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musickgeek · 1 year ago

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The Great Alastor Altruist

Could be read as either platonic or romantic

The plan was for Alastor to take care of Adam, but I didn't want to send him without back up. So now I stand beside the feared Radio Demon, ready to fight Heaven's lead soldier.

The shield withers away, and Adam stares down at us with amusement as he approaches the hotel sign. "Adam...First man, next to die." Alastor says with his usual grin. His collected stance contrasts my tense, readied one. I hold my spear and shield up defensively, waiting for him to strike. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Alastor and (Y/n)." He introduces with flourish. He's thriving on the power display, I'm not so much. "Pleasure to be meeting you, quite a pleasure. I'm about to end your fucking life." He declares, driving his staff into the ground. I step aside quickly as the green tendrils rise from the ground, showing off the Radio Demon's power. However, Adam doesn't seem impressed. "Nice voice. Don't you know jazz is for pussies?" He conjures his axe, and goes in for the attack, to which Alastor meets him with the tendrils. Adam swings at them, making them disappear. Once he's close, Alastor and I move together gracefully so that he is behind me, and Adam's blade merely meets the shield. "Ah, ah, ah," Alastor tuts.

"You really think you can take me on? A mortal soul is no match for me, edge lord." Adam smiles, like this is nothing to him. He continues to defend against our coordinated attacks, seeming at ease. "You're a mortal soul, too, douche nozzle." I finally speak. "You should know better then anyone what a soul can accomplish when they take charge of their own fate." Alastor's shadow dissolves into several little minions that attack Adam. One manages a surprise hit on him in between his wild swinging. "You think you're tough shit, huh?" He swings at nothing, as the minion is gone.

Alastor materializes next to him. "Tougher than you." He laughs. Adam dives for him, missing with each swing of the golden axe. "You lack discipline," he taunts, dodging, "control," he ducks behind my shield, "and worst?" He jumps into the air, getting larger and darker. His limbs and antlers grow in a mangled manner, and he's filled with green electricity. I'm frightened despite being on his side, never having seen such a terrifying side of him. "You're sloppy."

"And you're-fuck- fuck you! You red piece of- " Adam fails to get a sentence out as all the minions climb and attack him. "Shut up!" He shouts, throwing the last minion away. Alastor laughs, and grabs him with on of the tendrils, slamming him into the hotel sign. "Poetry." He taunts.

"I'm gonna wipe that shit eating grin off your face, cause radio is fucking dead!" Adam flies above, swiping at the air with his axe. It creates a golden arc of power that meets Alastor before I can defend him. "What just happened?" I'm horrified at the lack of radio static in his voice, he looks wildly panicked. He looks down and sees the broken staff. "Ffffuck."

Adam goes to swing his axe into Alastor's chest, and I'm too late. Alastor flies back, crying out in pain. He leans into the wall, bleeding, ears pinned back, but still smiling. Adam readies another blow, but I'm faster this time. "No!" I'm in just in time to block it with the shield. With a battle cry, I drive the spear into the arm wielding the axe. He dodges only enough to merely graze the arm. It's still enough to piss him off majorly. He growls in rage, and blindly attacks only for me to ram the shield into him. He falls to his back, and I stand over him with the point of my spear to his throat.

"You come into our home, attack our friends, and expect us to take it lying down? You're more pathetic then anyone here." I spit vehemently. I go to drive the point into him, but he manages to grab it from me, and throws it with enough force to take me with it. He flies above me, but I roll away quick enough for his axe to meet the floor. However, he just reaches over and claws my chest with his hand. I gasp for breath, wheezing with pain. The cuts are shallow, but disable me enough for him to wrap his hand around my throat. He slams my body into the ground then lifts me into the air. "I've had enough of you disgraceful vermin."

My vision is fading, the blood is pounding in my ears. I claw at the glowing hand around my neck. I can't die. He'll kill Alastor, he'll kill the everyone. Without warning, I drop to ground, making all my wounds sting. I gasp for breath. Why my vision clears again, I see why. Alastor attacked Adam. And Adam saw it coming. "No...no, no. Alastor no." I mutter. Alastor's plunged my blade through Adam's chest, but Adam's axe is in embedded in the Radio Demons side. They both seem surprised at the outcome. "Radio's not dead." Alastor insists. Adam falls over, dead, while Alastor falls to his knees. The sickening smile on his face doesn't hide the sheer pain in his eyes.

I run to him, dropping to my knees to match his height, grabbing him by the shoulders. "Alastor, no, no, no, no, no, no. We can fix this, okay, you're gonna be fine, we can..." My voice dies away, turning into small sobs. "Don't cry, my dear. You're never fully dressed without a smile." He says half heartedly. "Why, Alastor? We could of... I'm not.... You needed to protect all of them, not me." He laughs weakly. "But I did, didn't I? And I protected you in the process."

"I suppose that makes you the most powerful demon I know." I tell him softly. He laughs quietly. "The great Alastor Altruist died for his friends." He slumps into me, eyes closing shut, but still ever smiling. I don't care about the oozing blood, I pull him tight against me hoping it's somehow a comfort. The war falls deaf in my ears, I only hear his breath slowing, slowing, and stop. I scream in anguish, the sound drowned out by the heat of battle still surrounding me. I need to end this.

I stand slowly, and rip the axe from Alastor's flesh. I take it over to Adam's body. I look down in disgust and spit on him. With a final cry of rage, I lift the axe over my head and slam it down onto his neck to decapitate his body. I grab the head by his hair, and I walk to the side of the building, holding my prize for everyone to see. "Adam is dead!" I declare. The exorcists look on in horror, cries of shock and grief rising among their ranks. "Adam is dead! Retreat! All exorcists fall back!" Their commander orders. The angels go back from which they came, and my friends all look at me with triumph and awe. I can't match their enthusiasm, only feeling hollow and tired. How was I going to tell them what happened?

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rabotimagines · 18 days ago

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"Bug snack" GN BOT Reader + The insecticons

Summary: little encounter with the insecticons.

Warnings: N/A

G1 characters: The insecticons!

Genre/Theme: Platonic scenario

Notes: Autobot GN Reader! You know how to bake energon goodies.

Pronouns: You, your, yours.

Well, you were fragged to put it lightly. Back up against the wall. Blaster in your servo, and completely outmeched by the insecticons. And completely alone. All the other autobots were divided across the battlefield. And slag it all. You might as well try bargaining for your continued function. The insecticons showed up late after the Autobots intercepted the Decepticons' attack plans. So you could only assume they were working for their own interests like near always. So you raised your arm upwards, blaster pointed away from any of them and squared your pauldron struts. "Oi Insecticons! Got a proposition for you!"

"Silence! Silence- Autoscum will be quiet! Quiet!" Shrapnel crawled forward the electricity on his metal horns crackling with purpose.

You only raised your empty servo, not looking forward to being zapped. "Even if it's a meal?!"

That makes him pause, and then the other two immediately scuttered closer at the prospect of food. "What meal?! We're already here at this battle plant, which is prime for our feast! What dribble could a measly autobot offer to the insecticons?!" Bombshell squared his little beetle legs, and his horn pointed toward you with intent. But he didn't ram into you or blast a shell at you, so you knew you had them interested at least.

You smirked. "Oh, I was going to offer my bag of energon gummies. A delicacy, and there's not many left after Cybertron got overrun by the war. But I have a small bag I'd be willing to part with- if you guys cause some trouble for the Decepticons this fight."

"Gummies!? What foolery is an energon gummie?" Kickback spat, his antenna twitching in the air.

"It's a type of energon goodie! They taste so good they're addictive!" You tried to sell them on the idea as well as you could. But considering they had zero frame of reference for energon goodies, you hoped the prospect would be enough for the little gluttons.

"Hm -" They stopped for a moment and suddenly formed a tight circle around one another. They were still in their alt modes, and it only forced you to press your frame against the wall to not get pushed by them. You heard heated whispers until they suddenly broke and were now facing you once more. "Deal! Give us the gummies! Gummies-!" Shrapnel marched forward, and you hastily pulled the small mesh baggie out of your subspace. Shrapnel didn't grab it or give you a chance to hand it over because he zapped your servos with a hot jolt of his outlier ability.

You hissed and dropped the bag, which tore to shreds from the power output. The gummies fell scattered across the ground, and you almost leaned down to pick them up. But instead, you watched as the insecticons just started to eat them right off the ground.

As soon as they each got one in their little alt mode mandible mouths, they all froze. Then all pit broke loose, and they started scampering over one another to eat as many gummies as possible. You had to dodge a jab of Bombshells horn being jutted in your direction and one of kickbacks legs (that cracked the wall) while cursing under your vents.

"Where?!" Kickback uttered, still digging under his fellow insecticons to look for any possible missed energon gummy. They'd cleaned the ground of them in nanoklicks.

"Um- so we're good?" At your question, they seemed to settle on the fact they ate all possible dropped gummies and straightened themselves out. You arched an optic ridge as all three stared you down again.

"Hm, the meal was... satisfying. Insecticons we can cause problems for the decepticlowns for this battle." Bombshell apparently settled on.

"Yes! yes! Gummies are tasty! Tasty!" Shrapnel hissed.

"Gummies will be on the menu look out from now on." Kickback announced like it was anything close to an achievement for the mechs that devoured almost anything and everything in sight.

With that, they flew up and bounced over the wall you'd been pinned back against. You heard the sound of Starscream screaming loudly and the charge of Shrapnels outlier ability firing off. You finally slacked and pulled away from the wall. At least you hadn't bothered to make those energon goodies into star shapes or anything cute like that. Especially when they got eaten so... haphazardly.

Primus forbid those bugs learn you made those energon goodies yourself. You'd never know peace again with those gluttonous menaces around...

#transformers x reader #transformers x cybertronian reader #transformers x y/n #transformers #x reader #gn reader #The insecticons #rabot writes #just wanted do to something with them! was watching g1 and theres like 5 episodes with them in season 2 close together almost back to back #insecticons #💛

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winxanity-ii · 15 hours ago

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⌜Godly Things | Chapter 28 Chapter 28 | the victor's crown⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

"Then let the final trial... begin!"

The moment the words left the announcer's lips, Telemachus and Sthenelos began circling one another.

Their eyes locked, reading each other in silence. Sthenelos' lips curled into a smirk, the confidence in his stance unmistakable. His thick arms flexed, his broad chest rising and falling with steady, measured breaths.

He radiated certainty, the kind that came from years of fighting—real fighting, the kind that left bruises that never fully faded, the kind that made men like him sure they would win.

Telemachus, on the other hand, remained steady, his face unreadable. He offered no smirk, no taunt—just a firm, slow nod. His stance was relaxed, but his muscles were coiled, ready. He wasn't naive enough to think brute force would win this.

If he was going to take down a man like Sthenelos, he had to outthink him.

Sthenelos, watching him carefully, let out a rough chuckle. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and hoarse—gravelly with an edge of aggression, far different from the relaxed or refined tones of Callias or Andreia.

"Ithacans are thinkers, not warriors." His smirk widened as he rolled his shoulders back, cracking his knuckles. "You'd do better in a library than in this ring, pretty boy."

Telemachus didn't flinch, though the words ignited something deep within him. It was always the same, wasn't it? Ithaca's strength was always underestimated. Because they were clever. Because they relied on more than sheer muscle. Because they valued skill over reckless violence.

Let him think that.

Let him think Telemachus was just another prince, an Athena-blessed scholar with no real bite.

It would make his fall all the more satisfying.

Before Telemachus could even fully exhale, Sthenelos lunged.

It was like being hit by a charging bull.

The sheer force of the Brontean's body colliding with his sent Telemachus stumbling back, his feet skidding against the dirt. He barely had time to brace before a fist came swinging toward his ribs. Instinct took over—he twisted, narrowly avoiding the brunt of the hit, though he still felt the wind from it rush past his skin.

Sthenelos didn't slow. He pressed forward relentlessly, throwing heavy, deliberate strikes meant to batter and exhaust. Telemachus ducked, dodged, twisting his body just out of reach each time. His agility was his best weapon—he couldn't meet brute strength with brute strength, not against this kind of opponent.

Still, it wasn't perfect.

A solid fist rammed into his shoulder, forcing him back another step. Another caught him near the ribs, a sharp pain blooming under his skin. His mind barely had time to register it before a third strike clipped his jaw—not a full-force hit, but enough to rattle him.

Telemachus grit his teeth, breath hissing through them as he forced his body to stay loose, to stay moving.

He's bigger. He's stronger. But he's slower.

Sthenelos, confident as ever, smirked as he advanced. "Not much room to think in here, is there, Prince?" he sneered, rolling his shoulders. "Where's all that Ithacan cleverness now?"

Telemachus exhaled through his nose.

Let him talk.

Let him believe he was already winning.

Because Telemachus wasn't done yet. Not even close.

Sthenelos came at him again, fists raised, aiming to end this quickly.

Telemachus didn't meet him head-on. That would be stupid.

Instead, he weaved, staying just outside the Brontean's reach, forcing him to chase.

Every time Sthenelos threw a punch, Telemachus let it miss by inches, making his opponent commit fully to every strike before slipping just out of range. The bigger man's footwork was powerful but heavy—each step a thunderous impact compared to Telemachus' lighter, calculated movements.

A swing to the ribs—Telemachus pivoted.

A fist aimed at his jaw—he ducked low.

A full-bodied charge—he sidestepped at the last second, watching as Sthenelos' momentum carried him a step too far.

He was making him work.

Sthenelos grunted, irritation flickering behind his eyes as he adjusted, trying to keep pace. He wasn't used to an opponent that didn't crumble after a few good hits. He fought like a war hammer, built for destruction, for breaking through obstacles with raw power.

But Telemachus wasn't an obstacle.

He was a strategist.

And this was a game of endurance.

The crowd was catching on now. Murmurs rippled through the stands as Telemachus continued his relentless evasion, forcing Sthenelos to overextend, to waste energy in fruitless attacks. The Brontean was still dangerous—every blow he landed had force behind it—but they were growing sloppier, less controlled.

Sthenelos realized it, too.

With a snarl, he changed tactics, throwing a feint before lunging in with both arms. Telemachus barely had time to react before iron-like arms wrapped around his torso in a brutal grapple.

The breath left his lungs all at once.

Sthenelos had him.

The grip was crushing, his opponent's brute strength on full display as he twisted, trying to force Telemachus down. The pressure built, Telemachus' ribs straining, the edges of his vision blurring for a split second.

But then—he remembered.

A move Odysseus had described once, sitting by the hearth late at night.

"When you're outmatched in strength, use their own force against them. They'll never see it coming."

Sthenelos had him tight—too tight. He was betting on Telemachus panicking, struggling wildly, wasting what little breath he had left.

Instead, Telemachus went still.

For a fraction of a second, he gave into the hold, letting his body go limp. And in that instant of loosened tension, when Sthenelos instinctively adjusted his grip—

Telemachus moved.

A sharp twist of his body, a sudden shift in weight—and he slammed his knee into Sthenelos' inner thigh, striking the pressure point just above the knee joint.

The larger man jerked in surprise, his stance faltering.

That was all Telemachus needed.

He planted his foot, shoved forward with his shoulder, and broke free just as Sthenelos' balance wavered.

The crowd gasped.

Sthenelos staggered back, blinking in disbelief, and Telemachus exhaled sharply, lungs burning but victorious.

He wasn't just surviving anymore.

He was fighting back.

And the Brontean knew it.

Sthenelos bared his teeth, fury flashing across his face as he shook off the last remnants of Telemachus' counter. His breath came fast and uneven, his broad chest rising and falling, but his stance remained firm.

Telemachus knew that look. The Brontean wasn't just trying to win anymore; he was out for blood.

With a sudden burst of speed, Sthenelos lunged, aiming low this time, trying to use his sheer size to overpower Telemachus once and for all. Telemachus barely dodged, twisting just out of reach, but Sthenelos adjusted mid-charge, hooking an arm around Telemachus' waist and heaving him off his feet.

The world spun.

For a heart-stopping moment, Telemachus was weightless, his body flung over Sthenelos' shoulder like a sack of grain. The Brontean roared, his grip unyielding as he prepared to slam Telemachus into the ground.

No.

Desperation and instinct kicked in. Telemachus twisted sharply mid-air, using his entire body weight to shift the momentum. His arm snapped around Sthenelos' throat in a vice grip, locking in a chokehold even as they crashed onto the dirt together in a chaotic heap.

The impact sent pain ricocheting up Telemachus' spine, but he gritted his teeth, refusing to let go. He clung to Sthenelos, tightening the choke just enough to make the Brontean thrash wildly beneath him.

Sthenelos snarled, straining against the hold. With sheer brute strength, he pried Telemachus off, throwing him to the side. Telemachus rolled, barely managing to scramble to his feet before Sthenelos was on him again.

"Doesn't matter if you stand," Sthenelos spat, voice rough and livid. He punched his chest twice in a brutish display. "Bronte's rules don't say an opponent needs to walk."

The implication was clear.

Telemachus barely had time to brace before Sthenelos lunged again, his fist shooting toward Telemachus' throat—a killing move. Gasps rippled through the crowd. This wasn't about victory anymore.

He means to cripple me.

But Telemachus anticipated it.

At the last second, he ducked, catching Sthenelos' wrist in an iron grip. Using the Brontean's own force against him, Telemachus twisted the arm outward, hard, sending a sharp jolt of pain through his opponent's shoulder.

Sthenelos stumbled.

Telemachus struck.

A vicious elbow to the solar plexus sent Sthenelos doubling over, gasping for breath. Wasting no time, Telemachus shifted his weight low, hooked the back of Sthenelos' knee, and toppled him.

The Brontean hit the dirt.

Furious, he roared and began pushing himself up—but Telemachus was already moving. Sthenelos' fingers twitched, readying for another brutal counter—but Telemachus wasn't giving him the chance.

In one fluid motion, Telemachus gripped the Brontean's shoulder, forcing him back down, and delivered a final, decisive strike to the side of the neck—the carotid artery.

A pressure point.

Sthenelos jerked violently—then went completely still.

For a long, stretched-out second, silence blanketed the arena.

Then, the Brontean's body slumped.

Out. Cold.

Telemachus stumbled back, his own breath ragged, his arms still raised in defense as if expecting another attack. But Sthenelos didn't move.

The fight was over.

And then—

Roars.

Ithaca erupted.

The deafening roar of Ithaca's people washed over Telemachus, but it barely registered. His chest rose and fell rapidly, each breath still thick with the taste of adrenaline, his muscles vibrating with the aftershock of battle. He could feel the bruises forming beneath his skin, the dull sting of where Sthenelos had landed his hits, but the pain was distant, secondary.

He had won.

Through the ringing in his ears, the distant echoes of clashing cheers and groans, he barely noticed when something soft and weightless was placed upon his head. He flinched slightly, blinking, only to realize a woven crown now adorned him—one crafted with intricate care. Intertwined within its delicate weave were flowers of both Ithaca and Bronte, their colors blending seamlessly, threaded through with gold and silver strands. A symbol of unity. A symbol of victory.

His breath caught slightly at the sight of it, but before he could fully process its presence, the crowd's roar shifted to something else—an awed murmur rolling like waves across the stands.

A magnificent white stallion was led into the arena.

The beast was a creature of pure strength and nobility, its coat glistening under the sunlight like polished marble. Draped around its neck was a wreath woven from the same flowers that now sat upon Telemachus' head, its colors standing bold against the pristine white of its fur. The horse tossed its head, powerful yet patient, waiting for its rider.

The announcer stepped forward, voice booming across the field.

"Ithaca and Bronte!" he declared. "Witness the conclusion of the first inaugural Cultural Exchange Festival's Grand Tournament! The victor of both Trial of Two Disciplines—Prince Telemachus of Ithaca!"

A fresh wave of cheers rang through the stadium, Ithacans chanting his name, Bronteans either murmuring in begrudging approval or grumbling in disappointment. Sthenelos, still slumped unconscious in the dirt, was carefully being lifted away by his countrymen.

Telemachus exhaled slowly, steadying himself. Then, forcing his sore body to comply, he made his way to the stallion. His fingers gripped the saddle, and with one last surge of energy, he pulled himself up onto the horse's back. The animal remained still beneath him, as if sensing the weight of the moment.

The announcer's voice rang out again.

"And now! The Favor Ceremony!"

Telemachus' breath hitched.

He had nearly forgotten.

In both Ithacan and Brontean tradition, the victor of a grand tournament was granted a choice—a moment of acknowledgment, where they dedicated their victory to someone. A warrior, a noble, a lover—whoever they deemed worthy of receiving their favor. It was a show of admiration, of respect, sometimes even devotion.

Telemachus swallowed hard. He knew what came next.

Who would the prince choose?

He didn't have to think.

His eyes lifted—straight to the royal box.

There was no question.

.☆. .✩. .☆.

Once again, Penelope was cheering for her son, her voice hoarse from the endless praise she had showered upon him throughout the tournament. Tears streamed down her face, her emotions overflowing as she clutched onto Odysseus' arm. "That's my baby!" she nearly sobbed, laughing through her crying as she leaned against her husband, her entire body trembling with pride.

Odysseus, merely smiled, resting a hand over hers as he nodded. "He did well," he murmured, voice filled with something softer than usual. "More than well."

You barely registered their conversation, too caught up in the sight before you.

The Favor Ceremony.

You hadn't been thinking about it—not until you saw Telemachus leading his stallion toward the royal box.

Your breath caught in your throat.

The murmur of voices in the stands swelled around you, whispers overlapping in a rush of speculation.

"Of course, it will be the Brontean princess—" "It should be expected. A strategic move—strengthening ties between their kingdoms—" "They've been seen together often, haven't they? It makes sense—" "Oh, but didn't you see the way he looked at her? It must be her—"

Your fingers tightened around the folds of your skirt.

Across from you, just a few seats away, Andreia sat poised, her posture immaculate. Where Penelope was all warmth and unfiltered emotion, Andreia was the picture of restraint. Composed. Expectant.

Her long lashes fluttered as she dipped her chin just slightly, her lips curving into a soft, knowing smile. At her side, one of her handmaidens, barely able to contain her excitement, whispered breathlessly, "He's coming for you, Princess."

Andreia's fingers flexed subtly over the armrest of her chair, her emerald-green eyes locked onto Telemachus as he approached.

The perfect, political choice.

Your stomach twisted.

I can't watch.

You turned your gaze downward, your heartbeat hammering against your ribs, bracing yourself for the inevitable.

A hush fell over the royal box, the weight of the moment pressing down like the thick summer air. You kept your head lowered, breath shallow, pulse pounding so fiercely in your ears that you barely registered the soft rustling of fabric beside you—Andreia bowing, her hands delicately positioned, waiting.

Waiting to accept what was rightfully hers.

Then—your name was called.

Your stomach dropped.

You barely had time to process it before you felt an excited shake on your right, Penelope's eager hands grabbing onto your arm. "Look, look!" she whispered, giddy and breathless, practically bouncing in her seat as she pointed in front of you. "Oh, look, my dear!"

Blinking, dazed, you lifted your head.

Telemachus was looking at you.

Your breath hitched.

There he sat atop the white stallion, golden flower crown in hand, his expression exhausted yet alight with something unmistakable—a quiet, certain joy. His lips curled into a crooked grin, though the effort of it looked like it pained him slightly, dried blood cracking along his cheek. His body bore the marks of the battle—a tapestry of bruises blooming along his ribs, his tanned skin smeared with dirt and sweat, remnants of fine oil still glistening over his chest.

And yet, even battered, even barely standing, he was still so devastatingly Telemachus.

His eyes locked onto yours, unwavering.

Then, in front of the entire festival, he spoke.

"Will you accept my favor?" His voice was rough, hoarse from exertion, but there was nothing uncertain in it. His grip tightened around the flower crown. "My admiration?"

The world around you seemed to crash all at once.

A wave of gasps echoed through the stands, sharp and unrestrained. The shock was palpable, whispered voices rising in fragmented disbelief. You caught movement out of the corner of your eye—Andreia's two attendants stiffening in place, one of them inhaling sharply, the other's eyes widening as though they'd just witnessed something impossible.

Because this? This was impossible.

And yet... here he was.

The weight of his words, of his choice, pressed into your chest like a hand gripping your heart. The world blurred at the edges—faint murmurs, the shifting of bodies, the gasps of stunned spectators—but none of it mattered. Not when he was there, looking up at you with unwavering certainty, waiting.

Your fingers moved before your mind could catch up, reaching up to the golden laurel crown resting atop your head. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing. You lifted it carefully, the cool metal warmed by the heat of your skin, and cradled it in your hands for a brief moment.

Then, with deliberate steps, you moved forward.

The festival grounds seemed to hush under your movement. You barely registered Penelope's delighted hum beside you, nor the way Odysseus quietly straightened in his seat, watching with an expression you couldn't quite place. You didn't allow yourself to glance at Andreia, though you could feel the weight of her stare burning into the side of your head.

None of it mattered.

You reached the balcony's edge, standing directly above Telemachus. His stallion stirred slightly beneath him, but the prince himself remained perfectly still, his bruised and battered frame seemingly locked in place as he watched you approach.

Slowly, carefully, you leaned forward.

Telemachus lifted the flower crown.

The moment stretched, suspended in time.

He raised it toward you, his fingers brushing over the woven petals with reverence, before gently placing it upon your head. His movements were careful, almost hesitant, as if ensuring not a single bloom was disturbed.

Your breath stilled.

His hands lingered for just a second longer than necessary, his fingertips grazing the side of your temple as he adjusted the wreath into place. The touch sent an unbidden shiver down your spine.

When you finally pulled back, he didn't move.

He was still looking at you.

His lips parted slightly, his breath slow, controlled, as if he was memorizing this moment, memorizing you. His gaze—warm, steady, something more—held you in place, pulling you into a quiet world where only the two of you existed.

Then, with a slight furrow in his brow, Telemachus reached up again.

A stray petal had caught in your hair, tangled amongst the strands. He removed it with gentle precision, his fingers just barely ghosting against your skin.

The cheers from the Ithacan crowd finally broke through, deafening, all-consuming, but his eyes never left yours.

And in that moment, as his fingertips brushed the petal away, you wondered if he could hear the way your heart was pounding.

A sudden swell of applause and the announcer's booming voice shattered the fragile moment between you and Telemachus.

"The victor of the Trial of Two Disciplines has chosen his favor!" The words echoed across the tournament grounds, rippling through the stunned crowd. "Prince Telemachus of Ithaca has dedicated his victory to none other than the kingdom's newly inducted Divine Liaison!"

A second wave of cheers erupted, drowning out your thoughts. You barely registered the continued announcement as the herald declared the tournament's official closing, informing the festival-goers that celebrations would continue until the grand feast later that night. The words passed over you in a blur, distant and hazy.

Because your heart was still hammering.

Because when your gaze met Telemachus' again—just for a fraction of a second—you could see it there, plain as day. The unspoken weight behind his choice. The certainty in his eyes.

And the realization that he had meant it.

Your breath shuddered slightly as you finally forced yourself to step back, retreating to your seat. The moment you sank down, Penelope shot forward, taking your place at the edge of the balcony in an explosion of pure maternal joy.

"My darling boy!" she cried, practically throwing herself over the railing.

You watched, half in shock, as she reached for Telemachus so suddenly that for a brief, horrifying second, you thought she might actually drag him off the horse and into the royal box. The prince barely had time to brace himself before his mother wrapped her arms around his head, squeezing him like a child who had returned from war.

Telemachus let out a strangled sound, caught between a laugh and a gasp as he struggled to remain upright. "Mother—!"

Penelope paid no mind to his protests. "You were brilliant! Flawless! I have never been prouder in my life!" Her voice wavered as she peppered his dirt-smudged face with adoring kisses, her hands cupping his cheeks as if to ensure he was truly there. "My strong, clever son—did you see him, Odysseus? Did you see how he outmatched that brute?!"

Odysseus was already moving behind her, his expression torn between amusement and exasperation. "Penelope," he said, chuckling as he reached to steady her, his broad hands settling on her waist. "You'll kill the boy before he can even enjoy his victory."

Penelope huffed, but finally—reluctantly—loosened her grip, giving Telemachus room to breathe.

Odysseus exhaled, his smirk fading slightly as he regarded his son with an appraising look. For a moment, the clamor of the festival faded into the background. Something unreadable flickered across the king's features—pride, certainly, but something deeper as well.

Then, as he reached forward to clasp Telemachus' shoulder, he spoke.

"Athena would have been proud," he murmured, his voice quieter than before, yet weighty. Knowing. "You've done her wisdom justice today, my son."

Telemachus blinked, his breath catching slightly at the words. Unsure if it was because of the rare depth of his father's praise—or because, for a fleeting moment, he wondered if he had, in fact, heard her voice guiding him.

Either way, he only nodded, his throat bobbing as he swallowed thickly.

Before the moment could settle, a familiar voice broke through the space between you all, shattering whatever spell had been woven in the aftermath of victory once again.

"An impressive display, Prince Telemachus."

Andreia.

Her voice was smooth, composed, effortlessly slipping into the moment as if she had always belonged there. She stepped forward, her eyes sharp with something unreadable as she regarded Telemachus with a soft, polite smile.

"To best Sthenelos in a match of strength is no small feat," she continued, folding her hands in front of her as she tilted her head. "He is our strongest fighter back home, undefeated among our warriors. A true Brontean through and through."

You couldn't help but notice how she phrased it—our strongest. Our warriors. A reminder, perhaps, that this was still a game of politics, that this was still Bronte's loss as much as it was Ithaca's victory.

For his part, Telemachus met her gaze steadily, inclining his head in acknowledgment. "Thank you, Lady Andreia," he said, his voice even. There was no arrogance in his tone, no gloating—only measured respect. "He was a formidable opponent."

And yet, as he shifted slightly in the saddle, his body betrayed him.

A small wince. Barely there, but noticeable enough.

Penelope's sharp inhale was immediate. "Oh, my love, you're hurt!"

Before Telemachus could so much as take another breath, the queen was already reaching for him again, hands fluttering uselessly as she examined him from every angle, her panic bubbling to the surface. "Is it your ribs? Your arm? Gods, is he dying?!"

"I forget how animated you get when you drink, my love," Odysseus whisepred under his breath, letting out a long-suffering sigh as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Penelope, he is not dying."

She turned on him, her eyes wide. "But what if he is? What if he's holding it in, just like you always do?" She spun back toward Telemachus, gripping his arm as if she could physically keep him upright through sheer force of will. "Telemachus, sweetheart, tell mommy the truth, are you dying?"

The prince, to his credit, didn't laugh. His lips twitched slightly, but his tone remained as placating as ever. "I'm fine, Mother," he assured her, though the lingering ache in his ribs suggested otherwise. "Just a few bruises."

"You bled," she countered, horrified. "You—"

Odysseus placed a steady hand on her shoulder, guiding her back with the patience of a man who had lived through this many times before. "He won," he reminded her. "Which means he's not broken. And he has time to recover before the feast." His gaze then lingered on Telemachus for a moment, unreadable yet sharp, like he was weighing something in his mind before making a decision.

Then, with a slow nod, he spoke, his voice carrying the authority of a man who had seen enough battles to recognize when someone needed tending.

"Go to the physicians, and get patched up," he instructed his son, the words leaving no room for argument.

Telemachus opened his mouth, perhaps to insist that he was fine, that he could walk it off, but before he could utter a word, his father's gaze flickered away from him—landing squarely on you.

"Or," Odysseus mused, his tone shifting into something more considering, "you can let her heal you instead."

You blinked. "M-Me?"

"Of course you," Penelope huffed, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. She turned to you with wide, pleading eyes, her grip tightening around Odysseus' arm. "You're the Divine Liaison! And Apollo has clearly blessed you! Please look after my son!"

Your stomach twisted, caught between shock and something resembling nerves. Sure, you had healed minor wounds before—scratches, bruises, maybe a deeper cut here and there—but this? This was Telemachus, and whatever had just transpired in the ring had left his body marked with more than just surface wounds. His lip was split, his ribs likely bruised, and there was no telling if anything deeper had been injured.

Odysseus, ever the tactician, nodded along to his wife's request, agreeing without hesitation. "While you do that," he said, adjusting his hold on Penelope, "I'll take her to the physicians in hopes of sobering her up a little before the feast."

"I am sober," Penelope protested, though her words were punctuated by a hiccup.

Odysseus smirked, clearly unconvinced. "Of course, my love. I meant even more sober."

At his words, Penelope cheered, clapping her hands together with a bright, tipsy sort of delight. "Oh, wonderful! That way, I'll be fully ready for tonight's festivities," she beamed, swaying slightly before gripping Odysseus' arm for balance.

Then, as if remembering something vitally important, she turned back to you, eyes sparkling with excitement. "Speaking of tonight! You will be playing, won't you, dear?"

You nodded, still a little dazed from the whirlwind of everything that had just happened. "Yes, my queen," you confirmed. "I was already planning on performing, but..." You hesitated briefly, then continued, a small smile pulling at your lips. "I'll also be debuting a new instrument tonight. It was a gift."

Penelope gasped, her fan snapping open in delight. "A gift?" she echoed, as if this was the most scandalously wonderful news she had heard all day. "How exciting! I simply cannot wait to hear it."

Before you could react, she leaned forward suddenly and pressed a soft, motherly kiss to your forehead. The unexpected warmth of the gesture left you stunned, frozen in place as she pulled back with a knowing smile. "Be sure to drink plenty of water before you play," she instructed, patting your cheek gently. "And don't forget to stretch. Very important."

You blinked. Stretch?

Penelope, evidently pleased with her words of wisdom, turned back to her husband, content with whatever chaotic motherly duty she had just fulfilled.

From the side, Telemachus let out a low chuckle. "I'll let Eurythia know to get her a bath ready," he mused, shaking his head fondly at his mother's antics.

You let out a quiet breath, still reeling from the sudden affection, and got to your feet as well, knowing it was time for you to leave. As you straightened your dress, Telemachus cast you one last glance, something unreadable flickering behind his tired but amused gaze.

Then, with a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, he turned, lightly pulling at his horse's reins and steering it away toward the lower levels of the stadium.

Odysseus, ever the patient husband, simply sighed and tightened his grip around Penelope's waist to steady her as he began leading her toward the exit. "Come along, my love."

Just as you were halfway down from the royal box, carefully following behind them, Penelope called over her shoulder.

"Ah! My fan, dear—would you mind?" she asked, her voice airy but affectionate. She was leaning into Odysseus' side, her weight resting against him as he effortlessly supported her. The scene almost looked natural, as if he were merely holding her as lovers did rather than keeping her upright.

You paused on the steps, nodding. "Of course, my queen," you replied without hesitation, already turning back.

As you ascended the few steps back into the emptying box, your eyes immediately landed on her fan, resting on the cushioned seat she had occupied earlier. You walked over, fingers lightly brushing over the delicate embroidery—gold-threaded olive branches twisting around its frame. Just as you grasped it, the quiet sound of footsteps made you freeze.

Turning slightly, you found yourself face-to-face with her.

Andreia.

She stood at the entrance of the royal box, her green eyes sharp as they swept over you, taking in the sight before her. For a moment, she said nothing, but the silence spoke—it weighed heavy in the air between you. Her gaze flickered across your face before landing, unerringly, on the flower crown resting atop your head.

Her expression barely shifted, but something in her posture stiffened—just for a breath, just for a second.

Then she smiled.

A slow, calculated thing.

The kind of smile that wasn't meant to comfort but to disarm.

"I must admit," she finally said, tilting her head slightly as if studying you like one might a chessboard, "I hadn't expected this outcome."

You held your ground, fingers tightening slightly around the fan, but you refused to look away. "The prince made his choice," you replied simply.

Andreia let out a quiet hum, stepping further into the box, letting her fingers trail idly over the railing as she peered down at the lingering crowds. "Yes... he did." Her voice was light, almost amused. "But we both know that choices made in the heat of the moment are often... impulsive" Her gaze flickered back to you. "And impulsive choices rarely last."

The implication sat between you, heavy and unspoken.

You swallowed, keeping your face carefully neutral, but she wasn't finished.

"Power is not won by fleeting gestures," she continued, voice soft but pointed. "Not by sentiment or spectacle." Her fingers, adorned with gold rings, tapped idly against the railing. "True power is won through patience. Through cunning. Through the long game."

Your eyes narrowed slightly, but Andreia was already turning away, her attention shifting as one of her handmaidens approached hesitantly, head bowed.

She spared you one last glance, her smile as composed as ever. "Enjoy your moment, Divine Liaison," she murmured, brushing past you gracefully. As she passed, you barely caught the hushed words she directed toward the servant at her side.

"Let them celebrate," she said, voice a whisper of silk. "The board is only just being set."

Then, with a final glance over her shoulder, Andreia disappeared down the corridor, her handmaidens following wordlessly behind her.

You stood there for a moment, unmoving, Penelope's fan clutched in your grasp. The air in the box suddenly felt cooler, sharper, as if her presence had left something behind—a warning, a promise, a calculation yet to be fully revealed.

It wasn't until the distant sound of a trumpet signaling the next event rang through the festival that you finally exhaled, pushing away the unease curling at the edge of your mind.

Then, with your head held high, you turned and left the box.

A/N: i'm sorry, tipsy penelope?? a damn vibe. and lowkey why cant andreia get the hint nobody want her there?? like bitch everyone went quiet TWICE when you came through... the sign aint go get much bigger than that fr 😩 also, lets talk about the action scene cuz i really ate that up fr

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog

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frenchcurious · 3 days ago

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Dodge Power Ram W250 4×4 pickup 1990. - source Bring a Trailer.

#dodge #cars

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chadscapture · 9 months ago

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Dodge Power Ram

#Dodge Power Ram #plainfield

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the-fandom-is-now-my-life · 6 months ago

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Hi, hello, are you taking writing requests? 🥺 do you think you could write something with Haru? I don't really have anything in mind, so it can be whatever you feel like, fluff, yandere or smut (as long as it doesnt have a sad ending lol) (｡>﹏<｡) I'm desperate for some Haru stuff and I love your writing so much!!!

Be careful with snakes!

Haru had the nicest dream/hallucination after being bitten by a snake.

Wc: 1,9k

Notes: I wanted to follow the future family idea we had going on but it didn't end up being as much of a future as it was his inner wishes. But it's cute! Haru just wants a calm and domestic life here.

This took longer than I expected... ndjdj

Chillingly cold winds awaken Haru roughly, seeping through the white cotton button down and hitting his pale skin causing goosebumps. Opening his eyes just enough to see sunlight above him almost completely obscured by the leafy treetops, he comes with the most likely possibility.

“Did I pass out again?” Haru scratches the nape of his neck, he was using his stigma pretty frequently lately and he might have skipped dinner and breakfast before using it today but it was unlikely that he passed out just because he was low on glucose, he has used it in worse condition and came out pretty alive!

Even then, he guesses it's better to cut possible losses short, drag himself to the dorm and do some damage control with the anomalies because it's very unlikely that Towa or Ren suddenly got the calling to help around for once.

Looking around, what does feel unsettling even if just a second is how different the forest area looks compared to the last time he scouted the area. The terrain uncharacteristically steep compared to the usually plain jabberwock and the weirdly vast amount of fir and spruce when most of the trees were oak or anomalous species.

Regardless, he brushes off whatever worry he could conceive. It isn't abnormal for Jabberwock to experiment sudden changes to account for new anomalies entering and leaving it, that could easily explain the trees and plants and the geography, while harder to change, it's still possible.

What was more concerning was his overall disorientation, if he could get to his dorm that would be great, did he walk towards or against the sun? He doesn't even remember how he managed to get himself here.

While looking down at the dry and rocky dirt trying to find footsteps a familiar voice presents itself as a better clue.

“Hey, stop it, be nice” the familiar childish reproach that you would tell to the miniature rams when they fought for territory, even when he explained they were totally grown and it was normal for them to fight, reaches his ears and he lets out a sigh in relief, he could at least trust in you to take care of some anomalies even if just for a little while.

As much as he loves his housemates he can't lie and say they are good at anomalously animals husbandry, Towa is quite a ditz and forgets feeding times and what each anomaly can eat -and tends to electrocute them but he doesn't know that- and Ren refuses to work around aquatic areas and if forced to he will audibly whine while doing it.

Still, knowing that you didn't have any real powers to protect yourself if any of the anomalies got rowdy, he decides to slide down the face of the mountain to where your voice is, maybe you will be able to guide him back to the dorm or explain to him what was happening. Sadly, he has to slide normally down the vertiginous terrain without using bahnti, it wouldn't be helpful to black out again and the heaviness settled in his head didn't give him a positive outlook.

Angling down his foot just right and working along gravity, Haru starts surfing down a wave of dirt and rocks while dodging the branches and stumps on the way down the slope and soon enough reaches the foot of the mountain with slightly dirty clothes.

At the foot there is a small area blending the sharp and angular mountain range and a somewhat plain surface spotting a cozy cabin. Around it there was a grown up Peekaboo and a log thrown in the dirt, where you were seated holding a white fluff.

That was Peekaboo! How did he not notice he wasn't in his baby carrier?! His hand lingers on his abdomen but he doesn't feel the fabric of the carrier, it must have fallen off and you found his little one.

“Natsu, you can't hurry how fast Pukaboo eats, he will get a tummy ache otherwise” you tell calmly but firmly to someone behind you. As Haru walks closer he sees a redheaded kid no older than 4 hanging from the same arm holding the bottle.

After walking a few meters away from the thickest part of the forest he seems to have caught your attention finally, if the way your head snapped up is anything to go by. With a smile on your lips you usher the kid away.

“There is your papa, why don't you help him feed peekaboo” and in 2 seconds a kid smashes face first against his abdomen and pulls him towards the big white fluff. As it unrolls from the furry sphere, it seems to perk up when it sees him, nudging its head against his leg. As he went to pet it the child pulled his hand back.

“Don’t pet him, papa, Peekaboo ate my chia pet! I hate him now” at the harsh words the creature whimpers, offended. His Peekaboo does make a habit of eating wild plants whenever Haru isn't monitoring his playtime but this is obviously a grown up of the same species, not a little baby.

“Peekaboo? But this little dude is huge! Peekaboo is small enough to carry” he laughs while scratching his neck.

“Hm? Silly papa, Pukaboo is the tiny one, Peekaboo always was biggg” and almost to make a point the child extends his arms wide on the last word. The grown Peekaboo, supposedly his Peekaboo, keeps looking at him expectantly and tilts his fluffy head in just the same angle his baby would when begging for treats or scratches.

“Natsu, how do you intend to feed peekaboo without food? Go inside and get your dad the lettuce, it's in the kitchen sink” now finished feeding what Haru thought was his peekaboo you started walking towards them with the cub in your arms.

Natsu slides away, a smile splitting his face in two, such a helpful kid, Haru can't help but think that he almost wishes Ren was as eager to help as him.

Watching as the cub is put down next to its father and how quickly it hurries under his fur to hide from the cold and, without thinking about it, Haru laughs loudly. Even if anomalies weren't pets he himself admitted they were particularly cute when the temperature starts to drop. And they start being less aggressive and bite-y.

“Just like Natsu when he was a baby, don't you think? He would usually fight with Pukaboo to see who snuggled under your arm” in a friendly gesture your elbow him but soon your playful tone turns sober, and your eyes darken with worry “did something happen? You left before breakfast without even leaving a note”

He stays uncharacteristically quiet, what could he even say? He doesn't even remember why he was out and about in the first place but you seem to have taken his silence as bad news.

“Did the new specimen not adapt well to here?”

“Ah, it's not that!”

With a sigh of relief you giggle “Did the director try to get you to act like a forest ranger for the normal part of the park? He never learns, huh?” linking your arms you start dragging him to the cabin, speaking lightheartedly about what he would like to eat, how you fed the anomalies or how fast Pukaboo and Natsu are growing.

Allowing himself to be dragged inside, into the welcoming warmth emanating from the fireplace and his family, the heavy knots tied inside his muscles relax feeling belonging in the little cozy home.

Hanging by the small foyer, you urge him to take off his muddied mountain boots to not drag dirt inside and he compiles without a word, sliding with his white socks on the hardwood floors.

“Daaaaad, can you help me open this?” the little redhead approaches him jumping with a little tin can on his hands but you snatch it.

“You can't eat sweets before lunch”

“But dad always eats gummies before leaving”

“Those are collagen gummies for his joints, not sweet ones” The kid pouts and runs off to his room, in response you only roll your eyes and return the treat to the kitchen cabinets “you need to eat something. There is toast, some cereal…”

“Cereal is good” it isn't often that he gets hounded to take care of himself, Elias would sometimes tell him off for overexerting himself or peel him apples whenever he inevitably ended up in the infirmary, but the fuzzy tingling in his chest at being taken cared of by someone else tickles a part of his brain so nicely.

Allowing himself to be swayed by the arm pulling him into your arms and down to the sofa, he feels coddled like a sick little child.

A hand rakes his hair while both of you look at the empty wall in front of the sofa until a tiny bit squeaky voice whines.

“Hey! Don't cuddle without me!” your kid's voice whines as he throws himself at his dad's stomach, attempting to burrow between his parents and almost making the bowl slip from Haru's hands.

“Be careful! You are going to make a mess with the milk!” Even as you chastise him you still throw an end of the blanket over his head, encouraging him to burrow further and you yourself lay your head on Haru's, making a sort of cocoon with hugs and blankets.

Your warm breath as you laugh fans against his skin causing goosebumps but he leans against you, cheek resting against your collarbone and his ear just snug enough against your skin to catch the heartbeat lying under it.

“Haru?” You ask him and he lets out an acknowledging hum but you don't relent “Haru? Haru, Haru?”

With each repetition of his name it almost feels like you are getting further and further away from him. It isn't like he would be able to check, his eyelids suddenly weighted down like concrete. Being unable to open his eyes makes Haru notice how the rest of his body is also too heavy to move even one inch.

A heavy hand grasps his forearm, turning it around to show the inner side and pricks the skin to inject something making him progressively harder to hang onto his consciousness. A string of tiny whispers reaches his ears.

“He still doesn't wake up”

“If you account for his less than optimal sleep schedule and the hyperpyrexia from the venom it isn't weird he is still out. Why don't you return to class?”

“Are you sure? I would like to see him wake up before leaving though”

“Luckily you brought him soon enough but he still needs to rest”

The sun is settling down the horizon when Haru wakes up for good, no more fog clouding his mind and his muscles working as he intends. He is able to sit up before a mortkraken student notices he is awake.

“Oh, good, you are finally up”

“Did something happen?”

“seems like one of the snake like anomalies bit you” her eyes screen a piece of paper Haru guesses is his medical record. He does remember having to feed the tsuchinoko hatchlings, it is likely that one of them grew its fangs and bit his ankle without him noticing.

“Even if you are a ghoul you should take care of yourself, you know”

Without paying her much mind he says but gets brushed off “I had such a weird dream”

“The venom or the fever might have made you hallucinate, was it at least a nice dream?”

"very nice"

#tokyo debunker #tokyo debunker haru #haru sagara #tokyo debunker x reader

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masoncarr2244 · 2 years ago

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#forza horizon 5 #ferrari j50 #formula drift toyota gr supra #bmw m4 gts #subaru brz #chevrolet corvette c8 stingray coupe #dodge srt viper gts #honda civic type r #ram 2500 power wagon #toyota gt86 #forza #forzaedit #forza horizon #caredit #gamingedit #gameedit #videogameedit #gif #gifs

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actuallysaiyan · 1 year ago

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I Think You're Holding The Heart Of Mine(Part 2)

warnings: mentions of alcohol, my own spin on cursed techniques, Kento being such a sweetheart, some violence(just from the training), reader gets drunk, usage of the nickname "usagi-chan/bunny"

word count: 2.7k

pairings: Nanami Kento x Fem!Reader

summary: Kugisaki is convinced that you and Nanami are a thing so she thinks about her next plans to figure out how to get you to confess. When you go out to dinner, a third party is there to surprise you...and to buy you drink after drink after drink until you're drunk and Nanami has to take care of you.

taglist(Wanna be a part of this? Just message me): @beneathstarryskies

Part one! Part three!

“Ahhh so you and Nanami-sensei?” Kugisaki asks you as you usher her to a quiet place on the training field. She’s already got her hammer in her hand.

You laugh, “you and Itadori-kun have a good sense of imagination. But no, we are merely what they call “work spouses”. That’s all.”

You can tell she’s not really buying it, but she keeps quiet for the next little bit. She heads toward the clearing and gets into a fighting stance. You watch carefully as she begins to think out her first move, but you’re already ahead of her. Your fists are imbued with blue cursed energy, and from them a burst of water comes from them.

Kugisaki is so quick to deflect, and from that a sense of pride swells in your chest. She’s a tough cookie, this girl. She’s smart, clever and quick on her feet. She knows her worth and she knows how good her cursed technique is. You work on drawing forth another one of the powers of the twelve zodiac, a bonus from your own cursed technique.

You watch as Kugisaki has a hard time shooing off two cursed heads that have come from your own hands. The twins of Gemini try to bite her, and she swings at one of them. Then she slams her hammer down on the second one, just narrowly missing a bite from the other. The first one squeals in pain as one of her nails penetrate it.

“Very good, Kugisaki-chan!”

She scowls at your use of the honorific ‘Chan’, but she doesn’t allow it to distract her. She then watches you as you make a seal with your hands. This is the big one, the same Zodiac sign as your own. You’ve got a special pact with this one, and it will act on its own if you aren’t careful. Aries, the ram, charges towards the young sorcerer.

There’s a moment where you are sure she will be able to dodge it, and she almost does. But she is quickly knocked back on her ass, the ram dissipating as you call it back towards you. It disappears in a cloud of red smoke, and you know that you need to give Kugisaki a moment to breathe as she recovers from your attack.

“Well done!” You praise her, helping her to her feet.

She beams, “Thanks! I’ve been practicing!”

“I can tell. You’re getting very strong.”

You two catch your breath, speaking of other battle techniques. She’s becoming a very skilled sorcerer before your very eyes and it’s touching to see something like this. The fruit of your labor is blossoming beautifully. Someone was actually becoming stronger because of you, which was always something you doubted. When Gojo had asked you to take this job, you were sure he was losing it. But he’s got lots of faith in you.

“Hey sensei,” Kugisaki asks, hands behind her back. You know she’s scheming.

You smirk, “What is it?”

“Are you sure you and Nanami-sensei aren’t a couple? I wouldn’t tell anyone if you were!”

You laugh softly. If only she knew just how desperately you wanted her to be right. You’d keep it a secret if you knew it meant you could be with Nanami. You’d never tell a soul if it meant you could have his love all to yourself. Then you smile at her, ruffling her hair.

“Kugisaki-chan, I’m sure. It’s not a real relationship. Just a friendship.”

She seems so unconvinced. Which leads her to think up the next part of her plan. She knew she’d be getting the answer from you whether you liked it or not. She just had to do a bit of sleuthing. So for now, she drops the subject and pretends to be very much invested in the training. This makes you so happy and so proud of her work.

Little do you know, she’s got ulterior motives…

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪

You’re running a little late as you get to the pub. Training lasted a lot longer than you intended it to, and the paperwork you had to attend to took a little longer as well. By the time you got home, you were just answering the messages that Kento had sent you almost an hour before you got off work. You apologized profusely, but he really showed no signs of being angry. He just let you know the time and place, like the gentleman he is.

What you aren’t expecting to see is Satoru Gojo sitting next to him at the booth that was meant for just two. He’s quick to bounce out of his seat and wave at you excitedly. You see how annoyed Kento looks, but his face softens when he sees you approaching.

“I didn’t think we’d be three. But the more the merrier, yeah?” You ask Kento, who’s trying to hide his displeasure.

“Right you are.”

Gojo is practically hanging off of you. He was looking over Kento’s shoulder when he had sent you the text, which prompted the older man to declare he was joining you both. Gojo was also privy to some knowledge that the pair of you were definitely so deeply in love with one another, but you wouldn’t budge. He decided he’d be the one to get you both together.

“Ahhh usagi-chan! I’m so glad you’re here! Maybe you can help uptight Nanamin loosen up!”

You laugh at Gojo’s nickname for you, “What’s wrong with Ken? I think he’s just hungry.”

Kento’s face turns a little pink when you take up for him. He’s always happy whenever you defend him against Gojo’s rudeness and teasing. Nanami didn’t really mind the teasing too much, but he had wanted this dinner to just be the two of you. With a sigh, he downs his drink and flags down the waitress.

“Make it two, please.” You ask her, flashing your best smile.

You sit down in front of Kento, and you gasp as Gojo climbs over you to be able to sit snug between you two in the booth. He sighs overenthusiastically as he plops his head down on his palms. You notice he’s got a drink in front of him, and it looks very sweet and sugary.

“This is the…what did she call it now?” He asks himself, cupping his chin.

Kento sighs, “Sweet Sunrise.”

Gojo laughs, “Ah! Yeah the Sweet Sunrise!”

You roll your eyes playfully. Kento looks at you, his heart skipping a beat whenever you flash that angelic smile in his direction. Gojo isn’t dumb, he knows when you two are flirting with each other secretly. Despite you telling him that it was just a friendship and a work relationship, he knows it’s so much more deeper than that.

The waitress returns with a tray that holds yours and Kento’s drinks, and she sets them down in front of you. Gojo then takes the time to order another one of his sugary drinks. It’s a bit silent for a bit when she leaves.

“Soooo, tell us how training went today! How is the little Kugisaki-chan doing?” Gojo asks, tilting his head at you.

You take a sip of your drink, “She’s showing lots of promise. She is a skilled fighter.”

Kento chuckles, “She’s got a good teacher.”

You blush at his praise and thank him. Gojo then gets closer and he praises you as well, a smirk forming on his face when he sees how this affects Kento. Kento scowls softly, drinking more of his drink. Then he flags down the waitress once more, ordering some appetizers for all three of you.

“Awhhh Nanamin is treating us tonight, usagi-chan!” Satoru is beaming at this.

“It was supposed to just be us two…” Kento mumbles under his breath, drinking some more.

Gojo perks up, “What was that? Care to share with the rest of the class?”

You see how Kento’s jaw tenses and he looks like he’s ready to get into a physical altercation with the white-haired man. So you soothe Kento’s nerves by changing the subject and you ask Gojo about Megumi’s progress.

Gojo smirks, “Megumi is doing well. I think he’ll probably end up even stronger than me!”

You gasp. “Really?”

He nods, turning his body towards you. You’ve got him caught in a discussion, which will keep the attention off of Kento for a little bit. You really get so caught up in Gojo’s conversation that Kento begins to feel like he’s being ignored. Eventually, the waitress returns and everyone begins eating.

It’s not long before Gojo climbs over the top of the booth and declares he needs to pee. Once he’s out of sight, you let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding. You slide closer to Kento in the booth and you take his hand in yours and give it a very gentle squeeze.

“Ahh finally, I get to spend a little time with my husband.” You say with a little giggle.

Kento smiles genuinely, “I was beginning to think I’d have to pull Gojo off my honey. It was terrible to see him hanging off of you like that.”

You begin playing with his long fingers, your own fingers tracing the veins in his hand. The alcohol is definitely making you even more bold than usual. Kento’s heart races a little as you become so tender with him. He wishes it was just the two of you. He lives for these moments alone with you.

“Don’t worry, you’ll always be my favorite.” You coo softly, leaning even closer.

Kento stiffens, he can smell your perfume as you get closer. The way your fingers keep tracing the veins on his hand. Then you trace up and down his expensive timepiece. He knows you’ve always been curious about that watch of his. You’ve asked a few times about how much it costs, but he’s almost embarrassed about talking about how such a little thing costs. It feels frivolous at times, but buying it reminded him of his past as a salaryman.

“My, my,” Gojo says as he comes closer. You sigh softly. “What is this? Nanamin, you sly dog.”

Kento groans, “Don’t pay him any mind.”

You laugh at the interactions between these two. They sometimes act like some kind of old married couple. Gojo annoys Nanami, and Nanami tries his best not to let his senpai get to him. You wondered if there was anything else going on between those two, but it seemed like this was all it was. Just a senpai hellbent on annoying his kohai for the rest of time.

“Oh! Usagi-chan, you should have another drink!” Gojo knows he needs to amp this up if he wants to see anything happening between you and Nanami.

As if you were going to say no to that…

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪

You stumble as you make your way out of the restaurant. You have to lean on the blond sorcerer as he guides you towards his car. Gojo left a while back, but not after getting you nice and drunk. He knew that Nanami would love the opportunity to take care of his drunk little wifey.

“You alright, dear?” His tone isn’t even the slightest bit sarcastic for once.

You nod your head, “Jus’ a little tipsy…”

He helps you into his car, buckling you up in the passenger side. Then he makes his way to the driver’s side. He’s had considerably less to drink than you did. He opted out on the drinks that Gojo had been buying you all night long.

“I’ll bring you to yours,” Nanami says as he begins driving.

“No, please…I don’t wanna be alone.”

This surprises Nanami to know that you’d want to have company while you’re in this state. You lean back on the seat and groan. You wish you hadn’t had that many drinks. But Gojo was paying and he kept egging you on. After the fourth or fifth shot, that’s when you knew you had messed up.

Kento drives you both towards his place. He knows you need someone to take care of you right now. You watch as he makes himself towards the affluent part of the city and the car turns into an underground parking garage. He opens his window and presses his thumb to a fingerprint lock. The minute it acknowledges it’s him, the bar raises and allows the car to drive smoothly into the garage. Then Kento finds his spot and parks the car. Once the engine dies, he turns to you and brushes some of your hair out of your face.

“You sure you don’t want me to take you home?”

You shake your head again, “Please, just let me stay. I’m not feeling good.”

He could tell you weren’t well. Your face was pale and your eyes were shut. He gets out of the car and then walks over to your side. Kento is helpful as he gets you to lean against him. Then he brings you towards the lift, pressing the button to call it down to you both.

“Don’t worry about it. What kind of husband would I be to leave his wife on her own in her time of need?”

This makes you blush and your heart wrenches. In your drunken mind, you desperately wish it was the truth. You wish this was where you lived. You want to be his wife and have this kind of life with him. Once the lift gets down to the floor you’re on, Nanami helps you on and then presses the button for the penthouse floor.

It’s a little ways up as you lean against the blond sorcerer. He smells amazing, something musky and leathery. It must be some pretty expensive cologne. You know that Nanami has a lot of money to be able to drive the car that he does and live in such a fancy building. You think to yourself that you wouldn’t even care if he had money or not, you’d still be completely head over heels in love with him.

Once inside his penthouse suite, Kento helps you into the bathroom. Gently, he wipes your face and removes your makeup with a warm washcloth. Then he takes your hair out of the ponytail you usually have it in and brushes it out softly. You have never had anyone take care of you quite like this. Not even any of your previous boyfriends had ever done anything like this for you.

“Thank you, Ken.”

Your words warm his heart. You’re starting to look a little better. He helps you up and guides you over to the sofa. The two of you lounge about and he pulls his phone out. Then your whole body stiffens when he wraps his arm around you and pulls you close.

“Let’s order some more food, yeah? You’ll feel better if you eat something substantial.”

You nod your head and snuggle closer to him. He lets you scroll through his phone and choose what you’re going to order. Once it’s been ordered, he gets up from the couch to procure a few more things for you.

This gives you a chance to have a proper look around. His place is so beautiful and luxurious. Much more fancy than your own place. You wonder how life could be if you lived in a place like this.

When Kento returns, he’s got some pajamas for you and a bottle of water. He hands them to you, allowing you the chance to head back into the bathroom to change. You get dressed in the silky pajamas, relishing in the scent of his laundry detergent.

“There’s my pretty little honey,”

You swear you’ve died and gone to heaven when Kento speaks those words to you. He gathers you up in his arms, his own clothes changed from his usual suit and tie combo to a sweater and some sweatpants. You’ve never seen him look so comfortable.

“And you look cozy as well, my dear.”

Kento looks deeply into your eyes, his hands pulling you closer to him. It’s like time has stood still as he leans in closer. Your lips are a mere inches away when you hear a loud buzzing coming from the kitchen.

“Oh! It’s the food,” Kento declares, his cheeks red.

He reaches into his pocket to confirm that the driver is actually here. Then you watch as he goes to the buzzer and answers it.

If only…If only… you think to yourself. If only you hadn’t been interrupted.

#bacon.writes #nanami kento #nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami x y/n #Nanami Kento x you #Nanami Kento x reader #Nanami Kento x y/n #Nanami Kento fluff #nanami fluff #nanami imagine #nanami imagines #jjk nanami x you #jjk Nanami x reader #jjk x reader #work husband!nanami x you

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florencemtrash · 2 years ago

Text

Hummingbird: Chapter Four

Miguel O'Hara x Reader

What if the Earth-1610 (Miles’s universe) version of Miguel’s wife was actually Miles’s AP Art teacher?

Masterlist

Warnings: Violence and injuries

Seven months later

This shit was getting old.

One of Doc Oc’s tentacles rammed into Miguel’s side, tossing him against a wall and leaving a crack in the concrete. She smiled in satisfaction, oblivious to the spider-venom blaster he’d stuck to the underside of the mechanical arm. With a quick chirp and blast of energy the arm was blown off. It landed with a pitiful twitch on the ground as electricity sparked through its circuitry.

“Let’s go!” Hobie whooped, slamming his fingers down the guitar strings with so much force Miguel was surprised they didn’t snap in two.

Doc Oc screamed, blown backward by an eclectic spray of pink and purple newsprint.

Three arms down, five more to go… or so they thought.

New arms sprouted from their old stumps, flailing around for a brief moment before they shot out towards Hobie.

He barely dodged the series of blows.

“Is that hammer space, bruv?!”

Joder.

Hobie lept around the barren stage, launching battered amplifiers slathered in a dozen layers of stickers towards her. A stray limb punched through the drumset as Hobie spun out of the way.

He gasped. The amps they could replace, but no one fucked with his instruments.

“Is it time to call for backup?” Lyla asked Miguel as Hobie gripped the neck of his guitar (the battle-safe one of course) and swung at Doc Oc’s head.

“Do not call for backup!” Miguel growled in annoyance.

He could handle this.

“Yeah, I didn’t even ask you to come, mate!” Hobie yelled over the sound of Doc Oc sailing over the empty mosh pit and crashing into the guard rails. “I ain’t part of no band.”

“You literally just finished a concert three hours ago!”

“That got nothing to do with you.”

Miguel groaned, ready to bash his head into the wrecked drum kit.

No puedo más. No puedo más. He found himself thinking that a lot lately.

But as much as Hobie and Miguel liked to pretend they hated each other, they made a good team out in the field. They swung from the ceiling lights, electric blue and pink lights showering down on them in that crazed, photomontage way that tinged every part of Hobie’s world. It was enough to give Miguel a headache.

The worst part about the multiverse is that there was no telling what kinds of powers and modifications existed out there. For example, Miguel didn’t know a Doc Oc existed that had lasers shoot out of their tentacles.

“I feel like it’s time to call for backup.” Lyla repeated, casually watching from the safety of her AI existence as Miguel’s webs were split in two and he took a sickening punch to the jaw. He shook his head, blinking away the dots in front of his eyes as he took a moment to rest in the comfort of his rubble sofa.

“Do not call Jess. She’s on maternity leave.”

“I wasn’t talking about Jess.” Lyla grinned mischeviously.

Miguel narrowed his eyes, “No. Absolutely not.”

It was too soon, far too soon for him to drag you into a fight like this.

“CALL FOR BACKUP!” Hobie cried out from the confines of Doc Oc’s tentacles, squirming around and trying to use his head spikes to free himself.

“You weren’t saying that earlier!”

“THAT’S THE TOXIC MASCULINITY TALKING! YOU GOT TO BE COMFORTABLE WITH CHANGING YOUR OPINION AND ADMITTING YOUR FAU-”

A portal opened up stage left.

Miles swung out first, black and red suit standing out like an ink stain.

“¡¿Alguien pidió ayuda?!” Miguel could hear his smug smile through the mask.

“You already called him!?” Miguel scowled and hopped onto his feet, sprinting to join the fight as Miles landed his first punch against Doc Oc.

Relief flooded his system. He thought that-

“I actually called her.” Lyla said, pointing a finger with a grin.

Miguel’s heart skipped a beat.

You stepped through the portal, adjusted the gloves on your newly designed suit and teleported yourself onto Doc Oc’s back, casually blinking away any tentacles that got too close.

You were absolutely buzzing with excitement. Nevermind that you were currently blinking across spacetime to avoid the lazers that left behind scorched scars on the grass. This was your first real mission outside of occasionally helping Miles with his friendly neighborhood Spider-Man duties. And in Hobie’s dimension no less! Ever since you’d seen his unique color palette and design you’d been itching to see his world for yourself. Maybe you and Miles could take an impromptu field trip to the nearest museum afterwards.

“Lyla said you didn’t want to call me.” You said, happy with the way his eyes slightly widened beneath his mask. He coughed to clear his throat.

“You’re supposed to be at work.” Miguel said, tearing into Doc Oc’s tentacles with his forearm blades, “I didn’t want to bother you.”

“It’s summer break.”

“You said you were teaching summer classes.”

“I am! Only five kids are enrolled and he,” You tilted your head towards Miles, who waved back before he tore off an arm, "was the only one who could come to the Met field trip. Which you so rudely interrupted by the way.” The smile in your voice exposed the fact that you were quite ok with the interruption.

Miguel rolled his eyes half-heartedly, hoping you didn’t notice his restrained smile. “Let’s just get the job done.”

And you did.

Fighting a flesh-and-blood supervillain was a far cry from the simulations you’d fought at Spidey HQ where the only injury you could sustain was a blow to your pride when Lyla flashed the battle stats on the screen. Your training also didn’t account for the absolute chaos of working with a team. You nearly got in the way of one of Miles’s spider venom blasts and accidentally teleported onto Hobie’s back, throwing him off his rhythm long enough for a punch from Doc Oc to send you both crashing. Miguel had nearly lost his mind after that.

But after walking away from the fight with only a bruised jaw, cut upper arm, and a very disgruntled Doc Oc in tow, you were going to call your first real superhero outing a success.

“Sorry about earlier,” you said, extending a hand out to Hobie from where he groaned on the ground. He grabbed your arm and rolled onto his feet, shaking the dust off his jacket.

“Eh, it’s part of the learning.” He straightened his coat and reattached one of the pins he’d tucked safely away in his pocket, “Not bad for a first anomaly though.”

“Hmmmm, are we counting Spot?”

“No.”

“Damn.”

A shadow fell over your shoulder and you smirked, turning around on your heels to come face to face with Miguel. The fight was over, but somehow Miguel looked even more tense and irrate than before. Behind his back you saw Doc Oc yell and punch at the orange walls of her prison.

“Are you here to say good job?” You teased.

“Are you hurt?” He asked, voice tight.

Hobie brushed past you, “I’m good, cheers.” he said, patting Miguel on the shoulder before heading over to where Miles stared in awe at the anomaly. You felt more than saw Miguel roll his eyes.

“I wasn’t asking you.”

“I know.”

Hobie’s reply widened your smile. There was something glorious about seeing Miguel lose his cool. Normally you tried to get him to smile or laugh, but sometimes annoyance was an easier emotion to muster from him. It reminded you that beneath all that hard-won armour was a man just trying his best.

“I’m fine, Miguel.” You said.

He gently tugged at the bottom of your mask and you took the hint, pulling it off entirely. Miguel’s frown deepened as he gently tucked a finger beneath your chin and turned your face to the side, eyes narrowed in on your swollen jaw. You tried not to blush under his watchful gaze. It really wasn’t a terrible injury, and with your enhanced healing it would fade within a day, but it stll felt like a gut punch to Miguel.

You were used to this kind of attention from him. The first two months after joining the Spider Society had been a pool of uncertainty that you’d flapped around in with little control - you’d been uncertain about your powers, the multiverse and your place in it, and your relationship with Miguel… especially your relationship with Miguel.

His aloofness was only matched by his sincerity and once you’d forgiven him for what he’d done to Miles, you found him easy to like. His grouchiness and sarcasm pulled smiles from you as easily as water from a spring, and it didn’t escape anyone’s notice that you were the only one who could make him laugh and crack through his walls. But there was always that itch in the back of your mind that told you he only cared because you looked like his wife, not because you’d both grown to know and care for each other.

You tried not to think about it too often.

It made moments like these harder to handle.

“Nada que no pueda manejar.” You said softly, pulling his hand away and towards the anomaly, “Now come on. This anomaly isn’t just going to hop dimensions on its own.”

Miguel opened his mouth as if to say something, but ultimately relented, allowing you to lead him to where Hobie and Miles bent their heads towards one another, shooting jokes back and forth as easily as their webs.

Margo portaled in to help Miguel take Doc Oc to Earth-928 and you watched their retreating backs disappear with a blink before Hobie turned towards you and Miles, rubbing his hands together and pulling you both into his side.

“Now! Who’s ready to see some real art?”

______

“I can’t believe all the museums in your dimension are Koons-themed.” Miles said, slouching in his seat and looking positively disappointed.

“Why’d you think I took you to the back alleys, mate. Real art’s cheap.”

“Say that to my bank account after a trip to Blick.” You muttered, biting into your empanada with a groan of satisfaction.

You sat cross-legged on top of the bench, watching Margo’s cyber body split into two as the Go Home Machine whirred to life. Its metal claws clicked together, sounding like the chirping of birds as it spun its web around Doc Oc as she watched with no small amount of curiosity.

“You think you could ever do that?” Hobie asked, leaning against your shoulder and slinging his arm around you casually.

You raised your eyebrow, “What, forcefully send a living person back to their home dimension?”

He shrugged nonchalantly.

“You try interdimensional travel without your fancy watch and tell me how easy it is.” You said with a grin, poking at his side until he squirmed away with a chuckle. You took the opportunity to steal a french fry from him.

“Alright, alright, stop. I think you could do it.”

The four of you watched as the Go Home Machine finished its kaleidoscopic work. Miguel always had a clinical view of the work he did and the machines he created. Whenever it was traveling to another world, or encountering a new being (Spider-Person or otherwise) the last thing on his mind was beauty or a fascination with the ways things were. That’s where you two differed the most. So while Miguel hardly ever stayed around to watch the Go Home Machine run its science-magic, you always craned your neck to catch glimpses of the worlds beyond Earth-928.

“I better check in with Miguel.” You said, hopping off the table once Doc Oc was safely back in her home universe.

Hobie, Miles, and Margo all shot each other a knowing look before you could notice.

Now that school was out for the summer you found yourself spending more and more time on Earth-928, and after six months of training you could walk to Miguel’s lair from any part of the building with a blindfold on. The first few weeks you hadn’t been able to suppress the slight unease at entering the dark room where many of the captured anomalies would sneer at you like you were a meal to be hunted.

Now… not so much.

“You’re still here, Norm?” You asked, catching sight of the familiar gentleman who shrugged and smiled. He sat comfortably on the floor, purple hood and goggles abandoned beside him to expose his weathered face.

“Still here,” He repeated, “I suppose I’m not as high a priority to send home now that I’m not, you know, evil anymore.” He sighed, “I just can’t believe my luck. I leave an alternate universe and not even a year later I’m sucked into another one!” He chuckled.

“I’ll talk to Spider-Man about it.”

“Peter?!” His eyes brightened at the possibility.

“Ummm…no. Sorry.”

He nodded, shoulders deflating every so slightly, “Thanks anyway Spider-”

“Y/sh/n, actually.” Miles and Gwen had helped you come up with it.

“Well, thank you Y/sh/n.” He said and waved you on before he could steal more of your time.

“I told you it’s dangerous to talk to the anomalies.” Miguel said, eyes still trained on the screens as you blinked next to him. One day you’d manage to sneak up on him, but today was not that day.

You frowned when you saw he was still wearing his mask.

“Well you’re talking to me right now, aren’t you?” You said, bumping his shoulder with your own before climbing onto the empty space on his desk he subtly reserved for you.

Miguel stiffened and his fingers froze over the keys. It had taken you months to fully forgive him for all the terrible things he’d said and done to Miles - the things he may have said to you if you didn’t have his wife’s face… if you were just a regular anomaly.

“That’s not what I-.”

“You also said Earth-199999’s Peter Parker took care of the Green Goblin. I think we’re fine.”

He nodded and sighed. His eyes were killing him right now and even the faint flicking of the red-orange lights from the screens felt like blows to his skull.

“He wants to go home.” You said and saw his eyes flicker to the anomaly on the screen, red and tired.

“I know. He’s scheduled to be sent back tonight. I promise.”

You nodded with satisfaction and snapped your fingers, a pair of sunglasses blinking into the palm of your hand, “You should take a break. You’ve been working non-stop for over two days now.”

“I’ve got work to do.”

“The multiverse is not going to shatter because you take a thirty-minute lunch break, Miguel.”

He eyed you warily and shook his head, fingers flying across the touchpad like they were racing to win gold.

He always did this. He always worked himself to the bone until you would find him red-eyed and slumped over the tabletop for one of his thirty-minute “power-naps.”

“Lyla.” You called out. The woman appeared perched on your shoulders.

“You rang?”

“Can you please tell Miguel that the multiverse isn’t going to collapse before he does?”

“Ooooh you said please. I like you.” Miguel muttered a few choice words under his breath, “The multiverse is holding steady. I’ll alert you if anything changes at all.” Lyla winked at you and disappeared.

“Realmente necesito cambiar su código.” Miguel grumbled.

“¡Ni se te ocurra!”

Miguel tightened his lips but said nothing. You slid over to sit in front of him and pushed against his chest until he finally relented and sat down in the chair. He didn’t want to admit this, but the only reason he agreed to sit down was because he’d fractured two ribs in the fight, and you pressing against his chest hurt like a bitch.

“Did you really come all this way just to get me to rest?”

“Obviously.” You tossed the sunglasses into his lap along with the extra empanada you’d been carrying around the last half-hour. You hoped it was still warm, but then again, if it weren’t for you he probably wouldn’t have remembered to eat at all.

The corner of his mouth tilted up. “Gracias.”

“Solo cállate y come. Lo juro, es como si estuviera tratando de mantener viva una planta de interior. Una planta de interior muy obstinada.”

He tilted his head down, hiding his face as his mask disappeared.

You held your breath, reaching out instinctively to hold his face in between your hands. Color rushed into his cheeks, emphasizing the dark, purple bruise that crawled its way up from his jawline to his cheek bone, the flesh around it swollen and warm when you carefully traced it with your finger. The bridge of his nose was similarly bruised, the strong slope of his nose tilted ever so slightly to the left.

Miguel also stopped breathing, the pain hardly registering as he felt your eyes against his skin as physical and real as your hands.

You became all too aware of the closeness, the way he was looking at you. A familiar and malicious voice scratched the back of your mind - What are you to him? Who are you to him? Who is he really thinking about when he looks at you like that?

You let go of his face, your heart sinking in your chest.

“¿Qué te sucedió?” You murmured. His brown-red eyes were wide and soft.

He cleared his throat, disappointment gathering in his chest when you withdrew your hands, “I guess I should have called for backup sooner.”

“Where else are you hurt?”

“I’m not-”

“Where else are you hurt? Y no te atrevas a mentirme.”

Miguel melted under your fiery gaze. You weren’t one to show your anger - teaching teenagers had strengthened your patience - but Miguel had a special way of pushing your buttons, whether he knew it or not.

“I may or may not have cracked a rib… or two.”

“Miguel!”

“I’ll heal!”

“Estúpido, bastardo terco.” You muttered under your breath with no small measure of affection.

You reached over and gently pressed on his stomach, hearing him hiss in pain. He grabbed your arm to get you to stop, shame coloring his bruised cheek.

“I’ll be ok. I promise.” He whispered when you leaned down from your seat to inspect his jaw again. Any longer under your watchful gaze and he might just combust.

“I know you’ll be ok. I just…” Your lips tightened. “I don’t like to see you hurt.”

You’d been in this situation before with Miguel a few times. It always ended with him promising to take better care of himself, holding to that promise for a few weeks, and then falling back into old, self-destructive habits. The others said he had gotten better about taking care of himself ever since you’d come into the picture, but you found that hard to believe.

“I don’t like to see you hurt either.” He admitted, gently rubbing up and down your forearms. He eyed the tear in your suit, and the clean white bandage that peeked through.

Who is he really thinking of?

You told that voice to shut up.

“So you can imagine how worried I get when I see you like this.”

Miguel sighed, running his hands through his hair and mussing up the curls. He could imagine it all too well. Every time you left for your own dimension a knot of worry would sink in his chest like a boulder dropped into a lake, and it wouldn’t dissipate until the next time he saw you safe and whole. He flinched at the very thought of you sporting bruises and cracked bones like the ones he had - the scars he bore after years on the job.

“What would you have me do?” He asked, “I can’t just give this up.”

“I’m not- No one is asking you to. I know you need to do this. But you don’t have to do it alone. You know any of the other Spider-People would be more than happy to help monitor things in the Spider-Verse.”

“One - it’s the Arachnoid Humanoid Poly-Multiverse. And two - the other Spider-People aren’t like me. They can’t do what I do.”

“You’re right, they’re a hell of a lot funnier” He scoffed, setting his jaw in a scowl that had pain flaring up the left side of his face. “And they don’t go around punching teenagers.”

“That was one time!”

Your lips turned in a downward smile, trying to suppress your laughter at the indignant expression on his face. The scowl on his face slowly but surely loosened, twisting into a barely concealed smile.

“Stop doing that.” He muttered.

“Doing what?” You asked innocently.

“Getting me to smile and laugh. It hurts my ribs.”

“All the more reason to get some rest, Miguel.” You said, ruffling his hair and gleaming with satisfaction when he finally allowed himself to smile. You plucked the sunglasses from his lap and placed them on his face, careful not to upset his healing nose.

How was it possible that he hated and loved the way you said his name so much? He knew you cared for him. The first two months had been tense and filled with questions of what you were to one another - A mistake? A bad memory? Husband and wife? It had been a time when every touch, glance, and hidden smile had been given with a measure of uncertainty and restraint.

Miguel didn’t feel that way anymore. When you messed up his hair and forced his hidden smile out into the open he just saw you. Not some version of his wife. Not someone he’d barely known. Not someone he’d lost.

Just you.

“If I promise to take the night off to sleep and let Ben and LEGO Peter take care of it, would that satisfy you?”

You hummed in thought, “How many hours of sleep are we talking about?”

“Four.”

“Seven.” You countered.

“Five.”

“Deal.” You stuck out your hand, a wide grin on your face that Miguel matched when he shook your hand.

“What would I do without you?” He asked sarcastically.

You scoffed, “Shrivel up and die, probably.”

<- Previous chapter Next chapter ->

_________

Author's note: Here's Chapter Four! Y/n is feeling some insecurity about her relationship with Miguel... I wonder if that will come up again in the next chapter 👀...........

As always, please let me know your thoughts! Hope you enjoy :)

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