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fandom-monium · 6 months

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Sweet Poison - Part 5

Summary: In which you avoid Zagreus, until one day you can't. "What can I say? The life of a demon is a hard one."

WC: 2.4k

TW: Zagreus (Hades Video game) x Succubus!Reader, GN!Reader, a succubus AND an artist bc sex is just work and food, au where in game Zag commissions the paintings using gems, what if boons actually affected Zagreus, slow build, strangers to friends to lovers trope, sex work, fluff, fluff and humor, mutual pining, idiots in love, mild angst, pheromones (technically it’s succubi magic aura), Zagreus is at least 6 ft convince me otherwise, eventual smut, MINOR descriptions of blood and injuries. Physical touch, affection. Just Zagreus being soft and doting and kind to you this chap

Damn her, damn her, damn her, damn—

Teeth clenched, your vision swims as you grip the rim of the basin for balance, washing off the blood as red drops swirl and mix like watercolor paints before the water clears again. It’s days like this where you wish you can get stronger, more powerful, but there’s a limit to everyone’s full potential, and unfortunately you met yours a long time ago.

Still, it’d be nice.

Contrary to popular belief, succubi can be vicious warriors, they’re simply in their own class. Their abilities, their magic, while never measuring up to gods, could ruin an army in a master’s hand, but it has its limits. Especially amongst demonkind.

As the water calms, you grind your teeth at the sight of your reflection, assessing the damage. Blood and darkness, that’s going to bruise, that one’s definitely going to scar, and you curse the universe because your job’s about to get that much harder now that you may have to use a glamor. Oh, you swear next time you get your hands on her, you’ll—

A resounding rumble quakes the room.

Your chamber door.

You curse. But you're sluggish from the blood loss, and before you can hurl yourself out the balcony, Zagreus steps in without his usual greeting, panting and laurels slightly askew, like he rushed in knowing you’re here. Wild eyes dart to every corner of the chamber, as if he half-expects you to be hiding, until they fall on you, embarrassingly hunched over your healing fountain.

One glance at your battered face, he’s beside you in a flash.

"Zag—”

“What happened?” His tone is surprisingly strained as his hands, clean of blood and gore, reach for you. Then something flickers across his face that makes him hover, his eyes—red and green and wide—taking in your new wounds with horror.

If only you had the energy to cower, shield your bruised face. He’s the last person you want to see right now, and your vision blurs, hating how he of all people is seeing you like this—broken, imperfect.

“I’m fine, Zagreus,” You croak, your voice quiet as you swallow your insecurity like bile. A poor attempt to put some distance between you, you try to step aside, but your knees buckle, and before you know it, you crumple like a house of cards.

Of course, Zagreus catches you—asshole—strong, lean arms gentle as he hugs you to his chest, holding you up as if you’re the most precious of gems. Hate how quick you are to relax in his hold, clay in his hands. Blood and darkness, it’s so easy, so quick, so… right.

You squirm against him, but his grip tightens slightly, mindful of your injuries.

“Sure you are,” Zagreus snorts, though he gazes down at you so soft and sweet you want to shout, wondering if he tastes the same. “Come on, I’ll patch you up.”

Unable to protest, you let him carry you like a rag doll, limp in his hands before he gently props you up on the lounge chair. You lean against the back with a groan. “Really, I'm—”

“'Fine', yes, you’ve said that,” Already, he’s rummaging through your cupboards, at least the ones he knows aren’t filled with art supplies. “Do you have bandages?”

“… Second last cabinet on your left.”

Without a word, he walks through your chamber with self assurance, maneuvering around your easel and stepping over splayed out canvas as they finish drying, careful where to leave his burning footprints. He finds what he’s looking for easily enough, a moment later pulling up a chair and plopping down in front of you. His hands are methodical as he lays everything out; two bowls of water, a small cloth, and the saddest little first aid kit.

In your defense, you hardly end up like this.

You watch his hands as he dips the towel in the water then wrings it out, before gently dragging it across your exposed arms. You flinch as he begins wiping off the grime.

“I know,” His tone is soft, terribly understanding as he continues. “Give it a minute, you’ll feel much better soon.”

You want to snort, snap at him that you’re fully aware of how it works, but the cool sting of water, the mild burn from the open gashes and cuts along your skin, is quick to clench your jaw shut. Pain ebbs across your body, and you watch him speechless, the rhythm he follows, painfully gentle as he drags the cloth across your skin, careful not to aggravate your wounds. Clean water, wring out, wipe, rinse, repeat; he even goes out of his way to change the water, and the relief that comes after would make you sink into the couch, if not for Zagreus's silence.

He's yet to say a word since he entered. He'd asked you already, yes, but you take him for someone who doesn't give up that easily. You expected more of a fight. Now, you're not so sure.

"Zagreus, I… I—" It's hoarse, hardly above a whisper, but it's a start.

You feel him pause before choosing to lay into your newfound cowardice like a wet blanket, avoiding his eyes. Who knows what you'll do if you meet his gaze.

Sensing your hesitation, Zagreus clears his throat, "Perhaps you should save your energy. We can chat when you're healed."

You shake your head, though it only makes the room spin. "No, I need to tell you this now. Before..."

"Before what? You start avoiding me again?" He resumes, wrapping gauze around your forearm, his touch ghosting your skin as he holds your arm out. There’s no malice or respite in his tone, soft and withdrawn as it comes, but you wince. If anything, it’s bittersweet, with an acceptance he long held before he approached your chamber, and it leaves your heart clenching. You don't know how to respond. Are you that obvious?

"(Your Name)... did I do something wrong?"

You blink, whirling to face him.

Zagreus bites his lip, emotions he can’t fathom threatening to spill out of him. That's always been his flaw, according to Father. He's attuned to his emotions, more than Nyx, Father, literally any of the chthonic gods. He stares as his hands tremble, attempting to knot the bandage. "Because if I did, please just tell me what it is so I can make things right between us."

"No-no, you've done nothing wrong," You assure him, sitting up through the pain even when Zagreus protests. When he raises a brow at your answer, you rush to add, "I swear! I've been busy with... work." Technically, this isn’t a lie.

"... 'Busy'. Is that how you got these?" Zagreus holds out your mangled arm by your hand, flicking his eyes over your body in the way you hate most. You'd take aura-induced desire over this: pity, disgust.

You wrench your arm away, cradling it in your lap and shrugging. "What can I say? The life of a demon is a hard one."

"(Your Name), who did this?"

You freeze. Nerves go haywire, and you squirm under his piercing gaze, burning through you as you contemplate lying to him, but you know better. At this point, you know each other too well, and—blood and darkness—he'll see right through you. There’s a defeated sigh, then a quiet, "Alecto."

Zagreus's eyes darken, but you wave him off. "Don't worry. In her defense, I kind of deserved it."

Zagreus sputters, taken aback, staring at you as if you offended him. "'Don't worry'? Don't—how can you say that? First I've seen you in days, and you're—" A sharp intake of breath, and he clenches his jaw so hard you're surprised it doesn't break.

"It's not a big deal. I disobeyed direct orders, and..." You trail off, thinking back.

Since meeting Zagreus, seeds of doubt sprout in your chest, in your lungs, suffocating you as you question the system you’ve worked under for so long. You’ve never questioned who you are and what you do, not to say you love your job, but it’s your life. Yet who’s to say there aren't poor souls sentenced to the wrong level? Genuine and kind, noble and passionate—people who don't deserve eternal damnation.

The possibility of your victims being innocent and undeserving makes you want to hurl, tortured shrieks and endless tears flashing across your memory and echoing in your ears. Your stomach clenches just thinking about it.

"(Your Name), I-I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Zagreus starts, mouth opening and closing like he can't find the words, his breaths coming quick and ragged. He just stares at you, eyes gleaming with an emotion you can't quite place—as if your virtuous act breaks his heart, crushes his soul. Then he blinks, and it's gone, shaking his stupor. “This is my fault…”

You raise an eyebrow, “How is this your fault?”

“I… I just… you shouldn’t have…” You frown as Zagreus struggles, brow furrowed, clearly pained as he thinks over his answer, like whatever he says next determines your fates. Seeming to think better of it, he shakes his head and brings your hand to his lips, and you flush, your heart skipping as his lips graze over the bandages, warmth seeping through the material and into your wounds like a healing salve. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” He rasps between each kiss, trailing up the back of your hand and up your forearm, like they’ll heal the wounds faster. Like this is the best he can do, like this is all he can do. Not that you plan to stop him.

Your face burns, but you let him apologize, though you’re not sure what for as he stops before your shoulder. At some point, he slotted himself between your thighs, and now face to face, he studies your cuts and bruises, already fading away as his eyes, soft and glistening, flick over your features. Like he’s debating if his kisses will help them heal faster too.

Gods, if he brings those lips anywhere near your face, you might combust.

You meet his gaze, “What—”

“I lied.”

It comes as a whisper, his voice dry and low that you tilt your head, urging him to continue.

“I’m not some mortal soul, dredging their way through Tartarus,” Zagreus grinds out, scanning your face as if committing you to memory one last time. Then he sits back and stares at the floor, still gripping your hand as he rubs circles over the bandage. “I mean, it’s true I intend to escape the Underworld.”

“Zagreus—”

“And yes, I’m searching for my mother—”

“Zag—”

“But I’m really—”

“My prince.”

He flinches, his eyes shooting up to meet yours. “What?”

“None of this is your fault, my prince. With or without your influence, I’d have done the same thing anyway.” He gapes at you and you smirk, using the little strength you’ve recovered to squeeze his hand reassuringly, “Or would you rather I address you as Your Highness instead?”

Zagreus shakes his head, black hair flopping out of his shocked face. “I don’t understand. You knew?”

“For a bit now, yes,” You shrug as you turn his hand over, large and calloused in yours, swiping a thumb over one of his healed blisters, probably from gripping his weapons. “Took me a while to figure it out, but I can’t say I was surprised. It explained some of your funny behavior.”

He scoffs, the corners of his lips twitching slightly, “What sort of funny behavior?”

“Pretend all you like, but you can’t suppress those noble habits,” You chuckle, eyes crinkling seeing him cheer up. “All your mannerisms screamed ‘royal’, I just didn’t realize we were talking Underworld royalty.”

“Seriously?” Zagreus gazes at you in disbelief. “I thought I did a pretty good job acting—”

“Like a commoner?”

“Like a mortal,” He shoots you a pointed look, and you snort, relaxing into the love seat.

“You were okay.” You purse your lips, “While we’re on the subject of identity reveals, you should know I’m—”

“A succubus?”

You blink before pouting, snatching your hand away to cross your arms over your chest. “You only say that because I was about to tell you…”

“Not true,” Zagreus grins, leaning over to give your thigh an affectionate squeeze. “I knew from the beginning. Succubi magic doesn't affect gods, but that doesn’t mean I can’t feel it.”

“And you still stayed? Knowing what I am and what I do?”

“And you still treated me as any other friend, knowing who I am?”

“That’s not the same, and you know it.”

“I disagree,” He coaxes your hands into his, prompting you to meet his gaze as his expression shifts into something more earnest. “We both tried—and failed miserably—to hide a huge part of ourselves in fear of what we’d think of each other, am I wrong?”

You shake your head.

“Exactly. (Your Name), I hope you know not once did I think any less of you for your work, much less your species.”

You respond in kind, “And not once did I consider bowing down to the Prince of the Underworld, especially not after seeing him stuff his face with wraps he picked off the ground.”

He guffaws. “Good, then we’re in agreement?”

“I guess...”

“Just what every man wants to hear from a beautiful creature.” Ignoring the burn in your cheeks, you roll your eyes, and he adds, “But we’re okay? You won’t avoid me anymore?”

“I wasn’t avoiding you.”

“Sure you weren’t.”

“Keep that up, you won’t be seeing me for another couple runs.”

“I was agreeing with you!”

“Your tone said otherwise.”

By the time your shared laughter dies down, the atmosphere clears, leaving a comfortable silence settling in the small space between you. In that time, he’s yet to let go of your hands, your thighs brushing as he rubs soothing circles against your hands, and while he insists on staying until he’s sure you’re better, acceptance rushes over you like the oncoming tide, because try as you might, Alecto’s punishment was nothing in comparison to Zagreus’s absence. These fleeting moments he stops by your chamber, whether to recover, commission a painting, or to simply have a chat, you appreciate each and every one of them. If that’s all you’ll ever have with Zagreus, you decide, your chest tight with a melancholic warmth, then that's okay.

This is enough.

—

Soon after Zagreus reluctantly leaves you once more, he enters the last chamber of Tartarus.

“Redblood! What say you—ack—hey, I wasn’t done talking!”

If he prolongs their time together, allowing him to indulge his cruelty, then consider it time well spent.

—

AN: One of my biggest peeves in media tropes is the betrayal and angst as a reaction from hiding identities from s/o, like in superhero media. It's overplayed, overdone.

A good, recent example of this is the new animated Superman show, My Adventures with Superman, where (SPOILERS) Lois forces the truth out of Clark, and is pissed when he confirms he is Superman. Bro, you literally said to his face how you'd reveal his identity to the public, can you blame the guy? Idgaf you think he's lying ab his feelings omfg he's protecting his idenity (its a good show tho pls watch it!!)

However, a cartoon that does the scenario right is in the old Nickelodeon cartoon, Danny Phantom (some of yall may be too young to remember), the older sister, Jaz, of the mc, Danny, quietly realizes he's the superhero of their town, and decides to patiently wait for him to tell her when HE'S READY. Like askjgdaksjhf yassss we love patience and understanding.

Which is why I like to imagine while Zag didn't outright tell you who he is, he didn't try to hide it either. The underworld's a big ass place, he's got no control over who and what ppl say and do, so however you find out, whether in passing or of your own sleuthing skills, you both wait.

Ty for coming to my ted talk :D

#zagreus #hades supergiant #hades game #zagreus x reader #zagreus (hades games) x reader #hades

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fandom-monium · 6 months

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will you ever update your zagreus x reader? its soooo good, and the sexual tension is so subtle but so there it hurts. maybe thats just me though

Omg thank you 🥺 yes I do intend to update it soon with drafts still undergoing edits!!! Tbh I didn't think ppl actual read SP 😔✨️

Nice to know you can feel the sexual tension 😈

#sweet poison #Zagreus x reader #my wrtitng #anon ask #zagreus #hades game

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fandom-monium · 6 months

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I don't want kids but

He wants a daughter, I'll give him a daughter 🗣😈🤰🏽

#atsv miguel #miguel o'hara #miguel spiderverse #miguel spiderman #miguel x reader #across the spiderverse #atsv #spiderman 2099 #into the spider verse #excuse my inactivity uni is stressful and ive barely time to write or draw for fun 😔#marvel #spiderverse #spiderman #doodle #class doodles i did bc i cant focus and hes all i think ab now #24/7 #365 days a year

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fandom-monium · 7 months

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✨MAIN MASTERLIST✨

Prompt List

Discord Community

Come talk shit with us in the Gremlin Army discord chat! Share art work, brainstorm, game together and talk absolute nonsensical shit.

Minors are welcome! There is an 18+ restricted channel as well for those who want to share smutty thots

Requests are CLOSED but talking shit and sending your thoughts is ALWAYS WELCOME.

ALL READERS ARE GN UNLESS STATED OTHERWISE.

⚜ DIN DJARIN

⚜ MOON KNIGHT

Click HERE for the starter pack I’ve made for you to browse should you want to join this fandom!

HERE is the FAQ’s and Information Panel for the ‘Anything’ Verse.

Click HERE for my streams!

⚜ SIMON ‘GHOST’ RILEY

⚜ KÖNIG

⚜ JOHN PRICE

#cod mw2 x reader #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #könig #konig x reader #könig x reader #könig modern warfare #könig cod #könig mw2 #call of duty #konig call of duty #modern warfare 2 #IM HERE FOR THE COD X READER 😍#recently fell in love with more masked men and now 💁🏽‍♀️ here we are

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fandom-monium · 8 months

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Sweet Poison - Part 4

Summary: In which you realize some things about your friend, Zagreus. “Death may be normal here, but the pain…”

WC: 1.5k

AN: What is a slow burn without the angst??

“Why go through all that effort? Surely you understand how dangerous it is,” You say, referring to his runs through the Underworld. As far as you know, there’s been several. Buried in the covers with a good book, you lay on your side and flip to the next page, though it's lost your attention since Zagreus arrived. “Death may be normal here, but the pain…”

At your lounge chair, Zagreus waves you off, eyes flicking from your figure to your sketchbook in his lap between exaggerated strokes, obnoxiously scritching the parchment. You roll your eyes. “I’m more than familiar with pain. As for why…”

Hearing the somber shift in his tone, you look up, willing him to meet your gaze. “Please don’t feel obligated to answer if it’s too personal.”

“No I… I trust you,” For a moment, Zagreus expression softens, like he can’t believe he’d befriend a demon to this point. You know you can’t, but you also know you could tell him anything and he’d listen.

Almost anything, that is.

The sketchbook shuts with a soft thud. Zagreus crosses the short distance to sit at the foot of your bed, by the curve of your hips. The bed dips under his weight before he takes a deep breath. “Long story short, I found out the mother that raised me isn’t my biological mother, and eventually I learned my biological mother escaped the Underworld and is somewhere on the surface.”

“So once you get to the surface, you intend to find her?”

“Exactly.”

“And what then?”

“Get answers,” He simply answers. Though his eyes steel with conviction, he slumps forward, resting his elbows on toned thighs.

Heat rises to your face, and you turn back to your book.

“You must think I’m a fool.”

“No.” Zagreus shoots you a flat look over his shoulder like he doesn't believe you, so you fully turn your attention to him. “Really! I don’t. I mean, shades aren’t allowed to leave the Underworld, natural order and all that.”

“…Shades. Right,” He says slowly, breaking eye contact for a split second.

“But I understand why you’d want to try. I just wish I could help you in some way, maybe smuggle you out on my next job.”

He perks up, gazing at you curiously, “You’ve been to the surface?”

“A few times for work. Though it has been a while since my last assignment…”

“What’d you have to do?”

Oh, you know: make contracts with humans and feed off them until they’re a husk of their former selves. You know, as succubus do. You settle on, “Demon things. You wouldn’t get it.”

Zagreus shrugs, unable to argue with that.

“… Suppose you do find your mother and get your answers,” You start, tone low and nervous. You swallow, trying to keep your nerves from wracking your vocal cords, keeping the tremble out of your voice. “What-what do you plan to do after?”

“That depends,” Wild, black hair falls over his eyes as his gaze drops to the floor. “If she hates me or not.”

You cock your head. Was that fear in his tone? For a moment, you allow yourself to study his broad back, scolding yourself when you admire the exposed ridges of muscle. Harsh, green light frames his profile, turning him into a slim silhouette among the soft shadows of your chamber. But now, as he sits at the edge of your bed, no longer he looks poised and regal as he usually does. No boons livening the air around him, no charming grin or cocky smirk. Posture be damned, he slouches, beautiful lips pressed thin, and he looks defeated—no, he looks…

Tired.

It never occurred to you how miserable your friend is here in the Underworld. He always seemed so lively by the time he reached your chamber, even when he’s scuffed and bloodied, like the heat of battle cheers him up. And yes, it’s Tartarus; souls are supposed to be despaired, miserable, tortured—for gods’ sake, it’s your jobs—but looking at Zagreus, exhausted yet still handsome as ever in his flaming laurels and refined chiton, feet seering footprints into your floor, he looks out of place in your humble abode.

Your heart clenches, suddenly self aware. Self conscious. Differences that hardly mattered before now at the forefront of your thoughts.

“I’m not finished, by the way.”

You meet his gaze, visibly perplexed though it’s painful. His heterochromia, the contrast of the blood red and forest green, is needlessly beautiful, as if the man isn’t magnificent enough already. Curse his family for whatever genes they poured into him.

The bed rises once more and as Zagreus leaves for the balcony, the gap between you—once miniscule and quickly closing—begins turning into a chasm.

“My drawing. It’s nowhere done.” Stopping before the balcony’s threshold, Zagreus gestures to the sketchbook. You sit up, blankets and furs pooling into your lap as you take it into your hands.

You, or a semblance of yourself at least, stares back. The strokes are short, thick, lines of charcoal jagged and uneven, though that’s to be expected. Zagreus snorted at you he buys art not create it, but that did nothing to deter him from trying. You lent him your sketchbook and pencils anyway, the thought of sharing your hobby with him filling you with giddiness you haven’t experienced in gods’ know how long.

As you study the amateur sketch of yourself, your heart swells so big, it terrifies you. There’s scuffed edges where the side of his palm pressed into the strokes, leaving partial prints. The proportions are atrocious, and if he’d been anyone else you’d tear into him. Yet, far from accurate as it may be, he manages to highlight your most discernible features. Just not the ones you expect. It’s not your chest or your hips or waist or even your legs, no.

It’s the fluid lash of your tail as you lay on your stomach, as if he tried to capture the cat-like movements on paper; the draping of your wings and the way you relax them against your back like a blanket; the graceful curve of your horns, the ends pointed not in a threat but a promise. And your face—

Smudges blot all over the background of your figure but most of all where your face is, the paper slightly damaged as if he erased one too many times trying to capture your visage.

Your heart skips. Blood and darkness.

As Zagreus’s back disappears behind the rumbling door to the next chamber, it’s for the best, you think, left to the familiarity of your quiet chamber. Your heart thunders in your ears.

Zagreus and you, a demon—a succubus? You’d never last.

As friends. As friends, of course.

This is for the best.

It’s for the best.

…Is it possible to feel loss when there is nothing to begin with?

Eyes misting over, you snatch up your sketchbook and pencils, letting your tears stain the page with Zagreus’s eyes still fresh in your mind.

It’s for the best.

#zagreus x reader #hades game #hades supergiant #zagreus and reader #zagreus (hades video game) x reader #zagreus (hades video game) and reader #supergiant hades

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fandom-monium · 10 months

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Every You Every Me #8

COLLABORATED WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: You embark upon 'a Cosmic Masterplan to survive' - Phase one

Word count: 6,600

Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[Previous] [TBC]

Ten days have passed since your home was blown to a million pieces.

Ten days since you found out that there are multiple universes.

Ten days since you learned that your universe—the world as you know it—has less than three months left before it implodes unless you can somehow find a way to save it… and yourself.

Despite the fantastical nature of those events, you find yourself returning back to your everyday life, just as mundane and ordinary as ever, cosmic murder attempts notwithstanding.

The helicopter crash was featured across the front page of The Times by morning, and apparently no one was hurt. The pilot had somehow been flung from the helicopter into a nearby window and miraculously survived without even a scratch. The only real casualty was your every worldly possession.

After a personal calamity of that scale, you’d hoped you might be offered an extended leave from work. Unfortunately, corporate America stops for no tragedy.

The only thing you're offered is a very sympathetic email the day after with a gift voucher for Dominos attached. Then Sally from HR had let you know that, given the severity of your situation, the company was generously granting you three whole personal days to sort out your affairs. After that you were requested to return to the office—the second quarter of the financial year was beginning soon after all.

And so you find yourself back at work.

Back to 8+ hours a day spent sitting in your rickety office chair, killing your eyesight in front of your computer screen as you pore over excel sheets. Back to the same old boring one-on-one meetings with your boss, who keeps harping on about Key Performance Indicators, as if they mean anything. You don’t understand what the point is. No matter how key your performance is, it never seems to be enough to net you a raise.

“Our total revenue increased by 15% compared to last year, which is a significant achievement considering the challenges in the market, but I know we can do better if we just–”

You stifle a yawn, as you readjust yourself in your chair. It’s Monday morning, and you find yourself in one of the stale meeting rooms, with staler treats that you’re not even allowed to have because they are for external clients only. Your boss is right next to you, droning on and on about how she wants to see better results in the next fiscal quarter. All the while you’re trying to fight the losing odds of keeping your eyes open and the temptation of gravity that wants your head to lay down on the conference table for an impromptu nap.

“We managed to improve our profit margin by 3% by reducing overhead costs, but we need to focus on further optimizing our operations in order to–”

Out of nowhere, the sound of her shrill nasal voice stops, and for a second you think that perhaps, sweet mercies of mercies, the meeting is finally over. But instead she points out the window and says the last thing you expect.

“Hey, isn’t that Spiderman?”

Huh?

You whip your head around to stare out the window so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash, and the sight that greets you is nearly enough to give you a heart attack on the spot.

Oh, it’s Spiderman alright. Your Spiderman.

Your maybe-vampire-but-maybe-not (he hasn’t combusted in sunlight yet, but then again he wears a full-body spandex suit) Spiderman.

Your Spiderman is right there in front of you in plain sight on the outside of the building, plastered to the wide wall-to-wall meeting room window. That dark blue super suit with the angry red spider emblazoned on his chest like a neon sign screaming: ‘Here I am!’

Your boss skips closer to the window in giddy excitement, until the two of them are only about a feet away from each other separated by a half an inch of glass.

“Look, his suit is different! I wonder if it’s an upgrade?” she exclaims, tilting her head to study him from the window. “He sure is a lot bigger in person, isn’t he?”

You feel the blood drain from your face, and the whole of your back breaks out in cold clammy sweat against your blouse. Doing your best to act normal, you force yourself to stay seated in your chair despite the shrill scream ringing in your head and the way your heart is threatening to leap right out of your throat.

What the hell does he think he’s doing!?

Thank fuck your boss still has her back to you, too enthralled by the unexpected superhero sighting to pay attention to anything else. You take advantage of her distraction to gesture frantically at Miguel, waving him away with as covert of a shooing motion as you can manage and praying that he’ll take the hint.

You know he sees you because the triangular outlines of his eyes narrow into annoyed slits and then he turns his face away as if offended, refusing to look at you. But at least he finally moves, leaping into the air and disappearing out of the sight of the window.

“Oh, shoot! There he goes again,” your boss says, letting out a long, loud sigh as if even she doesn’t want to go back to listening to her own voice for the rest of this meeting. “Well, back to work. Guess that was the excitement for the day.”

Scratch what you were saying before. There are no more completely mundane days. Not now that Miguel O’Hara has entered your life.

Once upon a time, your biggest dilemma with him was that he was avoiding you, refusing all your attempts to force a face-to-face meeting. Now you find yourself in the strange position of having the opposite problem.

True to his promise, Miguel is always there to protect you.

In fact, he’s just plain always there.

Never more than 10 feet away, regardless of where you go. He’s the last thing you see… or rather, hear before you go to sleep, his incessant snoring reverberating off the walls of your shared hotel room. Then, when you wake, it’s to his big 6’9” frame draped across the tiny velvet sofa, his long legs sticking off the end and hanging out into the room.

Miguel hovers over you when you eat, in case you get another piece of toast stuck in your throat and he needs to do the Heimlich maneuver on you again. Or, like that one time last week, in case you developed another hitherto completely undiscovered food allergy and have to be rushed to the ER. He is constantly on alert, eyes glued to you at all times.

Miguel comes with you when you go grocery shopping at the corner bodega. Sticking close to your back in the cramped aisles, lest one of the shelves fall over and bury you under crates of Lucky Charms and Fruit Loops… again. He has a sneaky habit of covertly dropping the most nutritiously questionable grocery items in your basket: jellied donuts, sugar-frosted pop tarts, fun dip and jolly ranchers. He eats like a five year old who has too much pocket money and no understanding of the food pyramid. It’s worrying to watch and you definitely google diabetes risk for spiders at least once, but the internet has nothing helpful to offer on that front.

Even when you’re relaxing in the luxury hotel suite that’s become your home, flipping through Tik Tok-edits on your iPhone (the newest model, which Lyla snagged for you!) or catching up on Netflix, Miguel is always right there. Not two steps away from you, looking over your shoulder.

Being the constant center of Miguel's attention is… disconcerting. You know it’s because he’s watching for the next random disaster to strike, but having his eyes on you nonstop leaves you feeling uncomfortably aware of him all the time. Especially when you’re trying to watch Bridgerton on your new macbook pro (also courtesy Lyla) and an R-rated scene comes on. You’ve resorted to having Lyla order books and magazines for him in an attempt to keep him occupied, but it doesn’t seem to make much difference.

It’s so bad that you can barely go to the bathroom without Miguel guarding the door like a zealous German Shepherd, his back plastered to the nearest wall when you emerge. You try not to let the lack of privacy bother you… or to think about the fact that his spidey-supersenses probably let him hear everything.

The only place Miguel doesn’t come with you is when you go to work, because he doesn’t have the clearance needed to get into the building—tourists and non-personnel aren’t allowed any further than the lobby. It doesn’t stop him from climbing the walls of the building and hanging around outside the 44th floor though. You know he’s there because, you see his shadow blurring at the window whenever you get up to get more coffee or unstick the paper jammed in the printer.

It’s an adjustment, but for all the madness that comes with the package, having Miguel around does make you feel safe.

Time always seems to pass too quickly when there’s a deadline approaching.

The problem is that right now the due it’s not the date of a school assignment or some work project that you’re worrying about. And if you take too long, the consequences will be much worse than a lower grade or a slap on the wrist. If you fail to meet this deadline, it will be the end of the world—not just as you know it, but for everyone in your entire universe.

A week ago you had been dauntless, facing Miguel down across the table at Starbucks and announcing that you intended to fight cosmically impossible odds in order to live. Bold even, when you’d confidently declared that the only thing you needed was three months and his protection from the universe's murder attempts to make that happen.

In retrospect, you might have been less dauntless and more… delusional, because so far the only real progress you've made is drawing up a Master Plan, complete with a bullet point list and no idea if any of it is actually going to accomplish anything.

'A Cosmic Masterplan to survive' - Phase one

Step 1: Personal history:

Identify past wrongdoings

Determine if they could explain cosmic retaliation

Step 2: Analyze incident patterns:

Study recurring near death incidents

Identify commonalities and patterns

Determine strategies to stop or prevent future occurrences

Step 3: Research genealogy:

Explore family history

Investigate any ancestors who may have incurred celestial grudges

Determine if these grudges extend to descendants

Step 4: Examine past life wrongdoings:

Establish if reincarnation is real

Investigate potential past life transgressions

Assess if they correlate with current cosmic retaliation

Step 5: Seek cosmic expert assistance:

Consider approaching Dr. Strange for guidance

Request expertise in understanding cosmic phenomena

Things had started out okay.

You completed Step 1 in less than a day, quickly compiling a list of all the people you’d wronged in your lifetime. Anything that might make the universe want to intervene on their behalf and dole out some karma against you.

So far, your life's most egregious crimes include:

That time when you wet the bed during a sleepover when you were six and blamed it on your friend Sally Jenkins.

The night you bailed out in the middle of a date with a dentist from Tinder who insisted on ordering for you and kept talking about Alpha and Betas. (It was only after a very confusing and awkward conversation that you realized he was not talking about the omegaverse). You’re pretty sure you did both of you a favor when you told him you were going to use the bathroom before dessert and took off without saying goodbye instead.

That summer you brought only chocolate with coconut back to share with your coworkers after your vacation in Canada so that Matt in accounting (who always steals your yogurt out of the office fridge) couldn’t have any because he's allergic to coconut.

Are those the actions of a good person? Probably not.

Are they petty? Oh yeah.

Are they bad enough to justify karmic retaliation from the universe in the form of death? You doubt it.

As for Step 2, despite all the near death experiences you've had recently, there doesn’t seem to be any discernible pattern that could help you predict or prevent future incidents. After all it’s a bit difficult to predict that an impromptu mounted police parade would take place near your office, only for there to be a wild stampede of panicky horses that tried to mow you over.

Step 3 of your plan? Another dud.

Your family line is made up of uncles working blue-collar jobs at warehouses, aunties who pester you about being single, one grandfather who likes to talk about how things were better in the old days and a grandmother who likes to complain that you never call every time you call her (and another grandma you actually like because she feeds you sweets and cakes when you go visit).

There are no skeletons hidden in your family closet. Nothing interesting at all except maybe that one cousin who claims to have hooked up with Leonardo Di Caprio at Coachella (unverifiable and unlikely).

Your mission to try to figure out if all of this is caused by any past life connections in Step 4?

It had seemed like a reasonable thing to look into, but how the heck do you go about doing that? You’ve put it on hold for now.

As for the final step? Your search to seek out cosmic expert assistance is still ongoing.

Contacting another Supe that has a magical expertise in the cosmic should be the most logical avenue. Doctor Strange is the superhero that famously deals with the magical cosmos stuff, so you figured maybe he could help in some way. That it wouldn't be hard for Miguel to reach out to him, one superhero to another.

It’s the one part of your plan you could actually take action on that seems like it might lead somewhere. Problem is, you've run into a big sassy roadblock named Miguel O'Hara.

Miguel flatly refuses to have anything to do with Dr. Strange.

His justification?

"Hate that guy."

Repeatedly pestering him has gotten you nowhere, and it’s not like you, a random normie, can just rock up outside of Dr. Strange’s residence and ask for help because the universe is out to get you. That’s a good way to get yourself hauled away, like that guy from Colorado who was in the news last year for faking a UFO invasion with cheap props on YouTube and then camping out outside of Bruce Banner’s lab. Idiots like that show up from time to time, Superhero fanatics seeking the attention of the Avengers for some fake emergency.

Worst comes to worst, you could probably just stand outside Doctor Strange’s house until something tries to kill you again and hope that he’ll notice, but you’re not sure the universe won’t thwart you on purpose. Probably not the best use of your limited time, especially since you’re out of PTO.

For now, you’re hoping to change Miguel’s mind through sheer persistence, but given how stubborn the man is, that might be more of a lost cause than trying to thwart the universe itself.

It’s payday today, and you’ve decided to take Miguel to dinner in Chinatown as thanks for the man’s continuous efforts in saving your life.

As touristy as that area can be, there are some good, cheap diners owned by grumpy Cantonese families that serve large enough portions to feed this horse of a man.

It’s not entirely selfless. You’re tired of being cooped up in the hotel room as soon as you get off work, and you want to stretch your legs. You’re also hoping that stuffing Miguel full of food will make him more receptive to the next round of your arguments in favor of Step 5 of your Cosmic Masterplan.

But you’ve been here for two hours now, and you’re not sure Miguel knows the meaning of the word full.

He’s ordered egg tarts by the dozen. Crispy fried seafood noodles drenched in sweet cornstarch slurry. Deep fried turnip cakes soaked in sweet soy sauce. Beef Ho Fun. Every other dish is deep fried and slathered in XO sauce, and you are starting to be genuinely concerned about his cardiovascular health as you watch him shovel it down his maw, barely pausing to chew as he goes.

At least he looks happy while eating? Endearingly so. It’s the only time you’ve seen him relaxed and finally drop his guard a little bit, though you’re sure he’s still aware of every minute detail in his surroundings. You decide it’s better not to say anything since scolding him about being a glutton would be like the pot name calling the kettle. Your wolfish food habits is a shared hobby you have with Miguel at this point.

“What’s wrong with the egg tarts?” you ask, eyeing the plate that lies still untouched on the table, the only food to have escaped Miguel’s massacre. Given how sweet they are, you would have expected him to inhale them within seconds.

“I ordered them for you,” he says, not slowing down as he spears more food onto his plate. “Your favorite, right?”

You nod slowly and reach for one, touched by the gesture but not sure what to say.

There’s a fleck of sauce smudged on his cheek, a stray rice grain on his nose. He looks like any other civilian as he scarfs down the food in quick succession.

Out of his super suit, he looks different. He’s partial to oversized clothes that makes him look oddly gangly even with his build. You’ve caught him with glasses on more than once, even though you’re pretty sure he’s mentioned that supersight is one of the things he’s gifted with. You can’t help but wonder if he wears them out of a sense of habit or if it’s a conscious fashion choice. Probably the former, given what you’ve seen him wear so far—fashion doesn’t seem to be one of his fortes. All in all, it makes him look like a much homelier person with a slightly nerdy vibe than the handsome superhero when he’s on the job.

He’s softer without the supersuit. Still scowling, but it’s less intimidating when he’s doing it wearing a big hoodie with dumb logos printed across his chest.

It’s still odd seeing Rude Spiderman in these domestic settings, but you think you prefer him like this.

“How’s your plan coming along?” he asks, mouth full of fried rice as he’s already reaching for a piece of char siu.

Of course, he has to ask you a question just as you bite into sweet and creamy egg custard.

“I’m kind of stuck,” you admit, the words muffled slightly by the pastry in your mouth. “I think we need to talk about reaching out to Dr. Strange.”

“No.” He doesn’t even bother to stop eating, still chewing with a gusto as the word emerges.

Nothing more than that. No reasons or explanation given, just ‘No.’

Irritation brews in your chest at his unhelpfulness. He’s throwing a monkey wrench into your cosmic survival masterplan, and he won’t even tell you why.

Too busy stuffing his face with crispy wontons.

“But why? He’s the only Avenger with an expertise in cosmic magic!”

“Expertise, my ass,” he retorts.

“Why do you hate him so much?” You slide the plate of roasted duck across the table, away from him, and that finally makes him pay proper attention.

Miguel is doing that scowling thing again, first at you and then dropping his gaze to glaring down at his rice and chopstick like he’s about to stab it.

“Because he’s an idiot. “Doesn’t have a clue what he’s talking about. Gives terrible advice.”

“He was one of the world’s leading brain surgeons,” you huff. “I don’t think he’s an idiot, Miguel.”

Miguel leans over the table, sliding the plate back closer to where he’s seated.

“Being handy with a scalpel isn’t a transferable skill to the supernatural. And he wears a cape. Only idiots wear capes.”

“Wait, what? You don’t like him because he wears a cape!?” you spit out incredulously. You don’t understand this man’s logic sometimes.

“Capes are impractical. Get snagged everywhere. No superhero worth the name would wear one,” he explain as if this alone perfectly justifies hating someone. He stabs a piece of meat with his chopstick and brings it to his mouth. “I will never ask that man for help again.”

Then he inhales the rest of the plate of roasted duck.

You leave the restaurant frustrated.

Miguel’s stubbornness remains as immovable as stone, and this big red and blue boulder has left you stuck at a dead end roadblock in the middle of a street, one you don’t know how to get around. He won't agree to talk to Strange, and you don’t know what else to do.

You need divine inspiration, or failing that maybe just… a hint. Something to tell you what direction to go in. Some kind of a sign.

Deep in thought, you turn round a corner, barely noticing how the alley narrows as you keep walking forward. It’s not until a pile of crates in front blocks your path, forcing you to stop dead in your tracks that you lift your head to survey your surroundings.

You and Miguel are at a small alley that you don’t recognize, which is weird because you know this area like the back of your hand. Somewhere along the way you must’ve taken a wrong turn.

Just ahead of you, there's a red stall set up on the sidewalk surrounding a small rickety table with red cloth draped over it, a couple of folding chairs set up in front.

Above it is… a giant sign. Fortune Teller, it says.

Not quite the metaphorical sign you were asking for a few minutes ago, but maybe the universe has given up on subtlety for today. Hey, at least it’s not trying to kill you… unless fortune teller assassins are a thing. Shit, is the universe resorting to baiting traps now? You really hope it doesn’t start setting out poisoned cookies on window sills, because then it will be game over for you and Miguel both.

You look the stall over, noticing that there are no crystal balls. No tarot cards. No trinkets or ancient scrolls like the ones you see in the movies.

There’s just an old lady. Her head is cleanly shaven, shining slick under the sole street lamp in the alley. She’s wearing a thick robe with a blue shawl draped over her shoulders that seems much too warm for the current weather, and cheap oversized sunglasses perch on her small nose despite it being evening. That outfit is certainly a choice.

Maybe you should be more cautious, but what harm can it do at this point?

The fortune teller certainly looks harmless and frail with her big round cheeks, sitting on a small stool. Even though she looks nothing like her, she makes you think of your grandmother—the one you actually like to call. The grandma who always has cookies stashed away for you when you come to visit.

Maybe she can give you a reading of who you were in your past life.

Maybe she can give you a protection amulet to make the universe chill the fuck out for a while.

Maybe she can burn some incense that will make you relax and get rid of the migraine you've gotten since the universe decided to murder you.

"Miguel." You tug at the lapel of his jacket, and point in the direction of the sign.

He turns around, scanning the space and then his eyes narrow disapprovingly.

"Fortune… teller,” Miguel reads off the sign in a slow skeptic drawl. He doesn't need to say more to express his complete and utter disdain, but that doesn’t stop him.

"You know it's all a scam right? People like this can't actually tell the future. They have no supernatural powers. What they do is cold reading."

It’s entirely unsurprising Miguel doesn't like the idea. There are a lot of things Miguel doesn’t like.

"What else do you propose we do?"

"Ask someone with actual skills who can help us?"

"You were the one who shot down the idea of asking Doctor Strange for help," you remind him.

"I don’t want his help," Miguel shoots back, grimacing as though the mere mention of the name is enough to leave a bad taste in his mouth.

"Yeah, so you keep telling me." You continue on to the stall, despite your companion's strong protests.

The sweet old lady greets you as you sit down at the table. She looks even weirder from up close, her bald head abnormally large for her small body. You try not to stare, not wanting to make her self-conscious, but you can’t help but wonder how gravity keeps her head upright.

“Fifty dollars,” she announces the moment you take a seat.

Fifty bucks to get your fortune read!? Talk about highway robbery! You could get seven overpriced Spiderman cookies for that.

“That’s too much.” You shake your head, rising from your seat.

“Okay, okay. I can do cheaper,” the woman immediately concedes, looking nervous at your sudden outburst, and you have to bite back a smile.

That was easy.

“How much cheaper?” you ask. You know how this game is played.

“Twenty?”

If she’s willing to drop the price from fifty to twenty that easily, you can definitely get her to go lower.

“Ten.” You cross your arms where you stand, making no move to sit down.

“Are you really haggling over this? You were the one who wanted to do this, and now you’re going to cheap out over ten bucks!?” Miguel says from behind you, but you ignore him. It’s enough to have him there looming over the lady as you stare her down, taking a note out of his intimidation tactic book.

“Some of us aren’t made out of money, Miguel–”

“Fine! Ten, I’ll do it for ten,” the lady says over the top of your arguing.

She’s skittish in the sudden silence that follows, looking over her shoulder to her left and right, as if she’s checking if your loud outbursts have attracted any attention.

Seemingly reassured that there’s only the three of you here, she gestures for you to sit back down and then tilts her head towards you.

From behind her sunglasses, you can see that her eyes are clouded white from glaucoma, but when she raises her gaze to give Miguel an appraising look from head to toe, it’s obvious that she’s still able to see.

“Your husband is tall.”

You see Miguel go rigid out the corner of your eye and chance a quick glance up at him. His sour expression hasn’t changed but you can tell he’s uncomfortable from the way his fingers are gripping the fabric of his hoodie where the chain holding his ring is hiding underneath the layers of clothing.

"Can you do a past life reading?" you ask instead, trying to steer the conversation away from anything that might inflict further painful reminders upon him. "I want to know if I could have attracted bad karma in my past lives."

“No such thing,” she says bluntly, shaking her head, "You have no past life. Reincarnation is not real."

That’s step 4 taken care of, you think to yourself, and you think you hear Miguel choke back a laugh behind you. You’re not thrilled that he’s having fun at your expense, but at least he’s not sad anymore.

"Uh… okay…" You try to think of what else was on your list. "Then can I buy a protection amulet or something? I've had really bad luck lately."

The old granny looks you over appraisingly, eyes traveling from the top of your head as far down as she can see before the table top gets in the way, and her benign and friendly smile fades as she does.

"No," she says, eyes wrinkling with worry. "An amulet is of no use to you. Just a waste of money."

Oh wow, grandma is really dissing you right now.

She gestures her hand in a come hither motion to get you to lean down, and then pulls out a paper and pen and starts to draw an uneven circle with thick, crude lines.

"See here?" she says as she loops the circle closed, "This is all of us, our world"

Miguel is suddenly right next to you, hunching down and bent over the small table. You don’t know when he managed to sneak up on you, but he’s right there, so close his shoulder is brushing up against yours.

The fortune teller moves her pen inside the circle to draw a much smaller one, then a forked line sticking out of it, and another line across the center of that one. It’s so crudely drawn it takes you a second to realize it’s a stick figure.

"This is you," she points at it with a pen, seeming to admire her own creation.

Next to you, Miguel is staring down at the childish drawing with his hands crossed against his chest in irritation, his right eyelid is twitching. He looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.

Even though he’s not saying a word, you swear you can almost hear his inner monologue, protesting the lady’s poor handmanship and drawing skills. He doesn’t need to say it but even $10 is too much of a price to pay, even for a man with infinity dollars.

Seemingly oblivious to Miguel’s irritation, the fortune teller proceeds to draw angry darts from inside the circle aimed at the poor you stick figure. Pressing so hard with her pen that the ink bleeds into the paper and the darts are starting to look like daggers. You almost wince when you see a couple of them pierce through your stick figure. “Outside interference has brought bad luck to you. It will never go away; it will follow you forever.”

You peer down at the paper with a sense of unease. Aren’t scam fortune tellers supposed to tell you what you want to hear? Where are the reassuring lies? Shouldn’t she be telling you that you’re going to meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger? Or that you were a princess in a past life? Since when do they tell you that you’re doomed to die over and over?

“So what am I supposed to do?” you ask.

“Keep moving,” she says with an unfaltering smile as if she hasn’t given you the most grim fortune telling of all time.

You lean back in your seat deflated. Scam or not, the prognosis isn’t looking good for you right now.

The lady ducks under her desk, and is sorting through a pile of junk paper, before she pops back up again. She shoves something into your hands, and leans over to you with a piercing gaze in her milky-white eyes. “The man who will help you lives here.”

Hope sparks bright in your chest at her words. Finally, a lead! Someone who can help you! You can’t believe your random decision to stop has given you the first clue that might actually lead somewhere!

You look down at what she’s given you. It's a pamphlet map of New York. Yellow and bright, the title reads: ‘Star Maps of Celebrity Homes.’ One of those cheap plastic ones they hand out with the tour buses.

The hope that had been building in your chest deflates, popping like a cheap balloon.

You make yourself scan the tacky star map for any clues as to who she means, but you you don’t see anything to lift you out of your disappointment. As much as you love Robert De Niro and Whoopi Goldberg and would love to get their autographs, you don’t think any of the people on this map are in any position to help you.

You sigh.

Ok, maybe Miguel was right. The fortune teller was a bust. What a waste of money.

From behind you, you can already hear the rustle of movement from him, as he’s stepping away.

“Come on, Cielito,” he says as he nods his head in the direction towards the exit of the alley.

The fortune teller grabs your hands in hers, as she leans in closer to your ear and whispers, as if trying to be out of earshot of Miguel. “Be careful with that one. He’s not from around here.”

Back at the hotel, you plop down on the ridiculously wide and fluffy bed, but not even the luxury of your surroundings can lift your spirits. You’re still uncomfortably full from dinner. The overload of delicious egg tarts sit like lead in your stomach, weighing you down.

Wasn’t there a Swedish king at some point who ate too many sweet buns and died of a burst stomach? Wouldn’t it be ironic if, after all the calamity and disasters you’ve escaped, your gluttony was the thing that ended you? You don’t think anyone who knows you would be surprised to read ‘died from eating too many egg tarts’ in your obituary. It’s perfect. A stupid and meaningless death to match your stupid and meaningless life.

From the corner of your eye, you see Miguel drag off his hoodie over his head. You squint your eyes, pretending not to look as the tan skin of his firm muscled back is revealed to you before he pulls on a tight-fitting white t-shirt that pulls taut against his chest.

The free peep show usually makes excitement and heat thrill through your spine, but tonight it does nothing. You feel… oddly numb.

The lights go off with a gentle click, and then you are left by yourself in darkness with nothing but your thoughts to keep you company.

You don’t know what to do. The fortune teller had been as stupid and pointless as every other idea you’ve had.

You grit your teeth, sighing as you turn restlessly onto your side in the bed, stretching out your leg to make yourself more comfortable, hoping sleep will claim you so that you can stop these thoughts from running on a constant loop on your brain like the world’s shittiest radio channel.

God, you can’t believe you spent $10 dollars on that fortune teller, and got nothing to show for it except a crappy map meant for gullible tourists.

What are you going to do if you’re too stupid to think of any other ideas? Your skin crawls at the thought, a tangle of worry sitting in the pit of your stomach, climbing upwards and trying to burst out of your chest. You roll over, but it only seems to get worse.

Are you just going to wait out your time like a sitting duck?

You twist your body, squeezing your eyes shut. The thoughts won’t stop.

Are you just going to sit here doing nothing?

Are you going to di–

Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeech.

The loud noise startles you, and you freeze, suddenly aware of just how vulnerable you are with only the sheets and comforter for protection.

Oh god, what is trying to kill you this time?

Your eyes are wide open with a strain, staring off into the darkness like a deer in the headlights as you listen to the sound of something sharp scraping against the wooden floor.

It’s coming closer.

Fuck. Is it an assassin? Some kind of otherworldly monster that’s come to drag you to hell with it?

And where is Miguel? Why isn’t he stopping it!?

Maybe he’s gone, a cruel voice whispers in your head. Maybe he’s had enough. Maybe he sees what you don’t want to—the futility of what you’re trying to do. Running around like a headless chicken trying to find a way out of the grand cosmic slaughterhouse that is set on ending your life. Maybe he’s given up on you.

Maybe you need to give up too.

You’re too scared to risk making noise, but you can’t not do anything. You turn as soundlessly as you can in bed, rolling towards Miguel—hoping with all your might that he’ll still be there to save you—only to be greeted by the sight of his back closer than you expect, hunched over the lounge chair as he drags it towards the bed, the metal legs scraping against the floor, making the very sound that had just scared you half to death.

You dart upright in the bed, outraged.

“What are you doing!?”

Miguel looks back at you, then down at the chair he’s moving, and then back up at you with that blank expression on his face.

“Moving this?” He sits down on the lounge chair that’s now next to your bed, “I heard you tossing and turning. Thought you couldn’t sleep.”

There’s a pause as he peers at you in the darkness, then he rubs his hand at the back of his neck.

“Shit, did the noise scare you? Sorry, Cielito.”

There’s that nickname again. You don’t remember when it started or where it came from, but it’s something he’s been calling you more and more often. He’s wearing a wrinkly oversized t-shirt and a sheepish expression as he’s eyeing you, making sure you’re okay. It’s almost, nearly endearing.

“Why do you keep calling me Cielito?” you ask. “Is that what you used to call other me?”

“No, I didn’t call her that.” He shakes his head, the same aching longing in his eyes that’s always there at the mention of your other self. “I called her Nena.”

“Then why Cielito?”

He tilts his head down at you as if the answer is obvious, and then he breaks out into a small smile. “Because you keep falling through the sky.”

You stare at him in silence for a second, at the goofy looking grin he’s wearing. He looks so proud of himself and his silly dad joke that you can’t help but smile back, laughter bubbling up and out of your chest. His smile just gets bigger.

What a dork.

You lay back down in bed, still tittering with laughter, and there’s a comforting weight that rests on top of your head for a brief moment. It’s his hand. The touch is pleasant, his palm warm against your skin, and the comfort of it erases the last trace of residual alarm in your body.

“Just go to sleep already." The words are impatient, but his voice is gentle, and it makes your chest warm as he continues, “It’s okay. You don't have to worry. I won't let anything happen to you.”

He hasn’t given up on you.

His words drip through your insides and warms you from inside out. It’s comforting, the way a blanket feels wrapped around you in the winter when your heating is out. He sounds so confident when he says them. Like there’s no doubt in his mind that you’ll survive this, because he will personally see to it. The anxious chatter in your mind finally quiets, and you close your eyes, knowing he’s only an arm’s length away.

Somehow, with Miguel here, the impossible odds you’re up against don’t seem quite so impossible, and hope buzzes pleasantly in your chest as you drift off to sleep. It's the best sleep you've had in a long time.

Credits & Dedication: Love a thousand and million years for @thirstworldproblemss who had to finely comb over and beta-read and edit this chapter over and over and rubber duck i with me while I was fixing up the details. I hope that I get to write with her til I go old and grey and senile, because it is the most wonderful joy and experience and I love her so.

This chapter is also dedicated to the wonderful and talented @forwantofwill who was endlessly kind in doing this amazing, beautiful piece of art of Miguel eating cookies in the windowsill Thank you so so much for making this and gifting me not just with your immense talent but also your time!

For those of you who haven't yet please follow her! She's amazingly talented and have such a wonderful blog filled with gorgeous and amazing fanart!

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow astroboots-writes and turn on notifs.

#miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara fic #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara fanfic #miguel o'hara fanfiction #spiderverse #oscar isaac #across the spiderverse #marvel #spiderverse fanfiction #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara #miguel ohara x you #marvel mcu #this entire fic makes me FERALLL

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fandom-monium · 10 months

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Sweet Poison - Part 3

Summary: In which you don't paint in color and Zagreus asks why? “Contrary to popular belief, Elysium don’t take kindly to beings like me.”

WC: 1k

TW: Zagreus (Hades Video game) x Succubus!Reader, GN!Reader, a succubus AND an artist bc sex is just work and food, au where in game Zag commissions the paintings using gems, what if boons actually affected Zagreus, slow build, strangers to friends to lovers trope, sex work, fluff, fluff and humor, mutual pining, idiots in love, mild angst, pheromones, technically it’s succubi magic aura, Zagreus is at least 6 ft convince me otherwise, eventual smut

—

“So… why?”

“Hm?”

“Why black and white? Why not in color?” Without looking up, Zagreus thumbs through one of your old sketchbooks, the light framing his profile in a soft green. Pieces of parchment fall out and he fumbles. You shake your head with a smile, facing your easel once again.

You hate to admit it, but you think you made the right choice welcoming Zagreus into your life. His visits—brief as they are—quickly become a highlight of your day. He’s not around all the time, but when he does happen to stop by, you find the rest of the day to go by quicker, easier. Even work feels less exhausting.

It’s been a long time since you had a friend. Especially someone as easy to talk to as Zagreus. It’s… nice. He’s nice.

To think not too long ago, you tried to bring him to his knees and suck the soul out of him. You’re glad you didn’t. Mostly.

A small part of you would still love to see him on his knees, but you banish the thought as quickly as it came.

Touching Zagreus with even an ounce of your normal power feels sacrilegious. Not that it affected him before, which you still don’t understand. Still, you dampen your aura as a precaution, letting out enough so as not to strain yourself. For some reason it felt wrong to touch him in that way. He’s too good. Pure.

Ironic, considering the amount of times he’s entered your domain splattered in blood. And yet somehow, he still manages to bring you gifts between runs.

You’ve never known someone to be in possession of so much nectar. And he just hands it out freely? The demonic, selfish part of you can’t understand why. Perhaps he’s bored of the stuff. Common in his corner of the Underworld. The thought of this stuff just laying around makes you chuckle. In all seriousness, where he gets it, you suspect he’s got a supplier of some sort, probably in the deepest pits of Taratarus. The Tartarian and Asphodelish marketplaces sure don’t.

They don’t have a lot of things.

“It’s not that I can’t color. I just don’t have any,” You shrug, continuing to sharpen and blend shadows where you see fit. “Trust me. I’ve visited every market in Tartarus and Asphodel; art materials aren’t exactly high in demand.”

Zagreus looks up from your sketchbook, parchment sheets filled to the brim with charcoal and lead. “And Elysium? There’s a grand market by the arena, you know.” He’s not trying to be condescending—you know—but a dull ache forms at the back of your skull, a sour squirm rising in your chest at his ignorance. His naivety.

“And you truly believe they’d serve me?” You scoff.

“Why not?”

You raise an eyebrow, and he meets your gaze, unwavering, like he can’t see the horns, wings, and tail. He is so used to your presence, they no longer register.

That makes you no less a demon. A succubus.

You shake your head, “Contrary to popular belief, Elysium don’t take kindly to beings like me.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

You give him a tightlipped smile as his brow furrows, visibly crestfallen. “Don’t worry your pretty, little head, Zagreus. It is what it is.” Turning back to the canvas, you swirl your brush and mix different gray tones on your palette. Oh, why is getting the right shade so difficult?

Sensing the shift in your mood, Zagreus glances down, flipping through your old sketches, all black and white and shades of gray. “But if you had the materials, would you? Draw and paint in color?”

You don’t even have to think, your eyes focused on a particular corner of the painting. “Yes.”

A moment later, stone rumbles and you look up in time to see his footprints cool off. The sketchbook has returned to its rightful place, wedged between the leather-bound novels and trinkets in your bookcase.

Two runs later, Zagreus barges in, gasping for breath like he raced over as soon as he could. There’s burns on his arms, blood sprayed across his face, a gaping wound on his thigh as if he’d been stabbed, but none of that matters—not to him at least—as he holds out a box held with twine to you, his teeth bared in an eager smile.

And when he slaps down a handful of colorful gems for a commission, your cheeks grow sore, unable to stop smiling back.

—

AN: Succubi!Reader tried to buy colored paint once and it unfortunately did not turn out as they hoped 😔 Good thing Zagreus got the hook up 😌🫰✨️

#zagreus x reader #zagreus (hades video game) x reader #zagreus & reader #zagreus (hades video game) & reader #hades supergiant #hades video game

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fandom-monium · 10 months

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Sweet Poison - Part 2

Summary: In which Zagreus gives you your first nectar. Along with a gift. “If it’s not to your liking, I can exchange—”

WC: 1k

TW: Zagreus (Hades Video game) x Succubus!Reader, GN!Reader, a succubus AND an artist bc sex is just work and food, au where in game Zag commissions the paintings using gems, what if boons actually affected Zagreus, slow build, strangers to friends to lovers trope, sex work, fluff, fluff and humor, mutual pining, idiots in love, mild angst, pheromones, technically it’s succubi magic aura, Zagreus is at least 6 ft convince me otherwise, eventual smut

AN: I imagine even in the Underworld and Olympus there's disparities between gods, demons, nymphs, etc

—

If there’s one constant about the Underworld, it’s that time works differently than on the surface, so you’ve learned when you first came into existence. It could be days, weeks—or whatever’s the Underworld equivalent to such a concept—before you see the peculiar man again. Which is why you already resign yourself to the fact you’ll never see your food again.

Maybe you should be more disappointed, you think, alone save for the green flames crackling at your hearth, melodic as it echoes across your humble chamber. After all, you did lose a meal, a rarity mind you. But if what he said is true, that Tartarus led him to you, not one of your bosses, then perhaps he doesn’t deserve to be consumed like the others.

Shame. He would’ve been delicious, you sigh, remembering lean muscle and genuine eyes with embarrassing clarity.

You shake yourself. Next time, if there is to be, you’ll get him.

You step back to glance over your piece. The same work in progress you had up when you met the man now stands before you, set on your easel just about finished. In your hand, you fiddle with a small brush, still soaked in gray paint as you ponder whether more final touches are needed. Tartarus stares back at you, layers of stone chambers and tombs descending down and deep into the canvas in black, white, and green in first person: the view from your balcony. You take the canvas in your hands, drinking in every detail as you hold it to the firelight.

With finality, you nod.

And toss it into the fireplace.

“What are you doing?“

Well—try to.

You jump, a flash passing you in a gust of wind as the air crackles around you like thunder. The hairs on your arms and back of your neck stand on end.

Shadows sharply contour his face as he stands before the fireplace, your painting softly clutched in his hands. Red and green eyes gaze at you, incredulous, as if the Goddess of Insanity herself has touched you.

You return his stare, just as baffled, “What am I doing? What are you doing?”

“Saving a masterpiece, apparently,” Brow knitted, he turns the canvas over a few times, checking for any scorch marks, any bits that might have touched the flames. None. It’s unharmed.

You snort, “Please. How long have you been here?”

“I just arrived. Right on time too,” He sighs, setting it back on the easel with something akin to pride before turning back to you. He smirks. You want to smack it right off him.

“What?”

He points to his hair. You bring a hand up to your own, feeling strands sticking up like gravity no longer exists.

And your horns.

You gasp, turning away, but that only further displays your wings and tail as you smooth your hair down, fingers barely grazing your horns before they all disappear in the blink of an eye.

Once you right yourself, you face him again and shoot him a withering glare, vertical slit pupils thinned into twin needles. He only grins back.

"Are you not… bothered?” You grimace, crossing your arms over your chest.

He tilts his head at the question. “What? That you’re a demon? Of course not.”

Demon, not succubus. Still unaware as ever.

You’re not sure why, but you breathe easier.

In the harsh light of the fire, there’s a glow to his form, one that hadn’t been there the first time you met. The atmosphere seems charged around him, almost electric as he stands poise—regal—his posture near perfect, and you faintly wonder if he was a prince in his past life. You can definitely see it; him in a castle, dressed in the best refinery humans could offer. With subjects that’d swoon if he graced them with the same boyish grin he’s giving you now.

You blink, quiet realization rolling over you like a thick fog.

Zeus’s blessing. He’s got boons from the King of the Olympians.

Your eyes narrow. Who the hell is this guy?

… Meh, not your business.

“While I have you here, there’s something I’ve been meaning to give you,” Breaking your train of thought, he offers his hand.

In his calloused palm, a bottle of nectar gleams in the firelight.

Without thinking, you take it in your hands, blinking dumbly as he scratches the back of his neck, abashed. “I know it’s not much of a gift, but I realized how insensitive it was to have barged into your home as I did. Consider it my formal apology and repayment for allowing me to use your fountain.”

When you only stare into your hands, he adds, voice audibly dejected, “If it’s not to your liking, I can exchange—”

“No!” He raises an eyebrow and you flush, cradling the bottle to your chest. “It-it’s not that. I…” Your thumb brushes against the smooth fabric of the ribbon, and you wonder if he’s actually an Elysian warrior who somehow wound up in Tartarus, because no denizen of the lowest rung of the Underworld would just give nectar. It may be contraband, but it’s also a luxury, only meant for the Elysium-bound, for gods, for… people unlike you. Wretches, demons; you’re the last to even think of consuming this liquid gold.

And despite all that, he just hands it to you like a tradeoff between friends.

Your heart expands. Friends.

Or maybe he really is just that unaware and naive.

Still, your voice comes soft as you grin, wide enough that your canines gleam, “Thank you for the gift. Truly.” He grins back, and your eyes dart around the chamber. “But I don’t have anything of value to give in return.”

He shakes his head, the laurels on his crown flickering with the movement. “No, no, gifts aren’t a mutual exchange.”

“I insist.”

He meets your gaze, and in the seconds it takes for him to realize you have no intention of letting him leave empty handed, his shoulders slump in defeat.

You smile, knowing you’ve won as he glances around before his eyes stop. “Then how about your painting?”

You tense, turning to the canvas you tried to burn not even ten minutes ago. “That thing?”

“That thing is a masterpiece,” He shoots you a pointed look before he studies your work. “I don’t understand why you’d try to rid the world of such beauty.”

“It’s not… accurate enough, perfect. It’s still missing something,” You gesture lamely around you, to the works-in-progress to near finished pieces. “Most of my works are.”

“Well, if you still intend to burn such a fine piece, I’ll take it off your hands. Hang it up in my gallery, perhaps.”

You can’t tell if he’s joking.

But you consider him anyway, then sigh, “Fine. Give it here.” When you reach for the painting, he takes a slight step between you and the easel. Protective. You scoff, “Oh, calm down. I promise not to throw it to the fire.”

“Swear on the gods?”

You roll your eyes, “May Lord Hades himself strike me down.”

That seems to satisfy him because he backs off, though he hovers over your shoulder, as if you’ll go back on your word and chuck it into the flames. He’s at least a head taller than you, enough for him to comfortably rest his chin on your shoulder if he felt like it. Despite the sliver of space between you, he’s a furnace, and you ignore the warmth emanating from him, fighting back a shiver and letting him watch as your fine-tip brush curves and loops with your signature lilt. A moment later, you step back with a content nod.

He moves beside you, sounding out the letters slowly. “’(Yo-ur Na-me)’?”

“My name.” When he looks at you, red and green eyes big with wonder, like you’d just unlocked a hidden treasure trove, you raise a brow, “What? I figured if we’re going to see each other more, the least I could do is give you my name. Besides, I’d much rather have my work burnt to ashes than give someone the chance to take credit for it.”

For a split second, he stares at you blankly, but it’s long enough that your stomach drops. Maybe you read him wrong. Maybe he wasn’t looking for a new friend, and he really was simply apologizing for intruding before. Your lips part, an apology on the tip of your tongue—

“Zagreus.”

You blink at him. He’d spoken too fast, not even your sharp hearing caught it. “Huh?”

“My-my name. It’s Zagreus. But my friends call me Zag,” He says, though he glances away, hesitant. When he looks back at you, he studies your expression, almost… afraid. Or perhaps concerned?

You can’t fathom why as you offer him a genuine smile, not a flicker of recognition on your face. “Nice to meet you, Zagreus.”

—

AN: The painting you give Zagreus is the Tartarus painting from the game, if that wasn't obvious 💁🏽

#zagreus x reader #zagreus (hades wideo game) x reader #zagreus & reader #zagreus (hades video game) & reader #hades supergiant #hades video game

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fandom-monium · 10 months

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Sweet Poison - Part 1

Summary: In which you don’t recognize the Prince of the Underworld, but your next prey. (AKA a budding friendship and love between a godling and a succubus.)

“I don’t know when I’ll see you again, but if the Fates are kind, I hope it’s soon.”

WC: 1k

TW: Zagreus (Hades Video Game) x Succubus!Reader, GN!Reader, a succubus AND an artist bc sex is just work and food, au where in game Zag commissions the paintings using gems, what if boons actually affected Zagreus, slow build, strangers to friends to lovers trope, sex work, fluff, fluff and humor, mutual pining, idiots in love, mild angst, pheromones, technically it’s succubi magic aura, smut, oral sex, penis in vagina sex, vaginal sex, blowjob, cunnilingus, foreplay, squirting, overstimulation, vaginal fingering, rough sex, soft sex, dirty talk, size difference, Zagreus is at least 6 ft convince me otherwise, cream pie, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, EVENTUAL SMUT

AN: i recently bought Hades and now im in love ahahaha.

In this context succubi feed off cum and if they overfeed they risk killing their victims includes but not limited to shades in which case they consume their souls or smt.

Supposedly in latin succubus is a term for tops while incubus are bottoms and concubus are switches

—

In your defense, you don’t keep up with godly politics.

That’s not to say you’re uneducated. You know the basics: who the Olympians are, who Lord Hades is—hell, you have him to thank for giving you the greatest job in the world—but anything that involves delving any deeper into the ever-complicated and drama-filled family they are, you have no interest. So when a man with messy black hair and hellhound skulls on his shoulder winds up in your domain, you don’t see Underworld royalty but your next meal.

Alright, time to get to work.

You hide away most of your physical succubus-traits like muscle memory, hardly thinking as your horns, wings, and tail disappear in an instant. The only telling sign you’re not human: your eyes, with vertical-slit pupils against (your eye color) irises.

“Uhhh hi,” He greets you when he notices you across the chamber. He’s got his hand halfway up to his mouth, cupped with the revitalizing water of the fountain residing by the far wall. You tilt your head curiously, raising a brow at his tone, amicable and unafraid, and his smile, friendly and almost open, despite having barely registered your presence. And towards a creature like you.

Handsome and strange. You should have known. Those two usually go hand in hand.

The thought makes you return his smile. “Normally, I would welcome newcomers, but you do realize that’s my fountain you’re drinking out of?”

“Your fountain?“ Bruised and calloused hands go slack, and the water splashes back into the bowl. He sounds incredulous, as if you can’t possibly own something, and it makes you bristle.

But you’re a professional.

You scoff, “Well, not mine mine, as everything in the Underworld belongs to Lord Hades, but this one specifically is for my use.”

“… I see. My apologies,” You almost accept it, if not for the way his lips twitch like your statement is humorous. Still, he takes a step back, respectful of your supposed property. "In that case, might I ask you to grant me a sip?”

Apologizing. Asking. Not even demanding but politely asking for permission, even if he doesn’t seem to believe you. Gods, he truly doesn’t know where is, or at the very least, what you are.

You suppress a chuckle: you can work with this.

“You know what? Go ahead, you look like you can use the drink,” You say and he glances down at himself, taking in the gash on his shoulder, the burns, the blood. (Most of it isn’t even his.) Usually, you’d jump straight into your main course but no matter. Meat tastes much better when properly prepared anyway.

His smile broadens, “Thank you, good shade.”

You don’t bother to correct him, just as you don’t ask for his name. Seems pointless, considering you’re going to consume him soon enough.

He leans over the fountain’s rim and brings a handful of water to his lips. Your eyes trail after the few stray droplets dripping down his chin, down his neck, as most of the wounds stop bleeding, close up, or even disappear altogether, Your stomach rumbles softly.

“So,” Your reflection ripples in the water as he glances up at you across the basin. Studying him, you cross your arms over your chest, cleavage accentuated by your chiton as your natural aura seeps through little by little in a constant stream. Too quick and the man will convulse on the floor before you can even get a taste. Don’t want to drive the man into madness yet. “What’s someone like you doing in this corner of Tartarus?”

If he’s trying to keep his eyes above your collar, you can’t tell as he straightens up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Someone like me?”

“Yes. Most poor souls sent my way aren’t so…” You round the fountain and circle him, his eyes following after you as you gesture to his—well, everything. Nothing about him screams disgusting sinner per se, but that doesn’t necessarily make him Elysium-worthy.

He stares at you inquisitively. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to, but I wasn’t sent here by anyone. Not technically anyway. The Underworld’s an ever-shifting labyrinth; I usually go where it leads me, and fortunately it’s led me to your fountain.”

You stop before him, and he lets you absentmindedly prod one of the hellhound skulls. You smile wryly, “Fortunate, yes.” For me, perhaps.

“And what of you, dear shade?”

You retract your hand, blinking up at him. “Pardon?”

“You seem to have made a home for yourself. Lovely, I must say,” He looks around your chamber, from the drapes by the balcony entrance to the green flames licking at your fireplace to the many canvases, one of them half-finished and perched on your easel. He steps around you, and you trail after him as he moves to examine the black and white details. “Did you do all these yourself?”

Your eyes flicker over him, suspicious. “Y-yes, I did.”

He turns to you, and you’re taken aback as your gaze meets steady, heterochromatic eyes, so much so you know he’s being genuine as he asks, “They’re magnificent. Are you a deity of the arts perhaps?”

“O-oh, thank you, but I’m not…” You clear your throat, “It’s just a hobby, something to pass the time.” When I’m not consuming the souls of sinners.

Warmth blooms across your cheeks, and you purse your lips at your stutter. You’re used to flattery, so how would this be any different? Your food never took notice of their surroundings, much less your work.

Then again, they always were too enraptured by your aura.

Sneaking of which, why isn’t he?

You eye his form, watching for the slightest hint he’ll double over with a raging hard-on as your aura releases, more intense than before. Still, he continues, admiring your paintings, your sketches, half-finished works you left on the back burner. Is he truly unaffected by you?

Before you can add anything else, he’s at your balcony, overlooking the lower levels of Tartarus. “Well, I can’t wait to see more next time.”

…Next time???

“Next time?”

A hand on the balustrade, he glances at you over his shoulder and grins, “I don’t know when I’ll see you again, but if the Fates are kind, I hope it’s soon.”

Then he leaps.

You shout, rushing over to the railing where he last stood. Dead or not, the impact will hurt like hell. (Favorite color) wings sprout out of your back. You’re fast enough, you can still—

Stone rumbles, and you peak over the railing, unable to contain the relieved sigh seeing the man—strange and handsome and strange—safely standing on the platform below your chamber, unharmed. No fall damage.

Of course you knew that was there. Obviously.

Once he disappears behind the door, his burning feet leaving scorch marks in the brick stone path, you finally let out your horns and your tail.

—

AN: you’ll never catch me using Y/N. Y/N is dead, there is only (Your Name).

This will have at least 5 parts. This is basically a mini series of Zagreus and Succubi!Reader as they becomes friends (and eventually lovers :D)

Part 2 coming soon~

#zagreus x reader #hades supergiant #hades video game #zagreus & reader

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