#this will be worth it for the costumes alone | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jensthwa · 6 months ago

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woo's prelude: a clown's remedy to heal a broken heart (JWY x reader).

part of the love's an uncharted path universe ★.

SUMMARY:

A drunk and kind of akward conversation inside of a closet is the start of Wooyoung's journey into healing his broken heart. Only he doesn't really know the name of the Scarlet Witch that helped mend a heart that wasn't supposed to break anymore, even if she starts plaguing his thoughts and dreams after that.

PAIRING: wooyoung x fem!reader.

GENRE: halloween hookup to [redacted] (we'll get to that when we need to).

WORD COUNT: 11.9k

WARNINGS: SMUT ☽ (MINORS DNI) attempt !!! at comedy, drinking and drunk behavior, mature language, insults, woo getting his heart broken by his ex girfriend even though they're friends and they haven't been romantically involved in YEARS my god he's a dummy, reader getting her heart broken too, some self worth issues, frat bros being stupid and getting drinks throw at them for stepping over the line, howl!wooyoung (not for people with weak hearts and strong imaginations), making out, biting, description of female anatomy, sweet dirty talk and praising , fingering, semi-public (they're at a party, does that count?) and protected sex (wrap it up please), switching them positions for him, masturbation, hook up talk and the start of something new that we won't see for now but soon!

NOTES: hi everyone! decided to do a halloween drop on halloween day because spooky season is not over until i get this story out of my system it seems! this story is PART OF THE LOVE'S AN UNCHARTED PATH / SHOW & TELL UNIVERSE but can be read as a stand alone finally yay! THIS A PRELUDE TO WOO'S STORY, a little taste of what's to come for him and his boo (see what i did there?). this took place BEFORE we can't be friends (san's story) and will be placed accordingly on the masterlist to clear any future confusion. there's mentions of the characters that show up in wcbf so if u want to better understand the dynamics, you can read that but it's def not needed!

this is 100% self indulgent, as all fics should be, and i think i've re-read it so many times that if you find a typo or something that just doesn't make sense, you can blame it on english not being my first language i guess lmao. i hope you enjoy it and if you do feel free to send to my askbox/reblog/type in any feedback or thoughts! <3

POSTED: october 31st 2024 at midnight!

masterlist

There's a particular way one too many tequilas can make a room spin that Wooyoung absolutely adores.

When it happens, he lets himself catch the world swirling around him before closing his eyes and praying for a little bit of lucidity to come to him so he can get his drunk ass home safely.

As he opens his eyes, his face scrunches at what he sees: San, dressed as Gomez Addams, waving a hand in front of him. It takes him a little to remember where he is.

It's a bit extra confusing with all the costumes and strangers and the music blasting through the speakers but when it finally clicks, he's grateful that he's not completely gone yet.

“Are you good?” He can faintly hear San ask over the music, San’s girlfriend by his side dressed as Morticia, eyeing him with a quirked brow.

Why is San with her? He will never, ever get it.

Kyungmi is not really right for him. It's been a few months already since they made it official and Wooyoung can just tell. He always tells. He's not as oblivious as everyone paints him to be.

There's one girl who's right for San but, in all honesty, Wooyoung is too tired to fight him on it.

San always shoots back with a comment about him and Gyuri, his ex girlfriend (now best friend) and it always brings his mood down for some stupid reason.

He's oblivious to why that happens. By choice, of course, but oblivious nonetheless.

He prefers it that way.

Wooyoung would nod, but he knows it's dangerous to do so “Just peachy.”

“Why don't you—” San starts but he interrupts.

“Some air and water,” he smiles, taking the water bottle from his friend’s hand “Waaaay ahead of you, babe.”

Kyungmi rolls her eyes “Quit calling my boyfriend babe, dude.”

San laughs, Kyungmi does not.

“Don’t be jealous because he loves me more than you,” sticking his tongue out, he stumbles his way around them both “I'll be back.”

He focuses on putting one foot in front of the other until he reaches a very big window. It's larger than usual.

Oh.

It has a door. A door that slides!

It's a balcony. Amazing, just what he needs: To be a safety hazard and a possible traumatic experience for everyone at the party.

He should probably turn back around before he's accidentally leaping over the edge but then he sees it.

He sees her.

Corpse bride. Her blue makeup being wiped off by somebody's tongue in a secluded corner of the backyard of this stupid frat house the friend group ended up for the night.

Gyuri is kissing someone.

His chest tightens, his mouth drops slightly and his heart thumps hard enough for him to feel it on his throat.

Why is she doing that?

She's wearing matching costumes with him. She carefully picked them out, she ordered everything a month and a half ago and now she's kissing some… Some… Attempt at a Superman costume.

Which is pretty fucking hilarious because how do you fuck up a Superman costume?

But Wooyoung is not laughing. He's hurting, he's fucking pissed and, at the same time, he can't pull his eyes away from her. From them.

Is feeling this pathetic something that would fit Víctor?

Vector?

Whatever his name is?

He's never seen the Corpse Bride, so he doesn't remember the name of the dude he's dressed up as. He just knows he wants to wipe the pale complexion Gyuri painted on him off.

Off. Off. Off. Out. He needs to leave.

But he ends up going back inside and downing another shot before he can really think about it, giggling to San and pretending nothing happened because who the fuck is he to Gyuri to get upset over it?

Her ex, sure. But that happened a long time ago, so it doesn't count anymore.

So it doesn't really matter. Nothing really matters when he finds Yeosang (dressed as the Phantom of the Opera) and drags him to the dance floor for what it feels like forever.

And then, one thing leads to the other and he's sitting on the floor, in a circle of people he doesn't even know, playing spin the bottle.

Or is it seven minutes in heaven? A vampire and a fairy kissed in front of him half a second ago, but Zuko and the creepy doll from that one netflix show got up and into a closet like… six minutes ago.

He didn't really pay attention to the rules.

Oh, well, he's about to find out anyway!

Fingers grasping the soju bottle in the middle of the circle, he carefully inspects the faces of everyone sitting there, expectantly looking at him.

His vision is a little blurry but he wants to pick whoever strokes his fancy the most to try and get rid of the funny feeling he gets when he sees Gyuri walk right in front of him and head for the drink table.

He decides quickly that, as long as it makes him forget the image of that dude's tongue down the mouth of the love of his life, he's good.

So he spins the bottle. It spins and it spins and it spins and everyone leans forward in anticipation until it stops in front of someone.

There's someone on his left that audibly gasps and Wooyoung looks at them before his eyes focus on the person he has to… Kiss? Get in a closet with?

What does he need to do?

“You can skip her if you like,” some dude with red paint dripping down his forehead and cargo shorts tells him. He's not even sitting down in the circle but lying on the couch closest to it “She's in a bad mood.”

That’s when the Scarlet Witch that the bottle landed on rolls her eyes and gets up.

Wooyoung thinks he's about to lose his turn and wait for the next round or until the bottle lands on him when she offers him her gloved up hand.

He gets up. He's a little bit more sober now, alert as he plants his feet on the carpet again just to not make a fool of himself, throwing a glance at Gyuri just to find out she's not actually looking at him at all.

The pang on his chest comes back.

“Don't throw a drink on him just for trying to kiss you too, sweetheart, that's what the game is all about,” the same dude from before tells her as they both pass by the couch and head for the space Zuko and the doll who, he assumes, just got done with their seven minutes was occupying “Don’t say I didn't warn ya, Wooyoung!”

Who is this obnoxious motherfucker and why does he know his name?

It takes two and a half hazy steps until the darkness of the small space engulfs him and Scarlet Witch.

It's one of those long closets with narrow walls that leave absolutely no space to move around when you actually need to put something away, but it's a perfect nook to make out.

He would know, he's been in this situation many times.

He lets go of the stranger's hand, only because she turns away from him and then she huffs once the door closes. Wooyoung hears a thump against the wood of it, so he assumes she hit it with her fist or her boot.

“Fucking asshole.” She mutters under her breath but he hears it.

It dawns on him that the reason he sat down to potentially kiss strangers that night was to be seen.

Wooyoung wanted people to see him so they knew he was completely fine and, as soon as Gyuri walked into the room, his motivation was for her to see him doing completely fine.

Cool. He's cool. He's one of the actual cool guys at the university, he's been told so before.

He also wanted her to feel a little bit jealous but now, eyes closed for a few seconds to try and regain composure after whatever just happened, he realizes that she probably wouldn't even care.

So this whole thing is useless anyway. Only now he gets to meet (kiss?) someone dressed as one of his favorite characters of the decade.

There, as his eyes adjust to the minimum light that's filtering under the door, he realizes his mistake: he said nothing to defend her.

In his defense, his drunk brain processes the information a little too late. And, in her defense, Scarlet Witch seemed like she didn't really care what the asshole said in the first place.

Now he notices that's not true.

It's hard to make out her figure but he hears another soft thump and when he turns his head to the right angle, he's able to make out that she just leaned against the door.

He opens his mouth to apologize, he thinks, but she beats him to it.

“We don't have to kiss or… fuck or whatever people do with their seven minutes.”

“Wow,” he laughs, his back finding a wall and almost knocking something placed on a tiny shelf next to his arm “I promise I wasn't expecting you to—”

“Yeah, yeah, save it,” she lets out a breath. “If you want to tell them that we kissed, that's fine by me. I know how your frat bros behave when you don't do what you're supposed to.”

“They're not my frat bros. In fact, they are not even my bros,” he frowns, and slides against the wall because his legs are threatening to give in. He's suddenly very, very exhausted “I don't know them.”

“Isn’t your name Wooyoung?”

“Y-yes?”

“Then you know them,” she shoots back, matter-of-factly “And I'm not interested in kissing any of your kind tonight.”

“My kind?”

“Men,” she clarifies and Wooyoung can feel her smile in her next words “Although frat bros are a different kind of species altogether.”

“I'm not a frat bro!”

It takes a second and his honest frustration but she laughs “Sure.”

In the dark, with his ego bruised and his heart crushed, Wooyoung thinks it's a pretty laugh.

He thinks it's even prettier when he hears a little ruffling and then her body heat invades his space, kind of. She just sat beside him, thigh against his and perfume reaching his nostrils. It's a mix of something sweet and something citrusy.

It's really nice.

He gulps before asking “W-what was that about?” and then points to the door like she can see him.

“He's in one of my classes. He thought he could kiss me and when I said no, because fucking look at the state of him, he tried to kiss me anyway,” she says all chirpy but Wooyoung picks up on the sarcastic tone and let's out a soft ew at the story “I preventively threw my drink on him because I got a little freaked out and now I'm sober and pissed off. I think he's a little upset about me thinking he was about to take advantage of me.”

He grimaces “You can't never be too sure, though.”

She hums and then sighs a: “I know.”

“I don't even know his name but he does sound like a fucking asshole.”

“Why does he know you?”

Wooyoung shrugs and he's a little glad it's dark. He's not exactly smiling, his playful nature not coming out at the moment. “I'm a pretty popular guy.”

“I don't know you.”

“Well, I don't know you either, so we're even,” he shrugs again and it's kind of hypocritical because, to be fair, he didn't get a good look at her face at all “I just know you s-smell nice.” He murmurs, tripping on his words like a babbling drunk idiot.

Maybe because that's what he is right now.

“Thanks… I guess.” She sounds weirded out by that but he's not sober enough to care.

“You're so welcome.”

There's silence in which Wooyoung does nothing but try to find her in the dark. He eventually does, given the fact that the light from under the door casts a little on her face now that she's sitting down.

He doesn't recognize her, which is odd. Wooyoung knows almost everyone. At least her voice would ring a bell but there's absolutely no frivolous memories with this girl and he kind of likes it that way.

If she doesn't know him, she doesn't know about Gyuri. That's a plus because there's no reason for her to be walking on eggshells around him like every other student at the university who finds him attractive.

There's another beat of silence between them both, music blasting outside and making the floor slightly thrum underneath him.

He's not usually this quiet. When he doesn't feel like crying, he's usually very annoyingly outspoken. Mind glowing in red alert, he practically stumbles his words out to fix that.

“I like your costume.”

“You do? People didn't get it.”

“That's because they care more about Captain America than Wanda Maximoff,” he scoffs. “It’s the Multiverse of Madness one, hm?”

“Wandavision post-credit scene,” she whispers back and Wooyoung nods, encouraging her to go on even if she can't see him. He thinks she's about to maybe rant about the show or the character or the party or anything that can help him forget, but she does the opposite “I, uhm… Also like your costume.”

There's a tint of shyness in her voice, like she's not used to being nice.

“Victor, right?”

“I've never seen the movie.” He makes sure to clarify before she asks him about it.

“You don't really have to see the movie to know the character, Wooyoung,” he feels when her head hits the wall slightly, on purpose maybe “I don't like him anyway.”

“Then why did you say you liked my costume?”

“I lied. It's called trying to keep the conversation going,” her explanation makes no sense to him in that state of inebriation, but he lets it go “I don't exactly know what to talk about when I drag someone into a closet.”

Wooyoung pauses and then laughs to himself “We were not exactly supposed to talk in the first place. Have you never done this before?”

“No. I don't usually go to frat parties,” she says after a second where Wooyoung was met with silence, a moment where he wondered if his question was out of line “Coming here tonight was a mistake.”

He finds himself asking without thinking, again “Then why did you?”

“I'm so bored.”

That takes him by surprise.

“Bored?”

“Yes, I'm bored. My dorm room mattress has a hole in it because I never go out and… Well, there's a boy I liked that came here tonight, so, I came as well.”

Liked?

Wooyoung doesn't really ask her about it.

Eyebrows practically touching his scalp, Wooyoung thinks for a split second she's talking about him but that's not really possible because they've never met until now, she said it herself.

“Well did you find him?”

She takes in a shaky breath and then lets it out. Sadness suddenly fills the constricted space and Wooyoung isn't sure if it's just him or if Scarlet Witch is going through a heartbreak as well.

“Yeah, I did” she whispers back and doesn't elaborate, so he doesn't ask “There's a bride going around the party. I saw her, she looks really cool, maybe you could—”

“She's my best friend,” he interrupts because the mention of Gyuri, so directly at that, has his heart racing with anxiety. So long for her not knowing about his ex girlfriend “We, uh… We dated in highschool and we stayed friends, so it's not really happening again.”

“Oh… Do you want it to happen again?”

“W-what?”

“I mean,” she laughs a little awkwardly, like she's nervous “You sounded very sad when you said it, a little angry too.”

“Did I?”

He definitely didn't mean to sound like that at all.

Scarlet Witch hums in agreement and he really thinks about what to answer. The short answer is a simple yes but, if he's being honest, he already knows that they're not good for each other. Not like that, anyway.

“I don't really know what to tell you.”

“You don't have to tell me anything,” she says right away and it calms his nerves a bit. “Just know that there's no real helping when you like someone, it doesn't matter if you thought you didn't like them anymore. It just happens. It sucks but it just happens.”

The unsolicited advice doesn't really help him, if he's being honest. It stirs something inside him that he wants to keep hidden, concealed, so he turns the topic of conversation away from him.

Away from Gyuri.

“Speaking from experience?” He asks, half jokingly.

“Yeah, so I can confidently say that it fucking sucks.”

She turns to him with a smile (he's hyper focused on her, there's no way he could've missed that) before laughing and a tiny force lifts up the corners of his lips. That's one pretty laugh.

Maybe, in an universe where was a little bit more sober, he could've actually spent these seven minutes kissing her.

Kissing her.

He wants to kiss her. That's going to take his mind off Gyuri, sure.

His heart beats quicker this time, for a completely different reason.

He leans in.

He's going to kiss her.

She clears her throat “Are you going to the party next saturday?”

Huh?

Oh.

“Yes, I think so,” he's a little breathless and probably blushing because of what he was about to do “Why?”

After the night he had, he thought he was going to struggle to even bring out this sort of excitement out of himself. When Scarlet Witch raises her gloved hand and brings it to the nape of his neck, he wonders if she actually has magical powers.

It effectively distracts him, it sobers him up and makes him feel drunker at the same time. Short nails caress the skin where her fingers lay and then she grasps the strands of hair sticking out, not gelled down for the sake of his costume.

“Is this real?”

What does she mean? This feeling taking over his body? The heat that spreads all around? He's not sure if it is, if that's what she's asking.

Hia mouth feels like cotton when he asks “Is what real?”

She laughs softly again “The hair, the length.”

Oh.

“Yes, it is.”

Maybe he should've taken his time in answering because, as soon as he does, her touch leaves him.

“You should go as Howl,” she murmurs and he melts a little “It'll suit you better than a Tim Burton character, I think.”

He laughs, it's short lived and through the cloud he feels he's on right now “You think?”

“Yeah,” he can't see her, but he knows she's nodding “Even if you claim that you're not a frat bro. You know, the whole seducing ladies and stuff.”

Wooyoung laughs “Howl did not seduce any ladies, it was all a rumor!”

“He did, in the book.”

“Oh, I don't read.”

“See?” she clicks her tongue and then her shoulder touches his, teasingly “Total frat bro.”

Wooyoung thinks about it again.

Kissing her. Now out of pure want instead of selfish motivations.

She said she didn't want to, earlier, if he recalls correctly and that's okay.

He still wants to though, so…

The question is on the tip of his tongue, he even thinks he makes out the start of it before it's cut off by the sound of the door opening.

Closing his eyes at the sudden intrusion of light, it takes a few seconds for them to adjust to it and, when they do, he finally sees her face.

He should've kissed her.

The costume she's wearing it's cool, sure, and she's even wearing a wig that looks very expensive so he confirms the fact that she likes to dress up sometimes but that's not really what amazes him.

Maybe it's because he sort of already formed a judgment of her character but she's beautiful and he really, really, really, should've kissed her.

“Time's up, you're hogging the closet. Oh, and someone is looking for you,” the girl dressed up as Zuko points in his direction and then, because neither of them makes an effort to stand up, she nods and steps aside “I'll give y'all a minute.”

Scarlet Witch laughs and Wooyoung wishes he could share the sentiment. At this point, he thought he would be done with a makeout session and in desperate need for another drink to keep the night going.

Now, he wants nothing but take her hand in his and find a quiet spot where he can keep getting to know her. Maybe get her number.

And he swears he's going to ask, but the universe is not in his favor. When she turns to him, he loses all ability to speak and when she leans in to peck his cheek his breath hitches and he feels like a teenager getting a crush for the first time.

“In case you need to tell anyone I kissed you,” she whispers in secrecy, leaning back a bit “So you don't have to lie. I hate liars.”

He gulps “Noted.”

She doesn't even give him the opportunity to escort her out of tiny space: she gets up, bolts for the door and when Wooyoung's brain catches on to the gigantic problem of his own creation, as he gets out of the closet and looks around for her, she's already out of his sight.

“Are you good?”

It's the second time tonight San has asked that. It's not annoying by any means but when it comes with the concerned faces of Yeosang, Kyungmi and Gyuri he has to think his response through.

But the Scarlet Witch's words echo in his mind.

I don't like liars.

“No, I'm not,” he says, a little out of breath “I didn't get her name.”

This time, the entire crew joins him, Gyuri, Kyungmi and Yeosang to go to the party.

He wishes his other best friend came along as well, but she's really not that fond of parties in general.

Which sucks because she would look good in a costume and maybe that would prompt San to act on his feelings and break up with Kyungmi in the process.

She was a pain in his ass tonight. Didn't really help his nerves at all.

Yes, he's nervous about possibly seeing Scarlet Witch again.

Yes, he thought about her all week and tried his best to find her on social media but couldn't.

Yes, he's aware tonight's theme for the party is a mix of a masquerade and a normal costume party or whatever the sorority organizing it said in their invite.

And yes, he's dressed up as Howl Pendragon, wearing a black and white mask that he borrowed from one of the girls in the group. They decorated it with little gold and pink stars and it looks cute on him but that's not the point!

Masks complicate his quest for the night.

He hopes that she's here tonight. He also hopes that the costume alone is enough for her to recognize him: There's a lot of people here tonight.

Even waiting in line to pay the cover fee for the party felt stuffy.

He turns to Gyuri and she's laughing at something her date for the night is telling her. That's right, for the first time in many, many years, Wooyoung is not her date.

Superman is. He's dressed in the same costume he saw him in last weekend, he thinks he even sees as smudge of Gyuri’s corpse bride body paint on it.

She's Wonder Woman for the night. So original.

Wooyoung feels bad as soon as the bitter thoughts go through his head. He didn't even know they exchanged numbers, let alone kept chatting to coordinate their costumes for tonight's party.

He found out when she told her that the Raven and Beast Boy costumes would have to wait until next year.

And he, actually, was relieved that he didn't have to paint his face green for God knows how many hours just to keep losing his date in the crowd and finding her kissing someone else.

Ugh.

Bitter. He's as bitter and jealous as someone who has to see the love of his life not give a damn about them or their feelings can be.

But that's okay, he has other plans for the night anyway.

As soon as they all get through security (there's security at a house party, what the hell), they all scatter to do what they do best at parties.

Hongjoong and Seonghwa head for the drink table, Yeosang and Jongho head for a corner of the main room, San, Kyungmi, Gyuri and Superman go straight to the backyard and Mingi, his girlfriend and Yunho walk with him to the dancefloor.

He dances with his friends, he pretends he's paying attention to their banter as his eyes scan the crowd looking for someone familiar behind a mask.

He thinks he remembers her face very well, it stayed on his mind for a whole week but, even after dreaming about their conversation, Wooyoung is having a hard time in finding her.

She didn't even tell him what she was going to dress up as or if she was even going to show up.

Or did she?

His memories are all blended together. He's going to make sure to be sober tonight, just for the sake of remembering every little detail if he does end up finding her.

But the hours go by and he still can't find her.

He's losing hope, he's beginning to believe she didn't even show up to the event which, hey, sucks but that means that he can finally get her out of her head.

Sort of.

There's a Scarlet Witch staring at him. But there's this alluring nature to his Scarlet Witch that can't be replicated, or so he thinks.

He's about to convince himself he drunk dreamed the entire thing but then he sees him.

The obnoxious motherfucker. Her classmate, mister can't-take-no-for-an-answer.

In all honesty, the first thought that crosses his mind is to punch him in the face. He's still dressed up all frat bro-ish and his mask is a paper mask, completely diy-ed and with a dick drawn on the right side.

And then he abandons the thought because, although an asshole, he can lead go finding his Scarlet Witch.

Only issue is: Mister asshole is walking away with a girl on his arm and heading straight to a… room? bathroom?

Stopping his movements, mid a Troye Sivan song and cutting Yunho off in whatever he's telling him, he let's out a loud “Fuck!”

Yunho stops, Mingi and his girlfriend turn slowly to them with wide eyes and concerned expressions

“What did you do to him?” Mingi asks Yunho and his best friend laughs nervously.

“I didn't do anything! Did I do something?” he turns to Wooyoung “I didn't, did I?”

“No, no. Sorry, I… I gotta go.”

“Go where, Serena Van der Woodsen?”

Wooyoung doesn't get the reference Mingi’s girlfriend makes but he laughs like he does “I'll be right back!”

He's never been so determined before, moving through the crowd like his life depends on it and crashing into Batman and his Joker on the way to stop the guy who's potentially changing the course of his night.

“Hey!” He yells behind him but the music is somehow louder on this side of the house and five people turn their heads, but not the guy pushing a Silent Hill nurse into the bathroom door to kiss her before opening it.

Damn it.

He runs faster and faster and he thinks he's going to miss his chance when the tip of his boot catches the door before it fully closes on his face.

Breathing hard, his lips turn up in smirk when he catches the way the guy's face scrunches in confusion before opening the door again and looking at him.

Wooyoung takes it a step further and gets into the bathroom with them, closing the door behind him and lifting up his mask.

“What the fuck, Wooyoung?”

“Hey, so sorry for interrupting your fifth makeout sesh for the night but I need to ask you something. Hi.” He says to the nurse and she smiles a little before turning to the Frat Bro and raising her eyebrow inquisitively.

“And it couldn't wait?!”

“No,” he says right away, smiling sardonically and getting straight to the point afterwards. “So, remember the Scarlet Witch that I ended up going to the closet with last week?”

“Who?”

Wooyoung is going to kill him.

“The girl who threw a drink on you last week for trying to kiss her even if she said no the first time you tried,” he reminds him, “Is she here?”

“Y/N?” the name comes out in a whisper and Wooyoung sucks in a sharp breath.

Y/N.

It fits her.

“Your classmate, yes.”

“Uhm, yeah, I think she's here,” he looks a little embarrassed at the recalling of the events of last week and Wooyoung wants to smile because of it, but he just looks at him with an insistent look so he can catch that he needs more than that to find her. To find you “Look, bro, I don't know where she is right now. I think she's dressed as a… Clown? A jester? Some weird, indie costume, uhm… She has a pointy black birthday hat? I don't know.”

He's slurring his words but that's not enough for Wooyoung to feel bad for him. He, however, does not want to speak with him anymore.

“Alright, thank you for that, I'll… Leave you to it,” he opens the door again and frat idiot scoffs, so he turns and looks directly at the Silent Hill Nurse “Please make him wear a condom.” And he can tell she's a little turned off with the whole conversation.

So, as he closes the bathroom door and scans the crowd one more hopeful time, he counts that as a second victory. A little revenge on your name, even.

He wanders the house, the hallways and rooms and little hideaway spots but he finds no sign of you in them so he heads for the backyard and looks up to the second floor.

The first room is presumably empty, lights turned off and no activity in it the few seconds he observes it.

The second room has an ambiance light turned on and he sees what looks like a Mad Hatter run across the window and then he hears something crashing, so he hopes that's not where you are.

The third room has a balcony. It's dark, there's not one light lit in the entire room but there's neon lights in the backyard and streetlights and the moon casting perfectly on it, so he's able to see it perfectly from where he stands.

And there, draped in some sort of vintage looking clown costume, wearing striped tights and a black and white pointy hat, mask in your hand and your forearms supporting your weight, you stare past him.

You look sad, but it could also be the illusion the makeup you put on gives.

He doesn't know you enough to know what your sad expression looks like and it bothers him a little.

You also don't notice him at all, which is odd, because you're staring directly over his shoulder. You only blink fast and focus on his face once someone calls out:

“Woo!” That's Gyuri's voice. Raising your head, you wave to him and smile a little. He smiles back.

He has to literally force himself to peel his eyes from you and look behind him, at his best friend “Are you okay? Come hang out with us!”

She looks so happy. A little drunk, but happy. San is also right beside her and he shoots him a knowing smirk that he ignores because he has to leave and speak to you.

“I'm a little busy, Yuri. I'll be down in just a sec,” that's a lie but she nods happily and so he turns to you, your smile a little bigger now “Don't move.” He warns cheekily in a whisper and you seem to get it, because you smile wide, raise your arms defensively and open your, once again, gloved hands in defeat.

He practically sprints to the second floor after that.

You hope Wooyoung didn't notice.

Staring daggers at the girl he told you last time is his best friend? Yeah, that could turn into a fight really fast if he reproaches it.

You don't remember her name but you do remember her kissing the guy you've liked since forever. She's been doing that all night tonight, too.

It pisses you off for all the wrong reasons. Sure, she's not exactly at fault, but the human mind is horrid when it comes to mental self flagellation and you, unfortunately, are an expert at that.

All kinds of things went through your head. The main one, a question: Why do you feel so possessive over something that clearly isn't yours?

His heart.

His heart it's not yours, it never was, it never will be.

It's time you come to the realization that that's okay even if it hurts you. The obsession you have over it, over what happened with the two of you it's starting to get pathetic and it makes you feel lonelier than usual.

You really hope Wooyoung didn't notice.

As you walk to the door and unlock the room you claimed for the night (because you want to leave, but the cover was expensive and there's no way you're letting it go to waste) you let yourself detach from the emotions you've been feeling all night.

Wooyoung doesn't need to know what's going on in your head. You have a good memory of him, you even filtered a little last weekend and you want to keep that going.

He doesn't need to know, he doesn't need to stay in your life for too long either.

It makes you giggle when he opens the door and scans the moonlit room of this sorority house like he doesn't really believe you were there in the first place. He smiles wide when his eyes land on you, back against the wall closest to the door.

“Hey.” You say, biting down a smile.

His chest is heaving, like he ran all the way up here and it does nothing but send nervous tingles down your spine.

He smiles beautifully, entering the room and closing the door behind him “Hi.”

Peeling your back from the wall, you start walking around the room because that keeps your body busy and unable to embarrass you.

“Thought I missed you completely tonight, Y/N.”

Frowning, you give him a glance over your shoulder “You know my name.” You say, rather than ask.

“You didn't want me to?”

Shaking your head, there's a tiny smile that curves your lips when you turn to him. He's walking around as well, slowly, carefully, like you're about to disappear if he moves too fast.

“I don't really enjoy mysteries that much.”

He smiles as well “You didn't tell me your name last time.”

“You didn't ask me,” shrugging, you take a few steps his way and scan his costume without any discretion “You see?”

“Hm?”

“How good you look as Howl?” tilting your head slightly, you don't miss the way his cheeks darken slightly and that makes the remains of your shyness disappear from your body. You tell yourself that you, in this room, there must be no space for it. You point at his cape “Was it hard to get this?”

“Overnight shipping,” he whispers, taking a step in your direction “You look very cute.”

“You think?”

“Yeah, I really like the, uhm…” he gestures to your costume “Vintage vibe.”

You don't have to be a genius to notice he doesn't really know what you are. “I'm a pierrot clown.”

He scoffs “I knew that.”

“Sure you did, buddy.”

There's a pause and then you both laugh but it dies down quickly and there's this tension between you both you don't really know why it's there.

You two didn't exactly connect that much last time. At least, you don't think you did. He was kind of drunk and you weren't really thinking straight either.

“Y/N…” Your name sounds good out of his lips.

“Yes?”

“Why did you disappear last time?”

That makes you laugh again. You didn't exactly plan on it, you were going to wait for him outside the closet but then you saw them kissing goodbye and your heart couldn't really stand it, so you bolted.

You walk towards one of the two beds, sitting down on it carefully, to not disturb it too much. He follows you with his eyes, his head turning slightly in order to do so.

“You mean when I left the party? I didn't disappear on you,” that's not really a lie, you convince yourself. You kind of bid your goodbye to him that night “Didn’t think you wanted me to stay, either. Did they give you too much shit?”

“For what?”

“I clearly didn't kiss you that night. I think it was obvious, so… Your frat bros didn't give you shit for it?”

Closing his eyes, the smile he gives you in return for the inside joke you two have going on makes your heart flutter “Stop insisting on that, will you?”

“You can't really fight the truth, Wooyoung.”

“Hm,” he walks over to you again, sitting on the bed next with his thigh touching yours. Innecesarlly so, because there's plenty of space, but you enjoy the warmth it spreads around your body so you don't say anything “You did tell me you didn't like liars.”

“Oh, you remember that?”

“I remember everything,” he nods, “I wasn't that drunk.”

You give him a look “Weren't you?”

He laughs again and you follow, pushing him slightly with your shoulder like you did back in the closet as well.

You don't really know what to say anymore, so you clear your throat slightly.

“Are you enjoying the party?”

“Are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You seemed kind of sad when I saw you, there,” he points at the balcony and that makes you sigh. He noticed, kind of. That's disappointing and impressive at the same time. “I thought it was the makeup but it doesn't really seem like it.”

“I’m not sad,” you admit, “I'm hurt.”

“Isn't that the same thing?”

“Not really, no,” shaking your head, you stare out of the big panel windows into the night sky. He doesn't need to know entirely, but you can tell him something about it “Remember the guy I told you about last time?”

“The guy you went to the party for?”

You nod “Well, he's here tonight too. With a date this time.”

“Oh,” when you turn, catch him licking his lips before continuing and your eyes are fixed on the motion for a second too long “And that hurts you, duh, obviously.”

You think it's adorable he's also a little nervous but you only smile and don't give him shit for it like you would do to anyone else “When you're obsessed with the idea of someone specifically seeing you a certain way, yes, it hurts,” you shrug “I'll get over it though.”

“I feel that,” he says and you can imagine. You sensed it in his feelings last time, you can't actually believe the coincidence and irony of it all “Did you and this guy…?”

“We went to highschool together. He was the only person who I thought saw me for who I was, whoever that is,” there's a bitterness in the laugh you let out you don't enjoy “We kissed a few times, he told me pretty things and I feel. Totally forgot about me when he had a summer glow up before we started our first semester, though.”

“Well, he's an asshole.”

“He's not, not really,” and you desperately need to change the topic to him, so you bump your shoulder against him one more time “Did you come with your Sophie?” you ask, pretending to not know about Wonder Woman and the fact that she's here with somebody else.

He catches who you're talking about, though and shakes his head, giving you. tight smile.

“No, no, uhm… She has a date.”

You hum “Are you hurt too?”

“I'm bitter,” he whispers back, right away “Don't know if that's the same as being hurt, but I'm bitter.”

Silence falls comfortably around the understanding in between you both. You stare at each other, lips slowly curving upwards until you end up laughing yet again at the absurdity of the situations you're both in.

“Guess we're just… A pair of losers tonight, huh?”

“And what a pair we make.”

You agree. There's this electricity running through you, you even dare to say it's running through him too and it makes you slightly regret not kissing him last week.

If you did, the desire to do so right now would be easier to come to terms with.

Thankfully, the same thing seems to be going through his mind “I know I was drunk, but I wanted to kiss you so bad.”

“Are you drunk now?” You ask back in a whisper. He shakes his head.

“Don't want to ruin your pretty makeup. Besides, you said last time—”

You lean into his space a bit.

“That was then,” you interrupt with a tiny smile “And now is now.”

“That's how time usually works, yes,” he laughs and you join, rolling your eyes at the bad joke. You can see the second he makes the decision, his hand hesitantly finding your cheek and, when you don't recoil at the possible contact, he leaves it there “But are you sure it's okay?”

You know why he's asking. He doesn't want to take advantage of a vulnerable moment, neither do you.

But you want to kiss him.

“It’s matte,” you say instead and you hope he understands the real meaning behind your answer “The lipstick, it's matte. And the base It's set with really good powder, too, because I thought…”

You thought that somebody else was going to kiss you tonight.

He gets it. He understands why you did it and he scoffs with mild annoyance at it, which makes you smile.

“Y/N,” he closes the distance between you even more and your breath hitches with anticipation before he whispers: “I'm going to kiss you so good, you'll forget about his lips forever.”

That's the best thing someone has ever said to you, ever. You shudder at the thought and just stare, eyes dropping when he leans in further and his nose bumps into yours.

“Do you want that?”

Sleeping with Wooyoung won’t fix your problems. It sure won’t, not yours, not his but it doesn’t need to. You don’t know what the remedy for a wounded heart is but a distraction from the hurt can’t be all that bad.

It's still a little bit pathetic how you whimper in response to his question.

But it gains you the prize of tasting him for the first time, his minty flavor mixing with the remnants of whatever soda you had earlier and you sigh into the encounter. He’s not as delicate as you thought he would be.

Wooyoung kisses you hard, with want, with need, with something you recognize in yourself and give back: the need for a distraction, for a feeling other than that hurt and bitterness you two mentioned not even three minutes ago.

You don't know what to do with your hands, where to put them, but he fixes that. He grabs them, puts them on his shoulder, scoots a bit more into you and so your chest touches his and he sighs in contentment at that.

You feel a little bit nervous, but that’s okay.

It’s not like you’ve never been touched, like you’ve never done this sort of thing but it is the first time you want it. You want him.

You’re not numb this time around, the hairs on the back of your neck stand up when his other hand joins and keeps you in place, pulling back a second to take in some air before going back in for another toe curling kiss.

Mind disconnecting from the outside world, you curse the layers of clothing (and there’s a lot) in between you when his hands travel down to your waist, against your body, caressing it and then grasping it in a way you’ve never felt before.

It’s not rushed and it doesn’t really feel like something that you both want to get out of your system even though it is. You don’t really expect Wooyoung to ask you on a date after hooking up at a sorority party, after all.

Oh.

The party, that’s right. Did you lock the door? No, no. He walked in and didn't, you think.

You can’t really think straight when he’s biting your bottom lip and then licking it as an apology for his misbehaving. It draws a breathy moan out of you and he drinks it, tongue meeting yours for the first time ever as you stand up from the bed, kiss never breaking, his body following yours.

You’re wearing a lace ruffle white collar that goes with your costume. It’s cute, surprisingly not itchy at all and right now it seems to be getting in his way. His fingers look for the velcro clasp and then, when he loosens it enough, he janks it off.

Somehow, you enjoy the theatrics and you giggle as his mouth abandons yours.

“Woo…” You manage to say when his lips start to make acquaintance with your neck, over your pulse. Craning your head to the side, he moves to the skin that unveils because of it and it’s hard to think of anything but the way you start to tremble under his touch.

Grounding yourself by sinking your fingers in his hair, you attempt to speak again but he keeps distracting you.

“Fuck, say that again.”

Humming, you return “Woo,” you say again, “the door…”

He moves to the other side of your neck “What about it?”

“It’s— Oh,” teeth sink into your skin and you moan out loud, you can practically feel his smirk on your skin after that and your face burns as a consequence. “W-we need to lock it.”

“Afraid someone will walk in on us?” he finally pulls away enough for you to see his face. His lips are swollen and there’s a flush across his cheeks that sits beautifully there when he smiles, forehead resting against yours a second later “You don’t like that thought?”

There’s a part of you that doesn’t think it’s proper. It’s bad enough you’re hooking up with a somewhat stranger in a room that isn’t yours, but people finding out? That should terrify you.

But it doesn’t. He seems to read it on your delayed response and the way your eyes widen with need when he pulls away again to watch your reaction to what he said.

“You do, don’t you?” and then you’re moving, backwards, backwards, backwards until your back hits the door and there’s this passion glistening in his eye that excites you and sends spikes down your spine and into your core “You want people to know I’m kissing you dumb, hm? You want them to see what I’m doing to you?”

He pauses and you feel like it’s on purpose, you feel like he takes in you heaving chest and the way your eyes follow the veins down his arms when he presses his hand behind you, pushing into your space a bit more and you should feel overwhelmed like you normally do with everyone else, but you don’t.

You want him to get even closer.

“You want them to see what you do to me?”

His whisper shakes you, awakens something in you that you desperately want to explore. It makes you feel shy and brave at the same time and the contradiction makes you bite down a smile.

There’s no need for you to see what you’re doing to him, you can feel it when the hand that wanders to his waist pulls him closer, forward, until his hips meet yours and his leg finds a home between yours. Grunting, he raises a brow and gives you a knowing grin, but you enjoy surprising people.

Your black gloves contrast against his skin and the white of his shirt when you caress the arm planted next to you and he follows the motion, letting out a breath “What if I don’t?” you ask, low, like it’s a secret you don’t want anyone else to find out even if you’re alone in this room “What if I want to keep you all to myself?” Watching his expression carefully, you try to measure if you’re crossing the invisible hookup line with your words but he closes his eyes and there’s no way for you to tell, so you correct your possible mistake in a whisper “For the night. You don’t want me to be only yours tonight?”

Something twitches against your leg and the brief tension melts from your shoulder. Damn, you’re not that mouthy during these sort of scenarios so you almost, almost fucked up, huh?

It doesn’t really matter when his free hand brushes his knuckles against your stomach, over your clothes and the ridiculously big buttons of your costume and then leaves you to twist the lock on the door “We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to, by the way.”

“I want you.” The words get out before you think it through and you don’t mind it. You value honesty, you love when your body acts before your mind has the time to make you feel ashamed of your own feelings and wants.

It pays off because his expression morphs in pure want and his tone is a whimper when he begs you, forehead meeting yours again “Again.”

“I want you, Woo…” You whisper against his lips and then his mouth is on yours hungrier than ever before. The wood hurts against your back but Wooyoung’s hands pull you against him to move you away from it.

This time, your hands know exactly what to do, because you know exactly what you want. They tug at his cape, trying to find the clasp of it with desperate trembles because your heart is beating faster and faster and you’re impatient, body too impertinent and rebelling against your wishes of taking this slow and savoring every little touch.

Cape on the floor, you feel his hand trying to figure out your costume. It makes you laugh and you’re glad he returns it, looking down at it and frowning at all the fabric he finds. With your hands against his chest, you push him into the mattress and he lands gracefully on it, supporting himself with his arms “I’ll do it.”

“Baby, this is a great costume and you look so fucking cute on it but why is there so much layering?”

The nickname is new and he doesn’t seem to catch that it slipped out of his mouth so you don’t comment on it but it sure deepens the color on your cheeks and you laugh shyly, tilting your head to side in a playful manner.

“I told you I like dressing up.”

“And it shows! Mine’s a little simple,” without the cape, he just looks like a dude with a loose white shirt and black trousers. A handsome dude, but just a dude nevertheless “But I wanted you to find me, so…”

“What was the first option?”

“Beast Boy.”

There’s something that crosses his expression that goes away the second he sees you slowly working the buttons and the skin underneath reveal after each one. His eyes fix on it and you’re sure you look ridiculous in the makeup and the get up and all but he’s looking at you with so much need you feel sexy wearing it.

The shirt comes off. You’re wearing a cropped top and a bra underneath and you hook your thumbs under it to make him believe you’re taking it off, but you don’t.

“You’re killing me.” He groans out and you laugh at him, making a show of bringing your hands down your torso and into your hips. You move to take off the striped bloomers that are matching with the tights you plan on taking off next.

Your underwear doesn’t exactly match but you weren’t really planning on any of this with anyone. You weren’t planning on going this far but you don’t really care when it’s all, eventually, it’s just going to be off, so it doesn’t really matter.

“Want to take these off yourself or you’re going to make me do all the work?”

Smiling, he sits straight on the bed, taking your hand in his and bringing it to his mouth he nips the satin fabric of your glove, it loosening around your index when he pulls. He must see the way it affects you immediately, the way you breath catches, because the corner of his lips lifts up before he does the same to the thumb, the middle finger, the ring and the pinky and then he pulls the glove completely off.

You feel like you short circuit for a second, even more so when he keeps the hand close to him and starts kissing the pad of your fingers so softly it doesn’t match the hunger in his eyes at all.

And you’re killing him?

It happens in a flash but the other glove is off and then your tights, your top and his shirt are off and on the floor and you’re sitting on his lap, tongue parting his lips and mouth bruising against his and you feel like you’re in a small pocket in time no one can really disturb. No one can burst this bubble, this cloud you land on when he turns you around and the expensive material of the sheets touches your bare back.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful.”

When did he take off your bra? It doesn’t matter, his lips are making their way down your throat and exploring your chest, gaining puffs of air and moans from you when he flicks your nipples with his tongue, expert and careful, measuring your reaction and doing it again when your back arches off the bed instead of verbally asking for more.

He kisses down, down until his teeth are catching your underwear. Looking up to you, he searches for an answer in your eyes and you both come to an unspoken agreement. Even if you’re both taking your time in exploring each other, there’s no actual time for him to eat you out, for you to get on your knees and taste him as well.

You immediately wonder if there’s going to be another opportunity to do all of that. Either way, there’s not enough time to wonder. You help him get out of his trousers, his boxer briefs and you stare at him with an eyebrow up and an open and watering mouth.

He laughs at your reaction, like he was expecting it.

He stops laughing when you reach for him. Breathing hard when your thumb teases his tip, gathering precum, he shakes his head and you immediately stop “Baby, we… Not tonight.”

Then when? You want to ask.

You just nod before bringing the thumb to your mouth, tasting him and humming in content. Wooyoung leans in and puts his tongue on yours a second later.

He smiles, teeth sinking on your bottom lip before diving in for another kiss “Dirty girl.” He teases you and you shrug.

“You look so good,” You say against him, pecking his lips, “Couldn’t help myself,” fingers grasping the hairs at the nape of his neck, like you did the night you met, you stop him from kissing you again just to whisper “You taste so good too.”

His eyes almost roll at that, hips stuttering against you and almost brushing where they need to. “Fuck, don’t say shit like that to me, Y/N.”

“Sorry.” You say but it’s clear in your smile that you’re not sorry at all and maybe you shouldn’t have because when it comes to taking your last piece of clothing off, he takes his time.

Fingernails raise goosebumps as they softly go through your skin and he lets out a ragged breath “So fucking beautiful.”

You feel beautiful. That’s good, because earlier tonight, before you catched him staring up at you on the balcony, you felt undesirable. You felt little, small, incomparable in the worst way possible because… Why not you?

His words reassure you. Even if you know that’s something you need to do yourself (built enough confidence to not let the choices of a man who doesn’t give a damn about you define your self worth), it helps you tend that wound that reopened.

He touches you and you feel worth it again. You believe it when your panties fall to the ground and your legs part for him and he looks at you in delight, thumb finding your clit and circling it right away “So fucking wet, fuck.”

Your hips go up when he finds the right pacing, the right pressure to it and you really shouldn't moan this loud but you don’t care when he lets out a moan of his own at the way your face scrunches in pleasure “I want you.” You let out, breathy and pliant under his touch.

“You got me,” he’s sweating but you don’t really care, you love the way his pretty nose touches yours when he leans in, index searching and then entering you. “Fuck, I could slip right in, hm? Is that what you want?”

A moan slips out when he finds your sweet spot and strokes it carefully, he takes it as a reply and, honestly, it is all you can let out at the moment. You squeeze the second finger as it enters you, so it gives away how much you like the thought of that.

“You do,” he says, teasingly and smiles against your lips as he pecks it “Dirty girl,” He repeats and you shake your head again, hips bucking up when the heel of his hand press against your clit and it sends a new wave of heat across your entire body “Impatient girl. I wish you were in my room now, fuck.”

You wish that too.

“Woo…”

“I had to—”

“I know but there’s people—” Passing the door, you can sense it. In this midst of anything, you can sense it.

“Who cares about them—”

There’s a phone vibrating somewhere in the room and it’s definitely not yours. He ignores it, fingers picking up their pace.

“I need you,” you whisper, propping yourself up to kiss his mouth “Please, please fuck me.”

“I want you to come first.” He communicates his crude intention so cutely you might actually miss him when this is all over.

“And I want to come with you.”

That stops him and you can literally feel him get harder where he rests against your inner thigh.

“Condom?” You ask in a whisper.

“Condom, right, fuck—” Both moving to reach his pants on the floor, you giggle and his lips find your cheek for a second as your torsos hang from the bed and you can safely say you never had more fun during sex before this.

It’s lighthearted even if you’re both practically strangers and then it grows hot, sexy, passionate again when he finds the condom, breaks the package open and then rolls it on with practiced moves. He kisses you, laying back down against the pillows and aligning himself with your entrance.

“Wait, let me just…”

“What?”

You turn around, laying flat on your chest and arching your back just a little so that you can open up your legs for him to enter. You look at him over your shoulder and his surprised expression makes you giggle “You never tried this one?” you ask and at his silence, you nod “Look how easy it is for me to—” Reaching down your stomach and reaching your clit with your fingers for him to see, you circle it a few times and close your eyes at the sensation.

He kisses the small of your back “Holy fuck, Y//N.”

“I told you that I’m coming with you, I’m helping.��

He leans into you, his tip pressing against your clit deliciously “You’re so fucking hot, I almost came.”

“That’s the point, Woo.” You say through pants, his hands kneading your ass and spreading you open for him to see. It’s a little nasty and you wonder what you both could do with a little more time and less people waiting for you outside. For him, at least.

When he enters you, the moan that leaves you echoes his and you probably needed just a little bit more prep for the size of him but since you’re so turned on it barely matters when he’s completely seated inside of you and this position just makes it feel ten times better “You feel so good, baby, fuck.”

“Yeah?” His chest is touching your back now and his lips are leaving open mouth kisses on your shoulder. He moves his hips experimentally and you moan into the sheets, sweat running down your neck and your chest into them but you don’t have time to feel bad for the owner of the bed at all “Was that okay?”

“You can go harder.”

“Yeah? Fuck.”

He complies right away and it feels so good you let yourself close your eyes and fully enjoy it, consequences be damned.

People outside the room hearing you moan? Who cares when your fingers the weight of Wooyoung against you feels so right?

When his thrusts help you grind your clit on your fingers just right, especially when he increases the speed of them and the wave of pleasure that hits you squeezes him around you so good his moan bounces off the walls and outside of the balcony where someone downstairs giggles and whistles.

“Oh, God,” he says, a little ashamed but never slowing down and you turn your head, searching for his lips “We should’ve closed that door too.”

You decide to tease him to wipe that emotion from him and just focus on you “Thought you wanted to give people a show.”

Opening your eyes, you are able to watch when his eyes harden slightly at the thought, pace faltering as he lets out a tiny whimper.

“And I thought you wanted me for yourself tonight,” he resumes his relentless pace, thrusting in and out of you with ease now and your cheek meets the sheets again so the bed can muffle your sounds “Maybe next time.”

Next time.

You don't really have time to dwell on what that means because you’re so worked up it won’t take much for you to come. You let Wooyoung know and he nods, his forehead against your shoulder again “Kiss me.” He whispers and you crane your neck to do so, to swallow his moans down and keep them with you forever.

You swallow all of them down when his hips stutter and he comes and you know he keeps yours when you let yourself come right alone with him. He fucks you through both of your orgasms and slows down gradually until he grows sensitive and hisses at any tiny movement and your arms go kind of numb underneath you.

There’s a sense of urgency your mind picks up immediately after but you ignore it. You have nowhere to go and they charged you twenty dollars to get into this stupid party so they can wait for you two to return to it.

But there’s a phone vibrating somewhere. And even if you both hear it, Wooyoung turns you around and leans in to give you a kiss so sweet you almost want to keep it with you as well.

When he pulls away, you wipe the sweat on his forehead with your hands and brush the hair out his face so delicately he closes his eyes and seems to enjoy your touch.

Now what the hell should you say at a moment like this? Where he doesn’t seem in any rush to leave you and you don’t really want him to leave either.

Do you tell him he did good? Do you tell him you enjoyed it, that he made you feel safe? That’s the first time in ages you enjoy a quick fuck this much?

That—

“Please give me your number.”

Oh, he’s actually adorable. He takes your stunned expression and silence the wrong way, though, and he sits on his knees, pulling out of you and working on getting his condom off while he speaks.

“I can give you at least ten reasons you should give me your number. Number one, I enjoyed this a lot and I can do better if you give me time, number two—”

“Woo, you literally just fucked me with clown makeup on. I think we’re past you giving me reasons to sleep with you,” you sit up as well, taking his face in your hands again and leaning in to kiss his cheek soundly “Give me your phone.”

He gets off the bed and looks around the room for the trash can. It’s a tiny one, sitting on top of a desk and you really, really start to feel bad for the girls who are going to have to sleep off their drunken night in this room. You’re surprised that no one knocked on the door but, on party eastern time, it’s still kind of early.

Two thirty am reads the clock on Wooyoung’s phone when he hands it to you, unblocked. There’s messages flowing in and you try your best to not read them as you enter your number and name into his contacts but you do notice they’re from a group chat.

You wonder if his friend group is big, if he’s close to all of them, what kind of friend he is. You’re impatient, you want to get to know him all of the sudden and you know it’s dangerous for expectations to grow after a hookup but, as you hand him his phone back, you can’t help but let out a “Woo, do you just want to fuck me or do you want to be my friend too? Something more?”

He’s reading the messages on the group chat with a frown when your questions register in his brain and he looks up, a curious expression and a tiny smile “You’re very direct, aren’t you?”

“I hate wondering and mysteries,” you shrug, “I don’t want to expect the wrong thing.”

“Fair,” he nods. “I’m more of a… Just wait and see what happens kind of guy, but if you want an honest answer I just don’t really know. I want to see you again, though.”

“I want to see you again, too,” You murmur back and he smiles, leaning in a fraction to try and kiss you again but then there’s a thud against the door and a soft ouch coming from behind it that interrupts you “We should really get out of here.”

It takes a millisecond for him to misinterpret what you meant, smirk growing on his lips when you shake your head disapprovingly and blushing while you pick your panties from the ground and get up to slip them on.

“Not what I meant!”

“I mean,” he starts to dress himself as well, “I wouldn’t mind.”

“No,” you say but you don’t sound so sure of it yourself and it makes him smile even wider, so you roll your eyes. “Where are my…”

“Here.” He hands you the tights and you thank him, almost falling while trying to put them on fast the next second. He laughs at you “Just sit down, babe.”

“Don’t laugh!”

“I’m literally not!”

You tease each other as you get in costume again. This time the fabric bothers you a little but only because you’re sticky and sweaty even if it’s the last day of october.

Fully clothed, you walk to the door and you suddenly feel very shy and nervous at what can await you behind it. Wooyoung seems to see it on your face, so he steps in your space and kisses your lips sweetly, holding your waist respectfully like he didn’t just make you come less than ten minutes ago.

“I’m so glad I met you,” he whispers against you and you melt even if you don’t want to. He doesn’t specify why and you don’t ask, but he does smile when you peck his lips one last time before stepping away “Do you want to step out together or do you want to go first, should I go first? We can meet downstairs,” he clarifies before you can think the worst and you giggle “We can leave together too, if you want.”

You know he means the party.

But his phone vibrates again, insistently shaking in his pocket and you rest your head against the door softly “I feel like you have people that need you right now.”

He takes the phone out of his pocket. The screen reads “yuri”, with a series of heart emojis and a middle finger emoji at the end and his expressions turn worrisome immediately.

“Shit, no, you’re right, um…”

Stepping away from the door, you grab the knob and open it for him “Do your thing, Woo.”

You think you know exactly who's calling him.

Like you already knew, sleeping with Wooyoung didn't fix yours problems at all:

It hurts that she's been chosen over you again, but you keep the soft smile on your lips either way.

“I'll text you. I'll call you, I—” he leans into you again, stealing a hard, parting kiss that you probably are going to think about until he keeps his promise “Hey, everything alright?” You faintly hear when he picks up the call.

When he leaves the room and closes the door behind him, you sag against the wood of it and let yourself meet the cold floor to try and plan out how you're getting out of there and how long it would take you to walk to your dorm room at this time.

But then your phone digs in your hand, screen lighting up the dark room and your face.

+82-8-918-2910: my friend got sick bc she drank too much. wish i could take you to your dorm. text me when you get there, yeah? x

It makes you smile. Despite it all, it makes you smile really hard.

+82-8-918-2910: it's wooyoung btw ;) +82-8-918-2910: send me pic of how you save meeeee +82-8-918-2910: okay my friend is puking in the pool and her date it's fucking useless i have to go text me back pls!! xx

When you catch yourself re-reading the texts on your home screen and grinning, this time like a complete fucking idiot, you know you'll have to start thinking of another recipe to mend yet another broken heart.

That's fine. At least you're not thinking about Superman anymore.

If you read all the way down here: THANK YOU SO MUCH. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated, don't be afraid to go to my inbox and leave your thoughts there, i love reading them!

486 notes · View notes

batsovergotham · 20 days ago

Text

the kiss and the curse pt 2

"You've got the costume. You've got the power. You're Spider-Woman. Act like it."🕷🕸️

Main!Mark Grayson x Spider-Woman! Reader

warnings: cheating, smut, im sorry, so much angst, mentions of blood and violence

w/c: 12k

a/n: IMPORTANT NOTE!! they wouldn’t do this with anyone else. i’m making it canon in the fic. they’re drawn to each other, not because they’re attracted to the superhero persona, but because on some instinctive level, they know it’s each other. it’s not about falling for a mask or a costume. it’s about feeling that pull because it’s them. because even without realizing it, their bodies, their hearts, already know. even when they’re masked, even when they’re supposed to be strangers, there’s a familiarity between them that cuts through everything. the way they move together, the way they quip and fall into rhythm without trying, it’s not random. it’s years of knowing each other in a way they can't fake. it’s love bleeding through the cracks of a secret they haven’t uncovered yet. hope this clears some things up for everyone!

Instead, he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands dangling loosely between them.

"You were enough," he replies, voice low and scratchy. "He’s just too stupid to see it."

You let out a nervous breath, pulling your arms firmly about yourself.

"Maybe," you say.

It sounds empty even to you.

Harry relaxes back, turning his head up to marvel at the empty blue sky.

He slips off his sunglasses and tosses them carelessly onto the bench next him.

"You know," he adds slowly, like he’s picking his way through something fragile, "when I was a kid, I used to think my dad didn’t care about me because I wasn’t enough."

You peek sideways at him, shocked. Harry doesn’t talk about Norman. Ever. He shrugs, the move too harsh to be casual.

"But the thing is... it was never about me," he mutters. "It was about him. About what he couldn’t see. About what he believed he needed."

You look at him, your heart twisted. Harry grins, but it’s a crooked, broken thing.

"Sometimes people are just... blind," he says. "Even the ones you love."

You blink hard, tears blinding your vision again.

"And it sucks," Harry says, staring across at you, his mouth twitching. "It sucks like a vacuum cleaner from hell."

You let out a hoarse giggle, dabbing at your eyes with your sleeve.

"I hate you," you sniff, voice breaking.

Harry smirks.

"Yeah, yeah," he responds, pressing his shoulder softly into yours. "You’re welcome."

You sit there for a long moment. Side by side. Silent. Not healed. Not okay. But... breathing. Together.

You wipe your nose on your sleeve (because decency is for people who aren’t crying in public) and murmur, "You’re still the worst emotional support animal ever."

Harry chuckles, a real one this time, harsh and short and relieved.

"Yeah," he says. "But I’m house-trained. Mostly."

You heave out a strained chuckle, your chest aching less with every second.

And for the first time in what feels like days, you allow yourself think, just a little, that you’re going to be okay.

Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But someday. Maybe soon. Because you’re not alone. Not as long as Harry’s still pulling you through the mess by the sleeve of your sweatshirt. Not as long as someone still feels you’re worth fighting for.

Even when you can’t believe it yourself.

Not yet.

But soon.

Soon.

You finally move again.

Not because you feel ready.

Not because you’ve put yourself together.

You move when Harry tugs softly at the sleeve of your sweatshirt and whispers, "C’mon, Webhead. Dr. Connors is going give us the stink-eye if we’re late again."

You sniff hard and nod, your body fighting every step as you push yourself upright.

Your eyes are swollen.

You’re quite convinced you look like you’ve gone through a meat grinder.

Harry doesn’t remark on it.

He merely sets a steady pace beside you, not hurrying, nor dragging, allowing you regain your breath one step at a time.

The science building rises ahead, all old concrete and large glass doors, vibrating slightly with the churn of students scurrying to their afternoon classes.

You push your hands into the front pocket of your hoodie, thinking you could burrow inside it and disappear.

Harry’s sunglasses are back on, even though you’re indoors now.

You’re pretty sure it’s less about the light and more about the "I’m emotionally unavailable, don’t talk to me" vibe he’s trying to have.

It doesn't work.

He exudes loyalty like a heater.

"Hey," he says quickly, shattering the oppressive quiet. "If Connors calls on me for attendance, I’m using a fake name."

You blink up at him, surprised.

Harry shrugs innocently.

"I’m thinking something sexy. Like... Fabio."

You let out a choked, half-sobbing snort before you can stop yourself.

It echoes shamefully off the towering concrete walls.

Harry grins triumphantly.

"See?" he replies, nudging your shoulder softly with his own. "Emotional crisis who?"

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself.

Wobbly. Fragile. But genuine.

"You're an idiot," you mutter, your voice still rough and scratchy.

Harry leans forward conspiratorially.

"An idiot who’s going ace Biology by sheer osmosis today. Watch and learn."

You roll your eyes, but the weight on your chest lifts, just a bit.

Just enough to breathe.

The two of you push through the doors of the lecture hall together.

The room’s the same as usual, rows of old wooden seats creaking under backpacks and over-caffeinated people, the front blackboard already half-covered with calculations and diagrams Connors must’ve written during his office hours.

The air smells vaguely like old coffee and pencil shavings.

The fluorescent lights hum quietly overhead.

Normal. Safe. Almost.

Until you see them.

Mark. Eve.

Already there.

Sitting near the back, your normal row.

Talking quietly between themselves.

Your stomach twists.

You freeze for half a heartbeat.

Harry notices quickly.

He wraps a casual arm across your shoulders, too loose to be weird, too tight to be anything but protective.

He guides you into a vacant spot a few rows down like it’s no big deal.

"Nope," he murmurs under his breath. "New seating chart. Effective immediately."

You let him steer you.

You let yourself lean toward him for just a second longer than needed.

You both slip into the empty row.

You dump your backpack onto the floor with a hard bang.

Harry slouches theatrically in his seat, arms clasped behind his head like he owns the room.

A few students glance over, evidently bewildered why Harry Osborn, resident absentee, is gracing them with his presence today.

You catch the stares.

You note the way Eve stares at you, frowning slightly.

You note the way Mark stiffens when he realizes you’re here, not just here, but sitting somewhere new. Somewhere farther away from him.

You duck your head, appearing to dig through your bag.

Your hands are shaking.

You grip your fists hard till the vibrations subside.

Harry doesn’t say anything.

He merely leans back, resting his chair dangerously on two legs, his expression deliberately blank behind his sunglasses.

Connors steps in a bit later, shuffling a stack of papers and moaning to himself about office hours and failed tests.

The room settles.

The lecture starts.

But you can’t focus.

You can feel Mark’s stare on you.

Not constant, not evident but enough.

Enough to make the back of your neck tingle.

Enough to make your chest ache all over again.

You pretend you don’t notice.

You take notes with a hand that won’t stop shaking.

You laugh too hard as Harry murmurs silly jokes under his breath about Dr. Connors mispronouncing “photosynthesis.”

You survive.

Barely.

And somewhere in the thick of all that survival, somewhere between the suffering and the faking, you realize something.

You’re still here.

Still breathing.

Still fighting.

Even if it feels like your whole life turned upside down overnight.

Even if the person you assumed would be there, isn't.

You move slightly in your seat, your knee bumping softly against Harry’s.

He doesn’t move away.

He only shoots you a short, almost unnoticeable glance over the top of his sunglasses.

The message is plain.

‘I got you.’

You gaze down at your notes.

The words merge together.

But somehow, it feels a bit less awful.

Just a bit.

The second class finishes, you can feel it.

The shift.

The weight in the air.

You’re already half-standing, cramming your notebook into your bag with awkward, quivering hands, when you glimpse the movement out of the corner of your eye.

Mark. Turning.

Making a beeline for you.

You freeze.

Your breath stutters painfully in your chest.

Harry’s up in an instant, darting between you and the aisle without hesitation.

Casual.

Solid.

A wall you didn’t even have to ask for.

Mark slows as he sees Harry stand in front of you.

Confused at first.

Hurt blazing over his face almost instantaneously.

"Hey," Mark replies, voice low, tense.

He attempts to grab your sight, not furious, nor hostile, just desperate. "Can we— can we talk? Please?"

Harry tilts his head, smirking lazily like he’s going to gut a man with nothing but words.

He crosses his arms casually across his chest.

"Sorry," he replies, all honey and sharp edges. "We’re fresh out of forgiveness today."

Mark’s brows knit together.

He tries again, not pushing, but urgent. "Look, I know you’re mad. I get it. But I just-"

He scrapes a hand through his hair, irritated. "I need five minutes. That’s it. Five minutes to explain. Then I’ll leave her alone if she wants."

You press your nails firmly into the strap of your bag.

You don’t trust yourself to talk.

You scarcely trust yourself to breathe.

Harry doesn’t budge.

His smile gets colder.

"Five minutes?" he echoes mockingly. "Yeah, that's about how long it took you to screw things up in the first place."

Mark stiffens.

The remorse flashes over his face again, raw and searing, but he doesn’t lash out.

He only shakes his head fast, inhaling hard through his nose like he’s battling to hold it together.

"I know I messed up," Mark continues, voice shaking at the edges now. "But I’m not— I’m not the terrible person here. I swear to God, it’s not what you think."

He stares at you again.

Really looks.

And it’s like he literally shrinks when he sees the way you’re barely holding yourself upright behind Harry.

The way you won’t even lift your head.

Mark’s voice sinks lower, nearly cracking.

"Please," he pleads, like the word aches to say. "Please just let me explain."

Harry adjusts his weight, setting his jaw.

His hands are still slack, but everything about him screams strain.

He leans in slightly, reducing his voice too low for anyone else to hear.

"You had your chance already," Harry adds. "You don’t get to come running back just because you realized you’re lonely."

Mark’s eyes spark, pain, not rage. He shakes his head fast, almost frantic now.

"It’s not like that," Mark adds. "It’s never been like that."

Harry’s lips hardens into something narrow and cruel. "Funny," he says. "From where I'm standing, it looks exactly like that."

Mark takes half a step closer before catching himself.

He’s shaking his head again, like he’s trying to erase the whole talk, like he could rewind it if he just moves fast enough.

"I care about her," Mark adds, furious now.

The emotion gushing out before he can stop it.

"I love her."

The words struck you like a slap.

Hot. Cold.

Wrong.

Because if he loved you, why weren’t you enough? Why was he with Eve?

Your knees lock terribly.

You grip your bag closer, looking at the floor, wishing you could dissolve into it.

Harry straightens, stepping slightly forward, just enough to shove Mark back a bit.

Not aggressive.

Just a barrier.

"Maybe you should’ve thought about that," Harry adds, "before she had to find out what your ‘love’ looks like when you think she’s not watching."

Mark flinches again.

Harder this time.

The fight drains out of him all at once.

You see it in the way his shoulders slump.

The way his hands fall uselessly to his sides.

For a long period, he just stands there.

Looking at you.

Looking at Harry.

Looking like he wants to shout and apologize and turn back time all at once but knowing he can’t do any of it.

His mouth opens.

Closes.

No sound comes out.

Finally, gently, hoarsely, Mark adds, "I'm sorry."

He tells that to you.

Not to Harry.

Not to the floor.

To you.

But you can't lift your head.

You can't offer him anything.

Not now.

Mark swallows hard.

Nods to himself.

Like he’s accepting a sentence he knew was coming.

Then he turns.

Walks away.

Shoulders stiff.

Head down.

He doesn’t glance back.

Harry watches him depart.

Only after Mark vanishes into the crowd does he finally relax, slumping slightly like he’s been holding his breath the entire time.

You sink back onto the chair behind you.

Your hands are trembling too violently to grip your bag longer.

You let it tumble to the floor with a thump.

Harry crouches down in front of you.

Not pushing.

Not saying anything.

Just there.

He offers you a crooked half-smile, the sort that’s more sad than comforting, and says, "Guess you’re stuck with me for a little while longer, huh?"

You let out a damp, broken chuckle that sounds more like a sob.

You don’t bother wiping the tears from your cheeks this time.

What’s the point?

Harry rises up and gives you a hand.

You take it.

Because even if you feel like your heart’s been cut out, even if the future appears like a haze you’re not ready for yet

You’re still here.

Barely.

You feel like your bones are hollow as Mark walks away.

Like somehow the sound of his departing footsteps is rattling around inside your ribcage.

Like somehow, even though you scarcely spoke a word, everything you wanted to say came out and left you empty.

Harry straightens slowly.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just watches Mark fade into the moving, chatting flow of students, sunglasses sliding down over his eyes again like a curtain descending over the sight.

You drop heavily back into your chair, the vinyl seat cracking under your weight.

Your bag falls from your fingers, hitting the floor with a dull thud that seems too loud in the suddenly too-quiet lecture hall.

Harry crouches in front of you.

Not touching.

Not crowded.

Just... there.

A wall you didn’t ask for but needed nevertheless.

A protection against things you can’t confront yet.

He tips his head slightly, scrutinizing you like he’s trying to figure out how terrible the harm is.

You don’t meet his gaze.

He rises up and gives you his hand.

You look at it for a beat too long.

You pull in a strained breath and put your fingers into his.

Harry pulls you up gently, steadying you with a hand on your elbow as you wobble slightly.

You hug your bag against your chest like it could hold you together.

The two of you make your way out of the lecture hall slowly, side-by-side, like the last two survivors pulling themselves out of a catastrophe.

Harry doesn’t hurry you.

Doesn’t attempt to converse.

He just keeps pace with you.

Solid and quiet.

When you finally walk outside, the chilly afternoon air slaps your skin like a slap.

You flinch immediately.

Harry catches it.

Tilts his head, frowning slightly.

"You wanna bail on the rest of the day?" he offers casually. "Go grab burgers? Ice cream? Key someone’s car?"

You let out a faint, watery laugh.

He grins a little, gentler this time.

Like he’s glad to see you laugh at all.

You shake your head gently, wiping at your cheeks again.

"Just... need a second," you croak.

Harry nods instantly.

Like he’s willing to give you a second.

Or a hundred years.

Whatever you need.

You find a quiet seat beneath a tree just off the quad and fall into it.

Harry slouches down next you, stretching out like he owns the whole universe, which somehow makes it easier to breathe.

You sit there for a long time.

Listening to the wind rattle the leaves.

Listening to the faraway buzz of automobiles and footfall and conversations you’re not a part of.

Feeling the thick, agonizing stillness fall over your chest like a second skin.

You don’t know how much time passes until Harry eventually says, "You know you’re allowed to be pissed, right?"

You blink at him carefully.

He moves, staring at you sideways, his sunglasses dropping a bit lower on his nose.

"I mean it," he says. "You don’t have to be the biggerperson. You don’t have to smile and nod and pretend like it didn’t hurt you."

You swallow hard, your throat stinging.

"I’m not mad," you mumble.

Your voice breaks severely around the words. "I’m just... tired."

Harry makes a faint murmur in the back of his throat.

Not disagreement.

Not pity.

Just, yes.

Me too.

You gaze at your sneakers for a long time.

You’re not sure how long.

Long enough that your legs start to cramp.

Long enough that your heart starts to ache differently, not the acute, frenzied ripping of earlier, but a sluggish, constant throb.

Healing, maybe.

Or just scar tissue growing.

You’re not convinced it matters.

Eventually, Harry lifts his arms above his head and says, "C’mon, Webhead. Let’s get you some real food before you turn into a sad little cryptid permanently haunting this bench."

You huff a weary chuckle, pushing yourself upright.

Your body aches from more than simply sitting.

Everything hurts.

But you follow him nevertheless.

The stroll back to Harry’s mansion is mainly silent.

Not angry quiet.

Not even tense.

Just... heavy.

Like the weight of everything that transpired is still hanging to you both, making the air heavier with every stride.

You push your hands inside the front pocket of your hoodie, your fingers twitching uncomfortably in the fabric.

Harry doesn’t speak much.

He maintains pace with you, slouching slightly, sunglasses pushed up into his hair now that the sun’s dropping lower in the sky.

You see him staring at you a couple times out of the corner of your eye, brief, sideways stares, but he doesn’t push.

You’re thankful.

You don’t believe you could endure being pushed right now.

When you finally arrive back to the house, you kick your shoes off at the entrance without bothering to line them up nicely as you always do.

Harry throws his keys into the tiny glass dish on the foyer table, the sound resounding in the calm.

The place feels too enormous all of a sudden.

Too open.

Too hollow.

You stand there for a second, gazing blankly at the living room like you forgot why you ever came inside.

Harry observes you for a moment, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his pants.

Then he jerks his chin toward the kitchen.

"We’re getting food" he says, voice casual.

"You want burgers, pizza, or enough Chinese takeout to singlehandedly put the guy’s kids through college?"

You smile weakly, tugging your sleeves down over your hands.

"I’m good," you mutter.

"Not really hungry."

Harry frowns little.

But he doesn’t argue.

He merely moans and disappears into the kitchen.

You stand there a second longer.

Then, like your feet know the path better than your mind does, you glide toward the bedroom.

You close the door carefully behind you, muffling the faint noises of Harry fake-arguing with one of the butlers.

The room smells like Harry’s detergent.

Like pricey candles he never lights.

Like safety.

You sit down on the bed, ripping open the bottom drawer of the dresser and taking out the duffel bag hiding inside.

It’s an old habit.

Keeping it close.

Keeping it secret.

The zipper sticks midway and you tug harder, frustration seething under your skin.

Inside, folded tight and nice, is your outfit.

Black and crimson.

Sleek and weathered in spots, patched hastily from conflicts you survived by the skin of your teeth.

You run your fingertips across the cloth carefully.

It feels like breathing.

Like sliding into a version of yourself that doesn’t hurt the way you do right now.

You don’t think.

You just move.

You pull off your hoodie and slacks automatically, tugging the suit on piece by piece.

It’s second nature now, pull, zip, fasten, till you’re inside it.

A different skin.

A different you.

You’re yanking on your mask when the door creaks open slightly.

Harry stands there, his phone in one hand.

He takes one look at you, half-suited up, your shoulders stiff, your jaw tight, and sighs deeply.

He rests against the doorframe, phone forgotten.

"Seriously?" he replies, voice dry.

"You get your heart dropkicked and your first instinct is ‘Hey, let me go find a guy with a gun to punch about it’?"

You grin nervously, pushing your gloves into place.

"Well," you remark, voice muffled somewhat under the mask, "it was either this or cry spectacularly into your $300 sheets. I thought this was less gloomy."

Harry makes an expression like he wants to protest but can’t find the words.

"You know you’re a walking liability right now, right?" he mutters.

"You’re emotional. You’re distracted. You’re going get hurt."

You flash a weak smile. "Good thing I heal fast," you chuckle faintly.

Harry exhales through his nose, sliding a hand over his face.

He moves inside the room gingerly, like he’s approaching something jittery.

He sits down hard on the side of the bed, brushing his palms over his trousers.

"You don’t have to prove anything," he replies after a second, voice gruff. "Not to me. Not to anyone."

You hesitate.

Your hands tremble at the zipper of your suit.

"It’s not about proving anything," you say, playing with it. "It’s about... I don’t know. Feeling like something still makes sense."

Harry looks down to you.

Really looks.

His mouth tightens like he’s biting back a thousand things he wants to say, none of them good enough to make this better.

You’re halfway through pulling your mask over your head when Harry lunges.

One second he’s stretched on the bed appearing weary, then the next

"Yeah, no," he mutters, yanking the mask straight out of your hands.

"Hey-!" you cry, stumbling after him. "Give that back!"

Harry, infuriatingly agile for a guy who survives largely on black coffee and snark, lifts the mask high over his head, smiling like the world's cockiest elder brother.

"You’re not going out swinging around like some emotionally unstable Spider-Muppet tonight," he says, voice dripping with faux anxiety. "You'll get your ass kicked, cry in public, and then I’ll have to deal with the emotional aftermath. No, thank you."

You glare at him, folding your arms tightly over your chest.

"I’m fine," you grit out. "I just need to clear my head."

Harry snorts loudly. "Yeah. 'Clearing your head by jumping from buildings. Solid plan, Einstein."

You gaze at him.

You’re five seconds away from assaulting him when he smirks wider and adds, casually, "Good thing I already made backup plans."

You narrow your eyes. "Backup plans?"

Harry twirls your mask around his finger like he’s won a trophy.

"Get dressed," he says, flinging it onto the bed behind him. "Real clothes. Something that doesn’t scream ‘I’m going stop a mugging in twenty minutes.’"

You open your lips to dispute, to ask what the hell he’s talking about, but Harry’s already shrugging on his jacket, snatching his wallet off the nightstand, handing you a clean dress shirt without even looking.

"We’re going out," he adds, flinging the words over his shoulder as he goes for the door. "And before you ask no, you don’t get a say."

You stand there for a second, astonished, suit half-on under your clothing, pulse racing for reasons you can’t explain.

You should say no.

You should stamp your foot and declare that you need to be out there tonight, swinging over the city, smashing your sentiments into a mugger’s face, but you don't.

Because the reality is, you’re fatigued.

Not just physically.

Bone-deep weariness.

You sigh.

Loud and theatrical, merely to make a point.

Then drag the dress shirt over your head, tugging it down over the smooth lines of your suit.

"Fine," you mumble, striding after him. "But this better involve ice cream or I’m breaking into your liquor cabinet when we get back."

Harry chuckles a real, rough-around-the-edges laugh, and tosses an arm around your shoulders, directing you toward the stairs.

"You’ll thank me later, Webhead," he adds. "You’re about to have the best ‘world’s falling apart’ dinner of your life."

You should’ve known Harry wouldn’t take you anywhere conventional.

You should’ve known when he whistled for a blacked-out Porche like it was the most regular thing in the world.

You should’ve known when the driver opened the door and said, "Good evening, Mr. Osborn," without blinking.

But it still doesn’t prepare you for when the automobile pulls up to that area.

Gold trim.

Valet parking.

Hostesses in floor-length robes.

The type of place that probably charges $100 simply to breathe within it.

You gape at it through the glass like you’re looking at a castle.

Harry grins cruelly and reaches over to open your door.

"C’mon, Bug," he says, walking out confidently, raking a hand over his hair like he controls the entire city. "You’re about to dine with New York royalty. Try to seem less like you’re about to throw up."

You stagger out behind him, hoodie sleeves pulled low over your hands, feeling wildly out of place.\

You’re still wearing your Spider-Woman outfit under your pants.

You’re very sure your boots sound on the marble flooring as you go.

The host meets Harry like an old friend, no reservation needed, no questions asked. You trail behind him awkwardly, trying not to knock anything over with your elbows.

People peek at you as you pass.

Some of them smirk, a few mumble.

You notice the terms under-dressed and charity case and is that Harry Osborn’s friend?

You duck your head and scowl.

You murmur under your breath, "Pretty sure I’m gonna set a new record for getting kicked out of a five-star restaurant."

Harry catches it.

He smirks sideways at you as he drops into his chair like a monarch at a throne.

"Nah," he responds comfortably, flipping the menu open. "They wouldn’t dare. I spend more here in a month than some of these people make in a year."

You roll your eyes so fiercely it hurts. You slump into your chair across from him, hugging your hoodie tightly over yourself like it’ll make you invisible.

"You’re the worst," you mutter.

Your voice wobbles a bit because behind all the snark, you’re still broken open.

Still bleeding.

Harry leans back, extending his arms lazily over the back of the booth.

"Yeah, but I’m the worst who’s trying to keep you alive tonight," he replies, quieter this time.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

You gaze down at the menu, the elegant cursive lettering swirling in your eyes.

You’re still aching.

Still lost.

But for the first time all day, you don’t feel like you’re drowning.

You feel like maybe, just maybe, you’ll float a little longer.

After dinner, after you painfully swallow down the fanciest spaghetti you’ve ever seen and Harry pressures you into splitting a crazily costly dessert with ice cream, he finally lets you go.

You stand in the parking lot, your fingertips stroking the secret seam of your suit below.

The city stretches out around you, bustling and brilliant beneath the night sky.

Harry leans against the automobile, arms folded.

Watching you.

Guarding you.

"You’re still gonna go, aren’t you?" he replies gently.

You nod.

Slow. Resolute.

Harry sighs, brushing a hand through his hair.

"At least stay above street level," he grumbles. "And no stupid hero speeches to criminals tonight, alright? Just... punch and leave."

You smile behind your mask as you tug it on, the cloth settling over your face like an old friend.

"No promises," you yell back, already swinging up onto the nearest rooftop.

The wind rushes past you, tearing at your suit, your hair, your heart.

The city expands broad underneath you.

And for the first time all day — You’re not standing motionless.

You’re moving.

Flying.

Breathing.

You’re still broken.

Still recovering.

But you’re still Spider-Woman.

The rain pours harder, slicing the air into cold, stinging ribbons that soak straight through your Spider-Woman suit, gluing the red and black fabric to every inch of your shivering body. It’s a miserable night to be alive, and somehow, the weather fits perfectly.

Your mask is shoved down around your neck, water streaming off your hair, your face, your trembling hands. You breathe in deep, ragged, heart splitting apart inside your chest with every step you take. You can’t stop seeing it.

Mark, your Mark, smiling at Evel like you were just a bad dream he woke up from.

And you? You’re standing alone in the rain, every ounce of guilt and love you fought to bury rising up like bile in your throat.

You left him. You told yourself it was the right thing. You couldn’t let him get dragged down by the wreck you were becoming.

You couldn’t tell him you were Spider-Woman.

You couldn’t ask him to choose you over the whole goddamn city.

So you ended it first, before he could resent you.

You just hadn’t expected it to hurt like this.

The sonic boom rattles through you, vibrating your teeth, and you whip around, fists clenching out of instinct.

Invincible crashes into the street, water splashing out from under his boots. And when he looks at you, rain dripping from his black hair, his suit clinging to every sharp line of him, you almost break apart all over again.

He’s seen you before. A few chaotic team-ups, fast fights, quick jokes exchanged over broken glass and sirens. You weren’t strangers anymore.

But you sure as hell weren’t friends as familiar as he is.

Not yet.

"Spider-Woman," he says, breathless, like he wasn’t expecting to find you here. Like finding you means something. (And maybe it does. Maybe it has to.)

You flash a crooked grin, brittle and hollow. "Hey, spaceman," you mumble, folding your arms tight across your chest to keep from unraveling. "City’s not gonna mope in the rain all by itself."

He takes a step closer, slow, careful. "You okay?" he asks, voice low and concerned.

You laugh, sharply. "Oh, sure. Living the dream. You?"

He hesitates, rain dripping from his lashes. His fists clench, then relax at his sides. And then he says it. Quiet, almost drowned out by the rain. "My girlfriend... left me," he mutters, voice cracking in the middle like he hates admitting it. "Pretty recently."

The words punch the breath out of you harder than any villain ever could.

You suck in a slow, shaky breath, blinking up at him, the pieces clicking into place too fast, too messy.

You’re not the only wreck standing out here tonight.

He’s hurting too.

You stare at each other, the rain falling heavier, your breaths fogging up the narrow space between your bodies.

Two people orbiting the same black hole, stupid enough to think maybe they can hold each other together just for a little while.

Your hand moves without permission, curling into the soaked fabric over his heart. "You too, huh?" you whisper, the corner of your mouth twisting into something half broken, half mocking.

"Yeah," he breathes, voice thick, his forehead almost touching yours now. "Hurts like hell."

You nod, feeling your throat close up. You get it. God, you get it more than he could ever know.

The heat between you rises fast, burning through the rain, through the hurt, through the ragged holes inside both of you.

Neither of you says anything else. There’s no speech to fix it. No joke to make it better.

You surge up onto your toes, peel your mask a bit, grab the front of his suit, and kiss him.

Hard.

His mouth crashes against yours with a desperate, reckless hunger. His hands seize your hips, yanking you flush against him like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. You open your mouth to him, gasping into the kiss, tasting rain and salt and something rawer underneath it all, something broken.

He groans low in his throat, kissing you back like you’re oxygen, his hands sliding up your rain-slicked back, into your dripping hair, pulling you closer, closer, until there’s no space left between your aching bodies.

You kiss him like you’re trying to erase everything.

He kisses you like he’s trying to build something new from the wreckage.

It’s messy and angry and blindingly hot, teeth scraping, breath hitching, your bodies grinding together through the soaked fabric of your suits. You nip at his bottom lip, and he growls low in his chest, pressing you harder against him like he can absorb your pain, make it his own.

When you finally tear away from each other, panting, trembling, you don’t let go.

Neither does he.

You stay there, forehead to forehead, your fingers curled in his suit, his hands warm and steady on your waist.

You breathe him in, the wet heat of him, the solid, steady thump of his heart against your chest.

"Just for tonight," you whisper, the words half-lost in the rain.

His hands tighten on you, gentle but unyielding.

"Yeah," he murmurs, voice hoarse and sure. "Just for tonight."

You don’t move.

You don’t run.

You cling to each other in the storm, broken pieces fitting together just enough to hold back the emptiness, if only for a little while.

The rain becomes background noise, a steady, pounding rhythm to the frantic beat of your heart. His hands slide up your soaked sides, gloved fingers firm but not rough, just desperate. The same way Mark used to touch you when he thought no one was watching like every inch of you mattered. Like he couldn't help himself.

It hits you so sharply you almost stagger.

He moves like Mark.

The tilt of his head, the way he cups your waist with wide, careful hands, how he leans into you like he's chasing your mouth, not just kissing it.

You know it's not him.

It can't be possible.

Maybe.

But your battered, bleeding heart doesn't care.

Not right now.

Your fingers slip into Invincible's hair, pulling a low groan out of him, the sound vibrating against your lips. His mouth moves over yours with a growing hunger, his tongue sliding across the seam of your lips until you open for him without thinking, without caring.

You fumble at the bottom of your mask, yanking it up just high enough to bare your mouth, the fabric bunching around your nose. It’s clumsy, fast, a clear sign that you have no patience left for pretending.

The mask stays on.

You’re still Spider-Woman.

He’s still Invincible.

You're still pretending just enough not to break completely.

He doesn't hesitate.

The moment your lips are bare, he's on you again, mouth slanting hard over yours, hands dragging you impossibly closer until the rain is the only thing keeping you from overheating. His mask stays in place, white goggles fogging slightly, but it doesn't matter, you feel everything in the way he kisses you, the way his body presses flush against yours, solid and aching.

You gasp against his mouth when his hands slide down, strong fingers curling under the curve of your ass, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs wrap around his waist like it’s instinct, like muscle memory, something you used to do with Mark at his house and May’s. Your stomach flips at how natural it feels with him, how easy.

The thought should gut you.

It only makes you kiss him harder.

Your fingers rake down his back, slipping against the tight cling of his suit, tracing every line of strength you find there. He stumbles forward, slamming your back into the cold, wet brick of a nearby wall. You gasp at the impact, more startled than hurt, and he takes the opportunity to claim your mouth deeper, rougher.

You arch into him, your body screaming for friction, for something to drown out the ache gnawing at the edges of your sanity.

And he gives it to you, rolling his hips into yours, grinding you back against the wall, rain-soaked bodies moving in frantic, needy rhythm.

Every little sound you make, every desperate whimper, he drinks down like it’s the only thing keeping him standing. His hand skims under the curve of your thigh, holding you pinned to him, while his mouth trails sloppily from your lips down to your jaw, nipping lightly.

You tip your head back, giving him more access, the rain cascading over your exposed throat, the city lights blurring behind your closed eyes.

"Fuck," you whisper raggedly, your voice shaking. "Don't stop. Just... don't stop."

His breath shudders against your skin, his grip tightening, and he drags his mouth back to yours, crashing into another kiss that leaves you both gasping.

Neither of you speaks about the people you really want.

Neither of you mentions the names tangled up in your heads, carved into your bones.

You’re Spider-Woman. He’s Invincible.

Two lonely wrecks clinging to the heat of someone familiar to make the world fade out.

You tighten your legs around him, feeling his hard length grind against you through the soaked fabric, and a broken sound rips out of your throat. His fingers dig into your thighs, his hips rolling into yours with a frantic, helpless rhythm.

Your mouth finds his again, kissing him hard enough to bruise, hard enough to forget, if only for a little while.

The rain falls harder, but you don't even notice.

You’re already drowning in each other.

The wall digs into your back, rough and cold through your rain-slicked suit, but you barely register it.

All you can feel is him.

Invincible’s body is pressed tight to yours, the heat of him bleeding through the thin barrier of your suits, soaking into your skin like wildfire. His mouth devours yours again and again, hot, messy, aggressive in a way that knocks the breath from your lungs.

So different from how Mark touched you yet so similar.

Mark, sweet, careful Mark, would sometimes hesitate, always pull back like he was afraid of breaking you. Like you were fragile.

But Invincible?

He kisses like a man starved. Like he wants to break something.

It should scare you.

Instead, it lights something low and furious in your gut.

You gasp against his mouth, the rain sliding down between your bodies, adding a slickness to the frantic rub of suit against suit. You feel every solid inch of him grinding into you, the thick, hard press of his cock straining against the fabric of his uniform, rutting up into the aching heat between your thighs like he can’t control himself.

A broken whimper escapes you before you can swallow it down. Your fingers claw at his soaked suit, dragging him harder against you, your body instinctively rocking into his rhythm, greedy for more friction, more heat, more of him.

"God," you pant, tilting your hips up, grinding shamelessly against the thick ridge of him. The wet material of your own suit drags over your throbbing clit, sending sharp jolts of pleasure sparking up your spine.

He growls low in his chest, the sound vibrating against your lips. His hands slide down to your ass, gripping hard, hauling you against him with bruising force. His hips slam into you, slow at first, a filthy, desperate grind that makes your toes curl inside your boots.

You clutch at his neck, your body pulsing with need, your soaked thighs trembling around his waist.

It’s so wrong.

It’s so perfect.

Every aggressive grind, every bruising kiss, it’s not Mark, right?

But the echoes are close enough to fool your broken heart for a little while longer.

You bite his bottom lip, tugging, making him grunt in surprise. He snaps his hips up harder in response, the thick ridge of his cock dragging against your core through both your suits, sending shockwaves of filthy pleasure through your body.

"Fuck," he mutters, voice tight and wrecked, barely recognizable from the clean-cut hero the world thinks he is.

You dig your heels into his back, forcing him deeper into you, feeling every delicious, maddening scrape of your bodies slipping and grinding through the wet fabric.

Your breath comes in short, desperate gasps, your body burning, your fingers scrabbling at the back of his head where his hair sticks up in soaked, stubborn tufts.

His hands slide up under the curve of your ass, spreading you wider around his waist, grinding deeper, rougher. You cry out, the sound ripped straight from your chest, raw and real and reckless.

Your mask is still rolled up just over your mouth, and you can feel the wet fabric sticking to your cheeks, your breath ghosting hot against the cold rain. His mask stays on, the slick yellow of it glowing faintly under the shattered streetlights.

You tilt your hips again, riding the hard grind of his cock against your soaked core, chasing every frantic, shuddering surge of pleasure you can steal from this moment.

He pants against your mouth, thrusting harder, rougher, the wet friction of suit against suit sending little shockwaves through both of you.

You don’t stop him.

You don't want to stop him.

You moan into his mouth, broken and desperate, and he swallows it down greedily, rutting up into you with so much force you think the wall might crack behind your back.

You clutch him tighter, thighs shaking, hips grinding desperately against him, lost in the filthy heat building between you, lost in the lie that this could be enough.

The rain keeps hammering down, drowning the city in a constant, deafening roar. It soaks you both completely, turning your suit into little more than a second skin stretched tight over your heaving body, clinging to every curve, every twitching muscle. Your mask stays bunched over your mouth, dripping with rain, hiding just enough to keep up the lie you both needed too badly to question.

You cling to Invincible like he’s your last breath of air. Like he can rip Mark Grayson out of your head if you just kiss him hard enough, grind against him long enough.

Your nails rake through his soaked hair, your tongue pushing into his mouth with raw, messy hunger. Every movement is desperate, angry, vicious. Every grind of your hips against his is a fuck-you to the sight of Mark with Eve, laughing so easily, so happily, without you.

You hate it. You hate him. You hate yourself for still loving him.

And Invincible, he isn’t clean in this either. Because when he looks at you, when he feels you clutching him, grinding your dripping heat against his cock through the soaked suits, he’s not thinking clearly either.

He’s thinking about you, about the girl he lost, the girl who touched him the same way, whimpered into his mouth the same way.

You both know you’re using each other.

You just don’t care.

His hands clamp down on your waist, rough, possessive, dragging you harder against the thick bulge grinding against your slick center. You let out a broken gasp against his mouth, rutting into him shamelessly, your thighs tightening around his hips, soaking him even further as you grind your pussy along the length of his cock through your suit.

The rain slides between you, making every thrust, every desperate rub even filthier, slick and messy and obscene.

You don’t even think about what you’re doing anymore. You just move. You chase the feeling of losing yourself in someone else, of erasing the way Mark indirectly made you feel like you were too much, too dangerous, too broken.

You pant into Invincible’s mouth, pressing your forehead to his, both of you breathing hard, teeth clashing as he grinds up against you harder, meaner.

“Fuck," you hiss, biting down on his lip, tugging it until he groans low and wrecked. "Harder."

He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t hesitate. His hand slips down between you, yanking your suit aside with rough, urgent fingers.

You jolt against him, whimpering when the cold air hits your soaked, bare pussy for the first time. He wastes no time, his fingers shove between your folds, thick and strong, pressing inside you with a brutal thrust that knocks a raw, gasping sob out of you.

You feel so full, stretched around him, the fit almost too much, almost unbearable.

And it’s still not enough.

You grind down onto his hand, using him, chasing the violent, jagged pleasure sparking up your spine.

He fucks you with his fingers, rough and relentless, hips grinding into your thigh with every thrust, like he can't help rutting against you even as he works you open with his hand.

Your head falls back against the wall with a dull, wet smack. You don't even care.

You’re gasping, shaking, gripping his shoulders so hard you think your gloves might tear.

Every thrust of his fingers feels like a slap against the burning coil building low in your gut, every scrape of his palm against your clit sending you closer and closer to breaking apart completely. You can hear yourself, those filthy, desperate little sounds you always tried to keep quiet with Mark, ripping free from your throat without shame.

You grind against his fingers, chasing the high viciously, tears mixing with the rain as your body writhes against him.

You can't even pretend anymore.

You need this.

You need him, the way he feels so almost right, the way his body, his mouth, his fingers move like someone you still dream about every night.

“F-fuck, I’m-” you gasp, your thighs clamping tighter around his waist.

He growls low in his throat, pressing his forehead harder against yours, his fingers speeding up, fucking you through it, relentless, cruel in how good he knows he’s making you feel.

"Come on," he mutters, voice shredded with need. "Come for me. Just let go."

It’s that, those words, too familiar, too close to the things Mark used to whisper against your ear, that shatters you.

You break apart with a raw, wrecked cry, your pussy clenching tight around his fingers, your body spasming as wave after wave of brutal, messy pleasure tears through you.

You sob against his mouth, clawing at his shoulders, grinding helplessly into his hand as he fucks you through your orgasm without mercy, dragging every last trembling spasm out of your twitching body.

You slump against him, barely breathing, your thighs shaking so hard you can barely keep yourself upright.

He holds you there, pressed tight to him, forehead still resting against yours, his fingers slow and gentle now, dragging wet circles around your clit, teasing every little aftershock out of you.

You gasp brokenly against him, your body ruined, your mind blissfully empty for the first time in hours.

Neither of you speaks.

Neither of you dares to break the fragile, aching spell between you.

Because you’re both thinking it.

Both feeling it.

This isn’t real.

This isn’t you.

But right now, it’s suspiciously close enough to survive.

The mask stays tugged just over your nose, rain pooling along the edge of it, dripping from your chin where Invincible’s mouth devours yours with frantic, helpless need.

Your thighs tremble around his waist, still clinging after he fingered you into a gasping, mindless wreck. You’re soaked inside and out, the heat of your orgasm still pulsing low in your gut when he fumbles desperately at the bottom half of his soaked suit.

You can feel the trembling urgency in his hands, he’s ripping at the fabric, frustrated, rougher than Mark ever was. His gloved fingers push the wet material down just far enough to free himself, the heavy, thick weight of his cock springing up between your bodies, hard and throbbing against your soaked inner thigh.

You shudder, every nerve ending sparking.

Because he’s big.

Because you can feel him already pulsing against you, hot, familiar, and alive.

Because you want this, need this, to tear the image of Mark and Eve out of your skull, to fill it with something real and raw.

Rainwater slicks your skin, making you tremble as Invincible lines himself up, the blunt, hot head of his cock nudging against your entrance.

You lock your legs tighter around him and whisper, raw and broken, "Do it."

There’s no hesitation.

No mercy.

He thrusts forward in one savage, brutal stroke, forcing his thick cock deep inside you, stretching your tight, drenched walls wide around him.

You scream against his mouth, your nails gouging into the wet fabric stretched across his shoulders, your body jolting against the wall with the sheer force of it.

He's huge inside you, thick and solid and relentless, every inch of him burning as he sinks deeper, grinding his hips into yours until there’s no space left, no distance between you.

"Fuck-" he grunts, voice breaking, forehead pressing to yours as he bottoms out. "God, you’re so fucking tight."

You choke on a moan, grinding your hips against him in a needy, frantic circle, feeling your swollen clit catch against the slick base of his cock. Your cunt clenches helplessly around him, milking his cock, welcoming the brutal stretch and the overwhelming fullness.

You don’t wait.

You can’t.

You rock against him, desperate, furious, and he meets you with a brutal thrust that slams your back into the brick wall hard enough to rattle your teeth.

The sound that rips from your throat is pure need, raw, broken.

He fucks you fast, rough, the rain-slick friction making every movement a wet, obscene slap of skin and soaked fabric.

You cling to him, letting him drive into you, gasping into the inch of space between your mouths, both of you too wrecked to keep kissing, too desperate to stop.

He’s lost in it, too.

His hands bruising your hips, dragging you down onto his cock harder, faster, pounding into you like he’s chasing something just out of reach.

And you feel it too.

Every thrust, every helpless grunt, every shaky breath is layered under something wrong, something desperate, because under it all, he feels familiar.

The way his hips roll, the way he grinds deep at the end of every thrust, the way he mutters broken curses against your throat.

Mark used to fuck you like this when he got desperate. When he couldn’t pretend to be sweet and careful anymore.

And you, the way you moan against Invincible’s mouth, the way you cling, the way your body moves with his, you feel like her to him.

You know it.

He knows it.

But neither of you stop.

You lock your arms around his shoulders, your mask sticking wetly to your cheek as you bite down hard on the space between his neck and jaw, drawing a groan from deep in his chest.

He snaps his hips up harder in response, the wet slap of his balls against your ass loud even through the pounding rain.

"Harder," you sob against his skin, nails digging into his slick back. "Please, fuck, harder."

He growls, low and primal, and slams into you with savage force, driving your body up the wall, your cunt squeezing him so tight you see stars.

You can feel every vein, every pulse of his cock as he pistons into you, each thrust sending another shockwave of pleasure ripping through your overstimulated body.

You’re a mess, whimpering, gasping, clawing at him, your whole world narrowed to the brutal stretch and slide of his cock inside you.

Invincible's suit hangs low around his hips, bunched awkwardly as his cock drives into you with brutal, punishing thrusts, the rain making every wet, obscene collision echo louder, filthier.

You cling to him, nails biting through the soaked fabric stretched across his shoulders, your breath ragged against the sharp line of his jaw.

You can’t think.

You can barely breathe.

Every thrust tears a little more out of you, the jealousy, the anger, the heartbreak you tried to shove down when you saw Mark smiling at Eve like nothing happened.

You left him.

You saved him from the mess you are.

Now you grind against Invincible, panting, furious, the blunt force of his cock slamming deep inside your spasming walls, trying to fill the hollow space Mark carved out and left behind.

It’s not just the anger.

It’s that Invincible feels so much like him.

The way his hips snap forward with sharp, needy thrusts.

The way his hands bruise into your hips but still tremble with restraint.

The way his forehead presses against yours like he can’t stand even an inch of distance.

Mark used to touch you like that when he got desperate, when he forgot to be careful and just felt.

And even though Invincible isn’t him, even though you both wear different faces, the echo is enough.

But right now, it’s close enough to survive. You're too overstimulated to keep kissing, too desperate to stop.

For him, for Invincible, it’s the same.

You feel so familiar.

The way your nails scrape his skin through the soaked suit.

The way your hips roll, frantic, greedy.

The way you moan into his mouth, wrecked, breathless, desperate, like someone he used to love and lose and dream about long after she was gone.

He grips your ass hard, slamming you down onto his cock with each brutal thrust, rutting up into you like he can fuck the ghost out of you, the memory, the guilt.

You feel it building inside you, raw, furious pleasure clawing up your spine, your body tightening around him.

"Fuck, you feel-" you gasp, the words dying in your throat as he grinds harder against your clit, wet friction sending lightning bolts of sensation ripping through you. "You feel like-"

You don’t say it.

You can’t.

Neither can he.

You claw at him, dragging him down into another messy, furious kiss, teeth clashing, tongues tangling, rain soaking into every broken inch of you.

He grunts into your mouth, hips pounding into you harder, faster, almost savage now, the slap of his body against yours wet and obscene and fucking perfect.

Your orgasm rips through you with no warning, shattering you against him, your body locking up, clenching, spasming as you scream into the open air, legs trembling violently around his waist.

Your cunt squeezes his cock so hard he growls, his hands digging bruises into your hips as he fucks you through it, chasing his own end.

A few more brutal, ragged thrusts and he slams into you deep, grinding hard as he cums with a low, wrecked groan, his cock twitching inside you, filling you hot and thick, so much it leaks down between your thighs.

You collapse against him, forehead to forehead, breathless, spent, the rain washing down your tangled bodies like it can scrub away what you just did.

He doesn't pull out.

You don't untangle from him.

You stay locked together, shivering, breathing each other in, clinging to the broken pieces that still feel too much like the people you lost.

It’s not him.

It’s not you.

You’re still breathing hard when you pull away from him.

The alley feels like it’s tilting under your feet, the skyline a blur of black and sickly orange light. Your Spider-Woman suit clings uncomfortably to your body, half-zipped, damp with sweat that’s rapidly cooling in the night air.

You can still feel him.

The press of his hands

The heat of his mouth.

You stagger back, your feet scraping against the cracked cement. You try to tug your zipper higher, fumbling, but your hands are shaking too badly.

The suit sticks to the insides of your thighs, to the curve of your spine, to every place where his fingers had been.

Where you let him be.

You look at Invincible.

At the man standing there, breathing hard, staring at you like you’re something familiar and broken all at once.

And it feels wrong.

All of it.

"I—I have to go," you stammer, voice cracking into pieces.

You don’t wait for a response.

You don’t give him a chance to fix it.

You just fire a web into the empty night and swing away like the world’s on fire behind you.

The wind howls past you as you swing blindly through the city, the buildings warping around you in streaks of shadow and neon.

Your suit is soaked through, rubbing against raw skin. Your mask hangs from your wrist, forgotten. You catch flashes of yourself reflected in darkened windows, a smear of black and red and desperation. You can still smell him on your skin.

Still feel his breath against your throat.

Still taste him in your mouth.

You scrape your palms against the side of a building as you swing too close, not caring when the friction burns.

You want to hurt.

You want to feel something other than this all-consuming shame.

But it doesn't work.

Nothing can scrub it off.

You don’t think.

You don’t plan.

You just go.

To the only place you have left.

Harry’s.

The one person who, somehow, still hasn't thrown you away yet.

You crash onto Harry’s balcony with more force than necessary, nearly buckling your knees on the landing.

You stagger to the door and pound your fist against the glass, frantic and clumsy.

You don't even try to compose yourself.

There’s no point.

The curtains whip back, and Harry’s face appears, sleep-mussed and confused.

His hair is a mess, his hoodie half-hanging off one shoulder.

He looks like he was dead asleep two minutes ago.

Until he sees you.

Until he sees the way you’re standing there.

Suit half-off.

Eyes wild.

Hands shaking.

Without a word, he shoves the door open.

"Hey—hey, what the hell happened?" he says, voice cracking slightly from sleep and sudden panic.

You shove past him, boots dragging over the carpet, and collapse onto the couch.

You don't even care that you're still in the suit.

You don't even care that you're tracking grime and sweat and shame into his clean living room.

You sit there, hunched over, breathing hard.

The inside of your suit sticks uncomfortably to your skin every time you move.

You feel like you’re still trapped inside that rooftop.

Still pinned under Invincible’s hands.

Harry watches you for a second from the doorway, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

"You look like you got hit by a truck," he mutters finally, trying for something light.

It falls flat.

You don't even crack a smile.

He sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and crosses the room in a few long strides.

"You hurt?" he asks, crouching down in front of you, scanning for blood. "Did somebody-?"

You shake your head hard, squeezing your eyes shut.

It almost makes it worse.

The memory flashes behind your eyelids, hot mouths, clumsy fingers, panting breath.

Not violence.

Worse.

Consent you regret.

"I slept with someone," you blurt out.

Harry freezes.

His hands flex uselessly on his knees.

He’s silent for a beat too long.

You almost break under it.

"I—I slept with Invincible," you whisper, your voice breaking completely now. You can't even say his name without feeling like you’re bleeding from the inside out.

Harry swallows hard. You see his throat bob.

"You..." He trails off. Shakes his head. Starts over.

"You didn’t do anything wrong," he says, voice rough and low. "You—you’re allowed to..."

He rubs his hands over his face, like he’s trying to scrub the right words out of his brain.

"You’re allowed to screw up sometimes," he finishes, voice cracking slightly. "Nobody’s perfect. Not even you."

You huff a broken, bitter laugh, pulling the blanket he tosses at you up around your shoulders.

The Spider-Woman suit sticks to your body underneath, cold and damp and disgusting.

You still feel the places he touched.

You still smell the sweat and the alley and the cheap aftershave Invincible probably thought masked the smell of blood.

"I’m still dirty from it," you whisper, curling in on yourself.

Harry’s jaw ticks. You see the anger flash through him, not at you, never at you, but at the universe, at the world, at himself for not being able to fix any of it.

"You’re not dirty," he mutters, his voice raw. "You’re not anything but..."

He cuts himself off, looking frustrated with himself.

He rakes a hand through his hair again, standing up.

Pacing.

One of his tells when he’s upset.

"You’re just-" He stops, cursing under his breath.

"You’re just hurting," he says finally, turning back to you. "And—and you don’t need to explain it or apologize for it. Not to me. Not to anybody."

You sniff, dragging the back of your hand across your nose.

"I feel like a whore," you mutter, voice thick.

Harry’s head jerks like you slapped him.

"Don’t say that," he snaps, sharper than he probably means.

You flinch.

He immediately softens, stepping closer, crouching down again.

Not touching.

Never touching unless you ask.

"You’re not that," he says, lower now. Almost a whisper. "You’re—you’re just upset."

You close your eyes. The blanket isn’t enough. The suit feels like it’s stitched into your skin now, like it’s a second, suffocating layer you can’t peel off.

Harry’s voice cuts through the buzzing in your ears, rough but steady

"You wanna crash here tonight? The bed’s still made up."

You nod, because your voice won’t work.

Harry stands up, stretching awkwardly, cracking his neck. He tries to hide it, but you see the way he moves like he’s weighed down. Like seeing you like this guts him.

He helps you to your feet with a hand under your arm, careful, gentle. You wobble a little but manage to stay upright. The blanket trails around your shoulders like a cape. Your Spider-Woman suit is still half-zipped under it, clinging to your skin.

"You want me to make something?" he asks, trying too hard to sound casual.

You laugh, a broken, hollow thing. It makes him smile, a small, sad twist of his mouth, but it’s something.

He leads you toward the guest room. Keeps a respectful distance. Keeps glancing back to make sure you’re still following.

You are.

Barely.

You collapse into the bed without peeling the suit the rest of the way off. Too tired. Too broken.

You hear Harry hesitating in the doorway.

"You’re safe here," he says finally, voice low, more serious than it usually is. "You’re not alone."

You close your eyes and pretend that’s enough.

Pretend you’re not still carrying the ghost of Invincible’s hands all over your skin.

Pretend you’re not still breaking apart, one heartbeat at a time.

Pretend you’re someone worth saving.

You don't sleep.

You sit there in Harry’s living room, surrounded by pricey stuff you can’t name.

Real wood flooring.

Furniture that costs more than everything you possess put together.

Thick carpets underfoot that swallow the sound of your trembling.

You’re still in your Spider-Woman outfit, half-zipped, sticky and moist under the blanket he draped over your shoulders.

You can feel the filth caking into your flesh.

You can smell the alley air sticking to you under the suit.

The room is too silent.

Too clean.

Too perfect.

You don’t belong here.

You don’t belong anywhere.

Across the open-concept kitchen, you hear Harry moving about softly.

A coffee pot bubbling.

A cabinet creaking open.

The dull clink of a cup being laid down too firmly.

He’s trying to make things normal.

Trying not to startle you.

Trying to give you time.

But the more you stay there, the more the humiliation seeps under your skin like a rot.

You can still feel him.

Invincible.

The way he touched you.

The way you allowed him.

You can’t sit still anymore.

You throw the blanket off and lurch to your feet, the action startling and ungainly in the otherwise spotless room.

Harry glances up instantly, stance stiff but neutral.

Waiting for you to say anything.

Waiting for you to tell him what you need.

"I—I need a shower," you stammer, your voice barely holding together.

He nods without hesitation.

Not a word of judgment.

Not even a spark of it across his face.

He merely indicates down the corridor with a tiny twist of his head.

"Bathroom’s yours."

You nod stiffly and move, arms folded about yourself.

The dense hush of the penthouse follows you down the hall, absorbing the sound of your bare feet on the glossy floorboards.

The bathroom is huge.

Marble counters.

Brushed gold fixtures.

A shower big enough for three people.

Fluffy towels arranged like you’re at a hotel.

The mirror captures you as you pass.

You stop.

You gaze.

You look like something that crawled out of a grave.

Your hair’s stuck to your forehead, your eyes bloodshot and rimmed with black circles.

The Spider-Woman costume clings to your body like a second skin, wrinkled and dirty, a continual reminder of what you did.

You pull it off carefully, your hands shaking so violently you have to pause halfway through to catch your breath.

When you eventually kick it away from you, it crumples on the floor like something dead.

You can’t even look at it.

You hop into the shower and turn the heat up till it steams the entire bathroom.

The glass fogs.

The marble tiles sweat.

The first blast of water hits you like punishment.

You stand there, arms wrapped tight about yourself, letting the searing water burn across your flesh.

You deserve this.

You deserve worse.

The water runs down your body, wiping away the filth, the perspiration, the physical proof, but not the guilt.

Never the guilt.

You clench your eyes shut.

But you still see it.

Feel it.

Invincible’s hands.

His mouth.

The way he slammed into you like you were the only thing that could save him.

The way you allowed him.

The way you wanted it.

You convinced yourself you were better than this.

But here you are.

Not even hours later.

No better.

Maybe worse.

The sob bursts out of you before you can stop it.

You double over, forehead pressed against the cool marble wall, the water hammering against your back.

You’re just another selfish, desperate, damaged thing attempting to fill the hole someone else left behind.

And you brought someone else into your mess with you.

You curl into yourself on the bottom of the shower, the water cascading down on you.

It doesn’t make you clean.

It doesn’t even touch the sections that are unclean.

You cry till your throat hurts.

Until your ribs ache.

Until the water runs cold and you can’t tell where the shaking ends and the shivering begins.

You deserve it.

You deserve every second of it.

Eventually you pull yourself up, your knees screaming in protest.

You turn off the water with a numb hand and wrap a towel over yourself without actually feeling it.

You don’t even dry your hair.

You just go on autopilot, trying not to think, trying not to feel.

The suit lays in a sad, dirty heap on the marble floor.

You can’t stand to touch it.

You kick it into the corner and leave it there like the body of a girl you don’t want to remember being.

You crack the door open and peer into the hall.

The mansion is gloomy, the city lights flooding in through floor to ceiling windows, making the polished flooring gleam.

Harry’s still in the kitchen, a mug of coffee in his hand, resting against the granite countertop.

He looks up instantly when he hears you.

His jaw tightens slightly as he sees you, drenched, shivering, wrapped in a towel way too big for your form.

"You need something dry," he adds, voice harsh but not nasty.

He lays the cup down with a faint clink and leaves down the hall, returning a moment later with a sweater and a pair of soft flannel pajamas, both of them plainly his, both far too big.

He holds them out without seeing your eyes.

Like he knows you can’t handle being seen right now.

You grab them with shaky hands, pressing the cloth to your chest.

It smells like clean detergent and something distinctively Harry, something warm and comfortable and secure.

You almost start weeping again simply from that.

You slip back into the bathroom and change, sliding the clothing on over moist skin.

They consume you entirely.

You allowed them.

The guest room is cold.

The bed is too big, too clean.

The sheets still smell like laundry detergent and something faintly expensive you can't name, something Harry probably doesn't even think about anymore.

You burrow deeper into the mattress, clutching the borrowed sweatshirt tighter around your body.

It doesn't help.

You're still shivering.

Still sick with yourself.

The guilt festers under your skin, sour and corrosive.

You can feel it leaking out of you, poisoning the air around you, staining the perfect life Harry tried to offer like dirty handprints across white walls.

You deserve to be alone.

You deserve to rot here.

The thought presses heavier and heavier on your chest until your body finally gives out.

Sleep takes you like a wave pulling you under, heavy, brutal, merciless.

But the darkness doesn't stay empty.

It stirs.

At first, it's just a sound.

A soft, slick slithering across the hardwood floors. Too quiet to hear unless you’re already listening. But the city outside is muted, the glass windows swallowing the noise of traffic, leaving the apartment silent enough to notice the difference.

The shadow slides across the gleaming marble. It coils low along the baseboards, hugging the walls, moving slow, patient, deliberate.

It’s been following you for hours. Since before you even left that alley. Drawn to the stench of your broken heart like blood in the water.

It finds the guest room.

Finds you.

The door isn't locked. You’re curled into a tight, miserable ball in the center of the too-big bed, wrapped in a cocoon of guilt and borrowed cotton.

Your breathing is shallow.

Your heart is a stuttering, erratic drumbeat.

The shadow hesitates for only a moment at the threshold, tasting the air, savoring the flavor of your pain, and then slips inside.

It moves up the side of the bed like a living oil slick, impossibly slow.

Inching closer.

Tendrils thin as thread extending outward, brushing lightly over the comforter, testing, curious.

You shudder in your sleep, your fingers twitching where they clutch the sheets.

You whimper, a soft, broken sound, but you don't wake.

You’re too far gone.

The shadow grows bolder.

It finds your foot first, bare and vulnerable, where the pajamas have ridden up your ankle.

It touches you.

Just a brush at first.

A whisper.

You flinch violently, your body instinctively recoiling even in unconsciousness.

But it doesn't pull away.

It pushes.

The first real point of contact is shockingly gentle. Like a hand smoothing down your calf, warm and heavy. The black substance creeps higher, tasting the salt of your sweat, the leftover rooftop grime, the fear soaking into your skin.

It likes the taste.

It slides up your legs, winding over your hips, your stomach, your back. Finding every place you ache. Every place you’re hollow. Every wound you left open and bleeding.

You stir again in your sleep. A broken sound escapes your throat.

Your dreams twist into something black and drowning. You see the alley again, Invincible’s hands, your own desperate, grasping need, and then, worse, your own hands reaching back.

You sob softly into the mattress, still unconscious, still trapped inside yourself.

And the shadow answers.

It spreads wider across you, seeping through the fabric of Harry’s sweatshirt, sinking deeper into your skin.

It doesn't ask permission.

It doesn’t need to.

You don’t fight.

Not really.

Not enough.

Because somewhere, in the shattered places inside you, you want this.

You want to be engulfed.

You want to be swallowed whole.

You want to stop feeling empty.

The blackness finds the edges of your mind and presses inward.

It’s warm.

Suffocating.

Heavy.

It feels like forgiveness.

Like punishment.

Like home.

The final merge isn’t violent.

It’s heartbreakingly quiet.

You arch slightly off the bed, a low whimper dragging out of your throat as the blackness wraps itself around your spine, your ribs, your heart.

Fusing.

Claiming.

Your mouth falls open on a shaky gasp. Your hands flex against the sheets.

The symbiote settles against your soul like a lover sliding into bed beside you. It fills the cracks you didn’t even know were bleeding out. It binds the hollow places shut. It saves you in the cruelest way possible.

You don’t fight.

You don’t want to fight.

You let it take you.

You let it become you.

You sleep on, unaware.

Deeper now.

Heavier.

The tendrils pull the blanket tighter around your body like a cocoon.

Protective.

Possessive.

Patient.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

current taglist: @adeptusxia0 / @moonjellyfishie / @ladynoirx321 / @moraxussy / @saturnalya / @the-good-kooshe / @atomspidyr / @iansimpsforeveryone / @luvvcharxo / @jiyeons-closet / @weponxwrites / @xzmickeyzx / @heiankyonoeiyuukun / @edgycatx / @oxymorondemon / @bluerrie / @swtheartz / @maxi-ride / @nightmarewasteland / @hot15936 / @rotinginmybed / @deleted-1-800 / @thehumanradio17 / @mhrasm / @yzzaqczec / @pickledsoda / @qxuanii /

#invincible #invincible x reader #invincible fanfic #invincible season 3 #invincible angst #invincible x you #mark grayson x reader #invincible smut #reader insert #x reader #mark grayson x you #mark grayson x y/n #mark grayson smut

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zarnzarn · 2 years ago

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i see all these comments talking about this after the new episode, but. i would like to state for the record that stolitz isn't. toxic.

first off, the concept of a toxic and a healthy relationship are such... vague terms. when you're online, drenched in language and tight moral boundaries, trying to put a nuanced story like helluva boss's into boxes is easy to attempt and impossible to do.

a toxic relationship is one where one or both parties is maliciously affecting the other. I'm talking fetid, nasty, rude interactions where there is more hurt than love. they're unhappy more often than not when they're with their partner, there's no respect or give from the other side.

stolitz is nothing like that.

Stolas actively cares about Blitz and actually has no fear or hesitation in ADMITTING IT OUT LOUD TO OZZIE. he has been calling, texting, commenting, laughing and finding ways to spend time with Blitz. he's throwing everything he has to the wind, finding the courage to move forward with the divorce, putting everything he has into trying to keep him. he's been alone in a palace since he was born, on medication, with such less people dear to him that he remembered the circus boy who spent a day with him DECADES ago- so when blitz comes into his life and brings back in laughter and color and sex, he's holding on with everything he's got.

and blitz does care!!! he cares a LOT, the whole series we see him falling in love with stolas through SHOW NOT TELL (his expressions, his choices, his fear, his lashing out) and utterly unable to process that stolas cares about him too when talking to fizz; almost a desperate kind of denial-

cause yknow. the first time he tried to confess something to someone he really liked, he accidentally killed half the people he knew and ruined the lives of the rest?

thats gonna leave just a teensy impact on the will to express your emotions in the future, methinks.

even before that, he clearly felt like on some level that he was unworthy and he's said twice that he despises himself for the accident even though it wasn't actually his fault. being self aware doesn't stop the emotions from emotioning.

he keeps insisting its only sex so urgently to anyone who doesn't ask because he can't even imagine it being anything else. he's both disappointed and relieved when he repeats that stolas sees him as a novelty, because what else can it be?

(there's a whole other spiel of how brave both Stolas and Blitz have to be to say it out loud even when asmodeus can't afford to, considering how publically and completely beaten down both were at the club.)

(there's also another whole spiel about how frustrating it has been for ME to see all these comments over time with such bad takes based on like,, 20 min worth of info of a show that takes months to release an ep. like godDAMN have some patience?? let the story UNFOLD MAYBE? IT WAS ALWAYS GOING TO HAVE AN EXPLANATION WHY WOULD YOU CRITICIZE THINGS THAT ARENT EVEN FINISHED ESPECIALLY AN INDIE ANIMATION- i digress)

mind you, this has NOTHING to do with abuse. an abusive relationship is one where one is actively harming the other with full awareness. Stella is an abuser and their marriage is abusive.

and stolitz isn't that; it isn't even unhealthy or toxic. it's a consensual, transactional fuckbuddy relationship that slid into something more for both of them.

but!!!!! one of the main reasons for the problems that everyone looks over is-

they're in a BDSM relationship.

I can't possibly delve into dynamics without making this a 10k research paper BUT even though we've gotten only hints and costumes and dialogue- they're very clearly and undeniably in a BDSM contract. Behind the scenes of this crazy show is a whole different story, of these two delving into the most hardcore kinks out there- knifeplay, painplay, bondage.

if you've gotten into the community, if you've read a couple dozen particularly good fics by authors who know what they're talking about, hell; even if your only experience is fifty shades or 365 or whatever- you gotta know that BDSM scenes are crazy fucking emotionally heavy. there's so much that has gone down between them during their full moons that helluva can't get into!!

but you know how in so many of these popular medias and fics, the dom in the relationship is also like,, the billionaire/mafia heir/prince, etc, the one with financial and physical power? this isnt that. it has been very clearly stated that stolas is subbing, blitz is domming.

now take a moment and think about how much that fucks up the dynamics.

in stolas' eyes, blitz is a confident, dangerous individual who's an old friend and cherished memory of his, who he's trusted wholly with his safety during sex and he's lucky to have; and he has been in an abusive arranged marriage for the past eighteen Years, he's probably not going to be pushing his luck with his dom that much in the first place. plus, blitz is never cowed by him during their conversations- think back to the first phone call right after he stole the book, completely unafraid.

and for blitz, it's someone trusting him again- but it's also a royal- a blue blood who's nearly untouchable and so much more powerful- who couldn't possibly like a piece of shit like him, apart from the sex he gets out of it. he only flirts once he gets some sort of cue from Stolas; he's desperately trying to view this as only a Goetia trying to get his rocks off, despite all the evidence to the contrary, because anything else is unfathomable to him, no matter how clearly Stolas shows it, because of the ptsd.

both of them thinks the other has the power. both of them aren't expecting the other to keep shut if something's bothering them.

and there's so much conflicting messages from the other too!

stolas calls him a plaything when trying to intimidate the humans; stolas cups his face gently and asks if he's alright

blitz asks him on a date and tells him to get better soon; blitz yells that it's only sex and doesn't reply to his messages

ya see?

bring it to fizzozzie for a second now; even though they do look all good on surface, you can still see fizz's trauma and doubt in all their interactions, they're still forced to keep the relationship secret. do you see his face when Ozzie says in hyperbole that he's never leaving the house again, or when someone accuses him of being a pampered house pet or when he got sexualized in the 7th ep? whatever happened in the interim between the accident with mammon, it fucked him UP. even though oz seems to be well aware of this when he tells him not to apologise and in their general interactions, fizz still visibly has trouble separating plaything/commodity from healthy relationship.

shout the fuck out to Ozzie btw, man knows whats UP. rooting for these two so much omg.

i forgot where I was going with this point, I'll edit it when i remember. but yeah! lovely fucking relationship, but damn what angst filled issues.

anyway, to sum up- stolitz is not a toxic relationship. the relationship is stuck sludging through misunderstandings and careless microaggressions and trauma responses, but it's not unhealthy or toxic because of the simple reason that most of the current hurt comes from... a misunderstanding. stolas didn't realise blitz would need reassurance about what they were and blitz didn't see stolas as someone who could get hurt.

unecessarily calling it toxic, even online, is more impactful than people think too. almost all spindlehorse ARE on all social medias; so MANY YouTube animators i know have found jobs there; they see your words, especially since a lot don't tag posts with "anti hb" correctly to keep them out of the main tag. there are Very few queer medias made BY queer people that haven't gone through heavy corporate revisions- helluva boss is practically a historical landmark in its success. it's very very very fucking easy to forget that not ten years ago some of the only queer videos on YouTube were butter lover (one kiss at the end post credits), dirty paws and welcome to hell (subtext).

the amount of "critical talk" helluva boss gets for what it is is very unprecedented. it's a beautiful show. can't wait for the next episode.

#helluva boss #stolas #blitz #stolitz #fizzarolli #helluva boss ozzie #okay im gonna make SO much content but i had to get this off my chest first #because so many people were like omg fizzozzie is so healthy stolitz take a lesson!!#and theres so much more nuance to it thats its so. frustrating to see a statement like that #meta #anyways #i love this fucjing show

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with-my-calamitous-love · 6 months ago

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OCEAN BLUE EYES / I FEEL LIKE I MIGHT SINK AND DROWN AND DIE ༄

ua! touya todoroki x ua! reader headcanons <3

inspired by gorgeous

- villain touya is a ruthless, cold-hearted maniac. ua, hero-in-training touya is just a prick.

- he’s the kind of student that skips class religiously, but somehow gets amazing grades. he’ll give attitude to anything with legs, including you, but somehow pass every test. he’s also unreasonably competitive, joining about every sports he can make the time for.

- becoming friends with him was inevitable, giving his magnetic field being just a little too strong. at first, he should have taken it as a compliment the way you’d talk to everyone in the room but him. he’s unreasonably gorgeous without even knowing it.

- he’s an asshole, but he’s also funny. he’s the kind of guy that just knows what to say, so fucking cool it makes you hate him so fucking much. he has you feeling like a dumb high school student with a dumb high school crush. because you are.

- little do you know, that feeling is mutual. you’re ruining his life by not being his.

- on the outside, he’s smart, strong, and a great student. on the inside, he’s still got those same battles you’d come to know him for.

- he’s in ua, yes. he’s becoming a hero, yes. but he still wonders if it’ll measure up to what his father wants. sometimes he wonders if he’s doing it for himself, or for the bastard back at home. and though half the reason he’s in ua is to rebel against and piss off his father, he also wonders if he can at least be acknowledged by him.

- during training, he’s thinking about his worth. in class, he’s thinking about who he is. every waking moment spent at school, at home, or alone, he’s terrified of being nothing more than a failure.

- the only time he doesn’t feel like that is with you. which is why he’s so furious when he can’t say anything to your face. how dare you make him feel this way?

- he does the unthinkable, and goes to his mom for advice.

- “touya, you obviously like them.”

- “SHUT THE FUCK UP! sorry, love you.”

- its then you learn more about who he is, beyond just who he’s trying to be. you learn he loves winter, and tries to catch snowflakes on his tongue like a little kid. you learn his favourite meal is soba, and how you learn to make it how he likes it. you learn that he’s an oldest child, and as much as he insists his siblings are pains in his ass, he’ll help natsuo with his math homework, walk fuyumi home from school, and tuck shoto into bed.

- you teach him its okay to just be who he is now. that sometimes, just being happy is the sweetest vengeance against someone who hurt you.

- so you help him pick out his hero name, design his costume and fuel his dreams. he learns that he can be a hero for him. fuck everyone else, as he would say. except you.

- touya becomes your best friend, your ride or die. its this beautiful, parallel universe, one where its possible to save him. one where the light in his soul is nurtured and seen, and one where he’s happy.

- touya todorki is touya todoroki. in every universe, he’ll burn down anyone that gets in his path, whether thats being a villain or a hero. but he’s sure that in every one, you’re there waiting for him.

✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚

huge thank you to @sukunaes for helping me with this! i published this a while ago, but for some reason tumblr hid it 💔 but i’ve gotten to rewrite and add some more thoughts! i also have more ua touya stuff in my drafts 🫧❄️🪽🤍🐚🎧

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pedrosman · 2 months ago

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"Let them see."

pairing: Pedro Pascal x male reader

summary: You and Pedro are on the set of Gladiator 2, but he pulls you away for some time alone.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, Pedro Pascal RPF (real person fiction), unprotected sex, bot! reader, first person, p in a, kissing, swearing, anal, fingering, hand over mouth, analingus, creampie, public sex, partial nudity, dom Pedro, sub reader, aggressive, overstimulation, hickeys, fake blood

word count: just under 4000

A/N: I tried writing with "you" instead of "I" for this one. Let me know how it reads and what you prefer!!

By midday, you were done with the sweltering heat in Morocco. The sun’s ever-beaming presence had forced your energy into a restless state, unable to do anything but sweat as you watched Pedro work, seemingly oblivious to the sun's downpour of heat onto the Earth. His film, Gladiator II, had placed him in an extremely demanding state; his scenes today consisting heavily of action, fighting energetically and unapologetically. Sure, he was drenched with sweat, but his energy didn’t drop a tick, working with determination. You felt bad, his costume a thick, heavy, black leather suit of armour. You could not fathom how he hadn’t fallen unconscious by now.

Finally, after a particularly bloody fight scene, leaving him drenched in fake blood, the directors called a break. Immediately, you moved towards him, following behind as he and the other actors moved towards their tents, accumulating in the largest and coolest one. Slipping inside, you moved towards Pedro, locating him through his loud and wheezing laugh, until you found him with his back turned, speaking to a few people working on the film. You stood there for a few seconds, unwanting to have to force yourself into conversation with people you barely know. It was awkward, hovering around on set, waiting around for Pedro. But it was worth it. He was worth it. The way he made you smile and laugh every time he spotted you and pulled a discreet but low-key obvious face at you made up for all the hours of standing around in pools of sweat.

You watched as he spoke energetically with the others, laughing freely, unconstrained in demeanour. His presence brooded comfort, and slowly, you made your way closer towards Pedro, reaching out and grabbing his hand. You felt his body shift and turn until he was looking down at you, his height and broad shoulders encompassing your entire eyesight. Immediately, his smile welled into a large grin, the sides of his eyes crinkling, full of glee. Pedro pulled you into a hug, enwrapping your body with his, chuckling into your ear.

“I missed you,” he said, smiling down at your face. You felt your cheeks blush, holding his hand sheepishly. He gripped it tighter, pulling you near him. He smelt like he usually did, but new notes of leather from his outfit, and a small plastic scent from the fake blood. His eyes stared into yours, deep, affectionate, and wanting. You felt his thumb run over the top of your hand, focusing completely on you, the world a void around you. Sounds were impermanent, passing around you like a thick oil. You were ensheathed, engrossed, devoted to Pedro.

“Can I show you a place?” He asked, his voice hopeful. “It’s not far, I promise.”

“Okay.”

—--

He pulled you into a small alcove in the current set, hidden from the general view of anyone who might pass by. He had dragged you across the set despite your cries of protest in disrupting the space, promising that nothing bad would happen. Exposed under the heat, you couldn’t help in your sun-drunk state but stare at the flash of his bare thighs underneath his leather belt, the cords rippling around his figure, gifting a flew glances of bare skin. They entranced you, teasing your already semi-hard penis. In the alcove, you were hidden from the sun, but it was bright enough to see Pedro. He laid back against the stone wall, his costume engrossing him into the space, and you watched as his chest heaved, his shoulders heavy from the heat.

“Im not wearing anything under this,” he said, his head still tilted upwards but his eyes downwards, searching you. “The heat is unbearable.”

“I can tell,” you say, moving closer to him, resting your hands on his waist.

“Fuck. Is it that noticeable?” Pedro says, eyes wide, suddenly aware of his partial nudity.

“Only to me,” you whisper, leaning up to his ear. He places his hands on your waist, pulling you closer to him. Your hips are touching, his firm grip on you locking you in place. Slowly, he dips his head, moving his lips closer to you. Pedro’s lips tease you, grazing against yours in the proximity.

“I’m only for you.”

Pedro’s soft whisper of confirmation breaks the barrier of your lips, cascading you with lust. Fervently, you and Pedro press into each other, tongues dancing, sending small shocks into your body. You moan into him, your mouth pressing into his with desperation. Your body felt fuzzy, your senses dwarfed by Pedro’s intoxicating presence. You were drunk on him, engorged with him. He made out with fury, his dark beard scratching into your skin, its coarse ends stabbing into you in the best possible way. His moustache pressed into your top lip, pushing your skin into the perfect mould.

You could taste the fake blood that had settled on the left side of his lip, it’s plastic taste pulling you away.

The departure of your lips against his left Pedro bewildered, his shocked face almost comical in his costume.

“What's wrong?” He whispered, and you noticed how his eyes gleamed in the shadows, the dark hazel tint rebounding the sun's glow off the floor.

“The blood. I don’t want to smudge it.” You whisper, suddenly aware of the context that surrounds you. This felt wrong, but Pedro was so good.

“Who cares?” he replied, a small smile lining his face. He stepped closer, pushing you lightly onto the cold stone wall behind you. Its chill sent a rush throughout your body, a stark contrast to the heat that surrounded you. His hand pressed against your shoulder kept you in place, his dominant presence chipping away at your dignity, forcing you to submit. You watched as he ran a finger across his face, coating his finger in the fake blood that had either mixed with your saliva or his sweat. You let out a small protest and he began tracing his finger across your face, staining your skin with the fake blood.

“Let them see.”

He kissed you with a fury, his entire body pressing into you, overpowering you. You could do nothing but attempt to keep up, his tongue pressing into yours with a vigour. He growled into you as he rubbed his body over yours, grinding his waist into your stomach. Even through the leather that dotted his thighs, you could feel the straining hard-on that he burdened. His hand cupped your chin, pulling your face into his as you kissed. They were sweaty, but he gripped you with a firm passion, his fingertips branding your skin with deep red marks from how tightly he held onto your face. Pedro’s eyes were closed, wholly engrossed with your lips. He growled as you made out, the animalistic noise making your knees weak, and you found yourself struggling to stay upright.

It felt as if there was a supernatural presence pushing you down to your knees, head parallel to Pedro’s cock. As he let you move lower down his body, you admired how Pedro looked as General Acacius. The black outfit, the aggressive appearance, it was too much. Paired with how easily you submit to Pedro, he was astoundingly breathtaking. He looked perfect. Just the sight of him made your cock throb in your shorts, and it throbbed even harder when you pressed a gentle hand onto the bulge of the leather tunic. It responded in excitement, bouncing at your touch, grinding into your hand.

Desperately, you pawed through the leather strips, feeling for his cock. The leather was heavy, weighing into your hand, but his cock pushed them upwards, acting as a rest for the strips. You pushed blindly, but even a blind man could have easily located his cock. Touching the underside of his member, you revelled in its sheer size, its length and extreme girth. Your soft touch sent shivers across Pedro’s body, his head bowing, staring at the top of your head. Wrapping your hand around as much of his member as you could, you felt his body release a deep exhale. As you began stroking achingly slow, Pedro began to sweat even more, his forehead furrowed and glistening. Within the tunic, your hand was clammy, and your movements across his cock become more slick by the second. Moving your hand, you cupped his balls. They hung low from his body, you could tell, but their weight relayed the fact that Pedro had been without an orgasm for days, waiting for you, waiting for this. Pedro was always exhausted by the end of a shoot day, so, at midday, he still had the libido you were accustomed to.

With a necessity, you pushed at the leather strips, leaving his cock exposed in the dim light. The sight of his throbbing, glossy member sent a shiver directly to your cock, practically tearing at the seams of your shorts. Pedro’s dick was leaking precum like a geyser, coating his head, running down the underside of his piece. You admired how it throbbed with fury, its weight pulling his uncut tip downwards, practically begging for your mouth. Complying with Pedro’s obvious need, you placed your lips on his tip, tasting his precum as if it were a Michelin-star meal. Its sweet flavour swirled across your lips as he throbbed, and you smiled as you lowered your head down his cock. The heavy grunts that emanated from Pedro’s body above drove you further, pushing you deeper. You were eager to swallow all of him, no matter how badly his size made your jaw ache. You felt yourself choking as you tried to take him all in your mouth, but you pushed deeper, struggling to keep your breath regulated. You huffed his scent the closer you got to his waist, the tips of his pubic hair tickling your nose.

Above you, Pedro struggled to remain quiet, aware of his location, but unable to hinder his noises from your mouth around his cock. He let out a succession of moans, low and hoarse. He was sweating profusely, the fake blood running down his face, his hair becoming more matted by the second. He watched your struggle in a darkened awe, watching your willingness to please him. He watched as you struggled to breathe, sparking an animalistic joy within him. Pedro’s eyes were dark, fueled by lust and hunger. You were his prey, and he was ready to absolutely wreck you.

Pulling your head off his cock, spools of spit covered the distance between the tip of his member and your lips. You gathered your composure, air finally flowing back into your lungs again.

“Did I tell you to stop?”

Looking up at Pedro, you noticed how much his demeanour had changed. Instead of the cheery, easygoing person that was publicly fronted, you now saw him: A sex-driven, lustful beast. His breath was heavy and short, and his eyes were sharp, unsympathetic.

“Did I tell you to stop?” He repeated, his voice heavier, no longer asking. Demanding.

Immediately, you wrapped your lips around his cock, and lowered your face down his cock. You began sucking with a need, sucking your cheeks in, running your tongue on the underside of his girth, tracing intricate patterns, invisible letters of devotion.

His sudden grip on your short hair locked you in place. He was rough, pushing you down his cock in a fluid motion. Pedro had entrapped you, his hands restricting unwanted movement. Your lips could not leave his cock.

Pedro began to move your head with a rhythm, rocking your head up and down his as if it were an object. You struggled to adjust to his speed, but you revelled in the way he easily overpowered you. You could taste the sweat that lined his skin, a salt flavour that contrasted with his sweet precum nicely. He hit the back of your throat with a satisfying push, his cock’s rock-hard state breaking your throat into his shape. You moaned in symphony with Pedro, your mind fazed from the heat, and your body intoxicated with his taste. He began to thrust himself, filling your mouth with his member. He pushed against the back of your mouth, teasing your gag reflex, muffling your moans with his cock. He thrust into you desperately, jacking his cock off with your face. His hands were tight around your head, his sweat matting your hair, locking itself around his hands. His cock was relentless, hitting the back of your throat with a driving force, fucking up your jaw. It ached, but you pushed past the feeling, absorbing his precum and getting high off his sweaty musk, overpowering from his hours of work in the heat.

Pedro’s thrusts quickly increased in pace as he huffed heavily above you, the noises not coming to fruition, stuck at the back of his throat. He was hoarse, his noises dry and stifled, but he fucked you with rage, the leather tassels slapping into your face with disregard.

Suddenly, his cock left your mouth completely as his body tensed up. You felt his thighs clench, holding off his orgasm, as his cock throbbed, bouncing in the warm air. The veins were dark, his cock head a deep purple.

“Turn Around.”

As soon as you stood up, he pushed you against the cold wall and yanked at your shorts until they fell to the ground. Harshly, he dug at your hole through your briefs, applying deep pressure, making your body shiver. Your cock felt heavy, straining at your briefs, creating a damp tent. You jumped as he ran his hand down the waistband of your briefs, running his fingers over your asscheek, brushing up against your hole. Pulling away your briefs, he left your entire backside exposed, your hole winking up at him, desperate, needy.

Pedro’s stubble against your bare skin felt insane. The coarse ends scratched at your sensitivity, and you gasped when you felt his tongue run over your hole. He toyed with you, savouring his treat with delight. He kissed your hole passionately, his soft lips a burning sensation that spread directly into the head of your member. His tongue darted in and out tentatively, willing moans of desire from the back of your throat. You whimpered into him, knees weak, as he slowly began stretching you out, his tongue pushing deep, sometimes replaced with a finger, sometimes two. Pedro was deliberate to avoid your prostate, having fucked you too many times that he knew exactly where to please you. He wanted you to feel it all when his cock was balls deep inside you, not just his fingers. But still, the mere presence of Pedro made you insanely close to orgasm, your entire body a loosely contained tingle. You felt like you were high, his roughened hands pushing into you, prepping you for a thorough fuck.

Feeling him move behind you, you timidly began to turn your top, arching to look at him. But before you could even lock eyes, you felt Pedro thrust his entire length into you. The sudden presence pushed your body into the wall, too weak to do anything but take it. He thrust slowly, willing a small moan out of your body. You felt the heat rush up to your face, being so close to complete visibility. Your entire body shook, unprepared for his length, for the heat that rose into your stomach. You could feel his cock resting on your prostate, prompting small moans with every small jerk of movement from Pedro’s body. As his thrusts pushed deeper, rubbing along your prostate, you couldn't help but moan wildly, your cock throbbing with each grind of his cock.

No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t stifle the noises streaming out of your mouth like a desperate plea, bouncing around your hideaway, reverberating out into the world. You whimpered, extremely aware of your state, half-clothed, with Pedro balls deep inside you, fucking you into oblivion. He, on the other hand, was cold, controlled. His moans were mere whispers, promises of confirmation, paired with the unmistakable sound of his balls slapping against your skin.

His hand over your mouth felt like a blessing. He pulled your head back, your back arched as he fucked you. Your hands left the wall, instead moving to your cock, but he slapped them away. Instead, you resorted to grabbing his arm in front of your face, weighing on it as if it were a piece of debris in an open sea. Your knees were weak, your legs numb as he pounded you, desperately gripping his arm, keeping you from falling.

His cock was relentless, pushing at your inner walls with the rage of his role. He attacked you methodically, his tempo unwavering. His moans into your ear were blindingly hot, the low growl moving directly into your throbbing cock. You pulsed with an urgency, jolted by each thrust against your prostate. His cock pushed into your inner walls forcefully, his heat burning his shape into you, like a wax mould.

You moaned into his hand desperately, your breathing heavy and stifled. Pedro’s thrusts were deep, intertwining your bodies in a hushed chorus, a coveted sermon of lust. You loved being his, being used in this way, even if it meant risking your dignity. With every move of his cock reaching inside you, it felt like a promise. You were completely his. He owned you. And he definitely took advantage of that. Every glance at you on set had caused your cock to stir, his presence alone making you weak at the knees. And now he was knee-deep inside you, making you completely crumble under his hand.

His thrusts increased in speed, making your state even more dire. Your cock bounced wildly, thrown about by his movements in par with yours. Your thighs were locked together, tensed as you desperately held back your orgasm. Pedro’s small grunts had increased in volume, his movements more driven, more intense. He cursed into your ear, degrading you into his bitch, his slut, and you whimpered in agreement, too entranced by your pleasure to even comprehend what he said. The sudden pressure from his lips on your neck threw you back to reality, the small pain of him latching himself onto you. He began to brand your skin with small bruises as he pummeled into you, closening his orgasm.

His hot kisses on your neck felt like a searing iron, the pain driving you closer to your limit. Between moans, you pleaded to Pedro, but his firm grip over your mouth left your words incomprehensible. He fucked you wildly, his cock a sledgehammer inside you, tearing at your walls, breaking down what little composure you had left. You were so close, and each thrust pulled you further away from reality. You didn’t feel anything but his cock driving into you and his attack on your neck, and you screamed against his hand in pleasure.

Nearing your orgasm, you felt his presence inside you even more, pushing into your lust-driven state, until you burst.

Your entire body shook, your cock bucking wildly as your hot white semen splattered onto the floor. Your back arched with ferocity, Pedro’s member still ramming into you. You felt your inner walls pulsate around his cock, its rock-hard state still pushing into your prostate, provoking a sixth splatter of come, then a seventh, then an eighth. You cried out, your fingers digging into his arm desperately. Your legs shook with the strength of your orgasm, and how Pedro still endlessly fucked your hole. Your chest heaved, desperate for breath, your synapses firing on overdrive, your body unable to comprehend even more pleasure from Pedro’s movements. Each kiss on your neck overtook your body as each of his speedy and lengthy thrusts transported you away from reality.

Suddenly, his hands moved away from your mouth, pushing your noises into the open. Instead, his hands moved to your waist, and Pedro began pulling your body into his cock even more. His thrusts had become lightspeed, pushing into you with an urgency. Your moans, now unfiltered and raw, drove him even further, and you felt his thighs clench with one final thrust.

He exploded deep within you with a low succession of howls, his seed filling every tiny crevice inside you. You cried out as you felt him seep into you, his cock throbbing, pushing at the sides of your ass. It pumped into you, impregnating you, leaking down the sides of his member.

Pedro pulled out, leaving your hole gaping, winking up at him as his semen fell down your skin, pooling at the underside of your ballsack. You whimpered as he pushed a finger inside you, admiring his efforts. You were completely loose, empty without him inside you.

Standing upwards fully, you practically fell into him, your legs numb. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a tight hug. Looking up at Pedro, your lips met with contention. You made out slowly, entranced, stunned. His seed dripped from you, his heat departing with it, leaving you empty.

“Shooting in 5 minutes!” someone called behind you, tensing your entire body and his. Turning around, you were stunned to see a group of workers not even fifty steps away from you, oblivious to you and Pedro. If they really looked, you were sure that they would be able to see at least half of your body. The lack of clothing on your end would not be the best look, so you hurriedly set about getting dressed, his seed still dripping from you, hickeys across your neck, fake blood stained onto your face.

Pedro chucked at the sight of you. He pulled you back into him, his hair a mess, undoubtedly a similarity to yours, and pressed a soft kiss against your lips.

“Let them see.” He said, his words a mere whisper. You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, timid in Pedro’s presence.

“Let them see,” He repeated, his eyes locked onto yours. And you did. For the rest of the day, the fake blood strewn across your face remained, raising a few eyebrows, especially when a few others saw the chain of hickeys across your neck. You revelled in it, the coveted romance between you and Pedro. People could speculate, but only you and Pedro really knew. You were his toy, and he wanted everyone to know that you were taken.

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