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vampirestookmydoubts · 4 months

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The Prince's Debutante - Series

A/N: This is a series based and written on the ideas of @aninhatatu, I'm just the messenger, haha. Once again, thank you very much for the chance to bring your idea to life and for being the first person to proofread my texts, haha!

Prince Friedrich deserves all the love.

Summary: As the daughter of a disowned marquis and a common maid, you enter your debut season under the watchful eyes of your grandmother, hoping for a humble suitor, to secure your family's future. But your plans change when Prince Friedrich falls for you, sparking an unexpected romance.

Will you and Friedrich be able to find a way to unite love and duty, as you navigate the complexities of society? Or will your blooming love succumb to your family's different expectations and societal scrutinies?

Pairings: Prince Friedrich x Reader

Warnings: none

Chapter 1: A Debutante's Dilemma

The early morning light filtered through the delicate lace curtains right into the bedroom, casting intricate patterns on the wooden floor. You sat at your vanity, fingers trembling slightly as you tried to arrange your hair in the latest fashion. Today was the day you had awaited with equal parts dread and anticipation: you debut in London’s society. As the eldest daughter of your parents, your introduction to the ton was fraught with complexity.

Your father, Jonathan Withlock, was the son of the marquis of Thornewood, leading a comfortable life as a member of the rich and noble ton of London. Your mother, Moira, on the other hand, wasn’t part of the glamorous society your father used to mingle with. In contrast to his noble status, she was just a mere maid; and, to make matters worse, a Catholic Irish immigrant, who came to England to find a better life for herself after the death of her parents.

When your parents fell in love and eloped, despite their different social statuses, one could only imagine the uproar that went through Thornewood Manor and London’s high society. And, naturally, with that came your father’s disownment from his family, losing his title and money. But despite losing everything that came with his name, as well as the future title of marquis, your father always told you and your two younger siblings that he never regretted choosing your mother.

The only reason you were to be presented to the queen and to the ton today was your father’s employment as the king’s new physician. Through old friends and his talents as a physician to other noble men, the queen herself got word of your father’s competence. As a reward for his good treatment and discretion when it came to her husband, the king, she awarded your father a minor title.

Your mother, Moira, a woman with a fierce spirit, entered your room quietly. Sh approached you, her eyes softening as the got the sigh of your anxious reflection in the mirror. “Y/N, you look lovely,” she said, her voice a soothing balm to your nervous mind. “Do not worry. Today is the beginning of something exciting and wonderful.” You smiled weakly. “I am not worried about today. It is the entire season that frightens me. What if no one pays me any attention? Or worse, what if they do?” Moira placed a gentle hand on your shoulder in an attempt to calm you. “You, my love, are intelligent, kind, and beautiful. Any man would be fortunate to have you.” You nodded, trying to draw strength to from your mother’s words. “I just wish you could present me to the queen. It feels wrong, going with Grandmother.” Your mother’s expression tightened slightly at the mention of her mother-in-law. “I know, darling. But the ton has its rules, and we must abide by them for now. Your grandmother has agreed to help, and we must be grateful for that. Your grandmother, the Marchioness of Thornewood, had gladly offered to present you to the queen, when you mother wrote to her. It was a move driven by her desire to reconcile with her estranged son and, perhaps, alleviate some of the scandal that had marred their family’s name. Despite her outward appearance of haughty indifference, you knew your grandmother harbored a deep sense of pride and duty. Tucking a stray lock of hair back into your updo, your mother squeezed your shoulder again, looking at your reflection in the mirror. “Everything will be alright.”

The carriage ride to Buckingham House was a quiet one. You sat beside your grandmother, Lady Clarece, who regarded you with a critical eye. “Sit up straight, Y/N,” Lady Clarece admonished. “You must look the part of a lady, even if you bloodline is tarnished. You are representing not only your father, but more importantly, the marquis of Thornewood.” You bit back a sharp retort, reminding yourself that this was the woman who held the key to your and your siblings future in society. Instead, you straightened your back and lifted your chin, trying to exude the grace and poise your grandmother expected.

Upon arriving at the palace, you joined a long line of debutantes and their chaperones, all waiting for their moment before the queen. The air buzzed with nervous energy, the scent of perfume mingling with the tension of dozens of young women about to face their societal debut in front of the queen. When your turn came, you felt your heart painfully pound in your chest. With your grandmother next to you, you stepped forward, each step felt both too fast and painfully slow. The grand hall, with its high ceiling s and opulent decor, seemed to close in on you, the present members of society blurring as your eyes fixated on the person at the end of the aisle: Queen Charlotte. The queen, resplendent in her regal and pompous attire, regarded you with a discerning eye. “Miss Y/N Withlock,” the messenger of the queen announced. “Daughter of Sir Jonathan Withlock. Presented by her grandmother, Lady Clarence, the Marchioness of Thornewood.” Your grandmother performed the necessary courtesies, and you followed suit, curtsying deeply and holding your breath, just like the hundreds of times you practiced before. A low murmur went through the crowd. Queen Charlotte’s gaze flickered with recognition at the mention of your father’s name, the renowned physician who had earned her husband’s trust. She gave a barely perceptible nod. “Rise, Miss Withlock.” You straightened your back, meeting the queen’s gaze with as much confidence as you could muster, despite the anxiousness rushing through your veins. The queen’s eyes softened just a fraction, and you felt a glimmer of hope. Perhaps your father’s reputation might lend her some measure of acceptance. “You may proceed,” Queen Charlotte said, dismissing you and your grandmother with a wave of her hand. As you left the palace, your grandmother turned to you, her expression unreadable. “You did well enough, my dear. Now, the real challenge begins.”

The days that followed were a whirlwind of activities. You and your grandmother attended numerous teas, luncheons, and soirées, each event blurring into the next. Much to your grandmother’s satisfaction, you quickly learned to perform the art of polite conversation and the delicate dance of societal expectations. But, despite your best efforts, you remained on the fringes, overshadowed by this season’s more illustrious debutantes like Daphne Bridgerton and Marina Thompson. Something you didn’t mind, if you were honest. One evening, at one of many balls, you found yourself standing by the refreshment table, observing the throng of dancers swaying and waltzing to the music of the orchestra. You sipped your lemonade, suddenly feeling the weight of the season pressing down on you. So far, you had already managed to attract the attention of a few men of modest means, but no one of significant fortune or title. Nor someone you felt a connection with. “Feeling like a wallflower?” asked a familiar voice to your right. You turned to see Penelope Featherington, her kind eyes and warm smile offering a welcome respite from the sea of unfamiliar faces. Penelope - that much you already learned from the latest teas and get-togethers - was also often overlooked, but her sharp wit and genuine kindness had quickly endeared her to you. “Perhaps a bit,” you admitted. “It seems I am not quite like the diamond of the season.” Penelope chuckled. “Not am I, but I find it rather liberating. Less pressure to impress, more freedom to enjoy oneself.” You smiled, appreciating Penelope’s perspetive. “You are right. It is just difficult not to feel overshadowed.” Your conversation was interrupted by a sudden hush that fell over the room. You followed the gaze of the other guests and saw him at the top of the grand staircase: a young man with shiny light blonde curls and a noble aura, that gave away that he wasn’t some common noble man. He was a striking figure, tall and regal, with a presence that immediately commanded attention. Your breath caught in your throat as you watched him. For a moment, everything else faded away. He moved through the crowd with an air of confidence, exchanging pleasantries with the debutantes and their chaperones, who swarmed him like moths to a flame. “That must be Prince Friedrich! The queen’s nephew. I heard he’s here to find a wife!” Penelope whispered under her breath in excitement. “He’s even more handsome in person, isn’t he?” You tried to remain inconspicuous, but your heart raced as he drew nearer. You watched as he spoke with Daphne Bridgerton, his smile polite but distant, before moving on to greet others. “Of course he has to exchange pleasantries with diamond of the season,” the redhead next to you mumbled to herself. You could only nod, your eyes following the prince as he continued his circuit around the room. The prince was a dream beyond your reach, and a harsh reminder of the societal heights you could never hope to attain. The moment that thought crossed your mind, your eyes met his across the room. For a moment, everything else faded away. You imagined to see some kind of curiosity in his gaze, and something else - a surprising and unspoken connection send thrills through you.

“Is he coming in our direction? He is coming in our direction, is he not?” Penelope’s nervous squeal brought you back to reality. Before you could evaluate the situation, the prince - who was indeed coming in your direction - came to a sudden halt in front of you. The room seemed to hold its breath as he stood there with a smile that made your pulse quicken. “Good evening, Miss...” he looked at you with a questioning air, a warm smile still painting his lips. Penelope gave you a sudden nudge that broke you out of your trance, and you curtsied quickly. “Miss Withlock, your Highness.” “Miss Withlock.” the prince said, his voice soft and accented. “May I have the honor of this dance?” You barely managed a nod, your voice catching in your throat. “Of course, your Highness.” As he smoothly led you onto the dance floor, your felt a mixture of exhilaration and terror. You had hoped for an easy and unremarkable season, but now you found yourself in the literal center of attention, dancing with a prince while a shocked murmur went through the staring ton. The music swelled around both of you, as the waltz began. “You dance beautifully, Miss Withlock,” Prince Friedrich remarked genuinely, his eyes never leaving yours. “You flatter me, your Highness,” you replied, feeling a searing blush rise to your cheeks. “You are a most graceful partner.” He smiled, a genuine warmth in his eyes. “Please, call me Friedrich. Titles are for formalities, and I would rather this conversation not be so formal.” Your heart fluttered at his words. “Very well, Friedrich. But it would be only fair if you may call me Y/N.” “Y/N,” he repeated slowly, as if savoring the sound of your name on his tongue. “Tell me, how you finding the season so far?” You hesitated, then decided on honesty. “It has been... overwhelming, to say the least. But there have been moments of enjoyment as well.” Friedrich nodded, his expression thoughtful. “I can understand that. These events can be quite daunting, even for those of us accustomed to them.” You continued to dance, the world around you fading into the background with each move. You felt a connection with Friedrich that you couldn’t quite explain, a sense of ease and comfort in his mere presence. “I must admit,” Friedrich said after a moment, “I find these gatherings rather tedious at times. It is refreshing to meet someone who seems to share the sentiment.” You laughed softly. “I imagine being a prince comes with its own set of challenges. Do you often feel out of place?” Friedrich’s eyes darkened slightly. “More often than I care to admit. There is a great deal of pressure to meet expectations, to play a role that is not always true to oneself.” You nodded, understanding all too well. “I can relate. My family’s... history make it difficult to navigate these waters. There are expectations, hopes and judgments that seem impossible for me to escape.” Friedrich’s grip on you tightened slight, a comforting gesture. “I know well what it is to carry the weight of family expectations. But I also believe that we must find our own paths, make our own choices.” You looked up at him, heart pounding at his honesty. “Do you truly believe that, Friedrich? That we can choose our own destiny?” He smiled, a light in his eyes. “Yes, I do. And I believe that it is worth fighting for.”

You danced in silence for a few moments, a feeling of belonging and mutual understanding between growing stronger with each step and twirl. You suddenly felt a sense of hope you hadn’t known before, a belief that perhaps, just perhaps, there was a chance for something extraordinary in your life. As the music drew to a close, Friedrich led you to the edge of the edge of the dance floor, his gaze never leaving yours. “Thank you, Y/N. This has been the most enjoyable dance I have had in a long time.” “Thank you, Friedrich,” you replied softly. “I feel the same.” Bowing slightly, a smile played on his lips. “Until we meet again.” As he moved away, you abruptly felt the weight of countless scrutinizing eyes on you, and heard the whispering of the merciless ton around you. Lady Whistledown would surely have much to say about this encounter. “Y/N, you were magnificent,” Penelope whispered, pulling you away from the judging gazes, back to you shared spot at the wall. “He could not take his eyes off you.” You shook your head at her, trying to quell the rising tide of hope and fear. “It was just a dance, Penelope. Nothing more.” But even as you said those words, you knew they rang hollow in your heart. Something had shifted with you - a new, unknown path unfolding before you. The carefully laid plans for an uneventful season were crumbling and, as the evening drew to a close, you felt a mixture of emotions: excitement, fear, and a deep, unspoken yearning.

Back home, as you prepared for bed, your thoughts kept returning to the prince. You wondered if you had the strength to navigate the treacherous waters of the ton. But one thing was certain: your debut had been far from ordinary, and your heart had been irrevocably touched by a prince.

#bridgerton imagine #prince friedrich x reader #prince friedrich #bridgerton #the princes debutante #series #vampirewrites

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collapsedsquid · 5 months

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The backdrop to the King’s medical commission was the violent conflict between Catholics and Protestants in France where demonic possessions were often being used for political purposes. Marthe belonged to a Catholic community and she had become (in)famous because her demons made aggressive claims about Protestants, asserting that they all belonged to Satan. As a powerful tool for the Catholic clergy, Marthe posed a risk to political stability and this prompted the King to send his agents to investigate the truth about her possession. The commission, led by the physician Michel Marescot (1539–1605; known for naming the larynx, pharynx and hyoid bone), performed what was, in effect, a placebo-controlled trial. The rationale for an exorcism is that a demon cannot tolerate direct contact with divine objects. The exposure to religious paraphernalia would thus cause the demon great pain and force it to leave the possessed person . Marescot and his commission had brought items that would allow them to compare Marthe’s reactions to genuine religious objects and to comparable sham objects. For example, these might include using unconsecrated water in a bottle normally used for holy water, or unconsecrated bread (wafers, or hosts) drawn from a box that usually contained only consecrated bread. After a 40-day trial, the physicians concluded that Marthe could not have been genuinely possessed by a demon as she reacted similarly when exposed to both genuine and sham religious objects. The commission thus concluded that the allegation that she was possessed was false, and this finding was communicated to Henri IV .

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ibarkatpeoplewoofwoofbitch · 7 months

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So I'm pretty sure lucifers real name was Samael. His original name before he left Heaven.

"Samael, from the amoraic period onward the major name of Satan in Judaism. The name first appears in the account of the theory of angels in the Ethiopic Book of Enoch 6, which includes the name, although not in the most important place, in the list of the leaders of the angels who rebelled against God."

Who knows I could be 1000% wrong but like imagine if the other archangels especially michael call him samael to rub it in his face(he's always the one that's seen as the asshole in a lot of media privacy because he's the angel of "an angelic warrior, fully armed with helmet, sword, and shield, " "He is considered a champion of justice, a healer of the sick, and the guardian of the Church." "mentions of his name are in third- and second-century-BC Jewish works, often but not always apocalyptic, where he is the chief of the angels and archangels")

And if michael is the "mentions of his name are in third- and second-century-BC Jewish works, often but not always apocalyptic, where he is the chief of the angels and archangels"

Adam was the leader of Exorcist. But was it michael who taught them how to attack?. Because as much a warrior adam in most media represent him as head strong. And impulsive, also very arrogant.

The Exorcists' fighting styles pointed out by Carmella carmine "out for blood" and NEVER focus on getting hurt only on hurting others.

And "Gabriel is the herald of visions, messenger of God and one of the angels of higher rank."

Even the seraphim who are the "in the highest rank in Christian angelology and in the fifth rank of ten in the Jewish angelic hierarchy." Are powerful, and yet NEITHER of them knew how someone got into heaven. Is it gabriel that tells Sera to not question it. Especially when she was younger so she wouldn't fall?

And Sera carried that to Emily?

(Im sorry I know most of this don't male any sense I just saw six angels point angelic weapons at lucifer and I wanna know which ones)

These are all archangels I am certain. And I looked up how many arch angels are there and it says Michael, Gabriel, Uriel, Chamuel (Camael), Raphael, Jophiel, and Zadkiel

We all know the first two.

Michael- He is considered a champion of justice, a healer of the sick, and the guardian of the Church.

Gabriel-Gabriel is the herald of visions, messenger of God and one of the angels of higher rank.

Now the others

Uriel- archangel of wisdom, light, and the truth of God.

Chamuel (camael)-Archangel Chamuel's mission is to help bring peace to the world. The Archangel of Love

Raphael- Archangel Raphael is often called upon to help with physical healing. travelers, the blind, happy meetings, nurses, physicians, medical workers, matchmakers, Christian marriage, and Catholic studies.

Jophiel-Widely known as the angel of beauty, Jophiel represents the beauty of God, and he plays a great role in helping you see your inner beauty

Zadkiel- In Jewish mysticism and Christian Kabbalah, Zadkiel is associated with the classical planet Jupiter. The angel's position in the sephirot is fourth, which corresponds to Chesed "Kindness".

Are we gonna see this? Because their gods main seven angels. Maybe we'd see Azrael the angel of death?

(Sorry tho when I'm into something I do research for hours)

#hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel fanart #alastor #lucifer x alastor #lucifer hazbin hotel #hazbin lucifer #hazbin hotel lucifer #lucifer #lucifer morningstar #radioapple #appleradio #duckiedeer #hazbin hotel thoughts #hazbin hotel theory

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noneedforbloodpressure · 1 month

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Working Masterpost of Charities for Genocide & Humanitarian Crises

Want to help Palestine, Sudan, Congo, Ukraine, East Turkestan, Armenia or other places facing genocide but don't know where to donate? Have limited funds and want to make sure your money helps as many people as possible? I've compiled some resources to help you get started.

Note that this is a working masterpost, meaning that I'll update it as I find more resources. This is also an inherently non-conclusive list, in significant part because I'm just one person. I urge you to do further research of your own

TIPS FOR DONATING

Charity Navigator and Charity Watch are useful sites to vet charity organizations

If you're employed, check out Charity Navigator's guide to employer donation matches.

GENERAL

Resources here are not specific to any one region in crisis, but you may be able to specify where you want your donation to be used

Doctors Without Borders/Medicins sans Frontieres (98% charity rating)

OxFam (98% charity rating)

UNICEF (94% charity rating)

World Central Kitchen (100% charity rating!)

MAUSA - Muslim Aid USA (98% charity rating)

CARE (97% charity rating)

International Committee of the Red Cross (85% charity rating)

UNHCR - UN Refugee Agency (the US branch has an 84% charity rating)

International Rescue Committee (96% charity rating)

HAIS (100% charity rating!)

Region Specific Charities Under the Cut!

PALESTINE

Palestine Children's Relief Fund (97% charity rating)

ANERA (91% charity rating)

Palestine Red Crescent Society (no specific rating, but part of a movement with the Red Cross, which - as mentioned above - has an 85% charity rating)

ALLMEP (85% charity rating)

Middle East Children's Alliance (100% charity rating!)

UNRWA (the US branch has an 89% charity rating)

eSIMs for Gaza (not currently rated, but you can read about the importance here on NBC)

Women Wage Peace (not currently rated, but you can read about their efforts on their website and via Time Magazine)

SUDAN

Sudanese Red Crescent Society (no specific rating, but part of a movement with the Red Cross, which - as mentioned above - has an 85% charity rating)

Sadagaat Charity Organization (the US branch has an 80% charity rating)

Sudanese-American Physicians Association (97% charity rating)

Khartoum Aid Kitchen (no charity rating, but you can read the effort here on NPR)

Darfur Women Action Group (not currently rated; page may be updated)

Water for South Sudan (97% charity rating)

Sudan Relief Fund (96% charity rating)

CONGO

Friends of the Congo (81% charity rating)

Panzi Foundation (91% charity rating)

UKRAINE

Ukraine Humanitarian Fund (recommended by here by Charity Watch)

Catholic Relief Services (not currently rated; read about their efforts here on Charity Watch)

ACT Alliance (recommended by here by Charity Watch)

Project HOPE (93% charity rating)

EAST TURKESTAN

East Turkestan, also called Uyghurstan, is the indigenous name for the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region in China. If you're unfamiliar with the Uyghur genocide, you can read some intro information here on BBC

Uyghur Human Rights Project (84% charity rating)

Save Uyghur - Justice for All (94% charity rating)

ARMENIA

If you're unfamiliar with the current Armenian genocide by Azerbaijan, you can read some intro information here on CNN

CARITAS Armenia (no specific rating, but part of CARITAS, which as a 98% charity rating)

Armenia Fund (not currently rated)

Armenian National Committee of America (not currently rated)

#free palestine #keep eyes on sudan #congo #stand with ukraine #uyghur genocide #armenian genocide #genocide #gazagenocide #racism #islamophobia #donations #help someone out #alex tir talks

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tenaciousbouquetearthquake · 1 month

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Shall I tell you how many Nazis I killed today?, pt5

Read it on ao3 / Check out the story's masterlist

You remember the first time you meet Gus and Anders. Angst and humor, mentions of miscarriage and your family before the war, Gus has a thing for married women, implied Gus/Apple, Gus being a lovable and awkward older brother, Anders being a lovable asshole who may or may not have traded sexual favors with a dude for chocolate. Again, with Anders, the odds are about even either way. That dude does love to fuck with peoples heads. Lots of backstory.

Also, I've borrowed lyrics from this version of a song called Remember Me When the Candlelights Are Gleaming.

The candles are beautiful. It’s a silly thing to notice, given the circumstances, but somehow it seems appropriate in the moment. The candles are shorter, more like tea lights, and seated into elegant red glasses, a votive candle in a small Catholic church that’s right near the house you share with Gus. You pass the church nearly every day, coming or going for one errand or another, and for as long as you’ve lived here—for as long as the war has been on—it’s become more a refuge for the homeless and the lost than it is a house of worship.

But you know this church well, because even though you’re not particularly religious, candles are non-denominational, and it’s not your first time coming here, nor the first time that you’ve lit a candle in prayer.

In fact, that may be the only real constant you’ve had in your life for quite a while now. James always thought it was ridiculous, especially since everywhere in London had electricity. “You do know we’ve progressed past the Dark Ages, don’t you?”

He’d say it humorously, moving behind you to wrap his arms around your waist and pull you back against him. You never gave his comment the dignity of a proper retort, instead just waving the matchstick long enough for it to cool and to let the hint of smoke and burnt wood blend into the scents of food on the table. Your gaze would linger on the tall white candles, considered obsolete by so many people, including James, but there would just be something so magical about it.

“I think it’s romantic,” you’d say, watching the flame flicker and dance with the shift in the air until it grew steady and tall and bright. A light in the darkness. A light at a table shared by two, husband and wife, soon to be parents. You didn’t need to believe in God to recognize the silent prayer made in the lighting of it—to love, after all, is the greatest act of faith there is. To believe in something more than yourself, to trust in another person for that love to be returned. To hope for a long, beautiful life together.

James let out a dramatic sigh and shook his head, moving you against him to the sound of music playing from the phonograph so that the two of you were dancing. “Yes, yes, I know,” he said in a long-suffering sort of way. “We have quite the collection of candles to prove it. But you know, we might have to consider alternatives once little baby Y/N comes, just to be on the safe side. Candles aren’t the most baby friendly source of light we could use.”

You turned to look at James with an expression of exasperation. “Little baby Y/N?” You tried not to look as amused as you were, having only just found out about the pregnancy early that morning. You hadn’t been feeling well for a while and James had finally suggested that you see one of the physicians at the hospital where you were working. It was certainly a shock—you and James had only been married for a few months, a move that both of your families had considered rash and irresponsible given how young you were and how short a time you two had known each other. But it seemed right and you were always headstrong and sure of yourself. You didn’t hesitate to marry James.

You never second guessed the decision even once in the little bit of time that you got to spend together.

“If it’s a girl,” James said with a grin. It was always infectious to see him like that, impossible to resist. As handsome as James had been, a smile never quite suited his face. It took away from the regal sort of beauty he was born with and made him just a bit like an awkward teenage boy, but that was why you loved it. So much of the time, James was a picture of stoicism and self-restraint, the perfect example of a stiff upper lip. But with you, he was just James.

“And if it’s a boy?”

“Then I suppose we’ll have to name him after someone in the family,” James mused, looking down at you mischievously. “Perhaps we’ll name him after your uncle Eddie.”

You actually groaned and paused in your movements, forcing James to stop using you as a prop while he moves to the music. “We can’t name the poor child Eddie,” you whined, shaking your head. “He’s only an innocent baby. That would just be cruel.” You looked up at him, trying to look serious. “What about naming him after your father?”

James’s beautiful face dropped into a pinched look. “Really, Y/N? I didn’t realize we hated the child.” He sighed again. “I guess we’ll just have to name him after you, too.”

“We are not naming the baby after me.”

“Why not?” James asked in a teasing voice, although his expression was serious. “Men name children after themselves all the time. We could name this one after you, and then we could name the next one…” James’s voice trailed off as you turned in his arms, your hands going to his shoulders as he moved you gently around the dining room to the music. “After you, too.”

“So, you’re just planning to name all the children after me? Is that it?”

James grinned, that awkward, face splitting grin that you loved. “It does simplify things, don’t you think? And it’ll make our families crazy when we go to visit, trying to keep up with all the little Y/Ns running around. Just imagine my mother,” James paused, letting the image have a moment to sink in. His mother never liked you, taking a pathological sort of loathing to any woman who dared to get close to her darling son. James was always the golden child. “Chasing after the little ones, all calling them by name. Y/N!”

You had to admit, anything that bothered James’s mother was something you tended to find amusing. “And just how many children do you imagine we’ll be having?”

“How many bedrooms do we have in this place again?” James asked seriously, glancing around the Victorian townhouse you two had settled in.

“Three,” you said slowly, eyes narrowing.

James gave the place a thoughtful look before turning back to you. “We’ll just have to move to somewhere bigger,” he said, one arm sweeping under your legs in a quick move that lifted you off your feet and had you grabbing onto him before you knew what was happening. “Oh, you have gained weight, haven’t you?”

“James!”

The sweetest songs belong to lovers in the gloaming The sweetest days are the days that used to be The saddest words I ever heard were words of parting When you said, "Sweetheart, remember me"

Really, there was only one person in your lives who was very supportive of the relationship. “Gus!” James lunged forward and dragged Gus into a bear of a hug, the kind you only see between two brothers, blood related or not. “Where the hell have you been?” It was, you had learned, rare enough for the two of them to even in the same city anymore, let alone at the same party.

“Where the hell have I been?” Gus asked with mock impatience, clapping a hand around James’s back. You stood awkwardly to the side and watched the two brothers embrace, half-expecting to receive the cold shoulder from Gus the same way you had from the rest of his family. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying you for weeks now. You’re the one who’s been impossible to reach.” Gus was addressing James, but you’d swear that his eyes were on you the entire time, as if watching and calculating your every move.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Gus, darling,” their mother butt in, looking between the brotherly display with an expression of disapproval. It only grew darker when her gaze landed on you—for the short time when she deigned to acknowledge your existence, that is. “You’re the one who’s always out of contact. Off on one of your adventures.” She crossed her arms and scowled at him, the picture of upper-class maternal disappointment. “Honestly, with all the money we’ve spent on your education, couldn’t you have chosen a career that would keep you closer to home?”

Gus, James told her once, was famous in his family for choosing the career path that he believed would most piss his mother off. “He technically works for the foreign office, so she can’t actually complain at the line of work he’s in, but he’s so unimportant in the organization that he’s basically a glorified messenger boy between offices. Or for secretaries of secretaries of secretaries. Depends on the day, really.”

James was walking you home from a dinner out that night, one arm around you and holding you close to him as you leaned against him to ward off the chill. “Did he really choose the job just to make your mother angry?”

James glanced down at then and snorted, smirking as he thought of his older brother. “I wouldn’t have put it past him, but Gus has always been a bit of a black sheep in the family. Always getting into trouble. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was really a smuggler or a spy working for the government and that’s simply the story he likes to tell people.” Then he laughed. “Mind you, he could be the PM and he would still let our mother think the worst of him.”

“Just to piss her off?”

“Gus does like to have his fun,” James responded, shaking his head. “You should have seen him at Eton. He practically ran his own black market for whatever the boys wanted there.”

Gus had simply given his mother a wide grin at the party, a far more charming look on him than on James, and said, “Sorry, Mother. Seems I’m too good at the job for a promotion.” Then he looked almost gleeful as he said, “But I did get to personally stamp a letter of approval for changing from one maid service to another for the office in Berkshire only yesterday, so it’s possible I’m moving up in the world. Of course, it still had to be reviewed by the undersecretary and two notaries to ensure I’d done so correctly.”

“Really, Gus.” His mother scowled. “When I think of all your wasted potential—”

“There you are, darling,” the March-Philips matriarch was thankfully interrupted, although you’d had to do a double take at the woman who draped herself off Gus’s arm at the time. She was stunning—tall and blond, with the perfect finger curls and a silky black dress that draped over all of her curves invitingly. “I’ve been looking all over for you. You weren’t trying to hide from me, were you?”

“Ah, of course not, my dear,” Gus said, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her to his side. He gave everyone a wide grin you could just tell he’d practiced to look as innocent as possible as he introduced her to everyone. “Everyone, I’d like you to meet Diane.”

The look on his and James’s mother’s face was one of horror and loathing. It was nice to see that look levelled at someone else for once as the warning James had given you earlier that day repeated in your mind.

“Oh, one more thing,” James said, pausing to glance back at you in the mirror as he was fixing his bow tie. “If Gus does show up tonight, he’ll have a woman with him. Absolutely beautiful, as always. Don’t bother to remember her name, she won’t last the week, but do watch for Mother’s expression when she meets her. It always makes for a good time.”

“Absolutely beautiful?” You crossed your arms over your chest as you gave him a sharp look where you were leaning against the door frame.

James paused as he was putting the finishing touches on his tie, looking back at you in the mirror. “Yes, well…you know, relatively speaking.”

You hummed in response, still giving him a hard look and teasing him at the idea that you were offended at his noticing another woman. “So, Gus is a bit of a womanizer, then?”

James let out a bark of laughter. “More like the women use him for a good time and he’s more than happy to oblige.”

Their mother had disappeared shortly after meeting Diane, much to everyone’s delight, and eventually, James had taken you to the dance floor to enjoy the slow music of the live band. James was never the type to turn down an opportunity to dance with you, even if it wasn’t his forte.

Apparently, Gus wouldn’t be either, taking advantage of the minute James had to step away to pull you back onto the dance floor. “Hope you don’t mind,” Gus said, giving you that look of such practiced innocence that you were certain he was up to no good. “I just had to have you all to myself for a while.”

You looked up at him skeptically, eyebrows raised as you let him lead you around the dance floor. “I’m surprised you have the time or energy for another dance partner at all with how Diane has kept you busy all night.”

Gus chuckled quietly. “Yes, she does stay moving, doesn’t she? Don’t worry, though. I’ve a bit of a reputation for my stamina with the fairer sex.”

Your eyebrows rose even higher, which you didn’t think was possible. “Well, in that case, I expect your lady friend won’t take kindly to being abandoned.” You weren’t certain what to make of Gus March-Philips, but you had an idea that maybe you should be rid of him as soon as possible. You wondered where James had wandered off to—he’d said he only needed a quick refreshment.

“She’ll keep,” Gus replied with a confident air that suggested he was used to exactly this sort of thing. “Besides, what kind of brother would I be if I didn’t steal away my sister-in-law for a dance?”

The kind, you thought, who didn’t come to the wedding. “What kind of brother should I expect you to be?”

“Well,” Gus said thoughtfully, “I believe that you and James have a bit of a secret with regard to…” Gus trailed off, but his gaze traveled down your front—moving easily past the neckline of your dress toward your stomach.

You practically stumbled over your feet, although Gus was graceful enough on the dance floor to cover for you and keep you moving. “How could you possibly know?” You asked it in a panicked whisper. “We only just found out ourselves. We haven’t even told anyone yet.”

“I found out from Mother, actually,” Gus answered, his mouth pinched at the words. “She’s really very resourceful, you know. Could run her own spy network for the government. In any case, I do believe that she’s planning to confront you with it and announce it to everyone tonight for you.”

Your mouth fell open. The only reason you kept dancing at all was because Gus was leading you and he was, somehow, impossible to not give into. “She wouldn’t dare. Not when we haven’t even discussed it.” You huffed, unable to accept it. “She doesn’t even like me. She wouldn’t just announce it like that.”

“Mother likes to be the center of attention,” Gus told you. “She’ll do whatever puts her center stage. Even if she’s not happy about the pregnancy.” He spun you and pulled you closer to him, one arm on the small of your back. “But don’t worry,” he said conspiratorially. “I have a plan.”

It was too much—the dancing, James’s mother, the news of the pregnancy. You felt dizzy. “You what?” In that particular moment, you weren’t sure what to make of Gus and you weren’t sure if you trusted him at all.

“Mother will wait for the perfect moment to make the announcement,” Gus explained as he kept dancing, as if you hadn’t reacted unusually at all. “Probably in the next song or two. Now, just before she’s about to tell everyone about,” Gus paused, glancing down at your stomach again with a little smirk and nod of his head, “you know, I’m going to interrupt and ask Diane to marry me.”

“You—you…you what?”

“I’m going to make a big show of it. Get down on one knee. I even have a very nice ring for her in my pocket. It’s not a real diamond, of course. Can’t afford one on my salary,” and the way he said it made you think later that it was probably a lie, “but I think it’s very tasteful.”

“You—you—” You were struggling to form words. Hell, you were struggling to form a cohesive thought. “You’re going to propose to Diane just to distract everyone so your mother can’t announce the pregnancy?”

“Yes,” Gus said, as if it were a perfectly natural thing to do. “What, do you think it’s a bad idea?”

“You—well—what if she says yes?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Gus said, preparing to spin you. “She’s already married.”

Remember me when the candle lights are gleaming Remember me at the close of a long, long day It would be so sweet when all alone I'm dreaming Just to know you still remember me

The next time you saw Gus, you were in a hospital. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d slept. Sleep didn’t really matter anymore by that point. You were too numb. All you did was stare at the candle across the hospital room, the flame flickering and dancing in the darkness. You didn’t light this one. One of the nurses did as she was passing through. There wasn’t supposed to be any light, then. The city was blacked out at night to keep the enemy from finding places to drop bombs, although some part of you thought that didn’t matter, either. It only took one bomb to take your family away from you—the one you were building, and the one you already had.

The candle may be flickering, a light in the darkness, but you didn’t really have any faith anymore. You didn’t have any prayers.

You didn’t have anything anymore—not without James and the baby. Your mind just couldn’t comprehend how you could have so much one moment…and then have nothing the next.

Still, one nurse always seemed to keep vigil. One candle always seemed to be lit. One person still had hope.

“Hello, Y/N.” Gus’s voice was both painful and glorious to hear as he took a heavy seat next to your bed. You didn’t even glance away from the candle or question what he was doing there—visiting hours were long past over—as one hand absently stroked your stomach where your baby should’ve been growing. If you hadn’t miscarried from the physical and emotional trauma.

If your husband hadn’t died from a German bomb being dropped on your house, one of the very first to be dropped in London.

How many times had you sheltered in place since then, hidden under a desk on your own since he’d died? It felt like months. Years.

And now this?

No more baby?

“Hello, Gus,” you said absently after a few moments, remembering faintly that he was still there.

There was a long pause, a long silence in which neither of you knew quite what to say. Even Gus March-Philips struggles with how to comfort a newly widowed woman who’s just lost her baby sometimes, apparently. Then, “Listen, I have this idea.” Gus cleared his throat as he adjusted himself in his seat. “I have a house out in the countryside and, uh, well, it’s awfully big for just me. Especially since I’m not always there. I thought perhaps you might like to come stay with me for a while and…” Gus’s voice trailed off. A sigh. “Well, you’d have a lot of space to yourself, a lot of privacy. But there’s a hospital nearby, an infirmary for soldiers, you see. There’d be work there, too. And there’s a program to start training medics. I think you could be quite good at that, you know.”

A long pause. You didn’t respond. You just stared and stared and stared, one hand on your stomach, your ring on your finger. Numb. Empty. Lost. Not a flame left inside you. A candle burned out.

Nothing.

“So, Y/N. What do you say?”

You told me once that you were mine alone forever And I was yours till the end of eternity But all those vows are broken now, and we will never Be the same except in memory

“Gus is…what?” You did a double take as you stared—openly fucking stared—at the giant in front of you. You recognized him in passing as one of the…people…Gus associates with. You were never sure what to think of them. You knew they weren’t soldiers. They were more like ruffians and brigands, if you were to call them anything. The only one who didn’t look like that was Appleyard and you were never sure exactly what he was to Gus except that there wouldn’t be any jealous husbands coming about to sock him afterwards.

“He’s in jail, min dame,” Anders told you with a quirk of his lips, one of those irritating kinds of smirks. His blond hair was longer then, tousled and a little unkempt, as if he’d been away at sea or maybe in a fight. “Seems he, uh…” Anders had reached up and run a hand through his hair sheepishly. “Can’t help but get into trouble.”

“No kidding.” In the time you’d been staying with Gus, which hadn’t been long at all—a year and a handful of months—Gus had come home once looking like he’d been hit by a truck. Or this man’s fists. Another time, he’d been covered in hickeys and lipstick marks, only to be punched in the face the next day by someone who claimed that Gus had spent the night with his wife. Yet another time, he’d left for “work”, disappeared for nearly a month, and arrived home randomly one morning looking like he’d just spent all that time living out in the wilds somewhere.

Also, there was the time someone had shot him in the ass and you’d been the nurse treating him at the infirmary. He still refused to tell you who’d shot him or how it had happened.

“In any case, he’s asked me to check in on you, min dame. Make sure you have everything you need,” Anders continued then, as if it was situation normal. Which, you supposed, it basically was. But it wasn’t lost on you that this man, like the rest of the men in the area, wasn’t calling you by your name. Ever since you’d applied to be a medic and had started the training, the men around here had taken to finding ever more creative names to call you by…whenever Gus wasn’t around, of course.

There weren’t any female medics, after all. There were female nurses, of course—it’s a female profession, after all. But medics, out in the field? No one trusted a woman to have a level head and the right disposition for it. The soldiers who passed through here were especially difficult toward you.

“What did you call me?” You were sharper than you meant to be when you asked the question, perhaps, but you were already put off by the news that Gus had been sent to jail and apparently wouldn’t be coming home, and you were just plain goddamn tired of all the name calling and cat calling and the misogynistic bullshit.

“What?” Anders asked, pushing his glasses up his nose. It was a boyish act that seemed at odds with the behemoth in front of you. “Min dame?” His eyebrows rose. “You don’t like it? I can call you something else, perhaps. Min snuskebasse?”

“What? No.”

“Min lille heks?”

“Stop it.”

“Min pusling?”

“Will you just—”

“Min kærlighed!” Anders said, snapping his fingers as if he’d just stumbled onto the perfect name.

You’d scowled, glaring up at the giant man with all you were worth. “Listen, I don’t speak—” You paused, uncertain now that you were confronting him exactly which language he was speaking.

Anders, who looked amused, quickly supplied you with, “Danish.”

“I don’t speak Danish,” you snapped. “But I’d appreciate it if you’d call me by my actual fucking name, thank you.”

Anders snorted, running that hand through his hand again, shrugging. “It’s much nicer than what the other men call you, I promise.”

You turned around and slammed the door closed in his face. Anders, however, wasn’t phased by it a bit.

“I’ll just come back tomorrow then, shall I, min kærlighed?” His face broke out in a grin when he heard you growl from behind the door. “Don’t worry about me. I’m sure I can find the way back on my own. A big foreigner like me, I’ll be fine! I’ve only been mugged three times already—they must know I don’t have any money by now! Nothing bad can possibly happen to me!”

Remember me when the candle lights are gleaming Remember me at the close of a long, long day It would be so sweet when all alone I'm dreaming Just to know you still remember me

You put the candle on the dinner table every night. You couldn’t help yourself. It was a ritual.

So was pulling out the box of matches.

So was striking one.

But you couldn’t bring yourself to light the candle. It just wasn’t right, not anymore. You weren’t sharing the dinner table with anyone—not even Gus, now that he was in jail. Usually, Gus wouldn’t think twice about seeing the candles out. When you first came to live with him, you’d put them out at dinnertime and he’d give them a passing glance, recognize that they weren’t lit, and say nothing about it. When dinner was over, you’d leave them out. You couldn’t bring yourself to touch them. By morning, they’d be put back in the cupboard where they came from. Not a word from Gus, just a quiet understanding.

On the longer stretches when Gus would disappear for days or even weeks, the room would fill with unlit candles. Gus would find his way home eventually. The candles would be put away overnight.

You wondered what Gus had done to be put in jail and just how long he’d be there. If he was ever going to come back home. You weren’t used to silence like this, not really. You’d lived with family before marrying James and after that, there was always someone to bother you at all hours of the day, whether it was his family or yours. You’re not that fond of silence like this.

But then, it didn’t really matter what you were fond of anymore, did it? Everything you loved had already been taken away.

There was a knock at the door. Well, more like a pounding, really, which could only mean one thing. “I’m back, min yndling!” The neanderthal of a man, Anders Lassen, was back. Again. He’d been coming around every day for a week now, pounding on the door to check on you. Refusing to go away until he saw that you were alive. It was like he took your refusal to acknowledge him as a personal challenge. “I bring chocolate this time! I’ll share it with you if you promise not to ask where I got it from!” Another pound on the door, his heavy hand thud thud thudding. You felt yourself actually wince at the impact on wood, rubbing at your forehead absently as you glanced toward the front door. “It’s going to snow tonight, ja! Better to let me in now so I can help with your firewood!” A pause. You imagined him shrugging his big shoulder, his too long blond hair underneath a cap to keep his head warm today. “Be a shame if I had to wait out here all night, you know. I wouldn’t like to be a frozen statue at your front door. But I bet you couldn’t find a handsomer one!”

Sighing, you set the matchbox down on the table and crossed to the front door as Anders continued pounding away. “Okay, I’ll tell you where I got the chocolate from! I bribed the man with sexual favors!” You froze when you heard this, audibly groaning, before rushing to the door before he could continue. “I gave him a really good blow—”

“What is wrong with you???” You snapped at him, pulling the door openly and looking up and down the street.

Anders just grinned at you, his hair stuffed under a cap just like you’d imagined. Somehow, winter looked like it agreed with Anders Lassen—like he was built for it. “Ah, min yndling. I thought you’d never open up. How lovely you look today, glaring at me like that. Would you like some chocolate?”

“You’re a menace,” you told him then. “Don’t you have anything better to do besides coming around here to harass me every day?” It seemed like most days, when you were away from nursing or medic duties, you easily slipped back into that quiet state of numbness. As if you’d never really left it at all, had just been temporarily shocked out of it by something happening around you.

Anders Lassen, however, seemed to bring out the worst in you. In fact, he seemed like he actually enjoyed it.

Anders just gazed down at you and shrugged. “Eh,” he said easily. “Not really.” He grinned at the way your face fell into a grimace, holding up a bag he’d brought with him. “Do you want some chocolate?” When you didn’t respond as quickly as he wanted, he added, “I’ll let you eat the whole batch while I chop you some firewood. I won’t even judge you for hogging it all and not sharing any with me, even after I’ve done all this hard labor for you.”

You leaned against the door frame, debating the easiest way to get rid of him. By then, of course, you’d learned that it was best to just give in. He’d chop some firewood, you thought, and then he’d leave. It never occurred to you that Anders was giving you exactly what you wanted—a break from the absolute silence of you alone in this place. “Fine,” you told him in exasperation. “Bring in the chocolate and the firewood.”

A shuffling of feet. Anders didn’t say much as he came into the house, but he made enough noise for five men as he set everything down. Like any true friend of Gus’s, he’d brought you rations and other goods that should have been difficult to find just now. You looked down at a stack of chocolate bars, an actual fucking stack, and back up at Anders sharply. “Some chocolate?”

“Ja,” Anders said simply. “Some chocolate.”

You looked between him and the stack of bars, shaking your head. “How did you…”

“I’ll tell you,” Anders replied, appearing perfectly happy to give you all the details. “His name was Charles and he had a really big coc—”

“That’s okay,” you cut in. “You don’t have to tell me. I don’t want to know.”

You were still recovering from the beginning of Anders’s story when he noticed the candles on the table. “Ah, candles! Are you getting ready in case you lose power from the snow?” He looked from the table to you, wiggling his big eyebrows. “It’s supposed to be bad, you know. I hope the firewood takes care of it, but perhaps I should stay with you tonight. We could huddle together for body warmth.”

“No,” you told him sharply, crossing your arms over your chest. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Has anyone ever told you, min kærlighed, that you look quite lovely when you’re angry.” Anders was all humor, it seemed. It didn’t matter how you tried to avoid him or tell him to go away, he just kept coming back, refusing to give in.

“Don’t you have firewood to chop?”

Anders took the dismissal in stride, his grin only growing. “Ja, ja. Firewood. Just let me light the candles for you first.”

You’d never felt so panicked. “What?” You didn’t want them lit. You weren’t ready to light them. “No, don’t—”

Anders was already lighting them, pulling a matchstick from the box and striking it before you were able to stop him. You were practically about to lunge for him when he lit the first candle you’d laid out. Then the second. A third. A near symphony of candlelight on the table in front of you, bright and magical and alive, the flames tall and steady. He lit all the candles, and it struck you just how many you’d left out. The center of the table was ablaze with light and you were mesmerized by it.

“There,” Anders said, blowing out the match and taking a step back to admire the candles. “Very lovely. Ja. I like it.” He looked over you, unphased by how you gazed at the candles, stunned. “Now I’ll go chop some firewood and then we’ll eat chocolate.”

You stayed where you stood near the table, but you watched Anders walk back outside in the glow of the candlelight, some part of you acknowledging that more than just the flames was flickering back into life.

A brighter face may take my place when we're apart, dear A sweeter smile and a love more bold and free But in the end, fairweather friends may break your heart, dear If they do, sweetheart, remember me

“So…” It was a quiet moment on the Maid Honor and Gus was visiting you down in the sick bay. You tried to look busy, sorting through your supplies and cleaning, feeling the awkwardness of this moment as Gus eyed you warily from where he was seated. “You and Anders have gotten quite close, it seems.”

You tried not to react. “Do you think so?”

Gus was not convinced. You’d rather come to like Gus in the time you’d spent with him, even if he was a bit of a pirate and seemed to have no real concern for the legality of things. “Hmmm…” You weren’t sure what to think of this conversation, however. If Gus would take things…well, badly. It really hadn’t been that long since James died. You and Gus really didn’t know each other all that well. “Now, what I need to know is whether Anders and I need to have a little talk.”

You paused, a roll of gauze in your hand as you glanced over at him, eyebrows drawn in confusion. “Talk?”

Gus propped his elbow on the side of the table, scratching at his beard for a moment as he considered you before resting his chin in his hand. “A talk,” he confirmed, eyebrows raised. “About whether he’s crossed certain…err…boundaries…and the right way to…” Gus seemed adorably out of his element as he tipped his head in consideration, watching you. “Treat a lady.”

You stared at Gus for a long moment, slowly deciphering what he’d said. “You…want to have a talk with Anders…and make sure that I’m fully consenting to what’s happening and that he’s treating me right?”

Gus hummed in response, his gaze never leaving you, watching for any sign that he did, in fact, need to have a talk with Anders. “And to discuss the consequences of…not…treating you right,” he added.

You stared at Gus for a long moment—Gus, who looked so completely serious about having a talk with Anders. Gus…having a talk with Anders. You couldn’t help yourself. You started to laugh.

Gus was going to get the shit kicked out of him.

“Bloody hell, woman,” Gus said, watching you laugh harder and harder, his own mouth quirking up into a grin. “It’s not that funny.”

“It is,” you insisted. “It really is.” You laughed harder than you could remember laughing for a long time. It felt…good.

“Now, this is serious,” Gus said when you’d gotten most of it out. “Do I need to give Anders the talk? Or is there anything I need to know about you two?”

“That depends,” you replied, going back to fixing the roll of gauze in your supplies. “Should we talk about you and Appleyard?”

You looked over in time to see Gus freeze for a few fractions of a second before he caught himself and went back to acting normally. “Me and Appleyard?”

“Hmm.” You nodded at him smoothly as you looked at him. Gus held your gaze for a long, long moment.

“There’s nothing going on between me and Appleyard,” Gus told you, all seriousness.

“Uh huh,” you replied.

It was quiet as the two of you gazed at each other, sizing the other up. Waiting.

“Do you know, Y/N,” Gus said then, grinning widely. “I think it’s possible that I’ve been underestimating you all this time.”

Remember me when the candle lights are gleaming Remember me at the close of a long, long day It would be so sweet when all alone I'm dreaming Just to know you still remember me Just to know you still remember me

It's the night before you leave for the mission, the first one where you’ll actually be out in the field with Anders and the others, and you’re spending it in a little church. You wonder where the others are right now. Where Freddy and Hayesy go when there isn’t a mission or training to do. Where Appleyard and Gus have been sneaking off to lately—they’re never at the house when you are, although knowing those two, they could be sneaking off for a tryst just as easily as planning the downfall of a foreign country.

Where Anders goes in the last moments before he’s meant to leave for a mission. You haven’t asked him.

You sit in the church pew and gaze ahead at the rows of candles. The church doors are open late these days, or as late the curfews will allow, and the overhead lights don’t work as well as they used to. Between the depression and the war, the church has seen better days. But you wouldn’t know it by the people who come and go here, or the rows of candles at the back of the church.

Silent prayers in the darkness. You wonder what the other people here are praying for.

You walk up the aisle nervously, your palms sweating. Your heart pounding in your chest, the sound loud in your ears. You haven’t lit a candle for a long time now. It’s a silly thing to be nervous about, but this moment feels important. You want to do it right.

You pause at the table littered with candles. Your fingers stumble over the matchstick. You stare at the flame for a long moment before moving it to the candle wick, watching the rush of heat and light as it catches and grows, the wick black in the midst of a bright blame. A light in the darkness. A silent prayer. A hope.

Please let this mission go right.

Please let everyone come back safely.

Please don’t let me fuck this up.

Your thoughts move slowly between Gus and Anders, from Appleyard to Hayes to Freddy. You aren’t sure who you’re asking, if it’s the universe or God or just yourself. You just know that this moment matters, that this thing you’re about to do matters. Love is, after all, the greatest act of faith there is. Faith in something bigger than yourself. Faith that you can make a difference.

Don’t let this be the last time Anders and I are together.

You’re not sure if it’s love, but maybe just even having the desire for it is enough.

Let everything turn out okay.

Somewhere in the distance, someone is playing music. The familiar strains of fingers strumming across guitar strings and voices crooning a song.

Just to know you still remember me

#alan ritchson #anders lassen #anders lassen imagine #anders lassen x reader #anders lassen smut #alan ritchson x reader #alan ritchson imagine #the ministry of ungentlemanly warfare #tmouw #gus march phillips x geoffrey appleyard #gus march phillips #geoffrey appleyard #alex pettyfer #henry cavill #freddy alvarez #henry golding #henry hayes #henry cavill fic

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portraitsofsaints · 1 year

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Saint Pantaleon

275-305

Feast Day: July 27

Patronage: physicians, midwives, livestock, against headaches, consumption, locust, witchcraft, accidents, loneliness, crying children

Saint Pantaleon, one of the 14 Holy Helpers, was born near the Black Sea in Asia to a wealthy pagan father and Christian mother who taught him the faith. As a physician to Emperor Maximianus, Pantaleon became estranged from Christianity through the influences of being in his service. With the help of a holy priest named Hermolaos, Pantaleon reverted back to the faith and gave his fortune and services to the poor. He was martyred during the Diocletian persecution after he implored heaven to forgive his persecutors. He is known as the “Great Martyr”, a “Wonder-Worker” and “Pantaleon the Healer”.

Prints, plaques & holy cards available for purchase here: (website)

#artist on tumblr #St Pantaleon #Catholic illustrator #Catholic doctor #Catholic physician

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angeltreasure · 2 years

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“Stojan Adasevic, a Serbian abortionist when Serbia was still a communist country, managed to kill 48,000 children in utero in his 26 years as a purveyor of death.

Sometimes up to 35 per day.

But that's all on the past, as Stojan is now one of Serbia's most important pro-life voices.

As explained in a recent interview with the Spanish daily newspaper, La Razon:

The medical textbooks of the Communist regime said abortion was simply the removal of a blob of tissue. Ultrasounds allowing the fetus to be seen did not arrive until the 1980s, but they did not change his opinion. Regardless of what he believed, or thought he believed, Stojan began to have nightmares.

In describing his conversion to La Razon, Adasevic "dreamed about a beautiful field full of children and young people who were playing and laughing, from four to 24 years of age, but who ran away from him in fear. A man dressed in a black and white habit stared at him in silence. The dream was repeated each night and he would wake up in a cold sweat.

One night Stojan asked the man in black and white in his frightening dream as to his identity.

"My name is Thomas Aquinas," he responded. Stojan, educated in communist schools that pushed atheism instead of real learning, didn't recognize the Dominican saint's name.

Stojan asked the nightly visitor, "Who are these children?"

"They are the ones you killed with your abortions," St. Thomas told him bluntly and without preamble.

Stojan awoke in shock and fear. He decided he would refuse to participate in any more abortions.

Unfortunately, that very day in which he made his decision, one of his cousins came to the hospital with his four months-pregnant girlfriend―they had hoped for an abortion. Apparently, it wasn’t her first which is not uncommon in countries of the Soviet bloc.

Stojan reluctantly agreed, but, instead of the usual Dilation and Curettage (D&C) Method in which the fetus is torn apart with the use of a hook shaped knife called a curette, he decided to chop it up and remove it as a single mass.

Horrifically and providentially, his little cousin's heart came out still beating.

It was then that Dr. Adasevic realized that he had indeed killed a human being.

Stojan immediately notified his hospital that he would no longer perform abortions.

No physician in communist Yugoslavia had ever before refused to perform an abortion. The hospital and government's reaction was swift and severe.

His salary was cut in half and his daughter was immediately fired from her job. In addition, Stojan's son wasn't allowed to matriculate into the state university.

After many years of surviving the many privations orchestrated by pro-abortion/pro-death fundamentalist atheist government, Stojan was about to buckle under the pressure and give into its demands.

Fortunately, Stojan had another dream about St. Thomas.

St. Thomas assured Stojan of his friendship and Stojan was in turn inspired.

The physician became involved in the pro-life movement in Yugoslavia. In fact, he was able to get the state-run Yugoslav television station to twice broadcast Bernard Nathanson's anti-abortion film The Silent Scream.

Since then, Stojan has told of his anti-abortion stance and his reversion to the Orthodox faith of his childhood to newspapers and television stations throughout Eastern Europe. In fact, he has a strong devotion to St. Thomas Aquinas and is rarely, if ever, without the saint's books―his constant reading material.

Stojan often reminds his listeners that in his Summa Theologiæ, St. Thomas wrote that human life begins forty days after fertilization. Perhaps, Stojan would opine, "the saint wanted to make amends for that error."

Today Stojan continues to fight for the lives and rights of the unborn.”

#abortion #pro life #prolife #St Thomas Aquinas #Stojan Adasevic #Catholic #Catholicism

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upontherisers · 2 months

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❛ i’ve been thinking about you all day. ❜ for mahalia & bucky 👀👀

a/n: writing under the influence always does crazy things to my prose. god bless.

She misses Europe and the cold that bit, the cold that put those horrible red cracks in between Brady’s fingers. What an awful thing to happen to a piano player. The cold that reminded her that she could feel something, that a small ember in her wanted to live. A cold she fought harder than anything, then lost, then lost him.

By the time she’d realized what she felt, she could hear her Uncle Ned’s voice in her head at a Sunday barbeque once he’s got enough beers in him to talk big to the fly boy hanging around his niece’s neck. “You don’t know spades from war, boy.”

It won’t work. John doesn’t take too kindly to ‘boy.’

So she forgets him, or tries to. That’s where the dreaming comes in, the wild things, the ones that made the shrink she saw for a day take notes, the ones that made her shut her lip quick. John doesn’t take too kindly to ‘note,’ either.

Sometimes her leg is better, sometimes he’s telling her to stay still and she can’t breathe. It’s like her chest is caving in on itself; they have sinkholes in Michigan. She knows she’s dreaming because it didn’t hurt when she fell, just knocked the wind out of her lungs. None of this heaving, desperate stuff that makes her mother shake her awake in the middle of the night for fear she’s suffocating. Gale’s there too — sometimes — and he’s real gentle. Sweet. Real life like, too, like one of those warship models her baby cousin paints, full of color and just missing the water. When it’s just John, he’s good to her.

They have a white picket fence and two stories and a dog she’s getting used to and they don’t sleep well, but they sleep. When her leg’s better they ride bikes and John scoffs about “we don’t have this in Wisconsin” and “we don’t have that in Wisconsin.”

“Lake Erie's prettier than the Superior and Michigan combined,” she argues, even with factory smoke skies and rains that hiss like the German reeds she landed in.

“I doubt it,” he says.

“Well, you’ve only ever seen it from baseball.”

“So? Baseball’s the best.”

And when he’s home from work — ‘cause he’s not a drunk in this one. Y’know, she never knew him as a drunk; she always just assumed. When he’s home from work, she’s standing in the kitchen and yes, some evenings the cane is there, but the sky is too pumpkin orange and purple for her to care. He brings her flowers and he kisses her and takes off his tie — again, not a drunk — and he tells her things.

“We should at least see it, the Potomac, the houses… the schools.”

“My sister’s having a baby.“

“'I've been thinking about you all day.”

When her leg hurts, he’s gentle like he’s talking to her about baseball. It’s — she can’t find the words more often than not — it’s blinding, almost. Biblical, seraphic.

They had a veterans’ free admission day at the museum in Detroit. Sounds like some shit Vera would say. She went with Alex Jefferson and they walked arm and arm through the galleries, her cane occasionally squeaking against the wood floor. No one seemed to notice. Alex had invited her to stay with him and that darling thing from Tennessee, and she forgot about things for a night and a half, and spent the next six days smelling the wood air and the dew and the lake and wondering if he could feel dew somewhere too.

They had veterans’ free admission day and she saw one of those little paintings of angels, the ones with the little arrows from Valentine’s day cards, and she laughed aloud, turning heads in the echoing gallery, and thanked God she wasn’t raised Catholic.

She’d always known what angels looked like. Brown hair, eyes like the skies above, an attitude that’d make her mother stop trying to marry her off, and no scars from the shepard that’d gotten a hold of her leg when she was twelve — the one that made the physician call the nurse in before he signed off on her physical so she could join up and she snatched the signed form away with as much rank as she could muster. You don’t ask a woman about her age or her scars.

When he’s good to her, he brings her flowers, and that’s when she knows she’s dreaming, because the flowers are daisies — real white and real yellow — like the ones Marge pressed in her letter. So at least Gale’s alive. And if, if Gale’s still alive—

They’re still taking trains to Wyoming.

She does feel guilty for the dreams that Gale’s in because Marge is a good woman and she knows it. She knows it. It’s just jealousy, she supposes, or she’s going mad with bed rest or she’s not really as dedicated to wanting something as it feels like. If it’s not about Gale, then it’s not about John, either — right?

Her mother’s reading books about shell shock in effort to explain why Mahalia came home in her own body and not her sister’s. She cracked one of them once, when Mama was out chatting to Miss Melody on the front porch and she couldn’t bear those cow-eyed kids wrapped around the hem of their mother’s yellow rose dress staring at her cane. The author was well-read and white and had served in the first one — more than most of his colleagues can say. She liked the way he wrote, talking to her like a friend, not a creature in a cage at the zoo that they poke with sticks to chronicle aggressive behavior. Dr. Arnold Bacon, Harvard University.

Dr. Bacon doesn’t say anything about dreams, at least not hers. She’s had the rest of them — her crash, camp, the march — and she doesn’t do well when gaskets blow on the street outside, but she finds nothing about dreaming of majors with strong hands and a knack for box scores, and she’s sure that shell shock’ll be the next explanation her mother crosses off the list, right next to getting pregnant and possession. She’s sure she’s incurable, but that’s what the doctors told her parents about her sister, too, and they couldn’t have lost another daughter just like that.

So she’s awake from all the dreams and the dreams of dreams, and the cold makes her remember the piano player.

All of her letters returned to sender. She didn’t know they were doing that. Surely she’s not the first to be bent over sick with worry, surely she’s not the first to know he’s not dead — she fell but it’s not like the stars fell from the sky and punched holes in her wings, surely a million other bomber girls with their leg all tore up were trying to catch his scent but staying far enough away so that the fry grease don’t hit ‘em.

When Crank wrote back from Massachusetts — blustery, all those vowels, a bitter wind in August — she knew that those were just dreams. If she really wanted the white picket fence and the yellow-brown center of a pressed daisy, she’d stop flinching at the blue sky when she looked up to sneeze and the green grass for the dog to run like the pines up north, farther than she’d ought to go, in real Michigan, parallel to his Wisconsin.

She’s lucky the farmer who pulled over to fill her up wasn’t carrying, she’s lucky he liked Roosevelt, she’s lucky he was union, and she’s lucky she got a hand pie from his wife as she waved farewell from their driveway on Christmas, snow blowing like steam from the Nuremberg train.

That’s the first day she really pissed her parents off. On Christmas, of all days. Leg so stiff we nearly layed ya ‘cross the backseat and drove to the Episcopals — they didn’t have round little cherubs, either. Her father’s smile faltered an inch and she felt pride in it. Finally, something other than love.

She dreams of arms wrapping around her waist, his chin settling in the crook of her shoulder so they could watch their boy run around with the dog outside. Michigan’s hot this time of year — it’s always summer when she dreams of the fence — orange like sunset and green.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

It gets cold again and she thinks of the piano player’s split hands and Uncle Ned, three lakes, sister’s baby shower blue; she’s as good a navigator as it takes to know it’ll be at least four days to Montana and even if Marge writes back that night, it’ll be at least five days to Chicago — and Vera! A boy! How wonderful — and then a day to her.

And that’s if Gale’s writing to Marge and if that pilot friend of his isn’t face down with a gun to his head.

She writes Crank who’s writing Hambone, who’s writing Brady and Alex, Macon, Benny, Vera, and no one could say the name of the one that connects them all. The one that’s late for roll, who did plenty of dumb shit before her and certainly after, but who wasn’t gone. That’s what she told the people at the post office when her letters wouldn’t go fast enough.

She’s dreaming until she’s not and she always knew he was a drunk! She knew and he still found her door and her father’s firm hand and he found the spot by the window on the left side of her mattress.

He gets her flowers once, pink roses — and to think she’d dreamt about yellow and white daisies — when he tells her about a promotion and a big enough salary to fix her leg and they have great hospitals in D.C. and she has to be on his insurance legally, meaning swapping out her last name, and it only has to keep as long as they can shoot me down over Seoul. And she kisses him as a few roses fall to the floor like leaves in a too early autumn. But for the first time, she wants to stay where it’s warm, green-purple and brown-orange, and let the winter be the past.

#mail call #poet tag #john egan x oc #bucky egan x oc #masters of the air x oc #my writing #mahalia summerton #straighten up and fly right #i loved this prompt. thank you #touched it up a lil... something here something there #mahalia x bucky

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rappaccini · 3 months

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semi-disorganized thoughts on the politics of gwen stacy, as they relate to race and privilege.

alright i've had this thing in the drafts for a minute, and i just want it Out There.

in general when it comes to the major female characters in peter's life, there's room to play around with their interpretations and race.

cindy moon has to be korean and glory grant has to be black because it's written into their characters

mj and betty can be anything, and have been racebent with great success.

felicia hardy can be a lot of things, but some should probably be avoided because if you write it wrong it could turn out offensive.

liz allan honestly works better as a white woman given how her character represents the waspy background peter initially wants to enter (mcu liz allan's a weird one, given the vulture twist. since homecoming borrows so much from miles, and tiana toomes was likely inspired by her, mcu liz reads like more of a first draft of tiana than a liz depiction).

gwen... hasn't really been racebent anywhere (unless you count gabi/gabriel o'hara and gayatri singh). and that follows, because she falls more in line with liz allan; this is a character whose whiteness-- or at least, her access to institutional privilege and status as part of that subset of women within society that are considered desirable, protectable and worthy of putting on a pedestal-- is very important.

this is too disorganized to write into like. a proper essay. so have some bulletpoints.

her background:

little is known about gwen-616's family background, apart from that she has relatives on her father's side who live in london (but it's not clear if they're literally british or they're just expats), and her mom's from a german background.

(spiderverse spider-gwen is specifically irish-american)

she had a christian, most likely catholic, background.

gwen-617's father was a cop who met her musician mother at a peace protest, and gwen-65's father is specifically a former street gang member who, like 617, met gwen's artistic mother during a conflict with the police. he helped her police captain father resolve the situation. soon after they became a couple, and he became a cop. so spider-gwen's dad is specifically part of that phenomenon of poor men becoming cops to raise their economic status, and gwen in general is usually the product of a family where law enforcement is considered a tradition (and so is marrying law enforcement; her mother and grandmother both did it).

she isn't generationally wealthy or new-rich. her family is comfortably middle- to upper-middle-class and achieved that status before gwen was born. she grew up without having to worry about money-- with the exception of tuition.

when gwen's mother dies (in 616 it's an unspecified illness; in 65, who knows), there's no mention of medical debt. so the family could afford it, or whatever helen had, they were lucky that it didn't wipe out the family finances.

gwen and her father live in a nice but not luxurious apartment. (and spider-gwen lives in a dated two-story house in peter's middle-class forest hills suburb)

gwen went to standard high, a prestigious prep school where she was classmates with the children of the city's best architects, physicians, business owners and billionaires. since her household's single-income (even before helen stacy died, she was a housewife), and they don't have any generational wealth, she would've had to have been on a scholarship to afford that tuition.

at that school, she's a popular honors student who wins class president, is best friends with the richest boy at school, dates the star quarterback, and laps up all the fancy college scholarships. and when she arrives at college, she leads a group of kids in freezing peter out like a high school mean girl, because he isn't giving her enough attention. so even though gwen wasn't rich, she was comfortably at the top of the high school hierarchy, and maybe even a bit of a bully. to say the quiet part out loud, if gwen had been a woc, everybody would've been giving her shit for needing a scholarship to afford to attend and she would never have gotten that level of acceptance.

she's a scholarship student (again!) at empire state university, where she's a top student in a stem major.

however-- that empire state scholarship isn't framed as a make-it-or-break-it achievement. when gwen's chasing it in high school, she doesn't say she can't enroll if she doesn't get it. so most likely, she could still afford college; she'd have just had a shitload of loans.

(gwen-65 goes to peter's public high school. she gets a scholarship to empire state too, but that's strictly a bullshit handwave of ~your superhero connection got you this made-up scholarship for interdimensional exchange students so you can go here~ that means nothing. for all intents and purposes she's a dropout.)

gwen stacy isn't a wasp, but she's white, anglo-saxon (or irish) and christian, so she's close enough to it to rub elbows with them. she isn't rich, but she knows how to fit in with rich people, and rich people let her get away with it. and she's one strategic marriage or career move away from getting into that social circle.

... her name literally means "white" in welsh.

her appearance:

the one trait that stays consistent throughout all her depictions, moreso than her personality or family background-- and the one trait a lot of men people bother to remember about her-- is that she's a blonde. and blondeness tends to be associated largely with whiteness.

gwen's largely regarded as the 'nice, tame good girl' ... even though in canon, she's a night owl who has a vicious temper, goes out partying often, juggles multiple suitors and is sexually forward. people keep fucking forgetting all that, because something about the way gwen looks makes people keep defaulting to 'innocent.' -- it's that she's a blonde (specifically, a blonde being juxtaposed with a fiery redhead), and people are applying stereotypes about blonde girls being uptight and delicate to gwen.

gwen's a beauty queen. what kind of physical attractiveness do beauty pageants tend to reward?

even the gwens who aren't beauty queens are still regarded as extremely attractive. including spider-gwen, who puts no effort into her appearance, keeps finding herself the target of romantic and sexual attention. this girl is consistently at the top of whatever her society's beauty standard hierarchy is. (and we know that standard more often than not tends to center whiteness.)

spider-gwen's costume? white.

her politics:

gwen's father is vaguely on the left (if he weren't, sam bullit gloating about how captain stacy's daughter endorsing him is an ultraown to the libs wouldn't make sense), but she's... not.

rich boys and men in uniform -- soldiers, cops, football players, (unknowingly, superheroes) -- are the type of guy she prefers to pursue romantically (... likely taking cues from her mother and grandmother, who both married cops). flash thompson goes to fucking vietnam and she thinks it's such a turn-on that she slips him some tongue at the airport right in front of her boyfriend.

she's annoyed and unsympathetic when vietnam war protesters disrupt her education. i don't know if gwen's just that serious about her education or if she genuinely thinks the war's okay, but it's not looking good!

she earnestly participates in her local elections-- and though she ultimately votes and campaigns for the progressive, she does seriously consider publicly endorsing the racist republican with fascist leanings.

she dislikes vigilantes and trusts the police.

she uses "my dad's a cop" as an excuse to get out of being punished and a threat to people she dislikes.

gwen's most prominent relationship was with peter, but she was going out with harry and flash casually at the same time and had dated plenty of guys in high school; she's by no means a blushing virgin who's loyal to Only One Man. gwen has options, and she pursues them.

she and peter had an implicitly sexual relationship, and she and darius leclerc were at least hitting second or third base, so gwen's cool with premarital sex. she consumes porn and even likes messing around in public (fooling around with darius at the public library; even asking peter if he wants to go to an adult theater to watch dirty movies).

gwen references betty friedan and the women's lib movement, and she's a female stem major in the 1960s, so she's a feminist and probably had no intentions of being a housewife... but her feminism starts and ends with herself.

even gwen-1610, the counterculture rocker chick who hates cops, jocks and bullies, and has casual sex, has this personality largely as a response towards her mother leaving her family. it's not that she's political or liberated, it's that she's raging against her parents and acting out to get a reaction. she hasn't applied her sense of disenfranchisement to anyone beyond herself. she's that kind of white punk.

the default gwen stacy is a white feminist who believes in and supports institutional power because she's always benefited from it, occasionally balks against it but only when it affects her, and she's naive at best and indifferent at worst to the ways it could hurt marginalized people -- specifically black people.

the elephant in the room

(... walk with me: given that the stacys get up close and personal with "spider-man" when hobie brown is wearing the costume to help peter throw off suspicion that it's him, and the textually racist sam bullit, a former cop, considers him public enemy #1 in the same issue where his blatantly racist policies are raised... there's a non-zero chance that the police-- including gwen's dad-- during the early 70s, think spider-man is a black guy and that assumption of his race is a contributing factor to their distrust of him. and gwen... agrees.)

look gwen-616 isn't beating the allegations. she was on the fence about voting for a racist cop, she backs the blue, she hates protests, she hates a vigilante that she has good reason to believe is a black guy. the way she's simply... never around randy robertson unless she's with peter, and surrounds herself with only white friends, is also telling too. it's all adding up to gwen being racist.

and the more that modern writers try to slap a band-aid over og gwen's issues with black people, the more visible they get.

gwen-616's relationship with her high school sweetheart darius and earth-8's alternate spider-gwen marrying a miles morales paint a very clear picture that gwen, in her default state, is the kind of white girl who would date or marry a black guy... but only the kind of black guy who's disconnected from his community and assimilating into greater white society to access wealth and power (miles-8, who mysteriously left his family, friends and world forever to live on a world where he's rich and famous), or who has already done this (darius, big man on campus at the rich kid school and son of multimillionaires), and she will make no effort to understand his perspective and stick up for him and his community.

in the case of darius, gwen-616's investigation into a crime lord gets darius's dad into a situation that gets him killed, apologizes for failing him... and proceeds to stan for a racist republican two years later. retconning a romance with darius into her story means gwen learned nothing from that experience and her apology wasn't sincere.

gwen-8 in particular is the kind of white woman who'd marry a black man and have children with him... and make no effort to make sure their biracial kids are connected to the black community they're a part of. (miles's people are nowhere to be found on earth-8-- no presence, no mention, no photos on the wall, nothing. but gwen's half-black kids have photos with their white cop grandpa. that says a lot. and the fact that miles-8 doesn't even seem connected to his community suggests that quality made him even more appealing to gwen-8.)

even spiderverse spider-gwen represents this to her miles, whose interest in her is directly tied to his desire to ditch his dimension for the spider-society, and to leave brooklyn for princeton; atsv miles wants to pull a miles-8.

-> she unintentionally leads him into a situation where he comes under attack for reasons that are racially-coded by her peer group and she doesn't stick up for him. yes, she realizes she made a mistake and resolves to make it up to him, acknowledges that miles's community is important to him, that she has no right to remove him from them, and vows to help him protect them (which is more than gwen-616 ever does for darius or gwen-8 does for her miles)... but he still sees her as that easy way up the social ladder.

-> and gwen returns the favor. she prefers a heteronormative romance with the middle-class straight boy with a nice family who's bound for an ivy league and a bright future, who she barely knows, over the poor queer homeless punk boy who she has a stronger connection with. assimilation into a society (not even hers; any will do) ultimately matters more to her than the actual depth of the relationship. rio and jeff were right to doubt gwen's intentions, because they weren't sincere; deep down, gwen isn't here for miles, she's here for the stable family, accepting community and bright future he has and she thinks if she's his girlfriend, she can obtain those things by association.

-> which, in context: spiderverse spider-gwen's spent six-ish months as a homeless queer runaway who thinks she'll die a violent death at a young age. it follows that she'd badly want a stable situation, and be willing to throw herself at a boy to get it. her motive isn't climbing the social ladder, it's avoiding being shaken off of it. like with comics-spider-gwen, when spiderverse gwen feels adrift and in need of belonging, she goes looking for a romantic relationship with a straight boy who's palatable to society as a survival strategy. she's not desperately in love, she's desperately comphetting.

-> the narrative framing that romance as "look at how different and brave and boundary-breaking we're being!" even though it's fundamentally not, as this is still ultimately the male lead getting a romance plot with the female character who was only placed in the movies to be his future girlfriend, (especially in comparison to what she could have with hobie) positions spiderverse-gwen as... the kind of white girl who rebels against her conservative parents and the status quo she hates by getting a black boyfriend instead of addressing the actual societal problems that are harming her.

especially when you consider miguel is symbolically her foster father (his design and george stacy's are very similar, he has a dead daughter whose name starts with a g, he intervenes in gwen and george's confrontation right as george makes a move to disown her, he's introduced alongside jess, who gwen asks to 'adopt her' and who serves as her mother figure). gwen bringing miles to the society reads like a white girl bringing her black boyfriend home to piss off her conservative dad. and gwen goes looking for miles to further rebel against him.

-> to be fair, gwen's willing to show up for her black boyfriend and his community, which is more than what most of those girls do. and atsv makes a point of showing that gwen seeks a mentor in jess drew and friends in hobie and pav-- they're establishing that gwen is simply the kind of white girl who's drawn to people of color, black people especially, even when romance isn't on the table.

-> but she's still ultimately using miles as a band-aid over insecurities he cannot help her with, she still aims to assimilate into the system instead of finding a way to escape it, and she still won't be an ally until she thinks she can get a boyfriend out of it.

(... can we please unpack how spiderverse gwen has been spending every day with jessica drew and especially spider-punk for months... and yet a couple hours with miles, and the idea that maybe she can date him if she shapes up a little, are what radicalize her in the end? okay babe. i see.)

which makes (comics-)gwen-65's subtextual interest in hobie brown and glory grant, who are queer black punks, all the more interesting; the gwen stacy who's a fully-actualized hero is drawn to people of color as well, and to queer black love interests who won't conform, and not-so-coincidentally learns all on her own to look out for their interests without any expectation of a romantic reward for doing so. her love interests don't lead her to activism, her activism leads her towards her love interests.

-> and as comics-spider-gwen starts to regress in her progress, her romantic interests have switched to harry-and-em jay, and then just em jay. (or that she's probably about to be paired up with miles, the guy who ends up with her supposedly-future-self, gwen-8, who takes far more after gwen-616 in her treatment of black characters. in other words, being with miles will make gwen regress into a much crappier person... because she's using him to get that same comphet security as spiderverse gwen.). not a coincidence.

her status in the narrative (to others)

gwen's role in peter's love interest hierarchy is similar to liz allan's: both are part of love triangles peter faces where he has to choose between an aspirational girlfriend who can give him what he wants materially but doesn't bring out the best in him (gwen and liz) and a girlfriend who cannot give him a gain in status but is in tune with his emotions (mj and betty).

-> in high school, peter (who's strapped for cash and starts his origin story as far more selfish, sexist and profit-driven) is drawn to liz's beauty and wealth, but ends up being pulled towards betty, who is working-class.

-> in college, peter is drawn to gwen's beauty, her stable future as a scientist, and a relationship with her means being accepted by her police chief father (... and therefore, spider-man being accepted by the law enforcement of the city at large)-- or mj, the unpredictable girl who juggles a half dozen jobs to chase a creative passion, and comes from a middle-class background just like his.

-> a relationship with gwen, through her social position, represents entrance into upper-middle-class prosperity, stable white-collar employment, and acceptance into the class that the status quo (the legal system and the cops) will protect. who are the people who tend to occupy this position in society. who do the cops protect. white people.

her role in the spider-man canon as the tragic helpless victimized love interest who's deified after her death... but whose death is never meaningfully prevented from happening again. (how many murdered girls are turned into symbols after their death, as the actual causes of their murders remain unaddressed? what do those girls tend to look like?)

this status relies on her whiteness. if gwen stacy were not a pretty blonde white girl, her murder would've been forgotten quickly because it wouldn't have been considered shocking or tragic, or worthy of obsessing over for decades.

and she wouldn't have been peter's love interest-- or even in the story at all-- if she were not white, because she was created in 1965.

spider-gwen, whose existence is a response to and condemnation of gwen stacy's fridging and reduction to the status of dead girlfriend on a pedestal, would never have been created in the first place if gwen weren't white.

if gwen hadn't been white, miles would never have been shipped with her in the first place because 1) spider-gwen wouldn't have existed. and 2) even if she did somehow, brian michael bendis loves swirl ships. he'd have passed right over her if she weren't white.

and gwen's importance in the spider-man canon [which she only has because she's white] is the entire reason comics miles is interested in her. he's literally told by the universe that the world where he gets the greatest institutional power and acceptance is the world where he has a blonde, blue-eyed white wife with a famous name and some not-so-coincidentally blonde, blue-eyed ambiguous-looking kids.

spiderverse miles is first attracted to her because he feels alone after leaving his community for the first time, and she makes him feel like he belongs at the visions, where he [and the audience] assume she's top of the social hierarchy; the same thing happens again at the spider-society, and both are part of atsv's greater metaphor about how those places are representative of a white-centric society. if gwen were not a white girl, the metaphor would instantly change.

miles likes gwen for multiple reasons (mostly that she's pretty and has powers, and spiderverse miles at least admires her intelligence and competence and enjoys her company), but given that he barely spent any time with her, the biggest one that nobody talks about is that she's a white girl, and he thinks he can speedrun his way to the status and acceptance he wants through a relationship with her. that's remained consistent between the comics and animated movies. the connection is literally skin-deep.

and out of universe... look, there's a reason that gwen and miles keep getting shipbait covers even when they had one regrettable makeout session eight years ago, have never actually dated, are interested in other people, and miles in particular largely dates nonwhite girls. there's a reason that the idea of gwiles has gotten more marketing than the reality of the relationship with a black girl that miles has been in for years. there's a reason editorial won't stop pushing gwen as a love interest, and won't even bother to try with tiana, and that's because they've already decided that the black girl isn't a commercial enough love interest for a mass audience, the white girl is... and that dating her will make miles more marketable too (... because aside from giving people a self-insert, if he has a white girlfriend, his stories will still center white people, and he'll have to prioritize their feelings). no surprise whatsoever that the first time miles made it to the movies, the white writers gave him a white love interest.

gwen's whiteness is the thing that gwiles stans like the most about her. putting aside how most of them have no clue who gwen is on her own and don't even know what her personality's like because her appearance is the most important thing to them, just watch how they talk about miles's other girlfriends and try to count the racist and sexist microaggressions.

and look at the way gwiles stans either completely ignore miles's blackness and how it informs his character or their relationship... or insist that white-ass gwen stacy would somehow speak perfect puerto rican spanish, be able to do miles's hair, and seamlessly fit into his community with no misunderstandings or friction. even spiderverse fans ignore their movie's own canon actually addressing those issues.

either they want the aesthetic image of an interracial relationship without any engagement with the actual challenges of being in an interracial relationship, or they want miles to date a blonde blue-eyed white girl who behaves like an afrolatina girl. okay. i see.

… even look at the way gwemj shippers blatantly ignore that em jay is already in a relationship with glory grant, or that gwen had a crush on her too. not a coincidence that the white f/f ship is getting favored over the interracial ones.

her overall plotline

is that of a privileged white woman who has faith in the system, slowly being failed by it until it kills her.

she's a star student studying to be a scientist, but she's consistently only valued by all her friends for her looks. the reason her boyfriend noticed her in the first place is because she's pretty, and she's valued more for her appearance and politeness than her scientific aptitude or her status as peter's intellectual equal; the only time we ever see her on page is when she's socializing, instead of in the lab. her father cares more about who she's dating than how her grades are. even her professor turns out to be only giving gwen special attention because he wants to fuck her, and he's so obsessed with her that he keeps cloning her after her death for that reason.

she trusts the cops to protect her, but they consistently don't.

she reaches out to a politician who's her dad's old police force friend for protection, but realizes he's only using her.

she trusts her boyfriend to be honest with her, but he never has been since the day they met. she believes she's in control of her relationship with him, but she never was.

her father, both the chief of police and the literal patriarch of her family, dies and leaves her completely alone.

she's ultimately murdered by her friend's dad*, and is put in a position to be murdered because her boyfriend won't be honest with her about the danger he's putting her in yet won't let her go when she makes it clear that she wants out of that situation bad enough to flee the country.

her murder itself strips her of all agency: she's so drugged she has no idea she's even being killed, and all retcons about how awake she was are more about her ~realizing her boyfriend was a hero~ than realizing she's about to die or that she's been lied to by said boyfriend.

*and depending on if you retcon a certain hated plotline or not, gwen's murderer, a wealthy and powerful middle-aged man who is her close friend's dad, may have coerced her, a teenager, into sex (which may have been her first time) and impregnated her. and her murder may in part be a coverup for that crime. look sins past was retconned because its the Fucking Worst, but this is how canon treats her and there are still fans and writers who hold a plotline that is so clearly a sexual assault against her.

(and then her murderer... never really gets punished for it. norman isn't killed, doesn't go to jail, even gets a redemption arc or two. and peter's off making out with her best friend a few issues later, never tries particularly hard to bring gwen back when dozens of other people are resurrected all the time, and whenever she's cloned, it's agreed that those clones don't count and aren't worth preserving. there is no justice for gwen's murder and everyone agrees that we don't need to bring her back anyway but we sure as hell will obsess over how tragic her death is. they like her better dead because if she's alive, they don't have full control over her anymore.)

she's failed by everyone and everything she trusts and cares about. specifically all the white men. her male friends, her boyfriend, her teacher, her father, his coworkers at the police station, her friend's father.

(... and the only people who have not failed her, and have even stuck up for or supported her are mj, sally green, aunt may, hobie brown, and darius leclerc. women and people of color.)

and maybe most importantly: she never gets an opportunity to process any of this or make a choice about it. because she's dead. and every time she's resurrected, it's only to fluff the ego of the guy who got her killed before being quickly killed off again. it's been like this for fifty years and it just doesn't stop.

-> gwen 6160, a version of gwen who gets to grow up to full adulthood and does so without spider-man triggering the collapse of the system around her-- and therefore, gwen still believes in it-- even goes so far as to become co-ceo of oscorp, and marry harry osborn-- a white billionaire who literally has the leader of their totalitarian oligarchal society on call. she has her doubts about the way things are and wants the system to change, but believes she specifically is superior enough to solve things with no consultation or oversight. this character's being primed to either have that arrogance lead to her death or a descent into supervillainy.

-> even spider-gwen has to unlearn her specifically white feminist politics. she needs to have the concept of gentrification being bad explained to her. she initially behaves like a rogue cop and her killing of peter parker is framed as an act of police brutality. the entire point of her initial comics run is gwen realizing that the police, the legal system, the media and society are corrupt and that she has to change her mindset if she's going to be a worthy protector of her city. she has to unlearn girlboss feminism, does so by listening to people of color, and refuses to take advantage of her privilege even when not doing so could get her killed-- when she's incarcerated, she receives a reduced sentence in part because of the optics of a girl with a 'good background' being locked up and she's offered a fully commuted sentence in exchange for becoming a government agent. which she refuses. the origin story of spider-gwen is all about radicalization. i can't get over how smart her creator was for doing that.

-> and as spider-gwen has since regressed back into white feminism, to the point where she's been explicitly called a "girlboss" on-panel, she starts palling around with her dimension's cops again and has not-so-coincidentally begun favoring only her white friends-- first harry and em jay, then only em jay (who she starts to have romantic tension with... even though em jay is already in a relationship with a black girl). and now she's abandoning the world she spent years learning to be a better ally to entirely for an easier one where she has fewer responsibilities and is in closer proximity to the important men who treat her like a romantic object.

the missed potential of gwen stacy's plotline all boils down to lack of agency. she needs to live so she can realize how she's been failed, and decide what to do about it.

if she concludes that the system is bad for her and stands up against it, she stands a chance at breaking the cycle, surviving and becoming a hero, like ghost-spider.

if she doubles down on supporting it, it will corrupt her into a villain.... and probably kill her once she's not useful to it alive anymore.

to bring the subject of this ramble home: the payoff we're waiting for in gwen's narrative is about how a white woman responds to realizing the system she's been raised to trust and uphold is corrupt and broken. either you reckon with your privilege, how you've been lied to, how the power you thought you had doesn't actually exist, how your special position near the top of the hierarchy has nothing to do with how special you are and everything to do with keeping you close so the people with actual power can use you to replicate the system through another generation, the authority figures in your life are actually useless or harmful and the people you've been taught to fear and push away are actually more like you than the more powerful people you want to identify with, and you choose to help undo that system to liberate yourself and the other people it's hurting... or you keep believing the lie because you'd rather keep the few privileges it does allow you, become complicit in its continuation and it still eats you up when it's done using you.

anyway politically speaking, from right to left, the main gwens go: 6160/hickman ultimate (knowingly complicit in the shadiest shit), 616/original (wobbling on the fence until she loses her balance and gets impaled by it), 1610/bendis ultimate (edgelord who occasionally stumbles onto the right idea), 65b/spiderverse (she's a little confused but she's got the spirit. dump miles and you've got it.), 65a/spider-gwen (the actual radical, pre-spiderverse synergy).

#spider gwen meta #gwen stacy 616 #gwen stacy 6160 #gwen stacy 1610 #gwen stacy #gwiles

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