#janes true form

[bacchuschucklefuck]

it just idea .......

[sandymybeloved]

An Incomplete Guide to UNIT dating

im not going to delete the post, but this is wrong, i trusted tardis wiki without corroborating anything, but did check on the details more recently and some of them are wrong, namely the calendars in the green death and sarah's unit pass in robot

Main sources: The UNIT dating controversy article on TARDIS wiki, and this article about UNIT dating in Survivors of the Flux

Image Description under the cut

[A timeline from 1958-2007 labelled with events pertaining to UNIT as follows:

1958: "Survivors of the Flux (2021): We see UNIT forming, the date on screen is 1958"

1966: "Carnival of Monsters (1973): Jo says 1926 is about 40 years earlier than her own time, placing UNIT somewhere in the 60s. We can dismiss this as some combination of bad maths and a very loose approximation"

1967: "Survivors of the Flux (2021): Scene showing the early UNIT years. In a voice cameo we hear Alistair Lethbridge-Stewart. He is stated to be a Corporal, a much lower rank than that of Colonel, which he holds in pre-UNIT story, The Web of Fear (1968), meaning the Brigadier would have to be demoted by nearly a dozen ranks on joining UNIT, then promoted to Brigadier by The Invasion (1968)"

1968: "The Sound of Drums (2007): We are told the first contact policy that places UNIT in control was established in 1968, implying UNIT already existed by then"

1970: "Doctor Who and the Silurians (1970): We see pre-decimalisation currency being used. Britain adopted decimalised currency in 1971"

1972: "The Green Death (1973): We see a calendar, it shows us it is February in a leap year, with the 29th on a Sunday, from the 60s to the 90s this can only be 1972. The calendar is potentially out of date by up to a year (in fact another calendar in the story tells us it is April"

1974: "SJA: Whatever happened to Sarah-Jane (2007) + Invasion of the Dinosaurs (1974): In the former, we see Sarah-Jane as a 13 year old in 1964. In the latter, Sarah-Jane says she is 23, placing that story in 1974"

1974: "Planet of the Spiders (1974): Sarah-Jane has a UNIT pass dated 4th April 1974. This also places Robot (1974&75) in 1974"

1974: "Robot (1974&75): We see Bessie’s Road tax expires in 1975"

1975: "The Web of Fear (1968): It is stated the events of The Web of Fear take place over 40 years after The Abominable Snowmen which was set in 1935, setting The Web of Fear in 1975 at the earliest. Lethbridge-Stewart makes his first appearance on the show as a colonel in the conventional military. It is assumed UNIT is formed due to the events of this story"

1976: "Mawdryn Undead (1983): The Brigadier is said to have retired from UNIT in 1976 to become a teacher. We are also told Benton left UNIT in 1979"

1978: The Invasion (1968): a photo from a security camera is timestamped 1978"

1978: "K9 and Company (1981): Lavina tells Sarah-Jane that the crate containing K9 arrived in 1978. Sarah-Jane has been back on Earth for some time at this point"

1979: "The Invasion (1968): UNIT’s first appearance in the show. Lethbridge-Stewart has been recently promoted to Brigadier, he says he last met the Doctor 4 years ago, making it 1979 at the earliest. This is also Benton’s first appearance"

1980: "Pyramids of Mars (1975): Sarah-Jane says she is from 1980. This implies The Android Invasion (1975) (as well as other stories featuring both Sarah-Jane and UNIT) is also set around then. Although unseen, during the story the Brigadier is in Geneva and still working for UNIT"

1984: "The Android Invasion (1975): A calendar shows the date is Friday the 6th of July, this is potentially 1973, 79 or 84. Although this calendar does not show the true date and is potentially misleading. We are also told there was a manned mission that made it as far a Jupiter two years before, further implying the story is set in the future to 1975"

1992: "Invasion of the Dinosaurs (1974) & Robot (1974&75): The Cold War is apparently over. In reality this happened in December 1991"

1997: "Battlefield (1989): Set in 1997, the Brigadier is now fully retired. He also mentions the King, which would place the story after 2022"

1999: "The Ambassadors of Death (1970): Benton says the distress signal SOS was done away with years ago. In reality, SOS was replaced as the standard distress signal in 1999. Britain also has a 7th manned mission to Mars, further implying the story is set in the future relative to 1970"

2003: "The Daemons (1971): we are told the BBC has a third channel, BBC3. In reality BBC3 was launched in 2003"

/end ID]

[batrachised]

this is such a heartbreaking passage because Jane is in an impossible situation through no fault of her own, and Robin isn't helping (in fact here, actively being terrible). The passage even calls Robin out on it - Jane's suffering in a way no child should have to suffer because Robin is making her choose, or at least toeing the idea.

[creatively-cosmic]

paper sketches (first one featuring my man parasitus by TheRatioNex_ on twitter 👍)

[a-cat-in-toffee]

hello chat.

[rexscanonwife]

Oh also I was flipping out over how FUCKING HUGE All Might's hands are to Ruby bcs she's a wonderful partner and

THIS STILL MAKES ME WHEEZE EVERY TIME I THINK ABOUT IT 😂😂😂

[julietcpulet]

so another thing that would’ve been great to include for the show was the horse jokes, like I get why they’re not there, Guildford hating it and all but in the book he actually enjoys being a horse when he is one just doesn’t like that he can’t control it and others feelings about it etc. and the banter between him and Jane is so hilarious…for example:

“I believe this is an opportune time to set some ground rules for this marriage.”

“Like what? Hay preferences.”

—-

“I would never chew on your books.”

“You ate my bridal bouquet.”

He looked suprised as though he’d forgotten. Then he nodded. “So I did. Continue.”

—-

“Are you sure your true Ethian form isn’t a jackass?”

“Very funny, my lady. And that reminds me” - he pointed a finger at her - “no horse jokes.”

He was making it too easy. “Ah, my lord, why the long face.”

—-

“No horse jokes,” he said.

“My lord, I apologize for the horse joke. If you put down the book - unharmed! - I will give you a carrot.”

He brandished the book at her. “Was that a horse joke?”

“Neigh.”

“Was that a horse joke?”

—-

This is all in the span of a couple pages. These two could’ve so pulled those jokes off and it would’ve been a riot 😂

[gay-dorito-dust]

:33 can you imagine Ford reading his book trying so hard to focus on the paragraph but like- He’s so distracted by Reader’s kisses and snuggles like like they’re acting like a cat and Ford just kalskskdjskdk

Ford was trying his hardest to get through the paragraph, he really was, but when you were sleepy ford found that you tended to become more affectionate. As was the case when he felt you snuggle up into his side as closely as you physically could while pressing tender kisses to his jaw and side of his neck.

‘Beloved.’ Ford said softly.

‘Yes my dearest?’ You purred, nuzzling your head into his chest, pressing a kiss there because you felt like it, that and you didn’t think you give Ford as much affection as he deserved…also the little hitches in his breathing were delicious.

‘I’m- im trying to read and you’re being quite-‘

‘Distracting?’ You asked and you could see the blush spreading across his face as his fingers toyed with the corners of the pages belonging to the book he was reading. For someone as smart and eloquent as him, you lived for the days where you got to see him be flustered and unsure of himself when it can to displaying affection, especially seeing as he had went without such for a good majority of his life.

‘I’m afraid so my dear, you know how easily affected I am by your preferred form of affection.’ Ford replied, feeling his mind falter and freeze upon feeling your lips once again kindly greet the skin of his jawline, little kisses scattered across it that it almost felt ticklish. He knew you were smiling and feeling proud of yourself because he could feel it pressed up against the pulse point of his neck.

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about my sweetheart,’ you spoke against his skin, closing your eyes as you felt his skin grow warmer under your lips as his pulse pulsed against them as though eagerly reciprocating your kisses with his quick it was going, ‘I thought a man like you could keep his composure.’ You added with a chuckle, knowing from firsthand experience that wasn’t the case at all.

‘I’m afraid that does not count when in the presence of a true beauty of a person such as you may love.’ Ford felt you stiffen as he smiled to himself, yes he could be poetic as they come, he had to read Jane Austen’s books for a class once in college and could recite anything from that book off by heart from how often he annotated the poor book front to back, and in incredible depth too.

‘Who knew you’d be a man of such flattering words Stanford.’ You teased as you were now practically half sat on his lap that Ford had to lay a hand against the small of your back to keep you pressed against. Ford chuckles as he hurries his face into your head, hiding his sweet smile, ‘only for you my dear, only for you.’ He chants softly and you couldn’t help but thank whom ever for bringing Ford to you, for he was the best thing to have ever happened in your life, and you would gladly dedicate yourself to showing him just how much you adore him; it was the least you could do for the man you loved to death.

‘You deserve to be caressed by words, not showered in them. kissed, not smothered. Praised with words whispered in your ears rather than out loud in public as though it was a spectacle. I want to love you in moments like these, soft, slow, forgettable to most but memorable to others who don’t live life in the fast lane and forget to cherish the quieter parts in life.’ You tell Ford sincerely as you positioned your head back to rest against his shoulder, while his hand absentmindedly stroked your side softly, slowly; his book long forgotten as you both decided to enjoy each others company without making a freaks spectacle out of it.

[allgirlsareprincesses]

Choosing the Beast: Modern Folklore Heroines Embrace the Animal Husband

“I choose the bear.” The refrain rang out across the web, with many a woman nodding in agreement or at least understanding, and certain men huffing with indignant outrage. Just a meme, really, but did it speak to a deeper truth? Is it merely age-old mistrust of patriarchy talking, or a true desire for the beastly, the wild, the untame?

I’m no sociologist, of course, but I have noticed an emerging trend in fem-gaze media that seems to reflect this view. In movies like I Am Dragon (2015) and recent shows like My Lady Jane and The Acolyte, the heroine chooses the beast, loving her animal husband in his wild form rather than requiring him to transform back into a mundane man to earn her affection. This is such a departure from the typical folktale pattern that it’s difficult to even find an historic example where this occurs.

Commonly thought to reveal the desire to tame a dangerous mate in a patriarchal society, most animal husband tales (ATU 425a) feature a hero who ultimately transforms permanently into a human. This is viewed not only as freeing him from the maddening effect of his wild form, but also saving his bride from committing the sin of bestiality. In these tales, the animal mate’s transformation is necessary for the salvation of both.

Is the modern heroine then damned by choosing her husband’s beastly form? Or does she actually free them both from the yoke of patriarchal expectations?

Bathing: Discovering the Wild Masculine

The first motif that stands out in these modern screen examples is bathing. In animal spouse tales, there is often a dynamic of the hunter and the hunted, and thus a moment when the hunter comes upon their would-be lover unawares. Perhaps they find the animal spouse sleeping, or they cast a light on them unexpectedly, see them without their animal skin or disguise, and so on. And of course, they often come upon the lover at their bath.

There is an implied eroticism in this discovery, finding one’s quarry not only undressed, but also in the most private of activities. Water of course symbolizes fertility, but bathing is also purifying, symbolically washing away all that might make a mate undesirable. And this, perhaps, is the reason that historically this motif is used almost exclusively for animal brides, not animal husbands.

For the animal husband, he either actively chooses to reveal himself to the bride (perhaps on their wedding night), or she violently strips away his disguise, often armed with “flame and steel” like Psyche and her many avatars. Animal brides on the other hand are nearly always discovered at a body of water, bathing. The hunter will then capture her either by stealing her animal skin or cloak, or by placing his own clothing on her. What does it mean, then, when it is the husband who is discovered bathing in a body of water, held as an erotic object in the feminine gaze?

In The Acolyte, Osha follows Qimir to a pool where he slowly undresses, in full knowledge that she is watching. On the shore, she steals his lightsaber, just like the hunter who steals the animal skin, symbolically claiming him. When he emerges, Qimir dons new clothes, as if acknowledging that he is a different person than before he entered the water, almost purified in a way. Osha is forced to confront that there is more to the murderer in the mask than she realized.

Similarly, in My Lady Jane, our heroine goes looking for Guildford just before sunrise on their ill-fated wedding night, only to discover him bathing in the stables. The scene is gratuitously filmed from Jane’s (very horny) perspective, flipping the script on the countless scenes in screen history shot with the masculine gaze. Immediately after she discovers and confronts him, Guildford transforms against his will into a horse, and Jane realizes that he is an Ethian, a creature she has been taught is demonic and unnatural.

And in I Am Dragon, Mira makes several discoveries in quick succession: first, she deduces that Arman is actually the dragon. In the next moment, she slips from the island’s peak and falls, saved only when Arman transforms at the last moment and breaks her fall with his dragon form. The water begins to wash over his unconscious body, and at first Mira thinks that she will allow him to drown. But the sight of Arman in his human form after he rescued her, worried over by his animal familiar, stirs her to pity and she wraps him in a sail and drags him to safety. In this way, she clothes him, claiming him as her own.

Each of these heroines discovered a new aspect of her husband at the bath, finding him unexpectedly alluring, and ultimately choosing to begrudgingly claim him. Each animal husband tried to wash away his beastly form, to separate himself from the wild masculine. These men feel a sense of disassociation from a part of themselves, but now that their brides have discovered it, there will be no more hiding. Further, the bride now holds the power in the relationship, evidenced by how her husband needs her: Qimir needs Osha to be his apprentice, Guildford needs Jane to help him “break the curse,” and Arman needs Mira to heal him from his wounds.

Playing House: The Half-Husband

The second feature of these stories is a period of domesticity for the couple. For a brief time after the husband’s beastly nature is revealed, the lovers “play house” like children. While sexual tension is present, they typically do not consummate their union during this time, but instead cook, eat, rest, and care for one another. What’s more, they ignore or even attempt to actively destroy the husband’s animal form. They deny that this is part of him and therefore part of their relationship.

In I Am Dragon, Mira heals Arman, and wakes the next morning to find he has left food for her (dragonfruit, appropriately). Together they begin building a home out of shipwreck debris they find scattered around the island. A cheery montage shows them decorating a living space, choosing clothes, playing music, and dancing. But the specter of Arman’s monstrous form lurks on the edge of their idyllic life. Mira has nightmares, and tells Arman how much she fears “the dragon,” notably not referring to them as the same person. And eventually, it emerges that Mira has been planning to escape, rejecting Arman’s dragon form entirely.

After he sheds the helmet and robes of The Stranger, Qimir turns his attention to caring for Osha: he heals her, lets her sleep in his bed, provides clothes, and cooks for her. In turn, after some lightsaber-wielding, Osha becomes more comfortable in his home and accepts the food he offers, eventually even trying on his helmet. Later, they bicker amiably on their way to Brendok, like an old married couple on a road trip. When not facing down Jedi, Qimir leaves his menacing persona behind and transforms into an empathetic, protective, and alluring partner.

Jane Grey, meanwhile, finds herself using her honeymoon sequestered away in a private cottage to try to cure Guildford of his Ethianism. With her knowledge of medicine, she concocts various potions and magical cures, but none of them succeed. Guildford often checks in on her after these disappointments, making sure she’s getting enough sleep and taking care of herself. It’s also clear that they’ve been regularly dining together when Jane suddenly dashes off to rescue her friend. Guildford follows her and the two protect one another, followed by an almost-tryst. Even when they move into the palace, their day-to-day (or rather night-to-night) life is one of comfortable domesticity, although they continue to deny Guildford’s horse form.

In each of these cases (although less so in The Acolyte without Season 2 to continue the story), playing house can only last for so long while the husband’s animal nature is denied. There is a part of him that is suppressed, rejected, and this leads to him being incomplete, a half-husband. Each hero is unable or unwilling to accept and celebrate his whole self with his bride. Eventually, it is that denial that leads to a rift between the couple, which can only be healed not with the transformation of the husband, but with the embrace of his animal form.

Enforcing Patriarchy: The Rival

Each of these relationships exists in direct opposition to the dominant culture in the story: Arman as the Dragon is the literal enemy of Mira’s people, Qimir as Sith is the enemy of Osha’s Jedi masters, and in My Lady Jane, intermarriage between humans and Ethians is punishable by death. By choosing to stay with their animal husbands, even for a brief time, our heroines are openly defying the patriarchal norms of their societies. But no oppressive society is about to take that transgression lying down. In each story, a rival emerges to enforce the patriarchal order, kill the beastly husband, and retrieve the bride.

In I Am Dragon, Mira’s betrothed and descendent of the dragon-slayer, Igor, journeys to rescue her from the dragon. Over the course of the story, it becomes clear that Igor cares nothing for Mira herself, and merely feels entitled to her as his bride. Dragon-slaying is his heritage, so he must find her, kill the dragon, and take his place as the hero of his people. Even the marriage ceremony illustrates his ownership of her: he takes hold of a rope tied to her boat and reels her in, thus binding her to the patriarchal order. Contrast that to Arman, who offers her the power of flight, a symbol for freedom.

In Osha’s case, Qimir’s rival for her loyalty is clearly Master Sol, who wants to keep his former pupil dependent on him and the Jedi. Sol takes patronizing fatherliness to an extreme, constantly rescuing Osha rather than letting her stand for herself, teaching her to deny her feelings and instincts, and lying to her to “protect” her. The Jedi refuse to allow that there might be any other way to access the Force than their own, thus invading the home of the Brendok witches and ultimately orphaning the twins. Sol continues to press this dominance to the end, challenging Qimir and insisting to Osha that his own lies were justified.

In My Lady Jane, there are two rivals, both women. Lady Frances attempts throughout the show to dominate her daughters and crush their wills, forcing them into unwanted marriages, applying political pressure, and even counseling Jane to abandon Guildford to save herself. The other rival is Mary Tudor, who is determined not only to emulate her father’s violent, oppressive, and misogynistic reign, but to crush anyone she considers “unnatural” or who poses a threat to her rule. These characters stand as clear examples of how women can enforce patriarchy, too.

In each story, there is a moment when the rival briefly recaptures or “rescues” the bride from her beastly husband, bringing her to a moment of decision: will she stay within the bounds of patriarchy like a good little girl? Or will she make an act of defiance to choose her own path?

Marriage: Choosing the Beast

The bride’s choice will ultimately decide not only her fate, but that of her mate as well. As an independent character, the wild masculine is deeply wounded, separated from himself and thus from his bride. He longs to transform not into a greater, more whole person, but into a lesser, half-person. Alone, without the embrace of his anima, he cannot see the value of his beastly form. Instead of healing, he faces annihilation.

As a part of the bride’s psyche, the beastly husband represents her innermost desires, the truth of her heart, and a spirit freed from the expectations of her society. He is her animus, her missing wild masculine. If she transforms him into a man, then she will tame his wild nature, bringing him to heel under the boot of the patriarchy. Choosing the human form and rejecting the beast means rejecting her own psychological needs. It would be just another form of psychic dismemberment.

Fortunately and unusually, each of these modern brides chooses her beastly husband without demanding he transform. When Osha finally agrees to become Qimir’s apprentice, she takes his hand under the willow tree, clasping the newly-bled lightsaber between them. A few scenes later, this wedding imagery is repeated when they hold hands over the saber again, this time looking into a sunrise/set. Notably, at the moment they “marry” under the willow tree, Qimir is wearing his beastly helmet with rows of menacing, wolfish teeth. He has not come to the light side or shed his Dark Side persona, but Osha has embraced him anyway without fear. And while they might not both be healed (yet), they are more whole together than they were apart.

When her efforts to cure Guildford of his Ethianism repeatedly fail, Jane begins to suspect that his “condition” cannot be cured at all. But listening to her Ethian friends Susanna and Archer finally convinces her that the truth is Guildford doesn’t NEED to be healed - being an Ethian is who he is, and it’s nothing to fear. Unfortunately, Guildford still associates his beastly form with his mother’s death, so he is unable to accept it as Jane encourages, and flees. After a near-death experience, he uses his equine speed to return to the castle just as Jane is deposed and captured. As our heroes battle toward the end, Guildford comes to learn that there are many other proud Ethians, and that his family loves and accepts him in any form.

Still, he’s unable to transform at will, and when Mary captures him and sentences both husband and wife to death, it seems their story may end in tragedy. But as Guildford has been struggling to accept himself, Jane too has been battling with her own conscience. Does she renounce Guildford to save herself? Use her wits to kill the guard and escape? Bend to her mother’s manipulation? Jane confronts each temptation, and ultimately chooses to face death rather than betray Guildford or herself. But when her Ethian friends (the wild instinct) appear to disrupt the execution, our heroine seizes the opportunity to rescue Guildford. Unable to free him from the burning pyre, she confesses her love for him, and they kiss amid the flames.

Fire is often a herald of transformation, burning away illusions to reveal the truth. And when Jane and Guildford exchange their vows in this symbolic marriage ceremony, Guildford’s fears and illusions are finally burned away. Now that his bride has accepted his beastly form, he can accept it too, and so he at last transforms at will into a horse so that they can escape. Their story ends with them married and whole before the sunrise.

Among our modern heroines, Mira is the boldest in her embrace of the beastly husband. Offered yet again as a bride to Igor, she realizes that this is not what she wants, and casts off the tether from her boat. She declares “I love the Dragon!” using the name of her husband’s animal form rather than his human name. Then, she sings the song that will call the dragon to her, and he appears to carry her away again.

But their story is not over yet! Earlier in the story, Arman told Mira of how he loses control when in dragon form, and that dragons are compelled to reproduce by burning maidens to death and retrieving their offspring from the ashes. Returning to the island with her a second time, the dragon drops her on the altar and prepares to spew fire, but Mira lunges up and kisses him. This act of love, even when he is a monster, stuns the beastly husband. Again, Mira declares her love and kneels before him, saying she does not wish to be parted. We might expect the animal husband to transform in this moment, but instead he lays his fearsome head in her lap as a lover. Their story ends with a child and a flight in the sky, silhouetted by the sun just like the other couples.

Each bride, when confronted with the option to return to the patriarchal limits of her childhood, chose instead an act of love and acceptance for her wild masculine. This embrace helped the beastly husband to accept his whole self, and he is healed without having to cut off the wild parts of himself.

What Does It Mean?

Again, this story is so rare in world folklore that it’s difficult to even find examples. On fleeting occasions that the woman chooses an untransformed beast, it is presented as a cautionary tale. These women are framed as a danger to the community for their bestial impulses and abandonment of the social order, much like witches who were said to consort with the devil. It was certainly never presented as a happy ending, insofar as we can tell from written accounts.

So what does the emergence of this tale mean for our culture? I would argue that this is just the latest step in our ongoing reckoning with historic gender roles, as well as renegotiating with other forms of systemic oppression. People of all genders are pressured to reject a part of ourselves, cutting us off from our own truth and desires that run counter to the enforced social order. We must not challenge patriarchy, must not embrace different gender expressions, must not blur established hierarchies of power, must not find joy and power in our identities, and so on.

This enforced denial does tremendous damage to everyone caught in the system, and so through story, we dream our way to escape. We dream of embracing the dark, wild parts of ourselves, of flying free on a spaceship or a dragon or enchanted horseback, and of being totally loved for who we are.

It’s clear patriarchy is still fighting back against this emancipation of the wild feminine and wild masculine, given that both The Acolyte and My Lady Jane were canceled not long after their release. In the case of The Acolyte in particular, there was a sustained campaign from its announcement to harass and silence the creators. Demoralizing as this phenomenon may be, it’s important to remember WHO ultimately owns these stories:

“Fanfiction is a way of the culture repairing the damage done in a system where contemporary myths are owned by corporations instead of owned by the folk.

-Henry Jenkins, NYT 1997

Ah, an oldie-but-goodie. But Dr. Jenkins is right. Corporations may greenlight, film, release, and then cancel these stories, but ultimately they belong to the people. We take from these tales what speaks to us, leave what does not, and then retell them ourselves in fanfiction, in art inspired by the stories, and in lessons we pass on to our friends and families. If the embrace of the wild masculine speaks to you, let the story take root in your own life. Do you know someone who needs to be embraced, just as they are? Do you need to accept the parts of yourself that society tells you to hate? Do you want to be free, healed, and whole?

If so, then let these stories show you how, and tell more like them. Embrace the beast, and find your joy.

Sources:

Beauty and the Beast Tales From Around the World by Heidi Anne Heiner

In Search of the Swan Maiden: A Narrative on Folklore and Gender by Barbara Fass Leavy

And a relevant song for you, as a treat:

Women Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype by Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Ph.D.

[romanoffsbish]

Y/N (Natasha’s Version)

Natasha Romanoff x F!R

Natasha x Bucky (blip / referenced)

Warnings: “Cheating” | Underage Drinking | Internalized Homophobia

Request | You heard the rumors from Darcy, unfortunately they were true—Natasha missed you, so she showed up at your party | WC: 2,799

Betty by Taylor Swift, sapphic canon not just coded and slightly aged up to the start of college (18+)

As the car rolled away, Natasha felt her throat constrict. Where there once was a sunset on the horizon, in blush waves of pink and orange, she only saw an apocalyptic sky where red slowly bled into grey.

——

The perfectly paved streets restored to their prior days as the pre-gentrified road of your shared Brooklyn suburb became her current hallucination. Tied to the tail pipe of your mother's beaten down corolla was her heart, thumping against the cracked pavement. The natural gaps in the organ were filled by pebbles. As the car disappeared she felt shattered, the string pulling her heart had broken and the organ fell into a pothole.

Is it over now? No, Natasha couldn't face that...

As your mom's Tesla turned left the redhead let the sob she had been holding in out. Her body collapsed into a shroud of darkness as her blackout curtains shut, the blankets atop of her mattress moved to suffocate her.

Good, she wanted to die; she knew she was being dramatic but in this moment it felt like her barely even an adult world had ended. Her hit list was growing steadily, first she would kill Wanda, her idiot best friend that posted the photo of her with Bucky.

They were awkwardly kissing, and the redhead deleted it from her stories in a matter of minutes, but it was too late. Darcy saw it, the mutual friend who moved to the same city as she had, and she blabbed instantly. The woman called Jane, who then confirmed that there was actual proof this time before she phoned you in.

Natasha returned to town just in time to see the one consequence she never pondered when experimenting; your face was neutral, but your eyes were crestfallen.

It was just a stupid experience she needed to have, a short summer fling, it lasted not even two weeks. It was reckless and she knows that now. You'd slapped her hand away just days ago, then in a split second she found out from Yelena that you were going to NYU.

The blonde saw you at her late orientation for those stellar high school students interested in an early start. Natasha cried that night knowing you were leaving, you wouldn't be taking the gap year with her anymore.

Your heart was attached to her line, and she never considered that she should've just talked to you. It should have occurred to her that you would be upset. Considering the two of you were together, in a sense; not exactly girlfriends, but far more than friends.

Natasha regretted the affair as soon as it started, but she just needed to know if her Russian parents, who were raised back home were ready for her truth.

James was a total gentleman, her parents would've loved him since the young boy was affluent with Russian and the culture, but he wasn't the right fit. Natasha knew that after one attempt at kissing him, his lips were gruff and his hands were just the same as they roamed her form, the touch filled her with dread.

Unlike yours, which never came without words of confirmation and were soft when granted permission. Natasha found immense comfort at the feeling of your pillowy soft lips against hers alongside your gentle roaming hands. It went beyond the physical touch too, which really only served to prove to her she was a raging lesbian. When she looked into Bucky's ice blue eyes she felt nothing, not even a tether of friendship, but with you she felt that obnoxious fluttering in her stomach, and the world she saw were more vibrant.

Every time you were near her body and mind felt serene, like she could rest around you without the unease she felt around most. Everything was different now and she felt it deep within. You're gone, and with you left the comfort and love she needed to breathe.

That night, as sleep inevitably consumed her tortured mind Natasha found herself determined to fix this. It was a misunderstanding—you'd understand, right?

——

A week had gone by, Yelena had mentioned how she ran into you at the cafe where you treated her to a hot cocoa. Not allowing the turmoil with Natasha to affect the way you approached her little sister. It had warmed her heart and even made her smile, then the blonde sarcastically mentioned that you looked sad, her harsh delivery sought to remind her sister it was her fault.

Though she didn't leave her with only the reminder of her shortcomings, but also of an opportunity to amend.

"There's a frat party this weekend, Y/N's going."

Which is why Natasha was racing down the stairs at 8pm on a Saturday. Normally you two would be cuddled up in her bed, watching your favorite show while surrounded by every snack known to man. The party lifestyle never appealed to either of you and a part of her ached as she wondered why you're going.

How deeply did her betrayal change your outlook on life? Did her foolish decision make you think you needed to change? Were you afraid you weren't lively enough? Fuck, did you intend to move on tonight?

Natasha shook her head when she heard a honk, the depressing thoughts having consumed her into a state where she was mindlessly driving. Fortunately, she didn't hit anyone and was able to focus her mind long enough to make it to the college where she saw chaos.

Bodies of various students bustled across the campus quad, some in the direction of the main buildings but majority of them headed to a road far off to the side of the grand lecture halls. On the left side were rather large houses painted in varied shades of pastel, they were clearly well maintained. On the right stood a parallel set of houses, but the paint job was dull and there were pieces missing from many of the fixtures.

What stood out most though, was the black house in the center of them all, currently surrounded by idiots with red solo cups in their hands. The bulk of them laughing at the joke another drunken fool had made.

Natasha cringed when a body collided into hers, and as if things couldn't be worse she recognized the woman, Darcy. The raven haired woman stood in shock for a split second before offering the familiar face a smile. It was lopsided and it was clear the woman was faded.

Natasha was annoyed initially, but quickly saw the woman as a means to an end. "Where's Y/N?"

The woman pursed her lips and shrugged. "Inside?"

As she should've expected, the blabbing stoner only offered information to others when it wasn't helpful. Natasha passive aggressively pushed by her and took the risk of entering the house full of underage bodies.

Loads of upperclassmen foolishly tried to stop her on her determined journey to you, but most were met with bruised nuts alongside their cowering egos. In a matter of thirty minutes she had checked the entirety of the cloudy building and a part of her beamed at that.

You were nowhere to be found, her heart hoped that you'd returned to the dorm she finessed out of Yelena.

There was a nervous flutter in her chest that brought her frantic searching to a pause and made her mouth run dry. A pang of fear that paralyzed her body in place as she now considered the endless possible outcomes.

Would you even open the door if you knew it was her?

The redhead was sure you didn't have peepholes but there's the likely chance of you slamming the door shut in her face, that felt worse. Not nearly as bad as her next thought, what if you were exploring too, just like she had with Bucky? Her hands became shaky at the hypocritical unease she felt about you moving on.

In her nervous state she took a sip of the punch before she promptly spit it back out into the red solo cup. If she wasn't nauseated before she sure as hell was now. A water bottle was just in her reach, properly cold and a perfect cure to wash away the disgust on her tongue. Just as she began to unscrew the lid though she found herself frozen again as she heard a familiar giggle.

Natasha's head spun to the left side then the right. A blur of pointless people filled her vision before she found the source of the laughter—her happiness.

Stood directly across the room, in a gorgeous red dress with a familiar leather jacket hanging loosely over your likely bare shoulders. Her cheeks tinted pink, a sense of relief nearly washed over her at the notion of you potentially not hating her like she feared. Then she frowned, you wore a bright smile as you sipped on a juice box. It warmed the heart of your once secret lover to see you looking so carefree, a stark contrast to the last time, just like she always remembered you to be.

This time though, you were enraptured by a stupid jock, they bore an uncanny resemblance to herself that made her stomach swoop with a fragile sense of hope.

If you looked for her in another, she stood a chance, even if it was microscopic and not guaranteed. Right?

Yes or no, it didn't matter. Natasha would not go down without a fight, she once beat off an entire group of boys for taunting you, she'd gladly do it again for you.

Fortunately for the redhead she wouldn't have to. It was like something out of a movie the way your eyes locked with hers, the sounds became muted and you felt a dull flutter in your stomach where it used to be a roaring surge of butterflies to symbolize a deep love. A swarm of tears hung at the edge of your lashes and the massive room suddenly became too claustrophobic.

Natasha didn't question it as you took off, nor did she hesitate to dart after you as you aimlessly ran out the back door and stumbled upon an unexpected garden.

Who knew the dude bros also bore green thumbs?

Natasha found you sobbing over their patch of carrots and couldn't refrain from softly chuckling. Even in your grief you were finding a way to be useful and it filled her with nostalgia, it was just so inherently you.

Once your eyes shot up to hers, narrowed and enraged she realized she wasn't as quiet as she thought. "Fuck off Natasha." The joy on her face neutralized as she fell to her knees in front of you, her instinct was to reach out—to pull you in, but with words left unsaid and your clear disdain verbalized she knew it was best not to.

Every other time she'd seen you cry she held you close, but in this moment all she could do was grab the loose, fraying threads of your light brown cardigan and wrap it around her tiny, chiseled frame as if hugging herself.

A part of you softened when your eyes caught the self-soothing move, and the urge for answers won over your decision to never speak to the heartbreaker again.

"Why?" Natasha's frown worsened, the crack in your voice mirrored the ones in both of your naive souls.

"I missed you," she instantly answers one of the questions attached to the simple word, "and I needed the chance to explain myself before you give us up."

"Us?" You scoffed and didn't even care that she flinched. "You moved on first Natasha, without even a heads up—I found out through the local pothead."

"No," she denied with a shaky voice, "I didn't mean."

"Oh please," you cut her off, "I don't do cliches Natasha and you very well know that. I just don't understand."

"Let me speak," she croaked desperately, "I don't know why I didn't come to you with this query det—Y/N."

A shiver of delight betrayed you as it ran down your spine when you heard the delicate beginnings of the pet name Natasha assigned to you in middle school. The notion alone should have been enough for the redhead to know, but feelings were never definite enough for her, much like her mom she leaned into empirical evidence and just this once it has failed her.

"I needed to know," she continued. "Know what?"

You saw the way her nail beds were raw and red, much like her eyes as she attempted to refrain from crying more as she whispered, "when I came out to Mama and Papa, I had to know if you were my one and only, or if the urge to kiss girls since pre-k was truly genuine."

"So you kissed some random guy? I wasn't enough?"

"I couldn't just trust my heart here," she replied with frustration clear in her tone, but she quickly softened as she saw your hurt expression, she reminded herself that this uncomfortable, targeted feeling was her fault.

"Why him?" Natasha saw an insecurity in your eyes that infuriated her at her core, as if he ever compared to you. "He was their type," she answered truthfully.

You hummed and turned away from her, staring out into the black abyss that was the forestry behind the college. It intrigued you, nearly enough to run into it but you saw the danger there, but as you peered over at Natasha again you found the resentment melted away; the butterflies found a gust of wind to flutter against.

You shakily found the nerve to ask her, "so, was I?"

A few seconds of silence followed as the redhead worked to understand your question, Natasha's lip trembled as your intentional verbiage left her feeling hopeless, but she spoke her truth, "You always will be."

A mix between a groan and humorless laugh left you, "I said no cliches Natty, if you want to win me over..." Instead of saying another word you stood up and left.

Natasha's eyes widened and she stumbled to her feet, intent on following you as you slowly walked back towards the party she had no particular interest in joining. To her satisfaction you merely smiled at a friend as you grabbed your bag from by the couch.

Wordlessly you continued out the front door, and a giggle left you once Natasha grabbed you by your hip from the side, her body twisted around you and her other hand landed on your other hip. The beauty wore a hesitant smile on her face as she peered up at you.

Natasha breathlessly pled, "Can I kiss you, please?"

"A kiss on the steps of a college frat party," you teased, a smirk on your ruby tinted lips, "is grossly overdone."

The redhead moved her arms around your waist and yanked you forward anyways, "cliches are romantic." Her anxiety bitten lips pressed into yours, of course you felt the way her body relaxed due to your touch and the last bit of doubt left your body as she spun you around until your legs wrapped around her waist.

In a moment of excitable weakness you sighed, "I only will accept kisses like this going forward." Natasha chuckled at the change up, and you glared instantly, "I refuse to be a spectacle though, so take me to the car!"

Natasha refused to take any chances with your bubbling forgiveness so she rushed forward, gentle as can be as she settled you into the raised truck. It was automatic as you reached for her aux, "let's go to our spot—you can continue to win me over with food..."

A soft kiss was placed on your cheek in thanks, you knew this because Natasha always did this after a fight. Usually it was over something silly, like who was the masked killer or where you two should get dinner, but it was always true, the action was a promise of peace.

The redhead put the car in drive, pulling onto the quiet roads of a rural New York mountainside, windows rolled down allowing you to enjoy the crisp air as she went slightly above the 50mph speed limit. Whenever she could she'd cast a glance your way, and even in the dark she could catch your radiant smile as you quietly sang along to, "begin again," by Taylor Swift.

After a few moments of quiet driving on the redheads part you felt the presence of a hand, crippled by hesitation hovering over your thigh. With a gentle finger you pressed it down and looked to her with a gaze that held both hesitation and a willingness to understand, to forgive and hopefully, to start anew.

[websterss]

A LOVE SO TRUE — GUILDFORD DUDLEY

REQUEST: A request for Guildford Dudley x fem verity reader, in which they are married and Guildford can control his Ethian form, but she doesn’t know that he is Ethian yet. She gets sick and discovers that is pregnant but doesn’t tell him and Guildford is worried about her. Just to highlight they have married for love and they are so in love with each other. Something like this, I just can’t get enough of the series haha.

WARNING(S): angst and fluff, mentions of being nauseous, mentions of being pregnant, missed cycle, also if you have emetophobia I wouldn't suggest reading this.

WORD COUNT: 4,454

PAIRING: Guildford Dudley x Verity!Reader

A/N: I hope you enjoy it! Feedback is always welcomed!

MASTERLIST

"There, there now. Better out than in My Lady…" You coughed and then heaved as you bent over a bucket. Bertie, yours and Guildford's servant holding your hair back and rubbing your back in soothing circles. You were ill. It was the only possible explanation. You were ill perhaps with a stomach bug. Perhaps poisoned at your family feast. That could have been it, you were certain of it. You hadn't been able to keep the remnants of your meals in your stomach lately. "I shall fetch a doctor, my lady. Your state of health has not improved. It has been a week." Bertie helps you upright. Your face flushed with beads of sweat. You silently thank her for the cloth to wipe against your lips.

"N-No, no, please. No doctor. I would rather not be poked and prodded with medical equipment. I-I am fine." In your weak attempts to gently send Bertie away, you sway in your step forward. Guildford caught you effortlessly before you could meet the harsh ground. "It will pass…" You inhale deeply. Your tired state did not bring him a calm state of mind.

"My lady, you are far from fine. This is the sixth time you have been sick this week." Bertie interjects gently. Guildford moves quickly to walk you back to your bedroom, he settles and tucks you back under the covers, placing a hand on your forehead.

"Gods you're burning up. It will not simply pass, it seems to be getting worse. You are feverish, constantly vomiting, and…you're tired, my love." Guildford did not bother to hide the concern etched on his features.

"I-I'm fine, truly." You attempt to protest weakly but fail as another wave of nausea hits you. You cover your mouth just as Guildford quickly grabs a nearby bucket, placing it between you just as you retch into it. He shakes his head, discomforted by your worsened condition.

"I'm sending for Jane." He tilts his head to firmly meet your eyes. Your timid stare submits to his determined look. "I'll retrieve her myself if I need to. If you won't see a doctor then you'll see her. You love and trust Jane more than anyone else, my love. You'll see her because I cannot bear to see you suffering anymore." He lifts your head up to place a tender kiss on your temple.

"Please. Don't make a fuss over this. It is only a stomach bug surely. It will end soon..." Guildford's heart breaks a little with your protestations. He knows you're scared and trying to hide it behind a facade of stubborn nonchalance.

"You are ill. I will not sit back and watch you get worse. You are stubborn but you're not a fool, love. You know this is not just a stomach bug. You're terrified. I can see that." He cups your face gently. He lets out a sigh as he studies your sweaty, flushed face. His hand caresses the side of your cheek affectionately as he silently prays that you'll get better soon.

"Will you at least rest in bed while I fetch Jane?" He implores softly after a moment of silent contemplation. "You are over-exerting yourself. As your loving and scared husband, I command you to not leave this room." His failed attempt to sound serious falters as you meet his gaze with a raised brow. "...please."

The stubborn streak in you wished to protest, to insist you were alright, that there was no need. However, you could not. You were tired, exhausted from all the vomiting and aching, and in all honesty, your illness was beginning to scare you a little. There was no strength left in you to argue. You simply give him a small nod before collapsing against him heavily. Your head on his chest. His hands curling around your hair pressing you to him.

"It has been a week. You are in no condition to be up and about at this time. It has to be serious. If your nkt slightly better by tomorrow, I'll be fetch someone other than Jane to have a look at you. You will not protest. You will not." He pulls away and cups your face. His expression softened a bit at your pitiful appearance. Your eyes sunken in with dark circles, your hair untamed. He goes to lean in but your hand stops him in place. He huffs then settles with a kiss against your cheek, another softly laid on your neck. You sigh in contentment at his affection. "I should be back in half a day's worth." He fluffs up your pillow and tucks you underneath the cover. He places the bucket alongside the edge of the bed, within your reach to fetch with ease. "I love you..." He kisses your head.

"And I, you." You muster a faint smile but it's the fear-stricken warriness and tears that tell him enough.

He presses a palm against your cheek, gently wiping a tear that falls down your face. He retracts it without another word other than. "Take care of her, Bertie."

"She's in good care, Lord Guildford." With a swift exit, Guildford's footsteps grow distant.

Bertie bows and watches as Guildford closes the bedroom door behind him. With you now tucked in bed, and your husband's worried features no longer in sight, you drop the pretense of being fine. You turn to your side and sob into your pillow.

Bertie walks over and sits on the bed by you. A sympathetic look on her face. She gently threads her fingers through your greasy hair. "He only does it because he cares for you." She says.

"I-I know…" Your tears don't stop as you continue to weep. Bertie continues to run her fingers through your hair in an attempt to soothe you, all the while shushing you quietly.

-

Guildford had kept his word. Only half a day's worth of traveling. The night turned into day rather quickly than you remembered. Bertie tended to you as you helplessly waited for him.

You could hear the horse that you both owned neigh in the distance. It had urged you to sit up in bed. The creature signals their arrival. You had yet to see the barn yourself. Guildford and Rupert had but all dissolved any ideas of you visiting the horse. Telling you to remain in the house. To the gardens, but never the barn, ensuring there was nothing but unpleasant welcomes from the beast itself. You did shiver at that. You could imagine your shoes stepping in something disgusting.

You didn't know where the newfound energy derived from but you were glad the nausea hadn't taken over your want to see your husband, to greet your friend upon their safe return. It was a mere thought of consciousness before you scurried to dress yourself into somewhat of a decent household lady. You hadn't concerned yourself much about your rat's nest of hair. Leaving it be in its wild manner. You had just about slipped your right shoe on before Bertie entered with a tray of breakfast.

"You should be resting!"

"I'm feeling much better Bertie-" You promised as your foot was now securely settled in its place.

"Nonsense come, get those shoes off your feet deary before the master sees ya-"

"That is what I venture out to seek Bertie. Guildford and Jane have returned and since I've never been to the barn. Well, I thought it best to accomplish two wishes in one venture rather than two, so don't mind me, Bertie. I'll be back in time to help set the table for breakfast. Surely the two of them or hungry and worked themselves an appet-"

"No, no, no, my lady!" Bertie's shrill shriek halts your words and feet. She carefully places the food down and stomps over to you. "You have been vomiting your body weight consistently for the past week and you wish to see a horse?? I thought you more clever than that." She grabs the comforter and begins to remove the old ones. “My Lady, I implore you to rest." Bertie's usually meek demeanor changed to a firm tone, the tray of food forgotten in favor of fixing up the bed. Guildford had specifically told her to take care of you. "Master Guildford will be very unhappy with me if he finds you in this state outside and he– My Lady you have not bled…"

"Pardon?" You whip around to face Bertie who removed the sheets from the bed to exchange them for new ones. "Bertie?" Your eyes fall onto the clean, non tainted sheets They were still white. Surely there had to be a reasonable explanation for why they were white. It was only just last month before that you bled. So why hadn't you- you hadn’t bled last month…

You had missed a month. No. It couldn’t be. Surely.

Bertie continues exchanging the blankets, but her eyes are fixed on the sheets in her hands. She was just as shocked as you. How many days have you missed? A few more? “My Lady…?”

“I’m with…child?” Your eyes linger with unspilled tears. Your hands and arms move independently, naturally placed upon your stomach. You look down at your nonexistent bump then up to Bertie.

Her hand came to her mouth in shock, her eyes widening to look into yours. The sheets fall from her hand and land on the floor. “-By the Gods-“ She scurries over to you and pulls you into an embrace. “My Lady-“ She exclaims, trying to keep her voice down. “We must have a real doctor come immediately. We must have a physician look you over. You have missed a month, my Lady. Perhaps two. This will not go unnoticed by the Master. We must tell him of the ne-”

“N-No.” You shake your head.

Bertie pulls away from the embrace. She grabs your forearms, the grip is nothing painful but you can tell she is attempting to keep you from swaying in place. “My Lady? Why not? This is the happiest of news. A child. A product of yours and Master Guildford’s love. Why would you want to keep this from him?”

“I… I don’t know. But I’d rather it be confirmed with Lady Jane than to give him false hope.” You give into her, in hopes she’ll believe you. You aren’t entirely sure you know the reason yourself for not wanting to tell him. You two were newly wedded. Surely he’d find your situation a damper on your honeymoon. Right?

Bertie considers this for a moment. You look exhausted. Not to mention you still were unwell and had lost all color to your face.

“I-“ She shakes her head. “Very well, we can confirm with Lady Jane first, then tell Master Guildford. But I beg of you, do not work yourself into the ground, my Lady. Allow me to do all the chores that require your energy. Do not lift a single thing.”

“Alright…” You muster a faint smile and nod before you grab your robe and head out of the room.

You begin your walk to the barn. The journey is long given the property is quite sizeable, and your legs almost buckle with every step you take. The thought of pregnancy was still reeling in your head, making your steps heavier. Your stomach churns with the feeling of nausea that still hasn’t gone away, and the nerves of the conversation you were about to have made you queasier. Would Guildford be thrilled? Would he want a child early into your marriage?

Finally, the large structure of the barn comes into view. As you get closer, you can hear the neigh of the horse growing louder with every step you take. The anxiety was building with every step. You were a mix of excitement and nervousness. You were about to speak upon swinging the barn door open but the voice of Jane fills your ears.

"We cannot keep hiding this from her Guildford. She is your wife and my dearest friend. I despise the idea of her remaining in the dark about this secret. If you won't tell her then I will!"

“-You will do no such thing!” Guildford rebuts defiantly, his usually calm nature quickly dissolving. You step closer to the barn doors and listen to their conversation that clearly was not meant for your ears. You hear Guildford release a tired and weary huff. His words are a whisper but they cut through the space. “This is my concern alone. I’ll talk to her about it later-” But he is interrupted by the firm tone of Jane.

“When will that be? Years from now? When she’s well and pregnant with your child?” Jane retorts, her voice stern. “This is not just your secret, Guildford. It involves your wife. Someone who deserves to know the truth about her own husband.” You wince at her words. The nausea feeling from before had returned.

“You are no better than me in this regard!” Guildford argued back. You can hear the agitation in his voice as it rises. “I want to tell her as much as you do. But given the state I have seen her in these last few days, I worry my words will bring more harm than good!”

A pause. You press against the cold wood of the barn door. Listening to the conversation unfolding inside. The muffled voices of your husband and your closest friend fill the space. Another huff from Guildford. “I don’t want to hurt her."

“And you won’t.” You hear Jane say. Her voice was calmer than before. “She’ll understand your circumstance. Your reasons. You underestimate her love for you.”

You sink your back into the wall as their voices grow closer to the door. “I love her, Jane. I’ve always loved her.” You hear Guildford exclaim. The door pushes wide open. You see him run his hands through his hair. He’s stressed. You can hear the strain in his voice. “But if I tell her. If she finds out what I am…” Your breath hitches in your throat. “…I’m afraid she won’t forgive me.”

You are stunned and stuck in place, leaning on the wall for support. You could sense the despair and anguish in Guildford’s words. It broke your heart, knowing he was holding something so deeply inside him, unable to tell you the truth. You want to step in, to confront the two, but your legs suddenly feel weaker than ever, a wave of nausea passing over your body.

"Make your way back to the house. Y/n should still be in bed for you to examine her. Let me know of her condition when I get back!" Guildford begins to walk.

“Where are you going?” You hear Jane inquire from inside the barn.

"I need to clear my head before I am to see her."

You hadn't expected what was to come next. You hadn't expected it at all. Your feet moved on its own accord as Guildford transformed into a….a horse. Your eyes widened in shock, in fear of the unknown and what presented itself before you. No longer was your husband, now stood a brown beautiful steed. "Guildford…?"

The sight was almost incomprehensible. One moment, your husband was there, his back turned to you with his head in his hands, and the next- there stood a horse. A magnificent, tall chestnut steed whose body stood where Guildford once did. You wanted to move. To yell out. But the shock rooted you to the spot. Only your thoughts raced around your mind.

You take another step forward, trying to keep your balance and regain your breath. Your head was spinning with all the information you took in. Guildford is different. A creature. Something otherworldly who was afraid of hurting you.

Guildford, or rather, the horse, perks their head up towards you. His ears are alert and focused in your direction. You couldn't read his expression. A neigh ripples out of him as he steps closer to you. Your legs were trembling even more now, threatening to give out any second. Before you know it your knees met the ground harshly. You gasp as Jane and Guildford react quickly.

“Y/n!” Jane comes in from behind you. But you were more entranced by the yellow hue and transformation of your husband. The horse had knelt on its front legs before your husband's face was in your line of sight once again.

“I…I don’t understand.” You whisper, your hands reaching out to caress his face. He places his palms over yours keeping them steady and close. He nestles into your palms.

He tries to speak but stumbles over his words, shocked by your presence. His eyes darted over your body. You looked terrible. Your hair was in disarray, and with eyes, tired and red. Yet you were the most beautiful thing in his eyes, but you looked as if you could fall over with just a gentle nudge. One of his palms slipped and touched your stomach. You shuddered at the feeling. He then touched your face with his other palm.

Your breath hitched in your throat as his warm hand touched your cheeks. It was soft and smooth, yet calloused with years of experience and swordplay. His gaze was intense, but something in his eyes showed him to be conflicted. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it again, as if in confusion. He had so much to say to you but just didn’t know how to. "My love…won't you say something?”

You can't tear your eyes from him. You were supposed to be resting in bed, tending to the nausea that had plagued you. Yet here you were, in the barn, staring at your husband who had somehow transformed into a horse. You see his eyes dart across your face, studying every feature of yours. He was afraid. Terrified of your response.

You wanted to say so much. You wanted to yell at him. To hit him. To cry and ask him why he would keep such a secret to himself. But looking into his eyes, all you saw was the pain that was within their depths. All you saw was the love he had for you. "I-" You attempt to say but the nausea in your belly suddenly makes an appearance. Bile rises in the back of your throat. The familiar taste of acid burned your tongue.

You feel the contents of your stomach travel back up your throat. Guildford’s eyes widen in fear at the realization of what’s coming. He knows what's about to happen. He moves to grab you, to hold your hair out of your face but you turn your head away to the side and vomit on the ground.

Tears spill down your face as you lean back against him for support. Guildford brushes back your hair. Shushing and reassuring you that everything is all right. "I think I'm pregnant…and you're Ethian." You exhale deeply. Closing your eyes for a moment's worth of rest.

Both Guildford and Jane are stunned into silence. Neither of them knows what to say. The air is filled with a heavy density. You can feel Guildford behind you, his hands still around your face. You try to make eye contact, and he turns you back around to face him. “You’re…pregnant? With…With our child?” He asks hesitantly. The question was posed almost as if he couldn’t believe that you said it.

"You've kept your Ethianism a secret this entire time..." You muster. Your fingers trace across his bottom lip. Guildford places a kiss on your fingertips in response.

Guildford looks down in shame. “I-Yes, I did.” He looks up again, his expression pleading. “I was afraid that if you found out, you’d detest me. That you would be revolted at who I truly was.” He reaches out again, to caress your face. "My love, you just said you might be pregnant…you are with child?"

You want to cry, to scream, to laugh hysterically. But Guildford’s words ring through your ears and you can tell the desperation and worry behind them. You could also see his surprise at just how calm your demeanor currently was. The situation was so absurd. You weren't even sure how to feel right now. "Bertie…she believes so." You daze off. "My sheets were still white this morning...It appears I've missed my monthly bled." Guildford huffed in disbelief, but his expression never faltered with delight.

You feel him lean his head down to rest his forehead against yours. His breaths mix with yours making you dizzy, yet you want to relish in the moment of him being so close. He pulls you in against him, his arms wrapping around you, a kiss against your cheek displaying his love, his affection for you. He’s warm and familiar. Home. “You’re with child...” He whispers again into your hair, his voice shaky and thick with emotion.

His hands brush your hair away from your face and neck, his lips placing soft kisses against your forehead, your cheeks, your jaw. The warm breath you feel against your skin is a comfort. You can't help but feel small though, can't help the fear that stirs within you. "You're not upset over the news?"

Your question halts his kisses that were on your skin. You feel him pull away just so he can look at you. “Upset? How could I be upset? This is a gift, a blessing.” He says with disbelief lacing his words. His hands never leave your face, keeping you angled at him. You can see the tears welling at the corners of his eyes. "I am overjoyed. Overjoyed beyond belief." He replies, his voice shaky with emotion. "I love you." He declares just like he's done time and time again.

"And I, you." Tears prickle from your eyes now.

He is taken by your reaction. Guildford pulls you closer to him. You could hear the rapid beat of his heart against your ear. “I don’t deserve you.” He mumbles into your shoulder. You can tell he means it, but you scoff at the absurd statement. Pulling away slightly, looking directly at him with intense determination behind your eyes. "Are you upset with me, for not telling you I'm Ethian?"

"No. I am just sorry you couldn't find the comfort you sought out, with me, enough for you to tell me. I'm not mad you could find that comfort in telling Jane." You reassure them with a timid smile. You glance over to Jane, extending your hand out for her to grasp.

Jane looks at you dumbfounded. She expected yelling. She expected screaming, tears, and sobs. Yet you had said nothing more than a few words. You were calm. Jane grabs your outstretched hand, giving it a warm and comforting squeeze. The air is still filled with a sense of uneasiness but she offers a kind smile.

Guildford pulls away. You feel his hands leave your body and you suddenly feel very alone without them. You suddenly become afraid that he’s going to leave.

"I should have told you." He exhaled deeply, the words coming out more like a statement of fact than an apology. "I should have told you. I knew it wasn’t fair to you. But I was afraid of your reaction. Afraid of what you might think of me. Afraid of how you might look at me, knowing that deep down I was a beast." He confesses, and you feel a tug at your heart as his words ring in your ears. "I should have known better…'cause even after knowing, you aren't afraid of me. You still look at me with love. You are the most fearless, stubborn, determined, strong, beautiful woman I know.” He reaches out to hold your face in his hands once more. "You are my wife, my love. The woman carrying our child. And you don’t look at me any differently. You don’t run in fear. Yet I did. I was a fool to think you’d detest me. That the news would disgust you. But here you are as beautiful and sweet and loving as you have always been. You forgive me in a heartbeat.” He runs his thumb across your cheeks to wipe away the tears that had spilled down your face, but new ones had formed at his words.

"You are a fool." You breathe out a laugh. As you place your hands over his to keep them in place.

"Well, I for one, second it!" Ah yes, Jane was still here. You breathe out a laugh as you both turn to look at her. She raises her hand in greetings, knowing you'd forgotten about her, but she was well alright with it. She adored Guildford's love declaration for you. "Guildford you continue to surprise me with your poetic...dialect."

Guildford rolls his eyes. He was used to being teased and ridiculed by his best friend. His hands grip yours tight as he moves closer to you again. His fingers intertwine with yours. He brings your knuckles up to kiss them softly. "My love, I think it best to head to the house. Let Jane give you a proper examination, for certainty."

You nod in agreement, your mind already spinning at the thoughts swirling through your mind. You were with child. With Guildford’s child. You were carrying the next heir of the Dudley line.

Guildford offers his arm for you to hold on to, and you gladly take it. He leads you over to the house, with Jane in tow behind. The walk to the house was quiet. No one spoke, everyone was too wrapped up in their thoughts to even try. You felt Guildford rub his thumb over the back of your hand. He occasionally looks at you with a smile, as if he can’t believe everything that just happened. You feel his hands constantly squeeze yours. The gesture was his way of reassuring you.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"I was hoping you would say that..."

Guildford stops in his tracks, causing you to stop as well. He turns to look at you. He brings his hand up to the side of your face, the pad of his thumb caressing your lower lip. "I could never leave you. Not in a millennium."

“I'd hope not.” You breathe a laugh. Your smile graced him. Your eyes crinkle at the corners. He can’t help but mirror yours.

As you arrive at the front door, Guildford opens it for you, letting you and Jane walk in first. He looks at you with a smile before following you through, closing the door promptly behind him. “You’re stuck with me, love.”

[diejager]

Bittersweet Devotion pt.2

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x fem!reader

Cw: angst, heartbreak, mention of cheating, mention of death, no happy ending, apology, tell me if I missed any. wc: 9.3k

Previous

Your universe, Earth-XXX, was a parallel one to Earth-616 in some sense. You had a Peter Parker, a Gwen Stacy and a Mary Jane Watson, it had everything down to the death of Ben Parker and the devastation it brought to your friend. It was the same year as Spider-Man 616’s world, it had the same political standing and same history. Your world, like many others, was a near carbon copy of 616, down to the smallest things; but like others in the spiderverse, you had differences. Some were minor changes in the course of its canon story, others were major changes in the characters and the era.

You - like Miguel, Miles, Jess, Hobart (he liked going by Hobie), Patrick and Patriv - were one of those major deviations in the original canon. You didn’t exist - or so you thought - in Peter B. or Peter’s universe even though you lived in the same year. The reason might be that in the reality, the sum of all potential universes that paralleled each other, created the multiverse - the Spiderverse. 

The concept of it seemed strangely unlimited, the infinite possibilities to a different ending or a different start for its world. The multiverse was, in some sense, as old as time, a culmination of everything made imaginable by man. Found in ancient texts - the Puranas, ancient Hindu mythology - that expressed the infinite number of universes with their gods and principles. Whereas Persian literature - tales - touched the idea of learning about alternate universes that were similar, yet distinctly different from theirs. 

Misconstrued by many, the strangeness of it was deemed a danger, the unknown possibilities were feared by people of older age, but venerated in the past as it was in the present for the unfathomable possibilities. It exists in fiction, where they borrowed the idea of many worlds within a reality from myths, legends and religion. Heaven, Hell, Olympus and Valhalla were all reflections of a familiar world, a material realm for the blessed, the sinful, the gods, and the worthy. The similarities sometimes frightened you, how close the people were to knowing of the reality you all lived in. The tangibility of crossing worlds and bringing about chaos to every string, every realm, every material form of the multiverse. 

They, after all, were real, Hell as much as Heaven in your universe. Gods from every religion, either monotheistic or polytheistic, some you’d personally seen are Thor and Loki, brother and sons of Odin the Allfather, and the God of Thunder and Mischief respectively. Another was a big crocodile lady, Ammit, from what you’d heard from the all-knowing Dr. Strange. From God to Norse and Egyptian gods, from angels and demons, and from humans to mutants, your plane of existence was as wide as it could go without drifting off the edge and causing a mass domino effect within the multiverse.

You were curious, naturally so for a scientist, exploring the worlds that felt familiar to you but you hadn’t truly grasped -  different, yet similar. You hadn’t given a second thought to exploring yours. After all, why explore yours when your horizon was as broad as you imagined it, unperturbed by any limits when it came to the multiverse? The eternal and unlimited growing number of realms in your expanding reality.

Perhaps that was the reason why you hadn’t known your universe had its own Miguel O’Hara. You rarely came back for anything, you had everything you’ve ever wanted in Nueva York, Earth-928. You have friends who could truly understand you, people who stood beside you when you fought, youngsters who looked up to you for mentoring and a dream- or it was a dream. Dreams, not dissimilar to wishes, were hopeful, naive in a way, they came and went. Some dreams would come true, while others fell, like the fallen stars that crossed the night sky.

Yours simply happened to be a fallen one, one not meant to happen and become greater. You let it go after he dropped you, after he turned his back and let his mouth run unperturbed. He brought her up, someone he swore he would remember but left in the past. A new chance to become something, to become whole again, and Miguel took it. He wanted to start anew, fresh with someone he never met, you wanted the same; you both had what you wished for, until he put his foot down, cutting the thin web that connected both your lives.

It broke your heart. Months of patience and anxiously stepping around each other, nervous about breaking the trust freshly built between you both, lost in a few weeks. You were brittle, heart fractured and threatening to fall further apart if someone was any crueller to you. The smallest glare, the tiniest scoff or the weakest remark would send you reeling into the abyss of heartbreak and the throes of anguish. Yet somehow, you found yourself being led away by a copy of the Miguel you loved. 

He mumbled apologies as he held you tightly, his arm over your shoulder as he cradled you under his umbrella, hastily urging you to follow his guidance. If it were any other person, you would’ve been wary, cautious of any strangers that touched you so closely and chaperoned you so quickly; but this was Miguel, a man you trusted and that you still trusted wherever he came from. Earth-XXX’s Miguel O’Hara was still similar to the one you knew, someone you could trust. You did.

He led you to his flat, someplace near Alchemax’s building in Manhattan, a safe neighbourhood for the richer citizens of Manhattan. A cozy place of neutral tones and muted colours, yet warm as he welcomed you - a stranger as of yet - into his home. He had machinery strewn around, reports stacked on his coffee table and smaller things he had been tinkering about decorating his home. As a geneticist, he liked to play with machinery, having drawn his designs and models, built his creations from scratch and worked from the base programming to make something better. At least Miguel from Earth-928 did, and it seemed this one did as well. 

You stood in his shower, where he left you in a frenzy to bring you dry clothes, drying out your hair with the towel he motioned you to use. You doubted that he had anything your size, his broad shoulders and his towering height, nothing he had in his draws - and the boxes he stowed away in his closet - would fit you. They would drag down your ankle and sit low on your collar. Granted, you were soaked down to your socks and had no temporary clothes to cover yourself with during your stay. 

You had stripped from your soaked clothes and patted down your wet skin, shivering from the cold that clung to your bones even after Miguel had increased the heater in the small confines of the bathroom. It was small but big enough to move around and stretch your arms comfortably. You hadn’t felt the cold until he brought you to his bathroom, the numbness of the past months weighing heavily on your shoulders and the bleeding of your heart made everything seem so meaningless. The colours draining from the world around you, a once bright New York turned grey, the monochrome tones of black and white mixing and interlacing to form even more boring shades. 

The vibrancy and life you once saw around you dulled and died suddenly, like the winters brought by Demeter’s devastation and sadness when her daughter was taken from her, stolen from the berth of flowers she liked frolicking about. How Demeter doomed the world to see her pain, to feel how she felt in the moments her daughter had to return to her husband than stay with Demeter. You felt laden by your faults and his actions. Doubtful of your relationship, of what led you both to such an ending. Had you been clearer or more forthcoming about your emotions, or had you confronted him for his behaviour, would you still be in his arms? 

Were you at fault for missing something you had relied on as comfort and safety? Could you be blamed for his reaction to your meddling in his affairs in the Society? Could you blame him for dropping those words on you? After all, being reminded or compared to a past lover was anything but gentle, the gut-wrenching envy and betrayal you felt flash through you was nearly drowning. It made you feel lacking, to be reminded of his old flame, the one he was about to marry and the person he seemed to love before all. Could you even compare to what she was; what she did? (Dina had cheated on him, you knew that, but he was truly happy in their moments of pleasure and domesticity. They were a family until she died.)

You were drowning in your self-made sorrow when his voice called you, grounding you to the room. Standing before a door, naked and shivering, arms wrapping the damp towel around your shoulders. He called again, cracking the door open to pass you the - his - clothes he thought would fit you. He coughed as you took your temporary wear, your cool fingers brushing his warm ones. It was a sudden and jerking contact, you pulled back jerkingly, a shamble of an apology and a thank you flew from your tongue. His chuckle was a reassurance in the complete quietness of the flat, his low voice reminding you of better times. 

The sweater hung loosely around you, dipping down your collar to expose your shoulder. It was warm, the cotton used to make it still soft after being stored away and the soothing scent of spice and pine deeply integrated into the fibres. The pants were stretched around your hips, the tight fabric thin and flexible under stress, hidden under the long shirt. The legs, however, swayed loosely around your limbs, too big for your calves, but tight enough to hug your thighs. He had certainly made sure to bring you clothes that would fit your frame. You hadn’t attempted to smell his pants, you thought it would’ve been too intrusive and disgusting to do so if only to smell a remnant of Miguel on his as you did on the sweater. 

Miguel was waiting for you in the kitchen, his back turned to you as you ambled towards him. His shoulders loose and back relaxed in the presence of a stranger made you appreciate how good-natured he was in most universes you’d been to. He turned his head, gesturing you to sit on the chair facing him on the island as he returned to something he was making while you changed. 

“I hope you don’t mind hot chocolate,” he started, voice light and hopeful as he turned to you, cup in each hand as he moved to stare at you. “I’m not one for tea.” He slid the warm mug into your hand, eyes watching your expression as he slowly sipped on the hot beverage. 

His eyes squinted slightly when your lips curled upwards, a smile hidden by the steaming mug. You cupped the mug, feeling the warmth of the freshly brewed drink, the steam rising in soft curls and melting in the cooler atmosphere. Tentatively, you brought the rim to your lips, slowly tilting the cup. The powerful taste of chocolate hit you strongly, the sweet and dark liquid melting the tension in your muscles until you could curl over the table with an appreciative sigh. 

“Thank you…” you knew his name, wanting to call him, but his reaction would be unwanted, the shock, fear and suspicion that would fill his beautiful, brown eyes. So you slurred your words, dragging out your voice until he could tell you his name himself.

“Miguel. Miguel O’Hara, ” he nodded, cocking his head upwards, pointing at you with his chin. “What’s your name? I can’t keep calling you Hey every time I want to call you.” His lips broke into a cheeky smile, teasing you when he saw that you’d comfortably melted into the drink and his island chair. He wanted to ease the tense atmosphere from before into something much calmer, to help the accumulated tension in your shoulders to fall like the rain that clouded the streets of New York.

You let out a hoarse chuckle, your throat still fresh from crying, and told him your name, trying to stabilise your shaking tone. His cheeky smirk tugged at your heartstrings, you hadn’t seen Miguel laugh or smile this freely in months. You missed it. The casual banter you shared and the on-and-off insults you’d hurl at one another, all good-natured insults meant to rile him. 

“Thank you, Miguel,” you nearly choked when you uttered his name, the wound still so fresh and bleeding it slip from your tongue easily. It brought up so many memories, both painful and joyful. Your eyes glazed over, tears threatening to fall once again, to paint your cheeks with agony that you - him, or perhaps both of you - had brought on yourself. “Thank you…”

Miguel hummed sympathetically, eyes staring down at his drink, deep in thought. Perhaps he was thinking of a way to invite you to share your problems, to tell him why you broke down on the street in stormy weather. Or maybe he was thinking of the fastest way to kick you out, to get rid of the mess you became. The silence, however, was reassuring, calming the nerves that followed the eerie calmness of Miguel’s den or the loud, hectic atmosphere of the Society. His warm, worrying gaze grounded you, the softness behind his concerned stare was heartwarmingly nostalgic.

“Difficult breakup?” His words seemed hesitant, unsure of his conclusion to the cause of your appearance. Unknowingly, he had struck gold, pinning down the right problem in your life with a few observations. Of course, he was observant and aware of his surroundings, why else was he so willing to bring you into his home? 

“How’d ya know?”

His sigh was telling, the deep, concerned and tired breath was only used when he knew that you wouldn’t tell him what ailed you, like the groan of a disappointed, yet worried father. 

“Because I know how it feels,” he says slowly, pensive over his words, picking them carefully to not damage you further than your ex had. He knew the pain of a harsh breakup, the pain and sorrow that followed, like a dark cloud that hovered over you whenever you were awake. 

“Why?” You croaked.

“Why?” he parroted, frowning at your question.

“Why did you invite me in? I’m a- a stranger to you, you don’t even know me. What if I’d been acting to mug you or potentially kill and steal from you? What’d you do then, Miguel?”

“I know the risks, but you didn’t, didn’t you? And wouldn’t, you don’t look like the person to harm another.”

You scoffed at his words. Didn’t and wouldn’t didn’t mean you would not do it later after gaining his trust, to stab him in the back after he helped you and nursed you. The simple, naïve idea that you didn’t look like a violent person was mind-blowing, it was stupid. How could he know if you didn’t mean harm later on? Like how Miguel never meant to harm you - he loved you - and yet in the end, he had. 

“That’s naïve,” you muttered, eyes closed as you drank the cooling beverage, the sugary drink trickling down your throat. 

“I’m confident in my ability to read people.”

He did seem confident in his ability, the straight back and the strong gaze in his eyes showed; and, maybe because you knew from experience that Miguel was observant and careful, he hadn’t gotten where he was by simply trusting people and following the herd. He tested and made mistakes, he learned from them each time and found a way to use it to his advantage. The Miguel you saw in every universe was similar in some ways, their good nature, their cunningness, their bravery and their intelligence. All aspects known to characterize Miguel O’Hara in all universes he existed in. 

You conceded to his will, head bowed and shoulders slack. You breathed shallowly, swallowing the lump in your throat:

“Yeah, what gave it away?”

You thought it would be the last of him you’d see in your life, you wished it wouldn’t, that you’d see him over and over, to feel what the Miguel from your universe had to give, but you knew it was wishful thinking, a wish thrown to the stars. Logically, he had no reason to call or text you after exchanging numbers days prior. He promised to call you, and he made you promise to call him if anything ever resurfaced, be it pain, anger, heartbreak or hate. You, instinctively, believed his word. 

You hated yourself for falling so easily to another Miguel, how you bent to his words and the sweet promises he uttered that night. There was no sign that he would keep his word, that he would see you again after your breakdown, except for his words and your belief in him. Then it wasn’t misplaced, all the trust and belief you had, since he called you, asking to meet up at a cafe. Miguel had set up a place and time for you when you replied with a croak, still feeling down. He had whispered reassuring words to you, urging you to meet him - he explicitly told you he’d feel offended to be stood up - and spend some time outside. The air was fresh and cool for an autumnal month, it wasn’t too cold that you were forced to wear a thick jacket, but it wasn’t warm enough for you to go out in a simple shirt. 

You were hesitant to take him up on his offer, knowing how easily you could rebound. You’d crash into Miguel’s open arms, searching for the love and affection he fed you like a lovesick puppy, but, then again, Earth-XXX’s Miguel was similar, yet different from his variant. It would be a lie if you told yourself you didn’t miss him, the soft smiles, the gentle touches and the affectionate words. You had spent so much time as his right-hand Spider that it felt odd not seeing him the following morning. It was a routine you’d formed: waking up in his bed, kissing him good morning, getting to work together and eating together. Everything you’d done in the past years was with Miguel from Earth-928 the routine, the rigidity, it was grounding, it was the only semblance of normalcy in the world you lived in.

Now, you had to face the possibility that you were too broken to see another Miguel, to hold a casual conversation and form coherent and normal sentences. The purposefully slow steps you took to the cafe picked after having a moment outside the glass front were telling in itself. You swallowed the little amount of saliva in your throat to soothe its dryness and walked through the doors of the quaint establishment. It was painted in calm, brown tones, rustic in design with a warmth that rivalled the comfort of your bed. It lifted a bit of the tension you had, shoulders slumping slightly as your eyes searched for a familiar mop of brown hair.

Laying against the brown sofa, he stared out of the wide window from his booth. The warm, morning lights caressed his cheeks, lighting up the sharp edges of his jaw and nose. He was sculpted in perfection, like the youthful beauty of Adonis, crafted with the meticulous and attention-catching hands of an artist that created what was thought to be a god’s beauty. You could spend your days watching him, catching every little detail of Miguel’s face under the changing lighting, but you were standing near the entrance and he was waiting for you. His words echoed in your mind: “Don’t forget about next week, I miss seeing you.”

His eyes flickered to you, blinking as he turned to you, flashing a smile. You returned the sentiment, a shaky smile lifting the corners of your lips. You sat across from him, eyes wandering the cafe to stare at anything but him, lest you wouldn’t be able to stop the rush of emotions that would light your face in a flush. He uttered your name, greeting you in a friendly manner. You nodded back, muttering his name, pushing down the wince whenever you said it. 

“Chocolate.”

The still-warm cup stared at you, light steam wafting over the reflective liquid. It was full, unlike Miguel’s cup, and drank down to the middle of the container. 

“Thank you.”

He probably wouldn’t let you repay him for the hot chocolate he bought you, the smile he gave you told you as much when your eyes flickered between his and your cup. The hot chocolate was a reminder of your night in his flat, where he lent you his shoulder to cry and his ears to listen. Embarrassment seemed to flash whenever you recalled the memory, how vulnerable you were to him, your walls broken down and your heart open. Though, Miguel didn’t seem to mind your fragility, giving you as much time as you needed. 

“How are you? I wanted to give you a few days to think before meeting again, I thought you might’ve needed the time alone.”

You nodded lamely, fingers curling around the warm porcelain, back slumped into the booth to hide from his knowing eyes. He was right, you had needed the time alone to clean yourself up, scour through your memories and tend to whatever mess you made of yourself. You were thankful. The last few days had brought revelations, how - both of - you had ignored the signs of a rupture in the relationship and continued to push on, like crossing a crumbling bridge. 

“‘M doing better. How- and how are you?”

He smiled at your attempt, you were trying on your own after a few - forced - encouraging words from Miguel. Maybe you’d learn to live with the pain, coexisting with the numbness that filled you until it dulled to a point where it would be barely acknowledged by you or anyone in your vicinity - where it wasn’t painted on your face with bright colours. Or the pursuit to forget it, pushing it into the farthest corner of your mind and heart, painting over the crack with glue. As long as you wouldn’t drown in your sorrows, ending up playing with dangerous substances to stay afloat while your mind sunk deeper into addiction and denial. 

He wouldn’t let you get that far, Miguel understood you and he lived through it as you did. Although his was a more violent breakup - she had cheated on him, his explosive reaction was natural - than yours, he hadn’t relied on anything but self-meditation and a lot of thinking. Like a friend - you were one by his standards, he’d invited you to his flat, you’d seen his organized chaos and ranted about your life while he comforted you with his shoulder and a cup of hot chocolate - he would stay by your side, hoping his support would be enough to help you.

“Great so far.”

His grin - somehow - grew even larger, enthusiasm gleaming in his eyes. 

Oftentimes, Miguel would be the one to call you, your phone ringing in the afternoon of the day prior with his soothing voice on the other end of the line. He spoke easily, finding the time to invite you out for the simplest reason, to talk, to make a drink, to have fun, and - your favourite by far - to see you. His initiative had you trying to double your efforts to heal, reaching outside of your boundaries and texting Miguel whenever you had a moment to yourself. You felt guilty that he was always the one to plan these outings, so you promised yourself that you’d become a better friend than you currently were. You even remembered his teasing tone when you called him for the first time:

”Aye, finally. I thought you’d never call me, chica. I felt neglected, thought you had forgotten about me for a second there.”

It started with the first coffee date, bickering about who would pay, pushing your card before the other while still seated at your table, frowning stubbornly and throwing promises about letting the other pay next time. Either way, Miguel rarely let you pay, coming atop as the winner of your little fight with his strength and height (you couldn’t exactly put all your force into your push, it could break bone and bruise the skin.).

Then it would be random meetings on the streets that would lead you to a random bench at the park, basking in the other’s presence, retelling your day and him nitpicking anything he could with a ridiculously criticising frown. He was playing, you knew he was. You did the same after you’d gotten more comfortable talking to him, it became easier to see him as a different - as his own - person. A few hits on the shoulder left and right, but it was mostly laughter at ridiculous expressions made to emphasize your disdain for a certain event.

The months that followed were a blur to you. Rather than going to a cafe or the park, you went to restaurants and crashed at one of your flats, yours if he wanted to play games and lounge about with food and drinks, and his if you wanted to watch movies (he had the best television you’d ever seen, such high definition and speed.) and tinker away at his inventions and theories. He was certainly happy that his new friend was another scholar in the field of genes and engineering (you were mostly into engineering than genes, but you knew a few things that you’d found interesting.). You could both gush - scientifically - about the possibility of gene splicing and lab-generated mutations in humans, like the mutant superheroes. 

You’d taken some liberties and went drinking, meeting at the same bar biweekly to relax after a few hard days at work. It served to loosen your nerves until either of you felt comfortable to chat up a storm about the most random subject. It’d been about the odd dent on the rim of his glass; then it’d be about how the sky was grey this week, there weren’t any warm, yellow rays blaring down on you when you went out; or it’d be about the distasteful cut of a man’s moustache. Drinking loosened your tongues, some words were said and some sentiments were shared, but none were truly taken seriously knowing you were tipsy - nearing drunk - those nights.

Every time you saw Miguel, you felt like you were rediscovering a part of yourself as well as him, the thing that made him so distinct and loveable. Miguel was expressive and honest, he slowly and gently let you down from whatever high you were, the pillar you needed to stand again after falling. He was so much different. It used to pain you how much they looked alike, but character-wise, they were like the two sides of a coin. It made you appreciate the delicate intricacies that made the multiverse.

You won’t - can’t - deny that you’ve grown fond of this Miguel as you did with the other one, but you couldn’t let yourself love him. He didn’t deserve someone broken and hashed into many lives: the masks you wore, the things you did, the secrets you hid, and the things you could do. He didn’t deserve someone who could bring him to his death; dying simply because he was connected to Spider-Woman; beaten simply because he knew Spider-Woman; kidnapped simply because they deemed him useful as leverage. All things that could go wrong haunt you. Miguel was human, he wasn’t a Spider, he wasn’t a superhero, and he wasn’t a vigilante. He was Miguel O’Hara, the geneticist working at Alchemax, with a brilliant mind and a kind heart. 

You cherished every part of him. That’s why you can’t let your heart lead, dedicate how you’d react to Miguel after the months you spent together. He was so close, yet so far; he was touchable, you could hold him, kiss him and hug him, but he was unattainable, you couldn’t tell him how much you loved him. You watched him with hidden love, showing your affection as platonic, a friend watching another. You had hardened yourself to your heart’s cries, for loving Miguel was a dangerous game-

“I- what?” you gawked at Miguel, wide eyes and mouth agape. You were shocked at the words that left his mouth, his soft, wet lips moving as he repeated the words.

“I love you.”

His cheeks were flushed, burning a soft red, it trailed to his ears and nape. His open collar - his jacket hung on the back of his chair and his shirt clung below his collar, a skin-tight shirt that hugged his sculpted chest sinfully, it hid little to the seeing eyes of the crowd and your drunk self. His sudden words had all but sobered you, shaking you into clear lucidity of his confession.

“You… love me?”

He blinked dumbly at you for a second, as if taking the time to absorb what he told you and what you repeated. Miguel was tipsy, not drunk. He smiled and nodded, a bashfully affectionate grin on his beautiful lips.

“Yes, is it so hard to believe, chica?”

He often called you chica, you thought it was a friendly term of endearment between friends (truthfully and regretfully, you knew little of Spanish, even with being in a committed relationship with an Irish-Mexican.). You just realised it was his pet name for you. All this time, he had given you his heart, and yet, you had denied him of yours. He was more playful and less burdened by life, it made him more teasing and smiling. The term chica somewhat made sense, a cuter and more playful way of calling someone you loved than the deep-meaning ones like mi cielo and mi vida, a play of words like a small secret between you. This secret hid behind names given between friends, a well-kept one, close to his chest but gifted to you. 

It might’ve once been - started - as friends, but it grew and festered in his heart until he found the time to express himself, to tell you how he truly felt for you - how he grew to care for you. He deemed this moment fine, bordering tipsy and nearing drunk, he’d be open, brutally honest but still aware of the words that left him. He wasn’t a lightweight anyway. 

You wanted to tell him you also loved him, but you couldn’t do it, mouth slightly open and eyes glazed with heartbreak, you simply stared at him in hesitancy. You opened your mouth once to reply and closed it, open and close, again and again until all you could do was stare at him. How were you supposed to answer him after the bomb he dropped? 

”Yes! I love you too!”

”Oh, Miguel, I love you too.”

”I- I love you as well.”

There were so many ways to express your feelings to the man who confessed, but none seemed to convey the true emotions that lay in your heart. You wanted to tell him you learned to love again thanks to him, that the time spent with him had made you open your eyes to the beauty that you were blinded by the pain and you slowly grew to care for - love - him as much as you did with Spider-Man 2099. He had the same smile, the same mind, the same heart, but he was more innocent, less burdened by disaster and happier. 

So you simply nodded. It made his smirk grow.

“Aye- would it be better if I called you ‘mi tesoro’ instead? It’s more straightforward, no?”

Even now, his words were light and playful, his tone affectionate as he leaned closer to you. You could see the mischievous glint in his warm, chocolate eyes (you thought that was why he liked serving you hot chocolate, it reminded you of his eyes.) and the curve of his lips as they moved to form words. You were transfixed by his beauty, mesmerised by the comforting hues and the sharpness of his cheeks, missing how close he was to you. 

“Or maybe-”

Softness caressed your lips, a plush, warm feeling that made you flush. He was kissing you, those pretty lips on yours. Your breath stuttered and you froze, but it didn’t stop Miguel’s initiative, a hand cradled your nape, holding you in place as he pushed himself closer to you. He moved against you, tongue slipping from his mouth and tentatively laving over your bottom lip, asking for something. 

He was so warm, so caring. You could just close your eyes and follow his lead - you did. He pushed harder, yet the kiss stayed soft and passionate, he lightly nipped your lip and soothed the stinging with his warm tongue, beckoning you to open your mouth for him. Your lips parted, opening up for Miguel to dive in, muscle meeting yours halfway and curling over yours. He still cradled your head, fingers running through your loose hair and tilting your head backwards, giving him more space to show you how much he loved you. Your arms, somehow, found themselves wrapped around his neck, pulling him as close to you as he was pushing himself against you. 

His kiss was loving, his hold was careful and his touch heartwarming. You almost regretted having to pull away, but you had to breathe, your lungs starving for air after having been devoured by Miguel’s adoring kiss. The moment you opened your eyes (you didn’t know you had closed them while you kissed), his smile greeted you, a lovesick one bubbling with unending joy. You almost choked from how it fit so well on him. 

“That’s- that’s one way…” you spoke between breaths, chest swelling with every erratic pant, matching his similarly worn-out breathing.

That was all he needed from you. Your kiss was enough for him to know you loved him the same, a patient and gentle love he was willing to give you. Your heart pulsed strongly, lips curving and eyes squinting, you pushed yourself closer to his heat, his all-encompassing warmth that wrapped around you when you wanted to feel safe and loved. Your world couldn’t be any brighter, like the vibrant colours of blooming flowers when Persephone was given to her mother, where the snow melted and colours washed over the lands once more, painting the blank white and dead grey in joyous tones. It glowed brightly and warmed you like the summers that followed the melting ice, the clear, blue skies of Olympus and as freeing as the soaring hawks and skipping elks.

Letting go was far harder than loving. To let the person who you let in leave felt emptying, it left a gaping hole in his heart. Where it was once calm, struck a raging storm of rejection and regret, crashing waves the size of Poseidon’s rage and violent storms the strength of Zeus’ retribution. It hurt watching you walk beside a variant of himself, a happier and lighter version of him without his mutations or duty. You were the Spider-Woman of your universe so there wouldn’t be a second one unless there was a catastrophic canon divergence. 

He hadn’t followed you at first, respecting your wishes of being left alone. He had to give you that much, at least, after those months spent beside his ignorant ass. He hadn’t seen it until it was too late, lost under the weight of his duty and fears that he’d forgotten he had people who cared, who felt, who loved. It was too late, it was always too late with him. If he couldn’t fix his first mistake, who’s to say he could fix this? He couldn’t save his first daughter or his second’s universe because it was falling apart. He couldn’t save anyone because he hadn’t realised his mistake in interfering in canon events, and he lost you because he couldn’t stop his vitriol, his violent temperament that had pushed you away. He always took things for granted until they were lost to him. 

Was it two or three weeks before he decided to check up on you? He didn’t know anymore, the weeks blurred until he finally amassed the courage to go against everyone’s words. Through the flat hologram of his orange screen, he watched you lament on your own, body curled into itself and shoulders shaking. Your sobs were heart-wrenching to watch while he had no means of contacting you; you would’ve reacted more strongly and aggressively if he’d contacted you after leaving. 

So he watched.

You stared vacantly from your window and left only for the bare necessities or to act as Spider-Woman. Crime never slept so you couldn’t stop even in your time of need. You swung from building to building so gracefully that Miguel was hypnotised by your grace. He watched these moments as a reminder of the missions he took by your side, webbing and catching anomalies all across the multiverse with fearsome speed and accuracy. You both had made a fearsome team, but that time was over, it was a memory long forgotten. 

So he watched.

Your flat was cold and empty, the space filled with spectres of memories, the cool rooms vacant of life that used to fill them with warmth and happiness. It was saddening from his perspective - the observer, the watcher and the reader of your story - of your time spent alone. He wanted to tell you that you weren’t alone, that he was watching you from afar, a silent protector that would only act if you were in imminent danger - as long as it wasn’t part of the canon. 

So he watched-

Besides you was Miguel - not him, another one - and he looked much too comfortable by your side for his liking. His variant seemed much too close for a friend, moving from sitting before you to beside you, arm slung over your shoulders and leaning back and, sometimes, towards you at a breath’s distance. He turned green with envy, a vicious monster brewing inside his body with the threat of bursting out, clawing at his chest. The other was too close to you for his liking. 

He watched as his variant bought you drinks - always, however long and loud you’d complained and fought, he never let you pay in the end - and paid for your dates. He abhorred it. How happy you looked with the other him. How calm and satisfied your smile was. How close his variant was to you. He wished he was at the other’s place, taking his rightful place beside you. He would kiss you, smother you in love and give you whatever you wanted, whether it be a hug, a kiss or his time, he would’ve given them to you. He wouldn’t dance around the edge of your affection and his love like he was doing, like a man unsure of his feelings and anxious to act on it. 

He thought the other Miguel was a coward - though he knew he wasn’t. He wanted to blame his variant and find fault for anything he did, but they were still the same person. He was Miguel O’Hara as much as he was. He wanted, but couldn’t, especially after seeing how both loved you the same, having a similar type. They were so much alike that he could’ve replaced his variant, yet so vastly different in other manners that he would’ve stood out. His history, his trauma, his curse, the other had none of them. He was normal while he was Spider-Man, a stronger, more brutal version of Spider-Man. 

Granted, he loved you with every fibre of his being, but he had never showered you with as much love and affection as the other, having his character muddled through long hours of work and long-lasting tragedy. You were another of his tragedies, where he found love again and lost it by his own making. He would have left too if the Society didn’t depend on him, leaning towards him for support and help in protecting the multiverse. It was something he couldn’t sacrifice for his whims.

So he kept watching and let his heart crack and envy fester.

He watched you grow even closer to him, shoulders and hands occasionally touching, making you jump and blush. He watched you move from simple coffee dates to full-blown restaurants and bar dates, drinking and eating at your leisure - something he could’ve never provided you. He watched you wobble around when you were drunk, your arm over his shoulder and his around your waist, supporting your drunk weight. He watched you kiss, the other pressing your bodies together and you reciprocating the loving embrace you had once given to him. 

He felt like crying. He was crying, silent tears rolling down his sharp cheeks in slow, thundering waves of his heartbreak. He clung to the desk, claws unintentionally popping out and bending the metal under his fist. The sound ripped through the silent room like the image that ripped through his heart. He was alone in his grief, shoulders slumping and arms shaking with the intensity of his emotions. He had locked the door, barricading it with a busy, do not disturb sign, warning the others that he was occupied and wouldn’t be reached unless there was an emergency. 

“Miguel…”

He’d forgotten Lyla was here - she was everywhere and nowhere at the same time, with your help he had given Lyla an upgrade in her system that gave her access to every Spider that had the watch. She had access to every file in the database and his secrets. Lyla was loyal to him as much as she was to you, respecting your words with a promise of her own to leave you alone. That, however, didn’t mean that she wasn’t privy to his pains, watching him while his eyes were stuck to your universe’s screen, giving him some comforting words that were meant to lift his spirit. It never worked but the intention was there. 

He couldn’t look at her, still facing the hologram of you kissing. He felt the surge of too many emotions to be able to think clearly, his self-control tethering on a thin line of fragile web. If he turned, he would explode on Lyla, giving her the brunt of his suffering even though she didn’t deserve it, she felt and laughed as much as any other human. He remembered programming in emotion with you, laughing about how much she would be as teasing and annoying as you. Lyla was another gift to him by you, so it would hurt him more. 

“Miguel-”

“Don’t- Do not say another word.”

For a man in tears and pain, his voice was curt and stoic, playing the leading figure he’d taken for so long. It betrayed his shaky figure, fingers crushing the metal loudly and shoulders jerking with ever-wrenching choked sob. His world was crumbling around him, rippling and cracking from the seams and folding into itself. The control of his state was failing miserably as he kept staring at your mirthful smile after the kiss. It tore him apart knowing he pushed you further away and into the arms of another. It hurt him deeply. 

Through everything, he heard Lyla whisper a small sorry before she popped out of existence, her small holographic body vanishing along with her orange light. Gone was her familiar light, gone was the nostalgic memory of programming her, and along her, was the support of another person. He was truly alone in this moment, to fall on his knees and let himself drown under the weight of everything. 

If your love was a tangible thing, he would’ve cradled it between his warm palms, holding it tightly to his chest to feel the soothing effects you had on him. Like a balm to burns, you cooled the searing pains that the world inflicted upon him, the warm blanket that covered him when he needed rest and the pillar that held him when he fell. He’d lost something he couldn’t gain a second time, clutching his head in his misery, drowning and howling.

It felt surreal until it wasn’t until it all sunk in. He truly couldn’t grasp the utter loss and betrayal he felt. The realisation that he truly lost you to none other than himself. The irony of it all slashed deeper, how he drove you closer to another him by his own doing, making you love a Miguel with more gentleness, more kindness and time than him, Miguel O’Hara, the Spider-Man from Nueva York, Earth-928. Everything he had was lost in time, his spiralling thoughts of loss and misery clouded his vision, bringing tears forward in bigger waves. 

Was he doomed to lose everything he cared about? Was he bound to love and lose? Why couldn’t he have a happy ending like everyone else? Was it because he was different? Perhaps it was, there were other O’Hara Spider-Man, but none were mutated like him, a product of self-infliction and sabotage - none had their DNA spliced and mixed with a spider’s. He was simply too different from the others, they were lean but still had a strong musculature, muscles tightened to create more strength and defence; none were big and broad as he was, with rough edges and mean streaks. They were nice and happy, faced losses of their own, but always came out on top (there were some minor - sometimes major - variants of Spider-Man here and there, but they all had some similarities in their stories of becoming.). He saw the devastation and grasped onto the thinnest silver lining he could find, holding onto it to stay afloat while others thrived where they were. 

Maybe it was truly because of him. He was realistic - near cynic -  he couldn’t see things optimistically, life had made him that way. The silver lining he saw in things was small, nearly extinguished by his near-pessimistic way of life. Did that have an impact as well? It most likely did, at least partly. Fate had given him a bad hand in things, he couldn’t be completely blamed for how things turned - or so he thought, hoped. A man wasn’t only the result of what he’d done, but also of what he was given. When push comes to shove, Miguel acted in a way he thought meant well for him and the others even if it didn’t seem like the right decision at first. He rarely doubted his actions while he did them, only after, could he let himself face the consequences of what he’d done. Miguel simply didn’t have the pleasure of waiting. He needed to act when it was called.

If he had waited, if he had been patient and sought out others for support, if he had spent time thinking before acting, would he still have his little girl beside him? Would he still have you in his arms? If he had shown you more affection, would you have still loved him?

Did you still love him?

Miguel didn’t know what he was doing. Standing before your apartment door in civilian clothing and a bouquet of twelve, beautiful white tulips - the meaning not lost to him. It was an attempt at apologizing for his mistakes, a desperate one led by heartache. He brushed his hair back, trying to look as kept as he could in his situation: dark bags and sickly skin, tense muscles and sore back. This was a daring move from him, it would end up catastrophic if the Miguel from your universe saw him at your front door; but he checked, making sure his variant was elsewhere before opening a portal to your place. 

He hadn’t moved in a while, listening to you move around your flat, the sound of your soft steps shuffling from behind the door, a wall between you and him, reminding him that he wouldn’t be able to cross it unless you welcomed him. He held the bouquet in one hand and knocked with the other, his knuckles hitting the wood softly and hesitantly. There was a pause between every knock, drawn by his nerves and the anxiety that gripped him. 

You moved and closed in on the sound at the door. He saw your shadow dance under the small gap on the floor and pause. You knew. You knew it was him even without peeking through the peephole, your spider-sense aiding you in recognizing the unknown. Although your hand rested reluctantly at the knob - perhaps still too raw from your break as he was - you opened the door for him, figure small and apprehensive. 

“Miguel,” you muttered his name, greeting him with a slow nod. You stepped back and opened the door wider for him, he took it as a good sign that you let him in rather than shut the door in his face.

He nodded back, saying your name. He took a step forward, foot breaking the barrier to your flat. The second one ensured he was fully invited, both feet strongly rooted on your side of the door. He wanted to make himself smaller, to appease you, but he knew you wouldn’t have liked that. He squirmed under your stare, a mix of curiosity and concern. 

He nearly sighed audibly when you gestured at him to sit and he moved to the sofa he remembered sleeping on with you, cuddling under a warm blanket while you watched a movie. He knew your home by heart like you knew his, the memory washed over him with melancholy. You sat on the armchair to his left, your back to the kitchen. He swallowed thickly and handed you the bouquet, freshly cut tulips glistening with pearly drops under your lights. 

Your shoulders shook as you leaned in to take the bouquet, jolting back when your fingers grazed him. Feeling your skin felt invigorating, it breathed back life into him, even slightly. You thanked him with a slow nod, seemingly unsure of what to make of it. Was it a gift? Was it an apology? Was it a farewell sign? He figured your mind was running in circles trying to understand the meaning of the pretty bouquet he handed you. You were always an overthinker, but your mind worked brutally well. That’s something he always appreciated about you. 

“I-” Miguel started, seemingly stopped by something that he couldn’t get out of his throat. Maybe a ball of dread or needles of anxiety, but it held him from giving you the words he spent nights thinking over, to give you the message he built from the deepest crevice of his heart. “I’m sorry, (Name).”

You stared at him, understanding that he needed a moment of silence to truly convey his feelings. You hadn’t uttered a word since he first started, expression neutral, not betraying whatever brewing storm you locked inside of you. He was grateful, truly. 

“I know- I know it doesn’t mean much now, but I’m really, really sorry, mi vida.”

He sensed you tense, the muscles of your back contracting and rippling under your shirt. Every unseen fibre moving was bare to him, he could see and feel better than most, if not, everyone else. 

“I acted out of anger and lack of sleep, but that doesn’t mean you deserved that- never. I just, my mutation makes me more animalistic, more… aggressive than the other, and I hurt you. You didn’t deserve any of that and I can’t always blame it on my mutations. I should’ve been able to control myself. I shouldn’t have lashed out at you in those ways.”

He lowered his gaze to his hands, the calloused pads of his fingers rubbing his palm, trying to coax himself into relaxation. Although your breathing softened, a calm breeze in an atmosphere thick with tension, he didn’t dare look up and see the face you were making. 

“I was a bad boyfriend and a horrible friend. I’m- I’m not asking you to forgive me, I don’t want you to forgive me, but- I just needed to tell you how much I regret hurting you. I want to apologise, I don’t know what else to do, I don’t know how to fix this.” He breathed deeply, collecting every ounce of confidence and honesty to brave your reaction. “I’m sorry, mi cielo.” 

He shuddered, body rippling with his pained breath. He hadn’t realised how painful it would be to face you with his fears and confession, with the threat of abandonment and rejection fresh in his mind. He was a man of pride and strength, rarely facing anything with trepidation and hesitance. 

“I’m really sorry, mi cielo. I’m so, so sorry.”

He sat in silence, letting it hang over him like the blade of a guillotine, silent and brunt. Perceiving the flash of the sharp blade before it fell on his neck, sentencing him to a quick downfall with a long, lasting agony that would sting his neck as long as it would hurt his heart. The French used it for executions, the thing that spelled people’s end. At its height, it was used as an apparatus to behead traitors or people who were deemed dangerous to the people of the new republic. Down the blame went and off the head popped, like it would happen to Miguel if he wasn’t prepared for it. He truly didn’t know whether he had prepared for his rejection, for the death of his heart, to watch the flickering sparks of his flame wither out.

“I’m sorry too, Miguel-”

The rope strained, knots twisting and rippling in the tightness of the pull. It shook, whipping in the air as it straightened completely, held closely by the hand of the executioner. The wind blew but it was sturdy, withstanding the violent gales that slammed against the body of it.

“-it means a lot that you came here to apologise- ”

The crowd was filled with silence, the emptiness of the area a mock of a ghost town. Abandoned to be sentenced to death without anyone to witness. They deemed him not fit for their acknowledgment before his death, before the sparks of his life extinguished. His fate wasn’t worth their time, unlike the poorest criminals who stole for money, unlike the richest pigs who fed from the poor with their silver spoons and golden crowns, unlike the cruellest killers who gutted and left men, women and children to bleed out, and unlike the guiltless innocents cursed for something they hadn’t committed. 

“-but, I can’t.”

The rope was let loose, its tail flying and whipping in the air as the blade descended with its weight. The wood chafed against its support beams, yet it flew gracefully and rapidly, singing the doom of its prisoner. The blade gleamed under the moon’s bright light, the silver whispers of peace and sleep deaf to his ears.

“I can’t love you anymore.”

It cracked down on him, his life flashing before him as it cut into him. Severing his control over his body, putting out the dying embers of hope. He clung to desperation in his last moments, wishing to relive the moments of happiness, bright oblivion and cherished love. 

He wished that he could’ve seen your shadowed figure hidden in the darkness, tears lining your cheeks as you watched him take his last breath. The only person who came to see him leave, the one who he would’ve burned the world for. In the end, after everything he’d done, you still gave him a small moment of your time to witness his fall, you deemed him worthy of such an act. You offered him your kindness. 

My extensive tag list of extremely patient people pt1.:

@iseizeyourmom @raynerainyday @etherealton @sciencethot @coffee-obsessed-freak @thesecretwriter @beepboopcowboy@bontensh0e @aikoiya @allysunny @fandoms-run-my-life @brittney69 @aranachan @maladaptivedaydreamingbum @konniebon @starlightaura @redwolfxx @aniya7 @alicefallsintotherabbithole @bvbdudette @wwwelilovesyou @wwwellacom @akiras-key @bobafettbutifhewasgay @opiplover @rinieloliver @uniquecroissant @yas-v @xrusitax @blkmystery @darherwings @ariparri @notivie @vr00m-vr00m @battinsonwhore05 @irishbl0ss0mz @mivanda @saint-chlorine @livelaughluvmen @battinsonwhore05 @notivie @lililouvre @giasjourneyblog @ykyouluvme @skullywullypully

[watermel0ns-dumb-cringe]

(,,uhuh tw. brief mentions/implications of s/a.)

DO YOU FUCKING KNOW WHAT ISNT TALKED ABOUT ENOUGH THAT INFURIATES ME??

Constance's arc in RTC. Literally nobody talks about it and waters her down to just being the nice mom friend™️ which completely undermines the arc she goes through of both

1. Reclaiming her innocence. Throughout the musical there's a LOT of moments that can represent that arc up until sugar cloud

2. How she wasn't happy with her life and didn't realize the good of it until her dying moments. plagued by that thought until she reaches true happiness now knowing she had a good life in sugar cloud

GGGGOD sometimes the blatant undermining of the arcs each character has (,,excluding Jane. I don't think she ever really had an arc; just. Left in despair only knowing her death and the mourning of something she can't remember, wondering if god itself had abandoned her) me so INFURRIATED LIKE RAGHAJRHRRRUJS THERE'S SO MUCH ANALYSIS POTENTIAL AND THEYRE ALL SO WELL WRITTEN TO BE RELATEABLE IN SOME SHAPE OR FORM

Connie was not all just sunshine & rainbows she was going through the mental WRINGER and struggling with her self-loathing & depression up until her death. She probably still dealt with it throughout the musical — now being plagued by even more secrets to keep & the self loathing of what happened just three hours before. (,,example is. the one scene after Ocean goes "We all died virgins" & Karnak pressures Constance a bit. God that scene makes me so ☹️)

She doesn't like. Fully reclaim her innocence & happiness until sugar cloud — which I like to personally think her letting her hair down is representation of her slowly starting to let go of it all. Just. Truly starting to feel happy, like a little kid again. Realizing she had a good life and appreciating what she had now that she's gone. What she went through doesn't define her. Therefore, she doesn't let it hold her back. Letting that inner child out for whats probably the first time in a LONG time.

And I think that's just. A really beautiful thing to her character that gets ignored a lot; which to me is one of the more relatable aspects of her character. Not realizing how much you love everything until something bad happens. From the smallest things like the feeling of getting into bed after a long day— your body finally relaxing after throbbing with pain & exhaustion all day, or even just seeing the smile on a family/friend's face after not seeing them for a while— to the more specific things such as seeing people being happy around you. Happy to be with you. All while knowing what you've gone through doesn't define who you are; letting that little kid inside of you out into the world to truly feel the warmth of the sun.

God sorry I just absolutely love Constance jawbreaker/sugar cloud had me BAWLING the first few times I heard it and I'm not prepared to sob over it again when I see RTC in february,, anyways THIS FUCKASS FANDOM NEEDS TO STOP UNDERMINING ARCS AND REALLY ANALYZE THE CHARACTERS MORE RAGGHHHHHHH

[ur-mousey]

Cross My Heart and Hope to Die~

-Yan!Andrew Graves x F!Reader x Yan!Ashley Graves-

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Part 2 (coming soon) chapter one The Addition

summary Your parents didn’t give two shits where you were. But they made sure to leave you somewhere with someone. And, you found yourself in the care of Mrs. Graves -she was no better.

Upon arrival Ashley despised you and Andrew kept his distance for your sake.

warning parental neglect/familial abuse.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Friends never came easy to you. But, older brothers proved harder to navigate. They say that blood runs thicker than water but everything ran clear between you and Jared. He despised you. He'd hightailed it on his skateboard, pocketing the cash meant to feed you, the minute your parents left him in charge. It happened all the time. And within a few steps of your lazying fathers slumped form over the suede brown armchair, Jared snuck cigarettes from his pocket and burnt the buds on your inner arm. When your mom caught glimpses of the marking, she would sit to herself on her bed cursing your father's name in vain.

You never corrected mommy and she never said a word to daddy.

One day, Jared left you with a bowl of animal crackers. You scoured the fridge for a juice box after the door slammed and the lock slid in place. But, groceries ran slim, and spoiled milk sat nestled behind a few cans of Corona. You stood on your tippy toes, peaking over the shelves, and nothing resembled juice.

With your tiny fingers stretched out, you try to obtain the carton of milk. You knocked cans down which rolled over the edge, bursting upon impact. You flinched. Tears burst as you fell on your knees. A puddle kissed your tights and clung to your skirts. You kicked the fridge and smashed the bottle under your fist.

Before Jared could see the damages of a four-year-old, hours after your little accident, and before he could clean up to save face, your daddy returned home.

Daddy's rage broke whatever: Jared's skateboards, Mommy's pearls gifted from her mother, and he tore your beer-reeked clothes off.

You were never left alone again.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Say hello to your new friends," Mommy used your hand to wave at the two older kids. "The girl is Ashley. She's in the fourth grade and she's eight. Then there's her older brother Andrew. They wanna play with you. Right?"

The little girl scowled but nodded. Mrs. Graves smacked the back of an uninterested Andrew. "Feel free to drop her off whenever. Andrew is such a responsible boy. He's practically raising Ashley."

Your mom giggled. "I wish my son was more like that. He's a mess. I don't know what to do with him. He takes after his father. This one... she's my little mini-me."

Mommy poked your nose with hers. You heard Mrs. Graves quip, "If that's true, she'll be quite the doll."

"She is! You can even dress her up as one too." Mommy's eyes lit at the mention of fashion. You sulked further into the fur lining of her jacket as she tried to parade you around. She pinched your butt as you scufted your Mary Janes on the dirty carpeting. "Don't be shy now. Go on and introduce yourself."

You put your thumb in your mouth and batted tears from your eyes. "Mommy, can't I go with you?"

"Dear..." She brushed her fingers through your hair. She adjusted the burgundy beret until the plaid bow attached framed your face, "It's a busy night, love. Mommy's sorry."

"Daddy-"

"Isn't. home."

"Fine! What about Jared? I'll be home with him," You whined.

"And he'll leave you again. I don't want you alone. Mommy thinks Mrs. Graves and her kids will take good care of you. Don't you trust me?"

You nodded. And with mommy's efforts, you introduced yourself. You were almost seven in a lion's den. But, you'd survived hyenas' quarrels before. What's the worse two siblings can do.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Mrs. Graves excused herself to the bedroom, claiming fatigue. She muttered under her breath, "Your father should be home soon. He's bringing home takeout. Leave me alone till then."

Andrew whistled in response. The door shut and silence infiltrated the space. You sniffled - once, twice, even a third time.

Ashley erupted, "What are we supposed to do with that!? She's being a huge crybaby! I can't take it, Andy!!" She clung onto her brother and hissed at your watering eyes. Your cheeks redden at the attention.

"Leave me alone," You whimpered. "I'm not crying."

The siblings stared at you. Andrew twiddled with his sister's barrette-filled hair. Ashley wore green overalls a tad too large on her that they looked more like Andrew's size. Both siblings had the complexion of vanilla bean ice cream and their hair was as dark as licorice.

"You so are!" Ashley whined. "Why are you dumped on us? This is so unfair Andy."

Andrew tried comforting his younger sister, "Leave her alone, Leyley. It's only for tonight. Let's just watch a movie or something."

"Why are you defending her? I'm your sister, not her. You do this all of the time!"

"Do what exactly? I'm not defending her. I don't want to hear either of you whine." Andrew stood from his seat on the couch. "How about we get snacks? I'll pop some popcorn."

You tilted your head, watching as the girl sprung to his back, the boy reluctant, relented to giving her a piggyback ride. Your brother would never dare. "I'll act dead. I won't exist," You whispered. You hopped in place, hicking your backpack higher on your shoulders. A little louder you spoke, "You and Andy ca-"

"Don't call him that! He's my Andy. And don't you dare call me Leyley. It's not for a common hussy."

Andrew's eyes, a brilliant kiwi color, flashed towards you. You shook like a leaf in autumn. Yet, you dressed solely with winter in mind. It's mid-March where the breeze kicked at one's legs. He wondered if, in summer, you'd be dressed in the finest floral outfits suited for Easter day.

"Finish your thought," Andrew encouraged.

"I don't want to watch a movie. I'll wait for Mommy by the window." You pointed. And he nodded, walking off with Ashely swinging her legs in the air.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Daddy's gone. So is brother. Mommy's alone. She still has you. You aren't enough. You are a burden. That's what you think perched on the windowsill. Snow White sang at the water well. She must have thought the same as you. You peeked over at the screen where her Prince Charming caught Cupid's arrows with his chest fully bared.

And as destined, he'll kiss her awake.

Your tummy rumbled and you felt too stubborn to leave your vantage point. Mommy could whisk you away from the rude siblings, and you didn't want to miss the moment. You had taken out your violet cotton bunny plush, waving it side to side between your feet. His floppy ears rolled into his round button eyes. And his belly bore pink with bloat.

He must be full all the time.

Mr. Graves had greeted you with a box in hand of gooey cheese pizza and lemon-peppered wings, which he left on the counter. It's been 20 minutes since the family gathered at the table and you didn't move.

Nor did they ask you to come.

Footsteps pattered from carpet to tile. The TV paused as Ashley left to set her plate in the sink. Mrs. and Mr. Graves continued in hushed voices at the dining table while Andrew sat in front. He scratched at his oversized grey sweater and he used his index finger to poke at his food.

"When is her mom picking her up?" Ashley leaned over the table.

"That woman's a dancer. She'll be out all night. Andrew, you'll have to walk her to school and Nina's getting dropped off in the morning."

Andrew huffed, "Since when were you popular? I gotta get three girls to school now?"

Mrs. Graves hummed. "Sorry kid, that's how it'll be for a while. People are in tough times so they flock to the one not hurting the most. Bare with it."

"You could've said no." Andrew pouted.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Thank you for reading! Request rules are here! Follow my ig = lil.thoughts.xo!

This will have multiple parts and smut. Be ready. Please leave suggestions in the comments! I will be taking ideas for this fic! This will be a slow burn but in the next chapter, I might add a glimpse of the future. A.k.a the events of the game.

[perfectsunlight]

[13] I HOPE SO

warnings: strained mother/daughter relationship

the soft ambiance of the car drive combined with the lack of sleep from the past few weeks made it easy for ivory to fall asleep. this was the group’s final days off before the new album, and the young idol decided she wanted to go home. 

the driver, oblivious to her true destination, had agreed to drop her off a few blocks before what he assumed was her house. jane had always been careful to keep her personal life and idol life separate, not only for safety but also because of her circumstances. she stirred awake as the car slowed down, the driver’s voice gently pulling her from her slumber.

“we’re here, miss kim,” he said softly. the man turned around briefly to see if the idol in the backseat was awake.  “do you need anything else?”

she rubbed her eyes and nodded, gathering her belongings. “no, thank you though,” she cleared her throat, her voice still heavy with sleep. she stepped out of the car, taking a moment to stretch and breathe in the familiar air of her neighborhood. the driver gave her a small nod and a smile before driving away, leaving her to make the rest of the journey on foot.

the idol took a deep breath and started walking. the familiar streets brought back a flood of memories. as she walked, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of nostalgia. the houses, the trees, even the cracks in the sidewalk were all the same.

it was comforting in a way that nothing else could be. she loved being home, it was her favorite place to be.

out here, she was still just ivory. not ivory the idol — just ivory, the girl who lived with her grandmother in seocho. the soothing sounds of the rustling leaves in the gentle breeze made her feel at ease. she walked the last few blocks to her grandmother’s house, enjoying the feeling of the familiar pavement under her feet.

as she approached the house, she noticed something that made her stop in her tracks. her grandmother’s car was parked in the driveway. jieun never parked in the driveway. her steps slowed, and she felt a knot of anxiety forming in her stomach. 

she knew that could only mean one thing. jennie had parked in the garage.

jane’s heart sank. she hadn’t expected her to be here. she had simply wanted a quiet, peaceful visit with her grandmother. now, her small vacation at home was going to be more stressful than work.

the last thing she needed was the woman who pretended she was a mother, especially now that she was in le sserafim. for a moment, she considered turning around and heading straight back to the company and spending the next four days in the hybe basement, but she knew she couldn’t do that. she took a deep breath and steeled herself before continuing to the front door.

she pushed the gate open and walked up the path, her footsteps heavy with reluctance. when she reached the door, she hesitated for a moment before knocking lightly. 

jieun answered the door with a warm smile. “you’re home!” she exclaimed, her eyes crinkling with joy as she enveloped the girl in a tight hug. the comforting scent of lavender and the gentle embrace of her grandmother quickly set her mind at ease, even if it was just for a few moments.

“hi, grandma,” ivory managed, her voice wavering slightly. she forced a smile, trying to mask her discomfort and unease about jennie’s unexpected presence. it was like clockwork really, 

as jieun ushered her inside, jane’s gaze wandered through the hallway and into the living room. it was then she saw her — jennie, seated at the dinner table. the sight was like a punch to the gut. jennie looked up from her spot, her expression a mix of surprise and awkwardness.

ivory’s heart raced, and her thoughts swirled. she had hoped to avoid any encounters with jennie, let alone have a meal with her. the tension in the room was palpable, a stark contrast to the warmth and comfort she had hoped to find in her home.

jennie stood up slowly, her movements hesitant. “valentine,” she said, her voice soft but tinged with an edge of nervousness. “you’re home early.” it was true, jane had told her grandmother that she was coming in the evening instead of the afternoon. considering jennie knew about this, that must have meant jieun told her when she was coming home.

either way, why was her mother even here? didn’t she have better things to do than pretend to be a mother?

jane’s throat tightened, and she struggled to maintain her composure. she wanted to turn around and leave, to escape the uncomfortable situation and the painful reminders of the absence of her mother. but her grandmother’s hopeful eyes and the reality of her presence kept her rooted in place.

after all, it was probably jieun who suggested jennie should come. she would do her best to be cordial, for her grandmother’s sake.

“hi,” ivory replied curtly, her tone distant. she tried to avoid eye contact, focusing instead on her grandmother’s reassuring presence. jieun’s smile faltered as she looked between both her granddaughter and her daughter. sensing the tension, she gently guided ivory to a seat at the table. “why don’t you sit down, dear? you must be hungry.”

jane took her place across the table from jennie, her posture rigid as she stared at the array of dishes laid out before her. the warmth of her grandmother’s home-cooked meal was overshadowed by the icy atmosphere that now permeated the room.

the blackpink idol settled back into her own seat, her attempt at normalcy falling flat. she tried to engage in light conversation, her voice too cheerful and slightly strained. “so, how was the drive? was traffic okay?”

ivory muttered a reply, her response lacking enthusiasm. “it was fine.” she picked up her chopsticks, fiddling with them as a distraction. her gaze remained fixed on the food, the delicious aroma doing little to distract her from the awkwardness that filled the room.

jieun attempted to smooth over the tension with gentle conversation, directing her questions towards ivory to take the spotlight off the strained interactions. “how’s eunchae?”

a pair of small cat-like eyes looked up, her expression softening slightly at the mention of her best friend. she always told her grandmother everything, even the things that went on with her friends. “she's great. it’s kinda fun rooming with her, but chaewon says we’re too loud.” jane replied as she took a bite of her rice.

jennie’s heart sank as she observed the slight shift in ivory’s demeanor. it was the first time during dinner that she had seen a genuine reaction from her daughter. she realized how little she actually knew about jane’s life, her interests, or even just her friends. 

the realization was like ice in her veins, making jennie once again acutely aware of the void between them.

after dinner, jieun suggested they watch a movie together, hoping it might help bridge the gap. ivory agreed, more for her grandmother's sake than anything else. they settled in the living room, with jane in the middle, jennie on one side, and jieun on the other.

the movie played, a light-hearted comedy that usually would have made ivory laugh. but tonight, she felt the weight of her mother's presence, making it hard to relax. as the movie progressed, the warmth of her home and the exhaustion from her rigorous schedule began to catch up with her. despite her best efforts, her eyelids grew heavy, and she found herself nodding off.

as the movie reached its climax, ivory’s head slowly leaned to the side, finally resting on jennie’s shoulder.

jennie froze for a moment, unsure of what to do. the simple gesture, unintentional as it was, filled her with a bittersweet warmth. carefully, jennie reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and gently placed it over her daughter’s sleeping form.

she knew she had a long way to go to mend her relationship with her daughter, but this small moment of connection gave her a moment of comfort. jennie leaned back, allowing herself to savor the rare closeness, even if she knew it wouldn’t last more than tonight.

as the credits rolled, the oldest woman got up to turn off the tv, her movements quiet to avoid waking ivory. she looked back at jennie, her eyes soft with understanding. “she loves you, you know,” jieun whispered. “she just needs time.”

jennie nodded, her eyes never leaving jane’s peaceful face. it was amazing how much her daughter reselmed her. this was truly her ivory, her baby girl, both on and off of the stage.

“i hope so, mom. i really hope so.”

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CLOSED.

[percheduphere]

The entire series is a love story in every sense of the word. It is a love story, and it is both triumphant and tragic.

The finale was gorgeously executed. It answers every point in Loki's development poetically.

1. He never wanted the throne. It was not about power but loneliness and the need to belong.

2. To have purpose is to choose your burden.

3. Love does not make one soft, it transforms us to be unimaginably strong.

S1 focused primarily on 2 things: 1. a second chance, and 2. Self-love.

The 3 main characters have a relationship in which love cascades. While Mobius loves Loki for who he is outright, his friendship and support allows Loki to have compassion for himself. Sylvie represents all of Loki's trauma and flaws. In loving her, Loki grants her a second chance expecting nothing in return. The second chance Mobius extended to Loki, thus extends to her.

S2 focused primarily on the love between friends, which I do believe turned into unrequited love for Mobius in S1E4 (manifesting as rage and jealousy).

That love turns resigned, and the jealousy reemerges in S2E2 albeit in a constrained, milder form.

Unbeknownst to Mobius, his romantic love is finally returned in S2E5, after Loki experiences enough platonic love for Mobius that the nature of affection shifts upon losing Mobius a second time.

The timing of this realization is profoundly tragic. When they are finally on the same page, the finale sets the stage for Loki to engage with the fourth, most powerful form of love:

AGAPE

A selfless love for everyone. Loki could not have reached this point without first experiencing self-love, platonic love, and yes, romantic love. All forms of love are demonstrated in the series, which gives Loki the strength of sacrifice, confronting his worst fear: being alone.

I find it deeply poignant that Loki uses his magical life force to create Yggdrasil, the tree of life, replacing the cold force of HWR's technology with his own heart, allowing everything and everyone to grow infinitely through space and time. There cannot be a more powerful ending for Loki's character, and the tragedy is the point.

But Loki embraces this burden willingly, lovingly, for all of them, most especially Mobius.

ON MOBIUS

It is only Mobius that senses something is deeply wrong. The first time, he asks, "Are you okay?" The second time, he notes Loki's odd comment, "This time?" The third time, (first for Mobius since he didn't remember each reset) instinctively, he becomes desperate. He grabs Loki by the lapels, "What the shit are you doing?" He tries to stop Loki, but Loki won't let him.

The fourth time, he simply says, "Loki?"

Throughout S2, it is Mobius that Loki turns to when he is afraid, doesn't know what to do, or seeks comfort. He returns what Mobius provides him in S2E2 in the pie automat. In S2E4, he defends Mobius's character to Sylvie and compares where he is now, as a person, with Thor's experience with Jane, a mere Midgardian mortal.

In S2E5, it is Mobius Loki timeslips to the most and the first person his heart seeks out once OB provides him with an answer to his fiction problem.

That Loki seeks Mobius's wisdom one last time and holds onto Mobius's hand as long as he can in the finale is significant. Mobius's words about choosing your burden are devastatingly true. These words propel Loki to make his choice.

And Loki walking out onto the platform in the finale is a direct reciprocation of this (S2E1):

This is an all-encompassing love story. Let noone tell you otherwise.