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Ladybug and Cat Noir(e) x 1st Year NozoEli

Cat Noire → ♡ → Ladybug
Eli → ♡ → Nozomi

Bonus: Nico runs the LadyBlog and ships LadyNoire

Trust

Band Member: Michael
Type: Spiderman AU
Request: “the idea of Spiderman! Michael seems very cute to me” - Anon


You were almost asleep when you heard it. The gentle tap on your window, just barely loud enough for you to pick out amongst the wails of police sirens and chatter of a busy city. You knew before you’d even opened your eyes what had caused it.
He’d been doing it for weeks now; appearing in the middle of the night, quietly muttering an apology as you slid your window open to allow him entry.

Spiderman.

That’s what they called him; the people in the city. He was their crime fighting vigilante, their saviour, the mystery superhuman that no one could pin down.
But you knew him as Michael.
These nocturnal visits had started back in the summer, but the first had been nothing like the soft tap on your window you’d now become accustomed too.

You’d been sat out on the fire escape when it happened, your fingers fumbling on the screen of your phone as you tried to call the police. A young girl in the alleyway below you was being mugged, and you felt powerless to do anything but babble down the microphone in a panic.
And then he’d appeared, seemingly out of thin air.
He’d swung down on a silver strand, disarming two of the thugs before you’d even had time to blink. The girl had bolted in fear, and you had been rooted to the spot, transfixed by the way he fought. But as he’d taken out the third, he’d misjudged his step.

The knife didn’t cut him deeply, but you’d heard his gasp of pain as it sliced across his stomach. He’d fired out another web, tangling around the three unconcious men and binding them to the wall, their heads hanging low on their chests. And then he’d tried to run.

He’d only made it a few steps before collapsing.

The rest of the night was foggy in your mind, a blur of blood and split skin and gauze soaked in antiseptic. But you’d gone to him, got him away from the alley before the police could arrive and cleaned him up in the tiny kitchen of your apartment. He’d been grateful, but you had known he was nervous.
“I’m not going to tell anyone you were here.” You’d told him. “You can trust me.”

You’d only turned for a second, reaching for the box of paracetamol in the cupboard. But when you turned back, he was gone.

You didn’t think you would ever see him again.
You could not have been more wrong.

He’d shown up once every few weeks at first; but now it was almost every other night. The pharmacy down the street was starting to look at you suspiciously, their curiosity piqued by how often you were stocking up on first aid supplies.
But you kind of liked his midnight visits.
In all honestly, you kind of liked Michael.

“Who was it this time?” You asked, wrapping your hoodie tighter around yourself to fight off the chill from the open window. “The sand guy? Oo, or the one with eight legs? He always kicks your-”
You paused, leaving your unfinished sentence hanging in the air.
He was moving painfully slow, his fingers gripping at his side as he swung his leg over the window ledge and ducked inside your room.

Shit, are you okay?”
You reached for his arm, slinging it across your shoulders and half-dragging him across to your bed. He let out a moan as he fell back, still clutching at his ribs.
“Michael?”
You reached for his neck, your fingers sliding under the hem of his mask.
Don’t.” He groaned, clasping your hand in his. “Leave it.”

You surrendered, allowing him to move your hand away.
Eighteen weeks had passed since you first met, and still he would not reveal who he was.
On any other night, you would have argued with him. You had argued with him, multiple times. But he’d never come to you in this state before.

He rolled onto his back, revealing what was causing him so much pain.
His suit was barely damaged, only a thin slit the length of your hand visible across his ribs; but it was soaked with blood.
Holy shit, Michael. What happened?”
You hooked a finger under the fabric, stretching and lifting it to see the wound underneath.

His skin was gaping open in a thick red line, deeper than any you had bandaged up before. Bruises were already beginning to bloom around it, a watercolour of purple and black that extended across the soft skin of his stomach. This was far beyond your capabilities.
“Remember I told you about the creepy, alien version of me? Venom?” Michael asked, his teeth grit.
You nodded, reaching under your bed for your first aid kit.
“Well, it had a kid. And the kid is worse.”

You helped him pull his arms out of his sleeves, rolling his suit down to his hips. He looked ridiculous with the mask still on, but seeing the wound in its entirety choked back the laughter you’d normally have let loose.
“I- I don’t think I can do this, Michael.” You whispered. “You need a doctor.”
His hand found yours, and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“I trust you.”

-

He hummed as you worked, the soft melody interrupted every time he winced. It had always been his way of coping with the pain; a distraction to take his mind off the needle and thread that was slowly stitching him back together. But he’d never had to sit this still for this long.
“I’m going to destroy that symbiote fucker.” He cursed, his fingers gripping at the bedsheets. “This hurts like hell.”
“It would hurt less if you stayed still.” You muttered, adjusting your bedside lamp to try and get better lighting. “Or if you maybe stopped taking on aliens singlehandedly, like I’ve already told you…”
“Alright, I’ll call you next time, yeah?” He said jokingly. “Maybe you can nag him to death.”

You resisted the temptation to bite back, secretly glad that his mischievous sense of humour was returning. He’d scared you when he first appeared; you’d never seen him struggle so much with pain before. But making jokes was his way of letting you know everything was okay, that he was okay. And you were grateful for it.

“All done.” You announced, tying off the bandage in a knot.
He nodded, slowly shuffling until he was sat on the edge of your bed. It was normally at this point that he would leave, lifting his mask just enough to press a quick kiss to your cheek in thanks.
But one look at his slumped shoulders, and you knew he wouldn’t make it half a block.

You could see the beads of sweat rolling down his neck from under his mask, his head hanging as he took a moment to catch his breath. It seemed wrong to see him so vulnerable, when he was normally so strong. You wanted to avert your gaze, to allow him a minute to recover his privacy and dignity; but you couldn’t take your eyes off of him. You sat beside him, your arm pressed against his.

“I don’t think you should go.”
The second the words left you lips, you regretted them.
He met them with a cold silence, as though he hadn’t even heard them at all.
“I just, I mean, you’re really hurt, Michael.” You stammered. “A-and you’re already here, it makes sense for you to just crash whilst you heal up a little…”

He was completely still, his hands gripping the edge of the bed tightly.
“I know you don’t trust me fully,” you added quietly, “but I’m not going to sell you out, Michael. I would never.”

He shook his head, just ever so slightly.
“I know. And I believe you”
He lifted his hands, taking the hem of his mask in his fingers.
You inhaled sharply.
“Michael, no, you don’t have to do that.”

“It’s okay.” He said softly. “I trust you.”

He slid the mask slowly off his face, and you allowed yourself a minute to take in every detail, every line. From the flecks of stubble that grazed across his jaw, up to a pair of green-tinted eyes and dark brows pierced with a metal stud, right up to a shock of unnaturally coloured hair.
He was nothing like how you’d pictured him.
He was better. He was more.

All of your conversations, every night you’d spent laughing as you stitched him back together; all of those memories suddenly had a face to them. Looking into his eyes felt real and raw, and you wondered for the thousandth time if he felt the same strange spark when he looked into yours.

You couldn’t stop yourself from reaching out, your fingers trailing gently across his jaw. He closed his eyes, savouring your touch. You saw the tension leave his body, his muscles finally beginning to relax as he tilted his head into your cupped hand.
You’d never shown each other intimacy like this before, but it just felt right. It was as though he’d stripped back more than just his mask, his biggest and most preciously guarded secret no longer one he had to bear alone. It made him something new entirely.

“Who are you?”
He looked up, meeting your gaze.
“I’m ‘The Amazing Spiderman’,” he frowned, “I thought the suit gave that much away?”
You lifted your fingers under his chin, turning him to face you properly.
“Spiderman is your job. Who are you, Michael?

He sighed, leaning closer towards you and taking your hand in his. He watched his thumb trace circles across your palm for a few seconds, his teeth chewing on his lip as though he didn’t know what to say.
You waited patiently; acutely aware of the way your heart was hammering in your chest.
But no amount of time could have prepared you for what Michael did next.

His lips were soft against yours, the salt on his skin lingering on your tongue as his fingers knotted in your hair. It was over almost as quickly as it had begun, and you had to pause to take a moment to catch your breath.
He kept his forehead pressed to yours, his hands sliding down to rest gently at your neck.

“Honestly?” He whispered. “I’m just a guy. Just a guy, who’s in love with you.”

Gods, that was such a calculated move on Adam’s part. He was so careful with where he stabbed Blake-he wanted her to cry, to scream, to draw Yang’s attention, because he knew that all she wanted was for Yang to be far, far away from that place. And he was careful to not hit anything vital, because she needed to watch him tear her heart in two, otherwise he wouldn’t get his full revenge.

And then when Yang came charging at him, he cut off her right arm. Her right arm. He had all the opportunity in the world to slice her in half, or cut off her head as she flew past, but he specifically targeted the right arm, and he did it on purpose. Because now, it’s a failsafe.

He’s going to kill both of them, starting with Yang. But if Blake pulls something, which she did, in order to escape with Yang (because he knows Blake would never leave behind a loved one), he needed some way to ensure that Blake would still suffer.

So he looks at Yang, in all her rage, all her passion, all her strength, and he recognizes that this is a woman who lives to fight. This isn’t a huntress, this is a warrior, a living weapon who firmly believes that the best defense is a good offense.

And he takes her greatest weapon from her.

He takes her ability to fight from her. Her greatest possession, the thing that defines her-because Yang may be a great friend and a wonderful sister, a comedian with a heart of gold, but the first thing anyone notices about her is her love for fighting-stolen from her in an instant.

Even if she survives, she’s out. Out of the fight, out of the war. Out of the one thing in life she thought she would always have.

And Blake will have to be there. She will have to watch her closest friend fight for her life against an injury that, to Blake’s mind, she caused. She’ll have to be there when Yang is told that she can’t fight anymore, that even if she did get a prosthetic arm, she’ll be out of commission for the rest of the war.

Blake will have to watch that indomitable spirit crumble, and pray that when the dust settles, there will be enough left of the woman she loves to rebuild.

And Adam knew all of this, from the moment Blake caught sight of golden hair through that window.