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topguncortez · 5 months

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Are You With Me? | Ch I

| Jake Seresin x Shy!Wifey

series masterlist | next part

synopsis: Jake gets a terrifying call in the middle of the night that has him rushing to his ex-wife's side. Y/N is put in the middle of two men who she cared about. The Seresins get shocking news.

word count: 2.2k

warnings: emergency rooms, medical inaccuracies, mentions of blood, childhood cancer, fighting, divorce, mentions of cheating

“What happened?” Jake asked, out of breath as he ran down the corridor. He had just fallen asleep when he got a frantic call from his ex wife. He could hardly make out the words she was saying to him, but he managed to understand that she was taking their daughter to the ER. It was like a hot knife in Jake’s chest as he sprinted out of bed and broke nearly all traffic laws to get to the hospital.

Y/N’s was shaking like a leaf in the wind, as she took a step away from the large window where she had been watching doctors and nurses tend to her child, “I-I don’t know,” Her voice was thick with tears, her eyes and nose red. The only thing she wore was a nightgown and a jacket over it, “Ella, sh-she has had this cough and it hasn’t gone away and she started complaining about not being able to breathe and then. . .” Y/N sucked in a deep breath, trying to slow her heart rate down, “There was so much blood.”

“Shh, shh,” Jake pulled her into his chest, cradling the back of her head. A loud sob racked through her body, and Jake held her tighter, “Let’s go sit down, okay? I’ll get you some tea and a snack.”

Y/N nodded her head, and let Jake guide her through the hospital to the waiting room. Her body felt heavy as she collapsed in the chair. The only image flashing through her mind was of her daughter standing in the doorway of her room with blood all over her shirt. Y/N closed her eyes, rubbing them with the heel of her hand. Ella had been complaining about her chest hurting and this persistent cough that would not go away. Y/N just thought it was her being sick with the common cold.

“Here,” Jake said, holding a foam cup and a granola bar out to his ex-wife. Y/N gingerly took the items and Jake sat down in the chair next to her. The tension stretched over them as they both sat in silence, Y/N nibbling on the granola bar and Jake fiddling with his fingers. The last time they had sat this close to one another was when they were in couples therapy. Most of the time, if they had to sit near each other, they would put one of the kids in the middle.

“I’m sorry I called you so early,” Y/N mumbled, breaking the silence.

Jake looked at her, a small frown on his face, “I’d rather you did than wait until morning. I know you hate doctors.”

“Had to get over that this past year.”

A year. It had been a whole year since Jake signed those papers, and Y/N had walked out of his life. It had been a year of utter misery for the both of them, but their pride got in the way of being able to admit that. It had been a year of awkward conversations while dropping the kids off at each other’s houses. A year of avoiding each other at Dagger family events. A year of tears and aching hearts when the other mentioned going out on a date. A year of suffering because of one mistake.

“Well, Ella is my daughter,” Jake said, sitting up in his seat, “And I am going to be here for my daughter, no matter what time it is.”

They both agreed in the divorce to keep things as civil as they possibly could for the sake of the children. Jake didn’t fight Y/N on custody, only asking that he gets them on the weekends. Y/N still allowed Jake to come over as often as he wanted to, and he was at the house most nights. Jake hated going home to that small on-base house that was nothing compared to the beautiful craftsman they had bought together after Eli was born. Y/N let Jake stay for dinner, and help with bath time, before getting the kids to bed. It was always awkward when he’d leave for the night; both of them wanting to ask the other if they would stay.

“I know,” Y/N swallowed, “I just. . . I don’t know.”

The silence stretched back over them. The lobby of the emergency room was surprisingly busy for an early Tuesday morning. Drunkards were waiting to get fluids to sober up. A couple who looked like they were about to have a baby sat in the corner, the man coaxing his wife through breathing exercises. A sad looking elderly man with a deep frown etched on his face. A mother holding her child to her chest, soothing his hiccups. Y/N longed to be able to be back with Ella, but the doctors had ushered her out of the room when Ella quit breathing.

Y/N was lost in her thoughts when a voice called out to her, “Y/N.”

“Miles,” She stood up from her chair, “W-what’s going on? Is Ella alright?”

“You’re my daughter’s doctor?” Jake said, eyeing Miles up and down.

Y/N shot a glare in Jake’s direction. Now was not the time to get in a pissing match.

“I am,” Miles said, brushing off Jake’s comment, “I was working a round in the ER when she came in. I’m also lead pediatric surgeon.”

Rolling his eyes, Jake muttered, “Of course you are.”

“Anyway,” Miles continued, “We ran some tests on Ella, a simple blood test and then an X-Ray,” He paused for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. Y/N’s hand reached out for Jake’s on instinct, squeezing it, “Her blood test came back showing signs of abnormal cell growth, and there’s a small mass on the right lower lobe of her lung.”

It was as if Miles had slugged Y/N in the chest. She sat down, afraid her knees were going to give out if she were still standing. The words Miles and Jake were sharing might as well have been a world away, as none of it was making sense to her.

“How did this happen?” Y/N asked, her voice felt foreign to her as she looked up at the men, “How did I miss this?”

“We don’t really know,” Miles said softly, “Sometimes, the body just creates abnormal cells. Lung cancer in kids looks totally different than lung cancer in adults. It’s not your fault.”

Y/N nodded her head and looked down at her hands, “So what do we do?”

“We’re gonna discharge her for today, and send you home with some medicine to help suppress the cough. Then we’re gonna get you set up with an oncology appointment, run some more tests and we’ll go from there.”

“Can we see her?” Jake asked.

“Of course,” Miles nodded his head, and told them Ella’s room number.

Jake sat down next to Y/N, letting out a deep sigh. This was the last thing he thought was going to happen when Y/N called him at 2:30 in the morning. The only person Jake knew to have lung cancer was his grandfather, and it was a bitter end to his life. Hospitals, and oxygen masks, and not being able to do anything but lay in a bed and wait for death to come. It wasn’t what he imagined for his little girl. Not in this lifetime.

“You never told me what happened between you and Miles?” Jake asked, looking over at Y/N.

She let out a sigh, stretching her arms out and flexing her fingers, “Just didn’t work out.”

Truth was, Y/N was so irrevocably in love with Jake, that being with Miles was only going to cause more harm than good. Miles had been the perfect guy; he was respectful, kind, he cared about Y/N’s kids and treated them with respect as well. He also loved her, flaws and all. And that was the issue. Miles loved Y/N more than Y/N could ever love him. It broke her heart to have to break up with him, but she couldn’t let him continue to think that something was going to happen.

Jake hummed, “I thought you two were going to get-”

“Can we not talk about my love life right now?” Y/N snapped, looking at her ex, “Now is not the time.”

“I’m sorry,” Jake apologized, “She’s going to be okay, ya know?” Y/N’s eyes filled with unshed tears, “She’s strong and healthy, just like you.”

Y/N nodded her head, “I know. It’s just not what I want for her. I hate this!”

Jake wrapped his arm around Y/N’s shoulder and brought her into him. He hated seeing her cry and in the past year, he had seen her shed a lot of tears. Over the years, Y/N got better at stuffing her emotions down. It was hard raising kids with a husband who flew jets at supersonic speed into dangerous territories. She had to become both mentally and physically strong to withstand the months of Jake being gone and her left to raise the kids. Now, those emotions came crumbling down.

“Let’s go back and see her, okay?” Jake asked, pressing a kiss to Y/N’s temple. She wordlessly nodded her head and Jake stood up, helping her to her feet.

They rode the elevator in silence up to the pediatric floor where Ella was. When the doors opened they were met with bright colored green and blue walls with various animals painted on them. Children were just starting to wake up on the floor, as nurses and aids went into their rooms with colorful cups of medicine. Some parents had spent the night, sleeping on a cot next to their child’s bed, other parents were just arriving with cups of coffee and tired looks on their faces. Y/N was surprised at how warm the unit felt. That was the one thing she hated about hospitals. They always felt so cold and lonely. But the pediatric ward was filled with bright smiles, and laughter.

Jake knocked on the door to Ella’s room, which had a painted unicorn on it, “Knock, knock,” He said, slowly opening the door.

“Daddy!” Ella exclaimed. Jake rushed over to the bed, and hugged his little girl tightly. He wasn’t sure if it was because of her illness, but she felt smaller in his arms than she had ever felt, “I missed you.”

“Missed you too Ella Bella,” Jake said softly, and placed a kiss on her temple, “How are you feeling?” He helped her lay back in bed, and covered her with a blanket. Y/N silently walked to the otherside of Ella’s bed as Jake sat down on the small mattress.

“I’m tired,” Ella yawned, “Nurse Becky gave me strawberry jell-o and Auntie Val saw me when I had my pictures done!”

“She did?” Y/N asked, trying her best to sound happy. She made a mental note to contact her best friend and tell her how thankful she was for her visit to Ella. If there was one thing about Val Machado, it was that she was going to care of her friends’ kids. Val even said once the Seresin kids were basically her kids and vice versa.

“Yes! She gave me a unicorn sticker! Like the one on the door!” Ella held up the sticker that was on her hospital gown.

“That’s beautiful baby,” Jake said, his green eyes full of love as he brushed his hand over her cheek.

“Daddy,” Ella said softly, “Can I go home now?”

“Yes Elles,” Jake nodded his head, “We’re gonna go home. You, me, and Mommy.”

A weird feeling went through Y/N’s chest when Jake said they were all going home. She tried her best to ignore it, knowing that Jake was only saying words to comfort their daughter. When a nurse came in, Y/N and Jake excused themselves to go sign some paperwork and set up the next doctor’s appointment. They sat on opposite sides of a round table, Jake filling out insurance forms while Y/N sighed Ella’s discharge forms.

“You shouldn’t have told her that you were coming home,” Y/N muttered.

Jake furrowed his eyebrows, “Why? I am coming home with you guys.”

“Jake,” Y/N sighed, setting the pen down.

“No,” Jake answered, “I am not just gonna go back to base and pretend like everything is fine and dandy. Cause it’s not fine and dandy, Y/N. Our child is sick.”

“I know,” Y/N’s voice became thick with tears, “I know this, Jake.”

“Then don’t push me away,” Jake sounded defeated, “Not now. Not when we need each other the most.”

Y/N let out a shaky sigh, “I just don’t know if I can forgive you.”

“You don’t have to,” Jake said, getting up from his chair and going over to kneel in front of his wife. He grabebd her hands in his, running his thumbs over the back of them, “You don’t have to forgive me now or ever. But you need someone to rely on and be there just as much as I need someone to rely on and be there. This isn’t going to be easy. . . but we are the only ones who will understand what we are going through. We need each other right now.”

Y/N bit her lip and nodded her head, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Jake asked, his eyes full of hope and longing.

“Okay,” Y/N said again, sniffling, “Let’s go take our baby home.”

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moondirti · 8 months

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13. A CHALLENGE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN OF ANIMALIC | MIGUEL O'HARA X F!READER

↼ chapter twelve / chapter fourteen ⇀

summary: you ask for a challenge. miguel gives you one worth your salt

mature | 10.2k words warnings: praise kink, mentorship with benefits, sparring, sexual tension, loads of banter/flirting, mild angst, sexual fantasies (including blowjobs), insecurity, blood and injury, mentions of death, dirty talk, arousal notes: i know y'all hate me after that end

Sunday, 14:45

“How long’s it been?” You urge, voice strained with thinning breath.

Miguel – for all his insistence that you push yourself beyond normal measure – doesn’t seem to hear you, gazing off into a distant corner. His forehead looks especially flickable from this angle, in this particular moment, and you have to curl your fist to quell the urge as it arises.

“Hm?” He hums, finally snapping out of it when you walk to the stretch of ceiling above him, intruding on his eyeline. The conditioned air of the gym itches the parts of you that are damp with sweat, particularly that exposed by your drooping shirt, draped under your bra to reveal your abdomen. Gooseflesh pocks your skin.

“The time.”

“Right.” He blinks, lifting his wrist to pause the stopwatch he’d set, then makes a small noise. “Double the last. You’re getting better.”

“Yeah, well–” To dispense the effects his praise has on you, you turn to make your way over to the pull-up bars at the back. They were your means of getting up on the ceiling, and they’re your way off. “S’not really difficult. I’m just hanging, trying not to throw up.”

“You could start practising on walls. It’d make the whole ‘getting down’ process easier.” He says, almost admonishes. As good as you’ve gotten at defying gravity upside down, you’ve stayed clear of testing your luck by doing so perpendicularly. “Not to mention, accessible. You won’t always have conveniently placed support to help you.”

“I don’t quite trust it yet.” Because you don’t, and it’s hard to imagine you will. The whole idea feels like a big fuck you to every physics lesson you’ve ever digested. “It makes no sense.” Swinging off the bar, you make sure to land on a wide stance to prevent your tumble. Your extremities have long since numbed, and you’ve already learnt your lesson on how that generates a lack of stability for the first few seconds until adjustment. “If everything in the universe operates on the same laws, I won’t be the exception.”

“You’re right.” Miguel ducks to fetch the bottle you left beside him, handing it over before you can ask. “You wouldn’t be. Several spiders manage it just fine.”

“Several spiders also have several one-ups on me.” The cold slice of water cuts through your thirst, tamping the headache you could sense starting at your sinuses. Recovery, in absolute contrast to your endurance, has cut by half. You’re recuperating from exertion a lot quicker than before.

“Like?”

“Failsafes in case they fall. Web-shooters, assistive gear.” You neglect to broach the topic of your own infallible; him, never too far out of reach. Not only would its mention go against your point, you’re still unsure of the nature of his aid – whether he would catch you if the severity of the situation did not call for it. If he’s here because you need him, or in commitment to a duty beyond your understanding.

(Tallying what you know about Miguel, you’d bet on the latter.)

“Everyone starts somewhere.”

“Very helpful, thanks.” You’d offer him your drink, but even the thought of his lips touching where yours once did makes you flush with molten heat. Late at night, tucked on your bed as you watch the highway leading to Second Base, you strain to remember what they felt like, mashed to yours in a laser confined cell. If you knew back then how things would end up, maybe you would’ve savoured it for longer. “Experience too. With the constant danger they face, they pretty much have to equip every skill at their disposal.”

“Is that what you want, then – danger?” He teases, mouth curling in a downwards smile. You’re too quick to shake your head. That word, want, still haunts you.

“You’re missing the point.”

“Am I, now.”

“I’m just saying,” Biting your cheek, you scramble for a fitting sentiment. Nothing quite encapsulates the crux of your little tangent, and you can’t help but compare yourself to Miguel. No matter how far the conversation strays, he always finds a link to tie it altogether. Unshakeable, poised. Like the sun, pulling comets into its orbit until they shine brilliantly, their tails forged under the radiation pressure. “A challenge might hit your lessons closer to home. Y’know, thrill, adrenaline – forcing me to resort to lengths I wouldn’t typically go to, instilling in me all the marks you want me to land on.”

(But if he’s the sun, what would that make you? Pluto, far on the other side of the solar spectrum, barely doing enough to keep its cosmic status? Even dwarf planets have their pull, some force strong enough to accrete nearby matter, and so it seems ill-fitting.)

Your mentor accepts your argument regardless, nodding minutely.

(Perhaps you’re the comet itself – coming from nowhere, heading nowhere, meant for the one, singular event that could give your existence meaning. That crossing paths with a star, to burn brightly in its influence before dissolving into nothing.)

“Similar to the planking exercise we do. Up the stakes and simulate something real for you.”

We. Your stomach lurches to your chest and you have to swallow it back before speaking. “Y-Yeah.”

“Te entiendo. Alright.” He agrees. “If that’ll get you to make progress. Come.” You follow him to the centre of the room, stumbling over hurried strides until you reach the combat training mat. “You remember our first day here.”

“Feels like centuries ago, but yes.” You respond, assuming he means the premiere lesson of yours, betiding this very spot. You’d christened it by letting him fuck your throat, and that’ll forever be the memory that occurs to you so long as you keep returning to this gym. It’s hard to forget.

“What did I ask you to do?”

“Er– Pin you down.” Your pitch drops an octave in an effort to mock him. “Three seconds, and you’ll have proved your point.” His inflection is tough to nail down, though – unique to the broad-shouldered form that affords his vocal folds more space, subtly curled where his accent comes through. You end up sounding like a parched frog more than you do him.

He shakes his head, nose twitching. It’s a vague quirk that says nothing about his amusement.

“As I recall it, you couldn’t.”

“As I recall, I was kept quite busy.” You, of course, are referring to his cock and it’s wedging into your mouth. And if he didn’t get the implication on word alone, then your lewd miming of the act fills in what gaps remain. Miguel sighs, waiting for your redolence to subside to continue. Though his weight shifts from one foot to the other, like he’s ridding himself of the tension that swells at your suggestion, and the small action speaks louder than what he likely intends. To think that you might have the same effect on him as he does you, however physical, is a tempting thing.

“Before that.”

You acquiesce, arm flopping uselessly to your side. “Sure. Though to be fair, I’ve no knowledge on how.”

“Good.” He crosses his arms. “We’re going to try again.”

“Right now?”

“No.”

“Well don’t keep me in suspense,” Rolling your eyes, you start to fold your sleeves to sit above the elbow. “Or next thing I know, I’m trapped in a cage with Rhino and a knife for defence.”

That drives a chuckle from him. It’s warm and coarse and low, and with the way your stomach churns at the sound, you hardly care that it’s at your expense. “Proper spectacle that would be. You wouldn’t last ten minutes. The best I’d give you is a weaponless Vulture.”

“Are you forgetting that I took down a symbiote on my own? Where your first instinct was to throw punches at it.” You huff. “They’re regenerative!”

“An oversight on my part. ‘Course, I didn’t want to get involved in the first place.” His chin practically sits on his chest now, tipped down to look you face-to-face. It’s the way through which you realise how close you’ve gotten, nose millimetres away from his forearm. He smells infuriatingly clean – fresh patchouli aftershave, soap, clothes fragranced from the laundry, familiar only because you use the same detergent. “Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately for you, your opponent continues to be me.”

“And you want us to wrestle.”

“Given a few caveats.” He shrugs when your expression pinches. “To make it more real.”

“Okay…”

“Today will continue as is. I’m going to teach you the basics of taking down a larger opponent and we’ll drill it until you understand.” You cut his explanation into small fragments for better digestion – takedown, larger than you, drills – and show your attendance with wide eyes, following as he circles you. “Pinning me down in a static setting is simple enough. Your challenge is to do so unexpectedly, somewhere outside of this gym. Within the next week, I want you to sneak up on me and staple me to the ground for upwards of three seconds. Anywhere, any time of the day; so long as you aren’t following me on missions, it’s all up to you. Take me by surprise, use it to your advantage. But remember–”

You cock your head, earnest. As he speaks again, it’s seven trumpets to armageddon, deep punctures to the anticipative silence you’ve built.

“When you come for me, I won’t be holding back.”

Ribs echoing with the rattle of your rapid heartbeat, you wipe your palms on the loose fabric of your sweats and take longer than you perhaps need to register his dare. He wants you to act much like a hero would on a stealth operation. That’s fine. You can do that. You’ll be taught on how to disable him and all that’s left is the matter of covertness, in which you have an advantage given your newfound ability to walk on the overturned pathways of HQ. Except–

“Wouldn’t your spider-sense–”

He shakes his head. No. And though he doesn’t state it explicitly, you’re reminded of his claws and how divergent they are to the standard spider-power. It seems, then, that he differs in more ways than one. No enhanced intuition. You couldn’t imagine.

But it’s new. Exciting. It’s exactly what you needed, and again, you’re left wondering how he’s gotten so good at reading you. If in place for his deficits, he’d been granted a supernatural knowledge on body language. Even now he’s looking, studying your restrained appearance for a hint of your feelings on the subject. You give it to him with a devilish smile.

“That the best you got?”

“Big talk.” He winds around you, positioning behind your back. “We’ll see how you feel in seven days.”

“Glorious, having kicked your ass ‘n’ all.”

“Okay, sparks. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Miguel says, before patting your hip. His hand is heavy, and you brace yourself against the urge to shiver under it. “Most people are left leg-leaning. Not always, but it’s a statistic you can count on for learning. Put it forward. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

You do as he says, adjusting to an open posture, slanting your torso so your head faces the same direction as your left foot. The man appears in front of you after making a few corrections, mirroring your effort.

“Because I’m anticipating what leg you’ll resort to, I’ll bring my right leg forth. Always match same side foot. It’ll give you leverage towards your opponent’s vulnerable areas.” You sway a bit when his muscles stretch the taut material of his shirt. As you try to picture what more is hidden by his civilian clothes, it occurs to you that you’ve never seen him nude enough to make that a possible feat. “Assuming you’re shorter than them, aiming for their lower half is your most efficient bet. But you want their focus away from it when you make the jump.”

Blinking, you reorient yourself away from your tangent. “Right.”

“So you’re going to reach.”

“Rea–”

Suddenly, he’s grabbing for your face. It’s swift and done with enough aggression that you don’t process what you’re doing until your arms come up to defend it. Split second instinct, your spider sense combing through the hairs on your neck. And he takes the obliviously-given opportunity to duck, hooking his foot behind yours, back hand wrapping around your knee to grip onto his other. His head pushes up on your ribs to stand you on one leg, off balance, and faster than it started, it stops. The attack throws you backward, slamming you onto the cushioned floor. Air syphons out of your lungs.

“When they’re down, you don’t hesitate to straddle them.” He adds. “The blow will probably knock their limbs to the side.” He bridges over you, lowering so that his knees touch the surface above your shoulders and his feet anchor onto the bits below. His weight rests on your upper arms now. You, despite the loss, can’t help but flick your gaze down to his crotch. If he notices, he doesn’t comment on it. “The technique’s called stapling. Pressing down on two points to completely immobilise.”

“Feels awfully familiar.” You grin, only to choke on the spit accumulating by the back of your throat when he not only acknowledges your innuendo, but reciprocates.

“Used to being on the bottom?” Huffed sardonically, with all the constituents of a flirt yet none of the sticky-sweet charm. And he doesn’t give your stunned-self a chance to quip back either, rising and gesturing that you do the same. You scramble off your back, rubbing the sore spots left by his grip, watching him warily. It’s facile to convince yourself that it didn’t really happen at all. “Your turn. Right foot forth this time. Remember, reach and duck.”

You stay locked onto him when you throw your fist up at his face, stopping shy of his jaw. He isn’t as ignorant as to believe you, but his elbows draw away from his hips to allow space for your consequent assault. Squatting, you step forward to completely embrace his left leg. Quick calculations tell you that his weakest point is at his knee, so you lower your clutch around it, cheek squishing onto his stomach, before lifting the appendage off the ground. It isn’t heavy on you, all his mass directed to the back leg he now has to balance on.

And then–

And then… what?

He’d done it so briskly that you completely missed his method.

“Tell me what you did wrong.” Miguel examines. He’s got your head scissored in one strong arm, and if you weren’t struggling to comprehend how he gained the upper-hand, you’d be salivating with how potent his cologne is from this distance.

You mutter a faint “Agreeing to this.” and hope your bowed pose muffles it enough.

“Overcommitting. If I wanted to, I could shove your neck downward and take you on from behind.” He shakes you off his leg. “Don’t put your chest on my thigh. Lace your right shoulder over it so that your crown hits my ribs. Yeah, that’s it.” He smooths his hand over your back. It’s merely a graze and almost enough to have you collapse out of position entirely. “See how your head is preventing my arm from leaning on you? Good. Now use that, knoc– oomf.”

You don’t let him finish, driving him up until he tips backwards. The gratification stalls you for a split-moment, pride trembling up your frame, knocking your bones together. But he raises an eyebrow at you from the ground, and you remember the second part of the expectation.

(If this were the real thing, you’d be squashed by now. He’s holding back, guiding you semi-gently through this practice round.)

With no further ado, you seat yourself on his abdomen. His biceps are too large to pin your calves to while keeping both your knees and toes to the ground, so you spread until you can do so over the bends of his arms. Your pelvis aches with the near-split, and you find you couldn’t care less, shivering in high delight.

“Huh. Would you look at that.” You wiggle to reinforce your point. “And how did I do for my first time?”

(Admittedly, it’s a much milder line than what you had in mind; but even you have your limits, and congratulating him on taking your wrestle-victory virginity is just out of bounds.)

“Everyone starts somewhere.” He says, purposefully echoing his earlier attitude, recognizant of how it irritated you so. The answer pops your ego before it could begin to surmount to anything. “But you wavered, don’t pretend I didn’t see that. Get off. We’re going again.”

Tuesday, 22:00

Your first attempt at his challenge comes late.

The logic felt elementary; wait a day before trying anything so he’s caught further off his guard. It was a plan born with sights on his warning – when you come for me, I won’t be holding back – and, admittedly, your anxiety to it. This new equanimity you find yourself within is fragile, a compromise held up on couth alone. You’ve fought Miguel at his best, with claws reared and fangs snarled right at you. It never ended cleanly. And if either of you lose sight of the labour that is keeping it civil – away from that exact past – you’re terrified that things will shatter in pieces that tear you apart.

(There also remains the knowledge that you’d lose, sorely, should the match be equal.)

So, you didn’t want to give him the opportunity to resist at all. To your sleep-deprived self, there were a few steps in ensuring that:

Find him late at night, following a presumably long day, having just been lulled into faux comfort by his last meal before retiring. Beyond the fact that you skipped a day since his initial proposal to act on it – with a belly full of food, the lights of HQ dimmed low, and a drowsy filter cast by work, he’ll grow lax. Complaisant. At least, that was your theory, based on patterns you’ve observed in yourself. And it had been solid enough to ground your hopes on, especially when all that was required of you is to disarm him.

Only as you wait for him to emerge from the cafeteria do you realise the various other factors you forgot to take into account. Ones that complicate your lattermost objective.

The bridge is still, a thick cover of quiet befalling the sector. Bobbing outside the asymmetric windows is a waning gibbous moon, its luminescence casting lurid shadows onto the carpets and columns surrounding you. You sit, crouched behind a bench on an offside seating area, tracing patterns onto an adjacent palisade with your eyes. The moulding on it is triangular, like everything else in this building, and the task is mind-numbing enough that it hits you, then and there. Entirely too late.

He only taught you the one way of tackling your opponent.

Head on, with no room for stealth in your approach. Unless Miguel comes out of the cafeteria with a blindfold on, he’ll see you running towards him and squander the endeavour with ease. It’s like you to resort to your worst suspicions when cornered, so you can’t help but believe he did that on purpose. Either to test your ingenuity, or for some other convoluted reason you’ve no mind to get to right now.

Fuck. That bastard.

Should you back down now, you won’t trust yourself to face him tomorrow. Already, you’ve stalled for far too long, prudent to the approaching deadline. A week's time. Seven days to prove you’re worth your salt, to overcome the obstacles he’s thrown your way. Unlike your other exercises, you weren’t guaranteed anything in return for mastering this. He probably expects you to want it so bad that you become motivationally self-sufficient. And he’d be right. You do. Christ, you’d asked for it – this much needed intervention on the monotony you’ve been living in. It’s given you something to do beyond your lessons, and a victory might encourage him to design more like it. So–

You’ll stay. Work something out – an alternative plan. He hasn’t been in the caf for long. Given the chance he chose to have a sit down meal, you’ll have time.

“Lyla.”

The artificial intelligence flickers into being above you, hovering at your shoulder. She appears wildered, blinking owlishly at the source of her summon. You’d never called on her before – until now, you didn’t think you could. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and your throwing caution to the wind seems to have paid off.

That is, if she’s willing to proffer Miguel’s position.

“Upgraded from haunting worlds to our very own HQ?”

You shrug, blaisé to the jab you’ve heard so often. “Promise I’m on my best behaviour.”

“My, my.” She belly flops onto a nonexistent surface, still level with your nose, to shelf her chin onto her hands and kick her feet behind her. A small smile worms its way onto your expression when you notice her attire; a silk set of pyjamas, bunny slippers and a heart-shaped sleeping mask, pushed back to keep her bangs off her forehead. “Wonder what the boss has to say about that.”

“The boss can’t know I’m here.”

“My lips are sealed.” After miming the action, she glitches onto the ground in front of you, peeking from behind the bench to spy on the automatic doors leading into the cafeteria, much like you’re doing. “What’s with the secrecy? Please tell me this is a proposal. You’re certainly underdressed, but we can work what we’ve got. Oo!” She straightens to a ram-rod posture, alongside the exclamation mark that pops above her head, clothes returning to normal and a clipboard materialising in her hand. “We can add a little jeuje to the space. What’re we thinking? Flowers–” An orange array of digital peonies projects onto the bridge, fat and blossoming with accelerated speed. “Or streamers?” The petals are soon replaced by banners and curled ribbons, drooping from overarching beams.

Face molten with panic – and a hint of mortification – you wave through her incorporeal form to hurriedly interrupt her tangent. You can only hope that none of the commotion gave away your primacy.

“No!” Whisper shouting, you bow your head to the floor to look her in the eye. “Nothing like that. Listen, I just need you to watch Miguel and report back to me on his status. Preferably, before he exits the cafeteria. It’ll help me anticipate his approach while I think of what to do next.”

“Hmmm.” The lifeform approximation takes her sweet time considering it. Your gaze oscillates anxiously between her and the door, your body in perpetual flight or fight. Any longer, and you’re afraid quick-trigger reflex will have you jumping regardless of whether he emerges or not. “Don’t know what you’re trying to do, but I gotcha. Double agent Lyla, at your command!”

And then, she disappears.

Her aid does not reassure you. Baby hairs tickle your nape, matted with sweat. The condition persists, extending to your palms, which lay pressed to the tiled floor to tamp the perspiration seeping from them. Adrenaline – the very response you’d predicted – makes you sick and dizzy despite, bubbling up your gut in violent bursts. For all that you should be focusing on a course of action, her words claim a monopoly in your mind.

Double agent.

Do you want to know?

No, you decide. Not now. Whatever it is, it’s bound to hinder your performance. You settle back down.

Moments later, she crops back up.

“He’s on his way. If I were you, I’d up and turn around. He looks hangry.”

“Thanks, Lyla.” It’s about the worst thing she can say to you right now. “Go back to… sleep.”

Giving a final bow of her head, she departs. Her exit marks the milliseconds before Miguel’s entrance – sacred suspense stretching, spreading, only to implode by the schwip of the automatic door. It unlatches, layer by layer, to reveal a wide silhouette, framed by the bright fluorescents of the still-open cafeteria.

She’s right. Based on posture alone, you can tell he isn’t in the best of moods. It’s the only clarity you’re afforded as the entryway closes off, plunging him – and you – into the void of your surroundings. You strain to see where he begins or ends now, navy-suit obscuring his edges, punctuated only by the red accents on his chest. They become your indication on how and where he moves, the angling of the lines informing you that he’s headed straight towards you.

In complete contrast to the plod he takes on, your internal dialogue is a tangled mess of stray worries. An old, feral part of you – the girl who had to fend for herself for a year, untreated to the woes and safeties of regular food and board – claws out with a vengeance. She’s scared, she has nothing to lose, she’s plump with horror at the sight of a prowling hero, which had only meant one thing for her – and the sheer force of it all crushes you into choked submission. Perhaps it’s foolish to think you’ve moved on from your past when old habits return so easily. So she is still you, and it takes a good bit of convincing – of spotting and counting backwards from ten and breathing real slow – to prioritise your objective in face of the sudden regression.

By the time you manage it, in fact, he’s already a few paces away.

There goes your plan.

Frantically, you spring off your haunches, shooting to the side to hinder his track in an bid to salvage what’s left of it. It’s clumsy, lacking all the grace necessary for you to have even the chance of success, and when he stutters short of stepping on you, you make matters worse by curling around his ankles, striving to destabilise him by tugging at the roots of his support.

It fails. Obviously.

(In a rather anticlimactic way.)

He releases an exasperated sigh, staring down at your writhing form with what you can only imagine is regret at having ever agreed to this. “What are you doing?”

“Um–” You stop, glancing at him with one, hesitant eye. “Tackling you.”

Miguel blinks. Once. Twice. His foot bounces, pushing you off. Then–

“Up, before you hurt yourself.” Unphased. Strict.

You clamber to a stand. He gives you a once over, shakes his head, and brushes past you to continue his route. As he walks off, you catch a quiet huff, followed by a mutter – the reflection meant only for himself to hear. “Tackling me. Honestly.”

Wednesday, 10:20

Your second attempt finds you asleep under his desk.

Not deliberately, of course. You didn’t drag a pillow and comforter to his lab like an impromptu nap would lend you an upper hand. The position that brought it forth is hardly even a comfortable one – tucked under a squat table that has you bending your neck to fit, raised high off the ground on a hovering platform, in a cavernous office whose only lightsource seems to be the overhead aperture and orange monitors. They beep multiversal jargon and blare the occasional alarm, which never fails to send your heart rate sky-high – and if you hadn’t at all been convinced in your plot, then you would’ve left after the first couple minutes wait.

It’s torturous. Depressing. How he’s able to think, let alone work here, is beyond you. It can only be an optimal environment for what you set out to do – and perhaps that’s a point you should take up with him, should he care about being snuck up on by a more competent threat.

But you dozed off anyway, made weary with all your fretting, legs pressed close to your breast, cheek slotted upon them. It was cold, and he hadn’t arrived yet – off being the responsible spider-hero that he is, conducting city patrol while you tarry for the opportune – and Hobie’s gifted cardigan is snug enough around your frame that it serves as a blanket of sorts. Your course of action, set on an unremitting loop in your mind, was the last straw – a lullaby, cradling you down onto security. Fully drafted, practised, with no room for mistakes given the lessons you learnt last time.

Even submerged in sleep, it’s all you think about.

On account of an oversight, you’d panicked. Lept at him with no regard for the tactics you’ve learnt, instead of rerouting an alternative or preparing for contingencies. He’d taught you to tackle him head-on, and while that isn’t ideal for the covert-component of this challenge – like on that bridge, where he would’ve seen you coming from miles away – you can still make do with what you’ve got. That’s why you’re here, early in the morning, waiting for him to come to you, all while remaining oblivious to your presence under his desk. Not only does it grant you cover while he stands mere centimetres away, it ensures his hands are too busy to defend him when you strike, raised to tap away at his screens.

Those are the foundations you worked out on your chagrined walk home last night. The logistics – intricacies you have to calculate spontaneously – can be dealt with as they come up. Like sneaking in undetected. (Accomplished successfully.) Or whether space will allow you to lunge out onto him when he appears. (You practised it first thing – one eye on the door in case he comes in – and established that with a bit of improvisation, it’s possible.)

Your fingers twitch, triggered by muscle memory into acting the attack out on a smaller scale. It’s odd that you recognise it – still somewhat unconscious, suspended in an hypnopompic state where both your dreams and reality intersect. Elements of both topple over one another, porcelain dominoes that splinter on impact. You feel your fingers twitch, yes, and the scrape of your chapped lips – things you abstractedly assign as real – but they’re strewn between memories that run like worn film, singed at the edges.

A warm hand cupping your neck, callused fingers rubbing lightly over the curve of your shoulder. Shallow breaths, fanned across your lashes, struggled in keeping still.

Multi-coloured motes, flipping through a catalogue of colours in dark corners.

A headache, nipping the nerves leading to your brain. Pain, excruciatingly itchy above your elbow, up the back of your arm. Whiplash, smouldering agony across the junction of your shoulder.

A voice, hummed from the depths of a broad chest. Resonant, rugged. ‘Don’t move’ – the demand so steady it could’ve been gospel. Him, keeping you stable. Him, the only constant you know.

For a moment, you believe you’re still there. Buried under mounds of grey rubble, nestled on his lap. Oxygen depleted, injuries severe. No hope of escaping or checking in on the population of Earth-15, whose fate you screwed by merely existing on the same plane. The past number of weeks were fable, then, conjured by your sick mind to help you die easy. Creating a story besides the one that ended you; where you and Miguel worked something out.

And if it’s true – if you truly imagined it all – then that’d entail you never grew out of your hatred. You never got to rest on a bed, or take a shower, or bask in a filling meal again. It’d mean you didn’t leave any legacy beyond that of Wraith; destroyer of worlds, bane of his existence.

(And that you never counted as anything more to him than just that.)

Gradually, the pseudo-dream morphs into a nightmare born of stressful thought, and at its peak, it shakes you so hard you wake up. Bones jolting out of your skin, legs ready to kick outwards; raptured in fight-or-flight until you remember where you are, why it’s so cramped – because his desk is obnoxiously short and not because a building toppled over you – and how you got here.

You’re thankful you’re able to collect yourself so swiftly. Had you smacked your head on the belly of the table, or otherwise panickedly flailed about, then you would have alerted the man currently standing in front of you. His upper body is cut off from your sight, but you’d recognise those muscled thighs anywhere. Clad in his digital suit, little patterns shimmering on its surface. You see them clearer in your proximity, correlating them to the figures you’d observed on his monitors. Parallel lines and concentric circles, like maps of the spider-verse projected onto a navy backdrop.

How long were you out?

Despite your semi-awareness to your surroundings, you hadn’t heard him come in. Nor did you feel the platform drop to allow him to step onto it. You brush the confusion off, figuring it’d do you no good, and rub the drowsiness from your eyes while catching yourself up to speed.

You’re here to tackle him. The voice in your head begins chanting the plan again; leap out, grab his forward leg, ram his ribs with your head and pray it’s enough to tip him over. That’s one.

Two: you’re a quiet sleeper. You can’t imagine the embarrassment had you not been – if he were to catch you napping in his office by following the sound of your groans. You suppose it’s a frivolous thing to get hung up on, but you remember how your college roommate would talk during her nightmares. It never failed to capture your attention, even with headphones clasped tightly to your ears.

Which leads into your third remark–

He doesn’t realise you’re here; the most important thing considering. You’re still in the clear to go ahead.

Right now, Miguel is a smidge too far away for it to work out. You knead the sore flesh of your nape, stalking his feet for the slightest movement. They stand on the other side of the platform, verging near its brink, tapping in cogitation. Then, when he swipes a screen away from his direct view, his weight leans onto the back one. The manoeuvre brings his pelvis lower, cut-off rising to his midriff. It’s all you can do to remain dignified, gaze locked on anywhere except his hamstrings and where they round out to form a pronounced behind.

Would it be wrong for you to abandon your objective on justification of lust? It strokes some primal part of you seeing him so dedicated to his work. You’re instantly overwhelmed with the urge to crawl out and service him like this, on your knees, while he maintains his concentration. To give him a soft mouth, soft hands, maybe elicit an iota of pride over how well you behave. It’s depraved – you won’t deny it – but in your darkest moments, nothing consoles you like the thought of his unequivocal praise. Acceptance. There’s no one it would matter more from.

(No one it could matter more from. It’s true that he’s the only constant presence you’d ever had, even before your world went to ruin. Though you’re unsure of whether it’s in good providence, or if you’ll ever fully accept the fact.)

Miguel steps closer. You repress the reverie, slapping yourself softly to land back on target. A bit more to his left– yes, that’s it. He’s in front of you now.

When you’d practised, your head had to be out from underneath the desk for the manoeuvre to work. Pushing up into a squat, you shuffle forward. All you need is a distraction so he doesn’t catch you peeking out in his peripheral, and it comes in the form of child laughter.

Distant, as though it’s been passed through a speaker. With the way it repeats, incessant like that of a fond video playing over and over, you can appreciate that it isn’t happening live. Perhaps it’s a subject he’s keeping his eye on, or he’s slacking off with a movie. Not that it matters, of course – so long as he’s honed in on anything other than you.

His knee is at your eyeline. You scoot further. The low metal of the desk slips over your head. Now or never.

Pouncing, you wrap a gable grip around the bend of his leg, using the momentum of your squat to spring upwards. It’s bull-like when your forehead slams onto the exposed expanse of his ribs, toes skidding for acceleration as you force him to balance on the one limb, driving onward. The force could’ve concussed, had he not been cushioned by brawn. It’s certainly enough to almost throw him over, in any case. He stumbles backward, arm slipping across your back, and the scuffle is so promising that you let yourself relax slightly.

That’s your fault, you admit.

He exploits the slip-up to wrench your arms off from around his knee, using the appendages to pull you out from underneath him. With a frankly painful tug at the wrists, he twists you so your back is facing him, before pinning them in one strong grip. You’re shoved onto his desk that way, unceremoniously bent at the hip, nose ramming into the reinforced durasteel. Warmth trickles from it. A metallic taste fills the back of your mouth.

“¡Maldita sea! What the hell?”

Pain crackles up your nose, where ichor continues to bloom and slip from your nostrils. His aggression perhaps shouldn’t surprise you – he did say he wouldn’t be holding back – but it’s parallel to the treatment you received as Wraith, and you can’t help but assume that he resorted to what he was used to in all the adrenaline.

“That hurts.” Groaning, you wiggle your fingers in a plea for release. His pelvis flattens on the plump of your ass, and it burns the longer he continues to press into you. The situation is almost reminiscent of the fantasies you create when alone; rough-treatment and all.

“Christ.” He hisses, backing off at once. Despite asking for it, you mourn his absence, rubbing the brand left by his clothed crotch, sheepishly turning back to look at him. The instant he sobers up, he’s opening the drawer to his left. “I didn’t realise it was you.”

“Who else...” You murmur, ducking to shield your bloody nose from his attention. It’s done in vain, though – he already has a towel in hand, heading towards your face. Erroneously, you think he’s passing it to you and reach out to grab it – only to brush across his knuckles when he instead presses the white cotton to your lip. “Security that big of an issue?”

“You got in, didn’t you.”

“Har har.” As the red is wiped off your skin, he steadily lets you take over, dropping the towel to allow you to tamp the flow on your own.

“How long have you been under there?”

“Ah–” You pretend to occupy yourself with the task at hand, waiting for the heat to diffuse from your cheeks before you speak again. “Depends on what time it is.”

“Half past ten.”

“Two hours then.” You’d come in at eight. “Give or take.”

“I’ve been here for one.” He adds, prodding for a more satisfying explanation.

“Don’t worry. I wasn’t snooping for intel or anything.” A necessary preface and not at all a bid to steel yourself for your confession, the prospect of doing so filling you with shame. “I fell asleep.”

“You–” Like his stutter, his brows spasm at a rapid pace, creasing together in a flash before smoothing out to form a more pleasant expression. With eyelids fluttered shut and lips quirked at the edges. Amusement. Your stomach cartwheels. “You fell asleep.”

“Sure.” In complete contrast, you imagine your expression is solemn. Loss is an ugly and hopeless beast, roaring in your gut. You place the towel on his desk, starting to make your way out with a petulant march. “Like this place isn’t built for it, you gloomy jerk. I mean, where are the lights?”

(If he managed to overpower you despite doing everything correctly, then what chance have you got?)

The universe has a sick sense of humour too, it seems. Your argument is interrupted by the border of the platform, where you teeter over a fifteen foot drop. Fear blazes through your nerves, suddenly awake with the knowledge that you’re hovering mid air, no fence or handrails to hold you in.

Miguel chuckles from behind you, sounding way too pleased with himself when he asks. “You need help getting down?”

You throw a dirty glare over your shoulder, hoping it compensates for the humility you have to succumb to. “Yes.”

His arms stay crossed over his chest, holding out.

Fucking fine.

“Please.”

Thursday, 13:05

You plonk the heavy bag of scraps onto your table, sighing in relief as the weight redistributes off of you.

All morning, you’ve snooped around HQ with a nimble hand. It’s vast, after all, with many winding halls and unfrequented corners, of which you’re probably the only person to have walked through in weeks. Accompanying you, a makeshift pouch and a cover-up story; if any outsider should inquire – then you’re exploring the building that’s been your home for the last month. It would be suspicious, if the venture could not be so easily misconstrued.

No. You’re not worried. Far from it, in fact. You’re sure that the gadgets you pilfered won’t be missed. Some even had a thin coating of dust when you picked them up, their uses long neglected in favour of newer technologies. You’re merely giving them a new purpose, reshaping bits and bobs to suit your goal.

(A far-fetched one, for certain. But it’s wild enough that he won’t expect it.

That’s what you need. To stop playing by his rules.)

“Lyla.”

The AI glitches into translucency at your beckon, saluting as though you were a general and she a cadet. “Lyla á la espionage, reporting for duty!”

“No. Not this time.”

“Theeeen…”

“Can I count on your discretion?” Squinting, you stare straight through her pink-heart glasses, like lying is an expected part of her programming. Her last remark occupies a small portion of your mind. Double agent. You still haven’t asked, and you’re running at a speed too fast to jump over that hurdle now.

“Perhaps.”

Shaking your head, you do away with the ambiguity. “I’m hoping you’re good with tech.” You say anyway. “I need help.”

She only grins, wickedly, skipping over to peer into your bag. You spread it open for her, laying out the stolen paraphernalia. Then–

“Wraithy.” She adjusts the moniker so that it rhymes with baby. “I am tech.”

Saturday, 2:00

Nueva York streaks past you in blurs of blue and purple.

The sky lifts its buildings from the top up, spires pierced into its inky surface. You count the panels that pose a stark, golden contrast to the night-drenched landscape, lit up by residents whose lives are framed in the tiny windows. It’s a worthwhile distraction from the vertigo damaging your systems – all your efforts directed in looking forward, not up, as the ground shrinks farther and farther away above you. Yet with every metre, your distress worsens, distending to become a ferocious force.

Eventually, not even city gazing is enough.

You’ve trained on ceilings. On balconies. But the bottom-side of an elevator is another matter entirely, especially as it moves with zipping speed. You’re terrified that, at any moment, it’ll wobble and send you plummeting to your untimely death. And Miguel, who currently stands on the flip-end of it, won’t be able to process your presence or scream for help by the time you hit the ground.

That’s the calculated risk you convinced yourself into making when you sought him out today. It’s evolved beyond the point of learning a lesson, or whatever prompt you’d initially proposed to get him to agree to this. Now, or in the way it has been for the past two days, it’s personal. Your ego is bruised but not battered yet, and if the cuffs on your forearms have any sway in it, then you’ll get your solatium soon enough.

The apparatus is impressive, by standards of the day it took to hurriedly construct it. A smooth fit to your wrist, with narrowly hammered metal and a small compartment designed to hold your personal, synthetic formula. Lyla had pulled schematics from a large archive, handing you one she deemed ‘friendly for beginners’. You begrudged the coddling, if only because you yourself were worried about your competency with it.

You tested it, naturally. It’s functional. The fluid is durable, if not sticky. If worse comes to worse, you can rely on the prototype to catch yourself. That’s what you tell yourself, at least, all the way up to the top floor of HQ, which comes at a gradual halt of the lift.

Eager, you hook your fingers over the brim of the platform before flipping over to the right side up. You somersault so your landing isn’t as heavy-footed, and blood bursts down to your numb legs as you reorient yourself with gravity. It’s all you can do to wait until you regain feeling in them, before following the man out the door.

He’s multiple steps ahead already, traipsing with a tired gait. You match it, careful to set your toes down first so as to not make noise. The floor isn’t one you’ve been to – and it isn’t so much a floor as it is a singular hallway, lined with tilt-and-turn glass windows that gleam like all futuristic things do. The aesthetic is juxtaposed by a frankly retro carpet, shades of yellow and brown cut into a pattern you recognise from the bridges in the lobby.

Plastered to the edge, away from the subjection of the spotlights down the middle, you wonder where he’s going. It’s gotten late – you’ve been shadowing him for the better half of a day, since Friday afternoon after your lesson. The plan was to tackle him on his way out, right as he was about to leave to go home, but it’s two a.m. now and he’s at work. Still in hero attire. Wandering a corridor you’ve no reference to, with sight set on the door at its end.

If he waited this long to get to it, then it must be important. That’s what you argue against, anyway – that he likely arranged to complete this task at night when he would be ensured total privacy. How questionable is it, then, that you’re violating that?

You could turn back now, find him later instead. Yet today marks your final day before the deadline he set expires, and you want at least one more chance to try should this attempt turn to shit.

The right glove of Miguel’s suit disappears, digital projection flickering to white as the nanotech retracts into his palm. You notice the act only because his fingers soon flick out, a key pinched between them. It’s red and patterned with the same arithmetic lines as his ensemble.

Smart.

Once he arrives at the door, he uses the pass to unlock it. It comes open with an effortless swish, sliding completely open to allow him access. He lingers for too long, though, and you press closer to the wall in case he suspects your pursuit. He doesn’t turn around though, instead hitting a setting on his watch that causes the entryway to slip shut.

Before you can catch up. Before you can sneak in.

Your heart drops.

Floundering, you run to pull at the lock. It doesn’t budge. Nor are there any other ways in, the narrow hall composed solely of this door at one end and the elevator on the other. You can’t go in by any manner except pass through, and with every slap of your hand on the wall, it becomes increasingly apparent that your powers won’t miraculously emerge like they have before.

Nails digging into a fist, you reassure yourself that not all is lost if you give up now. It’s an unofficial loss, made outside the scrutiny of anyone besides yourself. And though you’ll kick yourself to sleep over being so inept in your own abilities, at least he won’t come to the same conclusion. That’s what matters – doesn’t it? His opinion of you.

Giving a final, aggravated sigh, you’re about to relent when you catch sight of it – a silver lining, adjacent to you. Levelled on the same plane as the door, separated only by the right wall of the hallway, opened to the high atmosphere air – a casement, hinged to a window much like the one you ogle at it through. Leading into the room he just entered. Just a short jump and swing away.

You shiver at the notion, first instinct loud and conclusive. No. Absolutely, positively not. It’s a ‘jump’ over a hundred-story fall. Even if you manage to crawl out of the first opening with your sanity intact, you’re nowhere near experienced enough to make it to the second. Unless–

Your belly lurches with pre-emptive nausea, and you sink to your knees to massage it without retching. You can’t believe you actually consider the reckless idea, sitting with your poor excuses for web shooters, triggers flat on your palm, looking far flimsier than anything you could trust. Your refusal to walk on walls comes back with a vengeance, laughing in mocking echoes at the simple obstacle you can’t overcome.

Whispering, you try your last alternate. “Lyla.”

There’s a lag before she appears, glasses skewed upon her nose. “Huh.”

“Do you…” You rasp, swallowing the bile surging up the back of your throat. “D’you think you could, y’know–” When words fail, you gesture to the locked door with the cock of your head.

“Oh-ho-ho. No can do. I’ve done a lotta favours for you sister, but this is crossing the line.”

“Okay. Okay, sorry for asking.” Your chest tightens. The corridor narrows. The shapes on the carpet warp to resemble the plunge off the end of a skyscraper. You have to ask to abate the panic. “What’s in there, anyway?”

“Find out on your own accord.” She doesn’t take the bait, fur coat rising with a brief shrug of her shoulders. “Good luck.”

And in a blink, you’re on your own again.

You must sit like that for half an hour, rocking back and forth in anxiety that refuses to settle. It gnaws on your energy until the passion depletes, draining out, leaving you to wallow as an empty husk. Every so often, you press your cheek to the cool glass spanning the side of the hallway, wishing the problem had magically amended itself since the last you checked. But the ground remains where it is, bottoming endlessly down below, and so does the window to the room, built just out of reach.

Of your concerns, there’s a resounding question that doesn’t quite fit. Its edges and curves search for a spot to click into place, but you aren’t able to find it – not until you give the piece further contemplation.

Why haven’t you left?

If you’d given up hope, then why haven’t you gathered your wounded pride and salvaged the rest of your night? You could’ve been in bed by now, cosy under a heavy comforter, ruminating over your failure in a safer setting. Yet you’ve chosen to stay and prolong your torture, egged on by the reminder of what you couldn’t do.

You’re not waiting for him to emerge. That hadn’t even occurred to you.

(And a tiny part of you already knows the answer, keening by the base of your skull. It just takes some work to admit.)

It’s that stupid, idiotic, dangerous philosophy he’s instilled in you. The ideology that gets heroes killed. The conviction that marks scars on their body or gives them the peace of mind when walking on walls and swinging across heights that could permanently ruin them.

What had you spread out underneath him, cupping your knees while his tongue lathered your wet cunt. Or when his fingers shoved into your pants, scissoring you open to the seconds on his stopwatch. The thing that’s kept you coming, fighting, over and over again despite receiving the brunt end of your endeavours every time.

Resilience.

You’ve internalised it. You’re here, where you wouldn't have stayed a month ago. And it’s forcing you to face the second lesson he’s been trying to teach; a value impossibly scarier. Courage.

You know you won’t rest until you embody that too.

Rising, you take your first step towards it by unlatching the fastener to the window in front of you. The pane upturns, pitching open like a gluttonous mouth. Frigid wind rushes in, biting at your cheeks. You breathe in the crisp freshness of it and ignore the threat it might pose to your welfare. Pessimism is a hulking burden. It’ll only weigh you down.

The rest follow in a clumsy sequence.

You sit on the edge, sticking the soles of your shoes onto the wall outside. It fixes in that newly familiar way, like how it does when you’re upside down, sucking onto the perpendicular surface. You don’t stand up despite the mild relief that washes through you, though – you understand now not to let your guard down until the task is done.

Keeping a firm grip around the window for stability, you scoot off the support it provides your bottom. You’re hanging out, posted on the external side of the hallway. There’s nothing but air underneath you. You don’t linger to process it, moving on to the next operation before dread knocks you out.

Tapping the button on your free hand, you test your web shooter one last time. Once to equip, twice to release. Once to equip, twice to realise.

When you sling it to the adjacent slot, your gaze is bolted forward. Never, ever down. Nothing exists, you cry to yourself, nothing exists but this small jump. And the web holds firm when you tug on it. You’ve tested the fluid against your own mass. It’s held strong. You’d have to be a novice scientist to have overlooked that; and you’ll be fine.

Nothing exists beyond this small jump.

(Except for maybe the cosmic forces you pray to. You invoke God, the sun, the stars. Even the moon, who gently glows down on you. It hits you, then, that you’re the closest you’ve ever been to any of them.

That verity reassures you just enough.)

You jump forward.

Tears bud on the corners of your eyes, scleras burning with the whip of air, sinuses scorching alongside it. Your organs hurtle to your feet, and your heart beats like bullets to your chest. It’s a vile, sickening sensation – akin only to the paralysing disbelief after finding out you’d brought an early apocalypse to your world. Nothing has required more bravery from you than enduring it, but…

You don’t fall.

In fact, your angling is so flawless that you glide into the space between the window frame and casement. The grace ends there, however, as momentum throws you hard onto a piece of furniture, toppling over it to smack head-first on the tiled floor. Pain blazes up your shoulder, jerked back by the web you forgot to release. You blink to diffuse the black dotting your vision, slowly coming to terms with the havoc you’ve wrought. The commotion had made way more noise than intended, and it seems you aren’t the only one who thinks so.

Sure enough, the light in the next room flicks off. It’s a choice made with the careful contemplation of a trained hero; if Miguel suspects an intruder, then he knows that he’d have the upper hand in the dark, within this space he’s far more familiar with. You feel around for the seat you tripped over, crawling behind it for cover.

As your vision adjusts, you’re able to make out the advent of his faint silhouette. His pants are looser than that of his suit, his arms bare – judging by the fleshy colour, hardly illuminated by the ambient lighting outside. The change would confuse you had you not been honed in on your challenge, reconciling stealth as you calculate your next course of action. The pound-force per square inch of your splitter-web function isn’t high enough to shoot across the distance you want – that being the expanse between you – so either you move closer, or he does.

The circumstance mirrors how things played out in this lab. Although this time, he creeps away, cautiously navigating the space with a prowess that can only be explained with night vision. Perhaps it’s a part of his spider-granted abilities, or otherwise he frequents the foyer often enough to know when to side-step to avoid incoming furniture.

Unfortunately for you, you don’t have either luxury. Thrill rockets within you, striking every nerve like a pinball game gone wild, fuelled by the fortitude your indiscreet stunt afforded you. He’s taking far too long to search his surroundings; at the rate it’s going, you’ll have lost your will before he comes close enough to wrestle onto the floor. You decide it’s much too intoxicating a sentiment to sacrifice, then, settling on the former bet.

Move closer it is.

You don’t run at him like you’re inclined to do. That hadn’t resulted in your favour the last time. Instead, you stay on all fours, bound inching in the opposite direction he takes on. You use the bulky chattels surrounding you to escape his notice, ducking behind the shaded shapes until you’re mere inches away.

The web shooters practically hum on your flesh now, mimicking your excitement as you point them to the angles intersecting his arms and torso. You hope your aim is as good in this less perilous scenario, the ploy contingent on your initial shot. Binding his extremities together would reduce possible scrimmages to zero, which buffs your chances of pinning him down to a pretty percentage.

And you make sure he spots you before you fire.

(Nothing satisfies like the slight widening of his eyes when he realises it’s you.)

The bombardment allows him no room to escape, discharged in every possible way as you run a three-sixty around his thrashing form. Your webs secure his arms, yes – but also his legs to one another, and his hands flush to his hips. For extra measure, you even go so far as to switch into long-form shots to wrap the final product once, twice, thrice, so he’s adequately swaddled and cuffed.

You don’t know how he’s still standing once you’re done. It can be seen as rubbing it in at this point when you tip him onto his back – but really, you just want to hit every aim he’d set out for you.

Within the next week. Check.

Sneak up on me. Check.

Anywhere, any time of day. Check.

Staple me to the ground for upwards of three seconds.

As you crouch down to straddle his abdomen, you count. Check. Check.

Miguel’s face is hard to read, shrouded and pursed in an indecipherable lour. You bite your lip with the appreciation that, despite his vague disapproval, your pride is still wholly valid.

“I won.” You croak, voice hoarse with misuse.

He shakes his head, slowly, then quicker when you combat it with an eager nods.

“I won. I won. I wo–”

“Web-shooters were never part of the challenge. ”

“Call it ingenuity,” You smirk, tapping on the metal contraptions. “You should add it to your list of traits befitting a hero.”

“Let me go.” He growls.

“Not until you admit it.”

“Let me go.” Firmer. It's smouldered by a fire you can’t locate the source of, for all that his tone rings familiar.

“C’mon, O’hara. I can see how badly you want to cut me the credit.” Arching down, you only mean for your next bribe to be heard more clearly, yet your chin brushes against his and his cologne hits you like a brick wall. Tension crackles in the same way it did then – when you’d been at the wheel of a cop car, hurtling towards a fate that’d always been coming for you. Promising ruin. Promising change in the sense that things could never be the same again. “It’s as much of a victory for you as my mentor, I think.”

“Hardly, seeing as you followed me home.”

(Home.

Of course it doesn’t go in the way you expect, though. Nothing ever does.)

“Wh–” All of a sudden, things start to make a whole lot more sense. You look around like the revelation will paint your setting in new colours. “You live at work?”

“I own the building.”

Your bravado shrivels to a minute thing, becoming a fraction of what it was. Just like that, he captures the upper hand again, all the while still dormant underneath you. The sun – you remind yourself. Always the sun to your comet.

“Alright, well.” You mumble, nipping the soft tissue of your cheeks. “I still won.” Though the proclamation holds foolish meaning now; not at all worthy of the lengths you went to.

Miguel’s hips thrust up, jostling your thighs, which remain pressed on him. Your core keels with the movement.

“Let me go.” He emphasises again. You shift to do exactly as he says, succumbing to the crushing pressure of your diffidence – only to be interrupted by his continued warning. It’s tricky. Devastating. It stops you right in your tracks, tearing the fibres of your chest apart with mad violence. Yet the implosion is only as powerful as the various fantasies that’ve gone into this very moment, and you can only attribute your reaction to your depraved self and not the filthy words that exit his mouth.

In truth, you have to hold on to his leg to make sure you heard him right.

“Lest I change my mind about fucking you silly, you bold little thing.”

chapter fourteen

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iamcalmdammit · 1 year

Text

Positive || [Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!reader]

Summary: Ghost finds out you're pregnant with his child.

Warning: None. Fluffish angst.

Ghost stormed into your room without a warning and slammed the door after himself so violently that the whole room shaked in its wake. You almost had a heart attack, but quickly recovered enough to jump up and watch him with arms crossed over your chest, giving him the best disapproving look you could pull off in this situation.

In reality your heart was beating way too fast, as if it was about to escape from between your ribs. There were so many things left unsaid between the two of you that now you hated the thought of being alone with the lieutenant. Every single time you were paired up with him on a mission, you tried your best to stay invisible--you followed his orders without a word and kept communication to the bare minimum.

But now you had no chance to run away from him. You watched his chest rise and fall as he breathed, his eyes locked on you as he waited for something. You didn't dare to ask what it was all about, afraid it would only enrage him. Then your eyes moved to his hand and you realized he was holding a smaller paper bag. What was this all about?

"Are you feeling better?" he suddenly asked you.

At first you didn't know what in the hell he was talking about, but then you remembered. You hadn't felt well in the morning and asked Price to let you rest for a while. But that was a private conversation, you weren't expecting him to tell everyone about your medical issues.

Ghost suddenly took a step closer to you as he waited for your answer. Why did he have to be so damn intimidating? "I do, thanks," you managed to say after a little too long. "Did you come here just to ask me that?" you wondered out loud.

Shaking his head, Ghost threw the paper bag to you. You gave him a surprised look, but instead of answering, he only motioned you to take a look inside. So you opened the bag and found two pregnancy tests in it. What the hell was he doing?

"I'll wait," was all he said.

"What are you talking about?"

"I remember my sister-in-law's symptoms from the time she was pregnant," he explained calmly, although it was easy to tell he was all tensed up. "Let's see if I'm right. I brought two just to be sure."

"Even if I was pregnant--which I'm definitely not--what would you have to do with it?"

His gloved fingers curled into a fist as he considered what to say. You had a feeling that you already knew why he was so invested in this theory, but a part of you wished you were wrong. "You're working under my command, sergeant, I need to know if you're pregnant or not. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you or the baby."

"And you think that's the way to do it?" you asked, relieved to hear it was just that. "If I found out I was pregnant, I would tell Price who would then pass the news on to you."

Shaking his head, Ghost drew in a sharp breath which he soon blew out slowly to even his breathing. "That's not the right way to do it if I'm the father," he then said.

This was exactly what you were afraid to hear. Once--just once you both lost control and slept together after drinking some of the Scotch whisky Soap brought with him straight from home. That was the first and so far only time he took off the mask in front of you, too lost in the desire and alcoholic haze to think straight anymore.

Letting out a sigh, you ran a hand through your hair. "Ghost, that only happened once, what makes you think--"

"Have you slept with anyone beside me in the past weeks?" he interrupted you harshly.

"That's none of your business," you replied defensively.

The answer was simple: you didn't. You lacked the time and energy to go out and meet new people, but you were too proud to admit you didn't really have a life outside of work. Sure, you visited your family every now and then, but you didn't have friends in the traditional sense of the word.

Ghost saw through you without a problem. "So you did not," he stated before pointing at the bag in your hand. "Do the test. Now."

"Don't make me do this."

"Y/N," he warned you with a growl.

You closed your eyes for a second to think. Running away would have been an issue. He was standing in your way, and even if you managed to escape, where would you go? So you nodded and went to the bathroom to do as he ordered.

The minutes were passing painfully slowly. As you sat there on the floor, your eyes fixed on the two tests, you began to think about your options. Were you ready to be a parent? Would you have to do it alone? Ghost being here and looking so concerned made you think he would want to be a part of the child's life.

But how would that work with your line of work? You didn't want to quit, to give up your current lifestyle for having a family. As of this moment your maternal instincts were nonexistent, you couldn't even imagine what it would be like to be a parent. To be a single mom, no less.

When your phone began to vibrate next to you, you knew it was time to find out the truth. You took a deep breath, held it in for a few seconds, then slowly exhaled. You got this. It was definitely food poisoning, nothing more. Ghost was just being paranoid. You crawled over to the tests and took a look at them.

Fuck.

A minute or two later you were snapped out of your thoughts by a banging sound. Ghost was growing impatient as he had previously checked how much time it would take. He knew you knew the result by now.

"So?" he asked when you opened the door and stepped out of the bathroom.

"Negative," you told him with a forced smile.

"Both of them?"

You nodded. "Yes."

Ghost didn't seem convinced because he shook his head and held out his hand. "Let me see."

"I threw them out."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," he groaned before pushing you out of the way and marching into the bathroom. Closing your eyes, you walked over to your bed and sat down on the edge, mentally preparing for what was about to come. "They are positive!" Ghost shouted, showing you the two tests when he got back to you.

Raising your hands defensively, you gulped and tried your best to calm him down. "Okay, now, don't be mad," you said quietly.

"How in the hell wouldn't I get mad, huh? You lied into my face," he snapped after he threw the tests on a nearby table. After letting out a long sigh, he sat on the bed next to you and reached out to wipe your tears away. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you, I just…"

Shaking your head, you took one of his gloved hand in yours and watched it in silence. Even now that he was furious, Ghost was keeping himself under strict control. The night you spent together was probably the only time you saw him let loose for a short while. But you were pregnant. The two of you would have a child of you decided to keep it, and this was a matter that had to be discussed.

Before you could say anything, you saw him take off the mask and carefully put it aside. "Do you want this child?" he asked softly.

"I don't know. Right now the answer is closer to no," you admitted. "What about you?"

He thought about it for a while, but eventually he said, "I had a poor excuse of a father growing up so I promised myself that if I ever had the chance, I would be a good dad to my kid."

"So the answer is yes," you noted before you let out a humming sound. "We need to think about it. We are in this together, it would be selfish of me to make this decision on my own."

"So let's do that," Ghost told you with a smile, his free hand reaching up to caress your cheek as he spoke.

A part of you hated him for acting like this, being so gentle and considerate. You couldn't blame him for losing control, though, but you sure as hell didn't want to experience it again.

Before you knew it, he had his lips on yours, cautiously testing if you were okay with him kissing you. You were more than okay with it. You wanted him ever since that night, you had an overwhelming need every single time you were near each other. Just a simple touch of the hands would have been enough to make you burst into flames.

"I want you to go home now," he suddenly told you.

"Ghost, you–"

"Simon. I'm the father of your child, you can't keep calling me Ghost when we're alone," the lieutenant said, sounding surprisingly vulnerable. "And I know you don't want to go anywhere, but you need to see a doctor. I'll talk to Price."

Shaking your head, you squeezed his hand and gulped loudly. "You can't tell him. Please, let's not tell anyone."

He smiled at you briefly before leaning over to kiss you again, this time settling for a quick, soft kiss. "He already has his own suspicions, don't worry. And I won't tell anyone else apart from him, okay? Trust me," he added.

"Won't you get into trouble for getting your sergeant pregnant?" you suddenly asked.

After licking his lower lip nervously, Ghost shook his head. "Price won't make a big deal out of it hopefully, and we can tell the others you have a boyfriend back home."

Nodding, you accepted his words. You rested your head on his broad shoulder and thought about the next step. Now that you know he wanted this child, it was up to you to make your own decision.

"Can I go and talk to Price with you?" you suddenly asked.

Ghost took your hand. "Sure. Maybe it's for the better."

Soon you were standing in front of the captain like two students who did something wrong and now had to go see the principal. Well, in a military sense you actually did something wrong, so no wonder you felt like that. You could tell even Ghost was tense, although it wasn't as obvious as it could have been without the mask.

But Price understood. He scolded Ghost for all of this, sure, but apart from that he seemed happy for the two of you. "Ghost, you go with her. If anyone asks, I'll tell them you're making sure she gets home safe," he said in the end.

"Captain, I can go alone. I'll keep Ghost updated," you promised.

Shaking his head, Price pointed at Ghost. "His head will be with you. If he can't focus on the mission, he's no use for us."

And he was right. You couldn't risk others' lives because of this. Ghost apparently understood this as well, because he let out a sigh and said, "All right, I'll go with her. Thank you."

•••••••••••••

taglist: @untoldshortsofthefandoms

#call of duty #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley #simon ghost riley #captain price #john price #captain john price #modern warfare

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blubffsd · 1 year

Text

— WORLDS COLLIDE PT. 3

summary: The lie you believed your whole life just fell apart, the person you loved the most let you down once again. Why did you think this time would be different?

previous chapter

note: i really don't know what song to recommend for this part, just play your favorite sad song lol. please pretend that on social media it says "Mia" instead of Y/N, i edited it like 3 times and it never saved so i gave up.

@http-isabela love u 😚💞

Indignation.

That's what Mia feels now.

She has a hard time believing what she sees, but unfortunately it is real.

They backstabbed her in front of miles of people.

It wasn't until she arrived in Argentina that she found out about their tweets, all thanks to Anto, who had found out from Jorgelina Cardoso, Di Maria's wife.

After Mia found out, the players of the Argentina team found out too, Lio told them what happened after Anto told him.

Most are completely outraged by the audacity of her brother-in-law and his wife to make such comments.

All of them are still euphoric for having become world champions less than 2 days ago, and even more so now that they are waiting in Ezeiza to celebrate with the Argentines at the Obelisk.

So right now they do and say things that they wouldn't do at another time.

And Mia too.

Will she regret of this? Yeah.

Does she care now? No.

Obviously people suspect that the tweets are for Melissa and Jirès (especially those of Enzo and Julián).

If Kylian and Mia's names was a trend before, now there are even newspaper articles speculating what happened between them.

And as if that weren't enough, now she has his boyfriend's fans attacking her on twitter, just like when he said he's dating her.

Jirès even had the audacity to reply to her tweet.

Mia knows she were wrong a lot, but is all that necessary?

It's okay that they're mad at her and she understand it. But why increase the hate she is getting?

Why are they treating her like this if two days ago they had dinner with her and told her how grateful they are to have her in their lives?

Did they lie to her or were her attitudes so bad that they changed their opinion drastically?

Even if it hurts Mia keeps seeing the tweets out there about all the drama.

Wonderful.

Now they are relating the songs of her favorite singer with her love dramas.

THEY EVEN MAKE A PLAYLIST. (it's real btw)

Mia lets out a laugh when she saw the songs they chose to "cry over your divorce".

At least they are not criticizing her or judging her actions.

It doesn't make Mia feels better, but she doesn't feel worse. That's okay.

She wants to believe that's okay.

Mia arrives at her father's house hours after arriving in Argentina.

Anto insisted so much that she stays with her and the children but Mia refused, she needs to talk to her dad, she miss him so much.

Mia knocks on the door of the house while she sees the Argentine flag hanging.

Her father opens the door for her in a matter of seconds and when he sees her he smiles and hugs her.

Mia smiled slightly as she felt his arms around her.

It feels good to hug him again. And that he is the one who took the initiative makes her happy.

Although deep down in her heart she knows that he is hugging her because Argentina won the World Cup and not because she came home after 5 years.

He invites her in and she enter his house.

Everything in the house was the same as when she left, but it felt different.

—Sentate si querés (Sit down if you want) –he says pointing to the couch in front of Mia.

She nods and sit back watching him do the same.

There is an awkward silence between the two of them until Mia speak.

—Y... ¿cómo andás? (So... how are you?) –her father turns to look at her and smiles widely.

He's going to talk about football.

—Estoy re bien, hija. Me siento tan feliz, nunca me había sentido así en mi vida, te lo juro. (I'm fine, daughter. I feel so happy, I have never felt like this in my life, I swear.)

He doesn't have to swear for Mia to believe him, she knows he's not lying. He was never this happy.

—Qué alegría, pa. (What a joy, dad) –she smiles slightly not knowing what else to say.

Mia wish she were as happy as her dad, but she can't knowing what she did.

She can't get Kylian out of her mind and how he must be now, a few hours away from his birthday.

She knows she have to explain everything to him but she doesn't have the courage to do it.

What excuse could she make for having abandoned him after not having achieved what he dreamed of all his life?

Mia comes back to reality when she feels her dad's touch on her shoulder.

—¿Eh? ¿Qué pasó, pa? ¿Me dijiste algo? (What happened, dad? Did you say something?)

She hears her dad laugh and sees how he shakes his head.

—Te pregunté qué dice tu noviecito por haber perdido (I asked you what "that guy" you're dating thinks about losing) –a mocking smile appears on his face.

"That guy you're dating"? Is that the way he intends to name her boyfriend?

—No sé, todavía no hablé con él. (I don't, I didn't talk with him yet).

—¿No quiere hablar con vos todavía después de haber perdido? Qué idiota. ¿Cómo se llama? ¿Kyle? ¿Kylan? (He doesn't want to talk to you after losing? What a idiot. What's his name? Kyle? Kylan?)

The mocking smile doesn't leave her father's face and that can't bother Mia anymore.

He doesn't even know his name.

—No es ningún idiota y su nombre es Kylian. Me sorprende que no sepas el nombre de mi novio, con quien estoy hace 4 años. (He's not an idiot and his name is Kylian. I'm surprised you don't know the name of the guy I've been in a relationship with for 4 years.)

Her father laughs mocking Mia's words.

—Kylian, nombre de perdedor en las finales (Kylian, name of a loser in the World Cup finals) –he laugh again.

Mia frowns. He's acting like her boyfriend hasn't hattrick or won a world cup yet.

He's trying to humiliate Kylian and she is not going to allow it.

—Te recuerdo que "ese perdedor" ya ganó un mundial y en su primer intento, y también casi gana su segundo mundial por su cuenta (I remind you that "that loser" has already won a World Cup and in his first attempt, and he also almost won his second World Cup on his own).

Now her father is the one who frowns, surprised by her words.

—Dejá de defender a ese tarado, ese chico no vale la pena, te lo dije millones de veces. Estás haciendo lo mismo que hiciste en 2018. (Stop defending that dumb guy, that boy is not worth it, I told you millions of times. You're doing the same thing you did in 2018.)

Mia takes a deep breath trying to calm down, what is happening cannot be real.

—Te hacías la que querías que ganáramos nosotros para que acá en los medios de comunicación no te dijeran nada, pero seguramente querías que gane ese estúpido que tenés por novio. Y sí, no querías que te pase lo mismo que en 2018, que lo apoyaste a él cuando estaba jugando contra tu país y me hiciste quedar como un tarado. Me traicionaste y me dejaste de lado por tu novio, lo elegiste antes que a mí y no tuviste ni un poco de consideración conmigo (You pretended that you wanted us to win so that here in the media they wouldn't tell you anything, but surely you wanted that stupid boyfriend of yours to win. Of course, you didn't want the same thing to happen to you as in 2018, that you supported him when he was playing against your country and you made me look like a stupid. You betrayed me and dumped me for your boyfriend, you chose him over me and you didn't have one bit of consideration for me).

Mia can't believe what she is hearing.

—Ese chico te va a dejar por la primera chica que encuentre, no sé cómo duró tanto con vos. Todos los futbolistas son iguales. No me sorprendería si me decís que prefiere el fútbol antes que a vos (That boy is going to leave you for the first girl he finds, I don't know how he lasted so long with you. All footballers are the same. I wouldn't be surprised if you tell me that he prefers football over you).

That was the last straw.

—Entonces estás diciendo que Kylian va a hacerle lo mismo que vos me hiciste a mí (So you're saying that Kylian is going to do the same thing to me that you did to me?)

Mia feels her dad's stunned look and her let out a sarcastic laugh.

—Según vos él va a elegir el fútbol antes que a mí ¿no? Y me estás advirtiendo. Qué considerado, no querés que pase por lo mismo que me hiciste pasar vos (According to you, he is going to choose football before me, right? And you're warning me. How thoughtful, you don't want me to go through the same thing you put me through).

Her dad gets up from the couch completely angry.

—¿Qué decís, nena? Si a vos te di todo lo que pude para que no te faltara nada (What do you say? If I gave you everything I could so that you didn't lack anything).

Mia sighed completely frustrated, he doesn't get it.

Obviously he doesn't get it.

—Ya sé y te lo agradezco. Pero siempre hubo algo más importante que yo, no te importaba qué pasaba conmigo ni nada, nunca fui tu prioridad (I know and thank you for that. But there was always something more important than me, you didn't care what happened to me or anything, I was never your priority).

She feels how a lump forms in her throat and tears appear in her eyes.

Her father keeps glaring at her in front of her, as if she just insulted him.

—Siempre había un partido más importante que mi cumpleaños, una práctica más importante que mi graduación. Cuando nací mamá me dijo que te quejaste porque tenías que jugar un partido ese fin de semana y no ibas a poder por tener que cuidarme a mí. Y tenés el descaro de venir a advertirme de Kylian. (There was always a game more important than my birthday, a practice more important than my graduation. When I was born, mom told me that you complained because you had to play a game that weekend and you couldn't make it because you had to take care of me. And you have the nerve to come warn me about Kylian).

Her father does not take his eyes off her.

—Bueno, y decime entonces, ¿dónde está tu noviecito ahora? ¿Te buscó o algo por lo menos o no le importas lo suficiente como para querer saber dónde estás? (Well, and tell me then, where is your boyfriend now? Did he look for you or something at least or does he not care enough to want to know where you are?).

That hurt Mia.

Kylian hasn't called her.

But she didn't call him either and she should have.

—Él al menos no me llamó gritándome que soy una traidora, que no merezco vivir y que dejé de existir para él como tú lo hiciste (He at least didn't call me yelling that I'm a traitor, that I don't deserve to live and that I ceased to exist for him like you did).

There isn't a single hint of regret on his face, her father looks at her seriously, as if telling her that if he had to do it again, he would.

—Estabas apoyando al enemigo (You were supporting the enemy).

Mia remember Hiba's words to her during the match.

"You're wearing Kylian's jersey and sitting next to his family as you clap for the enemy."

This whole situation is so similar to 2018 but feels so different.

—Kylian necesitaba mi apoyo y estuve ahí para él. (Kylian needed my support and I was there for him).

Her father laughs sarcastically.

—¿Y por qué estás acá conmigo y no con él? Si él tanto te necesita (And why are you here with me and not with him? If he needs you so much).

Mia looks at her dad and then at her bags.

He's right, for the first time since she were born.

Why is she there with him if the one who really deserves to talk to her is Kylian?

Why did she think her dad would change this time?

Why is she there with him and not with Kylian? How could she get so carried away?

Mia takes her bags under the stupefied look of her dad and take one last look at his house.

The walls still have the same photos of her dad when he played football, it makes Mia a little sad to remember when she asked him why he hasn't photos of her there.

"It's just that I don't care enough about you".

After saying it, he laughed, implying that it was a joke.

Mia opens the door and walk out of her dad's house.

Maybe it wasn't after all.

note: HELLOWODOWODO

taglist: @nightlockcornucopia @melliflulu @mad-die45 @bifici @woozarts @neymarsrealgf @meanwhilesomewhereelse @psgkm7 @matthiashelvarsgf @krillfromsky @ashley-leclerc @mxgvmiii @like3dbypierregasly @httpspedri26 @aerangi @berryhtrs @lena-03 @gash167 @claaau5 @notanenthucutlet @okayline @noodle81937

#kylian mbappe #kylian mbappe fanfic #kylian x reader #mbappe imagine #mbappe x reader #mbappe one shot #mbappe #football imagine #worlds collide km

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blues824 · 1 year

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Can I please request the remarried empress with a Jessica rabbit mc.

👠Her being married to kosiar and him hiding her from the eastern empire he knows she won't accept people making her a concubine but he is protective.

💋That's until navier asks him to invite her to become a lady in waiting to navier after viscountess Verdi her ladie left (to go to rattrash ) her so why not the loyal wife of kosiar.

👠her singing to navier to relax her from her stress and people saying that her voice is like one of a sirene so beautiful and them being jealous she only sings for navier (she promised her husband to only sing to her and him because she is loyal )

💋Her arriving and people wondering who this beautiful lady in waiting is she is ever more beautiful than the duchess nian and people wondering why the empress invited her they don't know that she married kosiar yet.

👠Imagen one day sovieshit asking her to his mistresses because he thought she wasn't married and her saying no my husband won't be happy and I only belong to him I will stay loyal to him even after death.

💋Rattrash being jealous because a way more beautiful woman with class and a voice of all goddess has captured the likings of sovieshit and then she learns she is the loyal wife of navier's brother.

👠Her being extremely supportive of kosiar like he wants to kill someone and she is like my beloved you forgot your wepons how will you kill someone without it giving him a kiss after.

💋She is a woman who is not afraid of blood and always hepls her husband with his tasks like one day he came home coverd in blood and she scolded him for coming home late.

Preface: You are the loyal wife of Kosair, but no one knows that since you tend to stay home and out of the public eye. However, you receive a summons from your sister-in-law, Navier, asking you to become her lady-in-waiting since Viscountess Verdi left to be employed by Rashta. You accepted the position, and a whole spiel of events happened after that.

Sovieshu

Upon seeing you on your first day within the palace, he was absolutely smitten. Not only were you absolutely beautiful, but you also had the voice and kindness as a goddess. As a result, he tried to get to know you. However, you took your job as Navier’s lady-in-waiting very seriously and was entirely dedicated to her.

You weren’t exactly surprised when he asked you to be his second mistress, considering he would pull any excuse to be around you. However, you declined his offer, saying that you were sure your husband wouldn’t be happy about that, and that you were loyal to Kosair and not even death could part you. That is one way to bruise an Emperor’s ego.

He kind of ignored the part where you said you were already married before being employed in the castle, and he assumed that he lost you to his brother-in-law. The two already hated each other, so when your husband came to visit Navier, Sovieshu gritted his teeth as he watched Kosair kiss you. The ring on your finger had never shown clearer than at this moment.

Rashta

She immediately saw you as a threat to her and her already damaged reputation. You outshined her in just about everything, be it kindness, charm, or just beauty in general. She stood no chance against you, and she couldn’t spread any rumors about you that wouldn’t make it sound like she’s just jealous of you.

When she found out that Sovieshu had asked you to be his second mistress, she was absolutely terrified at what that might entail. Was he bored of her? Would she be kicked out of the palace? Would she have to go back to her life of slavery? Well, good thing you refused.

However, as much as she wanted to not believe it, the truth was still there: the Emperor was infatuated with you. Rashta could see it as he forced a smile in your and Kosair’s direction. At least you weren’t willing to betray your husband. Maybe you were less of a threat than she originally thought.

Navier

She was a bit annoyed that Viscountess Verdi left, but she had the perfect idea for a replacement. So, she wrote a letter to you, and was glad to see you show up ready for the job. You caught up quickly, and you did really well. You had the voice of a nightingale, and it soothed her to no end. You promised to both her and your husband that they would be the only ones that you would sing for.

You told her that Sovieshu had asked you to become his mistress and that he promised you would never have to work another day in your life. Navier covered her smile because she knew that with the passion you both showed at your wedding, you and Kosair were still very much in love with each other and well on your way to starting a family.

The time that Kosair visits her, she knew that he was instead trying to visit you. The Empress felt a bit smug upon seeing her jealous husband watch as your husband dipped you down and kissed you right in the middle of the room. For once, Sovieshu got a taste of his own medicine, and Navier was happy about it.

Heinrey

He first met you when he visited Navier in his bird form, and as much as he would like to say you were beautiful… he was biased towards his Queen. No offense, but we all know how much he is absolutely in love with the Empress. Obviously he is going to think that Navier is the most beautiful person that the world has ever seen, and we love him for that.

All this aside, you both are in an alliance of sorts. He was not allowed to hear you sing, but during that time where he wasn’t allowed to come visit you would gather information that you would give him at a later time. In his bird form, he knew where to find you, so it was never really a problem.

When Kosair had been exiled from the Eastern Empire, he was aware that you would probably want to go with him. Thus, he offered his Kingdom as an escape so that neither of you would be targeted by an Emperor (*cough*Sovieshu*cough*) in any fashion. Plus, he knew that if he was going to have Navier move to his Kingdom as well, you needed to be there as well.

Kosair

This man is most definitely in love with you. Whenever he gets angry, you’re either there to calm him down or say you forgot your weapon, darling! Then you give him a kiss and he forgets why he’s mad or who he’s mad at. He’s just so lucky that you chose him out of all your possible suitors. But he’s still insecure so he wants to make sure that no other man steals you away, thus you stay in the Manor.

However, you receive a letter from Navier, asking if you would become her lady-in-waiting. Kosair was scared about his brother-in-law trying to make a move on you, but you reminded him that no one loved you like he did (take that as you may), and you promised him that, aside from Navier, he was the only person you would sing for.

When he went to visit Navier, he really just wanted to see you, his beloved wife. He also wanted to give Sovieshu a message: you were his and his alone. So, he dipped you down and kissed you right in front of him. Very passionately, too. The hand you placed on the back of his neck made him want to keep going, but you were in front of an audience, so you both parted.

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whomst-art-thou-whomst-whomst · 2 months

Text

Lee Dongsik’s Guide to Multitasking Your Personal Trauma, New Romantic Interest, and Murder Investigation(s) (Beyond Evil)

*headcanons and ideas set during and after canon*

1.) Trust no bitch. Especially the fussy, emotionally unstable, clingy, brave, smart, and irresistible kind. Pretend that you don’t have a type and that that type isn’t “socially awkward twink who hates how much he wants me”

2.) Uncooked noodles are a valid food group! Don’t listen to rich city boys who say otherwise.

3.) You have two remaining besties, codenames Sassy Sister and Shady Mister. You are on the fence to replace one with the local butcher, Sharpy Blister (this codename thing is admittedly limited), but you’re undecided.

4.) At one point you seriously consider leaving the basement door unlocked with a welcome mat in front of it, but even you aren’t even sure whether it would be a joke or sincere, plus it wouldn’t do to be too forward in this courtship. Mustn’t frighten away the timid hedgehog boy too soon. Lure him in with treats (possible murder clues). Good hedgehog boy. Sit and stay.

5.) A few months after you get out of prison, a reporter comes around town asking questions about the rumors around Minjeong that had been on TV at one time. Unfortunately, he stops to ask for directions to your house at the police station, where Officer Park Jihoon is happy to assist. Somehow his directions accidentally lead the reporter into the boggiest part of a reed field, which he is eventually rescued from (two hours later, as the neighbors in the surrounding area didn’t seem to hear him shrieking). Encourage professionalism among your former subordinates by giving Jihoonie an extra dinner serving that evening.

6.) Make peace with the fact that your new partner’s dad is, like, actually the worst case scenario father-in-law. If you can’t make peace with it, make war. Bonus points if you engineer shit so you get to homoerotically cuff his son (into custody, of course) in front of everyone.

7.) Break into Han Juwon’s flat at least once without ever leaving a trace. Take a selfie with the murderboard (adorable. oddly endearing. maybe you can frame it at the lake house?)

8.) Somewhere along the line, you realize that had circumstances been different, your whole family would have welcomed Han Juwon into their home and hearts. Try not to think too much about it.

9.) You watch Han Gihwan’s trials on a prison tv with a guard (24, recently married, anxious to talk to someone about becoming a father) and there is a tiny, brief, terrifying moment at one of Han Gihwan’s trials where a piece of incriminating evidence from a confidential source is revealed for maximum effect at just the right time to shock the courtroom—and it’s right at the moment the camera zooms in on Han Gihwan’s stunned face, because in that moment you’re focused on the blink-and-you-miss-it smirk on Kwon Hyuk’s face in the background and you think: oh god. There’s two of us.

10.) When in doubt, smile and flirt.

#whomst #beyond evil #jwds #yes I glossed over a lot of angst because Dongsik needs a break #and a germ-conscious boy toy. as a treat.

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farity · 1 year

Text

To Tread Lightly, part 2

Part 1

Aemond kissed his wife’s lips, his hands firmly on her hips. More than anything he wanted to stay in their chambers, slowly peel off that intricately embroidered gown and spend the evening in their bed, but they were receiving the Lannisters and he and his wife had to make an appearance.

“Husband,” she murmured. “We really do need to go.”

“Hmmm.” He cupped her ass and pulled her against him, savoring her gasp. “We don’t need to stay the whole time.”

“Husband,” she repeated, caressing his face.

Aemond groaned, “Very well, let��s go. The sooner we go, the sooner we can leave.”

* * * * *

You caught Jason Lannister’s surprised expression when he saw you and Aemond. You had seen the young lord before, but he hadn’t seen Aemond without his eyepatch. Shortly after your wedding, your husband had stopped wearing it unless he was training and by now no one at the Keep cared anymore.

“Prince Aemond,” Lord Jason said, bowing slightly, “I see marriage agrees with you.”

“My wife is a treasure I have been delighted to receive,” Aemond replied.

“I thought you wore the eye covering so as not to frighten the ladies of the court,” Lannister said, and you thought him the rudest man you had ever met.

Unfazed, your husband smirked. “There is only one lady - one princess - whose opinion I care about, and she is not bothered by such details.”

“I see. Princess, it is my honor,” Lannister extended his hand and despite your instant dislike of the man, you placed yours on it. He placed a small kiss and looked up at you smiling. At the same time, you felt Aemond’s hand tighten on your waist.

“My lord, I see Queen Alicent is trying to get your attention.”

You watched him walk towards your mother-in-law and then looked up at Aemond. “Is he always like that?”

“I hate that prick.”

“I am sorry to say,” you said softly, “he did not make the best impression on me.”

“You hate that prick, too,” Aemond said, kissing your temple.

“I did not say that.”

He laughed as he escorted you to the table, holding the chair out. “You did, I have learned to translate your words to mine.”

“Thank you, husband,” you said as he pushed your chair in. It would be a servant who would ordinarily deal with such things but Aemond preferred to cater to his wife, with Aegon complaining once that it made him look bad.

“You don’t need my help for that,” Aemond had replied.

* * * * *

If Lannister didn’t stop blabbing about the Lannister this and the Lannister that, Aemond was going to throw something at him. Preferably his dagger. The only reason he was pretending to listen was that underneath the table, his hand was busy tracing circles on his wife’s bare knee. He’d pulled up the fabric of her gown and she’d nearly dropped her cup when he’d first touched his fingertips to the sensitive inside of her knee.

“So as you can see, Your Grace, House Lannister remains the richest territory in the realm.”

Aegon yawned pointedly and leaned forward. “As long as you believe that, Lannister, that’s all that matters.” He looked towards his mother. “I believe the ladies have had a long day, why don’t you leave the men to enjoy this fine wine?”

Aemond turned to you, “I will not be too long,” he whispered, “will you wait up for me?” he let his fingertips trail up the inside of her thigh, enjoying the way her smile trembled for a moment.

“Of course, husband.” she replied, kissing his scarred cheek before leaving the table along with Alicent and Helaena.

Jason Lannister cackled. “Let’s talk like men now, and see if we can push on through ‘til dawn.”

* * * * *

You had stopped by the library before heading to your chambers. You knew Aemond had been waiting for a volume to arrive and you had seen a shipment being wheeled in just before dinner. You found the book and then continued to peruse the shelves, when you heard steps approaching.

“I cannot believe a beauty like you ended up marrying a monster like him.”

You whirled around, finding Jason Lannister closing the door.

“Lord Jason, what are you doing here?”

He took a step toward you. “I said I was going to the privy.”

You did not like the look in his eyes and stepped behind the table. “Well, do not let me keep you from finding it.”

His smile grew larger and he took another step. “Has he had you yet?”

Aemond was right. The man was a prick. “I fear you have had too much to drink,” you said. “It would be wise to return to the dining room.”

“Or have you refused him because of that hideous face of his?”

There was a wooden box on the corner of the table, and a marble candlestick. The candlestick would do more damage, you decided.

“Have the marriage annulled and marry me. I have both my eyes-”

Lord Jason roared as the candlestick landed on his nose with a sickening crunch. You heard steps rushing to the library and the door slammed open to reveal Ser Criston Cole and Aemond, followed by Aegon.

“You fucking bitch, you broke my fucking nose, you fuck-”

The wooden box landed on the back of his head next and you began looking for a third item to throw at him while Aegon and Ser Criston gawked at you. Your husband, meantime, was busy punching Lord Jason’s already broken nose into smaller pieces.

Ser Criston recovered his wits first and pulled Aemond off the Lannister lord. “I’ll take him to a very private spot until he sobers up, my prince.” he added.

“Are you alright?” Aemond rushed to you. “Did he hurt you?”

You shook your head and grabbed his hands, examining his bruised knuckles. “We need to treat these.”

“Well done,” you heard Aegon say as he left, “who knew?”

* * * * *

He could have killed Lannister. He could have flayed him alive using only his teeth for going near his wife. She had told him everything and even though Lannister hadn’t touched her, Aemond was sure his intentions had headed that way.

She was dabbing ointment on his hands, although he’d barely gotten a mark on his skin, but it helped soothe her to care for him, so he let her fuss until he couldn’t take it any more.

“Come here,” he stood, catching her as she walked past him, and began kissing her. She parted her lips for him, and his hands again began to roam over her, pulling up the endless yards of fabric that made up her dress.

“Who could have imagined,” he said as he walked her to their bed, “that a tender heart such as you could inflict such wounds on a man?”

“I do not wish to talk about him, husband.”

“No,” he murmured, “I would much rather hear you say my name.”

He pushed her skirts up to her waist, removed her smallclothes, and kissed the inside of her knee. “I believe I was right here, wasn’t I?” He sucked some of her skin between his teeth, licking the reddened spot. “Ah yes, but now I see a much more delectable spot.”

“Aemond, please.”

Aemond looked up. “Will you throw a candlestick at my head if I move too slowly?”

“You have made me crave things.”

He kissed a spot an inch higher on her thigh. “What things?”

“I cannot say.”

“You must tell me.”

He could see her flushed cheeks, but encouraged her by trailing his fingertips up her other thigh.

“Things we do in here. Things we do when we’re alone.”

“Things,” he teased.

She looked at him, almost pleading. “You know I cannot speak freely as you do, I am not used to it.”

She was barely used to being naked around him, but he wasn’t going to mention that. He crawled up until he was nose to nose with her. “Turning you into a wanton for your husband is one of my highest priorities, but I can say ‘things’ if you can’t.”

He took one of her hands, kissed the inside of her wrist. “Things like taking your pretty breasts in my hands?”

“Yes,” she said, so quietly he barely heard her.

“Things like slipping my fingers between your lovely legs?”

“Yes.”

He continued kissing up her arm, “things like sipping from the sweetest cunt in the kingdom?”

“Gods, Aemond.”

When he grabbed her face and kissed her, she pulled him to her, parting her lips immediately for him. He took a long time tasting her, enjoying how she pressed herself against him, and when he turned onto his back, he grabbed her hair, tugging on it so he could nip at her neck.

“Come wife,” he said, pulling on her knees so that she straddled him. “Serve your poor, bruised husband.”

She smiled down at him. “So terribly injured.” Sinking slowly onto him, she waited a few moments, adjusting to having him inside her like this, before she began rolling her hips. Taking his hand, she began caressing his skin where it had gone redder as he hit Lord Jason.

“I will murder anyone who tries to harm you.”

She kissed his knuckle, holding on to his wrist as she moved.

Aemond thought there was no better sight than his wife slowly losing herself as she rode him. When she began whimpering, he grabbed her hips, the thought of marking her tempting him to dig his fingers into her skin. When she came, he resisted as long as he could before finally letting go.

* * * * *

“He’s left, thank the gods.”

Aemond pulled the chair out for you while his mother related the latest in the saga of Lord Jason Lannister.

“Was he terribly hurt?” you asked, not wanting to start some inter-House war.

“You broke his nose, you sweet little mouse,” Aegon laughed.

Helaena smacked his arm and he stopped laughing when he saw the look on Aemond’s gaze. “He’s a twat,” he added, earning himself another harsh look from his mother.

“What is most damaged is the man’s ego,” Ser Otto added. “He made his apologies and I am sure you will be receiving some priceless jewelry soon as a further measure of his contrition.”

“She shall not wear it,” Aemond said immediately.

“I wouldn’t wish to wear it,” you added quietly.

“She doesn’t need it, anyway. I gave her an entire case of jewels soon after we were wed.”

Alicent looked at her son. “I remember.”

“So do I,” said Aegon.

“And,” added Helaena, “the petal may burn in the fire, but the fire might subdue itself so as not to burn the petal.”

Aegon threw back the rest of his drink. “Thank you for that, Helaena,” he said, sarcastically, but Helaena merely smiled at him.

As dinner was served, Aemond leaned over while pretending to brush something off your shoulder. “Your beauty and grace needs no adornment, in any case.”

You smiled at him. “You humble me with your words, husband.”

Aemond caught his older brother glaring at him, and much to Aegon’s displeasure, he merely smiled.

* * * * *

Tagging:

@arryn-nyx @ girlwith-thepearlearring @greenowlfactif @hydrationqueensworld @megzdoodle@melsunshine @queenofshinigamis @throughgoeshamilton @travelingmypassion @hb8301 @kaemond-zafiro @arcielee

#aemond targaryen #aemond #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #Aemond x Reader #aemond x fem!reader #hotd fanfic #hotd smut

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sauntervaguelydown · 5 months

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what's interesting about Zenigata throughout the Lupin iii franchise is that he doesn't really have a core interiority. Everything about Zenigata is exterior.

Part 4 does this insane thing with him where he's locked into his role as judge/jury/executioner to such an extent that it seems pathological--he has to keep Lupin in prison even though it is making him, personally, miserable with grief. He has to make sure Lupin dies rather than let him escape. It will literally destroy the foundation of who he is as a person if he succeeds in the goal he's assigned himself, but he can't possibly do anything else. The law is the law and his job is his job, and he can't let himself be anything else even for a moment. It's fucking intense! It's Greek tragedy!

Compare that to part 5, which was made like? two years? later. And in this one, Zenigata explicitly states that he wants to put Lupin in jail because it's the only way to make Lupin understand his actions have consequences. To force him to turn over a new leaf, make him go straight, and then meet him on the other side. Literally wants to buy him a drink when he gets out of prison.

These could not be more different--I mean it's Antigone vs A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum. Are either of them more true to the spirit of the character than the other? Well. It's really hard to say, because we just don't know these things about Zenigata in Part One!

What's his relationship to justice? How does he feel about The Law? Is he a corrupt cop, is he noble? Is his chasing Lupin driven by career aspirations or personal passion?

EDIT: I have now read the manga translations, and uhhh well. Apparently they met in college and Zenigata hated his vibe SO bad he spent the rest of his life trying to kill the guy. Not sure that helps us much here.

As it stands, here's a rough list of the stuff I've watched and what its take on Zenigata is

Part One: in the first episode, Zenigata gives a brief explanation of their dynamic (for the sake of the audience) which is already WELL established in-universe. Here he says something like, "Lupin, if you weren't the Grandson of Arsene Lupin, and I wasn't the descendant of the famous Zenigata..." implying that something about this dynamic would change if it wasn't for their Cosmically Assigned Destinies as products of their Two Houses Alike in Dignity etc. What would be different? Would they be friends? I don't know! But Zenigata definitely seems to be beholden to the legacy of his own family here.

there's also an ep where Zenigata has Lupin in jail successfully. Zenigata stays on site guarding the jail the whole 6 months, and eventually one of the other guards says if I didn't know any better I'd think you were looking forward to seeing him escape.

later episodes led by Miyazaki lean more heavily on the context of his career; his relationship to his boss, a conference he wants to attend in his field, the fear of one's job being outmoded by technology etc.

The Mystery of Mamo: Zenigata has so much personal passion! When they tell him to drop the case, he literally quits the force to chase Lupin as a private citizen! This is the one where he swears he'll follow Lupin to the gates of Hell because they are fated rivals. This is also the one where he literally tries to stake Lupin in case he's turned into a vampire. so. I don't know man. He's fucking unhinged in this movie, it's pretty great.

Mamo is known to be closer in tone to the manga than anything else, but Zenigata is not this rabid in the manga. Manga Zenigata is more contemptuous and put-upon.

The Castle of Cagliostro: this is a neutral good Zenigata at his most admirable. When he can't get justice through the law, he teams up with criminals in order to circumvent corrupt government officials. He's also headstrong and fully willing to risk his own career, but not ready to throw it away at the first inconvenience. He is "very fond" of Lupin. He enjoys the chase, but he can put it aside in order to fry bigger fish. You get the impression that he cares about correcting injustice more than the letter of the law.

Part Two: Lupin fakes his death twice that I can remember and BOTH times Zenigata cries about it. On the first occasion, Zenigata shakes the corpse, begs it to wake up, then wonders tearfully what he's going to do with himself now that Lupin is dead. On the second occasion, Zenigata first tries to KILL himself rather than allow Lupin to rescue him (out of a sense of pride) and then cries and calls Lupin a "great man" after Lupin fakes a fatal crash. The resentment IMMEDIATELY gives way to mourning. He's very cavalier with his own life, but precious about Lupin's.

By the way, I love how much this man cries. I ALSO love crying in public and being homoerotically obsessed with my enemies. He's so relatable

the other thing is that this Zenigata is VERY binary about roles; he refuses to jailbreak from extralegal imprisonment because "cops don't escape jail". Doesn't matter that the jail is run by terrorists who are going to kill him, that's Not What Cops Do.

The Fuma Conspiracy: Lupin has faked his death yet again, and Zenigata has--in direct response to this--quit the force and BECOME A MONK, and explicitly says he is busy praying for Lupin's soul so that Lupin can be reincarnated as a law abiding citizen in his next life. What the fuck does this say about Zenigata? Buddy we don't have time to unpack that whole suitcase. In brief: Zenigata is prescriptive about law and legality as equaling goodness/dharma/morality etc. But he also changed his entire life so that he could remain dedicated to THE SOUL OF HIS DEAD NEMESIS. So this is clearly very personal, and has nothing to do with his career.

Part Three: limited familiarity with this one but I HAVE seen the episode where Zenigata gets fired due to his boss's embezzlement scheme and subsequently uncovers the scheme--there's a bit where Lupin pretends to mug him in an alley so they can have a private conversation, and Zenigata IS pretty quick to jump on the trail of this embezzlement scheme instead of chasing Lupin, once he's been tipped off. Perhaps more career driven in this one.

Lupin First Contact: some combination of career-based ambition and, like, Unrequited Rivalry At First Sight. He came here to chase Fujiko and got so distracted by this other idiot that he nearly forgot about her. To be fair, this story is narrated by Lupin so it may not even be an accurate representation of Zenigata within its own canon.

Ten Thousand Movies other from 1990-2005: girl most of these are so bad they are so SO bad. Most of the time Zenigata is not a major player. I can't remember anything he did in these except--oh, in Burning Memories, he uses the jute he keeps in a shinto shrine in his apartment after it survives a major fire. Loved that.

Also, he dresses in drag at the beginning of Farewell Nostradamus. This has nothing to do with anything I just loved it.

The Woman Called Fujiko Mine: corrupt cop. dirtbag. full stop.

okay, no, really. Here he is explicitly concerned with his career; he laments that he had to take grunt work to get by, talks about being busted down the chain after reporting his dirty boss, is extremely defensive of anyone muscling in on his Case even someone he has every reason to trust... this is a man who only cares about his career

he does fuck Fujiko and it IS a corrupt move. He seems to imply he's done this before with other thieves. He KNOWS she faked an orgasm and he doesn't care. He's mean as hell.

He cares about his pride. He seems to think Having Personal Pride is incompatible with participating in corruption. Does not explain why he exploited Fujiko Mine for sex. Maybe corruption doesn't count if you don't respect the person you're violating the rights of.

So, overall, have I got a thesis?

Basically, everyone who writes Zenigata has a different take on what his core motivation is. All the stuff that is core to Zenigata is in his affect, in his actions. He's enthusiastic, emotional, hotheaded, stubborn, prone to cackling, smart but not quite smart enough. What he thinks and what he feels, what he does in his private life, remains surprisingly mysterious.

Several of these takes are mutually exclusive. Mamo and Cagliostro simply do not overlap, just like Part 4 and Part 5 are at odds with each other. You can't put Mamo and Cagliostro and Part 1 in a blender without creating some new third thing inaccurate to all three.

For my money, here's what I think the core points would be, if I was starting out to write a fresh series or something:

the Shinto angle; his duty to the family legacy, especially with a famous ancestor like the OG Zenigata, looms large over the current inspector. He has a lot to live up to.

although they met through his job, he's very specifically attached to Lupin in a way that has nothing to do with his job; in fact, his desire to be close to Lupin is at odds with his career

he started out being ambitious and career oriented--this is why he started chasing Lupin, hoping to make a name for himself.

his career has fully stalled out and he's in conflict with himself about the joy his gets from chasing Lupin vs the expectations he set for himself ten years ago

ACAB; if he's actually ethical and cares about civil rights, he's got to be Insanely Unpopular with other cops. The only reason he might be able to get away with this and still have a job is that he's A) an accidental celebrity now with a weird amount of public clout B) he's got insane tunnel vision and doesn't notice major violations of human rights unless they are Directly In his Line of Vision. Nonetheless, this is unsustainable in the long term.

*I'm also a proponent of "Zenigata used to be more ruthless and corrupt, but he's actually picked up ethics somehow from being around criminals all the time" simply because. it is funny.

In conclusion: probably the reason we don't have solid answers to these questions is because Zenigata is like a dog chasing cars. He doesn't know what he'd do with one if he caught it. Nonetheless, he's gotta chase that goddamn fiat.

#lupin iii #meta #zenigata

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soukokvn · 11 months

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Theres one thing that I love about one relationship in one piece but I think it’s too unclear and like between the lines for everybody to understand it so imma explain it to y’all 🫵

This is all about the Law/Cora/Dofy situation and I swear you won’t regret knowing that.

We know Dofy is a literal demon spawn he was born to be a menace to society and don’t give two fucks about how what he does affects others.

During the Dressrosa arc you get to meet with the Donquixote family with its three main units named after the four symbols in card games so « heart, clubs, diamonds and spades ».

It’s easy to make the link between Corazon and the heart unit obv since it’s a code name to represent that he is the head of this unit, and before him it was Vergo.

Now back to the Dressrosa arc 13 years after Cora’s death, the heart unit doesn’t exist anymore. Or I should say doesn’t have anybody officially in it. Since Cora’s death Dofy didn’t give this name to anybody again.

I have three reasons that could explain why :

For when Vergo comes back eventually

Because he didn’t want anybody to take the place of his brother (either out of love, even if it sounds quite unreal, either because he didn’t want anybody to remind him of him)

Because he kept this place for Law if he ever came back

BUT Law still wears the heart. His tattoos, his jacket in this arc and even his crew (called Heart Pirates), and THIS is something that Dofy doesn’t like at all.

Dofy never looses his cool, he has a lot of temper and is very cold headed but we saw him giving in to his emotions two major times. The first time being Cora’s death.

If you watch true crime or things like criminal minds you know that when someone is killed by being shot or stabbed repeatedly it, pretty much every time, mean the victim and killer had a strong bound and the crime was due to something happening in their relationship that created hatred or frustration for exemple. Now look at Cora’s death.

It’s clearer in the anime but Dofy shots Cora repeatedly. And the same thing happened a second time 13 years later with who ? Law obv 👍

It’s the scene where Dofy sees the name Corazon on Law’s back, he absolutely loses his shit.

He hates seeing Law wear the heart because it must remind him of his failure with him and Cora, how he wasn’t able to get the two of them to stay with him.

We know that Dofy still associates Law with the Heart tho no matter how much it seems to affect him, when Law was captured he was attached to the Heart throne, out of the four empty ones.

So when Dofy wanted to kill Law after losing his shit over how Law will forever be associated with the Heart no matter what he has to say about it he ONCE AGAIN shoot repeatedly.

Im not pointing this so say that Dofy is attached to him in any way but in a way that Law, more than anyone else, affects him so deeply he makes him lose his cool even for a second. Even when he lost to Luffy Dofy was not much affected by the situation, but as soon as Law shows him how linked he still is to the Heart and Cora it’s the end of the world for him.

You can even see how he will forever associate the name Corazon to Law, because of their relationship of course, but also because Dofy probably wanted Law to become the new Corazon, as he said 16 years ago that in ten years Law would be his right hand.

I think I’m pretty much done, their trio is one of my favorite in the whole series, it’s so interesting to try to understand how Dody feels about them and the other way around, their relationship is so complex and well written I just love them all three sm 🙏

Hope this didn’t bore you and you liked it 😁

#donquixote doflamingo #op doflamingo #one piece doflamingo #one piece corazon #op corazon #trafalgar law #one piece #one piece analysis #donquixote family #donquixote pirates #donquixote brothers #donquixote rosinante #heart pirates

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jellyclogs · 1 year

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How op men react to an s/o with really bad periods

Triger warnings: period and Simi fainting

this is kinda a comfort fic for me, im suffering through my period and its ruff. sorry if y/n falling to the floor in pain seems over dramatic but its just how my period like to roll so here we are.

if you have any requests feel free to ask me or if you want a part 2 with more characters

quick edit forgot to list up here who festers in this fic: Shanks, marco, law, Mihawk, Kid, zoro, Sanji

Shanks

This man is very patient with you. He sits there with a smile on his face,well you bitch and moan about how shity it is . He can't help but think it's adorable when you get so over dramatic about your period. He has seen you grin and bear it through pain, you usually act calm, cool and collected when you're suffering, so it takes him by surprise when you're a big cry baby about this. He's glad that you don't feel like you have to suffer through it alone and trust him enuff to go to him to just complain or if you need help.

The first time you had your period around him He didn't quite understand how much pain you were actually in. He thought you were just playing it up. It only hit him how much it hurt when you crumpled to the ground hissing curling up on yourself. He froze in that moment, watching you just breathe in and out slowly trying to breathe through the cramps. Then he rushed forward and picked you up holding you to his chest whispering sweet nothings to you as the wave of cramps listened up.

He adores you so much and hates seeing you in pain. He will tease you a little bit about it but the moment he sees that you're not having any of it he drops it. He won't make a big deal about giving you special treatment when you're like this. more cuddling, getting you sweets, making you laugh whenever he can, and staying close to your side as much as he can. He wants to be right there if you topple over again. He won't say it out loud but you scared the shit out of him when you did that.

He kinda finds it funny when he finds you in weird places and or positions that help your cramps. Whether it's laying on the kitchen floor because the cold feels good on your back or sitting with your legs up against the wall and back on the floor because it's the only thing that's helping with your cramps in the moment. He usually just joins you and begins talking your ear off to distract you from the pain.

Marco

You always try so hard to keep the fact you're on your period a secret. The men of the Moby dick find periods gross and don't get what's the big deal since it happens once a month you should be used to it. You do your duties and do your best to be your normal self. You would not just up and tell Marco or realy anyone what you were going through.

Marco would notice the little cracks in your facade, the wincing when you thought no one was around or the fact you took longer to do your chores. He'd start getting really concerned when you started spending most of the time in your room. His first thought is not that you're on your period, it's that you got hurt and weren't telling him. He'd be pissed that you hadn't come to him to get patched up.

He would try to wait for you to come to him but after a day of watching you suffer in silence He'd confront you. When he saw your face flush and start to fumble with your words he would think he caught you. Before you could realy explain He'd be dragging you to his clinic, calling you an idiot and a moron the whole way there. He would adamantly state, "I'm the doctor on this ship you can't go around hiding wounds from me, how am I supposed to patch you up if I don't know your hurt yoi"

Once their He'd grab his med kit and damned you show him your stomach. Watching you he was pretty sure that's where the Injury was.

You would lift up your shirt and say, "I'm not hiding a cut or something," you would sigh looking anywhere but his eyes, "just on my period." You'd mumbled.

Marco would face-palm, ofcores that was what was up. You weren't the type to definitely hide injuries out of embellishment. He'd reach out his hand and set it over your stomach letting his flames like over your skin. "Still you should have come to me." He'd huff.

After he knew what was going on He'd be just the sweetest. Getting thatch to make you chocolaty things and soothing your cramps with his phoenix fire. He would tell you that, "I'm a doctor, your period isn't gonna gross me out, please let me help you." He will make sure you're taking pain pills as often as you can and help you with your duties if you were in too much pain to do them.

As a doctor he would understand how bad your period could get and he would make no complaints if you demanded to stay near him since his phenix fire was the best way to treat the pain. This man would secretly be bragging to the other crew members that he is your favorite and that's why you were hanging out with him so much.

Law

He would know that you were on your period the day you started, he wouldnt mention it but keep an eye on you. He would not be the kind to pamper you, not at first at least. He would think she’s had thes for years she can handel it. He would definitely slip you chocolate’s and make sure you had enuff pain killers.

He would probably keep his distance from you. He cares about you but the fact he couldnt help you would piss him off. He hates seeing you in pain, and hates that he can't help. He would get snippy with the crew and work himself harder.

His work would be disrupted by bepo rushing in a bit of a panic, saying you had walked into the kitchen then just crumped to the ground, sitting their for a minet befor geting up and acting like nothing happened. Law would sigh and get up from his desk befor telling bepo hed hadel it and you were fine or atleast going to be.

He would find you in your room curled up on your bed with almost nothing on, just a shirt and some panties pants just felt like a hassle pulse it isn't like you were gunna be wondering around the ship like this. You were a though cookie and usaly just worked through pain so seeing you like this did worry law. He would bite his lip and curse himself for being so caught up in his own emotional pain to properly take care of your physical pain.

He would slip into bed with you and hold you in his arms. He’s not a very cuddly person so this would be a big display that he was worried about you. He would just hold you and apolagize for not being abel to take away the pain. He would love to take the pain on himself, he knew he could handel it, but that just wasn’t the way his powers worked. He thought about swapping harts with you for awhile, but hew knew how long it would take you to lern his devil fruit to revers it.

After that he would keep you close to him, sure it hurt that he couldnt help her as much as he wanted but being around you made you feel better so it was worth it. He would still be quite snippy with the other crewmembers but would treat you gently.

Mihawk

He would have no clue how to act around you. He was wit you because you were strong and he respected you, so seeing you reduced to a shambeling mess kinda upset him. He would at first act like he didnt notce any thing was wrong. He tought it would save your pride. He would flinch any time you let out a pained noise. He cared so much about you that you being in pain was awful.

He would wait for you to ask for comfort, its not that he didnt want to comfort you, its that he didnt want to insult your pride or your strength. He knows you are a tough girl, he also knows you arnt afraid to ask for help when you need it. Prona would think hes being an ass, and would let him know.

When you finaly came to him you wouldnt exchange words, all you would do is climb into his lap. He would set his wine glass aside and hold you to his chest, gently rubing circles on your lower back. He would whisper praise to you in spanish calling you brave or strong, he knew you didnt speek a lick of spanish so you couldnt yell at him for being to soft.

You would know that he was being soft and gentle and were willing to be treated like glass at the moment. You need it and you wold just sit and take it in.

After you came to him like this he would start to pamper you, running you a bath every night, rubbing your back, bringing your favorit foods. He would certainly be a little over protective to, hoovering around you when you were doing pretty much anything.

Porrona would have no clue why he had so drastically changed his attitude. She would cross her arms and puff out her cheeks calling him an unconsiderat jerk. Why was he like this?

If you ever dropped from the pain you better believe hed hold you for the rest of the day. He would never admit it was because he was scared of getting hurt, he would give you excuses like, “can i not just hold you, miamore?” or “ but if i put you down who wil worm my chest?”

He secretly loves when your like this, when you are relying on him so much. He knows your stong and fully capsule of taking care of your self but he liked having the chance to pamper you and remind you that you can alway lean on him.

Kid

He is completely grosed out by the whole thing. He can't handel the sight of bloody tampons or pads so you better wrap them up tight with toilet paper. He will kinda avoid you, your relation was not just sex but a hell of alot of it was, and he dosent like that he can't fuck your brains out.

He would order his crew to get you what ever you need or wanted. He will make them treat you like a princess. If he so much as herd them complaining about it they would be in a world of pain. This guy sees you as his so you can't disrespect what belongs to him.

Kid is a ruff guy but would not like seeing you in pain like that. He is the only one aloude to cause you pain. He would kill any one who put a hand on you it was bull shit that he couldnt just rip your uterus out and see your pain go away. He knew that you werent playing up your pain up. You never once would show the full force of how bad anything was, so seeing you show any display of pain ment you had to be in sirius pain.

He would honestly freek if you ever just dubbeled over infront of him, the look of pain on tour face the tears in your eyes, would feel like a stade wound to him. He would pick you up off the floor and not put you down. He would not sugar coat why, “Your falling over like your a fucking nobel who got dirt on their clothes, like hell i'm putting you down. If i did youd probably keel over and die.”

If you ever asked for him to cudel with you hed make a big fuss but would give in pretty eazy. He probably wouldnt fight you at all if the two of you were alone but infront of his crew he had to much pride.

Zoro

He has no clue whats going on with you. He dosnt like the fact that you seemingly pulled away from him and started talking to that damn cook more. He would defntly be cross wiht you and draw away from you. He was a stubborn man. If you were gunna pull away from him then hed do the same. He wouldnt notice the pain you were in at all.

He would make a bitchy comint about you around nami and robin. Nami would punch the shit out of him. She would be pissed that he thought you were two timing him with the cook. Shed say, “If this is how you act when shes on her period then maby she should leave you for snaji.”

zoro would look at her so confused, “What the hell is a period?”

Both Nami and Robin would be on their asses laughing. Once they calmed down enuff they would explain what a period was to him. They would also explain that you have some of the worst periods they’d seen.

He still dosnt realy get it but is no longer mad at you. He starts harassing the cook for chocolate since robin and nami said girls like that when their on their periods.

If you just dropped from the pain hed panic a littel. Hed pick you up and rush you to chopper. He would not listtel to you when you told him, “Its ok, i just got hit with some realy bad cramps.” he would set you on chopper’s exam tabel and damned he fix you.

Chopper would ofcores know about your situation, hed ask if you hade taken your pain pills on time or if you need more. He would get you a heating pad and tell zoro that you fine, with tears in his eyes. Chopper feels awful he can't do more.

Zoro would be so ok with more cuddles. You may not look at him and think hes a cuddly guy but he can't get enuff of sungeling up with his s/o. He loves being abel to hold you and feel like hes protecting you from the world.

Sanji

This wonderful cook instantly knows when your on your period. He honestly dosnt mind when your on your period, he sees it as a chance to pamper you like the princess he knows you are. He loves cooking your favorit food’s fore you. He will whip up what ever dessert you want. He also try’s to feed you foods that will reduce inflammation.

He always want to hold you so you wanting to be held more is a win for him. He gives you back maseshes as often as he can. He loves being abel to bring you relife, though it may seem like some of his actions are sexula they arnt all he wants is to take your pain away. He will barrow books from chopper and read up on the best ways to treat periods. He would probably be willing to let you bathe in his blood if it ment you were no longer in pain.

Sanji would full on scream the first time the pain sent you to the floor. He would have a hratatck. He would rush to your side and pull you to his lap begging you to be ok. You ofcores had worned him this could happen but it didnt realy prapar him fore it. Once he was sure you werent going to die he would pick you up and bring you to the bath.

Hed run you a bath and sit with you in it. He would hold you and just be with you. He loved you and wouldnt dare leave your side when you needed him.

#one piece #marco the phoenix #marco the pineapple #marco #shanks #trafalgar law #law #black leg sanji #sanjionepiece #zoro #roranoa zoro #hawkeye mihawk #dracule mihawk #captain kid #kid #x reader #comfort #comfort fic #my uterus has comitted treason on my body

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