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slu7formen · 8 days

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Girl first of all I want to say that I'm OBSESSED with your writing I love it.

Second of all I would like to make a request about Luke so hear me out.

Luke and reader were in a relationship before he betrayed camp and they were head over heals for each other and then he stole the bolt and when Percy discovers he's the thief the reader is there feeling betrayed and specially heartbroken even though Luke ask her to go with him but she doesn't accept it because she's so loyal to camp and her friends.

Time passed and even if she wants to hate Luke she loves him more than anything. And Luke loves her too so instead of asking Annabeth to escape with him he asks reader and she accepts.

I want to see everything in here fluff, angst, everything you think about.

I hope you like this request and make it real for me because I've been having this idea for over a week.

Okay but I feel so bad ‘cause I totally forgot I had this story FULLY WRITTEN and READY to be published (‘cause I LOVED it), I’m so sorry angel, made you wait a lot more than just a week 🥺, but thanks for reading my stories <3

MDNI. luke castellan x fem!reader

warnings: luke´s a traitor, betrayal, use of yn, swearing, kinda angst (?, KISSING, lil book spoiler

₊˚⊹♡

The crackle and pop of the bonfire filled the air, a comforting contrast to the vibrant bursts of color exploding overhead. The annual fireworks display was in full swing, casting shadows on the faces of your friends huddled around the warm flames. It was a picture of peace, a moment of respite amidst the constant threat of monsters demigod drama.

You stole a glance at the empty space beside you. Luke, your boyfriend, had told you he'd just be back in a minute. A few minutes had turned into an eternity, but you chalked it up to his usual impulsiveness. He'd be back any minute, with his signature smile and an arm wrapped around you.

You knew it.

From the moment you met, you and Luke had been inseparable. You were his confidante, his anchor in the chaos of being a demigod and his messy life. He was your rock, always there to make you laugh, to understand the weight of your heritage in a way no one else could.

The warmth of the fire danced on your skin, but a shiver snaked down your spine. Something felt off. The chatter of your friends seemed muted, replaced by a dull ache in your chest. You couldn’t deny the way you noticed how Luke has been acting lately. So weird and distant towards you the last couple days. You loved him, fiercely and unconditionally. You'd been there for him through thick and thin, especially after his quest left a jagged scar across his cheek and a hollowness in his eyes.

But then he suddenly just, snapped.

A memory surfaced in you , sharp and unwelcome. It had been months ago, a conversation in the darkness of his cabin in a particular cold night. Luke, his eyes filled with a desperate fervor, had confessed his anger towards the gods, his belief that they were cruel and neglectful parents. He'd spoken of tricking the Olympians, joining forces with the Titans to fight for a better life for all demigods.

The anger in his voice, the glint of rebellion in his eyes, had scared you. The scar on his face, a reminder of his failed quest, seemed to burn brighter that night.

You understood his anger. The gods were far from perfect, their neglect and cruelty evident in countless demigod lives. He'd begged you to join him, his voice filled with a desperate hope. But you'd refused, your loyalty to Camp Half-Blood and your friends unwavering. You had spent hours talking him through it as you held his hand, reminding him of all the good the gods had done, no matter how flawed they might be. He'd looked lost at the time, seeking comfort in your touch. You'd thought you'd reached him, extinguished that spark of rebellion.

You really believed that conversation was long forgotten. But there was a reason why you remembered it.

Some movement at the edge of the woods caught your eye. But it wasn't the boy you were expecting. Percy, his face pale and etched with worry, practically stumbled into the fireplace, his chest heaving and his grip tight on Riptide.

A pang of concern shot through you. "Percy?" you called out, concern lacing your voice. You pushed yourself off the ground, walking towards him. "What happened? Where's Luke?"

Percy hesitated, his eyes filled with a storm of emotions. Shit, should he tell you? His silence was a hammer blow to your gut. You knew, with a chilling certainty, that something was terribly wrong.

"What?" you choked out, the question barely a whisper, expecting some kind of answer from the blonde boy, but nothing came from his trembling lips. The air felt dense, with a truth you desperately wanted to deny. You saw Luke getting into the woods with Percy, you saw it. And now, he was nowhere to be seen.

Then, it clicked. A cold, horrifying truth began to dawn on you.

He lied.

Without a word, you pushed Percy aside and started running, towards the woods. Your heart hammered against your ribs, like a trapped bird desperate to escape. You plunged into the darkness of the forest, the path you'd walked countless times with Luke now leading you into the unknown.

"Luke!" you screamed, your voice raw with anger and despair. You wove through the trees, the undergrowth tearing at your camp shirt, but you didn't care. You had to find him, to confront him, to understand why he'd chosen this path, if he chose it, why he'd lied to you.

But with each passing minute, hope crashed over you. The forest grew denser, the silence broken only by the rustle of leaves and the frantic beat of your own heart. There was no sign of Luke, no echo of his footsteps, no smell, no sense of his presence, only the chilling truth hanging heavy in the air.

He was gone.

He had left.

You sank to your knees, the weight of betrayal crushing you as the first tears you ever cried for Luke Castellan, started to fall. The man you loved, the person you'd trusted with your life, had chosen darkness over everything you held dear. He had chosen Kronos over you.

Grief, a cold and relentless serpent, coiled around your heart. And that feeling never seemed to leave.

The year that followed was a blur of sadness and a desperate attempt at normalcy. The silence from Luke was deafening. Not a single Iris-message, not a single sign of the one who once, was your boyfriend.

You knew you wouldn´t be able to return to Camp, at least not for now. Every corner held a ghost of Luke's smile, every sword clang a reminder of his battles and his betrayal. Your friends, the true ones, bless their hearts, tried everything to cheer you up from a distance, but their efforts felt like trying to pick up the pieces of a broken glass in the sea.

You opted to stay home that summer. But even there, away from the prying eyes and hushed whispers, escape from Luke's betrayal seemed impossible. Messages and news found you no matter where you hid. News of Luke leading a rogue army aboard a stolen cruise ship, rumors of him serving as Kronos's right hand while the Titan slumbered – it all reached your ears.

The nights were the worst. The darkness mirrored the hollowness within you. Tears would stain your pillow as you relived the events leading up to his betrayal. You once seemed to dream about seeing him again, and now you only screamed when you saw his face in your nightmares.

The memory of his touch, the warmth of his smile, the nights you spent loving each other with the sheets tangling in your legs, all felt like cruel illusions now. Yet, a part of you, a stubborn, illogical part, still clung to the love you once shared.

And Gods, did you try to keep yourself as busy as possible. You threw yourself into your studies and little courses here and there, seeking solace in facts and logic. You even began working, a boring but well payed summer job. Yet, the pain lingered, a dull ache that refused to subside.

The more you tried to banish these visions, the more vivid they became. You missed him like a starving man craved a feast, a yearning that gnawed at your insides and threatened to consume you. Frustration gnawed at you. How could you still love someone who'd betrayed you so utterly? How could your heart still ache for a man who chose war over you? The questions echoed endlessly within you, a relentless chorus fueling your self-conscious.

How could you be so weak?

These consuming questions were your companions for a whole year. But as the second summer after Luke's betrayal rolled around, a shift occurred within you. The raw, agonizing pain began to dull, replaced by a quiet resolve.

Finally, you decided it was time to take back control again. Camp Half-Blood called, a familiar haven among the storm. You returned a changed person. The vibrant smile that once adorned your face was a ghost, replaced by a guarded expression that spoke about the pain you harbored in silence. The camp's familiar energy felt hollow, a constant reminder of the happiness you'd lost.

Training became your sole solace. You'd disappear into the arena for hours, your celestial bronze sword a blur as you cleaved through training dummies, each swing fueled by a potent cocktail of grief and anger.

Exhaustion became your closest companion too. You pushed yourself to the limits of your endurance, hoping to find oblivion at the bottom of an empty fuel tank. But sleep, when it finally came, offered no escape. You'd dream of him, leading his army of rogue demigods, his eyes filled with a fanatical zeal that chilled you to the bone. And in those dreams, you'd see yourself, standing beside him, not out of loyalty to his cause, but out of a desperate yearning for the boy you once loved, still love.

In the quiet moments, when your friends weren't around, the dam would break. You'd collapse onto your cool and empty bed, tears streaming down your face, a raw, primal sob escaping your lips. The memory of Luke was no joy anymore, it haunted you like a specter.

You hated yourself for the traitorous flicker in your heart, the desperate, illogical yearning for him. It wasn't the war that tempted you; it was him.

You hated how much you missed him.

The scent of rain clung to the humid night air and to you like a second skin as you zipped up your duffel bag. Another summer at Camp Half-Blood loomed, promising a bittersweet mix of nostalgia and pain, but more training. The worst was yet to come, so you needed to be ready.

New York City, with its cacophony of car horns and the anonymity of millions, had become your refuge these past few months. In Manhattan, the memories of Luke seemed to hold less power for some weird reason, their edges dulling with the passage of time. You'd spent the past months in this tiny apartment, the silence deafening compared to the constant hum of life at camp.

Just then, a sharp rap on the door shattered the silence of your apartment. It was past midnight, an unusual time for visitors.

Adrenaline surged through you. Months of living fully alone had honed your senses. You'd become acutely aware of the city's underbelly – the flickering shadows that could hide monsters thanks to the ever-present mist. You'd seen them stalking the streets, stalking you, their true forms hidden to them mortals, an unsettling feeling crawling up your spine whenever their paths crossed yours. They never attacked, but their chilling presence followed you like a phantom.

Grabbing your necklace, you asked, "Yes?"

Silence. You weren't taking any chances. Pulling down at the pendant once, the necklace morphed into your celestial bronze dagger.

You took a step, two. Could it really be a monster? Could it really be some creature trying to get to you, by knocking on the door? With a shaky breath, you cracked the door open just enough to peek through the gap, hiding the dagger behind your back.

The sight that greeted you stole the air from your lungs.

Standing on your doorstep, bathed in the harsh glow of the hallway light, was Luke. His dark hair was windswept, his face etched with a gauntness that hadn't been there before, but his eyes – those were the same eyes that had haunted your dreams for months. They held a desperate plea, a flicker of the boy you once loved struggling to break through the hardened shell of the man he'd become.

“Luke?”

The silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken words and a tangled web of emotions. Time seemed to warp in that hallway, a single moment stretched into an eternity. Luke looked different, yes. The carefree boy you knew had been replaced by a man hardened by experience, his features etched with lines that spoke of battles fought and burdens carried. But his eyes, those brown eyes that had once held a mischievous twinkle, now held a deeper sadness that mirrored your own.

"Hi" Luke finally said, his voice raspy.

You stood speechless, the dagger still clutched tightly in your hand. Years of longing warred with the fresh wounds of betrayal. You wanted to scream at him, to unleash the torrent of hurt and anger that suddenly washed over you. But something held you back, a flicker of curiosity, maybe.

"Um, can I come in?" he continued, his posture pleading despite his attempt at nonchalance.

Jesus. Was that all he had to say? After everything, after what he did, all he could muster was a request to enter your apartment? A tide of anger threatened to drown you. Did he not understand the gravity of what he'd done? Did he not realize the pain he'd caused? But you forced your thoughts down. You weren't a child anymore, throwing tantrums wouldn't solve anything.

"Are you armed?" you asked, your voice flat, devoid of any warmth.

Luke flinched at your question, a flicker of pain crossing his features. "You think I wanna hurt you?" he countered, his tone defensive.

"Last time I saw you," you spat back, your voice laced with bitterness, "was three years ago, and I know your little monsters are keeping an eye on me. The first thing I'm supposed to think about is whether you want to hurt me or not."

He sighed, a long, weary exhale. Unzipping his jacket, he turned slowly, patting down his pockets before turning back to you. His eyes, once alive with mischief and love, were now filled with a desperate sincerity. "See? No weapons. Just me."

You studied him, a battle raging within you. One part of you wanted to slam the door, to let him know that he wasn't welcome. Yet, another part, a smaller, more vulnerable part, couldn't help but cling to the flicker of hope that flickered amongst the ashes of your love.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, you stepped aside, allowing a sliver of space for him to enter. "Fine" you said, your voice devoid of warmth. "But you better have a good reason to come here"

Luke hesitated for a beat before stepping inside. He closed the door softly behind him, the sound echoing through the tense silence. He stood there awkwardly with his hands in his pockets, his eyes scanning the room, landing finally on the packed bags besides the tv.

"You're heading back to camp?" he asked.

You flipped the dagger in your hand, and the celestial bronze morphed back into the golden necklace. "What do you want?" you repeated, your voice still sharp, a shield against the emotions swirling within you.

Luke stood awkwardly in the doorway, the once carefree boy replaced by a man burdened by the weight of his choices. His leather jacket seemed to hang heavy on his broad shoulders.

"I…" he started, then stopped, seemingly unsure how to proceed. He cleared his throat, the sound scratchy and unfamiliar. "You look different" he finally managed, the words tumbling out awkwardly.

You scoffed, a humorless sound that surprised even you.

"Look, yn" he finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper, "I wanna talk, okay? I know what I did was wrong. I know I hurt you."

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. "You could say that again."

His fingers twitched at your bitterness, but pressed on. "I came here because..." He hesitated again, seemingly wrestling with an inner turmoil. "Because I-"

Frustration bubbled up within you. This cryptic approach, this lack of honesty, it was infuriating. "Because you what, Luke?" you demanded, your voice laced with a sharp edge. "Because you decided to grace me with your presence after leading a rebellion against the gods? Or maybe because you just wanted to see if I'm still waiting for you?"

You watched his face harden, the vulnerability replaced by a familiar defiance.

"Don't twist this" he snapped, his voice firm. "I came here because..." He took a deep breath, his eyes locking with yours. "Because I miss you, yn. I miss us."

The air crackled with a tension so thick you could almost taste it.

You took a slow step towards him, then another. He took notes of yourself as you did. The way you had grown internally was so intense that he could sense it everywhere. He might have betrayed you, but that only helped you get on your feet stronger, grow stronger. Become the warrior he always knew you were.

Then, in a move as instinctive as it was fierce, your hand lashed out. The slap connected with a stinging crack, the sound echoing through the apartment like a thunderclap. Luke's head snapped to the side, a crimson handprint blooming on his cheek. Shame flickered in his eyes as he scoffed, quickly replaced by a dull acceptance.

He deserved it, that much was clear.

"How dare you?” you spat, your voice shaking with barely controlled fury, "How fucking dare you come back here after what you've done? After leading a rebellion against the gods, after putting everyone we care about at risk? After betraying me?"

Luke took a shaky breath, running a hand over the burning mark on his face. "I'm sorry” he said, his voice low and ragged. "I'm so sorry. I know I hurt you, and I know a simple apology won't erase the pain or fix things. But you have to believe me, I never meant for things to get this bad"

He stepped towards you, his hands outstretched in a placating gesture, but you flinched back, the space between you a tangible barrier. "Don't touch me" you warned, your voice laced with ice.

He lowered his hands, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

“I know you hate me for what I´ve done. For joining Kronos, I-“

"You think this is all about Kronos?" you cut him off, your voice shaking with barely contained fury. "You think the reason my heart has been broken these past years is because you joined a fucking Titan?"

Luke remained silent, the weight of your words pressing down on him like a collapsing mountain. He knew better.

"This is about what you did to me, Luke" you choked out, tears welling in your eyes. "I was with you, all the time. I was your girlfriend! And you betrayed me. You left me alone” your voice broke so hard that you had to take a second to swallow the big gulp that was forming in your throat. “Everyone at camp looked at me after what you did," you choked out. "They either felt sorry for me, or they insulted me, saying that I was still loyal to you, that I was a traitor."

You closed your eyes for a moment, the pain etched on your face a stark reminder of the devastation he'd wrought. "You were the most important person in my life" you cried, your voice raw and vulnerable. "But you? You let Kronos fill your head with empty promises, and just like that, you forgot about us."

The truth felt like a bitter pill to swallow. He opened his mouth to speak.

"I asked you to come with me" he finally whispered, his voice thick with regret. "I gave you the chance to leave with me."

"And even after I said no," you countered, your voice trembling like the finger that was now pointing at his chest, "you still left. You threw me away like shit. And do you know what the worst part is?" Tears streamed down your face, tracing a path through the dust of old heartache. "That as much as I try, I can't seem to hate you."

A sob escaped your lips, shattering the fragile dam you'd built around your emotions. "I still love you, Luke" you confessed. "Even though it's a love that fills me with pain, it's still there. I hate myself because I dream about you, about the way things used to be. But when I don't, I feel like a piece of me is missing."

You looked up at him, your eyes brimming with tears and a raw vulnerability that left Luke speechless.

What had he done?

"I hate myself because I can't help but pray for your safety, even though you never seemed to care about mine. I hate myself because even after everything, I still love you, Luke."

Your heart felt like a shattered kaleidoscope, a million shards of love, anger, and pain reflecting back at you in a distorted reality. You walked and sank onto the couch, burying your face in your hands as sobs racked your body.

Luke, his heart heavy with a remorse sharper than any weapon, watched you crumble. The carefree girl he fell in love with was gone, replaced by a woman etched with the scars of his own actions. Hesitantly, he reached out, placing a hand on your back as he sat down next to you, a gesture of comfort that felt more like a branding iron on his guilt.

"yn” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, "I still love you too."

You didn't respond, the sobs coming in ragged gasps as your body struggled to contain the storm within.

"I know I left you" he continued, his voice cracking slightly. "And you didn't deserve it. But… I was so lost, so angry. Kronos promised me power, a solution to all the problems I saw. He convinced me that Olympus was corrupt, that the gods didn't care about half-bloods like us. And when you said no, he-, he told me to leave you behind, said that it would be easier for everyone…"

His voice trailed off. Easier for who? Easier for him, perhaps, to sever the ties that bound him, to plunge headfirst into a rebellion fueled by manipulated ideals.

"But it wasn't" he choked out, a tear escaping his eye, carving a glistening path down his cheek. "Every day, every step I took… it was a constant reminder of what I'd lost. The guilt was eating me alive, yn, you have to believe me”. His hands desperately reached for yours, trying to get your fingers to intertwine by placing his over yours.

Tears welled up in his own eyes. "I regret everything. I mean it. I don't want to do this anymore."

You finally lifted your head, your eyes red-rimmed and brimming with unshed tears. Luke looked different to you now, the bravado and arrogance gone, replaced by a vulnerability that mirrored your own.

"Don't want to do what?" you asked, your voice hoarse.

"This” he gestured vaguely to himself, but you didn’t quite catch it. "Following Kronos. Helping him rise to power. It's wrong. I can see that now."

“Little late to that, isn’t it?” you blurted out.

He took a deep breath, his expression resolute. "yn, there's a reason I came to you. A reason I risked Kronos' trust in me." He paused, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Kronos wants me to become his host."

And the world seemed to suddenly stop. You stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in. Your mind raced, trying to process what he had just said. Luke, your Luke, becoming a vessel for the monstrous Titan?

"What?" you croaked, fear coating your voice like frost. Your eyes darted around, searching for a way out, a solution, anything. But Luke wouldn't meet your gaze, his jaw clenched tight, a storm of emotions brewing beneath the surface. "No. No, he can't. It's not possible."

The thought of him, Luke, being consumed by Kronos, twisted your insides into knots.

Luke, however, seemed to gather his resolve. "Yes, it is" he said, his voice low and strained. "There are things you don't know, yn. Things I've done."

A cold dread gripped your stomach, a physical manifestation of the terror that clawed at your insides. Your mind raced, desperate for answers. "Then tell me" you only managed to say. "Luke, what have you done?"

He hesitated, looking around as if afraid someone might be listening. "There's no time now" he finally said, his voice tight with urgency. "But I promise I will explain everything. That's not why I'm here."

Taking a deep breath, he dared to reach out, his hand gently grasping yours, finally. The warmth of his touch sent a jolt through you, a stark contrast to the chilling fear that gripped you.

He called your name, his voice softening. "Come with me" he said.

You only feel capable of frowning your brows in confusion. "Go where?" you asked, your voice wary.

"Anywhere" he said, like a plea. "Let's run away, together. It can be just you and me again"

He leaned closer, the air around him crackling with a tension that mirrored the storm within you. As his forehead rested against yours, a jolt of electricity shot through you. It was a familiar warmth, a spark that had ignited countless stolen kisses and whispered secrets back when your world wasn't teetering on the brink of war. His other hand cupped your cheek, the touch a stark contrast to the turmoil raging inside you. His hand, usually warm and comforting, felt cool against your burning skin, a physical reminder of the distance that had grown between you. Yet, despite the chill, a wave of longing washed over you, a yearning for the simple comfort of his touch.

But reason tugged at you, a voice of caution in the midst of the storm. "But Luke," you stammered, pulling away slightly, "If you escape, Kronos will come for you. He'll come for us, and-,"

"I don't care" he interrupted, his voice resolute, yet laced with a tremor that betrayed his bravado. It was as if he was on the precipice, teetering between defiance and the vulnerability of a man on the verge of breaking. "I'll fight everything that comes for us. And if the war happens... I'll fight. I'll fight for everyone, I’ll fight for you. I'm not losing you again, yn."

His words resonated deep within you, a desperate echo of the love you still harbored for him, a love you thought you'd buried beneath layers of anger and sadness. You saw the fear in his eyes, a fear that you sadly shared, but beneath it, a flicker of something else – a raw, desperate hope. And as you looked at him, a wave of relief washed over you.

The relief of knowing he wasn't entirely lost, that a part of the Luke you loved still existed.

"I love you" he confessed again, his voice trembling.

Looking into his eyes, a storm of emotions swirling within them, the truth resonated with you. "I love you too" you whispered, the words tumbling from your lips like a long-awaited confession.

The world did indeed, stop. The rain, a relentless symphony against the window pane, faded into a distant murmur. The thunders became a muffled echo. In that moment, the only reality was the space between you and Luke, charged with the unspoken electricity of your confessions.

He leaned in further, a hesitant question in his eyes. A flicker of fear danced in their depths, a scared boy seeking forgiveness beneath the warrior's facade. You watched him, a bittersweet ache blooming in your chest.

With a sigh that trembled on your lips, you closed the distance. Your lips met in a hesitant touch, a tentative exploration of a forgotten familiarity. Three years of longing, of unspoken words and simmering emotions, poured into that kiss. It was sweeter than you'd dared to imagine, a warmth that spread from your lips and drizzled down your chest.

Unlike the passionate encounters of your past, this felt different; like kissing him for the first time. Luke's lips moved against yours with a reverence that sent shivers down your spine. He held back, his desperate desire tempered with a respect that surprised you. You knew him.

But then, you yielded. Your lips parted, a silent invitation, and his tongue met yours in a dance as old as time. A full, heavy and angry thunderclap erupted outside, a jarring contrast to the intimacy unfolding on the couch. But you paid it no mind, lost in the whirlpool of rediscovered affection.

Your arms encircled his neck, a desperate hold. He, in turn, cupped your waist, his touch lingering on the curve of your hip as he gently lowered you onto the soft cushion. His body hovered above yours. His lips, however, remained glued to yours, a relentless exploration that spoke of a love both fierce and fragile.

The kiss deepened, a slow burn that threatened to consume you both. You felt the familiar rhythm of his heart against yours, a counterpoint to the frantic beat of your own. It was a melody of second chances, of unspoken apologies and nascent hope.

His hand trailed down your back, teasingly brushing under your shirt, sending shivers dancing across your skin. You arched into his touch, a wordless plea for more. But just then, he pulled away, his breath ragged, his eyes a storm of conflicting emotions.

His voice, a husky murmur against your skin, sent shivers down your spine. "I missed this so much," he whispered, his lips trailing down the delicate column of your neck and the dip of your collarbone. His warm breath mingled with your own, a heady mix of emotions swirling around you.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, the familiar texture a stark reminder of the past you both desperately clung to. He reached for your pulse, slowly sucking in before letting it pop.

"I wanted to feel you every night" he confessed. "Every night, I dreamt of you." His words were a stark contrast to the cold, distant Luke you saw in your dreams, the only vivid memory you’ve had of him the past years.

"Luke" you whispered, your voice barely audible as you tried to speak.

He didn't stop. His hand drifted down your torso, his fingers brushing against the exposed skin of your lower tummy. Every touch felt like a brand, a searing reminder of what you had lost and the uncertainty that lay ahead.

"It was a mistake" he said, his voice thick with regret. "A big, fucking mistake. Leaving you, betraying you-, it was the biggest mistake of my life. My life doesn't make any sense without you."

With a strangled sound, Luke deepened the kiss, his lips moving against yours with a desperation that mirrored your own. You clung to him, a drowning sailor grasping at a lifeline. The scent of leather that clung to him was intoxicating, a familiar anchor in this storm of emotions.

"Luke" you managed to gasp between kisses, a flicker of reason breaking through the haze of desire. You needed more than just words, needed a binding promise, something concrete to hold onto if you were to take this leap of faith.

He stared at you, his eyes a storm of emotions – desire, confusion, and a flicker of something that might have been annoyance. But before he could respond, you pressed on.

"Swear on it, Luke" you whispered, your voice trembling slightly. "Swear on the River Styx” you repeat. Luke’s eyes dart back and forth, from your lips, to your eyes, to filling up with confusion. “I’m not-,” you cut yourself off as you feel your eyes filling with tears again. You bit your tongue before speaking, “I’m not letting you hurt me like this again"

You knew it was selfish, a desperate attempt to safeguard your heart. But Luke was here, finally, after all this time. You craved the warmth of his touch, the comfort of his presence. The thought of letting him go again, of enduring another betrayal, was unbearable. Yet, a part of you, still scarred from the past, craved a guarantee, an oath sworn on the most powerful river in the Underworld. It was dangerous, yes, but did you care?

Did he care?

Luke's expression hardened. The River Styx, held a weight that couldn't be ignored. The river he already bathed himself in. It was a binding vow, a promise etched in the very fabric of existence.

He looked at you, his eyes searching yours for a flicker of doubt, a hint of manipulation. But all he saw was the vulnerability, the fear – a vulnerability born from the scars he himself had inflicted.

"I swear on the River Styx" he said, his voice low and solemn, each word heavy with the weight of the oath. "I swear I won’t ever leave you. I swear I love you. I swear I'll fight for you, for us, with every breath in my lungs."

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allysunny · 9 months

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Hi! I saw that your Miguel requests were open so I was wondering if it was possible to do a mig x f!reader where the reader is a civilian who's a photographer? She's always catching Miguel in action as Spiderman, not so much action shots but more movement inclined artwork. She goes to alchemax to take a professional portrait of their head biologist, Miguel, unaware that he's her not so friendly neighborhood spiderman and he's aware of her work.

Picture Perfect | Miguel O'Hara x Fem!Reader

Words: 4.8k

Warnings: None, i would say! Reader is a photographer and Miguel is kinda grumpy, but that's about it!

A/N: Aaaa my first request! I'm so excited! I actually finished a book about a photographer the other day, so it was super interesting to write this. Unfortunately, I don't know much about photography itself. I have a camera, but I'm no pro! Nevertheless, I tried to do my best! I hope this is to your liking!!

I'm also trying something new with my themes haha, goodbye to that big red header in between paragraphs! </3

To say Spiderman was majestic was an understatement.

The way he swinged around the city, effortlessly spinning and turning and moving as if he was one with the air – it was breathtaking. Not only did he seem amazing at what he did, he always seemed to look great doing it.

And it was a cold, hard truth that the camera loved him.

Particularly, yours.

Being Nueva York’s most famous photographer hadn’t been an easy feat to achieve. Your job had consisted of carrying cameras and tripods and objects for many years until you finally managed to publish your own work; work that had gotten you recognised and plastered in every big magazine’s cover.

Now, instead of begging and pleading for work, the work came to you. Your rep would text you and call you at the weirdest hours, claiming to have found your next great gig.

But no matter how amazing, how well-paying, how dynamic these gigs were, nothing truly compared to photographing Spiderman in action. You had some amazing shots of him – fighting villains, saving your city, and some of him just being.

Those were your most prized possessions, the shots of him overlooking the city, as if monitoring it from above. He was Nueva York’s guardian angel, and your photos captured it perfectly.

One day, you’d been photographing a famous singer who requested your services (and your services only) at the top of the highest building in Nueva York. Once you were done, the singer thanked you profusely, everyone packed, and you were left alone to overlook the place you called home.

And that’s when you saw him.

You weren’t sure if it was just a coincidence. But from all the buildings Spiderman could’ve landed on to watch Nueva York, he had landed on top of the one in front of you.

It felt almost rude to stare. He hadn’t noticed your presence yet, and as much as your conscience tried to bite at you, telling you it was rude to just take his picture without asking for permission, the other part of your brain that yelled This is your job! won, and you found yourself bringing your beloved camera to your face.

Right when you were about to snap a picture, he turned to you.

Shivers ran down your spine.

I’m screwed, you thought, repeatedly. I’m screwed. I’m screwed. I’m screwed.

You waited for any kind of reaction from his part but got none.

Surely, he must see me. He’s Spiderman. He has to know I’m here.

Oh.

Maybe he did.

Maybe he was doing it on purpose.

Was this his way of giving you consent?

You brought the camera to your face once again and waited. He kept staring at you, and then simply turned away from you, gazing at the city.

A wave of excitement rushed through your bones, lighting the tips of your fingers ablaze.

You smiled and took his picture.

And another.

Those shots had earned you the cover of the Bugle Diario’s newest edition, and even an interview on the news, where two smiling anchors questioned you about your passion for photography, and the amazing images of Spiderman.

Sometimes you wondered why no one else seemed to get pictures like yours. Other photographers had tried, but their shots were void of passion, were bland. The masked hero would be too blurry, or perhaps facing the other way. There were times when you even humoured the possibility of him doing it on purpose – turning his face away because he refused to be photographed by someone other than you.

It gave you butterflies, this silly little thought of yours. Needless to say, though, whenever you found yourself considering it, you’d chastise yourself over it immediately. Why would he even do that? He’s a super-hero. He has no time to pick a favourite photographer. I’m just lucky, is all. And yet, you wished it was something more than just luck.

“Have you opened them yet?” Your rep asked excitedly over the phone.

The new shots of Spiderman had just arrived. You’d taken them last week, and the prints had just arrived. Excited was an understatement. You were dying to see how these looked.

“’m doing it now, give me a sec,” You responded, voice laced in enthusiasm. With a pair of scissors, you were able to make quick work of the cardboard box and dug into the contents inside.

And what you saw took your breath away.

Your (quite possibly) best work so far.

The first shot was of Spiderman on his back, body completely bent as he threw a web at (seemingly) your camera’s direction. You could see it clearly – the shape of his body, twisted in the middle of the air, the light that illuminated his figure, even the material of his webs were easy to make out if you looked closely enough. It was dynamic, the way his body contorted easily to aid him in whatever task he did. To the average person, it might even be painful, but it seemed such a natural thing for him to do, a natural pose for him to be in. A remarkable pose for a remarkable superhero.

“Holy shit…” You mumbled, to what your rep could only laugh in amusement.

“Keep going!” She encouraged, “You haven’t even seen the best one yet!”

So you kept looking through the picture, each better than the last one.

There was one of him with his back turned to you, body contorted as he webbed a building. His broad back was visible, as well as his muscular arms. You particularly remember almost getting hit by a flying car when you tried to snap that picture – it had been very well worth it. The building behind him provided the best background, since it allowed the viewer to realise how far up he was.

“[Y/N], this is great stuff. Have you seen them all?”

“No, just give me a second!” Just like your rep, you were unable to contain your enthusiasm. Each picture had so much personality to it, so much care and effort. This was not only your job, but also your passion, and it clearly showed.

“You need to see the last one, it’s amazing. Remember that day when – “ The disembodied voice on the other line kept talking, but you weren’t listening anymore. You’d reached the very last picture, and your breath had been stolen.

Spiderman stood right in front of you, hanging upside down by a web. His legs were crossed, his figure somewhat relaxed as he looked down. It seemed almost… playful. It had been snowing that day – small clusters of snowflakes fell around his figure, its pale colour contrasting against the deep blue and violent red of his suit. The sun threatened to peek out from behind his arm, creating a magnificent scene.

The otherwise chaotic moment seemed to be frozen, as Spiderman elegantly crossed his legs at the ankles, balancing casually in mid-air. The details of his suit were easy to spot, thanks to the fantastic lighting and the proximity of the photo. With this shot, you had managed to capture the essence of a hero caught between earth and sky, somewhat relaxed, but also ready to jump into action at any given moment.

Your rep must’ve noticed your silence because her voice got, somehow, even higher.

“You’ve seen it, haven’t you? It’s glorious, I tell you! Honey, this is your best work so far, congratulations. How you manage to get these sorts of pictures is beyond me, you have a gift.”

A gift. It wasn’t the first time you were told you had a natural talent, a gift for photography, but for the first time in ages, you were able to accept the compliment with no complaints.

“This… this is…” Words did not seem enough to express the wonder you felt towards the glorious work in front of you.

“Want some even better news?” You eagerly giggled a “uh-uh” and let the woman on the phone do the talking, “The Bugle Diario is doing a segment on Alchemax. You know, the company. They’re focusing specifically on the head biologist, a man called Miguel O’Hara. Apparently, he’s had some breakthrough discovery on DNA studies – you know me, I’m not very inclined towards science, but the point is, they want you to take his portrait!”

Alchemax was a big company. Hell, it was probably the biggest company in the city. You couldn’t quite figure out how this news were even better than the prints you’d just received, but were happy, nevertheless. A gig was a gig was a gig, and you liked portraits. Sure, this Miguel man might not be as interesting a subject as Spiderman, but it was Alchemax! It was still the opportunity of a lifetime, and there was no way you’d miss it.

“Count me in!”

Alchemax was huge.

Not only did the outside building appear enormous from the outside, but it also seemed to expand and grow once you walked inside.

All sorts of employees cover the building from head to toe – men clad in professional suits, women wearing white lab coats and safety glasses, teenagers carrying stacks of papers and boxes everywhere. You didn’t expect the megacorporation to be so… mega.

A kind receptionist took you to the floor where you were supposed to meet Miguel O’Hara, and while you two waited in the elevator, was sure to tell you how much she admired your work. You smiled and thanked her politely, before you arrived at your floor and waited.

The woman asked you to wait for a few seconds while she fetched the man you were supposed to photograph, and you did so, taking the space around you in.

It was… dark, to say the least.

Not to say that was a bad thing – you’d taken pictures at night, with barely any light other than the moon’s, but some indoor illumination would be nice. People in white coats ran around the floor, shouting words you understood, but couldn’t string in a sentence together. Talks about molecules, DNA, photosynthesis, splicing? filled the whole area, and you admired how focused every scientist seemed to be.

There were machines you could only imagine the purpose of everywhere, some large and scary, some so small, the workers carried them in their hands. Vials of strange, coloured liquids filled glass cabinets, which were occasionally opened and closed right away by working scientists. It smelled of sterilisation and focus. This was where the magic happened, you thought.

“Excuse me?” Suddenly, a rich, deep voice pulled you from your thoughts. You turned around, and holy shit –

“Are you [Y/N]? I’m Miguel O’Hara.”

You stared at Miguel for what seemed like an eternity.

Were biologists supposed to be this handsome?

He was positively charming.

He could best be described as big. Very big. This man was tall – incredibly so – with large shoulders and muscular arms nearly hidden by the lab coat he has on, but you can’t help noticing. You could tell by his piercing gaze and sculpted frame that his presence commanded attention. In fact, everyone around you stopped to stare at man for a few seconds, before hurriedly returning to their tasks. He must be a strict boss.

He narrowed his eyes (were they red?) and crossed his arms in front of his chest, eyeing you up and down with a look you couldn’t decipher, but had your cheeks and ears heat up just by its intensity. And yet, you were unable to form a coherent sentence, still staring at this man, whose cheekbones were so sharp, you were afraid they’d cut you anything they touched. Upon a closer inspection, you realised that the planes of his face looked extremely tired. When was the last time he’d slept?

By the state of the floor and the workers in it, you figured long, long ago.

“Is that how you do it?” He asked, raising an eyebrow at you.

“Do what?” You managed to blurt out, holding onto your equipment tightly.

“Take pictures. Is that how you do it? With your eyes?”

If it was supposed to be a joke, you didn’t get it. From the way he said it, you figured it was more of a sarcastic statement. Of course. You were standing in the middle of his laboratory, shamelessly eyeing him up and down and wasting his time.

“N-No. My apologies, I…” You struggled to find the right words. They never came, so you shook your head and tried offering him your politest smile. “Yes, I’m [Y/N]. I’m here to take your portrait.”

Miguel eyed you up and down once again. You looked away, flustered. Could his gaze be any more intimidating?

“Is that all your equipment? Are you alone?” He asked you.

“Yeah, this is it.” You weren’t carrying much, just your usual stuff. A tripod, some lenses, a small reflector, and a light stand. Your beloved camera was inside it’s back, safely secured around your neck. Other photographers lectured you on not using nearly enough equipment as they would, but you prided yourself on your ability to use natural light and shadows to your advantage without a lot of instruments. “Are you busy? I mean, I was told to come now, but…”

“No, it’s fine. Where do you want me?”

Preferably on my bed, on top of me, while I hold onto those large shoulders and –

You chastised yourself for even having such thoughts. Not even the male models and actors that were photographed by you elicited such a response.

Control yourself.

“Oh, um… Do you have a lab of your own? I would like to take your picture in your element if you know what I mean.” Was the reply you gave him instead of the nasty thoughts you had conjured.

The scientist nodded and urged you to follow him.

You walked by his employees, all focused on experimenting with liquids, materials, concoctions you’d never seen before in your life.

With just a few words, Miguel had cleared what you assumed was the lab he worked on. Just like the rest of the floor, it was shrouded in in shadows. You wondered how anyone managed to work in here. Rows of instruments stood sentinel; their surfaces being bathed by the small amounts of natural flasks.

Things like vials and flasks decorated with labels of multiple colours stood on top of shelves, a reminder of the countless experiments this man and his team had conducted. He wasn’t Alchemax’s head biologist for no reason.

While you figured out the best place for him to sit, Miguel eyed you curiously.

You.

He knew you, of course.

You were the pretty photographer he’d seen capturing his fights and patrols and endeavours around Nueva York. He’d seen you risk your health countless of times, putting your own safety at risk just for a picture of him.

Miguel had to say he was flattered.

And not to mention your work always came out great. In fact, he had some of your best pictures safely tucked inside an envelop on his bedroom nightstand. A silent reminder that no matter where he went, you were sure to follow. And he liked it when you followed him.

That night when he was looking over his city and caught you staring, his enhanced vision had allowed him to get a proper look at you. At the natural sparkle of your eyes and how they widened when you two locked gazes. At the plush skin of your lips that parted when he looked at you. He could see you clearly, your gentle figure and graceful movements. So he looked away, allowing you to take his portrait.

It was the best thing he’d ever done.

“I think this would be a nice spot.” You told him, pointing to a nearby bench. “Would you please sit here?”

He happily obliged, sitting down and facing you. You looked even more beautiful up close, brows furrowing ever-so-softly in confusion as you worked your way around him, probably to figure how to best accommodate his hulking figure.

“Do you mind…?” You gave him a careful looking, pointing towards the vials and flasks and instruments cluttering the bench.

“Not at all. Just don’t break anything.”

He didn’t mean to sound as menacing he did – but Miguel was a professional, and he knew you would understand how to be careful around his objects. After all, your profession also demanded it.

You nodded and carefully got to work.

You took him in.

He was still massive, even when sitting down.

Careful as to not break anything, you sorted the objects around, arranging them in the best way possible as not to hide Miguel.

“So, tell me., Miguel,” Conversation was the easiest way to put your subjects at ease. Usually, conversation about their craft. “Did you always know you wanted to be a scientist?”

“Is this what you to do get your clients to relax?” Miguel inquired in a rather challenging tone.

“Yes.” You refused to look up, intent on making the ambient look as natural as possible without drawing the attention away from your subject. Once you were satisfied with the result, you removed your camera from its bag and pointed it at Miguel. “This is just a test shot.” And snapped a picture with the flash on.

He seemed to flinch at the bright light, and made a sound closest to a hiss, covering his face with his hands.

“Mierda – can’t you turn that off?” He grumbled.

“Sure. Can I turn on the light?”

“Absolutely not.”

You stared at him in confusion. So, he didn’t want you to turn the lights on, but you also weren’t allowed to use your camera’s flash? Who did this guy think he was?

“I’m sensitive to light – please, don’t point that at me.” This time when he spoke, his voice was softer, almost as if he regretted hissing at you – which in truth, he did.

“I can’t use my flash and I can’t turn on the lights. Am I supposed to photograph you in total darkness?

“You’re the photographer. Figure it out.”

There was a hint of what you thought was a smirk creeping up on his lips, and what you surely imagined to be a very long canine poking out, but you brushed it away as just the light (or the lack of thereof) playing tricks on you.

But he was right, you were the photographer.

You walked over to the window and closed the blinds until the natural light was almost gone.

You were a professional, and a damn good one at that, and you wouldn’t let something as basic as darkness ruin your shoot. Low light photography was a thing. You looked around, scanning your surroundings.

Miguel watched you as you walked around the lab, tinkering with vials, observing the light the windows provided, setting up the tripod in a billion different places. He had to say, he was impressed. You were every bit as competent as you appeared. The beauty was just a bonus.

“Am I giving you too much trouble?” He asked, somewhat concerned. He worried this whole shenanigan was going to give you too much work, but on the other hand, he’d seen you in action. Watched as you dodged stones and ran through cars to get the perfect photo, observed as you contorted yourself into the weirdest poses just to make your photos more dynamic. Miguel knew you could do this, he had witnessed it first hand over and over again.

“Not really, no. I like a challenge.” He grinned smugly at your response. You cross your arms, investigating the room once more. Surely a biologist’s lab had to be more interesting that that, right?

That’s when it came into view.

A huge machine, something straight out of a science fiction movie, as tall as the ceiling. You didn’t know how to describe it – there were cables all around it and a screen surrounded by keys. Definitely the kind of machine you would never approach, in fear of messing it up. Although it was turned off, the lights on its side were glowing bright red and blue, granting the lab a peculiar atmosphere.

What in the world could this possibly do?

“That’s a DNA splicing machine.” Miguel told you, almost as if reading your thoughts.

“Is this part of your research?” You were fascinated by the machine before you. How come you hadn’t noticed when you first walked in? It was creepy, surreal, but also mysterious and intriguing. All traits you could also assign to the man in the room with you.

He nodded and walked up to it, giving the structure a few pats.

“Unfortunately, I cannot tell you much about it. It’s Alchemax protocol. But it is part of my research, and I’m extremely proud of it.”

It was the first time Miguel had opened up about his job, and you decided to pry a bit more. You had an overall idea of what you wanted to do, now all you needed was a subject as ease, willing to relax.

“Don’t worry, I understand. It must be rewarding to know your work has helped so many people.” You smile and nudge him towards the machine. “Wait here.”

Miguel did as you were told, standing next to the enormous machine as you made your way to each window and closed the binders completely. What were you up to now? He decided to keep speaking anyway. This was your job, and you were doing your best. If he couldn’t talk to you as Spiderman, the least he could do was help you out right now. And the way to do that was to talk.

“Indeed. My research has advanced the realms of science and medicine in a truly remarkable way. I am quite proud of the progress I have made.” Miguel leaned into his machine absentmindedly, its red and blue glow illuminating his figure.

How ironic.

“And while I feel a great satisfaction in my work, I’ve also made some rather grave errors in the past.” Miguel doesn’t know why he’s telling you this. He doesn’t know you; he knows there’s a pretty woman who takes his pictures, but that’s about it. Should he be confiding in you? Would you even care?

“Errors?” You returned to his side, setting up your tripod a few feet away from him and toying with its angles. This man was huge – how were you going to fit him inside the frame of your camera?

“When I first started out at Alchemax, I was young and inexperienced. I graduated from Alchemax’s School for Gifted Youngsters and had big aspirations.” He took a big sigh, shaking his head. His dark locks fell in front of his forehead, and he was just about to adjust them, when you took a step towards him and caught his wrist just before he did.

“Don’t – just let me try something.” Miguel considered this, and mumbled a soft “alright” before you adjusted his hair slightly, tugging a rebellious strand right in front of his eyes. There wasn’t much light already, so hiding his face wasn’t ideal – but you had something in mind. “Surely, those aspirations paid out.” You decided to continue talking. It wasn’t even to get him to relax anymore, you were invested in his story, and wondered what could possibly haunt this mountain of a man.

“Only after a few years. Once I started working here, it wasn’t long before I found myself in over my head. I bit more than I could chew, and it caused me problems.” Miguel crossed his arms once more and stared into the distance. There was something laced in his gaze. Longing? Hurt? Regret?

“I’m sure you learned from them.” You angled your camera towards his face again. You’d been snapping pictures of him this whole time, though you weren’t quite sure if he had noticed it. Your camera was very silent, a feature that came in handy when you did not want to be disturbed or interrupted. Or when you did not want a scene to be ruined. “Look at me,” You mumbled, and he faced you again.

You snapped another picture.

“Still. It’s hard to live with the knowledge that you’ve done something so terrible.” You wondered what could possibly be so terrible for him to speak of it like this. One thing at the time.

“C’mere,” Miguel felt your hand on his arm, and he was suddenly being coaxed into a different position. You tilted his head towards the glass, his whole face now covered in red and blue light, forcing him to look away. It looked magnificent up close, beautiful yet harsh eyes looking at you, its irises of a colour you hadn’t figured out yet.

Your gaze trailed down over from his eyes to his strong nose and rested on his full lips. You wondered how they would feel on you – Focus! You came here to work, so work. Do not fantasize about your photo subject.

But it was so hard.

Unbeknownst to you, Miguel was having the exact same thoughts.

He wondered how you’d feel on his arms. Would you cling to him? He wondered how you’d look under him, caged under his arms and legs. Now that he wasn’t in imminent danger, Miguel allowed himself to look at you all he wanted.

Was it just you, or was the room hotter?

Quickly, you scurried away, returning to your camera.

“I’m sure all of the good things you’ve done in the name of science have made up for those past mistakes.” You tell him, snapping a few more shots. He looked majestic. The camera certainly loved him; no matter the angle, he always looked good.

“You think so?” Miguel fixated his gaze on yours once again, and precisely on that moment, you snapped a picture.

Oh.

You looked at your camera’s screen and smiled.

Now this was a photograph worthy of a cover.

You looked at the man in front of you, smile still gracing your lips.

“I do.”

You examined the pictures you’d taken. They all looked great – save for that very last photo.

That one looked incredible. Magnificent.

“I think we’re done here!” You chirped, turning it off and putting it away.

Miguel raised an eyebrow.

“Already?”

“Mhm! I got it. Believe me, these look incredible.” He kept staring at you while you packed your things, unsure of what to say. He was aware he might have come across as rude or cold, but that’s just who he was. And truth be told, he was enjoying this. The company. Your company. Being able to finally share his burdens – even if for a few seconds, and not entirely. It was nice.

He followed you, suddenly appearing nervous.

“So, I usually send my subjects a copy of their prints. I know the Bugle’s my client, but I think you’re entitled to a few copies, don’t you?” There was that dazzling smile once again. Fuck. Miguel ought to make you smile more often – you’re a vision.

“I do,” he said, before shrugging. “You know… You could give me those in person.”

You stopped dead in your tracks, his words eliciting a mix of shock, surprise, and eagerness within you.

“In person?”

“In person. Maybe over some coffee?” He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious. What if you said no? Miguel didn’t know you. What if you had a boyfriend? What if you weren’t interested in men? What if he had just made a big fool of himself?

He expected anything. For you to laugh, to walk away, to slap him.

He didn’t expect you to turn away from him, a flustered look adorning your features.

This was the part where you let him down slowly, where you told him you didn’t date your subjects, where –

“Coffee sounds great. I would love some coffee.” And then you quickly retrieved something from your bag – was that a piece of paper? Bending over a nearby bench, you grabbed a pen and scribbled something on it before handing it to him. “That’s my number. Not my rep’s – mine. You can… You can call me if you want to.”

Miguel smiled for the first time in the entire afternoon. And if his chiselled, stoic face was gorgeous, you had no way to describe his smile. It looked so natural, like it suited him. Like he should be always smiling. “I will.” He spoke gently.

A few weeks later, Miguel opened the door to his house to find a big envelope box addressed to him.

After taking it inside and swiftly opening it with his talons, he was met with a pastel coloured post-it that read “Thought you deserved the first edition” and a doddle of a small heart for a signature.

Carefully placing the note on his table, he removed the contents from the envelope.

It was an edition of the Bugle Diario, with his photo plastered on the cover. Specifically, the last one you took, the one you’d gushed about over a cup of coffee and a small cake.

The Mind of the Master: In-depth Interview with Alchemax’s Head Biologist Miguel O’Hara.

Miguel smiled.

His favourite photographer had done it once again.

A/N: I hope you liked it! I really did try my best! :) I'm not quite sure how I feel about this layout, but I like experimenting!

Have an amazing day everyone! <3

427 notes · View notes

longwuzhere · 10 months

Text

Here are some cool Easter eggs that I found the newest My Adventures with Superman episode, “Let’s Go to Ivo Tower, You Say”. Links to the easter eggs post:

Episode 1 is here

Episode 2 is here

Episode 3 is here

Episode 5 is here

Episode 6 is here

Episode 7 is here and here

Episode 8 is here

Episode 9 is here

Episode 10 is here SPOILERS if you have not seen the episode of course:

Perry assigns our intern trio to go get interviews about Anthony Ivo. I previously mentioned Ivo's deal in the comics in this post, but we'll talk more about this version of Ivo later.

Shout out to Lois' hanbok! As a kid in the 90s my first exposure to the DC was through the DC Animated Universe. Because of the way some of the characters like Lois, Clark, Bruce, Dick, Tim, and Terry, were designed, as a kid, I thought they were Asian. Very cool to see this version of Lois be Korean.

Before Lois shows up for their black tie event at Ivo Tower, Jimmy knocks down a stack of papers and magazine and Clark goes to pick it up and stumbles upon the Metropolis Star with a cover that shows him as a kid flying 15 years ago.

The Metropolis star is a rival newspaper to the Daily Planet in the comics. The publisher makes its first appearance in Superman #9 (1987) (W&P: John Byrne, I: Karl Kesel, C: Tony Ziuko, L: John Costanza).

When our intern trio makes it to Ivo Tower, Lois spots some very interesting powerful and political figures of Metropolis, the CEO of Galaxy Communications and Mayor Fleming.

Galaxy Communications makes its first appearance in Superman's Pal Jimmy Olsen #133 (1970) where it was headed by Morgan Edge, the then leader of Intergang. In the comics Clark and Lois does work for Galaxy communications thanks to it buying out the Daily Planet forcing Clark to be the evening news anchor. The Galaxy Communications panels here are from Swamp Thing #68 (1988) (W&P: Rick Veitch, I: Alfredo Alcala, C: Tajana Wood, L: John Costanza).

Mayor Fleming makes her first appearance in Action Comics #894 (2010) (W: Nick Spencer, P: R.B. Silva, I: Denis Freitas, C: Dave McCaig, L: Rob Leigh) where she appoints Jimmy Olsen and Sebastien Mallory as a welcoming committee for Dalwythians aliens. Like her MAwS counterpart she is obviously the Mayor of Metropolis.

Later, Lois goes and questions Senator Sackett at the party/event.

In the comics Sackett was a councilman not a senator who makes his first appearance in Superman #130 (1997) (W: Dan Jurgens, P: Norm Breyfogle, I: Joe Rubenstein, C: Glenn Whitmore and Digital Chameleon, L: John Costanza) depicted here in the issue's panel wearing a Superman costume. Sackett in the comics is in Luthor's pocket.

I am like 99.99% sure this is Lex Luthor like who else in Metropolis is named Alex, has red hair (if this is Lex Luthor and he shows up again, I'll talk about him and what I mean by this in another post.), and works in the science and tech field.

We finally meet Ivo and he is as I was hoping he'd be a major techbro tool. The way he acts in his introduction and his meeting with Clark is very much like Lex and Clark's meeting in Batman v Superman. Both Ivo and Lex upon meeting Clark know how strong he is. In MAwS Ivo punches his chest and it hurts him and in BvS you heard an audible thud when Lex knocks on Clark's chest. Very similar vibes between both scenes.

Clark confronts Ivo about one of his deals and name drops one of Metropolis' mob families.

Bobby Gazzo, head of the Gazzo crime family in Metropolis, makes his first appearance in Batman: Dark Victory #1 (W: Jeph Loeb, P&I: Tim Sale, C: Gregory Wright and Heroic Age, L: Richard Starkings). Fantastic sequel to Long Halloween, highly recommend reading both books.

After Clark gets thrown out and Lois offers to repair his jacket, we see Lois mentioning her dad, Sam Lane a military general and if the person at the end of the second part of the first episode is Sam Lane...

...and he shows up again in the show I'll talk more about it in another post. For now this is all just speculation.

Might be reading into this but maybe a subtle nod to how the words "Superman" and "pal" are often used together. Both have been used as a comic book title, "Superman's Pal Jimmy Olsen" as I've mentioned in these posts a few times.

The show here did a very clever thing with Ivo. Normally any other media pertaining to Ivo would give the audience his power and weakness stealing robot Amazo, but here the MAwS team was able to combine both Ivo and another villain in Superman's rogues gallery, Parasite.

The first Parasite, Raymond Jensen, makes his first appearance in Action Comics #340 (1966) (Cover Art by Curt Swan, George Klein, and Ira Schnapp). All iterations of Parasite have the ability to temporarily steal away anyone's energy, strength, and their knowledge. As I've said there have been other Parasites that Superman fought, the second and most recurring Parasite is Rudy Jones, the Parasite I'm more familiar with, who makes his first appearance in Firestorm #58 (1987).

Cover Art by Joe Brozowski, Bruce Peterson, and Tom Ziuko Alex and Alexandra Allston the third and fourth Parasite (green Parasite and purple Parasite respectively) first appeared in the Adventures of Superman #633 (2004).

Cover art by Gene Ha and Art Lyon

The latest Parasite, Joshua Allen, makes his first appearance in Superman #23.4 (2013).

Cover art by Aaron Kuder and Dan Brown So yeah there are similarities between the Amazo robot and Parasite and it was smart of the MAwS team to just combine Ivo with Parasite to avoid redundancies. Besides the Amazo robot is more of a Justice League villain anyways.

Near the end of the episode, after the Parasite suit wrecks Ivo's body, he begins to look more like his recent iterations in the comics now. The panel here is from Justice League of America #4 (2013) (W: Geoff Johns, P: Brett Booth, I: Norm Rapmund, C: Andrew Dalhouse, L: Rob Leigh). Hope you all had a wonderful time checking this post out. Like I said at the beginning my other MAwS easter egg posts are:

Episode 1 is here

Episode 2 is here

Episode 3 is here

Episode 5 is here

Episode 6 is here

Episode 7 is here and here

Episode 8 is here

Episode 9 is here

Episode 10 is here

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uwmspeccoll · 2 months

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Typography Tuesday

WHITTINGHAM INITIALS

The Whittinghams, Charles the Elder (1767-1840), who founded the Chiswick Press, and his nephew and successor Charles the Younger (1795–1876), were among the finest English printer/publishers of the 19th century, noted especially for the quality of typographic design and evenness of printing. Their firm was also the chief printer for bookseller/publisher William Pickering, whose own devotion to quality was exemplified in his use of Aldus Manutius's anchor & dolphin printer's mark, combined with the motto Aldi Discipulus Anglus (Aldus's English Disciple).

Many of the distinctive, wood-engraved initials the Whittinghams used were designed by Charles II himself along with his artist daughters Charlotte and Elizabeth, almost all of which were engraved by English book illustrator and wood engraver Mary Byfield (1795-1871). The Whittingham initials shown here are from the 1896 Grolier Club publication, The Charles Whittinghams Printers by Arthur Warren (1860-1924), which itself is printed by one of the finest 19th-century American printers, Theodore Low De Vinne (1828-1914), who printed the book on handmade paper in an edition of 185 copies. Our copy is another gift from our friend Jerry Buff, a Grolier Club member.

View our other Typography Tuesday posts.

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thegettingbyp2 · 9 months

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Jess Mariano request: Reader works with Jess at the publishing house in Philly and has feelings for him (she hasn’t told him though). She sees him and Rory at the open house and seeing the way Rory treats him reader lets Jess know how she feels about him (and wherever it goes from there) basically I need a Jess fix it because Rory fucks him over that night haha

I'd Never Do That to You

A/N: This is my first Jess fic and I loved writing it! If you have any other Jess requests, don't hesitate to send them in!

Buy me a coffee :) Gilmore Girls Rewatch Patreon Exclusive

You were watching Jess out the corner of your eye as you began tidying up after the open house. You’d developed a crush on him not long after he moved to Philly and started working at the publishing house with you. The two of you had quickly become friends and he told you everything about the time he spent living in a little town called Stars Hollow.

You tried to busy yourself when you saw him sitting to the side with a girl that he’d been with during the open house and you couldn’t help but notice how close they were sitting. You looked away fully when you saw him lean in to kiss her but quickly grew concerned when you heard his voice rising and the girl quickly leaving.

‘That Rory?’ you asked, lightly when he moved to help you tidy up. From the stories that he’d told you, you were 99% percent sure that the girl was Rory Gilmore and it bothered you how hung up he was over her because, from what you heard, she was quick to get rid of him the second he did something that she didn’t approve of.

‘Yup,’ he replied bluntly, the set of his jaw making it clear that he didn’t want to talk about it.

‘You okay?’

‘Yup.’

‘I hate this!’ you blurted out, causing Jess’s head to snap up to look at you, surprise written across his face.

‘Hate what?’

‘This!’ you replied, putting the book down in your hand a little more forcefully than necessary. ‘The way that Rory girl was treating you all night! She was flirting with you and then the second you try to get closer to her, she runs away because she’s still with this other guy but she knows that you’re always going to be there waiting for her! You don’t deserve to be treated like that, I’d never do that to you!’

You realised what you said and stopped talking immediately, looking down at your feet before you nervously glanced back up at Jess to see him looking at you with a mix of shock and something you couldn’t describe playing on his face. ‘What did you just say?’ he asked quietly before clearing his throat.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me,’ you started talking quickly, trying to backtrack until Jess gripped your wrist, anchoring you as he spun you around to face him.

‘(Y/N), stop, calm down. What did you just say to me?’

‘I’d never do that to you,’ you whispered as you looked at him.

‘Never do what?’

‘I’d never lead you on like that. Never let you think that we have a chance and then run off because of some other guy right at the last minute. And I don’t want you to think that I’d do that to you because I do like you, I have since you started working here, I just never said anything because you seemed so hung up on Rory. And I know that you’re not over her and that - ’

Your voice was cut off by the soft press of Jess’s lips against your own. As soon as you realised what was happening, you let yourself relax into the kiss which only made Jess wrap his arms around you and pull you into him, the slight stubble growing on his face tickling your cheeks as his tongue slipped between your lips, drawing a soft whine from your throat that had Jess smirking against your lips.

Breaking the kiss, it was your turn to look at him in shock. ‘What just happened?’

Jess let out a laugh that you didn’t hear too often and you found that the sound warmed your heart. He reached down and twisted his fingers in yours, pulling up to press a kiss to the back of your hand. ‘You know you ramble when you get nervous? I like you too,’ he said, shaking your hands slightly and bending down to look into your eyes to make sure that you were believing what he was saying. ‘I just didn’t say anything because we work together and I didn’t want to make it weird between us.’

‘But what about everything with Rory?’

‘I tried to convince myself that I was still in love with Rory to distract myself from going after you. I can’t lie, I was relieved that she ran off because the thought of kissing her in front of you almost broke my heart.’

‘Why didn’t you just tell me?’ you exclaimed, slapping his arm.

‘Ow! I just told you I didn’t want to make things weird!’

‘Well, you wouldn’t have!’

‘I know that now!’

The two of you stopped talking for a moment, just looking at each other before you both started laughing simultaneously. Once you both calmed down a little, Jess pulled you closer by his grip on your hands, pressing his forehead to yours.

‘So what do you say? You gonna let me take you on a date?’

You nodded quickly, leaning up to peck his lips. ‘I have been waiting for the past two years after all.’

#jess mariano #jess mariano x reader #jess mariano imagine #gilmore girls

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books · 9 months

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Writer Spotlight: Elise Hu

We recently met with Elise Hu (@elisegoeseast) to discuss her illuminating title, Flawless—Lessons in Looks and Culture from the K-Beauty Capital. Elise is a journalist, podcaster, and media start-up founder. She’s the host of TED Talks Daily and host-at-large at NPR, where she spent nearly a decade as a reporter. As an international correspondent, she has reported stories from more than a dozen countries and opened NPR’s first-ever Seoul bureau in 2015. Previously, Elise helped found The Texas Tribune, a nonprofit digital start-up, after stops at many stations as a television news reporter. Her journalism work has won the national Edward R. Murrow and duPont Columbia awards, among others. An honors graduate of the University of Missouri School of Journalism, she lives in Los Angeles.

Can you begin by telling us a little bit about how Flawless came to be and what made you want to write about K-beauty?

It’s my unfinished business from my time in Seoul. Especially in the last year I spent living in Korea, I was constantly chasing the latest geopolitical headlines (namely, North Korean leader Kim Jong Un’s big moves that year). It meant I didn’t get to delve into my nagging frustrations of feeling second-class as an Asian woman in Korea and the under-reported experiences of South Korean women at the time. They were staging record-setting women’s rights rallies during my time abroad in response to a stark gender divide in Korea. It is one of the world’s most influential countries (and the 10th largest economy) and ranks shockingly low on gender equality metrics. That imbalance really shows up in what’s expected of how women should look and behave. Flawless explores the intersection of gender politics and beauty standards.

Flawless punctuates reportage with life writing, anchoring the research within your subjective context as someone who lived in the middle of it but also had an outside eye on it. Was this a conscious decision before you began writing?

I planned to have fewer of my personal stories in the book, actually. Originally, I wanted to be embedded with South Korean women and girls who would illustrate the social issues I was investigating, but I wound up being the narrative thread because of the pandemic. The lockdowns and two years of long, mandatory quarantines in South Korea meant that traveling there and staying for a while to report and build on-the-ground relationships was nearly impossible. I also have three small children in LA, so the embedding plan was scuttled real fast.

One of the central questions the book asks of globalized society at large, corporations, and various communities is, “What is beauty for?” How has your response to this question changed while producing Flawless?

I think I’ve gotten simultaneously more optimistic and cynical about it. More cynical in that the more I researched beauty, the more I understood physical beauty as a class performance—humans have long used it to get into rooms—more power in relationships, social communities, economically, or all of the above at once. And, as a class performance, those with the most resources usually have the most access to doing the work it takes (spending the money) to look the part, which is marginalizing for everyone else and keeps lower classes in a cycle of wanting and reaching. On the flip side, I’m more optimistic about what beauty is for, in that I have learned to separate beauty from appearance: I think of beauty in the way I think about love or truth, these universal—and largely spiritual—ideas that we all seek, that feed our souls. And that’s a way to frame beauty that isn’t tied in with overt consumerism or having to modify ourselves at all.

This is your first book—has anything surprised you in the publishing or publicity process for Flawless?

I was most surprised by how much I enjoyed recording my own audiobook! I felt most in flow and joyful doing that more than anything else. Each sentence I read aloud was exactly the way I heard it in my head when I wrote it, which is such a privilege to have been able to do as an author.

Do you have a favorite reaction from a reader?

I don’t know if it’s the favorite, but recency bias is a factor—I just got a DM this week from a woman writing about how the book helped put into words so much of what she felt and experienced, despite the fact she is not ethnically Korean, or in Korea, which is the setting of most of the book. It means a lot to me that reporting or art can connect us and illuminate shared experiences…in this case, learning to be more embodied and okay with however we look.

As a writer, journalist, and mother—how did you practice self-care when juggling work commitments, social life, and the creative processes of writing and editing?

I juggled by relying on my loved ones. I don’t think self-care can exist without caring for one another, and that means asking people in our circles for help. A lot of boba dates, long walks, laughter-filled phone calls, and random weekend trips really got me through the arduous project of book writing (more painful than childbirth, emotionally speaking).

What is your writing routine like, and how did the process differ from your other reporting work? Did you pick up any habits that you’ve held on to?

My book writing routine was very meandering, whereas my broadcast reporting and writing are quite linear. I have tight deadlines for news, so it’s wham, bam, and the piece is out. With the book, I had two years to turn in a manuscript. I spent the year of lockdowns in “incubation mode,” where I consumed a lot of books, white papers, articles, and some films and podcasts, just taking in a lot of ideas to see where they might collide with each other and raise questions worth reporting on, letting them swim around in the swamp of my brain. When I was ready to write, I had a freelance editor, the indefatigable Carrie Frye, break my book outline into chunks so I could focus on smaller objectives and specific deadlines. Chunking the book so it didn’t seem like such a massive undertaking helped a lot. As for the writing, I never got to do a writer’s retreat or some idyllic cabin getaway to write. I wrote in the in-between moments—a one or two hour window when I had a break from the TED conference (which I attend every year as a TED host) or in those moments after the kids’ bedtime and before my own. One good habit I got into was getting away from my computer at midday. I’m really good about making lunch dates or going for a run to break up the monotony of staring at my screen all day long.

What’s good advice you’ve received about journalism that you would pass on to anyone just starting out?

All good reporting comes from great questions. Start with a clear question you seek to answer in your story, project, or book, and stay true to it and your quest to answer it. Once you are clear on what the thing is about, you won’t risk wandering too far from your focal point.

Thanks to Elise for answering our questions! You can follow her over at @elisegoeseast and check out her book Flawless here!

#writer spotlight #elise hu #flawless #k-beauty #beauty #beauty industry #feminism #gender politics #seoul #south korea #journalism #writing advice #reportage #flawlessthebook

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destieltropecollection · 1 day

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Destiel Trope Collection 2024 | Day 28: Coffee Shop AU

The barista and the bookshop | @abi-cosmos Rating: Explicit Word Count: 55,794 Main Tags/Warnings: Barista Dean Winchester, Librarian/Bookshop owner Castiel, Friends to lovers, Mutual pining, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Gay Castiel, Slow burn, Angst with a happy ending, Depression, Costume parties and masquerades, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Sharing a bed, Coffeeshop AU Summary: In a sleepy mountain town, stitched together with fairy lights, Dean Winchester has been running Squirrel and Moose Coffeehouse since his Dad died. Next door, anchored by family obligation, librarian Castiel has been tasked with taking over Chuck’s Bookshop. Wanting a distraction after his brother leaves town, Dean offers to help Castiel fix it up. It’s a job, something to get his hands on, it doesn’t matter that the librarian is hot and kinda weird. Castiel doesn’t understand why Dean is helping him, but he’s happy that he is, and their friendship grows until he can’t deny what’s right in front of him. But when their time together is cut short, both face a decision they aren't ready for. In a sleepy mountain town, stitched together with fairy lights, what's it gonna be? Peace or freedom?

Are You Writing From The Heart? | @luckshiptoshore Rating: Explicit Word Count: 86,788 Main Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Writer Castiel (Supernatural), Bisexual Dean Winchester, comedian dean, Season/Series 04, Masturbation, Alcohol, Writer Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, Fanfiction Writer Dean Winchester, dean/crowley relationship in the past of the fic, cas/meg and cas/hannah relationships in the past of the fic, Internalized Homophobia, Hand Jobs Summary: Castiel Novak's a writer who's waiting for his big break. His last book didn't sell, so now he's doing work for hire, ghostwriting the next in a series of ridiculous horror novels about two hot brothers who hunt monsters together. It’s pretty popular, and the fans are desperate for the next instalment — which is a problem, because the guy who usually writes them just up and vanished a couple of months ago. He left behind a signed contract and the outline for the next two stories, so the publisher’s been looking for someone else who could pick up where Chuck left off. And that's Cas. So he heads to a cafe to get the words out ... and that's where he meets Dean, a smartass wannabe comedian who's working on his stand-up set. Cas is straight, obviously, but there's something about this guy that he's fascinated with. The two of them strike up a friendship ... and soon the world Cas is writing and the world he's living in begin to get mixed up. Sometimes you're writing what you know without even realizing it ...

Finding You In Every Sign | @casblackfeathers Rating: Explicit Word Count: 99,407 Main Tags/Warnings: Deaf!castiel, mutual pining, angst with a happy ending, flower shop au, coffee shop au, strangers to lovers, bottom!dean, bottom!castiel, sweet!dean, hurt!dean, hurt and comfort Summary: Castiel was content with the constant flow of his life. He had his brother Gabriel, had his coffee shop and the weekly book club meetings as well as a small but solid group of friends. If there was one thing his hateful family had taught him, it was how fast things could go wrong if he let too many variables shape his life. So when he met Dean, a gradual regular at his shop, Castiel knew he was trouble, because Dean was like a comet, beautiful but beyond reach. Ever since his father died, there wasn’t a single constant in Dean’s life. Moving on, never stopping, never getting attached to one thing for too long had made him a drifter for the past seven years. Being the only hearing person in his family hadn’t been easy with a father like John Winchester, so as soon as Dean saw an escape, he took it. Settling down to open his flower shop was anything but easy, especially when he met the elusive deaf owner of the coffee shop next door. The more he discovered about Cas, the louder the voice in the back of his head whispered that maybe Castiel was the person finally worth staying for. And maybe, just maybe, Dean was willing to listen now.

#destiel trope collection #destiel trope collection 2024 #destiel #fanfic #supernatural #coffeeshop au

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biscuitswithroy · 1 year

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Just to Know You’re Alive

Jamie Tartt x Reader

You are tasked with writing an article about Jamie and you gain an understanding of him that nobody else ever has

Note: Hello! This is my first Ted Lasso fic. I’m so excited to share it with y’all!

When you were first assigned to write an article on Jamie Tartt, you weren’t exactly thrilled.

All you had heard about, and seen on the pitch, was that he was an egotistical man who would do anything to win.

But when you met him for the first time, all of your prior opinions on him changed.

It was after the devastating loss to Manchester City. You knew that it was the best chance you had to get the best content for your article. After all, it was the first game against his old team that had all but erased his career.

You made your way towards the press room, but were soon told that Jamie wouldn’t be a part of the interviews. Respecting his privacy, you accepted that you weren’t going to get that conversation that you needed.

But then there he was in the hallway as you were leaving. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes notably red. He’s been crying, there was no doubt in your mind about that.

“Are you alright?” You asked him, deciding that you didn’t want to miss a chance to ensure that he’s okay.

“Fine, yeah,” he mumbled. And then he turned and looked at you. His eyes found the press lanyard around your neck. “You’re a reporter?”

“Oh,” you said, taking your lanyard and off and placing it in your bag. “Right now I’m just a person who wants to make sure you’re okay.”

Jamie looked at you a little suspiciously but didn’t try to fight how you might feel.

“No one gets me,” he said. “Not even my family.”

“I see. Family can somehow be the best people and the worst people in your life,” you said.

Jamie nodded to that statement. He didn’t know why he was opening up to you, but he didn’t stop. You two sat on the floor against the wall.

He told you about the locker room incident. You told him that he was valid in his feelings. No one had ever said that to him before.

“I’m y/n, by the way,” you told him after the conversation had come to a halt.

“You already know me,” he said. “You do now, at least.” He looked almost shy as he said his next words. “Are you going to use this conversation against me?”

“Of course not,” you said. “But to be perfectly candid, I am supposed to write an article about you.”

Jamie chuckled a little, but it wasn’t one of pleasure. You think he was nervous, perhaps even worried that you were going to use it against him anyway and paint him as weak.

“Tomorrow,” he said randomly. “I’ll do your interview tomorrow. Meet me at The Crown & Anchor.”

“Oh, okay. Are you sure?” You asked him.

“Just be there,” a little bit of his coined impatience came through.

And with that he disappeared into the locker room. The next day you stood outside the pub as you waited for Jamie.

When he got there, he asked you to join him for a walk. You didn’t expect him to take you to his favorite places around the area.

But he spent the entire day talking you about pretty much everything except for the game.

“Thank you for today, Jamie,” you told him as you walked back to your car. “I do hope you’ll enjoy the article I write.”

“See ya,” Jamie said as he watched you drive away.

As you sit at your computer now reading over the article you wrote, you title it and publish it.

Jamie’s phone dings along with the rest of the teams’.

“The Jamie Tartt You Don’t See,” Ted reads the article title aloud. “Oh this should be like reading that your favorite book is being adapted into a movie!”

The team cheers and pokes a little fun at Jamie before they leave to start training.

Jamie sits at his locker and reads through the article. It reveals his vulnerabilities while also making him appear as strong as he is.

He realizes that from the beginning he wanted you to see him as he is, not as the rest of the world does.

Something in him longs for more conversations with you. And he desperately wants to see you again.

#jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt #ted lasso #ted lasso x reader

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shinybearnerd · 11 months

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"Celestial Ties" - pt. 1 of 2

Hello! Here's my second ff about Good Omens and this one is about our favourite angel, Aziraphale. I hope to publish the last part soon. I hope you like it! <3

Part 2.

Bonus Part.

Pair: Aziraphale x Gn!reader Words: 1,7k Genre: Angst Story: Aziraphale and the reader are a couple for quite some time now. But the Armageddon is started and the angel is worried about their future, so he decides to do something...

-Engish is not my first language. So I'm sorry if there are any mistakes-

In the quiet solitude of the bookshop, Aziraphale and Y/n found themselves entwined in a love that defied the boundaries of their respective worlds. Their hearts beat as one, resonating with an intensity they could not deny. Yet the angel's celestial nature weighed heavily on him like an anchor.

That evening, as the rain tapped gently against the windowpanes, Aziraphale couldn't shake the turmoil in his heart any longer. The prospect of the approaching Armageddon, the battle between Heaven and Hell that loomed ever closer, haunted his thoughts. He knew that loving a human was forbidden. It was a transgression of the divine order he had always upheld. But he couldn't help it. Not with someone as special as Y/n lightening his days.

With a heavy heart, he turned towards them. They were sitting in the quiet corner of the shop, getting lost in the pages of one of their favourite book. A soft smile was on their face. As it always was since the angel met them.

Aziraphale's voice trembled as he spoke. <<My dear, we need to talk...>> Startled by the seriousness in his tone, Y/n looked up, concern etched across their features. <<What is it, Aziraphale? Is something wrong?>> The angel hesitated as he struggled to find the right words. <<It's about us, our relationship.>> A flicker of worry danced across their features as they listened intently to his words. <<Go on.>> <<I… I can't do this anymore.>> Y/n heart sank at his words, feeling a lump in their throat. <<"Can't do this anymore"? What do you mean?>> His heart ached with every passing moment. <<I… I can't continue this relationship, Y/n.>> he continues. <<It's not right. I'm an angel, and you're a human. We can't be together like this.>> <<Why? What's changed?>>

Aziraphale swallowed hard, his eyes avoiding Y/n's as he struggled to find the right words. Tears welled in their eyes, and their voice wavered as they pleaded to talk to them. The angel's resolve faltered as he looked into the human's tear-filled eyes, his heartbreaking about the pain he was causing them.

<<My celestial duties and the upcoming events…>> As the words slip out of his mouth, he understands the mistake. And Y/n noticed it. He was trying to cover it up by talking: <<…they complicate everything. I have to put the greater good above my desires.>> But Y/n already catch that. <<Events? What events? What are you talking about, Aziraphale?>>

They reached out and grasped his hand, Y/n touch warm against his cool skin. <<I don't understand. Please, Aziraphale, talk to me! What's going on?>>

Aziraphale hesitated, torn between protecting them from the truth and his desire to share his burdens. He knew the forthcoming Armageddon could bring Y/n even more pain, but he couldn't bear to keep them in danger.

<<I must prioritize my duties, and it's best for both of us if we go our separate ways.>> He said it like he was talking to himself other than Y/n. <<But… what about us? What about the love we share?>> Aziraphale's gaze stuttered for a moment. He took a deep breath, composing himself to deliver the painful lie. <<I'm afraid there was never more than friendship between us, Y/n. I'm sorry if I led you on, but it's for the best if we end this.>> Tears welled in their eyes as Y/n tried to comprehend his sudden change in demeanour. <<No. No, that can't be true! We love each other! …don't we?>>

His angelic mask remained intact, his voice steady. But deep down, he was feeling horrible. Like he was about to throw up. <<I'm afraid you misunderstood, my dear. It was all a mistake, a moment of weakness on my part. An angel like me can't harbour romantic feelings for a human. It goes against everything I stand for.>>

Y/n heart felt like it was being torn apart, struggling to reconcile the truth of their shared love with the lie he was weaving. <<But I saw it in your eyes. Felt it in your touch when we…>> Aziraphale insisted. <<I'm sorry, but you must be mistaken.>> His words are like daggers to your wounded heart. <<We can't continue this delusion any longer. It's better to part ways now before things get more complicated.>>

Every fibre of Y/n's being screamed out against his words, desperate to hold onto the love they knew was factual. <<Please, Aziraphale, don't do this. I love you, and I know you love me too. Why are you lying?>>

The pain in his eyes mirrored their own, and for a moment, Y/n thought they saw a glimmer of the truth hidden beneath the lie. But before they could say anything else, Aziraphale turned away, prepared to leave. Y/n reached out, their hand trembling, but he evaded their touch, taking a step back. <<Please, don't make this harder…>> he said softly, his voice laced with sorrow.

He disappeared into the shadows of the bookshop, leaving Y/n alone with their shattered heart and the echoes of his false words. It was a painful betrayal, an act of sacrifice he thought was necessary, but it left them broken and lost.

The following day Y/n tried to contact Aziraphale multiple times, but nothing could persuade the angel to talk to them. Neither Crowley, who didn't even know what was going on, knew what to do. And in the end, they stopped searching for an answer. Hoping that one day, things would sort it out for themself.

Years had passed, and the something that should have "sorted this out" never came.

Y/n had moved on, building a new life in another city once they found out they were pregnant. The love they once shared with the angel remained a bittersweet memory. They started a relationship with someone else, though happiness had proven elusive. It was a relationship full of unhappiness and fighting.

The years had brought struggles, arguments, and infidelity from their current partner, and they remained together only for the sake of their son, a beautiful boy with gold curly locks like his father and deep y/c eyes like his parent.

Fate, however, had a peculiar way of orchestrating reunions.

One day, while they were reading some e-mails from work, Y/n stumbled on a particular one from their boss. The e-mail was about a short transfer of a few weeks to their base in London.

The more they read, the more they felt their heart sink. Them? Going back to London? It was out of the quest-

<<You are going to London?>> The surprised high-pitch tone of their son made them jump.

His little face had a happy expression written all over it. He always wanted to visit the big city. Since Y/n's friends and parents were from there, it was very rational as a wish. <<What did we say about others' personal space?>> The kid ignored them and started to (almost) scream: <<Please can I come with you? Please, please, please?>> In the end, Y/n accepted. That feeling of nausea rising more and more by the second.

After they settled into a temporary apartment in central London, the little boy started to beg. He wanted to go outside. To explore London. <<There's an incredible bookshop near here. I saw it in the cab on the way here.>> Y/n, that was drinking some water, let the glass go. As a result, it smashed on the floor, pieces of glass going everywhere. <<Shoot. Hold on, kiddo. Don't move.>>

They suddenly felt awful. The sense of nausea and anxiety gripped their stomach. They were about to throw up. They tried to persuade the little boy to go somewhere else. But, as they started to think about someplace to go, they remembered that most of those places were the same that they, Aziraphale and Crowley, used to go. So it was inevitable meeting the demon and…

-.-.-.-.-.-

It was a sunny day, unusual for being in London. Crowley got out of the Bentley, directed to the bookshop before him. His phone was in his hand, and the chat between him and Y/n opened. Since Aziraphale and Y/n parted ways, the demon saw the difference in the angel. Maybe not during the Armageddon, but the moment that all ended, Crowley knew that Aziraphale missed them. The books that Y/n used to love were on the angel's desk, away from the public gaze. And the music that filled the bookshop was almost inexistent because most of the songs reminded him of them.

And Crowley couldn't stand to see his best friends like this any longer. Not him. Not after all they've been through. He wanted to contact them. But despite the effort, they didn't seem to want a connection, making the demon ask himself what Aziraphale could have said to have that reaction out of the human.

-.-.-.-.-.-

The more Y/n and their son walked, the more their heart was heavy with memories of the past. They were strolling through the bustling streets of Soho when they saw the silhouette of Aziraphale's shop. Without realizing it, they froze on the spot. His son was next to them, asking if they were okay. Suddenly panic and a powerful feeling to go away filled their brains. They needed to go. Immediately. They weren't ready for the possibility of meeting the angel. Not now. Not when there was their kid with them. What were they thinking?

They finally decided to turn around and go to the apartment when their gaze met Crowley's, who seemed frozen in time as he caught sight of them. It was too late to turn back now. Or was it?

Only when the demon looks passed between them and the kid, Y/n realized it was too late.

<<Nomy (*), who is that man? Do you know him?>> Y/n sighed. <<Yes, my love. It's a very long friend of mine.>> <<I never saw him, why?>> Y/n was biting their cheeks, extremely nervous. They and the demon continue to stare at each other. <<Did you have a fight?>> <<No, baby. It's just…>> they sighed again, breaking eye contact with Crowley. They kneel in front of him and continue: <<…Time and relationships sometimes are difficult. Especially for adults, my love. And unfortunately, some friends along the way tend to… fade away.>> The kid nodded, looking before his parent and then Crowley. <<He seems nice.>> Y/n chuckled with melancholy. <<He is...>> <<Is him your friend too, Nomy?>>

Y/n frowned, looking toward where their son was glancing at. As they turned their gaze, they could see the demon, still with a speechless expression on his face, talking to…

<<Aziraphale...>> they whispered.

When the angel turned his face, they looked at each other. Both feeling an overwhelming sensation.

-.-.-.-.-.- -.-.-.-.-.- -.-.-.-.-.- -.-.-.-.-.- -.-.-.-.-.- -.-.-.-.-.- -.-.-.-.-.- (*) Nomy is a non-binary name for parents that I find on the internet and I find it too cute to not put it in here.

#aziraphale x reader #aziraphale #good omens #good omens fanfiction #good omens fandom #good omens aziraphale #angst #x reader #x y/n #x you

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that-butch-archivist · 23 days

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"Christopher Street, NYC, 1988" by Kathryn Kirk

source: The Wild Good: Lesbian Photographs & Writings On Love, edited by Beatrix Gates

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mybeingthere · 4 months

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Cousin of Edward Gorey, Ken Morton, recalls: “Cats were the only love for Edward. Even more, according to somebody, he loved cats more than people. Perhaps, in some ways, they replaced him family. And in his house cats could do what they wanted. For example, sleeping on his beard, shoulders when he was watching TV, on the table at which he worked”.

Artist and author Edward Gorey (1925-2000) was a child prodigy. He taught himself to draw by age two and to read by age 3, he skipped early years of school. Prior to college he served in World War II from 1943 until after the war. After which he attended Harvard where he was very active in numerous artistic interests and then went on to become an illustrator for Doubleday Anchor. There, he designed more than fifty covers and became recognized as a major commercial illustrator. Gorey moved through multiple other publishing houses before going free-lance in the mid-1960s. It’s said that he created covers for over 300 books of other authors in addition to his own, personal creations.

As early as 1939, Gorey began exhibiting his delightful art and in 1953 he published what is considered one of the early pre-cursors to the graphic novel movement, The Unstrung Harp. It didn’t take long for Gorey’s writings and art to begin receiving serious critical reviews and praise.

In 1972 he published his first anthology, Amphigorey – this is the book by which I discovered his works and fell ever after in love. I went on to collect Amphigorey Again and many of his individual prints and books of art. I love his quirky cross-hatch prints and books so much that I began attending auctions in search of first editions and signed works. Perhaps my favorite is The Gashleycrumb Tinies in which “N is for Neville who died of ennui.”

What I love most about Gorey is that his creations refuse to be categorized. All of his artwork seems to come together in a tone of casual, impending doom. His work is so N is for Neville_Goreycompellingly original that their specific aesthetic is referred to as “Goreyesque.” Part of their delightful eeriness is how all the art and stories seem to unfold in a setting that feels somehow outside of time. As if he has bottled a moment we would never stumble across in life but feel is all too familiar to us in its absurdity. Most of all, his works, even his commercial work, reflects what all of us as artists desire most. He lived how he wanted and made work that called to him. Many people believe that his life was his art but I believe his art was his life as a self-actualized individual.

https://necessarywhimsy.com/.../artist-introduction.../

https://www.edwardgoreyhouse.org/.../edward-gorey...

https://www.newyorker.com/.../edward-goreys-enigmatic-world

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zeke-in-devildom · 1 month

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Dissonance - Chapter 26: Wrathful Hearts

The relief was almost immediate. Zeke felt his shoulders sag slightly the moment the cool Devildom night air hit him, releasing a tension even he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He could still hear the pounding music inside the club, but mercifully his body no longer felt like it vibrated through every one of his frayed nerve endings. The throbbing behind his eyes even subsided into a dull ache.

It wasn’t a complete respite, however. Taking a deep breath of fresh air caused a twinge of pain in his chest, and before thinking about it Zeke had raised a hand to rub tenderly at the phantom wound that had not yet been sustained. How could possible futures cause him actual pain? Before coming to the Devildom his abilities had certainly caused him plenty of issues, but never like this. All his difficulties had been regulated firmly to his own mind and the ignorance of the non-magical and mundane aspects of human society. He did not like these new developments.

There had to be a way to control this better.

“Are you alright? Does it hurt?” Satan’s concerned voice reminded him that he needed to keep his head firmly in the here and now. Zeke let his eyes flutter closed, brow furrowing as he brought his focus sharply to the present and away from distant futures that might never come. He used the warmth of the arm around his waist, holding him protectively, to anchor himself to what was real.

“I’m okay. It’s just the stress of midterms, deadlines, and being outed. I’m exhausted.” All reasonable excuses and all true enough, but Zeke didn’t want to deal with the visions or try to explain them or how they were evolving. A part of him did consider telling Satan just to spite Barbatos and the butler’s warning to keep them to himself. The more reasonable part of him knew that there was no reason to stress or sadden the brothers with something they couldn’t actually help change or control. He would figure this out on his own.

“Excessive stress can cause many troubling symptoms in humans. If your stress has reached a level that you’re in physical pain perhaps we need to find a way to address that. As much as I hate to ask Lucifer for anything, I’m sure he could arrange for your school workload to be reduced if it is causing your physical health to deteriorate.” It was sweet, how attentive and worried Satan could get.

“It’s fine, Satan. Midterms are over, my publisher has the final draft of my next book, and we can’t really change that everyone knows who I am now. I’m sure I’ll feel better if I just get a little rest.” He had only managed to get one halfway decent night of sleep since before midterms started, and that had only been thanks to Belphie’s intervention.

“Then I will make sure my idiotic brothers don’t bother you with their inane nonsense over the weekend.” It was adorable how very serious Satan could get, and he could appreciate the Avatar of Wrath’s sentiments. The brothers did tend to try to drag him everywhere and include him in everything all of the time. Zeke honestly appreciated that too. Satan himself had taken him to plenty of museums and art galleries since he had arrived. Still, being pulled in so many directions constantly was exhausting.

“My hero.” Zeke let a satisfied smile tug the corners of his mouth upwards as he watched the Avatar of Wrath’s cheeks flush a pretty shade of pink.

“You’re too cheeky for a human.” Satan huffed, but his hand stayed against Zeke’s lower back as he guided the way back towards the House of Lamentation. For his part, Zeke was more than happy to walk in silence, close enough to feel the heat radiating off the demon beside him. Despite what he had said to Asmo in the club, he couldn’t help but gravitate towards Satan even if he knew it was foolish. Just getting to be this close to him would have to be enough, that was what he told himself, but deep down he knew that was a blatant lie.

He tried to distract himself by observing his surroundings. The lesser demons on the street gave a wide berth to the pair, none wanting to provoke the ire of Satan. Zeke could see the hunger radiating off many of them, they would gladly rip him to pieces in a heartbeat if he wasn’t with one of the brothers. It was a sober reminder that he was a sheep among wolves, helpless without one of his guardians. Except those guardians were also wolves. Every logical thing told him that he didn’t belong here.

Too bad the heart rarely listened to logic. All the visions of the future suggested that he would die sooner rather than later. Even if he lived to be old, it was nothing to them. Why did his gut tell him he was exactly where he was supposed to be when all the evidence was to the contrary?

Zeke sighed and turned his attention away from the streets and up towards the Devildom sky. He could see the stars so clearly here, there was too much light pollution in the city he lived to actually see the stars in the human world. They reached the gates of the House of Lamentation. There was something particularly enchanting about the Devildom moon. It was hauntingly beautiful. He stopped walking so that he could stare up at it, feeling Satan stop beside him.

“The moon is beautiful, isn’t it?” The words left him without his consent, but he couldn’t find it in him to be upset about it either. Did Satan even know the significance of the words? Zeke could tell that the demon had fixed that intense emerald gaze on him, as he did so often when they were together, but he didn’t turn to look at him. He could imagine Levi absolutely losing it if he’d heard it. The otaku would have had a full-on nerd out, if he didn’t blue screen. That was actually an amusing thought. Except that was not something he would have ever said to Levi. Or any of the others for that matter.

The silence stretched between them.

“I can die happy.” Zeke felt his heart stutter as Satan’s normally smooth voice came out hushed and a little breathless. Of course Satan would know. Also leave it to Satan to give the most direct response possible. He liked that about him. Even if Zeke couldn’t read auras, he knew that the fourth born was not one to mince his words when it came to his feelings, unlike some of his other brothers.

A warm hand brushed against his, Zeke finally turning to look at Satan as their fingers intertwined. He was surprised to see the familiar curling black horns of Satan’s demon form. Those green eyes were gleaming, full of starlight as they gazed at him with the softest, most adoring look - one he had thought only reserved for all the stray cats that the demon loved to feed. When something hard and cold curled loosely around his waist Zeke didn’t have to glance down to know that it was Satan’s armor plated tail.

“I’m only human.” They were being illogical. Satan had no good reason to care for him this much.

“I don’t care.” Zeke felt his heart flutter traitorously in his chest as Satan raised his free hand to cup his face tenderly.

“I’m not going to be here very long.” This could never last.

“All the more reason to take advantage of the time we have.” Zeke closed his eyes as he felt Satan press their foreheads together gently, careful of his horns.

“Fuck it.” The moment he felt Satan’s lips brush against his, the entirety of the three realms faded away. The kiss was perfect. It was tender and sensual, Satan’s lips were warm and surprisingly soft, and they slotted against his like they were made to be there.

Zeke really was only human, how could he possibly resist the temptation of a demon? Whatever the future might be, right now all he wanted was to be with Satan. Maybe that was selfish when he knew it could only end in tragedy, but he desperately wanted to be selfish this time.

The world came rushing back when the kiss finally ended, Zeke wasn’t sure if it had been a few seconds or a few minutes, but they were both breathing heavily. It was good to know the demon was as affected as he was. He enjoyed how flushed Satan’s handsome face was, and how his pupils were blown wide with desire. There was a sense of pride there, he, a lowly human, had the Avatar of Wrath wanting him.

“Make a pact with me.” The words flew from Zeke’s mouth, like the confession it felt so right that he couldn’t control his own voice. All of the brothers had offered him their pacts, all but Satan, but it was Satan’s he wanted most of all.

Rather than words, his demon responded by moving his hand from Zeke’s jaw to grasp the back of his neck and forcefully pull him back into another, deeper kiss. A low growl rumbled through Satan’s chest, which Zeke was now pressed flush against as his mouth opened, their tongues tangling together. One of his hands had found its way into blond hair, twisting the messy strands between his fingers and giving gentle tugs as he tried to pull Satan impossibly closer.

A shock of infernal magic wove around them, he could feel the now familiar tingle racing across his tongue, his piercing clacking briefly against a sharp fang as a faint coppery taste blended with the tang of demonus that lingered on Satan’s tongue. He felt taloned fingers dig just a little harder into his neck, and realized that the Avatar of Wrath was squeezing over Lucifer’s mark. His heart ached as he realized the jealousy and insecurity that Satan was feeling as Lucifer’s mark had been placed first. Zeke bit the demon’s bottom lip to distract him, which must have worked because the grip on his neck loosened immediately.

Bracing himself for the next part he wondered for only a moment where Satan’s pact mark would etch itself into his flesh. The sudden burning sensation over his heart seemed so obvious in retrospect. That was the only fitting place for the mark of Wrath to sit. He broke the kiss so that he could bury his face against the side of Satan’s neck, sagging against his beautiful demon as the infernal magic dispersed, seemingly taking most of his energy with it. Forging the pacts was always so draining.

Strong arms wrapped around him, holding him close for the time being, both just basking in the afterglow of the kiss and the new pact. Zeke didn’t know exactly how long they stood there, but eventually he felt Satan pull away. He missed how warm he was, but not for long, because suddenly his feet were off the ground as Satan picked him up, cradling him like a princess from one of the demon’s cheesy romance novels. If it was anyone else he’d have been indignant about being carried, but he was feeling just tired and sappy enough to allow it.

They ended up curled up on one of the library sofas in front of the fireplace, Zeke sprawled out on Satan’s chest while the demon quietly read aloud, holding the book with one hand and gently running the other through Zeke’s hair soothingly until they both eventually fell asleep.

#obey me #obey me mc #obey me oc #obey me zeke #obey me ezekiel jada pendergast #obey me satan #obey me dissonance

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asecretvice · 5 months

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Hey. I just really want to thank you for “And This, Your Living Kiss”. I’m guessing you may be a bit tired hearing us talk about it, what, 4, 5 years after you published it? I just need to express some gratitude. Your poem “Perfect” was probably the first poem ever to make cry, and I still read it occasionally when I’m down. It’s honestly probably my favorite poem ever. For me it captures this delicate, still very anchored kind of happiness that just hits so deep. Kind of like the opposite of melancholia. I hope you get what I’m saying and that I’m not just talking out of my ass, and if I am, I was hoping you’d share some of your thoughts about this poem?

Also, this story is truly my favorite story ever. Has been for a very long time. A question I have for you is, is there any place where we can read more of your poetry? And if not, I was also wondering if you’d be willing to share with us some of your favorite poets/poems?

Firstly, thank you for your patience; sometimes it takes me a while to get to asks.

But mostly, thank you so much for these kind words. Do not ever doubt yourself when taking the time to extend your positivity to others; I—and I daresay the vast majority of people—do not get tired of receiving these small kindnesses. It’s a reminder that life can be full of connection, a reminder that when I send a little bit of my heart out into our raging, grief-filled world, there are those who accept and understand and, hopefully, keep passing that love forward. And thusly we make the world a better place. So please receive my gratitude for reaching out.

That you love “Perfection” means so much to me. It was the first piece of the fic I wrote, you know, and pretty much became the basis for who Dean is in the fic thereafter. I don’t feel you’re talking out of your ass at all. Dean is such a complex character, and I think that’s why so many of us relate to him; we see our own complexity and contradictions reflected back at us through him. There is of course happiness there among the rest—a boy/man who is at his happiest when with his family (blood or no). Underneath it all is that deep thread of love we (and Cas!) admire and strive toward within ourselves.

Unfortunately I don’t have poetry published anywhere else. Maybe someday.

Several of my fav poets/poems appear in the fic already, though they’re among many others. However because I’ve been thinking about her lately, I hope you’ll indulge me if I talk about Elizabeth Barrett Browning and her masterpiece Sonnets from the Portuguese.

In the modern day EBB’s words most often show up in the guise of “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.” It sounds a bit hokey, doesn’t it? I know I always thought so; especially to my teenage ear it was sickly sweet if not downright simpering. Spoiler: I was wrong. Context changes everything.

Do you believe that some books or stories come into your life at just the right time? Fast forward to when I’m 18 or 19. I’m in a town I’ve never been to before, visiting people I barely know. My host needs to work and offers to drop me off in the town center to explore. I agree because the weather’s fair and I’m desperate for a break from polite company, as it were. Happily it’s a pleasant area, full of green and not far from a large canal. After wandering along its edge for a while I aim back toward the local stores and window-shop up and down the streets. At last I stumble upon a used bookstore right next to a gelateria! Well you couldn’t have put two things together that more matched my taste if you tried. Naturally, I resolve to find a book and then go next door for some gelato and spend my time enjoying them both.

The bookstore is in an older building, for sure, with hardwood floors and the type of wainscoting that make me think it’s from the early 20th century at least. It’s split into multiple rooms and connected by open doorways; I wonder if it used to be a home. Many, though not all of the bookshelves are built into the walls and painted a pleasant white, stuffed to the gills with books in every color. The only other soul in the building is the man behind the front counter, and aside from a swift exchange of polite smiles I am left alone. I start by going to the left and poking around the shop and its little book-filled rooms counterclockwise, determined to choose at least one thing before I leave. What type, what genre? What length, what mood? I don’t know, but am sure I’ll know it when I see it. I’m free to choose whatever I like, you understand, because rarely had an English teacher in my past convinced me I couldn’t teach myself better, and I’d resolved never to take a class in the English department in college if I could help it (and for better or worse, I never did).

I take my time twisting in and out of the treasure-filled corners, no rush and no fuss. Yet no book sings to me. At length I near the back of the shop; on the far side beneath a window is a short, two-shelf bookcase. With waning hope I crouch in front of the shelf and begin reading spines. Aha! It’s filled with poetry. Perhaps there is some hope after all…then there it is: Sonnets from the Portuguese. Definitely faux-fancy binding, but still pretty. It looks like this:

I flip through, and every sonnet is accompanied by a different piece of silhouette art. It’s lovely, and it sings to me. A small pencil mark on the inside indicates it only costs a couple bucks, so I rummage in my wallet, stop by the front desk, and leave the store with the book clutched in my hands. With the rest of my cash I go to the gelateria next door and pick a couple of unusual flavors and again, alone, I choose a rickety metal table outside and sit with nothing but birds and sunshine for company. I skip the introduction and open the book immediately to the first sonnet:

I thought once how Theocritus had sung Of the sweet years, the dear and wished for years, Who each one in a gracious hand appears To bear a gift for mortals, old or young: And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me. Straightway I was ’ware, So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair, And a voice said in mastery while I strove, . . 'Guess now who holds thee?'—'Death,' I said, But, there, The silver answer rang . . 'Not Death, but Love.'

What do you glean from the poem? It is slow and sad, a bright mythologized ideal set against a woman sunk deep in dark grief, a darkness that swiftly shifts into horror as a Shape appears behind her, physically pulls her from her weeping, and demands a response. She is so sure that her own death has at last come upon her, except what’s appeared…is love? Love, of all things? Love?

This is not at all what I am expecting to read. I fill up with another spoonful of gelato and eagerly turn the page.

And turn, and turn—Reader, I’m hooked. I’m strapped into a rollercoaster and freefalling down the first slope, on a wild ride built by a woman who’s been chronically ill since childhood, who’s lived through the death of her mother and beloved brother, whose father keeps her in his house and firmly under his thumb even long into her thirties, who still manages to write and get published and yet still lives lonely in her dark room…Sonnets from the Portuguese is an epic journey via the most astonishing set of 44 sonnets about how love completely changed her life, sonnets which her husband later touted to be the best in English since Shakespeare (and I agree). If you haven’t read the sonnets I encourage you to do so before reading on, link here, but if you’d rather I walk you through…

Even reading them again now I am in awe. How baldly and boldly she talks about how she and Robert, because of course it’s about her famous courtship with Robert Browning, are not meant to be. Not just her circumstances at home, not just her poor health, not just the fact that she thinks herself so below him and his worth, but also her grief. The darkness that lives in her! So many lines from these poems are woven into the tapestry of my life, like from sonnet V: Behold and see / What a great heap of grief lay hid in me. She warns that it could ruin him. Stand further off then! go! it ends.

And yet the next one (VI) begins: Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand / Henceforward in thy shadow. It is too late. She’s already been changed. The world and her perception of it are already shifting. Read how the beginning of VII illustrates this:

The face of all the world is changed, I think, Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul Move still, oh, still, beside me, as they stole Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink, Was caught up into love, and taught the whole Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink, And praise its sweetness, Sweet, with thee anear.

She was sinking into oblivion, death her companion, until he stood between them and she was caught up into love, no longer to go through her days sitting simple and still in her room, content to wallow in the sorrow she’d been given. Yet…that still doesn’t matter, because how can she reciprocate? And, crucially, does it make her a bad person that she can’t?

am I cold, Ungrateful, that for these most manifold High gifts, I render nothing back at all? Not so; not cold,—but very poor instead. (VIII)

Have you ever been there? Found yourself wondering if you’re even capable of love and kindness toward others given all you’ve been through, and how horrible it feels to think that ability’s been stolen from you? Is what little you can eke out even worth anything in comparison? Beloved, I only love thee! let it pass. (IX)

But she continues turning the idea of love over in her mind. Could it be that love is fully worthy, no matter where it comes from? There’s nothing low / In love, she reasons, when love the lowest (X). Still it does not seem that she herself could be worthy—and if this is worthy love, anyway, would she have even known how to do it if she’d not first been shown by him?

And thus, I cannot speak Of love even, as a good thing of my own: Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak, And placed it by thee on a golden throne,— And that I love (O soul, we must be meek!) Is by thee only, whom I love alone. (XII)

It seems that Robert persists in his own love, because then an earnest plea: that he love her for love’s sake, because people change in time. She herself is changing now because of him! Do not even love her because he loves taking care of and comforting her, because his love could lessen her need for that comfort! (XIV)

Regardless she is not without feeling, as sad and calm as she outwardly seems. She’s just not like him. But…could his love and his will be strong enough to overcome all these obstacles? Why, conquering / May prove as lordly and complete a thing / In lifting upward, as in crushing low! With such success, she says, I at last record, / Here ends my strife. (XVI)

But of course, nothing can be quite so simple. Her first question is how she can be useful to him. This does not feel like a full partnership:

How, Dearest, wilt thou have me for most use? A hope, to sing by gladly? or a fine Sad memory, with thy songs to interfuse? A shade, in which to sing—of palm or pine? A grave, on which to rest from singing? Choose. (XVII)

That theme of death, too, is still ever-present. Even as the next couple of sonnets talk about how they’ve exchanged locks of hair she speaks of it. In XX a sea-change is further revealed, however, when she compares her life before Robert to the one after knowing him, how link by link, [I] Went counting all my chains but now, in contrast to VII’s cup of dole, she drinks from life’s great cup of wonder! She begs him to keep saying that he loves her (XXI), continuing the theme that his love will teach her, lift her, allay her many fears. But the next again ends with the death-hour rounding it.

Robert’s response? That her death would harm him. She admits to marveling at this revelation. If it is to be believed,

Then my soul, instead Of dreams of death, resumes life’s lower range. Then, love me, Love! look on me—breathe on me! As brighter ladies do not count it strange, For love, to give up acres and degree, I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange My near sweet view of heaven, for earth with thee! (XXIII)

So first we learn that it is Love, not Death that has grabbed her; then we know that she feels Robert’s soul has slipped between her and the brink of death and thus she begins to question her constant sorrow; she is changing by his love; she will stop worrying about her worthiness and be of use to him and bask in what love he is willing to give her; but only now, finally, does she give up death itself in order to live her life. She is choosing to live!

The next few sonnets double down on this, about how all her hope had become despair, about how for so long she only had visions for company, and didn’t know they were mere shades in comparison to a reality of actually living, how Love, as strong as Death, retrieves as well. Also important? His saving kiss (XXVII).

We’ve come far, but progress isn’t an even trajectory. The rollercoaster dips again: now that she wishes to live, she wishes to live in his presence. She is both touch-starved and starved for company. Because their letters—one of, if not the most famous set of love letters in the English language—are to her all dead paper, mute and white! She speaks of how they fixed a day in spring / To come and touch my hand…a simple thing, / Yet I wept for it! (XXVIII) So we got the first mention in the last sonnet of his kissing her, and now a memory of when he first touched her hand. She goes on to write about how thinking of him is no longer enough; she needs to be near him. She then wonders, when he is gone, if she has embellished his feelings for her. Can you blame her? I certainly can’t. Her dark thoughts are now manifesting in these doubts about her perception, rather than her abilities.

But upon his next visit, she admits, I erred / In that last doubt! (XXXI). His presences reassures that all is real, not dream. And while she has always found it unlikely that their bond could have formed so fast (Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may quickly loathe, XXXII), now that she knows him she knows it was wrong to think that of him. She then brings up her childhood and draws parallels between the bright happy love she felt then with the love she feels now…even though, given the life she’s lived, the love she feels really can’t be the same. Her thoughts are no longer that of a child’s, which can be lightly turned aside, but for him she can and will turn from her dark, lonely thoughts when called.

This all decided, that their love is deep and true and as real as the loves she used to feel, and that she wants to be with him, an important question remains: If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange / And be all to me? Simply reading the poems and knowing their time period (Victorian) it could be enough to assume that it’s a regular leaving of your childhood home to create your own. But remember what I said at the beginning? The control her father exerts over her? She knows he would never approve. Hell, it was difficult enough for her siblings to make lives for themselves within his shadow. Going with Robert would mean truly leaving everything. She knows it won’t be easy: For grief indeed is love and grief beside (XXXV).

This great fear invites more doubt. She admits she has grown stronger and more confident, but that doesn’t make her troubles disappear. She knows she does their love a disservice in so doubting and in so fearing, but she can’t help it. But then…she returns to the physical, to his presence. In XXXVIII she speaks of their first three kisses: the first on her hand, the second for her forehead, but half-landed on her hair, and the third upon my lips was folded down / In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed / I have been proud and said, “My love, my own.”

She goes on in the next sonnets to say how grateful she is that he truly sees her and knows her beyond all the layers of sorrow and sickness she labors under. It should also be noted that, uncommonly for their time, he at 33 or so was courting her at 39/40. And so she is grateful, too, that he thinks it soon when others cry “Too late.” (XL). She then thanks all who had ever loved or listened, but again thanks Robert for listening to her even when it was difficult. She doubles down, now, on her decision to live:

I seek no copy now of life’s first half: Leave here the pages with long musing curled, And write me new my future’s epigraph, New angel mine, unhoped for in the world! (XLII)

And then—only now, as the rollercoaster shoots us upward and onward in joy and hope for a good, loving future—does she begin sonnet XLIII with How do I love thee? She asks this, not as some young girl with no life experience about a boy she’s seen across the room (I mean, how else was I supposed to interpret it, given how it’s used in the modern age?). She asks this as a woman full four decades into her life, a life full of chronic illness, an authoritarian home, and familial grief. She asks this after months of courtship during which she fought for every inch of belief, and hope, and joy. Where she at last came to know her own strength of heart and of will. Because she does leave her home, dear Reader. She elopes with Robert Browning, gets married in France, and lives out the rest of her life in Italy, where death finally catches up to her at 55. Keep all this in mind, as you read the sonnet in full:

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday’s Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

There is one more sonnet, where she brings back flowers, a motif I didn’t spend time on in this post, to talk about how their souls are intertwined down to their roots. I bring it up now not just because flowers end this glorious cycle of forty-four poems, but because I think of her grave.

A year or two after I fell in love with these poems I was lucky enough to be in Italy myself. Some friends and I were walking around Florence and I insisted we had to find the English cemetery. I remember it as being this island of a hill in the middle of some busy streets, all fenced in with a little building at the entrance. When we scurried across the street and inside, there was a nun there who greeted us warmly. I told her I was looking for Elizabeth Barrett Browning and she lit up. She motioned for us to follow as she told me that they do their best to take care of her grave, and have always done so (I don’t know if she means just those who work there or Italians in general, as EBB was loved by Florence in her time). But, she said, they did not look kindly upon Robert, because he spent all this money on a beautiful tomb but he never, ever came to visit. She said this with the authority of someone who had witnessed it herself, though of course that was impossible. This was clearly a story deemed important enough—or perhaps simply so full of strong feeling—to stand the test of time.

The tomb is indeed beautiful. The pictures when I did a quick lookup on the internet do not do it justice; forgive me for not having the energy now to dig up where I’ve saved the old files of the pictures I took myself. At the time it was absolutely surrounded by tall, enormous roses, deep red in color. After I had my fill the nun was kind enough to take us on a tour of the rest of the cemetery, which was lovely. But I’ve never been able to shake the memory of that story, the one where the nuns lived and died resentful of an absent Robert.

It wasn’t until about a year and a half ago, when I read Fiona Sampson’s recent biography Two-Way Mirror: The Life of Elizabeth Barrett Browning that it finally made sense. Robert often avoided grief in this way, it seems, afraid to travel back to England when family members were ailing until it was too late. Whether you agree with his actions or not, his absence we can at least hope is from his great love turned to great grief, rather than a lack of feeling on his part. He himself died in Venice; their only child died in Italy also. Robert is, however, still separated from Elizabeth in death: he is buried in Poet’s Corner, Westminster Abbey, London.

If you’re hoping for a neat bow on the end of this post, there isn’t. I think of her often not just because I love her poetry but, I suppose, because each year is slowly, inexorably bringing me closer to the age she was when she decided she would live her life again, and though I haven’t found a soul-shaking love like she has, I am trying, trying, trying to live, too.

#opal replies #living kiss #anonymous #poetry #elizabeth barrett browning

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