#miguel is eternally suffering

[bumpkinspice0]

Parallels Chapter 6

Miguel O'Hara x Spider!FemReader

No use of y/n

Rating: Explicit (Minors DNI!!!)

Word Count: 5596

Summary: Miguel unlocks some of the secrets to your connection, but what are the next steps from here?

Warnings: SMUT! (Little strip tease, fingering, grinding, praise kink, dirty talk, p in v sex, Miguel being a lil' switch bitch, you take him for a ride) Miguel POV, Mutual pinning, info dump, Hobie fucking Brown has entered the building Small note: I'm making a taglist for this fic! Just comment or message if you want to be added or just interact with this post! Ageless or minor blogs WILL NOT be added

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Series Masterlist

AO3

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Chapter 6

A Mutual Agreement

The earliest morning light starts peaking through the windows. The sunrise was so different here somehow. So much richer and golden and warm. The deep night sky now fading into lustrous oranges and pinks that illuminated the glass-covered skyscrapers into golden obelisks. It was so unlike his world— or maybe he just hadn’t watched the sunrise in a while.

Miguel had stayed longer than he wanted. 

You’d fallen asleep in his arms almost immediately. You asked him. How could he say no? He told you he’d wait until you fell asleep, and that was over an hour ago. His sleep schedule was so eternally fucked up that the early morning hours didn’t phase him anymore. It’d been years since he’d gotten a proper night’s sleep, he thinks. 

You slept like the dead. Still and heavy in his arms, but so peaceful. It was nice to finally see you tame. You were always so fierce. So feisty and ready to take what you wanted. But now you finally rested— and his arms.

As the minutes ticked by he felt the buzz of the spider-sense rise up again. Not in the way it had been before but like it was reminding him that it was here. It would always be here around you. A connection he was so close to unlocking the secrets of. 

Could he have this all the time? Have you all to himself? Could this really be harmless? No. He knew what that mentality brought, and he will never let anyone pay that price ever again. 

You were incredible. You were lovely and cheerful, despite what your past held. It was the mark of a good spider and you were an amazing spider— and he was hindering that. He saw the change in you when the sense showed up. You became more skittish. More defensive and distracted, and your hero life suffered for it. He did that. This was his fault. Who knows how much he’d affected in this reality simply by having you in spider society? If he was half the man he was known to be, he would wipe your memory and kick you out— but he was never the person everyone seemed to think he was. What man ever is?

He’d given himself a mask. A protective wall ten feet high to keep people from getting in. It was better this way. Better for people to think him a cold monster than get close— But you were slowly removing the foundations of that carefully curated wall.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t enjoying it— some parts of it. You were unlike anyone he’d ever met before. He’s still not entirely sure if it’s because it’s just you — or because the sense was getting what it wanted. But this was a part of him, right? It was him wanting this. 

He was being selfish. After building an empire to help atone for his past sins, saving countless lives and realities— he was being selfish again. He wanted to be.

Or maybe he was just curious. He doesn’t really know anymore. 

This wasn’t love. It wasn’t even a crush. In some ways, you probably despised each other, for lack of a better term. This thing was… what did you say? 

Fucked up, isn’t it?

Yeah, he can agree with that. Every time you were near each other it was like something new was unlocked. The way you fought together in the park felt surreal. Somewhere deep down in him, he knows it would never feel that way with anyone else.

You were completely capable of handling the anomaly yourself. He shouldn’t have even come. He knew he shouldn’t have, but again, he was curious. 

He’d felt the ping of the now familiar sense last night while he was in his room. It was faint but it was there— but different this time? It feels different every time. He’s given up on attempting to explain it.

He turned around, expecting to see you there in his lab, but of course, there was nothing. A quick check-in with Lyla and he quickly discovered you weren’t even in his dimension. So why could he feel you? He felt anxious. Like he had to get to you. Maybe you were in trouble— or maybe this was just something else.

Regardless, he tracks your signature, if only for some peace of mind. Your location lights up in your reality, but you weren’t alone. For the first time, an anomaly made its way into your dimension. You were fighting it right now. He felt you because you were in distress— that was his theory anyway. He was through the portal before he could stop himself.

He wondered if you felt him too. He wondered a lot of things about you. 

You fought together, the threat was neutralized, and the job was done. He was back at the tower. You were home. He shouldn’t have gone back. He knew you were safe. He knew it. 

And now he was, still here… laying naked in your bed, holding you in his arms.

The way you felt tonight will haunt him forever. Your lips, your skin— your cunt. He could have fucked you the entire night and it wouldn’t have been enough. You were like a drug that threatened to send him over the edge. He was already clinging on to what little of his humanity he had left, and here you were driving him to madness. 

He couldn’t be careless with this, he couldn’t afford that luxury anymore.

He had to figure out what this was.

He slowly slinks out from under you, making sure you’re still comfortable. He brings the blankets up over your shoulders taking one last look at you. Not wanting to wake you, he leaves from the roof.

——————

The massive mechanical arms bring out a single glowing red cage. Inside it, a familiar green sadistic face. She’s brought overhead and lowered in front of you.

“ Spider-Woman! ” The Goblin Queen sneers, “ I’ll get out of here, and when I do you’ll pay! You’ll all pay! ” 

“This the one?” Margo asks.

“Yep, that’s her.” You confirm dismissively. The arms immediately carry her over to the teleport dock. She doesn’t hesitate to vow revenge on you in every way imaginable.

You got called into the tower today. Not from Miguel, disappointingly, but from Margo in the lock-up sector. You’d never gotten a call from Spider-Byte before but apparently, you had to confirm and sign off on any anomaly that was in your dimension. Just more protocol you didn’t know anything about.

“Oh, that’s a feisty one.” A voice tuts from behind. The unmistakable thick British accent brings a smile to your face. You turn around and sure enough, there’s the infamous Hobie Brown perched in the corner. You’d only worked with him a handful of times but his reputation very much preceded him. He hops down, walking into the computer space 

“You have no idea.” you tut back.

The machine begins knitting glowing red threads around the enclosure. It was mesmerizing in a creepy sort of way. You’d only seen it done once or twice before. 

“Heard the Big guy caught this one, didn’t he?” He asks.

“In my dimension,” you clarify, “So really I should get the credit.”

“Ah, here to claim your trophy then.” He grins.

“That's why I’m here.” You joke back. “Fortune and glory, obviously.”

He gives a small chuckle. To a lot of people, he came off as condescending but you really never got that vibe from him. He was maybe a little showboaty about his ‘fight the power’ attitude but it was honestly refreshing to have on a team of people pleasers. With everything you know about him, you’re amazed he even joined in the first place.

You don’t know who originally gave him the offer but he left it up in the air for weeks. Most spider’s jumped at the opportunity but he took his time. It’s fair. He’s still a kid with enough on his plate, as well as a blossoming career as an anarchist-model-punk rock icon. 

And this place… well it didn’t seem like his style. Even so, he was still here.

“So you came all the way here and the big guy can’t spare a minute?” Hobie asks. 

“I suppose so. I didn’t even know this was protocol until an hour ago,” you gesture your head back toward the growing stockpile of villains behind you. It had nearly doubled since you were here last, “Byte’s got her work cut out for her.”

“It’s gettin’ crazy out there,” he shrugs back. He pauses for a moment, biting his lip, “You think all this is worth it, then?”

“Whatta ya mean?”

“All them.” he points his thumb back at the cages, “All of us. Wouldn’t all be here if it weren’t for us.”

“They’d be running around in someone else’s world if it weren’t for us.” 

“I suppose so,” He shrugs, turning to watch the mechanical arms knit their laser web, “Ain’t all so black ‘n white though, is it?” 

You’re not sure where he’s going with this. Maybe having second guesses about it all. It was an incredible responsibility on top of the ones you all had. The fate of existence relies on all of you. It was scary sometimes. Just to know how fragile it all was. 

Or maybe Hobie just wanted to stir the pot. It’s a 50/50 shot with him.

The Goblin Queen’s pod is complete. She disappears with a room-shaking blast. Hopefully, to never be seen again— By you at least.

Lyla calling your name catches your attention. She materializes in front of you.

“You’ve been requested to come to Sector 4.” She informs you and your stomach drops. Miguel’s sector. 

“Ooooo.” Hobie and Margo both taunt. Fucking teenagers. 

“Tell him I’ll be right there,” You wave Lyla’s form away, instantly feeling like you’re back in high school again. “All good here, Byte?”

“Golden,” Margo gives an O.K. sign, already moving on to her next of a million tasks. 

You turn to leave.

“I’ll see you ‘round, Spider-Woman,”  Hobie waves you off.

“See you ‘round, Spider-Man,'' you wave back before weaving back through the maze of caged villains. Margo had to be one of the hardest-working spiders, you swear. If Lyla was Miguel’s right-hand man, then she was Lyla’s. She was always here. Well, not here here but she couldn’t do everything she did if she was physically here.

There was a set of rules for interacting in other dimensions. One of which was you can’t be there more than 48 hours. Too much interference was always a risk. Any job that needed to be done, had to be done quickly and quietly. Staying in another dimension had consequences— Miguel made sure you all knew what they were.

You’d only learned about Miguel’s past through other people in vague warnings and stories. An entire dimension… gone. You can’t even imagine. The pain for what he had caused was always evident in his eyes. Just faintly. Something only people who had experienced great loss, like you and your fellow spiders, could understand. Loss of a loved one. Failing as a protector— The thought that none of this would have happened if it weren’t for you.

He had a wife. A daughter. 

You’d never ask Miguel about what he had done. No need to dig up his pain for your curiosity. You knew why he did it— A normal life. A family. Such a fantasy for people like you. You’d be tempted too, if it was all offered to you. Still, even out of such tragedy, this place existed. It existed to ensure it would never happen again. If he wanted to ever tell you, then you’d listen.

Three days. You hadn’t heard from him in three days. You can’t say you were surprised to wake up in an empty bed. You expected it, really. Even so, an overcasting shadow of disappointment lingered over you

Your sheets still smelled like him.

It was a hectic morning anyway. You woke up to frantic pounding at your door, after missing several calls from Jack. He heard the Green Goblin was spotted last night and Spider-Woman swooped in to save the day. It was always your code to call him after a bigger fight. Whether you were okay or needed to be driven to the hospital. You always called.

Jack had no idea about the multiverse. You wanted to keep it that way. The more he knew, the more at risk he was. He could always tell when you were lying but seemed to accept the fact that there are things you just can’t tell him. He risked a lot by simply just being your friend, he knew that.

You always hated making him worry.

You make it up to him by taking him and Ash out to brunch. You don’t deserve friends like them. You really don’t.

You swing to a stop outside of Miguel's room. Walking through the threshold, you already feel the spider-sense hum. 

You’re not sure what to expect. You knew he didn’t have any reason to be upset with you and your last encounter was left rather… unresolved. He was lingering somewhere in the back of your mind these days. Lustful obsessive thoughts you’d be ashamed to admit to. This sense did something to you— to both of you. It wasn’t only a connection but something more.

Who knows if you’ll ever be able to fully define it. A part of your powers that only worked around him? Some biological urge? World's most powerful aphrodisiac? The list seemed to grow with each interaction. 

He was there waiting for you this time, standing proudly at the base of his desk platform. Admittedly, some butterflies stir in your stomach. Almost like it was a relief to see him— or you were just eager to see where this would go.

“ Hola, añarita. ” He greets you with a small smile. 

“Afternoon, Boss.” You instantly feel stupid as soon as you say it. 

He gives a small breathy laugh. Yeah, you definitely feel stupid, “The Goblin Queen sent home?”

“Despite her protests, yes. You’re building quite the stockpile down there.”

“Spider’s hard at work,” He runs his thumb over his jaw as if contemplating what to say next. “You look… Nice today.”

“Oh– I. Thanks,” You look down at your standard spider suit he’s seen a million times. Well, you were both at a loss for what to really say to each other. You attempt to push this forward into a more productive conversation. “To what do I owe the pleasure today, Mr. O’hara?”

“First off, don’t call me that. Secondly—Lyla!” The room around you goes dark like a void, the floor seemingly falling away into black nothing. It was jarring, to say the least. You instinctually jump to Miguel’s side. 

Lustrous strands of red, blue, and yellow light illuminate in front of you. They lace and intertwine together into a helix. DNA strands, side by side.

“It’s… is this us?” you ask before he can explain. The tests. Your blood draw.

“Bingo,” he steps forward, the projections interacting around him. The yellow highlights of the strands brighten and enlarge, “This is us. Human us. What remains of our original genetic makeup.”

Your names highlight next to each strand. You take a step toward them. It was you on the most quantum level. The very base of your existence. It felt so alien. 

“And this…” He waves his hand. The yellow of the strands dulled to the background and the red and blue came forward, “... is the spider makeup.”

You’re not scientific in the slightest. He’d likely laid it out in a visual way you can understand, but you can’t help but notice how different they are. There was so much more in Miguel’s. Your DNA was speckled with spider here and there but his… against the yellow, it was hard to tell just how much it was.

“Initially, they of course don’t look anything alike. But a closer look…” He takes both hands and zooms in on the spider mutation. The projection morphs into a larger chart, breaking up each section with graphs and accompanying equations. 

It was all complete gibberish.

“And the closer look shows?” You prompt him.

“Here,” He zooms in on a pie chart. “This is the spider that bit you. They aren’t a natural species. They’re genetically created from a scope of different spiders. A completely unique hybrid.”

“Okay, I knew that part already.” 

He brings over another, completely identical chart, “And this… is my spider makeup.”

“Okay, we have the same mutation.” You’re admittedly a bit confused, “Like, almost everyone in this tower has the same mutation .”

“No, not like this.” a faint twinge of frustration washes over his face, “There are thousands of species and literally infinite combinations of their genetics. Yes, we all have the same mutation but everyone’s combination is different. With DNA like this, it’s like you were basically bitten by the same spider that… changed me.”

You take a moment to let that process. Infinite combinations of thousands of species. It was like picking the winning Powerball numbers twice in a row. Like randomly meeting someone on the other side of the world with the exact same name in the same exact clothes. It just didn’t happen.

“Okay, we have the same spider. Why do we… have a connection?” you ask.

He starts pacing about the various projections, “There are reports of people having been bit by the same spider sharing… similar connections. It’s simply nature. When changed into various spider-people, we’re not entirely human anymore. A new subspecies of humans. I call it arachno-humanoids.”

“That is literally the worst name I’ve ever heard,” You scoff. 

“Okay, well when you create an entire interdimensional superhuman strike force to save the fate of the multiverse, you can name them.”

Okay, fair enough.

“It’d be a cooler name than yours,” You mumble to yourself. 

“Anyway,” he pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a moment to breathe, “We’re all spider-people, but that manifests in various ways. Some slightly differing abilities or mutations depending on the hybrid you were bitten by. Yours and my powers didn’t manifest exactly the same, but they still recognize each other. We’re attracted to each other, we share a spider-sense because that’s part of the makeup of our spider's genetics. It wants us together because we’re technically the same species. To find a viable mate to—”

“Okay, that’s enough,” you cover your ears and turn around, walking through several projections.

“I know this is a lot,” Miguel follows after you. “And there’s more, but… I just want you to understand.”

“No, I got it!” You blurt, “We share a spider sense that drives me insane because we’re the same breed of arachnid-human-whatever. I got it !”

“Hey!” He grabs both your wrists, forcing you to halt in front of him. You can’t bring yourself to look him in the eye. “I know how this sounds. I know this is insane and ridiculous but… we don’t have to live like this forever.”

You pause, looking him in the eye. There was so much sincerity in them. So much caring. He was sorry this was happening. 

“What do you mean?” You ask.

“I can cut this out of our genetics. Mute this part of our powers completely.”

“How?” you immediately ask without even dwelling on the implications of what he just said.

He pauses. His head and shoulders drop, and the rest of his posture follows. He’s contemplating telling you something. He takes a few deep breaths before looking you in the eye again.

“I’ve been doing it to myself for years.”

You don’t ask how or why, you just let him carry forward however he wants. He was clearly guarded about this and you didn’t want to miss the opportunity to learn more about him. He waves his right hand, projections fade away, and suddenly— you’re back in his lab again.

He hops up to his desk, grabs something from one of the tables, and hops back down. You recognize what he retrieved. The injector gun loaded with neon green liquid.

“I’m not like the rest. I’m not even completely like you.” He starts, “I wasn’t bitten. I changed myself into this. I had to… escape something, and altering my DNA was the only way how. I’m technically 50 percent spider.”

You think back to the DNA projections. His spider genetics completely dwarfed yours by comparison. 

“With altering myself so much, there was a price,” he takes the green vial out of the gun, “This is a dampener. It keeps me human. Keeps me sane and cognizant. Without it, my mutation would likely take over.”

You’re not sure what to say. What can you say? He was reliant on this thing to keep him human. To keep him functioning.

“How long have you been… Doing this?” you ask.

“Almost since the beginning.” He places the vile back in the gun and tosses it to a nearby table, “I was pretty scary for a week or so, but my brother came through and helped me out.”

“Oh, you’re still plenty scary.” You crack, trying to lighten the mood. The corners of his twitch upward. Success, “I didn’t know you had a brother.” 

“Gabe. He helped build this place.”

“Ah, a family business.”

“Yeah, something like that.” he trails off. 

You could feel the air between you lighten just a little. Humor was always your go-to coping mechanism. Everything you just learned was… a lot, to say the least. He props himself up to sit on his weird little desk platform. You take a seat next to him.

“So, you can cure this?” you ask. 

“Yes.” He says with complete confidence. “A one-time injection to isolate and target it specifically.”

“Spider-mate vaccine.” You joke.

“Yeah, I suppose so,” he chuckles, lulling back into a serious tone, “It’ll take me a little bit but… I’ll get it done.”

A little bit? That could mean anything. Weeks? Months? Years?!

Your heart had been racing this entire time. It always did around him. You attribute it to the spider-sense. Strangely, you were growing used to it by now. It wasn’t a surprise anymore, and now you knew all of the biology as to why— not that it helped you feel any less weird about it all. A viable mate. Just thinking the words made you wanna barf. 

The same spider signature despite being from a different time and space. A one-in-a-billion odds. You should get a lottery ticket when you get home. 

“So…” you break the lingering silence, “What’s next?”

“Next, you give me time to develop it and…” He pauses, but you know what he’s going to say, “Business as usual.”

“Ya know, you keep saying that but I don’t think you know what it means.” you nudge his elbow as a friendly gesture, “But I don’t think I know what it means either.”

“What do you mean?”

“It… sucks, doesn’t it?” you admit. You don’t know when you crossed over the barrier of being able to be this candid with him but here you were. He’s been completely vulnerable with you today. You could do the same, “Ever since it started something just feels… off. Like something’s always clawing in the back of my head. I guess that thing is you. I’m walking on eggshells around myself. I’m antsier. On edge. Everything’s turned up to 11 around you. And then… Well, you know how it tends to end. And it’s relief for a little bit, but then it builds again and—”

“It’s the same for me,” he admits. His hand comes up to rest on your thigh. Your sense instantly spikes, “I… have a hypothesis.”

“Okay?” you squeak.

“It builds over time. Being apart. The… discomfort.” His heavy hand moves up your leg. Your breath catches, “And physical contact seems to ease it.” 

Your hair stands on end, “It does…”

His hand settles into the apex of your thighs, “So…I propose, whenever it gets to be too much we have … a meeting.”

“A meeting?”

“A meeting.” he spreads your leg, fingers digging into the soft flesh. “To keep up on… usual business . So we’re not distracted. You find me when you need me. I’ll find you. No strings attached. Simple as that.”

“Simple as that,” you repeat, and just like that— it’s a deal. You needed each other if you were going to make it through this. It’s just an agreement— it didn’t have to be anything more. You’re not sure you wanted it to be. He’d cure you both and you’d never have to see each other again afterwards. Life could go back to normal.

You needed each other.

Taking a moment to muster up the confidence you didn’t know you had around him, you crawl over— and straddle yourself on his lap. He’s clearly surprised by your forwardness, but it’s not unwanted. It’d only been three days— three long ass days.

“Wouldn’t wanna be distracted in the field.” You settle yourself on his massive thighs, grinding your pelvis closer to his.

“No, we can’t have that,” his hands trail up the slope of your ass. He gives you a rough squeeze. “Tell me what you need.”

“Please, just…” You’re not entirely sure. Your head was stirring, you're sure his was too. “Just… make me feel good.”

He grunts in approval, pulling you flush against him. He leans his head closer to yours, but your lips don’t meet. He holds you there, hovering in anticipation. He ghosts his lips over your jaw, his nose tracing the line. You drop your head back, exposing your neck to him. He lays a few feather-light kisses across your throat. He’s savoring you, in every sense of the word. 

His lips come to your ear, “Strip down for me.”

His grip on you eases, and you stand without question. Walking to the center of his desk space you reach for the hem of your neck. The great thing about super suits was how infinitely stretchy they were. You pull your arms out first, rolling the material down to your waist. You make an extra show of wriggling it over your hips, sliding it down to your knees. His eyes burn into you. He intently watches your every movement, like a predator circling its prey. 

You kick your suit to the side, still in your bra and underwear. Your 7-year-old sports bra doesn’t feel particularly sexy— it’s the first to go. You remove your panties one leg at a time and toss them in front of him. You stand before him, completely bare and waiting.

He stands— his massive shadow casting over you amongst the deep blue and rich yellow lights. He drags the backs of his fingers over your shoulder and down your arm.

“ Hermosa .” He breathes before pulling you in. He twists you around, pinning your back to his chest. His right-hand runs over your breasts, while the left trails down your stomach. You arch into his touch when his hand cups your waiting cunt, fingers sliding through your slick folds. He circles around your clit a few times, earning several breathy gasps from you. He works slowly— Meticulously. 

He gently brings you both back down to your knees. You sit on his lap as he plays with you, arching yourself around him. He delves a finger into your heat. You grind down against his palm. 

“So good for me,” He moans into your ear. The heat of his breath against your cold skin sends goosebumps trailing down your arms. He nips at your ear, the hand massaging your breast coming up and circling around your neck. There’s almost no pressure behind it, but the message is clear. I’m in control.  

You roll your hips with his hand as his movements quicken. The wet, lude sounds of your pussy start to fill the massive room. He pulls your head to the side, placing several sloppy kisses across your shoulder. He’s being more gentle this time, seeing his previous marks are still there.

His moves underneath you. You feel his hard length against your ass. He presses you closer— His hips move in rhythm with yours, grinding himself against you.

“¿Te sientes bien ahora querida?” He growls against your skin, “Tell me what you feel, little spider.”

You didn’t think you could even string together a cohesive thought, let alone a sentence. By some will of the cosmos, you manage, “O-on fire. I-incredible.”

“Mmm,” he nuzzles into your hair, “And the sense? What does it say?”

What did it say? When it came to Miguel there was only one thing it ever screamed at you.

“More.” you breathe. 

His movements stop. You’re about to protest when his fingers come up and circle your bud. You melt into his touch. 

“It’s such a demanding little thing, isn’t it?” He whispers, “So needy. Why don’t you show me? Why don’t you take what you need.”

And in an instant, his hands are off you. You fall forward, catching yourself. You’re on your hands and knees in front of him, completely exposed. You whip around, fuming and unsatisfied. He leans back, a fiendish grin across his face. You’d slap him if you weren’t so unbearably turned on. Bastard.

You turn. He leans back further as you crawl over him. Your hands come to his chest, his suit fading away instantly. Trailing down from his collarbones to the tops of his thighs is now bare. You pull his throbbing cock out of his briefs, precum already smearing the tip. 

You stroke him slowly— Once. Twice— watching him agonize in your lazy touch. Good. You lean back, lining yourself up with him. It’s less jarring with you in control this time. You take him at your own pace. You feel a deep moan reverberate through his body as you sink down onto him. His hands come to rest on your ass. 

You bury him to the hilt, savoring the fullness. You doubt you’ll ever get used to the sensation. You don’t break eye contact with him when you start to rock your hips— slowly and with purpose. His eyes roll back as you start chasing your pleasure.

He shivers when you lean forward to kiss across his massive chest, leaving marks of your own this time. He immediately pulls you up into a searing kiss. He holds you close while you find your rhythm.

His hips move with yours ever so slightly, giving you a better angle through each thrust. It’s maddening. It’s beautiful and perfect. 

You break away, sitting up to stare down at him. You could get used to seeing him like this. Sure there was a smugness about him, but there were cracks at the edge of his big bad guy mask. He was enjoying this just as much as you. You knew he was. 

He sits up with you, taming your thrusts into rolls against his body. The movements were less vigorous but nonetheless pleasurable. Your walls constrain, feeling him move around inside you. He was so fucking deep. The extra friction from grinding against his stomach was shooting fireworks through your entire being. You’re not sure how long you can last like this. 

“That’s it. Take what you need,” he says, leaning down to take a nipple into his mouth. You gasp, clawing your nails down his shoulders. He enveloped all of you against him. He devoured you— but you were still in control.

He was so dominant and yet so giving in everything he did with you. You never felt uncomfortable or afraid. Just starved and lustful. Now that you’d come to a mutual understanding, it was all the more reason to let go and just take.

Use me, and I’ll make you feel good.

He moves to your other breast, the cold air on your now exposed, hard nipple sending chills down your spine. He rolls it in his fingers as his tongue lavishes your neglected one. He holds you tight as you writhe against him, chasing that blinding white high. It was building in you. You can feel it.

“God— I–I’m–I’m–” The words die on your lips as your movements quicken into a desperate frenzy. So close. You were so close now.

“Come for me, sweet girl,” he moans into you, his lips trailing back up to your neck. “Show me–Wanna feel you.”

It rushes through you, taking all the air in your lungs with it. He holds you upright as you quake in his arms. You throw your head back, gasping for air for the first time in what felt like days. 

“Oh, god you’re s-so– you’re gonna— I’m gonna—” His head falls into your chest, your orgasm causing a chain reaction directly into his. You feel him throb against you, your pulsing walls milking him dry. You tremble in each other's arms, sharing in the blinding ecstasy— spider-sense’s singing in harmony.

You hold each other’s quivering bodies until you both somehow manage to relax. He brings his head up from your chest, eyes glossy and dilated.

“Better now?” His voice is strained and husky.

“Better.” You confirm with a matching voice.

The pleased quiet hum of the spider-sense washes over your mind, gratified and full. So, this was the new normal for you both— until he could rid you of it completely.

A mutually beneficial agreement. 

A biological need. 

Nothing more.

________

Translations:

Hola arañita- Hello, little spider Hermosa- Beautiful ¿Te sientes bien ahora querida?- Do you feel good now, my dear?

Please... PLEASE correct me if any of this is wrong <3

God, I wanted to put SO MUCH more Hobie and Margo in this chapter but ultimately decided to do it later in the story being that this chapter was so info-dumpy. Wanna give all of our spider their proper time to shine!

Also should note that we're making assumptions about what Miguel injects himself with based on theories. The power dampener one seemed the most plausible one to me, but honestly they could all be pretty plausible. Guess we'll find out one day! For now... fanfiction theories.

Baby taglist below. Please note that if your blog is ageless/ a minor you WILL NOT BE ADDED. We're sharing mature, explicit content here. Let's be responsible with it. I apologize for not clarifying earlier.

________

Taglist:

@ineedgarlicbread @pinkiemme

#miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara #across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara x spiderwoman!reader #miguel o'hara smut #parallels fic

[matchibee]

Dreaming of You

for whatever reason tumblr kept deleting everything I wrote for this chapter so its a work of frustration, my mind is numb.

barely proofread, closure.

Enchanted, Sparks

He knew it was a mistake as soon as it happened. As soon as his hands wandered your skin just as he’d dreamed, walking on clouds. As soon as your lips danced as one, souls merging as a love divined by the heavens was consummated. He didn't want to release you, parting lips to look into your eyes, peer into the very soul that had him ridden with anguish. Everything he'd yearned for nestled up to him between the sheets that evening. A family he'd believed himself chastened from reaching entirely his for the taking.

But you weren't Miguel's to have, not really.

Miguel wasn’t from here, not this dimension, but another. He simply wanted another chance at being a father, yearned to hear his darling daughter's voice one last time, a final time. He promised himself he wouldn't do it again, refused to subject himself to such anguish in the midst of his sorrows.

It was supposed to be in and out, peering at the life he could've had, then confining himself to his desk for the rest of eternity

Yet when Miguel found a variant of himself laid out in the darkness of Nueva York, passed on as the result of a violent altercation, he couldn't help it. The perfect opportunity, the only opportunity he'd have to find closure. In his desperation there was a glimmer of hope, an opportunity to overcome anguish.

He would've been a fool to pass up an opportunity handed out to him on a silver platter.

Miguel could learn to love again.

And then you came into the picture, confounding his rationality, blurring what little prospect of pulling away he had left. His past self, whoever he was, had obviously had a deep connection with you — deep enough your lips curled into a smile during his newfound walk to Alchemax, footfall falling in sync. Deep enough you held out a donut and coffee between your fingers, greeting him in a voice so smooth he believed it to be crafted with honey, sickeningly saccharine.

You invaded the deepest trenches of his self, implementing your very essence into his molecular structure, a single entity. In your entirety, you belonged to Miguel. I’m his entirety, he belonged to you.

But it was so fucking wrong.

Miguel knew the risks, understood what could've occurred if he submersed his entirety into this universe, a dive so deep he feared he'd never come up for air. Lyla tried to talk him out of it, her eyes widening as she saw something in Miguel shift upon seeing his body laid out, watched as he concealed any evidence that could jeopardize his position.

Lyla couldn't watch, her programming rejecting Miguel's actions. But in his actions there was love for a daughter, and love for someone he'd yet to know. Miguel was driven with passion, aflame.

there wasn't a soul that could deter him, pull him away from everything he deserved. This was his life, in some form, and he deserved to live it.

That’s exactly why he was avoiding you, avoiding the situation, his feelings. He couldn’t stand to drag you down with him, drag you into this hellish existence that dominated his being — Spider-Man, one not meant to persist, taking the mantle upon himself in an effort to preserve the one thing he had left.

Miguel was destined to a reality of solitude and suffering, and you were destined to a fate without him by your side, a life where Gabri was nothing more than an orphaned child.

He could change fate if you'd just indulge him, mend what had been ruptured. Create an existence entirely devoid of isolated mania. Miguel knew he was strong, ridiculously. He had the will to burden this universe upon his shoulders if it only meant to hold you close, or to love a daughter.

Miguel wanted so much more than any universe could provide him. Wanted you, everything that encompassed you.

But he couldn’t, he knew that. Not when your life would be on the line, not when it endangered Gabri, knowing his overstayed welcome wouldn't persist without consequence. Miguel couldn't save his previous existence, bound to destitution. But if you'd just let him, indulge him, there was a chance he could save you.

Save you from his gluttonous desire for you.

Miguel held his head as your voice lingered down the halls of the office, mind overwhelmed with everything you. Sometimes he was unsure if it was truly your voice he was hearing, believing himself to hallucinate your very presence, a ghost of your touch where your self was absent. He looked for you at every waking moment, reaching out to find an apparition he'd fooled himself into believing tangible. Miguel was a man ridden with desperation, yearning for your touch.

So why the fuck was he avoiding you? You couldn't understand it, couldn't understand what had gone wrong. In the midst of everything, the climax of a prospective relationship, there was stagnancy.

Everything, you could only rationalized. Perhaps the entire situation had thrown him in for a loop, mind fuzzed with responsibility and desire — where they met, intersected. And how they differed, diverged.

Perhaps your souls weren't as entwined as you'd believed. His lips had done the talking, body sculpted in stone influencing your decisions.

Yet you knew in your heart that simply wasn't true.

You'd felt the repercussions like a wound to the chest, noticing damn near instantly as Miguel seemed to drift away from you. Lingering touches nothing more than brief. Yearning gazes nothing more than polite regards. There was something more, and you knew that, but he seemed to reject it just as incessantly as he craved to give in. Despite everything that had occurred between the both of you, despite a silent profession of longing that burned just to exist. But Miguel seemed to interpret things different.

An overwhelming annoying game of cat and mouse — one where neither party knew where they stood. But you didn't have time to play these games, play into these fantasies you'd construed in the depths of an evening speckled in stars.

So when your supervisor entered your office with a proposition, you were unsure how to respond.

"We'd like to offer you a higher-up position at one of our sister locations."

To say the offer was abrupt was the understatement of the century, your mind fogged as the man drawled on about the position, what it would entail. Never did you believe something like this would happen, unsure of your abilities. But obviously they’d take notice of your diligent work, obviously they saw greatness where it persisted. "You will oversee project management off-site, entirely in charge of operations occurring within the facility."

Definitely a change from what you were used to. Since you’d begun your journey at Alchemax you’d only know what it meant to be on the receiving end of instruction, bound to a lab that had nearly taken your head once or twice. To be the one calling the shots, leading projects and their goals, would be an entirely new experience.

You nodded your head in understanding, astounded, though the smallest bit apprehensive. "When can I start?"

Your supervisor hummed in amusement, evidently pleased with your response, "Always the eager one, precisely why I endorsed you. How soon can you relocate ?"

Your lips parted, brows furrowing as you registered what he’d asked you. "Pardon?"

"The location you'll be tending to is one in Boston. As such, Alchemax will assist you in finding the proper accommodations—"

Boston. Hours away from where you currently resided, a generous trip, one you'd never taken, not particularly keen on travelling. Your entire life revolved around Nueva York. Education, friendships, memories. Your being belonged to this city and its people, belonged to this job you'd broken your back tending to. To just decide up and leave everything you’d achieved, everything you’d cultivated...

You weren’t sure if you could do it, weren’t sure it was the proper option for you at the moment.

"Can I..." You failed to find the proper words, mind running at a million miles a minutes, "Can I have time to think about this?"

"I’ve been allotted 48 hours to relay your response."

With that you excused yourself from your own office, a minute to get some fresh air, shoes clacking down the ungodly length of the hallway in contemplative silence.

The world was crumbling around you as you fought to keep it together, bits and pieces falling from the seems, and you were fruitless in remedying it.

And Miguel? He’d been heartbroken when he heard the news, enhanced senses meaning he'd known the decision far before you'd ever heard of it. His heart was clenching, feeling as though he might faint. You wouldn’t take the position, would you?

Then again, what purpose was there in staying?

The world seemed to stand still despite time continuing forward, Miguel carrying out the rest of the day in a blur, feeling as though everything he'd built was coming to a halt.

And you? It was as though your world was shattering into a million fragments, refractions of light reflecting memories lived seemingly since the dawn of time. You were unsure, pacing back and forth in an attempt to clear your mind, praying the universe would place you on the correct path.

But nobody’s world felt as shattered as Miguel’s.

He heard your footsteps down the hall, your path determined, Miguel's heart-rate quickening. You were there alongside him before he could even register what was happening, before he could even ponder how this truly made him feel.

Your voice called his name, Miguel turning to you with a look of longing, wanting nothing more than to hold you in his embrace, wanting nothing more than to have you to himself.

Miguel didn't want you to go, didn't want to have to watch as you left his life forever, couldn't bare the thought of never being able to hold you in his arms again.

But he also knew, rationally, it would be unfair of him to ask that of you. To stay, be his, when your life seemed to be improving for the better. Miguel couldn't ask you to be his, couldn't ask you abandon reason for him and his little family.

He couldn't harm the spiderverse because he was lovesick.

“They offered me a promotion.”

Those words, five words that Miguel dreaded hearing — fearing hearing them fall from your lips only brought the situation closer to reality, difficult to deny. Five abhorrent words he wished never to hear. The sound of your voice felt so surreal, impossibly painful.

Miguel hummed, throat clenching, fighting the urge to unveil his knowledge. His enhanced senses proved a blessing and a curse, one he would relinquish if only it meant to belong to you in mind, body and spirit. “Congratulations.”

No. No. He wasn't happy. This was the furthest from happy he could've possibly been. His commendation fell from his lips before his mind could catch up, reflexes hindered by your presence, by reality. Despite his hindered response it appeared his head continued to run rampant with thought, fueling a mouth that yearned for nothing to more than to connect with yours. "When do you start your new position?"

He knew the answer, god he knew the answer, dreaded it. But he needed to hear it from your lips, even if he inwardly refused, even if he wanted to deny it for all of eternity.

“It's complicated..." You were unsure of how to properly express yourself, realizing this was the first time you'd spoken to Miguel since he'd left your apartment all those mornings ago. "I still haven't made a decision, since I’d have to move… But I’d be a Project Manager at an Alchemax sister location.”

“Where to?” Miguel spoke with passivity, keeping himself composed. He was fortunate you missed the way his hands dug into the arms of his swivel chair, claws presenting themselves to deepen his grip. Within himself Miguel prayed for someone to heed his call, to see through this facade, to call him out on his bullshit so he could claim you in your entirety -- worship you, adore you.

You cleared your throat, finding your words. “Boston.”

“Massachusetts?”

You nodded your head, anticipating his reaction, turning up incorrect in your deduction. He wasn't someone you could register, fickle in his entirety, alternating between someone you loved unconditionally and a stranger.

“Impressive.”

Ouch. You couldn’t rationalize why he was acting like this, why his emotions seemed to flicker as though being tampered with. He was once so gentle, so warm in his approach, a man who enveloped you at the drop of a hat.

But Miguel knew he couldn’t hurt you, not like this. Too many factors, far too many factors. If he inserted himself into your life he feared it would spell an end for everything you'd built — everything the people of this universe had built. Miguel's heart called your name, his mind pushing it away.

But when you spoke again, leaving him seeing stars, Miguel only realized he’d end up hurting you either way.

“Do you not care?”

Care? of course he cared. Miguel cared more than he could ever hope to admit, cared more than the stars yearned for their moon, than the clouds for their sun. Miguel cared so much he couldn't stand the thought of collapsing your home, couldn't stand the image of your person being lost to the universe. At least in this way, in a reality of his own divination, Miguel knew you were unharmed. He could love you in a way unique to his personal language.

He simply had an interesting way of showing it.

“Care? What does it matter to me, it’s your decision.”

“Oh” He could hear the pain in your voice, loathed that he'd been the one to place it there. "I just assumed that since we..."

“We what?”

The nail in the coffin.

Hot tears pricked in the corners of your eyes, sniffles falling from your nose. Miguel sensed it, all of it. He looked to your watery eyes and legs that seemed to wobble as though you'd tumble.

Perhaps if he created his own canon event, one that harmed him in the process, it would even out the events he'd altered — fathering a child, assuming the mantle of a vigilante who hadn't persisted in this universe. So much had changed since he'd seized the opportunity to live the life he'd lost.

Another loss might level what he'd redesigned in his favor.

If Miguel could just do this, fight his feelings to alter your life, then maybe that would be enough.

"I think..." Your voice erupted in a tremble, Miguel retracting his claws, hands resting on his knees, the closest he'd come to reaching out to you. "I think I made my decision... It's not like there's anything keeping me in Nueva York, not that I can think of."

An eye for an eye, a shot in Miguel's frigid heart.

He watched you leave, conceded to watching your figure retreat out that door. He wanted to call your name, craved the feeling of your body against his. Miguel imagined he'd grip your wrist, free hand cupping your cheek as he whispered his feelings into the open. You'd know how he felt, a vocalized confirmation. And in return, Miguel would have you.

But that's not what happened.

Not as Miguel turned in his swivel, elbows against his desk, vision blurred through salty tears.

And then he wept.

Brick by agonizingly boring brick you brought down everything you'd built. After relaying your acceptance, supervisor ecstatic, you'd retreated to your apartment to pack away everything you could carry, luggage upon luggage resting at your doorway.

Perhaps it was a spur of the moment, entirely conscious you weren't in any hurry to retreat. But your supervisor had informed you they'd get to immediate work in accommodating you, a hotel room with your name on it awaiting your arrival, entirely yours until you found a permanent establishment.

Tired, out of breath, you allowed yourself to rest on your bed. Your ceiling had never seemed so foreign, so flawed. You found you discovered a newly placed distaste to your life here, what it had become in the blink of an eye.

Truly, your existence these past months had been one through rose-tinted lenses.

Rising, falling, your chest yearned for the sensation of Miguel slotted against you. You wanted his warmth, the rumble of his voice in his chest as he whispered praises, reminded you of your worth in his eyes.

What had gone wrong?

Frustration fueled you, drove you absolutely mad. No matter where your mind wandered it returned to Miguel, your thoughts belonging to him. A painful existence for your mind, body and soul. A cruel reminder of how everything came crashing down.

Would he be there to say his final goodbyes? Or had Miguel simply conceded himself to complacence?

You groaned, gritting your teeth as you stood to your feet. Back to cleaning, back to packing. The victim of your chosen desire was your drawers, nightstands that stood on either sides of your bed.

Glasses, knickknacks and medications rattled as you decided what to do with them — discard, keep. A simple process, one that didn't take much effort, until you arrived at the depths of the drawer closest to where you slept.

A scrunchy bathed in the colors of Gabri's soccer uniform, the one you'd removed from her hair in the midst of her exhaustion. You hadn't even realized that was where you'd placed it, could hardly remember what had occurred through your own sleepless delirium.

Gabri.

You hadn't taken her into consideration, hadn't thought to her as you argued with Miguel and stomped to your supervisor's office in a huff.

What would she think, what would she say? This was uncharted territory for you, unsure of how you could explain to her why you'd suddenly been absent, would continue to be absent until the universe fated your paths to cross once more.

Poor girl.

She had this spark, something nobody could take away from her. In your mind you knew she would do great things, reach unachievable feats, accomplishing everything she set her mind to. A truly glorious child, Miguel having done well in raising her all on his own.

Fuck. How were you going to explain this?

Then you halted, fist tightening around the scrunchy. Would Miguel even give you the right?

How would he explain your absence? Would he? Was it even something Gabri took into consideration?

You stretched the fabric around your wrist, caressing it under the pads of your fingers, sighing a deep sigh.

Were you making the right decision?

"Quiero mirar un pelicula."

Miguel was diligent in washing the dishes that had — subjectively — piled high in the sink. A stray spoon and glittering princess cup desecrating his kitchen sink, the source of his frustrations. He was doing everything in his power to distract himself, keeping you out of his mind. But he couldn't help the way his mind wandered to the times you'd stood beside him in this very kitchen, drying dishes, Gabri putting them away. The three of you were an unstoppable force, a group of three who fit perfectly like a well-oiled mechanism of your own creation.

But being a father came first.

"Qual?"

Gabri broke into an impossibly wicked smile, Miguel conscious of what was coming, the movie one that frequented their household on an impossibly daily basis — songs and dialogues memorized by heart, Miguel having a good majority of their movements down, as well.

"No," Miguel groaned, "Anything but--"

"Frozen!"

As if this day could get any worse.

Of course, Miguel couldn't deny his daughter of her simplest request, a mere attendant to her regal existence. Sometimes he feared she knew it. He scrolled for what felt like an eternity, watching with a smile as Gabri bounced in her seat, suddenly halting Miguel's attempt at pressing play with a "Wait!"

"Que paso?"

"I wanna invite someone to watch with us."

Miguel's brows furrowed, figuring she'd bound down the halls in search of her stuffies, organizing them on the couch just as she'd done countless times before.

But then she spoke your name.

And oh how Miguel loved the way your name fell from Gabri's lips, so natural, another indication of your perfection, the way you fit so seamlessly into his life. But then Miguel had a moment of realization, one that formed in his mind as he reached for his phone, as he clicked on your messages, finding a million left unread waiting for him.

And he realized he'd fucked up.

"No, mija." Miguel was confined to a fate of disappointment, voice lingering on a syllable unspoken, trying to find words that refused to manifest. "Not now, not for a while."

Gabri didn't like that, not one bit. "Why not?"

Always a question that followed an answer when it came to children, something that frustrated Miguel to no end, patience running infinitely thin. "Just not now, it's too late."

"They always come late!"

If this little girl didn't become a lawyer when she got older...

"It just can't happen, not right now."

Miguel's phone chimed, eyes flickering to the screen, pupils darkening. You'd sent him a message, asking if he had time to discuss something, but there was nothing the two of you needed to discuss, not that he could think of. Miguel didn't need to talk to you, and you didn't need to talk to him. At least, that's what he had convinced himself, confined himself to believing.

Gabri whined, "Is that them? Tell them I wanna talk to them!"

Gabri called your name at an impossible speed, clambering over Miguel's arms, making an attempt at reaching for his phone.

He held her away with a single arm, Miguel unable to tear his eyes away from the message, formulating what he had to say in is mind, coming up with nothing.

And when he finally looked up from the screen, Gabri had long since fallen asleep, the end of the film playing onward. Miguel watched, arms crossed over his mighty chest, as love reigned supreme and lovers united as one.

Then he realized he truly was making a mistake.

Your coworkers decided to throw you a going away party, a final homage to everything you’d done for Alchemax, the diligent work you’d done in cultivating the facility to be the best it could possibly prove.

Treats, games and beverages were sprawled about the cafeteria as everyone — even those outside of your department — gathered to wish you farewell. You hugged those closest to you, shook hands with people you'd only just met. It truly seemed as though anyone who was anyone arrived to see you out.

Everyone except Miguel.

“It’s gonna be hard being long-distance,” one of your coworkers blabbed about in the midst of their slice of cake, brows furrowing as you opted to listen, see where this was headed. “Hopefully you and Miguel work it out, you’re such a sweet couple.”

You blinked rapidly, opting to simply nod your head in silence. There wasn't anything hat could prepare you for that, not a single entity in this world that would have convinced you those would be the words to fall from their lips.

Silently, on wobbled feet, you excused yourself from the celebration, wandering down the halls. Halls that had been the home of your greatest achievements, accomplishing experiments you hadn't believed yourself ever capable of achieving.

But against all odds, you'd done it, and now you were moving forward.

Miguel's office was dim, devoid of any form of life. It was as though he hadn’t resided there in millennia, and if he was there recently there was no indication, figuring he'd called out when he discovered your celebration.

Was he truly that intent on avoiding you?

Slowly, as though the very fabric of the universe would shatter if you weren’t cautious, you slid into Miguel’s chair. It was a foreign feeling, one you welcomed with open arms. The chill leather enveloped you, a sigh leaving your lips as you closed your eyes and allowed yourself a moment, just one.

It wasn’t fair.

But what is life if not fair?

That didn't make it right.

But did anything feel right anymore?

You figured not. Not when Miguel was no longer a member of your life, not when you were about to leave behind everything you'd built, a flight scheduled for the morning that followed.

Your eyes opened, half-lidded, a wave of exhaustion overwhelming you. Then they widened impossibly.

You’d never noticed it before, the frame decorated in crayon and glitter glue, resting comfortably on his desk. It had collected a thin layer of dust, untouched. Slowly, carefully, you allowed the frame to slot into your hands.

How long had this been there?

“You shouldn’t be in here.” There was that voice, that irritatingly perfect voice that left you seeing stars. “You should probably be preparing for your flight.”

“How hadn’t I seen this before?” Your fingertips brushed over the image of Gabri, smiling as though life couldn’t be any better than that very moment. Forgiving the grievances between you, the past then for a reason. “Why didn’t you tell me you had this?”

“I didn't realize I had to.”

You rolled your eyes, returning the frame from whence it came, rising from your seat, walking towards the door where Miguel stood. "Good to see you again, Miguel." You brushed your hand with his palm, urging him to the side, away from he only exit. "Glad I got to say goodbye before I left." Your fingers ran over the the scrunchy fashioned upon your wrist. "Let Gabri know I lo--" You hesitated, rethinking, adapting. "Let Gabri know I'll miss her."

You made your way out the doorway, your warmth traveling with you, Miguel relishing in the feeling before it dissipated.

More. He needed more, so much more. More than you could ever know.

His hand fashioned around your wrist, keeping you in place, yearning to pull you towards him. He conceded to just this moment, that spark erupting between you, enchanting him. "I--" Miguel was at a loss for words, everything he yearned to say caught in his throat.

"Do you have something to say?" Your tone was snappy, rightfully so. Miguel hadn't given you any reason to extend kindness lately.

"No," Miguel replied, "No, I just..."

Of course he had something to say, he had everything to say. he yearned for your touch, for the way his heart fluttered whenever you were near. He wanted to hear your voice ridden with sleep, your soft breathing as you lay yourself down to rest for the evening. Miguel wanted you, everything that encompassed you. From your good days to your worst, your tears and your laughter, Miguel wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of eternity with you in his arms.

But he couldn't say that, could he?

"It's nothing."

Then he dropped your hand, dropped every hope of seeing you again, never knowing what it meant to love you without condition.

Far too many times he'd had to watch you walk away from them, too many minutes spent wondering if there was a hope to fix this.

But there was no fixing this, not this time, he realized.

Not as he watched you walk down that hallway one final time.

An alarm sounded off, notifying you of the time — the time.

In only a few hours you’d prove well on your way to Boston, abandoning this life you'd built for yourself, a newly formed person.

From the ashes of grief would emerge a phoenix of unstoppable force, your will burning like an ember in the midst of defeat. But there was no defeating you, nothing holding you back, nothing to remain for.

An empty apartment, keys on the island, ones you'd no longer need. An empty heart, but your luggage was full, at the very least. Suppose in that right you were complete.

The trip to the airport was unbearable, insufferable. Traffic was backed up corner to corner, streets tight with bodies.

Something you wouldn't miss, you told yourself, no matter how used to it you'd grown.

And then you arrived at the airport, broke past the barriers, found your gate. It was only a matter of time before they called your flight, called you to board, and then life would persist even when it felt as though it was coming to an end.

Because as much as you tried to convince yourself he wasn't, Miguel had become an irreplaceable part of your life, his name etched into your heart, your soul.

In everything Miguel existed. In your heart, beat his own. Between your fingers, Miguel’s were woven, pulling you closer until your bodies pressed together. In your eyes his face was reflected, confined to memory, unforgettable. Miguel was your ailment, your remedy.

The call of your name, hands loosening from around your luggage, looking every which way in an effort to find where the source of the noise had persisted. Bodies flooded the airport despite the early morning hours, everyone busting themselves with their own responsibilities, unaware of your presence despite the space that persisted.

Your turned away, your name called by a voice in a much higher pitch. Brows furrowing, your turned once more, trying to determine whether they called out to someone else.

“Gabri?” Her name fell from your lips before you could prevent it, pressing your fingers to your lips.

The small girl stood atop Miguel’s shoulders, calling out to you in excitement, a hint of desperation. She was obviously aware you’d be boarding soon, leaving in only a matter of moments.

“Now Boarding Flight 242.”

You looked back, watching as the attendant called out to those who had been waiting diligently, rows of bodies already gathering. Looking between the unenthusiastic woman and the pair of bodies bounding towards you, squeezing past various bodies, you rationalized a few seconds wouldn't hurt.

“What are you doing here, Mija!” You called out as Gabri hopped off Miguel’s shoulders and into your arms, wrapping herself around you, unrelenting in her hold.

“Papá told me you were gonna leave without saying goodbye!” Her voice was laced in hurt, fighting the urge to cry, keeping a strong will. “We wanted to see you!”

We.

You rubbed her back, cuddling into her. “That’s very sweet of you.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know, mamás.”

Gabri didn’t like that answer, holding you impossibly tighter. “Will you visit?”

The same answer, though you didn’t wanna voice it, mind overtaken with everything that encompassed her. She was such a kind soul, one you didn’t deserve, deserving so much more than anything you could ever provide.

That’s what you told yourself.

“I don’t want you to go!” Gabri whined, holding you in her unrelenting grip, taking after her father. Your eyes flickered to Miguel, his face filled with nothing less than adoration, the faintest tint persisting against bronze skin. “You can sleep in my room, I promise!”

Tears brimmed in your eyes, holding you tighter, deeper. It seemed as though just when you thought the two of you were close you found a way to become closer, embracing each other as though you never would again.

Perhaps you wouldn’t.

“Gabri,” The source of the voice belonged to Miguel, “C’mon, mija.” His hands latched around her waist, making an attempt to pull her towards him, finding he struggled in doing so.

“Now boarding Flight 242.”

“No!” Gabri was borderline screaming, Miguel’s face contorting to one of nerve, suddenly regretting his decision to bring her here — his own eyes filled with tears you were too preoccupied to witness.

Eventually, Miguel found his strength, Gabri sobbing into his neck, your hands covering your face in an attempt to conceal your tears, push the emotions that burned across your features back from whence they came.

Miguel didn’t need to see you like this, didn’t need to see you. He’d made that abundantly clear.

“Are you…” Miguel was hesitant, as he always was, hesitating in placing his hovering hand upon your shoulder, feeling that spark he’d come to know so deeply, entirely. “Are you alright?”

Of course you weren’t alright, what a ridiculous question. You were about to abandon everything you’d created, leaving Miguel in the dust when you yearned for him more than anything. You didn’t care. Didn’t care that you’d fought, that he’d pulled away just when you believed there to be something there. You’d suffer a million times again, live a thousand lives before conceding. In every universe you would return to him, and in every universe he would be yours.

But they called your flight again, the plane boarding, accommodations already set.

You couldn’t even begin to express the words stuck in your throat.

“I’m fine.”

Miguel hummed, “Nervous?”

“Terrified.”

He embraced you then, the action making freshly dried tears slip from your eyes once more. A trickle became a waterfall, Miguel’s love reflected in the waters of your irises.

“I’m not very good with… Words.” Gabri was still crying in his arms, Miguel doing his best to profess the feelings begging to release themselves before you departed, before he hadn’t the faintest idea when he’d get to see you once more.

Miguel wasn’t good without words but in his heart he spoke a million. In the sunrise he saw you smile, in the sunset he saw your eyes. He yearned for your warmth, searched for it, couldn’t survive without it. Your voice like a melody to a tune he couldn’t name, hearing it in every love song, thinking of you at every moment. In the most intimate parts of his being there you were to shield him from pain, and in your flaws he saw inconceivable beauty.

In everything, he saw you. Your life together, with him. In love there was you. With you, Miguel was complete.

But he remained wordless, didn’t continue his words, simply looked to you as though you were the rarest oddity this side of the world — perhaps it’s entirety.

And to Miguel, no matter how many universes he traveled, no matter where he ran, he knew he would never find you.

He couldn’t push away what fought to exist, not this love, not yours.

“Miguel,” Your throat clenched, finding the words, searching for something to say. “I can’t keep chasing a fantasy. I have a life to live, places I want to explore.”

You weren’t bluffing when you said you wanted to live your life. Young, so young. So much to do, infinity to experience. There was no telling where this adventure would take you, what you would become.

But you didn’t feel complete, did you?

Miguel surely didn’t.

“Then live your life with me.”

He spoke with a flame that blossomed from an ember, igniting in a fury. Miguel meant every word, allowing impulse to do the talking, something he was good at.

“Miguel?”

“Last call: now boarding Flight 242.”

“Live your life with me — with us — and I promise I’ll do everything in my power to make it…” Miguel searched for the word, the only word to describe a life shared between you. “Perfect.”

To hear him voice his thoughts, the deepest parts of himself that he kept concealed beneath layers of thickness, left you seeing stars.

“All I want…” Miguel cleared his throat, remedying his words, “All we want is you.”

In life, in death. In this universe and the universes of eternity, Miguel would find his way back to you. Your heart filled the gaps of his broken self, a remedy where he’d once believed there was no hope.

Your hands fell from around his neck, brushing against his chest, Gabri having gone silent.

“I want you too…” You leaned closer, impossibly, brushing your lips against his. A quick kiss. You turned to Gabri, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand, watching as she blossomed into herself, into the little girl you’d come to adore. “I want both of you.”

Miguel pulled you close, the three of you embraced in a deep hug. Miguel watched as the gate to your flight closed, a smile gracing his lips, peppering kisses to the top of your head.

“I love you.” You whispered the words without a second thought, Miguel fearing he’d misheard you as the bustle of the airport rose in volume.

“You…” Miguel held your face in his free hand. “You what…?”

“I love you, Miguel.” You spoke much clearer this time, slower, with far more confidence than you’d believed you’d utter these words. “I love you more than anything.”

A tear, so finite you’d nearly missed it, a silent oath between you. “I love you, too.” Oh, how long it’d been since he’d uttered those words, since he truly meant them, felt them to his core. “I love you in every universe.”

And he would, he truly would. Enchanted with your being, sparks flying as another kiss was shared between you, Miguel was glad he’d finally found peace.

He had everything he’d ever dreamed of.

taglist: @scaleniusrm @urmotherswhor3 @arcticmonkeyshasmyheart @beetlejuicesupremacy @mmeerraa

little bonus scene:

"I hate you," You jested through fits of laughter. "I had to wake up early to get here, they already took my luggage!"

It was only a long while after you’d departed from the airport that you’d realized your mistake, a happy one, but a mistake nonetheless. Your flight had long since taken off one you and Miguel pulled away from each other, exiting the airport hand-in-hand, Gabri babbling happily between you.

Miguel's face contorted, cringing, realizing he might’ve fucked up. “Nobody told you to leave without saying goodbye.” He shrugged off his words as though they were fact, law. Conjured without a second thought.

You whined at his response, passing Gabri her soft drink as you strolled down the streets of Nueva York, lunch in hand -- courtesy of Miguel and the realization of what had just occurred between the two of you invading your minds. And for that, you required a beverage, a proper breakfast. “You were upset!”

“Upset you were leaving.”

You scoffed, knocking Miguel's side with your elbow. “So emotional.”

Miguel huffed, snatching a fry from between your fingers, plopping the salty shaft of potato against his tongue. “Behave.”

“Do you really think I won’t get that?”

Miguel shook his head “Not if you have a shred of decency.”

“Bold assumption.”

#across the spiderverse #beyond the spiderverse #miguel o’hara x reader #spiderman 2099 #spiderman 2099 x reader #spiderverse #into the spiderverse #spiderman #spiderverse x reader #miguel o’hara

[miguelswifey04]

miguel o’hara & adopted daughter! reader (not a ship)

summary: miguel wants to adopt you as his own daughter, and he asks for your permission to do so.

my socials: linktree

🍧 🎀 ❁ 🎀 🍧

he cared for you in a way he had cared for his daughter who was long gone. you had reminded him of his very own daughter who had passed away in his arms. it was a scar he had in his heart that remained opened no matter how hard it tried to heal itself. he only had himself to blame for losing his daughter, and he knew it was his damn fault for taking over his variant’s life. he reflected upon the fact what he did was borderline psychotic and creepy—only peter b. parker knew the grand details of the situation.

when he met you, he thought this was the universe’s way of forgiving him and giving him a second chance. he took you right under his wing and you instantly clicked. he cared and fed you, giving you a bed and a roof over your head. at first the father/daughter dynamic was rocky. he had such a hard time showing you the affection and attention a child needed from a parent. but, with time he had learned to overcome his past traumas and his internal struggles for you. you meant everything to him and he loved you as if you were part of his flesh and blood. he didn’t care if you weren’t his very own daughter he still loved you as if you were HIS very OWN daughter.

you always had wanted to be loved and cared for in a way your very own parents never did. you had craved that father and daughter connection you often saw that other daughter’s had with their own father’s. so, when you fate aligned yours with miguel’s you were happy to have some sort of father figure. you thanked and thanked the universe for also giving you a second chance of the love you never received for your parents that had long gone too.

one day miguel visited your private quarters at the HQ. you were doing braiding your hair and had already changed into your pjs which consisted of an oversized t-shirt and baggy pj pants. you were sitting crisscrossed on the bed while you were watching TV. your hands were at work braiding your black hair to prepare for bed. you heard a knock. “who is it?”

“y/n. it’s me, miguel.” you heard miguel’s voice travel through the door and you quickly got up to open the door for him. “dad! what’re you doing here?” you exclaimed happily and he smiled softly at you rubbing his hand over your hair and messing it up, on purpose. he chuckled lightly as you invited him in. you always called him your dad and he let you. he knew how much you’ve suffered in the past and he was happy to provide the solace you needed.

“i wanted to ask you something,” he treaded softly towards you bed and sat on the edge while you pulled out a chair from your desk placing it right in front of him. you sat down continued to braid your hair as you had your attention on miguel. “go ahead, i’m all ears. what did you want to ask me?” miguel firmly took you hand into his which made you stop braiding you hair completely. you wonder why he reacted the way he did but you decided not to ask any questions.

“well, i just wanted to tell you that i love you as if you were my own daughter—um, what i to do is to officially adopt you as my own daughter, would you let me?” his voice was pretty shaky and he was really nervous. your eyes widened overcome with a wave of emotions. the mere thought of being part of miguel’s family brought tears of joy to your eyes. you had always admired the deep bond he shared with his own daughter, gabriella, and to have a chance to experience that with him was a dream come true. this would give both to you eternal happiness.

“dad," you choked out, your voice barely a whisper. "i would be honored to be your daughter. you’ve always been there for me, supporting and loving me unconditionally. i can't imagine a more loving and caring father than you."

a radiant smile spread across his face, relief washing over him like a warm embrace. pulling you into his arms, he held you close, his grip strong yet gentle. "thank you, mi corazón. this means the world to me. i promise to be the best father i can be, to protect, guide, and love you with everything that i am."

…

a/n: i have really bad daddy issues…i miss my dad y’all oh my god <//3

#spiderman atsv #miguel o'hara #spider man: across the spider verse #miguel spiderman #spider person #atsv miguel #miguel o’hara imagine #miguel o’hara fluff #miguel o’hara #daughter reader #adopted daughter #drabble #🌱 lin writes

[catmansquad]

The Thirst (P2)

Part 1     Part 3

You recall being led back to Miguel’s penthouse; it was expansive, the home of someone very rich and decorated with the tokens of someone well-travelled. Guided through the moonlit streets by his arm across your shoulders. His smile was gentle, his eyes were kind, he was so very warm to the touch. You had melted into his touch, as he peppered sweet kisses to your skin, humming pleasingly. Then, you had taken his hand and he had pulled you close, that broad chest and strong muscles firm at your back, his arm across your chest in a gently embrace as his other hand took your wrist in some form of a lover’s embrace, like he was feeling your racing pulse under his touch, more kisses, on your cheek, along your jaw, to your neck and then….

Then you’d… He’d… Memory became hazy past that moment, there had been the sense of sensual delight, a moment where pain and pleasure escalated into utter bliss and your next clear memory was of waking, weak and weary, wrapped in silken sheets of a king-sized bed. He must have truly been an amazing lover for nothing but those sweet sensations to cling to you, bone deep. When you finally found the strength in your limbs to pull yourself free, you found him in his spotless kitchen, gloomy with all the blinds still drawn and his eyes hidden by tinted glasses. Likely, he was just hungover, yet that sense of endless vitality and eternal calm remained about him. A romantic gentleman kind enough to make you breakfast, to help you get your strength back after the night’s ordeal.

Miguel was not bothered by these so called “hunters” in their attempt to gather more to their cause. There had been others, there would be more. Acting out in any way would only fan the flames of their fervor. The only reason for their presence in the city were the spontaneous Fledgling explosion recently. So many newly Turned, overconfident, hungry, no control of their newfound thirst leaving a trail of bodies that needed to be cleaned away. If he found the one or the group who were responsible for these mass Turnings, he would send them into death himself. Too much mess, too much attention and the mortals became nervous. All in all, he could wait. This new band of would-be hunters were, like all the rest, mortal. They would wither and crumble, like all else in the world. He would remain, he always did.

In the daylight, the streets were far safer, yet your journey home would not be uneventful. Not several streets away did a small crowd gather in a local park, to where a figure stood atop a bench, calling out to the assembled.

‘… I tell you, brothers and sisters! There are monsters among us! Beasts who wear the skins of men! I know there are those of you who know of what I speak! How many of you have felt their presence? How many of you have suffered for it! Anemia! Missing time! Hours of our lives stolen from us! There are people who vanish in dark alleys, are they devoured by the very shadows?! No! We are but prey! We are the sheep who do not know the wolves are among us! Open your eyes! Read our words! We. Must. Fight. Them! Or all is lost…’

Their tirade fell into a gradual calm once again, one or two people applauded, the rest broke into murmurs.

‘Hobie, please…’

At their beckoning, their aide stepped forwards, cradling a stack of leaflets in his arms and strode amidst the crowd, handing them out one by one. Eventually, he came to you, leaving the cream-coloured leaflet held out for you to take.

‘Please… It ain’t madness. It’s truth.’ His voice was low.

‘I met one of ‘em… Once. Nearly sucked me dry like a capri-sun… Barely escaped with me life...’

As if to prove his point, he softly pulled down the collar of his shirt, revealing the twin, jagged scars that trailed from what looked like healed puncture marks. His eyes looked you over, and you didn’t realise your hand had been on your own neck until you snapped back to yourself and took the leaflet from him. There were no marks, not even the hint of a wound upon your skin. Nothing untoward had happened between Miguel and you; it had just been sex. Right…?

‘It’s like they do somethin’ to the brain… Makes you forget. Some people just remember it as… a fun night, or a brutal assault in a dark alley…’

‘Hobie!’ The leader called out for him again, and he gave a sad smile as you took the leaflet.

‘You know where to find us, all in there.’

As he weaved back through the crowd, you stared down at the leaflet; the caricature of a masked beast with sharp teeth.

“BEASTS AMONG US”. – A Warning by Avis Hardinger.

‘Is this seat taken…?’

You looked up from the leaflet, the coffee cooling on the table, and a stunned smile graced your face at the sight of Miguel, leaning one hand on the back of the chair opposite you, fingers drumming, almost squinting at you behind his sunglasses.

‘Miguel! No, it’s free…’ You had just considered inviting your friend out, if their hangover was any better, but now all thoughts fled your mind, replaced solely with Miguel’s presence as he sat down opposite you. As fine and fancy as the night before, ringed fingers entwined as he peered over the top of you at them.

‘How are you doing…? Achy? Sleepy?’

‘I feel better now, thanks.’ Your smile matched his own, but he concealed the full breath of it behind his hands. Curious, you slid the leaflet across the table before him.

‘What do you… What do you think of this?’

He hummed thoughtfully, hands parting as he picked it up, skimming over it before placing it back down with an amused laugh.

‘Surely, you don’t believe this? Heh… These are the same people who claim their grandmothers get abducted by UFOs to Jupiter every night. “Help, aliens stole my memory and my pet canary!”’

He chuckled softly again, leaving you utterly enchanted with him, even in the midday sun, the shadows seemed to cling tighter to him.

‘I’ve heard about that Avis Hardinger. None of them good…’

He slid the leaflet back across to you, fingers entwined as he peered at you over them again. You couldn’t quite pull your attention from just how handsome Miguel was- it was like your mind was on auto-pilot. Even people who passed by were stealing little glances.

Miguel knew his power had only grown with age; he was no longer that smug, hungry Fledgling who believed himself to be at the top of the world. Well… Maybe some part of that self still lingered inside him. It would probably explain why he, at five-hundred years of undying experience, was currently sat across with a mortal he’d fed on, the softest touches of his charms keeping their attention solely on him. This was how it always started, the inevitable descent into yet another romantic mishap. He could entertain a fun date, indeed…

‘Having said that…’ Behind his hands, he let his tongue lick along one of his fangs, smirking. Your attention was rapt on him.

‘They’re having a meeting tonight. Did you want to go along…? Just for a laugh…’

It was time to see what this scared huddle of mortals would do to consider themselves “hunters”.

When you saw Hobie next, he was greeting people with a gentle smile, a procession of people into the meeting hall made out of a community center. Beside him, the pale, tall form of Avis Hardinger watched, eyes flitting among people.

‘Hey!’ Hobie took your hands, shaking them softly, greeting you at the doorway filled with silver crucifixes hanging from strings.

‘Glad you came! Go in and take a seat.’

‘Hobie, w-what is all that?’ You glance up at the crucifixes, feeling Avis’ paranoid eyes on you briefly before he turned away. Hobie’s smile became clever, and he winked.

‘My idea! Great, innit? See, the beasts can’t stand silver and powerful faith, so why not combine the two! Gotta make sure there’s no… unwelcome guests, y’know? Go in, get settled… Avis gets… impatient easily- man needs to chill…’

You watched Miguel casually brush the silver crucifixes aside, in no mood to simply duck under them, and gave your hand a reassuring squeeze.

‘Hobie!’ Avis’ voice barked from inside the hall and you watched the man in question roll his eyes.

‘Yes, boss?’

‘The incense!!’

‘Sure, the incense… Sure you can find a fuckin’ match if you took yer head outta yer ass… Tosser.’

He cleared his throat after his mutterings, forcing that pleased smile back on his face.

‘We’ve got juice if you’re thirsty!’

Only half the many chairs had been filled, by people of all walks of life, but you sat softly beside Miguel, in the back row, leaning into his warmth as he rested with long legs stretched out, lazy, at ease, a man with all the time in the world. His eyes glinted, dark brown as he looked to you.

‘Sorry this is an awful first date…’

He reached one hand to cup your jaw, stroking a thumb across your cheek, voice a low whisper.

‘I promise to take you somewhere fancy…’

You blushed under his touch, heart thundering.

‘I… I uh… Don’t think I’d have anything classy enough for the places you’ve got in mind, Miguel…’

His smile did not falter, his eyes crinkled with delight.

‘Then we’ll have to go shopping for something that is…’

You swallowed the thick lump in your throat as his eyebrows wiggled briefly. You were fairly sure he was going to spoil you rotten if you allowed him to. You watched Miguel bring a hand to his mouth, covering as he coughed, then doubled up into a brief wheeze, and the spell was broken.

‘Miguel?’

‘… ‘m fine… Must be the incense…’ He waved a hand across his nose, like he was trying waft the smell away. You turned in your seat, squirming to see the several sets of lit incense sticks that curled into the air, filling the room with a cloying, sweet scent. Silence settled as Avis stepped up to the podium, hands raised.

‘My friends! Brothers and sisters! Thank you for coming. At least here, huddled together in our sanctuary, we can rest assured that we are safe. We will begin with our notes from out last meeting…’

Avis speech nearly bored you to sleep, several times you found yourself nearly drifting onto Miguel’s chest, feeling his hand stroke softly across your back. Through heavy eyelids, you scanned the room, a few people were listening intently, the rest were sneakily on their phones, and even behind Avis, Hobie had put earbuds in and was now quietly rocking out, miming an air guitar. He brought a soft smile to your face, watching him. You woke up properly as you heard Miguel cough again, his chest jolting.

‘…But now, we have the home advantage!’ Avis slammed a hand onto the podium, and everyone sat upright to attention.

‘Through the combination of science and esoteric rituals, we finally have a means to combat this threat, not just ward against them as we cower in our homes!’

You were torn between listening to Avis and watching in concern as Miguel hunched over, desperately trying to clear out his chest. You patted his broad back reassuringly.

‘… Behold! We have created an airborne toxin- please, calm yourselves, my friends… The very incense sticks you see alight before you are no mere mood setter, they are our weapon against these bloodthirsty beasts! To us, they are utterly harmless, also quite nice to enjoy- I am rather proud of that…’

Miguel’s wheezing coughing became worse, and you swore the hand he coughed into was being speckled with red.

‘The stolen blood in their abominable bodies rebels at our sacred incense. No more are we their cattle. From this night on, we let them know that we…. We….’

People were beginning to turn to look at you both, you soothingly tried to rub Miguel’s back as his suffering continued, only half paying attention. But Avis’ words had found their purchase in your mind.

‘… Oh dear god…’ Avis’ voice was haunted, from the podium, he pointed a trembling finger across the room. Your hand stilled on Miguel’s back and lifted away, slowly rising from your seat, the inevitable could not be ignored. Realising something was happening, Hobie stopped his silent jam and pulled out his earbuds, head tilted in confusion as Avis let the moment build to a conclusion among the terrified, whispering citizens giving you both a wide berth.

‘… My friends…. There is a beast among us…’

Miguel drew a deep, shuddering breath and lifted his head up; eyes blazing crimson, lower face smeared with the blood that coated his hand. You backed away as Avis stepped from the podium, some citizens began to scream, already running for the fire exit.

‘… Well now…’ Miguel rasped, one hand gripping the folding chair in front of him as he resisted the urge to succumb to another coughing fit.

‘… Finally, something interesting.’

With a snarl, and one hand alone, he threw the chair across the room with frightening force, crashing into the incense burner, and carrying it to the far wall to shatter through a window.

‘It stinks in here…’

His sharp, terrifying eyes looked to you, and the memory of the other night rushed back in full- not of blissful sex, but of a ferocious embrace, his teeth in your neck; devouring you, enrapturing you, then soothing that pain with a gentle lick, the wounds healing in one firm stroke of the tongue-

You felt something crash into you, Hobie bolted past you towards the doors, and you were sure you heard him muttering “fuck this!” back to back under his breath. His gaze lingered on you, teeth gritted in an annoyed snarl, those fangs, the smeared blood, those blazing eyes- he looked monstrous, so different from the charming, handsome man you had sat beside only moments ago.

‘You may want to leave. Or close your eyes. This may get… Unpleasan- STAY THERE, AVIS!’

His gaze snapped to the cowering figure, voice escalating into a low roar that froze the man to the spot with terror. The chill night air blew away the cloying sweetness, and shocked some sense back into you. Stumbling away from him, you headed out into the night, fleeing with everyone else.

Back in control of his faculties, Miguel rested his hands in his coat pockets, hiding the worst of his nature as he stepped in long strides to where Avis stood trembling in his skin, rooted by fear and willpower both.

‘So, would be Hunter… I think that you have had the worst luck tonight. Were I in a more charitable mood, I would simply wipe your memory, or perhaps convince you to take a long walk into the Thames. Alas, I think a more necessary punishment is in order for you…’

The shorter, skinnier man whimpered, eyes flitting over him, glancing to the exit repeatedly, yet he could not will his body into action.

‘Although I will say thank you, for actually managing to give my somewhat banal existence a new, exciting twist. I’m afraid you just had the misfortune of having absolutely no idea of who you’re fucking with.’

He stopped close to the trembling man, glancing at his watch, just to watch the second hand tick by.

‘I am not just “a beast”. I am a very old, very ill-tempered Vampire, and you have just ruined my chances with someone I cared for…’

He grinned, slowly running his tongue over those fangs, nose wrinkling at the scents from the mortal. Terrified indeed.

‘Ugh… I think I have toyed with you enough for tonight, Avis. So…’

He reached out and grabbed the front of Avis’ shirt, well away his claws were out and biting through the cloth and scratching skin.

‘…. I do really hate having to deal with rampaging Fledglings, and I did swear a long time ago I wouldn’t subject anyone else to this curse, but I think you need to be taught a lesson.’

He saw Avis’ eyes widen, another terrified whimper, perhaps a plea that never emerged.

He stepped close enough to whisper into his ear.

‘… Brace yourself, Avis… You’re about to enter a nightmare you can never wake up from….’

#miguel o'hara #miguel x reader #vampire miguel o’hara #hobie brown

[golden-web]

I don’t know how much time Miguel lets me stay in the floor. I don’t even care. My pain and suffering was meant to happen? Unavoidable? Countless other me’s suffering for eternity, and for what?

How many other people are forced to suffer. Because he says so? And what does he mean I’m not suppose to be found? My tingle shakes me from my thoughts.

“What is wrong with you!” A voice hisses. I’ve never heard it in person but I instantly know who it is. Ms. Ez. I roll over and face them. Migeul huffs and walks away.

“Just take care of it,” he replies.

“Hey bud, I know this is a lot, but try not to jump before you look okay?” She sticks a hand out to me, I take it and they pull me up. Her head barely reaches the bottom of my shoulders. “We can figure this out together.” It will be okay. “Miguel told me how you got here. I never thought I’d see you.” There’s some venom in her voice. They works for Miguel, but no way she agrees with him.

“You’re so young,” are the first words that tumble out of my mouth. She laughs.

“I want you to be safe Fin, you gotta go home,” she presses a device into my hand. “You aren’t alone, no matter what okay?” I nod and slip the cold metal rectangle into my suit pocket. “I also got your web shooters back,” they whisper. She snaps them on my wrist.

“I didn’t even realize I lost em. Thank you Mx. Ez.”

“Don’t thank me, just trying to fix the multiverse any way I can.”

“Am I really that bad?” I ask quietly.

“Don’t listen to Miguel about that stuff, he’s a little…”

“Crazy?”

“Yea I guess you could say that. But you should go home okay? We can still be in contact, Miguel can never take that away from you. Let’s just wait this out okay? We’ll work it out. Okay?” I nod as we walk along. Soon we enter a control room of sorts.

“Finally,” mutters Miguel from a control panel.

“Actually it’s Finley,” I say. Mys. Ez laughs a bit and tries to nudge my shoulder.

“It doesn’t hurt,” she says.

“What?” I give them a curious look.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. Suddenly large metal spindles grab me. They pull me to platform away from everyone.

“Hey what’s going on?” I scream.

“It’s the go home machine!” Ms. Ez calls.

“Don’t fight it,” growls Miguel. Soon I’m encased in a bubble.

“Don’t jump!” Calls out Mx. Ez. She waves and soon everything goes black.

I swirl through another portal. My body goes cold. Maybe this isn’t a portal, maybe Miguel just killed me. Suddenly I’m thrown out of the portal and on to the sanctum floor.

Ooc: thank you @ask-spidermom for writing their dialogue and approving parts of this I guess, love you! /p

#golden-web #spidersona #spiderman into the spiderverse #into the spiderverse #itsv #spiderverse #disconnect arc #spidermom #miguel o'hara

[daimonclub]

The essence of aphorisms

The essence of aphorisms The essence of aphorisms, an article that explains the laws of aphorism by James Geary with an introduction of Carl William Brown on this kind of literary and philosophical original genre. The things that will destroy us are: politics without principle; pleasure without conscience; wealth without work; knowledge without character; business without morality; science without humanity; and worship without sacrifice. Mahatma Gandhi Sometimes a few lines are worthier than a whole library. Voltaire An aphorism is a phrase, a maxim, a proposition, a quote that expresses with concise, philosophic, humorous or poetic accuracy, the result of a long experience of life, of observations, analysis, suffering, great endurance, tolerance and even annoyance (in order not to use any vulgar terms). Carl William Brown The brevity of life, so often lamented, might perhaps be the best thing about life. Arthur Schopenhauer Aphorists are far from harmless. They are troublemakers and iconoclasts, dogmatists whose majestic authority commands consent. They are, by definition, revolutionaries who hold their truths to be self-evident. James Geary We fight against three giants, my dear Sancho: "injustice, fear, and ignorance." Miguel de Cervantes The aphorism in which I am the first master among Germans, are the forms of ‘eternity’; my ambition is to say in ten sentences what everyone else says in a book – what everyone else does not say in a book. Friedrich Nietzsche Aphorisms are intimate encounters between two minds. If they don’t give you a little shock, something isn’t right. James Geary Aphorisms, representing a knowledge broken, do invite men to enquire farther. Francis Bacon One can only become a philosopher, not be one. As soon as one thinks one is a philosopher, one stops becoming one. Friedrich von Schlegel Aphorismus est sermo brevis, integrum sensum propositae rei scribens. That is – An aphorism is a brief utterance, which writes the complete meaning of the matter – this is the exact definition proposed by Isidore de Séville. As a matter of fact an aphorism is usually a saying expressing a belief, an idea, a thought, a saying, a piece of literature and so on. Synonyms for aphorisms could be: adage, apothegm, axiom, dictum, maxim, moral, precept, proverb, rule, saw, saying, truism, axiom, device, dictum, fundamental, law, maxim, moral, postulate, precept, proposition, proverb, saying, theorem, truism, truth, byword, catchphrase, catchword, dictum, epithet, gnome, gnomic saying, handle, maxim, motto, nickname, precept, proverb, quotation, quote, saw, shibboleth, slogan, standing joke. An aphorism can express also absurdity, ambiguity, foolishness, nonsense, amusement and paradox, because it is the king of the metaphorical language.

The law of aphorisms Evidently we could read various essays, articles and even books on aphoristic writing, or on short literature, which certainly has many relationships with poetry, the symbolic or metaphorical expression of it, and with the multiple definitions of the various sciences, but what I would like to point out in this introduction to the following article is a reflection by the great critic, poet and essayist T.S. Eliot, who argued with great conviction that to be truly great poets it is not enough to have language and vision; it is also necessary to possess a great philosophical and/or theological system, "which Shakespeare lacked and Dante did not", and for this reason, again according to the great author, Dante was a greater poet than Shakespeare. However, without making a comparison of value between the great literary giants of all time, I would just like to emphasize the aspect of possessing or not a great philosophical or theological system. Well, as far as the aphorism and the various intellectual speculations on the most disparate questions are concerned, we can already immediately highlight that characteristic which also for the author of the following text must be present in order to characterize the aphorism as such and to give it precisely its deepest essence, that is, it must be brief, personal and philosophical, on what then pertains to the aspects of being definitive or having a surprise effect, it could be discussed further. Furthermore we can say that aphorisms can be extrapolated from more extensive literary works, or be creations in their own sense, but to truly be such and make worth of their essence, they must express in one way or another the poetic and philosophical vision of the author, or better yet they must have an objective, an end, and a value above all of a philosophical nature, which must express the artistic intent of the writer himself. This intent can be aimed at expressing a scientific definition, or at conveying a social, economic, literary or philosophical criticism, or even at suggesting various useful behaviors for achieving a certain goal, or face a certain situation, which is why in general aphorisms often have a lot to do with dealing with ethics, logic, satire, irony, humour, politics, economics, science or education, basically all subjects that have always been involved with language and philosophy. Following my experience as a writer of aphorisms, I can say that I have always dealt with various disciplines and have carried out multiple activities, the first of which concerns the world of education and training, I have always had then a very critical, polemical and often satirical or at least humorous attitude towards human stupidity and its most illustrious leaders and followers, and therefore I have always observed, mocked and attacked it with my aphorisms. In conclusion I have clearly developed my philosophical and in some sense also theological vision by elaborating the synthetic principles of Daimonology, which in addition to re-evaluating the original meaning of the Greek Daimon, or the Latin genius, have as their philosophical basis the ethics of knowledge, and the practice of a lifelong, widespread, and shared education without any barrier of social caste or economic class. With these intentions my aphorisms were written, which convey my ideas, and in most cases have all the characteristics indicated in the following article, that I certainly consider as one of the best on this subject.

James Geary on aphorisms The Five Laws of Aphorisms by James Geary based on his book We are what we think. The philosopher J. S. Mill once observed that there are two kinds of wisdom in the world: "In the one, every age in which science flourishes surpasses, or ought to surpass, its predecessors; of the other, there is nearly an equal amount in all ages." The first kind of wisdom is scientific. It consists in what we know about the world and how it works, and how we put that knowledge to use through technology. Since the Industrial Revolution at least, each age has surpassed the scientific achievements of its predecessors with astonishing speed. Mills calls the second type "the wisdom of ages," a somewhat exalted term for what we’ve collectively learned about human nature through the experience of individuals across thousands of years of history. This kind of knowledge is unsystematic, consists in psychological rather than empirical facts, and is present in more or less equal amounts in every historical period. So Dr. Phil McGraw potentially has just about as much - or as little - of this kind of wisdom at his disposal as the Taoist sage Lao-tzu, who lived in China about six hundred years before Christ. "The form in which this kind of wisdom most naturally embodies itself," Mill concludes, "is that of aphorisms." Why aphorisms? Because they’re just the right size to hold the swift insights and fresh observations that are the raw data of the wisdom of the ages. Aphorisms are literature’s hand luggage. Light and compact, they fit easily into the overhead compartment of your brain and contain everything you need to get through a rough day at the office or a dark night of the soul. They are, as the nineteenthcentury author John Morley observed, "the guiding oracles which man has found out for himself in that great business of ours, of learning how to be, to do, to do without, and to depart." Here, then, are the five laws by which an aphorism performs its oracular work. 1. It Must Be Brief If brevity is the soul of wit, as Shakespeare observed in one of his many aphoristic insights, then concision is the aphorism’s heart. Aphorisms must work quickly because they are meant for use in emergencies. We’re most in need of aphorisms at times of distress or joy, ecstasy or anguish. And in cases of spiritual or emotional urgency, brevity is the best policy. The author of The Cloud of Unknowing, a spiritual instruction manual written by an anonymous English monk in the latter half of the fourteenth century, knew this when he advised his students: "Short prayer penetrates heaven". The Cloud of Unknowing was composed as an aid to contemplation, and it’s packed with sound spiritual guidance and sweet admonitions for young men just entering the monastic life. The book is made up of seventy-five very short chapters, with amusing and sometimes impenetrable titles like "The Three Things the Contemplative Beginner Must Practice: Reading, Thinking, and Praying" and "A Man’s Outlook Is Wonderfully Altered through the Spiritual Experience of This Nothing in Its Nowhere." Each chapter is written in very simple, direct prose, in an avuncular tone that highlights the author’s wisdom, equanimity, and good humor. The book’s title refers to our imperfect knowledge of God, but the author urges his readers to "hammer away at this high cloud of unknowing" through meditation and prayer. The Cloud’s language mostly clings very close to the ground, however, and the book is replete with down-to-earth tips on how monks should pray silently to themselves throughout the day and how they can find the sacred in the most mundane daily chores. Chapter 37 explains by means of a surprisingly commonplace metaphor why pithiness is next to godliness: A man or a woman, suddenly frightened by fire, or death, or what you will, is suddenly in his extremity of spirit driven hastily and by necessity to cry or pray for help. And how does he do it? Not, surely, with a spate of words; not even in a single word of two syllables! Why? He thinks it wastes too much time to declare his urgent need and his agitation. So he bursts out in his terror with one little word, and that of a single syllable: "Fire!" it may be, or "Help!" Just as this little word stirs and pierces the ears of the hearers more quickly, so too does a little word of one syllable, when it is not merely spoken or thought, but expresses also the intention in the depth of our spirit. Aphorists are people who’ve experienced "extremity of spirit," and aphorisms are read by people in the same predicament. They are terse and to the point because their message is urgent. There’s no time to waste. An aphorism can be anywhere from a few words to a few sentences long; the French call the former an aperçu, a swift, sweeping insight, and the latter a pensée, a longer, more leisurely train of thought. But only a fool makes a speech in a burning house. That’s why the author of The Cloud of Unknowing hammered his meaning home in such short, vivid phrases. When you find yourself in extremis, aphorisms tell you everything you need to know. The rest is just salad dressing.

Literary essence of aphorisms 2. It Must Be Definitive In the Life of Samuel Johnson, James Boswell describes the great English lexicographer as "a man of most dreadful appearance … He is very slovenly in his dress and speaks with a most uncouth voice … He has a great humor and is a worthy man. But his dogmatic roughness of manners is disagreeable." What Boswell fails to mention, however, is that a little dogmatism is no bad thing when you’re compiling a dictionary, as Johnson was from 1746 to 1755. Johnson was famously convinced of his own opinions, and not shy about declaiming them, essential qualities for both the lexicographer and the aphorist. After all, a definition - like an aphorism - must be, well, definitive. In fact, the term itself is derived from the Greek words apo (from) and horos (boundary or horizon), so an aphorism is something that marks off or sets apart - that is, a definition. Aphorisms and definitions assert rather than argue, proclaim rather than persuade, state rather than suggest. Johnson’s most famous aphorism - Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel.- wouldn’t be nearly as piquant if he had couched it in all kinds of caveats and qualifications. Of course, aphorisms aren’t necessarily 100 percent true - Ambrose Bierce, Johnson’s twentieth-century counterpart, contends, for example, that patriotism is the scoundrel’s first refuge - yet they demand assent through the declarative style in which they are expressed. The English essayist William Hazlitt put it well when he wrote of aphorisms, "There is a peculiar stimulus … in this mode of writing. A thought must tell at once, or not at all." Because aphorisms must tell at once they often take the form of definitions - x is y. There is no deliberation or debate, and no supporting evidence. We must literally take the aphorist at his word. That’s usually easy enough because those words are so lucid that they compel their own conviction. Of no one is this more true than Johnson himself, whose aphorisms could easily have served as entries in his dictionary of the English language. Here are two of his less optimistic pronouncements: "Life is a pill which none of us can bear to swallow without gilding". Johnson defined the lexicographer as "a writer of dictionaries, a harmless drudge." But aphorists are far from harmless. They are troublemakers and iconoclasts, dogmatists whose majestic authority commands consent. They are, by definition, revolutionaries who hold their truths to be self-evident. 3. It Must Be Personal In 1955, Alfred Kessler, a physician and collector of the works of G.K. Chesterton, was poking around a used bookstore in San Francisco when he came across a copy of Holbrook Jackson’s Platitudes in the Making. Jackson, a literary critic and contemporary of Chesterton, had this little book of maxims privately published in 1911. But as Kessler flipped through the pages of the slim volume he realized that this was no ordinary copy of Platitudes. Scrawled in bright green pencil beneath each of Jackson’s maxims was a handwritten reply: either an endorsement of the idea behind the saying or, more often, an emphatic rejection accompanied by an alternative aphorism. For example, penned underneath Jackson’s "He who reasons is lost" - was the arch retort, "He who never reasons is not worth finding". Kessler recognized the handwriting, and turning back to the front of the book was startled to read the following inscription: "To G.K. Chesterton, with esteem from Holbrook Jackson." Kessler had in his hands Chesterton’s personal copy of Platitudes in the Making, and the impassioned scratchings in green pencil were Chesterton’s ripostes to Jackson’s aphorisms. Kessler had stumbled on the greatest discovery of his collecting career and recovered for Chesterton fans some of the great English author’s most incisive sayings.

Sir Francis Bacon on aphorisms If you had never read a word by either Jackson or Chesterton - the former now largely forgotten and the latter best remembered for his detective series the Father Brown stories - and Platitudes was recited aloud, it would be easy to guess which aphorism was by whom. Jackson fancied himself a modern romantic, an atheist philosopher in the shadow of Nietzsche, so his sayings are filled with disdain for convention and praise for man’s impulsive, irrational nature. Pretty typical of Jackson’s output is: "Don’t think - do". Chesterton, on the other hand, was a devout Catholic rationalist, as well as a committed socialist and environmentalist long before the latter was a fashionable occupation. He did believe in God and in man’s triumph over the baser instincts through reason and morality. So his reply is a fairly accurate summary of his philosophy, too: "Do think! Do!". It’s this personal quality that gives aphorisms their power to charm and enrage. An aphorism takes you inside the head of the person who wrote it or said it. "The thought… must be stamped with the hallmark of the mind that thinks it," as critic and aphorism junkie Logan Pearsall Smith wrote in the introduction to his 1947 anthology of English maxims. Aphorisms are not bland generalizations about life, the universe, and everything but are deeply personal and idiosyncratic statements, as unique to an individual as a strand of his or her DNA. This is what distinguishes the form from proverbs, for instance, which are really wornout aphorisms that have had the identity of the original author rubbed away through repeated use. The personal touch is important because aphorisms are not bits of uplifting text meant for passive consumption. They are challenging statements that demand a response: either the recognition of a shared insight - what Alexander Pope described as something that "oft was thought but ne’er so well expressed" - or a rejection and retort. As the Jackson-Chesterton exchange shows, aphorisms are intimate encounters between two minds. If they don’t give you a little shock, something isn’t right. Francis Bacon, the English author, politician, and scientist, loved aphorisms precisely because of this ability to upset preconceptions. He inherited his affection for the form from his father, who had quotations from the classics carved into the columns of the family manor at Gorhambury, near St. Albans just north of London. The younger Bacon recommended the use of aphorisms because they pique curiosity rather than satisfy it, provoke further thought rather than thwart it: "Aphorisms, representing a knowledge broken, do invite men to enquire farther." Read the full article

#Aphorismus #aphorist #Bacon #Brief #Buddha #Byron #CarlWilliamBrown #Cervantes #Chateaubriand #CloudofUnknowing #Daimonology #Definitive #endure #Essays #essence #fragment #Gandhi #Greek #humanity #JamesGeary #Jesus #Johnson #laws #lexicographer #metaphor #morality #Nietzsche #overcome #Personal #philosopher

[cmcsmen]

We Are His Witnesses

By Deacon John Rangel

Note: This is the Mass homily from the Bishop Perry Men's Forum held for Catholic Chicago Men on April 15, 2023. Below is the recording as well.

   Today is the final day of the Easter Octave. Tomorrow, Divine Mercy Sunday, we continue our Easter Season journey that ends on Pentecost Sunday, May 28. It’s during these 50 days that the church in her wisdom has included in the daily and Sunday lectionary a large portion of the entire Book of Acts.

   In today’s reading from Chapter 4 we heard Peter’s bold and spirt-filled proclamation, “It is

impossible for us NOT to speak about what we have seen and heard”!  Peter and the other

apostles called by Jesus and driven by the Holy Spirit could not, would not, be silent for they

were his personal witnesses. Indeed, Jesus called His apostles to be his witnesses. By virtue of

our Baptism and as faithful followers of Christ, he calls us to be His witnesses.

   In a court of law, at least in America, when someone is called to be a witness, that person has

to swear that he or she will tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. We, the

witnesses of Jesus Christ, are called to give testimony that Jesus Christ has risen from the dead.

We are called to testify that there is more to life than the physical, there is the spiritual. We are

called to proclaim that Jesus Christ came, suffered, died and rose from the dead so that we

could have a share in His eternal life.  

    My Brothers in Christ, the world needs to hear our testimony. The world needs to hear that

there is so much more around us than the everyday concerns of our lives, or for us Americans

…our country! The 24/7 news reports from the left and from the right provide us with incessant

whining regarding the statements and actions of those with opposite views.  It makes it seem as

though the world will stop if the views opposite their position are allowed to take hold on the

country and the world. Because there are few people of faith on either side in the media, they

miss that all their reports pale in comparison to the only news that matters, the Good News, the

Gospel. Jesus Christ has saved the world. He has given us eternal life. We have to treasure this

life, and lead others to His life. We have to take a stand for all that is right and moral whether it

comes from the liberals or the conservatives, and we have to fight against all that which is

wrong and immoral regardless of its source. The bottom line of our concern is not either of the

parties’ positions. The bottom line for us is the Truth of Jesus Christ. Every position in politics,

every law in the land, must be seen from the perspective of the Truth of Jesus Christ. And when

we espouse this position, this belief in the public square we will be ostracized, marginalized,

hated and persecuted. Jesus told his apostles during the Last Supper, “If they persecute me, they

will also persecute you…And they will do these things to you on account of my name..” (Jn 15:20-21)

  Last week I happened upon a story that drew my attention about a newly ordained 28-year-old

Mexican priest, Fr. Miguel Pantaleon, in a diocese located in the western region of Mexico.

Nothing unusual about that you might say except for the rest of the story. Fr. Miguel has joined

what could be the riskiest priesthood in the world. 

   More than 50 priests have been killed in Mexico since 2006, nine of them under the current

administration alone. Some were killed for speaking out against cartel violence, others caught

up in the crossfire of an unending conflict between rival criminal organizations. And yet the

Mexican government gives only cursory attention to these killings.

   Fr. Miguel was well aware of what might await him yet he insists that he’s ready for

whatever lies ahead. He said “I know that one day I’ll have to come in to contact with the

cartels, but not to confront them – rather, to show them the face of God’s mercy, because God

loves them, too.” Fr. Miguel Pantaleon a shining example of what it means to be a witness of Jesus Christ!

  Who is there in this country that is going to stand up for what is right and true, just and

moral?  Who?  Will I, will you? My Brothers in Christ, We are witnesses to Jesus Christ. We

are witnesses to His Truth. It is our obligation to apply the Christian litmus test to the events of

the world as they impact our spiritual and temporal lives! 

            Let nothing disturb you,

            Let nothing frighten you,

            All things are passing away:

            God never changes.

            Patience obtains all things

            Whoever has God lacks nothing;

            God alone suffices.

             -- St. Teresa of Avila

   If only people realized that there was so much more to life than meets the eye, if only people

realized that the spiritual is real, if only people realized that the eternal life of the Lord is

available for them, that the Lord is reaching out to them, then they would realize that much of

their upset in politics, as well as in their daily lives, is insignificant next to the overwhelming

truth of Jesus Christ.

   Someone must be found to let the world know about the only reality that matters. This is what

we have been called to do. We are His witnesses. Be not afraid. Here I am Lord send me (Is 6:8)

Deacon John Rangel

April 15, 2023

#witnesses #easter #catholic #male spirituality #men's forum #deacon john rangel #chicago

[groupiesoutrageously]

Frank Sinatra and Ava Gardner are two of the most iconic figures of the 20th century. Their passionate, haunting and dramatic love story could be something out of a movie screen. 

In the early 1940s, Frank Sinatra was already a successful crooner when he met the young starlet Ava Gardner at the MGMT lot. He was smitten with her striking good looks, but the actress saw the singer as “conceited, arrogant and overpowering.” Sinatra was then married to Nancy Barbato, the mother of his three children (Nancy, Frank Jr., and Tina). But that didn’t stop him from having several extra-marital affairs, which eventually were exposed to the public and caused Barbato a great deal of pain. As for Gardner, her two previous husbands were actor Mickey Rooney and jazz musician Artie Shaw. According to sources who knew him personally, before they even met, Sinatra had seen a photograph of Gardner on the cover of a magazine and sworn that he would marry her. His wish did come true. 

Despite not having made a first good impression on Gardner, it was clear that the two were a match. They shared interests – they both enjoyed smoking, drinking, cursing, having sex – and had similar personalities (both were equally volatile and passionate). It took some time, but eventually their affair started in 1948. Two years later, on Valentine’s Day 1950, Sinatra separated from his wife. By that time, his affair with Gardner was of public knowledge and photos of them together were published in magazines. His fans were not happy and his popularity was affected by this, and so was Gardner’s, to an extent. Not surprisingly, that did not stop the two from getting married. A small ceremony took place on November 7, 1951. 

The marriage was extremely turbulent. Although they were deeply in love, their strong personalities often clashed. As it turns out, they also shared some of the same insecurities, and Sinatra became dependent on Gardner’s love. Gardner did not approve of his unfaithfulness. The fiery couple had extraordinary fights, many times in public. Nowadays, it is well known that Sinatra struggled with depression and attempted suicide more than once. Some sources claim that shortly before their marriage, Sinatra made two attempts, but Gardner remained by his side and they got married anyway. This reportedly happened other times during the marriage, and later on. Gardner also had other lovers.

In late 1952, Gardner was shooting the film Mogambo in Africa. Sinatra visited her on set and she told him that she was pregnant. He was happy, she wasn’t; Gardner had an abortion. In October 1953, the couple announced their separation. According to author Kitty Kelley, Sinatra was absolutely devastated over losing Gardner, and attempted suicide once again. Gardner started dating Spanish bullfighter Luis Miguel Dominguin. The divorce was finally finalized almost four years later, in 1957. Sinatra blamed fellow actor Peter Lawford (who had dated Gardner in the past) as the cause of the divorce. His 1957 album Where Are You? Is considered to be one of his most emotional and intimate works. Its themes of heartbreak and sadness are an obvious reflection of Sinatra’s state of mind after losing his great love. 

After the divorce, Sinatra continued to deal with Gardner’s business finances. They remained friends and in later years when she became ill, Sinatra paid $50,000 for her medical bills even though Gardner could afford them. It is said that Gardner used her influence and connections to help Sinatra get one of the starring roles in From Here to Eternity (1953), for which he earned an Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor. Although Sinatra tried numerous times to get her back, it never happened. 

Gardner was the one who filed for divorce, but the situation also took a great emotional toll on the actress. She became an alcoholic and never remarried. In the 1960s and 1970s she began to withdraw from the public, and her movies were unsuccessful. She remained working mostly on television, in guest starring roles, before ending her career altogether. Sinatra’s popularity never diminished and he continued to be one of the most famous singers in the world for many decades to come. He remarried twice, to actress Mia Farrow and model Barbara Marx. 

This tragic love story became pretty much a Hollywood legend, and since then a lot of rumors and speculations regarding the couple and their marriage continue to be made to this day. Many people claim that the two remained in love for the rest of their lives. Some sweet stories include Sinatra sending Gardner a bouquet of flowers every year after their divorce; Gardner keeping a picture of them together, from the early days of their relationship, on her bedside table; after suffering two strokes and being unable to talk, Gardner would receive calls from Sinatra, who repeated that he loved her as the nurses held the phone to her ear. Gardner suffered from emphysema and died of pneumonia in 1990, at the age of 67. Sinatra died after a heart attack in 1998, aged 82. 

“Every single day during our relationship, no matter where in the world I was, I’d get a telegram from Frank saying he loved me and missed me.” –Ava Gardner

#ava gardner #type: girlfriend #frank sinatra #photoset #edit #ugh so this was a bit emotional :-( #they were both so beautiful

[warsofasoiaf]

Been a while since you did a character analysis essay on New Vegas. Any chance you want to write one up on Joshua Graham or Raul Tejeda?-TBH

What a coincidence. I’ve actually been playing a New Vegas game. I did a Grunt build this time.

Man, I could write a huge longform essay on Joshua Graham, but I need to knuckle down on the second part of my geopolitics essay, currently meandering my way through a paragraph on arms control. My sister had her baby last week so I’ve been having little free time as of late. So I can write one on Raul and I can work on a big one like Joshua Graham after I finish writing my promised essay.

Raul Tejada is a great case study on the effects of growing old with the added wrinkle of a character who is actually immune to aging physically but feels the effects of it mentally, which is a neat twist because part of the process of aging is accepting the inevitability of death while ghouls can theoretically live forever. Sarcastically and fantastically voiced by Danny Trejo, Raul provides some biting comic relief and along with Cass adds the Western element to the game. While the factional struggles with the NCR and Legion, the glitz of New Vegas form the second act of the game, Goodsprings, Primm, and the pursuit of Benny borrows a lot of the hallmarks of Western films, a genre which was a fascinating expression of American culture, both positively and negatively (I could write an essay about that too). 

Raul is a classic Western archetype, the old retired gunslinger. Many of the Western cowboy traditions come from Spain via Mexico in the traditions of the vaquero, the Spanish horseback rancher, where it’s even speculated that the term “buckaroo” is a linguistic adoption and corruption of the term vaquero. From an early age, Raul was a colorful character in his Pre-War life, a mechanic and marksman with occasional bouts with the law (I wouldn’t have been surprised if he was a racer as well). After the bombs, Raul and his family tried his best to care for refugees, but limited supplies forced his father to cast them out. The refugees retaliated by setting his farm ablaze, killing his family and only Raul and his sister Rafaela were able to escape. There were a few pursuers, and Raul killed them, but elected to care for Rafaela instead of pursuing vengeance against his family’s killers. 

In Mexico City, Raul cared for his sister as best he could, even adopting the vaquero outfit to make her laugh, as morale was important to a family who lost everything. He became a recognizable icon, but this did not solve his problems. For all his silly hat made Rafaela smile and his pistols kept her safe, the legend invited youngbloods to try their luck, just as young hotshot cattlemen in Hays City or Abilene kept trying to make a name for themselves knocking off the legendary Wild Bill after drinking themselves full of liquid courage. Eventually, the radiation sickness got too bad, and Raul was unable to keep himself healthy. In that moment, raiders violated Rafaela in every sense of the word, and Raul hunted them down and killed every one of them, electing for vengeance the way he did not with his other family, for now he was all that was left in the world. Truly, even “Raul” died in Mexico City, as the radiation transformed him into a ghoul, and he elected to take on a new identity as “Miguel,” wearing a dead man’s name as he wore his jumpsuit.

From there, “Miguel” went to Tuscon, where he attempted to distance himself from his gunfighting, what he believed had brought on the misery he suffered, and took on the job of a handyman and mechanic, a valuable skill in the post-apocalyptic scavenging world of Fallout. There was 75 years of peace, and Miguel seemed to find peace and friendship in the form of the locals of Tuscon, now called “Two-Sun,” and the prostitute Claudia. Again, this is a trope straight out of Western fiction, the hooker with the heart of gold, the secret gunfighter, it’s all there. Yet, raiders still persisted, and when Dirty Dave and his compadres came to Tuscon, they bought some ammo, shot up the brothel, and took Claudia hostage. Consumed as he was when Rafaela died, “Miguel” pursued Dirty Dave and killed them to the last, but Claudia was already dead. He fought hard, and clawed his way back to down being pecked by vultures the whole way (shades of Eddie Rickenbacker here after one of his plane crashes). This actually informs why he is so tolerant of the Legion as compared to the other characters, he’s experienced the horrors of raiders first-hand, so those who eliminate them satisfy him in a way others do not. Similarly, as he experienced his mishaps primarily because there was nothing to stop them, he can give the Legion almost a pass for enforcing their brutal kind of order.

Raul was then forced into his dilemma. He felt his age, and was unsure of what to do with himself. Neither embracing nor foreswearing violence brought him any peace, there was always problems. What was he to do with his life, when he could find no achievable destination that gave him comfort? In his travels with the Courier, Raul learns of others who faced the same dilemma he did. Ranger Andy’s arms and legs were injured in a grenade blast, so he took on a mentorship role with Outpost Charlie and even teaches the Courier a handy trick, showing his mind is still sharp if his body has given up on him. Loyal of the Boomers has shown his value in providing his experience to the rest of the Boomers, that he went old with grace and passed down his skills to the young and acted as a leader to them. By contrast, Corporal Stirling of 1st Recon was injured and tortured, but was tough enough to escape. Even though his body was wounded and he was getting older, his patience and eyesight gave him the skill to be an incredible sharpshooter. There were ways out, people had found them, Raul simply hadn’t found them yet. Being exposed to them gives him the resolution he needs to make peace with his decision, that it can be done and he can do it.

If he elects to step down from gunfighting, Raul takes joy in craft, in helping others, and in being a member of a community. He feels value in his knowledge, and can feel comfortable letting the young fight while he guides them, perhaps even training a new group of gunslingers to protect the next community so he doesn’t have to experience another Tuscon. If instead, he elects to take up the outfit of the vaquero again, he takes pride in his experience to continue his crusade. There will always be those who prey upon the weak, and Raul has the knowledge that his eternal life has given him to wear the white hat, to take up the pistols and be the one who sets things to right. If neither happens, then Raul simply takes on a new name and continue to run from his problems.

A great character, worthy of addition.

Thanks for the question, TBH.

SomethingLikeALawyer, Hand of the King

#fallout: new vegas #character analysis

[cristobalrios]

Tragic Sense of Life

The part of “The Tragic Sense of Life” that Crisóbal Rios was reading in Star Trek: Picard, season 1, episode 3, “The End is the Beginning” - a part of section VII, “Love, Suffering, Pity and Personality”

Del Sentimiento Trágico de la Vida  “Tragic Sense of Life”

By Miguel de Unamuno (1912)

VII

LOVE, SUFFERING, PITY, AND PERSONALITY

     “God is, then, the personalization of the All; He is the eternal and infinite Consciousness of the Universe—Consciousness taken captive by matter and struggling to free himself from it. We personalize the All in order to save ourselves from Nothingness; and the only mystery really mysterious is the mystery of suffering.

     Suffering is the path of consciousness, and by it living beings arrive at the possession of self-consciousness. For to possess consciousness of oneself, to possess personality, is to know oneself and to feel oneself distinct from other beings, and this feeling of distinction is only reached through an act of collision, through suffering more or less severe, through the sense of one's own limits. Consciousness of oneself is simply consciousness of one's own limitation. I feel myself when I feel that I am not others; to know and to feel the extent of my being is to know at what point I cease to be, the point beyond which I no longer am.

     And how do we know that we exist if we do not suffer, little or much? How can we turn upon ourselves, acquire reflective consciousness, save by suffering? When we enjoy ourselves we forget ourselves, forget that we exist; we pass over into another, an alien being, we alienate ourselves. And we become centred in ourselves again, we return to ourselves, only by suffering.”

#cristobal rios #star trek: picard #tragic sense of life

[matchibee]

Situationship

angst? angst. minor injury (reader), arguing

not proofread with my eyes, but in my heart it’s perfect.

Miguel's fingertips trailed the skin covering your ribs, claws sending a shiver as the whispered across your skin like a specter. He was always so painstakingly gentle with you in the mornings, a man whose heart swelled with love.

But then afternoon would come. You'd watch from your place beneath the covers as Miguel ripped away from your embrace, pulling denim over defined legs and a t-shirt over tense muscles.

"You could stay." Your voice was always a whisper, Miguel tensing at the sound, shaking his head in denial - in an effort to rid your voice from his mind, convincing him to stay just like you'd been able to all those times before.

"You know I can't."

Because staying meant Miguel fell further and further into an abyssal attraction, one he fought his mind to remain unnamed.

Love.

And loving you meant staying, staying meant Miguel couldn't pull himself away. He'd run his fingers through your hair, feel the warmth of his lips against his own. Miguel would trail his palms down every surface of your body, worshipping your skin as though it were gilded in glimmers of gold. His lips would trail your skin until they burnt from your warmth, and he'd conclude the time spent with your fragility pressed to his chest.

A paradoxal issue that Miguel couldn't seem to pry himself away from.

He didn't want to pull away, he realized one painful evening, watching as your chest rose and fell in hushed breaths. This was everything he wanted, all he yearned for.

"We shouldn't do this anymore," Miguel croaked. The confession, one he knew would never become a promise, was spoken nearly every time he stood to leave. But this time it was different. This time his voice was laced with determination. "This was a mistake."

"What?" You rose from your plush sheets, a thin blanket draped over your most intimiate places, face contorted into one of fear.

Miguel hated that look. He hated it when he'd seen you in harms way all those months ago, hated it when you first saw him in the suit, and he especially hated it now.

"You deserve better," That much was true, and Miguel knew it. He knew that you could do so much better if you'd just look, if he'd just

"You are better."

"I'm not. You know that."

"Do I?" You approached him so hesitantly it hurt him to gaze upon you. It burned when your palm pressed to his cheek, stung as you pressed your forehead against his chest. "I love you, Miguel."

Three words he'd sworn never to speak, made you swear you'd never even consider. And yet here you were breaking the promise while Miguel broke your heart.

"I can't."

"Don't do this," Your hands fell from clutching the sheets to clutch the fabric of his shirt, blanket pooling at your feet. His hands hovered your back, over the ins and outs of your body, a mind-numbing spiral of uncertainty as he experiences your hopelessness all over, as though for the first time. "Not again."

His palms held your shoulders, pushing you back, maintaining eye contact no matter how badly he wanted to dip below the surface. "You really do deserve better." Your name fell from his lips, tears flowing from your eyes.

"Then be better." Your voice was desperate, cracking at every opportunity. You want this, wanted him. Too long you'd dedicated yourself to his eternity, even longer you found you loved him.

"I can't be the man you need me to be."

"You can't?" You wiped the tears from your eyes, fingers coated in liquid sadness. "Or you won't?"

That struck a nerve and you knew it, but the words fell from your lips before you could even consider the consequences. You loved him more than you loved the summer sun, needed his touch more than you needed to breath. In Miguel's absence you only knew uncertainty, suffering at the hands of a mind that betrayed you. He was the only thing right with this cruel world and he wanted to strip you of the right.

"I- Both. Neither." Miguel growled, pressing fingertips to the bridge of his noise. "You're putting words in my mouth."

"Yet you still can't say the right thing to say."

"What do you want me to say?" Miguel bounded towards you, a predator on the prowl. "You want me to tell you I fucking love you when I don't?"

"Yes!" You threw your arms up in exasperation, pressing your hands against your eyes in an effort to stop the tears from falling, one by one gathering discarded articles of clothing, gradually returning them to their rightful place against your frame. "I'd rather you tell me a lie than this bullshit back and forth we always go through - everyday, every night - I can't win with you!"

"I'm not going to lie to you. I don't want to do that to you!"

You walked away from your shared bedroom, bare feet padding into the kitchen as you prepared yourself a coffee.

"Don't just walk away from me!" Miguel's voice was shrill, more pitched than you'd ever heard it previously. "I'm talking to you, damnit!"

"Why?" You slammed your mug against the kitchen island, eyes stained red with regret - regret for letting this get so far, for letting him make you feel like a fool. "You're walking out anyways, Miguel. Why the fuck can't I walk away?"

His mouth snapped shut, eyes that once held the world becoming your own personal hell. "I'm not trying to be your enemy-"

"Really? Because it seems to me you only come and go when its convenient for you. And you expect me to think its nothing personal?"

"That's why I'm trying to fix this!"

"For who?" The sound of coffee falling into the ceramic filled the kitchen. "For your ego? For your conscience? Or am I actually meant to believe you're doing this for me?"

Miguel slammed his against in the counter, the vibration knocking you off balance. "For once in your life will you just-!"

You groaned in pain, Miguel's gesture having spiraled into making you spill hot coffee all over your hand that held the mug, Miguel watching with regret as you moved towards the sink, running your hand beneath the cool stream in an effort to calm the ever-present throbbing.

In your pain Miguel saw everything he hoped to shield you from - the pain and suffering of this cruel world, the one that cast the both of your aside, dooming you to an existence of eternal damnation. He saw the care he felt for you at every waking hour, though his mind refused to admit it. The love you let blossom in his heart, a garden of your very creation.

"Ay, Amor-"

"You don't get to call me that." Despite your condition you proved more than capable of rational thinking. "You don't get to act like everything is alright."

"I-I'm sorry." Miguel fell to his knees beside you, his face pressed into your stomach, hands clutching at your clothing just as you'd done moments before, if not more desperately. "I didn't meant it. You know that, don't you?"

"I don't know what to think anymore, Miguel. I thought you loved me. I thought you cared for me. But obviously I was wrong then. Why wouldn't I be wrong now?"

With every passing second you drove a stake through his heart just as he did yours. In your palm you held the very essence of his being, his love and all its ability fitting neatly within you. Yet, even in your grasp, Miguel could hardly hope to express the words that plagued his mind.

I love you.

But he couldn't say it.

I love you.

But Miguel was terrified to love again.

I love you.

But he was scared if he'd allowed himself this vulnerability, you'd disappear too. Miguel couldn't stand to lose you, couldn't stand to lose the first good thing in a break from all these years of torment.

I love you.

A blessing, a curse and a promise.

"You know this isn't good for us, you know I'm only hurting you."

"Then why are you still here?"

Miguel knew, he knew why. Yet he couldn't say it, couldn't think it without his mind running rampant with possibility. In your love there was comfort, a familiarity he craved no matter how badly he denied himself. But Miguel wasn't allowed to love, not in this lifetime. If he tried, he feared he might break you in the process.

But couldn't he see that's what he was doing, anyways?

"Let me make it up to you."

But you didn't respond, didn't even look at him. If he wanted to bring an end to the only good thing you'd known in such a long time, far be it from you to hold him back, far be it from someone so seemingly insignificant to keep Miguel from what he truly craved.

If loneliness called his name, you didn't want to piece together broken parts that yearned to escape from you, fled at every opportunity.

And when Miguel woke up the next morning he knew nothing but pain, your body nowhere to be found, taking any semblance of ever loving again along with it.

#across the spiderverse #beyond the spiderverse #miguel o’hara x reader #spiderman 2099 #spiderman 2099 x reader #spiderverse #into the spiderverse #spiderman #spiderverse x reader #miguel o’hara

[rllibrary]

Goals

A note on list:

Arranged in chronological order, from the ancient Greeks to 2018. They are basically grouped by nationality, era, and in some cases, theme or genre- the way they were grouped in the college courses that I had the pleasure to read some of them for. You can also find a scrambled version of the same list at goodreads.com/larmer, if you view the shelf called "english-majors-library" and set it to "infinite scroll" to view it all on one page.

A note on ISBN:

Below each title, I have included the ISBN (the number that begins with 978). Of course, that means that all you have to do is copy and paste that code into a search bar on whatever site you buy your books from (amazon.com, bookdepository.com, etc.), to find the edition that the list refers to.

Why did I do something as crazy as include the ISBN for each book? For one thing, some of these editions include introductions and essays that have helped me think about them more deeply, or think about them in new ways, which has allowed me to enjoy them more.

Perhaps more importantly, some of these ISBN's simply refer to the edition with the coolest cover. To me, there is something special about the look of a shelf where most of the books match, for example, a row of Penguin Classics. Or at least, when the spines of books by the same author match. When I was a kid, I read series. Now I feel that the best books ever written form their own series. It seems right that they should fit together physically, as well. The ISBN's are there just in case you feel the same way.

*

*

Ancient Greeks

*

Homer (Greek, c. 800 BCE)

- The Iliad (c. 760-10 BCE)

/ Fagles translation, Penguin Classics, 9780140445923

- The Odyssey (c. 750-00 BCE)

/ Fagles translation, Penguin Classics, 9780143039952

*

Hesiod (Greek, c. 700 BCE)

- Works and Days (c. 700 BCE)

/ Stallings translation, Penguin Classics, 9780141197524

*

Aeschylus (Greek, 525-426 BCE)

- Prometheus Bound and Other Plays

/ Vellacott translation, Penguin Classics, 9780140441123

*

Sophocles (Greek, c. 497-406 BCE)

- The Three Theban Plays:

Antigone (c. 441 BCE)

Oedipus the King [aka Oedipus Tyrannus, Oedipus Rex] (c. 429 BCE)

Oedipus at Colonus (406 BCE)

/ Fagles translation, Penguin Classics, 9780140444254

*

Plato (Greek, c. 428-348 BCE)

- The Republic (370 BCE)

/ Bloom translation, 9780465094080, or Rowe translation, Penguin Classics, 9780141442433

*

Aristotle (Greek, 384-322 BCE)

- Nicomachean Ethics (340 BCE)

/ Beresford translation, Penguin Classics, 9780140455472

- Poetics (335 BCE)

/ Heath translation, Penguin Classics, 9780140446364, or Hutton translation, Norton Critical Editions, 9780393938869

*

*

Ancient Romans

*

Horace (Roman, 65-8 BCE)

- The Epistles

Epistularum liber primus [First Book of Letters] (20 BCE)

Epistularum liber secundus [Second Book of Letters] (14 BCE)

(Contains Ars Poetica [The Art of Poetry])

/ Ferry translation, 9780374528522

*

Virgil (Roman, 70-19 BCE)

- The Aeneid (29-19 BCE)

/ Fagles translation, Penguin Classics, 9780143106296

*

Ovid (Roman, 43 BCE- 18 CE)

- Metamorphoses (8 CE)

/ Raeburn translation, Penguin Classics, 9780140447897

*

*

Ancient Eastern Classics

*

Lao Tzu (Laozi) (Chinese, born 6th to 5th century BCE, died 531 BCE)

- Tao Te Ching (Daodejing) (6th century BCE)

/ Lau translation, Penguin Classics, 9780140441314, or Mitchell translation, Harper Perennial Modern Classics, 9780061142666

*

Anonymous (Indian)

- The Upanishads (800-400 BCE)

/ Mascaró translation, Penguin Classics, 9780140441635

*

Anonymous (Indian)

- Bhagavad Gita (part of the Mahabharata) (5th-2nd century BCE)

/ Mascaró translation, Penguin Classics, 9780140449181, or Mitchell translation, Harper Perennial Modern Classics, 9780609810347

*

Buddhist Scriptures (3rd century BCE)

/ Lopez edit, Penguin Classics, 9780140447583

*

Roots of Yoga

/ Mallinson and Singleton translation, Penguin Classics, 9780241253045

*

Joseph Campbell, Myths of Light: Eastern Metaphors of the Eternal / 9781608681099

*

*

World Literature: The Middle Ages

*

One Thousand and One Nights

(Arabic compilation of Middle Eastern and South Asian stories and folk tales. Earliest known fragment dated to 9th century, first reference to title appears in 12th century)

- The Arabian Nights: Tales from a Thousand and One Nights

/ Burton translation, Modern Library Classics, 9780812972146

*

Snorri Sturluson (Icelandic, 1179-1241)

- The Prose Edda (1220)

/ Byock Translation, Penguin Classics, 9780140447552

*

Chrétien de Troyes (French, 1135?-1185?)

- Arthurian Romances

/ Kibler and Carroll translation, Penguin Classics, 9780140445213

*

Wolfram von Eschenbach (German, c. 1160/80 – c. 1220)

- Parzival

/ Hatto translation, Penguin Classics, 9780140443615

*

*

Major English Authors I: Medieval to Renaissance

*

[Note: I did not enjoy Beowulf or the Canterbury Tales, so I omitted them from this list]

*

Thomas Malory (English, c. 1415-1471)

- Le Morte d'Arthur (completed 1469-70, published 1485)

/ Norton Critical Edition, 9780393974645

*

Christopher Marlowe (English, 1564-93)

- Doctor Faustus (c. 1589, or c. 1593)

/ Norton Critical Edition, 9780393977547

*

The Bible: Authorized King James Version (1611) 

/ Oxford World’s Classics, 9780199535941

See also:

- The Shadow of a Great Rock: A Literary Appreciation of the King James Bible, by Harold Bloom

*

John Milton (English, 1608-74)

- Paradise Lost (1667)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780140424393

*

*

Shakespeare

*

William Shakespeare (English, 1564-1616)

Comedy:

- A Midsummer Night's Dream (1595-6)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141396668

- The Merchant of Venice (1596-7)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141396545

Tragedy:

- Romeo and Juliet (1595-6)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141396477

- Julius Caesar (1599)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141396538

- Hamlet (1600-1)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141396507

- Othello (1604)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141396514

- King Lear (1605)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141396460

- Macbeth (1606)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141396316

- Antony and Cleopatra (1606-7)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141396293

Romance:

- The Tempest (1611)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141396309

See also:

- Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human, by Harold Bloom

/ Fourth Estate, 9780007292844

*

*

World Literature: The "Aristocratic Age"

*

Dante (Italian, 1265-1321)

- The Divine Comedy: Inferno, Purgatorio, Paradiso (1308-20)

/ Kirkpatrick translation, Penguin Classics, 9780141197494

*

Miguel de Cervantes (Spanish, 1547-1616)

- Don Quixote (1605- Part 1, 1615- Part 2)

/ Grossman translation, Vintage Classics, 9780099469698

*

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (German, 1749-1832)

- The Sufferings of Young Werther (1774)

/ Corngold translation, Norton Critical Editions, 9780393935561

- Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship (1796)

/ ? [Notable for being the first Bildungsroman. Still waiting for a good translation.]

- Faust, Parts I (1808) and II (1832)

/ Arndt translation, Norton Critical Editions, 9780393972825

*

*

Major English Authors II: Neoclassical to Romantic

*

Paradise Lost (above) is probably the best and most influential work of the Neoclassical period, and Milton's Satan becomes both Blake's messiah and a foundation for the Byronic hero.

*

William Blake (English, 1757-1827)

- Songs of Innocence and of Experience (1789-94)

/ Oxford Paperbacks, 9780192810892

- The Marriage of Heaven and Hell (1790-93)

/ Oxford Paperbacks, 9780192811677

*

George Gordon, Lord Byron (English, 1788-1824)

- Lord Byron: The Major Works

(See "Prometheus," Manfred, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Mazeppa, Don Juan) 

/ Oxford World’s Classics, 9780199537334

See also:

- Byron: Child of Passion, Fool of Fame by Benita Eisler

/ Vintage, 9780679740858

*

Percy Bysshe Shelley (English, 1792-1822)

- "Ozymandias" (1818)

- Prometheus Unbound (1820)

- Adonaïs (1821)

- A Defence of Poetry (1821)

*

See also: Keats, Coleridge's Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Wordsworth's Preface to Lyrical Ballads

*

Mary Shelley (English, 1797-1851)

- Frankenstein: or, The Modern Prometheus (1818)

/ Norton Critical Edition, 9780393927931

*

*

Jane Austen

*

Jane Austen (English, 1775-1817)

- Northanger Abbey (completed 1803, published 1818)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141439792

- Pride and Prejudice (1813)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141439518

- Emma (1815)

/ Penguin Classics, 978-0141439587

*

*

Novel: Victorian

*

Charles Dickens (English, 1812-1870)

- David Copperfield (1849-50)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780140439441

*

Emily Brontë (English, 1818-48)

- Wuthering Heights (1847)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141439556

*

George Eliot (English, 1819-80)

- The Mill on the Floss (1860)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141439624

- Middlemarch (1871-72)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141439549

- Daniel Deronda (1876)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780140434279

*

Thomas Hardy (English, 1840-1928)

- The Return of the Native (1878)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780140435184

- The Mayor of Casterbridge (1886)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141439785

- Tess of the D'Urbervilles (1891) / Penguin Classics, 9780141439594 *

*

Victorian Poetry

*

Alfred, Lord Tennyson (English, 1809-92)

- "The Lotos-Eaters" (1833)

- "Ulysses" (1833)

- "In Memoriam A.H.H." (1849) 

*

Robert Browning (English, 1812-89)

- Selected Poems

/ Penguin Classics, 9780140437263

*

Thomas Hardy, Selected Poems

/ Penguin Classics, 9780140436990

*

W.B. Yeats (Irish, 1865-1939)

- "Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven" (1899)

See also (though mostly from the Modern era):

- The Collected Poems

/ Finneran edit, Scribner, 9780684807317

*

*

Late Victorian-Edwardian Era/ Gothic and Grotesque/ Horror, Gender, and Sexuality/ Freud and Fiction

*

E. T. A. Hoffmann (Prussian, 1776-1822)

- The Golden Pot and Other Tales

/ Robertson translation, Oxford World’s Classics, 9780199552474

"The Sandman" (1816)

See also: 

Sigmund Freud, "The Uncanny"

- The Uncanny

/ Penguin Classics, 9780142437476

*

Edgar Allan Poe (American, 1809-1849)

- The Portable Edgar Allan Poe

/ Penguin Classics, 9780143039914

“Berenice”

“Ligeia”

“The Fall of the House of Usher”

“The Oval Portrait”

“The Black Cat”

“The Imp of the Perverse”

“William Wilson”

*

See also:

- Jonathan Haidt, "The Divided Self" in The Happiness Hypothesis

*

Sheridan Le Fanu (Irish, 1814-73)

- In a Glass Darkly

/ Oxford World’s Classics, 9780199537983

"Green Tea"

"Carmilla"

*

Bram Stoker (Irish, 1847-1912)

- Dracula (1897)

/ Norton Critical Editions, 9780393970128

*

Robert Louis Stevenson (Scottish, 1850-94)

- Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1886)

/ Norton Critical Editions, 9780393974652

*

Oscar Wilde (Irish, 1854-1900)

- The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890)

/ Norton Critical Editions, 9780393696875

*

Sigmund Freud (Austrian, 1856-1939)

- The Psychology of Love

/ Penguin Classics, 9780142437469

"Fragment of an Analysis of Hysteria (Dora)"

Three Essays on Sexual Theory

On the Sexual Theories of Children

"Contributions to the Psychology of Erotic Life"

‘A Child is being Beaten’

On Female Sexuality

[Note: I realize that Freud's theories are no longer considered accurate, but I enjoy his imagination. If you want to read about the psychology of love/sex from an evidence-based perspective, check out The Evolution of Desire, by David Buss]

- The Uncanny

/ Penguin Classics, 9780142437476

Screen Memories

The Creative Writer and Daydreaming

Family Romances

Leonardo da Vinci and a Memory of his Childhood

The Uncanny

*

Arthur Machen (Welsh, 1863-1947)

- "The Great God Pan" (1894)

(“Maybe the best [horror story] in the English language.” - Stephen King)

/ Late Victorian Gothic Tales, Oxford World’s Classics, 9780199538874

- Vernon Lee, "Dionea," also in the above collection

*

Algernon Blackwood (English, 1869-1951)

- Ancient Sorceries and Other Weird Stories

/ Penguin Classics, 9780142180150

“The Insanity of Jones”

“The Glamour of the Snow”

“The Man Whom the Trees Loved”

“Ancient Sorceries”

*

Daphne du Maurier (English, 1907-89)

- Rebecca (1937)

/ Virago Modern Classics, 9781844080380

- The Birds and Other Stories (1952)

/ Virago Modern Classics, 9781844080878

"The Birds"

*

Robert Bloch (American, 1917-94)

- Psycho (1959)

*

See also: Alfred Hitchcock's adaptations of the above, and more:

- Rebecca (1940)

- Rope (1948)

- Rear Window (1954)

- Vertigo (1958)

- Psycho (1959)

- The Birds (1963)

- Marnie (1964)

See also: 

- François Truffaut, Hitchcock

- Donald Spoto, The Art of Alfred Hitchcock  

More films with similar themes:

- Repulsion (Roman Polanski, 1965)

- The Shining (Stanley Kubrick, 1980)

- Blue Velvet (David Lynch, 1986)

- The Twilight Zone (Original Series, 1959)

"Perchance to Dream" (Season 1, Episode 9)

"The Hitch-Hiker" (Season 1, Episode 16)

"Nightmare as a Child" (Season 1, Episode 29)

"A Stop at Willoughby" (Season 1, Episode 30)

"Long Distance Call" (Season 2, Episode 22)

"What's in the Box" (Season 5, Episode 24)

*

*

American Literature: 19th Century, Pre-Civil War

*

Washington Irving (American, 1783-1859)

- The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Other Stories

/ Penguin Classics, 9780143107538

*

James Fenimore Cooper (American, 1789-1851)

- The Last of the Mohicans: A Narrative of 1757 (1826)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780140390247

*

Ralph Waldo Emerson (American, 1803-82)

- The Portable Emerson

/ Penguin Classics, 9780143107460

"The American Scholar" (1832)

"Self-Reliance" (1841)

"Compensation" (1841)

"The Over-Soul" (1841)

"Circles" (1841)

"The Poet" (1844)

"Experience" (1844)

*

Henry David Thoreau (American, 1817-62)

- The Portable Thoreau

/ Penguin Classics, 9780143106500

"Civil Disobedience" (1849)

Walden (1854)

*

Frederick Douglass (American, 1818-95)

- The Portable Frederick Douglass

/ Penguin Classics, 9780143106814

Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave (1845)

*

Edgar Allan Poe (American, 1809-1849)

- The Portable Edgar Allan Poe

/ Penguin Classics, 9780143039914

*

Nathaniel Hawthorne (American, 1804-1864)

- Selected Tales and Sketches (1830-1850)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780140390575

Selections of the selections:

"My Kinsman, Major Molineux" (1832)

"Young Goodman Brown" (1835)

"Wakefield" (1835)

"The Minister's Black Veil" (1836)

"Rappaccini's Daughter" (1844)

A selection that is not included in the above volume:

"Feathertop" (1852)

- The Scarlet Letter (1850)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780143107668

- The Marble Faun (1860)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780140390773

*

Herman Melville (American, 1819-91)

- Moby-Dick; or, The Whale (1851)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780142437247

*

*

American Literature: 19th Century, Civil War and After

*

Walt Whitman (American, 1819-92)

- Leaves of Grass and Other Writings

/ Norton Critical Editions, 9780393974966

*

Emily Dickinson (American, 1830-96)

- The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson

/ Little, Brown & Company, 9780316184137

*

Mark Twain (American, 1835-1910)

- The Adventures of Tom Sawyer (1876)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780143107330

- Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1884)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780143107323

- Tales, Speeches, Essays, and Sketches

/ Penguin Classics, 9780140434170

*

Ambrose Bierce (American, 1842-circa 1914)

- Tales of Soldiers and Civilians: And Other Stories

/ Penguin Classics, 9780140437560

*

Henry James (American, mostly writing in Britain, 1843-1916)

See Novel: Modern British, below.

*

Kate Chopin (American, 1850-1904)

- The Awakening [1899] and Selected Stories

/ Penguin Classics, 9780142437322

*

*

Novel: Modern British

*

Terry Eagleton, "What is a Novel?" in The English Novel: An Introduction

*

Peter Childs, “Words, Words, Words: Modern, Modernism, Modernity”

*

Thomas Hardy (English, 1840-1928)

- Jude the Obscure (1895)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780140435382

*

Henry James (American, mostly writing in Britain, 1843-1916)

Novels:

- What Maisie Knew (1897)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141441375

- The Ambassadors (1903)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141441320

Novellas:

- Daisy Miller (1878)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141441344

- The Turn of the Screw (1898)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141389752

See also:

James' short stories:

"The Jolly Corner" (also collected in the above volume)

"The Real Right Thing"

/ Collected in The New Penguin Book of American Short Stories: from Washington Irving to Lydia Davis, Edited by Kasia Boddy, Penguin Classics, 9780141194424

*

Joseph Conrad (Polish-British, 1857-1924)

- Heart of Darkness (1899)

/ Norton Critical Edition, 9780393264869

- Lord Jim (1900)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141441610

- Nostromo (1904)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141441634

*

E. M. Forster (English, 1879-1970)

- Howards End (1910)

/ Penguin Classics,  9780141182131

- A Passage to India (1924)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141441160

*

James Joyce (Irish, 1882-1941)

- A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916)

/ In The Portable James Joyce, which also includes the short story collection, Dubliners (1914), 9780140150308

- Ulysses (1922)

/ Penguin Modern Classics, 9780141182803

- Finnegans Wake (1939)

/ Penguin Modern Classics, 9780141183114

See also:

- Re Joyce, by Anthony Burgess (author of A Clockwork Orange)

- James Joyce’s Ulysses: A Study, by Stuart Gilbert

- A Skeleton Key to Finnegans Wake, by Joseph Campbell (author of The Hero with a Thousand Faces, The Power of Myth, etc.)

- Joyce’s Book of the Dark: Finnegans Wake, by John Bishop

*

D. H. Lawrence (English, 1885-1930)

- Sons and Lovers (1913)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141441443

- Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141441498

*

Essays/Prefaces/Letters: Contexts for Course Novels

Henry James, “The Art of Fiction” (1884)

http://virgil.org/dswo/courses/novel/james-fiction.pdf

*

Thomas Hardy, Preface to the First Edition [of Jude the Obscure] (1895)

*

Joseph Conrad, Preface to "The Nigger of the Narcissus” (1897)

*

Thomas Hardy, Postscript [to Preface] (1912)

*

Ford Madox Ford, “On Impressionism” (1913)

*

D.H. Lawrence, Letter to Edward Garnett (1912)

*

Virginia Woolf, “Modern Fiction” (1919)

---, "Mrs. Bennet and Mr. Brown" (1923)

*

See also: Modernist Poetry:

W. B. Yeats (Irish, 1865-1939)

- The Collected Poems

/ Finneran edit, Scribner, 9780684807317

"The Second Coming" (1919)

*

T. S. Eliot (American born British citizen, 1888-1965)

- The Waste Land and Other Poems

/ Penguin Classics, 9780142437315

"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" (1915)

"The Waste Land" (1922)

*

*

World Literature: 19th Century

*

[Note: I have skipped Balzac, Baudelaire, Flaubert, Stendhal, and the Brothers Grimm. Furthermore, 19th Century Russian Literature gets its own section, as well as American and British.]

*

E. T. A. Hoffmann (Prussian, 1776-1822)

- The Golden Pot and Other Tales

/ Robertson translation, Oxford World’s Classics, 9780199552474

*

Victor Hugo (French, 1802-85)

- Notre-Dame de Paris (1831)

/ Sturrock translation, Penguin Classics, 9780140443530

*

Arthur Rimbaud (French, 1854-91]

- Selected Poems and Letters

/ Harding and Sturrock translation, Penguin Classics, 9780140448023

See also: Bruce Duffy, Disaster Was My God: A Novel of the Outlaw Life of Arthur Rimbaud

*

Guy de Maupassant (French, 1850-93)

- A Parisian Affair and Other Stories (1880-90)

/ Miles translation, Penguin Classics, 9780140448122

*

Henrik Ibsen (Norwegian, 1828-1906)

- A Doll's House and Other Plays

/ Dawkin and Skuggevik translation, Penguin Classics, 9780141194561

*

Friedrich Nietzsche (German, 1844-1900)

- The Birth of Tragedy (1872)

/ Whiteside translation, Penguin Classics, 9780140433395

- The Gay Science (1882)

/ Hill Translation (as The Joyful Science), Penguin Classics, 9780141195391

- Thus Spoke Zarathustra (1883)

/ Hollingdale translation, Penguin Classics, 9780140441185

- Beyond Good and Evil (1886)

/ Hollingdale translation, Penguin Classics, 9780140449235

- On the Genealogy of Morals (1887)

/ Scarpitti translation, Penguin Classics, 9780141195377

- The Will to Power (Posthumously Collected Manuscripts)

/ Hill and Scarpitti translation, Penguin Classics, 9780141195353

*

*

Russian Literature: 19th Century

*

Fyodor Dostoevsky (Russian, 1821-81)

- Notes from Underground (1864)

/ Pevear and Volokhonsky translation, Vintage International, 9780679734529

- Crime and Punishment (1866)

/ Pevear and Volokhonsky translation, Vintage International, 9780679734505

- The Brothers Karamazov (1880)

/ Pevear and Volokhonsky translation, FSG, 9780374528379

*

Leo Tolstoy (Russian, 1828-1910)

Fiction

- War and Peace (1869)

/ Pevear and Volokhonsky translation, Vintage, 9781400079988

- Anna Karenina (1877)

/ Pevear and Volokhonsky translation, Penguin Classics, 9780140449174

Nonfiction

- What is Art? (1897)

/ Pevear and Volokhonsky translation, Penguin Classics, 9780140446425

- Last Steps: The Late Writings of Leo Tolstoy

/ Parini edit, Penguin Classics, 9780141191195

*

Anton Chekhov (Russian, 1860-1904)

- Selected Stories (1883-1903)

/ Pevear and Volokhonsky translation, Modern Library, 9780553381009

*

*

World Literature: 20th Century 

*

[Note: 20th Century Japanese Literature gets its own section, as well as American and British]

*

Boris Pasternak (Russian, 1890-1960)

- Doctor Zhivago (1957)

/ Pevear and Volokhonsky translation, Vintage International, 9780307390950

*

Mikhail Bulgakov (Russian, 1891-1940)

- The Master and Margarita (written 1928-40, published 1967)

/ Pevear and Volokhonsky translation, Penguin Classics Deluxe,

9780143108276

*

Thomas Mann (German, 1875-1955)

- The Magic Mountain (1924)

/ Woods translation, Vintage International, 9780679772873

- Doctor Faustus (1947)

/ Woods translation, Vintage International, 9780375701160

*

Hermann Hesse (German-born Swiss, 1877-1962)

- Narcissus and Goldmund (1930)

/ Molinaro translation, Picador, 9780312421670

- The Glass Bead Game (1943)

/ Winston and Winston translation, Picador, 9780312278496

*

Franz Kafka (Austro-Hungarian, now Czech Republic, 1883-1924)

- The Trial (written 1914-5, published 1925)

/ Muir and Muir translation, Schocken, 9780805210408

- The Castle (written 1922, published 1926)

/ Muir and Muir translation, Schocken, 9780805210392

- The Complete Short Stories (1908-24)

/ Muir and Muir translation, Schocken, 9780805210552

*

Gabriel García Márquez (Colombian, 1927-2014)

- Love in the Time of Cholera (1985)

/ Grossman translation, Penguin Modern Classics, 9780141189208

*

*

History of Literary Criticism and Theory

*

See above courses for Plato's Republic, Aristotle's Poetics, Horace's Ars Poetica, Wordsworth's Preface to the Lyrical Ballads, Wilde's Preface to The Picture of Dorian Gray, and the essays, prefaces, and letters that comprise the contexts for the Modern British Novel course.

*

Northrop Frye (Canadian, 1912-91)

- "The Archetypes of Literature" (1951)

- Anatomy of Criticism (1957)

/ Princeton University Press, 9780691069999

*

Harold Bloom (American, 1930- )

- The Anxiety of Influence: A Theory of Poetry (1973)

/ Oxford University Press, 9780195112214

(Further reading by Harold Bloom listed at the end of this section)

*

- I will not list the readings for the entire History of Literary Criticism and Theory. The works listed above are the essentials that still hold up today.

I have omitted what Harold Bloom dismisses as the "School of Resentment" in his book, The Western Canon.

Bloom points out the problem with reading a text in terms of whatever ideology one wishes to impose on it (Feminist, Marxist, Lacanian, New Historicist, Deconstructionist, Semiotician, etc.), rather than simply reading in order to "confront greatness." For example, if we read Hamlet through a feminist or Marxist lens, we may end up with insights about feminism or Marxism, but not necessarily about Hamlet (source: the book, The Western Canon, as well as https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harold_Bloom).

Bloom suspects that people do not simply value classics due to social conditioning. To read more about how human behavior and values come from human nature, and not from social conditioning, here is the definitive book on the subject:

- Steven Pinker, The Blank Slate: The Modern Denial of Human Nature

/ Penguin, 9780142003343

See also:

- Steven Pinker, "Toward a Consilient Study of Literature"

*

- John Tooby and Leda Cosmides, "Does Beauty Build Adapted Minds? Toward an Evolutionary Theory of Aesthetics"

*

- Joseph Carroll, Literary Darwinism

/ Routledge, 9780415970143

*

- Jonathan Gottschall, The Storytelling Animal 

/ Mariner, 9780544002340

*

- Stephen R. C. Hicks, Explaining Postmodernism

/ Ockham's Razor, 9780983258407

*

Louise M. Rosenblatt's Transactional Theory has been most informative to my understanding of what reading consists of.

Louise M. Rosenblatt (American, 1904-2005)

- Literature as Exploration (1938)

/ [Out of print?]

- The Reader, The Text, The Poem: The Transactional Theory of the Literary Work (1978, 1994)

/ Southern Illinois University Press, 9780809318056

*

This brief article by Saul Bellow has also been enlightening for me:

"The Search for Symbols, a Writer Warns, Misses All the Fun and Fact of the Story"

https://archive.nytimes.com/www.nytimes.com/books/97/05/25/reviews/bellow-symbol.html

*

Harold Bloom, continued:

- The Western Canon: The Books and School of the Ages (1994)

/ Little, Brown & Company, 9781573225144

- Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human (1998)

/ Fourth Estate, 9780007292844

- Novelists and Novels: A Collection of Critical Essays (2007)

/ Chelsea House, 9780791097274

- The Shadow of a Great Rock: A Literary Appreciation of the King James Bible (2011)

/ Yale University Press, 9780300187946

- The Anatomy of Influence: Literature as a Way of Life (2011)

/ Yale University Press, 9780300181449

*

*

Composition

*

Steven Pinker, The Sense of Style: The Thinking Person's Guide to Writing in the 21st Century

/ Penguin, 9780143127796

*

*

Creative Writing

*

John Gardner, The Art of Fiction: Notes on Craft for Young Writers / Vintage, 9780679734031

*

Joseph Campbell, The Hero With A Thousand Faces

/ Yogi Impressions, 9789382742616

*

Alice LaPlante, The Making of a Story: A Norton Guide to Creative Writing

/ W. W. Norton and Company, 9780393337082

*

Kim Addonizio and Dorianne Laux, The Poet's Companion: A Guide to the Pleasures of Writing Poetry

/ W. W. Norton and Company, 9780393316544

*

*

American Short Story, 20th Century

*

Sherwood Anderson (American, 1876-1941)

- Winesburg, Ohio (1919)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780140186550

*

Ernest Hemingway (American, 1899-1961)

- The Short Stories: The First Forty-Nine Stories with a Brief Preface by the Author

/ Scribner, 9780684803340

*

John Cheever (American, 1912-82)

- Collected Stories

/ Vintage Classics, 9780099748304

*

Bernard Malamud (American, 1914-86)

- The Complete Stories (written 1940-84, collected 1997)

/ FSG Classics, 9780374525750

*

Saul Bellow (Canadian-American, 1915-2005)

- Collected Stories (2001)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780143107255

*

Carson McCullers (American, 1917-67)

- The Ballad of the Sad Café (1951 novella along with previously published short stories)

/ Penguin Modern Classics, 9780141183695

*

J. D. Salinger (American, 1919-2010)

- Nine Stories (1953)

/ Little, Brown and Company, 9780316767729

- Franny and Zooey (1961)

/ Back Bay Books, 9780316769020

- Raise High the Roofbeam, Carpenters and Seymour: An Introduction (1963)

/ Back Bay Books, 9780316766944

*

James Baldwin (American, 1924-87)

- “Sonny’s Blues” (1957)

Collected in several anthologies. I have not read them all, but I would probably recommend:

- American Short Story Masterpieces, edited by Raymond Carver and Tom Jenks

/ 9780440204237

*

Flannery O'Connor (American, 1925-64)

- The Complete Stories (1971)

/ FSG Classics, 9780374515362

*

Philip Roth (American, 1933-2018)

- Goodbye, Columbus (1959)

/ Vintage, 9780679748267

*

Joyce Carol Oates (American, 1938- )

- "Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?" (1966)

Collected in several anthologies. I have not read them all, but I would probably recommend:

- American Short Story Masterpieces, edited by Raymond Carver and Tom Jenks

/ 9780440204237

*

Raymond Carver (American, 1938-88)

- Where I’m Calling From: Selected Stories (1988)

/ Harvill Press, 9781860460395

*

Tobias Wolff (American, 1945- )

- In the Garden of the North American Martyrs: Stories (1981)

/ Ecco, 9780062393845

*

Louise Erdrich (Native American, 1954- )

- Love Medicine (1984)

/ Harper Perennial, 9780061787423

*

Stephanie Vaughn (American, ?- )

- Sweet Talk: Stories (1990)

/ Other Press, 9781590515167

"Dog Heaven"

(Also collected in the Vintage Book of Contemporary American Short Stories, edited by Tobias Wolff, 9780679745136]

*

*

American Novel, 20th Century to Present

*

F. Scott Fitzgerald (American, 1896-1940)

- The Great Gatsby (1925)

/ Scribner, 9780743273565

- Tender is the Night (1934)

/ Scribner, 9780684801544

*

William Faulkner (American, 1897-1962)

- The Sound and the Fury (1929)

/ Norton Critical Editions, 9780393912692

*

Nathanael West (American, 1903-40)

- Miss Lonelyhearts (1933)

- The Day of the Locust (1939)

/ Both of these novels are collected in Vintage Classics, 9780099573166

*

Zora Neale Hurston (American, 1891-1960)

- Their Eyes Were Watching God (1937)

/ Virago, 9780860685241

*

Betty Smith (American, 1896-1972)

- A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (1943)

/ Harper Perennial, 9780060736262

*

John Steinbeck (American, 1902-68)

- Of Mice and Men (1937)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780140186420

- The Grapes of Wrath (1939)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780143039433

- East of Eden (1952)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780140186390

*

Ralph Ellison (American, 1913-94)

- Invisible Man (1952)

/ Vintage, 9780679732761

*

Vladimir Nabokov (Russian-American, 1899-1977)

- Lolita (1955)

/ Penguin Modern Classics, The Annotated Lolita, 9780141185040

- Pale Fire (1962)

/ Penguin Modern Classics, 9780141185262

See also:

Nabokov’s Pale Fire: The Magic of Artistic Discovery, by Brian Boyd

/ Princeton University Press, 9780691089577

*

Saul Bellow (Canadian-American, 1915-2005)

Novels (selected):

- The Adventures of Augie March (1953)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780143039570

- Seize the Day (1956)

Penguin Classics, 9780142437612

- Henderson the Rain King (1959)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780143105480

- Herzog (1964)

/ Penguin Classics Deluxe, 9780143107675

- Mr. Sammler’s Planet (1970)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780142437834

- Humboldt’s Gift (1975)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780143105473

- Ravelstein (2000)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780143107576

Non-fiction:

- It All Adds Up: From the Dim Past to the Uncertain Future (1994)

/ Penguin Classics, 978-0143106685

"Facts That Put Fancy to Flight" (1962)

The above article is available on the New York Times archive here:

"A Novelist-Critic Discusses the Role of Reality in the Creation of Fiction"

http://movies2.nytimes.com/books/97/05/25/reviews/bellow-reality.html

- There is Simply Too Much to Think About: Collected Nonfiction, edited by Benjamin Taylor

/ Penguin, 978-0143108047

"Deep Readers of the World, Beware!"

The above article is available on the New York Times archive here: 

"The Search for Symbols, a Writer Warns, Misses All the Fun and Fact of the Story"

https://archive.nytimes.com/www.nytimes.com/books/97/05/25/reviews/bellow-symbol.html

See also:

- The Life of Saul Bellow: To Fame and Fortune, 1915-1964, by Zachary Leader

/ Vintage, 9780307388933

- The Life of Saul Bellow: Love and Strife, 1965-2005, by Zachary Leader

/ Vintage, 9780099598152

*

Carson McCullers (American, 1917-67)

- The Heart is a Lonely Hunter (1940)

/ Penguin Modern Classics, 9780141185224

*

J. D. Salinger (American, 1919-2010)

- The Catcher in the Rye (1951)

/ Back Bay Books, 9780316769174

See also:

Salinger, by David Shields and Shane Salerno

/ Simon & Schuster, 9781471130380

*

Kurt Vonnegut (American, 1922-2007)

- Cat’s Cradle (1963)

/ Dial Press, 9780385333481

- Slaughterhouse-Five (1969)

/ Dial Press, 9780385333849

*

William Gaddis (American, 1922-98)

- The Recognitions (1955)

/ [Out of print?]

- JR (1975)

/ [Out of print?]

See also: 

- Nobody Grew but the Business: On the Life and Work of William Gaddis, by Joseph Tabbi

/ Northwestern University Press, 9780810131422

*

Joseph Heller (American, 1923-99)

- Catch-22 (1961)

/ 50th Anniversary Edition, Simon & Schuster, 9781451626650

*

Richard Yates (American, 1926-92)

- Revolutionary Road (1961)

/ Vintage Classics, 9780099518624

*

Toni Morrison (American, 1931-2019)

- The Bluest Eye (1970)

/ Vintage International, 9780307278449

- Song of Solomon (1977)

/ Vintage International, 9781400033423

*

John Updike (American, 1932-2009)

- Rabbit, Run (1960)

/ Penguin Modern Classics, 9780141187839

- Rabbit Redux (1971)

/ Penguin Modern Classics, 9780141188546

- Rabbit is Rich (1981)

/ Penguin Modern Classics, 9780141188553

- Rabbit at Rest (1990)

/ Penguin Modern Classics, 9780141188447

*

Philip Roth (American, 1933-2018)

- Portnoy’s Complaint (1969)

/ Vintage International, 9780679756453

- The Human Stain (2000)

/ Vintage International, 9780375726347

*

Cormac McCarthy (American, 1933- )

- Blood Meridian (1985)

/ Vintage International, 9780679728757

- The Road (2006)

/ Vintage International, 9780307387899

*

Ken Kesey (American, 1935-2001)

- One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1962)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141181226

- Sometimes a Great Notion (1964)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780143039860

*

Don DeLillo (American, 1936- )

- White Noise (1985)

/ Penguin, 9780140077025

- Libra (1988)

/ Penguin, 9780140156041

- Mao II (1992)

/ Penguin, 9780140152746

- Underworld (1998)

/ Scribner, 9780684848150

*

Thomas Pynchon (American, 1937- )

- V. (1963)

/ Harper Perennial, 9780060930219

- Gravity’s Rainbow (1973)

/ Vintage Classics, 9780099511755

- Mason & Dixon (1997)

/ Picador, 9780312423209

See also: 

- A Gravity’s Rainbow Companion: Sources and Contexts for Pynchon’s Novel, 2nd Edition, by Steven Weisenburger

/ University of Georgia Press, 9780820328072

Note:

Pynchon dedicated G’s R to Richard Fariña - see below:

*

Richard Fariña (American, 1937-66)

- Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up to Me (1966)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780140189308

*

John Kennedy Toole (American, 1937-69)

- A Confederacy of Dunces (completed 1964, published 1980)

/ Grove Press, 9780802130204

*

Leslie Marmon Silko (Laguna Pueblo, 1948- )

- Ceremony (1977)

/ Penguin Classics Deluxe, 9780143104919

*

Louise Erdrich (Native American, 1954- )

- The Plague of Doves (2008)

/ Harper Perennial, 9780060515133

- The Round House (2012)

/ Harper Perennial, 9780062065254

*

David Foster Wallace (American, 1962-2008)

- Infinite Jest (1996)

/ Back Bay Books, 9780316066525

- The Pale King (unfinished, published 2011)

/ Back Bay Books, 9780316074223

See also:

- Elegant Complexity: A Study of David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest, by Greg Carlisle

/ SSMG Press, 978-0976146537

- Every Love Story is a Ghost Story: A Life of David Foster Wallace, by D. T. Max

/ Penguin, 9780147509727

*

Peter Hedges (American, 1962- )

- What’s Eating Gilbert Grape (1991)

/ Simon & Schuster, 9780671038540

*

Jennifer Egan (American, 1962- )

- A Visit from the Goon Squad (2010)

/ Anchor Books, 9780307477477

- Manhattan Beach (2017)

/ Scribner, 9781476716749

*

*

American Poetry, 20th Century

*

Robert Frost (American, 1874-1963)

- The Collected Poems

/ Vintage Classics, 9780099583097

*

Robinson Jeffers (American, 1887-1962)

- The Selected Poetry

/ Stanford University Press, 9780804741088

*

John Berryman (American, 1914-72)

- The Dream Songs (1969)

/ FSG Classics, 9780374534554

- Collected Poems, 1937-1971

/ Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 9780374522810

*

The Penguin Anthology of Twentieth-Century American Poetry, edited by Rita Dove

/ Penguin, 9780143121480

Gwendolyn Brooks, "We Real Cool," "The Bean Eaters"

Stephen Dobyns, "How to Like it"

*

*

Contemporary British Fiction

*

Graham Greene (English, 1904-91)

- Complete Short Stories 

/ Penguin Classics, 9780143039105

"The Destructors" (1954)

*

Samuel Beckett (Irish, 1906-89)

- More Pricks than Kicks (1934)

/ Grove Press, 9780802151377

"Dante and the Lobster"

- Three Novels

/ Grove Press, 9780802144478

1. Molloy (1951)

2. Malone Dies (1951)

3. The Unnameable (1953)

*

Malcolm Lowry (English, 1909-57)

- Under the Volcano (1947)

/ Harper Perennial, 9780061120152

*

Flann O'Brien (Brian O'Nolan) (Irish, 1911-66)

- The Third Policeman (completed in 1940, published in 1967)

/ Dalkey Archive Press, 9781564782144

*

Iris Murdoch (Anglo-Irish, 1919-99)

- Under the Net (1954)

/ Vintage Classics, 9780099429074

- The Bell (1958)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141186696

- The Black Prince (1973)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780142180112

- The Sea, The Sea (1978)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141186160

*

Alan Sillitoe (English, 1928-2010)

- The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner (1959)

/ Vintage International, 9780307389640

"The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner"

*

Angela Carter (English, 1940-92)

- The Magic Toyshop (1967)

/ Virago, 9780860681908

- The Infernal Desire Machines of Doctor Hoffman (1972)

/ Penguin Modern Classics, 9780141192390

- Burning Your Boats: Collected Stories (1962-93)

/ Vintage Classics, 9780099592914

“The Bloody Chamber”

“The Courtship of Mr Lyon”

“The Tiger’s Bride”

“The Erl-King”

“The Snow Child”

“The Lady of the House of Love”

“The Werewolf”

“The Company of Wolves”

“Wolf Alice”

"A Souvenir of Japan"

*

J. G. Ballard (English, 1930-2009)

- The Unlimited Dream Company (1979)

- Super-Cannes (2000)

*

Salman Rushdie (British Indian, 1947- )

- The Satanic Verses (1988)

*

Ian McEwan (English, 1948- )

- In Between the Sheets (Short story collection) (1978)

/ Vintage, 9780099754718

- Atonement (novel) (2001)

/ Vintage, 9780099429791

*

Iain Banks (Scottish, 1954-2013)

- The Wasp Factory (1984)

/ Prentice Hall, 9780684853154

*

Hanif Kureishi (British, 1954- )

- The Buddha of Suburbia (1990)

/ Penguin, 9780140131680

*

Kazuo Ishiguro (British, 1954- )

- An Artist of the Floating World (1986)

/ Faber & Faber, 9780571209132

- Never Let Me Go (2005)

/ Faber & Faber, 9780571272136

- The Buried Giant (2015)

/ Faber & Faber, 9780571315062

*

Jeanette Winterson (English, 1959- )

- Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit (1985)

*

Films:

- Star Trek: The Original Series

"Arena" (Season 1, Episode 18)

"Turnabout Intruder" (Season 3, Episode 24)

*

*

Canadian Literature: 20th Century

*

Robertson Davies (Canadian, 1913-95)

- The Deptford Trilogy

1. Fifth Business (1970)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141186153

2. The Manticore (1972)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780143039136

3. World of Wonders (1975)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780143039143

*

Alice Munro (Canadian, 1931- )

- A Wilderness Station: Selected Stories, 1968-1994

/ Vintage International, 9781101970362

- Family Furnishings: Selected Stories, 1995-2014

/ Vintage International, 9781101872352

*

*

Theater, 20th Century

*

Eugene O'Neill (American, 1888-1953)

- The Iceman Cometh (written 1939, first performed 1946)

/ Introduction by Harold Bloom, Yale University Press, 9780300117431

- Long Day’s Journey Into Night (written 1941, first performed 1956)

/ Introduction by Harold Bloom, Yale University Press, 9780300093056

*

Jean-Paul Sartre (French, 1905-80)

- No Exit and Three Other Plays (1944-48)

/ Gilbert translation, Vintage International, 9780679725169

No Exit

*

Samuel Beckett (Irish, 1906-89)

- Waiting for Godot (1959)

/ Grove Press, 9780802144423

- Happy Days (1961)

/ Grove Press, 9780802144409

*

Tennessee Williams (American, 1911-83)

- The Glass Menagerie (1944)

/ Penguin Modern Classics, 9780141190266

- A Streetcar Named Desire (1947)

/ Penguin Modern Classics, 9780141190273

- Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (1955)

/ Penguin Modern Classics, 9780141190280

*

Arthur Miller (American, 1915-2005)

- Death of a Salesman (1949)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141180977

- The Crucible (1953)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780142437339

*

Edward Albee (American, 1928-2016)

- Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1962)

/ Vintage Classics, 9780099285694

*

Sam Shepard (American, 1943- )

Sam Shepard: Seven Plays (Buried Child, Curse of the Starving Class, The

Tooth of Crime, La Turista, Tongues, Savage Love, True West) (1984)

/ Dial Press, 9780553346114

Shepard is also an actor- Chuck Yeager in The Right Stuff (1983 adaptation of Tom Wolfe’s book of the same title), and Robert Rayburn aka “Papa Ray” in the 2015 Netflix series, Bloodline

*

Films:

- A Streetcar Named Desire (Elia Kazan, 1951)

- Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (Mike Nichols, 1966)

- Paris, Texas (Wim Wenders, 1984) (Screenplay by Sam Shepard)

- Death of a Salesman (Volker Schlöndorff, 1985)

- The Crucible (Nicholas Hytner, 1996)

- Happy Days (Patricia Rozema, 2001)

*

*

Science Fiction/ Dystopian/ Philosophical

H. G. Wells (English, 1866-1946)

- The Time Machine (1895)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141439976

*

Aldous Huxley (English, 1894-1963)

- Brave New World (1932)

/ Harper Perennial Modern Classics, 9780060776091

- Island (1962)

/ Harper Perennial Modern Classics, 9780061561795

*

George Orwell (English, 1903-50)

- Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780241416419

*

John Wyndham (English, 1903-69)

- The Chrysalids (1955)

/ Penguin Modern Classics, 9780141181479

*

Albert Camus (French, 1913-60)

- The Stranger (1942)

/ Ward translation, Vintage International, 9780679720201

*

Osamu Dazai (Japanese, 1909-48)

- No Longer Human (1948)

/ Keene translation, New Directions, 9780811204811

*

William Golding (English, 1911-93)

- Lord of the Flies (1954)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780399533372

*

Anthony Burgess (English, 1917-93)

- A Clockwork Orange (1962)

/ Norton Critical Edition, 9780393928099

*

Yukio Mishima (Japanese, 1925-1970)

- The Sailor Who Fell From Grace With The Sea (1963)

/ Nathan translation, Vintage Classics, 9780099284796

*

Frank Herbert (American, 1920-86)

- The Great Dune Trilogy

/ Orion Pub. Co., 9780575070707

- Dune (1965)

- Dune Messiah (1969)

- Children of Dune (1976)

*

Arkady and Boris Strugatsky (Russian, 1925-91 and 1933-2012, respectively)

- Roadside Picnic (1971)

/ Bormashenko translation, Chicago Review Press, 9781613743416

*

Robert M. Pirsig (American, 1928-2017)

- Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry into Values (1974)

/ 40th Anniversery Edition, Vintage, 9780099598169

*

Alan Moore (English, 1953- )

- Watchmen (1987)

/ DC, 9781401245252

*

More philosophical novels (Listed in other sections above):

- Herman Melville, Moby-Dick; or, The Whale (1851)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780142437247

*

- Fyodor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment (1866)

/ Pevear and Volokhonsky translation, Vintage International, 9780679734505

*

- Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov (1880)

/ Pevear and Volokhonsky translation, FSG, 9780374528379

*

- Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina (1877)

/ Pevear and Volokhonsky translation, Penguin Classics, 9780140449174

*

- George Eliot, Middlemarch (1871-72)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780141439549

*

- Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890)

/ Norton Critical Editions, 9780393696875

*

- Thomas Mann, The Magic Mountain (1924)

/ Woods translation, Vintage International, 9780679772873

*

- Hermann Hesse, Narcissus and Goldmund (1930)

/ Molinaro translation, Picador, 9780312421670

*

- Hermann Hesse, The Glass Bead Game (1943)

/ Winston and Winston translation, Vintage Classics, 9780099283621

*

- Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita (written 1928-40, published 1967)

/ Pevear and Volokhonsky translation, Penguin Classics Deluxe, 9780143108276

*

- J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye (1951)

/ Back Bay Books, 9780316769174

*

- Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man (1952)

/ Vintage, 978-0679732761

*

- Kurt Vonnegut, Cat’s Cradle (1963)

/ Dial Press, 9780385333481

*

- Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five (1969)

/ Dial Press, 9780385333849

*

- Saul Bellow, Herzog (1964)

/ Penguin Classics Deluxe, 9780143107675

*

- Iris Murdoch, The Black Prince (1973)

/ Penguin Classics, 9780142180112

*

- Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian (1985)

/ Vintage International, 9780679728757

*

- David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest (1996)

/ Back Bay Books, 9780316066525

*

Films:

- The Time Machine (George Pal, 1960)

- A Clockwork Orange (Stanley Kubrick, 1971)

- Logan's Run (Michael Anderson, 1976)

- Invasion of the Body Snatchers (Philip Kaufman, 1978)

- Stalker (Screenplay loosely adapted from Roadside Picnic by the authors, directed by Andrei Tarkovsky, 1979)

- Blade Runner (Ridley Scott, 1982)

- The Matrix (Wachowskis, 1999)

- The Twilight Zone (Original Series, 1959)

"The Obsolete Man" (Season 2, Episode 29)

"It's a Good Life" (Season 3, Episode 8)

"Number Twelve Looks Just Like You" (Season 5, Episode 17)

*

*

Japanese Literature: 20th Century to Present

*

Natsume Sōseki (1867-1916)

- Botchan (1906)

/ Cohn translation, Penguin Classics, 9780141391885

- Sanshirō (1908)

/ Rubin translation with introduction by Haruki Murakami, Penguin Classics, 9780140455625

- Kokoro (1914)

/ McKinney translation, Penguin Classics, 9780143106036

*

Ryūnosuke Akutagawa (1892-1927)

- Rashomon and Seventeen Other Stories (1914-27)

/ Jay Rubin translation with introduction by Haruki Murakami, Penguin Classics, 9780140449709

*

Jun'ichirō Tanizaki (1886-1965)

- Seven Japanese Tales (1910-59)

/ Vintage International, 9780679761075

- Naomi (1924)

/ Vintage International, 9780375724749

- Quicksand (1928-30)

/ Vintage Classics, 9780099485612

- Some Prefer Nettles (1929)

/ Vintage Classics, 9780099283379

- The Makioka Sisters (1943-48)

/ Vintage Classics, 9780749397104

*

Yasunari Kawabata (1899-1972)

- Snow Country (1935-37, 1947)

/ Vintage International, 9780679761044

- The Master of Go (1951)

/ Vintage, 9780679761068

- The Sound of the Mountain (1954)

/ Seidensticker translation, Vintage International, 9780679762645

- House of the Sleeping Beauties and Other Stories

/ Vintage International, 9780525434139

- Beauty and Sadness (1964)

/ Vintage, 9780679761051

- Palm-of-the-Hand Stories (1923-64)

/ FSG Classics, 9780374530495

*

Osamu Dazai (1909-48)

- No Longer Human (1948)

/ Keene translation, New Directions, 9780811204811

*

Yasushi Inoue (1907-91)

- Life of a Counterfeiter (1965)

/ Emmerich translation, Pushkin Press, 9781782270027

*

Kōbō Abe (1924-93)

- The Woman in the Dunes (1962)

/ Saunders translation, Vintage International, 9780679733782

- The Face of Another (1964)

/ Saunders translation, Vintage International, 9780375726538

- The Ruined Map (1967)

/ Saunders translation, Vintage International, 9780375726521

- The Box Man (1973)

/ Saunders translation, Vintage International, 9780375726514

*

Yukio Mishima (1925-70)

- Death in Midsummer: And Other Stories (1953)

/ New Directions, 9780811201179

- The Temple of the Golden Pavilion (1956)

/ Morris translation, Vintage Classics, 9780099285670

- After the Banquet (1960)

/ Keene translation, 9780099282785

- The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea (1963)

/ Nathan translation, Vintage Classics, 9780099284796

- The Sea of Fertility tetralogy (written 1965-70):

1. Spring Snow (1965)

/ Gallagher translation, Vintage International, 9780679722410

2. Runaway Horses (1969)

/ Gallagher translation, Vintage International, 9780679722403

3. The Temple of Dawn (1970)

/ Saunders and Segawa Seigle translation, Vintage International, 9780679722427

4. The Decay of the Angel (1971)

/ Seidensticker translation, Vintage International, 9780679722434

See also:

Persona: A Biography of Yukio Mishima, by Naoki Inose

/ Stone Bridge Press, 9781611720082

*

Kenzaburō Ōe (1935- )

- A Personal Matter (1965)

/ Nathan translation, Grove Press, 9780802150615

- The Silent Cry (1967)

/ Bester translation, Serpent's Tail Classics, 9781781255650

*

Haruki Murakami (1949- )

Novels:

- Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World (1985)

/ Birnbaum translation, Vintage, 9780099448785

- Norwegian Wood (1987)

/ Rubin translation, Vintage, 9780099448822

- The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle (1994-5)

/ Rubin translation, Vintage International, 9780099448792

- Kafka on the Shore (2002)

/ Gabriel translation, Vintage International, 9780099458326

- After Dark (2004)

/ Rubin translation, Vintage, 9780099506249

- 1Q84 (2009-10)

/ Rubin and Gabriel translation, Vintage, 9780099578079

- Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage (2013)

/ Gabriel translation, Vintage, 9780099590378

Short story collections:

- The Elephant Vanishes (17 stories, 1980-91)

/ Vintage, 9780099448754

- Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman (24 stories, 1980-2005)

/ Vintage, Gabriel and Rubin translation, 9780099488668

- Birthday Stories (2002) (an anthology of stories featuring birthdays, by various authors including Raymond Carver, David Foster Wallace, and Murakami himself)

/ Vintage, 9780099481553

- Men Without Women (7 stories, 2013-14)

/ Gabriel and Goossen translation, Vintage, 9781101974520

See also: 

Haruki Murakami: A Long, Long Interview, by Mieko Kawakami

/ [coming soon]

*

Ryū Murakami (1952- )

- Almost Transparent Blue (1976)

/ out of print?

- Coin Locker Babies (1980)

/ Pushkin Press, 9781908968470

- 69 (1987)

/ Pushkin Press, 9781908968463

- Audition (1997)

/ Bloomsbury, 9781408800720

*

Banana Yoshimoto (1964- )

- Kitchen (1988)

/ Backus translation, Faber & Faber, 9780571342723

- Goodbye Tsugumi (1989)

/ Emmerich translation, Faber & Faber, 9780571212842

- Asleep (1989)

/ Emmerich translation, Faber & Faber, 9780571205370

- Lizard (1993)

/ Sherif translation, Simon & Schuster, 9780671532765

- Amrita (1994)

/ Faber & Faber, 9780571193745

- Moshi-Moshi (2010)

/ Asa Yoneda translation, Counterpoint, 9781640090156

*

Hiromi Kawakami (1958- )

- Strange Weather in Tokyo (2001)

/ Powell translation, Counterpoint, 9781640090163

- The Ten Loves of Nishino (2003)

/ Powell translation, Granta, 9781846276972

*

Yōko Ogawa (1962- )

- The Diving Pool: Three Novellas (1990) 

/ Vintage, 9780099521358

- Revenge: Eleven Dark Tales (1998) 

/ Vintage, 9780099553939

- The Housekeeper and the Professor (2008)

/ Vintage, 9780099521341

*

Mieko Kawakami (1976- )

- Ms. Ice Sandwich (2018)

/ Pushkin Press, 9781782273301

*

Sayaka Murata (1979- )

- Convenience Store Woman (2018)

/ Granta, 9781846276842

*

Yukiko Motoya (1979- )

- The Lonesome Bodybuilder (2018) 

/ Asa Yoneda translation, Soft Skull Press, 9781593766788

*

- The Penguin Book of Japanese Short Stories (2018)

/ Edited by Jay Rubin, Penguin Classics, 9780241311905

*

*

Possible contexts for some of the works listed above:

*

*

Murasaki Shikibu (Lady Murasaki) (c. 973 or 978-1014 or 1031)

- The Tale of Genji (<1021)

/ Waley translation, Tuttle, 9784805310816

See also:

- The Tale of Genji: A Reader’s Guide, by William J. Puette

/ Tuttle, 9784805310847

*

Miyamoto Musashi (1584-1645)

- The Book of Five Rings (1645)

/ Bennett translation, Tuttle, [paperback coming soon]

*

Yamamoto Tsunetomo (1659-1719)

- Hagakure (1716)

/ Bennett translation, Tuttle, 9784805311981

*

Nitobe Inazō (1862-1933)

- Bushido: The Soul of Japan (1900)

/ Bennett translation, Tuttle, [paperback coming soon]

*

Lafcadio Hearn (1850-1904)

- Japanese Ghost Stories

/ Penguin Classics, 9780241381274

*

D. T. Suzuki (1870-1966)

- An Introduction to Zen Buddhism (1934)

/ Grove Press, 9780802130556

*

Eugene Herrigel (1884-1955)

- Zen in the Art of Archery (1948)

/ Vintage, 9780375705090

*

Shunryū Suzuki (1904-71)

- Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind (1970)

/ Shambhala, 9781590308493

*

Boye Lafayette De Mente

- Etiquette Guide to Japan: Know the Rules that Make the Difference!

/ Tuttle, 9784805313619

- Japan: A Guide to Traditions, Customs and Etiquette: Kata as the Key to Understanding the Japanese

/ Tuttle, 9784805314425

*

Roger J. Davies

- The Japanese Mind: Understanding Contemporary Japanese Culture

/ Tuttle, 9780804832953

- Japanese Culture: The Religious and Philosophical Foundations

/ Tuttle, 9784805311639

#goals #books #literature #authors #quotes #fiction #poetry #writing #english major #classic #classics #american literature #british literature #russian literature #japanese literature #short story #novel #sci-fi #female author #favorite books

[fanesavin]

Evidence is presented and justice is served... or is it?

[ Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 (x) | (x) Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 (x) (x) | Part 7 | Part 8  (x) | Part 9 (x) |Part 10 | Part 11 (x) (x) | Part 12 (x) | Part 13 (x) (x) | Part 14 (x) (x) | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 ]

@bumblingbrujo​​ @faye-andrews​ @xxtuaharjunaxx​ @ianncardero​ @ephrampettaline​ @thisbrutalbelle​ @danisavin @scarlettxruby

Tuah made his way towards the Dawnguard headquarters, strolling through the hallways as if he still belonged. His confidante followed closely behind him, a constant shadow and protector that he trusted implicitly. Once he arrived at Fane’s office, he watched Fane for a moment before making his presence known. “Care for a break from your work?” he asked, his quiet voice gentle, his smile mirroring his tone.

Fane was sat by the window, his eyes fixed on some distant point across the city. He’d needed some time away from the Quiver and this was the only place that came to mind where he might find some sense of solace. He heard the approach of someone, not that it really mattered anymore. But Tuah’s voice echoing across the office caused Fane to tense fractionally. “This work never leaves me, and I doubt it ever will.”

Tuah watched as Fane shifted from where he stood by the window, the lighting that permeated through the window framed the Inquisitor’s body beautifully and casting shadows on the floor. Tuah couldn’t help but smile as he entered the room and joined Fane by the window. His confidante silently closed the door behind him, guarding the door and let the two have their conversation in private. “That does not mean that you’re not allowed to have a breather every once and awhile.” He turned to face Fane, the gentle smile that he reserved for his friend painted his lips. “If you need someone to vent, you know you can confide in me.” At least it would ease Fane’s burden as the inquisitor, if nothing else, to have someone that he could confide in, other than those who had been heavily involved in the investigation.

Fane couldn’t bring himself to match his friend’s cheer, he shifted, crossing his arms over his chest. “Perhaps once this is all said and done,” he allowed but had a feeling that the guilt of this job would stay with him long after whatever happened came to be. “Let me ask you a question and answer me truthfully, if you could usher in a new age of peace to these weary lands, bring an end to the wars but… all that came at the cost of a innocent man’s reputation and perhaps see only justice partially served, would you take that chance?” He didn’t elaborate, nor did he turn but continued to watch citizens mill about the street below.

Tuah hummed, turning his gaze towards the city as he contemplated the other’s question. “The good of many outweighs the good of one man,” he recited, shifted his weight on his feet and resting his hand on the pommel of his sword, “a king must choose the best path for his people, even if it sacrifice a man’s innocence if it means he can maintain peace.” He turned his gaze towards Fane, a knowing smile on his lips. “It is heavy to carry the burden, isn’t it?”

Fane huffed at his friend’s vague answer but equally knew precisely what it was that Tuah was saying in that veiled tongue. “I’m no king,” he countered evenly “and a part of me would rather see the ramparts stained red than sentence an innocent man to a punishment he doesn’t deserve.” There was a weighted silence that followed the claim, and yet it was no less true. “An innocent man suffers and the killer continues to walk free to further their plans. How is that the world we live in? What kind of world can be built from that foundation?”

“No, but you are the Inquisitor to the High Raj, and right now, that weighs more than a king of some small nation.” Tuah shifted his gaze to the city once more, his face sombre as he contemplated Fane’s concern further. “A peaceful nation has always been built by the blood of the innocents, Lord Savin,” he pointed out, “one more innocent man would not make a difference. Would you rather stain your hand with the blood of many, or the blood of one, would be the question here.”

Fane grimaced, knowing that unfortunately it was true whether he wished it to be or not. He offered no answer to Tuah’s question about which he would prefer. “I want no more part in this… These games and betrayal. Equally, I’m not sure I wish to be shackled as these treaties would entail… We did not fight in their wars, why should we submit to the whims of people who would rather poison one another so that they might have the chance to sit on a throne– an ugly one at that.”

Tuah could only gave the other sympathetic smile, letting Fane venting out his frustration. Unlike Fane, he had the privilege to sit out most of the squabbles between the nobbles, allowing him to witness while not getting involved himself unless he decided to. Fane was thrust into the heart of it all unceremoniously, and found himself too entangled to be able to let himself out without consequences. His heart was far too kind to be meddled with the games that the nobles played. It was one of the qualities that he liked about the Inquisitor, and why he chose to be his friend. “Perhaps this peace that we hope for is still too far away from our reach,” Tuah lamented quietly, feeling his hope crumbling as he faced with such reality. “It’s a shame, really. If everyone had put aside their differences for once, there is much to be gain from this union.”

Fane held his arms across his chest. “Aye, perhaps it is.” Who could say? Unfortunately, they would have to see what the outcome would be. He glanced at his friend expression drawn and sombre as it had been increasingly of late. “I suppose we’ve postponed long enough, the Quiver hall no doubt summons us.”

Tuah nodded. “I suppose there’s no delaying the inevitable.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, turning on his heel and walked out of the room, waiting for the Inquisitor to join him.

Faye was already sat in her designated place in the hall. It had all come down to this, hadn’t it? Presentation of the efforts of so many, because of the evil and greed of one person. But would it really matter? Would it really make a difference? Would there really be peace and justice together? Or would one weigh out, and the other be discarded? Faye didn’t know. She had done her small part, and once it was finished, that was it.

Fane walked with Tuah to the castle, a detour being made to collect the crown. The offending item hung loosely from his fingertips and he rather unceremoniously dropped the offending item onto the table with a dull metallic clang. He moved to take a seat slouching back his chin resting on the knuckles of one hand, the same elbow propped on the thick wooden armrest while his thumb idly rubbed at a few of the new grey bristles in his beard.

It was time. Woken from her sleep in the early hours of the new day, the priestess had felt the presence of her lord. He had spoken to her, his voice a bright flame in her chest, brightening her eyes with the light of the eternal fire that burned within him. That burned within all who followed him. The priestess was no different. So she rose, dressed, said her prayers to the rising of the sun, and made her way to the Great Hall.

Iann felt an air of excitement, and some trepidation. But he didn’t show any of it, seated where he was. He watched the Inquisitor release the crown heavily and loudly - such poetry in the motion - and rubbed his own beard, knowing what was finally come to pass. If Savin heeded his advice, this would all be over, and soon. Iann felt it in his bones, like he could feel a morning squall on the ocean.

Tuah took his seat and leaned back against the chair, watching the empty seats being filled by other nobilities. He couldn’t help but wonder who it was that Fane had referred to in their conversation, speculating on his own who the black sheep would be. His focus and concern was more towards the Lord Inquisitor, as he was sure everyone else’s. As a king, he wanted the Inquisitor to choose what was best for the people, even if it meant sacrificing an innocent man. But as his friend, Tuah wanted Fane to choose what is best for him, even when it would mean spilling more blood than it already had.

Faye looked at Fane as he sat heavily in his seat. She looked at the crown as it fell heavily to the table. She looked around at the assembled, seeing the expressions - some dour, some unreadable - on their faces. The air literally trembled with anticipation.

Bella stepped into the Quiver quietly, finding a place for herself in any available seat as it seemed something was happening.

Fane stoically chose not to meet anyone’s eye, he could feel different gazes resting on him but equally looking at people was the last thing he wished to do right now. Especially with Iann sat across from him his thumb worried at his jaw slow brushes as he waited for nobles to settle.

The Red Priestess found her place where she had been before, along the wall where the representatives of the Cloverry would normally sit. She looked around the assembled, noting a few obvious absences, but turned her attentions to the Lord Inquisitor for now.

Miguel stayed at the edge of the room. His head was clear, and he was ready to sail.

Fane finally let his hand fall away from his chin and lifted his head to study those assembled with dark brown eyes “several days ago I was charged with investigating the death of the High Raj as you are all aware. I have done so to the best of my capacity with equal degrees of help and hindrance from many of you here.” He drew himself up in his seat, “several months ago now the cloverry chose Avitej Sharma to become the new High Raj of this realm, charging him with unifying our kingdoms into one. His crown was chosen from the treasury, before it was taken to a blacksmith here in the Capitol to be reforged.”

“I have spoken to the blacksmith charged with fashioning its fixing and confirmed the rig… Which you can all see here,” Fane gave a tilt of his chin to the crown in question “containing the venom was not present prior to its departure on the tour… And so my investigation began, the tour was clearly the most obvious point of strategic weakness for it to be tampered with clearly, and I’ve worked to confirm that this crown, used in the ceremony, was not the same one that left the Capitol at the beginning of its tour of the kingdoms.”

So far, Faye knew about what Fane was saying. That the crown had been tampered with, that much was certain. But to hear that it wasn’t the same crown at all, that was news.

Iann leaned forward with some interest. He hadn’t looked at the crown up close, given that he’d have no insight to offer about it. But seeing the clever little device, it was certainly cunning. And it also created a dramatic end as well. Such contrast done with such purpose.

Tuah laced his fingers together as he listened to the Inquisitor, his gaze following his gesture towards the crown. He couldn’t help but bitterly applaud the ingenuity of its design, for such clever tampering had caused the tenuous hope that the people had be crushed in an instant.

Bella rose her eyes to view the crown, not having seen it before like most there. Nothing so far seemed to point it in the direction of any one person.

“We know the crown on its tour went to and stayed longest in Blackspire, Summerset, the Kesleylands and Hathurana. It also had brief stays in Honeywild, the High Peninsula and the Eades… But in two of these locations I’ve come to learn the Captains left the crown unguarded… That was in Summerset and the Kesleylands.“ Fane paused briefly before continuing, "as I’m sure many of you are aware, House Kesley have made quite a reputation for themselves lately but their antics have been clumsy and heavy handed. A kidnapping attempt one one noble and an assault on one of the members in this room? A part of me wishes I’d had the opportunity to speak with Lord Kesley before his death… Which happened under equally suspicious circumstances… Perhaps tracks being covered?” There was an addendum he wished he could add then, but unfortunately he could not and when he continued his tongue felt leaden. “That I could not say but regardless… The person that designed this scheme and executed it was cunning, patient and calculated…”

Ephram, seated unobtrusively among the other nobles, wondered to himself if talking was allowed at this meeting. He supposed he’d either find out if somebody else voiced a question, or if his own need to speak urged him on first, once the Inquisitor had said his piece.

Iann turned only slightly, and looked over at Miguel as the Inquisitor sketched out an idea of the type of person who might design such a nefarious device.

Miguel kept his arms crossed and his face impassive. It didn’t matter who was found guilty, Miguel had contingency plans. His contingency plans had contingency plans.

Tuah furrowed his brows together, his lips pressed into a thin line. That didn’t narrow down the people that the Inquisitor was suspicious of. All of them was capable of such doings, himself included. Though he must admit some did better than others, having played the game for so long. “Do you have your suspects, Lord Inquisitor?” Tuah spoke first, wanting to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible.

Ephram stirred in his seat. “Are there any from House Kesley left in the Capital?” He looked around at the assembled gathering. “None represented here, I don’t think …”

“From what I know, Kesley is dead, all of them. The last of their House was here…their Keep is currently looked after by their ward, the title will not fall to him.” Iann looked over at the Inquisitor for confirmation, but this was what Iann had recently heard.

Fane shook his head to the question. “The Prince is right, none that know or mean anything of importance, the last remaining member of the family was found with his throat slit in the dungeons after his attempted coup a few days ago.”

The passing of another once great House. The priestess felt a sense of loss for the kingdom. Despite it’s slow crumble into ruin and madness, House Kesley was an old name. May it’s beginning be remembered better than it’s end.

Fane curled his fingers a little at Tuah’s mention of suspects. “We’ll get to that, I think the evidence lends itself to the reasoning.” Seeing no other questions posed he shifted back in his seat once more. “The crown was swapped in Summerset,” he said simply “the Forty Isles Captain confirmed this under interrogation. The man was bribed with forty isles coin to leave the crown while the other Captain was diverted with a distraction… He took the bribe from loyalty as the person responsible for paying him implied the work was for the Queen’s Consort Juan Carlos… The Captain managed to find a way take his life in captivity before we had a chance to question him further…”

How convenient, Tuah thought bitterly, that the house that had made such a ruckus in the first place had been murdered. The dead cannot defend themselves when stand accused by the living “And there is no confirmation as to who murdered him, I assume?”

His eyes widened then. Juan Carlos? Did Miguel’s machinations run that deep, that he would send the most guileless brother into this? He wanted to reach behind him and throttle Miguel for this injustice, but Iann held his tongue. It was clear he was agitated, deeply. “What? Impossible. It is not our brother.”

Faye looked towards the Grand Lady of Summerset, and then Iann and Miguel, frowning deeply.

Miguel’s own eyebrows raised. Juan Carlos was busy, always working to make things better. Or at least the Cloverry’s version of better. He was a holy and moral man - there wasn’t a drop of deception in his veins.

The Red Priestess also frowned, but made no move to speak. The information was… interesting. She blinked, eyes narrowing slightly as she watched the unfolding conversation.

Ephram pursed his mouth, feeling a little rill of pleasure in seeing King Iann so unsettled. For once. “If it’s not your brother, Highness, that sets the deed on you. Or Prince Miguel. But likely you.”

Tuah turned his attention towards the Grand Lady in question, the murmuring of the restless crowd grew as the names were finally dropped. He turned his attention towards King Cardero. He glared daggers towards Lord Pettaline for throwing such accusation, before shifting his focus on the king, trying to set a neutral expression on his face when he addressed the other, “Do you have any proof to counter the Lord Inquisitor’s claim, your Highness?”

Ephram shrugged at Tuah’s glare, not even really aware of who the man was. At this point in the proceedings, Ephram had lost any ability or desire to defer to nobles who thought they were morally superior to everyone else.

Fane grew quiet seeming to consider his options at Tuah’s question. But equally knew he could not sit by and let some information slip by, “Grand Lady Cassandra was the last person known to enter the dungeons prior to Lord Kesley’s death. She lied to gain access claiming to be working for me, her reasons for going to see him prior to his body being found, however, I know not.” Fane turned his attention to the dissent breaking out, and glowered at the minor Lord “Lord Pettaline, you’d best catch that tongue lest it end up getting you in trouble. You may be welcome to a seat at this table but your contribution offers little but yet more discord which I do not appreciate.”

Ephram threw up his hands. “Discord! What is the obsession with characterizing any open discussion as brawling or discord? King Iann pressed the matter, Inquisitor, I was merely speaking to it further.”

Fane narrowed his eyes at the man, “the last I checked accusations are not speaking on a matter further.”

Ephram scowled. “I meant no hard accusation,” he allowed grudgingly. “Perhaps my manner of speaking isn’t as fine as to convey that properly.”

Iann smiled smugly as the little Lord was taken down, but it didn’t last long, because he was suddenly realizing what Savin’s evidence was pointing towards. His face paled, and he looked over at Miguel again. He knew the Inquisitor’s evidence was irrefutable, which only seemed to mean…no. Of all the people who could possibly be accused for this…no. “Lord Ephram has a point, although I appreciate your authority on the matter, Inquisitor.” Iann gave Fane a heavy look, then stood up. “The Carderos and Sharma’s have always warred, and the Forty Isles has reasons against our once High Raj.” Iann thought about Grand Lady Cassandra - but more importantly, he thought about that precious, innocent little Princess Adeline. He knew Cassandra would do anything for that child. Anything, to save her own crumbling land from eventually being annexed into a Forty Isles mainland holding. “I’ve held my tongue long enough. Would you like to hear our confession?” Iann looked over to Miguel. “We’re ready to give it, are we not, brother?”

Fane looked across the table as Iann spoke, Lord Pettaline’s grievances temporarily forgotten. His eyes thinned, but ultimately knew that the only chance peace might be brokered was this not that it mattered ultimately. There was no helping the sickening feeling sitting in his gut as his eldest friend rose to his feet.

Faye nearly stood stood as a look was exchanged between Iann and Fane. She looked between them both, but back at Fane in the end. The Honeywild’s petty squabbling forgotten, Faye looked at Fane as if he had grown two heads.

The Red Priestess did not abide by the rules of court. She /did/ stand. Hands falling to her sides, she took steps towards the table, eyes lit on the accused, and on the ones about to take the fall.

Fane made a small gesture for Iann to speak if he wished. He felt Faye’s eyes on him like hot coals but chose not to look in her direction.

Iann was… quick. But Miguel was always a step behind him. No, he couldn’t let the Inquisitor accuse Cassandra. He would be a dead man if she did. And Adeline would be out a mother. That wasn’t something he would wish on her, not if Lilo and Iann were the only ones around to take care of Summerset and the Forty Isles - with Adeline so young. So Miguel nodded along. “Right.” He stepped up, behind Iann, at his back, ready to agree with whatever he said to protect Cassandra.

Despite his moseying along that trail of suspicion only a few moments earlier, Ephram was in truth as shocked as anybody else by King Iann’s confession. And even more so by Prince Miguel’s stepping up to take his blame, dammit. That meant one major alliance he’d worked to procure was rendered void and worthless. At least he’d still have the Lady of Sommerset on his side.

“I’m now the King of the Forty Isles,” Iann started, but then paused when he saw Miguel stepping up by his side. If Iann was surprised, he didn’t let it show (he was surprised, but god, his little brother was a clever little one). “I planned the High Raj’s demise, as I knew my father’s demise was near. Good timing, I should say. My brother here of course is adept with venoms and the like - he’s been very useful at orchestrating the…little details. He’s always been very good at little details.” Iann looked at Miguel for a long moment, before he continued to address the Quiver. “But the Forty Isles could not have a Sharma on the Sunlit Throne. He would always be a Sharma, and although he looked like the path to peace, I’m afraid our Forty Isles is far too powerful for the comfort of a High Raj from his House. Something had to be done, and it was. You cannot kill the King of the Forty Isles, I’m afraid. What would you propose, Iniquisitor, would be a rightful punishment? I understand that I must be put under some judgement, to appease the commonfolk of the realm. So long as you allow me to take my brother back ot the Forty Isles with me, because a little Prince -” Iann clapped his hand on Miguel’s shoulder, hard and firm. “- needs to be held accountable to his people, and to yours.”

Miguel took a deep breath. The pat on the shoulder was what did it. Iann could have easily left him to the dogs of the mainland to deal with, but he didn’t - he wanted to take Miguel with him. Though maybe what Iann had in mind for his little brother was worse than what the dogs of the mainland could think of. Iann was nothing if not creative. Still, Miguel pet one hand on Iann’s shoulder, a silent show of solidarity.

When Miguel touched his hand, Iann realized that despite everything - how duplicitous and conniving Miguel could be - that they stood united on two fronts. The pride of the Forty Isles, and the protection of the Queen of Summerset, and her family. Iann wanted to shut his eyes and sigh. If only they could’ve have been united on other fronts as well. The Forty Isles was formidable enough with them separated…if they had ever truly thought to work together? They could have taken over the known world.

Tuah refrained himself from rolling his eyes to the back of his skull when what assumed to be another argument about to break. He did take a deep breath and let it out slowly before addressing Lord Pettaline. But before he could do so, King Cardero stood and addressed the assembly. Tuah held his tongue then, looking between House Cardero and the Inquisitor, trying to confirm his suspicion. That House Cardero would take the fall for the murder of the High Raj. Tuah couldn’t help but wonder what sort of game that House Cardero was playing, if there was any hidden scheme underneath the confession. The silence that followed King Cardero’s confession was deafening, suffocating. “What say you, Lord Inquisitor?” Tuah turned towards the man in question. “Do you accept the confession? Or do you have other claim to present to the Quiver?”

Danian their gut tighten when Iann stood to give a confession. Fane’s evidence was solid, but it was the last piece that felt the most damning to the younger lord. For Queen Cassandra to have *personally* been the last person seen prior to Lord Kesley being found dead, and to lie for entrance… there was no affiliation with the Forty Isles there. “Your Majesty,” Danian looked coolly across at Iann from their seat beside Lord Savin, “Your son is a ward under Blackspire’s care. For that, I must ask you– assuming your confession is true, was he at all aware of these plans while the crown made its stay in Lord Savin’s keep?”

Iann looked calmly back at Lord Lovel. “Why would a confession be a lie? It’s a shameful and dishonourable thing, regicide,” Iann said first. “My children are all innocent. It seems they are as honest as their grandparents and their Uncle Juan Carlos.” He looked at Miguel, fearful for a moment at his little brother’s plans. Get in with Lord Lovel, who was so closely attached to Buttercup. If Miguel had a plan there, that plan frightened Iann for the safety of his son. There was no way now that Danian would ever lose their loyalty towards Miguel, the Threepenny Prince had sealed that fate well. “I’m afraid all the sinister aspects of our family fell onto us, little brother.”

Miguel’s biggest regret spoke up and Miguel’s blood ran cold. They didn’t even speak to him. They spoke to Iann, asking him about his son. Miguel took a deep breath to clear his head, and then he shook it. “No, Lord Danian. All the duplicity in our family has fallen on the book ends. Iann and I are the only ones who knew of this until now.”

Ephram groaned, sliding down slightly in his chair and covering his face with one hand as Miguel duly embraced his guilt with both arms.

Fane felt the tension in his muscles as he sat at the table his back ramrod straight and face a mask of neutrality as Iann spun his tale. A convincing one at that, he always had been good with words. Only for Miguel to back it up, the change in their dynamic was subtle, yet Fane noticed it regardless. That unity, to protect the one thing that mattered. Family, but then they would, wouldn’t they? They loved their brother and their niece, even the person Fane suspected had orchestrated this whole thing. A long silence fell across the audience room, and Fane was only stirred from his stillness at Tuah’s prompt. He looked at Iann and Miguel. “Then I exile you both, for the murder of the High Raj… You shall return to your homeland where you will spend the rest of your days and be subject to the punishment of the Forty Isles for your crimes” he looked back to Iann, “your son shall as such remain my ward and charge to ensure this remains the case.”

#got au #got scene

[hyenasnake]

A/N: So this oneshot deals with a lot of stuff like rape and child abuse so if you don't like that stuff don't read it and a HUGE thank you to all the creators of the kids for letting me use them in cameos

It was Alazne who first noticed something wrong with her sister. Ever since the creator’s ball in the land of the blessed, Etapalli seemed off. She would stare off into space as if she was dissociating, she would hardly eat, she took long baths and bathed multiple times a day, she would wake up sobbing in the middle of the night thinking nobody could hear her. But Ala heard, and Ala saw. Soon the other siblings started to notice something was wrong. Esteban would tell Etapalli jokes trying to make her laugh to no avail. She’d always laugh before. Miguel would invite her to sword practice, but she’d refuse. She’d begged to go before. When Jack visited he brought her some sweets from Halloweentown but she pushed them side. She’d always liked sweets before. Sartana was the first who tried to get it out of her, gently at first but becoming more forceful with invasive questions until the young girl started having a fit and their parents had to interfere.

“Please, Mija. Tell me what happened.” Xibalba begged of his daughter. Etapalli stayed silent, her eyes dull and her form stiff. “You used to be so lively and happy. What’s wrong?” Though her heart was aching and she wanted to tell him, she wouldn’t talk. Fear of her banishment filled her and she felt like she was made of stone. “Mijita-” He protested when she stood up and walked out of the study. But he didn’t stop her.

“Please try to eat something.” Cider begged his sister. “You’re growing so thin. You passed out in the middle of breakfast this morning.” Etapalli turned from her brother. She uttered but one word.

“Leave.” So he did.

It was La Muerte who was able to coax it out of her. The mother goddess took her suffering child into her room and sat her down on the bed next to her. “I love you, Pallita. No matter what you do nothing will change that. You can tell me anything. I promise I won’t be angry with you. You have many siblings, but I love all of you the same and I would do the same thing I do now for any of them. Now you have my full attention, my full support, todo mi corazon.” She tucked a lock of black hair behind the ear of her daughter. Etapalli’s acid green eyes filled with tears as her fangs dug into her lip, causing it to bleed. While trying to fight back the wave of emotions, she explained to her mother.

How she’d followed Itzli to the garden with the promise of a garden of birds waiting for her. How her heart had beat like a drum in her chest, looking up at the much older boy as he held her hand. How he’d given her a small pastry and she’d eaten it greedily and innocently, not knowing what would happen to her. How when they’d gotten to the promised location, there was nothing but trees. How she felt her body become weak and she fell to the ground, her wings feeling as if they were tied together by an invisible chain. How she’d tried to cry out for help only to be hit in the face by Itzli. How he’d grabbed her roughly and torn her dress away, the handmade dress she had been so lovingly gifted by her mother for her birthday. How he’d defiled her while she laid there paralyzed in silence, being innocent and not even knowing what he was doing to her but hating every second of it and wishing she was able to die. How he’d spread his seed all over her stomach and legs before standing up. How he pulled her to her feet and told her; “Don’t tell anybody or they will hate you more than they do already. They will strip you of your powers and banish you to the world of humans and send monsters to kill you. When you die you’ll be sent to a place worse than the land of the cursed because nobody wants a whore like you”.

La Muerte’s heart had filled with pain and rage and her eyes with tears as she and her daughter embraced one another, crying and hurting. She held her tight and rubbed her back, trying to keep those negative emotions hidden away for the sake of her broken child. Etapalli’s physical wounds from her encounter had mostly healed soon after they’d been inflicted, but the emotional wounds still remained and were sore with infection. They held one another for over two hours, weeping and hugging. There was much work to be done, but the land of the remembered could wait for eternity.

The news spread around the castle like wildfire. First from La Muerte to Xibalba, who she had to restrain to keep him from flying to the land of the blessed and taking care of Itzli himself. Sartana had overheard and confided in the older children, who were eavesdropped on by the younger children who knew with heavy hearts what this meant. The youngest children, like Suré and Xico, had no clue what the word “rape” meant. But from the way it seemed to affect everybody, they knew it was something terrible. But the attention seemed to focus on their older sister, who was treated as if she was a fragile flower, a delicate piece of glass that could break at any time. It angered many of the children, and extra precautions had to be taken to assure that none of Etapalli’s relatives would go after Itzli before his trial. Adeleine had cried uncontrollably when she found out, knowing she was the only one who could have seen this coming, yet she didn’t. Mila was angrier than a hornet and had to be held back by Miguel. When the news had reached Jack he broke down and had to take a few days off work. The children really tried their hardest to comfort their sister. But Etapalli just wanted to be left alone.

On the day of the trial, she was shaking at the thought of having the face Itzli again. She stood at the podium in front of the pantheon, gods from all corners of the world. The creator the judge of it all staring down at her with a sympathetic gaze. She spoke shakily, her English blending into Spanish which blended into Nahuatl. Itzli and his father stared at her with hatred in their eyes while she tried not to cry. Her words slurred together as the world spun around her and she felt like fainting, The Creator stopped her, saying she’d said enough and she was excused. Xibalba took her outside to cool off, bringing her a glass of water. She drank it and for the first time in weeks, let him hold her.

It only took a quick search in the book of life to confirm what she said was true. Itzli was punished and banished to the deepest depths of the land of the cursed. Itzlacol, his father, swore revenge on Etapalli and her family before disappearing mysteriously, never to be seen by them again.

Now, seven years later, Etapalli laid in bed next to her lover and wondered if those emotional wounds had finally healed. It had taken her a while to find someone who didn’t want to use her as a plaything. But she still couldn’t help but wonder if she was a plaything as she took in the scent of gunpowder, wildflowers and cinnamon from the luscious mane of brown hair that laid next to her. Katalina stirred in her sleep and rolled to face the winged goddess. Her plump lips were parted in a slight pout as she slept and soft snores came from her. Etapalli shifted her arm only to have her hand instinctively grabbed by the young woman next to her. Their fingers intertwined gracefully and the goddess left out a soft sigh of relief, knowing she was loved and not being used as a plaything. She kissed the human soldier on the forehead before snuggling closer to her and lazily draping a black wing over their naked bodies, shielding them from the outside world. The dark black eyes of the soldier opened. Her mouth curved into a smile. “I enjoy waking up more when I get to wake to a lovely view such as this.” She flirted, still half asleep. The goddess blushed.

“You’re a dork.” She accused. Katalina chuckled and gave her lover a soft kiss on the lips, which Etapalli gratefully returned.

“Are you okay? Your heart beats fast.” The soldier gazed into the goddess’s green eyes with those devoted dark eyes one could get lost in like a cave.

“I’m okay now, seeing how heaven has brought an angel to my side.” The goddess cupped her human’s face. The human chuckled.

“Says the actual angel.” She wrapped her arms around her waist and pulled her close. “But seriously, was it too much? Did you want me to stop? I would have stopped if you’d asked me.” Etapalli fought back the urge to cry tears of joy.

“Not for an instant.” She kissed her before starting to slip into a deep sleep. Those emotional wounds had finally started to heal.

~Miguel, Mila and Cider belong to @thelovelydeer 

~Esteban and Adeleine belongs to @hansuoddie

~Xico belongs to @blackmel1

~Alazne belongs to queenxivory (deactivated)

~Etapalli, Itzli, and Katalina belong to me

~Itzlacol belongs to @ladyanaconda

~All other characters belong to Jorge Gutierrez and REEL FX Studios

#the book of life #fanfiction #drabble #angst #tw rape #tw csa #tw abuse #esteban #gravepainters #la muerte #xibalba #etapalli #alazne #itzli #katalina sanchez #adeleine #xico #miguel #mila #cider #the creator #sartana of the dead #Jack Skellington

[pamphletstoinspire]

Novena to Saint Miguel Agustin Pro Recited November 14th through November 22nd

Feast Day: November 23rd (Ordinary Time)​

Novena

The word Novena derives it name from the Latin word “novem” meaning “nine.” A novena can be either a private or public devotion in the Catholic Church to obtain special graces.

A Novena in Honor of Blessed Miguel Pro, S.J.

Blessed martyr of Christ the King, Father Miguel Agustin Pro, you are a special patron of those who labor, those in illness, depression or despair. You are also a friend of musicians, the captives, and all who work toward social justice. Your beloved brothers, the Jesuits, revere you and count you among the ranks of their saints. You love your people of Mexico and all those loyal to the Church. I thank the Sacred Heart for loving you so dearly.

I pray to Our Lady of Guadalupe whom you love so dear, to intercede for the cause of your canonization.

I pray that you remember me in your eternal and well-deserved rejoicing, and also my needs:

[state needs]

Through your courageous life and martyrdom you have won the crown of life everlasting.

Remember me, Blessed Miguel, for I remember you.

Viva Cristo Rey! Viva la Virgen de Guadalupe! IMPRIMATUR: Most Reverend John F. Donoghue Archbishop of Atlanta December 21, 2004

A Prayer Composed by Blessed Miguel Pro, S.J.

According to one of Fr. Pro’s biographers, Rec. M.D. Forrest, M.S.C., the following was composed shortly before his death:

Does our life become from day to day more painful, more oppressive, more replete with afflictions? Blessed be He a thousand times who desires it so. If life be harder, love makes it also stronger, and only this love, grounded on suffering, can carry the Cross of my Lord Jesus Christ. Love without egotism, without relying on self, but enkindling in the depth of the heart an ardent thirst to love and suffer for all those around us: a thirst that neither misfortune nor contempt can extinguish... I believe, O Lord; but strengthen my faith... Heart of Jesus, I love Thee; but increase my love. Heart of Jesus, I trust in Thee; but give greater vigor to my confidence. Heart of Jesus, I give my heart to Thee; but so enclose it in Thee that it may never be separated from Thee. Heart of Jesus, I am all Thine; but take care of my promise so that I may be able to put it in practice even unto the complete sacrifice of my life.​

Prayer for the Intercession of Blessed Miguel Agustin Pro, S.J., Priest and Martyr

Loving Father, You have revealed your greatness through your saints. The Christian faith which You have planted in your Church has been made abundant and fruitful by the blood of Your martyrs.

May we imitate the life and example of your servant, Blessed Miguel Agustin Pro. May we courageously proclaim the Gospel in every aspect of our lives. May we serve You, just as he did, in the poor and the oppressed. And like him, may we stand for Justice and Equality towards building Your Kingdom here on earth.

Grant, through his intercession, the grace I ask of you if it will be for my good.

(recite your intention).

And, in Your chosen time, may he be raised to the honors of Your altar as one of our exemplary Saints. Amen.

O Virgin of Guadalupe, our Mother and Queen, Pray for us!

By Engr. Christian Allain P. Cerda​

Click below for:​

Novena Pamphlet to St. Miguel Pro​

https://docs.wixstatic.com/ugd/a84285_84d44f517eb0424d8717c4ec3267400b.pdf

All Novena Pamphlets​

https://www.pamphletstoinspire.com/novenas

#novena to st miguel pro

[ejm513]

ON HECTOR’S INNOCENCE AND ERNESTO’S CRIME *MAJOR SUPER SPOILER ALERT*

See the title...If anyone hasn’t seen COCO or didn’t have spoiled like I did… do you’re self a favor and don’t read this. I don’t want to be the one to spoil it for you.Thanks to Ms. Mojo I got the big plot twist of COCO spoiled for me. As one might imagine I was very annoyed since I was looking forward to see this movie spoil free and was determined to go into it untainted. However, since that was no longer the case I decided to dive head long into the fandom and find out all I can.

And oh boy… do I have some feelings and opinions about this movie and what happened.

The big plot twist I am talking about is that Ernesto de la Cruz is not Miguel’s great-great grandfather, but that it was Hector Rivera all along. Not only that, but the only reason Hector did not return to his family was become Ernesto murdered him and stole his songs. At first when I heard this, I was more upset that I had this huge plot twist spoiled for me. However, I have had time to let this information sit and time to mess around on Tumblr and now the only feelings I have is utter horror and disgust.

Ernesto has to be one of if not the cruelest and heartless villains Disney or Pixar has created, and also one of the most realistic. We see that he can do good things-like save Miguel from a pool and go along with said child being his great-great grandson. However we see his true character as time goes on and what he did is disgusting. Yes Ernesto does have talent-it’s obvious he can sing and play the guitar quiet well. However where he lacks skill is in writing music. That’s where Hector comes in. I truly believed he did not see Hector as a friend but as a tool, a means to an end. He needed Hector for his songs and when Hector was going to take away his songs Ernesto did the unthinkable.

He killed his friend and stole his music. 

This is not the first time Disney has had murder in their films-two of the most infamous examples being Bambi and The Lion King. However, as far as I can remember, this is one of the first times Disney has shown a human killing another human (if I’m wrong please correct me.) There’s something so dark about it. To add insult to injury it was for such a petty reason. However Ernesto’s crime went beyond murdering Hector. It is because of what Ernesto did that Hector was forgotten and hated in his family, and therefore putting him on the path to being forgotten and unable to go visit his family.

The final insult is what Ernesto did to “Remember Me.” He turned a lullaby for his little girl into a over the top love song. Ernesto’s version of the song was the first song I listened to from the movie and I really liked it. After knowing the truth behind that song, I can’t listen to it. I just can’t. It feels me with disgust.

What does of this mean though in regards to Hector and his character? Is Hector completely innocent in this situation or is the hatred he received from Imelda and the rest of the family deserved? There are some who argue that even though he was not his fault he didn’t come back-Hector did willingly leave in the first place with no idea of when he was coming back. I understand the argument and they do have a point. Hector did leave and knew he would be gone for a long time. HOWEVER…. I still think Hector is innocent… well mostly innocent.

Yes it is true that Hector willing left his family and was gone for quiet some time before he died. It is also true that his absence caused a lot pain and suffering for Imelda and Coco.  However I would argue that he did not have bad intentions when leaving. I don’t think even he understood how badly Ernesto wanted fame, how he was using him. I truly believe he had every intention of going home.

I mean look at this…

Does this look like a man who didn’t have everyone reason to come home? Does this look like a man who didn’t have every intention of returning home? It’s clear that he was in love with his family and was doing what he thought would help provide for said family. Remember the night Ernesto killed Hector he was adamant about going home and they were walking to the train station when Hector died.

Yes, Hector made a mistake when he left, and he knows it. Yes, Imelda had every right to still be mad at Hector because as stated many times he still willingly left in the first place. However, I think Hector has endured and repented far enough to be forgiven of his mistake. He paid for that make for over ninety years; unable to go see the family he loved so dearly, slowly fading away because his reputation was ruined in the family and no one wanted to remember him except Coco. Because of Ernesto’s actions Hector is doomed to eternal suffering. Not only that he tried so hard to make up for it-he tried so hard to cross the marigold bridge to go see his daughter again. He tried to hard to go home. Hector’s story is one of pain, of suffering but ultimately of redemption. So in the end he has more than earned forgiveness and more importantly…

I’m not crying.... you’re crying....

#coco #pixar coco #coco spoilers #hector rivera #ernesto de la cruz