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#spider Man Mary Jane xxx
diejager · 8 months
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Bittersweet Devotion pt.2
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Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x fem!reader
Cw: angst, heartbreak, mention of cheating, mention of death, no happy ending, apology, tell me if I missed any. wc: 9.3k
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Previous
Your universe, Earth-XXX, was a parallel one to Earth-616 in some sense. You had a Peter Parker, a Gwen Stacy and a Mary Jane Watson, it had everything down to the death of Ben Parker and the devastation it brought to your friend. It was the same year as Spider-Man 616’s world, it had the same political standing and same history. Your world, like many others, was a near carbon copy of 616, down to the smallest things; but like others in the spiderverse, you had differences. Some were minor changes in the course of its canon story, others were major changes in the characters and the era.
You - like Miguel, Miles, Jess, Hobart (he liked going by Hobie), Patrick and Patriv - were one of those major deviations in the original canon. You didn’t exist - or so you thought - in Peter B. or Peter’s universe even though you lived in the same year. The reason might be that in the reality, the sum of all potential universes that paralleled each other, created the multiverse - the Spiderverse. 
The concept of it seemed strangely unlimited, the infinite possibilities to a different ending or a different start for its world. The multiverse was, in some sense, as old as time, a culmination of everything made imaginable by man. Found in ancient texts - the Puranas, ancient Hindu mythology - that expressed the infinite number of universes with their gods and principles. Whereas Persian literature - tales - touched the idea of learning about alternate universes that were similar, yet distinctly different from theirs. 
Misconstrued by many, the strangeness of it was deemed a danger, the unknown possibilities were feared by people of older age, but venerated in the past as it was in the present for the unfathomable possibilities. It exists in fiction, where they borrowed the idea of many worlds within a reality from myths, legends and religion. Heaven, Hell, Olympus and Valhalla were all reflections of a familiar world, a material realm for the blessed, the sinful, the gods, and the worthy. The similarities sometimes frightened you, how close the people were to knowing of the reality you all lived in. The tangibility of crossing worlds and bringing about chaos to every string, every realm, every material form of the multiverse. 
They, after all, were real, Hell as much as Heaven in your universe. Gods from every religion, either monotheistic or polytheistic, some you’d personally seen are Thor and Loki, brother and sons of Odin the Allfather, and the God of Thunder and Mischief respectively. Another was a big crocodile lady, Ammit, from what you’d heard from the all-knowing Dr. Strange. From God to Norse and Egyptian gods, from angels and demons, and from humans to mutants, your plane of existence was as wide as it could go without drifting off the edge and causing a mass domino effect within the multiverse.
You were curious, naturally so for a scientist, exploring the worlds that felt familiar to you but you hadn’t truly grasped -  different, yet similar. You hadn’t given a second thought to exploring yours. After all, why explore yours when your horizon was as broad as you imagined it, unperturbed by any limits when it came to the multiverse? The eternal and unlimited growing number of realms in your expanding reality.
Perhaps that was the reason why you hadn’t known your universe had its own Miguel O’Hara. You rarely came back for anything, you had everything you’ve ever wanted in Nueva York, Earth-928. You have friends who could truly understand you, people who stood beside you when you fought, youngsters who looked up to you for mentoring and a dream- or it was a dream. Dreams, not dissimilar to wishes, were hopeful, naive in a way, they came and went. Some dreams would come true, while others fell, like the fallen stars that crossed the night sky.
Yours simply happened to be a fallen one, one not meant to happen and become greater. You let it go after he dropped you, after he turned his back and let his mouth run unperturbed. He brought her up, someone he swore he would remember but left in the past. A new chance to become something, to become whole again, and Miguel took it. He wanted to start anew, fresh with someone he never met, you wanted the same; you both had what you wished for, until he put his foot down, cutting the thin web that connected both your lives.
It broke your heart. Months of patience and anxiously stepping around each other, nervous about breaking the trust freshly built between you both, lost in a few weeks. You were brittle, heart fractured and threatening to fall further apart if someone was any crueller to you. The smallest glare, the tiniest scoff or the weakest remark would send you reeling into the abyss of heartbreak and the throes of anguish. Yet somehow, you found yourself being led away by a copy of the Miguel you loved. 
He mumbled apologies as he held you tightly, his arm over your shoulder as he cradled you under his umbrella, hastily urging you to follow his guidance. If it were any other person, you would’ve been wary, cautious of any strangers that touched you so closely and chaperoned you so quickly; but this was Miguel, a man you trusted and that you still trusted wherever he came from. Earth-XXX’s Miguel O’Hara was still similar to the one you knew, someone you could trust. You did.
He led you to his flat, someplace near Alchemax’s building in Manhattan, a safe neighbourhood for the richer citizens of Manhattan. A cozy place of neutral tones and muted colours, yet warm as he welcomed you - a stranger as of yet - into his home. He had machinery strewn around, reports stacked on his coffee table and smaller things he had been tinkering about decorating his home. As a geneticist, he liked to play with machinery, having drawn his designs and models, built his creations from scratch and worked from the base programming to make something better. At least Miguel from Earth-928 did, and it seemed this one did as well. 
You stood in his shower, where he left you in a frenzy to bring you dry clothes, drying out your hair with the towel he motioned you to use. You doubted that he had anything your size, his broad shoulders and his towering height, nothing he had in his draws - and the boxes he stowed away in his closet - would fit you. They would drag down your ankle and sit low on your collar. Granted, you were soaked down to your socks and had no temporary clothes to cover yourself with during your stay. 
You had stripped from your soaked clothes and patted down your wet skin, shivering from the cold that clung to your bones even after Miguel had increased the heater in the small confines of the bathroom. It was small but big enough to move around and stretch your arms comfortably. You hadn’t felt the cold until he brought you to his bathroom, the numbness of the past months weighing heavily on your shoulders and the bleeding of your heart made everything seem so meaningless. The colours draining from the world around you, a once bright New York turned grey, the monochrome tones of black and white mixing and interlacing to form even more boring shades. 
The vibrancy and life you once saw around you dulled and died suddenly, like the winters brought by Demeter’s devastation and sadness when her daughter was taken from her, stolen from the berth of flowers she liked frolicking about. How Demeter doomed the world to see her pain, to feel how she felt in the moments her daughter had to return to her husband than stay with Demeter. You felt laden by your faults and his actions. Doubtful of your relationship, of what led you both to such an ending. Had you been clearer or more forthcoming about your emotions, or had you confronted him for his behaviour, would you still be in his arms? 
Were you at fault for missing something you had relied on as comfort and safety? Could you be blamed for his reaction to your meddling in his affairs in the Society? Could you blame him for dropping those words on you? After all, being reminded or compared to a past lover was anything but gentle, the gut-wrenching envy and betrayal you felt flash through you was nearly drowning. It made you feel lacking, to be reminded of his old flame, the one he was about to marry and the person he seemed to love before all. Could you even compare to what she was; what she did? (Dina had cheated on him, you knew that, but he was truly happy in their moments of pleasure and domesticity. They were a family until she died.)
You were drowning in your self-made sorrow when his voice called you, grounding you to the room. Standing before a door, naked and shivering, arms wrapping the damp towel around your shoulders. He called again, cracking the door open to pass you the - his - clothes he thought would fit you. He coughed as you took your temporary wear, your cool fingers brushing his warm ones. It was a sudden and jerking contact, you pulled back jerkingly, a shamble of an apology and a thank you flew from your tongue. His chuckle was a reassurance in the complete quietness of the flat, his low voice reminding you of better times. 
The sweater hung loosely around you, dipping down your collar to expose your shoulder. It was warm, the cotton used to make it still soft after being stored away and the soothing scent of spice and pine deeply integrated into the fibres. The pants were stretched around your hips, the tight fabric thin and flexible under stress, hidden under the long shirt. The legs, however, swayed loosely around your limbs, too big for your calves, but tight enough to hug your thighs. He had certainly made sure to bring you clothes that would fit your frame. You hadn’t attempted to smell his pants, you thought it would’ve been too intrusive and disgusting to do so if only to smell a remnant of Miguel on his as you did on the sweater. 
Miguel was waiting for you in the kitchen, his back turned to you as you ambled towards him. His shoulders loose and back relaxed in the presence of a stranger made you appreciate how good-natured he was in most universes you’d been to. He turned his head, gesturing you to sit on the chair facing him on the island as he returned to something he was making while you changed. 
“I hope you don’t mind hot chocolate,” he started, voice light and hopeful as he turned to you, cup in each hand as he moved to stare at you. “I’m not one for tea.” He slid the warm mug into your hand, eyes watching your expression as he slowly sipped on the hot beverage. 
His eyes squinted slightly when your lips curled upwards, a smile hidden by the steaming mug. You cupped the mug, feeling the warmth of the freshly brewed drink, the steam rising in soft curls and melting in the cooler atmosphere. Tentatively, you brought the rim to your lips, slowly tilting the cup. The powerful taste of chocolate hit you strongly, the sweet and dark liquid melting the tension in your muscles until you could curl over the table with an appreciative sigh. 
“Thank you…” you knew his name, wanting to call him, but his reaction would be unwanted, the shock, fear and suspicion that would fill his beautiful, brown eyes. So you slurred your words, dragging out your voice until he could tell you his name himself.
“Miguel. Miguel O’Hara, ” he nodded, cocking his head upwards, pointing at you with his chin. “What’s your name? I can’t keep calling you Hey every time I want to call you.” His lips broke into a cheeky smile, teasing you when he saw that you’d comfortably melted into the drink and his island chair. He wanted to ease the tense atmosphere from before into something much calmer, to help the accumulated tension in your shoulders to fall like the rain that clouded the streets of New York.
You let out a hoarse chuckle, your throat still fresh from crying, and told him your name, trying to stabilise your shaking tone. His cheeky smirk tugged at your heartstrings, you hadn’t seen Miguel laugh or smile this freely in months. You missed it. The casual banter you shared and the on-and-off insults you’d hurl at one another, all good-natured insults meant to rile him. 
“Thank you, Miguel,” you nearly choked when you uttered his name, the wound still so fresh and bleeding it slip from your tongue easily. It brought up so many memories, both painful and joyful. Your eyes glazed over, tears threatening to fall once again, to paint your cheeks with agony that you - him, or perhaps both of you - had brought on yourself. “Thank you…”
Miguel hummed sympathetically, eyes staring down at his drink, deep in thought. Perhaps he was thinking of a way to invite you to share your problems, to tell him why you broke down on the street in stormy weather. Or maybe he was thinking of the fastest way to kick you out, to get rid of the mess you became. The silence, however, was reassuring, calming the nerves that followed the eerie calmness of Miguel’s den or the loud, hectic atmosphere of the Society. His warm, worrying gaze grounded you, the softness behind his concerned stare was heartwarmingly nostalgic.
“Difficult breakup?” His words seemed hesitant, unsure of his conclusion to the cause of your appearance. Unknowingly, he had struck gold, pinning down the right problem in your life with a few observations. Of course, he was observant and aware of his surroundings, why else was he so willing to bring you into his home? 
“How’d ya know?”
His sigh was telling, the deep, concerned and tired breath was only used when he knew that you wouldn’t tell him what ailed you, like the groan of a disappointed, yet worried father. 
“Because I know how it feels,” he says slowly, pensive over his words, picking them carefully to not damage you further than your ex had. He knew the pain of a harsh breakup, the pain and sorrow that followed, like a dark cloud that hovered over you whenever you were awake. 
“Why?” You croaked.
“Why?” he parroted, frowning at your question.
“Why did you invite me in? I’m a- a stranger to you, you don’t even know me. What if I’d been acting to mug you or potentially kill and steal from you? What’d you do then, Miguel?”
“I know the risks, but you didn’t, didn’t you? And wouldn’t, you don’t look like the person to harm another.”
You scoffed at his words. Didn’t and wouldn’t didn’t mean you would not do it later after gaining his trust, to stab him in the back after he helped you and nursed you. The simple, naïve idea that you didn’t look like a violent person was mind-blowing, it was stupid. How could he know if you didn’t mean harm later on? Like how Miguel never meant to harm you - he loved you - and yet in the end, he had. 
“That’s naïve,” you muttered, eyes closed as you drank the cooling beverage, the sugary drink trickling down your throat. 
“I’m confident in my ability to read people.”
He did seem confident in his ability, the straight back and the strong gaze in his eyes showed; and, maybe because you knew from experience that Miguel was observant and careful, he hadn’t gotten where he was by simply trusting people and following the herd. He tested and made mistakes, he learned from them each time and found a way to use it to his advantage. The Miguel you saw in every universe was similar in some ways, their good nature, their cunningness, their bravery and their intelligence. All aspects known to characterize Miguel O’Hara in all universes he existed in. 
You conceded to his will, head bowed and shoulders slack. You breathed shallowly, swallowing the lump in your throat:
“Yeah, what gave it away?”
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You thought it would be the last of him you’d see in your life, you wished it wouldn’t, that you’d see him over and over, to feel what the Miguel from your universe had to give, but you knew it was wishful thinking, a wish thrown to the stars. Logically, he had no reason to call or text you after exchanging numbers days prior. He promised to call you, and he made you promise to call him if anything ever resurfaced, be it pain, anger, heartbreak or hate. You, instinctively, believed his word. 
You hated yourself for falling so easily to another Miguel, how you bent to his words and the sweet promises he uttered that night. There was no sign that he would keep his word, that he would see you again after your breakdown, except for his words and your belief in him. Then it wasn’t misplaced, all the trust and belief you had, since he called you, asking to meet up at a cafe. Miguel had set up a place and time for you when you replied with a croak, still feeling down. He had whispered reassuring words to you, urging you to meet him - he explicitly told you he’d feel offended to be stood up - and spend some time outside. The air was fresh and cool for an autumnal month, it wasn’t too cold that you were forced to wear a thick jacket, but it wasn’t warm enough for you to go out in a simple shirt. 
You were hesitant to take him up on his offer, knowing how easily you could rebound. You’d crash into Miguel’s open arms, searching for the love and affection he fed you like a lovesick puppy, but, then again, Earth-XXX’s Miguel was similar, yet different from his variant. It would be a lie if you told yourself you didn’t miss him, the soft smiles, the gentle touches and the affectionate words. You had spent so much time as his right-hand Spider that it felt odd not seeing him the following morning. It was a routine you’d formed: waking up in his bed, kissing him good morning, getting to work together and eating together. Everything you’d done in the past years was with Miguel from Earth-928 the routine, the rigidity, it was grounding, it was the only semblance of normalcy in the world you lived in.
Now, you had to face the possibility that you were too broken to see another Miguel, to hold a casual conversation and form coherent and normal sentences. The purposefully slow steps you took to the cafe picked after having a moment outside the glass front were telling in itself. You swallowed the little amount of saliva in your throat to soothe its dryness and walked through the doors of the quaint establishment. It was painted in calm, brown tones, rustic in design with a warmth that rivalled the comfort of your bed. It lifted a bit of the tension you had, shoulders slumping slightly as your eyes searched for a familiar mop of brown hair.
Laying against the brown sofa, he stared out of the wide window from his booth. The warm, morning lights caressed his cheeks, lighting up the sharp edges of his jaw and nose. He was sculpted in perfection, like the youthful beauty of Adonis, crafted with the meticulous and attention-catching hands of an artist that created what was thought to be a god’s beauty. You could spend your days watching him, catching every little detail of Miguel’s face under the changing lighting, but you were standing near the entrance and he was waiting for you. His words echoed in your mind: “Don’t forget about next week, I miss seeing you.”
His eyes flickered to you, blinking as he turned to you, flashing a smile. You returned the sentiment, a shaky smile lifting the corners of your lips. You sat across from him, eyes wandering the cafe to stare at anything but him, lest you wouldn’t be able to stop the rush of emotions that would light your face in a flush. He uttered your name, greeting you in a friendly manner. You nodded back, muttering his name, pushing down the wince whenever you said it. 
“Chocolate.”
The still-warm cup stared at you, light steam wafting over the reflective liquid. It was full, unlike Miguel’s cup, and drank down to the middle of the container. 
“Thank you.”
He probably wouldn’t let you repay him for the hot chocolate he bought you, the smile he gave you told you as much when your eyes flickered between his and your cup. The hot chocolate was a reminder of your night in his flat, where he lent you his shoulder to cry and his ears to listen. Embarrassment seemed to flash whenever you recalled the memory, how vulnerable you were to him, your walls broken down and your heart open. Though, Miguel didn’t seem to mind your fragility, giving you as much time as you needed. 
“How are you? I wanted to give you a few days to think before meeting again, I thought you might’ve needed the time alone.”
You nodded lamely, fingers curling around the warm porcelain, back slumped into the booth to hide from his knowing eyes. He was right, you had needed the time alone to clean yourself up, scour through your memories and tend to whatever mess you made of yourself. You were thankful. The last few days had brought revelations, how - both of - you had ignored the signs of a rupture in the relationship and continued to push on, like crossing a crumbling bridge. 
“‘M doing better. How- and how are you?”
He smiled at your attempt, you were trying on your own after a few - forced - encouraging words from Miguel. Maybe you’d learn to live with the pain, coexisting with the numbness that filled you until it dulled to a point where it would be barely acknowledged by you or anyone in your vicinity - where it wasn’t painted on your face with bright colours. Or the pursuit to forget it, pushing it into the farthest corner of your mind and heart, painting over the crack with glue. As long as you wouldn’t drown in your sorrows, ending up playing with dangerous substances to stay afloat while your mind sunk deeper into addiction and denial. 
He wouldn’t let you get that far, Miguel understood you and he lived through it as you did. Although his was a more violent breakup - she had cheated on him, his explosive reaction was natural - than yours, he hadn’t relied on anything but self-meditation and a lot of thinking. Like a friend - you were one by his standards, he’d invited you to his flat, you’d seen his organized chaos and ranted about your life while he comforted you with his shoulder and a cup of hot chocolate - he would stay by your side, hoping his support would be enough to help you.
“Great so far.”
His grin - somehow - grew even larger, enthusiasm gleaming in his eyes. 
Oftentimes, Miguel would be the one to call you, your phone ringing in the afternoon of the day prior with his soothing voice on the other end of the line. He spoke easily, finding the time to invite you out for the simplest reason, to talk, to make a drink, to have fun, and - your favourite by far - to see you. His initiative had you trying to double your efforts to heal, reaching outside of your boundaries and texting Miguel whenever you had a moment to yourself. You felt guilty that he was always the one to plan these outings, so you promised yourself that you’d become a better friend than you currently were. You even remembered his teasing tone when you called him for the first time:
”Aye, finally. I thought you’d never call me, chica. I felt neglected, thought you had forgotten about me for a second there.”
It started with the first coffee date, bickering about who would pay, pushing your card before the other while still seated at your table, frowning stubbornly and throwing promises about letting the other pay next time. Either way, Miguel rarely let you pay, coming atop as the winner of your little fight with his strength and height (you couldn’t exactly put all your force into your push, it could break bone and bruise the skin.).
Then it would be random meetings on the streets that would lead you to a random bench at the park, basking in the other’s presence, retelling your day and him nitpicking anything he could with a ridiculously criticising frown. He was playing, you knew he was. You did the same after you’d gotten more comfortable talking to him, it became easier to see him as a different - as his own - person. A few hits on the shoulder left and right, but it was mostly laughter at ridiculous expressions made to emphasize your disdain for a certain event.
The months that followed were a blur to you. Rather than going to a cafe or the park, you went to restaurants and crashed at one of your flats, yours if he wanted to play games and lounge about with food and drinks, and his if you wanted to watch movies (he had the best television you’d ever seen, such high definition and speed.) and tinker away at his inventions and theories. He was certainly happy that his new friend was another scholar in the field of genes and engineering (you were mostly into engineering than genes, but you knew a few things that you’d found interesting.). You could both gush - scientifically - about the possibility of gene splicing and lab-generated mutations in humans, like the mutant superheroes. 
You’d taken some liberties and went drinking, meeting at the same bar biweekly to relax after a few hard days at work. It served to loosen your nerves until either of you felt comfortable to chat up a storm about the most random subject. It’d been about the odd dent on the rim of his glass; then it’d be about how the sky was grey this week, there weren’t any warm, yellow rays blaring down on you when you went out; or it’d be about the distasteful cut of a man’s moustache. Drinking loosened your tongues, some words were said and some sentiments were shared, but none were truly taken seriously knowing you were tipsy - nearing drunk - those nights.
Every time you saw Miguel, you felt like you were rediscovering a part of yourself as well as him, the thing that made him so distinct and loveable. Miguel was expressive and honest, he slowly and gently let you down from whatever high you were, the pillar you needed to stand again after falling. He was so much different. It used to pain you how much they looked alike, but character-wise, they were like the two sides of a coin. It made you appreciate the delicate intricacies that made the multiverse.
You won’t - can’t - deny that you’ve grown fond of this Miguel as you did with the other one, but you couldn’t let yourself love him. He didn’t deserve someone broken and hashed into many lives: the masks you wore, the things you did, the secrets you hid, and the things you could do. He didn’t deserve someone who could bring him to his death; dying simply because he was connected to Spider-Woman; beaten simply because he knew Spider-Woman; kidnapped simply because they deemed him useful as leverage. All things that could go wrong haunt you. Miguel was human, he wasn’t a Spider, he wasn’t a superhero, and he wasn’t a vigilante. He was Miguel O’Hara, the geneticist working at Alchemax, with a brilliant mind and a kind heart. 
You cherished every part of him. That’s why you can’t let your heart lead, dedicate how you’d react to Miguel after the months you spent together. He was so close, yet so far; he was touchable, you could hold him, kiss him and hug him, but he was unattainable, you couldn’t tell him how much you loved him. You watched him with hidden love, showing your affection as platonic, a friend watching another. You had hardened yourself to your heart’s cries, for loving Miguel was a dangerous game-
“I- what?” you gawked at Miguel, wide eyes and mouth agape. You were shocked at the words that left his mouth, his soft, wet lips moving as he repeated the words.
“I love you.”
His cheeks were flushed, burning a soft red, it trailed to his ears and nape. His open collar - his jacket hung on the back of his chair and his shirt clung below his collar, a skin-tight shirt that hugged his sculpted chest sinfully, it hid little to the seeing eyes of the crowd and your drunk self. His sudden words had all but sobered you, shaking you into clear lucidity of his confession.
“You… love me?”
He blinked dumbly at you for a second, as if taking the time to absorb what he told you and what you repeated. Miguel was tipsy, not drunk. He smiled and nodded, a bashfully affectionate grin on his beautiful lips.
“Yes, is it so hard to believe, chica?”
He often called you chica, you thought it was a friendly term of endearment between friends (truthfully and regretfully, you knew little of Spanish, even with being in a committed relationship with an Irish-Mexican.). You just realised it was his pet name for you. All this time, he had given you his heart, and yet, you had denied him of yours. He was more playful and less burdened by life, it made him more teasing and smiling. The term chica somewhat made sense, a cuter and more playful way of calling someone you loved than the deep-meaning ones like mi cielo and mi vida, a play of words like a small secret between you. This secret hid behind names given between friends, a well-kept one, close to his chest but gifted to you. 
It might’ve once been - started - as friends, but it grew and festered in his heart until he found the time to express himself, to tell you how he truly felt for you - how he grew to care for you. He deemed this moment fine, bordering tipsy and nearing drunk, he’d be open, brutally honest but still aware of the words that left him. He wasn’t a lightweight anyway. 
You wanted to tell him you also loved him, but you couldn’t do it, mouth slightly open and eyes glazed with heartbreak, you simply stared at him in hesitancy. You opened your mouth once to reply and closed it, open and close, again and again until all you could do was stare at him. How were you supposed to answer him after the bomb he dropped? 
”Yes! I love you too!”
”Oh, Miguel, I love you too.”
”I- I love you as well.”
There were so many ways to express your feelings to the man who confessed, but none seemed to convey the true emotions that lay in your heart. You wanted to tell him you learned to love again thanks to him, that the time spent with him had made you open your eyes to the beauty that you were blinded by the pain and you slowly grew to care for - love - him as much as you did with Spider-Man 2099. He had the same smile, the same mind, the same heart, but he was more innocent, less burdened by disaster and happier. 
So you simply nodded. It made his smirk grow.
“Aye- would it be better if I called you ‘mi tesoro’ instead? It’s more straightforward, no?”
Even now, his words were light and playful, his tone affectionate as he leaned closer to you. You could see the mischievous glint in his warm, chocolate eyes (you thought that was why he liked serving you hot chocolate, it reminded you of his eyes.) and the curve of his lips as they moved to form words. You were transfixed by his beauty, mesmerised by the comforting hues and the sharpness of his cheeks, missing how close he was to you. 
“Or maybe-”
Softness caressed your lips, a plush, warm feeling that made you flush. He was kissing you, those pretty lips on yours. Your breath stuttered and you froze, but it didn’t stop Miguel’s initiative, a hand cradled your nape, holding you in place as he pushed himself closer to you. He moved against you, tongue slipping from his mouth and tentatively laving over your bottom lip, asking for something. 
He was so warm, so caring. You could just close your eyes and follow his lead - you did. He pushed harder, yet the kiss stayed soft and passionate, he lightly nipped your lip and soothed the stinging with his warm tongue, beckoning you to open your mouth for him. Your lips parted, opening up for Miguel to dive in, muscle meeting yours halfway and curling over yours. He still cradled your head, fingers running through your loose hair and tilting your head backwards, giving him more space to show you how much he loved you. Your arms, somehow, found themselves wrapped around his neck, pulling him as close to you as he was pushing himself against you. 
His kiss was loving, his hold was careful and his touch heartwarming. You almost regretted having to pull away, but you had to breathe, your lungs starving for air after having been devoured by Miguel’s adoring kiss. The moment you opened your eyes (you didn’t know you had closed them while you kissed), his smile greeted you, a lovesick one bubbling with unending joy. You almost choked from how it fit so well on him. 
“That’s- that’s one way…” you spoke between breaths, chest swelling with every erratic pant, matching his similarly worn-out breathing.
That was all he needed from you. Your kiss was enough for him to know you loved him the same, a patient and gentle love he was willing to give you. Your heart pulsed strongly, lips curving and eyes squinting, you pushed yourself closer to his heat, his all-encompassing warmth that wrapped around you when you wanted to feel safe and loved. Your world couldn’t be any brighter, like the vibrant colours of blooming flowers when Persephone was given to her mother, where the snow melted and colours washed over the lands once more, painting the blank white and dead grey in joyous tones. It glowed brightly and warmed you like the summers that followed the melting ice, the clear, blue skies of Olympus and as freeing as the soaring hawks and skipping elks.
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Letting go was far harder than loving. To let the person who you let in leave felt emptying, it left a gaping hole in his heart. Where it was once calm, struck a raging storm of rejection and regret, crashing waves the size of Poseidon’s rage and violent storms the strength of Zeus’ retribution. It hurt watching you walk beside a variant of himself, a happier and lighter version of him without his mutations or duty. You were the Spider-Woman of your universe so there wouldn’t be a second one unless there was a catastrophic canon divergence. 
He hadn’t followed you at first, respecting your wishes of being left alone. He had to give you that much, at least, after those months spent beside his ignorant ass. He hadn’t seen it until it was too late, lost under the weight of his duty and fears that he’d forgotten he had people who cared, who felt, who loved. It was too late, it was always too late with him. If he couldn’t fix his first mistake, who’s to say he could fix this? He couldn’t save his first daughter or his second’s universe because it was falling apart. He couldn’t save anyone because he hadn’t realised his mistake in interfering in canon events, and he lost you because he couldn’t stop his vitriol, his violent temperament that had pushed you away. He always took things for granted until they were lost to him. 
Was it two or three weeks before he decided to check up on you? He didn’t know anymore, the weeks blurred until he finally amassed the courage to go against everyone’s words. Through the flat hologram of his orange screen, he watched you lament on your own, body curled into itself and shoulders shaking. Your sobs were heart-wrenching to watch while he had no means of contacting you; you would’ve reacted more strongly and aggressively if he’d contacted you after leaving. 
So he watched.
You stared vacantly from your window and left only for the bare necessities or to act as Spider-Woman. Crime never slept so you couldn’t stop even in your time of need. You swung from building to building so gracefully that Miguel was hypnotised by your grace. He watched these moments as a reminder of the missions he took by your side, webbing and catching anomalies all across the multiverse with fearsome speed and accuracy. You both had made a fearsome team, but that time was over, it was a memory long forgotten. 
So he watched.
Your flat was cold and empty, the space filled with spectres of memories, the cool rooms vacant of life that used to fill them with warmth and happiness. It was saddening from his perspective - the observer, the watcher and the reader of your story - of your time spent alone. He wanted to tell you that you weren’t alone, that he was watching you from afar, a silent protector that would only act if you were in imminent danger - as long as it wasn’t part of the canon. 
So he watched-
Besides you was Miguel - not him, another one - and he looked much too comfortable by your side for his liking. His variant seemed much too close for a friend, moving from sitting before you to beside you, arm slung over your shoulders and leaning back and, sometimes, towards you at a breath’s distance. He turned green with envy, a vicious monster brewing inside his body with the threat of bursting out, clawing at his chest. The other was too close to you for his liking. 
He watched as his variant bought you drinks - always, however long and loud you’d complained and fought, he never let you pay in the end - and paid for your dates. He abhorred it. How happy you looked with the other him. How calm and satisfied your smile was. How close his variant was to you. He wished he was at the other’s place, taking his rightful place beside you. He would kiss you, smother you in love and give you whatever you wanted, whether it be a hug, a kiss or his time, he would’ve given them to you. He wouldn’t dance around the edge of your affection and his love like he was doing, like a man unsure of his feelings and anxious to act on it. 
He thought the other Miguel was a coward - though he knew he wasn’t. He wanted to blame his variant and find fault for anything he did, but they were still the same person. He was Miguel O’Hara as much as he was. He wanted, but couldn’t, especially after seeing how both loved you the same, having a similar type. They were so much alike that he could’ve replaced his variant, yet so vastly different in other manners that he would’ve stood out. His history, his trauma, his curse, the other had none of them. He was normal while he was Spider-Man, a stronger, more brutal version of Spider-Man. 
Granted, he loved you with every fibre of his being, but he had never showered you with as much love and affection as the other, having his character muddled through long hours of work and long-lasting tragedy. You were another of his tragedies, where he found love again and lost it by his own making. He would have left too if the Society didn’t depend on him, leaning towards him for support and help in protecting the multiverse. It was something he couldn’t sacrifice for his whims.
So he kept watching and let his heart crack and envy fester.
He watched you grow even closer to him, shoulders and hands occasionally touching, making you jump and blush. He watched you move from simple coffee dates to full-blown restaurants and bar dates, drinking and eating at your leisure - something he could’ve never provided you. He watched you wobble around when you were drunk, your arm over his shoulder and his around your waist, supporting your drunk weight. He watched you kiss, the other pressing your bodies together and you reciprocating the loving embrace you had once given to him. 
He felt like crying. He was crying, silent tears rolling down his sharp cheeks in slow, thundering waves of his heartbreak. He clung to the desk, claws unintentionally popping out and bending the metal under his fist. The sound ripped through the silent room like the image that ripped through his heart. He was alone in his grief, shoulders slumping and arms shaking with the intensity of his emotions. He had locked the door, barricading it with a busy, do not disturb sign, warning the others that he was occupied and wouldn’t be reached unless there was an emergency. 
“Miguel…”
He’d forgotten Lyla was here - she was everywhere and nowhere at the same time, with your help he had given Lyla an upgrade in her system that gave her access to every Spider that had the watch. She had access to every file in the database and his secrets. Lyla was loyal to him as much as she was to you, respecting your words with a promise of her own to leave you alone. That, however, didn’t mean that she wasn’t privy to his pains, watching him while his eyes were stuck to your universe’s screen, giving him some comforting words that were meant to lift his spirit. It never worked but the intention was there. 
He couldn’t look at her, still facing the hologram of you kissing. He felt the surge of too many emotions to be able to think clearly, his self-control tethering on a thin line of fragile web. If he turned, he would explode on Lyla, giving her the brunt of his suffering even though she didn’t deserve it, she felt and laughed as much as any other human. He remembered programming in emotion with you, laughing about how much she would be as teasing and annoying as you. Lyla was another gift to him by you, so it would hurt him more. 
“Miguel-”
“Don’t- Do not say another word.”
For a man in tears and pain, his voice was curt and stoic, playing the leading figure he’d taken for so long. It betrayed his shaky figure, fingers crushing the metal loudly and shoulders jerking with ever-wrenching choked sob. His world was crumbling around him, rippling and cracking from the seams and folding into itself. The control of his state was failing miserably as he kept staring at your mirthful smile after the kiss. It tore him apart knowing he pushed you further away and into the arms of another. It hurt him deeply. 
Through everything, he heard Lyla whisper a small sorry before she popped out of existence, her small holographic body vanishing along with her orange light. Gone was her familiar light, gone was the nostalgic memory of programming her, and along her, was the support of another person. He was truly alone in this moment, to fall on his knees and let himself drown under the weight of everything. 
If your love was a tangible thing, he would’ve cradled it between his warm palms, holding it tightly to his chest to feel the soothing effects you had on him. Like a balm to burns, you cooled the searing pains that the world inflicted upon him, the warm blanket that covered him when he needed rest and the pillar that held him when he fell. He’d lost something he couldn’t gain a second time, clutching his head in his misery, drowning and howling.
It felt surreal until it wasn’t until it all sunk in. He truly couldn’t grasp the utter loss and betrayal he felt. The realisation that he truly lost you to none other than himself. The irony of it all slashed deeper, how he drove you closer to another him by his own doing, making you love a Miguel with more gentleness, more kindness and time than him, Miguel O’Hara, the Spider-Man from Nueva York, Earth-928. Everything he had was lost in time, his spiralling thoughts of loss and misery clouded his vision, bringing tears forward in bigger waves. 
Was he doomed to lose everything he cared about? Was he bound to love and lose? Why couldn’t he have a happy ending like everyone else? Was it because he was different? Perhaps it was, there were other O’Hara Spider-Man, but none were mutated like him, a product of self-infliction and sabotage - none had their DNA spliced and mixed with a spider’s. He was simply too different from the others, they were lean but still had a strong musculature, muscles tightened to create more strength and defence; none were big and broad as he was, with rough edges and mean streaks. They were nice and happy, faced losses of their own, but always came out on top (there were some minor - sometimes major - variants of Spider-Man here and there, but they all had some similarities in their stories of becoming.). He saw the devastation and grasped onto the thinnest silver lining he could find, holding onto it to stay afloat while others thrived where they were. 
Maybe it was truly because of him. He was realistic - near cynic -  he couldn’t see things optimistically, life had made him that way. The silver lining he saw in things was small, nearly extinguished by his near-pessimistic way of life. Did that have an impact as well? It most likely did, at least partly. Fate had given him a bad hand in things, he couldn’t be completely blamed for how things turned - or so he thought, hoped. A man wasn’t only the result of what he’d done, but also of what he was given. When push comes to shove, Miguel acted in a way he thought meant well for him and the others even if it didn’t seem like the right decision at first. He rarely doubted his actions while he did them, only after, could he let himself face the consequences of what he’d done. Miguel simply didn’t have the pleasure of waiting. He needed to act when it was called.
If he had waited, if he had been patient and sought out others for support, if he had spent time thinking before acting, would he still have his little girl beside him? Would he still have you in his arms? If he had shown you more affection, would you have still loved him?
Did you still love him?
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Miguel didn’t know what he was doing. Standing before your apartment door in civilian clothing and a bouquet of twelve, beautiful white tulips - the meaning not lost to him. It was an attempt at apologizing for his mistakes, a desperate one led by heartache. He brushed his hair back, trying to look as kept as he could in his situation: dark bags and sickly skin, tense muscles and sore back. This was a daring move from him, it would end up catastrophic if the Miguel from your universe saw him at your front door; but he checked, making sure his variant was elsewhere before opening a portal to your place. 
He hadn’t moved in a while, listening to you move around your flat, the sound of your soft steps shuffling from behind the door, a wall between you and him, reminding him that he wouldn’t be able to cross it unless you welcomed him. He held the bouquet in one hand and knocked with the other, his knuckles hitting the wood softly and hesitantly. There was a pause between every knock, drawn by his nerves and the anxiety that gripped him. 
You moved and closed in on the sound at the door. He saw your shadow dance under the small gap on the floor and pause. You knew. You knew it was him even without peeking through the peephole, your spider-sense aiding you in recognizing the unknown. Although your hand rested reluctantly at the knob - perhaps still too raw from your break as he was - you opened the door for him, figure small and apprehensive. 
“Miguel,” you muttered his name, greeting him with a slow nod. You stepped back and opened the door wider for him, he took it as a good sign that you let him in rather than shut the door in his face.
He nodded back, saying your name. He took a step forward, foot breaking the barrier to your flat. The second one ensured he was fully invited, both feet strongly rooted on your side of the door. He wanted to make himself smaller, to appease you, but he knew you wouldn’t have liked that. He squirmed under your stare, a mix of curiosity and concern. 
He nearly sighed audibly when you gestured at him to sit and he moved to the sofa he remembered sleeping on with you, cuddling under a warm blanket while you watched a movie. He knew your home by heart like you knew his, the memory washed over him with melancholy. You sat on the armchair to his left, your back to the kitchen. He swallowed thickly and handed you the bouquet, freshly cut tulips glistening with pearly drops under your lights. 
Your shoulders shook as you leaned in to take the bouquet, jolting back when your fingers grazed him. Feeling your skin felt invigorating, it breathed back life into him, even slightly. You thanked him with a slow nod, seemingly unsure of what to make of it. Was it a gift? Was it an apology? Was it a farewell sign? He figured your mind was running in circles trying to understand the meaning of the pretty bouquet he handed you. You were always an overthinker, but your mind worked brutally well. That’s something he always appreciated about you. 
“I-” Miguel started, seemingly stopped by something that he couldn’t get out of his throat. Maybe a ball of dread or needles of anxiety, but it held him from giving you the words he spent nights thinking over, to give you the message he built from the deepest crevice of his heart. “I’m sorry, (Name).”
You stared at him, understanding that he needed a moment of silence to truly convey his feelings. You hadn’t uttered a word since he first started, expression neutral, not betraying whatever brewing storm you locked inside of you. He was grateful, truly. 
“I know- I know it doesn’t mean much now, but I’m really, really sorry, mi vida.”
He sensed you tense, the muscles of your back contracting and rippling under your shirt. Every unseen fibre moving was bare to him, he could see and feel better than most, if not, everyone else. 
“I acted out of anger and lack of sleep, but that doesn’t mean you deserved that- never. I just, my mutation makes me more animalistic, more… aggressive than the other, and I hurt you. You didn’t deserve any of that and I can’t always blame it on my mutations. I should’ve been able to control myself. I shouldn’t have lashed out at you in those ways.”
He lowered his gaze to his hands, the calloused pads of his fingers rubbing his palm, trying to coax himself into relaxation. Although your breathing softened, a calm breeze in an atmosphere thick with tension, he didn’t dare look up and see the face you were making. 
“I was a bad boyfriend and a horrible friend. I’m- I’m not asking you to forgive me, I don’t want you to forgive me, but- I just needed to tell you how much I regret hurting you. I want to apologise, I don’t know what else to do, I don’t know how to fix this.” He breathed deeply, collecting every ounce of confidence and honesty to brave your reaction. “I’m sorry, mi cielo.” 
He shuddered, body rippling with his pained breath. He hadn’t realised how painful it would be to face you with his fears and confession, with the threat of abandonment and rejection fresh in his mind. He was a man of pride and strength, rarely facing anything with trepidation and hesitance. 
“I’m really sorry, mi cielo. I’m so, so sorry.”
He sat in silence, letting it hang over him like the blade of a guillotine, silent and brunt. Perceiving the flash of the sharp blade before it fell on his neck, sentencing him to a quick downfall with a long, lasting agony that would sting his neck as long as it would hurt his heart. The French used it for executions, the thing that spelled people’s end. At its height, it was used as an apparatus to behead traitors or people who were deemed dangerous to the people of the new republic. Down the blame went and off the head popped, like it would happen to Miguel if he wasn’t prepared for it. He truly didn’t know whether he had prepared for his rejection, for the death of his heart, to watch the flickering sparks of his flame wither out.
“I’m sorry too, Miguel-”
The rope strained, knots twisting and rippling in the tightness of the pull. It shook, whipping in the air as it straightened completely, held closely by the hand of the executioner. The wind blew but it was sturdy, withstanding the violent gales that slammed against the body of it.
“-it means a lot that you came here to apologise- ”
The crowd was filled with silence, the emptiness of the area a mock of a ghost town. Abandoned to be sentenced to death without anyone to witness. They deemed him not fit for their acknowledgment before his death, before the sparks of his life extinguished. His fate wasn’t worth their time, unlike the poorest criminals who stole for money, unlike the richest pigs who fed from the poor with their silver spoons and golden crowns, unlike the cruellest killers who gutted and left men, women and children to bleed out, and unlike the guiltless innocents cursed for something they hadn’t committed. 
“-but, I can’t.”
The rope was let loose, its tail flying and whipping in the air as the blade descended with its weight. The wood chafed against its support beams, yet it flew gracefully and rapidly, singing the doom of its prisoner. The blade gleamed under the moon’s bright light, the silver whispers of peace and sleep deaf to his ears.
“I can’t love you anymore.”
It cracked down on him, his life flashing before him as it cut into him. Severing his control over his body, putting out the dying embers of hope. He clung to desperation in his last moments, wishing to relive the moments of happiness, bright oblivion and cherished love. 
He wished that he could’ve seen your shadowed figure hidden in the darkness, tears lining your cheeks as you watched him take his last breath. The only person who came to see him leave, the one who he would’ve burned the world for. In the end, after everything he’d done, you still gave him a small moment of your time to witness his fall, you deemed him worthy of such an act. You offered him your kindness. 
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My extensive tag list of extremely patient people pt1.:
@iseizeyourmom @raynerainyday @etherealton @sciencethot @coffee-obsessed-freak @thesecretwriter @beepboopcowboy@bontensh0e @aikoiya @allysunny @fandoms-run-my-life @brittney69 @aranachan @maladaptivedaydreamingbum @konniebon @starlightaura @redwolfxx @aniya7 @alicefallsintotherabbithole @bvbdudette @wwwelilovesyou @wwwellacom @akiras-key @bobafettbutifhewasgay @opiplover @rinieloliver @uniquecroissant @yas-v @xrusitax @blkmystery @darherwings @ariparri @notivie @vr00m-vr00m @battinsonwhore05 @irishbl0ss0mz @mivanda @saint-chlorine @livelaughluvmen @battinsonwhore05 @notivie @lililouvre @giasjourneyblog @ykyouluvme @skullywullypully
1K notes · View notes
corhore · 1 year
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Eeeeh, thing is very mid honestly, it's only 3 scenes, Mary Jane cheating on Peter with Deadpool thinking he's Ryan Reynolds to get a part in his movie, Carol Denvers X Doctors Strange because Carol has to convince Strange to send Peter back in time so he can stop Mary Jane from cheating on him, and then Peter gets stranded in earth 65 instead and fucks Spider-Gwen while she calls him a loser and Earth 65 Peter (who is dead, but it's no big loss since everyone thought he was, again, a loser who wanted to turn into a giant lizard to fuck her) also a loser and a nerd.
At the end Peter does go back in time and prevents MJ from fucking Deadpool by clearing her misconception that she's getting Casting Couched for Deadpool XXX 2 and not for actual Deadpool 3.
Like, it scores some meta jokes some times, they name drop Alan Moore wanting to Name the marvel universe Earth 666, all in all inoffensive.
Like, honestly, the main gripe should be the fake advertising if you ask me. That one X Men movie where Spider-Man and Deadpool fuck Rogue at the same time had more Spideypool than this.
I'm just honestly shocked that actual thought was put into this. Like i expected it to just be random scenes of characters fucking, but it sounds like they actually put effort into the "story" even if the execution was shoddy.
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dettiot · 5 years
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Fic: Winner, Winner! (Chuck)
Winner, Winner! By @dettiot Fandom: Chuck Couple: Chuck/Sarah Rating: PG Summary: Chuck and Sarah participate in a charity auction to learn more about where his mom might be. Set between Chuck vs. the Anniversary and Chuck vs. the Suitcase.  Notes: Written for the “Bidding War” prompt on my @fluffbingo card. Hope you enjoy this visit from fandoms past!
XXX
Standing in a line of tuxedo-ed bad guys, Chuck Bartowski felt distinctly out of place. Not just because he was really out of practice at the whole spy gig, but because . . . well, even with all the working out he had been doing, and the shorter haircut that had removed most of his curls, he stuck out like a sore thumb around here. 
The guy in front of him could flex his neck like it was his bicep. How was that even possible? The guy in front of that guy had loudly told everyone his suits were custom made by “Mr. Versace” because “off the rack, never woulda fit, ya know.” Then he twisted into a bodybuilding pose and everyone nodded in silent agreement that no, an off the rack tuxedo would have never fit that guy. 
Resisting the urge to tug at his tie, Chuck reminded himself Sarah was out in the audience, so at least he would receive one bid. But more than just preventing him from being embarrassed at this bachelor auction for charity, the bid would be the signal to their contact. And once they had gotten the intel from the anonymous yet vetted informant, they would be one step closer to finding his mom. 
It wasn’t ideal, being forced back into working for the CIA, lying to Ellie, and being at Beckman’s beck and call, but . . . he was working with Sarah and Casey again, and he was going to make it up to Ellie--all the lying, all the secrets--by bringing their mother home. Hopefully in time to meet her grandchild. 
Chuck was distracted from how crazy-amazing it was, for his sister to be pregnant, by a round of enthusiastic clapping from the overly-thin, overly-Botoxed woman running this show. “All right, all right, bachelors!” she cried out in Russian-accented English. “It is time! Please follow me.” 
Squaring his shoulders and reminding himself that he belonged amongst this lineup of bodybuilder bachelors, Chuck filed out onto a stage with the rest of the men, the music loud and pounding as they entered the hotel ballroom for tonight’s charity bachelor auction.
It took him a moment to place the song that was playing, and then he wanted to laugh. Because Chuck never thought he would hear a Russian version of “It’s Raining Men.” 
Standing on the stage with the rest of Russia’s Next Top Henchman, Chuck clasped his hands behind his back and tried to look like the millionaire software developer he was supposed to be. He gave what he hoped was a charming smile to the women crowding the stage: women who were whooping and cheering and waving their bidding paddles. They were all very pretty, he had to admit. But he only had eyes for one woman. 
Sarah was hanging back a bit, playing the woman of mystery role tonight. In her skin-tight black dress, long cigarette holder, and big dark glasses, she certainly looked the part, Chuck thought. And with the red wig she was wearing, he was getting serious Mary Jane Watson vibes from her. Perhaps at some point, they could do the upside-down Spider-man kiss? That would be so hot. 
He watched as she lowered her glasses and made very deliberate eye contact with him. 
“Time to put on the ol’ Bartowski-pretending-to-be-Carmichael charm,” he reminded himself silently, before giving her a smolder in return. 
Thanks to knowing a lot about Sarah Walker, Chuck caught how her lips twitched for a split-second. And he knew that meant she was doing all she could to shove down a giggle--not because he was laughable, but because they had so much fun being around each other. Instead of letting it out, Sarah stuck to her part. She slid her glasses back up and ambled towards the stage, fanning herself a little with her paddle, just as the auctioneer stepped up to the podium and began the auction. 
The first few bachelors prompted a flurry of bidding, the women eager to get their hands on their chosen partners for the evening. It did make Chuck wonder why these kind of charity auctions even existed. It all felt a little too pre-Civil War for his liking, although maybe it was more his sour grapes at knowing he wasn’t the kind of man anyone here was looking for. 
Chuck looked back at Sarah, seeing how she gave him a tiny little head nod, and he felt warmth go through his body at her silent support. Especially now that it was his turn.
“Gentleman number five: Ivan Ivanovich Ivanov, hereditary Count of Dragov and software millionaire. Come forward, sir, and allow all our lovely ladies to see you!” 
The auctioneer’s voice was overly jovial, like he knew there was no chance in hell Chuck would be bid upon, and Chuck did his best not to take it personally. Stepping towards the edge of the stage, he smiled and waved at the crowd, noticing how lackluster their applause was. 
“Count Ivanov enjoys sailing, fine dining, and the symphony in his free time. He is offering to take the lucky winner of his date on a Neva river cruise in his seventy-foot luxury yacht, with dinner personally cooked by top chef Dmitry Blinov!” 
That got a bit of a response, but honestly, Chuck wasn’t really noticing the other women right now. Not with how Sarah was slowly and sensually licking her lips as she looked at him. He could feel his ears going red and tried not to get distracted. 
“May I start the bidding at three hundred thousand rubles?” the auctioneer cried out, doing his best to whip the crowd into their previous frenzy. “Remember, ladies, it’s for charity!”
With a lazy yet elegant motion, Sarah lifted her paddle, numbered sixty-two. The auctioneer looked around the room, then sighed. “Anyone want to top this bid with three hundred and ten?” he asked, sounding as if he knew the answer to that question. 
Chuck knew Sarah’s paddle number was the signal to the informant, so he tried not to feel bad about only going for just under ten thousand US dollars, when the lowest-winning bid so far had been in the neighborhood of twenty thousand. But he couldn’t help feeling a twinge of self-doubt--something he had thought he had gotten past once Sarah had looked at him and said, “I want to quit the spy life and be with you.” 
The conversational buzz and auction pamphlet rustling grew louder as everyone prepared for this particular bachelor to be sold quickly, but then a soft, high-pitched voice called out, “Three hundred and fifty.” 
Chuck could see Sarah’s eyes widen, even behind her dark glasses. All heads in the room whipped around, towards a thin, dark-haired, big-eyed woman in a dress as pale as her skin. She held aloft her paddle and repeated, “Three hundred and fifty.” 
The words were barely out of her mouth before Sarah said, “Three hundred seventy-five.” She was attempting to sound bored, but Chuck could hear the ripple of anger underneath. 
The young woman stepped closer to the stage. “Four hundred,” she countered, giving Chuck a shy smile. 
He smiled back in dumbfounded amazement, because he just couldn’t believe this was happening. 
“Four hundred and twenty-five,” called out another woman, smirking slightly. 
There was an actual bidding war happening for him!
The third woman dropped out fairly quickly, leaving the bidding to Sarah and the dark-haired waif. As it kept going, and the auctioneer really got into it, Chuck leaned towards the man beside him. “Who is she?” he asked, pointing at the other woman.
The man snorted. “Some kind of smart guy, bro, if you don’t know Anna Krovopuskov.” At Chuck’s lack of reaction, the man shook his head. “Krovopuskovs are bodyguards. Name means ‘to shed blood’. They protect bigwigs, going back to Imperialist days. Made big bucks. And Anna is the last of her line.” 
“She’s a bodyguard?” Chuck asked in disbelief. “She looks more breakable than me.” 
“Appearances are deceiving, bro,” the man replied. “You’re up to seven hundred thousand, and the redhead looks mad enough to be dumber than you.” 
Turning his head, Chuck locked eyes with Sarah and couldn’t help agreeing with the man. Sarah’s jaw was clenched and her knuckles were white around the handle of her paddle. Her voice sounded clipped as she kept bidding against Anna. He tried to tell her with his eyes that she didn’t need to do this--it didn’t matter if she won the auction, because this was all about signaling their contact. 
He couldn’t deny that his self-doubt had vanished, though, thanks to the bidding war and how Sarah was fighting for him, but he could just imagine how Beckman would react if Sarah spent--he quickly calculated--thirty thousand dollars when it wasn’t necessary. 
“A million rubles!” Sarah snapped, prompting a hush to fall over the crowd, before their heads all turned to look towards Anna Krovopuskov.
“Two million,” she said, sounding serene but timid. 
Everyone knew the auction was over, even before Sarah’s shoulders slumped and she lowered her paddle. Because who would have thought the nerd would go for so much? 
As the auctioneer brought down his hammer to a round of applause, Chuck looked at Sarah and, taking a risk, mouthed “It’s okay.” Then, at the prompting of the auctioneer, Chuck stepped down from the stage and went over to Anna, taking her hand and doing his best to act as his cover dictacted. 
Chuck could see Sarah making her way over to the bar, where Casey was stationed in his usual bartender role, and hoped he wouldn’t tease her too much for losing control of the bidding. Together, Sarah and Casey could meet with the informant and get the intel--Chuck trusted them. They knew how important the search for his mother was. 
For now, though . . . he had a fake date to go on. 
XXX
Why did his first dates with spies go so badly? 
Although Anna wasn’t a spy, but the date, such as it was, did happen due to spy-related issues, and it was technically a first date, so . . . 
Gripping Anna’s hand, he tugged her along as they ran away from the smoking remains of the luxury yacht, half-sunk in the Neva River, wishing he had his tranq pistol. 
“I can’t believe you were our contact!” he said again, for perhaps the dozenth time. 
“Stop saying that,” Anna said through gritted teeth, shaking off Chuck’s hand and easily keeping up with him. 
Arms and legs pumping, they ran through the streets of St. Petersburg for a few minutes, before Chuck pulled up with a stitch in his side. “Oh--oh, okay, gotta up the cardio, I see,” he panted.
Anna stood beside him, her arms folded over her chest. “How are you related to Frost? It’s impossible.” 
Chuck straightened up quickly, feeling light-headed from both the side stitch and Anna’s words. “What? You--you know Frost?”
She sniffed. “Of course. Volkoff is my main supplier. I’ve known Frost for years. She . . . she’s wonderful.” Anna paused, then shrugged. “When I wiped out my family so I could take over the family business, Frost understood why I had to do it, why those small-minded misogynists forced my hand. She is like my mother--which means more than her just giving birth to you.” 
Chuck rubbed a hand against his side and tried to think. “How--how do you know Frost that--that she’s my . . . ?”
“Your mother?” Anna looked at him scornfully. “You don’t deserve her. I don’t know why she cares about you, but she sent me here to make contact with you, to pass along a message from her.”
“And . . . what’s the message?” Chuck asked slowly, staring at Anna’s hard face. 
With no warning, Anna’s fist flew at his face, popping him right in the nose. It sent Chuck reeling back, only for his legs to be kicked out from underneath him. 
Wheezing, Chuck coughed and looked up at Anna, who was leaning down towards him. “Frost says, stop looking for her. There’s no way you can win against Volkoff and you’re just gonna get hurt.” She gave him a scathing look. “I have to say, I agree with her.” 
“Low--low blow, Anna,” Chuck said, pushing himself up on his elbows. 
She shrugged again and straightened up, just as a Porsche pulled up to the curb. “My ride is here. You should listen to your mother.” 
And with that, Anna left him lying on the sidewalk, wondering if she was right. If he should listen to his mother. 
XXX
When he walked into the hotel room, limping a little, Sarah rushed at him and wrapped her arms around him tightly. Chuck held back his groan as she crushed his definitely-bruised ribs and hugged her back, relieved and happy to be with her again. 
“Chuck, Chuck, I’m so sorry, our contact never showed--we’ll just have to keep working to find your mom--” Sarah said in a rush, stroking the back of his neck. 
“Anna was our contact,” Chuck said, pulling back a bit from Sarah. At her frown, he explained, “The woman who won me in the auction?” 
Sarah’s jaw clenched. “So she changed the meet protocol without warning and made sure to win you in the auction? I’m gonna kill her.” 
“Hey, hey, hey, no need to kill her,” Chuck said, rubbing her arms. “She gave me the info, it’s okay.” 
Her face relaxed, then her head tilted to the side. “It doesn’t seem like it was good news . . .”
“It wasn’t,” Chuck admitted. He took a breath. “The message was to stop looking for my mom. That I couldn’t match up with Volkoff and I would just get hurt.” 
“Chuck,” Sarah said softly, but he stepped back and out of her arms. 
“What if my mom is right?” Chuck asked, gazing at Sarah forlornly. “What if I did get hurt? I’m Ellie’s only family left and if something happened to me, if I didn’t manage to get my mom away from Volkoff, I would never forgive myself for hurting Ellie like that, more than I already have--”
“Chuck,” Sarah said again, breaking into his ramble and halting his spiral. “It’s quite possible your mom had to send a message like that. She could have not been alone, she could have not trusted Anna, she might think it’s not you looking for her but one of her enemies.” 
Her words were sensible and logical, but Chuck wasn’t sure he was ready for logic right now. He looked down as he gave voice to the only thought he had. “What if she meant every word?” 
Sarah’s hands firmly cupped his face, bringing his eyes up to hers. “I don’t believe it. Because I bet your mom, when she heard that her son was looking for her, would only want him to find her.” 
It was crazy, but it was only the warmth of Sarah’s words, her soft yet calloused fingers holding his cheeks, and the intensity of her eyes made him realize how numb he had been feeling until she spoke. 
“Really?” he whispered. 
“Really,” Sarah said, leaning up and kissing him softly. 
Chuck kissed her back slowly, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her close. The kiss lasted forever and just a moment before Sarah broke it and smiled at him.
“We’ll take tonight to rest and regroup, and tomorrow, we’ll start again,” Sarah said. “I’ve got a few contacts I can work, and you can bet Casey is owed a few favors that he can call in.” 
“Are you sure? I mean, it’s my mom--” 
“Exactly,” Sarah said, interrupting him again. “It’s your mom, Chuck. And both Casey and I would be dead a dozen times over without you. It’s the least we can do. Okay?” 
In that tone of voice, Chuck knew there was no arguing with Sarah. And really, he didn’t want to argue with her. He felt a welling of gratitude and love and happiness at having her in his life, at having her by his side in everything--not just the spy life, but in life in general. 
“I love you so much, Sarah,” he said, hugging her tightly. 
“I love you, too,” she said, rubbing his back. “It’s too bad Anna the Ghost didn’t know that.” 
“Baby, are you still mad over losing the auction?” Chuck asked, smiling a little. 
“Mm-hmm,” she said, starting to unbutton his shirt. “Very mad. Because it delayed this.” 
Sarah leaned in and kissed his neck, making Chuck whimper. “Oh. That--that’s too bad. Now I”m mad, too. Furious.” 
Pausing long enough to give him a saucy grin, Sarah kept pressing kisses to his skin.
“Enraged, in fact,” Chuck said as Sarah began pulling him over to the bed.
“Stop talking, Chuck,” she said as she gently pushed him down onto the bed. 
It was the second time tonight a woman had given him an order. But this time, Chuck was more than happy to comply with the order. 
“Yes, ma’am,” he said as he pulled her down to kiss her. 
End.
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traincat · 5 years
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I don't want to bother you but if you have spare time could you help me please, I'd really appreciate it. I'm dipping my toes in the ocean of Spiderman comics and I've hit the hurdle that is Peter Parker's clones. I've tried Google and I'm getting confused on whose who, parallel universes, and just everything really. How many are there in the main marvel universe? And what are their names please? Thank you xxx
I have a beginner’s guide to the main two Peter Parker clones, Ben Reilly and Kaine Parker, here! It’s a little bit outdated, but it’ll tell you what you need to know to get the basics. If you’re just starting out reading Spider-Man comics, those are the main two you really need to know about. 
If I’m being upfront, having been exactly where you are, staring down an ocean of comics and a long, long mythology, and being pretty intimidated by the clones in particular -- I honestly think the fandom attitudes surrounding the Clone Saga make it seem much more confusing than it actually is. It’s a large chunk of canon, but I think the thing that makes it most difficult is that it was published across a couple of different Spider-Man titles, which can make it easy to accidentally read out of order. (True Tales From Spider-Man: It Happened To Me. I’ve been meaning to go back and do a proper Clone Saga reread for ages.) It’s definitely not the first story I would recommend when you’re getting into Spider-Man comics, but it’s not the world’s most confusing yarn ball of a comic book plotline, either, no matter how much it gets held up like it. The biggest thing you probably need to know, aside from the fact that there are clones in general, is that for a little while in the 90s, Ben Reilly acted as Spider-Man after Peter hung up the costume and moved to Portland with Mary Jane. In the post I linked above, I’ve got a couple of tips on how to spot if you’re looking at Peter or Ben Reilly as Spider-Man with just a glance. 
If you feel like checking out a story involving one of the main two clones, I’d really recommend Scarlet Spider (2012), which stars Kaine, the first Peter Parker clone Professor Warren made. Freed for the first time in his life from the clone degeneration the then unperfected cloning process had left him with, Kaine hits the road with the intention to head to Mexico, only to get waylaid in Houston, where he adopts a demi-god, gets adopted by a nice gay couple, sets up shop in a hotel penthouse with stolen drug money, and more or less trips into being Houston’s very own Spider-Man. It’s sharp, funny, emotional, and a pretty excellent comic that really doesn’t require you to Know Everything About The Spider-Clones.
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When it comes to alternate universes, things are always going to be confusing at first, especially since Marvel’s had a history of big huge multiverse Spider-Man crossovers recently. But good news: you really only need to know about one more major clone. Ultimate Marvel, which is the alternate universe that matters the most, having debuted in 2000 as a clean jumping on point for new readers featuring re-imagined and updated versions of classic characters, did its own Clone Saga storyline. The important Ultimate Peter Parker clone that emerged from that plotline is Jessica Drew:
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(Ultimate Mystery #2)
A female clone of Peter Parker, Jessica became Ultimate Marvel’s Spider-Woman and later Black Widow. To make things confusing, there is also a 616 main continuity character named Jessica Drew who is also Spider-Woman -- but who bears no relation to Peter Parker and is not a clone of him. Comics! 
Those are the big three you need to know: Kaine and Ben Reilly from 616, Jessica Drew from Ultimate. I hope that helps! From someone who has been exactly where you are, staring down the clones with confusion, it does get a lot easier the more you read and become familiar with Spider-Man comics, even it it doesn’t feel like it initially.
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themattress · 5 years
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7, 8, 9, 11, 17, 21, 22, 23, 25
Is there anything you used to like but can’t stand now?
It’s actually incredibly rare for me to like something and then just…not like it anymore. Or at the very least, there will be things about it that I will always like even if the rest of the product goes to shit. With that said, if there’s one thing I used to really enjoy that I just don’t anymore, it would have to be the Nostalgia Critic web series. While there have been some enjoyable episodes here and there, for the most part it’s felt like a big step down in quality ever since it was un-cancelled in 2013. Doug Walker himself has gotten more obnoxious and unlikable on a personal level. And that’s to say nothing of the absolute shitshow that was the abuse going on at Channel Awesome that Doug and his brother are culpable in (#ChangeTheChannel). The Nostalgia Critic used to be a really fun thing that I looked forward to. And now it’s not.
Have you received anon hate? What about?
Yes, about perceived “wrong opinions”. I usually just delete it and move on.
Most disliked character(s)? Why?
When you get down to it, there are two types of characters I hate: characters who do terrible things in canon and you are thus supposed to hate, and characters who the writers constantly and hamfistedly push for you to like and sympathize with regardless of whether or not they deserve it. I usually enjoy hating the former type, but am just frustrated with the latter type.
Examples of Type I: Peter Pan from OUAT, Frollo from The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Ghetsis from Pokemon, Gendo from Evangelion, Bill Cipher from Gravity Falls, Ragyo from Kill La Kill, Junko from Dangan Ronpa, The Joker from any given incarnation of Batman, etc.
Examples of Type II: Regina Mills from OUAT, Lana Lang from Smallville, Mon-El from Supergirl, Lea and even kind of Riku from Kingdom Hearts, pre-Book 3 Mako from Legend of Korra, Paul from Pokemon, Meiko from Digimon, (Insert name) Uchiha from Naruto, etc.
Is there an unpopular character you like that the fandom doesn’t? Why?
Several, but the one who immediately springs to mind is Iris from the Pokemon anime. The fandom hates her because they’re by and large misogynistic pissants who can’t stand that she routinely emasculates their beloved surrogate Ash, but since I’m not one of them I can actually enjoy how cute, cool and amusing she is, and how well-written her character development is - especially in comparison to her successor, the fandom’s darling Serena. 
Instead of XYZ happening, I would have made ABC happen…
Right off the top of my head, I think of the exercise in shark-jumping that was Euphemia’s brainwashing and death in Code Geass, some of the worst writng in anything ever. Instead of that contrived bullshit happening, I would have made Schniezel hijack the SAZ plan for his own benefit, turning it into just another form of oppression for the Japanese people but wrapped in a benevolent appearance. The Black Rebellion could still happen, and Euphie could remain alive to receive more character development and become a smarter political player ala Lacus from Gundam SEED whom she already greatly resembles.  
What are your thoughts on crack ships?
They’re fine, I love plenty of crack ships! Just don’t take them too seriously.
Popular character you hate?
I recently talked about Steve from Stranger Things, and that called to mind a character who, while I don’t hate per se, I don’t particularly like as much as most people seem to: Chief Jim Hopper. I’m sorry, but this guy is a fucking asshole! He usually treats people like shit, he solves most problems by punching people in the face, he pursued the Will Byers case mostly for his own personal reasons rather than for the sake of the boy or even his mother, he sold the kids at the school out to Brenner in the Season 1 finale, and he entered nigh-unforgivably abusive territory with Eleven in Season 2. Also, I’m salty that it looks like Bob, a better guy in every way, got killed off partly in order to set up a Jim/Joyce ship. So yeah, not a fan.    
Unpopular character you love?
Kirsten Dunst’s Mary Jane Watson from the Sam Raimi Spider-Man trilogy is hated by most hardcore comic purists for not being faithful enough to the 616 version of MJ, and by other viewers who hate her being a damsel in distress all the time, for being “bitchy” and messing with the feelings of male characters around her, or for not being beautiful enough. I, however, understand that adaptations need to cut corners and do what works best for them and the medium they’re in, and think that they did just fine with Mary Jane and that Kirsten Dunst plays her wonderfully. I’m also not a misogynist in any way, so I understand that people without superpowers are usually vulnerable and I don’t victim-blame MJ for being kidnapped and commend her for handling herself better with each passing incident, I don’t begrudge her as a woman for having faults while excusing the male characters for the same, and I know that comic book beauty is an idealized, unreachable standard and that it’s asinine to hold real-life women to it. Kirsten Dunst’s Mary Jane Watson is a great character, period.
How would you end XXX/Would you change the ending of XXX?
You’re kidding me, right? There’s way too much examples here! How can I choose just one? Ugh, whatever, here’s this for Once Upon a Time.
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ao3feed-petermj · 3 years
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by coykoi, Jsscshvlr
Her answer might get her in trouble. Jameson might pull the article out from underneath her. It might never make it past the edits but if this is what someone needs to read to know their worth — well. They’re here to get through the pain with Mary Jane — and MJ’s nothing if not honest.
You deserve to be happy and you deserve to be loved — and you deserve both of those things at the same time. Someone loving you is not an excuse for lying or making you feel less than. If you’ve asked them repeatedly to tell you the truth and you don’t trust that they are — you need to think why not? If you know they’re lying and they don’t tell you the truth after repeated tries? When they know how upset it makes you?
Dump their ass.
  OR: mj is an advice columnist and peter desperately needs advice to fix what he’s broken
Words: 2637, Chapters: 1/3, Language: English
Fandoms: Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Categories: F/M
Characters: Michelle Jones, Peter Parker
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Additional Tags: Angst with a Happy Ending, advice column AU, MJ is mj, getting thru the pain w mary jane xxx, Identity Reveal, peter is being a prick even though he is trying, jess and jill just trying to have fun in this shithole
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stallingdemons · 7 years
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No Apologies
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Call me a thief, there’s been a robbery. I left with her heart, tore it apart. Made no apologies. Just call me a thief.  She was on top of me, then I left with her heart. Broken and scarred. Made no apology. (xxx)
[Y/N] posed with the Spider-Man cast on the carpet. Her smile dazzling the crowd as she tried to keep up the ruse that she wasn’t hating every minute of having Tom’s hand resting on the middle of her back. She had tried to maneuver away from him before they stepped foot in front of the cameras. But, everyone wanted Spider-Man and Mary-Jane to stand next to each other. And little did her fellow castmates know the secret she shared with Tom and at that moment she wished they had because then they wouldn’t have made her stand next to him. 
After everything was all said and done, she quickly moved forward and posed in front of another set of cameras. She just wanted to hurry up and go inside. [Y/N] dreaded this night because it was the first night since the premiere tour that they would all be in one room together. She had purposely double-booked herself the first few nights but after four missed premiere’s, her manager started to dog her into being there for this one. After all, she was a main character aside from Tom’s. It was rude for her not to be there but [Y/N] wanted nothing more than to stay far away from him. 
She could see the end, it was only a few feet from her. Just as she was home free, her name was being yelled out to pose with Tom. [Y/N] wanted to decline but her agent was quicker and dragged her back over towards Spider-Man himself. The tension between them was awful and it was mostly one-sided. Tom nonchalantly smiled and ushered her to pose with him by grabbing her by the waist. This made the press go nuts, she bit her lip to prevent her from spewing off the line of insults she had lined up for him. 
Swallowing her animosity, she turned and gave the cameras what they wanted. Tom was a wonderful actor, that she couldn’t deny. These people had no idea what kind of person he could be and the history the two shared during they’re time filming. The minute they had their fill of Peter Parker and his beloved Mary-Jane, she ripped away from him. The end was, again, in reach but she was whisked away to be placed in front of interviewers by her agent who gave her a stern look. 
Sighing, she smiled again and answered the questions that were being thrown at her in every direction. One made her uncomfortable as they pressed on and on about her chemistry with Tom onscreen was amazing and that they would make the most dynamic couple off screen as well. They weren’t wrong about the onscreen chemistry. In fact, [Y/N] didn’t use to hate Tom at all in the beginning. They became fast friends and she even made it into his inner circle. It was a friendship she thought she was going to cherish for years to come but it all quickly came to an end when they became so drunk in her trailer and things led to another. 
At first, they made an agreement that they would pretend nothing happened for the sake of the film and their friendship. But the longer they worked together and the more she spent time with him, the more she started to find herself liking him. [Y/N] would swear he was feeling the same things but all he wanted was a booty call right after filming or before. She found that out quickly and ever since then, she couldn’t stand to be around him. Tom was not the person she thought he was. 
“You look absolutely radiant, [Y/N]! And Tom, Tom looks dashing. You two would make the greatest couple right now. Everyone is obsessing over you guys. Tell me, is he a potential candidate for your heart?” 
[Y/N] had to remind herself that six cameras were on her and that she couldn’t snort and roll her eyes. She did, however, grimace at the thought of allowing herself to fall for him again. Replacing it with a smile, she laughed nervously. “Oh, I don’t think so.” 
“Awww, why not? I think you two look great together.” 
Pressing her lips together, she slowly made her way down the line but not before shaking her head and commenting, “I fall too fast, crash too hard, forgive too easily, and care too much. He’s a heartbreaker for sure. Can’t let myself get involved with that.” She flickered a glance that wasn’t caught on camera as Tom approached them. They’re eyes locked for a split moment before she scoffed silently and met up with the next group of interviewers. 
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takenews-blog1 · 6 years
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Oscars: 141 Scores Eligible for Academy Award Nominations
New Post has been published on https://takenews.net/oscars-141-scores-eligible-for-academy-award-nominations/
Oscars: 141 Scores Eligible for Academy Award Nominations
Oscars: 141 Scores Eligible for Academy Award Nominations
The Academy of Movement Image Arts and Sciences on Monday introduced that 141 scores from eligible feature-length movement photos launched in 2017 are in competition for nominations within the unique rating class for the 90th Academy Awards.
Members of the music department will now vote their selections for the perfect rating Oscar, and 5 scores receiving the best variety of votes will grow to be the 5 nominees within the class to be introduced Jan. 23. The Oscars themselves will happen March four.
The eligible scores together with their composers are listed beneath, in alphabetical order by movie title:
Alien: Covenant, Jed Kurzel, composer All I See Is You, Marc Streitenfeld, composer All of the Cash within the World, Daniel Pemberton, composer Annabelle: Creation, Benjamin Wallfisch, composer Band Help, Lucius, composer Battle of the Sexes, Nicholas Britell, composer Baywatch, Christopher Lennertz, composer Magnificence and the Beast, Alan Menken, composer The Huge Sick, Michael Andrews, composer Blade Runner 2049, Benjamin Wallfisch and Hans Zimmer, composers The E-book of Henry, Michael Giacchino, composer Born in China, Barnaby Taylor, composer The Boss Child, Hans Zimmer and Steve Mazzaro, composers Boston, Jeff Beal, composer Brad’s Standing, Mark Mothersbaugh, composer Brawl in Cell Block 99, Jeff Herriott and S. Craig Zahler, composers The Breadwinner, Mychael Danna and Jeff Danna, composers Breathe, Nitin Sawhney, composer Brigsby Bear, David Wingo, composer Brimstone & Glory, Dan Romer and Benh Zeitlin, composers Captain Underpants The First Epic Film, Theodore Shapiro, composer Vehicles three, Randy Newman, composer The Circle, Danny Elfman, composer Coco, Michael Giacchino, composer Cries From Syria, Martin Tillman, composer A Remedy for Wellness, Benjamin Wallfisch, composer Darkest Hour, Dario Marianelli, composer Despicable Me three, Heitor Pereira, composer The Catastrophe Artist, Dave Porter, composer A Canine’s Objective, Rachel Portman, composer Downsizing, Rolfe Kent, composer Drawing Dwelling, Ben Vacation, composer Dunkirk, Hans Zimmer, composer Earth: One Wonderful Day, Alex Heffes, composer A Incredible Lady, Matthew Herbert, composer The Destiny of the Livid, Brian Tyler, composer Father Figures, Rob Simonsen, composer Ferdinand, John Powell, composer Fifty Shades Darker, Danny Elfman, composer Movie Stars Don’t Die in Liverpool, J. Ralph, composer First They Killed My Father, Marco Beltrami and Buck Sanders, composers Get Out, Michael Abels, composer A Ghost Story, Daniel Hart, composer Gifted, Rob Simonsen, composer The Glass Citadel, Joel P. West, composer Getting into Model, Rob Simonsen, composer Good Time, Daniel Lopatin, composer Goodbye Christopher Robin, Carter Burwell, composer Gook, Roger Suen, composer Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2, Tyler Bates, composer The Hitman’s Bodyguard, Atli Ӧrvarsson, composer Hostiles, Max Richter, composer Human Move, Karsten Fundal, composer An Inconvenient Sequel: Reality to Energy, Jeff Beal, composer It, Benjamin Wallfisch, composer Jane, Philip Glass, composer Jumanji: Welcome to the Jungle, Henry Jackman, composer Justice League, Danny Elfman, composer Kepler’s Dream, Patrick Neil Doyle, composer King Arthur: Legend of the Sword, Daniel Pemberton, composer Kingsman: The Golden Circle, Henry Jackman and Matthew Margeson, composers Kong: Cranium Island, Henry Jackman, composer LA 92, Danny Bensi and Saunder Jurriaans, composers LBJ, Marc Shaiman, composer Woman Hen, Jon Brion, composer Lake of Fireplace, Qutub-E-Kripa, composer Final Flag Flying, Graham Reynolds, composer The Lego Batman Film, Lorne Balfe, composer The Lego Ninjago Film, Mark Mothersbaugh, composer The Leisure Seeker, Carlo Virzì, composer Let It Fall, Mark Isham, composer Life, Jon Ekstrand, composer Logan, Marco Beltrami, composer The Misplaced Metropolis of Z, Christopher Spelman, composer Loveless, Evgueni Galperine and Sacha Galperine, composers Loving Vincent, Clint Mansell, composer The Man Who Invented Christmas, Mychael Danna, composer Mark Felt – The Man Who Introduced Down the White Home, Daniel Pemberton, composer Marshall, Marcus Miller, composer Mary and the Witch’s Flower, Takatsugu Muramatsu, composer Maudie, Michael Timmins, composer Molly’s Sport, Daniel Pemberton, composer Moomins and the Winter Wonderland, Łukasz Targosz, composer The Mountain Between Us, Ramin Djawadi, composer Mudbound, Tamar-kali, composer The Mummy, Brian Tyler, composer Homicide on the Orient Specific, Patrick Doyle, composer My Cousin Rachel, Rael Jones, composer Norman: The Reasonable Rise and Tragic Fall of a New York Fixer, Jun Miyake, composer Okja, Jaeil Jung, composer Oklahoma Metropolis, David Cieri, composer The Solely Dwelling Boy in New York, Rob Simonsen, composer Solely the Courageous, Joseph Trapanese, composer Our Souls at Night time, Elliot Goldenthal, composer Paris Can Wait, Laura Karpman, composer Patti Cake$, Geremy Jasper and Jason Binnick, composers Phantom Thread, Jonny Greenwood, composer The Pirates of Somalia, Andrew Feltenstein and John Nau, composers Pirates of the Caribbean: Lifeless Males Inform No Tales, Geoff Zanelli, composer The Publish, John Williams, composer Professor Marston and the Surprise Ladies, Tom Howe, composer The Promise, Gabriel Yared, composer Pulimurugan, Gopi Sundar, composer Uncooked, Jim Williams, composer Roman J. Israel, Esq., James Newton Howard, composer Saban’s Energy Rangers, Brian Tyler, composer Identical Sort of Completely different as Me, John Paesano, composer The Second Coming of Christ, Navid Hejazi, Ramin Kousha and Silvia Leonetti, composers Served Like a Woman, Michael A. Levine, composer The Shack, Aaron Zigman, composer The Form of Water, Alexandre Desplat, composer Slipaway, Tao Liu, composer Smurfs: The Misplaced Village, Christopher Lennertz, composer Spider-Man: Homecoming, Michael Giacchino, composer Break up, West Dylan Thordson, composer The Star, John Paesano, composer Star Wars: The Final Jedi, John Williams, composer Step, Laura Karpman and Raphael Saadiq, composers Stronger, Michael Brook, composer Suburbicon, Alexandre Desplat, composer Swing Away, Tao Zervas, composer Thank You for Your Service, Thomas Newman, composer Their Most interesting, Rachel Portman, composer Thelma, Ola Fløttum, composer Thor: Ragnarok, Mark Mothersbaugh, composer Three Billboards Exterior Ebbing, Missouri, Carter Burwell, composer Tickling Giants, Paul Tyan, composer Tommy’s Honour, Christian Henson, composer Trafficked, David Das, composer Transformers: The Final Knight, Steve Jablonsky, composer XXX: Return of Xander Cage, Brian Tyler and Robert Lydecker, composers Victoria & Abdul, Thomas Newman, composer Voice From the Stone, Michael Wandmacher, composer Wakefield, Aaron Zigman, composer Struggle for the Planet of the Apes, Michael Giacchino, composer Wilson, Jon Brion, composer Wind River, Nick Cave and Warren Ellis, composers Surprise, Marcelo Zarvos, composer Surprise Lady, Rupert Gregson-Williams, composer Wonderstruck, Carter Burwell, composer Yr by the Sea, Alexander Janko, composer
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redcarpetview · 6 years
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141 ORIGINAL SCORES IN 2017 OSCAR® RACE
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    LOS ANGELES, CA – The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences today announced that 141 scores from eligible feature-length motion pictures released in 2017 are in contention for nominations in the Original Score category for the 90th Academy Awards®.
    The eligible scores along with their composers are listed below, in alphabetical order by film title:
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           “Alien: Covenant,” Jed Kurzel, composer “All I See Is You,” Marc Streitenfeld, composer “All the Money in the World,” Daniel Pemberton, composer “Annabelle: Creation,” Benjamin Wallfisch, composer “Band Aid,” Lucius, composer “Battle of the Sexes,” Nicholas Britell, composer “Baywatch,” Christopher Lennertz, composer “Beauty and the Beast,” Alan Menken, composer “The Big Sick,” Michael Andrews, composer “Blade Runner 2049,” Benjamin Wallfisch and Hans Zimmer, composers “The Book of Henry,” Michael Giacchino, composer “Born in China,” Barnaby Taylor, composer “The Boss Baby,” Hans Zimmer and Steve Mazzaro, composers “Boston,” Jeff Beal, composer “Brad’s Status,” Mark Mothersbaugh, composer “Brawl in Cell Block 99,” Jeff Herriott and S. Craig Zahler, composers “The Breadwinner,” Mychael Danna and Jeff Danna, composers “Breathe,” Nitin Sawhney, composer “Brigsby Bear,” David Wingo, composer “Brimstone & Glory,” Dan Romer and Benh Zeitlin, composers “Captain Underpants The First Epic Movie,” Theodore Shapiro, composer “Cars 3,” Randy Newman, composer “The Circle,” Danny Elfman, composer “Coco,” Michael Giacchino, composer “Cries from Syria,” Martin Tillman, composer “A Cure for Wellness,” Benjamin Wallfisch, composer “Darkest Hour,” Dario Marianelli, composer “Despicable Me 3,” Heitor Pereira, composer “The Disaster Artist,” Dave Porter, composer “A Dog’s Purpose,” Rachel Portman, composer “Downsizing,” Rolfe Kent, composer “Drawing Home,” Ben Holiday, composer “Dunkirk,” Hans Zimmer, composer “Earth: One Amazing Day,” Alex Heffes, composer “A Fantastic Woman,” Matthew Herbert, composer “The Fate of the Furious,” Brian Tyler, composer “Father Figures,” Rob Simonsen, composer “Ferdinand,” John Powell, composer “Fifty Shades Darker,” Danny Elfman, composer “Film Stars Don’t Die in Liverpool,” J. Ralph, composer “First They Killed My Father,” Marco Beltrami and Buck Sanders, composers “Get Out,” Michael Abels, composer “A Ghost Story,” Daniel Hart, composer “Gifted,” Rob Simonsen, composer “The Glass Castle,” Joel P. West, composer “Going in Style,” Rob Simonsen, composer “Good Time,” Daniel Lopatin, composer “Goodbye Christopher Robin,” Carter Burwell, composer “Gook,” Roger Suen, composer “Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2,” Tyler Bates, composer “The Hitman’s Bodyguard,” Atli Ӧrvarsson, composer “Hostiles,” Max Richter, composer “Human Flow,” Karsten Fundal, composer “An Inconvenient Sequel: Truth to Power,” Jeff Beal, composer “It,” Benjamin Wallfisch, composer “Jane,” Philip Glass, composer “Jumanji: Welcome to the Jungle,” Henry Jackman, composer “Justice League,” Danny Elfman, composer “Kepler’s Dream,” Patrick Neil Doyle, composer “King Arthur: Legend of the Sword,” Daniel Pemberton, composer “Kingsman: The Golden Circle,” Henry Jackman and Matthew Margeson, composers “Kong: Skull Island,” Henry Jackman, composer “LA 92,” Danny Bensi and Saunder Jurriaans, composers “LBJ,” Marc Shaiman, composer
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           “Lady Bird,” Jon Brion, composer “Lake of Fire,” Qutub-E-Kripa, composer “Last Flag Flying,” Graham Reynolds, composer “The Lego Batman Movie,” Lorne Balfe, composer “The Lego Ninjago Movie,” Mark Mothersbaugh, composer “The Leisure Seeker,” Carlo Virzì, composer “Let It Fall,” Mark Isham, composer “Life,” Jon Ekstrand, composer “Logan,” Marco Beltrami, composer “The Lost City of Z,” Christopher Spelman, composer “Loveless,” Evgueni Galperine and Sacha Galperine, composers “Loving Vincent,” Clint Mansell, composer “The Man Who Invented Christmas,” Mychael Danna, composer “Mark Felt - The Man Who Brought Down the White House,” Daniel Pemberton, composer “Marshall,” Marcus Miller, composer “Mary and the Witch’s Flower,” Takatsugu Muramatsu, composer “Maudie,” Michael Timmins, composer “Molly’s Game,” Daniel Pemberton, composer “Moomins and the Winter Wonderland,” Łukasz Targosz, composer “The Mountain between Us,” Ramin Djawadi, composer “Mudbound,” Tamar-kali, composer “The Mummy,” Brian Tyler, composer “Murder on the Orient Express,” Patrick Doyle, composer “My Cousin Rachel,” Rael Jones, composer “Norman: The Moderate Rise and Tragic Fall of a New York Fixer,” Jun Miyake, composer “Okja,” Jaeil Jung, composer “Oklahoma City,” David Cieri, composer “The Only Living Boy in New York,” Rob Simonsen, composer “Only the Brave,” Joseph Trapanese, composer “Our Souls at Night,” Elliot Goldenthal, composer “Paris Can Wait,” Laura Karpman, composer “Patti Cake$,” Geremy Jasper and Jason Binnick, composers “Phantom Thread,” Jonny Greenwood, composer “The Pirates of Somalia,” Andrew Feltenstein and John Nau, composers “Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales,” Geoff Zanelli, composer “The Post,” John Williams, composer “Professor Marston and the Wonder Women,” Tom Howe, composer “The Promise,” Gabriel Yared, composer “Pulimurugan,” Gopi Sundar, composer “Raw,” Jim Williams, composer
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    Roman J. Israel, Esq.
      “Roman J. Israel, Esq.,” James Newton Howard, composer “Saban’s Power Rangers,” Brian Tyler, composer “Same Kind of Different as Me,” John Paesano, composer “The Second Coming of Christ,” Navid Hejazi, Ramin Kousha and Silvia Leonetti, composers “Served Like a Girl,” Michael A. Levine, composer “The Shack,” Aaron Zigman, composer “The Shape of Water,” Alexandre Desplat, composer “Slipaway,” Tao Liu, composer “Smurfs: The Lost Village,” Christopher Lennertz, composer “Spider-Man: Homecoming,” Michael Giacchino, composer “Split,” West Dylan Thordson, composer “The Star,” John Paesano, composer “Star Wars: The Last Jedi,” John Williams, composer “Step,” Laura Karpman and Raphael Saadiq, composers “Stronger,” Michael Brook, composer “Suburbicon,” Alexandre Desplat, composer “Swing Away,” Tao Zervas, composer “Thank You for Your Service,” Thomas Newman, composer “Their Finest,” Rachel Portman, composer “Thelma,” Ola Fløttum, composer
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               “Thor: Ragnarok,” Mark Mothersbaugh, composer “Three Billboards outside Ebbing, Missouri,” Carter Burwell, composer “Tickling Giants,” Paul Tyan, composer “Tommy’s Honour,” Christian Henson, composer “Trafficked,” David Das, composer “Transformers: The Last Knight,” Steve Jablonsky, composer “XXX: Return of Xander Cage,” Brian Tyler and Robert Lydecker, composers “Victoria & Abdul,” Thomas Newman, composer “Voice from the Stone,” Michael Wandmacher, composer “Wakefield,” Aaron Zigman, composer “War for the Planet of the Apes,” Michael Giacchino, composer “Wilson,” Jon Brion, composer “Wind River,” Nick Cave and Warren Ellis, composers “Wonder,” Marcelo Zarvos, composer “Wonder Woman,” Rupert Gregson-Williams, composer “Wonderstruck,” Carter Burwell, composer “Year by the Sea,” Alexander Janko, composer
    A Reminder List of works submitted in the Original Score category will be made available with a nominations ballot to all members of the Music Branch, who shall vote in the order of their preference for not more than five achievements.  The five achievements receiving the highest number of votes will become the nominations for final voting for the award.
    To be eligible, the original score must be a substantial body of music that serves as original dramatic underscoring, and must be written specifically for the motion picture by the submitting composer.  Scores diluted by the use of preexisting music, diminished in impact by the predominant use of songs or any music not composed specifically for the film by the submitting composer, or assembled from the music of more than one composer shall not be eligible.
    Nominations for the 90th Academy Awards will be announced on Tuesday, January 23, 2018.
     The 90th Oscars® will be held on Sunday, March 4, 2018, at the Dolby Theatre® at Hollywood & Highland Center® in Hollywood, and will be televised live on the ABC Television Network at 6:30 p.m. ET/3:30 p.m. PT. The Oscars also will be televised live in more than 225 countries and territories worldwide.
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