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vonev · 2 years ago

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Zombie apocalypse with Simon Riley

Sum: You finally meet your hot neighbor; albeit all it took was an apocalyptic disaster.

Oh my God, what the fuck?

“—reports states that an infectious zombie-like virus has begun to spread amongst multiple areas in the city—”

“—Please seek the nearest hazard shelter in your local area—”

A fucking zombie virus breakout is happening, in front of your lunch.

You'd never thought the national emergency alarms would ever blare during your lifespan, but you're here, a spoon full of egg drop soup in hand sitting across your TV and your mouth hung open as all your devices deafens the entire living room.

The telenovela you were watching was just getting so good too.

Immediately shooting your hand out to fetch your phone, scrambling for the national notification, horror dawns on you.

The fucking breakout is in my city.

Isn't it so lovely? On a random Tuesday afternoon in the middle of an approaching autumn.

What is it that they do in those zombie shows again...? Oh yeah, run.

Wait—no, no. Pack your shit then run.

So you did. Your feet working the fastest they've ever been scattering toward your bedroom to dig out the ancient duffel bag you've not touched in eons. Shoving essentials in there: tampons, pads, your Kindle (because God forbid an apocalypse stops you from finishing a book) and a couple of other things you think you'd need...a thong is one of them, right?

The loud alarms never stops, it only adds to your increasing anxiety threatening to bubble over and spill all over the floor; you didn't think they'd go on for so long, but they do, and honestly they sound fucking terrifying.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Think—

Wallet, passport (in case you wanted to fly over to Milan, you know.), all the money you had was stored inside the bank; speaking of, you wonder if anyone had started robbing stores yet after the alarms sounded.

Nope, can't think about that right now, because the more time you waste, the higher of a chance you'd end up having your face bitten off by some freaks—zombie or not. So you scramble once again, head full of doubts and worry; good thing you kept refraining yourself from ever getting a pet because holy shit having to sprint with a massive fluff ball in your arm would be the last thing you'd want to do.

Just then, screams started filling your ears; an indication that you spent too much time dwindling.

Looking down you scoff at your casual wear: a tank top that exposed too much and sweatpants. Making your way out along your bedroom you snatched a jacket you promised yourself you'd wash last week.

Good thing you didn't, I guess.

Stepping foot into the living room once more, your eyes dart around in a hurry, practically running into the kitchenette to grab canned foods and your leftovers from yesterday. It's just a sandwich, but it'll hopefully last until whenever you can finally eat again. You repeated the same conundrum with your bathroom, frantically pushing things aside with more things to make space for other things.

Alright, you think, that should be everything...

You even got that first-aid kit you bought from Amazon months ago, thinking that someday you'll need it.

Always trust your instincts.

With that, you waste no time scurrying to the front door, fitting yourself into a comfortable pair of shoes then fetching your keys from the bowl above the accent table you probably spent too much money on (they looked really cute) and inserting it into the lock, cursing yourself when you kept missing the keyhole. Eventually, you got it, and with too much brute force, you threw the door open and stepped out into the hall.

You wince from the loud banging sound of the door you pushed; to your right, your neighbor's door opens as you walk out.

Tilting your head, you see the neighbor casually fixing his shoes with absolutely no care regarding the current situation, a bag slung over his broad shoulder in contrast to you desperately holding onto your heavy duffel bag.

What the fuck is his deal? How is he so...calm?

You didn't realize it 'till now, but said neighbor turns his head toward you, and it's as if a lightbulb flare up in your head.

Oh.

He stares at you, unmoving with his hand still on the doorknob.

It's the hot neighbor.

What was his name again? Sam...Samuel...no, Semen...wait, definitely not.

Whatever. You'll call him Semen in your head, because you can't be bothered standing there to recall his name. Not while he's staring at you so intently, either—like you owed him something.

God, is he a sight to look at; full brows with lips looking so kissable with a cute pout, blonde strands covers his front as though he'd just woken up from the best nap of his life, the faint yet noticeable scars littered across his face so perfectly. Tall, mysterious and muscles that threatened the seams of the too-tight shirt he wore. Is he even aware?

And his eyes.

You can't even begin to mention the amount of times you'd shamefully indulged yourself with those eyes of his in your mind—sometimes, you dream of them too. Who could blame you though? Yeah, you definitely feel normal about him. You barely interacted with him, only ever seeing him the rare times he'd come home. You assumed he's ex-military or a military personnel on leave since he's been back home more than usual in the recent months. You wouldn't know, though, considering the most words you said to him was "hi" when he moved into his flat a year ago. That, and you're generally kinda afraid of strangers.

"D'ya have a staring problem?"

Right. You can't just stare at someone and not say anything, that's creepy.

"No," you shuffle on your feet a little. "Do you?"

He scoffs with a small shake of his head and closes the door behind him before walking away to the lift. Your brows furrowed, lips pursed, slung your duffel bag over your shoulder and chased after him. You both stood in front of the lift for a good (incredibly awkward) minute before the familiar ding sounded. Once inside the lift, you can't help but feel the unspoken tension rise as the two of you stood close to each other.

You swear he had his eyes on you for a moment, but you don't dare to call him out.

"...you come ‘round often?"

He snaps his gaze to you instantly.

Great. Your mouth has no filter whatsoever. Mentally slapping yourself, you open your mouth to whisper an apology; he beats you to it, though, a soft chuckle from him and it strikes into your heart like a stake.

"I live—lived here," crossing his arms, his eyes softened a little. "Just got discharged from the military a couple of months ago."

Bingo.

Silently patting your back in your head as you nod at his response and humming. "That's cool, what did you do for the military?" it may have been too much to pry, but it doesn't hurt; plus, it's pretty much the end of the world as you speak.

He stood there, completely rigid from top to bottom. The silence was deafening this time around, so much so that when the lift sounded once more with a loud ding, it made you flinch.

"What didn't I do for the military?"

That's...

"...is that rhetorical?" None of you walked out of the lift, just standing there in each other’s company. Oddly, you don’t mind it.

He shrugs, getting out of the tiny space—and you hadn’t realized you’d been holding in your breath when you finally exhaled through your teeth.

I guess I have my answer.

It doesn’t take long for you to catch up, nor for the two of you to realize what an utter mess the outside world had become when he opens the door.

People roamed about, running ‘round and tripping over each other and on top of each other, cooperating on wreaking absolute havoc on the streets. Lots of screaming, too much of it, in fact. Jogging down the stairs, someone almost bumps into your side, but not before he pulls them back with a frown on his face that had the poor guy screeching and scrambling away from his grip.

Oh, now come to think of it—

—“Hey what’s your n—“

A hoard of groans catches your attention, cutting your words short; you turn toward the source, squinting at the scene from afar. A group of people started dashing toward your way, their faces an evident blur of confusion, surprise and horror. It would make sense, because as they slowly get closer and closer, a giant figure gradually appears in your vision—and it looks fucking disfigured—like the textbook embodiment of an eldritch creature. Sure enough, it breaks out into a sprint, chasing down its next victim; pulling the back of an unfortunate businessman’s suit and it flung the man over its head. You can hear the poor man’s scream echo in your mind as you watch his body fall right into the creature’s mouth; next thing you know, his head snaps off in its jaw.

Your blood runs cold, the shock from seeing such a sight sends an unnerving terror through every nerve; your breathing gets heavier, beads of sweat breaking out from your skin—yet you can’t take your eyes off of it. Ever watched a car crash? Yeah, exactly that.

“Uh oh.”

You don’t know what to do; years and years of medical training in school hadn’t exactly prepared you for this situation, even if some of the things you’ve seen are horror beyond comprehension. Your body doesn’t cooperate with your commands no matter how hard you try; they’re stuck to the ground like glue, and as the horrid looking creature slowly bolts toward your way, the way you’ve become a mere spectator to your body should concern you, but your eyes are transfixed on that thing—

—it wasn’t until someone roughly tug your forearm that you realized you almost fucking killed yourself by standing still too long.

“Fuck, come on, let’s go.”

You should’ve probably questioned why he’s remained so calm despite the calamity surrounding him. It’s an admirable trait, really, a part of you wants to thank him profusely for not leaving you behind; in the span of time you spaced out, he could’ve easily gotten away in a fleet—like a gust of the wind, and you wouldn’t have noticed nor would you have blamed him. So much for being medically trained.

He ran, and you trailed right behind him. Even during such a dire moment of your life, you have to try your hardest to not get distracted with the way his muscles contract as he swiftly moves along with the breeze. No time for thirsting, you stare at his arms, how they effortlessly flex with each step, Okay, maybe a little bit of thirsting.

You’ve no idea how long you both ran; doing your best to dodge every obstacle lunged into your face, but with the soreness slowly creeping up your soles, you wonder if you could keep up—Semen, on the other hand, is doing just fine. Just keep pushing, after all, how hard is it to run forever? Super fucking hard apparently; unfortunate for you, the conveniently placed fallen pipe on the ground became your nemesis as you missed a jump and fall on your fucking face. Your duffel bag cushioning only your left arm, body absorbing all the impact from the fall.

Ouch! wouldn’t even describe the pain you were feeling. You might have a broken nose because it sure fucking feels like it.

Semen immediately halts, his head snaps back as if his gut instinct told him you stumbled and fell. He’d be correct; attempting to get on your elbows can only get you so far, your adrenaline runs out too quickly—and suddenly it feels as though your body has been lit on fire. Well, you’re being dramatic, but your ankle sure doesn’t feel fine like it did a minute ago. You try to stand up, and Semen crouches down in front of you with his hands extending out to help you up; but the harder he pulls the worse you cry out. When you try to move your right ankle it just fucking hurts like a bitch.

This is it, you think; your breath coming out haggard and harsh, I’m gonna fucking die.

“Just—go, just go, I think I sprained my ankle,” holding back furious tears, you sniffle. “Leave me and run, it’s okay.” God, was it ever this hard to let someone go? Even if the selfish part of you wants him to stay. He mumbles something incoherent under his breath, people and vehicles running by your bodies and their cries fill the void in your head—not their fault they prioritize their lives over yours—but it still stings your eyes to think about. People really do show their true colors in the most desperate times.

He reaches over, and you almost swatted his arms away—his stern gaze told you to stop, and you did.

Flipping you over in an instant, his arms hook under your back and knees, hoisting you into his arms as though you weighed nothing. In a feat of panic, you push against his chest; you can’t stress how much you’d rather not be the reason he’s held back and be killed for it. He sends you a final warning look; a stare so chilling it had you reeling back your arms into your chest and obediently lay against his.

Impressively, he maneuvers around everyone else with ease, dodging and zig-zagging, only bumping a few shoulders here and there. Worry clouds your head; what if he trips? Or better yet, what if he realized you’re not much of use and dumped you on the streets? It’s absurd you’d even have the luxury to overthink while he’s busting his ass to save both of your lifes—how the fuck are you supposed to make up to that? You can’t bake him your infamous croissants (you’ve mastered the craft), you doubt appliances are as convenient in the wild as it is in homes—you hope he’ll find a place to hide soon; he can’t run infinitely.

Maybe you should stop thinking too much useless shit and start strategizing instead.

Okay, it should be easy; your eyes frantically search the surrounding area: the alleyway? No, way too risky. Run into one of the homes? Still risky, and those nasty creatures were breaking into them from what you saw last. Fuck, you wish you’d bought that expensive ass car few weeks ago when it was on sale, then again, who knew you would require it so soon? Wait, did he have a car? You don’t think so, his designated parking slot has been empty since forever.

As he kept sprinting on, you noticed more and more of those zombies started pouring in from multiple angles—it would be harder and harder to avoid their attacks; you try not to dwell on the gruesome sights of people being mauled down the streets. Out of nowhere, a mangled arm lunged at you, though he swerved just in time to avoid; you didn’t even have time to register what occurred until you blinked again.

“Was that—holy fuck,” your body involuntarily shivers at how close you were to dying right then; all his efforts would’ve gone to waste. It served as a reminder that death is now only a mere hand reach; one wrong breath and say bye-bye to your life.

Mortality is such a fragile thing.

At least you don’t have a family making you worry to death about, just good ol’ you—always been you.

Does he? Eyes drifting over to his face, you trace the scars on his neck with an invisible hand. You’d have to play 21 questions with him later, if there’s a later. Seeing how things are moving, you’re slowly coming to terms with the concept of death; for some odd reason, you just know he’d keep you alive as long as he can—you will too, with him. God, you grunt, this feels so sappy. You have to constantly remind yourself that you’ve known your neighbor properly for less than an hour; don’t get too attached. It only ever comes back to bite your ass.

In your peripheral you notice a sluggish zombie digging into the driver’s side of a sizable car through the broken window—blood splatters the inside of the car’s windshield as the zombie dives further in. The car is alive, tugging at his shirt, you hastily gesture toward the spot with a shaky finger. Peering up, you don’t miss the way his brows knit together and how his lips are pulled into a thin line—he understood soon afterward; and switched his path to match the direction of the vehicle.

He’d have to fight with the obscene thing for it, but it’s worth a try, even with you in his arms.

Approaching it, he doesn’t hesitate to kick a leg up to hook it under the weighted zombie and throw him down to the biting asphalt; just as it was about to spring up—he stomps a leg over its head without a hitch. Oh my fucking God, excuse your blasphemy, that’s the brain matter. You would know how a human’s brain looked; with countless hours spent plastering your head onto your textbook about How To Surgically Remove a Brain for Dummies the image practically tattooed itself on your mind. It’s never a good view, the textbooks can’t accurately reinvent the feeling of disgusting sliminess into their pages after all.

Your knight in shining armor doesn’t prolong his luck; throwing the driver’s door open, he ducked his head into the driver’s seat (not before chucking the dead body laid in the seat out), sliding you into the passenger side; you have to awkwardly make fit for yourself in the seat as he rushed into his side and pressed down on the brake, slamming his door closed. There was no time to relax, though, upon seeing him toy with the car, people started piling over the trunk, clawing at the metal slate with their bloodied nails as more zombies lurked closer—few unlucky numbers were dragged away from the car, leaving a myriad of gory handprints behind on the trunk.

He grits his teeth, he holds an arm out in front of you; confused, you turned to him as he slammed down on the acceleration.

“Oof—” That’ll knock the wind out of you.

It’s proven to be challenging for him to drive down a road filled with civilians; but soon enough, people started parting ways for him and a few other vehicles to pass through, afraid of being hit by a car.

“Buckle up, love.”

Huh? Love?

On the outside, you’re as calm and cool as you can be: you know, in a zombie apocalypse with your handsome neighbor driving you to (hopefully) safety; the inside…it feels as though your heart soared into the sky—you know it wasn’t meant to be flirtatious, but damn it, a girl can dream. Scrambling your hands to reach for the seatbelt, you grimaced at the sight of gooey matter dotting its material, you buckled up anyway; better safe than sorry. And because he asked so nicely, your heart flutters once more.

He drove on for quite a while, managing to duck and swerve others on the road (albeit with a lot of trouble) and eventually reaching the highways—not that it was far, but you’ve never exactly drove, or been outside your little area. Why would you need to? Everything you’d ever need was there: a delicious shawarma shop across from your flat, embroidery store…in case you needed some embroidering done, a family-owned Indian restaurant that served the best naan and dal—point is, you’ve pretty much got everything covered in your small area.

But why do you feel like you’re missing something…

…your fucking duffel bag.

Everything was in there—your ID’s, necessities, your fucking family photo back when you were a baby; it all holds importance to you one way or another—

—and they’re gone.

Slumped against your seat, you hadn’t even realized your shoulders started convulsing until teardrops fell on your curled fists in your lap. How could you be so fucking careless? Tilting your head down, your hands fly up to rub away stray tears that can’t seem to stop falling from your eyes regardless of your effort; you hope he hasn’t noticed (he did, eyes squinting in worry and unsure) because you seem pretty fucking pathetic right now.

(He doesn’t mind, he’s more worried your tears will drown the both of you before getting to the motel)

“We’re,” for some reason, words get caught in his throat—congealed, like an immovable lump—watching you silently sob to yourself from the side. "We're going to a motel."

He shouldn’t care; he doesn’t know why he does, especially since you’re still a stranger (that he saved, again, he’s not sure why) he coincidentally shared a hallway with for about a year; he barely knew you, either, only knowing you by name because he had seen it stamped on a few mails that fell from your mailbox. He also knows that you bake, a lot, often times the smell would traverse through the small cracks underneath his door and reach his senses—he’d debate knocking on your door each time, he wouldn’t know what to say though: “I smelled your baking, they smell amazing, can I take the whole thing?” or “‘Aye you’re actually kinda fuckin’ cute.”

Yeah, he’s not too good at conversing with strangers either, especially a cute one like you.

And now that you’re sitting right next to him, shoulders no longer heaving as he keeps driving down the vast highway, he’s not so sure what the next move should be. A couple of quick glances let him know that somewhere along the way, you had fallen asleep, head lolled against the window, your chest rising and falling with a silent rhythm. The sun is setting, the warm glow casts down on your figure—you look like an angel.

He wouldn’t admit it out loud, of course—but deep down, he knows he’ll keep that image of you and engrave it into the back of his head.

And he knows just the place to take you to.

#angst #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #cod mwii #ghost cod #simon riley #ghost x you #apocalypse #zombie apocalypse #im having a brainrot yet again #they should kiss kiss fall in love #simon riley x you #ghost call of duty #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty

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vonev · 2 years ago

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The Executioner (and the judge) III

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x reader

Chapter 3: because wherever you go, I'll follow; even through hell, I'll find you

Part I Part II Part III

Words: 3.6k Summary: This…KorTac guy is kinda weird, but you finally meet Ghost, so yay, right?

a/n: i may or may not have lost a braincell or two but the grind dont stop baby

Warnings: VERY suggestive themes in this one, be warned!

Bzz-bzz-bzz—

—you awake with a headache deep in your noggin, hand feeling around the side of your head scrambling for your phone, only to feel the unpleasant buzz against your thigh.

Right.

Amidst your slumber, you forgot you don’t live in that poor excuse for a bunker anymore; as nice as it had been during an emergency, you have come to appreciate the soft linen below you that hugs your body in all the right ways. That’s not to say you’ll have the privilege to continue indulging in said comfort; because the sun shining through your tinted windows said otherwise.

With a soft grumble you sit up from your face-down position, your hand instinctively reaches up to rub away the sleepiness off your eyes, yawning, you take a brief glance at your phone.

7:39 a.m. Thursday.

To be honest, you could head back to bed and relax, who’s to say you can’t?

Right then, a solid knock sounds from your door, and with that, you push yourself off the bed with an irritated groan; your body functions on auto-pilot, hand extending out to twist the doorknob before you could fully process your surroundings. You flinch at the harsh coldness of the doorknob as you groggily crack the door open.

Your eyes meet the midsection of the person, a man’s, because you’ve only ever met men that wear shirts too tight for them just to show off. Tilting your head backwards, you slowly lift your gaze up to see that it’s the same man you spoke about with Kate the day before—König—he’s infinitely taller in person, yet you don’t feel threatened by his presence; which is odd, but a welcome change.

Neither of you speak up, only ever stare at each other; the cold morning air breeze past your body, you shiver, your arm trailing up the other to rub some warmth into your body.

“...yes?”

Upon hearing your voice, the man blinks once, then twice; you can’t tell if he’s silently judging you—or just lost.

“Kate wants to see you,” his voice is surprisingly…light, for a man of his stature; you’d have expected a deep bass, maybe even grain in his voice. But he speaks softly, like the small raise of his voice would scare you off. He’s gentle, you think, and respectful, because he doesn’t try to stare you down as though you’re inferior. Maybe you judged him too harsh earlier.

You nod, “I’ll…get changed, I’ll meet her in about,” you glance down and check your empty wrist as though you wore a watch. “…15 minutes?”

König only nods in response then stepping aside, presumably walking back to wherever he came from.

Sighing, you gently close your door, the hinge doesn’t scream this time—providing some much needed quietness in your morning. You drag yourself over to the sink and pull out the cabinet, amenities sitting in its creamy insides. Your eyes scans and falls onto the period products tucked away to the side; you make a mental note of thanking Kate later. Grabbing some products you then strip yourself off of your sweat-coated clothes, you don’t look in the mirror as you approach the bathroom.

Jumping in the shower you wince as the sudden sputters of cold water hit your back, you let out a much needed breath of relief, your body soon adjusts to the brutal temperature of the flood sliding down the curves of your exhausted figure. You haven’t had a proper shower in a while, either, relying on damp cloth gets old after a while; so this change of routine puts a small smile on your face, lifting some weight off your tired shoulders.

It doesn’t take long for you to get ready; a couple of minutes to dry up, slipping on undergarments and a casual shirt and jeans, you run the hairbrush through your damp hair for the final time before heading out.

The noise of birds chirping outside pierce through the thin walls, a pleasant sound that swells within your heart, your steps halts as you stare out of the window next to you; the beautiful sight of nature going about catches your attention. Trees sway along with the autumn wind, leaves fall into the already bundled piles on the ground, the sky a gorgeous hue of orange, blue, pink and white—like the display of painter’s hard work, of their blood, sweat and tears all pouring onto the sky outside as clouds resembles blotches of white paint.

The soft breeze outside pushes past the tiny crack of the window, leaving gentle kisses across your skin as it passes.

It all blends so well together, harmonizing with minimal effort; if any at all.

You took leisure for granted, after being cooped up with only yourself and the smell of death outside as your company, you missed the small things in life: the glorious nature, the gracious flow of things as they came and went, the casual habits of the world around you.

The people.

“…are you okay?”

Holy mother of Jesus.

Turning over to the voice, you catch König’s curious eyes boring into the back of your skull. Being built like 5 tons of trucks didn’t stop this man from being a master in stealth, it seems, because you don’t get sneaked up on a lot—a necessary habit of the war; indented into your DNA. Only one other person catches you off-guard, the same person that has you sweat under your thin shirt even with the cool breeze.

A brief projection of a skull printed mask enters the back of your mind before you quickly suppress it.

“I’m alright, thank you,” your eyes flicker toward the scenery outside once more, imprinting it into your mind. For some reason, it makes you feel better about yourself.

“Aren’t you supposed to be with Kate already?” looking back, and up, at him with your head tilted, you don’t miss the way his eyes widen.

“Yes, yes I am.”

With that, he turns on his heels and paces back down the quiet hallway; his boots emit a soft thump with every step he takes. You follow behind, keeping a respectful distance, both of your steps creating their own rhythm that echoes in the empty concrete hallway walls.

Along the way, you zone out, your mind running off to another realm while your body carries itself in a routinely manner toward the hall where the meeting room sits.

You zone out too much, because you walk straight into a wall—er, König’s back.

“Ow—fuck.”

“You okay, little maus?”

“Yeah I’m fine—little what?” your eyes snap to his, confusion smothers your face.

“I’m—sorry, it’s nothing,” he doesn’t elaborate, his shoulders slumps and twists the other way to open the door.

He stands there to the side, hand on the doorknob and peering back at you. You cock an eyebrow, crossing your arms and shifting your weight to one of your legs. A soft Ding! rings in your head, your lips part, and a grumbled Thanks slips out of you as you enter the dimly lit room.

What a gentleman.

You see the woman before she sees you; and when she does, a small smile spreads out on her lips, nodding to you in regard. You hear the door click quietly behind you as you sit down on a seat chair; König sits right across you, his head facing Kate’s way.

Kate starts off simple, straight to the point—you’ll both be dropped in one of the designated safe houses near the Russians’ territory, and you’ll start off slow, steady.

Okay. You think, I can do it slow and steady.

If someone were to ask you your specialty; you’d come up with no answers. To simply put: you’re good at killing, and dragging information out of the victims in your grasps.

But you can’t say, Oh, I’m very good with knives. Or, I can drop heads like flies.

You just manage, and it was enough—because it landed you in one of the best task forces known to the people in the know.

Adaptable, Perhaps? You’re unsure, nor do you have anyone around to question such things casually, especially during a serious briefing.

“From then on, we’ll move on the fly, I know you both are extremely capable at handling yourselves.” Kate’s eyes dart to your face momentarily before turning to König. “So I’m gonna need you to keep me updated.”

You decided; if it means you’re not good with a certain thing—you’re good with everything.

“Remember, this is a secret mission for now until we send out the team—absolutely no words about this should slip out of this room today, or tomorrow, and the day after.”

“Yes ma’am,” König pats his palm over his heart, his version of commitment to the cause.

Kate nods at him, appreciative, then looks over to you in anticipation.

You shrug.

“I’ve nothing to lose.”

-------------------------------------------------------------

This is it, you think.

With a blanket draped over both your shoulders, you find yourself seated at the bench right outside your room; thoroughly enjoying the cold yet inviting breeze that carries strands of your hair into the air.

This is what life is about: the moments of serenity that can’t be bought, when the weather is just right. Not too in your face, yet present.

It calls out to you, a gentle touch manifested into the form of the winds blowing past your slightly shivering frame. The moonlight illuminates your surroundings, shadows fall into their respective places, and where the darkness is the most prominent, the light shines brighter.

Yin and Yang, like nights and days. They contrast, they fight.

Like you and him—back in the good ol’ days, back when you both latched at each other’s throat with no remorse, a spit here, another spit there. The both of you would clash; where you’d want something, he’d want it entirely differently.

For example: when you all had been deployed to bumfuck nowhere in Alaska, your belongings naturally came with as well. In the kitchen, everyone shared the same lackluster cabinets. You’d store your snacks all in one side of the cabinet, and you would wake up the next morning to utter confusion when said snacks couldn’t be found anywhere—

—anywhere except Simon’s side of the cabinet, of course.

For some odd reason it started an all-out cold war, you’d both purposefully misplace things: towels atop the toilet seat, storage boxes not being in the storage shelves, badges in-between sofa cushions. You and him would manage to find every single one of them; to your frustration. And seeks out to correct them.

The cold war only ended because you hadn't been able to find the gauze to stop his actively bleeding wound one stormy night.

It served as a lesson: don’t fuck with each other’s things.

And especially don’t fuck each other.

Of course, you’d have gone and messed that up.

Ghost sits with his back against the window, a propped leg on the still supporting the weight of his arm.

His dark eyes follow your every move as you skillfully maneuver around the kitchen, a pun-based apron tied loosely around your waist, your hands busying themselves chopping up some onions and red pepper to go with the steak sizzling in the heated pan next to you.

You count in your head, 1, 2, 3, repeat, all to steady your breathing and not mess up dinner; you wouldn’t want to suffer through a fucked up steak then cry yourself to sleep. That wasn’t your plan, no. But you’re incredibly sleep deprived, the only support system being the thoughts that circulate your head. Or maybe it’s the deep wound you still carry on the side of your stomach? You don’t quite know, nor do you care—you’re starving, all you can think about is eat, eat, eat—

Amidst your haziness, the knife slips from your buttery finger, and cuts through the thin barrier of your fingertip.

“Ouch—fuck me.”

“Let me look at that.”

Jumpy, you feel your heart leap out of your throat at Ghost’s sudden appearance behind you. Cautiously you hold your finger to your chest, and it takes Ghost’s hand prying at it to get you to release them.

Blood seeps out the curve of the knife wound; it’s rather deep, but not enough to warrant any emergency care, give it a day or two and it’ll disappear as soon as it was there. Ghost stares at your fingertip, his eyes emotionless, darting from between your face and the blood that continues to flow out of your skin.

Then the unexpected happens—he hooks his free thumb under his mask and lifts. Your mouth left agape as you tried to process the commotion happening in front of your very eyes.

His scarred lips come into view, he slowly brings your hand closer; your fingertip now grazing his bottom lip. A shudder rippled through your entire body; you remain motionless, uncertain and absolutely bedazzled.

“It’s…it’s fine, really—“

You almost let out the loudest yelp that would’ve woken everyone else up from their evening naps. Because as the words get caught in your throat, Ghost pushes out his tongue and licks the tip of your finger.

Your heart steadily pumps in your eardrums, fast yet too slow, and his eyes didn’t help soothe the concerning pace, either—with how sultry his gaze screams as he peers up at you from this angle, you could feel a familiar pool of wetness rub against the fabric of your underwear. You try to hide it by squishing your thighs together for some friction, hoping, praying, that it’d evaporate.

Ghost notices, because he always does.

His free hand glides up the exposed skin of your thigh; and of course you had to be wearing shorts that convenient night. His gentle touches send bolts of electricity through your nerves, igniting the suppressed part inside of you hidden away for so long; the part of you that you’d always deny—because you can’t have him, not when he hates your guts, right?

…Right…?

His eyes say otherwise—God, those eyes, how you’d kill to stare into them day and night.

He drops your injured hand, and instead, reaches up to brush the pad of his thumb over your flushed cheek, then gradually over your plump lips as he slots his finger right into your mouth. All the while he held your eyes with his, never once diverting his attention to anywhere else but you. His thumb crudely explores every nook and cranny of your mouth, settling to rest above the soft pad of your tongue.

“Tell me no,” he breathes out, exasperated; the actions had affected him as much as it did to you. “Tell me no and I’ll stop, and we’ll forget this ever happened.”

You hesitate, the desperate longing for his skin on yours too much to bear—

—with a gentle shake of your head, his eyes lit up; the fire that once burns quietly behind his orbs now cackles into life.

The situation soon escalates from Look, I’m touching you in all the right places to I’m touching you in all the right spots inside, with my cock.

You had woken up very sore the next day; though incredibly satisfied. You swore he smirked at you when you both passed by each other that morning in the kitchen, drowned in the loud noises of your teammates’ banters.

The hunger you’d push away before now comes back tenfold whenever you’d see him sauntering over to you at night, in the quiet of your bedroom, only filled by his rough grunts and your muffled moans.

It was how you’d spend the rest of the months, always sneaky and unsuspicious, both of you had an unspoken oath to keep things private; not daring to put a label on the sticky situation you found yourselves in.

You sigh, your breath visible under the cold autumn weather.

Just as you were about to get up from the bench, something moved from the corner of your eye.

You freeze up, your body left hanging in an awkward position in the air with your arm supporting your weight on the armrest, your eyes dotting around the scene in front of you, unmoving.

Everyday, you live by fear that something would eventually catch up to you; the efforts of your runaway gone to ash. Were you ever not restless? With the ghost of your past constantly etching your back in scars that would haunt even your worst nightmares—skittish, that’s what you are. Forever molded into the remnants of your history, not moving on, letting yourself melt into the shape of a new you; yet just as empty if not more. It makes you doubt yourself. Question your life choices during somber times; what led you here? What compelled you to do the things you did?

For love, you think. Everything you did up until this point had been for someone else. What about yourself?

You never had the pleasure to sit down and self-reflect, even as you were contained within a small bunker for years, the memories never once left you the way everything else did. Rusty; as your grip tightens on the armrest, you feel the practiced measure of the way you used to hold a gun slip out of you—it doesn’t actually, but it sure feels like it.

The wind sings out to you, and in this small area where you exist, you could feel the presence of something else: something more. Larger than you, perhaps. Maybe even commanding with how the leaves seem to have stopped swaying, though the gust keeps on moving.

Something moves, something undetermined.

But you can tell; pinpointing its position based on the fraction of second their figure was exposed to you.

Right behind the large tree trunk that loomed over seemingly everything else, the person is shrouded by the shadows, you figured.

“I know you’re there,” you sigh. “Come out.” It wasn’t a request but rather a demand—because whoever this person is, they’re starting to graze your thin nerves.

And they do.

Leaves crunches underneath their heavy steps, muffling the noise; but you know they’re there, and they’re right beside you.

You turn your head—and suddenly, it’s as though you experienced an icy whiplash over your entire body; your blood runs cold, your fingers numb.

He’s there.

Towering over you, his presence is as domineering as you last remembered it; and for just a second, you’re pulled back to that winter, one where you could’ve taken your last breath in the stormy blizzard, should’ve.

He crinkles his nose slightly; it’s not noticeable enough, but with you, you always notice, you always know.

Know how his hand once felt in yours, the twinkle in his eyes and the sly curve of his lips behind that mask as he’d stare at you like you were the best thing in his life. That autumn, when his knees touch yours in a way that has you choking on your hot drink, spilling the beverage all over yourself—and he’d stare, he stared because he found it amusing; found you absolutely breathtaking with the way the light from the fireplace had hit you just right. How he liked it.

Right now, as you sheepishly peer into his eyes for a void, you’re not sure if you’re looking at the same person you used to know; the Simon that had you wrapped around his pretty little finger. Maybe he’s Ghost, in an ironic way. How he’d fleet away just as easy as he slots in, still the same man that haunts your every dream, every nightmare. Everywhere you go it’s him; him that now looks past you—and God does it hurt.

He’s never been a man of many words, only a little where it matters the most; or none, yet you know he’s consumed by the thoughts running around in his head, clouding his conscience, unreadable, unreachable.

And certainly not present; his mind is always far away yet grounded—you could never understand that part of him, but everything else? You do. You do because in the back of your mind, you reserve a very special place for him: the crows feet whenever he’d break a smile, the specific spot of his mole no one else knows about (except for Johnny), the musical notes of his laughter, the rough calluses on his hands.

“...hey,” you lift a hand up to wave at him, timid, sweat starts breaking through the skin of your palm.

He doesn’t respond, only listens. That’s what he does all the time—so why does it make you extra nervous now? You supposed the meeting would’ve gone way smoother, you know, if he hadn’t believed you were dead for years.

His eyes seem so far away, like he’d up and go to another realm you couldn’t follow with. And it worries you to no end. Unsure; you take a huge leap in chance, your other hand extends out to brush his sleeves. Except, he retracts himself away from you; his body twists slightly further back to avoid your touch.

Have you ever learnt the true meaning of a heartbreak? You swore the deep cracks in your heart only worsens; all with just one swift move of his body, and you’re a mess.

“Simon—”

There it is; the look.

“...don’t call me that.”

An excruciating chill runs down your spine; you stay as still as your arm that still sticks in the air, you don’t move when he starts to turn his back to you, walking the same direction he came from, waltzing back into his own world—you used to live there, not anymore, though. Clearly, the few words he said pierce deep into your heart, and it bleeds; it bleeds until the streams run dry–-until you can’t breathe anymore.

You taste some saltiness on your tongue, when you reach up with your fingers, you realize you’d been crying for a good minute. Your tears flowing like a river—it flows because your heart can’t do the same anymore, it stops beating, and your world comes crashing down on you.

#angst #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #kate laswell #konig call of duty #konig #ghost x you #ghost cod #john soap mactavish #cod x reader #cod fanfic #cod mwii #call of duty #i love torturing myself #with angst

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vonev · 2 years ago

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VONEV's Masterlist

AO3

My inbox (requests) is open! Feel free to drop by :D I'm cool with NSFW asks! mdni.

MATURE THEMES AHEAD credits to cafekitsune for dividers

Spider-verse: Across the Spider-verse The Strings of Webs (and the ones you've woven) + Miguel O'Hara x reader Masterlist (in progress)

Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2 The Executioner (and the judge) + Simon 'Ghost' Riley x reader Masterlist (in progress) Part I Part II

Spider-verse: Across the Spider-verse Calling (just to save you, i'd give all of me) ONESHOT Sum: A mission gone wrong, some crying, more suffering, rocky relationships (emphasis on the rocky part) And after all of it, you prevailed. With him.

Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2 Kitten ONESHOT Sum: Two dorks rekindle broken bonds over a kitten.

Sweets ONESHOT Sum: You slowly fall in love with your first lieutenant in command.

Encapsulated ONESHOT Sum: Ghost had been hurt and went to the best medic he knew: you.

Zombie Apocalypse with Simon Riley ONESHOT Sum: You finally meet your hot neighbor; albeit all it took was an apocalyptic disaster.

About Ghost as Ghostface DRABBLE Sum: What would Ghost do if he was Ghostface?

Ghost as your toxic boyfriend DRABBLE Sum: What happens if Ghost was your boyfriend, but toxic?

#across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel x you #spiderman 2099 #spiderman #atsv miguel #spider-man: across the spider-verse #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley x reader #cod fanfic #cod x reader #call of duty #cod modern warfare

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vonev · 2 years ago

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The Executioner (and the judge) II

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x reader

Chapter 2: and in the confinement of your heart, leave me haunted

Part I Part II Part III

Words: 4.6k Summary: Coming back isn't easy, nor is the reality that you'll have to face everyone easier.

a/n: so excited to be revealing more of the plot!!

“Hello?”

For an entire second, the world stops around you; your breathing hitches in your throat, teeth biting on the skin of your finger, eyes frantically dancing around every inch of your lap.

Her voice brings back memories: ones you suppressed to the back of your mind for so long, just to be lit up in flames once more as easily as you’ve smothered it before.

It brings back the numerous springs fleeting away within the blink of an eye; how the clouds would accompany your loneliness amidst trials and tribulations, during dire times when you’d be left stranded alone somewhere with only yourself to lookout for. To save.

Summers go by just as quick; if not quicker. A knowing, familiar look from your lieutenant—his lips on your skin, breaths fanning across your face, hands grabbing at whatever he could, because he had just realized he’d spend the rest of his life with you; till death do you both apart, quite literally.

It takes you back to the several autumns spent, where the bunch of you would gather in the living room at a safe house with blankets and hot coffee and tea for each of you as you all but wilted away in the approaching cold.

It reminds you of the last winter wasted with blood on your hands and a gunshot to your oblique, head spinning as voices shouted over your prone figure; blurry eyes and even blurrier nights with a strong hand supporting the back of your busted head, your figure molding into his arms like you had always belonged there: with him.

That’s what you lost, you think. The sense of belonging, of safety.

There wasn’t a day gone by where you wouldn’t think of him and those sullen eyes of his you adored, and still do.

Will he resent you? You hoped not, fingers crossed that somehow, someway, he’ll forgive you—the rest of the team, too. Because as much as it hurt them to see you gone; you had been the one quietly suffering in silence, with absolutely no one to turn to: because who would hear your cries in the nights you’d wallow up in loneliness and days spent tucking away in your bed to will the sadness away? No one. None except for him who stuck by, through thin and thick, like the birds of a feather he kept to you.

Yet you couldn’t find a reason to go back; a proper one.

It hadn’t been easy for you to decide to end it all and leave for good; you posed too much of a danger to everyone around you. Misfortune seems to favor you the best amongst all.

Everywhere you go, people die.

Hells, you somehow managed to bring an entire town down with only your existence.

Yet you live through it all practically unscathed to see the damage, to see what you alone can do to the people around you: nothing good. Demise seems to trail your back, sit in the dark in the corner of your room, live in your shadows.

“…if this is a prank call, it’s not funny.”

Her voice snaps you back to the present.

Mindlessly, you let out a small snort. Even though you haven’t seen her for so long, she still seems to be grounding you in the moment. Her presence has always been. Especially during tough missions when morale would be at its lowest, she would be there to cheer the entire team up—somehow.

“Kate.”

“I—“

It sounds like she’s choking back annoyance behind the line, trying her best to remain her composure and keep the professionalism intact.

“This isn’t funny, whoever you are.” Kate groans, and from the sound of it, the squeak of a chair indicates her getting up from it; probably pacing around the room as you both speak. “I know you’re using a voice changer, so drop the act, what do you want?”

“I need your help, Kate,” you mutter, still in trance upon hearing her voice grumble through the microphone.

“And I need you to stop using my friend’s voice—it’s creeping me the fuck out.”

“I am your friend,” you speak up with a newfound confidence, determined to see through this conversation and convince Kate that Yes, I’m alive and No, I have never died.

“No, no you’re not—“ she sounds really mad now. “—because my friend is dead .”

Your body freezes up at the venom in her tone, the reminder of your ‘death’ ; back in the foreign forest near a Soviet compound where you should’ve died of blood loss. Because fate just had to play you, even in your ‘last’ moment. You still weren’t sure if you were truly alive after that fiasco with the Barkov, you felt that a piece of you was stripped away, like you’d unknowingly traded your soul for another chance at living.

Not that it’s ever that easy, of course.

“It’s me, Kate, I swear.”

Silence fills the room once more.

Seconds ticks by, and yet not another word spoken between the two of you.

“…Sweets?”

Ah. That’s a name you haven’t heard in a while: your callsign.

It was funny, really, how it was assigned to you in the first place: back at the headquarters with the entire 141 lounging inside the kitchen in a secluded safe house, you had all been bouncing back and forths with a callsign for you—you were a new recruit, so naturally, they’d need a nickname for you to refer by other than, well, your name.

Names felt too personal; like a thin thread no one is exactly allowed to cross unless permitted, you had told yourself you’d scowl at any stranger who dared to utter your name in greeting, it’s only ever reserved for the special people. And during that time, your special people had died in a battle you fought, the vision of their decapitated limbs still fresh in your mind as you felt yourself zone out.

“—Sweets.”

The debate halted, and every head in the room simultaneously turned to him who stood by the kitchen countertop, stirring his tea away in silence. His suggestion was a shock to you, especially since he didn’t talk much—not to you, anyway. Your eyes widened in surprise, lips slightly parted as you were about to ask a question hung in the air.

“Why?” Gaz had beaten you to it. His voice rings out in the quiet atmosphere the room fell into; his head tilted as you all stared at the back of his mask intently.

“She likes sweets,” he muttered, barely above a whisper. He continues to stir away with a little teaspoon, his eyes drifting to your dumbfounded face and lingered.

“Caught her red handed with her trousers down and hands in the snack cabinet,” he shrugged.

Your mouth hung wide open, not wanting to believe what had just occurred. Your face felt heated, embarrassed at being exposed to so many people you’ve not grown familiar with—naked and humiliated.

“You!”

You shot up from the stool, internally cringing at the loud scratchy noise of the legs against the beaten hardwood floor.

“You’ve no right to call me out, hypocrite.”

“Oh?”

He turned around, fingers still clutching at the hem of the teaspoon, his exhausted eyes held your stare.

“That’s right, it has been you who was eating away all my snacks! My sweets!”

His gaze remained nonchalant, yet you could spot the hint of mischief behind those stares—he shrugged.

“Not my fault we’ve got a rat runnin’ ‘round, no?”

The audacity—

— “Watch your back, Ghost.” With a final scoff, you stomped away from the kitchen and back into your dorm. His stare still fresh on the back of your head as you burrowed yourself into your pillow and groaned.

Oh yeah.

You and Simon hadn’t started off smooth and easy.

“Kate,” you whisper into your phone, fingers gripping the sides of your phone with much intensity. “I missed you.”

“You—“

Knowing her for years, you could see the way she’s desperately trying to maintain her demeanor, to not completely go batshit and lash out on you; even though you did deserve it. Instead, you hear her take a few deep breaths over the phone, a soft incoherent murmur and a couple of shuffling on her side before she speaks again.

“I don’t even know what to do with you right now, you know that?” She chuckles, but it doesn’t hold the lightheartedness it should’ve, it sounds bitter, angry.

“I know…” you take a moment to yourself and sighed. “I’m sorry for walking out on you.”

“Walking out isn’t even the right term,” she grunts. “You were supposed to be dead!”

“Yeah I’m—I’m aware.”

“…and?”

“…and I’m sincerely sorry, from the bottom of my heart,” it’s true; you have always carried the heavy guilt of leaving your teammates behind throughout all your years.

“I just—“

“Before you say anything else, answer me this—“ she halts, and if you hadn’t known any better, you would’ve missed the way her voice falters slightly.

“Are you going to walk out on us again?”

Huh.

Out of all the questions she could’ve asked, you’re rather surprised by the one she does ask. It makes you stop and think over your next words.

“Not doing that again,” with a deep breath, you nod to yourself.

Never again.

Both of you spend the next half an hour catching up; or trying your best to—because after you were gone, a lot had happened between the 141.

World-ending missions, political conflicts (so much of it), an upgraded headquarters, and Kate being promoted—all of them did, actually.

It makes sense; you were there for the beginning of it all, when the three of you sat around a table and Price put a name on the task force he created, nurtured. He did a damn great job, too. You’re relieved to find out that everyone you know is still alive and well; saved for a couple of more emotional and physical trauma added on. But who’s still counting anyway?

Biting the inside of your cheek, you hold back the urge to ask how he has been doing; is he well? Has he been on his usual shenanigans when you’ve been gone? Does he think about you the way you do with him?

…has he found someone new?

You don’t ask, because you’re afraid the answer might cave your heart in, and you’ve had too much of that.

“Let me get this straight,” Kate sighed. “You want me to fly you out to Urzikstan?”

With a hand on your hip, you pace around the cold concrete floor of your bunker.

“Yes.”

“And may I ask for the reason?”

“You must know, Kate, it’s quite obvious—“

“—Don’t fucking tell me—“

“I’m going to murder Viktor.”

There it is again. The familiar silence that only festers deep within the tiny confinement of your room, nestling into the cracks of the wall and the dent in your heart.

“I can’t let you do that, Sweets.”

“Yes you can, I know you can.” You’re growing frustrated; not particularly at Kate, but the convoluted situation at hand. It’d be so easy: drop you in Urzikstan where the Al-Qatalas reside, then slaughter your way to Viktor, before he joins the rest of his dead comrades as well.

In fact, you’re sure you’ve done something similar before; with the Russians especially.

“You can’t force my hands here, I’m tied. Sweets.” She hesitates. “Plus, Shepherd will kill me if he finds out.”

“What if he doesn’t?” You press on. “Send me along with one of your guys to be deployed there, we’ll come up with a plan, and I’ll be under a new name—new disguise.”

“It’s not that easy, stop making it sound like we're planning a shopping trip,” Kate grunts on the other end. “This will cause an outright war, a massive conflict.”

“I fail to see the issue here.”

“The issue is—hold on,” Kate’s voice grows faint, and from what you can hear, someone has knocked on her door.

The next few minutes consist of a bunch of mumbo-jumbo of words you couldn’t decipher, only movements on the other line and some deep grunts, possibly from the man speaking to her.

“—we found him—KorTac—infiltrate…König—”

KorTac? The KorTac?

The task force had mingled with the private company, sure, but they’ve always been off-limits when it came to being directly involved with missions, mostly providing much needed intel but never their operators; have they switched up their agenda?

Rubbing the knitted tension in your temple, you exhale in annoyance, confused and curious—If KorTac is involved with the task force then, how come they haven’t tried to search for you all these years? Admittedly, it makes you bitter, the grip on your heart only grows tighter and your breathing gets quicker.

They’ve given up on you so easily.

As the soft murmurs of a chatter on the line continues, your eyes flicker over to a framed photograph sitting atop a couple stacked books: in the picture was the entire 141, grouped together for a quick cheeky selfie Soap took during a downtime in a mission. All your smiles reached your eyes, except for Simon who never has his mask off—he’s the odd one out, always has been.

You know his face though; he’s shown you himself, when he’s the most vulnerable—and honestly, it made him even more desirable: to see a side of him most will never have the pleasure of knowing, the way he’d hold you against his chest in bed, when he’d silently sob into your shoulder during tough times.

To the world, he was Ghost. But to you, he was Simon Riley himself.

You missed him. You still do.

But you can’t help shudder at the thought of meeting him again; Simon was never a man of casualness, he doesn’t crack jokes with strangers and show how broken of a man he actually is—to everyone else, he’s a human killing machine, a renowned executioner with the guns he’d carry. Everyone would cower at his presence, turn away at the sight of him, anything to not get in his radar; anything to avoid him altogether.

It’s understandable, he’s always had an intimidating aura and a tough shell to crack. Unless you were in the 141, you’d never know that he secretly enjoys Cradburry bars and black tea in his free time, maybe even plays a game of poker or two and religiously sharpens his pocket knives.

Under that tough shell, is a man with an empty void in his heart desperately needed to be tended to; and you filled in that slot easily.

Oftentimes you’d sleep to the ghost of his warm embrace behind you, that’s how you fight insomnia; the thought of his arms circling your midsection the way it always did, like the perfect puzzle piece to an empty socket.

You dream of him, too.

Nightmares would cloud your sleep; of when you’d both meet again, except he’d turn away upon seeing you and scoff. ‘This is what you get for leaving me, for leaving us.’ he’d say in those sequences, unknowingly shattering your already fragile heart to tiny pieces.

A few times, you’d dream the better of him: both of you meeting under a better circumstance, rekindling an old bond that was once lost and found again, he’d hold your hand in his as you both walk toward sunset.

You’d always wake up crying after, the thought of a timeline where you both existed in peace and love was too much to bear.

Because you know it’ll never be true.

Especially not when you both fought tooth and nail everyday to stay alive; your yourselves, for the team. It’d be a miracle if you had a proper room for a breather.

At least you had him to run to for comfort; just as he does with you.

“Thank you—“ The muffled sound of doors closing pulls you back from your daydreaming. “Sorry, you're still there, Sweets?” Kate’s voice rings out with a hint of concern; in case you run out on her when she’s distracted.

“Yeah, sorry, I’m here.”

Kate sighs in relief.

“I think I can do something for you.”

Your ears instantly perk up at her words, listening intently as your head tilts closer to the phone.

“But first, we’ll need to get you here in the States, sounds cool?”

“Fuck yes.”

-------------------------------------------------------------

“Fuck no.”

Kate stares at you, dumbfounded and honestly, a tad bit offended.

“You need this if you want to do what you wanna do.”

“And die by the hands of the Russians? Not again.” You cross your arms, eyes narrowing down at the file in front of you.

Kate’s eyebrows furrow, she’s clearly frustrated as well—you’ve been stubborn ever since you landed at the base in the United States, after a quick briefing of a mission taking place in Russia in a secret meeting room with Kate, you quickly suppressed the urge of participating.

“It’s not worth it, those bastards are ruthless.” You grumble under your breath; maybe it was a bad idea after all, you wouldn’t be able to live if you encounter Barkov’s men again.

They’d put a bullet through your head on sight.

“You won’t be going alone,” she shuffles through a couple of pages on the file and picks out a sheet from in-between, sliding the piece of paper across the table to where you sit.

“He’ll accompany you.”

Scanning the piece of information, you quickly come to a realization that he’s a KorTac contractor. His details sprawl out on the sheet as you slowly drink them in; König—you recall the name from the phone call with Kate, you hadn’t expected he would adorn a veil with two holes for his eyes to peer through…it looked a little silly, but you wouldn’t say that to his face. Because if you thread wrongly, he could snap you with his fingers just as easily; he’s built like a mountain, probably throws a punch that lands like one, too.

“I see that look, and I get it,” Kate rubs the back of her neck. “But he’s harmless—if you’re an ally.”

You nod, “Alright. When and where do we start?”

Kate’s fingers press a couple of buttons on the remote she holds before the projector screen behind her flashes a new image; the picture of a map pops, Kate grabs a red pen and circles the area up north of the map.

“We’ll send you both here to infiltrate early, before the other task force arrives to help.” She pauses in her movement, gently putting the pen down to pick up the remote again as a new image flashes through: a clear portrait of Roman Barkov.

The man who almost led you to your death.

“We need him alive, so don’t try anything funny,” you feign offense as you gasp and hold a hand over where your beating heart stands.

“I would never.”

Her eyes flicker towards you, a ‘Uh huh, sure’ look plaster on her nonchalant features. “We’ll get started this Friday, I’ve already assigned you a dorm—don’t worry, no one else knows you’re here.”

She slides another file across the table to you, you stop its momentum with your fingers, eyes glossing over the exposed file.

“Huh, this copy looks legit.” You pick up the file and stare at the words: on it, is a portrait of a supposed mercenary. Despite all the illegitimate information on it, the copy seems professional, she even laminated the paper, for some reason. “This is me?”

Kate nods, “It’s you, but obviously not you, you. It’s just a fake to get by, otherwise people would start questioning, and we’d have a lot more on our plate.”

She wouldn’t be wrong; your sudden appearance would shake the unit up—you’re sure Shepherd would be on your tail right away, which would be the last thing you’d want as of now.

At the same time, you’re not sure if you’re ready to come back to 141; if you’re still welcomed by your peers, that is.

“We’ll get you set up, I know you brought your own weaponry, but a tad bit more cover up would set you straight—God, I’m gonna need to do so much paperwork for this.”

You let out a soft chuckle—you’ve truly missed the lighthearted conversations with the people you love; sharing giggles over a couple of easygoing banter, engulfed in the warmth of a found family. You had thrown it all away when you made the ultimate decision to up and leave; sometimes, as you lay on your rock-hard mattress at night, you wonder how life would’ve continued had you chosen to turn back around. It’s…slightly too late to discuss such matters anymore, not when lives are at stake, your life is at stake.

The only way to bypass tyranny and continue your mundane life was to assassinate Viktor; but you’d need Barkov and his men dead before proceeding with that idea.

Which, as you tilt your head to the side, watching Kate shuffle through several screens on the projector and giving you an in-depth briefing; makes you wonder—

—why does Shepherd want him alive?

“You mentioned calling in a task force to help, who are they?” You yawn, the jet lag from before slowly catching up to you, rubbing your eyes in a sheepish manner.

“Who else?” A smirk finds its way to the corner of Kate’s lips, and as you ponder over her words, the dread of your realization dawns on you.

“They—I can’t, Kate. Anyone but them.”

Her brows knits together, her annoyance showing through despite her best effort.

“Yes, yes you can.” She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Kate looks up at you, her worried eyes searching for yours that screams terror back at her; you’re terrified. Terrified of the idea of meeting them so soon, everything still feels so raw, so fresh. It hasn’t even been a full day since you stepped foot in America, having to approach a bunch of old friends who thought you’d been dead for the past few years would reopen an old wound, one that you’d been trying your best to nurture—the more you try, the worse you fail.

How would you be able to see Price, Johnny, and Kyle in the face? Laugh with them the same again?

How would you be able to stand in front of Simon, a man who experienced nothing but loss throughout his entire life, and tell him that you are truly sorry for everything you’ve done? What you did to him.

It hurts to dwell on the thought that things wouldn’t be the same anymore, not after everything. Not after the stunt you pulled.

“It’ll be hard, Sweets, but you can’t keep running away from things.”

For a flash of a second, you see red.

Anger silently brewing at the pit of your gut, your hand tightens into a fist, and a cold sweat breaks out on your skin. You want to correct her; that no, I didn’t run away—you guys gave up on me long ago.

Sure, you’d made the decision to leave—but it didn’t count for the sleepless nights you spent inside the cold compound of Barkov’s ground, hiding from his men, surviving only because by sheer luck you had kept yourself safe in an abandoned storage room. Weeks would go by yet as you toyed with the stolen radio and matched its frequency to 141’s, only silence greeted you, even as you begged and cried—for anyone to pick you up, for someone.

No one else was there for you when you’d puncture your deep gash with staples and rubbing alcohol being the only thing you managed to scavenge, something to keep you alive a little longer; something to keep their hopes up, that one day, they might just come and get you.

But they never did.

So you left. You left with the loot you found angrily stashed away into a worn duffel bag, you left with the unforgiving winter air biting into the skin of your soles and nearly freezing your blood, numbing your every move as you trek through mountains of snow. You stayed inside a small hut for a safehouse, having gotten sick from hours of traveling through the harsh winter, with only a barely functioning fireplace to aid you in your worst moment.

They gave up on you, so you left.

“Thank you for today, but I’ll be heading to bed now.”

Without another word, you stand up from your seat, the chair rolls away as you continue to stalk toward the door.

Kate stares at you, her gaze full of concern; she’d never seen you lash out or lose your temper, yet she’d be a fool to provoke you. So she lets you leave the room without another question, without chasing you down as much as she wants to.

“And another thing, Kate,” you pause, hand clutching at the handle of the steel door as you throw your head over your shoulder, your gaze lingering on the floor.

“I never run from things.”

And you’d be damned if the one time you were forced to leave would be the cement of your legacy.

The hinges creak, your figure disappears behind the door.

You sigh, clenching and unclenching your fists at your sides, you walk down the foreign hallway with nothing but the fluorescent lights above you guiding your path. Your head stays drooped, not wanting to meet the eyes of anyone else who might pass you by. Just as you stuff your hands into your pockets, another figure emerges from the corner in front of you, their shadow gradually approaching your way as you keep your head low.

Too low, in fact, because you accidentally bump your shoulder into theirs; your eyes lift up, but when you’re met with a glimpse of their mask, you quickly dip your head back down; with a mumble of an apology, you pick up your pace and practically jog away from the scene.

It took you extra minutes when you made your way to your room—the hallways have totally changed, and it was the uncanny valley of ‘I’ve been here, but where is this?’ feeling that settles at the pool of your stomach and rests at the back of your head–-nearly bumping into walls several times before reaching your dorm.

The keys jingle in your palm; out of nowhere, the hair on the back of your neck stands to alert.

Someone is watching you.

But as you turn to survey your surroundings, you couldn’t spot a shadow that would confirm your suspicion. Groaning, your fingers twirl around the metal before settling on the one with a number 309 written on it; with the sound of a click, you enter your room.

It might’ve just been the fear that always followed you—the curse of being incredibly alert and anxious even during times when you were safe. You shake off the uneasy feeling.

The room was standard; a sink with cabinets sat to your right, and down the narrow entry to your bed is the door to the on-suite bathroom to your left. You’re grateful Kate didn’t assign you to a dorm that shares a communal bathroom—you’d make do without the kitchen, but having to share a shower with another stranger would tip you over the edge.

Everything is fast-paced after the quick tour; immediately taking off your shoes and locking your door, you beelined for the bed. The nook of your chin hits the heavenly soft mattress that molds around your body, like how laying on thousands of marshmallows would feel—you exhale into the bedding, feeling tears prickle at the edge of your eye.

When was the last time you had a proper night’s sleep in a comfortable bed?

You could barely remember anymore.

And as the exhaustion creeps up on you; the warm, familiar memory of you and your teammates sitting around a kitchen bar and having the time of your life crawls into your headspace.

Sleep finds you easy, and for the first time in forever, you sleep soundly.

#simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost cod #cod x reader #cod mw2 #cod mwii #angst #kate laswell #john soap mactavish #john price #kyle gaz garrick #cod fanfic #ghost fanfiction

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vonev · 2 years ago

Text

The Executioner (and the judge) I

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x reader

Chapter 1: end it all, where it started;

Part I Part II

Words: 2.2k Warnings: Graphic depictions of gore and violence Summary: You somehow end up in an unforeseen predicament, now facing the horrors and fears of your past, meeting old faces, would it all come crashing down? Maybe after seeing his face again, it'll all make sense.

a/n: this premise was so fun to write, please enjoy the prologue!

Pitter-patter

Wet footsteps reverberate in the echoes of the empty hallway, its pace set to a slow, cautious tempo. A stained rifle clutched in your hand; eyes trailing the narrow hallway, subconsciously drinking in the cracks and dents in the walls around you.

It’s quiet, silence becoming its own company, with only the muffled tap-tap-tap of your boots avoiding the limbs of the corpses fills void where once voices were: people’s chatter, the ghost of their laughter teasing the air like a past lover’s touch. There but, not there.

Blood pools on the cold concrete floor. Some dried, some still rather fresh, mix with water dripping from the ceiling above: you get the disgusting squelching noises under you.

Soon—the sight of an entry greets you as you round a sharp corner. Pushing the squeaky door open with your fingers, you take in the sight that you’ve grown familiar with.

Bodies. Laying out like a feast at a ball; limp figures decorate what was once a lively lobby, red from the people painted over walls that used to confine an entire organization, families, friends—teammates.

You find that your soles lead you further into the room, painfully bright fluorescent lights flicker overhead; the air is biting, despite the slowly crumbling walls keeping out breezes from the outside with its best efforts. Somewhere along the way, a beeping from a still functioning telephone rings, piques your full attention.

Your body functions on auto-pilot: and you, a mere bystander, watching the way your body moves closer to the source of the ringing.

Right down the vast lobby, through the tight spaces of the cramped hallway, in a room you remembered to be storage—sitting prettily next to the busted ceiling remnants is someone’s personal phone: you take in the cracked screen as you neared, shards of glasses crunches under your boots, head tilting slightly to the side in amazement at how it was still alive.

In this building, only you breathe the soiled air.

The handphone vibrates violently on the floor, its screen showing a pop-up of the caller. A middle-aged looking woman who wears a smile that could rival against even sol itself.

You don’t pick up.

It goes straight to voice-mail, a sign that you’ve stood there over the phone longer than comfortable.

“Hey honey, I know you’re busy, but I just saw the news.”

Silence.

Ruffling of fabric: skin on clothes, the sound of the constant shuffling around on the other side of the phone indicates the nervousness of the woman’s demeanor—without even seeing her face.

“The explosion wave was so close to your building, I’m worried, son. I knew you shouldn’t have signed up for that—“

A quiet, trembling groan.

“—to leave me all the way here and move out to that country, your poor mother, and now I don’t even know—“

‘If you’re alive’ was most likely the drifting words caught in her tongue. Pure denial laced in her voice: as if not muttering the words would stop her son from waving at the grim reaper himself.

“—I hope you get this, and when you do…”

The quiet sniffles of the mother reach your eardrums, you hold in your breath.

“—Please…please call me back okay?”

She chokes out in her sobs, full-on heaving over the voice-mail, her tears could be felt even through the small speaker on the phone.

“I love you.”

With a shaky breath, the voice-mail ends.

Drinking in the quiet murmurs of the wind that found its way through the crack of the door behind you, your eyes soon register the bloodied hand next to the tiny gadget.

Nose scrunching up in disdain, you take in the brain matter that splattered all over the floor, the hand you previously noticed connects toward the body that has been swallowed up by the heavy collapsed cement of the ceiling, unrecognizable even if you’d try to piece the little remains of the body together.

Somewhere out there is a mother who would never see her child ever again. Struggling to mend her broken heart over the loss of her child, just as those families and friends who would never find their loved ones’ bodies that disappeared underneath the crumbled walls.

And somewhere out there, is someone who will never find peace with the cruel world—it takes, it takes and takes. A one-sided exchange; for the universe could care less about a freckle of dust in the swarm of many millions.

You’re on your own—

—loneliness tastes bittersweet on the tip of your tongue.

The town was in shambles.

It was a miracle you survived, out of the tens of thousands who fell victim to the catastrophic disaster that struck.

Why?

No clue.

The universe loves playing sick jokes on you—always taunting, relentless, never giving an ounce of mercy in your name. You nick the skin around your fingertips, the fireplace cackles in front of your figure, its warmth engulfing you like a mother’s embrace. Dazed, mesmerized by the swirls of the flame, your mind wanders off.

It has been a couple of months since you resided in the bunker near your home, luckily for you, due to your father’s paranoia; you’ve always had a stacked basement full of all the necessary resources. Canned foods, water, weapons, everything. Except for a comfortable mattress to sleep on.

You know, just in case—and this is the case.

Papers strewn across the mahogany desk you’ve spent countless sleepless nights at. The desk lamp a soft glow, illuminating the pages underneath its sturdy body. Glossing over the words on the file, eyes scanning every word on every inch of the paper.

Months ago, you had taken a long stroll around what used to be where your town sat, now instead occupied by the distraught of conflict; of war. Ashes contaminate the air, fallen buildings and bodies laid about—the vehicles weren’t spared of the mercy either, joining the abundance piles of rubbles outside. It was a sight alright.

It’s the natural devastating result of wars; of national conflicts.

There’s always a price to pay.

Unfortunately for many, innocents are usually the ones at stake: they pay with their lives. Their blood bath spilled the most out on the field, not the soldiers, not the perpetrators—the civilians. It has always irked you, an annoying itch in the back of your head, a bothersome subconscious thought.

You click the pen held in your palm against the hardwood table, the steady rhythm of it occupies the silence of the room.

Viktor Romanov.

A name that sings despair, injustice, dismay.

The stacks upon stacks of jumbled files sitting at the corners of your room says a lot. You’ve done your fair share of research; surface insights regarding his whereabouts, the predicted state of conditions. Being ex-military specialized in combat and intelligence has its benefits at times, picking up good intel skills has gotten you far, far in life.

7 years of service since 18. All reduced down to being able to dig dirt and shoot better than the average person.

It wasn’t particularly an easy task prying into his past; but having had worse experiences, you make-do, adapting to the poor circumstances you’re dealt with.

Whew. You’re in for a ride.

He was the sole reason behind your early ‘retirement’ at the age of 25 instead of your original plan to serve 20 years (free healthcare for life, woo!) and banished from the military for good. It was all against your wishes.

Also the same man that bombed your town.

A small, rather secluded town. One built up from its traumatizing past of warfare and bloodshed, just to end up where it started: in the gutter. A place where you originally ran to after hardships and scars that still haunts your nightmares—somewhere safe, sound and definitely away from prying eyes. Yet, they found you. Even after years and years of covering your tracks, practically having your presence wiped off of everywhere. They still found you. After all this time, he’s still obsessed with you: why else would he drop a bomb in the middle of nowhere in Argentina?

Him.

You’ve got to give it to him—to the public eye, he’s got a clean slate. He doesn’t scream ‘I murder innocents for breakfast, lunch and dinner’ but rather ‘I will solve all your problems with one look’. Hence why the public opinion loves him: to them, he's sweet, caring of his people and always gives back. They're unaware of the dirty business ran behind their backs; the lives he's casually taken out of spite and for the fun of it. Anything to satiate his thirst for blood, for power.

Deceit runs in his blood, and his family, in fact.

Throughout the decades, he’s managed to scramble his way out of the numerous controversies his family was involved in—infidelity, assassination attempts, scandalous involvement with the opposing units. You name it, he’s got it all stamped under Romanov’s name.

A tainted sheet; yet now clean of its impure past, only a goody-two-shoes mascot in the place of a new form of tyranny.

You yearn for his downfall; watch as the power slips away from in front his eyes, observe the way the structure he’s built crumbles under his very gaze—you seek revenge.

Where would you start, though?

“Fucking nuisance,” you grumble under your breath. Spinning around in your office chair, head tilting back as you stare up into the ceiling, defeated. Sometimes, you ponder the trajectory of your life if everything had gone according to plan: retire after 2 decades of hard work, maybe start a family, or live a fulfilling life of content and peace. Something to look forward to every morning you awake, every breath you take in the field; it would make all the heads you’ve dropped worth it. Yet it didn’t.

It didn’t; because of a single silver-spoon fed toddler who happened to be born from a family of riches, connections and power. Power of authority, of the absolute his words wield. ‘Yes Viktor.’ ‘I will do that for you, Viktor.’ ‘Anything you’ll ever wish for, Viktor.’

His word goes, and so does his command.

Which begs the question: what would be the most satisfying way to tear a tyrant from their throne?

You never truly believed in the death sentence in law—as sadistic as it sounds, you’ve always been a firm believer of having the person suffer the same amount of agony they put their victims through. Let their suffering be drawn out for all to see; to deliver justice for those who were deserving.

Maybe you’d rip out his eyes from the sockets, a deep knife wound puncturing dangerously close to his heart; or maybe, even lure him under a false sense of comfort, just to pull the rug from underneath him and make him fall into the abyss, the realization that he will live a life of anguish. Maybe even strip his skin bare and watch his face contort in pain no one has ever—

—your alarm blares in your ears, making you flinch back into full consciousness. You dart your eyes around the room, as though your guilt would manifest into a being and eat you alive; lucky for you, it doesn’t.

A sigh escapes your lips.

“Maybe I should get therapy.”

Days, weeks, months go by. Not a single day where you had taken a proper rest, nor eaten a true meal that doesn’t consist of dry sweetened cereal, tea and your saliva. No, you feed on the twinge of revenge at the tip of your tongue for fuel, for motivation. All to pin his location down—

—as you stare at the doodled map under your gaze, you feel lethargic; giddy, even. You finally found him. Not just his estimated location, his exact position. You could even picture the way he’s relaxing in his armchair, unaware of the catastrophe gradually approaching him. A smirk teases the end of your lips, threatening to break through with every passing second at the thought of his life in the palm of your hand.

You’ll end it off where it all started—

—Urzikstan.

You had been preparing for the fight ahead: a backpack packed full of guns, pocket knives, a grenade or two and some rations; anything to get by. But first, you’ll have to take another way of travel; god forbid the international airport hunts you down for bringing in weapons to traverse the international water. Luck was on your side though, because you know just the person to contact. An old friend; where you both used to share laughs over drinks and nights spent pouring your hearts out, someone that always has a place in your heart.

As you punch her number into your throwaway phone, you bite your lips in anticipation.

Would she still remember you? After all, you should be dead, not alive and breathing hiding away in a bunker no one else knew existed. A part of you feels like you’ve been lying to her; that she would scoff and turn away at the sound of your voice—because technically, you did leave her without a second notice nor a proper goodbye, and to everyone else: you were dead. Or worse, what if she changed her numbers? Your efforts would’ve been absolutely futile.

But if she picked up, it would mean seeing the people you’ve abandoned, the way their eyes would scrutinize you for leaving them—you were a team, after all.

The 141.

And him.

The image of a skull printed balaclava flashes across your mind like a fleeting memory, you feel the corner of your eyes wet, the back of your head dulls as his face now taunts your mind. You taste iron on your tongue: your blood. You had gotten carried away and somehow bit yourself in nervousness. The blue screen shines on your face, the numbers written across the screen; all you have to do now is to press the green button, to call.

And you do.

The dial indicates it’s going through; that she still has the same number even after so long.

…

Okay, why isn’t she picking up?

Maybe your fears came through: that she still has your number memorized and saved, thinking that some stranger is behind the other side. Or maybe she grew tired of you, that she wouldn’t need your presence back in her life. Maybe—

“Hello?”

—maybe it was worth it all.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #cod mw2 #cod x reader #angst #call of duty

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vonev · 2 years ago

Note

Hey there! Can you do a Miguel x spiderwoman reader where during a mission Miguel accidentally hurts you pretty badly while trying to get you out of the way of the anomaly, leaving you in a medically induced coma for a couple days while you heal? I wanna see an incredibly gentle, guilt-ridden Miggy visiting you when you wake up and treating you like you’re made of glass

Calling (just to save you, I'd give all of me)

Miguel O'Hara x reader Oneshot

Words: 6.06k (yeah i know)

Warnings: Graphics depictions of Violence, Angst, Blood and Violence.

Summary:

A mission gone wrong, some crying, more suffering, rocky relationships (emphasis on the rocky part)

And after all of it, you prevailed. With him.

Tl;dr: Miguel is a crybaby

It was a normal Tuesday night at the headquarters. 11 pm to be exact.

God knows why you stayed as long as you did—having to juggle missions upon missions the entire week because Miguel decided to loosely throw them at you.

Capturing what seemed like an endless sea of anomalies.

“You’re our most capable.” He had said, not even facing you when he once again sent you off on another job to fend for yourself.

Trying to ask to be replaced was met with a sounding “No.” from the big guy himself, so you stopped trying altogether.

Less questions, more work.

Even if the side of your ribs were bruised from the last encounter with a previous anomaly.

Whatever. Bringing your injury up would just have you end up being demeaned and insulted like a school kid who skipped last week’s homework. At least that was what you assumed.

You grew tired of it eventually, wanting to have more than 6 hours of sleep per day and being able to actually live your life—the birthday cake for a friend sat comfortably inside the fridge of your apartment lingers on your mind as you swung through the familiar sight of the city; another rendition of New York, another variant of an anomaly.

That wasn’t to say you didn’t enjoy the thrill and adrenaline that came with the job—no, you loved it. No one ever told you how fun being a superhero can be (aside from the decades of trauma you had to go through) and being able to propel yourself into the air with webs as the people below you gawked at your presence.

The New York breeze hit your figure like a welcomed embrace, the moon winked at you behind fading beds of clouds. You continue slingshotting yourself down the streets, deja-vu splashed in your face with how eerily similar the roads were to the ones back home; shaking your head, you let out a soft sigh and relish in the cold night’s wind.

Today’s mission: an unknown entity that plagued Earth 1610, the only information you were given via a loosely thrown together email from Miguel was that the entity could possess powers greater than we all understood—but with a limited amount of time, you would (hopefully) capture it just in time before it discovered its full potential.

You’d think with how smart the boss-man was, he wouldn’t send a sleep-deprived Spider into such missions with how severe things could turn if everything went wrong.

“I’ll send him an email to complain later, for sure.” You promised yourself; because you were supposed to do just that days ago when tasks started rolling in for you without breaks.

Solo-tasks, might you add.

A cherry on top of the already spoiled cake, salt on the wound, a slap to the face. You grunted, and an alarm sounding from nearby caught you by surprise amidst the (somewhat) quiet of the city. In the snap of a finger, you flung yourself in a different direction, changing the tides in the waves while the wind that hit your face came to a halt once you landed on a roof belonging to a rather tall building.

The viewing angle from above gave you a clear look into what had transpired underneath.

You squint, arms folded neatly in between your thighs as you crouched over the ledge of the building; from what you could see, nothing was amiss—everything looked to be in place. Letting out an annoyed scoff, you were about to turn on your tail before the ear-piercing sound of glass shattering into pieces hit your eardrums.

You immediately snapped around, and panic ensued when the people on the streets started screaming, running amok like wild animals scattering away into their safe spaces. You, on the other hand, now have to clean up the mess—you had no clue where this universe’s Spiderman was, nor did anyone brief you on it.

Nonetheless you approached the bust-up shop with a wavy heart, praying to something out there that there weren’t any critically injured persons. As you stalked near the front of the shop, you could hear loud banters inside; curious, you stare into the messy excuse for an interior: broken decors, smashed up shelvings, and items sprawled out across the floor inside.

You took the opportunity and shot yourself up to the ceiling, both your soles and fingertips clutching onto the surface, cautiously crawling further into the shop.

“Please—” a voice yelled out, “Just let me steal your ATM machine!”

Your lips part, dumbfounded.

“No! Ey! Get away from—” You finally managed to grasp the scene that played out in front of you.

The store manager was running around with a bat in his hands, and the other person that seemed to be wearing a costume with black spots, a jean jacket slung over his shoulders and a rather cute bucket hat. To your surprise, the man evaded the attack when a black hole had been summoned under the manager’s feet, causing him to fall into the portal and out of another one…

…Right above you.

You yelped at the sudden contact on your back, the manager’s weight had you both falling face first into the shards-filled floor; his body cushioned by yours.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.”

The man behind you rolled off, allowing you to take a step and collect yourself as you slowly stood up. Debris started filling up your senses, and the pain from having been cut by thousands of glass shards made you wince in response. You pushed it all down, needing to finish the job as soon as possible so you could flee from more missions when you go back to the headquarters.

You even considered retiring from your spot in the team.

Speaking of spots…

You peered up, eyes catching onto the odd appearance of the man in front of you, who was still attempting to find a way to escape with the ATM. If you hadn’t been as irritated and grumpy as you were, you’d have found the situation hilarious.

“You gotta let that go, big man.” He whipped his head around, eyes darting around before locking in on you. “I’m sorry, I can’t—wait, you look different from my Spiderman.” His head tilted in confusion; you only rolled your eyes in retort, not wanting to drag your already long day out. Webs shot out of your wrists, launching them toward the direction of his foot.

Watching in disbelief as another hole appeared right where his foot would’ve been, the webs flinging into the black void and you felt the substance land on your back, knocking your balance forward.

“What the,” confused, you feel around for it, your fingers finding the source, tracing the substance behind you. “How did you fucking do that?” You glared him down, seeing his stature falter and hands thrown up into the air in defense.

“Whoa whoa, language!” He wagged a finger at you, giving you his head shake of disapproval.

“Shut up.”

“That’s just plain rude, young lady—hold on, you’re a lady right?” Your eye twitched in annoyance.

“Has anyone ever said you’re way too chatty?”

He was fidgeting with his hands, looking away and feeling nervous, unsure of how to respond to your jab. Before he could get another word out, the bottom of your feet connected with his chest, sending his body back against the wall with a loud ‘thud’ watching as he fell on his backside.

“Oof.”

He let out a soft grunt, rubbing the sore spot on his butt; right before you did a chain-attack, he caught your foot with another one of his black holes, your foot now appearing on the other side of the store and out of sight.

“That wasn’t very nice. Listen, I just need some money, let me go and—” He threw the ATM onto a pile of cans and started rolling it out of your way, pushing the huge machine as fast as he could. Pulling back your foot in time, your calf connected with his face, making him trip over the cans comically with his arms flailing in the air.

You quickly reached down to fetch your trap to secure your win.

That would be too easy, though.

Side-stepping a portal of void that almost ate you up, you winced at the pain that shot through your ribs due to your rapid movements. Biting through the pain, you maneuvered to where his body laid and tackled him to the ground once more when he tried to stand up; from then on, it was a cat fight. With you trying to get him detained and him attempting to pry you off of him.

Suddenly, another hole manifested beneath the two of you, watching in horror as you both fell through and landed harshly on top of the rooftop you originally occupied prior; the back of your head collided into the concrete ground; a poor excuse for a cushion.

It fucking hurt.

You were pretty sure you smelled blood.

He tried to get up, but you tumbled the two of you near the ledge of the building; in the midst of all the actions, he found dominance over you when he had your upper body hanging off the ledge with his grip on the collar of your suit. Blood thumped through your eardrums along with the loud horns of traffic, your heart racing in a million miles, if anyone looked up, they'd think you were insane for getting yourself in the situation.

Maybe you are.

Call for backup.

It would be so easy; the gizmo hugged your wrist, just one push of a button and someone will be here—

Too late, his grip on you wavered and you plummet into the air.

Fuck.

You quickly attempt to shoot more webs to find purchase on something, anything.

But terror washed over you the second you realized you had conveniently run out of webbing fuel—being the dumbass you were, you had completely forgotten to get it refilled before the mission at the station back in headquarters.

Closing your eyes, you braced yourself for the impact; your body going limp to soften the blow.

You let out a loud yelp when something flew out of the air beside you and clashed against your body, but you don’t feel the shock at the contact—instead, the warmth of a large arm wrapped around your midsection and you feel the cold wind whiplash you.

Opening your eyes, you were (pleasantly) surprised to find that Miguel caught you just in-time, right before you could suffer any more blunt injuries. You almost cried at the sight of him, his name teased the tip of your tongue, wanting to wrap your arms around him for a hug; you pulled yourself back just in time before you could react on your impulse.

You were still mad at Miguel, you have to act like it.

Before you know it, he came to a halt around a corner into an alleyway and swung down to place you down gently on the ground, your feet now free from the feeling of being dangled in the air. His eyes flickered over your face, then down your body; his arm still pressed into your waist as he squeezed your flesh out of instinct.

Bad move, the squeeze, no matter how gentle, pressed into your bruised rib. The pain sending a wave of shocks throughout your torso, you immediately pushed him away with a small hiss. You couldn’t see it, but hurt flashed through his eyes when you forced yourself out of his grip, his arm falling back to his side; unknowing of its purpose.

He wouldn’t willingly admit it, but the rare moments he would get to feel the heat of your body against him sent him to heaven: like that one time your shoulder pressed into his at the cafeteria, the times your naked fingers would brush over his skin, when your back used to press up on his during missions back in the days he went with you. Sinfully, he would recall that specific time your chest pushed into his torso during a stealth mission, the temptation to take you right there and then a devilish thought that circled his mind.

(Don’t ask what he had done in the shower after the mission debrief.)

That was part of the reason he had stopped frequenting jobs with you, even when you came into his office and invited him; you were met with rejections after rejections, soon enough, he noticed that you stopped trying—and the painful gnaw at his chest reminded him of your growing distant attitude with him, too. Miguel refused to let his personal life interfere with his business, and the last person he would want to hurt was you.

Unknowingly, he had done exactly that whenever he would gradually push your presence away.

Having meals weren’t the same anymore, not when you stopped showing up to his office everyday with his favorite food like a routine, he’d eat less and less as the days passed by; without you there to continuously pester him, he found himself reverting back to his old habits—working after late hours, not sleeping enough, not eating enough, barely talking to anyone unless absolutely necessary.

He had came to the realization that somehow, long ago, your presence had become such a grounding part of his life; the gentle yet persistent reminder that he deserved love and care too, to stop hogging all the responsibilities alone and share his burden with someone who he can trust, and it all manifested into you.

Miguel recognized he royally fucked up when you both barely see each other face-to-face anymore, you stopped showing up to debriefings, the only time he’d get to remotely speak to you was when he sent you off to missions.

He knew he was harsh, yes, but he fully believed in your capability to handle yourself—but while he was relentless, he still cared.

Hence why he arrived and interjected your mission, wanting to extend a helping hand.

“Fuck—what are you doing here?!” You shouted over the loud traffic, emotions taking control of your mind, before Miguel could protest, screams broke out from beside you both. “Shit, let’s get this over with, big man.”

You paused, momentarily forgotten that your webbings ran out of fuel and mentally slapped yourself in the face.

As if he read your mind, he fished out a tube from behind him and threw it your way. You caught it just in time and practically rushed to throw the lid off, tipping the mouth over to allow the liquid flow into the web gadget integrated into your suit. You threw a mumbled “thanks” his way and chucked the tube out of sight.

“Come on,” you nod toward the opening of the alleyway with an arm raised and pull yourself upward with your web.

It was supposed to be an easy job: brawl with the anomaly, win the brawl, capture it.

But this one was starting to grate your nerves—and you were sure Miguel felt the same too, you could sense the rage radiating off of his huge stature like sirens; chasing down the guy who had re-introduced himself as the Spot when you caught up with him earlier, unintentionally finding himself falling in and out of accidental portals he materialized.

“Stop running!” Yelling, you proceeded to jump into the portal he went through, he was always barely a hair away; yet as clumsy as he was, managed to get away every single time.

“Stop chasing me!” Spot shouted back, tripping over the back of his foot and almost falling into one of the portals entirely.

He managed to barely swerve out of the way when Miguel lunged at him from behind, his claws swooping in the air where Spot used to be. It became a constant back-and-forth; you would shoot yourself closer to him and Miguel would come from his back, essentially cornering him, then Spot would narrowly escape; rinse and repeat. Exhaustion crept up on you eventually, nagging the back of your mind as you tapped into your adrenaline to stay awake and alerted of your surroundings.

Miguel noticed it, too, and he went even harder—the intensity of his ferocity grew when he realized he had to end things soon before someone gets injured; he prayed to God it wouldn’t be you.

Somehow, more portals had opened up, and all you could do was avoid falling into them; the possibility of coming face first into the asphalt roads were too high for you to take the chance. Miguel almost got caught in one; hardly dodging a portal that conjured on the wall he stuck to. But unlike you, he was willing to test out his theory, reeling his body back to prepare launching himself into the portal. And he did just that—his reward? A high-five of his face with another set of walls.

He grunted, out of the corner of his eyes, he spotted you latching onto Spot’s back; desperately trying to push him down onto a solid surface. You both spun into another portal and crashed on a different rooftop, Miguel rushed over with claws ravaging the innocent bricks he crawled on; when he went up, he saw the two of you gasping for air on the ground.

You clutched the side of your rib, an indescribable amount of pain overtook your senses; you were pretty sure your ankle was broken when it was caught on a pole. Spot got up earlier than you, and was about to speed off before he felt a large hand tugging at the back of his shirt.

It all happened so fast: reeling in a punch, the adrenaline pumping in Miguel’s veins, Spot’s utter shock at the face of Death himself, the supposed impact of the fist with the other’s face…

…Only for the force to be directed to you in the heat of the moment when a portal happened to manifest where Spot’s face would’ve been.

It was an accident, really, an unintentional line of actions from Spot— he was way too out of it when he figured he was about to go through his final moment; his portals shot out in panic, lucky for him, it was the reason he evaded Miguel’s death fist.

Unlucky for you, the other end of the portal had been right in front of you the whole time; yet in the midst of you processing your surroundings, you hadn’t realized quicker that your senses were screaming for you to dodge out of the way.

The conclusion? You, having just been punched in your guts, falling down a building amongst the New York you shouldn’t have stepped a foot in if you knew the outcome at all. The gust of wind pumped in your ears as you fell, and fell.

No worries—you’ve got your handy-dandy webs, right?

Oh how you wished you hadn’t been wrong.

Miguel had snatched a random refill off of his own shelf when he was about to depart, not bothering to check for its content after his recent use; just shy of a quarter, barely enough to last an average Spider’s fill an hour of webbing. In his defense, he had been distraught when Lyla popped in earlier to warn him of your vitals: most specifically your injuries. He would’ve never sent you out in the first place if he knew you suffered from broken ribs.

But all you knew was that you somehow fucked yourself over.

Panic ensued.

And now, you suffered the consequences of his actions.

“Miguel!” A call for help; he was your last hope.

The fall wasn’t a particularly long one, and you normally would breeze through the impact and pain like a champ—except you have never fell from a building with ribs that squeezed your organs tight, ankle that would most likely not support your landing even if you tried, the adrenaline you lived off of now benched on the side leaving you stranded for some form of strength to pull yourself together in the span of a few seconds.

Your shoulder hit the ground first, then your head; the harsh impact created a string of reactions to your already abused body: pain shooting up your nerves, the corners of your eyes dimming despite the bright lights flashing around you.

Unbeknownst to the three of you, policemen started showing up once someone reported a supposed break-in at the shop you investigated; the sound of blaring sirens filled your eardrums like honey whilst the flashing of red and blue assaulted your blurry sight.

Barely able to distinguish what was happening in front, you attempted to prop yourself up on your elbow; but the more you tried, the more lights started diminishing in your vision. Breathing has never felt so difficult, either.

Miguel was a step too late when he came to you; after having realized what had occurred, he dropped Spot in an instant like a hot potato, prioritizing saving you instead of proceeding with the mission’s objective. He was aware of the policemen being present at the scene when they started noticing your slumped body in the middle of the road, crowding together to watch as you struggled to lift yourself up—they all stood and observed, no one reached out to help, none.

He was by your side right away, his one hand supporting the weight of your head while the other clutching at the hem of your mask, lifting it over your eyes.

His hand felt…wet.

As if things couldn’t possibly get worse: he watched the stiff expression on your face contorted with pain, you seemed to have recognized him as you slowly reached a weak arm out to caress his face, your thumb gently glossing over his cheekbone, your touches light like feathers. His mask concealed the despair in his features, the hues of red and blues still shone on his back as everyone else stayed aside and spectated.

Your hand soon dropped to your side, unmoving, your head now heavier than ever in his hand.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

Miguel held your small, delicate hand into his, the tears teasing the corner of his eye as he watched your life slipped by those eyes of yours he’d grown to adore.

“You can’t live like this, Miguel.”

Lyla crossed her arms over her chest, trailing Miguel’s tiny movements on the desk. His fingers delicately move across the keys on the keyboard, imputing password after password for locked files.

“Seriously,” Lyla sighed, rubbing her temple. “You’re starting to worry me.”

“Nothing to worry about, Lyla, get me the decoded files from yesterday.” Miguel ignored her pestering, choosing to focus on his work and his work only.

That was his routine for the past 5 days or so.

After the entire slip-up in Earth 1610, Miguel had been busting his ass to hunt down the anomaly for every hour he was awake; granted, he did take care of other responsibilities too—babysitting Mayday on Monday, depatching teams to bring back more anomalies, and visiting you every day.

And also dealing with that kid he found out to be the Spider-man from Earth-1610.

He hadn’t missed a single day of visiting you, who still laid in the hospital bed at the infirmary he cleared out for you.

Everyday. On the clock. 5 am when he woke up, when lunchtime struck, and in the late hours of night when he should be spending on getting enough rest.

Lyla had been there through it all, watching Miguel’s tormented back every single minute he was awake as he continuously starved himself off of the bare minimums.

Food, water, sleep, you name it all.

And as his assistant, his well-being was her number one priority—hence the constant pestering that would be swatted away, food that went cold despite Peter having brought them in hours ago upon Lyla’s request and his growing concern for his friend in the chair. Jess’s occasional visits to check up on Miguel, wondering if the day she stepped in would be the day she would see his lifeless body on the desk with how much neglect he reflected on himself. Even the new recruits dropped in to say hello, just to see that he was doing…okay in his book: which was not okay in everyone else’s.

Everyone was worried.

About you, of course, and him too.

The situation had clearly taken a heavy toll on him.

But Lyla understood more than anyone else that it wasn’t because of his work, his dwelling traumatic past, or how he barely had any rest for the past 120 hours.

No one else knew of his infatuation with you except for her—and that was only because she snooped through his things, finding the little knit-knacks he kept from all those times you came and dropped it off: the tiny Miguel plushie you made when you impulsively decided to take up knitting that one time, the shirt of yours you had forgotten to take back when you visited his office at late hours, soaked from the rain outside and sneezing everywhere.

“Hey Mig—“ sneeze. “I came to see y—“ sneeze. “I—“ and you sneezed.

“For the love of God,” Miguel turned around, seeing your soaked clothes that cling to your body, and having to turn away for just a tiny moment to compost himself when he caught sight of your curves.

Groaning, he pulled out one of his drawers and shuffled through and fished out a new shirt—undoubtedly his with how large it was.

His shirt was a sight on you, fitting perfectly yet still draping over your thighs just slightly when you went to get changed.

The image of you that night burned into his head, forever engraved in his brain.

Then there was the polaroid picture of the two of you when you had forced Miguel to “take a selfie with me!” when you picked up a weirdly shaped camera from a thrift store in your universe (something something you saying to be smart and conserve money). “It’s called InstaX, it—here, let me show you” and snapped a picture.

In the picture, his expression was one of annoyance, and you were squeezed against his shoulder with a toothy grin on your face.

Lyla saw how Miguel would come back with tiny frames that he thought would frame the film perfectly, but ultimately was defeated when he decided to just stick it in-between the pages of his files labeled: Classified.

She was the only one ever to know the content inside: mostly pictures of Gabriella’s (poor) baking, first day at school, when Gabriella won her first competitive soccer match; and then there was you.

She knew how important you were to him; yet to her complete and utter confusion, Miguel always kept to himself about his little (big) crush—even though she could clearly tell you were just as interested as he was, too.

He was the densest man you had the pleasure of knowing.

He never made a move; and now, he might never get another chance to.

Now you were reduced to a sitting duck, once a shell of what you were; your body laid in the bed he frequented more than his own, the lively demeanor that you carried with you before turned into a tune of stable heartbeats beeping from the machinery installed next to you: the only indicator you were still alive.

Guilt was the only thing he knew for a while; when he’d step into the shower as the cold water bit the skin of his back, like he was willingly punishing himself for allowing that incident to happen.

Everywhere he went, whatever he did, he was only reminded of your face.

“If only I had been there sooner.”

He’d say to himself while he peered down at your figure, not there but, there. You were barely hanging, and part of him knew that it was your determination to fight through whatever battle was going on inside your head during the coma.

“Por favor,” his hand held yours, careful to avoid the IV’s that pricked your skin, forehead sticky with sweat after having just come back from a specifically tough mission that day.

“Concédeme este deseo.”

He would whisper sweet-nothings to you, praying to himself at night by your bedside that you’d wake up one of these days with that smile he yearned for. And for someone to finally share the extra empanadas he would always bring in, to hope that one day, you’d get to share this joy with him.

The joy of eating together again.

So imagine his surprise when he walked into your room tonight, and found you sat up with the metal frame supporting your back.

You were awake.

And most importantly, you were alive.

He had never sprinted so fast in his life; the warm pack of empanadas he brought from the cafeteria drop to the floor, the gentle ‘thud’ catching your zoned out self by complete surprise, your face softened once your gaze landed on Miguel; who was frantically patting your face and checking your vitals to confirm that yes, you are here.

Your hand reached up to palm his that lingered on your cheek, his eyes finally settled on you, slowly taking in the fact that you were now right there in front of him.

“Miguel,” a small knowing smile tugged at your lips, your eyes the most gentle he’d ever seen. “It’s okay, I’m right here.”

He was still so afraid, so afraid that you would just slip by his fingers again; so he held onto you for dear life, fingers gripping your one cheek and hand with the others.

“Estoy tan contenta de que estés aquí,” You whispered.

A soft quiver of his lips; barely there—that was when the dam broke, and his tears started flowing down his sullen cheeks.

You panicked, wondering if you had butchered your Spanish so bad you shamed him to tears.

“I’m…I’m sorry?” You tilt your head in confusion and worry. Miguel only shook his head, a small chuckle emitted from him; as if he knew what you had been thinking.

“Don’t be sorry, silly.” He looked up at you with those earnest eyes of his; ones that melt your heart and warm your soul. You’d taken a liking to him early on; though you weren’t sure when it started, only where it started: during a mission, when the two of you grew physically close, so close.

His breaths fanning down your face, your breathing grew heavy with each and every second; that was when you knew you were in too deep.

You would know it’d take heaven and hell to pull you apart from this man.

There he kneeled, lips on the back of your hand as his thumb gently caressed your cheekbone, enjoying the way hues of red spread out on your cheeks.

There was no way of escaping it now: the pent up tension of a confession teasing the air around you both, and soon, one of you was bound to crack.

“I have something to tell you—“

“I have something to say—“

Only that you both did it at once, together.

Miguel stared at you, lips slightly parted with the ghost of his words and eyes widened, then he cracked into a fit of roaring laughter—and you joined in.

Laughter filled what was once a room only occupied by the sound of your heartbeats on the machine, the two of you clutched each other’s hand, the high soon dying down to mere giggles; as if you two were high-school sweethearts with muffled chuckles thrown at each other in the back of the class.

You two were in your own little world, a bubble that secured around your bodies, forever molding the shape of what once was and what will be.

Wiping away the happy tear in your eye, you stared at Miguel’s devilishly handsome face, and the gorgeous smile you oh-so-rarely get the privilege of seeing. The muted rhythm of his chest rising and falling, in sync to yours, like two lovers on the dance floor—not even the sky could stop your love for each other.

“I love you.”

You blurted out; sure, you were 98% certain Miguel reciprocated your feelings, but that small node of anxiety still tugged at the back of your mind, terrified that you misunderstood his gestures all these times.

But wouldn’t the words he whispered to you during your sleep be all washed away if that was true?

It was a risk, and you took it; it was now or never.

“I—“ Miguel stammered, his heart screaming at him to just lean in and—

—kiss you.

His lips were nothing like you’d ever imagine; it was all the best parts multiplied by infinity: soft, full of all the love he had to give, and passionate.

The kiss lasted for what felt like eternity—part of you wished it did, and you’d be content to die like this, your lips forever engraved on his.

Miguel swore he heard the choir sung to him, albeit with crooked notes; but maybe because he did.

He slowly turned around, and you, who also does the same.

His colleagues had been quietly watching all this time from behind the doors: Peter with Mayday in tow as she cooed at the sight, Jess and that motherly smile of hers—Miles, Gwen, Hobie and Pavitr all stood with heads peeking through the gap of the doors. Even Lyla was there, although she simply floated over Peter's shoulder, joining in on the choir; their mouths agape with barely harmonized tunes of a holy song slipping out of their mouths. Amateur at best, unbearable at worst.

Pavitr carried with the vocals, as always.

They only stopped once they realized they had been caught; thinking that you two were in too deep to notice that there were more guests coming.

“What…are you guys doing here?” Miguel asked, his tone more of a threat than a genuine question.

“We got some food—“ Peter perked up, but was instantly cut off by Hobie.

“‘o watch some sappy romance, ‘ey boss man?” Hobie high-fived Lyla's glitchy hologram, the latter wearing a smirk too wide for her face and nodding aggressively.

“Do the shoulder trick!” Miles yelled out; Gwen looked at him in horror then back to Miguel, this time, it was her who was shaking her head aggressively while crossing her arms into a giant X shape.

Miguel snarled at Miles, not appreciating the cheesy suggestion of a pick-up line while everything went so well for him before they all busted in.

“Remember to host a Sangeet bro! Oh Gayatri is super good at doing Henna—“

“Hey I wanna be the flower girl!” Gwen piped up.

“No, Miguel told me long ago Mayday would be—“

“She’s not even old enough, Peter, can she even throw a fistful of flowers?” Gwen crossed her arms in protest.

“I’ll have you know she’s an extremely capable baby, right, Mayday?” Peter looked down, only to see that Mayday had once again been chewing on his pink robe like always, blabbering with spit foaming at her mouth.

“Oh Christ—“ Jess chuckled at the absurdity of the sight, a hand on her hip and the other tracing soothing circles on her belly; just as Miguel had been doing it with your hand the entire time.

Miguel pinched the bridge of his nose, a frustrated sigh knowing that the special moment between the two of you had been ruined by a bunch of nosy gremlins.

Your hand went up to remove his hand from his face, and even with how (incredibly) noisy the room became with banters and bickering thrown around; it was all quiet with him, only the stable heartbeats of you both reached your ears.

For once, your life was complete.

Miguel glanced into your eyes, the adoration swarmed your orbs; behind them, he could see far into the future where you both exist, always beside each other like glue to a paper—with you on his hips and his on yours.

And at last, Miguel had found what he had been missing from his life.

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Author's note: Thank you so much for this suggestion Anon, it's my first one ever and I hope i did not disappoint u.u, I LOVED writing this and it got me tearing up reminiscing some fictional (sexy) mexican man. Hope u enjoyed!

ps: pls excuse the spanish i only have spanishdict as my holy grail (pls also DO correct me if needed!)

654 notes · View notes

vonev · 2 years ago

Text

The Strings Of Webs (and the ones you’ve woven)

Miguel O’Hara x reader

Chapter 3: Guilt Won't Change Anything (but you can)

Words: 3.8k

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, angst, hurt/comfort.

Summary: Your life had taken a toll, now being chased by the entire society that consisted of Spider-people, and having to disguise yourself as a therapist to not get caught. Oh, did you mention that you could stick to walls now?

Part I Part II Part III

You’ve never felt such intimidation your entire life, being stared down by a room full of people you never knew—it was like high school all over again, except this time, your life was on the line. Your eyes dropped onto the various gazes that lingered on you, awaiting your first move.

“Fuck.” a whisper, from you, by you, to you.

Move, move, move, move—

And move you did not.

Your hands that settled to clasp together behind you in a polite manner felt incredibly sticky, so much so that you weren’t able to pull them apart; and now here you were, standing awkwardly in a room of people who most likely wanted you dead, failing at attempts of dismantling your fingers from being stuck together by a weird sticky substance.

“Hello everyone,” you let out a nervous chuckle, and rubbed your hands together to create a friction that would give you a chance at untangling the mess you had somehow created for yourself. “Lovely day, huh?” Your voice sweet like honey, and the casual approach of your tone had garnered you looks of confusion and small conversations sparkling between themselves, mostly at how foolish you looked.

But it was all part of your backup plan; the first one? Simple, run for your life—but you evidently had failed on that one. The second one? Use your charm and charisma to distract them.

“You guys are so awesome, you know, the whole ‘juggling a civilian life by day’ and ‘saving the entire city at night’ isn’t so easy—“ from the corner of your eyes, you could see the way some of them blushed and giggled to themselves, waving a hand at you in a collection.

From what little information you gathered about the Peter Parker in your world, he had been a normal student that had to conceal his secret identity of being the Spider-man to everyone around him; thus the shocking revelation of his profile caused a massive surge of conversations in your city.

You could use that to your advantage.

“Oh it’s nothing, really, I’m just—“ One Spider-person spoke up, waving away your compliment as they looked away, shy.

“Yeah, I’m pretty cool aren’t I?” The Spider-man donning a futuristic gear puffed his chest out, stepping forward as the sun reflected on his glossy suit, a shiny glimmer at the edges of his incredibly well-made gun that he carried.

Flattery seemed to be working very well, so you kept on, feeling the sticky fingers dissolving and returning to its normal state, painfully slow.

“I mean come on, look at yourself! You’ve got a cool suit and an even cooler person underneath that mask of yours—“ you were starting to get irritated now with how long your plan was taking, wanting to get away from the rather embarrassing situation you found yourself in.

‘Pshhh’s’ and ‘stoppp’ sounded amongst their large group,

Once the sticky substance had left your very fingers, you flashed a smile at them, and you gasped—catching all of their attention.

“Is that a fucking flying turtle?” Your arm flew up to point at the large floor to ceiling windows overlooking the overbearingly bright sky outside, your face a display of complete surprise.

It had been a stupid idea—but what was more shocking to you than the sentence you shouted was the fact that they all bought into it.

You saw the window of opportunity and quietly sneaked past most of the group as they all collectively let out a stream of ‘huh’ ‘what?’. Gazes still linger on the windows, blissfully unaware of your presence slipping away fast.

“There’s literally nothing there—hey, where did she go?” one of them spoke up, and suddenly the tension in the room skyrocketed as they now all searched for your appearance.

“I told you she was lying!”

“No you did not—“

“¡Ustedes son un montón de idiotas!” Miguel yelled, flailing as he frantically pointed his finger at you like a maniac, some looked at him in confusion as their eyes soon traced his fingertips and landed on you: who in the moment had almost succeeded in slipping away in your hunched form, having nearly closed the distance between you and the path you eyed.

This fucking guy.

They bolted after you, charging at you like wild animals would their prey, and obviously you were the prey. Truth to be told you had already grown exhausted from the games of catch the mouse you were playing; whether that’d be with Miguel, or the entirety of their society at your tail.

Your adrenaline pump returned tenfold, hundreds, even. The tingles on the back of your neck came back once more, this time more intense than before, trailing down your entire body and fueling it with heightened senses that had you clutching at air for life. Though you seemed to be able to swerve the abundance of Spider-people chasing you with ease as you could somehow perfectly predict their next moves, the back of your neck tingled whenever they struck an attack or swung at you. You heard numerous of them shout and yell, some in excitement and others fueled by the duty they had been given—to capture you by all the means they could get their slimy hands on.

In a panic, you made a last second turn as you ran toward a closed door, eyes falling on the unknowing Spider-janitor humming a sweet tune, earbuds in his ears jamming to the beat, standing in the way of your path. He saw you before he could hear your footsteps as you sweep at the few Spider-people with your feet and lunged your body to slide across the (to your luck) slippery floor, hitting the innocent janitor by mistake on your way out. A shout of ‘I’m so sorry’ was heard amidst the chaos of noises that followed your trail.

You’d have to write an apology note to him later—if you even lived after this.

From close by, you could see the hallway of sector 8 right in front of you, the directional sign flashed at you; and you knew instantaneously where to head toward.

The med bay.

In the span of time you were being chased down, you had already conjured a perfect plan that would (hopefully) catch everyone off-guard and lead them to somewhere else.

At this point, you could hear the way your blood rushed to every inch of your body, see the way your body unexpectedly reacted to everyone’s oncoming attacks, your limbs harmonizing as they carried you further down the humongous hall of sector 8, you were essentially flying with the speed you were at—being able to outran a bunch of Spider-people and their super strange assortment of gadgets had you thinking whether you have had too much energy drinks the days prior.

You felt like you could dominate the world with the amount of energy that surge your very core.

You yelped in surprise when you had barely dodged the incoming attack of what appeared to be a motorcycle being lunged at you by jumping over it, and ducking the next series of web shots coming from the diverse cast of Spider-people behind you. Them always barely getting close enough yet too far and out of their reach as they swung and bashed themselves into each other occasionally, their movements unsynchronised.

Your mind juggled the different ideas of escaping their pursuit, you settled on one that had you whisper prayers underneath your breath—

—was that a fucking cat in a Spider-man suit you just saw?

Apparently so, because next thing you know, it jumped on you causing you to trip over the back of your foot and plunge from the thin platform you were on into what felt like the abyss.

You fell.

Expecting your body to collide with a hard surface, you prepared yourself for the crash; only to be met with another surprise that had you questioning your entire existence.

You had stuck yourself to the wall somewhere along your fall, the same feeling of those yucky, sticky substances coming back to your fingertips. You wasted no time, testing out your luck, you did a sick backflip on the wall; landing on your feet and stabilizing yourself on the awkward change of surface—you continued on with your escape.

What was that?

Had you gone through your whole life unknowing that you were the next Spider-man? Because you had only ever seen him with the abilities you possessed now: the seemingly heightened senses, the mind-blowingly quick reaction speed, the tool to be able to just stick himself to any surface, defying gravity.

It was all happening to you.

You screamed when you saw a glimpse of T-Rex Spider-dinosaur thing catching up to your speed, shooting webs from its tiny little wrist at you.

If you had a dime for every single time you were attacked by an otherworldly being in what you assumed was a different world—you’d have dozens of them. Which was still strange, considering that you went your entire life not having those events occur to you until now.

You felt webs latch on your back, knocking you over the wall you were running across and catching yourself before your head could crash into the rock-hard ground, your stomach hitting the corner of the wall instead. You hissed in pain as you felt pain blossomed all over your torso, but your will stopped you from dwelling on it now—you could deal with it later, once you survive this increasingly concerning encounter.

You don’t expect to succeed in escaping—but you would give them a hell of a time trying to catch you.

After what felt like hours you finally entered the med bay, choosing to run on the ceiling, you rushed into the place as you turned around and chucked your shoe that you picked off of your foot at the group behind you. Your shoe had collided with the head of the Spider-man at the front line, causing him to topple over—a domino effect ensued; the people behind him tripping on each other’s bodies the more they fell on top of each other.

You giggled at the sight, ticking off a mental checkbox of ‘watching a bunch of Spider-people fall on each other’ in your newly configured checklist that you made the entire time you were being chased.

You had managed to fend off the ones on the ground, but the ones swinging toward you proved to be difficult to shake off, like an annoying fly going around and buzzing loudly in your vicinity.

Out of the blue, a flash of red and blue blinked at you—and you crashed into what felt like a brick wall for a body.

Ow, ow, ow—

Oh.

You wrestled your limbs against Miguel, a routine of actions you were growing familiar with, he had sent you both flying across the hall of medical bay; crashing into random objects in the way and barely evading the poor Spider-nurses that worked there as they screeched upon seeing you both blast through what felt like endless layers of walls, and soon being thrown onto the cold, tiled floor.

“You’re fucking annoying, you know that?” you narrowed your eyes, staring up at him as he proceeded to try and pin you down with all his might. He had his arms on your sides, his legs painfully holding pressure onto yours watching your useless efforts of pushing against his chest attempting to get away, like a panicking and helpless bug about to be devoured by another on the higher food chain.

He didn’t like that.

It wasn’t like he liked you ever.

Somehow, for some sickening reason, this man had it out for you.

Your chest heaved, looking up at him and into those peculiar eyes of his—or the lack thereof, considering they were hidden away behind a mask you so desperate want to rip off his face out of pure frustration and see the man beneath that had been the cause of your downfall ever since he arrived in your life. To your sheer surprise, his mask dissipated, revealing an unexpected face underneath—one that had you choke back a breath.

But to your horror it had been the last thing you wanted, because what was behind those masks were a pair of recognizable sharp, sizable fangs—and he was about to demonstrate what it could do; on you, just exactly how he had done it before. His arms switched to grab your shoulders, you had managed to scramble to retrieve what you assumed was a can of something and shoved it into his mouth, right as he opened them wide enough.

He bit his fangs into the can in annoyance and frustration that you had interrupted his plan, and immediately, a string of webs shot out and stuck themselves inside his mouth and fortunately, all over his entire body, too. Trapping him in his own demise. He could only groan and attempt to tear the webs away fast, using the sharp talons on his fingertips to aid, his body still sitting heavy on top of you as he continued to struggle against the restraint.

But whatever the gadget was, the webs have been proven to be a bitch to work with—incredibly tough and not flexible once deployed, causing Miguel to wiggle around like a helpless worm on the floor. You were glad he had been the one to be caught in the mess, you would’ve been done for.

You hadn’t even known that it had been a can of restraint webs that for some reason they kept around often, and why it was found in the medical bay of all places—but you took what you could get and wrapped your legs around his torso, and flipped the position, throwing his heavy weight off of you.

Unfortunately for him, he had underestimated the extent of your determination and the will to live. Now he was beneath you, and he didn’t need words; because his look of shock and the beaming rage in his eyes said it all.

“Has anyone told you?” You quipped, a smirk found its way to tug at the corner of your lips. “Biting is rude, Spider-man.”

You jumped off of him in an instant, flashing your newly acquired agility, looking back as you see the Spider-people soon approaching via the holes in the walls that you and Miguel had created. You scoffed, the growing pit of exhaustion nestled within your guts—if you don’t move now, you’d run out of the high and inevitably collapse under the amount of stress you had been putting your body through in a short span of time.

And so you ran.

But not before picking to survey the can, satisfying the curious itch in your brain.

Spider-catch: Webs restraint that hardens in just 5 seconds!

By the time the group caught up to the aftermath of the scene, they all paused momentarily at the sight of their boss writhing on the ground like a fish out of water. They were at a loss as to whether to continue the chase or help their leader—some even let out a few chuckles at the incredibly humiliating sight of Miguel and even sneaked a picture or two on their phones, after all, it wasn’t as though he got overpowered and outsmarted on the regular.

“Hey—oh,” Peter B. Parker arrived on the scene, Mayday cooing in the baby carrier, unknowing to the situation at hand as she grabbed her hands at Miguel’s direction wanting a hug from her uncle. “Wow, what a sticky situation huh?” He quipped, having to hold back from bursting out laughing at his incapacitated friend.

Miguel could only thrash and scream into the gag in his mouth, his face contorted with so much rage that he might just burst open like a balloon popping.

Meanwhile, you had managed to find yourself in some sort of waiting room inside an office, comfortable looking sofas decorated the area with a table full of knit-knacks, as you looked around you could spot the name tag on the only door there.

Spider-care.

Wow.

They all suck at naming things.

You leaned your one side of your ear against the door, attempting to listen in, you needed to know whether someone was in there; and luck was on your side today, because as you slowly turned the doorknob and peaked through, it was empty. You walked into the room, and gently pushed the door closed behind you as a soft ‘click’ could be heard. Walking toward the desk, you acknowledge the nicely put-together room, accompanied with drinks on the shelves and an air conditioning unit that hasn’t been turned off for some reason as well as the fancy lounge chair with an armchair in front of it—for the therapist, you assumed.

You approached the rather large desk, seeing the messy documents and files thrown across the surface as well as a futuristic set of functional screens sat on top. Opening the drawers you note the random assortments of more files and one drawer containing only erasers, but the last one—

—a suit for a Spider-man.

Your eyes shot up to the door next to the room, and upon opening it you realized it had been a closet full of professionally tailored office suits. You stood there with your hand on your hip and the other tracing the finely woven fabric of the suit, pondering.

And you being you, having known to curate some of the best ideas known to mankind, you felt a smile creeping up your face.

They wouldn’t even know.

Right?

Oh you couldn’t have been more wrong.

You made yourself comfortable in your new suit (that barely fit you), tugging the loose mask and using a rubber band to tighten it in the back, patting your newly adorned office suit that probably cost more than your life's worth of salary. You had crossed your legs to appear more professional than you were qualified for—which was none. This was all new to you—the disguise and having to play pretend in the very unfortunate case someone did come in with an appointment that you weren’t supposed to look after.

And of course, the universe plays a cruel joke on you—as it always does. Because the next moment a knock sounded from the door, and you discreetly cleared your throat, faking a voice as you commanded, “Come right in.”

It had been a run-of-the-mill Spider-man that you have probably seen hundreds of times before ever since you arrived here, wherever here was. Except this one was a mess, a sobbing one at that. You held back a sigh—almost forgetting the purpose of your disguise; to sell it. You nodded at the man still sniffing in front of you and gestured to him to be seated at the lounge chair. You scrambled for a random clipboard with a blank slate of paper and a pen as you walked toward the armchair meant for—well, you, but not you you.

You coughed, resetting the cogs that started to spin out of place in your brain and flashing the poor man a nervous smile which went unnoticed—he’d have a hell of a time on his appointment today, because his ‘therapist’ knew absolutely nothing.

“So, why are we here tod—”

“Doctor, I swear, I didn’t mean to get him killed,” and at that, he tried to contain the tears that threatened to burst out once more, attempting to appear civil in front of his therapist. You were more confused than ever, but nodded along and scribbled on the paper: man…crying…

“He was just in my arms and—and—”

“...Oh boy,” you whispered, more to yourself than anyone as you watched the poor guy shed another round of tears, you tapped your foot, impatient and anxiety-ridden, not being able to help him at all.

“He died in my arms just like that—” a sniffle, “I hadn’t even told him how much I love him,” and cue the next streams of sobs.

Your scribbling stopped upon hearing his situation, in an odd sense, his words struck you to your core.

Huh.

Maybe you and him weren’t so different.

“Well…Spider…man,” you start, the previously nervous stature of yours now turned into dust as you laid your clipboard on your lap and clasped your hands together, elbows on your knees as you lean in with your chin onto your knuckles.. He looked at you and gave you a small nod, listening in to what you had to say next.

“I know it’s hard for you…him dying and all,” your fingers intertwined, locking into each other as though you were trying to comfort yourself. “But I think you should rather look back at the fond memories—” the tears came alive, again, for the thousandth time. With him, it was a never-ending river. “And, you know, cherish them.”

Hearing your words, he lifted his head up, and you swear you saw the wet tear streaks down his mask. “I’m—but…how?” Sniff, “I’m ridden with guilt, I can’t look at his pictures the same anymore, or think about him the same.” His one hand reached up to rub at his eyes.

“You should try and not let the guilt eat you up, and I would know—I am a therapist after all.” That was more so to convince yourself. You cleared your throat, “Most of the time, our loved ones remember us fondly, and we should honor them in that way, too.” You nodded, feeling a growing lump fester inside your throat. “It’s not easy, being a superhero and having to deal with this many responsibilities.” A soft sigh left your lips, “Try and give yourself a break, Spider-man, you need it.”

“You should instead look around you and hold your loved ones close, your current friends, family, maybe even a special one that you hold dear to your heart—” You could sense the tiny, relaxed smile behind his mask, his once heavy sobs now only a few chokes of tears. “Do everything you want to before it's too late, because one day, you’ll truly have nothing left.”

The man stared into your eyes, he looked at you as though you had found the cheat code to solve his issue, but he continued to wipe his tears away—or at least pretend to. He nodded, his silent agreement louder than his words, “Yeah, well, my uncle did say with great powers—”

The door flung open, hitting the wall with a loud ‘bang’, and what—or rather, who stood in the entryway sent waves of dread down your spine.

Miguel.

That son of a b—

His eyes gleamed, a dangerous and terrifying sight to have someone twice your size pin you to your seat with only his gaze. “Comes great guilt,” he acknowledged the Spider-man with a subtle nod of respect, but his stare remained on you. “Isn’t that right—”

“Spider-woman?"

#spider-man: across the spider-verse #across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel x you #miguel o'hara x fem!reader #angst #hurt/comfort #spiderman 2099 #atsv miguel #spiderman

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vonev · 2 years ago

Text

The Strings Of Webs (and the ones you’ve woven)

Miguel O’Hara x reader

Chapter 2: Finding Meaning In A Meaningless World

Words: 3.1k

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, angst, hurt/comfort.

Summary: Oops, seems like you've been captured; what could you do now?

Part I Part II

White space.

Your eyes cracked open and it was all white everywhere; the floor, the walls (if there are even any), and the blank slate of the ceiling staring down at you, almost as though it pitied you.

For your whole life, you thought you cracked the code and found salvation in the life you led. You weren’t a stand-out, not at all, but you were content with that path you had carve for yourself—to live out a life full of no regrets, which is why you had dabble in so many things; impulsively signing up for a barista and a tutor job at the age of 16, graduating high school with flying colors and pursuing your degree in engineering with the goal of one day achieving a PhD in genetic engineering and bringing a positive change to the research.

Oh, and indulging in strange hobbies like people watching—it was how you learnt the behavioral patterns and responses of people and how you grew to be incredibly adaptable to your surroundings wherever you are. Came in handy when you had to deal with all types of customers during your line of work, too.

Miguel had been the first one to burst that bubble, reminding you that while you thought you had it all figured out; you really didn’t.

For one, he was the only individual you weren’t able to crack on the get-go. His stoic nature as though he had built himself a wall of defense over the years, and you hadn’t known that the walls bite, too.

You tried to understand him, really, you did. Which is why you had the naïve approach when he had been the one to intrude your home, giving him the benefit of the doubt as you watched him take your life away from you—and you couldn’t do anything about it.

You weren’t sure whether to resent him or simply let it all go, after all, what more could you have done?

Your memories played back in front of you like you were merely the audience who had been granted the pleasure of looking back at your own life in a lengthy cassette tape, inserted into the old-fashioned player on a casual Sunday afternoon—the screen showing moving cards that allowed you to see into your slice of life.

Some of the memories stuck you like a knife to your core; painful and unwavering, but others found themselves warming that void of your heart you had desperately begged to be filled with something, anything of worth.

The times when you had been a rebellious teenager, running around the back of the city where everything was nothing, with a gang of friends you made as you all grabbed the bags of cannons and ran from the cops when you guys were spotted vandalizing public properties with your vibrant graffiti across the already abused walls from long-term use.

It had been fun times, but like all things—it eventually had to end.

You soon found yourself in a different card, showing your disheveled appearance as you hunched over your desk, your thick glasses sitting on the bridge of your nose as you moved your fingers to fix the spot of your dress where the fabric had torn earlier when you ran into some thugs. Foot on the sewing machine and fingers gently pushing the fabric to be sewn as the sound of ‘whirring’ hit your ears, followed by a loud yelp as you had managed to prick yourself on the finger.

You hadn’t touched sewing machines since.

More memories came by and left like the people in your life—none of them truly stayed, and you hadn’t managed to grasp a single memory that was truly dear to you.

You broke down.

It hurt.

To have the last moments of your life grieving over what you lost and have not found, the life you led that you thought would’ve been enough—it was never enough. You never made enough friends, families never stayed, and money was always a concern.

To simply put, you were akin to a bubble that had been stuffed with air to no end, waiting for the day, the right moment to finally burst open and confront the reality that you were in.

You never thought you would be confronted with how miserable your life truly was until your death—but it was all too soon yet too late. The things you promised yourself you would finish by tomorrow, the projects you’ve abandoned over the years collecting dust bunnies in your drawers and files, the people who you told you would meet again yet never did because you were a coward.

You had the idea that you had found the cheat code to life living by yourself, doing everything by yourself—who would’ve thought it would end up pushing the people you cared the most about away, to never be seen again?

Your sobs could be heard from a mile away, sounding like a child who had experienced their first fall from their bike onto the hard, concrete ground that scraped their skin. Your heart was broken, you were broken. But you chose to swallow up in denial rather than reach out and fix the issues that plagued your mind, the people you wanted to see again, the views you would beg on your knees to be able to watch just one last time—

It had all been fruitless; your efforts.

At the end of the day, you had been the sole reason for your downfall, who else could you have blamed?

From behind you was a bright flash of white, you brushed away your tears as you turned around and saw the opening of a door with blinding lights coming from it.

This was it.

You hadn’t even been content in bidding goodbyes to anyone—to yourself. You still had so much more self-reflection to do, so much more forgiveness you had to grant yourself, and so much potential—yet it all amounted to nothing. You picked yourself up and started stalking to the door, ready to embrace your fate like a mother would a child.

And as you got closer, the lights engulfed your whole being, your soul, reeling you in with a promise that you could maybe start anew.

But you knew better.

And so with a deep breath, you dragged your feet and stepped into the door, feeling yourself slip and fall through what you thought would have been the floor—your screams and cries were left to deaf ears.

You woke up in a pool of sweat— your sweat.

Your eyes shot open and jumped up from where you laid, your heart beating at what felt like more than 40 miles per hour, trying to soothe the raging headache you could feel blooming in your head.

You were overwhelmed.

All the emotions came rushing in like tides, drowning you in feelings you hadn’t been ready to touch on, to learn, to feel. You felt around your body with your hands—solid, like you’ve never left.

Were you relieved? You had no idea.

But you were alive.

The throbbing ache on your neck cried, and you put your shaky hand on it, feeling the slight dent of where the fangs had punctured.

Him.

And now, you had finally recalled the events of what happened to you, how Miguel chased you down with ferocity you’ve never seen before—those eyes of his that still plague your mind till this exact moment, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered at the moment; albeit you could just be completely delusional.

Suddenly, you felt your intestines twist within themselves, your body contorted into a sheer amount of pain that had you screaming for your life in the small, confined cell; your cries falling deaf to the walls that seemed to hug your conscience, squeezing you tight—you felt suffocated, and you want out. Your body tore itself apart just to stitch itself back together again.

And all of that in just one second.

You pant, desperately trying to catch your breath, your head now infested by the seemingly endless amount of headaches that ensued.

It hurts to be alive.

And you questioned whether or not you would’ve gladly let your life be taken from you if it meant you didn’t wouldn’t have experienced this.

You coughed into your palm, and upon seeing the blood that trickled down your hand, you felt yourself losing grip on reality—you were so done. Turning your head around, you surveyed the room you were in; or rather, the cell you were in. Bare minimums were met, the toilet sat by the corner, the most definitely uncomfortable bed that would have your back cracking indefinitely if you had slept on it, and strangely, the small pot of flower that was put away in a corner. And the security camera—

—you scowled; the sight and knowledge of being observed had your nerves up in flames, aggravating you to no end. You stood up from where you sat and looked around for something to prop yourself onto, eventually spotting the small stool that found its way under the bed.

Getting to work, you picked up the stool and placed it right beneath the corner where the security camera sat, blinking innocently at you as though it served a justifiable purpose—watching over you, every single second you would be in here.

Unfortunately for you, you were just barely out of reach from tearing down the device yourself; jumping did not work, either. You sighed in defeat, yet not wanting to give up your pursuit of destroying the camera.

You took to the pot of flowers that sat in a corner, approaching it, you could tell from afar it was your favorite—forget-me-not, sitting in a typical looking ceramic flower pot. On the regular you would’ve been happy, flattered, even, that somehow someone knew the exact favorite of yours—yet in this situation, it only served as a mockery; as though it knew and wanted only your suffering. As if whoever had planted this here was hoping the flowers alone would make you forget where you are.

It hadn’t helped that you studied flower language, either, and whoever picked this one out did not take account of how ironic the selection would be.

You snatched the pot up from the ground, the flowers fluttered in unison, almost if they were begging you to not throw them. You bit back the bitter taste in your tongue, you usually would’ve never done this; but extreme situations called for extreme measures. You turned to stare into the camera yet again, catching a glimpse of its eye blinking back at you, as if questioning your next move.

Sighing, you positioned yourself slightly far away from where the camera was placed, fingers gripping tight around the curve of the flower pot, aiming high as you chucked the object with all your might. A loud ‘clunk’ could be heard when the pot made an impact; in an instant, the camera imploded within itself, causing fragments of the device to rain down onto the floor beneath it, rendering it completely useless.

You were caught off-guard by your strength—never once had you managed to successfully open a tight-lipped jar, so why was it now that you were able to destroy a camera only with the throw of a flower pot? Had security cameras always been that finicky? You tilted your head to the side in confusion, your brain racking around for answers as to why you gained a newfound strength. You slowly turn around and stare at the metal bars, ones that have tormented your mind for so long—“ no escape,” it screams.

But you ought to try, even if your efforts may be in vain; and especially considering you have a period of time when the camera is down and you were 99% sure no one was watching you anymore. You approached the bars, your fingers reached up to grasp around the cylinder shaped metal, tightening your hold as if your life depended on the cold, biting metal.

And in an ironic sense, it did.

You mentally prepared yourself—this could easily end up being a fluke and you would look like an amateur escapist, or you could very much be out of here instantly if you did succeed.

Oh, what the heck, what else do you have to lose, anyway?

Taking a gulp of air, you hunched over slightly and pulled.

You weren’t sure what you expected, but to be launched back from the strong pull of your own and landing on your butt, effectively bruising it as you let out a soft ‘ouch’ on the impact. You coughed, and the image in front of you flooded your mind—the bars; they were broken. Your eyes shone like never before, adrenaline ran through your body, ignoring the pain in your palms from when you dug your nails slightly too deep into the skin of it.

They were broken!

You had managed to snatch two of them out from the roots, the gap that was left in its demise wide enough for you to fit yourself through.

You felt giddy, and before you could lose the opportunity of escape—you took it.

You rejoiced, jumping in newfound joy as you threw your arms up in the air and ran across the vast hallway, and if you noticed; you would’ve recognized that you were the only one in there, with only one cell occupying the entire space of the hallway. You paid no mind to anything else and sprinted toward what you assumed would be the exit, the larger-than-life doors automatically slid open as you approached.

Your feet felt like the weight of feathers, carrying you down the empty hallway with ease and at the speed you’ve never experienced before. You could outrun a car—you were sure of it.

Light.

You could see the light shining through in-between the cracks, but instead of despair and your demise—you approached it with a flicker of hope swimming in your bloodstream, like a seemingly dead lighter cracking with sparks, lighting up your senses.

You were beyond delirious.

And upon reaching the gigantic doors, you ran down another large hallway before coming face-to-face with yet another door, this time, it hadn’t opened for you.

A frown found its way onto your features, your eyebrows furrowed as you slowed your pace and inspected the mechanics of the door. You could see the glow of a handprint security console to your right, the light from it illuminating the dark, unsuspecting hallway.

You shrugged, and settled for the good, old fashioned way: brute forcing it.

You laid both your palms flat against the surface of the door, taking a deep breath, you concentrated on your palms and pushed.

It only made a small dent this time around—but you were determined to escape, to see the light of the sky and the breeze that would greet you with fluttering touches. You kept pushing, and the more you pushed, the more you exhausted your body—you couldn’t stop now; not when the grasp of freedom is within the palm of your hands, quite literally. You could hear the screeching creaks of the hedges, a positive sign; because it would mean you were close to breaking it down. Your body pushing its limit against the weight of the door, prayers falling out along with your heavy breaths. And soon enough, you felt the weight of the door suddenly lessened tenfold, slowly falling over—and you almost tumbled down along with it.

It was excruciatingly loud.

Unbeknownst to you, Miguel had excused himself for a tea break when he saw you had woken up, his eyes restless as he hadn’t had a wink of sleep in days. So imagine his utter disbelief and surprise when he came back to his desk thinking he was able to have a small break, only to find that you had somehow managed to wreck the security camera he had installed prior to your arrival. He let out a string of curses in his mother tongue, “¡Ay, coño!” as his fingers worked their magic, the absurdity of the situation had gotten to him–

—this was the exact reason he told Peter B. Parker that he couldn’t catch a small rest every time he would suggest, because whenever he does, shit goes down.

Panic ensued, coursing through his entire fiber of being as he fiddled around with his keyboard with insane speed, the sound of ‘clicks’ and ‘clacks’ motivated him to find your whereabouts—you couldn’t have been far, after all, this was his building.

You rode the high of having pushed over a door that probably weighed a thousand times more than you; but you weren’t prepared for the sight that would meet your eyes next—

—Spider-people.

A lot of them.

So much so that you could feel a hundred pairs of eyes staring you down, as if to see what could be behind the collapsed gate. To their curiosity and confusion, the dust from where the door fell soon blown away by the wind, revealing your comically tiny figure compared to the large gate, how you had been the culprit that somehow brute forced her way through their security measures, some Spider-people eyeing you with a glint of amusement—the others? Couldn’t care less, you saw how one Spider-woman went back to enjoying a few sips on her cup of drink as she kept on walking.

Well.

You had caused a scene.

And this should be the part of the play where you run.

Suddenly, the speakers blared loud alarms, and you saw the way all of their watches’ screens turned on—revealing the oh-so familiar face you’ve grown to despise.

“All stations, stop what you’re doing right now, we have a prisoner on the loose—capture on spot by any means.”

It seemed as though the world stopped functioning for just that one second; your breath hitched, the entirety of the vast spaces that were occupied by the Spider-people dropped into complete silence–you could’ve sworn you heard someone clearing their throat somewhere amongst them.

“That’s her, right?” You could hear one of the Spider-men on the far right quip, scratching his head.

“Yeah I’m pretty sure–”

“Are you an idiot? Of course it’s her—” another one raised their voice, pointing at you and hopping in frustration.

“No that couldn’t be her,” you spoke up, your voice deepened, pretending to chime in as one of them while you cautiously side-stepped into the empty hall closest to you.

“Puta madre,” Miguel’s words rang through everyone’s ears, “It is her, get her now!”

All at once, the dozen eyes of the Spider-people landed on you, some of them gearing up to prepare for the chase, the others stared you down with what you would assume to be murderous gaze. You gave a small, innocent wave with a nervous smile worn on your face as someone in the back shouted.

“What are you guys doing?! Get her!”

You felt your heart leap out of your chest.

…maybe you should’ve stayed inside your prison cell.

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vonev · 2 years ago

Text

The Strings Of Webs (and the ones you’ve woven)

Miguel O’Hara x reader

Chapter 1: The Beginning Of Something New (and something unknown)

Words: 3.7k

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, angst, hurt/comfort.

Summary: So—just imagine, one day you’re sitting in your home, enjoying your day off of the usual stressful work you had, only for a mysterious asshole to appear and snatch you away from your home, your safe space.

Not only that, but he decided to put you in his sick version of a jail and start demeaning your entire existence in front of other strangers that, for some reason, are replicas of each other. Something something Spider-men and the Spider Society, the entire safety and security of the multiverse on your hands, and that you were the cause of everyone’s downfall.

Yeah, that’s your life now.

Part I Part II

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“—be wary of glitches around you, contact your local hospital immediately if you or your family encounter symptoms or signs of glitching—“

“—whoever decided we should allow kids to have free lunches in school doesn’t realize that the school needs to be fed too! This is why—“

“—and I said, boom! Spider-man, I caught you red-handed!”

“Spider-man spotted running around the city terrorizing civilians with whipped cream, but witnesses said it was a hoax by some random troll—“

“—on tonight’s news of Daily Bugle, Spider-man has been found dead—“

You halted.

The notion of mindlessly clicking next on the different channels paused when you heard the key words, ‘Spider-man’ and ‘found dead’.

To say you were shocked was an understatement of the century, Spider-man out of all the people in the entire universe was declared deceased should not simply gloss over everyone’s mind.

Your jaw hung open, the words still dancing in your mind like lovers on a weekend honeymoon trip, holding onto each other yet under the surface, something else was brewing.

Fuck.

You wanted to seek out Spider-man, so how are you supposed to, now, if he is dead?

You gritted your teeth out of pure frustration, you had hoped you’d catch him in his act of swinging around your part of the city, just being the friendly neighborhood Spider-man as he always usually does.

You are desperate for an answer to a question, nervously biting down on the skin around your nail as you stood up and paced around your living room for a solution.

Bring him back from the dead? No.

Frankenstein him and pray he would have a sliver of his memory left? No.

Pray? No, God never answers, anyway.

You scratched the itchy spot where the spider bit you earlier, pondering over the chances of you being able to summon his spirit through a summoning ritual in the book called ‘Satanism for beginners: dummies edition’ you found at a random thrift shop earlier.

You weren’t in a rush per se, but then again, Spider-man not being alive meant you would never be able to satiate your raging curiosity.

You shrugged, and mourned for Spider-man in your special little way: making yourself a bomb ass dinner and popping a brand new champagne bottle in his honor, as a salute to his service and him as a whole.

After all, Spider-man would’ve wanted this. You doubt he would want people to gather around and shed tears on his grave rather than share happy encounters together with each other in his memories.

You were only assuming, but he did seem like a sweet kid from the handful of run-ins you had with him.

Letting out a deep sigh, you let your feet carry you to your kitchen, rummaging through the fridge in search of the barely expired package of steak shoved into the far back. You inspected the meat sitting inside the packaging, noting how it was starting to turn a grey-greenish hue. You debated on even cooking it and risking your health, but your stomach grumbled the moment you did and you decided against the better of it and made the meal anyway.

You let the well-seasoned steak sit in the pan with melted butter and rosemary, casually basking it in melted butter once in a while with a spoon with the garlic clove sitting on the side, your other hand holding a glass of champagne from the bottle you popped, taking leisure sips in-between your cooking.

Despite its flaws, the smell of the steak was heavenly.

You give yourself a pat on the back and proceed to nicely decorate your plate with the cut-up steak, bringing it to the living room along with the bottle of champagne for more of it later.

“—Spider-man’s identity has been revealed upon his death—“

On the screen, it showed a picture of a promising, rather young looking man, with messy blonde streaks of hair adorning his face and a nice smile with a glint of joy in his eyes.

He looked like he could’ve been anyone’s kid, and that thought saddened you. You decided to switch to Netflix and brought the blanket over your lap as you leisurely browse the catalogue for what seemed like eternity, your steak slowly going cold.

“Holy fuck, nothing at all.”

You settled for watching a 4-hour video essay on YouTube instead, slowly munching your steak away and huddled up in your comfy blanket.

As if the universe had it out for you, a bright orange glow suddenly took over your tiny apartment space in mere seconds, you snapped your head toward the source and immediately shot an arm up to cover your eyes, the lights were borderline blinding. You tried to sneak glances toward what could’ve caused the commotion, and your heart almost popped out of your chest at the sight of a random portal-looking hole in the middle of your apartment.

And out came the hole was possibly one of the biggest men you’ve seen, standing at a staggering 6 '8 stature you would think he had been an otherworldly entity. You could’ve sworn you saw him tore through the fabric of space and time with what seemed to be blades built into his elbow.

And his suit…

He looked like a Spider-man, with the obvious spider symbol embedded into the front of his skin-tight suit. He was a tall wall of pure muscles, looking nothing like the Spider-man your city has grown to know and love, but how could he be Spider-man—

—if Spider-man is dead?

You looked into his gaze, a fit of pure rage, disdain and disgust could be felt from where you assumed would be his eyes. After all, they say eyes are the windows to one’s soul. His gaze held onto yours as he slowly approached where you sat, you felt a shiver down your spine that spoke to your soul. And it wasn’t as though he had a face to gauge his emotions by—his posture and the big, intimidating steps he took said it all.

This was terrifying, he was terrifying.

Your breath hitched once he got close enough to see the hair standing at the back of your neck like a frightened cat.

Was it hot in here, or was it just you? Or maybe him?

You had no clue, but you could feel yourself starting to sweat as though you had just run a marathon, and your senses were on high alert with how close the man was to you, your flight or fight alarm blaring like a thousand horns in your head.

He was not good news.

But you couldn’t move.

You felt yourself frozen up, and you wish you had been better at responding because you could’ve, and are probably about to be murdered. You took a gulp of breath, suddenly the feeling of your saliva going down your throat felt more vivid than ever in the small confined space of you and him.

You could see the way he scrunched up his nose with the moving wrinkles of his mask, pulling back from staring you down.

He diverted his attention to the watch on his wrist, fiddling with it before a hologram appeared in mid-air like some sort of Sci-Fi freak show, and a small lady appeared on the screen.

“What is it you want now, Miguel?” She groaned, seemingly annoyed at his advance of calling her out to do whatever he wanted at the time.

“Don’t give me that attitude, Lyla, pull out the files from yesterday,” he wasted no time biting back at her, almost as though he would start a fight with her right then and there if he wanted to.

From where you sat, with your legs tightly close to your chest and your blanket now on the floor, you still held dear to the plate of steak you were enjoying half a minute ago before everything conspired, your grip like a super-glue on the fork you held. You noted the rather adorable appearance of the girl, Lyla, was it?

She had a full body fur coat on with what you were certain was a pair of large, heart shaped glasses sitting on her tiny nose bridge.

“Nuh-uh,” she quipped, staring at her nails like she was bored of what Miguel had to say.

“Lyla.”

“Nope.”

“I swear to God—“

“Good luck with that, Miguel.”

You found it comical how they went back and forth with each other, you couldn’t tell if Miguel was joining in on the fun or he had been genuinely annoyed—and for all you know (and for what you couldn’t) he seemed to lean in on the latter. To be fair, he didn’t strike you as the type to bring fun into the party with what he had shown so far.

“Lyla, could you please show me the files from yesterday,” he paused for a few seconds, as if the next words out of his mouth hurt him physically to say out loud, “with a cherry on top.”

Lyla seemed satisfied with that, you could hear her giggle. “Already on it,” and swiped her hand across the air as multiple screens appeared, some with more content than the others, but amongst all the mumbo-jumbo of information you saw one thing that struck curiosity further into you—

—it was a profile of your face, and from what you saw, you looked absolutely amazing in the picture.

You let out a sigh of relief, at least they had the decency to pick a nice picture of you.

At least when you die, you’ll die looking pretty.

Miguel snapped his head to you when he heard your sigh, the pretend-eyes on his mask narrowed to a dangerous slit.

“Don’t think you’re getting away with this, criminal.”

You don’t know what you were supposed to feel with the way he bit his words at you, hissing, almost. But you felt quite offended—and you had a backbone unlike anyone else that would’ve been in your situation.

“You—you did not just threaten me,” You fought his gaze with the determination and anger in yours, and for a flash of a second, you saw the way his eyes widened—almost as though he was surprised you would rebut him. “You come into my home, ruin my nice dinner, and now you act like I just annihilated your entire family!”

You had placed your dinner and glass of champagne onto the IKEA coffee table in front of you, choosing to cross your arms over your chest as you scoffed in his direction, staring him down (or up?) like a disappointed parent at a teacher-parent meeting conference.

His lips pulled back in a snarl, and if he hadn’t had any ounce of self-restraint; he would’ve been pouncing on you with force you never even knew were possible. But to him, you only sound like a child whining about not getting their favorite toy—which greatly amused him, considering what you have done.

“Funny coming from someone who terrorized multiple dimensions,” he scoffed, inching his face closer to yours by towering his massive figure over you, an act of intimidation meant to catch you off-guard and make you fear him.

But what he didn't know was that you worked at Starbucks—so nothing, and you mean nothing could scare you like the ladies did when they’re on their fifth run of Starbucks of the day, irritated from their job and demanding custom drinks that made you cry on your lunch break. You merely glanced at him, your face stoic and devoid of any signs of fear.

“Listen here, big guy,” you jabbed a finger at his chest, caught off guard by how unexpectedly soft the fabric of his suit was—you could vividly feel the tensed muscles beneath them. “You don’t get to strut into my home via some strange portal and tell me what I did wrong, and for your information, you sound like a massive idiot going on about your ‘multidimensional threat’ bullcrap.”

By the end of your rant, he had already concluded that you were going to be a pain in his ass; and for that, he reached his arm out to grab the wrist you pointed at him with, squeezing it, serving as a silent threat.

The kind that wouldn’t end well if you don’t listen.

And to his dismay, you showed no signs of discomfort, only an increased amount of annoyance he could spot in your eyes as you tried to snatch your wrist away from his steel grip but ultimately failed.

“Listen here, cariño,” he said, sarcasm dripping off of him like honey. “You don’t get to dictate who’s in control after all that you’ve done,” his hold on your wrist now tightened tenfold, and he relished in the discomfort he could see when your face contorted, hearing your hiss of pain.

“Dickhead,” you grumbled underneath your breath, the frustration, annoyance and anger boiling in the pit of your stomach at the sight of him—you held back your tongue from hurling more insults his way. And to your dismay, he caught what slipped between your lips, his face getting closer than ever and you could feel the fan of his breath on the tip of your nose.

“Wanna repeat that?”

“I said—“ you prepared yourself for an attack, a foot to his abdomen would do it, just one quick move and he would be out of your hair as you flee from the perpetrator. “Fucking,” …anytime now—

—“Dickhead!”

In an instant, your foot connected with his abdomen, and you kicked. The next few seconds were a blur—his eyes widening at the feeling of your foot on his torso and the actual impact it had. You were frightened at the way he was pushed off of you and into the wall behind him, the strength of your kick causing the wall to give in from the sudden pressure. You could’ve sworn you saw the massive dent in the walls when he slid down—but you wasted zero milliseconds pondering any thoughts you may have.

As he slowly gathered his senses, you were already out of the apartment, bolting.

The adrenaline started to kick in as you practically ran for your life like you’ve never had before—that was because you didn’t have to until now.

You didn’t have to turn around to hear how Miguel had busted through your apartment window, the way the ground shook (or was it just you?) as you felt the weight of his limbs and how they carried him fast.

He was approaching.

And God, for once in your life did you wish you dead.

You would figure out how to explain to your landlord about the broken window and crumbled walls later—for now, survive.

But somehow, you outran him—choosing to swerve your way past the innocent bystanders in a zigzag manner as you yelled ‘sorry’ and ‘forgive me’, if you had learn anything from watching animal documentaries, it was to escape predators by confusing it thus your zigzag marathon.

You were frantically praying to something out there that your strategy was working, because if you paid attention, you would feel the way he was borderline breathing down your neck, toying with you. Your heartbeat thumped in your ears, edging the thin thread of going deaf with how loud it was.

The people you rushed past all collectively gasped and ogled, some even cheered, and you could just tell he was on your tail.

That’s no good.

Your eyes noted the sight of an entry to an alleyway, it was your only chance to survive his borderline murderous attempt at capturing you as you skillfully took a swift turn into the alleyway, your back immediately met the wall as you tried to calm your haggard breaths—you did not want to be spotted by him.

A flash of blue and red rushed past the corridor where you hid, and after a few seconds of no signs of activity of him being near you—you let out a small sigh, one that you had been holding on to dear life.

If you had known any better, you would’ve spotted the sight of his feet above you at the top of the building, crouched as he watched your every move—the way your body suggested your relaxed state and how you strut deeper into the alleyway; big mistake, in his humble opinion.

With the thought in mind that you had effectively avoided Miguel, you slowly caught your breath, your chest heaving as you wiped away the huge amount of sweat that gathered on your forehead. You started chuckling, in your adrenaline high, you weren’t able to hear the way Miguel stealthily fell on a balcony closer to you, how he dropped behind you without as much as a ‘thud’ coming from his soft landing.

To you, you just had the chase of your life—and to your utter surprise, you managed to swerve off a man of a stature and agility like his; it was enough to warren yourself a pat on the back as you felt a smile tug at your lips.

“Having fun?”

Shit. Shit. Double shit.

You were a goner.

Your senses were off the charts now, tingling like a spider crawling all over the back of your neck, sending a shockwave of shivers down your spine. You could smell him, that or your senses were starting to betray you. For a flash of a second what felt like claws tugged at your ankle, causing you to tumble over onto your stomach as you let out a loud yelp in pain.

He had caught up to you, to your unfortunate self, evident by the weight of his foot pressed against the small of your back, applying an immense amount of pressure that caused you to cry out in pain.

“Fucking—how?!” You shouted, your throat hoarse from all the yelling and screaming activities you had been conducting, your high slowly wearing off as your mind instantly jumped into a new stage of emotions you’ve never truly felt before: the utter fear that sent chills down your very core, the burning fire running amok in your nerves, and the loud banging headache you felt when you were knocked down.

“You let your guards down,” Miguel found utmost amusement in the way you squirm underneath his foot, your arms struggling to catch a hold onto something, anything. To him, it was just an ordinary chase on the daily he would frequently experience, running off of the high that it gave him as he bent over to look into your gaze; filled with so much hatred and disdain—and all for him.

It excited him, almost.

But to you, having led the most normal life ever of an average person, being chased by a multidimensional superhero who could traverse the universe within a flick of his wrist was never part of your scheduled programs. And at this moment, you had no idea what to believe in anymore.

The universe was playing a cruel joke on you, and they are laughing.

You caught his gaze and could note the way his pretend-eyes glistened with a bundle of emotions: rage, annoyance, a murderous intent, and excitement. All seething and hissing underneath that stupid mask of his. If he was honest to himself, the situation was the most fun he had in a while.

“Next time,” as he got closer to you, his voice turned into a mere whisper, “Try not breathing so hard, cariño.”

With what you would assume was your death approaching in the figure of a bear for a man—his mask dissipated within an instance in pixels, his face now bare to you as he only got closer and closer, your eyes blown wide open with fear and the pace of your breathing picking back up into a brutal pace as anxiety swelled in your chest.

He had lifted his foot off of your back only to engulf you in his pair of strong, tree trunks for arms. You watched the way his jaw hung open, the light bounced off his fangs, the glint almost blinding you as you merely laid there, spent and mentally exhausted in his arms.

This was it.

This was how you would die.

In a game of predator and prey—and you were the prey that thought they got away.

And for the last few seconds of what you assumed to be the end of your life—you struggled against his hold, yet no attempts of yours were successful at feigning him off of you. He had the audacity to chuckle at your effort, like they meant nothing to him.

Because they didn’t.

To him, you were just an average, unfortunate prey becoming the meal he would treat himself to every night as a reward for his hard work having slaughtered you for his satiations; that being hunger and self-fulfillment.

And because he eyed you like one.

It was hard to miss the red glow in his iris, dominating the ring with his pupils blown out, looking like a crazed man with an addiction—and he had found his drug.

“Relax, you’re only making it harder for yourself.”

He brushed aside your hair, exposing the vulnerable spot of your neck—you could feel the way the tip of his fangs teased the bare skin on the back of where your neck and shoulder connected in a junction, taking his sweet time as his fingers traced up the sides of your arms, you could feel the bruises starting to blossom on your skin in response to his iron-like grip.

And before you knew it, he sunk his fangs into you, breaking your skin as you could only struggle even more so in his hold in pathetic attempts at escaping.

It burnt.

Oh God it burnt so fucking bad.

If you had thought your nerves were on fire before, they were quite literally bathing in a pool of lava by now. The venom has slowly integrated itself into your blood flow, inviting itself in like that annoying neighbor’s kid you never liked barging into your home.

You felt downright violated.

But you were helpless.

And for what felt like the last moment of your life, you could only sob, feeling the bubble of tears bursting and swimming down your reddened yet ghastly-looking cheeks like fish in the ocean. Consciousness slowly started to seep away like grasping at sands—little by little, they would be gone. Your vision gradually declined on you every second.

And along was what little dignity you had left as you slumped in Miguel’s arms, lifeless.

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