animalic (4)
← chapter three // series masterlist
pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader
rating: mature
word count: 2.5k
summary: things don't go according to plan
warnings: enemies to lovers, light bondage, sexual tension, arousal, choking, canon-typical violence, dub-con elements, paralysis, suicidal ideation, self-hatred, angst, miguel o'hara is not nice, no use of y/n
notes: y'all. i promise we are getting somewhere. i promise. lmk what you think tho cuz i thrive off comments
“Lyla?”
While you’re – regrettably – unable to make good on your promise to phase through the floor, you catch yourself hoping it splits to swallow you whole instead. It certainly would be a better alternative to the purgatory you currently face.
“Lyla? Come in, Lyla.”
Feeble rays of light filter in through the weathered windows, their reach slowly growing as night surrenders to the wakings of dawn. Variegated motes bob lazily, suspended upon the streams of sun, quivering back and forth between a range of countless colours. Paralysed and splayed atop the frigid, hard ground of the empty store-lot, you try counting them all for lack of anything else to do. Pink, green, orange, gold. You wonder what force chooses the order, whether it’s sequenced to fit some plan of high design.
“¡Ay, coño–”
Slowly, you let yourself scrutinise other things, too. The scent of neglect that permeates the stale air, particularly pungent around the entryway. You trace the yellow-brown mass that runs along the door’s hinge edge, and attribute the vaguely muddy smell to rot. Then, it’s the glint of shattered glass, winking at you from lost corner’s of the room. They look narrow, far too inconvenient to clean out with a standard broom. You revel in the understanding that whoever had been in charge of scouring the wreckage appears to share your habit of quick quitting.
It’s only when your vision begins to water do you divert your attention to the situation at hand. Last you needed to blink, it took half a minute for the command to register, and even longer for the motor neurons in your eyelids to act. By the time you eventually got them closed, you’d already started contemplating whether his venom would be the death of you.
(Lame end to a lame life.)
It didn’t take a genius to figure out, though. You know that, if he wanted to, he could’ve kept imbuing you with the substance until your body was no longer able to perform the basic mechanisms necessary to sustain life. He could have kept his fangs lodged deep into your neck – encroached upon your stuttering veins, bathing in the ichor that flowed – until he felt you go limp, concentrated with his poison. It would have been a denouement to his problems – right there, easy, sandwiched between him and the wall – but it wasn’t. Because he didn’t.
Just like he didn’t let you plummet to your death that day at the quarry, or strangle you while you were unconscious back at HQ.
So, no. It doesn’t take a genius to acknowledge that Miguel O’Hara doesn’t want you dead. As he fiddles with his malfunctioning watch, you endeavour to come up with a divisive list as to why that is.
One: you’ve charmed him. The notion is almost funny enough to elicit a snort, given that you weren’t cast in an immovable anathema.
Two: he’s a good guy. Somehow, this option seems less viable to you than the first.
You find your third prospect slinging from the threads of a fraying memory.
You’d been a student, before – attending college at a reputable institute close to home. It’s easy to forget what it was like most nights: cramped in that two hundred square foot dorm, borderline losing it as you tried to validate your claims on matter-antimatter rockets and their potential contribution to interstellar travel. There were concerns of total annihilation, and sourcing, and an array of other limitations – that which you’d dedicated your academic career to drawing up proposals for. It’s laughable now; the stress and theories blurring together to form a vague picture of your long-lost ambition.
You have a hard time conjuring what exact future you were so hopeful for, but the lamp by your roommate’s bed remains clear in your mind’s eye. Warm-white, comforting. For as long as you were awake, tapping away at a never-ending thesis, she’d work through the latest volume of her beloved murder mystery anthology.
It was the night before your start at an internship with Alchemax that the series came to a close. Her aggravated screams still ring fresh behind the clouded pane of time. You had thrown your pillow at her in a belligerent plea.
(You wanna elaborate?
The suspect behind every case was shot!
So? Isn’t that a good thing?
No, dumbass. It means the detectives fucking lost! They’ll never be able to prove how right they were.)
Admittedly, you know very little about Miguel, but you have an idea of what matters most to him. It’s entirely possible, then, that he refuses to kill you for what your death would do to negate his efforts thus far.
“Oye,”
Your mental traipse is reeled in when the devil himself snaps at you. Steadily, your pupils roll up to look at him.
“I need your day pass.”
You continue to stare. His jaw clenches.
“Because of your little headbutt outside, my watch is busted. My only hope of fixing it is by using the parts of your day pass.”
Is he asking? Does he expect you to respond?
You can’t fool yourself into believing he’s that ignorant.
But Miguel stays on standby, scanning your lax form. He takes in the webs that wrap around your waist, branching out to your thighs and shoulders, restraining your arms behind your back. When his eyes meet yours again, the reluctant question you see glaze over them pushes the recognition to the forefront of your mind.
He is asking.
Or, notifying – making sure you’re aware of what he’s about to do.
God, you wish you could speak. You’ve never come up with so much to say without promptly blurting it out before. Irritation and amusement rip at one another within you, locked in a brutal dogfight fated to have no real winner. How hypocritical of him to pick and choose when your treatment takes priority over his mission; you’re littered in marks that all point to his prior negligence of such subtle humanity. Four stabs above your wrist, a pounding migraine at your temple. If it weren’t for your paralysed stomach, you’re certain you would have regurgitated your innards as consequence to the concussion he’s given you.
But, oh.
How funny would it be if you agreed. To let him discover the harrowing truth for himself.
Deliberately, you muster an affirming blink.
Miguel's weariness escapes him in a heavy sigh, the weight of it etched upon his expression. Thick brows furrow, evidence to his age creasing between them, before he sinks down with a purposeful grace and carefully flips you over. Despite the resentment that festers in your gut, you can’t help but hiss a mental sigh of relief at the service it does to your elbows, which had begun throbbing in response to the pressure that the hardwood floor exerted.
From that point onward, it becomes a guessing game of sorts; you can’t see him, nor are you able to tilt your head and confirm your assumptions as to what he’s doing. Deprived of your most reliable sense, the others strain to fill the gaps in your knowledge, drawing upon every available cue; the sound of his miniscule grunts, the warmth of his skin – that which penetrates through his gloves. You’re alarmed into attempted action when the characteristic rip of his claws equipping pierces the strained air – your body powerless in addressing the adrenaline it secretes – until the spider-man touches his forefinger to your palm.
“Relax.” He all but commands. “I’m just cutting the webs off.”
You’ve no reason to trust him, of course, but you can’t exactly pitch a complaint right now.
(Perhaps it’s in your best interests to ignore how easy he’d been able to read you.)
A few moments of jostling ensue, before he withdraws with a curse. Your arms remain ensnared in the tight restraints, the ache that smarts your skin all too real for the continued predicament to be illusory. An assortment of jokes occur to you.
Can’t get it up?
In your peripheral, you catch him weighing his options. The pause is laden with a sticky indecision – this change in placement, you realise, exacerbates the already difficult task of breathing for you.
While you fixate on that fact, he seems to come to a conclusion. With one swift manoeuvre, he positions himself astride your thighs, straddling the deadened extremities, and reaches forward to push your wrists apart. You’re quick to catch on to his intention, how the arrangement gives him better leverage, yet–
His groyne presses into the swell of your ass, worsening with every bid to sever the webbing. It’s impossible not to notice, especially not when the seam of your jeans start to shift in tandem, smoothing over your clothed core. It’s not exactly ecstasy, far from it — no rainbow blooms, tingling gold from your toes to your nose – but it’s been ages since you were last roused like this. Enough for it to feel brand new, a wrapped curse in a prim little bow, eager for all that you shouldn’t be.
And… Christ–
And then he unfastens the lines around your arms, and runs his hands up your skin. It’s not gentle, nor is it brutish, but you can feel his desperation escalating. His touches grow progressively antagonistic, kneading your palms up to your shoulders, patting down to the shallow pockets of your pants. You’re searched like you hold the key to his success – you suppose that, in some oddly comical way, you do. And it should be upsetting, blasphemous.
But you’re no sacred thing. You’d laid down that possibility a long time ago.
No. You’re foul, questionable at your best, and erupt into goosebumps over the ruthless grip of a man who hates your very soul. You’re a deeply detestable spirit, truly, but a detestable spirit who has just managed to get one up on Miguel O’Hara.
He throws you back around, wrapping his hands around your throat. His snarl is primal, maturated in acrid anger.
“Where is it?”
You’re sure that, in some alternate reality, your face is stretched in a shit-eating grin.
“Where’s the fucking day pass?”
Your satisfaction is short-lived.
You’ve never been one to notably detest humiliation. It’s productive – healthy, even – in smaller doses; a fitting consequence for those who you deem deserve it. Yet, as you find yourself unceremoniously hoisted over Miguel’s shoulder, forced into a meandering parade through the streets of New York, you breach into uncharted territory – a threshold where your tolerance encounters its breaking point.
He makes no effort to soften his strides, unmoved by the idea of providing even a shred of respite for your susceptible self. If anything, it feels as though he deliberately seeks out the harshest terrain, silently chastising your earlier defiance in the most passive aggressive manner known to man. He’d reinforced your constraints before marching out on this fruitless venture, and now you bobble uselessly, backside pointed upward, anchored solely by the meaty arm around your knees.
At least you’ve regained control of your mouth.
“D’stroyed it. Gone. Dearly d’parted–”
“If you’re going to run that little mouth, then make it helpful.”
“M’bein’ helpfoo,” you start, straining your weakened vocal cords in an effort to mock him. The grip of paralysis may have slackened its hold, but neurotransmission remains at an all time, sluggish low. In all actuality, it astounds you that he can even begin to decipher your words from the tangled murmurs they become.
“You had it on at the convenience, and a little bit afterward. You can’t expect me to believe that you dealt with it while running for your life.”
Running for your life. Sure.
Displeasure sparks at the confidence he imbues in his assumption.
“Escoos m– hnngh–” A sudden jump of stress robs you of breath, your stomach plummeting alongside the rapidly distancing ground. As Miguel propels himself above the city skyline, effortlessly evading the crowded streets via a web he’d grappled to an adjacent building, you’re confronted with a stark reality – that this is the very first time you have ever, and likely will ever, experience what it’s like to swing.
It’s exhilarating and nauseating all at once, gravity relinquishing its command as you transcend the confines of the physical, soaring through some reality where law loses significance. If it had been you, your arms and skill and jurisdiction, you’d never come down. But maybe that’s why it isn’t; maybe your life was meant to lead up to this, and only ever this.
(Not antimatter technologies or heroic conquest. Yeah, this feels more fitting.)
Your skin prickles. You phase through the sturdy frame that’s held you up so far, and plummet from its grasp.
Slicing through the boundless sky, you’re accompanied by a profound tranquillity. It isn’t absolute – fear still gnaws at your core, its presence undeniable. But, amidst the churning horror, your instincts are fainter than they ought to be. They whisper in a subdued tone, overshadowed by conflicting conceptions. One, being the inference you’d drawn earlier about how – whether you like it or not – Miguel would not let you die.
Another, quieter suspicion hints toward the full reality of your… relief.
Though, of course, you’re right about the former. Tree-trunk biceps wrap around your waist, pulling you close as he slingshots off to a nearby rooftop. You flop into him, a ragdoll to the overwhelming force of his agitation, and squeeze your eyes shut at the hints of patchouli permeating from under his mask.
You don’t have to face the gospel just yet.
“¿Qué mierda? Eh?” He shouts, propping you up against a ledge. “What the fuck was that?”
You don’t have an answer for him. Your heart lurches, catching up to the urgency at hand, striking on the hollow bars of your ribcage to some reckless tune. It’s only amplified by the torrent of blood distending through your system, throbbing at your temple, rushing by your ears.
What the fuck, indeed.
He damns you, it seems, with a fervour that breaches the heavens, as if willing God Himself to commit his plea to eternal memory. Or not; truthfully, you can’t tell. With the roar of your own snowballing thrill, it becomes impossible to discern the sequence of interrogations that explode from him. The world around you fades to the background, your preoccupancy consumed by the disquietude it leaves in its wake.
Your sense is only validated a minute later when, two blocks away, an ear-piercing shriek ruptures your dissociation.
Miguel stiffens, slowly turning to face its source.
𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘈𝘙𝘈𝘊𝘏𝘕𝘖-𝘏𝘜𝘔𝘈𝘕𝘖𝘐𝘋 𝘗𝘖𝘓𝘠-𝘔𝘜𝘓𝘛𝘐𝘝𝘌𝘙𝘚𝘌 𝘋𝘈𝘛𝘈𝘉𝘈𝘚𝘌:
Earth-15 – analysed, marked as closed.
Spider-totem – The Spider: soon after being bit by his radioactive spider, convicted felon Peter Parker merged with Earth-15’s variation of the carnage Symbiote.
Notes – do not engage, at any cost.
chapter five →
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the seven + a few others future headcanons
percy:
becomes a high school teacher
teaches high school marine biology (idk how it is in other schools but when we hit sophomore year we got to choose different bio classes ie: marine bio, ag bio, med bio + regular bio)
also teaches the mythology elective and is the swim team coach
annabeth:
we already know this queen is an architect with obvious inspiration from greek architecture
learns how to make blue food for percy and their kids from sally
has traveled all over the world looking at different architecture
learns the basics of many languages so shes able to communicate with the locals
her and leo team up to build a small school near camp half-blood for year rounders so everyone can learn consistently but dw they get summers off
piper:
love her but shes a nepo baby
she doesnt act like it tho
”are you tristan mcleans daughter?” “who?”
loves her dad to bits but does not like being seen out in public by the paparazzi
marries shel, they dont have kids tho, neither of them want to bring any into the world especially with america’s downfall and the government erasing women and poc rights
is basically leos big sister atp
leo:
him and calypso dont last, maybe a year and a half in they split bc calypso wants to explore the world and leo is very emotionally unstable and calypso has a hard time understanding
they end on good terms but dont ever talk unless its with a group of friends
he goes into a trade to become a mechanic and owns his own shop
starts smoking cigarettes/vaping
his friends dont really approve but they understand he cant quit just yet as hes not in a mental space to do so
goes to therapy with a psychologist whos a demigod that specializes in grieving and war trauma
they all go to therapy but hes the last one to do it
he’s still the ‘happy go lucky’ guy hes always been but as he gets closer w the others they start to see the true sadness in him
piper and him grow a lot closer after jason died and have a big sister little brother relationship
hazel:
my girl stays at camp jupiter
takes nicos place at camp
horse trainer
her and frank also dont work out as a romantic relationship, they felt that the age gap was too much after frank turned 18 and hazel was 15 theyre still friends tho
hazel often visits leo in his shop
as much as leo reminds her of sammy, through therapy she has recognized that theyre separate people and to not push all her past feelings for sammy onto leo
not only does she train horses but she also teaches little kids basic math, science, and history to the younger kids
they all call her ms. hazel
she prefers to teach the really young kids (age 4-7)
wears her hair in different braid styles after BOO
frank:
my friggin HOMIE
i relate to frank a lot personality wise
therefore i think hed be a 4/20 fanatic after BOO
hes not stoned during training or during important camp duties
but otherwise you try talkin to him and you dont really notice until you look and see the far off look and red eyes and he just goes “huh?”
other than that hes a great leader
after he gets his cool new look from mars he takes really good care of his body including consistent exercise and eating really healthily (maybe he has a soft spot for fast food when hes hi)
him joining the military does not make sense to me
he lost his mom to war, and he was in one himself, idk about you but i would not wanna join the military after being the main character in a war
he studies to be a veterinarian for exotic animals
when no one is around he shifts into the animal to find out whats wrong
”dr. zhang prefers to work by himself” “why” “idk but hes always right, if it aint broke dont fix it”
jason:
rip home-slice
nico:
my other homie
my guy does not get taller than 5’8
stays at camp during the summer to train the new and old kids
him and will get a house together
teaches history at the camp school
cat dad (5 cats and counting)
will:
takes nicos last name when they marry bc its cooler
him being a doctor doesnt click w me i more picture him being an EMT
EMTs are hotter anyways
does med training with new apollo kids whenever he gets time
if he’s not busy during working hours he drops by nicos classroom w his fav drink from dutch bros (starbucks is MID) and hangs out with him and his students
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Hi there! You asked some HSR angst, well here you go! can i request Jing Yuan and Blade x s/o who was the royal guard and prince/ss of Khaenri’ah.
More context on reader:
They were the second born child of Khaenri’ah’s Royal Family and part of the royal guards. So somehow during the Cataclysm the reader was transported to the HSR universe. They were VERY traumatized of just what happenend and had put up an upbeat and plucky personality as a coping mechanism for what happened. They traveled the universe for sometime before they met Jing Yuan/Blade and ofc learned of Aeons. They dont like the Aeons and any mention of them would get rid of their upbeat facade quickly. They associate the Aeons with the Archons that destroyed their nation, now they know they arent the gods that did it but they cant help it. Basically Dainsleif’s attitude to anthing archon related but much chiller? Bc again they’re not the same ones who destroyed their nation so their willing to give them a very small benefit of the doubt.
How would they react to their s/o revealing their past and immortality to them after they had snapped at someone for something (probably aeon related that hit a bit too to home?) and became distant towards everyone for while. They tearfully revealed their past and then later go on a rant about their hatred toward gods. Also how would their lover react hearing about the curse (The pureblood and the half blood/non blood khaeri’ahns) the people of Khaenri’ah received.
How would they react towards their s/o being suicidal because the erosion that the curse cause them to have is THAT bad they just wanted to die but cant bc they cant die from being murdered as they can self regenarate or from old age. (Think of the demons from kimetsu no yaiba, like when yushiro got his head decapitated, yeah im pretty sure their lover saw their head get regenerated like one time)
Hope you enjoy this angsty request and have a good day/night!
- Flower Anon 🌸
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A/N: I re-read this 5 times, but for some reason my brain refused to process any of it, so I hope this still turns out okay lmao... thank you for the request tho and sorry for the long wait.
Content: Angst, hurt/comfort, established relationships, some rough description of the Khaenri'ah curse thing, small mentions of reader being suicidal
Reader has no set pronouns!
((Not fully proofread))
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》Jing Yuan
Jing Yuan always silently questioned your past and often wondered why you were so secretive about it. However, he also respected your boundaries and therefore never pushed you for any answers, as he knew how sensitive some topics were. But when you one day just snapped at someone for the simple mention of the Aeons and God's, he started slowly piecing together your story on his own. It definitely also helped, that you eventually just spilled everything to him.
He was understanding and supportive, horrified to hear about the curse and it's consequences. He had heard of and seen many evil things, but this still shocked him. Especially after learning what the curse did to you as well. He was deeply upset when he heard about your want to die and despite understanding it, he still made sure you knew how important you were to him.
He tried making you see the bright side of it at least, as the curse gave him the opportunity to spend an endless lifetime with you at his side, something he deeply wished for. And he was glad, that he could, even with it being a horrible curse that allowed him to be.
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》Blade
Blade didn't really care about your past at first, as you never seemed to care about his. It was a mutual understanding between you two to just not mention it and try moving past it together, despite Blade's need for revenge. And at first, he was content with that, until he noticed your strong disdain for God's/Aeons. This confused him, as he didn't understand what it was that bothered you so much, until you eventually broke down and told him about it in a long rant.
He listened to you quietly, as you spoke about your people and their curse. About how you were sick of living and just wanted to finally rest. About how you were just really done with everything. And he understood you perfectly. He really did. Especially as he himself was cursed to immortality and wanted to die more than anything. The fact that you felt the same as him brought him more solace than anything in this world ever could.
But that's exactly why he also was so adamant on you continuing on even through your curse. After meeting you, he realised that immortality may not be as bad as he originally thought, especially when it's just spent with you. He'll help you get your revenge, as long as you promise to stay with him forever too.
-----♡
A/N: I'm genuinely praying this is even slightly coherent. Sorry for the wait Flower Anon and thank you again for the request!
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