newra 🌀

💬 !! better for you by siopaolo ## 💿 . . . SHE/HER 22 ★%

[indiewritesxoxo]

coupled up!

you've got a text! looks like you're about to spend your summer on everyone's favorite trashy reality dating show searching for love (...or that cash prize at the end) will a certain pretty (annoying) blue-eyed boy catch your attention? or perhaps his dark-haired best friend? it seems this villa has a few bombshells in store too!

pairings: Gojo x Reader, Geto x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Choso x Reader

content: MDNI, fluff and smut and light angst, making out, piv sex, handjobs, fingering, oral (m! + f! receiving), threesome, silly summer fun, references to reality tv tropes ofc, lots of games/challenges inspired by love island, secondhand embarrassment, jealousy, evil TV show producers (cough gege cough), misc random jjk pairings as background couples, lots of teasing and tension, friends-to-lovers, exes-to-lovers, you name it, it's probably here lol

episode guide

one | two | three | four | five | six

seven | eight | nine | ten | eleven | twelve

thirteen | fourteen | fifteen | sixteen | seventeen | eighteen

nineteen | twenty | twenty-one | twenty-two | twenty-three | twenty-four

audience participation required!

polls will go up to determine who goes on dates and challenges with our reader - it's up to you to decide who gets sent home or who gets saved at the end of certain episodes! first poll posted here, future polls will all be tagged with #re: coupled up! <3

creds: gorgeous art by @baobei-bu and divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

patreon is here with additional original content for anyone who feels like supporting me a little extra :3

[cherryblossompink303]

Patience chapter navigation

➼ kyoya ootori x fem!reader ➼ last updated: 1.2.26 ➼ genre: fluff, angst, eventual smut maybe

Season one!

Prologue Part one: Starting today you are a host! Part two: The job of a highschool host Part three: Beware the physical exam! Part four: Attack of the lady manager! Part five: The twins fight! Part six: The Gradeschool host is the naughty type! Part seven: Jungle pool SOS! Part eight: The sun, the Sea, and the Host club! *Bonus chapter*: Last night at the beach house Part nine: A Challenge from Lobelia Girl's Academy! Part ten: A day in the life of the L/N family! Part eleven: Big brother is a prince! Part twelve: Honey's three bitter days! Part Thirteen: Y/n in wonderland! Part Fourteen: Covering the famous host club! Part Fifteen: The refreshing battle in Karuizawa! Part Sixteen: Operation double date! *Bonus Chapter*: Degrees of separation Part Seventeen: Kyoya's reluctant day out! Part Eighteen: Chika's 'down with Honey' declaration! Part Nineteen: Lobelia girl's academy strikes back! Part Twenty: Until the day it becomes a pumpkin! Part Twenty one: Mori-Senpai has an apprentice candidate! Part Twenty two: Tamaki's unwitting depression! Part Twenty three: And so Kyoya met her! Part Twenty four: The host club declares dissolution! Part Twenty five: This is our ouran fair!

Season Two

Part One: The Ouran host club is back in business! Part Two: How to melt a frozen heart! Part Three: Kyoya's rival conundrum part 1! Part Four: Kyoya's rival conundrum part 2! Part Five: The Lobelia Girls academy meets their match! Part six: Join the black magic club! Part seven: Operation: Misuzu's reconciliation! Part Eight: the twins take the runway! Part Nine: Strike three for Tamaki and Kyoya! Part ten: Kyoya's big choice! Part eleven: The cold war of the host club! *Bonus chapter*: Tranquility Part Twelve: Hikaru and Kaoru the great detectives! Part Thirteen: Hikaru's mega conundrum! Part Fourteen: The responsibility of a host club heir! *Christmas special*: How Kyoya stole christmas part 1! How Kyoya stole christmas part 2! How Kyoya stole christmas part 3! *Bonus chapter*: silent dance Chapter Fifteen: The host club takes paris! Chapter sixteen: the great paris search! (coming soon)

[cherryblossompink303]

Patience chapter navigation

➼ kyoya ootori x fem!reader ➼ last updated: 1.2.26 ➼ genre: fluff, angst, eventual smut maybe

Season one!

Prologue Part one: Starting today you are a host! Part two: The job of a highschool host Part three: Beware the physical exam! Part four: Attack of the lady manager! Part five: The twins fight! Part six: The Gradeschool host is the naughty type! Part seven: Jungle pool SOS! Part eight: The sun, the Sea, and the Host club! *Bonus chapter*: Last night at the beach house Part nine: A Challenge from Lobelia Girl's Academy! Part ten: A day in the life of the L/N family! Part eleven: Big brother is a prince! Part twelve: Honey's three bitter days! Part Thirteen: Y/n in wonderland! Part Fourteen: Covering the famous host club! Part Fifteen: The refreshing battle in Karuizawa! Part Sixteen: Operation double date! *Bonus Chapter*: Degrees of separation Part Seventeen: Kyoya's reluctant day out! Part Eighteen: Chika's 'down with Honey' declaration! Part Nineteen: Lobelia girl's academy strikes back! Part Twenty: Until the day it becomes a pumpkin! Part Twenty one: Mori-Senpai has an apprentice candidate! Part Twenty two: Tamaki's unwitting depression! Part Twenty three: And so Kyoya met her! Part Twenty four: The host club declares dissolution! Part Twenty five: This is our ouran fair!

Season Two

Part One: The Ouran host club is back in business! Part Two: How to melt a frozen heart! Part Three: Kyoya's rival conundrum part 1! Part Four: Kyoya's rival conundrum part 2! Part Five: The Lobelia Girls academy meets their match! Part six: Join the black magic club! Part seven: Operation: Misuzu's reconciliation! Part Eight: the twins take the runway! Part Nine: Strike three for Tamaki and Kyoya! Part ten: Kyoya's big choice! Part eleven: The cold war of the host club! *Bonus chapter*: Tranquility Part Twelve: Hikaru and Kaoru the great detectives! Part Thirteen: Hikaru's mega conundrum! Part Fourteen: The responsibility of a host club heir! *Christmas special*: How Kyoya stole christmas part 1! How Kyoya stole christmas part 2! How Kyoya stole christmas part 3! *Bonus chapter*: silent dance Chapter Fifteen: The host club takes paris! Chapter sixteen: the great paris search! (coming soon)

[luffyttaro]

meio daddy's home meio angels in tibet 🥵🥵

[hellosweetmelody]

[kirbyfigure]

↶*ೃ 🐱🌼 ↷ ˊ- !

[mieczyslawn]

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ₊⠀˚ ʚ ﹒⠀ headers!!

[kingluffys]

𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐑𝐨𝐁 | Hiccup x F!Reader 4

This is chapter 3 of book 2 to this Hiccup series -> M.list here -> 1 & 2 Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Pairing: Hiccup x fem!reader Genre: romance, fantasy, suspense, drama, angst, dark, vioIence, friends to lovers, dark themes, Viking lore, Norse mythology, canon divergence, slow burn Word count: 12k Warnings: This will have the lore of the films + shows but with much darker themes. Gore/blood, mentions of death, Norse mythology, some realistic dragon themes, more realistic scenarios, and mature themes starting at the point httyd 2 ark comes in, so, ofc NSFW. Any other warnings will be properly tagged upon story progression. A/N: Reader descriptions are not described besides the clothing, true to Viking/httyd fashion from time to time. ♡

BOOK 2 - RIDERS OF BERK : CHAPTER 4

In the dim, flickering light of Stoick's abode—a sturdy hut carved from the island's greatest timbers, its walls adorned with faded murals depicting ancient Viking triumphs in combat and the depictions of family ancestry. The faint scent of smoked herring lingered in the air where you had made stew for you all.

Now after a delightful and much needed dinner, you found yourself seated alongside Hiccup, Gobber, and the chief himself, with the weight of yesterday's village uproar hanging over the room like a cloud reluctant to disperse.

Stoick occupied one side of the large square table, his massive frame hunched forward with his brow deeply furrowed in evident stress, the lines etched across his forehead speaking volumes of the burdens he carried as Berk's unwavering leader.

Gobber on the other hand sat across from him with an unexpectedly cheerful demeanor, his makeshift-hand—currently a knife—deftly carving a whimsical duckling from a chunk of fragrant pine wood, the shavings curling away like delicate ribbons and scattering across the tabletop and floor in a soft cascade.

You couldn't help but shake your head at the sight, a subtle amusement bubbling up within you as you hid your emerging smile and stifled a laugh behind the curve of your palm, the warmth of suppressed mirth spreading through your chest in a rare moment of levity amid the tension that had gripped you guys since Mildew's inflammatory outburst, his grievances still annoyingly echoing in your mind like the distant crow of an old rooster waking everyone at the ass crack of dawn over the archipelago.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hiccup caught your discreet reaction at the older two, his own lips twitching in response as he stifled a laugh of his own seeing what you saw. Stoick, oblivious to the quiet exchange at first, let out a heavy sigh that seemed to draw from the depths of his soul.

He rose abruptly from his chair in a rough, forceful manner that sent it screeching across the uneven floorboards with a grating protest, the sound jarring against the hut's relative quiet and underscoring the frustration simmering just beneath his composed exterior as he paced the room.

His boots thudded rhythmically against the worn planks that bore the marks of countless such deliberations as he spoke. "We can't just let the dragons run wild like they own the place," he declared, hands gesturing broadly as if to encompass the entire village beyond the hut's sturdy walls.

His voice was gravelly and boomed as it filled the space, laced with the exasperation of a man who had slain beasts far larger yet found himself confounded by the everyday chaos of domesticated ones—Mildew included.

Gobber nodded along absently, his attention still riveted to the emerging form of the wooden duckling taking shape under his skilled ministrations, the blade of his small knife glinting in the firelight from the hearth as he chipped away with precise, almost meditative strokes, though whether he was truly absorbing Stoick's words or merely humoring his old friend remained a mystery, given the chief's preoccupied state that barely registered the carving at all.

Then, as if struck by a bolt of inspiration from the gods themselves, Stoick's eyes lit up with a sudden spark of ingenuity, his posture straightening as he whirled around with renewed energy, his braided beard swaying with the motion and his voice rising in triumphant declaration.

"I've got it—we'll put up signs!"

The idea of his burst forth through you all like a fresh gust sweeping through the room, carrying with it a sense of hopeful resolution to Stoick that momentarily lifted his oppressive mood, though you exchanged a puzzled glance with Hiccup, wondering how such a simple notion could address the dragons' rampant mischief that had turned roofs into rubble and gardens into wastelands.

That proclamation finally caught Gobber's full attention, his carving hand pausing mid-stroke as he slowly lifted his gaze, his bushy eyebrows knitting together in a state of confusion that crinkled the weathered skin around his eyes, his voice emerging in a drawl tinged with skepticism.

"Signs? . . . For the dragons to read them, ye mean?"

The question hung in the air, absurd yet pointed, highlighting the gap between Stoick's grand visions and the practical realities of dealing with creatures who communicated through wild means rather than ink and parchment, and you bit back another smile at Gobber's dry wit, the exchange pulling at the threads of humor that wove through even Berk's most serious discussions.

Stoick shut his eyes tightly, a long, drawn-out groan escaping him like steam from a pressure valve, his patience fraying at the edges as he shook his head emphatically. "Nooo! Signs for all the Vikings around to read, Gobber—to remind everyone of boundaries and keep the beasts in check!"

Gobber's confusion only deepened, his head tilting slightly as he set the half-finished duckling down with a soft clunk, his good hand scratching at his beard in contemplation while his hook tapped idly against the table, producing a faint metallic rhythm that echoed your own growing curiosity about where this conversation might lead.

"Right, because we Vikings are such experts in the literary sense . . . We're not big readers, Stoick, ye know that—most of us can barely scratch our names without a writing tool breakin' in protest."

His words carried a gentle ribbing, born from decades of friendship that allowed such candid truths to be spoken without offense, yet they deflated Stoick's enthusiasm like a punctured bladder, prompting the chief to exhale sharply through his nose, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly as he regrouped, unwilling to let the setback derail his momentum entirely.

Undeterred, Stoick's mind raced ahead once more, his eyes brightening anew as he paced with vigorous steps, the floor creaking under his weight while he painted the picture in broad strokes. "Then we'll build a huge net—wide enough to spread around the plaza, strong enough to contain any wayward dragon that fancies a romp through the square!"

The proposal hung there, infused with Stoick's characteristic optimism, but Gobber was quick to counter, his expression shifting to one of pragmatic doubt as he leaned back in his chair, the wood groaning in sympathy with his movements, his voice steady and laced with the wisdom of a blacksmith who had mended countless tools scorched by dragonfire.

"Stoick, ye're forgettin' all our nets have been burnt to cinders save the fishin' ones, and dragons breathe fire—don't think those two together would make for a great combo, unless ye fancy a village-wide barbecue."

The imagery evoked a vivid scene in all your minds then. Flames licking at the weaves, and you could almost smell the acrid smoke of such a folly, the reminder grounding the discussion in the harsh lessons learned from years of dragon-Viking coexistence that had evolved from enmity to uneasy alliance. . .

Stoick turned back around slowly, his initial smile fading into a mask of feigned nonchalance as if he hadn't overlooked that glaring flaw, though the slight reddening of his cheeks suggested otherwise, his retort coming with a defensive edge that betrayed his mounting irritation.

"I know very well they breathe fire, Gobber—I'm not daft!"

Frustration finally boiled over then, Stoick growling deep in his throat like a cornered bear as he rubbed and pulled at his thick beard with forceful tugs, the coarse hairs rasping under his fingers before he lashed out, kicking over a nearby chair with a resounding crash that splintered the air.

It sent a jolt through you, the sudden impact making you jump in your seat, your heart skipping a beat at the unexpected violence of the gesture that revealed the true depth of his turmoil.

It was in that moment of startled silence that Stoick seemed to remember you and Hiccup were present, his stormy gaze softening marginally as he approached the table where you both sat, the lines of exhaustion and worry carving deeper paths across his face, making him appear older, more vulnerable than the indomitable chief who had led Berk through wars and winters alike, his heavy burden shouldered for the entire community.

With a resounding slam, he dropped a weathered wooden shingle onto the table before him, the impact vibrating through the surface and drawing Hiccup's nervous glance from the splintered plank to his father's intense stare.

"Shingle again?" Hiccup ventured tentatively, his voice musing between humor and caution as he eyed the thing as a joke for a makeshift meal substitute, recalling the previous night's unappetizing fare that had been born of necessity amid the dragon-induced shortages.

"Didn't we have roofing materials for dinner last night?" The quip landed lightly, an attempt to diffuse the tension, but Stoick's response was a glare of unbridled anger, his eyes narrowing with gathering force.

"This isn't funny, Hiccup—our stores are dwindling, and the village is on edge!"

Hiccup raised his hands in a placating gesture, his expression earnest as he leaned forward, the firelight casting shadows that danced across his features and highlighted the determination in his eyes.

"It was an accident, Dad! Mildew's just blowing it all out of proportion, making it sound way worse than it actually is."

Stoick's retort came swift yet pointed, his finger jabbing toward an invisible list of grievances as he loomed over the table, his presence commanding even in frustration. "A Monstrous Nightmare the size of a hut itself and Snotlout—who may as well be a one-man army—completely destroyed his roof, and might I add, twice now!"

The emphasis on the repetition hung heavy on Hiccups shoulder, painting a picture of repeated calamity that you could visualize all too clearly—Even if you weren’t there personally, the crashes and roars were vivid in your memory from previous destructions by Snotlout—And to make things worse, the twins had a new way of helping it with their new dragon.

Hiccup winced slightly, rubbing the back of his neck as he conceded the point with a wry twist of his lips. "Oh—well, when you put it like that, it sure sounds bad, definitely sticking to all the facts and not embellishing at all. . ."

His sarcasm was gentle, Hiccups usual way of navigating paternal ire, but Stoick merely groaned in annoyance, shaking his head with a weariness that spoke of endless nights pondering such dilemmas, his massive hands planting firmly on the table as he leaned in closer.

"Of all the huts—of all the Vikings there ever were on this entire island . . . one of you lads just had to crash right through Mildew's home," Stoick lamented, his voice dropping to a rumble that carried the exasperation of a leader caught between loyalty to his people and the innovations his son had championed.

The dragons that had once been foes now integral to Berk's identity yet sources of perpetual strife—leaving behind all that Stoick ever knew and grew up on.

"You all know he hates those dragons more than anybody alive—it's like pokin' a hornet's nest with a battle axe!"

It was your turn to interject then, leaning back against your chair with a casual ease that belied the thoughtful undercurrent in your words, crossing your arms over your chest in a shrug that conveyed both defiance and reason as you met Stoick's gaze steadily.

"He could use a few changes himself—like learning some manners—before he goes around demanding others to make them, though; it's not like his grumbling helps mend any roofs or fill any bellies."

Hiccup nodded vigorously in agreement, his posture straightening as he latched onto your point, a spark of solidarity lighting his features and warming the space between you two in the midst of the debate.

"Yeah . . . as chief, maybe you should talk to him about his attitude, Dad—turn the tables a bit and see how he likes being on the receiving end of a lecture."

Stoick stared at you both, his expression thoroughly unamused, the silence stretching taut like a bowstring as he processed the suggestion, his eyes flicking between your crossed arms and Hiccup's hopeful gaze, the hut's fire popping softly in the background as if punctuating the impasse.

But then, as if a new dawn broke in his mind, Hiccup's own eyes lit up with inspiration, leaning forward with an eager energy that shifted the room's dynamic once more. "Well, hey—Dad, wait; what if I just deal with the dragons myself?"

“You?” Stoick looked at him with furrowed brows.

“Who else?” Hiccup responds with a smile as Toothless bumped him in encouragement. “If anyone can control them, I can.”

You leaned forward with a smile, “You know that’s the truth.” You nod towards Stoick and Gobber.

Toothless grumbles in delight as Hiccup smiles at you, “I’m the best man for the job.”

Stoick sighs a little, “You’re not a man yet Hiccup.”

“Not if you don’t give me the chance to be and prove myself.” Hiccup protest.

“As if you needed to prove yourself any more than you already have. Unless we’ve all forgotten the Red Death so soon?” You say irritated.

At first, Stoick's instinct was to laugh, a deep chuckle rumbling in his chest at the audacity of the proposal from his once-shy son, but the sound died soon as you said that. And memories flooded back—the epic confrontation with the Red Death, where Hiccup had rallied dragons and Vikings alike against a colossal terror.

It proved his mettle in ways that reshaped Berk forever, prompting the chief to reconsider with a thoughtful hum, his furrowed brow easing slightly as he regarded Hiccup with a mix of pride and cautious optimism that hinted at the evolving bond between father and son.

Stoick and Gobber took one look at another, before Stoick spoke again with a nod and stroke to his beard, “Fair enough. You’ll have your chance then. Start tomorrow, I’ll leave it in your hands then son.”

“Well then!” Gobber says standing up and faking a sleepy stretch beofre hurrying to clean his mess by scooping it all into a sack. “I best be getting, as it’s past my nighty time!”

You all stare at his retreating form shaking your heads. Before you purse your lips to stop laughter. “He just wants to finish carving his duck for his bath doesn’t he?” And the two just hum and nod.

After he left the air in Stoick’s hut hung heavy with the weight of unresolved tensions, the crackling hearth casting long, wavering shadows across the timber walls that seemed to pulse with the lingering echoes of the day’s debates.

You shifted uneasily in your seat not long after Gobbers departure, the worn wood creaking faintly beneath you, as the intensity of Stoick’s frustration and Hiccup’s earnest defenses swirled around the room, the conversation about dragons and village woes stretching longer than your nerves could comfortably endure.

The warmth of Gobber’s earlier humor—his whimsical duckling carving had faded into the background, and with it, the levity that had briefly tied you to the moment, leaving you suddenly aware of the late hour and the pressing need to escape the confines of this awkward charged gathering beside Hiccup.

Rising from your chair with a measured calm that belied the anxious flutter in your stomach, you brushed imaginary dust from your tunic and offered a small, apologetic smile to the room, your voice threading a careful balance between politeness and urgency as you spoke.

“Well, I reckon I’ll be heading out now, seeing as it’s gotten so late—best not to keep Menace waiting any longer than I already have.”

Hiccup’s gaze followed you as you moved toward the door, his shoulders slumping slightly with a quiet resignation, his eyes carrying a flicker of something of disappointment, perhaps, or a longing to bridge the distance that had grown between you over weeks of stilted silences and missteps.

“Goodnight,” he called softly after you.

The word hanging in the air like a half-formed question, but you were already slipping through the heavy door, the cool evening air brushing against your face as you stepped into the village’s quiet embrace, leaving behind the warmth of the hut and the weight of Hiccup’s unvoiced thoughts.

Inside, as the door thudded shut, Hiccup turned back to find Stoick’s stern gaze fixed upon him, the chief’s massive arms crossed over his chest, his expression a blend of paternal exasperation and something deeper, more pointed, that made Hiccup’s brow furrow in confusion.

“What?” he asked, startled, his hands gesturing defensively as he braced for another lecture about the dragon mishaps. “Are you still mad about the whole dragon-falling-on-Mildew’s-house thing? I swear, Dad, it was an honest mistake—nobody meant for it to happen!”

Stoick shook his head slowly, the firelight catching the silver streaks in his beard as he pulled out his chair with a deliberate scrape, settling heavily before the hearth, his broad frame silhouetted against the flames as his mind raced with memories of him and Valkas’ younger days—Which reminded him of his son and you.

“That’s not it, son,” he said, his voice softening into a low, resonant timbre that carried the weight of hard-earned wisdom, his eyes distant yet piercing as they studied Hiccup’s bewildered face.

“What are ye doin’, lad?”

Hiccup blinked, his hand waving vaguely in the air as if to dispel the cryptic question, his voice tinged with exasperation. “Alright . . . now you’ve completely lost me—what are you even talking about?”

Stoick leaned forward slightly, the chair creaking under his weight, his gaze sharpening with a father’s insight that cut through his son’s confusion.

“I thought ye cared for her,” he said plainly, the words landing with gentle force, speaking of you in a way that stripped away pretense. “You should be talkin’ to her, not dancin’ around in this endless tangle of miscommunication—both of you actin’ like ships passin’ in a fog.”

Hiccup’s face paled, a soft “oh” escaping under his breath as he froze, words deserting him like startled birds, his mind scrambling to process the sudden shift from village crises to matters of the heart, the realization that his father had noticed the unspoken rift between you two catching him completely off guard.

“I—I don’t know, Dad,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck as a flush crept up his cheeks, his voice faltering with a vulnerability he rarely showed in front of him. “She’s been kind of mad at me, and I can’t figure out why. I thought we were past all this awkwardness, but it’s like we’re right back where we started.”

Stoick’s expression softened further, a rare tenderness breaking through his stern facade as he leaned back, the fire’s glow illuminating the lines of a man who had seen too much loss to let opportunities slip unspoken.

“She’s goin’ through hell, son—more than you might realize. Did you know she never left your side, not once, when you were out cold, battered and bloody after that fight? Thought she’d lost you, twice over in fact, and that fear’s still clawin’ at her I’m betting. Not to mention the bodies she helped recover with the rest of us—gods, it was a bloodbath, a grim parade of loss that no one should face, least of all a lass her age. She’s still just a kid, like you, but she’s seen the aftermath of Hades itself, things you were spared while you were mendin’.”

Hiccup’s frown deepened, his eyes dropping to the floor as he absorbed the weight of his father’s words, the memories of Gobber’s earlier, quieter counsel echoing in his mind too—whispers of your sleepless vigils, your haunted silences, the ghosts some villagers swore you saw in the nooks, though Hiccup knew better than to believe such tales outright.

“Yeah . . . That’s sort of what Gobber said too,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, guilt threading through it for not seeing the depth of your struggles sooner, for letting his own hesitations widen the chasm between you.

Stoick’s gaze held firm, encouraging, as he pressed on with a conviction that rooted itself in years of similar trials. “Some think she’s seein’ ghosts, son, but what I’m sayin’ is, you need to grow a pair and go talk to her. You’re the only one she’d open up to, the only one who can break through that wall she’s built up tight around herself again.”

Hiccup’s eyes flickered with a spark of realization, startled not only by his father’s candid advice but by the fact that Stoick, whose earlier solutions of nets and signs had bordered on the absurd, had cut straight to the heart of a matter Hiccup had been too tangled in to see clearly.

The disappointment in himself for missing your silent struggles settling like a sinking stone in his chest, even as a flicker of determination began to kindle within him, a resolve to bridge the gap he’d let widen—again.

By mid-evening the next day, with the sky painted in hues of bruised purple and gold, Hiccup steeled himself to heed his father’s clumsy yet earnest advice to “grow a pair” in Stoick’s gruff phrasing and confront the barriers that had grown between you. So, he was determined to set things right with a conversation that would fix this apparent miscommunication that had clouded your friendship for too long.

But the universe, it seemed, had a penchant for chaos, conspiring to thwart his plans as the village erupted into pandemonium, the dragons suddenly spiraling into a frenzy of flapping wings and snapping jaws, tearing through the plaza with a reckless abandon that turned orderly stacks of barrels into splintered heaps and sent baskets of produce rolling through the dirt like wayward boulders.

Hiccup stood amid the turmoil, Toothless at his side growling anxiously, his eyes darting frantically for any sign of the gang. Fishlegs, Astrid, the twins, you or even Snotlout—but your familiar faces were conspicuously absent, leaving him to wrestle with the rampaging dragons alone, his shouts drowned out by the roars and squawks of creatures who seemed to have forgotten every lesson of restraint he’d painstakingly taught them.

Then, through the haze of dust, he caught a glimpse of you—perched high atop the watchtower with the twins, your laughter ringing out clear and bright, a sound that both warmed and stung him as he struggled below. He hadn’t heard you laugh in so long. . .But his attention had gone elsewhere as his arms flailed to redirect a particularly stubborn Gronckle from devouring a crate of cabbages—Which he prayed didn’t belong to Mildew.

Tuffnut, sprawled beside you with his usual manic grin, had said something that set you doubled over with laughter, your shoulders shaking as you clutched your sides, the sight igniting a sharp pang in Hiccup’s chest that he mistook for annoyance at your collective inaction.

Though deep down, the bitter twist of jealousy coiled tight at the thought of Tuffnut drawing such joy from you so effortlessly while he floundered in the chaos below, his efforts met with nothing but dragon shenanigans and splintered wood.

You sat close to Tuffnut, your eyes sparkling as you watched Hiccup’s futile attempts to restore order, a fond amusement softening your features as you admired his stubborn determination, even as it bordered on comical futility.

Astrid, standing slightly behind you with her arms crossed and a smirk tugging at her lips, tilted her head as she observed the scene below, her voice laced with dry humor as she spoke up. “I think he might need our help down there—looks like he’s fighting a losing battle against a herd of very hungry dragons.”

Snotlout, lounging nearby with a lazy grin, propped himself up on one elbow, his eyes glinting with mischief as he surveyed Hiccup’s predicament. “What is he even doing? It’s like he’s directing a yak stampede with a twig.”

You chuckled, glancing at your companions as you leaned forward, resting your chin in your hand, the chaos below unfolding like a peculiar performance. “I don’t know, but it’s about to be three o’clock . . . So you know what that means.”

The twins snorted in unison, their snarky laughter bubbling up, Tuffnut’s eyes gleaming with anticipation as he nudged you playfully. “Oh, the grand dragon parade of punctuality—right on schedule.”

Ruffnut leaned forward too, her smirk widening as she added, “Cool, let’s see how many Vikings survive this time.”

You smiled, glancing between them before turning back to the spectacle below, a question forming as you tilted your head thoughtfully. “Think we should go down there and lend a hand? Tell him it’s almost dragon fertilizing time?”

Tuffnut waved a dismissive hand, his tone dripping with mock seriousness. “Nah, I think he’s helping the dragons break stuff—call it community service, Hiccup style.”

As if the gods themselves had scripted the moment for maximum absurdity, the dragons chose that precise instant to synchronize their chaos, a collective rumble echoing through the plaza as they began their notorious three o’clock ritual.

Their droppings raining down with unerring precision, splattering crates, pathways, and—most unfortunately—Hiccup himself, who froze mid-shout as a particularly well-aimed deposit landed squarely on his head, the goopy mess sliding down his face with a wet squelch that sent the watchtower trio into peals of laughter.

Astrid shook her head, her amusement tempered by a sigh as she surveyed the scene, her voice dry as ever. “And . . . it’s three o’clock, right on cue.”

The dragons’ impeccable timing only amplified the hilarity, and you clutched Tuffnut’s arm to keep from toppling over with laughter, unaware of the way Hiccup’s gaze lingered on you from below, his annoyance melting into a wistful ache that he couldn’t yet name, the sight of your joy both a balm and a barb to his tangled embarrassment—or rather his heart.

The night had settled over Berk now, the air crisp and tinged with the faint scent of its famous pine and salt, the village’s lanterns casting pools of golden light that flickered against the rough-hewn paths as you and Astrid made your way to Hiccup’s hut in small talk.

The day’s chaos still buzzing faintly in your mind like a distant swarm of insects. Hiccup had been battered by the dragon frenzy earlier, his lanky frame moving with a stiffness that betrayed the toll of wrestling with wayward beasts.

And though you’d sworn to yourself to stop hovering over him, to guard your own heart against the tangled feelings that stirred whenever he was near—a pang of guilt gnawed at you for not lending a hand when he’d been floundering in the plaza, his shouts lost amid the roars and splatters.

Astrid walked beside you, her stride confident but her expression softened by a quiet amusement as she recounted Hiccup’s latest misadventure, her voice low and teasing, cutting through the evening’s stillness with a warmth that made the walk feel less like a duty and more like a shared conspiracy.

“He’s probably still picking dragon poop out of his hair,” she quipped, her smirk widening as she glanced at you, prompting a reluctant chuckle that lightened the weight in your chest, though it didn’t fully erase the urge to make things right.

Inside the hut, you found Hiccup sprawled across his plain wooden bed, his limbs splayed like a starfish as he groaned softly, the day’s exertions etched into the tired lines of his face, his auburn hair still faintly damp from an earlier, futile attempt to wash away the plaza’s indignities.

Toothless lounged nearby, his massive head resting on his paws, his green eyes half-lidded but alert, offering a low rumble of sympathy as if he too felt the ache of their shared struggles.

Despite your resolve to keep your distance, the sight of Hiccup’s exhaustion tugged at you, and before you could second-guess the impulse, you slipped out while the two talked and returned with a carefully crafted gift—a new wool bedding sheet, painstakingly woven from soft furs, feathers, and thick wool,.

Its texture a luxurious departure from the unforgiving planks that passed for beds in Berk. You draped it over his sparse mattress with a flourish, then topped it with a plump pillow stuffed with duck and chicken feathers, the downy creation a signature to your recent tinkering in your home, your heart thudding with nervous anticipation.

As you stepped back and pointed firmly at the bed, your voice carrying a mock sternness to mask your unease. “Alright, Hiccup, lie down—now. No arguments.”

Hiccup and Astrid exchanged bewildered glances, their eyebrows arching in unison as if you’d just proposed wrestling a Monstrous Nightmare barehanded, but Hiccup complied with a skeptical hum, easing himself onto the bedding with a cautious slowness, as if expecting it to be flat and nothing new beneath him.

The moment his body sank into the plush layers, his eyes widened, then fluttered shut, a low, almost reverent moan escaping his lips as every muscle seemed to melt into the softness, the tension draining from his frame like water from a cracked bucket.

“So? How is it?” you asked, your voice betraying a nervous edge as you leaned forward, fingers twisting together, awaiting his verdict with bated breath.

Hiccup’s response was a dreamy murmur you couldn’t hear at first, his words slurring with blissful surrender as he sank deeper into the cloud-like embrace. “I—I think you’ve just invented the single greatest thing in the history of . . . everything.”

The exaggerated praise sent a flush of glee through you, your grin breaking wide as Astrid let out a low whistle, her own smile genuine as she leaned over to inspect the bedding, her fingers brushing the soft fur with an appreciative nod.

“Dang, can I get one of those?” she asked, her tone half-joking but laced with genuine envy, her eyes sparkling with admiration.

“Sure!” you replied, your voice bright with the joy of her approval, the shared moment lifting your spirits higher than you’d expected.

Though you missed the flicker of something sharp that crossed Hiccup’s face—a twinge of that same fluttering jealousy that had sparked earlier when Tuffnut’s jests had drawn your laughter, a feeling he couldn’t quite name but mistook for irritation. The idea that even Astrid could so easily spark your happiness while he felt stuck on the sidelines, unable to bridge the gap that had grown between you.

Astrid turned back to Hiccup, her grin softening as she shook her head at his blissful state, his eyes still closed as he teetered on the edge of sleep, the bedding cradling him like a wee babe wrapped in clouds as it swallowed his scrawny frame.

“It’s hard to believe you’re still standing after today,” she said, her voice warm but tinged with teasing incredulity.

Hiccup cracked one eye open, a sleepy frown tugging at his lips as he mumbled, “Yeah, I’m gonna be seeing flaming sheep in my dreams for at least the next month.”

Before you or Astrid could add to the banter, the stairs groaned with a heavy creak, and Stoick’s towering frame filled the entrance, his face a mask of worry that cut through the room’s levity, his booming voice shattering the quiet as he strode forward, his boots thudding against the floorboards with purposeful urgency.

“Hiccup! What in Thor’s name is goin’ on out there? The plaza looks like a war zone—barrels smashed, vegetables and fruit strewn everywhere!”

Hiccup jolted upright, wincing as the movement tugged at his sore muscles, a muffled “oh, crap” escaping under his breath as he scrambled to his feet, his earlier bliss evaporating under his father’s stern gaze.

“I know, I know, it looks bad. . .” he admitted, his hands gesturing vaguely as if to wave away the chaos.

Astrid leaned closer to you, her voice a conspiratorial whisper that carried a hint of amusement. “Really bad—like, ‘Mildew’s going to have a field day’ bad.”

Hiccup shot her a half-hearted glare before rallying, his tone shifting to an exaggerated confidence that bordered on comedic as he faced Stoick, his hands flailing to illustrate a plan that existed only in the spur of the moment.

“But don’t worry, Dad! This is just phase one of—uh—my master plan, yeah!”

Stoick’s eyes narrowed slightly, but a glimmer of hope flickered in his expression, the chief’s desperation for a solution overriding his skepticism as he leaned forward, his voice cautiously optimistic.

“Oh? So, you really do have a plan, then?”

Hiccup nodded vigorously, his words tumbling out in a rush that betrayed his lack of actual preparation, his mind racing to fill the gaps with bravado. “I do! I really do—absolutely, one hundred percent. It’s, uh, very complex, you know—lots of drawings, several moving parts, gears and levers and . . . stuff. Wild stuff, really. . .”

You and Astrid exchanged a glance, your eyes rolling inwardly in perfect sync, the absurdity of Hiccup’s improvisation as transparent as a polished shield, though Stoick seemed to take the bait.

His relief, though, tempered by a lingering doubt as he nodded slowly, muttering, “Uh-huh . . . well, this better be real, son, because Mildew’s gone and stirred the pot even more. He’s got near the whole island on his side now, bayin’ for action.”

“Oh no. . .” Hiccup’s voice dropped to a low groan, his shoulders slumping as he shrank into himself.

The weight of the village’s expectations pressing down like a physical force, his earlier confidence deflating under the reality of Mildew’s influence. Stoick’s expression hardened, his voice taking on a grave intensity as he stepped closer, his massive hand gesturing broadly to encompass the stakes at hand.

“Listen to me, Hiccup—I gave you the responsibility of trainin’ those dragons, and everyone knows it. All eyes are on you, son. Whatever those beasts do reflects on you, and whatever you do reflects on me.”

Hiccup’s gaze dropped to the floor, a quiet “I’m sorry, Dad, you’re right” escaping him, the sincerity in his voice cutting through the room’s tension.

“If you don’t get those dragons under control son . . . They’ll be calling for their heads. I trust you know this.” Stoick says before leaving.

Hiccups hand reached out instinctively to rest on Toothless’s snout as the Night Fury whimpered softly, his wide eyes darting between you all with a worry that mirrored Hiccup’s own. You stepped forward then, your hand finding Toothless’s smooth scales with a reassuring pat, your nod firm as you met Hiccup’s gaze.

“Don’t worry, bud.” Hiccup says, “your head’s not going anywhere.”

Astrid shook her head, her voice dry but not unkind as she crossed her arms, her practicality grounding the moment. “You do realize there are a bazillion dragons out there, right? And only one of you.”

Before Hiccup could respond, you interjected, your tone resolute and warm, determination igniting within you as you saw the pain wash over Hiccups face. “Two—count me in, as always. We’ll figure this out together, Hiccup, I’ll help you.”

The words seemed to lift a visible weight from his shoulders, his eyes softening with gratitude, the knowledge that he wouldn’t face this alone easing him in a way that made his heart ache with a mix of resolve, even as Astrid raised an eyebrow, her voice tinged with skepticism as she glanced at Hiccup.

“I really hope you’ve got a plan, because this is looking like a tall order.”

The three of you moved downstairs then, the conversation shifting to lighter ground as Stoick busied himself adding logs to the hearth, the flames flaring with renewed vigor, casting a warm glow across the room’s sturdy furnishings.

“Hiccup!” he called over his shoulder, his tone lighter but still authoritative, “I forgot to mention—you and your friends are to go out and fix Mildew’s roof tomorrow, no buts about it. And without your dragons!”

The collective groan that escaped you, Hiccup, and Astrid was almost harmonious, a shared lament that echoed off the walls, but Hiccup nodded reluctantly, his voice resigned. “Yes, alright, Dad. . .”

Before you could make your escape, Stoick’s voice boomed again, halting you in your tracks. “Ah! Not so fast—aren’t you forgetting something?”

You froze, eyes widening as you exchanged puzzled glances with Hiccup and Astrid, bracing for another task, only to see Stoick shove a pair of well-worn, alarmingly pungent boots into Hiccup’s arms.

His expression utterly carefree as he declared, “It’s boot night! They need to be aired out properly!”

The stench hit like a physical blow, and you and Astrid instinctively turned away, pressing your hands to your mouths to stifle the laughter and gags that threatened to erupt, bolting for the door to gulp the fresh night air outside, the coolness a blessed relief as you gasped and gagged.

Hiccup’s own gag echoed from within, his voice muffled but indignant as he pinched his nose, the boots dangling at arm’s length. “I think it’s gonna take more than just air, Dad. . .”

The complaint trailed off as he stumbled outside to join you, only to freeze at the sight unfolding across the village—children and teens emerging one by one from their homes, each clutching their own parents’ reeking footwear, a bizarre weekly, nightly ritual that painted Berk in strokes of absurd normalcy, their silhouettes weaving through the lantern-lit paths like a parade of reluctant boot-bearers.

Astrid cursed under her breath, her eyes widening as she remembered her own obligations, muttering a hurried, “Gotta run before my parents notice I’m slacking!” before dashing off into the night.

Leaving you standing alone for a moment until a familiar figure loomed beside you—Out of your peripheral vision . . . Gobber, his brow twitching with that telltale mix of mischief and menace, holding out his own rancid boots with a grin that dared you to protest.

“Almost forgot it was boot night, didn’t ye, lass?” he teased, thrusting the offending footwear under your nose, the smell hitting like a tub of fiery dung mixed with unwashed pairs of socks and undies.

Even Hiccup, catching a whiff from a safe distance, gagged dramatically, his tears breaking through as he retreated back inside, clutching his mouth and nose tightly, his choking coughs mingling from inside.

You closed your eyes, steeling yourself as you accepted Gobber’s boots with a grimace, your voice strained but resolute as you held your breath in struggle. “Nope . . . could never forget this, Gobber—not in a million years. . .”

The boots’ weight felt like a punishment in your hands, but as you stood there, the absurdity of the moment—the village united in this bizarre, stinky tradition—and it somehow got a reluctant laugh out of you deep in your chest.

As you trudged toward your hut, after surviving—helping Gobber with all his boots, and then washing you hands a good fifty times. The night air seemed to hum with a quietness you had looked for all day.

You glanced back once toward Hiccups house, catching the faint silhouette of Hiccup wrestling with his own task, Toothless nudging him playfully as if to share in the absurdity. A warmth settled in your chest.

The morning broke over Berk quickly, the dawn light filtering through a haze of clouds that hung low over the winter coming village, casting a muted glow across the rugged paths where you stirred from sleep, only to be jolted awake by a frantic pounding at your door.

Throwing on a clean tunic and stumbling from sleep to the entrance, you flung the door open to find Hiccup, his hair a disheveled mess and his face a canvas of worry, his green eyes wide with a distress that sent a motherly instinct surging through you, your fists clenching as if ready to fend off whoever had dared to hurt him. Your aura thudding with protective fury until his words tumbled out in a breathless rush, deflating your battle-ready stance with an almost comical relief.

“Everyone’s boots—they’re gone! Vanished, every last pair from boot night!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms up in exasperation, his voice cracking with a mix of disbelief and urgency.

It made you pause in glee and delight flickered in your chest at the thought of Gobber’s ancient, reeking boots meeting some mysterious fate, though you quickly masked it with a concerned nod, your lips twitching as you fought back a grin.

“That’s excellent news—why are you stressed about it?” You smile.

“This is serious!” Hiccup pressed, his hands gesturing wildly as he paced before your doorstep, oblivious to the relief washing over you that no one had harmed him, the absurdity of the crisis almost enough to make you laugh outright.

“I know, I know—I’m sorry, Hiccup, we’ll figure it out, promise!” you soothed, stepping out into the crisp morning air.

Your breath visible as you followed him toward the plaza, where the village was already abuzz with confusion, Vikings clustering around their homes, scratching heads and muttering as they surveyed the scene.

Your eyes widened at the sight—massive, half-moon-shaped tracks crisscrossing the dirt in chaotic patterns, unmistakably Zippleback in origin, their size and number overwhelming, as if an entire herd had stampeded through the heart of Berk under cover of night, leaving the plaza a mess of churned earth and bewildered faces.

By the time you and Hiccup reached his hut, Stoick stood outside, his broad frame rigid with puzzlement, his braided beard swaying slightly as he scanned the tracks, his expression a blend of irritation and bemusement that mirrored the village’s collective mood.

Not a moment later, Gobber’s limping figure emerged from the crowd, his face a mixture of annoyance and worry as he stomped toward you, his hook-hand waving accusingly, his voice gruff with a chill that matched his bare feet.

“Oi, lass! What’ve ye done with meh boots? My toes are freezin’ off out here, and I’m not one for frostbite!”

You raised your hands in protest, your voice firm but laced with exasperation as you met his glare, the memory of last night’s ritual vivid in your mind. “I haven’t done a thing with them, Gobber—you were right there with me when I hauled them all outside, counting every last smelly pair!”

The conversation spiraled as Stoick and Hiccup joined in, theories bouncing between you like stones skipped across a pond, until a sly movement caught your eye—Mildew, lurking at the crowd’s edge.

His weathered face twisting into a smirk that vanished behind a theatrical mask of outrage. His sudden shift in demeanor making you squint with suspicion, your instincts prickling at the sight of his calculated performance.

“All I know is they left some mighty big footprints all ‘round the place, now didn’t they?” he declared.

His staff jabbing toward the tracks with a flourish and voice dripping with accusation as he turned to the gathering villagers, their murmurs swelling in agreement, feeding his ego like a moth to a flame.

Fishlegs, ever the eager scholar, pushed forward with a bright grin, his finger tracing the air as he pointed out the tracks’ distinctive curves. “They’re Zippleback footprints, no doubt about it! You can tell by the half-moon arches! Classic sign, straight out of Dragon 101. Pfft, not that I need to tell you lot that.”

His enthusiasm was almost infectious, but Hiccup cut through it with a skeptical frown, his hands on his hips as he challenged the growing narrative. “So, a dragon walked through here—doesn’t mean it stole everyone’s boots! That’s a leap bigger than a Gronckle’s belly flop.”

You nodded in agreement, stepping closer to Hiccup, your voice steady as you backed him up, your eyes flicking toward Mildew’s smug figure with a pointed edge. “Exactly—dragons are everywhere in Berk; tracks are as common as pebbles on a shore. And no dragon’s ever bothered with boot night before, so why start now? Besides, we’ve all seen our dragons bolt south or take flight just to escape the stench of those boots!”

The jab landed, prompting a few offended grumbles from nearby Vikings, their pride stung, but also nods of reluctant agreement from Stoick, Gobber, Fishlegs, and a handful of others, Hiccup’s eyebrows rising in thoughtful consideration as he mulled over your point.

Mildew, undeterred, leaned forward with a dramatic scowl, his staff tapping the ground for emphasis as he countered, his voice sharp and goading. “Alright then, clever lass—explain the sheer number of these Zippleback tracks, hmm? More than I’ve ever seen in one place! Let’s follow ‘em and see where they lead, unless ye’re scared of what we’ll find!”

Anger bubbled in your chest at his taunting tone, but before you could snap back, Hiccup’s hand found yours, his touch gentle enough to still your rising temper, his calm presence grounding you as he gave a subtle shake of his head, urging restraint.

With a collective huff, the group—Stoick, Gobber, Fishlegs, Mildew, and a gaggle of curious villagers—set off to follow the suspiciously pristine tracks, their uniformity striking you as oddly deliberate, almost staged, and the fact that Mildew seemed so certain of their destination only deepened your unease, your eyes narrowing as you trailed behind, Hiccup’s hand lingering near yours for a moment longer before he let go.

The trail eventually led to the dragon training arena, its stone walls looming like silent sentinels under the morning sky, and there, in the center of the stone expanse, stood a towering pile of boots—leather, fur-lined, and tattered, stacked haphazardly like a monument prize.

Beside it lounged the twins’ Zippleback, Barf and Belch, their two heads blinking lazily as if entirely unbothered by the spectacle, one casually gnawing on a stray boot while the other yawned expansively.

Mildew, passing you with a deliberate bump of his bony shoulder, flashed an evil, smug smirk that made your blood simmer, your glare burning into his back as he strutted forward, staff raised like a victor’s banner. Hiccup opened his mouth to protest, his voice faltering as he gestured toward the scene.

“So, there’s a bunch of boots piled around a Zippleback . . . that doesn’t mean—” His words cut off as Stoick, with a grim expression, thrust a single chewed-up boot under his nose, its leather mangled beyond repair, the evidence undeniable.

Hiccup sighed, defeated, his shoulders slumping as he muttered, “Yeah, okay . . . fine, they took the boots.”

Mildew seized the moment, his voice ringing through the arena like a war horn, laced with mocking indignation that stoked the crowd’s murmurs into a rising uproar, their voices blending into a chorus of frustration that echoed off the stone walls and back.

“Enough of this! Listen to yerselves—whinin’ about cold feet like a gaggle of spoiled bairns! Ye’re Vikings, for Odin’s sake—pull yerselves together! Everything’s always cold here; it’s practically our birthright!” Gobber, stepping forward with a rare seriousness, cut through Mildew’s tirade, his voice calm but firm as he addressed the crowd, his hook-hand gesturing toward the pile.

“I’ll fix yer boots, ye lot—good as new, ye’ll be back to work in no time.”

Stoick nodded appreciatively, his voice booming with authority to quell the unrest. “Ye heard Gobber! Boots’ll be mended, so let’s get on with it!”

Mildew’s face twisted into a scowl, his staff thumping the ground as he spat back, unpleased, his words dripping with venom. “Disgraceful, innit? What, is that it then? No punishment? No consequences for these beasts that’ve turned our village into their personal midden?”

Stoick shook his head, exasperation etching deeper lines into his face as he waved a dismissive hand, his patience wearing thin. “They just took boots, Mildew—the world’s not comin’ to an end.”

But Mildew leaned closer, his eyes glinting with a dangerous fervor, his voice lowering to a menacing hiss that sent a chill through you. “Hmph, don’t be so sure, Stoick. Ye can’t tame these wild beasts, and there’s no tellin’ what they’ll do behind our sleepin’ backs.”

The phrase—“behind our sleeping backs”—hung in the air, heavy with implication that made your eyes narrow as you stared at him, suspicion coiling tighter in your gut, the words striking a nerve you couldn’t quite place but refused to dismiss.

Hiccup, undaunted, stepped forward, his voice rising with conviction despite the futility of reasoning with Mildew’s entrenched biases. “They don’t destroy things on purpose—it’s just their nature, and we’re learning to work with it!”

But then, to your shock, he paused, his tone shifting as he acknowledged the old man with a reluctant nod. “You do have a point, Mildew. . .”

Your eyes widened in disbelief, a surge of betrayal flaring as you turned to him, unable to fathom why he’d concede even an inch to Mildew’s fearmongering, but his determined expression hinted at a deeper plan, a spark of defiance beneath his words that suggested he wasn’t capitulating but strategizing, ready to prove the dragons’ worth in his own way.

“They are wild animals,” he continued. “And they need us to keep an eye on them. And rest assured, we will do just that!”

As the crowd dispersed, muttering and casting wary glances at the Zippleback, you lingered near Hiccup, your earlier anger softening into resolve, the arena’s stone floor cold under your boots as you shared a quiet look with him, a silent agreement to tackle this mystery together.

The towering pile of boots loomed like a bizarre monument to the village’s quirks, and as you glanced back at Mildew’s retreating figure, his staff tapping rhythmically, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning of his schemes.

As the crowd began to thin, Mildew’s smug departure leaving a bitter aftertaste, Gobber turned to you with a pointed look, his hook-hand gesturing toward the boot pile with a mix of resignation and mischief in his weathered eyes, his voice gruff but laced with the familiar warmth that softened his bark.

“Oi, lass,” he said, his limp pronounced as he prepared to leave, “that means ye’re helpin’ me mend all these boots later—every last stinkin’ one, mind ye.” He says with a twinkle in his eyes—clearly still offended by your remarks.

Your jaw dropped, a wide-eyed look of pure horror spreading across your face as the prospect of hours hunched over Gobber and the village Vikings’ reeking footwear loomed like a punishment from the gods themselves.

The sheer terror in your expression sparked a sudden, booming laugh from Hiccup that reverberated through the arena, shaking the Zippleback lounging nearby and sending a cascade of boots tumbling down onto you both in a chaotic flurry.

“Hiccup!” you protested, swatting away a particularly mangled boot that had landed on your shoulder, your voice a mix of indignation and amusement as you glared at him.

His laughter only growing louder as he clutched his sides, pointing at you with unrestrained glee. “I couldn’t help it! You should’ve seen your face—pure, dread, like you’d just been sentenced to wrestle a Whispering Death!”

His mirth was infectious, and despite yourself, a grin tugged at your lips as you shook your head, brushing off the debris while Astrid watched from a few paces away, her arms crossed and a glint in her eye—an uneasy flicker she kept to herself while watching you two.

Of course, it went unnoticed by the group as Fishlegs stepped forward, his sturdy frame offering a hand to help you and Hiccup to your feet, his own chuckle mingling with the moment’s levity.

“So . . . now what do we do?” Astrid asked, her voice cutting through the lingering laughter as she stepped ever closer to Hiccup, her tone pragmatic but tinged with curiosity, her blonde braid swaying slightly as she tilted her head, assessing the situation with her usual sharp focus.

Hiccup dusted off his tunic, his expression shifting to one of determined resolve as he glanced at Toothless, who nudged him affectionately, the Night Fury’s green eyes gleaming with unspoken loyalty.

“I thought long and hard about it last night—barely got a wink of sleep, right, bud?” he said, scratching Toothless’s snout as the dragon rumbled in agreement, his tail flicking playfully. “We’ve got to train the dragons—properly this time.”

The words hung in the air, simple yet audacious, and if the sun hadn’t already crested into the early afternoon, you could’ve sworn the silence that followed would have invited crickets to chirp their mockery, the group exchanging skeptical glances as the weight of Hiccup’s plan settled among you like a stone dropped into still water.

Ruffnut was the first to break the quiet, her face a mask of unamused incredulity, her voice dripping with her signature sarcasm as she leaned forward, one eyebrow arched high. “That’s your plan? Train dragons? Here, in the arena where we used to, oh, I don’t know, try to kill them?”

Tuffnut, never one to miss a beat, pointed at the scarred walls with a dramatic flourish, his dreadlocks swinging as he turned to his sister, his tone equally baffled. “Yeah, like, this is literally the dragon slaughterhouse turned dragon daycare—did we miss a memo or something?”

Hiccup, undeterred, set a burlap sack brimming with fish and scraps on the ground, its contents wafting a briny scent that immediately drew the attention of the dragons lingering at the arena’s edge—Stormfly, Meatlug, and Hookfang ambling in with cautious steps, their nostrils flaring as they caught the aroma, their massive forms casting long shadows over them all.

Your own Menace, the pint-sized grey-and-orange Terrible Terror, darted in with a gleeful chirp, her tiny wings buzzing as she landed on your shoulder, her warm snout nuzzling your cheek with a contented purr that made you smile despite the tension.

Snotlout, seizing the moment to needle you, let out a mocking laugh, his arms crossed as he leaned against a pillar, his smirk wide and taunting. “Seriously, you should trade up for a bigger dragon—Menace is, like, the size of a grumpy kitten.”

You shook your head, your grin unwavering as you scratched Menace’s chin, her eyes closing in blissful agreement as she leaned into your touch. “Menace is the perfect dragon—size doesn’t matter when you’ve got this much heart,” you retorted, earning a soft trill from her that seemed to echo your sentiment, her tail curling affectionately around your wrist.

Fishlegs, meanwhile, knelt beside Meatlug, his voice soft with worry as he stroked her lumpy hide, her nervous shuffles kicking up small clouds of dust. “It’s okay, Meatlug, you’re safe,” he murmured, his eyes darting around the arena’s imposing walls, the memories of its brutal past clearly weighing on his gentle dragon.

Astrid, calming Stormfly with gentle pats to her vibrant blue snout, glanced at Hiccup with a raised brow, her voice measured but concerned. “They’re looking a bit skittish, Hiccup—these dragons aren’t exactly thrilled to be back here.”

Fishlegs nodded, his expression somber as he hugged Meatlug closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “They’re sensitive, you know? Meatlug especially—she lost family in this place. We . . . try not to bring it up.”

The admission hung heavy, a reminder of the arena’s grim history, and you felt Menace press closer to your neck, her small body trembling slightly at the somber mood. Astrid’s eyes lit up with a spark of delight, though, as she glanced around the arena, her hands resting on her hips.

“Still, it’s pretty amazing your dad let us have this place for training—kind of cool, turning it into something new.”

Hiccup winced slightly, rubbing the back of his neck as he avoided her gaze, his voice dropping to a nervous mutter. “Well, it would be amazing . . . if he’d actually agreed to it, which, uh, he didn’t. So, yeah, let’s maybe keep that part quiet.”

Astrid’s arms crossed tightly, her brow furrowing as she fixed him with a pointed stare. “So, we’re going behind the chief’s back now? That’s your big move?”

Hiccup’s hands flailed in a defensive gesture, his voice rising with a nervous edge. “There you go, talking about it—let’s not make it a thing!”

You stepped forward, your tone firm but supportive, aligning yourself with Astrid’s caution. “We should ask Stoick first, Hiccup—it’s only right.”

“Agreed,” Astrid added, her nod reinforcing your point, her expression unwavering as she leaned slightly toward you, a united front.

Hiccup sighed, his shoulders slumping but his eyes alight with that stubborn determination that had felled greater foes than village politics. “Come on, you two, trust me—I’ve got a plan. The dragons are out of control, right? We want them to live in our world without turning it into a pile of rubble, but they can’t do that without our help. They’ve been wreaking havoc, and we need to step up—teach them, guide them, make this work.”

Tuffnut’s smirk widened, his eyes glinting with mischief as he clapped his hands together, his voice brimming with misplaced enthusiasm. “Got it! Help dragons destroy things—oh, we’re so in!”

He turned to Ruffnut, who matched his grin, her voice dripping with glee as she leaned in. “Here’s the play . . . first, we make ‘em really, really angry!”

Tuffnut nodded vigorously, already envisioning chaos. “No problem—we anger everyone, it’s our specialty!”

Hiccup’s jaw dropped, his expression a mix of shock and exasperation as he waved his hands to halt their runaway train of thought, his voice rising with urgent clarity. “No, no, no—that’s not what I meant! Guys, this is serious! Mildew’s out there pushing for our dragons to be caged—or worse, their heads on spikes, and I don’t know about you, but that’s not remotely okay with me!”

Menace whimpered then, her tiny form burrowing into your neck as fear rippled through her, prompting you to stroke her gently, your own anger flaring as you glared into the distance, Mildew’s earlier smirk flashing in your mind.

“It’s definitely not okay with me—I can’t stand that old man and his scheming,” you spat, your voice sharp with conviction.

The dragons’ nervous rumbles echoing your sentiment as they pressed closer to their riders—Stormfly nudging Astrid, Meatlug leaning into Fishlegs, Hookfang snorting restlessly behind Snotlout And Toothless moving close to Hiccup.

Tuffnut looked to you closely, catching the fire in your words before quickly turning to Hiccup with a dramatic point at Ruffnut, his voice mock-serious. “Yeah, Hiccup’s right—she’s sorry for suggesting we torch the place.”

Ruffnut’s head whipped around, her eyes narrowing as she smacked his arm, her tone indignant. “Really? You’re throwing me under the yak cart now? That was your idea, genius!”

Their bickering sparked a ripple of laughter among the group, easing the tension as the dragons settled slightly, their trust in you all easing them. Hiccup shook his head, a small smile breaking through as he looked at you.

The next hour in the dragon training arena unfolded with a frenetic energy as usual. Hiccup led the group through the foundational techniques he’d honed with Toothless—skills you’d learned alongside him in those exhilarating days not long now since taming dragons was a radical act of defiance against Berk’s blood-soaked traditions.

The air carried the briny tang of fish from the burlap sack Hiccup had set out, mingled with the dusty scent of the arena’s stone walls, which still bore the scars of battles long past, now repurposed for a cause that felt both noble and precarious.

Hiccup moved with a quiet confidence, his lanky frame weaving between Astrid, Snotlout, and Fishlegs as he guided them through exercises in trust and control—teaching Stormfly to respond to Astrid’s precise signals, coaxing Hookfang to curb his fiery impulses for Snotlout, and soothing Meatlug’s lingering anxieties as Fishlegs murmured gentle encouragements, his hands steady on her lumpy hide.

You, meanwhile, stood at the arena’s edge with Ruffnut and Tuffnut, little Menace perched atop your head like a tiny, grey-and-orange crown, her claws gently gripping your hair as you helped the twins wrangle Barf and Belch.

The Zippleback’s dual heads bickered just as much as their riders, their sinuous necks weaving in chaotic tandem as you demonstrated the same calming gestures you’d perfected with Siftwing, your voice steady despite the twins’ penchant for turning every instruction into a theatrical performance.

Every so often, Hiccup’s gaze drifted toward you, drawn by the sound of your laughter as Tuffnut launched into one of his absurd anecdotes—something about a sheep, a barrel of mead, and a misfired Zippleback spark that had you smiling. Menace nearly tumbling from your head in the process of dodging Tuff’s lanky arms when gesturing.

Each peal of your laughter sent a flutter of something sharp through Hiccup’s chest, a feeling he stubbornly labeled as irritation—irritation at Tuffnut’s relentless idiocy, at the twins’ knack for derailing focus, at his own inability to create that same effortless joy in you with a quip or a glance like he used to.

But the feeling lingered, prickly and persistent, gnawing at him as he watched you grin at Tuffnut’s exaggerated gestures, the sight twisting into a knot of jealousy he refused to name, dismissing it instead as frustration with his own faltering attempts to reconnect with you amidst the chaos of dragon training and village politics.

The weight of it grew too heavy, his thoughts tangling like a poorly tied knot, and with a sudden resolve to clear his head, he clapped his hands to call a halt, his voice cutting through the arena’s clamor with a forced brightness.

“Alright, gang, I think you and the dragons are getting the hang of it—let’s take a break and try again later, see if they’re picking it up. Good work, everyone!”

The group began to file out, dragons trailing their riders with a mix of curiosity and relief—Stormfly strutting beside Astrid, Hookfang lumbering after Snotlout, Meatlug waddling close to Fishlegs, and Barf and Belch slithering behind the twins, who were already bickering over whose head had caused more chaos during the session.

You lingered at the back, Menace still perched on your head, her tiny wings fluttering as she chirped contentedly, and Hiccup, seizing the moment, slowed his pace to fall in step beside you, Toothless ambling alongside with a playful nudge to his rider’s shoulder, as if sensing the shift in Hiccup’s mood.

“So,” he began, his voice casual but edged with a nervous curiosity that betrayed his attempt at nonchalance, his hands fidgeting with the strap of his satchel as he glanced at you sidelong. “Since when did you and Tuffnut get so chummy? You two seem . . . I don’t know, attached at the hip lately.”

The question caught you off guard, and you paused, lifting Menace from your head to cradle her in your arms, her warm scales pressing against your chest as you fixed Hiccup with a genuinely puzzled look, your brow furrowing in confusion.

“What are you talking about? Tuffnut and me? Close?” you asked, your voice tinged with amusement at the absurdity of the idea, your head tilting as you studied his expression, searching for the root of his sudden interest.

Hiccup shrugged, his attempt to play it cool faltering as he rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes darting to the ground before meeting yours again, a faint flush creeping up his cheeks. “It’s just . . . I’ve noticed you guys hanging out a lot, and you’re always laughing at something he says—like he’s the funniest guy on Berk or something. I don’t know, just . . . seems like a thing.”

You snorted, a sharp burst of laughter that made Menace chirp in surprise, her yellow eyes blinking up at you as you shook your head, the notion so far from reality it was almost comical.

“Since when have Tuffnut and I hung out? Never, Hiccup—unless you count him tripping over his own ego and me laughing at the chaos. So what exactly are you seeing?”

Your tone carried a playful challenge, but a flicker of annoyance simmered beneath it, the weight of your recent distance from Hiccup—your deliberate retreat behind Astrid and the others to protect your own tangled feelings—lending an edge to your words.

He sighed, his shoulders slumping as he waved a hand dismissively, his voice softening but still tinged with frustration. “Ah, never mind, forget I said anything. Just . . . what were you laughing at back there, anyway? Tuffnut’s not exactly a comedic genius.”

You stopped walking, planting your feet this time as you stared at him, your confusion deepening into exasperation, Menace squirming slightly in your arms as if sensing the shift in mood, while Toothless did the same while looking between you and Hiccup multiple times.

“Hiccup, I was laughing at him and Ruffnut being their usual ridiculous selves—tripping over each other’s bad ideas like always. What’s with you? Am I not allowed to find anything funny now?”

The question came out sharper than intended, your irritation flaring as you recalled the weeks of shrinking back, of guarding your heart against the pull of his presence, only to find him questioning your every smile.

Hiccup groaned, dragging a hand down his face in a dramatic facepalm, his voice muffled but earnest. “You know that’s not what I meant—come on, I’m just . . . ugh, never mind.”

The bickering carried you both out of the arena, your voices overlapping in a familiar rhythm of frustration and fondness, unaware that Astrid, walking ahead with Stormfly’s reins in hand, had glanced back at the sight of you two so close.

Your heads bent together in heated exchange. Her brow furrowed, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face—not at you or Hiccup, but at the ease of your connection, the way it seemed to flow despite the tension, stirring a pang she couldn’t quite name, though she masked it with a tight smile as she turned forward again, her steps quickening.

You sighed, giving Hiccup a gentle shove ahead of you, your voice dropping to a whisper so Astrid wouldn’t hear, the words laced with a mix of exasperation and care. “Hiccup, just . . . focus on yourself, alright? Go walk with your girlfriend up there instead of picking fights with me over nothing.”

“She’s not—“ He began blushing, but you already brushed past him.

Menace tucked securely in your arms, and strode toward the plaza where the others had gathered, leaving Hiccup staring after you, his expression a tangle of regret and confusion. Astrid slowed her pace as Hiccup caught up, her voice cautious but probing as she glanced at him sidelong, Stormfly rustling softly beside Toothless.

“Everything okay back there? Looked like quite the debate.”

Hiccup forced a smile, his tone deliberately light but strained, his hands stuffed into his pockets as he kicked at a stray pebble. “Yeah, just . . . fine and dandy, you know—same old, same old. Totally not stressing over the current village problems. . .”

The words lacked conviction, and Astrid’s raised eyebrow suggested she wasn’t buying it, but she let it drop, her attention shifting to the plaza ahead, where the village buzzed with the aftermath of the boot fiasco and the looming challenge of proving the dragons’ worth.

And as you rejoined the group, Menace chirping softly in your arms, the plaza’s chaos came into sharper focus—villagers still muttering about their missing boots, the Zippleback tracks now being swept away by industrious Vikings, and the faint scent of fish and leather lingering in the air.

Hiccup’s earlier words echoed in your mind, his misplaced jealousy a puzzle you couldn’t quite solve, but the sight of your friends—Ruff and Tuff already plotting some new mischief, Fishlegs fussing over Meatlug, Snotlout boasting to no one in particular—grounded you in the moment, which took your mind off him quickly.

The trek back to the village from the arena felt oddly subdued, the usual cacophony of Berks dragon roars, and boisterous Viking banter, was replaced by an eerie stillness that prickled the back of your neck.

The air was heavy with an unspoken tension as only a handful of dragons wheeled lazily overhead, their silhouettes stark against the bright afternoon sky. Dozens of dragons typically filled the island’s airspace, their vibrant scales flashing like living jewels.

But now the emptiness was jarring, a void that set all your instincts on edge. Hiccup, walking beside you and Astrid with Toothless at his heels, slowed his pace, his brow furrowing as he scanned the quiet paths, his voice low and tinged with unease.

“That’s . . . weird. If the dragons aren’t here, then where in Thor’s name are they?”

Astrid, her hand resting on Stormfly, mirrored his concern, her sharp eyes darting toward the sparse skies, while Ruffnut and Tuffnut exchanged a glance, their usual mischief tempered by a rare flicker of curiosity, Snotlout trailing behind shouting “sweet, let’s eat lunch!” and Fishlegs clutching Meatlug like a lifeline.

As if the gods had scripted a dramatic answer, a thunderous boom erupted from the direction of the storehouse, a massive plume of smoke billowing from its roof, followed by the frantic shouts of Vikings echoing across the plaza.

“Oh, great. . .” you muttered under your breath, your stomach sinking as the group quickened its pace, a shared dread pulling you all toward the chaos.

Astrid’s voice cut through, dry but pointed, as she nodded toward the smoke. “Something tells me that way is where we’ll find them.”

Before your eyes, a swarm of dragons, dozens strong, burst from the storehouse’s gaping entrance, wings beating furiously as they scattered into the sky, clutching stolen fish and bread sacks in their talons, the village’s carefully hoarded supplies for the looming winter storms now vanishing in a flurry of scales and squawks.

From the shadows of nearby buildings, more dragons emerged, their forms previously hidden low due to being behind the houses, the reason for the deceptive quiet having been camped behind the storehouse to feast, their gluttony now laid bare in a chaotic spectacle that left everyone’s jaw slack.

Your own dragons—Menace, Stormfly, Meatlug, and Hookfang—broke free despite all of your protests, their instincts overriding loyalty as they joined the feeding frenzy, Menace’s tiny wings buzzing as she darted after a stray cod, Barf and Belch bounding to snatch a sack of fish.

“No, Menace, come back!” you called, your voice sharp with worry, but the dragons were heedless, lost in the allure of the feast.

You and the gang pushed through the crowd toward the storehouse entrance, where a scene of utter devastation unfolded—barrels aflame, crates overturned, and Vikings scrambling to douse fires with buckets of water while others wrestled food from dragon jaws, their shouts blending into a discordant symphony of panic.

Amid the chaos, Stoick’s roar cut through like a war horn, his massive frame silhouetted against the flickering flames as he hurled broken crates and splintered beams in a rare display of fury, his braided beard swinging with each furious motion, the air thick with the acrid scent of smoke and charred wood.

From the sidelines, Mildew’s eerie snickers slithered through the din, his voice sharp and mocking as he leaned on his staff, his weathered face alight with vindictive glee. “I told ye, Stoick, but ye didn’t listen, did ya? No! Ye left the fate of our stores in the hands of a gaggle of wee teens instead of actin’ like a proper chief!”

Hiccup stepped forward, his face pale but determined, his voice cracking with urgency. “Dad, I’m sorry, we were just—”

Mildew cut him off, his staff jabbing toward the chaos as he bellowed, “Cages are too good for those beasts! They’re plunderin’ our winter stores—our very survival!”

Hiccup shook his head, desperation creeping into his tone as he gestured toward the dragons, his hands flailing to convey his conviction. “I swear we can fix this—we were just starting to train them, to get things under control!”

Stoick’s hand shot up, silencing his son with a gesture as heavy as an iron gate, his voice a low growl that brooked no argument. “Enough, Hiccup! How can I trust you to control all these dragons when you couldn’t even keep Toothless in line?”

He pointed toward the Night Fury, who was gleefully nosing a sack of cod alongside Menace and Meatlug, their tails wagging in blissful ignorance of the crisis. Hiccup’s shoulders slumped, his voice barely a whisper as he stared at his dragon, betrayal mingling with disbelief.

“Oh . . . Toothless. . .” Hiccup said sadly.

Stoick shook his head, turning back toward the storehouse, his booming voice calling for Bucket and Mulch as he began salvaging what little remained. “Prepare the boats! We’ll head out immediately for a new catch—whatever we can manage!”

Mulch, his weathered face etched with despair, shook his head as he watched Stoick wrestle with a half-empty burlap sack, his voice heavy with resignation. “It’s too late, Stoick—six months it took us to stock those stores with just fish alone for the winter storms, and now. . .”

Stoick whirled, his face flushed with aggravation, his eyes blazing as he snapped, “Don’t tell me it’s too late! We’ve got to try!”

Mulch let out a nervous chuckle, his hook-hand tapping Bucket’s metal headpiece as he yanked the other Viking by the beard, his voice high and strained with forced optimism. “Of course we do, Chief! Haha, no need for gloom!”

Bucket blinked, his perpetual confusion deepening as he muttered, “I don’t know what it is with me—always so negative, I guess.”

You stepped forward, your voice sharp as you called to Menace and Toothless, the worry in your tone finally piercing their gluttony, their heads snapping up as they shuffled back to your side, Menace’s yellow eyes wide with guilt as she nestled against you.

You moved aside as Stoick stormed past, effortlessly hefting several burlap sacks over his shoulder, his focus sharp as Hiccup trailed behind, pleading, “Dad, please! You’ve got to listen—I know dragons better than anyone!”

Stoick didn’t break stride, his voice firm as he headed toward a safer storage spot. “Not now, Hiccup. I’ve got hundreds of mouths to feed, and the dragons have done enough damage. Listen to me—by tonight, I want every single one of them caged. Do I make myself clear?”

Mildew’s smirk reappeared, his figure lingering not far off, his staff tapping rhythmically as he called out, his voice dripping with malice. “Bah! Cagin’ ‘em won’t do a lick of good! Ye need to send those beasts away—now!”

The crowd roared in agreement, their voices swelling higher, their earlier doubts about dragons reignited by the storehouse disaster. Your scowl deepened as you locked eyes with Mildew, his smugness a thorn in your side, but Stoick’s voice cut through, heavy with reluctant resolve.

“You’re right, Mildew—we’ll cage them tonight.”

Hiccup’s face fell, a soft “Dad. . .” escaping him, and you placed a hand on his shoulder, as his eyes glistened with defeat. Stoick turned, his gaze softening slightly as he pointed to you both, his voice low but stern.

“And in the mornin’, Hiccup, you and her will send them off the island. I’m sorry, son.”

The words landed like a blow, the finality of them repeating over and over again in the smoke-filled air as the crowd’s murmurs grew, Mildew’s laughter a sinister undercurrent that fueled their fervor.

You tightened your grip on Hiccup’s shoulder, Menace pressing closer to your side, her small form trembling as Toothless let out a low whine, the weight of the village’s judgment pressing down on you all. A/N: I'll add the rest of the gifs later, I think you guys waited long enough. Chapter 5 coming this weekend 💗

This is chapter 3 of book 2 to this Hiccup series -> M.list here -> 1 & 2 Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Gifs/edits, dividers + template credit to sili aka #uservampyr and Kristen my co-writers + beta readers ♡

Lovely tag list ~ @kikikittykis | @icantcryicantstopcrying | @teeesthings | @ph4nt0m19 | @sammypotato | @cultish-corner | @ken-zah | @edynmeyer1 | @hopeladybug | @nisarelle | @planeofexistence | @sugarrush-blush | @animegamerfox | @kitty-kei | @baguettebread27 | @lexeevee | @annoyingpessimist | @txtsoobean | @george-alii | @im-depresseds-blog | @slimysillysnail | @shellsarepretty | @artfulthoughtsblog | @viasuki | @angzls | @mariana-selene

If I missed a tag please let me know I sometimes miss them sorry, or if you'd like to join the tag list leave a comment here only please ♡ Thank you all for reading ♡

[dehydratedoverlord]

EYES WITHOUT A FACE (BATFAMILY X NEGLECTED! SUPERHERO! READER)

Summary: Reader is the biological daughter of Bruce Wayne. Her parents pass away and she moves in with him and gets neglected and then later on replaced and imitated; but things change later on.

Author's note: I'm not doing tag lists at the moment. The navigation is finally here!! God I've been procrastinating this for eons but I've decided to stop putting it off and do it because well, we've gained quite the readerbase. I'm thankful for you all! Updates come in the weekends, send any headcannon, thought, criticisms, feedback, memes, little blurbs CONVERSATION, ANYTHINGGG. My ask box, DMs and comments are always open. Inspiration for this series is from @mimiiiiiiiiisstuff and the divider's are from @bronzewasp. This IS a crossover fic between DC and Marvel.

IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

MEME MONDAY

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

Meme pack 1

[rosierecs13]

⭒ Batfamily Recs

⭒ Masterpost ⭒ 09/27/2025

⭒ Detective Comics (DC) (Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne)

⭒ Bruce Wayne ⭒ Part 02 ⭒ Part 03

⭒ Jason Todd ⭒ Part 02 ⭒ Part 03

ᝰ Batmom Fics

Not my mother. By @mischieveousmayhem

Jason Todd x Batmom

❝never a tear, baby of mine❞ by @the-daydreaming-show

Jason Todd x Batmom

“Long Overdue” by @apocalypse-shuffle

Reader was with Bruce in the past but grew distant after Jason’s death. No one tells her when he comes back from the dead until Bruce is forced to bring her in on a raid when they’re overwhelmed. -Jason and Batmom!Reader reunion.

Jason Todd & Batmom!Reade

Different by @batarangtotheheart

Batmom is Bruce’s new girlfriend. After a while, she got Dick and Damian to like her. Now she tackles Bruce’s mysterious and angry son, Jason.

when batmom gets mad by @thatawesomenerdygirl

hot mama  by @/thatawesomenerdygirl

Batmom (Reader) is hot, gorgeous, too kind for her own good and oblivious. The boys don’t like the way people stare at her.

Mothers by @toastedside

Damian had dinner with Talia and they talked about Batmom.

Interviews by @c-nstantine

More interviews with Mr. and Mrs. Wayne

Respect by @battymommastuff

Batmon finally puts her foot down.

I Saw It Coming When You Threw The First Punch by @/ragingbookdragon

What Is A Mother, But The Woman Who Loves Us Most? By @/ragingbookdragon

Happy Birthday Batmom by @/ragingbookdragon

I Have Too Many Children by @/ragingbookdragon

Batmom!Reader x Batfam by @cherryinsalemverse

My father's daughter pt2 by @raineydays411

We take a looking into how the Wayne family seems to be handling the news.

Clingy mornings by @kurogxrix

IN WHICH your clinginess towards your husband never fails to disgust your sons.

Missing Something You’ve Never Had by @xoxo-mylove

You walk in to your home to find your family looking a t you like a stranger. Your family’s counterparts discover the life they could have had and you severely miss your version of the batboys

I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus by @cait-writes-stuff

You know the song I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus? Pretty much what the title says with Damian being shocked to see Batmom kissing “Santa Bruce Wayne Claus”.

Damian Wayne x Batmom

Code: Mom by @uncpanda

Batmom going up to the watchtower dragging batman down to the manor so he can eat and pass time with the family

Batmom with Scarlet Witch Powers HC by @kimberly-spirits13

batfam + batmom + hugs by @reveluving

Anniversary Blues by @bluebellhairpin

Bruce wakes up on the morning of his wedding anniversary to an empty bed. But his wife is more than prepared, and makes sure the day isn’t wasted anyway.

In the Life of by @/bluebellhairpin

A collection of goings-on’s of Wayne Manor, some dating back to… a while ago.

Count On Mom by @alisonwritesimagines

The kids try to get Bruce to get away from the computer. Luckily, there is always one person who can take his mind out of anything including Batman duties. You.

BatFamily Masterlist by @/alisonwritesimagine

Earned Position by @secretsandwriting

first kicks by @streetlamp-amber

batfamily x batmom!reader

CHRONOLOGICALLY INCORRECT | @iydiamartinx

YOUR MOM IS SUCH A MIL- | @athenalvss

ᝰ Batsis!reader

since you came into my life… by @denouemwnt

Bruce always notices that you always say “I love you” to him when he leaves you, doesn’t matter the occasion. Lots of fluff between Bruce and the reader.

True blood son...and daughter - Damian Wayne  by @ellana-ravenwood

Your first meeting with your half-brother didn’t really went well, both of you being quite hot headed…Slowly but surely however, you guys warm up to each other.

More than blood:  by @igotanidea

batboys x bat!sister

Circus Kids by @rynne311

Aftermath by @headcans-oneshots-and-stuff

Hey Brother by @book-place

Family strengths are always proven in the worst situations

Batsis Headcanons by @astralis01

Uh Oh! By @laalaaliaa

in which the batfamily is nosy

Brotherly Love by @strangeshoepatrolbandit

Turning Into Jason  by @/lazydoodlesandfanfic

Bruce Wayne X Daughter!Reader

Little Daredevil  by @/lazydoodlesandfanfic

Nothing Said by @/lazydoodlesandfanfic

Knock knock, let your new big brother in. by @dead-sane-stuff

New to the manor and the real world, (Y/N) meets a tall stranger with a some white strands of hair.

The Mysterious Visitor 3 by @deebris

Bruce begins to suspect that Damian is hiding something after the two of you finally see each other, and the father-son trust between them is shaken. Tim finally sees your face, and something strange happens. The meeting between siblings was not successful, and to their dismay, Bruce will need to confront Talia face to face once again.

ᝰ Other

Day at the Pool | @unmotivatedwrit3r

Headcanons - First Meeting | @bluebellhairpin

✨Who’s the Sunshine and the Midnight Rain in Your Relationship?✨ | @/bruhseidon

bat dads or girl dads ? girl dads ! | @pinkhoodi

ᝰ Masterlists

BATMAN/ BATFAMILY MASTERLIST | @lazydoodlesandfanfic

Batfamily Masterlist | @avengerdragoness

Batfamily Masterlist | @ragingbookdragon

BATFAM MASTERLIST | @catxsnow

Batfam Platonic Masterlist  | @book-place

Batfam Masterlist | @toastedkiwi

Batfamily Masterlist | @/avengerdragoness

[asgards-princess-of-mischief]

✿ Have You Ever Been to a Farm? ✿

Author: @just-iimagine

Synopsis: You're back in London for the social season, staying with your uncle Lord Wetherby. You meet Benedict by chance without either of you knowing who the other is.

Book: Chapter One || Chapter Two || Chapter Three || Chapter Four || Chapter Five || Chapter Six || Chapter Seven || Chapter Eight || Chapter Nine || Chapter Ten || Chapter Eleven || Epilogue

<< Previous || Benedict Bridgerton Master Index

[miyu-5-deactivated20260418]

Female protagonist core>>>>

[tonycries]

Bed Chem - T.F.

Synopsis. No, you’ve never gone through a heat. No, your big bad neighbor, Toji Fushiguro, hasn’t had a rút in years. No, you don’t think you’ll make it out alive when all that changes with your…bed chem.

Pairing. Toji Fushiguro x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! oméga! reader, alpha! Toji, OMÉGAVERSE AU, slight enemies-to-Iovers, rúts, breéding, MARATHONS, cúmplay, búlges, Toji is BIG, heats, face-sítting, 69, spítting, praise, oraI (f + m), knottíng, he goes FÉRAL, DÚMBIFICATION, one use of “ma’am”, fated mates, matíng bites, p talking, breaking furniture, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 9.9k (whoops)

A/N. Hope you have a lovely week <3

“-oh! And, darling, my friend recently showed me this new serum that could-”

“-help with my…condition, huh?” You’re finishing off, teeth grit almost as hard as your fingers were around your glaring phone. “Mom- I’ve already told you that I want nothing to do with those sketchy inducers. I’d rather stay dormant like this forever.”

There’s slight static crackling from the other end of the line, “I’m just so worried for you, especially with that massive alpha-”

“Who? Wait- Toji?” You’re braving out a chuckle, gut clenching at the memory of your utterly hot new neighbor and his muscles upon drool-worthy muscles. “Y’know, the doctor has already determined that it’s impossible for me to go into my first heat now.”

And despite it all, you can’t help but drink in a deep inhale the moment you step foot into your cozy local convenience store. Only for your senses to be met with…nope. Nothing, again.

“Besides-” Fingers hovering over that angry red End button, you’re speed-walking your way as inconspicuously as possible towards the Heats and Ruts aisle. “-Toji doesn’t have ruts.”

Well… 

Nobody ever said that you weren’t a hypocrite - but, hey, you were desperate at this point. 

Even if you had to consider another one of your mom’s attempts to artificially induce your inner omega into finally putting in the work.

With your goodbyes hastily muttered, and your phone stowed deeply away into one of your pockets, you find yourself slowing down near that one particular section of the Omega shelves. Gulping at the somewhat-shady inducer portion that you found yourself familiar with ever since you’d reached late puberty without a single heat. 

It was ridiculous, but it wasn’t impossible. 

Mandatory school bloodwork revealed you to be an omega - yet, you felt like anything but that. Anything but what you supposedly were as you watched more and more of your fellow omega classmates miss out on a week or two of school to deal with their heats. 

Consoling you with pitying glances and half-hearted complaints that alpha scents were annoying anyway. But you didn’t care if the pheromones were obnoxious, and the cycles even more so.

Your months just came and went by without any of it.

You’d visited many fertility and growth doctors over the years, and not a single one had been able to pinpoint exactly what was blocking you from accessing the pheromones and biology that everyone else could. That you wanted to. 

Hell, even betas were said to have at least a faint ability to smell wafting clouds of musky perfumes.

Most professionals claimed that everything was as it should be, that you might just be dormant - a late-bloomer, if you will. A very, very late bloomer. 

A majority presented at the start of puberty, or perhaps - in only very rare, alleged cases you found on barren forums - after meeting their fated mate. Two souls bound to fill in each other’s missing pieces. 

The theory was something you let yourself indulge in guilty sips, the sort of fantasy that flashed through your mind right before you wound up with yet another heartbreak.

But after graduating college without a mere half-sign of anything to do with your second gender, you vehemently called bullshit on that one. 

Some suggested that you might merely be a beta in disguise. It was almost comforting to think that it might have all been one big mix-up, yet, every medical test after medical test you’d done always came out the same. 

An omega.

“Damn second genders.” You’re grumbling, traitorously curious fingerpads skimming over the sterile boxes of medicines with official-sounding names. You’d tried out a few with the least amount of side-effects before, and it always ended up being a waste of your time (and your paycheck.) “Damn- damn inducers-”

CLACK!

In your reveried haste a few unstable boxes of products found themselves plonking onto the ground. Wincing at the withering glare of the manager unhelpfully peeking in from a few aisles down, you urgently dropped to your knees to put them back-

“Damn, what did those scented lotions do to you? Remind me not to get on your bad side, doll.” 

You see him before you hear him - strong, engulfing hands motioning into your field of vision to dexterously grab at the mess you’d created. 

And then once you hear him it isn’t any better, because you could recognize that richly rumbling baritone anywhere. 

“Wha-” Cutting your own self off with a strangled mess of a yelp the moment your furrowed gaze looks with viridescent eyes. “-oh.”

Oh? Oh?

Toji Fushiguro quirks up one brow in a way that is unfairly attractive, sultry scar engraved onto one side of his sleazy grin tilting up ever-so-slightly. And was that- a dimple? “Heh- n’ the pretty girl says oh. Cat got your tongue, sugar?”

It’s only then that you’re realizing that this was the first time you’d ever been so…close with the man himself. 

Usually settling for grumbling conversations from your doorstep and incoherent text conversations from his toddling, cherub-faced son stealing Toji’s phone.

So ah, there was one thing you’d forgotten to mention to your mother. Sure, you might have let it slip that Toji was…ruggedly handsome - all Herculean physique, a glossy black Harley Davidson bike, and long legs that carried him well over six feet - but you’d always omitted one thing. 

He was just so cocky.

And you can already feel your blood curdling strangely in your veins, scoffing out a heated puff of breath. “Nah, more like the alpha in the Omega section is.” Darting your eyes anywhere but at the strain of Toji’s sinful compression shirt sneaking winking at you underneath his leather jacket, practically painted onto the ridges of his washboard abs. “Thinkin’ of a secondary gender change, Toji?”

“Ah, yeah yeah-” He’s rolling those hooded eyes, leaning in so pointedly close that you can practically feel his slow, seeping look up and down. “-got tired of havin’ cute lil’ omegas falling all over f’me.”

You scramble to finally stand, “You wish.”

The bout of husky snickers that escape from him make your thighs squeeze together, and Toji’s promptly following you to place back all those fallen lotions. “‘Course I do. That n’ the brat is out on a trip with his lil’ pink-haired friend, m’just killing time.” Tilting his head at you, “You? Thinking of going for alpha? Or…” Crossing his big, beefy forearms, and he must know the effect that has on you and your greedily ogling eyes. “-an alph-”

“Just this.” You’re cutting him off before Toji could fray at your sanity even more, holding up that heat-inducing serum your mother had mentioned. 

But, oh.

Oh.

That wasn’t the expression you’d expected on the handsome face of Toji Fushiguro. Maybe something more smug, perhaps even amused as he realized your little predicament- but never this.

Eyes stony, sharp jaw clenching with a jumpy little tick. And Toji’s fingers are so thick when they pluck the box cleanly off your hands, the split-second graze of his burning skin making you feel almost feverish.

“This trash? Yer takin-” He’s glaring down at the serum as if it had offended him personally five times over. Something about the utter look of discontent makes your chest burn, “-this trash?”

You find yourself defensive, “N-no. At least, not yet. What about it-”

“Because s’gonna ruin your inner workings that’s what.” And for all the world, you never expected to be getting lectured by Toji Fushiguro of all people on your health - though, one look at his sculptured body should have told you all you need to know about just how seriously he takes it. “Don’t even know why s’on the market. S’not good for ya, mama.”

And you knew that. Probably. But ah, the things you do when you’re at your ropes end. “And? I’ve never had a single heat my whole life, y’know?”

“And I should know, bratty doll.” Toji murmurs, throwing that oh-so-famed miracle serum haphazardly back onto the shelf and flipping off the manager who glares at him. “Haven’t had a single rut in years, not since Megumi’s- anyways, all these inducers here are full of shit.”

“Oh.”

Wrapping a staggering arm around your waist to guide you, your body practically burns. Weird. “Tch- silly girl.”

Two peas in a pod.

Before you know it, you’re being dragged by a disgruntled Toji away from the treacherous clutches of the Heats and Ruts aisle and past the cashier - who only smiles as you so-very-subtly sneak in a long whiff of the air. 

Again. Nothing. 

With the stinging pang of disappointment, you sigh as you step outside. Only for Toji to rub your back with a hum, “S’alright. You’ll be alright, sugar- you’re my strong girl, huh?” Eyes widening at just how…sweet Toji was being. That is, before he opens his mouth once more- “Besides. Who needs inducers when you’ve got such a big strong alpha-”

“Pass.”

“Don’ act like ya don’t like it, little miss neighbor. I see how ya look at me.”

“I- I don’t-” You did. And you do. And you will - in fact, you were looking at him that way right now as Toji swings over one thick thigh to straddle the padded leather seat of his prized Harley Davidson. Looking like he’d just stepped out from your wettest of dreams and it makes you almost simper out a sigh.

He’s jutting his head back at the tempting extra space behind him, and you could already hear the suggestion oozing into his next words. “Mhm— whatever ya say, girl. Now stop just standing there looking pretty n’ get over here, I’m a busy man.”

It’s almost as if on auto-pilot when you do.

Toji Fushiguro’s motorbike was big, and just as intimidating as he was. And it’s only on shaky legs that you manage to press yourself only mere precarious inches away from his hulking form. “Heh, ‘er name’s Harley. Fitting for a bike, huh?”

“If- if you crash I’ll kill you.” You’re puffing out a few thickly muffled words through the sleek matching black helmet he was deftly putting on you. Wondering just what led you to be…here of all places. 

“Yes ma’am, I’ll help ya hide the body.”

“M’serious- no funny business.”

“Uh huh, anything else, mistress?”

“And I’ve seen you run red lights so no-”

SMACK!

Your heart stutters with a loud ba-dump! as Toji’s rounded, calloused fingertips leave a good smack against the side of your thigh to get your yammering mouth to halt. And he’s letting off a titter at the shocked expression of your face even through the tinted helmet before turning to rest his hands on the handlebars. 

“Hold on tight.”

It’s all the warning you get - and, honestly speaking, you don’t think any sort of warning could’ve prepared you for the way that Toji rides. 

Something about it is so attractive. 

Maybe it was the creaking stretch of leather as his biceps strained against it from underneath, maybe the way your ears ring with his words even louder than the growl of the bike, maybe it was the way that you were holding him.

Arms stretching to connect over Toji’s broad front, your skin mushes against the curvaceous mounds of his toned pecs. Firm and warm. So, so warm that you can’t help the way that your eager self was mindlessly inching ever-so-slightly closer-

“Phew.” Startling - but not moving away - at the low whistle that Toji blows out, eyes still trained weaving through traffic. “Dangerous game yer playin’, omega.”

Sidling even closer, the defined angles of his back muscles only flexed at the innocent smooch of your tits. “What?”

“S’fucking close.” And not just to him, but to his scent glands. So sensitive and prickling the shaggy black hair at the base of Toji’s neck just from your heated proximity. Huh, strange. “S’a damn good thing I ah- don’t get my ruts, huh?”

And, suddenly, you’re despising what these helmets hide from you. “Well, it’s a good thing I don’t get my heats, huh?”

The exact same words playing over and over in your minds once Toji’s braking to a stop at his designated spot right outside your apartment building. And part of you almost feels upset that this little ride with him was over. 

Letting him do as he pleases when he’s seating around gruffly to take off both your helmets himself, you couldn’t help but notice that something about the air seemed…thick. Like it had just been dipped in candy and right now you were gladly suffocating in the sugary sweetness. 

Your eyes catch onto a lock of deep black that’d curled behind Toji’s ear - and you knew right then and there that something was wrong, you knew that you weren’t thinking. That you weren’t listening to your common sense. 

Because before you can stop yourself - before you can even register it - you’re swiping away the stray tuft, sensory curves of your fingertips just catching onto the skin above where Toji’s smooth glands should be.

“Fuh-fuck-” He’s hissing, willowy eyes curtaining behind a scrunch of his lids, and it’s almost as if on instinct that his thick digits fly upwards to trap your hands right there. “Hold on- just a little, mama-” Pressing down even tighter, and the way that Toji’s letting his head tumble back makes your mouth lacquer with a syrupy wave of drool. “-s-so you said you haven’t had a heat in years-”

“Ever.”

“-ever, huh?” Dewy whirlpools of his eyes examine you, and suddenly you feel like running away. But Toji only grins, “Say, why don’tcha scent me?”

Your maw falls slack with a hot shudder, and you’re not sure if it’s in shock or if it’s from how much you wanted it. To have an alpha offering himself on a silver platter - let alone Toji. Letting out an eloquent, “Wh-what?”

You’re being reeled in even closer with a tug of Toji’s strengthened hands, plummeting onto his chest with a cushioned oof–! He only repeats, breathing bated like he didn’t want to know anything himself until you did. “Scent me, pretty girl.”

“I-I don’t know why-” Your fingers unlatch, and you swear it makes Toji’s chest rumble with a low whimper. Steadily planting them onto the collar of his overpriced jacket to pull. “But if this is your idea of a- oh.”

Shit.

Shit.

And something…is different. There. 

Was- was this how he smelled? This heady concoction of jasmine and something so undeniably…Toji? 

Something snaking and boiling bubbles up throughout your body, you all but slump yourself into his eagerly awaiting arms. You can’t even register what you’re doing, nuzzling into his tender throat. Can’t even recognize the look on your face when you’re gasping in greedy heavals of what was obviously his scent.

That you could smell.

With a gasp, you’re pulling away, eyes diverting to him and- oh, it was much the same for him.

There was no other explanation for the lecherous look of devastation on Toji’s pretty features right about now. 

Scarred lips parting in awe, weighty lids drooping down until those heart-eyes him were almost invisible, face veiled with a delicate flush. His palms find their way to rest on the dip of your hips and stay there.

You’re croaking out, “T-Toji-”

It happens so fast - too fast. 

It’s as if your mere voice was enough to send a zillion volts of electricity shattering down Toji’s spine, jolting him with something darkly visceral. Enough to snap up one tannish forearm and bite-

“Ngh-” Toji’s pearly canines coat with a slight tinge of red, eyes shuttering open - and you notice that they seem slightly less glassy now. Slightly. “-fuck ya really are dangerous, doll. Was almost g’na have me take you right here right now.” The slight dip of his strawberry-pink tongue as Toji pulls away makes you gulp, “N’ I don’ wanna spend my first rut in years here.”

.

.

.

Toji couldn’t think - he couldn’t breathe. And if he was any lesser man he’d have fallen to his knees with only one whiff of your candyland smell. 

Addictive. 

Fingers clutched tightly underneath the plush of your thighs to carry you all the way in through your cozy apartment. Never faltering. Never slowing. You could almost roll your eyes at the blatant reminder of strength if you didn’t feel so feverish.

Toji’s steely eyes light up at the way your trembly fingers clutch the silken hem of your skirt, lips wobbling with every spilling word. “T-Tooooji, feels so hot.”

“S’that so?” He’s swiping the regal button of his nose down where the sides of your neck were swollen, breathing in the hot, sugary waves emanating from your skin. “Feel anything else?”

And the slight hitch of your breath is all that he needs as an answer, well, that and the goopy wetness that was formulating between your thighs. Shit, he never thinks he’s kicked down a door off its hinges harder than he has to your poor bedroom door. 

Draping you gently onto the plethora of silken sheets, you whine at the slight recoiling bounce.

Barely even given the time to gather your wits before Toji’s sliding his jacket and his t-shirt teasingly off, all thick, muscled limbs stalking towards you like a predator that’d just cornered his favorite prey. And you eye his rippling back, his rumbling tone speaking over your mattress’ creaks. 

“Ya better know…” he’s hurling out, mouth just only centimeters away from yours. Hot. “-m’not here ta fuckin’ play around jus’ cause you’re in heat, sugar.”

Ah, that’s what it was - heat. You were in heat. Fuck. 

Your fingers leave neatly indented semi-circles on his flesh when Toji’s grasping your throat tightly, padded ends of his fingers pressurizing right onto the treasure trove of your scent glands. “If I fuck you now, you will be mine. You and…” Before one largely crowned kneecap of his sidles into the snug cove of your pussymound. Weighing down- “...her.”

It’s the only thing you could do to bat your lashes up at him in a way that makes Toji’s achy cockhead twitch. “I want you…wan’ you to touch me, Toji–”

And that’s all that he ever wanted. 

Roughened hands shove you meanly back onto the cushy bed, and Toji’s sliding his palms languidly down, down, down every curve and dip on your body. As if he was trying to worship you with them. 

“Oh? Only wan’ me to touch ya?” Toji’s humming, Adam’s apple bobbing with wads of salivation once his fingers slink down to curl at your bra strap and snap! “Not to take this off or-” You gasp, the sting almost making you forget those minute rips! echoing from where he was grasping your t-shirt. “-this? Guess I can do whatever I please then, right?”

Before you can say a word of shrill protest, those useless pieces of fabric are tattered off. Ending up not-so-nicely in a pile right beside your bed with Toji’s intact clothes. 

“H-hey!” You whine, “Those were ah- limited edition-”

“Ah, I’ll buy ya five more of those.” Toji rolls his eyes when your lips part open, “What? Thought I wasn’t filthy rich or somethin’- Oh, girl, you are about to be spoiled. But first, a kiss-” Innocent and sweet onto your lips, “-here. And…”

Toji huffs out a few cocky sniggers at his own little joke, because of course he does. Leaving you off with a gentle swat! to the perfect curve of your hip and your heartbeat throbbing at your drooling cunt. 

He’s shuffling onto his very knees at the bottom of the bed, tutting at how unfairly far you were from his greedy mouth - well, that had to be fixed. You almost get whiplash from how swiftly you’re being dragged to let your jittery legs be thrown right near his tightly coiled deltoids. “-here.”

Head bobbing in an urgent yes yes yes when Toji rids you of your flimsy skirt and slowly slides down your drenched panties. All bunched up and leaving a glimmering coating of slick down your skin.

Stuffing it into his pants pocket, “This is a lil’ reward f’me.”

“Filthy.”

“Oh, well helloooo there, pretty girl.” He’s drawling, eyes flashing with such darkness at the heavenly mess of a banquet all laid out in front of him. “You’re so in heat- so fuckin’ in heat. See? Who needs fuckin’ inducers when ya have me.”

Toji’s pupils were swallowing up his verdant orbs. Needy. And he’s unashamed in taking a long deep inhale of your saturated pheromones. His favorite perfume now. “Lookin’ real happy ta see me. Happy s’your hah- first heat, hm?”

You’re squirming, fingers tangling into his silken tresses in an attempt to try and shove his face closer. “Are- are you talking to-”

“Hush now, doll.” Toji leaves a wet pap! of his fingers thwacking against the treacly slit of your pussy, watery with your flooding slick and greedy. “Lemme talk to ‘er- lemme talk this cute cunt through her first heat. M’honored, y’know?”

And honored just doesn’t begin to cover it.

Toji was devoted.

It’s like your wafting clouds of heady scent made his mind dizzy, until the only thing he could do was to let his slutty tongue loll out and sliiide at the splatters of translucent sap soiling your inner thighs.

“Oh- fuck-” You’re squirming your hips in a wild buck upwards, only to have him pin you down with the heavy-handed weight of his forearm. “-feels so- so…”

“Yeah? Good? Ya always get this wet or s’that jus’ f’me?”

Truly, you could only jumble out a few nonsensical syllables. Because Toji didn’t want to waste a single ounce of your precious juices, slurring out a few open-mouthed kisses across every inch of skin you’d exposed to him. And the moment that rosy peak of his tongue touches upon your teary pussy- oh.

He thinks he might just be the one about to cry.

Because you didn’t just smell like his favorite candied lollipops - you tasted like it, too. And, fuck, he can’t help but go in for seconds. Thirds.  

Guffawing out breathily with disbelief, he’s drawling his tongue to mush open the gummy folds of your pussy. Swirling out a lazy flick of his sopping muscle to stretch out the tight ring of your wide agape-

“Just look at ‘er all hngh- overflowing.” You watch with bated breath when Toji’s prying your quivering entrance with a bullying few inches of a singular thick index - only one, but Toji was so incredibly towering with his size and strength that you find yourself keening. Coral pink lips puckering up to give your hooded clit a squelching kiss. “Heh…like a damn waterpark, aren’t ya?”

Filthy words only making you filthier. Making your omega inside blink up and yearn.

Your gushing wads of juices bawling from between your legs in torrent. And you yelp at the lecherous sounds that echo out - the waterlogged squelches and slurring that only makes Toji grin. Wild and sly. “Mhm, real talkative.”

Arching your back into the perfect slutty curvature off of the prespired sheets, “Tojiii- s-stop teasing n’ give me- ngh- more.”

More. 

And just then you feel him fuck his softened digits into you slow and thorough. Curling up to swipe down the mushy soft spots of your walls - Toji was burning up. But you were burning up even more, and shit.

Shit. shit shit shit-

You don’t know if it’s because of your heat, or if it’s because Toji is just that good with that rude mouth of his - but you’re cumming faster than the thought could even flash across your melty mind. “Wait- m’close ngh- Toji- I’m gonna-”

It’s like a tidal wave of bliss peaked up further and further with every slashing motion of Toji’s gyrating make out with your cunt. You’re so very extra sensitive right now and he makes use of it - bumping up that rounded angle of his nose to press your fleshy clit just right. 

It’s so intoxicating. So heady that he finds himself pushing back those sweat-dampened bangs of his to lower down loooong breath. And then finally another passionate French kiss onto your bulging pussy. 

“Fuck- I-” Pearlescent droplets of tears welling up at the scrunched corners of your eyes. “M’so- sensitive–”

God, his wolfish canines were sharp nipping teasingly into the fat pucker of your pussy lips. Parting your slick-gleaming mound to squeeze his tongue into your tight hole, the stretch is incredible. It’s staggering. And Toji can only sully your insides with a gentle brush of his lengthy tongue along your gooey insides before pulling back with a huff. 

And then again- to let out a throat groan when your elastic walls push with resistance. And again. And again and again-

“Now m’offended.” Toji’s letting out a surly swat! where you’re trickling down viscous fluids of sickly sweet slick that coat his mountainous knuckles, his wrist, the raised trailways of his veins. “Wanted more but tha’s all ya can take- tch.” 

Oh, by the time your white-hot tingles of pleasure were bating you should’ve known better than to think that Toji Fushiguro was done manhandling you with his superhuman strength to every whim and want of his. 

That he would give you even a second of a warning before hovering over your frame and flipping you into such a pliable position over him.

His back hitting the puff of the pillows, strands of hair making a dark halo underneath him. Toji looks so fucking handsome that you can feel your pussymound slobber a few streaky puddles of slick onto his heaving abs. 

Hands positioned on either side of his leering head, you mewl. “Give me a warning first, you animal-”

“Hell yeah.” He’s snarking up at you, but there’s not a single speck of heat behind his words other than towards you. Towards what he wanted to do to you. Planting a heavy smack! on your ass, “Tha’s right you’ve got me in a rut after years like a fuckin’- animal. Heh, so jus’ lemme throw my pretty omega ‘round a lil’, I can feel how wet that gets ya.”

“N-noo- it doesn’t-” But that was a fucking lie and both of you knew it, knew it from the syrupy pool of sap laminating his heated skin. 

“See? She’s on my side. Doesn’t talk back.” The curvaceous pads of his fingers twiddle and tease your plumpened clit, so dirtily that it only makes your dripping cunt drool even further. Leaving a gauzy cobweb of treacly slick with every swat! swat! swat! he gifts. “Has anyone ever had her seated on a mouth, sugar? Made you feel good that way?”

Your head shakes before the thought has even contorted itself into an understandable shape. “No- no one has- ngh- before.”

It’s a confession, it’s a line plucked right from Toji’s filthiest thoughts on those late, late nights.

And he couldn’t look happier when molding you to the exact shape and angle that he wants you in. Turning you right around to bare your sodden pussy from the back, your unbalanced thighs curling on either side of his ravenous head. 

Not even a single command, yet your head is swimming with honey at just how much you were like putty underneath his hands. 

Your head cranes over the plane of your shoulder to give him a pretty plea. “Toji?”

“Mhmmm, Toji’s right here, pretty girl.” He’s awestruck - stunned with the gumdropping droplets of sap plopping down onto his tongue and sliding right down his throat. Making him groan, “Filthy fuckin’ pussy, can feel ya ngh- dripping allll down my tongue.”

And he’s drunk. He’s babbling, he’s heaving and heaving to inch his intoxicated maw to connect with your saturatedly glossy pussy lips. “Lower her down so I can give her lil’ smooch.”

Your hands nimble down along the tufted black happy trail brushing from between his navel and going down, down, down. “L-like this?”

“Nah, more. Can’t believe all those pathetic boys never had ya hah- sitting on their faces. Spread those pretty legs n’ lemme show you-” You can’t even begin to think about merely hovering your entire deadweight above him, because Toji was ready. And he was hauling you to rest every single mass of your flesh onto him, “-how a real man fucks.”

Thickly viscous helpings of your generous slick flood his mouth the second that Toji’s lengthy tongue is burrowing between your folds and driving you mad. 

Sliding all the way up and down up and down up and down with a welcoming flit at your buttoned clit and then pumping you overwhelmingly full. Fucking you with the overheated scratch of his tastebuds exactly the way that he wanted to with his achy cock right now.

“Can still taste m’self on ya- haaah- good.”

Toji wasn’t holding back.

“O-oh my god, m’so sensitive.” Your moans come out mangled. Wanton. Spilling from between your parted lips right along with rivulets upon rivulets of waterfalling saliva every single time that Toji’s bumping the curvaceous search of his tongue into your earliest sweet spots. “Slow down, Toji–”

Your fists maze through the velveteen blankets and clench, hips jerking up-

“Nuh uh, doll, no runnin’ away from your Toji.” Sliding up one slick-glazed hand to snake the small of your back, he’s using his face to nudge your legs even further. Drowning your sobbing cunt with a fat wad of spittle, Toji’s licking down the stray speckles that gravitate back onto his own mouth. So dirty that it makes him delirious, nose crinkling, bottom lip bitten. “Yeahhh, crack ‘em open even wider. She’s eager.”

Eager you were.

Jostling your hips against his mouth until through your clouded mind you were wondering whether he would suffocate. But little did you know that this might just be Toji’s ideal death - buried right there between your pretty legs. 

You’re being bounced so hard that you can feel your legs aching with the strain, hollowing out shuddered breaths and whines of Toji, Toji—

“Say my name.” He’s huffing, easing in a thick few inches of his fat digits that fill up the snug geysering orifices. Each n’ every single volume of space that’s inside you, and those puckered pecks leave screeching squelches that have you halfway through sobbing. “Say my name- say my name heh, g-gonna have a looot of ngh- noise complaints after this.”

Even though he’s saying this, he doesn’t do anything to deter you. Why the hell would he?

Pumping you full of one finger, two, three until your gummy ring of muscle was being molded to the plump circumference of his lengths. Multi-tasking. 

All the way until he was slathering the patterned bumps of his knuckles with a sticky second skin of slick, Toji curls those rounded tips down the tenderized walls of your channel and drags. Feeling for that one special target of his-

“G’na make ya feel s-so good.” He’s whispering, breathing like it was the truest of true words. And shit- he hasn’t felt like this for ages now - years. Secondary gender growling from his inner depths with guttural need to give you more more more. “Gonna find- ah- found it.”

And Toji knows he found it with the way you squeal. Wafting scent intensifying, lashes fluttering with a clinging swash of tears once he jerks a good push into that bulging bullseye that makes you see stars.

“Right there- Toji– right there-”

“S’fucking loud.” He’s rolling his eyes for what seems like the nth time today, but it was impossible not to when you were just so cute being teased like this. Bubbling out a few sloshes of slick and spit when your fingers dip right underneath his trousers and push. “O-oh? Trynna keep yer mouth full, huh? Let’s see ya try then.”

Your low lip juts out into a pathetic sort of pout that Toji finds adorable, that only makes his clothed cock pool out a darkening patch of precum onto his boxers. 

“Wan’ taste you- make you feel good.” Your words are warbly and broken, tone hitching upwards with every tiny slip of his sticky underwear downwards. It’s like you were teasing him - teasing yourself. And your inner omega was oh-so-very impatient. “Wanna make you feel…oh.”

“Heh, cat really got yer tongue now, huh?”

And you couldn’t even retort, you couldn’t even snap back as you usually might have because you were stunned. 

Maw falling slack at the generous girth that was throbbing fatly between your fingers, honestly from this lecherous angle it seemed like a struggle to even close your fist around him. Because Toji was…big - and even saying that was an understatement. 

Just about nine throbbing inches with hefty breeder balls that your bleary gaze could make out, flushed a candied pink on the rounded curve of his mushroom tip. Graduating down, down, down into a pale baby rose - you didn’t know whether it was the heat talking but right now he just looked like your favorite sort of lolly.

“L-look so pretty, Toji.” You babble away, words getting breathier and breathier as sloppy as his kisses get. Your puckered lips are almost stinging with just how thorough he was. “Wanna taste…”

Oh, and you didn’t realize that one perk of having your secondary gender presented was realizing the shift in his pheromones. 

You didn’t know how you knew but there was a tinge of utter adoration in Toji’s jasmine-infused scent as you plop down a wet mass of slippery saliva right onto his strawberry divot. Lathering the split, plummy globe before planting your mouth down and kissing.

Your mushy tastebuds looping little motions over the creamy butter-topped cap of his splurging cock, he tastes so heady. Rich pre melting on your tongue and it was so musky, so…him. 

“Oh, girl-” he’s breathing out through a rasping sigh. Darkened brows marrying together at just how warm your mouth was sheathing around his painfully hard shaft, “That’s it- thaaaat’s it. Suck on my cock like a good girl, mama—”

“Ngh-” Your jaw aches, throat jumping at the squeezing sensation of his lustrously crowned tip tunneling right down. Craning your head so that he could count every bounce, “S-sho bwigh.”

You were so heavenly, alternating to leave shy little snogs over and under his sensitive slit - and Toji was one competitive man. It was in his nature, of course. 

Tumbling your hips to rest even greater onto his mouth, he didn’t need to breathe. Didn’t even want to even dream of it when he had the circles of his fingerpads latched on your jiggling ass so hard it was sure to leave battered bruises for the next week and weeks and weeks.

“Damn, she’s good, huh?” Toji’s whispering at the sopping wet purse of your lips, “But I can’t have myself  c-cum before- fuuuck- my girl.” 

Your eyes were sprinting all the way to the back of your heavy lids with ever swaying lash of his mean mouth. And it didn’t matter just how vulgarly you were sliding your starved tongue down the heated ridges and veins of his swollen cock - Toji was doing ten times worse. 

Every deepening inch you swallowed up into your cavernous mouth only made him plug you fuller. Every stray swipe of the thick, ivory beads of his pre made Toji douse out lumping masses of saliva lewdly. And every twitch that made you sure Toji was right on course to tumbling over the edge was urging him to push you headfirst into your orgasm with a final teasing pinch at your clit. 

And your mouth opens with an accusing gasp - did he just…pinch your clit? But all thoughts of his audacity and the fact that Toji was chuckling out right after washed away as soon as your high was flooding you.

Moans being muffled around his generously fat shaft, the only thing that you get is just a single wispy wire of condensed cum being lacquered onto your tongue. Just one. Right before Toji’s free hand splays out onto your scalp and pulls you free with a wet pwah!

“Tha’s it-” You hear him mutter in the blinding cloud of your orgasm, it felt so blissful that some darkly primal part of you said that you were never letting him go after this. He was yours. Your mate. “-louder. Louder– good fuckin’ girl cummin’ all over my mouth.”

Toji didn’t know how the hell was multitasking with your pussy kindly spraying him with a sheeny covering of all your remnant juices. But for you? Anything.

Anything anything anything and he was whispering the very same mantra into the quavering, slick-flooded entrance of yours. Letting your hips drag sloppy grinds to ride out every edge of your peak - to use him in a way that no other alpha might just.

Toji’s strokes up into your tightly-clasped fist were deep, and he doesn’t stop even when your eyesight stops tinging with black. Not even when your back arches with oversensitivity, waterfalls of tears producing from your ducts. Sobbing, “I-I’m- ngh- Toooji- I can’t anymore-”

“Sure, ya can–” Looking you right into your thoroughly half-lidded eyes as he nods along with the slurring symphony that he was orchestrating from between your overworked legs. “-she says ya- ngh- can.”

Toji wanted to taste you again. Needed it.

“But-” And, yet, he finds his ear perking up at the wobbly sound of your voice, blushing bludgeoning tip creaming out another thick mess of white. “-but I wan’ my next- ah- next orgasm around your cock, Toji–” 

And, well, how could he say no to that?

Toji thinks he could never say no to anything you ask ever again with the way you were positioned precariously on top of him and still begging. 

He’s saying goodbye to your pretty pussy with a slow peck as a lover would. Breathing in heavily - oh, how he loved the smell of you. “M’gonna see ya later, m’kay? Don’t miss me too much.” 

And another gifted spank! to your tenderized ass makes you jerk a few inches off of his sugary mouth. Sweet, sweet praises being pecked up the bending arch of your spine when he sits you down all cutely on his lap.

You’re heaving out a huff, scent glands throbbing with a spike of something slightly salty. Jealousy. “M’startin’ ta think you’re playing ngh- favorites.”

“Well, duh.” He’s fluttering his long, bestowed lashes with an eyeroll, barely even flinching before cupping your slobbering pussy with one large palm. Teasing, “I’ve got yeeears ta make up for.”

Years of desperation and need pouring and pouring out when Toji folds you easily onto all fours.

And that’s when you’re getting a thorough striking of exactly three times that Toji’s sappy crownhead jolts upwards with a few gummy kisses hello up and down the crying middle of your pussy lips. Smooching. Gently. Before he’s snuggling right beside your hole-

With you bent over and arched right how he wanted you - oh, he was so enjoying the view. Saturated bursts of cloudy pheromones hitting your feverish body and only making the fountains of translucent slick increase tenfold. 

Shit, you were so wet that Toji has to force himself to let one greedy hand go from its favorite job trapping you underneath him. 

Guiding a few dexterous digits to wrap around the bulkily bloated cylinder of his base, he takes his time slipping and sliding.

“Might wanna hold yer breath, mama, h-heh…” You’re squirming your hips deeper into those pronounced hip bones of his despite the fact that simply breathing won’t help you take on his monstrous size. But you wanted to. You needed to. “Gotta c-count- ngh- eeeevery inch like a good girl now, m’kay?”

And that’s exactly what he made you do. 

“Oh!” Saltily flavored globules of your tears had your lips wetted, blubbering unconsciously when Toji anchors the hills of his palm onto the ends of your spine and pushes. “Shit- Toooji, why the hell are you s-so big-”

“Now that doesn’t sound like a ngh- ‘one’ ta me…”  But of course, who was Toji if it wasn’t for a little bit of teasing. Just enough to get your lips pouting cutely and your gluey walls clinging around him as if afraid he would pull away. Adorable. “Now now, c’mon- don’t tell me the biiig stretch has made ya forget how to ah- count, mama.”

So easy to rile up, to get you shaking your head so fervently that you swear you could feel your melty mind tumbling about like a bobble head. “N-no. I can count.”

“Then, say it w’me-” And oh, you knew that tone. That feral tone of his that would never ever bode well for you or your needily dripping pussy. Toji’s inching his hips back mere sinful inches, drawling out all the while. “-oooone.”

He doesn’t even ease you in.

Hitting your spraying cunt with the full force of his mushroom-topped head pushing past the adhesive-like resistance of your flooding entrance. Pushing and pushing and pushing- “One.”

Toji’s hands are clammy - depraved - when they pry your bouncing ass ever-so-slightly to really take in the sight of your gobbling pussy. Because he had no shame. He had no fucking shyness letting out a proud puff of pheromones that make your boneless knees weak.

“There there.” He’s patting that curve of your hip he loved so much - birthing hips, the thought strikes him. Shocked at just how much deeper that drowns him into his heady rut. “My good omega. Now…two.”

“T-two-” You’re sobbing out.

“Hmmm, nah- no stutterin’.”

Oh?

And, honestly, Toji half-expected your omega in heat to snarl at him a little, to let your hugging channel scoop up a hefty few dollops of milky pre right before he’s reeling the familiar pathway forwards again.

But, oh shit, he didn’t expect for you to bare your teeth like a fucking threat. For one hand of yours to dart behind with surprising accuracy and curl around his shaggy haircut, dragging Toji to pump you full. And it wasn’t just one inch. Not two. Not even three - you were damn near yearningly jackhammered with about halfway down his fuming red shaft before he finally got his cottony brain together. “Two.” 

“Damn, greedy girl–” Toji praises, though it comes out as more of a rasping growl that sends voltaged shivers down your spine. “Comin’ back for more, already? Knew my dick was hah- heat- alright then-” And the bed rings out with a few symphonied creaks when he shuffles his muscular thighs wider. Steadier. “-but ya better still fuckin’ count.”

Four. five. Six.

More and more - seven and eight. 

Up until Toji’s puffy head smudges a wet wipe at the canvas of your cervix. You were so soft there that he obviously has to greet the melty depths of your pussy with a good spurting of ribbony pre, swabbing around those drenched springs with a lazy circle of his hips.

“Eight.” Your jaw spills a surging slew of profanities at the feeling of him spearheading you so open, face pushing into the soft mattress when you perk your hips up and push. Only to gasp at there being- more? “Wait- I want-”

“Down, girl.” Toji’s sweat-shimmered biceps flex when he shoves your too-eager body back. “Gotta get you to at least cum on m’cock again before I give ya my- fuuuuck- knot.” 

And Toji fucks you like he’d going to make you remember.

He knows he’s going to make you remember - it’s why he has that big, dopey smirk smearing wider and wider across his face with every fat thud! into the rubbery bounds of your pussy. You’re taking him like you’re made for it, and that only makes his heart stutter even louder than your protesting wooden bedframe.

“Doll, m’gonna ahh- break this damn bed.” He’s uttering out, never ever sounding prouder of himself than right now. “And you.”

“Cocky.”

“Whatever, girl- talk t’me when ya haven’t gotten- hah-” Managing out through blissful hiccups of his breath, “-heart-eyes after bein’ hngh- fucked dumb by me, ‘kay?”

You’re not sure if you’ve heard that correctly - but luckily for you, Toji Fushiguro is allll about keeping his girl in the loop.

All about prancing his rough hands to entrap your wrists and pull you with barely even a wisp of his true strength. Beaded dewdrops of sweat perspiring up and down the heavily toned muscles of his back like their very own personal rollercoaster.

With you right along for the ride with the way that his rightly angled rotund tip romantically scours and scours for your magical g-spot. Jerking you up in midair to snap his slender hips with a particularly vicious pap!

The sensation of skin-on-skin makes your head dizzy, and your core overpour with another sudden downpour of treacling juices. But what was even blasphemously worse was the way that precious geyser embedded into the treasure trove of your walls were pummelled. 

Over and over.

“There- right there–” you’re sounding out as if you were a broken record. Every resonating moan of yours accompanied hand-in-hand with the loudest splish-splosh of sputtering juices. Secondary gender working overtime now to make Toji cum. To make him give you his knot- “-wan’ you to c-cum right there.”

“Where?” Toji’s deepening his angle to bump a heavy-handed slam pounded into your cervix. “Here?” At your vehement shakes - honestly, he wondered if you even knew he was taunting you at this point. “Then…” Only to give your peaked clit a mushy squeeze, “-here?”

You’re almost crying at this point, bursts of heat fluctuating between your goopy depths and your swollen scent glands. Full and ready. And it’s a sight so pretty that Toji can feel his stomach twisting already. “N-noooo.”

He almost loses it once your shakier, smaller hands take the lead to guide one of his own all across your thighs where he loved. Your cunt, where he loved just a bit more. And to about halfway along your pretty tummy to press- “Wan’ you to f-fill me up riiight here.”

And Toji only growls, “Riiight there, huh?”

Pinpointing his puffed-up divot to smudgeon repeated heavy collisions into the latched wall of your womb. Once. Twice. Before thrashing your permeated walls with hosing flushes of his cum. Of such thick ribbony wads - and it’s so fucking dense that you feel your hips weigh down.

Or perhaps that was because of your own orgasm the- third of the night?

Just about all you can manage out, syllables falling from your lips slower than you’re being hammered through the faintish spurts of your high. “C-umming–”

Before you know it, you have one of his muscular forearms around your throat in headlock, bulging Toji’s rounded biceps hard and possessively at the bumpy area of your glands.

“Cummin’ again?” Toji snarls against your ear, nails clawing at your hip to keep them under his control. “Yeah- yeahhh tha’s right. Milk your dear Toji, t-take this fucking cock. Take my…”

And Toji was about to overstuff your awaiting hole with the fat circular ring that’d swollen around his base, to finally give you his knot the way he’d been dreaming of ever since you waved at him on the day he moved into this fucking building. 

But just one sneaking glance at the ivory lipstain your puffy pussy was wearing, the way the ends of your sopping slit drown with a swamping drip drip drip of his lustrous cum makes Toji go a little…crazy. 

Makes the bulgingly tender crook of your neck look so, so tempting. 

His glassed-over eyes lock downwards, breath hitching at the way he slowly sinks back out and in has your pussymound mewling out such a cute glomp! His second-favorite girl - after you, of course - was speaking back to him. Lathers of splashing cum painting his bulky heft with a ring of frosted seed. 

Oh.

Toji would never get tired of this. How the fuck hadn’t he had a rut in years again?

And he says only one word, “More.”

“M-more?” Your fingers experimentally nudge at the tautly coiled pressure at your stomach and find yourself slobbering - from both drizzling lips. Even with the dredges of pouring cum, you were still so full you felt that you could burst. “Can it even fit?”

Right now he thinks the hazy fog covering his brain would never stop - and he doesn’t want it to. Waves of pheromones wafting off of him in such high concentrations that you find your mouth flooding with saliva all over again.

Cobwebs of it overspilling down onto the veined muscles of his forearm - only increasing in saturation when he tilts your head up in the perfect 90 degree curvature to face his boring gaze. And his mean mouth.

Spitting right onto the tainted bullseye of your tongue, streamy rivers flowing back into your mouth when he firmly nudges it shut. “If yer droolin’ n’ can still t-take ngh– that,” Branding the thorough push of his circled circumference into your cervix like he was branding the swollen indentation there permanently. “-then ya can take allll of haaah- this, okay, mama?”

Shit, was Toji glad that both your concoctions of pheromones kept him still hard. And he’d heard of ruts that lasted a week - two, uncommonly. The longest ever recorded was twenty days and by god was he going to gain the title of world champion.

Even if it meant he had to lift you cleanly off of the now-broken bed, the exact same one that you were only now noticing. Just barely so. 

You’re gasping, fingers digging into Toji’s smooth skin when two arms wrap around your middle and jostle you over a few coiling bedsprings that’d started to stick out from one sagging end of the mattress. Being pushed to bend over in such a complaint position at the end of your cool mahogany desk. 

You’re dipped deep, but his battering rams were impossibly deeper.

And the zig-zagging probe of his veins were massaging you just right, thrusts determined and practiced now that Toji had every scouring inch of your pretty pussy drilled into his mind.

“Th-three’s the ah-” Toji’s chest rumbles with a sensitized shiver once he hikes up a strong leg, caging you with him and his ruthless cock and him. Letting you gape at the documents rustling and flying about, “-charm. Or was it four? Ngh- f-five? Six?”

Just how long did he intend to mess up your insides? 

Though, you really, really aren’t complaining at the way that every merciless dab of Toji’s sharp hips into your fleshy mounds fuck you stupid. Entire body burning up - all the way from his lolling, sweat-stucken head in the crook of your neck, to the splurging torrents of streamy sap coating you.

And then there was that stinging plap! of his tightened knot behind you-

“C-can I have your knot now, Toji—?” 

Shit, his hips stutter their sloppy staccato, did you even know what you were asking for?

You never knew that heats came with such a side of begging, but right now you couldn’t really bring yourself to care. Or to complain. Because Toji liked it, earning your pillowy walls with extra thorough hits. 

“Impatient girl.” He’s raising a hand to give two messy spanks on your bulging pussymound, deep snickers hitting your ear in condensed pants at the way it only makes you filthier. “Real diiiirty, too. mmm, wonder if she’d ngh- m-make an even bigger ngh- mess if I…”

And at this point, you were hanging onto every word falling from his kiss-bitten lips. A side-effect of just how good he was fucking you into the digging edges of your clattering desk right now. “What- ngh- what? P-please-”

“Ohhh, know yer m-manners, huh?” Full body wracking at the oodles of slicked sheens frothing down the plump curve of his globed balls and making them clench. Dangerously so. “S-since ya asked so fuckin’ nicely, I’ll let you ngh- know, sugar.” 

Nothing could have prepared you for the way that Toji moistens his parched mouth with a few sultry licks of his lips as if preparing to share his deepest, darkest secret.

Nothing could have prepared you for the notched up burst of his jasmine perfume that makes your legs resemble weak jelly, and Toji’s support yours until they were hovering almost midair. 

Because he was craning his head down to nip at your scent glands, with a sudden snicker. Crazed. A few octaves higher. Like he doesn’t even realize it’s tumbling out before sighing, “-wonder if she’d make an even bigger mess once I get ya…pregnant, mama.”

And oh you think you’re cumming - hot spurts of bliss tackling you by surprise. Fuck, and if you thought that the last orgasm had taken a lot out of your Toji then you’re sluttily glad to find out that that was not the case.

The complete opposite, in fact.

You’re sure that Toji cums even more this time, sunken divot into the elastic material of your walls welling up with the creamy helpings of his bloated cock. So much seed spilling out of him that you wondered whether this was the rut or just him.

Just his urge to fuck you full until you were pathetically overspiling, until had had you in a hold so tight that you think you could almost feel Toji’s delicious crownhead fuck his cum into you until it reached your lungs. 

For what feels like rounds upon rounds until your saliva had amassed in a forevermore pool underneath you. You didn’t know what time it was. How long it had been- 

Only feeling the firm glissade of Toji’s washboard abs against your back. The way his thighs shivered and jerked at every one of your gripping clenches. And despite being so fucked, you were already drooling at the heavenly cushy push and pull of his Adonis-like pecs heaving in throaty gasps. 

So unfairly sexy that it made your primal instincts preen. Mate.

And, apparently, Toji was thinking much the same. 

“F-fuuuck-” He’s letting his mouth nuzzle the side of your throat with all the tenderness that he wasn’t bestowing upon your sappy cunt. “Think about i-it- you all ngh- round and glowing n’- rooound–“ Rambling and rambling at the wet splashes inside you of his stuffing, “You’d make the prettiest momma.”

As if to prove his point, a gentle hand greets the inflationary outline that was slowly forming its way at your tummy. Made by yours truly - Toji. 

“I…” And he looks at you like you’ve hung the stars. And his sanity right along with it somewhere up there. “-want that. Oh, I- hngh! want that-”

Words barely out of your mouth before Toji’s hand slams down - he had to keep himself together. He needed to. But that grating desk clearly wasn’t the place, because you flinch when one straining leg snaps!

And Toji’s alpha instincts are flaring up in an instant, wrestling you to the ground right - pulling out for only a nanosecond to flip you onto your prespired back, pretty legs strewn sloppily over his shoulder, even prettier face gazing up at him - beside the wreckage. One that you’d only find it in yourself to worry about much, much later. 

Definitely not when he’s patting the curve of your pussy with a softened thwack! Murmuring, “Then..g-gonna hafta- hngh- take it.”

And if you didn’t know any better, then you’d have sworn that the smug Toji Fushiguro’s voice cracked as soon as he was settling for drawing a languid heart pattern around the velvety perimeter of your entrance. Before thumbing his way inside-

“Hck!” Your lip wobbles with oversensitivity, nails clawing red, red lines of raw need across the faintly bubblegum pink flush of his body. “S-Soooo much–”

And, yet, you couldn’t get enough. 

You watch with a bitten lip with a fat goblet of sweat drips from Toji’s angular jaw and slithers between his pecs to disappear down below. More - you wanted to fucking ruin him.

The desperation of your heat plummeting in heady wavelengths all around you and making the room smell like a candy heaven.

One that you were very much lost in with the unforgiving stretch of Toji pawing his way to working your sprinkling cunt doubly open. Fingers pumping in quick, methodical half-fucks in the same way that his persistant hips were doing.

Every single recoil against your fleshy cervix causes you both to keen at the wet slosh of his mounds of seed piling up inside you from all the endless rounds before. 

Again. And again. And again and again until it feels like countless hours upon hours. 

“Ohhhh- w-ait-” Toji stammers out, attractively sharp jaw falling and wrenching shut a few repeated times. And then his hips slow down. “Think s’gonna- ngh- ohhhh yeah, gotta take this kn-knot okay? Like my goood girl, okay?”

You’re filled with countless inches of a staggering girth that you didn’t even know was possible. Because while alphas were big…Toji was extra big. 

Extra rounded in his sizable knot, rested upon thickly globular balls that still held such voluminous amounts of cum. Pounding open your eager cunt further and- further-

“I-is it in?” You’re shrilling out, syllables slurring and stumbling together with the incredible stretch being made evident from down below. Fuck, your nails create more painted patterns. You didn’t even want to look - you couldn’t afford to cum again just from the sight. 

“J-just ngh- one more inch. Scratch me, ruin me- anythin’. But m’gonna make it f-fit.”

And Toji only hooks in another one of his thumbs, this time swiping the fat pad of a few stray fingers down your buxom clit. “Count w’me, doll-” For his sanity more than anything. Neck straining with a few popping vessels of blood that swell, face reddening with such a maidenly fucking blush as he looks downwards. “-ooone more-”

“-inch.” You finish off, not expecting that exact moment to be when Toji snaps. His patience. You, full of that achingly hot knot that’d been just begging for you to take him the very moment you waltzed up to him with that sweetened saccharine scent. 

His favorite now.

Gulping in cavernous quotas of it the moment Toji’s inflated knot pops and he sinks his sharpened canines into your scent glands with a whimper-

Hard enough to taste your honey-glazed pheromones, to draw blood. To be permanent - just as he’d needed it. 

Hard enough to make him cum all over again at the feeling of your own teeth making their pretty mark on him. Shit, he didn’t even know if it was fucking possible for his overworked cock anymore. But he sure wasn’t fucking complaining at the delicate splat splat splat of milky cum hitting the back of your pussy. 

Already filled to the brim and spilling with every loving grind that Toji was boring down upon you. The only thing that he could manage when you two were connected so…tightly this way.

“Cute.” Toji manages to run his fingers over the proprietorial set of indentations set in his flesh, eyes still laminated dewily with an euphoric sort of stunned awe. “F-fated mates really have some good ngh- bed chem, huh?”

Fated mates. You could only smile and scent that overwhelmingly addictive jasmine scent of his. Taking in a long, deep breath as he held you. Tight. 

Yeah, jasmine. 

But jasmine was Toji Fushiguro’s.

And you’d be damned if Toji Fushiguro ever let you off that easily.

The smile you’re given is feral, predatory teeth glimmering in the dim lighting and making the neat circle of marks at your neck throb. And something about that told you this was far, far from over. 

You could only hope that your floor didn’t suffer the same fate as your bed, and your desk…and your fluttering cunt.  

After all, you both did have years to make up for. 

“Now the only haaah- way to really test our bed chem is to see whether we can make Megs a big brother.”

A/N. Thinking about making an omegaverse installment for every JJK man- what do you think babygirls?

Plagiarism not authorized. 

[chososplug]

“Mark and Eve are bad together” “mark and Amber are bad together” blah blah blah I WANT MARK TO MYSELF

[asgards-princess-of-mischief]

Last Updated: 2025-06-09

Disclaimer: I am not the author of these stories, just sharing my favourite Benedict Bridgerton stories. Find the authors' links below. If you want your work removed, message me privately.

Legend: 〔E〕 ⇢ Erotic/Steamy￨〔F〕 ⇢ Fluff￨〔A〕 ⇢ Angst/Hurt 〔M〕 ⇢ Minor Angst/Hurt￨〔C〕 ⇢ Comfort￨〔S〕 ⇢ Suspense￨ ♥︎ ⇢ Established Relationship￨𑁍 ⇢ Pregnancy/Children￨🚫 ⇢ Content Warning

✑ A Fitting Distraction by benedictscanvas • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

Synopsis: In which a game of pall-mall is afoot and you and your husband, Benedict, engage in a bit of harmless spying on your brother-in-law.

✑ A Lady's Guide to Surviving the Ton by atlabeth • 〔F〕 •

Synopsis: You've prepared an endless list of rules and notes for the season to ensure a successful debut. Benedict may need some tips for a courtship of his own.

✑ All Along by jswizzlewrites • 〔F᜶M〕 •

Synopsis: You're feeling anxious at the first ball of your season. Luckily Benedict is there to help you through it.

✑ And Now I See Daylight by wonderlandprose • 〔F〕 •

Synopsis: Benedict seemed to completely change his view on love after meeting the reader.

✑ Best Behaviour by dragon-kazansky • 〔F〕 •

Synopsis: An unexpected request and a push from his family is exactly what Benedict needs to finally take your relationship beyond friendship.

✑ Can't Bear It by benedictscanvas • 〔F᜶M〕 •

Synopsis: What will happen when Benedict lets mistaken assumptions and jealousy guide his actions? More importantly, can you forgive him?

✑ City of Stars by rubysunnday • 〔F᜶M〕 •

Synopsis: Eloise Bridgerton does not know when to keep her nose out of her friends business. Especially when that business involves pining over her brother - one that Eloise knows for a fact loves her back. If only they weren't completely oblivious idiots.

✑ Confession by fayes-fics • 16+ • 〔A᜶F〕 •

Synopsis: Benedict confesses to being in love…

✑ Drunk on Love by d-targaryenshoe • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ • 𑁍 •

Synopsis: Love is beautiful yet when one is drunk it can rather be a little confusing and breathtaking.

✑ Eden by fayes-fics • 18+ • 〔F᜶E〕 • ♥︎ •

Synopsis: Seeing you with other Bridgerton offspring has an interesting effect on your new husband...

✑ En Garde by delphispoeticals • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

Synopsis: You have always cared deeply about your mother's opinions, often to the frustration of your siblings. However, when you begin to prioritize your desires, you realize how rewarding it is to follow your own path—starting with a game of fencing.

✑ Forgive Me by benedictscanvas • 〔A᜶F〕 •

Synopsis: In which you think Benedict doesn't like the idea of you marrying, but really he doesn't like the idea of you marrying anyone else…

✑ Friends to Lovers by jswizzlewrites • 〔F〕 •

Synopsis: Benedict plots a way to win your heart…

✑ Game Night by iliveiloveiwrite • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

Synopsis: Now Benedict's wife, you attend your first Bridgerton family Game Night.

✑ Hands by ijustwant2write • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

Synopsis: Hands are every artists worst nightmare, it's always best to have a real model for help.

✑ Helen of Troy by neverinadream • 〔F〕 •

Synopsis: In a world of societal expectations and staged romances, theirs might just be a love story written by choice, not chance.

✑ It's Just Tea by dragonsfictavern • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

Synopsis: You drink some of Benedict's special tea and now Benedict must take care of you until the effects wear off. With such a tea in your system, you can't help but bring up some truths you’ve been hiding and Benedict is right there to comfort you.

✑ Jealousy by jswizzlewrites • 〔F᜶A〕 •

Synopsis: Just Benedict Bridgerton being jealous…

✑ Just Friends || Prt. II by pixiemunsons • 18+ • 〔F᜶A᜶E〕 •

Synopsis: You and Benedict aren't merely friends… not even close…

✑ Love and Tea by iliveiloveiwrite • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

Synopsis: Benedict had been fine all morning, not a hair out of place and that had all changed by the evening. In passing, he had mentioned to you that Colin had offered him a cup of tea he had brought back from his vast and various travels.

✑ Madness by writtenfangirl • 〔A〕 •

Synopsis: In which Benedict Bridgerton finally reveals the truth.

✑ Market Hearts by d-targaryenshoe • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

Synopsis: When one notices their lover's joy in a rather odd place, why would they not join in on the feeling?

✑ Mine by fayes-fics • 18+ • 〔M᜶E〕 • ♥︎ •

Synopsis: Benedict's wife gets lots of male attention at a party and he gets very jealous.

✑ Not for Him by iwritefandomimagines • 〔A᜶F〕 •

Synopsis: You may not be the season's diamond, yet your debut still caused quite the stir in many a man's heart—your childhood best friend benedict bridgerton included. However, given that the Viscount had decided that he would marry this season, Benedict cannot see why you would choose him over his brother.

✑ Not the End of Our Story by jswizzlewrites • 〔F〕 •

Synopsis: You write about the love story of you and Benedict when you think they won't be anything more than a story…

✑ Paper Rings by wonderlandprose • 〔F〕 •

Synopsis: Benedict fell in love with a girl he adored so much…

✑ Promenade by jswizzlewrites • 〔F᜶M〕 •

Synopsis: Benedict makes a drunken confession…

✑ Rake and the Spinster, the by imagines-all-day-everyday • 〔A᜶F〕 •

Synopsis: Growing up beside the Bridgerton siblings you and Benedict have been friends for as long as you can remember, but with you now officially debuting into society Benedict begins to realise that perhaps it is more than a friendship that he seeks.

✑ Ruined Reputation by jswizzlewrites • 〔A〕 •

Synopsis: Benedict has a very encouraging conversation with his brothers about you.

✑ Safe by fayes-fics • 〔A᜶C〕 • 🚫 •

Synopsis: Benedict comforts you after someone tries to compromise you.

✑ Second Son by fayes-fics • 〔F〕 •

Synopsis: The second son is, for once, the first choice...

✑ Secret Romantic by ijustwant2write • 〔F〕 •

Synopsis: Eloise Bridgerton, as it turns out, is a brilliant matchmaker!

✑ Send It Soaring by rubysunnday • 〔F〕 •

Synopsis: A hot air balloon was something quite majestic... but so was Benedict Bridgerton.

✑ She's a Lady by rubysunnday • 〔F〕 •

Synopsis: You aren't considered a proper 'lady' by members of the ton yet one Benedict Bridgerton would disagree with them all.

✑ Sleeping Beauty by rubysunnday • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

Synopsis: Painting the woman of his dreams feels like a fairytale.

✑ Temptation by fayes-fics • 18+ • 〔E᜶F〕 •

Synopsis: After accidentally teasing Benedict, you catch the man your courting in a compromising position

✑ To Be Loved and Be In Love by desertno3 • 〔F᜶M〕 •

Synopsis: You and Benedict had been best friends for as long as you remember, but during your first season, he didn't engage much. You left London engaged, but when news of your betrothal's failure reached Aubrey Hall in spring, everything changed.

✑ To Know You by fayes-fics • 〔F᜶M〕 •

Synopsis: Benedict knows you better than anyone, but does he know himself well enough to know what he truly wants?

✑ Untold Truth by itsmercurial • 〔A〕 • ♥︎ •

Synopsis: It is a universally acknowledged truth that men and women of the 1800s curate a carefully crafted image to attract suitable matches. Though the esteemed Bridgertons seem above such deception, a trip to a certain modiste uncovers a different truth.

✑ You Bewitch Me by pencil-n-pen • 〔F〕 •

Synopsis: Benedict has to be the least tolerable Bridgertonto to make your acquaintance. Still, no matter how hard you try, you can't seem to stay away from him.

✑ A Scandalous Affair by starryeyedstories • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Art of Finding a Wife, the by dragon-kazansky • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Artists in the Making by multi-fandom-imagine • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ • 𑁍 •

✑ Body Imagine by eufezco • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ • 𑁍 •

✑ Bridgerton Blue by fayes-fics • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Butterflies by starryeyedstories • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ • 𑁍 •

✑ Clueless by thebadgerclan • 〔F〕 •

✑ Energetic by alewritesfics • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Forget-Me-Nots by jswizzlewrites • 〔F〕 •

✑ Heads or Tails by youvebeenlivingfictional • 〔F〕 •

✑ Heat Exhaustion || Prt. II by jswizzlewrites • 〔F᜶H〕 •

✑ His Everything by multi-fandom-imagine • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ His Shirt by multi-fandom-imagine • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Home by jswizzlewrites • 〔F᜶H〕 •

✑ I'm Not Drunk by fayes-fics • 〔F〕 •

✑ Insufferably Irresistible by kiaraldias • 〔E〕 •

✑ Little Things by leviathanspain • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Meet the Family by multi-fandom-imagine • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ • 𑁍 •

✑ Muse by thebadgerclan • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Pall Mall by tontattletale • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Perfect Through My Eyes by dragon-kazansky • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Sleepy by starryeyedstories • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ So Entirely Bridgerton by d-targaryenshoe • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ • 𑁍 •

✑ Stitches by fayes-fics • 〔F᜶E〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Stolen Moment by aliesbienish • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ • 𑁍 •

✑ Benedict Bridgerton Falling/Being in Love… by dragon-kazansky • 〔F〕 •

See More: Navigation || Benedict Bridgerton Master Index

Authors: @alewritesfics || @aliesbienish || @atlabeth || @benedictscanvas || @d-targaryenshoe || @dragon-kazansky || @dragonsfictavern || @eufezco || @fayes-fics || @ijustwant2write || @imagines-all-day-everyday || @itsmercurial || @iwritefandomimagines || @jswizzlewrites || @kiaraldias || @leviathanspain || @neverinadream || @pencil-n-pen || @pixiemunsons || @rubysunnday || @starryeyedstories || @thebadgerclan || @tontattletale || @wonderlandprose || @writtenfangirl || @youvebeenlivingfictional ||

[batsovergotham-deactivated20250]

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.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

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[angelgemy]

Whoops, I think I got the wrong Grayson