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maddieautobot273 · 1 year ago

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Silk & Cologne (54)

A Miguel O'Hara X OC Fanfic - link to AO3 (X)

Chapter 54: Dawn - previous chapter (X)

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x Female! Spidersona OC

Words: 5.8K words

Warnings: PG for injury and implied weapon of mass destruction

Summary: Lisa and her friends shut down the poral threatening to collapse Earth-1218.

//////

We all stared up at the portal in the sky, watching as it slowly sparked and crackled. It was becoming unstable. If it collapsed, would it simply be over and done with? It would go out in style and take my universe with it?

“What do we do now?” Noir asked, raising his voice as a large and loud gust of wind rush passed us.

“We need to figure out a way to contain it!” Miguel yelled back, using his body to brace and shield mine from the wind, or try to at least.

Panic rattled in my mind about the multitude of things that could go wrong. Even if we do contain it, what about the authorities? People would talk, ask questions. What about the national guard? The military?

Come to think of it, where are they?

A wave of guilt washed over me, “I probably shouldn’t have been too quick to kick Chameleon to the curb.”

“If you hadn’t, he would have taken me to God knows where,” Kasey shook her head as she glanced my way, her arms raised to shield her face from the wind. “You saved me, Lisa.”

“Don’t ever apologize for something like that,” Miguel reassured me. “In fact, I may have an idea on how to stop this. Well, two actually!”

“Let's hear it then before we’re blown away like leaves!” Gwen screamed, trying to keep herself and Touga from falling over.

“Lyla,” Miguel brought his gizmo up to his face, trying to scroll through the touch screen. “Remember Project: Reset? Back in the old Alchemax days?”

“Oh, do I!” Lyla grins as her holoform appears, rubbing her hands together like an eager grasshopper before cycling through the database on her personal screen.

“What’s Project: Reset?” I asked him.

I watched as a small portal opened beside Miguel and he reached inside it. He pulled his hand out, holding a strange looking sleek white baton. “Back during my early days in Alchemax when I first started, my old boss would have me occasionally work with the company’s R&D department. They were experimenting with a weapon that– with enough charge– could wipe and realtor people’s memory on a massive scale.”

“Sounds like a weapon of mass destruction to me!” Toya commented.

“It was, which was why I convinced my then boss at the time to shut it down before more could be made,” Miguel responded.

“Okaaay, but how does that help us with that?” I asked again, pointing at the portal as the integrity seemed to be getting worse.

“With the portal? Nothing.” Miguel yelled over the wind as he began to tweak and make altercations with the device. “Lyla, Margo, and Gabriel can work their magic from HQ and contain the blast, sending it directly back to Harry’s dimension and doing a number on his lab. At the same time, I can trigger this device to alter the town’s people’s memories so they won’t remember anything from the invasion.”

“That’s brilliant!” Hannah beamed, gripping onto Touga to keep still. “A little terrifying, but brilliant!”

“But what about everyone else all over the world that was watching the festival online or on TV?” Kasey asked. “They’ll know something is off if the people of New York suddenly act like this all never happened.”

“Remember the part I mentioned about charging the device?” Miguel recalled. His eyes scanned the area, looking up to the top of the Statue of Liberty, specifically the tip of the flame torch in Lady Liberty’s hand. “If I can get high enough, I can pick up the broadcast signal and transmit the wipe to everyone that was watching the show!”

“Perfect, let’s do that!” I exclaimed, eyes widening in relief.

“But there’s a catch,” Miguel quickly added, hooking his arm around my shoulders to stop me from blowing away. “I need to replace the memory of the invasion with something else-!”

“Like a fake memory or an actual event?” Noir asked.

“Definitely the ladder!” Miguel answered back in earnest.

“Like. . . like a canon event?” My mind was racing as I tried to figure out what new memory we could create to replace the one of the invasion.

I could sense the gears in his head turning as Miguel looked over at me. “Kind of, yeah!”

“We’re always saving the canon from breaking, so this will be a wonderful change of pace!” Gwen grimaced and pushed against the wind.

“So what kind of canon event?” Toya asked, his voice yelling over the wind. “It has to be something big right?”

Think, Lisa, think!

All of those people, in the audience and watching on TV, their phones, laptops, why were they all tuning in in the first place?

Then it hits me. How could I have been so blind?

“What about our show?” I suggested, looking out towards the team.

“The show?” Kasey repeated with more emphasis.

“Yes, the show. Our dance, you guys!” I exclaimed, my gaze washing over Kasey, Hannah, Toya, and Touga specifically.

My Webslingers.

“Everyone came to see our show, so let’s give them a show!” I fought against the wind with an encouraging smile as I took my mask off so they could see my face.

My friends looked at each other, silently debating what to do.

“But wait, you said it alters people’s memories,” Kasey spoke up, a look of worry on her face. “Does that mean our memories will be changed too?”

Miguel hesitated briefly as the eyelets of his mask drooped to a sad expression, his voice laced with apology. “The device has been altered to protect only those wearing a gizmo. So, yes. . . your memories will be altered.”

“Then. . . that means you guys won’t remember everything that’s happened. You all finally getting the chance to see the real Miguel. The real me. . .” The realization hit me as I felt my heart drop to my stomach.

My body suddenly felt heavy and limb. For a second, I thought I wouldn’t have to hide such a big secret from them anymore. I thought I’d be able to finally be my complete self around them.

I felt the grip of Miguel’s arm tighten around my shoulders, his silent apology plucking at my heartstrings.

“If by the odd chance this does work. . . might as well go out with a bang, right?” Touga shrugged with a contagious smile.

“What?” My voice was barely a whisper being carried out into the wind as I looked up towards my friends.

“Considering all of the crazy stuff that we’ve seen in the last hour?” Hannah gawked at her friend before sharing a glance with me and the rest of the group. “I’m in! I think this can work!”

“If Hannah’s in, I’m in!” Toya grinned, grabbing her hand before looking over at Kasey. “What about you, K?”

Kasey glanced between everyone else before her gaze fell upon me. My eyes poured into hers, pleading for her to trust me. She suddenly laughed, hysterical even, before waving her hands in the air. “You’re our friend, Lisa. Super hero or not. What the hell! This day can’t keep getting any weirder, right?”

I grinned in relief before looking over to Miguel, nodding my head. “Let’s go with your plan.”

“Alright, team, repair the stage as best as you can and get a camera set up. I’ll contact HQ and establish the signal at the top of the statue,” Miguel relayed his orders like the organized leader I knew him to be, watching as the Spiders set off to do their task. His gaze fell upon me and my friends. “Webslingers, do what you do best.”

I looked out to my friends, smiling confidently as I used my powers to leap for them, gathering them in my arms before web-slinging us closer to the stage.

“Gabriel, are you there? Did Lyla fill you in?” Miguel spoke in the background as he began running for the statue.

“Yeah, she did, but still struggling to believe it,” his little brother’s voice spoke through the com-link. “Project: Reset? Are you serious? You must be really desperate to whip that out all of a sudden.”

“Don’t start with me,” Miguel grumbled, muttering something else in Spanish that I couldn’t decipher, although I couldn’t help the faint smirk that formed on my lips when my friends and I arrived on the stage.

We quickly helped the others clean up the stage while they patched up broken and loose panels with their webbing. There was a lightning crackle like noise as I whipped my head up to the statue of liberty to see another portal open up just feet away from Harry’s portal. It was a portal from Spider Society HQ.

“Our portal is stabilized, Miguel,” Margo’s voice spoke up through the com-link. “Ready to go on your mark.”

“We’re just missing one more piece to this puzzle,” Miguel uttered softly in the com-link before raising his voice. “METRO! Are you still around?”

“Right here, boss man!” A new voice fluttered through the com-link as a white and black dressed spider swinged up onto the stage.

METRO’s spider suit had a black and white colour scheme that almost reminded me of the anti-venom spider-suit, but this one felt more personalized with a white spider necklace hanging low on his chest and a black with white spider webbing bandana wrapped around his forehead. The top part of his head was uncovered, giving way to his immaculately tailored dreadlocks of black and light aubrey brown coloured hair.

Wait a minute, METRO BOOMIN?!

“Wait, he’s a Spider-Man too?!” I gasped, eyes wide as I looked between him and the small speck of Miguel’s body clinging onto Lady Liberty’s torch. “But you said originally no spider-person could actually exist in my dimension!”

“That’s right.” Miguel responded quickly. “He’s not from your dimension.”

“Huh?” I gawked, my head trying to wrap around the concept as METRO quickly fixed and set up his DJ player and sound mixer.

“It’s true, Muse! I’d do the whole ‘Okay let’s do this one last time’ speech, but clearly we don’t got time for that,” METRO chuckled anxiously as he finished setting up. “I’m from Earth-101, I developed a psychic connection to my other dimensions personas. It’s how I’m here. Call me Metro-Spider.”

“O-Okay?” I wasn’t sure exactly how to respond to that, but I at least offered him a reassuring thumbs up.

“Okay, we’re ready!” Hannah exclaimed as she and the others joined me on stage.

Leave it to Hannah to accidentally leave her bag backstage with backup costumes for all of us in the event something horribly went wrong. Loose stitching? Fabric got ripped? Trying escaping an enemy anomaly invasion and potential dimensional destruction.

“Okay, Miguel, we’re in position!” I exclaimed through the com-link as I looked around the newly rebuilt stage, held together miraculously by our spider friends webbing and looked over as they each got cameras set up aimed towards us.

“Cameras are primed and ready to roll!” Gwen chimed in, attaching the reset adaptor to the camera and the little device blinked green, indicating its connection to Miguel’s wand.

“Here goes nothing!” Miguel took a deep breath. “But if this doesn’t work–”

“It’s going to work, Miguel,” I insisted, my gaze locking on to his body. “Trust me.”

I could feel our gazes locked on to one another, even at such a long distance apart. I felt a long caress down our bond, soothing me, both of us, as I breathed in and out slowly. In that moment my mind flashed back to when we danced together for the first time, he way he held me close, and when he whispered to me those same words I sent out to him through our bond.

‘Do you trust me, Miguel?’

‘With my life, Lisa.’

“Let’s do it!” I called out as I launched a web to connect with the webbing along the stage, my player syncing with METRO’s sound system.

“We’re coming to you live!” Noir announced with a signature radio actor voice, signaling us to start.

I suddenly felt a tap on my wrist. I glanced over to see Kasey had leaned in closer to me, whispering, “If you still want to tell us about the whole super hero spider thing after all this is over, just come talk to us. We’ll think it’s crazy, but I know you’ll convince us otherwise.”

I smiled softly at her, giving her hand a squeeze. “Thanks Kasey. I’m glad to have you as my friend.”

She smiled back before pulling away.

Music started to play, the familiar violins and drum beats fluttering our ears as my friends and I started to dance, picking it right up from where we left off before the world seemed to go to shit.

“I'm still fighting, I don't fear I've lost

Am I dreamin', is there more like us?

Got me feelin', like it's all too much

I feel beaten, but I can't give up!”

I cast a comforting glance to Kasey who was startled at first, expecting us to start from the beginning. After giving her an encouraging nod, motioning for her to follow my lead, she immediately stepped up and danced in sync with us.

“Here we go!” METRO yelled excitedly.

“I can't find it in myself to just walk away

I can't find it in myself to lose everything!”

I closed my eyes, and it was like we were back in our dance studio, learning this dance for the first time.

We all turned, forming a circle as Touya, Touga, Hannah and I surrounded Kasey. We all reached our arms out towards her as she crossed her arms over her chest, something similar to the Wakanda Forever salute before flexing her arms down to her sides. As she did that, the rest of us dropped to one knee, kneeling as we bowed our heads to her.

Just like before. Just like we practiced.

“You’re doing great,” I whispered softly to them all.

“Feel everyone's against me, don't want me to be great

Things might look bad, I'm afraid to look death in the face!”

“One, two, three, LET’S GO-!” Metro-Spider shouted, a fist in the air.

That’s the signal.

I could hear the ringing of Miguel activating the reset device and quickly soon after, wave after wave of pulsing blue energy soared across the sky of the entire city, and with any luck, the entire world.

The beat dropped as Kasey then propelled herself forward, sliding along the floor. Hannah and I steered clear of her entrance. As we faced in her direction, Toya stepped behind Hannah and Touga stepped behind me, the boys hoisting us up to our feet and became our dance partners. The pair of us did a sweet waltz as Kasey was up front performing her own solo.

“I'm good now, who's really bad?

I choose me now, what's wrong with that?

Wish you could see me

Now, now, mm, who had my back, baby?

Know no love lost, good always will win~”

I looked up into the sky, towards the portal to Harry’s dimension. The waves of energy from Miguel’s reset wand and the counteractive sparks from the conduit portal Lyla, Margo, and Gabriel created fought back against the enemy portal. It started to shrink, contorting violently.

It’s working!

“Just a little more power and we can shut it down!” Gabriel’s voice rang through the com-link.

‘Finish it strong for me.’ Miguel’s voice purred through the bond.

He had said the same thing when we were fighting Isabella in Noir’s dimension, and I felt the same surge of confident, motivative energy as I poured my heart out into the last steps of the dance, my voice reaching out.

“Not done fightin', I don't fear I've lost

Am I dreamin', is there more like us?

Got me feeling, like it's all too much

I feel beaten, but I can't give up!”

Kasey stepped aside, pulling up to the front of the stage as she and the others danced behind me. I was confused at first, but seeing her encouraging nod gave me the push to keep going. Together, I danced along with my friends as I sang the last set of lyrics to help me focus, my heart pounding in my chest.

“I'm still fighting, I don't fear I've lost

Am I dreamin', is there more like us?

Got me feelin', like it's all too much

I feel beaten, but I can't give up!”

The enemy portal shrank smaller and smaller until it blipped into a tiny spec. There was a blink of light before the energy dispersed and sparkled in the sky like a giant firework. It gave us the perfect backdrop as we closed out the song.

“Can't give up

Can't give, can't give up

Can't give up!”

The music faded and the shimmering spectacle of the exploding portal faded into nothingness, giving way to the stars and the beautiful night sky. I took in deep breaths, my chest rising and falling as I lowered my fist from pounding it into the air with my finishing pose before my friend's dog piled me to the floor of the stage, their cheers and exasperated laughter filling the air. At the same time, Noir and Gwen cut the live broadcast feed and turned off the cameras.

“Holy shit we actually did it!” Kasey laughed with a beaming smile.

“That was like something out of an anime, oh my god!” Touga chuckled over Toya’s cackling.

Hannah hugged me tightly, her thin arms wrapping around me. “We did it, we did it! You were amazing!”

“Yeah. . .” I exchanged bewildered looks with each of them, the moment slowly processing in my mind before I reached my arms out to pull them all into a group hug. “I love you guys!”

I didn’t know why I was suddenly getting so emotional, but when my friends each returned their own embrace, I felt like my beating heart finally got the chance to slow down. Swift movement caught my ear as I looked up to see Miguel land near us on the stage, his mask evaporating from his face to show off his stunning eyes filled with pride. “It worked!”

“It did!” I beamed.

When I moved to stand up, I suddenly felt a horrible, aching pain in my ankle as I immediately dropped back down to the floor, whining in pain. “OW!”

My friends immediately backed away, startled. But Miguel moved in, kneeling in front of me but was careful to not completely overshadow my form and gave me room to breathe. “What’s wrong?”

“I think– I think I sprained my ankle.” I hissed, my hand brushing down to find the source of the pain before retracting itself quickly.

Miguel’s eyes looked me over, his eyes pleading silently before speaking, “May I?”

I nodded and watched as Miguel’s fingers gently, carefully skimmed down the calf of my left leg and as soon as his rough fingers brushed over my ankle, I bit my tongue as I held back a pained groan, fighting the urge to recoil from the touch. “That's definitely a sprain. You’d be screaming in pain if it was broken.”

“Obviously,” I couldn’t help but laugh as I shook my head. “Out of all of the things that happened tonight, this is what brings me under?”

“I’m glad it was something like this and not worse.” Miguel stated firmly, but a ghost of a relieved smile formed on his lips.

He carefully stepped around me before gently scooping me up in his arms, and lifted me up from the floor. He held me close to his chest and I pretended to not see Hannah quietly squealing at the action, hiding behind Touga as my cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“Lyla tracked your home addresses through your phones,” Miguel spoke as a portal opened up behind my friends. “You’ll have another minute or so before the memory reset takes effect. I’d like you all to be in the safety of your homes when it happens.”

“Thanks for the free ride, Miguel,” Kasey grinned, offering him a salute. “We’ll see you around?”

Miguel offered Kasey a small smile as he nodded. “I’ll be around.”

“Good. After tonight, I think you owe us all a little group dinner night out,” She grinned, “You should come hang out with us sometime.”

“It could be fun.” I encouraged him softly with a soft brush of my fingers against his jawline.

Miguel chuckled softly at the action before nodding again. “Fair enough. My treat then, just set a date and time.”

“So. . . I guess we’ll see you later?” Toya offered us a small wave.

“See you later.” I waved back with my own smile.

See you after your memories are erased and you won’t remember anything that happened tonight.

One by one, I watched as my friends jumped through the portal. Kasey was the last to leave, offering me one more friendly farewell before following behind the others. The portal closed quickly after her departure.

“Lyla, what’s the status of the dimensional integrity?” Miguel asked as Lyla’s holographic form appeared beside him.

“Earth-1218 is slowly stabilizing, Miguel!” Lyla reported with a salute. “Margo and Gabriel will continue to monitor it for the remainder of the night to make sure there’s no setbacks, but all things considered, Project: Reset appears to have worked flawlessly!”

“So. . . no one in my dimension will remember what happened tonight?” I asked Miguel, staring up at him as the rest of the spiders regrouped at our location.

“No one, except for you,” Miguel confirmed with a nod before his hold on me tightened ever so slightly. “But that doesn’t diminish what you accomplished tonight.”

“You did good kid,” Noir approached, patting my head gently. “Real good.”

I smirked over at him. “Aren’t I older than you?”

“I’d argue I’m more mature and older in spirit!” Noir jabbed playfully.

“Okay, wise guy,” Gwen came up to his side, nudging his shoulder. “Do you want me to steal and hide your hat again?”

“The technical term is fedora and no!” Noir clutched his hat close to his head, making me laugh.

“Alright, alright, settle down,” Miguel coaxed the group to ease up with a cautious stare. “I believe our work here is done. Spiders, let's go back home.”

Miguel swiped his finger along the screen of his gizmo, activating another portal. The familiar orange and yellow swirls and hexagons were a comforting sight as Gwen started running a head.

“I’ll go a head and let Doc know to get a bed ready!” She chimed in.

“Thank you, Gwen-!” Miguel could barely finish his thanks before Gwen was already through the portal.

“Kids these days, they can never stay still,” Noir shook his head before running after her, disappearing into the portal.

With just the two of us remaining, Miguel looked down at me with a softened expression. “You mind if I bring you back? Just so Doc can take a look at you?”

I nodded softly. “That’s fine. I don’t know how a normal doctor would react if two spider costumed people showed up to an ER in the middle of the night.”

“Wouldn’t that just be a regular Saturday night for them?” He grinned back.

“Oh, hardy har har,” I mocked, rolling my eyes.

Miguel started walking towards the portal, his arm that held up my shoulders lifting up to bring me closer to his face. “All that said, I really am proud of you, Lisa. You were spectacular, Spider-Muse.”

I grinned back at Miguel, cupping his cheek. “You weren’t so bad yourself, Spider-Man.”

The look he gave me made my heart flutter as his eyes seemed to sparkle just like the stars above. “Come here,” he whispered, before capturing my lips in a tender kiss as we phased through the portal.

**********

“Oh I feel so awful for missing it, I just don’t know what happened!” My mother apologized profusely for the umpteenth time as Miguel and I stood with her at the departure gate at JFK international airport.

It was now the early afternoon the following day since the Marvel Day festival ended, specifically just over 12 hours since myself, my friends and the Spider Society saved my dimension from complete and potential annihilation.

Miguel’s plan with Project: Reset worked. After Spider-Doc looked me over and gave me some pain meds to sleep it off for a few hours, I woke up to check the news on my phone and for a second I thought I had woken up from a dream. It was like the anomaly invasion never happened, and all the news reported on were highlights of the Marvel Day festivities.

One of the bigger highlights was The Webslingers performance.

The firework-like explosion of Harry’s portal was played off as just that. Fireworks and special effects, which was why due to safety reasons, we didn’t have an audience physically with us. Nobody was expecting such a grand display, and as it turned out the animators and special effects crew working behind the scenes were so burnt out from the work that they “didn’t remember doing all of this but must have done it in their sleep”, and since then there’s been a call online to give their industry better pay.

Honestly, good for them.

When it came to my friends, when I first woke up this morning, the group chat was lively with reactions to our performance and watching the live playback. According to them, we had celebrated together briefly before we quickly realized I had done something to my ankle. They said they had seen Miguel take me to a nearby hospital and kept them all updated as they had their own little party back at the twin’s penthouse before returning home in the wee hours of the night.

It was only then did the memory reset really sunk in for me. They really don’t remember anything that actually happened last night. The invasion, Kasey’s kidnapping and rescue, fighting Oscorp with Miguel and the others, seeing my powers in action. . .

Perhaps it was for the best.

As for my mom on the other hand, when Miguel and I arrived at her hotel room to check on her, the poor woman was so frazzled. Miguel’s reasoning behind her fainting was due to a sudden episode, or at least that’s what the “doctor’s” had told him when he said he had immediately handed her over to the local authorities to be brought to a nearby emergency room and they had contacted him. She didn’t remember arriving back to the hotel, and so I had explained that after I got my ankle checked out, between her fainting and the medication the nurses gave her, she passed out, and that we personally drove her back to let her rest.

Speaking of my ankle.

“And your ankle! Oh, I’m just happy you had Miguel and your friends with you, dear,” Janet hugged me tightly, and for a second I thought she was going to crush me.

“Mom, I’ll be okay, really!” I reassured her with a gentle laugh as I attempted to return the embrace. “You’re acting like this is the first time I’ve injured myself.”

“I know, I know, it’s just been awhile, that’s all,” She shook her head, pulling away from me as she offered me an apologetic smile. “I know I can always watch your show online, but I would have loved to see the whole thing in person.”

“You showed up mom,” I took her hands in mine, squeezing them tightly. “That’s what matters to me.”

That part wasn’t a lie or made up memory. It was the truth and nothing but the truth.

“You’ll be alright on your flight home, Janet?” Miguel asked with concern in his eyes.

“Oh, yes, Miguel, don’t you worry!” Janet smiled reassuringly as she patted her fanny pack. “I’ve got my gravol with me so I won’t even know if I’m feeling sick on the plane as soon as I’m on board.”

“Or as dad liked to call it, the gravol haze?” I teased with a knowing look, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Oh hush you!” Janet glared at me with a playful grin.

There was an announcement overheard that a certain flight would begin boarding soon. My mom’s eyes lit up as she quickly checked to make sure she had all her bags with her.

“Oh, I should get going.” She sighed, grabbing her purse as she looked over towards Miguel and I. She had a soft smile on her face before she suddenly looked at me with this look of. . . longing. “But before I leave, honey, may I talk to you for a moment?”

My eyes lit up at the recognition in her words. Growing up I quickly learned if my mother ever gave me that look, she wanted to talk to me in private. Usually it was always something important, so I never kept her waiting. I should know, the first time she ever gave me that look was when she first told me when dad got sick all those years ago.

“Sure, mom, just don’t miss your boarding time.” I nodded softly before glancing up at Miguel. “Give us a minute?”

“Of course,” Miguel smiled softly as he squeezed my shoulder, leaning in to peck my temple before stepping away.

Once he was far enough where I convinced myself that he wouldn’t be able to hear our conversation, I stepped closer to my mom. “What’s going on?”

Janet was silent briefly, her eyes shifting as if she were choosing her words carefully. But when she spoke, she was calm and collected. “Would you feel comfortable if. . . if I showed Jin your performance?”

I could feel my nerves become static, my grip on her hands tightening. My pupils went wide, my eyes searching hers to try and find out if she was joking or not. But when it came to my mother, and topics like this, she never joked.

Other than her updating me on his therapy progress every now and then, I haven’t physically seen or heard from my step-father since I cut contact with him. Just over 2 years ago. But if she could update me on his progress, then I could just as easily update him on mine.

I want to show him how far I’ve come since then.

“Sure,” I nodded softly.

Janet’s eyes lit up in surprise, her jaw nearly dropping to the floor. “Wait, really?!”

I nodded again, squeezing her hands tightly.

“Oh, that’s great, sweetheart, I’m so happy to hear that!” She even bounced a little in excitement. “He really has been doing better. I think watching it will just be the thing he needs to show him how strong and powerful you are and how far you’ve come. Show him what he’s been missing.”

What she said suddenly made a lump form in my throat, tears swelling in my eyes. “Oh, mom. . .”

“I know, I know, I overdid it,” she grinned, pulling me into another hug. “There’s also one other thing. This one, you don’t have to decide now, if you need time to think about it.”

My heart suddenly skipped a beat as I pulled back, anxiously awaiting to hear what she had to say. “Yes?”

“How would you feel about. . . flying down to Korea for a few days?” Janet suggested, her eye meeting mine with a genuine expression. “To come see him?”

If I thought I was frazzled before, I definitely was now. “When?”

“Anytime you want to, sweetie!” Janet quickly reassured me, squeezing my hands. “Again, it’s entirely up to you, but I was with your step-father for his most recent session and his therapist suggested the idea. He believes Jin is about ready to. . . make amends.”

My eyes widened at that. “And is. . . Jin ready for it?”

“I’m not sure if he’ll know for sure until it happens,” Janet shook her head with uncertainty. “But he does wish to see you. Even just for a few minutes.”

My mind was racing as the multitude of possibilities swarmed in my head. All the things that could go right, or wrong. Why did it feel like one weighed more than the other?

Even still, there was this sudden burning sensation in the pit of my stomach. I met my mom’s gaze, offering her a small smile as I spoke softly, “I’ll think about it.”

She smiled back at me, holding me close. “Take as long as you need dear. I love you.”

Janet hugged me one last time as another announcement chimed over the speakers. She gathered her bags and I saw her off as she waddled to the security checkpoint. As I lowered my hand from waving at her, Miguel’s footsteps caught my ear as I turned to glance at him. “I’m okay.” I quickly reassured him.

“Are you sure?” He asked me with a hint of worry in his eyes as he wrapped an arm around my shoulders, his hand reaching up to wipe a stray tear from my cheek.

I nodded softly, leaning into him. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

“Alright,” Miguel gave me a tight squeeze, kissing the top of my head before he motioned to the side. “Let’s get going, and don’t forget~”

“I know, I know,” I rolled my eyes in an annoyed manner as I reached over to a pillar and grabbed the walking crutch I had left on the side while seeing my mother off. I hooked it under my left armpit, holding Miguel close with my right. “Do I have to keep this cast on for 4 weeks? Didn’t Spider-Doc say this could heal in half the time thanks to the healing factor of the spider powers?”

“Yes, but because of the reset, your friends and family don’t know about your powers anymore,” Miguel reminded gently. “So you have to keep up the façade of being your friendly neighborhood self.”

“Did you just make a Spider-Man joke?” I gawked at Miguel.

Miguel didn’t hide his cheeky grin and I caught a small glimpse of his fangs as he spoke. “Maybe I did.”

I groaned, rolling my eyes again as we stepped out into the main entrance of the airport. “Your–”

“An asshole?” He quickly chimed in, leaning in closer to me.

I smirked back at him, bringing my hand up from his hand to cup his chin. “My asshole.”

“No lo olvides, mi Mona Lisa.” Miguel's tone was flirtatious as his hand caught the small of my back, his warm breath fanning my lips before he kissed me in the sunshine. - Don't you forget it, my Mona Lisa

///////

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shironezuninja · 6 months ago

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We are all subconsciously grieving this year, aren’t we.

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comicwaren · 2 years ago

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This week on Marvel Comics (6th September 2023):

Amazing Spider-Man Vol. 6 #033

Black Panther Vol. 9 #004

Doctor Strange Vol. 6 #007

Fantastic Four Vol. 7 #011

Ghost Rider/Wolverine: Weapons of Vengeance Omega #001 (One-shot)

Immortal X-Men #015

Moon Knight Vol. 9 #027

Scarlet Witch Vol. 3 #008

Silk Vol. 5 #005 (Finale)

Spider-Gwen Annual Vol. 2 #001 (One-shot)

Star Wars Vol. 3 #038

Star Wars: Dark Droids #002

X-Men Vol. 6 #026

#amazing spider-man #black panther #doctor strange #fantastic four #ghost rider/wolverine: weapons of vengeance omega #immortal x-men #moon knight #scarlet witch #silk #spider-gwen annual #star wars #star wars: dark droids #x-men #this week #marvel #comics #marvel comics #star wars comics

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donnatroyprincessofthemyscira · 2 years ago

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ComicList: Marvel Comics New Releases for Wednesday, July 26, 2023, by Charles LePage.

All-New Marvel NOW Point One #1 (Facsimile Edition), $7.99

Amazing Spider-Man #30 (Cover A Ed McGuinness), $3.99

Amazing Spider-Man #30 (Cover B Nick Bradshaw), AR

Amazing Spider-Man #30 (Cover C Skottie Young), AR

Amazing Spider-Man #30 (Cover D Betsy Cola Hellfire Gala Variant), AR

Amazing Spider-Man #30 (Cover E Mike Vosburg), AR

Amazing Spider-Man Epic Collection Volume 9 Spider-Man Or Spider-Clone TP, $44.99

Avengers #3 (Cover A Stuart Immonen), $3.99

Avengers #3 (Cover B Mark Brooks Corner Box Variant), AR

Avengers #3 (Cover C David Baldeon Hellfire Gala Variant), AR

Avengers #3 (Cover D Joshua Cassara), AR

Avengers Beyond #5 (Of 5)(Cover A Greg Land), $3.99

Avengers By Jason Aaron Volume 4 HC, $44.99

Avengers Omnibus Volume 2 HC (Alex Ross Book Market Cover), $100.00

Avengers Omnibus Volume 2 HC (John Buscema Direct Market Cover), $100.00

Black Panther #1 (2nd Printing Cover A Chris Allen), $4.99

Black Panther #1 (2nd Printing Cover B Rahzzah), AR

Captain America By Ta-Nehisi Coates Omnibus HC (Alex Ross Book Market Cover), $100.00

Captain America By Ta-Nehisi Coates Omnibus HC (Alex Ross Direct Market Cover), $100.00

Cosmic Ghost Rider #5 (Cover A Valerio Giangiordano), $3.99

Cult Of Carnage Misery #3 (Of 5)(Cover A Skan Srisuwan), $3.99

Cult Of Carnage Misery #3 (Of 5)(Cover B Leinil Francis Yu), AR

Danny Ketch Ghost Rider #3 (Of 5)(Cover A Ben Harvey), $3.99

Danny Ketch Ghost Rider #3 (Of 5)(Cover B Sergio Davila), AR

Daredevil And Echo #3 (Of 4)(Cover A Phil Noto), $3.99

Daredevil And Echo #3 (Of 4)(Cover B Rod Reis), AR

Daredevil And Echo #3 (Of 4)(Cover C Maria Wolf), AR

Daredevil And Elektra By Chip Zdarsky Volume 2 The Red Fist Saga Part Two TP, $15.99

Deadpool #9 (Cover A Martin Coccolo), $3.99

Deadpool #9 (Cover B Pablo Villalobos), AR

Deadpool #9 (Cover C Nick Dragotta Hellfire Gala Variant), AR

Ghost Rider #16 (Cover A Bjorn Barends), $3.99

Ghost Rider #16 (Cover B Gerald Parel Hellfire Gala Variant), AR

Ghost Rider #16 (Cover C E.M. Gist), AR

Hallows’ Eve #5 (Of 5)(Cover A Michael Dowling), $3.99

Hallows’ Eve #5 (Of 5)(Cover B Bengal Hellfire Gala Variant), AR

Hellcat #5 (Of 5)(Cover A Pere Perez), $3.99

Hulk By Donny Cates Volume 2 Hulk Planet TP, $17.99

I Am Iron Man #5 (Of 5)(Cover A Dotun Akande), $3.99

Incredible Hulk #2 (Cover A Nic Klein), $3.99

Incredible Hulk #2 (Cover B Bryan Hitch Hellfire Gala Variant), AR

Incredible Hulk #2 (Cover C Leinil Francis Yu), AR

Incredible Hulk #2 (Cover D Joshua Cassara), AR

Invincible Iron Man #8 (Cover A Kael Ngu), $3.99

Invincible Iron Man #8 (Cover B Bob Layton Connecting Variant), AR

Invincible Iron Man #8 (Cover C George Perez), AR

Invincible Iron Man #8 (Cover D George Perez Virgin Variant), AR

Invincible Iron Man #8 (Cover E Junggeun Yoon), AR

Invincible Iron Man #8 (Cover F Kris Anka Hellfire Gala Variant), AR

Marvel Masterworks The X-Men Volume 1 HC (Jack Kirby Book Market Cover)(ReMasterworks), $75.00

Marvel Masterworks The X-Men Volume 1 HC (Jack Kirby Direct Market Cover)(ReMasterworks), $75.00

Marvel Previews Volume 6 #23 (August 2023), AR

Mary Jane And Black Cat Dark Web TP, $17.99

Predator #5 (Cover A Giuseppe Camuncoli), $3.99

Predator #5 (Cover B Tyler Kirkham), AR

Scarlet Witch Annual #1 (2nd Printing Cover A Carlos Nieto), $4.99

Scarlet Witch Annual #1 (2nd Printing Cover B Jim Cheung), AR

She-Hulk #15 (Cover A Jen Bartel), $3.99

She-Hulk #15 (Cover B George Perez), AR

She-Hulk #15 (Cover C George Perez Virgin Variant), AR

She-Hulk #15 (Cover D Jeff Dekal), AR

Silk #3 (Of 5)(Cover A Dave Johnson), $3.99

Silk #3 (Of 5)(Cover B Javier Garron Marvel Icon Variant), AR

Silk #3 (Of 5)(Cover C Nayoung Wooh), AR

Spider-Man India #1 (Of 4)(2nd Printing Cover A Abhishek Malsuni), $3.99

Spider-Man India #2 (Of 4)(Cover A Adam Kubert), $3.99

Spider-Man India #2 (Of 4)(Cover B Doaly), AR

Star Wars #35 (2nd Printing Cover A Stephen Segovia), $3.99

Star Wars Darth Vader Black White And Red #4 (Cover A Taurin Clarke), $4.99

Star Wars Darth Vader Black White And Red #4 (Cover B Tony Daniel), AR

Star Wars Darth Vader Black White And Red #4 (Cover C Kevin Eastman), AR

Star Wars Return Of The Jedi The Rebellion #1 (Cover E Ryan Brown Virgin Variant), AR

Star Wars The Mandalorian Season 2 #2 (Cover A Dike Ruan), $4.99

Star Wars The Mandalorian Season 2 #2 (Cover B Caspar Wijngaard), AR

Star Wars The Mandalorian Season 2 #2 (Cover C Jerry Ordway), AR

Star Wars The Mandalorian Season 2 #2 (Cover D Concept Art Variant), AR

Storm #3 (Of 5)(Cover A Alan Davis), $3.99

Storm #3 (Of 5)(Cover B Ken Lashley), AR

Storm #3 (Of 5)(Cover C Russell Dauterman Hellfire Gala Variant), AR

Strange Academy Finals TP, $13.99

Thunderbolts Epic Collection Volume 1 Justice Like Lightning TP, $49.99

Trials Of X Volume 11 TP, $19.99

Ultimate Invasion #2 (Of 4)(Cover A Bryan Hitch), $5.99

Ultimate Invasion #2 (Of 4)(Cover B Julian Totino Tedes), AR

Ultimate Invasion #2 (Of 4)(Cover C Lucas Werneck Hellfire Gala Variant), AR

Ultimate Invasion #2 (Of 4)(Cover D InHyuk Lee), AR

Venom #23 (Cover A Bryan Hitch), $3.99

Venom #23 (Cover B George Perez), AR

Venom #23 (Cover C George Perez Virgin Variant), AR

Venom #23 (Cover D Ken Lashley), AR

Venom #23 (Cover E Ken Lashley Virgin Variant), AR

Venom #23 (Cover F Jim Cheung), AR

Venom #23 (Cover G Philip Tan Connecting Variant), AR

Venom #23 (Cover H Ryan Stegman Venom The Other Variant), AR

Venom #23 (Cover I Ryan Brown), AR

Venom #23 (Cover J Cafu Spoiler Variant), AR

Venom #23 (Cover K Sergio Davila Homage Variant), AR

Venom #23 (Cover L Insignia), AR

Venom #23 (Cover M Insignia Virgin Variant), AR

What If Dark Spider-Gwen #1 (Cover A Greg Land), $4.99

What If Dark Spider-Gwen #1 (Cover B Marc Aspinall), AR

What If Dark Spider-Gwen #1 (Cover C Rose Besch), AR

What If Dark Spider-Gwen #1 (Cover D Rose Besch Virgin Variant), AR

Wolverine #35 (Cover A Leinil Francis Yu), $3.99

Wolverine #35 (Cover B John Giang), AR

Wolverine #35 (Cover C Mahmud A. Asrar Hellfire Gala Variant), AR

X-Cellent #5 (Of 5)(Cover A Mike Allred), $3.99

X-Men Epic Collection Volume 7 The Fate Of The Phoenix TP (New Printing), $44.99

X-Men Hellfire Gala 2023 #1 (Cover A Phil Noto), $8.99

X-Men Hellfire Gala 2023 #1 (Cover B Francesco Manna X-Vote Variant), AR

X-Men Hellfire Gala 2023 #1 (Cover C George Perez), AR

X-Men Hellfire Gala 2023 #1 (Cover D George Perez Virgin Variant), AR

X-Men Hellfire Gala 2023 #1 (Cover E J. Scott Campbell Anniversary Variant), AR

X-Men Hellfire Gala 2023 #1 (Cover F J. Scott Campbell Anniversary Virgin Variant), AR

X-Men Hellfire Gala 2023 #1 (Cover G J. Scott Campbell Retro Anniversary Variant), AR

X-Men Hellfire Gala 2023 #1 (Cover H Lucas Werneck Stormbreakers Variant), AR

X-Men Hellfire Gala 2023 #1 (Cover I Mashal Ahmed Hellfire Gala Variant), AR

X-Men Hellfire Gala 2023 #1 (Cover J Gustavo Duarte Howard The Duck Variant), AR

X-Men Hellfire Gala 2023 #1 (Cover K Dan Veesenmeyer X-Men ’97 Variant), AR

#X-Men #Hellfire Gala #Avengers #She Hulk #Wolverine #Venom #What If #Trials of X #Hulk #Storm #Spider Man #Silk #Scarlet Witch #Captain America #Black Panther

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starbaby107 · 2 years ago

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My Spiderverse wallpaper. A bit chaotic but full of my favorite spider people.

#iphone widgets #iphonedisplay #wallpaper #across the spiderverse #spider man #spider gwen #miles molares #silk #spider punk #spider 2099 #Spider-Man wallpaper #peter x mj

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sixeyesonathiel · 7 days ago

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love & war — ares!gojo x aphrodite!reader

part 2 of all’s fair. 18+, YEARNER gojo, LONG HAIRED GOJO I REPEAT, LONG HAIRED GOJO. jealous & sort of possessive gojo, he breaks your wedding ring. cunnilingus while u sit on ur throne, squirting.

the feast is decadent.

ambrosia drips like honey from silver goblets, pooling at the edges like nectar too sweet to swallow. laughter rings through the marble colonnades of mount olympus, reverberating against pillars gilded in gold, lilting and hollow—like a song sung too many times, a chorus with no soul. but the gods don't care for meaning. they care for spectacle.

and tonight, you are the show.

you sit at hephaestus' side, spine straight, expression the picture of benevolence. the torchlight catches in your hair, setting it aglow like strands of molten gold. the chiffon draped across your body slips just so—revealing the curve of your thigh, the soft swell of your shoulder, the shadow between your breasts. suggestive, never vulgar. worshipped, never touched.

you tilt your goblet, fingers tracing the rim like you're tuning a lyre. your lips, red and warm, brush the edge but never drink. your eyes flutter closed as apollo's laughter crescendos, and you feign delight—mouth curling in a smile that could bring mortals to their knees. beside you, your husband remains silent. his hand is steady on his chalice. he forged the ring on your finger with hands calloused from fire and fury, and yet you wear it like it's forged from spider silk—a fragile thing, breakable.

and you don't look at satoru.

not at first.

but oh, you feel him.

his presence seeps into the room like smoke. the god of war is leaned lazily against his throne across the hall, the picture of restraint. clad in armor darker than midnight, trimmed in crimson, his white hair is tied back by a ribbon dyed red, trailing down his back like a war banner, a declaration. but his restraint is a lie.

his goblet remains empty. always empty. he drinks nothing tonight—not wine, not ambrosia—because it is only you that he hungers for.

his blue eyes, pale and gleaming, fixate on you. they don't waver. not once. they drink in every movement of your fingers, every curve of your smile, every deliberate flutter of your lashes. he watches you toy with your ring like it's a sin he's yet to commit. he watches you lean closer to dionysus, watches your laugh tilt toward apollo, watches your bare foot slip from under the tablecloth like a secret invitation. it's cruel. deliberate.

it's punishment.

your favorite dress, ruined. your thighs, bruised. your lips, bitten and left cold in a tent heavy with the stench of blood and iron and war. he kissed you like a man possessed, like a god starved. then he left you aching.

and now?

he aches.

not with the sharp, glorious pain of battle—but something worse. duller. quieter. the kind of ache that sits beneath the ribs and gnaws like hunger, like longing.

when the feast ends—when wine-soaked laughter fades into sultry sighs, when silk rustles and marble floors grow slick with pleasure—you do not rise.

you stay seated in your throne, golden and still, carved like a statue of temptation by hands far crueler than fate.

you wait.

and like always, he finds you.

you don't hear his footsteps. only the subtle shift of air. the softest rustle of a crimson sash brushing against bronze armor. then the press of a shadow curling into yours like a secret.

“that's twice now,” his voice comes low, smoked silk and sharpened edge, curling around your spine. “once on the battlefield. now here. you like making me wait?”

his tone holds accusation—but the way he looks at you, moonlight caught in those cerulean eyes, it's not anger. it's reverence. it's ruin. it's worship.

he looks like war incarnate dressed in restraint—white hair tied back by a ribbon the color of spilled blood, pale skin brushed faintly gold beneath olympian firelight, armor kissed by countless hands but pierced by none. and he looks at you like he's starved. like he would gut himself if it meant dying with your name on his lips.

your lashes lower, slow. you don't turn to face him yet. you let the pause bloom between you, heavy with all the words you shouldn't say and all the touches you're not allowed to crave.

then—deliberately—you twist to meet him.

your gaze is lazy, liquid, the wine having turned your movements feline. your dress slips like a sigh over your thighs. your lips curve just enough to wound.

you reach to press a palm flat against his chest, over the gilded armor. his heat hums beneath it. a mortal man would be scalded.

“you ruined my favorite dress,” you murmur, voice hushed and sugared. your fingers curl, tracing the seam between plates of gold. “and left me in a tent that smelled of blood and glory and you.”

he breathes in sharply, jaw ticking once—just once—but it's enough. enough to unravel you.

his exhale is quiet, but charged, like the hush before a battlefield scream. his chest rises with restraint, sinewed muscle tense beneath his black tunic, straps of armor left discarded at the threshold like a promise he intends to break.

he steps forward. slow. deliberate. like the way fire creeps, hungry and patient. another step. then another. the weight of him warps the air. heat blooms in your lungs.

your hand stays raised between you like a shield, but your wrist trembles, traitorous. it remembers the weight of his grip, the way his fingers once mapped constellations into your skin. your mind whispers no. your pulse chants yes.

his eyes flicker—not to yours, but to your hand. to the ring.

“and you think this—” his voice, low and hoarse, curls at the edges like smoke, “—wearing this ring makes us even?”

he slides his fingers beneath yours, not with force, but with reverence. with fury disguised as grace. he lifts your hand like it's an oath he's been denied. like it's home.

he doesn't meet your gaze. his attention stays pinned to the band of gold—hephaestus' craftsmanship, forged in fire and jealousy, fitted for a goddess who never wanted to be possessed.

he looks at it the way a warrior looks at a wound he cannot close. as if it mocks him. as if it dares him to tear it off with his teeth.

his thumb ghosts over it. slow. scalding. like a brand.

you inhale, lips parting to say something cold, something final—but your voice crumbles before it can reach your tongue. all that leaves you is a whisper, soft and shaking, “you shouldn't even be touching me.”

his head lifts.

his eyes—blue, impossibly bright, like the sky just before it breaks—lock onto yours. and they don't just look. they consume. scorch. drink you in like a man dying of thirst, parched from years of wars he didn't win, undone by a beauty he was never meant to hold.

you feel it then, the tremble in the air between you. like something sacred cracking. like prophecy catching fire.

“then stop me.” he says.

his voice isn't loud. doesn't need to be. it's low, rough like gravel but sweetened with reverence, a thread pulled too tight, fraying at the edges. and it tugs at something inside you—something soft, something ancient.

your fingers twitch in his grip. not to pull away. gods, never to pull away. but to stay. to linger. to clutch the fleeting moment like it might fly from your grasp if you dared to blink.

you don't stop him.

instead, you tip your chin up, just slightly. prideful. defiant. divine. and you raise your hand higher between you both, baring the delicate line of your wrist like an offering on an altar. like a lamb to the slaughter. like a challenge written in perfume and silk.

“go on, then,” you whisper, lashes lowered like a veil. the words curl out of you like smoke, like honey laced with venom. “break another rule.”

and he does.

not with rage. not with thunder.

but with reverence.

he sinks to his knees—not like a soldier kneeling before his commander, not like a penitent before a god—but like a man who has already decided that he would rather burn at your feet than live untouched in another's arms.

the marble floor groans under him. the sound is quiet, but it echoes, somehow—sharp and cold, like the world remembering how to breathe.

his white hair, bright as new snow and wild as flame, slips loose from its ribbon and cascades around his face like falling starlight. it brushes against his cheeks, glows silver where it catches the lamplight. divine. disheveled. ruinous.

his hands are warm when they cradle yours. calloused from centuries of war, yet careful. trembling, just barely. he lifts your fingers like they might dissolve in his palms.

he bows his head to the ring—hephaestus's ring, forged in fire, in resentment, in the echo of zeus's command—and kisses it. once. twice. the third time, his lips linger.

then—he bites.

there's no warning. just a clean snap. metal splits beneath his teeth like fate surrendering. the ring breaks. falls. its fragments scatter across the marble like shattered promises.

and you exhale, shivering. not from fear. from recognition.

his mouth finds your bare finger again, lips dragging slow over skin where the band once sat. his teeth press again—gentler now, but no less possessive. he doesn't break the skin.

but the mark blooms anyway.

golden ichor wells to the surface. one drop. warm. pure. precious. it gleams like molten starlight, catching the flicker of torches. it doesn't harden, but it remains—a glimmering, radiant mark that pulses like a gem, impossibly beautiful against the curve of your skin.

no forge. no chains. no vows.

only power. only him.

his ring. your ruin.

he doesn't move. doesn't rise. just kneels there, his mouth hovering over your skin, his breath soft and reverent like a prayer whispered at the altar of something sacred. his eyes flutter closed, and there's a tremor in the air between you.

he lifts his head just slightly, the weight of his gaze pulling you deeper than any touch could. his voice breaks the silence, low and broken, the words crackling with something raw.

“this... is the only semblance of a ring i can give you.” he murmurs, as if the words are both a gift and a confession, an admission of a longing that has no end.

it carves through you like lightning.

you should pull away. remind him of the vows you wear like shackles. of your station. your symbols. that zeus did not gift you to hephaestus out of kindness, but as a solution. a ceasefire.

but instead—your hand lifts. as if guided by something older than reason. you cradle his face in your palm, thumb brushing the sharp angle of his cheek. your golden ichor paints him—bright against pale skin, like warpaint. like a claim.

“you'll get me killed one day.” you say. the words float out of you soft and slow, silk soaked in prophecy.

he laughs, low and broken and full of something starved.

“only if someone gets to you before i do.” he turns his head, catches your fingertip between his lips. kisses it. reverent. ruinous.

his lips trail down your wrist, slow—like he's savoring not flesh, but fate. your breath hitches. somewhere behind you, the world still feasts. but here, in this quiet ruin, it's only the two of you. the war god, and the goddess he was never meant to have.

“do you want me to stop?” his voice cracks, a threadbare rasp that trembles with something dangerous.

you don't answer, not right away.

your body shifts, the fabric of your chiton whispering against your skin, slipping like liquid gold, pooling at your hips, revealing just enough to stoke the fire smoldering in his gaze.

his eyes darken, pupils swallowing the blue entirely, consumed by the weight of you.

satoru, the untamed. satoru, the one who has never known restraint. satoru, brought to his knees by the soft curve of your thighs.

you lean down, your breath warm against his ear, lips grazing the shell, barely there. “then kneel properly.”

and he does.

the groan of his armor is deafening, the pressure of him against you—heat and steel—his forehead against the crest of your hip, his nose tracing the curve where skin is softest, most vulnerable. his hands, large and calloused, find the firm flesh of your thighs, not with the intention to mark, but to learn, to remember. every small movement you make, every breath you stifle, he maps them, tattooing them in his mind like a strategy, like war.

his tongue flicks, slow, deliberate, not a conqueror's claim but a prayer. grateful in it’s intensity.

you arch into him, your back a taut bow, the world blurring for a moment as the weight of his touch splits you in half.

the torchlight bathes your skin, casting molten gold over the sweat-slick column of your throat, the flutter of your lashes so delicate, like wings caught in the flame. your fingers twist in his hair, not guiding—never guiding—just holding on.

as if you fear the heavens might tear him away from you, pull him from your reach.

he notices. of course, he does.

satoru, who feels the tremor before the spear flies. satoru, who senses the precise moment an enemy's resolve crumbles to dust.

his hands slide upward, fingers finding the curve of your waist, thumbs pressing into the soft hollows beneath your ribs. it's a question without words. a question only you can answer.

and you do.

you roll your hips once, sharp, precise, and his groan cuts through you, the sound shaking your bones, a crack of thunder in the silence of the room.

“satoru—”

your voice breaks, a whimper caught between prayer and curse. the ceiling above, painted with the gods' own hands, seems to sway with the weight of it—or maybe it's just your vision, blurry at the edges.

he pulls back just enough to catch your gaze, a smile curling at the corners of his lips, glistening, intoxicating.

“louder,” he demands, voice as dark and thick as smoke from war-horns. “let them hear.”

you kick him, weakly, a distant protest, your heel sliding off his pauldron with a dull clang.

his laugh is ragged, breathless, a sound that rattles the air between you then he dives back in.

no hesitation. no mercy. just hunger, raw and relentless, like he's been dreaming of this moment for centuries. his hands grip your thighs, fingers pressing into the soft flesh hard enough to leave marks, hard enough to remind you who you belong to. his mouth moves with the kind of skill that comes from obsession—from nights spent imagining exactly how you'd fall apart for him.

and oh, you do.

It builds slow, then all at once—a coil tightening in your stomach, your back arching off the throne, your fingers twisting in his hair like you're clinging to sanity itself. you bite your lip hard enough to taste ichor, but it's no use.

the world simply narrows to heat and pressure and the slick drag of his tongue and you break.

a choked gasp rips from your throat as your back arches off the throne, thighs clamping around his head like a vice. golden ichor spills—not the slow trickle of a wound, but a flood, a surrender, dripping down his chin, painting his lips in liquid radiance.

he doesn't pull away.

he drinks.

greedy. reverent. as if this—your ruin, your release—is the only ambrosia he'll ever crave.

when he finally lifts his head, it's with a slow drag of his tongue along your inner thigh, savoring every drop. his breath fans hot over oversensitive skin as he surveys his handiwork—your trembling limbs, your heaving chest, the mess glistening between your thighs.

“look at you,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. his thumb swipes through the gold streaking your skin, smearing it like war paint. “all that pretty composure, shattered.”

your cheeks burn in embarrassment as you kick at him again, but it's weak, the force gone, the desire too heavy.

he catches your ankle with ease, his grip unyielding. his lips pressing to the arch of your ankle, tender, almost reverent. then his teeth find it—sharp, a bite.

you jolt beneath him, a shiver running through you like lightning.

“still sensitive?” his voice is dark with satisfaction, low and predatory. he runs his tongue along the mark he's left, soothing it, his mouth just as cruel as it is tender. “good.”

a/n : ares gojo brainrot so bad i wrote this instead of continuing my wips... dunno if i made some misconceptions since im not that invested on greek mythology but if i did yall can expect my apology video w/ tears 😔✌🏻 first time actually trying to write smut omg dont jump me i did my best... part 3 someday idk

#gojo x female reader #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru #gojo smut #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk fanfic #reader insert #ares!gojo #jjk smut #౨ৎ — filed reports

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tojicide · 8 days ago

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chapter three ── pepper spray.

the spider’s sense: a spidercaleb series.

♥︎ spider-man!caleb 𝑥 fem!reader.

synopsis. ┆ caleb’s life was perfect—until it wasn’t. a radioactive spider bite turned him into linkon’s friendly neighborhood spider-man, the daily bugle started hunting for the man behind the mask, and to top it all off, he was forced to partner up with you—his smart, competitive, and infuriatingly perfect classmate who threatened his spot as number one in the class rankings.

tags/warnings. ┆ college/modern au, academic rivals to lovers, fluff, angst, eventual smut, gran isn’t evil in this LOL, the canon event, college parties, alcohol consumption, cliches, depictions of serious crime, references to the spider-man comics and movies, credit to @/haven__ly on x for the middle pic, mdni

chapter summary. ┆ caleb tries to adapt to his newfound role as the web-slinging hero of linkon city, and you receive the opportunity of a lifetime.

chapter warnings. ┆ slightly sexually suggestive content and a little bit of bodily harm…… but nothing too crazy i swear!

prev: too easy, this game. ┆ series masterlist. ┆ next: soon!

“Aw, come on. Again?”

Caleb feels like he’s been at this for hours. Realistically, it’s been four minutes—maybe five—but time stretches a bit slower when all you do is fail.

He straightens up, tugging at the red ski mask that clings to his face. Despite the crisp morning air, the layers he’s wearing are doing him no favors. The mask in particular is itchy, tight, and, if he’s being honest, suffocating. Maybe you were right—maybe he did have big head syndrome.

But he pushes that thought aside, rolling his shoulders back and planting his feet firmly against the rooftop. With careful precision, he flicks his wrist toward the corner of Mama Louisa’s Pastry Shop—a well-loved business by both himself and every other Linkon University student running on caffeine and sugar. Hopefully she won’t mind him using her bakery as a makeshift training ground.

He tenses his wrist again, and finally—finally—a strand of silk shoots from his pulse point… only for a gentle breeze to carry it away like it’s nothing more than stray thread from a sweater.

Caleb exhales sharply through his nose. Okay. That’s fine. Progress is progress.

He tries again. Fails again, too.

But then, on his next attempt, something changes. He can feel it. A flick of his wrist, the perfect angle with just the right amount of tension.

Thwip!

The web sticks, thick and sturdy like the ones he’d shot in his dorm room, right against the bakery’s awning.

Caleb grins so wide it could rival the Empire State Building. He doesn’t fully understand why this is happening—these heightened senses, the silk-slinging, the unnatural strength—but if his research means anything, it all traces back to the spider bite in the university lab. Probably. If he were to be honest, it’s more of an educated guess for the moment.

Without thinking twice, he sprints forward and leaps from the rooftop. In hindsight, thinking twice might’ve been a good idea, because when he goes to shoot another web at the next building, his aim is—how should he put this?—gods awful.

The silk completely misses its mark, latching onto a birch tree instead. And before Caleb can course-correct, he goes slamming into it face-first.

BAM!

Leaves rustle. Branches snap. Somewhere, a pigeon squawks in alarm, and it might be simultaneously scolding Caleb in a language he can’t understand.

He groans, peeling himself away from the tree trunk, only to find himself tangled in a mess of twigs and leaves.

“Mister!”

He blinks, his brain still rattled from the impact.

“Mister! Down here!”

It takes a second for his senses to recalibrate, but once they do, he follows the tiny voice downward until his gaze lands on a little girl standing at the tree’s base. She looks no older than five, her curly hair swallowing her small face as the wind ruffles through it. Despite her tiny stature, she stands with her hands on her hips, staring up at him with a look of determination.

She points upward. “Can you get Mr. Pickles? He’s scared of heights.”

Caleb blinks again, squinting in the direction of her tiny finger.

And there, perched precariously on a flimsy branch, is a scrawny grey cat.

“Mr. Pickles?” he mutters, already moving before he can think twice. (And this time, that was a good thing.)

His fingers stick effortlessly to the tree bark as he climbs, his static cling allowing him to crawl along the surface like he was made for this. He scales the trunk with ease, reaching the trembling feline in a matter of seconds.

“Here, kitty kitty,” he coos, slowly wrapping an arm around the cat and tucking him securely against his chest. “You’re alright. No need to be scared now.”

Once he makes his way back down, he lands gracefully on his feet, adjusting the cat in his arms before handing him off.

The little girl grins, cradling Mr. Pickles like he’s the most precious thing in the world. “Thank you, mister!”

Caleb smiles. “No problem, sweetheart.”

She beams up at him before dashing back toward a nearby apartment building. “I’ll give Mr. Pickles a hug for you!”

“Make it extra warm for me, yeah?”

“Okay!”

And just like that, she’s gone, disappearing behind the lobby doors with her newly rescued companion.

The air is cold, the streets quiet. No sirens, which was a luxury these days. The perfect time for a peaceful stroll.

Or, in Caleb’s case, the perfect time to fail at web-slinging.

That was fine, though. No one saw.

Except for a small child who owned a runaway cat.

Caleb walks down the sidewalk in an attempt to forget about the embarrassment of the moment, hands stuffed into the pocket of his hoodie, the ski mask still clinging uncomfortably to his face. The whole city feels half-asleep, barely stirring under the early sun, and for once, Caleb lets himself enjoy it. Well, as much as he possibly can enjoy something after a morning of throwing himself at trees and towards buildings.

“Excuse me, young man?”

Caleb halts, turning to find an elderly woman peering up at him through thick-framed glasses, her wrinkled face pulled into a look of concern. She clutches a tote bag to her side, a plaid scarf wrapped neatly around her hair.

“I just saw you help that young girl, and I was wondering if you could point me in the direction of the nearest dry cleaners,” she asks, adjusting her grip on the bag. “I swear, my memory is getting worse by the day. It’s around here somewhere, I just can’t seem to—”

“Oh, yeah, it’s just a few blocks down,” he gently interrupts, gesturing toward the street corner. “Take a left at the bakery right over there and then it’s right past the old bookstore. Can’t miss it, I promise.”

The woman sighs in relief. “Oh, you’re an angel, thank you! I was walking in the wrong direction for who knows how long.”

Caleb chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Happens to the best of us.”

“I hope you have a wonderful day, sweetheart,” she says, already turning to go in the direction he’d gestured to.

He offers a charming smile that reaches his eyes. “You too, ma’am.”

And with that, he continues down the sidewalk, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It’s funny, really. He hadn’t really thought about it before, but he actually enjoys this aspect of his new predicament more than he originally anticipated. Helping people, even if it’s just with the small stuff. Before, it seemed like those opportunities were fleeting, and now, they laid around him in abundance.

Then, just as he’s about to take a right onto the next block…

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP!

His head snaps toward the alleyway up ahead. A car alarm wails through the narrow space between buildings, the sharp noise sending a jolt of electricity straight down his spine.

And before he can think—before he can even process what was going on—his legs are already moving. Maybe that was a new impulse that the spider bite had brought upon him, too.

He sprints into the alley, heart hammering wildly in his chest, and that’s when he sees him.

A man hunched over the driver’s side door of an old blue sedan, hands fumbling with a crowbar against the handle. He’s working fast—too fast and too irresponsibly—not even sparing a glance over his shoulder as the alarm screeches on.

Caleb doesn’t hesitate. His wrist flicks.

Thwip!

The web shoots out before he even registers it happening, sticking clean onto the man’s hand… and the door handle he was prying open.

“What the—”

The guy jerks back instinctively, only to realize that his hand isn’t going anywhere.

Caleb halts to a stop a few feet away, breathing hard, adrenaline singing through his veins.

Sirens wail in the distance, he then realizes.

The thief panics, tugging at his hand with increasing desperation. “What the hell? Get this off me, man! What is this—glue?”

Caleb tilts his head, taking a slow step forward. “Tch. What glue do you know that looks like that? You’ve got the mind of a real scholar, you know. Ever thought about givin’ up grand theft auto for Harvard?”

The sirens grow louder.

The man flails now, yanking at his wrist, his feet slipping against the pavement. “C’mon, man, you gotta— you gotta help me out here.”

“Yeah, see, I don’t think I do,” Caleb muses, his heartbeat finally slowing to something steady, something that was almost calm.

“What are you? A cop?”

Caleb tilts his head. Even through the mask, his deadpan is palpable. “Really, man?” he drawls. “You think I’m a cop?”

The thief scoffs, loud and hard, shaking his head like Caleb is the idiot here. “Tch. Whatever.”

Then, his free hand vanishes into his coat. When it returns to his line of sight, a blade flashes before he even has time to blink. “Don’t make me use this, kid.”

A knife. A whole kitchen knife. Serrated edges, too. Probably stolen. Probably dirty. Probably the worst attempt at a threat that he has ever seen in his entire life.

Caleb gasps. Theatrically. He drops straight to his knees, too, his arms flying up over his head in a show of fake panic. “A kitchen knife? No! No, please spare me!”

The guy nods. “Yeah, that’s right. Just let me go, and—”

Thwip!

The thief jerks, eyes so wide they nearly bulge out of his skull.

And just like that, his mouth is gone.

Well. Not gone, gone. Just… thoroughly webbed shut.

“Mmph! Mm— mmph!”

Caleb straightens up, resting his hands on his hips as he tilts his head, a layer of faux sympathy dripping from his voice. “Sorry, what was that? Couldn’t quite catch it.”

The guy flails once more.

Useless. Helpless. Pathetic.

So pathetic that it almost makes Caleb feel bad. Almost.

Then the sirens return. They’re more persistent now. Louder. Closer.

Flashing red and blue swallow the alley, bouncing off the walls like stage lights for the thief’s almost-perfect crime.

The man whips his head toward them. Caleb follows his gaze, then hums, turning back with a single gloved finger pressed over his own masked mouth.

“Sh.”

He disappears before the first cop even steps out of the car, and as he whisks into the city, slipping between alleyways, a single thought loops through his mind.

He can do something with this.

Like—really do something.

Not just helping lost grandmas and rescuing stranded cats.

But this…

This was something that went far beyond what the Linkon PD was capable of: stopping the bad guys before they got away.

And now, he swings with a newfound ease, a confidence that wasn’t there before, flipping between buildings, twisting through the bright glow of billboards. Caleb finally gets it. The mechanics, the rhythm, the thrill of it. The way the city unfolds before him like a playground of concrete and steel.

Beneath him, people point. People cheer. People wonder.

But one man does not wonder.

One man knows.

That man stands just outside a quiet café, his untouched tea steaming in his hands, his sharp gaze never leaving the sky. He was on his way toward the Oscorp building in the distance, his badge reading Dr. Curtis Connors — Head Biologist.

Unlike the others, he does not gape. He does not cheer.

He only watches.

His glasses slip down his nose as he tilts his head, following the figure’s trajectory with a stare so focused and precise it could slice through bone. His mind moves faster than his pulse. Not a suit. Not a rig. Not a device. No, no—it’s organic. The silk isn’t shot from him. It belongs to him.

His fingers twitch.

Click.

The photo is grainy due to the shakiness of his grip, but the silhouette is unmistakable.

Curtis Connors exhales slowly through his nose, fingers already moving, already typing, already sending. His recipients were none other than the student team who wrote for the medical journalism column in the Linkon University Chronicle.

Curtis Connors: [image attachment] Find out as much info as you can on this figure.

He watches the message send. Then, he watches as this figure, as blissfully unaware as can be, swings off into the sky—free and untouchable.

For now.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

Your phone buzzes in your back pocket, but you don’t have half the mind to reach for it—not when a sea of sorority girls is already waving you down with welcoming smiles and outstretched arms.

“Tara!” you greet, barely getting the word out before she yanks you into a bear hug that nearly knocks the wind out of you.

“You came!” she squeals. “I totally thought you were gonna back out at the last minute.”

“How could I?” you reply, returning the hug before reaching for Cleo, who wraps her arms around you like she hasn’t seen you in years. “I made a commitment. I had to follow through, even if midterms are coming for my throat and I haven’t touched my biology flashcards in, like… two weeks.”

Tara laughs, shaking her head. “You worry too much. Just relax, have some fun. You deserve it.” Then, she leans in conspiratorially, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Plus… he who shall not be named isn’t even here. I think he bailed. You might actually be Caleb-free today.”

Your eyes widen with a gleam that could outshine a kid in a candy store. A sunny afternoon with your friends? Caleb-free? Total score.

“I love your suit!” Cleo chirps, dragging your attention back to Earth. Her fingers lightly trace the hem of your bikini top. “It suits your skin tone so well. Where’d you get it?”

You glance toward the sky like the clouds might give you your memory back. “Uh… probably Target? Like, two years ago?”

“Well, I’m definitely raiding the swimwear section before Spring Break,” she laughs, handing you a half-full bucket of water. She pauses for a moment, then adds with a grin, “I mean seriously—that top is really working for you.”

You laugh, awkwardly tucking the large bucket against your torso. “Thanks. I thought it might’ve been… too much,” you say, gesturing a hand over your chest.

“No, no!” Tara interjects immediately, hands flying into the air like she’s warding off some curse. “It’s the perfect amount of boobage.”

You eyebrows raise. “You think so?”

“I know so,” she says with full confidence.

Before you can say much at all, Cleo’s voice cuts in like a bullet. “Looks like someone else thinks so too.”

“Someone else? Who…?”

But you don’t finish. Your voice trails off the second your eyes follow her pointed gaze.

Across the lot. Lambda Chi Alpha’s side. Shirtless guys joking and slinging sudsy water at each other like they're in a beer commercial. But your gaze settles on one in particular.

Caleb.

Shirt off. Abs fully present and accounted for—all eight of them, you made sure to count. Somehow looking even better than he did a few days ago, which is rude. Biceps glistening from the sun and suds. Hair a mess in the best possible way. And those arms—Gods, those arms should be studied in a lab.

“Yoohoo?” Tara sings, tapping your forehead like she’s knocking on a front door.

You blink, snapping out of your trance. “What?”

Tara and Cleo exchange an all-knowing look.

“I thought you didn’t want to see Caleb today,” Tara says with a lopsided smile.

“I don’t.”

“And yet…” Cleo gestures broadly, “there you were. Gawking.”

You scoff. “I can dislike someone and still objectively—totally objectively—acknowledge that they might not be the most hideous person to walk the Earth.”

Cleo hums. “Uh-huh. Totally objective.”

“It is an objective observation!”

“Sure, sure,” Tara teases. “Just science. A visual data analysis of muscle definition.”

You sigh, pointing at her. “Exactly.”

. . .

Caleb isn’t faring much better.

In fact, he’s doing worse. A lot worse.

He tries to apply logic to the situation. To rationalize the incredibly logicless mess he has found himself in.

It must be his new senses—yeah, that has to be it. His body adjusting, his nervous system overcompensating, deciding that now, of all godforsaken times, would be a great moment to send every ounce of blood in his body to a very unhelpful location.

His eyes widen, panic rising in his chest.

No. No, no, no. This is not happening.

Almost instinctively, he wrenches himself away from your general direction, physically turning his body like that alone will make his predicament less of a predicament.

It’s not his fault.

Seriously. It’s not.

No amount of superability could ever counteract the very human reality that, at the end of the day, Caleb Xia is just a man.

A man with… an appreciation for certain assets.

And today, his attention seems to have locked onto yours in particular.

Now isn’t the time for this. There would never be a time for this. He feels horrible, like a pathetic schoolboy with zero control over his own body.

Somewhere in his haze of absolute distress, his dog tag ends up wedged between his teeth, because apparently, his body has decided that biting metal is his last line of defense against catastrophic embarrassment.

Gran naked. Gran naked. Gran naked.

He squeezes his eyes shut, practically chanting the words in his head to paint a better picture like a desperate exorcism.

Gran naked. Gran naked. Gran na—

“You’re going to ruin those if you bite on them any harder.”

Caleb’s entire brain short-circuits.

His eyes snap open, locking onto yours. You’re standing there, bucket in your arms, tilting your head at him like he’s some kind of science experiment gone wrong.

He is barely keeping himself together.

Nope. Nope, nope, nope.

But then, you pout.

“Go on, boy,” you tease, voice dangerously sweet, mockingly condescending, like you’re talking to a dog. “Drop ‘em.”

His entire soul leaves his body. A muscle in his jaw ticks, and with a dramatic roll of his eyes, he finally drops the dog tag from his teeth.

You beam at him, reaching out to ruffle his hair like he actually is a well-trained mutt. “Good boy!”

Caleb scoffs, swatting your hand away. “Shut up.”

You laugh, and he hates how much he likes the sound of it.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” you grin, reaching into the bucket. “Here’s your treat.”

Before he can react, a water-soaked sponge lands smack against his chest with a loud slap.

“You’re the worst,” he grumbles, peeling the sponge off as you shut off the hose and hoist your bucket back into your arms.

“Sure I am,” you chirp. “Good luck, waterboy.”

Caleb huffs, his head snapping up as you begin to walk past him. “The newbie is callin’ me a waterboy? Who brought in the most customers last year again?”

“Blah, blah, blah,” you say through a sigh, waving him off. “Who cares about last year?”

He’s about to counter—because he cares, and his title as reigning champ of the car wash must be defended at all costs—but then, you stop right beside him.

And for the love of all things holy, the air thickens.

You turn slightly, tilting your chin, that same smug glint in your eyes. “I, for one, certainly don’t care about last year. You’ll have to work harder this time around, anyway.”

Caleb narrows his eyes. “Why’s that?”

You don’t answer verbally. With a small sway of your fingers toward the parking lot, you point his attention elsewhere. Delta Gamma’s station currently had a long, ever-growing line of cars. A parade of eager customers at your fingertips.

Caleb exhales slowly. “Ah.”

“Mm-hmm,” you hum knowingly.

And then—you look him over.

Like blatantly look him over. Up. Down. Unrushed. Deliberate. Unfair.

And then, just like that, you pivot on your heel. “Gotta go.”

Before you can fully escape, his hand catches your wrist.

“Hey, hey, hey— not so fast,” he murmurs, voice dropping just slightly. Just enough. “If you’re so confident… maybe we should bet on it.”

You stop and turn back toward him. There’s a competitive glint in your eye. It’s exciting.

And unfortunately, it’s doing nothing to help with the currently unsolved issue in his shorts.

“Alright.” It takes zero hesitation. The opportunity to publicly defeat Caleb Xia is simply too good to pass up. “You’re on.”

His lips curl into an almost-there smile. “Terms?”

Your smile should be legally registered as a deadly weapon. “Loser has to wash the winner’s car… and purposely take a B- on the next lab report.”

Caleb lifts a brow. “You don’t have much to lose.”

You shrug, all casual, all effortless charm, and it’s killing him.

“Nope,” you reply smoothly. “I have everything to gain.”

Caleb should be fighting for his life against whatever spell you’ve just cast over him.

Instead, he falls for it.

(Hook. Line. Sinker.)

“Fine,” he says, sliding his hold from your wrist to your palm, giving your hand a firm shake—his fingers lingering just a little too long against yours.

“You’re on.”

. . .

Caleb should have really thought this through.

But instead, he let you get under his skin, let your smug little grin trick him into underestimating you.

Big mistake, because not even five minutes in, the Delta Gamma girls are practically drowning in customers, and Caleb has barely started scrubbing down his first car.

Caleb squints in your direction. This is not fair.

It feels like only ten minutes pass by before he looks in your direction again, and this time, he finds himself sweating.

Partially from the sun, partially from watching you rinse off a car with zero mercy—your movements way too efficient for someone who supposedly hasn’t done this sort of thing before.

And still, he refuses to lose. He has to switch tactics.

If charm is your secret weapon, then it can be his too. It was his before it was yours, anyway.

He yawns, stretching his arms just enough to get the attention of a group of girls suspiciously and slowly passing by in a yellow slugbug.

"Hey," he greets, sending a smile their way as he leans against the car, muscles flexing just right. "Need a wash?"

And to no one’s surprise but your own, it works.

Unfortunately, by the time the car wash ends, the results are as clear as day—you won.

And now, here Caleb stood—arms crossed, lips pressed into a firm line, trying to accept his defeat.

“So,” he exhales, dragging a hand down his face, "when am I washing your car?"

Your grin turns dangerously smug. "Oh, I don’t have a car."

Caleb stares at you like his brain needs a full reboot to comprehend what you just said.

"Sneaky."

You shrug. "I prefer genius."

"Not cool." Caleb shakes his head, his hands going to his hips. "I don’t like havin’ unpaid debts."

"Well…" You rock back on your heels, tilting your head at him. "Maybe you can get creative. Find a new way to pay up."

Caleb arches a brow. "Like?"

You hum, tapping your chin like you’re actually putting serious thought into it. "Hm… bring me coffee from the café every time we have a lecture."

Caleb scoffs. "You're joking."

"I'm not."

He lets out a long, drawn out sigh. "Fine."

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

Caleb knew as well as anyone that crime woke up when the city went to sleep.

So tonight, he stayed up to witness it. Maybe he’d do something good for the city. Maybe he wouldn’t. But he had to try. He had to.

It felt like something was calling to him, something so instinctive and certain that he couldn’t help but listen.

That was how he found himself here, sprawled across the roof of a liquor store, killing time with a game that had no winner. He flicked a pebble toward the ledge, watching as it bounced back near his hand. Again. Again. Anything to keep himself occupied while he listened for any sounds of trouble.

The bell of the liquor store’s entrance rang, and the sudden noise jolted through him, causing his grip to slip. Instead of hitting the ledge, the pebble sailed clean over the rooftop.

“Ouch!”

Caleb froze, and then scrambled to the edge of the roof, yanking his ski mask into place. He peered over the ledge, pulse spiking.

And when he saw who he’d just pelted in the head with a rock, he really should have expected it.

You.

Of course it was you, because why wouldn’t it be?

He watched as you winced, rubbing at the spot where the pebble had struck. You glanced around but, not seeing anyone, just sighed and continued down the sidewalk, bag of groceries clenched in your hand.

And as you walked, Caleb noticed a few things.

The way your pace sped up near the alleys. The way you slowed when you passed under a streetlamp, lingering just a second longer in the light. The way your fingers curled a little tighter around the grocery bag.

You were afraid, and he could understand why.

This wasn’t the best part of the city. It was dark and lonesome, a breeding ground for all things dangerous.

So, without much thinking—without even giving himself the chance to talk himself out of it—he decided to make sure you got home safe.

For purely vigilante reasons, of course.

. . .

You swear you’re not crazy, but someone is definitely following you.

The almost silent breathing. The faint but deliberate footsteps against pavement.

You pick up your pace, but curiosity is a terrible thing, and despite your better judgment, you glance over your shoulder.

And there he is.

A shadow perched on the edge of a rooftop. Watching.

Your heart stutters.

What the hell? Was he… doing parkour? You huff, shaking your head. Not important.

Your pulse spikes, and your body reacts before your mind does. You do the only logical thing you can think of: you bolt.

Your bag slips from your grip, but you don’t have time to care. Every survival instinct you’ve ever had is screaming at you to run.

Like clockwork, the footsteps behind you quicken.

A voice speaks up. “Hey, you dropped your—“

Shrieking, you whip around mid-sprint, finger already slamming down on the trigger of your pepper spray.

The man barely has time to react. He coughs and chokes, stumbling backward like he just got decked in the face. Your groceries fly through the air as he flails, practically throwing them back at you in the process.

“What—” he wheezes, hands clutching his eyes as he coughs again. “What was that for?”

“You…” your breath is coming out in sharp gasps as you clutch the pepper spray tighter. “You were following me!”

He tries to open his eyes, then immediately winces. “I was making sure you got back to campus okay!”

You take a step back, grip still firm around the bottle. “Well… well why the hell did you start running after me when I ran, huh?”

“You dropped your groceries!”

You hesitate because he sounds genuinely frustrated. “Well… don’t do that again, you freak! Don’t you know you shouldn’t follow people home?”

“I wasn’t— I mean, I was, but not for any reason you might be thinking of,” he stammers.

There’s an awkward beat as he forces himself to stand upright again, shoulders tense. Then, as if realizing how bad this looks, he raises his hands in surrender.

“I mean no harm,” he says. And despite everything, he sounds sincere. “This is just… kinda what I do now. I’m looking out for the people of the city.”

You exhale sharply. Then, after a beat, your free hand dips into your grocery bag.

You pull out a bottle of water and toss it to him.

“You should really work on your methods, Spider-Man,” you mutter, shaking your head as your gaze falls down to the spider design on his sweatshirt. As you turn away, you add, "Rinse your eyes. It’ll help."

Your heart is still hammering in your chest as you begin to walk away, but you manage to steady your breathing as you near the dorms. Your mind, however, is still racing.

Because the moment you calm down enough to think, a realization hits you.

The image. The blurry, low-resolution shot that Dr. Curtis Connors sent your group just days ago. The figure looked identical to the man you just encountered. The one he wanted to know more about.

Your stomach drops, and you whirl around, phone in hand with your camera ready. Much to your dismay, the figure is already gone. He has vanished into thin air without leaving so much as a single trace.

You curse under your breath, fingers flying over your phone screen as you open up the message thread.

You: I have a lead. I just ran into him. I think he’s a student at Linkon University.

series masterlist. ┆ next: soon!

a/n hi guys :P…. sorry i didn’t update for awhile buuuut here’s chapter 3!!! i wrote and edited some of this chapter with a 103 F fever so… if it’s illegible at any point that might be why. i’d love to know your thoughts so please share them !!! <3

also i just wanted to say that i love all of the comments and messages you guys send into my asks :,) this made me laugh so i really hurried to get this chapter out

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urdreamydoodles · 1 month ago

Text

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You are clumsy and hurt yourself all the time

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Bullseye, Marc Spector, Taskmaster, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Susan Storm, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa, Elektra Natchios, Muse, Victor von Doom, Peter Quill & Nova

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)

- Peter notices before you do. His eyes are sharp, trained to pick up the smallest of changes, the faintest of shadows blooming beneath your skin. He doesn't just see the bruises; he maps them, cataloging each one like constellations he wishes he could erase from your body. Every time he catches you wincing, biting your lip to muffle a yelp after knocking into yet another corner, he sighs. "Again?" he teases, but there's worry threading through his voice, twisting between the syllables like spider silk.

- He starts to hover, though he tries not to. It's instinctive—he's always been the protector, the boy who runs into burning buildings without thinking twice. But with you, it's different. It’s not just about keeping you safe; it’s about keeping you whole, unmarked by the world’s cruelty—or your own clumsiness. So he starts catching you before you fall, pulling you out of the way just in time, reaching out without thinking. Sometimes, you swear he moves before the accident even happens, like he's learned the rhythm of your missteps, predicting the inevitable before it can bruise you.

- When you do get hurt (because of course you do), Peter is relentless in his care. He’s crouched in front of you in an instant, thumb tracing the new bruise with reverence, an almost desperate tenderness in his touch. "You're gonna be the death of me," he mutters, but his hands are so impossibly gentle as he presses a cool compress to your skin. His lips ghost over the hurt, as if he can will it away with a kiss. Sometimes, you wonder if he wishes he could wrap you in webbing, cocoon you in safety so that the world—and your own two feet—could never touch you again.

- He starts making excuses for why he needs to hold your hand. "Crowded street," he'll say, even when it's not. "Slippery floor," even when it's bone-dry. The truth is, he just wants to anchor you, to be the tether that keeps you upright, steady. And when you trip anyway—because, of course, you do—he laughs, shaking his head as he catches you. "You just like falling for me, don't you?"

- But late at night, when you're half-asleep and curled against him, he traces over your skin like it's something sacred. His fingers brush against every fading bruise, every place you've been hurt, and he whispers, "Wish I could take these for you." His voice is raw, aching with the helplessness of loving someone breakable. And you, tangled in the warmth of him, only smile. Because you know that, in every way that matters, Peter has already caught you.

Tony Stark (Iron Man)

- Tony notices, but not in the way you expect. He doesn’t gasp or fuss the first time he sees you sporting a fresh bruise on your knee. Instead, he raises an eyebrow, tilting his head as if considering a puzzle. "So, what was it this time? Rogue chair leg? Malicious doorframe? Did a coffee table rise against you in rebellion?"

- But beneath the teasing, there's a flicker of something deeper. A calculation, a quiet kind of concern buried beneath the bravado. Tony doesn’t do helplessness well. He can build suits that defy physics, craft weapons that could level cities—but he can't seem to keep you from bruising yourself on the furniture. It frustrates him, gnaws at the edges of his mind, so he does what Tony Stark does best: he finds a solution.

- At first, it’s little things. He adjusts the lighting in your shared spaces, claiming it’s for "ambience" but really so you can see obstacles better. Then come the AI sensors in the furniture, making tables shift slightly if you’re about to walk into them. At one point, you find yourself nearly colliding with a moving bookshelf that, at the last second, scoots out of your way. "What the hell?" you gasp. Tony only grins. "Self-adjusting furniture. Stark tech. You’re welcome."

- But for all his technological fixes, it’s his hands that surprise you the most. Because Tony, for all his arrogance, is delicate with you. When you come to him with a fresh injury, he tuts, shaking his head dramatically—but his touch is careful, reverent. He traces over the bruises like he’s memorizing them, pressing a kiss against each one as if sealing them with something stronger than science. "Y'know," he murmurs against your skin, "if you wanted my attention, there were easier ways than body-slamming a desk."

- And at night, when you think he’s asleep, you feel his fingers drifting over your skin, tracing every hurt like he’s trying to rewire you, make you something invincible. He’s never been good at loving things that break, but with you, he’s learning that maybe some things—some people—are worth protecting, even if he can’t build them indestructible.

Steve Rogers (Captain America)

- Steve doesn't laugh. Not at first. The first time he sees you stumble, his reflexes kick in before his brain does, hands catching your waist before you hit the ground. "Careful," he says, voice steeped in quiet concern, but there’s something else there too—something deeper, a weight that lingers in his gaze.

- You realize quickly that Steve doesn't see bruises as just bruises. To him, every mark on your skin is a reminder of fragility, of the world’s ability to harm. He carries the weight of lost battles, of friends who weren’t fast enough, strong enough, and something in him aches at the thought of you being hurt—even by something as simple as a misplaced step.

- So he becomes your shadow. A quiet, steadfast presence at your side, always an arm’s length away. He doesn’t smother, doesn’t hover—but he’s there, a constant, an anchor. When you trip, he catches. When you stumble, he steadies. When you crash into a table, he’s already pressing a gentle hand to your arm, checking for injuries before you can brush it off.

- "You need to be more careful," he tells you, voice soft but firm. You roll your eyes. "Steve, I’ve been like this my whole life." His lips press into a line, but instead of arguing, he takes your hand, thumb sweeping over your knuckles. "Then I’ll just have to keep catching you."

- And he does. Every time. Even in sleep, his arm drapes over your waist, protective even in unconsciousness. You don’t tell him, but you think it’s fitting—because Steve Rogers has always been the one to hold the world together, and now, he holds you.

Thor

- Thor booms with laughter the first time you walk straight into a doorframe. "By the gods, you fight invisible battles, my love!" he declares, pulling you into his chest as if you’ve just won a war. You grumble against him, but he only kisses the top of your head, eyes gleaming with amusement.

- But for all his laughter, Thor is not careless with you. When you trip, his hands are always there, warm and unyielding, lifting you as if you weigh nothing. "The world trembles before you, yet you are felled by a mere step!" he teases, but there is no mockery—only adoration.

- He carries you more often than necessary, sweeping you into his arms at the slightest provocation. "You are too precious for the ground," he says, as if that explains everything. When you protest, he only grins, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Indulge me, my beloved."

- He takes to inspecting your bruises like battle wounds, solemn as he traces them. "A warrior bears their marks with pride," he says. But then, softer, "Though I would gladly take them for you."

- And when he holds you at night, it is as if he cradles the most precious thing in all the realms. Because to Thor, you are not just beautiful. You are his most cherished treasure, and even if you stumble, even if you fall—he will always be there to catch you.

Loki

- Loki watches you with an expression caught between amusement and exasperation, his sharp green eyes tracking the way you stumble through life as though gravity itself is your greatest adversary. He does not rush to catch you—no, he prefers to observe first, to let you flounder, to let the world trip you up just enough to be entertaining but never enough to truly hurt you. “It is almost an art form,” he muses one evening as he traces his fingers over a fresh bruise blooming along your arm. “How you manage to battle furniture and lose so spectacularly.”

- But beneath the teasing, there is something else—something darker, more possessive. Loki is not a man accustomed to powerlessness, and watching you mar yourself on the mundane sends an unfamiliar frustration curling in his chest. He is not mortal, not fragile, and neither should you be. If he could enchant your very skin to be impenetrable, he would. Instead, he does the next best thing—subtle spells woven into your jewelry, charms hidden in the fabric of your clothes. Nothing too obvious, nothing you would notice. Just enough to slow a fall, to dull an impact, to ensure that when you inevitably crash, the world is kinder to you.

- He does not hover, not the way a lesser man might. No, Loki’s interventions are quieter, more insidious. A flick of his fingers when you’re about to knock a glass off the table. A shift in the air that redirects your fall just enough to keep you from truly hurting yourself. He plays it off as coincidence when you point it out, though the smirk curling at the corner of his lips betrays him. “Perhaps Midgard itself has simply decided to stop punishing your carelessness,” he offers smoothly, tilting his head. “Or perhaps, darling, you’ve finally learned some semblance of grace.”

- And yet, for all his feigned indifference, his hands are gentle when they trace over your bruises, long fingers ghosting over each mark as though committing them to memory. “Such delicate skin,” he murmurs, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. You think, sometimes, that he looks at you like a paradox—something fragile and untouchable, something he wants to protect and break in equal measure. He presses his lips to each bruise, his voice silk-soft against your skin. “If only you would let me make you indestructible.”

- At night, when you think he is asleep, he holds you closer than necessary, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other draped possessively over your thigh. His fingers find the bruises even then, absently tracing them, as if even in sleep, he cannot stand the marks of a world that does not know how to handle something as precious as you. And if, in the morning, your injuries fade just a little faster than they should—well. Loki has never been one to play fair.

Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

- Clint takes one look at you, covered in bruises from yet another misadventure with an unassuming coffee table, and snorts. “Jesus, sweetheart,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s like you’re in a fight with the furniture and losing every damn round.” He teases, because that’s what Clint does, but beneath the dry humor, there’s a glint of something softer, something close to concern.

- He’s got quick hands, calloused and steady, and they catch you more often than not. He doesn’t even think about it anymore—it’s instinct, muscle memory, the same reflexes that let him shoot arrows with inhuman precision now redirecting themselves to keeping you upright. Sometimes you don’t even realize you’re falling before he’s got a firm grip on your waist, pulling you against him with a smirk. “I should start charging for this,” he muses. “Professional girlfriend-wrangler. Gotta make a living somehow.”

- But he’s not always fast enough. You take your hits, your bruises, your scrapes, and Clint swears every time he sees a new mark on you. He cups your face in his hands one evening, tilting your chin up so he can inspect the latest damage—a dark bruise along your cheekbone from where you’d misjudged a doorway. His thumb brushes over it, his mouth pressing into a tight line. “Y’know, for someone so damn beautiful, you sure spend a lot of time brawling with inanimate objects.”

- He starts carrying a first-aid kit just for you. Not the standard SHIELD-issued one—this one is filled with little things he knows you’ll need. Cooling gel for the bruises, tiny bandages that come in ridiculous designs (because he knows they’ll make you smile), painkillers for the inevitable aches. He patches you up with a surprising gentleness, his hands rough but careful as he works. “I should just start wrapping you in bubble wrap,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Or at least get you some damn kneepads.”

- And in the quiet hours of the night, when you’re tangled together in bed, he presses absentminded kisses to every bruise, every scrape, every mark. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a big deal out of it—just lets his lips linger against each injury like a silent promise, like a prayer. Because Clint Barton knows better than most that the world is unforgiving, that sometimes you don’t get there in time. But here, now, with you—he can at least make sure someone’s always there to catch you when you fall.

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)

- Natasha doesn’t panic when you fall, doesn’t gasp when you hit the ground, doesn’t rush to your side with frantic worry. She simply raises an unimpressed eyebrow as you groan, flat on your back after tripping over absolutely nothing. “You’re unbelievable,” she says, crossing her arms. “A trained assassin would have heard that floor coming.”

- But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t care. She does—deeply, fiercely, in the way only Natasha Romanoff can. She just doesn’t show it in obvious ways. Instead, she adjusts her stride so she’s always close enough to catch you, casually offering an arm when she senses you wobbling. She never draws attention to it, never makes a big deal of it, but you notice. You always notice.

- When you inevitably end up bruised and battered, she clicks her tongue but says nothing, simply sitting beside you with an ice pack in one hand and a knowing smirk on her lips. She presses the cold compress to your skin, her touch deliberate, precise. “You should let me train you,” she muses. “At least teach you how to fall properly.”

- Natasha never coddles, never fusses, but she is always prepared. She has a quiet way of making sure you’re okay—subtle, effortless. When you stand up too quickly and nearly topple over, her hand is already on the small of your back, steadying. When you stumble, she catches you before you even realize you’re falling. It’s instinct to her, the way protecting you has become second nature.

- And at night, when the world is quiet, she pulls you against her, her fingers ghosting over every bruise like a whisper, like a secret. She does not apologize for the world’s cruelty, does not wish you were stronger, does not sigh at your clumsiness. She only holds you tighter, her lips brushing against each mark in silent reverence. Because Natasha Romanoff knows what it means to hurt, to endure, to survive—and if she cannot keep you unbroken, then at the very least, she can be the place you fall.

Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier)

- Bucky notices before you do. His eyes, trained by war and decades of violence, catch every shift in your body, every wince, every faint hesitation in your step. At first, he thinks it’s something worse—that someone put hands on you, that danger came too close. But then he watches you slam your hip into the corner of the counter, trip over absolutely nothing, and he exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “You’re killin’ me, doll,” he mutters, but his hands are already on you, steadying, checking.

- He doesn’t hover—not exactly. But suddenly, he’s always there, always within reach. If you stumble, his hands find your waist before you even realize you’re falling. If you misjudge a step, his arm is already around your shoulders, pulling you against his chest with a sigh. “Y’know, most people walk without gettin’ into a fistfight with the air,” he teases, but there’s something softer beneath it, something like worry.

- When you come home with fresh bruises—scattered across your arms, darkening your knees—he’s quiet. Too quiet. He sits you down, metal fingers unnervingly gentle as he rolls up your sleeves, brushing over each mark like he’s memorizing them. “You gotta be more careful,” he murmurs, and there’s something heavy in his voice, something weighted with history. He’s seen too much damage in his life, inflicted too much of it himself. He hates seeing it on you.

- But Bucky Barnes is a man who prepares, who anticipates. He starts keeping a first-aid kit on hand, not that he needs it much—he’s better at easing your pain with his own touch, the press of his lips against your bruises, the warmth of his palm smoothing over sore muscles. He doesn’t say much when he does it, just presses kisses against every darkened patch of skin like he’s willing them away. Sometimes, when he thinks you’re asleep, you hear him whisper, “Wish I could take ‘em for you.”

- And at night, when the world is quiet, he wraps you in his arms, tucking you close as if that alone will shield you from harm. His metal arm rests heavy over your hip, protective, unyielding. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack one of these days,” he murmurs into your hair. And you—smiling, safe in the warmth of him—only kiss his jaw and whisper, “Guess you’ll just have to keep catching me, then.”

Matthew Murdock (Daredevil)

- Matt hears it before he sees it—the way you hiss through your teeth when you smack your shin against the table, the sharp inhale when you stub your toe against the doorframe. He tilts his head, amusement curling at the edge of his lips. “Again?” he asks, voice laced with something dangerously close to fondness.

- He doesn’t need sight to know where the bruises bloom. He traces them with careful fingers, mapping your pain like he’s reading scripture. His touch is featherlight, reverent. “You keep this up, I’m gonna start thinking the furniture has a vendetta against you,” he murmurs, lips grazing over each sore spot in silent absolution.

- He tries not to be overbearing, but he’s always listening, always attuned to the way your heartbeat stutters when you nearly fall. His reflexes are faster than yours will ever be—so when you trip, his arms are already there, catching you with effortless ease. “You’ve got to stop tempting gravity,” he teases, even as he steadies you against his chest.

- But there’s a weight to his concern, something deeper than amusement. He’s spent too much of his life in pain, too much time enduring wounds that never quite healed right. He doesn’t want that for you. So he starts reaching for you more, keeping you close, a hand resting at the small of your back whenever you walk together, his grip firm when he senses the inevitable stumble.

- And at night, when you’re curled against him, he skims his fingers over your skin, cataloging every mark, every faint ache. “You take too many hits,” he murmurs, voice thick with something unspoken. You laugh softly, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. “So do you.” He huffs out a breath, pulling you impossibly closer. “Guess that makes two of us.”

Frank Castle (Punisher)

- Frank notices everything. The first time he sees you flinch after knocking into a table, he frowns. The first time he spots a fresh bruise blooming across your arm, his jaw tightens. His first instinct—always, always—is violence. “Who did that?” he demands, voice low, dangerous. And when you tell him it was just a doorframe, just another misstep, he exhales hard, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ, sweetheart.”

- He’s not soft, not in the way other men might be. He doesn’t coo over your bruises, doesn’t pepper you with gentle reassurances. But he is there, solid and unwavering. If you trip, his hands are on you before you hit the ground. If you stumble, he pulls you upright with an exasperated sigh. “Gonna wrap you in goddamn bubble wrap,” he mutters, shaking his head.

- He doesn’t say it outright, but his actions betray him. He starts clearing the apartment, making sure nothing sharp or precarious is within your usual walking path. He makes you wear his jacket when it’s cold, grumbling about how “it’ll keep you warm” but really thinking about how it might cushion the inevitable next fall.

- When you come home with fresh bruises, he just exhales sharply, shaking his head. “C’mere,” he mutters, dragging you onto the couch. He’s rough around the edges, but his hands are steady as he presses an ice pack against your shin, his thumb tracing absent patterns against your knee. He doesn’t say much, just sits there with you, brows furrowed, jaw tight. You know he’s thinking about how much he hates this—how much he hates seeing you hurt, even in the smallest ways.

- At night, when the world is quiet and his guard is finally down, he pulls you into him, tucking you beneath his chin. His arms are heavy, unyielding, caging you against the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “Gotta stop gettin’ hurt,” he mutters, voice gruff, tired. You smile against his skin, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “Guess that means you’ll just have to keep catching me.” And Frank—haunted, weary, unbreakable—only holds you tighter.

Bullseye (Lester)

- Bullseye watches you trip over your own feet like it’s the greatest tragedy he’s ever witnessed. “You’re kidding me, right?” he drawls, arms crossed, head tilted. “That was a flat surface.” He doesn’t get it—how someone can be so inherently uncoordinated, so effortlessly doomed to collide with the world. He was born to hit every mark, to never miss, to control his body like it’s an extension of his will. And you? You can’t even walk across a room without making it a goddamn spectacle.

- He teases you relentlessly. “You’re gonna give me an aneurysm,” he mutters as you walk straight into the edge of a table, recoiling with a hiss. He crouches in front of you, fingers lazily tilting your chin up so he can inspect the damage. A bruise is already forming, shadowing your delicate skin, and for a brief second—just a flicker—something darkens in his gaze. He brushes his thumb over the mark, contemplative, before grinning. “Y’know, most people get bruises from fights. You? You look like you went ten rounds with a door and lost.”

- But the thing is, Bullseye doesn’t like seeing you hurt—not like this. He’s a man who thrives on violence, who carves his love in blood and broken bodies, but this? This is just the world battering you around, and it pisses him off. He starts standing closer, walking behind you with a hand hovering at your back, catching you before you can even process that you’re falling. He makes a show of rolling his eyes every time, but his grip is firm, his hands steady. “You should not be this much work,” he grumbles, right before setting you back on your feet like it’s nothing.

- The first time you cut yourself on something mundane—a knife, the sharp edge of a cabinet—he reacts badly. His jaw clenches, his hands flex, and for a second, you think he might kill the inanimate object responsible. “Okay, that’s it,” he mutters, dragging you to sit down. He cleans the wound with the kind of skill that suggests he’s done this a thousand times before (he has, just not for someone he cares about). He presses a bandage over your skin, shaking his head. “You’re a menace, babe. An absolute disaster.”

- At night, when he thinks you’re asleep, his fingers trace over every bruise, every scrape, cataloging them like they’re personal offenses. His body is a weapon, built for precision, and here you are—this thing he doesn’t quite know how to protect. He scowls in the dark, arms tightening around you. The world doesn’t get to hurt what’s his. If it does? Well. He might just have to start fighting gravity itself.

Marc Spector (Moon Knight)

- Marc watches you trip over your own feet with a kind of exhausted patience. “Again?” he sighs as you collide with yet another piece of furniture. He doesn’t get mad, doesn’t tease—he just pinches the bridge of his nose like a man trying very hard to accept the absurdity of his reality. “You’re a walking hazard.” But his hands are already on you, steadying, checking, making sure you’re not hurt.

- He starts anticipating your disasters before they happen. A shift in your balance, a misstep, a doorframe you will forget to account for—he’s already moving before you even realize you’re about to fall. His reflexes are freakishly fast, and it’s almost irritating how easily he catches you, setting you back on your feet like nothing happened. “You doin’ this on purpose?” he mutters, tilting his head. “Tryin’ to give me a heart attack?”

- When you come home with fresh bruises, Marc doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you—eyes dark, expression unreadable. Then, quietly, he sits you down and rolls up your sleeves, brushing his fingers over the marks like he’s trying to commit them to memory. He’s a man who knows pain, who lives in it, and something about seeing it on you makes his chest go tight. “You gotta be more careful,” he murmurs, voice low, almost pleading.

- He starts carrying first-aid supplies specifically for you. “It’s not paranoia,” he insists as he bandages a fresh scrape on your elbow. “It’s preparedness.” He takes care of you with the same clinical efficiency he applies to himself—focused, practiced, no wasted movements. But there’s a softness in the way his hands linger, the way he cups your face afterward, pressing his lips to your forehead like he’s trying to will the world into being gentler with you.

- And at night, when his demons creep in, when sleep is a thing that eludes him, he watches over you. His fingers brush over every bruise, every cut, and he exhales sharply, wrapping himself around you like a shield. “You’re not allowed to get hurt,” he mutters against your hair. “Not on my watch.” And even though you know it’s impossible—you are impossible—you let him hold you like he can keep you safe from everything. Even yourself.

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

- Taskmaster watches you trip over nothing and just stares. “Are you—” He gestures vaguely at you, expression unreadable behind his mask. “Do you want to be a liability?” His whole thing is mastering movement, precision, efficiency—and you? You are chaos incarnate. A living, breathing contradiction to everything he stands for. It offends him on a fundamental level.

- He makes it his mission to “fix” you. Not because he’s particularly sentimental—just because he cannot handle watching you get defeated by furniture on a daily basis. “Alright, sweetheart,” he drawls, arms crossed. “Time for some goddamn coordination training.” And you try, you really do, but it turns out even Taskmaster can’t overwrite whatever curse makes you a constant disaster. He watches you attempt a basic balance drill, sees you immediately wipe out, and just rubs his temples. “Hopeless. You’re hopeless.”

- But despite his endless frustration, he starts catching you without even thinking about it. His body reacts before his brain does—an automatic reflex, like blocking a punch. One second you’re mid-fall, the next you’re in his arms, blinking up at him. He doesn’t say anything, just sets you down and shakes his head. “You owe me,” he mutters, but the way his hands linger at your waist suggests he doesn’t actually mind.

- The first time he sees a particularly nasty bruise along your ribs, something shifts. He’s seen all kinds of injuries—inflicted most of them himself—but something about seeing you marked up like this makes his fingers twitch. He drags his gloved hand over the darkened skin, tilting his head. “You let the world beat you up, huh?” His voice is softer than usual, something contemplative curling at the edges. Then, with a click of his tongue, he straightens. “Guess I better even the odds.”

- And he does. Aggressively. If the world insists on bruising you, he insists on teaching you how to hit back. He drags you into training, makes you learn something—if only so he can stop watching you lose to stationary objects. But at night, when you’re curled against him, he traces every bruise, every cut, his grip possessive. “You’re a goddamn hazard,” he mutters, pressing his forehead against yours. And you, smiling, whisper, “Yeah, but I’m your hazard.”

Johnny Storm (Human Torch)

- Johnny finds your clumsiness hilarious. The first time he sees you trip over absolutely nothing, he has to physically restrain himself from bursting into laughter. “Babe, was that—was that the air?” He leans against the nearest wall, clutching his stomach. “Did the air just take you out?” But beneath the amusement, there’s a flicker of concern—because you don’t just stumble; you collide with the world, leaving a trail of bruises like constellations across your skin.

- He teases, but he watches. The moment you lose your balance, he’s there, faster than reflex should allow, catching you with an arm around your waist. “Whoa, easy there, graceful,” he murmurs, voice somewhere between exasperation and affection. He holds you longer than necessary, fingers splayed over your back, and for a moment, the world stills. Then he grins. “Y’know, I think you just fake this so I have to keep holding you.”

- When you come home with fresh bruises, his reaction is always the same—dramatic outrage. “Oh my God, babe. Did someone attack you?” He gasps, placing a hand over his chest in mock horror. Then his eyes narrow. “Was it the doorframe? The table corner?” He shakes his head, feigning deep betrayal. “I knew they were out to get you.” But behind the theatrics, he’s already pulling you into his lap, pressing warm hands over your sore limbs, his heat radiating through your skin like a living balm.

- He insists on carrying you at the most ridiculous times. “No, no, I refuse to let you go into battle against gravity again.” And by ‘battle,’ he means walking through a perfectly normal room. He swoops you up, laughing as you protest, his arms far too strong for someone who acts like an overgrown child. “Babe, let’s be real. This is for your safety.” He winks. “And because I like showing off.”

- At night, when the fire dims and it’s just the two of you tangled together, he traces over every bruise with careful fingers. He doesn’t joke then. He just exhales softly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, your wrist, the softest parts of you. “You gotta be careful,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. And when you hum sleepily, he tightens his hold. “Not kidding this time, babe. Just… don’t break yourself, alright?”

Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic)

- Reed observes your clumsiness with scientific fascination. The first time he sees you walk directly into a doorway, he pauses, fingers tapping against his chin. “Hmm.” His brows furrow as he watches you rub your arm, wincing. “This is a pattern.” And just like that, you’ve become an experiment.

- He analyzes you. It starts subtly—adjusting the furniture so there’s more space between sharp edges, rerouting the lab’s layout so you’re less likely to trip over stray equipment. But soon, he’s measuring things, taking notes, muttering things like, “Your peripheral awareness seems statistically lower than average—fascinating.” He tries to be helpful, really. He even attempts to create a stabilization suit—something sleek, futuristic, designed to predict and correct your missteps. It… does not go well. (You trip anyway, and now the suit is mildly offended.)

- When you inevitably come home with bruises, Reed is deeply troubled. He gently takes your wrist, rotating it carefully as he examines the latest damage. “Your body is too delicate for this frequency of injury,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. His mind is already racing, calculations spinning behind his sharp eyes. But then he exhales, carefully brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “Perhaps a different approach.” The next day, there’s a custom-designed, ultra-soft padding system discreetly woven into your daily outfits.

- He isn’t always the most physically affectionate, but when you stumble, his body reacts before his mind does. His limbs stretch, elongating with effortless precision, catching you before you even realize you’re falling. “I anticipated that,” he says simply, setting you back on your feet. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t scold—just accepts your clumsiness as another variable in his universe. And when you raise an eyebrow, he merely shrugs. “I prefer solutions over criticism.”

- At night, when you curl into him, he allows himself a rare moment of softness. His hands, always so deft and purposeful, trace absent patterns against your skin, lingering over each bruise. “I wish I could prevent every injury,” he murmurs, voice quiet in the dim light. You smile against his chest, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “I’d still find a way to trip.” He huffs a quiet laugh, tucking you closer. “Then I suppose I’ll just have to keep catching you.”

Ben Grimm (The Thing)

- Ben sees you trip over absolutely nothing for the third time in a single day, and his immediate reaction is a mix of exasperation and concern. “Aw, c’mon, sweetheart, you got somethin’ against stayin’ on yer feet?” he grumbles, folding his massive arms as you rub your latest bruise. But the second he catches the way you wince, his voice softens, and he sighs. “Lemme see.” His hands are big, rough like weathered stone, but impossibly gentle as he inspects your skin. “Yer like a walkin’ accident waiting to happen, ain’t ya?” It’s not judgment—it’s worry.

- He’s the only person in the world who doesn’t flinch when you crash into him. You could be falling at full speed, and all that happens is you bounce harmlessly off his broad chest. “See? That’s why ya gotta stick by me, doll,” he teases, catching you before you can hit the floor. “Nothin’ knocks this over.” But there’s something else in the way he holds you close, something fiercely protective. If the world insists on beating you up, then fine. Ben’ll just make sure he’s there to take the hit instead.

- He starts keeping a mental tally of your injuries, gruffly scolding you whenever a new one appears. “Yer gonna make me gray before my time,” he mutters, shaking his head as he wraps your wrist with surprising delicacy. But despite the grumbling, he never complains when you come to him for help, never denies you the warmth of his careful hands. And if you rest against his side afterward, your body pressed to the indestructible wall of him, he won’t say a word about how long you linger there.

- He adapts to you in ways he never outright acknowledges. Moves furniture just a little out of your way, catches things before they can topple over when you inevitably bump into them, subtly places himself between you and whatever hazard might cross your path. “Dunno how ya made it this far without me,” he says, grinning. “Guess that makes me yer personal bodyguard, huh?” But the truth is, it scares him sometimes—how fragile you are. How easily you bruise. How the world isn’t made to be kind to people like you.

- Late at night, when you curl against him in the quiet, he traces his fingers over the faint marks on your skin, his touch achingly gentle. “Y’know,” he murmurs, “for someone so soft, ya sure take a beatin’.” There’s something heavy in his voice, something unsaid. I wish the world didn’t hurt you like this. I wish I could keep you safe. But he doesn’t say it out loud. Instead, he just holds you tighter, as if that alone could be enough. And maybe, just maybe, it is.

Susan Storm (Invisible Woman)

- Susan is used to being the responsible one, the caretaker, the steady force amidst chaos. But even she isn’t prepared for just how accident-prone you are. “Sweetheart, again?” she sighs as you stumble for the fifth time that day. She moves faster than thought, catching you with an invisible force before you can even hit the ground. “At this rate, I’m going to have to wrap you in a force field just to keep you intact.” There’s a teasing lilt to her voice, but the concern beneath it is very real.

- She starts using her powers instinctively around you. A glass about to slip from your hands? Caught. A misplaced step sending you toward disaster? Redirected. A force field cushions you from the sharp edge of a counter before you even realize you were about to walk into it. “You don’t even notice you’re doing it,” Johnny teases her one day, watching as she effortlessly prevents you from tripping again. Susan just huffs, crossing her arms. “Well, someone has to keep her in one piece.”

- She doesn’t scold you for your clumsiness. She doesn’t make you feel less because of it. Instead, she watches, learns, and then rearranges the world around you, subtly shifting things to make your life just a little easier. It’s a quiet kind of care, the kind that manifests in softened corners, restructured pathways, and the ever-present, unseen embrace of her protective fields. She won’t stop you from moving through the world the way you do, but she will make sure it doesn’t hurt you as much.

- When she heals your bruises with careful hands, her fingers linger against your skin, her expression unreadable. “You’re so delicate,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “I forget, sometimes, how easily people can break.” There’s something fragile in the way she looks at you then, something she rarely allows herself to show. “You’re lucky I love you,” she finally says, voice lighter, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Because otherwise, I’d have to start charging you for all this medical attention.”

- But there are nights when she lets her guard down, when she pulls you into her arms and whispers against your hair, “You have to be careful, okay? For me.” It’s the closest she’ll come to admitting how much it scares her—how the thought of losing you, of not being there the one time she’s needed, terrifies her. She’s lost too much already. She refuses to lose you.

Felicia Hardy (Black Cat)

- Felicia thinks your clumsiness is adorable. And hilarious. “Oh, kitten, you poor thing,” she coos, watching as you walk directly into the edge of a table. “The universe really isn’t on your side, huh?” But even as she teases, she’s already moving, already guiding you to sit so she can inspect your latest injury. “Tsk, tsk. What would you do without me?”

- She starts calling you her bad luck charm, but with the kind of affection that lingers like a purr in her voice. “See, it’s perfect,” she says one evening, lazily draping herself over you. “I bring the bad luck to everyone else, and you bring it to yourself.” She grins, tapping your nose. “We’re a match made in chaos.”

- But beneath the teasing, she’s hyper-aware of how easily you get hurt. The first time she sees someone shove past you carelessly on the street, causing you to stumble hard against the pavement, her entire demeanor shifts. “Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, brushing off your scraped palms. And then, with a smile so sharp it cuts—“Excuse me a sec, love. I’ve got some business to handle.” She returns a moment later, looking satisfied, and you don’t ask why the guy is now desperately patting his pockets for a missing wallet.

- Felicia is grace incarnate, the exact opposite of you in every way. And yet, she doesn’t mind being the one to catch you. Doesn’t mind slipping an arm around your waist as you both walk, keeping you steady without making a big deal of it. Doesn’t mind the way you instinctively grip her when you know you’re about to trip. “Mmm, I like it when you hold onto me,” she muses. “Should I start pushing you more often?”

- One night, as you curl against her, she traces a slow finger over the faint marks dotting your skin. “You bruise so easily,” she murmurs, her usual playfulness absent. “The world must love marking you up, hmm?” Her voice dips, something dark curling in her tone. “I don’t share what’s mine, you know.” She presses a kiss just below one particularly dark bruise, her lips lingering. “Next time something wants to hurt you, it’s going to have to go through me first.”

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange)

- Stephen watches you knock over a stack of books and sighs like a man who has witnessed a lifetime of disappointment. “By the Vishanti,” he mutters, rubbing his temples. “You are utterly hopeless.” But there’s something in the way he steps forward, fingers already reaching for your wrist, steadying you with the effortless grace of someone who bends reality itself to his will.

- He doesn’t waste time with teasing—he just starts fixing. He places wards around the Sanctum, subtle protections that nudge objects away from you before you can collide with them. He enchants the stairs so they refuse to let you trip, much to your annoyance. “It’s undignified,” you argue. “It’s necessary,” he counters, arms crossed. “If I wanted to spend my days healing bruises, I’d return to mundane medicine.” But despite his grumbling, he still traces careful sigils over your skin, murmuring spells that ease the aches from your body.

- When you stumble in his presence, he doesn’t catch you, per se—he merely redirects reality so you never truly fall. One moment you’re tilting dangerously, the next, space itself shifts, leaving you upright, untouched. He raises an eyebrow, smug. “You’re welcome.” You groan. “That’s cheating.” He smirks, tucking his hands into his robes. “No, that’s adapting.”

- But sometimes, magic isn’t enough. Sometimes, you come home with new bruises, fresh scrapes, evidence that the world has been unkind despite all his efforts. His jaw tightens as he kneels beside you, pressing cool fingertips against your injuries, golden light shimmering between his hands. He doesn’t speak, just concentrates, the tension in his shoulders betraying more than he’d ever say aloud. “You are a force of nature,” he mutters finally, exasperated. “A clumsy force of nature.”

- And yet, despite all his frustration, all his complaints, it is his cloak that wraps around you when you’re tired, his magic that cushions your steps, his hands that linger, tracing soft patterns against your skin long after the bruises have faded. At night, when you murmur sleepily about how he’s overprotective, he only pulls you closer, voice quiet against your ear. “Someone has to be.”

Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider)

Namor

- Namor watches you as one might observe an impending shipwreck—equal parts fascination and inevitability. “You are…” he begins, pausing as you trip over absolutely nothing and barely catch yourself against the nearest surface. He exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “…a disaster.” But there is something almost fond in the way he says it, as though he has already accepted your fate as an unstoppable force of chaos.

- It does not take long for him to forbid you from walking unassisted near the palace’s more perilous edges. “You are fragile,” he declares, tone imperious, brooking no argument. “And you will not test the patience of the sea.” You scoff, rolling your eyes, but he merely crosses his arms, unimpressed. “You think me overprotective? I think you underestimate your own recklessness.”

- When you return to him with yet another bruise blooming across your skin, he does not scold you. He does not chastise. Instead, he looks at you for a long moment, something dangerous and unreadable flickering in the depths of his eyes. And then, with a sigh that sounds suspiciously like surrender, he scoops you into his arms and strides toward the ocean. “What—? Namor!” you protest, but he does not stop. “If the land insists on bruising you,” he says, wading into the waves, “then perhaps you should take refuge where it cannot reach you.”

- The water cradles you as he holds you close, the salt healing, the sea itself shifting to accommodate you. “The ocean does not break so easily,” he murmurs against your temple, his breath warm against your skin. “Perhaps you should learn from her.” And yet, for all his talk of resilience, his hands remain gentle, steadying you as though even he fears how easily you might slip through his fingers.

- There is a moment, quiet and rare, when he traces a fading bruise along your arm with something like reverence. “The land does not deserve you,” he mutters. “It does not know what it has.” And then, softer, almost to himself—“Perhaps I should steal you away.” It is not a threat. It is not a promise. It is simply the thought of a king who does not share his treasures with the undeserving world.

- Johnny has seen pain. He’s seen bodies burn and souls wither, seen the way suffering etches itself into people like a brand. But you—you bruise like a peach, delicate and fleeting, and it makes something in him twist in a way he doesn’t know how to name. He watches you trip, watches you collide with the world, and it’s not the pain that unsettles him—it’s how easily you laugh about it, how you wave it off like it’s nothing. Like you don’t realize how breakable you are.

- “Babe,” he drawls, lifting your wrist, examining the fresh bloom of purple beneath your skin. His fingers are calloused, rough in a way that should be too much, but his touch is gentle. Reverent, even. “You ever think about not throwing yourself at death every other hour?” He says it lightly, but his eyes flicker with something else, something darker. Something that says he knows exactly how fragile life is. And it scares him.

- The first time you fall in front of him, he doesn’t catch you—he doesn’t have the reflexes of a hero, doesn’t have the instinct to soften the world. He’s used to destruction, to things breaking permanently. But he does something else. His hands light up instinctively, flames flickering in his palms, and for the first time, heat wraps around you instead of cold, buffering your impact. “That was new,” he mutters as he helps you up, eyes still glowing faintly. “Guess my body decided I have to keep you intact.”

- He gets angry—not at you, never at you, but at whatever unseen force keeps sending you stumbling into harm’s way. “It’s like you attract pain,” he growls after yet another scrape, another bruise, his fingers flexing with barely restrained frustration. He doesn’t do helplessness well. So instead, he teaches you how to land right, how to fall without it hurting so damn much. “You’re not gonna stop running into things,” he says, resigned. “So at least learn how to hit the ground better.”

- At night, when the fire is low and the world is quiet, he traces the places where pain has kissed you. His hands, so often clenched into fists, smooth over your skin with something close to reverence. “You gotta be more careful,” he murmurs against your hair, voice softer than he’d ever admit in daylight. You hum, half-asleep, and he exhales, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “I already got enough ghosts,” he whispers. “Don’t make me add you to ‘em.”

Eddie Brock / Venom

- The first time Venom notices your clumsiness, it hates it. “SHE IS DELICATE,” the symbiote snarls, its voice a guttural growl in Eddie’s head. “SHE FALLS LIKE A DYING ANIMAL.” Eddie sighs, rubbing his temples. “Yeah, bud, I see that.” But when you trip for the third time that day, Venom is offended. It doesn’t understand why you keep hurting yourself. “UNACCEPTABLE,” it hisses. And just like that, you have an overprotective alien bodyguard.

- Eddie, for his part, is torn between amusement and exasperation. “Babe,” he says, guiding you away from the eighth table corner you’ve hit that week. “How do you function?” But the teasing doesn’t last long, not when he sees the bruises, the little winces you try to hide. That’s when the humor fades, replaced by something else. Something possessive. “You’re ours,” Venom growls one night, curling around you like living armor. “We do not let what is ours get hurt.”

- Venom actively prevents you from getting injured. When you stumble, inky tendrils lash out, steadying you before you can hit the ground. When you reach for something sharp, something dangerous, the symbiote moves it, shifting reality around you to keep you safe. It gets frustrated when you still manage to find ways to get hurt. “SHE DEFIES LOGIC,” it complains. “SHE SEEKS OUT DESTRUCTION.” Eddie sighs. “Buddy, she’s just clumsy.”

- Eddie pretends to be indifferent, but you know him. You see the way his jaw clenches when he notices new bruises, the way his fingers flex like he wants to fight whatever inanimate object wronged you. “I know it’s not a person,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face. “Doesn’t mean I don’t wanna punch something.” Venom, unhelpfully, adds, “WE WILL KILL THE TABLE.” Eddie groans. “We’re not killing the table.”

- At night, when you curl against him, Venom wraps around you both, a cocoon of inky black warmth. Eddie traces absent patterns over your skin, his fingers ghosting over bruises with something close to reverence. “Y’know,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your forehead. “For someone so damn fragile, you sure take a beating.” You hum sleepily, and Venom purrs around you, protective and possessive and endlessly devoted. “OURS,” it whispers. And you know, without a doubt, that it will never let you fall alone.

Muse

T’Challa (Black Panther)

- T’Challa moves like poetry, every step precise, every motion purposeful. He does not stumble, does not falter, does not yield to anything less than absolute control. And then there is you—soft, chaotic, forever colliding with the world like a wayward star. He watches, fascinated and exasperated in equal measure, as you misjudge a doorway again and clip your shoulder against the frame. He sighs, closing the book in his hands. “My love,” he says, voice smooth as still water, “are you at war with inanimate objects? Or do you simply enjoy losing to them?”

- He does not laugh at your clumsiness, though a smile often tugs at his lips when you fumble gracelessly into his arms. “Mm,” he muses, catching you effortlessly. “How convenient. It seems I am your refuge, once more.” There is amusement in his voice, but also something warmer—something indulgent, something fond. He does not need you to be perfect. He only needs you to be his.

- Wakanda’s technology adapts to you with quiet precision. Furniture shifts subtly out of your path. Doors widen at just the right moment. The palace corridors, once an intricate maze of sharp corners and regal opulence, now seem to flow around you like a river carving space through stone. “You think me excessive,” he remarks one evening, tracing a careful finger over the fresh bruise on your knee. “But I am a king, beloved. And it is my duty to protect what is mine.”

- When the bruises come, he treats them with reverence, his hands steady as he applies a salve crafted just for you. “Vibranium enhances healing,” he explains, voice low, rich, soothing. “It will lessen the ache.” But there is something in the way he lingers, something in the way his fingers glide over each mark, that betrays the deeper truth—he hates to see you hurt, even in the smallest of ways. He would raze nations for you, but against your own wayward steps, he is powerless. It frustrates him more than he will ever admit.

- And yet, late at night, when the weight of his kingdom is too much to bear, he finds solace in your presence. Finds peace in the way you curl against him, careless in your softness, in your ease, in your unrelenting humanness. “You are chaos,” he murmurs against your hair, amused and reverent all at once. “And yet, somehow, you bring me peace.”

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra is grace incarnate, a blade honed to perfection, a whisper of red silk against the dark. And then there is you, a creature of unintended violence, of misplaced steps and unintentional collisions. The first time she watches you walk directly into the corner of a table, she merely tilts her head, expression unreadable. “You are… fascinating,” she says at last, watching as you rub your arm with a wince. “And utterly defenseless.”

- She does not understand it at first—the way you allow the world to hurt you, as though you have no instinct for self-preservation. “Your body is a temple,” she tells you one evening, fingers ghosting over the constellation of bruises scattered across your skin. “Why do you let it be desecrated so carelessly?” But there is no judgment in her voice. Only curiosity. Only something sharp and knowing, something that feels dangerously close to care.

- She starts moving differently around you. Not obviously—not the way lesser people might—but in ways that matter. A hand at your lower back, subtly guiding. A sudden shift in position, intercepting your path before disaster can strike. A flick of her wrist that sends a stray object skidding out of your way before you can trip over it. You never see her do it. You only feel the absence of pain, the absence of disaster, and the silent weight of her gaze as she watches you, always watching.

- “Your luck is remarkable,” she muses one evening, twirling a dagger between deft fingers. “That you have made it this far, untouched by the world’s cruelties.” Her voice is unreadable, but her eyes are not. There is something dark in them, something possessive. As though she alone is allowed to mark you. As though the world itself has no right to harm what she has claimed.

- She never says the words, never softens in the ways you might expect, but when she pulls you into her lap, when she traces absent patterns over your skin, when she presses her lips to each fading bruise as though sealing them away—that is her devotion. She is a creature of war, but for you, she will be a shield.

- Muse finds your clumsiness beautiful. He doesn’t see accidents; he sees art. The way you stumble, the way your body meets the world with reckless abandon—it’s a performance, a dance only he can truly appreciate. “Fascinating,” he murmurs after you trip, his eerie, empty eyes drinking in the sight. “Such graceful destruction.”

- He paints your bruises. Not with actual paint—no, he uses his hands, his mouth, his presence. He traces the purple stains blooming beneath your skin, committing them to memory, adoring them. “A masterpiece in flesh,” he whispers, pressing his lips against a particularly dark bruise. “You walk through life like a canvas left to the mercy of the world.” There is no pity in him, only reverence.

- He doesn’t stop you from getting hurt. Why would he? Pain is an artist’s language, and you—you are his magnum opus. He watches as you collide with existence, as you collect the evidence of your mortality, and he loves it. “Every mark tells a story,” he muses, his fingers ghosting over your skin. “A testimony of movement. Of impact.” He smiles, sharp and unhinged. “Of life.”

- But for all his fixation, he is not indifferent. No, when you truly hurt yourself, when you cry out—something in him snaps. The world shifts, reality bending to the will of a mind unmoored. “No,” he breathes, his voice lilting, distant. “No, no, no. This is wrong.” And suddenly, the thing that harmed you—be it a person, an object, the air itself—becomes a target. He erases it. Obliterates it from existence. And then he turns to you, tilting his head. “I prefer when the world marks you softly,” he murmurs. “Only I am allowed to make you truly suffer.”

- At night, he watches you sleep, eyes unblinking, hands still moving, still creating. He maps out every bruise, every scrape, carving them into his mind like sacred scripture. And as you breathe, as you rest in the arms of something not quite human, he leans down, whispering against your skin. “You are a masterpiece in motion,” he murmurs. “And I will watch you fall until the end of time.”

Victor von Doom (Dr. Doom)

- Doom does not tolerate weakness, nor does he suffer foolishness. And yet, you—his beloved—possess both in abundance, an infuriating contradiction wrapped in beauty. He watches as you stumble through his castle halls, colliding with ancient Latverian artifacts, knocking over things that should not be knocked over. “Again?” he drawls, arms crossed, as you nurse yet another bruise. “Must I encase you in armor simply to keep you upright?” The remark is laced with exasperation, but the way his gloved hand lingers against your injured skin betrays something deeper.

- The first time you fall in his presence, Doom does not reach for you. He is not one to coddle. But his magic moves before he can think, catching you mid-collapse, suspending you in the air like a marionette in invisible strings. “Hmph,” he muses, as if analyzing a puzzle. “A clumsy creature, yet I cannot abide the thought of you damaged.” And just like that, you are lowered to the ground, untouched by harm. His voice is softer then, begrudgingly so. “Try not to make this a habit.”

- Doom solves problems, and your perpetual clumsiness is one he refuses to leave unchecked. You wake one morning to find your world altered—corners of tables dulled, Latverian marble floors softened ever so slightly, even the air shifting subtly to break your falls before you hit the ground. You glance at him, suspicion blooming. “Victor,” you say slowly, “did you…modify reality to childproof the castle?” He doesn’t look up from his work, but his lips curl into something smug. “Doom merely enhances what is flawed.”

- He lectures you whenever he finds new bruises. “Do you have no spatial awareness? No sense of self-preservation?” His hands, clad in cold metal, trace the injuries with something dangerously close to tenderness. “You walk through the world as if you are untouchable.” He pauses, voice lowering to something unreadable. “But you are touchable. And that…is unacceptable.” You don’t need to ask what he means. Doom does not lose what is his.

- At night, when the world is quiet and his mask is cast aside, his fingers brush over the marks on your skin. No one else is permitted to witness this: the way his jaw tightens, the way his touch gentles. “Latveria’s queen,” he murmurs, barely audible, “should not bear wounds from her own foolishness.” He exhales sharply, pressing his lips against your temple. “I will not allow the world to hurt you.” A pause. “Not even yourself.”

Peter Quill (Star-Lord)

- Peter finds your clumsiness adorable. Where Doom sees a problem to be solved, Peter sees endless entertainment. “Babe, you’re like…a baby deer,” he laughs as you trip over absolutely nothing on the Milano’s deck. “Like, you got the vibes of someone graceful, but your body just betrays you.” He catches you before you hit the ground, grinning as he holds you close. “Lucky for you, you got me. I’m like your personal superhero and your crash pad.”

- The problem is, Peter is also kind of clumsy. Which means, sometimes, instead of catching you, he also trips, sending you both sprawling in a tangled heap. “Okay, that one was not my fault,” he insists, flat on his back. “We’re just, like, cosmically doomed to fall together.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Metaphor for love?” You groan, swatting at him, and he only laughs.

- He starts keeping a running tally of your bruises. “Alright, babe, let’s see—knee from the control panel, elbow from Gamora’s sword rack, forehead from the freakin’ doorframe—” He clicks his tongue. “We’re gonna run outta room soon.” But despite the teasing, his hands are always so gentle when he checks you over, his usual playfulness softening into something warmer. “Y’know,” he murmurs, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, “maybe the universe keeps knockin’ you around ‘cause it knows I’ll always be here to catch you.”

- The other Guardians get involved. Rocket builds you a helmet (“Ya clearly need it, sweetheart”), while Drax solemnly declares that he will “eliminate” any object that dares to harm you. “That is…not necessary,” you assure him as he glares at a particularly sharp table corner. Peter just beams. “See, babe? You got a whole crew of bodyguards. Ain’t that nice?”

- Late at night, when the others are asleep and the stars stretch endlessly beyond the ship’s windows, he pulls you into his lap, fingers tracing absent patterns over the bruises on your arms. “You ever notice,” he murmurs, “how you bruise kinda pretty?” You huff against his shoulder. “That shouldn’t be a compliment.” But he just kisses the top of your head, voice softer than usual. “Still is.” And when he whispers, “Don’t go breaking yourself too bad, okay? I kinda like you in one piece,” it’s almost too quiet for you to hear. Almost.

Nova (Richard Rider)

- Nova is alarmed by how often you get hurt. He doesn’t understand how someone can be so beautiful yet so accident-prone. “Babe, you literally survived intergalactic wars with me,” he says, exasperated, “and yet a coffee table is your worst enemy?” You pout. “It came out of nowhere.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s been in the same place forever.”

- He starts using his helmet’s sensors to track your movement. If you so much as stumble, he’s there, catching you before you can even process the fall. “I got, like, cosmic-level reflexes, babe,” he brags, grinning. “You are officially under Nova Corps protection.” You squint at him. “Did you really just use space cop powers to stop me from tripping?” He smirks. “And I’d do it again.”

- But beneath the teasing, there’s worry. He’s lost too much—friends, home, whole planets—and every little bruise on you is another reminder of how easily things can be taken. “I know it’s dumb,” he admits one night, rubbing at the back of his neck, “but every time I see you hurt, even just a little, it just—it freaks me out, okay?” He sighs, pulling you into his arms, holding you tight. “I don’t wanna lose one more thing I love.”

- He doesn’t try to fix you. He doesn’t wrap you in cosmic energy or change the world around you. He just adapts. He positions himself at your side when you walk, places a steadying hand at the small of your back, moves things subtly out of your way before you can even reach them. He doesn’t make you notice. He just…does it. Because loving you means protecting you, even from yourself.

- “Y’know,” he murmurs as you both float above the atmosphere, weightless, surrounded by stars, “you can’t trip in zero gravity.” You smile, pressing a hand to his chest. “Maybe we should just stay up here forever, then.” He chuckles, tilting his forehead against yours. “Tempting,” he whispers. “But, uh… I kinda like keeping my feet on the ground, if it means keeping you from falling.”

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maddieautobot273 · 2 years ago

Text

Silk & Cologne (3)

A Miguel O’Hara x OC series - AO3 link (X)

Chapter 3 - Introductions - Previous Chapter (X)

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x Female OC

Words: 2.4K+ words

Rating: PG - For slowburn fluff, made up spider-medical jumbo and depictions of body shaking/reactions.

Summary: Miguel brings Lisa back to the Spider-Society to receive medical attention.

//////

Miguel and Peter B. decided to split up. Peter B. would take the unconscious guards back to their dimension to stop them from glitching and causing a rift in the canon event and their dimension from potentially collapsing, while Miguel escorted the bitten woman back to HQ.

Miguel carried the woman in his arms as he rushed through the portal, informing Lyla to have Spider-Doctor prepare the sick bay for his arrival. He could hear her pain, mumbling in her sleep. It appeared she was still experiencing the side effects of the transformation. Her head rolled around her shoulders to lean against his bicep, the touch causing Migel to look down at her briefly as he breezed through the Going Home facility, not even glancing at Spider-Byte as she yelled out, “What happened?!”

Miguel’s expression remained stoic and serious as he kept running down the hall, passed the multitude of Spider-Persons who looked on with a mixture of confusion and concern and there were some who gladly stepped out of his way so he could continue on with no issue. Although he couldn’t help it, there was a hint of sympathy in his eyes. Of all the dimensions in the multiverse, nothing was supposed to happen in Earth-1218. Nothing of this magnitude, and now an innocent civilian was bitten and he blamed himself for it.

He’d to make it right. By any means. Like he always did.

He ran through the automatic doors of the medical bay, his mask destabilizing as he caught his breath, looking around frantically. “Doc?”

“Over here, Miguel!” A Spider-Man wearing a lab coat and stethoscope around his neck waved him over towards a free bed.

Miguel jogged over, setting the woman down gently as the Doctor attached some IV’s to her and dabbed a wet washcloth on her forehead to clean the sweat off her.

“How long has she been like this?” The Doctor asked.

“Almost two hours, I believe,” Miguel nodded slowly as he ran the numbers in his head, reliving the events over and over to make sure he was accurate.

“Doesn’t like a female Parker,” Spider-Doc commented as he checked for swelling or bruising along her skin. “What dimension is she from?”

“Earth-1218,” Miguel hissed with a ping of disappointment in his voice.

“What?!” The Doc’s eyes widened through the mask. “But I thought with their dimensions physics and laws..?”

“It’s not supposed to happen, to never happen in fact, tienes razón,” Miguel sighed with his hands on his hips. “But it did. A Spider from another dimension escaped into that one,” - You’re right.

“Do you still have it?” Doc asked with a sense of eagerness. “We could analyze it. We don’t know how the venom will react with her body from a dimension so pure,”

Miguel reached into his suit, pulling out the small case with the dead spider in it as he handed it to the doctor. “Their Oscorp scientist mentioned that extracting the venom could kill her if she loses too much blood. I don’t want to imagine what will happen if it stays inside her and reacts horribly,”

“My fluids will help her body fight any infection, but I think I can formulate a blood transfusion with her blood and the spider to create an antidote to stabilize her. She’ll have the venom, but it won’t kill her,” he explained as the eyes of his mask came to life, scanning and analyzing the spider.

“Do whatever you need to do. I’m not having anyone die on me,” Miguel commanded with a firm point to the woman.

“I’ll get started right away!” Spider-Doc carefully extracted a drop of blood from the woman’s arm, carrying the blood sample and the spider to his work station.

As he worked, Miguel looked down towards the woman, watching her as she groaned, through the pain. He had no idea if she was even coherent enough to know what was happening around her.

He took a quick glance of her form and noticed her hand began to twitch. Sparks flew as her fingers and skin morphed into different shapes and colours as she hissed violently from the pain before returning to normal. She was glitching.

“Someone get me a day pass, now!” He barked an order.

One of the nurses ran over, grabbing one from a bin and handing it to him. He snatched it with his fingers before slipping it on the woman’s wrists, snapping it tightly on. The glitching immediately seized as the woman breathed heavily. Miguel began to pull his hands away, but almost instinctively, the woman’s fingers latched on to him for dear life.

“What’s— happening?” She panted through the pain, struggling to open her eyes.

Miguel saw something flash before his eyes and his first immediate thought was to yank his hand away out of fear, snarling. But hearing the pain in her voice. . . She was scared. He had to remind himself that it wasn’t her fault.

“Just. . . Hang on. Just a little longer,” he breathed as he tried to relax himself. He pulled one hand away from her arm, but allowed his fingers to stay intertwined with the other.

Maybe it was the sympathy talking, witnessing an innocent woman go through such pain. But he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t.

“Miguel!” Peter B. came running into the medbay, jogging towards him. “We got another problem with the mission,”

“What kind of problem?” Miguel’s eyes narrowed in annoyance.

“Those guards we took down? They never glitched when they were in Earth-1218,” Peter stated as he pulled out a chunk of worn out day passes from his pockets. “They were wearing these,”

“Day passes?” Miguel gawked at the sight as he tried to control his anger. His breath hissing as his hand squeezed the woman’s fingers, but not too tightly. “How did they get those?”

“I don’t know,” Peter B. shook his head. “I think. . . There’s a mole in the Society. I’ve asked Byte to look into it,”

“A spy? Someone is foolish enough to pull something like this from under me?” Miguel growled as he could sense his anger building, and only then did he remove his hand from the girl’s fingers before clutching them into a fist.

“Hey, hey, hey, easy! It’s just a theory,” Peter B waved his hands frantically. “Someone could have accidentally taken more than one and dropped them?”

“Considering the security protocols I put in place, I find that very hard to believe, Peter,” Miguel snarled, cursing under his breath. “Is this another one of Hobie’s stupid pranks?”

He tried to keep his voice down out of respect for Spider-Doc who was hard at work on the antidote, and the woman who was slumbering on the bed next to him.

“Whoa, okay, switching the ketchup vendors with hot sauce, maybe, but slipping day passes to villains in other dimensions is straight up evil, Miguel, come on,” Peter B. shook his head tiredly. While he understood why Miguel would accuse him, Hobie did like causing trouble once in a while but never to that extreme. “He’d never do that,”

“I hope you’re right,” Miguel responded with a seething breath out of his nose. “Have Margo inform me as soon as she hears something,”

Peter B. nodded at his boss before he looked down at the woman. He saw the bandage on her hand where the spider bite came from as he listened to her pained mumbling. “Yeah, I’m definitely glad I didn’t bring MayDay over today,”

“I got it!” Spider-Doc came running back, holding a vial of a colourful liquid. “I got the antidote!”

“You were quick,” Miguel commented with an impressed raised of his brow.

“I am when it comes to potentially saving the lives of my patients,” He proclaimed. “Now this could get a little messy. Miguel, hold her down on your side, Peter, on the other, and gently please,”

The two Spider-Men did as they were told, each taking a gentle hold of the girl's shoulder and arms as the Doctor poured the antidote into her I pouch. They all watched with bated breath as the liquid seeped its way down the tube and into the woman’s body.

“She’ll have a slight reaction, but this will help stabilize the venom,” The Doc explained as he brought out a monitor for her vitals.

Miguel and Peter B. watched her closely before suddenly her body started to shake. Her fingers curled into fists as the sensors started beeping and while in her sleep, it was as if she were trying to physically fight the antidote as Miguel and Peter B. kept her pressed down on the bed.

“This is slight?!” Peter B.’s voice strained as he tightened his grip ever so slightly.

“Now’s not the time for jokes,” Miguel growled as the hand that was on her arm carefully moved to her waist as he pressed down on it gently. He watched the way her mouth twitched, wanting to speak, scream, do something. “No luches contra eso. Abrázalo,” - Don’t fight it. Embrace it.

He glanced up at the monitor as one side displayed a visual projection of the antidote coursing through her bloodstream, while the other showed her vitals as they slowly went back into the green.

“It’s working! She’s stabilizing!” Spider-Doc gasped.

////////

I felt like I was trapped in some sort of weird nightmare. I was running, and then I fell through the floor and into what I assumed was water, but it tasted awful, almost like poison. I could feel myself sinking deeper and deeper. I tried to swim back up to the surface but it was like I wasn’t making any progress. I was just stuck.

Am I dying? Is this how it ends?

“No luches contra eso,”

I stopped when I heard the voice. It was slightly muffled, but. . . I knew that voice. It sounded like it was one of the Spider-Men that saved me.

“¡Abrázalo!” The voice spoke up more clearly again.

It really was him! I remembered seeing his face before I passed out. His strong posture, chiseled cheekbones and jawline, his hair and those eyes. . .

“Wake up,”

I stopped trying to swim. My brain and body embraced it all, and I quickly realized it really was a dream. That I wasn’t drowning. I took a deep breath, closing my eyes. Slowly, it was like the liquid drained and I stood on solid ground once again and as I slowly opened my eyes, I was met with a blinding light.

/////////

I opened my eyes to find myself in a hospital bed. I blinked a few times to adjust my eyes to the harsh lighting, but everything was coming out so blurry. I could see there were people around me, but I could hardly see them.

“What— what’s going on?” I slowly reached my hands up to my face, taking my glasses off and my vision cleared.

Standing before me were Spider-Man, the navy blue Spider-Man who I realized was more bulky and taller looking than the original, and then there was another classic Spider-Man except he wore a doctor’s uniform.

“Ha, ha, you’re awake!” The Spider-Doc quickly switched places with Spider-Man as he brought out a flashlight pen, carefully flashing it in my eyes. “How are you feeling?”

“Um. . . kinda weird, but, okay, I think?” I mumbled softly as I was adjusting to everything I was clearly seeing around me as the doctor pulled away.

I glanced down at my glasses, completely dumbfounded. I had to wear them for years but now it’s as if I can see perfectly without them.

I heard a quiet laugh as I looked over towards the classic Spider-Man as he removed his mask, revealing a white skinned male with short brown hair, a faint stubble beard and green eyes. “The glasses thing got me too,”

I stared at him briefly, my mind still coming to terms if that was actually who I was seeing and speaking to. “Peter. . . Parker?”

“Peter B. Parker, ma’am,” He introduced himself with a wave.

I looked up towards the Spider-Doc and our eyes met briefly. “Also, Peter Parker?” I asked slowly.

He nodded gently before typing away at a console to log his results. I then slowly turned and came face to face with the other Spider-Man that saved me. He looked completely different than the others. Different person, different suit. “Not Peter Parker?”

A small scoff groaned from his lips, but there was a very faint smile on his face. As if he were relieved. “Not Peter Parker,”

“Who are you?” I asked him softly.

“I am Miguel O’hara,” Miguel introduced himself with a polite nod, “Spider-Man 2099,”

“2099? Like in the future? Are we in the future?” I asked him, my eyes widening at the notion.

“We’re in my dimension's future,” Miguel clarified. “Your name is–?”

“Lisa. . .” I spoke slowly. “Lisa Kendrick,”

“Well then, Miss Lisa, welcome to Earth 928, Miguel’s dimension,” Peter smiled.

“Wait,” I exchanged looks between the two. “You’re saying. . . we’re not still in New York?”

“Not your New York of Earth-1218, unfortunately,” Miguel answered.

“So, I’m really in another dimension? This is all real?” I asked, my breathing slowly turning into panting.

“As real as it can get. Don’t know how else to explain it,” Peter B. nodded.

I exchanged one more look between the two before I stared back down at my glasses, clutching them tightly.

“I know, this must be a lot to process and take in,” Miguel started as he leaned into his chair, his arms resting against his thighs. “But if you’ll allow me, I can explain everything in more detail when you’re cleared by our doctor–”

A loud gurgle from my stomach stopped Miguel from speaking any further as his eyes instantly went to my face to see my expression had morph, and my skin began to turn green.

“Oh, I know that look,” Spider-Doc strained as he reached for something. “Bucket!!”

He grabbed a bucket and handed it over to me, trading my glasses for it as I hunched over, putting my head into it as I barfed inside. The noise I made was loud and grotesque as both Miguel and Peter B. Parker recoiled back.

“We got a barfer, I’ll get another washcloth,” Peter B. stood up as he scampered across the room to the supply shelf.

I breathed in and out heavily as my cheeks burned from the embarrassment of what I just did in front of them, and when I gaze found Miguel’s again, realizing he didn’t leave with Peter and continued to watch me, my blush turned darker as I suddenly felt the urge to hide my face in the bucket.

//////

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