#cosmic front next

[treasuremoon25]

The Curious Case of 'Ninjaboys: Quest for the Cosmic Front'

Note: I’m not an industry insider. Some of the information is purely speculative and may not be fully accurate to what goes on behind closed doors, since specific licensing and distribution information isn't made public.

On February 11, 2016, a collaboration spin-off series between Nintama Rantaro and Cosmic Front NEXT, entitled Nintama Rantaro no Uchuu Daibouken with Cosmic Front NEXT (忍たま乱太郎の宇宙大冒険 with コズミックフロント☆NEXT, "Nintama Rantaro's Great Space Adventure with Cosmic Front NEXT"), premiered on NHK General TV in Japan with the episode, “Taiyoukei no Otomodachi no Dan” (太陽系のお友だちの段, “The ‘Friends in the Solar System’ Stage”). New episodes air sporadically with the latest one, "Hayabusa 2 Shouwakusei de Mission! No Dan" (はやぶさ2 小惑星でミッション！の段, "The 'Hayabusa 2 Asteroid Mission!' Stage), on NHK Educational TV on March 18, 2020. The series consists of self-contained episodes centered around the main characters of Nintama (Rantaro, Kirimaru, and Shinbei) learning about space through strange and colorful characters, such as the Moon Rabbit. 

Nintama Rantaro is a kids and family ninja comedy anime that has aired on NHK since April 1993. Based on the Rakudai Ninja Rantaro manga by Soubei Amako, it's about an ensemble cast of ninjas at the Ninjutsu Academy. Rantaro, the bespectacled protagonist and audience surrogate, is a 10-year-old boy who attends the school to become an elite ninja like his parents. He is mainly joined by money-hungry Kirimaru and gluttonous Shinbei in misadventures around the school and occasional outside missions. 

Cosmic Front NEXT is a scientific series dealing with the topics of space, astronomy, debunking myths, and answering questions related to the galaxy. Running on NHK from 2015 to 2020, it's a revamp of Cosmic Front ~Hakken! Kyoui no Daiuchuu! (コズミック　フロント～発見！驚異の大宇宙, "Cosmic Front ~Discover the Amazing Universe!") which ran from 2011 to 2014.

On July 17, 2017, Anime News Network reported that William Winckler Productions had recorded 2 English-dubbed pilot episodes of the spin-off, under the new title, Ninjaboys: Quest for the Cosmic Front. “Ninjaboys” comes from the regular series’ official English title, Ninjaboy Rantaro. WOWMAX Next was in charge of marketing and distributing the pilots to potential distribution platforms for release. The English dub cast consists of Elyse Bertani as Rantaro, Kelsey Kummerl as Shinbei, Kory Getman as Kirimaru, Frank Garish as Yamada, and Paul Stanko as Doi and the Moon Rabbit. 

On July 29 that same year, Old Clapperboard Productions uploaded a behind-the-scenes video on YouTube, offering a glimpse into William Winckler’s role in the ADR dubbing process. The video showcases his guidance of the voice actors’ performances, along with a brief look at the dub script. Viewers are treated to hearing the English voices of the characters– a rare opportunity, considering that Nintama has yet to receive an official release in the Anglosphere. As of 2025, this video remains the only available footage of the dub online. 

Was Quest for the Cosmic Front ever licensed? Yes…but not in the way you might expect. While most anime is licensed by major media companies like Crunchyroll, Netflix, Viz Media, and Discotek Media, it remains unclear if the pilots were ever solicited to these outlets. Based on the international publicity surrounding film festivals and science-focused distribution (e.g. planetariums), it’s highly likely that NHK and WOWMAX Next prioritized Quest for the Cosmic Front as an educational series rather than a commercial one. It was likely intended for a very specific market–festivals, schools, museums, and planetariums–where educational content takes precedence over entertainment. This aligns with how it’s marketed in Japan and NHK’s broader mission to promote educational programming and cultural preservation. 

K2 Studios acquired non-exclusive territory/rights restrictions to Quest for the Cosmic Front, meaning they could distribute the series under specific conditions but were not the sole distributor and were limited to certain regions or platforms. The studio specializes in producing and distributing science-focused content to specialty venues worldwide (e.g. fulldome), which could explain why they pursued the series. While there’s no confirmation online, it’s possible that the dubbed episodes were released in regions with large Japanese populations, such as Southern California and Hawaii. These areas have historically received niche Japanese content that doesn’t see a wide release elsewhere, or at least not for a long time (e.g. KIKU TV’s subtitled broadcasts of Crayon Shin-chan and the 1985 GeGeGe no Kitaro series). It appears the studio no longer holds the rights, as the series is no longer listed in their updated catalog.

It’s unfortunate that the English dub of Quest for the Cosmic Front has not received a wide release. If it had been released on platforms like NHK World or Netflix, it could have marked Nintama’s official English debut in the West. However, considering that these were just pilots–many of which never go beyond that stage–it's clear that they were likely intended for educational distribution rather than a large-scale rollout of the Nintama series. All we can do at this point is hope that NHK will consider expanding the series to Western markets in the future, whether with select episodes from the regular TV series or another entry. Who knows, they may already be planning it.

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Urgent Call

"I need your phone."

Tim looks up from his laptop. The boy in front of him looks like he's been dragged to Hell a week ago and just made it back: smudges of soot on his face, his not-so-white t-shirt smelling of smoke, and a nasty looking burn on his hand that he somehow doesn't even pay attention to. Tim thinks back to his mental list of 'Rogues currently on the loose', but it's only Ivy and Harley (who don't even count anymore), and Penguin, who is not known for setting things on fire.

"I can call 911 for you, if you want?" He offers, because this is still Gotham. Despite the fact that a slightly scorched guy casually walking into a coffee shop is not something out of the ordinary here, he's not giving his phone to strangers.

The guy grimaces and starts aggressively rummaging through his pockets.

"No, thanks, ACAB and all that, and they won't do shit here anyway," he says, and then pulls a handful of tangled golden jewelry — rings, chains, necklaces with various gems in them — from his pocket and places it on the table in front of Tim. "I need your phone," he repeats.

Tim stares. First, at the gold — these things look antique, and his parents were archeologists, he knows what he's talking about — then, back at the guy. He looks... ordinary, sans the dirt and smell.

But the burn on his hand looks significantly more healed than it did just a minute ago.

Thankfully, Tim has already had his cup of morning coffee. Which means he is thinking very rationally when he does get his phone out of his pocket and hands it to the guy, just to see what he does next.

"Thanks," the guy grins at him, plucking the phone out of Tim's hand and unlocking it. Tim's eyebrows shoot up — there's a password there! — but the stranger is already dialing in a number and pressing the phone to his ear.

It takes less than a second before someone evidently picks up, and the guy starts talking.

"I have less than three minutes before the phone dies, so listen very carefully. Etrigan is fine, Jason is not, Klarion is still being a bitch. Dora won't help anymore, so you're on your own until Sam makes it there with the staff. I'm in Gotham because, apparently, mazes and I don't mix well together, so if you could summon me back, that'd be cool," he says, a look of mild annoyance on his face.

Tim is back to staring at him. He recognizes some of the names, and, well, one could have been an oddity, two a coincidence, but three is a pattern.

"The fuck you mean you can't, I gave you the incantation two months ago!" The guy raises his voice, his foot tapping on the floor in frustration. "Do you think I just go around giving my summons to people for shits and giggles? Like, yeah, have a spell that unleashes a cosmic being of immeasurable power, use it as a bookmark!"

This interaction, despite Tim only hearing one side of it, gets more and more alarming with every word.

But then, the boy suddenly straightens up and stills, his eyes flashing bright, unpleasantly familiar green.

"You what?" He asks, his voice slipping from just angry to quietly enraged hiss, "Sold it to whom?!" But, before he gets an answer, Tim's phone makes a thin, tiny buzzing sound, and the guy takes it off his ear, looking at the screen.

"No, no-no-no," he mutters, shaking it like that would make it work. To no avail, though: the phone screen flashes a few times and goes black. The guy curses. At least Tim thinks it's a curse because he doesn't understand a word, but the stranger's face and intonation are telling.

"Useless fucking moron of a human, I swear I'm going to drown you in cow shit once this is over," he switches to English, dropping the phone on the table right by the small pile of gold, "I'll bargain your pathetic soul from everyone you've ever dealt with and give it to the Observants, and maybe, after a few millenia of endless Council paperwork, I'll have mercy and sell it back to Lucifer and watch him fry you on a skillet."

...Whoever the boy is, Tim absolutely refuses to ever piss him off, okay. That's an impressive threat to even make, not to mention being able to go through with it.

"Do you need help?" He asks cautiously. If he is getting his context clues right, this is something that involves JLD, and maybe John Constantine specifically since Tim doesn't know any other man who is a magic user, sold his soul numerous times, would care about Etrigan's wellbeing, and could invoke this kind of murderous intent.

The boy looks back at him, his eyes back to normal blue.

"Huh? Oh, no, I doubt this can be helped," he waves Tim off and pinches the bridge of his nose, "Sorry about the phone, but, unless you have a way to yeet me across the globe so I end up in London in the next twenty minutes..." he shrugs, smiling in that helpless 'nothing you can do here' way.

Tim picks up his phone. It's dead, wholly and completely, won't even turn on when he tries.

He really, really shouldn't do that. This is definitely none of his business, and very much out of his capabilities and area of expertise.

But he thinks about the zeta-tube in the Cave.

"Actually," he says, and the guy's eyes snap back to him, a bewildered sort of surprise on his face.

[katakaluptastrophy]

John does describe Alecto as a creation of his id (which in Freudian terms is the sort of amoral source of unconscious desire, driven by desire and the death drive...), so I wouldn't be surprised if John's favourite childhood toy didn't quite come out as Mattel intended...

"Why would Alecto be 9 feet tall and ripped if John made her to be Barbie" John Gaius was a bisexual millennial. He probably scrolled past some Bowsette art on Twitter the day before he nuked the world and when it was time to make his Earth girlfriend he was like Hmm. I could do that

[kashverse]

how would babykuna fend off a man getting too friendly with mamakuna?👹

life, in all its wonder, occasionally presents moments no one asks for—like unsolicited masculinity at the grocery store.

there you were, simply trying to decide between two brands of pasta, when a voice intruded upon your peaceful existence. "you know," said a man who smelled suspiciously of overpriced cologne and misplaced confidence, "most people don’t realize there’s a huge difference between keto and gluten-free."

ah. one of those men.

you turned, already bracing yourself. "oh. uh, yeah."

"it’s actually fascinating," he continued, leaning way too close to your personal space. "keto is all about low-carb intake, while gluten-free is more about avoiding wheat proteins. a lot of people think they’re the same, but i make it a point to educate whenever i can."

babykuna, sitting proudly in the shopping cart, had been silently observing this disaster unfold. her tiny hands gripped the metal frame, her little brows furrowed in utter disdain.

this...this was unacceptable. mama was under attack. and until papa arrived, she had to be the hero. she sucked in a dramatic breath and let out a long, exaggerated "eeewwwwww."

the man blinked. "uh—"

babykuna wrinkled her nose like she had just smelled something truly foul. "mamaaaa, he stiiiiiiiinks."

you cleared your throat, trying (and failing) to suppress your amusement. "baby, that's not—"

"yes, it is," she cut in, now pointing at the man like he was an exhibit at a zoo. "he smells like...like..." she thought for a second, then gasped. "yucky cheese!"

the man visibly bristled. "i—uh, i don’t think that’s—"

"yucky, stinky cheese," she confirmed, nodding sagely. then, just to make things worse, she waved a tiny hand in front of her nose, scrunching her face in an oscar-worthy performance of disgust.

you sighed, switching to polite rejection mode. "listen, i really appreciate the...um, food science lesson, but I’m just here to shop with my daughter—"

"papa’s coming," babykuna cut in, her tone warning.

and oh, how those words sent a ripple of cosmic dread into the universe.

because just as the man opened his mouth to press whatever point he thought he had, a shadow loomed over the scene.

sukuna.

tall. broad. wearing his usual look of mild menace. he took one glance at the situation—his wife looking vaguely annoyed, his daughter puffed up like an offended cat, some random guy standing too close—and placed a single hand on the cart.

"hey, babe," he said casually, eyes fixed on the man like a wolf sizing up its next meal. "who’s this?"

the man, suddenly realizing the error of his ways, took a sharp step back. "oh, i was just—uh—talking about—"

"stinky cheese," babykuna supplied, nodding solemnly. sukuna smirked. "oh yeah?" he turned to you. "you makin’ friends?"

"not particularly," you deadpanned.

the man fumbled. "i—uh, actually, i just remembered I have to—uh—go get, um, kale. yeah. kale." and just like that, he disappeared down the aisle, never to be seen again. babykuna sighed, relieved. "phew. he almost touched mama with his stink."

sukuna chuckled, ruffling her hair. "good lookin’ out, kid."

and with that, the three of you continued your shopping trip, the crisis of stinky cheese man officially averted.

[papayainsectorone]

Emotional Support Stranger

summary: stranded in a late-night airport hellscape with a dying phone and a delayed flight, you are one sarcastic comment away from a breakdown—until an unexpected laugh from the guy in front of her sparks an unlikely connection.

content: no real warnings

airport purgatory vibes™, emotional damage via sleep deprivation, crying in public (but make it sexy?), strangers-to-deliriously-flirty-to-???, phone battery anxiety, surprise first class reveal??, “wait... are you famous?” energy, terminal-based emotional intimacy, light angst, one shared headphone

word count: 3.3k

pairing: franco colapinto x fem!reader

You're standing in line at the rebooking desk, the strap of your carry-on digging into your shoulder like it’s punishing you for booking with this airline in the first place. Your phone's at 7%. Your charger is buried under everything you packed for what was supposed to be a nice trip, now turned emotional survival exercise. 

The clerk ahead of you looks like she'd rather be anywhere else on Earth. 

You're trying not to cry. 

Really, you are. 

You keep chewing the inside of your cheek, eyes burning as the guy in front of you hands back your passport and ticket with the words: 

“Thanks. Have a nice flight.” 

It breaks you. Not all the way, not loudly—but enough that the sarcasm slips out before you can stop it. 

“Yeah, hope it crashes.” 

Silence for a second. Then a laugh—quick and startled. 

You glance up, tense, expecting judgment. 

Instead, he’s smiling. 

And not in a mocking way. It’s this crooked little grin like he wasn’t expecting to laugh today, but you just made him. 

He’s... hot. You notice that, but not first. First, you notice how real he seems in a sea of people who are all pretending not to lose it. His hoodie’s a little wrinkled. His curls are a mess. He has dark circles under his eyes like you do. He’s leaning on the handle of his suitcase like he’s been here a while too. 

“Bit dark,” he says, voice light but low. 

You exhale—half a laugh, half frustration. “I’ve been in this line for hours, my flight’s delayed indefinitely, and the dude behind the other counter just told the guy two people ahead that the next flight out might be tomorrow.” 

You tilt your head toward the heavens—well, toward the buzzing lights—and add, “So, yeah. I'm in a bit of a mood.” 

“Fair.” He nudges your arm gently with his elbow. “You looked like you were about to leap over the desk. I was rooting for you.” 

Your laugh this time is more genuine, and your posture shifts just a little relieved not to feel entirely alone in your disaster. 

“Where are you headed?” he asks. 

You sigh. “San Fernando International. Supposed to be working.” 

He raises an eyebrow, then deadpans, “Maybe this is fate.” 

You scoff. “Or just hell with extra layovers.” 

That earns a grin. “That too.” 

You’re finally done with the rebooking desk. 

They couldn’t get you on another flight. Couldn’t even guarantee the one you’re already booked on will go at some point. They handed you a sorry-looking meal voucher like it was a prize for surviving airport purgatory. 

You spot him a few rows down—hood up now, slouched in one of those hard plastic seats by the gate, his suitcase serving as a footrest.

Without thinking much about it, you walk over and drop yourself into the seat beside him. 

It’s not graceful. More like a slow collapse. 

You lean your head back against the metal wall behind you, closing your eyes. 

“Bad news?” he asks quietly. 

You nod. “Worse. No news.” 

He exhales a laugh, not because it’s funny but because everything feels like a cosmic joke now. 

You crack your eyes open and glance at him sideways. “What time is it?” 

He checks his watch. “2:57.” 

“AM,” you clarify. 

“Yep.” 

You groan and rub your face. Your phone’s been dead for an hour, and the outlet near your seat refuses to cooperate, blinking out the second you plug in your charger. 

You try it again anyway, just in case the universe suddenly decided to cut you some slack. 

Nope. Still dead. 

He chuckles. 

You look at him. “Are you at least entertained? Or is your Spotify saving your life?” 

He holds up one earbud. “A bit of both.” 

You raise an eyebrow. 

He hesitates... and then offers the other bud. 

You blink. “Seriously?” 

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Better than both of us being miserable.” 

You take it. 

The bud is warm from his ear and weirdly, you don’t mind. There’s something oddly intimate about it, like sharing a hoodie or a private joke. 

The music is something soft. Guitar, a little lo-fi beat under it. 

“Okay,” you say, settling back, letting your arm rest between you, not quite touching his. “I expected, like... EDM.” 

He huffs. “And you seem like the type to listen to... what? Heartbreak ballads in a coffee shop?” 

You smile. “Only sometimes.” 

The next track fades in. You don’t know it, but it fits. Everything slows a little. 

You're both still for a while, music filling the space between you. 

Then, he clears his throat, quiet. “You know... I can deal with it if you need to rant. About the flight. Or the apocalypse-level service desk. Or life in general.” 

You laugh softly, your head turning toward him. “Are you offering yourself up as an emotional support stranger?” 

He grins. “Pretty much, yeah.” 

You let out a breath. “Okay. Here goes.” 

And once you start, you don’t stop. 

About the mess at the gate. The rude lady who snapped at you like your very presence was an inconvenience. About your power bank dying. About the overpriced water bottle. About how the vending machine ate your last coin and gave you nothing. 

You don’t think he’d laugh so hard at that, but he does genuinely, hand-over-mouth, eyes-creasing laugh. 

When you finally sigh again and slump further into your seat, he says, “Feel better?” 

You nod. “Weirdly, yeah.” 

He glances over, soft smile still lingering. “So… what work got you flying at ungodly hours?” 

You huff, eyes flicking up to the departure board like it might remind you where you’re even going. “Conference. I’m in engineering.” 

His brows raise. “Oh, cool. What kind?” 

That’s all it takes. 

You don’t even realize how fast your words come, about structures and materials and that one project you’re working on that somehow turned into your entire personality for the past three months. You don’t even register how animated you are, hands gesturing slightly, voice picking up momentum like a train rounding a bend. 

You don’t notice, because he never interrupts. Never glances away. Just watches you with this sort of quiet focus that makes it feel like everything you're saying matters. 

You only pause when your throat goes dry and you realize you're smiling a little too hard. 

“Oh my god. I’ve been talking for, like—what? Ten minutes straight?” 

He laughs softly. “More like fifteen.” 

Your face flushes. “Why didn’t you stop me?” 

He leans his head against the metal wall, smiling crookedly. “Didn’t want to. You look happy when you talk about it.” 

That stops you. In a gentle way. 

He shrugs like he didn’t just knock the breath out of you a little. “I like people who light up.” 

You don’t know what to say to that. So you just smile and nudge his shoulder with yours. 

And then—quietly—you say, “What about you? Why’re you flying?” 

His mouth quirks a bit. “Work too.” 

“What kind?” 

He hesitates, eyes flicking away for the first time. “It’s a bit... niche.” 

You nod, not pressing. There’s a flicker of something behind his expression—not embarrassment exactly, just a desire to stay in this moment where things feel easy, where no names or titles are needed. 

So you don’t push. You just smile gently and shift the topic. 

The conversation meanders from there. One of you asks something small, and the other answers. Then it flips. Back and forth, for what feels like hours—but the good kind, the fast kind. You talk about favorite snacks, worst travel experiences, weirdest dreams. The kind of things only a half-lit terminal at 5 a.m. makes feel profound. 

Then it drifts again into music, and eventually, quiet. 

His playlist becomes the soundtrack to your shared waiting. 

You hadn’t noticed when your eyes slipped closed, but you must have drifted. The warmth from his side, the quiet static of airport announcements, the fading adrenaline of frustration—it all lulled you under. 

You don’t notice when he gets up. 

You don’t stir when he approaches the gate desk with a soft-voiced question and a charm that’s more polite than pushy. You don’t catch the way he angles your boarding pass across the counter with just enough casual confidence to make it all seem easy. 

When he comes back, there’s something in his step—a quiet buzz of victory. But he says nothing. 

He just sits again. 

And the subtle motion—the shift of weight next to you—is enough to nudge your head, gently, down onto his shoulder. 

His breath catches a little. 

Not enough to wake you. 

Then, gently, he tips his head—just enough for his cheek to graze your hair. 

He lets it stay there, barely touching, like any more might wake you. And maybe he wants to let you sleep a little longer. Maybe he wants to stay like this a little longer too. 

But the intercom crackles overhead, sharp and abrupt in the hush of the terminal. 

Flight 227 to San Fernando International now boarding. 

You shift beside him, blinking awake, your hand rubbing over your face as you sit up a little too fast. “Shit,” you mumble. “Did I—was I drooling on you?” 

He smiles, still a little sleep-warm. “Just a little. Adds to the charm.” 

You groan softly, dragging your hoodie sleeve over your mouth, cheeks burning. “God, kill me.” 

But he just chuckles and stands, brushing the wrinkles from his jeans. “Come on. Looks like our ride’s here.” 

Your boarding pass is wrinkled in your hand, thumb dragging over your seat number again and again, a nervous tic you don’t even realize you're doing. The gate agent takes it with a pleasant smile, scanning it with a soft beep. Then her eyes flicker to the screen, and she pauses. 

“Oh, Miss,” she says, reaching for a pen. “Looks like you’ve been upgraded.” She scribbles something quickly over your seat number before handing it back, like it’s routine. 

You blink. “I’ve been what?” 

But she’s already turning to the next passenger, smiling as if it’s nothing. And maybe it is. But your brain—still fogged from sleep and that strange, dreamy layover haze—doesn’t quite catch up. 

You go with it. What else is there to do? 

The jet bridge feels colder than you expected, your hoodie not quite enough against the sting of early morning air. You wrap your arms around yourself as the line creeps forward, every step oddly slow and too quiet. You rub the sleep from your eyes, phone clutched in your other hand, still dead. Everything feels like a dream—like you’re watching your own life through a half-fogged window. 

Then, as you step into the cabin, the flight attendant greets you with that practiced, polished smile. “Welcome aboard,” she says, checking your pass once more. “You’re to the left.” 

Left. 

You hesitate at the threshold, feet sticking to the floor like you missed a cue. “Sorry,” you ask, brow furrowed. “This is… first class?” 

The attendant nods without blinking. “Yes. Welcome aboard. You’re in 1A.” 

She gestures with an open palm like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and somehow your body moves before your brain can catch up. 

You walk in slow steps, the plush carpet soft beneath your feet, the lighting warm, impossibly golden. It smells like leather and something faintly floral. You pass other passengers already settled in—pressed shirts, neat hair, a man sipping champagne at 7 a.m. like it’s juice. 

And then you see it. Your seat. Spacious. Sleek. With a blanket folded neatly across it and a glass already waiting on a tray beside it, bubbles rising in perfect spirals. 

You’re still staring at it when he appears beside you. 

“Would you look at that?” he says, voice low and amused as he slides into the seat right next to yours. 

You stare at him. “This is first class.” 

He shrugs like he doesn’t quite know what you’re talking about, dropping into the seat beside you with casual ease. “Huh. That’s wild.” 

You scoff, sipping the champagne that’s already making your head feel a little floaty. You study him from the corner of your eye. “You didn’t… do something, did you?” 

He raises a brow, feigning offense. “Like what?” 

“I don’t know. Pull some secret-string or bribe someone with your—” You gesture vaguely at his whole face. “—unfair cheekbones or something.” 

He lets out a quiet laugh, reclines his seat just a bit, and fastens his belt like he’s done this a thousand times. “I think you might be overestimating the power of my cheekbones.” 

You turn more fully toward him, champagne resting lightly in your lap. “So this is just a cosmic coincidence? We both got upgraded to first class?” 

His mouth twitches. “Maybe the universe owed us something after a seven-hour gate delay.” 

You exhale a soft laugh, but there’s still something curling suspiciously warm in your chest. Gratitude. Disbelief. And something quieter. Something that makes you want to lean into the seat beside him and pretend you’ve always flown like this. 

As the cabin doors close and the safety video begins, you find yourself watching him instead of the screen. His eyes track the window lazily, fingers idly brushing the armrest, his whole posture relaxed in that way people are only when they’re somewhere familiar. You’re starting to realize he fits here. 

You don’t. But next to him, maybe it doesn’t matter. 

And when the plane begins to taxi, the low rumble beneath your feet swelling with momentum, you grip the armrest hard—knuckles whitening, body stiffening without meaning to. Your breath stalls somewhere in your throat, chest locked tight like the air’s already thinning. 

He notices. He doesn’t say anything at first—just watches the way your fingers curl against the leather, the way your shoulders tense like they’re bracing for impact. Then, quietly, without turning his head fully, he murmurs, “I don´t know if i have to ask… but are you nervous flying?” 

You glance at him, surprised by the gentleness in his voice. It’s not pitying or amused—just there, open and real. 

You nod, small and sheepish, biting the inside of your cheek. “I think even more so being in first class,” you admit, the words slipping out with a faint, breathy laugh. “Feels too high up. Like I don’t belong here. Like if we fall, it’s further to the ground.” 

That makes him chuckle, quiet and low in his chest, the sound warm and steadying. “That’s a first,” he says, and then—without even looking down—he reaches over and takes your hand. 

It’s not a showy gesture. It’s easy. Effortless. Like he’s done it a thousand times. Like it just makes sense. His fingers curl over yours, firm but not tight, thumb brushing softly against your knuckles. 

His eyes stay on the cabin wall ahead of him, but his voice drops just a bit more, close and sure. “It’ll be alright.” 

And for some strange reason, you believe him. 

The plane lifts from the runway with a low, drawn-out hum that vibrates through the cabin. Your fingers tighten instinctively in his, but he doesn’t flinch or tease—just holds steady, anchoring you through the ascent. His thumb keeps moving in slow, absent circles against your skin. It’s quiet up here—strangely soft, like the world below has muffled itself entirely. 

After a few minutes, your grip relaxes, breath coming easier. He shifts slightly in his seat, his body angled toward yours, and for a while you both just sit there in the low hum of first class silence, warm hand in warm hand. 

“You alright now?” he murmurs eventually, voice dipped low with fatigue. 

You nod, turning your face toward him on the plush headrest. “Yeah. You’re—really good at that, actually. The whole handholding thing.” 

A crooked grin tugs at his lips. “Thanks. I charge per flight.” 

You smile sleepily, eyes heavy. “Put it on my tab.” 

A pause drapes between you. Not awkward—just easy. Shared. You both sink deeper into it, exhaustion softening your edges. Your legs stretch out a bit under the blanket the flight attendant tucked over you earlier. He shifts too, letting his head lean lightly against the headrest. 

You both speak again at the same time. 

“What do you do—” 

“Do you always fly nervous—” 

You both laugh, just a soft puff of air and amusement in the dim light. 

“Go ahead,” he says. 

You shake your head. “No, you.” 

He lets his eyes drift toward the window, a soft shrug rolling through his shoulder. “I was just gonna say… you look like you don’t sleep much.” 

That catches you off guard. Your brow creases slightly, but there’s no sting to his words. Just observation. Care, even. 

“Yeah,” you admit. “I guess I haven’t. Not really. Not in a while.” 

His gaze returns to you—warm, thoughtful. “You should.” 

You smile faintly. “So should you.” 

He smirks. “I will. Right here. Got everything I need.” 

The flight levels out and the lights dim further. One by one, the cabin falls into a hush of flickering screens and quiet breathing. His grip on your hand never slackens—not tight, just present, like a tether. 

Eventually, your eyes fall closed. 

His follow not long after. 

When the attendant comes by to check on passengers, she pauses—smiling faintly at the two of you, slouched toward each other, hands still clasped between the seats, asleep above the clouds. 

The plane’s descent is gentle, the soft hum of engines lowering as the city lights begin to twinkle beneath the clouds. Your hand still rests in his, fingers intertwined, and though you’re tired, the closeness keeps a quiet energy alive between you. You glance around the cabin, noticing how the few other passengers steal brief looks your way. Is it just the dim light, or do they seem to recognize him? You blink, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, but the feeling lingers—whispers, soft murmurs, and the faint clicking of a phone camera. 

When the wheels touch down with a smooth thud, he squeezes your hand lightly, a silent reassurance. As the plane taxis to the gate, you both stir, stretching out the sleep from your limbs. You gather your things slowly, the haze of tiredness still wrapped around you like a blanket. 

The moment you step into the terminal, the sensation of attention intensifies. People glance your way, some whispering just loud enough to catch your ear, others sneaking pictures when they think you’re not looking. You’re half-tempted to ask him if they know him, but he just smiles softly, not drawing attention. 

He steps in front of you, lifting your carry-on with an easy grace. “Let me,” he says, his voice low but steady. You nod, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and intrigue. 

By the baggage claim, the noise picks up. A young boy, no older than ten, approaches, tugging at his mother’s sleeve before gathering courage to step forward. “Can I have a picture?” His wide eyes shine with admiration. 

He chuckles, nodding. “Of course, mate.” He crouches down, smiling warmly as the boy’s parents snap a quick photo. 

You watch, puzzled but smiling at the easy way he handles it, the humility that doesn’t demand attention but quietly commands it. 

As you head toward the exit, the crowd grows thicker, flashes bursting like fireflies from outside. You spot several cameras aimed your way before you even reach the doors. He notices your widening eyes and murmurs, “Sorry.” 

Then, without breaking stride, he grabs your hand again, shoving a small, crumpled piece of paper into your palm. “Text me sometime, stranger.” 

You blink, heart skipping. “Wait—what’s your name?” 

He grins when looking back. “Franco.” 

With that, he steps outside, and the air bursts with a chorus of screams and the relentless staccato of cameras. 

You stand frozen, the crumpled paper warm in your hand, a small smile tugging at your lips as the noise fades behind you. 

[1-800-local-slut]

Space Girl

She's out of this world and in his bed! Meet SuperNova, a humanoid alien who loves everything Earth has to offer. And she loves Mark just as much

Mark Grayson x Black! Alien! Reader

Warning: reader and mark break up and get back together, mentions of smut, it's kind of a long one, but all that aside I hope you enjoy and consider sending requests, leaving comments and likes! <3

Note: you're from a planet called Aurelix, it's a peaceful planet but its people are warriors with a gentle temperament. All the people from this planet have glowing eyes, it can be hidden with contacts. It's basically Earth with way better technology and everyone has powers. Also, you can fly and create burst of energy, your powers are cosmic control due to a genetic experiment and yeah that's it, that's all! Eve and Mark don't have feelings for each other here, man stealing is never the move guys

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For as often as he does it, Mark sometimes felt shame for flying. He felt shame for soaring through the air on a regular basis even though it was part of his genetic makeup. Biologically, he should fly. Logically, he should fly with no guilt. He trained to fly, he likes flying. It's more natural to him than walking sometimes. Yet he can never forget why he can fly. Why his body gave him the strength to destroy lives just as easily as he can save them.

At the end of each day, Mark was a Viltrumite. From a race of brutes who use that same flight to take over worlds and murder anyone who objects. No matter how human he was, Mark would always have something evil inside him. A cancer that no amount of treatment could cure.

That shame keeps him human, as much as he wished he didn't feel it. Others from different planet's didn't get it. Full humans definitely wouldn't get it. And you? You didn't even come close to understanding. Not without trying though.

Mark could never forget when he first saw you. It was warm out, nice and airy with just the right amount of breeze flowing. The house next door received new occupants and settled in quickly it seemed. From his bedroom window, which faced your backyard, he saw you.

Flying in a game of tag with your mother and father, chasing each other with water guns. None of that mattered. The sun caught your skin, which seemed to glow under the light and your curly hair was tied into a gorgeous bundle of mini twist that was then wrapped into a ponytail. Pieces escaped on your face, the rest moved behind you with each turn and twist you made against the backdrop of the cotton candy clouds.

Mark wasn't exactly super-duper careful about who saw him flying but he also wasn't flying around in circles with his dad in the backyard. Anyone could've seen but you didn't care. Infact, you laughed as your mother sprayed you in the face with water and you sprayed her back in response. Flying around care free without an ounce of shame or fear for doing something so natural to you. And for a split second he felt a hint of jealousy. You probably weren't from a race of blood thirsty killers.

As your mother and father grew tired, they floated gently back to the ground, and you made your way to the Earth. But not before you glanced his way. Glowing green eyes glanced into his bedroom window, and you smiled curtly before you landed on your feet and skipped inside with your mother and father gleefully chatting about dinner.

That was the first time Mark saw the good in being an alien in a while. He saw the good in flying about carefree, in feeling no shame about being what he is.

The next time he saw you, it was ringing his front doorbell.

It was a relatively quiet day. Mark went for a run, came home, took a nap, even had time to take a shit. His mother called him to get the door from where she was in the house, then he made his way down the steps.

Opening the door, he saw you. You, floating just a bit off the ground with your car keys in hand. You didn't know him. How would you feel if you knew? Knew he was a Viltrumite, knew what atrocities his "people" had committed. Of course you knew, if you were from space. Had they destroyed your home, that's why you came to Earth? Had-

"Hi! Driveway-uh. Your car..." You searched for the next words, still clearly attempting to get a grasp on English. Glancing out behind you, he looked. His mom accidentally blocked you into the driveway.

"Your car is...blocking? Blocking. My car." Despite how you struggled to get the words out, you still beamed with pride at how you were able to get the words out.

"Oh...sorry." He smiled at you, your dark hair made you look like a cherub. No longer in twist but instead manipulated into curls that framed your face and highlighted your beauty. By Earth and space features you were no doubt beautiful.

Awkward silence settled in between you two and you stopped smiling. Tilting your head you floated closer to him and before he knew it your hand was on his shoulder.

"You are sad?" His first instinct was to lie. It was to say no but... What could be the harm in being honest anyways?

"...Just a bit." Looking down at the ground he shrugged and ran his hand over the back of his neck.

"Why?" What, was your planet just filled with nosy Nancy's? But something in his heart pulled. You were from space. You didn't understand the intricacies of humans keeping to themselves yet. And maybe he just needed a listening ear.

"My dad. He did-...he died."

"You lie?"

"What?"

Just then, a woman down the street called your name, followed by speech in a different language. Anyone else would assume it was just a different language from Earth, but Mark knew better. It was of an entirely different language from an entirely different planet. Turning your head, you looked back to your house.

"Goodbye! Oh," You pointed behind you at the driveway and held up your keys. Should you even be driving on Earth?

"Car." You emphasized, shaking at your keys.

"I'll move it." He responded, finishing the thought for you. You smiled, dipped your head like a nod and flew off back to your house.

'You lie?' Your voice replayed in his head. There was no malice, no judging. You just knew. He lied. Someone knew he lied. And as uneasy as it should've made him feel, instead little waves of relief overtook him.

Before long, your English had improved by heaps and bounds. You were fully integrated into human society it seemed, except for your same blunt forward communication but it did little to stop you. For someone so new to Earth, you got hang of a social life pretty easy. Once you started wearing the dark brown contacts gifted to you by your aunt (who Mark later learned had moved to Earth years earlier) and stopped fighting your parents about them every day they finally let you masquerade as a normal girl from Earth.

By your second week at school, you were all anyone talked about. Well, you and...you. More specifically the appearance of the new hero SuperNova. Who was quickly taking over as Chicago's favorite alien superhero.

'Did you see her boots?'

'I need SuperNova to drop her curl routine.'

'She's cute or whatever.'

Flooded the hallways. Unlike most gossip though you flooded his brain. He typically didn't mind gossip. His parents taught him well enough to mind the business that pays him, but you were stuck in his brain. It didn't help that you two were teamed up together so often. And it didn't help that you and Eve were superhero besties. Or that you lived next door to one another, or that your mom and his mom were fast growing friends.

You were a great friend too. You understood him, but part of him was...uncomfortable. You seemed to just know. Everything in his brain, the tight knot of fears and anxieties in his stomach, you were even able to see the weight on his heart. And it made him so uncomfortable that you were more in touch with his feelings than he was.

So, he took to avoiding having actual conversations with you. Maybe not on purpose, perhaps on purpose he isn't fully sure. He knew virtually nothing about you personally. Not your likes, dislikes, foods you avoid and music you loved. Because if he knew, you'd be in his heart too. Along with all those icky feelings that cover him like a wet blanket you would be trapped in his heart. Those types of conversations could only lead to a deeper connection. A deeper friendship and some days Mark knew himself he would need more than that. It wasn't helpful that you were always stuck in his head, he didn't need you in his heart and soul too.

But you knew. Because you always knew. And your people do not believe in hiding feelings.

"Mark?" It was night, you two were flying home after a disturbance downtown.

"Hm?"

"You are scared that if we become closer friends, your true feelings will overtake you. You do not want to let anyone in because of the inherit shame you feel for who you are from and what you are. You are scared because you cannot hide from me. We do not have to be friends if I make you uncomfortable." With such flippancy you read him. Like it didn't matter, like you didn't unravel him with the efficiency of a well-trained therapist.

He literally felt sick. His palms began to sweat under his costume, and chills ran through his entire body. His stomach grumbled and felt like he swallowed a block of ice that was just sitting in his gut. His nervous system didn't know the difference between dealing with his emotions or being held at gunpoint. You kept flying home until you noticed he stopped behind you.

You stopped and slowly floated back to him. Eyes glowing, empty of hurt or malice but there was an underlying kindness. He had rejected you. He rejected getting to know you the way everyone else had, he rejected your friendship because he was afraid. But your eyes were like a door left open. You hadn't shut that door. It was still open for him; all he had to do was open it the rest of the way.

What, did you think you were saving him? That he was helplessly drowning in his own unnecessary shame that he's refusing to deal with while battling his growing crush on you? That he needed saving? Who did you think you were?

"You are fighting yourself. I bear no intention of 'bettering' you. I am saying what I have observed."

...Fuck, could you just get out of his head for two seconds so he could think? You totally didn't just provide him clarity. Definitely not. So why was he flying in the air completely stiff without saying a word?

"I'm hungry. I'm going to go home and eat. We do not have to be friends Mark. The choice is yours. If you are not comfortable with your feelings, then it must be frustrating for someone to try and help you understand before you are ready." You said, patting him lightly on the shoulder before flying away.

Leaving him alone to float over the city while he tried to shove his stupid feelings back down his throat. He wanted to throw them up. To scream out his frustrations and fears and regrets, and how he thinks you're really nice and smart and fun. But he couldn't. And he still couldn't stop thinking about you either.

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How he found himself at your bedroom window he doesn't know. He was in bed one moment, sneaking a glass of wine the next, then floating outside your window watching you slide open the glass and sit on the roof.

Then he was sitting next you on the roof. You were in pajamas, a matching bonnet corresponded with your fluffy robe and was the same color as your pajamas and bed slippers. He sat with you, knees pulled to his chest. The wind ghosted over his exposed feet. Somehow, he felt as if his heart was about to be as naked as his feet considering he didn't put on socks before he flew out of his window like a man possessed.

When would Mark Grayson ever hide from a girl he liked? Not that he only saw you as that. But here you were, kind and accepting. And he was fighting that and holding some fucked up resentment for you in his heart just a bit because he couldn't open up to someone. Not again.

Two aliens sat on the roof of a suburban home on Earth, looking up at the void of space. You were probably looking towards your home planet. Mark was looking for the courage to be honest. Because this wasn't just about you. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he needed to open up to someone. Holding everything in was raising his blood pressure.

You didn't push him to speak. You were just happy he was there, you would've been happy without him. Why did it ease him just a bit to know that you could go on without him? Why was it so nice to not feel like someone is leaning on you with everything they have? More silence until Mark found the courage in one shiny star.

"My dad was actually on Earth in order to conquer it for the Viltrum empire. My entire life I thought Viltrumites were good. But the more I learn, the more I hear about the crimes. The planets they've fucked up, the lives they've destroyed. My dad never even cared about my mom. Since he left it's been up to me to defend Earth. I'm trying to balance everything, and I'm all Earth has left against Viltrum. He destroyed Chicago using my face, and he murdered the Guardians of the Globe, he lied for 20+ years to the entire planet, he tried to get me to join him and I'm just scared that Earth will see me as an extension of him but I'm human and I'm not like him at all I promise, Earth is my home and I just want to keep people safe and I'm not like the other Viltrumites-"

Soft hands covered his. While he talked, he began to spiral and didn't even realize how quickly he was drowning in his own thoughts. Didn't even realize that he was rambling so fast that he hadn't been speaking in sentences but just one long chain of thoughts. You interrupted the long rambling and saved him from sinking down into a dark place in his mind.

"I know."

"What?"

"My planet is not on your peoples list of planets to conquer. It is not possible Mark. We are not scared of Viltrum, we have never hidden or cowered before Viltrum. Our people are long standing enemies by Viltrum's choosing. You do not have to worry about me judging you for what you are. You do not have to explain you are different. I know you are different. If it will ease you, you can continue. But I want to know Mark. Not who you are not."

You did it again. You just swept him clean off his feet also basically just told him Viltrumites weren't shit to you. As if they were so insignificant to your people that Mark being one didn't even matter. Then again there always was a bigger fish.

"How come you aren't ashamed?" It was a genuine question. Mark carries the shame of being a Viltrumite every day that he prefers to keep it to himself. Leaning back on your arms you let out a chuckle and Mark buried his face in his arms that still rested on his knees.

"I have nothing to feel shame for. No matter my race, no matter how people view my species, I am me. I can't change that. I am who I am, I came from where I come from. I know me. And there is beauty in what I am."

A man and woman walked past kissing and giggling while a little girl hopped in front of them playing imaginary hopscotch, and a dog yipped excitedly between them.

You peered over the edge and motioned for Mark to come with you. Together two aliens watched three humans, and a dog partake in what to them was a small unimportant moment, but that little girl may remember this until she dies. In a thousand years would Mark even remember this conversation?

"Humans have such beautiful but short lives. And to them it isn't short, but to us it is. But we are all the same. I like TV, humans like TV. I like living, they like living. I make the most of my life, they make the most of theirs. Do they have time to spend worrying about what those before them of done? Or do they instead live for each day, focusing on what they can do with themselves now? Or do they focus on what they can do with their future knowing they cannot change the past?" Who told you to be so smart.

"A lot of us worry about the past."

"And if that is how you chose to live your lives then that is beautiful! But you do not have to let what other Viltrumites have done define you. You cannot change the past. But you can take steps to better your future. You can take steps to better your people. Or instead, better yourself but you are Mark. You are an...," You search for the word, eyes glancing up to the sky while you searched your brain

"individual! You are an individual and can make whatever choice you want. You can be the Viltrumite who changes things, or you can just be you. But you will be Mark for the next thousands of years you will be living. You do not want to carry shame for something you cannot change." It was like you just flipped on a light switch in his brain. Mark was ashamed over something he could not change. It would take time to go away but still. It can go away. That ugly feeling in his heart was finally able to go away and stop haunting him.

You pulled a blanket out from your bedroom window and tossed it over the two of you after a brush of wind ghosted you two. His feet no longer cold, and you covered his heart and eased his mind like the blanket.

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Having an alien girlfriend was a bit difficult. Mark has been attempting to adjust being open about his feelings, while he taught you the value of allowing him and others the luxury of not needing to talk through every feeling that comes through their heads.

After a few months though, something switched. And while Mark Grayson was flawed, he did know how to be a good boyfriend. But you had made things so easy by making it very clear how you felt at all times.

He knew when you were happy, when you were sad, angry, hungry, horny. You usually just told him. But today you flew into Guardians HQ with a proverbial cloud hovering over you and plopped down beside him with an uncharacteristic scowl. Your eyes were glowing so bright from whatever ailed you that it was like a spotlight beaming from your head, and for the life of him he couldn't figure out what was wrong.

Where you hungry? Tired? A headache? Were you perhaps coming down with something? Could you even get sick? Could he even get sick?

When five minutes passed without you even uttering a word to him, instead just scrolling on your phone and quickly sliding past certain post that seemed to increase your foul mood he realized it was probably best to ask.

"Baby?"

"Hm."

Ouch. Had you ever once scowled at him so hard? You've growled at him before; you've even bit him once on your cycle (or your version of it) but you've never made such a face at him. His pride was happy it was just the two of you in HQ after you both returned from separate missions.

You turned away from him on the couch you were seated on and hugged your knees closer to your chest.

"Are you mad at me?" Slowly he put a hand on your balled up form only for it to be shrugged off. You were so pissed you didn't even want him touching you.

More silence. He heard you shuffle then you straightened out and floated off of the couch. His eyes followed you upwards towards the sky. Hands on your hips, your eyes glowing down at him with tears brimming in your eyes.

"Why did you not tell me you wanted to break up?"

"...I don't want to break up!" The moment it sunk in Mark was floating in the air infront of you. You refused to meet his gaze, arms crossed and turning away from him. You went backwards in an attempt to create distance and Mark found himself floating forwards in an attempt to lessen the distance between you two.

"What's going on? Baby?" His nervous system couldn't tell the difference between you saying that and being shot. The air felt cold and heavy and the nerves in his stomach made him have to shit. You were still refusing to look at him as his hands searched for you while you dodged.

"You do not care about me. You do not care about us."

"Of course I care about you. Of course I care about us!"

"You have a very amusing way of showing it." You shoved him back, as if you just noticed how close he had gotten to you despite your avoidance. A streak of light remained as you flew out of one of the open windows. Dammit, why did they always leave windows open for their flying heroes? Although it was helpful Mark, didn't need it when his girlfriend was talking about breaking up with him and using those open windows to escape him.

By the time he flew out of the window to see if he could convince you to talk about this, you were long gone. The telltale streak of color the remains when you fly was even gone from the sky.

By the time he got home, and talked to his mom it was well past dinner time. Usually, you'd be heading home to eat with your family like you always do on a weeknight. Or you'd be flying home together like you often do late at night because that's when evil seems to emerge. Instead, there was no you.

You weren't cuddled beside him; you weren't conversing with him about the first season of Seance Dog that he was trying not to spoil for you, you two weren't holding hands in a comfortable silence, you weren't there for him to playfully tease or for him to excitedly ramble at.

Once again, he found himself at your window. Well actually your front door. Your window was locked, curtains drawn. A message, telling him to piss off, a saying you enjoyed since you learned it. He thinks your love of swearing is adorable, no matter how many times you say 'motherfucker' in a day. But he couldn't just let you think he didn't care. If he didn't care, he'd be at home fast asleep.

He settled for the old fashioned way. He rang your doorbell and waited with baited breath for someone to open the door. Instead, your mother opened the door and stood towering over Mark. Her eyes glowed nowhere near as intense as yours did hours ago. The glowing eyeballs raked him over, as distaste settled over her features.

"Goodnight, I'm sorry to bother you so late but is-"

"My child does not cry easily."

"Uh, excuse me?"

"My child, was the top warrior in her school. She is ranked across the planet for her skills, she could've become the next leader of our entire planet. She is smart. She is kind, she makes good choices. Most of all she is strong. We left our home planet, she had to start the journey to living amongst humans against her will. Not once did she break. She does not cry easily."

Silence as her eyes began to glow a more intense color.

"You made my child cry." Then the door shut. But for a moment, he saw you. Laying on the couch, your father patted your hooded head. Covered in Mark's hoodie that he gifted you and you hugged yourself close.

He stood there on your porch; through the door he heard your parents comforting you in your own language and he recognized the few words you taught him.

'Mama, what do I do?'

Fuck, what did he even do?

He never realized how much he would miss your honesty. Mark knew it was something he loved about you, but sometimes it could be a bit difficult. You were always in his head. You just always knew and after months of dating, he was still a bit freaked out. You knew him better than he knew himself.

After a year-

The porch was dark, Mark had been in the dark all day about what had you so enraged with him. But finally the light turned on in his brain and he never felt so stupid. A wind blew over him, like the truth that revealed itself to him.

Today had been a year since you two had gotten together. Lifting off, he made his way to his own roof and planted his bottom firmly on the spot he so often sat on. And he thought back over the year.

You helped him sort himself out for a year. You planned your six month anniversary. You planned his birthday party. You reminded him when Valentine's Day was approaching. You helped him plan a birthday party for his mother. You made him dinner the best you could when you got the hang of Earth cooking. You saved him from countless battles, you encouraged him to keep his head up. Even after a devastating loss, you encouraged him to keep his head up. He couldn't remember one day.

You even told him it would be nice if he planned something for once. And he couldn't remember one day.

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His mom tore him a new one, but it was nothing compared to you. You became more like an Earth girl with each passing day, evident by how you'd been giving him the cold shoulder for four days now. Even gossip articles picked up on it.

'Invincible and SuperNova split?'

'SuperNova snubs Invincible after battle!'

Instagram was clowning him. Evident by the comments William was reading out loud to him as they sat in the car with Amber and Eve during lunch. Also, the meme going around of him edited as Art the Clown. They dubbed him 'Invinciclown"

"Oh man this ones funny, 'bro fumbled a baddie', 'SUPERNOVA ONE CHANCE PLEASE!!!', 'Omniman knocked the game out bro', 'The fumble needs to be studied'. Lesbians have also never been happier since you're out of the picture."

"Honestly the entire LGBT community has been praying for your breakup." Amber chimed from the back, scrolling through edits on her phone.

"Look at this."

"NO WAY SOMEONE MADE A BREAKUP EDIT!" Eve yelled, hands dramatically on her head. The internet decided it was over already.

"We aren't broken up. I'm not out of any picture." Mark sulked, head pressed against the glass.

"What's it like being emo and delusional?" Eve snickered, leaning back.

"That's not hot Mark." William added, making dramatic gestures with his hands.

"You're not Paris Hilton. And we aren't broken up. She's mad at me."

"Okay but why is she mad at you? She's been ducking you for almost a week now. She doesn't even duck fades and she's avoiding you." Always sympathetic Eve brought reason back to the car.

"...I forgot our one year anniversary."

....

"The fumble really does need to be studied."

"One year...yeah man she needs to break up with you, that's ghetto as hell."

"I tried saying sorry, but she doesn't want to talk to me! She fought a Kaiju and Doc Seismic on her own before she chose to speak to me. She almost got eaten and literally chose to handle that before talking to me."

"Well, she's tired of spelling everything out for you. What have you actually planned for her that's important? Answer quickly." Amber responded. When was her foot not on Mark's neck?

He couldn't even answer slowly because you typically spell everything out for him.

"Okay but what do I do?"

"Give up?" Eve suggested.

"Accept defeat?" William offered.

"Die because of how bad you dropped the bag?" Amber added her advice.

"Guys I love this girl; can we be serious?" The words came from the depths of his heart. Then silence filled the car again.

"YOU'RE IN LOVE WITH HER?"

He was in love with you. He was in love with you and was sitting in a car with his friends while you, the woman he loves, was somewhere. You weren't with him at lunch because he pissed you off so bad you didn't even want to try and communicate.

"I gotta go."

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"Why are you in my bedroom?" You asked, rolling over in your bed and eyeing the man sitting on your bed.

"You haven't been talking to me." Mark figured out pretty quickly where you were when you didn't return back to school. He spent the rest of lunch looking all over the city for you, saw you didn't show up to your trigonometry class and figured you just blew off the rest of the school day. So, he did the only thing his crazy and stupid heart could think of. Because Mark is crazy over you. Even though it took disgustingly long for him to lock in and act like it.

You pulled your covers back up to your chest and rolled back onto your side.

"I do not need to talk to you. You are my ex boyfriend. I do not need to be friends with my ex boyfriend." Did you just stab him and twist the knife? But he had to push on. Because this was not about him. This wasn't about making him feel better, it was time Mark showed you how much he cared.

It was time to be brave, but this was scarier than any battle he'd ever been in.

"...I'm sorry I forgot our anniversary."

"I am sorry that you think that means anything to me four days later."

Okay you were not having it with him.

"You don't want to be with me anymore?"

You tossed the blanket over and sat up. You looked at him and the back of his brain wondered how long you'd been home. You were in a fitted tank top, pajama pants, makeup gone, contacts removed, and your hair gently placed under your bonnet.

"I want to be with someone who cares for me. You do not want to be with me. You have shown me that you do not care for me the way I care for you. I have my struggles. I have my burdens. I have carried your burdens and mine for the past year. I do not put these on you. I ask that you take care of me the way I attempt to take care of you. I asked one thing of you Mark Grayson. You did not do the one thing I asked of you, Mark Grayson." Then you flopped back down on the sheets as if holding eye contact with him was killing you. He cracked, eyes watering and voice cracking.

"I'm sorry. I am sorry baby, I am. I know you needed someone, and I am that someone for you. I didn't mean to let you down. I was so used to you knowing everything already that I forgot that everyone needs someone. And I need you, I can't live without you." He drew closer to you. Mark was absolutely begging. Because you taught him better than to hide his feelings and hiding them right now would only make things worse.

"Things shouldn't come to this extreme for me to realize that and I'm sorry. I...I love you." And with that you shot straight up in the bed. You were staring at him with curious eyes.

"You...love me?"

Mark swallowed thickly, and he blinked away tears. He took his hands in yours, ignoring the way you raised your eyebrow. You didn't yank your hands away, a good sign?

"I love you. I love you. Not just what you do for me, not just how you look. I love you." He breathed. Your eyes filled with tears, and Mark brung his forehead to yours. His heartbeat slowed; the world stopped spinning for a moment. Your heartbeat matched his.

"It is against my customs to forgive you. On my planet, I would be expected to leave you and never look back. You have made a grave error, you have failed to value you me the way I should’ve been all along.”

He swallowed thickly, eyes trained on his hands holding yours.

"But I am not on my planet. And you are sorry. I see your heart, you intend to improve. And I love you. So, against everything I know, I forgive you Mark." It came out in a whisper.

"You forgive me?" His voice was hoarse, from the crying and disbelief.

"I forgive you." Eyes finally met and he saw tears running down your cheeks.

"You love me?" Your lips drew closer to his and he found his knees weakening.

"I love you."

[dreamersworldduh]

BEYOND THE PAST

• CONNER KENT x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — You and Conner Kent are mysteriously pulled through time by your future son, Casey Kent, and arrive at a rebuilt Mount Justice. There, you encounter the next generation of heroes—the children of your former teammates—and a future shaped by your legacy, one you haven't even begun to live.

WARNING! FLUFF. Male Pregnancy.

WORDS! 9.2k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Okay, here we are with part 2 of this series that I almost attempted to purse a series on Wattpad. Anyway, sorry for the wait—enjoy your reading✨🫶🏽

PREVIOUS PART! — THE STARS

NEXT PART! — THE FUTURE

YOU AND Conner stood frozen, eyes locked on the young man in front of you—Casey Kent, your supposed son. The weight of his words echoed in your mind, refusing to settle, refusing to feel real. The world around you felt oddly still, as if even the air in the futuristic Mount Justice had paused to process what had just been revealed.

Shock didn't even begin to describe what you were feeling.

Disbelief sat heavy in your chest, your pulse pounding in your ears. Denial should've been your first reaction. It was your first reaction, bubbling up instinctively because nothing about this made sense—time travel, future children, a grown man standing here calling you 'Dad'.

But then there was his face.

The shape of his jaw, the curve of his brow, the hair that curled slightly at the ends just like Conner's did when it got too long. His stance, his energy, the calm intensity in his gaze—it all screamed Kent. But it was his eyes, glowing faintly with the same cosmic shimmer as yours, that made something deep in your chest tighten.

He wasn't lying. He couldn't be.

You and Conner exchanged a glance, neither of you speaking, but both clearly grappling with the same thought:

Could this really be our son?

Casey took a small step forward, reading the disbelief in your faces with understanding. His voice, when he spoke again, was calm but sure, steady like someone who had prepared for this exact moment.

"I know this is a lot to take in. Believe me, I've had years to think about how this meeting might go." He gave a faint smile, though it was lined with something almost sad. "You're both still trying to figure out how any of this is possible. So... let me explain."

You and Conner remained silent, waiting—watching—as Casey folded his arms and took a breath.

"You've been brought twenty-five years into the future," he said, gesturing around the high-tech room. "This is Mount Justice—rebuilt after the war. A lot's changed, but this place is still home. For me. For the next generation. For you... eventually."

Your brows furrowed, but you didn't interrupt. The mention of a war raised alarms in your mind, but you stored that away, for now.

Casey continued. "I didn't use a time machine, or a speedster's help. The kind of time travel I used—it's... magical. Purely." He paused, eyes glinting slightly. "Zatanna helped me. Or rather, future Zatanna. It was risky, but we didn't have a choice. Something's happening in your time that could change everything—including whether or not we're ever born."

"We?" Conner finally spoke, his voice still low, controlled, but laced with suspicion. "There's more of you?"

Casey nodded, his expression softening. "Yeah. I'm the oldest. You'll have four kids in total—me, and my younger siblings: Corra, Cole, and Cameron."

You sucked in a slow breath, your body still trying to process one impossible thing before being handed four more.

Casey chuckled gently at your stunned expression, rubbing the back of his neck. "I know. It sounds wild. But it's true. We were all born from the two of you. Raised at Mount Justice. Trained with the League, the Team... the next generation of heroes."

He looked at both of you now, with a kind of reverence in his gaze. "You were incredible parents. Strict sometimes, yeah—but you taught us how to be strong, how to be better. You loved us fiercely. We grew up watching how much you loved each other."

His words hit like a quiet storm, spreading warmth and weight across your chest. You hadn't even wrapped your head around the idea of having a baby in your timeline, and now here was the future standing in front of you—grown, articulate, and impossibly real.

And he wasn't just proof of your future. He was hope.

But beneath that hope, a flicker of dread sparked. If he was here now, twenty-five years before his own birth... what exactly was he trying to stop?

As if reading your thoughts, Casey's expression shifted. The warmth and familiarity that had flickered across his face moments ago faded, replaced by a much colder seriousness. He folded his arms over his chest and let out a quiet breath, his tone dropping into something more measured.

"The man who attacked you—he's not from your time either," he said. "He came through the same kind of rift I did, though we still don't fully understand how he managed to pull it off. His presence in your timeline is... dangerous. Unstable."

Your chest tightened. You exchanged a quick glance with Conner, who remained stoic at your side but tense, his jaw clenched and his fists flexing at his sides.

"Who is he?" you asked, your voice low, wary. "What does he want with us?"

Casey's gaze hardened. "We don't know much. He's elusive. Off the grid, even in our time. But we know one thing for sure—his name."

He paused for a beat, then said it: "Olympian."

The name hit the air like a cold gust of wind.

"Olympian?" Conner repeated, the word rolling from his tongue with suspicion. "Sounds like some wannabe god."

Casey gave a dry, humorless smirk. "Yeah. That's kind of the point. He sees himself as something greater. He draws power from something ancient—some believe it's a corrupted form of cosmic and divine energy, others think he was born in a lab like you, Dad. But no one's been able to confirm the truth. He operates in shadows, moves across timelines, and his agenda..."

He shook his head.

"All we know is that he has a vendetta. A deep one. Not just against the League or the Team, but specifically against our family."

Your stomach sank.

"Me?" you asked quietly.

Casey nodded slowly. "You've always been his focus. For years now. We don't know what ties him to you, or why it's so personal, but he's made it clear—you're the one he wants. You're the one he's been trying to get to. But since he can't reach you in our time—either because of the protections around our timeline or something else—we became the targets instead."

Your breath caught. "You mean... your siblings."

Casey's jaw clenched. "Corra, Cole, Cameron. He's tried to go after all of us at different points. He's calculating. Brutal. But always just out of reach, always hitting and vanishing before we could catch him. We never knew when or where he'd strike next."

You could feel Conner tense beside you, his protective instincts kicking in the second he realized his children—his future—had been threatened.

"But now," Casey continued, "something changed. Somehow, Olympian found a way to get around the safeguards. To go back—way back. To your time. To you."

The weight of that landed like a punch to the chest.

"So now he's not just targeting the future anymore," you muttered. "He's here. In our time. Coming after us directly."

Casey's eyes met yours. "We don't know how long he'll stay hidden, or what his next move is, but one thing is certain—he's not going to stop. Not until he gets to you."

The room fell quiet again, the hum of distant technology the only sound.

"He's not just hunting you," Casey added after a beat. "He's hunting your legacy. And now that he's here, everything is at risk."

You swallowed hard, your hand instinctively resting against your abdomen, where your future had only just begun. The gravity of it all settled into your bones.

Olympian wasn't just a threat to your life.

He was a threat to everything you and Conner had yet to build.

Conner's voice broke the heavy silence that had fallen over the room, rough around the edges but steady, the kind of tone he only used when something was bothering him deep down. He had been quiet ever since Casey mentioned Olympian targeting your children—his children. His mind was clearly spinning, caught between the reality of what was happening now and the impossible weight of what this future could become.

He took a small step forward, his brows pulled together in thought. When he finally spoke, his voice was low.

"What about... us?" He glanced briefly at you, then looked back to Casey. "In the future. Where are we?"

Casey's expression changed instantly.

A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face—grief, restraint, nostalgia, maybe all three tangled into one complicated emotion. He glanced away for a moment, his shoulders tense, the weight of the question visibly sinking into him. When he looked back, he met Conner's eyes and forced a small, bittersweet smile.

"You live in Smallville," Casey said gently. "In the farmhouse. The one you grew up in with Ma Kent. It's... still there. You kept it all these years after Uncle Clark moved to Metropolis with Lois and Jon."

The words landed with a kind of quiet finality. You could practically see the memory forming in Conner's mind—the creaking wood floors, the scent of baked pie, the open fields stretching for miles, untouched by time. Smallville. Of course it would be Smallville. It was the one place that had always grounded him.

"That's where I grew up," Casey added, his voice softening. "You raised us there. It was safe. Peaceful. You kept us close to the land, away from the chaos when you could. You taught us how to fight, sure—but you also taught us how to live. You taught us what mattered."

Conner's eyes dropped to the floor, jaw flexing slightly, clearly caught between pride and guilt. Pride that he'd raised a family like that... guilt that he couldn't yet understand what led him there. What would lead you both there.

Then, Conner asked the next question—the one you had been quietly dreading ever since Casey first appeared.

"What about him?" Conner asked quietly, his eyes drifting to you now. "What about... him?"

Casey's gaze shifted. You watched as his mouth parted slightly, as if he had prepared for this moment, maybe even rehearsed it in his mind a thousand times. But no words came. He opened his mouth again, then closed it, his jaw tightening. The shimmer in his eyes shifted, not glowing with cosmic energy this time, but something much more human.

Grief.

He couldn't speak. He looked at you for a long moment, and you saw it written plainly on his face.

You understood. Immediately.

It was the way his expression faltered, the way he clenched his fists, the way his gaze dropped as if meeting your eyes would make it all too real. He didn't have to say it. You knew what he was trying to avoid saying. What he couldn't bring himself to put into words.

You reached out instinctively, gently resting a hand on his arm. He didn't flinch. He didn't pull away. He simply exhaled—a slow, trembling breath—and gave the faintest shake of his head.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

You nodded once, trying to keep your own expression steady. You didn't press him. There was no need. The silence between you said it all.

Conner looked between the two of you, his features hardening with the realization. His jaw tensed, and he turned away for a moment, letting the truth sink in. You could feel the shift in him, that familiar storm of protectiveness and pain brewing just under the surface.

The truth was clear. In the future Casey came from, you were gone.

But your legacy—your children, your strength, your love—remained.

And now, in this time, you had a chance to protect all of it before anything could take it away.

The corridor leading to the mission room was bathed in soft, ambient light, humming with the quiet energy of advanced tech. You walked beside Conner, still trying to absorb the sheer reality of everything Casey had told you. The weight of his revelations pressed against your chest like a second skin—about the future, your children, and the war you had yet to witness.

Casey walked a few steps ahead, his cloak swaying as he led you and Conner through the gleaming hallways of the rebuilt Mount Justice. Every inch of the base had been upgraded—sleek metal walls lined with embedded light panels, holographic directories, and clear glass doors that shimmered as they slid open with a whisper.

But the mission room ahead still gave you a familiar feeling. It had the same general structure—round table in the center, chairs arranged in a circle, and the large wall display you remembered from your own time. The energy of the space, though modernized, still buzzed with purpose.

As the doors parted, you stepped in, and immediately all eyes in the room turned toward you.

There were six young heroes gathered at the table, clearly in the middle of a briefing, until your sudden entrance drew their full attention. Each of them wore a uniform representing their lineage—familiar emblems worn in bold new styles, the next generation of the Team.

Standing at the head of the table, aged but powerful in presence, was Nightwing.

His once jet-black hair was streaked with silver at the temples, but his stance was strong, sharp as ever. The iconic black and blue uniform had evolved, now bearing a sleek, high-collared design and a digital gauntlet on his left arm. But even beneath the armor and the years, that unmistakable calm authority still radiated from him.

When his piercing blue eyes landed on you and Conner, his expression shifted from stern focus to something else—surprise, followed quickly by recognition.

He stepped forward slightly, his voice roughened by age but still confident.

"Well, I'll be damned..." he muttered under his breath.

You opened your mouth to greet him, but the younger heroes were already reacting.

One of them, a girl with vibrant reddish-pink hair tied in a braid and wearing a sleek black-and-violet suit with glowing orange accents, stood up quickly. She had Starfire's fierce eyes and Nightwing's calculated poise—clearly their daughter. Her gaze bounced between you, Conner, and Casey, curiosity flaring.

Next to her sat a lean boy with wind-swept blond hair, wearing a golden and green suit, a stylized arrow symbol on his chest. His green eyes narrowed with interest, and you didn't need anyone to tell you—he was the son of Artemis and Wally. The confident smirk on his face was pure West.

Across the table were twin girls in matching uniforms, sleek ocean-blue with bioluminescent white detailing. Their red hair was tied back in tight buns, and their eyes glowed faintly—echoes of both M'gann and Lagoon Boy. The bond between them was clear even from a glance, their body language almost synchronized.

Standing near the back was a quiet, contemplative teen with olive skin and sharp, intelligent eyes. His outfit was a deep navy, adorned with arcane sigils across the arms and chest—his aura practically shimmered with latent magic. You felt a twist of recognition in your chest. He was the son of Zatanna and Dick Grayson, an heir to both combat and sorcery.

And finally, leaning casually with arms crossed, stood a broad-shouldered young man with deep brown skin and piercing dark eyes. His uniform was black and gold, trimmed with the markings of Atlantis and the sigil of the former king—Aqualad's son.

The room, moments ago full of discussion and strategy, had fallen into silence. They stared, not rudely, but with something close to reverence—like they had just stepped into the past, face-to-face with living legends.

Casey broke the silence.

"Everyone," he said, stepping aside, "I'd like you to meet my parents... from before it all started. From the past."

He looked back at you with a soft smile.

"This is my father—" He gestured to Conner, then you.

"And my pa."

There was a long pause, the gravity of the moment settling over everyone.

Nightwing let out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh, walking forward. His smile was weathered but genuine.

"Welcome to the future," he said. "Looks like it found you whether you were ready or not."

It was strange—surreal, even—to stand in this space and be greeted not by your teammates, but by the next generation, the children of the people you once fought beside. Their faces held echoes of those you knew, and their energy hummed with the potential of everything you and Conner had once fought to protect.

Casey stepped forward, his expression filled with pride, yet undercut by a thread of reverence as he gestured toward the table, where the young heroes stood attentively.

"I figured it's only right you meet them properly," he said, glancing back at you with that warm, familiar smile—the one that made it impossible to deny he was yours.

You nodded, still a little breathless, your hand unconsciously resting over your abdomen, the place where your future—his future—had only just begun.

Conner, meanwhile, lingered for only a moment longer before his eyes shifted toward the back of the room where Dick wondered to, hands clasped behind his back.

As Casey began the introductions, Conner slowly made his way toward him, and you could see Dick's sharp eyes soften as they met Conner's. The two men held each other's gaze for a long second—like they were seeing ghosts, and maybe in a way, they were.

Casey motioned toward the first young woman—the one with the vibrant reddish-pink hair and the proud stance that reminded you so strongly of both fire and steel.

"This is Korya Grayson," Casey said. "Nightwing and Starfire's daughter. She's the field strategist for our squad, and probably the best flier out of all of us. Her Tamaranean side makes her a powerhouse, but don't let the fire fool you—she's calculated. Quiet strength."

Korya offered a respectful nod, her golden eyes studying you with a mix of awe and curiosity. You smiled, recognizing that spark in her gaze—the same sharp glint you'd seen so many times in Dick's.

Casey moved to the boy with the golden-and-green suit, his wind-tousled hair and smirk giving away his lineage before he even spoke.

"This is Ezra West, son of Artemis and Wally," Casey said, a hint of fond exasperation in his voice. "Fastest mouth on the planet and second-fastest feet. He inherited his dad's speed and his mom's attitude. Keeps us on our toes."

Ezra gave a cheeky wave. "Pretty wild to meet you before I even exist. Time travel is so weird."

You couldn't help but chuckle softly at that.

Casey turned to the twin girls standing just to the side of the table, their ocean-blue suits practically glowing under the light.

"Mira and May'al M'orzz, daughters of M'gann and Lagoon Boy. Telepathy, density-shifting, and emotional projection. They're always in sync, even when they pretend they're not. Mira leads with empathy, May'al with instinct."

The twins gave identical nods, their expressions calm but welcoming. You could feel the psychic flicker of curiosity coming from one of them—just a gentle touch, respectful, nothing invasive.

Then Casey stepped toward the teen cloaked in magic, his dark hair slightly curled, his fingers unconsciously brushing one of the glowing sigils on his forearm.

"This is Zahir Grayson, son of Zatanna and Dick." Casey's tone shifted slightly, more reverent here. "He's a walking library of magical knowledge. Z taught him everything she could. He's grounded, but you don't want to see him when the gloves come off."

Zahir nodded politely, his voice quiet but sure. "It's an honor to meet you. Both of you."

And finally, Casey gestured to the tall Atlantean teen with the black-and-gold armor, who had watched you the entire time with sharp, observant eyes.

"This is Kei'lan, son of King Kaldur'ahm. He's got the training of Atlantis and the spirit of the Team. Doesn't talk much—but when he does, you listen."

Kei'lan offered a respectful bow of the head, his deep voice smooth but serious. "I've heard many stories about you. None of them do justice to what I'm seeing now."

You gave him a nod of respect in return, humbled by his words.

As Casey finished the introductions, you glanced to your right, where Conner now stood face-to-face with Dick.

They weren't saying anything at first, just standing there in that heavy silence that needed no words. Then finally, Dick let out a quiet breath.

"It's been a long time," he said.

Conner's voice was softer than you expected. "You're older than I imagined."

Dick smiled faintly, his eyes flicking toward you. "And he look just like I remember him."

There was something unspoken in that moment, something heavy with shared grief, with the memory of the years between this moment and the ones that hadn't happened yet.

"Dick," Conner voiced, making the older man look at him. "I need to know what happened."

Dick finally looked at him. His blue eyes had a tiredness in them—older, yes, but deeper than just years. It was the kind of tired that only came from loss.

"We shouldn't talk about it," Nightwing said. "You shouldn't know yet."

Conner stepped forward, his tone hardening. "I have a son—four kids, Dick. I just found out about Casey a few days ago. Then I get time-traveled 25 years into the future and find out he's not the only one. We have three more. Corra. Cole. Cameron." His voice cracked slightly. "And none of them... have him."

Nightwing looked away again, his silence thicker than any wall.

Conner pressed on, the emotions bubbling just beneath the surface. "I've got future children looking at me like I'm their anchor, and their father— because—their Pa—isn't there anymore. The version of me in this time doesn't have the love of his life by his side. He's raising them alone." He took a shaky breath. "I need to know why."

Dick still didn't respond.

"And on top of that," Conner continued, almost growling, "some lunatic with god-like powers is hellbent on killing him. We don't know why, we don't know how, but he's already started by attacking our kids."

That seemed to finally break through.

Dick exhaled and rubbed his face, the tension in his shoulders clear. When he looked back at Conner, he seemed older than ever.

"It wasn't supposed to happen that way," Nightwing murmured. "None of it was."

"Then tell me," Conner said. "Please."

Nightwing hesitated for a long time. But finally, he turned away from the window and faced him directly.

"It was during the invasion," he began quietly. "Twelve years ago, the war with Darkseid happened."

Conner's eyes widened slightly, but he remained still.

"It wasn't just another battle," Dick continued. "It was the battle. Earth had been holding the line for years, but Darkseid finally came himself. No proxies, no parademons—it was him. Full force." He swallowed hard. "And your partner—he was the one who stepped up."

A chill ran down Conner's spine.

"We were losing," Dick said. "The League, the Team... nothing was stopping him. But your partner—he accessed something none of us had seen before. Something deeper in his cosmic power. A frequency... a kind of energy beyond anything we understood. I don't know if it was instinct, or desperation, but it worked."

He looked down, voice lower.

"He fought Darkseid. One-on-one. And he won."

Conner's breath caught.

"But it cost him." Dick's gaze lifted. "He was gone before any of us could even reach him. Vaporized in the sky, consumed by his own power. His energy tore through the battlefield like a second sun. It saved us. It ended the war." His jaw clenched. "And it broke the family he left behind."

Conner stood still, jaw trembling. He blinked rapidly, but no tears fell. Not yet.

Nightwing looked him square in the eyes. "You want to know why the future you is the way he is? Why your kids carry this weight? It's because they grew up with a legacy, not a father. They never heard his laugh, never saw the way he looked at you. They only know the stories." He shook his head. "And they loved him anyway."

Conner nodded slowly, his throat tight. "I'm not going to let that happen."

"I know," Dick replied softly. "That's why you're here."

The two men stood in silence, the weight of fate between them. And just down the hall, unaware of the truth that had just been spoken aloud, you stood surrounded by the next generation—smiling, unaware of the moment that would one day define your legacy.

Unaware of the price you'd pay for it.

THE TENSE moment was broken by the sudden hum and flash of the Zeta Tubes activating. A sharp, familiar chime echoed through the sleek metal corridors of the mission room, drawing everyone's attention.

Your head turned instinctively, the muscle memory still there after years of field missions and unexpected arrivals. Conner's body tensed beside you—not with fear, but with that same sharp edge of readiness he'd always carried when the unexpected walked through the door.

Out from the swirling light stepped a group of figures, all of them dressed in full gear. And though they wore new suits—refined, upgraded, more advanced than the ones you remembered—you recognized most of them almost immediately.

Just... older.

The first to emerge stood tall in regal red and gold armor, a tiara gleaming on her forehead, a lasso clipped at her side. Wonder Girl—Cassie Sandsmark—was no longer just the eager, bold young woman you once led into battle. She had grown into her title, and it was clear just by the way she carried herself. Now she was Wonder Woman, in every sense of the name. Her presence filled the room like a crashing wave—confident, commanding, unstoppable.

Beside her, in a sleek, black and red uniform with high-tech gauntlets and a tattered cloak trailing behind him, was Red Robin—Tim Drake. His eyes were sharper now, his expression more weathered, carrying the weight of too many secrets. His cowl was down, but the lines on his face told a story of battles won, and battles lost.

Just behind him, stepping casually out of the tube but scanning the room with a practiced speed, was Blue Beetle. Jaime Reyes. His armor looked more alien now than ever, etched with neon blue glyphs that pulsed as he moved. His eyes locked on you for a moment, widening just slightly in recognition before narrowing again—processing.

Then came a blur of red and white, slowing just enough to reveal a face that hadn't changed as much as the others—though the youthful glow had been replaced by experience and responsibility. Impulse—or rather, The Flash now. Bart Allen. His suit was sleeker, aerodynamic, the lightning bolt insignia sharp across his chest. And though he still carried that spark of enthusiasm in his eyes, there was something heavier behind it.

Static followed next, his coat flaring as he stepped onto the platform, electricity crackling lightly at his fingertips. His dreadlocks were longer now, streaked with silver at the ends, and his shoulders had broadened with age and command. He greeted a few of the young heroes with nods, familiarity in his movements.

Beast Boy walked in at a slower pace, his green skin now darker, his uniform more practical than playful. His expression was more solemn than you remembered, though he gave a faint smile in your direction—tinged with disbelief.

But it was the last figure who made you and Conner both stop dead in your tracks.

He stepped through with the confident weight of someone used to being watched, his cape sweeping behind him, tall and sharp in a black armored Batsuit. For a moment, your heart skipped a beat.

Batman.

But then he spoke.

"Report," he said, voice gravelled and steady, but not Bruce.

Your eyes widened slightly as your gaze swept over him—same bearing, same cape, same silhouette. But something was off. His frame was a bit leaner than Bruce's, his movements more fluid, and then you caught it. The jawline. The eyes. The presence that mirrored Bruce's, but with a precision that was more blade than shadow.

Damian.

Conner muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. "Wait... that's not Bruce."

You took a half step forward, your voice quiet with realization. "It's Damian."

Casey stepped in beside you, nodding. "He took up the cowl a few years ago. Bruce passed it to him before stepping down. Officially retired."

Your eyes lingered on Damian—Batman now—as he moved toward the others with surgical calm, engaging with the future Team leaders, speaking in low tones with Dick. But he didn't look at you. Not yet.

The feeling that crept into your chest was complex—nostalgia mixed with disorientation. These were your friends, your peers, your family. But they had grown, evolved, stepped into the roles you had only ever seen as distant futures.

Now they stood before you, a reflection of everything that would be.

And yet, here you were, still from a time where the world hadn't yet shattered. Where the future still hovered just beyond reach.

And every one of them was looking at you and Conner like you were ghosts

THE ROOM fell into a strange silence as the newly arrived heroes stood motionless, their eyes locked on you and Conner with expressions ranging from awe to outright disbelief. You could feel the weight of their gazes—each one of them seeing someone they hadn't laid eyes on in decades, someone they had believed was long gone, lost to time and sacrifice.

Wonder Woman—Cassie—was the first to break from her stunned expression. Her golden bracers caught the light as she stepped forward, her voice soft but laced with emotion. "It's really you..." she murmured. "You're—you're alive."

Tim—Red Robin—stood just behind her, his analytical gaze sweeping over you like a scanner, taking in every detail. "He's younger," Tim muttered, eyes narrowing slightly. "Both of them are. That's not the Conner from our time either."

"No," Bart—The Flash now—added with a blink. "They're from the past. Their biometrics, heart rates, aura frequencies... everything is younger. Before... everything happened."

You could see the emotion trying to crack through their composed faces. For them, this was like seeing ghosts return to life. You and Conner weren't just teammates or friends—you had been family. And for those who had carried your memory forward, seeing you now—untouched by time, unaware of your own future—was too much to fully comprehend.

Beast Boy took a slow step forward, his voice low and uncertain. "How is this even possible? He's been gone for decades. You—" he looked directly at you, and his throat tightened, "—you died."

Static folded his arms, electricity flickering faintly around his fingers. "There's no way this doesn't cause a paradox."

More murmurs echoed among them, confusion thick in the air.

But it was Batman—Damian Wayne—who spoke next, his tone sharp and coldly precise. "Casey." He didn't raise his voice, but the weight behind it sliced through the conversation like a blade. "You brought them here."

Everyone turned to Casey, who stood calmly beside you and Conner, seemingly unfazed by the intensity of the reactions around him. But you could see the tension in his shoulders, the careful way he held himself, like he was ready for the backlash.

"I did," Casey said evenly.

"You pulled them from the past," Damian pressed, stepping forward, his cape sweeping behind him. "Without League sanction. Without Zeta clearance. Without any temporal stabilization protocols. Do you have any idea what kind of damage you've done to the timeline?"

Casey remained composed, but the room tensed around them.

"I know exactly what I did," he replied, voice steady. "And I'd do it again."

Damian's scowl deepened. "You jeopardized everything we've built—everything they gave their lives for—because you wanted a reunion?"

"It's not about me," Casey snapped, and for the first time, his voice cracked, the pain breaking through the composure. "It was never about me."

He stepped forward, placing himself squarely between you, Conner, and the rest of the gathered heroes.

"Olympian is here. In their time. We don't know how he did it, but he found a way back—before all the safeguards, before the defenses, before the League had prepared for his kind of threat." Casey's eyes moved across the room. "If he kills him—" he gestured to you, "—he erases all of us. Me. Corra. Cole. Cameron. We'll never be born. And this version of Earth—everything you've built here—might not survive what comes next."

A heavy silence followed.

Casey looked directly at Damian. "I didn't do this for sentiment. I did it because we're losing. We've been on the defensive for years. And you know as well as I do that we've been missing something—someone."

His voice softened as he turned toward you.

"We need him," Casey said quietly. "We need them."

Damian didn't respond at first. His gaze lingered on you, unreadable behind the stoicism that defined him. But you could see it—the tightness in his jaw, the way his fingers flexed at his side. He remembered you. He'd mourned you.

Finally, he stepped back.

"The damage is done," Batman said. "We can't send them back now, not without destabilizing the timeline further. Which means they're here—for now."

Everyone in the room seemed to take that as their cue to breathe again, the tension beginning to ease just slightly.

You looked to Casey, who exhaled deeply, the burden of his decision still pressing down on him, but his conviction unwavering.

"I know what's at stake," he said quietly. "But I'd rather risk the future... than lose the people who gave us one."

The familiar hum of the Zeta-Tube filled the air again, followed by the artificial voice announcing another incoming arrival. Heads turned instinctively toward the portal as the light shimmered and coalesced into form.

"Zeta-Tube activation: designation C-88, Corra Kent."

Before the light had fully faded, a young woman stepped through the glowing arch—tall, confident, and clearly frustrated, her voice already carrying through the room as if she'd been mid-rant during transport.

"Seriously, I leave for five minutes to patrol the south perimeter and the entire League just disappears? You all just ghosted me? Batman, I know you've got your mysterious ninja exit thing going, but the rest of you—really?" Her voice was sharp with exasperation, but there was something undeniably vibrant and familiar in her presence.

She had a striking appearance, blending your features and Conner's effortlessly. Her dark hair was pulled up into a high, practical bun, a few rebellious strands falling into her face. Her eyes—your eyes—glowed with that soft cosmic shimmer, and her uniform was black and silver with crimson accents, a long coat billowing behind her like a cape. The House of El symbol sat proudly on her chest, reimagined with intricate etchings that seemed to shift slightly in the light. Her boots clicked against the polished floor with each hurried step as she walked fully into the mission room.

"Okay, seriously, is anyone going to explain why I was left out of whatever this—" She suddenly stopped mid-sentence.

The room was silent. Everyone's eyes were on her, expressions varying between tense, awkward, and amused. Casey stood near the front, arms folded, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. The rest of the older heroes stayed quiet, watching the scene unfold.

Corra's brows drew together as she glanced around. "Why is everyone staring at me like I just said I'm switching to villainy?" She gestured wildly. "Hello? What did I walk into?"

Casey stepped forward with a hand raised. "Corra... don't freak out."

She gave him a look that could only be described as pure little-sister irritation. "Why would I freak out, Casey? Is this about the tower lights again? Because I swear that wasn't me."

"No," he said quickly, then glanced toward you. "It's not that. It's just... maybe take a deep breath."

Still confused, Corra turned to follow her brother's line of sight—and her words caught in her throat.

There, across the room, standing near Conner with the quiet stillness of someone trying to understand the surreal moment they were living in—was you.

You watched her face shift. At first, there was confusion. Then recognition. Then something raw and unguarded—shock, disbelief, vulnerability. Her lips parted slightly, her chest visibly rising as her breath hitched.

She took a step forward, her voice trembling now, no longer filled with sarcasm or confidence.

"...Pa?"

Her eyes widened, tears immediately welling in them. She blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of what she was seeing, as if you might disappear at any moment if she blinked too long.

You took a step toward her, your own heart pounding in your chest, barely able to speak through the emotion rising in your throat.

"Corra," you said, your voice cracking on her name.

That was all it took.

In an instant, she closed the distance between you, flinging her arms around you with the force of someone who had waited years for this moment. She clung to you like a lifeline, her breath shaking as she buried her face in your shoulder.

You wrapped your arms around her instinctively, your chest tightening, your vision blurring as you held your daughter—your future daughter—in your arms for the very first time. She was grown. Strong. Brave. And yet in that moment, she melted into you like a child who had just been reunited with something she thought she'd lost forever.

No words were spoken for several long moments.

Just the quiet, heart-wrenching reunion of a father and the daughter he hadn't even met yet—but who had clearly been missing him for a very long time.

Corra trembled in your arms, her grip firm and desperate, as if afraid letting go would cause you to vanish again. Her face was buried in the crook of your shoulder, and even as the rest of the room watched in silence, giving you both space, she couldn't hide the tears that poured freely from her eyes.

Eventually, she pulled back just enough to see your face again—needing, craving that confirmation that this wasn't a dream or a cruel illusion. But the tears kept coming, streaming down her cheeks no matter how many times she tried to blink them away.

She let out a breathless laugh, half-choked, wiping at her face with her sleeve. "Gods, I can't even stop," she whispered, cheeks flushed. "This is so embarrassing."

You cupped her face gently, brushing a thumb beneath one of her eyes, your own expression soft, overwhelmed with emotion.

"Don't be," you murmured. "Not for this. Not ever."

Corra's lip trembled again, but she steadied herself, hands still resting lightly on your arms as if she couldn't fully let go yet. "You don't understand," she said, trying to collect herself. "You've been gone my whole life. I never even got to hear your voice—not like this. Casey told us everything he could, but it's not the same. And now you're just... here."

You nodded, swallowing hard. "I'm sorry," you said quietly. "I didn't know what the future would bring. I didn't know I'd—" You stopped yourself. There were some truths neither of you were ready to speak aloud. "I'm here now."

She nodded slowly, eyes still glistening, breathing shakily through the swell of emotion. She gave another soft laugh and leaned against your chest again, her voice muffled. "Cole and Cameron aren't going to believe this."

You smiled faintly, brushing a hand over her hair. "Tell me about them."

Corra pulled back again, her eyes lighting up even through the tears. "Cole's twenty, hothead like me—maybe worse. Has your stubborn streak, but Dad's glare. Cameron's seventeen, quiet, way too smart for his own good. He's the empath. He'll probably cry just from being in the same room as you. They're gonna lose their minds when they hear you're here."

You could only imagine it—three more children who had inherited pieces of you and Conner, who had grown up never knowing you, but apparently carrying your legacy in their blood and spirit.

Corra wiped at her eyes again, finally beginning to breathe a little steadier. But then her gaze shifted past your shoulder—and landed on Conner.

She blinked in surprise, and for a moment she just stared, brows lifting, lips parting in disbelief. Then she tilted her head and gave a low whistle.

"Whoa..." Her voice was filled with recognition, and just a little amusement. "That's weird."

You turned slightly as she stepped toward Conner, studying him with wide eyes. "You look so young," she said, almost laughing. "I just saw you this morning at breakfast—grumbling over burned toast and yelling at Cole for leaving his boots on the stairs. You had more gray in your hair and half the patience."

Conner looked a little taken aback, but his smirk crept in, faint but real. "I guess future me's a grump?"

Corra grinned through the last of her tears. "Oh, you have no idea."

But then her gaze softened again, and for a beat, she just stared between you both—her two fathers, together, alive, and younger than she ever thought she'd see them.

"I can't believe this is real," she whispered. "But I'm so glad it is."

Later that night, the once-bustling mission room of Mount Justice had gone quiet. The energy that had filled it earlier—buzzing with reunions, disbelief, and the unmistakable weight of time colliding with itself—had faded into a more serene stillness. The blue ambient glow from the overhead lights reflected softly against the walls, casting long shadows across the floor as the hour grew late.

The League had been the first to leave.

Word of a critical incident unfolding in the outer quadrants of the Earth's defense grid had called the senior heroes back into action. There was urgency in their departure, but even amid the chaos, they took the time to come to you and Conner—individually. Each of them embraced you both with heartfelt goodbyes, some quick, others lingering. Cassie had held you longer than you expected, whispering that she never thought she'd get a chance to say goodbye properly, then promising she'd return. Tim had offered a simple handshake, though his eyes betrayed how deeply your reappearance affected him. Bart—still quick—hugged both of you in a blur of motion and words.

Beast Boy looked like he wanted to say more but couldn't find the words. Static just nodded with the quiet understanding of a man who'd seen too much. And Damian—Batman—said nothing at all, but his eyes held a rare respect as he turned and disappeared into the shadows with the rest.

Once the last echo of the Zeta-Tube faded and the glowing arch powered down, it was just the four of you left: you, Conner, Casey, and Corra.

Dick and the next-gen Team had tactfully cleared out, giving you all space without even needing to be asked. Zahir offered a respectful bow before vanishing in a shimmer of magical glyphs. Mira and May'al gave Corra soft smiles. Ezra flashed a wink. Korya nodded to Casey and said, "Take your time. We've got things covered here."

Now, in the softened quiet of the mission room's lounge, a low conversation had begun between your children—children you had only just met, yet already felt tied to in a way that was almost painful in its intensity.

Corra sat cross-legged on the sleek, cushioned bench, a throw blanket around her shoulders like she was a child again, despite being a fully trained powerhouse of a hero. Casey leaned against the holo-console beside her, arms folded, one foot propped against the wall.

You sat nearby on a lower step beside Conner, listening to them with a kind of quiet wonder. Even now, you were still absorbing everything—every word, every gesture. Watching the two of them interact, argue lightly, laugh—it stirred something deep in your chest.

"So," Corra was saying, wiping the last of her dried tears away and smoothing her now-frizzed hair, "do we take them to Kansas tomorrow? I mean, it's tradition. Dad always does dinner on Sundays. Cameron's probably going to freak out when he sees Pa."

Casey raised a brow. "Freak out? Corra, you practically collapsed. Cameron's going to start crying the second he feels Pa walk into the house."

"That's sweet," you murmured softly to Conner, who smirked, though his eyes remained fixed on the siblings in front of him.

"Anyway," Casey continued, arms now gesturing, "we also have no idea how Dad is going to react."

Corra frowned. "You mean future Dad?"

"Yeah," Casey said. "He's... different. Not in a bad way, just—he's been carrying a lot. Raising all of us without Pa. Alone, basically. He's not cold, but it's not easy for him. Seeing them"—he gestured toward you and Conner—"younger, full of life again, especially Pa... It's going to hit hard."

Corra looked down at her hands for a moment. "Yeah," she admitted. "It will." She glanced back up at you, her expression gentler now. "But I think he needs to see you. Even if it hurts."

You felt your throat tighten, but you nodded, voice soft. "If he needs time, we'll give it to him. But... if it means seeing my kids again, all of them together... I'll face whatever comes."

Conner nodded beside you, his hand brushing against yours in a silent affirmation. "We'll do it together. Like we always have."

Casey smiled slightly at that—like a part of him had been waiting to hear that for years.

"Okay," he said. "Then we'll bring you to Kansas tomorrow."

He looked between you and Conner, his gaze settling on yours. "Just... be ready. He's not the man you knew. He's you—but after a lifetime of losing you."

You nodded slowly, heart pounding.

Then Corra reached for your hand again, gripping it tightly. "But he's still your Conner. Just... older, a little more tired. But deep down, he's been waiting for this."

You smiled at her, your voice trembling. "So have I."

After the long, emotionally charged day, Casey offered a quiet nod and gestured for you and Conner to follow him down a private corridor branching off from the main living quarters of the rebuilt Mount Justice. The halls were lined with softly glowing panels, their subtle illumination casting calm, ambient hues along the walls. The sound of your footsteps echoed faintly, the only noise breaking the hush of night as the base settled into stillness.

Neither you nor Conner spoke much during the walk. The two of you were exhausted—not from battle, but from the sheer magnitude of everything that had happened in a single day. The future had dropped into your lives like a meteor, shattering everything you thought you knew and leaving you surrounded by the fallout: older versions of friends, grown children you hadn't yet fathered, and the looming shadow of a threat determined to end you before your legacy could ever begin.

Casey stopped in front of a curved doorway that slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a sleek but comfortably designed room bathed in cool blue lighting. It was clearly a spare guest suite, but it still had a warmth to it—like someone had taken the time to ensure it wasn't cold or sterile. A large bed sat nestled against one wall with a set of smooth, metallic drawers beneath a transparent data panel. There were folded clothes already prepared on the bench at the foot of the bed, and a softly humming ventilation system filled the space with the faint scent of something earthy and calming—like cedar and starlight.

"This used to be Zatanna's room," Casey said as he stepped aside to let you in. "She stayed here a lot before moving into the Tower permanently. We've kept it ready. You can rest here tonight."

You gave a small nod of gratitude, stepping into the room. The floor beneath your boots shifted slightly, designed to adjust for comfort and temperature. Conner walked in behind you, his gaze sweeping across the futuristic amenities, but his expression was distant. You could tell he was still mentally unraveling everything—especially the idea that the older version of him had raised four children without you by his side.

Casey lingered in the doorway for a moment longer, watching the two of you as if he didn't want to leave, as if part of him still couldn't believe you were really there.

"You two deserve a moment to breathe," he said finally. "I'll check in first thing in the morning. We've got a lot to figure out... but for now, just rest."

You turned to him, meeting his eyes, and for a second the air between you felt fragile, delicate, as if too many more words would break the spell. So instead, you simply said, "Thank you, Casey."

He gave a soft smile—one that looked almost exactly like yours—and nodded.

As the door hissed shut behind him, sealing you and Conner in the quiet of the room, a long silence stretched between you.

You sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, the cushion adjusting beneath you with silent precision. Your hands fell into your lap as you let out a slow, unsteady breath.

Conner crossed the room, dropping heavily into the bed across from you. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped as he stared at the floor. The weight in his posture mirrored yours.

Finally, you looked up and met his eyes.

"We're in the future," you said softly, still not quite believing it. "We met our children. We met our son. Our daughter."

Conner nodded, his jaw tight. "And... I raised them without you."

You stood up, crossing to him slowly, and rested your hand on his shoulder.

"You didn't lose me," you said. "Not yet. And we're going to fight like hell to make sure it stays that way."

He looked up at you then, his expression hard—but vulnerable in a way few ever saw. He gave a short nod, then pulled you down beside him.

You two laid down on the bed, you were lying on your side, your back pressed against Conner's chest. His arms were around you, strong and steady, holding you close as if anchoring you there, grounding both of you in this strange reality. His hand moved in slow, soothing circles over your lower abdomen, where the life growing inside you had yet to show. The gesture was gentle, almost reverent, as if he were touching something fragile and sacred.

You placed your own hand over his, lacing your fingers together with his warmth beneath your palm. You didn't speak for a while. You didn't need to. You both just breathed—together, quiet, still.

Eventually, it was Conner who broke the silence.

"We don't even know who he is," he murmured, his voice low and quiet in the dark. "Olympian. No one does. Not even in this time."

You nodded slightly, your head resting on the pillow. "Just his name. No origin. No motive. Just... that he's after me. And that he's willing to kill for it."

Conner's hand paused for a moment before it started moving again, slower now, his touch protective. "He's not going to touch you," he said firmly. "Not while I'm breathing. And he sure as hell won't get near the kids."

His words were steel. Not a promise—a vow.

You turned your head just enough to look at him, catching the edge of his profile in the soft light. His jaw was clenched, his expression distant but focused. Beneath the surface calm, you could feel the storm he was keeping buried. The thought of anyone—especially someone like Olympian—hurting his family was enough to set the air around him on edge.

"He already tried," you whispered. "He went after them. In the future. And now he's here, in our time, trying to stop everything before it even starts."

Conner tightened his arm around you. "Then we stop him first."

You swallowed hard, emotions bubbling up again. "What if... what if I really do have something in me? Something he wants. Something cosmic. Something I can't even understand."

"Then we figure it out," he said without hesitation. "Together. Like we always do."

You let the silence stretch again, comforted by the steady beat of his heart against your back.

After a moment, you spoke again, softer this time. "You think he'll come for us again soon?"

Conner's voice was cold, calm, but dangerous in that way only he could be when he meant every word. "If he does... I'll make sure he never touches you. Or Casey. Or Corra. Or anyone with our name."

You turned in his arms slowly until you were facing him, pressing your forehead gently to his. His eyes met yours, unwavering.

"I know you will," you said.

His hand slid up, brushing your cheek, then down again to rest protectively over your still-flat stomach. You both stayed like that for a while—wrapped in each other, guarding something fragile, something that hadn't fully formed yet but had already changed everything.

Whatever came next—whatever darkness was waiting in the wings—you wouldn't face it alone. Not now. Not ever again.

[takes1]

p.2 kuroo x hard to get!reader

i'm rlly glad everyone likes this as much as i do lmao

warnings. nsfw, minors DNI

details. m!masturbation / jerkin it in the shower / pining!kuroo / unrequited?crush / hard to get!reader / manager!reader / training camp setting / implied degradation kink / implied play fighting thing / kuroo is a switch / kuroo with a big...ego / player!kuroo / 1.7k words - maybe a sneaky link part three? reply to be tagged

links. my masterlist. more haikyuu here. part one. next part. requests open.

After today, the only way Kuroo would be able to handle so many confusing signals and unwanted emotions was to carve out some time in the shower and 'work it all out.'

"F-uck," Came out way whinier than he expected it to.

He pushed his furrowed brow into his forearm, a scowl carved into his mouth at the sound.

The tension there faded fast.

What the fuck was your problem? Was there some cosmic rule that prevented pretty girls from being nice?

He wracked his brain to remember that one little moment you smiled. How it softened that mean-ass pout you held so well, made you look leagues more approachable. Maybe that was why something had possessed him to point it out and ruin it so quickly.

For now, stuck like a picture in his mind, it wouldn't fade so fast.

But the tightness stuck across his stomach softened, and so did the edge he had worked up.

"Mm-hn," He smiled, lifting his head from the nook of his elbow with a small chuckle.

Maybe that didn't do as much for him as your frown, after all.

Thinking about that sweet, preoccupied moment made him feel a little more guilty for beating it to you. You looked too sweet to fuck with. At least when you treated him like a dog, it was like you both had a shared understanding of what he was really doing. He didn't have to hide it or lie; he wanted you, and you played it off like you weren't into it.

That was the problem.

He seethed, palm stalled for a moment before he let himself go.

With slow, sobering effort, he flipped around to lean back on the tiled wall. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the shower door and couldn't comprehend why you didn't find him attractive enough.

A lifted, bulky arm revealed an impressive array of serratus muscles in the foggy glass, little abdomen lines dipped and crossed and dove down to his v-taper. The guys always joked that he was could pursue a career in modelling if this volleyball thing didn't work out, save for the messy hair; he knew he wasn't some ugly, sniveling little loser-- so why didn't you act like he was?

He puffed out a harsh, frustrated sigh and pumped himself with a frown.

Were you playing around, just teasing him, and playing hard to get? Or did you, for some inconceivable reason, not want him back?

Shit, at this rate, he started to question if he'd be able to cum with no clear answer.

Then that fucking voice of yours, calculated but honeyed, was in his ear- ringing against the shower walls, echoing his name. It wasn't nice, it wasn't real, but it was hot.

A warm huff at the fantasy.

His cock twitched against his grip and leaked clear at the tip, more interested in the image of your perfect tits squished up under that clipboard when you verbally degraded him in front of his rival.

As his hand did an okay job at pumping out the stress of today, his gaze, though hesitant, softened. His jaw relaxed, lips parted, and in the process caught a bit of excess water.

Shit, did he like that?

Your callous, narrowed, and judgey eyes really got him worked up. He spat the mixture of extra water and drool onto himself, gasping at how much better it felt when he pretended it was yours.

If that's all you wanted, just to make him feel less than- well, you were hot enough to roleplay for. He'd be down for something like that if that was all he could get.

He kept a steady pace, breath shallowed and faster, to the thought of you calling him some dirty little nobody who liked beating it to you (it wouldn't be entirely wrong). How disappointed would you be when he came too quick, all because he couldn't handle your tight little pussy?

You could use him all night 'till you came. He bit the inside of his cheek and sighed, shaky, through his nose.

Yeah, you didn't seem like the type to just lay down and take it.

That was alright with him. He liked sexually liberated women. A little play-fighting, some dirty talk- if you just got off your high horse for one second, he could make it worth your while.

He knew you loved the chase. You wouldn't be watching him so hard at the match if you actually thought he wasn't worth your time. Just one night couldn't have possibly been beneath you.

"Fu-ckfuckfuck," He laughed, seething at how quickly he could edge himself to that bitchy pout of yours, especially the one you'd give him if you found out what he was doing right now.

All you wanted was the power that came with being a stuck-up prude - to feel less dirty than guys like him. At least he had the courage to initiate something.

But at the end of the day, nothing about stroking his cock to you in a shower felt courageous.

Decency and pride aside, he was able to cum hard to the fresh memory of you in that wet t-shirt, watching him absolutely kill that match.

-

In the aftermath, he was a bit standoffish with the team.

The nature of his jack-off session left him feeling nastier than usual. He didn't want anyone clinging on him, or standing too close. Like somehow they would smell how filthy his imagination had decomposed into.

He was successful, not because of how good his evasion skills were, but because the guys were too hungry, preoccupied with cooking, and equipped with no substantial mass-food-prep experience. It was a rowdy kitchen and relatively empty everywhere else.

So he was slumped over the entire couch, wearing only plaid pajama pants and house slippers, watching videos on his phone with glazed eyes.

A knock at the door went ignored.

He popped his head over the couch to see if anyone else was going to answer the second time, but was only met with distant yelling about the rice cooker. Yamamoto hadn't plugged it in like he thought 20 minutes ago, and a stranger might assume he was about to get executed.

Kuroo paused the match on his phone and hopped over the back of the couch. He realized it was raining outside when he touched the cold doorknob and quickly opened it without looking through the peephole.

He looked forward, left, then right- then down. Surprise left his lips through an uncontrollable laugh.

"Sorry-!" He snickered, "Didn't see you there."

It's not like you were exceptionally tiny, but he was expecting Bokuto, if anyone, and especially not a girl.

You weren't laughing. He cleared his throat and rubbed the side of his damp head with an awkward sigh.

The little overhang on the porch was enough to keep you dry as you spoke, so there was no rush.

"I thought the other teams could use this. I made too many," You explained, only offering him a dull tone as you tried not to stare at his shredded body, "Pork buns."

He took the bag slowly, first interested because he was starving, and after a moment, then that you cooked.

"There should be enough for everyone."

"Thank you," He said right away, glancing up to you, at the bag, then back at you.

It was cute. His uncertainty brought a small smile to your face. You covered it up by toying with your jacket collar, and looking down at his pink slippers.

Outside was cold, and wet, and the wind was harsh when it blew every twenty seconds. His first thought was to invite you inside, flirty but well-meaning for the most part, but an instant pang of post-nut guilt, as well as some classical conditioning from earlier today, kept his lips sealed.

You watched a narrative play out on his pretty face. If he wasn't going to keep this up, even after you 'accidentally' made too many pork buns, you figured it was too much effort now.

A sweeter, more natural tone was in your farewell, "Goodnight--,"

"Wait."

He shot his hand out low for a second but took it back almost as quickly.

You stood, turned on your heel, waiting for him. It was what he wanted, but not quite right. His heart skipped, causing his hands to tighten, knuckles white and cold.

A sigh you could barely hear over the rain picking up, "Never mind."

Your eyes ran over his struggling form. He was broken in, the way you wanted, but not quite right. You decided there was no value in teasing him with your presence any longer, so you looked away from the mess you had both made of him.

"Goodnight." The door closed.

Not too hard, not too soft, but in just a way that emphasized more need to clarify why he didn't just slam it, if he was going to close it at all.

There were a number of reasons you hesitated at the top step, watching the rain grow heavier and crash onto the grass, spill over the gutters and flood the sidewalk. It was getting darker and colder by the second. What was so wrong with him? You couldn't quite remember now.

He stood with his forehead on the other side of the door, face twisted with the pain of a shot not taken- but, probably better off than humiliating himself for no good reason anymore. A powerful shame was overwhelming his desire to eat any of the pork buns in his hand.

When he straightened, a long sigh verbalizing the painful movement, he was about to call out for dinner--

You knocked again. Three times, softer in volume, but a loud gesture nonetheless.

The door opened to reveal his shocked, searching expression. There was a roll of thunder.

"Can you... walk me back?"

♕VIP♕

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[maxlarens]

Hi! Can i request friends for lovers with lando saying "i can't seem to take neither my eyes, nor my mind off of you, [name]." ✨🫶 thank you

usually i am so Consumed by the idea of the ✨Tension✨ of friends to lovers that i never do a confession scene but here is me making good on that finally. i hope u liked this anon!!!! sorry it took a while.

In hindsight, you think you should have woken up that morning and known. Known via some cosmic force that today was going to be it— the day you’d been waiting basically a decade for, the day you don't think you'll forget as long as you live—

Instead, you wake up bolt upright at three in the morning, heart beating frantic in your chest, to five missed calls from your best friend.

"What?", you groan, angry, into the phone, then, realising he's calling you at three in the morning, a more concerned note seeps into your tone, "Lan, is that you? You alright?"

"I locked myself out," is the gravelly reply.

"You locked yourself out?"

"I— yes," he hisses down the line, "I forgot my keys okay."

You snort, say, "You're a silly billy," without thinking anything of it.

You'll attribute it to sleep deprivation later, but you'll also find that Lando thinks nothing further of it, too used to you throwing affectionate nicknames his way—

"Shuddup," he mumbles.

You think he's drunk, at least tipsy. He'd said something offhandedly on your FaceTime call yesterday about going out with a few friends you don't know. Besides, there's a slur to his words, a tiredness.

"Come up already," you tell him.

"'M right outside."

You hum in confirmation that you've heard him, put your phone back on the nightstand and slip out from under the covers. You're wearing a sweatshirt that's three sizes too big it might be Lando's and pink fuzzy socks, you feel goosebumps rise on your legs as you pad to the front door. You lean heavily against the wall, closing your eyes as you unlock the padlock and swing it open for your friend.

Lando stumbles in. You twist around to look at him. He's not as drunk as you thought he might be. Sleepy though. You can tell by the squint of his eyes, how they're red rimmed and the mess of his hair. Run through too many times with his hand.

"You want your spare key?", you question as Lando turns on his heel, finding you at the sound of your voice.

He frowns, looking at you like you've grown two heads. Crease forming between his eyebrows.

"Nuh," he shakes his head, then reaches forward to take your wrist, hauling you back through the apartment, "Let's go sleep."

You shrug, acquiescing as he leads you to your bedroom. If you hadn't just been woken up from a dead sleep you might have felt a little weird about it. Paid attention to the stirring feeling low in your gut. Instead, you slip into bed and pull the covers back for Lando without a care in the world.

It's not that weird, you think as he kicks off his shoes and rummages around on your hanging rail for a shirt big enough for him. He finds one that you're sure was originally his. You look away as he changes, shucking out of the short sleeve button up you'd helped him pick out, peeling off chinos you'd also picked out. There's a pair of his gym shorts laying around somewhere, you know it— but he doesn't bother to look for them. Just pulls the t-shirt on over his bare tan chest and climbs in next to you.

You've done this before. Many times. And the two of you make a deliberate point of not being weird about, even though it's been a point of contention in every relationship either of you have had to date. And you don't know what it is tonight this morning, but his presence next to you is making your chest tight. Something skitters up your spine as he slots into your space.

As casual as ever he slings an arm over your waist, tugs you closer to him and presses the line of his nose into the back of your neck. Briefly, he reaches to swipe your hair out of the way, mumbling something about it tickling him.

There's something set ablaze in your stomach.

"G'night, babe," he mutters, breath fanning your ear.

God. You have to suppress a shiver. The babe thing isn't even anything different, he calls you that often enough mostly when he's had something to drink, there's just something about it right now. When you're sleep-woozy and he's just undressed in front of you. Maybe you had a weird dream about him again and you can't remember it, even if your subconscious does.

You bite down on your tongue, answer, "Sleep tight, Lan."

He hums. You crack your neck to stop from letting out a noise that would be utterly indecent right now. Unaware, Lando puts his nose right back in the same spot. You lie there for a while, wired and buzzing, until you hear his breathing steady and deepen as he falls asleep. And even though you feel like every nerve ending in your body is on fire, sleep finds you too.

You wake up again, later, to the morning sun pouring in through your curtains. It lights up the empty space on the bed in front of you. Acreage of bed, pillow, not taken up by anyone.

Still, on your other side, Lando's in your personal space to a degree that you don't realise at first. You wake up disoriented, grappling to remember the events of early that morning. There’s still no cosmic thing telling you that you need to remember today. Commit every single second to memory as it happens. You try to roll over, feeling warmth at your back but not thinking anything of it until Lando gripes something unintelligible into your ear—

Okay. Memories return to you now.

You start to contextualise the skin on yours.

Lando's arm is still slung around your waist, but his hand has made it's way underneath your jumper. Fingers dig into the plush skin of your bare stomach, clutching like you'll slip out of his grasp if he's not careful. Somehow, the other arm has forced it's way under your pillow and you can feel the line of his body against your back, where he's gotten as close to you as he could manage. His legs tangle with yours, one of them spreading out into your space, strewn diagonally across the bed. His knee presses up into the meat of your thigh.

You try not to think how easily your bodies fit together.

You're still for a while. Drifting in and out of sleep. You're comfortable, above all else. You don't really want Lando to move. This certainly isn't the first time you've woken up like this, tangled up with each other, you're betting you'll be able to pass it off with a silly comment once Lando wakes up. You'll extract yourselves from each other and get on with your day like usual.

No big deal—

Lando wakes up half an hour or so later and acts like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. He yawns loudly into your ear and rolls over without fanfare—

No big deal—

It's only when you're in the kitchen together— cooking bacon and eggs while Lando drinks coffee from your espresso machine— that the cracks start to show.

You glance at him sideways, watching as he gnaws at the inside of his mouth. His eyes slip off you, directing to the sizzling pan, “What’s up?”, you ask, “Something happen?”

He shakes his head, too quickly, “No. Nope— I—”

He tapers off his sentence, shaking his head. Nose scrunching momentarily. You raise an eyebrow but don’t think much of it. It’s Lando, he’ll tell you if it’s important. Plus, you’re kinda busy right now making sure the eggs don’t burn. A few minutes pass, you ask him to grab plates. He says okay and then drags out an,

“Um,” for so long that you’re a little concerned.

Something nervous flutters in your chest, you’re turning the heat on the burner down low before you know why. You’ve just been friends with Lando for so long, you know when there’s something heavy in his words, when there’s something on the tip of his tongue.

You turn to give him your full attention, your eyebrows furrowing as you look up at him.

“Plates, Lan?”

He’s staring at you. Like, staring at you. Like, slack-jawed, eyes glittering, staring. Like how the guy looks at the girl at the end of every rom-com ever. Like how Harry looks at Sally in every fucking scene of your favourite movie of all time. Like—

Shit. Do you have a massive fuck off pimple on your face? Have you turned blue? Are you being completely out of your mind delusional right now? Because there’s something suddenly wreaking havoc in your stomach. And you really do want to believe that Lando is looking at you in that way, and not just because you’ve got something embarrassing on your face—

“Lando,” you say, firmly, urgency to it, “Spit it out.”

He shakes his head.

You put a hand on his bicep, “Lando.”

It’s got to be that. It’s got to be—

God, your chest feels tight. Your skin feels like it’s on fire. He’s not even said anything yet!

It’s got to be—

He blinks. You think your sudden intensity has made him nervous because he rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck from side to side. A little groan escapes his lips.

“I just—” he sighs heavily, as if it’s too hard to force out; but he’s still looking at you, “What if, I was— ugh, no, nothing, it’s fine—”

“What if you were what?”, it’s out of your mouth before you can think. You think you know exactly what the end of his sentence is. You think perhaps you are too. A pause, then, being braver than you thought you could be, you add, “In love with me?”

He looks immediately as if you’ve sucker punched him right in the gut. Eyes wide and wet and red-rimmed, like kicked puppy, a pleading dog. There’s something scared, nervous, in the set of his shoulders as well. You watch them draw up to his chin as he tries to sink into them.

“Why would you say that?” His voice is downright panicked, “How did you know that?”

Your heart stops beating in your chest, drops into your stomach and falls right out your ass. You shake your head,

“I didn’t. I didn’t. I just guessed, Lan,” you realise your hand is still on his bicep, you squeeze, “Are you?”

“Am I?”, he looks slightly incredulous, baffled at what you’re saying like it’s supposed to be obvious that he is, “Jesus. Of course I am. I can’t– I can’t stop thinking about you. You’re there all the time. And y’know, I see you and you’re just,” he waves an arm between the two of you, gesturing up and down at your body, “You’re fucken’ gorgeous. And you don’t say a thing when we wake up together and I’m basically, on top of you—”

“You don’t say anything either,” you gripe, even though there’s something like joy clawing up your throat, “I thought it was normal.”

Lando tips his head back, groans something halfway filthy, “Normal. I didn’t let half my exes sleep over, and I turned around if they did sleep in my bed. And— fuck, y’know— my keys are actually in my pants pocket right now. I was out drinking and having fun and all I could think about was how much I missed you. How much I just wanted to like, crawl into bed with you.”

“You arsehole.”

“What?”

“You arsehole,” you repeat, “I would have let you in anyway. You didn’t have to lie.”

For a long minute, Lando gapes at you like a fish out of water. Briefly, you think maybe you’ve screwed it by being too mean. It’s never stopped you before, but you’ve also never been in this exact situation with Lando before, frighteningly enough—

One second you’re running through all the possible apologies you could give to make it better, to smooth it all over, and then the next Lando is kissing you—

Or, you feel his hand on your chin first, your mouth forming the first letter of shit, sorry Lan, and then suddenly his mouth is slanting across yours. He tastes a bit like morning breath and a lot like bitter coffee, but his mouth is wet and soft and your lips slot together so perfectly. You put a hand in his curls and find that it feels different to when you card your fingers through his hair.

God.

He’s got a hand on your waist and he’s digging his fingers into your jaw like you’re going to pull away from him without warning and never come back.

“Lan,” you say into his mouth, he pauses long enough for you to speak, lips hovering, nearly touching, “‘M not going anywhere.”

He shakes his head, slanting forward to kiss you again, “No, you’re not,” he pulls back again, pressing his forehead to yours, green-as-grass eyes boring into yours, “Please say you’re in love with me right now?”

Despite yourself, you raise an eyebrow, “Are you in love with me?”

He sighs something ragged out through his nose, kisses you again, says, “‘Course, I’m in love with you. How could I not be,” into your mouth.

You hum from the back of your throat, tongue slipping forward to press against his teeth, tangling against his, “Then of course I am, Lan,” you echo.

How could you not be?

u just know all of lando's gfs/situationships HATED the fuck out of her

[wtfsteveharrington]

after midnight pt 2 | carmen berzatto x reader

summary: you leave a surprise for carmen at work that lets him know he's been caught watching your content & the aftermath that follows. she/her pronouns used!

contents: perv!carmy, mentions of anxiety, mentions of filming sex tapes, dirty talk, fingering, hand job, oral f receiving, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, doesn't pull out (sorry he's possessive idk what to say). he also has this lil god complex over your other subscribers

word count: 4,587k

author notes: i had to cut a lil out bc otherwise this was getting lllooonngg. thank you for all the love on part one & i hope you enjoy this one too!! <33

part one

Carmen wonders what you think of this mysterious new account that keeps donating to you. Sending you small gifts. It's nothing too large - He's not trying to put himself into debt by any means. But it is his way of cosmically balancing the scale of viewing your content without you knowing.

Sometimes he lets his mind wonder and entertains the idea of filming with you. Letting all these losers who sit alone at night watching you get a glimpse of how good he could treat you. Your knees over his shoulders as he folds you in half, harsh and rough strokes pounding in and out of you. Sometimes you get smart with him - It's the nature of the kitchen. He thinks about you in that position whenever you pop off with some snarky remark. Pinned under him, two fingers in your mouth. "Put that pretty mouth to use for me. There you go, Baby." His fingers sliding in further, causing you to gag around them but you reach up to hold his wrist in place to let you know you're good. 

He’d fuck you until you can’t think straight, a moaning mess against his fingers as you’re reduced to coming around his cock with no warning. Orgasm shaking through your body and Carmen would just keep fucking into your sensitive body until he can’t take it anymore.

This becomes his new morning routine. Waking up 20 minutes earlier than he really needs to because he just knows he’ll be hard from dreams of you. It’s a bit of an obsession at this point in all honesty but he can’t help himself. He pictures you laid out against his bed sheets, sleepy and grabbing at any inch of him that you can. You’d just be able to relax and get fucked well to start the morning, he’d do all the work for the two of you. 

Any mental space not occupied by the restaurant is fully dedicated to you. 

———★–————————–

Carmen’s barely awake when he walks into the restaurant. His eyes still feel so heavy and there's a level of exhaustion that he just can't seem to shake in his bones. He's grunting acknowledgment at the team, doing a double take as he catches you grinning wickedly at the board in front of you. There’s a familiar pang of jealousy - What’s got you so entertained this year? He scoffs at his imaginary man he’s made up that’s vying for your attention as he heads into the office to work on this week’s orders. 

Except he’s stopping dead in his tracks at the sight of lingerie he just sent you last week folded neatly in the center of the desk. His heart drops to the bottom pit of his stomach as he steps closer and sees a packing order next to the set - His name and address under the billing information circled in a bright neon pink Sharpie. Carmen knows for a fact that he double, triple checked that this was supposed to be a gift and for his information to be excluded so what the fuck happened? 

He’s throwing his jacket over the desk just in case someone walks in before he can take care of this situation but he’s got to get a handle on you first. He’s embarrassed at getting caught. Imagining you must think the worst of him. Trying to justify it by at least he was sending you stuff, right? Cotton boy shorts he thought you’d look so delicate in and lacy pieces of barely there bodysuits he wanted to rip apart and leave stained with his cum. 

He's storming over to you now, ignoring the way Richie called out his name to join him for a smoke break. You hear him mutter out a "Okay then, Cousin. I'll just go fuck myself." That Carmen doesn't even acknowledge. All his attention fully focused on you. His words are coming off harsh as his body tries to process all the different emotions coursing through his veins.

"We gotta fuckin' talk."

The words hang heavy in the air and you find yourself entertained with how assertive he’s being. 

“Why’s that?” You’re looking up at him doe-eyed and innocent. There’s anxiety practically rolling off of Carmy’s body and you’re gonna get to soothing him in a minute but you’re letting him sweat it out first. You didn’t mind that he saw your videos but you were a little pissed he didn’t bring it up. Half because you could have been putting him knowing to use, half because it did feel a little taboo for your boss to be trying to anonymously send you lingerie. 

“Nah, don’t play that shit right now. You know why.” His voice is harsh but you know he’s not angry with you. You can smell the combination of cigarettes and spearmint gum on his tongue with how close he is. His cologne comes into the mix and it’s heavenly in all honesty. He’s embarrassed for getting caught, worried he’s gonna lose one of his best chefs, and worried he’s upset you. Someone’s yelling that they need Carmen to sign for a delivery and your time with him is coming to an end for now. 

Normally your hand never dips below his shoulders or the top of his chest. Always friendly, light touches. This time your hand comes up to rest flat against his heart and you can feel it quickly beating. “Carmy - Breathe.” Your eyes don’t leave his as your hand slides down his chest, fingers trailing along the soft cotton of his shirt. Stopping only once you can feel the dip of his hip. “We’re okay. Go handle your restaurant, I’ll talk with you tonight.” 

You pat the back of your hand against his hip he’s being called for again, feeling a little dizzy under the intensity of his stare. He’s still nervous, knuckles turning white as he keeps a death grip on the line. “Carmen Berzatto, you’re fine. We’re fine. I promise you, okay?” Finally taking pity on him you give a warm smile, stepping back and breaking eye contact. “Go sign for the clams before we have to change tonight’s special and Sydney kills us.”

———————��★–———

Everyone’s long gone by this point of the night. Tina tried to convince Carmen to go home and get some sleep about twenty minutes ago but he made some excuse about wanting to reorganize the walk-in before tomorrow’s service. Really he’s just counting down the minutes until the two of you are alone. You haven’t been able to talk today - Too many listening ears around for Carmen’s comfort. In your defense, you just minded your business and kept on top of your station. 

But God he can’t stop admiring you from across the room. There’s less shame to it now that you know. Still anxiety, yes. But your comforting earlier has him… Hopeful? Hopeful for what he’s not sure. 

You catch him staring at one point during dinner service, risking a glance around the kitchen and throwing him a wink before turning back to work and deliberately giving him a small shake of your ass. To anyone else it would probably look like you were just swaying mindlessly. Not to Carmen though. You’re teasing him and it’s working.

Tina’s finally shouting out goodbyes and Carmen’s eyes are trained on watching as you walk towards the office. Any pretend task he was doing is quickly forgotten as he intently follows you. He’s played this situation over in his head a dozen times, even burned himself on the cigarette he forgot he was holding earlier.

He finds you standing by the desk, running your fingers along the edge of it and grinning. “What happened to my present, Carmen?” 

“Chucked it in my locker. Couldn’t risk someone findin’ them, you know?” It’s embarrassing enough having to answer to you, he couldn’t imagine trying to explain to the staff (or God forbid his sister) why there’s lingerie with his name on the desk. Carmen’s face is overheated and his heart is pounding. For all the hours he’s spent fantasizing about you, he’s never really considered this conversation until today. Typically he skips right towards fucking you however you’ll let him. But now he’s stuck face to face and trying to figure out how to acknowledge his actions. 

"You know I, uh -..." He's sputtering out, trying to figure out just how to defend himself, "You're very, very pretty if that means anything. Fuckin' gorgeous, honestly."

"Did you get off watching me?"

There's no going back now.

"Yeah, I did."

You're grinning at him now, stepping closer and Carmen swears the temperature in the room just went up by ten degrees. He's got his eyes trained on your face for the second time tonight. Hunting out exactly how you're feeling. What he doesn't expect is to feel a feather light touch along the waistband of his pants, nails scratching along his skin as you slide two fingers under the fabric. "Did you think about fucking me? Or did you think about me getting on my knees for you more?"

Carmy's starting to wonder if this is real. Maybe another daydream? For the time being he decides to stay with it though. Trying with all his might to sound as confident as he's mentally done so many times having this part of conversation with you in his head before. "Fucking you. Always thought how much better I'd feel for you than those little toys you use. Sometimes -" He takes a deep breath, straightening his shoulders and trying to build up the confidence to keep this going. He's still not convinced he isn't in some sort of trouble with you. "Sometimes I'd watch you play with your clit. Watch you whine and just knew how badly you needed me to be there."

Your hand slides lower now, fingers pushing through the patch of hair at the base of his cock. Carmen's breathing stops at the touch and you can feel him getting hard under your touch. "Really?" You hum, flattening your hand out and running it down his length. His hips twitch involuntarily as you cup your hand over him, middle finger dragging along his tip. "I've thought about you too, you know? Sometimes you get so fucking pissed off during a rush. I think to myself 'God, he needs to take that anger out' and wonder if fucking me out back would help calm you down. Letting you use me. Sometimes I think you'd walk away after you finish but I know you'd never leave me there all needy and not taken care of, right Carmy?"

He's shaking his head, his heart pounding and he's pretty sure he has never breathed his hard in his life. Labored and uneven while his cock keeps getting hard under your hand. He wants to kiss you, drop to his knees and lick you until you forgive him or decide to take pity and let him fuck you. But instead he settles for showing his need by rocking his hips up against your hand, letting out a broken little groan. "Never would just leave you back there. All I wanna do is - fuck - treat you right. Every night I think about how pretty you must sound begging for me."

You wrap your hand around the base of Carmen's cock, giving him a pleased grin when he fucks himself into your dry fist instantly.

"Do you think you deserve my pussy, Carmy?"

Another jolt of his hips. "No, no I fucking don't."

You lean in, just barely ghosting your lips against his. Carmen has given up all control and allows himself to be fully at your mercy. Your hand pulls back from his cock, sliding out of his pants and he's whining. Shamelessly whining. You're kissing the corner of his mouth, lips traveling down his jaw while you make quick work of unbuttoning your jeans. You grab ahold of his hand, sliding it down the front of your pants and into your underwear. Keeping his hand flat along yours, you use your fingers to navigate his. Rewarding him with a quiet moan right in his ear as the two of you press down against your clit. "I'm so wet for you, Carmy. Been thinking about what you must feel like ever since I caught you watching me." Your hips are rolling down against your hands as you come back up to face him again, bumping your noses together and rewarding him with another moan when Carmen's hand starts to move on its own. Two rough fingers sliding down from your clit to between your folds.

"C'mon, Chef. Want you to fuck me just like you've been dreaming about. Can you be a good boy and do that for me, hmm?"

Something deep in Camren finally snaps and he’s ready to fully earn your praise. One hand comes up to cup the back of your neck and pull you into a deep kiss while the other hand focuses on teasing your clit. His tongue is licking into your mouth at the same time one of his fingers begins to push into you and the combination of sensations is heavenly. You’re moaning into the kiss, both of your hands coming to wrap around his chest so you can begin pressing your fingers into the muscles of his toned back.

He doesn’t let up - Tongue sliding along yours and his fingers messaging the back of your neck while his other hand pulls out of you. You’re whining at the loss as Carmy pulls back, his fingers coming up to lips as he licks you off of them. “Been dreaming about what you taste like.” He looks sinful - Blue eyes staring into your soul as he follows his early fantasy and pops his fingers out of his mouth. Index finger tracing over your bottom lip until you take the hint and let your jaw fall open. Carmen’s fingers slipping in and weighing heavy against your tongue. “Dream about you begging me to come all over this pretty face.”

You start to rub your thighs together as the heat builds in your core, finding yourself getting more desperate as time goes on. Carmen drops to his knees, making quick work of pulling down your jeans and helping you step out of them. He’s making sure you're balanced once again before looking up to realize you’re wearing a pair of the underwear he sent you. Carmy smirks to himself, realizing he’s played right into your little game.

You want to make some cocky remark but suddenly his face is between your thighs and you lose all train of thought. His nose bumps along your covered clit before he licks a strip up the soaked fabric. “Can’t believe how fuckin’ wet you are.” Carmy reaches up to slide the panties down your thighs, taking his time and keeping his eyes looking up at you while he does. You watch as the pair is stuffed into his back pocket and he begins to place open mouth kisses along your inner thigh. Lips exploring closer and closer but always just far enough away from where you need him.

Your hand comes down to lace in his hair, the other one reaching over to try and steady your shaky legs by gripping onto the desk. “Carmy please.” You give his hair a little tug, unsure of his pain tolerance but you’re rewarded with a guttural groan coming from below you.

“Fuck - Pull my hair again.”

So you do, getting a better grip at the base and giving his hair a good pull. You direct his head closer to your center and Carmen lets you until he finds himself buried into your pussy. His tongue lapping over your folds and completing a circuit around your clit before going back down to the base of your hole. He’s moaning your name into you, his hands coming up to grab ahold of your ass. Helping you stay balanced while making sure you can’t get too far away from him.

He’s pretty sure if you say his name again he’s going to come in his pants so he’s putting in as much effort as he can to keep you distracted. Delivered a sharp smack to your ass at the same time he sucks onto your clit. He brings his other hand back between your thighs, tongue still working against your clit while he traces you with his bare fingers. 

There’s a finger being pushed into you and you tug on Carmen’s hair once again as he quickly pushes another in, dragging them both along your walls and all he can think is how good you’re going to feel wrapped around his cock. “S’good, Carmy. So fucking good. Jesus Christ.”

Your thighs are clamping around Carmy's head and both of your hands fly to grab a hold of his hair as you feel your orgasm start to build up in your stomach. “Shit! Carmen please!” He doesn’t let up, sucking at your clit while his fingers continue to curl inside of you. No one has been able to make you finish like this before and you’re a mess of gasps and moans and hips jerking involuntarily. 

It only takes another minute of him stretching you out and licking you up for your orgasm to hit. A mess of curses and cries falling from your lips as the sensation falls over you. Your legs instantly go weak and Carmen’s quick to grab a hold of your hips to keep you upright. 

He’s helping you hop onto the ledge of the desk with a reassuring little “Relax, I got you.” Your thighs are shaking, whole body vibrating and you’re keeping your thighs apart to avoid any pressure on your overstimulated clit. Carmen’s so proud of himself at the sight of you trying to recover. He’s between your knees, pressing down his work pants and his boxers before haphazardly kicking them across the floor. Your eyes drag along his chest, over his tattoos, along the length of him that’s thick and beautiful and ready to be buried inside of you. 

His hands find the bottom hem of your shirt, grabbing ahold and pulling it over your head. Your bra follows suit next. Both of your clothing is covering the floor of the office and you can't help but giggle at the mess made in Carmen's otherwise prestigious space. He's letting out a hum of appreciation at the sight of your breasts. Cupping one in each hand and letting his thumb drag across your nipples. "Fuckin' gorgeous. Been wanting to do this for so long."

There's a mouth wrapped around your nipple now, Carmen making quick work of sucking at it. Flicking his tongue across the hard nub. He pulls back, blowing a stream of cool air against your wet skin before switching to your other breast and repeating the process. You get to sit there and savor the feeling, playing with his hair while Carmen takes his time exploring your breasts. When he thinks you're just blissed out enough, he kisses a path up to leave a small hickey onto your soft skin.

You notice, of course you do.

But you don't complain.

Carmen wonders if you'll let him mark you up before you film anymore content. Wonders how many men will realize they don't stand a chance with you anymore and that you belong to him already.

There's another nip being delivered to the skin of your breasts before he comes back up to give you a warm smile.

Carmen’s leaning in to grab ahold of your jaw, kissing you gently while you reach out to grab ahold of him and get rewarded with a moan. Rubbing your thumb across his tip to collect a bit of moisture and lazily jerk him off.  He’d be fine with this and nothing else for the rest of the night. Getting you off and finishing wherever you ask him to but he knows that won’t be enough for you. For now he enjoys exploring your mouth. Getting to taste you and he wonders if you’re tasting yourself on his tongue. 

You scoot towards the edge of the desk and wrap your free arm around Carmen’s neck. You’re both so hot to the touch. Hearts beating fast, breathing uneven. Needy and unashamed how obsessed with the other you both are. His hands start rubbing up and down your thighs as he gives you a second to recover from your orgasm. He’s got you smiling against his lips as you kiss him, giving a playful nip to his bottom lip. You can’t decide if you want him to use you while you’re still riding the aftershocks or obsessed with how he’s letting you savor the moment. 

Once your thighs stop shaking you wrap them around Carmen’s waist, dragging his body closer to yours. He’s chuckling at you, firm hands sliding down to grab at your hips and your ass, whatever he can get a hold of first. “Wanna watch you put me in. You do so good at fucking yourself in your videos, Baby. Wanna see you tease yourself with me instead of those fucking toys.” 

You drag the tip of him through your folds, teasing the both of you. Carmy’s giving up every ounce of control in this moment, all given to you. “So big. You’re gonna make me feel so good, Chef.” There’s a sound coming from deep in his chest, “Use my name.” Oh. You nod the best you can while being so close to him, giving a chaste kiss to his lips. “I’m so wet for you, Carmy.” 

You’re sliding the length of him between your folds again, tapping his head at your own clit before bringing him to settle right against your hole. Your hand comes around to press on his ass, directing him to push in. It’s hard to tell which sound is coming from who but soon the small office is filled with broken moans as he starts to stretch you out. 

His first stroke is slow, both of you adjusting to the sensation. He’s sinking in inch by inch, thinking of whatever bullshit nonsense he can to keep himself from instantly busting when he’s barely even inside of you. His brain is glitching, trying to hold onto this one time he walked in on Fak taking a bubble bath to keep his orgasm at bay but at the same time you’re moaning his name and playing with the hair on the nape of his neck and his balls feel so heavy and heavenly resting against you as he bottoms out and - 

“Carmen please, please.” Right, focus. 

He’s kissing you once again before rolling his hips. There’s his strong arms wrapping around your torso to keep you in place and you feel so warm and safe and full. You decide maybe Carmy deserves a little more shit soon for not burying himself inside of you the second he found your channel. “Gonna take care of you, Honey. Feel’s so good huh? Been dreaming of you wrapped around my cock and it’s so much better than I could have imagined.”

You nod and feel your body going limp, leaning your head down to rest your forehead on his shoulder while he starts to fuck into you. Each time you press a warm, open mouth kiss to his neck his speed picks up. The lewd slapping sound of his cock sliding into your wet pussy combined with his balls slapping against your ass filling the room. He’s bumping his shoulder up against your head, “Look at me? I wanna see your pretty face.” 

It takes all the strength left in your body to pick your head back up, “So much better than when I do it myself, Carm. Needed you so bad, so fucking bad.” He grunts, rewarding your praise with a sharp jerk of his hips as he brings his hand down to toy with your still sensitive clit. Your head falls back at the sensation so Carmen brings his free hand to grab your jaw, tilting your head back to look at him. “Eyes on me.” He wants to make some empty threat that he’ll stop fucking you if you look away again but he can’t even pretend to want to step away from this.

His thumb stays on your clit while we keeps fucking into you at a steady pace. His lips ghosting over yours as you both get closer to falling apart. “You can give me another, Baby. Wanna feel you come around me. You can do that for me, yeah? Wanna be good for me don’t you?” Your nails drag along his back and something about the hiss it draws from his lips and the way his pace sputters at the feeling. 

You’re a blubbering mess in all honesty. Any facade from your videos of being cool and collected is long gone as Carmen chases your orgasm. Just whimpering out his name and pleas to the best of your ability until there’s one fateful stroke combined with your clit being brushed against that has you coming undone. Nails dragging into his back and he keeps your head in place to watch as your orgasm plays over your features. 

Within seconds you feel him start to pull out of you, presumably for his own release. “Please, Carmy. Wanna feel you fill me up.” Remember how Carmen’s become more religious since he started falling for you? In this moment he truly thinks God made you special just for him. 

His lips are crashing into yours, sloppy kisses meant for nothing more than to convey need being shared until you feel his body go stiff. Hips jerking on instinct as he fills you deep with cum. One of the thrusts causes some of the liquid, a combination of the both of you, to push out around the base of his cock and he stores that feeling for later. “Fuck you feel so good like this.” 

Carmen’s sensitive and getting soft but he can’t help a few more thrusts into your sloppy pussy. Savoring the way he’s been able to claim you as his. There’s a stray thought that he really does want to film with you one night, keep the camera steady on your pretty body as he defiled it.

He stays buried in you, not quite ready to pull out. Carmen’s analyzing your features from this close - The curve of your nose, how well your lashes frame your eyes, the sleepy little content smile on your lips. He’s fascinated by you. The feeling is mutual as you trace over his tattoos, rolling your shoulders back to help relax your body. 

The two of you stay like that for a while, both just soaking the other in. You finally look up from his chest to give him a sheepish girl, leaning in to press a kiss against his lips. “So - Better than what you imagined?” 

Carmen’s laughing, the sound rumbling through his chest and warming up your heart. He looks lighter than he did when he confronted you this morning, a sparkle in his eye even. “Holy fuck, so much better.” You get another kiss from him after the admission, his hands coming down to grip at your ass. “Let's get you cleaned up and I’m bringing you back to my place for the night, yeah?” 

It’s your turn to grin, nodding enthusiastically and giving his bicep a squeeze. “Yes, Chef.”

[betweenstorms]

Part Three of Where We Part Life Happens (previous chapter) (next chapter) (WWP Chapters) (masterlist) Childhood Friend!Simon x fem!Reader

At first, you could only blink, the cigarette dangling from your lips as his words settled over you like a slow, creeping dusk.

Simon Riley.

After all these years, standing in front of you, bigger, harder, and somehow even more distant than the boy you once thought you knew. It was like some cruel trick of fate, a cosmic joke that you weren’t sure you were ready to face.

You let out a surprised, awkward chuckle, but it caught somewhere between a giggle and a whimper. It sounded so awkward, so pitiful. Gosh, you acted ridiculous, like a bloody schoolgirl, but the alcohol had numbed the embarrassment.

You really wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Simon Riley, standing outside a pub in Manchester like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like his entire life hadn’t been torn apart. Like he hadn’t disappeared from your life without so much as a word all those years ago. The laugh died in your throat, because there was something about the way he carried himself that told you he wasn’t here for a casual pint with old friends. Simon would never be here for something so trivial, so simple.

“You’re…” you started, but the words got stuck in your throat.

You wanted to ask where he’d been, why he was here, why he looked so different yet so familiar at the same time. But nothing coherent came out, just a jumble of thoughts, words and emotions that refused to form into sentences.

The last time you’d seen him, he was just a skinny boy.

Now, he was all sharp edges and quiet intensity. He was hard. Rough. Weathered. His face, a canvas of scars and hardship, told you that the years hadn’t been kind to him, but God, they’d made him heartbreakingly handsome. His body, once lanky and hunched, was now huge and muscular, the kind of frame that spoke of power, discipline, and control. His scars, the faint lines etched around his eyes, the ruggedness of his face—they only added to the dark appeal that cloaked him like a shadow. And with those intense hazel eyes that seemed to hold a thousand secrets, he was the kind of man who turned heads, who commanded attention, and somehow, that was making your head spin more than the beer had.

You shook your head quickly, like a cat trying to shake off water, hoping to rid yourself of the thoughts creeping into your mind.

“S’been a while.”

He didn’t smile. He didn’t offer any pleasantries. It was as though the years that had passed between you were an afterthought, insignificant compared to the weight of the heavy silence that lingered in the air now. You tried to find your footing in the forming conversation, your mind still struggling to keep up with the reality of him standing there, right in front of you.

“I—sorry, I just... didn’t recognise you,” you stammered, your voice a bit too loud, too high-pitched in the quiet night. You took a nervous drag from your cigarette, stealing a glance at his face. “Bloody hell, seems like you only pop up when I’m tipsy.”

You attempted a joke, your voice trembling slightly. It was weak, you knew that, but it was the only thing you could manage in the sudden tension of the moment. You flicked the cigarette nervously, watching the ashes scatter to the ground. Anything to stop yourself from looking directly at Simon, anything to break the intensity that had settled between you.

“Not intentional,” he said simply.

“Gosh, you look so… different,” you said softly, the words slipping out before you could stop them. It wasn’t a question, but a statement, an observation that felt far too obvious.

Simon tilted his head slightly, his sharp gaze flicking over you, sizing you up with that same old intensity that made you feel like he could see straight through you.

“You don’t,” he said flatly, his voice rough, like gravel underfoot.

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “Liar.”

Simon’s lips twitched, but it wasn’t quite a smile, more like a faint acknowledgment that he’d heard you. It was painfully obvious that he wasn’t going to indulge in any sort of nostalgia or humour. He was as closed off as ever. And yet, despite it all, despite the time and the layers of this strange silence between you, the weight of history between you was undeniable.

The warmth of the alcohol in your blood made it easier to stand there without fidgeting, but deep down, you were brimming with questions, confusion, a strange mix of anger and relief.

You couldn’t decide whether to yell at him for disappearing or thank him for being here.

Here with you.

“Where’ve you been?” you finally asked, trying to sound casual, though the question felt like it was hanging heavy between you both, too loaded with unspoken things.

Simon let out a soft huff as if the answer was far too complicated to explain in the back alley of a pub. He didn’t want to talk about it, that much was clear. You desperately wanted to keep him there, to say something, anything, that might ease this strange reunion.

“You just… vanished,” you pushed. “After everythin'.”

His hazel eyes flicked to yours, and for a second, there was something there—something raw and fragile beneath the stone mask he always wore. But it was gone in a heartbeat, replaced by that cold, guarded look you had always known him for, even as a kid.

“Had to,” he said, his voice dry as sand.

“That’s it? You just… had to?”

He glanced away, the flickering light from a distant streetlamp casting long shadows across his scarred face. “Does it matter?”

His words hit you like a punch in the gut.

Did it matter? Was he mad? Of course it mattered.

How could it not? You’d grown up together, after all. You’d shared so much, more than either of you ever said aloud. His family buried, his house empty, no one knew where he’d gone. You had carried that silent burden with you for years, the burden of not knowing, letting it weigh down on your heart like a lead weight. But maybe that was the root of the problem. Maybe you had been holding on to something he had long since let go of. Maybe you were clinging to the memory of a boy who didn’t exist anymore.

You swallowed hard, resisting the urge to press him further.

This wasn’t the time or the place to dig into the past. Maybe not ever. Simon wasn’t the type to dwell on old wounds, and you knew that no matter how much you wanted answers, they weren’t going to come easily. Instead, you took a long drag from your cigarette, letting the smoke fill your lungs and dull the ache in your chest, watching the pale plume rise and disappear into the cold night air.

“Suppose it doesn’t,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

Simon didn’t respond. As usual.

You both just stood there, cigarettes burning down to their stubs, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that the silence between you wasn’t just awkward—it was something more. It was the echo of all the years that had slipped by without either of you being part of each other’s lives. Fifteen years. You were different people now, shaped by other worlds, and yet… here you were, standing in the same place, in the same city that had once been your entire universe.

Much to your surprise, Simon was the one to speak again.

“How’ve you been?” he asked, the question almost noncommittal, but there was an edge to it—like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer.

You hummed, looking down at the scuffed toe of your polished shoes, suddenly finding the concrete more interesting than his piercing gaze. A frown formed on your lips as you mulled over his question, not sure how to respond. There was something so absurd about it, but at the same time, something so normal about him asking how you’d been. Something that almost felt... wrong. As if you were supposed to have a neat little answer, a perfect summary of everything you’d done, achieved, or failed at since he’d vanished.

But you didn’t know what to say.

How could you compress the years, the loneliness, the small victories and large failures into one simple response? How could you even begin to explain everything you’d gone through, all while he was somewhere you couldn’t reach?

“Uhm, dunno,” you muttered, your voice full of bitterness you hadn’t meant to let slip. It sounded insignificant, just like how you felt in that moment—small compared to the towering presence of Simon Riley and whatever hell he’d walked through to get here. “What am I supposed to say to that?” You laughed, but it was hollow, like you were trying to convince yourself that you found it funny.

Simon crossed his arms over his broad chest, deep in thought.

His cig hung loosely between his fingers, the glowing tip flickering like a beacon in the dark. His brow furrowed as if he were calculating something important, something far beyond the alleyway of a dingy Manchester pub.

And then, out of the blue, he asked something ridiculous.

“You married? Got kids?”

For a moment, you thought you misheard him.

It was such a normal question, one you might expect from an old friend or a distant relative. But coming from Simon it was jarring. Almost laughable. It didn’t match his rugged, military exterior at all.

You snorted, caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

“Nah,” you said, shaking your head slightly. “Not even close. My fiancé cheated on me with my roommate from uni, if you can fuckin' believe that. But that was years ago now. I haven’t really had anythin' serious since then.” The chuckle that followed your statement was missing humour. You said it as casually as you could, but the old wound reopened just a little. 

Simon didn’t respond immediately.

He didn’t flinch, didn’t offer pity or sympathy, but you saw something flicker in his eyes—an acknowledgement, perhaps. Maybe even some empathy, though it was hard to tell with him. He was never one to show his emotions easily, not even when you were kids.

“Bastard,” he hummed after a beat, the word falling from his lips with the same cold weight that had always been in his tone.

It wasn’t much, but somehow, it felt perfectly enough. Like in that single word, he had offered all the understanding you needed.

“An understatement.”

He took another long drag, exhaling slowly, smoke curling up into the air and disappearing into the night. The question had seemed so out of place, but maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was his way of trying to understand what he’d missed—what had happened to you in all those fifteen years he was gone.

“What about you? Wife, kids?” you asked, your voice softer now.

Somehow, you were afraid of what his answer might be.

“No,” his voice was flat, almost mechanical.

There was no trace of emotion, no elaboration.

Just a simple, cold statement of fact.

His gaze flicked briefly to you before settling somewhere off in the distance, like he couldn’t quite bear to look at you for too long. Then, the quiet between you stretched on again, thick, unyielding and undeniably familiar. The sounds of the city filtered in, the distant hum of traffic, the occasional shout from the pub, but here, in this small bubble of time, it felt like the world had fallen away. Like it was just the two of you, suspended in the remnants of a shared past that neither of you knew how to navigate anymore.

“I thought about you,” you admitted quietly, surprising even yourself with the confession. “A lot, actually. I wondered where you were. If you were alright. If you were even alive.”

Simon shifted, his gaze fixed on the ground.

“Sorry.”

It was more than you’d expected from him. So you just nodded, unsure of what else to tell him. You stood there for a moment, your heart thudding in your chest at the weight of Simon's quiet apology. You weren’t sure what to say in return. It hung in the air between you, fragile and tentative, like a bridge over a chasm that neither of you were ready to cross. His eyes, once sharp and piercing, softened in the dim light, but he kept his gaze away from yours, as if looking directly at you would acknowledge the gravity of what you’d said. That you had thought about him. His broad shoulders shifted, his jacket rustling slightly, but he didn’t move away.

You felt a sudden tension in the pit of your stomach.

The kind that comes when you’ve said something too vulnerable, too real, something that can’t be taken back. Therefore, you took a deep breath and decided to shift the conversation, hoping to relieve some of the tension that had settled thickly between you both.

“So, you’re still in the military?”

You flicked the last of your cigarette to the ground and stamped it out with your shoe. He nodded, but didn’t elaborate, his face unreadable in the shadowy light of the pub’s back alley.

“On leave?” you hoped to get something, anything, from him.

“Yeah.”

He ignored the question that still hung in the air.

Why here?

You licked your lips nervously, wondering if you should keep going or let the conversation fizzle out. But there was something in the air tonight, something that made you feel like you had to at least try. This wasn’t just some coincidence, was it? Seeing Simon again after all these years felt too significant to let it slip away without trying to make sense of it.

“Where do you live now?”

For a second, he hesitated, tapping his lips with his cigarette, clearly weighing whether or not to answer you. His gaze flickered to the side, his brow furrowed in thought, and then, finally, in a voice so low you almost missed it, he said, “Got a flat in London.”

London. The city you both now called home.

Your heart skipped a beat at the revelation. The vast city suddenly felt much smaller. He was so close, yet he’d been so far from your life for all these years.

“Well,” you scratched your neck, unsure how to approach the next part. “You could visit me sometime. You know, when you’re on leave. I’m not far, really. We could… catch up.”

It was a clumsy invitation, but it was genuine.

Despite the awkwardness between you, you wanted him to know that he wasn’t alone. That even after all this time, you were still here.

Simon didn’t react at first. He stood there, arms crossed, his still frame making it seem like he was wrestling with something deep inside. You weren’t sure if he’d refuse, brush off the offer like it meant nothing, but he didn’t. The silence stretched on, but then he shifted again, flicking the ash from his cigarette.

“Maybe,” he muttered, his tone giving nothing away.

It wasn’t a yes. But it wasn’t a no either. 

His next question, though, caught you off guard.

“How’s your parents?”

You hadn’t expected him to ask about your family. Your parents were never nice to him. But something in the way he asked, in the way his voice softened ever so slightly, as though asking about something more human softened the edges of his tough exterior, and that made you realise that maybe he hadn’t forgotten everything from your childhood. Maybe, just maybe, he still cared, in his own distant way.

You smiled faintly.

“They’re good, well, as good as can be, I suppose. They moved to London a few years back, actually. After my dad was diagnosed with cancer.”

The words felt heavy, even though you’d gotten used to saying them. It had been years since the diagnosis, but the weight of it never really faded. It was always there, lingering in the background, a reminder of time slipping away. His expression didn’t change much, but there was a shift in his posture—a slight drop of the shoulders, a softening of the jaw. It was subtle, but you saw it. He dropped his cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath the heel of his boot with a sharp scoff, a sound that was more resigned than dismissive.

You pushed yourself away from the wall, the sudden anxiety making your pulse quicken.

“Leavin’?”

The question spilled out before you could stop it. The fear of him slipping away again, without any warning, without a trace, gnawed at you.

You immediately felt heat creeping up your neck, embarrassment flashing across your face. Why did you care so much? Why did you sound so desperate? You pursed your lips, trying to gather the frayed edges of your dignity, feeling a bit foolish for asking.

Simon looked at you, raising an eyebrow as if you’d just asked something utterly daft. His expression didn’t change much, but there was a glimmer of something, amusement, perhaps, in his eyes. “No,” he muttered, resting his now free hands in his pockets. “Not yet.”

The relief you felt was almost palpable.

You bit your lip, feeling foolish for jumping to conclusions, for thinking he’d just disappear again without a word. You exhaled slowly, trying to calm your racing heart, grateful that he wasn’t about to walk away just yet. There was still time. Time to say whatever it was that needed saying, even if you didn’t quite know what that was yet. You watched him carefully, still half expecting him to turn and leave despite his assurance.

The years had taught you not to rely too much on anything.

The autumn wind picked up, sending a sudden chill through the alleyway, but neither of you moved. This whole charade, the whole small talk felt like a delicate dance—one wrong step and it could all come crashing down, leaving the silence too much to bear.

“Thought you’d be married by now,” Simon said, his gravelly voice cutting through the quiet.

You blinked, startled by the sudden statement.

Pouting a bit, you looked up at him, feigning offence. “Can’t tell if that’s an insult or a compliment, mate.”

He shrugged, tilting his head to the side, and for a moment, the faint shadow of a smirk played on his lips, barely noticeable. He looked at you, not just a glance, but a slow, measured observation, like he was trying to piece together who you had become after all these years.

You found yourself doing the same.

When you first saw him that night, standing in the dark, your reaction had been immediate. You were drawn to him. Not just because of the memories you shared or the ghost of the boy you once knew, but because of him, the man he had become. The raw, rugged power he exuded. It stirred something deep in you, something that made you feel small and breathless in his presence.

What did he see when he looked at you? Did he think you’d aged poorly? Did he think you looked tired, worn out by the years? Or did he see the remnants of the girl you used to be, the one who had laughed too loudly and dreamt too big?

“Why did you say that?”

“Figured you’d have that all sorted by now. You always talked about it.”

You blinked, momentarily thrown by his response.

Of course, he remembered. He always had a knack for remembering the things that mattered most to you, even when you hadn’t realised how much they mattered to yourself. You had talked about marriage that much, hadn’t you? About the picture perfect life you imagined for yourself. A house, a garden, a family—simple dreams that felt so far away now.

“Yeah, true. At one point, all I could dream about was that,” you confessed, your voice quiet, almost lost to the night. “Perfect house, perfect family... maybe a couple of dogs runnin’ around in my perfect bloody garden. I thought I had it all mapped out when I left, like… you know, everythin’ would just fall into place once I started my life in London.” You smiled faintly, but there was no happiness in it, only a soft, sad acceptance. “But it didn’t. None of it did.”

The confession felt surreal, especially with Simon standing there, his presence almost too big, too solid for such vulnerable words. But at the same time, there was something comforting about it, knowing that he wouldn’t judge. Simon had never been one for meaningless platitudes or false reassurances. If anything, his silence, his mere presence, felt like the only kind of understanding you needed.

You could feel his hazel eyes on you, heavy and contemplative, as though he was waiting for you to continue. And suddenly, you wanted to. The words spilled out, unfiltered, like they had been sitting on the tip of your tongue for far too long.

“Now? I dunno. Now I’m just happy if my parents are healthy. If I’m healthy. I’m not really thinkin’ about love anymore. Not like I used to, at least. When you’re young, you think you’ve got all the time in the world. You think everythin’s just gonna... work out. But then life happens. Things change. People leave.”

Simon's jaw tightened just a fraction, as if the truth of what you’d said had hit closer to home than he’d care to admit. You wondered if he thought about those years like the way you did—if he ever looked back and felt the same sense of loss that gnawed at you every time you remembered the way things used to be.

“You can still have that,” he muttered, his voice low, almost gruff. The words felt heavy, like they carried the weight of more than just an offhand comment. “If that's what you truly want.”

A sharp pang hit your chest, not from the words themselves but from the rawness of them. It was the sort of thing people say when they don’t know what else to offer—when they’re too afraid to dig deeper, but they can see the cracks in your carefully maintained façade.

You weren’t sure if he meant it to be comforting, but it didn’t land that way. Instead, it just scraped against the edges of something you didn’t want to acknowledge.

Without thinking, you reached into the pocket of your jacket and fished out your cigarettes, suddenly needing something to do with your hands, something to break the intensity of the moment. You tapped the pack against your palm before offering it to him. He looked at it, hesitating for a moment before shaking his head.

“Maybe once,” you mumbled, trying to play it off like the subject didn’t sting as much as it did. “But not really anymore. I’m too old for that shit. That ship’s sailed, Si.”

Simon reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter. He flicked it on, the small flame illuminating his roughened features in the dim light as he leaned toward you. You cupped your hand around the flame, lighting your cigarette. He watched you closely as you took a drag, his eyes following the trail of smoke as it curled upwards into the cold night air.

“You’re not old,” the tone in his voice was oddly serious, almost reprimanding, as if he was annoyed at your self-deprecation.

You snorted, a dry laugh escaping your lips, smoke swirling around your face. “You should tell that to my back,” you joked, shaking your head. “Some mornings, I feel ancient.”

Simon didn’t pick up on your sarcasm. He fixed you with a look, his brow furrowed, as if he was thinking back to something. “Maybe you didn’t take my advice last time we talked.”

You stilled at his words, as his reference hit home.

You knew what he was talking about.

That summer night, eighteen years ago, when you’d left him standing under the rose bush in your parents’ garden. He’d told you to live your life, to move on. And you had, for the most part. But now, standing here with him again, you wondered if you had truly moved on, or if some part of you had been stuck in that moment ever since.

You felt a sudden ache, a strange emptiness you hadn’t realised was still there, like a flower wilting under the weight of its own bloom. You looked down at the ground, avoiding his gaze, feeling the years press down on you like the world had shifted beneath your feet.

You let out a shaky breath, suddenly feeling small in his presence. “Yeah, maybe I didn’t.”

You hadn’t taken his advice. You’d spent too long waiting, too long caught up in the idea of what could have been, of what should have been. And now, here you were, standing in the same city, still trying to figure out what your life was supposed to look like.

Simon pushed himself off the wall, straightening up, his large frame suddenly seeming even taller, more imposing. His movements were deliberate, but not rushed, as though he had made up his mind about something. Your cigarette hung loosely between your fingers, long forgotten, as you watched him, your heart sinking as you realised he was preparing to leave.

“Find the happiness you deserve.”

It wasn’t a command, but it wasn’t a casual suggestion either.

This time, you didn’t mock him. You didn’t roll your eyes or laugh it off, like you had a lifetime years ago. Instead, you bit the inside of your cheek, lowering your gaze to the ground. You weren’t sure if you could say anything to that. What was there to say?

Before you could fully gather your thoughts, Simon stepped forward, and suddenly, he was standing much closer to you than before, so close you could feel the warmth radiating off his body.  Your heart skipped a beat, your breath hitching in your throat as you instinctively looked up at him. His presence was overwhelming and it made your pulse quicken in a way you hadn’t expected. The air seemed to freeze around you both, suspended in that moment.

He didn’t say anything, he just watched you, his hazel eyes studying your face like he was trying to commit it to memory. His gaze roamed over your features, and for the first time that night, you felt truly exposed under the weight of his attention.

Then, without warning, Simon’s hand came up, and his fingers gently grasped your chin. The touch was firm, but not harsh, guiding your face up toward him, tilting your head so that your eyes met his. You felt the cigarette slip from your fingers as you stared up at him, wide-eyed and breathless. Your mind raced, trying to make sense of the sudden closeness, the unexpected touch. What was he doing? What was he thinking? The warmth of his hand on your skin sent a shiver down your spine, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still.

Simon’s gaze remained fixed on yours, his calloused fingers still holding your chin in place, as though he wanted to see you clearly, perhaps for the first time in years. You didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe, afraid of breaking whatever fragile moment this was. The world around you faded into the background—the pub, the noise, the cold. None of it mattered. Only him, only this moment, suspended between the past and the present.

Then, just as quickly as it had started, it ended.

Simon released you, his hand falling back to his side, and he stepped away.

“I’ll visit,” he promised, his voice calm, almost casual, as if nothing had happened at all. The distance between you felt sudden, leaving you dumbfounded and your cheeks burning hot red. He turned away from you this time, his broad back blocking out the rest of the alley as he moved to leave. “If I’m in London again.”

You blinked, still trying to process everything that had just happened.

The impact of his intoxicating presence, the way his warm touch lingered on your blushed skin, the way his words seemed to hang in the air long after he’d spoken them, like a secret. The whole situation, the proximity, the way he had touched you, the idea that Simon Riley might actually show up again, left you reeling.

Maybe this wasn’t just a fleeting reunion. Maybe it wasn’t just a chance encounter. There was something more to this, something unspoken but undeniably real.

“Yeah,” you breathed, not sure if he heard you. “I’d like that.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you believed it.

Where We Part Chapters

Originally, I planned to end this story after the first chapter, but the kindness and encouragement in the comments have inspired me to keep going. Now, the story feels incomplete, like there's more left to explore. I’m considering turning this into a short series, with one or two more parts to make it feel whole. Thank you for your comments and support—I really enjoy talking with all of you!

[bullet-prooflove]

A Friend of Denny's: Dennis Whitaker x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @cosmic-psychickitty @sargeant-sad-eyes @caffeinatedwoman @hooks-martin

Companion piece to:

Peppermint - The taste of peppermint will always have a special place in Dennis’s heart.

The Morgue Thing - A miscommunication between you and Dennis almost ends things before they begin.

Written In The Stars - Your first date with Dennis takes place underneath the stars.

In The Park - Dennis reveals a secret after the two of you spend the night together in the park.

Virgin - There's a rumour going around about Dennis.

Debauched (NSFW) - Karaoke night ends a lot differently than it did the first time around.

Symphony (NSFW) - Dennis has never eaten pussy before...

Pretty Boy (NSFW) - You and Dennis take the next step in your relationship.

Permanent Marker - Your protectiveness over Dennis shows when you find out about the betting pool.

The Porn Boom (NSFW) - You and Dennis navigate the dynamics of your budding relationship.

Wild Flowers - Some time spent out in nature leads to Dennis discussing the issues with his family.

Dennis doesn’t want you to meet his parents.

You realise that after you hand him the handwritten list of the best affordable places to take them during their weeklong stay in Pittsburgh.

“You said your dad likes pizza so I was thinking we could hit the Driftwood Oven for that perfect sourdough crust before fulfilling your mom’s sweet tooth needs with Millie’s just around the corner for ice cream.” You’re leaning in close, the scent of fresh soap and eucalyptus flooding your senses as your fingertip runs down the list. “I’ve put stars by their must-sees if they get time on the trip.”

“Thanks.” He says studying it diligently. “But I was thinking it should probably just be me tonight, you know since we’ve just started talking again.”

His words strike you like tiny barbs, needling you under the skin even though you know it’s unintentional.

Come on Lola. You aren’t the type of girl boys take home to meet their mom. One of your exes had told you.

Dennis isn’t like that you remind yourself. He’s been open about his issues with his parents. It’s just not the right time especially since he’s trying to rebuild the relationship he has with them.

“Yea that makes sense.” You say, ignoring the ache in your chest as you step back out of his proximity. He folds the list up before tucking it into the pocket of his scrubs.

“I could come over after…” He suggests but you shake your head, your hands clasped in front of you.

That line…

It’s another blast from the past. You can’t meet my parents but I’m happy to keep hooking up.

It’s not him, you tell yourself. It’s you, he doesn’t know that every single one of the words coming out of his mouth are triggers for the neurosis you’ve earned from your past relationships.

“No. You enjoy your time with your parents.” You say with a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “Don’t worry about me.”

When you decide to go out for a run after work it’s because you’ve had a really shitty day. There’d been a rollercoaster derailment at Kennywood and you’d spent most of your time out there helping with the onsite mortuary, collecting remains for identification by the medical examiner before documenting the process and cataloguing their belongings. As good as you are at compartmentalising, it never gets any easier especially when you’re handling kids.

You’re two miles in when you spot Dennis, he’s lingering outside Apple Castle, the best donut shop in Pittsburgh. He’s clad in a sky blue button up that you’ve never seen before, one that brings out the grey hues in his eyes.

“Hey.” You say in surprise as you slow down and pulling your earbuds out of your ears. “This is the most dressed up I’ve ever seen you.”

His cheeks colour as he tugs at the collar, popping the top button to reveal the slender curve of his throat. It causes a light flush of heat to blossom between your legs as you imagine helping him unbutton the rest of them.

“I know.” He says, rolling his eyes. “My mom realised I didn’t have any dress shirts so took me shopping, she wanted me to have some options for the residency interviews when they come up.”

“Well she has good taste.” You say, the edges of your mouth tipping up into a smile as your fingertips trail along the buttons. “You look very handsome.”

“Maybe I’ll wear it the next time we go out.” He says, his eyes glinting with mischief.

The door to the shop opens, the bell jingling and he steps away from you quickly, removing himself from your personal space. You frown at the response, your gaze shifting to a woman you recognise from the pictures in his room and her husband as they erupt onto the sidewalk, their arms laden with donut boxes.

“Those donuts are just fabulous, we got dozen for the congregation back at the hotel.” His mother says joyously before she notices you standing there. “Oh hello! Are you a friend of Denny’s?”

You look to him, waiting for him to correct her, to introduce you as his girlfriend but instead he clears his throat looking down at his shoes. You start to get this feeling then, this tingling sensation that starts in your chest and radiates into your hands.

It’s happening again, you realise. He’s not different from the other guys, he’s exactly like them.

Come on Lola, you aren’t the type of girl boys take home to meet their mom…

Fuck, you’re an idiot and the worst part is you let him off the fucking hook.

“Yes.” You say, clasping your earbuds so hard in your fist, you fear you’ll break them. “We work together at the hospital. I was just out for a run when I saw him and thought there’s my friend Dennis, I should go say hi.”

The muscle in his cheek twitches at your annunciation of the word but he still doesn’t meet your gaze.

“Well it’s lovely to meet with someone he works with.” His mom says with a smile that looks exactly like his. “I’m sure you’ll miss him when he returns to Nebraska for his residency.”

It’s then that the world falls out from underneath your feet because this, this was never meant to be long term. He has always known that he’d be leaving after Match Day. He’s always known that this relationship had an expiry date.

“Yes.” You say softly, your eyes stinging. “I’m glad he’s doing what’s best for him.”

You don’t dare look at him right now. You’re too close to falling apart.

“I need to get going, finish my run but it was nice meeting you.” You say shoving your earbuds back into your ears and cranking up the volume. “I’m sure I’ll see you around Whitaker.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[charlvr]

- the universe's cosmic joke | Megan is not in love

Pairing. Main: Megan Skiendiel x Reader | sub: Daniela Avanzini x Reader

w.c. 5.4 k

Read the main story: here | masterlist

Megan Skiendiel didn’t really believe in love at first sight. But falling for Y/N L/N? That came pretty damn close.

She isn’t even sure Y/N remembers their first meeting. And honestly, Megan wouldn’t blame her.

Those days at Dream Academy had been nothing short of a nightmare, a memory she would rather leave buried if she could. But even in what she now calls “hell on earth,” she had met Y/N. And for that reason alone, she figures it might have all been worth it.

Looking back, she wonders if she should have known better. When she applied, Megan thought she was ready for the worst of Dream Academy. She had the experience: years of vocal lessons, countless hours of dance practice, and enough rehearsals to know how to stand in front of a camera and smile like she meant it. She thought that would be enough to keep her safe.

What she hadn’t expected was how quickly the place turned toxic. Everyone seemed to know how to be pleasant on camera and ruthless the second the lights were off. The producers bullied contestants and constantly stirred up drama for sound bites. The performances were grueling, and the criticisms sharp. And though Megan was mostly spared from the worst of it, always earning at least a polite nod or a clipped compliment from the instructors, that small grace came at a cost. It meant the other contestants saw her as a target, a threat, something to be resented. Not everyone, but enough. Enough that she started noticing how the atmosphere shifted whenever she walked into the room. How the whispers would rise just as she passed, and the stares felt less like curiosity and more like a test.

She tried not to let it get to her. Told herself she had been through competitions before, that she knew how to handle pressure. But Dream Academy was different. It wasn’t just about skill, it was about survival. It was the kind of place that made even her steady confidence feel like it was always teetering on the edge, just one misstep away from falling apart.

And fall she did.

She wasn’t sure what happened. Maybe she hadn’t slept enough the night before, or maybe her muscles had just been too tight. Or maybe she had simply been human. Either way, halfway through a routine, she missed a beat. She tried to catch up too quickly and overshot her turn, ending up flat on her back.

One moment she had been in control, the next she was staring up at the ceiling, the world gone still around her. Her breathing was loud in her own ears, every inhale too sharp, too close.

Silence. 

Then, the low, collective exhale of satisfaction. Like the room had been holding its breath, waiting for her to prove she wasn’t invincible after all. Like they’d all been hoping for it. 

Megan hadn’t been angry that day. Or even that embarrassed, really. She had just felt a hollow sort of disappointment in herself. For giving them what they had wanted. The instructor wasted no time filling the silence with a speech on the importance of what they were doing, a speech Megan could have recited herself by then. Precision, he said. Strength. Focus. All the usual hits. 

Megan nodded, eyes fixed on a loose thread in her shirt, waiting for him to stop. She didn’t interject, didn’t rush him. She just listened. Took the blows. Because that's what you did in Dream Academy. Because the only other choice was to let them see you were rattled. 

When the instructor finally turned away, Megan thought that would be the end of it. She’d get up, brush herself off, and be the hot topic on everyone’s tongue for the next few days. Nothing new. Nothing she wouldn’t be able to handle. 

What she didn’t expect was the tap on her shoulder. Light. Gentle. And she definitely didn’t expect Y/N’s face when she looked up.

“Hey,” Y/N said, leaning in with a grin that looked like it might split her face if she tried to hold it back. She was close. Maybe a little too close, and Megan wasn’t sure if Y/N even noticed, “Was it just me, or did he start sounding like a bedtime story halfway through?”

Megan blinked, her breath catching. “What?”

Y/N tilted her head, her grin growing even wider. “The instructor. He was talking and I swear my eyelids were starting to betray me.”

A small, startled laugh slipped out of Megan’s mouth, more from surprise than anything else. “You think?”

Y/N didn’t even pause. “Absolutely,” she said, her tone so sure, so easy, like it was Megan who hadn’t been paying attention. She leaned in a little closer, her voice dropping as if they were sharing something secret and just for them. “He even does this thing with his voice—like he’s reading from a textbook nobody asked for. Just blah blah blah. On and on. Like we get it! We’re lucky to be here. We should worship the ground you walk on and offer to lick your boot straps.” She paused, her eyes dancing, “But, you know, it’s usually just at me. So thanks for taking the heat today. I'm not sure I would've survived another lecture from Mr. Monotone, over there."

So-called Mr. Monotone turned around just then, as if he could sense something afoot. Even from across the room, his gaze zeroed in on Y/N like a spotlight. Testament to her character, perhaps.

Y/N just pretended not to notice the daggers in his stare.

Megan stared at Y/N for a long moment, not quite sure what to make of it all. Of this girl in front of her who spoke like there was nothing odd about how easily she closed the distance between them. Who laughed like she and Megan had been sharing inside jokes for years. Who leaned in as if there was no question whether she’d be welcome, as if Megan was someone she could speak to without thinking twice. Who didn’t seem to care about the eyes around them, or the quiet pressure that had been pressing down on Megan’s shoulders since the second she stepped into the studio.

There was something so acutely disarming about it. Something that made Megan forget, for a single breath, that she was supposed to be holding herself together, not… whatever this was.

All she could do was giggle. An unguarded, bubbling sound she hadn’t heard from herself in far too long. She let it slip out before she could catch it, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she didn’t care.

Y/N’s smile grew almost imperceptibly wider.

“Well, next time it’s your turn again,” Megan said, her voice coming out a little lighter, a little braver than she’d expected. She wasn’t sure if it was meant as a joke or a promise, but either way, it felt like something she wanted to keep saying.

Y/N’s smile dropped, all exaggerated and dramatic. “Aw man, do I have to?” she groaned, her voice pitched high with mock complaint. But even as her lips turned down, her eyes stayed bright and playful, and Megan swore she had never seen anything more captivating. “Fine, I guess if I owe you one.” She sighed and reached out her hand, the movement casual but full of quiet certainty. Megan took it, noting how warm and steady Y/N’s grip felt as she pulled her up.

“But next time, you help me up, alright?” Y/N said, like it was a promise. She waited for Megan’s nod, then gave her arm one last, gentle pat and flashed a final, bright grin before turning away and disappearing back into the music and the world around them.

Megan watched her go, feeling something warm settle in her chest. It wasn’t love. No, that would be absurd. But it was something close. Something that reminded her, if only for a moment, how it felt to laugh without thinking twice, to be herself without having to prove it.

And she thought to herself that she quite liked that feeling. 

—

After that day, Megan found herself looking for Y/N whenever they were in the same room. She’d catch herself watching the way Y/N’s smile always reached her eyes, or how she’d wave at anyone and everyone with the same unguarded energy.During meals, Megan would find excuses to sit closer, telling herself it was just because the lighting was better there, or because she liked the breeze from the air conditioning. 

And maybe she did start dancing a little better when she knew Y/N was watching. Maybe she held her head a little higher when she heard Y/N’s laughter.

It didn’t really matter. All she knew was that she wanted to see that smile meant for her. Again. And again. And again.

—

But she never really got another chance to. Not when it seemed like all Y/N saw was Daniela Avanzini. 

Megan noticed it long before anyone said it out loud. The way Y/N’s eyes would soften whenever Daniela walked into the room, like there was some unspoken understanding just between them. The way her gaze always found Daniela’s, the quiet way her shoulders would ease, like the simple fact of Daniela being there was enough to make the whole world a little brighter. It was as if Daniela lit Y/N from within, and there wasn’t room for anything or anyone else.

Megan recognized that feeling. She’d spent enough time on stage to know what it looked like when someone was watching their own personal star. And Megan, who had always known how to make herself seen, found she didn’t know how to compete with that.

Still, she tried. In her own small, quiet ways. She would think about asking Y/N to practice together sometime, or about just saying thank you for that day. She’d think of questions to ask, easy ones that didn’t really matter, like if Y/N had a favorite song or if she believed in pineapples on pizza. Something small. Something silly. Something that might be enough to see that bright smile again, even if just for a moment.

But she never did. She’d get as far as picturing how Y/N would laugh, how her eyes would light up, and then the words would catch in her throat. Because more often than not, Daniela would walk in. And in that instant, it was like Y/N forgot the rest of the world even existed.

Megan told herself she was okay with that. She thought she could be content with the small, half-stolen glances. The little pieces of Y/N she got when no one else was around. But the night of the finale made one thing clear.

She had watched from the side, heart thumping along to the music, sweat still cooling on her skin. The lights swept across the stage, and then Y/N’s name was called. Megan didn’t even hear her own name in the next breath, because all she could see was Y/N, beaming so wide it looked like it must have hurt, running straight into Daniela’s arms. Y/N looked so happy. So sure. And Megan, who had spent so long thinking about what she might say if she ever got the chance, felt the words she’d been carrying shrivel up before they even reached her lips.

It might not have been love at first sight. But it sure did sting like one.

—

Megan stopped looking for Y/N after that. 

She would show up to every rehearsal, every lesson, every group practice, of course. Did her part. But she learned to be careful with her presence. She started scheduling her private coaching sessions at different times, making sure to be out of the room before Y/N walked in. During group events, she’d find a way to keep herself walled off by the others, her smile polite but distant. If Y/N was at the center of it all, bright and laughing and easy as ever, Megan made sure she was at the edge.

It wasn’t that she wanted to give up. If anything, she would have been more than willing to try again, to see if she could win Y/N over with small jokes or half-smiles or the promise of something more. But every time she thought she might, she’d catch Daniela and Y/N together, and the idea would fade before it even really formed.

Because there was something in the way Daniela looked at Y/N when she thought no one was paying attention. Megan had seen it more than once: lingering glances across the practice room, careful, quiet, so deliberate. Daniela’s eyes would soften in a way that was almost secretive, like she was trying to memorize every small detail of Y/N’s smile. Like each glance might be the last. 

It wasn’t just admiration. It was personal. Intimate. Like she was seeing something the rest of the world wasn’t supposed to.

And it was that intimacy, the unspoken thread that seemed to tie Y/N and Daniela together, that made Megan hesitate. Because it was one thing to want Y/N’s laughter, that bright spark she carried so carelessly. It was another to try and take it from someone who already held it so carefully.

—

But then Daniela came out as straight, and Megan didn’t know what to do with herself.

She’d been watching the Weverse live because, of course, she had. Lara was on, and what kind of roommate would she be if she didn’t at least tune in? So there she was, curled up on her hotel bed, half-listening to the stream of fan questions and group banter, grateful for the easy chatter after weeks of constant performances. And then, out of nowhere, Daniela just… said it. I’m straight.

Megan had paused the video, her breath caught somewhere between disbelief and something else she couldn’t name. She replayed it once. Twice.

Daniela was grinning, Manon and Lara were cackling, the comments section was in meltdown mode, and Megan was… stunned.

She had been so sure. Absolutely sure that Daniela and Y/N were secretly in love with each other. She’d seen it in the way Y/N’s eyes would flicker over to Daniela, soft and searching. The way Daniela always seemed to be standing just a little too close, her eyes lingering a little too long. Megan had convinced herself it was only a matter of time before they admitted it—if not to everyone else, then at least to each other.

But apparently not.

She tried to puzzle it out, going over every memory like there might have been some clue she’d missed. Maybe Daniela didn’t realize it yet. Maybe she was in denial. Or maybe, Megan’s stomach gave a small, traitorous flip, maybe she’d been wrong all along. Maybe it was just… nothing.

She decided she’d ask Lara once they were back in LA. Lara always knew the full story, whether you wanted her to or not. But for the first time in what felt like forever, Megan let herself feel the smallest flicker of hope. 

—

That hope didn’t last long.

The second they landed in LA, Megan was swept into a blur of promo shoots, fittings, and endless meetings. She barely had time to drop her suitcase at home before she was whisked off again. By the end of the day, she was still clutching the lint roller from her last fitting, her mind fuzzy with exhaustion.

All she wanted was a shower and a moment of peace. Maybe she’d finally corner Lara and get the truth about Daniela and Y/N. But when she walked into her room that night, that plan went straight out the window.

Because there was Y/N. On Lara’s bed. Face down, hair a mess, shoulders hunched like she wanted to disappear. She looked up the moment Megan stepped in, eyes wide and a little guilty.

Megan froze. For a second, she couldn’t even process what she was seeing. Then, a thousand questions tumbled through her mind, with increasing urgency: Why was Y/N here? Had she seen the half-unpacked suitcases? The messy pile of laundry in the corner? Mostly Lara’s, might she add. Did she think Megan was a sloppy, unprepared, complete disaster?

Megan realized, belatedly, that she was still just standing there in the doorway, lint roller clutched to her chest like a shield. She thinks Y/N said something, but she hadn’t been paying attention. Her eyes darted around the room, searching for something, anything, to say. To fill in the silence. Finally, she managed, her voice small, “I’m just… grabbing the lint roller,” immediately wishing she could sink straight into the floor because, of course, she was already holding one.

Y/N definitely gave her a weird look. But as if on cue, Lara, calm as ever, just tossed her another lint roller from the nightstand. “Here, catch,” she said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

Megan caught it on instinct, too stunned to even fumble. She stared at it for a moment, willing it to give her a better excuse or some quick explanation for why she’d walked in so suddenly. But nothing came to her. Nothing. So she just gave one more small, awkward nod and squeaked out a quiet, “Thanks,” before turning on her heel and practically fleeing the room.

In the hallway, Megan stopped, the lint roller pressed to her chest. Her heart was still thudding in her ears, her face warm in a way she couldn’t quite shake. “Okay,” she muttered to herself, trying to steady her breathing. “You played it cool, Megan. Totally cool.” She took one step down the hall before it hit her. That was her room. She had nowhere else to go. Damn it.

Realizing she had boxed herself in, she decided to linger in the kitchen for a while, fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on the countertop. When she finally worked up the nerve to go back to the room later that night, it felt smaller somehow. Lara was sprawled across her bed, propped up on her elbows with one brow raised, that familiar spark of mischief in her eyes.

“Finally remembered where home was?” Lara asked, her voice light and amused in a way that made Megan want to crawl out of her skin.

“Shut up,” Megan muttered, tossing the lint rollers onto her dresser with a little more force than necessary. “You didn’t tell me Y/N would be here.”

Lara just shrugged, her hair falling over her shoulder as she gave Megan a slow, knowing look. “She kind of just… appeared. What’s the big deal? You’d think you’d be happier to see her.”

“Not when she’s in your bed,” Megan blurted out before she could stop herself. The words hung in the air longer than she meant them to. Her face flushed the second they slipped out.

Lara’s lips curved into a slow, wicked smile. “Oh? Oh!” she said, drawing out the words like she was savoring them. A low laugh bubbled up. “So you want her in your bed?”

Megan’s face went crimson, heat blooming in her cheeks. “No! Not like that,” she squeaked, her hands flying up in a helpless little gesture.

Lara just laughed, the sound easy and amused, like she’d been waiting for that exact reaction. She pushed herself up on her elbows, shifting her weight to look at Megan more closely. “Relax, I’m just teasing,” she said, though her grin told Megan she wouldn’t be living this down anytime soon. “But what’s going on? You looked like you had something on your mind.”

Megan let out a small, shaky breath and sank down onto the edge of the bed, unsure how to start. She glanced at Lara, then away, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. “Why was Y/N even here?” she finally asked, going for the question that felt the safest. The one that didn’t lay her heart out for everyone to see.

Lara’s expression shifted, the playful spark dimming for a moment. “Daniela,” she said simply, as if that alone held the answer to everything. And maybe it did. Maybe when it came to Y/N, Daniela was the key. Megan wasn’t sure she liked that thought. 

She swallowed. “So… what’s the deal with them?” she asked carefully, the question feeling bigger than she meant it to be. “I always thought Daniela and Y/N were… you know.”

“It’s… complicated,” Lara said, her voice softer than usual, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the blanket. Megan wondered if she’d ever heard Lara sound so thoughtful. But then Lara’s grin returned, her eyes glinting like the conversation hadn’t even touched her. “But hey, clearly they’re not together. So this could be your chance, Megatron.”

The god-awful nickname dragged Megan out of her thoughts. Grabbing the nearest pillow and shoving it over her face, Megan’s words were muffled but still plenty mortified. “Don’t call me that.”

“What, why not? You’d probably let Y/N call you that,” Lara teased, her tone too smug for Megan to even bother arguing.

“I’m going to bed.” She declared. 

“Dream of Y/N for me.”

“I’m going to request a new roommate.”

“Who Y/N?”

Lara was still laughing when Megan pulled the blanket over her head. 

—

It was still on Megan’s mind the next day. The lint roller incident. Y/N in her room. Lara’s words. The way she had made a fool of herself. She’d spent the better part of the night trying to convince herself it wasn’t a big deal, that Y/N’s bright laughter and nervous fidgeting didn’t matter to her anymore. That she was over that silly little crush from long ago. But it did. And she wasn’t.  

But it wasn’t like the universe to give time to collect her thoughts before she was swept up in another round of interviews. No time to catch her breath, to quiet the little voice in her head that wouldn’t stop repeating Y/N in my room. And because fate was apparently in a particularly mocking mood, Megan found herself seated right next to Y/N. The one thing she’d been so carefully avoiding since the group formed.  

She’d tried, really tried, to see if management would rearrange the seats, but all she got was a polite smile and a dismissive wave of the hand. So she sat there, back straight, hands folded in her lap like she was at a job interview. She tried to keep her face calm, her expression neutral, even though every nerve felt like it was crackling.

She wasn’t sure it was working.

Daniela and Y/N were separated too. Megan noticed it right away. She wondered if it was on purpose, if they’d both needed the distance. Or if it was just another accident of fate, one of those quiet shifts that changed everything without anyone meaning to.

Then Y/N turned to her, offering a small, slightly hesitant smile. Said something meant to be easy, small talk that should have felt simple, if Megan’s brain hadn’t completely short-circuited. Because of course it did. She tried to answer, anyway, but her words got stuck somewhere between her throat and her heart.

I’m over this stupid crush. I’m over it.

She repeated it to herself again and again, but then she’d accidentally catch Y/N’s gaze and see that polite smile. And suddenly, she’d forget what she’d been saying at all.

But if Megan thought that the small talk was awkward, she had no idea what the rest of the interview would bring.

That night, she told herself she wouldn’t look. That she didn’t need to see what the fans were saying, didn’t need to know how much of herself had slipped through the cracks. But curiosity was a sharp, undeniable thing, and before she could talk herself out of it, her phone was in her hand.

#MegY/N was trending. 

Not just a passing mention. Everywhere. Her name next to Y/N’s in every clip, every grainy photo, every soft-focus edit. 

It wasn’t the fact that people were shipping her with Y/N that made her want to hide under her blanket, however. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t feel a small, guilty flicker of excitement at first. She even saved a few of the posts to her bookmarks. Just to look at later, she told herself (what, a girl can’t have hobbies?). It was the sheer thoroughness of it all. 

The eyekons had dug up everything. Everything. Every glance, every quiet laugh, every time Megan tried and failed to act like she wasn’t completely, utterly captivated by Y/N. Clipped. Edited. And compiled for the world to see. 

Wonderful. 

It was really wonderful. 

Megan told herself at least it couldn’t get any worse. She was pretty wrong. 

—

Management wasted no time. The day after the interview, they were already nudging her and Y/N together again. “Casual hangouts,” they said, like it was nothing. Like it wouldn’t send that small rush of nerves through her every time she thought about it.

But then… nothing. A few weeks of calm. Enough time that Megan almost convinced herself it had all passed. That she could slip back into the routine: quiet rehearsals, polite distance. That she didn’t need to think about it anymore. About how her chest always felt a little too full when Y/N laughed, or how her breath would catch when their eyes met. Just a crush, she told herself. Harmless. Temporary. So far in the past it didn’t matter.

She almost believed it.

Until the email from management landed in her inbox. A “friendly reminder” to get some content. A not-so-subtle suggestion that she and Y/N should be seen together again. Megan read it, closed it, and sat in silence for a moment. Then she took a quiet breath and told herself: Okay. Fine. Whatever. 

She met Y/N at the coffee shop a few days later, a place that looked like it had been ripped from some influencer’s Instagram feed. Megan was early, of course. She always was. She sat at the window, fingers tracing the cardboard sleeve of her drink, telling herself it didn’t matter. That it was just another thing to tick off the list.

But every time she pictured Y/N walking in, there was a flutter in her chest she couldn’t ignore. She hated how easily she could picture Y/N not coming at all, and how that thought made her stomach dip in a way she wished it wouldn’t.

And when Y/N finally did arrive, flushed and breathless, apologies spilling out in a rush, Megan had to fight to keep her smile steady. She didn’t want Y/N to see how her heart had skipped. She didn’t want to admit to herself how much it meant, just to see that bright grin aimed right at her again. 

The coffee shop was… fine. Polished and curated, but a little too quiet. Megan found herself fidgeting with her cup, nodding along even as her mind wandered. She was nervous, she realized. Not in a bad way. Just… that small, jittery feeling she had almost forgotten how to welcome. The kind of feeling that made her wonder if maybe it wasn’t as harmless as she’d been telling herself.

So when Y/N suggested they leave, Megan didn’t hesitate. “Yeah,” she said, relief soft in her voice. “Let’s get out of here.”

The arcade was everything the coffee shop wasn’t: loud, messy, alive. With blinking lights and the echo of clattering tokens, it felt like they’d finally dropped the careful politeness and could just… exist. Megan found herself relaxing without even trying, the nervous energy in her chest settling into something that felt almost like excitement.

She watched Y/N wander the arcade, eyes shining as she flitted from game to game. Megan felt a small, tentative smile tug at her lips. She’s so easy to be around, she thought. Before quickly shutting that down. No. None of that. PR relationship, she reminded herself. Just content.

But then Y/N stopped at a claw machine, and Megan wasn’t sure what was more ridiculous: the sad little lion plush pressed against the glass or the absolute determination in Y/N’s eyes. The faint smell of popcorn and the buzz of old-school games filled the air as Megan watched Y/N dig through her pockets for change, her hands moving fast and clumsy.

“Seriously?” Megan had asked, trying to keep her voice light over the thumping music. “You’re really going to waste your money on that thing?”

“Absolutely,” Y/N said, shooting her a grin so bright it knocked the breath right out of Megan’s chest.

And Megan… well, she didn’t stand a chance.

She watched as Y/N failed miserably, again and again. And maybe if it had been someone else, Megan would have laughed at the absurdity of it all. But Y/N was so hopeful, so earnest. She wanted to win that stupid lion so badly that Megan began wanting it for her, too. 

So when Y/N handed her the last few coins, their fingers brushing for a brief second, Megan didn’t even hesitate. She could feel her cheeks warming, a quiet vow already forming in her head: I’ll win it for her. Just for her.

Megan was going to get that damn lion.

And she tried her best. She really did. She angled the claw, did a little spin trick she remembered seeing online. But the machine was rigged. She was sure of it! The claw jerked and swerved, taunting her with every failed attempt. She could feel the heat creeping up her neck, the frustration building, “This piece of trash,” she growled, barely managing to bite back a flood of much stronger words. “Come on, you useless tin can.” She thinks she might have stomped her foot. She hoped Y/N didn’t see that. 

She didn’t even notice when she started talking to the machine, muttering little threats and pleas like it was something she could will into submission. But then she heard Y/N’s startled laugh behind her and felt her ears go pink. She didn’t stop, though. She just wanted to keep that laughter going, to hold onto that spark in Y/N’s eyes a little longer.

When Megan finally gave up, the lion was still trapped behind the glass and their wallets were noticeably lighter. A robbery, indeed.

She never did like lions anyways.

She turned back to Y/N with a sigh. “You’re really… passionate about this,” Y/N teased, a spark of laughter still in her eyes. “It’s kind of cute.”

It was obvious the word slipped out casually from Y/N, but it landed on Megan like a small, gentle shock. Her breath caught, her cheeks warmed, and her hands stilled for a beat. A single heartbeat. She’d spent so long convincing herself she didn’t want this anymore. But there it was. The way Y/N looked at her. The flutter in her chest.

“You’re weird,” Megan said softly, the words coming out almost like a confession more than anything else.

Y/N just smiled, no flinching or apology, just meeting her eyes. “Takes one to know one.”

For a moment, it felt like everything else fell away. Just like the day they had met.

Megan smiled, really smiled. Not the polite one she saved for the cameras, not the one she’d practiced giving Y/N since they debuted, but something real. Something that felt like a quiet admission: I’m not over this. Maybe I don’t want to be.

She reached out and gently tugged at Y/N’s sleeve.

“Come on,” she said, her voice light, her fingers lingering a little longer than she meant. “Let’s go find a game we can actually win.”

Y/N nodded, her smile bright.

As they moved together, Megan let herself think, just for a moment. She still didn’t really believe in love at first sight. She’d seen too much of the world to trust in something like that. And she still didn’t know what was really going on between Y/N and Daniela. Maybe she never would. But as she held onto Y/N’s sleeve, pulling her away from the claw machine and the lion still taunting them, and into the next bright game, she began to think that was alright.

It wasn’t love. Not yet. But she began to believe that maybe, it could be. 

Whatever that might bring.

—

tumblr try to not ruin the quality of my images challenger: impossible

Read the Supplements (recommended):

⁺ Daniela is not in love

⁺ Megan is not in love (this one)

Next Part (if you hate this story and me ig):

+ Part 2: the universe goes quiet

listen to. nothing today, might sneak in a rec another day

[these-lovely-monsters]

Tentacles Under The Bed - Part 3

[NSFW | 18+]

Characters: gn!tentacle monster x f!reader

Content: tentacles, eldritch monster

A/N: Here is part 3 at last! It started to get a bit long so I decided to break it up into 2 parts. This one is just fluff (no smut), but don't worry, I am posting part 4 with more tentacle shenanigans at the same time so you won't have to wait!

Since it fits, I'm also tagging this for #10 Tentacles from @ozzgin's Monstertober 2024 prompt list

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

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The next morning you wake to the bright sunlight streaming through the open window of your bedroom. Blinking open groggy eyes, you stretch your sore muscles with a groan. You smile to yourself at the memories from last night as you admire the bright red circular marks that cover your skin. You realize then that the tentacle monster is no longer holding your hand.

Leaning over the side of your bed, you peer under it but there’s nothing there. You sigh in disappointment and get up to grab some clothes from your closet. Just as you finish pulling them on, a soft rustling sound comes from behind you and you turn in excitement.

To your delight, you see a few tentacles peeking out from under your bed, gently feeling around on the sheets as if looking for you.

“You came back!” You exclaim as you rush over to it.

“Of course, my sweet. I will never leave you,” its deep, cosmic voice echoes in your head. Before you have a chance to wonder at its statement, it continues, “Did you rest well?”

“Yeah.” A small smile pulls at the corners of your mouth, “Thank you.” Biting your lip, you tentatively ask, “Will…will you come out so I can see you?”

The monster is quiet for a beat before saying, “I do not want to scare you.”

How bad could it really be? 

“I won’t be afraid, I promise.”

“I am not like your kind or anything that lives in this dimension.”

This dimension? Now you’re really curious, but you decide to table those questions for later in favor of coaxing this monster out from under your bed.

“I know,” you say as you take a step forward. You’ve already jumped way past the line of sanity by letting it fuck you with its tentacles so you might as well dive into the deep end at this point. “But you’ve seen all of me and I want to see all of you in return.”

It doesn't say anything for several moments and you wait patiently. “Very well,” it finally replies.

You watch with bated breath as the tentacles begin to slide forward. Soon there are dozens spilling from beneath your bed, squirming and writhing as a massive shape begins to form. Within moments, the monster has fully emerged and is looming over you, nearly blocking out the light from the window.

You gape in awe at the creature before you. Amidst the sea of tentacles that writhe from every side, is an amorphous, dark mass. You can’t quite tell what it’s made of but it looks almost like goo. When you take a step closer to get a better look, you can see that the surface is not actually black, but rather a deep shade of dark purple. The color appears to shimmer in the daylight as it gently undulates under your gaze. You also notice that it’s slightly transparent since you can make out the faint outline of your desk behind it.

As you stare at the creature, trying to drink in all the details, the tentacles begin to shift along its body so that a blank space forms on the side that’s facing you. Without warning, dozens of eyes suddenly blink open in front of you and you yelp in surprise. When a wide slit appears below the eyes, revealing two rows of black, razor sharp teeth, your breath catches in your throat and you take a half step back.

The tentacles droop at your reaction. “See? I told you that you would not like what you saw.”

“No!” You hurry to explain, “I was just startled, that’s all.”

“I will change my form to better suit your liking.”

You watch in fascination as the tentacles begin to melt into the dark mass until they are all gone. The eyes and mouth close and disappear as well. Its body then begins to morph, rippling and shuttering as it reforms into a roughly humanoid shape. Amazingly, the surface also flickers as the color lightens to a soft pink.

Two of its eyes blink open again in the approximate location of where human eyes would be. Except that one of the eyes is a bit too low, looking as if it’s melting off. The mouth also reappears, much smaller this time, but still with the same deadly teeth. When the monster stretches its mouth wide in a gut-churning imitation of a smile, you grimace.

Now this is utterly terrifying.

Swallowing the bile that’s trying to climb up your throat, you manage to choke out, “No—no that’s ok. I like your normal form just fine.”

“Are you sure? Would this not make you more comfortable?”

“I’m sure,” you say with a pained smile. “You can change back.”

“Very well then.”

You sigh in relief when the monster quickly shifts back to its original shape. When it first appeared, you thought it was beautiful in its own way, with its shimmering surface and gorgeous dark purple color. But now, after seeing the monstrosity of its “humanoid” version, you find that you quite like its true form.

“Much better,” you say with a genuine smile this time. Your grin only widens when it wriggles in obvious pleasure at your words.

“Hey, what’s your name, by the way?” You ask, realizing you never actually had a proper introduction.

“I am called *garbled noises*”

Whatever name it just gave you is completely unintelligible to you. “Umm…sorry, what?”

It repeats the same unintelligible noises again and you wince, knowing it will be impossible for you to grasp, let alone repeat. “I uh—I don’t know if I can pronounce that. But the beginning kind of sounds like ‘Karl’. Would it be alright if I called you that?”

“You—you would give me a name?” It asks in a stunned tone.

Worried that you may have offended it, you try to backtrack a little, “I don’t have to! Only if you’re ok with it, I mean. I just—”

“I would be honored to be named you,” it interrupts you, its voice reverent.

Sighing in relief, you grin. “Ok then. It’s nice to meet you, Karl.”

“Kaaarrrlll,” it says, dragging out the sounds as if testing them out. “I shall be Karl from now on. Thank you very much for this gift, I will cherish it for eternity.”

Reaching out a tentacle towards you, Karl curls the end into a ball and holds it there. You stare down at it in confusion, blinking a few times. “What…what are you doing?”

“Is this not what humans do in greeting?” Karl replies, reaching down to grab your opposite arm with a tentacle. It wraps around your hand, manipulating it until your hand is in a fist. Then Karl lightly taps its balled up tentacle against your closed fist and says, “Sup, bro?”

You continue to stare in utter confusion for a moment until it dawns on you that Karl just tried to fist bump you and you burst out laughing.

“What is so amusing?” It asks in a mildly affronted voice. “I have seen many humans greet each other this way. The ones who throw around the big orange ball do this a lot.”

“That’s not…” you try to reply through wheezing gasps but you’re still laughing too hard. After a minute, you finally settle down and catch your breath. “I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you. It’s just… that’s how friends might greet each other.”

“Are we not friends?”

“Well…” you hesitate. “We could be. But since we…Uh... Since we were intimate… That’s not how lovers would greet each other.” You manage to stumble through your explanation, hoping Karl understands what you’re trying to say.

“Are we…” it pauses, as if mulling over the word, “lovers?”

“I mean, I guess?” You hedge, not quite meaning for it to come out as a question.

“And how do lovers greet each other?”

Laughing awkwardly, you rub the back of your neck. “They…would kiss each other.” You can feel your cheeks flaming at the thought. This monster literally fucked you senseless twice and here you are, blushing like a school girl at the thought of kissing it.

“Kiss?”

Oh gods. Your cheeks manage to grow even hotter. Taking a step closer so that you’re only a few inches from Karl, you take a deep breath.

“Yeah, like this,” you say as you lean in and place a soft kiss on its now closed mouth.

Karl is quiet for a moment before demanding, “Do it again.”

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[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

taglist: @blushycadaver @pearlofrose @gothicsugarslvt

[ginnsbaker]

All Of Your Pieces (25 - Anger and Bargaining)

Chapter Summary: Wanda’s absence used up all the hurt you could feel, until you were just a husk, observing and unfeeling.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 4.4k+ | Chapter Tags: angst, violence, and more angst Warning: thoughts of self-harm and suicide

A/N: There will be a few chapters without Wanda, but I promise you will get your answers about Y/N // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Forty days had passed since you last felt her heartbeat next to yours.

Time moved differently after that loss.

Forty days had passed, and you still woke up expecting to find Wanda tangled in the sheets beside you, hair splayed on the pillow, her sleepy smile lighting up your whole goddamn universe. And every morning, without fail, you reached over to cold, empty sheets. It was as though some tiny part of you still believed in a world where the Snap was temporary. Where you’d press a kiss to Wanda’s forehead and feel her warm breath against your neck.

Steve Rogers didn’t quit. Not right away. The moment you all returned, he and Carol pored over galactic maps, trying every back-channel cosmic contact she had. If there was a whisper of a rumor that might undo the Snap without the Stones, they chased it. But every lead fizzled eventually.

After some time, Carol got called away to help other worlds pick up the pieces Thanos left behind. Some had missing leaders, others had entire fleets wiped out. She promised to keep looking, but the fact was, the universe still needed her out there. You knew she carried an unspoken guilt—like she was leaving you all short-handed—and maybe she was. But you couldn’t hold it against her.

Tony, on the other hand, took an entirely different route. You remembered the day he stood in front of the compound’s main table, staring at the empty chairs around it, then just... shook his head. He’d gone off to direct a wide-scale humanitarian effort—food drops, medical camps, building shelters for those left behind. 

That left Steve and Natasha, holding down the fort in the old Avengers compound. They answered crisis calls, put out smaller fires. You sometimes forced yourself to be there, but the truth was, you mostly holed up in your room. On a good day, you managed a half-hearted pitch of ideas or opinion. But eventually, the good days ran out. Your absences grew more frequent, until the four walls of your room became your entire world.

Natasha, for her part, never complained. She’d set food in front of you—a sandwich, a salad, sometimes just a handful of nuts—because that was all you could stomach before your throat closed up. She’d give you space when you needed it, which was often. It wasn’t fair, but you couldn’t stop. If the world was going to keep spinning without Wanda, then everyone else might as well feel miserable, too. 

Steve didn’t know how to fix you, either. You caught him trying to say something uplifting once or twice, always cutting off at the last second, like he realized it was useless. And maybe he was right. The bright-eyed captain who believed wholeheartedly in second chances looked haunted now, and it was supposed to hurt you too, seeing him this way, but Wanda’s absence used up all the hurt you could feel, until you were just a husk, observing and unfeeling.

In the end, it all boiled over. It was a Thursday (or was it Wednesday? You couldn’t tell anymore and you didn’t care) and you were in your usual state, laying on your side, eyes drifting unfocused over the rumpled sheets and the plain wall beyond them. You barely registered the footsteps in the hallway anymore, the way people whispered outside your door.

You heard the door open and didn’t bother turning to see who it was. You knew it had to be Natasha. She came by at least twice a day to see if you’d eaten or taken a breath that wasn’t soaked in sorrow. You waited for the usual quiet routine: maybe she’d try to hand you a plate, maybe she’d hover for a few seconds before closing the door again. But this time, she stayed put.

“Get up,” she said, voice hard.

You didn’t bother looking. “Not hungry,” you muttered.

Natasha snorted. “I wasn’t asking if you were.”

Something stirred in your chest, but you pushed it down. “I’ll get off this bed when we have a plan to bring them back,” you mumbled.

“Right, because you’re the only one in the entire goddamn universe who’s lost something,” she snapped.  

You clenched your jaw but refused to take the bait. Instead, you stayed wrapped in the thick blanket that was starting to smell faintly, a reminder that it had been too long since you last showered.

Natasha walked further into the room until she was standing by the foot of the bed. “So, what? You’re just gonna lay here while everyone else does the heavy lifting? Maybe we’ll draw straws on who gets to babysit you tomorrow.”

You felt a flash of heat behind your eyes, a protest waiting on your tongue. She didn’t give you the chance.

“You’re pathetic,” she says, her voice cold. “Sulking, while the rest of us try to pick up the pieces.”

You stayed silent, fists clenched, but Natasha wasn’t done.

“You know what I see when I look at you?” she continued, her tone colder than you’d ever heard it. “I see someone who had the nerve to get married in the middle of a war and is now lying down like it’s over. Someone who had Wanda—Wanda, of all people—and still can’t get out of bed to fight for her memory.”

“Natasha, that’s enough,” you growled, jaw aching from how hard you were clenching it.

“She promised you she’d come back, didn’t she? And you’re what she’s supposed to come back to? This?” Natasha gestured toward you, surrounded by the remnants of uneaten meals and discarded clothes. Filth.

Your pulse hammered in your ears, and for a moment you couldn’t believe what you’d just heard come out of Natasha’s mouth. You shoved off the bed and glared at her, the anger spiking hard and fast.

That final jab ignited you. You tossed the blankets aside and stood, eyes burning with a fury that wanted a target, any target. “What the hell do you want?” you snarled. “You come in here, wave her name around—”

She didn’t blink. “I want you to remember we’re a family,” she said, voice dropping a notch,  like that single word ought to mend every wound. “And don’t give me that crap about how Wanda was your only family. I get that she meant everything to you. But that doesn’t mean you get to shut down and isolate yourself while the rest of us are trying to—”

Before she could finish, you turned on your heel and yanked open the closet door. You started rifling through the small stash of clean clothes you hadn’t touched in days. Jeans, sweatshirts—whatever you could grab first, you shoved into a battered backpack without bothering to fold.

Natasha’s stance went rigid. “What are you doing?”

“Leaving,” you spat, wrestling the zipper. “I need space, and I can’t get it here. I’m done being your charity case. Hell, I’m done being mine.”

“So, you’re just gonna run?” she said, voice dripping with disdain. “You think that fixes anything?”

“I’m not running,” you countered, but it rang hollow even to your own ears. “I’m just… I’m tired. Of disappointing you, of pretending to believe that one day, it’ll get better. Whoever you think we’re still searching for—whoever you want me to be right now—is gone.”

“That’s not true,” she tried, but it came out weak. You slung the backpack over your shoulder and glared at her.

“Sorry,” you said, though you didn’t sound it.

You had no idea that would be the last time you’d speak to her for half a decade.

—

You weren’t sure what you were looking for. Perhaps a distraction? Or maybe confirmation that you’d burned all your bridges or that there was nothing left to lose? Whatever the reason, you found yourself on the road, drifting from state to state in a sedan with a busted radio, living off gas station coffee. The entire country looked exactly how you’d imagine the aftermath of an apocalypse. Everyone was still lost in their own heads, grappling with a new reality that marched on regardless. When night fell, you’d grab a cheap motel or doze off behind the wheel in a rest stop parking lot. 

Eventually, your thoughts circled back to the single question that always seemed to latch on whenever you’re on your own: What happened to her? The woman who gave birth to you, then chose everything else over you. The mother who hated you for a crime you never intended—for being the twin who survived when your brother didn’t. She’d never let you forget it, either, though it was your father who raised you until the day he died. She’d gone on to build a new life with a new family. You’d never bothered to find out how that turned out.

Against your better judgement, you decided to see for yourself.

You tracked down her address, almost expecting to feel a thrill of righteous anger or maybe a sense of closure. But when you parked outside a modest home in a suburban corner of Indiana, the only thing you felt was numb. A battered pickup sat in the driveway. A neat row of hedges trimmed the walkway. There was a “Welcome” sign on the porch that felt like a mockery of everything your relationship wasn’t.

You rang the bell, heart thudding like a judge’s gavel in your ears. When the door opened, you found yourself looking at a teenage boy—gangly, messy hair, a fading bruise on his chin. His eyes flicked over you, wary.

“Uh, hi,” he said, voice cracking a bit.

You didn’t know how to start, so you just said the first thing that came to mind. “I’m looking for—” You almost choked on her name. The woman who’d turned her back on you for most of your life.

His face went still. “She’s gone,” he muttered, stepping back a fraction, hand still on the doorknob.

You stood there dumbly, trying to make sense of why you came here in the first place. You’d come all this way, expecting maybe you’d find some closure or a reason to hate her more. Instead, the universe had already taken her, the same way it had taken Wanda.

Your mother was gone, and so was the chance for any resolution. A pit settled in your stomach, but it wasn’t grief. More like resignation.

“You’re her son, then?” you asked, not sure if you were talking to him or to yourself. 

He nodded, shrinking into the doorway. You blinked, realizing with a jolt that this boy—your half-brother—had lost a mother, and now he was dealing with a stranger on his doorstep.

Some half-formed apology stumbled out of your mouth. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I was just—”

“Who are you?”

You stood there dumbly, trying to make sense of why you came here in the first place. You’d kept tabs on her off and on for years—checking the local high school’s teacher listings, scanning social media posts from former students who mentioned her name. Even if your mother had cut you loose all those years ago, you couldn’t shake the need to make sure she was okay. It was a habit. Or maybe a compulsion. You never confronted her, never tried to mend the rift, but you watched from the wings, hoping she’d change her mind about you one day.

“I— I was one of her students,” you lied, the words scraping out as though they barely belonged to you.

Your half-brother frowned. “Her student?”

You nodded.

“She taught high school English. You look… older than most students.”

You forced a small, self-conscious shrug. “Yeah. I—graduated some years ago,” you improvised. “But, uh, she really helped me. You know, with…” You let the sentence hang, hoping he’d fill in the blanks.

His brow smoothed a little. “So you came all this way just to—what, see her?”

You nodded, trying to act more confident than you felt. “Yeah, I guess. I’d been out of state. I heard about everything that happened…the—I didn’t know if she was—” You paused, swallowing against the tightness in your throat. “I hoped she made it.”

Tears threatened to spill from your eyes as the realization hit—you truly meant it. You were genuinely hoping your mother survived. 

He pressed his lips together, the corners turning down. “She didn’t,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

You blinked. You’d imagined confronting her, maybe not violently, but definitely letting some of your pent-up rage loose. But Thanos had gotten to her first, just like Wanda.

“So… that’s it,” you murmured, bitterness coating every word. “She’s gone.”

He nodded, looking as uncomfortable as you felt. 

You glanced past him into the living room—torn blankets, battered furniture, the marks of a family living with one less body than before. It made you think of the compound, of Natasha and Steve and the vacant seats around the briefing table. Anger surged again, but this time, it sputtered out almost instantly. You were just too tired.

Your half-brother stared, waiting for you to leave. Eventually, you offered some hollow farewell and dragged yourself back to your car. 

You sat in the driver’s seat for a long time before turning the key. You tried to drum up some of that anger—something to keep you standing. But all that remained was the same lonely ache you’d fled the compound to escape.

That truth was, you hoped your mother would learn to forgive you. That if she didn’t see you long enough, she’d start hating you less, and maybe hating less would make room for love that you craved from her. But she never reached out once, all these years. 

And that piece of fact kept something in you alive.

If your mother could hate you so passionately, refusing to forget, maybe that meant you could hold on to Wanda just as fiercely. Because if forgetting your mother’s cruelty was impossible, then letting go of Wanda’s love was unthinkable.

With a shaky breath, you pulled away from the curb. 

—

The next few months passed in a dull, furious blur. You ended up in a one-room apartment on the edges of Manhattan, taking advantage of the fact that rent had plummeted with half the city’s tenants gone. It was cheap—no argument there—but also claustrophobic: four walls, a tiny bed, and a single lamp that flickered off and on if you leaned on the wall too hard. You told yourself it was temporary, but you’d stopped believing your own excuses weeks ago.

Half the world was locked in grief, and it showed. You couldn’t walk down a block without seeing signs offering counseling or “miracle cures” for heartbreak—some free, some borderline scams. You ignored them all. Some days, you’d get cornered by self-proclaimed grief coaches, waving pamphlets in your face, promising that acceptance started with a single step. It took everything in you not to bark out a bitter laugh. 

Your reflection in the bathroom mirror told a brutal story. You’d lost weight, enough that your cheeks looked sunken, and your hair was a matted disaster. It clung together in greasy clumps that made brushing an impossible task. More than once, you’d tried to work a comb through it, only to end up yanking out knotted clumps. But it was easier to do that than bother with shampoo or conditioner. Sometimes you felt you deserved the pain, just for having the audacity to survive.

You didn’t socialize, rarely ate, spent most of your time in stale sweatpants staring at the peeling wallpaper. At night, you’d lie on the squeaking bed, that infuriating half-broken coil stabbing your back, and think about how easy it would be to check out—just drift off into oblivion. You’d picture Wanda’s face, and for half a second, you could almost convince yourself you’d see her again if you just let go.

But something always pulled you back. 

Wanda’s memory, stronger than the morbid allure of death. She’d never want you to hurt yourself, and you couldn’t betray her like that. You’d close your eyes, mouth twisted with grief, and whisper, “I’m sorry,” to the empty room. Sorry you couldn’t be better at coping, sorry you had no way to bring her back. 

Sometimes you caught yourself imagining the impossible. A miracle. And if, by some freak occurrence, you cut your life short before that miracle arrived? The idea of Wanda coming back and finding you gone—it made your chest tighten so hard you could barely breathe.

No, dying wouldn’t do. You told yourself that every time the thought crept in. You had to be here—just in case. And until that day came, or never came at all, you’d sit in that lonely apartment, hair tangled, knuckles white, battered by regret. And if death knocked on the door one evening… you weren’t sure you’d say no, but you’d at least wait to see if Wanda could somehow be on the other side instead.

—

For the next several months, you drifted in that numbing routine: sleeping too little, eating too little, and caring about even less. You spent your days in your crumbling Manhattan apartment, flipping through channels that couldn’t decide whether to focus on the lost or the survivors. After finding nothing to hold your interest, you muted the TV entirely and let the images pass by like a grim slideshow.

Then you caught a name—Ronin—and froze.

There’d been sightings of a masked vigilante cutting down criminals with lethal precision, first in Indianapolis, then Houston, and now, apparently, San Antonio. The camera panned to shaky phone footage—a black-clad figure, swords flashing, leaving a trail of bodies. Your pulse picked up speed. You recognized the stance, the lethal economy of movement. 

Clint Barton.

No one else came to mind. The man who’d trained you in close-quarters combat, who’d taught you how to hit your targets with almost the same precision. All this time, this is what he’d been up to, dispensing justice on a scale that made you question if you really knew the man.

Suddenly, you weren’t so detached anymore. Ronin might be consumed by vengeance, but a part of you envied what he was getting out of it.

Retribution. 

If the Avengers’ moral code had died with half of the universe—maybe you could join him on that side of the line. Or stop him before he burned out. You didn’t know which impulse guided you harder.

—

The drive to San Antonio took exactly two days and five hours. You had tried to make it faster, but the monotony of the journey wore on you, making the road feel endless. Fatigue set in quicker than usual, a combination of restlessness and the fact that you’d been surviving mostly on energy bars, neglecting to properly fuel your body. It was no surprise your efficiency as a driver had taken a hit.

Clint’s pattern wasn’t hard to figure out, once you knew what to look for: big fish, small pond. You staked out the grimiest part of town, where word on the street said Ronin was likely to strike next. 

But you found the target first.

He was holed up in a dingy suite on the third floor of an abandoned hotel. You broke in through a cracked balcony window. Almost too easy, you thought, adrenaline rushing through you like a drug.

Inside, you found him alone—his guards apparently out—and when he swung around at the sound of your footsteps, his face went pale at the sight of your drawn sidearm.

“Who the—” He didn’t finish. You cracked him across the jaw with a single punch, sending him stumbling back. In your old life, you might have hesitated, let him speak, read him his rights or something. But that compassion was gone.

The old you was gone. It figured.

You bound his wrists with cable ties and dragged him out to the balcony, your heart pounding. You’d never felt so in control. So… alive. Not since—

Something in the air suddenly moved. 

Clint, perched on a ledge a few floors down. You recognized his silhouette, the lean set of his shoulders. His hood concealed half his face, but not the unmistakable shape of his jaw. He sprang up with grace you’d seen a thousand times on the battlefield, landing silently on your balcony.

The moment he recognized you, he pulled back his hood, grimacing but otherwise composed. If you hadn’t known him for so long, you might have thought he wasn’t surprised at all. He started to say something, his mouth opening slightly, but you cut him off, your voice icier than you’d ever heard it.

“What the hell are you doing, Clint?”

His jaw tightened, and he pulled his sword free, pointing it at your captive. “He’s mine,” he growled.

“You’re welcome,” you said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I saved you the trouble.”

You yanked your captive to his feet. He started babbling—pleading with you, with Clint, it didn’t matter. You didn’t really hear him, though, not in any language your mind was willing to process. Without hesitation, you shoved the muzzle of your gun against the side of his skull and—

Wanda, lying in bed one lazy morning. She’d been propped up on her elbows, her hair a mess, the covers bunched around her waist. You had just cracked one of those stupid jokes she always pretended not to understand. The punchline hovered for a few seconds before slowly, like the sun peeking over the horizon—it dawned on her. 

Her entire face had lit up, a blush creeping into her cheeks, her laughter bright yet still sleepy-soft. The joy washed across her expression in deliberate waves, and it was like watching daylight burst through the clouds. You swore you could feel the warmth against your skin, bathing you in light, making you remember for the thousandth time just how deeply you loved her.

—pulled the trigger.

The body crumpled in front of you, a burst of red spraying the concrete, some landing on your neck and cheek. You lowered the gun, arms shaking with the aftermath. 

Clint said nothing at first. He just stared, his sword lowered. He looked like he was ready for you to attack him next, or maybe for him to do the same. 

You didn’t return your pistol back to its holster right away, just in case. You stared right back, tears sliding free and rolling down your cheeks. No shame in it. Your lips curved into a small, defiant smile, one that felt alien but unstoppable. You didn’t bother wiping your tears or the blood. You just smiled.

“You’ve gone nuts,” Clint muttered tightly.

“Take me with you,” you said. “Bring me along, Clint. Whatever you do next… I can help. We can… we can double the body count of all the scum that crawled out of hiding after the—”

He narrowed his eyes. For a moment, you thought he might strike you down right there, disown you for crossing that invisible line. But he only stood in rigid silence, shoulders coiled like a trapped animal. 

“I work alone,” he said at last.

You nodded, tears still falling, but the corner of your mouth twitched upward in a sort of quiet resolve. “Nothing has to change. You keep doing your thing. Just… point me in the right direction. You and me, Clint—we can watch each other’s backs.”

He stared at you like he was seeing a stranger, not the person he once trained. The lines around his eyes deepened. “Does Nat know you’re here?”

The slight narrowing of your eyes was all he needed as an answer. After a beat, he turned away, dismissing you completely. Something in your gut lurched.

You didn’t really think it through—maybe you wanted to scare him, maybe you wanted to force him to acknowledge you. But Clint heard the click, spun around, and dropped low before you could squeeze off a shot.

He spun, dropped low, and let an arrow fly in one smooth motion. It sliced past your temple, drew a thin line of blood on your forehead, then lodged itself in the wall behind you. 

The cut stung, but you were used to much worse pain.

“You’re slipping,” you said coolly, ignoring the warm trickle down your face.

He huffed, a sound with no humor. “I’d say I hit my mark.” He notched another arrow but never loosed it. Instead, he took a step to the balcony’s edge, glanced over his shoulder with a look you couldn’t quite read, then vaulted off.

You rushed to see where he landed, but all you saw was neon glow and dark emptiness. He was gone, swallowed by the city.

—

A week later, you found him again—this time in a dusty backwater city, two states over. Rumors flew about a masked swordsman butchering gangs before they knew what hit them. You traced the stories, interrogated survivors, and stumbled across Clint on a rooftop under a weak moon. He wasted no time trying to lose you, weaving in and out of abandoned warehouses and barely-lit alleys until it felt like a game of cat and mouse. You knew it was a test, maybe even a taunt.

At last, in a crumbling storage building where mold clung to the walls, Clint stopped running. You stepped inside, gun in hand just to show you could. He was leaning against a fractured window, mask tugged above his jaw. He watched you for a beat, then pulled a folded sheet of paper from his belt and tossed it at your feet.

A map—circles, scribbled names, locations. You could almost taste the violence in every ink stroke: gang leaders, arms traffickers, crooked syndicates. You ran a finger over one of the circles, a knot of tension forming in your stomach.

“Deal with them,” Clint said, voice low but clear in the still air. “If you can. Otherwise, stay out of my way.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Pushing off the window frame, he adjusted his hood and left by a half-collapsed doorway before you could ask if he’d changed his mind about teaming up.

Your fingers tightened on the map. A surge of grim satisfaction ran through your veins. This was what you’d wanted, wasn’t it? A chance to channel your anger into action? Your grip shook a little, thinking of Wanda, how far you’d drifted from the person she’d known. But you slid the map into your jacket all the same.

[imonabitchparade]

☀️ “Three Shirts and a Blush” — Bob Reynolds x Reader Insert | Part Two

Warnings: MORE BOB!!!

Masterlist | Part One

Summary: It started with one shirt. Now Bob has three. And when you wear all of them in one day like it’s completely normal, the rest of the Thunderbolts absolutely lose their minds. Bob, meanwhile, is hanging on by a thread.

The first shirt appeared in the morning.

You strolled into the Watchtower kitchen half-asleep, holding your coffee like a sacred relic and wearing:

“He hungers.™”

Bob’s floaty cryptid energy immortalized on a shirt—his eyes glowing faintly, arms halfway through a pantry door. A Pop-Tart box hovered in front of him like an offering.

Yelena spit out her tea.

“No. No. You did not make him a snack demon shirt.”

You blinked. “What?”

Walker leaned against the fridge with crossed arms, squinting. “Is that Bob... stealing food?”

“Not stealing,” you corrected. “Haunting.”

From behind them, Bob walked in—and paused the second he saw it.

He blinked.

“Oh,” he said, like someone just sucker-punched his soul in the softest way. “That one.”

You smiled at him over your mug. “You said I could print it.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “Yeah. No, I—I love it. It’s good.”

He was already pink around the ears.

The second shirt came at lunch.

You’d changed after a minor coffee spill (no matter that the coffee spilled on your pants because you would die before anything happened to the shirt), because of course you did, and now you were wearing:

“Local himbo accidentally turns into a god. Film at 11.”

It was stylized like a bad romance novel: flowing blond hair, cosmic storm clouds behind him, one glowing fist clenched at his side. You might’ve overdone the sparkles.

Alexei wheezed from across the common area. “BOB. My man. You are on multiple shirts?”

Bob stared. “She spilled coffee. It’s not—”

“She has a wardrobe,” Ava said, eyes sparkling. “I got one. Bob gets a full collection?”

Yelena snorted. “Honestly, respect. This is main character behavior.”

Bucky shook his head. “Next thing you know she’s gonna open a Bob boutique.”

You busied yourself refilling your water, trying to stay casual. “I just had ideas.”

Walker leaned in, fake-whispering to Bob, “You okay, buddy? You look like you’re one sentence away from short-circuiting.”

“I’m fine,” Bob said. Quietly. With the force of someone trying not to float away entirely.

The final shirt hit at dinnertime.

You entered the lounge like it was nothing, wearing the most dangerous one of all:

“He’d never implode me.”

This one was softer, more subtle. Just him, gold and blue, glowing faintly at the edges—but the tone of the caption said it all. Teasing. Flirty. Personal.

The entire team stared.

Alexei fumbled his fork. Ava audibly gasped. Bucky just turned slowly to Bob like he was watching a slow-burn romance hit its season finale.

“THREE?!” Yelena shouted, pointing. “Three shirts?!”

You blinked innocently. “I do laundry often.”

“You gave me a shirt of me being eaten by a goose,” Walker said flatly. “And Bob gets the ‘I trust him with my atoms’ collection?”

Alexei leaned into Bob. “Tell us. What did you do to earn this affection?”

Bob opened his mouth. Closed it. Then turned a shade of pink so violent it looked radioactive.

“I didn’t— She just—” he rubbed his face. “Please stop talking.”

“I’m making you a mug,” Ava whispered to you.

“You’re making me blush,” Bob muttered at the same time.

You blinked up at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said. Then smiled—soft, crooked, entirely smitten.

The teasing never let up for the rest of the night.

But somewhere in the middle of it, you noticed:

Bob didn’t look away from you once.