Undergraduate Research Study: "Impact of Moon Knight (TV Show) on the Public Perception on Dissociative Identity Disorder (D.I.D)". Any willing participants?
Hello everybody!
This post is for people with Dissociative Identity Disorder, only.
I was wondering if any of you would like to participate in my undergraduate research study as titled above.
It is completely voluntary, and you have the right to back out any time you would like, but your responses would contribute greatly to my research.
As the title says, my research is on how the public views the portrayal of D.I.D in the Moon Knight TV Show (2022). One of the objectives is to find out how people with Dissociative Identity Disorder views this portrayal.
There are two screening questions to check if you're eligible to participate, and you would have to be well-versed with the English language to understand and comprehend the questions.
All information will be kept confidential, anonymous, and will be used for research purposes only.
Link:
Research Study: "Impact of Moon Knight (TV Show) on the Public Perception of Dissociative Identity Disorder (D.I.D)"
Ps: If there are any questions to clarify for understanding, please feel free to send a dm.
Also, if you do participate, please give a thumbs up in the comments :)
Edit: Boosts are appreciated!!
summary: In college, Matt Murdock had two best friends, Foggy Nelson and you. However, life had no intention of letting you graduate with him. When he reconnects with you in adulthood, he is troubled to see the hand God has dealt you and vows to use every tool at his disposal to save you from damnation.
warnings: swearing, brief descriptions of illness (obligatory sitcom sick episode alert), Matt being dumb, disgusting levels of pining
a/n: This was originally part of Heaven Help the Fool but that chapter would've been almost 9k so I split it up. I'm pretty proud of this half so I hope you all like it! As always, reblogs and comments are especially appreciated.
w/c: 4.4k
Swaying your hips to the rhythm of the song blasting through your headphones, you scrubbed at a particularly stubborn spot of food on the pan you were cleaning. Your sock-covered feet bounced from side to side as you danced, traipsing around your kitchen as you washed the dishes. Waltzing another sudsy item over to the drying rack, you giggled to yourself as it nearly slipped from your grasp.
It had been ages since you’d danced around a kitchen, something that had brought you joy since you were little. You were hesitant to let yourself act so carefree, even in front of Jen and Oscar. The only person who had ever witnessed your uninhibited performances before was your mother, and spinning around on the wood floor of your kitchen when you were home alone was a great cure for your homesickness—giving you a taste of home right here in New York City.
As you rinsed soap from the rubber gloves you were wearing, you were startled out of your daydreaming by a shrill ringtone. Peeling off the banana-yellow gloves, you answered your phone with a frown.
“Hey Matt, you ok?” You weren’t sure why this call had already set off alarm bells in your brain. Perhaps it was because of how frustrated Matt had seemed lately, even after you’d helped him organize his room. The poor boy was drained, only more so over the last two days because Foggy had fallen ill and Matt had taken it upon himself to nurse the blond boy back to health.
“Uh, yah. Yep, I’m good.” Matt’s voice was breathless and almost sluggish, the words spilling through the speaker just too far apart from one another to sound normal. The response did nothing to quiet your concerns.
“Ok…did you need something?” You prompted after he failed to explain himself.
“Oh right, um, it’s raining and I, uh, I was wondering if you could give me a ride home?” Was he drunk? His sentence was a complete thought, but it seemed like he was barely stringing it together coherently.
“Yah, of course.” You responded, slipping a pair of shoes on and searching for your keys. “Where are you, trouble?”
“Er, the pharmacy by the auditorium.”
“Ok, trouble, stay dry. I’ll be there soon.” You promised, hurrying out the door and into the stormy weather.
When you arrived at the pharmacy, your chest squeezed in sympathy at the pathetic sight before you. Huddled on a bench under the awning of the pharmacy was Matt, his hoodie soaked with rain. You could see your poor friend shaking from the cold, arms huddled around his waist as he waited. After parking your car hastily, you dashed over to him with an open umbrella, understanding beginning to flow through your mind as you studied his appearance.
Up close, his trembling was vicious, shaking drops of rainwater off of his hair and glasses. He was breathing heavily and his nose was bright red. And, perhaps more worrying than all of those things combined, he hadn’t noticed you standing right in front of him.
Matt always knew when you were around. It was almost scary. You and Foggy liked to joke that he had super powers, but he explained he was just used to relying on his other senses to inform him of his surroundings.
They clearly weren’t working properly right now, though.
“Matty?” You asked softly, braving the puddles and kneeling in front of him. Holding the umbrella up higher to shield both of you from the pelting rain, you flinched as his hand shot out, grabbing you by the lapel and yanking you forward before recognition relaxed his jaw.
“Bug?”
“Yah, trouble, it’s me.” Shaking off the shock that had brewed in your throat when Matt yanked you to the ground, you continued. “Let’s get you into my car where it’s warmer.”
Taking his arm gently, you guided him under the umbrella and towards your car. Matt’s body sagged against yours as you walked, dampening your own sweater with the moisture from his clothes. Once he was settled in your passenger seat, you closed the umbrella, tossing it in the trunk before racing to the driver’s side and hopping in the car.
“Ok, Matty, am I taking you back to your dorm?” You asked, restraining yourself from brushing stray raindrops off his flushed cheeks.
“Yes please.” His voice was hoarse, quiet. Too distant from the charming, velvet tone you loved so much.
Nodding habitually, you backed out of the parking space and drove faster than normal through campus.
“Why were you at the pharmacy in such shitty weather?” You wondered aloud, unsure if he had the energy to respond.
“Getting cold medicine and tissues for Foggy.” He answered tiredly.
“Sounds like you might need some of that yourself, trouble. How long have you been sick?”
“‘M fine.” Came Matt’s gruff response, shutting down your genuine concern with two words.
“Alrighty then.” You said, more to yourself than him, but you didn’t say anything further.
The rest of the car ride was spent in silence, save for a few stifled sneezes that you pretended not to hear for the sake of Matt’s dignity. In no time, you were rolling up to the front door of his building.
“Did you want me to walk you up?” You asked cautiously.
“No, I’ll be ok, sweetheart.” Matt sighed, seeming a bit more lucid after warming up. “Foggy is really gross right now and I’d hate for you to catch this.”
“Ok, well, take good care of each other. And, maybe take a few days off? To rest so you don’t get sick too?” You proposed, hoping he wouldn’t be too grumpy with the suggestion.
Matt nodded heavily, running a hand under his nose. “Not a bad idea. I'm sorry for calling you for a ride but the buses weren’t running and—“
“Matt,” You placed your hand on his thigh. “It’s ok. It’s disgusting outside. Even if the buses are running, you can always call me. Always, yah?”
“Ok. I’m sorry.”
You chuckled, squeezing his leg. “You’re forgiven, trouble. Go get some sleep please.”
“I will. Text me when you’re home so I know you’re safe?”
“Of course. Have a good night, bubs.” With a final pat on his thigh, you watched as Matt left the safety of your car and braved the rain as he headed up to his room. Shaking your head, you hoped he’d hold up his end of your agreement.
Sinking into the tiny fold-up chair, you closed your eyes as the legs squeaked against their corresponding bolts. The empty chairs bordering yours did nothing to protect you from the draft that kept bursting through the door every time a student entered. Usually, there were two people sitting on either side of you to shield you from the bitter cold in the city outside.
Holding back a sigh, you wrapped your arms around your stomach in an attempt to retain heat. You were grateful that the boys had stayed home to rest, you supposed, but their absence still weighed on you. Biting your bottom lip before it could shift into a pout, you shuddered against an especially fierce gust of wind as someone stumbled in a minute before class was supposed to start.
You ignored their footsteps, until they entered your row; the shadow of the newcomer blocking the side of your face from the flickering fluorescent lights as they shuffled towards you.
A pit formed in your stomach as you turned your head; deep regret surging through you for wishing you had company when you took in his appearance.
“Matt?” You whispered, laying a hand on his arm as he tumbled backwards into his usual seat to your right.
If you thought he had looked rough last night, he looked positively deathly now. His skin was pale and shining with sweat, no doubt from the exertion of getting to class. A bright pink flush stained his cheeks and nose, accentuating the hollow circles under his eyes.
“Oh bubba,” You gasped, reaching out to touch his heated cheek. To your surprise, he flinched at the movement, suspending your hand in midair, doomed to hover around his face as you scolded the dreadfully ill boy. “What are you doing here?”
Leaning into your touch sloppily, apprehension abandoned, Matt exhaled raggedly. “We had class.” His voice was strained beyond recognition, causing your own throat to throb painfully in sympathy.
“You sound like you feel awful, Matty. You knew I would be here taking notes, why’d you leave your bed?” You tutted in soft disapproval. Fighting the urge to hold him close in front of the entire lecture hall, you moved your hand to his arm, sliding it into his elbow. His skin was burning, even through his layers; your shivering a distant memory as his fever warmed you both.
“Didn’t want to be a burden.” Matt murmured, facing the front of the room rather than your surprised gaze.
“Matthew, you are never a burden for needing help,” You admonished gently, stroking your thumb over his forearm. Before you could attempt to drill that fact into his stubborn mind, your professor began lecturing. “We will talk more about this later. I will take good notes, you focus on not fainting.” You hissed, withdrawing your hand from his arm.
“‘M not gonna faint.” He muttered, but even he didn’t seem certain of that fact.
The 150 minute class ticked by idly, the scratching of your pen diligently scribbling on paper slowly drove you mad as Matt slumped further into your personal space; his chin slowly inched towards his chest as he fell asleep to the sounds of your professor’s absurdly boring speech. Every instinct in your body was telling you to grab the kid and bolt, somehow getting him home and bundled up before he contracted pneumonia.
After what felt like days, your professor finally dismissed you. Sighing harshly, you smiled at Matt’s sleeping face, almost feeling guilty waking him.
“Ok, trouble, up and at ‘em.” You nudged his shoulder, catching him as he almost tumbled out of his seat with a start. “C’mon, bubs. We gotta get you home.”
“Home?” Matt slid his glasses off, rubbing at his eyes blearily.
“Yah, Matty. Back to your dorm, so you can sleep some more.” You explained, stroking a hand over his back as the students around you filed out of the lecture hall.
“But…we have class.” Matt’s lips slid into a pout, his nose scrunching in confusion.
“No, trouble, I have class. You are going to sleep off this wretched bug while I take notes for you and Fog.”
Matt grumbled, but didn’t argue further. Gently tugging on his hand, you pulled him out of his chair and out the door, holding him tightly against your side as you both braved the freezing weather.
By the time you reached his building, your jaw was stiff with concern. On an average day, Matt’s movements were graceful and calculated. As he descended into his feverish delirium, however, he began to rely more heavily on your strength to keep him from crashing to the pavement. Dragging him up the stairs, the two of you miraculously stumbled to his door without injury.
Passing you his lanyard, Matt shifted his weight to the drywall surrounding his door as you unlatched the lock and pushed into the room. The space was shrouded in darkness, a set of thick sheets draped over the window panes to block out all natural light.
Allowing your eyes to adjust, you rested a hand on Matt’s shoulder as he shuffled into the room. “Hey, Fog. Sorry to bust in unannounced. Wanted to make sure that Trouble here…” Trailing off, your strained eyes flitted over Foggy’s empty bed. Brow furrowing in confusion, you looked back to the dark haired boy for an explanation.
“Where’s Foggy, Matt?”
“Went back to Hell’s Kitchen for the week.” Frowning, Matt’s brow pinched in distress. “Thought I told you that.”
Holding back a sigh, you fiddled with the straps of your backpack as you debated how to best help the ill boy who was currently kicking his shoes off and collapsing into bed.
“Ok, bubba,” You crouched beside him, fussing with his comforter until he was properly bundled. “Have you taken anything for that fever today?”
Shaking his head, which knocked his glasses askew, Matt’s frown deepened. “Didn’t know I had to.”
“You don’t have to, but it’ll help you feel better.” Gently sliding his lenses off of his pale face before they were damaged or lost, you scanned the grim space for anything that could help. Lips twitching in satisfaction when you spotted a container of Tylenol, you handed Matt a few pills and his water bottle.
“There. That should do for now. Will you be ok if I head to class?”
A muscle in Matt’s jaw twitched as his expression turned stony. “Yes.”
Brushing a strand of hair from his forehead, you nodded hesitantly. “Ok, trouble. I’ll be back later to check on you. Call me if you need anything.”
Matt nodded, but you doubted he took your request to heart.
Shifting your backpack to your other shoulder, you sighed as the weight refused to distribute in a more comfortable way across your upper back. The fluorescent lights above you buzzed as you ran your fingers over another blanket—still unsatisfied with how soft the options were. If they weren’t perfect to you, they might not even be bearable for your friend and his sensitive skin.
Stopping at Target before returning to Matt wasn’t strictly necessary, but the boy had seemed so chilled in class, you figured he could use a nice soft throw blanket to add to his bed. You weren’t quite sure how to care for a sick person, but you had a few ideas give your own experiences.
You’d picked up soup from a local deli, printed off the notes you’d taken in class today using the braille printer, and were tossing the softest blanket you could find into your cart before hurrying to check out. Though it had only been a few hours, you were growing increasingly worried about Matt and the fact that he was all alone in his dark room, hopefully not coughing his lungs out or burning up with fever.
Setting the bagged blanket back in your passenger seat, you blew out a breath before shifting your car into drive. The city lights blurred in the corners of your vision as you jerked forward in the line of evening traffic, worming your way closer to Matt with every lift of your foot from the brake pedal. Eventually, you were able to squeeze into a well-worn parking space. Flipping open your phone, you hoped that your ill friend would be coherent enough to grant you access to the building.
After a ring, an out-of-breath Matt answered with a brief, “Hello?”
“Hey! I, uh, brought you some stuff. Are you able to let me in or should I lurk until someone leaves?” You asked distractedly, craning your neck to see if you could dash for the exit as a group of boys left.
The boy huffed a laugh, knowing you were only partially joking about waiting for entry. “I'll be down in a second, Bug. Please don't scare the regulars.“ His voice was still more stuffy than normal, but he seemed to know what was going on--which was an improvement from this morning.
You snorted in response. ”No promises, Matty. I'm impatiently awaiting your presence.“ Your voice sing-songed with the last sentence, making him groan.
”Alright, alright, I'm coming.“
Sure enough, a few minutes after he abruptly ended the call, a hoodie-clad Matthew leaned out of the door frame and waved you over. ”Hurry up, sweetheart, it's cold outside.“
Smiling at the familiar fond-exasperation and sarcasm that your friend had been lacking lately, you darted across the parking lot, squeezing his bicep as you passed. ”Maybe you should've worn a jacket, trouble.“
“Maybe I should've.” He smiled, letting the door whoosh closed behind the two of you. “You didn't have to come back, you know.” His voice shifted into a murmur, his expression becoming unreadable as he slipped his hand into your elbow thoughtlessly.
Gently bumping your hip into his, your face flooded with warmth as he smiled at the action. “Course I did, trouble. I wasn't about to leave you here to wallow in your misery alone. Being alone when sick is the worst.”
Matt shrugged as you reached the top of the stairs, panting slightly from exertion as he pushed his door open for you. “I wouldn't know.”
Smile falling, you looked back at Matt, his body turned away from you as he closed the door and slipped out of his shoes.
“What do you mean, Matty?” You wondered aloud, settling yourself on his bed and clasping your hands around the handle of the shopping bag you held as you waited for his response.
”Oh, I mean, growing up in an orphanage and all,“ Matt chuckled hollowly, keeping his face tilted away from you, his body desperately trying to stop you from seeing through his stoicism, as you always did. ”Always too many kids and too little time, the sisters couldn't exactly sit at my bedside. And I wasn't exactly popular amongst the kids, so I guess I never had anything to compare the loneliness to.“
Matt tangled his hands together, squeezing them as he spoke, as if he wasn't quite ready to sit back down.
”I mean, I'm sure my dad was good about it, but I can't really remember--“ His voice cracked off into a jagged coughing fit. Sliding from the mattress, you ushered him into a seated position.
”Careful there, trouble. Still gotta breathe.“ Rubbing his back as he caught his breath, you handed him his water bottle--grimacing when he grinned at you maniacally.
”You sure? Choking to death is pretty fun.“ He rasped, sipping the water slowly.
Scoffing through a laugh, you shook your head, planting yourself next to him on the bed. ”That's dark, trouble.“
Smirking as he finished the water, Matt gave a one-armed shrug. ”You've heard darker.“
”Touche.“ Kicking your feet like a child on a swing, you chewed the inside of your cheek. ”About what you said, Matty--“
Groaning, Matt fell backwards onto the mattress, bouncing you with his weight. He threw an arm over his face. “I was hoping we'd just move past it.”
“Were you?” You raised an eyebrow, unsure how truthful the statement was.
“I mean, nothing we can do about it now.” He muttered, his jaw tensing beneath his forearm.
“Well, that's not exactly true...” You argued, unwrapping an item from the thin plastic bag you'd hauled in. Unfurling the large square of fabric, you draped it over Matt carefully, quickly turning back to organize the rest of the supplies you'd brought. “I'll just have to teach you.”
”Teach me what?“ Matt croaked, lifting his head to allow his ears to track your movement as you bustled about, his fingers absentmindedly petting the soft blanket you'd thrown across him.
“How to be sick,” You responded matter-of-factly, not entirely alleviating Matt's confusion.
“Pretty sure I'm doing that just fine without a lesson.” Matt chuckled, gesturing to his pale face.
“Oh, you have definitely got the pathetic wallowing handled.” You nodded, returning with a container of soup and a spoon.
“Pathetic?” Matt pouted, his nose crinkling in offense.
Ignoring him, you withdrew one of his hands from the blanket envelope, placing the plastic tub into it. “I'm going to teach you how to be cared for. Lesson number one: Letting people bring you soup. It's the first step to a speedy recovery“
”These lessons feel incredibly subjective,“ Matt groused, face briefly lighting up as he placed the first spoonful of soup into his mouth, digging into the container earnestly as the taste hit his tongue.
”To the contrary, Murdock, these lessons are based firmly in statistics.“
”I'd like to review your citations.“
Pretending not to hear him, you continued. ”Lessons two and three are soft blankets and rest--two things that I know you're not familiar with, so I'm afraid to say you might not be credible to comment on the validity of these remedies.”
“My blanket is plenty soft.”
“Oh is it? I mean, I can take this back if you don't want it.” As you moved to retrieve the blanket from around him, Matt growled, hands clenching around fistfuls of the fuzzy material.
“I'm sorry, would you like to keep it?” You grinned, your smug attitude seeping into your words.
Matt feigned an eye roll. “Well if the experts think it'll help me feel less shitty, I guess it's worth a shot.”
“See, that's the spirit!”
Smiling, Matt cocked his head at you. “What's next on the syllabus, Professor?”
”This is the best part, Matty,“ You said excitedly, rummaging through your bag to find the item you were thrilled to share with him. ”Jen let me borrow her iPod! I downloaded an audiobook for us.“
Taken aback, Matt had to consciously remember to breathe before responding. ”That's...you didn't have to do that, bug.“
”I figured you'd probably be bored, sitting here without Foggy all day. And, I haven't passed the bar yet, but I'm pretty sure it's illegal to do homework when you feel like crap.“
Matt shook his head with a small laugh. ”What book is it?“
”It's called The Alchemist. I read it with my mom last year when she was undergoing treatment. I think you'll like it.“
”Thank you, sweetheart.“ Matt could feel a flush spreading over his cheeks that was unrelated to his current fever. Feeling entirely exposed and vulnerable, he took a leap. ”I...uh, I really didn't enjoy being by myself this afternoon. I'm happy that you came back.“
”Of course, Matty.” You murmured, stroking stray wisps of hair from his forehead. “I never want you to be alone if you don't want to be. I'll always come back to you.”
The heaviness of that statement didn’t escape either of you. Sitting in silence for a moment, Matt was unsure whether he wanted to laugh or cry.
“Even if you're ridiculously grumpy when sick.” You sighed dramatically, shaking your head.
Your stupid joke decided his next move, startling a laugh from his mouth. ”I'm not that bad, am I?“
”I guess we'll find out, won't we?“ You giggled. ”But don't worry, I'm not easily scared off.“
Maybe you should be. His brain immediately supplied. Praying his face didn’t betray the immense doubt that abruptly smacked him upside the head, he focused on the feather-light touch of your fingers in his hair.
Before his mind could spiral any further, you spoke again. “If you ever need space, say the word and I'll be gone. It has been recently brought to my attention that I'm not great at taking hints.” Your thighs brushed together beside him as you shifted nervously.
Frowning at your words, he leaned into you. “What do you mean, sweetheart? Who brought it to your attention?“
Huffing a bitter laugh, Matt could practically hear your walls going up as you backpedaled. ”It's nothing, Matty. I didn't mean anything by it–”
“Bug, please don't lie.” Sliding a single hand out from his blanket cocoon, he groped around until his fingers found yours, intertwining them. “Talk to me?”
Breathing deeply, you confessed. “At the Halloween party, a couple weeks ago, I heard Everett talking to his friends, they were ragging on him for being whipped or some stupid bullshit and he...fuck I can't believe I'm still upset about this.”
You scoffed at your own frustration, running a finger over Matt’s knuckles absentmindedly. “Instead of defending me, or even just saying nothing, he called me clingy. And, ever since, he, like, refuses to acknowledge me in public.”
“I'm so sorry, sweetheart.” Matt felt a familiar rage bubbling in his stomach, churning fiercely at the thought of you being so insecure because of an idiot like Everett.
“It's fine, I mean, I talked to him about it, he apologized, I just...” There was a small thunk as you leaned your head backwards against the drywall. “I dunno, clearly I can't stop thinking about it.”
“You're not clingy, bug. You're sweet and attentive and he's–” He's an idiot if he doesn't think that. He couldn’t say that, could he? God, he was too sick to be thinking this hard. “He's probably so mad at himself for saying it.” He finished. Why was he defending this asshole?
”You're probably right. I just...what if he was right?“
”He wasn't.“ Matt snarled, deflating as your touch reminded him of your fragile emotional state. ”I mean, hell, if you're clingy that would make me a parasite.“
Tutting in disapproval, you nestled closer to him.
Chuckling morosely, Matt continued. ”Fuck, bug, I mean–when you left for class, I almost lost it.“
”Aw, Matt, you should've called me.“ He could hear your brow folding in concern.
”It's fine, I mean, I've done this alone for 10 years, I don't know why it was so hard all of a sudden.“ Matt scoffed, trying not to dwell on how weak he felt for admitting that.
”Well that's probably why, isn't it? This is the first time in 10 years you've surrounded yourself with your people, trouble. Once you've found them, it's hard to let them go.“ Squeezing his hand, your lips twitched up. ”Especially when you're not at your best.“
Nodding in agreement, Matt sighed. “Sometimes, I can hear the voice of my old mentor. Telling me not to trust people, not to get attached. And, when you two aren't here, it's harder to ignore that voice, to remind myself that it's ok to...to not want to be alone.”
“Of course that's ok, bubs. No one wants to be alone, not even your asshole of a mentor.“ Matt laughed at the anger in your tone. ”I know it doesn't make up for the fact that I left, but I brought you my notes so you won't fail?“
Smiling, Matt rubbed his face into your shoulder. ”Of course you did.”
“What?” You giggled, admiring his sleepy grin.
“Nothing, bug. You're just good at this. Taking care of people.” Burying his face in your neck as your arms wrapped around him, he whispered, “I'm so happy I met you.”
“I'm happy I met you too, Matty. Wanna listen to the book as you fall asleep?”
“I'm not gonna fall asleep.” He argued, his words muffled by your shirt.
“Sure, Matty.” You adjusted so that you were properly holding him up, your hand once again taking up residence in his soft hair. The narrator began reading the book's publication details and you settled in, tipping your head until it rested against Matt’s.
Daredevil: Born Again 01x03 - The Hollow of His Hand
Episode 1 had me really iffy about where this was going. Episode 2 relieved a lot of my concerns. With episode 3... I'd say I'm somewhere around the middle now.
At this point, I'm somewhere around what it felt like to watch Falcon & Winter Soldier. They are trying to host some very serious and important conversation topics that I don't know if the MCU is equipped to handle.
I'm interested in where this is going, but my hand is on the weird little handle that dangles down from the car ceiling while I brace for the show to slam on the brakes down the line. It's not that I don't like the topic; It's that I don't trust Disney with it.
For starters, it's weird and disappointing that the big Holy Shit conclusion to episode 2 has no follow-up. Matt just beat the shit out of two cops. Unmasked. Cops that know exactly who he was, his name and identity and role in this case. And it amounts to nothing.
They just.
Let him get away with that. Water under the bridge. He impeded their illegal "arrest" of Nicky and beat the shit out of them, and there are no consequences for him whatsoever.
"Wait, didn't they literally try to kill him?"
...no no no no no, you don't get how this works. If you attack the police, you are under arrest for assaulting the police. If the police attack you, you are under arrest for assaulting the police. If you shoot at them, it's an officer-involved shooting that police are responding to. If they shoot at you, it's an officer-involved shooting that police are responding to.
If, at any time, you are involved in a violent altercation with police? You are guilty until proven innocent. In the eyes of the law, the police are always right, barring hard evidence proving otherwise. Some of which the police get to decide whether or not the public ever gets to see it.
Matt beats up two cops and the most that happens here is that Officer Poopy Pants here comes into the bathroom to make mean faces at him.
They try to play this scene like Matt and Powell have mutually-assured destruction that keeps either of them from coming forward. Powell could get Matt thrown off the case for "interfering with a police investigation", which is a wild-ass fucking claim since he'd have to confess to Nicky's involvement in Matt's case in order to link the two things.
Matt, in turn, threatens to have Powell send to prison for witness tampering. Which is also a wild-ass fucking claim because. Uh. Prove it? Matt, you're a lawyer.
There is literally nothing stopping Powell from physically dragging Matt from this bathroom and throwing him in a cell for "attacking me last night". It's literally what he's already doing to Hector, but Matt's invisible anti-corrupt cop barrier forces Powell to respect his legal superiority.
You need to understand that Powell could literally shoot Matt in the fucking face right now and walk away clean. That is how much power the police have. "He savagely attacked me last night and then he tried to finish the job when I went to take a piss. I don't know what his deal was, but I feared for my life." Rest in piss, attempted cop-killer.
And. Like. If the show just had a really optimistic view of cops and was like, "Powell wouldn't do that," that'd be one thing. But he's literally doing this to Hector. That is the premise of this arc. Why is Matt safe? Why aren't they dragging Matt away in handcuffs to answer for "assaulting the police"? He left evidence all over that apartment and two officers' faces.
Matt gets to verbally dunk on Powell and the cops just let that happen. And I just. I don't think Matt's hand here is as strong as the show seems to think it is?
I think it's important to note that when Powell testilies against Hector, the only motive he ascribes to Hector's actions is "he had a wild look in his eyes".
Coming from a cop, that's plenty. People just assume that cops know what they're talking about when they say shit like this. That is more than enough to secure a conviction.
But it will be important later so just. Just keep in mind that literally the only motive for the attack that's been given for Hector is "He's a crazy man who just wanted to kill some cops." The prosecution's laziness in proving their case becomes comical at one point.
I love this moment. All that trouble we went through to find Nicky and get him on the stand, and it's all for nothing. Because he's not going to rat on a cop. They'd never find his body if he did.
To touch for a moment on the B-plot:
I don't know if they're setting up the idea that quote unquote "legitimate" authority and the hierarchy that Fisk's moved into is just a different form of organized crime. Fisk thinks he's above it all, that he's moved beyond the petty turf wars and shit, but we just saw him last episode using the same kinds of methods to control the cops as he would to control crime.
Powell's guys trying to eliminate Nicky before he can testify is, like... you could palette-swap them with mafiosos and it would be the same. Because they're the same. Organized crime and policing are cut from the same cloth. It's just a question of which capitalist's interests the thugs are serving.
The Kingpin's goons may wear badges now but they'll still shake people down, collect his extortion payments, and eliminate people for him all the same.
But I don't know if the show is bold enough to actually make that connection.
Anyways, back on the topic of Matt's inexplicably invulnerability to consequences.
Yeah, not a lawyer and all but I'm pretty sure this would cause a mistrial and land Matt in deep shit, legally speaking. He specifically met with the judge and prosecutor and made the case for this information to be suppressed, which the judge agreed to.
But again, all it amounts to is the judge making frowny faces at him for being naughty.
The judge gives Matt disappointed dad eyes for five minutes and then they go back out and continue trying the case.
What the fuck?
Bare minimum, I'm pretty sure this would result in a mistrial and send Matt to prison for contempt of court. The judge wouldn't just go, "Well, too late to stop him now, guess we just have to let him do it, tee hee hee!"
In an attempt to get ahead of the criticism, the judge actually brings up the possibility of a mistrial so that he can immediately shoot it down. He says that "it's out there now" so it's too late. Uh. No?
Matt pulled this stunt in court, Hector never confirmed that he was White Tiger, and then the judge immediately pulled Matt and the prosecutor into his office. If the outcome of this move is a mistrial and Hector's lawyer going to prison for being a fucking moron... I'm not going to call that solid proof that Hector is White Tiger.
At best, it's rumor.
But even if the genie's out of the bottle so to speak... who cares? This isn't exactly Iron Man or the Hulk. You're not going to be too hard pressed to find jurors who haven't heard the rumors of the Real True Identity of the local neighborhood bodega savior.
Also, on that topic:
Uh. Yeah.
Go fuck yourself, Matt. You might have just gotten Hector killed, if this case ended in a conviction. In the very likely chance that this stunt you're pulling doesn't result in acquittal? Hector is now going to prison as the man who put some of them in there.
He's going to prison as a cop-killer and a vigilante who put several of them away in the cells next to his. I give him one night before he "hangs himself under mysterious circumstances".
Given the extreme risk to Hector's safety that this information poses, it should have been his decision to make.
But Matt manages to spin it in a way that lands him the acquittal.
Matt now gets to bring out a whole slew of character witnesses to talk about what a virtuous and noble person Hector is.
I did point out last episode that Hector's identity as White Tiger would work against the prosecution more than it'd work in their favor, and that it was kinda silly for Matt to even care so much about suppressing it.
Like, the fact that this ends up being his winning play is hilarious given that Matt was the one so fervently advocating against letting this information enter court. That's not just a case of Matt inexplicably skating out of consequences for things that should reasonably have consequences, it also just....
Like. He went to the judge to have what ends up being his own case-winning play suppressed, which frankly should have cost him the case. This was already an unwinnable case, but separate from that, Matt's also kind of a shitty lawyer.
Also, I love how Matt starts citing police reports of incidents White Tiger was involved in.
I'm not going to be too hard on this part. Matt's just trying to make a convincing case to the jury; It doesn't actually matter to Hector's case whether or not these police reports are full of lies.
I just think it's funny that they read off a report about "I was responding to a burglary and found a guy in an alley, and before I could draw my weapon, he attacked me without provocation!"
In a case where the allegation leveled at Matt's defendant is "Yo I was minding my business in the subway when suddenly he attacked me without provocation!"
Bruh, of course the guy in the alley was provoked. You literally said the dude attacked "before I could draw my weapon." If there was no provocation, what were you drawing your weapon for? Gonna show him a cool party trick?
Yeah, these police reports are full of shit and Hector should maybe reconsider all those times he "helped the police subdue the suspect" in incidents like these. But that's beside the point. The point is to get the legally ironclad word of the police into court on Hector's side.
Again, it's a superhero show. I wouldn't be so critical of this point if the show wasn't deliberately trying to center this exact thing as the conversation piece it wants to discuss. If you want to talk ACAB then we're gonna talk ACAB.
I actually really love that Matt brings up Hector's lack of his gear here. This is a stellar point. Okay, so the police are saying he just attacked them in the subway because he's a crazy man looking to kill some cops. ...why did he do that without his stuff?
I do think that Hector being White Tiger completely destroys the one and only motive that's been provided for the attack. If he was just a violent man doing violence then. Like. Where was all of his violence gear?
I do think that's sufficient to cast reasonable doubt. But, again, not a lawyer.
The prosecutor's closing argument is so terrible hahahahahahaha
"Sometimes good people do bad things, and sometimes bad people do good things."
My guy. You are trying to present a rationale for Hector just going crazy and deciding to murder some cops for shits and giggles. Because you have presented absolutely nothing resembling a real motive, beyond Powell saying he just had the look.
I think that's above and beyond the call of "Good people have flaws." This prosecutor is so bad at his job.
At least pivot and try to make the case about White Tiger having violent instincts or something. Once Matt started going in on "My client is a vigilante who beats up criminals," that would have been a great time to start making counter-claims about how vigilantism is legally dubious.
Okay. Cool. The violent vigilante thought he was saving the day when he jumped two cops in the subway and shoved one of them in front of a train. That is what the defense is claiming? Cool. Yeah. We'll go with that.
But Matt just gets to steamroll this clown without so much as an attempt to fire back. Man, nobody is allowed to challenge Matt in this episode. Not the cops, not the prosecution, not even the judge. He is wearing his "Protagonist; Don't Fuck With Me" badge proud.
Great. Get the fuck out of New York, Hector, before the NYPD come up with a reason to murder you in retaliation. In their eyes, you're just a cop-killer who escaped justice.
I still can't believe Matt just... got away with beating up two cops consequence-free. But you don't have Protagonist Invulnerability so you need to leave before--
That. Before that happens.
Yep. That is exactly how this story ends.
I'm... honestly nervous about the fact that the show wants to have this conversation because I don't for the life of me know how it's going to reasonably resolve this conversation. I'm just waiting for the "A few bad apples" argument to come down the pipe. We already had that detective in the first episode setting it up.
Remember when Ms. Marvel had all of the Good Cops suddenly show up to stand against the Bad Cops and prove that policing as an institution wasn't really the problem? Yeah. I'm waiting for that. I don't think this show has the nerve to condemn the institution, and I don't know how you satisfyingly resolve a conversation like this without doing so.
I am, however, pleased to see that they're going there.
I was wondering if that was supposed to be a Punisher skull or iconic Daredevil villain Mister Fear last episode. We can now say for certain that it's a Punisher skull.
This obviously isn't the Punisher. It's probably Powell but possibly another cop. We are moving towards that topic: The real-world phenomenon of police idolizing the Punisher and treating him as a role model to aspire to.
Again, it's probably just going to end up being something the "Bad Apples" do, but at least they're talking about it.
Additional characters: Benjamin Poindexter, Karen Page & Foggy Nelson
Description: Bullseye takes your life and Matt crosses the line.
Words: 1200
Warnings: Death
I'm still not over Daredevil: Born Again episode 1, so if I have to suffer, so do you. (Sorry)
Blood runs thick beneath the neon glow.
It spreads in slow, sluggish rivers across the pavement outside Josie’s, pooling between the cracks, sinking into the city’s bones.
Your blood.
Matt tastes it in the air before he even hears the shot. Copper and salt, dark and final, curling through Hell’s Kitchen like a whispered prayer.
He was too late.
He was too late.
—
Bullseye is laughing.
The sound is sharp, grating, unhinged—like broken glass crunching underfoot. It cuts through the chaos like a blade, slicing through screams and the scrape of bodies against asphalt.
Matt barely registers the way Karen sobs your name, the way Foggy is shouting for help, hands pressed against the wound in your stomach as if he can hold your life inside you with sheer will alone.
Because all he can hear is your heart.
Slow.
Slower.
And then—
“Matt.”
A whisper. So faint, so fragile, but you know he’ll hear you. You know he’s listening.
Matt’s breath catches in his throat.
Your voice is paper-thin, fluttering on the wind like something weightless, something slipping through his fingers.
You’re calling for him.
And he isn’t there.
—
Fury rises like bile.
Matt doesn’t remember launching himself at Bullseye. Doesn’t remember closing the distance between them, doesn’t remember the first hit, the second, the third—
Only that it isn’t enough.
Bullseye is a whirlwind, a storm of violence and precision, but Matt is rage incarnate.
Fists collide. Bones snap. The world narrows into red and black, into the taste of blood and the scent of gunpowder, into the rhythmic, shuddering falter of your pulse.
Then they’re on the rooftop, the fight crashing upward like a wildfire.
The city roars below.
Your heartbeat is a whisper.
And then—
Silence.
Matt goes still.
The world falls away, and all that is left is the absence of you.
Not just quiet—gone.
No gentle rhythm. No soft, stuttering beats. No desperate, fragile pulse clinging to life.
Just—nothing.
Like you were never there at all.
—
A sound rips from Matt’s throat.
It isn’t human.
It is pain, raw and guttural, cracked open like ribs split apart by grief.
Bullseye smirks, breathless, bruised, bloodied. He cocks his head, watching Matt with something like curiosity, like he’s studying the way grief unspools a man from the inside.
Like he’s proud.
“Why?”
Matt’s voice is hollow.
Bullseye blinks, then chuckles.
“Why not?”
And that’s it.
That’s the moment something inside Matt Murdock shatters.
The moment he stops being the man who swore never to cross that final, irreversible line.
Because there is nothing left to save.
Nothing left to protect.
Bullseye goes flying.
Matt doesn’t feel himself push. Doesn’t register the way his fingers clench, the way muscle coils and releases, the way the man who took you away disappears over the edge.
He only hears the sickening crunch when Bullseye hits the pavement below.
—
Later, Matt won’t remember walking down the stairs.
Won’t remember how he made it back to the street, how he ended up on his knees beside your body, hands trembling as they ghost over your cheek, your hair, your cooling skin.
He won’t remember how Karen sobs into Foggy’s shoulder, how the sirens wail in the distance, how the city keeps breathing while his whole world has stopped.
But he will remember the last thing you ever said to him.
How you whispered his name with your dying breath.
Because you knew.
You always knew.
That no matter where you were, no matter how far—
Matt would always be listening.
—
Hell’s Kitchen mourns in silence.
The city does not weep for the dead. It swallows them whole, buries them beneath pavement and neon, lets their names fade into the hum of traffic and the wail of sirens.
But today, the city is quiet.
Today, the sky is heavy with grief, thick with clouds that hang low over rooftops, suffocating the skyline. The air is cold, biting, heavy with the promise of rain.
It should be raining.
But it isn’t.
Not yet.
Not even the heavens dare to weep before he does.
—
Matt doesn’t sit with the others.
Karen and Foggy are there, of course—front row, dressed in black, their grief pressed into the stiff lines of their suits. Karen’s shoulders shake, her breath uneven, her fingers curled into the fabric of Foggy’s sleeve.
Foggy stares at the casket, his hands balled into fists in his lap, his jaw tight.
There are others, too. People who knew you, people who loved you, people who will carry your absence like a weight for the rest of their lives.
Matt does not join them.
He stands at the back, separate. Distant. A shadow in the rainless gray.
He tells himself it’s because of the guilt.
Because he does not deserve to sit among them, to grieve with them.
Because he was supposed to save you, and he didn’t.
Because he failed.
But the truth is worse than that.
The truth is that he cannot sit down because if he does, he will never stand up again.
—
The priest speaks in gentle, practiced tones.
Words of solace. Of peace.
Words about heaven and salvation, about a life well-lived, about love and memory and the promise of eternity.
Matt knows the verses. Knows the prayers.
Knows how to recite them in the dark, knows how to murmur them between broken ribs and bruised knuckles.
But today, they are empty.
Today, he does not listen.
Because he is listening for you.
Even now.
Even knowing you are gone.
Even knowing your heartbeat will never echo against the chambers of his mind again.
Some desperate, wounded part of him still listens.
Still hopes.
But there is only silence.
—
The wind shifts.
And then—dirt falls against the casket.
One handful. Then another.
Karen breaks. A sharp, muffled sound, buried in her hands.
Foggy swallows hard. His breath is unsteady.
More dirt. More weight. More finality.
Matt forces himself to stand still. Forces himself to breathe. Forces himself to listen to the sound of you being buried beneath the earth.
And something in him—something deep and quiet and human—begins to unravel.
—
Later, when the mourners have gone, Matt stays.
He kneels beside your grave, his hands resting on the loose soil, his fingers curling into the dirt as if he could reach through it. As if he could pull you back.
As if he could undo it.
His lips part, but no sound comes out.
Because what is there to say?
That he’s sorry? That he loves you? That he will never—never—be whole again?
That there is no justice in a world that lets someone like you die while men like him still walk free?
That he isn’t sure who he is anymore, now that he is not yours?
The words never come.
Instead, Matt does the only thing he can.
He listens.
He listens to the wind, to the distant hum of traffic, to the rustling of leaves in the cold, heavy air.
He listens to the silence where your heartbeat used to be.
And when the first drop of rain finally falls against the earth, sinking into the soil above your grave like a tear, he bows his head.
but here's the thing right? matt KNEW, during that whole fight, deep down. he KNEW, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that short of actual divine intervention on foggy's behalf, foggy was dead. imagine how fast he must have understood that with bullseye on the other side of the scope, with nothing to distract him even a little, foggy had no chance. so matt knew it was over the moment he heard the trigger click.
but he couldn't stop himself from hoping, because that's who he is. the whole fight, the whole awful sequence, from one heartbeat to the next, he's not acting like foggy is dead.
foggy's heart is still beating, so there is hope. karen is still keeping the pressure on, so there is hope. the hope gives him the ability to throw every ounce of his flesh after bullseye, to prevent more people from dying if he can; he directs cherry to get people out of the bar, he drives after bullseye with the ferocity of the devil.
but somewhere in his heart, he knows. he knows that foggy is only making it another one or two minutes, and in the absence of the grace to save his best friend, matt will be the hand of divine retribution. he can't save foggy, no matter what he does, and in his heart he knows it. so he forces himself to throw away even the chance to say goodbye, to be at foggy's side as he goes, because if his purpose can't be grace, it WILL be retribution. and the man who killed his best friend will be punished, in this life as well as the next. matt won't miss the chance to make sure of it. he even pulls bullseye back from the ledge. retribution. justice.
and in the moment that the last veneer of hope washes away, as foggy's heart stops, matt's anger overwhelms him. in securing justice by the hand of the law, he's lost the chance to say anything else to foggy, ever again. he's lost the chance to hold his hand as he goes, he's lost his best friend and most important person forever. and for what, for the justice system to put this man, laughing in his face, away again?
why? why? why did dex do it, why is it that matt couldn't stop it, why is there never a physical manifestation of grace, why always only retribution left to be had in the aftermath? and he pushes.
and by some whim of gravity or grace, bullseye hits the ground and continues to breathe. just meters away, foggy lies dead, never to breathe again. matt sits on top of the building, knives piercing him like saint sebastian and so many arrows, and thinks, why? why? but where the grace of God didn't save foggy, it saved matt's soul yet again from the stain of murder. and matt must go on. he tears off his helmet. if justice via the retribution of the devil isn't enough--and it isnt--than the devil can't continue.
after all. foggy never wanted to give him an excuse to let the devil out.
authors note: As much as I love Deadpool & Wolverine, I really wanted to do a full rewrite in my own style, and as my own chaotic version of Wade would allow. I also just really love having an excuse to write Wade as the little psychopath fourth wall breaker I know he really wants to be. I plan on posting these in parts, and as frequently as time allows! Each chapter will be based on a song from the movie.
word count: 2.2k
part two
The sky hung heavy with a quilt of grey clouds, their ominous presence casting a cold, muted light over the pristine blanket of snow that stretched out across the frozen landscape. Snowflakes drifted lazily to the ground, swirling and dancing on a whim of the biting winter breeze. Each flake added to the soft layer of white that coated the earth, muffling sound and creating an eerie stillness that blanketed the world.
The crunch of boots shattered the silence. Black and red, they pressed into the snow with a deliberate weight, leaving behind deep impressions that revealed the frozen earth below. Attached to the boots was a figure cloaked in shadow, but the glint of steel betrayed the weapons strapped to his back. Familiar swords caught the sparse winter light, their polished hilts gleaming with a promise of violence and irreverence.
The figure halted, the air around him thick with tension as he gazed at the scene before him. His breath puffed in clouds of condensation, but it was not the cold that caused the long pause. He was standing before a solitary gravesite, marked by a crude wooden crucifix tilted at a precise forty-five-degree angle to form an ‘X.’ Perched atop a rough, weathered rock was a mug that read, in comically bold lettering, "I LIKE ME." It was the kind of detail that would feel absurd in any other setting, but here, it felt almost reverent—albeit in a distinctly offbeat way.
Then, as if to shatter the somber atmosphere, the silence was broken—not by an external sound, but by a voice. Disembodied yet familiar, it cut through the still air with all the subtlety of a freight train.
“You know,” the voice began, rich with a snarky charm that dripped sarcasm and defiance, “for a long time, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be back.”
The figure turned his head slightly, as though acknowledging the unseen audience. It was clear now that he wasn’t just any figure—Deadpool. The mask, red and black, hid his face, but not his personality. That could never be contained.
“Disney bought Fox,” he continued, his tone incredulous and mockingly dramatic. “There was this whole boring rights issue, blahbity-blahbity-blah. Lawyers in suits arguing over which billionaire mouse gets to own my ass. Classic capitalism, right? But then—plot twist—they actually wanted me. Me! The one guy who shouldn’t even have his own movie, much less a franchise. Marvel’s so stupid.”
Deadpool turned to face the gravesite fully now, the backdrop of snow and winter trees framing him in stark contrast. He gestured wildly, the exaggerated movements making his point seem even more absurd.
“Look, we all saw the trailer. You clicked on this fanfic, so you know the title. You know what’s coming. And now I bet you’re sitting there, scrolling, thinking, ‘How are we gonna do this without dishonoring Logan’s memory?’ Well, I’ll tell you how.”
He took a deliberate step forward, snow crunching beneath his boots, and crouched down slightly, resting his hands on his knees like a coach about to deliver an important speech. The silence stretched, his body language dripping with theatrical tension.
“We’re not.”
The words hung in the air, delivered with a perfect blend of irreverence and solemnity. Deadpool rose to his full height, adjusting the swords on his back and tilting his head in mock seriousness.
“Logan’s memory? That dude literally got impaled saving a feral child. I’m doing him a favor by starring in this little novel. Call it a memorial. A written eulogy, if you will. But you’re here for the action, the laughs, the gratuitous swearing, and maybe—just maybe—a chance to see Wolverine’s claws again. No pressure, though.”
He reached out to brush some snow off the tilted wooden cross. His gloved fingers traced the shape of the 'X,' and for a moment, his voice softened.
“Miss you, buddy.”
And then, with a sharp inhale and a clap of his hands, the moment was over. Deadpool spun on his heel, muttering to himself as he walked away from the gravesite.
“Alright, let’s get this show on the road,” he said to no one in particular, but loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’ve got a franchise to save, a fourth wall to destroy, and—if the budget allows—Hugh Jackman’s phone number to steal.”
The muted stillness of the North Dakota wilderness was shattered by the dull thud of soil being violently displaced. Clumps of frozen dirt and tangled roots were flung skyward, raining back down like a gritty hailstorm around a freshly dug grave. The bleak landscape, painted in shades of grey and brown, was eerily quiet save for the relentless scraping of a shovel. Snow swirled in lazy spirals, its chill ignored by the lone figure waist-deep in a hole of his own making.
Deadpool’s voice rang out, clear and cutting through the cold air, breaking not only the quiet but also the fourth wall with practiced ease.
“I’m gonna let you in on a little secret,” he began, his tone conversational, like he was sharing gossip over coffee rather than defiling a grave in the middle of nowhere. “Wolverine? Yeah, not dead. Nope. Nada. Zilch. Sure, it looked like the perfect ending to his little melodrama—impaled, tragic, tears, the whole shebang. But c’mon, people! Regenerative healing factors don’t work like that.”
He paused his digging, leaning on the handle of his battered shovel, his masked head tilted in mock disbelief as if expecting someone to argue.
“Seriously, it’s science,” he added, gesturing vaguely with one gloved hand. “And you think I want to be out here in Butt-Fuck Nowhere, North Dakota, desecrating the grave of the one and only Wolverine? Hell no. I’ve got Netflix to binge and chimichangas to microwave. But—” He hefted his shovel again, jabbing it into the soil with a dramatic flourish. “—the fate of my entire world is at stake. So here I am, freezing my perfectly sculpted ass off, playing Bob the Builder with claws over here. He may not be living his best life, but he sure as hell ain’t dead.”
Deadpool drove the shovel deep into the ground with one final, forceful jab. The satisfying shunk sound of metal meeting resistance echoed from the depths of the hole. He froze, head snapping downward.
“Well, well, well, there you are,” he said, his voice dripping with faux reverence. “Yes, yes, yes, yes.”
He straightened for the first time since beginning his excavation, revealing his full, vibrant suit—sleek and unmistakably new. He twirled the shovel in one hand like a baton, its edges dented and worn despite his crisp appearance. Squatting down with the grace of a gymnast, he poked at the dirt below with the blade, testing the ground, confirming his discovery.
Then he disappeared again, vanishing waist-deep into the hole like a demented gopher. His movements became more frantic, hands now clawing at the dirt, sending fistfuls of soil and shredded roots flying in every direction. His breathing grew heavier, grunts of exertion mingling with muttered complaints and occasional curse words. He was nothing if not determined.
Suddenly, the frantic digging stopped. The silence was deafening, heavy with expectation. Deadpool shifted, his posture tense as he brushed away the last stubborn layer of earth, revealing—
“Son of a BITCH!” he roared, the words ricocheting through the empty expanse. His helmeted head shot up, his body rigid with disbelief. “AGHHH, MOTHER-FUCKER—MY WORLD IS FUCKED!”
The explosion of frustration was instantaneous. Deadpool erupted like a volcano, leaping out of the hole and launching into a full-blown tantrum. He swung his shovel like a baseball bat, smashing the wooden grave marker shaped like an ‘X’ into splinters. He stomped the pile of dirt he’d so carefully excavated, kicking clumps back into the hole. The shovel’s handle snapped across his thigh with a resounding crack, and he hurled the broken pieces into the grave. The metallic tip bounced back out, ricocheting off the edge of the hole and narrowly missing his head.
“WHY DO BAD THINGS HAPPEN TO GOOD PEOPLE?!” he bellowed to the heavens, flailing his arms like a petulant child. Snowflakes stuck to his mask, melting into wet streaks that only added to the pathetic tableau.
The forest was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the crisp breeze. It was the same tree, the same ground where Logan had taken his last breath. But now, years later, the scene had been transformed into something entirely surreal, almost comically macabre. Against the base of the tree sat Deadpool, beside him, propped up as if casually lounging, was Logan—or at least, what was left of him.
Logan’s adamantium skeleton, legs folded elegantly at the knees, like Cary Grant casually awaiting dessert at a dinner party. The bones, polished and glinting faintly in the filtered sunlight, were held together by a few stubborn, rotting tendons that clung to the framework of what was once the Wolverine. If it weren’t for the grotesque remnants of decay, it might almost look like two old friends hanging out in the woods.
Deadpool shifted, adjusting his position as he spoke to his silent companion. His voice, uncharacteristically subdued, carried a strange mix of wistfulness.
“That was weird. I’m much calmer now,” he said, his head tilted slightly as if Logan’s skeleton could respond. “Look, I’m not a man of science—hell, I barely passed high school biology—but you seem incredibly... uh, how do I put this delicately? Passed away. Deader than disco. But hey, it’s still good to see ya.”
He sighed, leaning back against the tree. The skeleton remained in its poised, lifeless position, its empty eye sockets fixed on the horizon. Deadpool glanced sideways at it and then continued, his tone brightening with an almost childlike enthusiasm.
“I gotta be honest, Logan. I’ve always wanted to ride with you, y’know? You and me, a couple of anti-heroes tearing it up. Deadpool and Wolverine just fucking shit up—can you imagine the fun? The chaos? The residuals?”
He leaned in closer to the skeleton, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “Picture it, Log’: us, side by side, slicing and dicing our way through bad guys. A bloody ballet of carnage and quips. The fanboys would eat it up.” He paused, his expression thoughtful. “Although, if we’re being real, I’d probably be the one carrying the humor department. You’d just brood and growl a lot. Balance, right?”
Deadpool straightened up, suddenly adopting a terrible Australian accent as he toyed with the skeleton's jaw.
“G’day, mate. There’s nothing that’ll bring me back to life faster than a big bag of Marvel cash,” he said, imitating Hugh with exaggerated gestures. Then, dropping the accent, he continued with his usual snarky tone. “Me too, Hugh. But nooooo. No, no, no. You had to go and get all noble and die for real. What was it? ‘Saving the kids’? ‘Redeeming yourself’? Goddamn it, Logan. Now I’m stuck here talking to your literal skeleton when I could really use your help right now.”
As if the universe had been waiting for its cue, the air around them began to hum with an unnatural energy. A faint shimmer appeared in the space just beyond the tree, growing brighter and more defined with each passing second. Deadpool froze, his masked head swiveling toward the glowing anomaly.
“What the—?” he started, but the words were swallowed by the low whoosh of a time door materializing before them.
With a mechanical clank, the door slid open, spilling out an army of figures in coordinated precision. These were the Minutemen of the Time Variance Authority, but they weren’t the same as the slightly bumbling crew seen in Loki. These Minutemen were decked out in upgraded, fully armored suits, their helmets sleek and intimidating. Each held a timestick, the glowing ends buzzing ominously as they fanned out into an aggressive formation.
Deadpool’s head popped up over the hill like a curious gopher, his wide eyes taking in the scene. He immediately ducked back down, disappearing behind the knoll as he yelled in a panic, his voice echoing through the clearing.
“WAIT! I’m warning you! I’m not alone!”
The Minutemen paused, their time sticks held at the ready, clearly unamused by the declaration. Deadpool, meanwhile, was frantically whispering to himself behind the knoll.
“Okay, Wade. Think. Think. You’re charming, you’re resourceful, you’re practically immortal—oh shit, no, you’re totally screwed.” He peeked out again, only to quickly retreat when the Minutemen advanced a step.
Deadpool ducked back behind the knoll, pressing his back against the dirt as he gripped his katanas. “Okay, so I know what you’re thinking,” he whispered, glancing up at you. “You’re like, ‘Ooooh, what’s gonna happen next? Does Wade take down the TVA Minutemen with a dazzling display of blood, guts, and banter? Or does he screw it up spectacularly and make things worse?’”
He tilted his head thoughtfully, the faint sound of footsteps getting closer. “Here’s the thing, dear reader. Writing action scenes is hArD. Like, seriously, have you ever tried to make ‘and then he stabbed the guy’ sound exciting more than once? No? Thought so.”
A grin crept into his voice as he added, “So yeah, you’ll have to wait. Cliffhanger, baby! You hate me, I know, but trust me, you’ll hate me even more next time. Stay tuned!” With that, he slapped the side of his mask, winked dramatically, and disappeared below the ridge as the scene faded to black.
hi, bun !! 🧸 i’ve missed writing and gushing over matt, but i haven’t had much inspiration or time lately :( i still keep up with all of your posts, and you already know how much i appreciate everything you create, so i hope the creativity juices allow me to come back soon
tw: ed
in the meantime, i was wondering if you’d feel comfortable writing a matt x reader piece for a reader struggling with body image and disordered restrictive eating? i’ve been hesitant to ask, so i’m so sorry if this is too heavy and inappropriate. please know that if it’s something you’d rather not take on, i completely understand, and i wouldn’t want you to feel any pressure to do it at all. your writings already bring so much comfort to me, regardless. thank you so much for everything you do <3🧸
TEDDIE BEAR NONNIE, I'VE MISSED YOU SO MUCH. thank you for trusting me with something so personal—it means so much. don’t apologize; your request isn’t inappropriate at all, and i’m honored you feel comfortable enough to ask. i’ll do my best to handle this with care and sensitivity. sending you so much love and warmth in the meantime. reminder that my dm's are always open! ❤️
you’re sitting on the living room floor, legs folded under you in a half-comfortable, half-strained squat, your phone balanced on your knees. the timer on your fitness app ticks down, tracking how long you’ve been holding the position, a quiet ritual you've found yourself in lately.
the sound of matt murdock’s cane tapping against the hardwood floor breaks the quiet rhythm of your breathing, and your stomach twists. guilt blooms in your chest, though you can’t say why—it’s not like you’re doing anything wrong. still, you sit up straighter, tugging your sweatshirt down over your thighs.
“sweetheart?” his voice carries down the hallway.
“living room,” you call back, quickly dropping the squat and shifting into a cross-legged position.
he steps into view a moment later, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up, and a subtle furrow creasing his brow. he looks tired—of course he does; he’s spent the day in court cross-examining witnesses for a high-stakes fraud case. but it’s the way his head tilts slightly, his expression softening as his attention zeroes in on you, that makes your chest tighten.
“been busy today?” he asks casually, setting his cane aside as he crosses the room.
“just cleaning,” you reply a bit quickly, offering a weak smile. “catching up on errands.”
matt crouches in front of you, his movements deliberate and unhurried. his hand comes up, brushing a strand of hair from your face, and the way his thumb lingers on your cheek sends a ripple of unease through you.
“your heart’s racing,” he murmurs.
you force out a laugh, waving a hand. “yeah, well, holding a squat does that.”
he doesn’t respond right away. instead, he reaches out, his hand resting on your knee—a grounding touch. “you’ve been doing a lot of these lately.”
you shrug, brushing off the comment. “just trying to stay in shape.”
he moves to sit beside you, leaning back on his hands, his presence warm and solid next to you.
he hums thoughtfully, lowering himself onto the floor next to you. he lifts his nose, sniffing slightly. “went out?”
“yeah, for a bit,” you admit. “just walked around the park. went to that coffee place on fifth.”
“the one with the pastries you like?”
you nod, but in silence that stretches on, you add, “i didn’t get anything.”
his brow furrows slightly, but he hums in acknowledgment, filing the information away.
“what about you?” you ask, shifting the attention back to him. “how was court?”
matt lets out a soft laugh, leaning back on his hands. “long,” he says simply. “the client contradicted themselves, opposing counsel misquoted precedent, and the judge… let’s say she was unimpressed.”
you can’t help but smile a little, imagining him sitting through it all with that calm, collected demeanor he always has. “sounds like a headache.”
he sighs, turning his head toward you. “how was the park?”
you shrug, pulling at a loose thread on your sleeve. “not much. just walked. people-watched. saw a dog wearing sunglasses, which was the highlight of my day.”
he chuckles, low and warm. “sounds like a pretty good day, then?”
you hum in affirmation.
there’s a brief lull in the conversation, and then, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world, matt asks, “did you eat today?”
your stomach flips, and for a moment, you’re not sure what to say. “um, just coffee,” you admit after a beat.
“sweetheart, coffee’s not a meal.”
“i know.”
matt leans back on his hands, the furrow in his brow deepening. “you’ve been quieter lately,” he says after a beat, his tone careful but steady. “you’re not sleeping much, and you’re pushing yourself hard—too hard.”
your throat tightens. “i’m fine.”
he shifts closer, his hand finding yours again, holding it firmly. “can i tell you something?”
you nod, your gaze fixed on the floor.
“when i first started training after the accident—you remember? shortly before i met you,” he begins, his voice low and even, “i pushed myself harder than i should have. i thought it was about discipline, about staying sharp. but it wasn’t.” his thumb strokes the back of your hand. “it was about control. about proving something to myself—that i could still be useful. that i still mattered.”
you glance up at him, his words cutting deeper than you want to admit.
“but no matter how hard i worked, it was never enough. i was never enough—at least, that’s how it felt,” he says softly.
your lips part, but the lump in your throat makes it impossible to speak.
“sweetheart,” matt says, his voice gentle but firm, “you don’t have to prove anything to me. or to anyone else. you... don’t have to earn your place in the world.”
"it’s not that," you whisper. "i just... sometimes it feels like I should be doing more. like i’m supposed to—" you falter, your hands twisting nervously in your lap. “—fix it.”
“like… i don’t want to feel like i’m in the way all the time,” you say, voice small.
matt’s quiet for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly. “when have you been in the way?”
you fidget with the hem of your sweatshirt, biting your lip as you think. “i don’t know,” you say softly, your words uneven. “i just… sometimes it feels like i’m taking up space i shouldn’t. like i need to try harder to be… less, somehow.”
his hand brushes over yours, fingers tracing lightly before he takes it, his grip firm but grounding. “you’re not in the way,” he says, his voice steady but with a quiet conviction that makes your chest tighten. “not now, not ever. not to me.”
your breath hitches, and he lets go of your hand, only to tip your chin up with his fingers, his touch gentle. “and i mean you. exactly as you are. no changes. no fixes.”
the tears brim over before you can stop them, and matt doesn’t hesitate. he pulls you in, his arms wrapping around you completely. your cheek presses against his chest, his warmth seeping into you as he holds you steady.
"oh, baby," he murmurs, his lips brushing the top of your head.
you stay there for a while, his hand stroking gently over your back, your cheek pressed against his chest. his steady breathing soothes the tightness in your ribs, and the warmth of his body anchors you.
when your breathing evens, matt leans back, his hands cupping your cheeks. his thumbs brush gently under your eyes, wiping away the lingering tears. “better?”
you nod, sniffling softly, and tuck your head down.
“good,” he says softly, the weight of his voice grounding. after a moment, he reaches to the side, slipping his hand into the pocket of his blazer draped over the chair.
your head perks up slightly at the crinkle of paper, and matt doesn’t miss it. a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he pulls out a small, neatly wrapped package.
“what’s that?” you ask, your voice tentative but curious.
“picked this up on the way home,” he says, holding it out like it’s no big deal. “thought you might like it.”
you take the package, the faint warmth bleeding through the paper. peeling back the wrapper, you find a soft, fruity pastry shaped like a teddy bear, the scent of strawberries and vanilla immediately filling the air.
your lips part slightly in surprise, and you glance up at him. “it’s… cute,” you murmur, voice quiet.
“thought it suited you,” he says casually, leaning back on his hands.
a soft laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and matt’s grin widens.
“go on,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “i want to know if it’s worth picking up another.”
breaking off a small piece, you pop it into your mouth. the tartness of the fruit and the soft sweetness of the pastry make your eyes close briefly in delight, a hum of approval slipping out.
“that good, huh?” he smiles.
“so good i'm going to cry,” you say, taking another bite.
his head tilts as he listens to the small sounds of enjoyment you can’t quite hide. “you know,” he says lightly, “when i saw it, i thought, ‘sweet, cute, and hard to resist.’...”
“stop,” you mumble, hiding behind another bite.
“what?” he says, grinning now, his hand brushing a crumb from your cheek. “just calling it like i see it.”
when you finish, he folds the wrapper neatly and sets it aside, his hand brushing briefly against yours as he stands.
“come on,” he says, holding out a hand.
“where?” you ask, letting him pull you to your feet.
“i was thinking: josie’s,” he says simply, grabbing his cane. “foggy and karen have been bugging me to come out tonight. thought you might want to join.”
you blink, startled. “josie’s? i don’t know—"
“you’ll have fun,” he says, brushing his hand lightly over your back as he steers you toward the door. “besides, if i leave them alone, they’ll probably start another debate about the best pizza place in hell’s kitchen. and i’m not sitting through that sober.”
you can’t help the small laugh that escapes, even as you hesitate. “you sure i’m not just tagging along?”
“you’re not tagging along,” matt says firmly. “you’re exactly who i want there.”
his words settle over you like a blanket, warm and steady, and as he opens the door, the cool evening air brushes against your skin.
“besides,” he adds, his smirk growing, “someone has to stop foggy from ordering three whole pizzas just to ‘prove a point.’”
“okay, fine,” you giggle, and he squeezes your side affectionately before pressing a kiss to your temple.
hii bun! it might be a strange question but i really like your inbox asks so i was thinking of asking you about how do you think matt would be if he ended up with a s/o that’s kind of lonely? like, if she doesn’t have much/any friends, is a bit socially awkward, stuff like that
hello, nonnie! i think matt would be so soft, protective, and empathetic ♥
matt murdock notices everything about you from the beginning. not just the sound of your voice, a little shy and hesitant, or the way you laugh, soft and nervous, like you’re waiting for someone to interrupt. it’s the quiet pauses, too, the ones that stretch a beat too long when you’re trying to find the right words. the way you hover just outside of conversations, your heart beating a little faster like you’re worried you’ll say the wrong thing.
he doesn’t say anything at first. matt’s good at holding his cards close, at observing and waiting until he knows the exact right moment to speak. he notices how often you downplay yourself, how you deflect compliments with a quick laugh or a shake of your head. but the more time he spends with you, the more he recognizes the shape of your loneliness, the quiet ache of it. he knows it too well, like an old friend.
it reminds him of those early days—after his dad died, when the rest of the world seemed to turn their backs. how the other kids kept their distance, whispering behind his back about the blind boy who wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t look at them. it reminds him of how easy it was to shrink into himself, to let the silence wrap around him like a second skin.
it comes to a head one night when you’re curled up on his couch, knees pulled up under one of his soft, worn sweaters he swears he doesn’t remember giving you. you’re scrolling on your phone absentmindedly, and matt is sitting beside you, his fingers tracing slow, idle circles on your knee.
“sweetheart, what’s going on?” he asks, voice low and warm, and you shrug, trying to laugh it off.
“nothing,” you say, a little too quickly. “just—” your breath hitches, the words catching. “just the usual. you know. everyone seems so busy, and i don’t want to bother anyone, so…” you trail off.
matt’s hand stills, resting steady and grounding on your knee.
“pup,” he says softly, leaning closer, his breath warm against your hair. “you’re not a bother. not to me, not to anyone who matters.”
you glance at him, cheeks warm, and he tilts his head, his hand sliding up to cup your face. his thumb brushes over your cheek, slow and deliberate.
“you don’t have to do it alone,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now. “you have me.”
and god, the way he says it—it’s not a suggestion, not a throwaway line. it’s a promise, steady and unshakable, and it makes something in you crack open.
matt pulls you closer then, wrapping an arm around your waist, tucking you into his chest like he’s trying to shield you from the whole world. you press your face against his shoulder, breathing him in, and his hand moves to the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair.
“you know,” he says after a moment, his tone lighter now, teasing, “if you’re going to be stuck with me, you’re going to have to get used to me dragging you into conversations. i can’t have my partner hiding in corners all the time.” he presses a finger to the tip of your nose, which twitches adorably.
you laugh, and he grins, the sound of it making his chest rumble against your cheek.
“what?” he asks, mock-offended. “i’m serious! you can’t just let me do all the talking. people are going to think i don’t let you get a word in.”
“matt,” you mumble, cheeks heating, and he tilts his head, brushing his nose against yours in the softest, most teasing eskimo kiss. soon, his lips mold against yours with loving precision.
“i’m serious,” he says again, but there’s so much warmth in his voice, so much quiet, unshakable affection, that you know he’s teasing to make you feel lighter, not smaller.
“you’re mine,” he murmurs then, softer now, almost to himself. his hand moves back to your waist, his thumb stroking little circles into the fabric of the sweater he gave you. “and i’ll remind you every day if that’s what it takes.”
and he does. not by changing you, but by making sure the world doesn’t miss the parts of you that are so easy to overlook. when you drift into your own world at a party, matt is the first to pull you back gently, his hand on the small of your back, leaning down to murmur, “what’s going on in that brilliant head of yours, sweetheart?”
he never lets the world dim you, never lets loneliness sneak back in, because matt murdock knows what it’s like to feel alone. and he makes sure you never feel that way again.
summary: Logan often goes on walks to clear his head, while Wade secretly prepares for his return, leaving humorous, heartfelt notes around the apartment. Wade’s chaotic personality draws Logan out of his solitude, and Logan’s calm demeanor gives Wade a safe space to unwind.
word count: 1k.
Logan and Wade weren’t the type of people who made sense together—not on paper, not in theory, and definitely not in the kind of world where people paired off neatly into couples with picket fences and matching dishware. They were jagged, broken pieces, barely held together by sheer stubbornness and a touch of gallows humor. If their lives had been puzzles, they wouldn’t have had matching edges. And yet, when they came together, somehow it just… worked.
Logan was all gruff stability. He didn’t say much—never had—but his presence was grounding in a way that cut through the noise in Wade’s head. When Wade’s mind spiraled, spinning up into a chaotic whirlwind of hyperactive thoughts and relentless energy, Logan had a way of pulling him back down to earth without even trying. Sometimes, it was the way he looked at Wade—calm, steady, and utterly unfazed by his antics. Other times, it was his voice, that low rumble that could somehow be both a growl and a reassurance.
“Easy, Wade,” his words a quiet tether as Wade ranted or rambled or paced the room for the fifth time in an hour. And somehow, it worked. Wade would slow down, his shoulders relaxing as he let himself lean into the stability Logan offered. He didn’t like admitting it—hell, he’d rather die than admit it—but he needed Logan more than he cared to acknowledge.
Wade, on the other hand, was chaos personified. He was loud and brash, throwing himself into every moment like he had something to prove. He dragged Logan into his world of ridiculous antics and inappropriate jokes, poking at his brooding exterior until he got the reaction he wanted. He had a knack for breaking through Logan’s walls, his humor chipping away at the darkness Logan carried like a second skin.
“Hey, Claws,” Wade said, leaning over the back of the couch with a grin that promised trouble. “When are you gonna quit brooding and join the land of the living? You’re like if Eeyore fucked a lumberjack and made a baby that didn’t understand how to smile.”
Logan would grunt, shooting him a look that was equal parts exasperation and amusement. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re in love with me,” Wade would shoot back without missing a beat, winking at him before flopping onto the couch. Logan never denied it, and Wade always took that as a victory.
They both had their coping mechanisms, their ways of handling the shit they’d been through. Logan, when the weight of his past got too heavy, would disappear for hours, going on long walks to clear his head. Wade, of course, couldn’t let him do that without giving him hell first.
“Where you off to, Logie Bear?” He'd call after Logan as he grabbed his jacket. “Gonna go write sad poetry about your feelings? Maybe find a secluded cliff to brood on like the world’s most depressing Disney prince?”
But the second Logan was out the door, Wade would start prepping for his return. He wasn’t the sentimental type—or so he told himself—but he had a habit of making sure the place was ready for Logan when he got back. He’d order Logan’s favorite food, grumbling about how much he hated the smell of it. He’d set out a bottle of whiskey with two glasses, because he knew Logan wouldn’t drink alone. And sometimes, he’d leave little notes for him to find, scrawled in his messy handwriting and taped to random objects around the apartment.
One night, after a particularly rough mission, Logan came back to find a note taped to the door. In Wade’s handwriting, it read: “Miss you, stabby hubby. Don’t get eaten by bears, but if you do, make sure you take one down with you. Gotta keep the Wolverine rep alive.” There was a crude drawing of Wade punching a bear in the face at the bottom, complete with exaggerated muscles and a speech bubble that read, “Take that, Smokey!”
Logan shook his head, a low chuckle escaping him as he pulled the note off the door and tucked it into his pocket. He wouldn’t admit it—hell, he’d rather stab himself with his own claws—but he kept every single one of those notes. They were ridiculous, sure, but they were also… Wade’s. And that made them worth more than anything else he owned.
Inside, he found another note taped to the bottle of whiskey on the counter. This one read: “Cheers to my favorite emo lumberjack. Try not to brood too hard tonight. You’re only allowed two grunts and one sigh. Any more than that, and I’m coming over to kick your ass.”
He poured himself a glass, smirking as he muttered, “You’re a pain in my ass, Wade.”
Right on cue, the door burst open, and Wade strolled in like he owned the place. “Miss me, claws?” he said, grabbing the glass Logan had just poured for him and downing it in one go. “Damn, that’s good. You’ve got taste, I’ll give you that.”
Logan raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love it,” Wade shot back, flopping onto the couch with all the grace of a drunk octopus. He sprawled out, his legs thrown over the armrest as he glanced back at Logan with a smirk. “Come on, babe. Sit your broody ass down and tell me all about your sad-boy walk. Did you find enlightenment? Meet a wise old turtle who taught you the meaning of life?”
Logan sighed, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he joined Wade on the couch. “You’re an idiot.”
“Yeah, but I’m your idiot,” Wade said, sticking his tongue out at him before grabbing the whiskey bottle and pouring himself another glass.
They sat there, side by side, the silence between them easy and comfortable. Wade didn’t push him to talk, and Logan didn’t try to fix him. They just… existed together, two broken pieces that somehow fit.
At one point, Wade reached into his pocket and pulled out another note, tossing it into Logan’s lap. “Here. For your collection.”
Logan unfolded it, his eyes scanning the messy handwriting: “Love ya, asshole. Don’t go getting all soft on me.”
He looked up at Wade, his expression softening despite himself. “You’re impossible.”
Wade grinned, leaning back with his arms stretched out across the couch. “Yeah, but you love it.”
Logan didn’t respond, but the small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth was all the confirmation Wade needed.
it’s been said before and it will be said again but i’m begging you all nicely to restrain yourselves from being so casually aggressive and rude and obnoxious in the tags & reblogs of a complete stranger’s posts. no one wants to know that you hate [tv show that op giffed]. no one wants to know that you hate [character that op drew]. no one wants to hear you being ugly and negative for no reason. say what you want to say in your own post. don’t hit the reblog button. blacklist relevant tags. unfollow or block relevant accounts. log out. shut down. get help.
if you remember that one post from a while ago (general hc’s about chb), I did say I would do a fully pride post eventually
so without further ado, I present to all my lovely gay demigods:
PRIDE MONTH AT CHB🗣️🗣️
SO we’ve already discussed the decorations of some of the cabins, like Percy putting rainbow hippocampi scales all over the walls, the Demeter and Persephone cabins growing colorful flowers all over their roofs, the Hecate cabin and its Sentient Gay Door
I like to think the Iris cabin is just fully blasting rainbows all the time it looks like a Minecraft beacon
they play capture the flag every June with a pride flag that has the CHB logo on it
limited edition CHB pride merch😭
Mr. D defending trans campers by driving bigots slightly insane long enough to slap themselves and then go back to normal
Y’ALL KNOW ABOUT THE PRONOUN CORRECTION AIR HORNS? THAT’S THE ENTIRE APOLLO CABIN + LEO AND PERCY
Some ignorant prick about a transmasc camper: “Oh yeah she—“
Percy: *AIR HORN* “IT’S HE, BITCH”
Ignorant prick: “Okay Jesus I’m sorry”
A different ignorant prick: *makes some dumb joke about “always being able to tell” and receives at least seven different air horns from all the Apollo campers in the vicinity*
Leo’s been following this one really irritating chick around all day because she can’t figure out one of his sibling’s genders and blasting her in the face every time she fucks up their pronouns😭😭😭
anyways yeah I like to imagine there’s a demigod pride festival somewhere, maybe in New York
or no there’s demigods everywhere I bet they have parade floats all the time in lots of cities and the Mist conceals the “fireworks” which are actually just godly light shows
Apollo rocks up to camp in a rainbow crop top and a pink drink from Starbucks just to sing Born This Way in the middle of the day and then dip again
Aphrodite blessing random queer couples with finding perfect date setups “conveniently” in their paths
all the gods physically restraining Hera when she tries to go fuck with Jason while he’s on a date w Leo
Percy and Annabeth in matching shirts that say ✨BEST BI✨ with the Best Buy price tag logo in the middle
Nico got glitterbombed on June 1st the second he stepped out of his cabin by the entire Apollo cabin (and Jason) and is still finding sparkles in his hair a week later
Aphrodite kids are walking dictionaries of all the rainbow terms, somehow, and they also all know which days in June are for which awareness or pride or whatever flag
campers who transitioned over the school year and coming back to camp a different gender and their godly parent re-claims them as their true self
Percy “I can’t believe I used to think I was straight” Jackson educating some of the younger campers on bisexuality and how, no, you don’t always know right away
Annabeth “I had a crush on Thalia and Luke at the same time and it was horrible” Chase always reassuring the nervous kids that there’s nothing wrong with being queer (and that she’ll fight any homophobic family members they may have)
actually they kind of all do that
Some little kid: “Well……. I don’t wanna tell my stepdad, he might kick me out”
Percy, remembering that his dad kept Medusa’s head after it got sent to Olympus: “Give me your address, I have an idea”
Piper will verbally eviscerate anybody she catches being even remotely homophobic. I mean she will swipe phones out of her siblings’ hands to tell off some ignorant grandmother
Jason does NOT get into physical altercations outside of sparring and literal war, but the closest he ever got was after hearing someone call Nico a slur (Percy and Leo had to physically drag him away from the other guy)
William Solace has white cowboy boots. I Will Start Sobbing On The Spot
Percy and Jason wore matching skirts for the pride festival and it was great— these 6-foot-plus brick shithouses of heroes who have single-handedly won wars aggressively waving tiny pride flags at each other and dancing to IT GIRL on the quad
Cecil and Lou Ellen made these magic rainbow smoke bombs, crawled up on the roof of the Hermes cabin, and slingshotted them into the masses Just Because™️
(Will’s hair was blue and pink for weeks)
RAINBOW WAR PAINT FOR CAPTURE THE FLAG.
Clarisse fucking kicked someone into the lake because they made fun of one of her siblings’ dyed hair
Connor thought it would be funny to leave a mini pan flag on top of Mr. D’s Diet Coke stash, mostly as a harmless joke, but the next day he noticed Mr. D had tucked it into his horrible Hawaiian shirt pocket like a handkerchief😭
watching Love, Simon in the amphitheater for movie night and half the campers had to excuse themselves early for sobbing too hard
Malcolm and Annabeth reread Red White and Royal Blue every summer. They say they’re Henry and June, Connor is Alex, and Percy is Nora
(this is confirmed when the two of them start a foot fight in the dining pavilion with a Chipotle burrito)
Leo IMing Jo and Emmie to wish them a happy pride (and tell Georgina and Waystation I said hello)
Piper and Leo getting into a HEATED debate about whether Velma Dinkley is a lesbian or not
”YOU CANNOT LOOK AT HER OVERSIZED-SWEATER-OVER-MY-PROM-DRESS ASS AND TELL ME YOU THINK SHE’S TOTALLY STRAIGHT—“
”WHAT SHE AND SHAGGY HAD WAS REAL, BEAUTY QUEEN! HOT DOG WATER AIN’T GOT NOTHIN ON NORVILLE ROGERS—“
”LEO! HER NAME IS MARCIE! AND THEY ARE EACH OTHER’S W A L L P A P E R S .”
Jason, sitting in the middle of them, now deaf in both ears: Lupa give me strength
GUYS PLEASE SEND ME SPECIFIC SHIPS OR CHARACTERS TO WRITE PRIDE HC’S FOR I WOULD LOVE TO🙏🙏🙏🙏
saw a tiktok pointing out that book!annabeth would not stand for how people are treating leah. and i've never heard a truer statement. just know that every iteration of annabeth chase (book, musical, AND movie) would rock y'all's shit. best believe.
The mischaracterization of people from PJO is so funny, but ESPECIALLY from HOO onward like.
“Hazel’s such an innocent little angel. She’s always nice and kind and confused.”
Hazel, who’s always ready to fight in the same way Percy is? Hazel, who made it explicitly clear she probably would’ve rocked Octavian’s shit had he not been blackmailing her? Who gets so angry on behalf of the people she loves, to the point where she doesn’t forgive those who have wronged them? Who Percy described as cursing up a storm in one of their first interactions? Who’s been shown time and time again to be FAST to anger? That Hazel?
Or Nico, who’s “a misunderstood emo. A small bean. Cute like a wet cat and innocent like a bunny.”
Nico, who’s cannonically described by most characters as “scary and unnerving?” Nico, who, for a long time, is one of the angriest characters in the series? Who’s only sassy and sarcastic because it took him FOUR YEARS to mellow out? Who’s described as being one of the most powerful demigods, who a lot of people still consider the scariest? Who’s come into his own as a character from TTC to TSATS? That Nico?
Or Annabeth who’s, “cold and calculating. Doesn’t show emotion or express herself”
Annabeth, who’s the most expressive person in the series? Who cries in EVERY book in the OG series? Whether it be for Luke, or Thalia, or Percy, or Chiron, or a literal DOG? Who expresses passion like no other when it comes to architecture and her other interests? Who’s expressed compassion for people she didn’t know? People who at times posed a threat to her? Who isn’t afraid to be angry, or happy, or snide, or rude, or excited, or scared, or ecstatic? Who’s been unapologetically herself since the moment the series started? That’s who doesn’t show emotion? That’s Annabeth?
