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inknopewetrust · 10 months

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𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎

summary: you are recruited to the spider society after conducting a batch of vigilante actions against the men who killed your husband, miguel and well... their leader isn’t like the man you remembered.

pairing: miguel o’hara x spider-woman!reader [wc: 12.7k]

warnings: language. this has got everything: backstory, meeting, conflict, angst, sadness, tie-ins with the film, (i hope you're reading this in a stefon voice), ethical dilemmas, vigilante shit, violence, romantic love strains, etc., etc.

Manhattan was rainy. It was always rainy.

But let’s do this again, shall we?

The skyline was high. Muddled variants of blues and reds, the colors that had painted your life for a decade now. It was silly to imagine a world of color beyond that–it's all you knew, you had nothing left.

And all of that nothing was the consequences of the dealings of a few bad men.

You breathed in deep. They were right there, right below your feet.

Their laughter in their indifference to life was vexing. It made your blood broil and bubble to the surface where you thought your eyes may have been red and your grip on the stone building was onerous.

In the distance, police sirens blared across the city where crime did not take a backseat because their most treasure hero was rogue. People were in trouble but you saw cessation of hope with every second that passed and those in charge did nothing to avenge your husband.

Husband. Nevertheless, what you had was gone and never coming home to you. The least you could do was try to find the justice to be brought by your own hands.

"Nah, man..." One of the men–a blonde, high-tech worker from the east side of town–shook his head. "We can't go there. They've got cameras all over the place! Ain't no way we are gettin' out free."

"Well then we go downtown and hit one alongside the river. We'll set up a boat and get us to Brooklyn before they can even suspect anyone was there," another collaborator said. Blondie shook his head determined.

"You think Spider-Girl isn't gonna be waitin' for us?" He scoffed, scuffing his shoes against the pavement. You perched straighter as you peered down. Spider-Woman. It was Spider-Woman.

“She got Mikey last week, Simon two days ago… we don’t have much left and if you think robbin’ fuckin’ Wall Street is gonna save us, you’re wrong.”

A sensible criminal with blood on his hands. Nice.

“Besides, they got the police captain on her ass and while they’re out lookin’ for her, they won’t sweat the small stuff,” blondie pulled a black ski mask from his jacket.

“It’s now or never,” he slipped it on and walked to the door of the bodega on the corner. He held out his hand as if his friend was actually a true friend and not a piece to his own networked puzzle.

Your stomach turned and the sight made your spine tingle.

Outside on the sidewalk of the street in the rain of New York City, the two men who were left of the dirty dozen walked into the grocer with no intention to buy anything.

It hadn’t dawned on you that as you dropped to the pavement, you weren’t wearing your suit or mask.

The hub was quiet.

In this slick world, everything was silver and green and the headquarters were no different — yet too different for Peter to know that he wasn’t from this universe and always felt out of place.

A picture on desk that wasn’t his grounded him to a separate reality; one of love and hope and a small child’s laughter.

Spider-Byte’s was typing away on the keys beside him while he tapped away on the table top.

Nothing exciting had happened since the… glitch. It had been a long nine months without the glue that had put him back together.

That was until Spider-Byte’s computer started beeping in a manic fashion. It was a sound neither of them had heard before. A high pitched siren blaring loudly from a machine the the left of Peter, a button glowing red and flashing.

“Uh,” Peter pointed to the button, “you got any clue what that’s about?”

Spider-Byte shook her head as she pulled up a database on a screen. Her tech hands glided over the keys like music, fluid and fast and working with a purpose.

“Some system Miguel’s got here,” she muttered and Peter attempted to cover the small speaker beside the button with his hand—it didn’t work.

“Where is he? He said he’d be right back and now we’re facing the end of the wor—“

“I doubt this is the end of the world, Peter!” Spider-Byte cut him off harshly. “Now would you be useful and go find Miguel?”

As the dutiful Spider-Person he was, Peter rushed out of the central lair and into the bright white halls of the headquarters. Everyone he passed he asked the same question:

“Hey! You’ve seen Miguel anywhere?”

“Yo! Seen the big man around?”

He slid up to a group of variant Julia Carpenters as they sipped on coffee in the cafeteria. Peter gave them a sly smirk, trying to be cool, and snapped his fingers.

“Have any of you seen the boss today? Looking fine as usual.”

Synchronized, the Julia’s pointed to the empanada station and sure as shit, there was Miguel, talking with the vender who yes, just happened to also be a Spider-Man.

“Miguel!” Peter screeched from the table and Miguel’s mind went soured. A violent jolt to his instincts as the new father came barreling toward him.

“¡At no…!” Miguel mumbled to himself as Peter skidded to a halt, dropping his hand on Miguel’s shoulder with a clunk.

“Hey, Boss! Whatcha… watcha doin’ out here?” Peter chuckled nervously and Miguel narrowed his eyes. “You said you’d be right back.”

“I did,” Miguel drawled. “I told you five minutes and it’s only been three, Peter.”

Peter laughed, glancing around the space as confused gazes began to pick up on the pebbles of sweat that dripped from his temple.

“Oh! You don’t say?”

“What’s so impo—“ Miguel began but never finished. Lyla appeared out of thin air with a casual urgency unlike Peter’s frantic one.

“We’ve got a doozy here for ya, boss.”

With Lyla, everything came to life smoothly. As she snapped her fingers, holograms of screens appeared like magic and on them, an un-masked, Spider-Woman was beating the shit out of thieves in a bodega.

“Jesus,” Peter whispered to himself.

“He doesn’t come here,” Miguel replied without a smile nor a chuckle but it took Peter back.

Miguel was watching the woman carefully. This Spider-Woman was not apart of the society and was actively doing what no Spider-Person should do. However, Miguel knew the actions. He felt them deep within his bones and the mistakes he had made as a newly minted Spider-Man 2099.

“Name’s Y/n L/n… a former nurse who got mixed up in a bad batch of blood for a transfusion. This isn’t the first time we’ve been alerted about her,” Lyla debriefed and Miguel snapped.

“What do you mean, ‘not the first time?’”

“These are a group of men she’s been targeting. It’s got to do with her,” Lyla cleared her throat that was nonexistent, “canon event.”

“We have to bring her in,” Miguel began walking away from Peter and Lyla followed. “I am NOT having some vigilante shit show up on this doorstep. Peter, get Jess, brief her and get a day pass to bring along.”

“Miguel,” Peter wagered, “what if this is associated with her canon? What if she’s just an anti-hero in her world?”

“She’s not,” Lyla piped back in. “She’s a hero, hero. And this isn’t part of her canon event. You’ve gotta know how grief moves people?”

Miguel grunted, Peter sighed.

“Get Jess. I’ll wait for you,” Miguel pushed on Peter’s shoulder to send him the other way.

Once alone and down the winding halls near the center of the headquarters, Lyla spoke again perched on Miguel’s shoulder.

“Miguel, I think there’s something you should know?”

“Know what, Lyla?” Miguel’s attitude had always been sour—she had been there from his creation and it never changed. He never truly smiled, he never truly laughed.

Miguel O’Hara was a tough nut to crack in a world full of people who lived off joy and laughter.

But she could feel the sensations radiating off of him. Those strident lines of afflictions that were masked by the way he covered his face. The tense nature of his shoulders as he walked further and further away but closer to a person he’d never thought to face again.

It felt like an intrusion all over again.

“You know what, Lyla?”

“I know what you’re thinking,” she defended, hologramed hand squeezing his shoulder. “But there are a million Peter’s and Gwen’s and MJ’s out there.”

“This isn’t her,” Miguel huffed. “She would never do this.”

“But she is, Miguel… and her canon event is you.”

“So a possible disruption?”

“It’s already happened,” Lyla explained, giving immediate explanation to your actions. Miguel did not know you in this way, but he could imagine why such feelings would manifest in violence.

“Good, good.”

Lyla scoffed, hopping to her feet. “I wouldn’t say it’s ‘good,’ boss. You died in her world. You were married in her world. I think she’s gonna wanna slap you for even existing in another timeline.”

“Why?” Miguel quirked a brow. “You know her or something? Keeping secrets from me now?”

To save her, Peter and Jess entered the lair with their bands glowing. Lyla simply shrugged and disappeared before they jumped into an Earth that would feel like they own but be nothing like it.

“Miguel," Jess was already shaking her head. Three months pregnant and still doing work, both Peter and Miguel would not be surprised if the child arrived wearing a suit of their own. "There's no anomaly there–there hasn't been a case in that world of a villain glitching from another."

"It's not about the bad guys," Miguel walked toward them to meet them in the middle. "What she's doing no Spider-Person has done before and what's the purpose of a society if we don't help one of our own?"

Lyla appeared between the three ready to open the portal.

"One last thing, folks!" She walked around casually glowing and pushed up her heart shaped glasses to her hairline. "She's not wearing her suit - so if you don't work fast, her identity will be known to the public and well! We just can't have that, can we?"

"Fantastic!" Peter complained as Miguel opened up the portal. "They are a bit suffocating really, if you asked me."

"Well we didn't," Miguel gruffed.

"What's her name? Just Spider-Woman?" Jess asked. "Should we just yell 'Hey! Spider-Woman! Stop it! You're actually a good person!'"

"Y/n. Her name is Y/n and don't freeze up when you see her, alright bud? Alright! See you all when you get back! Have fun!" Lyla waved, patting Miguel's leg as she walked the floor and disappeared once more.

Stretching out his legs, Peter did not miss the glare Miguel gave Lyla. His eyes cold and hardened; he knew so little of this leader but felt he knew so much. Miguel wasn't like the other Spider-People and well, he assumed perhaps you were not either.

Peter missed that he should have recognized your name.

He had been there with Miguel when the other world collapsed.

"Anything else you wanna tell us, boss?" He pushed. Miguel shook his head and slipped on his mask in more ways than one.

"She's disturbing her own canon by going rogue. I'm not going to let her destroy it because she's... upset."

Jess laughed and Miguel was indignant. "If she's a bad egg, she's a bad egg, Miguel. You can't save everyone."

"She's not a bad one!" Miguel scolded her, pointing out toward the darkness of the portal. "She's not supposed to do this and we need to fix this! Y/n is good!"

Peter smirked, wiggling his brows. He could sense Miguel's anger muddled with a nervous fear he never had. "Y/n, Miguel... first name basis already and we haven't even met her. You move fast, don't you?"

"Oh, you are so fucking annoying! She was my wife!"

Peter's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. "Oh no! Not again, nope!"

"She doesn't exist in this world anymore, Peter," Earth 928, "and in another timeline, she's taken the mantle."

Jess jutted her hip out as the whirring of the portal loomed over them. "So you exist in her's too then? This won't be too confusing. It's just like Peter and MJ or Gwen in the thousands of realities that exist."

"Sure, sure," Miguel said. "But there are only three realities where she exists and," he cleared his throat as he looked down the portal, "this is the last one left."

"We shouldn't risk it. We can't collapse another world."

"We won't collapse it."

"How do you know that?" Peter questioned. There was always a level of selfishness when it came to those someone loved most.

"I just... I just know! You're not in charge here, Peter. If I don't have any hesitations right now, then neither can you."

"Well then," Peter strutted through the portal and turned around before his body was completely gone, "Let's go get us another Spidey then, yeah?"

And he saluted Miguel and Jess before jumping in.

"You've been monitoring her world?" Jess asked and Miguel looked to his feet. She had never seen him so bashful. Never one to make a scene of rash emotional actions, the causation would need

"I watch over many worlds."

"Yeah but come on," She dug, "this is a lot different than those worlds. You know her."

"I don't know her," Miguel defended himself and took a step further into the portal. "She isn't my wife. She's just a version of her that I don't know."

"Mhm," Jess hummed and drummed on her arm as they remained crossed from the moment Miguel said you were his wife. "Let's go meet her then. Then you can go on and on about how she's everything you remember but not the same."

And she walked through the portal before she disappeared to leave Miguel alone.

With clenched fists, Miguel breathed in deep and appeared in a reality he promised never to interfere with.

Inside of the bodega, the two men bartered with one another in the aisle. They looked to be two friends having a conversation in the middle of the shop but their intentions were not pure.

The bell above the door rang as you entered. Shoulders and hair wet from the rain, the cashier paid you no mind as he changed the station on his portable radio sat on the counter.

There were three civilians inside. One, the cashier who was oblivious and that is the sole reason these thugs decided to hit the bodega. An 'easy' target to get in and out. Two, a woman who was going grey at her temples. And three, a teenage kid with untied sneakers.

You ducked behind a shelf as you watched them in the aisle beside you. Between the chips and pretzels they concocted their idiotic plan in the presence of innocent people as they always did–it was how their bank robbery disaster went sideways six months ago.

When civilians are present, one of them will always try and become the hero. It is what Miguel did and now he's six feet under in a cold box.

"Excuse me, Miss," the older woman pointed to the bag of chips that your hand was resting on. She turned your attention away from the men. "Could I get one of those? I don't mean to be a–"

The men began to make their moves and you were distracted by the woman. She had kind eyes. Easy and familiar and a familial feeling to them as she waited patiently for you to move.

"Yes, yes," you replied as you got out of her way. "Sorry."

You didn't know why you apologized. Maybe you felt sorry she found herself in this bodega at an hour such as this.

"No worries, dear." The boy wasn't far from her either. He was shuffling through a freezer looking for a drink that wasn't there.

As she grabbed onto the bag, the radio dropped to the floor and turned off. It startled everyone inside and the cashier filled the silence with his desperate pleas.

"Oh my," his jaw chattered, "please... I don't have anything.... I-I-I I've gotta lot of student lo-o-oans and I really n-need this job."

He was staring into a silver barrel of a gun by the hands of the blonde who orchestrated everything. The older woman screeched behind you and the freezer door slammed shut with a "oh hell no!" following its thud.

You imagined the fear they felt was the same Miguel felt that day. Sitting there, hostage on the bank floor with a check to cash from his mother for his birthday.

The check was in evidence splattered with his blood.

In the neon light of the bodega, you made a choice to never let that happen again.

The cashier kept muttering whole-hearted pleas and the friend reached over the counter to open the register's drawer but it was locked.

"Unlock it!" Blondie ordered, shaking the gun closer and closer to the cashier who looked close to wetting himself. Behind you, the older woman crouched to the floor began praying to herself.

"Unlock it now, you son-of-a-bitch! You wanna end up on the floor? Open it!"

The cashier, who now you realized had a name badge on that read 'Max', began to reach for the keys that were hooked onto the counter.

Fear in his eyes, anticipation in theirs, anger in yours.

Anger always caused the tides to turn.

You reached your hand forward in a quick motion and the web that released itself from your wrist snatched the keys from the hook. Max flew backwards in a jolt of despair and the barrel was soon pointed at you.

"Oh you have got to be kidding!" Blondie screeched and fired a shot. He missed. It was sent right into a chip bag and exploded them all over the floor. You tossed the keys to the older woman and went for the gun.

Like child's play, the gun flew across the bodega and into your palm to be crushed like a piece of fruit. It was still hot from being fired and its pieces crumbled to the floor.

"What the fuck–" the woman stuttered.

"So," Blondie spoke and you hated his tone. Condescending and mighty. "Spider-Woman has a face..."

This friend pulled a bracelet from his pocket that lit up green. It glowed as brightly as the neon signs in the window blurred by the rain.

"She does," you replied. "And it will be the last face you see."

He laughed. They always did. It was an inescapable pattern of dealing with enemies who thought they would win. They never did, and they all thought the same way.

"Is that so? I would really hate to have the Bugle's headline to read: Spider-Woman killed innocent civilians at the 6th street Bodega." He let out a series of tisks with a shake of his head. "Who knew heroes could be so bad?"

He looked to his friend. "Herman..."

The friend, Herman, locked eyes on you and approached quickly and with a heavy hand charging with the green of the gauntlet. You could hearing the whirring and the loading of the power.

Instead of moving out of the way, you turned and pushed the older woman away. She slid on the slick floor into a corner with her bag of chips still in her hand.

The shock hit you with a staggering power. It blew you backwards into an ice freezer in the back of the store. As you landed on the ground, the woman whimpered in the corner and the boy caught your eye underneath a table by the restrooms.

He couldn't have been more than fifteen.

And he wasn't going to die today.

So, you got back on your feet and brushed off your jacket. The residual sting of the shock began to wear off and the men looked at you with a challenge.

"Who knew fighting the Spider would have been so easy?" Blondie laughed. "Where were you when we started? It would have been a much more fair fight."

"Busy," you spat.

"Huh," he hummed with a nod of his head. It was like he was trying to clock you–the way his eyes squinted and he tilted his head just a bit higher than it normally would have been. "Say, have we met before?"

"I'm sure I would remember. This is certainly a pleasurable encounter."

Blondie didn't let the words sting. You weren't a Spider who stung with a bite.

"I've seen your face before..."

"Maybe I just have one of those faces," you quirked a brow and Herman charged his gauntlet again. "Is this the worst you can do? Threaten a few innocents and have your friend do all the work? What happened to real criminals, huh?"

"Funny," he walked like a villain. Hands in his pockets, shoes scuffing the floor. "I've heard that one before." His mind raked the last time he heard that.

"Well it must say something about you then."

Herman went to shock again and you shot a web at him. He went soaring into a wall, head hitting it hard.

"I know!" He snapped his fingers like a lightbulb went off inside. Clarity now in a world filled of unclear ways. "I've seen your picture before."

"So what?" You matched his movements as he moved toward the center of the store. Every tight aisle blocked your view like a shutter.

"'Is this the worst you can do?' Someone told me that a short time ago. A man who tried to get in my way."

Miguel.

He was at the bank. He had his check ready, he was at the counter. Miguel had his wallet out and prepared.

He had a photo in his wallet.

"And I think you know how that turned out for him. But here's the thing, Spider-Woman... I don't hate the idea of having that same fate met you tonight. I imagine being so deep underneath the ground it gets a little lonely."

He stopped at the center, so did you.

"I think it's time for you to join him."

But all you saw was red.

There was an intense pulsing pressure inside of the bodega. You weren't sure how much time had passed as your fist dug deeper and deeper into the man who spoke too much and had little to act upon.

Whimpers of those left inside were deferred. The begging of his friend fell on deaf ears.

In the corner beside the three civilians–the woman, teen, and cashier–a glowing hexagonal portal opened to the dimension in which they lived. It hummed like a freezer and moved like something from the cinema they watched last year but instead of aliens appearing from the abyss, three people emerged no different than the way they walked.

They were people, human. Three Spider-People in a world that already had a Spider-Woman.

In their perspective the heroes were welcome. They were terrified and huddled within one another as one robber was webbed to the wall and the other was being beaten to a pulp by a woman with super-human strength.

"Peter," Miguel motioned to the civilians in the corner, "get 'em out of here."

The humble servant Peter was, he acted quickly. His nervous high-pitched voice soothing their fears with panic and disbelief that three masked people walked through a portal as though it was any other day.

"Get the man down, Jess," Miguel pointed to the guy webbed to the wall. Jess tipped her head to the side with an amused, sly grin on her face as he wept. Chick's a badass, she thought.

A violent one at the moment, albeit, but a badass nonetheless.

Fist hovered in the air, you went rigid as the sensations coursed through you. A striking feeling that felt more like a severe headache that came on too quickly, the immense pressure your body suddenly took on wasn't unfamiliar.

You had felt them before. It happened when something in the air changed. When something you knew could disappear or when time was suddenly running short. There was no term for it nor did any other person in this world feel what you felt.

The man below you gurgled. It was, just like the sensation, a sound that awoken something within you. It cleared the vision from red to reality and suddenly the harsh lighting of the bodega and the reflections of the neon signs on the linoleum filled in the edges.

"Shit," you stammered as your grip on his body lessened with every second.

Those consistent strums of radiating itching went from the top of your head to the base of your skull. A humming in the distance turned into a whirring sound that was too extraneous to come from a small place such as this one.

In an instant, the aluminum window covers were pulled from the ceiling by a pair of red, glowing lines reminiscent of webs. It shut out the outside world and the rain that had been pouring down for hours. The neon lights no longer reflected themselves on the flooring.

A hero, a villain... at some point those had all become the same to you.

The ideas that propelled them to act were all based in something that made them feel passionate enough to target an opposing force. When a hero turns to the fragmented middle of the road and balances the line of enemy and friend, the revelations of such shame grow from a deeper place of pain.

"Let him go."

The voice in your head sounded so much like Miguel.

And once your senses stopped going wild, your heart lept into your throat at the thought.

You buried him. You buried him six feet under.

The door to the bodega's alley opened and closed.

"Come on," the voice said again, "let him go and we can clean up this mess."

"Stop," you mumbled, shutting your eyes as your fists clenched the man's jacket harder. The one that had been in the air dropped to his chest. It was wet with the mixture of sweat and blood.

"Stop it please. Please stop it."

"Those civilians are gonna go get the police," his voice was low. It was that kind of voice that Miguel would use to talk you down from a nightmare–or maybe what this dimension had made you.

"And when they get here, what do you think they're gonna do when they see you sittin' over him?"

"Stop talking, stop talking, stop talking–" you repeated again and again. A thud in the distance set the blonde's friend on the floor and a web kept him in place once more.

"Boss they're gonna take her," another voice, not one you had ever head before filled the room and suddenly you were terrified that it wasn't voices you were hearing in your head. "We gotta bring her back with us."

"Alright! Three darling innocents saved again by, you guessed it," a far too cheerful voice added to the collection, "me."

You were curled into yourself over the blonde. Peter saw a woman, not dressed in a traditional uniform, use her powers for bad. But he saw the destruction of the man and knew that it wasn't from sheer wickedness.

He had seen you care so much before. It had to come from a place of caring.

"Well," he cleared his throat, "this is... a lot." And then he blanched.

"Jess," Miguel motioned to your static figure. He turned around and walked away as if to say 'you got it.'

There was an inflection in his voice that made Jess bristle. She hated the tone; removed and vacant. He was already living a humorless existence and the idea that this dimension made you act this way fractured himself in a new way.

"You heard him," Peter went scouring the aisles, plucking a bag of dried beef from a shelf to shove his mouth with. "You got this!" He gave a half-hearted thumbs up.

So, Jess had this.

She didn't crouch down. She didn't attempt to place a hand on your shoulder or help clean off your hands.

Jess kneeled on the other side of the man and your distant eyes met hers to know you weren't alone. You weren't alone in your pain and you certainly weren't alone in this world.

Your first thought was that she was pretty. Your second thought was that this woman was pregnant and that made you sad.

"Looks like you've gotten yourself in a bit of a mess," she spoke quietly but acted quickly. She placed her fingers on the pulse of the man.

He was breathing.

"Who are you?"

"Name's Jess."

"Jess," you repeated, "and Jess comes from...?"

She saw your lip tremble, eyes welling with tears. Jesus, she thought, she wasn't ready to be a mother if she couldn't deal with a thirty-something spider-woman who happened to be Miguel's wife in three different dimensions.

"Earth–404."

"Earth?"

"You felt that, right?" She motioned to her head, mimicking a tingling sensation with her fingertips. You nodded.

"Well, a lot of us have it... and I mean people like you and me... and I know it makes no sense, but if you can fight mutant enemies, maybe you can imagine there are other worlds out there."

"Like planets?" You sniffed and your hands began to shake. Everything bubbling to the surface of pain and anger. "You're from another planet?"

"Not really, but kinda, sure," she agreed for your sake.

"And your friends?"

"Different planets too."

You breathed in a shaking breath. Somewhere in the distance, you could hear the sirens begin to blare. It may have been 10 blocks or 6 blocks, but they were coming and they were coming in fast.

"Now," Jess cleared her throat, "it looks like you've gotten yourself in a little situation that needs a bit of help."

Jess was the most sympathetic she had ever been. The way your hands shook, your tiredness expanded beyond you. Maybe it was the fact she knew what made you go off the deep end that made her feel more thoughtful.

"They, um-"

"It's ok," Jess said and didn't let you finish. "We just need to get you somewhere safe, ok? Me and my friends can help you."

The sheen in your eyes was cloudy. Face wet and brushed with splatter of a man who was not yours, there was a lifeline to get you out of here and you had to take it.

You shook your head softly before it became more frantic. "I don't have anyone to go to... I don't have anyone."

"You do," her hand hovered over the man's body as Peter came back and lowered himself beside Jess. "You're gonna have a whole group behind you if you let us help."

"We'll get you all cleaned up and then introduce you. There is a whole universe of us out there."

"Us?"

"Spider-People?" He questioned, brows furrowed. Jess hadn't been explicit.

"A society," she drew back from Peter. "Like myself and Peter," indirectly introducing him, "and you and–" she stopped short.

"And you want me there?"

"Yeah," Peter said. "I mean, we could use some more badass Spider-Women around."

"But I–"

"Don't worry about all this, alright? We all have our moments."

Peter reached out his hand for you to take. There was a certain level of hesitancy you felt; perhaps it was a trick or maybe you were trapped in another nightmare. But Peter gave a small smile. He gave off a warmth that Jess had exuded and made you nearly forget that there were three voices and not their two.

You took Peter's hand.

The man was breathing, he would live even if he didn't deserve to. The sirens were no more than 3 blocks away.

"You gonna need one of these," Jess held out her hand to reveal a rubber bracelet.

"A day pass," she explained, "to help you adjust."

"Adjust?"

"It's better to ask fewer questions," Peter scrunched his face. "Less confusion for you."

You slipped on the bracelet.

"We good here?"

It was that voice again, the one from the back of your head.

"We gotta go. Time is ticking."

Except this voice wasn't the back of your head now that you've realized there were others in this bodega. As you rose from the floor and began walking as Jess led the way, the friend was passed out on the floor and a glowing hexagonal portal was lingering in the back of the store.

The sounds, the sensations... it meant something.

"All good, Boss. The robbers will live."

The man in the blue suit–from what you could tell–nodded and looked in your direction but said nothing. There was something in your body that was sending alarm bells to your mind but you ignored them.

They weren't like the sensations you had felt before. These were different in a way you couldn’t explain.

“Right let’s, ah,” he hesitated as his hands rested on his hips. You looked at him and he looked away. “Get moving then.”

“What’s going to happen when I go through that thing?” You pointed to the portal.

He didn’t look at you. He couldn’t look at you. All he saw was his wife who used to laugh at his corny jokes and rest her head on his shoulder in bed. He saw, in one dimension, the mother of his child and he saw a happy, generous nurse who loved her job.

But when he looked at you know, part of that image was shattered.

You were a little bit broken and a little bit worn down by the world you lived in. You had blood-splattered clothing and tear stained cheeks and it was enough to make his heart ache more than it already did.

“It will pop you out just where we want you,” Peter said as he took a step into the portal and his body began to glitch with the moving sphere around him. “Just walk in and it will do the rest.”

“And it’s safe?”

“So far, yeah!” And he ran off before he disappeared.

“I’ll see you there, alright?” Jess turned to you, then looked at Blue before giving a smile that was as flat as a dead man’s heart beat.

She walked in just as suave as she came.

Suddenly, it was just the two of you and it felt strange.

There were so many feelings lingering that you couldn’t grasp onto. The air was comfortable but hesitant; there was a barrier of distrust and burden, but one that itched to reach out a hand to help.

“You know,” you sniffed back a chuckle, “I half thought I was crazy for a second.”

“About what?” He asked. “The fact that you almost killed a man or the portals? Both are equally crazy.”

In any other circumstance you would have thought he was being sarcastic.

You shook your head. You were beginning to feel the weight of your actions.

“I thought I heard voices… a voice in my head.”

“Mhm.”

“Yeah,” you glanced at the portal.

A lull. The whirring of the portal, the sounds of police cars went mute when you looked back. Blue was looking at you but you couldn’t see his eyes. You couldn’t see a thing and indeed, you didn’t know his name.

Blue.

Miguel’s favorite color was blue.

“Thank you,” you said earnestly. “For coming here. I think I’m still a bit shell-shocked,” you laughed and he knew you were, “but maybe I was waiting for this… I don’t know.”

“It’s our job.”

Blue was done with the conversation at that point. He walked to the portal, his body glitching just like Peter and Jess’s did.

“Come on,” he motioned to you.

“What’s your name? The other two—they introduced themselves.”

“Spider-Man.”

“That’s not your name.”

He let out a huff. “You wanna be caught by the police? Fine.” He began walking again and the glitching became more erratic.

“Who’s to say you’re all not some group of aliens trying to kidnap me? At least the other two looked like me!”

His patience too was skating on thin ice.

“Come on, kid, let’s go.”

Maybe you weren’t crazy.

“What did you just say?”

He turned his body back to you and walked out of the portal. On the precipice of where you stood just beyond and where he did, he towered over you.

“I’m giving you a chance here. You come with me now or you’re dead here.”

“Kid. You said ‘kid.’ Why did you say that? Why did you say I was a kid?”

“I didn’t mean it like that, let’s go.” Like a rhythmic pattern, he turned back around.

“I’m not crazy. I know I’m not fucking crazy.” You sure as hell looked it. “Why did you say kid? Who told you to call me kid?”

“No one—“

A sudden banging on the door to the bodega caught the attention left in the room. Blondie started to gurgle, you stood steadfast, and Blue was agitated.

You took a step into the portal. Progress.

“Nobody calls me kid, no one. Why won’t you tell me your name? Who the hell are you people? Who are you?”

“We don’t have time for this!” The way he said your name that followed was one you had heard a million times.

It was just like Miguel used to say.

“Take off your mask.” You demanded and stepped further again.

“Take off your fucking mask or I’m stepping out of this goddamn thing and going to prison.”

The police began to feverishly hit the glass with their batons.

“Take it off,” you begged, “please. Please let me see you.”

And how could he say no to his wife who begged so mercilessly?

There was a time where you replayed that moment over and over in your mind.

You could still feel the way your breath caught in your chest. An immense wave of emptiness washed from you and filled with a jittery dismay that had no outlet.

His eyes were no different; the way his lips sat and his brow furrowed.

You felt the silent shed of tears mask your face before the glass breaking set Miguel moving toward you, grabbing your hand and pulling you through the portal.

His touch was the same.

And when he opened his mouth, what he sounded like was different from what he said and you were quick to realize that this Miguel was not your Miguel.

This Miguel despised people who lived happy lives.

This Miguel was mean and callous and demanding

This Miguel worked beyond reasonable hours and made being a Spider-Man his life’s purpose.

That was not your Miguel.

There was no making sense in that moment. You either believed it or you didn't and if you didn't, then they'd drop you back off in a world that had your face plastered on wanted posters and big screens in the middle of the city.

So you made sense of it and made some semblance of life within the four walls of the Spider Society headquarters with the Grade A asshole known as Miguel O'hara – not your husband.

The grief of that worked in waves. It came and went when life continued to move. It was strange to think that what brought you here, to this future, occurred one year ago.

Sat by a window looking out into an Earth that was not yours, you swung your legs as those thoughts crossed your mind. The chatter of a thousand Spider-people filled the space around you.

A thud sounded on the beam a few feet from you. Soft, nearly mute shoes tapping their way beside you. Green. The color of artificial grass in a children's playset, nearly blue.

"Watcha doing?"

There was never a moment of peace here. But you closed you eyes, sighed and a smile quirked on your lips.

"You daydreaming? I wonder what it's like out there..." Gwen Stacy joined the Spider-Society three months ago. "It looks so... contempo."

"Contempo? Where did you hear that?"

"I read you know," she tipped her head up in mock offense. "Kids do read when they're in school."

"Yeah, yeah," you brushed her off.

"So... what are you up to today? I was thinking we could monitor the dimensions with Jess and maybe catch a bad guy or two–" Gwen's fists mimicked boxing, "–and then Peter said he'd bring Mayday around–"

"Slow down," you chuckled. "I am up to nothing, thanks for asking and if that's what you want, sure."

Her eyes lit up when on most days they didn't.

"Really!?"

"Mhm, yeah, sure."

"Great!" Gwen got to her feet and wrung her hands. "Jess was in the control center so–"

"Control center?"

Gwen hummed, hands clasping behind her back comically.

"Yep! Just... chillin' by a screen. You know, she's got that baby on the way and all so we thought it'd be best to keep her inside for the time being and she doesn't like that but she said–" Gwen went on and on as the words came pouring out.

"Gwen."

"–that she would rather die than have to sit here and watch screens all day. I told Peter she would hate it and he agreed with me but sometimes he brings–"

"Gwen."

"–Mayday around just to cheer us up that we haven't gone on that many missions and its always well... you know... and we feel like we can't do anything to help out sometimes–"

"Gwen!" You shouted at her. She stopped her rambling; blue eyes wide and ears listening. "Just... take a breath, alright?"

"Sorry," she said sheepishly.

"You don't have to be sorry," a sharp breath steadied you. "I'm not going to go with you to the control room."

"Please," she begged. You imagined this is what it was like having a teenage daughter who wanted the most unattainable of things. "I promise it will be fine! Miguel's not even there so you don't have to worry about what he said last time!"

"That was three days ago, Gwen!"

"So what!?"

The last time was three days ago.

Ever since you arrived, it had been nothing but anger and hostility pushed toward you from him but you were not easy on him either. It was hard facing a piece of your past that had every connection but no foundation at the same time.

Earth 9591 was in ruins and the screens replayed the horrors of the people over and over. It was desolate. Earth was crumbling in on itself and a medieval Rhino had found itself in the mess as Earth 9591 Peter was on his last leg.

According to Miguel, this Peter was supposed to experience this.

"We can't just let him die, Miguel," you argued as he stood up on his platform above you and Peter. "There is a chance he could live and we're reducing him to nothing because of his goddamn canon?"

"We can't mess with it, you know that." Miguel's patience was running thin. "Every time we can't interfere you come here with the same argument and the answer is always no. It will always be no."

"Why?" You pushed. Sometimes just seeing his face now made you mad. The questions of why this Miguel got to live when your's didn't was something that constantly simmered within you.

"You plucked me from my Earth and brought me here so why can't we do that for him? He'd be healthy and safe here."

"This is supposed to happen to him," he huffed your name as he turned back to the screens. "Not every battle is going to be one that Spider-Man wins and if we mess with it, we threaten that whole dimension."

"Well it sure as hell looks like it's in a bit of trouble, boss," Peter let out a nervous chuckle.

"And so it is."

"But what of Rhino, hm?" He hated the way you rose your eyebrows in question. Every version of you did that. "That's not supposed to be his fate."

"One less villain we have to worry about."

You let out a frustrated groan. "When did you become so heartless? We save people here, Miguel. We don't let them suffer."

"I'm not heartless. I'm being realistic and the fact is that 9591 Peter isn't gonna live and his world will become uninhabitable. That is part of his canon, end of story."

"So my canon said to bring me here?" You asked, hands on your hips. Peter inched backwards from you because he could feel the rumblings of the volcano bubbling.

"Take me from my home and bring me here for what? To have another person go along with every decision you make? Newsflash, Miguel, that's not going to happen."

"Oh, really?" He laughed, sarcastically, and looked down at you from above.

"Yes, really. Maybe this canon bullshit is just that, bullshit. Maybe you made a mistake–"

"I didn't make a mistake," he defended loudly. "I am not letting other worlds get destroyed because of stupid decisions."

"So it's only a stupid decision when it's a reality that we both exist in?"

If Peter hadn't known any better this would have sounded like a fight between a married couple.

"That's not what I said," Miguel brought his hand to the bridge of his nose and squeezed. "We can't go around making those same mistakes. I am not putting any other lives in danger."

"But you did it when it benefitted you."

Miguel mumbled to himself up there. You couldn't hear. Peter took more steps back and Spider-Byte ducked behind her consul. Miguel's brown mop of hair slicked back with the motion of his hand.

"Well you would've liked that world too."

"I liked the one I was from."

God, some days he really disliked you.

At the same time, when Miguel looked down at you, he saw the wife he knew in a different capacity and it sent his mind spiraling. He didn't sleep, he barely took the time to care for himself because all he could think about was the dimensions of happiness that you both had and the one you've both found yourselves in now.

He hated that he loved the body of the woman he knew but couldn't fully trust the version of you that existed now.

"We're not going."

"Miguel,"

He lept from the platform and onto the level you stood on. Still as large as before, his shadow filled your space before he did and for some ungodly reason, the presence of this Miguel made your heart pump furiously as your husband had.

Miguel had that look in his eyes that made them appear red. Fist clenched at his sides and that same lingering sadness emitting from his person.

"Not another word."

He hated the challenge you took from him.

"Why is it ok that you took me from my dimension? To serve some sick purpose of remembering your wife?" You spat at him.

You were just like her... just a little more broken.

"I'm not her, Miguel."

"You think I don't know that?" His voice was nearly caught in his throat. "You think I don't know that you're not her? It's pretty goddamn obvious you're not her."

"Oh yeah?" Your voice was no different.

You hated when you fought with Miguel in your dimension and that didn't change in this one.

Peter thought he should look away.

"Well she's not here, is she?"

Miguel stared at you. He couldn't help the way his eyes moved over your face. He saw the same eyes, nose, and lips. You were his wife just as he was your husband.

"No," he said as a ghostly whisper, "she's not."

"And maybe I'm not like her but you're not like my Miguel either... so don't make this fall on me. I didn't ask to come here."

"You're here now," Miguel's voice was devoid of feeling. "So get used to the rules. We're not going."

And he stalked off with Peter following on his tail.

If you closed your eyes you could see fragments of Miguel. Now, however, this Miguel was beginning to eclipse those memories.

"Shit..." Spider-Byte snickered from behind her monitor. Her blue glow filling your vision as you looked at her. "I wouldn't take that, mama. I'd kick his ass."

Miguel wasn't there. He was off saving a dimension because canon was all that mattered and Jess was monitoring that other universes just as Gwen had said.

It was a relief.

So, you sat back and watched as Jess and Gwen flipped through the different footage from the dimensions that either lit up red for an anomaly or maintained green for a perfect balance.

Jess flipped through them quickly. Every world passing by your face within a second of seeing the light on the panel turn green. The few instances of red sent her pressing on a communication button before Gwen could complain that she wanted to go out and fight.

Gwen lingered on worlds. She looked at the images as though she wished to be a part of them.

She hesitated moving on from a boy in a black suit just a second too long.

"Gwen?" You asked her as her hand hovered over the button. She was intently looking at him as he moved about the fire escape.

"Gwen?" You reached out a hand to shake her shoulder. She bristled out of her spell and pressed the button before you could ask any questions.

It would be several months later that you'd learn that the boy was the source of it all.

Miles Morales had heard a million versions of the same story.

It all began with a name and that named person being bit by a radioactive spider that magically gave them powers and they used them to save the world, or fight street crime, or kill mice (in the case of that Spider-Cat he saw in the lobby).

They were all the friendly, neighborhood hero that the world needed.

Until the collider messed with their functions and required a society such as this to take on a much larger purpose.

And Miles was taken aback.

He had never felt so seen sans the moment he walked through the doors of the complex. Every turn he made, a new Spider-Person was uniquely fit into their world so different than his own.

Within the chamber of villains from other dimensions, he saw a Spider-Woman without a suit.

"So people like, live here?" Miles asked Gwen who shrugged.

"Some do. We can stay for as long as we like and then go back to our dimensions when we need to."

"And suits are optional?"

Hobie turned around and gave Miles as questionable gaze.

"A uniform is binding, man," he told Miles. "Use what makes you comfortable."

Gwen nearly galloped ahead to the Spider-Woman with a digital portfolio. Miles saw the way Gwen's eyes lit up just as they did when they saw each other again.

Hobie was the one to introduce you. Your named rolled off his tongue like butter–so casual and cool in a way Miles did not believe he ever could be.

"She lives here," He explained. "Can't really go back to her dimension so she does a lot of cataloguing. The main man doesn't want her out of missions... you know," Hobie spun his finger near his forehead, "little crazy that one."

"I'm not crazy, Hobie," you called out as Gwen pointed toward your group.

"No, you're right," he corrected himself. "He's the crazy one."

"That's more like it," you smiled and Miles felt a boyish crush form in his stomach. "Hi Miles. I've heard a lot about you."

You did. Gwen had been giddy in the way she reminisced about her time with Miles. Even Peter put in his two-cents about the way he trained him and it went incredibly poorly for the greater part of their journey together.

You missed a good chunk of time by not being present when they all converged on the same dimension. It may have saved you from yourself.

"Hi," he waved back nervously.

The party kept walking with your addition. Beyond the orange cells of villains captured and waiting to be returned home, a center of technology he could dream of appeared in front of him.

It was just a tour.

Lyla appeared beside you.

"Miguel's hangry," she complained as she looked at her non-existent nail-beds.

"He's probably just angry."

"No," she shook her bob, "it's the hangry kind. You should have the kid pick up something for him... a gift."

"Gift," you chuckled. Miles looked so green. He was amazed by the technology of the go-home-machine that you weren't sure how he would react when he reached the hub. Walking through all of the test technology before going to Miguel's station... he'd be on cloud nine.

"He'll be expecting the party soon."

"I'll stay behind."

You were certain Miguel would be able to hear this conversation but Lyla had a mind of her own–she was artificial after all.

"You should come with. Miles could use your perspectives."

"What perspectives?" This was the longest conversation you had ever held with her. "Oh, Miles," you mimicked, "don't beat criminals to a pulp... um, don't let your anger get the best of you... don't kill people.... yeah, good advice."

"I meant a motherly figure here."

"I'm not a mother, Lyla. Besides, he's got Jess for that."

Lyla glitched to the other side of you. "Jess hasn't taken to him like she did you and Gwen."

"He's got Peter."

"But he could use you too."

You gave a tight-lipped hum.

"Or," she countered, "maybe you need someone like him. It's always strange what effect kids have on adults... makes them... soft or something. You should see the videos of Miguel!" She laughed, you didn't.

"He liked to play soccer with her."

Her. In another dimension, you had a daughter.

"Why are you telling me this?" You asked her.

She waved her hand dissuasively. "Miguel's not going to, so I might as well."

The party began to make their exit. Down to the liar they went and as they walked, Lyla floated in the air beside you. Miles kept peaking back like a child on a holiday.

"Miles," you called out to him.

"Yes?" He turned around quickly and at attention. He was a cute kid. So nervous and out of his element. If it weren't for his merry misfit group of friends, Miguel was sure to eat him alive.

"Do you have a question or is there a reason you keep looking at me?"

He rubbed his hand on the back of his neck. Miles then pointed to Lyla.

"Is she a Spider-Person too?"

"No," you told him and Lyla glitched to him. "An A.I. that Miguel created. She knows all."

"She flatters me," Lyla murmured back a smile.

Miles turned back around and continued on with his conversation that bounced between Gwen and Hobie. Lyla disappeared from the hallway as the sounds of old, tinkered experiments and Miles' struggles painted a picture of a much different boy in your mind.

While his struggles were not yours and you'd never understand them completely, his want to belong struck a chord with you in a way it did with Gwen.

There was a family that could be built here if the realities of pain could be ignored.

Above on his floating platform, Miguel slowly descended as Miles gaped in a slight awe. Yes, it was dramatic. Yes, it was unnecessary and it made you roll your eyes.

Hobie stuck to the wall in the back. Gwen took Miles to the edge and you leaned up against a pillar not far from Hobie.

"Miguel O'Hara," Gwen introduced, "meet Miles Morales."

And then Miles butchered his introduction with cheer. He offered up those empanadas which Miguel slipped right into the trash.

And like Gwen, he fumbled his words by rambling about how to catch Spot.

Miguel threw the trash can at them both only for Hobie to sneak the empanada out of the box and into his hand without blinking.

And then everything spiraled out of control.

Miguel's meter began to spike an angry red as the frantic nature of his focus within this world had been protecting the multi-verse. Here, in this room, Miles was the supposed source of it.

If it wasn't for Miles, many of his problems wouldn't exist and he'd be grateful but he can't be, simply because they are truly real.

"Hey Miguel!" Peter's voice broke through the silent seconds. Miles perked up at the sound. "Come on, go easy on the kid. He had a terrible teacher. He had no chance."

"Peter!"

The two hugged like old friends.

"Miles!" Peter put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't be afraid of my friend Miguel. He just looks scary. He's got no bite."

He had seen it once. He chose to ignore it.

So he went on with his little break up of Miguel's serious moment and you watched unfold from the shadows, the orange glow of your tablet keeping you busy while Mayday swung around the room and Miles exasperatedly came to terms with Peter being a father.

"-You always say the 'fate of the multiverse' and my brain dies."

You chuckled to yourself, glancing up at Peter as he circled Miguel. Miguel was holding Mayday like he had never held a child in his life.

That was the kind of thing your Miguel did.

"You guys smell that?" Peter sniffed into the air. He swiftly picked up Mayday and swung right by Miles and Gwen and straight to you.

"You smell that right?" He held her up high. Yes, yes you did smell that.

"That is entirely your problem, Peter."

"Miles–" Miguel caught their attention again. "–You disrupted a canon event."

"Canon event?"

"The kid wasn't thinking," Peter interjected. He held onto Mayday as you strung a web for her to bounce on. Miguel was half torn between the conversation he tried to be stern about and the watching you weave a web for that little girl.

"That's not how he works."

"That's insulting," Miles commented.

Hobie got up from the floor to stand next to you. He caught Mayday in the air, saluting her with two fingers.

"Taking a crap on the establishment... I salute you."

"What are you upset about?" Miles furrowed his brows as Miguel stepped off the platform and walked towards him. The boy would be amiss if he hadn't felt his stomach drop to his feet in the menacing way Miguel O'Hara walked.

"When isn't he upset about something?" You murmured from the back.

"I saved those people."

Ah, yes. Pavitr's dimension. Miguel had been in the go-home-department when it happened.

"And that's the problem," Miguel clarified. "Lyla, do the thing."

As she always did, Lyla appeared with a semi-oblivious nature.

"Huh? What thing?"

"The thing... what do you mean 'what thing?' The information explaining thing!"

She gave a casual 'ok' and the room changed before you.

You had never seen everything before.

Jess had talked about it, Peter mentioned what it looked like, and a few others who had seen it claimed it left them more confused than anything.

It was a bright blue tree, in a sense. Woven with a variation of color that reminded you of the sea at mid-day and the sky at night, everything was a timeline of complete facts of the world. Every moment of every person's lives were tied to this one branch of 'everything.'

Expansive and high, the tree of everything bloomed over your heads and Miles was the one trying to come to terms with the sincerity of it. However, just as he had begun to grasp the idea of everything being resembled by a tree with branches that diverged from its timeline, the room changed to a red web.

Hundreds and hundreds of webs interconnected by lines that captured the very lives in that room. All of them facing convergence by multiple lifelines to different events, canons, and realities that make up a person's existence in the, as he had coined, the Spider-Verse.

"The lines... where the nodes converge?" Miles asked aloud.

"They are the canon."

Every web around him had different nodes. Some had more than others, some had barely any. He noticed a cluster of three big webs with few canon nodes.

"Their chapters apart of every Spider's story, every time. Some good, some bad... some very bad."

Miguel pulled down a cluster to showcase the very bad. You had a sinking feeling somewhere along the line the 'very bad' also included you.

A row of Spider-People emerged in the same position. He saw Peter, he saw Gwen, he recognized you, and then himself leaning over the body of a loved one who perished too soon.

Like a story, Miguel walked through varied canon events that were to occur in many Spider stories. A police captain, a lover, the event that turns someone into a hero, the struggles of the hero.

Miles looked at each of you as a fragment of your past appeared before him.

"That's how the story is supposed to go. Canon events are the connections that bind our lives together and those connections can be broken that why anomalies are so dangerous. Inspector Singh's death was a canon event."

A police captain.

"You weren't supposed to be there."

Even though you weren't there, you saw it unfold from the safety of Lyla's simulation. People running, a bridge nearly collapsing.

"And you weren't supposed to save him. That's why Gwen tried to stop you."

You could see the gears in his brain turning. He was hurt, misguided in his efforts to be a good Spider-Man because it was suddenly becoming a conflict for him. Miles tried to be good. He tried to save people and even doing so, he seemed to mess up.

It was so different from the Spider-Woman you used to be.

"I thought you were trying to save me," Miles admitted to Gwen who had turned her back from him. She kept her eyes to the ground.

"I was. I-I was doing both," she took a chance to gaze back at him only to see the hurt.

She was just doing her job.

"And now, Miles," Miguel sighed and he walked around the space. He planted his feet beside you and Miles took a glance and couldn't tell who was friend or foe.

He didn't know where he stood himself.

"Because you changed the story, Pavitr's dimension is unraveling. If we're lucky, we can stop it. We haven't always been lucky."

Miguel looked at you. He looked at you with a sheen in his eyes that you'd hadn't see from this version of him. For once, he looked as sad as he felt on the inside.

And for once, he wasn't fighting with you about what was right or wrong in that moment.

"That wasn't me!" Miles defended. "That was the Spot."

"It's what happens when you break canon."

"How do you know?"

"Because I broke it once myself."

There was a part of you that wanted out. You wanted out right that second because you had seen enough. You had seen the destruction, had been part of some destruction, and seeing Miguel's world crumble animatedly in front of you wasn't something you wanted. But your feet stuck to the floor. Planted, like mud, waiting to be freed.

It was your story too and you didn't even know what happened.

"I found another world where I had a family. Where I was happy."

In the web, the cluster of three was connected by one single strand to a much larger web with varied canon events. Whatever this was, Miles imagined, was Miguel's universe.

"At least a version of me was. And that version of myself was killed."

This time trying to catch a thief who stole a woman's purse. Not a bank robbery.

"So I replaced him. I thought it was harmless."

You looked away at the scenes. Miguel with her. A little brown haired girl who loved soccer and he did her homework at the kitchen table with her. A father who looked adoringly at a daughter who was joyous and knew no pain.

"But I was wrong."

Then the world began to collapse. In his arms, the girl disappeared as though she had never existed.

"Isn't that right, Peter?"

Your head shot up towards Peter who looked away from you. He had seen you before, in a different reality where you too were happy with the life you lived and where you were happy with a daughter who loved Miguel too.

"Peter?" You gave a weak call to him. He shut his eyes tightly. "Peter, you knew?"

Miles felt the way you felt. A shell of a hero without a purpose with people who made very choice feel like a mistake.

You walked up to Peter. Miles saw the white-knuckle grip you had on the pink robe. This was more than just friends making choices feel like a mistake.

"You knew me?"

Miles glanced back at the web. The three small webs that had little to them stuck out like a bouquet of flowers. Each their own small story.

“Whose is that?” Miles gestured as he tried to ignore the way you prodded at Peter for answers. Perhaps Miles already knew that Miguel had made this more complicated than it needed to be.

He had already destroyed one reality for happiness. Miles imagined that this man could ruin many more if it meant one more second of living.

“These ones?” Miguel pointed to the web of three.

You knew it was yours without even realizing it.

“That’s mine," you breathed in deep.

Even though you hadn't gotten along in this world, Miguel felt the weight of his secrecy fall heavily onto his shoulders.

“You see, Miles,” Miguel started, “there are infinite dimensions were we exist. All these webs here,” he pointed to the connecting lines that reappeared of many lives, “are realities were someone like you may exist. Maybe not as Spider-Man but as something.”

Miguel looked to you and for the first time since he met you in your reality, he saw the woman he fell in love with.

“And her dimensions look a bit different.”

“Why?” Miles questioned. “Why don’t ours look like that?”

“Because you can exist in infinite realities, Miles,” you told him in a voice that reminded him of his mother telling him a relative died. “And I can’t.”

“There is only three of her that exist in our… Spider-Verse, as you put it,” Miguel stated. “And one of them collapsed.”

In a hologram, he saw you in the world they had all just witnessed disappear from reality. Miles saw you running and running and he could see the destination, Miguel and that child, so close yet too far away.

And then there was nothing.

“Oh,” Miles felt sadness creep within him. Gwen wanted to comfort both you and Miles but couldn’t muster it in front of Miguel.

Peter wasn't sure what to do.

One strand of three disappeared.

“And in the other, she’s not here anymore.”

"What dimension is that?"

Miguel sighed. Hands on his hips, he met Miles' intense stare instead of yours.

"This one."

“So there is only me now,” you have a half-hearted smile.

“I thought you said you were the only Spider-Man in this dimension?” Miles asked Miguel as he tried to make sense of this world he found himself in.

“I am,” Miguel clarified. “She’s not from this dimension. Her… alternate self isn’t here anymore.”

He recalled the images of all the Peter’s and Gwen’s and Jessica’s mourning their canon disasters. Loved ones, friends, lovers.

The second strand of three disappeared.

“Does that mean if you…?”

You nodded your head at Miles. Peter put his hand on your shoulder at the admission.

Miguel focused on that hand. He saw the comfort, he saw the friendly love and knew he had wasted time. He had wasted months being angry at you when you weren’t the cause of it.

He had watched over your dimension to keep you safe while you struggled and in his own pain, he made the unity between you strained and unrealistic.

But he also knew the greater purpose.

“I guess I just have to pick the right side.”

You tried to bring levity.

You didn’t realize that you’d be picking Miles and your friends or Miguel and the person you knew because if you didn't you'd lose everything.

And you needed to save yourself in one dimension you still existed in.

Earth 42.

A/N: this isn’t proofed yet. I can totally see a million different sequels to dive deeper into the relationship between reader and Miguel.

As always, comments and reblogs are the best feedback a writer can ask for. I love reading any comments you all leave 🥺. Thank you so much for reading.

Tags:

@csmt-m @er4tous @gracielou0518

#miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o'hara #miguel o’hara x you #miguel o’hara imagine #fanficition #x reader #x fem reader #fanfic #x female reader #x female y/n #across the spiderverse #oscar isaac

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ao719 · 4 months

Text

What's Already Mine

A/N: This is a part of my Us Again series. Submission for @choicesflashfics using prompt #2. Not beta’d. Please excuse any errors.

Title Inspiration: Already Mine - Us The Duo

Book/Pairing: TRR; Liam x MC (Katherine)

Rating: G • Warnings: None.

Word count: 2500

Catch up here

Both my suit jacket and arm are draped over Katherine’s shoulders as we walk back towards the hotel from her old bar where I found her.

We’ve walked in silence for a few blocks and it’s deafening despite the bustling city around us. We’ve seemed to have only a silent understanding of the situation; neither of us has said a word.

My mind is too muddled to speak. I don’t know what to say because there’s so much to be said but nothing all at once. I don’t want to ask if she’s alright because obviously she isn’t. I don’t need to ask what’s wrong because I know. I know why she was there. I know why she broke down when she saw me.

Despite knowing, I don’t know what to say … and I hate myself for it.

I glance down at her when I hear a sniffle; she’s staring at the ground as she walks holding my jacket securely around herself. I watch her hand poke up from beneath the lapels to wipe a tear from her cheek and I feel my heart break a little more.

I want to tell her it’s ok, that it’ll be ok, that we’ll be ok. I want her to tell me the same. But I know that neither of us can say that right now with certainty.

So we continue to walk … in silence.

****

Once back at the hotel, Katherine and I step inside our suite. I shut the door behind me and start to follow her as she walks into the bedroom; now that my arm isn’t around her, I notice that she’s a little wobbly on her feet thanks to her slightly tipsy state. She didn’t have much to drink, only a couple of glasses of wine at the gala, and based on the tab I paid at the bar before leading her out, I’d surmise no more than two drinks there, but I know she’s barely eaten anything today which is doing her no favors and she’s always been a bit of a lightweight as it is.

When I enter the bedroom steps after Katherine, I see her draping my suit jacket on a chair. She then reaches back, attempting to grab the zipper of her gown, but she can’t quite reach it. When she becomes frustrated, evident by the small huffs of breath she keeps releasing, I step up behind her and gently cover my hand with hers. She goes completely still. After a moment, she glances over her shoulder; her eyes are rimmed red and still misty when she meets my gaze. I give a soft nod, and she slowly lowers her hand as she looks straight ahead again.

As I lower the zipper of her gown, I let my thumb graze her spine, and I swallow thickly. When was the last time I touched my wife like this? The last time that my fingers brushed against her bare skin? I think back … it’s been a year. We were in Ramsford for the Beaumont Bash and we both had a lot to drink that night. I vaguely remember stumbling into our room, my hands tugging at the fabric of her dress and her arms wrapping around my neck as I kicked the door shut. Before that night, it had been months since we’d last been intimate, and before that, even more months. When we woke the next morning, we showered and dressed without a word, and when we arrived back at the palace, she went to the east wing while I headed to my study. It was awkward in a way and treated like it never happened. I think that’s when the deteriorating state of our marriage started to slowly consume my thoughts.

Once her zipper is lowered enough, Katherine takes a step away and turns to face me, holding the front of her gown against her chest so it doesn’t fall. I slip my hands into my pockets to stop myself from reaching for her because I don’t know if that’s something I’m allowed to do anymore. We stare at one another, and my eyes are silently pleading with her. Talk to me. Please. Talk. To. Me. I can swear I see a similar plea in her own eyes. I open my mouth to speak but quickly snap it shut because I still have no idea what to say.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

“Of course,” I nod in reply. After staring at me almost expectantly, she lets out a soft breath and turns. “Katherine, I …”

She stops and looks back at me; I see a flicker of something … of what I think is hope mixed with desperation and worry. “Yeah …?”

I hold my breath and her gaze for a moment before shaking my head. “Nothing …”

Her breath subtly hitches in her throat as she drops my gaze and nods. When she disappears into the bathroom, I hang my head, squeezing my eyes shut in disappointment.

Disappointment with myself, where we are, and my inability to grasp how to fix it.

I begin to loosen my tie, but I freeze as my eyes shift to the bathroom door when I swear I hear a muffled cry from behind it.

Where did it go? The love I once knew? It’s lost in the dark The light can’t shine through Where did we go? I can’t see it now I’m fighting the night To find you somehow…

*******

My fingers are steepled over my lips as I stare out the window of my study. My mind is in the same place as it has been for the past week since returning home: my marriage. Hell, my mind was here before our trip, but now, it’s all I can think about morning, noon, and night.

Katherine and I have yet to speak about what happened in New York. The morning after finding her in the bar, we sat through a silent breakfast followed by a few appearances that were scheduled before heading to the airport for our flight home. On the jet, I almost said something but decided against trying to have that conversation 35,000 feet in the air with no escape if we needed one.

In hindsight … maybe that wouldn’t have been the worst idea.

Since we’ve returned home, things have gone back to exactly how they’ve been. I work through the day and go to the east wing for our nighttime routine with the children. But instead of leaving the moment they go to sleep to go back to my study or the west wing … I’ve lingered. I think she believes I’m just waiting to be sure the children are asleep before slipping out, not realizing I’m there for her. I’m trying to give myself the courage to bring it up, but I find an excuse every damn time. It’s not good timing. It’s late. The kids are there. Whatever my mind can conjure up, it does. My fight or flight has turned to strictly flight; I flee every time. And either she’s having the same thoughts and coming up with the same excuses to not bring it up herself … or she’s completely given up, which after what happened in New York, it’s plausible.

The bottom line is this: I know we’ve reached our limit. I know, one way or another, a very difficult conversation is eventually coming.

At this point, it’s inevitable … and it fucking terrifies me.

I’m so lost in thought that I don’t even register the knock on my study door. It’s not until I feel a shove against my arm and hear my name that I finally snap out of it and glance up to see Drake staring at me questioningly.

“I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head as I straighten in my chair. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“No shit,” Drake playfully scoffs. “I knocked a few times … called your name when I came inside, but you were zoned out.”

I release a breath and nod, rubbing my eyes with the pads of my fingers. “Yeah … sorry. It’s been a long week.” I blink a few times to focus my vision and when I do, I see Drake now sitting across from me. His arms are folded across his chest and his brow is arched. “What?”

“Seriously, Li … what’s been going on with you?”

“What do you mean?”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve caught you like this over the last few months. You seem like you have a lot more than just the stress of running a kingdom on your mind.”

I look away, unable to hold his gaze. Neither Katherine nor I have ever mentioned anything to our friends pertaining to the state of our marriage. We’ve put on the same show in front of them that we have in front of everyone else.

“Liam … talk to me.”

I look at my best friend again, trying to rein in the sadness I feel. If I can’t talk to Katherine, maybe talking to someone will help. I clasp my hands together and lean forward against my desk as I let out a heavy sigh.

And I end up breaking down as I tell him everything.

Drake listens without interruption, but he doesn’t hide the surprise in his expression. When I finish, I can see him still trying to process everything I’ve just told him.

“I never would have guessed … any of that,” Drake finally says.

“We’re good at hiding it,” I say. Too good. “It’s just … it’s become our norm. It’s like second nature now … putting on the front.”

“Why haven’t you guys ever said anything?”

I can hear the hint of hurt in his tone. “I don’t … I don’t know,” I reply truthfully. “I can’t speak for her, but for me … I guess it’s … I feel like I’ve already let her down … and the kids. I didn’t want to let my friends down, too.”

“Liam, you’re not letting any of us down.”

“I’m supposed to maintain this image of my life. Acknowledging that my marriage had completely fallen apart to myself was hard enough. Saying it out loud to someone else …” I shake my head.

“So what the hell are you going to do?” Drake asks. “I mean, you’re going to fix it, right?”

“I don’t know,” I scoff with a shrug. “I don’t know if it can be fixed.”

Drake’s brow furrows. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that …” I trail off, chewing the inside of my cheek, not wanting to say my next words, but they come anyway. “I’m saying that perhaps this is the end of our story.”

“What the fuck, Li?” Drake barks as he abruptly stands from his chair. The reaction startles me, and I look at him, unable to hide my surprise. “How could you even say that?”

“Do you think that’s what I want?” I snap. “Because it’s not! But I can’t force us to get back to where we once were!”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Drake chides, and when I open my mouth to retort, he leans forward, getting right in my face. “It’s bullshit. And. You. Know. It.” He stands upright. “To just accept defeat is not only the easy, coward’s way out, it’s not you!”

“Drake—”

“No, I don’t want to hear it,” Drake interrupts. “What you and Katherine have … it’s the fucking dream, Li. And I’m not talking about the literal fairytale crap,” he says, waving his hands dismissively. “I’m talking about the real shit. I watched you two; I had a front-row fucking seat. I watched your story unfold. I watched you both fight like hell to be together. And here you are now, a decade later, and you’re ready to wave the white flag because you two hit a rough patch that you won’t acknowledge to each other? Fuck. That.”

As I stare up at him, I feel a tear slip down my cheek … because I know he’s right. I clear my throat and snap my gaze toward the window, trying to fight back my emotions.

“I know you both, Li, and neither of you would keep putting yourself through this if you truly wanted to walk away. That’s gotta stand for something.”

My gaze shifts up to his again. “I don’t want to walk away,” I say through a cracked whisper.

“Then you fight.”

Where did it go? The passionate fire? We can’t find the flame And now we’re both tired What do we do When all we have left Is dying for life But on its last breath?

****

That evening, as I’m finishing up my work for the day and finalizing some plans I’ve set into motion, I hear a knock on my study door and call for them to enter. When I look up, Katherine steps inside. “Hi,” I greet her as I rise from my chair.

“Hello,” Katherine responds. She quietly closes the door behind her. “I’m sorry to bother—”

“You’re not bothering me,” I interrupt as I walk around my desk.

Katherine swallows, holding my gaze as she subtly nods. “I, uh … I was just trying to get things in order with my schedule for next week, but it’s … did you have it cleared?”

“I did,” I answer, and my heart is pounding in my chest as I watch the confusion fill her expression while I try to keep mine impassive.

“Why?”

“Because we’re going on a trip.”

Katherine’s brows raise. “We?”

“Yes,” I nod. “We … as in you and me.”

“A trip for what?”

“That’s still to be determined,” I say cryptically.

Katherine furrows her brow. “Is it a work-related thing?”

Even though I expected her to think that, it still hurts when she asks. “No,” I shake my head. “It’s not.”

“I’m confused …”

“About?”

“We … we haven’t gone on a trip that wasn’t duty-related in a long time,” Katherine says. “At least … not together.”

“I think it’s safe to say we’re a bit overdue,” I quip.

“But what about—”

“Eleanor and Lucas are going to have some quality time with their Uncle Drake,” I interrupt again, knowing what she’s wondering. “I spoke with him and made all of the arrangements already.”

Katherine lets out a sigh as she continues to stare at me. “I …” She trails off, shaking her head. “I don’t understand …”

My impassive wall drops and I sigh as I let the emotion I’ve been trying to conceal fill my features. “Katherine …” I speak just above a whisper. “You and I … we’re lost.”

I see her eyes slightly widen as she lets out a breath before she drops my gaze, but not before I see the pain fill her expression. It’s as if hearing me finally acknowledge the truth we’ve both known but have remained silent about out loud has gravely wounded her.

“We’re lost and we both know it. And we can’t keep running from it. We need to face it. We need to … to talk about it and figure out if we’re going to find ourselves again — find us again — or …” I trail off, struggling to say the next words out loud. “Or if we’re going to walk away from this … from each other … because we can’t keep living this way.”

When Katherine looks back up at me, tears trickle down her cheeks. She parts her lips to speak but stops as she lifts a hand and rests it against her throat to where I assume the lump is that’s stolen her voice. More tears fall and more confusion crosses her expression as she continues to hold my gaze.

“I cleared both of our schedules for the next two weeks,” I continue to explain, “and made arrangements for this trip … just for us.”

Katherine’s breath hitches. “Where … where are we going?”

“To the private island …”

I hear the soft breath of acknowledgment Katherine releases.

We can’t run there; we can’t hide or avoid each other. And she knows it. We’ll be left with no other choice but to face this … to face one another.

We stare at each other, and I’m certain the worry and fear of the unknown of what this trip will bring that I’m feeling is the same thing she’s feeling.

We both know we’re going into this completely broken. And we both know that we’re either going to come out pieced back together and on the mend to being whole again … or we’re going to come out irreparably shattered.

I can’t control you Or what your heart will decide But I’ll never stop Trying to fall back in love with what’s already mine…

***************************************

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writingquestionsanswered · 7 months

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Overuse of I/Me/My in First-Person

Anonymous asked: I'm writing a first-person POV story and am growing a bit tired of everything repeating "I raised MY sword" "I glanced down to MY right" etc… I'm annoyed by how much 'I', ''my', 'me' gets pushed into my sentences everytime I describe my MC doing something. I try to rearrange the sentences but it ends up the same "with MY sword raised, I will… blah blah blah." I feel like I overuse the POV stuff, but if I don't, everything muddles into confusion on whose stuff I'm talking about. Any help appreciated. Thank you!

(Ask edited for length...)

There are three things to consider when you feel like you're overusing I/me/my in first-person POV.

#1 - Pronouns and adjectives of possession (his/her/my/their/its) are just a part of telling stories. I think we tend to be more aware of first-person words than third-person words, if for no other reason than we're talking about ourselves when we use them in life. However, they're a necessary part of storytelling regardless of which POV you're using.

Consider this random paragraph from Outlander by Diana Gabaldon:

Drowsy as I was, I wanted nothing more than to curl up under a cozy bush and go back to sleep. There wasn't room for that, though, so I continued to stand, peering down the steep path in search of oncoming Druids. I was getting a crick in my back, and my feet ached, but it couldn't take long; the streak of light in the east had turned a pale pink, and I supposed it was less than an hour 'til dawn.

In this 82-word paragraph, the first-person pronoun "I" appears five times, and the adjective of possession "my" appears twice.

So, to some degree you have to really think about whether you're actually overusing these first-person words or whether you're just more aware/over-sensitive to their use.

#2 - You could be over describing your character's actions. When writing in first-person in particular, it can be tempting to describe every movement your character makes, resulting in a sort of "laundry list" of actions that requires a lot of I/me/my usage. For example:

I opened my eyes as my alarm went off. I hit the snooze button, but then I realized I needed to get up. I sat up and stretched my arms, then I swung my legs over the side of the bed and put my feet on the cold floor. I slid my feet into my slippers and stood myself up, and then I shuffled across the room to the bathroom. I opened the bathroom door...

I opened my eyes. I hit the snooze button. I realized I needed to get up. I sat up. I swung my legs over the side of the bed. I slid my feet into my slippers. I shuffled across the room. I opened the bathroom door. It's way too much detail. Your readers don't need a blow-by-blow of every second. It's sufficient to say:

I hit the snooze button through bleary eyes, quickly realizing I needed to get up. Sliding my feet into my slippers, I shuffled across the room to the bathroom for a quick shower.

See how much better that is? Your reader understands how to get out of bed, so you don't have to describe swinging your legs over the side of the bed unless that's important for some reason. Your reader can fill in the smaller movements between bigger ones, so it's not necessary to describe every small action.

Per your example, "I raised my sword" is a pretty necessary use of "I" if it's important that your character raised their sword. However, "I glanced to my right"

#3 - You're overusing filter words. Words like realized, knew, felt, saw, watched, heard, looked, glanced, remembered, decided, spotted, noticed, thought, noted... are called "filter" words because they come between the character's experience and the action unnecessarily, like a filter.

-- I realized it was getting dark out ... It was getting dark out -- I knew it was getting late ... It was getting late -- I felt the icy floor under my feet ... The floor was icy under my feet -- I saw the sun was starting to set ... The sun was starting to set -- I watched a bird land on the branch ... A bird landed on the branch -- I heard the wind rustling the leaves ... The wind rustled the leaves -- I looked and saw it was 4pm ... It was 4pm -- I glanced down and saw rocks below ... There were rocks below

You get the point. :) By eliminating filter words, you will eliminate a lot of the necessity for the use of I/me/my.

#4 - You're over-tagging dialogue. Even if your character is alone through much of the story, or even if they're only talking to themselves or one other character at a time, over-tagging dialogue can still be an issue. You can read my post Avoiding Repetition with Dialogue Tags to help with that. I hope that helps!

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autisticlancemcclain · 5 months

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“C’mere, squirt.”

The great pine forests of East Texas have been, for the most part, miraculously spared of Empire destruction. The American Southwest was largely destroyed, along with countless other hugely important geographic landmarks on Earth, but East Texas — and all the memory it holds — seems to have fared just fine.

They will rebuild, anyways.

His son straightens immediately at Keith’s gentle beckoning and toddles over, climbing on top of his bent knee. He smiles softly, placing a balancing hand on his back — his palm spans the entirety of the kid’s back, holy shit, he’s so tiny, how was Keith ever placed in charge of something so tiny — and uses the other to point at a brown smudge high up in a Loblolly. Cory squints. Out of the corner of his eye, Keith sees Lance press his hands to his face and muffle a scream. Goober.

“That’s a red-tailed hawk,” he murmurs. “That’s the bird you hear in movies.”

Cory hums in understanding, although he probably doesn’t. They don’t watch a lot of movies. Keith once read about how detrimental screens are for developing children in one of Shiro’s many parenting books, so they don’t watch a lot of T.V. (Back when Cory wasn’t even with them yet, and Keith was panicking nightly. Lance had to fish all their devices from the garbage. It was a time.)

“Caw,” says Cory sagely. Keith snorts.

“Yes, buddy. Caw. If you sit real still, the bird might even move.” He hears the echo of his father’s voice, decades old, in the back of his mind; a memory, frayed at the edges, of Keith in this very forest, held in the same way he’s holding his own son, listening his Pa quietly name all the birds and rocks and trees. Hanging on his every word, even though he didn’t get it all. The smell of the pine trees, the rumble of Pa’s low voice. He swallows the lump in his throat, brushing a kiss into Cory’s hair. “That’d be cool, huh?”

Cory babbles something Keith can’t understand. A sticky hand comes up to pat Keith on the cheek, making him smile despite the sting of his eyes. “Daddy, caw. Birdie! Caw.”

Keith turns his head to press a kiss to Cory’s palm. He giggles. Keith wiggles his eyebrows, blowing a raspberry, just to make him laugh harder. The pain in his chest begins to loosen, ever so slightly.

He catches Lance’s gaze over Cory’s head, and takes the time to memorize his dark eyes all over again. Lance lets him. He always does, even though it makes him blush and fidget, lets Keith trace his thumb along his lash line and study the flecks of Earth brown and ash black in his eyes, of sun gold and deep amber; he likes Keith’s attention on him as much as he refuses to admit it.

That’s Lance, though. Tries with every inch of him to be cool and mysterious and suave and can’t manage to save his life. His twitchy enthusiasm sparks in everything he touches, no matter how hard he tries.

When he started digging through Keith’s collection of atlases and running around the house with stacks of blankets and sleeping bags and camping supplies, Keith had said, “Planning something, sweetheart?” and Lance had stuck out his tongue and responded, “Blah blah, nosy.” But Shiro had texted him to let him know that Lance had asked for Keith’s old photos, and one day Keith caught him with a bulletin board and dozens of pins of pictures of pine trees and booking receipts and dorky sticky notes until Lance screeched and kicked him out.

Lance is bad at secrets. And he is a dorky and kind weeper who loves to do anything but mind his own business and muddle things up.

And Keith knew that all when he married him, and loved him for it then, too.

“Hey, mijo,” Lance suggests, “how would you like to sit on daddy’s shoulders so you can see the birdies better?”

Cory gasps, looking rapidly between his parents. He bounces excitedly in Keith’s lap, attempting his own cawing noises, pointing up at the nest.

Keith smiles wider, quickly swiping under his eyes before straightening. He shifts his hold on Cory and winks at his husband, who rolls his eyes in fond understanding, and then his tilts the boy back until he’s giggling, leaning in close until their noses are brushing.

“Munchkin,” he says, playfully nipping the tip of his nose, “you know how you can get even closer to the birds?”

Cory gasps. “How, Daddy, how?”

Lance chuckles. When Keith glances over at him, his smile is so wide it forces his eyes near shut. Keith’s chest aches, it aches so good, and the little Keith that lives in his chest holding himself tightly and swallowing past the perpetual lump in his throat is soothed and comforted and held lovingly. Something cracks and heals in his heart.

“Like this!” Keith shouts through all the emotions bubbling up all over him, and tosses his son in the air, careful not to go too high out of his reach.

Cory shrieks with laughter, tiny fingers scrabbling for purchase on Keith’s jacket on his way down. Keith hardly lets him settle before he’s tossing him up again, higher this time, laughter louder and squealing. The bird has long since flown away, disturbed by the sound, and probably every other animal within a thirty foot radius. But Keith can’t bring himself to care. The bugs can’t move far, and no doubt Cory will want to dig around for worms with his Papa like always. (Keith knows for a fact that Lance has three spades in his backpack and several see-through containers.)

For now, he has time to toss his son in the air. He has time to lean into the hand his husband slides into his back pocket. He has time to smell the pine trees, to think of his father, to feel the bounce of packed Earth under his feet.

To the tiny him that lives buried in his chest, he whispers, we made it, ace.

———

keith and cory in the forest

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nalyra-dreaming · 18 days

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you said to an anon yesterday that lestat would probably feel relieved that louis is with armand as it means that louis will be protected. what did you mean by that?:) how does armand protect him in the books and in the show as well?

i’ve only read iwtv so i only know that much really. i’m sorry if this makes it a silly question, i just don’t absorb books very well or show material as my brain gets muddled. also, this isn’t armand hate, i adore him:)

All good. :)

Armand is a very complicated character, and he often does things that he thinks are right, even though others may see it... differently. :)

Lestat goes to Armand to ask for blood in the book, but also tells him about Louis (and Claudia), in a desperate attempt to save their lives. Because he knows of the old rules, he knows Armand. When Armand falls for Louis there it means that he will not kill Louis. That is an aspect of that in (the) IWTV (book).

Later on there is a phase where Louis lives with Armand in New York, at Trinity Gate. It's after Lestat has let the "ever-multiplying" vampires drive him from NOLA... because he is loathe to kill them. Armand had roused him in his coma once to get rid of the riff raff, but later, after Merrick Lestat does not like going after them anymore:

This is from "Prince Lestat" (which Rolin has already stated to take from):

The mavericks multiplying everywhere were causing trouble for one another, and their gang fights and brawls have made life ugly for the rest of us. And they think nothing of trying to burn with re or decapitate any other blood drinker who gets in their way. It is chaos. But who am I to police these preternatural nincompoops? When have I ever been on the side of law and order? I’m supposed to be the rebellious one, l’enfant terrible. So I let them drive me away out of the cities, and even from New Orleans, I let them drive me away. My beloved Louis de Pointe du Lac left soon after, and from that time on lived in New York with Armand. Armand keeps the island of Manhattan safe for them—Louis, Armand, and two young blood drinkers, Benjamin and Sybelle, and whoever else joins them in their palatial digs on the Upper East Side. No surprises there. Armand has always been skilled at destroying those who offend him. He was after all for hundreds of years the coven master of the old Children of Satan in Paris, and he’d burn to ashes any blood drinker who didn’t obey the vicious old rules of those miserable religious fanatics. He’s autocratic, ruthless. Well, he can have that mission."

Armand protects Louis. Armand keeps New York "safe". I think we are looking at a mix of Merrick and PL era with the show's Dubai penthouse.

Armand protects Louis, even "from himself", too, as was stated rather plainly in season 1. It was also already said by Assad and the others (and I mean it's been clear now through the trailers and teasers) that Armand has at least influenced Louis' memories... probably to keep him from (fatally) painful ones. Armand is a big spell and mind gift user after all :)

I honestly think that all Armand has done/will be shown to have done to/with Louis was to protect him - in the way he saw fit.

That is how Armand, as a centuries old coven master operates - he deals with things as he sees fit.

Loving Louis... means Armand won't kill him. Will protect him, too.

Unfortunately (for Claudia, and others) it is as simple as that. Because Armand could not love her.

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evolutionsvoid · 1 month

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The Waniguchi is a rather visually striking species of amphibian that is found far east, dwelling within the many rivers and ponds. While some may assume it a kind of lizard at first glance, these creatures are actually large salamanders, bearing wide round heads and damp scaleless skin. What may cause this confusion are the numerous hardened bumps that dot their hide, perhaps giving the impression of scales. Some of these hardened circles grow to bigger sizes, providing a sort of crude armor for the salamander. Also running along its body are notable crests, believed to aid the males in winning over mates. While they are quite flashy, most people are drawn more to the head of the Waniguchi, which is said to have quite the signature shape and markings to it. The locals have likened it to a special bell that they have, due to its rounded flat appearance. Thus this species gained their name from that very bell!

When it comes to their daily lives, Waniguchi pretty much spend their time either sleeping or waiting. They lurk on the bottom of water bodies, typically hiding in burrows, under rocks or tucked into crevices. They feed upon fish, crustaceans, worms and bugs, or any small aquatic critter that swims too close. Their mouths open wide to suck in prey, and then a multitude of tiny sharp teeth to grab hold! Anything they catch, they swallow whole, and then they either go back to waiting for more food, or simply fall asleep to digest the day's catch. Not a complicated lifestyle, but there is certainly beauty in simplicity! And I am sure there are some folk that are envious of an easy life of just eating and sleeping!

While the Waniguchi is by no means an utterly bizarre or crazy creature, what is interesting to note is its place in local culture. I mentioned before that the people have named it after a bell of theirs, but that isn't where things ended. These calm, simple amphibians are seen as protective spirits or guardians, which appears to be a common theme with salamanders in this region. They are also said to be wise, and their mere presence can bring about blessings. Thus, Waniguchi have been taken in as pets and shrine animals, given a place to live within sacred pools and ponds. If you find yourself at any shrine that has an ornamental water body near it, you can be sure a Waniguchi lives within it! The caretakers of these places feed them and ensure their ponds are in perfect condition, as it is vital to keep the salamanders happy! It should be noted that it is decades of breeding these salamanders that has led to the domesticated breeds having such beautiful head patterns. I can't imagine the amount of work it took to get them to have such a similar look to the bells themselves! That being said, the wild ones do not have nearly as intricate of a design to them, being much more muddled, mottled and dull. Regardless, they are treated with the same level of respect, and it is illegal to harass them or harm them in any way. I should point out that this includes throwing coins and random crap into their ponds! There are special fountains and boxes to put coins and donations, you clods! If you chuck that stuff into their pools, there is a chance they may swallow them, get sick or even die! So read the signs, respect the rules and keep your garbage out of their homes! Do know that if I catch you breaking that rule, than I too will partake in reckless stupid behavior and toss you into the pool too!

Chlora Myron

Dryad Natural Historian

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"Waniguchi"

Not much to really say with this one, as I was not able to learn much about the Waniguchi yokai, but it was kind of funny that descriptions often called the bell shape "crocodilian" meanwhile the giant salamander is just sitting right there with the roundish flat head.

#waniguchi #yokai #monster #creature #amphibian #salamander #art #drawing

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writeshite · 2 years

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Death Shan't Do Us Apart

Summary:

You turned away, shrinking into yourself, “I just want to see my husband….” you lamented. You may think Steve neglects you, but Bucky sees it firsthand, the eerie way your husband watches you from a distance, the way he licks his lips when he catches a whiff of your scent. Yes, he pitied you, but he’d much rather you despise him that you fall prey to what was left of your husband.

Pairings:

Steve Rogers x Male!Reader

Tags:

Vampire!Steve | Human!Reader | Medieval AU | Soft Dark Steve Rogers

Words: 2725

Author's Note:

The gods gave me the power to write so I'm going to make it everyone's problem, plus vampire Steve is not a want, it's a need.

It’s lonely when you awake; the bedroom you once shared with your husband is only yours now; he’d surrendered his living household to you, keeping only the undead. The east hallway was repurposed, the curtains and drapes shut tight, and guards posted by the entrance express orders from the king - no living shall pass, not even the prince consort.

Any attempt to forgo these new rules was unsuccessful; the guards did not move when you arrived; they would bow their heads and apologize, “His majesty commands it, sire.”

Shadows often moved in the hallway when you were there; they reached out, then skirted back in the sunlight; sometimes, a figure would emerge in the distance, turned towards you, always watching. But then a servant would grab your arm, apologies to some unknown force spilling from their mouth as they directed you away, curses under their breath and prayers to long dead gods on their tongues.

The changes came when Steve returned from his skirmish near the gulf; he’d left you as your husband and returned as another - locked himself away and moved everything to isolate himself from you. No amount of bribery or threats would wheedle the information on the matter out of anyone; the soldiers he’d returned with looked haggard, almost terrified; some willingly welcomed the promise of death.

Steve himself was absent, he moved fast in public, a parasol above his head, and eyes turned away from your gaze; unlike before, he did not reach for your hand, and your interactions occurred through others. In the day, that is. Night brought out the old Steve, the one who would carry you to bed when you fell asleep in your study, kiss your forehead goodnight, and hold you all night. He still did it, but only when you slumbered. Once, you’d peeked open your eyes and looked up, gazing into a near-perfect replica of your husband - his eyes were icier, the sharpness of his face amplified, and from the gasp he elicited, you noted the far pointier edge of his teeth.

“Hush now,” he’d muttered. You’d gawked, brain still muddled with sleep, his deep voice lulled you back under, and you’d fought to stay awake. You held onto his tunic loosely as he set you underneath the covers; he held your cheek delicately, then placed a kiss on your neck. He breathed in deep, his hold still soft; as something pricked your skin, it drew only a droplet of blood, but Steve backed off at the sight of it. He had stared at it hungrily, then shook his head profusely, “Forgive me, dear heart.” You hadn’t the opportunity to ask for clarification, instead waking to the morning light with no husband in sight.

Nine people passed away the next day, and Steve held off his midnight visits for a week. The morning bells rang through your thoughts, and your breakfast lay waiting on the open balcony, in full view of Steve’s new study. He watched you every morning, stood by the windows, obscured by the opaque drapes; he would remain until you finished, then Bucky would accompany you throughout the day, “For your safety, sire,” he’s said, never clarifying what you’d need protection from.

“I want to see my husband,” you demanded.

Bucky shook his head, “I can’t allow that,” he didn’t turn to face you; his hands remained clasped behind his back.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“You’re not wearing the ring,” he redirects the conversation, the ring in question being Steve’s apology gift - one of many - after nearly a year with him at arm’s length, you’d grown tired. “He won’t be happy about that.”

“Maybe then he’d be so kind to grace me with his presence,” you grumbled.

Bucky tutted you, “You shouldn’t say such things of your king,” he lectured, “any other monarch would have you flogged for such insult.”

“Any other monarch would do me the decency of neglect upfront,” you sniped.

“You know why he keeps his distance,” Bucky reprimanded you. “His condition amplifies everything; it’s best you remain far until he gains some semblance of control.” When you did not back down from your anger, Bucky tutted, “Would you prefer then if he drained you dry as the baron did his first wife? Or perhaps you’d like your flesh torn from your skin as mine was by your lover’s hands?”

He wrenched the glove from his metallic arm, “You may not like it, dear prince, but he is no longer your Steve, he is a creature of the night, and his hunger may just well outweigh any love he holds for you,” he spoke harshly.

You turned away, shrinking into yourself, “I just want to see my husband….” you lamented.

Bucky stepped back, a hint of guilt in his expression; when Steve had reassigned him as your guard, he’d made it clear your safety was of great importance - and if it meant scaring you away from him, then so be it. “It’s cruel,” Steve had said - peering through the curtains to watch you dine.

“It’s necessary.”

He pitied you, but you weren’t there. You hadn’t been there at the gulf; you hadn’t seen Steve hold his neck as blood trailed down his skin, deep red turning into an obsidian hue, back hunching over as bones cracked and teeth grew. You hadn’t watched as Steve cut through men, both enemies, and friends, with such ferocity. Steve had stood in the blood, mouthfuls of human flesh disappearing down his throat as his fingers grew to become claws. You were spared the inhuman cruelty that Steve now possessed, the thirst for blood, and the unparalleled slaughter. You may think Steve neglects you, but Bucky sees it firsthand, the eerie way your husband watches you from a distance, the way he licks his lips when he catches a whiff of your scent. Yes, he pitied you, but he’d much rather you despise him that you fall prey to what was left of your husband.

Steve didn’t plan to become a vampire; then again, no one really ever intends to die, much less become one of the undead.

He’d heard how uncaring vampiric masters tended to be, and he could understand why humans were fragile, annoying little creatures, yet here he was isolating himself from one to keep them safe. Emotion was a stranger to him now, where before he would be angry, now he would be furious before he was in love with you, now he was obsessed.

Bucky greatly disapproved of his visits, but what could he do? Steve never went too far; he held you at most, stroking your hair as his eyes remained fixed on the pulse along your neck - once he’d pricked your skin with his finger, you’d been swimming in the haze of sleep, as his head swam with hunger. There were minute differences to the smell of blood, the stable boy he’d eaten smelt young, a touch of something meadowy in his fragrance, while the old guardsman he’d drank from last week was stale and tasted of age. On the other hand, you were sweet, sweet like the nectar in blood offerings; he’d almost leaned in to taste but then drew back just as quickly, shaking his head to dispel the craving.

“Forgive me, dear heart.”

You’d made a sound of confusion before dozing off again. Steve had withheld the urge long enough to make his way down to the village - nine people is how many it took before he’d quenched himself - Bucky hadn’t looked him in the eye for a week after, and he’d kept his distance from you just as long.

“He misses you,” Natasha voiced. She often lounged in his study, never far from the doors, blessed silver blade in reach, “Refused to wear the ring.” She constantly prodded at the edge of his sanity, little comments about you and your day, what she’d heard of you from Bucky or Sam. The ring had been a precaution, crafted in silver and blessed by the priestess herself, a ward to deter him should he seek you out in a state of hunger.

“It’s to be expected, rebellion often sparks in times of uncertainty, but he will adjust in time,” Steve responded.

Natasha huffed, “You say that, but forget how willful the prince consort is,” she chuckled, “perhaps in time, he will take on a lover,” she jokingly muses.

Steve snaps the pen in his hand, the ink bursting on his hand; Natasha merely laughs, her objective of the day complete, “I did not relieve you of your duties to the regiment so you could taunt me with lies,” he hisses, dabbing away at the ink.

“They are not lies, merely half-truths; your husband is lonely, majesty,” she says, “either he will find company in another or wither away in his sorrow.”

“Any company he might find will die at my hand,” he sneers, “HE IS MINE!”

“Says you, but the nobility have begun to scheme; there are those who would love nothing more than a night between the prince consort’s —” she ducks away, words cut off when Steve’s chair flies at her. His pupils shrink, akin to a cat’s, as he seethes at her, her face may hold steady, but she can feel the slight tremble in her limbs and the rabbit jump of her near-dead heart. “Apologies, my king,” she bows, head on the floor, arms held out front, “I meant no disrespect; I serve only to inform.”

Steve says nothing, his steps rush past her, and a grunt of something passes his lips before the door opens. Natasha raises her head, a sigh of relief; Sam leans by the door, shaking his head at her, “When you said you had a death wish, I thought you were joking.”

“You heard?”

“Who didn’t? We’re all undead here,” he holds out his hand, but she brushes it aside, “using the prince consort to anger him; that’s pretty risky, even for you.”

Sam was one of the lucky ones; he’d died peacefully but came back accidentally; the gods hadn’t been ready to release him from their hold. He didn’t understand the loose grip on humanity that she and many others had, she teetered on the edge of life and death; even for a creature of the night, Steve was unbelievably heartless. The only sliver of humanity he had left was with you; as callous as it may be, “He still cares for his husband, in his own twisted way, I can use that, keep myself in high regard, keep him from going too far.”

“And if he drains the prince consort dry? Will you remain to have your head taken from your shoulders alongside us?” Sam asked.

Natasha turned away; she attempted to mimic shame but couldn’t; Sam didn’t get it; he was lucky, “Steve won’t touch you, he can’t, you hold his husband’s favor, you’re immune to his anger.”

Sam scoffed, “As long as he lives, yes, but if your plans get him killed, then no one is safe.”

Steve all but ran from his study; the afternoon sun did not bare down on him as the morning did, so he passed into the living wings with some ease. The guards stiffed when he passed by, fear pouring from their veins as their armor shook with their tremors; he finds you in the veranda, cakes half-eaten and easel set to the side, you’re sat with your back to the entrance and crown set to the side. He grimaces at the absence of your ring; the others around you all recoil at the sight of him, stepping away when he nears.

He places his hands atop your seat and tilts his head at the door - the servants scramble over themselves to leave, and your personal guards waste no time in following. You glance around at the commotion, eyes widening when you catch sight of him, “Steve….” Disbelief laces your voice, and you stand slowly, hand outstretched to touch him. His face is twisted in slight discomfort at the shine of the afternoon sun, but he remains where he stands.

You don’t look sick, but Steve doesn’t appreciate the bags under your eyes or the tear stains on your cheeks. “What upsets you, my love?”

“You.”

“Me? How so? I have given you more than a king ever should their consort,” he says, slightly irritated.

“And I am grateful,” you reply, “but you do not give me your company anymore; I miss my king.” You withdraw from him, arms around yourself once more, “I miss you, Steve.”

“I miss you as well, dear heart, but I’m afraid my company would do you harm. Even now,” he moves fast, and you gasp when he appears behind you. His hand comes up to your throat; a gentle pressure applied as he tilts your neck to the side, “I crave your blood unlike any other; I fear my hunger would consume me should I remain so close.”

He would like to move away, but it’s been so long since he’s had you all to himself. His nose grazes your vein; his face has already begun to shift - the curve of his ears point out more as the edge of his teeth grows; he holds your face away from him as he hides away in your neck. “Would you still wish for my company after inflicting such pain upon you?”

Your breath hitched; Steve smiled at the increase in your heartbeat; he turned your head, his nose against yours, “I….” you hesitate, taking in the monstrous appearance of your lover; you are unsure how best to put your thoughts into words, so opt instead to move forward, slotting your lips against his. His fangs scratch against your mouth, your blood drips into his mouth, and Steve is consumed by the want, hands gripping you as you cling to him desperately. He chases after the droplets of blood, only drawing back when he remembers your need for oxygen - you are flushed, eyes dazed, and mouth swollen; Steve missed seeing you this way.

“Perhaps I’ve been too harsh with my choices, shutting myself away from a source of something so sweet,” he mulls to himself, pecking your lips after each word. No other human had quenched his thirst so fervently.

The doors to the veranda burst open then, as Bucky and Sam rush through, Natasha trails in after them, a handful of guards by her side. They still at the sight of you in Steve’s arms, cautiously glancing at Steve as they attempt to coax you away from him. You look between them, mind still numb from the kiss; when Bucky reaches out for you, Steve hisses, tucking you away from them, “Steve, you know better,” Bucky attempts, but Steve laughs.

His laugh isn’t the warm, soothing thing it once was; it’s near deranged, cruel, “Know better? You’re the one who should know better, demanding things from your king,” his attitude changes, jovial mood shifting to disdain, “I should have you skinned alive, flesh stirred for my evening stew for your attempt at separating me from my husband.”

His grip on you has grown painful, and you whimper at it, drawing his attention back to you, “Oh forgive me, dear heart,” his grip loosens, “I forget how easy you break.” He coos apologetically, “Sam will take you away from here while I sort this out.”

You shake your head, “Please….” your eyebrows knitted in despair, “don’t kill them.”

Steve tilts his head at your request, “Oh my sweet prince, I must set an example,” he says, and you repeat the words, tears at the corner of your eyes. “Oh no, dear heart, no more tears; I dislike it when you weep.”

He wipes away your tears, “Very well, let us compromise, hmm,” he smiles, “you may take half that may live, and the rest may die. Now, now darling, it’s far fairer than what I’d intended,” he cuts you off before you can argue. His smile is strained, and his gaze is stern; you feel the implication of his grip on you and nod; once you’ve picked your half, Steve shoos you and them away from the veranda. The doors close, and you shiver at the screams that emerge after the doors close.

“I told you,” Bucky voiced, “He is no longer your Steve.”

End Note:

Again, soft dark Steve Rogers as a vampire is not a want, it's a need. Stay Hydrated.

#steve rogers x male!reader #steve rogers x reader #marvel imagine #vampire!steve rogers #the gods gave me the ability to write so i'm making it everyone's problem #Soft Dark Steve Rogers

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telomeke · 4 months

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THE SIGN EPISODE 4 – MUCHNESS IN THE MIX (BUT THE NAGA AND GARUDA STILL PEEK THROUGH THE MUDDLE)

This episode of The Sign somehow managed to be a LOT and yet not quite enough (for me) at the same time.

After the languid pacing of Ep.3, set in far-off, semi-rural Nong Khai and punctuated only sporadically with moments of drama and foreboding, Ep.4 took a jarring tonal leap back into the darker, sleeker world of modern Bangkok as the boys got stuck into their day jobs as newbie investigators for a mysterious crime involving rape, abduction, torture, murder and media manipulation. 👀

Maybe it's just me, but the show is starting to show signs of having bitten off more than it can chew – with aspirations to being a fantasy, a procedural crime drama, a supernatural thriller, a comedy and a love story. Is it some of the above? All of it? At the same time? It's early days, but there are hints it may be going down the same meandering path trod by KinnPorsche, flailing in several directions on a whim. (At least KinnPorsche flailed with style, but I'm not sure The Sign has quite the luxury of a Romsaithong budget to ladle on the bucketloads of sugary gloss needed to make a ramshackle raft of uncohesive elements at least superficially appealing to the palate, if not exactly good for your soul.)

Don't get me wrong though. I think there is a place for the mixing and even blending of genres in media, and there is a long history of this in the Asian cinematic universe (what's coming to mind are Bollywood/Kollywood films in which a mafia tale can also be a love story and musical for example – echoes of KinnPorsche here, though most of KP's musical bits were tacked on in the after-concerts – and also Hong Kong movies of decades past where a martial arts movie could also be a slapstick comedy and nobody would bat an eyelid).

A culinary metaphor might be the easiest (laziest) way of making my point: the mile-long ingredient list and complex spicing of a curry may seem like you're inviting nothing but clashing and competition in the claypot, but careful dosing can stew them up into a sumptuous, unified result. And the myriad of ingredients in East and Southeast Asian noodle soups and flash stir-fries not only foreground contrasting textures and flavors in a single dish but actually celebrate them. Both approaches assert that artful assemblage and the right dosage can bring together disparate components (that might seem uneasy companions in their raw and uncombined state) to finish up with a whole that is greater than the sum of its parts.

I'm no media expert (necessary caveat inserted here) but I think The Sign needs quite a lot more finessing with all that it's taken on, and getting the proportions, mixing and balance correct will be the tricky bit given the wildly contrasting ingredients they've already added to the pot. I'm not convinced KinnPorsche got it right and I have concerns The Sign may slide down that slope too (if Ep.4 is anything to go by).

Even the acting is starting to betray the fact that Kruu A's assured directorial hand, so evident in the first three episodes, is possibly losing its grip on all the disparate threads and themes. (It's not too late for him to pull it back though, so I think the next two episodes or so will be critical to see if The Sign can live up to the promise of its first three episodes.)

I think this loss of control is especially noticeable in Billy's acting for Ep.4 – his thespian chops had been confident and dependable enough in Episodes 1 to 3 (even during the high tension fight scenes and especially during the quieter emotional interludes with Babe). But in Ep.4 he crossed the line repeatedly and was visibly overacting in almost every take. I'm guessing they needed to amp up the energy level of his portrayal since Phaya is supposed to be a hot-headed garuda after all. But I think the actorly resources currently at Billy's disposal don't quite allow him to pull off the bigger emotions and scenes with authenticity, not just yet anyway. (Babe showed characteristic restraint throughout though, and I thought he consistently did a good job.)

Unfortunately Billy wasn't the only one falling short in the acting department; the extras and bit players were also allowed to ham it up no end (yes, I'm sorry for the kid who was sexually assaulted, but the hysteria on display was jarringly and completely inauthentic, and drew more mockery to the predicament rather than sympathy, which is such a shame). 🤷‍♂️

Special mention also for the OTT expressions of the investigative group during each team meeting – they all appeared to be reacting exactly in unison to every turn of events, whether it was exaggerated focus on new findings, flinching in collective disappointment whenever their leads were thwarted, or looking around suspiciously and suddenly when it was suggested the murderer might be one in their midst. It looked far too much like a group of actors responding to instructions from outside in, rather than a team of individuals reacting from inside out, each with their own agency but choosing to align themselves as one. And this should have been weeded out by the director, since we know this team was largely able to deliver on the acting front in the first three episodes.

I stand with Inspector Akk whose confused expression in most of the group scenes seemed to be saying "What the hell is going on here?" 🤣

(above) "Inspector" Akk Akarat Nimitchai: "What is going on? Why am I here? Why did I listen to my agent? I am an Actor!"

Although this is probably just The Sign telling us that Akk knows more than he's letting on, and the newbies he's assigned are doing a far better job than he thought they would (and which is maybe not the desired outcome?). 🤔

Anyway the writers dialled back somewhat on the naga/garuda mythology in Episode 4 to shine more light on the NCIS-style criminal investigation, and this isn't doing The Sign any favors because the mythological themes roiling beneath the surface were what set this series apart in the first place and made it such a fascinating watch.

We still got to see some of it though. Whenever the naga and garuda's inner energies are especially stoked, the lighting often plays along (e.g., the brightly sparkling lights that accompany garuda Phaya charging up his batteries at Ep.1 [4/4] 14.20 and Ep.3 [2/4] 19.07, PhayaTharn's toilet encounter at Ep.2 [4/4] 9.12, the Mekong rescue at Ep.3 [2/4] 19.18, and Tharn's erotic dream of him and Phaya having shower sex at Ep.4 [2/4] 5.52). When it's fiery garuda Phaya and watery naga Tharn experiencing this together, the lighting dances between warm tones (suggesting the flames of the garuda) and cooler blues (suggesting the watery world of the naga).

I think that's why they made such a big deal with the blue and red lighting in this scene:

Phaya and Tharn have just survived an encounter with an armed and possibly insane killer. The flashing lights (blue for the marine naga, red for the fiery garuda) quite literally signal them recouping their respective beast energies after their near-death experience. (I also like that in the screenshot above, the light on Phaya is blue while the light on Tharn is red – each seems to be reflecting what the other is giving off. 👍)

There are also a few other examples of the naga and garuda dynamics in Episode 4, if we look a bit more closely.

Naga Tharn really had to fight to overcome his aversion to the flames in the abandoned mental facility (the Molotov cocktail is also I think a callback to the naga fireballs of the previous episode); garuda Phaya on the other hand breached the fire without a second thought.

But in hand-to-hand combat with the masked Molotov man (an agent of the malevolent naga out to get him and Tharn I suppose) Phaya is swiftly overcome – take a look at where they're fighting though (at Ep.4 [3‌/4] 12.25); it's a forest clearing right at the water's edge (with water being the nagas' stronghold, while it seems to weaken garuda Phaya's abilities).

When Phaya insists he and Tharn have dinner, it's at a hot-pot place (a culinary experience of both fire and boiling water at the table, another metaphor for the coming together of the naga and garuda). And the red and blue lighting of the restaurant also pays homage to the mythological pairing:

‌

When Tharn is cooking breakfast for him and Phaya, it seems the sizzling on the stove is all it takes to remind him of his sex dream with hot-as-fire Phaya (although that is likely an induction hob though, not an open flame 🤣):

‌

And when offered the breakfast, Phaya lets us know in no uncertain terms he prefers the more liquid option (just as his garuda self has chosen a waterworld naga):

‌

OK so on to the most direct reference yet to the fantasy world-building in Episode 4 of The Sign – the visitation from the mysterious old woman spouting warnings and exhortations to Tharn and Phaya:

Her serpent bracelet and subsequent physical transformation show that she is most likely a nagini from Tharn's past life, come to warn the pair that the vengeful naga whom Tharn betrayed previously (see Heng Asavarid's interview spoiler here) is nearby and out to get them (remembering also that at least some of the nagas have the power to shapeshift).

My guess is her golden eyes and general coloration at Ep.4 [1‌/4] 15.40 are signaling that she's Wanwisa, Tharn's sister in his previous life as a naga:

‌

Going off-tangent just a little, the mysterious gran/golden dragon lady is another example of a wise and mysterious elder popping into a Thai drama to dispense life-saving wisdom.

Not sure if it's enough to be a trope, but The Sign's psychic gran calls to mind a couple of other almost deus-ex-machina plot-helpers:

the loong with the time-portal crystal ball in Be My Favorite; and

the wise monk at the end of Nang Nak (the Sine Inthira version).

There are surely others (but I just can't recall them at the moment). I also can't help but think Uncle Tong in Bad Buddy fits this mold as well, because his wise, unworldly advice helped PatPran re-think and re-chart their lives (except that Director Aof had the good sense not to spring this sage and magical loong on us at the very last minute, and introduced him to us earlier in BBS Ep.6).

Anyway, on to Ep.5 of The Sign. I can't wait to see what's in store, and hope they can get the series back on track! 💖

‌

#the sign #the sign the series #the sign episode 4 #naga and garuda #billy patchanon #babe tanatat #phayatharn #billybabe

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mariacallous · 5 months

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The choice facing the West is not between war and compromise but between defeat and victory. The trajectory the West is on—maintaining current levels of support or perhaps scaling them back while pushing for negotiations—raises the chances of defeat. Putin is banking on this: At the heart of his theory of victory lies his conviction that Russia’s staying power in the war is greater than the West’s (and, by extension, Ukraine’s). Unlike the West’s muddled hope for compromise, Putin’s strategy has a clear logic. At the current crossroads, Ukraine’s Western supporters should ask themselves: What are the costs of a step change to enable Ukraine’s victory relative to the costs of maintaining the status quo or scaling back support leading to Ukraine’s defeat? Such a defeat, to be clear, would not be limited to Ukraine. A victorious Russia would not limit itself to occupying the five annexed regions and, through them, politically influencing or controlling Kyiv. While some may think that a militarily and economically degraded Russia no longer poses an existential threat to Poland or the Baltic states, a victorious Russia would certainly pose such threat to Moldova. No one can know what could happen next—or after a vindicated Russia rearms. No reasonable European country can afford to take that bet, and no reasonable U.S. administration should take that bet either. Of course, ensuring Ukraine’s victory comes with costs, too. The economic cost of sustaining Ukraine to victory—involving not only weapons but also many other forms of aid—is significant, especially in the context of other challenges faced by the West in the Middle East and elsewhere. A victorious Ukraine emerging from years of war would pose significant challenges, and its integration in Euro-Atlantic structures would not be smooth. But surely the West would much rather deal with these problems than the much more existential ones that would result from Ukraine’s defeat.

The West’s False Choice in Ukraine

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jewishbarbies · 25 days

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Hey, so.. slightly embarrassed to be asking this but google isn't really clear and I'm genuinely too afraid to ask about it openly; I don't know what the word zionism means, from context I can tell it's bad but I feel really stupid for not understanding it. Would you be able to explain it in simple terms? Again really sorry for asking but I see you talk about Jewish stuff in a lot of detail and I hope you'd know I'm asking from a genuine place, not to be rude in any way.

no worries!

the root of the word is actually not bad at all. zionism in it’s simplest and purest form is just the belief that jewish people have the right to self determination in their place of origin. so, basically jews have a right to live in the land they’re indigenous to (judea). there’s different kinds of zionism just like there’s denominations of religions or political parties and it muddles the waters. christian zionists, for example, are non jews who want all jews to return to the land so that jesus can come back and give the land to christians after punishing the sinful jews. they’re in american politics, run the super pacs, and lead most evangelical churches.

most people in modern times mistake regular zionism for christian zionism, but a lot of non jews simply don’t want jews to live in the Middle East due to a disbelief in our indigenous claim to the land, and equate wanting us to live there with wiping out anyone living there with us. however, most jewish zionists believe in a 2 state solution (israel exists as a country but so does palestine, working together to co exist in the region) and so do the majority of palestinians in gaza, according to recent polling (as recent as last year, pre Oct 7th).

whether someone identifies themselves as zionist or not is very personal and complicated for most jews in our community and labeling random people zionists on a whim is irresponsible and does more harm than good, so I would definitely say be careful when you see someone dolling out the word like it’s candy.

hope this is easy to understand! if you have more questions feel free to ask and I’ll do my best to answer or direct you to someone who can.

#Asks #anonymoose

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whorinsmokenshield · 4 days

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To the Stone

Summary: Azog the Defiler lays dead by Thorin's hand. Erebor has been reclaimed. Thorin is king, his kin avenged, his sister-sons live to tell their mother the tale.

He should feel complete. He should feel fulfilled. But there is but one more regret he has to untangle, one more shame he must face. For that, he must find Bilbo Baggins, and he must apologize.

He finds Bilbo on the battlefield. Rating: Mature

Warning: MCD (I wrote this as part one of two in a series. Ao3 upload here.)

~~~~

A mist hovered in the sky over Ravenhill. It was scared to come down and meet the carnage beneath. Thus, it left the battlefield clear enough to see what wrath and greed had wrought. Only the cold wind wasn't afraid to meet the dead, and it settled amongst them like lifelong friends. Death and the cold were like brothers, in a way. Born together, one after the other.

Thorin Oakenshield stood alone. His black hair lay limp, matted with blood and grease. The icy breeze was scratching at his eyes. His breath collected in the air with warm fog; it was the only warm thing, as Thorin was very cold himself.

In the distance were voices, muddled and echoey. They called for names, and for survivors. Thorin ought to call back and count himself as one of the living, but couldn't verily remember how.

Blood dripped from the point of his blade. Orcrist had more life in it than its wielder. The blood was cool, slow, but as it trickled down it seemed to sizzle on the ice. Thorin inhaled deeply, deeper than his ribs could tolerate, so that when he released it he made a storm cloud that whispered into the wind.

He dropped his sword to the ground then, and the clatter it made was a hammer on a piece of cold steel. It rang through the valley.

Thorin woke up.

At his feet the corpse of the Pale Orc lay steaming, and it was not a dream. It was his foul blood that warmed the ice below and soiled the gleam of Orcrist. A wound the size of Thorin’s fist was punched through the beast’s sternum where the king had run him through. He remembered the wide eyes when the orc’s liver was punctured, his stomach sundered, the muscles and bone of his back forced to part for elvish steel. Blood and bile in equal parts gushed from the opening, eager to escape the fiend they’d been cursed to feed.

Azog the Defiler, scourge of the line of Durin, lay dead by Thorin’s hand. The spirits of his grandfather, his brother, and each of the honorable dwarves who had given their lives at Moria were laid to rest, and the absence of their ghosts left empty, hollow air in their wake.

Thorin thought of his life. Of everything he’d ever done. Every wrong he’d ever committed, every shame he’d ever faced, every punishment incurred. It all culminated in this, this victory in which he should’ve felt the most complete.

Azog was dead. The firedrake Smaug was dead and rotting. His kin had been avenged, his home reclaimed. He would be king. He had everything. Thorin had everything he’d ever wanted. Every imperfection in his life had been hammered out, every furrow flattened.

Yet Thorin’s heart sat in his chest like a stone. He could feel its weight, and how every throb pushed against the cracks of his ribs. There was but one thing left. One more regret. One more shame.

The king moved his feet. The steel caps scraped on the surface of the ice, and he felt his full weight in each step. He grabbed his sword, sheathed it, and abandoned the carcass to the flies.

Thorin was no stranger to wandering. He’d done it all his life. Wandering in the cold wasn’t new to him either. How it tried to burrow into his legs like worms, bringing pain to his knees and his back. It was familiar. So, it was ignorable. Thorin ignored it for the sake of something more important.

He crossed the battlefield to the east, the direction from which the calls came. Bilbo would be back at camp, getting warm and feeling nervous for the company. Wondering after their fates. Wondering after Thorin’s most certainly. Camp would be in the direction that the people were coming from. It made the most sense.

The orc filth died like roaches, crushed and guts spilled, black blood sullying the snow. Bodies lay scattered over the field. Each one different, each one dead. Each one dead differently. There were plenty of decapitations. Missing and ripped-off limbs. Hands just a few feet away from the arms they were once attached to. Men, dwarves and elves also lay dead, here and there.

Thorin’s eyes couldn’t stay on only one corpse for long. They skated over the battlefield terrified, in a subtle way, that one of the faces they found would be one that he knew intimately. One of the beards would be one that he’d seen combed in the mornings before they packed up for the road. He recognized none so far, but there were more dwarves among the dead than men or elves.

He saw another man’s corpse and thought to glance over it, but came back as he noticed the stature.

The body was small, too small, and its bronze hair haloed its head on the rocks like a ring broken off a piece of rusted chainmail. Its feet were bare. No shoes large enough to fit it.

Thorin approached. He hit the snow on his knees. The cold seeped up into him, seeking its brother.

It was Bilbo. Bilbo laid there. He wasn’t shivering like he ought to be.

“Master Baggins?” Thorin heard himself say. He didn’t feel as his lips formed to make the words.

Bilbo looked to be asleep, a rock for a pillow. Some blood dripped down his forehead, and Thorin knew his hobbit would be complaining for a hot water tub very soon. Bilbo hated being filthy.

“This is no place to be, Burglar,” said Thorin. “It-It’s far…far too cold out here. You should have listened when I told you to invest in warm boots. Erebor is not like your Shire with its temperate weather.”

Bilbo was ignoring him. He didn’t even scoff in offense like he did whenever one of the company suggested he wear shoes. It was less of an insistence and more of a tease once Bilbo explained why hobbits went barefoot, but the rise it got out of him and the flush it brought to his ears made it worth bringing up for fun. Bilbo’s ears were pale now. They didn’t twitch in that adorable way when someone new spoke and he turned to listen.

“Are you still angry with me, my burglar?” croaked Thorin.

That was all he could think of for why Bilbo was so ardently disregarding him.

“I-I have to apologize to you. I sought you out to- to apologize. For my behavior. For my transgressions against you. I was not of a sound mind, but there is no other fault in what I did to you than my own. I wronged you so terribly. There is little I could do with the rest of my life to atone. But I pray you- you find it in your heart to forgive me. That is all I deserve to ask.”

Nothing. Still nothing. Only nothing. Thorin brought Bilbo closer to him to check for movement.

“Master Baggins?”

Dead weight in Thorin’s lap. Thorin’s hands curled on Bilbo’s shoulders.

Bilbo needed to be warmed up. His skin was like ice out there. No telling how long he’d been out there alone, waiting to be found. So Thorin scooped up his tiny body and lifted him to his chest, and rose to his own feet carrying him.

“Let’s get you back amongst the company. I’m certain Glóin’s got the fire going.”

Thorin began to walk in the direction he’d been heading in the first place. They were still east of Azog’s bloated corpse, and the camp would be where the search parties had come from. Bilbo came with him without complaint. Thorin watched him all the while as he traversed the lumpy field, and waited for him to stir. He never did. They walked awhile, but Bilbo didn't see any part of it. Thorin could see how the sun had limped across the sky in the time it took for he and Bilbo to reach a collection of low hills. Lights and movement came from atop them, and from what Thorin could see there were tents and spits and fires erected wherever they could be fit.

Dwalin saw them coming the moment they crested over the first hill, which was where the company had set their tent poles. Thorin made out his figure in the distance, pacing on the outskirts of a recuperation camp that had been set up on one of the few clean and dry spots, and when Dwalin saw them he broke into a dead sprint.

He would’ve collided with Thorin and Bilbo if not for one last stroke of common sense that ground him to a halt ten feet away from them. In the distance Thorin could see some of the company gathering together, watching and waiting.

Bilbo hadn’t said a word for as long as they’d been walking. He was still sleeping.

“Thorin,” Dwalin said, looking at Thorin’s chest where he had Bilbo nestled. His tone was flat like the sound a stone makes when it thuds into the ground. A flatness he felt in his gut.

“He needs Óin,” is what Thorin said.

Dwalin’s eyebrows shot up. “He’s alive?”

That question did not make sense to Thorin.

“He’s too cold. I found him on the field. He’s got a cut on his forehead. Óin needs to look at it. Make sure he’s okay.”

“But…he’s alive?”

Thorin trudged on, forcing Dwalin to keep pace and follow. He held Bilbo like the Arkenstone in his hands.

“Thorin.” Dwalin tried to get his attention.“Thorin.”

“What?”

“Would you look at me? Durin’s sake, you’ve been missing for hours. They’ve got dozens out there looking for ya.”

It struck Thorin right then that he’d been only looking at Bilbo, on the ground directly in front of him so that he wouldn’t trip and cause Bilbo to jostle, or else somewhere in the middle distance. Dwalin had to step right up to him for Thorin to see him. He made to put his hands on Thorin’s shoulders to stop him. Thorin’s eyes snapped up to his cousin’s face, wild and accusatory.

“I can’t keep him out in this weather anymore, Dwalin! He’s freezing, and he needs Óin. Don’t try and stop me.”

Dwalin looked at him long and hard. Then he looked down at Bilbo. One of Bilbo’s hands hung loosely in the air, and Dwalin took it up and squeezed his wrist. Thorin thought it was good, that Bilbo needed the warmth. Dwalin’s eyes narrowed, then widened, and his eyes met Thorin’s once more. His expression that was unrecognizable, for Dwalin had never worn it before.

“Thorin…”

“Show me where to put him.”

“Thorin-”

“Show me-” Thorin spoke so tightly that his voice almost broke. “Show me where to put him. He needs to be warm.”

The two of them stood face-to-face as the seconds ticked past, and Bilbo only grew colder. Thorin clenched his jaw, he grit his teeth, he opened his mouth to order Dwalin aside.

Dwalin nodded once and his face fell to something close to pain.

“‘Course. I’ll show you. Come on.”

His cousin had him by the shoulder. He kept his grip loose and nonrestrictive, but grounding. He guided Thorin towards the camp.

The eyes of the company tracked him while they approached, but once they came close enough they looked instead at what Thorin carried. Who Thorin carried. At once their faces paled and eyes watered, hands flew up to mouths and jaws clenched and some were forced to look away. Bofur ripped the hat off his head and stared blankly. Nori bit down on his knuckles and tried to wake himself up. Ori stuttered on a gasp and clammed his hand over his mouth to stifle it. The princes weren’t among them, they were off in the healing tents, as were Óin and Glóin.

Not one of them said something, except for Dori’s whispered “No”, because they saw Dwalin’s face over Thorin’s shoulder, and how he heavily shook his head and warded them off. He would handle it.

Dwalin pushed Thorin towards a tent off to the side. It was intended to be Thorin’s tent, for private healing. No one knew if he survived the battle, or how, and could only assume that the reason he’d not showed up to the encampment when the rest of them did was that he lay in the field dead or dying. It was Bilbo’s tent now. Thorin would assume that that’s what it was for all along.

It was dim in the tent. Pale gray sun barely leaked through the canvas. Dwalin was quick to light the hanging lantern to cast warmth into the room, if only in the light that filled it.

Thorin staggered towards the medical cot that lay vacant in the corner, feeling his weight and his age and the depth of his sin in his legs, and lay Bilbo upon it. He smoothed his hand down Bilbo’s front to clear the rock dust and grit off of his dwarven robes, then his hand moved up to Bilbo’s forehead.

“Master Baggins?”

He heard Dwalin inhale.

When Thorin brushed his ragged hair off Bilbo’s stiff face he didn’t so much as stir, or lean into the touch. There was only so much Thorin could take, and he couldn’t take even a moment more of this. Of this cold skin, of this silence. Bilbo wouldn’t speak. Wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t flinch. Thorin wasn’t even sure if he’d been forgiven.

“He…he needs…Óin. He won’t speak to me,” Thorin said lowly.

Dwalin said nothing.

Thorin’s hand was as large as Bilbo’s whole cheek when he cupped it, thumb running under the eyes that wouldn’t so much as flutter. Cold as ice. Cold as cold’s brother.

“We need to warm him. He should be shivering. It’s dangerous to be overly cold,” Thorin murmured. “Where is Óin?”

When Dwalin finally spoke it cracked. “He’s outside. Tending to the wounded.”

“He needs a blanket. He’s too cold. He’s…Bilbo’s cold. He hates being cold. He’s not used to it.”

Thorin swallowed very thickly, like he was swallowing paste. There was something under his skin. Something that itched. Something that burned. It longed to burst out like water from an overfilled skin. Thorin couldn’t name it.

No blanket appeared, so Thorin repeated, more firm this time, “He needs a blanket.”

Dwalin moved slowly so as not to startle. There was a stack of blankets abandoned on a pallet, so he took one and put it in Thorin’s waiting hand. Thorin’s hands shook like strings fit to snap, but he grabbed the blanket in a bloodless grip and swept it over Bilbo’s body. He tucked in the sides, and made sure it reached his feet to cover and warm them.

“Is…” Thorin began to say. “How is the company? Do they live?”

“Aye. The…the rest of the company is well. Few injuries,” Dwalin grunted.

“My nephews?”

“They’ll fight another day. Kili’s got some nasty bruising, Fili’s shoulder’s seen better days, but they’re fit enough to make it everyone else’s problem.”

Thorin tried to laugh, but the air in his lungs was dry.

“Bilbo will be glad to hear that,” Thorin whispered.

There was tension in Dwalin’s frame that had begun to ease, but it came back just as soon as Thorin said that.

“He…he would be,” said Dwalin.

Inside Thorin’s chest his heart pulsed. His blood felt too thick and heavy in his veins. His heart weighed on him; it made breathing more difficult than it ought to be. The tremors in his hands shook enough from the cold and from the strain of holding themselves up, yet Thorin wasn’t tired at all. There was a lightness in his head. All he could think about was Bilbo.

Despite the blanket, no color had returned to Bilbo’s once-rosy cheeks.

“Where is Óin? He should not be this cold. He should…he should be…” Thorin’s breath came in short and shallow gasps. The air was thin in this tent.

Dwalin was there suddenly, his hand on Thorin’s shoulder and gripping him overly tight.

Thorin soldiered on. “He should be at home. He should be…he should be home. With his- his books. His armchair. With his family. He should never have seen battle. I should never have brought him here. He should never be this cold. Where is Óin?”

“Óin is outside. With the wounded.”

“Bring him here. Bilbo’s too cold. Something’s not right.”

How Thorin’s heart tremored. He felt like he was going to vomit.

“He was alone. I found him alone. He- he never stood a chance,” Thorin said. The sentence stormed in his head, flashing behind his eyes, and as he stared emptily at Bilbo’s ashen skin it was all he could think. “I should never have brought him here. This is my fault. This- it- he-...”

Bilbo was cold. He was so cold. His face wouldn’t move, his ears wouldn’t twitch. Too cold, too cold, and cold had a brother whose name was-

“B-Bilbo?” Thorin stumbled forward. Dwalin’s hand on his shoulder kept him from going far.

-death.

“Alright now, Thorin.”

Thorin woke up.

“What have I done?” Thorin uttered. He felt only the pressure of Dwalin's hands coming under his arms. Little more. “What have I done, cousin?”

“Easy,” was all Dwalin said. His voice rough and grating, but holding onto stability with a white-knuckled grip. “Let's let Óin look at you. Come on.”

“No,” Thorin said. It hit him that Dwalin was dragging him away. “No. No!”

Thorin wrenched from his hands and hit the dirt, injuries jarred and burning. He scrambled to be back at Bilbo's bedside, and threw himself over Bilbo's body.

“Bilbo,” He wept. Bilbo was cold, and he was still, and blood still trickled from his head wound as though it had nowhere else it could go. “Bilbo! Bilbo!”

Dwalin was on him and heaving him off the bed. Thorin fought and thrashed like he thought Dwalin was taking him to his death, heels digging into the ground, shoulders lurching and body twisting with agony and anger.

“No! No! Bilbo! Let me go, let me- no, he needs me! He needs me! Let me go to him!”

“He’s dead, Thorin!” Dwalin barked, succeeding in hauling Thorin bodily through the tent flaps and into the bright of the day. The flaps fluttered shut, and obscured Bilbo from the light and from all eyes.

“NO! BILBO!” Thorin bellowed. He threw his elbow back into Dwalin’s ribs and the sudden release sent both of them sprawling. Thorin got up to his knees and made to sprint back to the tent, but Dwalin had lunged and snatched Thorin by his calf and tripped him back to the ground. Dwalin scrabbled up and threw himself down on top of his cousin to pin him, legs entangling to stop Thorin’s desperate kicks and his arm crossing Thorin’s chest to pull his face up and off the dirt.

“He needs me, he needs me, Dwalin, cousin, please , he needs me! " Thorin could only weep. Tears dribbled off his cheeks and splattered in the dust. He reached out for Bilbo’s tent, but Dwalin grabbed his arms and pulled them both back to Thorin’s chest.

“I’ve got you, brother. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Breathe. Breathe.”

“You don’t understand! You don’t- he- I need to be there with him! He can’t be alone. He doesn’t want to be alone!” Breaths were hard to come by. Thorin could fill his whole chest with air and still feel hollow, like he was suffocating.

“I know. I know. I’ve got you, brother.” Dwalin forced Thorin to turn, and fisted his hand in Thorin’s hair to hold his face down against Dwalin’s neck. His legs stayed locked around Thorin’s hips and thighs, his arms like iron clasps holding Thorin in place. “I’ve got you brother.”

“No…no, no, he’s- he, please. Please. Mahal, please. PLEASE!”

Dwalin held him tighter. Thorin continued to struggle, but the fight was bleeding out of him like he had an open wound. He beat his fists against Dwalin’s shoulder, but Dwalin held strong for the good of them both.

“Release me,” Thorin sobbed. He writhed like an injured dog. “Release me!”

There were dwarves watching them, surrounding them at a respectful distance. Each of the company, and then some of Dain’s folk. Among the company muffled sobs erupted, stifled in the face of their king’s lamentations.

Suddenly, Thorin went boneless. It was as if he had died in Dwalin’s arms. Dwalin squeezed him with panic, but felt that he still held breath, and so, in the silence that followed, his grip on Thorin’s hair loosened.

“I am so sorry, brother,” he rasped.

Thorin inhaled. He wheezed. No air to be found when he could only breathe grief.

And when Thorin Oakenshield shattered, and it was heard across the camp in his wail of absolute and inimitable despair.

~~~

Tanks for reading! :) Also posted on my ao3 acc under Sullen_in_love

#the hobbit #thorin oakenshield #bilbo baggins #fanfiction #my writing #bagginshield #sad #character death

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