer of nuance, that even despite these rigid identities between ethnicities we as Indian people still intermingle with one another, bringing slivers of our cultures to share with others. Pavitr could just as well have been born in one state and moved around the country, and he happens to live in Mumbattan now. It’s entirely possible and there’s nothing to disprove that.

We don’t need to clamber over one another declaring that only one ethnicity is the “right” ethnicity, because, again, you will be looking at Pavitr and the rest of India in that narrow Western lens — a country with such rich cultural variety reduced to a homogenous restrictive way of life.

THE POLL: REINTERPRETED

This whole thing started because I was wondering why my little poll was so skewed — I thought people assumed I was asking them where he came from, then paired his physical appearance with the most logical options available. I thought it was my fault, that I had somehow influenced this outcome without knowing.

Truth is, I will never really know. But I will be thankful for it, because it gave me the opportunity to finally broach this topic, something that many of us desi folk are hesitant to talk about. I hope you have learned something from this, whether you are desi or a casual Spider-Man fan or someone who just so happened to stumble upon this. 

So just…be a little more open. Recognise that India, like many many countries and nations, is made up of a plethora of smaller cultures. And remember, if you’re trying to convince Pavitr that he’s a particular ethnicity, he’s going to wave his hand at you and say, “Ha, me? No, I’m one of the people that live here in the best Indian city! I’m Spider-Man India, dost!”

(Regardless, he still considers you a friend, because to him, the people matter more to him than you trying to box him into something he’s not.)

*Note: thank you dear anon for letting me know that the third title was Bengali, twas my mistake for literally completely forgetting

[defiledtomb]

a really rough day. but on a positive note, i started yearning to write again, and something lighthearted; a comedy, or an attempt at one. truly wonder if i can pull it off

[fatuismooches]

EVEN MORE CUTE DOTTORE MOMENTS TO MAKE YOU SMILE 🙏 (because I am too tired to post anything of quality)

[amethystina]

I fucking did it again

And by "it" I mean opening a document in my "Yo Han's POV" folder of Who Holds the Devil and stumbling over a section I'd forgotten I'd written (or blocked out, more likely). So, for your enjoyment in these trying post-chapter 39 times:

"Sometimes, Yo Han wondered what that must feel like — to be loved so fiercely and wholeheartedly by someone else. Especially someone like Ga On, whose emotions were as wild and unstoppable as they were genuine. He couldn't seem to curb them even if he tried.

It must be breathtaking to be loved by someone like him.

And, blinded by his own idiocy, Yo Han had allowed himself to hope. For a little while, he'd honestly thought he had a chance — that he might get to find out what that would be like. That, just maybe, the emotions he saw flashing past in Ga On's eyes meant something.

He should have known better."

[rowynri]

some link and zelda concept drafts for an au idea I've had floating around in my head for the past week or so,,, haha

[incomprehensible-phasmid]

Kara in a cap

[theflashjaygarrick]

I fully believe that being in an average weird girl friend group as a kid where he could pretend to make potions/be a witch/develop group specific cryptid lore could have fixed Ford Pines